It was like a pack of wolves against a lone sheep; a squadron of four, heavily armed, and taking on a vessel hardly capable of defending itself.
There was simply no sport to it. But nobody in the team felt elated, either.
The Flight Commander eased back in his seat and saw no need to fire off a third. Nor did he see the need to order anyone from his team to engage and subject themselves to the same self-conflict as he. The two missiles fired were more than adequate to send the jumbo jet plummeting from the sky. Anything else would have been overkill.
As the missiles drove closer to Shepherd One, the Flight Commander simply watched and waited for the endgame.
Enzio quickly rammed the yolk forward and upward, going into evasive maneuvers, then drove the helm hard to the right, banking steeply at a sixty degree angle.
In the cabin area the overhead bins popped opened, spewing their contents. And anybody not secured in their seats became airborne. In a flash the Garrote Assassin took flight as well as the webcam, both caroming off the wall and into the aisle, the assassin stunned — his eyes distant, yet looking for anything that made sense. Wounded Arm and Wounded Leg also took flight, the men crying out as they rebounded off the wall and against the floor, hard, their cries heightened by the agonizing pains of their wounds. In the midsection, the body of the dead bishop garroted by the assassin was tossed about as a boneless heap, his limbs appearing gelatinous and loose as he bounced and rolled down the aisles of the fuselage, uncontained. All of a sudden everything was chaotic and without rule, the plane in an apparent death throe as Shepherd One suddenly banked hard to the left, the plane vacillating hard from the right, the left wing now dipping in a sixty degree angle.
More screams.
Inside the cockpit Enzio drove hard to the left, the yolk nearly at its full leftward steering capacity, the world beyond the window suddenly a kaleidoscopic image of white clouds and blue sky that coalesced into a swirling, Milky Way design of confusion.
And then the explosions, the concussion sending Shepherd One earthbound.
The decoys spent by Shepherd One are blender-sized automatons when deployed rotate in blinding revolutions allowing the device to hover for a period of twenty seconds. The mechanism also reacts in two ways: It sets off a jamming frequency for missiles with laser lock-on to lure it from its intended target, and emit a flare from its bottom carriage with temperatures reaching 700 degrees Fahrenheit, which draws the heat seekers.
Several were deployed.
As the missiles drew closer, they suddenly registered an anomaly. Their programming became jammed, their courses erratic until their alternate programming reconnoitered the new heat signatures, and drew a new itinerary by heading for the beacons.
In quick succession the missiles found their marks, the decoys setting them off, which caused a vast wall of air movement that forced Shepherd One into a downward trajectory.
Kimball Hayden had taken the Lord’s name in vain at least a half dozen times as he flew about the Avionics Room. What the hell was Enzio doing? In a span of fifteen seconds he bounced off the side walls at least three times — one time hitting his head so hard he saw internal stars. And then he held on to something fixed, a protrusion from the wall, something connected to the bank of computers for which he did not know its purpose.
At first the plane banked hard to the left, then to the right, and then the sound of dual explosions… and then the sudden plummet to Earth.
The Flight Commander could hardly believe his eyes. Two incredible flashes of fire and light lit up the sky in rolling balls of flame. Yet Shepherd One remained intact, but was heading in a steep trajectory toward the ground. There was no doubt in his mind Shepherd One possessed defensive devices, although he could not see them from his distance he readily surmised. If Shepherd One was able to regain control, then he would have to reengage. And this time he would have to see it through with a second sortie.
Taking an angle in a downward direction, the Flight Commander and the rest of the Fighting Falcons gave chase.
President Burroughs and the rest of his political team watched the screen adamantly. All five images remained in their westward trajectory; however, their flying patterns became erratic.
What the hell is taking so long? thought Burroughs.
The Danger Zone was nearing.
Enzio pulled back on the throttle with the muscles in his arms straining, his teeth clenching, his will and strength working in collusion to straddle this behemoth in the sky.
In the navigator’s seat Hakam felt dizzy, his heart racing, all color from his face draining as Allah was no longer a thought on his mind — only self-preservation. “Have we been hit?” he cried.
But Enzio focused his attentions elsewhere, Hakam’s words nothing more than a distant drone of syllables.
Then, as if to answer Hakam’s question, Fate appeared to be making a statement for him.
Shepherd One began to shudder, the stress on the flaps and wings too much, the pressure too great. On the flight panel the altimeter was in free fall, having dropped below the 30,000 foot mark in less than a minute.
And then the plane began to cant further to the left, the wing tipping toward a ninety degree angle, the beginning of a spiraling downfall.
Enzio applied his strength and faculties from everything he knew as a fighter pilot with the Aeronautica Milatare to set things right. He pulled back on the yolk and to the right, forced the throttle forward and increased the speed. Slightly, the nose began to lift and the left wing began to stabilize, the plane starting to level off, but only by inches. The tail rudder and flaps began to respond, the tension easing — the intense trembling becoming mere vibrations.
And Shepherd One began to rise once again.
The entire squadron observed Shepherd One regain itself and begin its ascent, climbing to the 28,000 foot level before the team positioned itself once again in a flanking maneuver. The Flight Commander took the lead with two missiles left in his arsenal.
“Alpha Command to Beta, Delta and Omega, come in…”
His team responded.
“All right, listen up,” he said. “The target apparently has some defense mechanisms on board. I will initiate a second sortie. Teams Beta and Delta, I want you to attack from the sides; Omega, from above. After I fire off my remaining payload, I want you to fire off in succession from every possible approach. Do you copy?”
They did.
Without anything additional they peeled off and took position, this time surrounding Shepherd One from every possible angle.
Inside the cavern of the Raven Rock a siren went off, and, as all sirens do, signaled a dire warning. In this case it alerted the president’s team that Shepherd One had finally entered the Danger Zone, putting the masses at risk.
For the moment it appeared that Burroughs was ignoring the call, his intense look of rapt attention captured by the images on the screen. Apparently the Fighting Falcons regrouped, the first sortie failing, the team reorganizing for a second run.
“Mr. President.” Al Thornton also kept his eyes to the screen. “If we keep this up, then lives will be lost at this point. We need to abort and come up with a different position.”
“Normally I’d agree with you, Al. But it’s best to bring her down in an area sparsely populated than over a city of four million. I’m afraid that whatever happens at this point will have to be regarded as collateral damage.”