The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) Page 3

  I’d enjoyed the subject so much that I’d continued my studies throughout college, and before joining the Navy, I’d begun work on a Master’s Degree in Classical Studies. I was never sure why exactly, it was just something I enjoyed immensely, but I’d never really sat down and figured out what to do with it. It had been a serious point of contention in my family, especially since my darling sister had her future perfectly mapped out since middle school.

  By the time we reached the outskirts of Rome, I retrieved my camera from my bag and started taking pictures of whatever caught my eye. A semester of photography and years of field recon ops gave me a solid eye for picking out ideal shots. Most of Rome was left unscathed by the countless battles that plagued Eastern Europe, but it had still caught some flak over the years, and a few burnt buildings scattered at random reflected the sad reality of the age we lived in.

  It wasn’t long before Reynolds noticed my interest.

  “Sightseeing, Lieutenant Commander?”

  “Yes sir,” I answered immediately. “I’ve always wanted to visit Rome. I only wish it was under different circumstances.”

  Reynolds nodded, but said nothing, and the car continued to roll through the sprawling ancient city, driving slowly through the narrow, cobbled streets of both modern and old form. I was busy photographing the remains of the Circus Maximus when Father Vincent abruptly pulled into a seemingly random building just after we crossed the Tiber River. A few meters inside, the floor began to slope drastically downward, plunging us into darkness.

  “Where exactly are we going?” I asked suspiciously.

  “You are a student of history,” Father Vincent replied, his eyes locked on the dimly illuminated road. “What lies beneath most cities the age of Rome?”

  I knew that over time, cities as old as Rome simply built over existing parts of the original city. When new buildings were constructed, old ones would be simply filled in with dirt and built over, one of the main reasons why new discoveries in ancient cities were constantly being discovered.

  “You’ve discovered some ancient ruins beneath the city and have renovated them to provide an underground tunnel system.”

  “You are correct. Vast areas of the ancient city beneath and around the Vatican have been uncovered ages ago. Most were left alone, but some were converted into subterranean roads we use to gain unnoticed access in and out of the Vatican. We have also spent considerable time expanding our subterranean land not infested with ancient catacombs as well. Very few know of its existence.”

  Not a bad idea, and not that surprising to tell the truth. It wasn’t like we were going to drive our secret car, traveling on a secret mission, through the front door. Governments always had secret lairs few knew about, and being the smallest sovereign governing body on the planet, the Vatican would be missing a prime opportunity to expand if they didn’t.

  Even with what I assumed was a vast network of secret tunnels, it wasn’t long before the dark, narrow corridor came to an abrupt end. We emerged into a slightly larger room, shaped like a cul-de-sac, with an elevator opposite the entrance. Parking the car, Father Vincent stepped out and started towards the elevator. I grabbed my bag, and followed.

  “You coming, sir?” I asked Reynolds, noticing he was staying with the car.

  “This is the end of the road for me, son. My orders were to escort you here and report back to the President that your transfer was completed. Hell, I’m not even Catholic. I’m not sure I’m even allowed to be down here. Anyway, you take care of yourself, Commander. You’re representing your county on this one. Don’t let us down.”

  “I won’t, sir,” I replied, snapping a crisp salute. “Thank you.”

  “You’ll be fine,” replied Reynolds, returning the salute. “Just keep your head down and do us proud.”

  “Come,” Father Vincent said quietly from the elevator. “His Holiness is waiting.”

  I nodded, slowly turning towards the waiting elevator. With one last glance over my shoulder at the retreating black car, I knew things were never going to be the same again.

  ***

  Not long after the assassination attempt, the Pope, in a strange bout of fury, all but called for a crusade against the attackers. The public was furious, Catholic and Christian alike, and the militaries comprised of such people had no trouble filling their personnel quotas. Even an elite unit like my SEALs had grown to unprecedented numbers to help fight anyone we could throw our strength against.

  Soon later, the Pope also commissioned a new military unit to help in the war effort. Officially, it was a branch of the Swiss Guard meant to protect his person; unofficially, it was a Special Forces outfit meant to seek out and destroy any potential threat he may face. At least, that’s what the whispers around the water coolers were saying.

  Little was known about the organization, including its name. Originally, members were selected specifically from a pool of veteran Swiss Guardsmen, but recently, in an attempt to further solidify friendships amongst Christian nations, the Pope had called for volunteers from the best they could offer.

  It was rumored that members from Britain, France, and Germany had already transferred service, but the entire process was done behind closed doors. There were rumors of the first American from Delta transferring only a few days ago, but was again unconfirmed.

  It wasn’t long after I heard these rumors that a young man, dressed in a well-tailored business suit, knocked on the door of my off-base home while I was on leave in Hawaii. The man spoke with a thick Italian accent, but in impeccable English, and explained to me the full reality behind the Pope’s Swiss Guard and that a spot was available to me for a two year stint.

