by Jones, Rick
When the Garrote Assassin left, Hakam once again leaned his forehead against the cool window pane. In the distance, drawing nearer, were four dark specks coming in from the north. Please, Allah, give me courage.
His hand continued to shake.
#
When Kimball heard Hakam speak to Enzio in the cockpit he retreated from the hole, wondering if Hakam heard him calling out to Enzio. But after a moment of conversation between Hakam and the pilot, it became apparent that he hadn’t. And from what Kimball gathered through their conversation, the Tower was aware that Shepherd One had been commandeered. Worse, the Arab once again threatened the lives of the pilot’s family, forcing loyalty where there was none.
At the moment Kimball wanted to bitch slap the little man. But as time drew on he could hear the contained desperation in the Arab’s voice, could sense the man losing his composure by the inches; and a man who loses focus becomes desperate; and a man who becomes desperate is prone to irrationality, which makes him highly volatile. Not good for the growing situation.
So somehow, in some way, Kimball knew he had to get topside before it was too late.
Backing away from the bank of computers that made up the Avionics Room, and then maneuvering through the tight-fitting hatch, Kimball began to rummage through the luggage. He found vestments, shirts and undergarments, typical items—but he also discovered the tools of the Holy See’s trade. Since they were the administrative arm of the Vatican, they conducted business from afar, always maintaining correspondence through the laptop.
Kimball found several laptops, along with webcams and devices he did not recognize or care to fathom their uses. He was a simple computer layman who knew the basic fundamentals of operation and little more.
Taking the best unit, a telephone line, and other items such as a webcam and charger, not really sure if he needed them, he returned to the Avionics Room. Inside, small bulbs shined enough illumination along the scoreboard of lights, which gave Kimball view of the computer’s ports. Connecting one end of the cord to the LINE-IN of the board and the other to the laptop, Kimball booted up. Within a minute he was up and running, the screen casting a mercury-glow that formed ghoulishly twisted lines that danced in macabre fashion along his face.
And then he began to type.
#
Live feeds from Shepherd One landed at the most prominent television stations around the United States, encompassing cities like Atlanta, Boston, New York and their major affiliates along the eastern seaboard; Los Angeles, San Francisco and Las Vegas in the west.
When news editors and premier anchormen viewed the choppy feed of Pope Pius XIII sitting with armed terrorists flanking him, the newsrooms became tumultuously active with the principles screaming for verification. However, nothing could be solidified. The White House Press, the political dignities with ties to the media, weren’t divulging or offering a modicum of proof that the feed was authentic.
Within minutes decisions were made, the opportunity too impressive to pass up with all the earmarks affirming the visuals—no matter how dark or sophomoric the image—to be that of Pope Pius XIII. All the major networks were interrupted from coast to coast, the anchorpersons verbalizing the feed as ‘highly plausible’ with Shepherd One having been commandeered—but by whom or why had yet to be determined.
Of course the feed was not aired live. Instead, grainy snippets already taken from the earliest frames and edited made the television cut. The nation was riveted; the outgoing news based more on speculation rather than fact. Ratings soured within minutes, the nation tuning in.
And what the community saw, regardless of the poor quality of the feed, was Pope Pius XIII with the point of a pistol pressed firmly against his temple.
It was the only edition allowed for viewership before fading to black.
#
The F-16’s locked on to their target and bore down on her like lions to a kill. After reaching the tail end of Shepherd One, they broke formation with the lead pilot of the Fighting Falcon group taking a position alongside the aircraft that gave him a visual of the cockpit. The other fighter jets flanked the jumbo jet in escort formation, two per side.
“. . . Shepherd One, this is Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, come in, Shepherd One . . .”
Enzio turned to his left and saw the fighter less than 20 meters away, the pilot pointing to his helmet as a gesture to answer the call.
“. . . Shepherd One, this is Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, come in, Shepherd One . . .”
“Answer him,” said Hakam, stepping into the cockpit and taking the navigator’s seat. “Tell them you’re to head to LAX due to significant problems with the aircraft.”
Enzio complied. “Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, we’ve already confirmed with Base that we are to head back to our depart point due to unknown mechanical problems.”
“. . . That’s negative, Shepherd One. You are to reconfigure your coordinates to heading eight-six-zero-one immediately. . .”
Hakam leaned forward. “Eight-six-zero-one?”
Having been a member of the Aeronautica Milatare, Enzio had practiced maneuvers several times with the Americans at Nellis Air Force Base and knew the coordinates well. “It’s a desert landing strip about twenty miles north of the base,” he answered.
“And I presume it’s in the middle of nowhere?”
Enzio did not acknowledge or confirm. He merely kept his eyes straight.
“ . . . Do you copy, Shepherd One? . . . You’re to reconfigure your coordinates to heading eight-six-zero-one immediately. . . ”
“What do I tell them?” asked Enzio.
Hakam deliberated. He had to buy time, but it was obvious the fighter jets had an agenda, as well. “Tell them your heading is locked to LAX.”
Enzio sighed as if taxed. “Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, we will not reroute due to possible—”
“ . . . You are to reroute to those coordinates, Captain . . . That’s a direct order . . .”
