Flight scared the fuck out of me. My two training sessions at The Point were nothing like this fast dive and glide. Finally understood why there’s no window in a wingsuit. Better if you can’t fucking see. It does the flying, your job is to try not to puke. The robotic stealth-gliders took us to the edge of what a human can survive, but we all got through the Italian air defenses without drawing any flack. I felt the thing slow, hit its back-thrusters and land upright in a narrow space between the back of the garage and a tall, stone perimeter wall. Sliding the hatch open gun-first, I saw Yamagawa climbing out of his suit covered in his spaghetti lunch.
The polymer gliders were melting into puddles of plastic and we were halfway around the garage, when World War VII broke out on the second floor of the main house. Pulserfire, gunshots, charges going off, it was a fucking mess. About then word came over the com line that Squad 2 wasn’t gonna make it. Italians heard they were up to something and shut down the base’s airspace before they could take off. Must have been some heavy hitters in on the kidnapping.
Was watching the upstairs light up with pulser blasts, waiting for Yamagawa to tell me what to do, when side door of the garage banged open about 10 feet from us and five guys went tearing for the house. We waited for the last one to clear the garage before putting them down. They never saw us or heard our silent weapons. War is some evil shit.
First men I ever killed. Securing the inside of the garage, I spotted their empty and overturned chairs circled around a small table. They had been playing dominoes. Yamagawa motioned me upstairs to check the roof while he headed toward a line of wheeled cars parked in the big garage.
Rooftop landing pad was empty, no snipers to kill, no air cars to fly us to safety. Feinstein came on the com line sounding like he was ordering a sandwich from the PX. “You boys have any luck?” I could hear lasblasts over the line and see flashing through window curtains. Yamagawa said, “Roger that,” and before he could finish the captain talked over him. “No more chatter on the com line.”
By now, even a greenhorn like me could tell the mission was blown. We didn’t know who the fuck was listening or who we could trust.
Yamagawa had two antique cars plugged into the wall when I got back. Both were big, armored boxes built in the late 2090s, back when families with money still owned at least one car with wheels. “I get the Fiat, you take the Benz,” he said, motioning me to the red one.
All I had ever driven were hovers and air cars. I checked for booby traps and bombs, got all the doors opened and figured I’d leave the driving to one of the senior guys. The squad was full of competitive alphas. Somebody’d take the wheel.
Without a word on the com line, Feinstein and three soldiers came pouring through the side door, along with two shocked-out kids, two bloody women, a dying baby and a dead lieutenant from Pittsburgh named Rodriguez. Bad guys shot him through the neck. Turned out all the blood on the women was from the little boy.
Feinstein and the guys were heading family to the garage when nanny pulled blade from her sleeve and stabbed kid in his mom’s arms. Medic told me about it later. Said he was right next to them when it happened. Guys were shook about Rodriguez and let their guards down. Nothing they could do but zap the nanny to knock her out and continue on. Medic couldn’t get the baby away from the mom to work on him so they ended up zapping her too.
Explains the dazed look on the captain’s face as he pointed to the mic on his helmet and made a slash across his throat. No talking. We were fully blown. Pointing, he motioned me to take the kids, medic and Rodriguez in the Benz. He and the rest of guys piled into the black Fiat with the wife and nanny. Twice he signaled me to wait a full minute before opening the garage door fronting the Benz. He made that clear, wait a minute then drive west. He’d be in touch.
Fiat didn’t get halfway out its door before it was taking hits. Good thing cars from war-filled 2090s were basically tanks. Yamagawa clipped the edge of the door, chirped the solid tires and took off, taking all the Italian drones and hover guns with him.
I gave it five minutes. Five minutes of listening to the medic trying to save the baby and the two older kids bawling their eyes out. Five minutes of figuring out which pedal does what. Five minutes to fold Lt. Juan Rodriguez into the trunk.
