The Hand of Christ

by Joseph Nagle

  Michael had carried his fallen teammate down the mountain. Over one-third of the men didn’t make it out of Ahaggar alive. It wasn’t until the Medic aboard the extraction chopper had explained the fatal nature of a gunshot to the liver that Michael stopped believing he had suffocated him. The medic had reassured him that the operative didn’t have a chance, but at least his family would have a body to bury “unlike the others.”

  Unlike the others, Michael had thought.

  There would be no way that Michael would not go back to Ahaggar to retrieve the fallen.

  A second mission to Ahaggar was more successful; there had been two objectives on that day. A series of Tomahawk cruise missiles not so subtly destroyed the camp, a clear and very loud message to the Armed Islamic Group. The first objective having been successful the second objective was next. Michael had led a second Special Operations team back into the mountain side to retrieve the bodies of the fallen team members.

  One never to be forgotten lesson that Michael had learned during his training to become an Army Ranger was that a Ranger never – not ever – leaves a man behind. He brought this lesson to the CIA. Michael had to be physically separated from his section chief whilst screaming at him to authorize the mission to go back. He had told the chief in not so cryptic of a fashion that he would cut off his testicles and shove them down his throat if he didn’t approve the mission to retrieve the bodies of the fallen men.

  Michael received a Commendation of Valor (Classified) for carrying his fallen comrades out of the mountain and a promotion. Last Michael had heard; the section chief was pulling duty at a one-man listening post outside of Anchorage.

  Much like his teammate’s demise from a bullet to the liver in the Ahaggar Mountains, the impending death of Yousef was apparent. Still, Michael was confused by the meaning of what Yousef so painfully had wanted to say. There was no final good bye to his son or any last words to his wife Alaina.

  Chapter Seven

  Umayyad Mosque

  Damascus, Syria

  As soon as the thought crossed his mind he stammered to no one in particular, “Oh my God, Alaina, what will I say to her?”

  It was at this moment that Michael failed to understand why a devoted father and husband that doted so dearly upon his wife had no final words for them. Yousef had even skipped the defense of his post-doctoral thesis just to see Alaina play in her first softball game; an inexcusable offense of scholarship, but love makes many a man act contrary to practical convention. To her, Yousef was her “Angel Joseph,” an affectionate pet name that she had bestowed upon him.

  Yousef was immediately drawn to Alaina, and Michael could see why: beautiful, eloquent, and of a fiery intelligence. Alaina drew the attention of nearly every boy at the college. She was voluptuous just bordering on big, and carried her tantalizing shape as if from a renaissance painting. She wore long flowing black hair that curled slightly at its ends and had fantastically inviting deep, brown eyes; every part of her screamed sensuality. There wasn’t a time that when Michael was near her that he too could feel that magnetism drawing him closer. He couldn’t help but be envious of the two of them and longed for the same. Then he met Sonia. Having found a love that he could call his, the three of them easily became a quartet.

  It had been Yousef’s self assuredness and obvious brilliance that attracted Alaina to him. Inseparable the four of them were, even more so were Yousef and Alaina. Many hours the friends had spent debating world policy, religion, history, and the Middle East. Their conversations were never contentious although with diverging opinions at times.

  Religions were used in both the past and present, Michael always argued, to satiate man’s greed and lust for wealth and his thirst for power and control. Religion, he would say, is an antiquated institution that was created by man, for man, and used as a tool to collect power and to fill in the gaps caused by certain obvious and incessant questions: how did we get here; why are there streaks of light in the sky; why is the earth quaking?

  Where science persisted religion clearly failed, but the desire for power continues. Religion began as a means to corral and control the movements of an expanding population, to bind a class of people in servitude of the savage elite. Michael had said then – and still believes today – that religion perpetuates only because it has for so long; fear is how religion began and fear is how it persists. But people are collectively getting smarter and the number of gods has been decreasing; there is an inverse correlation between the two; Michael would often joke, “As Hitchens wrote, ‘we are getting much closer to the correct number.’”

  Arguments aside, one unflappable trait the four of them shared was the stern belief that coexistence between Muslims, Jews, and Christians was ever possible. If golden eras of coexistence had been possible in previous centuries then it should be even more possible in the modern world.

  A massive blast nearby cracked violently through the air and forcibly snapped Michael’s thoughts back to the situation at hand. The concussion from a second, and even closer, detonation was created by the explosion of a 3.6 kilogram warhead tipped, Iranian made, Toophan round, and threw Michael violently against the wall of the great room; pieces of ceiling were falling around him.

  The brief concussive effects were abating, but had spun him into a short-lived fit of painful vertigo. The room spinning around him, Michael jumped awkwardly to his feet having forgotten that his right thigh still had a few small fragments of grenade buried beneath his skin.

  Persistent shelling could be heard amidst the sounds of small arms fire, and was occasionally interrupted by the distinct sound of a fifty-caliber machine gun; a weapon so large it would certainly be mounted upon a vehicle’s framing and was capable of putting a ten-inch hole through six-inches of solid concrete.

  This was no disorganized attack by a small force or splinter cell, but an all out coordinated and controlled attack on the diplomats of each nation. The talks were supposed to be held in secret.

