The Hand of Christ

by Joseph Nagle

  “Jesus Christ!” Michael spat, using His name uncaringly in vain, and somewhat appropriate given the situation. “These things aren’t worth a damn!”

  Having muttered the name of Christ out loud, Michael stopped cleaning himself and looked at the book that now stared back at him from the small shelf next to the airplane’s bathroom sink. “Yousef, just what the hell were you involved in?”

  A knock at the door startled Michael’s thoughts back to the confines of the airplane’s bathroom; he answered, “Yes? Just a minute please.”

  “Sir, I hope everything is alright,” asked the inquisitive voice of the flight attendant.

  Quickly shoving the book back into his pants Michael told the flight attendant, “Everything is fine; I will be finished in just a minute. Thank you.”

  “Sir, the Captain has illuminated the seatbelt sign; I have to ask you to return to your seat. We are preparing to land.”

  With the all too familiar, “get your ass back to your seat signal,” Michael quickly finished and opened the bathroom’s tiny folding collapsible door, and found himself face to face with the really pretty brunette that had welcomed him aboard a little over an hour ago.

  Aware, by the suddenly cringed but exquisite nose, that she had just caught a whiff of his bilious smell, Michael embarrassingly said, “Sorry, I must have had some bad fish in San Francisco.”

  “It happens more than you realize. Please, sir,” pointing down the aisle and obviously in a hurry to get the smelly man from in front of her back to his seat, “if you could take your seat.”

  As he slid himself past her, she thought to herself, too bad, such a good looking guy – even with the wedding ring.

  As Michael labored his way back to his seat, he noticed that the large man from the middle seat was standing in the aisle with his back to Michael. He was apparently ignoring the critically important “Captain’s illumination of the seat-belt sign.” He closed the overhead bin above their row just as Michael reached him.

  “Oh, hey, buddy,” the startled man from the middle said as Michael approached their seats, “everything come out okay?”

  This was not a time for a double entendre.

  “Yeah, man, thanks for your help; I appreciated it. I think I got most of it out. Just be thankful that we are landing, I wouldn’t want to sit next to me right now.”

  Patting Michael’s back, perhaps a bit too hard, and with a hearty laugh the man from the middle sat down to retake his seat. So did Michael, although with a little more difficulty.

  PART II

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Phantom Canyon Micro Brewery

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  CPL York couldn’t remember a time that the cold and frothy Hefe-Weizen – or any drink – had ever tasted so good. Setting down the tall glass and wiping the frosty remnants from his upper lip, York – the Army’s newest Corporal – stared without wavering at the miniscule spheres of carbon dioxide that cascaded upwards in his beer. Somehow the crisp golden color of the drink took on a new, more profound meaning. As the bubbles broke the surface creating the foamy head, CPL York imagined that each atom that made up the ceaseless streams of carbon dioxide was now free, and, perhaps, somehow happier after having fulfilled its purpose.

  It hadn’t been more than half a day since York had rescued CIA Officer Dr. Michael Sterling – codenamed Professor – from a severe attack by soldiers of Hezbollah in Damascus. Men had died and one had lived based on his work, on his instincts and commands. Looking around the room, he sensed that he was different than everyone else. Deep within York there was a change, a shift in his demeanor. He could feel it, albeit couldn’t really quite comprehend it, at least not yet.

  Nonetheless, the feeling was palpable.

  The excitement and tension of those moments in the CORe center were coupled with the outright fear that comes with holding a man’s life in ones hands. York had saved Michael’s life by guiding him to safety; the entire event had ended with the most exhilarating feeling that York had ever experienced in his twenty-two years of life. He was smart enough to know that much of what he felt could be attributed to the massive influx of hormones that had coursed violently through his veins during those tense moments; however, be that as it may, the Corporal knew there was something different within him. He had been changed.

  Oblivious to the other patrons around him, York didn’t see the man that hovered next to him; he was still entranced in his thoughts of earlier and the sudden profoundness of his Hefe-Weizen sitting on the bar before him.

  “Corporal York?” the man said.

  Not so much a question as it was a statement that announced the man’s presence, the voice of Captain Scott immediately penetrated York’s cortex. Instinctively, York jumped off his stool and snapped to attention, “Yes, sir! Sorry, sir, I didn’t notice you standing there.”

  “As you were, Corporal; please, take your seat, no need for this to be so formal.”

  There was an unexpected ease in CPT Scott’s voice, as if it were lined with a trace of respect for the young soldier.

  CPT Scott helped himself to the stool next to the Corporal and said, “Listen, York, I don’t mean to intrude on your evening; I just wanted to talk for a couple of minutes if that’s alright with you? The guys back at the center thought I might find you here.”

  “Of course, sir, you aren’t intruding. I was going to meet a friend here, but with everything that happened I am late and she obviously didn’t wait.”

  “Occupational hazard, York, one of the hardest things about the job: the ladies rarely understand.” CPT Scott shifted on his stool, and turned himself toward York. “Listen, Corporal, what happened today, what you did, it was really something. The way you handled yourself and the situation…” For some reason the usually collected Captain was stammering a bit and had a hard time articulating his thoughts.

