***
Not long after the assassination attempt, the Pope, in a strange bout of fury, had 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.
Which is what brings me to Rome.
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 had been done behind closed doors. There were rumors of the first American from Delta transferring only a few days ago, but was again unconfirmed.
It hadn’t been long after I’d 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. He’d explained to me the 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. While I’d never known him to be a pious man, he had always been supportive of my mother, and had honored her wish that he convert to Catholicism and marry in a Roman Catholic Church. Afterward, Dad had no qualms about her raising my younger sister Diana and me Catholic, but he attended church only to support his wife. It was only thanks to my mom that I attended Jesuit schools and had a perfect Sunday church attendance record. That is, until I went off to college.
Nor had it deterred the fact that 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, so 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. As far as I was concerned, it was a position I didn’t deserve, but when I voiced my concerns, the man’s response had simply been that the people he represented had performed thorough research and that they knew the man beneath.
It was at that point that I’d faced a dilemma, and had needed a few days to think over. The man agreed and said he would return to receive an answer. I’d spent the entirety of the next two days wandering the beautiful Hawaiian beaches considering my options.
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 looming, I was quickly off to Coronado Island near San Diego. Within a month I was getting my ass kicked with the other officers and regular enlisted men in Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, BUD/S. I roughed it out, went through SEAL Qualification Training, jump school, sniper school, and so on. After more than two years of training and some field experience, and with the global war worsening, I was given my own platoon.
I had been more than lucky.
I’d gone on to establish close bonds with my fellow SEAL teammates over the tours, and didn’t want to leave them feeling as if I’d betrayed them. Life in the Teams was all about companionship and teamwork. We were as closely knit as any family, even if it had been extraordinarily difficult at first conforming to the community. I’d often felt like the black sheep of the family, having often been considered too much of a thinker for the vicious lifestyle of a SEAL, but I’d managed to secure my place regardless. On the other hand, the only reason I’d enlisted in the first place was to make my father happy, not knowing there would be a full-fledged global war on the horizon. We were a military family, and it had been my duty. But if I took the Italian’s offer, I thought maybe I could continue fighting the war 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 with my SEALs 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. After several 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 retired Army general was now the Commander in Chief. 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 emblazoned into the carpet, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. Trying to push aside my doubt, I shifted my gaze toward 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. Documents were produced within minutes, 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’d 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 ducked my head as the wind from the C-130J slammed into my face, and felt my hands ball themselves into fists.
So, it was going to be like that then.
I’d suspected he wouldn’t understand. 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’d never forgiven me for Mom.
She had died three years ago. Cancer. I had been in the field when she’d passed on and had missed her funeral. My father had never forgiven me.
I’d 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 with 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 toward the rear access ramp of the C-130J. I’d 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’d made my way up the ramp, each and every footfall a nail in the coffin of my former life.
As soon as I had passed into the body of the aircraft, the ramp began to close behind me. In a last 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 had quickly snapped me out of it.
As the rear of the ship cut me off from my past, my head had dropped just slightly before I’d turned and walked into the belly of the beast. With a final sigh, I’d secured my gear beneath my bench in preparation for the flight, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes.