The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) (4 page)

“You coming, sir?” I asked Reynolds, noticing he was
staying with the car.

“This is the end of the road for me, son. My orders
were to escort you here and report back to the President that your
transfer was completed. Hell, I’m not even Catholic. I’m not sure
I’m even allowed to be down here. Anyway, you take care of
yourself, Commander. You’re representing your county on this one.
Don’t let us down.”

“I won’t, sir,” I replied, snapping a crisp salute.
“Thank you.”

“You’ll be fine,” replied Reynolds, returning the
salute. “Just keep your head down and do us proud.”

“Come,” Father Vincent said quietly from the
elevator. “His Holiness is waiting.”

I nodded, slowly turning towards the waiting
elevator. With one last glance over my shoulder at the retreating
black car, I knew things were never going to be the same again.

***

Not long after the assassination attempt, the Pope,
in a strange bout of fury, all but called for a crusade against the
attackers. The public was furious, Catholic and Christian alike,
and the militaries comprised of such people had no trouble filling
their personnel quotas. Even an elite unit like my SEALs had grown
to unprecedented numbers to help fight anyone we could throw our
strength against.

Soon later, the Pope also commissioned a new
military unit to help in the war effort. Officially, it was a
branch of the Swiss Guard meant to protect his person;
unofficially, it was a Special Forces outfit meant to seek out and
destroy any potential threat he may face. At least, that’s what the
whispers around the water coolers were saying.

Little was known about the organization, including
its name. Originally, members were selected specifically from a
pool of veteran Swiss Guardsmen, but recently, in an attempt to
further solidify friendships amongst Christian nations, the Pope
had called for volunteers from the best they could offer.

It was rumored that members from Britain, France,
and Germany had already transferred service, but the entire process
was done behind closed doors. There were rumors of the first
American from Delta transferring only a few days ago, but was again
unconfirmed.

It wasn’t long after I heard these rumors that a
young man, dressed in a well-tailored business suit, knocked on the
door of my off-base home while I was on leave in Hawaii. The man
spoke with a thick Italian accent, but in impeccable English, and
explained to me the full reality behind the Pope’s Swiss Guard and
that a spot was available to me for a two year stint.

Now, my mother was a devout Catholic, but my father
never put much stock in religion. He was born Protestant, but
non-practicing throughout his adult life. Easily not the most pious
man, he was completely supportive of his bride-to-be and fully
supported her wish that he convert to Catholicism and marry in a
Roman Catholic Church. Afterwards, dad had no qualms about her
raising my younger sister Diana and I Catholic, attending church
only to support his wife. It was through mom that I attended Jesuit
schools all the way through college, and managed to maintain my
status as a practicing Catholic on most Sundays.

Well... on some Sundays.

My infrequent church attendance aside, I had been
quite the kleptomaniac as a teenager, had a few drinks while
underage, and my first sexual experience was well before marriage.
Outwardly, I acted the way every other teenager or young adult
would, inwardly, however, I was as devout a Catholic as one could
be.

At least I tried.

Most of the time.

When the well-dressed Italian man came to my door,
the only thing I could think of was why in the world they would
want me. After all, as far as I was concerned, my sins equaled
those of any other, but when I voiced my concerns his response was
simply that the people he represented had performed thorough
research, and that they knew the man beneath.

It was at that point that I faced a dilemma that
needed a few days to think over. The man agreed, and said he would
return to receive an answer. I spent the entirety of the next two
days wandering the beautiful Hawaiian beaches, mulling everything
over.

I knew that on one hand, I was completely happy with
my current posting. I had joined the military at twenty three,
shortly before the first bombing in Jerusalem, and thanks to my
college education, had gone to Officer Candidate School, graduated
near the top of my class, and placed a request for immediate
transfer to the SEALs. I’d gotten very lucky. Fresh officers rarely
had the opportunity to go to BUD/S right off the bat, but thanks to
my record and the dire global circumstances, I was off to Coronado
Island near San Diego. Within a month, I was getting my ass kicked
with other officers and regular enlisted men in Basic Underwater
Demolition/SEAL training, BUD/S, roughed it out, went through Seal
Qualification Training, jump school, sniper school, and so on, and
after more than two years of training and some field experience,
with the global war worsening, was given my own team.

I had been more than lucky.

I went on to establish close bonds with my fellow
SEAL teammates over the tours, and did not want to leave feeling I
betrayed them. Life in the Teams was all about companionship and
teamwork. We were as close nit as any family, but that didn’t mean
I never felt unfulfilled at times. I was even being groomed for a
position with the United States Naval Special Warfare Development
Group, still colloquially known as Seal Team Six, which consisted
of the most elite SEALs in the business. Could I find fulfillment
there? I wasn’t sure.

On the other hand, the only reason I enlisted in the
first place was to appease my father’s wishes, not knowing there
would be a full-fledged global war on the horizon. We were a
military family after all, and it was my duty, but if I took the
Italian’s offer, I could continue fighting the war, but maybe in a
more meaningful way. I knew my father would be disappointed, but
when the man returned two days later, I agreed to the transfer,
taking solace in the fact that I’d be back in a few years.

The next day, at 0800, a naval lieutenant and two
ensigns came to my door with my orders. I was to gather a few
essentials and head to the airfield immediately. The ensigns would
pack my personal belongings, as they had already done with my
military gear back at the barracks, and ship them directly to
Rome.

Grabbing my already packed go-bag, I was on my way
to Washington D.C. to meet with the President. Hours and more time
zones than I could count, I was standing in the Oval Office
awaiting his arrival. Thanks to the growing religious hysteria, and
increasing hostility everywhere on the planet, a Catholic, retired
Army general was now the Commander in Chief and with him came
increased funding for the military, combat experience, and a new
direction for the war effort, but sadly, at least from this
sailor’s point of view, still no hope for an end to it.

