Shepherd One (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  “And this is clear and precise?”

  “Yes, sir. By intercepting Russian communication we were able to ascertain the fact that six months ago the amount of three million dollars was traced from a dummy corporation in Minsk, which was owned by Perchenko, and wired to accounts in the Cayman Islands, Russia and the United States where it was discovered by our sources that an additional twenty-seven million was wired to those accounts from the Central Bank of Iran the day before. After that the entire amount was wired to multiple accounts across the world until the trail became so diluted it was hard to follow.”

  “So Perchenko took the earnest deposit of three million, regardless if the Central Bank of Iran faltered?”

  “Exactly,” said Craner. “Black marketers are usually paid ten percent of the gross total as a commission, whether or not the deal is consummated due to the risk involved. In this case the deal went through and the money dispensed until it eventually disappeared. At the very least, Mr. President, Yorgi Perchenko is following the protocol of every black marketer. And with such a large sum of money coming from a known terrorist front as Iran, I’d say Perchenko continues to top the list.”

  Chief Advisor Alan Thornton agreed, since the jihad crusaders were Arabs in possession of Russian-made goods. But the scenario fit too well and appeared too simplistic, whereas Thornton cautioned the president that this could be a red herring to throw the administration off and into a different direction.

  “But it’s the only direction we have at the moment,” the president commented. And then he mused for a brief moment before coming up with directions of his own. “By tracking the Russian communiqué, were you able to pinpoint Perchenko’s location?”

  “Not exactly, but sources believe him to be in Minsk. In fact, there’s a variety of clubs and bars he likes to frequent there.”

  “Then you know what I want,” he said. “I want that man found and I want your resources to do whatever it takes to make that man talk. I want to know how many weapons are out there.”

  “It might be hard since this guy is old school and knows elusive techniques.”

  “Look, Doug, I’m not asking you—I’m telling you. Make sure you find this guy and get the right answers. I want to know how many units this guy sold to the Arabs before the Russians get to him.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “And I mean immediately, Doug. Who knows how much longer we have before they try to detonate a portable, if another exists.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The president eased back into his chair. “Now the question is this: What are the potential target sites? Obviously Washington D.C. and New York City. Give me something more.”

  “It could be anywhere, Mr. President,” said Thornton. “Nuclear reactors, populated cities, the Pentagon—the list is endless.”

  The president bit hard, the muscles in his jaw working. “Then get with the international agencies and mine them for as much information as possible. Especially Mossad. See if they can give us whatever data they have regarding the Arabs killed at the infiltration site. Find out what cell they’re from, their associates, anything that will give us a possible line to follow.”

  “Yes, sir. But if I may?”

  “Go ahead, Al.”

  “Since we don’t know the target sites, I would suggest that we get you to a safe location immediately.”

  “You’re suggesting Camp David?”

  “No, sir. Since the terrorists may assume you’re leaving for Camp David, and that Camp David is listed as a top-ten targeted site, I suggest Raven Rock.”

  The Raven Rock Mountain Complex, also known as the RRMC or Site R, is a nuclear presidential bunker located on a mountain in Pennsylvania. After the Soviet Union detonated its first nuclear device in 1949, a high priority was created for the Joint Command Post to be placed in a protected shelter near Washington, D.C., for the speedy relocation of the National Command Authorities and the Joint Communications Service. It was also frequented by Vice President Cheney following the 9/11 attacks.

  “Then we’ll leave tonight,” he said. “By morning I want a complete base camp and Comm Center set up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And may God have mercy on the souls of the American people.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Area 4, Nevada Test Site

  Late Morning

  The room was encapsulated by concrete walls with a viewing window that ran the entire length of an entire wall, the glass six inches thick. Electronic wizardry such as vacuum systems, vibration-isolating optical tables, a large collection of optomechanics such as Ti sapphire and diode lasers geared for atom manipulation filled the lab—the oft pulsating laser eyes of the tubular equipment shut off, the mechanical arms still.

  In a room connecting this lab was a sequestered chamber strictly used for the study of atomic emissions and absorption. Today, however, inside this room sat the nuclear suitcase on a table beneath a recessed lighting fixture, with its aluminum shell shining with the aura of a sacred chalice.

  Dr. Ray Simone—chief nuclear engineer and leading principal of the president’s Nuclear Management Team—was Lincolnesque with a balding pate and manicured goatee. His eyes were forever studious as they embraced the celebrated intelligence of a man who excelled in the field of nuclear science. And his quirks could only be considered as a reflection of his natural state of mind, that of a man who was socially hindered and lived solely in the world of academia.

  Wearing a white lab coat with a radiation monitor attached to his lapel, Ray Simone stood at the viewing window dabbing his stylus against the screen of an electronic notebook.

