Chase Baker and the Spear of Destiny Page 6

  “Bullets?” I ask.

  She pulls out three high capacity magazines, hands them to me. I shove two into appropriate chest pockets on my ballistic vest and slap one home into the rifle housing. Pulling back on the bolt, I allow a round to enter the chamber. I thumb the safety on and strap the firearm over my shoulder.

  “I assume you’re good with your own .45?” she asks.

  I pat my hip where I’ve holstered my sidearm.

  “Like American Express,” I say, “I never leave home without it.”

  She slaps a magazine into her rifle, pulls back on the bolt, releases it, the solid noise of gun metal against gun metal filling the apartment. Her smartphone chimes. She pulls it out of her black vest, stares at the digital screen.

  “Car’s out front,” she informs. “Let’s go now.”

  She goes for the door. But before she opens it, I grab her arm.

  “You sure whoever is driving the car can be trusted?”

  She purses her lips, forms a slight grin.

  “Have a little faith, Mr. Baker,” she says. “We’re about to save the Pope’s life after all.”

  “Amen to that,” Father O’Brien says.

  Andrea opens the door, and we go to work.

  Chapter 10

  The ovular piazza outside St. Peter’s Basilica is mobbed with worshippers, tourists, police, and Swiss Guard. Only a relative few members of the Swiss Guard, chosen for ceremonious reasons, are dressed in their traditional fifteenth-century uniform, their long lances gripped in their hands. Most of the guards are decked out in black tactical gear, including helmets, combat boots, and black gloves. They have been strategically positioned all around the large space. What this means, of course, is that Father O’Brien, Andrea, and I blend in with them.

  Our credentials pinned to our chests and the tinted visors masking our faces, we’ve easily navigated our way from the car, through the open walkway, to our pre-planned position outside the Prefettura Della Casa Pontificia. There’s a portable metal railing system that will allow the Pope an unobstructed path to the portable altar that’s been set up in the center of the piazza. With just twenty minutes remaining before the one o’clock mass is set to commence, both sets of railings are jam packed with people hoping and praying to not only catch a glimpse or a smartphone picture/video of the Papal Father but also to touch him.

  Some people are seated in wheelchairs, including sick or handicapped children. The people hope for the Holy Father to lay his hands on them while he recites a prayer of healing directly to God above. It promises to be an amazing display of faith and belief in an all-powerful God who has bestowed special otherworldly powers onto one single chosen mortal man.

  While Andrea situates herself about fifty feet to my left, Father O’Brien takes up the middle. Since his only weapon is a nightstick, his primary role is that of reconnaissance scout. He’s equipped with binoculars, and he’s using them now to capture an up-close-and-personal view of the walk-way rooftop, and the marble statuary situated there.

  I raise my free hand, trigger my chest-mounted radio.

  “Father, you see anything out of the ordinary? Anything at all?” I ask.

  “Nothing but dead popes and pigeons,” he says, his voice coming through tinny, but loud and clear in my ear piece.

  “Andrea,” I say. “How are things on your end?”

  “Got my eye on the parking lot,” she says. “Thus far, all quiet. If you wanna call it that. More like a zoo.”

  “That can work to our advantage,” I say. “But then, it will work to Rickman’s advantage too.”

  I check my watch.

  “Fifteen minutes,” I say. “Look sharp.”

  The crowd is getting thicker, pressing against the metal rails. Some of the police and guards patrolling the interior of the narrow walkway use their free hands to push back against the onslaught of people, while their opposite hands grip the same style and brand of automatic rifle I’m equipped with.

  Outside the piazza perimeter, a brass band is playing lively music. Food vendors and souvenir hawkers pace the perimeter, calling out for passersby to waste money on their trinkets. Children hold silver balloons filled with helium. Some of the kids release the balloons, allowing them to drift up and over the piazza. My eyes automatically focus on the balloons.

  It’s while staring at one such balloon that I catch sight of the drone. It’s one of those models shaped like an X with a circle in the middle where a high definition camera is mounted. The drone is powered by four propellers, and whoever is piloting it, has it hovering maybe fifty feet over the big wood doors the Pope will utilize when, finally, he enters the piazza.

