The Hand of Christ (14 page)

Nearby, loud horns let out ominous warnings and startled Michael. The middle of the deck took a life of its own and screamed out a fierce, metallic groan as it seemed to split right down the middle. Steam from distant, unseen valves emanated from the deck followed by the tremendous sound of hydraulic engines springing to life.

Slowly, a very flat, very black, and nearly round, wingless plane began to materialize through the clouded air.

Turning to the Captain, Michael said, “What the hell is that thing?”

With his grin still crooked, the Captain replied, “That, my friend, is the Shadow, your ride back to the States.”

Chapter Fourteen

Home of the Messenger

Beirut, Lebanon

“
As-Salamu Alaykum.”

The Messenger replied accordingly, “Aleykum As-Salaam. Come, come, Shalid, come in. It is good to see you. How is your home, your little one?

The two men embraced and kissed cheeks. “They are fine, and yours?”

“
Good as well, would you like some coffee?”

As a good Muslim, Shalid knew he would have to accept the offer for coffee, turning it down would have been a sign of disrespect, and something he could not afford to show right now. Hopefully it would be the only cup that was offered; he truly did not have the stomach for anything at the moment.

“
Of course, thank you for your kindness,” replied Shalid.

Gazing upon Shalid, the Messenger could see that his Second’s left eye was distorted and purple with swelling, and he remarked with concern, “You are injured, let me get you something for that.”

Shalid raised his left hand to the side of his face and, with a slight detection of shame, covered the discolored edema, “It is nothing. It will heal fine. Thank you again for your concern.”

The customary greetings were concluded, and courtesies now aside. The Messenger, wearing a stern look, released himself from their embrace, and walked passed Shalid toward a small table. Built of solid wood, the table was topped by white and red speckled marble, and its legs painstakingly hand carved into the shapes of elephant heads. The head of each elephant, remarkably, contained small and real ivory tusks jutting from the carvings. The Messenger spoke, “I am sure that the deliverance of your good news will allow the celebration dinner to be better savored tonight.”

Remembering that the Messenger has a reputation for a quick and sometimes violent temper, Shalid took a moment to work up the courage before he said, “The mission failed. One man survived, an American. He was the attaché to the US Ambassador.”

From where he stood, and from behind the Messenger, Shalid could sense the anger rising in his leader. Even though he couldn’t see his face, Shalid was sure that the Messenger would spin around at any moment and strangle him; he expected it.

The Messenger peered slightly over his shoulder while pouring the two coffees and asked, “The US and Israeli Ambassadors, they are dead, no, the other apostates as well? Then how has it failed?”

“
Yes, sir, they all perished in the attack, just as you ordered. Only the American attaché survived, he was able to escape.”

Shalid watched as his leader slowly let his head fall backward. Gazing up toward the intricate designs carved into the moldings of the alabaster white ceiling, the Messenger closed his eyes for a disquietingly long time. Opening them, he turned around. From under the brim of the olive drab military hat and through the Messenger’s thick, long black beard that covered most of his face, Shalid could see that the Messenger’s entire disposition had changed. It was as if he were looking at a different man, but it wasn’t anger that he saw; Shalid was confused.

“
One survivor, an American you say? What were our casualties? How many of our brothers did we lose?”

He looked down to the floor in shame; Shalid wished himself anywhere but here. “Nineteen of my men were killed, seven alone were killed by the American. An entire squad of twelve perished at the hands of an American Special Operations team.”

“
What did you say? American forces were present in Damascus?” Waving his hand dismissively at his own question, the messenger continued, “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Our Muslim brothers served Allah faithfully. As it is written, they have been martyred at the hands of infidels. Truly they are happy in Paradise, we will remember them well. So long as you were able to retrieve what I sent you to get, they will not have died in vain.”

Shalid’s face wore the crimson of deep shame, and the Messenger saw this. With slow and calm strides, he walked to Shalid and embraced his Second with both arms and then kissed each of his cheeks once more: “Do not feel so much agony, it was Allah’s will, my son, a test. The path to the ultimate glory is not meant to be easy. This means that there is more work to do; we will surely lose more of our brothers before our mission is finished. Zion cannot be allowed to unite with Islam; it is a disgusting thought. Your mission has worked to stop this.”

Nodding his head in concurrence, Shalid recalled the briefing he received on this mission from the Messenger. It shocked him to learn that Lebanon and Syria were meeting with the US and Israel; that Lebanon was agreeing to share Muslim held territories with Israel and to recognize Israel on equal terms with other nations. It had disgusted him to hear this. Zion was the enemy, infidels, and less than human! Allah had made it clear in the Koran, in his holy recitation, that there is only one fate for non-believers. The Messenger had been just as clear during the briefing on the attack that this could not be allowed to happen.

Breaking Shalid from his thoughts, the Messenger questioned, “You haven’t confirmed it to me yet. You were able to recover the book, yes?”

Shalid looked even more uncomfortable at the sudden show of affection but more so at the Messenger’s question. He really did not want to continue, and resisted the overbearing and sudden temptation to flee, something he probably should have done.

Shalid looked to the Messenger and said, “The book was not in its place.”

The Messenger froze.

He stared fiercely at Shalid; his long black beard trembled at the onset of a renewed anger as he spat back to him, “Not in its place? That’s impossible, you went to the minaret as I had instructed? You found the Aramaen room hidden beneath?”

The Messenger’s sudden anger caused his Second to reel back a few steps as he replied, “Yes, of course. During the attack, I led my men into the mosque, and then I slipped away to the minaret of Jesus. I read the symbols and found the keyhole. The stone floor opened and I descended to the doorway, it had the very carvings that you described. But when I was down there, I saw a set of footprints, they were fresh, and the door to the Aramaen room was already open. When I went inside, the ossuary was where you said it would be, but the lid was off and the ossuary empty. The book was not there!”

