The Journey Read online

  The Journey

  Neil Howarth

  For all my readers starting out on this journey with me.

  Neil H

  Copyright

  The Journey

  Copyright © 2018 by Neil Howarth

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Also by Neil Howarth

  The Doomsday Legacy

  The Foo Sheng Key

  The Simeon Scroll

  The Final Pontiff

  The Day of Wrath (Coming Soon)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  1

  Washington D.C. 2005.

  The man knew he was dying.

  The pain in his chest grew with every labored breath. He clung to the top of the wall as another raking cough shook through his body. Blood splattered on the rough concrete beneath his chin. It appeared black in the faint moonlight. The sky lit briefly as a flash of lightning danced across the heavens. He looked up at the slab of grey storm clouds gathering directly above him, eager to witness his demise. They were heavily pregnant with rain, threatening a deluge at any moment. No doubt there to make a last ditch effort to scrub at his soul before it finally departed his body, hoping to wash away some of the sins.

  Good luck with that.

  He spit out a gob of blood and mucus. The taste lingered, coppery and bitter in his mouth.

  It would not have to wait long.

  How he had made it this far was a minor miracle. He had taken the bullet in his chest. It was still in there. Somehow he had made it out of the apartment, out through the back, past the garbage, a towel from the bathroom clutched to the wound, attempting to staunch the flow and the blood trail.

  He dare not risk his own car, parked out front, and where they would be waiting for their boss, who was not coming out. So he had stolen a Ford Pinto a few blocks up the street - easy pickings. The plan came into his head as he drove. It was crazy, but then these days most of them were.

  He abandoned the Pinto somewhere on a back street at the rear of the property and made his way through the trees, until he reached the wall. He had scrambled to the top, using the knots and branches of a tree and the wall itself as footholds. The wall tore at his trousers and scraped his knees, but the pain was a pleasant diversion from the main event. The climb almost finished him, but an ingrained determination from long ago SEAL training drove him on. Quitting was not an option.

  The pain kicked in stronger and he held on as a wave of nausea swept over him. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled out of the growing darkness, like mortar fire seeking him out. He peered out across the garden. High stone walls surrounded the property and out beyond the house, over on Massachusetts Avenue, the street lamps seemed to float like fairy lights in the distance.

  The Apostolic Nunciature of the Holy See, the official Vatican Embassy in Washington D.C., was in the city’s Embassy district, a stone’s throw from the White House. The main house was impressive, like all the houses on Embassy Row. It stood back at the end of a large, well-manicured garden. Bright spotlights covered a stone paved patio in front of a wide set of French windows. Security cameras were positioned high on the walls of the house, silently taking it all in. Their focus was on the area directly around the house, not on him crouching on the top of this wall.

  But he needed to get inside, to the only man who could save him.

  And the chances of that ebbed away with each moment he stayed where he was. To reach him he needed to cross that space between here and the house. Of course, in these times of religious extremists and Jihadi terrorists, the security guards would shoot him down before he got even close.

  Another bout of nausea threatened to carry him away, and he clung on. His face, his neck, and down his back, felt hot and clammy despite the cold. First signs of infection? Maybe. But if he didn't get off this wall, it would not matter anyway.

  He felt himself sway outward and he gripped on hard to prevent himself from pitching out into the darkness. He clenched a fist and thumped it down hard on the concrete, focusing on the renewed pain, forcing himself to concentrate. Raindrops spattered against his face. A last lingering touch of reality. The end was near.

  In that moment before you died, did your whole life flash in front of you? Or did you only reflect on the events that had brought you to this point?

  He thought about the man inside the house, about his own part in bringing him to be there, and how far the man had risen since that first time they met. It was no surprise. It was clear he was an extraordinary man. Back then they were both very different people, set on different paths. Despite the circumstances they had had found themselves in, the man had never doubted they would find safety. And he was right. The future back then had seemed so different, so bright, so hopeful.

  It was strange how far one man can rise, and how far another can fall.

  2

  Somalia, 1993.

  If he had to start somewhere, it would have to be Mogadishu.

  Joe Fagan opened his eyes. The sky was on fire. Or rather, Mogadishu was on fire, off the starboard wing of the C-130. Flames reached up from the burning buildings, and black smoke hung like a pall across the city. It could have been a scene from Dante's inner circles of hell.

  The C-130 circled out over the Indian Ocean, far enough out to sea to dissuade any incoming anti-aircraft missiles, before beginning its approach into the Aden Ade International Airport, to the south of the city.

  The aircraft shuddered as the wheels locked down for landing. Fagan's heart thumped in his chest, and he had to struggle to keep down the breakfast he had eaten a few hours ago. He knew what it was, a mixture of excitement and unadulterated fear. Something he would have to learn to get used to.

