Shepherd One (29 page)

. . . 22,000 feet . . .

. . . 21,000 feet . . .

. . . 20,000 feet . . .

The plane rattled to the point where Enzio was sure the
rivets holding Shepherd One together would pop loose. But they didn’t. The
entire construction was a marvel of engineering as the equalized thrusts and
flaps began to engage themselves, the nose rising, the wings steadying, all in
slow progression.

. . . 17,000 feet . . .

. . . 16,500 feet . . .

. . . 16,000 feet . . .

The belly of the aircraft began to level back into a
horizontal plane, the flight smoothing out.

. . . 15,000 feet . . .

. . . 14,500 feet . . .

At 13,900 feet, Shepherd One had leveled off. 

#

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

“. . .
Go ahead, Two-Six-Four-Three
.”

“Base Command, it appears Shepherd One had stabilized and is
maintaining a level of thirteen thousand nine hundred feet. However, the
aircraft has substantial damage to its porthole side with a massive breach in
the fuselage fore of the wing. Do you copy?”

“. . .
Repeat, Two-Six-Four-Three . . . Did you say
Shepherd One is maintaining their altitude with substantial damage?
. . .”

“That’s affirmative.”

“. . .
Two-Six-Four-Three, you are to immediately make
contact with Shepherd One and obtain their current situation. Do you copy?
. . .”

“Affirmative, Base Command . . . Engaging . . .”

“. . .
Copy that
. . .”

#

Kimball Hayden worked
his way
to the cockpit with his hair continuing to whip about the crown of his head as
if in a wind tunnel, and grabbed the edges of the doorway. “Enzio.”

The pilot turned. “Father Hayden, how did you get up here? I
thought you were locked below.” And then he saw the combat knives attached to
his thighs. Somehow, he thought, they looked natural on him. “What are you
doing with those?” he asked, pointing to the weapons.

Kimball stepped into the cockpit and ignored the question.
“What’s our altitude?” he said with urgency.

The pilot checked the altimeter. “We’re maintaining at
thirteen thousand nine hundred feet.”

“Don’t go any lower,” he told him. “Not one inch.”

Enzio looked past Kimball and beyond the door. And Kimball
intuited the pilot’s puzzled appearance as to what happened to Hakam and his
team, as well as to Shepherd One.

“They’re all gone,” he said, “along with three of our own.”

“And the pontiff?”

“Given the circumstances, he’s doing well.”

Enzio look pleased after learning the pope’s fate. It was
the look of deliverance. “I also heard multiple gunshots,” he said. “And then
the blowout occurred. How bad is she damaged?”

“It’s extensive, Enzio—and I mean very.”

“Will she hold another two hours plus?”

Kimball thought this an odd question. “I would think you
were more of an expert on that, not me. Why?” 

Enzio closed his eyes and swallowed. In his mind’s eye he
could see his wife’s lovely face and the faces of his children. He could see
his son trying too hard to be a man, his need for adulthood coming in the form
of macho posturing that hadn’t quite measured up to a true grown-up, both
parents still seeing the little boy in him. And Enzio smiled in a dreamy sort
of way that made Kimball think the man was lost in his own utopia where
everything was in perfect harmony. It was short lived, however, when Enzio
snapped his eyes open.

“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.”

SHEPHERD 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 . . .”

After kissing the tips of his fingers and pressing them
against the photo, Simone raced his way to the Comm Center to contact President
Burroughs.

. . .
White wall, black wall . . . Black wall, white wall
. . .

#

“The units are
frozen at
nearly forty-nine hundred feet,” said Simone from the video. “But we can still
land the plane at that level.”

The time was getting late and the president and his team
were beginning to look like they felt, tired and haggard. “How do you propose
to do that?” asked President Burroughs. “LAX is less than two hundred feet
above sea level.”