‘So sorry. We think you Senussi bandits,’ said the woman, looking skeptically at Dulac’s lump.
‘Where is—’
‘Right here,’ said Lescop, standing behind Dulac. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Better than you. And de Ségur?’
‘According to her, they left this morning in a couple of trucks,’ said Lescop.
‘Undoubtedly with the Pope. Damn. And we trusted the bastard,’ Dulac said, feeling his lump again carefully.
‘Not so,’ said Lescop. ‘His Holiness is—’
Suddenly, Dulac became aware of the presence of someone in the doorway of the adjoining room. The man, dressed in a white jellaba, his head bandaged, his hands outstretched, started walking towards him.
‘Your Holiness!’ said Dulac.
‘Mr Lescop here has given me the details. Thank God you’ve come,’ he said as he clasped Dulac’s hands, then Lescop’s. ‘Thank God you’re here.’
Dulac felt a surge of relief. ‘Your Holiness, are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine.’
‘We’ve come to take you back, your Holiness. Where is Dr Bruscetti?’
‘I haven’t seen my dear friend since Sicily. We were taken aboard a boat. Later in the night I remember being caught in a storm. It was terrible, terrible. People were in the water, screaming for help. Many drowned. May God have mercy on their souls. I don’t know how I survived. I—’
‘We must leave now, your Holiness.’ interrupted Dulac. ‘We don’t have much time. I’ll explain later.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. I’m ready.’ He joined his hands in prayer and bent towards the forever smiling Berber woman. ‘Salaam aleikum. God bless you.’ Hands still joined, he eyed the other Berber in the room and said, ‘Salaam aleikum.’
Led by Lescop, they made their way out of the small house.
As Dulac stepped into the cool of the moonlit night, the slight, sweet smell of Artemisia plants tickled his nostrils briefly. They headed towards the helicopter, its angular shape contrasting with the roundness of the dunes around it.
‘Your Holiness, you have to turn sideways to get into the seat of these helicopters,’ said Dulac as they reached the door of the chopper.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Of course,’ said Dulac, feeling embarrassed. ‘I forgot. You pilot the papal helicopter.’
‘Sometimes. When it’s not busy kidnapping me.’
Dulac closed the door and secured the latch. Klein punched the throttle forward, and the Comanche lifted abruptly in a swirl of desert sand. Soon, the lights of the small house disappeared.
Klein turned briefly towards the rear and said, ‘Make yourself comfortable, your Holiness. Our trip will last about two and a half hours.’
Fifteen minutes later, Klein drew Dulac’s attention to the radar screen. ‘We have company.’
‘Great,’ said Dulac. ‘Are they—’
‘Libyans. We’re still in their airspace. Damn, they’re coming in.’
‘Jesus, so much for Gazzar’s promise.’
Suddenly there was a crackle on the Comanche’s VHF radio and some incomprehensible command came through.
‘What did he say?’ Dulac asked Klein.
Klein grabbed the microphone. ‘I didn’t copy that. Please repeat, over.’
‘…Tripoli. You must land Tripoli now,’ said the nervous, high-pitched voice. Dulac looked quizzically at Klein.
‘Doesn’t make sense,’ said Klein. ‘We’re only a few minutes away from leaving their airspace.’ He pressed the VHF button again and spoke into the microphone. ‘We are leaving Libyan airspace now. Please confirm.’
‘Alter course immediately to Tripoli or we shoot,’ said the highstrung voice.
‘Jesus,’ said Dulac, ‘they mean business.’
‘Bloody Libyans. I know their game,’ said Klein. ‘They did it last year with a Sudanese reconnaissance plane that had veered off course. They lured him into getting closer to Tripoli then shot him down, claiming he was attacking the Libyan people’s capital. Those guys never had a chance.’
‘Great. Just pissing great. What do we do?’ said Dulac.
‘We’re close to Benghazi. We’ll make a run for it and hope our infrared antimissile system works,’ said Klein, as he turned to the rear. ‘Everyone get strapped in tight.’ Klein steered hard right and the Comanche banked into a 120 degree turn.
‘Merde,’ said Dulac as his stomach lurched into his throat. Seconds later, he could see a city’s lights as Klein punched the stick forward and forced the Comanche into a steep dive. There was a loud pinging sound accompanied by a red flashing light overhead and Dulac’s piano-wire nerves wound even tighter. ‘Jesus.’
