The Third Trumpet

by Anthony R. DiVerniero

  “Can I ask you, sir, how did you know not to board Air Force One?”

  “It was a protocol called hide-and-seek, to be used in the event we were attacked. I give tribute to those men who sacrificed their lives that day for Secretary Bennett and myself.”

  “Amen to that.” Giacomo went to the bedroom without glancing at Sergio and Alessio and closed the door.

  “General, you’re on speaker. With me is your second in command, Colonel Vandercliff, and Tom Maro.”

  Pleasantries were exchanged. A shudder traveled through Giacomo’s body.

  “Giacomo . . . no good way to say this. It appears your sister financed the FFB.”

  “Not true,” he said, but a sickening dread overcame him. His hand clenched into a fist. “Impossible. Where’s this intel coming from?”

  “Senator Boyle says she’s got proof. A money trail that implicates Rio,” Maro said.

  “Did you see the proof?”

  “No. My new chief of staff brought it to my attention, and I called Arthur.”

  “They’re full of it—totally not true.” Giacomo was adamant. “I’ll fly back to the States tonight and straighten her ass out.”

  “Giacomo, calm down. The FBI and CIA intelligence shows no validity in the accusation. The problem is the news media. They’re picking up the story, and Rio will become a scapegoat.”

  “Jason, this is bullshit. I’ll handle this.” Giacomo tried to lower his voice.

  “Giacomo, stay in Rome. Remember, as far as the media is concerned, your sister is dead.”

  “Mr. President, I understand, but—”

  “No buts, General. Like I said, another scenario is being played out. We need you to resolve it. This is all connected—the attack, you, the journal, and the prophecy.”

  “I understand, sir.” Giacomo realized he’d lost this battle, so he changed the subject. “Arthur, how bad is it?”

  “We’re still waiting for the final numbers. The Joint Chiefs’ plan is working.”

  “How safe is the capital?”

  “We’re well protected here. Three buildings were destroyed, but luckily not much loss of life. We captured the insurgents. They’re being questioned. This will be over within seventy-two hours.”

  “Your words to God’s ears.”

  “I hope God is listening. Giacomo, your father’s words saved our government from being overthrown today. I’m grateful that you shared his journal. The accusations against your sister are painful for you to hear. Over the next couple of days when the news hits the airwaves—well, I don’t think I have to tell you to be patient and try not to forget the bigger picture.”

  “I’ll do my best, but I’ll prove her innocence.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “Gentlemen,” Maro said, “Congress is furious. They want answers. They don’t want to take responsibility. I wouldn’t be surprised if one or two members are behind the FFB. This uprising is as much their fault as it is ours.”

  “I agree, Tom. Political changes need to be made, per our Constitution, but not by violence. You have to win this election.”

  “The people need to decide, Andrew—not you and me.”

  “Yeah, you can have this job.”

  Giacomo interrupted them. “Can we trust anyone in the government? I’m confident the attack on the White House was orchestrated by an insider.”

  “You’re correct. Four members of our staff and one from Secret Service. I suggested that BOET work with the agency to guard POTUS.”

  “Excellent idea, Jason. Did you vet the agents?”

  “Yes. All checked out. I’d feel more comfortable if BOET was in charge.”

  “Understood. You’ll have a battle on your hands separating the powers.”

  “Power—screw that. I need to protect our country.” Waldron abruptly changed the subject. “General, the road appears to be a difficult one. You’ll be on your own for a while.” Without further elaboration, he said, “Be careful, son.” The phone line died.

  Giacomo walked out of the bedroom suite—he said nothing. Sergio, by the TV, watched the news reports from around the world. Images of his country being attacked besieged the screen. Alessio, on the other side of the room, stared out the window as he talked on his cell phone.

  “Giacomo, what’s going on?” Alessio placed his phone in his pocket.

  Sergio turned and faced his business partner.

  “Sergio, tomorrow we need to work on a new project.”

  “Anything I can help with?” Alessio asked.

  “Prove my sister didn’t finance the FFB.”

  Chapter 38

  Giacomo offered no further explanation. He shook his head in dismay as they left. What do I need to do to prove my sister’s innocence? More important, how am I going to do it? In a matter of hours, the family name would be broadcasted across the news media—and not in a good way. He paced the hotel suite.

  He gazed out the seventh-story window. The radiance of the Roman lights devoured the black night. The siren of a police car echoed in the distance. At one o’clock, he decided to go for a walk. He assured the AISI agent who was guarding him he would be fine. The air had a chill but not enough for a jacket. Surprised at the amount of traffic, Giacomo placed his hands behind his back and strolled in contemplation. His father knew the attacks would happen. The country was prepared, yet we couldn’t stop it. What’s the purpose of knowing if you can’t do anything about it?

  He found himself beneath the yellow glow of lights in St. Peter’s Square. The basilica was cast in white beams. He scanned the heavens. A sliver of a moon dangled in the midnight velvet sky as the stars radiated their brilliance to the world below. He circled the obelisk to begin his trek back to the Marriott before his bodyguard sent out a search party.

  “Mr. DeLaurentis?”

  Giacomo had sensed he was being shadowed. He was surprised that the stalker made his presence known.

