by Gavin Reese
Michael and several of his classmates chuckled at John’s dry delivery.
“So, four considerations,” John exclaimed and held up his right fist and counted them off with his fingers as he spoke. “Just authority, including God. Just cause. Just actions. And, practice-good, pillage-bad. That about sum it up?”
Michael nodded in agreement and saw most everyone else did, as well.
“So, going back to the first consideration. The head of a nation can call for war. What about a monarch, a king, can he declare a ‘just war?’”
“Yes,” came the near-unison student response.
“What about a president, or an elected official,” John asked.
“Yes,” again as a group response.
“What about a dictator, a czar? Can they declare a ‘just war?’”
Silence briefly enveloped the group as they considered the question.
“Yes,” Michael offered, “I think so. They could have still come to power through lawful means and have righteous authority over the nation they’re defending.”
“Good,” John replied. “As long as they’re the lawful authority figure over that political entity, then, in that case, I agree.” John looked around the room and smirked before asking the next question. “So, what about the pope? Can His Holiness declare a ‘just war?’”
The question surprised Michael, just as it seemed to do to the rest of his class. Never considered it, but, why would he? Can he?
“Yes,” Sergio finally and confidently answered. “The pope can call for war.”
John smiled and pointed at Sergio, but scanned the rest of the class. “Everybody hear that? Tell us, Jude, why can the pope declare war, a ‘just war’ in particular.”
“The pope is the head of the Holy See, a sovereign theocratic nation-state with its own jurisdiction, territory, and armed forces.”
“Facts, gentlemen,” John surmised, “all facts. The sitting pope always has the authority and the option to send the armed forces of the Holy See into combat, for both offensive and defensive purposes. Me, personally, if I were on his staff, I’d strongly advise him against a frontal assault, though, given that his small army is presently and perpetually surrounded.”
“That’s not where the pope has the tactical or strategic advantage, though, John,” Sergio countered their instructor’s half-joking assertion. “His forces are uniquely positioned inside every foreign state on Earth, ideologically driven, and would allow him a tremendous, unrivaled capacity for successful guerrilla warfare campaigns against anyone he declares to be an enemy of the state.”
“Jude,” John announced, “I think you and I’re gonna get along just fine.” He paused and scanned the other students for confirmation or dissent.
That kinda kills the debate, Michael thought. Even if I disagree with Sergio, who the hell’s gonna offer a counter argument after John makes an endorsement like that?
John looked back to a clock that hung on the wall behind him at the front of the room and then addressed the group again. “Alright, looks like we’re runnin’ up on quittin’ time for the day. You kiddies have a homework assignment for tonight. Starting tomorrow, I’ve got a new punishment and reward system to help motivate each of you to stay as ambiguous and anonymous as possible. It’s a skill most people have to intentionally develop, so we’re gonna motivate you the best way I know how, with both a carrot and a stick. So, as you lay on your bunks tonight staring up at the bottom of my floor, you’d best spend some time ponderin’ everything you do and say that might help someone learn somethin’ about you, maybe even help identify you. For example, do you speak with a specific, localized accent? Are you a big enough dumbshit to get a Texas flag tattooed on your arm before you decided to marry the Church?
“Consider all the ways that you normally give up intel on yourself and how others could use that to identify or find you. Then, change your habits and normal goddamned behaviors to stop doing that stupid shit. Once we start this little game, I’mma make sure everybody plays. You will be handsomely rewarded for correctly identifying private and personal information about your classmates, and you will be severely punished for giving up that same information on yourself. Details to follow, as I’d prefer that you have all night to get all worked up about it. Unless somebody’s got anything real pressing, I’m pretty damned tired of lookin’ at all-a you, so knock off for the day and be up on the porch at 0-5-45 tomorrow. Congratulations on surviving Day Two.” A suspicious smile spread across his face. “Lookin’ forward to seein’ what you shitheads think about Day Three. Dismissed.”
EIGHTEEN
Training Day 2, 2056 hours.
Rural Compound. Niobrara County, Wyoming.
Michael laid on his bed and tried to immerse himself in a detective fiction, Harbor Nocturne, by Joseph Wambaugh. The other students similarly lounged and milled about the basement as their day drew to a close. Glad the wind finally died down after dark, but it never really stops. At least I can’t hear it down here in the basement. That’s an unexpected perk. Most of his colleagues kept to themselves and shied away from much contact or dialogue with each other. John’s gotcha-game is gonna drive us even farther apart. It’s so weird to be crammed in tight quarters with like-minded men, but punished for actually bonding with any of ‘em.
His need to remain “intel positive,” even among his classmates, reminded Michael that his other book, Left of Bang, had gone missing after the instructors had searched through his property yesterday and piled it up with everyone else’s. Don’t know if they confiscated it, or someone else grabbed it by mistake. Give it a couple days and see if it shows up. Ironically, I could really use the book’s reminders on situational awareness and threat analysis right now. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sergio laying back on his bunk and periodically tossing a small medicine ball toward the ceiling and catching it. His friend had done that almost every night that they lived together in Ecuador, claiming it helped strengthen his hands and calm his mind.
