Legacies, An American Journey

By Jim Ricca

War is a nightmarish, ugly and horrific event that has plagued humankind from the very beginnings of history. During the first half of the twentieth century, wars clearly delineated the combatants between the forces of good and evil. The Vietnam War blurred these lines, but the end result was the same; too many good young men died following the orders of evil old men.

But another war was being fought on the streets of Italy and America, and it clearly defined and pitted the evil forces of La Cosa Nostra against the good soldiers of law enforcement; men sworn to uphold the law and protect the innocent.

Their story describes the very human side of these immigrant warriors, and recalls events that never made it into any history books or newspapers, and for good reason! Follow this family's story as their lives intertwine in American society, World War II and the Vietnam Conflict. You'll laugh, cry and cringe as you enjoy one of the most exciting, and hilarious, unofficial histories of war and law enforcement of the 20th century.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Ricca
• Release date: Oct 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301359318

Jim Ricca

Jim was born and raised in Philadelphia, and lived there until drafted into the Army in 1971. He served a total of 18 years between the active Army and reserves as a Military Policeman, Artillery forward observer and in the Mechanized Infantry. He attended college on the GI bill and earned a B.A. in Political Science, International Relations from LaSalle University. He held middle and senior level management positions in the transportation, printing/publishing industries and plastics manufacturing field. Jim also served several years as a Special Agent/Special Investigator for a Federal agency. Jim is the author of the four book, Circle of Wounded Souls series, in addition to, Legacies; an American Journey, Hunting and Hunted in Alaska, The four book Alien's Reward series with Journey to Another Earth. In addition to, Der Schatten Teufel, The Shadow Devil, and Running Down Terror has been released along with: The Replacement Priest, and Escape from the Asylum. Jim resides in Maryland's Eastern Shore where he divides his time between writing and fishing the Chesapeake Bay and surf fishing along the shore..

Book preview

LEGACIES,

AN

AMERICAN JOURNEY

By

Jim Ricca

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Jim Ricca

Smashword Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

This book is available in print at most online retailers

Discover other titles by Jim Ricca on smashwords.com

The Alien's Reward

The Alien's Reward II The Alliance

The Circle of Wounded Souls, Book One

The Circle of Wounded Souls, Book Two

The Circle of Wounded Souls, The Circle of Survivors, Book Three

The Circle of Wounded Souls, The Broken Circle, Book Four

Kathryn's Summer

Preface

This is a work of fictionalized history; although many of the events described in the following pages have occurred one way or another. All names have been changed to prevent super-sensitive and hysterical assholes from suing me.

Some locations have also been changed as have dates and descriptions of certain events.

A lot has happened since the end of the Vietnam War, and recounting the more interesting events will require another book. In addition, there are quite a few stories about the Korean War that need to be told. So if you like this book, hang in there and I’ll have the next in the series out as soon as I can.

What a cruel thing is war: to separate and destroy families and friends, and mar the purest joys and happiness God has granted us in this world; to fill our hearts with hatred instead of love for our neighbors, and to devastate the fair face of this beautiful world.

Robert E. Lee

The world has achieved brilliance without wisdom, power without conscience.

Ours is a world of nuclear giants and ethical infants.

We know more about war than we know about peace,

more about killing than we know about living.

We have grasped the mystery of the atom and rejected the Sermon on the Mount.

Omar Bradley

Kill them all, and let God sort them out!

An Unknown American Soldier in Vietnam

CHAPTER 1

Special Police Captain Tomaselli was perspiring heavily in the humid pre-dawn air. Salty beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eyes. He cursed quietly to himself as he lowered his binoculars for what seemed like the hundredth time. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and forehead with his shirtsleeve and then raised his field glasses again to peer at his target. His excessive perspiration was not entirely due to climatic conditions. This company commander was experiencing extreme fear this morning, as he was about to attempt the most dangerous raid in his life.

Tomaselli and his company of Carabinieri Special Police, Italy’s equivalent of the American Secret Service, FBI and Special Forces, had taken part in many raids and arrests before, but none as important as this. He was under unprecedented pressure from his superiors to pull this one off without attracting the attention of the local populace. Outside attention was always a concern and a problem, but the target of this operation was Benito Mussolini’s' Chief of Special Police, General Antonio Domilici. Technically, Tomaselli would be forced to arrest, if possible, his own commanding officer but he was unsure if he and his men would survive the effort

This particular raid was unprecedented in many aspects. He had never before used an entire company of Special Police Assault Troops unless they were attacking a heavily manned and fortified position. Normal arrests required at most, a squad of S.P. and rarely was there gunfire from the criminal. In addition, special orders issued at the last minute by his colonel, a good friend of Domilici’s, strictly forbade any S.P. to enter the cellar, and if possible, not to enter the house at all. They were to do their best to talk the suspects out.

Suspects, my ass, thought Captain Tomaselli. He again, reached into his holster and checked to make sure his pistol had a full clip with a round in the chamber.

The object of Captain Tomaselli’s' attention in these pre-dawn hours was the Villa De La Rosa. A moderately large structure of classic Italian Mediterranean design features: two stories high, white stucco walls, red tile roof, a broad roofed veranda, fringed completely with climbing roses of various colors.

The off and on again breeze wafted the faint fragrance of roses to him. The Captain admired the fine details of the villa in the slowly gathering light. The house sat in a small valley of about 50 hectares. Rows of olive, apple and cherry trees filled the slopes of the valley except for the small area occupied by the villa. He was surprised, that a man of General Domilici's position did not live in a much larger villa. However, for a man who was away from home much of the time the captain observed, this was probably a very practical size.

