“Jesus Christ…”
18:29:43
When Joe Corelli left his office at the NSA earlier in the evening, he was looking forward to some Macallan and McCormick. The former, is his favorite scotch; the latter, is his favorite Debbie. Deborah McCormick is an Agency field operative and the only love interest in Joe’s life since college. The two of them hooked up after the Christmas party two years ago. They merrily repeat their tryst whenever Debbie is in Washington. Her work takes her away from the capital for long stretches of weeks at a time so it is not often enough for his liking. McCormick, an extremely guarded woman, seems better suited to the ‘friends with benefits’ relationship of theirs. It is just as well Joe tells himself. His job and his own workaholic drive don’t allow for anything more meaningful.
Although it was Debbie that Joe was looking forward to bedding, it was thoughts of Sandi and the sun-bright memories of their long weekend in Destin that he dreamed of until Annie Cooper woke him with a pair of sharp kicks to his mattress. Jarred awake, the image of Sandi’s naked body evaporates from his mind’s eye. The dream is replaced by Annie’s scowling face.
“What the…?”
“Get up.”
“What’s going on,” Joe asks, struggling to sit up in a bed he doesn’t recognize. The room spins lazily a couple of times as his focus returns. “Where are we?”
“Santa’s other workshop.”
“Huh?”
“You’ll see.”
As Joe looks around the small room, memories of the night return to him. He recalls the assassination attempt, the mad Beltway ride and the flight on Marine One. He swings his legs around and slips his feet into his shoes. He doesn’t bother to lace them up but instead makes for his jacket folded atop a large dresser across the room.
“Don’t worry about that now,” Annie says. “It’s not there.”
“What’s not there?”
“Your phone, wallet, PalmPal,” she says. “Whatever it is you’re looking for is gone. They left us the clothes on our backs; that’s all.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see,” she says and walks out the room.
Corelli follows her out and down a corridor to a glass enclosed balcony. The congressman is there with the President and his four Secret Service agents. They are seated on the long, cushioned bench centered in the half-moon-shaped room. Joe looks at them only long enough to acknowledge everyone, for his attention is drawn to the control room beneath the balcony. Annie Cooper gestures him towards the wall of glass.
“Oh, my God,” he says, approaching the arc of glass panes.
“Funny you should say that,” Annie says behind him. “Look down, won’t you?”
“I am looking down.”
“No, straight down,” Annie insists and pushes his head against the glass with more force than she needs to.
Joe is about to complain, but the protest dies in his throat.
Corelli is suddenly looking down on a life-size Crucifix. It is hanging on the wall beneath the balcony. A few feet beneath the Crucifix, on the floor of the control room, he makes out a life-sized Nativity scene. For many long moments, Joe looks from the bloody and thorn-crowned head to the soldiers manning the consoles. His mind goes blank and his is not entirely sure that he is not still dreaming. At first glance, except for the silly, camouflage Santa caps, the collection of soldiers look no different than what he would expect to find on any military installation. Looking closer however, he spots an unfamiliar patch on a few uniforms. The round patch is stitched to their shirts on the right shoulder. The insignia, on a field of black, is made up of a golden cross, its base curving into a beveled sword point and a red, Omega draped over the cross bar. Written in a ring around the symbol are the words: In Hoc Signo Vinces. He translates it from the Latin. By this sign, you shall conquer.
“I told you they were Christians,” Annie says behind him.
“Yes, you did,” Joe whispers.
He stares down for another silent minute at the dozens of soldiers in the rock-hewn war room. No one, so much as, glances up at him. Corelli lifts his gaze. A dozen large screens face the balcony from the control room’s far wall. He looks from one to the other, searching for something, anything that will make sense of the scene for him. There are aerial shots of DC in the first row. Troops spread throughout the city, securing downtown, block by block. There are different videos from, what he figures are three different sections of the Southern border playing on another column. The third row of screens is cycling through a slideshow of the United Nations Tower and its surrounding streets. In the first screen of the last column, Joe watches a police officer exiting a building. The images on the column’s other screens places the cop at the cultural center of the Ikhwan Mega-Mosque in Dearborn Michigan. The officer looks warily left and right before sprinting to a waiting squad car. He climbs into the passenger seat and the squad car drives away with its lights off.