The city’s lights were coming up fast when Dulac felt the Comanche shudder. ‘They’re strafing us,’ said Klein.
A Libyan MIG 23 Flogger whooshed past and banked steeply.
‘At least they won’t fire missiles this close to Benghazi,’ said Klein.
‘Great,’ said Dulac.
Klein glanced at the radar. ‘The second one’s coming in for the kill,’ yelled Klein, as he pulled up steeply and banked 90° to the left. The Comanche shuddered again as 23 mm armor-piercing bullets slammed into the chopper’s fuselage, bits of carbon fiber flying about and dust filling the cockpit. Dulac cringed and grabbed the armrests.
‘Sheisse,’ exclaimed Klein.
‘What?’ said Dulac.
‘Nothing.’
Klein took off his helmet and wiped the side of his face with his hand. Dulac saw the damaged helmet. Blood dripped from just above Klein’s right eye.
‘Holy Christ, you’re hit!’
‘Just a scratch. I … I …’
Klein’s head fell forward and the chopper started to dive.
‘Merde,’ exclaimed Dulac. The chopper dove steeper, setting off the alarms again. Dulac shook Klein hard. ‘Wake up! Wake up!’
Klein came to, raised his head slowly. Gradually, he pulled back on the stick and steadied the chopper. ‘Get the medical kit. It’s behind you, to the right,’ said Klein.
Dulac unfastened his seat-harness, turned and reached back for the medical kit inside the small compartment. He caught a glimpse of the rear passengers. Both men sat upright, frozen in their seats, speechless. ‘Are you OK, your Holiness?’
‘I’m all right,’ he said, his voice barely audible.
‘And you?’ said Dulac, eyeing Lescop.
‘So far.’
‘Get me some gauze and tape,’ said Klein.
Dulac faced forward, opened the medical kit, took out a swath of gauze, and tore a piece of tape. He pressed them to Klein’s forehead.
‘Thanks. If I pass out, throw the autopilot on here,’ said Klein, pointing at a toggle on the control panel. ‘Then set the heading at 77 degrees,’ he said, indicating the knob below the computerized compass.
‘Got it,’ Dulac replied.
Klein pressed the tape on either side of the wound. ‘That should hold me till the next round,’ said Klein.
‘What do you mean?’
‘These bastards aren’t through with us yet.’ Klein leaned forward and threw a toggle on the control panel.
‘Alpha India, Alpha India, this is Unicorn Delta Unicorn, do you copy?’ said Klein, his voice calm.
‘Who are you calling?’ asked Dulac.
‘The Italian Air Force. We’ve got to get these sons of whores off our back.’
‘Can’t we fire back at them?’ asked Dulac.
‘With what? Your Benelli?’
‘I thought I read this thing has air-to-air missiles and a 20 mm Gatling gun?’
‘They took it all off to increase the chopper’s range and make it completely undetectable,’ said Klein.
‘Great. Tell that to the MIG pilots.’
Suddenly, Dulac saw a red light flash on the cockpit display panel indicating ‘IML’, accompanied by a loud intermittent beeping sound.
‘Sheisse!’ said Klein.
‘Does IML stand for what I think it does?’ asked Dulac, his voice panicked.
Klein pushed the joystick hard right. ‘Those fockers want us dead.’
The Comanche lurched and veered into a banking turn. Dulac, compressed into his seat, winced, expecting the impact of the explosion.
Klein veered hard left. ‘Missed, you bastards.’
The red light went out. A few seconds later, it started its ominous flashing again. ‘Incoming Missile Lock,’ said Klein.
Klein shoved the stick forward and the Comanche dove towards the lights of Benghazi again.
‘Jesus, we’re going to—’ said Dulac, as he saw the top half of a tall building rushing up to meet the Comanche.
Klein banked, and pulled up violently at the last second. The missile swooped past and slammed into the building in a great ball of orange fire.
‘Christ, how long can we keep this up?’
‘Not long. The only reason we’re still alive is the Comanche’s infrared suppression system is keeping their heat-seeking missiles from maintaining a lock on us. They’re bound to get lucky.’
‘Great. Just pissing great.’
