The Brimstone Diaries

by Rick Jones

  Salim, after pushing the heavy lid of the crucible aside, noted the numeric readings.

  ...20:14...

  ...20:13...

  ...20:12...

  Then to Fariq, Salim said, “Twenty minutes.”

  Twenty minutes, Abdallah Kattan thought as he rested the back of his head against the wall. Across from his was a fresco of the Virgin Mother looking over a crib that irradiated a golden light, a halo. The smile on her face was kind and gentle ...and would soon be wiped away from a heat so great that everything for miles around would be nothing more than smoldering ruins. In twenty minutes, he thought, that pretty smile of yours will evaporate.

  Then into his lip mic, he said, “Eyes and ears open, people, our positions have been compromised and forces are approaching as I speak. In twenty minutes the unit will ignite. In twenty minutes, the Hammer of Allah will show the world how truly powerful His might is. But I need twenty minutes. Fight, my brothers, and prepare yourselves for Glory. Prepare to be embraced by the arms of Allah as you seek your way to Paradise.” Then he looked into the young eyes of Salim, a child on the cusp of becoming a man, and then into the eyes of the second acolyte, a seasoned fighter who had seen too many battles, too many atrocities, the man incredibly hardened by life. “In twenty minutes,” Abdallah Kattan said softly, “we shall all be together in Paradise.” Then the Arab feigned a smile, which didn’t go unnoticed by the soldiers around him.

  “It will be a great honor, Abdallah,” said Salim. “Surely Mabus will be waiting.” Kattan nodded. Mabus. My brother. The one who was to lead us to the wonder of one nation under one rule. Then out loud, he said, “We shall see everyone, Salim. Everyone we have ever shared a life with. Mother. Father. Brother. Sister. Everyone.”

  Then from Salim: “Will it hurt?”

  Kattan shrugged. “I don’t know. I never died before. But it does not matter. An instant of pain will bring an eternity of unimaginable bliss.”

  Getting to his feet, Abdallah Kattan examined the beauty of all the frescos that surrounded them. Then he noted the magnificence of the altar and its surrounding displays, with the Reliquary of the Holy Crib itself a museum. A moment later, he said, “Twenty minutes, my brothers. Fight like you have never fought before. Join your brothers topside and be ready to wage a war that’s being directed by the Hand of Allah, yes?”

  Salim and his brother in arms raised their weapons high with one hand. “Allahu Akbar!”

  With dampened spirits, Kattan returned the chant with far less animation. “Allahu Akbar!”

  Salim, along with his older counterpart, hurried up the reliquary’s staircase with a touch of valiancy, with Salim taking two steps at a time.

  Kattan, feeling weighted down, once again took a seat against the colorfully painted wall. I don’t want to die, he thought. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I send others to their death. Then he embraced himself as a chill as cold as a glacial frost eclipsed him. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Then as he began to rock back and forth while enfolding himself, the Arab began to sob.

  ...18:22...

  ...18:21...

  ...18:20...

  * * *

  The Vatican Knights, along with members of the Italian military police, the Carabinieri, since the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore was on Roman territory and therefore their jurisdiction, used the shadows as they closed in from all sides. Kimball’s team consisted of Jeremiah and Joshua. Isaiah’s team was made up of Simon and Thomas, all names and callsigns taken from the New and Old Testaments. The Carabinieri was comprised of two dozen well-trained soldiers who wore the Robocop shin, knee, forearm and elbow guards that were constructed from a special composite, and Kevlar helmets with the boon of gadgetry that ran along the top of their head like a Mohawk cut.

  Everyone moved across the brick-laden piazza with their weapons held at eye level and used their NVG scopes to cut through the shadows.

  They were quiet and catlike, their footfalls soundless.

  When they reached the doors of the basilica which had already been compromised, the Carabinieri team leader festooned his weapon across his back, grabbed the door with his left hand, and held up his right hand showing three fingers, and began to tick them off.

