James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (12 page)

He stepped forward then felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. He spun to see who it was, and found Ziti standing there, shaking his head. “We don’t know what happened to the floor. You could fall.”

Hassan nodded, stepping back, his desire to maim Ziti from earlier slightly diminished. As the dust slowly dropped, revealing the ceiling, then walls, the crowd behind them began to realize what had happened, and began to congregate on Hassan and his team’s position.

And they were angry.

Some began to shout, some shaking their fists at them.

Hassan looked and could see the blood lust in their eyes. He felt Ziti’s breath on his ear. “You better say something, or we’re going to have to open fire on our own people again.”

Hassan took a deep breath, thankful the dust had cleared. Stepping forward, he made certain his gun was displayed, but not pointed at the crowd. He held up his hands, quieting the immediate crowd.

“My fellow followers of the Prophet, peace be upon him, today we have struck a mighty blow against the infidel.” His arms swung, indicating the basilica, his head raised high to the heavens. “We have taken his church!
We
now hold the largest church in their decadent world,
we
now possess their blasphemous idols”—he pointed at the Papal Altar at the far end of the basilica, adorned in gold—“and Allah willing, before this day is through,
we
will control this entire city. And with it, the Mahdi shall return!”

A roar filled the basilica as the thousands inside began to scream ‘Allahu Akbar’, the religious fervor in their eyes a look that most Westerners mistook for insanity, having long lost the ability to feel the joy and power true belief could bring.

He raised his hands, and the crowd eventually calmed.

“Now, some of you may wonder what we are doing over here”—he jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the room—“but rest assured, it is the will of Allah, and once we have completed our work, we will have the infidel bowing at our feet!”

Again the crowd roared. Hassan gave a slight bow of respect, then turned toward the scene of the explosion. As he entered, dust was still settling, but enough had dissipated to make him smile.

In the center of the room sat a large crater.

Corpo della Gendarmeria Office

Palazzo del Governatorato, Vatican City

“That’s our man.”

Boileau pointed at the screen showing footage from one of the cameras still operating in the basilica. Most of the security office that remained had gathered to watch the video. Boileau turned to one of the men. “Get his face and send it to the Roma Polizia. See if they can find out who he is. And try to get the faces of those”—he pointed out several others standing near the man—“people, and see if they know who they are as well. They appear to be accomplices to me.”

The man nodded and returned to his desk. Boileau looked back at the video, wishing they had a camera in the Chapel of the Sacrament where the explosion had happened.

What are they doing in there?

He turned to Marco Ulissi, a man he had worked with for years. “Status of the evacuation?”

“M. Giasson just passed the building two minutes ago with a small contingent. We are holding a line just outside to make sure no invaders get past and see what we are doing. But if they come in numbers…” His voice trailed off and Boileau nodded in understanding.

“And us?”

“We’ve brought all provisions into this area. We have water, food, batteries, artificial lighting. Everything we need to sustain two hundred people for two days. The problem is going to be bathroom facilities and water. We can run out of everything except water and still survive. We have two bathrooms for two hundred people, so we’ll definitely need to keep people cycling through whether they want to or not. But if we lose water pressure, it’s going to get nasty in here, fast.”

Boileau turned his nose up at the thought.

“Perimeter?”

“Secure. All doors are locked, chained and blocked. Windows are locked and those within reach that aren’t barred have been blocked as best we can with furniture, and those rooms locked down. Each hallway where those rooms lead has at least two guards, armed.” He sighed. “Bottom line, if they want in, they’re getting in. There will be one hell of a lot of bloodshed.”

Boileau hissed, “watch your language!” and Ulissi dropped his head.

“Sorry. I’m just—” He stopped.

Boileau patted Ulissi on the shoulder. “We’re all scared.” He removed his hand and pointed at the screen. “Better tell M. Giasson to hurry.”

On the screen the man who seemed to be running things was pointing at the outer doors of the basilica, and men were rushing toward them.

