The Secret Cardinal

by Tom Grace

  “Looks like Hell Week’s off to a roaring start, Chief,” Hunley said.

  “The men are making a fine batch of sugar cookies out of those tadpoles, sir,” Gates agreed.

  Cold, wet, hungry, and tired—for the next five days, the SEAL recruits would experience these four sensations in extremes they could never before have imagined. And at every turn, their instructors would berate, goad, cajole, and tempt them into giving up.

  “Hit it!” Petty Officer Portage shouted.

  Portage’s command sent a sand-encrusted boat crew of seven men into the cold surf for a plunge. One of the men straggled a bit behind his buddies, and the petty officer pounced on him.

  “You ain’t moving too fast, banana. You got sand in your panties?”

  Gates and Hunley couldn’t hear the faltering recruit’s response as Portage hounded him into the water.

  “Looks like Portage has our first bell ringer of the night,” Gates shouted over the din.

  A boat crew in the surf lay in a foot of water, linked elbow to elbow, facing the shore. Portage stood at the water’s edge, alternating bursts from an M-60 with tender words of encouragement to the shivering men.

  “You embryos aren’t getting outta that water until one of you quits!” Portage shouted. “Who’s it gonna be? I only need one! There’s a hot shower and a dry bed just waiting for one of you.”

  A young lieutenant, the sole officer among the sodden boat crew, tried to shout over Portage’s banter and encourage his teammates to hang together. A large wave crashed over the men, and one recruit broke away from the others. He struggled ashore and walked with leaden steps toward a brass ship’s bell mounted atop a wooden frame. He rang the bell three times to signal his surrender and was taken away.

  “That gets us down to forty-eight,” Gates said, unsurprised.

  The class was in its fourth week of BUD/S—Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training—and already two-thirds of those who started were gone. Only twenty-five percent of recruits in the initial muster of a typical BUD/S class completes the twenty-six-week course and earns the right to display the Special Warfare Badge—commonly known as the Budweiser—on their uniforms.

  Despite appearances, the purpose of Hell Week is not to destroy a man but rather to prove to him that his body can do tenfold the work he ever thought possible. It also drives home the importance of team-work, because men acting as individuals cannot overcome the challenges faced in BUD/S. The recruits that learn these two important lessons through the catharsis of blood and sweat have the best chance of becoming SEALs.

  “When do you leave?” Hunley asked.

  “Later today,” Gates replied, “just as soon as I get a few things squared away. I should be back by the end of the month. The guys know the drill.”

  Hunley nodded. Earlier that morning, the captain had received an unusually cryptic order that temporarily removed Gates from the active-duty roster. Though curious about this sudden reassignment, Hunley knew not to pursue a matter when the order was authorized by the commander in chief.

  “Good luck, Chief.”

  Gates saluted his CO, then climbed behind the wheel of a Hum Vee and drove back to his office on the main base. It was just past midnight, and the complex of buildings was dark except for those areas manned by the night watch. He parked in his designated spot, kicked the sand from his boots, and made his way through the instructor’s building to his office. Gates keyed his password into his computer and logged into the base network. He glanced at the new messages in his inbox and was pleased with the responses he found from fellow warriors in the U.S. Special Forces community. He tapped into a secure A/V communications program and keyed in the address for Kilkenny at the Vatican. The two computers shook hands through the Internet, and a window opened into the catacombs workroom.

  “Chief, right on time.” Kilkenny smiled.

  “Early bird gets the worm, son. Though around these parts the early birds are trying to keep from getting their tail feathers shot off.”

  “Ah, Hell Week,” Kilkenny sighed wistfully. “I still have vivid memories of dining in the demo pit, chowing on a box lunch, knee-deep in that cold putrid cesspool while the instructors lit off smoke grenades and tossed M-80s into the water. You going any easier on the new recruits?”

  “Hell no. If it was good enough for you ’n me, it’s good enough for them.”

  “Glad to hear it. How are you coming with the team for my op?”

  “Every spec warrior I polled has signed on,” Gates replied, referring to members of the elite special forces community, “so we should have a full roster by midday. Amazing how many guys will volunteer for something with so few details.”

