Shepherd One

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

With the exception of the pilot of Shepherd One, the murders of the entire flight crew was completed with deadly efficiency and their positions taken over by Hakam’s team.

In keeping with the specifics of the Alitalia Airline group, Hakam made sure they dressed to uniform specs of the Alitalia Airline crew. Every member of his team wore the designated navy blue pants with red stripes running along the seams, and the stark white short-sleeved shirts bearing the embroidered logo of Alitalia Airlines on the pocket. And because Shepherd One and its crew was exempt from all TSA inspections, all papal baggage was collected and stored in the sublevel beneath the departing gate.

In total, four electric cars were fully loaded with luggage belonging to the pontiff and his staff. On carts One and Two, hidden beneath the soft-shell cases, were the nuclear devices.

Three of Hakam’s team appeared to look like they belonged. In each of their hands they held an electronic notepad and dotted the inventory list with a stylus as they circled the carts. To the two TSA officers who were standing as security, everything appeared to be the norm.

By 9:00 a.m. — thirty minutes before Pope Pius XIII was to arrive by gubernatorial limo — Hakam, Enzio Pastore, and the members of the Muslim Revolutionary Front appeared in the sublevel, with Captain Pastore summarily dismissing the TSA officers with a simple fanfare of a hand wave, leaving him alone with the MRF.

Each motorized cart was capable of holding two, the driver and passenger, with the carts facing a 900-foot tunnel that led to the executive hangers. Without saying a word, Hakam boarded the passenger side and gestured Enzio to the driver’s seat.

“When we reach Shepherd One,” Hakam told him, “make sure you do not falter, slip, or give any indication to the TSA officers watching over her that something is wrong.”

Enzio said nothing; he merely eased into the driver’s seat.

Hakam turned and looked down the length of the tunnel that passed beneath the tarmac. “If you do, Captain, then your family will die.”

“So you keep saying.”

“And I will keep saying it until you realize what’s at stake every waking moment that you fly Shepherd One. Now move.”

Turning the ignition key and depressing the pedal, the electric cart began to move through a concrete tunnel that was barely wide enough to let the carts pass. Light bulbs stretched along the hallway cast feeble light, and myriad pipes of various diameters and umpteen coats of paint ran along the ceiling before branching off to other sections of the airport’s underworld.

During the drive, Hakam’s shadowlike features shifted in the inconstant lighting as they drove away from the weak luminosity of one bulb, and waxed into the dim light of another. “No matter what happens,” Hakam told him, “you will never alter your planned heading unless I say so. Is that understood?”

The pilot nodded.

“The only reason why you are alive is because I need someone who knows all the intricacies of that plane, such as the flares and all the other wonderful defense mechanisms built into its configuration.”

“Expecting an aerial assault, are you?”

“I plan for every contingency and expect to win at every turn,” he answered. “And what better way to plan for such an event when the pilot of Shepherd One also happens to be one of the best pilots who flew for the Aeronautica Milatare?”

“So you know my background.”

“Like I said, I plan for every contingency with the expectation to win at every turn.”

Reaching the incline that led to the executive hangers, both men remained silent as the carts moved out of the tunnel and onto the sunlit causeway that led to Hanger 11, the storage unit for Shepherd One.

The time was 9:07 a.m., twenty-three minutes away from the pope’s scheduled arrival to the airport. From their vantage point they could see the masses lining up within the cordoned off areas to glimpse upon the pope one last time. All security had been transitioned to the populated areas with law enforcement converging to the points of interest, leaving Hakam’s team to breach the area with minimal opposition.

When they neared the end of the causeway, the carts in perfect alignment like the cars of a train, Enzio headed straight for Hanger 11 with the others in tow, the carts looking diminutive in the shadow of the massive structure.

The building was huge, a half-oval-shaped construction rising fifteen stories high with its outer shell fashioned with steel framing and corrugated tin. The bay doors were open, offering a view of one of the most technological advancements to currently hit the circuit, the Boeing 787-9 Dreamliner, a new and top-of-the-line aircraft.

Although this particular airliner was set for papal excursions and geared with additional equipment designed to keep the pope safe, the similarity in its appearance with others in its fleet made it difficult to target, since this Alitalia airliner looked no different from any other in its line. Like any other plane in Alitalia, Shepherd One sat gleaming with its signature red and green dorsal tail, and a green stripe running along the length of its fuselage.

“She’s a beautiful ship,” Hakam mentioned.

“And what will you do with her? Fly her into a building?”

Hakam shook his head. “Nothing as redundant as that,” he said. “In fact, Captain, I don’t plan to crash her into anything at all.”

As they drove near the hanger doors, they noted two TSA officials standing guard.

“Just do and say all the right things,” said Hakam. “I’ll have my team manage the rest, if necessary.”

Captain Pastore said nothing as he drove into the hanger and parked next to the check-in dais. As required, he proffered the ID cards to the officials for examination. Neither officer gave them much consideration. They simply grabbed the cards and noted the tag numbers on their logging sheets before handing the cards back to Pastore without giving the photos a detailed inspection.

