Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1

by James MacGhil

  “Yes,” I replied momentarily stunned. “It was on the hilt of his sword and he drew it in the sand after talking to the commander. How in the hell could you know that? What’s that symbol?”

  “It’s called a Chi-Rho,” he muttered in a feverish tone, paying my first few comments no attention. “It’s a Christogram — or an early symbol of Christianity. Glamorized by the Roman Emperor Constantine the Great during the Battle of the Milvian Bridge in 312 A.D.” Deliberately pausing, he said, “It also has another meaning. Perhaps more significant.”

  As my mind raced to keep up with the Padre, I dialed back some of the military history classes I mostly slept through at West Point. Vaguely remembering the Battle of the Milvian Bridge, I said, “Isn’t that when Constantine liberated Rome despite being vastly outnumbered? He supposedly had a vision from God. And painted symbols on the shields of his legions.”

  “Yes, Yes, Dean. You are correct.” Tapping the face of his ring, he added, “He painted this symbol. The Chi-Rho.”

  “Ok. So that’s interesting. I’ll give you that,” I muttered doing my damnedest to follow the plot. “Now granted, I may have missed this small detail in the history books, but I don’t remember reading about a horde of mythical giants at the battle.”

  “The fact it was not written does not make it any less plausible,” Father Watson replied in a surprisingly sober tone.

  “Come again?”

  “There are many who believe that giants are much more than mere myth,” he said. “In the early days of man there are tales of the nephilim — a cursed race of giant beings spawn of fallen angels that nearly devoured mankind. Albeit not a history book, their origins and subsequent demise are well documented in the apocryphal writings of the prophet, Enoch.”

  “You lost me,” I replied. “So you’re saying the giant gladiator guys in my dream were real?”

  “I’m not sure this is the time or place for this discussion, Dean,” he said pensively. “I fear you are not yet ready to hear what I believe is happening.”

  “Aw — for Christ’s sake, Padre. Seriously? Throw me a frigg’n bone here.”

  With a look of apprehension strewn across his face, Father Watson began to speak and then abruptly stopped. Letting out a long sigh, he lowered his head and intently stared at the dirt floor of the mess tent. Reluctantly, he said, “What if, for argument’s sake, I told you that everything you’ve witnessed — everything you’ve experienced — in your dream — is real.” Raising his head and fixing me with an intent gaze, he said, “What if I told you that you’ve been given a repeated firsthand viewing of a series of actual historic events from well over two thousand years ago that, by and large, have shaped the world as we know it? The will of Heaven played out on the Earth. Divine retribution for an unspeakable treachery that occurred at the very beginning of time itself. A manifestation of the left hand of God walking amongst men.”

  Not quite sure how to react to the Padre’s comments, I let out a sigh of my own and decided it was time to tempt fate with a dose of the First Sergeant’s industrial strength coffee. What the hell. I was clearly delusional and the Padre was evidently drunk. Holding my mug under the spout, I watched the toxic steaming liquid reach the top of the brim as I contemplated what to say next.

  Nope. I got nothing. I started laughing and turned to Father Watson.

  “Are you fucking kidding me with this? Let me get this straight — an army of giant men roaming the streets of ancient Rome dressed up like gladiators — That’s real. A dude in a cloak with a big-ass flaming sword that puts the beat down on said army of giant men dressed up like gladiators by shooting a wall of fire at them — Also real. Oh, and Cloakboy was monkey stomped to death by a bunch of rock swinging, robed cronies before he showed up and opened a fiery can of whoop ass on aforementioned giant gladiator wannabes — Real. Actually happened. Frigg’n Seriously? That’s the best you got? Sounds like a bad comic book for Christ’s sake. Come on, Padre.”

  “Yes, of course,” Father Watson replied with a look of disappointment mixed with frustration. “This is clearly a discussion for another time. Your visions are a remarkable gift, and I truly feel you are very close to understanding their intent. Now, I’m afraid it is time for me to go. The Lord’s business awaits the good Doctor and I in Brezovo Polje.”

