Shepherd One

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Los Angeles was abuzz. More so out of excitement than in panic mode. Shepherd One was flying above them; the life of Pope Pius XIII at stake. LA had become the centerpiece of worldwide attention. All which posed problems for the president and his team.

President Burroughs sat with his cabinet of advisors to come up with a way to best serve their position in the international community. The key situation at the moment was how to deal with Shepherd One, which was flying over a vastly populated area with a six kiloton payload. Was it their ethical duty to inform the masses of the flight’s yield, causing panic and the probable destruction of a city? Or do they wait, gambling on the improbability of a quick resolution?

Either way it was a troubling proposition. Not only did they have to contend with the issues at hand, but deal with the media affairs constituting reasons for the attack on Shepherd One. Therefore, information was sent to the press secretary in order for her to filter out certain facts, and doctor a fashionable statement to best suit their needs since denial was no longer an option.

“If we inform a city of over four million people about the probability of Shepherd One possessing a six-kiloton weapon — a weapon with half the yield that destroyed Hiroshima — what can we expect other than the obvious?” asked the president.

“Well,” said Thornton, “everyone here knows as well as I do that the highway systems would eventually become impassable, trapping hundreds of thousands of people, maybe more. And then you’d have the looting and pillaging, your fires, murders, rape — nothing good at all. You would think it would be better not to inform anyone in order to continue ongoing stability. But on the other hand, if those weapons are on board, then they’re going to be used. So do we allow ourselves to be subjected in the media and in the worldwide community as a government who knew the potential destruction of our people but failed to react? If that’s the case, then we would distance ourselves from our own citizenry by failing to protect those in Los Angeles by allowing the detonation to happen when we knew the potential existed.”

“And we can’t deny knowing about the payload since the world knows of our attempt to take down Shepherd One. The only way we can justify our position in this matter is with the truth.”

“LA would be destroyed,” the president said factually.

“True,” said Attorney General Dean Hamilton. “But you can see as well as I do, Mr. President, that the city is already lost at this point. We need to get as many people out of the blast zone as quickly as possible.”

“And what about other options?” asked the president. “Is there anything that we can do to save the city and the people? Any suggestions at all?”

“Honestly, Mr. President, I think we’ve been down every avenue. The only thing left to us—I believe — is to use the media and clear out Los Angeles.”

The president realized there was 360 degrees of direction and wanted to examine every possible angle before settling on a decisive act. To his team he did not want to appear like a man of desperation either, but someone who was looking for a solid solution. “Is there any way we can get a team up there to retake the plane?”

Thornton leaned forward, appearing lost. “Excuse me?”

“Is there a way we can dispatch a team of commandos to retake Shepherd One — a military aerial tactic that would get a team on board without the terrorists knowing?”

Thornton cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Mr. President, situations like that are nothing more than cinematic crapola. No such tactic exists.”

“I know that,” he retorted. “But it was an angle no one brought up, which means there are other angles out there, viable or not, foolish or not. And I want to hear them all before I put Los Angeles in a state of panic. I want additional ideas, people. We’re not at crunch time yet.”

But no ideas came, the table growing silent, everybody believing the president was asking for the impossible, which was to come up with something plausible in an implausible situation.

Then we will start with the crux of the problem, he considered, which is the plane itself. So he sparked further conversation. “Shepherd One,” he began, “is circling over Los Angeles for a reason. I think it would be reasonable to say that if their primary objective was to detonate those weapons over a populated area, then they would have done so already. Yet they continue to hold a pattern.” He fell back in his seat, raised his hands and shrugged. “But why?” he asked. “Why maintain a pattern when you’ve reached your destination? It’s because they have something else in mind. Something they want, a concession on our part. Otherwise they would have set off those weapons after reaching LA. But they didn’t. Does everyone here at least agree with me on that assumption?”

They did, finding themselves drawn in, the point coming.

“I believe some type of demands will be coming forthwith, which gives us time to come up with a solution, hopefully from Dr. Simone. But I need to know how much time we have before we have no other choice but to alert the media and the subsequent evacuation of Los Angeles.”

“That’s kind of playing with fire,” said Dean. “We gave Shepherd One more time than necessary in the attempt to take her down. And now she’s flying over LA.”

“That’s because the first sortie failed in its mission with Shepherd One, giving them a little surprise we didn’t know about,” he stated. “But if we knew more about the mechanics of that plane, then she’d be lying on the ground as scorched metal. So we still have time, Dean — not much, but time to figure something out, nonetheless. And this time we start with what I need to know about the aircraft.”

Thornton took his cue and spread three sheets of paper before him. “Shepherd One is a Boeing seven-eighty-seven-nine Dreamliner,” he began. “It’s a top-of-the-line luxury model licensed by Alitalia Airlines in Rome. And although a part of the Alitalia fleet, this particular aircraft has been suited with flares and jammers to protect it against insurgent weaponry, such as ground-to-air missiles. What happened with the sortie was a maneuver on their part to buy time to get into LA airspace, which worked. They never would have survived the second sortie since the plane isn’t truly equipped for major defenses against F-16’s.”

