The darkness lifts suddenly as streetlamps come on again. The aerial shot zooms in over the east end of the park, its focus fixed on two columns of priests exiting a tent. Each one of the lead priests carries a large Crucifix. The next half-dozen sprinkle the crowd with Holy Water. Another six swing golden thuribles in wide arcs, leaving a trail of smoky incense in their wake. The others hoist banners with saints drawn upon them. Children walk out of two other tents and solemnly join up with the clerics, girls on one side and boys on the other. Each of them carries a ciborium, the large, golden cup which holds the Hosts to be distributed at Holy Communion. A lone priest follows at the end of the procession, carrying a large, covered chalice.
Everyone watches the solemn parade make its way to the steps of the Supreme Court Building. Over the procession, the lyrics of the asperges, the ritual sprinkling of holy water, scroll up the screens, Latin on the left and English on the right.
Some of the ministers of the other denominations try to rally their own faithful to begin their particular services. Most clerics don’t even try. Instead, they stare along with their flocks, in open-jawed bewilderment, at the giant television screens. Kidd looks across Independence Avenue and notices that the counter-demonstrators are beginning to stir. For weeks now the Maxists and secularists have been looking forward to seeing priests and their faithful hauled off to jail. They are not happy with the turn of events; growing angrier with each passing minute. Elmer can see their mouths moving, booing in protest, but it’s impossible to hear them over the music. With evident frustration, a protestor with a green and spiked Mohawk leaps over the barricade. He takes no more than a half dozen steps before he is struck with a Stun-Rod and drops like a stone.
Two and then three others leap over the barricade. They are as easily intercepted and incapacitated. Up and down the length of Independence Avenue, the scene is repeated over and over again. After a while the trickle of lunges past the barricades stop. It is not over, however. Not by a long shot, thinks Kidd. He can see the Maxists roiling with rage, working up their collective courage for an allout charge. The soldiers facing them see it too. They tighten their lines and raise their shields, forming a wall of them. A hail of bottles, rocks and several Molotov cocktails fly over the barricades. They crash harmlessly against the shields. A second and then a third barrage follows. No part of the confrontation is seen on television. Instead the screens show priests and children climbing the steps of the Supreme Court building. The lack of coverage is striking for Kidd and infuriating for the Maxists. They let loose more bottles, bricks and Molotov bombs.
The three lines of black-clad soldiers advance on the counter-demonstrators through the rain of debris. The two other lines hang back by the row of Army trucks. The Maxist mob lets out a muted roar and charges past the barricades en masse. Even through the music, Elmer hears the crunching of armor and bones and the grunts and groans as soldiers and protestor clash. The troops hold their line and jab their Stun-Rods like spears over their shields. Bodies begin to fall. The soldiers push on, walking over the fallen, jabbing with rods and ramming with shields. Water cannons pick off those protestors that manage to punch through the line. The troops in the rear move forward. The first line zip-tie the hands of the zapped protestors. The second line carry them off to waiting, canvas covered military trucks.
Elmer shakes his head at the sheer spectacle of it all. Kidd can’t believe that he is unable to stream any of what he is witnessing to his website. He curses under his breath, irritated to no end that all of his top-of-the-line gadgetry has been rendered useless during what he believes, is the most momentous event of both his lifetime and American history. It is small consolation to him that the many news crews swarming around the action are also unable to uplink any of the miles of tape they’re recording. There is only one channel broadcasting one event on every screen in the world, the Catholic Mass atop the steps to the Supreme Court building. The world sees nothing of the battle on Independence Avenue. All they see is six priests walking around the altar, blessing it with incense.
After several minutes the counter-demonstrators are pushed back to the bank of the Washington Channel. The fallen are being driven off to God knows where. The ones left have no will left to fight. They settle back down to hissing, booing and grumbling among themselves.
Elmer turns his attention back to the Jumbotrons. The priests are finishing their prayers at the foot of the altar. Columns of text roll up on either side of the screens, guiding the viewer through the rubric of the Mass. He watches as bewildered as anyone else around him. Well, not everyone, he corrects himself. The soldiers and the Catholics celebrating the Mass are not bewildered. Not a one of the thousands of worshippers stirred from their make-shift pews during the street battle.
On the left, Kidd reads in Latin: “Oramus te. Domine, per merita Sanctorum tuorum…”
The English translation scrolls upward on the right: “We beseech Thee, O Lord, by the merits of Thy saints whose relics lie here, and of all the saints: deign in Thy mercy to pardon me all my sins. Amen.”
The organs and voices change songs. A short blurb on the Jumbotrons announces: The Introit, Dominus dixit (Psalm 2.)
The lyrics of the ancient song rise on either side. Elmer follows through the English as it is sung in Latin by two alternating choruses.
“The Lord has said to Me, Thou art My Son, this day I have begotten Thee.”
“Why do the nations rage and the peoples utter folly?”
“The Lord has said to Me, Thou art My Son, this day I have begotten Thee.”
“The kings of the earth rise up, and the princes conspire together against The Lord and against His Anointed. ‘Let us break their fetters and cast their bonds from us.’”
