“—hostile occupation…”
There was a roar within the Raven Rock as people jumped from their seats and let paper fly in celebration as if it were Mardi Gras.
“… Confirm your status again, Shepherd One…”
“… I repeat, Shepherd One is no longer under hostile occupation…”
Through the cheers the president appeared frantic as he screamed over the throng of cries. “Doug!” His voice was barely perceptible. Then louder: “Doug!”
His CIA Director turned him from across the table.
“Doug, call off the hit on Rokach! CALL IT OFF NOW!”
The CIA operative was a man of timely precision. He observed the numbers on his watch count down to the last few seconds. So far, there was no command to abort. The moment the numbers reached double zero the operative slid his hand beneath the paper, grabbed the Colt, used the Post to shield the firearm, and made his way toward the target.
Doug looked at his watch. The hit was past do, but only by moments. Dispatching Langley, he ordered the immediate desistance of Rokach’s assassination. But the operative was effectual in his duties; therefore, results to stop him in time could not be guaranteed at this point.
If the operative proved to be successful in his attempt, then it would no doubt initiate an investigation by Mossad, which would prompt numerous cover-ups by the CIA interior. But if Mossad should ever suspect the killing to have been committed by an allied constituency, then damage control would be pointless and a close ally perhaps lost.
The president could only hope for the best as al-Khatib Hakam, even from his newfound cradle of Death, continued to flex his muscles.
The operative had a clear path, the back of Rokach’s head like a beacon in the dark. As he neared her he raised the Post and closed in, leveling the shielded weapon for the kill. The moment be began to apply pressure on the trigger his earpiece chirped a single word: abort. In a fluid motion he lowered the paper and continued on, finding his way to the street and into the crowd without looking back.
Imelda Rokach, turning a page of the Post while continuing to feed on her salad, would forever remain oblivious that she was less than a second away from having her life snuffed out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
He had rolled the dice and won.
Not only had President Burroughs staved off nuclear devastation and a total loss of faith from the American people, but the probable confrontation with Mossad was averted as well. The problem remained, however, that a critically wounded airplane was flying over Los Angeles with an active payload. The flipside was that they had the control and means to disable the weapons.
Within moments Dr. Simone was on screen.
“The plane is severely damaged,” the president told him via satellite. “So those weapons have to be disabled immediately, just in case Shepherd One does go down.”
“I have the program ready,” Simone returned. “But I need your man on board to tap into the altimeter whereas it will accept the instructions.”
“We can set that up.”
“May I suggest something?”
“Of course.”
“The system surrounding the altimeter is delicate with traps that could ignite the weapon in a heartbeat, so the precision to hookup the laptop to the altimeter must be done very carefully. I did it with the aid of precision lasers. I can give him the coordinates of where to cut his way in. But if he screws up, Mr. President, then Shepherd One will go up like a Roman candle. I strongly suggest that the pilot take Shepherd One somewhere over the Pacific and well out of range.”
The president wagged his forefinger. “That’s a good idea, Ray. How long can you get the program ready?”
“It’s ready,” he said. “It’s just a matter of when and if your man can make the connection with the altimeter.”
The president nodded reassurance. “Give me ten minutes.”
Captain Enzio Pastore was in his own private Hell of indecision. After Kimball left the cockpit to gather the bishops to secure them below where it was safer and warmer, his emotions continued to whorl with kaleidoscopic madness. The reality was that his family had no future. And Father Hayden was correct when he said the Arab proffered little more than empty promises.
So he mourned, his heart fracturing, his emotions ready to erupt in a cacophony of cries so loud he was sure the people of LA would hear him.
Closing his eyes to fend off the sting of tears, Enzio felt a hand upon his shoulder. Pope Pius entered the cockpit area with his zucchetto gone, his hair in a wild tangle as the tails of his vestments waved dreamily behind him as freezing cold air circled continuously within the plane. His vestments were pristine white and glowed like newly laden snowfall. And his face, a semblance of kindness, held paternal warmth that shined like a flowering circle of light.
Perhaps the pilot wanted to see the man as more than a flashing beacon of hope, but as the living essence of divinity that could send his madness away.
After reaching up and grabbing the pontiff’s hand, Enzio finally broke. “They’re gone, aren’t they? My wife, my children…”
Pope Pius moved closer, the white of his robe radiating. “We don’t know that,” he told him. “But don’t give up hope, Enzio, please. It’s my understanding that a very special group of people were sent to find them.”
But the pilot found little solace.
“I know you’re hurting,” he told him, “but you must put your faith in God and pray for the best and be prepared to accept the worst.” The pope took to the navigator’s seat and spoke to the pilot in a voice that was soft, compassionate and understanding. “Enzio, beneath this robe I am a man like you — a man who loves, fears, enjoys the bad as well as the good. I have no special powers, and I possess no more than you. What I possess is less. You have a wonderful family, children, a love I will never understand, and with it perhaps a pain no greater. And for that I am truly sorry for the unimaginable pain you must be going through at this moment.”
With a cracked voice, he said, “Thank you.”
“But we must do what’s right for those who depend on us.” The pope looked out the cockpit window and at the innumerable colors of a sunset sky. “No matter what happens,” he continued, “I will provide you with as much comfort I can possibly offer a man. I will not leave your side.”
But as much as Enzio treasured the proposal, there was little to be had.
The idea of not knowing about his family was destroying him.
Regardless, he took Shepherd One in a westward trajectory over the Pacific Ocean.
RAVEN ROCK: Father Kimball, we have a man ready to send you the programming to lower the altimeters reading, rendering the devices inoperable. However, you’ll need to cut through the casing and attach the laptop to the altimeter. Do you have that capability?
Kimball could feel the combat knives attached to his thighs like normal appendages.
SHEPHERD ONE: Don’t worry. I have a can opener.
RAVEN ROCK: The man’s name is Ray Simone. He’s the chief nuclear engineer of the Nuclear Management Team. He will send you the precise coordinates on where to access the altimeter. And please be very careful, the zone surrounding the altimeter has safety features. If you breach the security system, then the weapons will detonate no matter the altitude.
SHEPHERD ONE: Let’s get this going. The plane is heavily damaged and the vibrations appear to be intensifying, which I don’t think is a good thing.