Delta Flight

Introduction

2009-10-27T02:42:00.047-05:00

Everyone whose name is found written in the book will be delivered. Multitudes who sleep in the dust of the earth will awake: some to everlasting life, others to shame and everlasting contempt. (Daniel 12:1-2)

DELTA FLIGHT is an apocalyptic web serial novel about an elite Special Forces unit's struggle to save humanity from the prophetic reawakening of the evil Roman Emperor Nero - a tyrant infamous for extravagance, matricide, and the persecution of Jews and early Christians.

MYSTERY
A Delta detachment led by Captain Roland Ronovich recovers an ancient artifact under a church in Rome. A Vatican priest kills himself at Golgotha, where Christ was crucified. FBI detectives dig up an empty coffin in Georgia. How are these incidents related? Mankind's survival rests on connecting these dots.

PROPHECY
Roland and detective Tom Septer, who heads the government's paranormal investigative unit called SECTION ZERO, team up and find a common thread: a demonic cult that believes Nero will rise again to free man from bondage and provide mortals with a life of everlasting pleasure. Christians also believe Nero shall return one day but not as the savior but the Anti-Christ.

END TIMES
An abominable scourge is unleashed and the cursed rise from the dead to walk the earth. Roland and his team undergo their own out-of-body experiences and are transmogrified into DELTA FLIGHT: Special Forces soldiers with supernatural powers. Are these super soldiers victims of a nefarious plague that has rendered them to earthbound perdition? Or, have they been sent by a Higher Power - to deliver us from evil?

CREDITS
Writer: Michael Hughes
Editor: James Bonalsky

Chapter 1 ">>"

Chapter 5

2009-10-27T00:36:00.008-05:00

The rental car’s headlights broke through the obscurity of the Georgia woods and illuminated a ceaseless stream of black maple trees that flew past Septer at a steadily increasing rate. Dermot pressed heavy on the gas pedal and adeptly negotiated turns, guided by a bending incandescent yellow line that split the hilly country road down the middle. As Septer tried to make sense of Dale Junior’s suicide, the metallic blue Maxima sedan sped towards the residence of one Jacob Caldwell, Junior’s godfather and Uncle Dale’s only sibling, and now the only living lead the two detectives had left.

Dermot and Tom had attempted to interview Jacob earlier that afternoon, but he refused to see them. However, about an hour ago, immediately after they had examined Junior’s corpse, Dermot again contacted Uncle Dale’s brother. Before Jacob had a chance to hang up, Dermot informed him of his godson’s suicide, and he finally acquiesced and agreed to talk to them.

Besides the engine’s hum, the only other sound that could be heard was Septer furiously pecking away at the keys of his Blackberry. He finished typing a message to Scott Dybzinsky, affectionately known as Scooter, who was Septer’s go-to guy on SECTION ZERO’s research team. He then clicked send and shot Scooter his request to gather intelligence and determine whether or not there were any connections between the symbol that had been etched on Junior’s hand and the archaic incantation he had bellowed right before eating his own 9 millimeter. Witnessing the suicide still had Septer a bit stunned and queasy. After mentally processing the day's interviews, he had a hunch as to why Junior would commit such an act.

“One of Dale’s cousins, Jeb I think his name was, mentioned some rumors about how Uncle Dale had an extremely close relationship with his son," Septer said.

“Aye,” Dermot responded.

“In other words, Dale Senior and Dale Junior were a little bit too close for comfort, if you know what I mean.”

Dermot turned his head, nodded affirmatively with a look of disgust and said: “Aye. Jeb also let us know that the brothers hated each other their entire lives, and that Jacob would kill Uncle Dale if he could get away wit it for messing around wit the lad.”

Dermot had bags under his eyes and shoulder-length dark curly hair that was laced with gray. Combine this with his dry demeanor and Dermot resembled the Irish version of Bob Dylan. The loyal Catholic was born and raised in Dublin, came to the U.S. in the 1980s and had been with the FBI for over twenty years, fifteen of them partnered with Septer. They fought like an old married couple, arguing about everything from politics to religion, but there was never any animus at the end of the day.

“I wonder why Junior did it. He was probably at the graveyard to validate that his father did rise from the grave. And once he saw the empty coffin, he just couldn’t handle the thought,” Tom said.

“One thing I find mighty peculiar meself,” Dermot began, “was his Uncle Jacob’s reaction ta the whole ting when I told him about Junior. The man didn’t seem all that bothered.”

“He was probably just in shock.”

“Na. I’m telling ya, the man acted bizarre…it seemed as if he were half expecting this bloody outcome. I swear ta ya. I couldn’t even comprehend how I’d feel, but I’m quite sure I’d be showing a bit more emotion.” Dermot then looked straight ahead and said out of the corner of his mouth: “Course, the lad will be going straight ta hell.”

He gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, leaned forward and peered through the windshield. Septer was raised in an agnostic household by two university professors who preached science and reason over religion so he couldn’t grasp how the first thing Dermot thought of was that God would banish the young man’s soul to hell for taking his own life.

Septer was comfortable with having no soul, and thought the only hell that existed was the one he was living. People like Dermot scoffed at this notion, considering Septer had been afforded a Harvard education, been raised in a well-to-do suburb in Connecticut, and to this day wanted for nothing in life. At least, in material terms. But, he was never happy. Perhaps his misery was self-manufactured and all of his maladjustments resided in his mind, yet this self-knowledge didn’t seem to help Tom cope with his dual diagnosis of alcoholism and bipolar disorder. It was Dermot’s strong belief that Tom’s suffering was a direct result of his paganism, as he would put it, and that a little spirituality would go a long way in curing his maladies. He would find happiness in revelation, Dermot constantly opined, not Tom’s daily consumption of anti-depressants.

They finally reached Jacob’s home which seemed to be located in the boon docks of the boon docks. The white bungalow was sorely in need of renovation, or at the very least a paint job, Tom thought. The duo got out of the car, walked up five rickety steps onto the porch, and then Dermot knocked on the door. After a minute of silence Dermot went to knock again, but when he was about to wrap his knuckles on the screen door, Tom heard a scratchy sound emanate from the house, and barely made out the words:

“Come in.”

They entered and walked into an empty living room that was completely dark save a faint beam of light that came from a bedroom door that was slightly cracked open. Dermot knocked softly and slowly pushed the door open and they both stepped into the bedroom.

Uncle Dale’s brother was lying in bed covered by a single white sheet, the room scantly lit by a small lamp at his side. He looked so deathly pale that Tom thought one could easily pull the sheet over his head and call the county morgue.

“Thanks for seeing us sir,” Dermot said softly.

Jacob stared blankly out the window with glassy eyes, barely acknowledging their presence. The man’s face was riddled with age spots, and had bare traces of gray hairs encircling his head. He sighed deeply and then fixed his gaze on Dermot. Then the old man coughed and began speaking: “Not a problem…the time is near.”

Septer tried to clarify what that meant but Jacob ignored the question. However, they did end up having a somewhat fruitful conversation. He told them all about their upbringing, about how Jacob became a successful entrepreneur who owned and ran his own antique store that, relatively speaking, did quite well. But Uncle Dale had underachieved his entire life, rarely held down employment for more than six months. Dale would rather live in fantasyland and remain a Civil War “clown”, as he put it. Near the end of the discussion, Jacob’s face went taut with anger when he told them about Uncle Dale’s inappropriate relationship with Junior.

