by Mark Romang
One day Maddix became fed up. He looked up at Brennan, at his handlebar mustache dripping raspberry jelly. “I hate jelly donuts, sir!” he yelled out.
“And why do you hate jelly donuts, Maddix?”
Miserable and cold, sand chaffing his privates, his abs about to burst from his stomach, and struggling to keep his quivering legs from touching the sand, Maddix said, “Because they taste like crap, sir!” From on his back, Maddix thought he he saw a grin briefly flash underneath Brennan’s ridiculous mustache.
Brennan blew his whistle and told everyone to report to the chow hall, everyone but Maddix. For the rest of the day up until sunset, Maddix ran into the surf and then rolled in the sand. He performed flutter kicks all day long. But he never rang the bell. He would’ve died on that freezing cold beach before he would have let Instructor Brennan get him to drop on request. After that day, Brennan gave up and left him alone.
But now, at the bottom of Perdition Canyon, Caleb Brennan appeared like a specter from his past. He swam up to Maddix. Having a hard day, aren’t you, Maddix? This is indeed a hopeless situation. You can’t possibly escape this logjam. I think you should just DOR.
Brennan’s ghost angered him. Maddix swam up to the logs and began yanking and tugging without regard. The exertion zapped his already fading lung capacity. But he didn’t care. Just floating around and limiting his movements so he could hold his breath longer wouldn’t save him. Brennan is right, God. I’m going to die down here. Is that what you want? What about the three remaining demons? They’ll go back and possess the church. Are you okay with that?
Maddix didn’t wait for God to answer. He kept pulling at the knotted-up logs. He grabbed another one. This log didn’t move either, but he thought he felt subtle movement to his right. He studied the logs to his right for a few seconds. They shimmered in the murk like desert heat waves. Maddix could feel hypoxia creep up his body. His brain scrabbled to put together a lucid thought. His lungs screamed for air.
He instinctively clutched the end of another log and jerked with all his strength.
The log broke free. A small hole appeared. Maddix wasted no time debating if the hole was big enough for him to exit. He pulled off his pack and wriggled through the opening, scraping his back and legs, but making it through. His head was inches away from breaking the surface when logs began tumbling.
He made it no farther. The logs crashed against his right leg, pinning him. Maddix writhed and thrashed but couldn’t break free. Caleb Brennan swam over to him. Now what good did that do you? You’re still going to die, Maddix.
Maddix felt his resolve collapse. He wanted to give up. Instructor Brennan laughed at him. You should have just quit and ate the jelly donut when I offered it to you. None of this would be happening to you now. I knew you weren’t strong enough to be a SEAL, Maddix. That’s why I tried to get you to quit.
Maddix couldn’t believe this was happening. The irony twisted in his gut. Even with his prosthetic he was still among the world’s best swimmers. Yet he was going to drown. It didn’t make sense. And then his thoughts boomeranged inside his head. My prosthetic!
Desperate to save himself, Maddix reached down and slipped his fingers under the prosthetic cuff, breaking the seal. Maddix popped to the surface, leaving behind his prosthetic still trapped in the logs. He exhaled and inhaled like a maniac. Oxygen flooded his lungs. A smile broke across his face. For the first time in his life he was glad to be an amputee.
And then once again he did what he could do better than 99.9 percent of the world’s population. He swam.
Chapter 30
Gaza Strip—that same moment
Inside the large, ragtag tent, Hamas agents Ibrahim Najjar and Farid Haddad watched a pulley system tug sleds loaded with rocket parts up from a tunnel opening in the ground. Two youths manned the generator-powered winch and loaded the extracted parts—steel cylinders forged across the border in Egypt—into a rusty wheelbarrow.
The rocket parts would then be loaded into an unmarked panel van parked outside the tent and driven to a secret Hamas warehouse to be assembled by the terror organization’s chief bomb makers.
Najjar puffed on a cigarette and watched the endless stream of rocket parts exit the ground. The pulley system groaned and squealed as it struggled to lift the heavy cylinders from the tunnel shaft 50 feet below. “This is so pointless, Farid. How long must we continue to play this game we cannot win?”
