by Joseph Nagle
Acknowledgements
I was surprised that writing this book brought so much joy and excitement: it was both therapeutic and enlightening. Arguably from this work came a much greater addiction to espresso, so I must thank the coffee bean and all of its ergotropic assistance. However – stimulants aside – writing this book could not have been done without the unconditional commitment from many of my friends and family. I absolutely must give a sincere thank you to Sr. Mario Gonzalez who tirelessly read, re-read, critiqued, edited, and offered numerous thoughts and suggestions and never once asked for anything in return; for teaching me about split infinitives, dangling participles, pathetic fallacy, purple prose, and anything that Strunk & White may have missed. To come home and to find red-lined pieces of the manuscript stuffed into a plain manila envelope and shoved under my front door was akin to what a child feels on Christmas morning.
To Mr. Ron Willis who acted as one of my muses and didn't seem to mind (at least openly) the too-many-to-count times that I asked him to read and edit my work.
To my mother – Mrs. Lorraine Lowe – you have always been my model in both life and work. From you I learned that anything is possible even if improbable and that failure is just one step closer to success.
To the Children who find themselves as products of the social services system: your language is survival, and your hurdles are higher than most, but through education your light can shine bright. You are not alone.
Finally, to the Men and Women who dedicate themselves selflessly within their respective intelligence and special operations communities. You may never receive, or be allowed to have, the open appreciation that you deserve, but know that you are not forgotten and that the risk you face does have value with respect to the positive progression of our world's community.
Dedication
For Sabina – my best friend, my love, my wife – who always encouraged me to follow my dreams, no matter how many I had, and loved me no matter how many times they changed.
&
For Diedrick who is my inspiration, my opportunity, and the absolute center of my world.
&
For the Sea Monkey: I can't wait to meet you.
Notes from the Author:
My passion is to understand the influence by religions on the social, economic, and political progression of societies. They are unquestionably intertwined.
While this book is fiction and certain aspects of its contents are either conjecture or products of my imagination, much of which the book contains is true and as accurate as I could make it.
The descriptions of many of the technological components of my writing are true; if I have erred, I offer, not only my apologies, but certainly am open to and truly appreciate being corrected. Please do so by contacting me at: [email protected]
I have tried to ensure that any references to recorded historical events – religious, political, and social – are accurate. Again, any inaccuracies are not intentional and, as was aforementioned, I welcome your thoughts, counter-arguments, and corrections at: [email protected]
Finally, while I understand that religion and politics are two very sensitive issues that bring out certain sides of humanity – both vile and beautiful – my work is not designed to belittle, diminish, or to take side, but to do two very straightforward things: to attempt honestly to entertain the reader whilst making one consider that what we are taught as truths may simply not be the case.
It is up to you to question anything stated to you as fact and when done so without physical evidence: any story told is merely a version of the teller's interpretation…
The Hand
of Christ
A Sterling Novel
By
JS Nagle
Prologue
North Africa – 1803
The lean, yellow body of the normally nocturnal scorpion clashed with its blackened and thickly curled tail. A nearly imperceptible drop of highly toxic venom clung to the pointed tip of the scorpion’s stinger.
It was weighing its options.
The small, but deadly, desert dweller paused, trying to familiarize itself with its surroundings. It was confused and not sure of which way to turn: its desert home didn’t appear the same. Slowly, it crawled along and was completely unaware that it was on top of the right boot of a sailor that stood atop its home. Neither the scorpion nor the sailor took notice of one another; both were quite preoccupied. The day was growing hotter, and the small arachnid was desperate to get under the cool sands where it would find relief; the sailor was desperate to be anywhere else.
The scorpion paused once more and scanned its surroundings in vain; its eyes were not made to see far, and all that it was able to see was quite unfamiliar. When it stopped moving, the heat of the sun burned hotter along its yellow back - a painful reminder to find protection under the sands. The little critter was anxious and looked for an empty spot where it could burrow underground, and to the place it would find respite from the heat. But every spot of available earth that it could see was occupied.
There were men – sailors – everywhere. They were standing shoulder to shoulder occupying nearly every inch of available earth.
Sensing danger, the scorpion quickly scampered off the top of the boot, upon which it had paused, but it didn’t react fast enough, or it was too slow. It didn’t really matter: the boot of another man crashed down on the scorpion crushing it. The muscled Arab forcibly twisted the scorpion’s body under his heal and smiled at his first kill of the day; he knew that more deaths would come.
The Arab gazed at the weathered sailors who were packed tightly atop the abandoned and arid landscape of the North African desert. He could see, and enjoyed, that the seamen wore the malnourished and sunken faces of men nearly dead. The half-dead sailors were surrounded by his Tripoli based crew of the infamous Barbary Pirates of the Mediterranean; the captured sailors had tasted firsthand the legend of their barbarity.
Beneath soiled clothes, their emaciated and bruised ribcages swelled with difficulty as they breathed the heavy hot air of the Sahara. Through their tired minds, all thoughts echoed the same fear, each was sure that this day would be their last.