  The unit was brought in hours ago and tests were run. What was learned by preliminary discoveries was that the unit was functional with a three kiloton yield. Worse, it had a highly sophisticated and sensitive built-in safety feature. And methods to find a way to disable it proved difficult. Dozens of laser lines crisscrossed all around the triggering mechanism with hundreds more along the PC boards, the lines tracking up and down, back and forth, left to right—making it impossible to breach the laser grid and get at the unit’s core. If a single line was broken or nicked by an intruding implement attempting to disarm the unit, then the unit would quickly arm itself.

  While dotting the screen of his electronic notepad with quick pecks of the stylus, Simone entered the chamber and stood beyond the case’s periphery, and circled it with careful study. There was a Bluetooth-like attachment connected to his ear.

  Putting on the headgear of a monocular optical lens capable of seeing light not visible to the naked eye, Simone was clearly able to see the crisscrossing patterns of laser light moving in intricate patterns—up and down, back and forth, the roving laser eyes making it impossible for a steady hand to go in to disengage the connecting pins. To do so would set off the unit in a three-kiloton, white-hot explosion.

  “Genius is definitely in simplicity,” he murmured.

  There were no wires or decoy devices that he could determine. And should an attempt be made and a laser line nicked by a foreign object, such as the point of a breaching screwdriver, it would initiate the unit’s countdown process.

  This is absolute genius. Simone began tapping the screen of his notebook with his stylus, memorializing his findings.

  “Dr. Simone?”

  The engineer placed a finger on his Bluetooth. “Yeah, Mitch.”

  “President Burroughs would like to be piped through. He wants to know of your findings.”

  “Go ahead and send him through.”

  Removing his special goggles and Bluetooth, Simone traced his finger along the Plexiglas cover that gave view of the burnished spheres.

  “Dr. Simone.” The president’s voice was lacking the normal cheer of salutation. It was more like the man was having a really bad day, but didn’t care if anyone knew about it as his voice was being channeled through the chamber’s advanced vocal system.

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

 
“What have you found?”

  “Well, I will say this,” he began. “It’s quite a marvel of engineering. The unit is totally computerized and the decoy system well masked, making it nearly impossible to disarm.”

  “But is it doable? Can it be disarmed?”

  Simone looked unemotional. “I said nearly impossible, Mr. President.”

  “Nearly or not, Ray, impossible to me means there is a high degree that something cannot be done.”

  Simone leaned over the unit and examined the spheres closely. “Actually, Mr. President, the word impossible doesn’t mean that something cannot be done. It just implies the degree of difficulty involved in the situation.”

  “Ray, can you disarm the damn thing or not?”

  “Impossible or not, Mr. President, and although challenging, everything is achievable and attainable. I will find a way to disarm this unit.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “That, I cannot give an answer to.”

  “Ray, this is imperative.”

  “I understand that. But this is something none of us has ever seen before. The engineering by the Russians makes me ashamed that we haven’t come up with this marvel sooner.”

  “You talk as if you admire the damn thing.”

  Simone was enamored in a scientific way.

  “It’s a bomb, Ray. Find out what makes it tick, then disarm it. And I mean yesterday.”

  “I’ll do what can,” he offered.

  “Do it quickly. There’s a possibility that there may be more units floating around on American soil.”

  “Again, Mr. President, I’ll do what I can. A unit such as this will need to be approached with considerable caution.”

  “Ray, we don’t have much time.”

  “Mr. President, if we make a mistake—even a single and minute miscalculation—Area Four will be nothing more than a dead landscape for thousands of years and whatever answers you are seeking will never be learned. We have no choice in the matter.”

  Over the speakers Ray Simone could hear President Burroughs force a sigh of frustration.

  And then: “I’ll need your engineers on this twenty-four-seven,” he said flatly.

  “Of course.”

  “And, Ray?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Keep in mind that you’re on the clock. If a unit goes off on American soil, then your answers won’t matter much. It’ll be too late.”

  “I understand.”

  And then a loud click sounded over the speakers, something that was definite and audible as a flip of a switch, and then the sound of white noise transitioned cleanly over to dead air.

  The president had made his statement.

  The clock was ticking.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Washington D.C.

  1345 hours Eastern Standard Time.

  Marine One is the presidential helicopter transport to locations of close proximities with minimized landing areas. The current version is the VH-71 Kestral, a state-of-the-line mobile air unit that has a service ceiling of 15,000 feet, and travels at a speed of 192 miles per hour to a maximum distance of 863 miles.

  Its less than posh interior was simply rudimentary with padded benches lining the interior walls and a small communications center with fax and phone. The ceiling was low, the rotary system above them a semblance of moving parts that aided in the muting of the continuous wop-wop-wop of the helicopter’s blades. Nevertheless, and with much of the noise canceled out, President Burroughs always had to speak louder than the norm, as did the members of his team.

  Inside, the bay that was cordoned off from the cockpit by a wall of diamond-studded steel as President Burroughs, Chief Advisor Alan Thornton, Attorney General Dean Hamilton and Chief CIA Analyst Doug Craner gleaned through documents of newly gathered information from international sources, as they waited for the rotors to pick up the maximum speed for liftoff.

