James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (21 page)

“It’s a different world now,” said Aman.

Zawadzki nodded. “Yes, but is it better?”

The speaker in the lounge squawked. “Ten-thirteen, ten-thirteen, officer needs assistance on Altar Road. Officer Lodi requires assistance, taking heavy fire.”

“That’s Hasni!” exclaimed Aman as he headed to the door. He turned to Atkinson. “What, you’re not going to help him because he’s Muslim?”

Atkinson stood up, as did the room.

“No, we’re going to help him because we’re Americans, and that’s what we do.”

Emergency Response Command Center

Rome, Italy

DC Vitali stood in the command tent, reviewing a map laid out on a large table showing the layout of the immediate area, positions of rioters, and positions of riot police. The plan sounded simple, but to execute it successfully would be a challenge. They needed to split the protesters into smaller and smaller groups, until each group would be easy enough to disperse. The manpower necessary was phenomenal. Thousands of police from across Italy had been brought in, arriving by the busload, each sent to their designated areas upon arrival. It was a massive operation involving almost ten thousand police, with the army on standby.

If it comes to that…

Vitali shuddered at the thought. This operation was not to take back the Vatican, where tens of thousands had barricaded themselves. This was to take back Rome, from the estimated ten thousand protesters still in front of the gates, and the clusters that had gathered at various chokepoints after Vitali’s men had successfully cut off further access to the tiny city.

“Sir, the last unit is in position.”

Vitali nodded, a frown creasing his face.
If this goes wrong…

“And the Army?”

A colonel stepped forward. “Mobilized and standing by should you need us.”

Vitali looked at the colonel. He appeared uneager to give that command, which was a good thing. Stereotypes had the military gung ho to go into any battle. But that wasn’t always the case, especially when it was on your own soil, against your own citizens, no matter how misguided they may be.

Vitali stood and addressed the room.

“Begin the operation.”

Immediately orders were sent out via dispatch to all units to prepare, and for the main force of three thousand riot police to begin their push. Vitali stepped outside the command tent and watched as row upon row of heavily armed riot police, most equipped with shields, marched past double-time, pounding their shields with their batons in unison, the effect reminiscent of ancient tribal warfare, designed to shove a blade of fear in the hearts of men.

And it was working.

Vitali felt his own chest tighten instinctively, his own heart pound a little quicker. He inserted himself in the midst of his men, determined to lead the operation from the ground, his radio gripped tightly in one hand.

“Sir!”

He turned to see his aide run up carrying a helmet. “Sir, you forgot your helmet.”

He hadn’t, but he took it and shoved it on the top of his head. He flipped the visor up, and continued forward. As they rounded the corner, departing the staging area surrounding the Statue of Saint Michael, and onto Via della Conciliazione, he could see the massive basilica in the distance, less than half a kilometer away. He looked up at the rows of apartments lining the street, nearly every window filled to capacity with citizens cheering and waving at the police, the entire population behind them.

He felt a surge of pride.

Not only in his nation, his city, but in his job, his purpose. The police were so often jeered, disrespected, but when you needed them, they were almost always there, and if they weren’t, it wasn’t by choice. Today, they were needed, and the people knew it.

And today, we’re here.

The distance was closed quickly, and he began to hear the chants of the crowd they were approaching over the pounding of the batons. The sea of people in front of the gates, acting as a buffer between the police and the entrance to Saint Peter’s Square, turned to face the new noise confronting them. Vitali moved forward, slightly quicker than the rest, raising his radio to his mouth.

“This is DC Vitali to unit commanders. We are about to confront the main body. Form your wedge and hold it until you reach the fence, then push back to empty the square as directed. Keep your men together, and execute this quickly. Surprise is our best weapon. Out.”

He moved toward the front, leaving several hundred officers ahead of him. He knew he was too old to get into the thick of the fight, but he wanted to be close enough to see how it was progressing in case he needed to change the plan on the fly.

There was a crash, the sounds of bodies thudding against shields. The shouts of ‘Allahu Akbar’ began to be replaced with yells and screams, cries of shock and pain, epitaphs in Italian and Arabic shouted at the officers at the front of the wedge.

And indeed it was a wedge. Vitali smiled with pride as he saw the front of the phalanx shove through the opposition. As they pushed with their shields, walking over some of those that had fallen to the ground, the formation continued through, unceasing, their goal less than one hundred meters away.

Those they stepped over were quickly grabbed by police inside the wedge without shields and handcuffed with zip ties, then passed toward the back.

Nothing stopped the wedge.

The crowd began to push back, and the pace slowed, but the wedge edged forward, a pace at a time, inexorably shoving toward the short fence that separated Italy from Vatican City and Saint Peter’s Square. He could see it now, and there would be no stopping them in reaching it. The crowd was split in two, and those in front, still between the tip of the wedge and the fence, were scrambling now, their support behind them constantly decreasing, as some tried to jump over the waist high fence and into the square their supporters still held, others tried to split off to the sides, and away from the oncoming force.

Something hit him on the side of the head and he dropped. He felt arms grab him under the shoulders and haul him to his feet.

“Are you okay, sir?”

He nodded, feeling where he was hit, thankful that he was wearing the helmet. He looked at his feet and saw a cobblestone lying on the ground.

One of his fellow officers tapped his helmet. “They don’t just look sexy, they serve a purpose,” he said with a smile.

Vitali chuckled, and waved them on as he gathered his composure.

He heard a slam, this one different. It was plastic on metal.

They were at the fence.

The wedge continued forward, ever expanding outward, the men forming a line with their shields between those inside Saint Peter’s Square, and Italian territory, and as the thousands of police poured in behind the expanding wedge, they pushed the crowds back, hauling individual protesters into the mass of police, who would cuff and hand the prisoners toward the back, and the waiting dozens of city and chartered buses.