“They always thought I was the strange brother. But Dale…I knew there was somethin wrong with him, since the very day that boy was born. I was seven years old at the time. I remember a coldness when they brought him home from the hospital. But nothing too peculiar happened until later in life, bout ten years ago I reckon. He was always searchin for somethin, and found it in some sick cult that reminded me of the Masons. To each his own. But he got his poor son involved recently too. And I think that’s what ended up killin em. Y’all think it was suicide? It wasn’t.”

“Well, it sure looked to us like he killed himself,” Septer said.

“He didn’t do it on his own accord, believe you me.”

“Did you see Dale on the night that he allegedly rose?” Septer asked.

“No, but he will come for me,” Jacob said and then turned his head to look directly at them. “The reason I didn’t want to talk to you earlier is because you can’t protect me. Me talking to y’all right now is gonna cost me.”

Then Jacob went dead silent.

A beeping noise then punctured the silence and made Septer jump. He felt ridiculous when he realized it was his own Blackberry. He removed the device from the pocket of his suit jacket and looked at the screen. It was Scooter calling.

“Could you excuse me one minute sir. My apologies for the interruption,” Septer said. Jacob nodded and Septer walked out onto the front porch and answered the incoming phone call.

“Scooter. What do you got?” Tom asked.

“Nothing short of intriguing,” Scotty said, “the expression and the symbol are indeed connected.”

Septer couldn’t believe it.

“Really?”

“First of all, Dermot was right about the chant – it is Latin. ‘Qualis artifex pereo’ loosely translated into English means: ‘What an artist dies in me’.”

“And what the hell does that mean?”

“I asked myself the same question and, of course, did more research and discovered that they were the famous last words uttered by the Roman Emperor Nero - right before he committed suicide. Nero fancied himself a great artist, although he was delusional. But nobody would ever dare criticize Nero’s harp playing or artwork because critics of Nero typically were put to death – and it usually wasn’t pretty.”

“Maybe the kid was a history buff. Was into Romans…I don’t know,” Septer said. “Okay then, now how is the peace symbol connected?”

“Here’s where it gets spooky. The peace symbol, in this case, represents anything but peace. It originated in Rome in the years following Nero’s death. It symbolizes an upside down crucifix. The arms are supposed to be pointing towards hell. It is called the Neronic Cross, and it’s pretty ironic that this ultimately became the sign for peace.”

“But why, what does it mean?”

“Well, if you actually showed up to your history classes at Harvard, you might remember that Nero was one pretty evil dude, and was infamous for persecuting Christians and throwing them to the lions. Christians saw him as evil incarnate. Nero’s Cross is a mockery of Christianity. The inverse. If Jesus Christ is the son of God, then Nero must be -.”

“The Anti-Christ,” Septer said, finishing Scooter’s sentence.

“Bingo,” Scooter responded.

Then he heard a loud scream from inside the house and a chill crept up Septer’s spine.

“Scooter, l-let me call you back,” Septer stuttered into the phone with urgency and hung up.

He dashed through the darkness back into Jacob's bedroom, where he found Dermot trying to restrain Jacob, who was convulsing wildly and yelling.

“God help me….Lord…,” Jacob yelled as Dermot tried to pin his arms down.

“He didn’t say anything for awhile,” Dermot said with his hands around Jacob’s wrists, “but then he started having some kind of seizure.”

“Is he an epileptic?” Tom asked.

“Don’t know, he won’t tell me.”

After flopping around like a fish on the bed for another thirty seconds, Jacob finally stopped and closed his eyes. Dermot quickly checked for his pulse. “He’s still alive,” Dermot said and let out a sigh of relief.

They both watched over Jacob for a few minutes and checked his pulse again. They tried to wake him to no avail and agreed to wait a few minutes more, and if he still didn't come to, they would call an ambulance. Perhaps he suffered some type of psychosomatic delayed reaction to Junior’s death. In the meantime, Septer was dying to tell Dermot about the fresh intelligence.

“You’re not going to believe what Scooter found out,” Septer said.

Tom then relayed the conversation he had with Scooter and showed him more information on his Blackberry that the research analyst provided via email. Dermot breathed in heavily, folded his arms together and rubbed his chin. He looked perplexed as well as concerned, absorbing everything.

“Nero? The Anti-Christ?” Dermot spoke out loud to himself.

Jacob then sat bolt-upright in the bed with his eyes wide open, as if he were in a trance. His skin had turned even whiter then it was before, and Septer realized the temperature in the room had dropped. Jacob looked absolutely terrified but he did not yell. Instead, he whispered softly and slowly:

“He’s here.”

And as soon as these words left Jacob’s lips, Septer heard glass shatter loudly in the other room. Tom quickly drew his gun and his pulse quickened. And as soon as two of the windows in Jacob’s bedroom exploded into a million pieces, Tom’s heart leapt into the back of his throat.

Chapter 4

2009-10-09T00:39:00.049-05:00

A place there is below, from Beelzebub
As far receding as the tomb extends,
Which not by sight is known, but by the sound
--Dante Alighieri, "Divine Comedy", 1321

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But whats puzzling you
Is the nature of my game
--Rolling Stones, "Sympathy for the Devil", 1968

Roland crept down the winding staircase that had been carved into the earth underneath the Santa Maria church. He descended what felt like four stories below surface level, and as soon as his boots touched down on the rocky ground floor, he jerked his weapon chest-high and aimed it into the darkness. The flashlight scope perched atop his weapon illuminated the timeworn stone-gray walls of a tunnel that took a turn leftward after about one hundred feet, matching the serpentine depiction of the underground labyrinth on Malcolm's map that they had reviewed mid-flight on the Black Hawk. The underground passageway’s curvature concerned him because it produced a blind spot, impairing one's ability to see potential hostiles that might be coming around the bend.

The rest of the team joined him in short order, entirely cast in black with the exception of Malcolm Giles who was wearing faded jeans and a navy blue button-down shirt. Hardly visible once they hit the floor, like shadows in the night, nearly every inch of the Delta operatives’ outfit was black including accessories: gloves, Kevlar flack vests, body armor, knife handles, utility belts, backpacks, automatic weapons, and the signature black Delta Force head gear that resembled a hockey helmet. Roland’s light knifed its way through the obscurity as he lead the line, immediately followed by Giles and a batting order of Sadie, Doc, Reco, and Russ, with Hammer taking the rear.

The curving corridor was tight - six feet wide with a ceiling that reached about eight feet high. The air was stale and its warmth grew increasingly uncomfortable. Halfway before the first turn Roland jumped as he felt a poke in his back. He turned around and quickly realized it was just Malcolm Giles trying to gain his attention. Giles pointed to a diagram of the underground lair that had been scribed on crinkly yellowish age-old paper.

“It would seem that if the key on this thing is anywhere near correct, we should be hitting a fork in the path-,” Malcolm started to whisper then stopped abruptly. He creased his brow and looked about as if he heard something.

Then Roland heard it too. And felt it. A whooshing sound filled the catacombs followed by a stinging arctic wind that blew right through him. It whipped against his face and he turned his head, writhing in pain, as the temperature suddenly seemed to drop to below freezing. The wind continued to blow and he heard a barely audible hissing. Voices whispered into his ear as if someone was standing right beside him. He spun entirely around and found not a soul, but the scratchy sounds of the unseen relentlessly assaulted his ears, their tone escalating louder by the second. He strained to focus and discern what they were saying.

