Shepherd One (11 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

LAX Airport. 0847 hours

Los Angeles
, California

With the exception of the pilot of
Shepherd One, the murders of the entire flight crew was completed with deadly
efficiency and their positions taken over by Hakam’s team. 

In keeping with the specifics of the Alitalia Airline group,
Hakam made sure they dressed to uniform specs of the Alitalia Airline crew.
Every member of his team wore the designated navy blue pants with red stripes
running along the seams, and the stark white short-sleeved shirts bearing the
embroidered logo of Alitalia Airlines on the pocket. And because Shepherd One
and its crew was exempt from all TSA inspections, all papal baggage was
collected and stored in the sublevel beneath the departing gate.

In total, four electric cars were fully loaded with luggage
belonging to the pontiff and his staff. On carts One and Two, hidden beneath
the soft-shell cases, were the nuclear devices.

Three of Hakam’s team appeared to look like they belonged.
In each of their hands they held an electronic notepad and dotted the inventory
list with a stylus as they circled the carts. To the two TSA officers who were standing as security, everything appeared to be the norm.

By 9:00 a.m.—thirty minutes before Pope Pius XIII was to
arrive by gubernatorial limo—Hakam, Enzio Pastore, and the members of the Muslim
Revolutionary Front appeared in the sublevel, with Captain Pastore summarily
dismissing the TSA officers with a simple fanfare of a hand wave, leaving him alone
with the MRF.

Each motorized cart was capable of holding two, the driver
and passenger, with the carts facing a 900-foot tunnel that led to the executive
hangers. Without saying a word, Hakam boarded the passenger side and gestured
Enzio to the driver’s seat.

“When we reach Shepherd One,” Hakam told him, “make sure you
do not falter, slip, or give any indication to the TSA officers watching over
her that something is wrong.”

Enzio said nothing; he merely eased into the driver’s seat.

Hakam turned and looked down the length of the tunnel that
passed beneath the tarmac. “If you do, Captain, then your family will die.”

“So you keep saying.”

“And I will keep saying it until you realize what’s at stake
every waking moment that you fly Shepherd One. Now move.”

Turning the ignition key and depressing the pedal, the
electric cart began to move through a concrete tunnel that was barely wide
enough to let the carts pass. Light bulbs stretched along the hallway cast
feeble light, and myriad pipes of various diameters and umpteen coats of paint
ran along the ceiling before branching off to other sections of the airport’s
underworld.

During the drive, Hakam’s shadowlike features shifted in the
inconstant lighting as they drove away from the weak luminosity of one bulb,
and waxed into the dim light of another. “No matter what happens,” Hakam told
him, “you will never alter your planned heading unless I say so. Is that understood?”

The pilot nodded.

“The only reason why you are alive is because I need someone
who knows all the intricacies of that plane, such as the flares and all the
other wonderful defense mechanisms built into its configuration.”

“Expecting an aerial assault, are you?”

“I plan for every contingency and expect to win at every
turn,” he answered. “And what better way to plan for such an event when the
pilot of Shepherd One also happens to be one of the best pilots who flew for
the
Aeronautica Milatare
?”

“So you know my background.”

“Like I said, I plan for every contingency with the expectation
to win at every turn.”

Reaching the incline that led to the executive hangers, both
men remained silent as the carts moved out of the tunnel and onto the sunlit causeway
that led to Hanger 11, the storage unit for Shepherd One.

The time was 9:07 a.m., twenty-three minutes away from the
pope’s scheduled arrival to the airport. From their vantage point they could
see the masses lining up within the cordoned off areas to glimpse upon the pope
one last time. All security had been transitioned to the populated areas with
law enforcement converging to the points of interest, leaving Hakam’s team to
breach the area with minimal opposition.

When they neared the end of the causeway, the carts in
perfect alignment like the cars of a train, Enzio headed straight for Hanger 11
with the others in tow, the carts looking diminutive in the shadow of the
massive structure.

The building was huge, a half-oval-shaped construction rising
fifteen stories high with its outer shell fashioned with steel framing and
corrugated tin. The bay doors were open, offering a view of one of the most
technological advancements to currently hit the circuit, the Boeing 787-9
Dreamliner, a new and top-of-the-line aircraft. 

