Vatican Knights

by Jones, Rick

  Allah, You now have less than a minute.

  Before him the Arabs pleaded in earnest, either to show them mercy or to send them to Paradise.

  After removing his goggles and helmet, he turned his face skyward to bask in a warm streamer of light that lit upon him and spotlighted his pale complexion that was in stark contrast to his raven hair and even darker eyes. On the base of his chin was a wedge-shaped scar, a vestige from a suicide bomber several years earlier in Ramallah. The damaged tissue served as a constant reminder of a constant struggle.

  After putting his helmet back on and tucking the goggles beneath his shoulder strap, Team Leader leveled and balanced his weapon for the kill shot, inciting hysterical pleas from two Arabs who cried out for redemption, their will to enter Paradise having escaped them.

  When the minute was up and Allah was nowhere in sight, and with the mouth of his MP5 shifting from one Arab to the next as if deciding who would be the first to enter Paradise, he spoke to them in a manner that was flat and desensitized.

  “When you see Allah,” he said, the point of his weapon now leveled, “tell Him that Yahweh sent you.” With no hesitation or sense of remorse, Team Leader pulled the trigger.

  When it was over, the gunshots echoed toward the far reaches of the valley, then dissipated into a distant and hollow cadence until nothing sounded but the soft soughing of the desert wind.

  With the smell of cordite hanging cloyingly thick and metallic in the air, Team Leader closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, relishing the moment.

  The moment, however, was hastily interrupted by the voice of one of his commandos.

  “You want us to bury them?”

  Team Leader opened his eyes, the moment gone. “I want you to pull two men and have them spread the bodies out,” he said with a clipped foreign accent. “And bury them deep. The last thing I need is for the coyotes to bring them to the surface.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Team Leader took a step toward the bodies and measured the looks on their faces. Not one seemed to have the repose of gentle peace. Instead, each face exhibited what Team Leader interpreted as surprise at its own mortality. Or was it the sudden revelation of standing before the true face of Judgment? Considering this, he once again turned toward the sky as if seeking answers but got nothing in return except diminishing warmth, as the ribbon of light that had cast upon him was suddenly cut off by a passing cloud.

  Turning his attention back to the Arabs, he could only wonder if they truly believed that their god-driven causes would be rewarded with a heaven full of virgins.

  It was a mindset Team Leader never fully understood, believing when man stood erect and walked away from the primordial soup he took with him the concept of self-preservation. Yet these factional groups of people were driven by suicidal fascination that clearly eclipsed their need to survive. Fighting for a cause was one thing; dying for one was another.

  With the tip of his weapon Team Leader prodded one of the Arabs, the action causing the man’s head to loll to one side.

  “Now the battle begins,” he whispered to the dead man in Arabic. “So tell me, who will be the stronger god? Allah or Yahweh?” Expecting no answer, the man with the scar turned and headed to the rear of the cargo truck, where he would take his place in the cargo hold for the long journey back.

  With his MP5 trained on his human cargo, and with al-Hashrie and al-Bashrah continuing their mantra with newfound urgency, Team Leader contemplated the fate of the two men before him, anticipating the impact they would have on the future of the civilized world.

  Yes, Team Leader considered. These two have a much greater role in the eyes of Allah.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Somewhere Over the Atlantic Ocean

  September 22, Morning

  Shepherd One is the Vatican’s version of Air Force One, but without the luxurious trappings of the presidential office such as a wet-bar and expensive Corinthian leather chairs. In actuality, Shepherd One is a regular commercial jetliner owned by Alitalia Airlines, which is often set aside for papal excursions. The only true modifications to the aircraft were safety features that were built to stave off attacks from insurgent weaponry. The plane featured flares to attract heat seekers, interceptors to take out ground-to-air missiles, and a laser jammer designed to confuse any laser-governed sources, most notably laser-guided missiles. After the attempt on the life of Pope John Paul II, the Vatican decreed the necessary precautions, which Alitalia Airlines was more than happy to comply with.

  Sitting in the fore section of the near-vacant 747 as it made its westbound trajectory to Dulles from Rome, Pope Pius XIII looked over the itinerary for his two-week visit on American soil. Often he looked up and gazed out the window, the ocean below him a glittering seascape of tinsel and glass, and thought about the challenging task before him.

  He realized that religion was a business that provided faith as its commodity. And with politics and banking becoming the core and support of the Vatican, and him serving as the State’s head, it was his responsibility to create a demand for faith among the people. Pope Pius needed to close the ever-widening gap between the Church and its constituency, since, for years, congregates had been abandoning Mass due to a growing liberalism and the Church’s refusal to relent its conservative values, resulting in empty pews across the world.

  What Pius wanted to do, what he needed to do, was follow in the footsteps of his predecessor and rekindle the spark of religious hope.

  He did not want to commercialize the Word of God, but to let it be known that God has not abandoned His children, but loves them unconditionally. He was not given to preaching fire and brimstone, nor was he inclined to sermonize in terms of “God loves you. But He would love you more if you went to church and accepted the ways of old.”

  He would not preach with admonishment.