Vitali stopped in the center of the square, nodding to himself, pleased at how well it had gone. They had the square, those inside the Vatican were now trapped inside, and those who were outside, had been split into three groups; those hauled inside the cordon of officers, and two larger groups, split evenly, exiting the area to the narrow roads to the north and south of the walled city.

What he knew, and the crowds didn’t, was that thousands of police had been prepositioned. To the north the mighty walls of Vatican City protected anyone from gaining access, and would be the easier of the mop up operations. If things went to plan, the protesters would be pushed up Largo del Collonato and past the last access point to Saint Peter’s Square, the entire time a line of officers would continue to build a fence of flesh and reinforced polymer between the two cities, until they reached the wall.

And as the masses would be forced northward, they would hit the Piazza del Risorgimento, a large paved area where over one thousand of his men were amassed in a formation that would split the crowd into three much smaller groups, forcing them down three northern routes, continually pressed, and along these three routes, groups of officers would force them down side streets, dozens at a time, simply creating openings along the way, and then creating a barrier of riot shields across the street, funneling small groups into the side streets, where they could be detained. And as each group would be funneled off, the line would pull back, letting the bulk of the rioters continue forward, the process repeated as each batch was cuffed and bused.

And by the time the reduced crowd would reach the tree lined boulevard of Viate delle Milizie, their numbers would be so reduced, that the wall of men waiting them should be able to easily contain them.

But that was the north, and the report coming over his radio told him the plan was already working perfectly, the first of the crowd hitting the riot squad at the piazza and splitting into three groups.

But the south was another matter, and Vitali ran toward Via Paolo VI, the road ringing the south side of Saint Peter’s Square. His men would have rushed into position up the southern portion of that road, forming a barrier between further penetration into the ground of the Vatican, and forcing the approaching mass to the south, where they would again be split into three groups, and at this point the southern wall of the ancient city would provide the protection it needed. Then if all went well, the mop up would proceed in similar fashion as to that in the north.

As he rounded the southern side of Saint Peter’s Square, the massive columns that surrounded the north and south sides of the square towered overhead, the colonnade they formed providing the one wrinkle to the southern plan that the northern didn’t face. Because of the layout of the streets to the north, they only had to contend with less than a third of the northern arc, but to the south, they had to deal with almost the entire arc, and the dozens of entrances and exits it provided from the square, albeit separated by the same waist high fence.

As he rounded the bend, he was relieved to see a line of his men forming the plastic barrier between the square and the road. But they were under fierce attack, with hundreds of protesters pushing at their shields. He raised his radio. “This is DC Vitali. We need reinforcements on the south side of the square, permission to use teargas and water cannons authorized, over.”

He heard the voice of his second in command respond.

“On its way, over.”

Vitali continued round the southern side, and saw the front line of his men attempting to force the crowd to the south. It wasn’t going well. This was the only portion of his plan that relied heavily on man power forming a ninety degree wall.

As he neared the front of his men, he could see it had once again turned into a game of inches, and the crowd, rather than being chased, had begun to stand its ground. He raised his radio.

“Status on northern operation?”

“Proceeding as planned. We’ve cleared the square and the northern side of the columns. The rioters have split into three groups as planned, and the first groups are being separated and bused to holding areas. It appears they’re losing their will to fight, over.”

Vitali smiled. “Okay, as soon as you can spare the men, send them to reinforce the border of the square, and assist on the southern operation, over.”

“Roger that, over and out.”

Vitali looked ahead, the smile wiped off his face. The crowd was pushing back, and his men were starting to falter. If the reinforcements didn’t arrive soon, this side might be lost. The roar of an engine from behind sent him spinning on his heel with a smile. The water cannons had arrived. He waved at the driver of the first vehicle and jumped on the running board as it slowed down. He pointed at the faltering line.

“Hit them with everything you’ve got!”

The man nodded, and pulled ahead as Vitali jumped off, directing the second vehicle to follow the first. The third truck he flagged down and jumped aboard. “I want you to push back these crowds”—he pointed at the rioters inside Saint Peter’s challenging the cordon of officers forming a barrier along the border. “Push them back, try not to direct any sustained spray at the architecture!”

The man nodded and positioned the truck after Vitali jumped off. He heard the crowds yell in protest as the two streams of high pressure water from the first two trucks engaged the rioters, and within minutes, the front line had reformed, and was advancing again, the two trucks inching along with them, blasting at the crowd as it was forced into the narrow street. Within minutes of the water cannons arriving, the rioters had been pushed back, past the human wall of officers, and down the road with more formidable buildings penning them in.

Vitali looked over his shoulder and saw that the crowds inside the square had begun to withdraw as their comrades on the outside disappeared, out of sight, and the water cannon took its toll.

We might just win this thing.

Gunfire erupted, and he saw two of his men go down.

He looked up, and saw two men, standing on top of the colonnade surrounding the southern side, with automatic weapons, firing down on his men below. The men dove for cover, those with shields raising them as a barrier, reminiscent of ancient Roman soldiers shielding against arrows.

The two men above rained fire upon the water cannon, the officer manning the turret taking several hits, the spray stopping as he died. Vitali raised his radio. “We’re taking heavy fire from two hostiles on the top of the southern colonnade, we need armed backup!”

Vitali jerked backward as he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. He fell back, hitting his helmeted head on the pavement. Looking up, he saw his shooter take aim directly at him.

He said a silent prayer as the muzzle flashed against the night sky.

Hotel Alimandi Vaticano

Rome, Italy