by John Lyman
“Nice to meet you, Misha,” Leo said, extending his hand, “and this is Professor Lev Wasserman.”
“It is indeed an honor to have the two of you onboard. Incidentally, I have your complete dossiers on my desk. I believe this is the quickest we’ve ever cleared two civilians to sail on an Israeli submarine. Your mission must be very important, is it not?”
Lev adopted a look of total indifference. “Actually, Misha, at this point we don’t know any more than you do. I couldn’t help but notice your last name ... Bagrov. Russian, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Professor. I was born in Russia before my Jewish parents immigrated to Israel when I was still an infant. I’m an Israeli citizen now. Please, make yourselves comfortable. We’ll be submerging in five minutes.” The officer turned to leave but paused in the doorway. “By the way, Professor, I admire the way you managed to change the direction of our conversation away from your mission. I can tell you’re no rookie in the business of secrecy.”
Stepping out into the hallway, Bagrov missed the tight smile curling at the edge of Lev’s mouth as he headed aft toward the sub’s control room. Closing the door to their cabin, Lev held his finger to his lips while he checked the small space for listening devices. Satisfied that no obvious bugs had been planted in the room, he sat on the edge of the lower bunk and was reaching for a cigar in his shirt pocket when he noticed a No Smoking sign posted above the door. “How long did Danny say it will take us to reach Gibraltar?”
“He didn’t,” Leo replied.
“They keep the speed of these boats a closely guarded secret,” Lev said, “but I believe this boat can make a run like that in a day and a half. A nuclear-powered sub might make the trip a little quicker.”
“I thought this was a nuclear sub.”
“No, with everything else on our plate, Israel can’t afford to make that fiscal leap just yet. In fact, we don’t even build our own subs. Most people are startled to hear our subs are built in Germany.”
“Germany! Are you telling me we’re in a U-boat?”
“In a manner of speaking. The world stage has changed dramatically since Israel achieved statehood back in 1948. These German Dolphin-Class subs are diesel-electric boats designed and constructed in Germany for the Israeli Navy. At a billion euros apiece, they are the single most expensive piece of equipment in the entire Israeli military and are considered to be the most sophisticated conventionally-powered submarines in the world. The first two subs we received, the Dolphin and the Leviathan, were actually donated to us by the German people who have strived to support the State of Israel after the horrors of World War II. The sub we’re on now is the third sub Germany built for Israel, and the cost was split between the two countries. I’ve heard there are two more on the way, each subsidized by the German government.”
“Then Israel has no ability to launch a nuclear strike from their subs?”
“I didn’t say that. We don’t have the big stealthy missile boats like they do in the U.S. and Russia, but these subs are still capable of launching nuclear-tipped cruise missiles, thus giving us an offshore second-strike capability if Israel is ever attacked. By the way, that last part is classified, so keep it under your cardinal’s hat.”
“I had no idea,” Leo said, bending slightly in the tight confines of their tiny cabin. “The world has undergone some amazing changes in the past fifty years, but it seems as though humanity continues to walk a tightrope between progress and total annihilation.”
“That’s a good analogy, Leo. We’ve evolved into a species of risk-takers and excitement junkies sandwiched between the two opposing forces of good and evil.”
“Maybe that’s what drives us. Bishop Morelli and I have had long talks on the subject, and we both agree that it’s possible mankind is destined to seed the universe someday. We wouldn’t be able to accomplish something like that without some risk-taking behavior being built into our DNA.”
“You could be right about the risk-taking behavior, Leo, but as a mathematician I have to disagree with your theory of mankind seeding the universe. With the billions of galaxies all around us, it’s a mathematical certainty that there are thousands of other civilizations out there somewhere thinking the very same thing, many of which have probably been traveling to other worlds since before we even existed.”
Leo pulled up the only chair in the room and squeezed his tall frame onto the tiny seat. “Well, there has to be a first, doesn’t there? Maybe we’re it ... civilization number one.” Leo reached up and turned on a small brass lamp mounted on the wall. “Speaking of other worlds, have we learned anything else about that dark star that appeared on Adrian’s sixteenth birthday?”
“Other than the fact that we found a reference to the event encoded in Genesis, we’ve heard nothing new about it since it appeared. Right now it’s just hanging there ... like it’s waiting for something.” Lev stood and opened the door. “Why don’t we go get something to eat, Cardinal? For now we’re just along for the ride.”
* *
Ariella awoke with a start. Looking around at the bare stone walls of their small, cell-like room, she could hear John’s heavy breathing—a sure sign that he was still sleeping soundly beside her. Quietly, she lifted the blanket and slipped out of bed before looking down at the glowing face of her military watch. It was three in the morning, a full thirty minutes before they were due to be awakened for their rendezvous with the British sub.
Outside, beyond the thick walls of the towering monastery, she could still hear the shrill cry of the wind as it whipped around the curved battlements of the medieval structure. She took a few deep breaths and tried to calm herself, but it was no use. Her heart was still racing with the thought of launching through the pounding surf in a small rubber boat and heading out into a dark, storm-tossed ocean to meet up with a nuclear submarine. As frightening as the thought was, Ariella feared that it would pale in comparison to what Eduardo and the pope had to say once they reached their destination. Looking over at John, she saw that his eyes were now open. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Time to get up, hon. Better dress warm. Sounds like that wind is really howling out there.”
