by Jones, Rick
What they would find would make Cardasian’s world a little clearer, a little sicker, causing him to age a little bit older.
#
The pope’s limousine and trailing entourage entered a pre-designated entry point of LAX Airport that bypassed a sea of people gathering at the gates. Yet the course granted the people a marginal view of the pontiff from a cordoned-off distance.
As the limo and accompanying SUV’s quickly crossed the tarmac, the people amassed a fantastic cheer. Signs and banners waved in comprehensive support as people wept or prayed or looked upon the man with adulation. It was simply a glorification of a man who promised hope.
When the limousine curbed itself beside the mobile stairway, Pope Pius XIII exited the vehicle and raised a hand in salutation, marking the masses with a papal blessing by giving the sign-of-the-cross, which incited further applause.
Standing head and shoulders above the rest and wearing his scarlet beret and sunglasses, Kimball gently cupped the pontiff by the elbow and began to escort him toward the first step of the mobile staircase. With caution, Pope Pius XIII grabbed the railing and began his climb.
#
Hakam and his team watched the pope make his way to the base of the stairway and respond to the masses. From their vantage of the aircraft’s windows, every man could feel his heart palpitate against the rack of his ribs. In life they had fought in significant battles—had bled and wept over fallen comrades. And they had felt the virginal tremors of going into battle the moment they first laid their hands on a rifle. But this was different. What they felt was closure. Going into battle against insurgent forces meant they could live to fight another day. But this was conclusive. This time they were going to surrender their lives and enter Paradise. And never again spy upon the faces of loved ones.
For them this was their final journey as soldiers, but a new beginning toward martyrdom.
At that moment, Hakam closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Once Shepherd One became airborne and hit the twenty-five thousand-foot mark, then he would have all the leverage necessary to consummate the final thrust of Jihad.
It would be the start of a glorious victory, he thought. The beginning of the end.
Easing away from the window, Hakam placed a hand on the lever that would allow the door to open to the top tier of the mobile staircase. “I’m proud of you,” he told his team. “And no man could ask for a better unit than what I have in all of you. Simply acknowledge in your heart by knowing what you do will make you all blessed in the heart of Allah.” Glancing over the faces of his team he sighted their stoicism, as well as the deeply rooted fear all men possessed when knowing their lives were about to come to a violent end. “Allahu Akbar,” he finally said.
And then collectively from his unit: “Allahu Akbar.” Allah is the greatest.
Without further consideration Hakam pulled down the lever and opened the door, giving access to the pope who ascended the stairway with the aid of one of the largest men he had ever seen.
#
Although like any other airliner within its fleet, the Dreamliner 787-9 was far more luxurious and appealing than any other jumbo jet in the sky. The double-aisled aircraft held far more room for its passengers and provided a more attractive surrounding with soft-cushioned seats that reclined at an angle similar to a poolside lounger, and a 13” flat-screen TV that angled downward from the overhead bin. In the rear was a state-of-the-art kitchen with infrared heating ovens instead of microwaves; a cooling vault for wine, beer and soda; and an elevator that led to a stocked pantry on the lower level. The bathrooms were larger, more eloquent and less cramped. And in keeping with Italian convention, the clam-shaped sinks and countertops were fashioned with veined marble and antique-styled fixtures.
From beyond the cockpit door Hakam watched the bishops of the Holy See take their seats, but held more interest in the pope and his personal valet. They sat in the first row, the pope removing his miter, the equivalent of a king’s crown, and carefully placed it on the seat to his left while the valet took the seat to his right. For cosmetics the pope adorned the tribunal wear of the alb, tunicle, pallium and lappet. But the valet brought attention to himself by wearing an odd configuration of religious attire. Although his cleric shirt was to code and specs and the Roman collar stark white, his slacks were military wear with his pant legs blossoming out from the top of military boots. On the pocket of his shirt was an emblem: a blue shield bearing a silver cross with two heraldic lions supporting it. A coat of arms, which no other priest on board had.
