The Apostates (38 page)

“Well, Minister, I have also heard that an
operation was going to be carried out that would kill him. Surely this isn’t
necessary? He has paid for his crimes with his sanity,” von Manstein pretended
to plead on Zhukov’s behalf.

“I’m afraid not Arch-Deacon. If the Cardinal is indeed a traitor, then chances are the encrypted data he harbors in his neural implant will tell us exactly what the Apostate plan is,” Kate said in an authoritative manner.

“Very well, Minister. I understand the
necessity of the situation. I just miss my dear friend and life-long companion:
the man of God, that I knew before he turned coat!” von Manstein shed crocodile
tears for Zhukov.

“Yes, we will all mourn the loss of the
man who fell from grace.” Kate was tired and her patience was wearing thin.

“Minister, I appreciate anything you can
do for the man, if possible. But, I understand the need for security during the
B.A.G.,” von Manstein offered.

“Great, then we are in agreement. If you don’t mind Arch-Deacon, I’m going to bed now.” Kate cut the communiqué short before von Manstein could say goodbye.

This was disconcerting to von Manstein
because there was a chance that L.O.V.E. would decrypt the data before the
B.A.G., but only a slim chance. From what he remembered, Graham Wynham had also
been implicated in a plot against the Regime as well. Maybe he was the mole? If
he cracked surely L.O.V.E. would not expend the resources to decrypt the data?
von Manstein had so much to worry about, and much to prepare before the End of
Times. The last thing he needed was his accusation of Zhukov to be found
groundless. The headache had come back as fierce as ever.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

The Societatum Pentagram had nearly reached the Panama Strait after a long journey on horseback. They had foraged for food all the way south from Costa Rica, from numberous villages. The Order had developed such a fierce reputation for ruthlessness that no villages resisted the call for provisions. They did make a brief segue to confront and crucify cartel members who had the misfortune of running into the Order column traveling south. Other than that, the progress south had been smooth. Most crucial of all: they had outpaced the Apostate fleet, which, they surmised were making for the Strait of Panama. His scouts had reported that there was no sign of the fleet. He wondered where they had gone or what was keeping them.

The Order had conscripted villagers on the
way south to fight in an improvised militia. These were simple farmhands and craftsman,
that had to scramble to pack and were armed with antiquated firearms: cannon
fodder for the coming fight against the Apostates. Using this militia, the
Order had stopped in countless villages on their route south to elicit oaths of
loyalty to the Order and its cause to rid the region of cartel influence. The Order had
added a wide swath of Panama to the territory it controlled, which included the
majority of Nicaragua and Costa Rica. The Order was effectively a theocratic
empire now. The biggest prize would be seizing the Panama Strait and the tariff
base it would bring. Monsignor Carafa was closer to his goal than ever.

The Order had reached the outskirts of La
Chorrera, a town that was situated on the shores of the Strait. In times before
the sea level rise, it had been located fourteen miles away from the old Panama
Canal, but now it was waterfront real estate. The town also served as
the capital of Panama as the old capital was now under water. The Order deemed
the city crucial for their efforts to stop the Apostates from crossing, but
also, to complete control of Central America. However, the subjugation of this
town would not be as easily won as with the other towns further north. For
starters, La Chorrera was a rich town for modern standards. The
oligarchs that ran the city had grown wealthy by controlling access to the
Strait, and they would not capitulate easily. Monsignor Carafa was also unsure
if his ragtag militia would be enough to take the town by force. He was relying
on the Order’s reputation proceeding it. Certainly from afar his militia would
look intimidating?

Also complicating the matter was the power of the premiere oligarchical family in Panama: the Noriegas. The Noriega Clan was direct descendants of the infamous dictator from centuries past. The Noriega family was also deeply entwined with the commerce in the region, this included cartel traffic and smuggling. La Chorrera took a piece of all cartel action, so it was not just a matter of steamrolling the town and purging cartel influence. Removing either the Oligarchs or the cartels would mean the collapse the regional economy. The key to Carafa’s strategy would have to be careful diplomacy; a knife’s edge balance. He would need to find an accord that would suit the Oligarchs, cartels, and the Order, at least for the short term.

Monsignor Carafa and the Friars of the Order sat on their mounts at the head of the militia who had been drawn up into a battle line. They had sent emissaries up ahead to send word of the Order’s arrival at La Chorrera. The Oligarch families had mustered their private militias and put them on standby within the town limits. Much like the Order, they were not looking for a fight that would most likely cause massive casualties on both sides. The Oligarchs of La Chorrera, however, had an advantage: possession of a fortress on the edge of town that contained old, Howitzer artillery pieces. The fortress occupied a commanding position on both land and the Strait.

