“Fly, yes,” Tom answered confidently.
Hellen was not content with that, however. Why did she sense there was a catch?
“Land, no,” he added, as he kicked in the door of the Harbour Air Malta office. Hellen decided not to ask any more questions. She had no choice now, anyway. Tom searched the small office, found the key box, and took all the keys in it. One of them would fit. Then they ran back to the harbor where the planes were moored. Tom grinned when he saw the Cessna. He tried a few keys, found the right one, and climbed into the plane. Hellen hesitantly unfastened the Cessna’s mooring ropes and climbed into the copilot’s seat beside Tom, who was studying the countless lights, buttons and levers in the cockpit. Hellen looked at him doubtfully.
“Don’t worry. It’s like riding a bike,” Tom said as he started the engine. The plane began to move.
60
Cessna 172 over the Mediterranean, about 300 miles from Barcelona
Tom looked at the GPS and then at his watch. “Two hours to Barcelona.”
Hellen was about to say something, but an incoming radio call interrupted her.
“It must be Noah. Maybe he’s gotten somewhere with Atlas.”
“There’s that word again: Atlas. What is it?” Hellen asked.
“Atlas is a union of all 38 European counterterrorism units. The Barcelona operation is the first joint exercise by the Atlas states. It’s a stupid idea, actually. The teams aren’t working together very well, at least not yet—but it doesn’t matter. Maybe Noah was able to get the big boys to at least consider our warnings.”
“Cloutard’s in Barcelona, too!” was the first thing Noah said. “He called me and told me he’d trailed Ossana across half of Europe. She’s here, here in Barcelona, and she met with Guerra here, your very special friend.”
Noah brought Tom and Hellen up to speed and told them what Cloutard had observed.
“I figured as much after the bitch tried to kill Cloutard and me,” Tom fumed. “So they’re all in bed together, and Count Asshole’s in charge of the whole outfit.” Suddenly, another radio message cut their conversation short.
“Unidentified aircraft heading two-niner-five, this is USS Ronald Reagan. Identify yourself. Over.” The radio message was repeated immediately with slightly more urgency. Then the voice said, “You are in a military training area. Alter your course immediately. Over.”
Hellen, startled, turned and looked at Tom.
“And now this,” he sighed.
“This is Niner Hotel Mike Charlie Romeo Foxtrot, Lieutenant Thomas Wagner speaking, Austrian Special Forces Cobra, part of Atlas Command. We are en route to Barcelona to prevent an assassination attempt on the Pope. Over.”
Tom released the talk button and turned to Hellen. “They’re never going to believe us.”
Radar Specialist Carlson on the aircraft carrier below raised an eyebrow, but he was not particularly impressed.
“I repeat, you are in the military training zone of USS Ronald Reagan. Turn to heading zero-six-zero immediately. Over.”
Radar Specialist Carlson turned to his commanding officer.
“Sir, I have an unidentified aircraft on heading two-niner-five. The aircraft’s transponder is offline, and the pilot said something about a terrorist attack on the Pope in Barcelona. I can’t find a filed flight plan, either.”
“Who’s this lunatic?” the CO muttered, bending over the large radar display. He donned a headset and said, “Identify yourself, pilot. Over.”
Tom repeated his original statement and added, “Also, we do not have enough fuel to change course. Over.”
The commanding officer snapped his fingers and Private Carlson typed Tom’s information into a computer terminal. Seconds later, Tom’s photo and bio appeared on the screen—alongside the Interpol BOLO.
“Pilot, are you trying to tell me you want to prevent an assassination attempt on the Pope? My information suggests that you’re the terrorist here. Well, son, either you change course immediately or you’re going to learn all about the firepower of the United States Navy. Over.”
The CO turned to his radar operator. “Who’s in the air right now?”
“Lock and Dookie, Shorty and Butcher,” Carlson said instantly.
The CO nodded. With a concise radio message, he redirected the two F/A-18s onto an intercept course, and a minute later they were flanking the Cessna. One of them moved in front of Tom’s plane and waggled its wings—the internationally accepted sign to follow him.