“What about flight capability?”

Thornton raised his finger in an I-was-getting-to-that gesture. “It’s big,” he said. “It carries up to two hundred ninety people and has a range of nearly ten thousand miles.”

“Ten thou — on a single fueling?”

“Yes, Mr. President. Shepherd One has the capacity to travel back and forth across this country three times before it needs to be refilled. And at its current rate of speed, she can be up there another sixteen to eighteen hours.”

And this was true. The 787-9 Dreamliner was the newest and best of the aviation stock. With a range of 15,750 kilometers or 9,800 miles on a single fueling, the plane could circle LA for nearly two-thirds of a day, maybe longer given the lack of extra weight and tonnage since its flight capacity held only a slight grouping of passengers. This was good news, or at least news Burroughs could work with. It gave him time.

“They definitely want something,” he said more to himself. And then: “Contact them,” he said. “Tell them we want to open up a dialogue and know their demands.”

Craner leaned forward carrying the look of mild bafflement. “Are you considering concessions to terrorist demands?”

“What I’m considering is how to deal with the situation with the given time we have. I want to know for sure what’s in that plane, what they want, and try to come up with a solution.”

“Mr. President,” Dean Hamilton appeared downtrodden. “The policy of not negotiating with terrorists is unyielding, but in this case we may need more than just the need to know their position in all this. Right now the playing field isn’t even close to being level. Everybody at this table knows who has the upper hand at the moment.”

President Burroughs ingested this, knowing Dean was right. Policy or not, the American government may have to concede to the demands of terrorists for the better good. “I don’t like the idea of this administration buckling under terrorist demands. But Dean’s right.” He turned to Thornton, his top advisor, the man whom he had valued for advice his entire presidential tenure, a man whose counsel had always been forthcoming and solid. “What’s your take, Al?”

Thornton nodded in agreement. Even as reluctant as he was about conceding to terrorist demands. “Shepherd One is flying over a populated area with perhaps a nuclear payload. And we are completely impotent to do anything about it. In my opinion, we have to open doors of negotiation.”

“Those doors, Al, may also open up Pandora’s Box with grave repercussions.”

“That may be true. But I don’t see any other option at this point.”

“You said Shepherd One can be up there — what, sixteen hours?”

“At the very least, yes.”

“Then let’s assume they want something, which I’m sure they do. We’ll play them for eight, maybe ten hours — time that’ll hopefully give us a solution. If we don’t come up with something by then, then we’ll alert the media and have the city evacuated. But if we have at least ten hours — or any time at all to negotiate a peaceful outcome to this situation — then we use them.”

“So where do we begin?’ asked Senator Wyman.

“We begin by contacting Shepherd One,” he replied. “I want the Fighting Falcons to initiate communication immediately and set up a direct link to this room. I want to see Hakam’s face on that overhead projector. Is that clear?”

“It is,” said Air Force Joint Chief Henry Spaatz. And then he commenced the order to the Flight Commander of the Fighting Falcons to reopen dialogue with Shepherd One.

All the while the principals remained silent, knowing the odds to be long and improbable. The terrorists had been patient, the Americans complacent, which gave rise to the current state of affairs. Hakam had the upper hand and was not about to relinquish it. Nor was he foolish enough to be dragged along by a string of red herrings to prolong matters. The Arab was in total control and everyone’s silence was testament to that fact.

Before the city could be wholly evacuated, everyone knew that Los Angeles was about to become a no man’s land for decades.

Hakam was going to win.

Pope Pius XIII rose from his seat with verbal opposition from his captors, their orders for him to sit down going unheeded. Standing before the bishops of the Holy See, he gauged the looks on their faces and saw the fears of their own mortality. They were the elderly seasoned vets of the administration, all gray-haired and gentle souls who enjoyed their duties to govern the Church. None of them deserved this, he thought. None of them needed to fall victim to the whims of a man possessed by a cruel agenda since they had given themselves to God. And there was no doubt in Pius’s mind that they were questioning their faith.

When the sortie struck he, too, felt the pang of impending death, the bolt of fear striking him like a static charge, where he was positive it would stop his beating heart. As Shepherd One descended in its freefall, he clutched the armrests with a death grip and pled unto his God with his eyes closed and lips moving, the conversation to his Lord highly personal and understood: He did not want to die.

Like all men, he feared violent death despite his station with the Vatican. And above all else, he was human with the inherent trait of self-preservation. To die as an aged man because life had systematically come to its end by natural causes was one thing; to die by violence when life still had meaning was another. Pope Pius XIII truly believed he had much more to do, so much more to give. But right now he had to sermonize to the bishops, his words becoming an opiate to their ears.

If it’s God’s will, he told them, then they were not to lose or question their faith because death would be a glorious transfer into His kingdom. Nor were they to question their devotion or loyalties, since blind faith required no proof since none existed. But in the end, as he stood there, and no matter how melodious he sounded, he could see the human side of their expressions, the aspect of self-preservation ruling over internal faith.

Taking his seat, he couldn’t help the overwhelming feeling of his failure to pacify the bishops.

