by Gavin Reese
Paul’s increasing back pain forced him to sit down, even though his excitement encouraged him to do otherwise. “What are the logistics going forward?”
“All the candidates are flying commercial airlines into Denver. One of John’s associates will pick them up at the airport in a dilapidated school bus and take them north. John claims it’s best they meet him while they’re already sore and sleep-deprived.”
“Do you have concerns about our security? We’ve involved almost twice the support personnel that you and I originally discussed.”
“I have no security concerns at this point,” Harold replied. “Even the men who interviewed and recommended the Disciples believe we were looking for suitable candidates to withstand the rigors and danger of assignment to our prison missions around the world. They only evaluated each candidate’s apparent capacity and comfort with violence, their moral philosophy on vengeance and self-defense, and if they could be trusted to follow orders that reshaped their own beliefs.”
“That’s a convenient cover story, and I’m still grateful you thought of it.” Paul massaged his lower back against a tennis ball that helped relieve his sciatica pain. “Given all the uproar among the conservative and traditional Catholics about the recent death-penalty declaration, I wish we could advertise our future openings. It seems the young priests would line up around the block to work for us.”
Harold chuckled at his rare humor. “It is rather difficult to volunteer to serve in a clandestine unit that only a few people know exists.”
Paul smiled at Harold’s ignorance. And only two of us understand the real play at hand. As he leaned back in his plush chair and set his heels atop his desk, the cardinal felt confident in their eventual success.
“I’m certain,” Harold continued, “that no one from the interview panels will ever realize what they’ve helped create. I do expect to have more viable candidates to expand the interview process in the future. All the conservative young priests that’re part of the current, unprecedented groundswell are potential candidates for us. The more they oppose and rebel against the aging liberal population much further up the Church hierarchy, the more useful I expect them to be to us. I’ve never seen or heard of conservative youth fighting the ideology of a liberal establishment. It’s like we’re watching history being made, Your Eminence.”
Paul scoffed at his subordinate’s naive assertion. “Don’t sell yourself short. The current revolution in our ranks is just one aspect of God’s plan. Once we help Him put our men into place and turn them loose, we’ll have facilitated altering and shaping the course of human history, Harold, not merely watching it like hapless bystanders.”
TWELVE
Wednesday, 6:04 AM.
Rural County Road. Niobrara County, Wyoming.
Michael awoke suddenly in the early morning darkness, jarred back to consciousness as the school bus left the asphalt highway surface and bombed down a rutted-out dirt road faster than he thought reasonable or necessary. The aging metal tube-on-wheels creaked, thumped, and squealed in protest. From his position behind the obese driver and near the middle of the bus, he grabbed onto the back of the green vinyl seat in front of him for stability. Glancing around quickly, Michael saw most of the other twelve occupants had reacted similarly. The driver looked up into his rearview mirror just long enough to smirk at his passengers. Hearing the engine accelerate, Michael frowned at the back of the driver’s head. What an asshole.
Reassured that no crisis existed, Michael wished he could have fallen back to sleep, but the rough conditions made that impossible. Even if I didn’t already ache from the awkward sleeping position in this seat, this drive’s rough enough to wake the dead. Michael intermittently tried to work the stiffness and tension from his neck and shoulders while assessing his new, unknown environment. From what little he could see outside the bus, they drove past grasslands, lightly snow-covered fields, and sporadic farm structures and windmills. And, the rough dirt road we’re on.
Even though the sun hadn’t yet risen, Michael identified the brightest part of the horizon and determined it was roughly positioned to his 1:30. He checked his watch. 6:16am. Generally headed northeast. Last I knew for sure, we were northbound on I-25 toward Cheyenne. No idea what road we’re on, or what road we just abandoned. He rechecked his phone and saw he still had no reception. Not a weak signal, no signal. This thing’s the smartest paperweight in the world without a network and data exchange.
