The Hand of Christ

by Joseph Nagle

  The men obeyed their Colonel’s orders and picked the old man up from the floor.

  Once he was on his feet, the Primitus looked at the Colonel and said, “I should have known, you are with The Watchmen. What do you propose to do with me, Colonel?”

  Colonel Camini stepped nearer to the Primitus and addressed him, “Cardinal Francois, you are the Dean of the College of Cardinals and the “Primus inter Pares” – the first among equals – and I am the head of the Swiss Guard and charged with your protection. Cardinal Francois, I am also charged with the protection of the Vatican from the likes of you.” Colonel Camini stepped closer to the ranking member of the Catholic Church and lowered his face to that of the cowering Catholic Cardinal. “And protect her is what I intend to do.”

  The Colonel snapped his fingers.

  “Get him out of here!”

  Michael and Colonel Camini stared quietly at one another for a few moments.

  “Will you be alright, Dr. Sterling?” asked the Colonel as he broke their silence.

  “Yes, I think so. It could have been much worse. So, the Cardinal’s plan all along had been to kill Pope Leo so that he would be elected as the next Pope?”

  “It would appear so, Dr. Sterling. As the first among equals, Cardinal Francois was the favored member of the Church to become the next Pope.”

  “What will you do with him, Colonel?”

  “Cardinal Francois will be made to retire, that is all that you need to know. It is better for you.”

  “And the book; the Apocryphal? What will you do with them?”

  “Dr. Sterling – Michael – they will be put in a safe place and will be well guarded. The Order has suffered a defeat, and is broken, but they won’t be for too long. Two of their leaders are dead and the head of The Order is finished. It will take time, but they will regroup. The Apocryphal has a list of Christ’s descendents; it will be much easier for us to trace them now. But now that they know of the Apocryphal, and that we have it, I suspect that The Order will double their efforts to recover it. These items will be kept from their hands. They must be.”

  Colonel Camini turned to walk away.

  “But, Colonel, what about the truth of the Crucifixion, doesn’t the world have a right to know?”

  Camini stopped in his tracks and only peered over his injured shoulder at Michael.

  “What is the truth, Michael? Who amongst us can truly say what it is? Our world is an angry and violent place; the truth about Christ will not change that, but time will. People, however misguided they are, will evolve, and with their evolution, new truths learned and old lies will be cast aside. Have faith in humanity, Michael.”

  “Faith is hard to have, Colonel.”

  “Indeed. I wish you well.”

  And then the Colonel walked away.

  Chapter Eighty

  FOX Studio B

  New York, NY

  Anthony – “Tony” to his friends – Atkins, had been a news correspondent for FOX News for eleven years, and he knew a cover-up when he saw one.

  The Celtics were playing the Lakers and FOX was airing the game live. Sometime during the middle of the third quarter, the producer handed Tony a brief on breaking news, and everything about it smelled – wreaked – of a cover-up.

  Just once, he wished that he could expose the never ending propagandist bull-shit, but his middle six-figure salary, enviable downtown loft, and trophy-girlfriend were just too hard to give up. We all have our price, and Tony was being paid his.

  The Producer moved fast and with purpose. Tony had just enough time to pull off the protective tissue paper that the hair and make-up crew had tucked into his shirt collar before going live.

  “Tony, we are going to break into the game! You have five seconds, and four, and three, and…” The producer stopped speaking and held up two fingers and then one. He pointed at Tony. They were live.

  Tony read the script from the teleprompter, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we apologize for the interruption of the regularly scheduled program to bring you breaking news. FOX News has learned that a low-yield nuclear weapon has detonated approximately eighty miles north of Las Vegas. Witnesses as far away as the resort city reported seeing a mushroom-cloud forming from the site of the blast.

  “Numerous reports told of a small white streak in the sky just before the blast. However, the United States Department of Energy (DOE) released an official statement that an unannounced, underground nuclear test was the cause of the mushroom cloud, and that there were neither injuries nor fatalities, and there is no cause for any concern. When asked by a reporter about the blatant violation this nuclear test was of the Comprehensive Nuclear Test Ban Treaty, the DOE official reminded the reporter that the United States has never signed the treaty.

  “In other breaking news, and occurring at nearly the same time as the nuclear blast outside of Las Vegas, an Iranian nuclear energy facility on the southwestern coast of the Persian Gulf was destroyed in an apparent missile attack.”

  Tony saw the red light from camera one turn off and the one on camera three turn on, this was for effect. He coyly moved his eyes from camera one to camera three, bent his head down, lowered his voice, and uttered an oft heard phrase:

  “No one has yet claimed responsibility.”

  EPILOGUE

  Phantom Canyon Microbrewery

  Colorado Springs, CO

  “Thanks for the beer, sir,” York said and then nodded obligingly at CPT Scott.

  “Don’t worry about it, Corporal, you deserve it – again,” replied CPT Scott.

  CPL York looked at CPT Scott and smiled.

  “York, I wanted you to know that I am putting you in for a Defense Superior Service Medal; you’ll get it, too, on verbal orders of the President. That doesn’t happen very often, York; if I could, I would put you in for a Silver Star, but you need to be in combat for one of those.”

