Pierced by a Sword (55 page)

Joanie explained the significance of Sorin as a founding
father of Notre Dame, and how the statue had been a talisman of friendship for the two couples. Angus was eager to hear their stories in more detail, and reclined on the grass as he listened, sipping a cup of water from a thermos Becky had brought with them.

Angus led them in a Rosary. As they prayed, they appeared to be a simple gathering of friends with an old priest.
Often, the best disguise
is the truth,
Angus thought.

As a small precaution, Angus had kept his hair dyed dark black. His extreme loss of weight and his "death" kept him safe from recognition.

Nathan found himself concentrating on the Sorrowful Mysteries of the Rosary. Since his Warning, he never mumbled the words, but strove to meditate on the mysteries: the Agony in the Garden, the Scourging at the Pillar, the Crowning
with Thorns, the Carrying of the Cross, and the Crucifixion. It was not hard for him to imagine being an active observer at Christ's Passion.

A heavy silence hung in the air after they finished praying. Joe was deep in thought. Becky was absently picking at strands of grass. The pope kept his gaze on Mary atop the dome. Joanie nervously fumbled with Nathan's hand, gripping it tightly, then caressing
it, then gripping it tightly again. She looked into Nathan's eyes. He couldn't read her thoughts. Joanie was the inscrutable one now.

Without looking up from the grass, Becky broke the silence. More than ever, it seemed to be her calling–to be the one to speak up, the one to vocalize the group's thoughts.

"Go on, Nathan. Tell the pope what you think he should do. That's what we came here for,"
she said. The words were a command, but the tone was a plea. She shifted her weight and leaned back on Joe's chest. He wrapped his arm around his wife. It was a warm day, but Joe's affection was more than welcome. Becky looked directly into Angus's eyes. Then, she smiled. It was just the right thing to do. Her beautiful, innocent smile broke the cloud of doom that had settled on them all.

"Speak
up, son. Providence has brought us together on this lovely day, in this beautiful place, in front of this inspirational Father Sorin. May the Holy Spirit enlighten us all!" The pope finished with a disarming laugh.

He's smoother than Father Chet,
Nathan thought, saddened and hopeful at the same time. He had been watching the pope very carefully since the plan came to him at Jimbo's wake. With
every word and intonation, he became certain that Pope Patrick could pull it off. The Sorrowful Mysteries had clinched everything.
What is the imitation of Christ?
Nathan thought.
To lay down one's life for a friend. But who am I to counsel a pope?

"Go on, Nathan," Joanie gently encouraged. "The Holy Father doesn't have to do it, you know."

Nathan looked at Joe briefly, then at the pope. "It's
not a plan, really. It's an idea. It requires..." Nathan hesitated, but never broke the pope's gaze, "a willingness to die. A willingness to fall and rise, like Jesus did. When Jesus triumphed over Satan by his death and resurrection, only the apostles recognized..."

Nathan stopped.
It's not my place to tell him this. The pope knows all this.

"Don't worry about preaching to a pope, son." Angus
winked. "I put my pants on one leg at a time, and a lot more slowly than most folks. And I'm alone. I've been alone for a long time. As you were saying..."

"Okay." Nathan took a deep breath. "When Jesus died and rose from the dead, only the apostles recognized that the show was over for Satan. They were commissioned to go out and tell others. Most of them ended up like Jesus–dead. Martyrs.

"But
this time around, we need to crush the evil one in a public way. In a way that everyone in the whole world can see right before their eyes. We can't do it with guns. We can't do it with money. We can't do it with worldly power. All we have are several hundred thousand short wave radios, a few satellites operating out of Texas–and a pope. You. And millions of beleaguered Catholics and Christians
all over the world praying for the Triumph of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. We're supposed to be her instruments to crush Satan."

Nathan was gaining momentum. Joe, Joanie, and Becky were stunned to see him bearing down on the Holy Father with
the look.
And they saw the light in Pope Patrick's eyes–so reminiscent of Father Chet–growing brighter with every word Nathan said.