“The Lord has said to Me, Thou art My Son, this day I have begotten Thee.”
“He who is throned in heaven laughs; The Lord derides them…”
Elmer Kidd has to laugh too. It’s a nervous laugh. It’s all so amazing, he thinks, surreal and unsettling. The rogue troops are not only insuring that the outlawed Mass is performed, they are also taking the opportunity to school the world on its rubrics.
17:43:21
Editha Jefferson thought she would’ve been nervous during the seizure of the White House. She wasn’t however, not even during her time alone with the President, applying his make-up in the Oval Office. Mrs. Jefferson was instead quite calm throughout the whole operation which, fortunately, ran without a hitch. Editha and her co-conspirators, a Secret Service agent and the two Marines posted at the front door had no trouble surprising and corralling the skeletal staff President O’Neill left behind. And no one was more surprised than Burt Owens, the President’s Chief of Staff, who was found playing at Commander in Chief behind his boss’ desk.
Mrs. Jefferson thought herself the least likely person in the world to be radicalized. She never held strong opinions about politics or religion and generally eschewed those who did. She tended to vote Democrat and was the most nominal of Catholics, attending church only on Christmas, Easter and for the occasional wedding and funeral. Her interests and energies were usually split between her family, which consisted of a husband and three teenage sons and her career as a professional stylist and makeup artist for both the film and stage industries. She was aware of the issues of the day, but the vitriol which they generated turned her off. She told herself she was too busy, juggling family and career, to get involved. And more than that, Editha would later come to admit, she never connected the issues with her life. She thought of them as abstractions for politicians, pundits and priests to argue over.
Mrs. Jefferson has since learned the hard way that some abstractions are as lethal as bullets. She knows it firsthand, having lost her mother to the abstraction of eugenics.
It was a little over four years ago that Editha’s mother, Eunice Thornton was killed, ordered euthanized as a matter of policy by one of the United Nations Group 2112 Viability Panels. It happened after her mother hurt her
head in a fall. Unconscious and unattended for more than a day, she slipped into a coma. When she was finally brought to the hospital, the UN bureaucrats issued a ‘do not resuscitate’ order, denying any treatment of her subdural hematoma. Editha pleaded with the hospital, but the administrator would not budge from the party line.
“Your mother is 73 years old and diabetic, Mrs. Jefferson,” the man said by way of explanation. “I’m afraid she has already expended more than her share of healthcare credits through twenty-five years of insulin therapy. And then there was that hip replacement she had five years ago. That put her well over the HHS allotment. The implant would never have been allowed post-resolution.”
The family tried to sue, hoping to force the hospital to act but it was to no avail. The UN’s Viability Councils were immune from local laws. They went to the press but the media was not interested in running stories that would shed anything less than a positive light on United Nations’ Resolution 2112.
“Be grateful that your mother got to live as long as she has,” said the exec at the local television network. “Seventy-three years is more than twice as long as most people live in the third world.”
Editha thinks of her mother now, as she does at every Mass. She can sense her mom sitting with her on the bench, facing the makeshift altar erected at one end of the White House basketball court. Her husband is at her left on the pew, her sons at her right. The struggle to save her mother’s life bonded the family, deepening their faith and their understanding of its place in the world. The trial prepared them to accept the Crusade when the invitation came.
Mrs. Jefferson steals a glance at the Colonel, standing in the first pew. Colonel Pereira served with her husband in Iraq. The two men will fight together again, and she and her sons and thousands more will join them. Together they will destroy what the Colonel has rightly identified as ‘the cult of death that rules the world.’ Editha is happy to play her part.
She will never stand on the sidelines again.
She looks from Colonel Pereira to the altar. Freshly sprung from prison, Cardinal Redding is celebrating the historic Mass, the first ever to be performed in the White House. In alternating voices, Cardinal and faithful recite the Kyrie Eleison. The three-part plaintive chant of the traditional Tridentine Mass is not in Latin. This vestige of another ancient rite is instead recited in Greek.
“Kyrie eleison,” prays the Cardinal. “Lord have mercy…”
“Kyrie eleison,” the worshippers beg mercy of their Lord, God the Father.
“Kyrie eleison,” Editha begs mercy for her many failings. Please forgive me, she prays, forgive my selfish refusal to get involved until it was my mother who was sentenced to death.
“Christe eleison,” prays the server assisting Cardinal Redding. “Christ have mercy…”
“Christe eleison,” the Cardinal begs mercy of their Lord, God the Son.
“Christe eleison,” pleads Mrs. Jefferson. O my Jesus, she prays, in your infinite mercy, accept my suffering and that of my mother’s and my family’s; allow me to offer it up in union with yours.
“Kyrie eleison,” the Cardinal prays. “Lord have mercy…”
“Kyrie eleison,” the worshippers beg mercy of their Lord, God the Holy Spirit.
“Kyrie eleison,” prays Editha. In your mercy, O Holy Ghost, help us save our country! Help us remake the world!