  Once Marine One airlifted and began its western trajectory to Raven Rock, President Burroughs continued to read over the newly acquired facts until he was well studied with the new findings. Through the porthole window over his left shoulder Washington faded in the distance, the needle of the Washington Monument contracting to the size of a pin before disappearing all together.

  Since the inception of the incident along the Arizona-Mexico border, information had come in at a breakneck pace, especially from Homeland Security who proffered dossiers on the cell group, and its extended members attained from the FBI Watch List and their own significant data base. The Arizona group was simply a small attachment of a much larger brigade.

  CIA Analyst Doug Craner lifted the flap of a manila folder and rummaged through it, looking for the glossy photos of those killed at the site. “As you already know, Mr. President, al-Khalid Hassan was a leading member of that Arizona group before being killed by the Border Patrol. The other two, however,” Craner forwarded two black-and-white photos of the terrorists killed at the site to the president, “possess very little background. All we know about them at this time is that they were recently trained in al-Qaeda camps along the Afghan-Pakistani border. As far as we know, this was their first jihad mission.”

  “They look like kids,” he commented.

  “They pretty much are.” Craner opened the folder again and grabbed another photo of a young man whose face was grizzled with the minute curls of a beard and eyes that were dark and cold, which offset the gentle and angelic repose of his face, hinting that there was a subterfuge of something very dangerous hidden underneath.

  “This is al-Khatib Hakam,” he added, “twenty-eight years of age, extremely learned and intelligent with an IQ touching the stratosphere.”

  “Am I to assume he’s the team lead?”

  “Yes, sir. And get a load of this. He was born in Dearborn, Michigan; an American who found his god while attending Columbia University in New York, at the age of seventeen.”

  The president examined the photo and simply thought, An American?

  “The man is a prodigy who graduated with Honors at nineteen, and then disappeared, only to show up on the FBI’s Watch List because of his known ties with insurgent groups and organizations.”

  “Do we know where he is now?”

  “No, sir. It’s said that Hakam reveals himself only if it serves a purpose. But we have received unconfirmed reports that Hakam was in Russia not too long ago. Six months ago, to be exact.”

  “To purchase the bombs,” he whispered.

  Craner did not comment.

  Hakam obviously had the world in one hand and a Columbia scroll of graduation in the other, but decided to give it away for twisted idealism. It was truly sad for the president to see someone so naturally gifted to simply throw it all away. “So, what you’re telling me is that Al-Khatib Hakam is spearheading this crusade?”

  “Al-Khatib Hakam is the alleged leader of the Muslim Revolutionary Front, which is not only a group of terrorists, but also a ring of highly trained assassins which is a cut above the normal radical who does not obligate themselves to surrender their life by committing suicide in the name of Allah. This group actually engages in combat techniques akin to our own Special Forces units, and lives on to battle another day if they survive the initial skirmish.”

  Craner proffered several more photos of the known members of the Muslim Revolutionary Front. At first glance the president considered them hardened men who carried the same stoic toughness as the men from American Special Forces. But there was something different, something missing. Or perhaps they possessed too much, he considered. Perhaps their faith had corrupted them with such zealous grandeur that they held nothing more than thoughtless determination.

  As Burroughs picked up the last photo Marine One dipped a little in open space, the helicopter soon recapturing its even course as the president took careful study of Hakam. “How many men are left in this cell?” he asked.

  “We believe six, including him. There’s no information or record of anybody else othe
r than the six photos and dossiers we have.”

  “The guy doesn’t look like much of a soldier.”

  “I’m sure the guy couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag. But true power doesn’t come by killing. It comes by getting others to do it for you. And that’s what Hakam is, the driving force that gets others to do whatever he wants, which makes him a very dangerous man.”

  The president fanned the photos across his fingers as if holding a poker hand. “Tell me more about his team.”

  “Five men who were elite commandos serving under the Republican Guard and the Iranian Revolutionary Guard as the best of the best,” he stated. “And I do mean the best of the best. When things didn’t go right on the war front, they would send these guys in to clean up the mess.”

  The president nodded, and then closed his eyes. “So, we have five elite soldiers and a mental giant. I guess if you cut off the head of the serpent, then the body would wither and die.”

  “Perhaps, sir.”

  “And Hakam was last known to be in Russia how long ago?”

  “Six months ago.”

  “And nobody’s seen or heard from him since?”

  “No, sir.”

  President Burroughs pressed his lips into a tight grimace. “Alan, what’s your take on all this?”

  Thornton, elfish and diminutive in his own right, leaned forward to gather those in close conference without having to yell above the beat of the blades. “Well, Mr. President, barring the inexperience of the members shot and killed at the site with the exception of al-Khalid Hassan, we have to assume the more experienced of the team got through. And taking into consideration that it takes a custodial team of at least two people to get a single unit across the border, simply translates that two, or maybe even three units have made their way onto American territory. And this is based upon the information that six members of the team remain, which, of course, is purely speculation at this point. There could be more, there could be less.”