Target City 2-San Francisco. Selected for its strategic location as a centrally located city on America’s west coast, San Francisco is also a liberal hub in the United States, and is the nation’s de facto headquarters for the godless homosexual movement. The strike, also by truck carrying materials deported in the same shipment, would occur near the base of the famed Golden Gate Bridge, with the detonation to occur close enough to the bridge to vaporize a portion of it.
“San Francisco’s next,” Father Ramon said.
Kristina moaned softly.
Like Philadelphia, San Francisco is also selected for the generally liberal philosophy of its population, again on the theory that the surviving electorate, in the wake of a strike, would bring considerable pressure upon the American administration to abandon its anachronistic and pro-Zionist support for Israel. As an additional incentive for this target, the city would suffer punishment for its open embrace of godless homosexuality.
Target City 3-Washington. Selected for its strategic location as the American capital city, a nuclear attack upon Washington will be employed as a third option, only in the event that the American government has failed to capitulate to Strategic Alliance demands by refusing to withdraw support for Israel and by failing to lead the reversal of United Nations resolutions recognizing Israel.
Although Pennsylvania Avenue is and has been blocked off in front of the White House for a number of years, Constitution Avenue, which borders the South Lawn, has remained open.
Fear swept Father Ramon’s body. He closed his eyes. The words of the great apostle in chapter 8 of Romans flooded his spirit. For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of sonship. And by him we cry, “Abba, Father.”
The fear left. The priest opened his eyes and looked up. “Abba. Father. Tell me what to do.”
The voice was still, yet small. And it spoke into his soul. Call the Monsignor. Ask for my airplane. Fly to Singapore. Go to the United States embassy there.
“Yes, Father.” The priest instinctively pressed the speed dial to the Monsignor’s residence.
Dial tone. Rings. “Hello.”
“Monsignor, this is Father Ramon.”
“Are you all right, Ramon?”
“Yes, Monsignor. I’m sorry to interrupt you, but is the church’s airplane available?”
“Yes. It’s in our hangar at our private airfield south of the city.”
Ramon felt himself exhale deeply. “Monsignor, I need to meet with you now. It is an emergency.”
“What is it, Ramon?”
“I need to take the church plane to Singapore, Monsignor.”
A pause. “I think the pilot has a flight scheduled in a couple of days. I’m sure we can make room for you.”
Ramon rubbed his head. “Monsignor, I need the plane now.”
“Now?”
“Yes, sir. Tonight.”
Silence.
“Could you meet me at our airstrip, Monsignor?”
“Can’t you tell me what is going on?”
“No, sir. Not on the phone. I can say that it is a matter of life and death.”
Another pause. “Well, let me remind you that the plane is owned and operated by the Holy See for diplomatic purposes. The Vatican lets the Indonesian church use it, of course. But I would have to check with the nuncio to get permission to use it. He’s probably asleep at the embassy. You want me to wake the nuncio?”
Of course. Why had he not thought of it earlier? The nuncio was the Holy See’s ambassador, representing his Holiness the Pope in nations as his ambassador. The nuncio and his representatives could travel as they pleased under the protections of diplomatic immunity. But would they?
“Yes, Monsignor. I’m afraid that it is an urgent matter. Please tell the nuncio that he has two requests for asylum and protection by the Holy See.”
There was a silence. Had he lost connection?
“Two requests?” The Monsignor spoke up.
“Yes, Father. Two requests.”
“And may I ask from whom, so that I can at least give the nuncio an idea of what to expect?”
Was it wise even to respond? Suppose they were listening. Surely not. Trust God in the moment. “Please tell the nuncio that one of the requests is from me.”
More silence. “From you, Ramon?”
“Yes, Father. I will explain on the plane. The other is from one whose life may be in danger for political reasons. I am asking, as a personal favor, that we be transferred to the embassy in Singapore for safety and for matters of extreme and urgent importance to the world.”
More silence. “Say no more,” the Monsignor said. “All right. I’ve known you for a long time, Ramon. I’ll make the call and see what I can do. Meet me at our airstrip in one hour, unless you hear from me.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Ramon hung up the phone. “Have you ever flown in an airplane, Kristina?”
“No, Father.”
“Well, you’re going to get your chance.” Her eyes widened. “Let me shut the computer down and get this memory stick, and then we’re going for a ride.”
Chapter 18
Embassy of the Apostolic Nunciature of the Holy See
Singapore
10:35 p.m.
An asylum request for the Holy See?” Monsignor Rafael Cardillo, the nuncio for his Holiness the Holy Father of Rome to the Republic of Singapore, had just gone to bed, but had not fallen asleep when he had been called down to his office by his assistant that a secure call was being placed by his counterpart in the Republic of Indonesia, Monsignor Alberto Miranda, the nuncio to the Republic of Indonesia, or now the Islamic Republic of Indonesia.
“And they are requesting that they be housed here at the Apostolic Nunciature in Singapore?” Cardillo asked this, listening to Miranda confirm the request. “Don’t they know that we have our hands full dealing with displaced refugees from the oil spill?…Why not there in Indonesia?…Oh, really?…Let me get this straight; one of the parties requesting asylum is one of our priests?…And neither he nor his cohort feel safe at the Apostolic Nunciature in Indonesia…I see…I see…I suppose I understand.”
The nuncio looked at his watch.
“I’ll meet you at the airport with a reception party as soon as the plane lands. We will take the petitioners into our protective custody until this can be sorted out.”
Ten miles south of Philadelphia
11:10 a.m.
Move, move, move!” Lieutenant Colonel Raymond Leggett, Pennsylvania National Guard, was waving his arms like a traffic cop as he stood atop the hood of the military Humvee, which was parked just off the shoulder of southbound Interstate 95, leading out of Philadelphia. “Keep moving!”
The interstate itself was a logjam of horn-blowing cars all pointed in a southerly direction, but barely moving away from the ominous black cloud hovering over what was once downtown Philadelphia.
Along the shoulders of the road, thousands of pedestrians plodded along in a southerly direction, some cursing, others crying, many with stunned and glazed looks.
A shrill cry pierced above the cacophonous sound of rumbling panic. “Please! Please! She’s my baby! Please!”
Leggett looked down and saw a young woman, a stringy redhead with a baby in a pouch on her back. The woman was frantically pulling on the cammie uniform of his second in command, First Lieutenant Bob Calley.
“What’s the problem?” Leggett asked.
“Sir, we just ran out of iodide pills. She was next in line.” The national guard had been passing out iodide pills to try and thwart the effects of nuclear fallout.