The voice of one of the pilots crackled on the radio. “Change course, pilot. You are in a military training area. If you do not comply, we are authorized to take you out.”
Hellen, helpless, stared fearfully at Tom, who was a little rattled now himself.
“Noah, can you call somebody for me and patch him through to the radio?”
The F/A-18s’ request was repeated. Then the lead jet dropped back to its flanking position, and the two jets drifted dangerously close to the Cessna.
“Who do you need to speak to so urgently?” Noah asked.
“The admiral,” was all Tom said.
The line went quiet for a second before Noah came back on.
“You sure?”
“Yes. And hurry, we’re running out of time.”
“Last resort, you can try to divert a missile with the flare gun. They’re heat-seeking,” Noah joked, already dialing the admiral’s number.
“My God, Tom, they’re going to blow us out of the sky!” Hellen peered fearfully left and right out of the window of the Cessna. Six thousand miles away, Admiral Scott Wagner’s cell phone rang at the US Naval Base San Diego. He picked up.
“Uncle Scott, hi, it’s Tom. Long time no hear—how are you? Look, I’ve run into a patch of trouble here and I figured maybe you could help. I’m in a light plane over the Mediterranean, and I’m currently flanked by two Navy F/A-18s. Looks like they’re going to blow me out of the sky at any moment.”
Admiral Wagner was famous for his poker face; it had won him the base poker tournament years before. But even he could not hide his astonishment now.
“Tom? What the fuck have you landed yourself in this time?”
“I’ll explain later. I just need you to get in touch with the USS Ronald Reagan right now. Get them to call off their guys, or we’re going to be a little pile of ash any minute.”
Admiral Wagner was not a man of many words. “I trust you, Tom. Consider it done.” He hung up and bellowed from his office into the anteroom, where his assistant sat.
“Connect me with the commanding officer of the USS Ronald Reagan, fast.”
Naval aviator Lieutenant Daniel “Shorty” Lane had only recently transferred to the USS Ronald Reagan. Today’s mission was one of his first and he was feeling nervous, which annoyed the hell out of him.
How do you ever expect to make it as an elite pilot if you have to change your shorts after escorting a seaplane? he thought. His hands trembled and he clenched the control stick of the 250-million-dollar fighter. It was less the fear of his own death that bothered him, however, than the fear of disappointing his old man. In his family, service to God and country came first—no ifs, ands or buts, and no failure tolerated. He had completed his education, as tradition demanded, quickly and with distinction. Being a naval aviator, however, was not his calling. For him it was only a job, and one he’d prefer to give up sooner rather than later. The thought that one day he’d get an order that might force him to take the lives of thousands of people—or even just one—was unbearable to him. A new order dragged him out of his morbid thoughts.
“Turn onto heading one-six-five. Prepare warning fire,” the CO ordered the two pilots.
Here we go, Lieutenant Lane thought. Tense, his adrenalin level rising, he and his far-more-experienced wingman Butcher did as they were told. The two F/A-18s broke off their flanking positions and turned off to port and starboard, curving away and coming around into firing position.
“Not good . . . They�
��re going on the attack. They really plan to shoot us down!”
“I hope your uncle didn’t think you were telling him a bad joke,” Hellen said. “It’s what I’d expect in your family. Let’s hope he really has the influence you think he has.”
The next moment, one of the planes opened fire. Tom, his heart in his mouth, swung the wheel hard, but the twenty-millimeter cannon fire flew right past them anyway. Just a warning shot.
“Heyyyyyyy!” Tom shouted in surprise, and Hellen screamed. Tom quickly pulled the plane back on course and they flew onward.
“Abort! Abort!” Lieutenant Lane heard the CO say. He would not have been able to pull the trigger anyway. His wingman, however, had obeyed the order without hesitation.
“Return to the carrier. Over.” The radar specialist was on the line again. Someone’s in trouble, he thought. But thank God this mission’s over.
