The Hand of Christ (5 page)

PFC York realized that his inner voice had blatantly become his outer voice, and, instead of directly responding to the question, replied, “Sir, I am picking up activity in Damascus.”

“
Run diagnostics on your terminal. Look for malfunctions, Private.”

“
Already am.” PFC York knew the procedures: first run diagnostics, confirm functionality of the system.

“
Sir
, Private!” snorted the Captain. Clearly more than irritated, a few heads turned in their direction.

“
Already am, SIR!” he shouted back with just the right amount of disrespect, not enough to be obvious but with the appropriate measurement to be apparent.

PFC York was a
short-timer
; everyone knew it. When one is so close to serving his last day for Uncle Sam, sometimes the soon-to-be-separating soldier is left with an all too familiar military ailment called “STS”: Short Timer Syndrome.

Suddenly left with little desire to be a slave to protocol or fear of retribution, those with STS often displayed subtle symptoms. Recognizable symptoms of those plagued with STS included: a dropped “sir” now and then; less attention on detail; boots that were not spit-shined; uniforms not sharply creased, and a host of other infractions of drill and ceremony.

PFC York had it and had it bad. He could sense the glare from Captain Scott burning into the back of his head but ignored it.

“
Sir, systems diagnostics check out fine. I am running backup confirmation now; aw, shit!” spat PFC York. The boy just couldn’t seem to control himself.

The Captain’s glare intensified at the sudden surge of profanity. Now hovering over PFC York, he chose to let his presence speak for him rather than chastise the Private once more. He wanted to save that for later.

PFC York really hoped backup confirmation would come back negative. Better to let the Systems Technology Support people come in and take down his terminal for repair than to have the alternative. An EDRE was the last thing he needed right now. She would soon be waiting for him and he really didn’t want to mess this one up.

It was the alternative.

“
Goddamn it all to hell!” he said, even less quietly this time.

The Captain now moved within millimeters from York’s ear, and in a baritone whisper that only York could hear said, “I am going to say this one last time York. Cure your STS now, or I will be happy do it for you. Let me hear just one more word inappropriate for this setting, or see one more act of insolence from you, and I swear to all that you find holy that I will take you out the front gates of this hill-side compound, walk you deep into the evergreens and aspens where no one can hear your womanly cries for help, and will proceed to pound the ever living snot out of you.”

York snapped to attention in his chair as the Captain continued:

“
I will then, pick you up, and personally escort your sorry backside to sick call and tell the nurse that you fell down the side of the mountain!”

The Captain moved closer and said, “And York, all of that silly-ass running you do up and down this mountain won’t spare one hair on your backside. Am I making myself clear to you, Private?”

PFC York became even more rigid in his seat – he knew the Captain meant every word that he just said – and respectfully replied, “Yes, sir!”

Captain Scott was a professional soldier, a lifer. On his shoulder were the arched tabs of Special Forces and Ranger. His barreled chest bore a particularly large array of colorful ribbons; many were adorned with multiple oak leaf clusters indicating that he had received more than one award of the same medal, including the Purple Heart.

The one that stood out the most was the Silver Star; it was affixed with a “V” device, “V” for valor. They just don’t hand those out to anyone. Those that receive the Silver Star with “V” device typically do after they have died heroically, or, at a minimum, from a combined near death and heroic experience while in combat. The Captain was a serious and capable man.

Before Captain Scott went to Officer Candidate School (OCS), he had been an enlisted man and a member of the 7th Special Forces Group out of Fort Bragg. He was a Green Beret, a highly decorated and ferocious warrior exemplified by a story all at CORe knew quite well: in October of 1995, Captain Scott had been on a morning run through the North Carolina woods of Fort Bragg. During his run, the humid morning air had been disturbed by violent cracks that rang out from a nearby wood line on the other side of which was a football field. He had recognized that sound as gunfire, distinct to a man with his training and experiences.

He had run quietly and with a trained silence toward the noise. Soon, Scott came across another soldier lying prone in the woods with a cache of weapons and multiple rounds of ammunition.

The soldier had been indiscriminately firing bullets into the battalion of soldiers who had been lined up in formation on the football field. All of the soldiers assigned to the 3
^rd
Battalion of the 82
^nd
Airborne Division had been readying themselves for a morning run. The morning run was to signify 3
^rd
Battalion’s rotation into the 82
^nd
Airborne’s Mission Cycle; the period of time when each soldier assigned to a specified Battalion of the Division of elite paratroopers must be within two-hours of the post in case of an alert.

The paratroopers of the 82
^nd
Airborne Division were able to parachute anywhere in the world and ready to do battle within eighteen hours. One third of the Division was on Mission Cycle at any given point in time.

The shooter had waited patiently in the wood line near the field that overlooked the place where the battalion of soldiers lined up in formation. He began raining bullets on the paratroopers once all of the men from the battalion had taken their places. He fired callously into the throngs of young soldiers; it had been a turkey shoot.

It would later be learned that nineteen men had been shot by the crazed solider. Bullets that had severed their spinal chords paralyzed a few. One soldier – a Captain who was posthumously promoted to Major – attempted a heroic, badger-like charge on the shooter’s position, but perished from a shot to the head. More lives would certainly have been lost had it not been for that Captain’s selfless act.

As the shooting continued, Scott stealthily made his way through the woods and found the man. He fought the well-armed lunatic with nothing more than his bare hands, shattering his radius and ulna bones at the wrist with a debilitating blow to the shooter’s right temple.

Later, at a press conference whilst holding up a newly plastered cast over his arm for the cameras to see, Scott stated, “it wasn’t a fight for my life, but a fight for the shooter’s.”

Captain Scott was a hero and had saved uncountable lives.

