Shepherd One

CHAPTER TEN

Marine One is the presidential helicopter transport to locations of close proximities with minimized landing areas. The current version is the VH-71 Kestral, a state-of-the-line mobile air unit that has a service ceiling of 15,000 feet, and travels at a speed of 192 miles per hour to a maximum distance of 863 miles.

Its less than posh interior was simply rudimentary with padded benches lining the interior walls and a small communications center with fax and phone. The ceiling was low, the rotary system above them a semblance of moving parts that aided in the muting of the continuous wop-wop-wop of the helicopter’s blades. Nevertheless, and with much of the noise canceled out, President Burroughs always had to speak louder than the norm, as did the members of his team.

Inside, the bay that was cordoned off from the cockpit by a wall of diamond-studded steel as President Burroughs, Chief Advisor Alan Thornton, Attorney General Dean Hamilton and Chief CIA Analyst Doug Craner gleaned through documents of newly gathered information from international sources, as they waited for the rotors to pick up the maximum speed for liftoff.

Once Marine One airlifted and began its western trajectory to Raven Rock, President Burroughs continued to read over the newly acquired facts until he was well studied with the new findings. Through the porthole window over his left shoulder Washington faded in the distance, the needle of the Washington Monument contracting to the size of a pin before disappearing all together.

Since the inception of the incident along the Arizona-Mexico border, information had come in at a breakneck pace, especially from Homeland Security who proffered dossiers on the cell group, and its extended members attained from the FBI Watch List and their own significant data base. The Arizona group was simply a small attachment of a much larger brigade.

CIA Analyst Doug Craner lifted the flap of a manila folder and rummaged through it, looking for the glossy photos of those killed at the site. “As you already know, Mr. President, al-Khalid Hassan was a leading member of that Arizona group before being killed by the Border Patrol. The other two, however,” Craner forwarded two black-and-white photos of the terrorists killed at the site to the president, “possess very little background. All we know about them at this time is that they were recently trained in al-Qaeda camps along the Afghan-Pakistani border. As far as we know, this was their first jihad mission.”

“They look like kids,” he commented.

“They pretty much are.” Craner opened the folder again and grabbed another photo of a young man whose face was grizzled with the minute curls of a beard and eyes that were dark and cold, which offset the gentle and angelic repose of his face, hinting that there was a subterfuge of something very dangerous hidden underneath.

“This is al-Khatib Hakam,” he added, “twenty-eight years of age, extremely learned and intelligent with an IQ touching the stratosphere.”

“Am I to assume he’s the team lead?”

“Yes, sir. And get a load of this. He was born in Dearborn, Michigan; an American who found his god while attending Columbia University in New York, at the age of seventeen.”

The president examined the photo and simply thought, An American?

“The man is a prodigy who graduated with Honors at nineteen, and then disappeared, only to show up on the FBI’s Watch List because of his known ties with insurgent groups and organizations.”

“Do we know where he is now?”

“No, sir. It’s said that Hakam reveals himself only if it serves a purpose. But we have received unconfirmed reports that Hakam was in Russia not too long ago. Six months ago, to be exact.”

“To purchase the bombs,” he whispered.

Craner did not comment.

Hakam obviously had the world in one hand and a Columbia scroll of graduation in the other, but decided to give it away for twisted idealism. It was truly sad for the president to see someone so naturally gifted to simply throw it all away. “So, what you’re telling me is that Al-Khatib Hakam is spearheading this crusade?”

“Al-Khatib Hakam is the alleged leader of the Muslim Revolutionary Front, which is not only a group of terrorists, but also a ring of highly trained assassins which is a cut above the normal radical who does not obligate themselves to surrender their life by committing suicide in the name of Allah. This group actually engages in combat techniques akin to our own Special Forces units, and lives on to battle another day if they survive the initial skirmish.”

Craner proffered several more photos of the known members of the Muslim Revolutionary Front. At first glance the president considered them hardened men who carried the same stoic toughness as the men from American Special Forces. But there was something different, something missing. Or perhaps they possessed too much, he considered. Perhaps their faith had corrupted them with such zealous grandeur that they held nothing more than thoughtless determination.

As Burroughs picked up the last photo Marine One dipped a little in open space, the helicopter soon recapturing its even course as the president took careful study of Hakam. “How many men are left in this cell?” he asked.

