Two SEALs removed the stretcher from the helicopter and followed the Italian priest into the residence. The cardinal was a changed man. Color had returned to his face, and his breathing was no longer labored.
The priest took one look and broke into tears. Clutching Caffarone's arm, he managed, “You have the grace of God within you. There can be no other explanation.”
Father Caffarone simply nodded and followed upstairs. The cardinal's bed had been remade with clean linens, and the two women stood silently and watched as their patient was transferred from stretcher to bed. His eyes flickered open for a moment, then closed again.
Dr. Silver reached into his pocket and took out a clear plastic envelope. He signaled to Caffarone. “Tell our friend here that his cardinal will be well soon. He's still groggy and should sleep through the night. He can have food and water, but make sure he only has small meals to start with. Also, it will do him good to get up for brief periods just as soon as he can. And I'm leaving this antibiotic. He’ll have no idea what it is, but he must be made to understand how important it is to give the cardinal one pill with water every morning, and one again at nightfall. There's a ten-day supply here and they will stop the cardinal from getting sick again.”
Father Caffarone translated slowly, making sure the man understood the instructions clearly. He nodded vigorously that he did.
“Well, now for our payoff,” said Blizzard. He turned to Caffarone. “Padre, please have the priest talk to the cardinal, and get his approval for the release of his prisoners.”
Caffarone looked to Silver and the doctor nodded. “My patient’s awake, or close to it. He can certainly understand what’s being asked, so go ahead.”
Caffarone spoke to the Italian priest. The man nodded, then approached the bed.
“Eminence, it's Father Angelo. Can you hear me?” he asked in a soft whisper.
The cardinal stirred, opened his eyes, and focused on the man kneeling beside him. His head moved slightly.
“Eminence, you must give me permission to free the infidels. They have friends here to take them away. These people are enormously powerful, but also exceedingly kind. You have been ill, but these people saved you. Now you must see it in your wisdom to repay that kindness, and let the infidels go.”
The cardinal had closed his eyes while the priest pleaded his case, but now opened them again. He turned his head far enough to stare at the Americans. His face took on a frown as he peered at them in the dim candlelight.
“Who are these strangers?” he asked, hoarsely. “More followers of Muhammad?”
“No, Eminence. They are Christians like us. They have saved your life and ask in return that you free the infidels to them.”
“Will they execute them?”
“No,” replied the priest, and again explained to the cardinal how his life had been saved and that he should repay such kindness with a charity of his own.
“I'm very tired,” the patient mumbled. He licked his lips, “And thirsty.”
Dr. Silver understood, and without waiting for a translation he poured some water from a clay pitcher and handed a metal cup to the priest.
The cardinal drank sparingly, then fell back heavily against the pillow.
“If you believe it should be done, Father Angelo, then so be it,” he muttered. “I will spare their lives, but only on the condition that they leave Italy, never to return.”
“Yes, Eminence, I shall tell them. Now rest.” The priest rose and spoke rapidly to Caffarone, who in turn relayed the good news to Blizzard.
“We've got to move fast. I can only hope they're not miles away.”
The priest spoke rapidly to Caffarone who nodded, then turned to Blizzard.
“Captain, they're right next door in cells beneath the church. They’ve been under our noses this whole time!”
The group of officers rejoined the two SEALs and hurried over to the church. As they passed by the helicopter, Blizzard and Fleming took a moment to grab two powerful handheld lamps. Night was closing in fast.
They followed the priest up the steps and into the side entrance of the dimly lit church. Candles flickered on sconces dotting the walls, illuminating a drab interior devoid of seats. The priest genuflected as he hurried passed the altar, so too Father Caffarone. The others just nodded their heads in respect. The Italian led them along the nave toward the main entrance.
“We would have torn this town apart brick by brick,” Blizzard said to no one in particular, “but would have left the church as the only building standing when we were finished.”
Fleming laughed at the irony of it, and replied, “And who would have guessed that God's house is also the town’s prison?”
The Italian priest opened an ancient wooden door held fast by three huge, iron bolts. They peered down to see a dozen steps hewn into solid stone, the surfaces visibly slickened from a constant dripping of water seeping in from seams in the rock formation overhead, and from the walls. The place was barely lighted, only one torch flickering at the top of the steps, a twin at the bottom, and a third marking the entranceway to a corridor veering off at a right angle.
The Medieval dungeon was dank and cold, yet there was definitely fresh air coming into the passage, and not just from the still-opened door up to the church’s vestibule. The corridor led them for some twenty feet where it abruptly turned ninety degrees to the left. Here too a solitary torch flickered, this one in its final stages of life.
Blizzard and Fleming switched on their high-intensity LED lamps, flooding the place in a stark blue-white light. All shuddered at the terrifying thought of imprisonment in such a place. Several large rats scurried from the light by squeezing themselves under a sizeable metal grid and disappearing into the darkness beyond. The breeze coming from behind it spoke to the fact there was indeed fresh air circulating within.
The men now heard voices as they pressed forward along a corridor with four doors spaced a dozen feet apart on both sides. The Italian priest stopped at the first one, took a large key from a hook on the wall and inserted it in the lock. The rusty hinges groaned as the door swung inward to the sound of rattling chains.
