Chase Baker and the Spear of Destiny

by Vincent Zandri

“This is it,” I say. “This is the access tunnel we’re looking for.”

  Boot steps now trudging down the necropolis stairs. Out the corner of my eye, I make out a Swiss Guard soldier going around the staircase to the breaker board.

  “Let’s go, Cal,” I say. “Before they hit the lights.”

  Cal shifts himself feet first onto the staircase and begins the descent into the tunnel depths. I immediately follow. When my head clears the circular opening, the round slab of marble shifts back into place on its own, sealing us into the underground.

  Cal looks up, his face illuminated by the bright light.

  “This better lead somewhere, Chase,” he says, his voice gravelly with anxiety. “Or we’re going to become a permanent part of this historical site.”

  “No worries,” I say, pulling the light away from his face, and shining it onto the tunnel floor at the bottom of the stairs. “We’re safe down here.”

  “You really believe that?” he says.

  “No, but it feels good saying it.”

  We descend the rest of the staircase in silence. When we come to the bottom, I shine the light on the long corridor before us. Unlike some of the other tunnels we’ve been in recently, this one is completely empty. No priceless paintings hanging from the walls, no colorful murals depicting Medieval, Byzantine, or Renaissance life. Just nothing but cold hard concrete walls, floor, and ceiling.

  We walk in the damp, cool air, quickly but carefully too.

  “Be vigilant, Cal. You never know what can pop out at us.”

  “As in booby traps, Baker?”

  “Exactly.”

  But in my heart of hearts, I’m guessing this place is safer than milk, knowing that it was constructed for the sole purpose of transporting the Pope to the castle under emergency conditions. We move along the narrow, straight length of tunnel, walking quickly and quietly, the Maglite piercing the darkness.

  We walk for maybe ten or twelve minutes before we come to a walled off area that is accessed by a metal gate. The gate is constructed of criss-crossing flat metal bars that must be five hundred years old, judging by the rust that coats them. I attempt to open the gate but find that it’s been secured by a metal chain and a padlock from an era long past.

  I’m the last one to use my firearm in an unsafe manner, but I don’t hesitate to pull out my .45, press the barrel against the chain, and fire off a round. The chain shatters without spraying shrapnel into our bodies.

  That’s the good news

  The bad news is the pair of ballistic armor wearing Neo-Nazis who barrel toward us from the opposite side of the dark room, night-vision goggles covering their eyes. I take aim through the metal gate, fire a single round a piece into both men. They drop only feet away from us.

  Opening the gate, I shine the Maglite down into the face of the closest one. I bend down, pull away the night vision goggles, and see that he’s still alive, even if he is bleeding out his mouth from internal injuries.

  Going down onto one knee. “Are there more of you?”

  He moans and nods in the affirmative, his eyes rolling around in their sockets. Pulling the automatic weapon from out of his hands and an extra magazine from his belt, I hand it to Cal.

  “Clear the area, Cal,” I say. “I’m right behind you.”

  “Roger that,” he says, snatching the night vision goggles off the dying man and throwing them over his own eyes. He heads deep into the room while I snatch up the second Nazi’s machine gun along with his night vision device. Quickly placing it over my head, I see the room light up in an eerie green glow.

  There’s a man seated at the opposite end of what looks to be a windowless room made of stone and concrete. He’s naked, a long, now filthy white cassock thoughtlessly tossed on the floor beside him. His arms are spread eagled and seem to be attached to the concrete wall behind him at the wrists. His ankles appear to be bound together too. He has also been gagged with a long strip of gray duct tape.

  That this man is the Papal Father, I have no doubt.

  That he is alive, I also have no doubt.

  When the Maglite shines in his eyes, it irritates his retinas enough that he does his best to avert his gaze.

  “Jesus, what have they done to him?” Cal whispers. “He looks crucified.”

  “That’s the point,” I say, my eyes focused on the wrists and ankles. “His hands and feet are attached to something.”

  “The wall,” Cal says. “It’s like those animals crucified him to the wall.”

