To Light Us, To Guard Us (The Angel War Book 1)

by Sean M O'Connell

  “Power again my friend! Bom! Good. Please, set up the connection, I will be with you in a moment.”

  The walkie talkie crackled with finality. Loud in the stillness above the city. Father Cruz regretted having his rare moment of peace interrupted, but the temperamental web of electronics set up below had taught him better than to waste an opportunity. So he crossed himself and stood up from where he’d been sitting on the outstretched arm of his Lord and Savior. The same place where only days before his own life had been saved by one of the Angels that the American Monks called Swans. The soapstone felt cool and smooth on his palms as he pushed up out of a sitting position and stepped into the open air. His movements disturbed the birds perched all around him. They squawked their disapproval into the humid sky.

  “Forgive me my friends.” he laughed to them

  Father Cruz flexed his shoulders and back in a heavy rhythm as his wings stretched wide to catch the ever-present thermal gusts. A lazy spiral carried him all the way to the foot of the statue, where a young American named Smith waited with a Panasonic Toughbook laptop and a hefty looking portable case that Rafael knew to contain a satellite receiver. Trailing from the case was a fat cable that snaked its way to a diesel-powered generator. The boy was a classic tech geek, all elbows and too-baggy video game tee shirts. He was also an extremely capable communications specialist. He had served in similar capacity for the U.S. Army during the Argentine conflict and knew his way around the satellite phone and secure internet connection that had proved invaluable in the procurement of resources for their effort these past few months.

  He also knew how to speak military language. To “talk shop” as the Americans said, with the Monks. Using the young man’s expertise, they had been able to gather enough information to let Cruz know that these visitors had been sent specifically to offer assistance to the priest and his Redentor refugees. They were part of a paramilitary group called the Knights of the Clergy, a group that now wielded considerable power as the appointed commanding body of American military forces, top-secret and otherwise. Moreover, Smith had explained, the United States were in a declared state of Semi-Martial Government, with sunset curfews and prohibitions on inter-state travel. Even inter-city travel was restricted in more dangerous areas.

  All of the information provided told Cruz one thing. These Monks were to be handled carefully. Of course they had saved the day. For that Father Cruz offered his thanks to God.

  Even now, the silent Angels -Swans- Were winging through the favelas and market districts, searching for stranded faithful.

  Also for the Fallen, who they would deal with more harshly.

  Even benevolence had to be received with some caution, because these men and Angels had been sent here by their commanders. Given the state of emergency all over the globe, that could mean only one thing.

  The Monks wanted something from them.

  Cruz alighted next to Smith and took the proffered handset with a nod.

  “Thank you for your time Padre.”

  Cruz smiled inwardly at the way the young man delighted in the commonality between Spanish and Portuguese, assuming that whatever he said Father Cruz would understand.

  “We are connected with a KC Bishop in Salt Lake City, Utah. That is where they are coordinating things.”

  Rafael cringed inwardly at the level of authority he had stumbled into since his manifestation. He didn’t know what this ‘Bishop’ could possibly want from him. Cruz held little love for the USA in his heart after the Argentine War, the Carneguerra it was called in South America.

  He had ministered to a community of refugees from the broken pampas shortly after the conflict started. They were red-eyed from tear gas and ash, but the slow process of their lungs turning to soup from Consumption Virus was what really stuck with the priest. Courtesy of the Americans and their impersonal blanket weapons.

  “Hello?” Father Cruz offered into the mouth piece reluctantly. “With whom am I speaking?”

  Crackling through the headphones came a voice thick with the nasal English of the United States.

  “This is Bishop. And might I ask that you confirm your identity with your full professional and spiritual title please Father?”

  Polite, a rarity.

  “Mr. Bishop, I do not care much for the pomp and circumstance of my church, but I will oblige. Monsignor Ambassador Rafael Salvatore Marco Cruz, Medical liaison to the Apostolate of the Holy See, seat of His Holiness Pope Urban V.”

