The Hand of Christ (11 page)

Damascus, Syria

Michael raced barefoot through the Mosque.

Earlier, upon entering Umayyad to begin negotiations, all of the delegates had observed the strict Muslim guidance that no footwear was worn inside Mosques and had taken off their shoes.

Running at a hobbling full sprint, Michael jumped over the body of an injured, but still alive, Hezbollah soldier. The unconscious man was on his side and over the uneven stones of the corridor. A small trickle of blood was coming out from underneath his face. The man’s weapon was near him.

Michael headed toward the North Entrance and away from the shelling and gun fire. He fled out of the corridor and was on the eastern side of the internal square of the Mosque and nearly ran into the Dome of the Clocks. Quickly, he exited the square and ran through the gardens that were near the red-domed mausoleum for Saladin, the revered one-time sultan of Egypt and Syria.

Michael could hear the shouts in indecipherable Lebanese of the nearby Hezbollah soldiers. Holding his pistol at the ready, he realized that he had already expelled all nine bullets of the nine-round magazine. With no additional clip he would need to find more firepower than what an emptied gun could provide.

Wanting to kick himself for being such an idiot, Michael stopped in his tracks and did an about face. He should have grabbed the injured Hezbollah soldier’s AK-47 when he had the chance. Michael turned around and started to race back to the man’s body when a sudden crack of gunfire pierced the air and blew apart a nearby flowerpot.

Plaster and dirt exploded around him.

Michael sprinted back from the way he had just come and dove into Saladin’s mausoleum. Rolling into a firing position he suddenly felt claustrophobic; he realized that he was nearly confined between two opposing sarcophagi in the mausoleum: one was built of marble; the other was made of walnut. Looking down at the .45 caliber pistol in his hand, he was reminded that he had no ammunition and that his predicament had just become even more precarious. The soldier that had fired the shot at Michael was already on top of him with the muzzle of his rifle buried into Michael’s cheek. Michael didn’t have enough time to raise his empty weapon, not that it mattered, as the soldier squeezed the trigger.

Just moments before the rounds left the muzzle the Hezbollah soldier had grinned in his apparent victory over the infidel. It was a fatal mistake of lost time, even if it was just a fraction of a moment.

Michael was able to shift instinctively just enough to his right so that the fired rounds barely missed his head and only burned his cheek as they sizzled by. The soldier, in his haste, had been too close to Michael, too impetuous. He was unable to re-aim the weapon before Michael counterattacked.

With his left hand, Michael grabbed the AK-47 as the soldier began firing again. Newly fired bullets ricocheted off of the green and white marble walls of the mausoleum’s interior.

Holding the barrel, Michael ignored the pain searing the palm of his hand from the heat created by the rounds that blazed through the barrel of the automatic rifle. Standing straight up, he expertly placed his left knee into the groin of the soldier. Not enough force to permanently debilitate him, but certainly enough to stop the soldier from firing.

Swinging his right arm around, Michael swung fiercely across the soldier’s jaw with his elbow and followed it with a second blow across the bridge of the man’s nose from the butt of his chrome-plated, CIA issued custom handgun. The soldier was instantly thrown backward and crashed violently through the cover of the wooden sarcophagi; he fell on top of the skeletal remains of the long deceased sultan.

Having disarmed the man, Michael spun the rifle around, pulled its trigger, and put three quick rounds into the man’s chest. He then grabbed an extra clip for the AK-47 from the dead man’s weapon belt. Michael now had more firepower and the skeletal remains of Saladin had some company.

He needed to get moving. AK-47’s make a distinctive sound when fired, especially when in the confines of a marble mausoleum. Michael didn’t think the attacking Muslims would take too kindly to an American CIA Officer who had just killed six of their own, and didn’t plan on waiting around to see how they also felt about the newly defiled remains of their ancient and revered leader. The dead body of Michael’s last kill was on the bones of the Muslim leader that ended the Third Crusade, the man who was responsible for the recapture of Palestine from the kingdom of Jerusalem.

From a crouched position, Michael peered around the entrance of the mausoleum. While checking the gardens for activity, he was surprised by a vibration that was coming from the inside pocket of his jacket.

Someone was calling him.

“
What the hell,” Michael quietly uttered, as he reached for the phone.

His phone had been turned off for the meeting. The only way it could be remotely activated was by the Company. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the flat mobile device. The front of the phone had no buttons or visible numbers, just a black screen.

In about a year, the first version of this phone would be released to the public by Computer Tree, Inc., albeit, without the CIA specific capabilities, including the ability to be tracked real time by satellite when activated.

The civilian version of the phone would be heralded as a revolution of mobile phones rather than an evolution. The one in Michael’s hand was the fourth iteration of that phone. American kids were going to stand in line for days for its first version. They would pay three times as much than they would if they had just waited a couple of months.

The Company often worked in collaboration with some of the most innovative and brilliant minds in the private sector. In return for their work, the government worked to secure certain
rights
for the makers of such innovations. This phone would be granted exclusive patent protection to ensure the competition would not be a serious threat to profits for the next twenty years.

In addition, the Company would procure a certain percentage of the revenue derived from the sales of such inventions. The revenue helped to supplement the black budget of the intelligence organization, and further insulated the Company from the unnecessary questions asked during congressional budget hearings. Politicians act in the same manner as circling vultures looking for road-kill – for easy pickings – and unreported revenue streams afforded the Company the ability to fund nearly all of its black projects without the requirement to justify their costs, or the mission to the self-serving, temporary workers in Congress.

With the phone still vibrating, Michael took a Motorola wireless ear bud from his pocket that when inserted directly into his ear canal was nearly invisible. Michael tapped the screen of the phone, and instantly the LCD screen illuminated and displayed the incoming secured line Delta call.