  I slowly take another step forward, automatic rifle poised for anything or anyone that might jump out at us from out of the shadows.

  “I agree that he appears to be crucified to the wall,” I say. “But I think there’s more going on here than that.”

  Approaching the Pope, I can see that he has been beaten savagely, his eyes puffy and swollen, his nose broken, the thick blood that’s been pouring out of his nostrils dark, almost black. When I peel away the tape that gags him, I can see that he’s missing his two upper front teeth, only the jagged roots remaining. His lips are ballooned and split, his earlobes are cauliflowered and in need of stitches.

  He tries to say something, but his words come out as a weak, breathless, mumble.

  “Do not try to speak, Holy Father,” I say. “We will get you out of here and to a hospital.”

  But my words do nothing to console him. He keeps on trying to talk. It’s like he’s warning us to turn around and leave this room. That’s when I feel something cold inject itself into my blood stream. My temples pound and my stomach constricts.

  Redirecting the Maglite beam up the length of the Papal Father’s right arm, I stop when it comes to his hand. I can see that it is attached to a wire which is attached to something else.

  An IED.

  The Pope is attached to an improvised explosive device.

  Chapter 50

  “Don’t move, Holy Father,” I say. “Do not . . . move . . . a muscle.”

  “Chase,” Cal whispers, “if ever there was an end of the line for us, this is it mate.”

  The Papal Father might be in pain. He might not have the strength required to speak with a mouth that’s been battered. He might even be near death, but he’s doing his best to communicate with us by using his eyes. He rolls his eyes around in his sockets like he’s trying to tell us to about-face, go back the way we came.

  But we’re not about to turn back now. Not after having come this far.

  “Cal,” I say, setting my weapon onto the floor, and aiming the Maglite for the wall-mounted IED on my right. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about disarming live bombs, would you?”

  He shoulders his machine gun, gazes at a bomb that appears to be constructed of plastic explosive. The bomb is to be triggered by a simple detonator which is attached to the wire.

  I look at Cal, observe his Adam's apple moving up and down his neck, like a turkey about to face the hatchet.

  “I ran into some similar IEDs in Iraq in ’08,” he says. “But my job wasn’t disarming them. My job was getting my ass out of the way.” Then, his eyes shift to the Pope. “Ummmm, sorry about that your most holy eminence, or whatever I’m supposed to call you.” Then, eyes back on the bomb lit up in Maglite. “But I can tell you this, Chase, man. If the Pope moves one inch, one way or another, not only will one of those bombs detonate, but the other two shall follow.”

  “Which makes disarming even one of them at a time all the more dangerous,” I say. “All the more impossible.”

  I run my hand over my stubbly face as if the action helps me think better. Cal walks around me so that he can observe the bomb up close and personal.

  “There’s a timer attached to the fuse,” he observes. “Assuming it might give us enough time to cut away the Pope and cart him the hell out of here at a sprint pace, we might just be able to outrun the detonation.”

  “Correction,” I say. “Three detonations.”

  Cal steps away from the wall, looks me in
the eye.

  “Okay, so I’m no bomb disposal expert,” he says. “But I can tell you this. If those Nazi bastards installed timers on the detonators it was for one thing and one thing only. To give them enough time to get the hell out once the detonator was tripped. No other reason to utilize a timed fuse like that.”

  “So, conceivably speaking,” I say, “we can cut him loose, toss him over your broad shoulder, and head for the door and still make it out the door without evaporating in the triple explosion.”

  “Conceivably,” he agrees. “Or we can leave him here and go get the cops.”

  “Who are after us already. And that’s assuming they don’t shoot us on the spot.”

  I turn to the Pope. His head is bobbing, his eyes closing, his chest slowly moving forward and succumbing to gravity.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “He’s passing out.”

  I don’t just reach out for the Pope. I thrust my body forward to stop his forward momentum and his pulling on the wires which will trigger the bombs.

  But I don’t make it in time.

  The detonators light up like Christmas bulbs.