  With that, the Padre tucked the flask back into his coat and shot me a stern look signifying that the conversation was over. Maybe I should have held back on the comic book reference. Might have gone a tad over the top there.

  “Great. Thanks for that keen insight,” I grumbled. “If I didn’t like you so damn much I’d think you were a real asshole. What the hell’s in that flask anyway?”

  “Holy water,” the Padre muttered with a dismissive smirk.

  “Holy water my ass,” I chortled.

  Not sure whether to be pissed or confused by the Padre’s latest commentary on my dream, I decided to let it go and change the subject.

  “So, let’s talk about the Pole. What the hell are you thinking? Did Petrovich contact you directly? You do realize he’s a goddamn war criminal right? Not the most trust worthy of individuals.”

  “Yes,” he replied very matter of fact. “Mr. Petrovich did contact me at Task Force last night and request emergency medical assistance. And, Yes, I am fully aware of his reputation. Before you say it — Yes, both Doc Kelly and I fully realize it’s a military restricted zone.” Without so much as giving me a chance to rebut, he turned and started to walk back to the main gate where the others were still gathered. “And Dean, I greatly appreciate you not giving us any shit about this. There are people in need and we all have our jobs to do.”

  “Damn it, Padre! We’re going with you,” I grumbled throwing my mug on the ground in frustration as I caught up with him.

  Approaching the rest of the crew still huddled by the gate, I detected a similar conversation occurring between Tony, Doc Kelly and Luke.

  “Gentlemen,” Father Watson said facing the group. “Although we appreciate your concern, it is not possible for you to accompany us. Firstly, it would be viewed as an act of aggression by entering the restricted zone. Secondly, I gave my word to Mr. Petrovich that we would come alone. He has wounded soldiers, women, and children that require our help.”

  “But Padre,” Tony said shaking his head. “This is a really fuck —”

  “First Sergeant! We are not discussing this any further,” Father Watson said sharply, with a look of priestly admonishment. “We are noncombatants and the Lord will protect us accordingly. We’ll see you tonight for dinner. And I sincerely pray that you cook better than you make coffee.”

  “Don’t worry boys, we’ll be fine,” Erin said giving me a reassuring glance. “In and out. Nothing we can’t handle.”

  “You watch your ass, Doc,” I said with a disapproving nod as I locked eyes with her. “These are dangerous people. Unstable. Any sign of trouble and you bail. We clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied mockingly. As she packed the remainder of her medical kit into the hummer and climbed into the passenger seat, she said, “See you tonight, Captain. First round is on you.”

  And then they pulled out and headed south into the countryside.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, sir,” Sergeant Lucas said in a somber tone as the hummer finally faded from sight.

  “Same here, Luke. Where’s the scout team right now?”

  “They’re patrolling the eastern sector. Not far. Lieutenant Mac checked in about an hour ago.”

  “I’m on it, sir,” Tony said evidently reading my mind. “I’ll radio the LT. See if they can’t drift south a bit and pick up the Padre’s trail. Keep eyes on them for the rest of the day. Real quiet-like.”

  “I want a report every hour on the frigg’n hour,” I grumbled.

  Watching Luke head back to his position on the perimeter for morning watch, I turned to Tony and discreetly muttered, “First sign of trouble —”

  “We’re going
in,” he said completing my sentence. “I’ll put a Blackhawk on standby.”

  Reaching down to grab the hand mic clipped to his vest, he paused and grumbled, “You know the Padre’s gonna be pissed when he finds out we followed them.”

  “Ah hell, they say the Lord works in mysterious ways, First Sergeant. And we’re some mysterious fucking people. I think we’re Ok here.”

  Chapter 4

  Brezovo Polje, Bosnia

  27 December 1998 - 23:52 Hours

  19 Hours Later

  “Sir, You good?” Tony murmured as he adjusted the assault sling on his M4 rifle to properly seat the butt stock firmly against his right shoulder, while simultaneously casting me an intense glance.

  A glance I instantly recognized. It was go time.