  CPT Scott continued, “What I am trying to say York is that I was, that is, I am really proud of what you did today. I don’t think there was another soldier in that room who could have handled the situation so effectively.”

  York was taken somewhat by surprise; the affection, or maybe it was respect, coming from CPT Scott was something new and made him feel a bit uneasy. York wasn’t sure just how to respond and spat out a simple, “Thank you, sir.”

  CPT Scott sat silent for a moment, and was about to speak, but was interrupted by the bartender who asked, “What can I get for you buddy?”

  Scott peered over at York’s beer and replied, “Just give me what he’s having, thanks.”

  The bartender remembered York, how could he not; the co-ed that the young soldier had spent half a night chatting with a few weeks back was the hottest thing that had walked into his bar since he could remember, and had been the envy of every half drunken soldier and frat boy that night. He remembered a couple of older married guys getting that angry “just what the hell do you think you’re looking at, she’s young enough to be your daughter” look from their wives.

  Since then, the arrogant little bastard had toyed with his patrons by having the nerve to bring her back over and over again clearly parading her in front of any and every man possible.

  There was no way you could forget a girl like that, he looked at York and with a slight bit of sarcasm replied to CPT Scott, “One Hefe-Weizen coming right up, just don’t spill it on your friend, he had enough of that the last time he was here.” The bartender returned his gaze to York, and gave him a knowing nod with a crooked grin and then turned to pour the Captain’s beer.

  “'The last time,' York, what was that about?”

  “Long story, sir, it has to do with the girl I was supposed to meet tonight.”

  “It must have been a good ending if she’s coming back.”

  “That and a good beginning really, but doesn’t seem to matter now, she’s not here. I probably filled in the blanks of every cliché “soldier meets local girl, soldier does local girl bad” story. Oh well, you win some, you
lose some,” sighed York.

  Changing the subject back to what he came for, Scott’s tone turned a bit serious, “York, I wanted to talk to you about your attitude.”

  “I know, sir,” interrupted York, “I know. I have a bit of a problem. I don’t mean any disrespect being that you are a career soldier, but I just ain’t cut out for this lifer stuff. I am not soldier material, and I know that I have been letting it show. I will really try to handle myself better before I get out.”

  “That’s just it, York, you are soldier material. And that is precisely your problem. You have your head so far up your young behind that you have no clue just what you are made of, what your potential could lead to. With your nose so far up your ass all you can smell is shit and so you act like it!”

  CPL York was immediately offended by what CPT Scott had just said. Out of bad habit, he forcibly set down his beer, spilling some, and gained the attention of the bartender. Argumentatively, he angrily snapped back at the Captain, and a bit too loudly, “That’s bullshit, I know who I am, what I am made of!”

  The outburst caught the attention of a few of the patrons.

  Scott’s face contorted into a scowl and snarled, “At ease that tone son, this is what I am talking about; you are a damn hothead. You act first, think second. That kind of attitude is only good in certain situations, ones like what you went through today. You have a serious deficiency with regards to every other situation and the manner in which to handle yourself in it. You have to learn that sometimes you need to hear about the shit you aren’t so good at doing.”

  A fresh mug of Hefe-Weizen was slid between the two soldiers by the bartender followed by a towel to wipe up York’s mess: “Gentlemen, relax a bit or I may have to ask you two to take your lover’s quarrel outside. I know you all have that “don’t ask, don’t tell policy” but my other customers are getting a bit perturbed.”

  Glancing around the bar, Scott noticed that a number of heads had turned their attention to the two of them. CPT Scott then looked at the young Corporal and speaking at a more appropriate level said, “York when I first entered the military I knew a young soldier, he was a private at the time, who was a lot like you. Actually, he was just like you.”

  CPT Scott raised his mug and swallowed nearly half of his beer in one gulp and then continued, “This guy, he was arrogant, quick to argue, and confrontational, and with everyone, York. The thing about this guy is that he was smarter, stronger, faster, and more able than everyone else, and he knew it. He wore his abilities on his sleeve and hated everyone else because they weren’t up to his standard, and to make things worse, he let everyone know it. Everything came easy to him, York. That was precisely the problem, he wasn’t challenged and nothing he did in the Army was challenging enough.”

  While York sat and listened to CPT Scott, he couldn’t help but think that this is exactly how he feels: like a professional amongst amateurs.

  “One day he was confronted in private by his platoon sergeant, a real mean son-of-a-bitch. The platoon sergeant was an ex-airborne ranger that had been injured on a mission and could no longer qualify for jump status. So, instead of retiring on a medical discharge he had convinced the Army to let him ride out his career as a “Leg” in a support platoon pushing papers for a living.”

  “Leg, sir? What’s that?”

  “That’s a non-airborne qualified soldier, Corporal. He had to give up his jump status and leave the rangers, a hard thing for an elite soldier to do; it really smashed his ego. At any rate,” continuing his story, “this ex-airborne ranger confronted the young private, told him in not so many words what an ass he was, and that he should just do him, the Army, and the rest of a world a favor and go jump off the barracks roof before he would get himself thrown off. The private then told the sergeant to go fuck himself, and then just stared smugly at the sergeant willing him to do something.”