“Thank you, Captain. Will you need any assistance to load the cargo bay?”

Pastore nodded. “We’ll be fine,” he said in accented English. “Thank you.”

“Then have a safe trip back to Rome.”

“We will.”

After the officers called into the command post to inform them that the pope’s crew had arrived, they were immediately dispatched to alternative points to bolster security.

“And what if they had checked the photo ID’s?” asked Pastore.

“Then my team would have killed them and their bodies would have been placed on board Shepherd One. But the one thing that is a given in this country, Captain, is American complacency. Right now they should be praying to their God for thankfulness.”

Hakam exited his cart, his team exiting theirs, and stood before the massive plane and examined the aircraft to its full incredible height, each man craning his head upward as if watching the slow trajectory of a rocket.

“We need to get inside,” said Hakam. “Now.”

The time was 9:16 a.m.

The pope was minutes away.

Kimball Hayden sat in the gubernatorial limo alongside Pope Pius XIII. The trailing vehicles, three black SUV’s, transported the additional members of the Holy See.

Kimball stared out at the Los Angeles skyline, taking in everything he once took for granted. The graffiti strewn bridges and cement overpasses, the congestion and constant tie-ups, the haze of pollution that hovered above the city like a tarnished crown would seem bleak and hollow to most. But to Kimball it was home, a place he missed, his self-exile making him a criminal to his country and to his conscience.

Once he left the limo to aid the pope aboard Shepherd One, he would have to wear his scarlet beret bearing the emblem of the Vatican Knights, and a neat pair of shades. Most likely nobody would notice a forgotten man once renowned as an elite assassin in the covert circle of the White House staff, namely the president of the United States. But if he should be discovered, would he become targeted to keep matters quiet? Since Kimball didn’t know the current political mindset, he couldn’t answer his own considerations. Nor did he want to assume that all would be forgiven or forgotten, since he was a wealth of black information of past administrations.

“You miss it, don’t you?” asked the pope.

Kimball eased away from the window and donned his sunglasses. His scarlet beret was folded into the shoulder strap of his specially designed cleric’s shirt. “I do,” he answered. “It’s my home.”

“As much of a great service you provide the Vatican, Kimball, we still recognize the fact that God has given you free will to choose whatever it is you want.”

“What I want and what I must do are two separate things,” he stated somberly. “Right now the Church is where I belong. I leave this behind because I choose to.”

The pope smiled, his features looking upon Kimball in a paternal gesture. “You’re a good man, Kimball. I know you seek the Light of Forgiveness for things you have done in the past.”

“It’s hard,” he said. “I can never seem…” His words trailed.

“What? See an actual blinding light at the end of a tunnel?” The pontiff leaned forward and placed his hand on Kimball’s forearm. “The Light, Kimball, is not just ‘The Light.’ It’s also the Light of Enlightenment. You have seen the ways of your past and are in conflict by trying to fill the void with contriteness. To me, Kimball, your repentance is that Light of Forgiveness.” He retracted his hand. “Although you may feel that you have not found It… I believe It may have found you.”

Kimball turned toward the pope, not knowing if he was silently casting judgment against him for what he truly was, an assassin. “I killed two children,” he said as if it was common knowledge.

The pope briefly closed his eyes and nodded his acknowledgement. “And if you hadn’t, how many more people would you have killed by now?”

Kimball did not reply. He turned his gaze to the passing landscape.

“Those two children became your saviors,” he added. “And their deaths served to make you change your life. Their deaths were not in vain, Kimball.”

Kimball thought otherwise. “Then why do I see their faces every time I fall asleep. There’s never an escape.”

“All I can say, Kimball, is that your service to the Church is invaluable and you have proved your worth to God time and again. You have committed yourself to saving the lives of good people.”

And Kimball thought: As an assassin I was killing despots and international tyrants who threatened the sovereignty of the United States — and by doing so I was saving the lives of good people, as well. So what’s the difference? That I do the same exact thing for the Church in the name of God instead of the Holy American Empire? People are still dying by my hand, only this time it’s viewed as acceptable under the scrutiny of God instead of the acceptable examination of a reigning politician. Only the request for doing so was far less in demand. It was kind of like… Meet the new boss, same as the old boss, type of thing.

“I feel totally lost within myself,” he finally said. “I feel… confused.”

“Sometimes a person needs more than faith, Kimball, since faith alone does not get a man by despite what you may have heard. Sometimes men, all men, need something more.”

Kimball faced him. The man looked daunting wearing his shades. “And that would be?”

“That Vatican has a battalion of psychologists for a reason,” he answered. “And there’s no shame or weakness in seeing one. In fact, I highly recommend it.”

Kimball gave a perceptible nod. He was more than willing to try anything in order to vanquish the demons in his sleep.

Staring out the window with LAX in view, Kimball wondered if he would ever gravitate away from the extreme violence that seemed so much part of his life.

He would soon get his answer.

And the answer would be no.