Activating the door, slowly pulling out, I turned left, away from the rising sun and thousands of spent cartridges on gray bricks. Riding in a hover, you don’t feel bumps and holes like you do in a wheeled car. Couldn’t go fast without bouncing the medic and baby around. Drove slow and watched for trouble. In a dusty town square of a hill town that won’t be more than a few miles from this cave, we passed by people filling old plastic pails and dented aluminum pots with water from a wagon pulled by a donkey.
Behind the tinted, armored windows, I could see them but they couldn’t see me. Car belonged to a punk named Vito Vitonelli. I could see fear in the locals’ eyes. They should’ve seen the fear in mine. Expected every one of those suckers to pull a rocket launcher and start shooting. They didn’t.
Things got quiet in the backseat as I followed the traffic arrows around a circle and up a ramp to an old, wide asphalt road full of cracks and weeds. Wild cats and dogs slinking around. Except for some tractors and a couple more horse-drawn rigs, we had the ancient freeway to ourselves. All the real traffic was stacked in layers in the air above. Every once in a while we’d pass one of those glass farm buildings. Strange to see all the moisture on the windows, green plants inside.
Catching medic’s eye in mirror, I asked, “How’s he doin’?”
“Not good.”
“Should I find a hospital?”
“He’s gone. Keep driving.”
Cold son of a bitch. Two kids in the front seat were hurting but he didn’t say shit to them. Laid the dead baby on the floor and stared out the window.
“I wonder if we’ll see the Coliseum,” he said. Then, maybe 15 minutes later, “This is dry fucking country. I haven’t seen a living tree yet.”
Didn’t know it at the time, he was giving me another lesson. Don’t get too wrapped up in the shit or it will break you. He’d already put two and two together. Took me a few more hours to figure out our squad mates were dead. Feinstein and the guys sacrificed themselves so we and the kids could get away.
Drove west till we hit the coast and satellite boys flashed orders where to go. Navy pulled me, the medic, two surviving kids and Rodriguez out by submarine. Never did see the Coliseum.
TRANSMISSION:
Bolzano: “What a fascinating tale.”
Jones: “No tale, it’s the truth.”
Bolzano: “Merely a manner of speech. Though, of course, your version of events is much different than the one the Italian government released. For his part, Vito-Vito claimed complete innocence when I spoke to him about the affair.”
Jones: “Ya knew Vitonelli? He your good buddy or something?”
Bolzano: “Oh, I would not characterize us as friends, per se. We moved in similar social circles. We would speak occasionally. I never did business with him, but we did gamble. I won quite a bit of money from Vito-Squared. That is what we called him, Vito-Squared. He was not fond of the nickname, which made it all the more funny.”
Jones: “Lucky he didn’t kidnap you.”
Bolzano: “Vito did not worry me. You say only four survived?”
Jones: “Yep. Feinstein and guys took a rocket while they were parked under a bridge tryin’ to figure out what to do with the mom and nanny.”
Bolzano: “That is tragic.”
Jones: “Why weren’t ya afraid of Vitonelli? After-action reports said he was a ornery dude.”
Bolzano: “My good man, you are forgetting my father was the leading arms manufacturer in Italy and perhaps all of Europe. Nobody, and I mean nobody, bothered Giovanni Bolzano’s children.”
Jones: “Always had your back, huh?”
Bolzano: “It was more about him than us, a matter of family honor. Having met my father, you know he can be
quite vindictive. Father also had the money, the factories full of weapons to make good on his threats. It may well have been one of his rockets which incinerated your friends.”
Jones: “Nah. Pretty sure that was U.S.”
Bolzano: “United States? Why?”
Jones: “They were a problem, gonna stir up a fucking international incident.”
Bolzano: “Even for Americans, that is dreadfully cold-blooded if true.”
Jones: “Roger that.”
From the log of Salvatore Bolzano
Chief Anthropologist & Master Vintner
Bad news greeted us atop the Palatine in the form of the damn Mammoth Killers–Dirt Bag, Pisser, Mud Hen, Wanker, limping Shitter and a trio of new men equally disinterested in hygiene and common courtesy. Given the choice, I would rather share the summit with a herd of bison.