With seemingly no more intel to gather about their location and destination, Michael began his customary morning ritual. I always feel more centered and peaceful after Laud, anyway. He crossed himself, bowed his head, and offered his morning dedication to God. After expressing gratitude for his Blessings and asking for guidance, clarity, and trust in God’s chosen path for him, Michael opened his eyes and saw the eastern horizon had brightened just enough to be noticeable. About twenty minutes should’ve passed. Getting to be time for a bathroom, coffee, and breakfast.
Michael’s thoughts never strayed far from the events of the past few days, and they now lingered on the inquisition panel that had apparently sent him here. Instead of punishing me for my beliefs and conduct, this feels like it could be some kinda reward, like the Church and I would both benefit from this assignment. I’m apparently not secretly joining a boat squad for BUDS at Coronado Island, but, maybe this is some kinda selection process for some higher-speed appointments, at least relative to the typical parish work. I’m sure the Vatican and Holy See have something like the Secret Service to protect their ambassadors and dignitaries as they travel around the world. They’ve gotta get their recruits from somewhere, and the Swiss Army has all the security work in Vatican City under wraps, so that’s definitely not an option for me. Michael grimaced as he realized the greater possibility that an opposing reality awaited him. Considering that no one gave any explanation of where I’m going or what I’m doing, I’m probably gonna spend some time in the Catholic equivalent of Siberia for a ‘clerical time-out.’ No one goes to dignitary protection training by surprise.
Michael sighed at his unknown future. Even though all the bus windows were raised against the exterior cold, the gusting wind audibly howled as it helped the rutted dirt road sway the top-heavy bus. He looked around the bus’s interior and his fellow, anonymous passengers. This almost seems like the lead-in for some Monty Python skit, a bunch of silent strangers dressed in neckties and dress clothes take an overnight ride in an old school bus. Something poking fun at insane corporate team building exercises, probably. Because they’d been explicitly prohibited from speaking with each other when they boarded, Michael had made up names and backgrounds for his anonymous travel companions based on their appearance and apparent demeanor. Looks like Ice, Big Red, The Irishman, and Southern Comfort are all awake and curiously attentive. Everyone else’s still ducked down in their seat or trying to rest. That’s a damned losing battle right now. He made a passing glance to the very back row and saw precisely what he expected. Sergio’s up. He still wears his hair high-and-tight like he never left the Marine Corps. As soon as their eyes met, Michael nonchalantly averted his gaze back toward the distant front windows. Interested to see how this is gonna go. Someone doesn’t want us to know anything about each other, but I know Sergio better than most of my own family right now. Spending six months traipsing through the jungle together has that effect on people.
Michael thought about their work at La Capilla de San Benedicto in rural Ecuador. Wonder how Serge ended up here. Michael couldn’t precisely recall if three or four years had passed since they’d last seen one another. What’s his last name? Guzman, I think, yeah, just like the cartel asshole. I think he was a Marine priest for six years, maybe seven? Long enough to have seen some things. Even priests and chaplains in the Corps have to pass rifle and fitness quals, so the kid’s never been a slouch. Looks like he can still handle himself pretty well today. Michael considered whether Sergio’s presence helped assure him this new assignment
wasn’t a punishment for Bogotá.
“Wakey, wakey,” the bus driver yelled over the ruckus. “Time to look alive, gentlemen, the Welcome Wagon approaches!” The few remaining passengers that feigned sleep sat up and looked at the environment around them.
Guess my questions are about to get answered, Michael told himself as he risked another glance at the last row. Sergio clearly recognized him and seemed just as interested in avoiding interaction. As he turned back forward, the rutted road grew even rougher. The driver comically bounced up and down, and Michael realized he had an air-cushioned seat. Despite that, the road had finally forced him to slow down. Maybe he doesn’t grasp how miserable this is for the rest of us. Or he doesn’t care.
