Shepherd One

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

He had rolled the dice and won.

Not only had President Burroughs staved off nuclear devastation and a total loss of faith from the American people, but the probable confrontation with Mossad was averted as well. The problem remained, however, that a critically wounded airplane was flying over Los Angeles with an active payload. The flipside was that they had the control and means to disable the weapons.

Within moments Dr. Simone was on screen.

“The plane is severely damaged,” the president told him via satellite. “So those weapons have to be disabled immediately, just in case Shepherd One does go down.”

“I have the program ready,” Simone returned. “But I need your man on board to tap into the altimeter whereas it will accept the instructions.”

“We can set that up.”

“May I suggest something?”

“Of course.”

“The system surrounding the altimeter is delicate with traps that could ignite the weapon in a heartbeat, so the precision to hookup the laptop to the altimeter must be done very carefully. I did it with the aid of precision lasers. I can give him the coordinates of where to cut his way in. But if he screws up, Mr. President, then Shepherd One will go up like a Roman candle. I strongly suggest that the pilot take Shepherd One somewhere over the Pacific and well out of range.”

The president wagged his forefinger. “That’s a good idea, Ray. How long can you get the program ready?”

“It’s ready,” he said. “It’s just a matter of when and if your man can make the connection with the altimeter.”

The president nodded reassurance. “Give me ten minutes.”

Captain Enzio Pastore was in his own private Hell of indecision. After Kimball left the cockpit to gather the bishops to secure them below where it was safer and warmer, his emotions continued to whorl with kaleidoscopic madness. The reality was that his family had no future. And Father Hayden was correct when he said the Arab proffered little more than empty promises.

So he mourned, his heart fracturing, his emotions ready to erupt in a cacophony of cries so loud he was sure the people of LA would hear him.

Closing his eyes to fend off the sting of tears, Enzio felt a hand upon his shoulder. Pope Pius entered the cockpit area with his zucchetto gone, his hair in a wild tangle as the tails of his vestments waved dreamily behind him as freezing cold air circled continuously within the plane. His vestments were pristine white and glowed like newly laden snowfall. And his face, a semblance of kindness, held paternal warmth that shined like a flowering circle of light.

Perhaps the pilot wanted to see the man as more than a flashing beacon of hope, but as the living essence of divinity that could send his madness away.

After reaching up and grabbing the pontiff’s hand, Enzio finally broke. “They’re gone, aren’t they? My wife, my children…”

Pope Pius moved closer, the white of his robe radiating. “We don’t know that,” he told him. “But don’t give up hope, Enzio, please. It’s my understanding that a very special group of people were sent to find them.”

But the pilot found little solace.

“I know you’re hurting,” he told him, “but you must put your faith in God and pray for the best and be prepared to accept the worst.” The pope took to the navigator’s seat and spoke to the pilot in a voice that was soft, compassionate and understanding. “Enzio, beneath this robe I am a man like you — a man who loves, fears, enjoys the bad as well as the good. I have no special powers, and I possess no more than you. What I possess is less. You have a wonderful family, children, a love I will never understand, and with it perhaps a pain no greater. And for that I am truly sorry for the unimaginable pain you must be going through at this moment.”

With a cracked voice, he said, “Thank you.”

“But we must do what’s right for those who depend on us.” The pope looked out the cockpit window and at the innumerable colors of a sunset sky. “No matter what happens,” he continued, “I will provide you with as much comfort I can possibly offer a man. I will not leave your side.”

But as much as Enzio treasured the proposal, there was little to be had.

The idea of not knowing about his family was destroying him.

Regardless, he took Shepherd One in a westward trajectory over the Pacific Ocean.

Kimball could feel the combat knives attached to his thighs like normal appendages.

The bishops had found necessary garments, clothing and additional blankets to keep them warm as they huddled together and watched Kimball remove one of the two knives strapped to his leg. They had seen the man use the weapons against their captors and use them proficiently well. The bishops realizing the pope’s personal valet was much more than that, but dared not question him.

