Shepherd One (28 page)

She took the shirt, brought it to her face, and wept. No
longer could she hold back the tears and be strong for her daughters who now
joined in, each sobbing and crying, the terror yet to go away.

And though they were safe, Isaiah knew a long period of
catharsis was sure to follow.

And this was their beginning.

Poking his head through the doorway, Jonah spoke in a hushed
tone. “Isaiah, Leviticus isn’t at his post.”

“There’s another one out there,” he informed him. “My guess
is that he’s backtracking to see if we were being flanked or followed.”

In other words, the man was on the hunt.

#

When al-Rashad opened
the
door to Basilio’s locker hold, the boy spilled out and tumbled down the low
mound of rubble it was situated on.

The boy appeared red, almost scarlet, his flesh warm to the touch.
“Get up, boy. You’re not dead yet.”

Basilio smacked his dry lips, the lower lip crusted with
blood. “Water . . .”

“You want water? I’ll tell you what; I’ll piss down your
throat if you don’t get up within the next two seconds. How’s that for water?”

Basilio rolled his eyes. The boy was really out of it. And
although al-Rashad needed him for leverage, he didn’t want to be burdened with
dead weight either.

“I’m going to count to five, kid, and that’s it. If you
don’t get up,” al-Rashad pointed his Glock at Basilio’s head, “then I will
shoot you dead. One . . . Two . . .”

Basilio made a valiant effort, which showed al-Rashad the
boy was at least cognizant enough to understand directions, but failed mightily
in his attempt to get to his feet.

“Three . . .”

Basilio began to whimper, yet it sounded more primal than
the whine of a fifteen-year-old boy. It was the cry of self-preservation.

“Four . . .”

Suddenly al-Rashad’s vision exploded in a nebulas cloud of
brilliant whiteness. When his mind cleared he found himself on the ground with
a man looming over him with the mouth of his MP-5 directed at his forehead.
“Are there any more?” he asked.

“Any more what?”

Leviticus pressed the barrel against al-Rashad’s cheek,
indenting the flesh. “How many in your team?”

Al-Rashad smiled, showing the lines of his teeth.
“Millions,” he said. “In the army of Allah, there are millions.”

Leviticus repositioned the barrel from the man’s cheek to
the center of his forehead.

“You think shifting your weapon from one side of my face to
the other is going to make a difference?”

“How many?”

“I’ve told you.” And then the big man cocked his head,
noting the Roman Catholic collar that was starch white, even in the
quasi-darkness, and the striking Silver Pattée and flanking lions that stood
out on his body armor akin to the S on superman’s chest. “Who are you?”

“How many? I won’t ask again.” 

In the rubble Basilio moved, which prompted Leviticus to
quickly shift his eyes away from al-Rashad and to the boy. The action, however,
proved costly as the downed Arab came across with his leg and cut Leviticus
right out from under his stance, the MP-5 going airborne.

By the time Leviticus got to his feet al-Rashad was already
up with postured hands and feet in Tae Kwon Do fashion. Besides being immensely
large, the man was quick.

Circling slowly around his opponent, Leviticus remained
ready as he silently condemned himself for making a sophomoric mistake. Taking
his eyes of his opponent was a fundamental error which could have cost him his
life, and may still.

 Holding his hands in a style al-Rashad did not recognize
only made the man of simian appearance bolder. “And what do you call that
position?” he taunted. “You hold yourself like a little girl.”

Leviticus did not respond.

Between them lay the MP-5. But this time Leviticus was not
about to shift his gaze. His lesson duly learned.

“Are you a priest?”

More silence as al-Rashad goaded him.

“And that emblem on your chest . . .”

Leviticus stood rooted, waiting, hands and feet ready.

And then the Arab lunged forward, his massive hands striking
and cutting in an attempt to kill. But Leviticus’s unorthodox style made it
easy for him to defend against the larger man’s blows as they glanced off him
with little effect, further enraging al-Rashad.

In a savage scream the Arab came across with his hand,
missing, then cut back, hitting nothing but open air. And then he came across
and sliced at him with an open elbow, missing, kicked out with his leg, the
move easily defended and the leg pushed aside, throwing the larger man off
balance and forcing him to reconnoiter his position. 

For the moment both men took a recess as they studied each
other.

Whereas al-Rashad appeared winded, the Vatican Knight seemed
hardly effected. Worse, his opponent looked as if he was simply toying with
him.

“I was the best in my class in martial arts,” he told
Leviticus as he sucked in air. “So you don’t stand a chance.”

