by D. I. Telbat
Rasht glanced at the young man's sidearm, but the gun wasn't drawn, though Rasht had spoken plainly about Jesus Christ and the resurrection—blasphemy according to Islam.
"Muhammad said my father was still alive, that he would take me to him before dawn." Sohayb dropped his flashlight to his side. He bowed his head and no longer seemed to be the fearsome gunman Rasht had witnessed in the room with Crac. "I remember the pillow fights and the stories. The teachings of Jesus—I thought they were a dream, or things I had imagined. My father was a great Muslim, I have been told. A martyr for Allah and his prophet, bless his name."
"No." Rasht shook his head, then took his son by the shoulders. "Your uncle, my brother, is the picture of the perfect Muslim, a man of devotion and bloodshed. Your mother and I were both rescued from Islam's rituals of bondage before you were born. We raised you and your sisters to worship in secrecy the true God, to live in peace and serve our Savior by a life of kindness. Your uncle Crac killed your mother and sisters, and I fled Iran thinking you were dead as well. This is truly a miracle. After all these years! After all the tears I have shed for you. What an amazing God we have! My son is alive!"
"But Muhammad . . ." Sohayb turned his head back in the direction from which he'd come. "Muhammad ibn Affal is a jihadist of great courage, slaying the enemies of Allah around the world! How can you say you're a Christian, my own father, allied with Sheik Muhammad?"
"Muhammad ibn Affal's legend convinces many people, and it's mostly perpetuated by what people want to believe. He is a man of dignity who doesn't shed blood, but rather uses his reputation to bring families together, like you and me, and to destroy tyrants of evil and death, like your uncle."
"So you are truly a Christian? My own father?"
"Since before you were born. I'm so sorry you have been alone. If I had known you were alive, I would have tried to rescue you sooner, but even I have been in prison for some years."
"No. No, Uncle Crac would've killed you." Sohayb shrugged off his father's hands and turned away, facing the dirt tunnel wall. "I'm so confused. My whole life, I fought for Allah. I've been the most devoted Muslim, proving my loyalty to Uncle Crac and all who challenge us."
"I know." Rasht sighed. "My son, you've been misled."
"Every Palestinian I know would die for Uncle Crac. He leads men for Allah to eternal paradise."
"Really? You probably know him best. Is he a man of love, of compassion and patience, of tolerance for his enemies, and self-sacrificing for those he leads? These are the attributes of followers of the true God, followers who have the divine nature in themselves. Have I described your Uncle Crac?"
"No. He is none of those things."
"How many times has he told you I am dead?"
"A thousand times. He has even honored your memory for me as a loyal Muslim."
"And here I am, neither dead, nor a Muslim serving a false god. He had to tell you those lies, because he couldn't tell you the truth. He killed the rest of our family. That's the truth. He's the reason I fled from Iran."
"But I have followed him!" Sohayb screamed, still turned away, and Rasht saw his son's shoulders shake as he sobbed. "I have killed for him, Father. I have become a murderer—for him and for Allah, as I was told. I've prayed and cried to Allah for years. No, you don't understand! You can't be my father. My sisters . . ."
Sohayb fell to his knees, the flashlight rolled from his fingertips, and his head rested against the tunnel wall. Rasht knelt and held his son, sharing the grief they'd each endured for so long while apart. Now they grieved together, the truth releasing them from dark pasts. Father and son were together again.
Several minutes later, they continued their trek, passing three men working on the drone, and exited the garage without anyone stopping them. After all, the young gunman was Crac Hassad's nephew.
#######
Chloe hadn't taken her eye from the NL-X1 rifle scope for two hours. The night vision adapter was attached, and every life form—rat, cat, or human—that moved below her position with Chen Li was scrutinized.
"What's taking so long?" Chen Li whispered. The young agent was one foot away, their elbows nearly touching, as they lay prone on the rooftop of a textile shop. Across the intersection below them was the two-story school building. "They've been in there for over an hour."
"These things take time," Chloe said, but she was just as nervous. There should've been some signal by now. The school building was massive. They didn't even know which window Corban, Nathan, and Rasht were nearest, so they couldn't watch for a hasty exit. Corban wouldn't have asked for a sniper over-watch team if he hadn't expected a violent extraction. The NL-X1 wasn't employed except under the gravest of circumstances. "Just pray things move before dawn. You and I can't be caught out here in the daylight. We didn't bring disguises."
To the south, a bomber flew over Gaza. Precision missiles exploded across a neighborhood. The flashes of light would have blinded Chloe if she hadn't looked away.
"Chloe!"
"What?" Chloe scanned the school building, her heart pounding.
"Movement. One click north. What is that?"
Chloe swung the rifle northward. The heat signature registered bright green through her scope.
"One stealth chopper and a unit of soldiers. They're IDF."
"They're coming straight at us!"
"No." Chloe raised her head and considered the angles. She and Chen Li had seen Corban attacked by an Israeli drone missile the previous hour. "It's got to be a net. Israel must've figured out the school building is active with Hamas terrorists. They're about to surround it and catch everyone they can."
"What about our guys?"
"I don't know."