Mass Drive, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Dawson stood on the small porch of the on-base family housing unit that held Stucco and his family. He sighed, his shoulders slumped, but only slightly. This was the part he hated. Breaking up the fun stuff. It seemed all too often family events were interrupted or cancelled. At least today it was just the guys, and the single ones at that.

But there was also a mission.

And a mission always got his heart pounding in excitement. And he knew the men would be disappointed at missing the game and having a few brewskies, but they too would be excited by the prospect of kicking some ass and doing some good.

He rapped twice on the door then opened it. Rounding the corner, all eyes were on the television except for Stucco’s wife.

“Oh, hi, BD, everything okay?” she asked.

He smiled and nodded at her as the room turned to face him. As if on cue the broadcast cut off, and a news logo appeared.

“We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special report.”

A chorus of groans filled the room, with Niner’s voice cutting through the mix, “Are you kidding me? What kind of mental midget interrupts sports with news? That’s like—”

“Shh!” interrupted Atlas. “I want to hear this.”

An image of the Vatican appeared and a talking head Dawson didn’t recognize began to speak. There was no smile, no friendly, disarming expression. It seemed obvious to Dawson that whatever news was about to be delivered, was grim, and there was no sugarcoating it. It reminded him of 9/11. There were no smiles then. Not from Aaron Brown delivering the news for CNN on his first day on the job. He remembered watching that coverage, and the horror of it all.

And he felt the same sensation crawl down his spine now.

“Ladies and gentleman, the Vatican has been lost.”

Dawson stepped forward and held his hand out to Spock who had the remote. Spock looked up at him and Dawson could tell he knew what was about to happen. He didn’t frown. He didn’t look disappointed. He just accepted it.

Spock handed the remote over and Dawson muted the television. The room turned to him, the distinct sound of beer bottles being placed on tables as those gathered stood to face him, all knowing their fun was over without it said.

“We’ve been called up. Thirty minutes at the unit. I’ll give Red a shout, the rest of you contact your designates.”

With Stucco’s wife in the room, Dawson couldn’t say where they were going, but everyone knew, even she. They filed out, gave her an obligatory handshake and smile, and moments later only Dawson, Stucco and his wife remained. Dawson turned to her.

“I’m sorry for this, ma’am. We appreciate the effort you’ve put into making us feel at home, but unfortunately duty calls.”

She smiled and nodded, tears in her eyes, tears Dawson knew were not for a ruined afternoon, but knowing her husband was willingly heading into danger yet again. The wives knew what their husbands did for a living. And they accepted it. It was what their men loved to do. The secret wasn’t the job, it was the mission. No, they couldn’t tell their friends and family what their husbands did, they were just regular grunts.

And that was perhaps one of the worst parts of this. The families and friends who had to be lied to on a regular basis, the wives who couldn’t talk to their closest confidants when they were worried. It resulted in a close knit unit in itself amongst the spouses. Only they could talk to each other about their troubles, about their worries and fears.

Dawson said his goodbyes, and left the humble home, silently praying that all of his men returned to their loved ones after this mission.

Marawi City, Mindanao, Philippines

Corporal Florencio Padayao of the Philippine Army watched the television screen with several of his comrades, rage building within. A staunch Roman Catholic, as were most of the Filipinos, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Not only were those filthy Muslims daring to defile the holiest place in the world, but they were now trying to destroy it.

Footage of the Pope’s narrow escape, caught on camera by a news crew in an overhead helicopter, engulfed his heart in fury. He slammed his fist on the table they were sitting at, the tin plates holding the meager lunches of his platoon bouncing, the rattle causing heads to turn, including some of those coming out of a nearby mosque.

His fists clenched and he pushed himself up from the table.

“Where are you going?” asked his closest friend, Eduardo, pulling on his sleeve.

“I’m going to teach those fuckers a lesson,” muttered Florencio. He ripped his arm away from Eduardo’s tightening grip.

