James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (11 page)

Giasson and two of his men helped the Pope and his staff aboard as the two Swiss Guards at the entrance opened fire. Acton urged Laura toward the chopper, but the pilot waved them off and began to ascend.

“Wait!” yelled Acton, holding up the case containing the scroll, but it was too late. The chopper was beyond the point of no return. Giasson spun toward Acton, his jaw dropping as he saw the case, still held high.

Acton slowly lowered his arm as Giasson ran up to him. He pointed at the case. “Guard that with your life.”

Acton nodded.
No kidding.
He knew if there was to be some sort of eventual resolution to this, it would be with the handing over of this scroll to Islamic authorities, whoever that may be. And in the panic of the evacuation, a golden opportunity to get it out had been lost. He hoped Giasson’s evacuation plan worked, otherwise they, and the scroll, may never see the light of day again.

Both Acton and Giasson watched as the chopper sped off into the distance with enough altitude to ensure its safety. They all spun toward the doors as more gunfire erupted from the guards.

“Let’s fall back to the evacuation point, now!” yelled Giasson, grabbing Laura by the arm and running full tilt away from the Apostolic Palace, Acton and the guards following.

Six down. Five hundred to go?

Mass Drive, Fort Bragg, North Carolina

The doorbell rang. Command Master Sergeant Burt “Big Dog” Dawson, BD to his men, looked at his watch.

“Can someone get that? I’m knee deep in marinade out here!” called Stucco from the kitchen.

“Dude, if you’re knee deep, you’re doing it all wrong,” replied Niner as he rose from the couch, heading to the door. Dawson popped another pretzel in his mouth followed by a chug of Bud. The game was coming on soon, and Stucco had offered up his living room for the single guys to come and watch.

Dawson glanced around at the full house, every chair occupied, and now the floor filling up. Neither Stucco nor his wife had expected everyone to accept.

He should have known better.

Dawson, leader of the Delta Force’s Bravo Team, the United States’ most highly trained group of operatives, surveyed his men with pride. These were the modern day heroes, men who would lay down their lives for their comrades and their country, and the world would never know. These men wouldn’t be starring in Hollywood movies, their names splashed across the nation’s newspapers. These men fought the unknown battles, the missions too covert for the public to know about. They eliminated the threats the average American would be terrified to know existed.

They let the nation sleep at night, secure in the knowledge that men like these were there to protect them.

Niner poked his head in the room. “Hey, BD, it’s for you.”

Dawson’s eyebrows shot up, and he rose from the couch. Pointing at the empty piece of prime real estate, he said to the group at large. “That better be here when I get back. I didn’t get here on time to sit on the floor.”

“You snooze you lose!” yelled Spock as he dove over the table, spinning in the air to land on his back. But Atlas had already leapt from the ottoman he was sitting on and toward the empty seat. He stuck out a massive paw and grabbed Spock’s shoulder, stopping him dead in the air.

They both dropped; Atlas on the couch, Spock slamming down on the table he had been trying to clear. The ruckus brought Stucco from the kitchen, his hands held high like a surgeon, dripping in marinade.

“What the hell are you animals up to?”

Spock looked up from the broken table, an eyebrow cocked, as if asking, “What are you talking about?”

Stucco pointed a finger at him. “You’re paying for that.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Clean it up before Sheila sees it, otherwise she’ll never let me have you guys over again.”

Dawson shook his head, a huge smile on his face as he went to the door. He opened it and took a step back, genuinely shocked at who was standing there.

“Colonel Clancy, sir, to what do I owe the honor this fine afternoon.”

“Sorry to disturb you, Sergeant, but I need to talk to you.” Clancy, the officer in charge of Delta Command, and a man Dawson implicitly trusted, stood on the step in civilian attire, something Dawson couldn’t remember the last time he had seen.

“No trouble, sir, would you like to come in?”

Clancy shook his head. “No.” He nodded toward Dawson’s poppy red 1964½ Mustang. “You still good to drive?”

Dawson smiled. “Sure, I’m only half way into my first.”

“Good. Then let’s go for a drive.”