“Maybe they’ll postpone the rendezvous til the weather gets better.”
“Postpone? Really, John? The British are sending in a boat full of Special Forces soldiers to pick us up. They don’t care about weather.”
John stretched before climbing out of bed and glaring at his wife. “I just love being married to a military chick.”
“Call me chick one more time and you’ll find out just how military I can get.”
John smiled and kissed her on the lips. “Come on, G.I. Jane. Let’s go find the others and get this show on the road.”
Ariella grabbed John around the waist and kissed him back. “I love being married to a quasi-intellectual who doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything. Maybe you’re really just some kind of adrenalin junkie sociopath.”
John reached out to grab her but missed as she made a giggling escape into the bathroom and closed the door.
Down the hall, Alon and the Israeli security team were talking to the British Special Forces soldiers that had just arrived and were passing out orange-colored waterproof survival suits to everyone. Next to them, a group of grim-looking Swiss Guards were watching as the soldiers prepared the pope and Eduardo for the rigors of the cold, swirling water that would soon envelop them all when they made their way through the crashing surf for their harrowing ride out to the sub.
Walking from their room, John and Ariella began suiting up. John watched as the pope pulled his waterproof suit over his black sweater and jeans, thinking that the scene was strangely familiar in a biblical sense. The tall, blond Norwegian pope reminded him of a working-class fisherman who was preparing for a long day of pulling nets—a good analogy for a man who, like Peter, was called the fisher of men.
“Ready?” Alon called out.
The orange-suited group all nodded their heads a
s the British Soldiers lead them down a spiral staircase that seemed to descend forever into the granite base of the monastery. Inside the thick stone walls, the sound of the wind outside was barely noticeable until they reached a rusty metal door that led outside.
Looking back over his shoulder, a soldier looked into the faces of those standing behind him. “Stay together and follow me. My men will be all around you, but its pitch black out there and the wind speed is approaching forty knots. The current is strong and the water is cold, but you shouldn’t feel it in these suits. There are white strobe lights attached to your life vests so that we can spot anyone who gets separated from the group. Don’t turn them on unless a wave washes you away from the group and you need rescuing. The boats will be waiting for us in the surf, so hopefully that won’t be a problem.”
The soldier braced himself before opening the door. Immediately the seriousness of their situation hit them in the form of howling wind and horizontal rain that stung the exposed parts of their faces. There was no moon, and in the next few seconds they would find themselves immersed in total blackness. First out the door behind the soldier was Eduardo Acerbi, who was physically attached by two nylon ropes to two British soldiers. Next in line, the pope emerged with a couple of burly Swiss Guards. A strong swimmer, the pope had declined their pleas for safety lines with the thought that he had a better chance of making it through the surf without the drag of his protectors.
Inch by slow inch, the group felt for slippery hand-holds as they climbed down over moss-covered granite rocks to the water’s edge, until finally they found themselves standing on sand in swirling, knee-high water. With the incoming tide pushing against them, they huddled together and waited.
Suddenly, a dark shape came crashing into Alon’s side. It was a black rubber boat manned by British commandos, and before he had time to react, two pairs of meaty hands reached down and literally jerked him out of the water. Lying in the bottom of the boat, Alon looked up to see two of the biggest men he had ever laid eyes on. No wonder they flipped him out of the water like a father playing with his two-year-old son.
In less than a minute, the commandos had loaded all of their passengers into two boats and were heading back out to sea. The howling wind drowned out the sound of the revving motors as the light, flat-bottomed boats rose over building sets of waves that threatened to swamp them. Each crashing wave pushed them back, until the spinning props were able to take hold once again and propel the small craft forward. As soon as they were past the surf, the boats rose and descended in the rhythmic motion of the sea as they sped toward a darkened shape highlighted by a sky that was growing progressively lighter with the coming of the dawn.
Moments later the soft rubber boats kissed the black steel hull of the waiting sub and more hands reached down to help everyone scramble up the curved sides. Once onboard, they were motioned toward a red glow emanating from an open hatchway on deck, and five minutes later the hatch was being secured from inside while the sub powered away from the coast before making a quick descent in a mass of bubbles that raced for the surface as the sub headed for the depths.
Inside the submarine, the red battle lighting bathed the dripping group as they leaned with the tilt of the boat and began peeling off their survival suits.
“That really wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” Eduardo said. He was shaking slightly from the cold, but otherwise he looked as if he had just stepped from the shower and was ready to devour a hot breakfast.
Shaking out his wet hair, John blinked when the overhead lighting changed from red to white. “Actually, since I was raised on a ranch in New Mexico I find the sea pretty terrifying. I don’t know how you guys managed to see anything with all that salt water in your eyes.”
A British sailor grinned and handed him a towel. “Actually, sir, this is what we call a low-risk recovery mission. We’ve launched in hurricanes before. Now that’s terrifying ... at least until we dive. Once we get below the surface we leave the storm behind and it’s smooth sailing from then on.”
