Shepherd One (18 page)

“That would be—I believe—Nellis Air Force Base.”

“How far?”

“Guessing . . . I’d say maybe three hundred miles northeast
of us.”

Hakam deliberated. For fighter jets that would be a nominal
distance to cover with their speed. Right now he had to keep as far as he could
by running as fast as he could. And to do that they would have to run in the
opposite direction to prolong their intercept time.

Although Dulles was now scratched from the game card, he
still considered Los Angeles to be a nice consolation prize with nearly four
million people.  “Fix the new course,” Hakam instructed. “I have scores to
settle.”

The plane began to bank steadily to the south, and then to
the west toward La-La Land.

#

“Mr. President.” Attorney
General Dean Hamilton received word that Shepherd One had altered their route
and was heading back to LAX. The GPS monitor screen confirmed this, the image
of the plane heading in a westerly direction. “It appears that Shepherd One is
returning to LAX due to an alleged systems malfunction. But a diagnostics exam
proves otherwise. There’s absolutely
nothing
wrong with that airplane.”

“So you’re saying, whoever is flying her is obviously lying
through their teeth.”

“Absolutely,” he replied quickly.

President Burroughs kept a steady eye on the screen. From
the northeast four F-16 Fighter Falcons were bearing down on Shepherd One at an
incredible pace. “How long before they intercept?”

“Approximately ten minutes.”

“And what was the crux of the conversation between LAX and
Shepherd One?”

“Every member of a flight crew possesses an Aviation Pin
Identification Number,” said CIA Director Craner, “an APIN. The only one who
knows the number is its possessor, no one else. Now the captain typed in his
number as requested. But when the Tower asked for the co-pilot to do the same,
knowing the co-pilot was not on board, the pilot then relayed a sudden systems
malfunction over the radio and redirected their route back to LAX. The second
APIN number was never transmitted.” 

“And their sudden redirection is most likely based on them
knowing they were made, so to speak?”

“It’s an early assessment, Mr. President, but we believe it
to be a solid one, yes.”

On the screen, the Fighting Falcons were closing the gap.

“And what do you believe their contingency plan is at this
point?”

“Again, Mr. President, these are simply assumptions since we
haven’t confirmed one way or the other if the weapons are actually on board.”

“For the moment, say they are.”

Craner nodded. “Then I think it’s safe to assume that Hakam
realized that he would never make it to D.C. and settled on second best, which
is a city of over four million people.”

A disturbing quiet descended over the table like a pall as
they watched the monitor. The F-16’s were getting closer to Shepherd One;
Shepherd One was getting closer to L.A.

“Four million people,” murmured Burroughs more to himself.
And then, “I assume the Fighting Falcons are armed?” 

“Yes, sir.”

The question spoke volumes. And the answer held a disturbing
finality to it with a single explanation: If Shepherd One should happen to be
in possession of those weapons, then it’s to be targeted and brought down
before it reached any populated areas. . . 

. . . And the life of Pope Pius XIII would suddenly end.

Clenching his jaw, Burroughs could feel the acidic bile in
his throat rising because the handwriting was on the wall. 

The repercussions would be felt far and wide from all
directions, the worldwide Catholic community unforgiving with its accusing
finger pointed directly at the Burroughs administration for allowing this to
happen, despite Burroughs’ intentions to save an entire mass of people whose fate
was delivered into the hands of madmen with a twisted agenda. The wounds would
be deep, the cuts hemorrhaging until America bled off the respect and
dependability from nations and left forlorn. It would be a major undertaking to
rebuild trust from a nation known as the country that knocked Shepherd One out
of the sky. Hopefully, forgiveness would start by coming from the Vatican, a
pious blessing for which the new pope would surely concur the action taken was
necessary, and that Pope Pius, of course, would have understood.

Maybe.

But Hakam had planned well.

If anything, Shepherd One had become the perfect shield.

And religion the best weapon of the 21
^st
century.

On the TV monitor, the planes steadily closed the distance.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Hakam needed to move quickly.

After he left the cockpit the young Arab began to shout
orders in earnest, informing the Garrote Assassin and his two healthy cohorts
to assemble the cameras and prepare them for live feeds. It appeared that
Shepherd One was about to fall prey to uninvited guests, so plans had to be
altered. Washington was now out of the question. Los Angeles was in.

The overhead bins were flung open, blankets and pillows
tossed aside, and laptops and camera equipment removed from the hollows.

Hakam looked out the window and viewed the north—nothing.
There was still plenty of time for what they had to do.

The Garrote Assassin set up a tripod before the pope, the
angle of the webcam capturing Pius in the foreground and the bishops of the
Holy See in the seats behind him. Within moments they showed up on the laptop’s
screen as grainy images, the color cheap, and when somebody in the background
moved they did so with a choppy, stop-and-go, puppeteer’s animation to them.

“I need better than that!” yelled Hakam. “I want their faces
recognizable! The world needs to see them clearly!”

