by Rolf Nelson
“Huge?” she asked curiously, not understanding.
“No. Hugh. H-U-G-H. Sort of like color.”
Maria smiled vague understanding and turned to the nurse. “Hugh. Hugh Carlos Navarro.”
The nurse grinned back at both of them. “An excellent name!”
“Hey, does that…?”
She nodded as she wrote on the birth certificate. “It does, Mr. Namesake. Hispanic male, five pounds twelve ounces, eighteen and a half inches, named Hugh Carlos Navarro. Congratulations…. No relation, I assume?”
Maria held out the tiny bundle of child toward the monk, indicating he should say something.
“Sorry, I’ve not been a monk very long. I’m not sure what the official words are. Here goes. Dear Heavenly Father above, please bless this child and his mother, watch over them, and secure their lives and souls in this life and the ever after. Keep them safe and strong in Christ’s name, and keep that heathen bastard with the pig sticker away from them…. No, strike that. I mean, keep that poor misguided soul away from them. Amen.”
“Amen,” Maria replied softly, beaming.
Hugh moved back over to stand next to the nurse. “First blessing?” she asked.
“Yes. Joined less than a month ago. Still got a lot to learn.”
“Obviously. But more honest than some I hear.”
“To say it’s been interesting is an understatement.”
“Sounds like it. Don’t hear about monks mixing it up in knife fights in the lobby very often.”
“Hope you never do again. I really do.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine. No cuts, just a couple of minor bruises from the tussle. At least, I expect them to turn into bruises. He missed. God watching over me, I guess.”
The nurse and orderly looked at him and the apparent casualness with which he dismissed his recent knife fight. They’d seen the adrenaline reactions post-fight before, and what they saw was not the normal reaction. Light dismissal was not typical for a near-death experience. They chalked it up to faith… and possibly Divine oversight. Hugh had extensive and bloody combat experience that made a knife fight with no deaths or stitches a relatively minor affair. If he’d thought about his reaction at all, he would have simply chalked it up to simply being nothing more than the most recent of innumerable life-and-death close calls that came and went suddenly a soldier like himself had been through.
* * *
When he returned to Tim’s room, they were dressing and getting ready to leave. “Not much more they can do for him here other than observe. How’d it go?”
“Blessing needs work. But…” he paused awkwardly. “She wanted my name.”
“Name?”
“For her kid. Hugh Carlos Navarro.” The other two monks laughed out loud in spite of themselves. “Strange day. Don’t even have my own kids named after me, but now I’ve got a stranger’s boy named after me. Who’da thunk it?” They nodded and walked slowly and carefully out the door.
The lobby had been cleaned up and set aright while they were gone, and the cops were chatting with the receptionist when they returned. They exchanged a few pleasantries and went out the door, the officers heading for the now somewhat quieter cruiser, the brothers to their pickup. And it would have worked out as the five expected it to if the fellow gang members of the man shackled in the cruiser had showed up just a little bit later.
As the police opened the cruiser doors, a lowered car with phat rims, custom paint, and heavily tinted windows screamed into the ER drop-off area. The windows were rolled down on the right side, gun barrels emerged from the dark interior. Before the low-rider was even stopped, they were blazing away (inaccurately) at the uniforms.
The two officers lunged into their vehicle, rapidly trying to unlock the AR-15 locked into place in a gun rack that covered the action, upright between the two front seats. They had just unlocked it when they were struck by incoming fire.
All three of the brothers had heard this tune before. Training and long experience don’t get ignored easily. Brother Tim hunkered down behind the truck, still somewhat wobbly from the concussion. Without exchanging a word, Hugh sprinted toward the far side of the police cruiser while Alan—previously a Navy corpsman who had seen many Marines in need in his time—stood up, arms spread wide as a sign of harmlessness, and walked slowly toward the stopped car from almost directly in front of it, calling out to them.
Glass shattered, the shooting paused, more yelling and cursing was heard from the newly arrived car and the back of the cruiser, and the two officers were screaming in pain. Hugh got to the car door and pulled the injured cop out onto the concrete on his side: hit in the shoulder, grazed on the head, another bullet in the hand. All painful but none immediately life threatening. He couldn’t see where the officer on the driver’s side was hit. The shooting picked back up. He seized the AR from where it had been dropped on the front seat.
When he looked through the police car’s windows he saw the gang members aiming their guns forward, toward Alan. Hugh stood and crouched slightly, resting the AR on the vehicle’s roof. The optic gave him a perfectly clear image and aiming triangle. It was similar to the ACOG sight he’d used many times before. The targets were so close they were slightly blurred and he knew the impact point would be slightly lower than the point of the triangle if they were properly sighted in.
Safety off. Aim. Squeeze. Acquire next target knowing the first one was no longer a problem to anyone but the cleaning crew. Identify gun in hand being fired, follow it to the attached shoulder, neck, head. Squeeze. Look up from optic a moment to scan for more aggressive targets. Driver was pulling out a piece. Return dominant eye to optic, acquire target, aiming just over the barrel aimed (poorly) back at him, ignore the flash from the shooter and the buzz of the bullet passing a few feet to his left. Squeeze. Focus eyes without scope on car. No more targets.
