The House of War: Book One Of : THE OMEGA CRUSADE

by Carlos Carrasco

  The Mayor cannot utter the curses roiling within him. He can only groan.

  Barry Marion is a socialist and an atheist. He feels little but contempt for Christianity but there is no end to his hatred of Catholicism. He knows that the Roman Catholic Church, of all Christian denominations, is the oldest and staunchest enemy of socialism. Their incessant babbling about the kingdom of heaven is more subversive than all the capitalist propaganda in the world. Capitalists could always be co-opted by the state, but; the Roman Church has always doggedly undermined the Internationalist agenda. They are implacable in their resistance. Wherever socialists tried to reorder society, they have had to contend with the Church’s challenge to their authority, turning the loyalty of the masses away from the state and to their mythic King of kings and his otherworldly kingdom.

  There is no compromising with Catholicism. The religion and his collectivist creed were in a centuries-long death match. The Roman Church narrowly avoided annihilation in past scuffles with various socialist regimes, but Mayor Barry Marion allowed himself to hope that their end was finally imminent. The Vatican is under siege. The Church in the Middle East is all but extinct; she is hiding in the East, in retreat in Europe, up against the wall in America. Assailed on one side by Islam, on the other by secularism and universally dismissed as irrelevant by popular culture, the perfect storm had been raised against Catholicism; but now…

  …Monsignor Green walks to the right side of the altar and reads what the screen announces is the epistle for tonight’s Mass. A header at the top of the screen flashes, Titus 2, 11-15. The words of Saint Paul to his disciple scroll underneath it.

  “Beloved: The grace of God our Savior has appeared to all men, instructing us, in order that, rejecting ungodliness and worldly lusts, we may live temperately and justly and piously in this world; looking for the blessed hope and glorious coming of our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ, Who gave Himself for us that He might redeem us from all iniquity and cleanse for Himself an acceptable people pursuing good works. Thus speak, and exhort, and rebuke, with all authority in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

  “Thanks be to God,” answer the worshippers.

  They were so close, thinks the Mayor, so close. What happened, he wonders? How come no one saw this coming?

  Mayor Marion blames the crisis on moderates like President O’Neill. It is his ilk, mealy-mouthed milquetoasts, who were always advising and insisting on ‘baby-steps.’ They were responsible. It was their half and feint-hearted, incremental approach to socialism that allowed the Jesus-freaks time to plot and organize this coup. It would serve O’Neill right, the Mayor thinks, if the bible-thumpers popped a cap in his skull!

  On television, Father Green returns to the center of the altar and bows. When he ascends the first step the choir breaks into song. The scroll of text informs viewers that the chant is called the Gradual, and that its’ lyrics are taken from the 109th Psalm.

  “Yours is the princely power in the day of Your birth, in holy splendor; before the daystar, like the dew, I have begotten You.”

  “The Lord said to my Lord: ‘Sit at My right hand till I make Your enemies your footstool.’”

  The Mayor growls behind his gag.

  Choir and organs erupt into the Alleluia! Through the stirring piece, the words of the second Psalm are repeated again, sung even more triumphantly than they were in the Introit.

  “The Lord has said to Me, Thou art My Son, this day I have begotten Thee. Alleluia!”

  “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. Alleluia!”

  One of the concelebrants lifts a large book off the altar. He holds it reverently above his head and crosses behind the Monsignor. The young priest pauses briefly before the tabernacle to genuflect. He then proceeds to the left side of the altar, where he places the book, bows and withdraws. All the while the Monsignor spoons incense into a thurible held by a younger priest.

  The choir continues through the second Psalm:

  “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. Alleluia!”

  “He who is throned in heaven laughs; The Lord derides them…”

  “The Lord has said to Me, Thou art My Son, this day I have begotten Thee. Alleluia!”

  The Mayor growls even louder and gives his chains a violent pull in frustration. His anger blinds him to the guard at his back. He is surprised by the burning bite of a Stun-Baton between his shoulder blades and loses consciousness.

  17:23:21

  When young Paul Trevor got into the car with his father hours ago, his only real concern was being able to return to Austin in time for the Thrills in the Hills, New Year’s Celebration. For months now, the nineteen year old Trevor has been looking forward to his new band’s debut at the New Year’s bash. The son figured he would help his father get to DC, drop him off and then turn right around and race back to Texas. He didn’t feel that he was being unsympathetic to the President’s plight. He did feel for the man, being kidnapped and all; but for goodness sake, he thought, the man was only shot at. It wasn’t like he was incinerated in a nuclear blast. O’Neill is still alive as far as anyone knows, and will, in all probability be ransomed or rescued. For the life of him, young Paul can’t figure how his father’s presence in DC is going to help the President.

