Pierced by a Sword (53 page)

4

Sunday Afternoon
4 May
Anderson, Indiana

It was humid and cloudy on the day of the battle for control of Indiana. Most residents
of the state had not supported the Resistance. Most doubted that a band of expertly-trained but poorly-equipped citizens could hold off the powerful Second World Union Army.

After Mass, Jimbo decided to attack at three in the morning. The battle of Anderson lasted almost twelve hours. It was raining and foggy–which helped. The Indiana Resistance was outgunned and outnumbered, but not unprepared
and not without courage. They were fighting for their own land, on their own land.

The enemy expected the battle to last an hour. Indiana had only a few dozen National Guard tanks and limited artillery. There were ten Guard fighter jets–outmoded 1980s models. On the plus side, there were several sophisticated antitank helicopters which had fled from a Marine Base in Georgia early in the wars (Jimbo
knew the commander personally).

Using a bold strategy which he adapted from studying the battles of the legendary Duke of Marlboro (the forefather of Winston Churchill), Jimbo concentrated his forces and attacked the heart of the startled Second World Union Army. During the first hour, Resistance antitank missiles destroyed dozens of enemy tanks in a deadly cross fire. The Indiana Resistance poured
through the gap and created massive confusion in the ranks of the enemy. Nathan believed there was a chance–a small chance–of pulling off a stunning upset.

The Indiana Resistance did have good communications systems, but information alone was not enough to overcome superior force. The air power of the enemy began to pick off Indiana's tanks one by one in the pandemonium.

That night, during the
thick of the battle, Nathan watched the stern face of Jimbo in the yellow light of an old lantern.

Jimbo's courage stirred him.

The bold attack wasn't a suicide mission–it was their only hope of winning.
Jimbo figured he owed his men that much. A chance–a thousand to one–of winning. But a chance.

Jimbo's face betrayed no emotion as his friends died on the battlefield. Nathan wondered what King
Leonidas' face looked like at Thermopylæ.

Finally, the field HQ was bombed by French fighter jets that came out of nowhere. Jimbo Sullivan was killed instantly when a cluster bomb burst through the roof of the White brother's farmhouse and exploded, sending fragments of shrapnel in every direction for several minutes. If Nathan had not been standing outside behind a thick brick wall, having a
smoke, he surely would have been killed.

He now watched helplessly as enemy tanks and infantry rumbled in the direction of Indianapolis. A detachment of infantrymen and two French tanks were already heading toward the farmhouse.

Nathan quickly carried Jimbo's bloody body to the car. A scapular dangled around Jimbo's neck. There wasn't time to take care of the other bodies in the wrecked farmhouse.
He jumped into his battered Mustang and drove north, recklessly, as fast as he could, retreating along the back roads toward South Bend. He expected to be blown off the road by an enemy jet. There wasn't much to defend in riot-torn Indianapolis, where the World Union troops would probably be welcomed.

Maybe Joanie was right,
Nathan thought as he streaked down a farm road.
Maybe Mary doesn't want
me to be this kind of warrior.

He hoped the troops on the front escaped, too. It was suicide to try to help them. If they were caught, they would be murdered. World Union forces took no prisoners. He thought of Jimbo Sullivan and began to cry. Nathan cried easily now.

5

Sunday Afternoon
4 May
World Union Health Ministry
Hackensack, New Jersey

Harlan Gello felt a strong urge to dwell upon the dossier
in front of him. The name on the dossier was William C. Sullivan.

He's a priest–how interesting.

He felt a stronger urge to ask this prisoner a few questions. William C. Sullivan had been languishing at a World Union detainment center in Newark for months.

Perhaps I could find out why the priest has defied the Omega Centers.
The Omega Centers were the vanguard of the New World Order. After the
elderly were done, the centers would open their doors to the retarded, the criminals, and the unenlightened. Gello had been given the honor of seeing the plans.

All this Sullivan has to do is make a public statement endorsing the Omega Centers and he can be a free man the next day. That's fair, isn't it?

