Authors: Rick Jones
Six miles northwest of Mesquite, Nevada
September 18, 1416
hours
Two Humvees and a canopied cargo
truck in the color scheme of desert landscaping moved quickly across the desert
floor, kicking up plumes of dust and sand. The forward Humvee, easily equipped
to handle the environment, escorted an M-Series cargo truck deep into the
valley while the aft Humvee kept pace, making sure those held within the
truck’s cargo bay did not escape.
As the Humvees took the rises and falls of the desert floor
with little bounce, the cargo truck, which lacked certain capabilities for such
terrain, was less cooperative.
With difficulty, the
commando inside tried to steady the point of his MP5 on the eight Arabs sitting
along the benches, their wrists bound by flex-cuffs.
The farther they moved off-road
the more barren and inhospitable the landscape became
. Enormous rock
formations poked through the parched wasteland as windswept dust sped across
the plain like sea swells. The clay was worn and brittle, the surface
fragmenting over time from the elements of
searing
wind and unforgiving heat
. And the caretakers—the snakes, scorpions and lizards
who adapted to a wasteland that offered little rainfall and blistering sun—inherited
a kingdom that no one cared to rule.
It was a place of no contrition.
Once the vehicles had negotiated the miles of ruts and rises
and the topography finally leveled, the forward Humvee slowed to a stop, with
the other vehicles coming to a halt in its trail. As the dust slowly settled,
nine commandos, clad in desert camouflage, goggles and helmets, exited the
Humvees and seated their magazines into their assault weapons.
In the forward Humvee, a commando stood through the open
roof to the gun turret with a Laser YardagePro, the range-finding system making
the binoculars so heavy he had to use both hands to steady them as he made a
slow scan of the horizon. After confirming no movement, he lowered the
binoculars. “Clear!”
At that moment the team leader, sitting in the rear of the
cargo truck, lifted the canvas flap and, with the barrel of his MP5 pointed to
the desert floor beyond the tailgate, shouted for those bound by flex-cuffs to
exit the vehicle. When
he spoke he did so in fluent
Arabic, a language he had become accustomed to, by living in the Middle East his entire life.
One-by-one the captives leapt from the cargo hold, their
eyes narrowed against the severity of an unforgiving sun, as the remaining soldiers
barked orders, knowing full well their captives had little command of the
English language. Yet the prodding with the tips of their weapons was language
enough as they goaded the Arabs to a clearing of dead brush and sun-baked clay.
From the rear of the cargo hold, the team leader looked on dispassionately
while his unit led the hostages before a stone structure shaped like a half
shell, its surface having been worn smooth by the winds.
He then turned to face the two Arabs still sitting along
the hardwood benches, their ankles shackled to a steel ring welded to the
floor. With cold fortitude, Team Leader directed his weapon on them
.
“Today marks the beginning of the end,” he told them. “
So consider them—” he tipped his head in the direction of
their brothers standing before the half shell— “the lucky ones
.” With
mechanical slowness, he pointed his weapon ceilingward. “
I’m afraid Allah has a far greater destiny for you both,”
he said, “so your Paradise will have to wait.” There was nothing cynical in his
tone. It was simply a straight-forward statement that death had its place and
this was not their time.
Recognizing the Islamic scripture,
Team Leader, previously so self-possessed, became incensed
.
“If Allah truly hears you, then ask Him for divine
intervention for the sake of your brothers. And if He truly is your savior,
then have Him strike me down before you as a show of His almighty power. I will
grant Him one minute to do so,” he said. And then he held up his forefinger. “He
has
one
. . . minute. Not a second more.”
He abruptly jumped out of the
truck and slammed the tailgate shut as a sign of his resentment. He walked
toward the half shell, his eyes fixing on the Arabs, and then gestured to his
troops to force the captives to their knees.
Having regained his composure,
Team Leader gripped his weapon and took stock of his enemies, exhibiting little
emotion as they pleaded for clemency. But their words fell upon deaf ears as he
looked skyward
.
Allah, You now have less than a minute.
Before him the Arabs pleaded in earnest, either to show them
mercy or to send them to Paradise.
