by Joseph Nagle
He looked down to the floor in shame, Shalid wished himself anywhere but here. “Nineteen of my men were killed. Seven alone were killed by the American. An entire squad of twelve perished at the hands of an American Special Operations team.”
“What did you say? American forces were present in Damascus?” Waving his hand dismissively at his own question, the messenger continued, “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Our Muslim brothers served Allah faithfully. As it is written, they have been martyred at the hands of infidels. Truly they are happy in Paradise, we will remember them well. So long as you were able to retrieve what I sent you to get, they will not have died in vain.”
Shalid’s face wore the crimson of deep shame, and the Messenger saw this. With slow and calm strides, he walked to Shalid and embraced his Second with both arms and then kissed each of his cheeks once more: “Do not feel so much agony, it was Allah’s will, my son; a test. The path to the ultimate glory is not meant to be easy. This means that there is more work to do; we will surely lose more of our brothers before our mission is finished. Zion cannot be allowed to unite with Islam, it is a disgusting thought. Your mission has worked to stop this.”
Nodding his head in concurrence, Shalid recalled the briefing he received on this mission from the Messenger. It had shocked him to learn that Lebanon and Syria were meeting with the US and Israel; that Lebanon was agreeing to share Muslim held territories with Israel and to recognize Israel on equal terms with other nations. It had disgusted him to hear this. Zion was the enemy, infidels, and less than human! Allah had made it clear in the Koran, in his holy recitation, that there is only one fate for non-believers. The Messenger had been just as clear during the briefing on the attack that this could not be allowed to happen.
Breaking Shalid from his thoughts, the Messenger questioned, “You haven’t confirmed it to me yet. You were able to recover the book, yes?”
Shalid looked even more uncomfortable at the sudden show of affection but more so at the Messenger’s question. He really did not want to continue, and resisted the overbearing and sudden temptation to flee; something he probably should have done.
Shalid looked to the Messenger and said, “The book was not in its place.”
The Messenger froze. He was now staring fiercely at Shalid; his long black beard trembled at the onset of a renewed anger as he spat back to Shalid, “Not in its place? That’s impossible, you went to the minaret as I had instructed? You found the Aramaen room hidden beneath?”
The Messenger’s sudden anger caused his Second to reel back a few steps as he replied, “Yes, of course. During the attack, I led my men into the mosque, and then I slipped away to the minaret of Jesus. I read the symbols and found the keyhole. The stone floor opened and I descended to the doorway, it had the very carvings that you described. But when I was down there, I saw a set of footprints, they were fresh, and the door to the Aramaen room was already open. When I went inside, the ossuary was where you said it would be, but the lid was off and the ossuary empty. The book was not there!”
Shalid was void of all thought; he knew the words that he had just delivered would not make the Messenger happy, what he would say next he said with heavy breath, “I have more to tell you.”
His leader let his arms fall slowly to his sides, the sudden show of affection dissipated. The Messenger’s eyes trembled with anger; his left eye as black as night and the right eye blue, an effect that either mesmerized or invoked fear in those that stood before him. “More? How can there be any more than what you have already told me? In the name of Allah, do not hold back. What is it?”
“The American that escaped, I believe that he has the book.”
The Messenger stared intently into Shalid’s eyes. He waited stoically for the sunken man to continue speaking. He learned long ago that an uncomfortable silence would force any man opposite to continue speaking – golden silence it was called.
Shalid hated looking into the Messenger’s eyes; he was one of those within which those strange eyes invoked fear, and said, “When I saw that the book was gone I raced back to the meeting place of the Ambassadors. I saw the American; he was holding the Syrian who had been injured. I saw the Syrian give him something, I did not see exactly what it was but it was the shape of a book, it had to have been the book: small, and rectangular, and with gold corners!”
“The book!” The ferocity of the Messenger’s voice could be distinguished by both the elevation of the decibel level in which his words were now delivered and the shaking of his eyes. The Messenger’s shouts bounced off the walls of the room: “You saw this! You did nothing!”