  “Yes. Who are you?” Giacomo lowered his head, his feet firmly planted. He twisted at the waist. His arm outstretched, he grabbed the man by the throat.

  “Wait, wait . . .” The stalker threw up his arms in surrender.

  Giacomo, who towered over him, released his grip.

  “Why are you following me?”

  “I can help you.”

  He was hidden in the shadows of the streetlight, but Giacomo could see his pudgy nose and the dark circles under his eyes. He was Italian, dressed in dark clothes and a thin overcoat. The man brushed his hair out of his eyes.

  “How?”

  “We don’t have much time, Giacomo.” His English was hard to understand. The man’s eyes swept the road.

  “Who are you?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just listen. I received a letter from your father.”

  They crossed the bridge. The sound of the Tiber broke the eerie silence.

  “You’re being misled. It’s not the journal. It’s not what it seems.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A new world beckons.”

  “Why? What did my father say?”

  “Because, there are people other than your father who know the outcome of the prophecy.”

  “What outcome?”

  “Meet me tomorrow at ten at the Piazza Navo—” Suddenly, a four-door Mercedes screeched to a halt, the scent of the burnt rubber permeating the air. The nameless man turned to run.

  The rear passenger door opened. A hooded man jumped out of the vehicle, gun in hand. He aimed the pistol at the running man’s back—pop, pop! He fell face-first. Giacomo reacted but not fast enough. The assailant leaped back into the car as it sped away.

  Giacomo crouched next to the victim and rolled him over. He was still breathing. His eyes opened. He mumbled, “Grosseto . . .” and then let out a little gasp. He was dead. Giacomo ch
ecked his pockets for identification and his father’s letter—nothing.

  Chapter 39

  After answering questions and making a phone call to Alessio, Giacomo was released. The polizia took him back to the Marriott, where two AISI agents stood guard on either side of his hotel room door. He telephoned Jason and left a message. He then called Emily.

  “Sorry to wake you, Em.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes and no.” He briefed his wife.

  “You’re lucky you weren’t killed.” Emily’s voice was full of fear.

  “True. But I wasn’t the target.”

  “Still, Giacomo, they could’ve killed you.”

  He resigned himself to the argument.

  “You don’t know who the man was?”

  “No.”

  “Grosseto. Could that be the village in Tuscany?”

  “I think so. My father used to visit there. Em, this is so discouraging. The attacks . . .”

  “I turned on the TV. The fighting appears to be out west, except for DC.”

  “Yeah, that’s my understanding. I dread tomorrow. Rio’s face will be all over the media.”

  “Giacomo, she didn’t finance the FFB. Those allegations are ridiculous.”

  “How do I prove it?”

  “You will. I’m coming to Rome tomorrow. We should be together.”

  “I don’t know, Em. I’m concerned about your safety.”

  “Giacomo, please. I need to be with you.”

  He heard the whimper in her voice. “Em, you’re safer n Ottati.” Giacomo’s heart broke as she sobbed. “Please stop crying. You’re right. I’ll let Alessio know to secure the route. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I love you, Giacomo.”

  “Love you too, Em.”

  Giacomo tried to sleep but to no avail. His eyes focused on the ceiling. What the hell’s happening? Who was the stranger? What was he trying to tell me? A new world . . . Grosseto . . . prophecy . . . not the journal . . . I’m being misled. Not what it seems? Senator Boyle? Rio? The questions swirled unanswered in his mind. He finally fell asleep at four in the morning—10:00 p.m. on the East Coast of the United States, where fighting raged into the night.

  Chapter 40

  Twenty C-17 Globemaster III military transports circled their targeted areas. Dispatched from Altus, McChord, Travis, and Dover Air Force Bases, the 1,753 paratroopers waited for the green jump light.

  First Sergeant Edward Gaines had recently returned to the United States as part of the emergency pullout from Afghanistan and Europe. The African American man took his position as protector of the American people seriously. Now, he stood in the doorway of the cockpit. At four minutes after midnight, he tapped the pilot on the shoulder.

  “Any word yet, Zabs?” he asked the aircraft commander.

  “We should be there in ten, Hulk.”

  His nickname, Hulk, was because of his massive, chiseled body. Gaines was respected within the cadre of the Black Operations Elite Team. He was a no-nonsense military man who believed in the fundamentals of the American Constitution and freedom for its people.

  “Roger that, Zabs.”

  Gaines prepared to address his men.

  “Attention! First sergeant on deck,” the jumpmaster barked over the whine of the engines.

  Ninety-eight men stood dressed in paratrooper paraphernalia; each held an M4 carbine. Facing each other, they formed an aisle for Gaines.

  “At ease, gentlemen. A new chapter in the history of America is about to be written. Not since the Civil War have citizens been pitted against one another to threaten the solidarity of our government. Our task tonight is to defend our country against our own people who have united with the Islamic Fundamentalists. It is our duty as defenders of this great nation of ours to defeat those who wish to destroy the fabric of freedom.”