“I’m doing the best I can, al-Khatib.”

The assassin’s subdued tone was cause for Hakam to ease back
and take note. He was growing increasingly edgy, he knew this, and it was
starting to reflect. “I know, my friend,” he said, and then he laid a soothing
hand on the back of the assassin’s neck and gave a squeeze of assurance, a
gesture of apology. “Forgive me. I have no excuse for my tone. But I need
better than this,” he told him evenly. “Everything we do from this point on
depends upon imagery. The world must be able to see clearly.”

“And they shall,” promised Garrote.

Hakam feigned a smile and gave him another squeeze. “We only
have moments,” he told him kindly. “Please don’t disappoint.”     

Hakam moved away and returned to the window providing a view
of the north. The sky was blue, a deep blue, and the wispy-thin clouds floated
with all the serenity that had obviously escaped him. At that moment he held
his hand up, his fingers splayed rigid, noted the tone of his flesh darker than
the flesh of his palm . . . and reexamined the uncontrollable shaking. 

Was he truly committed to Allah? Or was he simply forcing
himself to believe that death was nothing to fear?

He clenched his hand into a fist, held it tight, then closed
his eyes and pressed his forehead against the wall over the small window pane.
Please,
Allah, give me the courage to see this through.

“Allah be praised.” It was the Garrote Assassin, his voice
coming like a startling shot in the dark. “The picture from the webcam is much
better, al-Khatib. Do you wish to see?”

Hakam offered another comforting shoulder squeeze. “No, my
friend, I knew you could do it. And that’s because Allah favors you.”

“So what do you wish me to do?”

“I want you,” he said, “to forward a live feed to all the
programmed addresses right away. This show is about to start.” 

“Very well, al- Khatib.”

When the Garrote Assassin left, Hakam once again leaned his
forehead against the cool window pane. In the distance, drawing nearer, were
four dark specks coming in from the north.
Please, Allah, give me courage
.

His hand continued to shake.

#

When Kimball heard
Hakam
speak to Enzio in the cockpit he retreated from the hole, wondering if Hakam
heard him calling out to Enzio. But after a moment of conversation between Hakam
and the pilot, it became apparent that he hadn’t. And from what Kimball
gathered through their conversation, the Tower was aware that Shepherd One had
been commandeered. Worse, the Arab once again threatened the lives of the
pilot’s family, forcing loyalty where there was none.

At the moment Kimball wanted to bitch slap the little man.
But as time drew on he could hear the contained desperation in the Arab’s
voice, could sense the man losing his composure by the inches; and a man who
loses focus becomes desperate; and a man who becomes desperate is prone to
irrationality, which makes him highly volatile. Not good for the growing
situation.   

So somehow, in some way, Kimball knew he had to get topside
before it was too late.

Backing away from the bank of computers that made up the
Avionics Room, and then maneuvering through the tight-fitting hatch, Kimball
began to rummage through the luggage. He found vestments, shirts and
undergarments, typical items—but he also discovered the tools of the Holy See’s
trade. Since they were the administrative arm of the Vatican, they conducted
business from afar, always maintaining correspondence through the laptop.

Kimball found several laptops, along with webcams and
devices he did not recognize or care to fathom their uses. He was a simple
computer layman who knew the basic fundamentals of operation and little more.

Taking the best unit, a telephone line, and other items such
as a webcam and charger, not really sure if he needed them, he returned to the
Avionics Room. Inside, small bulbs shined enough illumination along the
scoreboard of lights, which gave Kimball view of the computer’s ports.
Connecting one end of the cord to the LINE-IN of the board and the other to the
laptop, Kimball booted up. Within a minute he was up and running, the screen
casting a mercury-glow that formed ghoulishly twisted lines that danced in
macabre fashion along his face.

And then he began to type.

#

Live feeds from
Shepherd One
landed at the most prominent television stations around the United States,
encompassing cities like Atlanta, Boston, New York and their major affiliates
along the eastern seaboard; Los Angeles, San Francisco and Las Vegas in the
west.

When news editors and premier anchormen viewed the choppy
feed of Pope Pius XIII sitting with armed terrorists flanking him, the
newsrooms became tumultuously active with the principles screaming for
verification. However, nothing could be solidified. The White House Press, the
political dignities with ties to the media, weren’t divulging or offering a
modicum of proof that the feed was authentic.

Within minutes decisions were made, the opportunity too
impressive to pass up with all the earmarks affirming the visuals—no matter how
dark or sophomoric the image—to be that of Pope Pius XIII. All the major
networks were interrupted from coast to coast, the anchorpersons verbalizing
the feed as ‘highly plausible’ with Shepherd One having been commandeered—but
by whom or why had yet to be determined.

Of course the feed was not aired live. Instead, grainy
snippets already taken from the earliest frames and edited made the television
cut. The nation was riveted; the outgoing news based more on speculation rather
than fact. Ratings soured within minutes, the nation tuning in.