Private First Class York cleared his throat and found the right measure of respect. “Sir, backup diagnostics confirms the system is operating and functional.”

Launching into the Standard Operating Procedure (SOP) for alarms, PFC York announced, “Sir, there is a Level-2 disturbance in the Mediterranean quadrant, localized over Damascus, Syria.”

Captain Scott righted himself and turned to the rest of the crew. Everyone had diverted their attention to the obviously tense interchange between Scott and York; when the Captain stood up, all quickly snapped their focus back to their own terminals.

Captain Scott launched into a well-rehearsed diatribe, “Attention on the floor. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a Level-2 disturbance. This is an EDRE. Satellite Control (SATCON): confirm activity, position NRO-1 and 2 satellites over the Mediterranean Quadrant; get me some eyes.”

“
Sir, NRO-1 confirmed, NRO-2 confirmed,” replied the SATCON officer.

“
Give me GPS coordinates on the activity ASAP. HUMINT, can you confirm on ground visual from Intel assets?”

But the Human Intelligence officer had none.

Typically, in an EDRE, the software that creates the drill would simultaneously supply the HUMINT Officer with a pre-written output of onsite human intelligence.

The output that the HUMINT Officer should already have in hand would simulate a report made by some US asset in or near the area of concern. The asset would have visual confirmation of the Level-2 activity. PFC York had never seen an EDRE without one, neither had CPT Scott.

Additional warnings sounded at the terminals of PFC York and the soldier at the terminal immediately to his left; this only happens when the situation is not a drill. As a backup, the detection systems are designed to have redundant functionality should an alarm sound and a drill was not being conducted. Redundancy had just confirmed the reality of the attack.

The CORe team was suddenly aware that an actual Level-2 disturbance was happening in Damascus.

There are five Levels of disturbances: Level-1 usually meant a single detonation somewhere had occurred. These were the most frequent, happening almost daily in the Fertile Crescent Quadrant of Iraq during the recent buildup of hostilities and did not warrant an alarm (unless the detonation was unusually large).

Level-2 disturbances indicate multiple detonations and occurring less than one minute apart. Something was happening in Damascus.

“
Sir, I confirm escalation to Level-3,” shouted PFC York.

Spinning around, CPT Scott could feel his heart beginning to race, and was detecting a growing wetness under his arms. “Private York, say again. Repeat confirmation that we have a LEVEL-2 Disturbance.”

“
Negative, sir. I repeat: I detect and confirm a LEVEL-3 Disturbance.”

Suddenly, the Captain could feel all eyes compressing in on him. The room, usually buzzing with the sound of activity and the whirr from the plethora of terminals, seemed unnervingly quiet. A Level-3 Disturbance indicates an unsuppressed conflict with multiple ongoing detonations of varying mass within five seconds of one another, and over a period greater than five minutes. This was a battle.

Taking a breath in an effort to slow down his breathing, regain control, and to give him a moment to search his thoughts for the necessary protocol, CPT Scott issued his orders, “Satellite Control, position NRO-1 and NRO-2 Satellites into orbit above Damascus. Move NRO-3 into a one hundred click triangulation position. Get it done now!”

The National Reconnaissance Office (NRO) satellites were assets used to monitor activity around the world. The total number of NRO satellites launched atop Lockheed Martin’s Atlas V rocket was classified but rumored to be near thirty-six.

The NRO satellites were fifth-generation spy satellites, and able to see three-dimensionally any visible object from space with such detail that the back of a dime lying in the street could be read on a clear day. They were an especially powerful resource for real time monitoring when triangulated.

Moving NRO-3 into position would take approximately seven minutes, but was necessary to complete the triangulation of the other two satellites.

NRO-3 was currently over India, and monitored the regions of Pakistan and the Kashmir.

“
HUMINT, get me some Intel on the activity. Confirm no US assets present in the area of the Level-3 Disturbance.”

“
Lieutenant Williams, get me the Commander on the line.”

2
^nd
Lieutenant Williams had only been serving at CORe for five weeks. A recent graduate from the University of Wyoming, she joined the college’s Army ROTC program as a way to help pay for college. This was her first assignment after completing the Basic Officer’s Course for Military Intelligence.

Nervously, she dialed the Commander’s direct and private cell phone number.

She had actually never spoken with nor met the Commander, and was justly timid in her attempt to reach him. The Commander’s reputation was widely known and was easily summed up in the derivation of his surname, a derivation that was oft used behind his back: “Colonel Eatshit.”

Colonel Fleetship had commanded the CORe Center for the past five years; it had been a tour of duty long beyond the norm. He was painfully aware that he was put there to quietly ride out the rest of his career until retirement. He would never get his star; to that end he was well aware and his personality and work ethic reflected his contempt.

“
What is it?” the clearly irritated Commander shouted into his cell phone.

Taken by surprise at the terse manner he used when answering the phone, Lieutenant Williams stammered into the line, “Colonel Eatsh…, I mean, Colonel Fleetship…,” cringing at her near devastating mistake, she continued. “Colonel Fleetship, sir, I am reporting a Level-3 Disturbance, I say again, a LEVEL-3 Disturbance in the Mediterranean Quadrant and localized over Damascus. Please hold the line for the Duty Officer.”

CPT Scott picked up the line to brief the Commander, “Colonel, there is a…”

Unable to finish the sentence, the Commander interrupted, clearly annoyed, and barked at the Captain, “Run diagnostics, get backup confirmation and, Scott, don’t call me until you do!”

“
Excuse me,
sir
,” CPT Scott said with perhaps a bit of his own well-placed insolence, “diagnostics and backup are already complete. Redundant systems confirm the attack. Sir, this is real.”