Shepherd One

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

As a very young man, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci led the crusade against Nazi Germany who touted neutrality with the Church when, in fact, the pope protested profound sorrow with Germany’s state of religion that proposed the renewal of Catholic persecution. The Nazi’s even went as far as to declare a new Church in Germany entirely independent from Rome with a denunciation of Roman Catholicism as a "Mediterranean Jewish myth." In reprisal the Vatican broadcasted that all Germans expressing a desire to become priests were liable to internment, and that all convents and monasteries would be closed all over Germany with the priests falling liable to expulsion from their parishes at the slightest cause.

In an effort to challenge the outcome of these charges, the Nazi regime turned around and answered with an assertion by suggesting that a new Catholic prayer book include special war prayers such as "Victory in the German Struggle for Liberty." But Goebbels' Propaganda Ministry missed an obvious deduction, which was that Germany's Catholics were praying for peace, not victory.

Nevertheless, a spiked increase of tension remained between the Nazi regime and Rome. And fearing that Pope Pius XIII may be assassinated for political and religious motives, created a clandestine force of elite commandos known as the Vatican Knights, a special group of fighters who possessed a very particular set of skills.

For the past half century the cardinal recruited waifs and those with minimal family ties, but those who also possessed the traits, skills and learning abilities to uphold the dictum of ‘Loyalty Above All Else, Except Honor.’ He had taken them as young men and gave them the need for purpose and significance. He also gave them pride, but not so much where it became a crippling vanity. And in time he assembled and developed a team whose members were from all over the globe, their devotion to the pope above the sanctity of their own life — the best in the world.

And then there was Kimball Hayden — an assassin for the American government who killed without any set of principles or ethics, but with cold fortitude. Yet there was something deep inside the man that Cardinal Vessucci saw with his keen and unaided eye. He saw Kimball as someone who was more than just a man without conscience or core, but a person who let his pride lead him until the very moment of his epiphany when he killed two boys for the sake of duty. And it was then that the cardinal saw Kimball for what he really was: the fulcrum between sinner and saint.

For years his covert connections within the American political hierarchy kept a watchful eye on the man who was allegedly without soul, a killing machine, and knew everything he did from afar.

In 1991 he knew of Kimball’s mission into Iraq, and sent two of his elite Knights to trail him through the desert. It was a test for all three: one to see if his Knights would be spotted by Kimball, which they were not; and a test for himself, a measurement of his own insight to see if he was right about Kimball Hayden possessing a measure of decency, or if he was someone truly soulless. Everyone passed on all accounts.

When he learned about what Kimball did — when he buried the boys and mourned their loss — he saw a gateway open and took the opportunity to offer Kimball what he believed to be missing, which was his soul. When Kimball decided to abscond from service and leave the Iraqi desert, the cardinal continued his surveillance up to the moment Kimball Hayden showed up in a little tavern in Venice.

It had become his recruiting point — a place where a new alliance was born, and hopes to a man in search of his soul.

Since then, however, he had grown old; his body losing its youth and energy, his one-time vigor lost to the futile battle against aging as he sat in the living quarters of the cardinals, the Domus Sanctae Marthae, and watched the television with gripped attention.

The United States had tried to take down Shepherd One, the White House scrambling for the reason ‘why’ in order to appease the masses. But the preliminary indication is believed to be that Shepherd One has been commandeered by terrorists, was now holding a circular pattern over Los Angeles and refusing to land.

At that time Cardinal Vessucci turned to Cardinal Sollozzo, another ranking member of the Society of Seven, a body of rulers who, along with the pope, determine the missions of the Vatican Knights, and spoke to him in subdued manner. “I believe a meeting is necessary at the Round Table,” he said. “Gather the others and meet me in the Forum.”

Sollozzo nodded and left his seat. Vessucci did the same but had to labor to stand, his legs having weakened over time, and moved toward the Forum chamber with the alacrity of a man twenty years his senior.

