Papal Justice (24 page)

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6:32pm

The Predators caught up with the blue bus as it exited the I-15 North onto El Cajon Blvd. From there it took a left on Park Blvd and left onto Polk Avenue. It pulled into a parking lot behind a stucco building. The operator of the first Predator switched to thermal video and zoomed in on the bus. Half of the seats looked full of white dots. Zooming in more, the video captured four more figures, two in the front and two in the rear, standing up and stepping into the aisle. As they moved, other items became visible as they swept over the white dots. Weapons.

“We have four confirmed tangos with weapons, five if you include the driver,” said the intelligence officer looking over the pilot’s shoulder.

The information was instantly patched to the Ospreys. The Predators took up a high altitude pattern. Luckily, the sky was clear of cloud cover and the drones could stay over the objective for quite some time.

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6:40pm

Lt. Heron consulted with his platoon sergeant and told the guy in the lead Osprey, Alpha, that he was going to have his Osprey touch down a couple blocks from the objective. While fast roping onto a ship or tall building looked cool and they had the equipment to do it, there was no way the enemy could miss the Marine aircraft coming in. The Osprey and the Marines would be easy targets if they hovered in for insertion.

No. The better way was to touch down farther away and hoof it on foot.

He explained to the pilots what he wanted to do and got a “Two minutes,” in return. Lt. Heron relayed the time to his Marines, who were already ready, but went to the task of checking the man next to them. More than one idiot had fouled up an insertion because a loose harness had snagged onto the edge of a bench or he’d forgotten to properly mount his night vision goggles.

There were no issues this time as they streamed out of the back of the bird. Weeks of practice had made it second nature, even to the least seasoned Marine. They double-timed down a block, the Predator guide giving Lt. Heron clipped updates the whole way. People stared as the Marines ran by, and some pulled out phones thinking it was another exercise. None of the Marines stopped to smile, following their point man as he weaved his way across traffic.

They got to the building behind their objective and that was when Lt. Heron realized what it was.

“Alpha, the objective is a church. I repeat, a Catholic Church.”

He didn’t wait for a response, his troops already taking up supporting fire positions. Once they were set, Lt. Heron bolted from cover with six of his Marines, the report from his headphones competing with the thumping of his heartbeat in his ears.

“Tangos are escorting prisoners out of the bus. Last tango is out of the bus.”

Even as the words hit his ears, the infantry officer was seeing it.

“Get down on the ground!” he yelled, still running, toward the bus and the line of children being escorted toward the back of the church.

Everyone, the group of children and the armed men, turned and then time slowed. He didn’t hear the screams of the children as they fell to the ground. He felt the recoil of his weapon as he hit the first man with two rounds in the chest and then aimed a little to the right and took his buddy down too. One of his Marines, probably Lance Corporal Brizinski, the rabbit of the platoon, sprinted by him, firing as he ran. Heron’s eyes shifted right and saw two more men go down, but not before they got a few rounds off themselves, their fingers glued to their triggers as they fell back, bullets flying high in the air.

Sucking in air like it was an ice cold beer on a warm summer’s day, Lt. Heron supervised the ensuing inspection. Three of the five tangos were dead. The two others were shot but would live, according to his corpsman.

The scene secure, Lt. Heron climbed onto the bus to see about the mysterious cargo. He found boxes of blankets, some hand-me-down clothes, and some containers filled with that commercial hand soap you see in restaurants. He relayed the information to Alpha.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else?” Alpha replied.

“We can tear the bus apart, but there’s nothing that looks obvious,” Heron replied.

“Okay. Now listen. The cops are gonna be there soon, but our people will be on top of that. I need you to do me a favor. You think you can take the two tangos back to the Osprey?”

Heron looked down at the bad guys who were cuffed by the hands and feet but were receiving excellent medical attention.

“I don’t know. They should probably get to a hospital,” Heron said.

“If you tell me they’re stable, we’ll have time for that later. Are they stable?”

