by Rick Jones
The altimeter:
. . . 10,000 feet . . .
. . . 9,500 feet . . .
The numeric dial was spinning madly with the numbers on the gauge indicating their rapid rate of descent, as they scrolled in near-blinding revolutions.
. . . 7,500 feet . . .
. . . 6,500 feet . . .
The pilots braced themselves.
The ground.
The earth.
Coming up fast.
Their lives about to end.
. . . 2,500 feet . . .
And closing.
Both pilots thought of their wives and their families, each wondering how they were going to get by without them.
. . . 1,000 feet . . .
The altimeter numbers were rolling downward so quickly on the screen that they could no longer be read, the numerals nothing but passing blurs.
They closed their eyes.
They waited.
Impact!
* * *
Winchester, Virginia
Najm had countered every move of the pilot’s attempts to right the ship. At every effort of the pilot to jumpstart a downed engine, Najm had killed the attempt. With every endeavor from the captain to regain altitude, Najm had challenged it. And with a few simple strokes of his fingers, the terrorist had commandeered the jetliner and sealed its fate. At the end of its flight and upon the moment of impact, only then did Najm ease back in his chair to stare at a blank screen. The blip that had represented Air Force Two was gone. “It’s done,” he stated. Mohammad Allawi joined Najm by the console and placed a hand upon his shoulder. “Excellent,” he stated with mild gratification. “Now that we’ve flexed our muscles, Najm, it’s now time to reveal the nature of our attacks. Proffer the message to the powers that be, since I’m curious to see how they’ll respond to our demands. And give them the time limit that we’ve discussed and not one second more. If they fail to comply with our mandates, throw in the suggestion that ‘King Herod will have nothing over us,’ should they fail to meet our requests. And make a mere and simple mention of ‘a place of educational learning.’ I want them to stew over the meaning involved here.”
“’A place of educational learning.’ Yes, Mohammad.”
“When you do this, will there be cyber-footprints that could lead authorities to our location?”
“There’ll be traces,” he informed Allawi, “but they’ll take the trackers to an IP address that’s attached to a computer in a Florida college library. We’ll be good for a while before they realize their mistake.”
Allawi smiled. Plans on paper rarely worked out as designed, but this mission was operating to the exact specifications.
The Great Satan, within fifteen minutes, had been reduced to her knees.
Chapter Twelve
Vatican City
There was a knocking on the door that was as loud as the hammering inside Kimball Hayden’s head, as he lay in bed. It did not let up, the persistence behind the knocking refusing to yield to Kimball’s silence.
“Go . . . away!” Kimball finally called out. Then he used the pillow to cover his head.
“The pontiff wishes to speak with you.”
It was Isaiah behind the door, not a bishop who was normally sent as the papal messenger.
Then from Kimball, whose voice was muffled by the pillow, said, “Tell him I’m trying to sleep off a drunk!”
That was when Isaiah opened the door on protesting hinges, with the high-pitched sound going through Kimball’s head like a nail. Tossing the pillow aside, Kimball elevated himself onto his elbows to confront the Vatican Knight. But what Kimball saw from Isaiah was something he had never seen before from his friend, which pained him deeply. It was the look of shame.
“The pontiff wishes to speak to you,” he told Kimball flatly.
Kimball nodded. “Give me a half hour to clean up,” he finally answered.
There was not a back and forth between the Vatican Knights, the air between them obviously strained. Nodding in confirmation that the message was received,
Isaiah left the chamber and closed the door softly behind him.
After a long moment perched on his elbows, Kimball decided to get to his feet and go to the mirror above the basin, which was a stainless-steel plate that reflected his image. He was holding himself with a studious glare. His skin was lacking the complexion of tanned leather that had faded to a moonscape gray. And dark rings circled his eyes which gave him a hollowed and haunting look. What Kimball was registering, what Isaiah had already noted, was a man who was becoming a shell of his former himself. Tracing the tips of his fingers over his reflection and sighing in disgust, Kimball thought: who are you?
Then he grabbed the razor on the basin, lathered his face, and began to shave the minute loops of curly hair that had grown uncontrollably over the past few days.
Chapter Thirteen
The Situation Room
Washington, D.C.
1206 Hours
America was in absolute chaos.
The DOW had plummeted to an all-time low, losing more than 7,000 points. Airports had been placed on lockdown, cancelling thousands of flights. The Air Force mobilized for fly-bys over monuments, political establishments and nuclear power plants. Every news media on the planet was caught within this sandstorm of reporting that seemed to rule instead of rational minds, with the moment becoming one of staggering surprise.
There were protocols in place to keep this from happening; the White House Press Secretary had informed the media.
If there were protocols to keep this from happening again after 9/11, then how did they get passed those safeguards? Who’s involved? Have demands been made? Was this a terrorist attack?
But the Press Secretary’s response was always the same: We’re working on that. From inside the Situation Room, President Burroughs shut off the TV and set the remote down with disgust. The U.S. government was backpedaling in their responses knowing that there was little they could do to ease the fears of the nation. They had no excuse or answers as to why they had become complacent. And once again, it was ‘complacency’ that had allowed terrorists to walk right through the front door.