Very much to Hakam’s pleasure, the plane leveled off at 30,000 feet and maintained a pattern over Los Angeles. In those moments where Shepherd One was in its descending freefall, Hakam failed to entrust his faith in Allah. And in those moments he neither prayed for salvation nor asked to be accepted into His glory. He simply embraced panic.

Sitting with his hands clenching the edges of the navigator’s table with his head bowed and eyes closed, with his chest laboring to pull in air and subsequent calm, Hakam was entirely grateful to Enzio for his skills as a pilot.

And then he caught himself once again. On the norm he would assign the pilot’s skills as Allah’s will, the plane surviving because it was meant to be. But deep inside he realized he was drifting from his once unyielding belief that death was a gateway to Allah’s kingdom. More so, he had zero doubt that Allah had faulted him for his weakness.

He then opened his eyes for a quick view of the sky — a confirmation of his continuing life before closing them once again and sending up a prayer of thanks. With repentance he was sure he could fall back into Allah’s good graces. And what better way to do it than to send Him a few words of gratitude?

“We are alive because it’s Allah’s will,” he said half to himself. But Enzio didn’t appear to be responsive or caring, his eyes looking straight ahead.

Yet his tone wasn’t quite confident, his inflection weak, as if forcing this belief upon himself. For the past several hours his demeanor had vacillated from losing his calm to forcing composure, the markers of indecision. And if he was losing faith within himself, then most certainly his team would lose faith in him. This he could not afford.

“We are alive because it’s Allah’s will,” he repeated with more passion. But still he got no response from Enzio.

Lifting the lid of the laptop attached to the navigator’s table, Hakam brought up the unrefined image of al-Rashad with the simian features of his prognathous jaw and sloping brow staring back at him. When al-Rashad spoke he did so in a manner that was brusque — the Arabic language flying from his lips in a fast clip while Hakam patiently listened. Although Enzio did not understand the verbal communication, he did recognize the syllables ‘Ponte Felcino’ reoccurring often.

When the interaction was over Hakam gingerly lowered the screen and stated nothing for a long moment, his eyes transfixing on the laptop as if deliberating. And then: “Allah has used you as a vessel,” he said. “And through you we are still here to see the cause through.” He turned to Enzio. “So I say this to you: Your family is fine.”

Enzio eyed him cautiously, Hakam’s face unreadable. The man with the cool bearing was back. “And this is the truth?”

Hakam stood and looked over the city sprawl of Los Angeles below them. “This is the truth,” he answered. But again, conviction was lacking in his tone.

Turning quickly, Hakam left the cockpit with the need to pay penance.

They were known as the Society of Seven, a political body of rule consisting of the pope, the Vatican’s Secretary of State, and five of the Curia’s ruling cardinals. Together they were the exclusive acknowledgers of the existence of the Vatican Knights who determined missions.

Within the hour Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci amassed the five cardinals inside the Forum — a small room within the basilica whose walls were made of slump stone assuring their privacy, as well as the impossibility of appropriating information from covert conversations.

The room was small, humid, with two stained glass windows that offered a profusion of light. Where torches once burned flames in metal sconces now stood as supports for electric lighting. And everything around them — the walls, the floor, even the low-lying cathedral ceiling — held the color of desert sand which was suffused with gold flexes of mica. In the room’s center, an oval-shaped table fashioned from ebony wood served as their Round Table.

Cardinal Vessucci looked at the images within the stained glass and saw the likeness of Michelangelo’s Pieta, the Death of Christ, his body cradled by his mother, the Virgin Mary. In it he saw an end of His life, but also a depiction of a new beginning with His resurrection. But the life of Pope Pius XIII would hold no such revelation, his life ending with a finality promising hatred between religious factions all over the world.

“Our hands are tied,” Cardinal Tomaso Angulio said bleakly. “If Shepherd One truly is under the command of extremists, then we must lean toward finding a new pope. Until then, all we can do is to pray for their safety.”

“We can do that,” Vessucci said flatly. “But let’s not forget that Kimball is on board as well. And we all know Kimball to be a man with a very particular set of skills.”

“Kimball is but one man who is unarmed against several. He does not have the Vatican Knights to back him on this.”

