Free Matt Reilly Stories by Flyboy707

Take us up.
                  
    The
two senior government men stare intently at the black box flight recorder.
                  
    PILOT’S VOICE
    Say, anyone hear what the score was in the Mets
game?
     
    FIRST OFFICER’S VOICE
    Jesus, what the fuck is that?
     
    PILOT’S VOICE
    What the --
     
    And then tangle of frantic voices: SECOND OFFICER’S
VOICE
    Is that what I think it is?
     
    FIRST OFFICER’S VOICE
    It’s coming toward us, Captain.
    (beat)
    Jesus Christ --
                  
    PILOT’S VOICE
    Number Two, get on the radio, see if there are any
Navy ships down there.
    Tell them to abort!
     
    SECOND OFFICER’S VOICE
    Attention any US Navy vessels in grid sector 675.
This is British Airways Flight 455, we are a civilian airliner and we have a
visual on a --
                  
    A
NEW VOICE comes over the line. Harsh. Suspicious.
     
    NEW VOICE
    British Airways Flight 455, this is US
    Navy ship Liberty, what are you doing in this area?
     
    SECOND OFFICER’S VOICE
     
    (frantic)
    US Navy vessel Liberty, we are a civilian airliner
in international airspace, and we have visual contact on a missile of some
sort, heading in our direction and we ask that you immediately abort its flight
--
     
    FIRST OFFICER’S VOICE
    Too late!!!
     
    PILOT’S VOICE
    NO!!!
                  
    The
tape explodes to hash. The sound of static fills the mobile command center.
                  
    THE
TWO SENIOR MEN look at each other. They are like stone.
    Unmoved
by the drama they have just heard. The WHITE HOUSE MAN pulls out a cellular
phone, steps over to a corner.
                  
    He
speaks into the phone in hushed tones. The Navy man doesn’t watch him. The
White House man returns, looks seriously at the Navy man.
                  
    WHITE HOUSE MAN
    Take appropriate action. Make it go away.
                  
    CUT
TO BLACK.
     
    ________________

THE DEAD PRINCE
    _________________
     
     
    THE
OLD WATCHER
     
    Mont
St Michel
    France,
1454
     
    Every
day for three months, from sun-up to sundown, the old monk watched De Christo
as he worked.
    This
was unusual. All the other inhabitants of the island monastery—monks, nuns and
townsfolk— preferred to spend their time gawking at the royal visitors present
at the Mount.
    But
all the while De Christo worked in the cathedral, the ancient monk never let
him out of his sight. Bald and hunched and gnarled, his name was Brother
Michael, and he was the caretaker of the great cathedral.
    Every
day he would sit in the front pew and watch as De Christo hammered and planed,
rebuilding the flame-scarred structure. Granted, the cathedral of Mont St
Michel contained some of the most valuable Catholic relics in all of
Europe—including a great wooden cross suspended above the altar from the
ceiling which supposedly contained a splinter from the actual Cross of Christ,
golden chalices and silver torch-holders. Brother Michael was protecting the
silverware.
    Every
day this happened. Every day, that is, until the morning the Crown Prince’s
body was found crucified on the great wooden cross above the altar.             
     
    * * *
     
    THE
BODY
     
    The
prince’s death-pose almost perfectly resembled Christ’s. He had been nailed to the gigantic wooden ornament.
    And
as De Christo—a battle-hardened veteran of the just-finished war—had quickly
deduced from the dead prince’s bloody wrist-wounds, he had been alive when this
had been done to him.
    That
the Crown Prince of France—the Dauphin —had been murdered on the grounds
of the monastery would normally have been enough to send the Abbott of Mont St
Michel into a blind panic.
    But
this was worse. Much worse.
    Because
the King was on his way to Mont St Michel.
    He
would be here in two days.
    Whence
he would discover that his first-born son and heir to the throne of France was
dead.
     
    * *