Corelli’s gaze sweeps over the pictures again and again but nothing jumps out at him with which to thread the disparate images. Joe is about to ask his party what their thoughts are when he spots Earl Forrester enter the control room. Cane in hand, the Chief of Homeland Security limps briskly across the floor, escorted by a dozen soldiers. Joe has never seen their like. Black, combat plate armor covers them from head-to-toe, only their eyes are visible through the raised visors of their helmets. Compact sub-machine guns are holstered at their thighs. Stun-Rods are held at the ready as they march. More ominous however, than either the rods or the guns, are the red, eight-pointed crosses emblazoned on the soldier’s breastplates.
“Congressman,” Joe says. “Mr. President, Earl Forrester is here.”
Everyone rises from the bench and join Joe at the window.
“Forrester is in on it,” Annie says. “Why am I not surprised?”
Behind the column follows a large, red headed man who trades handshakes, high-five slaps and thumbs-up with the soldiers at their consoles.
“That’s Quinn, Mr. President,” Morton Gallagher says. “The red head in the back, that’s the shooter, Carlton Quinn.”
President O’Neill doesn’t say anything. He merely stares coldly at Forrester and his party as they make their way up the stairs to the balcony. The soldiers in the front collapse their rods, sheath them and pluck the compact, sub-machine guns from their holsters. It is that half a dozen soldiers who enter first, automatic weapons drawn. Gallagher and his crew ring O’Neill with their bodies. Earl Forrester limps onto the balcony, followed by Quinn and the other six soldiers. The latter half-dozen horseshoe the Chief of Homeland Security. Unconsciously Joe and Annie step back, drawing close to the congressman.
Forrester smiles warmly and broadly. “Good evening, all.”
“Merry Christmas, boss.” Carlton Quinn says from behind the Chief, a lopsided grin spread across his wide face.
“You’ll be shot for this, Quinn,” Gallagher threatens.
“Not today, boss,” Quinn responds, never losing the smile. “Not today.”
“Earl, you will release us immediately,” the President orders, his voice even and calm.
“You will all be released at the end of Christmastide,” Earl says.
“That’s in twelve days, to you heathens,” Carlton Quinn adds.
“I said immediately,” O’Neill insists.
“And I said, twelve days,” Forrester repeats.
“This is treason, Earl,” the President says through gritted teeth. “Treason!”
“Until you’re able to have us fitted with nooses, Mr. President,” Earl says with a smile. “We will call it a Revolution.”
“You can’t expect to get away with kidnapping the President, Chief,” Lamar says.
“Oh, but I do, Congressman Reed,” Forrester says. “At least I intend to try to get away with it and more. In the meantime, try to make yourselves comfortable. The mess hall is through the tunnel under the big screens.” The Chief of Homeland Security hooks a thumb behind hi
m.
“The balcony door will be opened for you between 0:900 and 16:00 hours every day so you can get something to eat,” Earl continues. “It being Christmas Eve and all, we’ll open the door at 0:100 if you care to join us for grub after Mass. I’ve also been instructed to extend an invitation to attend the Midnight Mass to any who might care to partake.”
“Shove your mass,” Annie says.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no thank you,’ Ms. Cooper,” Forrester says.