  Only a short pause followed. Then Bishop started talking.

  “Father. I am told that our connection is unreliable, so I will get straight to the point. I believe you have been informed as to the current role of the Knights of the Clergy. Perhaps some of our history also?”

  “Indeed I have.”

  “What you do not know is that our investigative Priest branch has been following your career as an epidemiologist, and as a Jesuit since your days in the Seminary Prep at Manaus.”

  Father Cruz was surprised by this news. Most of his peers in the Vatican didn’t even know the details of his Formation in the Church. It had been better not to call attention to his roots for promotions’ sake. Humble beginnings were not often smiled upon, even by the Holy Roman Catholic Church.

  His interest effectively piqued, Rafael Cruz urged the man named Bishop on. He ignored the ever-present birds and critters that gathered around him whenever he was still.

  “The role of SK Priests is to find Angels and Fallen before they even show up. They identify target personalities who are considered likely to manifest one way or another if and when manifestations do occur.”

  It made sense to Cruz. Many epidemiologists worked the same way, studying locales and populations that would support diseases, and not just the diseases themselves. Those who were good enough at it were already on location when an outbreak did occur. It was called crisis-mapping.

  “The lists that come out of such investigations are generally quite long, and constantly changing. Like all predictive sciences; the results are inexact, but your name has remained at the top because of your association with another name, on another list. On your opposite list actually.” Had Cruz known Bishop better, he might have been able to read the annoyance at having to disclose so much information in one conversation.

  “Are you following so far?” Bishop asked.

  “I am understanding you quite clearly Mr. Bishop. Please continue. And if you don’t mind, get to the point as quickly as you can, we have much work to do here, and I’d like to take full advantage of the presence of your men before they leave us.”

  “Understood, Father.” The relief, at least, Father Cruz could hear.

  “Your name has remained near the top of our Priests’ list because of your shared background with the man known to the world as Hunter Valdez.”

  Cruz reeled.

  Instinctively he rubbed at his own wrists and neck, where the deep scars used to be.

  Scars created by the name Bishop had just spoken…

  One of the most trying struggles of Rafael Cruz’ adult life had been the seeking of peace and forgiveness within himself over the crimes committed against himself and his family by this man.

  Even as he had been ordained, and blessed with success in his own career, he had sputtered in his efforts to swallow the hatred and resentment every time he saw that handsome face on a magazine cover or television screen. The smile that had charmed its way to so many billions of dollars, pounds, and yen was like the leer of the Devil himself.

  Bile rose every time Rafael Cruz saw it.

  He had been thankful at least to be separated by continents and oceans from the man -the two men- that had robbed him of his loved ones. He had long ago given up his hope to see justice served, accepting with bitter resignation that it was all part of God’s divine plan. Now he was again confronted, after so many years of cutting himself off from those emotions. The air around him suddenly seemed thick.

  Bishop was still speaking.
/>
  “..in your youth, in the neighborhood of Cortinhao. Of course at that time he was known by his birth name, Fabiano Dos Santos. Extensive investigation into his background by the Priests turned up a case in which he was arrested for murder at the age of seventeen. But the case never made it to court because…”

  “Because the prosecution could not find any witnesses willing to testify against him.” Cruz finished the sentence for the faceless voice on the other end, suddenly weary. “That man and his gang murdered my younger brothers and left me for dead. Then he threatened and bribed his way out of a trial.”

  Father Cruz didn’t go on, for fear of sounding bitter. He didn’t tell Bishop how he had watched Renato bleed to death after being stabbed again and again by “Valdez” thugs. No need to relate the details of his own failed attempt to rescue Vanderlei and his young girlfriend from the burning corner store after the gang had locked the burglar gate with the two of them still inside. There was nothing to be done now. His own scars had healed.