  How did they know? Michael thought.

  Confused by what was happening, and fully unprepared for a military assault, Michael shoved the ancient book into the waist of his pants and staggered through the smoke filled corridor of the Grand Mosque of Damascus.

  The decision to hold the negotiations between Syria, Israel, the US, and Lebanon at Umayyad was partly out of geographic pragmatism, but mostly because of the comforting significance of the location. The talks between the four countries have been in progress for some time, for generations really. This time there seemed to be real and palpable head-way being made.

  Unannounced to the rest of the world, the talks had to be held in secret. Few in the room had reason to trust one another or the outcome, but were putting forth a real attempt at a solution.

  Unfortunately, the concepts of social evolution taught by Sir James Frasier of magic leading to myth, which, in turn, led to religion, were widely ignored throughout the world, including the Middle East. The abuse of religion has taken control of the free will and thought of the individual. Or better said: man controls religion, thus, man uses religion to control.

  The twisting of certain fundamental aspects by religious leaders had long worked to discourage peace in the Middle East. All religions had been culpable of social manipulation; the only real difference was that Christianity had a head start over Islam.

  Much like fighting for your political candidate, Yousef caucused hard amongst the delegations to have the talks at Umayyad. The decision, he had argued, would carry an additional significance, one that every religion could truly appreciate.

  Built at one of the holiest sites in Damascus, the mosque appeals to the Syrians. Its design was based on the house of the Prophet in Medina. Construction took place on its current site in the early 8th century and during the Umayyad Caliphate.

  However, the ground on which it stands had been holy ground for millennia and first used by the Arameans, a full one-thousand years before Christ. During the first century AD, the Romans h
ad built a massive temple in honor of Jupiter on the site which gave way three-hundred years later to a Christian church that had been dedicated to John the Baptist. Of Byzantine and Corinthian influence, at one time, the mosque had been one of the largest in the world, and is still one of the holiest sites in history: the Grand Mosque of Umayyad is revered by Muslims, Christians, and Jews. The minaret in the southeast corner of the mosque is often referred to as the Minaret of Jesus. It is prophesized that upon the return of “God’s son” – at the end of the world – it is at this minaret that Jesus will appear.

  The religions of the world have their beliefs of Umayyad and its minaret, but there were only three people in the world that knew the real truth of the Minaret of Jesus.

  Beneath the minaret is a narrow winding wood staircase; its entrance can only be found after moving a heavy slab of stone from the floor. Ingeniously designed, the stone’s movement is commanded by the insertion of a golden, star shaped key-like device, into a hole hidden behind one of the many carved stones that adorned the wall. There were thousands of such stones; most were faded by time, but each with ancient symbols and writing that are still possible to be read. The symbols were from a secret unspoken language taught only to and able to be deciphered by a member of an esoteric group called the Order.

  Descending nearly three stories beneath the earth, the feeble and narrow wooden staircase ends at the door of one of antiquity’s most guarded secrets. The door is made of heavy lengths of acacia planks that are bound together by wide strips of copper. Pressed into the copper is a motif of the image of a sphinx and the moon and stars of the mother goddess.

  Adorning either side of the arched doorway were two ancient and large stone carved statues. One statue was of an anatomically beautiful nude female and the other her male counterpart. Having been built upon the ancient site of the temple of Hadad from the Aramaen era nearly ten centuries before Christ, it wouldn’t normally be unusual to come across the statues. However, Muslims shun any form of iconic statuary, their very existence prohibited.

  Behind the rustic door lies rumor that could satisfy conjecture; the heads of John the Baptist and of Hussein, grandson of the Prophet, rest in honor at the easternmost corner; both stare toward Mecca. For many generations the caretakers of the Mosque have believed that these heads lie in state on the ground floor of the mosque, marveling visitors. They weren’t completely wrong, just only about their precise location.

  In the center of the room stands an odd-shaped rock whose top had been chiseled flat. Placed on top of the rock is a non-descript ossuary carved from an ancient porphyry. Usually meant for the remains of a deceased loved one, the ossuary of igneous rock held a different purpose. If one were to have inspected it before the arrival of the diplomats, it would have been quite apparent that the cover, still ajar, had recently been moved, exposing its one content; an item which is now missing.

  Damascus and Umayyad were the perfect place for the negotiations. Yousef had worked with much difficulty and diligence to assure Umayyad would be the site to host the talks. He knew that it would be risky, but Michael had to be there.

  His plan had worked.

  The ricochets of bullets and the rumblings of explosions continued; Michael felt his way along the corridor and stumbled somewhat. Another series of successive and louder blasts shook the mosque and Michael along with it. The blasts preceded another round of multiple explosions and were laced with small arms fire. The attack was still ongoing. The detonations were getting closer.

  He had to keep moving.

  Michael could feel the adrenaline surging as wildly as the pain that radiated through his body – the surge of the hormone would help and was welcomed – he would need all of his strength to get out of the ancient Mosque alive.

