Shepherd One (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  So with the patience of a saint, Hakam waited.

  #

  The Chateau Grand Hotel, Los Angeles, California

  2239 Hours Pacific Standard Time

  Mario Morgenessi had been a navigator-slash-co-pilot for Alitalia Airlines for more than twenty years, most prominently serving as part of the airline’s special troupe to the pope as part of the crew of Shepherd One, the papal plane.

  Now with the Symposiums behind him and the crew gearing up for the return home the next day, Mario took comfort beneath the covers of his bed wanting to be well rested for the seventeen hour journey back to Rome.

  He left the window of his suite open, the drapes waving in lazy drifts with the course of a soft breeze as he slept. And light the color of arctic blue filled the room, casting long shadows across the floor.

  As much as a light sleeper that Mario was, always tuned to the slightest sounds that would be imperceptible to most, he did not hear the door to his suite open, then close. The snicker of the bolt locking back in place went unheard as a man crept across the room and stood beside the co-pilot’s bed. In the man’s hands was a garrote, the line taut as he extended the wire to its outermost points.

  At first Mario thought he was dreaming, the voice hollow, as if echoing off the walls of a tunnel—whispers really, the voice calling his name. In the often vague quality of the dreamscape mind for which things made little sense or took on disturbing shapes, Mario saw something of a shadow standing over him, a blotted mass of darkness against the blue light, something calling his name. In its hands was something that glinted silver in the light, perhaps the chain of a magic talisman to be worn around his neck.

  And then he realized it was not a dream at all.

  He was not alone.

  The moment Mario cocked his head from the pillow, the shape swung the garrote around his neck and yanked tight, the serrated edges of the metallic line biting deep into the flesh and severing the carotid. Splashes and founts of blood jettisoned across the walls creating Pollack designs, his hands grasping futilely for the fine cord nearly an inch deep in his throat as his eyes bulged and threatened to take flight from their orbital sockets. As he gagged his tongue projected slightly from pressed lips that were becoming as blue as the cold light.

  And then it was over; the man dead within thirty seconds.

  The assassin then used the cord to pull the co-pilot off the bed and dragged him into the bathroom, heaving the body over the edge of the tub and into the well. Along the edges of the tub were crimson smudges and drops of blood, which the assassin did not bother to clean since the walls of the hotel room already held the bloody hallmark of the man’s slaughter. All that mattered was to kill, do it silently, and leave the scene unnoticed.

  Checking the hallway to see if all was clear, the man exited room 616 and placed the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door.

  Within the next two hours the Garrote Assassin successfully dispatched the entire crew of Shepherd One, with the exception of its pilot.

  Hakam was most pleased.

  #

  The Chateau Grand Hotel

  Los Angeles, California

  0043 Hours Pacific Standard Time

  Enzio Pastore had been a military pilot in Italy’s prestigious Aeronautica Milatare for twenty-five years before signing off with a military retirement. At fifty-three he appeared young and fit, keeping his body regimentally in shape. With a copper-hue to his skin and a handlebar mustache to bracket lips too small for his face, he also possessed that steely determination of a man with a set jaw line and incredibly intense eyes.

  For seven years he had been the Vatican’s lead captain flying Shepherd One and the pope all over the world, knowing the mechanical intricacies on this particular plane that no other pilot in Alitalia Airlines would know about.

  He knew every nuance of this aircraft and its modified defense mechanisms, such as the equipment to ward off attacks from insurgent weaponry by having been outfitted with flares and high temperature decoys to attract heat seekers, interceptors to take out ground-to-air missiles, and a state-of-the-art laser jammer deliberately designed to confuse any laser-governed source, most notably the laser-guided missile. The main fallback, however, was that the 787, like all jumbo jets, was not an aeronautical gymnast in the sky.

