by Rick Jones
As much as Mabus tried to show off his veneer of bravado regarding this ‘priest who is not a priest,’ he had heard too many validations from people he trusted regarding this man. Though his reputation was surely embellished to mythical heights, he was simply an elite soldier and, on top of everything else, a mortal who bled like everyone else. If nothing more he was one man—most likely with his unit of a few good men—who was about to go up against a force of thirty men in a part of the desert kingdom that no one cared to rule with the exception of a few scorpions and snakes.
Mabus tried to shake off the notion of this so-called priest. But he couldn’t because too many people had stated that this man had killed so many of Mabus’ kind despite all efforts to stop him . . .
. . . And he just kept coming.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
They were moving south toward Jordan in silence, the terrain rough. In the rear of the pickup Kimball was seated with Farid who used one of his thighs as a makeshift pillow, while an adorable little girl by the name of Yara, which meant small butterfly, rested her head against the other. Kimball didn’t mind, however, as the children seemed to find more comfort sleeping in the sunlight rather than at night, where things often hid in the shadows. And as Sister Kelly looked on smiling, she had two children of her own that used her as a cushion as well.
Kimball saw her smiling at him. “What?”
She inclined her head in the direction of the children who used him as a place of rest. “They’re beginning to trust you,” she told him. “Usually they’re terrified of soldiers or anyone who carries a weapon since they equate people such as yourself with violence, which unfortunately has become a way of life here in Syria. And in Syria, Mr. Hayden, the demons don’t come from Hell. They come from your own backyard.”
He stroked the fine hair on Yara’s head, soft and silky. She was a beautiful young girl, innocent. Then he looked at Farid, the son of Mabus, who appeared just as innocent but came from an obviously corrupt pedigree. So the adage here applies: You can never choose your parents, he thought.
But you can always choose your way.
Kimball measured the soft faces around him, young and youthful with large brown eyes the size of saucers. In the bed of the truck riding next to his he could see two children playing patty-cake, a boy and a girl around the ages of seven or eight.
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” said Sister Kelly.
Kimball turned to her. “What is?”
“That.” She pointed to the children Kimball was just watching in the other vehicle. “Those children—how they’re playing with one another.”
“It’s nice to see that they’re not always afraid.”
“Oh, it runs much deeper than that, Mr. Hayden. Much, much deeper.”
“How’s that?”
She lifted her chin in the direction of the children playing patty-cake. “The boy’s an Arab and the girl he’s playing with is Hebrew. And the Arab boy’s best friend, the large one sitting in the back with his arms folded and looking on, is a Christian.” Then a gentle smile that was almost dreamy in appearance surfaced on her face. “It’s a magical time in life, Mr. Hayden. To be a child and hold no prejudices, no hatreds, no feelings of ill will against another human being. It’s a shame that once we grow, we somehow lose that magic and begin to see the ugliness that comes with the loss of innocence. And once you lose that innocence it’s gone forever. But sometimes it’s best to be blind to certain things. Let’s just pray that when they do open their eyes, then they’ll see and remember this exact moment that they played and shared with each other.”
“So they’re all denominations, these children?”
Sister Kelly nodded. “There’s no discrimination amongst those in the Islamic State. And because of them we take in any child who needs our help.”
“And Sister Patty over there”—Kimball tilted his head in the direction of the other pickup. Sister Patty was in the back with children resting on her for comfort as well—“looks like she’s barely out of her teens.”
“That’s because she’s only nineteen.”
“She’s just a kid herself.”
“But she’s well grounded, Mr. Hayden. She always knew what she wanted to be the day she was born and hit the ground running. She’s’ unlike me, who had a rough go of it until I found Jesus after the birth of my child.”
Kimball’s eyes hiked in surprise. A child?
Sister Kelly intuited the look. “That’s right, My Hayden, my child. I wasn’t always a nun, you know. In fact, you could say that I was a lost soul.”
Kimball was starting to relate to this.
“You see, Mr., Hayden, I was a wild child using drugs, drinking, partying and sleeping around with no morals because it was a way of life I chose to live. But at the same time I was hollow inside. Something in me was missing that even drugs or drink or the copulation with a stranger couldn’t fix inside me. Most mornings it left me so regretful that I just couldn’t get out of bed. Then when I found out that I was pregnant and didn’t know who the father was because there were so many, I also found myself very much alone. Even lonelier than I was before, if you could imagine that.”
Kimball did imagine that as he sat listening without passing judgment.
“When the baby was born I immediately signed over my rights as a parent and put the child up for adoption. That was twenty-five years ago and not a day goes by without me wondering if it was a boy or a girl, if he or she is now a parent of their own and me a grandmother. So I pray to God every day to bless and guide my child to good fortunes—a child who doesn’t know his or her real mother. Or a mother who has never set her eyes upon her child.”
Kimball could hear the sadness creeping into her voice.
