by Ray Flynn
Back on the Cape, the sun was setting, and just before it turned dark and the mission would have to be discontinued for the day, Colleen spotted a small but remarkable bright orange and blue light about ten miles away. “What’s that over there? What is it?” she cried, pointing in the direction of a seemingly pulsating glow in the sky, the silver beads of her rosary shining in her hands.
The pilot turned to the southeast and proceeded toward the gleam. The flickering light blossomed larger as they closed on it. The pilot could not discern what the light in the sky had to do with the missing boat, but he followed Colleen’s importunings. As they came closer to the light they could now see that it was some sort of break in the cloud formation through which a golden beam flickered and reflected on the waters below.
Colleen looked down at the ocean and cried out, “Look, look, there is something down there.” She pointed out the side window. “Oh, my God, it looks like a small raft.”
The pilot could not see what it was some two or three thousand feet below him. The mysterious ray of light was fading as the helicopter descended closer to the surface of sea. As the object on which the dimming light was focused became increasingly visible, it was now clear that there was an orange life raft directly below them. They could see that the crew was frantically waving a white sheet back and forth. The pilot radioed his base, giving them the small craft’s exact location.
“Coast Guard cutter on the way,” crackled the return message.
The helicopter continued to circle the boat, and the pilot counted the number of crew members. “I make out five men. That’s how many I was told were reported to have left the dock. Five put out on Monday, and there are five down there.”
“Thank God,” Colleen and the bishop kept saying.
An air crewman dropped a long rope from which was suspended a first aid survival kit, flares, and a radio signal transmitter. Colleen kept trying to see Ryan, but it was now too dark to recognize anyone’s face. The helicopter dropped a flare just as the shimmering light disappeared in the dark sky above them. Colleen imagined she could distinguish Ryan’s tall figure.
The helicopter turned back to base and landed just as the fuel tanks were registering empty. But the search had been successful. Continuing it had paid off.
Colleen and Bishop Sean stepped out of the helicopter and walked into the base command office, where Paula and Senator Lane were waiting together. They entered just in time to hear, “We have control of the situation, all accounted for,” crackle over the radio from the Coast Guard cutter.
The next voice said, “Hello, sis. It’s me, Ryan. I’m OK, and everyone else is, but we were scared to hell.”
“Ryan, the bishop is with me. Thank God you and everyone are OK.”
“Thank God is right. Hey, I heard you got religion. That’s great.”
Colleen smiled and pressed the rosary beads in her hand. “Everyone had been worried sick. Paula wants to talk with you.”
“I love you, Ryan. Are you OK?” Paula called over the radio.
“I’m fine—now. I love you, Paula.”
“Can we call the Vatican from here?” Colleen asked the commandant, who had just entered the base communications center.
“Certainly, I think so. I’ll ask the base operator to notify the Vatican.”
A few minutes later, the pope was on the radio.
“Your Holiness, this is Senator Lane. We established contact with Ryan, who had just been picked up with all hands by a Coast Guard cutter. I’ll put Colleen on.”
“Oh, Dad,” Colleen cried. “It was amazing how we found the boat. I saw a bright orange and blue light in the sky, and as we headed toward it, just before the sky turned dark, we saw Ryan’s lifeboat just below in the light.”
“I know,” was all the pope said.
“It was weird, the beam from the sky and all,” Colleen went on. Then, reflecting a moment on her father’s comment, “What did you mean when you said, ‘I know’?”
“Faith, darling.”
* * *
Later that night the cutter churned into the base. TV klieg lights were trained on the debarking fishermen as they were greeted by a small crowd of happy and cheering family members. That evening Ryan, Paula, and Colleen were eating sandwiches and vegetable soup sent over to the Kelly home from the town deli.
Colleen asked Ryan, “What do you think Dad meant when I told him about the bright orange and blue light in the sky over the spot in the ocean where we found you? What do you think he meant when he said, ‘I know’?”