  Finding his hotel keycard and slipping it into the slot, Enzio waited for the red light to turn green before turning the handle to his room. Tonight he moderately celebrated at the hotel bar which happened to stock his premium brand of Italian beer, Birra Moretti, drinking no more than two bottles, which was the maximum allowed the night before a flight.

  Reaching blindly in the darkness for the light switch, Enzio found the lever and slapped it into the ‘up’ position. The two lamps on the nightstands came to life, the feeble glow of light casting upon a man of slight build and youth sitting at a table by the glass sliding doors that led to the balcony. The man possessed a natural calm to his demeanor with one leg crossed over the other, a hand on a knee, his other hand lying on a closed laptop computer.

  At first Enzio was caught off guard, his state of non-action interrupted when the door closed behind him. A second man, also dark in complexion and wearing a well-tailored suit and tie, held a pistol with attached suppressor to Enzio’s head. In Arabic he ordered the pilot deeper into the room and away from the door with a quick motion of the firearm. Although Enzio didn’t understand the language, he understood the Arab’s intent as the armed man pointed the mouth of the weapon to a designated spot in the room’s center, then shoved the pilot forward, the pistol now touching the base of Enzio’s skull.

  The man sitting at the table was cleaned shaven and didn’t look much older than his late teens or early twenties, but held the dark, intelligent eyes of a seasoned person with all the forbearance of someone much older and wiser. For a long moment the man said nothing, his eyes studying, penetrating, his body as still as a Grecian statue until he finally leaned forward and spoke in perfect Italian.

  “Captain Pastore, I have a proposition for you that I believe would be in your best interest.”

  Enzio actually macho postured, puffing his chest and raising his chin in defiance. But Hakam accepted this as nothing more than an act of bravado, and expected nothing less from an experienced pilot of the Aeronautica Milatare. “What do you want?” he challenged, his voice keeping a hard edge. “What is this all about?”

  The small Arab spoke in a tone that was even with indifference. “Captain Pastore, what I want from you is simple,” he said. “Tomorrow, I want you to navigate Shepherd One to a set of coordinates that I will provide you with. I want you—”

  “What you want is of no concern to me,” he interrupted. “None whatsoever. Now get out of my room.”

  The Arab said nothing, nor did he show any emotion or make a verbal counter for what seemed to be an interminably long time to Enzio. Moving his left hand, Hakam opened the lid of the laptop so the screen faced Enzio, and tapped a button on the keypad. Images began to load up, that of his wife and children sitting on the couch in their home in Italy, terrified and crying, the man who now held the pistol to his head was the same man on the screen with the point of a wickedly sharp knife pressed to the underside of his wife‘s chin.

  Enzio immediately felt his heart misfire as his shoulders slumped. He could do nothing but watch.

  The segment on the laptop’s screen showed Hakam sitting in a chair with the grizzled beginnings of a beard lean closer to Enzio’s family while the other Arab drove the point of his knife beneath the soft tissue of her chin. “What I want from you,” Hakam told her, his Italian perfect, “is to look straight ahead and scream.” In the following segment he leaned forward in his chair, and then commanded, “I said . . . scream.”

  And when she did Enzio could feel his soul suddenly eviscerated from what made him whole. Now he felt completely hollow as he dropped to his knees, his defiance and bravado gone, his skin suddenly alabaster white.

  The image
on the screen was stilled; the freeze-frame photo of his wife bearing the look of absolute horror elicited something from Enzio. It was the feeling of being rendered powerless, which absolved him from the rank of manhood and granted him the right to sob like a frightened child.

  “My family . . .” It was all he could muster between tears.

  “Your family, Captain Pastore, is quite fine. They are being cared for as we speak.”

  Enzio’s eyes filled with the task of pleading and turned to the small Arab, his hands held together in prayer. “Please,” he said. “My family.”

  Hakam tapped another button on the keypad, which brought up a second screen that was hidden beneath the first as a tab. The banner read ‘LIVE FEED.’

  “Do you want to see your family?”