  Gaines marched toward the rear of the plane. He took his snap hook, attached it to the anchor line, and turned to face the soldiers. “Our orders are to infiltrate the headquarters of Tariq Kahn. We are to capture their communications center. This homegrown training facility is the nerve center of their operations. We will hold no prisoners. Godspeed.”

  The left and right doors opened in the cargo area. The green jump light was followed by a bell to signal the men. They attached their snap hooks to the cable and jumped into the blistering September night twenty miles south of San Antonio, Texas.

  Chapter 41

  Fifteen Hours after the Initial Attack

  Seated in the US Command Center in Washington, DC, were Thomas Maro, SECDEF, the chief of staff, the Joint Chiefs, and the directors of the CIA, FBI, and NSA. The vice president and Secretary of State Webb were noticeably absent. For the rest of the conflict, the president would be isolated from them to protect the secession requirements of the Constitution.

  Waldron, dressed in black sweatpants and a zippered navy-blue fleece jacket, was flanked by Jason Vandercliff. BOET men guarded the entrances to the room and continually scanned the participants. Any unnatural move toward the commander in chief would be met with physical—if not deadly—force.

  “The plan worked, Mr. President.”

  “Excellent. How many captured?”

  “Last count: 176,323.”

  “How many enemy dead?”

  “Enemy dead, sir: 63,217.”

  “Ours?”

  “We lost 4,986.”

  “Injured?”

  “So far, 1,751,” the chief of staff replied. He placed the report on the conference table.

  “Civilian causalities?”

  “We believe the final number will exceed a hundred thousand.”

  Waldron turned ashen. He covered his face with his hands. A moment of rage overcame him as he banged the table with a fist. Startled, a BOET man withdrew his pistol. Jason held up his arm. The man stowed the 9-mm.

  “Can we expect another attack?”

  The FBI director opened a folder, his attention focused on Tom Maro. “Mr. President, should we discuss this in private?”

  Waldron’s voice was gruff and angry. “Mr. Maro might well be your next president. There is no party line in this room. We are fighting for our freedom, gentlemen. We must stand strong. And if you don’t like it . . .” He glared at the seated men. “Then don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”

  “My apologies, sir.”

  “I can leave, Andrew.”

  “No. Now, when I ask a question, I want a damn answer.” He banged his fist once again. Snubbing the FBI director, he said, “Mr. Bennett, can you answer the question?”

  “Yes, sir. The information gathered from the seized terrorist headquarters suggests we can expect another attack within the next twelve hours.” The lanky man used a laser pointer, the red dot focused on a map of the United States. “Mr. President, these circles denote the training camps of the terrorist cells that we have not yet captured.” SECDEF eyed the twenty-four-hour clock above Waldron’s head. “With your approval, in eighteen minutes, air force bombers will attack these twenty-three sites.”

  “Are they still active?” Tom Maro interjected.

  “Yes. The successful capture of Kahn’s headquarters allowed us to intercept their communications. We were able to break their code and issue new orders for the second wave of attacks—delaying it by three days.”

  “Will it work?”

  “We can’t take the chance and wait. We need to attack now.”

  “How many insurgents?” Waldron asked.

  “We estimate seventy-five to a hundred thousand.”

  “How could this be?” The president shook his head in disbelief. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Secretary Bennett.

  “Can you show me the satellite surveillance?”

  The N
SA director grabbed a remote control. A fifty-four-inch screen illuminated. “If I may, Mr. Secretary?”

  Bennett nodded.

  “Mr. President, from these images, it appears there is nothing but farmland and open wilderness. When we add infrared imaging . . .”

  “Oh my God!” Waldron’s eyes grew wide in astonishment. “All twenty-three sites are like this one?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Is that what I think it is? An underground city?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  President Waldron stood and slammed the table with his fist. Leaning forward, he growled at his Joint Chiefs of Staff. “I want them destroyed. I want those bastards dead.” Without hesitation, the commander in chief said, “Execute the operation, Mr. Secretary.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Waldron dropped to his seat. “May God have mercy on us.”

  Chapter 42

  Fifteen minutes later, at forty thousand feet over the Texas Hill Country thirty miles north of San Antonio, two B-52 bombers opened their bay doors. Perched inside each aircraft were three twenty-foot-long, thirty-thousand-pound GBU-57A/B Massive Ordinance Penetrator bombs—known as MOP, designed to destroy underground bunkers. Dropped from a high altitude, the projectiles would penetrate two hundred feet of earth before unleashing their wrath of destruction.

  “Weapons release in one minute, Captain.”

  “Roger. Navigator, inform command.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “Command issued the continue code.”

  “Roger.”

  “Bombs away.”

  The tools of destruction laboriously emerged from the planes. As the laws of physics took over, their downward speed increased into a frenzied plummet to their targets.

  * * *

  The American-born terrorist reviewed the video reports from his room seventy feet underground. Shouts of joy from his troops echoed in the halls of the concrete city as they watched the newsfeed. He had dispatched a thousand of his men to attack the city of San Antonio. In every war, there would be a loss of life. He understood that. What he couldn’t comprehend was the rapid response of the United States government. He would have his revenge but not today. In a last-minute communiqué from central command, he was told to stand down for seventy-two hours. The remaining five thousand men under his control were given a reprieve.