Shepherd One (22 page)

Working his way back into the Avionics Room, Kimball
reestablished set-up and booted the laptop. Around him, as he waited for the
screen to come to life, the minuscule bulbs on the Avionic boards winked
intermittently, the inconstant lighting drawing ghoulish lines along his face
in the shadows. To his right a thin spotlighted beam of light came down through
the lifted plate leading into the cockpit, the light shaft drawing him close to
the hole, where he listened.

Since he did not hear the small Arab talk, he considered the
time to be now.

“Hey, Enzio.”

#

. . .
Hey, Enzio
. . .

To the pilot it sounded like a distant whisper from the end
of a long tunnel, a phantom voice trailing through the darkness.

“Yo . . . Enzio.”

This time it was clear, very clear.

The pilot turned toward the cockpit entrance, expecting to
see the small Arab. But the entrance was clear.

“Enzio?”

It was coming from the co-pilot’s side but from the floor,
causing the pilot’s demeanor to shift into a nonplussed look. And then it
dawned on him, the small access plate leading from the cockpit down to the
Avionics Room was missing. The hole, which was designed for the transference of
wires from the cockpit’s control panel to the Avionics boards below for
diagnostic information retrieval, was open. 

“Enzio.”

“Father Hayden?”

Although he was an elite commando known by a few, it was
well within the interest of the Vatican that his true identity be as covert as
possible. To everyone within the Church he was known as Father Hayden, personal
valet to Pope Pius XIII. “Yeah, Enzio, it’s me.”

“Why are you in the Avionics Room?”

“It’s a long story. But it appears they’ve locked me in. The
elevator’s been disabled and the trapdoor’s secured.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Again: long story.”

Enzio kept looking over his shoulder with darting glances,
expecting to see the little Arab walk in. “Father Hayden, it is better where
you are anyway. I think they killed one of the bishops. You’re safe there.”

“Enzio, none of us are safe. Do you have any idea what
they’re planning to do?”

He took another glance over his shoulder. “They tell me
nothing. All they say is if I don’t comply with their demands, then they will
kill my family.”

“Listen, Enzio, there’s a nuclear payload on this plane—two
separate devices. Obviously they have something very particular in mind. Have
they said or mentioned anything around you, anything at all regarding what they
plan to do?”

“When they speak to each other they do so in Arabic, which I
don’t understand. However, the leader was online with someone before he left
the cockpit. But I did pick up a few words that came up in their conversation.”

“What?” he asked.

 “I heard him mention on several occasions the Ponte Felcino
Mosque.” 

The Ponte Felcino Mosque
? “That’s in Perugia,” he said.

“I think that’s where they’re holding my family,” he
returned. “After the little Arab broke off contact, he told me that my family
was fine. So I’m thinking he was talking to their captor.”

And this very well may be possible, considered Kimball. Perugia, Italy had a high Muslim population of 150,000 people with 10,000 people living in
city center. The mosque was raided by Italy’s anti-terrorist task force after learning
that the clerics were promoting terrorist sentiment, and discovered evidence to
support their claim. Since then the mosque had come under the watchful eye of
the Italian government.

“After the raid a few years ago and knowing that they’re
being watched, I don’t think so.”

“Then maybe they’re close by.”

“Yeah, maybe—maybe the Ponte Felcino Mosque is their base
command.”

“How well do you know Perugia?”

“Good enough,” said Kimball. “The SIV keeps an eye on all
possible insurgent groups close to the Vatican.” The SIV, or the
Servizio Informazione del Vaticano,
was the Vatican’s Intelligence Service.

“Then they could be anywhere in Perugia.”

“If they’re there at all, but at least it’s a starting
point.”

“I know they’re there,” said Enzio, the tone of his voice
wanting to believe so. “I know they are.”

“Did you hear anything else?”

“No, I just got a quick glimpse of the man he was speaking
to—rough looking, ugly as sin. The picture quality was poor, but I saw concrete
pillars in the background, squared, with a high ceiling that led me to believe
it was the mosque.” 

“Was the ceiling rounded like a rotunda?”