Movement to his left drew Michael’s attention, and he saw Phillip walking cautiously toward the stairs as though he didn’t want to be seen doing so. If that guy can be trained, he’d make the perfect spy. I can’t tell if he’s white, Hispanic, Arabian, East Asian, or from somewhere in the Mediterranean. He’s about as nonchalant as a drunk skunk, though, right now.
After momentarily looking up, Phillip turned around and addressed the group in a hushed voice. “Hey, whaddayou guys think of the instructors?”
Michael lowered his novel and looked around the room. Everyone’s waiting for someone else to talk. Nobody trusts each other yet, probably just the way John wants it. “In terms of what,” Michael hesitantly clarified, “their competency, personalities, character?”
“All of it, I guess,” Phillip replied. “They all seem pretty damned impersonal, maybe a little cold, but that one guy, the stocky brown-haired dude, I’m pretty sure he’s just an asshole.”
“You mean ‘Double-Time,’” Sergio asked.
“Yeah,” Phillip chuckled, “he says that too much.”
“I think he’s probably just arrogant,” Sergio replied and resumed tossing his medicine ball. “Give him space if you can, and you’ll be fine.”
“What about ‘Tex,’” Zeb asked from his spot on the floor.
“The cowboy-lookin’ fella,” Z clarified. “I been callin’ him ‘The Marlboro Man.’”
“What about the other guy? I’ve been using ‘The Mouse,’” Matthew offered.
“’El Raton,’” Sergio responded and shrugged, “’cuz he’s Hispanic.”
“What about the African-American southerner,” Z asked.
“You mean the one Southerner other than you,” Thomas harshly injected.
“’Big Country,’” Michael replied, ignoring Thomas’ confrontation.
“And the woman,” Thomas asked. “Whaddayou guys been callin’ her?”
“I’ve just been callin’ her ‘Jane,’” Matthias responded, “like Jo
hn said yesterday.”
“Yeah, sure,” Thomas answered as though disappointed in the lack of creativity, “’Just Jane.’”
“I’m more worried ‘bout us,” Sergio offered between medicine ball tosses. “We’re missing all the heavy hitters. No ‘Paul.’ No ‘Peter.’ At least they gave us John The Baptist, but I’m not sure we’re gonna make it without Peter and Paul.”
Michael smiled at his friend’s dry humor. A moment of renewed silence passed between them all, and he returned to his novel.
“What the hell do you all think’s going on here,” Bartholomew asked from his bunk near the showers.
The pressing question on everyone’s mind, Michael thought as he sat up.
“Introduction to the job, or jobs, whatever they are, I guess,” Z offered from the bed next to Michael.
Phillip spoke up next. “I can’t decide if they’re training us to be security guards, criminal profilers, or,” he facetiously added, “assassins. Could be anything.”
“I hope it’s assassins,” Thomas coyly announced with a smirk, “don’t have that one on my resume, yet.”
“Yeah, Catholic assassins,” Michael chuckled and shook his head, “pretty sure that one’s been done before.”
“You guys know the Vatican has its own intelligence service, right,” Matthew asked. “This could be a selection program for that.”
“Do they still call it ‘C-I-A’ and just change the acronym?” Sergio’s joke elicited a few chuckles.
“Don’t y’all think it’s awfully coincidental that John only had eleven names in the hat yesterday,” Z asked.
“Don’t know,” Michael offered. “Could be just that, coincidence.”
“I dunno,” Zeb added. “Seems questionable that the one big guy got left on the bus at the last minute, and then there’s not a leftover name for him in the hat right after it happened.”
“He could-a been a plant,” Sergio agreed, “but, even if he was, what difference does it make? We’re all here and he’s not, and, either way, we all know John’s serious about sending people home. If he was a plant, he had the desired effect.”
“Maybe,” Matthias cautiously chimed in, “one of the instructors inside the house saw what happened and just took one name out.”
Bartholomew scoffed. “And they just happened to grab ‘Peter,’ the most critical apostle to our worldview?”
“About an eight-percent chance of grabbing any one in particular,” Michael countered, “one-in-twelve, right? I mean, it had to be one of ‘em.” Bartholomew’s a little vocal when he thinks we’re unsupervised. That makes him my leading mole candidate. He’s gonna try to instigate some kinda dissent before this's over.
“It’s just fishy,” Bartholomew responded. “I don’t trust it.”
“I think that’s part of the point,” Sergio counseled and continued to repeatedly toss his medicine ball in the air over his head. “This place is built on secrets, and we gotta learn to trust what we feel as much as what we see and hear.”
“What the hell does that even mean,” Bartholomew asked and shook his head in disbelief.
“It means,” Sergio explained, caught his medicine ball, and sat up to more directly address Bartholomew and the rest of their group, “that as long as you feel in your heart that this is the right place for you to be, and you’re here at the right time in your life and for the right reasons, then stay and carry on, even if you can’t readily explain everything you see and hear. Trust your heart, follow the path it takes you down, and know that your head will eventually follow. In the meantime, try shuttin’ the hell up and keepin’ us outta trouble.”
