The House of War: Book One Of : THE OMEGA CRUSADE (36 page)

Joe can’t agree.

Like many of his generation, Joe is wary, to say the least, of those who presume to speak for God. The seemingly endless parade of penitent priests and preachers caught with their pants down have gone a long way to forming his low opinion of organized religion. Worse still are the Imams and Mullahs who persuade their flock to don explosive vests and detonate them in crowds. Eastern religions and metaphysics never appealed to Corelli either. Yogi-speak always struck him as sheer gibberish. Easterners’ aspirations to egoless-ness and oneness, he thought, went a long way to explain why their societies fell so easily into the hive ideologies of Communism and Corporatism.

Hive mentalities, Joe sees them everywhere in the world, leading people, like lemmings, to their doom. He sees the hive mentality at play as the faithful line up to receive communion. Corelli keeps his seat, growing agitated as the minutes crawl by, feeling ever more claustrophobic under the mountain of rock that hides the chapel. He is acutely aware that he is out of his element. Joe is a desk jock analyst; he is used to dealing with the ‘crazies’ through the safe, anonymous medium of the cyberverse. He is not a soldier or a spy and feels less than cut out for the role he has been thrust into.

Corelli suffers through the rest of the Mass, staring at his hands, suppressing the urge to make a run for it. At long last it is over and the priest and his half a dozen servers process out. After a few more minutes, while Carlton Quinn finishes his post-communion prayers, they rise and leave the pews. After genuflecting towards the tabernacle, they turn to the exit.

The priest is waiting outside the chapel, shaking hands and trading a few words with the worshippers. Joe stays at Quinn’s side as he awaits his turn.

When they get to him, Carlton pumps the priest’s hand enthusiastically. “It was a stirring sermon Father, thank you.”

“Thank you brother Quinn,” the priests answers with a slight nod of his head.

Corelli then finds himself scrutinized by the priest’s one, light brown, almost golden eye. Joe finds the attention a bit disconcerting. His own focus shifts uncomfortably between the eye and the white silk patch over the left socket. Small diamonds stud the patch in the shape of a cross.

“You are new here,” the priest says, extending his hand. “My name is Father Hermez.”

Joe takes his bony hand in his and is given a firm but friendly shake. “I’m Joe Corelli, Father.”

“Ah, one of our guests.”

Joe smiles. “No Father, one of your prisoners.”

The priest matches Corelli’s smile. “You’re a prisoner of the facility, Mr. Corelli, but you came to the chapel of your own free will, did you not?”

“Sure.”

“He’s come to spy on us, Father,” Quinn adds, jabbing an elbow at Joe’s ribs. “He’s one of ‘em fancy, NSA intelligence analysts.”

“Whatever your motives, Mr. Corelli,” Father Hermez says. “I pray you continue to visit with us in the chapel where you will always be treated as no less than an honored guest.”

“Thank you, Father,” Corelli says and then Quinn and he make way for the worshippers behind them.

The two men walk down the dimly lit corridor in silence. They reach the elevators as the left bank opens and they file into the car with six others. Joe is uncomfortable with everyone looking at him. Carlton Quinn is grinning, enjoying his discomfort.

“So,” Quinn says. “Have you figured us out, Mr. Analyst?”

Joe Corelli looks over at the broad, freckled face of the sniper. It is friendly, boyish even. Joe guesses the man is halfway through his fifties. Quinn’s red Irish curls are graying at the temples and around the ears. Friendly as it is, it does nothing to quell his irritation.

“What’s to figure out?” Joe asks. “You’re crazy, every one of you.”

He sweeps his gaze to meet all the soldiers crammed into the elevator with him. A couple of them laugh at him. The others smile.

“How is that so, my man?” Quinn asks.

“You’ve just spent nearly two hours with your heads bowed, on and off your knees in a chapel carved into the butt end of a war bunker wired up for Armageddon. Can’t you see a serious disconnect here?”

Carlton’s eyes fix their focus on a point somewhere off the tip of his bulbous nose as he thinks about it.

“No, can’t say that I do,” Quinn answers at last.

“What happened to peace on earth and good will to all men?” Corelli finds that his voice is rising. He refuses to care and continues. “How can y’all justify shooting planes out of the sky… on Christmas Eve no less?”