“No, it appeared more like structural beams crossing from
one point to another. But the picture was grainy and it was only for a moment
that I glanced at it.”

“Squared columns and beams are not the structural hallmarks
of a mosque,” he said.

“Then if not in the mosque, where could they be?”

Kimball deliberated. The city was not very big, the
buildings sparse and old, two- and three-story constructions that have been
around for decades, and, in some cases, for centuries. There was an annex of
abandoned buildings, however, on the outskirts, but close enough to the mosque.
During World War II these buildings were used as a production factory for
building arms. And since they were located in central Italy, and with the shipping points equal distance from one another, made it a prime
location. Once the war ended so did the arms trade, the factories soon shutting
down by dying a quick death. Although plans had been made to raze the buildings
to create more fashionable businesses and residences, nothing ever came to
fruition. The buildings were left to rot. 

“In Perugia,” said Kimball, “there are several abandoned
buildings . . .” He let his words falter.

“Then that is where they are,” the pilot said quickly. And
then: “Father Hayden, my duty to the Vatican is second to my family. If I have
to surrender my life in order that they shall live, then I would gladly do it.
But right now my hands are tied because they are being held captive.”

“I’m trying to contact the Vatican through the ports down
here,” he said. “I hooked up a laptop hoping to get through. I can do that,
right?”

“If you know their address, then yes, you can. The Avionics
station was set up to transfer diagnostics information from Shepherd One to the
command base to immediately define possible flight problems. There are no
restrictions, as far as I know.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to see what exactly is in Perugia.”

Enzio could feel the tears welling, a sour lump in his
throat. “Please, Father Hayden, if they are there, and if you can find a way,
please save them.” 

“Trust me,” he said. “If they’re there . . . I know the
perfect team to go in and get them.”

#

Al-Rashad closed
the laptop
with gentle care, his eyes taking on that faraway look. Al-Khatib Hakam had
failed in his attempt to reach Washington D.C.

In the message he just received, al-Rashad was to act as
conduit and inform the clerics of the Ponte Felcino Mosque that Hakam would use
the moment to complete the mission of forcing the United States Intelligence
Services to destroy themselves from within. And then he outlined his new
itinerary to al-Rashad, which he was to relay to the clerics at the mosque.

However, he was to be surreptitious in manner since the
mosque was most likely under surveillance. If necessary, he would travel
through the thin warrens beneath the Perugian streets to reach the sublevel of
the Ponte Felcino Mosque. 

So this was now his task, he thought. To act as liaison
between a soldier who never held a weapon and clerics who sponsored the cause.

Deep inside he could feel something volatile brewing,
something hotly alive and waiting to rear its ugly head in the form of
all-consuming anger. He was, after all, a great warrior, not a messenger.

And then his eyes began to focus, first going to the ceiling,
which was made of chicken-wire glass that allowed the access of natural
lighting to the factory floor below.

His mind then bore dark considerations.

When this was over, when Hakam had completed his task, he
would murder the children and take the pilot’s wife, raping her until his body
could perform no more, and then leave her in a grave until her bones turned to
dust.

Yes,
he thought.
That’s what I’ll do. Heathens
deserve no better
.

For a long moment he leisurely gazed over the factory floor
from his vantage point of the second tier, his impatience of not serving in the
capacity for which he was capable of annoying him to no end. When the
assignment was over he had no doubt he would be sent back to America to reestablish the sales of illicit steroids to raise money for future causes. In
the States there was a market for everything, including the retailing of growth
hormones which was quite expansive and highly profitable. High school athletes
needed them to gain an edge for the college ranks, the college athletes needed
them to gain the edge for the pro ranks, and the aging pros needed them to
maintain the edge over younger competitors. The need to be bigger, stronger and
faster was a never-ending well to tap from.

Of course taking such narcotics was everything against the
Quran. But al-Rashad could not help himself, finding incredible power within
the sweet bite of the needle as his body mass grew beyond expectations. His
matchstick arms became massive and thick with trails of veins coursing along
the edges of defined muscle mass. His chest blossomed exponentially, the
pectoral plates rounding out with the solidness of marble. However, he waived
caution. Over the years his addiction culminated with body changes, such as the
sloping brow and the jutting of his jaw, precursors to internal and sometimes
fatal changes, such as the decimation of the liver and testes.

