by Tom Haase
“What the hell is going on?” Scott asked,
“My best guess is that a ground assault is now taking place,” Bridget said. “I saw a group of armed men appear to our right as soon as the bomb detonated. They’re rushing the post, but we’re in danger. They’ll likely kill everyone here.”
“But there is nothing left except the dead, wounded, and a few stragglers,” Jonathan said.
Bridget tried to pull away from Jonathan and look around the edge of the bus again. A cascade of bullets hit the side of the bus, and she jerked back.
“Shit!” she yelled. “They spotted me.”
“He tried to tell you, sis. Damn, you're stubborn,” Scott said.
Bridget watched with wide-eyed fear as Jonathan pulled the pistol from his belt and pointed it in her direction. She ducked and he fired. A man with an AK-47 and a kafir wrapped around his head was in the act of targeting them. The man toppled, releasing his weapon as he fell.
“There's so much shooting going on. Let's make a run for the border. The Egyptians won't shoot at us after seeing this mayhem,” Scott suggested.
“I agree,” Bridget said. “Besides, these assholes don't attack over there.”
Bridget reached down and grabbed the rifle from the fallen man. When she stood, another attacker, dressed like the dead one rounded the corner. She raised the rifle and fired three rounds into the head of this newest threat.
“Okay, everyone in the truck,” Jonathan ordered. “We've got to get out of here. The Israeli forces may not get here in time to save us.”
Scott jumped in the passenger side as Jonathan piled in the driver’s seat. He started the engine. Bridget hopped into the cargo bay of the small truck. She faced to the rear and aimed her weapon. The truck sped toward the guardrail at the Israeli crossing point.
As they emerged from behind the bus, a hail of bullets came after them. Jonathan kept increasing the speed of the truck, but some rounds hit the back panel of the truck, one shattered the glass and the side mirror exploded. Bridget tried to stabilize herself in the truck bed, took aim at some targets with rifles, and fired. She kept pulling the trigger until she heard the clang sound of the bolt ramming backward and not returning forward. Out of ammo and she had no new magazine to insert. She watched as two men fell from her cascade of bullets and many others scattered.
The front of the Ford pickup took the impact of the lowered rail and kept going toward the Egyptian side of the border. No more rounds came near them. Bridget threw the rifle overboard before they reached the Egyptian checkpoint. No use in pissing them off with a woman firing at what could only be other Arabs. She looked into the truck cab and saw that both men were okay.
Jonathan slowed the vehicle and waited for the soldier to raise the barrier. A young soldier raised it, but four others pointed rifles at the cab. Jonathan and Scott put up their hands. Bridget jumped down and raised her hands.
“Will they shoot us?” Scott asked.
“I don't think so. We're not doing anything threatening, and we're not dressed like the terrorists we just left. Just move slowly, and we should be all right,” Jonathan said with his Scottish accent coming to the fore. He undoubtedly thought it would help in meeting the Egyptian guards.
“These guys are going to shit when they find out you're a Vatican diplomat,” Bridget mumbled.
“It might be the thing that saves us.”
41
Egypt
The dust on the highway splayed into the air behind them. No other traffic followed on the road from the border crossing point. The sun now baked the three in the cab as the wind and heat from the desert freely flowed into the truck. Jonathan pushed the remnants of the bullet-ridden glass out to reduce the possibility of flying shards doing any damage.
“I can't believe you got us through. But it did take an hour. How did you do it?” Scott asked in a loud voice to be heard over the incoming wind.
“Even here, a diplomatic passport can't be messed with,” Jonathan said. “The repercussion of impeding an accredited diplomat is substantial. I told them I was on a mission for the Pope and needed to be in Cairo as soon as possible and that you two were my assistants on this mission. They bought it, but I think the officer in charge delayed us just to show his authority and position.”
“I hear the Scottish accent is toned down,” Bridget said. “Now we have to catch up with that bus.”
“My accent as you call it has its purposes when needed, and the guards were able to recognize it. That helped in adding credibility as no one born in Israeli nor any Palestinian is likely to speak with such a distinctive voice,” Jonathan said. “I need to take a rest.”
“You've been up all night. Let me drive,” Scott said.
After a stop at the side of the road, they continued the journey to Cairo.
“It'll take a few hours to get there. Excuse me while I doze off,” Jonathan said. “Wake me if you see the bus.”
The time between getting in a sleeping position and going to sleep sometimes still had the effect of sending him back to the last time he served in the desert. He shut his eyes and tried to block it out. He needed sleep, but sleep held its distance while his mind raced to a place he didn't want to go. Not now, but he couldn't stop it in his exhausted state.
* * *
The Battalion commander drove off in his vehicle after ordering all troops to dig in and stay where they were. The high command wanted no more casualties since the hostilities were coming to an end.
“We have them beat. Sit tight,” he said, “and we go home after the cease fire. Dig in and wait. Don’t move from this position.”