Although this particular airliner was set for papal
excursions and geared with additional equipment designed to keep the pope safe,
the similarity in its appearance with others in its fleet made it difficult to
target, since this Alitalia airliner looked no different from any other in its
line. Like any other plane in Alitalia, Shepherd One sat gleaming with its
signature red and green dorsal tail, and a green stripe running along the
length of its fuselage.

“She’s a beautiful ship,” Hakam mentioned.

“And what will you do with her? Fly her into a building?”

Hakam shook his head. “Nothing as redundant as that,” he
said. “In fact, Captain, I don’t plan to crash her into anything at all.”

As they drove near the hanger doors, they noted two TSA officials standing guard.

“Just do and say all the right things,” said Hakam. “I’ll
have my team manage the rest, if necessary.”

Captain Pastore said nothing as he drove into the hanger and
parked next to the check-in dais.  As required, he proffered the ID cards to
the officials for examination. Neither officer gave them much consideration.
They simply grabbed the cards and noted the tag numbers on their logging sheets
before handing the cards back to Pastore without giving the photos a detailed inspection.

“Thank you, Captain. Will you need any assistance to load
the cargo bay?”

Pastore nodded. “We’ll be fine,” he said in accented
English. “Thank you.”

“Then have a safe trip back to Rome.”

“We will.”

After the officers called into the command post to inform
them that the pope’s crew had arrived, they were immediately dispatched to
alternative points to bolster security.

“And what if they had checked the photo ID’s?” asked
Pastore.

“Then my team would have killed them and their bodies would
have been placed on board Shepherd One. But the one thing that is a given in
this country, Captain, is American complacency. Right now they should be
praying to their God for thankfulness.” 

Hakam exited his cart, his team exiting theirs, and stood
before the massive plane and examined the aircraft to its full incredible
height, each man craning his head upward as if watching the slow trajectory of
a rocket. 

“We need to get inside,” said Hakam. “Now.”

The time was 9:16 a.m.

The pope was minutes away. 

#

Kimball Hayden sat
in the
gubernatorial limo alongside Pope Pius XIII. The trailing vehicles, three black
SUV’s, transported the additional members of the Holy See.

Kimball stared out at the Los Angeles skyline, taking in
everything he once took for granted. The graffiti strewn bridges and cement
overpasses, the congestion and constant tie-ups, the haze of pollution that
hovered above the city like a tarnished crown would seem bleak and hollow to
most. But to Kimball it was home, a place he missed, his self-exile making him
a criminal to his country and to his conscience.

Once he left the limo to aid the pope aboard Shepherd One,
he would have to wear his scarlet beret bearing the emblem of the Vatican Knights, and a neat pair of shades. Most likely nobody would notice a forgotten man
once renowned as an elite assassin in the covert circle of the White House
staff, namely the president of the United States. But if he should be
discovered, would he become targeted to keep matters quiet? Since Kimball
didn’t know the current political mindset, he couldn’t answer his own
considerations. Nor did he want to assume that all would be forgiven or
forgotten, since he was a wealth of black information of past administrations.

“You miss it, don’t you?” asked the pope.

Kimball eased away from the window and donned his
sunglasses. His scarlet beret was folded into the shoulder strap of his
specially designed cleric’s shirt. “I do,” he answered. “It’s my home.”

“As much of a great service you provide the Vatican, Kimball, we still recognize the fact that God has given you free will to choose
whatever it is you want.”

“What I want and what I must do are two separate things,” he
stated somberly. “Right now the Church is where I belong. I leave this behind
because I choose to.”

The pope smiled, his features looking upon Kimball in a
paternal gesture. “You’re a good man, Kimball. I know you seek the Light of
Forgiveness for things you have done in the past.”

“It’s hard,” he said. “I can never seem . . .” His words
trailed.

“What? See an actual blinding light at the end of a tunnel?”
The pontiff leaned forward and placed his hand on Kimball’s forearm. “The
Light, Kimball, is not just ‘
The Light
.’ It’s also the Light of
Enlightenment
.
You have seen the ways of your past and are in conflict by trying to fill the
void with contriteness. To me, Kimball, your repentance
is
that Light of
Forgiveness.” He retracted his hand. “Although you may feel that you have not
found
It
. . . I believe
It
may have found you.”   

Kimball turned toward the pope, not knowing if he was
silently casting judgment against him for what he truly was, an assassin. “I
killed two children,” he said as if it was common knowledge.

The pope briefly closed his eyes and nodded his
acknowledgement. “And if you hadn’t, how many more people would you have killed
by now?”