But al-Rashad felt good, sensing the need for power
outweighing the need for prudence.

When looking in the mirror in the gym he saw himself with
incredible vanity. Whenever he flexed or posed, he did so with the body of a
warrior and not as a messenger.

He spat over the railing, the idea of what had been
relegated to in the cause leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

Al-Rashad is not a messenger.

I am a warrior of Allah!

When the war cry dissipated from his mind, when he
established a state of self calm, al-Rashad turned away and began to make his
way toward the Ponte Felcino Mosque.

For now, he would act as the dutiful messenger.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Los Angeles was abuzz. More so out
of excitement than in panic mode. Shepherd One was flying above them; the life
of Pope Pius XIII at stake. LA had become the centerpiece of worldwide
attention. All which posed problems for the president and his team.

President Burroughs sat with his cabinet of advisors to come
up with a way to best serve their position in the international community. The
key situation at the moment was how to deal with Shepherd One, which was flying
over a vastly populated area with a six kiloton payload. Was it their ethical
duty to inform the masses of the flight’s yield, causing panic and the probable
destruction of a city? Or do they wait, gambling on the improbability of a
quick resolution?

Either way it was a troubling proposition. Not only did they
have to contend with the issues at hand, but deal with the media affairs
constituting reasons for the attack on Shepherd One. Therefore, information was
sent to the press secretary in order for her to filter out certain facts, and
doctor a fashionable statement to best suit their needs since denial was no
longer an option.

“If we inform a city of over four million people about the
probability of Shepherd One possessing a six-kiloton weapon—a weapon with half
the yield that destroyed Hiroshima—what can we expect other than the obvious?”
asked the president.

“Well,” said Thornton, “everyone here knows as well as I do
that the highway systems would eventually become impassable, trapping hundreds
of thousands of people, maybe more. And then you’d have the looting and
pillaging, your fires, murders, rape—nothing good at all. You would think it would
be better not to inform anyone in order to continue ongoing stability. But on
the other hand, if those weapons
are
on board, then they’re going to be
used. So do we allow ourselves to be subjected in the media and in the
worldwide community as a government who knew the potential destruction of our
people but failed to react? If that’s the case, then we would distance
ourselves from our own citizenry by failing to protect those in Los Angeles by allowing the detonation to happen when we knew the potential existed.”

“And we can’t deny knowing about the payload since the world
knows of our attempt to take down Shepherd One. The only way we can justify our
position in this matter is with the truth.” 

“LA would be destroyed,” the president said factually.

“True,” said Attorney General Dean Hamilton. “But you can
see as well as I do, Mr. President, that the city is already lost at this
point. We need to get as many people out of the blast zone as quickly as
possible.”

“And what about other options?” asked the president. “Is
there anything that we can do to save the city
and
the people? Any
suggestions at all?”

“Honestly, Mr. President, I think we’ve been down every
avenue. The only thing left to us—
I
believe—is to use the media and
clear out Los Angeles.”

The president realized there was 360 degrees of direction
and wanted to examine every possible angle before settling on a decisive act. To
his team he did not want to appear like a man of desperation either, but
someone who was looking for a solid solution. “Is there any way we can get a
team up there to retake the plane?”

Thornton leaned forward, appearing lost. “Excuse me?”

“Is there a way we can dispatch a team of commandos to
retake Shepherd One—a military aerial tactic that would get a team on board without
the terrorists knowing?”

Thornton cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Mr.
President, situations like that are nothing more than cinematic crapola. No
such tactic exists.”

“I know that,” he retorted. “But it was an angle no one
brought up, which means there are other angles out there, viable or not,
foolish or not. And I want to hear them all before I put Los Angeles in a state
of panic. I want additional ideas, people. We’re not at crunch time yet.”

But no ideas came, the table growing silent, everybody
believing the president was asking for the impossible, which was to come up
with something plausible in an implausible situation.