  ...Three ...

  ...Two ...

  ...One ...

  That’s when he whipped the door open to allow his team to rush in.

  And then that’s when all hell broke loose.

  * * *

  The moment team leader opened the door, a second team member was to toss in a flashbang. But as soon as the door opened an explosion rocked the area that was powerful enough to knock the set of double doors off their hinges and into the piazza. Team leader and his teammate went sailing along with the doors, their bodies pitched high and far into the piazza where they landed as twisted, horrible heaps of broken bodies.

  The moment the Carabinieri attempted to commit a frontal assault, they were cut down by powerful gunfire. Rounds from armor-piercing .50 caliber machine guns smashed their way through the Kevlar as if they were little more than rice paper, the ammo punching holes easily through the material. The exit wounds were the size of human fists as gore and gouts of blood exploded from backsides. Kevlar helmets also exploded like ripe melons, the caliber of the weapons too great.

  The Carabinieri fell dead where they stood while others fell back, and as blood pooled and dripped on the bricks from fatal wounds, Kimball held his team back. Kattan’s team was obviously well-equipped and well-trained.

  In the back of the basilica, Team Two was having equal difficulty as they tried to breach the church. Timed with the entry of Team One who were in front of the basilica, Team Two’s entry in the rear also met with gunfire. Rounds pierced and devoured flesh, the bullets knocking off limbs at the shoulder, or sometimes at the knee or at the hip. Carnage was everywhere as cries filled the night. When Team Two tried to pull back, Kattan’s assassins from rooftop edges fired down on them. Their ammo, however, was of a smaller caliber that had little effect on their armor.

  But showing themselves was an advantage for the Vatican Knights.

  * * *

  In the rear of the basilica, Isaiah was watching from the shadows close by. He could see the Carabinieri in retreat, at least what was left of them. Then he looked along the ridge of the basilica’s roof and saw the muzzle flashes as bullets continued to rain down on the withdrawing unit.

  Isaiah tapped his earbud. “Thomas, are you in position?”

  “I have three tangos on the rooftop.”

  “You know what to do.”

  “Copy that.”

  * * *

  Thomas was the Vatican’s Knights master sniper. On top of a building that was parallel to the basilica but approximately 100 meters west to the rear of the church, the Vatican Knight had set up his station to provide cover from rooftop shooters. The moment he saw the muzzle flashes, he quickly put his eye to the scope of his Barrett .50 Cal sniper rifle, placed his subjects within the crosshairs, got a fix on their position, and then he started to dial in, first targeting the one on the left. After he homed in on the target’s head and held it within the crosshairs, he slowed his breath, concentrated, then pulled the trigger. Through the scope he watched the results of his shot after the weapon bucked and resettled. One moment the terrorist was firing down on his opponents, the man oblivious of what was coming his way, and then his head exploded like a ripe cantaloupe, the body falling loosely to the area of the roof behind him.

  Then Thomas set his sights on the second man, the one who was in the middle, and followed through with his killing, the heavy-caliber bullet decimating the man’s head from the jawline up.

  When target three went down, the shooting stopped.

  Into his lip mic, Thomas said, “Rooftop targets neutralized.”

  It was also Isaiah’s cue to move forward on his front.

  * * *

  Kattan was cradling himself inside the reliquary when he heard the ex
plosions. Once the first volley ended, he began to rock back and forth. All his life he had followed in his brother’s shadow, always wanting to be heralded by those who looked at him as a demi-god and a vessel of Allah. But deep down he knew himself to be a coward, a man of supposed conviction whose only allegiance to Allah was to send legions to their deaths in the name of religion.

  Then came the bursts of gunfire.

  ...I don’t want to die ...

  ...I don’t want to die...

  ...I don’t want to die...

  Kattan continued to rock quickly on his backside, faster and faster as if to keep up with the pace of the gunfire.

  If his brother Mabus had seen him, Kattan knew he’d be gravely disappointed in his younger brother.