Ryan just shrugged and finished devouring his ham and cheese sandwich.
“He answered that question with one word. That word was ‘faith.’”
Ryan pushed his food aside and gave his sister a long, adoring look. “They really got to you at the Vatican, didn’t they. I mean you really do believe in God once more.”
“If I had any doubts they are gone now.”
“What are your plans now, Col?” he asked.
“Dad needs me. He’s sicker than anyone knows. I’ll fly back tomorrow evening.”
“Tell him he was right about those giant combers that creep out of the Bermuda Triangle and side-whack a lone boat. Luckily it was daylight so we saw it coming and we were in the second trawler. The Mary One is in dry dock for extensive repairs. I’ll write up a report tomorrow before you have to go to Dad.” He paused, his eyes dropping. “And tell Dad I myself and the crew are all believers. Someone up there was looking out for us.” Ryan grinned at Paula. “And you, sweetheart?”
“I’m staying. For a while, anyway. Until you go to sea again.”
* * *
Back at the Vatican, praying in his private chapel, the pope kept saying to himself, “Ryan is no longer lost at sea, but safe in Our Lady’s hands.”
He spent the entire night ruminating over the majesty of Our Lady of Fatima, who had appeared to three children in Portugal in 1917. While praying, he relived that morning on the fishing banks when he had sensed the message from Our Lady. Then Brian came with a message from the college of cardinals, calling him back to God’s service.
Bill Kelly thought of the previous pope, how he had been shot at the edge of St. Peter’s Square on May 13, feast of Our Lady of Fatima. Later in Rome, the Polish pope told a special convergence of the college of cardinals that it was Our Lady who had saved his life from the assassin’s bullets and Our Lady who had freed his native Poland from Communist shackles at the end of the 1980s. “If you follow and believe her word, she will help you,” the pope told them.
Bill’s mind returned to that early morning on his boat off Cape Cod when he had heard Our Lady calling him back into service. His role now, as long as God gave him strength, was to serve Him, helping His people, His Church—not only as his responsibility but also as his calling from Our Lady. He not only lived for Christ, but also was ready to die for Christ.
At five o’clock the next morning Bill showered and dressed and went to celebrate Mass for some five hundred men at the maximum security prison just outside Rome. He presented each of the men rosary beads, a small prayer book, and a story of the life of Christ and his suffering and death on the cross for the sins of everyone. Following the Mass, Bill breakfasted with the men and talked separately with several of them for two more hours.
One prisoner asked the pope why people sinned and committed crime. “If you say, ‘God loves me,’ why would he let me commit crimes?” asked the swarthy inmate.
As Bill was struggling, trying to answer the question, he suddenly realized that this was where Mehmet Ali Agca, the man who had tried to kill Pope John Paul II had been imprisoned until John Paul II pardoned him and he was returned to a Turkish prison for his other crimes.
Bill remembered Ed Kirby telling him that after reading CIA cables, talking with Italian intelligence officials, and most important in discussions with certain highest-ranking Vatican officials, he had became convinced that Agca had not acted alone in the assassination plot. Knowl
edgeable officials believed, and Ed Kirby concurred, that responsibility for his attempt went all the way up to the highest minister at the KGB. Bill Casey, the former CIA director, once had told Kirby that Agca was a professionally trained assassin paid and instructed to carry out this mission by the Russian Communists through Bulgarian intermediaries.
“God gives us all a free will,” the new pope told the prisoner. “He does not force us to do or act in this or that way. You make your own choices. That’s why we need God’s grace to lead us in the right direction. To do what is right can be difficult and require sacrifice, but if you place your trust and confidence in him, you can find peace with yourself.”
For a moment in his mind’s eye Bill saw the middle-aged blond Serbian woman who had somehow maneuvered the virus-struck African boy to a position where, either accidentally or purposefully, he bit the back of Bill’s hand. And the words of his predecessor in the avviso came back to him. If he did what was right, what had to be done, his reign would not be a long one unless some miracle intervened.
