The Hand of Christ (15 page)

The fragments were lodged neatly in his leg, and having done only superficial damage made their extraction, to the relief of the doctor, fairly easy – at least easy for him. Michael thought that he was going to pass out from the swirling effects of the pain.

The Doctor wished that he could have sewn the wounds closed but didn’t have the time. Soon, as the Captain had pointed out, every satellite of each enemy and ally would be hovering over the region. The need for expediency would be necessary. The US couldn’t afford to let the world know about the Shadow, at least not just yet.

Michael would have to make do with the temporary effect of large butterfly stitches and government issued fast acting glue, a battle zone homeopathy used to seal and close lacerations quickly, better known as superglue.

On his way out of the plane, the doctor mentioned, “That glue will do for now but it may, unfortunately, not hold for too long. Those wounds are a bit too large, get them looked at as soon as you get stateside. Be careful and try not to move your leg too much. Take care, Dr. Sterling, and godspeed.”

“
Thanks, Doc.”

As the Vice Admiral’s personal physician left, he passed by a very large sailor that was coming aboard the stealth aircraft. The man was carrying a bulky flight suit and helmet along with a pair of pants, and patent leather shoes. Without provocation, he tossed the shoes and pants to Michael and barked orders. “Hurry up and get changed, sir. You still need to put on the anti g-suit, I am here to help you with it.”

Michael had no clue what the sailor was talking about and was eyeing the suit now laid out before him, “Anti g-suit?” he asked.

The sailor was unfolding the suit, which consisted of a connected vest and pants that were missing the crotch and knees and either had not heard Michael’s inquisition, or was ignoring it. The sailor launched into a diatribe that didn’t really help Michael, “The suit is the newest thing from LSS out of Switzerland. It’s supposed to eliminate the need to do the g-straining maneuver, but I would still do it.”

“
G-straining maneuver?” Michael asked.

The sailor paused what he was doing and turned his head toward Michael. He caught Michael’s question this time, “Aw, hell, sir, you don’t know? You’ve never flown hypersonic before?”

“
Hypersonic? You mean this thing flies above mach five?”

He had the sailor’s attention now. The man looked at Michael with what appeared to be real concern, “Sir, mach five is just the warm up. This baby will get you to above mach fifteen at over 100,000 feet, even faster if you go higher. You are going to be flying around 9500 mph and, completely blind to any radar or system of detection. All of this baby’s Radar Cross Section (RCS) has been eliminated.”

Ignoring most of what the sailor had just said, Michael was focused on only one part and asked, “Excuse me? Did you just say 9500 miles per hour? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Michael felt like he was going to be sick. “9500 miles-
per
-hour, and with no pilot? This is ridiculous, has this ever been done before?”

“
Of course it has, sir, we’ve been flying the Shadow for the last two years. The Vice Admiral just landed here on it. Listen, sir, try to relax. You’ll be home before you know it.”

“
Can I at least have a parachute?”

The sailor ignored the question, apparently believing it to be rhetorical.

Michael’s mind was spinning so much that he did not notice that the sailor already had the suit over his left leg. “Sir, I’ve got to get this on your other leg.”

Michael carefully straightened his injured right leg with a grimace and watched the sailor wrap the suit tightly around it.

“
Sir, this suit is hydrostatic. It has a bit over one liter of water inside and is going to feel awfully snug on you. The g-forces that you are going to feel will automatically force the suit to constrict on your lower extremities. With your injury, it’s going to hurt a bit.”

Listening intently, Michael lifted his arms without being asked as the sailor begin to manhandle the vest portion of the anti g-suit onto him. While securing the strap across Michael’s stomach, the sailor stopped. “Sir, whatever you have tucked in your waist, you should really take it out.” Reaching for the book, the sailor said to Michael, “Let me get it, I can stow it for you.”

Grabbing the sailor’s wrist and twisting it away before he could remove the book, Michael snarled, “Leave it, sailor.”

The sailor snatched his arm away and looked curiously at Michael while rubbing his wrist, but said nothing. Apparently smart enough to let the obviously sensitive topic alone, he continued with his hasty tutorial. He motioned to the vest, “Sir, this part will compress on your midsection causing partial pressure breathing, and try not to freak the hell out when it happens, ok?”

Michael gave the man a feeble thumbs-up, “What about the maneuver you were talking about, what is that?”

“
Oh yeah, almost forgot.”

Great and I almost forgot to crack one of your ribs.
The sailor was really starting to bug Michael.

“
The g-straining maneuver is really simple. When you start feeling hypoxic just tighten your abs, just like when you are doing crunches, but hold the crunch for as long as possible. They say you don’t need to do it with this suit, but I never trust what they say.”

“
How will I know when I am getting hypoxic?”

“
Damn, sir, you’ve really never flown fast before have you? What the hell are you doing on this rig then?”

Michael was about to move beyond annoyed, but before he could answer the simple and logical question, the sailor came up with his own conclusion: “Someone must want you back home real bad, huh?”

Someone must want me home
real bad.

It just dawned on Michael that this seemed like a bit of overkill. Why not just get him to the shore of a friendly country? From there he could catch a military hopper or even a commercial flight. The comment bugged Michael.

“
Sir, listen to me.” With a sudden seriousness in his tone, the sailor apprehensively leaned close to Michael, but before continuing he asked, “You’re not going to grab me again are you?”

Michael replied, “Sorry, occupational hazard. Be careful where you put your hands.”

The sailor kneeled down and put his hand on the suit and said, “This suit helps to prevent g-LOC, that is, the loss of consciousness due to the accelerating effects of g-force. You are going to shoot off this deck and halfway up into the stratosphere at forces Newton himself would have a hard time fathoming. You familiar with the formula F = ma?”

