“Understood.”
Kimball pulled back from the edge and headed for his team. They stood as silhouettes against the brilliantly lit feature of the gibbous moon, waiting, a band of brothers who were at peace knowing that not all of them would return home alive on this night.
Kimball informed them of their mission, the locales of the MG nests, and the importance of a quick strike and an even quicker exit.
Once the team was apprised of their duties, once every man knew his place in the scheme of personal commitment, they geared for action.
Each man took his position along the edge of the rim, the sudden drop before them straight down and seemingly endless in the dark. They were wearing special jumpsuits called wingsuits, a garment which added surface area to the body in order to enable a significant increase in lift by adding fabric between the legs and under the arms like the expansive wings of a flying squirrel, the ensuing flight a horizontal one from points A to B, the shortest distance being a straight line. At flight’s end a parachute will deploy at a planned altitude and unzips the arm wings so that the person flying can reach up to the control toggles and fly to a normal parachute landing.
Kimball stood overlooking the ledge, then dropped his NVG goggles for his flight over the valley, the world suddenly becoming phosphorous green. He’d be gliding at more than sixty-miles-per hour, only to pull up during his deployment and drop silently into the compound. He would then take measure, and summarily dispatch the guards with calculated aim.
He checked his suppressor-fitted Heckler and Koch MP-5, which was attached to a belt festooning across his chest, and then charged his firearm, a Glock Smith & Wesson. After making an initial check that his combat fighting blades were securely fastened to his shin guards, he took a leap of faith and jumped from the ledge, spreading his arms and legs, his flight taking him toward the compound of the facility in a horizontal plane.
Leviticus soon followed. And then one by one the Vatican Knights jumped, each man leaping into open space until the wings of their suits caught a level plane of flight, and glided closer to battle at speeds nearing seventy-miles-per hour.
In less than two minutes Kimball had to peel back to slow his speed, the fabric fanning out and acting as aeronautical brakes, and deployed his chute. His descent was slow and quiet. And in the sights of his MP-5 he took careful and focused aim, the Quds totally unaware of his advancement, and pulled the trigger in quick succession.
Tap!… Tap!
The Quds went limp, their bodies falling boneless to the ground, apparently dead before their brains even registered the end of their lives.
Kimball landed evenly on the terrain, followed by Leviticus.
“Nice shooting,” Leviticus said as he pulled his chute closed before disengaging it.
But Kimball didn’t comment. The man was focused, intent, and in warrior mode. With Leviticus by his side they got down on a bended knee with their weapons held close, and watched the rest of the Vatican Knights drift lazily from the sky.
They hit the MG nest situated above the facility door first.
The team moved in quiet and catlike. The Quds soldier manning the Browning with his arms draped casually over the weapon while the other sat on top of the sandbags, speaking in Farsi in what seemed to be banter, the other man laughing as if he had just heard something humorous. Their complacency was their downfall; both men taken down and rendered unconscious, their wrists bound with flex cuffs.
The second team at the second MG nest was not as lucky. The Quds team was alert and responsive with their eyes cast forward with the point of the Browning poised to kill. Since the Knights had little opportunity to approach their position, they had no choice but to extinguish them with well-placed shots to neutralize the situation.
Within three minutes both nests were cleared and the landing secured. All that remained was to breach the facility and acquire the Ark. And they had to do it while fending off an elite force.
Kimball stood by the massive vault door leading into the facility and placed the flat of his palm against the cold steel.
His pulse began to race.
The firefight was about to begin.
At 1930 hours an order was mandated by the Prime Minister to initiate a sortie against an unchartered facility located in the Alborz Mountain region, most notably Mount Damavand. The precise coordinates were given and an aerial raid was to commence and end with the complete and total destruction of the facility.
No reason was given for the strike. And no questions were asked.
A dozen F-16I Israeli fighter jets were loaded with heavy payloads, the pilots instructed to terminate the target with such precision that it would take years for the dust to settle.
Lining up on the tarmac the planes took off in timed succession, approximately thirty seconds apart until all the jets were airborne and heading toward Mount Damavand.
In the Prime Minister’s office, as Netanyahu watched his monitor and saw the planes take off, he could sense the heaviness of an oncoming war settling over him like a pall.
The SIV, in collusion with the Turkish government, had set up a post on the Turkey side of the border less than five miles from the Iranian boundary line.
Father Essex was manning the Comm Center, a makeshift camp erected with canvas tents and expensive electronic equipment. The flaps blew wildly with the course of a brutal wind, the heat lamps doing little to abate the chill from his bones, as he monitored feeds coming from the SIV Center at the Vatican, which was helmed by Father Auciello.
Other SIV officials milled about, monitoring radar display screens and intercepted radio chat from the Ukraine to Iran to Israel to the United States, compiling detailed information as world events pressed on. One event in particular emerged from Israel. Apparently the powers that be had ordered an illegal incursion into Iran with the objective to take out a target located at the base of Mount Damavand.
Father Essex knew exactly what Israel’s intent was. Nor did he hesitate to act. He inquired another SIV operative as to the current location of the strike team in flight. The news was not good. When the coordinates were finally given, Father Essex put on his headgear, typed in a command to initiate communication, and spoke into his lip mike. “Romeo-One, this is Base Command. Do you copy?”
The pilot of the Chinook sat idle in the valley below, waiting, until he received word from Father Essex at the Vatican Base Command which was posted at the Turkey/Iranian border.
“Romeo-One, this is Base Command. Do you copy?”
The pilot spoke into his lip mike. “This is Romeo-One. Go ahead.”
“Romeo-One, you need to contact Team Leader Bravo and inform him that IDF has launched their eagles and are heading toward the precision point with an ETA of thirty minutes. Do you copy?”
The pilot looked at his synchronized watch. Thirty minutes? There wasn’t enough time for Kimball to pull off the mission, he considered. Not nearly enough.
“Base Command, do you want me to abort the mission and pull the team?”
“That’s negative, Romeo-One. You need to contact Team Leader Bravo and apprise him of the situation.”