After removing his goggles and
helmet, he turned his face skyward to bask in a warm streamer of light that lit
upon him and spotlighted his pale complexion that was in stark contrast to his
raven hair and even darker eyes. On the base of his chin was a wedge-shaped
scar, a vestige from a suicide bomber several years earlier in Ramallah. The
damaged tissue served as a constant reminder of a constant struggle
.
After putting his helmet back on
and tucking the goggles beneath his shoulder strap, Team Leader leveled and
balanced his weapon for the kill shot, inciting hysterical pleas from two Arabs
who cried out for redemption, their will to enter Paradise having escaped them
.
When the minute was up and Allah
was nowhere in sight, and with the mouth of his MP5 shifting from one Arab to
the next as if deciding who would be the first to enter Paradise, he spoke to
them in a manner that was flat and desensitized
.
“
When you see Allah,” he said, the
point of his weapon now leveled, “tell Him that Yahweh sent you.” With no
hesitation or sense of remorse, Team Leader pulled the trigger
.
When it was over, the gunshots
echoed toward the far reaches of the valley, then dissipated into a distant and
hollow cadence until nothing sounded but the soft soughing of the desert wind
.
With the smell of cordite hanging cloyingly thick and
metallic in the air, Team Leader closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath
through his nostrils,
relishing the moment
.
The moment, however, was hastily interrupted
by the voice of one of his commandos
.
“You want us to bury them?”
Team Leader opened his eyes, the
moment gone. “I want you to pull two men and have them spread the bodies out,”
he said with a clipped foreign accent. “And bury them deep. The last thing I
need is for the coyotes to bring them to the surface
.”
“Yes, sir.”
Team Leader took a step toward the
bodies and measured the looks on their faces. Not one seemed to have the repose
of gentle peace. Instead, each face exhibited what Team Leader interpreted as
surprise at its own mortality. Or was it the sudden revelation of standing
before the true face of Judgment? Considering this, he once again turned toward
the sky as if seeking answers but got nothing in return except diminishing
warmth, as the ribbon of light that had cast upon him was suddenly cut off by a
passing cloud
.
Turning his attention back to the
Arabs, he could only wonder if they truly believed that their god-driven causes
would be rewarded with a heaven full of virgins.
It was a mindset Team Leader never
fully understood, believing when man stood erect and walked away from the
primordial soup he took with him the concept of self-preservation. Yet these
factional groups of people were driven by suicidal fascination that clearly
eclipsed their need to survive. Fighting for a cause was one thing; dying for
one was another
.
With the tip of his weapon Team Leader prodded one of the
Arabs, the action causing the man’s head to loll to one side.
“Now the battle begins,” he
whispered to the dead man in Arabic. “So tell me, who will be the stronger god?
Allah or Yahweh?” Expecting no answer, the man with the scar turned and headed
to the rear of the cargo truck, where he would take his place in the cargo hold
for the long journey back.
With his MP5 trained on his human
cargo, and with al-Hashrie and al-Bashrah continuing their mantra with newfound
urgency, Team Leader contemplated the fate of the two men before him,
anticipating the impact they would have on the future of the civilized world.
Yes, Team Leader considered. These
two have a much greater role in the eyes of Allah.
Somewhere Over the Atlantic Ocean
September 22, Morning
Shepherd
One is the Vatican’s version of Air Force One, but without the luxurious
trappings of the presidential office such as a wet-bar and expensive Corinthian
leather chairs. In actuality, Shepherd One is a regular commercial jetliner
owned by Alitalia Airlines, which is often set aside for papal excursions. The
only true modifications to the aircraft were safety features that were built to
stave off attacks from insurgent weaponry. The plane featured flares to attract
heat seekers, interceptors to take out ground-to-air missiles, and a laser
jammer designed to confuse any laser-governed sources, most notably
laser-guided missiles. After the attempt on the life of Pope John Paul II, the Vatican decreed the necessary precautions, which Alitalia Airlines was more than happy to
comply with.
Sitting in the fore section of the
near-vacant 747 as it made its westbound trajectory to Dulles from Rome, Pope Pius XIII looked over the itinerary for his two-week visit on American soil.