“¿Crees que vamos a tener que luchar? (Do
you think we will have to fight?)” Friar Francis asked, her facial veil and
hood billowed in the wind.

“Si esperamos a tomar los Apóstatas
entonces tenemos que evitar una pelea aquí a toda costa. (If we expect to take
the Apostates then we have to avoid a fight here at all costs,)” Friar Pius
answered back. He sharpened his long trench dagger with on small whetstone.

“Qué Friar Pius dice es la verdad. Tenemos que capturar la fortaleza de mi plan para trabajar. Tendremos que buscar algún tipo de acuerdo con los oligarcas de La Chorrera. (What Friar Pius says is the truth. We need to capture the fort for whole for my plan to work. We’ll need to seek some sort of agreement with the Oligarchs of La Chorrera,)” Monsignor Carafa confirmed. He stood ready awaiting the town’s next move. Although he saw that the artillery on the fort was at the ready, and he figured that his militia was nearly out of range. Carafa had drawn up in battle lines for display in front of the town, but if he was forced to attack he was not going to sacrifice his forces assaulting the fort. His battle plan would rely on deceit and cunning. If forced to fight he would feign a retreat and lead his forces on flanking the town from the north side. He would fight his way through La Chorrera and take the town hall: the seat of Noriega family power. If he did this his militia would definitely be in range of the fort’s guns, but the fort’s defenders would be forced to shell their own town in the process.

“¡Amigos! ¿quieres comer pronto? (Friends! will you be requiring any need for a meal sometime soon?)” Friar Benedict was concerned for the welfare of the Friars, but mostly asked out of the hunger he felt. He was perched on his wagon and kept glancing back at the stock of salted pork, plantains, and potatoes in the bed of the wagon.

“¡No! Gracias, Benedict. Eso no será necesario en este punto. En primer, lugar debemos tender a nuestra situación actual. (No! Thank you, Benedict. That will not be necessary at this point. We must first tend to our current situation,)” Carafa corrected him. He looked through his gun scope toward the main gate of the town. He saw that there was activity around the gate. An ancient car drove out of the gates, old even by Twenty-first century standards. The word “Volkswagen” was blazoned in white on the front fender on a gray vehicle. It struggled along the rough pavement, following the old highway out of town toward the Order’s position. Carafa could make out through the scope that four people sat inside the vehicle. One was the driver, who wore a wide-brimmed, straw hat. The two in the back were men armed with assault rifles. The one who rode in the front passenger seat was a woman. She was wearing a black, floppy brimmed, sun hat, and a white, puffy-sleeved, button up blouse. Her sunglasses and red lips piqued Monsignor Carafa’s interest. Who was this that came his way, dressed so vamp-like?

After some time of silent observation of the car, it reached their position. The car’s worn brakes screeched to a stop and the driver jumped out. He ran around to the passenger side and opened the door for the mysterious woman. She dropped one nylon-clad leg out of the car, which grabbed the attention of all the male Friars. Friar Francis was not fazed. The woman swayed over toward the awaiting Order members. She was well-endowed with womanly charms and knew how to walk to attract attention. She pulled off her black gloves, one at a time, then removed her sunglasses, she was clearly of Zambo descent, but her eyes were electrically-charged hazel. She stopped in front of Monsignor Carafa’s gelding, looking it up and down.

“What a beautiful specimen. It is a shame
that the beast is castrated, though!” the woman exclaimed with a barbed tone,
in English.

“I would not underestimate my mount, Miss, he may lack certain essential anatomy, but he makes up for it by descending from the finest war horse stock the Old World had to offer,” Monsignor Carafa recited confidently.

“I wasn’t talking about your horse, sir,”
the woman said coyly.

“Miss, I assure you—” Monsignor
Carafa was slightly unnerved. He did not expect the woman to outright insult
his masculinity. She did not allow him to finish either.

“I mean to say, a solid man such as
yourself, bound to such a rigid moral system as this. It truly does limit a
man’s...uses,” the woman stated, stroking the mane of his gelding mount.

“To be a member of the Societatum Pentagram is among the highest honors a human could possibly hope to have on this mortal coil. I assure you, we do the Lord’s work and bear Christ’s wounds!” Monsignor Carafa trotted his horse around the woman, in an attempt to intimidate her. One of her bodyguards aimed at the Monsignor’s horse. The woman waved for the bodyguard to stand down.

“Oooh! You don’t say? I was known to have
been a good, Catholic girl in my day,” the woman mocked him.

“It is no laughing matter. The Order has
swept aside all opposition to the north of your fair city. We have forged a
kingdom in the Lord’s image, and it grows to your borders,” Carafa threatened.