“A four-year-old girl could kick your ass.”

The Arab’s eyes immediately flared in the same flash of moment
that his simian brow took on the furrowed lines of someone becoming highly
agitated. In uncontested rage he went after Leviticus with blows far deadlier
than his initial assault, the blade of his hands coming across, then down,
forcing the Vatican Knight to backpedal and retreat. When he drove Leviticus
against a concrete pillar, the Arab came around with a perfect roundhouse kick
and drove the flat of his foot against a support, the impact cracking the
column and giving it a slight dog-bend appearance. But Leviticus ducked and
maneuvered out of the way—a man toying with a child, then stood aside.

Al-Rashad turned with his chest heaving and pitching, the
veins in his arms and neck sticking out like cords, his face scarlet red.

And Leviticus realized the man would never quit.

Al-Rashad came forward, slowly, with his hands balled into
lethal fists. “This time,” he said. “I will kill you.”

Leviticus shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said. And
then: “It’s now . . . my turn.” With that he launched himself against the much
larger man by raining blows that were impossible to defend against, the motions
quick, damaging, one hand following the other, strike after strike connecting,
hurting, driving a fount of blood from the big man’s nose, al-Rashad falling back,
stumbling, his hands flailing wildly about in a futile attempt to defend
himself, failing. And then Leviticus took flight, defied gravity, his vertical
leap taking him higher than mere mortals could comprehend, and then came across
in a blinding revolution that connected with the man’s simian jaw, the force
snapping al-Rashad’s neck.

Within moments the Arab was no more. 

After grabbing his MP-5, he went to aid of Basilio who was
able to prop himself up on an elbow.  “How are you, son?”

“Water . . .”

Leviticus smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll get you
what you need.”

The boy was going to be all right.

#

For the past
hour Hakam was
unable to reach al-Rashad or any member of his team, which disturbed him
greatly. The Perugia laptop was to be manned at all times, no excuses, which
led Hakam to believe the old munitions depot had been compromised. And if that
was the case, then his leverage over the pilot was gone.

Hakam slowly lowered the screen of his laptop. “Your family
is doing well,” he lied. “And so that you know, it has been agreed by the
principals that their death would serve us no purpose. If you do not allow your
conscience to run interference in regard to the pope, and if you continue to
follow through with my wishes, then your family will be freed.”

Enzio did not believe him as he gave Hakam a hard, sidelong glance. 

“There’s something you wish to ask me?” said Hakam.

Enzio nodded. “What guarantees can you give me that my
family will be safe?”

“They have not seen the faces of those who took them. Nor do
they know where they are. Once the United States meets my demand, then your
family will be returned unharmed.”

“And if the Americans do not follow through?”

“Then the United States will suffer the consequences.”

Enzio was clearly guarded. So he proposed a question served
to determine Hakam’s truthfulness. Depending how Hakam answered would help him
decide whether or not the Arab was sincere. The answer would surprise him. “Am
I going to die?”

Hakam did not hesitate. “Yes . . . You and everybody else
aboard this plane.”

If Hakam had said no, then Enzio would have cast him off as
a liar, realizing the Arab was simply telling him what he wanted to hear. But
this was not the case. Maybe his family had a chance after all.

“As it now stands,” said Hakam, “your children will grow old
and have children of their own. And your wife will be the doting grandmother. Should
you deviate from anything I tell you to do, then your entire lineage will be
destroyed by the time the sun rises over Italy.” Hakam slowly got to his feet,
feeling secure that his truths and untruths weaved an uncertainty within the
pilot. And then he punched his point home. “The life of your family for your
loyalty, that’s all I ask for.”

Enzio turned back to view the open sky, the micro
expressions on his face telling Hakam that he was warring with himself and
losing.

“Do I have your loyalty?”

Enzio nodded. When it came to surrendering moral fortitude
for the lives of his family, he saw no other alternative. “And what exactly are
you asking from me?”

Hakam felt overwhelming shame. As much as he prayed and pled
his case to Allah, his courage escaped him. So he had to place his faith in a
most unlikely ally. “Within the hour, the Americans will inform me on whether
or not they have followed through with my demand. If they have, then they will
plead for more time so they can follow through with additional plans. And I
will grant them three hours, and no more. At the end of the third hour you will
redirect Shepherd One over the center of the city and take her down to ten
thousand feet. Is that clear, Captain Pastore—to ten thousand feet? If you fail
to do that under
any
circumstances, then my people holding your family
have been ordered to take their lives and place their heads along the sidewalk
in front of the
Polizia De Stato
as I promised you earlier.”