  Paul suspects that his father is over-reacting, or quite possibly, if not probably, angling for some advantage that he can wrest from the situation for his own presidential campaign. It would not be unlike the man. His father is a political animal that relegates everything, including his family, to a back seat behind his career. His father’s ascent to ever higher offices left the young Trevor feeling neglected through much of his childhood. Young Pauley got to feel very much like an accessory his father pulled out for the cameras from time to time. The two of them hardly spoke to each other during his father’s last term as governor of Texas. In rebellious response, Pauley began to assert himself by going to concerts rather than attending his dad’s state functions. It irritated his old man to no end.

  “There are more important things than music in this world,” his father chided his son a couple of years back after young Pauley failed to show up for what his governor/dad deemed a ‘must show,’ pro-family banquet.

  “Not for me, dad,” young Trevor shot back at his father. “Not for me!”

  Since leaving the Governor’s mansion, the elder Trevor made several overtures to end their estrangement. Young Paul knows that it is in part to patch things up between them before the presidential campaign. He is glad of it all the same because it comes with his father’s acceptance of the son’s priorities. In return Paul junior decided to be more considerate of his father’s ambitions. One could do worse than being the President’s son, he figures. He also believes his dad would be a good president. The country could do a lot worse than elect a two-term Texas governor and former fighter pilot to the White House.

  The young Trevor does not know what the events of late portend for his father’s plans. In fact, neither of them can figure out what is happening. The satellites are working again, but only one thing is playing, the Catholic Mass in DC. They watched the opening sequences quietly, as stunned as anyone.

  “What does it mean, dad?” he asks at last. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure, son,” the elder Trevor answers. “But if the whore of Babylon is behind this, it can’t be good.”

  “The what?”

  “Never mind.”

  The elder Trevor is at the wheel, speeding through the eastern Texas stretch of I-10. The night would be a clear and star-studded one but for the dark coils of smoke rolling across a large swath of the sky from southwest. The smoke is from the still-burning refineries attacked b
y rockets over Thanksgiving. Father and son watch the broadcast from Washington on their windshield, trying their best to ignore the acrid smell of burning oil seeping into the car.

  Young Trevor has never seen a Mass performed. He doesn’t understand any of it, even with the explanatory notes; but the youth is somewhat fascinated. The Catholic Mass is certainly different than anything he’s ever seen in any of the churches his family visit. The music is, by far, more interesting than anything he has ever heard in church. The chanting in particular blows him away. He is impressed by how beautifully rich a simple diatonic scale can be made to sound. He resolves to experiment with the diatonic mode in his own music when he gets back to his studio at home.

  In the meantime Paul Trevor Jr. continues to listen and watch the beautifully strange ritual of the Mass unfolding in DC.

  The priest bows and prays softly in front of the altar. The words are shown to the viewer in Latin and in English. “Munda cor meaum ac labia mea, omnipotens Deus…”

  “Cleanse my heart and my lips, O Almighty God, Who didst cleanse the lips of the prophet Isaias with a burning coal. In Thy gracious mercy deign so to purify me that I may worthily proclaim Thy holy Gospel. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

  “Pray Lord, Thy blessing. The Lord be in my heart and on my lips, that I may worthily and fittingly proclaim the holy Gospel. Amen.”

  The priest turns to the crowds and the camera with outstretched arms and intones, “Dominus vobiscum.”

  “Et cum spiritu tuo,” the faithful respond.

  “Sequentia sancti Evangelii secundum…” the priest chants.

  The scroll of text translates: “The continuation of the holy Gospel according to Saint Luke.”

  “Gloria tibi, Domine,” add the servers. “Glory be to Thee, O Lord.”

  The priest places his left hand on the bible and with the right thumb he makes the sign of the cross on the open page. He then lifts his left hand to his breast and with his right thumb makes crosses on his forehead, lips and over his heart. The faithful who have risen from their seats do the same.

  The words of the second chapter of Saint Luke’s Gospel scroll up the screen as the old priest chants it in Latin.

  “At the time there went forth a decree from Caesar Augustus that a census of the whole world should be taken. This first census took place while Cyrinus was governor of Syria. And all were going, each to his own town to register. And Joseph also went from Galilee out of the town of Nazareth into Judea to the town of David, which is called Bethlehem – because he was of the house and family of David – to register, together with Mary his espoused wife, who was with child. And it came to pass while they were there, that the days for her to be delivered were fulfilled. And she brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped Him in swaddling clothes, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn. And there were shepherds in the same district living in the fields and keeping watch over their flocks by night. And behold, an angel of the Lord stood by them and the glory of God shone round about them, and they feared exceedingly. And the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which shall be to all the people; for today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you, who is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign to you: you will find an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.’ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among men of good will.’”

  Priest and congregation chant. “Laus tibi, Christie.”

  “Glory be to Christ.”

  “Per evangelica dicta deleantur nostra delicta,” Father Green adds. “By the words of the Gospel may our sins be taken away.”

  The priest lifts the bible from its stand. He kisses it and then returns it to its place on the altar. The words, The Sermon flash on the screen and the old priest makes his way to the pulpit.

  “About time,” says Paul senior. “I don’t know how much more of that Roman hocus-pocus I could stand.”