“Then one day I passed a cathedral,” she continued. “So I went inside, sat on a pew, was surprised how empty the church was, and stared at this beautiful altar and the image of Jesus Christ upon the cross adorning the wall behind it. It was so magnificent, so peaceful. It was a feeling I haven’t felt since I was a child in my mother’s embrace, before a sickness took her away when I was ten.”
Kimball understood. His mother was taken away from him when he was seventeen by murder. And his father a year later by cancer. Such deaths so young not only left gaping holes, but gaping wounds that were hard to seal.
“But sitting in that cathedral that day made me want this special peace, this serenity that had eluded me for so long. On that day I truly believed God was deep in my heart, so I entered the proper Catholic community and conducted my interviews for Aspirancy and Postulancy, became a candidate, and then I took my first and final vows and never looked back. As for my mission in life, I became a mother to children who had no mothers.”
“So working in orphanages was more of a psychological need for you after surrendering your child?”
She seemed to mull this over a moment before answering. “Perhaps in the beginning,” she stated. “But in my heart I knew I would never see my child. I knew if I looked into every child’s eyes, then I would see him or her no matter the child. So my life has been one of great joy, Mr. Hayden. So how about you? What skeletons do you have in your closet? And don’t tell me that a man of your position holds none.”
There was a long stretch before Kimball answered. Then he looked at the children who seemed to study him with a combination of indifference and adoration. Then to Sister Kelly: “You said that these children didn’t understand English?”
She nodded. “Not a single word.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Because you’re not going like what I have to say.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The Damascus Team was racing from the east on a clear course of intercept, which was directed by Sayed who kept pace with Kimball’s unit. With the advantage of having the angle, the Damascus Team would be at the intercept-point nearly two hours before Kimball spotted them in waiting.
The team was headed by a man named Ismail, a ruthless killer wh
o murdered at will because he believed himself to be the right hand of Allah; therefore, his actions were perceived to be the direct response of Allah’s wishes. No one questioned his brutality, either. To do so often invited a killing blade across their throat, no matter if the banner you fought under was ISIS black or any other color. He considered questions a direct violation of one’s belief, a sign that one had not completely given himself over to blind faith, which was an egregious sin since there was no allowable room for uncertainties in a belief system, such as the Muslim faith. The only one he showed any measure of servitude to was Mabus.
When the sun rose high in the sky he received a sat-phone call. It was from Sayed. Ismail answered, his tone congenial. “Yes, Sayed.”
“We’re continuing south toward Jordan,” he said.
Ismail looked at his tablet which showed GPS coordinates, lines, and the interception point. “We’re now moving to the southeast, so the estimated time of intercept is three hours. Stay close, Sayed. The son of Mabus is our priority.”
“Understood.”
Ismail closed the conversation by hitting the ‘end’ button with his thumb.
His team was made up of ten vehicles with three armed radicals per pickup. A .50 caliber machine gun was mounted to the floor of each bed, along with each vehicle having been equipped with an RPG launcher. They were moving fast across the terrain, the trucks fully fueled. In their wakes they coughed up thick clouds of cloying dust, which could be seen by the analytical eyes of low-level satellites.
Everybody was watching somebody else.
A game was at play.
The chess pieces were moving into place for checkmate.
The White Team against the Black Team.
Unfortunately for the White Team, it appeared that the Black Team was positioning themselves for a victory.
And soon, very soon, the White King would be toppled.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Fathers Essex and Auciello were in constant communication with the pontiff. Live feeds from satellite images showed a collision course between Kimball’s team and a team coming fast from Damascus and angling to the southeast, where the capture would take place.
Father Essex sighed through his nose. “They’re not going to make it,” he stated as fact.
Father Auciello, who considered this as a personal comment on the part of Essex, aired his confirmation regardless. “You’re right. They’re not. This team from the east will soon be in front of Kimball’s team. At least two hours before. They will wait. They will engage . . . And Kimball will lose.”
They were quiet thereafter, watching the smoke cloud of the Damascus Team rise and waft in the sky east of Kimball’s position from the satellite’s view. Measures were still in the negotiation stages with Jordan, who were being cautious about intervening when a Vatican force entered undeclared onto Syrian territory without the permission of the Syrian government. And since Kimball’s team had driven too far from the Golan Heights, Israel was now out of the equation as well. So that left Iraq, which was much too far to the east on minimal fuel.
“I don’t think we have a choice,” said Father Essex. “Kimball needs to reroute to the east towards Iraq. Maybe we can get the American and British forces there to intercede.”
“Kimball’s team won’t get close enough to the Iraqi border. They’ll run out of fuel.”
Father Essex knew that Auciello was spot on. And Father Essex knew he was looking for hope where there was none. Kimball; his team; the two sisters, Sister Patty and Kelly; and the children were going to die by the hands of the Islamic State.
Even with all the power wielded by the pope, even politics had its boundaries of ‘when to’ or ‘not to’ commit to operations. Right now there was nothing advantageous about Jordan committing sorties or airlifts against hostile elements, since the sovereignty of the country did not want to invite skirmishes to their borders as a show of retaliation by the Islamic State.
Then from Father Essex and more firmly. “There is no choice,” he said. “Kimball needs to move east into Iraq.”
