Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (2 page)

The chaplain nodded to the color guard leader and the sergeant commanded under his breath, “
Element, post!
” The six men moved forward in perfect step toward the carriage, three on each side. Without verbal commands, the men reached out, took the casket by the metal handles and lifted together. The casket was light, for it was nearly empty. The men turned crisply, carried the flag-draped casket forward and placed it over the nylon straps that had been stretched across the grave, and then stepped out of the way. The chaplain leaned over, whispered a few words to the widow, and then stood.

In that brief moment of quiet, one of the young army officers took a short step toward the casket. Looking around bashfully, he knelt and placed his hand on the flag. “You are my brother,” he whispered through his tears. “I will love you forever. And none of us will forget . . . .” His voice trailed off. “We will always remember what you did for us . . . what you did for them.” He knelt there a moment, his forehead touching the flag, then forced himself to stand and walk back.

The young mother reached out as he passed. He touched her hand with his fingers before stepping back in place.

Everyone fell quiet as they waited for the service to begin.

The chaplain straightened his uniform before he offered his final words. He spoke of simple things—duty, honor, bravery, truth, the obligations that came with freedom and the price that had been paid to keep people free. Then he nodded to the young widow and lowered his voice. “In a moment such as this, there is little comfort I can give you,” he said. “Indeed, were I to say too much, my words might only diminish your loss. Only time and the Lord can ease you of this pain. But though I don’t have the answers, this much I believe. All men will die. All of us will be called upon to pass on to the other side. But only a few special men are given the honor of dying for a cause.

“In this life, especially in these trying times, all of us will be called upon to make a sacrifice. When, or in what manner that sacrifice may be required, only God knows. All we can do is wait and prepare and pray that when our time comes, we will be ready to complete the task He gives us. All we can hope is that when our sacrifice is over, we might look to the Lord and say the same words that He said: ‘I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.’”

The chaplain paused and looked again at the widow. “I am so grateful there are still men like your husband in this world,” he said in a low voice. “He fought for the freedom of others. That is why we fight wars. We don’t conquer other nations; we don’t occupy other lands. Indeed, the only foreign soil our nation has ever claimed have been tiny spots such as this where we seek a quiet pasture to bury our dead.

“So I speak for a thankful nation when I tell you that we are not only grateful to your husband, we are also grateful to you. We are grateful for your sacrifice and the price that you and your daughter have paid. Your sacrifice is sufficient. Your husband is now home. And I pray the Lord will bless you until you are together again.”

With that, the chaplain took a step back and nodded to the color guard. Two of the soldiers stepped to the casket and lifted the American flag. Another sergeant marched to the side of the dark oak and watched over the grave. The sergeant lifted a silver bugle and began to play.

“Day is done, gone the sun,

From the hills, from the lake,

From the sky. . . .”

The sound of “Taps” was low and mournful and it trailed through the trees and across the wet grass, melting over the graves of the American dead. As the bugler played, the two solders reverently folded the American flag into a perfect triangle, tight and firm. The junior non-commissioned officer held the folded flag, clutching it with crossed arms at his chest. The sergeant took two steps back and stood at rigid attention, then quickly drew his fist from his thigh and up across his chest, extending his fingers as his hand crossed his heart, then moving upward until his finger touched the tip of his brow. He held the salute, the last salute, for a very long time, then slowly, almost unwillingly, lowered his hand.

Stepping forward, he took the flag from the junior non-commissioned officer, then turned crisply to the young wife. “On behalf of a grateful nation,” he whispered as he handed her the flag.

She reached out and took it, placing it on her lap. The soldier passed her the Congressional Medal of Honor, and she clutched it in her hand. Then the soldiers turned together and moved to the side. The bugle faded away and the silence returned.

And with that it was over. The service was done.

At least it should have been. But no one moved, for it seemed as if there was something left unsaid. Every eye turned to the widow and her child. The young mother glanced down at the little girl and nodded. The mother smiled encouragingly and the little girl stood, moved slowly to the casket then turned hesitantly to her mother, who nodded again. The crowd waited in breathless silence. It seemed as if even the Earth held its breath.

