The Sinai Directive

by Rick Jones

  A quick breath escaped Ahmadi, as if shaken. The golden calf was a religious icon, a treasure valued by the Vatican as something to be repressed rather than to be displayed. This piece would only add to one of the many secrets already held by the Vatican.

  Whatever confidence Zahid Ahmadi had diminished, but not entirely. His unit was capable, his team a masterful blend of super soldiers who were pieced together from special units from across the Middle East.

  Still, the Vatican Knights were considered to have no equal when standing against their unique brand of fighting. They were ultra-elite, an apex predator, and a team that was led by the man who was considered to be an angel to some and a demon to others. For Ahmadi’s team, this man would become their demon, and someone who waged war from an indescribable Darkness that somehow served the Light. Here was the Devil’s Magician.

  Ahmadi, who was hiding in darkness with his team, called out. “You! Vatican Knight! The one they call the Devil’s Magician! I have a proposal for which no one needs to get hurt!”

  Silence.

  “Do you hear me Vatican Knight?”

  Nothing.

  “All I want is the head of the golden calf! If you give me the head, I’ll let you live.”

  After Ahmadi’s words echoed off the walls of the chamber and died off, it was the continuing silence that unnerved him. Apparently, the Vatican Knights chose not to oblige Ahmadi’s offer.

  “To the one they call the Devil’s Magician, I give you my word. No violence will come from this. All I want is the head of the golden calf.”

  More silence.

  Ahmadi clenched his teeth, causing the muscles in the back of his jaw to work. He was becoming frustrated, impatient, the Arab not used to such disregard. “Last chance, Vatican Knight! Give me the head of the golden calf! If you do, the bargain stays! You and your team can walk away from this! I will not ask again!” His words bounced and echoed off the walls, died away, and was subsequently followed by an unsettling quiet. Obviously, the Vatican Knight’s answer, in its silence, was a resounding ‘no.’

  At that point, Ahmadi decided to divide his unit into three teams. These separated contingents of fighters were to maneuver quietly through the conduit—which were actually dried-up tributaries that had been naturally created by the monsoon runoffs—and to come up behind and surround the Vatican Knights.

  “They will see this coming,” the Bangladeshi whispered to Ahmadi.

  “Perhaps.”

  “And yet you still send your lambs into slaughter?” Purakayastha emphasized.

  “Hardly,” Ahmadi returned. “I think you’re overestimating the power of the Vatican Knights.”

  Amal Purakayastha decided to remain quiet and to allow the course of pending actions to speak for him. It was true that Ahmadi’s band of terrorists were considered to be an elite fighting force due to their ensemble. But the Vatican Knights had always been likened to the Spartans, having been raised and reared from orphans to soldiers.

  “Vatican Knight!” Ahmadi cried out. “The one they call the Devil’s Magician!”

  Amal Purakayastha knew that Zahid Ahmadi was trying to distract the Vatican Knights as his units closed in, an age-old tactic.

  “I do not wish to beg, but if necessary, I will! All I ask for is the head of the golden calf! For you, name your demands and they will be fulfilled in exchange for the item I request!”

  As expected, this was followed up by silence.

  Zahid Ahmadi, however, continued to shout out in an attempt to draw all attention to himself.

  The Vatican Knights, however, were wise to all tactics of warfare.

  * * *

  Kimball Hayden had directed his team to branch out to avoid flanking maneuvers and stealthy approaches by Ahmadi’s unit. Isaiah, Roman and Jeremiah went through the left-side conduits, while Kimball, Sherpa and Joshua advanced to the right.

  The tunnels were thin and had low ceilings, though maneuverability through most sections were trouble-free. When the Vatican Knights came to a tributary, they were forced to lessen their numbers by sending a man to cover all possible pathways from hostile elements. Isaiah took a corridor on the left, Roman a tunnel on the right, whereas Jeremiah kept straight. These channels that surrounded the master chamber that housed the Burning Bush were made up of serpentine-like warrens that had been bored throughout the years by the monsoons, only to dry up as the season expired. Now they were naturally formed outlets that provided a runoff system of rising waters, which in turn sent flooding runnels of water to the surrounding base of the mountain to replenish a dying landscape. Though the patterns were random and mazelike, the Vatican Knights continued to move with speed and purpose.