  “Holy shit, Chase,” Cal says. “We’re gonna blow.” Then, stepping up beside me. “Quick. Your Gerber. Cut him loose and let’s get out of here.”

  My hands trembling, I pull out the Gerber, open it, pull out the blade.

  “How much time, Cal?” I say, tossing him the Maglite. “How much?”

  He shines the light on the IED to the right.

  “Not enough, Chase!” he barks. “Only thirty seconds. Correction. Twenty-five seconds.”

  “God, they didn’t leave enough time.”

  I cut away the Pope’s left wrist, and it falls limply by his side. Then, I cut away the second wrist. It too falls limply by his side.

  “Twenty seconds!” Cal barks. “Work faster, Chase!”

  I drop to my knees, the Pope dropping forward, his dead weight pressing down on my right shoulder. At the same time, I’m trying to cut away the wires that are triple wrapped around his ankles. Between the Pope’s near dead weight and the ankle at which I am cutting, it is an almost impossible task.

  “Fifteen seconds!”

  “Just go, Cal,” I scream. “Save yourself.”

  “Not a chance, Baker,” he barks. “We die, we die together. No way I’m entering hell without you.”

  Sweat pours into my eyes. Head pounding. Stomach constricting. Breathing shallow. So shallow I feel like I’m about to pass out.

  I cut the first wire.

  Then the second.

  Then, I press the blade to the third wire, pull upwards.

  The blade breaks.

  “Ten seconds . . . Come on!”

  “Shit!” I scream. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  “Why are you swearing?” Cal spits. “It can’t be good if you’re swearing!”

  Folding the Gerber back up, I engage the tool’s pliers and cut the last wire with them.

  “Finished,” I say.

  “Seven seconds,” Cal says.

  Without another word, he grabs hold of the Pope by his arm, hefts him over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s hold.

  “Go, Chase!” he screams. “Go! Go!”

  Straightening myself out, I begin to sprint for the tunnel entry, but something hits me. Realization. The truth. The fact that there’s no way on God’s earth we’re ever going to make it out of here alive.

  I stop running. So does Cal.

  “Chase,” Cal says, looking at me with horror in his tear-filled eyes. “This is suicide.”

  As if directed by God himself, I pull the case off my back, open it, pull out the spear. Holding the sacred relic vertically and at chest height, I step forward and press my body against Cal’s and the Pope’s, at the very same moment the three bombs detonate.

  Chapter 51

  The triple blasts are blinding. Deafening. Bone shattering.

  A fire erupts. White hot. A blast furnace fire that surrounds us.

  But we aren’t burning. Our bodies aren’t blowing apart. Disintegrating. Melting. Our bones are not shattering.

  The spear is situated in between us. I’m no longer holding it. It is instead, levitating all on its own. It is alive with the power of Christ. It is glowing. Radiating. Its power is providing us with a kind of shield against the power of the blasts. Rather, we can feel the power of the explosions as the shock waves pass through our systems. We can feel the extreme, white-hot heat. We experience the crushing power of the blasts.

  But we don’t die.

  We sweat hot metal bullets, we feel the searing pain, our bodies weaken right down to the core of our very being.

  But we don’t die.

  We. Don’t. Die.

  It’s a miracle brought about by the Spear of Destiny. It’s a miracle, performed by God above.

  Chapter 52

  When I come to, I can barely see straight. All I can make out is the blurry, if not distorted, outline of the emergency technicians who are picking me up off the tunnel floor by means of a stretcher which is then placed atop a mobile gurney. A clear plastic mask is placed over my face, and I am told to breathe.

  I attempt to speak.

  “Cal, how is the Holy Father?” I whisper. But my voice is so feeble I can hardly hear the words inside my own head.

  All I can make out is the distorted face of a woman standing over me. I think she’s smiling. I think she’s shushing me. Telling me to save my strength. I try my damnedest to smile back at her. To thank her for her kindness.

  Instead, I pass out.

  Chapter 53

  When I come to again, I see bright lights.

  I also feel pain.