Michael dropped the phone back into his pocket and raised the rifle to the ready position. As he moved through the gardens with stealth and on the lookout for any enemy reinforcements all he could muster was an inquisitive and quiet: “Go Ahead.”

All at CORe and the two men in the Oval Office could hear the obviously anxious answer; the Professor’s voice was piped in over the Center’s recessed speaker system. “Sir, please confirm,” reading from the TOP SECRET printout in his hand, CPT Scott said, “What time is class today?”

Immediately, Michael recognized the first part of the authentication code phrase. Before each mission he memorized certain items, including an answer to the very question he was being asked. It would confirm his identity. There were a number of potential responses, each with their own specific meaning.

“
The Professor cancelled class today. He had a death in the family. He needs to get to the airport, and immediately!”

Michael’s answers were on the short list of potential responses. Each response had a specific translation. Michael had just confirmed his identity, that the US Ambassador had been killed, and that he needed to be extracted.

“
Sir, this is CPT Scott in the CORe Center at NORAD: identity confirmed, message understood, and we are tracking you now. Your extraction-point details are forthcoming.”

“
Professor, this is the Dean,” Director Fundamen had enacted his own code name although it was unnecessary when using the Delta and Omega lines, “I am sorry to hear of our loss, what happened?”

“
Sir, with all due respect, the location of the talks is under heavy attack, and I am injured. I have taken some shrapnel to my thigh and have six confirmed kills.”

Michael was panting; his head snapped back and forth looking for both the enemy and a way to get out. He didn’t want to appear frantic, but he felt that way.

“
Sir, I have to get out of here. Everyone is dead. Hezbollah is everywhere. There are ground forces with heavy armament, RPG’s, and possible mortar and tank fire, and I have no shoes! My full report will have to wait!”

“
Yes, yes, of course, Michael. We have an extraction team en route. Just under two-kilometers slightly southwest of your location.” Looking down at his watch, the Director added: “You have a window of eight-minutes. The CORe Center will guide you.”

Having heard this, Michael was already moving back through Umayyad’s square and toward the southern part of the mosque. He instantly calculated that he would need to run at a bit over a six-minute mile pace for 1.2 miles. This was doable on an oval racetrack while wearing running shoes, but in the middle of a battle and barefoot? He would have to run like hell with shrapnel in his side and right through the heart of the enemy. He didn’t waste any time.

“
Sir! Sir!” PFC York yelled out. Without waiting for a response, “Sir, I have visual of the Professor! He just exited the south entrance of the building!”

York spoke into his wireless headset, “Professor, I have you on visual, will guide you to the extraction point.” Fortunately the skies were clear.

Michael was a bit unnerved to know he was seen real-time from the satellites above. He knew the drill; glancing upward, the overhead reconnaissance satellite would capture an image of his open eye. Within moments the unique markings of the blood vessels that striated the whites of his eyes, along with the colors of his cornea, would be matched to his retina scan on file. It was further proof that he belonged to them.

The HUMINT Officer bellowed out to CPT Scott, “Sir, have retinal confirmation. He’s our man!”

CPT Scott simply nodded his head and then looked at PFC York, but said nothing to the Private. York may have a bad attitude with authority, but he knew that York was extremely skilled at live tracking with satellites. He had eyes like an eagle. York’s tracking scores had been the highest that he had ever seen, off the charts; his motor skills and decision-making were second to none. If it weren’t for his bad attitude, Scott thought that PFC York would actually make a good soldier.

“
Professor, keep running straight, head two blocks south. Good, good. Now take the next road to your right, and then – wait, wait, STOP!”

“
What the fuck, stop? Kid, I am in the middle of an attack! I’ve got shrapnel in my leg!” Clearly not in the mood to be the only bare-foot, blue-eyed, and bleeding white guy standing still in the middle of a Syrian street holding an AK-47 when a terrorist group was attacking, Michael shouted, “Listen, I don’t have time to stop! Get me the hell out of here!”

“
Sir, enemy combatants approaching, they are one block southwest of your position. There’s an alley to your left, head left now!”

Michael, in full sprint, immediately turned left into the narrow alley way, “What now, where to?”

PFC York was now standing; in his hand he had a wireless device that could operate the three NRO satellites that were now triangulated above Damascus. York panned quickly through the images that were now on the large screens at the front of the CORe Center; the visual effects were surreal. From overhead, York could see Michael running through the alley.

“
Raise your weapon!” York screamed, “Fire at the roofline to your left and fifty meters ahead of you!”

Michael had no choice but to trust the young voice, and, mid-stride, strafed the roofline with a couple of short bursts from the procured AK-47. Through the smoke of the ricocheting bullets a body wearing fatigues fell two stories to the ground and at Michael’s feet.

CPT Scott and MSGT Bryan looked at one another in muted disbelief.

“
Good eye, kid, where now?”

“
Keep moving straight ahead for one block; look for another alley on your right. Take that alley and head due south for just a bit less than one-click, the alley will curve sharply to your right. The landing zone is an open field, an old unused airport. There will be a small aircraft control tower. You can’t miss it. The extraction point is at the tower.”

Again, running at nearly a full sprint, Michael saw a second Hezbollah soldier appear on another rooftop, the soldier was holding a Russian made model of the Vampir RPG that was different than the one that had thrown him against the wall in the mosque.

“
Do you see him, Professor?”

“
Got him, kid!”

Just as the Hezbollah soldier fired, Michael dove to the ground.

Peering through the 1P38 Optical Sight of the RPG, the Hezbollah soldier could faintly make out the eight stabilizing fins snapping open when he fired; they would guide the rocket to its target. The TBV-29G thermobaric anti-personnel round sizzled past Michael and slammed into the wall about one hundred meters ahead of him.