Ark of Fire

CHAPTER 90

“I don’t know about you, sir, but I can’t wait to blow the Dome of the Rock to kingdom come.” Fully recovered from his earlier injury, Boyd Braxton positioned himself behind the steering wheel of the 6×6 convoy truck.

“‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,’” Stan replied, well aware that in the eleventh century, the Muslim infidels had attempted to destroy the tomb of Jesus; the reprisal was long overdue. “Gunny, do you know what the word Islam means?”

“No, sir. Can’t say that I do.”

“It means ‘submit.’”

Submit or die.

As always happened when he pondered the true meaning of the infidel’s faith, Stan felt a hot rage surge upward from the base of his spine, his temples pounding with the force of his hatred.

“As God is my witness, I will never be conquered by those people. Never.”

“I hear ya, sir!” Braxton banged his balled fist against the steering wheel. “We’ll teach those ragheads a lesson! Every last one of ’em!”

Pleased with his subordinate’s exuberance—the Lord always looked with favor upon those who executed their duty with a glad heart—Stan slammed shut the passenger door. In the back of the truck, all nine of his men were present and accounted for. The Ark would be well guarded. To a man, they would unflinchingly lay down their lives to protect the holy relic. Although it was doubtful that they would encounter any resistance. The Englishman had readily admitted that British intelligence was ignorant of their plans. And according to the yacht’s captain, the voyage from Haifa had been uneventful.

Soon, in God’s name, he would prevail. Then, on the battle-fields of that most holy of lands, he would triumph. The Ark of the Covenant was the key to victory. As it had been in the days of old when it was used to bring down the walls of mighty Jericho. And so it shall come to pass. The prophecies of Ezekiel were a roadmap to success.

With the last obstacle removed, nothing could stop him. Not the peaceniks. Not the left-wing secularists who railed against religion. Not the passive wusses at the UN. Not even the stalwart Englishman who had proved such a formidable foe.

Respect for one’s enemy, however, only went so far; Stan was well aware that there was a special hell for men like Caedmon Aisquith and his degenerate harlot. Soon they would discover that God’s fire was inextinguishable. The flames of hell burned eternally bright.

And the serpent will be cast into the bottomless pit . . . so that he should deceive the nations no more till the thousand years were finished.

Out of the corner of his eye, Stan saw a shadow approach. The shadow belonged to Rostov, his communications expert. He rolled down the window on the truck.

“What is it?”

An anxious glint in his eyes, the other man said, “We’ve got a problem, sir. Gallagher isn’t answering his cell.”

The muscles in Stan’s belly painfully tightened. He took a deep breath, striving for a calm he didn’t feel.

As he silently begged for divine guidance, he envisioned in his mind’s eye the Tree of Life, not seen since the expulsion from Eden, blossoming atop the Temple Mount.

Blessed with that calming vision, he turned to his communications expert. “Get in the back.” He then turned to his trusted subordinate. “We’re gonna find ’em and run ’em down.”

“Yes, sir!”