Repost: The Night Gods III- The Triumph of Evil: Chap. VII- Forza Italia

Artwork by @marty-art on Steemit... With many thanks!

President Oliveira was irate after his address had been "preempted." He paced the floor, face flushed, berating everyone within earshot. Irate, in fact, barely scratched the surface in describing his mood. He was painfully aware that he may be temporarily winning the fight for military supremacy- he had superior weapons and manpower- but the war to win hearts and minds, he had been handed a resounding defeat. The inability of the Ministry of Information to halt Bret Shoemaker's broadcasts was like a slap in the face to the proud Brazilian. It was a direct attack on his machismo- his manhood, and it was going to change, or somebody was going to pay, and pay dearly. He picked up his phone and spoke to his personal assistant...

"Where's Patterson?" He asked.

"I'm not sure, Sir," came the reply. "More than likely in Las Vegas."

"Then find him," Oliveira told the assistant. "Find him and get him here immediately."

"Yes, Mr. President," his assistant said. "Right away, Sir."

Patterson was at his home, a walled compound just outside Las Vegas, when Oliveira's assistant contacted him. After receiving the news that he was wanted in Geneva... he flew there straightaway, arriving early the next morning. He was met at the airport personally by Oliveira's assistant who drove him to the President's office in the League of Nations Building. He entered to find a still irate Oliveira.

Even before any pleasantries were exchanged, the President slammed his fist on his desk and shouted: "I want this Shoemaker business stopped... Now!"

"But we can't find him, Mr. President," Patterson pleaded. "How can we arrest him when we don't know where he is? In fact we're not positive he's even in America... he could be anywhere."

"What have you done so far?" Oliveira asked, calming down a bit.

"We have our best technicians on it," Patterson told him. "But the rebels have very skilled technicians of their own... They change IP addresses every few seconds- some are even here in Europe. They're impossible to trace."

"Offer rewards," Oliveira suggested. "Crack down more... Curfews, something like that. He's in America alright and I want him found."

"Cracking down isn't the answer, and curfews only work in the cities where they can be enforced." Patterson knew he was taking a chance criticizing the hotheaded Oliveira. "In case you haven't noticed, Mr. President, we aren't very popular with the people and all the propaganda in the world isn't likely to change that. If you want more people on your side, you need to back off."

Oliveira's eyes narrowed: "Whose side are you on here?" He asked.

"Your's of course, Mr. President," Patterson said... He had gone this far, he might as well go all the way: "If you want to appear as a good guy, you have to act like a good guy... Lying to people isn't going to get you anywhere."

"So what do you suggest?" Oliveira asked sarcastically. "Just allow them to do whatever they want?"

"Of course not, Mr. President," Patterson replied. He was gaining courage now: "If you want to win hearts and minds, you have to at least create an appearance of giving them something- that way they may let their guard down some."

Oliveira thought for a moment. "I like you Patterson," he said, "you're devious. What's your plan?"

"If we give the impression of backing off a bit," Patterson began, "you might announce something in your next address- maybe allowing Shoemaker's broadcasts, or at least ending curfews- they will let their guard down enough to slip a few spies into their camp."

"I can't back off of Shoemaker- he's gone too far- he's a hero," Oliveira mused. "It will have to be something else. The curfew idea sounds good... like you said we can'r effectively enforce them anyway. But Shoemaker is out."

"OK, Sir," Patterson said. "That was just off the top of my head... We just have to look like we're throwing them a bone- maybe they won't sense there's poison inside... But the spies, I think are a good idea."

"Agreed, Oliveira said. "The spies may work than a crackdown. I'll remove the curfews- nobody obeys them anyway... maybe they'll stop shooting my helicopters down."

Oliveira had no intention whatever of decreasing his military presence, but he did need Patterson's help to find the source of Shoemaker's broadcasts. If the man couldn't manage his own country, he would have to be replaced... For that he would need the assistance of Beck who was now a resident of Geneva. He was also the leader of his faction of the Council... Although absent from the US, Beck was still in control of Council activity there. Patterson was virtually useless- a mere figurehead. If Oliveira was to stop the transmissions he would have to enlist the help of Beck.