And although shaken, Pope Pius XIII maintained his love for God and believed devoutly in His being. What bothered him, however, was his unwavering fear of knowing what was about to come, which was his death — so violent, so cruel, so unnecessary. But he was not hypocritical either, since fear was a human element and not a godly one. And though he was frightened he knew this to be good, the sense humbling him, which gave him the realization that he was not above the standards of the people, but a representative of them. Although he was the pope, he was not braver, wiser or better than any man on this plane. He was not godly or above all else. He was simply… human.

Turning to his left he saw the Garrote Assassin looking at him. By the cockiness of his grin Pius could tell that killer had the insight to see his dread, the marginal grimace on the assassin’s face relishing the fact that the pope was frightened.

Just because I’m the pope, he wanted to say, doesn’t make me any less or more than you. I fear, I think, I love like anyone else.

Pope Pius XIII leaned back into his seat, closed his eyes, and began to pray.

And when prayer was over he thought about one thing. He thought about Kimball.

But even this was too much for one man to conquer alone.

Hakam paced the twin aisles of the jet airliner, up one aisle, then down the other. Something was clearly on his mind, his demeanor not escaping the insight of the Garrote Assassin, who held a steady eye on him.

“Are you all right, al-Khatib?”

Hakam raked his hand nervously through his hair and feigned a smile. “Fine,” he said, and then moved on.

He had penance to pay for losing his faith. This much he knew. What he didn’t know is if Allah would forgive him for the transgression of losing faith, and then accept him into His Glory upon his death. The moment Shepherd One began its steep decline, the ideology of self-sacrificing his soul to Allah had become reality. His faith wasn’t even a consideration, only self-preservation. So now he had to rediscover himself in a way to appease his God by regaining his conviction and prove his worthiness. And he would start with prayer.

While making his way back to the fore of the plane he observed the pope who appeared distant, his eyes vacuous, as if staring through the solid masses before him and toward that beatific plane of existence only he could see. Perhaps he, too, Hakam considered, was in prayer.

“Are you in prayer?” asked Hakam.

The pope never altered his gaze. “I am.”

“And what do you see?”

“I see hope.”

Hakam nodded. “One man’s hope is another man’s apathy. You want to live and I want to die,” he lied. “Only one of us can have their way.”

“Hope drives men forward while apathy inhibits growth. Hope will prevail.”

“My hope is that we shall die for a cause. So does that mean my concept of hope will prevail over yours? Or will the semantics of ‘hope’ be left to the subjective interpretations of men of distant philosophies, such as yours and mine? There is no clear answer.”

“No, but there is a clear path,” he returned. And then he faced Hakam. “I pray for the hope of good will, whereas you pray for its downfall.”

“I hope for the progress of my people.”

“And the price of progress is destruction?”

Hakam did not counter, although he was fascinated by the art of debating. “Keep praying,” he told him. “So we shall see whose hope is the greater.”

Pope Pius turned away, his eyes once again growing distant.

From the periphery of his vision, Hakam saw a jet fighter make its way to the pilot’s side of the plane. “Keep praying,” he said dully, his sight tracking the flight of the jet’s path. “But I think your words will fall on deaf ears.” And then Hakam moved toward the cockpit with urgency.

But Pius knew his hope to be the stronger.

And his hope lay within Kimball Hayden.

The Flight Commander of Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three positioned himself alongside the cockpit window of Shepherd One. When Enzio saw the pilot gesturing to him by tapping the lip-mike area of his helmet to reopen communication, Enzio didn’t hesitate and flipped the toggle.

“Go ahead, Two-Six-Four-Three.”

“… Shepherd One, Base Command would like to establish open communication with the hostile factions on board your flight. Do you copy?…”

“Copy, Two-Six-Four-Three — will have to get back to you on that.”

“… I’ll be waiting…”

The Fighting Falcon never left its position, its wing tip less than thirty feet from the cockpit window.

Hakam would make penance later. Right now he would show Allah his true devotion and commit to the cause through immediate action. Prayer would come later.

When he stepped into the cockpit he saw the jet fighter about twenty meters away. “Has he made contact with you?”

Enzio nodded. “He wants to reestablish communication with you.”

“Then let’s not disappoint,” he said. “Open the line.”

Enzio handed Hakam the lip mike and headpiece, then flipped the toggle.

“And with whom do I owe the pleasure, since you are the one who tried to knock us out of the sky?”

“… Shepherd One, this is Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, I have a message from Command Base who wishes direct communication with you. Do you copy?…”

“It all depends on who it is at the Command Base who wishes to speak with me,” he said.

“… That would be the Commander-in-Chief…”

Hakam didn’t even flinch. This was the moment he’d been waiting for — a moment with the president of the United States.

“… Do you copy, Shepherd One?…”

“Shepherd One accepts the invitation,” he said.

“… The Commander-in-Chief has requested a live feed from your position…”

“Then they shall have it.”

The Flight Commander gave Hakam the ISP coordinates to open communication with the staff at Raven Rock.

Once Hakam entered the contact address into his laptop on the navigation desk, he opened communication and viewed the president’s team from his monitor. “So tell me, Mr. President… how are you today?”