by Jones, Rick
“Father Hayden?”
“Yeah, Enz.”
“You know they have my family, correct?”
Kimball nodded. “And the Vatican has sent a team to secure their safety.”
“If they know where they are.”
There was a lapse of silence between them. How do you carry on a conversation about the imminent fate of a man’s loved ones, when the man is sitting right in front of you?
And then: “The Arab has ordered me to take this plane over the city within the next three hours and drop her to ten thousand feet. If I don’t do what they ask, then they’ll kill my wife and children.” He said this without emotion, treating the matter with indifference. But Kimball knew otherwise. Enzio was totally twisted on the inside.
Taking a seat at the navigator’s desk, with the laptop at the station, Kimball spoke in benevolent counsel. “Look, Enzio, I know you don’t know this, but the nuclear payloads on this plane are rigged with altimeters. Once you reach an altitude of ten thousand feet, then those weapons are set to go off.”
The pilot’s eyes started. “Ten thousand—” He looked at the plane’s altimeter, still holding level at thirteen plus.
“Despite what the Arab told you, the chance of your family getting through this safely may be unlikely. You know that. If you do as they ask, then the weapons will detonate and an untold number of people will die.”
“He promised that my family would be released if I do this because their death would serve no purpose.”
Kimball saw the anxiety in the pilot’s face. It was obvious that Enzio knew the truth, but desperately wanted to believe otherwise. “I’m sorry,” said Kimball, truly feeling bad for him. “Nobody deserves any of this—especially you and your family. But you can’t follow through based on an empty promise.”
The pilot checked his watch once again. He now had two hours and twenty minutes left to comply with the young Arab’s order. I’m damned if I follow through and damned if I don’t. Which personal Hell do I choose?
From the pilot-side window a Fighting Falcon appeared, the pilot tapping his helmet for Enzio to flip the ‘RECEIVE’ switch, which he did.
“. . . Shepherd One, this is Two-Six-Four-Three, you have sustained significant damages to your portside . . . What is your status? . . .”
“Two-Six-Four-Three, we’ve lost an engine and seventy percent of aerodynamic ability. Fuel gauges remain steady, however. No other signs of current breaches.”
“. . . Shepherd One, what is your current status regarding hostile occupation? . . .”
Enzio pulled the lip mike close. “Two-Six-Four-Three, the situation has been neutralized. Shepherd One is no longer under—”
#
“—hostile occupation . . .”
There was a roar within the Raven Rock as people jumped from their seats and let paper fly in celebration as if it were Mardi Gras.
“. . . Confirm your status again, Shepherd One . . .”
“. . . I repeat, Shepherd One is no longer under hostile occupation . . .”
Through the cheers the president appeared frantic as he screamed over the throng of cries. “Doug!” His voice was barely perceptible. Then louder: “Doug!”
His CIA Director turned him from across the table.
“Doug, call off the hit on Rokach! CALL IT OFF NOW!”
#
The CIA operative was a man of timely precision. He observed the numbers on his watch count down to the last few seconds. So far, there was no command to abort. The moment the numbers reached double zero the operative slid his hand beneath the paper, grabbed the Colt, used the Post to shield the firearm, and made his way toward the target.
#
Doug looked at his watch. The hit was past do, but only by moments. Dispatching Langley, he ordered the immediate desistance of Rokach’s assassination. But the operative was effectual in his duties; therefore, results to stop him in time could not be guaranteed at this point.
If the operative proved to be successful in his attempt, then it would no doubt initiate an investigation by Mossad, which would prompt numerous cover-ups by the CIA interior. But if Mossad should ever suspect the killing to have been committed by an allied constituency, then damage control would be pointless and a close ally perhaps lost.
The president could only hope for the best as al-Khatib Hakam, even from his newfound cradle of Death, continued to flex his muscles.
#
The operative had a clear path, the back of Rokach’s head like a beacon in the dark. As he neared her he raised the Post and closed in, leveling the shielded weapon for the kill. The moment be began to apply pressure on the trigger his earpiece chirped a single word: abort. In a fluid motion he lowered the paper and continued on, finding his way to the street and into the crowd without looking back.
Imelda Rokach, turning a page of the Post while continuing to feed on her salad, would forever remain oblivious that she was less than a second away from having her life snuffed out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
He had rolled the dice and won.
Not only had President Burroughs staved off nuclear devastation and a total loss of faith from the American people, but the probable confrontation with Mossad was averted as well. The problem remained, however, that a critically wounded airplane was flying over Los Angeles with an active payload. The flipside was that they had the control and means to disable the weapons.
Within moments Dr. Simone was on screen.
“The plane is severely damaged,” the president told him via satellite. “So those weapons have to be disabled immediately, just in case Shepherd One does go down.”
“I have the program ready,” Simone returned. “But I need your man on board to tap into the altimeter whereas it will accept the instructions.”
“We can set that up.”
“May I suggest something?”
“Of course.”