Beck lived in a villa overlooking the lake, surrounded by a high wall and heavily guarded. If it wasn't for the fortress-like atmosphere it would have been very beautiful indeed. Oliveira was escorted into Beck's study by an armed guard... Beck joined him shortly.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President," Beck greeted him warmly. "Can I offer you some refreshments- coffee, tea, a drink perhaps. How about some wine, I have an excellent Madeira?"

"Yes, thank you," Oliveira replied, "that sounds fine."

The wine was served by a valet wearing a Sig Sauer .40 in a shoulder holster under his white jacket, Oliveira noticed... Beck certainly was taking no chances.

"Mr. Beck," Oliveira began after they had tasted the wine, "I need you assistance in halting those broadcasts in the United States."

"I'm not sure what I can do, Mr. President," Beck replied, waving a hand noncommitally. "Patterson's President now... I'm dead, for all intents and purposes."

"Even dead you have more influence than that toady Patterson," Oliveira smiled broadly. "I'm only asking that you contact your people there to see what can be done there."

"Of course I'll do everything I can, Mr. President," Beck told him.

"I would deeply appreciate whatever assistance you can provide," Oliveira said gratefully. "These illegal transmissions affect us all."

"I have an engagement with with his Lordship this evening," Beck said. "I'll speak to him on your behalf."

"I would be most grateful," Oliveira replied.

His Lordship was Lord Robert Penrose, the head, so to speak, of the Circle of Councils. The Councils were set up like concentric circles, growing in number but declining in power as they go out from the Primary Council in the center. The Primary Council consists of seven very powerful individuals- administrators that control Council policy. Penrose was as close to a leader as there was.

Lord Penrose could trace his family's history back to the time before the Norman Invasion of England. He epitomized the British aristocracy- his castles and homes throughout Europe were untouched during the war. He lived his life outside the public eye and was accessible to only a chosen few- Beck was one of the few.

Beck had been invited to a small gathering of the chosen... A sextravaganza of the monied and perverse elite. These soirees were legendary, celebrities and supermodels flown in from around the world as party favors for the attendees of both sexes... There were rumors that Oliveira had only heard about of human sacrifices at these get-togethers... He may be the President of the world- but he was not one of the insiders.

Oliveira returned to his office more hopeful than before. If someone with Lord Penrose's influence became involved, perhaps the transmissions could be halted. He had the evening's broadcast to prepare for. Oliveira, however, wasn't the only one preparing for the evening's broadcast.

There's a seven hour time difference between Arkansas and Switzerland... So at precisely 1:00 Arkansas time, Uwe would lock onto Oliveira's satellite signal and broadcast Bret's newscast live worldwide- Beginning with "Good evening citizens of the world..." This transmission would be a dramatic variation from his usual newscast. Tonight he would broadcast a message of hope around the world- a message encouraging the world citizenry to unite against tyranny... a message that would spread like wildfire.

After the "Mickey Mouse Conspiracy" as it was called, people would tune into the beginning of Oliveira's address hoping for another interception... Tonight they would get their wish. One such group was the Guiliano rebel movement in Sicily, who had festivities of their own planned for the evening.

The UN troops had taken up residence at the former NATO Naval Air Station at Sigonella south of Catania. The runways would accommodate large planes carrying troops and supplies to reinforce the region... It was also home to a helicopter squadron that could reach much of the island easily.

Alessandra and her brother Gero had hatched a daring plot to destroy the bridge leading to Catania. After much surveillance they were able to time the departure of troop trucks going to relieve the troops in the city. To get there, they must cross the Dittaino Bridge. With carefully placed explosives and Claymore mines stolen from a nearby armory, they could disable the bridge indefinitely, as well as eliminate several truckloads of soldiers.

As was the case in America, there were members of the Italian military sympathetic to the resistance. A young Lt. and former classmate of Gero at the Military Academy, had supplied them with Semtex and the mines. Gero had been in ordinance and explosives while in the military, mostly defusing landmines, but was familiar with the intricacies of detonators and demolition. They had tirelessly studied the plans of the bridge and were familiar with the structure's strategic points. Alessandra would provide cover if necessary accompanied by several riflemen carrying rifles outfitted with night-vision scopes. Gero and five of his men would place the charges, working in teams of three. They would be accompanied by Father Tony, Father Antonio Pavaglio, a former parish priest who had hung up his frock and joined the resistance.

