The Vatican's Last Secret

by Francis Joseph Smith

  La Tour sensed the nervousness of the controller. But this was now a potential national security issue and he was not taking the fall. “Yes, I understand. I am the person who asked Mr. Trottier to allow the aircraft to proceed. Now, I need you to stop the aircraft. There are possibly two criminals on board who need to be interrogated by the police. I am giving you a direct order that undoubtedly overrides your boss. Please tell them to stop. You can you do that, can’t you?”

  Renee was mentally reviewing her management’s chain of command and wondering whether or not La Tour had the authority to override her boss’s order.

  “Why me?” she thought, her right hand now twitching uncontrollably. She removed an airline-sized bottle of Johnny Walker Red whiskey from her desk drawer, fumbling with the bottle’s small cap before mixing the contents into her black coffee. She raised the ceramic mug to her mouth, and in one swift motion downed the strong mix.

  “If I get into trouble for this… ”

  La Tour was quick to cut her off. “You won’t. And I’m the one who will have full accountability for this action. You have my word.” He realized that if any news of him allowing two possible criminals to flee the country hits the press, he would be forced to resign his position.

  The controller seemed satisfied with his reply, either that or the Johnny Walker had provided the necessary calming effect. ”I will radio them now, sir. Please hold.”

  “November five zero seven zero nine, please stop your forward progress and return to terminal. Repeat. Abort your takeoff and return to the terminal.”

  EIAN GRACEFULLY MANEUVERED his aircraft directly in the middle of the runway on top of the large, white, luminescent runway numbers. He scanned the aircraft’s instrument panel one last time for any warning indications. Satisfied, he positioned the engine’s throttles to full power.

  The aircraft’s radio sprang to life just as the aircraft passed the 500-meter mark on the 3,500-meter runway.

  “Abort your takeoff. Say again, abort your takeoff,” the tower controller ordered, desperation apparent in her voice.

  The aircraft now passed the halfway mark on the runway. Eian started the ground emergency process of retarding the engine’s throttles to abort takeoff when he felt Dan’s heavy hand land on top of his, pushing the throttles forward again.

  “What the hell are you doing, Dan? The tower said abort,” his voice cracking, not wanting to relinquish control of the throttles.

  Dan pointed his finger down the runway with his free hand. “We are going full power whether or not you like it, Eian. We are not returning to the terminal. Do you understand me?”

  Dan radioed the tower, the plane still proceeding down the runway at full power. “Tower, please say again. We are experiencing radio difficulties.”

  Renee shook her head. “November five zero seven zero nine, this is Dulerie Tower. You are instructed to abort your takeoff and return to terminal at once.”

  Dan smiled at Eian. “Dulerie Tower, say again. Our radio is evidently not receiving all of your transmission. We will switch to the emergency frequency for a retry.”

  The plane gently lifted off into the afternoon sky, banking slightly right as Eian steered the aircraft toward the Atlantic coast.

  Renee followed the aircraft’s progress until it cleared the airport control area, watching it on radar until it was 10 kilometers out. Realizing she still had the phone line open to the Undersecretary, she slowly picked up the receiver, wondering if her job was suddenly in jeopardy. The controller stood transfixed, staring at the phone for a few seconds.

  “Sir, I could not stop them,” she said into the receiver. “They are evidently having radio problems and cannot receive our transmissions. There is nothing we can do at this time to make them turn around.”

  “You’re joking!” La Tour said. “They are playing possum, hearing every word you say. Where is the nearest military air base to your facility?”

  “That would be Cherbourg Air base, sir, 130 kilometers due west of my location. Come to think of it,” the controller said, picking up a pile of recent faxes, sorting through them individually until finding the one she needed, “we received an unclassified message early this morning from Cherbourg stating the base would be conducting military warfare exercises starting today. That was why I originally vectored this aircraft just south of the restricted area.”

  La Tour focused on his wall-mounted, floor-to-ceiling map of Europe, trying to anticipate the route they would be flying. “Can you tell me how long before that aircraft reaches international air space? Just a guess will do.”