“My apologies, sir,” the CO said, on the radio now to Tom. “Admiral Wagner’s just filled me in. Your flight path is clear. We’re in touch with the Spanish authorities. You shouldn’t encounter any more problems. Good luck, soldier.”
The radio fell silent and Tom looked at Hellen with a cheeky grin. Hellen was speechless, but obviously relieved.
“Still there, Tom?” they heard Noah ask.
“Yep. Uncle Scott came through,” Tom answered.
“You better get your ass here fast. Meet me in about forty minutes at the public viewing area, at La Monumental. Can you do that?” Noah asked.
“No problem. See you there.”
As they approached the coast, Hellen asked, “How are we going to get to downtown Barcelona in forty minutes? We’ll never manage that. And where exactly do you plan to land? There are small boats everywhere. Probably people swimming, too.”
“No sweat. We’ll take a short cut,” Tom said.
Oh God, she thought. She clutched her harness and sank back as deeply as she could into her co-pilot’s seat.
“What are you doing?” she asked as Tom turned north and the plane swung into a wide curve, heading straight for the city.
“Like I said, a short cut,” Tom replied. “There must be a few blocks closed to traffic around the Sagrada Familia and the public viewing area.”
“Yes . . . and you’re telling me this why?” Hellen said, already suspecting the worst. “You’re not planning to land in the middle of Barcelona, are you? There’ll be hundreds of people down there. Thousands!”
“They’ll move when they see us coming,” Tom said with conviction.
He turned the plane back to the west and lined up to land on the Avinguda Diagonal, one of Barcelona’s main arteries. He dipped the nose of the Cessna a little too quickly and Hellen let out a sharp cry.
“Tom, please don’t! You’re putting hundreds of lives in danger just to avoid running a few blocks.”
She looked out the window and froze. Trees. As far as she could see. They lined the street, which was several miles long and about 150 feet wide, sometimes in rows of three or four. Tom was so low he was buzzing the topmost branches. From the cockpit it almost looked as if they were floating on the treetops, and every now and then the floats crashed through small branches. To the left and right, buildings whipped past. Hellen could literally see into people’s apartments. Tom had slowed the Cessna to just above stalling speed.
Naturally, the people below began to take notice of the plane—it was about forty feet overhead, flying through a ravine of buildings. They stopped walking, and some started filming on their smartphones.
“Tom, you’re out of your mind.” Hellen gripped her harness even harder.
“Trust me,” said Tom, his voice calm and even. “The Cessna 172 is the most forgiving, most robust plane in the world. In the eighties, a guy landed one on Red Square right outside the Kremlin. And he was only eighteen years old, fresh out of flight school.”
“I’m not talking about the plane. I’m talking about those!” Hellen pointed frantically at the trees.
Tom remained a picture of calm. “You’ve heard of Kai Tak Airport in Hong Kong, haven’t you? It closed in the late nineties.” The plane grazed another few branches again. Tom went on, unmoved: “One of the most dangerous airports in the world, they said. Well, this is like that, only easier.” Tom smiled. Hellen looked at him scathingly. Suddenly, he shouted, “Hold on!” and at the same moment abruptly dipped the nose of the plane. The rows of trees came to a sudden end and a clear stretch of road about 300 yards long opened in front of them. Frightened people, phones in their hands, scattered screaming, some running, others leaping over hoods of cars to get to safety as quickly as they could.
Tom put the machine down hard and immediately slammed on the brakes. The plane abruptly slowed, but the next row of trees still loomed inexorably. Hellen squeezed her eyes closed, as if that could prevent the worst. Two seconds later, she opened them momentarily only to see the trees getting frighteningly close. The plane finally trundled to a halt, six inches short of a parked car.
“Didn’t I tell you? Scattered like zebras on the plains of Africa.”
Tom unbuckled his harness.+
61
Avinguda Diagonal, Barcelona, Spain
Tom leaned back and took a deep breath. Hellen still had a vice-like grip on her harness. She seemed not to have realized yet that they had actually landed and that the plane wasn’t moving.
“We’d better get out of here or this is going to be a very short visit. We get arrested and it’s all over with saving the Pope,” said Tom.