Shalid was void of all thought; he knew the words that he had just delivered would not make the Messenger happy, what he would say next he said with heavy breath, “I have more to tell you.”

His leader let his arms fall slowly to his sides, any sign of his initial affection dissipated. The Messenger’s eyes trembled with anger; his left eye as black as night and the right eye blue, an effect that either mesmerized or invoked fear in those that stood before him. “More? How can there be any more than what you have already told me? In the name of Allah, do not hold back. What is it?”

“
The American that escaped, I believe that he has the book.”

The Messenger stared intently into Shalid’s eyes. He waited stoically for the sunken man to continue speaking. He learned long ago that an uncomfortable silence would force any man opposite to continue speaking.

Shalid hated looking into the Messenger’s eyes; he was one of those within which those strange eyes invoked fear, and said, “When I saw that the book was gone I raced back to the meeting place of the Ambassadors. I saw the American; he was holding the Syrian who had been injured. I saw the Syrian give him something, I did not see exactly what it was but it was the shape of a book, it had to have been the book: small, and rectangular, and with gold corners!”

“
The book!” The ferocity of the Messenger’s voice could be distinguished by both the elevation of the decibel level in which his words were now delivered and the shaking of his eyes. The Messenger’s shouts bounced off the walls of the room: “You saw this! You did nothing!”

Shalid rocked backward on his heels from the sudden surge in the Messenger’s anger, and weakly said, “I raised my weapon upon them and was about to fire. At that precise moment, a round from one of our rockets hit the mosque, and near where I stood. The force threw me onto the ground.” Reaching toward the bruised side of his face, Shalid lightly touched the injury and continued, “I was knocked unconscious for a short time; when I regained consciousness the American and the book were already gone and the Syrian was dead.”

He saw the American receive the book,
thought the Messenger.

Brushing past Shalid, this time with obvious contempt, and perhaps something more, he returned to his ornate marble topped desk. Sitting down on the desk’s powder blue Persian chair, the Messenger sat stiffly with his elbows resting on its ornamented and gilded armrests; after a long, quiet moment, he leaned forward, opening the desk drawer to his right.

Pausing before he reached into the drawer, the Messenger looked Shalid in the eyes for a final time. He extracted his steel Makarov, a Russian made Baikal IJ-70 .380 caliber pistol. He pointed the weapon at the man that failed in his leadership of the attack, and pulled the trigger. Major Shalid Maliki, the man he had been grooming as his Second, died with a surprised look still worn on his face. Quietly, the Messenger mouthed the words, “Goodbye, my son.”

Replacing the pistol, the new General of Hezbollah’s Islamic Resistance reached to the 1930’s model English made phone, one lone tear welled in the corner of his eye as he dialed the assassin.

The plan was taking shape.

Chapter Fifteen

USS Arizona

The Shadow

“
What? That’s a plane? There are no tail pipes, no wings! Where the hell is the cockpit, I don’t even see any windows. How is the pilot even going to be able to see where he’s going?”

Another wink came from the Captain.

Michael was really starting to get annoyed with him.

“
Dr. Sterling, who said anything about a pilot?”

“
Excuse me? Are you telling me that you expect me to be flown over ten thousand miles in an unpiloted, wingless, and windowless plane that doesn’t even look like a plane? I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, Captain, but are you mad? I am not getting in that thing!”

“
Well, 9178 miles to be exact, Dr. Sterling, but I don’t expect you to do anything. However, your boss, Director Fundamen, said to me that you would say that you weren’t going to get on it; he said that you really hated to fly. And after he called me, he made it pretty clear that he does expect you to be on that plane and that you’ll be airborne in the next ten minutes. And no, I am not mad, or crazy if that’s what you meant, and no offense taken.”

Fully aware that he wasn’t going to receive the answer he was looking for, Michael asked the question anyway, “Can’t you just drop me off at a friendly nearby airport – I can grab a commercial flight from there?”

Smirking now, the Captain blurted, “The Director also said that you would say that, and, no, I can’t take you to port. We have a mission here, part of which has the added burden of getting you the hell out of the Middle East.”

Sensing that he was on the losing end of a battle, Michael reached for his phone, “Captain, give me a couple minutes; I need to make a call.”

“
Hell, son, your boss really knows you. He said that you would say that, too, and that when you did I was to tell you, if need be, that the team of fine young men that so lovingly saved your backside in Damascus would be just as able and willing to assist me in getting you on that plane.”

From the corner of his eye, Michael could see the twelve men of the Delta Force team edging closer. The smirking leader of the team stepped forward, inquiring of Michael in a cheerful manner much like a flight attendant, “Sir, shall I help you find your seat?”

All Michael could manage to do was to mutter a quiet and dejected, “Shit.”

“
Dr. Sterling, it’s my turn not to sound disrespectful. I need you fixed up, in that plane, and airborne in ten minutes,” the Captain looked at his watch. “Make that nine minutes. We haven’t much time. Pretty soon, every unfriendly eye in the sky is going to be overhead with the ability to see this ship, which technically has not yet been built, and this plane, which doesn’t yet exist. Those probing eyes will work very hard to connect your little party in Damascus with our presence here. That is something that you, I, and your boss can’t afford.”

Knowing very well that any additional protest would be futile, Michael asked the Captain, “Will you at least be serving pretzels and peanuts?”

The Captain smiled; the Delta team leader stopped.

Visiting with the Vice Admiral’s physician on board the Shadow had been a fast and simple, albeit, painful affair. Refusing any oral pain medication or injection that would numb the pain, Michael sat stiffly while the Doctor quickly and expertly removed the tiny pieces of grenade.