“Mr. President, I’m terribly sorry,” said Simone. There was a horrible finality to the tone of his voice.
“Is there anything at all you can do to stop this from happening?”
“I examined every avenue, Mr. President. I put it on the mainframe and used everything at my disposal. Whoever manufactured these units took a lot of time and effort to prognosticate its disadvantages, and applied a lot of safety features to protect them.” Once again with words bearing the weight of sadness and perhaps feeling the measure of failure, he said, “I’m truly sorry, Mr. President.”
Burroughs nodded. “Don’t give up, Ray. Find that Achilles Heel.”
Simone stared back at them through the webcam, his unmoving demeanor saying it alclass="underline" There’s nothing more I can do. “Yes, Mr. President.”
And then the monitor winked off, a burning mote of light remaining in the center of the screen a moment before dying off.
And how symbolic was that at the moment? The mote, an ember of hope, for a moment shining, and then dying before leaving behind a horrible emptiness in its wake.
President Burroughs didn’t even want to consider the metaphor behind it all.
Nellis Air Force Base was situated approximately five miles north of downtown Las Vegas and, at one time, exclusively set apart from city proper. However, with the city’s continuing growth, the community of Las Vegas had encroached upon their territory until residential neighborhoods were the proverbial stone’s throw away from the sentry post.
Since 1942 the base has served as a major training point for both US and foreign military aircrews, and sits on over 11,000 acres of mostly underdeveloped land used specifically for bombing runs and sorties, as well as to keep a close eye on neighboring Areas 51 and 4.
At approximately 1027 hours Pacific Time, Commander-in-Chief President James Emerson Burroughs issued a command to the military flight brigade to intercept a plane with an eastbound trajectory to Dulles from its preliminary point of LAX.
That plane was Shepherd One.
No specifics were given. The only details proffered were for the fighter pilots to flank the jetliner and wait for further instructions.
At 1043, four F-16 Fighting Falcons were on the runway waiting for liftoff commands, their engines revving to a ground-shaking caliber that vibrated the tempered glass windows of nearby homes.
By 1047, they were airborne and heading westbound at a cruising speed of 9-g’s.
Intercept time: 20 minutes.
“I believe you,” said Hakam, slowly lowering the laptop’s lid. In his action he purposely hit the DELETE button, destroying the command. “For now your family is safe, at least for the moment. Now inform the Tower to stand by.”
With a great sense of relief he did so.
“Now tell me,” began Hakam, the brow above one eye rising in inquisitive manner, “why would they seek such a code when the plane is already on its trajectory course? You would think such commands would be requested prior to takeoff. ”
Enzio knew the answer, but felt restricted to offer anything further. So Hakam offered what he already suspected. “It’s because they believe not all is right with this aircraft, isn’t it?”
The pilot closed his eyes and nodded.
“I thought so,” said Hakam, easing back into the navigator’s seat. He had always been a man of natural reserve, always showing little emotion because he believed it was a precursor to tipping one’s hand on important issues. But lately he caught himself losing touch with that self-control, feeling something wicked and deep sucking at the marrow of his own personal design. Within an hour of the flight he had lost half his team and, with four hours left to go until they reach Dulles International, was obviously under scrutiny.
Everything was floundering before him.
In the natural light of the cockpit, Hakam raised his hand and noted the uncontrollable shaking before clenching his hand into a fist, and then back to an open hand before laying it down on the laptop.
“… Shepherd One, Four-One-Six-Two; confirm your status with your A-P-I-N…”
“Reverse heading,” ordered Hakam. “Tell them you have a systems malfunction and you need to return to LAX immediately.”
“They won’t believe it.”
“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Turn this plane around and head back to Los Angeles.”
“They still want the A-P-I-N.”
“Don’t bother. They already know there’s no one here to put in the proper sequence.”
“… Shepherd One, Four-One-Six-Two; confirm your status with your A-P-I-N… Shepherd One, we need a response immediately…”
“Tell them you have a systems malfunction and set a new heading. Give them nothing more, and then cut off the transmission.”
Enzio tapped a button on his headset. “Shepherd One to Eight-Seven-Three-One-Niner, we’re showing a systems malfunction and will be redirecting to LAX.”
“That’s negative, Shepherd One. Diagnostics show all systems go and active. You are not to redirect. Do you copy?”
Enzio let a moment lapse. “Eight-Seven-Three-One-Niner, we will be redirecting back to the preliminary coordinates.”
Silence.
And then, “Did you copy that, Eight-Seven-Three-One-Niner?”
“We copy, Shepherd One.”
And then he cut the tie as demanded.
Hakam stared out the window; a beautiful day with a clear blue sky. In that moment he understood the reason behind the Tower’s demand to maintain a heading toward Dulles. They were flying into an intercept squad. “From this point, where is the nearest Air Force base?” he asked.
“That would be — I believe — Nellis Air Force Base.”
“How far?”
“Guessing… I’d say maybe three hundred miles northeast of us.”
Hakam deliberated. For fighter jets that would be a nominal distance to cover with their speed. Right now he had to keep as far as he could by running as fast as he could. And to do that they would have to run in the opposite direction to prolong their intercept time.
Although Dulles was now scratched from the game card, he still considered Los Angeles to be a nice consolation prize with nearly four million people. “Fix the new course,” Hakam instructed. “I have scores to settle.”
The plane began to bank steadily to the south, and then to the west toward La-La Land.
“Mr. President.” Attorney General Dean Hamilton received word that Shepherd One had altered their route and was heading back to LAX. The GPS monitor screen confirmed this, the image of the plane heading in a westerly direction. “It appears that Shepherd One is returning to LAX due to an alleged systems malfunction. But a diagnostics exam proves otherwise. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that airplane.”
“So you’re saying, whoever is flying her is obviously lying through their teeth.”
“Absolutely,” he replied quickly.
President Burroughs kept a steady eye on the screen. From the northeast four F-16 Fighter Falcons were bearing down on Shepherd One at an incredible pace. “How long before they intercept?”
“Approximately ten minutes.”
“And what was the crux of the conversation between LAX and Shepherd One?”
“Every member of a flight crew possesses an Aviation Pin Identification Number,” said CIA Director Craner, “an APIN. The only one who knows the number is its possessor, no one else. Now the captain typed in his number as requested. But when the Tower asked for the co-pilot to do the same, knowing the co-pilot was not on board, the pilot then relayed a sudden systems malfunction over the radio and redirected their route back to LAX. The second APIN number was never transmitted.”