  Renee plugged several numbers into her calculator. “Judging by the aircraft speed and altitude, they should reach the coast in close to 16 minutes and be out of our airspace totally in about twenty, sir.”

  “Excellent. I thank you for your assistance,” La Tour replied, ending the conversation. Jacque sat at his desk for a minute pondering the plight of his friend. He had to reverse the aircraft’s course while it was still in French airspace. Some minor assistance for a friend could turn into his downfall. How was I supposed to know they were suspected terrorists? He picked up the phone once more, dialing his secretary.

  “Mrs. Lafier, connect me with the Cherbourg Air Base Commander.”

  Aboard Boeing 777, west coast of France

  Dan rose from the cramped co-pilot’s seat, easing his slender frame past the instrument panel’s center console. He positioned himself behind Eian who still occupied the pilot seat. Dan suddenly reached over, wrapping his arm around his neck, depriving him of oxygen for a few seconds.

  The plane took a momentary dip as if hitting an ‘air pocket’.

  “I want to get something straight, Eian,” Dan whispered in his ear. “You are in our employ for this trip. Don’t you ever doubt me again. Do you understand me?” He released his grip from around Eian’s neck.

  “Christ, let him fly the plane,” Jim said in the calmest voice he could manage.

  Dan rapped Eian on the head with his knuckles. “If I say jump, or anything else for that matter, you don’t doubt me. You just do it. Do you understand asshole?”

  Eian nodded, trying to regain his breath, coughing several times. He rubbed his neck, moving it around several times to check to see if he still had full rotation of his head. “I’m sorry, Dan. I should have known better. I reacted as trained.” Eian tried his best to control his temper, concentrating on the plane’s instruments, making sure the plane did not veer off its intended course.

  Dan leaned over to Eian, his hand extended. “No hard feelings. We go back a long ways, Eian. You should have known better. I am the boss, and you my friend, are the worker bee. Understood?”

  “Won’t happen again,” Eian said shaking Dan’s hand, knowing what would happen if he tried a move like that again; friend or no friend. He had heard that Dan sliced off a man’s fingers during an interrogation session, and the man happened to be a distant cousin. He could only imagine what would happen if it involved something of real value.

  Dan seemed satisfied with his response and changed the subject, returning to the co-pilot’s seat. “Eian, how long do you think until we reach the coast?” He acted as if nothing had ever transpired.

  Eian tapped the clock located on the instrument panel in front of him, peering at his wristwatch and comparing the two. “If you look out the window off your right-hand side, you will see what looks to be a bluish cut between two rather large brown spots. That’s the English Channel. So according to my trusty clock here, I would say we clear the French airspace in about seven minutes.”

  “In seven minutes, we are in international airspace with the next stop in the good old U.S. of A.,” Dan said, reaching around to provide Jim a congratulatory slap on the back.

  A roar of approval was heard from Eian, having seen Dan’s exuberance displayed on numerous occasions before, especially when a brilliant plan seemed to come together. Eian pondered if the conditions were right to inquire about the type of cargo
they had brought onboard. After all, it was customary that he receive a percentage of its value. Then again, he realized that dealing with Dan was anything but ordinary. He decided to press ahead anyway.

  “I have to ask a question, gentlemen. You’re not displaying all of this enthusiasm for a load of guns or missiles, because I know you, Danny. Oh, yes, I do. We had too many run-ins of that sort in the old days. Would your product be so hot and valuable that the law would quite possibly be on our tail? Could that be the reason why the authorities tried to stop us and return to the terminal? Speak up, Danny. You only mentioned something about hauling the usual weaponry.”

  Dan took Eian’s comments in stride, adjusting the positioning of his seat before looking over at him. “I guess you can say a little of both, Eian.”

  Eian removed his hat, slamming it against the control wheel. “I don’t believe this. You can’t trust anybody anymore. Stupid me; I should have driven a harder bargain for my services when you first contacted me. We are definitely playing some poker when we land this tub. Do you hear me? I deserve the right to make some extra cash for my beautiful work, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Eian, when you land us safely in the United States, I’m going to provide you with a special bonus that will keep you set for the next couple of years or so,” Dan said, pausing for the full effect, “and a free week’s vacation on my yacht in the Keys.”

