Since his early childhood he knew that he was different, that he had been chosen. He did not need, nor did he seek out the company of others. He was alone with God. When his parents were killed in a church bombing in Louisiana, it was a tragedy to some, a relief to him. He had taken it as a sure sign that he had been selected by God to serve the Church. And he would serve like no other before him, save his savior, Christ.
God had selected Christ to be his son.
God had selected the Novice to be the guardian. It was God’s plan and he would fulfill it. And he would stop at nothing to serve God.
“God, I am yours. Show me the way.” His breath caught and he gasped as a burst of searing pain sliced and burned into his side. He grew dizzy from the intense pain and his mind clouded. Then, in an instant the pain ceased and his mind cleared, and he knew without question what his task was. His God had heard his prayers, and they had been answered.
He stood. “All the power and the glory,” he said, looking up to the heavens. He found his clothes—tossed to a side of the room earlier, when the Jesuit had directed him to stand naked before God—dressed quickly, then made his way down the dark cramped hallway, wet with seeping water. He went up several small flights of stairs to a doorway, paused, listening to the inner voice that chanted repeatedly in his head, The Key is alive. The Key must die. His lips moved, as he silently joined the inner voice, repeating, The Key is alive. The Key must die. He pulled the door open, exited the circular building that posed as a tomb, and stepped out onto the paved walkway of the cemetery.
TWENTY FOUR
CELENT'S FACE CHANGED like the four seasons, as he stared at Tonita: first the bewilderment of spring, then the softening smile of summer, into the sharp chill of fall, and finally, the icy stare of winter.
Tonita had fired the second shot, hitting Brother Salvatore in the ribs, tearing through his chest, and exiting out his back. She still held the pistol at the ready, just in case the monk made a move.
He did not.
"Why don't you put that away?” Celent said, waving a hand at the pistol.
"What if he's not dead?" Tonita raised up her chin, pointing it in the direction of, what she hoped was, the dead monk.
Celent pulled himself up from the floor, using the back of the sofa as support. Even then, it was a struggle, and though he looked to Tonita for help, she wasn't about to move, until she was sure that the monk on the floor was not coming back to life.
Celent was on his own. Once up, he continued leaning against the sofa, gasping for breath, sweat beading on his brow and above his lip. The struggle earlier with Brother Salvatore, followed by another near death experience with the same crazed monk, was nearly all Celent could take. After a moment, when he had sufficient breath to speak, Celent took the few steps toward Brother Salvatore, knelt down and felt his neck for a pulse.
"I'm quite sure he's dead."
"I’m not taking any chances. Shake him or kick or something," Tonita said, moving slightly to her left so that she would have a straighter shot, should the monk prove to still be alive.
Celent put his fingers to Brother Salvatore’s neck once again. “Really, I’m sure that he is dead.” He stood slowly and went through the motions of making the sign of the cross over the dead monk’s body, but abandoned the gesture half way through, as his hand reached what would have been the bottom of the cross.
Tonita not only lowered the gun, she dropped it on to the floor. The adrenaline jolt that had pushed her into pulling the trigger had now dissipated. She immediately turned her attention to Dominic who didn't look any better now than when he had fallen to the floor. "Listen," she said looking at Celent. "I don't know what you have to do with all of this or why you're in Dominic's apartment, or why, for that matter, this monk guy is in here, and what you two were doing? I don't know and I don't care right now. I saved your life and now you better help Dominic or..." she trailed off. She had apparently forgotten that she had just dropped the pistol to the floor and had nothing in her hand to threaten Celent with. She lowered her eyes to the pistol.
"You won't need that, I can assure you," Celent said. "I'm an old man and I've just taken quite a beating myself from this fellow." He kicked the dead monk's foot.
Tonita eyed him for a moment, her mind was whirling with questions about the monk, Celent and why they were after Dominic. For the moment, though, she could only hope that she had saved the good guy, if there was a good guy, and that he would now help her save Dominic. "All right. You help Dom and we'll figure the rest of this out later."
"Deal," Celent said, and immediately went back to Dominic's side.
Tonita joined him.