A red flag immediately surfaced in Hakam’s mind.
The valet was perhaps six six, two hundred fifty pounds. The considerable thickness of his arms, as well as the wide breadth of his shoulders and massive chest, gave Hakam concern. Regardless of how pious this man may be, he was nevertheless a threat by size alone.
Are you a body guard . . . or are you something more?
As Hakam stood there examining Kimball, he noted the Roman collar around his neck, the collar of a Catholic priest.
You’re no man of God, he finally considered. And you’re no priest.
The moment he looked away from the collar Hakam was met by Kimball’s gaze, their eyes locking in appraisal of one another from a short distance. Neither man smiled or betrayed their thoughts. And both refused to flinch or concede.
You’re no priest, Hakam reassured himself. And then he forfeited his stance by feigning a smile, and disappeared into the cockpit.
#
Kimball sat to the right of Pope Pius, the size differential between them the complete antithesis of two men, the proverbial David and Goliath.
For an odd moment he visually connected with the co-pilot, a brief measure of time that spelled something peculiar, but nothing he could pin down with certainty. But it was enough to raise a concern.
“Is a different crew taking us back?” he asked the pope.
The pope nodded. “I saw Enzio in the cockpit when we boarded.”
“But is a different crew taking us back?”
“Sometimes one specialized crew will switch out for another during a lengthy trip,” he said, “so that others can return to their families. And we’ve been away for awhile.” He turned toward Kimball. “Why?”
Kimball did not respond. Instead, he studied the stewards who served the bishops with smiles on their faces and congeniality in their eyes. They were not the same crew. “It seems to me this is a different team,” he said.
The pope shrugged. “It very well may be.”
It very well may be, Kimball mentally parroted. But something’s very, very different here.
And then it hit him. The marginally darker skin tone, the facial features—it was all quite reminiscent. They were of Middle-Eastern origin.
“Oh, no,” he whispered.
#
Hakam quickly retreated into the cockpit and hunkered close to the pilot. Captain Enzio Pastore ignored him as he meticulously checked the switches and toggles.
“Get this thing moving,” said Hakam.
“We need clearance, first.”
“Then get it. I want this thing in the air.”
As Enzio spoke to the tower through a lip mike asking for the authorization to takeoff, Hakam grabbed a laptop that had been placed on the Navigation Station, and plugged a phone line from the back of the computer to a USB port on the navigational board. He quickly booted the laptop, until the screen bore the emblem of the managing software, then closed the lid.
“From this point on, Captain Enzio, you will maintain your heading to Dulles. And you will not alter our course under any circumstances unless I say so. If you choose to do so,” he tapped the top of the laptop, “then you will see firsthand what will happen to your family. Have you ever seen a beheading?”
Enzio did not answer. Nor did Hakam expect one. Hakam simply wanted to plant a seed in the captain’s mind that the fate of his family depended on his forced loyalty to him. Anything else would result in the
executions of his wife and children.
“We have clearance,” he finally said.
“Then bring this thing about and get us in the air. At what attitude are we scheduled to level off at?”
“Thirty-three thousand feet.”
Hakam nodded: Perfect!
#
Kimball maintained a disturbed appearance, his hand massaging the curvature of his chin in thought as he watched the stewards’ buckle in. The moment the plane hitched and began its movement to the takeoff lane, Kimball quickly unbuckled his seatbelt and stood.
The pope reached out and placed a hand over the thick girth of Kimball’s forearm. “We’re you going?” he asked. “The plane is about to take off.”
“I need to see Enzio about something.”
“I believe he’s somewhat busy at the moment. Can’t it wait?”
He looked up and saw all the faces of the stewards looking at him, their eyes making him the focal point of the moment. “No,” he said, drawing his arm away. “It can’t.”
