Shepherd One (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  “Are we ready to defend the palace, Captain Pastore?”

  “We can at least try,” he said.

  Their time was up.

  #

  President Burroughs appeared unperturbed. However, he was inwardly screaming for a reprieve. The captain of Shepherd One refused to abide by the new directive, giving Burroughs no other choice but to bring the aircraft down. The monitor above the conference table was a constant reminder to him that the jumbo jet was nearing populated territories, which were the urban areas just outside the premises of the Los Angeles suburb.

  “Mr. President.” It was a nudge from Senator Wyman who seemed the least affected by the notion of bringing the jet down. “The decision is now, if it’s ever going to happen.”

  Burroughs tented his hands and bounced the tips of his fingers against his chin, his mind in obvious warring fashion.

  On the screen the image of Shepherd One reached the Critical Zone, an area marked with a blue borderline, indicating that it had less than ten miles before reaching the Red Zone, an area marked as the kill radius should the weapons detonate.

  “Mr. President.” Another nudge from the senator. “You have to make a decision.”

  Burroughs lowered his hands and turned to his Chief of Staff of the Air Force Command. “Go ahead, Henry,” he said dejectedly. “Give the order to bring her down.”

  “Yes, sir.” The commander clenched his jaw for a brief moment before speaking. And then: “Two-Six-Four-Three, this is Base Command . . . Come in.”

  “This is Two-Six-Four-Three . . . Go ahead, Base Command . . .”

  Henry Spaatz measured the many faces that looked upon him with equal evaluation to see if those numerous medals of distinction adorning his uniform were meaningless, wondering if his valor would flag in such a moment, or would he commit himself as his station required. Without reservation the commander spoke with marked bravado. “Two-Six-Four-Three, engage the target and terminate her flight immediately. . . Bring . . . down . . . Shepherd . . . One . . .”

  “. . . Copy that, Base Command . . . Engaging . . .”

  #

  Before the webcam’s eye, Pope Pius remained absolutely still as the Garrote Assassin pressed the mouth of his firearm against the pontiff’s temple. Of course it was for show to incite the masses. This he had no doubt. And no doubt it would have the desired effect. But something bothered the assassin, something with enough influence to bathe his forehead in sweat and to shout in Arabic in what appeared to be near panic. His head seemed to be on a swivel, his eyes darting from one set of windows to the other as he stood with his weapon against the pontiff’s temple shouting out commands to his companions who ran along the aisles taking notice of something outside the plane, prompting them to shout back in heightened panic. There was something out there, something obviously not of their liking.

  With a steady gaze the pope stared into the webcam and saw the little green light. This was being recorded live. And the pope provided a preamble of a smile, a micro expression of enlightenment. Whatever was out there was obviously for the sake and benefit of the plane. An attempt of a rescue was certainly at hand.

  He had no reason to believe that the United States government had already decided to end the flight of Shepherd One.

  #

  “Copy that, Base Command . . . Engaging . . .” The flight commander released the crucifix and grabbed the yolk with both hands, homing in on Shepherd One by focusing the lock-on targeting program to the rear of the jumbo jet. On the grid-patterned mini screen, the image of crosshairs surfaced and weaved drunkenly from side to side as the guidance system searched for a lock-on point. When the crosshairs found Shepherd One they flared a bright red, the color indicating that a target had been locked on—the crosshairs no longer weaving back in forth, but moving steadily with the course of the targeted jetliner. Above the image read LOCKED.

  The Flight Commander poised a thumb over the firing button, and then looked upon the crucifix noting Christ’s head listing to His side and resting upon His shoulder. And those eyes, those incredibly sad eyes of despair, almost pleading in its gaze, looked at him in what appeared to be more of grave sorrow than forgiveness.

  In reaction the pilot grabbed the crucifix and turned it around, the eyes of Christ looking away, the feeling of self-shame for what he was about to do too great. Keeping his thumb in position, he looked directly at the tail end of Shepherd One and silently pled for clemency. Please forgive me for what I’m about to do, he thought.

  And then he pressed the button.

  #

  A high, piercing beeping noise went off in the cockpit of Shepherd One, prompting Enzio’s hands to move with zip-like quickness around the neighboring panels and engaging certain toggles and switches—his sense of self-preservation now governing his actions.