  “Must be the thought of your charming company.”

  “Or the chance to see a crusty old SEAL strap on his fins one last time before he retires,” Gates said in a slow Oklahoma drawl. “Remember our last op?”

  “Haiti? Like it was yesterday. Bet Admiral Hopwood was smiling down from heaven on us after that little foray into the bush.”

  “Anytime you can rescue a bunch of hostages and send a steamin’ sack of shit to hell—well, my friend, that is a good day.”

  “This will be a good one to hang up your fins after, Max. Any thoughts on the plan?” Kilkenny asked.

  “A few. About six or seven years back, you and I did a stint with the Night Stalkers. Remember those funky ultralights they were toying around with—the BATs?”

  Kilkenny clearly recalled one night flight in which the pilot from the Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (SOAR) did all he could to get his Navy passengers to lose their dinners. Gates repaid the pilot with a little unscheduled underwater cross training.

  “Bitchin’ Airborne Things?” Kilkenny mused, recalling the unofficial acronym. “Think we can use ‘em?”

  “They’ve come a long way since the Mark One Mod Zeros we played with. Take a look at the latest iteration.”

  Gates uploaded an animation that quickly appeared in a window on Kilkenny’s screen. The new BAT sported an open, lozenge-shaped fuselage made with curved sections of piping and seated four occupants in a two-by-two configuration. Like a helicopter, the fuselage rested on a pair of skids, but any resemblance between the two types of aircraft ended there. Tubular tendrils sprouted organically from a slender, three-foot-long turbine engine mounted atop the spine of the fuselage above the rear seats. The tendrils flowed seamlessly like arteries that could draw energy from the power plant. The most distinctive feature of the craft was its wings—a pair of fabric-clad armatures with visible ribs and scalloped along the trailing edge like its nocturnal namesake.

  “Looks like something Tim Burton and H. R. Giger might have dreamed up,” Kilkenny opined.

  “It ain’t a fighter jet, but it sure flies like a sonofabitch. Can turn on a dime, hover, and do moves in the air that are almost unnatural. I figure with three of these, we can jump across the Mongolian border and reach the outskirts of Chifeng in just a few hours. That’ll save us a couple days of transit heading in and out—time that I’d rather use on the ground eyeballin’ that prison.”

  “As I recall, BATs were just for short-range hops.”

  “For the most part, they still are. This beast is totally electric now, powered by a fuel cell. Given the juice it takes to put one of ’em into the air, round-trip range is a couple hundred miles.”

  “We’re going a lot farther than that.”

  “I know, but some of the prototypes they’re testing are for long-range insertion.”

  “How long?”

  “Don’t know yet. On these new BATs, they replaced the fuel cell with a radioisotopic thermoelectric generator,” Gates pronounced each syllable carefully as he read the words off a specification sheet. “A RITEG for short. I understand they use ’em to power satellites.”

  “Max, it’s a nuke.”

  “No shit. I guess that’s why they say that with a RITEG, this thing will keep going like the Energizer Bunny. A
nyhow, I figure three BATs will do the job quite nicely, and I got a trio of pilots chomping at the bit to try ’em out for real. Best of all, they’re not in Uncle Sam’s inventory yet—strictly off-the-books hardware.”

  Kilkenny reran the animation on his computer. “Flying in and out would solve a number of logistical problems. Off the books or not, we better make damn sure we don’t leave one of these behind.”

  “Yeah, the folks at Boeing who pimped this ride would be most put out.”

  “Did you just use the phrase pimped this ride in a sentence?” Kilkenny asked.

  “Yeah. Pimp My Ride is one of my favorite shows. I TiVo it along with Monster Garage and Myth Busters. Best TV programming since This Old House.”

  Kilkenny laughed. “Just send me a full set of specs on the BATs. If we’re going to use them, we have to figure out how to smuggle them in and out of Mongolia.”

  13

  VATICAN CITY October 17

  “Could I interest either of you gentlemen in a glass of wine?” Donoher asked as he entered the catacombs workroom. “Our evening meal will arrive shortly.”