Look to Alan. Still standing. Good. Scan area for other hostiles. Looked clear. Keep scanning while talking loudly in clear, simple words. “Alan, you okay?”
“YES! You?”
“Affirmative! Check the far side of the car!” Keeping the rifle at a high ready and his head on a swivel, Hugh approached the car from one side, Alan from the other. Just the three heavily tattooed thugs. None needed a pulse check; the effects of well-placed head shots from an AR at twenty feet tend to be messy and obvious.
They both stood up, and Hugh returned the rifle to a more relaxed hold while Alan waved hospital staff out to help the injured police, both of whom were still very much alive and kicking. Gurneys and hospital staff poured out to deal with the situation. Hugh held on to the rifle—just in case, looking like the professional he had been for years, albeit an oddly dressed one—until he saw flashing lights approaching at high speed. Then, he dropped the mag, locked the bolt back, and set it down on the roof of the cruiser and stepped away from it.
While the two injured officers were being trundled away, Alan looked at Hugh ruefully. “So much for turning the other cheek.”
“Or being low-profile. Wonder what Tom will think?”
Alan pondered a moment. “Likely have a much more complicated view of it than we do. Or the cops. They’ll weigh the arrest records of those three against your honorable discharge, the action earlier tonight, and those two injured deputies, and then pin a medal on you and pass a collection hat for Tim’s medical expenses.”
* * *
The paperwork and interviews took another hour and a half, and Alan was pretty accurate on how the police viewed it after talking to the two injured officers, both of whom were expected to make a full recovery and be back on light duty before very long.
The receptionist said with a tired and stressed smile that it looked like the lack of insurance for treating Tim’s concussion had just worked itself out.
The police understood the trio’s desire to keep faces out of the news and agreed that it might be best to avoid the limelight, but they said that some ne
ws exposure would be unavoidable, given that there were two police shot, three dead gang-bangers who (as expected) had extensive criminal backgrounds, a knife-wielding man arrested, explosions, monks, and a pregnant woman in the story. But given how able and timely the assistance of the brother had been, they offered to do what they could to keep things as quiet as possible citing ongoing investigations. The hospital, eager to stay out of the news with multiple shootings, was more than happy to downplay the gunplay. And knife play. And anchor babies. And gang activity. Medical privacy laws helped for once as they couldn’t say anything about anyone’s medical situation, which, arguably, was just about everyone involved at that point.
The only story the young news-babe got was that officers had responded to a domestic dispute, arrested the man, and the man’s friends had shot and injured the two police officers. After the police were shot in their car, a retired Marine Special Forces sniper who had happened to be there for an unrelated reason had used the fallen cop’s gun to return fire, killing three, but he now was unavailable for comment.
It wasn’t totally accurate—in fact it was almost entirely inaccurate in the details as was typical of the news services when reporting on things they knew nothing about—but it served its purpose. The three monks tried to slip away quietly. When a news crew shoved a camera in Alan’s face and asked him if he saw anything, he smiled benignly and spoke humbly. “I’m just the driver. One of the brothers had an accident and was being treated. While we were here Brother Hugh blessed a newborn at the mother’s request. It’s tragic what happened, but…” he spread his hands fatalistically, “we all do what we must to deal with the evil in the world, and I’ve been told to keep my head down when bullets are flying. I can’t really tell you more.”
* * *
The drive home was quiet, but the minds were active. After nearly an hour of silence, Hugh opined, “I think we’ll be needing to add unarmed self-defense and blade work to the training schedule.”
“Yeah…. You might be right. Maybe bayonet drills, too, for close-combat mindset,” was Alan’s eventual reply. “My rifle came with one. May as well learn to use it effectively.”
Pipes
But if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel.
—1 Timothy 5:8
While Brother Tim was taken to the ER and the other brothers were patched up or getting an unplanned first-aid refresher, those not dealing with the unexpected problems went to investigate the pipe. It was not on any of the plans, prints, or schematics they had. But it was definitely still active.
The pipe and wire conduit were laid side by side near the surface, much shallower than code required. While it was a bad installation, it did make it much easier to trace when digging in hard ground with shovels. One end of it led to the ranch house, more or less as expected, passing underneath the existing 250-gallon propane tank and tapping into the known gas line in the crawl space underneath with a previously unnoticed valve that was shut off. The other end led, quite unexpectedly, out toward a small rise out in the field near where they were planning on installing the septic treatment system.
Once they had gotten a feel for the direction, they scooped the snow and earth every ten feet or so to check and see if the pipe was still laid as expected. It was, for a time. Then it took a turn toward a low hill. Digging more, they followed it into the hillock, which turned out to be, with more digging, a bunkered fuel depot that couldn’t be seen from the main drive. It had a pair of 1,000-gallon propane tanks, and two 400-gallon tanks labeled “gasoline” and “diesel,” a dozen 55-gallon drums in a rack, and appropriate fuel-handling equipment. The drums appeared to be empty, or nearly so, and the gasoline tank as well. The diesel sounded about 1/3 full and the propane tanks nearly topped up. The break in the line had tripped the automatic shutoff. The walls were concrete, and the roof looked strong enough to support the layer of dirt and grass overhead, and it was also well vented, though cleverly so through imitation tree trunks. It even had several blow-off panels near the top. The road to it was barely visible, and “camouflaged” too looked like one of several random paths on a small dirt-bike track.