After a quick look Celent stood. "We've got to get him to a hospital."
"No." Tonita’s tone was adamant. "No hospital."
Celent took a long look at Tonita. She was young, innocent, and caught in a web from which she was unable to escape. No, he reconsidered the thought. She would never be allowed to escape. Her destiny would forever be tied to Dominic’s. He wondered if she would have made the choices she had, if she’d known the truth at the time? Was she in love? In answer to his own question, he guessed yes.
Dominic’s safety was of the utmost importance to the Church and to Celent. Dominic had been watched every moment of the day and was unaware of the great lengths that Celent had taken to hide the presence of the observers. There were many who watched. Always unseen, but always present. They reported Dominic's every move, including his contacts with Tonita.
When Celent had first been made aware of Tonita’s growing feelings for Dominic, his impulse was to get rid of her. It was complicated enough trying to keep Dominic under surveillance. He did not need or want the intrusion of another. But as he thought it through, he came to a better understanding that Tonita could be an asset to him in his surveillance of Dominic. She slowed Dominic down and it was much easier to spot and follow two, rather than one. Instead of doing away with Tonita, Celent actually did what he could to enhance their relationship. Of course, his hand in their developing relationship could never be revealed. But a bouquet of flowers sent without a note to Tonita or a letter to a friend extolling the relationship that she was beginning with Dominic, allegedly from Tonita, left accidentally at Dominic’s apartment, didn’t hurt the relationship. If Dominic were to fall in love, it wouldn't be such a bad situation, Celent considered. But if the relationship between Dominic and Tonita ever threatened his plans, Tonita could easily be dealt with. As long as she kept Dominic where he could keep a close eye on him, she was an asset. But should she ever become a liability...Well, no need to worry about that now, Celent thought. “You’re right, Tonita, we cannot take the chance of moving him now. We’ll stay here and see to him, unless his condition worsens and we need a doctor. Agreed?”
Tonita eyed him. “Agreed.”
TWENTY FIVE
DECEMBER 5, 1945
East Coast of Florida
1545 Hours / 3:45 P.M.
Flight 19—Avenger Torpedo Bomber Squadron of Five
“Powers. Respond.” Lieutenant Charles Taylor’s voice carried with it an uncharacteristic hint of stress. “Powers? Powers? What is your reading?” the seasoned pilot continued. After one minute and thirteen seconds of radio static, Lieutenant Taylor brought the handset up to his mouth about to try again.
The static was broken. “I don’t know where we are. We must have gotten lost after that last turn.” Captain E.J. Powers, piloting FT–36, sounded frightened. “Coordinates unknown.”
Taylor pushed the button on the side of the handset in, “Repeat. Repeat last transmission.”
Communication between the two pilots was once again lost to static.
THE RADIO TRANSMISSIONS were picked up by Lieutenant Cox flying FT-74. He adjusted the dials of the radio, trying to tune in to the last transmissions from the lost pilots. “This is Flight Instructor Lieutenant Robert Cox receiving on 4805 kilocycles. Please repeat.” Lieutenant Cox released the button on the
side of the microphone handset and listened. He had been searching the airwaves for the last hour in hopes that the group of five Avenger Torpedo Bombers in route from a bombing practice run at Hens and Chicken Shoals north of Bimini in the Bahamas, would once again be in communication.
Static.
“I repeat on 4805 kilocycles,” Lieutenant Cox spoke slowly and clearly. “This is FT–74, plane or boat calling Powers. Please identify yourself so someone can help you.”
Static.
“Do you read me?”
Static.
Then, suddenly, the hard Latin beat of percussion and horns, and the clear sounds of Musica Cubana filled FT–74’s cockpit, a common occurrence when flying near the island nation of Cuba. Lieutenant Cox adjusted the dial on the radio, fading out the Cuban music station and then back into 4805 kilocycles and a hopeful response from Powers.
Static.
“This is FT-74. What is your trouble?” Lieutenant Cox hesitated then repeated, “This is FT–74. What is your trouble?”
This time the static was broken.