His teammates swirled in confusion, their heads snapping back and forth as they tried to find the source of the rising clamor, their guns jutting every which way.

Then the voices ceased. The whistling wind faded and died, replaced by a creeping heat that rose to its former level, before the biting Lake Michigan-type gale had washed over them.

“Did anyone understand…?” Doc asked, his question answered by heads shaking in the negative in unison.

Before they took another step, however, Giles hesitated and with a blank stare murmured: “Golgotha.”

“What was that?” Sadie asked who had been standing right next to Malcolm.

“Golgotha.” he repeated. “The cold wind and the voices. The whispering. Father Mellini and I experienced something similar. And I must admit it sort of shook me then, but I thought there must be some explanation."

“That ain’t cool brother,” Hammer chimed in, “you told us the padre friggin’ offed himself. Cut his own throat to boot. What are we walking into here?”

Jack Shane’s lower right lip protruded with chewing tobacco. He turned and spat a brown stream of dip spit, then deliberately wiped a remnant of spittle from the corner of his mouth with the back of hand. The six foot four giant’s bare muscular arms glistened with sweat as he held a heavy SAW machine gun. He was the only one in the group insane enough to leave his arms unprotected. Yet, even Hammer seemed unnerved by the raspy unintelligible words that had filled the air. As a matter of fact, everyone had been jolted into a state of unease that he hadn't seen his soldiers in before. The only who wasn't, not surprisingly, was Russ Logan, who leaned against a wall in his typical brooding silence. Ever the enigma - he wondered if the seemingly unflappable Logan was truly that cool or simply a master at disguising his emotions.

Hammer had been referring to Father Mellini’s suicide, committed while the priest was excavating the hill where Christ had drawn his last human breath. Giles had pedantically provided them with an unsolicited history lesson earlier that day, and as much as he thought him a windbag, he remembered Malcolm’s explanation vividly. Golgotha was the Aramaic name for the site, in English it was called Calvary, but both translated into the “place of the skull”. Biblical scholars believed the Gospel writers had labeled it as such because the knoll was shaped like a skull. Many devout Jews even believed it to be the final resting place of Adam’s skull, buried their by Noah’s son, Shem. Giles was a veritable walking Catholic Encyclopedia, which he found interesting considering Malcolm was an atheist. Yet, he was an atheist that knew more about world religions than the religious.

“I’m not sure exactly what we’re walking into. At Golgotha the workers there said we had awoken protective spirits. I thought it rubbish then…,” Giles said, his voice fading.

“But now you think they were right?” Doc Ian asked.

Giles shook his head, looked down and said, “I’m not so sure anymore.”

Roland could hear his heart thumping as an uneasy quietude blanketed them. He sighed, waved to the rest of the pack and they resumed the march.

Fear had typically been a great motivator as far back as he could remember. He honed it as a tool and actually thrived on it; the adrenaline rush gave him a buzz like dope does a drug fiend. He felt a surge of it right before a good fist fight as a youngster. Truth be told, he hardly ever fought during his teenage years - there was no need. One would think he would've been dragged into a fair share of scrapes, growing up with a Russian last name like Ronovich in an all Irish and Italian neighborhood on the South Side of Chicago. But not a soul messed with Roland Ronovich after what he had done as a sophomore in high school to a twenty-year old scumbag by the name of Johnny Hovee.

Hovee was a derelict gangbanger who sold drugs to young teens – when he wasn’t beating the crap out of them. Sure, everyone started drinking booze at a young age in his old hood, but drugs were an entirely different matter. He had seen Hovee ruin lives. And not only with drugs. Hovee got off scot free once after shooting and killing Tony Ciaravino, one of his classmates. Why? Because Ciarvino had the audacity to go on a date with Hovee’s ex-girlfriend.

That Saturday night after the St. Rita Grade School carnival is etched in his mind forever, when he and Terry Cunningham came upon Johnny Hovee in an alley trying to push some drugs on freshman Mickey Sullivan. Mickey had recently been released from rehab number two – at the early age of fifteen – and he knew Sully wanted desperately to get clean and sober. The next thing they saw was Johnny badass with his hand around Sully's throat, then watched as he violently slammed the boy against the garage door. Roland ran over, grabbed Hovee’s arm and hissed directly into his ear: “Let go of him now or I’ll knock your fucken’ teeth out.”

Hovee, with his dirty blond mustache and matching mullet, sneered, pushed him off and then threw a wild punch. But Roland ducked, which then provided him with a window of opportunity. He wound back his fist and let loose "the punch heard ‘round the neighborhood" - a wallop that would go down in South Side lore for years.

His clenched fist struck the bridge of the twenty year-old's nose, a connection that made a crunching sound so grotesque that afterward Sully said it nearly made him vomit. He followed that up with another right that, well, knocked out two of Hovee’s front teeth. The second punch dropped him upon impact. It wasn’t so surprising that Roland handled the bully, considering he had taken martial arts classes since 8th grade. What was shocking was the ferocity he displayed after the piece of white trash hit the ground. Roland jumped on top of the depraved drug dealer and began head-butting him incessantly, while Hovee screamed and blood spurted from his nose and mouth. Sully and Terry Cunningham had to peel him off of the bloodied gangbanger, who by that point was out cold.

What Roland recalled most of all was how badly he wanted to kill the sociopath. He didn’t want to stop. Justice had to be served - a mindset that served him well over the past nearly twenty years. But the phobia that caged him at present felt much different - it was an unnatural and irrational trepidation because it shook the foundation of his faith. The heavy despair in his heart weighed him down, yielding indecisiveness and hesitation. A moment of pause could end his life.

They plodded forward following the twisting tunnel until the passage did finally split into two, and he chose the entryway on the left, per Malcolm’s blueprint. He stepped into the new pathway and saw a light in the distance. He gave his crew a thumbs-up.

According to the map, the path led to an underground cavern, and he figured the source of the light must be one of its entrances. As he approached the opening, the tunnel widened considerably - and then he froze. He saw two bodies lying on the ground and reacted quickly by jumping to his stomach while pointing his rifle at the targets.

“Get down!” he shouted. Everyone hit the deck.

But the bodies appeared lifeless. He cautiously walked towards them accompanied by Doc Ian. He hesitated when he saw two red turbans strewn about in the vicinity of the men that certainly appeared dead, unless, of course, they were experts at playing possum.

As he drew closer, he doubted they were faking anything. The first combatant was lying on his stomach with a knife jammed between his shoulder blades, and the second sat upright against one of the walls, a knife protruding from the right side of his stomach. Doc removed the dagger from the first body, flipped the carcass over, looked for signs of life, but found none.
He noticed out of the corner of his eye the short figure of Reco walking over and standing in front of the body that had been propped against the wall. Suddenly, Reco drew his firearm.

“Check this out,” Reco called out.

Roland ran over and aimed his piece at combatant number two. The Arab’s lips trembled.

“He’s still alive,” Doc Ian said.

His face had an unhealthy pallor about it, and he lacked the requisite beard and moustache that Adl typically demands of all of its members. The man looked up and locked eyes with Roland, and at that moment he realized why the boy didn’t meet the minimum facial hair requirements established by the terrorist group's leaders.

“This kid can’t be older than sixteen,” Roland said flatly.

He crouched beside the boy and covered his mouth in anticipation of Doc Ian removing the blade from his stomach. The young man screamed into his gloved hand and then began weeping. Doc grabbed medical instruments from his backpack and then gently helped the boy lie down while the young terrorist looked befuddled.