  Eian adjusted his cap to one side, the same angle an arrogant WWII flying ace would have after a successful mission over the skies of Europe. “Little Danny Flaherty now has a yacht in the Florida Keys. Maybe I could win that yacht off you in a game of chance, eh, Danny? One simple hand of hi-low, winner takes all?”

  “Or maybe I could just win back the money I’m paying you for this job,” Dan said, satisfied that the choking incident was truly in the past with no hard feelings. One amusing thing about Eian, promise him money and everything was considered in the past.

  Jim leaned back in the flight engineer’s seat taking in the childish banter that these two were spouting aloud. It was as though they were still 15 years old and battling over who was going to win the heart of the virginal girl next door.

  “Gentlemen, how about we call a good old fashion truce? I’ll even fortify us with some coffee from the galley; that is, unless you boys had your heart set on a fight?” Jim struck a pose straight out of Boxing Digest circa 1900. “Marquis of Queensbury rules.”

  Eian nodded. “Good idea, Mr. Dieter, coffee might keep me awake for the next eight hours while I fly this rig.”

  Dan scanned the various cockpit instruments, all familiar to him, but on a much smaller scale with his experience confined to single-engine aircraft. “Doesn’t this expensive tub come with an autopilot, Eian? I can’t locate the damn thing with all of the fancy gadgetry we have in here,” pretending to turn knobs.

  Eian used one of his rolled-up charts to knock his hands away in jest.

  “What do you think we have been flying on for the past five minutes since we left French air space?” Eian replied. “I had to wait until I reached our assigned cruising altitude to clear a French aerial war game off the coast.” Satisfied no additional questions would be forthcoming, he returned his attention to an in-flight map of the western European airports and radio frequencies, dialing in control numbers for Shannon Air Traffic Control: his next vector point.

  “Let’s get a jump on things here,” he said. “Shannon Air Traffic Control, this is Extended Flight 777 requesting clearance on a western path to Long Island Control, United States.”

  ON THE ISOLATED and rugged western coast of Ireland, in a drab concrete structure, lay Shannon Control. The structure housed 22 air traffic controllers vectoring transatlantic air traffic safely between Europe and the Americas. Each controller had a particular area of responsibility assigned to them, monitoring traffic via “moving white blips” on a sweeping radar screen updated every 10 seconds with flight critical data such as speed, altitude, and type of aircraft.

  Occupying one of the controllers’ seats for westbound flights was one Michael Shanely. Tall and lanky, the makings of a go-tee merging on his chin, tattoos decorated both arms. He had entered the aircraft controllers training program directly out of Dublin University, graduating third in his class. With the prospect of another quiet day emerging, he decided to track Eian’s aircraft after its takeoff outside of Paris. He awaited the call that would eventually come when it cleared French airspace.

  “Extended Flight 777, this is Shannon Control. Provide me an indent on your position,” Michael said.

  Eian pushed a small red button on the aircraft’s transponder, the aircraft sending a signal that illuminated their position on Michael’s radar, identifying him from six other aircraft in the same area but at various altitudes.

  “Roger Extended Flight 777. You are clear to stay on present transatlantic course of 245 and ascend to 35,000, light traffic ahead at 25 kilometers. Contact Long Island Air Traffic Control when you are 400 kilometers out. Have a nice day. Shannon Control out.”

  Michael glanced to the radar screen still monitoring the jet’s progress.

  “WE ARE SET BOYS, another hurdle cleared,” Eian shouted as if he were a preacher in a church service, yelling from the pulpit. “I say yes! I say it’s time for all brethren to grab some coffee and discuss our vacation plans on Dan’s little boat in the Florida Keys.” He took the cup of coffee that Jim provided.

  Jim handed the other cup to Dan. “Sounds like it’s time for a toast, gentlemen. We are close enough to international airspace with our little treasure. Raise your cups, gentlemen…”

  “Don’t celebrate too early boys. We have company,” Dan said, showing no anxiety in his voice. “We have a French Mirage fighter jet off our starboard wing.”