“The system surrounding the altimeter is delicate with traps that could ignite the weapon in a heartbeat, so the precision to hookup the laptop to the altimeter must be done very carefully. I did it with the aid of precision lasers. I can give him the coordinates of where to cut his way in. But if he screws up, Mr. President, then Shepherd One will go up like a Roman candle. I strongly suggest that the pilot take Shepherd One somewhere over the Pacific and well out of range.”
The president wagged his forefinger. “That’s a good idea, Ray. How long can you get the program ready?”
“It’s ready,” he said. “It’s just a matter of when and if your man can make the connection with the altimeter.”
The president nodded reassurance. “Give me ten minutes.”
#
Captain Enzio Pastore was in his own private Hell of indecision. After Kimball left the cockpit to gather the bishops to secure them below where it was safer and warmer, his emotions continued to whorl with kaleidoscopic madness. The reality was that his family had no future. And Father Hayden was correct when he said the Arab proffered little more than empty promises.
So he mourned, his heart fracturing, his emotions ready to erupt in a cacophony of cries so loud he was sure the people of LA would hear him.
Closing his eyes to fend off the sting of tears, Enzio felt a hand upon his shoulder. Pope Pius entered the cockpit area with his zucchetto gone, his hair in a wild tangle as the tails of his vestments waved dreamily behind him as freezing cold air circled continuously within the plane. His vestments were pristine white and glowed like newly laden snowfall. And his face, a semblance of kindness, held paternal warmth that shined like a flowering circle of light.
Perhaps the pilot wanted to see the man as more than a flashing beacon of hope, but as the living essence of divinity that could send his madness away.
After reaching up and grabbing the pontiff’s hand, Enzio finally broke. “They’re gone, aren’t they? My wife, my children . . .”
Pope Pius moved closer, the white of his robe radiating. “We don’t know that,�
�� he told him. “But don’t give up hope, Enzio, please. It’s my understanding that a very special group of people were sent to find them.”
But the pilot found little solace.
“I know you’re hurting,” he told him, “but you must put your faith in God and pray for the best and be prepared to accept the worst.” The pope took to the navigator’s seat and spoke to the pilot in a voice that was soft, compassionate and understanding. “Enzio, beneath this robe I am a man like you—a man who loves, fears, enjoys the bad as well as the good. I have no special powers, and I possess no more than you. What I possess is less. You have a wonderful family, children, a love I will never understand, and with it perhaps a pain no greater. And for that I am truly sorry for the unimaginable pain you must be going through at this moment.”
With a cracked voice, he said, “Thank you.”
“But we must do what’s right for those who depend on us.” The pope looked out the cockpit window and at the innumerable colors of a sunset sky. “No matter what happens,” he continued, “I will provide you with as much comfort I can possibly offer a man. I will not leave your side.”
But as much as Enzio treasured the proposal, there was little to be had.
The idea of not knowing about his family was destroying him.
Regardless, he took Shepherd One in a westward trajectory over the Pacific Ocean.
#
RAVEN ROCK: Father Kimball, we have a man ready to send you the programming to lower the altimeters reading, rendering the devices inoperable. However, you’ll need to cut through the casing and attach the laptop to the altimeter. Do you have that capability?
Kimball could feel the combat knives attached to his thighs like normal appendages.
SHEPHERD ONE: Don’t worry. I have a can opener.
RAVEN ROCK: The man’s name is Ray Simone. He’s the chief nuclear engineer of the Nuclear Management Team. He will send you the precise coordinates on where to access the altimeter. And please be very careful, the zone surrounding the altimeter has safety features. If you breach the security system, then the weapons will detonate no matter the altitude.
SHEPHERD ONE: Let’s get this going. The plane is heavily damaged and the vibrations appear to be intensifying, which I don’t think is a good thing.
RAVEN ROCK: Understood, Father Kimball. Access coordinates coming in from Dr. Simone. Good luck.
#
The bishops had found necessary garments, clothing and additional blankets to keep them warm as they huddled together and watched Kimball remove one of the two knives strapped to his leg. They had seen the man use the weapons against their captors and use them proficiently well. The bishops realizing the pope’s personal valet was much more than that, but dared not question him.
However, Kimball was oblivious of his audience as he took one of his specialized knives and followed Dr. Simone’s precise measurements on where to cut the case. With the keen tip of his KA-BAR, he pierced the aluminum shell and began to saw the case by pumping the blade across its surface, cutting a ragged line. Once he cut the hole to Dr. Simone’s specs he popped the aluminum piece out, which gave him access to the altimeter’s port. When he looked inside he saw darkness and little else, which told him the security features could only be seen with an aided eye. Either by using a special set of lenses or by spraying a mist into the gap that would briefly illuminate the laser beams.
Using one of the bishop’s laptops he set up separately from the one used in the Avionics Room, Kimball forwarded the program from one unit to another.
All he had to do was connect the devices with surgical precision, not an easy task.
Holding the connecting end of the feed cord of the laptop, Kimball inserted it into the hole and carefully managed the end toward the receiving port. His fingers, however, were too large as the razor-sharp aluminum edges tore slices along his fingers. Gritting and fighting his way through it, with blood running along the outer side of the shell case, Kimball found the female opening of the port and punched the end home.