The gas also fed a tiny fuel-cell that powered some small electronics in the bunker, and further investigation showed the house had a few low-powered emergency lights that were hooked only into the circuit that the wire paralleling supplied. They’d previously thought that it was just an odd bit of the nonstandard wiring, and they’d not yet run down the details as to why there were two set of lights in some rooms.
To say there was a lot of speculation about it was an understatement. But it might possibly prove to be quite useful. They wondered what other hidden items they might find. There was discussion about how to do an inch-by-square-inch search of the entire property once the snow was gone. They also started thinking about what hidden items they might want to install on their own—after all, unseen was unregulated, and a person never knew when a surprise on your side might be useful.
Knowing it was there would make the installation of the SS509 septic system go more easily, and they’d not have to explain it if Cade never saw it. They’d have the trenching and preparation wrapped up before he was there to see it.
All in all, it was an eventful day that Abbot Thomas Cranberry was prepared to report when the three brothers returned from the hospital that evening to tell how their journey went. The pickup returned in the middle of the third evening meal shift, and those not eating went out to see what the prognosis was and to share news of their own day. The expressions worn by the returnees quieted their raucous greeting.
“Is Tim going to be okay?” was the first serious question after the noise died down.
“Yes, he should be fine,” was Alan’s subdued reply.
“Was there some other problem? Oh, no! Insurance! How did you pay?” exclaimed Abbot Cranberry.
Hugh shook his head. “Not a problem. They waived treatment fees as charity… and for services rendered.”
“Services? What sort of service?”
Hugh stood erect. “It might be best if we all go inside. We can have dinner, tell the story, and hit the confessional at the same time.” Silence fell hard.
“Are you sure?” asked Cranberry. Hugh nodded, as did Alan.
“And I’d really like to lie down with an icepack,” added Tim.
* * *
It was a quiet dinner as the brothers listened to the story. The blessing drew quiet cheers and best wishes, and Thomas complimented him on his extemporaneous words. The knife fight drew words of praise and admiration; some of the brothers said nothing, remembering some other close brush with something sharp. Father Mathews was aghast. When Hugh got to the shooting, many of the brothers’ eyes were either downcast or reflected them remembering their own similar experiences. Some nodded, understanding all too well the thoughts, reactions, and low-information but requiring immediate action situations that can happen. Thomas, a non-veteran, put his hand over his mouth; one of his flock had just killed three men. Mathews looked shocked. They had a hard time processing it. It wasn’t turning the other cheek, but it was so… so… so right in line with the order’s until-now abstract philosophy of protecting the weak and meek through quiet but as forceful as needed strength that he wasn’t sure what to do.
Finnegan asked what Alan was thinking by standing and approaching the three gang-bangers. “Distract them from their targets, give Hugh time to do something, and maybe pull them to safety. Seemed like a great idea until they started shooting at me.”
“They shot at you?”
“Yes.”
“Any hits?”
“Don’t think so. No bruises or bleeding, anyhow. I think I’d notice that by now.”
“Check yourself over, again anyway.”
A brief check revealed he not only had collected some bullet holes in the habit, but because the heavy cloth had moved loosely, slowed, and trapped one of the bulle
ts, he actually had what appeared to be a fired 9mm bullet caught in his sleeve. Mickey thought it likely a .380 based on weight, but he couldn’t be sure.
There was no denying he’d put his life at risk in the most faithful of ways, walking unarmed toward armed men attempting murder at that very moment to save the innocent.
A year ago, a confession of “I just killed three men” would draw a very heavy penance, including turning himself in to the police. In this case the police already knew and all but pinned a medal on him on the spot. The deceased were clearly bad people, the shot-but-saved officers sounded like typical peacekeepers, and the whole setup was a situation straight from the pits of moral Hell. Now? What penance would be appropriate for such a man in such a situation? His decision would set precedents for the rest of the existence of the order. And, given the pope’s words, it might be reasonable, even wise, to consider worldly aspects of the events and possible fallout.
“We will have to pray, study, and think long and deeply to know what to do, Brother Hugh. It is clear you had the best of worldly intentions. But three lives. A heavy burden, which must be properly addressed. Until then, it might be best for you to not go very far and to spend a lot of time praying.”
Sleep
Making due allowance for circumstances, the brethren will rise during the winter season, that is, from the calends of November till Easter, at the eighth hour of the night; so that, having rested till a little after midnight, they may rise refreshed. The time, however, which remains over after the night office (Matins) will be employed in study by those of the brethren who still have some parts of the psalms and the lessons to learn.
The Holy Rule of Saint Benedict Ch. VIII (The Divine Office at Night)