The Hand of Christ

by Joseph Nagle

  The two men were playing a game of cat and mouse only the mouse didn’t know the cat was chasing him. Michael wanted to know to where he was going and with whom he was meeting. In the Pope’s apartment the priest had made a phone call before the Colonel shot him. The priest was on his way to meet the person he spoke with. Michael needed to end this group’s hold on power once and for all. Like Ahaggar, his mission was obvious: sever the head of the leadership.

  Michael stole a peak around the corner, but couldn’t see him, “He’s gone! Do you still have him?”

  “Got ‘em, sir! I have him tagged. I won’t lose him.”

  “Which way?”

  The priest moved fast, too fast to be on foot. The amber outline of his body was in a seated position. In front of him were two other images; an outline of a car’s hot engine and a driver.

  “He’s in a cab!” shouted the Corporal.

  Shit! There was silence on the line as Michael stood in the street taking in his surroundings.

  The moments of nothingness were too much for the President. He opened his mouth and was about to ask just what the hell is going on, but was met with the sound of screeching tires and the frightened shouts of a woman.

  Michael was in Rome, he knew that it would only be a short time before he would see what he needed. The whine of the three-cylinder scooter was obvious. The young Italian woman driving the motorbike stared straight ahead in disbelief. A man was running at her with a gun in his hand. The sound of the squeal coming from the two small tires was high-pitched, and caused most of those at CORe and in the Oval Office to cringe.

  “Get off the bike! Give me your purse!” Michael held the gun in his outstretched hand, but was careful not to point it directly at the terrified woman. She didn’t speak English, but, to her, it was clear that she was being robbed. She handed over her purse, and Michael went through it. Finding what he needed, he put her plastic identification card in his inside coat pocket and gave the purse back to the confused woman.

  “I am really sorry for this; I will make sure that you get your scooter back.”

  He cranked back on the handle causing the bike to accelerate with a spin of the rear tire. The woman stood in the middle of the street with her purse in one hand and the other outstretched as if to say, what just happened?

  CPL York went back into tracking mode, and directed Michael, “Take a right at the next street. A few blocks ahead he turned left onto Corso Vittorio Emanuele.”

  The young soldier’s Italian pronunciation left something to be desired, but Michael understood him well enough. He swerved around traffic and saw the street in less than a minute. The light was red, but this wasn’t a time to be a slave to man’s rules. He turned the accelerator harder throwing the scooter’s engine into a whining fit. Through the intersection he bisected two oncoming cars that were headed at him from both sides. The drivers of both cars slammed on their brakes nearly missing Michael as he weaved between them. One was so close Michael could have reach out and touched its hood.

  Damn that was close, thought York.

  York continued to efficiently guide the intelligence officer through the streets never losing site of both tags. Michael was racing the scooter down Piazza del Colosseo on the northern side of the nearly two-thousand year old elliptical amphitheatre; the place where countless gladiators fought and died to placate the nation’s citizens’ need for savage blood-filled entertainment.

  Down the road, the cab stopped, and the priest exited.

  York shouted out to Michael, “He’s back on foot! He’s on a street called Matteo. It’s about eight-hundred meters straight ahead and to your right.”

  Michael didn’t make it, his luck ran out. Driving is inherently dangerous, and that danger grows exponentially when the factors involved are pushed to their limits. Rome is a well traveled city by both tourists and its citizens. Everywhere, there are cars, cabs, motorbikes, trucks, little dogs, and people. Eventually, one of them gets in the way.

  The President and his staff heard Michael’s deep, curdling scream at the same moment that the CORe center did. The sound of crumpling metal was all too easy to discern.

  Time was slowing down again for Michael. He hated when this happened as it was only during moments of real duress and danger that it occurred. One second before, perhaps less, he had been expertly racing through the streets of Rome. Near Via Matteo he made the mistake of looking at the street sign for a fraction of time that was just too long.

  The falling dominoes in life are typically random, and most times unseen until the one next to you is crashing down.