They strode across the street together and climbed in the car. “Top up or down?”

“Leave it down, it’s a beautiful day, and this is just two friends out driving.”

Now Dawson knew something was definitely up. He respected Clancy, he liked Clancy, but never would he have described them as friends. And neither would Clancy. He was a colonel, Dawson a sergeant. Clancy was upstairs, Dawson definitely downstairs.

The engine roared to life as Dawson turned the key. With a glance over his shoulder, he pulled away from the curb. Nothing was said for a few minutes until they were out on the open road.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m meeting you like this.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Something big is going down, and I need your team in place, right away, just in case.”

“No problem. What’s up?”

“You’ve seen the news?”

“I assume you mean the Vatican thing? Heard it on the radio this morning but nothing in hours. What’s it all about?”

“Well, some archaeologist friends of ours discovered an ancient piece of parchment that changes the fundamental meaning of one of the Jihadists’ favorite Koran verses.”

“Archaeologist friends.” Dawson shook his head. “You don’t mean—”

Clancy nodded. “Yup, Professors Acton and Palmer.”

Dawson couldn’t help but laugh. “How the hell do those two keep doing it?”

Clancy shrugged. “I don’t know, but our intel tells us they’re at the top of the hit list. This riot appears to not just be a riot. There’s a controlled element to it, and we’re not sure what they’re up to yet. All we do know, is not only does that element need to be stopped, but we have an American citizen who needs our help.”

Dawson frowned. He had fought beside Acton, and considered him a man of honor, a man he could trust. And a man he had no interest in seeing dead. “Is this sanctioned? I mean, going in for one man?”

“This is off the books for now. Pretty much every country is prepositioning special ops teams, including us, so expect it to be by the time you arrive.”

“What’s the current situation?”

“The protestors, if you can call them that, have taken over Saint Peter’s Basilica, and it looks like the city will be lost.”

“Jesus,” muttered Dawson. Though not a Catholic, he understood the significance. He also understood how it couldn’t be allowed to stand.

“What do you need us to do?”

Via del Governatorato, Vatican City

Giasson flipped open his phone and speed dialed his contact at the Roma Polizia whom he knew would be trying to coordinate things on the outside. He and the professors, along with the guards and dozens of civilians they had picked up along the way were moving as fast as they could down Via del Governatorato, away from the Apostolic Palace and toward the Governatorate Palace that housed his security headquarters.

But that wasn’t their destination.

The phone was answered. “Deputy Commissioner Ezio Vitale here.”

“This is Giasson. We’ve got a plan, and we need your help.”

“Name it.”

“I need a path cleared on the south exit, as many men as you can spare, with as many buses as you can get.”

“Mario, there is no south exit.”

“Think about it. I don’t want to say it on an open line, just in case.”

There was a pause, then an excited, “Oh!” followed by a more subdued, “oh.”

“What?”

“That’s going to take hundreds of men. How many are coming out?”

“If everyone follows the evacuation order, and is able to get to the assembly area in time, five hundred.”

“Five hundred! That’ll be at least a dozen buses. How the hell do you expect me to do that without attracting attention?”

Giasson was sympathetic, but didn’t have time to care. “Can you do it?”

“I’ll do what I can. When?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes!” Several curses then a prayer for forgiveness burst forth. “Call me in ten minutes.”

The phone went dead.

Giasson continued with the group, then pointed at one of his men as they approached the Governatorate Palace. “Tell all non-essential personnel to follow us!”

The man nodded and sprinted toward the front entrance.

Gunfire tore through the air over their heads and Giasson looked back. The mob that had broken through the Apostolic Palace were now spread out through the grounds, several chasing the growing group. He couldn’t risk being followed.

He stopped and squeezed off several rounds at the approaching group, several of whom appeared armed. Two of his men took knees beside him. “Hold this line.” He turned toward the Governatorate Palace and waved at several of the armed personnel swarming out with the civilians. Within seconds they were joined by a dozen men. “Spread out, hold this line. We can’t have them seeing what we’re doing. Keep directing civilians to the rally point.”

“Yes, sir!” echoed the men.