“I was wondering why it felt so calm all of a sudden,” Ariella said, wringing out her wet hair.
“That’s because we just dove. We’re two hundred feet below the surface right now, Miss.”
Suddenly a booming voice caused Ariella to turn her head as the crew snapped to attention. Standing in a rounded steel hatchway, she saw a dark-haired man in his mid-forty’s staring back at her. He was wearing a blue sweater and a white hat with the gold braid of a captain emblazoned across the black visor.
“At ease, men. I see our passengers are none the worse for wear. Welcome aboard the HMS Ambush. I’m Captain Colin Moss.”
The frown lines in the captain’s face made it look as if the man was incapable of smiling as he studied the new arrivals. “Which one of you is the pope?”
Surprised gasps from the British crewmembers filled the tight space as they turned to see Pope Michael sweep the orange hood from his head, revealing a face familiar to millions around the world. “That would be me, Captain.”
The captain was speechless for a moment as he stared into a pair of piercing blue eyes. “I’m honored to have you onboard, Your Holiness, but I have to say that I’m a little perplexed by all of this.”
“I can understand your confusion, Captain Moss. The first and only time a Catholic pope has ever visited the UK was back in 1982 when our beloved Pope John Paul II spent six days traveling through the beautiful English countryside. I suppose that, technically, this sub is sovereign British territory, so that would make me the second Catholic pope to visit your great country. I must apologize for any inconvenience our arrival has caused you and your crew. We shouldn’t be taking you away from your normal duties for more than a day or two.”
“That’s not what I was referring to, sir,” Moss replied. “Apparently, you’ve been declared a missing person after you disappeared from the Vatican two days ago. The world press is speculating that you’ve been kidnapped ... or worse.”
“I can assure you Captain that, despite the wild speculation by the press, I am here of my own free will, and as you can see I am quite well. How long will it take us to reach Gibraltar?”
“How the bloody hell did you know where we are headed?” Moss snapped, instantly regretting his tone. Removing his cap, the red-faced captain ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Please excuse my wording, Your Holiness. I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours and I’m afraid you caught me a bit off guard. The route of one of Her Majesty’s nuclear submarines is one of our most closely guarded secrets ... for obvious reasons. Lives could be at stake. I should have known you would be aware of our destination.”
Pope Michael smiled as he stepped forward and laid a hand on the startled captain’s shoulder. “That’s quite alright, Captain. I understand the pressures of command, and you’re quite right about lives being at stake. Now, you have your orders, so I suggest you get us the bloody hell to Gibraltar as soon as possible.”
CHAPTER 21
ROME – THE VATICAN
Matching the mood inside the Apostolic Palace, sweeping rain clouds from the east cast a looming shadow over Vatican City as Father Enzo Corelli peered down from a third-story window into the canyon-like expanse of the San Damaso courtyard. For the past two days the pope’s private secretary had watched a seemingly endless parade of limos deposit cardinals from all over the world in front of the palace following the news of Pope Michael’s disappearance.
From his perch inside the Papal Apartments, Corelli frowned when he saw the imposing figure of Cardinal Nevio Tucci exit a dark blue Mercedes and hurry toward the palace, his red robes brushing the smooth cobblestones. It was well known in Vatican circles that Father Corelli and Cardinal Tucci had a history, and it hadn’t always been a pleasant one. In Corelli’s mind, Tucci was nothing more than an officious-acting bureaucrat who had risen within the Curia to a position of considerable power, thus necessitating frequent meetings with the pope. But since it was Corelli who co
ntrolled the pope’s schedule, and thus access to the Holy Father himself, the two had locked horns on more than one occasion when Corelli had informed the cardinal that his request for an audience with the pope was denied because the matter at hand was too trivial to interrupt the pope’s impossibly busy schedule.
Once inside the palace, Tucci was hustled through the marble corridors of power to an elevator that would take him to a secret underground conference room two floors below. Modeled after the situation room located beneath the White House in Washington D.C., the recently constructed Vatican conference center was much larger than its American counterpart, for it was designed to hold several hundred Church leaders in times of crisis—and this was a crisis unlike any before in Church history.
Stepping from the elevator, the cardinal was stopped at the door by two security men dressed in dark blue suits. “Good afternoon, Cardinal. May we please see your identification papers?”
“What! Do you know who I am? I supervised the construction of this facility ... and now I must show identification to enter?”
“We’re very sorry, Your Eminence, but we have our orders. You above all others should appreciate the steps we are taking to assure the safety of everyone who enters.”
The cardinal’s mouth twisted into a snarl. “And maybe you should have been taking security a little more seriously when the Holy Father went missing.”
The security men’s eyes remained fixed on the cardinal’s contorted face as they continued to block his path. “Your papers, sir.”
Reaching inside his robes, the cardinal withdrew an official Vatican picture ID and held it out at arm’s length.
“Thank you, Your Eminence. This way please.” The two unsmiling men escorted the cardinal to a full body scanner before finally releasing him to pass through two steel doors into a room that resembled a theater. Pausing in the doorway, Tucci’s ears were assaulted by the din of over a hundred cardinals talking all at once as he looked out over a sea of red.