“I’ll tell you what else you can take from me, you fascist…”
Annie lunges at Forrester. Two soldiers close in to block her. She sidesteps the first with a quick cross-shuffling of her feet and kicks the Stun-Rod out of the second soldier’s hand. Her leg still raised, she recoils it rapidly and snap kicks the disarmed soldier square in the chest. He stumbles backward, tripping over the first. Gallagher and his Agents tighten their ring around O’Neill. Joe and Lamar step forward, whether to help Annie or stop her, Corelli doesn’t know. They both hesitate for one frozen second as the six soldiers on the room’s perimeter snap their submachine guns into firing position in perfect unison. It is all the time two of the Stun-Rod wielders need to rush Lamar and Joe and pin them against the nearest wall. Annie is intercepted by a third soldier meanwhile. She kicks at him but he ducks under her fast flying foot. With a quick spin of an outstretched leg, he sweeps her one, planted foot out from under her. Annie lands hard on her back. The soldier she sidestepped originally has pivoted to face her. He jabs her with his Stun-Rod. Annie convulses for a moment as the electric charge flares through her body. She then goes limp.
Chief of Homeland Security Earl Forrester did not flinch through the whole melee.
The two soldiers pinning Lamar and Joe release them and the others on the perimeter lower their weapons. Joe rubs at his throat, where the rod pressed hard against his larynx.
“Her next outburst will land her in the brig for the remainder of her stay, congressman,” Forrester says. “Warn her, when she comes to.”
Congressman Reed bends over Annie. He picks her up off the floor and turns to Chief Forrester.
“I’ll explain it to her,” Lamar says.
“Congressman,” Joe says suddenly. “I think maybe I should go to the Mass. If it’s alright with you, that is.”
Reed looks over his shoulder at Joe. “Sure, go ahead.”
Corelli watches the congressman carry Annie over to the bench. When he turns around again, he finds Forrester studying him. It is disconcerting being sized up and measured by someone orchestrating what had to be the most ambitious coup in human history, but Joe manages to affect a grin.
He shrugs at the Chief of Homeland Security. “It’s a Holy Day of Obligation, after all.”
“Fine, Mr. Corelli,” Forrester responds with the hint of a smile. “Mr. Quinn will escort you to the chapel.”
Carlton Quinn steps forward and Joe finds himself shaking hands with the man who took a shot at the President of the United States.
“A Merry Christmas to you, Joe,” Quinn says, pumping Corelli’s hand.
“Yeah,” Joe says. “A Merry Christmas to you too.”
Forrester turns without further ceremony and heads to the stairs. He is followed out by his black-clad praetorian. Quinn gestures Corelli forward. Joe takes a quick look back at his fellow prisoners. Annie’s head is on Reed’s lap. She is beginning to stir. The President and his security detail stare stonily after Forrester’s column. Joe turns and heads down the metal stairs.
On the floor of the control room Corelli finds himself the center of attention.
“This way, Joe,” Carlton says, pointing to the tunnel on their right. Earl Forrester is leading his men to the tunnel on the opposite end of the floor.
“Forrester isn’t coming with us?” Joe asks.
“He ain’t the church going type,” Carlton says. “But we’re working on him.”
“So you’re not all Christians?” Joe wonders out loud.
“Most of us are Catholic,” Quinn declares. “But hey, the Crusade is an equal opportunity recruiter. Forrester is our token ornery, old pagan.”
“The Crusade?”
“Yeah ,” says Quinn, tapping the patch on his right shoulder. “The Omega Crusade.”
“I see,” Joe says, looking from Quinn to the Crucifix and crèche. Returning his attention back to the sniper he decides not to mention that the displays are highly illegal on army bases. He figures people willing to kidnap a President and congressman, not to mention launch a crusade, don’t concern themselves with the latest court rulings on the separation of church and state. Instead, Joe follows Carlton out of the control room.
At the end of the short tunnel, they come to a bank of three elevators. Quinn taps the button on the wall. Corelli decides to do a little probing.
“Don’t you think that mankind in the twenty-first century is a little long in the tooth for a crusade?”
“We don’t think so.”
“Who exactly is ‘we’?” Joe asks. “Aside from being predominantly Catholic, that is. Is we the Church? Is the Vatican in on this?”
“No,” answers Quinn. “Rome has her hands full with other business at the moment.”
“What about the demonstrators in the park?” Joe asks. “Are they all in on the crusade?”
“We have operatives and friends in the crowds.”
“But you don’t have the crowds?”
“Not all of them. Not yet.”