Just then, Father Salvatore, the prison chaplain, stepped in. He requested that the pope meet other inmates. Later, when Bill was leaving the prison, walking out the portal with Father Sal, he asked, “Padre, how long have you been a chaplain here?”
“About forty years,” the old priest replied.
“Wouldn’t you like to do something else? Have your own parish in some beautiful suburban Italian community with your own house and school?” asked Bill.
“Of course, Holy Father, but this is what God wanted me to do.”
“Well, then,” said Bill, “you knew Agca during his time here. Agca had once asked if trying to kill Pope John Paul II was something that God wanted him to do.”
“Certainly not,” Father Sal snapped. “He did what the Bulgarian Communists and the Soviets paid him to do. One Italian defense attorney told me that just after talking with Agca, his client, about a possible parole, Agca told him, ‘You must not wish too much because sometimes your wish may come true.’ Our little Agca may be safer in his new Turkish prison than out on the street.”
41
THE UNITED NATIONS TRIP
When Colleen walked into the papal office immediately upon her return from Cape Cod, she found Bill quietly slumped in his chair. The quick bounce he had once had was noticeably absent as he slowly stood up to greet her. He mustered a forced smile, extending his open arms to his daughter. He thought to himself as he affectionately held her of his life with Mary, Colleen’s mother, since he had first met her twenty-five years earlier in a small town on Cape Cod. It seemed like a hundred years since the young priest had turned rugged fisherman in order to become one with Mary, had taken on the powerful lobby of international corporations in an emotional congressional hearing. Backed by the present Senator Lane’s father, he had fought back the seafood cartel when they wanted to end all trade protections for small American fishermen, most of whom were poor immigrant Portuguese with large families and no political clout.
They talked for an hour or so, until Colleen’s eyes started to close.
“Well, our prayers were answered, Colleen. I hope that the experience wasn’t too much for you. You must be exhausted. Are Ryan and the crew getting some rest?”
“Yes, Dad. All’s well.”
“I’m grateful for the help and support we received. It was so kind of everybody.” He kissed her forehead. “You must get some rest now, Colleen.”
“We both must,” said Colleen.
“I’ll say amen to that.”
With the stress of the fishing boat near-disaster behind them, Bill went back to work preparing for his upcoming presentation to the United Nations in New York City, and for the briefings and cajoling ahead. He must get the necessary support and financing for the international medical research center and hospital he dreamed of building in central Africa.
* * *
Accompanied by Ed Kirby and Tim Shanahan as well as Cardinal Robitelli’s small cadre of Vatican specialists, Pope Peter II left Rome in a chartered Alitalia luxury jet. This visit to New York was to be of short duration. The pope had allotted a day at the Johns Hopkins Hospital outside Washington for further testing. He and his handlers were trying to downplay his mysterious affliction. His doctors in Rome and the specialists flown in from the States all agreed on only one thing; if he were not receiving expert medical attention, he could not have survived as long as he had. People with similar infections invariably succumbed quickly, in a week or so at the most, in Africa. The fact that he had survived and to an extent remained able to function normally attested to the fact that someday a cure for the mysterious African virus he had contracted would be discovered.
The president of the United States was anxious to meet with the pope during the pontiff’s first visit as leader of the nearly one billion Catholics worldwide and about more than 62 million Catholics in the U.S. The pope was now extremely popular stateside, and all the top political leaders there were hoping for a handshake and photo opportunity with him. Any photograph with the pope would certainly appear in their next campaign brochure and on their TV ads. Pro-choice politicians, like the president, particularly wanted to be identified with the Catholic vote even if only by such a photo.