“We believe six, including him. There’s no information or record of anybody else other than the six photos and dossiers we have.”

“The guy doesn’t look like much of a soldier.”

“I’m sure the guy couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag. But true power doesn’t come by killing. It comes by getting others to do it for you. And that’s what Hakam is, the driving force that gets others to do whatever he wants, which makes him a very dangerous man.”

The president fanned the photos across his fingers as if holding a poker hand. “Tell me more about his team.”

“Five men who were elite commandos serving under the Republican Guard and the Iranian Revolutionary Guard as the best of the best,” he stated. “And I do mean the best of the best. When things didn’t go right on the war front, they would send these guys in to clean up the mess.”

The president nodded, and then closed his eyes. “So, we have five elite soldiers and a mental giant. I guess if you cut off the head of the serpent, then the body would wither and die.”

“Perhaps, sir.”

“And Hakam was last known to be in Russia how long ago?”

“Six months ago.”

“And nobody’s seen or heard from him since?”

“No, sir.”

President Burroughs pressed his lips into a tight grimace. “Alan, what’s your take on all this?”

Thornton, elfish and diminutive in his own right, leaned forward to gather those in close conference without having to yell above the beat of the blades. “Well, Mr. President, barring the inexperience of the members shot and killed at the site with the exception of al-Khalid Hassan, we have to assume the more experienced of the team got through. And taking into consideration that it takes a custodial team of at least two people to get a single unit across the border, simply translates that two, or maybe even three units have made their way onto American territory. And this is based upon the information that six members of the team remain, which, of course, is purely speculation at this point. There could be more, there could be less.”

“And what about Perchenko? Any feedback from intercepted lines?”

“Plenty,” said Craner. “We confirmed Perchenko to be in Minsk, as we speak. And it appears the Russians have mobilized their sources to find him before we do. So we have our teams scouring Perchenko’s frequent haunts hoping to grab him as soon as possible.”

“Whatever it takes, Doug, find him. I need to know how many units are out there. Because if these devices go off, then this country will lose everything — it’ll lose its will, its courage, and its ability to sustain a national confidence in its government to protect.”

“I agree, sir.”

“In the meantime, we need to come up with solutions. And we need to come up with probable target sites despite the obvious, and cover those areas with as many bodies as we can provide. Use whatever is necessary to accomplish the means. I want you to look inside every mosque, temple, or Muslim holy site known for radical behavior. Those packages could be anywhere. And Dean?”

Dean Hamilton was the Attorney General whose resolve was as steely as the gaze from his bottle-green eyes that possessed the determination to outwit, outfight, and outmaneuver anyone within his constituency to achieve what he believed would be the best for the administration. To fight in the vein of rectitude by ruffling a few feathers on the political floor had become his trademark. And to fight Dean Hamilton on his level always promised a bitter struggle for those who always took battle against him. Not only was he remarkably virtuous, he was equally keen and anticipated what was coming. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“I want all available resources in motion. I want every field agent across this country in constant movement. And I mean constant. There will be no time to eat, drink or sleep. I want action, lots of action, and I want results according to those actions.”

Since Hamilton was in charge over the FBI, he would notify the directors immediately. “Yes, sir.”

“And, Doug.”

“Sir?”

“Find Perchenko.”

It wasn’t so much as a benevolent statement as it was a fervent order. The president’s stern measure made it abundantly clear should Perchenko be found before the American’s could ascertain any viable information, then the proverbial Sword of Damocles would fall upon the CIA Analyst’s head, since the accusing finger had to be pointed somewhere. “Yes, sir. We’re working on it.”

The president looked out the window over his left shoulder and noted the canopy of tree tops that covered the land in beautiful blooms in different shades of green. And then he wondered if he would ever see Washington again… Or if it would become a poisoned city due to nuclear fallout.

The president thought of a lot of things.

Nikki’s Tavern was a little hole-in-the-wall pub with a simple non-descript door leading from a trash-laden sidewalk that led into an interior that was as bleak and rundown as the surrounding neighborhood. Inside, the wallpaper had yellowed like old parchment and the ferns that dotted the floor space in the corners barely sustained life. High on the nicotine-stained ceiling, fans turned with a wobbled effect that made Kimball imagine the blade attachments weren’t too secure. Yet none of this mattered to him. Within this neglected establishment was solitude.