It was then he noticed something else about the villa that made his ass pucker before he began to swear, quietly but audibly. The trees had been planted in perfectly aligned rows, radiating from a central point, the Villa, outwards towards the rim of the valley. It was immediately obvious to a man with the Captains military experience that Domilici had laid perfect fields of fire between the rows of trees. Domilici had left little or no cover for anyone approaching the villa. He’d even thought to prune all the lower branches from his trees up to a height of at least 6 feet. His admiration and fear of the man he was about to arrest grew to the point of distraction. He carefully backed out of his hide, just a scrawny clump of weeds no more than 2 feet high and half that wide. It was the only concealment he could find that overlooked the target villa.

Tomaselli reviewed his situation carefully. He had to initiate the operation in less than 15 minutes. He was told to keep things as quiet as possible and under no circumstances would failure be accepted. Il Duce held his family and the families of his men as insurance against General Domilicis’ escape. He’d heard rumors of Mussolini’s brutality, but had not given them much credence. Now he knew these were not rumors fabricated by the opposition political parties.

Domilici was a lifelong professional military police officer, well respected and loved by most law enforcement officers. Respected and feared by the Mafiosi, he was incorruptible, extremely intelligent and absolutely fearless in action. Tomaselli thought; what had this man done to warrant this type of operation? Capture or kill with maximum speed and minimum attention?

His thoughts continued; these raids were usually reserved for top Mafiosi or Communists, not men of the law. What made matters worse for Tomaselli, was his past service in the Special Police with Domilicis’ younger brother Carlo, who had recommended him for this very command. His intelligence briefing prior to the initiation of the raid mentioned that Carlos and the rest of the Domilici brothers would probably be in attendance at the Villa, and they would definitely be armed.

The captain’s headache began to worsen from a mere seed to a violently expanding web of pain. Just what I need to make this a perfect day, he thought miserably. Better get this over with. The longer he waited, the worse things would be with the sun coming up soon. Let the superiors sort this out, Tomaselli thought, he was just following orders, but he didn’t have to like them. He hand signaled for his runners and radiomen. When they arrived, he gave the orders that would propel two hundred heavily armed men into the valley.

As he led the silent leapfrogging rush through the orchards, he kept watching and waiting for the telltale flicker of gunfire from the villa that would signal the deaths of his men and possibly himself as well. His latest intelligence indicated there were at least 10 men in the villa; Domilici, his five brothers, who were also police officers, his four servants and grounds keepers. The servants had recently retired from the Military Police. My God, his brain screamed at him, this would be a slaughter if they opened fire on us now.

He estimated his men were about two thirds of the way to the villa, when according to the plan, the entire company dove for what little cover they could find. They tried to hide themselves behind the ridiculously narrow trunks of the orchards' trees or they flattened themselves as best they could in the shallow irrigation furrows. At the first halt, all eyes turned to the Captain. The men wanted reassurance. They knew they were in exposed positions and he could see the fear and anxiety in their eyes. He had no sooner scanned their positions, than his senior radioman low-crawled to him.

Sweating even more than his commanding officer from the extra weight of his communications gear, he handed the handset to the captain and breathlessly panted, Priority communications sir.

Surprised at this interruption, he quickly glanced at his watch to make sure he wasn't behind schedule and keyed the handset. This is Centurion, he whispered. The voice coming through the earpiece sounded like thunder,

Captain; this is Vesuvius, the voice of his brigade commander roared, Hold your position! Repeat, hold your position! Acknowledge immediately!

The Captain answered, This is Centurion, received your message and understand we are to hold, sir. What now, he thought. The Colonel must be crazy to call me in the middle of an assault. Surely he knows General Domilici has all the latest communications gear in his villa. He is well known to listen in on police frequencies for any indications of wrongdoing.

Maybe we'll get a reprieve. That's It! It was all a mistake or it was just a training exercise. His heart pounded at the possibility. The handset rang out clear as a bell with the Colonel's booming voice. It was also clear to the captain, that his superior officer was very angry.

We have some special people who need to take part in this operation. Send a runner back to your convoy parking area so they can be led to your current position.

Oh my God, he almost cried aloud. The Colonel is here! What the hell is going on? Are these idiots trying to get everyone killed? What stupid sons' of bitches want to join this operation in mid-stride? He mopped his face and shook his head in woeful exasperation.

His first sergeant swiftly crawled over to his side; never taking his eyes from the villa. He quietly asked, Sir, what's wrong? Why haven't you given the order for the assault team to advance? We’re sitting out here with our asses exposed like targets on a range.

The NCO momentarily turned towards his C.O. and was suddenly shocked. The Captain looked like he was going to throw up. This senior NCO had been on more than 30 raids with this officer; he considered him the best he'd ever served with during his 20 years in the Police.

1st Sergeant Monza was about to call for a medical aide, when Captain Tomaselli said in a voice too loud for the occasion, We have guests who wish to join us on this picnic sergeant; would you please dispatch a runner back to our jumping off point. They need an escort to our current location. We wouldn't want them to miss out on all the fun, said Tomaselli, with extreme sarcasm.

What are you talking about? Have you gone crazy? Monza whispered. We have an operation to complete. We can't be running a tour business now! What visitors are you talking about?

The Captain stood up, brushed the dirt from his uniform, then spoke angrily to Monza, "We just received a radio message from the Colonel; who is at this very moment waiting at the jumping off point with several visitors. They intend to join us in what was a well-planned, but suicidal operation, but is now nothing but a royal screw-up. Sergeant, send a runner back to guide our tourists here, and tell them to double-time it."

Sgt. Monza turned to a short, wiry corporal lying within earshot of the entire conversation. With a short hand gesture and an almost imperceptible nod of his head, the corporal went swiftly but silently on his way.

Monza joined his Captain in standing erect, but never took his eyes from the villa, which was only about 50 meters away.

Capt. Tomaselli turned to his NCO and said, I don't know what's going on anymore, he stated with a deep sense of despair, but I didn't like this whole operation from the very beginning. Tomaselli waived his hands at the villa, First, we're sent to arrest, or kill the head of our national police with no explanation as to why. Then, our glorious Il Duce promises to hold our families responsible if we fail. And, on top of that, we are forced to take a blood oath guaranteeing secrecy.

