Bones of Angels (4 page)

Training Gym #4

Aboard the Alamiranta

Quiz and DJ circled each other with catlike agility, their eyes locked on each other’s every step. DJ had been trying to teach her colleague and lover various moves common to MMA, or Mixed Martial Arts, which incorporated the techniques jiu-jitsu, karate, judo, kickboxing, and other forms of hand-to-hand combat. Today, she was instructing the computer specialist in taekwondo.

A former German covert operative, the beautiful and dangerous DJ usually worked with Quiz in the Ops Center aboard the Alamiranta, the floating headquarters of Titan Global.

Titan Global was an international business empire run by Catherine and Demetrius Caine. A corporate conglomerate that owned many subsidiary companies, especially in the oil and gas industry, Titan Global was also the world’s largest private military and intelligence contractor, and utilized special-ops teams for covert missions, such as surveillance, hostage extraction, regime infiltration, data gathering, search and rescue, and numerous other paramilitary operations. Its missions were sometimes initiated within Titan Global itself. Other times, clients ranging from corporations to sovereign governments contracted for the use of the most highly-trained special ops force in the world.

DJ raised her right knee to her waist and kicked her leg into Quiz’s chest like lightning. A front snap-kick. The young man reeled, stumbling backwards before regaining his footing.

But not fast enough.

DJ, long silky hair trailing behind her, had already spun around and settled into the classic taekwondo horse-riding stance, legs spread slightly apart.

“Easy does it, okay?” said Quiz.

DJ, her enchanting blue eyes narrowed in concentration, threw her right arm forward, striking Quiz with a fore-fist hand attack. The knuckles of her clenched, rigid hand caught him in the shoulder.

DJ smiled. “If I would have aimed for your face, you’d have a broken nose.”

Quiz raised his knee, angled his body by ninety degrees, and attempted a side-thrust kick. DJ merely ducked to the left, grabbed Quiz’s leg, and threw him off balance. He tumbled unceremoniously to the mat. She then dropped to her knees, left forearm held tightly against the man’s throat.

“Will you yield to me?” DJ asked.

Quiz couldn’t answer. His airway was cut off.

“This is where I want you,” said DJ in an almost savage voice.

She lifted her arm, leaned forward, and kissed her colleague on the mouth. Simultaneously, Quiz ran the palm of his right hand along DJ’s thigh.

“Someone is going to catch us one of these days,” Quiz said nervously as he tried to wiggle free.

“The possibility of getting caught is half the fun,” DJ proclaimed. “Don’t you feel the adrenaline?”

DJ stood up, extending a hand downward to her opponent. Quiz reached up as his lover pulled him to his feet.

“Yeah, I feel it,” he said. “But maybe Mrs. Caine wouldn’t like her employees to mix business and pleasure.

DJ put her hands on her hips and frowned. Many of Titan’s elite warriors had formed amorous relationships.

“It’s nobody’s business but ours,” DJ said, breathing hard.

Quiz melted. DJ’s chest heaved as she drank in oxygen with each breath. Her workout clothes were drenched with sweat. She smelled absolutely delightful, and her raw, animal appetite was irresistible to Quiz.

“My quarters,” DJ commanded. “Now.”

It had not been a request, but rather an order.

Quiz loved it when she gave him no choice.

Whittington Manor

Long Island, New York

For the past year, Charles Whittington had been building a quantum computer, one designed to predict probable events based on data he had gleaned from the news. All of reality was just that: probability. He now sat at his computer, typing up notes for future reference. That’s when perimeter alarms stationed on the grounds of the manor sounded.

Charles sighed. “Neighborhood ragamuffins again,” he said. “Curious about the man they think is a wizard living in the giant house they love to spy on.”

Charles rose from his seat and went to the second-floor monitoring room. Flatscreens provided views of every hallway in the mansion as well as strategic locations in the gardens and pathways on all sides of the manor.

Shadowy figures were approaching from the greenhouses in the rear. Charles couldn’t make out any detail, so he flipped a switch, activating the outside floodlights.

“That’s odd,” he said to himself. “Not that I wasn’t warned by the voice.”

He flipped another switch, releasing George and Gracie. Despite their names, the Rottweilers guarded the manor with ferocity when summoned. Abruptly, the barking ceased and the shadowy figures disappeared.

A pacifist by nature, Charles nevertheless kept several tranquilizer guns in a safe on the first floor.

He retrieved one of the non-lethal guns and hurried back to the lab where he’d been working. From there, he could bring down security doors that would seal off the basements beneath Whittington manor.

