by Jones, Rick
“. . . Shepherd One, Four-One-Six-Two; confirm your status with your A-P-I-N, please
. . .”
“Then type it in.”
Enzio turned to him. “I can’t,” he said harshly. “They’re asking for his personal identification number. The only one who knows it is the person who has it.”
“Type it in!”
“I don’t know his number! Nobody does! It’s a security measure!”
Hakam didn’t hesitate. He popped open the lid of the laptop and began to type in a series of commands. “Then perhaps the death of a family member,” he said, “maybe your wife, or son, or daughter will help you remember.” His fingers danced quickly over the keyboard. “Unless you find a way to send them—”
“. . . Shepherd One, Four-One-Six-Two; confirm your status with your A-P-I-N . . .”
“—the proper code, then you will suffer the complete agony of losing a loved one by the blade of a sword. It’ll be quick, I assure you. But your pain will be everlasting.”
Enzio countered with a threat of his own, but his voice quavered with the tone of a man weakened by sudden despair. “If you harm a single member of my family, so help me God I will fly this plane into the ground.”
“And if you do that, Captain Pastore, then you shall be the one who has consigned the rest of your family to die by the sword. Are you willing to go to your grave knowing that your selfish and callous action has resigned them to an early and unnecessary death?”
Enzio could feel his heart gallop in his chest as well as the pain that came with it. He was sure it would misfire and end his life right there. “Please,” he begged, “I swear to you. I do not know his number. Everyone’s number is known only by those who possess it.”
Hakam let his finger hover close to the SEND button, his face a mask of controlled rage.
“I swear to you,” said Enzio, holding his hands in prayer. And then came the fall of tears, hot and rolling, his demeanor cracking to a man of desperate pleading. “I swear . . .”
Hakam continued to hold his finger over the SEND key, debating whether or not to send the killing stroke. Then, after a moment of brief deliberation, he dotted a key with a firm tapping of his forefinger.
And as any father or husband would over the safety of his family, Enzio cried out. “NO!”
#
Dr. Simone appeared as if he had been sitting in a sauna for a better part of an hour. On the back of his shirt a huge Rorschach moth of perspiration spread out to meet the overflow from his armpits. His face shined with sweat that gave him somewhat of a waxy, adipocerous appearance. At the moment he appeared less than suitable in front of the webcam.
“Are you telling me, Ray, that there’s nothing we can do to disarm those weapons?” President Burroughs voice didn’t quite hold the quality of restrained measure, but more of incredulity. And then in his patented reserved degree, which Simone knew would come sooner than later, said, “What about all this crap you gave me about everything having a solution—that you were positive you could find a way to disable the thing, no matter the degree of difficulty!”
“Mr. President, at the time I truly believed I could tap into the altimeter and use it as a conduit to send a virus to the central processing unit.”
“But?”
“But the altimeter is simply a device to measure a certain altitude point, and may have already served its purpose,” he said. “Once the altimeter reaches a level of twenty-five thousand feet, it will initiate a one-time signal to the CPU as additional memory space in use. The moment the computer recognizes this, then the program activates the units and a lock-out command bars the CPU from receiving any further input, including a virus. At this point it becomes totally shut off to the outside world.”
“And once the sequence becomes activated, does that mean it’s on a timer?”
“There is no timer,” he said. “The altimeter is programmed to terminate when it reaches a descending altitude of ten thousand feet. The moment the altimeter shuts itself off, the weapon’s CPU system will recognize the sudden loss of memory . . . and will detonate.”
On screen Simone could see the president rising from his seat and lean forward with his knuckles resting on the tabletop in simian manner. “Are you telling me, no matter what, the moment this plane reaches a level of ten thousand feet, those weapons are going to go off?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” said Simone. “He can fly that plane forever and choose his target as long as he doesn’t descend to ten thousand feet.”
The president fell back into his seat, hard. On the monitor screen, however, it appeared to Simone that the president’s knees buckled and gave way. The chair just happened to be there to catch him.
“Mr. President, I’m terribly sorry,” said Simone. There was a horrible finality to the tone of his voice.
“Is there anything at all you can do to stop this from happening?”
“I examined every avenue, Mr. President. I put it on the mainframe and used everything at my disposal. Whoever manufactured these units took a lot of time and effort to prognosticate its disadvantages, and applied a lot of safety features to protect them.” Once again with words bearing the weight of sadness and perhaps feeling the measure of failure, he said, “I’m truly sorry, Mr. President.”
Burroughs nodded. “Don’t give up, Ray. Find that Achilles Heel.”
Simone stared back at them through the webcam, his unmoving demeanor saying it all: There’s nothing more I can do. “Yes, Mr. President.”
And then the monitor winked off, a burning mote of light remaining in the center of the screen a moment before dying off.
And how symbolic was that at the moment? The mote, an ember of hope, for a moment shining, and then dying before leaving behind a horrible emptiness in its wake.
President Burroughs didn’t even want to consider the metaphor behind it all.