Tomaselli wiped his face and forehead again, To make matters worse, now the Colonel himself shows up with visitors who want to come along on the raid. To tell the truth, the colonel sounded extremely angry over the radio.

Tomaselli turned to face Monza fully and put his hand on his shoulder, Sergeant, pass the word to all the men, especially the assault force, to be extra cautious; I don’t want anyone getting hurt. We have the place fully surrounded with our two hundred men. No one is going to escape, he remarked with a note of finality, and then turned to face back the direction from which his uninvited visitors would come.

Tomaselli squatted, took a long drink from his canteen then offered it to Monza who gratefully accepted the distraction.

The two men had served together for several years now and had developed that close, but professional relationship often found among men who frequently face fear and death together in their work.

The Captain returned his canteen to its cover on his belt.

Monza, I have my doubts about this one. It’s different from all the others. We never had to put up with all this bullshit before; it's as if they don't trust us!

Monza replied, We've never had to arrest our commanding general before, Captain. That probably explains a lot of the preliminary shit they put us through, but I can't understand why General Domilici? I always thought he was as honest as the day is long. Christ almighty; if you listened to Benito talk about Domilici just last week, you'd think the sun rose and set on his ass.

Tomaselli, shaking his head slowly from side to side, only raised his hands in a show of ignorance and finality.

Sgt. Monza heard footfalls behind him. He swiftly turned to silence what he thought was a clumsy subordinate. What he saw made him turn away in disgust.

Two hulking men, walking upright and making no attempts at stealth, were strutting toward them between two rows of olive trees.

Goddamn Blackshirts, Monza spat out the words like a vicious curse, only slightly louder than a whisper. Capt. Tomaselli also made no attempts to hide his animosity for the two Blackshirts. An organization he loathed and despised. Il Duce's henchmen he reflected, scum of the earth, armed bullies, cowards, and criminals with political backing.

His headache intensified and he lost all hope for a successful operation.

Whispers of the arrival of the Blackshirts in the area spread through the company in seconds. The restlessness of men became apparent immediately, and it was all the NCOs could do to keep the men still and quiet in their positions.

Most of the Special Policemen were as receptive to the Blackshirts, as their Captain and First Sergeant. Several slowly swung their rifles in the general direction of the two thugs to protect their commander if the need should arise. These movements and their purpose did not escape Monza's notice, but he did nothing to discourage his men.

The taller and ugliest of the two, approached Tomaselli and gave the Captain the old Roman salute; stiff-armed and at rigid attention.

Captain Tomaselli, he half shouted, I am Alfredo Quattrochi, Special Emissary of IL Duce, and I am here to take command of this operation. I will ensure it is completed in accordance with the orders of our great leader, Benito Mussolini.

Tomaselli couldn't make up his mind, whether Quattrochis' face resembled a snake or a rat. Something else bothered Tomaselli. He had met this blowhard coward before. He sensed that something was different about him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He stood up to --AAAH that was it! Yes! He was taller! Tomaselli remembered now! Quattrochi was only about five feet five inches tall the last time they met. Now he had to be at least five feet ten! Tomaselli made no effort to conceal his contempt for Quattrochi, by bending over slightly at the waist and staring at his feet. The boots had additional leather on the soles and heels to make their wearer appear taller.

Tomaselli looked up at Quattrochi, and smiling, sarcastically snickered, I see you're still a growing boy. Tomaselli noticed just a flicker of embarrassment and fear in Quattrochi’s eyes.

Quattrochi regained his pride, came to parade rest and continued, You will order your men to surround the villa of this criminal, Domilici, but they will not enter the house. Only myself, and my co-emissary, Aurelio Luparelli, of the Political Enforcement Police will enter the villa. Your men will wait just outside the door in the event they are needed.

With that stated, Quattrochi smugly spun on his heel in a poor attempt at a military about-face. He signaled his co-emissary, Luparelli, a man with a face remarkably similar to a large misshapen potato and a body more befitting an obese mountain gorilla.

The two made a show of pulling their weapons from their holsters.

While Quattrochi and Luparelli were involved with inspecting and loading their weapons; brand new German Lugers and submachine guns, Captain Tomaselli made eye contact with his 1st Sergeant and threw up his hands in exasperation. They were both well aware of the futility and danger of arguing with these thugs.

Tomaselli pointed to his squad of runners and indicated he wanted all of them. He quickly gave them the change in plans they were to carry to his platoon leaders, along with an additional warning to be cautious, as the sun was now half way above the horizon.

A few minutes after the runners returned, the Blackshirt Quattrochi, looked to the men on either side to insure they were ready and they knew to look to him for the order to proceed. When he was sure he had command of the men, he raised his MP-40 Machine Pistol above his head, and with his other arm, made a forward sweeping motion as he began to walk downhill towards the villa. A few seconds later, the S.P., began their downhill leap-frogging movement from scant cover to no cover at all. The S.P. were progressing purposely slower than the strutting Blackshirts, who appeared to be a two-man parade.

Capt. Tomaselli, Sgt. Monza, their runners and radioman walked slowly. They spread out to five-meter intervals in their standard diamond formation, staying as close as they could to the rows of olive trees. They were moving forward and downhill, hunched over, weapons loaded, safety switches off, with fingers on their triggers.

Tomaselli was staring intently at the villas' windows, waiting for the first deadly burst of fire, when Sgt. Monza pointed at Quattrochi and whispered to Capt. Tomaselli, Look at that fool, strutting like a ruptured rooster; he thinks he's on the way to beat up a helpless old woman.

At least we won't have to put up with him after the shooting starts, answered Tomaselli with a wicked grin, that bastard makes an excellent target! If Domilici misses him with his first burst, I'll shoot that Blackshirt bastard myself.

Monza smiled back, gaining even more respect for his captain, Excuse me sir, but as your First Sergeant, I must remind you that we must put business before pleasure.

In that case, I’ll shoot Luparelli first!