Inside the room joining the president were members of the Joint Chiefs; Doug Craner, the CIA Director; Dean Hamilton, the attorney general; Larry Johnston, Director of the FBI; Homeland Security Advisor Rupert Moncrief; and NSA Advisor Charles Angullo.
“May I be the first to say that the loss of Vice President Connolly is a huge blow to this administration. He will be sorely missed. As will Senator Jackson, both good men. With that being said, I need to know if Air Force Two was the result of an accident, or if it was truly the result of a cyber attack.”
“Mohammad Allawi has made no effort to hide behind the mask of the terrorist who perpetrated the actions at the Washington Monument and the Statue of Liberty,” stated Homeland Security Advisor Rupert Moncrief. “Through a succession of emails, Allawi is also taking responsibility for the downing of the vice president’s jet in the name of the Islamic State. But we’re still investigating that matter.” “Can you even begin to imagine the power behind the ability for a cyber attack that is capable of bringing down planes?” The president stated rhetorically. “Is that even possible?”
“Again, Mr. President, we’re looking into that matter. But from what I’ve been told, it’s not impossible since everything of high-tech is also vulnerable to high-tech attacks. Often by way of using satellites to ricochet programmed data into mainframes. In this case, they manipulated the onboard mainframe of Air Force Two.”
“Were you able to track down the origin-point of these messages?”
Rupert Moncrief nodded. “We did. However, it was apparently a bogus trail designed to lead us to a PC that was located at a university library in Florida.”
“So, we have no idea of the origination point, then?”
“No, Mr. President. We’re still working on that front.”
“Day and night, Rupe
rt. Use whatever sources in our arsenal to discover where those messages came from.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Then from President Burroughs who spoke in general to anyone who had answers, “What’s the damage so far on the Home front.”
Attorney General Hamilton opened a file on his iPad that contained up-to-the minute data. “Every airport has been closed and all flights have been grounded. The military from coast-to-coast has been activated to perform fly-bys over government sites and facilities. And the DOW continues to plummet.” He set the iPad aside. “And that’s just the beginning.”
The president sighed and shook his head disparagingly. “It didn’t take Allawi long to find his motivation, did he?”
“No, sir,” said Hamilton.
“And it doesn’t appear that he’s through, either,” said Moncrief. “It appears that Mohammad Allawi has provided us with demands and a timeframe, with the window of time quite slim.”
“How slim?”
“Two days.”
“And Allawi’s demands?”
Rupert Moncrief opened his iPad and started to read the downloaded texts that had been received by the NSA. It began with a diatribe of conversation regarding the might of the Muslim Front, which Allawi had branded his cell, against the atrocities committed by the American government against Islamic interests. The razing of the Statue of Liberty and the Washington Monument proved that nothing was sacred or safe within the United States, which was clearly demonstrated to the world. Even the imperial might of the most powerful country in the world was nothing compared to the might of Allah.
Then Allawi listed his requests by demanding the summary releases of high-end leadership of those within the Islamic State, beginning with those who were incarcerated in Guantanamo Bay. He listed six names, all extreme radicals who commanded insurgent forces responsible for the deaths of more than 600 military soldiers or operatives. Then the list went on to name twenty-nine others who were based inside of Blacksite locations worldwide. How Allawi was able to obtain the information regarding these covert facilities and the residents they held would be a future topic of discussion, as far as President Burroughs was concerned.
“He wants thirty-five people released, all top-end agents who would no doubt revitalize a campaign to wage jihad,” stated the president. “And since we don’t negotiate with terrorists . . .” He let his words hang.
“But that’s not all, Mr. President,” said Moncrief. “He wants this global release to happen within a two-day time period, which began at the ten-hundred-hour mark of the first strike.”
“The moment of the downing of the structures,” the president commented. Moncrief nodded. “The text went on to discuss a second round of attacks should ‘The Great Satan continue to remain unyielding to its policy of not responding to the demands of what you call terrorists, when we are in fact freedom fighters, would be a grave miscalculation on your part.’” Moncrief paused for a moment. “And he vaguely outlines the threat, Mr. President.”
“And?”
“Allawi states: King Herod will have nothing over us, should you fail to meet our requests.”
President Burroughs recognized the veiled threat. In biblical terms, Herod was a Judean king who ordered the Massacre of the Innocents at the time of Christ’s birth. All males two years or younger were slain in the vicinity of Bethlehem to undermine the prophecy about a newborn Messiah who would eventually rise and conquer. Though many scholars have disputed whether this truly happened, the message was clear. “My Lord,” he whispered softly. “Allawi plans to massacre children.”
The room went silent.
“And the clock, I’m afraid, Mr. President, continues to wind down,” said Moncrief. In other words, what do you plan to do?
President Burroughs then asked advice from the Joint Chiefs and discussed matters of possible war on the Home front. Since all the evidence pointed to the in-house invasion as having been conducted by a well-sophisticated band of terrorists, no one knew how large the cell was or if they operated independently from other cells. The American military was running blind, even with the aid and information from counterterrorist task agencies.