Heron asked the corpsman who gave him a thumbs-up.

“They’re stable.”

“Good. Now for the favor. How much interrogation experience do you have?”

“Not much,” Heron answered truthfully.

“But you learned some either in your workups or at TBS, right?”

“Sure.”

“So like every Marine lieutenant I’ve ever met, you’ve been trained to figure it out on the fly?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Great. What I want you to do is get them back on that Osprey with only the Marines you need and you know will keep their mouths shut, and find out what those tangos know. You think you can do that?”

It wasn’t something he’d really thought about before. They’d taught him at Officer Candidate School (OCS), then The Basic School (TBS), and finally at the Infantry Officer’s Course (IOC) that enemy combatant prisoners are to be treated by the rules governing the Geneva Convention. But somehow at that moment, he guessed that his instructors might be okay with letting him get a little creative.

“I’ll do it,” Heron replied.

“Thank you. Now get a notepad. Here’s what I need you to find out.”

Chapter 33

Southern California Airspace

7:15pm, March 15
^th

The Marine platoon commander was good. It took him less than five minutes to get the information Cal needed. He switched his headset so he was only speaking to the men on his aircraft.

“They just confirmed that bad guy number one did board the white bus. Bad news is that the joker who talked didn’t know where they were going. In fact, none of the others knew more than where their respective vehicles were going. Another piece of good news is that the Pope is alive and he’s riding with bad guy number one. Last piece of info: other than the blue and the white bus, there’s also a purple and a yellow bus. They really went all colors of the rainbow on this one.”

Cal looked down the line, expecting questions or comments, but none came. At least Brother Hendrik looked like his nerves had settled. Word of the Pope’s current status must have been a relief to the monk. He hadn’t said much since leaving Mexico.

“We’ll loiter and wait for word. If anyone has a…”

His headset dinged, indicating an incoming message. The computer screen said there was another positive identification from the Predators. A purple bus was spotted on Interstate 10, heading northwest towards Palm Springs. Cal watched as the camera zoomed in. It was still too far to get a clear picture, so he waited until the infrared turned to thermal and the video cleared.

Almost identical to the first bus, there were white dots lining the seats on both sides of the aisle, the back clear except maybe for the suspect cargo. Lt. Heron’s men had yet to detect anything wrong with the first batch of random goods. Maybe it was all a diversion. Go for the kids and sneak away with the Pope. Everyone on the mission knew it wouldn’t look good if the Pope was killed on American soil. Cal had mentioned that to the President, suggesting that this could all be a ploy to align much of the Catholic world against the U.S., but Brandon shook it off, saying that his priority was getting the pontiff back.

Cal switched over to the frequency that allowed him to talk to the second Osprey with half a platoon of infantry Marines. “Longhorn, this is your baby. Use kid gloves,” Cal said.  He wondered what the hulking platoon commander would do. He’d proudly proclaimed his undying allegiance to his alma mater, the University of Texas when he’d tried to crush Cal’s hand on the tarmac.

“Roger that, Alpha. Longhorn, out,” came the thick Texas reply.

Cal didn’t roll his eyes, but he wanted to. He had some good friends who were Texas Longhorns, but something about the big Marine reminded Cal of brand-spanking new butter bars he’d experienced in the Fleet. There’d been more than a little bravado in the Marine’s tone before takeoff, like he was itching for a fight. He wondered if Second Lieutenant Meadows would act as cool as his fellow platoon commander. Hopefully he had a good platoon sergeant who would keep the reins on tight.

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7:22pm

Marine Second Lieutenant Matthew Meadows, “Hoss” or “Hoss the Boss” to his friends, punched his fist into his opposing palm. He could feel the battle coming. While he didn’t have the luxury of a video feed like Cal, he’d still listened to the radio chatter. Sure Lt. Heron had done a tour in Afghanistan and the Marines seemed to love him, but Meadows knew in his soul that he’d been bred to be a warrior. He’d done his best to whittle down his platoon to those whom he knew he could trust, most combat veterans with at least one tour overseas. He felt the tide swelling behind him.