  Even becoming an Angel hadn’t burned away the sight of that chiseled, cold face smiling while the dancing flames consumed his brothers. Those same flames had nearly consumed him as well. It was in those painful months of rehab in a Church-run burn hospital that Rafael Cruz had been called to the priesthood. The voice of the Holy Spirit that had for so long whispered to him finally spoke with full force.

  Not a question, but an answer.

  He had received news of Dos Santos and his gang -dubbed the Valdez boys in homage to some obscure American crime T.V. program- bullying their way out of answering for the crime from his own heartbroken grandmother. She had made him promise not to seek revenge.

  He hadn’t.

  Street justice would fail just as court justice had, because in Rio the gangs ruled the streets.

  On the line, Bishop’s tone had changed, become less business-like.

  “Ever since that time, your two lives have taken disparate paths, with you advancing through the hierarchy of the Church and Valdez becoming an icon. Now you are an Angel, while Valdez has created an army of Possessed. We believe that he himself was one of the first to manifest. ”

  Guarding himself against thinking or speaking too rashly, Rafael fumbled in response.

  “But Mr. Bishop, we have seen the same things here in Rio. Even two days ago, your men helped us to defeat an army of these so-called Possessed.”

  “Comparatively speaking, Father.” Bishop argued. “The force you were dealing with was rather benign in terms of its threat level. Valdez has not only recruited thousands of Flyers, he is paying a huge mercenary force to help in his efforts. They are much more organized and well-equipped than anything you have seen.”

  “You will have to forgive me, Mr. Bishop, but I still fail to see what help I can possibly be to you in this. You are now in command of not only your Monks, but the entire U.S. military, are you not?”

  “That is correct Father Cruz- to an extent. The traditional branches of the Armed Forces have been invaluable to us. Still, their main objectives have not changed. These are desperate, dangerous times, and the United States has plenty of enemies that might take advantage of the weakened military infrastructure. There are borders to protect Father.” Another reluctant pause. “The fact is that our forces are stretched dangerously thin. The technological and tactical advantage that we enjoyed at the beginning of this conflict is now much less significant. Our Priests estimate that the Fallen outnumber Angels almost thirty-to-one.”

  To actually hear the disadvantage quantified was sobering, though not all that surprising. Cruz had seen evidence of the stacked odds, day after day.

  “Even with the support of the Monks and the few Marines that can be diverted from current duty, the best we can manage is twenty-one-to-one.”

  Still not a fair fight.

  “Father Cruz, Salt Lake City, here in Utah, Minneapolis-St. Paul in the north, Washington D.C. and San Francisco are the only places in the States that Angels have been able to secure any sort of advantage. Most of our foreign operatives were killed in the early days of the conflict and had to be replaced, so our intelligence from all over the globe is still being pieced together. You yourself probably know very well how bad this crisis is worldwide.”

  In fact Cruz didn’t know how bad things had gotten in other parts of the world. He had enough to worry about right here at the Cristo.

  “Hunter Valdez’s wealth and influence make him a severe international threat. If he is allowed to continue building forces and organize against us,” Bishop continued, “the Angels and any allies are unlikely to survive another three months.”

  Cruz still wondered when the man named Bishop would get to the real point of their conversation. It came now.

  “The men I sent have orders to stay and protect all those under your care until further notice.” He paused, presumably to let the priest digest what he was offering. That would mean firepower, strength: even better transportation in the form of the black helicopters.

  There must be a catch somewhere.

  “In return, I am asking that you travel here, with the Swans and all of your surviving Angels. To help us in the assault on Valdez’s headquarters.”

  “Impossible!” Father Cruz scoffed. This man was asking him to leave his flock. To leave. “These people are followers of Christ! Most of them risked life and limb to escape the troubles and find refuge at the foot of the Redeemer. I cannot just abandon them.”

  “But Father,” Bishop’s spoke slowly, measuring his words. “I am offering to leave over one-hundred of America’s best-trained soldiers behind to ensure their safety.”

  Rafael was confused.