  You’re no hero to Allah, he could hear him say. You’re nothing but a child in a man’s body. And yet there are children who would gladly take up arms in the name of Islam, rather than to cower in the shadows as you do.

  ...I don’t want to die ...

  ...I don’t want to die...

  ...I don’t want to die...

  You, my brother, will have no place in Paradise.

  As the gunfire continued, Abdallah Kattan began to sob.

  * * *

  Kimball, Jeremiah and Joshua moved into position by the front opening where a pair of wooden doors used to be before they got blown clear from their hinges. They were joined by three members of the Carabinieri, who were decked out in full riot gear.

  Kimball, speaking softly into his lip mic, remained in communication with Isaiah, who was manning the rear with Simon and a pair of soldiers of the Carabinieri.

  “Isaiah, are you in position?”

  “That’s affirmative.”

  “These people are heavily armed with high-caliber weapons. Initiate two flashbangs. One to the left, the other to the right. Enter. Then engage.”

  “Copy that.”

  “On my count.”

  “Ready.”

  Kimball began to countdown. “Three ...Two ...One...”

  With a flashbang in each hand, Kimball stepped in the center of the opening and tossed two flashbangs into the basilica. One went forward and to the left, the other tossed forward and to the right, before he stepped out of sight and behind the cover of the wall. But not without instigating a barrage of gunfire as an outpouring of rounds stitched across the floor of the basilica towards Kimball, and up along the wall, all missing.

  In unison, the grenades went off.

  When a flashbang detonates, there’s an extreme and violent blast that creates concussive waves that debilitates the senses. Cognitive minds are stunned and numbed by these effects which make any physical actions impossible to manage, such as pulling a trigger.

  After the blinding blasts, Kimball and company entered the basilica with their weapons raised to eye level and panned for targets. Three extremists were stumbling about as their minds tried to comprehend the moment, with two trying to blink away the haze in their eyes to realign themselves. The third moved about as if he was something from a zombie apocalypse, taking steps that were choppy and uncoordinated.

  Kimball, through the green lens of his NVG scope, took direct aim and pulled the trigger. One by one the rounds struck center mass, the three men quickly falling in unison to the floor of the basilica as gelatinous heaps. All three were dead before their minds had a chance to register their death.

  That left five active terrorists within the basilica, their locations unknown.

  As Kimball and company pressed forward with their heads on a swivel, all the members were panning the points of their weapons from left to right, and then upward.

  As they neared the Reliquary of the Holy Crib, Kimball called out to Team Two.

  “Isaiah, do you copy?”

  “I copy.”

  * * *

  When Kimball counted down to the moment of action, Isaiah had mirrored Kimball’s movements by tossing a pair of flashbang grenades as ordered, one to the left and the other to the right. With the expected effects giving the Vatican Knight the advantage over his enemies, Isaiah and his team entered the church from the rear.

  Here, only two of the extremists guarded the entryway, both confused by the immediate rocking of their world and the sudden blindness from a great light. As they stumbled and tried to wink their way to cognizance, as one tried to raise his weapon against Isaiah, both Isaiah and Simon opened with shots to center mass. Muzzle flashes went off in synchronicity as the Vatican Knights neutralized their enemies, with the muted sounds of their gunfire no louder than someone coughing lightly.

  As the terrorists danced in pirouettes before falling, the Vatican Knights pressed on with two members of the Carabinieri in tow.

  That was when Kimball called out to Isaiah.

  “Isaiah, do you copy?”

  “I copy.”

  “Moving toward the Reliquary of the Holy Crib. Factions in the fore have been neutralized. Number of tangos down an additional three. Keep your heads on a swivel.”

  “Copy that. Tangos down by two in the rear. Moving forward to your location.”

  “Copy.”