The bus suddenly slowed and made a hard-left turn onto a private road, which forced Michael to hang tight to the back of the next seat to stay in his own. Two large, orange-painted signs stood on each side of the dirt driveway. No Trespassing. Trespassers Shot On Sight. Michael chuckled at the professed absolutism. What about the Girl Scouts? They gonna snipe the Thin Mint sellers, too? The private drive had been far better maintained than the access road, so the driver accelerated to again navigate the bus at the far end of “reasonable and prudent.”
After climbing a long and low, rolling hill, a compound came into view ahead of the bus. Large building, probably the house, surrounded by a horseshoe of adjacent buildings and structures. In the center of the structures, an American flag flew beside a square, yellow-and-white flag with a large, black image in the center of the white side. Holy shit, that’s the flag of the Holy See! This still might be clerical Siberia, but at least it's not some kinda priest prison camp. Probably...
As they drew closer to the buildings, the curiosity and tension among the silent occupants became palpable. Michael realized how obvious and purpose-built some of the other features and structures were. Concrete parade deck and flagpoles. That’s gonna double as a ‘grinder’ where the physical torment and calisthenics take place. Sandpit for fighting and defensive tactics training. Confidence course. Shaded bench rests oriented toward distant berms for long-range rifle training. Meandering trails that wander off into the distant hills. They get enough foot traffic to keep the grass from growing back. Whole thing’s gotta be two or three miles off the rutted access road. Nobody’ll ever hear you scream out here. Just like when he arrived for his first day at the police academy, a pit formed in Michael’s stomach and forced him to question if he really wanted to volunteer for what was probably about to happen. What the hell is this place? What’d I get signed up for? Another quick glance to the back row confirmed Sergio had his own reservations.
As the bus turned to approach the main house, a tall figure emerged from the front door and walked out onto the covered, wraparound wood-railed porch with a large mug. Gotta be coffee, and I doubt there’s any for us. He wore a tan American flag ballcap, dark aviator sunglasses, a large mustache, dark brown barn coat, jeans, and hiking boots. The sun isn’t even above the horizon yet. The attire concealed much of his face, even as he walked out to meet the slowing school bus. Michael felt his commanding presence and watchful, hidden gaze despite the distance between them. Tom Selleck. If Tom Selleck were even more foreboding.
As though to stay consistent with the rest of his vehicle operations, the driver waited until the last moment and pressed hard on the air brakes to stop the bus door directly in front of “Tom.” Michael enjoyed one final thrust into the seatback in front of him. After cutting the engine and turning on the interior lights, the overweight driver rose from his seat, faced his twelve passengers, and paused. As gusting wind provided the only sound, the driver looked at each of the passengers, and they apprehensively looked back at him as though waiting for an explanation.
“Best of luck,” he hesitantly offered. “I’ll pray for you.” The portly man nodded at the group and pulled the control lever to open the bus doors. A cold breeze gusted through the bus, and Michael felt grateful for the corresponding reduction in locker room stink around him. The bus shifted slightly as the driver descended the steps and walked toward the porch.
“Tom” stepped forward, shook hands with the driver, and placed his coffee mug on the porch’s wood railing. He strode to the bus and ambled up the steps just as another gust howled behind him. Stopping at the center of the front aisle, he closed the doors and turned to face his captive audience. Still wearing his ballcap and sunglasses, the imposing figure crossed his arms over his chest. He ominously looked around at the men scattered among the green vinyl bench seats before him. A long moment passed while they formed their first impressions of one another.
“I’m John,” he finally offered in a gruff, impatient baritone. Michael imagined he’d once been a smoker, and could still be today. His arms stayed crossed, and his eyes stayed hidden while he spoke. “Not Johnny, not Mister John. Just, fucking, John. I’m in charge of this training facility and the program that utilizes it. We share the same faith, religion, and employer, but we might see a couple of the details differently. I’m rough around the edges, I chew tobacco, and I swear a shitload. As far as you’re concerned, though, I answer to no one but God. I’ve been sent here to offer you boys a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to serve Him, His church, and His children by more directly identifying, deterring, and engaging the forces of evil that plague mankind in the worst and most horrific ways. You’ve been sent here because your diocese believes you have the mindset and capability to successfully negotiate my training program. They think you got what it takes to come out the other side with the skillsets required to immediately and effectively fill the postings awarded to the hard and just few who graduate.