  “You guys see what I see hovering over the doors on the Pontificia?”

  Father O’Brien is standing fifteen feet away from me. He lowers his binoculars, makes an about face. Bringing the binoculars back up to his eyes, I see him focus in on the drone.

  “Holy crap,” he whispers into his mic. “I’m not liking this one bit.”

  “How is it no one else is noticing this?” Andrea says into her mic.

  “Maybe it belongs to the Vatican PR division?” I offer.

  “Take it from me, Chase,” Andrea goes on, “they don’t use drones. The air space above St. Peters is a no-fly zone, especially when the Pope is about to be exposed. He’ll make one hell of a target.”

  I scan the ever-expanding crowd. They’re making so much noise that it’s impossible to make out the drone’s rattle and hum. The Vatican police and guards are so concerned with keeping the crowd at bay while searching for possible assassins, they aren’t noticing the drone either.

  The big wood doors on the Pontificia open.

  All hell seems to break loose while the crowd roars with delight and awe. The guards begin to push people back away from the barriers. To everyone’s surprise if not shock, the Pope emerges not inside an armored golf cart, but on foot.

  Two armed guards are positioned on his flanks, a line of red-robed cardinals situated directly behind him. He’s dressed in a white vestment with a blood red belt wrapped around his waist. The top of his head is covered with a white skull cap. He’s waving to the crowd, a broad smile planted on his face.

  The maniacally devoted push back against the guards, reach over the barriers in frantic attempt to touch the holy Pontiff. Much to the guard’s dismay, the Pope stops and embraces the outstretched hands of the people. He blesses them by making the sign of the cross only inches from their faces.

  He takes a few more steps forward, spots a sick little girl seated in a wheelchair. Her parents are old beyond their years. Both are holding rosaries, reciting prayers while the Pope lays his hand on their daughter’s head. Cameras flash as thousands of cell phones record the moment for posterity.

  I keep one eye focused on the Pope and the other on the drone that now seems to be following him. But something else in the sky catches my attention.

  A helicopter.

  It’s emerging from the direction of downtown Rome. It’s a black helicopter, and by the looks of it, a modified Huey. The crowd is in such an uproar that no one is noticing the chopper. But I’ve got my eyes locked on it.

  “Andrea,” I say, into my chest mic. “A helicopter.”

  “Could be the press,” she responds, but she doesn’t sound very convinced.

  “Let’s hope and pray that it is,” Father O’Brien adds.

  The Huey enters over the piazza.

  I breathe a sigh of relief then when the series of big white lettering on the aircraft’s side-panels indicate the Rome RAI television news channel. If anything, I should be surprised that there aren’t more helicopters patrolling the overhead for live shots of the Holy Father’s very rare outdoor mass. But then, didn’t Andrea just inform me that the airspace above St. Peter’s Square is a no-fly zone?

  “Andrea,” I say, into the mic. “A helicopter has entered the no-fly zone.”

  “Must be RAI has permission, Chase,” she says. “Otherwise,
someone would be shooting the crap out of it.”

  I lower my gaze, refocus on the Pope.

  He’s moved on from the little girl in the wheelchair and is now slowly moving toward the makeshift altar. But all the time, he’s got both hands outstretched, like Christ on the cross. Despite the protests from the guards, he’s touching, embracing and anointing as many people as he can before he begins his formal mass on behalf of St. Theresa.

  Once more comes to an abrupt stop. This time, not in front of a child, but an old man. Like the sick child before him, the old man is seated in a wheelchair that’s been pushed directly against the metal barrier.

  The Pope speaks something to the man. Obviously, I can’t hear what he’s saying. The old man appears too weak and feeble to even raise his hands in prayer. Two people stand on either side of him. One man and one woman. It’s hard to tell how old they are. The woman is dressed in a long skirt and the man in a suit and trench coat. He’s also wearing a Fedora.