Kimball did not reply. He turned his gaze to the passing
landscape.

“Those two children became your saviors,” he added. “And
their deaths served to make you change your life. Their deaths were not in vain,
Kimball.”

Kimball thought otherwise. “Then why do I see their faces
every time I fall asleep. There’s never an escape.”

“All I can say, Kimball, is that your service to the Church
is invaluable and you have proved your worth to God time and again. You have
committed yourself to saving the lives of good people.”

And Kimball thought:
As an assassin I was killing despots
and international tyrants who threatened the sovereignty of the United States—and by doing so I was saving the lives of good people, as well. So what’s the
difference?  That I do the same exact thing for the Church in the name of God
instead of the Holy American Empire? People are still dying by my hand, only
this time it’s viewed as acceptable under the scrutiny of God instead of the acceptable
examination of a reigning politician. Only the request for doing so was far
less in demand. It was kind of like . . . Meet the new boss, same as the old
boss, type of thing.

“I feel totally lost within myself,” he finally said. “I
feel . . . confused.”

“Sometimes a person needs more than faith, Kimball, since
faith alone does not get a man by despite what you may have heard. Sometimes
men, all men, need something more.”

Kimball faced him. The man looked daunting wearing his
shades. “And that would be?”

“That Vatican has a battalion of psychologists for a
reason,” he answered. “And there’s no shame or weakness in seeing one. In fact,
I highly recommend it.”

Kimball gave a perceptible nod. He was more than willing to
try anything in order to vanquish the demons in his sleep.

Staring out the window with LAX in view, Kimball wondered if
he would ever gravitate away from the extreme violence that seemed so much part
of his life.

He would soon get his answer.

And the answer would be no.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The dimensions of the 787-9
Dreamliner are that it’s 206 feet long and 56 feet high, with a cargo volume of
5,400 cubic feet. Its configurative measurement is a little more than
two-thirds of a football field and stands nearly as tall as a six-story
building. It had taken Hakam’s team less than ten minutes to load the cargo
bay, which seemed to extend impossibly long in either direction from the center
of the fuselage. Crates and packaged goods were tethered down with straps.
However, as scantily loaded as the bay was, there remained so much available
space that whenever anyone spoke, their words would echo throughout the cargo
area.

Fashioned between a series of crates were the two nuclear
armaments. The two cases separated by no more than two meters, and were securely
fastened to the floor by vacuum cups and bonded seals to assure that nothing
could lift them from their anchored positions. If separated manually, then the
central processing unit would immediately recognize the movement as
antagonistic and initiate the detonation sequence.

After securing the cases, Hakam stood back and appraised the
units. Although separated, each would accept the other as a single element with
a six-kiloton yield, once he instructed the CPU with a shared command to
detonate simultaneously.

Removing the BlackBerry from the inner lining of his
Alitalia Airline jacket, he began to type in a series of passwords on the
keypad to create the ten characters needed in the display window, the ‘one true
password to initiate the weapons. Once completed, and with the password now
appearing on the screen as a blinking declaration to commence, he pressed the
‘SEND’ button.

Immediately the units began to work as one, the CPU’s
recognizing the frequency which instructed the detonation pins to activate and
remain expectant for the final sequence. Once done, he began to type in a
second arrangement of characters, this time for the altimeters. After Hakam
pressed the ‘SEND’ button, nothing special happened. The altimeters windows
remained blank. But Hakam knew the altimeters would not respond until they
reached an altitude of twenty-five thousand feet. Once engaged, then the plane
could never land, since the altimeters were set to go off automatically once
Shepherd One reached the descending altitude of ten thousand feet.

Placing the BlackBerry into the inner lining of his jacket,
Hakam became aware that he had fallen behind schedule. The pope was arriving,
and Shepherd One needed to be taxied onto the runway since the airspace was
closed.

Quickly, he made his way down the lengthy fuselage and to
the stairway that led him to the upper level.

Behind him, the packages silently ticked on with the promise
of death.

#

Every exit leading
in and out
of the Chateau Grand Hotel was battened down tight. Guests were not allowed to
leave. Employees remained on the clock. And law enforcement interrogated every
available employee and guest with a volley of questions. 

Did you see anyone?

Did you hear anything?

Are there any security surveillance tapes?

Etcetera
. . .

So far, everything was coming up blank.

In room 616, investigators from the Los Angeles Police
Department took careful study as the Crime Scene Analysts combed the area for
trace elements and latent prints.

