Shepherd One (19 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Shepherd One is refusing the
command of the Flight Commander,” said CIA Director Craner. “They’re getting
closer to L.A. with every passing moment.”

“Don’t you think I know that, Doug?” snapped Burroughs. 

The CIA Director lowered his head toward the reams of
paperwork in front of him and began to peel back the surface pages.

“Tell me what I
don’t
know.” The president looked up
at the screen, the image of Shepherd One and the four F-16’s drawing nearer to
the populated zone. “We have to make a decision, people, and we need to do it
quickly. So I need to know right now if any of you believe in the high
probability of nuclear weapons on board that plane.”

“At this point, Mr. President,” began Attorney General
Hamilton, his eyes also viewing the screen, “all we have are circumstantial
indications and calculated guesses, albeit strong ones, but guesses
nonetheless. ” 

“You know what I’m looking for, Dean. You
all
know
what I’m looking for. That plane is getting close to a populated area with the
high probability of carrying a nuclear payload. And we can’t afford Shepherd
One any more distance. You know what has to be done, pope or no pope.” The
president waited for suggestions, not wanting to play Devil’s Advocate alone.

“And what if we’re wrong in our assessment?’ asked CIA Director Craner. “Right now we have a lot of ‘ifs’ to consider before considering the
takedown of Shepherd One.”

“True,” said Burroughs. “But if we don’t make a decision
soon, then we allow the plane to fly over Los Angeles with a payload bearing
half the explosive yield that took out Hiroshima. Is that something we can
really afford?”

Hamilton leaned forward, his voice holding somewhat of a
contrite measure to it. “But it’s the pope,” he said. 

Burroughs nodded his understanding of religious conviction
over duty. “You’re right, Dean—absolutely. And I understand how all of you feel
about the man who represents your faith, my faith. But we’re also talking about
the lives of four million people at stake here as well. If we’re wrong about
the payload, then the lives on board Shepherd One will be lost and this country
will come under heavy backlash from the worldwide community. If the payload is
on board, then we at least save the lives of a million people, maybe more.”

“And we would still come under the heavy backlash from the
worldwide community,” said Thornton. The Chief Advisor interlaced his fingers
and placed his folded his hands on the tabletop before him. “It’s a lose-lose
situation, Mr. President. But there are always alternatives.”

Senator Wyman piped up; his seasoned statesmanship proving
this was not his first time at the rodeo. “You’re talking about deception,” he
said.

“I’m talking about going with the advantages that are
available to us.”

“And that’s deception. Say what you mean, Al.”

Thornton appeared uncomfortable, his demeanor reflecting the
warring vacillation between his political responsibilities against his
spiritual ties. “This is hard for me to say, Mr. President.”

“I know, Al. It’s hard for everybody at this table . . . But—”
He pointed to the screen. Shepherd One was getting dangerously close to the hot
zone. “We have to act quickly.”

Thornton pitched a sigh. “We can doctor the facts,” he said
repentantly. “Shepherd One could go down due to the alleged mechanical
malfunction as the pilot has stated. We just need to make it happen.”

There was a momentary silence at the table, a period of
deliberation.

“We could use the pilot’s recordings to support . . . the
theory of an accident,” he added, then lowered his eyes in deep personal
conflict. He was not alone in this matter.

President Burroughs took another glance at the screen.

The time was now.

“I want the Flight Commander of the Fighting Falcons to
contact Shepherd One one last time, and have him redirect Shepherd One to the
specified coordinates. If they refuse, then I want the pilot to inform the
captain of Shepherd One that they will be shot down.”

Nobody at the table was stunned; the option proffered the
only one available—not much of a choice at all. But everyone was clearly somber
as a tragic cast hunkered over them like a cloudburst.

“I’m sorry, people. But I don’t see any other approach to this.”
He turned to Henry Spaatz, the current Chief of Staff of the Air Force to
deliver the command. “Please, Henry . . . Issue the command.”