  * * *

  Salim, a boy who wanted so badly to be a man and who romanced the imaginary visions that he would become a hero to his people the moment of his martyrdom, had never been so frightened and exhilarated at the same time. From the shadows he and Jamal, the seasoned vet who had witnessed atrocity after atrocity and had become so numbed by the violence, watched their teammates go down. No one was communicating through their lip mics, the sound coming back at them as nothing but dead air.

  Then to Jamal, Salim whispered, “We are the last, my brother.”

  Jamal nodded in the shadows. “I have fought many battles, Salim, too many to count. I knew this day would come. And I embrace it.”

  Salim closed his eyes and tried to tell himself the same, that he was ready. But deep down the flame of romancing the ideology of waging a great jihad all but diminished, the fire snuffed out. What he was feeling now was regret and the shame of feeling such a way, believing that Allah would condemn him to Darkness for losing faith.

  When he opened his eyes, Jamal had his weapon raised and directed to the subjects that made their way forward to their position. “Are you ready for Paradise, Salim?” he asked softly.

  The boy who was yet a man white-knuckled his weapon. “I am,” he lied.

  “We will have little chance to penetrate their armor,” whispered Jamal. “Go for face shots. Allah will guide your hand to steadiness.”

  A direct shot to the face shield was a low-percentage shot, this Salim knew. Worse, he did not believe that Allah would guide anything, let alone his hands steady for kill shots.

  “When they get closer, Salim, they will see us through the night-vision scopes.

  When they direct their weapons on us, move forward with your finger on the trigger. Allah will do the rest. And in turn, as we are struck down, we will both see the Light that will guide us into His arms.”

  Salim suddenly felt his scrotum crawl and a sour lump in his throat. His life was about to come to an end.

  Thirty meters away and closing was Kimball Hayden and his team.

  * * *

  Abdallah Kattan could not hear a thing. And right now, there was nothing more terrifying to him than absolute silence.

  The Syrian, moving quietly across the floor on his hands and knees with his assault weapon secured on his back, went to the bottom of the reliquary’s stairway, and looked up the steps. He could see the magnificent domed ceiling and its drawings, even in quasi-darkness. And he listened.

  Nothing.

  Not even whispers.

  Then slowly, he began to crawl backwards toward the altar where the shadows were deep and dark, becoming a part of them.

  And in terror, Abdallah Kattan, who for a long time posed as Cardinal Alnasseri to breach the ranks of the Vatican, prayed unto Allah to spare his life.

  * * *

  Kimball mov
ed forward as point-man with his head on a swivel. Jeremiah and Joshua were behind him, and the Carabinieri officers were behind them, with the unit pressing forward in a V-formation.

  To Kimball’s right and deep inside the shadows, his NV scope picked up two figures. One a man, the other a boy, and both were armed with assault weapons.

  “Two tangos at two o’clock,” Kimball said into his lip mic. “Engage! Engage! Engage!” Before the last word left his lips, Kimball had already pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  Salim and Jamal, when they realized that they had been made, vacated the shadows and moved against Kimball’s team, the warriors shouting praises to Allah. Rounds coursed through the air, both coming and going, as the waspy hums of their flights passed by ears. Muzzle flashes lit the area with a strobe-light effect.

  The smell of gunpowder filled the air.

  The teams converged on one another.

  And then a bullet struck Jamal’s shoulder, which knocked him off balance, only for him to regain himself quickly and charge forward holding his weapon with one arm, with one hand, firing off as many rounds as he could before the magazine ran dry.

  Salim did the same, his weapon spitting out what seemed to be endless rounds of gunfire. More whining zips passed by his ears, near misses, near hits, until one struck his side below the rib. The agony that followed was excruciating, the area suddenly blossoming into a tabernacle of pain which drove a scream that was a praise to Allah. Then he stumbled forward until his ammo finally found the marks that were perhaps guided by the Hand of Allah, after all. A pair of rounds punched holes through two of the face shields of the Carabinieri officers, the Plexiglas shattering into a network of spiderwebs before both soldiers went to their knees, wavered a bit, and fell forward, the men no longer amongst the living.