  Hakam grabbed the edges of the navigator’s table, his palms greased with sweat. “What’s that?” he asked. “What does that mean?”

  Enzio’s hands continued to move with unbelievable speed and flash. “It means they’ve locked onto Shepherd One,” he said. “They’re about to fire off a missile.”

  The beeping became louder, faster, like a heartbeat about to surrender its final beat due to cardiac arrest.

  “But we are equipped for defense, yes?”

  Enzio could hear the desperation in the small Arab’s voice—could detect the man fishing for something positive from the pilot. “This plane is equipped with certain devices to ward off certain weapons—like ground-to-air, maybe some air-to-air, but we’re no match for F-16’s. And I can’t outmaneuver them because this plane wasn’t built for aerial gymnastics.”

  Hakam could feel his scrotum crawl, could feel it inching its way up toward a belly that was threatening to convulse. “Los Angeles isn’t too far away. You need to get us there.”

  “Don’t you think I’m trying?”

  Just then the beeping turned into a constant and steady whine of a flat line.

  “What’s that?”

  Enzio placed his forefinger on a button on the defense pad. “It means there’s a missile heading our way.”

  And then he pressed the button, sending out decoys.

  #

  The missile flew from the undercarriage of the flight commander’s Fighting Falcon, the missile itself moving through the air in corkscrew fashion before lining up and flying a straight path toward its target.

  Its heat-seeking homing device locked in to the outer engine of the left wing, making a beeline, the little red light on top of the missile’s mini-antennae blinking, as it detected its kill point.

  The Flight Commander locked on for a second time, the guidance system finding its mark of the outer engine of the right wing and pressed the firing button. Like its forerunner, the second missile flew in corkscrewing motion before veering off to the right of Shepherd One, the missiles now flanking the aircraft and pressing for the kill.

  It was like a pack of wolves against a lone sheep; a squadron of four, heavily armed, and taking on a vessel hardly capable of defending itself.

  There was simply no sport to it. But nobody in the team felt elated, either.

  The Flight Commander eased back in his seat and saw no need to fire off a third. Nor did he see the need to order anyone from his team to engage and subject themselves to the same self-conflict as he. The two missiles fired were more than adequate to send the jumbo jet plummeting from the sky. Anything else would have been overkill.

  As the missiles drove closer to Shepherd One, the Flight Commander simply watched and waited for the endgame.

  #

  Enzio quickly rammed the yolk forward and upward, going into evasive maneuvers, then drove the helm hard to the right, banking steeply at a sixty degree angle.

  In the cabin area the overhead bins popped opened, spewing their contents. And anybody not secured in their seats became airborne. In a flash the Garrote Assassin took flight as well as the webcam, both caroming off the wall and into the aisle, the ass
assin stunned—his eyes distant, yet looking for anything that made sense. Wounded Arm and Wounded Leg also took flight, the men crying out as they rebounded off the wall and against the floor, hard, their cries heightened by the agonizing pains of their wounds. In the midsection, the body of the dead bishop garroted by the assassin was tossed about as a boneless heap, his limbs appearing gelatinous and loose as he bounced and rolled down the aisles of the fuselage, uncontained. All of a sudden everything was chaotic and without rule, the plane in an apparent death throe as Shepherd One suddenly banked hard to the left, the plane vacillating hard from the right, the left wing now dipping in a sixty degree angle.

  More screams.

  Inside the cockpit Enzio drove hard to the left, the yolk nearly at its full leftward steering capacity, the world beyond the window suddenly a kaleidoscopic image of white clouds and blue sky that coalesced into a swirling, Milky Way design of confusion.

  And then the explosions, the concussion sending Shepherd One earthbound.

  #

  The decoys spent by Shepherd One are blender-sized automatons when deployed rotate in blinding revolutions allowing the device to hover for a period of twenty seconds. The mechanism also reacts in two ways: It sets off a jamming frequency for missiles with laser lock-on to lure it from its intended target, and emit a flare from its bottom carriage with temperatures reaching 700 degrees Fahrenheit, which draws the heat seekers.

  Several were deployed.

  As the missiles drew closer, they suddenly registered an anomaly. Their programming became jammed, their courses erratic until their alternate programming reconnoitered the new heat signatures, and drew a new itinerary by heading for the beacons.

