Shepherd One (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  Burroughs eased back into his seat. “You just said the crew was found dead.”

  Hamilton nodded. “What I’m suggesting, Mr. President—what Homeland Security seems to be alluding to—is the possibility that Shepherd One has been commandeered.”

  The corners of the president’s eyes brows dipped sharply over the bridge of his nose. “By whom?”

  “We’re not sure at this point,” he said. “All we know is that the pilot registered his team with TSA officials prior to takeoff.”

  “And how is that possible, Dean, when his team is lying dead?”

  “That is the question, sir, isn’t it?”

  “Well, here’s another question.” The president leaned forward and spoke in a manner of discontent, his inflection vacillating between anger and dissatisfaction as he spoke. “How in the hell would something like that be possible, since the airports are supposed to be battened down? Can you tell me that?”

  Hamilton flushed. “Mr. President, from what I’m being told, Shepherd One is considered a noncommercial flight with zero risk since it is, after all, the pope. And because of said classification, the crew is exonerated from all security measures since TSA needs to concentrate their agents exclusively with the general population.”

  President Burroughs appeared infuriated, the sudden enlightenment of dark truth striking a blow to his face before he settled into a sullen calm. “So what do we have?” he said. “We have a dead crew on the ground, a surrogate crew in the air, and nobody’s the wiser.”

  Chief National Security Advisor Alan Thornton clasped his hands before him on a stack of manila folders. Like his counterparts he appeared exhausted and his clothes held the wrinkled markings of an unmade bed. “Mr. President, we both know the pieces of the puzzle are starting to come together to create a vague picture. I believe we have to assume that Hakam and his team maybe on that plane. As Dean just said, the crew of Shepherd One would have no reason to raise suspicion of harmful intent until it was too late.”

  The president looked at the myriad of plasma screens. The cavern was littered with them. “How sure are we on this before we jump to conclusions?” he asked.

  “We don’t have confirmation, as of yet,” said the attorney general. “But the anomaly of the situation is this: the pilot always flies with the same crew. Sometimes he’ll rotate with a second crew, but we’ve confirmed them to be in Italy, which leaves no one else on the approved roster to staff Shepherd One. So why would the pilot log in a team not authorized to board the plane?”

  “Because he was under duress,” said Burroughs.

  “Exactly. We’ve also received word that the pilot’s family is missing. Schools, relatives—nobody’s seen or heard from them in days.”

  Thornton poured himself some water; Hamilton’s words still hanging in the air as he took a swallow, then lowered the glass. “If I may, Mr. President.”

  “Yeah, Al, go ahead.”

  “Confirmation or not, the anomaly is too great to shelve. The terrorists crossed over from the Mexican border while the pope was finalizing the Papal Symposiums in L.A. They very well could have made it, given the timeframe.”

  “I agree,” he said. “In fact, I would say it’s highly probable. And if that’s so, then Hakam also possesses the most highly recognized iconic religious figure on board that jet.”

  “Which compounds the problem,” said Thornton.

  The president shook his head in disgust. “If the weapons are on board, then how do we neutralize the situation?”

  Hamilton offered the obvious, which was not disputed vehemently. “We would have to terminate the jet’s trajectory,” he said, “before Hakam has a chance to direct it over a populated area.”

  “Problem is there would be worldwide repercussions if we go in and knock Shepherd One out of the sky. Religion runs deep and actions can be unforgiving when it comes to killing a sacred figure.”

  “The world will understand,” said Senator Wyman, the Majority Leader. “We’ll have to restructure the truth and make it appear as an aviation accident.”

  “And how will we explain the corresponding nuclear blast after we do?” asked Thornton.

  Wyman remained quiet thereafter. But the truth remained, however, that the senator was accurate in his statement. What he proposed was a solution of necessity, deceptive or otherwise. The people of the United States could never fall victim to a nuclear blast, killing perhaps tens of thousands.

  “What’s its current trajectory?” the president asked.

  “It’s Dulles, Sir.”

  “Was that its assigned designation?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s to be a refueling stop before heading back to Rome.”

  The president stared at the throng of people milling about. Everything made sense, he thought—Hakam’s destination all along was to decimate the highest political seat in the land. And he was going to do it by putting the American government in an impossible position. Shepherd One was not only a weapon in motion, it was also the perfect shield.

  Burroughs hesitated, thinking, his mind processing the facts and assumptions of the issue at hand. And then, “I want to know who’s on that plane,” he stated firmly. “And I want to know yesterday.”

  “We’re working that as we speak,” said Dean.

  “Do we have their position?”

  Thornton nodded. “I can do one better.” On one of the giant plasma screens was the GPS trajectory of Shepherd One from its starting point of LAX and nearing Las Vegas on its eastward curve. “This will pinpoint their exact location throughout the flight,” he said.

  The President, his team, everyone at the table stared at the monitor.

  “What do we have by way of the nearest Air Force Base?” asked Burroughs.

  “That would be Nellis in Las Vegas,” answered Dean. “We can have fighters intercept them ASAP.”

  “Do it.”

  #

  “Dr. Simone.”

  Simone leaned over the aluminum case in careful examination with the loupe over his eye. “Yes.”