  Not a sharp pain in any one particular part of my body. Rather, more like a dull, general pain that starts at the tip of my toes and travels all the way up to the apex of my cranial cap.

  But hey, at least I’m alive. Chase Baker, ever the optimist.

  I manage to grab a look over my right shoulder. Much to my surprise, there’s a man who occupies the bed set beside me. It’s Cal. He’s sitting up strong and tall, and although I can’t be sure, it looks like he’s playing cards. Solitaire.

  I give my eyes a minute to adjust and refocus.

  “Cal,” I say, the name feels like it’s peeling itself from the back of my throat as if it were a dry piece of dead skin. “Cal, that you?”

  He turns, smiles.

  His head is covered with a big white bandage. It looks like he’s wearing a turban. Like he’s the big genie rubbed out of the magic bottle. The portable table-top he’s using as a card table also supports a pink plastic jug of water that he’s accessing with a pink plastic straw. Once he sees that I am awake, he wraps his lips around the straw and inhales a deep sip. The expression that occurs on his red bearded face afterward tells me that the liquid inside the jug isn’t just water or juice or a Virgin Mary for that matter, but instead, booze.

  “Okay, Cal,” I say, “Where the hell did you get the alcohol?”

  “Wait till you meet our nurse, lad,” he says, that sly smile once more returning to his face. “Let’s just say that besides supporting one of the most impressive racks I’ve seen in a long time . . . and that’s coming from a bar keep . . . she’s also resourceful.” Reaching under the bed sheets, he comes back out with a bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey. He holds up the translucent green bottle. “Shot?” he offers. “It’ll clear that dry throat of yours, Baker.”

  He reaches across the narrow open space with the bottle.

  “What the hell,” I say, shoving my back up straight against the spongy pillows. I grab hold of the bottle, untwist the cap, take a long slow sip of the warm, but soothing whiskey. When I’m done, I recap that bottle and hand it back to my younger buddy.

  “You were sleeping like a baby,” he comments, flipping over another card in his ongoing game of solitaire.

  “I thought I was dead,” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Who survives that kind of
explosion without being reduced to tiny bloody bits?”

  “The Pope does, that’s who. And you, and me.”

  Just then, the door to the room opens. In walks a young woman. She’s blonde, her hair long, thick, and full. A lady from the north of Italy if I had to guess. Assuming she is Italian, that is. She’s wearing a white nurse’s dress that fits her body so snuggly it’s like a second skin. The hem ends at her upper thighs where sheer white thigh-high stockings take over.

  She offers me the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen while I hide the bottle of Jameson’s under the sheets.

  “And how are we feeling?” she asks, approaching me and fluffing my pillows. “Can I get you anything? A cup of water perhaps? We’ll be serving dinner in a little while.”

  She even smells good.

  “Cal,” I say, as she turns and slowly makes her way back to the open door, her heart-shaped behind swaying with grace the entire way, “you sure we didn’t die after all? Because this feels like heaven to me.”

  Before he has a chance to answer, a man enters the room at the same time Lovely Nurse exits. He’s of medium height, with a fairly large girth hidden behind a brown suit, pressed light blue oxford, and a red and white striped rep tie. His hair is black, neatly combed and coated in hair oil. His round face is covered in a neatly groomed black beard.

  “Gentlemen,” he says, trying for a welcoming grin, but not quite making it. “I am Detective Paulo Rabuffo of the Rome Polizia Commissariato Borgo Thirteen. I am working in cooperation with the Vatican Swiss Guard to determine precisely the details behind the Papal Father’s recent abduction. You, of course, were integral in his Holy Father’s successful rescue. That said, I hope you are feeling well enough to answer just a few questions.”

  Acting as if on cue, Cal and I slowly turn to one another. We lock eyes and speak to one another without having to utter a single word.

  A quiet beat or two passes. Then, “Oh the pain,” I cry over a long, drawn out and dramatic moan. “I can’t take it. I can’t talk. I don’t have the strength. I need to sleep.”