Tom helped Hellen to unfasten her harness, then both jumped out of the plane and headed for the side of the street, watched by dumbstruck, still-frightened passers-by. Some had their phones in their hands, taking pictures or filming.
“Cool airport you’ve got here in Barcelona,” Tom shouted in his rocky Spanish to a passer-by. “Very central. But man, we’re hungry. Who makes the best tapas round here?” The young man had apparently just posted their photos on his Instagram. Tom took Hellen by the arm.
“Come on, we need to get off the main street.”
They dashed into a side street and threw themselves into the throng moving in the direction of the Sagrada Familia and the public viewing area. All around were police, barriers, security.
“We have to get to the Sagrada Familia as fast as we can. I have no idea yet how we’re going to get inside, but we have to try,” said Tom. “And we need to find out what Ossana is doing here.”
The chaos in the streets of Barcelona was indescribable. The city, lively and tourist-packed even on a normal day, was verging on chaos. Crowds filled the streets, along with a convoluted mess of roadblocks, traffic jams, police cars, security guards, and cordoned-off zones. Tom did not envy his colleagues their responsible to maintain security, especially since they had no idea an assassination was planned. He had been racking his brain ever since they’d left Valletta, turning over all the possible ways you could assassinate a Pope with a sword during a mass. He’d thought it all through countless times and had come up with nothing. The Pope’s security detail would stop any attempt before it got started. Nobody would even be able to get close to the Pope with a sword. Which meant one thing: for the assassination to succeed, Count Palffy and Guerra must have something much bigger in mind. And that had Tom worried.
Hellen spotted Cloutard: with his hat and walking stick, he stood out from the crowd. A smile appeared on Cloutard’s face as he saw them approach, and he and Tom embraced warmly. Cloutard greeted Hellen with a kiss on the hand.
“Enchanté, Mademoiselle de Mey.”
“Thank you for telling Tom where to come and find me,” said Hellen gratefully, but she remained a little suspicious. Unlike Tom, she still saw Cloutard more as an art-smuggler than an ally. But for now they had no choice; they needed all the help they could get. Everything else could be sorted out once this was over. Cloutard gave them a brief account of what had happened since his and Tom’s escape from the burning helicopter, and ever
ything he’d observed Ossana doing.
“I was just thinking that Guerra and Palffy must have a bigger plan,” said Tom. “They can’t stage an assassination in the Sagrada Familia any other way; it’s just not feasible. We have to find out what they’re really up to as soon as we can.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve lost Ossana’s trail,” Cloutard said.
All of a sudden, Tom heard a familiar voice call his name.
“Signore Tom? Is that you?”
Tom turned around and saw the group immediately. The sight of four nuns arranged side by side like organ pipes and grinning at him broadly was hard to overlook. All four of them rushed over to him.
“What are you doing here? Have you found the Shroud yet? Did you save your girlfriend?”
Hellen raised an eyebrow. “Girlfriend?”
Tom shrugged evasively and quickly introduced the nuns to Hellen and Cloutard. “And yes,” he said. “We managed to recover all of the relics. But now we have a whole new problem. Someone’s going to try to assassinate the pope with the Sword of Saint Peter.”
“Madonna mia!” The nuns’ eyes widened. Speechless, they could only stare at Tom.
“I think we can use your help,” Tom continued. “Somehow, we have to get past the barricades and into the Sagrada Familia. You told me you’d been invited to the mass. We have to get in there.”
Sister Lucrezia frowned.
“I could give my habit and access card to Hellen,” said Sister Renata, looking Hellen up and down appraisingly. They were about the same height and build. She nodded. “Yes, it ought to fit her. She could get in easily.”
“And we’re here with Father Giacomo.” Sister Lucrezia pointed to a priest standing a few steps away. She pulled him over by his sleeve. “We borrow his cassock and voilà! Tom’s a priest.”
Taken unawares, Father Giacomo could only stare at the Mother Superior, but he did not dare to contradict her. He merely nodded.
The Sacred Weapon: A Tom Wagner Adventure Page 22