by Rick Jones
Juggernaut
By
Rick Jones
© 2019 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.
This is a property of EmpirePRESS & EmpireENTERTAINMENT, LLC
Prologue
Two Weeks Ago
Southern Philippines
In the jungles of Sulu Archipelago in the Philippines, a priest stands ready with his hands bound behind his back and a rope around his neck. Behind him stands a member of the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, who is gripping the end of the rope with both hands to hoist the priest high. Standing before the cleric was Rey Ramos, a man who rose through the ranks to eventually command the cell, after he had shed his greenhorn status by engineering several key bombings in Mindanao, the Sulu Archipelago, Basilan and Palawan, killing scores of people and injuring numerous others. Though short in stature and slight in build, no one dared to contest him.
With a bony hand that extended from a forearm that was no thicker than a broomstick, he pointed to an adjacent tree to make his purpose clear. A priest turned passively at the end of the rope; the man having been dead for two days. Over that time the man’s gases had bloated his body from a natural state to stretch the seams of his clothes. And his skin, once cheerfully ruddy in complexion, had mottled with colorful patches of yellows and greens and purples.
“Your destiny,” was all that Ramos told the priest.
Father Maggiano gave a cursory glance to the body that was in the first stages of putrefying. And the stench, which was sickening to the point of turning any man’s stomach into a slick fist, served as a psychological reminder as to who possessed the scepter of rule inside this camp.
“Your time is up,” Ramos stated evenly. “And like the priest before you”—the terrorist continued to point at the hanging cleric— “the church has failed you.”
Then he dropped his hand as if it was weighted and added: “You’re clearly expendable in the eyes of the Vatican.”
Father Maggiano ran a tongue that was as dry as a strip of carpet over painfully peeling lips, then said, “The church will not surrender to those who walk within the shadow of Satan.”
“This isn’t about religious conviction, priest. It’s about the one million dollars the church is unwilling to pay for your release.” And then: “In the end, it’s always about the money.”
Father Maggiano raised his chin in defiance, which was something Ramos took as spiritual bravado more than a true measure of the man’s religious principle. How fast will your attitude change, priest, when you’re swinging at the end of your rope? A second or two before your courage abandons you? Then he grinned at Father Maggiano with malicious amusement. “Everybody wants to go to Heaven, priest, but nobody wants to pay the price of admission . . . Not even a priest who professes his full commitment to God.”
Father Maggiano closed his eyes and waited for the tug on the rope that would carry him above the jungle floor.
But the pull never came.
What did come, however, was a muffled sound that was no louder than a spit.
A gout of blood erupted from the hangman’s temple as a round pierced his skull. In the same instant that the bullet penetrated the man’s head, he released the rope and fell directly to the ground as a boneless heap. His death came that fast from a precision kill shot.
As the rope coiled around the priest’s feet, his whole world suddenly began to move with the surreal slowness of a bad dream. He saw Ramos waving to his people, though his movements appeared sluggish, as he barked orders that sounded lethargic with his words drawn out and stretched. Smoke from gunfire rose in lazy drifts all around him as bullets zipped by his ears in waspy hums. And throughout this exchange of gunfire, Father Maggiano appeared untouchable to the violence around him. Ramos’s men were dying at his feet as bullet holes stitched across their chest and abdomens, with the wounds paring back like the blooming petals of red roses.
To Father Maggiano, everything continued to move with an odd gradualness until he finally took a round to the triceps, which suddenly galvanized his world into a furious pace. Falling to the ground with his hand over the wound, Father Maggiano grimaced as he saw Ramos’s team fall back into the jungle.
Gunfire was everywhere as dirt from the jungle floor skipped around Father Maggiano, as multiple rounds impacted and dotted the landscape. Slowly, the priest curled into a fetal position and prayed that the carnage would soon pass. Though Ramos was nowhere to be seen, many from his unit were scattered across the compound with their eyes and mouths staring skyward in surprise of their own mortality.
And then the jungle came alive.
At first, Father Maggiano only saw a glimmer of movement, green against green, and then nothing at all. It wasn’t until a team of Vatican Knights finally broke from the tree line to make their way into the compound with their weapons holding steady at eye level.
Looking at a patch of blue sky through a small opening within the canopy of trees, Father Maggiano thanked God for answering his prayers. Then as a shadow stood over him to blot out the sun, he noted the stark whiteness of the cleric’s collar that shone brightly in contrast against the dark shape.
“Father Maggiano.” It was Isaiah. “How badly are you hurt?”
When the priest smiled in return, meaning ‘not too badly at all,’ that was when they heard a burst of gunfire from beyond the tree line.
* * *
Two weeks ago, the archdiocese in Zamboanga City had been informed about the abduction of two priests and three nuns from the Church of St. Anthony of Padua in Basilan, by the Moro Islamic Liberation Front. Their demand: one million dollars for their safe release, with the specifics of the exchange to be agreed upon between Rey Ramos and the Vatican.
