Shepherd One (7 page)

CHAPTER NINE

Area 4, Nevada Test Site

Late Morning

The room was encapsulated by
concrete walls with a viewing window that ran the entire length of an entire
wall, the glass six inches thick. Electronic wizardry such as vacuum systems,
vibration-isolating optical tables, a large collection of optomechanics such as
Ti sapphire and diode lasers geared for atom manipulation filled the lab—the
oft pulsating laser eyes of the tubular equipment shut off, the mechanical arms
still. 

In a room connecting this lab was a sequestered chamber
strictly used for the study of atomic emissions and absorption. Today, however,
inside this room sat the nuclear suitcase on a table beneath a recessed
lighting fixture, with its aluminum shell shining with the aura of a sacred
chalice.

Dr. Ray Simone—chief nuclear engineer and leading principal
of the president’s Nuclear Management Team—was Lincolnesque with a balding pate
and manicured goatee. His eyes were forever studious as they embraced the
celebrated intelligence of a man who excelled in the field of nuclear science.
And his quirks could only be considered as a reflection of his natural state of
mind, that of a man who was socially hindered and lived solely in the world of
academia. 

Wearing a white lab coat with a radiation monitor attached
to his lapel, Ray Simone stood at the viewing window dabbing his stylus against
the screen of an electronic notebook.

The unit was brought in hours ago and tests were run. What
was learned by preliminary discoveries was that the unit was functional with a
three kiloton yield. Worse, it had a highly sophisticated and sensitive
built-in safety feature. And methods to find a way to disable it proved
difficult. Dozens of laser lines crisscrossed all around the triggering
mechanism with hundreds more along the PC boards, the lines tracking up and
down, back and forth, left to right—making it impossible to breach the laser
grid and get at the unit’s core. If a single line was broken or nicked by an
intruding implement attempting to disarm the unit, then the unit would quickly
arm itself.  

While dotting the screen of his electronic notepad with
quick pecks of the stylus, Simone entered the chamber and stood beyond the
case’s periphery, and circled it with careful study. There was a Bluetooth-like
attachment connected to his ear. 

Putting on the headgear of a monocular optical lens capable
of seeing light not visible to the naked eye, Simone was clearly able to see
the crisscrossing patterns of laser light moving in intricate patterns—up and
down, back and forth, the roving laser eyes making it impossible for a steady
hand to go in to disengage the connecting pins. To do so would set off the unit
in a three-kiloton, white-hot explosion.

“Genius is definitely in simplicity,” he murmured.

There were no wires or decoy devices that he could
determine. And should an attempt be made and a laser line nicked by a foreign
object, such as the point of a breaching screwdriver, it would initiate the
unit’s countdown process.

This is absolute genius
. Simone began tapping the
screen of his notebook with his stylus, memorializing his findings.

“Dr. Simone?”

The engineer placed a finger on his Bluetooth. “Yeah,
Mitch.”

“President Burroughs would like to be piped through. He
wants to know of your findings.”

“Go ahead and send him through.”

Removing his special goggles and Bluetooth, Simone traced
his finger along the Plexiglas cover that gave view of the burnished spheres.  

“Dr. Simone.” The president’s voice was lacking the normal
cheer of salutation. It was more like the man was having a really bad day, but
didn’t care if anyone knew about it as his voice was being channeled through
the chamber’s advanced vocal system.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“What have you found?”

 “Well, I will say this,” he began. “It’s quite a marvel of
engineering. The unit is totally computerized and the decoy system well masked,
making it nearly impossible to disarm.”

“But is it doable? Can
it
be disarmed?”

Simone looked unemotional. “I said
nearly
impossible,
Mr. President.”

“Nearly or not, Ray, impossible to me means there is a high
degree that something cannot be done.”

Simone leaned over the unit and examined the spheres
closely. “Actually, Mr. President, the word
impossible
doesn’t mean that
something cannot be done. It just implies the degree of difficulty involved in
the situation.”

“Ray, can you disarm the damn thing or not?”

“Impossible or not, Mr. President, and although challenging,
everything is achievable and attainable. I will find a way to disarm this
unit.”

“How long will that take?”

“That, I cannot give an answer to.”

“Ray, this is imperative.”

“I understand that. But this is something none of us has
ever seen before. The engineering by the Russians makes me ashamed that we
haven’t come up with this marvel sooner.”