  Now, my mother was a devout Catholic, but my father never put much stock in religion. He was born Protestant, but non-practicing throughout his adult life. Easily not the most pious man, he was completely supportive of his bride-to-be and fully supported her wish that he convert to Catholicism and marry in a Roman Catholic Church. Afterwards, dad had no qualms about her raising my younger sister Diana and I Catholic, attending church only to support his wife. It was through mom that I attended Jesuit schools all the way through college, and managed to maintain my status as a practicing Catholic on most Sundays.

  Well... on some Sundays.

  My infrequent church attendance aside, I had been quite the kleptomaniac as a teenager, had a few drinks while underage, and my first sexual experience was well before marriage. Outwardly, I acted the way every other teenager or young adult would, inwardly, however, I was as devout a Catholic as one could be.

  At least I tried.

  Most of the time.

  When the well-dressed Italian man came to my door, the only thing I could think of was why in the world they would want me. After all, as far as I was concerned, my sins equaled those of any other, but when I voiced my concerns his response was simply that the people he represented had performed thorough research, and that they knew the man beneath.

  It was at that point that I faced a dilemma that needed a few days to think over. The man agreed, and said he would return to receive an answer. I spent the entirety of the next two days wandering the beautiful Hawaiian beaches, mulling everything over.

  I knew that on one hand, I was completely happy with my current posting. I had joined the military at twenty three, shortly before the first bombing in Jerusalem, and thanks to my college education, had gone to Officer Candidate School, graduated near the top of my class, and placed a request for immediate transfer to the SEALs. I’d gotten very lucky. Fresh officers rarely had the opportunity to go to BUD/S right off the bat, but thanks to my record and the dire global circumstances, I was off to Coronado Island near San Diego. Within a month, I was getting my ass kicked with other officers and regular enlisted men in Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, BUD/S, roughed it out, went through Seal Qualification Training, jump school, sniper school, and so on, and after more than two years of training and some field experience, with the global war wo
rsening, was given my own team.

  I had been more than lucky.

  I went on to establish close bonds with my fellow SEAL teammates over the tours, and did not want to leave feeling I betrayed them. Life in the Teams was all about companionship and teamwork. We were as close nit as any family, but that didn’t mean I never felt unfulfilled at times. I was even being groomed for a position with the United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group, still colloquially known as Seal Team Six, which consisted of the most elite SEALs in the business. Could I find fulfillment there? I wasn’t sure.

  On the other hand, the only reason I enlisted in the first place was to appease my father’s wishes, not knowing there would be a full-fledged global war on the horizon. We were a military family after all, and it was my duty, but if I took the Italian’s offer, I could continue fighting the war, but maybe in a more meaningful way. I knew my father would be disappointed, but when the man returned two days later, I agreed to the transfer, taking solace in the fact that I’d be back in a few years.

  The next day, at 0800, a naval lieutenant and two ensigns came to my door with my orders. I was to gather a few essentials and head to the airfield immediately. The ensigns would pack my personal belongings, as they had already done with my military gear back at the barracks, and ship them directly to Rome.

  Grabbing my already packed go-bag, I was on my way to Washington D.C. to meet with the President. Hours and more time zones than I could count, I was standing in the Oval Office awaiting his arrival. Thanks to the growing religious hysteria, and increasing hostility everywhere on the planet, a Catholic, retired Army general was now the Commander in Chief and with him came increased funding for the military, combat experience, and a new direction for the war effort, but sadly, at least from this sailor’s point of view, still no hope for an end to it.

  Staring down at the Presidential seal, I had wondered if I was doing the right thing. Trying to push aside my doubt, I had shifted my gaze towards the president’s desk where I spotted a crucifix hanging from the wall behind his chair, and realized I wasn’t abandoning my country, not really, but continuing the fight by answering a higher calling. Abandoning the war effort was out of the question, even with little hope for the planet’s continued survival, but at least this way I would be doing it for my own reasons.

  My meeting with the President was short and to the point, but also comforting. He assured me that I had made the right decision, and that I was now, indeed, answering to a higher authority. He seemed almost jealous of my position, perhaps wishing he was a few years younger, and that his tool of destruction was a rifle again, instead of a pen. Within minutes, documents were produced, and with a few signatures, I was promoted and transferred to my new posting.

  Within the hour, I was back at the airfield, waiting for my ride and my father. He had been informed of my transfer and was told he could see me off. Since no one had any idea when I’d be returning, this would be our only chance to say goodbye. But, as I watched the C-130J taxing down the runway, he was nowhere to be found.

  Hoping to catch him approaching from some unknown direction, I’d scanned the tarmac three times, finding nothing every time. Only the fumes from countless aircraft and the ominous early morning mist swirling at the beck and call of powerful engines were there to greet me. Frustrated, I’d glanced at my feet as the wind from the C-130J slammed into my face. The heat from the back draft hadn’t calmed me much, and my hands had automatically balled into fists.

  So, it was going to be like that then.

  I’d suspected he wouldn’t understand. Our family was an American military legacy. In my father’s eyes, there was no explanation for what I was doing. I’d hoped to explain that I was doing the right thing, that I’d be back in a few years and that I would still be fighting to defend my home and to protect my country.

  I’d been willing to beg for his acceptance.

  But he hadn’t showed.