  It’s called the stack drill. Simple really. Heavily armed, highly trained soldiers stacked on a wall for the sole purpose of entering and clearing a room full of bad guys. Not to state the blatantly obvious, but the concept of ‘clearing a room’ is a pleasant description for the placement of two well controlled rounds, from your weapon of choice, into the chest cavity of anyone foolish enough to be standing in the room at the time providing opposition.

  Every man in the stack had a job. Every man was expected to do his job and his job only. No exceptions. Bad guy in your quadrant — you shot him. Bad guy not in your quadrant — you didn’t shoot him and had faith that your Ranger buddy would before aforementioned bad guy returned the favor.

  Simple. Boil it all down and the stack drill was all about faith. Balls of steel and a lot of frigg’n faith. It didn’t make a goddamned bit of difference how many times you’d done it, practiced it, talked about it, or even thought about it. When you’re about to willingly step through a doorway where a high probability exists that bad guys are waiting to pump your sorry ass full of bullets, your mind tends to cast doubt on your ability to self preserve.

  Serving under my command were the hardest men to trod with booted feet on God’s green earth. And every one of them would be lying their ass off if they told you that clearing a room during a combat situation was not the single event they feared most in this life or the next. It was fear at its most basic level. Extreme fight or flight. Pure adrenaline pumping on overdrive through every kernel of your being. And yet we did it.

  Why? Also simple.

  Bad guys seemed to have this unbreakable habit of taking good guys against their will. Subsequently, we kicked their fucking doors in and shot them. Good guys went home. We got ready for the next mission. There was no glory. There were no thanks. There was only the next mission and the fleeting hope we were tipping the scales a bit in the right direction. For me and my men, that was enough.

  Pay sucked, food sucked, coffee really frigg’n sucked, but the company was good. Most of the time anyway.

  “Sir, you with me?”

  The subtle yet irritated tone of First Sergeant Coates indicated he was clearly losing patience.

  This particular door I was about to kick in had my mind racing a bit more than usual. Could have been the fact that it was almost midnight, unnaturally dark, raining like hell, and the middle of winter in the cozy province of Brezovo Polje — situated tactically on the not so friendly western border of Bosnia and Serbia — where two thousand Serbian refugees were supposedly dug in, after driving all the Muslim inhabitants out of town with extreme prejudice.

  Some said the Muslims were still there, just no longer drawing breath. Others claimed they’d gone to ground awaiting an opportunity to strike back and reclaim their homestead. Either way it was a damn mystery, as it was a military restricted zone and we were forbidden to enter under pain of court martial. So the short story here was that my presence in ‘the Pole’ was neither sanctioned nor welcomed.

  Could have been the fact that it was my frigg’n birthday and we were on day one hundred and seventy-seven of a one hundred and eighty day deployment to this literal hell hole where thousands of years of bloody genocide, ethnic cleansing, and unholy death seemed to emanate from every pore of its physicality like a continuous putrid sweat. You could literally feel it. Sense it.

  Could have been the fact that Tony and I were huddled on the wall of an ancient church where a reported maniacal Serbian zealot had taken unwilling possession of two American humanitarians, who my men and I had become rather fond of, over the past one hundred and seventy-seven days. And I swore I was hearing the faint echoes of misshapen screams escaping from somewhere deep within the sanctuary.

  Could have been the fact that the entire damn village seemed utterly devoid of any human presence, despite the regular intel we received about the inhabitants and their activities. Oh, and every dwelling within eyesight of the church was on fire. The place was a literal flaming inferno. Taking into account the biblical proportions of rain dumping from the blackened sky at the current moment, that was one hell of a feat. No pun intended.

  It was our very own circle of hell. The air was suffocating and reeked of a stench potent enough to make your stomach churn with the force of a cement mixer. Sulfur. It stank of sulfur. If I didn’t know better I’d swear enough napalm was dumped on this place within the past hour to erase all evidence that human life ever existed here. The town was not being destroyed — it was literally being consumed around us as the flames steadily slithered through the mud-strewn landscape toward the church. Toward us.