  NAVY COMMANDER Phillipe of the Second Maritime Squadron was leading his squadron in an attack of a wooden silhouette that had been set up in the English Channel for target/scoring during the 33rd annual French Air Force/Navy fly-offs.

  A highly competitive affair, it allowed one of the services to claim bragging rights until the following year’s competition. This would be his third run of the day in what was turning out to be an extremely tight affair with the score tied.

  As Commander Phillipe approached the stationary target in a steep dive when an urgent radio message ordered him to immediately break from the exercise. He received orders to force a Boeing 777 back into French airspace.

  Shooting was authorized.

  EIAN MAINTAINED HIS composure as he set the radio to the general aviation emergency frequency, hoping the fighter would have done the same.

  “Hold the toast, Mr. Dieter. Let’s see what this frog wants.”

  “French Mirage, please identify yourself and your intentions.”

  COMMANDER PHILIPPE WAS in no mood to chase after a civilian aircraft, especially when bragging rights with the Air Force were on the line. He pulled ahead of the airliner, and then applied his aircraft’s speed brake, allowing him to shift back to no more than five meters off the aircraft’s wing tip, hoping to gain the attention of the pilot in the cockpit.

  “Boeing 777, this is Commander Recard Phillipe of the French Navy,” he said in a steady monotone voice. “I am operating out of Cherbourg Air Base. You are being directed to return to French air space immediately. Repeat; Immediately.”

  DAN LOOKED TO EIAN for some sort of explanation. “What the hell do we do now?” he said.

  “If we can just stall him for another 10 minutes until we reach Irish Airspace,” Eian replied. “He would not dare go into another nation’s airspace if he knows what’s good for him. If we were in French airspace, he would have already taken the shot by now.”

  “And they would say we stumbled into their little air exercise by accident and were shot down by an errant missile,” Jim said. “From what I’ve heard, it’s been done before.”

  Eian pondered his options for a few seconds before responding, trying to maintain his professiona
lism. “French Mirage, this is air piracy. What is the justification for our course deviation? We are Irish and American nationals flying on board an American registered aircraft. What are the charges?”

  COMMANDER PHILIPPE WAS not aware of any charges nor did he care. He followed orders from his superiors. The civilians controlled the military and he in turn performed as ordered, no questions asked. With a simple flick of a toggle switch on his joystick, he armed his 20-millimeter guns.

  “Your aircraft has been identified as being involved in a possible crime. You are requested to return to French Airspace,” he replied.

  EIAN AND DAN TURNED to face Jim, busy strapping himself in the flight engineer’s seat, no doubt bracing himself for what was about to become a turbulent ride.

  “Jimmy boy, it sounds like your buddy sold us out,” Dan said, looking over his shoulder at Jim, still struggling with his seat belt. “What the hell did you say to piss him off?”

  “Honest, I didn’t say anything bad about him or his country,” Jim said. “I just said we needed a favor to bypass customs. Hell, he even thought I had some major starlet on board.”

  “Well, I still have something up my sleeve, boys,” Eian said, pushing the engines’ throttles forward, increasing the speed an additional 50 kilometers per hour. He waited a few seconds until the fighter jet took notice of the new speed to resume contact.

  “Mirage aircraft please provide me with a new course to turn to and a new approach control. I will await your confirmation.”

  THE COMMANDER DIALED his radio controls in order to contact his superior at the Cherbourg Air Base.

  “Roger Boeing 777, I will have your reply in 30 seconds,” he said.

  EIAN EYED HIS WATCH, hoping the pilot of the Mirage would experience some difficulty in contacting his superiors. “This guy must be a buffoon,” he said. “Most of your experienced fighter pilots would have ordered us to perform a 180-degree turn and then assign us a new course; that is, if you don’t want a 20-millimeter shell crashing through your windshield. His mistake in providing us an additional half a minute. Believe me, we are going to need every second. The longer we can stall him, the closer we get to Irish airspace and freedom.”