That was great news to the combat infantry company in which Jonathan served as a lieutenant. His promotion to captain was in three days with a move to another unit. Digging in and staying put would be perfect and a good rest for the lads who had been on the front line for two weeks solid.
“Lieutenant McGregor, over here,” the company commander called to him, pointing away from the troops. What the hell had he done now? He had tried his best to get on, but the man remained insufferable, demanding barracks lifestyle while on combat operations. When he reached where the captain stood, he took off his beret and waited.
“McGregor, I want you to take a squad from your platoon and set up an observation post on top of that ridge.” He pointed to the large-scale map of the area.
“But sir, it’s over a thousand yards and I thought battalion ordered us to stay put here.”
“Be ready to move out in ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” Jonathan heard the order and couldn’t believe the captain violated the command from the battalion commander. This was wrong. He, nevertheless, was the lieutenant had to obey his orders. The location on the map was a poor position for an OP and too far out from the unit’s location. What the hell was the captain up to? Was he trying to get them killed? It sure looked like it. He wasn’t the greatest military tactician in history, but this stood out as a crazy thing to do. They had no idea if they would have artillery support at that location.
He walked back to his men. “First squad, come with me. We’re going to set up an OP out on that ridge over there.”
“What the hell for?” the platoon sergeant said. “It’s too far out.”
“Fill your canteens and let’s go,” Jonathan ordered. “It’s already getting dark. We’ll be lucky to dig in before nightfall.”
They trudged through a thousand meters of sand to get to the position. They walked toward the setting sun as it hung just above the horizon. The glare of sunlight forced them to look down to avoid peering directly into the orange globe.
The rat-tat-tat of a machine gun broke the silence, and the platoon sergeant took a round in the head. Mortar rounds started to impact and a corporal had his midsection blown apart. Rifle fire erupted from the ridge in front.
“Move forward. Move forward,” shouted Jonathan. “Charge the position,” he ordered.
The remaining men followed him,
and they stormed the defenders of the hill. In less than a minute it was over. They took the hill. Three Iraqi surrendered, four lay dead, and three wounded. Jonathan looked to his men. Two dead and three were wounded. They had walked into an ambush. When the ambush erupted, he realized there was one way to survive—charge the ambush. Running away would ensure annihilation in the kill zone.
The radio squawked and the CO clamored for a report. The captain came on. “Slasher 26 this is Slasher 56, give me a sitrep.” The captain wanted a situation report. All the gunfire and the mortars going off could be heard for miles.
“Slasher 26, this is Slasher 6. Give me the sitrep and your location.” Slasher 6 was the battalion commander. Jonathan thought this opportunity provided the perfect time to take revenge for his company commander ordering him out here against the battalion commander’s orders and for the loss of his men.
“I’m at grid 365589, two dead and three wounded, need medevac immediately.” He had to get the medevac helicopter to take his wounded to hospital. Silence reigned for a minute. “Slasher 26 helicopters on route now ETA ten minutes. Slasher 56 report to my location.”
After weeks of putting up with this captain, the man signed his own relief from command by crossing the battalion commander. The battalion commander exhibited all the good qualities of a leader and Jonathan would follow him anywhere, but all the killing he saw in the last weeks, all the blood, made him start to entertain doubts. He loved his time in the army and knew the country required a force to protect itself, but it was time to move on in his life.
“Lieutenant, you’re hit, get on the medivac,” said the platoon corporal.
Jonathan looked down and saw blood on his leg. The adrenaline of the firefight wore off and suddenly he felt the pain. The last conscious thought he remembered on the battlefield – a sergeant reaching for him as he collapsed.
On his return to the United Kingdom, suffering a slight limp he would have all the rest of his life from his wound, he resigned from the army. His right leg now an inch shorter than his left. Many times he needed to walk with a cane for support. After a few months of recuperation and self-examination, he decided not to return to the intelligence work at MI-5 after seeing war up close. Instead he entered a seminary to determine if God wanted him as a priest.
* * *
There remained one last thought that crossed his mind before the slumber took him away. With the happy thought of his priesthood, he dozed off thinking.
“I will return the Bible of Constantine to Rome.”
42
Washington, D.C. – New York
Special Agent Liz Garcia stood in front of the Deputy Director of the FBI. She could sense his mood from the unsmiling face when she entered, all business, no small talk or pleasantries. The DD didn't offer her a chair but raised his eyes while he kept his head down.
“Special Agent Garcia, what have you got on the bomber? It's been over forty-eight hours. I expected results.” He lifted his head to face her directly.
“We were under the impression that Scott Donavan was the bomber. All our efforts were directed at apprehending him—”
The DD interrupted her. “What do you mean? Isn't he the bomber?”
“We don't think he is.”
“Who in the hell is it?” he demanded.
“Right now I have people working on getting the image of the real bomber,” Liz said. She went on to relate her visit to the Metro maintenance yard and the file she had obtained. She added that the picture image should give them the real bomber and her partner already went on the hunt for him.
“I need to get back to help him. Is there anything else?” she concluded.