  He touched the SEAL Trident pinned on his combat jacket, the famous SEAL's Budweiser. He could still feel that burst of pride as Rear Admiral Lancaster had pinned it on him.

  It still seemed unbelievable that the seventeen-year-old boy who had stood up in front of the judge, guilty of automobile theft, was sitting here now. Fate had taken a hand on that day.

  He never saw himself as a criminal. He still remembered standing up in juvenile court, a cop on either side of him, like he was a South Boston gangbanger. But it had really been all about getting girls. Back then, they still had drive-in movies. If you wanted to take a girl, you needed a car. The rich kids borrowed their parents’, but Fagan and his buddies couldn’t do that. So they chose the next best alternative - steal one. It was only for the night, and they always gave them back. Unfortunately, the cops had lifted him while he was still in the car, making out with Fiona Johnson. Regrettably, before he was able to realize the promise in her eyes.

  Father O’Mahony had appeared in court and given hi
m a reference, said he was a good boy who had just lost his way and needed guidance. After listening to the evidence and the testimony, the judge had looked down at a sheet of paper on his desk. Fagan had only found out later that it was a list of the accused for that session. Against Fagan’s name was a solitary tick, in pencil.

  He could still remember the judge's words.

  ‘Joseph Michael Fagan, you have been found guilty of stealing an automobile, and as you are already seventeen, I can send you to prison for three years. However, I am inclined to listen to the testimony of Father O’Mahony and give you a second chance. All charges will be dropped, on condition that you leave this courthouse accompanied by Chief Petty Officer Masters, and immediately enlist in the United States Navy.’

  Fagan remembered looking at the thickset man across the courtroom, dressed in Naval uniform.

  It turned out that particular day was the Navy’s day.

  The sailor had smiled as Fagan caught his eye. But there was no humor there, none at all.

  The burly Chief Petty Officer had taken him directly to the recruiting office and signed him up. Even at seventeen, his gut told him this was a rare chance, and he had to take it. So he had grabbed it with both hands.

  He joined his first ship, the aircraft carrier USS John F. Kennedy, as a naval rating. He struck up a friendship with a guy, not a lot older than himself. His name was George. George told him he was a SAR Diver. Fagan remembered him having to explain that SAR was Search and Rescue. It sounded exciting. To Fagan, it also seemed like a great way to get him to where he really wanted to be. He applied and was accepted. He trained his butt off and graduated Navy Diver 3rd Class. But then he had to. He had no choice. He already had a goal. One day he wanted to lead a Navy SEAL team.

  He had seen the poster in the recruiter’s office on that first day, when the Chief Petty Officer had signed him up - a Navy SEAL charging into battle. Suddenly the fog had lifted, all his recent years of aimless wandering had crystallized into that moment, and finally, he knew what he wanted.

  But it was not going to be easy. Besides the extreme difficulty of getting through the SEAL training, if he wanted to lead a team, he needed to be an officer. At seventeen he had gone straight into the Navy, so he had some educational catching up to do. Which meant no downtime, evening classes when he got the chance, and studying at every opportunity, including weekends. But it had paid off. He had rolled up college credits and finally had enough to enroll in the Enlisted Commissioning Program, then on the Navy’s dime he had attended college and graduated with a degree in psychology. From there he had done a sixteen-week course at the Officer Candidate School, the OCS, and graduated as O1, Ensign Joseph Fagan. The SEALs were now in his grasp. All he needed was to get accepted.

  He had passed the interview, his SAR diver experience seemed to help, and he was invited to take the entrance test. A week later he received orders to report for BUD/S training.

  It was 0430 in the morning, and it was raining. A bitterly cold wind blew in off the ocean. One hundred and thirty-five SEAL trainees assembled on the Special Warfare training compound on the Naval Amphibious Base, Coronado, California. Fagan looked across at his fellow trainees. They seemed a tough and determined bunch. He could remember asking himself,

  Could he measure up?

  They had already been cut down from about three hundred, but none of them could have realized as they stood there in the pouring rain freezing their butts off, that only twenty-five of the intake would come out on the other side as qualified Navy SEALs.

  A door opened, and a forty-year-old man with dark slicked back hair stepped out. He was dressed in a pair of jogging pants and a gym vest and built like the proverbial brick shit house. Second generation Italian, Joe Magellan, the Naval Special Warfare training group’s Master Chief, climbed up on to the podium. Six foot two and two hundred and forty pounds of angry hell. Fagan had done his homework and read about him. Master Chief Magellan had been the Navy Heavyweight boxing champion, three years running. Many had said he should quit and go pro. He had a great future in front of him. But instead, he became a Navy SEAL. He had also gone on to win the Medal of Honor. Some said he was crazy. Looking at him on that rainy morning, they could have been right.

