November 9, 2004

The Adventures of Missionary Man: The Call

“Leonard Wilson?”

It had been awhile since Leonard had heard his name pronounced in English, even if the speaker did have a distinctively British accent. Mostly he was used to hearing himself referred to as “Señor Leonardo” on the island nation Republica de las Bananas, where he had served as a missionary for the last four years. His eyes blinked as he looked up from his hammock at the tall man in a trench coat and fedora who stood over him. Not exactly appropriate attire for a tropical island. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, there is something very specific you can to for us. Can we talk?”

“Um, sure…” Leonard sat up in his hammock and rubbed his eyes. One of the easiest aspects of the culture to get used to in Republica de las Bananas had been the afternoon siesta. It was then he noticed the black helicopter resting not twenty yards from where they were, its rotors slowing reluctantly to a stop. “Who are you?”

“My name is Basil Hamilton, and I represent a top secret organization called World Missionary Defense.”

“WMD?”

“Yes. We were going for a name that would be, well, elusive. WMD was formed a year ago to facilitate the work of missionaries around the world. We have spent the past few years setting up the infrastructure, and now we are ready to put an agent in the field. That’s where you come in.”

“I don’t understand.” Leonard was beginning to wonder if he was still sleeping.

“Missionaries around the globe face many threats, which up until now they have had to deal with alone. We suspect that these threats are not random, and are organized by people or groups who stand to lose if the Gospel spreads further. Simply put, our job is to identify the threats; your job will be to eliminate them.”

“Why me?”

“We did some thorough research.” The Englishman pulled a piece of paper out of his trench coat. “You spent four years with the Army Rangers…”

“So?”

“…including a stint in Afghanistan, also a couple of years in Army intelligence.”

“I’m sure I’m not the only one who...”

“You were rated ‘expert’ in marksmanship.”

“Well, that was more than a hobby than anything else.”

“It would appear you had some other 'hobbies' as well. You are licensed to operate anything that flies. You are a blackbelt in a number of martial arts, including karate, tae kwan do, and fencing. Mr. Leonard, as you Yankees would say, you are one bad dude. Actually choosing you was somewhat of a no-brainer.”

“You forgot my stamp collection,” muttered Leonard under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Look, Mr. Hamilton, you’re forgetting one very important thing. I have a ministry here. What about that? I can’t just leave. I have a congregation to attend to.”

“Oh, that is a plus, actually. You will continue to carry out your ministry in Republica de las Bananas, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. It will be a vital part of your cover.”

Leonard ran his hand through his sandy brown hair, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hamilton, but my work here is quite consuming. We have good church started in Ciudad Capital, and things are going great. I could not possibly take any time out for whatever—pardon my expression—crackpot scheme you and your friends have cooked up.”

“Mr. Miller, things may seem to be going well for you here, but they are not for many of your colleagues around the world.”

“Then I suggest you find someone else from one of those more troubled parts of the world to help you out. I am not interested.”

“Ah, but there lies the problem. You see, there is nobody else. Our profile of you indicates that you are uniquely qualified for this task. Should you refuse, as you have every right to do, we must begin from square one.”

“Well, sorry to send you back to the drawing board, but I guess that is going to have to be the way it is. As you Brits say…well…ok…I can’t actually think of anything you Brits would say. But I am definitely not interested.” Leonard stood up and stretched.

“I am certainly sorry to hear that,” Basil replied. “I wonder if you would do one thing for me.”

“What’s that?”

“Take this watch.” He handed over a rather ordinary-looking digital wristwatch. “Should you change your mind, simply press the red ‘m’ you see on the face.” Mr. Hamilton turned to go. As if on cue, the rotors of the waiting helicopter jumped to life.

“Wait a minute!” Leonard stood up. “What happens when I press the ‘m’?”

Mr. Hamilton smiled ever-so-faintly. “I guess you will have to find that out for yourself.” With that, he turned and jogged toward the helicopter.”

“The target is returning to the helicopter.” The figure crouched in the bushes adjusted himself slightly to be able to hear the response better on his satellite phone.

“Excellent. Wait until it is in the air, then waste it. And Miguel?”

“Senor?”

“Don’t fail us.”

“Si senor.” Miguel pocketed the sat phone and hefted his RPG launcher.

Leonard watched as the helicopter lifted off and headed out over the ocean. His house was located in an ideal setting next to the beach, surrounded by palm trees, with the jungle directly behind him. It was secluded, and allowed him some repose from the pressures of his church-planting ministry. A dirt road lead from his house, about seven kilometers to Ciudade Capital.

The missionary was just about to turn around and head back to the house, when the helicopter exploded, raining down fire and debris into the water about one hundred yards from the beach. Leonard stood rooted to the spot for just an instant, and then instinct kicked in. He hit the ground and crawled as quickly as possible to his house.

“Target destroyed, senor,” Miguel was on the sat phone again.

“Excellent work, Miguel.”

“What about the other guy?”

“He is not a player, and we do not want too many people asking questions. The important thing was to take out this operation before they get on their feet. Right now what remains of their helicopter is on its way to the bottom of the Atlantic. As to our American friend, he is being given a powerful warning as we speak. I would not be surprised to see him ‘look for other ministry opportunities stateside’ very shortly.”

Leonard Wilson had never expected to see anything like this on the mission field. He had dedicated his life to missions after his tour with the military had ended, at a missionary conference where a retiring missionary had showed slides about the needs in Republica de las Bananas. A couple years at Bible College, a couple more on deputation, and Leonard had arrived on the field just in time to replace the retiring missionary who had challenged him in the first place. A year on the field had confirmed that this was the place for him. A small congregation was flourishing, and he had never been more fulfilled.

Now, all of a sudden, that had been blown apart. First a weird, Dick Tracey look-alike with a British accent comes up out of nowhere telling some wild story that he was supposed to believe, then, returning to his helicopter, he gets blown to smithereens.

Leonard’s head was spinning. It took him several minutes before he remembered the watch. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at it. Its face was black, with a rather large LCD screen in the middle. Right below the screen was a button in the shape of the letter ‘m’. The American turned the watch over in his hands for a couple seconds, and then pressed the button.

Posted by Andrew on November 9, 2004 7:55 PM.