  17:16:15

  Monsignor Francis Green makes his way from the altar to the pulpit. He sweeps his gaze across the park. In the midst of a quarter of a million people, he thinks, and strangely, I have never felt so alone. He caught glimpses of the images on the Jumbotron during the Mass and found the attention unsettling. His absorption in the minutia of the ritual pushed the uneasiness to the back of his consciousness, but now, with the break in the rubrics, it sprung, front and center.

  Immediately before him, his fellow Catholics sit patiently on rows of benches, awaiting his sermon. Throughout the rest of the park, Christians of other denominations, their attentions drawn away from their own services, look to him expectantly. Beyond them, outside the park, the counter-demonstrators have also fallen silent. Across the National Mall, his own larger-than-life image regards him from a giant television screen.

  Father Green mounts the pulpit and looks heavenward. A dark, thin line of clouds highlights the northwest horizon. The rest of the sky is clear and strewn with bright, blinking stars. The priest can’t help but feel that they are also eyes, looking down, fixed upon him. He pulls the small handful of index cards from his cassock pocket. His notes for the homily are arranged on them. The holographic missal card comes up with the 3X5 cards. He places them on the podium, missal card on top. He stares down at it, looking from devil to angel. You might as well watch too, he says to them. The Monsignor feels his uneasiness rise to a slight tremor of panic in his chest. He never thought that he would get to deliver the homily. He is suddenly afraid it will not be worthy of the moment. The situation has made the old priest feels like he’s fresh out of the seminary, delivering his first sermon.

  Father Green takes a deep breath and silently begs heaven for help. Exhaling, he softly prays the Memorare under his breath. It is his favorite prayer; it has never failed him.

  “Remember O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your help or sought your intercession was left unaided. Inspired by this confidence, I fly to you O Virgin of virgins, my mother. To you I come; before you I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy, hear and answer me. Amen.”

  The old priest clears his throat and adjusts the microphone.

  “Merry Christmas, my friends,” he says warmly.

  His fellow Catholics and many others in the crowd return the blessing. Some of the counter-demonstrators offer up curses in exchange. He can’t make out the words but the tone is unmistakable.

  “Thirty-three years of delivering homilies has, as you might imagine, made me pretty much immune to stage fright,” Father Green continues. “All those years of speaking before crowds has not however adequately prepared me for this moment, wherein I find myself made, quite unwittingly, the center of the whole world’s attention.

  “I assure you, my friends, I am as bewildered by events tonight as any of you. I am not sure how to proceed. I only know that I must.

  “Quite frankly none of us thought we would get this far in the Mass. We had every reason to believe that we would be arrested the moment we placed foot on the courthouse steps. However, thanks to the intervention of all these soldiers, things have turned out differently. And while we are grateful to be allowed the opportunity to celebrate the Mass, that gratitude, I must tell you, is tempered by a great deal of anxiety. How can it not be? We are anxious to have our President and his party released. We are anxious to see the demonstrators who have been hauled away tonight released as well. We are anxious that there be no further violence. And we are anxious to know who is in charge and what exactly, whoever you are, hope to accomplish.

  “You soldiers have gone to extraordinary lengths to insure that this Mass is not only celebrated without incident, but you have also assured that it is broadcast around the globe. I can therefore safely assume that you are fellow Catholics. As such I ca
n also guess at your motivation for doing what you have done. All of us can sympathize with the feelings of resentment that our government’s heavy-handed secularization has raised in certain quarters. I know what you are feeling. I feel it too, believe me. And yet I feel obliged to warn you that this path you have embarked on may lead to extremes of violence no Christian should want to be a part of.”

  The Monsignor pauses to let his admonishment sink in.

  “When I was a young man at the seminary, Liberation Theology was still quite in vogue,” Francis Green continues. “Good Catholics, and even priests, understandably upset by the disparity of wealth between the rich and poor throughout the third world melded Christianity with Marxism and joined in with militant revolutionaries. A great many souls were led into the evil of war through this heretical mix. Hundreds of thousands died because of it. The great enemy, you see, is quite adept at using even our noblest instincts against us, whether it is our sympathy for the poor or even our love for Mother Church.

  “I pray you understand what I’m saying to you. I trust that you will do all you can to avoid bloodshed.

  “You have control of the satellites. The world’s communications are obviously in your hands. You have the means to speak to us. Speak. Please. We are listening.”

  Monsignor Green pauses. He looks to the giant television screens in hope of receiving an answer. No response comes through the televisions. He sees only his own face staring back expectantly at himself. A long minute passes. The priest looks out across the park to the soldiers lined around the perimeter. They do not move. Not a one of the thousands comes forward or says a word.

  After yet another minute, the Monsignor decides that he has waited long enough for a response. Father Green takes a deep breath, holds it for a three-count and exhales.

  “Very well then,” he says at last. “Since you insist on keeping the world in the dark, I guess I must continue.”

  Father Francis Green clears his throat again, glances at the first of the index cards and launches into his homily.