“No. Go get him and don't take two days.” He returned to his paperwork, and she took that as a sign of dismissal.
Liz went to Libby Thompson's office to check on her progress in identifying the bomber using the recording from the Metro car. She had attempted to reach Matt several times on her drive back into Washington, but he had failed to pick up.
“Nothing yet,” Libby said. “I expect to have something for you within the hour. We have enough of an image to make it doable. I'll call you when I have it.”
Liz thanked her and went to get some lunch. She needed to be out of the building to make her call. Matt needed to get the word about her discovery and he needed to get it now.
* * *
The sun's evening rays filtered through the sheer drapes in the penthouse overlooking Central Park. Benjamin Schultz watched the flaming disk receding behind buildings on the other side of the park. His arm moved the glass of scotch to his lips, but the phone interrupted. Hopefully, Gerti would tell him she was on her way home.
His private number buzzed, so it most likely was her. The ID on the phone confirmed it. “Hello. And when will you be here?”
Her voice came over the phone, and he continued to stare at the last vestige of sunlight as his daughter filled him in on what happened.
“Are you all right?” he asked with real concern when she finished.
“For someone used as a pincushion for a knife, yeah, I'm okay. I just can't move very fast yet. I'll catch the next flight I can get to New York. First tell me about Jake. How did he get it?”
“I don't know,” Schultz said. “He is blackmailing me to get more money, but the figure I offered him should get him to bring it to me. I think you made a mistake in telling him about the quest, but it's too late now.”
“Maybe, but at the time it seemed the right thing to do to keep track of the Donavans if they tried something. I don't think they would now that I know them better. Especially, not Scott. I didn't know the old geezer would turnout to be the one who found it. Will you take care of him?”
“You can count on that, dear daughter. Hurry home and we'll get this business concluded to where we'll make a lot of money from this Bible.”
He finished the call and made another to the man he hired to find the Bible in Israel. Scott Donavan's call that initiated his contract with the young man had been fortuitous. Schultz already possessed a working knowledge about the treasure Scott Donavan asked for his assistance in obtaining. He had been in search of that same Bible for some time. His efforts led him to believe the Bible resided in Jerusalem, and he contacted one of the “collectors” he used in obtaining off the record items for his private sales. Over the years he amassed a fortune in illegal sales of everything from dinosaur bones to pets from the Galapagos Islands. The stakes always were high. He had to have that Bible and he would collect the millions it would fetch. He knew leaving it to the whim of a young out-of-work college professor wouldn't cut it. He employed a professional Russian and a multiple murderer as well as the Donavans to achieve his goal. The result? A newspaper reporter grabbed it.
One could never tell where things would go.
“Your men failed in getting the Bible,” Schultz said when the man answered.
“They were going to kill all of the bishops in order until they got it, but something went wrong,” said the Russian-accented voice. “The police got there too quick after they killed the first one. They are both dead.”
“Call it off. You didn't complete your task. I have the Bible and will call you again if I need your services.” But Schultz knew he would never use him again after his failure.
“My money?”
“You have half of the money, and nothing more will come since you failed. The other half to be paid on delivery of the item,” Schultz said in a strong tone of finality.
He closed his phone and made another call. This one would set up his plan to take care of Mr. Jake. The man would deliver the goods to him before he would take action.
Nobody threatened Benjamin Schultz like that two-bit reporter and got away with it.
Nobody.
43
Cairo
The bus ride left Cornelius Jake exhausted. He still wondered what caused all the noise on the Israeli side of the border as the overloaded bus moved on past the Egyptian
checkpoint. Probably Hezbollah shooting up the place. At least, if anyone followed him, the border would now be closed for many hours to come. No one could be after him using this road. He relaxed thinking about what he would do in the next few days, and that put a smile on his wrinkled face.
The vehicle lurched to a stop, and he awoke from his musings. He looked out and realized that the bus had stopped beside a large building with dozens of other buses parked around its exterior.
“Must be the depot,” he muttered. After he grabbed his briefcase and threw a messenger bag over his shoulder, he left the sprawling sea of humanity in the depot area and looked for a taxi.
The bright sunshine caused him to squint. He put on his sunglasses and wished he could put on something to get rid of the overpowering stink of the place. It emitted the aroma of spoiled meat, backed-up sewage, and unflushed commodes, the smells pounding his nostrils like pellets he couldn't duck.
Reaching one of the few taxis, he made the driver understand that he wanted to go to the airport by using hand signals and stretching his arms out imitating a plane. He decided not to make the engine noises to complete the pantomime. Even this camel driver ought to recognize the destination he wanted. In the end the driver nodded.
Jake got in. His watch displayed five. A few hours remained before he needed to contact Schultz. He would get to the airport and have his travel plans finalized before making contact. Schultz would certainly pull something against him, so Cornelius needed some time to sit and think about exactly what he would do. The bus ride hadn't been a time for thinking, not with the continuous jolting and bouncing.