  On the sidewalk, an ice cream vendor had been handing a freshly scooped cone of chocolate ice cream to an old man. It was the old man’s favorite. Once per week he allowed himself the devilish delights that his doctor had told him to stay away from. Each day he left his flat with his small and energetic Jack Russell Terrier for a walk. Each day he passed the same ice cream vendor only smiling as he walked by, but silently counting down the days until he allowed himself to stop. Today was that day.

  While reaching his hand out for the cone, a tourist, with her back to him, was taking a photo of the Baroque roof-line of the building towering overhead. It was her fascination: intricate carvings that adorned the edges of architecture. She was too close for the photo that she had wanted and had been backing up to better fill the frame of her camera when she had bumped into the old man. The small collision caused the single scoop of chocolate to fall from the cone and to the sidewalk and the startled old man to jump.

  Out of instinct, the old man quickly grabbed out for the falling scoop. The movement meant that he would have to let go of his dog’s leash. The newly freed and energy filled little Terrier ran impulsively into the street.

  The dog had emerged unseen from between two cars that were parked along the road. It was at the moment that Michael had returned his attention from the street sign to the road when he saw the dog and had instinctively swerved to the right. At that very same moment, a 1971 convertible Mercedes 280 SL Roadster – one of only 830 built – was edging into the street from an alleyway and just in front of one of the parked cars. The scooter had slammed into the side of the car catapulting Michael over its hood and onto the street.

  Michael was lying face down and not moving.

  York screamed, “Oh my God! Professor!”

  Silence.

  “Professor, can you hear me!” Come on! Get up!

  Nothing. The thermal image of Michael didn’t move. Others were surrounding him.

  The President was in the dark, “Corporal! What’s going on? What happened?”

  “Sir, there was an accident. A car pulled in front of him, he’s not moving!”

  Chapter Seventy-One

  The Old Lateran Palace

  Rome, Italy

  Yousef’s smile wasn’t long lived.

  Through the two doors of the large room spilled six men in dark suits. They were formidable and with looks that weighed serious. Each man was holding a Heckler & Koch XM8 submachine gun affixed with laser sights. The room was suddenly striated with red laser beams, each of which was firmly glued to their target. Yousef stood immobile in the room.

  Behind one of the men, an old man walked in. He surveyed the room. The body of the dead Director was to his right. He ignored it. He walked over to the fireplace and saw the burning body of his faithful assistant. He made the sign of the cross and quietly spoke, “You served me well; you served us well. Rest in peace my friend.”

  The Primitus - the real Primitus - faced the Messenger, and said, “The Order and its masters have survived numerous attacks on its existence and over many centuries. Some of those attacks had come from within. Some have been victims while others have survived. Over time, we have learned a number of valuable lessons from this treachery.”

  Yousef carried the look of a man defeated. Fear flowed through him in waves. It was an emotion that he was unaccustomed to having. He tried to speak but found it difficult, �
��Y-y-you are the Primitus?” He pointed to the man in the fire, “Who-who is that?”

  “That man was a Theatine monk and my friend! For nearly fifty years he stayed true to his vow and had served The Order. For nearly fifty years he had stood at my side. His one purpose was to protect me from the likes of you! Everything that you have done, every step that you have taken, every phone call you have ever made has been monitored from the moment you were allowed into The Order. We trust no one!”

  Two of the armed men had Yousef by each arm; a third was behind him with the steel barrel of the XM8 pressed against that back of his head. Reaching around Yousef, one of the armed men took the Russian pistol from his hand and put it into his jacket.

  “Bring him here,” commanded the Primitus.

  The men obeyed. Yousef was standing in front of the two leather chairs. The Primitus nodded.

  A heavy boot swung across the front of his legs; Yousef’s feet were violently kicked out from underneath him. With a heavy thud, the short man was on his knees. The armed men were holding one of Yousef’s arms firmly across a long marble table that was in front of the two chairs. Two more men joined in to keep Yousef from moving.

