by Rick Jones
“Yes, sir.”
Kimball then addressed Isaiah. “And everyone else?”
“Fine for the moment. No one else was injured. But the children are visibly shaken. Sister Kelly is over with them right now trying to calm them down.”
Kimball turned to the bodies. Sister Patty, such a beautiful girl at nineteen who knew all the risks in such a land, but believed that goodwill could be spread nonetheless. Tiny Yara, a girl on the brink of learning about school-time romances. And the other children: a Jew, a Christian and an Arab, all dead by a cancerous faith that yielded to nothing but its own hateful agenda.
Kimball cocked his head and looked at the crippled vehicle. Gas was leaking from the tank and onto the sand.
“We didn’t have the means to siphon it anyway,” Isaiah intuited.
“We’re down five people,” said Kimball. “Either we load up and keep moving . . . or we make a stand.”
“It’ll be very tight,” said Isaiah. “Four children in the cab with Solomon. Sister Kelly, myself, you, Jeremiah and Samuel in the back, with a small child on our laps.” Then after a beat: “Missing five from the group gives us more room to work with. But that’s not really the problem now, is it?”
Gasoline continued to drain and be absorbed by the sand, a commodity that was far more precious than oil or water.
“How much fuel do we have left?” Kimball asked.
“Enough to get us about four hundred kilometers from the Iraqi border, I’d say. Maybe less with the added weight.”
Kimball seemed to mull over possible options, discovering none. They were running low on fuel. The children were frightened and starving. And they were deep inside hostile territory with the surrounding governments unwilling to breach accords in fear of terrorist strikes against their sovereignty, unless there was a personal stake involved.
“All right,” he finally said. “Load up. We move until we can go no further. Once we reach that point, Isaiah, you and Jeremiah will lead the children to the south, not to Iraq. Hopefully they’ll continue on an easterly route and lose sight of you.”
“And what about you, Solomon and Samuel?”
“We’ll stay behind and do our best to give you time.”
“Give us time? It might give us two minutes at the most,” he answered brusquely. “Because that’s how long you would last against such an armada.”
Kimball turned to him. “I have no other options, Isaiah. I am completely tapped out because nothing at the moment is favoring any of us. Nothing. Saving these children is our mission and our priority. We give everything to see this done. We put up our moral principles, our honor, and our lives against these people if we have to. We protect those who can’t protect themselves, no matter how grim things may seem. That’s what a Vatican Knight does.”
“There are always other options, Kimball.”
“If you come up with one, please let me know. Believe me, I’ll be the first to listen.”
Isaiah sighed heavily. The answer had to be there, he thought. It had to be. There was a solution to everything, or so he believed. But perhaps this one time, during this one situation, there would be no answer. “I’ll think of something,” he finally said.
Kimball patted Isaiah on the shoulder. “You do that.”
Within minutes the pickup was loaded. As suggested, four children sat in the cab with Solomon behind the wheel. Farid sat on Kimball’s lap. Whereas the smaller children sat on the laps of other Vatican Knights and Sister Kelly, with the larger children huddled together with no room to spare.
The vehicle crept slowly along the hard-packed desert floor. In the back where Jeremiah sat, a young boy of six or seven wanted to play with Jeremiah’s NVG headset. Patiently, Jeremiah constantly held the child’s hands at bay and told him to be still. But it was all for naught as the child’s ambition to remove the monocular from Jeremiah’s head continued, because the boy desperately wanted to view the landscape with magical wonder.
Jeremiah continued to deny the boy while he scoped the darkness that was no longer absolute, but a landscape encompassed entirely in green with the formations of rocks and stones that could be clearly seen.
In the distance, keeping pace, was Sayed.
Though the lights to the vehicle were off, Jeremiah could see him just fine.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The Syria-Iraq Border
The plane carrying the team of Vatican Knights touched down on an airstrip inside Iraq approximately six kilometers east of the Syrian-Iraqi border. The station was a joint venture between the United States and Great Britain to man and maintain a safe border against possible cracks that would allow the Taliban or the Islamic State into Iraq, by using the means and measures of top-end technologies and Predator drones.
After the plane taxied, the team was met by Lieutenant Colonel Kendall Cummings of the British Army. He was a man of average height, about five-ten and weighing a solid 180 of lean muscle, with close-cropped hair that was beginning to show the grays of aging alongside the temples.
When Leviticus offered his hand, Cummings shook it vigorously as if pumping the handle of a well. “Welcome. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Cummings. British Army.”
“Leviticus,” he returned.
Cummings noted the cleric’s collar Leviticus was wearing, as well as the logo on his shirt. The emblem was obviously the troops’ insignia. But it wasn’t one that the lieutenant colonel recognized. It was the symbol of a silver Cross Pattée centered within a powder-blue shield, with two heraldic lions standing on their hind legs supporting that shield from either side. Then his eyes drifted back to the collar. "Swiss Guard?” he asked after a quick appraisal.
“We’re a detachment to the Guard, but we possess far greater skill sets.”
“Covert operatives?”
“Lieutenant Colonel, please, time is very valuable and we’re running short.”
