by Jones, Rick
“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.