Once again in his main lab, Charles sat at the computer complex and began to type in the code to bring down the two-inch metal doors. He wasn’t able to finish.

“I think you should access your email first,” said Father Reynard, stepping from behind a mainframe at the rear of the lab. He was flanked by two gray-clad acolytes.

DJ’s Room, Crew Quarters

Aboard the Alamiranta

Although DJ was Quiz’s lover, his oldest and dearest friend was Dante Alighieri, author of the Divine Comedy.

The two had met under circumstances that were, not surprisingly, quite unique.

Orphaned at the age of six, Quiz was frequently left to his own devices. Since his grandmother equated his silence — indeed his absence — with the child behaving himself, he spent most of his hours during the next decade in his grandfather’s library — one of many — that housed thousands of leather-bound books. Running his fingers along their spines and embossed covers had been a sacred ritual for the boy.

It was Dante’s incredible tale of a descent into the underworld that had touched Quiz’s soul the most. The language and imagery came alive for the young man and spoke to his soul.

So did Dante himself.

The disembodied spirit of Dante, or perhaps Quiz’s delusional version of him, spoke in his mind daily. Dante had been Quiz’s constant companion since he first opened the pages of the Divine Comedy; he was a strong, invisible presence in Quiz’s life. He often hovered, unseen, behind his left shoulder. Over time, their banter became an intellectual — and at times humorous — debate on all things present in the boy’s consciousness.

Quiz lay beside DJ, breathing heavily. He glanced at the bite marks on his right shoulder.

* I don’t really understand what you see in your lusty encounters with this woman. *

Lust, Dante. Lust.

* Yes, yes, of course. But is there not more to the act of coupling? *

I guess there could be. For now, I like her, and she likes me.

* Like?  I liked certain kinds of food, but it didn’t

cause me to form an obsession with it. *

It’s the twenty-first century, pal. Not the fourteenth. The times they are a changin’.

* Please!  Don’t tell me you’re about to start

singing songs by that Dylan fellow again. *

Then stop hassling me.

* Have you never felt sexual ecstasy that occurs

within the bonds of true love? *

Quiz’s mind made no reply for several seconds.

No. To be truthful, I haven’t. Sex is sex.

* How misinformed you are! *

Quiz looked at the bare shoulders and satin-smooth

skin of DJ.

I’ll stay misinformed for now, thank you very much.

Quiz rolled onto his side and stared at the back of his slumbering lover. He wondered if Dante was right. He had never known true love. 

Artifact Room #4

The Gith Institute

Angela Marshall was a grad student in anthropology at New York University. Her short, dark brown hair complimented her dark brown eyes. With full red lips and eyebrows darker than most, she was a rare beauty that attracted the advances of a great many male grad students on campus. She regarded most as either geeks or lecherous young men with the hormones of a fourteen year old.

Angela made extra money by serving as part-time curator of the many antiquities of philanthropist Winton T. Gith. Gith gave millions of dollars to charity yearly. His benign vice was to collect everything old and rare that struck his fancy, which also included forgotten or esoteric information. His appetite for knowledge was insatiable.

Gith had thousands of first editions of the greatest literature mankind had produced. He even owned a First Folio by Shakespeare. In his artifact rooms were the fossils of whales and dinosaurs and ferns from the Jurassic period. He owned asteroid fragments, moon rocks, and priceless jewels from the kings and queens of England. He had insect collections, Egyptian and Greek maps of the world in ancient times, and certain spars from the Mayflower. Indeed, Gith owned relics and curiosities from almost every area of history and science. The Smithsonian had offered him a fortune for the entire collection, but Gith had declined.

Marshall was currently researching two rather unusual areas for her boss: angel encounters and the Avignon Papacy.

The Avignon Papacy dealt with a sixty-seven year period during which popes resided in France rather than Rome. Angela, who was in love with intellectual pursuits and all things historical, found the subject extremely interesting.

Studying angel encounters was not very scientific in nature, but it nevertheless held equal interest for the grad student. Over 400,000 people worldwide claimed to have been visited by an angelic creature. It was a cultural phenomenon, which put it well within the purview of an anthropology student.

What fascinated Angela most was the numerous types of encounters that had been reported. Many people claimed that the angels they saw in their homes looked very traditional: male or female beings with wings and robes. Some glowed as if bathed in supernatural light, while others looked very corporeal. Some were pure beings of light, and still others were shining humanoid creatures that bore no resemblance to angels portrayed through the centuries in art.

Most astonishing of all, millions reported that the angels who spoke to them came in the guise of ordinary human beings: nurses, delivery men, clerks, or everyday people walking along the street, all of whom had some special message or gift of healing for the person undergoing the encounter.