Holding his light high, Fleming entered first. He was stunned by what he saw: Five men shackled to the wall, all shielding their eyes from his lamp’s glare.
“Do any of you speak English?” Blizzard called out, looking from one to the other. The prisoners squinted in their direction. Finally, one took a single step forward, his chains clanking noisily against the stone. His feet were buried in straw, the only insulation from the cold floor.
“What now?” he asked in a Middle Eastern accent. “What new devilment have you arranged?”
“We’ve come to take you home,” said Blizzard, holding his lamp low to shield the prisoners from its direct glare. “My name is Miles Blizzard, I'm a captain in the United States Navy, and commanding officer of the nuclear aircraft carrier Lyndon Baines Johnson. As I said, we've come to take you home.”
“Praise Allah!” the man replied in a voice filled with a simultaneous disbelief, and a profound sense relief. He turned and spoke rapidly to his cellmates, their dazed stares proof of their difficulty in understanding what was happening. They began to chatter.
“Does anyone need immediate medical attention?” Blizzard asked, interrupting their babble.
“No, Captain, nothing that can't wait.”
“Is this the lot of you?”
“No. There are two women in another cell somewhere.”
“Sean, can you get these men unshackled? Fleming, come with me.”
The priest handed a key to Caffarone who gave it to Gowdy.
“Father, tell him to take us to the women,” said Blizzard. “In fact, I want you and the doctor to come along as well.”
Fleming handed his lamp to Gowdy, then hastened after Blizzard and the others.
The Italian priest led them further down the passageway and stopped at the last door. A
gain, he took an oversized key off a peg, inserted it in the lock, and swung the door inward.
Two women were lying on straw pallets, and like the men, instinctively turned away from the unexpected light. Neither were chained. “Do you speak English?” Blizzard asked.
They rose slowly, holding onto one another for support. They were shivering, as much from fear of this new and yet unknown menace as from the cold.
Blizzard stepped forward and gently touched each on the shoulders. “It's all right,” he said in a calming voice. “It's over. Everything's going to be fine.” He turned to Fleming and Caffarone. “Take each of them by the hand, and let's get them out of this hellhole.”
Halfway on their journey down the corridor, a spine-chilling scream brought them up short.
“What in the hell was that?” said Fleming, jumping at the sound.
The Italian priest spoke rapid-fire to Father Caffarone, who then explained to the others.
“It’s a prisoner who’s been here for two months. He killed his wife and three daughters with an axe and has been locked-up ever since. As soon as he repents for his sins he will be put to death, but has shown no inclination in wanting to do so. And he never will,” Caffarone added in a subdued voice, “because the poor fellow is completely mad.”
“Well, there's nothing we can do,” said Blizzard, “so let's go before we all end up like him.”
They hurried along, and as they turned the corner the doomed prisoner began his terrifying screeching and howling again.
It was a sound Fleming knew would stay in his mind to the end of his days.
As the two groups joined together in the clearing beside the helicopter, Blizzard turned to the just-freed prisoners.
“Which one of you is the Captain of the Félicité?
“I am,” replied the spokesman. “These two are my crew, and those two gentlemen are the owners,” he added, nodding toward the two men who were now comforting the women. “The ladies are their guests, and all of us are citizens of the United Emirates Republic.”
“I see,” said Blizzard. “Captain, I have your vessel aboard my aircraft carrier. It's in good shape, so don't be concerned on that score, but I was not able to find your logbook. Where did you put it?”
The other man wrinkled his forehead. “Why do you ask, Captain?”
“I don’t really have time for lengthy explanations,” Blizzard said, trying not to sound short. “Just answer me this. Did you experience any strange events immediately before you found yourself in this mess?'
The man nodded. “What day is this, Captain?”
“Wednesday.”
His face reflected genuine surprise. “Ah, it seems like we’ve been here for a week, but it’s only been three days.” He thought for a moment, then said, “We were sailing from Rome to Monte Carlo in smooth seas and warm weather. Just after dusk, our radios went dead, and so did our radar. There was no warning, they just went dead. My first mate knows about electronics, but he could not find a reason for the malfunction. Then there was a huge explosion, along with a flash of green light and then everything was quiet. The weather turned cold in an instant. I did not know what was happening, so I headed due east toward the Italian shoreline using my magnetic compass. I also wrote about this strange turn of events immediately in the logbook while it was still fresh in my mind. We motored for three hours until we came to the harbor. I thought it was Livorno, you know, just south of Pisa, but obviously it was not. There is much that is going to have to be explained to us, Captain, but I intend to complain most bitterly to the Italian authorities about our barbaric treatment.”
“Your logbook, Captain. I need to know where you hid it so that I can figure out your exact position when you first experienced those problems. Or maybe you use an electronic logbook?”
“We do not use an electronic logbook. The owners insist on having a physical book, and I left it on the Félicité’s bridge. I did not hide it, Captain, so if it’s missing, then one of these thieving Italians must have stolen it.”
“Damn!” Blizzard thought for a second, then asked, “You said that you were about three hours west of Livorno when your radios and nav aids went dark?”