  The Master Chief grimaced through firmly set teeth, the closest Fagan ever saw him get to a smile, and welcomed them to BUDS training, then pointed to the brass bell hanging outside the main office.

  ‘And you're welcome to leave anytime you like, all you have to do is ring that bell.’

  The jogging gear was not for show. Smoking Joe, as everyone would come to know him, led them on a twenty mile run in the pouring rain. And that was just light exercise before breakfast. It was all downhill from there.

  Twenty men rang the bell on that first day.

  BUD/S training was six months of unadulterated fire and brimstone, including the infamous Hell Week, the breaker week. They had followed Smoking Joe into the fiery furnace, and many didn't make out the other side. On that journey and throughout the six months, that brass bell tolled with alarming regularity, like a harbinger of doom. Fagan knew the poem from which Hemingway’s famous book had been titled, one of the benefits of his college education, and much of it still resonated with him. No man is an island. He knew from painful experience that was true. And even now, despite all the physical and emotional energy demanded of him, the training taught him about being part of a team. Succeed as a team, fail on your own. He had to tell himself often, the Master Chief’s bell did not toll for him. It could not. Failure was not an option.

  After BUD/S, he found the pain was only just beginning. After four weeks of jump school, it was straight into another six months of SEAL Tactical Training. Fagan came out the other end with very few of the guys he had started out with. Those who had not walked away voluntarily had been carried away on a stretcher. He had barely finished celebrating after receiving his SEAL Trident when he was yanked out and put on a plane. And it looked like he was descending into hell all over again.

  Fagan was the only SEAL on the aircraft. Instead of deploying out with a complete team he was joining a team already in place. He was replacing the second officer who had been hit by a sniper. The thought gave Fagan another twinge in his gut. But that’s what he had signed up for.

  The C-130 taxied in and came to a halt. The rear cargo ramp squealed as it lowered to the tarmac. Fagan grabbed his kit and followed his fellow passengers out into the Somali dawn. Despite the early hour, the heat hit him as he stepped down onto the tarmac.

  “Ensign Joseph Fagan?”

  Fagan looked around. A man with Petty Officer 3rd Class flashes on his shoulders stood beside a jeep.

  Fagan nodded.

  “The boss asked me to pick you up and take you straight to him.”

  There was no salute. Fagan didn’t expect one.

  “What’s your name, PO?”

  “Johnson, sir, but the guys call me Peewee.” He shook his head. “Don’t ask. We're not big on ranks. We’re a close-knit team. I’m sure the Chief will pick a name for you.”

  “Thank you,” Fagan said, then added “Pee Wee. Let's go.”

  The PO did not offer to help him with his bags. He climbed into the jeep, lit a cigarette and started the engine. Fagan stowed his gear in the rear and got in beside him. In any other branch of the armed forces, this was totally insubordinate behavior by an enlisted man. Fagan looked across at Pee Wee and had to suppress a smile.

  This was it. He was a Navy SEAL.

  3

  Aden Ade International Airport, Mogadishu, Somalia.

  The platoon was set up in a four-story building located north of the airport control tower, on the far side of the airfield. The place looked as if had taken its lumps and bumps from enemy fire, and its facade was a patchwork of broken masonry and cement patches. The windows were bricked up, and a heap of sandbags protected the front door. Officially they were part of SEAL Team 3, based out of Coronado. They were not a large force, fo
urteen men and two officers, including Fagan.

  The platoon leader was a Lieutenant from South Carolina. A serious looking man. He spoke with the elegant drawl of a southern gentleman, but he turned out to be tough as old boots. You didn’t become a Navy SEAL Platoon Commander by being a gentleman. In reality, he was just a couple of years older than Fagan, but his eyes made him seem much older. Fagan wondered how long it would be before he looked that way.

  His name was Beauregard Rodgers, known within the team as Roy.

  “Stow your gear and get some chow. And make it quick because I’ve got a job for you.” He gave Fagan a look as if he was considering if he was up to it. “We’re kinda busy right now. The city’s going crazy. The local warlord and his militia have taken to highjacking Red Cross medicine and food shipments, so we don’t have time to ease you in. But it’s a nice easy exfil job.”

  Exfil as in exfiltrate.

  Fagan felt a surge of excitement and a distinct urge to take a piss.

  “These orders come from the top, and I mean the very top. Seems the Vatican is getting a little nervous about one of their own, who’s upcountry, running some kind of mission. They want him out, so your job is to go in and get him. It’s a nice easy Op, but don’t fuck it up. I’d hate to see your career go down the shitter before it got started.” The Lieutenant seemed to ponder on that for a moment. “You can take Alpha Boat Crew and the Chief.”