  The voice was coming over the speakers. “The president’s coming through the pipe.”

  “Thank you.”

  After a series of clicks, a voice that was highly recognizable. “Ray.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “We may have come to a theory as to the reason why the altimeter is attached to the device.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “There’s a likely scenario brewing in which we believe the pope’s plane may have been commandeered by a terrorist faction,” he said. “It’s a possibility that the weapons are on board. But we’re trying to verify this as we speak.” The voice sounded hollow due to poor acoustics.

  Now things were beginning to factor for Simone.

  “You there, Ray?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. It still doesn’t answer the question about its function or purpose.”

  “I understand that. What I’m suggesting is can you find the answer within the altimeter itself?”

  “I have just initiated a task at hand,” he told him. “I’m about to power a precision laser beam allowing me access to the altimeter, so that I can mine it for its current programmed status.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “As long as it takes, Mr. President, but I promise you I’ll have an answer.”

  “Time is of the essence, Ray. If those weapons are on Shepherd One, then decisions have to be made long before they reach their destination.”

  “I understand, Mr. President.”

  “Try to hurry, Ray. We’re running out of time.”

  Dr. Simone returned the loupe and began to power up the laser.

  #

  Kimball tried the elevator. As expected it had become dead weight, the cables and power grid cut. The cab itself a useless weighted box with no escape hatches.

  That left the fore of the plane where the terrorists entered. But it left Kimball little choice as he pressed forward.


  The plane flew on an even blanket of air with some minor disturbances of turbulence. But overall the ride was smooth and stable, which made his footing easier as he made his way to the trapdoor.

  Through the hatch he could hear muffled tones in Arabic. Then, gently placing his hands against the door, he could feel movement from above. They were right over him. And most likely they were not about to surrender the one viable entry point on the plane. Kimball was positive they knew this as well, disempowering him from leaving the lower level. They wisely thought it prudent to keep him sequestered.

  Quietly, as he moved away from the door, he ventured forward to the head of the plane, but was stopped by a wall as the fuselage began to gently taper off into the nose section. Apparently he was close to the cockpit, if not already under it. Then, in semi-darkness, he ran his fingers over the wall before finding a seam. A door, more like a hatch, but locked. With the point of his knife he worked the edges, the material flimsy as it bent back, but enough for him to hook his fingers around, and pulled.

  The hatch gave little resistance as it pulled free from the wall. But the entryway was too small for him to work his shoulders through. Going in feet first, Kimball was able to maneuver the lower portion of his body inside without difficulty. The setback came when he tried to force his shoulders though as anticipated, but was able to work his way inside the plane’s nose with maximum effort.

  The surrounding walls blinked intermittently as the computers of Shepherd One became a spectacle of dazzling lights that winked in display, as they covered the entire rounded wall.

  He had found the Avionics Room.

  Here was the nerve center of the plane and Kimball knew it. How to utilize it to his advantage, however, remained to be the question.

  The one thing he did know about the Avionics Room was that it served as a diagnostics center with dozens of systems constantly communicating to other systems outside the plane, this current evolution of technology making the Black Box a secondary tool.

  He grazed his fingers over the bulbs, over the computer ports allowing the connection of alternative devices like laptops to perform diagnostic down- or uploads. Above him, light emitted from the edges of a latching plate that was small and, when opened, allowed nothing more than his hand to cross over into the room above. It was an access plate that divided the cockpit from the Avionics Room, and allowed communication between the diagnostic engineers as they inspected the concurrent readings from the pilot’s panel with the Avionics panel, making sure the readings were properly in sync with one another—above and below.

  Kimball pulled back on the latches, loosening the plate. After he released the handles he lifted the small cover, giving him a view of the cockpit ceiling.

  Now he had a way to contact Enzio.

  For a moment he waited and wondered if Enzio was alone, or if Hakam was somewhere close by. Letting several minutes pass by without hearing anything, Kimball took the initiative.

  “Enzio,” he whispered. “Enzio Pastore.”

  #

  Ray Simone had gauged the right coordinates to cut and tap into the programming conduit of the altimeter to the CPU. It had taken a lot of time and mental effort to draw a safe conclusion to breach the outer lining without disrupting the laser grid. So with precision guided measurements, Simone directed a laser cut along the exterior of the unit’s shell by cutting a perfect rectangular hole with the use of a highly concentrated laser beam, which ultimately gave him entry to the altimeter’s In-Out ports. Although he was left with little space to work with, Simone was able to connect a lead wire from the altimeter’s port to the facility’s mainframe.

  On a viewing plasma screen, numbers being crunched reflected off the monitor. Numeric symbols and characters scrolled along the screen as Simone typed in commands with fingers that danced across the keyboard at feverish pitch. His cool demeanor was beginning to escape him, his brow breaking out with beads of sweat as a droplet tracked along the side of his temple, down his cheek, and settled at the base of his jaw line where it dangled precariously before falling.

  From the way the numbers projected and the way the data was slipping into place, Simone knew this was not going to be good. After brusquely mopping his brow with a quick sweep of his hand, he fell back into his seat and watched the data work its way into the fixed pattern. In the quasi-darkness the number patterns reflected off the twin lenses of Simone’s glasses.

