All the while the principals remained silent, knowing the odds to be long and improbable. The terrorists had been patient, the Americans complacent, which gave rise to the current state of affairs. Hakam had the upper hand and was not about to relinquish it. Nor was he foolish enough to be dragged along by a string of red herrings to prolong matters. The Arab was in total control and everyone’s silence was testament to that fact.
Before the city could be wholly evacuated, everyone knew that Los Angeles was about to become a no man’s land for decades.
Hakam was going to win.
Pope Pius XIII rose from his seat with verbal opposition from his captors, their orders for him to sit down going unheeded. Standing before the bishops of the Holy See, he gauged the looks on their faces and saw the fears of their own mortality. They were the elderly seasoned vets of the administration, all gray-haired and gentle souls who enjoyed their duties to govern the Church. None of them deserved this, he thought. None of them needed to fall victim to the whims of a man possessed by a cruel agenda since they had given themselves to God. And there was no doubt in Pius’s mind that they were questioning their faith.
When the sortie struck he, too, felt the pang of impending death, the bolt of fear striking him like a static charge, where he was positive it would stop his beating heart. As Shepherd One descended in its freefall, he clutched the armrests with a death grip and pled unto his God with his eyes closed and lips moving, the conversation to his Lord highly personal and understood: He did not want to die.
Like all men, he feared violent death despite his station with the Vatican. And above all else, he was human with the inherent trait of self-preservation. To die as an aged man because life had systematically come to its end by natural causes was one thing; to die by violence when life still had meaning was another. Pope Pius XIII truly believed he had much more to do, so much more to give. But right now he had to sermonize to the bishops, his words becoming an opiate to their ears.
If it’s God’s will, he told them, then they were not to lose or question their faith because death would be a glorious transfer into His kingdom. Nor were they to question their devotion or loyalties, since blind faith required no proof since none existed. But in the end, as he stood there, and no matter how melodious he sounded, he could see the human side of their expressions, the aspect of self-preservation ruling over internal faith.
Taking his seat, he couldn’t help the overwhelming feeling of his failure to pacify the bishops.
And although shaken, Pope Pius XIII maintained his love for God and believed devoutly in His being. What bothered him, however, was his unwavering fear of knowing what was about to come, which was his death — so violent, so cruel, so unnecessary. But he was not hypocritical either, since fear was a human element and not a godly one. And though he was frightened he knew this to be good, the sense humbling him, which gave him the realization that he was not above the standards of the people, but a representative of them. Although he was the pope, he was not braver, wiser or better than any man on this plane. He was not godly or above all else. He was simply… human.
Turning to his left he saw the Garrote Assassin looking at him. By the cockiness of his grin Pius could tell that killer had the insight to see his dread, the marginal grimace on the assassin’s face relishing the fact that the pope was frightened.
Just because I’m the pope, he wanted to say, doesn’t make me any less or more than you. I fear, I think, I love like anyone else.
Pope Pius XIII leaned back into his seat, closed his eyes, and began to pray.
And when prayer was over he thought about one thing. He thought about Kimball.
But even this was too much for one man to conquer alone.
Hakam paced the twin aisles of the jet airliner, up one aisle, then down the other. Something was clearly on his mind, his demeanor not escaping the insight of the Garrote Assassin, who held a steady eye on him.
“Are you all right, al-Khatib?”
Hakam raked his hand nervously through his hair and feigned a smile. “Fine,” he said, and then moved on.
He had penance to pay for losing his faith. This much he knew. What he didn’t know is if Allah would forgive him for the transgression of losing faith, and then accept him into His Glory upon his death. The moment Shepherd One began its steep decline, the ideology of self-sacrificing his soul to Allah had become reality. His faith wasn’t even a consideration, only self-preservation. So now he had to rediscover himself in a way to appease his God by regaining his conviction and prove his worthiness. And he would start with prayer.
While making his way back to the fore of the plane he observed the pope who appeared distant, his eyes vacuous, as if staring through the solid masses before him and toward that beatific plane of existence only he could see. Perhaps he, too, Hakam considered, was in prayer.
“Are you in prayer?” asked Hakam.
The pope never altered his gaze. “I am.”
“And what do you see?”
“I see hope.”
Hakam nodded. “One man’s hope is another man’s apathy. You want to live and I want to die,” he lied. “Only one of us can have their way.”
“Hope drives men forward while apathy inhibits growth. Hope will prevail.”
“My hope is that we shall die for a cause. So does that mean my concept of hope will prevail over yours? Or will the semantics of ‘hope’ be left to the subjective interpretations of men of distant philosophies, such as yours and mine? There is no clear answer.”
“No, but there is a clear path,” he returned. And then he faced Hakam. “I pray for the hope of good will, whereas you pray for its downfall.”
“I hope for the progress of my people.”
“And the price of progress is destruction?”
Hakam did not counter, although he was fascinated by the art of debating. “Keep praying,” he told him. “So we shall see whose hope is the greater.”
Pope Pius turned away, his eyes once again growing distant.
From the periphery of his vision, Hakam saw a jet fighter make its way to the pilot’s side of the plane. “Keep praying,” he said dully, his sight tracking the flight of the jet’s path. “But I think your words will fall on deaf ears.” And then Hakam moved toward the cockpit with urgency.
But Pius knew his hope to be the stronger.
And his hope lay within Kimball Hayden.
The Flight Commander of Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three positioned himself alongside the cockpit window of Shepherd One. When Enzio saw the pilot gesturing to him by tapping the lip-mike area of his helmet to reopen communication, Enzio didn’t hesitate and flipped the toggle.
“Go ahead, Two-Six-Four-Three.”
“… Shepherd One, Base Command would like to establish open communication with the hostile factions on board your flight. Do you copy?…”
“Copy, Two-Six-Four-Three — will have to get back to you on that.”
“… I’ll be waiting…”
The Fighting Falcon never left its position, its wing tip less than thirty feet from the cockpit window.
Hakam would make penance later. Right now he would show Allah his true devotion and commit to the cause through immediate action. Prayer would come later.
When he stepped into the cockpit he saw the jet fighter about twenty meters away. “Has he made contact with you?”
Enzio nodded. “He wants to reestablish communication with you.”
“Then let’s not disappoint,” he said. “Open the line.”