“Ain’t a soul been hurt yet, lad,” Quinn says. “The President wasn’t shot, and not on account of my marksmanship either. I never miss. The planes were all empty and flown remotely. The world outside has figured that out already. And lastly, you are referencing the Hallmark version of scripture. It is ‘joyful tidings of peace to all men of good will’ that the angel declares. Our religion, being as practical as it is sublime, has always allowed us certain latitude when dealing with them of ill will.”

Some of the soldiers around him chuckle.

The elevator doors open. Quinn gestures for Corelli to step out. It is not the same corridor where Joe first entered the elevator on the way to the chapel.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Mess hall,” Quinn answers. “I thought you might want some Christmas grub.”

“Actually yes, I’m starved. Thanks.”

“The planes were empty?” Joe asks after several yards down the hall.

“I promise,” says Quinn. “Not a hair on a head has been harmed.”

“They were just distractions, then?”

“Yep.”

They walk a while more in silence. After a bend in the tunnel they reach the mess hall, a large, round room under a concrete dome. Long rows of tables are centered on the floor. Less than a third of them are occupied. A row of steam tables are lined up against the right hand wall. Before them there is a lone table with trays, plates, cups and flatware. They join the line of soldiers inching their way to the food amid happy chatter. Joe spots Congressman Reed and the others making their way to the tables with trays full of food. He picks up a tray, centers a plate on it and adds a set of cutlery before surveying the buffet. There is ham and turkey, three types of potatoes and as many vegetable, salad and dressing choices. He skewers himself a couple of slices of pineapple-topped ham.

“Joey?”

Corelli stops suddenly. Other than his mother, no one has called him Joey since college. He turns to face the voice he recognizes but doesn’t believe he is actually hearing. It’s a voice he never thought he would hear again.

And yet there she is, Sandi!

Joe could have sworn on a stack of bibles that his heart stopped for several beats. Or maybe it was time itself that stood still. He has to remind himself to breathe.

“Sandi?” He drops the ham, leaves his tray on the steam table and starts towards her, disbelieving his eyes as he doubted his ears. She is dressed up in the same cross-emblazoned battle gear worn by the soldiers who accompanied Earl Forrester.

Sandi? Here of all places?

“It is you, Joey,” Sandi says. She breaks away from a group of similarly decked soldiers dropping their trays into bus tubs. Sandi steps towards Joe, her smile widening all the way.

Good God, but she is beautiful, he thinks. More so in the flesh than even his dreams have recalled her. Her large, soft, brown eyes glow as warmly across the cavernous room as they had across a shared pillow. Her pink, petal-soft lips smile at him exactly as they did four years ago when they said their goodbyes. The corkscrew coils of her light, brown hair are bundled into a pony tail and pushed through the small opening in the back of a black army cap. What a shame, Joe thinks, remembering the three most blessed nights of his life, deep in all that hair, his lips against the back of her neck, drawing her in with every breath through the sweetest sleep he has ever known.

“Sandi?”

She is standing before him now, smiling dimple-to-dimple, and yet he cannot believe it.

“Yes, it’s me,” she says, throwing her arms around him. She hugs him tightly. Joe returns the embrace, though his is more tentative. He tells himself that it is because he is stunned and shocked to see her again after so many years, in this underground installation of all places. It is closer to the truth however, that Joe is afraid that he will not be able to let her go if he holds her too tightly to him.

Their parting four years ago was not his idea.

“Oh, my God,” she says, stepping back to get a good look at him. “It’s so good to see you again!”

“Sandi? I don’t believe it.”

Sandi pats his belly playfully. “You’ve put on a little weight.”

“Never mind that,” Joe snaps. “What are you doing here, Sandi?”

“We’re securing the homeland, Joey,” she answers. “We’re taking it back from enemies foreign and domestic.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. He looks her over again, from capped head to booted toe. There is an automatic rifle slung over her back. She wears a sidearm at her right hip, grenades on her belt and a knife sheathed in her left boot.

“That’s what Forrester said,” Joe says. “What does it mean?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

“What kind of answer is that, Sandi?”

“It’s the only kind that I can give you at the moment,” she answers. “I’ll be back in a couple of days, maybe three. We’ll do lunch.”

“Where are you going?” Joe demands of Sandi, grabbing her hand. He looks over her weapons again. He gestures to them all with a sweep of his free hand. “Where are you going with all that?”

“I could tell you,” she says. “But then I’d have to kill you.”

Joe Corelli lets her hand slip out of his and steps back. He stares at her, wide-eyed and open mouthed.

She giggles.

“It’s an old joke.”