The little girl stood for a moment, and the clouds seemed to part. The wind turned suddenly calm and the thunderclouds paused. The girl placed her hand on the casket, then lifted her head. “Daddy, I want to tell you something,” she said in a quivering voice. “I want you to know that I’m going to take care of mommy, just like you asked me to do. I will make her cakes for her birthdays, just like I promised that I would.” Her voice trailed off and she quickly looked away then turned back to the casket again. “I love you, Daddy. I want to believe the things you told me. But daddy, I’m scared. I miss you, I miss you! And there’s so much I don’t understand . . . .”

She fell silent, lowering her head in frustration then closed her eyes. Crossing her arms, she held herself as if in an embrace. No one spoke. No one moved. There was a reverence in the moment that no one dared to break.

How much time passed, no one knew, but the little girl eventually lifted her head. And when she did, something had changed. Something was very different. Her face was calm and peaceful. For the first time in months, her eyes were bright and clear.

Her mother pulled her close.

Then the little girl broke into a smile.

* * *

Behind the thick veil that separated the natural and the supernatural worlds, other souls observed the funeral scene from the shadows of the trees. They were the dark and evil spirits the mortals never saw but often felt.

As had been the case since the beginning of man, these dark ones watched and listened, they studied and they plotted, their evil wafting like a heavy stench upon the world. And their power—Satan’s power—was growing, their devastation having already brought the world to its knees.

A lean-faced spirit named Balaam stood among the unseen crowd. One of the darkest of the evil spirits, he was aggressive and mean. But despite his aggression, he was also insecure, for he had failed his master a few too many times before. Now, he only thirsted for more. More blackness. More evil. He was never satisfied.

As the group of evil spirits looked upon the little girl, seeing her courage and her smile, as they looked out on the strength of her mother and the bravery of the soldiers who stood so near, the dark and evil swarm could not hold back their pain and fear.

Together, they let out a scream of hate so clear it echoed across the wet grass into the very bowels of hell.

Balaam howled loudest among them, for he hated what the mourners represented the most.

Prince Abdullah al-Rahman lay slightly inebriated on a beach on the southern tip of France. Behind him, the
La Villa de Ambassador II
rose above the shoreline, one of the finest resorts on the Mediterranean coast. The water was clear and a perfect blue sky shone overhead. Cyprus trees swayed in rhythm with the wind and the sand was so even it looked as if it had been raked. The grass above the beach was perfectly manicured, the air was clean and the water sparkled with a million diamonds from the Mediterranean sun. Behind him, on the other side of the wrought iron security gates that surrounded the
Ambassador II,
the beautiful resort towns of Monte Carlo and Nice lay equidistant, one city to the east, the other to the west. It was late afternoon as Prince al-Rahman sat alone on the sand, staring out at the sea.

Prince al-Rahman and his entourage had leased the entire
La Villa de Ambassador II
for the week; all 225 rooms, three gourmet restaurants, spa, golf course and private beach. For the next seven days it all belonged to him and his group of 97: bodyguards, concubines, wives and friends. Al-Rahman and his family had come to France to shop and get away from the desert heat, which meant that in addition to the cost of the resort, one of his wives had transferred several million dollars into their petty cash account.

But Al-Rahman wasn’t interested in shopping. He had other things on his mind.

At twenty-five, the prince was young and trim, with a finely sculpted face and almost European features, thanks to his mother, an Italian beauty herself. He had a fine nose and strong eyes over thick lips. And unlike most Arabs, the prince didn’t consider facial hair an indication of his manhood or his devotion to Allah, so he kept his face clean, his beard never more than three or four days old.