  Enzio’s jaw dropped slowly, as if the question itself placed him in stasis. Then, “Yes—yes,

  of course. My family.”

  “Are you willing to listen to my proposition?”

  He quickly conceded by nodding.

  “Then you shall see your family.” Hakam tapped another button.

  On the screen was a live feed of his wife and children, obviously terrified, but alive.

  “Speak to her,” said Hakam.

  Enzio quickly crawled forward on his knees toward the laptop and was about to embrace and kiss the screen before the gun-wielding captor forced him back with a solid shove. Holding his hands up imploringly, and then in an attitude of prayer, Enzio became emotional as he spoke to his wife and children, ensuring them everything would be fine.

  When Hakam tapped the feed dead, the image growing to a mote of light in the center of the screen, Enzio employed a look of infuriated resentment.

  “Captain Pastore, I strongly suggest that you keep your emotions in check. Or your family will pay the ultimate consequence. This I promise.”

  Enzio’s face shifted back to that of complete and total submission, his head nodding in compliance.

  “Shepherd One,” began Hakam, “does not follow the same strict security guidelines as commercial airliners, correct?”

  Enzio nodded.

  “And it carries no other passengers besides Vatican principals, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Therefore, I assume there will be no air marshals to contend with?”

  Enzio closed his eyes. “There’s no need for air marshals since it’s an exclusive charter. It’s the papal plane.”

  “Yes . . . Yes, of course.”

  Hakam’s subdued manner never wavered, his constantly calm appearance a disturbing factor to Enzio who saw him as a sociopath who believed rules did not apply to him. Executing his family would be like swatting a fly with a newspaper, the matter soon forgotten without so much as an afterthought. So he had to be careful.

  “Now Captain,” said Hakam, “and keep in mind that if you should present me with any falsehoods or deception on your part, then I will issue an immediate order for the death of your family. Do you understand?”

  The captain nodded.

  “All I have to do,” he said, letting his finger hover over a button, “is to push this key right here.” Hakam looked the captain straight in the eye. “Your family will be dead before your mind could register the act. Am I making my point clear?”

  Enzio nodded frantically, almost in panic.

  “Good.” Hakam let the finger hover. “Now tell me, how difficult is it to get the pontiff’s personal belongings on board the aircraft?”

  “His belongings and the belongings of his staff are exonerated from examination or search because there is no indication of hostile intent. All baggage is taken to the sublevels of the departing gates and guarded by TSA officers, who make sure no one rummages through the items. Just before the airspace is locked down for air travel, the items are then loaded aboard Shepherd One.”

  “And I assume to get below the departing gate you need to be in possession of an access card or key code?”

  “A card,” he answered.

  “And you possess such a card?”

  Enzio nodded.

  “We know,” the Arab returned. “We have in our possession all the cards of your crew.”

  Enzio cocked his head. How could he be in possession of the access cards?

  “Almost done,” said Hakam. “Now, the price of saving the lives of your family members will depend upon how much you’re willing to follow my instructions.” He leaned closer. “Are you willing to follow my instructions without question, Captain, keeping in mind that I hold the key to your family’s salvation?”

  “Please don’t hurt my children—”

  “Captain, are you willing to follow my instructions without question, knowing that I hold the key to your family’s—”

  “Yes, dammit! I will follow your instructions without question!”

  Hakam’s finger no longer hovered over the key. “Then listen very carefully,” he said. “Tomorrow morning my team will board Shepherd One along with two packages under your command until we become airborne. Is that understood?”

  Enzio nodded.

  “If any concerns are raised by airport security, then it will be your duty to deflect them until we get aboard. Is this also understood?”

  The captain swallowed. His throat was as parched as desert sand. “Yes.”

  “Is getting on board without a hassle from security doable, Captain?”

  Enzio nodded, but slowly. “Since Shepherd One is not a planned commercial trip . . . there will be no problems.”