  The Pope smiles warmly at the couple. He issues them the sign of the cross. The couple follows suit by also making the sign of the cross. That’s when the Pope reaches out with his right hand, sets it on top of the old man’s bald head. His eyes closed tightly, he recites a prayer and judging by the intensity on his face, it’s like he’s communicating with the real Jesus Christ in his mind. Maybe he is.

  The helicopter is circling now. The drone is also positioned directly above the Pope’s head.

  “The drone, Chase,” Father O’Brien says. “I don’t like it.”

  “Chase,” Andrea responds. “Maybe we should shoot the drone.”

  “And cause total chaos and confusion?” I spit into the mic. “I don’t think so.”

  The guards that surround the Pope are getting anxious, the Cardinals agitated. The Pope is standing in one place for far too long, his hand resting on top of the old man’s head. Something is happening to the Papal Father, as if something inside the old man is being channeled through the Pontiff's hand, up the veins and capillaries on his arm and into his brain. Or perhaps, it’s more accurate to say that what’s being channeled is entering into his soul. What is considered the purest soul on God’s earth.

  Then, from above the Pope’s head, the drone takes on altitude and flies upwards in the direction of the now hovering news chopper.

  “Did you see that, Father?” I say into my radio.

  “Must have been a media drone the entire time,” he says. But I can sense the caution, or is it disbelief in his voice.

  “Chase,” Andrea says. “Do you see them? Inside the chopper.”

  I gaze upon the helicopter’s open doors. Two men, dressed in black, standing inside. They are tossing something to the ground. Four separate objects.

  I spin my automatic rifle around, press the stock against my shoulder.

  “Grenades!” I shout.

  The grenades explode. The shock shoots through my flesh and bone. For a brief second, I’m blinded, even if my eyes are wide open. My stomach sinks and my heart flies up into my throat. I fully expect to see severed limbs and mutilated bodies lying in puddles of their own blood. I expect to see the Pope slain.

  But instead, I see nothing.

  Rather, the grenades were not meant for killing, but instead to provide a thick smokescreen.

  “Chase . . . happening? Come . . . Chase.”

  In all the confusion and noise, I have trouble making out Andrea’s words.

  “Smoke grenades,” I spit into the mic. “Everyone head for the Pope. Do it now.”

  “Chase, I can’t see a thing,” Father O’Brien cries.

  . . . I should never have allowed him to take part in this exercise. He’s too old . . .

  “Stay put, Padre,” I order. “Meet us at the car in two minutes.”

  I begin making my way through the crowd, pushing and shoving. It’s full-on panic, with people screaming, shouting out in Italian and English, and other languages I can’t understand.

  That’s when I begin to hear people choking, coughing, vomiting.

  Oh Christ, tear gas . . .

  I pull a kerchief from my back pocket, cover my mouth and nose. But still, some of the gas infiltrates the cotton fabric.

  “Andrea, stay back,” I warn. “It’s not just smoke, but tear gas.”

  “Chase, what do we do?” she begs.

  “Stay put,” I demand. “It’s all you can do.”

  The helicopter begins descending then. Four figures emerge from both sides of the craft and drop from thick ropes like spiders descending their webs. The figures are dressed in black tactical gear, just like the Swiss Guard. Unlike the Swiss Guard, however, their faces are covered with gas masks. While two of the figures aim their automatic rifles for the crowd, the other two grab hold of the Pope.

  One of the Swiss Guard takes aim with his automatic rifle. But the black figure is too quick. He fires a short burst and drops the guardsman on the spot.

  The crowd roars. Panic washes over the square like an evil tsunami.

  I aim my rifle for that same black figure. He somehow catches sight of me and shoots. The burst of gunfire buzzes past my head. I go down hard onto my belly.

  Looking up, I see that the four ropes are being retracted back into the chopper while two devices are lowered. Two separate aluminum retrieval baskets. The pope is shoved into one of them as the two black clad figures who stole him grab hold of the basket’s side handles with their free hands, while maintaining their grips on the automatic rifles with their opposite hands.