Jones noted something amiss well before we reached the base of our hill. Scaling a seldom-used path up the back way to camp, we found the men frantically feeding smoky fires and brandishing firebrands as they fought to prevent a herd of thirsty bison from overwhelming my shallow tub. The dusty horned beasts at the front would shy from the flames only to be pushed from behind by their kin.
Rushing the herd’s left flank with thrown stones and whoops, waving our arms, Capt. Jones and I were able to turn the unruly mass back down the hill, back to what’s left of the Trevi watering hole and the 100,000 other animals crowding for a drink.
The Mammoth layabouts made a big production of showing that my tub was not besmirched by bison or human feces. Like bellmen with their hands out, they stood waiting for my thanks. Smelly devils are still waiting.
If not for calls for forgiveness by Summer Wind and Flower, Jones and I would have sent the ruffians packing for the coast immediately. The women complained the animals are growing more bold, not only the herds, but also the lions, wolves and bears. Without help from their former tribe, they would have been overrun while we were absent.
That led to several questions, which I will paraphrase: “Where have you two been? Where do you go when you leave for a hand of days a time? What do you do while you are gone?”
Jones’ abrupt nature came in handy for a change. Ignoring the queries, taking Flower gently by the hand, he started down the trail to their lean-to.
“What do you want me to do with these idiots?” I called.
Turning to nock an atlatl bolt in his launcher, Jones hop-skipped twice and let fly directly over Dirt Bag’s shoulder. The bolt whistled within palm’s-span of the clan leader’s wax-filled ear. Continuing in an arc downhill, the bolt punctured the neck of a moving she-bison some 60 meters distant.
“Tell ‘em to cook that. Gimme a whistle when you’re done with your bath. Me and Flower should be ready for a rinse by then.”
Now, two days later, the Mammoth Killers are once again fixtures upon the hill. To allow a bit of privacy, we have had them set up residence in a small cave near the base of the Palatine’s southern flank. Sadly, I can hear them in my chamber when they jabber. The caves must share a common vertical shaft. When it is quiet at night and the crackling fires have died low, their every grunt and fart is audible. I wonder how long it will be before one of the clods finds a way to scale the shaft and enter my sanctuary through the back door.
We’ve known about the lower cave for years. Lacking in view and without a water source, it held little value except as a bolt-hole, a place to store firewood or shelter from an unexpected rain.
I understand the Mammoth Killers have stolen several of our water gourds. I should have given the gourds to them. As long as this drought continues, our days of living in solitude are over. We need their help to hold down the piazza.
Too much of this journal entry has already been wasted on the Mammoth Killers, but I must quickly add that the men treat me with more respect. The dirty dogs listen, and are actually trying to let us teach them a few new tricks, like digging holes for latrines and actually using them. Bathing and scrubbing teeth are two other improvements we are working on.
Jones was right, there is nothing like cracking a few heads to get people’s attention. Having heard about our big fight, the new friends also treat Jones and me with the respect we are due as alphas. I have yet to decipher what the familial relationship is between the trio of cousins or brothers, but their close-set, muddy- brown eyes, wavy black hair and wiry builds mark them as close relatives. They remind me of Calabrians. If this were the year 2230 that is how I would describe them to my friends.
Sunburned chestnut brown, dirt-smudged and piss-poor, the Cro-Magnons could easily pass for those short hangers-on who refused to abandon Italy’s far south no matter how miserable things got. Give these three a plastic cup to shake and polymer rags to wear and they could easily blend in with the Calabrians who begged around the train platforms when I was in college.
A story Capt. Jones shared recently keeps my mind returning to the toe of the boot. I spent a year of graduate school relegated to the impoverished, drought-ravaged south. While some of my classmates drew sites in Egypt and Incan temples in Peru, I ended up in the ruins of a little coastal hill town named Montebello Ionico.
