Papal Justice

by CG Cooper

  The Pope felt weak and hopeless. At least if he had been younger he could have run. But now he was left to wait, an old man past his physical prime. What could he do? What would he do?

  His hand slipped down to where he normally had his old rosary, a gift from a blind woman he’d once met in Buenos Aires. The beads were made of seashells and the crucifix was carved from a piece of driftwood. It was one of his most cherished possessions, a reminder that God could be found in the humblest of places.

  But he’d left that gift in the airplane that was now burning at the end of the runway. Instead of finding the rosary, his hand tapped against something rectangular. At first he couldn’t remember what it was, but then he realized it was the cellular phone Brother Luca had given him before leaving. There were only two numbers programmed in the secure phone. Luca was too far away to be of any help, so the Pope opted for the second number. He pressed the call button, and waited for an answer.

  +++

  The President was finally dozing off when his personal cell phone rang. He was immediately awake. Maybe half a dozen people had that number, and none of them would be calling if it weren’t a catastrophic emergency. But when he picked up the phone, he didn’t recognize the number. He answered the call.

  “Yes?”

  There was a pause and then the sound of heavy breathing.

  “Mr. President?”

  President Zimmer couldn’t make out the voice through the background noise.

  “Who is this, please?”

  “It is your friend from Rome.”

  “Your Holiness?”

  “Yes. Mr. President, I do not have much time. To be brief, we are under attack. We landed in Calexico minutes ago, and almost immediately came under fire.”

  “Are you okay? Where’s your security team?”

  Zimmer heard the Pope cough. “They are engaging the enemy.”

  “Okay, listen. Let me get on the phone. I’ll have my military there in no time. Yuma isn’t far away, and the Marines—”

  “Mr. President,” the Pope interrupted, “there is not time for that. You must listen to me.”

  Zimmer gritted his teeth and cursed every extremist nut job the world had ever birthed. Trying to kill an American president was one thing. To kill a holy man like the Pope took a twisted soul and heaping helping of “I don’t give a fuck.”

  “Tell me what I can do,” Zimmer said, rising from bed and switching on the light.

  “Trust in our men.”

  “What men?”

  “The men we sent to Mexico. It is their mission that is most important.”

  “But you could be captured. They could—”

  “I am well aware of what they could do to me. I put my faith in God, you, and our men. Will you do the same?”

  What the Pope was asking him to do was ludicrous. In less than an hour, Zimmer could have the best special operations troops in the country swooping in for the rescue. Part of him wanted to ignore the pontiff’s request, but for some reason he didn’t. Maybe it was the certainty in the Pope’s tone, or the fact that the possibility of otherworldly intervention had slowly crept into the president’s mind.

  So against his better judgment, he said, “I’ll do it.”

  “Good. Now I must discard this phone before they realize what I have done. God bless you, Mr. President. I am sure we will see each other soon.”

  There wasn’t time for Zimmer to respond before the line went dead. He stared at the phone in his hand for a second, praying that something miraculous would happen, or that the Swiss Guard would win the day. By the Pope’s choice of words, the second option didn’t seem likely.

  After slipping on his robe and formulating his thoughts, he left his Air Force One bedroom suite to alert the team.

  +++

  The Pope turned off the phone and dropped it into an old oil drum. He heard it plop into whatever liquid the vessel now contained.

  The gunfire had faded, and now there was only the crackling of the burning plane. Somewhere in the distance he heard sirens. Maybe the American police would make it in time.

  He did his best to find a hiding spot in the back of the shed, but there was little to shield him from view. Besides, as soon as he’d gotten comfortable, he heard the sound of footsteps running in his direction.

  The first one around the corner was his protector, the gruff Swiss Guard who’d been tasked to stay with the Pope.

  “There he is,” the man said, pointing to where the pontiff’s shoes were visible behind a stack of wood pallets.

  Two other men, both masked and carrying assault rifles, came around the corner and eyed their prize before moving to pick him up off the ground.

  “You are my Judas,” the Pope said to the Swiss Guard, who no longer harbored any visible concern. He wondered if the traitor had killed his former comrades along with the masked attackers. “I will pray for you, my son.”

  The man’s mouth stretched into a sneer. “I don’t need your prayers.”

  Whatever fueled this man’s hate ran deep.

  “I will still pray for you,” the Pope said as he was hoisted to his feet. And he did say a prayer for the man, that he might one day find peace. In his next prayer, as they stuffed him into the back of a van and placed a hood over his head, the Pope prayed that President Zimmer would keep his word, and that the warriors they’d sent to Mexico would fulfill their mission. He knew his time on Earth was not yet over. His only hope now was that God would give him the strength to do what he must. There was still a soul crying out for help, and he had to find it.

  Chapter 21

  Aboard Air Force One

  3:39am, March 15th

  Travis Haden peeled his eyes from the latest report on Iran. The Iranian government was talking a good game, but it didn’t look like their puppeteering was letting up in other Middle Eastern countries. When would it end?

  “Trav,” the President said, one foot outside his stateroom door.

  Travis nodded and took the folder with him, shaking the stiffness out of his legs as he walked.