"In less than a few weeks–or
sooner–the bad guys are going to track you down, aren't they?" Nathan asked with a note of sadness combined with a strange, distant excitement.

Angus nodded. "Yes. Go on, my friend."

"So let's beat them to the punch. Let's leverage everything we've got. And we've got all we need. We have you–and a communications network inspired and named after the man who was the greatest example of Marian sanctity
in the whole history of the world. Maximilian Kolbe."

Becky briefly felt like clapping. The air was thick with grace.

"You've got to do it, Holy Father! You've got to," Nathan pressed. "Like you said, Providence has brought you here."

Then all his enthusiasm drained away as if it had never been there at all. Nathan felt as if he were hanging motionless off the side of a cliff.

"There's only one
catch..." Nathan choked on the last word. He couldn't finish.

Angus didn't say a thing.

Joe completed the thought for his friend, "The catch is, Your Holiness, like Saint Maximilian, they'll kill us all. Nathan is asking you to lead us to martyrdom."

"I know, lad," Angus replied. There was a wistfulness in his voice combined with anguish.

Becky was struck with a realization similar to her earliest
impressions of Father Chet–that the pope wasn't a demigod, a superman standing in for God. The pope was real flesh and blood, emotion and soul. A man.

The pope looked up at Father Sorin, then, oddly, to Joanie. "What do you think, young lady?"

She looked at Nathan.

"This is yours, Joanie. Don't ask me what I think."
Nathan told her with his eyes.
"Tell the pope what
you
think."

She gripped Nathan's
hand so hard it hurt.

"With all due respect," she began, "I think you should listen to my husband, Holy Father. I don't want to speak out of turn but...but whenever Joe and Nathan agree about something, well, you can be sure Our Lady is behind it. I have a newborn son, and I don't want to leave him–but I don't want Jonathan to grow up in a world gone insane. If we do nothing, he probably won't
grow up at all. It's not much of a choice, I guess. But I'm willing to do whatever you ask of me. I am."

Angus nodded and turned to Becky. "As for you, Beck–you let your friends call you Beck, don't you?"

"Me? You want to know what I think?"

The pope nodded again.

Oh no!
Joe thought.
Becky's going to come out with a real winner.
He could see it in his wife's eyes and the way her cheeks rose ever
so slightly, forming a squint.

"Father Angus," she began earnestly. For a second Joe hoped she might say something serious. "You really don't know these guys very well, do you? I do. They're out of their minds." She paused.

Everyone laughed.

"But I love them dearly. And as Father Chet, the original Irish priest in our little circle used to say, 'It's like throwing sand against the tide, but I
knew that it was going to be tough when I got into it. That's what I signed up for.' I agree. Let's go for it! I'm sick of sitting around waiting for things to happen. That's not what I signed up for. If we're going to go down, let's go down fighting, with a smile on our faces!"

Becky looked around the group with a raised eyebrow. She had not been practicing her faith long enough to have that
instinctive awe for anything papal. There was something peculiarly American about the way she spoke–and something profoundly right.

Now is the time for action!
Joanie thought jubilantly.

"Well spoken, Becky!" the pope replied. "I'm with you."

The decision had been made. Everyone felt it.

"Well now, Nathan," Angus continued, "what exactly do you propose we do?"

"Joe and I have some pretty specific
suggestions, Holy Father, and a tight schedule to follow right up to the big event..."

Chapter Twenty-Three

1

Thursday Morning
8 May
Mishawaka, Indiana

Tom Wheat found his preparation for today's weekly short wave radio program more difficult than ever. Usually he spoke for an hour on the "SLG Network" about the apparitions of Mary and how they fit in with the turbulent times. Today he would speak for less than one minute. His show was called "Mary's Army."

