by Rick Jones
Kimball looked at the flat-screen. Dots were landing and disappearing from faces almost immediately, the computer analyzing that quickly and dismissing them as non-hits. “Contact me should you get a hit,” he told them. “I need to gather a team.”
“Will do,” said Father Auciello.
Kimball stood, the man towering over the two Jesuits, and left the chamber.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Lost Cathedral
When the sermon was over, the hooded converts left the area somewhat gliding off into shadows. The old man, however, moved with aged slowness. He removed the shawl of the Nazi flag from his shoulders and laid it upon the altar. The richness of its once red color had long since faded to a muted rose color. What used to be pristine white had turned to a soft yellow. And the Nazi symbol of the swastika, once black but having its colors washed slowly over the years to a dull gray, remained true as the symbol of the crooked cross.
Reflecting back, he and his second lieutenants had found refuge inside a fieldstone house in the countryside. Though half the roof was missing, the other half kept them dry. In one room heat was a luxury cast from a functioning fireplace. But in the master bedroom on the second floor where a box was hidden inside a dresser, it was here that he found the flag. It was the most glorious thing Gunter Wilhelm had ever seen—the flag so brilliant and bright, the fabric almost new.
And he took this as a sign.
The Reich lives!
Here is its symbol of one law, one rule, and one religion!
Here is the symbol of the Aryan race!
Here is the symbol of intolerance!
And on that night as rain poured down he draped that flag over him as a blanket to keep him warm. Now he wore it as a priestly dress. And he had done so every day for the past sixty-plus years. For him, it provided an incredible sense of security.
Gunter, whose hands were becoming gnarled from disease and old age, attempted to fold the flag when helping hands came in and did it for him. Once the flag was creased and folded, the flag was placed inside the leather bag.
“Thank you, Simon,” said Gunter. “When the last of the Luminaries die, wear this flag well. The Order of Fallen Angels will belong to you. Rule it well.”
“Yes, Your Luminary.”
“Have you news from the Vatican Front?”
“I do.”
“And?”
“Mordecai is dead. Phinehas is in custody—” Simon abruptly cut himself off.
“And?”
“The pope lives. Though he remains in critical condition. It’s also been reported that he’s been moved to the Apostolic Palace, where he is protected by the Vatican Knights.”
Gunter leaned forward to the point that Simon had to grab him, thinking he was about to spill over. But the old man raised his hand. “I’m fine,” he told him. Then he grabbed his leather bag, his staff, and began the march back to his chamber with Simon beside him.
“We will watch and wait to see if his condition improves with time,” he said to Simon.
“And if it does?”
“There are four others,” he responded, “who are just as deadly as they are loyal to the order. I will see this through before the end of my days.”
The progression to the chamber was slow, the old man hobbling at a slow pace, the staff serving more as a crutch rather than a symbol of his station. Simon sidled just as slowly alongside him, keeping pace, with his hands hidden beneath the length of the robe’s sleeves.
Then the old man spoke, his voice marginally higher than a whisper after a lengthy sermon, his voice growing tired. “In time, Simon, once the last Luminary have passed, you will serve as the order’s primary guide. So choose your lieutenants well.”
“I will, Your Luminary.”
“If the values of the Reich should ever rise in my lifetime, then I have lived long enough. If not, at least I know its principles grow daily.”
Beneath the overhang of his woolen cowl, Simon nodded.
For the rest of the journey the old man labored. Simon remained silent. Once they reached the living quarters of Gunter Wilhelm, Simon aided the man to a desk so that he could write passages into a tome that would eventually end up on the shelves of the cathedral’s library.
“Thank you,” he said softly. Then, while holding the pen in his hand and his eyes staring at a point against the far wall, he added, “I’m tired, Simon. I’ve clung to ideologies for sixty-plus years. And here I sit—inside a stone-walled chamber regretting that I haven’t done more to see the fruition of Aryan supremacy.”
“It will happen, Your Luminary.”
The old man feigned a smile and snorted. Though he clung to beliefs, he also knew the world had passed him by—the measures he had taken over time too slow to achieve the means, and perhaps would continue to do so long after his death. “Please, Simon, don’t allow my ideas to fade. This I beg of you.”
Simon placed a gentle hand on Gunter’s shoulder. “We grow by the day.”
The old man raised a birdlike hand and placed it over Simon’s. “I know, my friend. But in the days I have remaining there is at least one event I must see through. An obsession that has clung to me just as strongly as my wishes to see the rise of the Reich.”
Simon knew exactly what he was talking about. It had been an obsession of Gunter Wilhelm for the past three years.
“We wait on the condition of the man who lies clinging to life at the Vatican,” Wilhelm finally said. “If he shows signs of improvement, then send others.”
“The four remaining Knights?”
“And those they have trained. Before I die, Simon, there’s one thing that’s within my power . . . And that’s to see Franz Kleimer-Schmidt dead.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When Simon returned to his chamber he pulled back the hood to his heavy cloak and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Over the past few years his features had changed. His face was more angular and his cheekbones sharper. His chin was more pronounced after dropping enough weight for his cloak to hang over his once broad shoulders like drapery. It was hard living in the jungle where the weather was always hot and steamy, the toxins and calories simply sweating from pores as an involuntary act due to mugginess.