Haddad, a dour middle-aged man, turned to his younger companion. “What do you mean, Ibrahim? You know we will never stop harassing the Israelis. We will continue until they no longer exist. And then we will take our land back.”
Najjar flipped his cigarette to the ground and extinguished it with his shoe. “These Qassam rockets do not compare to Israel’s sophisticated rockets. Ours are like glorified bottle rockets. We rarely kill anyone. And then Israel retaliates and kills dozens of us. This tit-for-tat never ends,” Najjar sneered. He sighed and looked at the empty cylinders. Fully constructed the Qassam rocket measures 220 centimeters long and weighs in at only 50 kilograms. The rocket’s warhead is filled with scavenged TNT or urea nitrate. It has a decent range of 20 kilometers, but accuracy is an issue. He knew why his Hamas brethren kept using them though. They were affordable. The Qassam rocket cost only $800 dollars to build.
“God feels our people’s pain, Ibrahim. He knows we are starving. He will give us victory. You must believe,” Haddad said, his voice filling with irritation.
“I do believe God will give us victory over the Zionists. But maybe we should rethink how we wage our war. That is all I’m suggesting, Farid.”
Haddad’s eyes narrowed under hooded lids. “What are you getting at? I can tell an idea is simmering in your mind, Ibrahim.”
“Let’s go outside. We’ll talk in private.”
Ibrahim left the tent; Haddad followed close behind. Midmorning in Gaza and the sun burned especially hot for autumn. Even the wind blowing off the nearby Mediterranean Sea could do little to tamp down the heat. The portly Haddad backhanded sweat from his brow. Ibrahim stopped and leaned against the panel van. Raw sewage from nearby refugee camps wafted in the heat. The suffering his people endured infuriated him: scarce food, unclean water, broken sewers, little or no infrastructure, and no chance at a decent living. His people were doomed. And no one seemed to care.
Haddad sidled up alongside him. “So what is your idea, Ibrahim? How can you end this stalemate?”
“We must outthink the Israelis. We will never have their resources or military might,” Farid said as he looked far in the distance in the direction of Omer, an affluent town in Israel where money flowed like wine.
“You speak the truth, but to what end? We all know the Jews are wealthy and use American planes and armament.”
Ibrahim lit another cigarette. “To gain the advantage, we need to incorporate spies into this war. We have neglected human intelligence for too long.”
Haddad laughed. A hearty chuckle made his belly jiggle. “You want to be a spy, a super agent like James Bond?”
Ibrahim glared at the older Hamas agent. He took a step closer to Farid. “You think this is funny but I am serious. I have a plan that will succeed. It’s simple and will work if enough time is allowed for it to unfold,” he hissed.
Haddad held up his palm. “Calm down, Ibrahim. I was only kidding you. Tell me more of your plan. Give me specifics.”
Ibrahim nodded. “We insert someone in Mossad, someone we can control. This person will acquire sensitive information, information we can use to attack the Jews when and where they least expect it.”
“So is this double-agent you?”
Ibrahim shook his head. “I’m thinking of a woman.”
“Does she have a name, this woman?”
“Soussan Golzar.”
“I’ve never heard of her, Ibrahim.”
“She is very beautiful, Farid. And she is Iranian. Most importantly, she hates Jews.”
Haddad shifted h
is weight. “So how are you going to get her into Mossad, and what is she going to do once she’s in?”
“As you know, Farid, Hamas keeps close tabs on many Mossad agents. All we have to do is find the agent with the greatest weakness for women. We then have Soussan seduce him. She will work him for information.”
“What if this Mossad agent declines her advances?”
Ibrahim laughed. “He won’t. Soussan is a nymphomaniac. She is a liberated woman with no inhibitions. Very few men can resist her.”
Haddad grinned and slapped Ibrahim on the back. “You know this by experience, my friend?”
Ibrahim nodded. “Her appetite for sex is insatiable. She will not fail. My goal is for her to infiltrate Israel’s political system and blow up the prime minister along with his Cabinet.”
“But what if Ms. Golzar doesn’t wish to be a spy?”
“She has already agreed. Of course, she doesn’t know she is going to die in the operation. I didn’t tell her that.”
“But if your plan works, Israel will mount a crushing counter attack on Gaza City,” Haddad argued.