“I know,” he says. “It’s just not funny.”

“I wish I had the time to tell you more, but I’ve got to run,” she says. “Wish me good luck.”

“Good luck?”

“Thanks,” she says and leans in to kiss him on the cheek. She runs off to join the group of similarly armed troops waiting for her by the mess hall exit. She is tossed a helmet by one of her comrades. She throws Joe a wink over her shoulder before putting it on. He stares down the tunnel as she disappears.

Carlton Quinn appears at his side again. “Wow, you know Sergeant Castillo?”

“We met briefly some years ago.”

“Small world.”

“Yes.”

“Here,” Quinn says and hands Joe his tray. It is piled with food.

“Thanks,” Joe says, taking the tray. He doesn’t know if he can eat now. “I don’t suppose you can tell where she’s off to?”

“They’re gone on patrol,” Carlton answers, leading them to the tables. “The regular military has figured out where we are. They’ve surrounded the mountain top. We’re sneaking some of our forces to their rear. I wouldn’t worry about her, brother. Your friend Castillo, she’s got to be a mighty fierce piece of work to serve in a HIT squad.”

“Hit squad?” Corelli stops in his tracks, incredulous. “She’s an assassin?”

“
H
igh
I
ntensity
T
actics squad,” Quinn explains. “They’re more popularly known as the Templar around here.”

“Templar?” Joe cannot believe what he is hearing. “This is the twenty-first century for goodness sake.”

Carlton Quinn laughs out loud.

“Never has a century needed them more,” Quinn says, stopping before the table where Corelli’s party is sitting. “See you around brother, Joseph.”

“Merry Christmas,” Quinn says with a wink at the party before walking away to join another table.

Every eye in the mess hall is fixed on Joe. The warmth of his ears and the sheets of heat rising from the back of his neck tell him that he is blushing. He sits down, next to one of the female Secret Service agents and across from Congressman Reed. He stares at his plate, wondering where his appetite went. The quiet around him is unsettling.

“Ain’t that sweet,” Annie breaks the spell of silence. “Joey’s got himself a girlfriend.”

16:15:14

Congressman Reed watches the red-faced Corelli stare at his plate and pick at his food. Lamar has never seen him embarrassed. Under different circumstances, it would all be very amusing. The party trade looks between each other as they wait on Joe to look up at them. Reed figures it’s not going to happen anytime soon. The congressman isn’t going to wait for him.

“Who was that Joe?”

“Alexandra Castillo,” Joe answers, looking up furtively.

“Old friend of yours?”

“Sort of.”

“Meaning?”

“We met briefly back in ‘fifteen.”

“Define briefly,” Annie asks.

“Three days during spring break in Destin,” Joe says.

“That’s it?” Reed asks.

Joe nods. “That was the first and last time I saw her.”

“What did you two talk about?” the President asks.

“The usual college stuff Mr. President,” Joe answers. “We talked school, teachers and fellow students. She was Florida State and I was LSU, so naturally we ragged each other about football. We talked about our families and our plans and about whatever else college kids talk about when they’re drinking beer on the beach.”

“No politics?” O’Neill asks.

Joe shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean, you don’t think so?” Annie wants to know.

“I mean that I mentioned I applied for work at the agency and she said she was ROTC, so maybe we brushed across the subject.”

“But you never discussed anything overtly political?” Reed asks.

“No,” Joe answers. “We certainly didn’t talk about anything crazy like overthrowing the government. It was spring break. We were partying.”

“Just a spring break hook-up, huh?” Annie asks with a small smirk. “And all this time I thought you were still a virgin.”

Joe ignores her and goes back to picking at his food.

The party falls silent and they eat quietly for a few minutes. Congressman Reed glances around the room. The line to the steam tables has grown long enough to reach out of the mess hall. Three soldiers in aprons are busy replenishing the pans as they empty. A couple of scores of soldiers sit at the tables around them. There are two pairs at either end of the party’s table. They were eating quietly while they listened in on Corelli’s interrogation. The two women at the table’s left end are talking among themselves now. They’re too far away to make out the subject matter. On his right, one of two young men meets his gaze with a warm smile. He is of pale complexion, wiry of frame with short,
wavy dark hair. The soldier seated opposite him is darker, of Hispanic origin, sporting a pencil-thin moustache and built like a linebacker. Sensing the congressman’s attention, he too looks up and offers a closed lip smile as he chews a mouth full food.