Doc’s bald head resembled a shiny cueball as he wiped sweat from his eyes, and he scrunched his thick black eyebrows together, intensely engrossed in the task of trying to suture vital organs that had been ripped apart by the large dagger back together.

Doc motioned to Sadie who walked over, sat next to the boy and held his hand. She spoke to him in Arabic as she dabbed his forehead with a wet rag. Roland figured she must be consoling him. A knife to the stomach is excruciating. By the look of the amount of blood that had spilled from his gut onto his robe and the floor already, he knew the kid had precious few minutes left to live.

Just as this thought crossed his mind the young Muslim soldier began choking. His face red, eyes filled with tears. Then, suddenly, he began speaking frantically amidst the sobs. Sadie asked him questions and, as the boy answered, he kept pointing towards the cavern entrance.

He paused and grabbed both of Sadie’s shoulders and pleaded with her. Then a moment of silence ensued. The teen’s eyelids looked heavy, then began to close slowly. The boy mumbled to himself, Roland guessed they were the last prayers to his maker. The young Arab closed his eyes and a peaceful smile slowly grew across his face. His chest ceased heaving and settled, then went motionless.

“I lost him,” Doc Ian said, shaking his head.

Sadie stood up slowly with a pensive look on her face.

“What did he say?” Roland asked.

“I asked who had done this to him and all he kept saying was: ‘I resisted them and will die for Allah on my terms’. He said they had deceived him. But I do not know who he meant by ‘they’.”

The image of Johnny Hovee’s wicked grin popped into Roland’s head as he looked at the dead teenager. This poor kid had been indoctrinated by Adl to fight and die for some perversion of Islam; they had exploited the faith of young men like this to serve their own political agenda. Just as Hovee promised paradise by snorting a few lines, the Mullahs promised the same via strapping explosives to one's chest and blowing up an orphanage.

“Why was he pointing at the cave?” Doc asked.

“He was giving us a warning to stay away, he pleaded for us to leave immediately.”

“Why?” Roland asked.

“He said they had promised he would be united with Allah in paradise, but he swore, to all that is Holy, that the last thing he had seen was the face of God."

Drawing a deep breath, Sadie looked directly into the eyes of each team member.

“But he believed, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that what he had seen was…the face of Satan.”

"<<"Chapter 3 | Chapter 5 ">>"

Chapter 3

2009-09-28T00:58:00.022-05:00

PENTAGON, WASHINGTON D.C.
1 Day Ago

Approximately 24 hours before Roland began descending into the catacombs that lay beneath the Santa Maria church in Rome, General Clint Crenshaw wondered what type of unholy hornet's nest he was asking his team to dive into based on direct commands that emanated from the White House. But before he spoke to Roland, top brass wanted to chat with Crenshaw because they were being fairly particular about who was selected for the mission, and to what degree they would be willing to keep their mouths shut.

The General slid a brown accordion file folder with the word “CLASSIFIED” stamped on it across the desk to Max Regan, the United States Undersecretary of Defense. Regan's black hair was parted perfectly to the side and lacked the faintest trace of gray, despite the fact that the senior official was rapidly approaching fifty. He had that all-American Ken-doll look but sure seemed like one fidgety fellow, Crenshaw thought while watching Regan’s hands shake as the Undersecretary grabbed the folder.

“We’ve been told that these are the best Special Forces soldiers the U.S. military has to offer,” Regan said. “More importantly, General, is the fact that you strongly believe that because of their training they can undergo severe levels of torture and would rather die than divulge any intelligence that could compromise the security of our country. Would that be a fair characterization of these people General?”

“Yup,” Crenshaw replied. Awfully peculiar question, Crenshaw thought. He didn't like the sound of what this paper-pusher had told him about the mission so far. It didn't make sense why the DoD wanted his team to go on an archaeological dig in Rome to find a piece of jewelry and search for a supposedly already dead priest.

Regan's story sounded so fantastical that the General thought he must be bluffing or hiding some ulterior agenda. Or perhaps this new Administration that took over a year ago, which was stock full of liberals, was either clueless or deranged. He feared the nation's security might be in the hands of a dysfunctional cabal of radicals who'd read one too many Dan Brown novels. Because of this Administration's strabismic vision, instead of focusing on an already full plate that included Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran and North Korea, the U.S. military is diverting resources to what amounted to occultist boondoggles.

Regan began furiously scanning the contents of the file that included the profile of each member of DELTA BLACK, the Special Forces unit that Crenshaw had created ten years ago. An outfit that hardly anyone knew existed. Not even guys like Regan. Thus, giving Regan access to this file was a huge deal, and Crenshaw had been reluctant but was forced to do so by the Defense Secretary himself, Rolfe Spencer.

Regan reviewed the papers intensely until his face scrunched up, apparently interested in some finer detail. His eyes grew smaller, darting back and forth across the document until he stopped abruptly, shook his head and grimaced.

“These people sound like a bunch of psychotics,” Regan said.

Crenshaw snorted as he leaned back in his chair, removed his thin gold-rimmed sunglasses, stuffed a stubby cigar into the side of his mouth and began relentlessly chewing on it while he rubbed his perpetual five o’clock shadow. Men like Regan would never understand how critical it is to find natural born killers, hone their skills, and position them properly as military assets.

“That’s cuz they are. Likely certifiable if ya ask me,” Crenshaw said and put on a knowing grin.

Crenshaw propped one of his boots on the edge of Regan’s desk which seemed to give Regan pause because he was obviously agitated by Crenshaw’s insouciant mannerisms. And Crenshaw just bet that his Texas drawl must grate on Regan’s nerves, repugnant to the Undersecretary’s urbane sensibilities. Crenshaw loved rattling civilian empty suits like Regan, and he especially loved how they underestimated him as just some country bumpkin. Little did they know Crenshaw was tops in his class at West Point, but more importantly, folks like Regan could not even conceive of the type of intellect required to survive for nearly forty years in the military. One had to be pretty damn smart and resourceful to avoid getting killed during three tours of Vietnam and three decades as a Special Forces operator.

“Your leader,” Regan said, as he nodded down at a file photo of Roland Ronovich, “it says he was court-martialed for manslaughter but the file provides no other detail.”

“Oh, yea, that…,” Crenshaw said, “well, sure, ya see he was tried in a court of law but never found guilty. And any documents 'side the one in your hand that even reference the court case are dust 'n the wind.”

The side of Regan’s mouth twitched and then he glared at the General. Crenshaw resumed.

“I’ll admit that Captain Ronovich got a wee bit carried away there in Iraq...he get a lil pissed when a suicide bomber went and made the mistake of killin one of Roland's best friends. When the firefight was done, Roland tracked couple of them enemy combatants back to a buildin on the outskirts of Baghdad...and although that boy was severely outnumbered, crazy sumbitch threw himself through a window and used every piece of weaponry on him to kill anythin and everythin ...not one Iraqi soul walked outta that joint alive."

“Were there civilians involved?” Regan asked.

“Well, um, no, it wasn’t that. I guess the big wigs thought Roland crossed the line when he tied up a few and shot em execution style. And then, when he ran out of bullets Roland slashed their throats from ear to ear.”

“How many people did he kill that day?” Regan asked.

As Regan squirmed Crenshaw sat up and took the cigar out of his mouth, withdrew a lighter and decided to actually light it. He leaned back and blew two puffs of smoke into the air.