  “Surely there are others who can come to your aid. Others more suited for waging all-out war with this man and his minions. Why us Mr. Bishop?”

  The line was silent for a moment.

  “In all honesty Father, it is you that my superiors sent those men to retrieve.”

  Warm breeze stirred Cruz’s hair. But on the wind was only more confusion.

  “Me? Why? I am a priest and a doctor. Not a warrior.”

  “Yes, but as far as our KC investigations have been able to turn up, you are also the last man to cross Fabiano Dos Santos, Hunter Valdez… And survive.”

  Such news might have been a point of pride for lesser men. For Rafael Cruz it carried the weight of a funeral dirge.

  “We Sleepless Knights do not believe that to be mere coincidence. Not when coupled with your own Angelic Manifestation and successful leadership in the defense of the Cristo.”

  Holy Spirit, guide me.

  “Father Cruz, you are being called to participate in a mission to save the last remaining goodness in this world.”

  Grant me wisdom.

  “We need you, Father.”

  ..In your infinite divine mercy.

  Rafael Cruz had heard the plea of this far-off man. The polite American warrior-monk. But what kind of shepherd would he be if he now abandoned his flock? Especially with the wolves closing in?

  “I’m sorry Bishop. But I cannot go away from here.”

  Again, silence on the other end of the line. Then a response. In a more stern voice.

  “Father, you are wasting time. We have a supersonic jet waiting to transport you and your friends from the nearest airfield.” Bishop’s voice was thick with impatience.

  “Impossible. I cannot leave these people! They have put trust in us -in me- to protect them.”

  “With your cooperation, we can have this threat under control in less than a week. At which time we will of course return you and yours to Rio Di Janeiro.”

  Now impatience began to tickle in Cruz’s own chest. There were still bodies to attend to. And the problem of water distribution among the refugees.

  “Mr. Bishop. I am afraid this conversation is over. I wish you luck. And I will pray for you and your men. The enemy you face is surely in league with the Devil himself.”

  “Father Cruz. Please.”
/>
  “No. I’m sorry.”

  For a heartbeat Cruz thought the American had killed the connection, so complete was the silence. When he did speak again, it was with a sort of detached resonance.

  “Then I’m afraid you leave me no choice Father.” The priest was confused and appalled to be talked to in such a way. He was about to protest, when Bishop spoke a single word.

  “Centurion.”

  Centurion?

  Cruz’s puzzlement gave way to a sort of icy understanding as the three Monks standing casually around him and listening to the transmission on their own headsets sprang into action. The two at his left and right hand seized his wrists, applying force at odd angles to make it harder to resist.

  Outraged and disbelieving he threw his wings wide.

  Just as he did so, the Monk standing directly in front of him, short and stocky, pulled a syringe from some pocket and jabbed the needle deep into Cruz’s bicep. He wore an apologetic look as he did so, something near shame.

  Immediately the priest felt his limbs relax.

  Muscles turned to jelly and wings beat lazily against the hard men who now kept him from falling on his face.

  His mind stayed sharp longer than his motor skills, but the realization of what was happening was almost too strange to process.

  Centurion.

  A code word. An order to the Monks to secure his cooperation by any means necessary.

  Heavy sedative coursed through improved tissues quickly, pulling him into warm darkness.

  The last thing Rafael Cruz heard was the communications expert, Smith, protesting loudly before he fell into an incredulous sleep.

  Decrypted Archival File 0244-555

  KC Casey Morgan Deacon: Cristo Province, Brazil

  Entry 1: Centurion Order. Confirmed Brian Hin Bishop

  Entry 2: Centurion seizure successful. En route to Zion Province Rendezvous: Rafael Cruz Angel in Emergency Custody.

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Serena Dayne’s arms were broken. Both of them. The pain was as severe as anything she had felt since the changes first happened, but the real problem was the fact that she would be forced to wait before they would function properly again. Their third attack on Babel had just failed, and worse, they were out of ideas.