“You have little faith, my friend. You know as well as I do that Kimball thrives on moments like this.”

“Of course, I do. But I’m also a realist, Bonasero. What should happen if an errant bullet rips a hole in the side of the plane, sending Shepherd One to earth? Or what if the pilot is incapable of landing her for whatever reason? Or maybe—”

Vessucci held up a halting hand. “Believe me, Tomaso, you have valid concerns which are shared by everyone at this table. But the fact remains that Kimball Hayden provides us with continuing hope.”

“Nevertheless, Bonasero,” said Cardinal Corsaro, a man with a hatchet-thin face and a cast to his left eye. “The chances are remote, at best, since we cannot utilize the Knights on this one. So we at least must prepare the Conclave for the next pope — someone we can trust with the knowledge of the Vatican Knights, someone who will keep their secret. And you know as well as I do that you are the most renowned within the College.”

“I would prefer to put my fate in Kimball’s hands before we start talking about my succession as the next pope,” he said. “Besides, I’m in the twilight of my life. So let’s not begin to anoint me yet.”

“We should not turn a blind eye to the existing probabilities,” said Corsaro. “Kimball is the man we all want to be in the trenches, no doubt. But we all know he has limited options. And even they are beyond his control.”

Cardinal Vessucci sighed. Corsaro was absolutely right: he was one man alone against a terrorist faction 30,000 feet in the air. The improbability of the dark reality certainly outweighed the reasonability of Hayden’s success. “I will inform the Camerlengo to be prepared,” he said. “But don’t give up on Kimball.”

“I know what he can do,” returned Corsaro. “My faith hasn’t totally escaped me.”

Vessucci eased back in his seat and turned his eyes to the glass stained image of the Pieta, this time his mind wondering if the Vatican Knight was even alive.

Barring the bump on his head, Kimball was fine. What wasn’t fine, however, was the laptop he was using to contact the Vatican, which had been destroyed during the plane’s maneuvers, the screen shattered. He hoped the additional laptops he left behind in the fuselage held up during the violent course.

Passing through the hatch with more effort than he cared to exert, Kimball realized he was running out of time. The wild path of Shepherd One was no fluke, the plane obviously in evasive maneuvers which were confirmed by the dual rocket explosions that sent a concussion wave that drove the jumbo jet into a downward trajectory before righting itself. No doubt Enzio had done a masterful job in eluding the sortie. But then to regain control of the airliner which was not built for aerial exercises was absolutely expert on the part of the seasoned pilot. But Kimball knew he would soon have to utilize his own set of skills if they were to survive the day: I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at.

Somehow he would eventually have to work his way topside and take his chances.

Stepping into the tube of the fuselage, it looked like it had been tossed about by a gorilla wreaking havoc. Clothes, suitcases, paperwork and miscellaneous items were strewn across the floor. Crates not tethered properly to the surface were lying on their sides. But in the center of the fuselage were the two aluminum cases, unmoved, secured, the tethering suction cups doing their job well.

Standing over the weapons, Kimball held his hands over them like someone standing before a comforting fire burning beneath the mantel of a fireplace, then got to a bended knee. Gently, as he knelt between them, he placed a hand on each of the neighboring cases and sensed their coldness. First, he carefully opened the case on his right. When he did he saw the burnished spheres and listened to the waspy hum. And then he repeated himself with the second case and used great care as he lifted the lid, revealing a twin rendition of the first — the burnished spheres undamaged and very much alive. With the same prudence he closed and fastened the latches, and then rummaged the area for a working laptop. After finding two useless units broken in the freefall, he finally found one intact.

Working his way back into the Avionics Room, Kimball reestablished set-up and booted the laptop. Around him, as he waited for the screen to come to life, the minuscule bulbs on the Avionic boards winked intermittently, the inconstant lighting drawing ghoulish lines along his face in the shadows. To his right a thin spotlighted beam of light came down through the lifted plate leading into the cockpit, the light shaft drawing him close to the hole, where he listened.

Since he did not hear the small Arab talk, he considered the time to be now.