“I’m still not too clear on who we are.”
“Have you ever asked yourself Joseph, how much more you’re going to put up with?”
“How much more..?”
“Crap brother Joseph, crap!”
Joe stares dumbly at the large freckled face inches from his own.
“How much more crap are you willing to put up with?” Quinn continues. “Look around you, Joe. We’re ass-deep in all kinds of crap. Our nation is following the world down the toilet. We got us terrorists, anarchists, drug addicts and gangbangers running amok in our cities because judges, not wanting to ‘trample on their rights’ let them loose on our streets. We got us a government that has done spent us into the poor house and still wants more. We got us homos teaching our kids that depravity is normal. There are pedophiles waiting in the wings for a turn in the law so they too can get their filthy hands on our children. We got porn coming at us 24/7 from every direction. We can’t go to the mall without worrying about some flea-bagger or rag-top blowing us up or shooting us down. It’s bonkers crazy out there, my man. We’re ass-deep in all kinds of crap, Joseph. And we are them folks who say, enough is enough. We are who’s going to put a stop to it all. That’s who we are.”
The elevator arrives. Joe steps in first at Quinn’s invitation. Corelli makes a note of the elevator’s control panel. There are ten buttons in single file. Carlton punches a button for the fifth level.
“Who is your head honcho?”
“Colonel Miguel Pereira.”
Well, Joe thinks, Annie was right. And twice in one day! She will be insufferable after this. That is, he reminds himself, if any of them survive.
“You are Catholic, aren’t you, Joseph?” Quinn asks.
“Technically, I guess.”
“Lapsed, have you?”
“I guess.”
“When was the last time you took Communion?”
“My brother’s funeral,” Joe answers. “I was twenty.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Quinn says. “I lost a brother at about that same age. It’s rough, I know.”
“Thanks.”
The lopsided grin begins to split Quinn’s broad face. “So I guess you’re tagging along to check us out rather than because you want to attend Christmas Mass?”
“Huh… well…”
“It’s alright lad,” Carlton says, patting him on the back. “I’d do the same in your shoes. Besides, by hook or by crook, right?”
The doors open. The smell of incense perfum
es the still air of the new, darker tunnel in front of Joe Corelli.
3
The Church Triumphant
“Any people anywhere, being inclined and having the power, have the right to rise up, and shake off the existing government and form a new one that suits them better. This is a most valuable… a most sacred right… a right we hope and believe, is to liberate the world.”
—Abraham Lincoln
The microwave dings!
The machine’s bell sounds louder than usual in the silence of Joe’s apartment. He rises from the table and pulls a steaming plate out of the microwave. The filet of Redfish is cooked atop of the steak. Surf and turf, desperado style, he thinks, trying unsuccessfully to amuse his self. He places his dinner on the table beside the computer and goes to the refrigerator. He pulls out a can of Coke. As the door swings in to close, he spots the small bottle of beet horseradish he uses to make his signature Bloody Mary. He pulls it from its shelf. Joe then grabs a fork and steak knife out of his cutlery drawer and sits down before his meal, the first substantial one in three days.
Corelli digs in. The filet is dry and the steak is a little on the rubbery side. He enjoys them all the same. They are hot and solid and good vehicles for the horseradish which more than compensates for the taste burned away by the microwaving. He empties his mind and loses himself in the simple animal pleasure of eating. When he is done, he shuts his eyes and is still for several minutes before taking the empty plate and can to the sink. After a swig of scotch Joe lights up another cigarette and smokes it leisurely, down to the filter, before picking up the stylus and continuing.
[Colonel Pereira’s Christmas Crusade will survive him and he will survive through it. You cannot kill a man like Pereira, not really. The world has been changed by him; our nation in particular has been altered beyond recognition. He will live on through those changes. Say what you will about the man and his crusade, there is no denying that through it America has been renewed, reborn and returned to the head of the geopolitical pack, leading a newer, braver world into the future…]
The future?
The House of War: Book One Of : THE OMEGA CRUSADE Page 23