“If all your minders kept to their marchin’ orders while gettin’ you here,” John continued, his arms still crossed and his eyes still hidden, “then you should have no other idea about what you're doing here, where you are, and what you’ll be doin’ if you complete my training program. I appreciate how vague and ambiguous all of this must feel, but I assure you that all of my protocols are the product of necessary and dire security measures. I’m responsible for doin’ everything possible to protect our instructors, students, and anyone who may or may not be actively working in such assignments and postings at this very moment anywhere in the world God might have called them. Nothing we do here, no matter how seemingly insignificant or unimportant is driven by gameplay. There are no shenanigans, not a single goddamned reindeer game. Everything I and my instructors do, we do with a specific and necessary purpose in mind. It’s important to me that you understand and trust that, and that you’re willing to trust us to act in your best interests and in the best interests of this program and everyone involved or associated with it. Most of all this generally falls under what we call operational security. If you've never heard that term before, for now, just understand it’s the collection of procedures and protocols for how we keep our people, operations, and information secure.
“From a logistics perspective, some aspects of your time with me will feel like seminary. I got no idea what you’ve been doing wherever you’ve been doing it, but, this is the way we’re gonna do things here. We’ll pray Laud every morning, None every afternoon, Vespers every evening, and Compline before every nighty-night. While you may experience occasional curiosity and uncertainty about what we’re doing here, you should always feel like this is where you're supposed to be and what you’re supposed to be doing right now. If that changes and you don’t feel divinely inspired and called to be here, please lemme know and we’ll get you back to what you need to be doing with your God-given time and strength.”
John glanced down at his wristwatch before he continued. “You’re already a half-hour late, so, quite frankly, we don’t have the time this morning for a prolonged diatribe or philosophical discussion about the present state of morality among mankind, but I’ll give you a few minutes to say your piece, if you got one. Questions? Comments? Concerns?”
“Where are we, exactly,” asked a bald, wiry
black man seated near the front door. Michael hadn’t heard him speak before and thought he had a French accent. He immediately and momentarily thought of Merci.
John looked down at the man, who sat just to his left. “If you can’t manage to keep track o’ your own whereabouts, it sure as shit ain’t my job to do it for you, son. You’re right where your bosses want you to be, until I say you can’t be here anymore.”
“I’m sorry, John,” a mid-twenty-something blonde man who sat mid-bus across from Michael hesitantly apologized, “but, who are you and how do you fit into the Church?”
“That’s an excellent question, son, in fact, that’s two excellent questions, neither of which I’m gonna answer right now. You’ll get to hear both of ‘em if you stay out here long enough.”
After a few seconds of silence, a man of east-Asian descent seated several rows in front of Michael raised his hand. “I feel like you’re not gonna address this one, either, John, but I’ll throw it out there, anyway.” Michael had guessed the man looked about his age. Early thirties, but Asian ethnicities age better than whites, so, maybe he’s older than me. “What are you training us to do?”
“Probably the most important question of all, followed closely by ‘how long are we gonna be out here?’” John paused to allow a particularly stout wind gust to pass. “Tell you what, son, I’m gonna disappoint you a little bit and respond to that one.” John shifted his hands down onto his hips and again briefly scanned around the interior of the bus as he spoke, almost as though hoping to elicit some sort of reaction from the group. “There’s a few different opportunities available to priests who successfully negotiate my program, and they’re known only to those who succeed. I will only tell you that the work you’d be doing, regardless of the actual posting, is of vital service to the Church, the Pope, and to God. There are a minimal number of men in the world who get this training and these postings, and far fewer who get to work these assignments on behalf of God. Everyone else in the world doing similar work are in the employ of secular governments, dictators, and various other forms of corruption and evil.