“Hey, Enzio.”

… Hey, Enzio…

To the pilot it sounded like a distant whisper from the end of a long tunnel, a phantom voice trailing through the darkness.

“Yo… Enzio.”

This time it was clear, very clear.

The pilot turned toward the cockpit entrance, expecting to see the small Arab. But the entrance was clear.

“Enzio?”

It was coming from the co-pilot’s side but from the floor, causing the pilot’s demeanor to shift into a nonplussed look. And then it dawned on him, the small access plate leading from the cockpit down to the Avionics Room was missing. The hole, which was designed for the transference of wires from the cockpit’s control panel to the Avionics boards below for diagnostic information retrieval, was open.

“Enzio.”

“Father Hayden?”

Although he was an elite commando known by a few, it was well within the interest of the Vatican that his true identity be as covert as possible. To everyone within the Church he was known as Father Hayden, personal valet to Pope Pius XIII. “Yeah, Enzio, it’s me.”

“Why are you in the Avionics Room?”

“It’s a long story. But it appears they’ve locked me in. The elevator’s been disabled and the trapdoor’s secured.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Again: long story.”

Enzio kept looking over his shoulder with darting glances, expecting to see the little Arab walk in. “Father Hayden, it is better where you are anyway. I think they killed one of the bishops. You’re safe there.”

“Enzio, none of us are safe. Do you have any idea what they’re planning to do?”

He took another glance over his shoulder. “They tell me nothing. All they say is if I don’t comply with their demands, then they will kill my family.”

“Listen, Enzio, there’s a nuclear payload on this plane — two separate devices. Obviously they have something very particular in mind. Have they said or mentioned anything around you, anything at all regarding what they plan to do?”

“When they speak to each other they do so in Arabic, which I don’t understand. However, the leader was online with someone before he left the cockpit. But I did pick up a few words that came up in their conversation.”

“What?” he asked.

“I heard him mention on several occasions the Ponte Felcino Mosque.”

The Ponte Felcino Mosque? “That’s in Perugia,” he said.

“I think that’s where they’re holding my family,” he returned. “After the little Arab broke off contact, he told me that my family was fine. So I’m thinking he was talking to their captor.”

And this very well may be possible, considered Kimball. Perugia, Italy had a high Muslim population of 150,000 people with 10,000 people living in city center. The mosque was raided by Italy’s anti-terrorist task force after learning that the clerics were promoting terrorist sentiment, and discovered evidence to support their claim. Since then the mosque had come under the watchful eye of the Italian government.

“After the raid a few years ago and knowing that they’re being watched, I don’t think so.”

“Then maybe they’re close by.”

“Yeah, maybe — maybe the Ponte Felcino Mosque is their base command.”

“How well do you know Perugia?”

“Good enough,” said Kimball. “The SIV keeps an eye on all possible insurgent groups close to the Vatican.” The SIV, or the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano, was the Vatican’s Intelligence Service.

“Then they could be anywhere in Perugia.”

“If they’re there at all, but at least it’s a starting point.”

“I know they’re there,” said Enzio, the tone of his voice wanting to believe so. “I know they are.”

“Did you hear anything else?”

“No, I just got a quick glimpse of the man he was speaking to — rough looking, ugly as sin. The picture quality was poor, but I saw concrete pillars in the background, squared, with a high ceiling that led me to believe it was the mosque.”

“Was the ceiling rounded like a rotunda?”

“No, it appeared more like structural beams crossing from one point to another. But the picture was grainy and it was only for a moment that I glanced at it.”

“Squared columns and beams are not the structural hallmarks of a mosque,” he said.

“Then if not in the mosque, where could they be?”

Kimball deliberated. The city was not very big, the buildings sparse and old, two- and three-story constructions that have been around for decades, and, in some cases, for centuries. There was an annex of abandoned buildings, however, on the outskirts, but close enough to the mosque. During World War II these buildings were used as a production factory for building arms. And since they were located in central Italy, and with the shipping points equal distance from one another, made it a prime location. Once the war ended so did the arms trade, the factories soon shutting down by dying a quick death. Although plans had been made to raze the buildings to create more fashionable businesses and residences, nothing ever came to fruition. The buildings were left to rot.