“Of course.” That was answer enough for Cummings who stepped aside to give them a wide berth, then pointed to a Jeep awaiting on the tarmac. Besides Leviticus there were four others: Amos, Jonah, Daniel and Joel. Like Leviticus they were wearing a strange arrangement of battle wear. They were dressed piously from the waist up, with everyone wearing a cleric’s shirt and collar, and from the waist down military BDUs and combat boots. They were also armed with MP7s.
Once they loaded themselves onto the Jeep, Lieutenant Colonel Cummings drove the team to a double fence-line that was heavily entwined with concertina wire. Manned guard towers with spotlights continuously surveyed the area.
“Let me say, Lieutenant Colonel, that the pontiff truly appreciates your cooperation in this matter.”
“It wasn’t my decision to make,” he answered. “I’m a bloody Atheist. The decisions were made by higher authorities. But Pope Pius is a good man. A very good man. And I’m proud to serve.”
“Thank you.”
“Now for your mission,” said the lieutenant colonel. “The Americans have been flying drones over the area of your flight path. No guerilla strongholds sighted, so don’t expect any RPGs. Everything looks clear. And as you’ve already been informed, your transport will only fly forty kilometers in before they unload you and your shipment. The vehicles will parachute down, as will you, and then you’re on your own. There’s enough petrol, so don’t worry about going dry. Questions?”
There were none.
“Very good, then,” stated Cummings.
The lieutenant colonel drove the Jeep through a checkpoint and into an encampment filled with corrugated barracks, then headed for a two-story modular building that was situated near a blacked-out landing strip.
Once there, Lieutenant Colonel Cummings vacated the vehicle, swiped an ID card over a scanning eye lens located next to a set of wide doors, typed in a security code, and returned to the vehicle as the doors started to open. Cummings then drove the Jeep into the building that was as open as a factory warehouse, a two-story edifice with no second floor. Parked along the walls were ten
Strykers, which were eight-wheeled armored vehicles equally equipped with the main armament of an MK19 40 mm grenade launcher that was mounted in a Protector remote weapon station, along with a secondary armament of 0.50 caliber M2 and 7.62 mm M240 machine guns, which were also part of the weapon’s station located on top of the vehicle. With a top speed of 100 kilometers per hour, or 60 miles per hour, it was mainly used to provide protection for infantrymen in the field.
“You’ve been designated two vehicles,” said Cummings. “I’m to assume you know and understand the command, control and targeting instruments onboard?” Though it was a question it was certainly rhetorical in nature, so Cummings continued on without hesitation and talked about certain specifics they needed to know about the hardware. But Amos and Jonah were skilled operators of such vehicles, having helmed them in previous skirmishes in Iraq, namely in Fallujah and Rimaldi.
“A C-130 will take you in,” Cummings added.
“How long before we get boarded?” Leviticus asked.
“We can have you airborne within twenty minutes.”
“That would be greatly appreciated.”
Cummings pointed to the logo on Leviticus’ shirt. “And Godspeed to you and your team,” he said.
Within twenty minutes, as promised, Leviticus and his team of Vatican Knights were in flight.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Raamiz could not sleep, so he spent the night walking the streets of Rome. He took in the old ruins with absorption and considered how beautiful they must have been during the Glory Days of the Empire. And then he reminded himself that there was no greater beauty than that of Paradise.
Moments before the first rays of daylight would show in the east, Raamiz began his Fajr, the predawn prayer, as his last invocation to Allah since he would be dead by the time of Dhuhr, the noontime session.
When the moment of Fajr was over, he returned to the hostel where his team was waiting. No one said a word as the air appeared thick with something solemn about it. But they had gone over the plans with such preciseness that everything had become second nature to them, and the performance of killing would be one of an involuntary act.
They had dressed accordingly. The vans were stenciled to appear as local businesses. But the fourth van, the van that would carry the foot soldiers to the Apostolic Palace, was stenciled with the decals and logos of an ambulance.
They were ready.
And within the coming hours, as traffic congested and grew in order to slow additional aid from law enforcement municipalities, they would position themselves and strike a vicious blow against the papal throne.
Raamiz looked at his watch.
Then he looked out the window of his room and saw the traffic beginning to build.
Soon, he thought. Very . . . very . . . soon.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Eastbound in the Syrian Desert
The drive into the early morning hours was quiet, if not somberly so, with Kimball appearing as if he was caught between sadness and rage as his face often shifted with tics of warring emotions, before he eventually gained control.
“Are you all right, Mr. Hayden?” asked Sister Kelly.
His eyes shifted in their sockets and settled on her. “I made you a promise,” he said. “I told you that I would keep you safe. All of you. I’m sorry.”
“Mr. Hayden, I said I would hold you accountable if this did not come to be true. But I was wrong. Sometimes I say things with the best intentions, such as you did. And sometimes, like myself, I tend to voice my fears with an edge. I told you that I would hold you accountable if what you said about our safety didn’t fall true. But the truth is, Mr. Hayden, I wanted you to be the voice of optimism and hope in a time where both were impossible. It wasn’t that I would lash out because I was angry with you. It was because I was afraid. You see, Mr. Hayden, I want the children to live. But sometimes God has different plans.”
