“That’s not what I asked you, Captain Pastore. I asked you if this aircraft possesses safety features unlike other airliners. And your answer would be?”
He knew Hakam was referring to the flares, the laser jammers, and high temperature decoys. “Yes,” he answered. “You already know that.”
“Then, Captain Pastore, I strongly suggest that you hurry up and prepare to defend this aircraft. I believe we have less than fifteen seconds left… if that.”
Enzio reached for the keypad and typed in a new code. From the central console a small panel slid aside and a box lined with toggle switches projected upward. Flipping the switches, the amber bulbs on the panel began to light up as a signal of activation. All he had to do was depress the red buttons beneath the lights to activate the decoys and laser jammers.
“Are we ready to defend the palace, Captain Pastore?”
“We can at least try,” he said.
Their time was up.
President Burroughs appeared unperturbed. However, he was inwardly screaming for a reprieve. The captain of Shepherd One refused to abide by the new directive, giving Burroughs no other choice but to bring the aircraft down. The monitor above the conference table was a constant reminder to him that the jumbo jet was nearing populated territories, which were the urban areas just outside the premises of the Los Angeles suburb.
“Mr. President.” It was a nudge from Senator Wyman who seemed the least affected by the notion of bringing the jet down. “The decision is now, if it’s ever going to happen.”
Burroughs tented his hands and bounced the tips of his fingers against his chin, his mind in obvious warring fashion.
On the screen the image of Shepherd One reached the Critical Zone, an area marked with a blue borderline, indicating that it had less than ten miles before reaching the Red Zone, an area marked as the kill radius should the weapons detonate.
“Mr. President.” Another nudge from the senator. “You have to make a decision.”
Burroughs lowered his hands and turned to his Chief of Staff of the Air Force Command. “Go ahead, Henry,” he said dejectedly. “Give the order to bring her down.”
“Yes, sir.” The commander clenched his jaw for a brief moment before speaking. And then: “Two-Six-Four-Three, this is Base Command… Come in.”
“This is Two-Six-Four-Three… Go ahead, Base Command…”
Henry Spaatz measured the many faces that looked upon him with equal evaluation to see if those numerous medals of distinction adorning his uniform were meaningless, wondering if his valor would flag in such a moment, or would he commit himself as his station required. Without reservation the commander spoke with marked bravado. “Two-Six-Four-Three, engage the target and terminate her flight immediately… Bring… down… Shepherd… One…”
“… Copy that, Base Command… Engaging…”
Before the webcam’s eye, Pope Pius remained absolutely still as the Garrote Assassin pressed the mouth of his firearm against the pontiff’s temple. Of course it was for show to incite the masses. This he had no doubt. And no doubt it would have the desired effect. But something bothered the assassin, something with enough influence to bathe his forehead in sweat and to shout in Arabic in what appeared to be near panic. His head seemed to be on a swivel, his eyes darting from one set of windows to the other as he stood with his weapon against the pontiff’s temple shouting out commands to his companions who ran along the aisles taking notice of something outside the plane, prompting them to shout back in heightened panic. There was something out there, something obviously not of their liking.
With a steady gaze the pope stared into the webcam and saw the little green light. This was being recorded live. And the pope provided a preamble of a smile, a micro expression of enlightenment. Whatever was out there was obviously for the sake and benefit of the plane. An attempt of a rescue was certainly at hand.
He had no reason to believe that the United States government had already decided to end the flight of Shepherd One.
“Copy that, Base Command… Engaging…” The flight commander released the crucifix and grabbed the yolk with both hands, homing in on Shepherd One by focusing the lock-on targeting program to the rear of the jumbo jet. On the grid-patterned mini screen, the image of crosshairs surfaced and weaved drunkenly from side to side as the guidance system searched for a lock-on point. When the crosshairs found Shepherd One they flared a bright red, the color indicating that a target had been locked on — the crosshairs no longer weaving back in forth, but moving steadily with the course of the targeted jetliner. Above the image read LOCKED.
The Flight Commander poised a thumb over the firing button, and then looked upon the crucifix noting Christ’s head listing to His side and resting upon His shoulder. And those eyes, those incredibly sad eyes of despair, almost pleading in its gaze, looked at him in what appeared to be more of grave sorrow than forgiveness.
In reaction the pilot grabbed the crucifix and turned it around, the eyes of Christ looking away, the feeling of self-shame for what he was about to do too great. Keeping his thumb in position, he looked directly at the tail end of Shepherd One and silently pled for clemency. Please forgive me for what I’m about to do, he thought.
And then he pressed the button.
A high, piercing beeping noise went off in the cockpit of Shepherd One, prompting Enzio’s hands to move with zip-like quickness around the neighboring panels and engaging certain toggles and switches — his sense of self-preservation now governing his actions.
Hakam grabbed the edges of the navigator’s table, his palms greased with sweat. “What’s that?” he asked. “What does that mean?”
Enzio’s hands continued to move with unbelievable speed and flash. “It means they’ve locked onto Shepherd One,” he said. “They’re about to fire off a missile.”
The beeping became louder, faster, like a heartbeat about to surrender its final beat due to cardiac arrest.
“But we are equipped for defense, yes?”
Enzio could hear the desperation in the small Arab’s voice — could detect the man fishing for something positive from the pilot. “This plane is equipped with certain devices to ward off certain weapons — like ground-to-air, maybe some air-to-air, but we’re no match for F-16’s. And I can’t outmaneuver them because this plane wasn’t built for aerial gymnastics.”
Hakam could feel his scrotum crawl, could feel it inching its way up toward a belly that was threatening to convulse. “Los Angeles isn’t too far away. You need to get us there.”
“Don’t you think I’m trying?”
Just then the beeping turned into a constant and steady whine of a flat line.
“What’s that?”
Enzio placed his forefinger on a button on the defense pad. “It means there’s a missile heading our way.”
And then he pressed the button, sending out decoys.
The missile flew from the undercarriage of the flight commander’s Fighting Falcon, the missile itself moving through the air in corkscrew fashion before lining up and flying a straight path toward its target.
Its heat-seeking homing device locked in to the outer engine of the left wing, making a beeline, the little red light on top of the missile’s mini-antennae blinking, as it detected its kill point.
The Flight Commander locked on for a second time, the guidance system finding its mark of the outer engine of the right wing and pressed the firing button. Like its forerunner, the second missile flew in corkscrewing motion before veering off to the right of Shepherd One, the missiles now flanking the aircraft and pressing for the kill.