  Grin glanced up from the bank of monitors, his eyes tired but bright. “I prefer to imbibe only among friends, and if that’s a bottle of Italian red I see in your hand, then you must be a friend.”

  Kilkenny cleared a space on the worktable, and the cardinal set out three glasses and poured from a bottle of Castello di Fonterutoli Chianti Classico Riserva. The wine looked nearly black, and as Grin inhaled the bouquet, he detected traces of smoke, various fruits, licorice, and wood.

  “You’ve let this little fellow breath a bit,” Grin said approvingly.

  “Admittedly, my years in Italy have had a modestly civilizing affect upon me,” Donoher said.

  Kilkenny held his glass for a moment and stared at what would be his first drink in a week, then realized that with one bottle split three ways, there was little chance of a hangover. Each man swirled the first sip around in his mouth, tickling his taste buds with the complex, delightful flavor.

  “So, where do we stand?” Donoher asked.

  “Other than a few minor details, we’re ready to go,” Kilkenny replied. “In fact, Grin came up with a name for our covert op.”

  “Did you now? Let’s hear it.”

  “Operation Rolling Stone,” Grin announced.

  Donoher turned to Kilkenny. “You mean to tell me you’ve christened our sacred mission after a hedonistic rock ‘n’ roll band?”

  “Actually, it’s an allusion to the stone that covered Christ’s tomb until it was rolled away on Easter morning,” Grin explained. “Like Christ, Yin is entombed in Chifeng Prison, and we’re going to roll away the stone and let him out.”

  “Ah, a scriptural allusion,” Donoher said skeptically.

  “Grin assures me the name has nothing to do with the several megs of Stones tunes packed into his iPod,” Kilkenny offered.

  “Perish the thought.” Donoher held his glass up. “Very well then. To the success of Operation Rolling Stone.”

  “Here, here,” Kilkenny and Grin chimed in, tapping their glasses with Donoher’s.

  Kilkenny savored the taste of the red wine and felt it working its magic. He and Grin had been working down in the catacombs almost nonstop since the pope’s death, and he knew the same must be true for Donoher.

  “How’s it going up there?” Kilkenny asked.

  “I am about where you would expect a man to be when he has to stage a state funeral and an election on a mere two-weeks notice, but I’ll muddle through. Despite the chaos, what you two are trying to accomplish is never far from my thoughts and prayers. God willing, you’ll finish the job before the white smoke rises.”

  “Speaking of the election,” Grin said. “I’ve been trolling the Web, and Paddy Power is listing odds on the top cardinals. There are five in single digits.”

  “The papabili,” Donoher said with an exaggerated Italian flourish. “It’s dangerous to be named a favorite going into a papal election. There’s an old saying that many a man has gone into conclave a pope and come out a cardinal. You aren’t betting on this, I hope.”

  “I don’t gamble at all,” Grin replied. “Throwing money away is not my idea of a good time.”

  “Is it a sin to bet on a papal election?” Kilkenny asked.

  “No, but such a wager would be in extremely poor taste. Though were I a betting man, I believe my money would be safe in the top five. Any one of them would make a fine pope.”

  “Who do you think has the best shot?” Kilkenny asked.

  “Each papabili has his assets and liabilities. If you follow the conventional wisdom that the Church will not make two bold moves in a row, then Cardinal Magni is the clear favorite. He’s the only Italian among the papabili, so he can count on garnering seventeen percent of the vote straight away. He is also very conservative and well-liked by Opus Dei.”

  “Aren’t those the guys who got slammed in The Da Vinci Code?” Grin asked.

  Donoher nodded. “And at sixty-nine, his reign likely will not last as long as Pope Leo’s. Magni is a very safe choice. If the European cardinals don’t go for him, then they’ll likely support Ryff. He’s a well-respected moral theologian, a man cut from the same cloth as Pope Leo, which makes him a strong contender. He’s middle-European, which to some may make him seem a bit too much like Pope Leo, but the biggest knock against him is his age.”

  “Too old?” Kilkenny asked.

  “Too young. He’s only fifty-seven and in very good health. A man like that could reign for a very long time indeed.”

  “What about the other three?” Kilkenny asked.