My professors promised a rich site beneath a southern-facing parking lot and former athletic field. The prime, flat land was adjacent to an abandoned resort complex. Legend claimed long-ago developers were not permitted to build structures on the plot due to the archeological troves contained in the ground below. Local lore went on to say Romans were far from the first to occupy the high ground overlooking the sea. Etruscan, Celt and Greek explorers all established buildings on the site. Or so the little liars claimed.
Apart from a few old coins and buttons, the best we unearthed was an intact set of 16th century dinnerware someone must have buried to save from pirates. Each plate, saucer and cup was individually wrapped in oilcloth and placed in its own slot inside a tin trunk.
Many of my fellow students, smelling a rat, theorized the trunk was planted to keep us from grumbling too loudly as word of the successes of our Egyptian and Incan counterparts filtered in. I could not say, but if it were me pulling the con, I would have salted the site with something carrying more bang than a moderately old, tin trunk. How hard would it be to borrow and bury an Etruscan statue from a museum or private collection?
I never saw the trunk or its contents, though I wish I had. The patterns in the holograms my friends took seemed quite beautiful. Digging and getting dirty held less appeal for me then. I spent most of the year playing hooky.
There was a regular high-stakes game in a private car on the train between Rome and Calabria. The long green car with shaded, armored windows drew mostly old-timers with nothing to do but ride back and forth and fleece tourists. Often a few pros would be in attendance as well.
If the hot hands kept coming, I might make three or four round trips without getting off. The dealers would call ahead and have food delivered as we passed through Salerno and Napoli. I learned a lot. The train is where I met Vito Vitonelli and began calling him “Vito-Squared” behind his back until everyone was doing it.
Early American carnival operators had a system for identifying a man prime for the taking. They would “mark” him with a flour handprint on his back so every huckster in the arcade could make a run for his money.
Nobody slapped Vito-Squared on the back after rolling pasta, but he was marked nonetheless. Two old-timers who had taken me under their wings identified him his first afternoon on the train. “You could make a killing off that turkey,” they said, implying they would let me have him for myself.
To them, skipping school, paying a body double to do my digging and fool the drones, was laudable. Manual labor was for manichinos. We became friends during one of my early marathon Texas Hold’em sessions. The three of us vacuumed the pockets of a table full of rich Tibetans. My tutelage under Professors Sanfilippo & Monzano began on the return trip north.
I found they were old friends of one of my uncles. They said they
had been watching me conduct myself and “did not hate” what they saw. I paid my debts, showed respect to my elders and only “cheated the manichinos.”
Vito Vitonelli arrived from Modena flush with money and determined to get in touch with his family’s Mafioso roots. That the Vitonellis had been out of the game for two centuries did not dissuade this stocky techno-gangster. He had established a profitable extortion ring in his hometown and was in the process of expanding operations to Rome. The Eternal City may have been decrepit, but there was still much wealth to be taken.
Vito must have been slumming or bored the day he walked onto the gambling car and into the clutches of Sanfilippo, Monzano & Associate. Somewhat loud, not overly uncouth, he played with a steady, by-the-book style. No flair, no panache. For the first two days, we left him to play against people he could beat. Patience was a virtue my mentors preached.
When he and I finally did begin sitting at the same table, I let him edge out wins in four out of five sessions. It put a dent in my spending money (booze, drugs and women), but my seniors assured me the sacrifice would pay off.
It was perhaps a month or two later and I had just boarded the private car in Termini Station when my friends said word around town was Vito-Squared had made a very big score. “Next time he plays, let us see if college boy can get paid.”
The stars must have been aligned, for that very day Vito boarded the train in Napoli, sat down at our table and dropped a stack of solid gold markers on its surface. “Who wants to play poker?” he asked.
“He’ll be reckless and try to overwhelm you with bids,” Sanfilippo & Monzano counseled. “Be patient. Set him up, build him up. You will know when it is time to make him pay for the overconfidence you have given him.”
Rome Page 21