However, Kimball was oblivious of his audience as he took one of his specialized knives and followed Dr. Simone’s precise measurements on where to cut the case. With the keen tip of his KA-BAR, he pierced the aluminum shell and began to saw the case by pumping the blade across its surface, cutting a ragged line. Once he cut the hole to Dr. Simone’s specs he popped the aluminum piece out, which gave him access to the altimeter’s port. When he looked inside he saw darkness and little else, which told him the security features could only be seen with an aided eye. Either by using a special set of lenses or by spraying a mist into the gap that would briefly illuminate the laser beams.

Using one of the bishop’s laptops he set up separately from the one used in the Avionics Room, Kimball forwarded the program from one unit to another.

All he had to do was connect the devices with surgical precision, not an easy task.

Holding the connecting end of the feed cord of the laptop, Kimball inserted it into the hole and carefully managed the end toward the receiving port. His fingers, however, were too large as the razor-sharp aluminum edges tore slices along his fingers. Gritting and fighting his way through it, with blood running along the outer side of the shell case, Kimball found the female opening of the port and punched the end home.

The moment Kimball completed the job he fell back unaware that he had been sweating profusely, even with the bay as cold as it was.

On the laptop, the language of Hexadecimal values began to scroll up and down with the odd columns running north to south, the even rolls from south to north. And then the numbers began to race in blinding revolutions like the rows in a slot machine, never knowing how or when the figures will stop. After a few moments the symbols began to slow and lock themselves in place, the computer talking to the altimeter and vice versa, the locked figures having been read and accepted, the other numbers looking for the memory to lock into place. The more data the altimeter accepted, the more the numbers would freeze until the screen no longer scrolled a single digit, ultimately signifying a complete and successful download of the entire program.

More numbers froze in place, at least thirty percent, while other numbers leapfrogged over the stilled ones and continued to scroll either up or down, or down to up.

And then the display screen in both altimeters began to roll downward in perfect unison.

The numeric readings quickly went from 10,000 to 9,500 in less than five seconds, the numbers mere blurs.

… 9,000…

… 8,500…

… 8,000…

Kimball couldn’t help himself and smiled — a well-deserved reward, as far as he was concerned.

… 7,500…

… 7,000…

… 6,500…

And then the numeric speed within the display windows began the slow down at 6,000 feet, the pace slowing to a crawl at 5,000 feet, until it stopped altogether at 4,893 feet.

About sixty-five percent of the values on the laptop locked into position, while other digits continued to leapfrog over the set ones and continued on. The readings in both altimeters were secured, the numeric setting apparently locked. As things now stood, Shepherd One will now detonate at a level of 4,893 feet.

“No! No! NO!” Kimball tapped the ‘ENTER’ button numerous times, but the values on the laptop’s screen continued to scroll, not a single number locking in place. And then he eased himself away from the computer and sat down, bringing his knees up in acute angles in order to rest his elbows on them. In the ensuing moments he allowed his fingers to bleed on the floor between his legs as he stared at the payload.

The altimeters would only accept one half of the disabling programming.

There was nothing more he could do.

The media was having a heyday reporting the current news regarding Pope Pius XIII. The reported state of affairs granted by the White House Press Secretary was that Shepherd One was no longer under hostile control and the aircraft retaken. The action, however, unfortunately did not come without the loss of life. But the pope was reported to be well and among the living.

There was no mention of the nuclear weapons since there was no longer a need. But there was mention of the substantial damage to Shepherd One’s fuselage, the plane now flying over the Pacific to burn off fuel for an attempted landing.

Of course, this latter part of the news was unequivocally doctored.

Ray Simone’s Comfort Zone was never inside the lab or his dorm room, but the locker room where he kept the photo of Tia-Marie hanging inside his locker. The room always smelled like dirty laundry. But it was here he felt most comfortable.

Sitting on a wooden bench positioned between rows of lockers with his locker open, he placed the flat of his palm over the creased photo of Tia-Marie and spoke in hushed tones as if in prayer.

With his head bowed and eyes closed, Simone tapped his left foot to the beat of an unheard melody. “Black wall… white wall… white wall… black wall… There’s a solution to everything… There’s a solution to everything… The word impossible doesn’t mean it can’t be done, it simply measures the degree of difficulty. White wall… black wall…” He snapped his eyes wide. “White… wall…”

After kissing the tips of his fingers and pressing them against the photo, Simone raced his way to the Comm Center to contact President Burroughs.