During the negotiations with the Holy See, Vatican Intelligence became involved in tracking down the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, where it was later discovered that they operated beyond the jungle line that bordered Basilan. Since interaction with the Zamboanga City archdiocese was through the Front’s satellite phone, Vatican Intelligence deliberately prolonged the dialogue until they could identify the terrorist’s theater of operation, by way of pinging the incoming calls through a network of geostationary satellites.
But when the talks moved too slow to Ramos’s liking, a viral of a priest being executed was summarily streamed to the Vatican.
That was two days ago.
Two days later, the Vatican Knights were converging to the signals’ point-of origin.
From behind a thicket with their faces covered in grease paint, Kimball Hayden and his team of Vatican Knights spotted the campsite. Rey Ramos was holding a conversation with Father Maggiano, whose neck was encircled by a crudely made noose.
“Everybody wants to go to Heaven, priest, but nobody wants to pay the price of admission . . . Not even a priest who professes his full commitment to God.”
The words to Father Maggiano appeared to be a predetermined cue to the man holding the rope to hoist the priest high. Just as the terrorist was readjusting his grip upon the rope, Kimball gave Jeremiah the signal to take him out.
The Vatican Knight, who by far had the best field of vision, raised his weapon, drew a bead within the crosshairs of his scope, and pulled the trigger. In the subsequent moment that was less than a half second, a gout of blood erupted from the man’s skull with the kill shot dropping him like a stone to the jungle floor.
As the Vatican Knights advanced through the thicket with their weapons going off in muted bursts of gunfire, they were able to reduce the number of their opponents measurably without wasting a single round. Wounds opened and pared back as kill shots sent terrorists to the ground with the face-first approach, their bodies hitting hard and fast. Others fell to their knees in wonder as their faces lit up with nonplussed looks, onl
y to look down at their wounds to witness their lives bleeding out.
But others retaliated with return fire as bullets stung their way through the thicket to take out stalks of live vegetation, decimated the fans of elephant leaves, or smashing away pieces from the trunks of wilting palms.
The Vatican Knights continued to advance while identifying the immediate threats, and then neutralizing them with clean shots to center mass.
Bodies continued to fall.
The smoke of gunfire continued to rise.
What was left of Ramos’s cell found themselves in retreat and vanished in the tree line at the other side of the compound, some continuing to fire aimlessly. That was when Kimball Hayden caught a glimmer of something that skirted along the peripheral vision of his left eye. When he turned to spy the point of movement, the slight swaying of vegetation at the concentrated spot was evidence enough that there was a ghost in the brush.
With the foresight of a predator who moves against his prey, Kimball listened for sounds to draw his advantage into focus.
Silence.
Then the snapping of a twig to his immediate left, a sound that was barely perceptible.
In the distance he could hear Isaiah talking to the priest, their tones far off.
Kimball pivoted on the balls of his feet with his measure slow and calculated.
Then he saw something between the parting of leaves, a figure that did not blend well with his background because of his T-shirt that had a faded logo on it.
Kimball approached with the stealth and grace of a feline.
But when the figure tried to relocate to safer quarters, he carelessly ran into Kimball with eyes that detonated with genuine surprise. He had not seen the Vatican Knight due to his camouflage attire, green against green.
In the terrorist’s hands was an AK-47.
Kimball looked at the tip of the rifle, which was pointed away, then at the face of a boy who was no older than fourteen. Kimball’s eyes quickly darted back to the rifle’s tip and then to the boy’s eyes, with these inquisitive exchanges trying to determine if the boy was going to use the weapon or surrender its use. But when Kimball started to see the cogs and wheels of the boy’s mind starting to turn, he whispered, “Don’t do it, son . . . Toss the weapon aside.”
The boy said something in Tagalog, something Kimball did not understand.
In response, Kimball pointed to the boy’s weapon and patted the ground. “Lay it down,” he told him. “I’m not here to hurt you.” Then Kimball pointed to the cleric’s band inside the collar of his shirt, the symbol of piety. “I’m from the church,” he told the boy gently. “I’m here . . . to help.”
The boy, who was conscripted into duty by Rey Ramos, slowly flexed his forefinger by extending it, and then wrapped it around the trigger.
“Don’t do this, kid,” Kimball whispered. Then the Vatican Knight pointed to the boy’s AK-47 and patted the ground once again, hoping to get his message across.
Please.
But the boy’s eyes started to dart from side to side, as if looking for an avenue of escape. His will to finally act was coming to a head, which was something Kimball immediately recognized as an unwise decision.
“Don’t do it, kid!”
Then the boy began to swing the point of his rifle toward Kimball.
Feeling the pang of moral conflict, Kimball set off a burst from his MP7 and watched the impacts knock the boy off his feet and into the brush, which caused a trigger reflex from the young guerilla that set off a volley of gunfire that went skyward.
Kimball, falling to his backside, never felt so morally compromised.
There was no doubt in Kimball’s mind that this boy had been fed the garbage of intolerance by Rey Ramos to the point where he romanced the ideology, rather than to see the ugly truth behind it.
Looking down at the boy, flies were already beginning to circle and alight on the boy’s flesh, which would be alive and crawling with larvae within twenty-four hours.