“You talk as if you admire the damn thing.”

Simone was enamored in a scientific way.

“It’s a bomb, Ray. Find out what makes it tick, then disarm
it. And I mean yesterday.”

“I’ll do what can,” he offered.

“Do it quickly. There’s a possibility that there may be more
units floating around on American soil.”

“Again, Mr. President, I’ll do what I can. A unit such as
this will need to be approached with considerable caution.”

“Ray, we don’t have much time.”

“Mr. President, if we make a mistake—even a single and
minute miscalculation—Area Four will be nothing more than a dead landscape for thousands
of years and whatever answers you are seeking will never be learned. We have no
choice in the matter.”

Over the speakers Ray Simone could hear President Burroughs
force a sigh of frustration.

And then: “I’ll need your engineers on this twenty-four-seven,”
he said flatly.

“Of course.”

“And, Ray?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Keep in mind that you’re on the clock. If a unit goes off
on American soil, then your answers won’t matter much. It’ll be too late.”

“I understand.”

And then a loud click sounded over the speakers, something
that was definite and audible as a flip of a switch, and then the sound of
white noise transitioned cleanly over to dead air.

The president had made his statement.

The clock was ticking.

CHAPTER TEN

Washington
D.C.

1345 hours Eastern Standard Time.

Marine One is the presidential
helicopter transport to locations of close proximities with minimized landing
areas. The current version is the VH-71 Kestral, a state-of-the-line mobile air
unit that has a service ceiling of 15,000 feet, and travels at a speed of 192
miles per hour to a maximum distance of 863 miles.

Its less than posh interior was simply rudimentary with
padded benches lining the interior walls and a small communications center with
fax and phone. The ceiling was low, the rotary system above them a semblance of
moving parts that aided in the muting of the continuous wop-wop-wop of the
helicopter’s blades. Nevertheless, and with much of the noise canceled out,
President Burroughs always had to speak louder than the norm, as did the
members of his team. 

Inside, the bay that was cordoned off from the cockpit by a
wall of diamond-studded steel as President Burroughs, Chief Advisor Alan
Thornton, Attorney General Dean Hamilton and Chief CIA Analyst Doug Craner
gleaned through documents of newly gathered information from international
sources, as they waited for the rotors to pick up the maximum speed for
liftoff.

Once Marine One airlifted and began its western trajectory
to Raven Rock, President Burroughs continued to read over the newly acquired
facts until he was well studied with the new findings. Through the porthole
window over his left shoulder Washington faded in the distance, the needle of
the Washington Monument contracting to the size of a pin before disappearing
all together.

Since the inception of the incident along the Arizona-Mexico
border, information had come in at a breakneck pace, especially from Homeland
Security who proffered dossiers on the cell group, and its extended members
attained from the FBI Watch List and their own significant data base. The Arizona group was simply a small attachment of a much larger brigade.

CIA Analyst Doug Craner lifted the flap of a manila folder
and rummaged through it, looking for the glossy photos of those killed at the
site. “As you already know, Mr. President, al-Khalid Hassan was a leading
member of that Arizona group before being killed by the Border Patrol. The
other two, however,” Craner forwarded two black-and-white photos of the
terrorists killed at the site to the president, “possess very little
background. All we know about them at this time is that they were recently
trained in al-Qaeda camps along the Afghan-Pakistani border. As far as we know,
this was their first jihad mission.”

“They look like kids,” he commented.

“They pretty much are.” Craner opened the folder again and
grabbed another photo of a young man whose face was grizzled with the minute
curls of a beard and eyes that were dark and cold, which offset the gentle and
angelic repose of his face, hinting that there was a subterfuge of something
very dangerous hidden underneath.

“This is al-Khatib Hakam,” he added, “twenty-eight years of
age, extremely learned and intelligent with an IQ touching the stratosphere.” 

“Am I to assume he’s the team lead?”

“Yes, sir. And get a load of this. He was born in Dearborn, Michigan; an American who found his god while attending Columbia University in New York, at the age of seventeen.”

The president examined the photo and simply thought, An
American?

“The man is a prodigy who graduated with Honors at nineteen,
and then disappeared, only to show up on the FBI’s Watch List because of his
known ties with insurgent groups and organizations.” 

“Do we know where he is now?”