Enzio felt highly vulnerable. Hakam had played him well.
“And I have your promise that my family will be fine?”

Hakam placed the flat of his hand on the laptop. “You have
my solemn word,” he lied. And then he left the cockpit.

#

Imelda Rokach had
no idea she
was being targeted for assassination. Nor did she realize that her death would
serve two purposes for the president of the United States, a man whom she had never
met. One, she would become the mechanism to deactivate a nuclear weapon, if
Hakam was to honor his word. Two, her death would give the president much
needed time to re-explore his position regarding the four additional targets—perhaps
as much as five hours, which was ample time to evacuate Los Angeles. 

It was amazing how a single person became the unwitting key
to the salvation of tens of thousands in a city across the country. But in the
business she was in, getting blindsided was the norm, even by her allies.

Inside a heath food restaurant she toyed with her salad as
she read the
Washington Post
, her eyes focused on the printed page
rather than her surroundings, as taught by Mossad no matter the circumstance.
But she was in America, which was unlike her beloved Israel that was always
under constant threat. Here, there were no volleys of rockets or suicide
bombers.

Less than ten feet away a man dressed in suit and tie was
sipping a latte while staring at the busy D.C. streets, the weather warm,
sunny, the day turning out to be wonderful. On the table was a folded copy of
the
Post
. And positioned within the paper was a .22 caliber Colt
automatic with an attached suppressor.

The operative waited for the abort command through his
wireless earpiece. If it did not come within the next twenty minutes, then he
was to take her out. At that time he would grip the weapon, keep it shielded
beneath the paper, and as he walked by put a bullet in her head with the gun
sounding no louder than a spit. By the time she was discovered slumped forward
in her salad he would have already immersed himself with the crowd. 

The man checked his watch.

He had almost fifteen minutes to go.

He sipped his latte.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The Arab moved slowly down the aisle
with his head moving in such a way it appeared that he expected nothing out of
the norm. When he rounded the bend to the kitchen his eyes vaulted to the size
of communion wafers. He did not expect to see Kimball standing there waiting.

Before the terrorist could begin to raise his weapon,
Kimball came across with his KA-BAR and cut the man’s throat before he could
utter a warning cry. He then followed through with an uppercut thrust with the
second knife and jammed the blade beneath the man’s chin, driving the point
upward into the man’s brain and through the cap of his skull, killing the
terrorist within two heartbeats.   

After the man slid quietly to the floor as dead weight,
Kimball removed the KA-BAR and wiped the blade clean on the man’s white shirt,
leaving a bloody stripe. He then grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him
to a lavatory where he deposited the body between the basin and stainless steel
toilet. He then returned to the kitchen to reexamine his position. 

The Garrote Assassin sat on an armrest overlooking the
bishops like a sheep herder, once in a while leveling his firearm at a bishop
and making a mock gesture of firing his weapon. This guy was a real prick, no
doubt. 

If Kimball was going to take him out, he knew he would have
to do so from a distance. And this was his forte, what he had become elite at.
Repositioning the knife so that the pointed end of the blade was pinched
between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the perfect balance and weight of the
hilt, Kimball was ready to let it fly.

So when the Garrote Assassin got to his feet, he did just
that.

The terrorist never saw the flight of the knife as it
punched into his shoulder, the sudden white-hot pain causing the Garrote
Assassin to go dizzy before he realized what happened. When he looked up and
noted the flight of the second knife, the weapon turning over with the slowness
of a bad dream as it got closer, the sound of its revolutions sounding like a
heartbeat waning to its last thump as it traversed the distance between them,
he knew his life was coming to an end the moment the knife pierced his throat
with the point exiting through the back of his neck.

For a fleeting moment the motion of his good arm became
choppy as it searched blindly through open air, his hand finally coming to rest
on the lodged hilt in his throat, which he was too shocked to remove. In an
instant of blurred vision, as his world began to spiral out of control, he saw
a man standing before him bearing a look of apathy. He was wearing a Roman Catholic
collar so white it gave off a halo glow. On his shirt and equally emblazoned
was the insignia of the silver Pattée and the symbol’s flanking lions.  

Vatican
. . . Knight
.

It was the assassin’s last thought when an all-consuming
darkness finally overtook him.

#

“I don’t know
how you got up
here, but that’s hardly significant.” 

Kimball turned to see Hakam standing ten feet away. In his
hand was the BlackBerry, his thumb on the center button.