The moment Kimball completed the job he fell back unaware that he had been sweating profusely, even with the bay as cold as it was.
On the laptop, the language of Hexadecimal values began to scroll up and down with the odd columns running north to south, the even rolls from south to north. And then the numbers began to race in blinding revolutions like the rows in a slot machine, never knowing how or when the figures will stop. After a few moments the symbols began to slow and lock themselves in place, the computer talking to the altimeter and vice versa, the locked figures having been read and accepted, the other numbers looking for the memory to lock into place. The more data the altimeter accepted, the more the numbers would freeze until the screen no longer scrolled a single digit, ultimately signifying a complete and successful download of the entire program.
More numbers froze in place, at least thirty percent, while other numbers leapfrogged over the stilled ones and continued to scroll either up or down, or down to up.
And then the display screen in both altimeters began to roll downward in perfect unison.
The numeric readings quickly went from 10,000 to 9,500 in less than five seconds, the numbers mere blurs.
. . . 9,000 . . .
. . . 8,500 . . .
. . . 8,000 . . .
Kimball couldn’t help himself and smiled—a well-deserved reward, as far as he was concerned.
. . . 7,500 . . .
. . . 7,000 . . .
. . . 6,500 . . .
And then the numeric speed within the display windows began the slow down at 6,000 feet, the pace slowing to a crawl at 5,000 feet, until it stopped altogether at 4,893 feet.
About sixty-five percent of the values on the laptop locked into position, while other digits continued to leapfrog over the set ones and continued on. The readings in both altimeters were secured, the numeric setting apparently locked. As things now stood, Shepherd One will now detonate at a level of 4,893 feet.
“No! No! NO!” Kimball tapped the ‘ENTER’ button numerous times, but the values on the laptop’s screen continued to scroll, not a single number locking in place. And then he eased himself away from the computer and sat down, bringing his knees up in acute angles in order to rest his elbows on them. In the ensuing moments he allowed his fingers to bleed on the floor between his legs as he stared at the payload.
The altimeters would only accept one half of the disabling programming.
There was nothing more he could do.
#
SHEPHERD ONE: Program has failed. Altimeters locked in at 4893 feet.
RAVEN ROCK: Did you clear and rerun the program?
SHEPHERD ONE: Twice.
RAVEN ROCK: We’ll have our engineer look into it immediately.
SHEPHERD ONE: Plane beginning to vibrate badly. The pilot believes the air rushing into the fuselage is getting caught in the tail cone, which is acting like a parachute and causing drag. Says body will eventually give under pressure—fuel being consumed at rate more than usual . . . Time is running out.
RAVEN ROCK: Dr. Simone would like direct contact with you, Father Kimball. We will dispatch him through on three-way communication.
RAY SIMONE: Father Kimball?
SHEPHERD ONE: Altimeters accepted a little over 50% of the program. The numbers on the laptop continue to scroll but refuse to lock in values.
RAY SIMONE: The same exact program worked for the matching unit here.
SHEPHERD ONE: What do you want me to say? It’s not working here.
RAY SIMONE: I’m sorry, Father Kimball. I don’t know what more I can do. One can only write a program so many different ways to achieve the same result. Numbers are numbers with no gray area. I don’t know why the units are not accepting the values . . . I’m sorry.
SHEPHERD ONE: Not your fault. You’ve done the best you could.
RAY SIMONE: Will continue to work on solution—black wall, white wall; white wall, black wall.”
SHE
PHERD ONE: What?
RAY SIMONE: It means there’s a solution to everything, Father Kimball. It means look at the problem from every angle, viewpoint and flipside, and there you shall find the answer.
SHEPHERD ONE: Don’t forget one thing, Dr. Simone: You’re on the clock just as much as we are. Find that answer.
. . . COMMUNICATION TERMINATED . . .
#
The media was having a heyday reporting the current news regarding Pope Pius XIII. The reported state of affairs granted by the White House Press Secretary was that Shepherd One was no longer under hostile control and the aircraft retaken. The action, however, unfortunately did not come without the loss of life. But the pope was reported to be well and among the living.
There was no mention of the nuclear weapons since there was no longer a need. But there was mention of the substantial damage to Shepherd One’s fuselage, the plane now flying over the Pacific to burn off fuel for an attempted landing.
Of course, this latter part of the news was unequivocally doctored.
#
Ray Simone’s Comfort Zone was never inside the lab or his dorm room, but the locker room where he kept the photo of Tia-Marie hanging inside his locker. The room always smelled like dirty laundry. But it was here he felt most comfortable.
Sitting on a wooden bench positioned between rows of lockers with his locker open, he placed the flat of his palm over the creased photo of Tia-Marie and spoke in hushed tones as if in prayer.
With his head bowed and eyes closed, Simone tapped his left foot to the beat of an unheard melody. “Black wall . . . white wall . . . white wall . . . black wall . . . There’s a solution to everything . . . There’s a solution to everything . . . The word impossible doesn’t mean it can’t be done, it simply measures the degree of difficulty. White wall . . . black wall . . .” He snapped his eyes wide. “White . . . wall . . .”