  When the basket is raised into the belly of the Huey, the figures spray the crowd with bullets. Rounds explode against the stone all around my head, bright sparks flying off in all directions from the ricochets.

  “Jesus, they’re killing people,” Andrea shouts into the radio.

  “Just keep your goddamn head down!” I scream.

  My eyes lock onto the couple who accompanied the old man in the wheelchair . . . the woman in the long skirt and the man in the trench coat and fedora. She reaches under her skirt, produces an automatic rifle. He reaches into his trench coat, retrieves an identical weapon. Each of them fire a single burst a piece into the crowd, making them scatter or worse fall to the cobbled pavement only to be trampled by the people trying to save themselves and their loved ones. The trench coated man and long skirted woman pull the old man off the wheelchair, stuff him into the second retrieval basket.

  “Rickman,” I whisper to myself. “It was you all the time, you Nazi bastard.”

  The two then grab hold of the second basket’s side handles as it is rapidly raised into the chopper. Like the two gas-masked Nazis before them, they unload an entire magazine apiece into the crowd before disappearing into the aircraft.

  The helicopter doors close and the big chopper blades spin like hell. The machine elevates fast. Some of the surviving police and Swiss Guard take aim at the helicopter and shoot. But other guards are quick to scold their fellow soldiers.

  “The papal father is on board!” one screams. “If you kill them, you kill the holy father!”

  The helicopter flies a long revolution around the piazza as if to taunt the frightened, bleeding, and terrified crowd before it flies off not in the direction of Rome, but in the opposite direction.

  North, as the black crow flies.

  Chapter 11

  Memories come back to haunt me. First Gulf War, Kuwait. Enemy artillery, tank, and small arms fire taking out most of my squad and me along with them. Like then, I shake the dirt, sweat, and pain from out of my eyes, nostrils, and mouth. No choice but to gather myself together. Raise myself up onto one knee. Breathe.

  The carnage is so great, it looks like a scene from out of an urban battleground. The Neo-Nazis did not discriminate in their selection of target. Men, women, and children lie on the cobbled ground, their chest and heads blown away. Some are missing limbs, others are simply bleeding out from their abdomen, their chest, their legs. A most holy place is now stained with the blood of the
innocent.

  The little girl in the wheelchair whom the papal father blessed has also been hit. Her chair is tipped over onto its side, her body lying like a bleeding rag doll in the piazza. Both her parents are kneeling over her, weeping.

  “Chase, where are you?” Andrea’s voice coming over the radio.

  She’s alive . . .

  “We’re waiting for you, son.” Father O’Brien.

  He’s alive too . . .

  Standing tall, I turn, sprint for the walkway, and then hop over the turn-style entry unit, make my way out into the north parking lot. The sirens are coming from all directions. Even out in the lot, the screaming from the injured and the frightened is enough to make my teeth rattle.

  Andrea and Father O’Brien are standing beside the car. It’s the same black Mercedes that picked us up at the airport earlier. I go to them.

  “What do you want to do, Chase?” Andrea says. Her face is tight and pale.

  “Everybody in the car,” I insist. “In a minute, this lot will be locked down, and no one will be permitted in or out. Just go.”

  I open the back door and the two climb in. I go around front and hop in the shotgun seat. There’s a young man behind the wheel. He’s thin, smoothly shaven with thick black hair. Not all that different from the way I looked when I was that young.

  “I am Roberto,” he says, holding out his hand.

  I take his hand, squeeze it.

  “Nice to meet you, Roberto,” I say. “Now get us the hell out of here.”

  “Like Steve McQueen,” he says, not without a grin. “In Bullet.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Like Steve McQueen in Bullet. Now floor it.”

  He smiles, throws the Mercedes into gear, and peels out of the lot.

  Just like Bullet.

  ***

  The driver motors around the back of the Vatican Post Office along Via di Porta Angelica, then right on Via Sant’ Anna which turns into the Borgo Pio— the road that accesses Sistine Chapel visitor’s entry—then right onto the Porta Castello and finally over the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele II and left onto the tree-lined Lungotevere Degli Altoviti.