“This is FT-28,” Lieutenant Taylor, piloting the aircraft flying in formation to Captain Powers, responded. “Both of my compasses are out and I’m trying to find Fort Lauderdale. I’m over land but it’s broken. I’m sure I’m in the Keys but I don’t know how far down and I don’t know how to get to Fort Lauderdale.” Lieutenant Taylor was clearly rattled. He had flown the area in and around Fort Lauderdale and Miami for the past six months. He knew the territory well from both on the land and above it.
“FT–28? This is FT–74,” Lieutenant Cox said, trying to disguise the concern in his voice. “Put the sun on you port wing, if you are in the Keys, and fly up the coast until you come to Miami.” He paused for a response, when none came he continued, “Fort Lauderdale is 20 miles further, your first port after Miami. The air station is directly on your left from the port.” Lieutenant Cox waited for a response from the pilot of FT–28. After several minutes of silence, he radioed again. “What is your present altitude? I will fly south and meet you,” he said hoping that Powers, Taylor or the pilots of the four Avengers that were flying with them, would pick up and respond to the broadcast.
“I know where I am now,” Lieutenant Taylor radioed back. “I’m at 2300 feet. Don’t come after me.” The Lieutenant was beginning to sound more at ease.
“You’re at 2300? I’m coming to meet you anyhow,” Lieutenant Cox said, ignoring the request of Lieutenant Taylor and turned the Avenger Torpedo Bomber he was piloting south, fixing a course to meet up with the lost Avenger FT–28 and the squadron somewhere in the Florida Keys.
All seemed well. The lost squadron of Torpedo Bombers was heading north over the Florida Keys and Lieutenant Cox was heading south to meet them. The distance wasn’t great and the aircraft should be in visual contact within a few minutes.
The radio remained silent.
Minutes later. “This is FT–28 calling FT–74,” Lieutenant Taylor said, with the recent ease being replaced with intense fear. He didn’t try to hide it from the squadron to the side of him or to Lieutenant Cox. “We have just passed over a small island.” His voiced trembled. “We have no other land in sight.”
Lieutenant Cox hesitated before responding, contemplating where the lost squadron—four of which had a crew of three and one with a crew of two—were. “No other land in sight,” he repeated the words of Lieutenant Taylor aloud. If the Avenger had no other land in sight, they were far beyond the Keys, he thought. He was beginning to have serious doubts about the lost squadron.
“FT–74, this is FT–28. Can you have Miami...someone turn on their radar gear and pick us up? We don’t seem to be getting far.” Lieutenant Taylor fought to maintain control of his growing panic—he was losing. “We were out on a navigation hop and on the second leg I thought they were going wrong, so I took over and was flying them back to the right position. But I’m sure now, that neither of my compasses are working.”
“You can’t expect to get here in ten minutes. You have a 30 to 35 knot head or crosswind,” Lieutenant Cox radioed in an attempt to calm the pilot and the crews listening in. “Turn on your emergency IFF gear. Or, do you have it on?”
“FT–74. We did not have the Identification Friend or Foe gear on,” Captain E.J. Powers, piloting FT–36 to the side of Taylor’s aircraft broke in. “I’m at angles three point five. Have on emergency IFF. Does anyone in the area have a radar screen that could pick us up?”
“This is Air Sea Rescue Task Unit Four at Fort Everglades.” The land based rescue operations unit had picked up the transmission and radioed to the lost Avengers. “FT–28 we will notify NAS Miami.” A moment later, Air Sea Rescue Task Unit Four continued, “FT–28, is there another plane in the flight with a good compass. Can they take over?”
“ASRTU-4, this is FT–28. No one can take over. We are all lost. Headings unknown.” The transmission started to break up. “Position unknown. No help.”
“FT–28, this is FT–74.” Lieutenant Cox raised his voice to a shout, “Your transmissions are fading. Something is wrong. Something’s wrong. What is you altitude?”
Through static, FT–28 responded, the signal growing faint and nearly lost, “I’m at 4500 feet. Visibility 10 miles...”
And then, silence.
THREE HOURS AND FORTY-seven minutes later, “Training 49, Lieutenant Jeffrey, this is Navel Air Station Banana River, come in.”