“What do you mean?”

Florencio ignored him, picking up his Steyr AUG Assault Rifle and flicking the safety to full auto. He watched as those filthy pigs streamed out of their mosque, the loud speakers strapped to the top of the minaret annoying him six times a day. He hated this posting. They all did. But they had to try and keep the peace because these assholes kept trying to cause trouble.

Our country would be better off if every last one of them were dead.

A low growl slowly built in his chest, erupting in a roar of rage that brought the entire town square to a halt. He raised his weapon and pointed it at the crowd.

“Let’s see your Allah save you now!” he screamed, squeezing the trigger. Bullet after bullet belched from the barrel of his well-used weapon, the first few rounds tearing up the ground in front of the crowd of worshippers before his aim was true.

Then the mayhem began.

Screams split the calm of the square as the first, mostly adorned in traditional white, dropped, freshly torn holes in their flesh spewing forth blood that stained their owners and pooled on the densely packed dirt of the street.

His weapon clicked, and he ejected the clip, slapping a new one in and readying the weapon. He took aim at the Imam who had glad-handed them on many occasions, thanking them for helping keep the peace, and assuring them over and over that their religion was one of peace, and that they all just wanted to get along.

Bullshit!

He squeezed, and the man dropped. He continued, more controlled bursts this time, chewing through his thirty rounds, then again ejected the clip, and reloaded. Dozens were on the ground. Some moving, writhing in pain, some still. Wails of sorrow and terror filled the once peaceful town square, but nothing would calm Florencio’s hatred. He raised his weapon again, taking aim at a mother and her bastard son, a future terrorist that Florencio’s own son might have to fight someday.

Something tore into his side, causing him to spin around. Agony swept through his body as he dropped to the ground. His weapon flew from his hand and rattled to the ground. Reaching down to the source of the blinding pain, he felt a dampness rapidly expanding. He held up his hand and it was covered in blood. The sun shone down in his eyes, and he began to lose focus, his hand returning to where he’d been shot, trying desperately to keep the blood inside, the pressure he managed to apply doing little.

The sun blotted out, and he saw Eduardo standing over him, his weapon in hand. He took a knee and leaned over Florencio, putting his hand on his shoulder.

“What have you done?” he asked. The horror was clear. And so was his pain. Tears filled both their eyes as Florencio looked at his friend of so many years. He felt the strength quickly draining from him as he reached up and grabbed Eduardo by the sleeve, pulling him closer.

“I evened the score.”

Rally Point, Vatican City

Acton followed the crowd toward the rally point, Laura at his side. Gun fire occasionally broke the subdued, terrified silence of the crowd. The chanting from Saint Peter’s Square continued, and Acton found his heart pounding almost in rhythm to it, the sound of thousands, of tens of thousands, chanting the same thing over and over almost hypnotic.

Another burst of gunfire, this sounding closer, caused a lady next to him to yelp in fear. Acton’s head snapped in her direction and she bit her finger, trying to silence herself, tear stained cheeks flushed with the effort of whatever run she had been forced to endure. He gave her a reassuring smile that he wasn’t even sure he himself would believe, then looked over his shoulder. He saw Giasson’s bald head bouncing several dozen people behind, and slowed Laura up slightly to let the man catch up.

“Just another hundred meters!” Acton heard Giasson say as he came into sight with a man’s arm over his shoulder, helping him as the man skipped along on one foot.

Giasson looked up as Acton approached.

“Sprained ankle,” he said as Acton took the man’s other arm and draped it across his shoulder. Together they nearly carried him the final few hundred feet where they handed the man off to others in the crowd. Giasson, Acton and Laura joined a group of guards as Giasson flipped open his phone.

“Ready?” was all he asked, then he nodded and flipped the phone closed. Giasson crossed the tracks then jumped up on the platform and held his arms up to quiet the crowd whose whispers were threatening to turn into shouts.