  “Ah, that’s where things get interesting,” Donoher said wryly. “The demographics of the Church have changed dramatically over the past century, and Leo’s selection of cardinals reflects this fundamental change. For the first time, cardinals from Third World countries have a real opportunity to win the papacy. Escalante from Honduras would be an exciting choice. Nice fellow, very media-savvy, and wonderful in front of a crowd. His election would be the most dramatic event in the history of Latin America since Columbus washed ashore. Then there’s Cardinal Velu from Bombay.”

  “India?” Kilkenny said. “I didn’t know there were any Catholics there.”

  “Roughly twenty million, and the Church in India dates to the Apostle Thomas. Velu has also spent time in the Vatican ranks, so he’s well connected here. He’s a conservative theologian, fluent in more than a dozen languages, and has wonderful rapport in Africa and Southeast Asia. And he’s the right age—neither too old nor too young—but he’s so conservative that the moderate cardinals might have trouble voting for him.

  “Rounding out the papabili is Oromo from Sudan,” Donoher continued, “a very bright fellow and well connected in the Islamic world. He arranged the first visit by a pope to a mosque. Oromo’s election could do a lot of good in building bridges between the largely Judeo-Christian West and the Islamic nations of Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. Africa is also home to more than one hundred twenty million Catholics, and one of the few places where priestly vocations are on the rise.”

  “What’s his downside?” Grin asked.

  “That depends on the bloc of cardinals. To some, he’s more conservative then Velu. Others might object that the Catholic Church in Africa is too young, especially compared with the Church in Latin America. Sadly, there may even be some cardinals who will object to him because he’s black.”

  “A very un-Christian stance,” Grin opined.

  “Certainly one that no cardinal will admit to publicly, but regrettably it’s still there. Given the needs of the Church at this moment in history, I pray the Holy Spirit will guide us past any impediments like prejudice to select the right man.”

  14

  October 18

  At one o’clock in the morning, Cardinal Donoher led Kilkenny and Grin out of the catacombs and through a side entrance into Saint Peter’s Basilica. Their footsteps echoed off
the marble floors and blended like drops of water into the dull hum of reverberant energy that filled the majestic space. Scores of sampietrini—the faithful men of Saint Peter’s—labored to clean the basilica and prepare it for the third day of public veneration for the beloved pope. The sampietrini carefully removed traces left behind by the thousands who paid their respects. When the doors reopened at dawn—already thousands were holding vigil in Saint Peter’s Square—the basilica would again be immaculate.

  As they approached the center of the basilica, Kilkenny found his eyes drawn to the towering structure that soared almost ninety feet above the papal altar. Four ornate tortile columns spiraled upward from marble bases to carry an intricately detailed canopy embellished with a host of angels. With the blessing of Pope Urban VIII, Bernini recast a host of bronze statues taken from the pagan Roman Pantheon into this triumphant baldacchino.

  The volume of space above the baldacchino curved inward, the walls warping into mosaic-clad pendentives that supported Michelangelo’s soaring dome. As its creators intended, the volume and embellishment of the basilica evoked both awe and majesty. Kilkenny read the gilt band of Latin that circumscribed the circular base of the dome and recognized the phrase as the opening line of the song the Beijing martyrs had sung.

  Donoher guided them around a low, U-shaped balustrade that defined the edge of an opening in the basilica floor immediately in front of the papal altar. A pair of bronze gates at the bottom of the U provided access to a double ramp of stairs that led down into the confessio—the true heart of Saint Peter’s Basilica.

  Kilkenny gazed down into the exedra beneath the papal altar and saw an exquisite room clad in multihued marbles. A pair of sampietrini carefully tended to the bronze lanterns of the ninety-five eternal flames that illuminated the confessio. At the far end of the space, behind a niche decorated with ninth-century mosaics and flanked by the statues of Peter and Paul, lay the tomb of Saint Peter. During an earlier visit to Rome, Kilkenny had learned from Donoher that the confessio derived its name from the confession of faith given by Saint Peter that led to his execution by Nero. What had started as a simple tomb on a hill outside the city of Rome became a shrine, then a church, and finally the Renaissance glory of the present basilica.