The Hand of Christ

Acknowledgements

I was surprised that writing this book brought so much joy and excitement: it was both therapeutic and enlightening. Arguably from this work came a much greater addiction to espresso, so I must thank the coffee bean and all of its ergotropic assistance. However – stimulants aside – writing this book could not have been done without the unconditional commitment from many of my friends and family. I absolutely must give a sincere thank you to Sr. Mario Gonzalez who tirelessly read, re-read, critiqued, edited, and offered numerous thoughts and suggestions and never once asked for anything in return; for teaching me about split infinitives, dangling participles, pathetic fallacy, purple prose, and anything that Strunk & White may have missed. To come home and to find red-lined pieces of the manuscript stuffed into a plain manila envelope and shoved under my front door was akin to what a child feels on Christmas morning.

To Mr. Ron Willis who acted as one of my muses and didn't seem to mind (at least openly) the too-many-to-count times that I asked him to read and edit my work.

To my mother – Mrs. Lorraine Lowe – you have always been my model in both life and work. From you I learned that anything is possible even if improbable and that failure is just one step closer to success.

To the Children who find themselves as products of the social services system: your language is survival, and your hurdles are higher than most, but through education your light can shine bright. You are not alone.

Finally, to the Men and Women who dedicate themselves selflessly within their respective intelligence and special operations communities. You may never receive, or be allowed to have, the open appreciation that you deserve, but know that you are not forgotten and that the risk you face does have value with respect to the positive progression of our world's community.

Notes from the Author:

My passion is to understand the influence by religions on the social, economic, and political progression of societies. They are unquestionably intertwined.

While this book is fiction and certain aspects of its contents are either conjecture or products of my imagination, much of which the book contains is true and as accurate as I could make it.

The descriptions of many of the technological components of my writing are true; if I have erred, I offer, not only my apologies, and certainly am open to and truly appreciate being corrected. Please do so by contacting me at: [email protected]

I have tried to ensure that any references to recorded historical events – religious, political, and social – are accurate. Again, any inaccuracies are not intentional and, as was aforementioned, I welcome your thoughts, counter-arguments, and corrections at: [email protected]

Finally, while I understand that religion and politics are two very sensitive issues that bring out certain sides of humanity – both vile and beautiful – my work is not designed to belittle, diminish, or to take side, but to do two very straightforward things: to attempt honestly to entertain the reader whilst making one consider that what we are taught as truths may simply not be the case.

It is up to you to question anything stated to you as fact and when done so without physical evidence: any story told is merely a version of the teller's interpretation…

The Hand

of
Christ

A Sterling Novel

By

JS Nagle

Books by JS Nagle

The Sterling Series:

The Hand of Christ

The History Thief: Ten Days Lost

Follow #theSterlingNovels on Twitter:

@SterlingNovels

Website:

SterlingNovels.com

Prologue

North Africa – 1803

Its body was yellowed and lean, but its tail thick, blackened, and curled.

It was ready to strike.

A bit of venom clung to the scorpion’s stinger.

It was weighing its options.

Slowly, it crawled along completely unaware that it was on top of the right boot of a sailor who stood atop its home.

Neither the scorpion nor the sailor took notice of one another; both were quite preoccupied. The day was growing hotter, and the small arachnid was desperate to get under the cool sands where it would find relief; the sailor was desperate to be anywhere else.

There were men –
sailors
– everywhere. They were standing shoulder to shoulder occupying nearly every inch of available earth.

Sensing danger, the scorpion quickly scampered off the top of the boot upon which it had paused, but it didn’t react fast enough, or it was too slow.

It didn’t really matter

The boot of another man crashed down on the scorpion, crushing it. The muscled Arab forcibly twisted the scorpion’s body under his heal and smiled at his first kill of the day; he knew that more deaths would come.

The Arab gazed at the weathered sailors who were packed tightly atop the abandoned and arid landscape of the North African desert. He could see – and enjoyed – that the seamen wore the malnourished and sunken faces of men nearly dead. Surrounded by his crew of the infamous Barbary Pirates of the Mediterranean, the captured sailors had tasted firsthand the legend of their barbarity.

Beneath soiled clothes, their emaciated and bruised ribcages swelled with difficulty as they breathed the heavy hot air of the Sahara.

Their thoughts were the same, echoing the same fear.

Each was sure that this day would be their last.

