Hail to the Chiefs (2)
Oct. 23rd, 2011 12:15 amFor your consideration: A floor plan of St. Peter's Basilica.
We set down in the traffic circle of Plaza San Marta. It's still dark – just the way Jefferson wants it. Something about the Process lets the former presidents see well in the dark. The Chiefs pile out of the chopper, all joking set aside. The former Presidents of the United States, once on a mission, are all business.
"Out," says Delano. I'm the last man on the helicopter.
"Give me a minute," I say, fumbling with my kit. I don't have a rifle and grenades and combat knife like the Chiefs, but I do have body armor and a helmet and night-vision goggles.
"Out," repeats Delano. "I gotta lift off."
"Why?" I ask.
"I dunno," says Delano, frowning faintly. "Something smells funny. When it springs, I want to be up, not down. Get out of my goddamn bird."
I get out. Legs or no legs, nobody argues with Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
Jefferson is arguing with some serious-looking padres in black robes. They're all standing around outside the Sacristy. The priests all look fairly queasy. I guess I can sympathize. Undead priests roaming through your holiest of holies has got to be a little disturbing.
The argument turns heated. I realize they aren't speaking Italian; Jefferson's talking in fluent Latin. Shouting, actually. He gives up and gathers the Chiefs around him.
"Formosus is in the Basilica," Jefferson reports. "Word from the big dog," he adds, "is no fire."
Lincoln's massive brow furrows. That's all the reaction anybody will ever get out of that guy. Lincoln scares me in ways the other Chiefs don't.
"No fire," repeats Jefferson. "That means no grenades, no pyrotechnics, and no live ammunition inside the Basilica."
"That's crazy," gripes Nixon. "What are we supposed to do, slap Formosus until he lays over?"
"We'll bring him out manually," says Jefferson, "and we'll torch him out here."
"I do not like a plan," Teddy growls dangerously, "that I cannot distinguish from the absence of a plan."
"Yeah," sighs Jefferson. "Me neither."
( Read more... )
We set down in the traffic circle of Plaza San Marta. It's still dark – just the way Jefferson wants it. Something about the Process lets the former presidents see well in the dark. The Chiefs pile out of the chopper, all joking set aside. The former Presidents of the United States, once on a mission, are all business.
"Out," says Delano. I'm the last man on the helicopter.
"Give me a minute," I say, fumbling with my kit. I don't have a rifle and grenades and combat knife like the Chiefs, but I do have body armor and a helmet and night-vision goggles.
"Out," repeats Delano. "I gotta lift off."
"Why?" I ask.
"I dunno," says Delano, frowning faintly. "Something smells funny. When it springs, I want to be up, not down. Get out of my goddamn bird."
I get out. Legs or no legs, nobody argues with Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
Jefferson is arguing with some serious-looking padres in black robes. They're all standing around outside the Sacristy. The priests all look fairly queasy. I guess I can sympathize. Undead priests roaming through your holiest of holies has got to be a little disturbing.
The argument turns heated. I realize they aren't speaking Italian; Jefferson's talking in fluent Latin. Shouting, actually. He gives up and gathers the Chiefs around him.
"Formosus is in the Basilica," Jefferson reports. "Word from the big dog," he adds, "is no fire."
Lincoln's massive brow furrows. That's all the reaction anybody will ever get out of that guy. Lincoln scares me in ways the other Chiefs don't.
"No fire," repeats Jefferson. "That means no grenades, no pyrotechnics, and no live ammunition inside the Basilica."
"That's crazy," gripes Nixon. "What are we supposed to do, slap Formosus until he lays over?"
"We'll bring him out manually," says Jefferson, "and we'll torch him out here."
"I do not like a plan," Teddy growls dangerously, "that I cannot distinguish from the absence of a plan."
"Yeah," sighs Jefferson. "Me neither."
( Read more... )