Recordings of the program
were usually made and circulated on CD to those who did not have short wave radios. The talks would then be transcribed and printed by underground newspapers around the country–even inside World Union Territories. Word of mouth did the rest.

Tom Wheat felt an affinity for the historical figure, Thomas Paine, whose pamphlet
Common Sense
had electrified and mobilized patriots during the first American
Revolution.

The SLG Network had also championed the cause of any state which defied the World Union. Its program, "Radio Free America," was rebroadcast several times a day. After Utah became the Mormon Nation, Radio Free America began to be broadcast from Houston instead of the SLG Communications Institute. Slinger was managing to stay a step ahead of events–and was having the time of his life.

Nathan Payne had been correct. In the long run, radios proved to be more important than guns–although more than a few Resistance Movements around the fractured country were armed with weapons that came from SLG farms and ranches, especially in the western states.

The SLG Network was capable of beaming television programs through its satellites. The broadcasts could be picked up by anyone in the
world who owned a digital satellite dish.

Wheat sat in his living room, ready to begin his program, facing a television camera hooked up to wires leading to a van in his driveway. The van was white and had three words painted on its side panels: The Kolbe Foundation. Its engine was running, supplying electricity to the digital transponder that was aimed directly at one of the unseen SLG satellites.

The room was crowded with trusted friends and relatives. They had all just finished a Rosary with him. Father Phillip Washington was not in attendance. He was offering Mass in Immaculate Conception Church.

Joe hung up the cellular phone in the kitchen and came to sit next to Tom on the couch, saying, "That was Houston. Karl says they're praying for you and for all of us up here. The satellites
are ready. You've got eight hours. Good luck and God bless, Tom."

Tom nodded and cleared his throat. He took a sip of water. It was time to launch Nathan's plan. It was time to take the battle to the airwaves.

After Tom heard the introduction music, a techie in the van whispered "three, two, one" in Tom's earphone.

"I welcome all soldiers in Mary's Army, Catholics loyal to the universal teachings
of the Catholic Church, baptized Christians of all denominations, fellow Americans, lovers of freedom everywhere, and all those listening to my voice."

And then he veered from his usual script.

"Mark my words. This day will be remembered for the rest of human history. You are a part of it. If you have a digital satellite dish and VCR, a CD burner, or any other kind of recording device, I urge
you to begin recording now, for I have an amazing guest for you to meet. We don't have much time. I'll let the guest tell you how he came here, and why he came here to talk to you today."

Wheat paused and lowered his tone while raising his voice at the same time...

"The name of my guest is...Pope Patrick!"

Tom Wheat and the camera turned to face the leader of the Roman Catholic Church, the Vicar
of Christ, who was dressed in the traditional white papal cassock (hastily sewn from bed linens by Anne Wheat and Joanie during the past two days).

+  +  +

Pope Patrick, raised Angus Bartholomew O'Hara in the poorest section of Dublin, looked directly into the camera and told the world the Truth. He began in English and continued for two hours. Then he gave the same address in Spanish, French,
and German over the following six hours.

Angus gave a stunning performance; the mastery of languages alone proved to the world that this was indeed the real Pope Patrick. He did not use complicated theological language, often called "popespeak." He spoke simply and directly, fluidly weaving his amazing story. He was a master storyteller. At one point he pulled open his cassock and showed the world
the bullet wound in his side. The world discovered the heroic truth about Thomas Phillips.

He urged people everywhere to pray for an end to the troubles in the world, and, winking into the camera, specifically asked his "Carmelite Prayer Army" to deploy themselves in force.

"Please, I beg you, pray for a special Mass which I will soon celebrate in public. I will offer the Mass for the Triumph
of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, and for the Divine Mercy of the Sacred Heart of Jesus to descend upon the world. I will announce the time and day of the Mass when I broadcast tomorrow. Come, join me in prayer!"