Shalid rocked backward on his heels from the sudden surge in the Messenger’s anger, and weakly said, “I raised my weapon upon them and was about to fire. At that precise moment, a round from one of our rockets hit the mosque, and near where I stood. The force threw me onto the ground.” Reaching toward the bruised side of his face, Shalid lightly touched the injury and continued, “I was knocked unconscious for a short time; when I regained consciousness the American and the book were already gone and the Syrian lay there, dead.”
He saw the American receive the book, thought the Messenger.
Brushing past Shalid, this time with obvious contempt, and perhaps something more, he returned to his ornate marble topped desk. Sitting in the powder blue Persian chair, the Messenger sat stiffly with his elbows resting on the ornamented and gilded armrests; leaning forward, he opened the desk drawer to his right.
Pausing before he reached into the drawer, the Messenger looked Shalid in the eyes for a final time. He extracted his steel Makarov, a Russian made Baikal IJ-70 .380 caliber pistol. He pointed the weapon at the man that failed in his leadership of the attack, and pulled the trigger. Major Shalid Maliki, the man he had been grooming as his Second, died with a surprised look still worn on his face. Quietly, the Messenger mouthed the words, “Goodbye, my son.”
Replacing the pistol, the new General of Hezbollah’s Islamic Resistance reached to the 1930’s model English made phone, one lone tear welled in the corner of his eye as he dialed the assassin.
The plan was taking shape.
Chapter Fifteen
USS Arizona
The Shadow
“What? That’s a plane? There are no tail pipes, no wings! Where the hell is the cockpit, I don’t even see any windows. How is the pilot even going to be able to see where he’s going?”
Another wink from the Captain; Michael was really starting to get annoyed with him: “Dr. Sterling, who said anything about a pilot?”
“Excuse me? Are you telling me that you expect me to be flown over ten-thousand miles in an unpiloted, wingless, and windowless plane that doesn’t even look like a plane? I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, Captain, but are you mad? I am not getting in that thing!”
“Well, 9178 miles to be exact, Dr. Sterling, but I don’t expect you to do anything. However, your boss, Director Fundamen, said to me that you would say that you weren’t going to get on it; said that you really hated to fly. And after he called me, he made it pretty clear that he does expect you to be on that plane and that you’ll be airborne in the next ten minutes. And no, I am not mad, or crazy if that’s what you meant, and no offense taken.”
Fully aware that he wasn’t going to receive the answer he was looking for, Michael asked the question anyway, “Can’t you just drop me off at a friendly nearby airport – I can grab a commercial flight from there?”
Smirking now, the Captain blurted, “The Director also said that you would say that, and, no, I can’t take you to port. We have a mission here, part of which has the added burden of getting you the hell out of the Middle East.”
Sensing that he was on the losing end of a battle, Michael reached for his phone, “Captain, give me a couple minutes; I need to make a call.”
“Hell, son, your boss really knows you. He said that you would say that, too, and that, when you did, I was to tell you, if need be, that the team of fine young
men that so lovingly saved your backside in Damascus would be just as able and willing to assist me in getting you on that plane.”
From the corner of his eye, Michael could see the twelve men of the Delta Force team edging closer. The smirking leader of the team stepped forward inquiring of Michael in a cheerful manner much like a flight attendant, “Sir, shall I help you find your seat?”
All Michael could manage to do was to mutter a quiet and dejected, “Shit.”
“Dr. Sterling, it’s my turn not to sound disrespectful. I need you fixed up, in that plane, and airborne in ten minutes,” the Captain looked at his watch. “Make that nine minutes. We haven’t much time. Pretty soon, every unfriendly eye in the sky is going to be overhead, and with the ability to see this ship, which technically has not yet been built, and this plane, which doesn’t yet exist. Those probing eyes will work very hard to connect your little party in Damascus with our presence here. That is something that you, I, and your boss can’t afford.”
Knowing very well that any additional protest would be futile, Michael asked the Captain, “Will you at least be serving pretzels and peanuts?”
The Captain smiled; the Delta team leader stopped.
Visiting with the Vice Admiral’s physician on board the Shadow had been a fast and simple, albeit, painful affair. Refusing any oral pain medication or injection that would numb his leg, Michael sat stiffly while the Doctor quickly and expertly removed the tiny pieces of grenade.
The fragments were lodged neatly in his leg, and having done only superficial damage made their extraction, to the relief of the doctor, fairly easy; at least easy for him. Michael thought that he was going to pass out from the swirling effects of the pain.
The Doctor wished that he could have sewn the wounds closed but didn’t have the time. Soon, as the Captain had pointed out, every satellite of each enemy and ally would be hovering over the region. The need for expediency would be necessary. The US couldn’t afford to let the world know about the Shadow, at least not just yet.
Michael would have to make do with the temporary effect of large butterfly stitches and government issued fast acting glue; a battle zone homeopathy used to seal and close lacerations quickly, and also known as superglue.
On his way out of the plane, the doctor mentioned, “That glue will do for now but it may, unfortunately, not hold for too long. Those wounds are a bit too large, get them looked at as soon as you get stateside. Be careful and try not to move your leg too much. Take care, Dr. Sterling, and Godspeed.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
As the Vice Admiral’s personal physician left, he passed by a very large sailor that was coming aboard the stealth aircraft. The man was carrying a bulky flight suit and helmet along with a pair of pants, and patent leather shoes. Without provocation, he tossed the shoes and pants to Michael and barked orders. “Hurry up and get changed, sir. You still need to put on the anti g-suit, I am here to help you with it.”
Michael had no clue what the sailor was talking about and was eyeing the suit now laid out before him, “Anti g-suit?” he asked.
The sailor was unfolding the suit which consisted of a connected vest and pants that were missing the crotch and knees and either, had not heard Michael’s inquisition, or was ignoring it. Without provocation, the sailor launched into a diatribe that didn’t really help Michael, “The suit is the newest thing from LSS out of Switzerland. It’s supposed to eliminate the need to do the g-straining maneuver, but I would still do it.”
“G-straining maneuver?” Michael asked.
The sailor paused what he was doing and turned his head toward Michael. He caught Michael’s question this time, “Aw, hell, sir, you don’t know? You’ve never flown hypersonic before?”
“Hypersonic? You mean this thing flies above mach five?”
He had the sailor’s attention now. The man looked at Michael with what appeared to be real concern, “Sir, mach five is just the warm up. This baby will get you to above mach fifteen at over a hundred-thousand feet, even faster if you go higher. You are going to be flying around 9500 mph and, completely blind to any radar or system of detection. All of this baby’s Radar Cross Section (RCS) has been eliminated.”
Ignoring most of what the sailor had just said, Michael was focused on only one part and asked, “Excuse me? Did you just say 9500 miles per hour? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Michael felt like he was going to be sick. “9500 miles-an-hour, and with no pilot? This is ridiculous, has this ever been done before?”
“Of course it has, sir, we’ve been flying the Shadow for the last two years. The Vice Admiral just landed here on it. Listen, sir, try to relax. You’ll be home before you know it.”
“Can I at least have a parachute?”
The sailor ignored the question, apparently believing it to be rhetorical.
Michael’s mind was spinning so much that he did not notice that the sailor already had the suit over his left leg. “Sir, I’ve got to get this on your other leg.”
Michael carefully straightened his injured right leg with a grimace and watched the sailor wrap the suit tightly around it.
“Sir, this suit is hydrostatic. It has a bit over one-liter of water inside and is going to feel awfully snug on you. The g-forces that you are going to feel will automatically force the suit to constrict on your lower extremities. With your injuries, it’s going to hurt a bit.”