The Arab slowly walked in front of the group of tightly packed sailors looking from one to the next. His gaze was in a manner not unlike the way a hunter stares at his trophy. The heavy silence was broken only by the sound of the Arab’s feet as he moved his muscled, sun-weathered frame over the coarse crystal sands. He stopped next to a sailor who had been bound to a plank of wood by thick strands of well-used rope. The sailor was closer to death than the rest and barely had the strength to stand under his own power. His fellow shipmates stared unaware of the horror that was about to be inflicted upon him.
The Arab buried his coal-black eyes into the face of the bound man. He thought: you will be my example to the rest of these infidels.
Helplessly, the sailors stood with their eyes focused on their bound crewmate. The Barbary Pirate retrieved a metal rod from where it lay racked amongst others like it and stared admiringly at its menacing shaft. With his thumb, he felt the sharpness of its pointed tip.
The minatory device was forged of solid iron, and, like the straps on the bound man, also appeared well used. Wrapped around the base of the device was a grip made from a worn piece of leather, which was darkly blackened by the filth, oils, and, sweat from the many hands that had grasped the tool for previous use.
The tip of the device caught a momentary but sharp glare from the blazing-hot sun, and threw it painfully back into the eyes of the sailors. The reflection of light cruelly intimated the pain that the rod would soon inflict upon the bound man.
The sailor – an American – was grabbed and held firmly in place by tw
o other pirates and felt what little strength left in his legs give way to his fear. Frantically, he stared at his crewmates and cried out for help, but to no one in particular.
His voice weak and hardly above a whisper, he cried out, “Is there not one among you that will do something?”
The sailor’s shouts wrenched the guts of the other men.
His pleas were futile.
Regardless of what would occur, the bound sailor knew that he wasn’t prepared, and didn’t need the power of foreshadowing to know that his death was at hand. He was barely able to conjure the strength for one final prayer.
Dressed in the familiar Bedouin garb, the pirate’s large turban loosened a bit and slipped to the side of his head when he knelt to the earth to utter his own prayer. Slightly annoyed, the pirate patiently adjusted his traditional headdress until he found comfort.
The Captain of the crew, perhaps too loud, whispered, “Dear Lord, please be on with it.”
Having sensed the captured Captain’s frustration with silent pleasure, the large sea-faring Arab bent once more to the earth and slowly rubbed his hands with sand. He found that it was much easier to maintain a solid grip on his instrument after doing so; the last thing he wanted was for his hand to slip while inserting the rod into the sailor’s body. The purpose would be lost should he miss his mark.
On that day in 1803, the Arab was not acting as a pirate; instead, he was doing the work of the Prophet. During his entire life he had been taught that infidels had no place on Arab soil as free men. Like dogs, they must be given lessons of obedience by their master. These men had dared step on Muslim land; not only were they non-believers, but these dirty infidels had come as thieves! They held no more worth than that of a slave, and must learn the punishment for the theft of one of Islam’s possessions.
One of these men had what he was looking for; the pirate could feel it. If he had to single-handedly kill each one he would.
Anger and disgust trembled slightly through his pursed lips. He said nothing.
The pirate salivated at his moment of impending fury on these Christians. His distaste for them was built from the centuries of pain their kind had inflicted upon his people and for the war that their Church perpetually waged on Islam.
Standing fully erect, the pirate said nothing, and quietly enjoyed the familiar weight of the iron rod in his clasp. He thought to himself how this moment, with the heavy device pulling his arm lower, always fed him with an instant of beloved nostalgia. He was enamored, if not a bit aroused, by the anticipation.
As if it had been instructed, the wind ceased to swirl and amplified the loudness of the day’s already oppressive heat. 307 American sailors stood in a unified silence unsure of what to expect next. The pirate closed the distance between himself and his bound captive and circled behind him. The sailor was still in the firm grasp of two other Barbary Pirates.
Pausing to study the American, the Arab looked at the man’s tightly bound ankles and then traced his gaze upward. His eyes reaching the sailor’s arms, the Arab smirked; he was slightly amused at the manner in which the plank of wood was strapped across the sailor’s back. Forcibly, the plank extended the sailor’s arms horizontal to the ground and made him appear as if he was on a cross. The Arab reveled in the scene; like the false Christian belief of their Savior’s death, these infidels seemed to find their lessons in crucifixion.
Nonsense, the Arab thought.
Like all Muslims, he was taught that the Savior of these men did not die on the cross, but had escaped His own execution. Today would be different; this American sailor would meet that fate that their Savior had not.
The Arab returned his eyes back to the rest of the captured sailors and peered at them angrily. His deep voice boomed as he commanded, “One of you possesses an item that belongs to us, bring it to me now, and I will spare this man’s life.”
The sailors nervously looked at one another, but not one of them moved. From the corner of his eye, the Captain eyed another sailor that appeared as if he was readying to step forward. A silent message between the two; the man didn’t move.