The senior uniformed officer nodded with a half-hearted
gesture. “Two-Six-Four-Three, this is Base Command . . . Do you copy?”

The response was not as quick as expected.

“ . . .
This is Two-Six-Four-Three . . . Go
. . .”

“Two-Six-Four-Three, you are too immediately—”

#

“—
engage Shepherd One
and propose a final action that they either comply with the order of diversion
. . . or be subjected to military recourse and be shot down . . . Do you copy
?”

The Flight Commander could feel his heart gallop with the
speed of a thoroughbred, the order a simplistic syntax of words aligned in such
a way it caused him physical distress. Many times he had gone into battle
feeling the same way, always proposing a few words to God with the crucifix
held tightly within the grasp of his hand. But this time he found no solace.
This time he felt an overwhelming sense of self-conflict.

“ . . .
Do you copy, Two-Six-Four-Three
? . . .”

“Two-Six-Four-Three . . . I copy. . .”

The message was broadcast to all pilots who maintained
formation while the Flight Commander flew forward in an attempt a reconnect
with the pilot of Shepherd One. After positioning himself within twenty meters
of the jumbo jet’s cockpit, the Flight Commander made eye contact with Enzio
and tapped his helmet, a gesture to reopen communication.

But Enzio turned away. 

#

“What does he
want?” asked
Hakam.

“He wants me to reopen communication,” he said, keeping his
eyes fixed and forward.

Hakam observed the fighter pilot to be tapping his helmet
with heightened agitation, the approach in itself beseeching in his attempt to
make open contact. “Reestablish communication,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s
best to know what your enemy is proposing. And no doubt the enemy has a
proposal they wish to inform us of. Open the link so that I can hear.”

Enzio reached up and flipped the toggle, the air now open.
“This is Shepherd One.”

“ . . .
Shepherd One, can you communicate openly
? . .
.”

Enzio gave Hakam a side-long glance before responding.
“That’s negative, Two-Six-Four-Three.”

“ . . .
Are you flying with hostile intent
?. . .”

Enzio was hoping his silence was answer enough.

“
Shepherd One, you are to proceed directly to the given
set of coordinates and reroute your direction, do you understand? If you do not
comply immediately, then we have orders to shoot you down. Do you copy,
Shepherd One? Redirect your course immediately
. . .”

“Do you believe him?” Hakam asked him, maintaining calm.

“Yes.”

Hakam released a short, unsettling sigh. “Remind him that
the Pope Pius is on board.”

Enzio tapped a button on his lip mike. “Two-Six-Four-Three,
do I need to remind you that Pope Pius—”

“
Shepherd One, this command comes from the highest
authority. Either you change your course to the given heading, or we will
terminate your flight immediately, is that understood
?
”

Clearly
. There was no doubt in Enzio’s mind that his
life was about to come to an earnest end.

“. . .
You have less than thirty seconds, Shepherd One
. . .”

In a quick and fluid motion the jet fighter peeled back and
disappeared from view, taking position in the rear.

And in a matter of a single moment Hakam could feel his nerves
tense to the tautness of steel cables, the overwhelming and sustaining pressure
threatening to snap in a volley of lashes geared to do irreparable harm to his
forced composure, if not his sanity. Death was coming for him much too quickly
as his hands shook with all the fervor of physiological nerve disorder. “I know
this plane,” he finally said, hiding his hands from Enzio. “It possesses some
very special features unlike other airliners, yes?”

“We’re no match for F-16 fighter jets,” he responded.

“That’s not what I asked you, Captain Pastore. I asked you
if this aircraft possesses safety features unlike other airliners. And your
answer would be?”

He knew Hakam was referring to the flares, the laser
jammers, and high temperature decoys. “Yes,” he answered. “You already know
that.”

“Then, Captain Pastore, I strongly suggest that you hurry up
and prepare to defend this aircraft. I believe we have less than fifteen
seconds left . . . if that.”