Staring down at the Presidential seal, I had
wondered if I was doing the right thing. Trying to push aside my
doubt, I had shifted my gaze towards the president’s desk where I
spotted a crucifix hanging from the wall behind his chair, and
realized I wasn’t abandoning my country, not really, but continuing
the fight by answering a higher calling. Abandoning the war effort
was out of the question, even with little hope for the planet’s
continued survival, but at least this way I would be doing it for
my own reasons.

My meeting with the President was short and to the
point, but also comforting. He assured me that I had made the right
decision, and that I was now, indeed, answering to a higher
authority. He seemed almost jealous of my position, perhaps wishing
he was a few years younger, and that his tool of destruction was a
rifle again, instead of a pen. Within minutes, documents were
produced, and with a few signatures, I was promoted and transferred
to my new posting.

Within the hour, I was back at the airfield, waiting
for my ride and my father. He had been informed of my transfer and
was told he could see me off. Since no one had any idea when I’d be
returning, this would be our only chance to say goodbye. But, as I
watched the C-130J taxing down the runway, he was nowhere to be
found.

Hoping to catch him approaching from some unknown
direction, I’d scanned the tarmac three times, finding nothing
every time. Only the fumes from countless aircraft and the ominous
early morning mist swirling at the beck and call of powerful
engines were there to greet me. Frustrated, I’d glanced at my feet
as the wind from the C-130J slammed into my face. The heat from the
back draft hadn’t calmed me much, and my hands had automatically
balled into fists.

So, it was going to be like that then.

I’d suspected he wouldn’t understand. Our family was
an American military legacy. In my father’s eyes, there was no
explanation for what I was doing. I’d hoped to explain that I was
doing the right thing, that I’d be back in a few years and that I
would still be fighting to defend my home and to protect my
country.

I’d been willing to beg for his acceptance.

But he hadn’t showed.

I’d shaken my head, already knowing why he hadn’t
been there.

He’s never forgiven me for mom.

She died three years ago. Cancer. I had been in the
field when she passed on and had missed her funeral. My father
never forgave me.

I’ve never forgiven myself.

Maybe I was doing this for her.

I hadn’t spoken to my father since. Three years was
a long time, and knowing I had to leave now, our issues still
unresolved, pained me. Our relationship had been strained since I
was twelve years old, but I’d hoped to put some of that behind
us.

No father should despise his son, and no son should
hate his father.

I’d hissed through my teeth and glanced up just in
time to see an air traffic controller beckoning me towards the rear
access ramp of the C-130J. I waved at him to let him know he had my
attention, and picked up my go-bag with an audible sigh of
frustration. Step by step, I made my way up the ramp, each and
every footfall a nail in the coffin of my former life.

As soon as I passed into the body of the aircraft,
the ramp began to close behind me. In a last second cry for hope,
I’d turned to look out over the runway, but again found nothing to
greet me except the darkness. As the ramp continued to retract,
genuine sadness crept over me, but the loud metal on metal grinding
sound of the ramp completing its retraction quickly snapped me out
of it.

With the rear of the ship cutting me off from my
past, my head dropped just slightly before I turned and walked into
the belly of the beast. With a final sigh, I secured my gear
beneath my bench in preparation for the flight, leaned my head
back, and closed my eyes.

***

As the elevator doors opened, I noticed it was
connected to the Vatican’s normal elevator system, accessible to
the general public. I assumed that only someone with their
thumbprint or other security measure cleared by the Vatican could
reach the level we had just left. Father Vincent and I emerged on
the first floor near St. Peter’s Basilica, exiting quickly before a
swarm of eager tourists entered the cab. I had to jump to the side
when a young child rushed passed me, dragging his young mother
behind him as he feverishly sought out the random object of
interest that must have caught his eye. She gave me an apologetic
smile, but quickly moved on, trying to keep up with her son.

“That was odd,” I commented, smiling in their
direction, thinking about how nice it was that people could still
enjoy the comfort of Vatican City despite the war.

Father Vincent smirked. “To this day, I still find
it strange to emerge into the public after having just returned
from a secret rendezvous through an elevator that doesn’t
exist.”

I looked at him, recollecting my earlier thoughts of
secrets within secrets. “I take it this isn’t the first time you’ve
escorted someone in this manner?”

“Of course not. You are not the first to come to us.
In fact, with your arrival, we have completed recruitment for the
time being.”

“And I suppose more information on that will have to
wait?”

“You assume correctly. Do not worry. We are almost
there.”

***

A brisk walk later, we arrived at a large doorway
ornately decorated with religious motifs. The doors had to have
been centuries old, but I was hardly an expert in such matters.
Before I could think much more on the subject, Father Vincent
knocked gently, sparing a single glance in my direction to offer me
a curt nod.

I understood.

This was it, time to meet the new boss, and I
couldn’t be more nervous. A quiet “enter” came from inside and
Father Vincent opened the doors leading the way in. I spotted two
individuals inside. The first man was in his golden years, although
aging quite gracefully. He wore white robes and a skull cap, and
had a rosary festooned around his neck.

The second individual was standing rigidly straight
behind the first man’s chair and had the look of a career military
man. His dark brown hair was cut short and he sported a thick
mustache, which, along with his slightly graying temples, prominent
jaw line and nose and hawkish blue eyes, gave him the look of a
dignified statesman. The man wore olive drab Battle Dress Uniform
cargo pants, and a Woolly Pully combat sweater of the same color.
If I had to guess, I’d peg him as a member of Britain’s SAS – as
members of the Special Air Service itself had developed the Wooly
Pully during World War II.

I’d worked with members of that illustrious group
before, and had nothing but positive memories of how they operated.
So far, I was impressed.