… White wall, black wall… Black wall, white wall…

“The units are frozen at nearly forty-nine hundred feet,” said Simone from the video. “But we can still land the plane at that level.”

The time was getting late and the president and his team were beginning to look like they felt, tired and haggard. “How do you propose to do that?” asked President Burroughs. “LAX is less than two hundred feet above sea level.”

On screen Simone raised a finger in emphasis. “I’m not talking about LAX. I’m talking about Denver International Airport, which is fifty-four hundred and thirty one feet above sea level. That gives them a window of five hundred feet.”

The president appeared genuinely keyed up. “Thank you, Doctor. We’ll take your plan under advisement. All I ask is that you stand by.”

“I can do that.”

“Thank you once again, Ray.”

The monitor winked dead.

“You think Shepherd One can make it that far?” asked Burroughs, looking at Thornton.

The Chief Advisor shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong guy. The only one who knows for sure is them,” he said, jabbing his thumb skyward. “But it sounded like the plane was coming apart at the seams, according to Father Kimball’s last message. But do we really want to attempt another flight path over American soil in the condition she’s in, Mr. President?”

Burroughs considered this.

“The entire metro area, including Denver itself, has a population of two point five million people. And we all know that aviation accidents usually happen during liftoff or landing. And with the condition Shepherd One is in, Mr. President, it may be too much for her to overcome.”

Doug Craner immediately asserted himself. “Mr. President, we have a prime opportunity here. The media has reported severe damage to the aircraft and I think we should avail ourselves to that advantage. The Flying Falcons are still circling Shepherd One. This could be made to look like a product of too much damage.”

“Are you asking me to take her down now? After everything those people have been through.”

“I’m thinking about the security of this nation, Mr. President. You dodged a bullet once. How many more do you think you can dodge before you end up mortally wounded?”

“Before, Mr. President,” said Dean Hamilton, “we planned to take her down because we were not in control and didn’t know Hakam’s intentions. We’re now in total control… And she is over the Pacific.”

The president found himself once again in the same predicament as before, waging a one-man battle against the rationality of his team. “This is true. But we were willing to take her down over the western side of the Rockies. I believe that those people, including the pope and the man solely responsible for quashing nuclear devastation over a city of four million, deserve better.”

“You’re exchanging one threat for another,” said Doug.

“That may be. But it’s a challenge I’m willing to meet.” The president made his way to the tracking screen of Shepherd One. The plane was approximately eighty miles beyond the California shoreline; Denver another 850 miles. It would be close to a three-hour jaunt, maybe more considering the damages. “Have the Flight Commander of the Fighting Falcons inform Shepherd One to divert their heading to Denver International.”

“… Two-Six-Four-Three to Shepherd One …”

Enzio switched on the mike. “Go ahead, Two-Six-Four-Three.”

“… Shepherd One, you are to divert your coordinates to 39 degrees, 50 minutes, 57.8 seconds latitude; 104 degrees, 40 minutes, 23.9 seconds longitude. Do you copy?…”

Enzio typed the coordinates into the computer. The numbers popped up as the location of Denver International Airport, DIA. “Two-Six-Four-Three, those coordinates show up as DIA. Is this correct?”

“… That’s affirmative, Shepherd One. Can you cover the distance?…”

Enzio could feel the vibration of the yolk growing worse. Apparently the strain of the air entering the fuselage was applying intense pressure with the tail cone. But by going in an eastward trajectory they would be flying with the jet stream, which would give them a substantial push and less fuel consumption. “That’s affirmative, Two-Six-Four-Three… She can make it.”

“… Copy that, Shepherd One… Two-Six-Four-Three out…”

Barring the lights from the cockpit console, the room was relatively dark. Yet the pope’s robe continued to give off an afterglow. “And where are we to go now?” he asked.

“They want us to go to Denver,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because there’s a solution for everything,” said Kimball, stepping into the cockpit. “That’s why. Denver International is high enough to land this plane without consequence.”