“
Force equals mass times acceleration, what about it?”

Looking Michael up and down, the sailor said, “You look like you weigh a bit over two hundred, right?” Apparently the sailor had a habit of asking rhetorical questions because he continued before Michael could respond and continued, “You are going to experience g-forces just above ten-g’s; that, sir, in layman’s terms is a whole shit-load of acceleration. You’re going to feel like you weigh about a ton. Newton’s 2
^nd
Law: ‘force equals mass times acceleration.’”

Just great
, Michael thought.

The sailor stood up, looked down at Michael, and said, “The two-thousand pounds of force from the acceleration is going to work real hard to force your blood away from your brain and cause a shortage of oxygen. That, sir, is hypoxia.”

Michael already felt hypoxic.

The sailor continued, “Your eyes feel the effects first, going into what’s called brown out. You won’t be able to see colors, man. If it gets worse it’s going to look like you’re seeing the world through a tube then; if it gets really bad, you will go blind and then lose consciousness.”

Seeing the sheepish look on Michael’s face the sailor did his best to qualm his fears, “Don’t worry, sir, some pilots have tested this suit out to twelve-g’s. You will be all right. It will just feel like the time you bagged the fat girl in high school and she wanted to be on top. We’ve all got one in the closet, right?”

Bagged the…?

“
Sir, just trust the suit and do the maneuver. It will be over in a matter of seconds. If you lose your sight and pass out, most likely, you will wake up and your vision will come back.”

Most likely.

Michael was not feeling too reassured as the sailor continued to strap Michael into the only seat in the Shadow. It was affixed in the middle of the plane. The sailor picked up from the floor, and placed on Michael’s head, an olive-drab flight helmet; the MBU-20/P facemask was hanging off to the side. The mask was designed for pressure breathing in high g-force conditions.

The sailor expertly plugged in the cord and plug assembly of the mask along with the breathing hose that would feed Michael his oxygen from the onboard oxygen generation system. He then connected a second Pressure for Breathing in G (PBG) hose. During the entire procedure he explained to Michael how all of this would help.

None of what the sailor explained had any real discernable calming effect on Michael’s anticipation of the flight. In fact, it just made things worse knowing that he would need so many special devices, suits, cords, and tubes to stop him from dying.

Damn, I really hate flying,
Michael thought to himself.

It also didn’t really help when the sailor, unprovoked, turned the flight seat around one hundred and eighty degrees and then tilted it back about ninety degrees. Michael was now staring at the black ceiling of the Shadow.

“
Hey, what are you doing; am I going to fly like this?” Michael couldn’t hide his fear.

The sailor bent over Michael’s face, appearing just a tad omnipotent, and replied, “Just for the take off, sir; when you are at full speed the seat will automatically right itself. I suppose it doesn’t really matter though, it’s not like you will be able to look out of any windows. Listen, sir, flying to hypersonic is better when you are eyeballs in and when the forces on your body are perpendicular to the spine. You are going to be heading up at a pretty steep climb and this will help, I promise.”

In an effort to bring his own sense of levity to the situation, Michael snorted, “Oh, now I feel much better.”

The sailor smiled, showing two rows of big and white, glowing teeth.

Without warning, the seat Michael was sitting in began to rumble slightly. The low sound and vibration of the aircraft’s engines could be heard and felt coming to life.

The sailor let out a guffaw and slapped Michael on the shoulder and snapped shut the silicone rubber face piece. Leaning over and close so that Michael could hear him, he shouted above the now deafening roar of the engine, “That’s my cue, sir. Remember:
squeeze
the abs. Keep that blood from flowing away from the brain. If you start to go hypoxic just squeeze harder but don’t freak out. Eventually you’ll come to.”

The sailor double-checked the mask ensuring that it was in place across Michael’s face and slapped Michael one more time on the shoulder; then he gave him the customary aviators' thumbs-up. Without saying another word, the sailor turned and left.

The door to the Shadow closed casting Michael into an oppressive and claustrophobic darkness.

Chapter Sixteen

Hotel Azadi

Tehran, Iran

The assassin answered the ringing cell phone. He knew who was calling and simply stated, “It is done. The Ayatollah is dead. It was fast and without any problems. Unfortunately, his wife and servant were at home.”

The Messenger replied, “Collateral damage, Allah has shown you the correct path. They now perish in Jahannam where they belong until Allah decides otherwise. You have done well. Did you leave the weapon as you had been instructed?”

“
Of course,” responded the assassin. “I etched the serial number that you provided onto a chrome-plated American Colt .45 weapon, and precisely as was required, I did it myself. I left the weapon on the Ayatollah’s desk.”

“
Good. I have another assignment for you. Your credentials, ticket, and money are waiting for you in their usual place. There is a new cell phone as well; you will find it with everything else. I will contact you on it within twenty-four hours with further instructions.”

The line disconnected, the Messenger had another phone call to make.

Another assignment
, thought the assassin.

There were a growing number of them lately. Starting early in the year, the assassin had carefully wired the car of Hezbollah’s security leader using a Syrian Intelligence explosives technique – techniques that were taught to him by the Messenger.

The bomb detonated late in the evening in the Kafr Suseh neighborhood of Damascus. As planned, to their anger and dismay, the Syrians were blamed just like the Messenger had said they would be.

Again, another apostate met his necessary fate, and in his place the Messenger had been promoted.

Growing curious and beginning to question the Messenger’s motives, the assassin had asked his leader for an explanation. The Messenger had told him that a Zionist plot had absorbed the minds of these men. That, in an effort to end the fighting between Lebanon and Israel, these men had been secretly meeting to recognize Israel’s right to be in the Middle East, to allow them to own permanently the lands belonging to Muslims.