“That is correct.”
“At least that tells me something.” said Blizzard. “OK, we'll talk later.” He turned to Caffarone. “Please thank the priest for us, Father, we couldn’t have done this without him.”
CHAPTER 21
Wednesday Evening June 23rd
Twenty minutes later they were flying back to the LBJ. Night had fallen, and their helicopter was guided onto a flight deck bathed in the red glow of night operations lights.
Blizzard thanked the shore party and suggested they hit their respective galleys for a well-deserved meal. He turned to Fleming. “Major, would you join me on the bridge after you get a hot shower and some dinner? There are things I need to go over with you, but no rush. A couple of hours from now will work.” He looked at Gowdy. “If that’s OK with you, CAG?”
“Of course, Miles.”
Fleming stood at attention. I’ll be there, Sir.”
The XO escorted the seven guests from the Félicité to their quarters.
Blizzard went to his in-port cabin on the 03 deck rather than his at-sea stateroom on the island, and following his own advice, luxuriated in a long, hot shower. He savored the time, clearing his mind as the water cascaded over him, and only reluctantly turned off the faucets when he felt he was becoming waterlogged.
Ten minutes later he was on the bridge and clicked up the ship's E-log on a mobile pad as he had done countless times before.
“Can I order you some dinner, Captain?” asked the Officer of the Deck.
“What's on the menu?”
“The steak and fries look really good, Sir. We still have several up here.”
“Sounds great! Two helpings, I’m famished.”
“Aye, Captain. Two steaks with all the trimmings, coming up.”
It took a steward less than five minutes to heat up the meal. Blizzard ate seated in his captain's chair which was designed for having a meal tray snapped into its sides. Things could sure be a hell of a lot worse, he thought, making short work of his double order. As he swallowed his last mouthful of coffee, the phone rang.
“Captain speaking,”
“Birdwell here, Captain. I'm in the CDC. Take a look at the long-range radar.”
“Hold on.” Blizzard walked to a bank of large radar screens being monitored by sailors under the watchful eye of the helmsman.
They were scanning out to distance of forty nautical miles. Everything seemed normal. The coastline was well-defined, and there were only a few scattered showers within range.
“Run her out to max,” Blizzard ordered.
The young rating toggled a switch, and the display became smaller in scale but larger in scope. The electronic beam swung the full three hundred sixty degrees of the compass, once, then twice.
Blizzard frowned. “What do you make of it, Commander?”
“Don't really know, Sir. At first, I thought it might be a malfunction, but both back-ups are painting the same return.”
Any guesses, educated or otherwise?”
A moment's hesitation, then, “Yes, Sir. I think we’re seeing the beginnings of a fusion between time zones. It's my guess that this is exactly what we ran into a couple of days ago.”
“Is it static?” Blizzard asked, running several possibilities through his mind.
“No, Captain. It’s a very strange forcefield, but it's definitely not just static.”
“I meant static as in stationary, you know, not moving.”
“Oh,” came the reply. “No, we think it’s moving north, but because we don’t have any weather satellites to tell us exactly what we’re seeing, that’s our best guess. Also, the speed seems to be about twenty knots, but that’s picking up.”
“I want you to plot an intercept. My plan is to turn t
he LBJ to meet it. Your theory just might be correct and, if it is, this could well be our last chance to return home. Get on it right away. I'm on my way down.” He pressed a button on the console to hook him into the ship's PA system.
“This is the Captain. Executive Officer please meet me in the CDC.”
Paige greeted him as he entered. “An intercept course has been plotted, Boss.”
“Good work, Al. Let's take another look at the main radar screen.”
As both men studied the radar return, they were joined by Birdwell and Commander Sewell. The liquid crystal display monitor (LCD) clearly showed an arc thirty miles across, and behind that line was a void the radar beam was unable to penetrate. It was as if a portion of the screen’s pixels had inexplicably burned out.
“At first, I thought we had a malfunction,” said Birdwell, “but a couple of simple tests proved that not to be the case. We then tried to penetrate it with a laser-directed signal, but all we got was our own signal being returned, as if it had bounced off a solid object. But you can see that’s nothing solid.”
“How about a helluva storm?” asked Paige.
“No way, Sir. Joel Hirshberger also agrees, and he’ll be right back. He's gathering up-to-date weather data from below. Because there’s no satellites to tell us what’s really happening, he flew a weather drone up to flight level one-five-zero fifteen minutes ago and got a good look out to three hundred forty statute miles. The drone was recovered a couple of minutes ago; that’s the information we’re analyzing now.”
“Then we’ll sail the intercept heading. What’ll our course heading be?” asked Blizzard.
“One six three, true,” replied Birdwell reading the information off a computer printout. “We're presently one-niner-four nautical miles from the unidentified target, and with the LBJs speed of twenty-five knots and our target closing on us at two-zero knots, we should intercept in a little over four hours. Seas are light, and winds are out of the northeast at ten.”
Blizzard reached for a phone. “Bridge, this is the Captain. Prepare to get underway. Course is one-six-three true, speed, twenty-five knots, and have the ship piped to flight quarters.”
POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller Page 18