Klein looked at his radar, and suddenly the MIGs angled to the right, and headed south. ‘They’re going. They’re breaking off!’ Klein’s voice was a mixture of astonishment and relief.
‘Really?’ said Dulac.
‘We’ll know for sure in a minute.’
Dulac saw the blips on the ’copter’s radar head towards the edge of the screen and disappear. Klein took the ’copter up, away from the lights of Benghazi and headed north-east, for the safety of the Mediterranean and its international airspace.
‘I love this helicopter,’ said Klein.
Ten minutes passed in silence before Dulac, not yet fully convinced they had escaped, asked Klein, ‘We were sitting ducks. Why did they break off?’
‘No idea. They had every reason to take us down. We’re a military helicopter violating their airspace.’
Dulac could only conclude that someone high up had ordered the MIGs to retreat. Was it Gazzar, or Kargali himself?
The Comanche was now host to a high-pitched whistling sound, made by the draft of forced air through the bullet holes in the chopper’s tail. Dulac looked back, ‘Your Holiness, are you all right?’ Dulac said.
‘Yes. I, I think so.’
‘Lescop?’
‘I’m OK.’
Dulac turned towards Klein. ‘Will this thing make it?’
‘I’ve seen worse.’
‘How far to the Italian Coast?’
‘About another hour.’
‘Are we within cell range?’
‘Maybe.’
Dulac grabbed his encrypted cell from his vest pocket and dialled Legnano’s number. He recognized the assistant secretary’s voice. ‘Dulac. Put me through to His Eminence. It’s urgent.’
Moments later Legnano came on the line. ‘Mr Dulac. It sounds as—’
‘Yes your Eminence. We’re still aboard the helicopter. We have His Holiness with us.’
‘Mio Dio. This is great news, Mr Dulac. How is His Holiness?’
‘Tired. We were…. Ah, I’ll explain later.’
‘When will you arrive?’
‘We should be in Rome in about an hour and a half.’
‘This is great news, Mr Dulac, great news. I’ll advise the Curia.’
An hour later Dulac was dozing, dreaming he was in the tranquil comfort of his Paris living room, when from the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Klein, head tilted downwards. ‘Hey,’ Dulac said, grabbing Klein’s arm.
Klein’s head snapped back. ‘Yes, yes. I’m fine. Just a bit drowsy.’
Dulac pointed to the GPS. ‘Where are we now?
Klein adjusted the scale of the GPS. ‘About forty-five minutes to Rome.’
Dulac felt a wave of relief and leaned back in his seat. ‘What happened to our Italian friends?’ said Dulac.
Klein didn’t answer. Suddenly, his head fell fully forward onto his chest, and the chopper started to bank left sharply.
‘Jesus. Wake up! Wake up!’ yelled Dulac. He shook him. No response. The chopper started to climb. Frantic, Dulac reached for the autopilot toggle, threw it on and turned the knob to 77 degrees on the computerized compass. The chopper leveled slowly and resumed its course.
‘Whew,’ said Dulac. He looked at Klein, whose face was green. Dulac turned around and looked at Lescop. ‘Somebody will have to land this thing. Can you fly a helicopter?’
‘Not me,’ Lescop answered, shrugging his shoulders in ignorance.
‘How about you, your Holiness? You fly the papal helicopter. This can’t be much different.’
‘No. I cannot. This, this is very different,’ he said, palms upward in refusal.
‘Can you at least try, your Holiness?’ said Dulac.
‘Really, I … I can’t. I’m sorry.’
Dulac turned, faced front and looked into the darkness, feeling helpless and silently praying the autopilot controls of the chopper hadn’t been damaged during the attack.
A moment later, Klein came to. ‘Where are we?’ he said.
‘Thank God,’ said Dulac. ‘You passed out so I put it on autopilot.’
‘Good work.’ Klein flipped off the autopilot and looked at the GPS. A little red box on the screen was flashing waypoint arrival.
Given the too short amount of time to prepare for the safe and orderly welcoming of the Pope, the members of the Curia had decided to disclose the Pope’s rescue and impending arrival to a limited number of Vatican-accredited members of the press.
Braving the chill of the night, a gaggle of reporters and TV crews waited patiently, under the supervision of the Guidonia airbase security forces. Finally, the Comanche’s landing lights came into view, piercing the night with their two cone-shaped beams. A murmur ran through the assembled reporters: ‘That must be it!’ Moments later, the helicopter landed abruptly, and its rotor blades came slowly to a stop.