Enzio reached for the keypad and typed in a new code. From
the central console a small panel slid aside and a box lined with toggle
switches projected upward. Flipping the switches, the amber bulbs on the panel
began to light up as a signal of activation. All he had to do was depress the
red buttons beneath the lights to activate the decoys and laser jammers.

“Are we ready to defend the palace, Captain Pastore?”

“We can at least try,” he said.   

Their time was up.

#

President Burroughs appeared
unperturbed. However, he was inwardly screaming for a reprieve. The captain of
Shepherd One refused to abide by the new directive, giving Burroughs no other
choice but to bring the aircraft down. The monitor above the conference table
was a constant reminder to him that the jumbo jet was nearing populated
territories, which were the urban areas just outside the premises of the Los Angeles suburb.

“Mr. President.” It was a nudge from Senator Wyman who
seemed the least affected by the notion of bringing the jet down. “The decision
is now, if it’s ever going to happen.”
Burroughs tented his hands and bounced the tips of his fingers against his
chin, his mind in obvious warring fashion.

On the screen the image of Shepherd One reached the Critical
Zone, an area marked with a blue borderline, indicating that it had less than
ten miles before reaching the Red Zone, an area marked as the kill radius should
the weapons detonate.

“Mr. President.” Another nudge from the senator. “You
have
to make a decision.”

Burroughs lowered his hands and turned to his Chief of Staff
of the Air Force Command. “Go ahead, Henry,” he said dejectedly. “Give the
order to bring her down.”

 “Yes, sir.” The commander clenched his jaw for a brief
moment before speaking. And then: “Two-Six-Four-Three, this is Base Command . .
. Come in.”

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

Henry Spaatz measured the many faces that looked upon him
with equal evaluation to see if those numerous medals of distinction adorning
his uniform were meaningless, wondering if his valor would flag in such a moment,
or would he commit himself as his station required. Without reservation the
commander spoke with marked bravado. “Two-Six-Four-Three, engage the target and
terminate
her flight immediately. . . Bring . . . down . . . Shepherd .
. . One . . .” 

“. . .
Copy that, Base Command . . . Engaging
. . .”

#

Before the webcam’s
eye, Pope
Pius remained absolutely still as the Garrote Assassin pressed the mouth of his
firearm against the pontiff’s temple. Of course it was for show to incite the masses.
This he had no doubt. And no doubt it would have the desired effect. But
something bothered the assassin, something with enough influence to bathe his
forehead in sweat and to shout in Arabic in what appeared to be near panic. His
head seemed to be on a swivel, his eyes darting from one set of windows to the
other as he stood with his weapon against the pontiff’s temple shouting out
commands to his companions who ran along the aisles taking notice of something
outside the plane, prompting them to shout back in heightened panic. There was
something out there, something obviously not of their liking.   

With a steady gaze the pope stared into the webcam and saw
the little green light. This was being recorded live. And the pope provided a
preamble of a smile, a micro expression of enlightenment. Whatever was out
there was obviously for the sake and benefit of the plane. An attempt of a
rescue was certainly at hand.

He had no reason to believe that the United States government had already decided to end the flight of Shepherd One.

#

“Copy that, Base
Command . .
. Engaging . . .” The flight commander released the crucifix and grabbed the
yolk with both hands, homing in on Shepherd One by focusing the lock-on
targeting program to the rear of the jumbo jet. On the grid-patterned mini
screen, the image of crosshairs surfaced and weaved drunkenly from side to side
as the guidance system searched for a lock-on point. When the crosshairs found
Shepherd One they flared a bright red, the color indicating that a target had
been locked on—the crosshairs no longer weaving back in forth, but moving
steadily with the course of the targeted jetliner. Above the image read LOCKED.

The Flight Commander poised a thumb over the firing button,
and then looked upon the crucifix noting Christ’s head listing to His side and
resting upon His shoulder. And those eyes, those incredibly sad eyes of
despair, almost pleading in its gaze, looked at him in what appeared to be more
of grave sorrow than forgiveness.