  Michael took pride in his ability as a thinker and would, on any day, prefer the pen to the sword. It is not that he was physically incapable of the sometime arduous and physically demanding requirements of the Clandestine Services of the CIA; to the contrary, he was more than capable, proven on a number of missions and with his favorite hobby: Ironman triathlons.

  Plato once eschewed the benefits of physically demanding competition so long as there remained a connection between the pursuit of victory and moral virtues; any disconnect and competition resorts to a degradation of social norms based on ego-driven male fantasies. Michael really liked Plato. Michael craved the need to be elite, but wanted to stay connected to his core values; to his father’s disgust (but certainly to Plato’s agreement) he had entered the military.

  Enlisting in the Army really did not emanate from some great sense of nationalistic pride; Michael does love his country – immensely so – just not blindly. Joining the armed services provided him the means to push himself physically, and, likewise, allowed him to gain opportunity to areas of government service where he felt that he could provide the most benefit to society.

  Initially, Michael had joined the infantry. He wanted to be a grunt, to stand in the same shoes of those forefathers who gave there lives whilst staring at the tip of a bayonet on the front lines. So many battles Michael had studied: Thermopylae, Trenton, and Okinawa (to name a few). He aspired to truly understand and appreciate what it meant to fight for freedom and not just talk about it. He needed to understand how it felt to sacrifice willingly his life for a set of ideals.

  The military powers that be recognized his physical gifts and academic strengths and had quickly reassigned him to Military Intelligence where it was off to the Defense Language Institute (DLI) in Monterey, California to learn, both, Spanish and German.

  Later, Michael picked up Arabic, Russian, and a bit of Italian, but he never understood why the first two languages: Germans all speak English and the Berlin Wall had already fallen, and Spanish – albeit a good language to know when honeymooning in Mazatlan – didn’t seem to fit with the government’s primary focus on the Middle East. It had been years since the fall of the Berlin Wall and with the sudden and unexpected collapse of the Soviet Union, communism was nearly dead. Middle East terrorism was the new focus.

  After DLI, Michael had attended the Army Intelligence Center at Fort Huachuca, Arizona for training in interrogation and counter-intelligence.

  His first assignment was to the 82nd Airborne Division at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, but before making his way there, he had to complete airborne training at Fort Benning, Georgia. Jumping out of planes had been one of the most fantastic experiences of his life even though he intensely hated the flying part. When the men in the “chalk” were given the command to stand up, a form of blissful anxiousness always flowed at hyper-speed through him. And when the door of the plane opened, the rush of wind always roared through his brain and erased any ability to think. The sudden loss of any thought was better than any high he could imagine.

  Then the Green Light flashed.

  It was at this moment, when the illuminated red light flipped to green and the jumpmaster shouted, “Green light, go!” that the built up anticipation was satisfied. Trailing the men out the door and stepping away from the plane has always been the single most enlightening moment of his life. It was a nearly indescribable feeling of being separated from anything physical that one could imagine; it was nirvana, the apex of an orgasm – the height of bliss. The irony was that Michael would have to fly, the thing he hates most, just to leap from a plane, one of things that he loves the most.

  Jumping from planes was a quickly gained skill and interrogation came even easier to the young paratrooper, he always had a gift with communication. Michael took great pride in his ability to understand people.

  Early in his career with Military Intelligence, Michael was recommended for Ranger school where he received training in mountain operations, jungle warfare, desert training, and advanced infantry tactics.

  Assignment to a Ranger detachment brought further military training that was designed to challenge both physically and psychologically; one such training was SERE school, teaching the necess
ary lessons on Surviving, Escaping, Resistance, and Evading when confronted by an enemy combatant.

  Michael made damn sure he would not have to lean on the resistance portion of his training. He was not going to allow himself to get caught by whoever had attacked the mosque; he would use every ounce of his special ops training to survive.

  Chapter Eight

  Papal Apartment

  The Vatican

  Geoffrey knew he had little time, the Pope would soon return. He picked up his pace as he walked past the uniformed and saluting Swiss Guard and headed toward the Pope’s front door.

  At this moment, Leo was taking his daily walk through Piazza San Pietro – St. Peter’s Square – strolling casually around the trapezoidal shaped Baroque piazza, but would be away only for a short time. Leo enjoyed immensely his bantering with the populace under the shadows of the numerous Tuscan colonnades. Often, when blessing the occasional and lucky passerby, Leo would bow his head as if uttering a prayer, but, instead, would secretly admire the radiating lines of travertine on the grand square as they intermingled with the shadows of the columns.

  In front of, behind, and all around Leo - and very much to their disdain - would be the ever present and, no less than two dozen, very nervous uniformed Swiss Guards who carefully watched over him whilst diligently scanning the crowd for threats and ensuring his safety. Another two-dozen plain clothed guards would be scattered in the crowds acting as tourists, but silently looking for anyone that appeared hostile toward the Holy Father.

  The guards disliked it more than just intensely when the Pope strolled through the square, smiling and shaking hands with the people; their frustration was growing. Word had been spreading throughout the press that his Holiness could always be found in the square right after his noon meal and on most days. Soon, the Piazza was full of those seeking to receive a blessing from the Pope, a photo, a handshake, or just to touch him.