  York sat up straight and was nearly speechless; he was both surprised and proud, and then found his voice, “Thank you, sir, I don’t really know what to say, but thank you.”

  “Thank the President, York,” replied CPT Scott. “You know, York, you’re going to make a lot of officers turn their heads with that medal on your chest.”

  “Why’s that, sir?”

  “It’s usually only given to flag officers or generals when they perform ‘superior meritorious service in a position of significant responsibility.’ And, of course, the reason why you were awarded the medal will be classified.” answered CPT Scott.

  York felt a ripple of pride run through him, but tried his best not to show it; CPT Scott noticed. Without saying anything, the elder soldier picked up his Hefe-Weizen and took a large swallow. Setting it down, he turned to CPL York and said, “York, I brought you here for another reason. The President contacted me after the Professor safely made his way out of Rome.”

  “The President called you, sir?”

  “Yes, Corporal, he did. He asked about you, and I told him that you were getting out of the military soon; he was surprised to hear that the Army would be losing – how did he put it – ‘such a fine example of a soldier.’”

  “The President said that about me?” asked York.

  “York, I told him that you had made up your mind, and were getting out of the Army. The President was sorry to hear that, and he wanted me to tell you that he wishes you well, but that if you decided to stay in, he would give you any assignment you wanted, including Officer Candidate School (OCS).”

  CPL York was robbed of his words and said nothing. Instead, he just sat quietly in heavy contemplation. He was about to utter something when the bartender stopped in front of them and slid two fresh beers onto the bar along with a note, which he pushed toward the Corporal, and said, “You’re just a popular guy aren’t you?”

  York looked at CPT Scott who just shrugged. Opening the note, York read it: “Thanks for keeping your eyes on me; enjoy the beers I promised. Dr. Sterling.”

  “What the hell!” spat out Yo
rk as he jumped to his feet. “Who gave you this?”

  The bartender extended his index finger and pointed behind York and said, “That guy over there did…” A confused look draped across the bartender’s face as both CPL York and CPT Scott turned to look where the bartender was pointing.

  The bar was nearly empty and all they saw was the door for the bar’s exit swinging on its hinges.

  York stared at the door, and without looking at CPT Scott said, “Sir, the President’s offer, was it for anything?”

  “Yes, Corporal, it was.”

  “I know what I want, sir.”

  “What’s that, York?”

  Reaching into his back pocket, York pulled out the Special Forces recruiting pamphlet that CPT Scott had given to him and threw it on the bar, “I want to roll around in the bushes with the best, sir.”

  CPT Scott smiled.

  Oval Office

  The White House

  The President of the United States was sitting at the Resolute; his legs were crossed and his hands cupped behind his head as he leaned slightly back in his chair. He stared at the vaulted ceiling of the Oval Office and realized that this was the first moment in the past forty-eight hours that everything around him was calm.

  Closing his eyes, he tried hard to think of absolutely nothing, and for a brief moment his mind was blank.

  Earlier in the day, he had received word from the Vatican that the Pope would survive the assassination attempt, and that President Ahmad of Iran wanted to “open up a dialogue” with the United States in an effort to work “hand-in-hand” to find all of those responsible for the attack on Umayyad and the assassination of the Ayatollah. There had been no mention of Iran’s nuclear missile systems; the President would deal with that later. Undoubtedly, being faced with the brink of nuclear annihilation has a way of filtering through religious dogma and political ineptness and making a man more amenable to productive discussions.

  The President chuckled out loud when he thought this.

  Closing his eyes once more, the President felt relaxed, really relaxed, but knew that the feeling wouldn’t last long. Prophetically, the sharp buzz of his phone disturbed his moment of peace. Reaching to the phone’s console, he pushed the illuminated button and asked, “Yes, Mrs. Childs, what is it?”

  “Mr. President, the Director of Homeland Security is here at your request.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Childs, send him in.”

  The door of the Oval Office furthest from the Resolute opened, and the DHS was escorted in by the President’s personal Secret Service Officer.

  “Thanks, Tiny, you can wait outside,” said the President.

  In a voice that truly belonged to the very large Secret Service Officer, Tiny flatly responded, “Yes, Mr. President.”

  The President stood and walked to the DHS and said, “John…”

  But before the President could utter his second word, the DHS interrupted, “Mr. President, I know that my actions were not the right ones, and I am sorry; I was just doing what I thought was best at the time. I promise you that I will learn from them.”

  The President held up his hand signaling for the DHS to stop speaking, but the silent command gestured by the President was lost on the DHS.

  “Sir, I was only doing what I thought was best for the country! I work only to serve you.”

  “John!” boomed the President’s voice, “Let me give you a small lesson in politics; when the President of the United States holds up his hand indicating that he would like to say something, it is best that you learn that it means to shut the hell up!”

  The DHS’s mouth looked ready to close, but for a quite explicable reason, it could not and hung widely agape.

  “And,” continued the President, “you do not serve me, you serve only yourself, and if you think your actions over the past forty-eight hours worked to serve this country, then you are, not only downright delusional, but just plain stupid.”