These attacks had come too fast and with blinding speed, even when the government knew the volatile capability that Mohammad Allawi possessed to ignite such devastation. These agencies simply didn’t respond as sharply or as quickly when needed, leaving America on her knees.
Then President Burroughs started to issue demands for every agency within the United States that dealt with counterterrorism, which included the FBI, the NSA and their covert branches, and if necessary, dismiss the constitutional rights of others to make the country safe against future attempts of insurgency. That meant racial profiling, the kicking down of doors, military interventions and curfews. And in the end, he would simply explain it away from the podium and justify the means as a necessary measure to keep America safe.
And then: “I want Mohammad Allawi’s photo posted on every TV network and news agency under his real name: Montrell Thompson. I want America to see the face behind the attacks. I want them to know that he’s one of our own. A traitor to his country. I also want the face of the man who aided in his escape from the Blacksite, too. This Miner person.”
“That’s not his real name, sir. And we don’t know—”
“I don’t care what his name is. And I don’t care if his mother was a saint. All I care about is that you get these photos out so that we have the eyes of the nation to help us find these people. As far as I’m concerned, if these two want to kill together, then they can also die together. They deserve nothing more.” The president was visibly heated as he got to his feet. “Meeting adjourned.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Papal Chamber, The Apostolic Palace
Vatican City
Kimball Hayden was quite presentable by the time he reached the papal chamber inside the Apostolic Palace. He was clean-shaven and his hair was nicely combed. The only negative was that he was unable to get rid of his alcohol accented breath, no matter how much mouthwash he used.
After he was escorted to the papal chamber by a bishop, Kimball entered the vast room that was adorned with floor-to-ceiling drapes in the colors of scarlet and gold. Ten-foot-tall paintings of past pontiffs decorated the wall. And Roman columns that served to bolster an ornately designed ceiling. When the pontiff smiled and gestured for Kimball to take the seat in front of his desk, Kimball did so. Though he was wearing the outfit of a Vatican Knight—the black cleric’s shirt, military pants, and combat boots most favored by special operatives—he was without his Roman Catholic collar.
“How are you, Kimball?” the pontiff asked politely to break the ice.
“Good,” he lied.
“Really?”
“I’m here because you called upon me. Is there something I can help you with, Your Holiness?”
The pontiff pointed to Kimball’s neckline. “I see that you’re without your collar.”
Kimball remained silent.
“That means you’re out of uniform.”
“I apologize for that, Your Holiness.”
The pope appraised Kimball for a long moment before he opened the drawer to his desk, reached inside, grabbed a cleric’s band, and placed it on the desktop.
Kimball stared at it briefly without showing emotion, then he returned his attention back to John Paul III.
The pope pointed to the collar. “There you go, Kimball. I just happened to have one. Now you can be back in uniform.”
But Kimball didn’t move, nor did his eyes look at the collar.
“Kimball.”
After a lapse of silence between them, the pontiff finally said, “Please don’t give up. If you want to be dismissed from the Vatican Knights, Kimball, if your faith to seek out the Light is no longer, then I will with sad regret let you go. But you must decide. I can’t allow your impairment to jeopardize the covenant of the Vatican
Knights any longer.”
“My impairment?”
“Your drinking, Kimball, has changed a gifted man into someone unrecognizable. You are breaking my heart and the heart of those who would have followed you into Hell, if that’s what it took to achieve the missions you conducted. I readily admit that I have shed tears seeing you fall the way you have, even when I tried to provide a safety net to catch you. Isaiah, Jeremiah, all your brothers whom you’ve share a bond apart from being tied by DNA, have fallen with you. You might not have seen it. But they have.”
“I saw it,” he said to the pontiff. “Isaiah looked upon me with shame when he came to get me. Was that by design? Having Isaiah come get me instead of a bishop?”
The pontiff nodded. “No, I sent Isaiah to talk to you first . . . and then for you to come see me. But he was too pained by what he saw and found no point.”
Kimball’s shoulders dropped in defeat.
“Kimball, to lose hope is to abandon your dreams, your goals, and have no sense of purpose. Don’t just reflect on the bad. Reflect on the good.”
“You have no idea what I’ve done. And some things are inexcusable.”
“You’re talking about the boy in the Philippines.”
“No. I’m talking about the horrible things I’ve done over a lifetime. Things that are not in my biographical record.”
Then: “Deep in your heart, Kimball, do you still wish to seek the Light?”
“I’d be wasting my time.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“I was about to say, ‘pick up the collar.’ But I regrettably see that you’re too far gone.”
“I tried. I really did.”
“But in the end, Kimball, you surrendered your journey.”
“How far does a man have to walk to discover what he seeks?”
“As long or as far as it takes.”
Kimball looked at the collar, a one-time symbol that he cherished most. It represented his goal of seeking the ‘Light,’ a constant reminder that he was inching his way to the finishing line rather than the leaps and bounds he hoped for. Whenever he took a step forward, he always did something that put himself two steps behind.