And then he began to type.
Live feeds from Shepherd One landed at the most prominent television stations around the United States, encompassing cities like Atlanta, Boston, New York and their major affiliates along the eastern seaboard; Los Angeles, San Francisco and Las Vegas in the west.
When news editors and premier anchormen viewed the choppy feed of Pope Pius XIII sitting with armed terrorists flanking him, the newsrooms became tumultuously active with the principles screaming for verification. However, nothing could be solidified. The White House Press, the political dignities with ties to the media, weren’t divulging or offering a modicum of proof that the feed was authentic.
Within minutes decisions were made, the opportunity too impressive to pass up with all the earmarks affirming the visuals — no matter how dark or sophomoric the image — to be that of Pope Pius XIII. All the major networks were interrupted from coast to coast, the anchorpersons verbalizing the feed as ‘highly plausible’ with Shepherd One having been commandeered — but by whom or why had yet to be determined.
Of course the feed was not aired live. Instead, grainy snippets already taken from the earliest frames and edited made the television cut. The nation was riveted; the outgoing news based more on speculation rather than fact. Ratings soured within minutes, the nation tuning in.
And what the community saw, regardless of the poor quality of the feed, was Pope Pius XIII with the point of a pistol pressed firmly against his temple.
It was the only edition allowed for viewership before fading to black.
The F-16’s locked on to their target and bore down on her like lions to a kill. After reaching the tail end of Shepherd One, they broke formation with the lead pilot of the Fighting Falcon group taking a position alongside the aircraft that gave him a visual of the cockpit. The other fighter jets flanked the jumbo jet in escort formation, two per side.
“… Shepherd One, this is Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, come in, Shepherd One…”
Enzio turned to his left and saw the fighter less than 20 meters away, the pilot pointing to his helmet as a gesture to answer the call.
“… Shepherd One, this is Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, come in, Shepherd One…”
“Answer him,” said Hakam, stepping into the cockpit and taking the navigator’s seat. “Tell them you’re to head to LAX due to significant problems with the aircraft.”
Enzio complied. “Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, we’ve already confirmed with Base that we are to head back to our depart point due to unknown mechanical problems.”
“… That’s negative, Shepherd One. You are to reconfigure your coordinates to heading eight-six-zero-one immediately…”
Hakam leaned forward. “Eight-six-zero-one?”
Having been a member of the Aeronautica Milatare, Enzio had practiced maneuvers several times with the Americans at Nellis Air Force Base and knew the coordinates well. “It’s a desert landing strip about twenty miles north of the base,” he answered.
“And I presume it’s in the middle of nowhere?”
Enzio did not acknowledge or confirm. He merely kept his eyes straight.
“… Do you copy, Shepherd One?… You’re to reconfigure your coordinates to heading eight-six-zero-one immediately… ”
“What do I tell them?” asked Enzio.
Hakam deliberated. He had to buy time, but it was obvious the fighter jets had an agenda, as well. “Tell them your heading is locked to LAX.”
Enzio sighed as if taxed. “Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, we will not reroute due to possible—”
“… You are to reroute to those coordinates, Captain… That’s a direct order…”
Enzio reached up and grabbed the toggle switch on the overhead panel. “That’s negative, Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three. Our heading remains as LAX.” And then he switched the toggle, cutting off communication.
Within less than a minute the Fighting Falcons peeled back and repositioned themselves to the rear of Shepherd One, maintaining range.
“What are they doing?” asked Hakam. “Are they escorting us in?”
Enzio nodded with all the reserve of a seasoned military pilot who knew the strategies of warfare. “No,” he said. “They’re positioning themselves.”
“For what?”
Enzio could feel a sour lump forming in his throat. “I would think that would be obvious to you by now,” he said. “They’re going to knock us out of the sky.”
The Flight Commander of Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three maintained a distance of two clicks behind Shepherd One; the other three jets were in formation alongside their commanding officer in a straight line.
“Base Command, Two-Six-Four-Three…”
“Go ahead, Two-Six-Four-Three.”
“Shepherd One is refusing to acknowledge orders. Standing by for further instructions.”
“Copy, Two-Six-Four-Three. Ten-twelve.” Ten-twelve was the vernacular to “stand by.”
Then after a delayed moment: “Two-Six-Four-Three.”
“This is Two-Six-Four-Three. Go ahead, Base Command.”
“Two-Six-Four-Three, maintain visual and continue to ten-twelve.”
“Copy that, Base Command.”
With Shepherd One the behemoth of the sky, there was no doubt as to who were the more powerful. With the Fighting Falcons maintaining pursuit, the Flight Commander recognized the fact that the powers that be were determining whether or not to bring Shepherd One down.
A disturbing thought considering the pope was on board, which gave the pilot reason to question the virtue of bringing the plane down. It was a matter of duty over emotion.
However, his emotion weighed on him.
If the time should ever present itself, could I really fire off a missile?
Although not wholly pious, the Flight Commander was spiritual, often finding himself calling upon God to get him through sorties in Iraq. In fact, a crucifix hung at the end of a beaded rosary inside his cockpit, the crucifix swinging back and forth like a pendulum, the eyes of Christ looking at him forlornly.
And then he asked himself once again: If the time should ever present itself, could I really fire off a missile… knowing that I would be the one responsible for killing the most recognized face in the Catholic world?
The crucifix continued to swing back and forth, the eyes of Christ unsettling, the pain behind them very real; the sadness, the deplorable and appalling sadness.
Reaching, the Flight Commander seized the crucifix in his hand and squeezed, feeling the osmosis of sorrow working to the very core of his soul.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Shepherd One is refusing the command of the Flight Commander,” said CIA Director Craner. “They’re getting closer to L.A. with every passing moment.”
“Don’t you think I know that, Doug?” snapped Burroughs.
The CIA Director lowered his head toward the reams of paperwork in front of him and began to peel back the surface pages.
“Tell me what I don’t know.” The president looked up at the screen, the image of Shepherd One and the four F-16’s drawing nearer to the populated zone. “We have to make a decision, people, and we need to do it quickly. So I need to know right now if any of you believe in the high probability of nuclear weapons on board that plane.”