“No, sir. It’s said that Hakam reveals himself only if it
serves a purpose. But we have received unconfirmed reports that Hakam was in Russia not too long ago. Six months ago, to be exact.”

“To purchase the bombs,” he whispered.

Craner did not comment.

Hakam obviously had the world in one hand and a Columbia scroll of graduation in the other, but decided to give it away for twisted
idealism. It was truly sad for the president to see someone so naturally gifted
to simply throw it all away. “So, what you’re telling me is that Al-Khatib
Hakam is spearheading this crusade?”

“Al-Khatib Hakam is the alleged leader of the Muslim
Revolutionary Front, which is not only a group of terrorists, but also a ring
of highly trained assassins which is a cut above the normal radical who does
not
obligate themselves to surrender their life by committing suicide in the name
of Allah. This group actually engages in combat techniques akin to our own
Special Forces units, and lives on to battle another day if they survive the
initial skirmish.”

Craner proffered several more photos of the known members of
the Muslim Revolutionary Front. At first glance the president considered them
hardened men who carried the same stoic toughness as the men from American
Special Forces. But there was something different, something missing. Or
perhaps they possessed too much, he considered. Perhaps their faith had
corrupted them with such zealous grandeur that they held nothing more than
thoughtless determination.

As Burroughs picked up the last photo Marine One dipped a
little in open space, the helicopter soon recapturing its even course as the
president took careful study of Hakam. “How many men are left in this cell?” he
asked.

“We believe six, including him. There’s no information or
record of anybody else other than the six photos and dossiers we have.”

“The guy doesn’t look like much of a soldier.”

“I’m sure the guy couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper
bag. But true power doesn’t come by killing. It comes by getting others to do
it for you. And that’s what Hakam is, the driving force that gets others to do
whatever he wants, which makes him a very dangerous man.”

The president fanned the photos across his fingers as if
holding a poker hand. “Tell me more about his team.”

“Five men who were elite commandos serving under the
Republican Guard and the Iranian Revolutionary Guard as the best of the best,”
he stated. “And I do mean the best of the best. When things didn’t go right on
the war front, they would send these guys in to clean up the mess.” 

 The president nodded, and then closed his eyes. “So, we
have five elite soldiers and a mental giant. I guess if you cut off the head of
the serpent, then the body would wither and die.”

“Perhaps, sir.”

“And Hakam was last known to be in Russia how long ago?”

“Six months ago.”

“And nobody’s seen or heard from him since?”

“No, sir.”

 President Burroughs pressed his lips into a tight grimace.
“Alan, what’s your take on all this?”

Thornton, elfish and diminutive in his own right, leaned
forward to gather those in close conference without having to yell above the
beat of the blades. “Well, Mr. President, barring the inexperience of the
members shot and killed at the site with the exception of al-Khalid Hassan, we
have to assume the more experienced of the team got through. And taking into
consideration that it takes a custodial team of at least two people to get a
single unit across the border, simply translates that two, or maybe even three
units have made their way onto American territory. And this is based upon the
information that six members of the team remain, which, of course, is purely
speculation at this point. There could be more, there could be less.”

“And what about Perchenko? Any feedback from intercepted
lines?”

“Plenty,” said Craner. “We confirmed Perchenko to be in Minsk, as we speak. And it appears the Russians have mobilized their sources to find him
before we do. So we have our teams scouring Perchenko’s frequent haunts hoping
to grab him as soon as possible.”

“Whatever it takes, Doug, find him. I need to know how many
units are out there. Because if these devices go off, then this country will
lose everything—it’ll lose its will, its courage, and its ability to sustain a
national confidence in its government to protect.”

“I agree, sir.”

“In the meantime, we need to come up with solutions. And we
need to come up with probable target sites despite the obvious, and cover those
areas with as many bodies as we can provide. Use whatever is necessary to
accomplish the means.  I want you to look inside every mosque, temple, or
Muslim holy site known for radical behavior. Those packages could be anywhere.
And Dean?”

Dean Hamilton was the Attorney General whose resolve was as
steely as the gaze from his bottle-green eyes that possessed the determination
to outwit, outfight, and outmaneuver anyone within his constituency to achieve
what he believed would be the best for the administration. To fight in the vein
of rectitude by ruffling a few feathers on the political floor had become his
trademark. And to fight Dean Hamilton on his level always promised a bitter
struggle for those who always took battle against him. Not only was he
remarkably virtuous, he was equally keen and anticipated what was coming. “Yes,
Mr. President.”