Kimball moved at a quickened pace but was intercepted by a steward who stood from his seat and placed a halting hand on Kimball’s chest. “Please, sir. The plane’s about to takeoff. You need to take your seat.”
Kimball looked down on the man, who was about eight inches shorter, and saw the practiced smile of feigned geniality. His eyes were a deep chocolate, the flesh surrounding them sunken and dark.
“It won’t take long,” he said, and then made a move to pass the smaller man only for the steward to block his path once again.
“Please, sir, I have to insist—”
Kimball grabbed the steward’s hand and bent his fingers backward, driving the man to his knees. “Let’s put it this way,” said Kimball. “Stand in my way again, and I’ll personally see that you won’t be playing the piano anytime soon. Get it? Got It? Good.” Kimball released the steward’s fingers and headed for the cockpit, with the man kneeling on the floor cradling his hand.
The steward, with a painful grimace on his face, managed to work the garrote from his watch and pulled the line taut between his hands, working his injured fingers over its ends. Let me show you what I use my fingers for, he thought, and then he got to his feet.
#
The co-pilot Kimball made eye contact with earlier was sitting at the Navigation Station. A closed laptop was situated on the topside of the Navigation Station and to the man’s left.
“Can I help you?” asked the co-pilot in flawless Italian.
Kimball had to duck to enter the cockpit. The man maintained the same physical traits as the stewards—that of a darker complexion than their Italian counterparts and a total physiological difference in facial feature, more Middle Eastern. Although Kimball eyeballed the co-pilot with a steely gaze, he spoke to the captain.
“Enzio, you need to turn this plane around and head back to the gate.”
The co-pilot cocked his head. This man was speaking English, apparently an American. “I don’t think that’s a possibility right now,” he returned, his English as equally as flawless as his Italian.
“Enzio, stop the plane.”
But the pilot ignored him. Instead, he forwarded the throttle to pick up speed as they taxied toward the runway.
“Did you hear me, Enzio?”
The pilot nodded, his eyes focused on the moving landscape. “I can’t.”
The co-pilot appeared no more than a man in his late teens, his face bearing the fresh-scrubbed look of a choir boy. “Sir, please, if you take your seat—”
“Who the hell are you?”
An awkward silence passed in the cockpit before the co-pilot spoke softly into his lip mike, an order, and definitely in Arab.
Kimball immediately grabbed the man and pulled him close enough to smell the rosewater, the cleansing liquid of martyrs. “Stop the plane, Enzio. I’m not going to tell you again.”
“I can’t,” he said more astringently. “If I do, they will kill my family.”
Kimball turned to him. “They have your family?”
Enzio nodded, never once taking his eyes off the course. “This animal has threatened to behead my wife and children if I don’t comply with their wishes.”
Kimball turned back to the co-pilot. “Who are you?”
“Let go of me.”
Kimball tightened his grasp around the smaller man’s collar, and cinched the fabric until it threatened to choke Hakam. “Who . . . are . . . you?”
Hakam was barely on his toes, the tips of his feet seeking purchase as Kimball held him slightly aloft. “I could ask the same of you,” he answered, looking at the Roman collar around Kimball’s neck. “It’s obvious to me you’re no priest.”
The material around Hakam’s throat grew tighter.
“In fact, I would say that you’re a very skilled soldier.”
“You’re boring me,” said Kimball.
Hakam held his hands out to his sides in supplication. “It’s certainly not my intention to,” he said. And then, “And you’re not a member of the Swiss Guard, since you’re American.” He tilted his head in study. “Curious.”
Kimball lowered the man to his feet and pressed him to the cockpit wall. “And what did you plan to do? Crash Shepherd One into another building? Use the pope as a bargaining tool?”
“Nothing as mundane as that,” he answered.
“Then what?”
They looked each other straight in the eyes, neither man balking, their faces inches apart.
“Release me,” said Hakam. It was not a request, but an order.
“You’re lucky I don’t snap your pencil neck.”