  “But, Mr. President,” the DHS interjected; the President had long grown tired of the man.

  “John, shut up! From this moment forward, you are no longer the Director of Homeland Security. You have been nothing short of a dismal failure; every question, remark, and statement from your mouth during this crisis was wrong, ignorant, borderline racist, and showed extremely poor judgment. If I would have put any weight into your suggestions or credence to your actions, this country would have been enveloped in chaos. People’s lives would have been lost, John! Normally, this wouldn’t be easy for me to do, but with you it is: I expect your letter of resignation on my desk within the hour.”

  The DHS stood limp and with his mouth still unable to close; his face appeared drained of any color. He wanted to speak but could not muster the words.

  The President looked at him and said, “That will be all,” and pointed to the door.

  Through a small peephole in the door to the Oval Office, the Special Assistant to the President, Carlton P. Hastings, watches everything that happens in the Oval Office in order to keep the President on schedule, or to look for any visual cues that the President wanted to be interrupted. He saw the President point to the door, and, without hesitation, he opened it.

  “Carlton,” ordered the President, “please have the ex-DHS escorted from the White House and to his office. Confiscate his identification badges and accompany him along with a Security detail. He has one-hour to clean out his desk and office of his personal effects. Do not let him use his computer. At the end of the hour, I expect that the ex-DHS will hand you his hand-written letter of resignation that you will personally deliver to me. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” responded Carlton.

  Carlton motioned to the ex-DHS and said, “Please come with me, sir.”

  Without any need to be told, two Secret Service Officers entered the Oval Office, walked over to the ex-DHS, and stood behind him.”

  Sheepishly, the ex-DHS began to ask, “Please, Mr. President, I know that I…”

  The President held up his hand; this time the DHS acted correctly to the visual cue to stop speaking.

  The President ordered, “Get out, John.”

  The two Secret Service Officers moved closer; one firmly grasped the ex-DHS by his elbow and led him toward the door of the Oval Office.

  “Oh, and John,” the President said. “Do not attempt to find any position of employment within a measurable radius of government. I think you will find that one doesn’t exist.”

  The President returned to the Resolute and sat down. Leaning over to his telephone, he pushed the intercom button.

  “Yes, Mr. President?” answered Mrs. Childs.

  “Is the Director of the NRO here yet?”

  “No, Mr. President, I found him in Room 4C-1000 at the Pentagon, he was in the middle of a briefing. I instructed him to leave immediately; he should be here momentarily.”

  “Good; when he arrives, send him in.” One down, one to go, thought the President.

  Two Months Later

  Keystone Ski Resort

  Keystone, Colorado

  At the top of the snow-capped mountain, Michael stopped next to a white sign that was adorned with a large, ominous black diamond indicating that the mogul run was for expert skiers only. Smiling, he read the name on the sign, looked over the edge of the steep run, and said to no one in particular, “‘Cat Dancer’ – how she loves to ski the bumps.”

  Michael adjusted his goggles, let out a deep breath, pushed off with his ski poles, and worked his way down the expert terrain of, arguably, America’s longest mogul ski run. Michael worked hard to keep his parabolic skis together as he sliced through every jarring bump of the wide, undulating, and steep slope. Quite soon he felt bits of sweat droplets trickling down the sides of his cheeks and the lactic burn of his quads as he skied from and over one mogul to the next. His lungs struggled for more of the thin mountain air; hypoxia, he thought, as his breathing became even more labored.

  Just below Michael and
further down Cat Dancer, Sonia was waving her ski poles at him. Michael skied down to her and, coming to an abrupt stop next to her, sprayed her with some of the new, fresh snow.

  Brushing the shower of snow from her ski jacket, she gazed wickedly at her husband, and laughingly asked, “Michael; how is it that a super-duper, top-secret agent for the CIA can’t keep up with his little-ole wife on the slopes?”

  Michael was bent over at the waist to catch his breath and thinking about pushing his sarcastic wife into the powder when his CIA-issued cell phone rang.

  Before reaching for the phone, Michael breathlessly muttered, “Officer, honey. We are called officers.”

  He pulled the phone from his pocket and tapped the black screen which illuminated the phone, and answered, “Hello.”

  Sonia eyed him curiously; Michael offered her a crooked smile and just shrugged his shoulders as he answered, “This is Michael. Oh, hello, Mr. President, to what do I owe the honor?”

  “Oh, give me a break, Michael; do you expect me to fall for that?” asked Sonia as she rolled her eyes back into her head.

  Michael put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and mouthed, “It is the President!” and then he did push her into the thick powder of the freshly fallen snow.

  “Yes, sir, I have enjoyed my vacation.”

  Michael looked at Sonia who was growing increasingly curious about the conversation.

  “Yes, I understand, sir. May I take some time; I would like to speak with my wife about this if that’s alright? Thank you, sir.” Michael tapped the screen of the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. He looked at his wife who was lying comfortably in the snow, and held out his hand.

  Grabbing her husband’s outreached hand, instead of allowing him to pull her up, Sonia pulled him down on top of her and asked, “Okay, Michael, what was that about; what did the President of the United States want with my husband?”