Then we will start with the crux of the problem
, he
considered,
which is the plane itself
. So he sparked further conversation.
“Shepherd One,” he began, “is circling over Los Angeles for a reason. I think
it would be reasonable to say that if their primary objective was to detonate
those weapons over a populated area, then they would have done so already. Yet
they continue to hold a pattern.” He fell back in his seat, raised his hands
and shrugged. “But why?” he asked. “Why maintain a pattern when you’ve reached
your destination? It’s because they have something else in mind. Something they
want, a concession on our part. Otherwise they would have set off those weapons
after reaching LA. But they didn’t. Does everyone here at least agree with me
on that assumption?”

They did, finding themselves drawn in, the point coming.

“I believe some type of demands will be coming forthwith,
which gives us time to come up with a solution, hopefully from Dr. Simone. But
I need to know how much time we have before we have no other choice but to
alert the media and the subsequent evacuation of Los Angeles.”

“That’s kind of playing with fire,” said Dean. “We gave
Shepherd One more time than necessary in the attempt to take her down. And now
she’s flying over LA.”

“That’s because the first sortie failed in its mission with
Shepherd One, giving them a little surprise we didn’t know about,” he stated.
“But if we knew more about the mechanics of that plane, then she’d be lying on
the ground as scorched metal. So we still have time, Dean—not much, but time to
figure something out, nonetheless. And this time we start with what I need to
know about the aircraft.”

Thornton took his cue and spread three sheets of paper
before him. “Shepherd One is a Boeing seven-eighty-seven-nine Dreamliner,” he
began. “It’s a top-of-the-line luxury model licensed by Alitalia Airlines in Rome. And although a part of the Alitalia fleet, this particular aircraft has been suited
with flares and jammers to protect it against insurgent weaponry, such as
ground-to-air missiles. What happened with the sortie was a maneuver on their
part to buy time to get into LA airspace, which worked. They never would have
survived the second sortie since the plane isn’t truly equipped for major
defenses against F-16’s.” 

“What about flight capability?”

Thornton raised his finger in an I-was-getting-to-that
gesture. “It’s big,” he said. “It carries up to two hundred ninety people and
has a range of nearly ten thousand miles.”

“Ten thou—on a single fueling?”

“Yes, Mr. President. Shepherd One has the capacity to travel
back and forth across this country three times before it needs to be refilled.
And at its current rate of speed, she can be up there another sixteen to
eighteen hours.”

And this was true. The 787-9 Dreamliner was the newest and
best of the aviation stock. With a range of 15,750 kilometers or 9,800 miles on
a single fueling, the plane could circle LA for nearly two-thirds of a day,
maybe longer given the lack of extra weight and tonnage since its flight
capacity held only a slight grouping of passengers. This was good news, or at
least news Burroughs could work with. It gave him time.

“They definitely want something,” he said more to himself.
And then: “Contact them,” he said. “Tell them we want to open up a dialogue and
know their demands.”

Craner leaned forward carrying the look of mild bafflement.
“Are you considering concessions to terrorist demands?”

“What I’m considering is how to deal with the situation with
the given time we have. I want to know for sure what’s in
that
plane,
what they want, and try to come up with a solution.”

“Mr. President,” Dean Hamilton appeared downtrodden. “The
policy of not negotiating with terrorists is unyielding, but in this case we
may need more than just the need to know their position in all this. Right now
the playing field isn’t even close to being level. Everybody at this table
knows who has the upper hand at the moment.”

President Burroughs ingested this, knowing Dean was right.
Policy or not, the American government may have to concede to the demands of
terrorists for the better good. “I don’t like the idea of this administration
buckling under terrorist demands. But Dean’s right.” He turned to Thornton, his
top advisor, the man whom he had valued for advice his entire presidential
tenure, a man whose counsel had always been forthcoming and solid. “What’s your
take, Al?”

Thornton nodded in agreement. Even as reluctant as he was
about conceding to terrorist demands. “Shepherd One is flying over a populated area
with perhaps a nuclear payload. And we are completely impotent to do anything
about it. In my opinion, we have to open doors of negotiation.”