#
Nellis Air Force Base was situated approximately five miles north of downtown Las Vegas and, at one time, exclusively set apart from city proper. However, with the city’s continuing growth, the community of Las Vegas had encroached upon their territory until residential neighborhoods were the proverbial stone’s throw away from the sentry post.
Since 1942 the base has served as a major training point for both US and foreign military aircrews, and sits on over 11,000 acres of mostly underdeveloped land used specifically for bombing runs and sorties, as well as to keep a close eye on neighboring Areas 51 and 4.
At approximately 1027 hours Pacific Time, Commander-in-Chief President James Emerson Burroughs issued a command to the military flight brigade to intercept a plane with an eastbound trajectory to Dulles from its preliminary point of LAX.
That plane was Shepherd One.
No specifics were given. The only details proffered were for the fighter pilots to flank the jetliner and wait for further instructions.
At 1043, four F-16 Fighting Falcons were on the runway waiting for liftoff commands, their engines revving to a ground-shaking caliber that vibrated the tempered glass windows of nearby homes.
By 1047, they were airborne and heading westbound at a cruising speed of 9-g’s.
Intercept time: 20 minutes.
#
“I believe you,” said Hakam, slowly lowering the laptop’s lid. In his action he purposely hit the DELETE button, destroying the command. “For now your family is safe, at least for the moment. Now inform the Tower to stand by.”
With a great sense of relief he did so.
“Now tell me,” began Hakam, the brow above one eye rising in inquisitive manner, “why would they seek such a code when the plane is already on its trajectory course? You would think such commands would be requested prior to takeoff. ”
Enzio knew the answer, but felt restricted to offer anything further. So Hakam offered what he already suspected. “It’s because they believe not all is right with this aircraft, isn’t it?”
The pilot closed his eyes
and nodded.
“I thought so,” said Hakam, easing back into the navigator’s seat. He had always been a man of natural reserve, always showing little emotion because he believed it was a precursor to tipping one’s hand on important issues. But lately he caught himself losing touch with that self-control, feeling something wicked and deep sucking at the marrow of his own personal design. Within an hour of the flight he had lost half his team and, with four hours left to go until they reach Dulles International, was obviously under scrutiny.
Everything was floundering before him.
In the natural light of the cockpit, Hakam raised his hand and noted the uncontrollable shaking before clenching his hand into a fist, and then back to an open hand before laying it down on the laptop.
“. . . Shepherd One, Four-One-Six-Two; confirm your status with your A-P-I-N . . .”
“Reverse heading,” ordered Hakam. “Tell them you have a systems malfunction and you need to return to LAX immediately.”
“They won’t believe it.”
“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Turn this plane around and head back to Los Angeles.”
“They still want the A-P-I-N.”
“Don’t bother. They already know there’s no one here to put in the proper sequence.”
“. . . Shepherd One, Four-One-Six-Two; confirm your status with your A-P-I-N . . . Shepherd One, we need a response immediately . . .”
“Tell them you have a systems malfunction and set a new heading. Give them nothing more, and then cut off the transmission.”
Enzio tapped a button on his headset. “Shepherd One to Eight-Seven-Three-One-Niner, we’re showing a systems malfunction and will be redirecting to LAX.”
“That’s negative, Shepherd One. Diagnostics show all systems go and active. You are not to redirect. Do you copy?”
Enzio let a moment lapse. “Eight-Seven-Three-One-Niner, we will be redirecting back to the preliminary coordinates.”
Silence.
And then, “Did you copy that, Eight-Seven-Three-One-Niner?”
“We copy, Shepherd One.”
And then he cut the tie as demanded.
Hakam stared out the window; a beautiful day with a clear blue sky. In that moment he understood the reason behind the Tower’s demand to maintain a heading toward Dulles. They were flying into an intercept squad. “From this point, where is the nearest Air Force base?” he asked.
“That would be—I believe—Nellis Air Force Base.”
“How far?”
“Guessing . . . I’d say maybe three hundred miles northeast of us.”
Hakam deliberated. For fighter jets that would be a nominal distance to cover with their speed. Right now he had to keep as far as he could by running as fast as he could. And to do that they would have to run in the opposite direction to prolong their intercept time.
Although Dulles was now scratched from the game card, he still considered Los Angeles to be a nice consolation prize with nearly four million people. “Fix the new course,” Hakam instructed. “I have scores to settle.”
The plane began to bank steadily to the south, and then to the west toward La-La Land.
#
“Mr. President.” Attorney General Dean Hamilton received word that Shepherd One had altered their route and was heading back to LAX. The GPS monitor screen confirmed this, the image of the plane heading in a westerly direction. “It appears that Shepherd One is returning to LAX due to an alleged systems malfunction. But a diagnostics exam proves otherwise. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that airplane.”
“So you’re saying, whoever is flying her is obviously lying through their teeth.”
“Absolutely,” he replied quickly.
President Burroughs kept a steady eye on the screen. From the northeast four F-16 Fighter Falcons were bearing down on Shepherd One at an incredible pace. “How long before they intercept?”
“Approximately ten minutes.”
“And what was the crux of the conversation between LAX and Shepherd One?”