  I’d shaken my head, already knowing why he hadn’t been there.

  He’s never forgiven me for mom.

  She died three years ago. Cancer. I had been in the field when she passed on and had missed her funeral. My father never forgave me.

  I’ve never forgiven myself.

  Maybe I was doing this for her.

  I hadn’t spoken to my father since. Three years was a long time, and knowing I had to leave now, our issues still unresolved, pained me. Our relationship had been strained since I was twelve years old, but I’d hoped to put some of that behind us.

  No father should despise his son, and no son should hate his father.

  I’d hissed through my teeth and glanced up just in time to see an air traffic controller beckoning me towards the rear access ramp of the C-130J. I waved at him to let him know he had my attention, and picked up my go-bag with an audible sigh of frustration. Step by step, I made my way up the ramp, each and every footfall a nail in the coffin of my former life.

  As soon as I passed into the body of the aircraft, the ramp began to close behind me. In a last second cry for hope, I’d turned to look out over the runway, but again found nothing to greet me except the darkness. As the ramp continued to retract, genuine sadness crept over me, but the loud metal on metal grinding sound of the ramp completing its retraction quickly snapped me out of it.

  With the rear of the ship cutting me off from my past, my head dropped just slightly before I turned and walked into the belly of the beast. With a final sigh, I secured my gear beneath my bench in preparation for the flight, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes.

  ***

  As the elevator doors opened, I noticed it was connected to the Vatican’s normal elevator system, accessible to the general public. I assumed that only someone with their thumbprint or other security measure cleared by the Vatican could reach the level we had just left. Father Vincent and I emerged on the first floor near St. Peter’s Basilica, exiting quickly before a swarm of eager tourists entered the cab. I had to jump to the side when a young child rushed passed me, dragging his young mother behind him as he feverishly sought out the random object of interest that must have caught his eye. She gave me an apologetic smile, but quickly moved on, trying to keep up with her son.

  “That was odd,” I commented, smiling in their direction, thinking about how nice it was that people could still enjoy the comfort of Vatican City despite the war.

  Father Vincent smirked. “To this day, I still find it strange to emerge into the public after having just returned from a secret rendezvous through an elevator that doesn’t exist.”

  I looked at him, recollecting my earlier thoughts of secrets within secrets. “I take it this isn’t the first time you’ve escorted someone in this manner?”

  “Of course not. You are not the first to come to us. In fact, with your arrival, we have completed recruitment for the time being.”

  “And I suppose more information on that will have to wait?”

  “You assume correctly. Do not worry. We are almost there.”

  ***

  A brisk walk later, we arrived at a large doorway ornately decorated with religious motifs. The doors had to have been centuries old, but I was hardly an expert in such matters. Before I could think much more on the subject, Father Vincent knocked gently, sparing a single glance in my direction to offer me a curt nod.

  I understood.

  This was it, time to meet the new boss, and I couldn’t be more nervous. A quiet “enter” came from inside and Father Vincent opened the doors leading the way in. I spotted two individuals inside. The first man was in his golden years, although aging quite gracefully. He wore white robes and a skull cap, and had a rosary festooned around his neck.

  The second individual was standing rigidly straight behind the first man’s chair and had the look of a career military man. His dark brown hair was cut short and he sported a thick mustache, which, along with his slightly graying temples, prominent jaw line and nose and hawkish blue eyes, gave him the look of a dig
nified statesman. The man wore olive drab Battle Dress Uniform cargo pants, and a Woolly Pully combat sweater of the same color. If I had to guess, I’d peg him as a member of Britain’s SAS – as members of the Special Air Service itself had developed the Wooly Pully during World War II.

  I’d worked with members of that illustrious group before, and had nothing but positive memories of how they operated. So far, I was impressed.

  I looked at the perfectly groomed and dressed man, and immediately felt horribly underdressed. His BDU pants and Woolly Pully were formal enough ware, but were also combat ready in a time of need. I, on the other hand, wore tan boots of a civilian brand, military style khaki cargo pants and a Hawaiian t-shirt, obnoxiously colored in bright yellow and blue. To complete the ensemble, I even left my shirt open, revealing the sleeveless undershirt I wore beneath.

  Part of my orders had been to appear at the Vatican in civilian dress, and since I lived in Hawaii for the past few years, I had little else in my closet but Hawaiian shirts. It wasn’t until I emerged from the elevator and into the swarm of tourists a few minutes ago, that I realized why.

  I came to a halt a few paces away from a desk, situated in the center of a richly decorated room, with religious paintings scattered throughout, and snapped a salute, feeling ridiculous doing so in the horribly patterned shirt.

  “Lieutenant Commander Jacob Hunter reporting as ordered, sir.”

  The old man sitting behind the desk smiled and kept me holding the salute for a few second before waving me off.

  “I can understand your instinct to salute, my son,” the man said in clear but accented English, “but I am not your commander. At ease, or whatever it is you military types say.”

  I lowered my arm slowly, easing myself into a more comfortable standing position, but remained razor straight.

  “Thank you, sir. I wasn’t sure whether to salute, or kneel, or what. I’m a little out of my element.”