Shepherd One

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Hakam needed to move quickly.

After he left the cockpit the young Arab began to shout orders in earnest, informing the Garrote Assassin and his two healthy cohorts to assemble the cameras and prepare them for live feeds. It appeared that Shepherd One was about to fall prey to uninvited guests, so plans had to be altered. Washington was now out of the question. Los Angeles was in.

The overhead bins were flung open, blankets and pillows tossed aside, and laptops and camera equipment removed from the hollows.

Hakam looked out the window and viewed the north — nothing. There was still plenty of time for what they had to do.

The Garrote Assassin set up a tripod before the pope, the angle of the webcam capturing Pius in the foreground and the bishops of the Holy See in the seats behind him. Within moments they showed up on the laptop’s screen as grainy images, the color cheap, and when somebody in the background moved they did so with a choppy, stop-and-go, puppeteer’s animation to them.

“I need better than that!” yelled Hakam. “I want their faces recognizable! The world needs to see them clearly!”

“I’m doing the best I can, al-Khatib.”

The assassin’s subdued tone was cause for Hakam to ease back and take note. He was growing increasingly edgy, he knew this, and it was starting to reflect. “I know, my friend,” he said, and then he laid a soothing hand on the back of the assassin’s neck and gave a squeeze of assurance, a gesture of apology. “Forgive me. I have no excuse for my tone. But I need better than this,” he told him evenly. “Everything we do from this point on depends upon imagery. The world must be able to see clearly.”

“And they shall,” promised Garrote.

Hakam feigned a smile and gave him another squeeze. “We only have moments,” he told him kindly. “Please don’t disappoint.”

Hakam moved away and returned to the window providing a view of the north. The sky was blue, a deep blue, and the wispy-thin clouds floated with all the serenity that had obviously escaped him. At that moment he held his hand up, his fingers splayed rigid, noted the tone of his flesh darker than the flesh of his palm… and reexamined the uncontrollable shaking.

Was he truly committed to Allah? Or was he simply forcing himself to believe that death was nothing to fear?

He clenched his hand into a fist, held it tight, then closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the wall over the small window pane. Please, Allah, give me the courage to see this through.

“Allah be praised.” It was the Garrote Assassin, his voice coming like a startling shot in the dark. “The picture from the webcam is much better, al-Khatib. Do you wish to see?”

Hakam offered another comforting shoulder squeeze. “No, my friend, I knew you could do it. And that’s because Allah favors you.”

“So what do you wish me to do?”

“I want you,” he said, “to forward a live feed to all the programmed addresses right away. This show is about to start.”

“Very well, al- Khatib.”

When the Garrote Assassin left, Hakam once again leaned his forehead against the cool window pane. In the distance, drawing nearer, were four dark specks coming in from the north. Please, Allah, give me courage.

His hand continued to shake.

When Kimball heard Hakam speak to Enzio in the cockpit he retreated from the hole, wondering if Hakam heard him calling out to Enzio. But after a moment of conversation between Hakam and the pilot, it became apparent that he hadn’t. And from what Kimball gathered through their conversation, the Tower was aware that Shepherd One had been commandeered. Worse, the Arab once again threatened the lives of the pilot’s family, forcing loyalty where there was none.

At the moment Kimball wanted to bitch slap the little man. But as time drew on he could hear the contained desperation in the Arab’s voice, could sense the man losing his composure by the inches; and a man who loses focus becomes desperate; and a man who becomes desperate is prone to irrationality, which makes him highly volatile. Not good for the growing situation.

So somehow, in some way, Kimball knew he had to get topside before it was too late.

Backing away from the bank of computers that made up the Avionics Room, and then maneuvering through the tight-fitting hatch, Kimball began to rummage through the luggage. He found vestments, shirts and undergarments, typical items — but he also discovered the tools of the Holy See’s trade. Since they were the administrative arm of the Vatican, they conducted business from afar, always maintaining correspondence through the laptop.

Kimball found several laptops, along with webcams and devices he did not recognize or care to fathom their uses. He was a simple computer layman who knew the basic fundamentals of operation and little more.

Taking the best unit, a telephone line, and other items such as a webcam and charger, not really sure if he needed them, he returned to the Avionics Room. Inside, small bulbs shined enough illumination along the scoreboard of lights, which gave Kimball view of the computer’s ports. Connecting one end of the cord to the LINE-IN of the board and the other to the laptop, Kimball booted up. Within a minute he was up and running, the screen casting a mercury-glow that formed ghoulishly twisted lines that danced in macabre fashion along his face.

And then he began to type.

Live feeds from Shepherd One landed at the most prominent television stations around the United States, encompassing cities like Atlanta, Boston, New York and their major affiliates along the eastern seaboard; Los Angeles, San Francisco and Las Vegas in the west.

When news editors and premier anchormen viewed the choppy feed of Pope Pius XIII sitting with armed terrorists flanking him, the newsrooms became tumultuously active with the principles screaming for verification. However, nothing could be solidified. The White House Press, the political dignities with ties to the media, weren’t divulging or offering a modicum of proof that the feed was authentic.