Angels apparently came in all shapes and sizes. It was Angela’s task to categorize as many of these encounters as possible. She herself was an agnostic, but Gith paid her well, so she was more than happy to immerse herself in the research.

And it beat the hell out of dating geeks.

Whittington Manor

Long Island, New York

Charles had been tied by two acolytes to his desk chair. Several other acolytes were now searching the mansion rooms above them. Reynard paced back and forth and stared without emotion at the scientist. Charles could see that his face was scarred from severe burns, and the corner of his mouth was turned up in a perpetual sneer.

“Explain what we are looking at on the computer screen,” Reynard ordered.

A few hours earlier, Charles had made a promise to the voice in the empty hallway. He was not to cooperate with men who might suddenly appear at his residence. He didn’t realize when the warning was issued, however, that the men would be intruders and use high-tech electronics to disable the manor’s sophisticated security system. The priest and his cohorts had slipped in through a little-used delivery door while Charles had been getting his dart gun.

Charles remained silent. A promise was a promise.

“I find you vexing, Professor Whittington,” declared Reynard.

Brother Antonius administered a stinging slap across Charles’ face. The Professor’s red cheek burned from the physical insult.

Reynard sat at one of Charles’ computers. Brother Gerasimus had hacked into Charles’ email account with little effort and retrieved the TrumpetingPlace file. Reynard scrolled through the document, which was comprised of photographs.

“I’m looking at wings,” said the priest. “That much I know. What fascinates me is that some of the pictures look almost . . . bleached out. I can barely see the skeletal outline. Others clearly show the articulated structure of a wing, but the bones themselves are black against a white background.”

Gerasimus faced Reynard. “I think I know what we’re looking at, my master.”

Reynard waved his hand in an impatient gesture, indicating that the acolyte should say what was on his mind.

“This is very similar to the phenomenon of the Shroud of Turin. The features of Christ evident on the Shroud are only seen clearly in photographic negatives. The same appears to apply to the photographs of the Archangel Michael.”

“Why is this the case?” Reynard asked.

Gerasimus tilted his head as he responded. “Many scientists who have studied the Shroud believe that such a phenomenon could only be caused by an incredible burst of light that emanated from the body of the man beneath the Shroud.

Reynard now understood. Believers in the authenticity of the Shroud claimed that a pulse of light from the body of Christ occurred at the moment of His resurrection. Obviously, Michael had given off a similar burst of light, though the precise circumstances that had accompanied such a luminous event were unknown. These light emissions apparently affected nearby objects and their photographic sensitivity.

Reynard shot Charles a sarcastic smile. “I don’t suppose you would like to shed some light on this matter, Professor, if you’ll excuse the pun. When did the Archangel emit such a bright pulse of light?  These pictures were sent to you by Archbishop Connolly for a reason. Don’t feign ignorance. There may be hell to pay. And again, excuse the pun.”

Charles remained silent. Someone was standing behind him. Suddenly, small bolts of lightning seared his vision. Sharp pain shot through his head. He had been beaten with a blunt instrument.

Charles Whittington blacked out.

The Armory

Aboard the Alamiranta

Of all special ops used by Titan Global, Titan Six was considered its most elite tactical force. Michael Hawke, former member of Force Recon in the U.S. Marines, headed Titan Six and was known as Hawkeye. Team members included Shooter, the ebony-skinned sniper from the Caribbean; Gator, former Army Ranger and machine gunner; Pyro, Japanese-born expert in ordnance and explosives; and Tank, Hawke’s younger brother and second-in-command of Titan Six.

The team regularly trained in Shotgun Alley, a holographic training simulator located in the ship’s vast Armory. Any scenario in any location could be duplicated by the sophisticated holographic computer displays.

Hawkeye was leading Titan Six in a training mission simulating urban warfare in Bangkok. Hawkeye and Shooter were facing off against Tank and Gator. Pyro was in sickbay getting a check-up by Dr. Grace Nguyen, who administered the team certain nanobot injections (among others) to give the team enhanced strength, as well as heightened awareness for all five senses. The enhancements were part of Titan’s BioMEMS System, which could also cause cells to release naturally-occurring chemicals when the body was injured or in distress.

Shooter and Hawkeye crouched low behind an overturned city bus in the back alleys of the thriving Asian metropolis. Other vehicles, burned or vandalized, were scattered on the street. It was midnight, and the sodium vapor streetlamps cast eerie shadows on the scarred cityscape.

A barrage of bullets punched holes in the roof of the bus as Gator opened up his SAW, an M249 Squad Automatic Machine Gun. The weapon produced rolling thunder, which reverberated between the buildings on either side of the street.