“Take one step, Vatican Knight, and I will depress this button.
Life as you know it will cease and desist. And you know what I’m talking
about.”

Kimball knew exactly what he was talking about. He was
talking about the payload.

“And the one who was making the rounds of the plane?” asked
Hakam. 

“He’s stuffed away in one of the heads in the back.”

“No doubt in the same shape as my friend here,” he said,
tipping his chin in the direction of the Garrote Assassin. That left him with
two disabled soldiers. “I will say this, you are good. And I don’t say that
lightly. These men were the best at what they did. I’m not talking about typical
warriors who train in al-Qaeda camps, either. These men were seasoned fighters
from leading military factions.”

“They were complacent and fought like pussies.”

If the Arab was taken aback, he did not show it. “Now what
to do with you,” he said.

From the corner of their eyes they saw the Wounded Leg
Assassin with his arm raised, a firearm pointed in their direction. He was
leaning against the partition that separated the holding area from the cockpit,
using the wall as a crutch. He was gray-faced with dark rings circling his
eyes, the look of a man with one foot in the grave. He was sickly and weak; his
eyes having the red and rheumy look of fever to them. In his hand the gun
wavered unsteadily.

“Let me take him, al-Khatib.” 

Hakam took a step closer to the injured man and spoke to him
in Arabic. “Put the weapon down,” he told him. “You’re in no shape—”

“In the praise of Allah—” The gun went off in quick
succession, five loud reports, each shot going wide of the Vatican Knight.

Against the far wall pock marks could be seen and the hiss
of escaping air heard, as if a seal had been suddenly lifted or breached.
Everyone remained still, afraid to breathe, each man knowing what was about to
come, but tried to wish the truth away.

Cracks and fissures ran from one pock mark to another, like
connecting the dots, the lines racing as pressure undermined the wall. Nearby
windows began to break, the noise of the quick moving fractures sounded like
ice cracking beneath one’s feet on the surface of a frozen pond. And then the
wall gave—the metal tearing and wrenching, the edges of the hole peeling
outward toward the open sky with the sound of a locomotive rushing through the
gaping hole. Anything not tacked down took flight—gravity a non factor as the
Garrote Assassin was lifted and whisked through the hole, his limbs boneless as
he cleared the edges easily. The gap was that large. Pillows, blankets,
newspapers, magazines vacated the plane. A nearby row of seats closest to the
opening also began to pull loose from their floor bolts. And then the entire
row was gone, along with the three bishops who were seat-belted into them. 

Wounded Leg took flight as well as Wounded Arm, both men
having been sucked out with such velocity that neither of them had time to cry
out. Kimball was lifted, too, his hand reaching out and grabbing the leg
extension of a chair, his body weightless, his legs scissoring in the air
behind him.

At the same time Hakam could feel himself rise and get
pulled forward, his body quickly claimed by the pulling effects as he started
his way toward the opening. With his world moving too quickly for him to
comprehend, a large hand closed over his wrist.

The Vatican Knight had grabbed him, both men now whipping
like pennants in a strong wind.

With one hand Hakam held on with all the power he could
muster. But it was not enough. In the other was the BlackBerry. “Don’t let go
of me!” he pleaded. “Please! I don’t want to die!”

Kimball stared at the BlackBerry, knew its function. But his
grasp was slipping, which meant Hakam was slipping away as well.

Kimball strained, hoping to hang on long enough for the
plane to stabilize. “Why should I let you live?” he cried over the deafening
noise of flushing air. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this what it’s all
about for you?”

The Arab released the BlackBerry, the unit whipping through
the air so fast Kimball barely saw it leave the man’s hand. The only reason why
he grabbed Hakam was for the unit. Without it he could no longer reconfigure
the payload impotent. It had been Hakam’s only trump card. And now it was gone.

There was no need for Kimball to maintain his hold any
longer. And then he spotted Pope Pius looking down on him with remarkable passivity,
his keen eyes waiting to see which path Kimball would take, the one leading to
the redemption he has sought for, or the one that will surely continue to pave
the way to his own personal Hell.

He turned to Hakam whose face appeared longer, thinner, and
quite stricken. “Reach up and hang on with your other hand!” yelled Kimball.

“I don’t want to die!”

“Reach up with your other hand!”

Hakam did, but the mounting suction was proving too great
and the grips of both men were beginning to slip.

“Don’t let go!” Hakam was beyond panic. And it was the most
emotionally animated he had ever been. “Please . . .”

Hakam’s grasp was beginning to ride down Kimball’s wrist.

“Hang on!”