Within minutes decisions were made, the opportunity too impressive to pass up with all the earmarks affirming the visuals — no matter how dark or sophomoric the image — to be that of Pope Pius XIII. All the major networks were interrupted from coast to coast, the anchorpersons verbalizing the feed as ‘highly plausible’ with Shepherd One having been commandeered — but by whom or why had yet to be determined.

Of course the feed was not aired live. Instead, grainy snippets already taken from the earliest frames and edited made the television cut. The nation was riveted; the outgoing news based more on speculation rather than fact. Ratings soured within minutes, the nation tuning in.

And what the community saw, regardless of the poor quality of the feed, was Pope Pius XIII with the point of a pistol pressed firmly against his temple.

It was the only edition allowed for viewership before fading to black.

The F-16’s locked on to their target and bore down on her like lions to a kill. After reaching the tail end of Shepherd One, they broke formation with the lead pilot of the Fighting Falcon group taking a position alongside the aircraft that gave him a visual of the cockpit. The other fighter jets flanked the jumbo jet in escort formation, two per side.

“… Shepherd One, this is Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, come in, Shepherd One…”

Enzio turned to his left and saw the fighter less than 20 meters away, the pilot pointing to his helmet as a gesture to answer the call.

“… Shepherd One, this is Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, come in, Shepherd One…”

“Answer him,” said Hakam, stepping into the cockpit and taking the navigator’s seat. “Tell them you’re to head to LAX due to significant problems with the aircraft.”

Enzio complied. “Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, we’ve already confirmed with Base that we are to head back to our depart point due to unknown mechanical problems.”

“… That’s negative, Shepherd One. You are to reconfigure your coordinates to heading eight-six-zero-one immediately…”

Hakam leaned forward. “Eight-six-zero-one?”

Having been a member of the Aeronautica Milatare, Enzio had practiced maneuvers several times with the Americans at Nellis Air Force Base and knew the coordinates well. “It’s a desert landing strip about twenty miles north of the base,” he answered.

“And I presume it’s in the middle of nowhere?”

Enzio did not acknowledge or confirm. He merely kept his eyes straight.

“… Do you copy, Shepherd One?… You’re to reconfigure your coordinates to heading eight-six-zero-one immediately… ”

“What do I tell them?” asked Enzio.

Hakam deliberated. He had to buy time, but it was obvious the fighter jets had an agenda, as well. “Tell them your heading is locked to LAX.”

Enzio sighed as if taxed. “Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, we will not reroute due to possible—”

“… You are to reroute to those coordinates, Captain… That’s a direct order…”

Enzio reached up and grabbed the toggle switch on the overhead panel. “That’s negative, Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three. Our heading remains as LAX.” And then he switched the toggle, cutting off communication.

Within less than a minute the Fighting Falcons peeled back and repositioned themselves to the rear of Shepherd One, maintaining range.

“What are they doing?” asked Hakam. “Are they escorting us in?”

Enzio nodded with all the reserve of a seasoned military pilot who knew the strategies of warfare. “No,” he said. “They’re positioning themselves.”

“For what?”

Enzio could feel a sour lump forming in his throat. “I would think that would be obvious to you by now,” he said. “They’re going to knock us out of the sky.”

The Flight Commander of Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three maintained a distance of two clicks behind Shepherd One; the other three jets were in formation alongside their commanding officer in a straight line.

“Base Command, Two-Six-Four-Three…”

“Go ahead, Two-Six-Four-Three.”

“Shepherd One is refusing to acknowledge orders. Standing by for further instructions.”

“Copy, Two-Six-Four-Three. Ten-twelve.” Ten-twelve was the vernacular to “stand by.”

Then after a delayed moment: “Two-Six-Four-Three.”

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

“Two-Six-Four-Three, maintain visual and continue to ten-twelve.”

“Copy that, Base Command.”

With Shepherd One the behemoth of the sky, there was no doubt as to who were the more powerful. With the Fighting Falcons maintaining pursuit, the Flight Commander recognized the fact that the powers that be were determining whether or not to bring Shepherd One down.

A disturbing thought considering the pope was on board, which gave the pilot reason to question the virtue of bringing the plane down. It was a matter of duty over emotion.

However, his emotion weighed on him.

If the time should ever present itself, could I really fire off a missile?

Although not wholly pious, the Flight Commander was spiritual, often finding himself calling upon God to get him through sorties in Iraq. In fact, a crucifix hung at the end of a beaded rosary inside his cockpit, the crucifix swinging back and forth like a pendulum, the eyes of Christ looking at him forlornly.

And then he asked himself once again: If the time should ever present itself, could I really fire off a missile… knowing that I would be the one responsible for killing the most recognized face in the Catholic world?

The crucifix continued to swing back and forth, the eyes of Christ unsettling, the pain behind them very real; the sadness, the deplorable and appalling sadness.

Reaching, the Flight Commander seized the crucifix in his hand and squeezed, feeling the osmosis of sorrow working to the very core of his soul.