“Yes, I have heard of your exploits. Well, priest, I can see that you are devoted to otherworldly powers, however, my “church” is within a more worldly domain. You see, a priest is only interested in the afterlife and is little better to me than a gelding is to a mare,” she informed him, with a sideways glance. It was intense and purposeful.

Carafa looked at the woman from atop his horse for a time. His poker face was stern, but his eyes spoke volumes. He surmised that she offered an alliance, albeit one that would test his moral standing. But, to Carafa, it had to have been part of God’s plan. Surely the Lord’s top priority was to destroy the Apostates? Perhaps he would play this woman’s game. But first, he did not even know her name.

“If I am to treat with you, woman, perhaps
introductions are in order?” Carafa suggested. He dismounted his horse. When he
did the full effect of his height was apparent next to the medium-sized woman.

“Well, priest, I am Manuela Noriega: head
of the Noriega Family of La Chorrera, Panama. We, along with other prominent
families, oversee the traffic on the Panama Strait. The fortress you see is
something that we have constructed. It is Fortress Noriega, and it commands who
comes and goes through the Strait.” Manuela gestured to the monolithic
structure that towered over the town.

“Manuela, interesting. Your name says it
all. “God is with us”. At any rate, I am Monsignor Pietro Carafa of the
Societatum Pentagram. I am the wielder of the Spear of Destiny, and The Spear
Wound of Christ!” He lit up the plasma blade on the end of his spear and flashed
the stigmata-like wound on his palm to show her that he was zealous.

“A man of passion. No one can deny that.” Manuela looked him up and down, seemingly trying to decide if she liked his Order garb or not.

“Yes indeed. These are my Friars of the
Order. They round out the other Four Wounds of Christ. And this is the Order
militia.” He gestured to his band of peasants and farmhands.

“I see. You have definitely come here
well-protected, but you did not come with a force capable of taking our fort.
That is why I came out from the town to meet you. So, I assume that you have
come for another reason. This is what I am curious about.” Manuela was
observant and proved herself adept at military matters, as well as flirtation.

“My lady, a great fleet of—criminals are
sailing for the Strait of Panama as we speak. I have been tasked by allies
further north and by God to stop these criminals from fulfilling their plan,”
Carafa explained.

“Ah, I think I understand. You lack ships,
and so you have come to the one choke point that you can use to stop their
fleet,” Manuela extrapolated.

“Yes, very keen. It is true: I do not have
ships. It is also true that our only chance is to stop them here, at the
entrance to the Strait,” Carafa confirmed reluctantly. He did not like to show
his hand like that.

“You all must be weary from your long journey. On behalf of the Families of La Chorrera, I shall invite your group into the city. Of course, your army will have to camp outside the fort, but we will assist with provisions. We can talk further in the town hall.” Manuela winked at Carafa and turned to get back into her old Volkswagen, Kübelwagen. The driver closed her door and then turned the rusty, gray car around and sped off toward the town gate.

“Friars! Please relay the general order to your companies to advance and pitch camp at Fort Noriega!” Carafa passed along the order, and jumped back onto his gelding. The Friars rode off to their respective arms of the militia to give orders. The confrontation with the Oligarchs had gone smoother than Carafa had expected. He was pleased and looked forward to getting settled inside La Chorrera. Monsignor Carafa willed his gelding forward.

“Maybe I should ride a stallion?” he
thought briefly, then rode through the town gate.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Friars’ Francis, Leo, and Pius rode their geldings at a steady trot along the old, cobblestone streets. The buildings of the old quarter of town were weathered and built in a Spanish-Colonial style. Although they were regularly painted in the bright, original colors of their hay-day, the molding and detail of stone ornamentation had long eroded away. On the outskirts of the old quarter were stately houses that were owned by the Oligarchs of the city. Further away from the town center were typical shanty structures. The Order was inspecting the old town, followed by Fort Noriega. Friar Francis looked out beyond several blocks of buildings toward the waters of the Panama Strait. She noticed that if a ship sailed up into these waters it would have free reign to fire on the city. The Friars rode through a bustling market. The produce and goods of the region were laid out in stalls for the people to peruse. Finely-weaved baskets contained massive quantities of coffee, coconut, plantains, potatoes, corn, and rice, among others. There was also a sizable spice market, of an old world variety that were suitable to the climate. Along with the perishable goods, was an arms bazaar. Small arms of almost every make and model from the last three hundred years could be found within: from assault rifle to bolt action, Russian to American-made. Potential buyers approached stalls and checked the sights of the various weapons. Cartel members moved freely here. The Friars passed several on their way through the bazaar. They did not fail to notice the nasty looks shot their way from cartel members that fled south to La Chorrera to escape the Order onslaught. For now they were under a cease-fire agreement while in the town.