by Jones, Rick
From that moment on, Iraq never attempted to develop a nuclear arsenal in earnest.
Then in 1991, he was asked to commit another assassination. This time the objective was Saddam Hussein.
The moment Iraq ventured onto Kuwaiti soil to pillage the country, the United States and its Middle Eastern coalition ordered Hussein to withdraw from the country immediately. However, several weeks of wasted negotiation took place before the commencement of the counterattack by U.S. and coalition forces. But it was during this period that President Bush and his top-ranking members from the JCS called upon Kimball to take out Hussein before the allied assault began, believing war could be averted if the file and rank of the Republican Guards fell into disarray because Hussein was no longer manning the helm. The imminent withdrawal of troops from Kuwaiti soil would certainly be guaranteed before the approach of coalition forces.
However, as the window of opportunity slowly closed while negotiations continued, Kimball breached his way onto Iraqi territory asking no questions and killing simply because it was obligatory. It was this icy-cold fortitude with all the forbearance of a heartless instrument that led White House circles to consider Kimball as a glimmering shadow that possessed no conscience, remorse or care. As far as the White House was concerned, Kimball Hayden was the perfect killing machine. And he prided himself with that image, regarding himself as someone larger than life.
On the seventh day while working his way toward Baghdad, he happened upon a flock of goats herded by two shepherd boys, the older no more than fourteen, the younger no less than ten, each carrying a gnarled staff of olive wood.
Kimball remained stealthily out of view with his back pressed against the sandy wall of a gully, listening to the goats bleating a few feet away. And then a shadow cast over him from the younger boy who had spied him from above. The child’s small body was silhouetted against the pure white sun, a diffusion of light shined behind him like a halo. And then the boy was gone, shouting a warning, the sun assaulting Kimball’s eyes with a sudden and terrible brightness.
Kimball stood, immediately engaged his weapon, drew a bead and pulled the trigger, the bullet’s momentum driving the boy hard to the sand-laden surface with plumes of dust going airborne the moment he impacted the ground. The older boy stood unmoving with his mouth open in mute protest, a perfect O, his eyes moving to the body of his brother, to Kimball, and then back to his brother. When he took flight Kimball took a single shot, the bullet killing the boy before he hit the ground.
That night he buried the children and their staffs within the trench.
With no spoken words of piety, Kimball Hayden covered their bodies with sand and scattered the goats. Once the task was completed he sat between the two small rises in the earth and thoughtfully considered that perhaps the White House cronies were right after all: maybe he was less than human, someone without the will or reasoning to determine the difference between right or wrong, a man who pressed onward by cold obligation.
For hours he mused and reexamined himself in self-consideration.
And when day turned to night, after the sun blistered his lips, he refused to take cover as he lay between the two mounds with a clawed hand on each rise of soft earth and prayed for forgiveness—not from God, but from the boys.
His only answer was the soft whisper of wind through the desert sand.
As he lay there watching the moon make its trajectory across a field marked with countless pinpricks of light, Kimball Hayden made a decision.
On the following morning he headed for the Syrian border with President Bush and the JCS never to hear from him again, the White House notion being that he was killed during the commission of his duty. Less than two months into the campaign against Iraq, the man who was considered to be without conscience was posthumously honored by the Pentagon brass.
Two weeks after his defection, however, while sitting in a bar in Venice drinking an expensive liqueur, the United States and the Coalition Forces attacked Iraq. It was at this same bar that a man wearing a Roman Catholic collar and cherubic smile took the seat opposite him without permission.
“I really want to be alone, Father,” he told him. “It’s too late for me, anyway.”
Nevertheless, the priest continued to smile. “We’ve been watching you,” he told him.
Kimball could only imagine the look he gave the priest. “I‘m sorry?” he said. “You’ve been what?”
“Kimball Hayden,” the priest offered his hand. “My name is Bonasero Vessucci . . . Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci.”
And a new alliance was born.