  After rubbing his eyes, the pope sighed as if suddenly realizing that this undertaking was too much for a man of his age. But despite his fatigue and his occasional discouragement, he held a deep-rooted determination to win back the Catholic citizenry and resurrect the waning faith. He was committed to this aim, no matter the demands levied upon him or the struggles that were sure to come.

  His challenge was to show the relevance of the age-old precepts of Christendom in a world crying for evolution. Whereas the Church had survived insurrections in the past, the pope knew it would survive in the future. How to promote unity, however, was truly a conundrum. Pope Pius XIII returned to the itinerary and scripted speeches for further study, concluding that it would most likely come down to convincing verbiage to win back the masses. And to help him were five of his best orators, all bishops from the Holy See, the administrative arm of the Vatican. The bishops of the Holy See were groomed for such occasions. They would serve as advisors and hold mock forums, each man devising scenarios like a Hollywood director.

  And then the implication of his thoughts struck him hard. Has religion finally come to this? Has it come to theater?

  The pope refused to acknowledge this disheartening idea by returning to the schedule and re-reading the attached speeches proposed by his administration. Closing his eyes and seeing the print burned as an after-image behind the folds of his lids, Pope Pius XIII decided he would speak from his heart rather than to grandstand from the papal soapbox.

  He would speak from the soul.

  “Your Holiness?” The words were spoken too softly, as if the speaker was contrite at the prospect of disturbing the pontiff.

  Pius opened his eyes to see Bishop Angelo take the seat opposite him. He was a man of cherubic appearance, with soft and doughy features that gave him a child-like quality, and when he smiled he did so with a set of teeth that was ruler-straight and designer-white.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, apologetically. “You were sleeping, yes?”

  The pope shook his head. “I was just thinking.” Then, after a brief moment of deliberation, he said: “Trying to win back the mass
es will be no easy task, Gennaro. I know this. But these—” he raised the documents “—sound a bit scripted. Now I know the Holy See means well, but these documents seem without substance.” The pope suddenly reached over and patted Bishop Angelo on the forearm, his smile all-encompassing. “And please, my friend, don’t be offended. Your writing has much merit, but this effort needs something more. It needs more of a direct truthfulness. I need to approach the people without feeling as though I’m trying to sell a pitch rather than instill lost faith.”

  “Then perhaps, Your Holiness, these documents will be more suited to your needs.” The bishop removed a thin sheaf of papers from his case, and handed them to the pope.

  “What are these?”

  “Let’s just say a more direct approach to address the current concerns of the people and the Church . . . and perhaps less of the pitch.”

  The pope’s smile widened. “You always know what I want, Gennaro. Thank you. I would be more than happy to look them over.”

  “I hope they meet with your approval, Your Holiness.”

  “Let’s hope so, because America is only hours away and I need to be duly prepared.”

  Bishop Angelo bowed his head and returned to the rows behind the pope where the bishops of the Holy See sat judiciously debating the best way to handle the media. Sometimes their voices swelled in disagreement, but mostly they united in solidarity.

  Tuning his eyes to the new set of documents, the pope once again began his studies.

  The time was 10:47 a.m., Eastern Standard Time.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dulles Airport, Washington, D.C.

  September 22, Late Afternoon

  When Shepherd One landed at Dulles, the plane taxied under the watchful eyes of thousands who waited to gaze upon the pontiff from cordoned-off areas within the terminal. Hand-painted signs waved, people cheered, and the air became electric as the pope exited the plane and made his way down the breezeway in full decorative vestments. After reaching the terminal and giving the sign-of-the-cross as a papal blessing to the masses, he then offered his hand to the political principals who either kissed the Piscatorial Ring in greeting or simply shook his hand.

  In an area set aside for the media, cameras and news networks recorded the moment of the pope’s arrival, capturing the pontiff’s first celebrated appearance upon American soil, as he and his papal team made their way to a procession of limos.

  Raising an arm toward the masses, Pope Pius XIII waved, inciting a cheer, before ducking into the governor’s vehicle.

  One man, however, appeared indifferent.

  #

  From the crowd’s front line, a man of light complexion neither smiled nor showed any emotion as he studied the pope. He gave the impression of being deep in thought, an effect caused by the act of tracing his fingers over the scar beneath his chin.

  Just prior to the pope’s arrival, Team Leader received intel that the president of the United States had assigned a detail of four battle-tested agents, a highly skilled contingent team, along with the usual police security, to guard the Governor’s Mansion where the pope would be staying.

  But Team Leader’s unit was honed to the level of an elite force. And despite the president’s confidence in the capabilities of his agents, Team Leader knew that taking the Governor’s Mansion would be nothing more than a nominal exercise performed at minimal risk. By morning, Pope Pius XIII would be within his authority, and the president’s detail would be nothing more than a list of names on the obituary page of the morning news.

  With inwardly-turned enthusiasm, Team Leader envisioned his unit moving through the halls of the Governor’s Mansion with stealth and precision. He had trained his team repeatedly until their motions became involuntary acts rather than practiced maneuvers. This, in turn, developed a higher degree of instinct in decision-making, which now took nanoseconds rather than moments. The infinitesimal time difference could mean the difference between success and failure in such an operation.