Gello noted that Sullivan was scheduled for "involuntary processing" at the Omega Center in
Newark in just two weeks. The idea was distasteful, but Gello accepted the practice of involuntary processing as necessary and inevitable. Rangor, his spiritual master, had confirmed it many times. Rangor had eased his mind by pointing out that one could destroy the body, but one could not destroy the spirit. Sullivan would be reunited with the Great Light after processing, and would be reincarnated
with a clean slate, free of the misconceptions of Catholicism. In the big picture, processing would be doing Sullivan and those like him a cosmic favor.

Maybe I could gain a few insights into the psyches of these fanatics and learn how to better serve the Health Ministry in the long run.

Gello suddenly remembered the one-week public relations trip he had to make to London to promote the Omega
Centers. He opened his time-planner and frowned. His flight was scheduled to depart this evening. He picked up the phone to call the makeshift prison where Sullivan was being detained.
I'll have them bring this case over after I get back from London.

6

Late Sunday Afternoon
4 May
State Highway 19, Indiana

In that odd Indiana way, the weather suddenly cleared about fifty miles south of Mishawaka.
The sun came out, and the air was becoming more humid.

The smell in the car convinced Nathan to pull over and lower the top of the mud-covered Mustang.

He pulled back onto the highway. There had been a few refugees on the road, so Nathan wasn't surprised when he saw a thin old man walking along, carrying a raincoat and a small leather bag. He was wearing relatively clean chino pants and a red
cotton shirt.

"Pick him up,"
a voice that sounded like Sister Lardo said inside Nathan's head.

He hesitated–the old man was not hitchhiking–then pulled over, opened the door, and offered him a ride.

Suddenly Nathan was filled with fear, remembering Tommy Gervin and a knife. That night seemed like years ago.

"Can I help you?" the old man asked.

The old man had an American accent but Nathan detected
a hint of an Irish lilt in his voice.

"Need a ride, old man?" Nathan heard himself ask, still worried by an undeniable fear.

"I need to get to South Bend..." the old man replied. He noticed the fear in Nathan's voice and added, "Be not afraid, young man. I once had a brave Polish friend who used to say that all the time. Be not afraid."

The words soothed Nathan. True to his nature, he ignored
his fears and chose to act.

"Hop in. I'm going to South Bend. There's some food and shelter there, too. Friends." Somehow he knew that he could trust this old guy.

Now that the man was up close, Nathan noticed that he was exceptionally thin. He had been limping, but there was a lithe spring in his motions as he opened the door of the car.

The old man looked toward the back seat of the car before
getting in, and noticed the body of Jimbo Sullivan for the first time. He grimaced, and noticed the scapular on the dead man. In these times such a sight was no longer unusual.

"Catholic?"

Nathan felt like crying again. He nodded.

The old man raised his hand and prayed a blessing over Jimbo, and then over Nathan. Then he sat down.

"Be not afraid, young man," he repeated. "Lo, though I walk through
the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil."

And then, he added, "Would you like me to hear your confession, my friend?"

Nathan thought of his ongoing arguments with Joanie about joining the Resistance. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe not. But there was still grace to be had in the sacrament. The young warrior nodded to the old priest.

When the old man opened his bag to retrieve his
stole, Nathan noticed the scar on his neck.

There was something very familiar about him. There was an accent. Nathan had a vague feeling that he had seen the old man on television.

Do I know this man?
he asked himself.
Irish accent. Scar on his neck must be from a bullet wound. Knows somebody who's Polish. He's a priest...Oh my God!
Nathan suddenly realized who was about to hear his confession.
It can't be!

7

Sunday, Dusk
4 May
Mishawaka, Indiana

Lee sat rocking on the porch of Joe's house rereading one of Father Chet's books. The humidity was finally dissipating as the evening air became cooler. He was surprised at how easily he had become accustomed to the lack of air conditioning. Even his mother's tenement had been air conditioned when he was a child. Now, heat was more important.
There had been very little electricity in Indiana since the winter. The ancient woodstoves in the church, rectory, and Joe's house had proved to be incredible blessings during the brutal winter. Lee had taken many people into the rectory during those cold months. Relatively speaking, a little humidity was nothing to endure.