"What if they're only getting close enough to use a laser targeting device to drop bombs more carefully? We've got to do something!"
"We're doing nothing."
"Nathan would want us to do something!"
"No, he wouldn't."
"We have to hold off the IDF!"
"No, Chen Li. Just relax. Corban's aware of the time crunch out here."
"If he's still alive. You saw him get hurt. If Nathan's in there alone, we need to—"
"Chill out." Chloe settled her eye on the scope. "It's these moments of stress that make or break an op. Lives are saved or lost right here. I've been doing this since before you were in grade school—in this very land. Pray if you feel you need to talk, but panic won't get Nathan out alive. Trust that God is guiding our boys through this storm. They're about to be in the eye of this hurricane in about ten minutes, especially if the IDF starts bombing that school. But we're not breaking cover until we have to."
"God, please . . ." Chen Li prayed and prayed, some words in English, and some in her native Chinese. Chloe didn't ask for a translation; she was busy praying in her native Hebrew.
*~*
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gaza
Annette could barely stand the tension in the room, even though nothing was happening. Standing next to Corban was exhausting, and her nerves that had once been taut for action now brought her a great weariness. She didn't understand all the waiting or what was happening. The business with the chickens had been clear enough: a biological weapon was in their presence. If the weapon was to be the payment for her freedom, then why hadn't the bearded one next to the door given the canister to Crac Hassad? And why hadn't Corban left already?
It had been a pure miracle, Annette knew, that she'd been scouting for food and water, and had come upon Corban crossing the intersection outside. While hiding next to the school building, she'd watched him survive the explosion, and had been first at his side. After all, she'd been praying for him to rescue her. And if she hadn't seen Corban in the Gaza factory weeks earlier in that same bearded disguise, she never would've recognized him.
Titus was there as well, waiting with his square box against the wall near the windows. Annette wanted to communicate with him, for deep down she knew he was there for h
er. She regretted her hard words toward him at the factory. Embarrassed at the memory, she remembered trying to slap him! But here he was, alive, working with Corban, proving he had cared for her all along. They were all there for her. So, why couldn't they leave now?
Crac Hassad. Yes. They weren't there just for her. She was being selfish if she thought she were the only person who mattered that night. If Crac Hassad was left to run Gaza, then Annette wouldn't be the last American or foreigner Hamas held captive. Crac Hassad had to be neutralized.
Her hand trembled on Corban's shoulder, and he shifted under her touch. He turned his head and looked up at her, speaking a couple words in another language, words she didn't understand, but she found them comforting nonetheless. Corban was in control. Titus and the bearded man were with Corban. As soon as Crac Hassad came back into the room, then things would begin to happen.
Thirsty, tired, and hungry, she wasn't sure how much more waiting she could endure. Annette counted the steps she would take to reach Titus. If things got violent, she guessed Titus was the safest one to be near. He was close to the door and she knew he wouldn't be there unless he had some concern for her.
To pass the time, even with her eyes darting from militant, to Titus, to the door, she recalled Bible stories she'd heard in her youth. If ever she needed encouragement to believe in a mighty God, it was now. Samson had been a great warrior, she remembered. He had delivered God's people from evil people. She prayed that Corban and Titus had God's strength like Samson.
David and Goliath. Now was definitely a time to trust in a God who could raise up a meek shepherd to destroy the giant. Militants outnumbered Corban and Titus, and yet, here they were. Corban was a believer, but what about Titus? She hoped God didn't hold it against their situation that Titus probably wasn't a Christian. If they survived this, Annette vowed to impress upon Titus the need to give his life to Christ. After all, she'd experienced His peace when in the most dire of circumstances.
Paul was another character she remembered. He'd been some sort of religious crook, but then he'd come to Christ. For years, he had braved other religious zealots who tried to kill him, but God kept him alive until it was time to take him home.
With this thought, Annette confessed in her heart she wasn't being faithful. She resigned to trust God with her life and situation, like Paul had with his whole life. And if God chose to take her home tonight, then what was the harm in that? She would be in the presence of God for eternity!
Meditating on that possibility, a peace swept through her heart, a peace that made her pains, hunger, and thirst pale in comparison. Eternity was before her, whether that night, or some night in the future. Yes, she would endure what God had placed before her. All she had to do was stand. Just keep standing. Until her Lord took her home to be with Him.
#######
Nathan had lost track of what was under control, and what Corban may have failed to plan for. From his position near the door in the LED-lit room, Nathan could see a pool of blood under Corban's chair. His injury, or injuries, complicated their escape. If Corban insisted that Nathan save Annette Sheffield, Nathan wasn't sure he could—if it meant leaving Corban behind. The man had been like a father to him over the last few years. A spiritual father.
And that brought his eyes to Annette, the masked "militant" who stood like a pillar at Corban's right shoulder. She had barely shifted her feet during the hour, probably aware that Corban was her only safe ticket out of Gaza. Nathan couldn't wait to hear her story—surviving in Gaza for over two weeks. Had she been impersonating a gunman the whole time?