NINETEEN
Training Day 3, 0800 hours.
Rural Compound. Niobrara County, Wyoming.
With his head bowed in prayer, Michael sat in their converted classroom in the same thin, flimsy plastic chair he’d been using for the past two days. Glad we’re celebrating mass this morning, and that John’s giving us time to pray the liturgy every day. It’s reassuring that our focus here remains on God first and foremost, regardless of whatever else it is that we’re doing. His legs already hurt from three consecutive days of runs and sprint work, and the repeated kneeling, sitting, and standing this morning had reminded Michael he generally overestimated the quality of his physical conditioning. John had added some basic parkour exercises to their morning run and introduced them to his obstacle course. They’d finished up with a short yoga stretch routine. I’ve always heard yoga is supposed to be calming and meditative, but that shit’s just bodyweight strength work in disguise.
“Amen.”
Michael raised his head and looked toward the front of the repurposed stable and the aging Monsignor who delivered mass to the trainees. He didn’t introduce himself as a monsignor, but that’s how he’s dressed. Kinda looks like a kindly grandfather figure with an easy smile. The plastic tables had been moved to the outside of the room for the morning mass. Michael glanced down at a folded, dark red towel just past his feet. John had provided them to soften the floor beneath their knees, but the token gesture hadn’t proven especially effective.
“Let us consider the directives God has given the Church,” the monsignor began his homily, “through his most beloved apostle, Saint Peter, to found His church and to shepherd His people home to him. In establishing the Church as an ecclesial ministry, the Lord our God gave her authority, mission, orientation, and goals. In order to protect and guide the People of God and to grow its numbers without end, Christ the Lord set upon the Church a variety of offices that serve the good of the whole body. The men in these offices are invested with a sacred power, a divine authority that can be traced back almost two millennia to Saint Peter himself. They are dedicated to promoting the interest of their brethren so that all the People of God may aspire and attain divine and eternal salvation through the Church and Christ our Lord.
“It is these men, Saint Peter’s potential successors entrusted and tasked with the fiduciary burden of shepherding the immortal souls of all God’s children, that we must place our trust, our support, and our ceaseless efforts to their appointed and specified tasks. It is behind these divinely appointed men that we must cast our lot, praying for their wisdom, humility, and complete and total submission to the word and guidance of Christ our God.”
Michael listened to the rest of the monsignor’s message, but his mind kept replaying the discussion among his class last night. Today’s lesson dovetails perfectly from Sergio’s assertion that we must be able to trust those appointed over us here and follow our hearts, even when we don’t readily know what to make of everything we see and hear. The world may provide misinformation and distractions, even deception, that our hearts should recognize and guide us through.
“Stand fast in your own convictions,” the monsignor continued, “especially in the face of criticism we know to be untrue. We are called to allow our own spiritual experience, the mysteries of our faith, to guide and deepen our personal understanding of Holy Scriptures and the Catechism. I pray that we would also expand and broaden our understanding of the human experience, even as our distractions and the noise surrounding us increase and attempt to present the false notion that the evolution of our species has outlived the Church and its divine teachings. There is nothing new under the sun and nothing new to God. His word has provided all we require to address and solve all the struggles and difficulties that we now, or will ever face and endure. Surely, the aged wisdom of His appointed leadership and His Church will see us through all that is to come before us.”
After the celebration of mass concluded and the monsignor departed the classroom, John stepped back to the front. “Alright, shitheads, get the chairs cleared out of the way and go get changed again, get outta those dress clothes. Even I’m tired of all the goddamned lectures, so me and my associates are gonna teach you all to kick the shit out of each other instead. At some point during the day, you’re each gonna get called out one-at-a-time. Hustle.”
When Michael returned to the classroom dressed in athletic shorts and a t-shirt, he saw a variety of striking pads scattered around the room, along with a stacked assortment of dull training knives and simulated, solid-rubber handguns and rifles. John laid out pairs of focus mitts for well-aimed strikes, punches, and kicks, and his five associates huddled quietly in the room's far corner.
The lead instructor looked up and nodded to acknowledge Michael as he walked farther into the room. “How you feelin,’ Andrew?”
“Good enough, John. Haven’t pushed myself this hard in a while. It's good, though.”
“I firmly believe that sweat lost in training equates to blood retained in combat,” John replied and stood. “My goal here, one of ‘em, anyway, is to do my best to ensure none-a you has to bleed out there, ever.”
“Lofty goal,” Michael surmised.
“Man’s gotta have somethin’ to shoot for.”
Sergio walked through the back door, and John immediately began working the two of them out. After a light warm-up, they began light touch-sparring, with other students and instructors joining in as they arrived. Before long, all eleven trainees worked in pairs, with the odd-man-out going rounds with John’s associates.
Over the course of the next three hours, John led Michael and his classmates through the basics of the physics, mechanics, and mindset of empty-hand-combat. He’d made time to briefly cover the very foundational principles of punches, jabs, kicks, elbows, and knees. John had just started the trainees on an introduction to ground fighting when Michael heard the back door open.