  As Ahmadi continued to draw attention to himself, with his false promises being aired, all the pieces were moving into place for a final confrontation.

  But it was Isaiah who was the first to come upon his enemy.

  * * *

  There was a room that was no more than a wide spot in the middle of a tunnel. Three of Ahmadi’s men, all who were members of Pakistan’s SSG Pak, had reached this room that had an opening in the ceiling that filtered light. These rooms were naturally formed cisterns that filled up with rainwater, which then drained the water to clench the drylands below. Wherever there was an overhead breach, there was also a chamber underneath with some more sizeable than others, all of which depended upon the size of the skylight opening. The larger the overhead hole, the larger the naturally formed cistern.

  As the three-man team entered the chamber from three different channels and uniting, light cascaded down on them from an eye-shaped opening above them. The room was more oval than circular, and the walls smooth from years of erosion due to fast-moving water.

  Across from them were two channels that led around to the Vatican Knights. Dividing amongst themselves, two took to one corridor and the remaining another, the teams now closing in from behind. While the double-team went left, the sole operator went right.

  The teams had no other choice but to work independently from the other, given the number of channels.

  It would also prove to be their mistake.

  * * *

  As the single operator moved quietly through the tunnel, he did so until he came upon another cistern, the reservoir a small arena with a pair of minor openings above.

  As a twin pair of illumined beams sifted downward, the terrorist remained cautious. His sixth sense, the one that had been honed to a fine point of sensation while he was with the SSG Pak, began to alert. He knew he was not alone, the man now accustomed to determining the difference between an approaching threat rather than an ally. What was coming his way, the silence that loomed closer, did so with deadly intention.

  The terrorist, who was now in league with Allah, knew that his God was watching over him and that he would conquer all that he confronted, with the power of divine grace.

  There were four openings surrounding him, however, minus the one he came from, leaving three differently shaped gaps to approach from. Like a canine whose hackles rose when sensing imminent danger, as the hairs on the extremist’s arms prickled and rose upon his flesh, he ground his feet against the surface and poised himself for the battle that was about to come. But nothing happened, the wait long and uneventful. Still, inside these dark gateways that led into the chamber, he knew something was watching and waiting with a predator’s patience.

  Approaching the first of the three passages, the radical leveled the point of his weapon into the left side maw and set off a short burst. The hallway lit up with muzzle flashes, the corridor empty. The report of his AK-47, however, resounding loudly throughout the channels to alarm others that the first volley of gunfire had been initiated and that the war was on, though prematurely.

  Stepping away from the opening to occupy himself with the second, he could feel panic starting to grip him. The menace he felt, the terror that was beginning to eclipse him, started to break his control
. His enemy was not someone who could be easily eradicated. His team was coming up against the best of the best. The Vatican Knights, it was said, were only seen when it was too late. And this became true to form as a hand suddenly reached from behind, cupped a hand around the terrorist’s chin, drew him close to his assassin’s chest, and with eyes flaring in alarm when he saw the serrated blade of a KABAR knife displayed before him, he tried to cry out right up to the moment when the blade slid across his throat. Surprised by his own mortality as he dropped his AK-47 to reach for the grin of his second horrible mouth with both hands to stem the flow, he gagged with a horrible wetness as he turned to face the victor. In the twin beams of light that cascaded down to alight upon his assassin, the terrorist eyes fell upon the white band of a Roman Catholic collar, the symbol of Christian faith, then noted the symbol that was stenciled upon the soldier’s uniform that was close to the warrior’s heart. It was the sewn stencil of heraldic lions standing upon their hind legs with their forepaws supporting a shield. And inside this shield was the silver Pattée of the cross that represented the league of his enemy: The Vatican Knights.