Before becoming a priest Father Tony had lived in America. His family had emigrated there when he was a boy and after a stint in the Army Rangers, where he served with distinction in Iraq and Afghanistan where tired of war, he joined the Seminary and after being ordained, returned to his native Sicily and became a parish priest. While in the Rangers, he became an expert with explosives, a skill very useful to the rebels. His devotion to God was still his most powerful driving force- he was the spiritual leader of the band of rebels and even though the Church was outlawed, he said Mass daily.

Father Tony also knew the Night Gods well, they invaded his dreams as a boy with promises of greatness- greatness, honors and riches beyond his wildest imagination... If he would only serve them. He fought them then as a boy and he fought them now as a man. The Night Gods were the reason young Antonio turned to God, but the dreams continued. They didn't stop until after the Seminary, when Tony realized that God had a plan for him.

The night they chose was perfect for an enterprise of this sort- it was almost moonless... If they were cautious their movements would prove almost undetectable. The six men set out, dressed in black bodysuits, each carrying a satchel of explosives. There were only a few guards near the bridge and they were probably asleep... nobody would dare attack so close to the base. A guard shack was at either end and a check through night-vision binoculars showed no activity. The time was right.

They travelled by boat rowing silently, oars wrapped to avoid any noise, until they were within walking distance. Alessandra and her shooters kept a vigilant watch as the teams went along. Gero and his team approached the bridge from one end and Father Tony and his from the other. Setting the explosive charges was the easy part, if there was such a thing- they were placed strategically in the bridge's superstructure. It would be the placement of the Claymores that would prove more hazardous- they must be put on either side of the bridge to be effective. It was nearly dawn when Father Tony, Gero and the others met up with Alessandra and the shooters s upstream. Now they had only to wait.

They didn't have long to wait. Just as dawn broke, the troops began to stir. From their vantage point they could see the blue helmets as the troops began to fill the trucks to relieve their compatriots in Catania. When they passed the halfway mark, the freedom fighters bagan triggering the Claymores, clicking the remote detonators three times in rapid succession. 16 mines, each containing 900 ball-bearings propelled by four pounds of C-4 explosive caught the 2 1/2 ton trucks in a merciless crossfire, shredding the canvas covering the troops and their contents. The survivors staggered outside, wounded and confused. The rebels then detonated the Semtex charges on the superstructure of the bridge itself. The center collapsed in a pile of rubble carrying what was left of the three trucks and their contents to certain death below. It had been a good night's work.

They were already gone by the time the helicopters scrambled to pursue, in their cars joining the morning commuter traffic heading toward Catania on A-18... they were heading in the opposite direction, however, toward their mountain retreat. Father Tony and Gero had joined Alessandra in her car driving northward toward Messina amidst the morning traffic. They were all bone-tired from the night's activity, but satisfied.

"A fine night's work," Gero remarked proudly. "I only wish I could have stayed to watch the bridge come down."

"It was perfect, Gero," Alessandra said. "I saw the whole thing- it was very professional."

In the back seat Father Tony's head was bowed in silent prayer.

"What are you praying for, Father?" Gero asked smiling widely. "We all made it out ok."

"I'm praying for all those souls on the bridge, Gero," Father Tony said sadly.

"Those are the enemy," Alessandra spat. "They'd kill you in a heartbeat."

"And I them. But they're still human beings... just confused," Father Tony returned. "Our Savior commands that we pray for our enemies."

"Are you a soldier, or a priest?" Gero asked with a laugh.

"Both," Father Tony smiled. "Don't get me wrong- just because I pray for their souls afterward doesn't mean I won't kill them... Gotta have souls to pray for." They all laughed.

When they arrived at the mountain retreat they found Gero's wife Noemi waiting anxiously. Father Tony had converted one of the out buildings into comfortable living quarters. Alessandra had moved in with Gero and Noemi after the murder of her husband by the troops. The other rebels had returned home after they had split up.

Father Tony, exhausted like the rest, excused himself and went to his house to rest. Stripping down to his shorts, he lie on his bed. When he looked up from his prayers, he saw Alessandra in the doorway... She walked silently to the bed and lay next to him, resting her head on his shoulder, placing her arm across his chest and they both fell asleep.