Monza turned to check the positions of his men. He also wanted to insure he and the Captain weren't in anyone's field of fire. He noticed the other Blackshirt, Luparelli, was in the prone position behind the thin trunk of an olive tree, which would provide him no cover at all due to his large bulk. He realized at the same moment, Luparelli, was aiming his MP-40 in the general direction of Tomaselli's command group and not at the villa! What the hell is going on here, thought Monza, has everyone gone crazy? He was about to approach Luparelli when he saw movement behind the Blackshirt.

There, not more than 5 meters from Luparelli, spread out on both sides and to his rear, were at least six of Monza’s men; their rifles aimed directly at Luparelli. A Corporal smiled and waved at Monza when they made eye contact. Turning back to Tomaselli, he saw the captain had observed the same situation and gave Monza a perplexed look.

Tomaselli grasped his NCOs arm and pulled him close enough to whisper in his ear, "Monza, I don't know what's going on here, but if something happens to me or the men, make damn sure those two assholes leave feet first.

Before the Sergeant could complete a nodded agreement, they heard a noise from their front. Looking up, they saw Quattrochi had already reached the front door of the villa and kicked it open. The Blackshirt had turned his back to the door and strutted to the steps leading up to the veranda, upon which, he now posed. He pointed to Luparelli and waved him to the villa.

When Tomaselli's assault team started for the villa, Quattrochi forced them back with a menacing gesture of his German MP-40.

The men looked to their captain for orders. Tomaselli, using both hands, waved them back to what little cover the orchards provided.

Monza approached his commander and exclaimed excitedly, Sir! The villa is empty! General Domilici is gone! No wonder that coward just walked up to the villa; he must have known it all along!

Monza started laughing quietly as he spoke, Everyone knows those Goddamn Fascist bastards could never stand up to a fair fight.

They watched as Luparelli and Quattrochi stood peering into the villa through the front door. Quattrochi swung his MP-40 into the opening and fired off a long burst, spraying the interior as if he were using a water hose. Luparelli, not to be outdone, walked to a closed window, stood back and let loose a full magazine into the house, scattering glass shards and shell casings across the veranda.

Monza noticed that most of his men, who were now standing, had dropped their rifles to low port. Some had risen from the prone position or a relaxed kneeling position while a few others had sat with their backs against the tree trunks and had started smoking! Normally, he would have been outraged. The offending men would be made to suffer his legendary wrath for months on end, but these were not ordinary circumstances. More MP-40 fire came from the villa. Monza could tell they were firing into each room before they entered it, either for insurance, or they needed the noise to bolster their limited courage.

The S.P. were now laughing out loud at the Hollywood tactics of the Blackshirts. The laughter grew louder and more derisive each time fire was heard from the villa. Tomaselli, trying his best not to join in the laughter, and maintain the decorum of an officer told Monza, Shut them up, it isn't over yet.

Monza raised his right fist over his head in a forceful motion and held it there. Within seconds, there was silence. The men were back in their correct positions in less than a heartbeat.

Inside the Villa De La Rosa, Quattrochi and Luparelli had cleared the house except for the cellar. They found the floor-mounted hatchway to the basement in the pantry. The hatch was a sheet of steel, 2-centimeter thick with spring loaded supports to assist during opening. The spring tension and balance of the door required no more effort than a slight pull with two fingers. They marveled at the craftsmanship of its design and construction as they cautiously proceeded down the stairwell.

Luparelli, excited and sweating from all the activity of the morning, had growing hopes of discovering some hidden treasure of Domilici's in the cellar. He’d accumulated a considerable collection of silverware and jewelry; including a vast and tasteless collection cheap artwork since he joined the Blackshirts. All of it confiscated from enemies of the state. At the very least, he hoped to find some vino or food down here. He was hungry, thirsty and had no intentions of sharing any of his loot with the S.P. waiting outside. He was grateful Quattrochi had denied the S.P. access to the villa until they had a chance to clean it out first. His boss also decided not to share the informant's tip that Domilici and his family had fled the country the previous evening. All the more for us, he said.

The cellar, as they found the rest of the villa, was essentially bare of furnishings except for the overhead light fixtures. The poured concrete floor and cinderblock walls were clean and unadorned. They saw a large oaken door on the far side of the single large room. It appeared to be very well made and was obviously very solid. On the door, attached with a single nail, was a framed photograph of Benito Mussolini. The nail was driven cleanly through Il Duce's eye and written on the signed photo was the phrase, Death to Fascist Pigs.

Incensed that Domilici had disposed of his wealth before he arrived, and now enraged at the insult to his god, Quattrochi grasped the picture frame and tore it from the door with enormous vehemence.

Outside, ringing the villa and impatient for something to do, S.P. Captain Tomaselli was growing impatient with the wait, and well aware that if General Domilici had been home, the two Blackshirts would have been corpses by now. He knew they had been too late because Domilici had a better intelligence network than the Fascists. And to Tomaselli's relief, he had escaped. Tomaselli quietly wished him good luck. He had been an excellent commander.

Tomaselli recalled Domilici had been responsible for turning the Carabineri, from a haven for political lackeys, into an honest, efficient and very effective police force. He had arrested and successfully prosecuted, thousands of Mafiosi, and his conviction rate was at ninety-five percent. Once Domilici had them convicted, the Mafiosi were exiled for a minimum of twenty-five years to a prison island in the Adriatic; cut off from all outside contacts. He had effectively crippled the Mafia in 5 short years. He had ended the Black Hands' stranglehold on the Italian economy and criminal justice system. The man was a hero, pondered Tomaselli, what could he have possibly done to deserve this.

He decided to give his men a break; they were exhausted from the heat and mental strain, and they really weren't needed here. The Blackshirt’s had met no opposition, of that he was sure; if he was sure of nothing else on this crazy operation.