“They won’t attack us, I assure you,” Ibrahim said confidently. “Because Ms. Golzar is Iranian, Israel will attack Iran. And the whole world knows Iran has been itching to launch a nuclear attack against Israel. They will do the dirty work for us. And when the mushroom cloud clears…we take our land back.”
Haddad mulled the proposition over. After several moments he looked at Ibrahim Najjar with newfound respect. “This is a plan that will take a long time to carry out. You know that, don’t you?”
“Of course, Farid, I know that. The 911 terror attacks on America took a decade to come to fruition. But I don’t think it will take Soussan that long to acquire the information and access we need. But we have to start now. Time is wasting.”
Haddad nodded. “Come, Ibrahim. Let’s go talk to our superiors. I think they will be pleased.”
****
Lucifer—having listened in on the whole conversation, wrapped a magnificent wing around Ibrahim Najjar as he and Farid Haddad walked to a dented and dusty Volvo double-parked in the street. “You are a brilliant man, Ibrahim. And God is pleased with you and your daring plan. He will give you victory over your oppressors,” Lucifer whispered subliminally in Najjar’s head. “I am so pleased with you, Ibrahim. And so is God. He has rued the day he gave his blessing to Isaac instead of Ishmael. And He no longer considers Israel His people. He hates the Jews even more than you, and has turned his back on them forever. The Promised Land is yours for the taking, my servant. But you must be courageous and not back down.”
Lucifer stood in the pothole-lined street. He smiled as he watched the Volvo drive off. Things were progressing rapidly here in the Middle East, so rapidly he would need to spend more time here and less in Washington D.C. But he wasn’t worried. Although he wasn’t omnipresent like God, he could travel quickly. It only took a few eye blinks for him to traverse the globe. And he left America’s capital in good hands. Secretary of State Nathanial Dixon would carry on his dark work until he could return.
Lucifer turned his regal head. He sensed evil approaching, could feel its refreshment blow across his perfect skin. He saw a fog only he could see, moving rapidly through Gaza City’s teeming streets like a black plague. Seconds later, Selachian stood before him. “You are a long ways from Utah, Selachian. I hope nothing is wrong.”
“Andrew Maddix is proving to be a most challenging adversary. He neutralized Adramelech a few moments ago.”
“He’s only a man. Don’t forget that, Selachian.”
Selachian sighed. “I know this as well as anyone, Master. But he is receiving divine help. The Protectors have entered the battle. They saved Maddix’s life.”
“Are you sure it was the Protectors? They haven’t left Heaven in thousands of years,” Lucifer said, referring to the decorated angels who operate in God’s inner circle. Of all guardian angels, they were the most powerful. “Maybe you should change tactics, then. Whatever you are doing isn’t working.”
“Be patient, Master. I have set some things in motion that will eliminate Maddix from the picture. He will soon be arrested and charged with three counts of murder.”
“How did you arrange this?” Lucifer asked, feeling his lagging confidence in Selachian start to strengthen.
“I drained the brake fluid from Aeton Lasko’s vehicle. He crashed his vehicle on a mountain road, killing himself and his two companions. Lasko had just pressed assault charges on Maddix the day before. Maddix will become the prime suspect now.”
“Come, let’s go for a walk, Selachian,” Lucifer said and began walking down the street. His top general followed and walked along by his left side. A little girl dressed in pink and green chased a dirty soccer ball into the street right in front of them. Lucifer patted the child on her head as she stopped to pick up the ball. “I commend you on your resourcefulness, Selachian. But I think you have taken your eye off the prize.”
“I don’t understand. My plan is working perfectly.”
“We need the Eden sword. This should be your first priority. Separate Andrew Maddix from the Eden sword and all our troubles disappear,” Lucifer said. He moved gracefully down the fractured asphalt, smiling when he witnessed a youth rob a man by knifepoint in a nearby alley. How I love anarchy, he thought.
“How do I go about doing that? He never lets the sword out of his sight. Maddix even sleeps with it in his bed.”