  “Of course there won’t be. But so that you know.” Hakam traced the tips of his fingers along the blank screen of the laptop, a subtle reminder. “For some reason if things don’t go as planned, then the heads of your family members will be discovered lined up on the sidewalk in front of the Polizia De Stato with a note stating they were taken by the Sword of Allah. Am I clear on this?”

  Enzio’s face threatened to break.

  “Am . . . I . . . clear . . . Captain Pastore?”

  “You are.”

  “Good.” Hakam fell back in his chair and began to outline every detail of getting his team on board Shepherd One, starting with the careful loading of two very special packages.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Raven Rock (Presidential Bunker)

  0721 Hours Eastern Standard Time

  President Burroughs and his team of three, including CIA Analyst Doug Craner, Chief Advisor Alan Thornton and Attorney General Dean Hamilton, remained at the head of the table viewing a live feed from Area 4 of the Nevada Test Site on a massive viewing screen. Others milled about the Comm Center manning communications and fax lines from intel sources around the world.

  Chief Nuclear Engineer Ray Simone, although three hours behind in the state of Nevada where the sun has yet to rise, looked fresh despite no sleep. “Good morning, Mr. President.”

  The president looked thoroughly exhausted. “You got anything, Ray?”

  The engineer shrugged. It wasn’t exactly a vote of optimism. “As you already know,” he began, “the unit is initiated by an external source which, of course, is the BlackBerry. However, in order to start the internal sequence of the weapon, a ten-character code must be typed into the external source.”

  “I know that.”

  “Yes but, to go back on what we’ve already talked about, Mr. President, is that the device takes a sequential order of ten characters to activate the weapon. And to do this you need to type in a password for each character into the Blackberry’s display window. In other words, you need to type in a specific password to create a single character in the display window, and then repeat the process nine additional times, with different passwords, to create the ten sequential characters necessary to activate the device. But the odds of finding the right combination to disable the unit, Mr. President, can be accurately stated to be in the tens of billions.”

  “But can it be disabled?”

  The engineer nodded. “It can. But not in the time you want it, I�
�m sure. Even with the aid of the mainframe, it would take days to find the right combination.”

  “Can you get in there and do it manually?”

  “The roving laser grid makes it impossible to disengage it from inside. It would be far too dangerous to even make an attempt—even with our top-of-the-line equipment.”

  Sinking slowly back into his chair, with his face bearing a pinched and anguished look, President Burroughs appeared on the verge of losing his projected faith. “Everything has its Achilles’ heel,” he said evenly. “And I need you to find it, Ray. I need you to find that Achilles’ heel.”

  Simone raised his hand. “There is something else,” he said. “It might not be a weakness, but I haven’t ruled anything out yet.”

  “What?”

  On the viewing screen Ray Simone hunkered over the open unit, wearing a specialized pair of lenses resembling a jeweler’s loupe but larger, and made a closer examination. “There’s an altimeter attached to the internal computer system, which appears to be independent from the hard drive system. What its purpose to this particular device has yet to be determined, however.”

  “And what is the purpose of an altimeter?”

  Simone placed the magnifying loupe on top of his head. “It’s used to measure the altitude of an object above a fixed level,” he answered routinely. “As far as I know, it possesses no other function. It’s a simple device for measuring air pressure.”

  “I want you to find out what its particular purpose is, Ray. I want you to know everything there is to know about that device as if you built the damn thing yourself.”

  Simone circled the aluminum case in study. “From every point, Mr. President, it appears that the altimeter may have been adapted to receive a broadcast from the central processing unit. Since the hard drive is inaccessible due to the safety features, I’m unable to hack into its memory core. So perhaps I could reverse the process by hacking into the memory portion of the altimeter, instead.”

  “And what will that tell us?”

  Simone hesitated, as if going over of his revelation before speaking. “It could give us a clue to the unique reception frequency needed to initiate the weapon’s start sequence, which would limit the need to go through billions of codes needed to disable the device.”