He turned to Sgt. Monza, Sergeant, move the men back to the trucks for some coffee and tea. Keep them away from the villa while you’re doing it. With the way those assholes are shooting up the place; I don't want any of my men hit by a stray round.

Sgt. Monza saluted smartly, turned and motioned for the runners. Within seconds of receiving the relayed instructions, the company had withdrawn from the small valley and the tired, but relieved men gathered around their trucks on the opposite side of a small hill that formed the lip of the valley.

In the cellar, Quattrochi noticed there was a wire hanging from the picture frame and another hung from the door.

I must have broken the wire when I ripped the picture from the wall, he said to Luparelli, who was looking at the wires in wide-eyed amazement.

Quattrochi, still angry at the affront to his hero, half shouted at his companion, What the hell are you looking at, you idiot?

Luparelli was no idiot, although he did look and often act like one. Prior to joining the Blackshirts, he was a dynamiter at a Marble quarry and he knew detonating wire when he saw it.

Before Luparelli could utter more than a helpless, Oh shit, the 5 second timer, activated by the broken circuit, sent a small electrical charge into four detonators which were buried deep in two hundred and fifty pounds of high explosives stacked in the small room behind the door.

With a blinding flash of light, an ear splitting roar and a volcanic upheaval of rock, stucco, shattered wood and debris, the beautiful villa, along with the two Blackshirts, simply ceased to exist.

Once the rain of debris had abated, Tomaselli and his men ran to the top of the small hill that had shielded his men from the force of the blast. After the smoke and dust cleared, all they could see was a large, deep, smoking hole in the earth where the villa had stood only moments before.

A ragged cheer went up from the men with a few Bravos! heard here and there.

No wonder, Monza said, half in shock, Domilici had it all set up. He slapped his Captain on the back gently and began laughing.

Tomaselli stared at his 1st Sergeant with wide eyed amazement, and then pointed to the smoking crater with a trembling hand, "that could have been us in there!’

I don’t think so sir, Monza replied, If you remember, those orders not to enter the basement came from the Colonel, who probably received them from Domilici himself; not from the Blackshirts. He gave the order to the Colonel through his driver. He was looking out for us, Captain. He knew what was going to happen all along.

Tomaselli sat down in the dirt and motioned for his Sergeant to join him. We need to find out what happened, Monza. We need to know as soon as possible. Something has gone terribly wrong and I don’t want to be involved in anything like this again.

CHAPTER 2

Ex-General of the Italian Special Police, Simone Domilici, stood on the bow of the freighter, staring intently ahead as the ship plowed steadily into the enormous harbor. He was looking for something he had seen when he first visited here over twenty years ago.

He had finally arrived to settle himself and his new family in this great land. Domilici had been a General in the Italian Army, newly retired and seeking a fresh start in this land of opportunity. But that was then, this is now, and the circumstances couldn't be worse. He was running, not only for his life, but also for the lives of his sons, the lives of his brothers’ and his brothers’ families.

The man felt betrayed and shamed by the events of the past months; forced to choose between his duty and responsibility to his family, and his loyalty to his commander, Benito Mussolini. Leaders, even great ones, he recalled, were also mere men; men who must live with all their frailties and like all men, eventually die. The law, although written by men, must prevail. It is the law and not the despotic whims and egos of mere men which will prevent a societies' degeneration into anarchy or worse, Fascism. When the despots gain sufficient power to ignore the law with impunity, and impose their personal agenda upon the populace, men sworn to uphold the law must make decisions. His decision forced him from his career, his friends and his homeland.

The soldier deeply regretted that he could not remain in Italy to fight the great injustice about to be committed upon his countrymen. An injustice he was convinced, would ultimately lead to the destruction of the trust his countrymen held for their government, along with the destruction of the country itself. Mussolini’s' grandiose plans for creation of a new Roman Empire will surely destroy Italy, and the tremendous progress Italy has achieved since the Great War.

Mussolini had plans for wars of conquest in the Balkans and Africa. Domilici came to believe the egomaniac Il Duce, had deluded himself, along with many other influential people into believing his lies and boasts of Italian indomitability.

But, Domilici had to give the little bastard credit though; he did initiate the crusade to rid Italy of La Cosa Nostra. He promoted Domilici over many men with greater rank and seniority within the military police force to head his newly formed Special Police unit. Built upon the models of the American Secret Service and FBI, Domilici and his men were granted special authorities, and an almost unlimited budget to pursue and destroy the Mafia.

He and his brothers had combed the ranks of the Italy’s Carabinieri, police and military forces to handpick their men. From the various military branches, he selected specialists from the Intelligence and Military Police units, in addition to five hundred men from combat arms. All selectees and their families were carefully investigated for even the slightest tint of the Black Hand. Any trace of association with the Mafia would disqualify even the best of soldiers. He recruited a large contingent of Mafia haters from his home island of Sicily; the Mafia’s' birthplace and main base of operations. He recruited men with a deep loathing for their intended targets; especially men who have lost at least one close relative to Black Hand assassins.

They insured the men were well armed with the latest rifles, automatic weapons and communications gear. All training was conducted at secret bases in the Italian Alps, far from prying eyes. Training was intense, brutal, and caused the resignations or discharges of two-thirds of the original men he selected. Most resigned for family reasons. The long hard training cycles kept the men away from home for months at a time. A majority of the remaining discharges were medical; broken bones, poor eyesight, hearing problems along with other ailments or illnesses arising from the great mental and physical stresses common to harsh military training regimens.

Domilici and several Special Branch Officers traveled to police training centers in Europe and the Americas’ to learn the latest investigational techniques. They also purchased the most up to date equipment they could find; such as the new wire recorders, telephone wire-tapping equipment, radio direction finders and of course, special weapons.