“I gave you my word. Now five children lie dead alongside Sister Patty.”
“Good intentions,” she stated quickly. “You meant well.”
“So you no longer plan to hold me accountable, is that it?”
“Would it make you feel better if I did?” she asked. “To yell at you and berate you as a form of punishment for trying your best to keep us alive? You’re not perfect, Mr. Hayden. Nor am I. Nor was Father Jenkins or the people you keep company with. I just wanted to believe that we had a chance.”
Kimball looked away. And as light began to appear along the horizon, he could see a dust cloud forming in the rear. Sayed was keeping pace.
“He’s still there,” Sister Kelly commented dryly. “And soon we will run out of fuel, run out of options . . . and run out of hope.”
Kimball closed his eyes. A faction force was closing in, this he knew. He had allowed his own confidences to see them through by making promises that couldn’t be kept, despite the incredible odds against them. A moment after he sighed through his nose a hand fell lightly on his forearm. Sister Kelly’s touch was soft and warm.
“I’m sorry to have put you in such a position,” she told him. “Please don’t feel less than a man because you couldn’t keep promises that could never have been kept. I should never have said what I said. Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he answered. “There’re still lives here I can save. Lives that my team can save.” He turned to see the dust cloud forming behind them. “When I held tiny Yara in my arms, I promised Isaiah that I would capture Sayed’s last breath in a bottle.” He pointed to the clouds behind them, indicating Sayed. “And I sure as hell plan to keep that particular promise.” Then back to Sister Kelly. “You’ve nothing to apologize for,” he told her. “It is what it is.”
“Mr. Hayden, I appreciate your insistence to get us through, but—”
He held up a halting hand to stop her, palm out in her direction, and patted the air. “Enough. Please. Let me be pissed off,” he said. “It’s what motivates me and sees me through.”
“You can’t fight anger with anger,” she returned.
“Really? I’ve been doing it all my life,” he said.
He looked at Sayed’s dust trail. And I’ve been doing just fine.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Vatican City
Security was never taken for granted inside Vatican City. But neither were they equipped or trained to handle incidents on a massive scale, either. The Swiss Guards were elite marksmen with tactical training, but their numbers were small at 135, and not all were on duty. The Gendarmerie police were capable as well, but they were not specifically trained to fight military factions. And the security team was more of the Vatican’s last line of defense whose skill sets were less than those of the Gendarmerie and the Swiss Guards, though they were formidable fighters in their own right.
The day was fine with a blue sky and a few renegade clouds. People began to mill about St. Peter’s Square. And the day went on as routine.
Pope Pius XIV, Bonasero Vessucci, continued to stay in close contact with Fathers Essex and Auciello of the SIV. The news was grim. Kimball’s team was down to one vehicle. And a force of ten vehicles commanded by the Islamic State had made up enough time to close the gap between them to fifty kilometers, or thirty miles. At best, he was informed, at their rate of speed and depletion of fuel, Kimball’s team would be overcome within three hours.
Bonasero rose to his feet and went to the window that overlooked the Courtyard of Sixtus V, a glorious blend of riotous colors from flowering blooms in the garden. He worried for Kimball, felt a father’s concern. Kimball was like a son to him, like a boy who was constantly lost and looking for direction, only for Kimball to fall short no matter which direction he was pointed in. Kimball had a good heart and always had. He was just wired differently than most. When most missions were completed in the eyes of the Church, they weren’t so in the eyes of Kimball Hayden. If a threat still loomed, then he would continue to deal with it, even if it went against the moral judgme
nts of the Vatican. But in the end many more lives would be saved as a result because the full threat had been neutralized due to Kimball’s ‘miswiring.’ Unfortunately for the Vatican Knight, Kimball would continue to see these acts of vigilante justice well beyond the scope of the Church’s expectations; therefore, he felt that he was condemning himself to darkness by choosing damnation over salvation, and would never see the Light of his redemption. The man who was Kimball Hayden was deeply confused and forever lived in the Gray Area, a place between the Darkness and the Light.
Bonasero sighed inwardly.
Now with factions closing in on Kimball, and with Leviticus’ team making marginal gains, he prayed for the welfare of Kimball and those he tried to keep safe.
The Islamic State was a ruthless caliphate without dignity or compassion, he considered. The moment they happened upon Kimball, his team, and the children, they would be made examples of in a gruesome showcase of grotesque executions.
Bonasero returned to his desk and prayed for the team, asking God for divine intervention. If not for the sake of Kimball Hayden, then at least do it for the children whose innocence continued to burn brightly.
Outside the window a bird warbled in song. It was a nice melody, sweet and pure. And then it was gone. As soon as the winged songster departed, Bonasero went back to prayer never realizing that Death was quickly approaching his door.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Ismail was close, very close. His team was approximately forty-five kilometers away, or twenty-seven miles, and bearing down with speeds upward of 140 kilometers per hour. The intercept time was calculated at just over an hour.
Using the sat-phone to contact Sayed, it didn’t take long for Sayed to answer.
“We’re closing, Sayed,” he told him. “Keep sending the coordinates. We should be there in approximately one hour’s time, give or take a few minutes. But we’ll be there.”