  And then the numbers settled, the screen immobilizing into a pattern of programmed information.

  In frustration he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, his mind seeking a Simone-ism for comfort and optimism.

  What was it that he sought for—his Simone-ism for the impossibility of defeat? And there it was, written across his mind’s eye.

  Impossible: Difficult but achievable, challenging but attainable. To accomplish the impossible makes the thing you accomplish even better than imagined.

  But there was no solution for this, no answer, and no way out.

  The data proffered by the altimeter’s data banks revealed that it was simply an activation device for the weapon. The activation numbers to set the device in motion was to reach a height of 25,000 feet above sea level. The altitude level to ignite the weapon was 10,000 feet above sea level upon its descent. Which told Simone two things: One, Shepherd One could never land; the moment the plane hit 10,000 feet the weapon would detonate. Secondly, since the altimeter was simply recorded by the CPU as memory space and nothing more, there was no way he could disable the weapon with a virus since it was no longer accepting further transmissions other than the initial activation sequence. Once the plane hit 10,000 feet, then the altimeter snuffs itself out. At that point the CPU reads the sudden loss of memory and, as a safety feature, immediately goes off within a nanosecond of recognition.

  There was nothing he could do since the weapon’s CPU refused to accept any further transmissions from the altimeter’s brain. The conduit had been forever shut off.

  Nevertheless he tried, his fingers tapping and engaging the keyboard at a fast and furious pace. But he garnered zero results despite his efforts.

  Impossible: Difficult but achievable . . .

  His typing became more manic . . .

  . . . challenging but attainable . . .

  . . . his fingers moved blindingly fast . . .

  . . . To accomplish the impossible makes the thing you accomplish even better than imagined . . .

  . . . His Simone-ism was screaming through his mind . . .

  And then he surrendered and fell back into his chair exhausted in every way.

  The program was locked and inaccessible, the CPU of the weapon unresponsive to any outside sources. Once Shepherd One hit the 10,000-foot mark, once its fuel had depleted itself, then it would go off.

  And there was nothing he could do about it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Captain Pastore thought he heard his name whispered when, in fact, he was being contacted by LAX over the cockpit mike.

  “ . . . Shepherd One, Four-One-Six-One . . . Come in, Shepherd One . . .”

  Enzio kept his heading and refused to acknowledge the contact call, hoping his silence would provide the Command Tower the notion that Shepherd One was in jeopardy.

  “ . . . Shepherd One, Four-One-Six-One . . . Come in, Shepherd One . . .”

  But what would Hakam do to his family knowing that he willingly refused to return the Tower’s communication. And the answer was obvious. He would have them killed.

  “ . . . Shepherd One, Four-One-Six-One . . . This is Eight-Seven-Three-One-Niner . . . Please respond . . .”

  “Answer it,” ordered Hakam, standing by the Navigator’s station. Enzio wondered how long he’d been looking over his shoulder. “And be very careful about what you say.”

  Enzio switched the toggle above him. “Go ahead, Eight-Seven-Three-One-Niner, this is Shepherd One.”

  “ . . . Shepherd One, Eight-Seven-Three-One-Niner, confirm your status with y
our A-P-I-N, please . . .”

  Enzio hesitated. The Tower was asking for a confirmation code as to who he was by typing in his Aviation Personal Identification Number, a recognition number given to each member of the flight crew that was highly guarded. Nobody, including flight members or Tower personnel, was privy to the sequence code. It was an exclusive number known only by its bearer. Once Enzio typed it in, the computer would then acknowledge the number as valid or invalid.

  “Copy that,” he said. He then reached for the keypad next to the center console.

  “Wait,” said Hakam. “What are you doing?”

  Enzio drew back his hand. “The Tower is asking me to type in my personal identification number. If I don’t, they’ll know something is wrong.”

  Hakam looked at the console, at the keypad. “Do not make a mistake, Captain Pastore. If you should do anything foolish enough to give us away, then I will surely have a member of your family taken.”

  “I have no intentions of putting my family in harm’s way. How many times are you going to hold that over my head?”

  “As many times as I see fit.”

  Enzio raised his hand, his fingers poised to strike the keypad, and waited for Hakam to give him the go-ahead nod.

  “Careful,” said Hakam. “And I do mean . . . careful.”

  Enzio typed in a series of numbers on the faceplate, and then hit the #’s symbol. Approximately ten seconds later he received confirmation from the Tower.

  The code was valid.

  “ . . . Copy that, Shepherd One. Thank you . . .” And then, “. . . Shepherd One, Four-One-Six-Two, confirm your status with your A-P-I-N, please . . .”

  Hakam waited for Pastore to respond, but he didn’t. The pilot maintained his course, his eyes transfixed on the blueness of open sky.

  “. . . Shepherd One, Four-One-Six-Two; confirm your status with your A-P-I-N, please

  . . .”

  “What are you doing?” asked Hakam, his voice maintaining an edge to it. “Answer him.”

  Enzio nodded. “They’re not calling me,” he responded without concern. “They’re calling the co-pilot.”