by Jones, Rick
Giuseppe stared a long moment, could feel his power slipping, could sense that everything he worked for was forever lost to him. Begrudgingly, he reached his hand into his pocket, grabbed the key, and handed it to Bonasero by dropping it into his palm.
“I assume you used a light to get here? The ancient tunnels are dark.”
“I left the light at the ancient doorway.”
“These men will escort you back to the way you entered. Once gone, Giuseppe, I want you to know that the door will be forever sealed.” And then: “Have a good night.”
Giuseppe could feel himself cave. He had lost everything. His drives, his ambition, his dream, perhaps even his soul.
After Kimball and Leviticus ushered him to the ancient doorway, Cardinal Angullo grabbed the light, turned it on, and stepped onto the top stair leading down into the corridor. When the door closed behind him it was if the hollow click was more than just a sound, but a climatic end to his rise, the closing door a metaphorical suggestion that his time was truly up.
Taking the steps with his shoulders lowered in defeat, Cardinal Giuseppe Angullo made his way back through the corridors that looked so much like an artist’s rendition of Hell, that of complete and utter darkness with no hope of seeing the light.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Vatican City, Inside the SIV Command Center
Bonasero Vessucci and Kimball were inside the SIV Command Center alongside Fathers Essex and Auciello. They sat along a console before multiple screens watching the world play out before them from live satellite feeds. They watched the skirmishes in the southern Philippines, the multiple atrocities going on in Africa, and the rampaging crusades in the Middle East and Syria. The world was a mess, and the messes were piling high.
Father Auciello toyed with a dial, zooming in on a location in the Alborz region. On the master screen he singled in on the coordinates given by a Mossad agent who was able to send an encrypted message to Tel Aviv regarding an unchartered facility dealing with the manufacturing of a WMD. From their overhead vantage point they could spy down and zoom in to the point where they could see the two gunnery nests and the fuel cells lining the ridgeline. They also spotted a helipad and a lot with two canvas-covered transport vehicles to carry mobile units.
“We’ve been staying on top of Mossad since their mention of the Ark of the Covenant,” said Auciello, playing the dial until the screen came into sharp focus. “It appears that the operative got a message out regarding the facility’s clandestine operations.”
“Creating weapons of mass destruction,” Kimball commented.
“Exactly. Furthermore, he’s confirming the location of the Ark.” He took his hand away from the dial. “It’s there, gentlemen, inside that facility. The question is: why place the Ark of the Covenant inside a manufacturing center that is constructing a weapon of mass destruction? Why take the Ark from the grounds of the Temple Mount and send it to the Alborz region? What’s their purpose? Or do they have a purpose? What’s their agenda?”
They were solid inquiries that nobody had answers to, the questions serving as ill-fitting pieces to a vague puzzle.
Kimball shifted in his seat and studied the screen, his eyes squinting in the quasi-darkness. He absorbed the makeup of the land, the surrounding paths and the serpentine road that led to the facility. He marked the gunnery nests in his mind and noted the helipad at the ridgeline close to the fenced-in fuel cells. He was tracing a map in his mind.
“We also intercepted messages from Prime Minster Netanyahu and his Defense Minster,” added Essex, “to the president of the United States conveying Israel’s concern that the facility poses a major threat to Israel’s sovereignty; therefore, they are in the planning stages of committing to a preemptive strike against the facility in the near future should they decide to act, even though it’s against the wishes of the United States for fear of rising fuel costs, as well as placing Israel on the verge of war with Iran, which may incite other Arab nations to join in the skirmish. Right now Israel is on the fence leaning towards attack, but the United States is stalling them.”
“If they strike, then the Ark will be lost forever,” said Bonasero.
“If they should strike,” said Essex. “Israel hasn’t fully committed yet.”
“It is never the Church’s intent to get involved with political events or the involvements of warring government factions, but the Ark is a sacred relic and an interest of the Church,” he said. “In this case, we know where the Ark of the Covenant is. We also know that this facility is in the process of creating a weapon of mass destruction that may undermine the stability of the Middle East, should Israel commit to an airstrike. Should that be the case, then the Ark will be forever lost.”
Kimball knew where this was going.
The pope faced the Vatican Knight. “Good could be borne from evil,” he said to him evenly. “We know where the Ark is, we know the intent of this facility. We send in a team to extract the Ark and destroy the facility before Israel commits to battle. That way, Israel cannot be held responsible, though an accusing finger will most certainly be pointed their way.” Bonasero stood, laboring to a stance, then moved closer to the screen. “We get the Ark, take out the facility, and place Israel in a position to avert war.”
“Bonasero, this won’t be an easy task,” said Kimball. “We’re talking about breaching a highly-secured facility manned by Quds, an elite force. Not an easy task.” Kimball pointed to the screen. “The landscape is elevated, giving them the advantage of the high point. There’s one road leading in and out of the area—not good for escape should factions come up on the rear and box us in. The facility itself is secured with gunnery nests overlooking the entryway. Combat space is minimal. The only positive is the helipad, which could be a viable method of escape should a helicopter be stationed there. Even then we would be in Iranian air space and the chopper too slow to outrun their jets.”