I wonder where Father Chet is? Is he alive?
he asked himself. In January,
the pastor of Saint Agnes Church had informed Joe by ham radio that Father Chet had been arrested, and that World Union authorities refused to disclose where they were incarcerating him. Becky had taken the news particularly hard.

Lee was fasting. He had found a battered copy of Father Chet's
The Life of the Curé de Ars,
and had become fascinated with the patron saint of parish priests. Saint
John Vianney had fasted on potatoes and bread almost every day of his priestly life except for Easter Season following Lent. Lee had been fasting for weeks now. At first it was difficult, especially because rich food had become scarce. It was tempting to eat the occasional chocolate bar or pie that found its way to his table. Becky still turned an egg into a piece of charred mortar, but she had learned
how to bake a right good apple pie, using the apples from the trees that surrounded the cemetery.

When Lee noticed a marked increase in his ability to concentrate during contemplative prayer after the first week or two, he stepped up his mortifications. Now he fasted on bread and water four or five days a week. Local farmers delivered wheat to Ronnie O'Brien, who had set up a makeshift bakery
in the barn. The O'Briens were great bakers. They had moved into the rectory with Lee after coming from New Jersey with the Sullivans, who now lived with the Wheats.

James and Mary Sullivan started a school for the children of refugees and local families. It was housed in a small building that Joe put up where the Kolbe Center used to stand.

Lee's heart leapt when he saw Nathan's battered Mustang
pull into the long drive leading to Joe's farmhouse. He had heard about the battle of Anderson over the short wave network earlier in the day. He jumped to his feet and banged on the wall of the house, "Joanie, Becky! Joe! Nathan's back! He's alive!"

Lee ran down the steps to meet Nathan as he pulled up to the house. Then Lee stopped dead in his tracks when he looked at Nathan's car. There was
a tall man standing next to the car. The man was wearing a beige tunic and had curly red hair...

"Raphael!" Lee called out jubilantly.

As soon as Lee cried out, the angel smiled and disappeared. Joanie, Becky, and Joe came running up behind Lee. They had not seen Raphael. A wiry old man got out of the car and began to limp toward Lee.

Lee watched with a strange detachment as he saw Joanie run
by him and hug her husband, who lifted her into the air and spun her around.

Joe saw Jimbo's body and collapsed onto his knees, overcome with emotion. Becky knelt next to Joe, holding him, crying herself.

"Oh," Joanie whispered weakly as she saw the reason for Joe and Becky's grief. She also began to cry, her joy instantly turning to sadness.
Will these awful times never end!

Lee was paralyzed
as he watched the old man get out of the car. As the Woman had promised him in the Motorman Motel so long ago, he was given a certain knowledge that the wiry man limping toward him was a consecrated soul.
The
consecrated soul. There was a flash and Lee saw a white cross on Angus's forehead. The cross disappeared as soon as he noticed it.

Lee knelt down before the pope.

"Rise, my son," Pope Patrick
said calmly.

Lee stood, then heard himself say, "The archangel who helped you was named
God Conquers."
The young black man looked directly into the Irishman's eyes.

Angus smiled.
So that's what
God Conquers
means.
His smile grew.
I always wondered about that.

"What do you desire, my son?" the pope asked his apostle.

The words seemed to come out of the pope's mouth of their own accord.

"I desire
to be a priest," Lee replied simply.

"And so it shall be, my son," Pope Patrick replied solemnly, placing his hands on Lee's head. "The Holy Spirit moves me. I do not know your name. But I do know you. We are brothers."

Angus paused. By now Nathan had revealed the pope's identity to the others. They stood in awe, watching the Vicar of Christ pray over Lee Washington.

Angus turned to the small
flock before him. They reminded him of the Gospel passage in which Jesus, feeling an intense sadness, looked over the people, saying, "They are like sheep without a shepherd."

Perhaps...
Angus thought.
Yes! That's it!

He had been spared from death in the Tiber and forced to endure the endless, terrifying journey from Albano to Ireland to Boston and then across the badlands of Pennsylvania to this
little church in Indiana. He thought of the brave sacrifice of Thomas Phillips and was briefly overcome with grief.