The Central Command Center of Vatican Intelligence
The Vatican, Vatican City
Father Essex tapped a restless rhythm on the polished floor of the command center with the toe-end of his shoe. Next to him stood Father Auciello, who, in stark contrast, exuded a quiet confidence. Their gazes were fixed on the wall where a bank of monitors displayed a live feed from a geostationary satellite. It showed a dense swathe of green - the unforgiving Făgăraș mountain range in Romania.
"Still nothing, Brother Matteo?" Father Essex asked.
Brother Matteo shook his head. "Negative, Father. The satellite picked them up dropping into the designated zone without a hitch. But once they hit the tree line, visual and audio contact dropped completely."
A tense silence followed. The mission, an operation to penetrate a fortress to engage an unknown number of hostiles, was already fraught with danger. Now, visual surveillance and audio communication had gone silent, leaving Vatican Intelligence with no way to track them; therefore, the Vatican Knights were on their own and without support from the command center.
"How long has it been since they crossed the tree line?" Father Auciello asked.
Brother Matteo glanced at a digital clock mounted on the wall. "Since dawn. So, almost twelve hours."
“Twelve hours,” Essex said. "They should have established comms by now. This radio silence . . ." His voice trailed off.
Auciello stepped forward, his gaze hardening. "Lost communication in hostile territory can only mean two things - either they've been compromised, or . . . " He didn't need to finish the sentence.
“No need to speculate with a pessimistic view,” Father Essex told him. “Just look at that.” He swept his arm across to emphasize the images on the screen. “They could be anywhere under those trees. We don’t know what happened to them if anything.”
“It’s been twelve hours, Good Father, on a mission that should have taken six.”
“We’ve already established that the terrain would be rough crossing. They could have come across difficulties in traversing certain obstacles.”
Suddenly, a flicker on the centermost monitor caught Brother Matteo's attention. He leaned closer, his eyes glued to the screen. "Wait . . . there," he said, pointing.
The gazes of Fathers Essex and Auciello converged on the screen. A faint thermal signature, a miniscule blip amidst the vast green expanse, pulsed faintly. It moved with a deliberate, albeit erratic, path deeper into the mountainous terrain.
"Could it be them?" Auciello asked.
"It's possible," Brother Matteo replied, his fingers flying across the keyboard. He manipulated the satellite feed, zooming in on the thermal signature. "The heat signature is consistent with human movement, but . . . "
Three more thermal signatures appeared, bringing the total to four.
“Why do I only see four images and not five?” asked Father Auciello. “Did we lose someone?”
Then the figures started to race across the field.
"We’re not even sure if it’s them," Father Essex stated. Then: "Patch us through to their emergency beacon frequency. If they're still operational, we might get a voice signal."
A few seconds ticked by as Brother Matteo opened the communication comm. Then, a crackle of static erupted from the speakers, followed by a muffled voice. "Ghost One to Base Command . . . We are . . . Job . . . back . . . "
Then the signal cut off.
“Get them back,” Father Auciello urged.
Brother Matteo, along with the other Jesuits on the control panel, tried to reconnect. But nothing sounded over the speakers except white noise and static.
After tense moments of trying, Brother Matteo leaned back into his chair with his line of sight focused on the thermal images on the screen, and said, “We’ve lost all communication. And there’s nothing we can do to get them back online.”
* * *
The Vatican Knights were racing across the small clearing to the bunker’s entrance when Isaiah’s earbud started to crackle. Hitting his earpiece and looking skyward at the pinprick glitter of stars, he realized that the geostationary satellite was homing in onto their position. Though the communication was weak, the static too loud, he said, “Ghost One to Base Command, do you copy? We are heading to a possible entryway to what appears to be a subterranean facility. Job has been rendered inoperative. We had to leave him at coordinates 39° 78' N, 122° 64' W, and he needs immediate aid and transportation . . . Do you copy, Base Command."
Nothing but static.
Looking skyward, Isaiah realized that they were on their own.