Behind the reporters, standing beside two papal limousines, Harris, Legnano and Sforza waited in silent expectation. A moment later, the helicopter’s door opened. ‘It’s him. It’s His Holiness,’ one of the reporters shouted.
Dressed in white, his head bandaged, he waved, climbed carefully down the steps onto the tarmac and kneeled to kiss the ground.
Camera lights burst into a frenzy of flashes. He stood up and waved again. A cheer erupted from the reporters. ‘Viva il Papa! Viva, viva il Papa!’
Eight Swiss Guards suddenly appeared and immediately formed a corridor of protective phalanxes on either side. ‘Let the Pope through,’ said one of the guards to the onrushing reporters, as they ushered him to one of the limousines.
‘Thank God, thank the Lord. Welcome back, your Holiness,’ said Cardinal Legnano, standing beside the limousine, his arms open in welcome.
‘Thank you, Cardinal. It’s good to be back. The Lord is my shepherd and has shown me mercy.’
‘How are you feeling, your Holiness?’ said Legnano.
‘Lucky to be alive. We were attacked by the Libyans.’
‘What?’ said Legnano.
‘We’ll deal with that later. Right now, I’m quite tired.’
‘Of course, your Holiness. Doctor Mantegna is waiting in the limousine. He’ll check your vital signs right away, then we will go to the—’
‘No fuss, Legnano. I’ll rest at the Papal apartments.’
‘Your Holiness, I must insist that we go directly to the hospital. You’ve been under tremendous stress. And that head wound must be looked at right away.’
‘All right, Legnano, all right.’
They entered the limousine and were quickly off, escorted by a gaggle of motorcycle policemen.
Followed by Lescop and Klein, Dulac was making his way through the scribes and TV reporters when he saw Harris wave them over to the other limousine.
‘Where did you rescue the pontiff?’ a reporter asked Dulac, acc
identally jabbing Dulac’s left temple with his microphone.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Dulac, recoiling in pain. ‘Let us through.’
‘So where?’ insisted the reporter.
‘Wait for the Vatican’s press conference. You’ll get all the information then.’
Undeterred, the reporter shoved the microphone in Lescop’s face. ‘And you rescued His Holiness—?’
‘No comment,’ interrupted Lescop.
Klein had taken off his helmet, and the reporters saw his makeshift bandage.
‘You’ve been wounded!’ said one of the reporters, signaling to his cameraman to focus on Klein.
‘It’s nothing,’ said the pilot.
‘Where did it happen?’ continued the reporter.
Klein didn’t answer and kept on walking, as other reporters started to gather. ‘What is the range of the helicopter?’ said another reporter.
The pilot smiled. ‘Far.’
‘Russia?’
‘Why not?’
Harris and Cardinal Sforza, now joined by Dulac, Lescop and Klein stood next to the limousine, surrounded by policemen and the Swiss Guards.
‘Well done. Well done, gentlemen,’ said Harris as he enthusiastically shook Klein’s hand, then Lescop’s.
Dulac felt the obvious slight. True to form, asshole.
As Sforza ushered everyone into the limo, Dulac sat next to the door, beside Sforza. After a quick embarrassed look towards Dulac, Sforza said, ‘Gentlemen, on behalf of the Christian world, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts. We will not forget you have risked your lives to save His Holiness and bring him back safely.’
Seemingly unimpressed, Harris looked at Sforza, ‘Actually, your Eminence, it was essentially a matter of good planning. I—’
‘Your Eminence, we had better get Mr Klein to a hospital,’ interrupted Dulac.
‘I’m all right,’ said Klein, sitting next to the chauffeur.
‘No you’re not,’ said Dulac.
‘What happened?’ said Harris.
‘It’s a long story,’ said Dulac, He turned and eyed Harris. ‘Before I forget, according to the Berbers that were keeping the Pope, de Ségur and his goons left yesterday morning by van.’
‘I’ll bet he’s in Benghazi,’ said Harris. Dulac shrugged his shoulders.
Sforza leaned forward and spoke to the chauffeur, ‘To the Agostino Gemelli Clinic, then to the Vatican.’
The Chimera Sanction Page 18