Listening intently, Michael lifted his arms without being asked as the sailor begin to manhandle the vest portion of the anti g-suit onto him. While securing the strap across Michael’s stomach the sailor stopped, “Sir, whatever you have tucked in your waist, you should really take it out.” Reaching for the book, the sailor said to Michael, “Let me get it, I can stow it for you.”
Grabbing the sailor’s wrist and twisting it away before he could remove the book, Michael snarled, “Leave it, sailor.”
The sailor snatched his arm away and looked curiously at Michael while rubbing his wrist, but said nothing. Apparently smart enough to let the obviously sensitive topic alone, he continued with his hasty tutorial. He motioned to the vest, “Sir, this part will compress on your midsection causing partial pressure breathing, and try not to freak the hell out when it happens, ok?”
Michael gave the man a feeble thumbs-up, “What about the maneuver you were talking about, what is that?”
“Oh yeah, almost forgot.”
Great and I almost forgot to crack one of your ribs. The sailor was really starting to bug Michael.
“The g-straining maneuver is really simple. When you start feeling hypoxic just tighten your abs, just like when you are doing crunches, but hold the crunch for as long as possible. They say you don’t need to do it with this suit, but I never trust what they say.”
“How will I know when I am getting hypoxic?”
“Damn, sir, you’ve really never flown fast before have you? What the hell are you doing on this rig then?”
Michael was about to move beyond annoyed, but before he could answer the simple and logical question, the sailor came up with his own conclusion: “Someone must want you back home real bad, huh?”
Someone must want me home “real bad.”
It just dawned on Michael that this seemed like a bit of overkill. Why not just get him to the shore of a friendly country? From there he could catch a military hopper or even a commercial flight. The comment bugged Michael.
“Sir, listen to me.” With a sudden seriousness in his tone the sailor apprehensively leaned close to Michael, but before continuing he asked, “You’re not going to grab me again are you?”
Michael replied, “Sorry about that, it comes with the territory I guess.”
The sailor kneeled down and put his hand on the suit and said, “This suit helps to prevent g-LOC, that is, the loss of consciousness due to the accelerating effects of g-force. You are going to shoot off this deck and halfway up into the stratosphere at forces Newton himself would have a hard time fathoming. You familiar with the formu
la F = ma?”
“Sure, force equals mass times acceleration, what about it?”
Looking Michael up and down, the sailor said, “You look like you weigh a bit over two hundred, right?” Apparently the sailor had a habit of asking rhetorical questions because he continued before Michael could respond and continued, “You are going to experience g-forces just above ten-g’s; that, sir, in layman’s terms is a whole shit-load of acceleration. You’re going to feel like you weigh about a ton. Newton’s 2nd Law: ‘force equals mass times acceleration.’”
Just great, Michael thought.
The sailor stood up, looked down at Michael, and said, “The two-thousand pounds of force from the acceleration is going to work real hard to force your blood away from your brain and cause a shortage of oxygen. That, sir, is hypoxia.”
Michael already felt hypoxic.
The sailor continued, “Your eyes feel the effects first, going into what’s called brown out. You won’t be able to see colors, man. If it gets worse it’s going to look like you’re seeing the world through a tube then, if it gets really bad, you will go blind and then lose consciousness.”
Seeing the sheepish look on Michael’s face the sailor did his best to qualm his fears, “Don’t worry, sir, some pilots have tested this suit out to twelve-g’s. You will be all right. It will just feel like the time you bagged the fat girl in high school and she wanted to be on top. We’ve all got one in the closet, right?”
Bagged the fat girl? Who is this guy, Bernie Mac?
“Sir, just trust the suit and do the maneuver. It will be over in a matter of seconds. If you lose your sight and pass out, most likely, you will wake up and your vision will come back.”
Most likely.
Michael was not feeling too reassured as the sailor continued to strap Michael into the only seat in the Shadow. It was affixed in the middle of the plane. The sailor picked up from the floor, and placed on Michael’s head, an olive-drab flight helmet; the MBU-20/P face mask was hanging off to the side. The mask was designed for pressure breathing in high g-force conditions.