“In Perugia,” said Kimball, “there are several abandoned buildings…” He let his words falter.

“Then that is where they are,” the pilot said quickly. And then: “Father Hayden, my duty to the Vatican is second to my family. If I have to surrender my life in order that they shall live, then I would gladly do it. But right now my hands are tied because they are being held captive.”

“I’m trying to contact the Vatican through the ports down here,” he said. “I hooked up a laptop hoping to get through. I can do that, right?”

“If you know their address, then yes, you can. The Avionics station was set up to transfer diagnostics information from Shepherd One to the command base to immediately define possible flight problems. There are no restrictions, as far as I know.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to see what exactly is in Perugia.”

Enzio could feel the tears welling, a sour lump in his throat. “Please, Father Hayden, if they are there, and if you can find a way, please save them.”

“Trust me,” he said. “If they’re there… I know the perfect team to go in and get them.”

Al-Rashad closed the laptop with gentle care, his eyes taking on that faraway look. Al-Khatib Hakam had failed in his attempt to reach Washington D.C.

In the message he just received, al-Rashad was to act as conduit and inform the clerics of the Ponte Felcino Mosque that Hakam would use the moment to complete the mission of forcing the United States Intelligence Services to destroy themselves from within. And then he outlined his new itinerary to al-Rashad, which he was to relay to the clerics at the mosque.

However, he was to be surreptitious in manner since the mosque was most likely under surveillance. If necessary, he would travel through the thin warrens beneath the Perugian streets to reach the sublevel of the Ponte Felcino Mosque.

So this was now his task, he thought. To act as liaison between a soldier who never held a weapon and clerics who sponsored the cause.

Deep inside he could feel something volatile brewing, something hotly alive and waiting to rear its ugly head in the form of all-consuming anger. He was, after all, a great warrior, not a messenger.

And then his eyes began to focus, first going to the ceiling, which was made of chicken-wire glass that allowed the access of natural lighting to the factory floor below.

His mind then bore dark considerations.

When this was over, when Hakam had completed his task, he would murder the children and take the pilot’s wife, raping her until his body could perform no more, and then leave her in a grave until her bones turned to dust.

Yes, he thought. That’s what I’ll do. Heathens deserve no better.

For a long moment he leisurely gazed over the factory floor from his vantage point of the second tier, his impatience of not serving in the capacity for which he was capable of annoying him to no end. When the assignment was over he had no doubt he would be sent back to America to reestablish the sales of illicit steroids to raise money for future causes. In the States there was a market for everything, including the retailing of growth hormones which was quite expansive and highly profitable. High school athletes needed them to gain an edge for the college ranks, the college athletes needed them to gain the edge for the pro ranks, and the aging pros needed them to maintain the edge over younger competitors. The need to be bigger, stronger and faster was a never-ending well to tap from.

Of course taking such narcotics was everything against the Quran. But al-Rashad could not help himself, finding incredible power within the sweet bite of the needle as his body mass grew beyond expectations. His matchstick arms became massive and thick with trails of veins coursing along the edges of defined muscle mass. His chest blossomed exponentially, the pectoral plates rounding out with the solidness of marble. However, he waived caution. Over the years his addiction culminated with body changes, such as the sloping brow and the jutting of his jaw, precursors to internal and sometimes fatal changes, such as the decimation of the liver and testes.

But al-Rashad felt good, sensing the need for power outweighing the need for prudence.

When looking in the mirror in the gym he saw himself with incredible vanity. Whenever he flexed or posed, he did so with the body of a warrior and not as a messenger.

He spat over the railing, the idea of what had been relegated to in the cause leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

Al-Rashad is not a messenger.

I am a warrior of Allah!

When the war cry dissipated from his mind, when he established a state of self calm, al-Rashad turned away and began to make his way toward the Ponte Felcino Mosque.

For now, he would act as the dutiful messenger.