Nature, which was neither cruel nor discriminate, was simply taking its course.
Chapter One
Federal Blacksite Containment Center
14 Miles North of Richmond, Virginia
One Week Ago, 2356 Hours
Montrell Thompson, AKA Mohammad Allawi, was a homegrown extremist who waged wars of terrorism on the American front in the name of Allah. He was also the man who nearly assassinated Shari Cohen, one of the FBI’s elite, though the bullet that struck her left her in a coma for months, it did not kill her. What he did accomplish, however, was to murder her entire family in a car bombing, killing her husband and two daughters. And as she continued to cling to life not knowing what was happening in the world around her, a stranger who wore the garments of a priest came after Mohammad Allawi like a juggernaut, an unstoppable force, and nearly killed him. Looking upon the priest’s collar and then into his eyes, Allawi had seen the lack of moral conflict as this priest inflicted pain to the point of sending him into unconsciousness. When Allawi finally came to, he found himself to be under black-op authority who had made his life a living hell, which was why the priest allowed him to live, so that he would suffer greatly under their watch. For two years Mohammad Allawi had waited with the patience of a dark saint, knowing that his cell had been preparing for this moment with Allah’s guiding hand. As he sat along the edge of his concrete bed inside a cell that was 8’x 6’, he fixed his eyes to an imaginary point on the opposite wall, and sat as still as a Grecian statue, even when he had the desire to scratch an itch but neglected to do so. Then as the sun set, though he could not see this since his confines did not provide him with a window, his biological clock told him that the moment of engagement was nearing.
. . . tick . . . tock . . .
. . . tick . . . tock . . .
. . . tick . . . tock . . .
There would be no more waterboarding.
No more deprivation of sleep.
No more acts where the guards allowed their Belgian Shepherds to snap their fangs inches from his face.
Mohammad Allawi would once again be in control of his destiny.
* * *
Federal Blacksite Containment Center
Control Room
One Week Ago, 2359 Hours
Three soldiers from a military black-ops unit were monitoring the blocks through a bank of monitors inside the Control Room. Private First-Class Jonathan Penchoit, a man who possessed a skinny range of social skills and often spoke with clipped answers, was never much of a talker. The man to his right, Private First-Class Geoffrey Miner, happened to be his complete opposite who spoke nonstop in terms of unimportant matters, and the one who thought he knew ‘a lot’ about everything. The third man, Second Lieutenant James Hathaway, was the moderate of the three who neither spoke too much nor too little. But when he did speak, whatever he had to say always had an impact.
Tonight, like most nights, the blocks were quiet as usual. Apart from Mohammad Allawi who sat strangely idle along the edge of his bed, everything appeared normal.
On the Control Room wall, the digital readings of the clock switched from 11:59 PM to 12:00 AM.
Miner, who was the master of useless trivia, said, “Did you know that the sun was only ten thousand degrees?”
Hathaway shook his head. “And ten thousand degrees doesn’t sound hot enough for you?”
“Don’t you think it would be something like ten million?”
Penchoit continued to stare at the monitor with disinterest.
Then Miner, who noted the time on the clock and swallowed as if to wash away that sour lump that was cropping up in his throat, flatly said, “I’ve something else you might want to hear.”
The clock on the wall continued to read 12:00 AM.
Miner, who then sounded adrift, said, “Did you hear the one about the two Control Room officers who were gunned down at point-blank range, both men killed?”
Hathaway appeared thrown by this. The term ‘point-blank’ referre
d to especially accurate shots when making ranged attacks against close targets. When Miner turned to face the Second Lieutenant, Hathaway recognized the fact that Miner was not the man he claimed to be. Instead of possessing that spark of joviality he often saw in his eyes, there was a troubled darkness to them, something that informed Hathaway that the devil was rearing its ugly head to send others to an afterlife they didn’t ask for.
From beneath the console, Miner produced a gun that was made of a hard plastic composite—which was why the metal detector did not pick it up—directed it at Hathaway’s head and pulled the trigger. A bullet hole magically appeared to the second lieutenant’s forehead, his legs buckling immediately upon the bullet’s impact and sending him to the floor. In a maneuver that was quick and fluid, Miner turned on Penchoit and put a round through his eye, killing him.
The clock read 12:01 AM.
Removing a rolling keyboard from his backpack and unfurling it, Miner connected the lines of the board to the mainframe port and started to type commands. Overriding the command system, he was able to download new programs that killed every CCTV mounted camera. The banks of TV monitors along the console suddenly winked off, the system rendered inoperable. Then he took all warning systems offline, meaning there were no glaring pulsations of red lights or sirens. The facility was now in lockdown with every stretch of hallway, chamber and cell steeped in absolute darkness.
Reaching into his backpack, he removed his NVG headset, placed it over his head, and enabled it. After the whine of its system powered up, Miner’s world became the color of lime green. Using the rolling board that was now on his lap, he continued to type as if he had been an elite member from Carnegie Hall playing a Steinway. After adding a few more relevant commands, he poised his finger over the ‘ENTER’ button for a relishing moment, then brought it down against the button to emphasize the finality of the download.