17:36:54
Mary Ericson and her younger brothers, John and Luke watch the Mass on the windshield of the family sedan. Her baby Peter is still asleep in the safety seat beside her. They are making their way through eastern Pennsylvania. The rushing shadows of deep, snow-frosted woods on either side of the highway frame the translucent video from DC. Monsignor Green is centered before the altar. His head is raised in the exalting prayer of the Gloria. The twins, who aspire to become priests someday, sing along with him in the Latin.
“Gloria in excelsis Deo. Et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis…”
“Glory to God in the highest,” Mary follows the English translation. “And on earth peace to men of goodwill.”
Mary smiles, imagining what people throughout the world must be thinking right now. All the secularists who spent the last twelve years cheering the closings of Catholic churches, schools, seminaries and charities were looking forward to the arrest of priests and the tearing down of yet another altar tonight. They must be sorely disappointed, she thinks.
“Laudamus te. Benedicimus te. Adoramus te…”
“We praise Thee. We bless Thee. We adore Thee…”
“They never learn,” Colonel Pereira said of secularists. It was during Thanksgiving, just eight months after the government killed her baby girl. Her father invited Colonel Pereira to the family dinner. The whole extended family was gathered for the holiday. They came together in part to help her heal from the trauma of the forced abortion, but it was also an opportunity for the family to hold a ‘war council.’
The Colonel was not a stranger to all of them. Mary’s elder brothers already knew the man and his plan. Matt and Mark served under Pereira in Iraq. After the war, her brothers introduced the Colonel to their father and a couple of uncles. The men, after a few years of conspiring among themselves, decided to divulge their plans to the rest of the family that Thanksgiving. She recalls that evening as a burst of light which dispelled the nightmare that had swallowed up her life when her baby, Marie was killed.
“Secularists always fail,” the Colonel said. “The Church has survived every emperor, empire and two-bit regime that has gone against Her. It will be no different this time.”
“Glorificamus te…”
“We glorify Thee…”
“The Cristeros of Mexico, the Vendee of France and other crusaders through the ages have always risen from the ranks of the faithful to defend Mother Church in her darkest hours. It is now our turn.”
The Colonel reassured Mary that night, promising her, “They won’t get away with what they did to you and your child.”
“Gratias agimus tibi…”
“We give Thee thanks for Thy great glory. O Lord God, Heavenly King, God the Father Almighty. O Lord Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son. O Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the Father, Who taketh away the sins of the world, have mercy on us. Who taketh away the sins of the world, receive our prayer. Who sitteth at the right hand of the Father, have mercy on us. For Thou alone art holy. Thou alone are the Lord. Thou alone, O Jesus Christ, art most high.”
Mary watches Monsignor Green cross himself. “Together with the Holy Ghost in the glory of God the Father. Amen.”
Yes, thinks Mary, it is the stewardship of the Holy Ghost that makes the Church invincible. It is by the power of the Holy Spirit that they will change the world, and bring its ruling regime to its knees. Her Marie will not have died in vain. Numbered are the days for the world that killed her child. She has sworn, with her husband, their families and tens of thousands of others, eternal, unyielding hostility against a world which kills a quarter of a million babies a day in the name of progress.
On the windshield, Monsignor Green bows low and kisses the altar. He then rises, turns to the people and the camera. With outstretched hands, the priest sings, “Dominus vobiscum.”
The scrolling text translates: “The Lord be with you.”
“Et cum spiritu tuo,” respond the thousands before him. “And with thy spirit.”
“Oremus,” the priest invites the world. “Let us pray…”
“Will you look at that,” John says behind the wheel. “Can you think of a more appropriate burg to stop at for refueling and a stretching of the legs?”
Mary looks through the windshield, past the ghostly image of Father Green bowing before the altar. John is turning the sedan off the highway, following the curving off ramp for, Bethlehem Pennsylvania. Still asleep, lost in the dreams of the innocent, the baby Peter giggles.
17:32:10
Barry Marion, the Mayor of the District of Columbia is sitting on the cold, ceme
nt floor of his own prison. The DC Metro Correctional Facility is packed. The cells are crammed with prisoners. He is sitting shoulder to shoulder with other prisoners in front of the cells. Their hands are tied behind them and chained through iron hoops screwed into the floor. They all have ball gags strapped to their mouths. Prison guards and soldiers, some with cross-emblazoned armor walk the squares of cell blocks, Stun-Batons at the ready to prod anyone who stirs or complains. They haven’t had to use the batons since the flat screens began broadcasting video of the outside world. The prisoners are transfixed, almost hypnotized by what they see.
The Mayor seethes silently as he watches the Mass he outlawed being performed before the whole world.
Monsignor Green is standing before the altar, chanting in Latin. The English text that flashes on the screen announces it is a prayer called the Collect.
“O God, Who didst illumine this most holy night with the brightness of the True Light; grant, we beseech Thee, that we, who have known the mystery of His light on earth, may also attain to the full enjoyment of His joys in heaven. Who with Thee, liveth and reigneth in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God, world without end.”
The Catholic faithful respond in a single voice. “Amen.”
The House of War: Book One Of : THE OMEGA CRUSADE Page 25