“Every member of a flight crew possesses an Aviation Pin Identification Number,” said CIA Director Craner, “an APIN. The only one who knows the number is its possessor, no one else. Now the captain typed in his number as requested. But when the Tower asked for the co-pilot to do the same, knowing the co-pilot was not on board, the pilot then relayed a sudden systems malfunction over the radio and redirected their route back to LAX. The second APIN number was never transmitted.”
“And their sudden redirection is most likely based on them knowing they were made, so to speak?”
“It’s an early assessment, Mr. President, but we believe it to be a solid one, yes.”
On the screen, the Fighting Falcons were closing the gap.
“And what do you believe their contingency plan is at this point?”
“Again, Mr. President, these are simply assumptions since we haven’t confirmed one way or the other if the weapons are actually on board.”
“For the moment, say they are.”
Craner nodded. “Then I think it’s safe to assume that Hakam realized that he would never make it to D.C. and settled on second best, which is a city of over four million people.”
A disturbing quiet descended over the table like a pall as they watched the monitor. The F-16’s were getting closer to Shepherd One; Shepherd One was getting closer to L.A.
“Four million people,” murmured Burroughs more to himself. And then, “I assume the Fighting Falcons are armed?”
“Yes, sir.”
The question spoke volumes. And the answer held a disturbing finality to it with a single explanation: If Shepherd One should happen to be in possession of those weapons, then it’s to be targeted and brought down before it reached any populated areas. . .
. . . And the life of Pope Pius XIII would suddenly end.
Clenching his jaw, Burroughs could feel the acidic bile in his throat rising because the handwriting was on the wall.
The repercussions would be felt far and wide from all directions, the worldwide Catholic community unforgiving with its accusing finger pointed directly at the Burroughs administration for allowing this to happen, despite Burroughs’ intentions to save an entire mass of people whose fate was delivered into the hands of madmen with a twisted agenda. The wounds would be deep, the cuts hemorrhaging until America bled off the respect and dependability from nations and left forlorn. It would be a major undertaking to rebuild trust from a nation known as the country that knocked Shepherd One out of the sky. Hopefully, forgiveness would start by coming from the Vatican, a pious blessing for which the new pope would surely concur the action taken was necessary, and that Pope Pius, of course, would have understood.
Maybe.
But Hakam had planned well.
If anything, Shepherd One had become the perfect shield.
And religion the best weapon of the 21st century.
On the TV monitor, the planes steadily closed the distance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Hakam needed to move quickly.
After he left the cockpit the young Arab began to shout orders in earnest, informing the Garrote Assassin and his two healthy cohorts to assemble the cameras and prepare them for live feeds. It appeared that Shepherd One was about to fall prey to uninvited guests, so plans had to be altered. Washington was now out of the question. Los Angeles was in.
The overhead bins were flung open, blankets and pillows tossed aside, and laptops and camera equipment removed from the hollows.
Hakam looked out the window and viewed the north—nothing. There was still plenty of time for what they had to do.
The Garrote Assassin set up a tripod before the pope, the angle of the webcam capturing Pius in the foreground and the bishops of the Holy See in the seats behind him. Within moments they showed up on the laptop’s screen as grainy images, the color cheap, and when somebody in the background moved they did so with a choppy, stop-and-go, puppeteer’s animation to
them.
“I need better than that!” yelled Hakam. “I want their faces recognizable! The world needs to see them clearly!”
“I’m doing the best I can, al-Khatib.”
The assassin’s subdued tone was cause for Hakam to ease back and take note. He was growing increasingly edgy, he knew this, and it was starting to reflect. “I know, my friend,” he said, and then he laid a soothing hand on the back of the assassin’s neck and gave a squeeze of assurance, a gesture of apology. “Forgive me. I have no excuse for my tone. But I need better than this,” he told him evenly. “Everything we do from this point on depends upon imagery. The world must be able to see clearly.”
“And they shall,” promised Garrote.
Hakam feigned a smile and gave him another squeeze. “We only have moments,” he told him kindly. “Please don’t disappoint.”
Hakam moved away and returned to the window providing a view of the north. The sky was blue, a deep blue, and the wispy-thin clouds floated with all the serenity that had obviously escaped him. At that moment he held his hand up, his fingers splayed rigid, noted the tone of his flesh darker than the flesh of his palm . . . and reexamined the uncontrollable shaking.
Was he truly committed to Allah? Or was he simply forcing himself to believe that death was nothing to fear?
He clenched his hand into a fist, held it tight, then closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the wall over the small window pane. Please, Allah, give me the courage to see this through.
“Allah be praised.” It was the Garrote Assassin, his voice coming like a startling shot in the dark. “The picture from the webcam is much better, al-Khatib. Do you wish to see?”
Hakam offered another comforting shoulder squeeze. “No, my friend, I knew you could do it. And that’s because Allah favors you.”
“So what do you wish me to do?”
“I want you,” he said, “to forward a live feed to all the programmed addresses right away. This show is about to start.”
“Very well, al- Khatib.”