  The Primitus leaned lower and said, “Monsieur Messenger, you have taken our book; you have stolen from The Order. There is one punishment for that crime.”

  The Primitus reached into the fire and removed the poker. Yousef felt a terror unlike any before. The Primitus moved closer.

  “That punishment for stealing, Monsieur, is well known to your kind.”

  At that moment the Primitus laid the end of the nearly molten iron rod across Yousef’s wrist. The end of the rod was glowing white-hot and sizzled loudly as it burned easily through Yousef’s arm. Like a hot knife through butter, the rod easily cut off Yousef’s hand just below the wrist. The smell of burnt flesh and bone had no effect on the hardened and well-armed men. They hung firmly onto him as he writhed from the pain. Yousef tried to scream but nothing came out. The reflection of the burning rod bounced off the whites of his eyes as he lost consciousness.

  “Put him in the chair,” commanded the Primitus to his men. Quickly, the men complied.

  The Primitus put the poker back into the fireplace and then knelt in front of his Messenger. He looked at the stump where his hand used to be, it had been neatly cauterized, and there was very little blood. For a moment, the Primitus stared at an unconscious Yousef and thought; I had such hopes for you.

  Another moment went by and then the Primitus slapped him.

  Yousef didn’t respond.

  He slapped him again.

  Yousef stirred in the seat slightly then, as if struck by lightning, he shot up and let out a deafening scream. Immediately, two men grabbed him and shoved him back in the seat.

  His bald head was encased in sweat; tears from the pain streamed from his multi-colored eyes and down his thick cheeks. “What are you going to do with me?”

  “I am going to send you back to where we found you.”

  At that moment, Monsignor Geoffrey Hauptmann burst through the doors. Four of the men trained their weapons on him.

  Geoffrey threw his hands up to his face and instantly forgot that one of them was painfully without three of its fingers and screamed, “Don’t shoot!”

  The Primitus called out, “It’s alright. Put down your weapons. He is one of us.”

  He walked to the hurt priest and reached out for his hand. Slowly he undid Geoffrey’s bandages and surveyed the wounds. “They still bleed. Come. Come with me, they need immediate attention.” The Primitus gently guided Geoffrey closer to the fire. Geoffrey did not argue.

  The two men – Primitus and Priest – walked near the body of the Director; the sight of the dead man pleased Geoffrey. As the two men walked to the second chair, Geoffrey made eye contact with Yousef. He saw the place where his hand used to be and felt nauseated. Yousef looked at Geoffrey and was confused, but didn’t say a word.

  “Sit, Geoffrey,” the Primitus commanded.

  Obediently, Geoffrey sat and then said, “It worked, Your Holiness, it worked!” Geoffrey looked upon the man in a manner not unlike the way a son stares upon his father.

  Reaching for the poker once more, the Primitus said, “My son, this will hurt but is necessary. Hold out your hand.”

  Tentatively he put it forward; one of the armed men grabbed Geoffrey by his injured hand and held onto it firmly.

  “Are you ready my son?”

  Geoffrey sheepishly nodded.

  The sizzling of the flesh singed the air. The Primitus sealed the wounds on Geoffrey’s hands by burning them closed. Geoffrey sat stoically letting out no more than a long grunt.

  The Primitus returned the poker to the fire and then went back to priest. He removed his own sash and gently wrapped Geoffrey’s hand once more. “You will be fine. It will take some time, but your wounds will heal. Now, give me the codes, Monsignor.”

  Geoffrey reached into his cassock pocket with his uninjured hand and pulled out the piece of paper that Michael had written the codes. He handed them to the Primitus.

  The Primitus smiled.

  He looked at one of his men who understood the silent communication. Stepping forward, the man removed a small and flat bag from his shoulder. He opened it and pulled out a laptop which he set on the table. The man plugged in a telescoping antenna and raised it. He then punched a number of commands onto the keyboard; he soon had the laptop ready for use.