Then there was Titus Caspertein to Nathan's left, who had what sounded like a rabid monkey in the black case on the floor. Corban and Titus had spoken quietly in German upon Titus' arrival, but Nathan hadn't caught the conversation. Something was definitely afoot, but time was running out. Somehow, Corban had turned one of Crac Hassad's gunmen to take Rasht out, probably to safety. Now, Nathan hoped Corban had a plan for the rest of them. He scoffed at the thought. Wounded or not, when hadn't Corban Dowler had a plan?
Crac Hassad and a dozen Hamas militants walked into the room, anger evident on their faces. Nathan imagined why they'd be angry—since the promised canisters of nerve gas hadn't yet arrived. But that idea vanished when Nathan saw one of Hassad's men with the plastic chicken case. The chickens were awake and pecking curiously at their transparent confines.
"Hey," Nathan said quickly in German to Titus, "we're dead in thirty seconds. You must be here for something. Make your move now. I'll cover you."
"I'm here for Annette."
"Black mask next to Corban."
"Roger that."
Crac Hassad stopped in front of Corban. His gunmen surrounded him, and two men moved toward Nathan. Another two grabbed Annette by the arms and pulled her away from Corban.
Nathan couldn't wait to find out how Corban might talk his way out of this one. The chickens were alive. The nerve gas was a hoax, though it had gotten them in the door. In certain situations, the window to react is very narrow. Nathan judged that window in this situation to be now. He drew his NL-2 machine pistol from under his parka.
Next to him, Titus knelt down and unzipped his animal case, then kicked it toward the middle of the room. It slid across the dusty floor, a creature inside squealing like an unearthly monster that made the militants freeze in their tracks. They seemed afraid that a disease-ridden animal might emerge from the cage. Nathan hoped they remained still for a few more seconds as he opened fire, his pellets slapping across men's throats and chests as he stepped in front of the door. Crac Hassad couldn't be allowed to escape.
The animal case continued to slide across the floor until it came to rest against Crac Hassad's heels.
Instantly, two pink creatures shot out of the container. Their bodies glistened from the reflection of the lamp light, which cast eerie shadows against the walls. One of the creatures paused to change directions against the light, and all the devout Muslim men in the room could see its full, miniature features. Nathan's mouth gaped, and he wondered where in the Middle East Titus had found two little pigs! Bringing piglets to a Muslim gunfight was a brilliant idea!
Hassad's men opened fire on the piglets. Bullets zipped past Nathan's head and smashed through a covered window. The glass shattered, and the night air poured into the room as Nathan dove to the floor to avoid sweeping gunfire, deafening in the room.
A lamp was knocked over and another was kicked across the room. To avoid the proximity of one pig, a militant fired his machine gun in a broad arc, shooting several of his comrades nearest him.
Nathan turned the valve of his canister and shoved it to roll into the fray. He knew that he and Corban were immune to the traditional liquid tranquilizer COIL chemists usually mixed, if this mixture was based on the same formula.
Crawling into the bleeding, squealing, screaming mass of bodies, Nathan searched for Corban. Adding to the confusion, two lamps were shot out and lighting was reduced. Annette might try to stay close to Corban, Nathan guessed. Suddenly, someone fell on top of him—whether shot dead or merely unconscious from the sleeping toxin, Nathan only saw it was a Hamas gunman.
The gunfire diminished. The rest of the lamps were knocked out. Men were yelling. A pig grunted and lightly trampled across one of Nathan's hands. Someone else fell over his legs and lay still.
"Corban!" Nathan called. "Corban!"
A firm hand grasped his collar, a breath in his face.
"Get Annette out!" Corban ordered. "I'm going after Hassad!"
A limp body was shoved into his arms. He couldn't protest or argue in the dim chaos. And he certainly wasn't about to abandon Annette to the likes of the Palestinian militants again. Nathan felt Corban move along the floor amongst the others. Those who weren't tranquilized had apparently been spared by the open window which had surely sucked out much of the airborne toxin.
Someone turned on a flashlight. Nathan didn't wait for introductions. He lunged for the light and s
wung hard. His fist connected. The man grunted and fell. Recovering the flashlight, Nathan discovered the man he'd attacked was Titus Caspertein. Titus had a bullet wound in the shoulder—and now a swollen jaw.
The room was suddenly still, though several men could be heard running through other rooms, firing their weapons, presumably at one of the frightened piglets. Only one remarkably untouched piglet was on the other side of the room. It was nosing one of the unconscious militants, perhaps smelling something edible in his pocket.
Through the broken window, Nathan heard the faint thumping of a chopper. Its rotor sound was muffled by external cylinders as it approached in stealth mode. Having been in Special Forces operations his whole adult life, he recognized the sound and knew the danger it meant.
"Don't go anywhere," Nathan said to a sleeping Titus, then picked up Annette in his arms. Corban wasn't in the room. In one hand, Nathan gripped his NL-2, the flashlight in the other, and strode out of the room. Though still deep in Gaza, he'd feel much safer outside, in view of Chloe and Chen Li.
An explosion behind Nathan tossed him across a corridor and seconds later he realized he'd been knocked unconscious. By the light of burning fires, he saw three walls had been vaporized, and the upper and ground floors had collapsed into the basement. The screams of what sounded like women and children pierced the suffocating air.