When the pope’s Alitalia jet arrived at Kennedy Airport, a huge crowd turned out to welcome it. Press from all over the world was on hand, and most national media affiliates were giving live coverage to the entire visit. The tone in New York City was very upbeat since the voters had just elected a new popular mayor, the Rangers had won the Stanley Cup, and the economy was very strong. The mayor and the governor were engaged in playful talk with the new New York archbishop before the pope’s plane set down. The archbishop of New York, Ed Egan, was playing a key role in civic life, so a positive relationship with him was important in the life of any politician. A new spirit of excitement existed in the Big Apple.
“Welcome to the capital city of the world,” the mayor greeted the pope.
“Oh, my God, did the pilot take me to Boston by mistake?” the pope quipped while shaking hands with the mayor.
When the dynamic president of the International Longshoremen’s Association was introduced, he said, “Holy Father, we are very proud in the ILA to have you as one of our members!”
The pope responded to the union boss by whispering in his ear, “I’m sorry to be behind in my monthly dues.”
After greeting the usual delegation of civic and religious officials, Pope Peter walked over to an area reserved for handicapped children and was greeted with a beautiful rendition of the song “New York, New York.”
Just as the pope and the archbishop were stepping into the waiting limousine that would take them to the cardinal’s residence behind St. Patrick’s Cathedral, he noticed a line of police officers and a uniformed patrolman sitting in a wheelchair with a young woman and a boy standing next to him. The archbishop, a new friend to most of the NYC police and firefighters, noticed that the pope was looking in the direction of the officer. “That’s Steve McDonald, a highly decorated NYC police officer, with his wife Patty Ann and young son. He was paralyzed after getting shot in the line of duty. He even visited the man in prison who shot him. He forgave him, and it touched the entire city in a profound way.”
“I remember reading about that,” said the pope as he walked over to Officer McDonald and put both hands on the officer’s shoulders. The pope talked with the McDonalds a few minutes before getting in his car. McDonald, a devout Catholic, hugged his wife and son with joy in a moving embrace.
Crowds were lined up along the route through Manhattan. Pope Peter II was a tremendously popular figure in the United States, and his popularity extended to the most unlikely circles for a Catholic Church leader. He was particularly well received in the black and minority communities for standing up for the poor and needy, and of course among the Portuguese.
After Mass and a novena in honor of Our Lady of Fatima at St. Patrick’s, assisted by se
minarians from Dunwoodie in Yonkers, Pope Peter adjourned to the archbishop’s residence and had dinner with the archbishop and other prominent Catholic bishops. Also included was the pope’s son, Ryan. After dinner, the pope retired early to prepare for his address to the UN the next morning, but not before he had coffee in the kitchen with the members of his fishing crew, who had driven up from New Bedford to spend a few minutes with their former skipper.
The next morning, after a private Mass at St. Patrick’s, the pope and the papal nuncio to the UN left by car for the UN building, where the pope was introduced by the secretary-general as “the conscience of the world.”
The pope spoke for forty-five minutes and was interrupted fifteen times, three times with a standing ovation. He not only reported on his recent trip to Africa but also called on the world community to “nourish and protect the children of Africa, like a mother would her own.” He referred to the children of Africa as “God’s special children” and to Africa as “God’s home away from home.”
After leaving the UN, the pope was taken by helicopter to Seton Hall University in South Orange, New Jersey, where he spoke before the entire student body and faculty. President Father Peterson presented him with the school’s highest honor. “Seton Hall University is proud to welcome you into our family, and pray that you have the strength and good health to accomplish your humanitarian, life-caring goals.” Little did people realize how his strength and health were fading each and every day.
The pope departed Newark Airport feeling he had achieved his mission in alerting the world community to the suffering and plight of millions of suffering people in Africa. The flight to Baltimore was a short one, and the staff of Johns Hopkins was waiting for him. He spent the night and most of the next day undergoing intensive tests and examinations, and late in the afternoon a police escort whisked him to Dulles Airport, where his chartered TWA jet was waiting to take him back home to the Vatican; but not before he stopped at the Shrine to St. Jude in Baltimore and prayed briefly and spoke to the Italian priests.