“Thirty-four,” Crenshaw said dryly.

Crenshaw waited to let the body count sink in as Regan froze with a blank stare.

“They were goin to discharge him for mental insanity, but the army shrinks concluded that he was absolutely in a sane state when he done what he done. They diagnosed him as a cool, calm, collected psychopath. But the good news is, he’s our psychopath.”

“How’d he get out of it?”

“Well, he got lucky. I caught wind of this guy right when I had a special job needed to be done. He was perfect for Special Ops and perfect for the team I was assemblin.”

“Says in his file he was a Harvard drop-out. That true?”

“Yup. Ain’t that somethin? Said he couldn’t be in no ivory towers when there was so much killin to be done.”

Regan cringed. He then looked down at the file and started to read aloud.

“Three tours of Iraq. Three Bronze Stars. One Silver Star and five Purple Hearts,” Regan read and then looked up. “And why do they call him the Ghost?”

“Well, it's cuz this boy can get in and out of any two coordinates in the world that you give em, kill his target, and get out seamlessly. Heck, one of his first assignments was to assassinate Prime Minister Alahabi and-.”

“That was him?” Regan asked with surprise, cutting the General off. Prime Minister Alahabi was the first supposed U.S. ally the administration planted to run Iraq. It turned out Alahabi was not only corrupt, but was in bed with terrorists.

“Yup. Imagine poor Mr. Alahabi wakin up one mornin, taking a shower, brushin his teeth, then openin up his wardrobe to fetch himself a suit. And boom. A Delta operator pops out and laces one into his forehead.”

“My Lord…,” Regan gasped.

“And now me, you, Roland and, may he rest in everlastin peace, Mr. Alahabi, are the only ones who know bout that little caper.”

Regan breathed in deeply and then pointed to a picture of a red-haired behemoth with a bushy goatee that looked like a professional wrestler.

“Jack 'Hammer' Shane,” Regan said. “Now, this man is actually a convict…served three years for reckless homicide. Thought we didn’t allow ex-cons in our armed forces.”

“We don’t,” Crenshaw said with a smile.

Crenshaw relayed to Regan that Shane had been actually arrested three times since he dropped out of college, twice for grand larceny. The manslaughter case was for strangling a man while he was already in state prison serving a sentence for hi-jacking an 18-wheeler. He went to the University of Alabama on a football scholarship but partied a bit too hard, got sick of the books, and wanted to do something more exciting, thus found the Navy Seals and then DELTA BLACK.

Next, Regan showed Crenshaw the image of a beautiful black woman in her mid-thirties. She wore a determined look on her face that was nearly a snarl.

“Interesting,” Regan said. “Now, tell me about Sadie Summers. A woman in Special Forces?”

“She is one wicked bitch, man. I wouldn’t tell her that directly because she can be a feminist-Nazi type and would probably kick me right in the nuts. She’s brilliant though - graduated from Stanford and then Cal Tech. She knows four languages, including Arabic, and is a genius with information systems. She has the longest legs I ever saw, and could easily be mistaken for a runway model when she’s out of uniform. Difference being that most runway models couldn’t kill a man with their bare hands in less than six seconds.”

Regan raised his eyebrows and his mouth went ajar, clearly unable to disguise his awe.

“This next one,” Regan began with a quizzical look, “you recruited him from the British SAS? And he's a doctor of not only Physics but Psychology?”

“Yessir. Cambridge grad too. Every detachment requires a psy-ops specialist, and Doc Ion, that’s what we call him, could brainwash a man within a few hours if he wanted to. And he’s like a MacGyver, making impromptu bombs out of sticks and bubble gum and shit. I recruited him directly myself after I worked with the SAS on a couple special missions.”

Crenshaw and Regan then discussed the profiles of Tao Recoyama, Russ Logan and the team’s pilot, Jay Jarrett, codename J-Bird. Regan was amazed at the fact that Reco, DELTA BLACK’S reconnaissance expert, had been recruited from a mythic assassin group from Japan. Russ, a good old boy from Tennessee who joined the marines right out of high school, was an award-winning sharp shooter and actually won the marine sniper competition two years in a row. That was all he needed to do to get Crenshaw interested. Finally, there was J-Bird, who looked like a typical California frat surfer dude but was one of the best young pilots the Air Force had ever seen, at least in Crenshaw’s opinion. When it was all said and done, Regan seemed genuinely impressed with the team’s diverse set of skills.

“Now, I’d like to ask you a question or two,” Crenshaw said. “What makes this medallion so invaluable that we’re riskin the lives of my team?”

Regan smiled gently and nodded, succumbing to Crenshaw’s quid pro quo.

“This might be hard to believe, but if we do not accomplish these objectives in short order, retrieve this object and contain the power it can potentially unleash, the fact that our national security is endangered will be the least of our problems and the understatement of the ages. What is at risk here, General, whether you can swallow it or not, is mankind's existence - at least as we know it today."

"Hmmm...," was Crenshaw's only response, as he clenched his jaw and peered into the eyes of Regan. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and Crenshaw could not tell if this was just more DaVinci code bullshit or if Regan was telling the truth.

“What, is it some type of nuclear time bomb?” Crenshaw asked.

“No, it has nothing to do with nuclear materials actually, and it's not so much about wiping each other out, although we will experience the annihilation of humankind on a level we've never seen. My point is, it's not harnessing the ability to conquer nations and destroy life that concerns us the most...it's the fact that whoever controls this power might have the ability to conquer death.”

At a gut level, Crenshaw sensed that Regan was not bluffing. Of course, he would never admit to anyone in a million years, but the paper-pushing empty suit just gave the old soldier a chill.

"<<"Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 ">>"

Would be very interested in your thoughts on the story. Please click the comments link below and provide a critique.

Chapter 2

2009-09-21T00:08:00.037-05:00

CHICKAMAUGA, GA

Standing in the small graveyard that lie within earshot of the famous Chickamauga Battlefield, Tom Septer and his partner Dermot Loftus watched as an employee of Chickaoaks Cemetery raised a coffin inch-by-inch from its grave. Chickamauga was the Civil War’s second bloodiest battle, next to Gettysburg, and it was also the last time the Rebels would register victory over Union forces. Now they weren’t digging up the remains of some old Civil War hero, but rather a man that used to love participating in the town’s annual reenactments. The gray headstone read: “General Dale Caldwell Senior” 1939 – 2009.

Dermot’s flashlight cut through the darkness of the ancient burial ground as it guided a wide-eyed young man operating a small crane-like contraption, a kid in his late teens who had been working the literal graveyard shift. The engine hummed and pulleys squeaked as the machine pulled a mud-caked sarcophagus from the earth. An ornate cross was carved into the cherry-stained thick wood and below the cross was an artistically etched and colorful rendition of the Confederate flag.

An empty coffin wouldn’t change the mind of Tom Septer, if that’s what they found when they finally removed the lid; he was confident the corpse didn’t dig itself out from six feet under and skip through the cemetery gates. It would take a lot more to crack Septer’s shield of reason.

The fact that the nine witnesses that he and Dermot had interviewed earlier that day had provided precisely the same testimony, down to the most infinitesimal detail, still hadn’t convinced doubting Thomas. He knew the inquisitive method employed by SECTION ZERO would, per usual, shine strong to elucidate the truth.