Enzio reached up and grabbed the toggle switch on the overhead panel. “That’s negative, Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three. Our heading remains as LAX.” And then he switched the toggle, cutting off communication.
Within less than a minute the Fighting Falcons peeled back and repositioned themselves to the rear of Shepherd One, maintaining range.
“What are they doing?” asked Hakam. “Are they escorting us in?”
Enzio nodded with all the reserve of a seasoned military pilot who knew the strategies of warfare. “No,” he said. “They’re positioning themselves.”
“For what?”
Enzio could feel a sour lump forming in his throat. “I would think that would be obvious to you by now,” he said. “They’re going to knock us out of the sky.”
#
The Flight Commander of Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three maintained a distance of two clicks behind Shepherd One; the other three jets were in formation alongside their commanding officer in a straight line.
“Base Command, Two-Six-Four-Three . . .”
“Go ahead, Two-Six-Four-Three.”
“Shepherd One is refusing to acknowledge orders. Standing by for further instructions.”
“Copy, Two-Six-Four-Three. Ten-twelve.” Ten-twelve was the vernacular to “stand by.”
Then after a delayed moment: “Two-Six-Four-Three.”
“This is Two-Six-Four-Three. Go ahead, Base Command.”
“Two-Six-Four-Three, maintain visual and continue to ten-twelve.”
“Copy that, Base Command.”
With Shepherd One the behemoth of the sky, there was no doubt as to who were the more powerful. With the Fighting Falcons maintaining pursuit, the Flight Commander recognized the fact that the powers that be were determining whether or not to bring Shepherd One down.
A disturbing thought considering the pope was on board, which gave the pilot reason to question the virtue of bringing the plane down. It was a matter of duty over emotion.
If the time should ever present itself, could I really fire off a missile?
Although not wholly pious, the Flight Commander was spiritual, often finding himself calling upon God to get him through sorties in Iraq. In fact, a crucifix hung at the end of a beaded rosary inside his cockpit, the crucifix swinging back and forth like a pendulum, the eyes of Christ looking at him forlornly.
And then he asked himself once again: If the time should ever present itself, could I really fire off a missile . . . knowing that I would be the one responsible for killing the most recognized face in the Catholic world?
The crucifix continued to swing back and forth, the eyes of Christ unsettling, the pain behind them very real; the sadness, the deplorable and appalling sadness.
Reaching, the Flight Commander seized the crucifix in his hand and squeezed, feeling the osmosis of sorrow working to the very core of his soul.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Shepherd One is refusing the command of the Flight Commander,” said CIA Director Craner. “They’re getting closer to L.A. with every passing moment.”
“Don’t you think I know that, Doug?” snapped Burroughs.
The CIA Director lowered his head toward the reams of paperwork in front of him and began to peel back the surface pages.
“Tell me what I don’t know.” The president looked up at the screen, the image of Shepherd One and the four F-16’s drawing nearer to the populated zone. “We have to make a decision, people, and we need to do it quickly. So I need to know right now if any of you believe in the high probability of nuclear weapons on board that plane.”
“At this point, Mr. President,” began Attorney General Hamilton, his eyes also viewing the screen, “all we have are circumstantial indications and calculated guesses, albeit strong ones, but guesses nonetheless. ”
“You know what I’m looking for, Dean. You all know what I’m looking for. That plane is getting close to a populated area with the high probability of carrying a nuclear payload. And we can’t afford Shepherd One any more distance. You know what has to be done, pope or no pope.” The president waited for suggestions, not wanting to play Devil’s Advocate alone.
“And what if we’re wrong in our assessment?’ asked CIA Director Craner. “Right now we have a lot of ‘ifs’ to consider before considering the takedown of Shepherd One.”
“True,” said Burroughs. “But if we don’t make a decision soon, then we allow the plane to fly over Los Angeles with a payload bearing half the explosive yield that took out Hiroshima. Is that something we can really afford?”
Hamilton leaned forward, his voice holding somewhat of a contrite measure to it. “But it’s the pope,” he said.
Burroughs nodded his understanding of religious conviction over duty. “You’re right, Dean—absolutely. And I understand how all of you feel about the man who represents your faith, my faith. But we’re also talking about the lives of four million people at stake here as well. If we’re wrong about the payload, then the lives on board Shepherd One will be lost and this country will come under heavy backlash from the worldwide community. If the payload is on board, then we at least save the lives of a million people, maybe more.”
“And we would still come under the heavy backlash from the worldwide community,” said Thornton. The Chief Advisor interlaced his fingers and placed his folded his hands on the tabletop before him. “It’s a lose-lose situation, Mr. President. But there are always alternatives.”
Senator Wyman piped up; his seasoned statesmanship proving this was not his first time at the rodeo. “You’re talking about deception,” he said.
“I’m talking about going with the advantages that are available to us.”
“And that’s deception. Say what you mean, Al.”
Thornton appeared uncomfortable, his demeanor reflecting the warring vacillation between his political responsibilities against his spiritual ties. “This is hard for me to say, Mr. President.”