Often he looked up and gazed out the window, the ocean below him a glittering
seascape of tinsel and glass, and thought about the challenging task before
him.
He realized that religion was a
business that provided faith as its commodity. And with politics and banking
becoming the core and support of the Vatican, and him serving as the State’s
head, it was his responsibility to create a demand for faith among the people.
Pope Pius needed to close the ever-widening gap between the Church and its
constituency, since, for years, congregates had been abandoning Mass due to a
growing liberalism and the Church’s refusal to relent its conservative values,
resulting in empty pews across the world.
What Pius wanted to do, what he
needed to do, was follow in the footsteps of his predecessor and rekindle the
spark of religious hope.
He did not want to commercialize
the Word of God, but to let it be known that God has not abandoned His
children, but loves them unconditionally. He was not given to preaching fire
and brimstone, nor was he inclined to sermonize in terms of “God loves you. But
He would love you more if you went to church and accepted the ways of old.”
He would not preach with admonishment.
After rubbing his eyes, the pope
sighed as if suddenly realizing that this undertaking was too much for a man of
his age. But despite his fatigue and his occasional discouragement, he held a
deep-rooted determination to win back the Catholic citizenry and resurrect the
waning faith. He was committed to this aim, no matter the demands levied upon
him or the struggles that were sure to come.
His challenge was to show the
relevance of the age-old precepts of Christendom in a world crying for
evolution. Whereas the Church had survived insurrections in the past, the pope
knew it would survive in the future. How to promote unity, however, was truly a
conundrum. Pope Pius XIII returned to the itinerary and scripted speeches for
further study, concluding that it would most likely come down to convincing
verbiage to win back the masses. And to help him were five of his best orators,
all bishops from the Holy See, the administrative arm of the Vatican. The
bishops of the Holy See were groomed for such occasions. They would serve as
advisors and hold mock forums, each man devising scenarios like a Hollywood
director.
And then the implication of his
thoughts struck him hard.
Has religion finally come to this? Has it come to
theater?
The pope refused to acknowledge
this disheartening idea by returning to the schedule and re-reading the
attached speeches proposed by his administration. Closing his eyes and seeing
the print burned as an after-image behind the folds of his lids, Pope Pius XIII
decided he would speak from his heart rather than to grandstand from the papal
soapbox.
He would speak from the soul.
“Your Holiness?” The words were
spoken too softly, as if the speaker was contrite at the prospect of disturbing
the pontiff.
Pius opened his eyes to see Bishop
Angelo take the seat opposite him. He was a man of cherubic appearance, with
soft and doughy features that gave him a child-like quality, and when he smiled
he did so with a set of teeth that was ruler-straight and designer-white.
“I’m sorry,” he said, apologetically. “You were sleeping,
yes?”
The pope shook his head. “I was
just thinking.” Then, after a brief moment of deliberation, he said: “Trying to
win back the masses will be no easy task, Gennaro. I know this. But these—” he
raised the documents “—sound a bit scripted. Now I know the Holy See means
well, but these documents seem without substance.” The pope suddenly reached
over and patted Bishop Angelo on the forearm, his smile all-encompassing. “And
please, my friend, don’t be offended. Your writing has much merit, but this
effort needs something more. It needs more of a direct truthfulness. I need to
approach the people without feeling as though I’m trying to sell a pitch rather
than instill lost faith.”
“Then perhaps, Your Holiness,
these documents will be more suited to your needs.” The bishop removed a thin
sheaf of papers from his case, and handed them to the pope.
“What are these?”
“Let’s just say a more direct
approach to address the current concerns of the people and the Church . . . and
perhaps less of the pitch.”
The pope’s smile widened. “You
always know what I want, Gennaro. Thank you. I would be more than happy to look
them over.”
“I hope they meet with your
approval, Your Holiness.”
“Let’s hope so, because America is
only hours away and I need to be duly prepared.”
Bishop Angelo bowed his head and
returned to the rows behind the pope where the bishops of the Holy See sat
judiciously debating the best way to handle the media. Sometimes their voices
swelled in disagreement, but mostly they united in solidarity.
Tuning his eyes to the new set of
documents, the pope once again began his studies.
The time was 10:47 a.m., Eastern
Standard Time.