“But the question is,” the pontiff started, “can she make it?”

Enzio wanted to believe she could as he banked for an eastward trajectory. In the back, as he made the curve, they could hear the metal creaking like the timbers of an ancient ship.

Everyone’s motor inside Raven Rock seemed to be at high-speed, the chattering throughout the center sounding like a Dow Jones rally. Seated at the presidential table, President James Burroughs and his team enumerated on what was to be done to ensure the optimum safety at Denver International Airport.

“All flights coming into and leaving Denver International Airport have been postponed,” said Thornton, “The entire area surrounding DIA has been cordoned off. And the terminals have been locked down. The positive thing is that it’s late there, so we were able to move quickly on this.”

The president looked at the tracking screen. Shepherd One was nearing the airport. “Who do we have on the ground when she lands?” he asked.

Craner perused his data report. “We have a six-man federal force and a manageable crew from the fire department.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s enough, if she doesn’t land properly.”

Burroughs could hear the objectionable tone in the CIA Director’s voice. He had taken another gamble, he knew that. And by doing so he was risking an additional two dozen lives on the ground. But this time they had minimal control. Shepherd One was under the guidance of a master pilot whose agenda was to land the plane safely.

“How long before they reach DIA?”

Craner looked at his watch. “About fifty minutes,” he said.

The president took a step closer to the screen and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “How long before Dr. Simone reaches Denver?”

“Soon.”

The president sighed inwardly, hoping above hope that he had not gone too far by taking another critical gamble against the requests of his team. And though he was not a devout man, he believed that Shepherd One had persevered because a grander reason existed that was above their comprehension.

Feeling an odd sense of impending disaster, the president hoped that he had not ventured too far this time with his decision.

The lights to the interior of Shepherd One hadn’t worked since the breach in the fuselage, the entire cabin submersed in absolute darkness. Sitting alone in one of the seats in the center aisle with his hair blowing like the whipping mane of a horse, a seat-belted Kimball stared out through the gaping hole and into the night sky. Although he knew they were moving, the skyscape appeared to be at a standstill, the stars shining as countless pinpricks of light. He could make designs of the configurations — could see the swirls of distant galaxies with total clarity.

The last time he saw the sky with such vision was the moment of his epiphany in Iraq after burying the shepherd boys. It was there when he first began to wonder of a greater existence. Now, looking at the same sky years later, he could only wonder if it was another sign of a coming epiphany, if a second epiphany was to come at all. Or was this a final glimpse of a Heaven he may never reach, but a reminder of what he could have had.

Kimball turned away from the view offered by the hole and eased his head back into the cushion of his seat. For the past two hours the flight had grown increasingly erratic as the noise became unmusical, the ride itself in a flutter as the unsteady aerodynamics of the plane began to grow in magnitude, threatening its structure.

On Shepherd One’s descent it became worse; the shuddering was like riding the downhill slope of a roller coaster, the plane now in a buffet with its aerodynamic components in excitation because the pilot was manipulating the speed brakes. To Kimball it seemed like the plane was being shaken by the Divine Hand of Providence.

Yet Kimball did not pray. Instead, he faced the gaping hole to view the stars one last time, wondering if a higher order existed.

He was positive that mystery would soon be answered.

Shepherd One was coming in unbalanced, the wings tipping from side to side, a distinct signature that the spoilers and flaps were oscillating between the pilot’s control and the plane’s attempt to take on a life of its own.

It was a battle Enzio was losing.

Parked in a gauntlet alongside the tarmac, the bar lights of the fire engines were in full swing, the colors of red, white and blue lighting up the night sky as the plane neared.

When Shepherd One approached and passed overhead of the vehicles, one of its wings clipped a truck, shearing its rooftop hose assemblage and a piece of Shepherd One’s wing. In the aftermath the plane overcorrected itself and swung to the other side, the wing tip striking the tarmac and raising a rooster tail of sparks, before the plane landed hard on its wheels and righted itself. The impact, however, caused the fragile metal surrounding the hole to crumple inward with the fuselage taking on a slight V appearance, as it sped down the runway faster than normal.