  Quickly, the Primitus typed in the numbers that Michael had written on the piece of paper, and then spoke to Yousef, “When I first learned of your attempted coup, I was blind with anger, and had every intention of squeezing the life from you both. But then I realized that if you two were successful at stirring in the ingredients necessary for a war between the US and Iran, our mission – The Order’s mission – could be quicker fulfilled. Like your admired Sun Tzu had once said…”

  Yousef was hovering painfully between two worlds. Drool had formed on and lingered from the corner of his mouth; his hold on conscious thought drifted without control. When he heard the name of the Warrior Poet uttered, he knew all was lost. He thought of Sun Tzu’s quote before the Primitus said it.

  The victorious strategist only seeks battle after the victory has been won.

  “If only you had come to me with the idea, Yousef. But that would have been an impediment to your greater plans wouldn’t it? Your thirst for power made you blind and foolish. Did you really expect to take control of The Order?”

  Yousef didn’t or couldn’t respond, and the Primitus put his focus back on the computer. Typing a few more commands, he was done. Appearing satisfied, he stood and smiled at his deflated Messenger.

  “Monsieur Messenger, you will get your war.”

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Highway A81

  Khorramshahr, Iran

  Red lights on the vehicles spun without any order given to turn them on. Warning sirens started to blare. A rumble grew at the base of each Ghadr-110X as the small mists of smoke thickened from the chemical reaction that was now occurring inside of the missiles.

  The Iranian servicemen were stunned and began to back away from the MZKT Transporter Erector Launchers. The ground started to shake from the roar that was coming from the engine assemblies. Not knowing what to do, the soldiers ran for cover.

  Twelve nuclear tipped weapons, each containing four warheads and two countermeasures, lifted away from the vehicles. Unknown to the Iranian soldiers, the electronic command for the launch sequence had been received from an overhead satellite.

  The transmission contained the coordinates of their destinations: forty-eight major US cities.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  NORAD

  Cheyenne Mountain, CO

  “Dr. Sterling! Can you hear me?” Get up! CPL York’s pleas were going unanswered.

  “Oh no! Sir, get over here, NOW!” MSGT Bryan’s voiced bounced around the room catching everyone’s attention. CPT Scott
looked over at MSGT Bryan’s terminal and could not believe what he saw.

  “Mr. President! Sir, the missiles have fired!” shouted CPT Scott.

  Overhead the voice of the President rang loud, “CPT Scott! What did you just say?”

  “Sir, the missiles just launched! All of them are in the air!” he repeated.

  The President took a moment to let the news sink in. His heart was racing but his reaction was calm, “Captain, confirm their flight paths, get me an ETA. General, take us to DEFCON 1 and get me the commanders of the 6th and 7th fleets on the horn!” Reserved only for imminent attack, up to this moment, DEFCON 1 had never been used.

  The head of the NSA spoke in a solemn tone, everyone at NORAD heard what he would say; the intercom system in the Oval Office was still on:

  “Mr. President, if those missiles are headed toward the US, we will have approximately four minutes to respond!”

  The President pressed a button on his desk. Almost instantly, two Secret Service Officers entered the room.

  “Gentlemen, secure the Vice President at our secondary location. Activate OPLAN 8044 Protocols for the White House.”

  In 2003 the Department of Defense renamed the SIOP to OPLAN 8044 for the White House in order to not confuse the SIOP used by military forces.

  The two Secret Service Officers didn’t show it, but surprise ran through them. Both simultaneously thought the same thing, OPLAN 8044?

  One of the Secret Service Officers grasped the Vice President of the United States by his elbow and said, “Sir, please follow me.”

  The other spoke into the microphone attached on the inside of his sleeve and was holding open the door of the Oval Office for the Vice President. Six more Secret Service Officers filled the room.

  The Vice President looked reluctantly at the President, and said, “Good luck, Mr. President.”

  General Diedrick was on the secured satellite phone and ordered all of the Joint Chiefs to put every military reservation on alert, “Recall all troops. Leaves are cancelled effective immediately. Use SIOP Protocols. Gentlemen, this is real.” He hung up the phone.