  As the edges of the dying man’s vision closed into tunnel vision, and then into a mote of light, he wondered when he was going to see his Claimer and the embracing light of his god. All he saw, however, as he hit the floor, was absolute darkness.

  Isaiah, who entered the chamber as quickly and as silently as he approached it, disappeared into one of the outlets.

  And just like that, Zahid Ahmadi’s team had been reduced to eight.

  * * *

  The other two who had broken off from their teammates had found themselves coming up to another reservoir that was large, the opening in the ceiling considerable in size. Along the walls were several openings that acted as tributaries during the monsoons, with a fist-sized hole in the center of the floor that served as a naturally designed drainage outlet.

  Neither man spoke since it was protocol to maintain absolute silence when coming upon the enemy. But since they were symbiotically in tune with one another, they sensed what the other was thinking. Something wicked was coming their way, this they were sure of as they pressed their backsides against the wall and waited.

  The ensuing silence seemed impossibly long, the moments fraying their nerves which neither man could hide from the other. They had heard of the tales regarding the Devil’s Magician, that he was only seen when it was too late. He had killed scores of their kind by the hundreds and thousands, though this legend was taken well out of proportion and embellished to heights of grandeur, as most legends were. And those who were with him—those demonic minions who fought at his side, these Vatican Knights—were just as elusive and seen only as mere glimmers that disappeared, only to reappear when it was time for them to steal away a soul.

  Breaking protocol, one whispered to the other. “Allah will see us through,” he said.

  The other nodded, though his demeanor didn’t exactly exude confidence. “We can’t stay here too much longer,” he answered, while pointing to the opening on the ceiling. “The light will eventually dim, and then darken. The advantage will only belong to these devils.”

  It was something his colleague could not refute.

  Then from the one who originally broke protocol after examining the number of tunnels that lined the walls, he said, “Which one do we take?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Perhaps we should stay together,” the first one suggested.

  “Do they not come to the same place?”

  The first terrorist shrugged. “Zahid seems to believe that they all come up behind the devils.”

  They both looked at the openings with each man trying to come to a final determination. But the answer was made for them.

  Kimball Hayden exploded from one of the openings with impossible speed, the man a colossus in their eyes as he approached them with unbridled rage. What they had seen was something from an altered viewpoint that had been manifested by their fears. What they saw was something with sharpened teeth that had been filed down to points and eyes that were soulless and as black as pitch. But Kimball had neither of these features as he closed on them with his MP7 directed to the extremist who was pressed against one side of the chamber, while keeping his eyes fully on the one who stood on the other. As the terrorists began to raise their weapons to retaliate, Kimball set off a muted burst and strafed the extremist standing opposite him. He ran the point of his weapon from left to right, and then from right to left, the strafing rounds peppering the terrorist. Wounds opened and pared back, the man now a puppet dancing madly upon hidden strings, his life smashed from his body. In the subsequent moment as Kimball turned on the other, the dead man slid down along the wall and to the floor, leaving a bloodied track in his wake.

  In the mind’s eye of the second man, he focused on the sharpened teeth that weren’t, and the pitch-black eyes of the creature that were actually cerulean blue. He saw not a man but a monster, which, in some circles, Kimball Hayden might have been. But in this world which seemed to move at a glacially slow pace, he watched his comrade being gunned down as his demon approached with killing hunger in his eyes. When he tried to raise his weapon, which felt leaden and too heavy to maneuver, its weight becoming impossible to lift, he saw the knife’s blade coming across in a perfect arc. Time moved so slowly, so sluggishly, he could almost count the points of the blade’s serrated edge, right up to the moment where the point drove deep into the man’s skull.

  Though the interval of time between shooting one man while stabbing the other—if the second terrorist had survived to tell of the tale—he would have said that the assault had taken nearly a minute when, in fact, it took less than three seconds of real time.

  As the second terrorist died on his feet, Kimball Hayden—upon the fourth second of real time—was gone, the man vanishing like the true magician he was.