“NAS Banana River, this is Martin Mariner, Lt. Jeffrey, on Training 49, roger.”
“Training 49 proceed to New Smyrna and track eastward,” the radio attendant at NAS Banana River gave the coordinates in a clipped tone.
“NAS Banana River, this is Lt. Jeffrey on Training 49. Will head south, then track eastward and attempt to intercept Flight 19.” Lieutenant Jeffrey was matter-of-fact. This was not the first air- sea search for him and his crew of thirteen aboard the Martin Mariner. The plane could fly all night, 12 hours or more on a full tank. It was powerful enough to take off and land on water, as well as on a runway. The Martin Mariner was a massive flying machine at well over 14,000 pounds. And this Mariner, Training 49, was the temporary home to the five pilots and eight crewmen aboard.
Like Lieutenant Jeffrey, the rest of the crew had anticipated an easy few days, until they would all be heading home for Christmas. Most in the Combat Air Training Program at Banana River hadn’t been home since beginning the program in September of 1944. Now, as the end of 1945 grew near, the crew grew restless.
The seas below the Mariner—Training 49, had become very rough as the front moved in. The ceiling was overcast, visibility dropping from 1200 to 800 feet, winds picking up at 25 to 30 knots, west southwest. The crew strapped themselves into their seats, snapping the seat belt’s fasteners into buckles and pulling them tight. The air around Training 49 became increasingly more turbulent.
NAS Fort Lauderdale, just over 150 miles to the south, the Navel Air Station that was home to the five Avenger Torpedo Bombers that made up the now lost Flight 19, was reporting weather calm and clear.
It was evident to Lieutenant Jeffrey that the weather front had not made it up to Fort Lauderdale. He checked his watch. With the front approaching, he didn’t have much time to find the lost squadron. He and the crew had been airborne for approximately three minutes. He was just about to make a turn south and attempt an intercept with the missing five Avenger Torpedo Bombers. “NAS Banana River, this is Training 49 reporting.”
“Training 49, this is NAS Banana River, come in.”
No answer.
“Training 49, this is NAS Banana River, come in.” The voice of the seaman at the Navel Air Station was steady. “Training 49, this is NAS Banana River, come in.” His third attempt and still nothing.
Lieutenant Jeffrey in the Martin Mariner—Training 49, and his crew of thirteen, did not respond.
And there was no response from any of the five pilots or the crews of the five Avenger Torpedo Bombers.
Ther
e was only silence.
Six planes.
Twenty seven men.
Vanished.
No radio contact would ever come.
Not a trace of any plane would ever be found.
Not one body would ever be discovered.
They were there...and then...they were not.
TWENTY SIX
ROME
Dominic’s Apartment
Several Hours Later
Dominic’s color slowly returned. He was no longer a pale blue-white. Instead, a reddish peach color had filled his cheeks, giving him back the color of the living. His breathing had also steadied.
Tonita watched in an almost hypnotic movement. Dominic’s chest rose, held its position, then fell. Rose then fell. Rose then fell. A rhythm that was threatening to send Tonita into a losing battle with sleep. She fought to keep her eyes from closing, and to keep her mind from drifting, concentrating on the monk, and Dominic, and Celent. The visions came back to her in a blurred collage:
The monk—dead on the floor.
Celent—who slept just feet away.
And Dominic.
Both she and the Celent had struggled to move Dominic to the sofa, where he was now resting. She watched again as his chest rose and fell.
A breath in.
A breath out.
She could leave right now, walk out the door of Dominic’s flat, while the Celent slept, while Dominic recovered, and while the monk was still dead. Despite the fact that the monk had not moved in hours, she had her doubts about him. She cast a sideways glance at the body of the monk—just in case.
She diverted her gaze to the hallway and the door to the street at the end. She could easily get up and walk out the door and end all of this. Her feelings for Dominic had grown easily since their first encounter. He was troubled and just maybe—she had given this considerable thought—that’s why she fell for him. She needed someone who needed. The sound of Barbara Streisand’s voice singing about people who needed people, snuck into her thoughts. A cough startled her from the dream state and her eyes snapped open.
The Third Hour Page 10