Though Simon was his name within the Order of Fallen Angels, his real name was Enzio Colombo, who was once an elite pilot for Italy’s Air Force, the Aeronautica Milatare. His memory had been washed. But he still maintained remnants and snippets of recall as to who and what he was as a person and a man. He had vague images of his grandfather, images he was allowed to keep. He remembered the man as a devout Fascist, a man with hardcore beliefs that Mussolini was the way toward a new and wonderful light, and that he was a visionary.
He could recollect the outlined principles he often spoke about, such as absolute power of the State, a strict social order, survival of the fittest, and authoritarian leadership, all doctrines that bordered upon Nazi faith.
He also had remembrances of learning how to fly as a pilot and knowing the mechanics of flight. The order had allowed him these memories as well, which served him when he commandeered Shepherd One three years ago. Other memories were faded, mere scenes that had been clouded by continuous washings that were like a fleeting thought that had suddenly escaped him, but still there enough for him to desperately try to remember. But he couldn’t. The thoughts were too elusive.
Nothing existed outside his world other than the order. Memories of close friends and times as a hero with the Aeronautica Milatare were gone.
He could not remember having been taken in Rome by members of the order. Or the interrogations thereafter, the clan cleansing his mind and filling it with new visions, new ideologies, and new hope for a better future of one law, one rule, and one religion.
Under interrogation he spoke of the new pope, a man by the name of Bonasero Vessucci. And of the Vatican Knights who surrounded this man, which intrigued the Luminaries. The Vatican Knights were an elite group of warriors—fighter
s conscripted to protect the interests of the Church, the sovereignty of the State of the Vatican, and to protect the welfare of its citizenry. One man in particular, Kimball Hayden, managed the team.
There were more questions about these Vatican Knights, and even more questions regarding Bonasero Vessucci, the new pope. As days, weeks and months passed, the man evolved and became a part of the collective that was the Order of Fallen Angels, who were the believers of a new age in which everyone had his or her place to contribute.
The Luminaries had seen value in Enzio because his core beliefs of Fascism had roots, no matter how deep they ran if they still ran at all. But the seeds had been planted long ago by his grandfather. They just needed nurturing. More so, he was close to the new pope, this Bonasero Vessucci, and on two occasions had flown the papal plane to foreign destinations with Vessucci onboard.
But the pope, like the Luminaries, was growing old, which, as of late, limited his travel.
Then the whispers, the voices of the Luminaries within his head, all governing his mind and thoughts with insights and dreams of a better future. Enzio, now Simon, would command and lead. He would continue with the faction and make them stronger once the Luminaries were gone.
One law, one rule, and one religion—the guidelines to a new utopia and the leading principles of a new Reich. Nothing else mattered.
Then one day after a sermon he’d been called to the Chamber of the Luminaries. The media had expressed that the new pope was placing cardinals within impoverished areas of Brazil. Whereas the intention was to provide hope to those who needed it most, the Luminaries saw it as something different: an advantage.
Since it was customary to provide protection to locations deemed rather unstable—with local governments in certain constituencies less than sincere in upholding the law—a contingent of Vatican Knights were always onboard Shepherd One to provide maximum security, which was expressed by Enzio during his weakest moments of ‘experimental’ interrogation.
And that was the prize.
These Vatican Knights.
Elite warriors they could command at will. Soldiers they could govern and maneuver with the will to search and destroy with icy fortitude.
The cardinals on the other hand, if they could not be converted because their faith ran deep, would be left behind like so much carnage.
Since advantages were offered for the taking, the Luminaries washed Simon’s mind even deeper. They developed and reshaped his will to follow without question and be subservient to Luminary authority. He would show no conducts of a soul. Instead, he would play a role that would garner them the Vatican Knights, a bonanza of wealth to serve the front lines in future excursions.
Having been sent back to Rome by the order to await a call from Alitalia Airlines to fly the next papal transport, Enzio knew a call to fly Shepherd One would eventually come after the pope announced his aims to shore up impoverished areas in Brazil with additional clerics. Since Enzio had flown many transports before, the Holy See regarded him as a man of good character who could be trusted.
But the man who would board the Alitalia airliner was anything but.
In his bag was a suppressed weapon. And in his mind was the purpose to abscond with Shepherd One.
Plans had been implemented.
A flight plan of deviation was designed.
And Enzio Colombo, the man the Luminaries called Simon, served without a conscience.
The moment he terminated his co-pilot he heard the voices within, those soft whispers in his mind telling him what to do, the words repeating themselves over and over like a mantra.
He took Shepherd One and guided it west, then north with the transponder off and below radar. Knocks came at the cockpit door, hard and furious, but the door was armor-plated and could not be breached.
He maintained his course and flew the plane less than a hundred feet above the canopy of trees.