One year after receiving his orders and promotion from Mussolini, Domilici and the Special Police were ready. Mussolini publicly declared war on organized crime in a much-publicized national radio address. In a statement reminiscent of Hollywood westerns, he announced; We have reached a turning point in our history. The centuries of secret criminal societies must come to an end. We will no longer tolerate organizations like the Mafia sucking the life-blood from our people. We will no longer tolerate the murders, robberies, and briberies. We will not allow you to spread fear across our country. You, the people of Italy now have three choices, 1. Obey the law, 2. Get out of Italy, or, 3; go to prison for twenty five years. In other words, Mussolini told the Mafia to get out of town or face the consequences.

No mention was made of Domilici or the Special Police. They wanted the Mafiosi to assume this was just another of Il Duce's pompous and empty boasts.

The key element in Domilici's plan was total secrecy. Although freedom of the press was elemental in Italian society, Domilici demanded, and Mussolini granted complete control of the press to the S.P. Domilici had no intention of limiting the media's right to publish unbiased news; he only restricted stories concerning his Special Police and their activities. He wanted no mention of the many arrests and jailings to come. The lack of news reports pertaining to the disappearance of fellow Mafia members would eventually cause much infighting among the Mafia families.

The Mafiosi naturally assumed the disappearances were a result of internecine warfare; thus they attacked those they thought were responsible. Fighting between the families was fierce, brutal and extremely bloody. It was some time before they realized there was something very wrong. Whoever, or whatever it was stalking them, was causing the real disappearance of their members; no bodies were left behind, as was the trademark of their own handiwork.

Demoralization spread rapidly among the Mafiosi. They were only sure of the sudden and complete disappearances of their friends, relatives, and cohorts. Stunned, they did not remember the declaration made by Mussolini. They did hear fantastic, unbelievable whispered rumors of a secret police force, but they were unable to identify the unit, let alone find anyone in the unit to corrupt. They only knew that a relentless, unidentifiable and terrifyingly efficient force is hunting them and they were helpless against it.

The task given Domilici; the total elimination of all organized crime in Italy was not taken lightly. In order to accomplish this task, Mussolini himself also guaranteed the Special Police, protection from retribution by politicians and other government agencies. The S.P. were organized with numerous investigative divisions, one of which was the Political Corruption Branch, which centered its attentions on any politicians who had the unfortunate propensity to complain about appropriations to the some secret government branch at the behest of their criminal sponsors. These corrupt politicians were fishing for the name of the organization which they thought may be the source of their patrons’ fears. They were also looking for the person commanding this organization, so their friends would have a target for their frustrations. These unfortunate, but greedy politicians were considered easy meat by the S.P. and within their first year of operations had arrested, convicted and incarcerated more than two hundred Mafia-owned politicos.

Bureaucrats who attempted to secure more information or interrupt funding and supplies to the new Secret Police force, were immediately investigated. They were usually found to have illicit connections to the Mafia. Understandably, the Mafia Dons were very anxious to identify and eliminate this new unapproachable threat to their livelihood in any way they could and at any cost; all to no avail.

Once the investigation was completed and the offender arrested; the civil servants, along with their Mafia friends were quickly brought before the Special Organized Crime Tribunals. Most, if not all of the offenders were sentenced to minimum of twenty-five year terms. What surprised Domilici more than anything was the extent of the depth and width of the Mafia’s penetration into the Italian Government. They had in their pocket, spies, informers and thieves in every branch. Domilici and his men were aghast at the number of Judges, Prosecutors and Policemen on the Mafia payroll. Some towns were temporarily left completely devoid of police after the S.P. swept the town.

The prisons were located on islands in the Adriatic, completely cut off from the outside world. No communications to, or from the island were possible without permission from the S.P. wardens. There were no telephone calls, mail or visits permitted to the prisoners. The only ships able to approach the islands without being fired upon were supply ships or prisoner transports; both of which were crewed by the S.P.

No secret can be kept for forever. As the Mafiosi like to joke, Two people can keep a secret, but only if one of them is dead.

Word of the S.P. activities eventually got around and several Justices of the Supreme Court challenged the legitimacy of the S.P. and its’ Tribunals. A routine response investigation by the Political Corruption unit resulted in an unexpected career change for the challengers. The ex-justices and their Mafia friends were now occupied manufacturing furniture. Domilici was a firm believer in the theory of manual labor facilitating the rehabilitation of hardened criminals. He abhorred the very thought of a miscreant sitting idle in a prison cell at taxpayers expense.

The Political Corruption unit was only one of the special investigative branches of the S.P. Domilici had decided to start at the top of the Mafia’s' chain of command and then work his way down to the foot soldiers, as opposed to the standard method of working from the bottom up. Domilici and the S.P. Command group knew the Godfathers had the most to lose, but the least to fear if they failed to cooperate; so they could be easily coerced into talking. The foot soldiers had the most to fear and the least to lose; therefore interrogating them would result in arrogant silence. The theory was put into practice, and as an arrest was made, the information garnered was passed on to other units, who in turn followed the chain of command all the way to the bottom. It was discovered, that the higher the Mafiosi was placed in the organization, the easier it was to extract information through interrogation, covert observations or records inspections.

The S.P. also disproved an important myth; the Mafia was not invulnerable to prosecution. They discovered they could defeat the families with due diligence, hard work, and by applying good police investigative techniques. The Oath of Silence, or Omerta, sworn by all Mafia soldiers, was often forgotten with the select application of pressure, whether physical, mental or economic. Very few of the criminals could withstand it for long.

Within three years of his declaration of war, Domilici had imprisoned entire Mafia families and had broken the backs of the most powerful families in Naples and Palermo; two strategic cities in his re-conquest of Italy. The crime rate, especially for robbery, prostitution, murder and extortion, had dropped to unheard of levels. The Black Hand was losing its’ most lucrative businesses and rapidly losing its grip on Italian society. Most of their legal protection had joined them behind bars. Their judges, lawyers and purchased jurors, now rendered completely useless by the Special Tribunals.

The Mafia now knew they were the targets of a special police task force, due to an unfortunate bit of braggadocio by Mussolini. A newspaper reporter questioned him during a press conference about the rumored disappearance of many Mafiosi. In response, Il Duce boasted that the dramatic drop in the crime rate; was due to his genius in organizing special police units to deal with the Black Hand.