Toward the end of the talk he released all the clergy in the world from obedience to any bishop or person in Catholic authority who had been appointed by the antipope. It was also clear
that he rejected "those governments which do not respect basic human freedoms, and I urge all men and women of good will to use every possible, morally acceptable means to resist such godless regimes." Without quite mentioning it by name, Pope Patrick had effectively defined the World Union as the enemy of God and His people.

2

From
Dark Years History
(New Rome Press, 31 R.E.)
by Rebecca Macadam
Jackson

...Pope Patrick's stunning electronic resurrection literally changed the world overnight. Because the schismatic antipope Casino had closely and publicly aligned himself with the World Union, it became suspect and lost what little moral authority it had earned as the purported economic savior of the world...

3

Friday Morning
9 May
Amsterdam, The Netherlands

"I want him alive!" the dark
man screamed at the men gathered around the mahogany table. "I don't care how you do it! Use every asset we have. Converge upon that...that town in Indiana and get Patrick! I want–"

The dark man stopped himself short. He had never screamed in front of these men before. He saw their shocked expressions. Shock, but not fear.

Not fear. The dark man and his allies still controlled most of the industrialized
world, its armies, its currency, and its institutions. Even with that damned Angus O'Hara alive, the Catholic Church was in ruins, a shell of its former self. That fool Casino would still do whatever the dark man told him to do.

What did the dark man have to fear from a wrinkled old man? Why was he losing his composure? Why were the five men around the table no longer afraid of him? Was there
something they were more afraid of?

Perhaps even
they
believed in the power of God.

And the dark man felt
his
power draining away like murky oil flowing out a crankcase.

The only thing left to do was play out the string–and to drag as many souls down to hell with him as he could. Even evil men have pride.

"Bring Patrick to me," he ordered coldly. "Send that butcher, Blatovsky, to get him." He
looked around the room to regain whatever measure of fear he could salvage. He turned and walked out into the marbled hallway.

+  +  +

The dark man and his allies made their phone calls, sent their memos and emails, and issued their orders. Two powerful World Union armies (one from Chicago, the other from Indianapolis) turned from whatever grisly business they had at hand and converged on South
Bend, Indiana. The Second World Union Army, licking its wounds from the costly battle of Anderson, was unable to mobilize immediately, giving Blatovsky's Third Army a two-day jump. They met with no resistance from what was left of the rag tag Indiana patriot army.

It was clear from the daily broadcasts by Pope Patrick that he was content to stay indefinitely at Joe Jackson's home next to Immaculate
Conception Church. Hundreds of thousands of people from around the Midwest raced against two World Union Armies to meet this one man. Pope Patrick.

Within a few days, the crowds became so large that Pope Patrick decided to address them, and pray with them, and say his pre-announced Mass with them on the Main Quad of the University of Notre Dame. The Mass would take place on a day shared by the
Feast of Our Lady of the Blessed Sacrament and Our Lady of Fatima.

4

Tuesday Morning
13 May
Newark, New Jersey

Chet removed his rosary beads from the hiding place in the seam of his prison uniform. They consisted of eleven tiny beads, made from spit and bread hardened onto a sturdy piece of string the priest had culled from his filthy cotton pants. Lately, he had found it difficult to concentrate
on the mysteries. His migraine was back. Lack of food and water were the cause.

I thought I knew what hunger was after the Quakes.

He tried to think of Saint Maximilian for the hundredth time in the last few days. For the ten thousandth time in the last four months.
Max, how did you do it? All the biographies made it seem so easy. And this isn't nearly as tough as you had it.

A week ago, they
had stopped feeding Chet a regular ration. The priest now got one meal a day–tasteless soup and a piece of bread.

It was pretty clear what that meant.
Involuntary processing, the case workers call it. Death in an Omega Center.

A prolife Protestant minister, Jimmy Sisler, had been processed last week after two weeks of low rations. Chet had become very close to Sisler during their time together,
and missed him dearly.
They don't waste food on a dead man.

I have to hang in for a couple more weeks. Go out like a man. Like a Sullivan.

