CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Inside the Lord’s Thorn command post, an aisle split rows with six chairs on each side. Lieutenants, majors, and captains headed the room. Judging from the number of sergeants, Tim estimated sixteen hundred fighters occupied this ranch. That amount staggered him. Especially since vehicles continued to trickle in.
Sitting near the back, in the front of the sergeant’s row, Tim waited for the meeting to commence. The men around him speculated on the possible missions, the origin of their funding, and the immensity of what two-thousand similar-minded soldiers could accomplish.
Tim knew at his age, he should listen. Intellect arrived through genetics (expanded with study), wisdom through observations (compounded by reflection), commitment—something overflowing in him—increased with vigilance to immediate duty.
Until the day arrived when he’d lead men, he exercised mind, body, soul; and obey orders. He adhered to a dictum of Aristotle which stated, “To become a great leader, you must first be the best follower.”
A hush fell over the room, the sound of boots on compact earth. Tim fought the urge to glance behind him and glimpse their new leader. An active one-star brigadier general had assumed command of their crusade. A crusade intent on establishing a forward base. What lay beyond that vague promise, no one knew. Tim believed the Lord’s Thorn would adopt the mission of eradicating every Atrium on the planet.
A surge of confidence struck Tim as the general passed. Tim didn’t get into all that hippie nonsense about auras, but who would deny certain people carried a presence. The general’s started with wide shoulders, a gray buzz cut, and bronze skin. His arms swayed in precise arcs, striking the same spot on the upthrust as the backswing. Tim hoped to walk like that someday.
When the general did his about-face, it surprised Tim to see the boyish features of a Vietnamese man. He had expected burns or at least one horrible scar. His let down instantly changed to respect: the man knew how to avoid harm.
“Gentlemen, my name is general Trieu. It’s an honor to be here.” He took a position in front of a white markerboard. “Some of you know me,” he nodded to one of the lieutenant colonels in the front row. “Others have heard rumors, but I’ll set them all straight. I’ve resigned my Air Force post to accept a promotion to general of the most important outfit in American history: The Lord’s Thorn.”
A few men barked their support.
He paced lightly and increased the volume. “That is exactly what we will be, gentlemen. We will be the thorn in Satan’s backside. Now, if you don’t believe in the everlasting benevolence of our Creator, or the evils of His nemesis, God help you. If you can’t read the signs of impending doom around the world, I’d prefer you left this pavilion.”
No one stirred.
“This is a fight for our very future. You must understand, and your men must know, that our efforts will be constitutionally illegal. If we fail, we will be branded terrorists. If caught, many in this room will receive death sentences.
“If you’re not willing to pay that price, I won’t consider you less of a man for excusing yourself, but do it now. There is no shame in wanting to preserve your life. It’s a God-given instinct, same as bravery, foresight, and conviction.”
Tim didn’t bother looking around. These men, like him, were committed.
“The second truth may be a little more jarring.” He flipped the white markerboard, exposing the opposite side. A map, of sorts. A large square at one end, numerous squares at the other, a single “road” splitting the connection. From the legend, it looked to have an airport, a hotel, and an Atrium.
The complex seemed unfamiliar to Tim, but seeing an Atrium instilled disgust.
“They named this city ‘Eridu,’ a name chosen by inflated egos. Tomorrow, we storm this compound with violence; learn whether brains or brawn win skirmishes. We bring death gentlemen, to their side and ours. You must know this. Your men must know this.
“Our intel puts forty-eight highly-trained, extremely motivated men with state-of-the-art small arms on the compound. We have over fifteen hundred semi-trained, fledgling mercenaries. Believe me when I tell you, forty-eight, well-disciplined men can defeat a battalion of ragtags. Normally, I’d request three months of intense training to prepare. We lack that luxury. Evil is blanketing the world. Many believe this man, Adisah Boomul, is not only the Devil incarnate, but that he is untouchable, his palace impenetrable.
“Tomorrow, we put those claims to the test.”