  As the Governor’s limo and its supporting motorcade started toward the airport exit, Team Leader began to move against the crowd and toward the terminal doors.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Annapolis, Maryland

  September 22, Early Evening

  Normally, VIP dignitaries stayed at Blair House, which is the official state guest quarters of the president of the United States. But since the residence was occupied by top Chinese officials on a mission to improve trade relations with the United States, the pope was housed at the Governor‘s Mansion in Annapolis, not far from the vice president’s residence at the Naval Observatory.

  When it became apparent that Blair House would be unavailable during the weeks of the pope’s visit, Maryland’s governor offered to host the pontiff at the Mansion, with provisional security provided by the president. It was not a gesture of good will. It was an opportunity for Governor Steele to promote his bid for a seat in the Senate in the upcoming election. With the pope’s visitation cementing the governor’s image as a conservative Christian, it would serve well as the basis of his platform in the months to come.

  Campaigning alongside him would be his wife of eleven years, Darlene Steele. With azure blue eyes, pale porcelain skin, and a graceful elegance to her movements, she embodied the image of Victorian innocence. But beneath her gracious persona she had all the quintessence of a remora clinging to the underside of her husband’s political belly, feeding off whatever remnants floated her way. Money, power and status were the lures that kept her in a loveless marriage with the governor.

  Inside the dining area of the mansion, Governor Jonathan Steele headed a stately ceremonial dinner with political luminaries including the lieutenant governor, two state senators and a representative from the House Committee. With the pope and the bishops of the Holy See in attendance, the dining room was filled to capacity.

  For three hours they sat at a table that dominated the room’s center, drinking wine or liqueur or both, and eating from a rich and varied menu that gratified the palate of everyone.

  Bearing witness to this cheerful gathering were oil paintings of past governors, arranged along the rich cherry paneling of the East Wall. Their faces, unmoving for all time, appeared studious and judgmental as they stared from mercury-hued eyes. From the coffered ceiling suspended a magnificent Bohemian chandelier, its multiple teardrop-shaped crystals glittering with iridescent pinpricks of light. And opposite the Governors’ Gallery, floor-to-ceiling panes of tempered glass made up the entire West Wall, providing a panoramic view of the horizon as soft hues of fading light traversed the color spectrum throughout the course of the meal.

  Nothing was more perfect than the moment.

  As the night grew late, the time difference between Rome and Washington proving too great for the pope, Pius proposed an end to the evening by bestowing blessings all around before retiring to his room.

  Everyone, including those who never subscribed to a certain denomination or faith or followed any specific religious path, found themselves in awe of this king who ruled an empire of more than a billion people.

  With the dignitaries vacating soon after the conclusion of the meal, the dining hall became eerily silent as the faces of the Governors’ Gallery alone watched over the room.

  In time, they would watch a scene play itself out in grisly fashion with the same unflinching pose, and their eyes as dead and pale as marbles would betray nothing of what they were about to become witness to.

  #

  After dinner, Bishop Angelo aided the pope to his bedroom and hung his vestments in the walk-in closet while Pius prepared himself for bed by putting on his sacred undergarment, a cotton pullover that covered the man from neck to ankle.

  After the pope labored to the edge of his mattress, Bishop Angelo assisted the elderly man beneath the sheets, then pulled the blankets tight around him.

  “Are you comfortable?” he asked.

  The pope moved as if trying to settle contentedly into the mattress
, his back and shoulders digging. “Well, it’s not home,” he answered, his movement slowing after finding a relaxing spot. “But it’ll do.”

  Angelo laid a hand upon the pontiff’s shoulder and felt the pointed bonelike protrusion of a man having wasted away by the progression of age. “Perhaps you would like to read before you retire.”

  The pope nodded. “Not tonight, Gennaro. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day for all of us and we‘ll need to be at our best.”

  “Then have a good night.”

  On his way out Bishop Angelo took time to straighten out the pope’s pearl-white miter sitting on top of the dresser, a king’s crown, then closed the door softly behind him until the snicker of the bolt locked in place.

  On most evenings Pope Pius XIII either read from the Bible or gazed through the passages of Paradise Lost from John Milton, finding the language and meter of the poem masterful, and looked upon the work as a liberal effort affirming that the Church would always be seen through the critical eyes of its followers.

  But tonight he was too tired to even flip back the cover of the leather-bound volume and switched off the table lamp, the darkness sweeping across the room in a blink of an eye.

  In an attitude of prayer, Pope Pius placed his hands together and worshiped his Lord, thanking Him for raising him from the ranks of obscurity to that of prominence.

  He had come from a family of eleven, all poor, some sickly, but none without faith or hope. Never in his life had he witnessed war or famine or the plagues of man due to living in a small village sixty kilometers west of Florence, Italy. Nor did he have an epiphany to follow the Lord’s path. Amerigo was simply enamored as a boy who loved God and everything He stood for: The Good, the Caring, and the ability to hold dominion over others and lead them toward the world of Light and Loving Spirits.