After working for the FBI’s special paranormal investigations unit for nearly 15 years he had surprisingly failed to ever witness the supernatural, always seeming to arrive after all of these “miracles” occurred. He figured the explanation for his poor timing had less to do with his penchant for running late and more to do with the fact that all of the incidents – including the ghost stories, UFO sightings, alien kidnappings and crying Virgin-Mary statues - were one hundred percent bunk.

The only thing interesting about this current investigation was that SECTION ZERO was contacted directly by D.C.’s top brass, including senior officials from the Pentagon. Why in the world the Defense Department was interested in ghost sightings in a podunk town a stone’s throw away from where they filmed the movie Deliverance, Lord only knows.

The people they had interviewed earlier today were certainly convincing, he had to admit, as he reflected upon one of these discussions. Septer’s armpits and back had been drenched with sweat from getting baked in the afternoon sun as he and Dermot stood in the gravelly parking lot of Darrel’s, a greasy spoon restaurant that rested on the Tennessee / Georgia border. Sally, the owner’s daughter, had led them outside of the diner but some of the “riff-raff”, as she called them, had followed. Sally was the third witness that allegedly spotted the incarnate soul of Dale Caldwell Senior roaming through the ancient Chickamauga battlegrounds.

“Then he comes runnin through the battlefield a whoopin and a hollerin. We were thinkin it was just another prank by that silly son of a bitch Dale Junior,” Sally Herbert had said. “Uncle Dale was just put in the ground not more’n three days ago and his own son - to dress up like his dead daddy tryin to scare us and all."

Tom’s head snapped back, struck by the language of the young southern belle whom he noticed had a tooth missing from the right side of her mouth. Septer loathed himself and his Ivy League superiority for the way he judged folks down here. Little did this young gal know, he thought, that the GQ-looking jerk in her presence contemplated suicide on a daily basis. The best shrinks money could buy diagnosed Mr. Septer as an egomaniac with an inferiority complex - a lovely combination. Little did she know Septer was an angry alcoholic who, although he hadn’t drank in five years, hadn’t been to an AA meeting in two, which had turned him into what alcoholics refer to as a “dry drunk.” And although Tom never felt like drinking - he still despised being sober.

“Yup, Uncle Dale was wearin his great granddaddy’s uniform, like he was comin back to win this sucker,” said one Luke Jennings.

Luke was a lanky kid in his twenties who had been wearing a worn Caterpillar baseball hat that sat way too high atop his head for Septer’s taste. Tom assumed the “sucker” he was referring to was the Civil War. Tom also noted Dale wasn’t really his Uncle.

“You didn’t see a goddamn thing,” said Sally as she swung her head and shot a sneer at Luke.

Luke volleyed his own look of disgust and shook his head. He cast is eyes on the ground and kicked a pile of rocks, stuck his hands in his pocket, turned, and then slinked his way back into the restaurant.

“Anyways…me and my husband Ethan...well um, we was neckin on the old battlefield,” Sally said sheepishly, and she pressed her fingers against her lips with an impish grin. "But when we saw Uncle Dale, I thought the resemblance was too dang eerie - there was no way that Dale Junior coulda pulled this one off.”

As Tom studied Sally's expression he came to the conclusion that her face was actually fairly attractive despite a mouth that sprayed abusive language like a garden sprinkler. Throw her into an A4 Audi with a skintight dress, put a Kate Spade purse in one hand, latte in the other, and she’d fit right into the Manhattan Sex-and-the-City crowd.

“Might you elaborate for us on that ma’am? What made it so eerie?” Dermot asked in his smooth lace-curtain Irish brogue.

“Well, first of all, the white hair. Junior shaves his head bald and I woulda have spotted a rug in a second. Plus, I highly doubt Junior’s acne problem went away overnight.”

“How close did you get to him?” asked Dermot.

“Uncle Dale musta come within ten feet of us-”

“Did he look at you? Did he say anything?”

“Yup, right after he passed us he looked back and I swore he spotted me. His eyes glowed a bright ugly green...an unholy green I tell ya....and he mumbled something, but it sounded like nonsense – or some language that I ain’t never heard.”

“Do you have any idea as to the whereabouts of Dale Junior?”

“No sir. If he did pull off a prank like that he’s probably hidin out hopefully in shame…if it wasn’t a prank….wherever he is he’s likely scared to death.”

Tom sighed - he had had enough.

“Well thank you Ms. Herbert," Tom said, wearing a stilted smile, "here’s my number if you have any other information that could help us."

Tom handed Sally his card and Dermot stepped forward, softly clasping her hand with both of his.

“Yes, lass, let us know. If it is Dale Junior, we’ll try to be making sure this doesn’t happen again. Folks must leave the dead to their peace. And like you said, if it isn’t a prank…” Dermot said, trailing off.

Dermot had put on a more sympathetic air, Tom thought, than he ever could have mustered. There was always an immediate bond between true believers.

And now Dermot the true believer and Tom the skeptic waited with bated breath as the teenager removed the lid from the wooden box that was originally intended to be Uncle Dale's final resting place. Both men stepped forward gingerly and leaned over to see what lay inside, as Dermot illuminated the interior of he casket with his flashlight. It was bare. Tom felt a chill shoot up his spine. Despite what he had thought earlier, actually seeing the empty coffin was a bit of a shock.

Tom's paralysis was broken when he caught something moving out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head and saw the shadow of a figure darting behind a mausoleum fifty yards away. Dermot and Tom quickly drew their pistols and began walking towards the massive granite monument while the young worker trembled, hiding behind Uncle Dale's tombstone.

As Dermot and Tom crept around either side of the monument, Septer's heart raced and he tried to hold his breath and not make a sound. He pressed his back against the mausoleum wall, listening for any movements. He took a deep breath and spun to see what was behind the crypt. Nothing. Tom looked Dermot in the eyes who simply shrugged, then he heard a rustling sound coming from behind him which caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand straight up.

“Over there,” Dermot whispered while pointing over Septer’s shoulder.

He spun around and saw him - a man was running towards a cluster of trees in the middle of the cemetery. Tom's adrenaline soared as he and Dermot gave chase. The unknown voyeur skidded to a halt in front of one of the old oaks, jumped onto its trunk, and expertly scaled it, disappearing into its leaves and branches. Tom and Dermot stopped running when they were within 20 yards of the stranger's hiding place. Tom spotted the man perched on one of the highest branches, with most of his face hidden by leaves except for eyes that were pinned open that peered out and gave Tom a shiver. Septer shook off the fear and stepped forward with his gun pointed right between the man's unblinking orbs.

“This is the FBI. Please come down slowly with your arms up...we mean no harm,” Tom called out.

The tree's branches shook as the man squirmed and a small cackle came from the tree that escalated into fiendish giggling. But the laughing stopped abruptly and was supplanted by dead silence. The quietude was broken by spastic uncontrollable sobbing. This guy was more of a manic-depressive than he was, Tom thought, and then his heart leaped into his throat when the man produced a handgun.

“Get down!” Septer yelled to Dermot.

They immediately dove behind a large stone tablet. Both of them laid on their stomachs awaiting gunfire, but none came and they didn't hear anything except their own panting. Tom sat up with his back to the stone and decided to hazard a glance at the armed mystery man. The shadowy figure maneuvered - apparently in an effort to find a more comfortable position from which to operate. The man dropped his head and looked straight down at the ground. Septer again heard the faint sound of crying that ended with a noise that amounted to a half-laugh, half-cry. The man tilted his head toward the heavens and emitted an inexorable string of raspy gibberish.