Lucifer stopped walking and turned to face Selachian. “Have you forgotten Judas Iscariot? Find the weakest member on Maddix’s team and tempt them. But hurry. Earthly time is ticking down. If you cannot complete this task I will replace you immediately. I have been grooming Drakon for some time. He is almost ready.”
The imps riding on Selachian’s shoulders jumped up and down and howled in protest. Lucifer scowled at them. They were quite possibly the ugliest creatures he’d ever seen. “Why must you keep those vile little things on your shoulders? You know I find them repulsive. Can’t you keep them out of my sight?”
“I love them. They are my pets,” Selachian said, gently tickling the imp riding his left shoulder.
“And that is the source of your declining performance!” Lucifer hissed. “You have allowed love to enter your spirit. Demons cannot love. We can only hate. You would be wise to remember this, Selachian.”
Chapter 31
Moments later—Stockholm, Sweden
He was a tall man who stood preposterously straight, an amazing feat for a man so advanced in age. Facial wrinkles creased his angular face in all directions but remained unnoticeable. A blonde mane covered his head and ears and contrasted sharply with his Brioni suit. Lean and rangy, Henrik Skymolt looked like an aging rock star-turned business man.
Skymolt stood in his ultra-modern office suite, hands clasped behind him, his face close to the glass panel stretching from floor to ceiling behind his mahogany desk. A pensive mood incarcerated his mind today. Brilliant sunshine bathed downtown Stockholm, but Skymolt only saw gray and black clouds.
He couldn’t explain his disenchantment. Restlessness held his youthful body prisoner. Or maybe it was boredom. More likely he felt his time on earth counting down and felt guilty for not accomplishing more. By the world’s standards he stood head and shoulders above everyone else. He possessed so much wealth not even he or his accountants knew exactly how much.
He made his fortune in real estate, gobbling up large chunks of prime land in major cities all across Europe. Skymolt’s friends often chided him for owning half of Europe. Skymolt always shot back, saying he only owned an eighth of of it.
He couldn’t deny he gained a sense of achievement and happiness whenever he acquired valuable land, but it paled to his real passion. He loved debunking the myths of creationism and Christianity. Refuting the lies and making the believers squirm for cover like cockroaches gave him more pleasure than sex. The believers were such simpletons. They believed the Bible to be fa
ctual when it was really only a violent fairy tale. And they completely disregarded the scientific evidence that pointed to evolution and embraced the lunacy of an all-powerful God speaking the world into existence.
Some might feel the methods he used to stymie the Gospel’s reach to be egregiously antagonistic. But so be it. When logical discussion didn’t work, more extreme methods had to be implemented.
Skymolt left the window and walked along the walls of his spacious office. Hanging on the polished oak walls were portraits and photos of famous evolutionists and atheists. Sigmund Freud hung next to Carl Sagan. Sagan hung next to American industrialist Andrew Carnegie. Isaac Asimov, Skymolt’s favorite writer, hung next to Carnegie. Hanging next to Asimov was a portrait of Voltaire. But mostly his office venerated Charles Darwin, history’s most famous evolutionist.
Skymolt had read the British naturalist’s Origin of Species so many times that he could quote large passages verbatim. Darwin’s argument that populations evolve over a course of generations through a process of natural selection was brilliant in its perspicacity.
Skymolt glanced at his Rolex Daytona watch. The watch cost him a hundred grand. But to him it was no more expensive than a Timex to the average person. Skymolt didn’t scrimp on extravagance. He could afford to live a pampered life, and so he did. He lived in a luxury villa in Ostermalm, the wealthiest district in Stockholm, and drank champagne in place of water. For breakfast his personal chef prepared him an omelet filled with caviar every morning.
Skymolt looked at his watch again. Why hasn’t Aeton Lasko called? Why hasn’t Nikko Castellanos checked in? They were supposed to report in every four hours and update him on progress made in Felicity. He hoped by now Andrew Maddix was sitting in a jail cell, his limbs quivering like wind-rattled leaves, frightened out of his wits. This one man had singlehandedly galvanized Christians all over the world. The church exorcism video he uploaded to YouTube went viral in only hours. It was already over 100-million hits and counting. More than likely the video had convinced thousands more weak-minded people to embrace Christianity, or at least believe that God and Satan existed in some invisible spirit realm.