“Let me take him, al-Khatib.”
Hakam took a step closer to the injured man and spoke to him in Arabic. “Put the weapon down,” he told him. “You’re in no shape—”
“In the praise of Allah—” The gun went off in quick succession, five loud reports, each shot going wide of the Vatican Knight.
Against the far wall pock marks could be seen and the hiss of escaping air heard, as if a seal had been suddenly lifted or breached. Everyone remained still, afraid to breathe, each man knowing what was about to come, but tried to wish the truth away.
Cracks and fissures ran from one pock mark to another, like connecting the dots, the lines racing as pressure undermined the wall. Nearby windows began to break, the noise of the quick moving fractures sounded like ice cracking beneath one’s feet on the surface of a frozen pond. And then the wall gave — the metal tearing and wrenching, the edges of the hole peeling outward toward the open sky with the sound of a locomotive rushing through the gaping hole. Anything not tacked down took flight — gravity a non factor as the Garrote Assassin was lifted and whisked through the hole, his limbs boneless as he cleared the edges easily. The gap was that large. Pillows, blankets, newspapers, magazines vacated the plane. A nearby row of seats closest to the opening also began to pull loose from their floor bolts. And then the entire row was gone, along with the three bishops who were seat-belted into them.
Wounded Leg took flight as well as Wounded Arm, both men having been sucked out with such velocity that neither of them had time to cry out. Kimball was lifted, too, his hand reaching out and grabbing the leg extension of a chair, his body weightless, his legs scissoring in the air behind him.
At the same time Hakam could feel himself rise and get pulled forward, his body quickly claimed by the pulling effects as he started his way toward the opening. With his world moving too quickly for him to comprehend, a large hand closed over his wrist.
The Vatican Knight had grabbed him, both men now whipping like pennants in a strong wind.
With one hand Hakam held on with all the power he could muster. But it was not enough. In the other was the BlackBerry. “Don’t let go of me!” he pleaded. “Please! I don’t want to die!”
Kimball stared at the BlackBerry, knew its function. But his grasp was slipping, which meant Hakam was slipping away as well.
Kimball strained, hoping to hang on long enough for the plane to stabilize. “Why should I let you live?” he cried over the deafening noise of flushing air. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t this what it’s all about for you?”
The Arab released the BlackBerry, the unit whipping through the air so fast Kimball barely saw it leave the man’s hand. The only reason why he grabbed Hakam was for the unit. Without it he could no longer reconfigure the payload impotent. It had been Hakam’s only trump card. And now it was gone.
There was no need for Kimball to maintain his hold any longer. And then he spotted Pope Pius looking down on him with remarkable passivity, his keen eyes waiting to see which path Kimball would take, the one leading to the redemption he has sought for, or the one that will surely continue to pave the way to his own personal Hell.
He turned to Hakam whose face appeared longer, thinner, and quite stricken. “Reach up and hang on with your other hand!” yelled Kimball.
“I don’t want to die!”
“Reach up with your other hand!”
Hakam did, but the mounting suction was proving too great and the grips of both men were beginning to slip.
“Don’t let go!” Hakam was beyond panic. And it was the most emotionally animated he had ever been. “Please…”
Hakam’s grasp was beginning to ride down Kimball’s wrist.
“Hang on!”
Now they were hanging by the crooks of their fingertips, Hakam screaming, his eyes bemoaning the fact that his life was about to come to a horrible end. And then they were free, Hakam caroming hard off the ceiling before being sucked out of the fuselage.
With his free hand Kimball grabbed the leg of the chair with a double-fisted hold and gazed upon the pope.
The pontiff was looking at him with approval because he had chosen his path well. He had chosen to save the life of a man despite failing in his endeavor. He had chosen the path of redemption.
As the air began to stabilize, Kimball became more gravity oriented and his legs gradually made their way back to the floor. When he got to his feet he noted the hole and the sharp metal edges surrounding it. Suddenly there was a loud booming pop, which was closely followed by a turbulent pitch that dropped Kimball to his backside.
Shepherd One was taking a nosedive.
The Flight Commander of the Fighting Falcons remained behind Shepherd One at a comfortable distance with the rest of his team, the planes flying in straight-line formation.
And then it happened quickly and without warning.
A portion of the portside wall of Shepherd One blew outward, the mild concussion of the explosion causing the jets to waver in their pattern before regaining their balance. From the blast-hole came the signs of anything not tethered down. The first was a body, which was followed by more bodies, including a benched-row seating of bishops. Thirty seconds after that a final body was drawn through the opening, someone small, the man pin wheeling his arms like crazy as he began his five-mile plummet.
And then there was the flash of a second explosion, the licks of flame leaping from one of the portside engines before quickly dying out.
“Base Command, this is Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, come in…”
“… This is Base Command, go ahead Two-Six-Four-Three…”
Before the pilot could answer, Shepherd One nosed its way into a steep descent.
“Base Command, Shepherd One is going down. I repeat: Shepherd One is going down.”
Everyone in the Raven Rock underground got to their feet.
“Come again, Two-Six-Four-Three?”
“… Shepherd One is going down. A wall blew out from the portside and it appears one of the engines is gone as well… She’s falling into the heart of LA…”
President Burroughs had grossly misjudged his call and was now second guessing himself. He purposely placed his entire faith on an unknown soldier hoping to avoid political fallout with the nation he was helming. If he ordered the evacuation of Los Angeles, the fallout would have come in the form of unmitigated loss of confidence from an entire population who expected their government to protect them on all fronts since Americans, as a whole, had taken their sense of security for granted. If they had been informed that a nuclear payload made its way across the American border, and now that payload was flying above the city of Los Angeles, then the confidence as a nation would have been shaken to the core, if not entirely broken. Not only would there have been blind panic in LA, but throughout the nation as a whole. If a nuclear weapon breached the security lines once, then it could happen again.
The president raked his fingers nervously through his hair as he let his conscience run interference, believing he should have listened to his staff. Yes, informing the masses would have caused internal and irreparable damages, the American constituency no doubt imposing a death sentence upon his administration. How many people could he have saved by evacuating the city? A hundred thousand people, maybe more? Now he would have to bear the loss of those souls and the decision making that cost them their lives.