So the man, who was once considered to be without contrition, would now be an elite commando for the Church.
He is not a member of the Swiss Guard.
Nor is he a member of an Italian military faction.
He is a Vatican Knight.
Kimball Hayden sat up in bed, his partially naked torso that of a well-developed body builder—his upper arms, including his triceps, as large as a common man’s thigh.
Seeking salvation through the Church had always given him a comfort zone, but not one that was complete and absolute. He had been repeatedly plagued by this dream time and again, the same scenario never changing, the Freudian calculation being an overwhelming guilt for killing two children which led to a sudden epiphany that was apparently not enough.
Closing his eyes, Kimball asked these questions: Will You ever forgive me, Lord? Could You ever forgive me? But deep inside Kimball believed that true forgiveness would always elude him for the fact that he had given up one war to wage another against his own personal demons. And these demons would never let him forget, coming night after night eroding what little hope he had of someday being free of a past laden with the bloodshed of others by his hands.
Climbing out of bed, now fully nude in the glow of the moonlight, he stood before the sliding glass doors overlooking L.A. The pinpricks of light reminded him of the night in the Iraqi desert, as he lay there looking skyward and praying for forgiveness so long ago with the bodies of two youths lying buried beneath his outstretched arms.
It remains, without doubt, his darkest memory.
In the shadows he sighed, then took a seat before a window, craving a drink.
What . . . really . . . is different? he considered.
Although his agenda had changed, his criteria had not. Under Kimball’s command his team of commandos had entered the jungles of the Philippines and South America to save the lives of missionaries held hostage, often implementing tactics hardly acceptable in the eyes of the Catholic citizenry, but acceptable in the eyes of the Church in order to achieve the means. Other times they traveled to eastern bloc countries to aid in the protection of priests against dissident insurgents, and often interceded in bloody skirmishes between opposing factions of religious orders in Third World nations. The differences always dispelled upon the appearance of the Vatican Knights.
The bottom line: People continued to die.
But this time it was under the quiet acceptance of the Church.
So again, what really is different? The question caromed off the walls of his mind as his headache continued to rage on. The answer, however, continued to elude him.
Although his comfort zone was the front line of the battle zone, Kimball Hayden needed a reprieve from everything that was a major part of his world. What he needed was a sabbatical, a vacation away from the dark side of man’s constant wages of sinning. And he got that by serving as the pope’s personal valet during the Papal Symposiums.
Of all the damaging dreams he was mired in, Kimball Hayden never dreamed he would have to utilize his very particular set of skills to save himself, the pope . . . and most of the free world.
He looked at the emblazoned numbers on the clock: It wasn’t even midnight.
Nevertheless, he would sit and wait for morning.
CHAPTER FIVE
Arizona/Mexico Border
Night had settled.
Team One of
the Arab league could see the boundary marker dividing the United States from Mexico, a simple barbed wire fence held in place by hitching posts, which hardly seemed worth the effort since it didn’t appear to be much of a deterrent.
In the far distance the glittering lights of Naco, Arizona winked intermittently.
The three Arabs hunkered down next to the aluminum case, each man listening for anything out of the ordinary that would give fair warning as to what really lay beyond the fence line other than the coyote standing on a rocky escarpment silhouetted against the moonlit night. In the darkness its eyes radiated something mercuric, that stark oddity of quicksilver flashes against a darkened shape. After a brief study the coyote released a quick series of yelps before trotting off into a grove of tangled brush.
In the lighted phase of the gibbous moon, the Arabs continued to wait, sit, and listen, their patience a learned virtue.
Now the silence became as unsettling as the coyote’s cry, because everything seemed far too easy with Arizona less than sixty meters away without a hurdle to provide them a meager challenge to stop them. Which is probably why this area had become a popular crossover point for illegal aliens over the years; the possibility of getting caught was minimal.
