Shepherd One (17 page)

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 your 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.”

“. . .
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.