Looking down the long stretch of the tavern, he took note of the room’s gloominess that was thick with cigarette smoke that moved through the air in phantasmagoric shapes. Along the bar silhouetted against the backdrop stooping over their drinks, a few patrons sat quietly. In its unkempt isolation Kimball found a booth across from them, the table steeped in shadow and a much needed comfort zone.

In front of him seven shot glasses — five empty, two filled with dark liquor — were neatly positioned in front of him as he ran a fingertip around the rim of a full one, his eyes staring at nothing in particular. Somewhere somebody coughed — an unhealthy phlegm jag that sounded in the patron’s chest like a death rattle.

And then the bar fell silent, Kimball losing himself in thought.

For over a decade he was driven to find salvation; however, salvation always seemed more than an arm’s length away. Perhaps, he considered, it was because he was a man who truly did not find God to be part of his element, even though he wished it so. Whereas he could recite articles verbatim from military manuals as easily as a preacher could recite verses from the Bible, Kimball Hayden could not remember the first line of ‘The Lord’s Prayer,’ which was the simplest of all prayers.

Unlike his team, Kimball was the unique cast that helped shaped the members of the Vatican Knights, who were groomed to be the Crusaders of a new age. Whereas they were developed by using humbleness as their shield and faith as their guide, Kimball only knew death and how to administer its techniques as if the art of killing was no more than an involuntary act. Yet in the eyes of his team and the Church clerisy, he was all but anointed.

But Kimball never felt so alone.

In a quick motion he brought the shot glass to his lips and drank — a maneuver that seemed automatic, and then aligned the empty glass alongside the other empty glasses.

Six glasses now stood side by side in a perfect row, all empty, a mere representation of his growing hollowness with one glass left, the last full glass a symbolic and tenuous hold that he wasn’t completely without hope. If he drank from it, then the line would be complete, the glasses fully drained, and with it the faith of receiving salvation forever gone since the well to draw from was now completely dry. With that final glass remained the last few ounces of hope.

Nevertheless, Kimball stared at the shot glass, tempted.

There’s nothing symbolic about it, he thought. It’s only a drink.

But by not drinking it, it gave him a reason for optimism.

So instead of imbibing, he fell back into personal reflection.

And what he reflected upon was the value of his purpose of having been assigned the pope’s personal valet, which was not without its reasons. He was chosen because he possessed the best tools to save the pontiff’s life if the situation ever presented itself, especially in today’s world where zealous enlightenment appeared to be on the rise. But Kimball knew he had to lay low. Absconding from government service might not bode too well for him if the Burroughs administration should discover that he was still alive.

As he traced a fingertip along the rim of the last shot glass, a male in his early twenties stopped just beyond the edge of the table, his fingers ticking off and counting down the empty glasses before focusing his gaze to the Roman Catholic collar Kimball was wearing, and then shifted to the priest’s eyes. “Excuse me, Father.”

Kimball raised the corner of his brow. “Something I can help you with?”

“Aren’t priests supposed to uphold a higher standard? Are you supposed to be drinking like this?”

Kimball looked at the guy in such a way that the young man took a step away from the table. He had encroached too closely into his personal space. Worse, he infringed upon his personal life with audacity. And then in a tone that was less priestly. “Hey, kid.” The young man hesitated as Kimball beckoned him closer to the table with his forefinger. “Come here.”

The young man came forward with every line, shadow and premature crease on his face spelling out that he had overstepped his boundaries and wished he hadn’t. There was something very different about this priest, something dangerously roguish.

The moment he stepped into close counsel with the cleric, Kimball whispered, “Look, I already have enough on my plate without people like you passing judgment on me. If you don’t like what I do, then piss off.”

The young man did not retort. He simply turned and walked out of the bar at a pace much quicker than when he entered.

Across from him, behind the bar, was a mirror smudged with layers of dust — a mirror that had not been wiped down in months, perhaps years. Staring back at him was the reflection of a man wearing a cleric’s collar, the image of a priest, a father, a man of the cloth. Perhaps the kid was right after all, he considered. Without the collar he would have been like anyone else in this bar — someone who was stooped over their drink and blending in with the shadows; people who were nondescript and without hope.

After glancing into the mirror one last time, Kimball pushed the last shot glass away, still full, and left the tavern.