"Qualis artifex pereo," the man said, repeating the same words, "...qualis artifex ...pereoooo..."

"What is he mumbling?" Septer asked in a hushed tone.

"Bloody hell if I know. It sure isn't Gaelic," Dermot responded.

Dermot's brow creased as he listened to the man's incantation.

"This may sound crazy, but back home in Galway, in my hometown Ballinasloe we had to go to Latin Mass once a month at St. Michael's. Old school Catholicism. I was an altar boy for five years and didn't learn a lick of the Latin...,"

"This is a great tale Dermot, don't think I want to hear you quoting Angela's Ashes right now," Tom said.

"The point is that I'm more than willing ta bet our weeping tree dweller here is utterin the ancient tongue," Dermot said, his brogue always grew thicker when he got excited.

"I'm sure Latin is practically a second language down here," Septer said as he screwed up his face in exasperation.

Dermot frisked himself, producing a pad and pen, and began scribbling.

"I can barely hear the man and am sure he's massacring the language himself with that twang, but it sounds like this, now doesn't it?"

Dermot showed Tom the note which contained the following words: quailus artfax pereo. Tom gave Dermot two quick nods concurring, as Dermot's dictation of the man's mad droning appeared phonetically accurate at the least.

"Only thing I can decipher is one word: 'pereo'. From what I recall it means 'perish' in Latin. Lots of words like that in Catholic sermons, trying to scare the hell outta us sinners."

Tom stuck his head out to see what their target in the tree was up to and watched as the man deliberately placed the barrel of the gun into his mouth. Tom's heart froze.

“N-no!” Septer yelled.

Tom stood up and began running towards the tree, but the man pulled the trigger before Septer could get another word out and a loud bang echoed through the cemetery. Tom cringed as he saw the back of the man’s head violently open up. The body bounced off the trunk and then sat upright on a branch while its head flailed lifelessly. It rocked back and forth like a weeble wobble and then stilled for an entire second before finally tipping and crashing to the ground with a thud.

“Jesus Christ,” Dermot said.

Tom and Dermot sprang up from the ground and rushed to the body. Tom winced and held his stomach from seeing the hole in the back of the man’s skull, some chunks of his head went missing while others hung from tree limbs like bloody ornaments - what Tom thought Jeffrey Dahmer’s Christmas tree must have looked like.

Moonbeams lit up the man’s alabaster pate and Tom noticed the man's dome was void of any hair, which gave him pause as he realized something.

“He’s bald,” Tom gasped.

Septer dropped to his knees and rolled the warm corpse over frantically. The young man was indeed bald, but even more shocking was the fact that pimples dominated his forehead and cheeks, more than they should on a man in his mid-30s.

“It’s Dale Junior,” Tom said flatly.

Dermot was silent, crouching, with his wrist to his chin, seemingly trying to contemplate what all this meant.

“Tom, do you happen to recollect anything from Junior’s file, or do you remember anyone we’ve interviewed so far ever intimate that Junior was some type of peace-nik?”

Tom was on his knees still soaking up the bloody scene, in near shock, wondering why Junior took his own life. He shook his head when Dermot's question finally registered.

“No...why?” Septer asked.

Dermot then raised one of the corpse's hands to show Tom that a symbol had been crudely carved into the flesh of Junior's palm. It was a round circle that contained within it what originally was the emblem for nuclear disarmament. Nowadays, of course, it has taken on a broader meaning and is recognized around the world by most people as the peace symbol.

"<<"Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 ">>"

Would be very interested in your thoughts on the story. Please click the comments link below and provide a critique.

Chapter 1

2009-09-07T23:51:00.044-05:00

ROME, ITALY

Roland Ronovich, team leader of elite Special Forces unit DELTA BLACK, also known to many as simply "the Ghost", felt a calming sensation run through him when the church bells rang signaling the early morning three o’clock hour, as he trained the crosshairs of his rifle on one of the three armed jihadists standing on the church steps.

Roland was positioned one hundred yards away, halfway behind a building which provided him with sufficient cover but also allowed him to lock his scope on the unsuspecting target. Fish in a barrel, Roland thought. He then eased up a bit, lowered his gun and checked his watch. Just a few minutes more.

Roland jerked his head when he noticed a fourth terrorist in a sniper’s position on the church roof, but out of the corner of his eye could see one of the members of his chalk, Tao Recoyama - call sign Reco - efficiently scaling the west wall of the holy edifice, as his black outfit blended with the starless night.

The terrorists struck vigilant poses on the steps of the Santa Maria del Popolo, a notable Augustinian church located less than a mile from Vatican City. These weren't your run-of-the-mill Islamofascists, Roland thought - no sir. They were wearing red turbans.

Roland heard Jack "Hammer" Shane's gruff voice through his earpiece: "Roland...," he said, "did ya see the-"

"Turbans? Yes I did," Roland replied, finishing and then answering Hammer's question.

Red turbans were worn by only one group in the world - a terrorist organization called Adl, which meant “to serve justice” in Arabic. The group was a conglomeration of jihadists from countries like Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan and Pakistan.

And Adl made al-Qaeda look like boy scouts. Members of the group had beheaded a U.S. ambassador on videotape six months ago that was broadcast around the globe on CNN and al-Jazeera.

All three Adl combatants had dark long beards and donned tan-colored camouflage jackets. The middle man appeared to be an Arab with a long, proud nose that was accompanied by a brooding grimace. Just a few feet to the brooding man’s left stood another Arab - an elder comrade whose age was belied by a much grayer beard. The soldier on the far right had a fairer complexion, and Roland guessed he might be a Pashtun from Afghanistan.

"Let me know when you're in position," Roland whispered to his team members through his mic.

"Hammer. Check," Roland heard Jack Shane say, confirming he was ready.

Roland glanced across the street to see Hammer in a similar prone position as Roland, raising one of his bulky arms and giving him a thumbs up sign. Dr. Ian Daniels, medic and psy ops specialist, call sign Doc Ion, was on one knee to Roland’s left and also gave a thumbs up. Then the other team members began whispering in their status to Roland.

"Aura. Check," said Sadie Summers.

Sadie, the team's linguistics and cultural expert, must have made it to the east side of the church. Roland couldn't wait to see the looks on the faces of these terrorists when they are taken down by Aura, the United States' first female Special Forces soldier. A black female to be precise, which would be an affront to their archaic sensibilities, considering a woman couldn't walk the streets without her husband's permission in places like Afghanistan.

"Russ. Check," Russ Logan reported, who was stationed on a store rooftop a block ahead of Roland. Russ was a sharpshooter from Jackson, Tennessee, and far as Roland could tell, the only thing Russ specialized in was cold-blooded killing.

Special Forces operatives typically felt an adrenaline-induced “high” on missions, especially before taking out targets. But for Roland, it was even more - something indescribable - like some sick serenity that made him whole. It was a state of mind and being abhorrent to the average civilian, yet vital to a successful career in Roland’s profession.

But one thing unsettled Roland, namely, the mission's ultimate objective - which was to kill a Vatican priest. Roland was a devout Catholic and wasting bin Laden-looking Islamists was one thing, but killing a holy man of his own faith was an entirely different matter.