When Investigators Marty Cardasian and Joey Bardaggio
entered the room, it was like stepping into a black museum. Macabre patterns of
blood splatter covered the walls and ceiling, and the smell of copper continued
to hang in the air with the thickness of humidity. It was a difficult place to
wade through as investigators made their way to the bathroom where the bloodied
and clawed hand of the deceased extended over the tub’s edge.

Cardasian was tall and gangly and a husk of his former self.
Twenty-five years ago when he entered the force as a rookie, he was full of the
typical bravado and enthusiasm that usually accompanied someone who often
romances the ideas of law enforcement by seeing himself as someone who could
single handedly change the streets of a city growing decadent by the day.  But
over time his face had become long and jaded from partaking in too many
tragedies that held the promise of more to come. And now when he walked he did
so in a stoop, his body bowing in the shape of a question mark. The reality of
life had hit him hard.

Bardaggio, however, learned to desensitize himself and left
the pressures of life at work when he went home a night. And that is why he—and
two years older than Cardasian—looked much younger with a marginally youthful appearance,
lean shape, and hair that was thick and full.

When they entered the bathroom they observed the victim with
mutual indifference. Within the yellowing pool of light they could see that the
victim’s skin had marbled as he laid there with an eye slightly opened, as if
to spy a glimpse of the path Death was taking him. And his throat, a grisly
display, was in terrible ruin, the flesh surrounding the straight-lined gash
paring back in a horrible grimace, as the blood within the crease glistened
like black tar.

“Got two tickets to the Dodgers game for next Saturday,”
said Bardaggio. “And they’re burning a hole in my pocket. Interested?”

Cardasian shook his head. “Got plans,” he said. The tall man
got to a bended knee, his ligaments cracking—another testament to his aging
limbs—and measured the victim with a seasoned eye. “Straight line across the
throat,” he commented. “And . . .” He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, the
type surgeons wear, the ones that fit like a membrane, and carefully positioned
the victim’s head until the deceased was looking away, the rear of his neck
exposed.  “Take a look at this.”

A ligature mark that didn’t bite through the flesh but left
a bruise was apparent.

“Strangulation,” Bardaggio remarked. “And not from a cord,
either.”

Cardasian stood up. “More like a garrote.”

“A professional hit?”

“It appears that way.” The taller man removed the gloves and
pocketed them, the gloves to be discarded later. “We know anything about this
guy?”

 Bardaggio nodded. “All we know right now is that his name
is Mario Morgenessi, an Italian national whose room was billed to the Vatican account, which makes us believe he was part of the Papal Symposium. But we’re
trying to verify that.”

Cardasian took a position at the doorway between the bath
and hotel room, the analysts canvassing and cataloguing every piece of evidence
as he watched them. For nearly two decades he had analyzed and conceived his
own theories based on ‘similarity’ styles of murder. And in the case of Mario
Morgenessi, such brutally often wagered in as a signature for a passion
killing. The excessive gore often a telltale sign. But for someone like
Morgenessi whose duty was to the pope and had no American affiliations, left
Cardasian scratching his head. It definitely was not robbery. So why take the
time to kill the man so viciously? “Are there any other rooms billed to the Vatican account?” he finally asked.

“Five,” said Bardaggio. “But the rooms were vacated early
this morning.”

“Are you sure? Like this room was supposed to be—before the
maid found Mr. Morgenessi here?”

Point made
!

Bardaggio immediately forwarded a call to hotel management,
asking them to allow all rooms billed to the Vatican account to be checked.

What they would find would make Cardasian’s world a little
clearer, a little sicker, causing him to age a little bit older.

#

The pope’s limousine
and
trailing entourage entered a pre-designated entry point of LAX Airport that
bypassed a sea of people gathering at the gates. Yet the course granted the
people a marginal view of the pontiff from a cordoned-off distance.

As the limo and accompanying SUV’s quickly crossed the
tarmac, the people amassed a fantastic cheer. Signs and banners waved in
comprehensive support as people wept or prayed or looked upon the man with
adulation. It was simply a glorification of a man who promised hope.

When the limousine curbed itself beside the mobile stairway,
Pope Pius XIII exited the vehicle and raised a hand in salutation, marking the
masses with a papal blessing by giving the sign-of-the-cross, which incited
further applause.