Giasson looked around. “And for God’s sake, try not to hit any of our own people.”

“Shoot to kill, sir?”

It was a young guardsmen who reminded Giasson of himself when he had first joined the guards.
Green.

“Yes, son. Consider this an invasion. You’re protecting your country.”

The young man’s jaw squared. “Yes, sir.”

One of the guardsmen fired, and his target dropped, only to have his weapon picked up by another.

“Hold this line, then take cover in the Palace.”

Giasson turned and raced after the now large group of civilians making its way, far too slowly for his liking, down Piazza del Governatorato and past the Governatorate Palace that housed his headquarters.

Not much farther.

He saw Acton and Laura ahead, urging the people forward, and Giasson saw the silver case gripped in Acton’s hand, cursing the lost opportunity. There was no one to blame but himself. Acton tried to get it to the helicopter, but the pilot had lifted off too early. Based on the pilot’s orders, he had done the right thing. He had just been given the wrong orders. His orders should have been to evacuate His Holiness
and
the scroll, but they weren’t.

And that was his fault.

But there was no time to waste blaming himself. He took heart that there appeared to be hundreds of staff converging at the rally point, coming in from all directions, and a quick glance over his shoulder confirmed they had no pursuers.

For now.

How long that would last, he didn’t know.

Chapel of the Sacrament, Saint Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City

“How big a blast can we expect?”

Ziti looked at Hassan. “Big.”

Hassan frowned. Ziti never gave details voluntarily. One had to pry it out of him like a stubborn camel.

“Do we need to leave the room, or leave the building?”

Ziti shrugged. “The room should be enough.”

Should.

Hassan could feel his blood begin to boil as his chest tightened. His finger stroked the trigger guard of his still unholstered weapon.

“Will it go deep enough?”

Ziti shook his head. “I doubt it.”

Hassan’s finger slipped onto the trigger. “What do you mean?”

Ziti looked up, his eyes ablaze, and said, teeth clenched, leaving a deliberate pause between each word, “Let me finish with the ex-plo-sives,
then
I’ll answer your questions.”

Hassan spun on his heel and walked away, a couple of his team snickering. He stepped into the main hall of the basilica, it now filled with thousands, most standing around in the middle, not knowing what to do, others filling the pews, chatting amongst themselves excitedly at what they had accomplished, and others still hacking at anything they could lay their hands on. The only thing saving the structure was that most things were too high to reach, and nobody had thought to bring anything with them.

He frowned.

Perhaps if I were to point out the torn apart wrought iron gate they climbed over to get in here—

“It’s ready.”

Hassan turned to see Ziti standing at his shoulder.

“Good. May I ask my questions
now
?”

Ziti grinned, nodding. “Of course.”

“Why do you doubt it will go deep enough?”

“It’s not a shaped charge. We were supposed to blow a door open, not try to do excavation work. This will make a big bang, hopefully a big crater in the floor, but it won’t go deep. It should get through the marble though; then we dig.”

Hassan pursed his lips. “But we could be facing twenty feet of concrete.”

Ziti shook his head. “Concrete wasn’t invented when this was built. Eighteenth century before we’d have to worry about that. This place is so old, I’m guessing a mix of good old sand and crushed rock. Packed into place by the weight of this”—he held up his hands indicating the building—“for five hundred years.”

Hassan stopped him with a raised finger.

“You’re ready?”

Ziti nodded.

“Then let’s do it.”

Ziti yelled for the men to leave the room, and everyone took cover around the corner, the thick walls providing them, Hassan hoped, with sufficient protection. Ziti looked at him and Hassan gave a thumbs up. Ziti flipped open a red switch on the tiny detonator, then pressed a button.

The blast was deafening.

Rock and debris blasted from the entrance to the side room and into the basilica, some of it hitting the unsuspecting crowd. Cries of pain and screams of terror echoed through the hallowed halls as a cloud of disintegrated marble rolled across the floor. As the dust settled, Hassan turned the corner, waving one hand in front of his face, the other holding his shirt over his mouth. He peered through the dust, but could see nothing.