“And their sudden redirection is most likely based on them knowing they were made, so to speak?”
“It’s an early assessment, Mr. President, but we believe it to be a solid one, yes.”
On the screen, the Fighting Falcons were closing the gap.
“And what do you believe their contingency plan is at this point?”
“Again, Mr. President, these are simply assumptions since we haven’t confirmed one way or the other if the weapons are actually on board.”
“For the moment, say they are.”
Craner nodded. “Then I think it’s safe to assume that Hakam realized that he would never make it to D.C. and settled on second best, which is a city of over four million people.”
A disturbing quiet descended over the table like a pall as they watched the monitor. The F-16’s were getting closer to Shepherd One; Shepherd One was getting closer to L.A.
“Four million people,” murmured Burroughs more to himself. And then, “I assume the Fighting Falcons are armed?”
“Yes, sir.”
The question spoke volumes. And the answer held a disturbing finality to it with a single explanation: If Shepherd One should happen to be in possession of those weapons, then it’s to be targeted and brought down before it reached any populated areas…
… And the life of Pope Pius XIII would suddenly end.
Clenching his jaw, Burroughs could feel the acidic bile in his throat rising because the handwriting was on the wall.
The repercussions would be felt far and wide from all directions, the worldwide Catholic community unforgiving with its accusing finger pointed directly at the Burroughs administration for allowing this to happen, despite Burroughs’ intentions to save an entire mass of people whose fate was delivered into the hands of madmen with a twisted agenda. The wounds would be deep, the cuts hemorrhaging until America bled off the respect and dependability from nations and left forlorn. It would be a major undertaking to rebuild trust from a nation known as the country that knocked Shepherd One out of the sky. Hopefully, forgiveness would start by coming from the Vatican, a pious blessing for which the new pope would surely concur the action taken was necessary, and that Pope Pius, of course, would have understood.
Maybe.
But Hakam had planned well.
If anything, Shepherd One had become the perfect shield.
And religion the best weapon of the 21st century.
On the TV monitor, the planes steadily closed the distance.
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.