And what the community saw, regardless of the poor quality
of the feed, was Pope Pius XIII with the point of a pistol pressed firmly
against his temple.

It was the only edition allowed for viewership before fading
to black.    

#

The F-16’s locked
on to their
target and bore down on her like lions to a kill. After reaching the tail end
of Shepherd One, they broke formation with the lead pilot of the Fighting Falcon
group taking a position alongside the aircraft that gave him a visual of the
cockpit. The other fighter jets flanked the jumbo jet in escort formation, two
per side. 

“. . .
Shepherd One, this is Fighting Falcon
Two-Six-Four-Three, come in, Shepherd One . . .
”

Enzio turned to his left and saw the fighter less than 20
meters away, the pilot pointing to his helmet as a gesture to answer the call. 

“. . .
Shepherd One, this is Fighting Falcon
Two-Six-Four-Three, come in, Shepherd One
. . .”

“Answer him,” said Hakam, stepping into the cockpit and
taking the navigator’s seat. “Tell them you’re to head to LAX due to
significant problems with the aircraft.”  

Enzio complied. “Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, we’ve
already confirmed with Base that we are to head back to our depart point due to
unknown mechanical problems.”

“. . .
That’s negative, Shepherd One. You are to
reconfigure your coordinates to heading eight-six-zero-one immediately
. .
.”

Hakam leaned forward. “Eight-six-zero-one?”

Having been a member of the
Aeronautica Milatare,
Enzio had practiced maneuvers several times with the Americans at Nellis Air
Force Base and knew the coordinates well. “It’s a desert landing strip about
twenty miles north of the base,” he answered.

“And I presume it’s in the middle of nowhere?”

Enzio did not acknowledge or confirm. He merely kept his
eyes straight.

“ . . .
Do you copy, Shepherd One? . . . You’re to
reconfigure your coordinates to heading eight-six-zero-one immediately
. . .
”

“What do I tell them?” asked Enzio.

Hakam deliberated. He had to buy time, but it was obvious
the fighter jets had an agenda, as well. “Tell them your heading is locked to
LAX.”

Enzio sighed as if taxed. “Fighting Falcon
Two-Six-Four-Three, we will not reroute due to possible—”

“ . . .
You
are
to reroute to those coordinates,
Captain . . . That’s a direct order
. . .”

Enzio reached up and grabbed the toggle switch on the
overhead panel. “That’s negative, Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three. Our
heading remains as LAX.” And then he switched the toggle, cutting off
communication.

Within less than a minute the Fighting Falcons peeled back
and repositioned themselves to the rear of Shepherd One, maintaining range.

“What are they doing?” asked Hakam. “Are they escorting us
in?”

Enzio nodded with all the reserve of a seasoned military
pilot who knew the strategies of warfare. “No,” he said. “They’re positioning
themselves.”

“For what?”

Enzio could feel a sour lump forming in his throat. “I would
think that would be obvious to you by now,” he said. “They’re going to knock us
out of the sky.”

#

The Flight Commander
of
Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three maintained a distance of two clicks behind
Shepherd One; the other three jets were in formation alongside their commanding
officer in a straight line.

“Base Command, Two-Six-Four-Three . . .”

“
Go ahead, Two-Six-Four-Three
.”

“Shepherd One is refusing to acknowledge orders. Standing by
for further instructions.”

“
Copy, Two-Six-Four-Three. Ten-twelve
.” Ten-twelve
was the vernacular to “stand by.”

Then after a delayed moment: “
Two-Six-Four-Three
.”

“This is Two-Six-Four-Three. Go ahead, Base Command.”

“
Two-Six-Four-Three, maintain visual and continue to
ten-twelve
.”

“Copy that, Base Command.”

With Shepherd One the behemoth of the sky, there was no
doubt as to who were the more powerful. With the Fighting Falcons maintaining
pursuit, the Flight Commander recognized the fact that the powers that be were
determining whether or not to bring Shepherd One down. 

A disturbing thought considering the pope was on board,
which gave the pilot reason to question the virtue of bringing the plane down.
It was a matter of duty over emotion.

However, his emotion weighed on him.

If the time should ever present itself, could I really
fire off a missile
?

Although not wholly pious, the Flight Commander was
spiritual, often finding himself calling upon God to get him through sorties in
Iraq. In fact, a crucifix hung at the end of a beaded rosary inside his
cockpit, the crucifix swinging back and forth like a pendulum, the eyes of
Christ looking at him forlornly.   

And then he asked himself once again:
If the time should
ever present itself, could I really fire off a missile . . . knowing that I
would be the one responsible for killing the most recognized face in the
Catholic world
?

The crucifix continued to swing back and forth, the eyes of
Christ unsettling, the pain behind them very real; the sadness, the deplorable
and appalling sadness.

Reaching, the Flight Commander seized the crucifix in his
hand and squeezed, feeling the osmosis of sorrow working to the very core of
his soul.