  And just like that, Ahmadi’s group had been trimmed down to a six-man team. Now the odds were similar; six against six.

  * * *

  Kimball had navigated through the darkest parts of these dried-up tributaries with the aid of his NVG monocular. After taking a series of meandering twists and turns to reach the Chamber of the Burning Bush, he could still hear Ahmadi trying to detract attention.

  As Kimball exited one corridor, so did Isaiah from another, the two meeting and hunkering low in the shadows.

  “Ahmadi’s team were coming up from behind,” Kimball whispered.

  “Yeah,” said Isaiah. “The one I came in contact with was coming up from the side.”

  “Just one?”

  Isaiah nodded. “Handled.”

  Kimball raised his index and middle fingers to indicate that he had handled two. Then: “Ahmadi never had any intentions of letting us survive. He wants the head of the golden calf no matter the cost, so he’s sending his team forward to hunt us down from all sides. And that’s something we need to be careful of,” he said to Isaiah. “These are not conscripted people or newbies to the game of terrorism. These are seasoned soldiers who’ve been there and done that.”

  “I hear you.”

  In the background, Ahmadi was continuing with his presentation of false promises as a means of distraction while his team was mobilizing, with his voice having a hollow cadence to it, an echoey resonance.

  Kimball looked in the direction of Ahmadi through his NVG. Though the Arab was steeped within the cover of darkness, Kimball could see that he was not alone. Another stood by his side, a taller man. That meant that four others were in motion.

  “Find Joshua,” Kimball whispered to Isaiah. “He has the golden calf. Get him and the rest of the team out of here. If you noticed, there was one trail that led into the Master Chamber, but not out of it. That means there’s another exit with another set of footprints to show you the way. Find them. We cannot afford Ahmadi to get his hands on that relic.”

  “What about you?”

  Kimball sh
owed him his MP7 and then patted his dual set of KABAR knives. “I have all the toys I need.”

  “You’re going to do this alone? We are a team.”

  Kimball lifted his palms skyward to emphasize his surroundings and the dark shadows. “I’m totally within my element,” he answered softly and evenly.

  Isaiah nodded. “Understood.”

  Lowering his lip mic, Kimball whispered a message for the Vatican Knights to regroup at the Master Chamber, and to use caution because Ahmadi’s men were confirmed to be circling.

  Within two minutes, the group had gathered at the original point with the Burning Bush in sight. From the shadows across the way, Ahmadi continued to speak.

  Jeremiah took to a knee. “I saw the handiwork from one of you two in one of the cisterns,” he said pointing to Kimball and Isaiah. “Two men.”

  “That would be me,” said Kimball. “Isaiah also took out a tango. That means four more are making their way to our position. But we have no idea from what points of entry.”

  “Well, they’re not coming from the north or eastside,” said Jeremiah. “We checked. Meaning those tunnels are clear.”

  Kimball nodded. That left the south and westside tunnels. But the place was a maze, the conduits many. “Good enough,” Kimball said. “Isaiah is going to lead the team out. There should be a second set of footprints that should lead to an exit—there has to be since there was only one set of prints leading into the chamber and not out of it.” He turned to Joshua and added, “That relic is everything. We cannot allow that artifact to find its way into the hands of Ahmadi. I don’t think I can express the high nature of the consequences if it did.”

  Ahmadi continued his speech, his words finally hitting Kimball’s hot button. Clenching his teeth, Kimball looked over his shoulder towards Ahmadi’s direction and shouted, “Don’t you ever shut up?”

  After a lapse of silence, Ahmadi said, “So you do speak, Vatican Knight. The voice I hear, would that be the voice of the one they call the Devil’s Magician?”

  Kimball shrugged him off and returned his focus back to his team. “Eyes and ears open,” he told them. “Just because you didn’t come into contact with Ahmadi’s men to the north or the east doesn’t mean that they’re not there. There’s a lot of tunnels, a lot of passageways. The only thing we’re able to confirm is that Ahmadi has mobilized his cell to take us out.”