As Enzio applied the brakes and fixed the flaps, the metal creaked in protest as Shepherd One neared the runway’s stop barrier. Beside him Pope Pius firmly pressed his legs against the floorboard and braced himself against the impending collision against the barrier, that rushed at them with amazing speed.

Knowing he would not be able to stop in time, Enzio advised the pope to ‘hang on,’ then closed his eyes as the nose of Shepherd One came to an immediate halt when it struck the sand hill, the dirt flying everywhere in grand explosion as the sudden stop in momentum caused the bended wreck of the fuselage to take on more of a V shape.

What had been crippled was now completely lost. Shepherd One was dying as its engines wound down to their last revolution.

In the end, however, she had done them well.

Shepherd One was surrounded by fire engines and their flashing array of lights. On board was the six-man team of federal agents. Soon after, Dr. Simone discovered the weapons secured in the cargo bay with the altimeters’ reading at 5431 feet.

Pope Pius, although rattled, remained stalwart as he and the bishops were helped off the plane and to more peaceful quarters.

Captain Enzio Pastore, one-time hero within the Aeronautica Milatare, looked every bit as the shell of a man who lost his entire family. But when he stepped off the plane he was quickly reunited via telephone with his wife. They were fine, she told him. Soon afterward he resigned his post as the Vatican’s pilot and moved to Venice to start a family business. Somewhere in all of this his son, Basilio, no longer needed to be a man, but steadily played out what was left of his youth and resumed his play as a soccer star.

However, a mystery remained.

When they cleared the plane everyone surviving the ordeal was accounted for with the exception of one man. Father Kimball. When the authorities questioned Pope Pius regarding this priest, the pope emphatically denied anybody with the surname of Kimball, which was the truth. Nor was he a cleric as they alluded to.

This man, Father Kimball, if he existed, was nowhere to be found.

They stood at the summit of Raven Rock: the president, his Chief Advisor Alan Thornton, CIA Director Doug Craner, and Attorney General Dean Hamilton. The rest of the team headed back to Washington.

From their vantage point they viewed miles of green treetops in all directions and a perfect blue sky without a cloud to be seen. The morning air was crisp, clean, and had a snap to it. No one could have asked for a better day.

“It is beautiful,” commented the president as he nodded appreciation. “It just makes you wonder how much longer we have until the next go-around when someone actually sets off a nuke on American territory.”

“We might not be so lucky next time,” said Thornton.

“That’s what I mean.” The president then pointed to the luscious landscape. “All this could be wiped out in a matter of a split second,” he said. “All of it.”

“A lesson learned,” said Dean. “Obviously we need to shore up our borders.”

The presidential team remained quiet as they admired the scenery. In the air, wafting lightly in the breeze was the smell of honeysuckle.

“Any further word on Father Kimball?” asked Burroughs. The matter had to come up sooner or later — the mystery too deep not to be bandied about.

“Nothing,” said his CIA Director. Craner moved beside him and leaned against the corral fencing, his eyes locked on the panoramic view. “The remaining survivors were all accounted for with the exception of the one man not on the passenger list, this Father Kimball. My agents said all the priests on board that plane couldn’t have punched out a clock, let alone punch out a terrorist. They were elderly men in their sixties, hardly soldier material.”

“And no one was willing to talk about the mystery of Father Kimball, including the pontiff?”

“Not a single soul.”

“It’s unlikely for the pope to lie.”

“Perhaps he didn’t. Maybe he manipulated the facts to hide the truth. The Church, after all, is not without its secrets.”

The president shook his head. “But for what reason? I mean, we know he was on board that plane. Where the hell could he have gone? The moment Shepherd One landed we were all over her like a pack of dogs on a three-legged cat.”

Nobody had an answer.

In the background the rotors of Marine One were beginning to spin, the revolutions picking up into blinding speed. It was time to go back home.

From that moment no one mentioned Father Kimball, nor did they speak of the self-proclaimed soldier and personal valet of Pope Pius XIII. Obviously the man never existed.

For the president, for them all, the mystery as to who Father Kimball really was would remain just that, a mystery.