“Those doors, Al, may also open up Pandora’s Box with grave
repercussions.”

“That may be true. But I don’t see any other option at this
point.”

“You said Shepherd One can be up there—what, sixteen hours?”

“At the very least, yes.” 

“Then let’s assume they want something, which I’m sure they
do. We’ll play them for eight, maybe ten hours—time that’ll hopefully give us a
solution. If we don’t come up with something by then, then we’ll alert the
media and have the city evacuated. But if we have at least ten hours—or any
time at all to negotiate a peaceful outcome to this situation—then we use
them.”

“So where do we begin?’ asked Senator Wyman.

“We begin by contacting Shepherd One,” he replied. “I want
the Fighting Falcons to initiate communication immediately and set up a direct
link to this room. I want to see Hakam’s face on that overhead projector. Is
that clear?”

“It is,” said Air Force Joint Chief Henry Spaatz. And then
he commenced the order to the Flight Commander of the Fighting Falcons to
reopen dialogue with Shepherd One.

All the while the principals remained silent, knowing the
odds to be long and improbable. The terrorists had been patient, the Americans
complacent, which gave rise to the current state of affairs. Hakam had the upper
hand and was not about to relinquish it. Nor was he foolish enough to be
dragged along by a string of red herrings to prolong matters. The Arab was in
total control and everyone’s silence was testament to that fact.

Before the city could be wholly evacuated, everyone knew
that Los Angeles was about to become a no man’s land for decades.

Hakam was going to win.

#

Pope Pius XIII
rose from his
seat with verbal opposition from his captors, their orders for him to sit down
going unheeded. Standing before the bishops of the Holy See, he gauged the
looks on their faces and saw the fears of their own mortality. They were the
elderly seasoned vets of the administration, all gray-haired and gentle souls
who enjoyed their duties to govern the Church. None of them deserved this, he
thought. None of them needed to fall victim to the whims of a man possessed by
a cruel agenda since they had given themselves to God. And there was no doubt
in Pius’s mind that they were questioning their faith.

When the sortie struck he, too, felt the pang of impending
death, the bolt of fear striking him like a static charge, where he was
positive it would stop his beating heart. As Shepherd One descended in its
freefall, he clutched the armrests with a death grip and pled unto his God with
his eyes closed and lips moving, the conversation to his Lord highly personal
and understood: He did not want to die.

Like all men, he feared violent death despite his station
with the Vatican. And above all else, he was human with the inherent trait of
self-preservation. To die as an aged man because life had systematically come
to its end by natural causes was one thing; to die by violence when life still
had meaning was another. Pope Pius XIII truly believed he had much more to do,
so much more to give. But right now he had to sermonize to the bishops, his
words becoming an opiate to their ears.

 If it’s God’s will, he told them, then they were not to
lose or question their faith because death would be a glorious transfer into
His kingdom. Nor were they to question their devotion or loyalties, since blind
faith required no proof since none existed. But in the end, as he stood there,
and no matter how melodious he sounded, he could see the human side of their
expressions, the aspect of self-preservation ruling over internal faith.

Taking his seat, he couldn’t help the overwhelming feeling
of his failure to pacify the bishops.

And although shaken, Pope Pius XIII maintained his love for
God and believed devoutly in His being. What bothered him, however, was his
unwavering fear of knowing what was about to come, which was his death—so
violent, so cruel, so unnecessary. But he was not hypocritical either, since
fear was a human element and not a godly one. And though he was frightened he
knew this to be good, the sense humbling him, which gave him the realization
that he was not above the standards of the people, but a representative of
them. Although he was the pope, he was not braver, wiser or better than any man
on this plane. He was not godly or above all else. He was simply . . . human.

Turning to his left he saw the Garrote Assassin looking at
him. By the cockiness of his grin Pius could tell that killer had the insight
to see his dread, the marginal grimace on the assassin’s face relishing the fact
that the pope was frightened.

Just because I’m the pope,
he wanted to say,
doesn’t
make me any less or more than you. I fear, I think, I love like anyone else.