Getting to his full height of six three, Abdul-Ahad quietly ventured several feet forward with a noticeable limp, his bad leg acting up after the long journey across the desert terrain after the van was held up in sand, then took to a knee between the divides of two sand dunes and held up an open hand, the signal to his team to hold their progress.
In the distance the lights of Naco continued to burn and twinkle as an incentive of a new beginning for those who crossed over. Yet the Arab discerned something was amiss, the one-time elitist of the Republican Guard sensing a peculiarity only a seasoned soldier could intuit.
After closing his eyes and letting his hand fall in defeat, he considered how close his team had come to fulfilling Allah’s wishes. Unfortunately, he and his team would enter Paradise much sooner than anticipated.
Reaching into the cargo pocket of his pants, the Arab withdrew the BlackBerry controller of the nuclear weapon and flipped back the lid, revealing the lit face of the keypad, knowing all too well what was waiting for them in the darkness.
With a finger poised over the pad and waiting to strike the keys to initiate the device, Abdul-Ahad thought, I know you’re out there . . . I can feel you . . .
And the man intuited correctly.
As if on cue a row of floodlights positioned along the crossbar of a Border Patrol Jeep kicked on, bathing Abdul-Ahad and his team in bitter brightness.
“Border Patrol! Get down on the ground! Get . . . Down . . . On . . . The . . . Ground!” And then in Spanish, same thing: “¡Patrulla de frontera! ¡Consiga abajo en la tierra!”
Sorry, Padre, I don’t speak Spanish.
In an instant Abdul-Ahad began to type with a pianist’s speed and dexterity, his fingers never missing a mark as the password set in Russian characters began to show up on the display window, the device talking to the payload as the frequency worked its way across cyberspace to initiate the weapon’s triggering mechanism inside the aluminum case.
“¡Patrulla de frontera! ¡Consiga abajo en la tierra!”
And then a warning shot, a quick burst in the air from an automatic weapon by the Border Patrol, an illegal maneuver against policy, but one that caught Abdul-Ahad’s attention nonetheless.
“Majid, Qusay, hold them off.” His Arabic came in a rush, his tone bearing the weight of urgency as he fell behind a small sandy rise and away from any direct line of fire. “I need time!”
Majid and Qusay ambled forward in the soft sand aiming their side arms before firing in quick succession, the shots taking out half the spotlights while others coughed up sparks when they hit the Jeep’s metal bumper.
Abdul-Ahad’s men were pretty much on target as they were able to drive four officers from the Jeep’s cab, and to the useless cover of sage before they hunkered down into the prone position to return fire. Bullets zipped passed them with the sounds of angry wasps, each man in the patrol knowing that a particular sting may prove fatal should it find its mark. And then they returned their own volley, the cacophony of gunfire carrying north to the Arizona town.
Abdul-Ahad’s team moved beyond his position, giving him a protective front line as he brought them closer to Paradise, as three of the ten characters needed to begin the countdown of the nuclear payload surfaced on the BlackBerry’s screen.
. . . Now a fourth character . . . Six more to go . . .
His fingers continued to strike the plate in blurred fashion.
. . . A fifth character . . . Another step closer to Allah . . .
Several meters ahead Majid and Qusay’s aim remained true, keeping the officers pinned until Qusay’s torso suddenly erupted into a wellspring of red as bullets stitched across his chest, his wounds opening and paring back like the petals of a rose bloom as the impacts lifted him off his feet and carried him backwards. Majid never wavered, knowing all risks hold the possibility of getting caught before the mission was completed. When his weapon ran dry, he expertly released his empty magazine and quickly seated another, then fired at the muzzle flashes. All around him pieces of earth kicked up as bullets trailed along the sand, the strikes getting closer to Majid, who maintained his position on a bended knee.
Abdul-Ahad tapped the keyboard at a frantic pace, the characters on the LED screen appearing much too slowly for his liking with six of the ten characters in place. Next to him a bullet hit the sand. But the man carried on without reacting, his fingers continuing to move with pinpoint accuracy.