When the Mafia disappears, so does the crime, there is a direct correlation between the two, he stated. I created a new, incorruptible police force of more than 1,000 of our best men. It is called the Special Police. and its only task is to eliminate the Black Hand and any other secret society that feels it can prey on the Italian people.

This bit of information was all that the Don’s needed to fight back.

In an attempt to stop Domilici’s devastating onslaught, several Mafia Dons uselessly resorted to threats and bribes. Others made the fatal error of violently resisting arrest. The S.P. was dedicated, honest, well trained, and too heavily armed to be challenged by the Mafia.

But the Black Hand did get lucky on rare occasions. They were able to ambush a squad of S.P. on their way to arrest a Mafia Capo. An informant, who had been successfully turned into a double agent by the local Don, supplied the information being acted upon by the S.P. Twelve S.P. were slain in a hail of gunfire; their bodies mutilated and put on display in the town square in a vain attempt to intimidate the S.P.

Retribution from Domilici’s men was swift and brutal. In one nationally coordinated series of raids, one hundred and eighty three separate arrests were attempted. The men were instructed to meet any resistance with massive retaliation. Only thirty five of the targeted Mafiosi survived to face Tribunals.

As Domilici’s successes continued, the streets of Italian cities became noticeably safer. Small businesses no longer had to share profits with their protectors; large businesses were no longer forced to pay strike insurance. Cities' streets were cleaned; trash collected, and public works construction projects were brought in on time and on budget. The ever pervasive influence and the untold expense of the Mafia were inexorably being removed from the day to day lives of the Italian populous.

And the people noticed. They weren't sure what was happening and they didn't care to learn how and why. All they knew was that they were free of the Black Hand and they liked it.

Mussolini was well aware that the people had noticed, and he had to take advantage of that! He began bragging more and more about HIS Special Police and how effective they were. Against Domilici’s vehement objections, Mussolini held a public awards ceremonies for members of the S.P. He gave the Mafia everything Domilici fought so hard to deny them, the names, faces and hometowns of his men.

With this vital information available on the front page of every newspaper, the remaining Mafia families struck back at the S.P. The S.P. and their families now endured murders, kidnappings, rapes, torture and fire-bombings.

Domilici was beside himself with rage. Rage at the Mafia, but more so towards the egomaniac, Mussolini for causing the unbearable hardships his men had to endure. The war with the Mafia now escalated into an ever-increasing cycle of violence and retaliation. With dead bodies piling up on both sides, Domilici decided to confront Mussolini in his Rome office.

Il Duce kept Domilici waiting in the office anteroom for more than an hour before he deemed an appropriate time period had passed for someone to wait for an audience with the great Il Duce.

Domilici was neither impressed nor amused by Mussolini’s' antics and theatrics. Domilici marched forcefully into Mussolini’s office, I've come with a problem you have created for me and my men, he said with considerable venom, You've broken your promise to keep my operation secret just to satisfy your overblown ego. My men and their families are suffering and dying because you want to see your ugly face in the papers and on the newsreels. You pin colored pieces of ribbon on their chests and sentence them to death in the same breath. I told you this would happen and you ignored my warning.

Mussolini was stunned. He attempted to stammer a response but was cowed by Domilici’s anger and overwhelming size. No one had spoken to him like that in years.

Domilici kept up his violent verbal barrage, advancing angrily, forcing Mussolini to retreat before him, slamming his fist into his palm to punctuate each of Mussolini’s' sins. Domilici grew angrier and louder with each step. His motions became more violent.

Mussolini, a coward by nature, grew pale and fearful. He began to panic. Where are my body guards he thought frantically? Of course! His guards were relieved when Domilici entered his office. Domilici, the head of the S.P., was the only person allowed to be alone with Il Duce. Mussolini was in full panic now. Domilici, a full head taller than he and a good forty pounds of angry muscle heavier, had grasped Mussolini’s uniform jacket in his fists and lifted him completely off the floor and was slamming him bodily against the wall, screaming obscenities at the terrified Mussolini.

Mussolini frantically fumbled for his pistol, but he couldn't reach it. Domilici had his jacket too tightly gripped. Domilici gave a final heave, twisting at the waist and flung Mussolini across his ornately carved mahogany desk. Mussolini slammed onto the desk and slid along the highly polished desk top, falling to the floor with a sickening thud.

Domilici, his rage now spent, walked to where his victim lay sprawled amid the papers and debris from his desk. The great Il Duce, the new Caesar, lay on his side, covering his bald head with his arms, cowering like a whipped puppy. Domilici felt no more hatred for the man. He harbored only contempt for the once proud bully.

He bent over and helped him to his feet. While assisting him in straightening his uniform, Domilici calmly told the still quivering Mussolini, I'm sorry I lost my temper, perhaps I've grown too close to my men. Maybe I shouldn't take their deaths to heart, but we all worked so hard to limit our exposure to the Mafiosi and now we have so many dead, so many wounded. If only you had kept your word, none of this would have happened.

Regaining his composure somewhat, Mussolini stammered, Get out of here, you bastard, saliva drooling down his lip, get out of here before I kill you myself, he shouted. He began drawing his pistol from his flap holster. Then he hesitated, re-secured the flap and with eyes crazed from fear, he said through clenched teeth, Get out! You're relieved of duty. You've assaulted your commanding officer. You'll pay for this with your life.

Domilici knew the great Il Duce was too much of a coward to shoot him, even in the back. He calmly turned and walked from the office. He exited the building without being confronted by Mussolini’s Black shirt bodyguards. He signaled for his car, got in and instructed his S.P. driver to take him to headquarters. The driver was shocked to see the condition of his commander, scarlet faced, uniform rumpled, hair mussed and trembling.

Are you OK, sir? the driver Corporal asked.