Now they were hanging by the crooks of their fingertips,
Hakam screaming, his eyes bemoaning the fact that his life was about to come to
a horrible end. And then they were free, Hakam caroming hard off the ceiling
before being sucked out of the fuselage.

With his free hand Kimball grabbed the leg of the chair with
a double-fisted hold and gazed upon the pope.

The pontiff was looking at him with approval because he had
chosen his path well. He had chosen to save the life of a man despite failing
in his endeavor. He had chosen the path of redemption.

As the air began to stabilize, Kimball became more gravity
oriented and his legs gradually made their way back to the floor. When he got
to his feet he noted the hole and the sharp metal edges surrounding it.
Suddenly there was a loud booming pop, which was closely followed by a turbulent
pitch that dropped Kimball to his backside.

Shepherd One was taking a nosedive.

#

The Flight Commander
of the
Fighting Falcons remained behind Shepherd One at a comfortable distance with
the rest of his team, the planes flying in straight-line formation.

And then it happened quickly and without warning.

A portion of the portside wall of Shepherd One blew outward,
the mild concussion of the explosion causing the jets to waver in their pattern
before regaining their balance. From the blast-hole came the signs of anything
not tethered down. The first was a body, which was followed by more bodies,
including a benched-row seating of bishops. Thirty seconds after that a final
body was drawn through the opening, someone small, the man pin wheeling his
arms like crazy as he began his five-mile plummet. 

And then there was the flash of a second explosion, the
licks of flame leaping from one of the portside engines before quickly dying
out.

“Base Command, this is Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three,
come in . . .”

“. . .
This is Base Command, go ahead Two-Six-Four-Three
. . .”

Before the pilot could answer, Shepherd One nosed its way
into a steep descent.

“Base Command, Shepherd One is going down. I repeat:
Shepherd One is going down.”

#

Everyone in the
Raven Rock
underground got to their feet.

“Come again, Two-Six-Four-Three?”

“. . .
Shepherd One is going down. A wall blew out from
the portside and it appears one of the engines is gone as well
. . .
She’s
falling into the heart of LA . . .
”

President Burroughs had grossly misjudged his call and was
now second guessing himself. He purposely placed his entire faith on an unknown
soldier hoping to avoid political fallout with the nation he was helming. If he
ordered the evacuation of Los Angeles, the fallout would have come in the form
of unmitigated loss of confidence from an entire population who expected their
government to protect them on all fronts since Americans, as a whole, had taken
their sense of security for granted. If they had been informed that a nuclear
payload made its way across the American border, and now that payload was
flying above the city of Los Angeles, then the confidence as a nation would
have been shaken to the core, if not entirely broken. Not only would there have
been blind panic in LA, but throughout the nation as a whole. If a nuclear
weapon breached the security lines once, then it could happen again.

The president raked his fingers nervously through his hair
as he let his conscience run interference, believing he should have listened to
his staff.
Yes
, informing the masses would have caused internal and
irreparable damages, the American constituency no doubt imposing a death
sentence upon his administration. How many people could he have saved by
evacuating the city?
A hundred thousand people, maybe more?
Now he would
have to bear the loss of those souls and the decision making that cost them
their lives.

Perhaps good intentions paved the road to Hell after all, he
considered. 

#

Enzio immediately felt
the
draw and pull of air caused by a breach in the fuselage. Everything not tacked
down in the cockpit was pulled out the door, the force so great it lifted Enzio
from his seat, which he was eternally grateful to have been securely belted
in. 

The plane seesawed from side to side trying to balance
itself as if on the point of the fulcrum, but failed, the up-and-down movement
getting worse, not better, the tips of the wings dipping in wild vacillation,
which threatened to throw Shepherd One into a spiral. 

As the drawing pressure began to alleviate, a modicum of
control returned to Enzio and the plane started to level off. But when a
booming pop sounded, Shepherd One began a steady decline as the angle of its
nose and the subsequent follow through of its body started to tip toward a
vertical position that promised a head-on collision with Earth.

The altimeter on the flight panel began to descend, going
from its set level of 25,000 feet to a scrolling set of numbers that rolled
downward.

. . . 24,000 feet . . .

. . . 23,500 feet . . .

. . . 23,000 feet . . .

From the overhead panel a light winked on, signifying that
Shepherd One had lost thrust from one of its engines, hence the pop which was
more likely an explosion that threw off the plane’s balance. In quick
succession he switched a series of toggles to readjust Shepherd One’s power to
the three remaining engines, and then applied all his strength to the yolk that
vibrated heavily in his hands.