After a few moments, and giving no warning, the pirate extended a weathered and darkened hand that was attached to a thick, rippling forearm. He roughly grabbed the bound sailor by the back of the neck; with the rod expertly gripped in his other hand, the pirate slowly inserted the nefarious tool into the lower back of the enslaved crew-member and smiled with each crawling inch of inflicted agony.
Skillful and deliberate, a forceful push agonizingly worked the rod through the flesh at the base of the sailor’s back until it emerged from between his shoulder blades; the Arab purposely avoided contact with any of the bound man’s vital organs. He did not want the sailor dead yet.
Upon consummation of the rod’s insertion, the sailor was easily lifted at the zenith of the overhead sun by the three Barbary Pirates. As the impaled sailor reached the apex of his ascension, a number of the man’s shipmates, staring upon him in unspoken horror, fell to their knees in torment and agony; others looked to their Captain for guidance. Of course, there was nothing that the Captain could do.
With the sailor thrust fully skyward, the two pirates that had been holding the man’s arms let go and stepped out from under him leaving the impaled sailor under the control of the final pirate.
The Arab powerfully paraded the crucified man in front of the other American captives. He wanted to remind the infidels of his superiority over them; that they were merely slaves to him, and should dare not continue to disobey his demands, for such an act is merely a wasted effort.
The impaled American sailor uttered nothing more than a guttural exhalation that was simultaneously coupled with the expulsion of what little that had remained in his bowels.
The Arab dropped the American heavily to the desert floor and turned to the frightened American men – sailors of the gunship Philadelphia commanded by William Bainbridge, the same careless commander who was once humbled in battle aboard the George Washington – and said:
“The authority of every Muslim is written in the Koran for all to see. It is our right and duty to make war upon every sinner, to make every infidel our slave. Each Muslim that perishes at the hands of any infidel will surely be welcomed into Paradise. Your very existence on the soil of the Prophet is an act that requires your perpetual servitude to Him. Escape will lead to your death, to which I will grant to each of you with deep pleasure.”
The Arab’s angry stare amplified, and then he ferociously shouted, “You have stolen from Islam! Give me what I seek and I will spare the rest of you; withhold it and you will all perish, slower and more painfully than this man!”
Again, no one moved. The air was thick with the insolent silence of the American sailors.
The pirate resorted to one last attempt, and declared, “Whoever among you that has what I want, step forward now, and I will pay you your weight in gold and offer you safe passage from our lands.”
Slowly, the sailor with which Captain Bainbridge had exchanged glances moved forward. The Captain wanted to stop him, but knew that he would certainly die if he tried. All that the Captain could do was to curse the man underneath his breath and watch knowing full well that the sailor’s life would soon end.
Whispers of traitor could be heard, but it mattered not to the man. His actions were guided, in part, by greed, but more so by the incessant screaming inside his head that yelled at him to live.
As he approached the Arab, the sailor opened his tattered and battle worn coat. The corner of a single piece of paper poked out from the inside of his jacket. The Arab snatched the piece of paper from its place.
Through his dried and cracked lips, the sailor weakly asked the Arab, “When will I get my gold?”
The Arab looked at the paper and instantly knew that this was not what he sought; crumpling it, he threw it angrily to the ground. He peered at the sailor, smiled, and answered his question, “When you meet God!”
Swiftly, the pirate
pulled the scimitar from the belt around his waist; with the same movement that unsheathed the long, curved blade, he sliced through the air at the sailor’s throat. With two thuds, one heavier than the other, the sailor fell to the ground. His head was lying next to him.
Fool, grimaced Bainbridge.
Each American sailor nervously stood silent and readied for his own demise. Collectively, each sailor of the Philadelphia prayed for a miracle.
It was at that moment, as the prayers of the remaining 305 men drifted to the heavens, that the depth of the day’s sun was inexplicably surrounded by fast-moving, ominous purple and black clouds. An ear-splitting clap of thunder sharply disrupted the silence.
The Arab looked to the sky with confused eyes and dropped his long blade to the ground. He felt a pain welling in his chest as if it were readying to split his breast open. He let out a loud, curdling scream and then fell to his knees. The sailors of the USS Philadelphia were startled at what was transpiring before them and stared upon the Arab unclear about what was happening.
The Arab grasped at his desert clothes and ripped them from his body; he clawed at his chest in agony. All of the men stared on in horror as the pirate dug his powerful fingers into his breast as if trying to rip the flesh from his body. The pirate began to convulse, his body contorted from his pain. As quickly as it began, the entire episode was over. The Arab’s body fell awkwardly and next to the beheaded American: He was dead.
Captain Bainbridge placed his hand over his coat. There, he could feel the single page of vellum from the book that he had sewn inside of the coat’s lining. Silently, the Captain mouthed his only thought, the Hand of Christ. He dropped to his knees and prayed.