Domilici stared at the drivers’ eyes through the rear view mirror, thinking of an appropriate response.

Would you prefer to see a medic, sir, I can radio ahead and have one waiting for you? The Corporal was very concerned; his boss was normally well composed and friendly towards him. He definitely didn't like the way he sat in the back seat, blankly staring at him.

Domilici ran a shaking hand through his hair in an attempt to straighten it, Forget Headquarters. Gino, take me to the American Embassy, and while I'm in there, I want you to call the Villa and give my brother Carlos a message for me. Tell him the vineyards must be ready for harvest tomorrow.

Gino repeated his instructions and wheeled his general towards the American Embassy, a couple of kilometers away.

Once Domilici arrived at the embassy, he was immediately admitted to the Ambassadors office since he was a frequent and valued visitor. He had kept open lines of communications with the U.S. Government in a cooperative effort with American police forces in pursuit of the Mafia. The exchange of information was extremely helpful to both countries, but for the wrong reasons, the US did not act on it. But this time he came, not to exchange information, but to request a favor.

The S.P. driver made the radio phone call from the car as soon as he parked the vehicle. The Generals brother, Carlos, a Major and Commander/instructor for the S.P. intelligence branch, made Gino repeat the message twice. The Major asked him where the General was and how long he was expected to be there; he then told Gino to be sure to call him before he left the embassy grounds.

Must be some kind of code, Gino thought, but whatever it means and with the way the boss looked, it must be bad news. He un-holstered and checked his Berretta automatic, then went to the trunk of the car. He removed a German Mauser machine pistol he kept stored there for emergencies, wrapped it in a raincoat and shifted the bundle to the front passenger seat. He thought for a moment, then went back to the trunk and transferred six extra magazines for both weapons along with several hand-grenades. Might as well be ready for anything, he thought as he looked around to see if he was being watched.

Domilici exited the embassy about an hour later, looking grim and accompanied by several men in civilian clothes, who would easily be seen as military types to anyone with a trained eye. Domilici walked towards his driver with both hands held in front of him, waist high with palms forward; the signal for Gino to wait for him before starting the car.

Domilici put his hand on Gino’s shoulder and said, We'll have two cars following us back to the Villa. The Americans are going to help me with a problem I've created for myself. I want you to get us to the Villa as fast as you can. Stop for no one, but don't use the siren. And, I want to get there in one piece, understand?

Yes Sir, Gino responded, smiling and snapping to attention simultaneously. I'll get you there in record time sir, I just hope those American boulevard barges can keep up.

Don't worry about the Americans, Gino. Just don't repeat the performance you gave us last year, when you tried to break the world speed record in my car.

Gino grimaced at the memory of the event that almost cost him and the general their lives. It was pure luck that the only tree within miles prevented the cars fall over the cliff.

The general pointed Gino to the driver’s seat and then climbed into the front seat alongside his driver. When Domilici went to move aside the raincoat on the seat, he exposed the small arsenal his driver placed there. Gino looked at Domilici, but before he could explain, his commander smiled at him and said, Expecting trouble, or are you planning to do a little target practice along the way.

No sir, not at all, his driver said with a straight face, I thought you may want to be ready in case we came upon some criminals today, you know how bold they've been recently, sir. Only this morning I observed a litter bug and two jay walkers blatantly breaking the law, in broad daylight no less.

Domilici appreciated this Corporals sense of humor and loyalty; which was why he retained him as a driver, even after he damn near killed them both last year.

I'll keep my eyes open while you drive, Domilici responded, try to hold the car steady when I open fire, Domilici said smiling.

Gino was glad he was able to get the generals mind off his problem, if only for the moment. There was the sound of a car horn from behind. He checked his mirror and saw two large black American sedans behind him. The cars contained four men in each, two in front, and two in back.

My God, Gino thought, these Americans build some mighty big cars. They must have one hell of a road system back home. I just hope they can keep up, because I'm not waiting for them if they can't.

Domilici picked up the radiophone. He spoke in code with some one at the villa. Let's go to the Villa, Domilici said quietly.

Gino shifted the transmission into first, eased the clutch out, and slowly drove the general’s powerful Mercedes out of the embassy driveway. Once he had the vehicle clear of the gates, he applied his foot to the accelerator with practiced authority.

True to his word, Gino had the General home ten minutes faster than ever before. The Americans had managed to stay on his rear bumper all the way. It almost seemed that they were either being towed by the Mercedes, or they were pushing it.

Gino, that was one hell of a ride, the general remarked dismounting from the car, I must have had my life pass in front of my eyes at least three or four times. Now, listen carefully to me, Domilici said quietly and deadly serious. "I want to thank you for your loyalty and service. You're an excellent policeman and I want you to return to headquarters to tell Colonel Martini to activate plan Romeo in exactly two hours. Tell no one else, if Col. Martini isn't there, have some one find him immediately and YOU give him the message. If you can't contact him by eighteen hundred hours, call me.

Gino was dumbstruck, the general sounded as if he were leaving, Sir, I don't understand! Where are you going? What's going on? I've worked for you…..

Domilici cut off the Corporal abruptly, Corporal Madonna, you have your orders and I don't have time to explain; now get moving. I'll give you further orders when you contact me with your confirmation call later. Go now; time is of the essence.

Domilici gave his driver a quick salute and then turned to take charge of the numerous men rushing about the villa.

Gino, feeling lost and abandoned, said to his Generals back, General, wherever you're going; I'm going with you; I'll be back as soon as I can. He ran to the car and roared out of the drive, rear tires screaming.

Once Mussolini had sufficiently composed himself after Domilici's departure, he called his secretary and gave him a list of people he needed to see immediately. At the top of the list was Colonel Paulo Martinelli, a brigade commander with the S.P., and Mussolini's first cousin.

Mussolini's cousin appeared before him within fifteen minutes. He accepted his orders from his cousin, and in a state of semi-shock departed to carry them out. Martinelli