Inspired by Saint Maximilian, Chet had shared his meager rations with other prisoners, especially the ones with children. At any given time, there were over three hundred in this holding center. They slept together on the floor of the gym. Most were political
protesters. During the winter, they huddled close to keep warm. Since then, several had died after receiving last rites from Chet. He saved bread from his meals so he could rise in the middle of the night to say Mass with the other Catholics. A few Protestants had converted to Catholicism in order to receive Jesus at Chet's Masses. Others attended, but didn't receive the tiny hosts.

Before the
night Masses, a French guard had reported Chet for saying Mass during the day. That had merited a beating. Chet thanked God that he couldn't remember pain. He tried to pray as the big German "case worker" beat him with a rubber hose.

The prisoners seemed to be lost in some kind of giant shuffle of World Union cards. Once a week, a hard-faced Belgian woman would show videos–mostly World Union propaganda.
Afterwards, she would offer them a chance to sign some papers saying that Omega Centers were a wonderful idea, or something to that effect. In return, the prisoner was free to go. There was a document attached giving the World Union permission to use the statements in the media. Occasionally, a few prisoners would sign. Most didn't.

The center had been converted from an abandoned high school.
Late one evening last week, the twelve-year-old daughter of two married prisoners managed to escape by climbing the pipes on the walls of the gym to the roof. From there she crawled on the steel rafters until she reached a skylight. Her name was Nancy Biehl. After reaching the roof, Nancy jumped two stories to the asphalt and climbed the hurricane fence, no doubt cutting her hands on the barbed wired
attached to the top. The girl had been a gymnast. The next day, Mr. and Mrs. Biehl disappeared for processing.

Four months.
It seemed longer. The first month was the worst. The shock. The cold. The stink of bodies. The lack of privacy. The lousy food. The weekly, cold shower without soap. The endless boredom. Next to the hunger, the boredom was the worst. Chet found some consolation in his vocation.
It allowed him to fill the time. There were twenty-seven little kids here. Each one knew Father Chet's Saint Stories by heart.

He gave a daily lesson on the
Catechism
from memory to about fifty prisoners. One guard, an American, allowed this during the day.
Maybe he reported me. Maybe that's why I'm going to be processed.

He had long discussions with the Protestants about the faith. They were
trying to pass the time, too. Two-thirds of the prisoners filling the gym were Protestants–evangelicals who took the prolife fight more seriously than most Catholics. They missed their Bibles. Some said Rosaries with Chet.

This is not as bad as Uncle Max had it. They used to beat him senseless every other day. I've only been beaten a few times. I can say Mass. I can hear confessions, though the
people in this room are mostly saints, sinless. It's like having a special parish without having to travel or even walk down the street to see my parishioners!

There, now that's more like how Max would look at it! Thank you, Uncle Max. I offer this Rosary and the migraine up for the souls of the case workers. Jesus, help me love my enemies.

Chet managed to smile. Ignoring his hunger and his headache,
he held up his rosary when he saw that the guard wasn't looking. Mr. Reginald Johnson, a Baptist, casually tapped the gym floor three times. Several prisoners noticed the signal. The black robe was going to pray. Looks were exchanged. Chet saw a fourteen year-old-boy, Hank Noble, grabbing his thumb–the first bead of a human rosary.

Father Chet began, whispering, "I believe in one God, the Father
Almighty..."

+  +  +

After the Rosary, the door at the end of the gym was unlocked, then opened. Two guards and a case worker marched in. A guard pointed to the corner where Chet was sitting on the floor. The other guard removed plastic handcuffs from his belt.

Reggie Johnson stood up and cried, "No! Not the priest! We need the priest!"

The guard whacked Johnson on the side of the face with a
billy stick. The black man fell to the floor, bleeding. A few prisoners came to his side. The other guard held up his machine gun in a menacing fashion.
They've come early,
Father Chet thought, feeling strangely relieved.