Father Auciello remained quiet. Then he placed a comforting hand on Father Essex’s shoulder, gave a soft squeeze, and then headed for the Communication Center to contact the team.
There was one option left.
And it was a poor one with little hope for success.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
“And what is it you’ll think I’ll hear, Mr. Hayden, that you don’t think I’ll like about you?” asked Sister Kelly.
“I’m going to assume not a lot,” he answered.
“None of us are perfect.”
He nodded. “All my life I adored my mother and hated my father. So when my mother was murdered it did something to me. I became angry and hateful. But it was the event of her murder that eventually drew me and my father closer together. A year later he died of cancer, so we never really got to reconnect fully. Not the way I wanted to.
“So when I graduated from school I joined the military. Apparently I excelled, became a member of Special Forces, and performed missions for the government. During training they stripped away all measures of humanity inside me, made me hollow with no sense of morality, no conscience—just a machine. My government took notice and made me head of a very special unit. Sometimes I operated alone. And when I did, Sister Kelly, I did whatever it took to keep my mission from being compromised. I killed old men, women, and children. I killed pets in front of their owners to make a point. I was no different from these animals we’re running from right now. The only thing that was different was the agenda.”
“And yet you serve the church. An odd twist, don’t you think?”
Kimball took the question as rhetorical and moved on. “One day, while working a mission in Iraq, I came upon two shepherd boys no older or younger than the children who sit in these trucks.”
“Which is why you asked if they spoke English. They trust you now. But if they heard and understood what you had done, you’d be afraid that the trust you gained would suddenly go away.”
He nodded. “I don’t want them to see me as the man I used to be.”
“And they won’t, Mr. Hayden. Children are very special creatures and can feel, sense and determine the Light and Dark within people. They’re resilient. And like I said before: to be a child is magical because they have yet to lose the ability to see the Light that exists in all beings. In you, Mr. Hayden, they must see a wonderful brightness.”
“All they see in me is a man who fought against the people who were trying to hurt them. There’s nothing special or divine about me. I’m a soldier. I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at.”
“And these two shepherd boys you talk about. Did they gravitate toward you when they saw you during this time of Darkness when you were a man without conscience? Or did they run?”
“They ran. Or they tried to.”
“But you killed them.”
He nodded. “They would have compromised my position.”
“So they ran from you, Mr. Hayden, because they saw the Darkness in you instead of the Light. Whereas these children come to you because they see the Light.”
“I don’t want to get into religious semantics with you, Sister.”
“Fair enough. Then tell me, what happened after you killed these two boys?”
Kimball thought this over for a moment. Then: “Something happened inside me. It was as if this wall had crumbled. I could feel again.”
“And after you killed these boys you felt the horrible pang of a guilty conscience.”
Kimball looked at her with amazement that dazzled within his eyes. “Yeah. So I buried the boys and laid on the desert sand with a hand on each mound praying for forgiveness not from God, but from the boys I killed. Every night when I sleep I still see their faces. They just won’t leave me alone.”
“Then I’ll ask you the same thing you asked me, Mr. Hayden. Do you do what you do because it’s a psychological thing? Do you
fight for the church to protect those who can’t protect themselves? Are you seeking redemption for your actions?”
“Yes to all three, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I’ve been looking for redemption the moment I took the emblem to be a Vatican Knight. I do whatever I can hoping that one day when my life finally ends, there’ll be more than just Absence. And if there’s one thing I’m afraid of, Sister Kelly, is an eternity of Absence. But whenever I take one step forward, then I’ll do something that sets me back two steps. This Light of Salvation always seems to be beyond my grasp.”
“Trust in the magic of children, Mr., Hayden. They see what we don’t right away. They may be shy and restrained in the beginning, but they come around quickly enough to see the truth.” She nodded to the two children who were resting their heads on his lap. “They come to you, Mr. Hayden, but they see in you what you fail to see in yourself. Your Light.”
“I don’t have a Light.”
“And for that reason, Mr. Hayden, is why you continue to fail to see yourself as you truly are: a man who is within the Light, but is held back to see this because you choose to remain blind to it.”
But Kimball knew differently. He still felt a sense of hollowness. If there was Light, then he would be whole. “No disrespect, Sister, but you’re wrong.”
“You have the right to your opinion, Mr. Hayden. But I’ve been around children far too long to know differently. I’ll still believe in their magic to see what we as adults do not.”
Believe away if it makes you happy.
“So tell me the truth, Mr. Hayden. Will we make it to wherever it is that we’re heading for? It seems that we continuously have to change directions in avoidance of something coming our way.”
“You’re right,” he said. “There’s a team racing to meet us from the east. And I believe that Sayed is trailing us and giving them our coordinates.”
“So what you see around us,” she said. Then she pointed to the children playing patty-cake in the other vehicle, and at the Jews and the Christians and the Arabs smiling to each other equally and without prejudice or condemnation. “So what you see around us—this magic—will all go away once the Islamic State finally catches up with us?”