****

General Clint Crenshaw provided Roland with a photo of the target in D.C. right before the mission. Father Salvador Mellini, a high-ranking priest on the Vatican Council. The priest was an olive-skinned Italian man, cloaked in a long maroon-colored robe with jet black hair, sunken cheeks, and a long pointy beard. Crenshaw told him that not only must they find and kill this priest, but they had to find an ancient artifact that puzzled Roland: a gold necklace with a round medallion that encircled what looked like a red hippie peace symbol. And that's all he was told, but he concluded the object must be pretty damn precious, considering senior level defense department officials and Crenshaw were both adamant about rescuing the object, lest it fall into the wrong hands. Like Adl's.

And now, everyone would soon be in the right position at precisely the right time - save one. Roland cringed when he heard the heavy breathing of the out-of-shape civilian, and from the corner of his eye noticed the uncoordinated slug’s lack of reflex when he finally clambered into position and slumped against the wall. Mr. Malcolm Giles, archaeologist and journalist extraordinaire.

The pot-bellied, middle-aged Brit had taken quite awhile to even keep up with the group. They were lucky it was the middle of the night or else he was sure to have compromised their position. Unfortunately, Giles was indispensable to the mission, a sentiment that came from the very top of the rank and file. Sweat poured down Giles's face profusely as he breathed heavily sitting with his back against the wall.

"Malcolm...bloody check," Giles said while panting.

It was a sad attempt at sarcasm by Giles that Roland sensed masked a deeper fear. It was finally becoming real to Giles, evidenced by the ghastly expression on Malcom's face. Roland took note at how Malcolm's demeanor had changed quite a bit since they first picked him up just a few hours earlier.

Mr. Giles wrote a world-renowned syndicated geopolitical and op ed column that appeared in nearly every major newspaper on God’s green earth. One could often see Mr. Giles’s mug across a number of political cable news shows dribbling polemics and enlightening the world with his well-informed opinions on international affairs, at least those who could grasp all of the words the verbose curmudgeon spouted. Not to mention that the godless Giles proudly prayed at the altar of atheism, and most deplorable was the fact that the heathen was also a commie Trotskyite.

They had picked up Giles in a Black Hawk on a hill on the outskirts of Rome, who had been outfitted in a floppy tan leather hat and a saddlebag that draped across his shoulder.

“He’s getting a bit old to be dressing up like Indiana Jones,” Roland had said out of the corner of his mouth, which was followed by a few snickers from the rest of the squad.

Malcolm climbed into the chopper and removed his hat, revealing cold gray eyes, a sarcastic sneer and unkempt salt and pepper-colored hair and beard. Roland was caught speechless when he realized the man had a half-empty glass of scotch on the rocks in his hand. Silence ensued as DELTA BLACK collectively stared at the insolent devil as he sipped on his concoction.

Mr. Giles glared back at the onlookers, and a palpable tension thickened within the confines of the small helicopter. Malcolm broke the quietude with a smirk, as if amused by the group’s outrage.

“Well, bloody hell, I do extend to you my most sincere apologies, my dear soldiers of fortune. I have failed you miserably already…as I did not bring enough Talisker for the whole cheery club of us to share. Because, if you are anything like me, then you too must enjoy the hell out of getting cooked before going off to slay holy men,” Giles said.

Malcolm smiled, winked one of his bloodshot eyes, raised his drink, and downed the rest of the scotch. He shook the glass a tad to indicate it was empty and none need worry, and as his eyebrows creased upwards he said: “Lovely.” And then belched.

It was Mr. Giles during the flight over to the landing zone who ironically put the fear of God in Roland, because Giles provided some alarming specifics about their little adventure.

“It will be very hard to kill the priest, by the way, Mr. Ronovich. Mainly because... he’s already dead,” Giles had said.

Roland humphed at first, but Malcolm seemed dead serious for the first time. Giles continued.

“I know it sounds crazy. But I am a reliable source on this one. I actually watched him cut his own throat just a few days ago, when he accompanied me on a dig. Some of the locals believe the site we were exploring was cursed because it was located beneath Golgotha– where Christ had been crucified. Thus, some evil must have drove Mellini mad. But I think they are all crazy and Mellini was mad to begin with.”

Giles told Roland that he uncovered an ancient map and blueprints of Santa Maria during the dig with Mellini, that contained intricacies of the underground labyrinth that lay beneath the church where they would supposedly find the priest and this precious jewelry from antiquity. Roland guessed Adl must have a copy of the same map, and also wondered where the hell they got it.

Roland's thoughts were interrupted by a voice that gave him a jolt of excitement.

"Reco. Check," said the martial arts and recon guru, the final special operator to signify they were ready for action.

It was time.

****

Roland barely breathed while his finger lightly teased the trigger of his weapon, a special operations combat assault rifle (SCAR) fully equipped with silencer, as he lined up the shot.The soldier with the graybeard happened to glance over at the man in the middle and the elder Arab’s jaw dropped. Graybeard grabbed his partner’s arm gawking at a small glowing red dot that had materialized out of nowhere, smack in the middle of the brooding man’s forehead. Before the elder could do anything, Roland squeezed the trigger and launched two rounds at the speed of light. A swooshing sound filled the air and graybeard watched in horror as the glowing red dot on his friend’s forehead was replaced by two bloody bullet holes.

Then everything happened at once. Sadie Summers with her long lean legs popped out of nowhere from the east side of the church and double-tapped shots into graybeard’s temple. At the same time the sniper from the church roof fell from the sky and plopped right next to graybeard with a knife in his back. And as all this was happening, Russ Logan had finished off the Pashtun with perfect marksmanship.

1 minute elapsed. Four dead terrorists. Giles stood frozen with mouth agape, likely never seeing, nor even imagining anything like the proficient massacre.

Everyone rendezvoused on the church steps. Roland paused for a nervous few seconds before he nodded to Hammer who gripped the large iron handle and opened the church door.

Roland’s heart jumped as he heard the sound of footsteps that seemed to be fading. He peeked inside and saw a terrorist jetting down the main aisle towards the altar. Roland unsnapped a handgun and silencer from his belt and aimed it at the fleeing man’s back. The terrorist dropped to his knees and attempted to yank open a trapdoor in the floor. But before the jihadist could do so, Roland fired two rounds between the man’s eyes.

As they shuffled down the main aisle, Roland was awestruck by the ancient architecture, the ornate gold mosaic on the dome ceiling with painted depictions of God at the center and gold-lined boxes containing the images of angels with big feathery wings. On the sides of the church were small alcoves that housed marble images of figures like St. Peter and St. Augustine.

Giles had told the team a tale earlier about how the evil emperor Nero's ashes were buried beneath a walnut tree where the church now stands, and how folks had reported hearing Nero calling to them. In 1099 Pope Paschal II had the tree chopped down and performed an exorcism ritual on the site. Childish folk tale, Roland had thought at the time, but right now it didn’t seem so puerile.

Roland stopped in his tracks when he saw an eerie bronze statue of Christ that seemed to defy the laws of gravity, impossibly hovering to the right of the altar. Even creepier, behind the trapdoor was an image of St. Michael the Archangel battling Satan. Roland fixed his eyes upon the grotesque image of the demon, as it practically seemed alive. Roland shook his head and moved on.

When they came upon the altar that was shrouded in darkness, Roland opened the trapdoor slowly, revealing a never-ending winding staircase that disappeared into pitch blackness. Roland locked eyes with Giles who leered back with intensity.

Roland thought of Father Mellini's face and shivered, grabbed the scapular draped around his neck, kissed it and gave the sign of the cross. He looked each team member in the face, nodded and began descending the stairs, wondering what type of abomination they would find beneath.

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