  As my mind struggled to make sense of what I was looking at, I felt repeated waves of adrenaline surge through me. No stranger to combat, I’d personally led more than a couple NEOs and this was clearly not playing out according to script. Plans usually went to shit fairly quickly and we dealt with it as a matter of practice, but this felt — off. Like something was waiting for us to get here. Something predatory.

  And for the first time in a long time, I felt like the prey.

  “Sir! Goddammit — You with me?”

  No longer a barely audible whisper, the ‘answer me right frigg’n now or I’ll rip your face off’ bark of First Sergeant Coates snapped me from my place of momentary reflection back to the mission.

  “I’m with you,” I dryly replied with my gaze still fixated on what appeared to be the remnants of a humble farmhouse fully engulfed in vindictive flames on the far perimeter of the church courtyard. “Taking in the landscape for a moment. You take me to the nicest places, First Sergeant.”

  Despite the surreal setting, our current plight should have been a basic snatch and grab mission, but unfortunately it was a bit more complicated than that. It was personal.

  Goran Petrovich, local mass murdering whack job and self proclaimed liberator of Brezovo Polje, had made the very unwise decision to lure two American humanitarians into his shit hole of a refugee camp and keep them against their will. The Padre and Doc Kelly were a local fixture for me and my men since we arrived in Bosnia. Good folks. Good friends.

  It was unclear as to Petrovich’s motives behind this baited abduction, but I can’t imagine he was overdue for his flu shot or had an unyielding need for morning mass. Although highly ranked on the military threat list, we had absolutely no intel on him, not even a frigg’n picture. Believed to be the iron-fisted leader of a local faction of Serbian extremists, it was rumored that he’d personally led a series of bloody raids throughout the past year, resulting in the ‘liberation’ of Brezovo Polje, in which countless Muslims were executed in a heinous act of ethnic cleansing. It was also rumored that he was nearly seven feet tall a and exuded the presence of a ‘god’, instilling both terror and adoration in those he presided over. A regular cult icon. What a frigg’n guy.

  None of which I could care any less about at the moment. He took my friends. Nobody takes my friends.

  I don’t have that many to spare.

  According to my scouts, Father Watson and the Doc were met at the wired perimeter of the village by three of Petrovich’s cronies and escorted, by way of gunpoint, to the church. That was nineteen hours ago and they had yet to resurface. Back to my ea
rlier commentary on the unbreakable habit of bad guys taking good people against their will.

  They needed help.

  My help.

  When I notified my superiors at Task Force command of the situation, and that we were going in to extract them, I was issued a direct order to stand down. Do not engage under any circumstances. I was given a lengthy lecture on how the civilians were duly warned to stay out of Brezovo Polje. That ‘the Pole’ was restricted territory and if they chose to go in, they were on their own.

  Fuck that.

  Against all principles of military protocol, I made a command decision. I decided to wipe my ass with that particular order and go get my friends. Tony unfortunately thought that to be a good idea so we hastily recruited two of our best shooters who shared our not so military perspective on the situation, and set out on an off the books NEO to pull the Padre and the Doc out of the frying pan. Damn the consequences.

  The adrenaline rush seemed to be wearing off a bit as my body started to wake up to the coldness of the church wall I was leaning against. It appeared that the exterior walls were constructed with fieldstone. It was cold and unforgiving as I felt the course texture of unfinished rock rub against my shoulder through my soaked tactical uniform.

  It was time.

  Instinctively adjusting the setting on my red dot scope to close quarters and rotating the selector switch on my M4 from safe to semiautomatic, I returned Tony’s steely glance with one of my own.

  “What the hell happened here? Frigg’n mess,” I muttered reaching back over my shoulder and quickly adjusting the faithful SPAS-15 combat shotgun slung across my back. The M4 was the best for burst fire and stand off distance but you couldn’t beat the stopping power of the shotgun. I liked it so much I named it Bertha.

  So what — I named my shotgun. It’s a common practice.

  The SPAS-15 was one of the few magazine loaded, semiautomatic tactical shotguns, which made it both sexy and functional, in my humble opinion. Bertha was one big-ass, sexy bitch. No doubt.