One of the wealthiest men in the world, Prince al-Rahman was the second oldest son to King Faysal bin Saud Aziz, monarch of the House of Saud, grandson of King Saud Aziz, the first king of modern-day Saudi Arabia. As a royal prince in the kingdom that held the largest oil reserves in the world, he and his family were unbelievably wealthy. There was no whim or desire, no pleasure or need that the prince could ask for and not have it given to him; and along with his wealth, the royal prince held the reins to great power, for the world economy revolved around oil and the politics of oil revolved around the Saudi Arabia peninsula.

Yet despite all his power and wealth, the prince was unsatisfied and always wanted more. It was as if he had an insatiable hunger, an unquenchable thirst. Like a starving man in the desert who was forced to eat sand, no matter how much he ate it did not satiate what he craved.

And now, what he had been given was going to be taken from him! His idiot father was going to pack up the kingdom and give it away. In the name of democracy, a completely foreign concept in this part of the world, his idiot father, King Faysal bin Saud Aziz, was going to destroy everything his ancestors had worked for in almost 300 years. He was going to give up the kingdom and institute a democratic regime.

All of it gone, in one generation, destroyed! Like a wisp of black smoke, his family’s wealth would disappear.

He had to put a stop to it!

But how? What to do? The prince was completely distraught.

Then he thought of his older brother, the Crown Prince, and his blood boiled even more. Could he trust him? Would he support him? He really didn’t know.

He cursed violently as the bitter rage grew inside him, a hot, burning furnace of equal hate for his father and lust for what he might lose. If it were not for his father . . . if al-Rahman had played his cards right he might have been king one day.

But his father wouldn’t let him.

He was going to give the kingdom away!

The prince pushed his hands through the sand as he sipped at his beer. He was frustrated and angry, more so than he had ever felt in his life. The day before, as he was preparing to leave for France, the prince had fought with his father, a bitter argument that had turned so angry three of the king’s bodyguards had been forced to step between the two men. And though the prince had argued and pleaded until he was blue in the face, his father hadn’t listened, but instead cut him off.

“Leave me, Abdullah!” his father had screamed in a rage. “Leave me
right now
and never speak of this again! I do not have to justify my decision to you. Now go and forget it. I will not discuss it again!”

And so it was that al-Rahman found himself on the beach, fuming, his dark heart growing cold, his mind constantly racing, trying to develop a plan. His father was a fool. No, he was worse than that, he was selfish and stupid, a conceited old man! He cared not a whit for his children! He was a slithering fool, a spider in the corner, a poisonous snake in the grass.

The sun moved toward the sea as al-Rahman raged, leaving a blood-red horizon above the hazy waterline where the prince sipped his beer and kicked at the warm sand.

Then he looked up and saw a withered old man. Al-Rahman had not heard him approach, and he stared up in surprise. Cursing angrily, he pushed himself to his feet. He looked around for his bodyguards, but they were nowhere in sight. The old man stared at him and grinned. “How are you Prince al-Rahman?” he asked in heavily accented English. His voice was weak and raspy, and he smelled of cigar smoke and dry breath.

The prince glared with contempt. “Who are you?” he demanded in a sour tone.

The man smiled weakly. He looked old and decrepit; fine white hair and large teeth were his predominate features, but he moved quickly and with an energy that belied his small frame. His eyes seemed to glow yellow from some inner furnace and al-Rahman wondered quickly how old the man was? He could have been 60 or 100, it was hard to say, for his face was blotched with liver spots but his eyes were young and intense. And though his face seemed ageless, he flashed a fast smile, his white teeth jutting brightly underneath a bony nose.

The old man pointed a slender hand to the east. “Your father is a fool,” he said without introduction.

Al-Rahman glared but didn’t answer. The old man waited, then ran a withered finger across his lips, wiping away a line of dried spit.

“Speak not evil of my father!” al-Rahman sneered angrily.

The old man scoffed, looked away, then glanced down the beach. “Al-Rahman, please, don’t play the loyal son with me. There’s no need to impress me. I know what’s in your heart, and I don’t have the time or inclination for role-playing right now. We need to focus on our enemies, those we both need to bring down.”