“If you don’t release me within the next ten seconds, then your pope will be dead.”
Kimball hesitated.
“I’m not kidding,” said Hakam. “Right now, at this moment, I have a man with a garrote wrapped neatly around Pius’s throat. If you wait much longer, then you will be held responsible for the death of the pontiff when you had the chance to back off. Now you have five seconds.”
Kimball responded by grabbing the scruff of the smaller man’s collar and ushered him quickly from the cockpit and to the First-Class cabin. When they rounded the bend, Kimball saw the steward he confronted standing in the aisle behind the pope’s seat leaning over with a garrote drawn around the pontiff’s neck, the cord threatening to bite deep into the flesh and draw blood.
“Now you see what my fingers can do,” he told him, tightening the cord which forced the pontiff to ease himself slightly off the seat.
“If you hurt the pontiff, then I hurt him.” Kimball lifted Hakam off his feet and held him up as if displaying a doll.
“There is no stalemate here,” Hakam said. “If you hurt or kill me, then the pope dies, and someone will carry on in my place and the mission will go on. If the pilot deviates from his course, then his family will die as well.”
Kimball debated with himself for a brief moment before lowering the man to his feet, his hand still gripping the back of Hakam’s collar.
“Now release me.”
Against his better judgment Kimball released Hakam, who swiftly drew distance between them.
“As you can see, you never had a chance . . . Or a choice.”
Kimball looked around the cabin and spotted the stewards flanking him with their Glocks leveled. The faces of the bishops were tormented and frightened, none of them understanding the reality of the moment. Yet with the constant turning of their heads to take it all in, he could see they were trying to comprehend.
“I was hoping we wouldn’t have come to this point until we reached Dulles,” Hakam said. “But you don’t leave me with any choice.” In Arabic, he ordered three team members to take Kimball to the rear by the kitchenette and tie him down. “And leave one man to guard him at all times.”
As Shepherd One finally made its way onto takeoff lane, Kimball was escorted to the rear of the plane and secured to a seat with plastic ties binding his wrists to the armrests.
&nb
sp; Inside the cockpit Hakam buckled himself into the navigator’s seat and looked out over the long stretch of runway, leading to the east.
Over the audio, Shepherd One was finally giving the green light.
Enzio did not hesitate. He forced the throttles forward, engaged the pedal, and held the yolk steady. As the jumbo jet picked up speed, the landscape passing by in a blur, he lifted the yolk and the airplane began to ascend at a steady pace.
And Hakam closed his eyes. Allahu Akbar, he told himself. Allah is the greatest.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
They had lost all concept of time. The only way Basilio, his mother and sisters could tell the difference between night and day, was the change in humidity. Tolerable levels meant night; unbearable, day.
Basilio watched his mother lying on the mattress on the floor with her arms enfolding her daughters, pulling them into an embrace. Although their eyes were closed, he was not convinced they were actually asleep.
With his back against the corrugated tin wall and his knees drawn up into acute angles against his chest, Basilio determined the time to be night, since his skin was no longer tacky with sweat. Now he had the cover of darkness.
Grabbing the metal framing, Basilio hoisted himself to his feet. For more than a day he had searched for structural weaknesses such as a fissure in the wall or a loose rivet. But he found nothing. And then he turned ceilingward, his eyes fixing on the pilings of tin sheets not riveted to the crisscross of metal framing. The corrugated slabs of tin were weighted there, resting on top of one another, loosely.
After glancing at his mother with a momentary look, Basilio quietly began to climb the metal framework, the framing itself providing good foot- and handholds.
“Basilio?” His mother sounded tired, as if on the boundary between wake and sleep. “What are you doing?”
Basilio ignored her, one hand striving upward for a metal framing while his foot sought for the purchase of a metal foothold, each action propelling him upward.
“Basilio?” And then more harshly, a loud whisper to capture his attention. “Basilio.”