“I know, Al. It’s hard for everybody at this table . . . But—” He pointed to the screen. Shepherd One was getting dangerously close to the hot zone. “We have to act quickly.”
Thornton pitched a sigh. “We can doctor the facts,” he said repentantly. “Shepherd One could go down due to the alleged mechanical malfunction as the pilot has stated. We just need to make it happen.”
There was a momentary silence at the table, a period of deliberation.
“We could use the pilot’s recordings to support . . . the theory of an accident,” he added, then lowered his eyes in deep personal conflict. He was not alone in this matter.
President Burroughs took another glance at the screen.
The time was now.
“I want the Flight Commander of the Fighting Falcons to contact Shepherd One one last time, and have him redirect Shepherd One to the specified coordinates. If they refuse, then I want the pilot to inform the captain of Shepherd One that they will be shot down.”
Nobody at the table was stunned; the option proffered the only one available—not much of a choice at all. But everyone was clearly somber as a tragic cast hunkered over them like a cloudburst.
“I’m sorry, people. But I don’t see any other approach to this.” He turned to Henry Spaatz, the current Chief of Staff of the Air Force to deliver the command. “Please, Henry . . . Issue the command.”
The senior uniformed officer nodded with a half-hearted gesture. “Two-Six-Four-Three, this is Base Command . . . Do you copy?”
The response was not as quick as expected.
“ . . . This is Two-Six-Four-Three . . . Go . . .”
“Two-Six-Four-Three, you are too immediately—”
#
“—engage Shepherd One and propose a final action that they either comply with the order of diversion . . . or be subjected to military recourse and be shot down . . . Do you copy?”
The Flight Commander could feel his heart gallop with the speed of a thoroughbred, the order a simplistic syntax of words aligned in such a way it caused him physical distress. Many times he had gone into battle feeling the same way, always proposing a few words to God with the crucifix held tightly within the grasp of his hand. But this time he found no solace. This time he felt an overwhelming sense of self-conflict.
“ . . . Do you copy, Two-Six-Four-Three? . . .”
“Two-Six-Four-Three . . . I copy. . .”
The message was broadcast to all pilots who maintained formation while the Flight Commander flew forward in an attempt a reconnect with the pilot of Shepherd One. After positioning himself within twenty meters of the jumbo jet’s cockpit, the Flight Commander made eye contact with Enzio and tapped his helmet, a gesture to reopen communication.
But Enzio turned away.
#
“What does he want?” asked Hakam.
“He wants me to reopen communication,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed and forward.
Hakam observed the fighter pilot to be tapping his helmet with heightened agitation, the approach in itself beseeching in his attempt to make open contact. “Reestablish communication,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s best to know what your enemy is proposing. And no doubt the enemy has a proposal they wish to inform us of. Open the link so that I can hear.”
Enzio reached up and flipped the toggle, the air now open. “This is Shepherd One.”
“ . . . Shepherd One, can you communicate openly? . . .”
Enzio gave Hakam a side-long glance before responding. “That’s negative, Two-Six-Four-Three.”
“ . . . Are you flying with hostile intent?. . .”
Enzio was hoping his silence was answer enough.
“Shepherd One, you are to proceed directly to the given set of coordinates and reroute your direction, do you understand? If you do not comply immediately, then we have orders to shoot you down. Do you copy, Shepherd One? Redirect your course immediately . . .”
“Do you believe him?” Hakam as
ked him, maintaining calm.
“Yes.”
Hakam released a short, unsettling sigh. “Remind him that the Pope Pius is on board.”
Enzio tapped a button on his lip mike. “Two-Six-Four-Three, do I need to remind you that Pope Pius—”
“Shepherd One, this command comes from the highest authority. Either you change your course to the given heading, or we will terminate your flight immediately, is that understood?”
Clearly. There was no doubt in Enzio’s mind that his life was about to come to an earnest end.
“. . . You have less than thirty seconds, Shepherd One . . .”
In a quick and fluid motion the jet fighter peeled back and disappeared from view, taking position in the rear.
And in a matter of a single moment Hakam could feel his nerves tense to the tautness of steel cables, the overwhelming and sustaining pressure threatening to snap in a volley of lashes geared to do irreparable harm to his forced composure, if not his sanity. Death was coming for him much too quickly as his hands shook with all the fervor of physiological nerve disorder. “I know this plane,” he finally said, hiding his hands from Enzio. “It possesses some very special features unlike other airliners, yes?”
“We’re no match for F-16 fighter jets,” he responded.
“That’s not what I asked you, Captain Pastore. I asked you if this aircraft possesses safety features unlike other airliners. And your answer would be?”
He knew Hakam was referring to the flares, the laser jammers, and high temperature decoys. “Yes,” he answered. “You already know that.”
“Then, Captain Pastore, I strongly suggest that you hurry up and prepare to defend this aircraft. I believe we have less than fifteen seconds left . . . if that.”
Enzio reached for the keypad and typed in a new code. From the central console a small panel slid aside and a box lined with toggle switches projected upward. Flipping the switches, the amber bulbs on the panel began to light up as a signal of activation. All he had to do was depress the red buttons beneath the lights to activate the decoys and laser jammers.