The Arab slowly walked in front of the sailors, looking from one to the next. His gaze was in a manner not unlike the way a hunter stares at his trophy. The heavy silence was broken only by the sound of his feet as he moved his muscled, sun-weathered frame over the coarse, crystal sands.

One sailor was bound; his arms were stretched wide and bound to a plank of wood by thick strands of well-used rope. The sailor was closer to death than the rest and barely had the strength to stand under his own power. His fellow shipmates stared unaware of the horror that was about to be inflicted upon him.

The Arab buried his coal-black eyes into the face of the bound man. He thought:
you will be my example to the rest of these infidels.

Helplessly, the sailors stood with their eyes focused on their bound crewmate. The Barbary Pirate retrieved a metal rod from where it lay racked amongst others like it and stared admiringly at its menacing shaft. With his thumb, he felt the sharpness of its pointed tip.

The minatory device was forged of solid iron and like the straps on the bound man also appeared well used. Wrapped around the base of the device was a grip made from a worn piece of leather, which was darkly blackened by the filth, oils, and sweat from the many hands that had grasped the tool for previous use.

The tip of the device caught a momentary but sharp glare from the blazing-hot sun, and threw it painfully back into the eyes of the sailors. The reflection of light cruelly intimated the pain that the rod would soon inflict upon the bound man.

The sailor –
an American
– was grabbed and held firmly in place by two other pirates and felt what little strength left in his legs give way to his fear. Frantically, he stared at his crewmates and cried out for help, but to no one in particular.

His voice weak and hardly above a whisper as he begged, “Is there not one among you that will do something?” Tears tried to form from his quivering eyes, as his voice trailed into a whisper, “Please! Someone, please!”

The sailor’s pleas wrenched the guts of the other men.

They were futile.

Not one man moved.

The bound sailor closed his eyes in one last, silent prayer.

Dressed in the familiar Bedouin garb, the pirate’s large turban loosened a bit and slipped to the side of his head when he knelt to the earth to utter his own prayer. Slightly annoyed, the pirate patiently adjusted his traditional headdress until he found comfort.

The Captain of the crew, perhaps too loud, whispered, “Dear Lord, please be on with it.”

Sensing the captured Captain’s frustration, the large sea-faring Arab bent once more to the earth and slowly rubbed his hands with sand, antagonizing the Captain.

On that day in 1803, the Arab was not acting as a pirate; instead, he was doing the work of the Prophet. During his entire life he had been taught that infidels had no place on Arab soil as free men. Like dogs, their master must give them lessons of obedience. These men had dared step on Muslim land; not only were they non-believers, but these dirty infidels had come as thieves! They held no more worth than that of a slave, and must learn the punishment for the theft of one of Islam’s possessions.

One of these men had what he was looking for; the pirate could feel it. If he had to single-handedly kill each one he would.

Anger and disgust trembled slightly through his pursed lips.

The pirate salivated at his moment of impending fury on these Christians. His distaste for them was built from the centuries of pain their kind had inflicted upon his people and for the war that their Church perpetually waged on Islam.

Standing fully erect the pirate said nothing, and quietly enjoyed the familiar weight of the iron rod in his clasp. He thought to himself how this moment, with the heavy device pulling his arm lower, always fed him with an instant of beloved nostalgia.

As if it had been instructed, the wind ceased to swirl and amplified the loudness of the day’s already oppressive heat. 307 American sailors stood in a unified silence unsure of what to expect next. The pirate closed the distance between himself and his bound captive and circled behind him. The sailor was still in the firm grasp of two other Barbary Pirates.

Pausing to study the American, the Arab looked at the man’s tightly bound ankles and then traced his gaze upward. His eyes reaching the sailor’s arms, the Arab smirked; he was slightly amused at the manner in which the plank of wood was strapped across the sailor’s back. Forcibly, the plank extended the sailor’s arms horizontal to the ground and made him appear as if he was on a cross. The Arab reveled in the scene; like the false Christian belief of their Savior’s death, these infidels seemed to find their lessons in crucifixion.

Nonsense
, the Arab thought.

Like all Muslims, he was taught that the Savior of these men did not die on the cross, but had escaped execution. Today would be different; this American sailor would meet that fate that their savior had not.

The Arab returned his eyes back to the rest of the captured sailors and peered at them angrily. His deep voice boomed as he commanded, “One of you possesses an item that belongs to us, bring it to me now, and I will spare this man’s life.”