“I want all available resources in motion. I want every
field agent across this country in constant movement. And I mean constant.
There will be no time to eat, drink or sleep. I want action, lots of action,
and I want results according to those actions.”

Since Hamilton was in charge over the FBI, he would notify
the directors immediately. “Yes, sir.”

“And, Doug.”

“Sir?”

“Find Perchenko.”

It wasn’t so much as a benevolent statement as it was a
fervent order. The president’s stern measure made it abundantly clear should
Perchenko be found before the American’s could ascertain any viable
information, then the proverbial Sword of Damocles would fall upon the CIA Analyst’s head, since the accusing finger had to be pointed somewhere. “Yes, sir. We’re
working on it.”

The president looked out the window over his left shoulder
and noted the canopy of tree tops that covered the land in beautiful blooms in
different shades of green. And then he wondered if he would ever see Washington again . . . Or if it would become a poisoned city due to nuclear fallout.

The president thought of a lot of things.

#

Los Angeles
, California

1255 hours Pacific Standard Time

Nikki’s Tavern was a little
hole-in-the-wall pub with a simple non-descript door leading from a trash-laden
sidewalk that led into an interior that was as bleak and rundown as the
surrounding neighborhood. Inside, the wallpaper had yellowed like old parchment
and the ferns that dotted the floor space in the corners barely sustained life.
High on the nicotine-stained ceiling, fans turned with a wobbled effect that
made Kimball imagine the blade attachments weren’t too secure. Yet none of this
mattered to him. Within this neglected establishment was solitude.

 Looking down the long stretch of the tavern, he took note
of the room’s gloominess that was thick with cigarette smoke that moved through
the air in phantasmagoric shapes. Along the bar silhouetted against the
backdrop stooping over their drinks, a few patrons sat quietly. In its unkempt
isolation Kimball found a booth across from them, the table steeped in shadow
and a much needed comfort zone.

In front of him seven shot glasses—five empty, two filled
with dark liquor—were neatly positioned in front of him as he ran a fingertip
around the rim of a full one, his eyes staring at nothing in particular.
Somewhere somebody coughed—an unhealthy phlegm jag that sounded in the patron’s
chest like a death rattle.

And then the bar fell silent, Kimball losing himself in
thought.

For over a decade he was driven to find salvation; however,
salvation always seemed more than an arm’s length away. Perhaps, he considered,
it was because he was a man who truly did not find God to be part of his
element, even though he wished it so. Whereas he could recite articles verbatim
from military manuals as easily as a preacher could recite verses from the
Bible, Kimball Hayden could not remember the first line of ‘The Lord’s Prayer,’
which was the simplest of all prayers.

Unlike his team, Kimball was the unique cast that helped
shaped the members of the Vatican Knights, who were groomed to be the Crusaders
of a new age. Whereas they were developed by using humbleness as their shield
and faith as their guide, Kimball only knew death and how to administer its
techniques as if the art of killing was no more than an involuntary act. Yet in
the eyes of his team and the Church clerisy, he was all but anointed. 

But Kimball never felt so alone.     

In a quick motion he brought the shot glass to his lips and
drank—a maneuver that seemed automatic, and then aligned the empty glass
alongside the other empty glasses.

Six glasses now stood side by side in a perfect row, all
empty, a mere representation of his growing hollowness with one glass left, the
last full glass a symbolic and tenuous hold that he wasn’t completely without
hope. If he drank from it, then the line would be complete, the glasses fully
drained, and with it the faith of receiving salvation forever gone since the
well to draw from was now completely dry. With that final glass remained the
last few ounces of hope.

Nevertheless, Kimball stared at the shot glass, tempted.

There’s nothing symbolic about it, he thought. It’s only a
drink.

But by not drinking it, it gave him a reason for optimism.

So instead of imbibing, he fell back into personal
reflection.

And what he reflected upon was the value of his purpose of
having been assigned the pope’s personal valet, which was not without its
reasons. He was chosen because he possessed the best tools to save the
pontiff’s life if the situation ever presented itself, especially in today’s
world where zealous enlightenment appeared to be on the rise. But Kimball knew
he had to lay low.  Absconding from government service might not bode too well
for him if the Burroughs administration should discover that he was still
alive.