Three years into their relationship and having moved on from Harvard, she began to act differently, her mood shifting with sudden changes and becoming prone to rages and bouts of impatience, then fits of severe depression. In the apartment they shared in Boston she often flew into unprovoked rages, which convinced him that she was suffering from bipolar disorder. That changed, however, when she began to slur her speech, her words coming forward in drunken effect.
Within a week of testing, a diagnosis confirmed a tumor on the amygdala portion of her brain, which controlled the emotions of fear and aggression. And with all the intellect between them, there was nothing either could do to save her. Her life was ending due to malignant cells running wild.
Almost two months later she was gone.
And he wept.
And he mourned.
And he continued to think of her constantly.
If she was at Area 4 right now, there was no doubt in his mind that she would have found the solution to disable the payload circling above Los Angeles. As intellectually stellar as Tia-Marie was, however, her only setback, at least in his eyes, was that she lacked common sense.
One night while driving through Roxbury, one of Boston’s seedier suburbs, she noted the black markings of graffiti on a block wall, prompting a comment that the walls should be painted black, so that no one could write graffiti on them. And he could remember his response clearly: ‘Then all they would have to do is write with white paint. Black paint does not wash things away forever.’ And for some odd reason she thought that was the greatest solution to a marginal problem. To him it was simply common sense. To her it was something that never entered her mind because the matter did not prove to be highly analytical. And for the rest of the evening she continued to tell him how brilliant she thought his answer was — which really wasn’t brilliant at all. Just something he noted with little consideration.
And then a thought struck him as he sat next to his locker staring at an aged and creased photo of Tia-Marie. She had seen the world differently than he did, with fewer dimensions and more of a straight-on and singular approach, reminding him that his world possessed a negative side to her positive, black verses white. He viewed the situation of Shepherd One being the black wall, and tried to find the solution with white paint. She viewed the white wall in Roxbury with black paint, the other side of the spectrum
Of course!
For hours he was trying to figure out a way to breach the payload’s brain by initiating a virus through the altimeter to kill the CPU. But what if he looked at the situation as the white wall, like Tia-Marie? What if he looked at the altimeter instead of the CPU? He could readily access the altimeter and reprogram its detonation attitude to as low as 10 feet above sea level, not the 10,000 feet it was locked in at. The CPU would still read the memory as being active since a numerical balance of attitude remained, but could only detonate at 10 feet. Surely the sea level of LAX was above that.
Dr. Simone kissed the tips of his fingers and pressed them endearingly against the faded photo of his one-time love, quickly recalling a Simone-ism he created for her upon the moment of her death. Soul-mate: Two people who are forever linked by unconditional love, never sees fault in the follies of their loved one, and is willing to self-sacrifice their personal needs for the welfare of their companion without consideration of their own consequences. It is a connection that is timeless and cannot be cut off by distance or events. It’s a connection that takes a moment to create, but exists for a lifetime.
“Thank you,” he whispered. You always did show me the way.
After that he sprinted to the lab.
In the inconstant light provided from the flicking bulbs on the Avionics board, Kimball could hardly see the keypad of the laptop as he typed a message to the Vatican.
As the plane took its rises and falls, making the situation much more difficult to manage, he was able to type a message to Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci.
Bonasero:
Shepherd One commandeered by terrorist faction of six; however, one has been terminated and two disabled. At least one bishop is dead. Pope Pius, at least for now, well. Options limited due to being locked in the lower level, with no access to upper.
Heightened hostile intent; two nuclear weapons on board!
Enzio flying under duress; family believed to be held captive in Perugia — maybe at the Ponte Felcino Mosque or the old munitions factory on the outskirts. Send the Knights to secure their safe release. Have Leviticus lead the team.
I’ll do what I can from my end. Contact me ASAP.
KIMBALL
And then he hit the ‘SEND’ button, the screen reading MESSAGE SENT.
In a restricted chamber situated beneath the Basilica, seven chairs were situated on a marble platform rising four feet from the floor. The pope’s chair, a king’s throne layered in gold leaf with carvings of winged cherubs and angels, sat vacant. The six corresponding chairs were less imaginative; three to each side of the pontiff’s centered seat were quasi-thrones occupied by the remaining members of the Society of Seven, all dressed in full regalia.
The hall was grand, ancient, an underground recess where past popes and their secret allegiances met time and again. The walls were made of lime, the ceiling vaulted and supported by massive Romanesque columns, and the acoustics were poor, words often traveling across the room as echoes. The only light provided came from the gas-lit lamps moored along the walls, giving the room a medieval cast to it.
As the Society of Seven waited an echoing cadence of footfalls sounded from beyond the chamber door, the pace quick with urgency and the steps weighted as if something colossal was making its way toward the sequestered room. From the opposite end of the chamber a door of solid oak labored on its hinges as a man of incredible height and stature walked toward the platform with a gait and bearing that spoke of power and self-assurance. His shoulders were broad, his massive chest and arms denoting atypical strength with the facial features of a warrior scarred in combat. When he reached the base of the staging area he removed his beret, dropped to a knee, and placed a closed fist over his heart.
“Loyalty above all else,” he said, “except Honor.” This was the salute of the Vatican Knights.
Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci remained seated, as did the rest of the cardinals who watched Leviticus from their raised vantage point.
“Stand, my friend,” said Vessucci. “We’ve received word from Kimball for which you are to be the recipient of.”
Leviticus, a smaller facsimile of Kimball, stood to his full height. “And what has become of Pope Pius and Shepherd One?” he asked.
“For that, there is nothing any of us can do,” he returned. “For the moment the pope is alive and well. And Kimball is doing what he can from his end. But I’m afraid the odds are not in anyone’s favor but the terrorists.”
The shadow lines on Leviticus’s face undulated with the movement of the torches’ flames, his features coming alive when, in fact, he remained neutral.
“You, my friend,” said Cardinal Vessucci, standing, the sleeves of his garment sliding to his elbows as he clasped his hands in an attitude of prayer, then made his way to the edge of the stage. “Kimball has sent word that the family of the pilot flying Shepherd One is being held against their wishes, either in the Ponte Felcino Mosque in Perugia or the old abandoned factory that borders the city. We need you to find them,” he said, “and bring them back well. There may be nothing we can do for the pope. But we can at least provide Enzio with the peace of mind that his family is safe, if something should happen to Shepherd One.”