From minimal cover, an officer lying in the prone position leveled the sight of his assault rifle and drew a bead against Majid’s temple, his breathing now shallow and controlled, his patience forced until the moment he pulled the trigger.
In a measure of time that seemed much too slow and surreal, Majid’s face above the jaw line scattered to the winds, leaving nothing but pulp, gore and glistening bone, as he fell back on the sand with his arms splayed outward in mock crucifixion.
“Surrender your weapon!” someone shouted. It was the same voice that Abdul-Ahad heard earlier, the command voice who quickly translated into Spanish, “Entregue su arma!”
. . . Eight characters, two more to go . . .
“¡Ésta es su oportunidad pasada de entregar su arma, o . . . abriremos . . . el . . . fuego!” This is your last opportunity to surrender your weapon , or . . . we . . . will . . . open . . . fire!
In what was left in the feeble lighting—of the lights that had not been cleared or doused by Abdul-Ahad’s team—the Arab went for his sidearm stuffed in the waistband of his pants. All he needed was a few precious moments to punch in the last two codes that would make this part of the world a no-man’s-land of blistered earth for the next ten thousand years. It would be a symbol of Allah’s power. And his will to die for the cause a symbol of his peoples’ faith.
The moment he directed his weapon to fire off a few rounds to keep them at bay, there was a retaliatory burst of gunfire, clean and precise, the bullets punching fist-sized holes into Abdul-Ahad’s chest, which drove him back and knocked the BlackBerry from his hand.
And then an awkward silence followed—a momentary lasting of something intangible that hung in the air like a shroud—like that brief moment of uncertainty of whether or not the situation was totally contained.
With measured prudence the agents pressed ahead with their weapons directed to points forward, and policed the area by motioning the end of their weapons from left to right, each man scoping his surroundings for insurgents.
When the bodies were checked and confirmed dead and the area cleared, the officers lowered their weapons and stared at the bounty.
Undamaged in the firefight with its shell dulled and coated with a misting of fine dust, lay the aluminum case like some obscene Ark mired in the sand. Next to it laid the Blackberry.
&n
bsp; “Drugs?” The question was obviously rhetorical since the transportation of illicit narcotics was generally considered the norm.
Sergeant Cary Winslow, a seasoned vet of quiet demeanor and heavy moral value, labored to a knee, grabbed the BlackBerry, then gave it a once over and noted the eight symbols markedly similar to Russian print in the display window. Snapping the faceplate shut, he then fit the unit into his shirt pocket and made his way to the aluminum case.
In the glow of the spotlight he could tell that the outer shell was burnished to a chrome finish, but had lost a lot of its luster having been layered with a fine coat of desert sand.
“How many kilos you think something like that holds, Cary?” Officer Roscoe Winchell was basketball tall and appallingly thin. When he spoke he did so with a Mid-Western drawl, even though he was born, bred and raised in upper New York. “Looks like a cartel run.”
Winslow didn’t answer. Instead, he undid the clasps and lifted the lid with all the prudence of releasing the ills of Pandora’s Box. What he found inside was not what he expected. Beneath a Plexiglas shield were three spheres surrounded by electronic plates, panels and a hard drive.
“OOO-wee,” remarked Winchell, removing his cap then scratching an itch at the edge of his scalp before returning it. “What you reckon that be, Cary?”
Winslow fell back, his eyes remaining fixed. In better lighting one would be able to see the sudden gray creeping across his face or the goose bumps racing along the length of his arms. As someone who was trained to detect anomalies crossing the border, Sergeant Winslow immediately fastened the case and ordered his team to back away. “I need all personnel to maintain a perimeter,” he ordered.
“What is it?”
“You never mind, Roscoe. You’ll find out soon enough. Right now I want you to get on the mike and call headquarters. Tell them to contact the FBI immediately. Tell them we got us a Dante Package.”
“A what?”
“A ‘Dante Package!’ Now go!”