From his position behind the undercarriage of the bus, Hawkeye lobbed two grenades down the deserted street towards his mock-enemies. Safety protocols were engaged in Shotgun Alley, although battles fought there felt, sounded, and smelled like genuine combat. The computer also allowed direct hits to knock the combatants to the ground with considerable force. Holographic enemies, on the other hand, could be vaporized by any number of weapons.

“Advance!” ordered Hawkeye.

Breathing hard, Shooter and Hawkeye raced from behind the bus. Tank and Gator charged into the street from flank positions, surprising the team leader and his world-class sniper.

Tank engaged his brother, grabbing his arm and flipping him on his back. Tank’s agility made the two-second maneuver a blur as his brother spun through the air.

“Damn!” Hawkeye shrieked. “I think you broke my collarbone.”

“That’s called heat!” said Tank triumphantly. “And this is the kitchen. Recall that old saying?”

Hawkeye sprang to his feet and lunged at his attacker. Tank tried to grab Hawkeye by the wrist, but Hawkeye threw his elbow hard against Tank’s jaw, driving the soldier back three paces. Dizzy, Tank fell to his knees.

“Seeing stars yet?” Hawkeye asked his brother. “Remember that old saying?”

“I could use some help here!” Shooter called out.

The young sniper was pinned to the ground by Gator.

Tank was on his feet again, and Hawkeye was already moving aside while simultaneously driving his left leg into Tank’s gut with a knee-high power kick. Tank tumbled sideways and once again was reacquainted with the broken asphalt street. Tank coughed, wheezing. The wind had been knocked from his broad, muscular chest.

Shooter shot Hawkeye a quick, pleading glance. “Are we partners or not?”

“I’m engaged at the moment,” Hawkeye announced.

Shooter jabbed Gator’s jaw with her fist while rolling from beneath his shoulder hold.

“Pray for victory, Shooter,” Hawkeye said. “Maybe say a rosary or two. I see you sneaking into the ship’s chapel from time to time.”

Shooter grabbed her assault rifle, wheeled around, and struck the side of Gator’s head with the butt. Stunned, the gunner recoiled in surpise.

“Damn, lady!” yelled Gator. “You pack a mean punch.”

Shooter turned back to face her leader, her eyes intense. “And so what if I do get on my knees once in a while?”

Hawkeye laughed as he watched Shooter wipe away a trickle of warm blood from her lips. “Geez, don’t be so sensitive.”

“I guess it’s too macho to call upon God,” Shooter said.”

“Wait a second, you two,” Tank said. “Let’s keep the gloves on.”

Machine gun fire erupted from both sides of the street. A dozen Asian commandos emerged from doors and alleyways. Each carried an assault rifle. Their rapid-fire rounds peppered the street with bullets.

“We can make nice later!” barked Gator, grabbing his SAW. “Let’s handle the shit in the street first!”

Gator opened up his M249 again, cutting down commandos as if he were shooting tin cans on a fencepost. The enemy bodies glowed briefly before the holographic displays vaporized into a shower of bright particles, like New Year’s Eve sparklers.

A bomb exploded in the next block. The ground shook, knocking all members of Titan Six to the asphalt. A yellow-orange fireball blossomed in the sky like a deadly sunflower. A shockwave of intense heat rolled over Titan Six three seconds later.

“Everybody up! ordered Hawkeye. “Pair off as before and reload!”

More commandos flooded the street, guns spitting lead into abandoned cars or tearing chunks from the bricks of nearby buildings. Hawkeye threw a concussion grenade into the next block as he and Shooter knelt in the nearest alley to their left.

A siren unexpectedly went off.

“Attention,” said an automated voice. “Training simulation suspended. Repeat: training simulation suspended. Michael Hawke, please report to Mrs. Caine in the Gallery.”

Shooter, her rifle lowered, stood and began walking to the exit of Shotgun Alley. She turned and glared at Hawkeye. “You need to learn some manners, Michael.”

East 76
^th
Street

Manhattan, New York

Father Reynard and his acolytes had not been the only ones searching for information on the Archangel Michael. Beta Team had been looking for the bones of Michael for many years, although the agenda of their superiors was not quite the same as that of Reynard. Such a find would be the most important in all of Christendom, and they’d even worked with the brilliant Charles Whittington in their search.

But they had been followed by five of Reynard’s acolytes. Having yielded no information, they’d been blindfolded and turned over to laymen working in a warehouse in Manhattan. They had been beaten, and when they still remained silent, they’d been handcuffed. Hoods were placed over their heads.