“You have to have faith, Kimball. There’s a solution for everything.”
“Bonasero, you’re asking me to place my men into a situation that’s impossible.”
The pontiff returned to his seat. “You’re a Vatican Knight,” he said softly. “And of course your skills and insight are invaluable, and your insight to combat far greater than mine. But we’re not talking just about the Ark of the Covenant here. We’re talking about a weapon that could destroy countless lives, perhaps even initiate a war between nations where untold scores of innocent people die. We are in a position to do something about this. You and your team have the skills to pull this off.”
Kimball held back for a moment, contemplating. He had performed missions in the past hinging on the thought that they were impossible to pull off, the risks too high, the outcome deemed too low to be successful. But he had come to learn over time that the word ‘impossible’ didn’t mean that something couldn’t be done; it only measured the degree of difficulty.
“It’ll have to be quick,” he finally said. “How long before Israel commits to a strike, you think?”
Father Essex shrugged, hazarding a guess. “Two, maybe three days at the most. I can’t speak for Israeli’s Defense agency. I can only give you what I have, which is that Israel is non-committal at this time. But I don’t think they’ll hang in that balance too much longer. Sooner or later they’ll make a decision. And I believe that decision will be to commit to a strike, whether they have the approval of the United States or not.”
Kimball asked Auciello to zoom out in order to give him a much more overhead view and spread of the layout. The area was mountainous, one ridgeline higher than the other heading to the west. Obviously the road was out, not a good strategy to take since it would be highly manned with security. They would have to get to the facility another way. And then deal with the gunnery nests and the Quds. They would have to breach the complex, exit with the Ark, destroy the fuel cells, and escape. His head was spinning. No matter how he looked at it, no matter from what angle or vantage point, he saw nothi
ng positive, the requirements too much to overcome.
“How are we going to get the Ark out of there?” he asked softly. “We could commandeer one of the trucks; put the Ark in the back. But then we’d be running a gauntlet to get away since there’s only one road leading to the lower elevation where I’m sure the opposition will be waiting.”
“There’s the helipad,” said Essex. “Once you engage and clear the area, then we can land a chopper big enough to carry the Ark and the Knights. Run your combat mission, grab the Ark, set the charges at the fuel cells, and then off we go. We can fly low enough to escape radar detection. But if we fly too low, and given that we have to run at night, poses a problem since we’d be flying at low attitudes in a mountain range. We’ll have to go in with NVG capability and fly northwest to Turkey.”
“And the pilot?”
“We have operatives with exceptional ability,” said Auciello. “We employ a select few who are pilots in service with the Vatican through the Aeronautica Milatare. They’re mission is to serve the Church with no questions asked.”
“So we have the means of escape,” said Kimball. “We can set off an explosive at the fuel cells from a cell phone inside the chopper once we’re airborne, leveling the facility if the fuel cells are volatile enough. All that remains is how are we going to get to the facility without drawing the opposition’s fire.” He studied the map further. And then: “Father Essex, that ridge to the west, what’s its elevation point compared to the ridgeline of the facility?”
Essex went to a keyboard and typed in commands, the image going from sky view to ground view. From there he was able to calculate the differences. The ridgeline Kimball inquired about was approximately 2,200 feet higher than the facility’s. There was his vantage point. “And how far away is it?” he asked. Essex drew a computerized ruler from point A to point B. The distance was two clicks, approximately one-point-two miles.
Perfect! Now he had his entry point.
“And how do you plan to do that?” asked Bonasero
“We can’t risk choppers for entry,” said Father Essex. “It would be too risky. You’d have to go in silent.”
“Going in by chopper was the furthest thing from my mind,” he answered.
“Then how do you plan to breach the compound?” ask Bonasero. “Do you plan to fly in on the wings of eagles?”
Kimball smiled slyly and nodded. “Close,” he said. “Very close.”
No one knew what he was talking about.
And then, after getting to his feet, Kimball said, “We need to move.”
#
Tel Aviv, Israel, Mossad Headquarters
“The United States does not approve of our stance,” said Yitzhak Paled. He sat behind his desk with his hands clasped together in an attitude of prayer. The top button of his shirt was undone, the knob of his tie lowered. On the mini screen on his desk was the Defense Minister, Ehud Barak. “They feel that Iran will retaliate and press us into war. What they fail to see is that Iran has already made that decision.”
Barak appeared somber. The inevitable had finally come to Israel’s doorstep. “Then we will act accordingly,” he said. “The IDF is on alert. However, the prime minister is not without political etiquette. He is informing the United States that there is no other alternative as we speak. War may be inevitable, Yitzhak. Hopefully, should their president lend his support, it might be enough to deter other Arab nations from uniting with Iran with military efforts.”
From his end Yitzhak could hear Barak’s line drone. On screen, he watched Barak wave his hand at him as a gesture to be excused and picked up the phone.
“I see,” he said into the phone, nodding. “Yes . . . I understand.” He hung up and stared at the phone as if expecting it to ring again. It didn’t. So he faced Yitzhak through the monitor. “That was the Ramatkal at the IDF,” he said.
And?