  “What’s up?” Travis asked, tucking the red file under his arm.

  The President didn’t say anything, just motioned to his office. Travis nodded and followed his boss in. They had a minimal crew on the plane. Besides the Air Force personnel and the Secret Service, he and Zimmer were the only ones aboard. A rarity, but natural considering the last minute arrangements. The Chief of Staff hadn’t been happy about getting the late night call, but he jumped at the chance to get out of D.C.

  “The Pope called.”

  The President’s eyes were doing that shifty thing. It was a small tell that he only showed among friends. Travis frowned.

  “What happened?”

  Travis was one of the few people who knew about the covert Mexican operation. Hell, his cousin was leading the U.S. delegation. For a second, Travis had the gut-gripping feeling that Cal was hurt.

  “I think the Pope was just kidnapped.”

  Travis couldn’t hide his surprise.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding. What the hell happened?”

  Zimmer told him what he knew, about the attack and that the Pope thought the fight was tilting the other way.

  “And you’re sure he wasn’t killed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We need to call our people. They can get the SEALs in quick, maybe even some Delta. I’ve got a buddy that—”

  The President held up his hand.

  “We can’t do that.”

  Travis thought that maybe he’d misunderstood.

  “Don’t worry, it’ll all be hush-hush. These guys know—”

  “No,” Zimmer interrupted again, shaking his head, his eyes set. “We can’t call anyone in.”

  “What? That’s crazy. This is the Pope we’re talking about!”

  What could Brandon be thinking? If he was attacked, every American with a gun would probably be called in.

  “I know.” The words came out with
reluctance, Travis could see that. “He said to let things play out, to let our guys in Mexico do their jobs.”

  Disbelief surged in Travis’s chest.

  “Look, I know Cal’s boys are good, hell, I trained some of them myself, but this thing is bigger than any of us. If word leaks out that the Pope’s been killed, can you imagine what would happen?”

  He searched the president’s face for comprehension. All he found was unease.

  “I can’t explain it, Trav. The way he said it…he knows what’s going to happen. Even though there was gunfire on the call, he sounded levelheaded, like he understood where things were headed.”

  “I don’t care how levelheaded he sounded, Brandon! That’s the Pope! I’m going to make some calls, get the ball rolling. You stay here and I’ll—”

  “No.”

  The word felt like a slap in the face. Since going to D.C. at the President’s behest, the two men had rarely disagreed. Despite the fact that the Commander in Chief was a Democrat from Massachusetts and Travis was a staunch conservative former Navy SEAL, they’d found common ground and forged an ironclad working relationship based on trust and mutual respect.

  All Travis could do was stare at the man he now considered a friend.

  “What if he’s right, Trav? What if this is out of our hands? What if God wanted this to happen?”

  That shook Travis more than he would ever admit. While he wasn’t a practicing Christian, he did have a deep respect for God. Few who’d seen the scourge of war hadn’t turned to God at some point, whether for comfort or that last ounce of bravery. But saying that circumstances should be allowed to roll despite the arsenal at their disposal was pure insanity.

  “I’m telling you this as your friend and as your Chief of Staff. If the Pope dies, and the public finds out that you didn’t lift a finger to help him, do you think they’re going to listen about the last conversation the two of you had?”

  The two men stared at each other.

  “Faith,” President Zimmer finally said, his voice even and calm. “Maybe we just need a little faith.”

  Travis would have laughed if Zimmer didn’t look dead set on his decision. They’d rarely had “the religion talk.” Sure, they crafted the President’s “official” religious stance for the media, but both men held their spirituality in a private corner of their choosing. It was no longer en vogue to profess your religion on the national level. There were too many organizations ready to take pot shots if the opportunity presented itself.

  “We can’t do this, Brandon. It’s not right.”

  “Take off your political hat for a minute. What if the Pope told you to trust his men, to trust our men, your cousin being among them. Do you trust them? Do you have faith that they can get to the bottom of whatever this conspiracy is?”

  It was like getting called to the carpet by your commanding officer. Shit or get off the pot.

  The words came from his subconscious.

  “I should be with them.”

  It took the President a second to comprehend. He nodded.

  “You mean with Cal.”

  “Yeah. With Cal, Trent, Gaucho and Daniel. Instead I’m up here, reading reports and serving as your glorified secretary.”

  He wished he hadn’t said that last part, but the truth slipped through his normal restraint. To his credit, the President didn’t look upset.

  “I understand. Do you think I always want to be president? Sometimes I wish I’d met you and Cal earlier, like when I was in college. Maybe you could’ve knocked some sense into my Ivy League brain then and dragged me into the military.”

  “You don’t mean that. You’ve had a good life.”

  Now Travis really felt bad. Brandon was a good boss, on his way to being a great president, maybe one of the best who ever served his country.

  “I do mean it. I have a good life because of you guys. I’ll never forget the sacrifice of so many of our brave troops. It’s the reason I understand why the Pope asked me to wait. He has complete faith in his men. It doesn’t hurt that he probably has an oversized helping of God on his side, too. I think we should wait, see what happens.”

  Now he sounds like a president, Travis thought, staring at the man who’d once been a spoiled politician full of his own inflated worth.