Several hundred kilometers north a landing site came into view, a thin swatch of land that had been trimmed back for Shepherd One’s landing. It was a location close to the Brazilian, Peruvian and Columbian borders. And quite far from its original point of landing near Brasilia.
The strip was thin and short and certainly not long enough for a commercial airliner.
But Simon’s fears had been stripped away.
He managed the plane’s yoke forward and slowed his speed, then he came down hard against uneven terrain, the wheels bouncing, the hydraulic gear straining, then buckling, the plane canting to its starboard side until the wing hit the makeshift tarmac a moment before snapping off.
The plane skidded and fishtailed as the landscape went by in a blur.
The end of the strip was getting closer as the makeshift berm that was made up from brush loomed closer, a feeble barrier.
The plane slowed against the drag of its undercarriage sliding along the terrain, but not enough as it rammed through the barrier and into a thick copse of trees and brush. The remaining wing clipped down trees and sheered away heavy brush. The fuselage was dented but remained wholly intact. When the plane finally came to a full halt, streamers of steam-like vapors rolled skyward from slight breaches in the hull.
Simon, however, was not hurt. After grabbing his weapon he undid his belt, went to the cockpit door, and swung it wide. Vatican Knights were spread across the floor, dazed. And the cardinals were still confined to their seats and appeared just as stunned.
Since it was mandatory for all weapons to be stowed in the luggage compartment, Simon was the only one who was armed. The suppressed weapon he now held was the scepter of rule. And no one onboard contested his authority.
Whatever happened thereafter remained vague to him, nothing but shadow memories.
Standing before his mirrored image, he finally removed his robe and stood naked before the glass. He was thin, having lost more than twenty-five pounds with his rack of ribs showing in anorexic display, though he ate as required.
His eyes, gray with gold flexes, still sparkled with intelligence. What they lacked was insight, since he was not allowed to see beyond the scope of the order’s principles.
Donning his robe once again, Simon returned to his labors.
And he did so without question.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After writing extensively in his journal, Gunter Wilhelm eased back into his chair and reflected. The undertaking to rebuild the Reich had been more than sixty years in the making. But it wasn’t until the advent of the Internet that the Order of Fallen Angels had started to grow. Websites were built to solicit funds from a neo-Nazi platform indicating viewpoints which the world summarily dismissed in general. But since history was cyclical and often repeated itself, followers were recruited into their ranks and coffers grew, as did membership. In the last twenty-five years they acquired people of business nobility such as bankers and captains of industry, pulling in finances to create a worldwide infrastructure. Since the Internet was closely monitored by watch groups, the Order of Fallen Angels had been labeled as a benign group. The only concern, however, was that the organization didn’t seem to have an address or a hub, just pathways to bank accounts to receive and deposit donated funds, with those accounts often changing to confuse outside tracking.
The old man closed his eyes as pain started to fire up in his groin. For the past few months he’d been in physical decline and growing weaker, as he labored in his gait favoring his condition with short strides and a glacial pace. About two weeks after his eighty-eighth birthday he noticed a tinge of pink in his urine. But as the weeks passed the chamber pot filled with a deeper, darker red. Now he was pissing blood.
Gunter opened his eyes, which had yellowed over the past few days. Irises that were once radiant had diminished to a hue that was flat and without luster at all, the color of slate gray. And when he saw this in the mirror he knew he was dying.
Getting to his feet, a laborious task in itself, his bladder was crying for release, the pain in his groin itching and burning,
the muscles in his mid-section weakening to incontinence as he made his way to the chamber pot.
Then he went to his knees, the pain too great, and allowed his bladder to flow freely. Urine pooled beneath him and spread out like a halo, the fluid red but lacking the true viscosity of blood, more watery. And he groaned as the flow was scalding and never-ending. When the evacuation was complete and his bladder dry, Gunter Wilhelm fell to his side and gasped for air as if he had just run a marathon, the action of urination that strenuous on his body.
As he lay there he looked at the pool of urine, at the stain upon the floor that appeared as the color of tar in the feeble light. In brightly lit conditions it would be red, bright red. He also knew that he was bleeding out every time he needed release. And to him there was nothing worse than dying by the inches.
When he managed to get to his feet he made his way toward the mantel that held his yellowed photos. With fingers that had thinned to the slightness as the tines of a pitchfork, he caressed the images and reminisced of times of greatness and glory, when he had led his unit away from the Red Army vowing to build and cast an even greater shadow than Hitler.
Sixty years later he was still dreaming.
And soon, upon the moment of death, he realized he would die knowing that his regime had reached nothing more than cult status by becoming a syndicate that had no real future. Perhaps Simon, he thought, will bring it to greater heights now that the other two Luminaries had grown too old and aged to manage the front lines.
The picture.
With a fingertip he traced the framework of the photo. They were the Youth movement, the future. The members of the Youth and the children of the Jungvolk waging a bitter war against the enemy along the Russian Front. But the unit was fractured, the children too weak and frightened, always calling for their mothers who abandoned them when matters grew too difficult—such as hunger, cold and disease—or killed.