Barak leaned closer to the screen. “The command was given. We attack the facility within the next twenty-four hours without the support of the United States.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Alborz Mountain Range, Ten Hours Later
It was night. And the air surrounding Mount Damavand was glacially cold.
Kimball Hayden stood at the edge of the precipice that overlooked the valley that separated his team of twelve from the ridgeline of the facility, a distance of two clicks of open air space between them.
He immediately assembled his team and briefed them on their journey through Turkey. Then from there they took a Chinook to the neighboring mount where they disembarked at its base and hiked to their current position.
The Chinook remained at the debarkation point, the pilot waiting on Kimball’s order once the Quds were neutralized and the Ark firmly under his jurisdiction. Once the Semtex was mounted against the fuel cells, the chopper would then be dispatched to the extraction point where the Ark would then be loaded and the charges set off in calibration. The fuel cells going off like dominoes from left to right, the chopper lifting and veering north toward Turkey as the facility imploded into a ruin of gravel and dust and smoke. At least that was the plan.
Kimball stood at the edge looking through an NVG monocular and calculated the downward distance of a thirty-percent grade until they reached their landing position by the fuel cells, which were located above the machine gun nests.
Through the lens of the monocular Kimball could clearly see the MG nests, two Quds to a nest. And then he calibrated the lens to zoom in on the terrain. He noted the fuel cells, the helipad, the lot for the trucks, scanning and sighting two Quds soldiers standing by the fuel cells conversing, the men rubbing their gloved hands together to stay warm. The problem was that they stood at the breach point, posing as a possible threat to compromise their approach. So he had little choice but to take them out during the fly run by gauging his targets through his gun sights and firing off quick taps to their heads. Not an easy task but doable.
He lowered the monocular and tucked it away in a side pocket of his glide suit. “Two clicks,” he said to Leviticus, “at thirty degrees on a downward slope. The breach points are north and south of the fuel cells, above the MG nests. Team A will head for the nest above the facility’s entrance and neutralize that post. Team B will work their way to the second nest located at the lower base and defuse the unit there. There are two guards posted by the fuel cells. I’ll approach them on the fly run and take them out systematically with kill shots. Should I miss during my run, then I’ll need you to follow up with their neutralization. So stay close.”
“Understood.”
Kimball pulled back from the edge and headed for his team. They stood as silhouettes against the brilliantly lit feature of the gibbous moon, waiting, a band of brothers who were at peace knowing that not all of them would return home alive on this night.
Kimball informed them of their mission, the locales of the MG nests, and the importance of a quick strike and an even quicker exit.
Once the team was apprised of their duties, once every man knew his place in the scheme of personal commitment, they geared for action.
Each man took his position along the edge of the rim, the sudden drop before them straight down and seemingly endless in the dark. They were wearing special jumpsuits called wingsuits, a garment which added surface area to the body in order to enable a significant increase in lift by adding fabric between the legs and under the arms like the expansive wings of a flying squirrel, the ensuing flight a horizontal one from points A to B, the shortest distance being a straight line. At flight’s end a parachute will deploy at a planned altitude and unzips the arm wings so that the person flying can reach up to the control toggles and fly to a normal parachute landing.
Kimball stood overlooking the ledge, then dropped his NVG goggles for his flight over the valley, the world suddenly becoming phosphorous green. He’d be gliding at more than sixty-miles-per hour, only to pull up during his deployment and drop silently into the compound. He would then take measu
re, and summarily dispatch the guards with calculated aim.
He checked his suppressor-fitted Heckler and Koch MP-5, which was attached to a belt festooning across his chest, and then charged his firearm, a Glock Smith & Wesson. After making an initial check that his combat fighting blades were securely fastened to his shin guards, he took a leap of faith and jumped from the ledge, spreading his arms and legs, his flight taking him toward the compound of the facility in a horizontal plane.
Leviticus soon followed. And then one by one the Vatican Knights jumped, each man leaping into open space until the wings of their suits caught a level plane of flight, and glided closer to battle at speeds nearing seventy-miles-per hour.
In less than two minutes Kimball had to peel back to slow his speed, the fabric fanning out and acting as aeronautical brakes, and deployed his chute. His descent was slow and quiet. And in the sights of his MP-5 he took careful and focused aim, the Quds totally unaware of his advancement, and pulled the trigger in quick succession.
Tap! . . . Tap!
The Quds went limp, their bodies falling boneless to the ground, apparently dead before their brains even registered the end of their lives.
Kimball landed evenly on the terrain, followed by Leviticus.
“Nice shooting,” Leviticus said as he pulled his chute closed before disengaging it.
But Kimball didn’t comment. The man was focused, intent, and in warrior mode. With Leviticus by his side they got down on a bended knee with their weapons held close, and watched the rest of the Vatican Knights drift lazily from the sky.
#
They hit the MG nest situated above the facility door first.
The team moved in quiet and catlike. The Quds soldier manning the Browning with his arms draped casually over the weapon while the other sat on top of the sandbags, speaking in Farsi in what seemed to be banter, the other man laughing as if he had just heard something humorous. Their complacency was their downfall; both men taken down and rendered unconscious, their wrists bound with flex cuffs.