  “Okay. So what do we do now?”

  The President smiled, the warmth in his tone soothing some of Travis’s misgivings.

  “First, I suggest you let the agents on board know. I’m sure they can monitor the situation from here.”

  “Anything else?”

  This time the President’s eyes seemed a little sadder, but still resolute.

  “Yeah. Call your cousin and tell him you’re coming to help. You are one of them, after all.”

  Chapter 22

  Outskirts of Puerto Peñasco

  3:55am, March 15th

  They arrived under the cover of darkness. Instead of flying into the small resort town’s airport, Gaucho’s uncle had them land at a hasty landing strip away from the coast, its runway lined with upturned LED flashlights set in little tin buckets. From what Cal could see, the place looked like a perfect smuggling hub: remote and perfectly hidden in a shallow valley. Improvements were minimal, but someone was definitely taking care of the dirt runway. He imagined some old guy out there every day, picking up pebbles and smoothing out rough edges. Not a bad gig for an old-timer, if you didn’t mind living in the desert. From what he’d seen of Ruiz, the guy probably paid pretty well, too.

  They were thirty men strong. While Ruiz said he would love to take an army north, even he had limitations. Even at thirty, keeping concealed would be close to impossible, but everyone agreed that the extra firepower was needed.

  “Here come the vans,” Daniel said, pointing into the darkness. Everyone turned that way.

  It was a short hop into town, maybe twenty minutes. Ruiz had already gotten confirmation that a couple large fishing vessels had come in earlier. If they were lucky they could cut off El Moreno before he bolted north. Cal was concerned that they had no idea where the guy was going. The U.S. border ran hundreds of miles. If their thirty-man force couldn’t snatch him, it might be like looking for a single grain of sand on a pristine beach.

  The passenger vans rumbled closer, opting to turn onto the runway. Cal’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Travis.

  Cal answered. “Hey, Trav.”

  “Can you talk?”

  “Hold on.” Cal moved a few feet away from the others, Daniel following close by. “Okay. We just got to the port. We’re about to hop in our transport and—”

  “Cal, your plans just changed.”

  “What happened?” His mind immediately jumped to the worst case scenario. Had El Moreno somehow gotten past them and already bounded across the border?

  “The Pope just got kidnapped.”

  “No way,” Cal exhaled.

  “Yeah. He got a call in to Brandon a few minutes ago. Said he and his security team were attacked. We thought he might’ve been killed, but the Secret Service guys with us are monitoring the police channels. The cops think it’s a shipment exchange gone bad. No sign of the Pope, but a bunch of dead Swiss Guards who they still think are hired guns.”

  “Holy shit. Are the spooks coming in, spec-ops?” Cal assumed that the President had pressed every emergency button he had to get the Pope back. This could look bad for everyone involved.

  “No.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “We’re not calling anyone in.”

  “Why the hell not?! Let me talk to Brandon. He’s about to make the dumbest—”

  “Cal,” Travis interrupted. “The Pope asked Brandon not to call in the big guns.”

  Cal almost screamed at his cousin. He gritted his teeth instead and said, “So what the hell are you going to do?”

  “The Pope asked for you and the monks to find him.”

  That almost surprised Cal more than Travis’s admission that the President wasn’t going
to lift a finger to help the Pope.

  “Look, Trav. What you need to do is shut down the border. Call the Mexican government, make them deploy their troops and we do the same on our side of the border. I’m sure they didn’t go far.”

  “It’s already done, Cal. It’s you guys or nothing. Are you telling me you won’t do it?”

  “You know that’s not what I’m saying. Of course we’ll do it, but this has the potential to get really fucking ugly.”

  “I know that and so does Zimmer.”

  Cal knew it was no use to keep up the barrage. Like Travis said, the plan was set. The Marine’s mind clicked over as he refocused on their new mission: save the Pope.

  “There’s one more thing,” Travis said.

  “Please don’t tell me the Pope said we couldn’t use guns.”

  “No. The last thing is that I’m coming to help. I got a hookup with the Marines at Yuma. They’re going to insert me and four Secret Service agents wherever you think we should meet.”

  Most people would have scoffed at the idea of a paper pusher coming along on a rescue mission. But Travis was a SEAL and barely forty years old. He’d somehow kept his elite level physical abilities despite his demanding job. He’d even heard from the President that Travis liked to sneak out on military installation visits to train with the troops. Cal bet his cousin hadn’t lost a step. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t give him a hard time about it.

  “You sure you can keep up, old man?” Cal asked, warming to the idea of his cousin joining their merry band.

  “I’ll smoke your ass, sonny.”

  Cal grinned. It was like old times. “Okay. Let me talk to Ruiz, and then I’ll let you know where we want you.”

  “We’ll be ready.”

  The Jefferson Group operators, the monks, and Armando Ruiz listened as Cal told them about the Pope. He left out any mention of the President. Shock and anger radiated from the Brothers of St. Longinus. Determined scowls were cast by the TJG boys. It was Ruiz that surprised Cal the most. The man looked like he was going to cry. Not like a couple of tears, but a full on blubbering meltdown.