… White wall, black wall… Black wall, white wall…
“The units are frozen at nearly forty-nine hundred feet,” said Simone from the video. “But we can still land the plane at that level.”
The time was getting late and the president and his team were beginning to look like they felt, tired and haggard. “How do you propose to do that?” asked President Burroughs. “LAX is less than two hundred feet above sea level.”
On screen Simone raised a finger in emphasis. “I’m not talking about LAX. I’m talking about Denver International Airport, which is fifty-four hundred and thirty one feet above sea level. That gives them a window of five hundred feet.”
The president appeared genuinely keyed up. “Thank you, Doctor. We’ll take your plan under advisement. All I ask is that you stand by.”
“I can do that.”
“Thank you once again, Ray.”
The monitor winked dead.
“You think Shepherd One can make it that far?” asked Burroughs, looking at Thornton.
The Chief Advisor shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong guy. The only one who knows for sure is them,” he said, jabbing his thumb skyward. “But it sounded like the plane was coming apart at the seams, according to Father Kimball’s last message. But do we really want to attempt another flight path over American soil in the condition she’s in, Mr. President?”
Burroughs considered this.
“The entire metro area, including Denver itself, has a population of two point five million people. And we all know that aviation accidents usually happen during liftoff or landing. And with the condition Shepherd One is in, Mr. President, it may be too much for her to overcome.”
Doug Craner immediately asserted himself. “Mr. President, we have a prime opportunity here. The media has reported severe damage to the aircraft and I think we should avail ourselves to that advantage. The Flying Falcons are still circling Shepherd One. This could be made to look like a product of too much damage.”
“Are you asking me to take her down now? After everything those people have been through.”
“I’m thinking about the security of this nation, Mr. President. You dodged a bullet once. How many more do you think you can dodge before you end up mortally wounded?”
“Before, Mr. President,” said Dean Hamilton, “we planned to take her down because we were not in control and didn’t know Hakam’s intentions. We’re now in total control… And she is over the Pacific.”
The president found himself once again in the same predicament as before, waging a one-man battle against the rationality of his team. “This is true. But we were willing to take her down over the western side of the Rockies. I believe that those people, including the pope and the man solely responsible for quashing nuclear devastation over a city of four million, deserve better.”
“You’re exchanging one threat for another,” said Doug.
“That may be. But it’s a challenge I’m willing to meet.” The president made his way to the tracking screen of Shepherd One. The plane was approximately eighty miles beyond the California shoreline; Denver another 850 miles. It would be close to a three-hour jaunt, maybe more considering the damages. “Have the Flight Commander of the Fighting Falcons inform Shepherd One to divert their heading to Denver International.”
“… Two-Six-Four-Three to Shepherd One …”
Enzio switched on the mike. “Go ahead, Two-Six-Four-Three.”
“… Shepherd One, you are to divert your coordinates to 39 degrees, 50 minutes, 57.8 seconds latitude; 104 degrees, 40 minutes, 23.9 seconds longitude. Do you copy?…”
Enzio typed the coordinates into the computer. The numbers popped up as the location of Denver International Airport, DIA. “Two-Six-Four-Three, those coordinates show up as DIA. Is this correct?”
“… That’s affirmative, Shepherd One. Can you cover the distance?…”
Enzio could feel the vibration of the yolk growing worse. Apparently the strain of the air entering the fuselage was applying intense pressure with the tail cone. But by going in an eastward trajectory they would be flying with the jet stream, which would give them a substantial push and less fuel consumption. “That’s affirmative, Two-Six-Four-Three… She can make it.”
“… Copy that, Shepherd One… Two-Six-Four-Three out…”
Barring the lights from the cockpit console, the room was relatively dark. Yet the pope’s robe continued to give off an afterglow. “And where are we to go now?” he asked.
“They want us to go to Denver,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because there’s a solution for everything,” said Kimball, stepping into the cockpit. “That’s why. Denver International is high enough to land this plane without consequence.”
“But the question is,” the pontiff started, “can she make it?”
Enzio wanted to believe she could as he banked for an eastward trajectory. In the back, as he made the curve, they could hear the metal creaking like the timbers of an ancient ship.
Everyone’s motor inside Raven Rock seemed to be at high-speed, the chattering throughout the center sounding like a Dow Jones rally. Seated at the presidential table, President James Burroughs and his team enumerated on what was to be done to ensure the optimum safety at Denver International Airport.
“All flights coming into and leaving Denver International Airport have been postponed,” said Thornton, “The entire area surrounding DIA has been cordoned off. And the terminals have been locked down. The positive thing is that it’s late there, so we were able to move quickly on this.”
The president looked at the tracking screen. Shepherd One was nearing the airport. “Who do we have on the ground when she lands?” he asked.
Craner perused his data report. “We have a six-man federal force and a manageable crew from the fire department.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s enough, if she doesn’t land properly.”
Burroughs could hear the objectionable tone in the CIA Director’s voice. He had taken another gamble, he knew that. And by doing so he was risking an additional two dozen lives on the ground. But this time they had minimal control. Shepherd One was under the guidance of a master pilot whose agenda was to land the plane safely.
“How long before they reach DIA?”
Craner looked at his watch. “About fifty minutes,” he said.
The president took a step closer to the screen and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “How long before Dr. Simone reaches Denver?”
“Soon.”
The president sighed inwardly, hoping above hope that he had not gone too far by taking another critical gamble against the requests of his team. And though he was not a devout man, he believed that Shepherd One had persevered because a grander reason existed that was above their comprehension.
Feeling an odd sense of impending disaster, the president hoped that he had not ventured too far this time with his decision.
The lights to the interior of Shepherd One hadn’t worked since the breach in the fuselage, the entire cabin submersed in absolute darkness. Sitting alone in one of the seats in the center aisle with his hair blowing like the whipping mane of a horse, a seat-belted Kimball stared out through the gaping hole and into the night sky. Although he knew they were moving, the skyscape appeared to be at a standstill, the stars shining as countless pinpricks of light. He could make designs of the configurations — could see the swirls of distant galaxies with total clarity.
The last time he saw the sky with such vision was the moment of his epiphany in Iraq after burying the shepherd boys. It was there when he first began to wonder of a greater existence. Now, looking at the same sky years later, he could only wonder if it was another sign of a coming epiphany, if a second epiphany was to come at all. Or was this a final glimpse of a Heaven he may never reach, but a reminder of what he could have had.