Twenty minutes later, the pilot gave the two minute warning to landing. Meadows stood up, his helmet almost thumping the top of the hold. The former offensive lineman for the Texas Longhorns bellowed, “Saddle up, Marines. It’s time for battle.”

The Marines didn’t look as enthused as he felt, but he took it for nerves, something he rarely felt. He prided himself in his courage, his ability to jump into the fray no matter the danger. Somehow he suppressed a savage growl as the Osprey dropped from the sky, his insides burning with bloodlust. Soon he would be tested, and deep down he knew he would never be caught wanting.

Two minutes later, the bird touched down, the ramp already lowered, and the Marines flooded out. 2
^nd
Lt. Meadows led the charge, breathing through his mouth as he ran, his nostrils flared like a bull’s. Just like with Heron, this bus had pulled into a church parking lot. The Predator jockies had already relayed the information that the cargo had been offloaded, and that the tangos were tucking tail and leaving.

That was all the better for Meadows and his Marines. The last thing any of them wanted to do was shoot a kid. Meadows tasted blood and realized as he ran that at some point he’d bit his own tongue. Maybe next time he’d wear a mouth guard, like when he’d played ball. He grunted to himself and kept chugging.

And then he saw them, a ragged group of four men carrying weapons headed back to the purple bus. They were probably a hundred yards away, the length of a football field, but Meadows didn’t care.

“Get down on the ground, assholes!” he yelled.

They hadn’t noticed the Marine until that point. The bad guys turned, leveling their weapons. Meadows fired first, almost laughing as he depressed the trigger on full auto. Against what his instructors had always said, but who the fuck cared when the shit hit the fan? He felt like Rambo, charging the Vietcong on another rescue mission behind enemy lines.

For some reason none of his rounds seemed to be hitting the targets, but he didn’t mind. That happened in the heat of battle. Something in the back of his brain told him to lower the barrel, because most shots flew high. He was so intent on keeping his finger pressed on the trigger that he didn’t even feel the three rounds crash through his skull, ending his charge prematurely.

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Staff Sergeant Evans cursed for the second time. The first had been when his platoon commander opened his big mouth. Now the lieutenant was dead. Evans knew it wasn’t his fault, that sometimes it was just your turn, but it didn’t make him feel any better dodging the body of his former platoon commander as he rushed by.

“Corpsman up!” he shouted over his shoulder, letting off a controlled double tap from his rifle. One man went down. Three left. He heard someone scream behind him and knew that another Marine was down. Evans cursed a third time. He’d seen too many Marines die during his eight years in the Corps. “SAWs up! ” he yelled, calling for the squad automatic weapons that were manned by some of the strongest men in the platoon. They weren’t as big as their platoon commander, but they never complained about the extra load and they were always there when you needed them. “Don’t shoot the church!” he reminded everyone. The last thing they needed was civilian casualties.

Evans heard the long rattle from one SAW, probably Corporal Drake firing from the hip. That devil dog could fire from the hip better than most Marines fired the SAW in the prone position. It was a beauty to behold. Sure enough, another tango went down. Two left.

By now he and his Marines had taken cover, leveling fire and maneuvering with their platoon mates as they closed in on the church parking lot. They’d done it countless times since joining the Corps, and now it was paying off. Evans saw another tango drop, the side of his face exploding in a burst of blood and bone before he fell. One left.

The last guy had found the best hiding spot, behind a heavy metal dumpster. Instead of poking his head out, he waited, and so did Evans. As his Marines kept the man pinned down, Evans focused on the edge of the dumpster.
Just give me one look
, he thought.

Tango Number Four must have been getting restless, because he shifted so that Evans could just see the outline of his shoulder. He didn’t hesitate, taking the shot and knowing it would find its mark. At less than fifty yards, the Marine veteran felt it before he saw it. The man staggered out of cover just long enough for Evans to shoot another two rounds into the man’s torso. Game over.