Standing head and shoulders above the rest and wearing his
scarlet beret and sunglasses, Kimball gently cupped the pontiff by the elbow
and began to escort him toward the first step of the mobile staircase. With caution,
Pope Pius XIII grabbed the railing and began his climb.

#

Hakam and his
team watched
the pope make his way to the base of the stairway and respond to the masses.
From their vantage of the aircraft’s windows, every man could feel his heart
palpitate against the rack of his ribs. In life they had fought in significant
battles—had bled and wept over fallen comrades. And they had felt the virginal
tremors of going into battle the moment they first laid their hands on a rifle.
But this was different. What they felt was closure. Going into battle against
insurgent forces meant they could live to fight another day. But this was
conclusive. This time they were going to surrender their lives and enter Paradise. And never again spy upon the faces of loved ones.

For them this was their final journey as soldiers, but a new
beginning toward martyrdom.

At that moment, Hakam closed his eyes and took in a deep
breath. Once Shepherd One became airborne and hit the twenty-five thousand-foot
mark, then he would have all the leverage necessary to consummate the final
thrust of Jihad.

It would be the start of a glorious victory
, he
thought.
The beginning of the end
.

Easing away from the window, Hakam placed a hand on the
lever that would allow the door to open to the top tier of the mobile
staircase. “I’m proud of you,” he told his team. “And no man could ask for a
better unit than what I have in all of you. Simply acknowledge in your heart by
knowing what you do will make you all blessed in the heart of Allah.” Glancing
over the faces of his team he sighted their stoicism, as well as the deeply
rooted fear all men possessed when knowing their lives were about to come to a
violent end. “
Allahu Akbar
,” he finally said.

And then collectively from his unit: “
Allahu Akbar
.”
Allah is the greatest.

Without further consideration Hakam pulled down the lever
and opened the door, giving access to the pope who ascended the stairway with
the aid of one of the largest men he had ever seen.

#

Although like any
other airliner
within its fleet, the Dreamliner 787-9 was far more luxurious and appealing
than any other jumbo jet in the sky. The double-aisled aircraft held far more
room for its passengers and provided a more attractive surrounding with
soft-cushioned seats that reclined at an angle similar to a poolside lounger,
and a 13” flat-screen TV that angled downward from the overhead bin. In the
rear was a state-of-the-art kitchen with infrared heating ovens instead of
microwaves; a cooling vault for wine, beer and soda; and an elevator that led
to a stocked pantry on the lower level. The bathrooms were larger, more
eloquent and less cramped. And in keeping with Italian convention, the
clam-shaped sinks and countertops were fashioned with veined marble and
antique-styled fixtures.

From beyond the cockpit door Hakam watched the bishops of
the Holy See take their seats, but held more interest in the pope and his
personal valet. They sat in the first row, the pope removing his miter, the
equivalent of a king’s crown, and carefully placed it on the seat to his left
while the valet took the seat to his right. For cosmetics the pope adorned the
tribunal wear of the alb, tunicle, pallium and lappet. But the valet brought
attention to himself by wearing an odd configuration of religious attire.
Although his cleric shirt was to code and specs and the Roman collar stark
white, his slacks were military wear with his pant legs blossoming out from the
top of military boots. On the pocket of his shirt was an emblem: a blue shield
bearing a silver cross with two heraldic lions supporting it. A coat of arms,
which no other priest on board had.

A red flag immediately surfaced in Hakam’s mind.

The valet was perhaps six six, two hundred fifty pounds. The
considerable thickness of his arms, as well as the wide breadth of his
shoulders and massive chest, gave Hakam concern. Regardless of how pious this
man may be, he was nevertheless a threat by size alone.

Are you a body guard . . . or are you something more
?

As Hakam stood there examining Kimball, he noted the Roman
collar around his neck, the collar of a Catholic priest.

You’re no man of God
, he finally considered.
And
you’re no priest
.

The moment he looked away from the collar Hakam was met by
Kimball’s gaze, their eyes locking in appraisal of one another from a short
distance. Neither man smiled or betrayed their thoughts. And both refused to
flinch or concede.

You’re no priest
, Hakam reassured himself. And then
he forfeited his stance by feigning a smile, and disappeared into the cockpit.

#

Kimball sat to
the right of
Pope Pius, the size differential between them the complete antithesis of two
men, the proverbial David and Goliath.

For an odd moment he visually connected with the co-pilot, a
brief measure of time that spelled something peculiar, but nothing he could pin
down with certainty. But it was enough to raise a concern.