  CPT Scott paused to take another long swallow of his beer which drained the mug. He set the empty glass back on the bar he sat silent for a moment, perhaps having seen the same thing in the beer that York had earlier.

  “Did he, sir?”

  “Did he what, Corporal?”

  “Well, did he do anything? What did the sergeant do after that?”

  Scott’s left hand rose to his left eyebrow, his index finger slowly caressed a small scar that bifurcated his brow perpendicularly, “Yeah, he did something alright. Before that arrogant private could even start another sentence, the sergeant cracked him across his temple faster than you can blink.”

  “Holy shit, really?” Just as York finished the question he realized who the private was, “It was you, sir? You were the asshole?” Crap, thought York, “I didn’t mean it like that, you are not an asshole, I meant to say, was it you?”

  Scott was smiling at York’s fumbling, “Don’t worry about it, I was an asshole, York; a much bigger one than you.”

  “Touché, sir, I guess I deserve that.”

  “Listen, York, there is a reason you run up and down that mountain each day with your rucksack on your back, and there is a reason you were chosen for the CORe center, for military intelligence. You are better than everyone else, York, but your problem is that you know it and you hate that it seems like no one else does. Every day I see you, and you remind me so much of myself when I was younger that it makes me sick. Before today, I wanted to crack you on your head just like my platoon sergeant did to me.”

  “Did you hit him back?”

  “Hell no, son, he knocked me out. I was knocked out before my body even hit the ground. When I came to, the sergeant was reaching down to me with his hand to pull me back on my feet.”

  “He helped you up? I don’t get it, why did he help you?”

  “York let me tell you what he said to me, which will probably answer your question. I begrudgingly took his hand and he pulled me to my feet and said some things that I will never forget:

  “Private, you have two options here, either stand and realize that you have the opportunity to become a new man, a new soldier, or your other option is to run your sniveling ass to the commander and file charges against me, charges that I will not deny. I might be forced to retire, but I don’t give a shit because I am a soldier, a professional; I’ve earned my pension. I am a success and proud of it. You, on the other hand, should you choose not to accept the first option, will continue to be a hot-headed, angry, unsuccessful, tiny morsel of a man. You will be a failure, waking up every day always angry at someone or something; you will blame everything and everyone but yourself for the way you feel, for your failures. It’s a shitty way to live a life: always unhappy.”

  CPT Scott stopped speaking for a moment. With his head hanging down, he let out a short laugh as he recalled that day, and then said, “York, that sergeant turned and started to walk away from me. I just stood there, angry as all can be. I wanted to kick the crap out of him, but couldn’t will myself to do anything. I was frozen. Right as I thought I had built up the courage to yell something out, the sergeant stopped and turned back to me and said one more thing:

  “One last thing private; before you go off and do anything stupid, I want you to think about one more thing. If you think you are so god-damned fucking great, God’s great gift to this planet, why don’t you just go roll around in the bushes with the best; see if you can keep up with real soldiers and not these candy assed paper pushers you work with here. It’s real easy to plop yourself in the middle of a bunch of fat ass pussy’s and be the best. Next week, there is a Special Forces recruiter visiting the company, I suggest you go tell him just how great you are, go see if he’ll let you play with the big boys. Just don’t mention to him how you got knocked the fuck out by a gimpy old Leg.”

  Looking at York, CPT Scott said, “With that, my old platoon sergeant walked away and, as you can probably tell, I went and visited that recruiter.”

  CPT Scott pushed himself from the bar and stood up. He reached into his front pocket and pulled a twenty dollar bill out and
threw it on the counter and said, “These are for the beers and enough for you to buy yourself another round.” Scott called out to the bartender to give York another beer, “Consider it my way of congratulating you for the job you did today.”

  “Thanks, sir, but you don’t have to do that.”

  “You're right, York, I don’t.”

  CPT Scott reached into his back pocket and tossed a pamphlet onto the bar. “It’s real easy to plop yourself in the middle of a bunch of pussies and be the best, why don’t you go see if you have what it takes to roll around the bushes with the best, Corporal.” Without waiting for a response, CPT Scott walked away.

  CPL York picked up the pamphlet and unfolded it. Across the top was the notification: Special Forces Qualification School Information and Recruiting. Tuesday, 1300 hours, Divisional Headquarters, RM 130.

  The bartender slid two more beers in front of York prompting the young Corporal to say, “Hey, man, he didn’t order two – just one beer.”

  “I know, but I think she might want the other.” The bartender was pointing behind York and toward the door.

  York turned himself around to see her walking toward him; this time she wore a short, bright-yellow summer sun dress that was draped over her frame by two very thin shoulder straps. Next to her bronzed skin, the yellow dress made her look nearly goddess like. She walked across the micro-brewery; the dress flowed erotically around her shape. Every man, and almost every woman for that matter, turned a quiet gaze in her direction. With each step, her sinewy shape echoed slight ripples throughout her toned physique. She was a goddess.

  York held his breath and was instantly aroused; his heart beat loudly, it was something that happened every time he saw her.