  In quick succession the missiles found their marks, the decoys setting them off, which caused a vast wall of air movement that forced Shepherd One into a downward trajectory.

  #

  Kimball Hayden had taken the Lord’s name in vain at least a half dozen times as he flew about the Avionics Room. What the hell was Enzio doing? In a span of fifteen seconds he bounced off the side walls at least three times—one time hitting his head so hard he saw internal stars. And then he held on to something fixed, a protrusion from the wall, something connected to the bank of computers for which he did not know its purpose.

  At first the plane banked hard to the left, then to the right, and then the sound of dual explosions . . . and then the sudden plummet to Earth.

  #

  The Flight Commander could hardly believe his eyes. Two incredible flashes of fire and light lit up the sky in rolling balls of flame. Yet Shepherd One remained intact, but was heading in a steep trajectory toward the ground. There was no doubt in his mind Shepherd One possessed defensive devices, although he could not see them from his distance he readily surmised. If Shepherd One was able to regain control, then he would have to reengage. And this time he would have to see it through with a second sortie.

  Taking an angle in a downward direction, the Flight Commander and the rest of the Fighting Falcons gave chase.

  #

  President Burroughs and the rest of his political team watched the screen adamantly. All five images remained in their westward trajectory; however, their flying patterns became erratic.

  What the hell is taking so long? thought Burroughs.

  The Danger Zone was nearing.

  #

  Enzio pulled back on the throttle with the muscles in his arms straining, his teeth clenching, his will and strength working in collusion to straddle this behemoth in the sky.

  In the navigator’s seat Hakam felt dizzy, his heart racing, all color from his face draining as Allah was no longer a thought on his mind—only self-preservation. “Have we been hit?” he cried.

  But Enzio focused his attentions elsewhere, Hakam’s words nothing more than a distant drone of syllables.

  Then, as if to answer Hakam’s question, Fate appeared to be making a statement for him.

  Shepherd One began to shudder, the stress on the flaps and wings too much, the pressure too great. On the flight panel the altimeter was in free fall, having dropped below the 30,000 foot mark in less than a minute.

  And then the plane began to cant further to the left, the wing tipping toward a ninety degree angle, the beginning of a spiraling downfall.

  Enzio applied his strength and faculties from everything he knew as a fighter pilot with the Aeronautica Milatare to set things right. He pulled back on the yolk and to the right, forced the throttle forward and increased the speed. Slightly, the nose began to lift and the left wing began to stabilize, the plane starting to level off, but only by inches. The tail rudder and flaps began to respond, the tension easing—the intense trembling becoming mere vibrations.

  And Shepherd One began to rise once again.

  #

  The entire squadron observed Shepherd One regain itself and begin its ascent, climbing to the 28,000 foot level before the team positioned itself once again in a flanking maneuver. The Flight Commander took the lead with two missiles left in his arsenal.

  “Alpha Command to Beta, Delta and Omega, come in . . .”

  His team responded.

  “All right, listen up,” he said. “The target apparently has some defense mechanisms on board. I will initiate a second sortie. Teams Beta and Delta, I want you to attack from the sides; Omega, from above. After I fire off my remaining payload, I want you to fire off in succession from every possible approach. Do you copy?”

  They did.

  Without anything additional they peeled off and took position, this time surrounding Shepherd One from every possible angle.

  #

  Inside the cavern of the Raven Rock a siren went off, and, as all sirens do, signaled a dire warning. In this case it alerted the president’s team that Shepherd One had finally entered the Danger Zone, putting the masses at risk.

  For the moment it appeared that Burroughs was ignoring the call, his intense look of rapt attention captured by the images on the screen. Apparently the Fighting Falcons regrouped, the first sortie failing, the team reorganizing for a second run.

  “Mr. President.” Al Thornton also kept his eyes to the screen. “If we keep this up, then lives will be lost at this point. We need to abort and come up with a different position.”

  “Normally I’d agree with you, Al. But it’s best to bring her down in an area sparsely populated than over a city of four million. I’m afraid that whatever happens at this point will have to be regarded as collateral damage.”

  Nobody could disagree with his assessment. But nobody concurred, either.

  “We press on,” he finally added. “And would somebody please shut off that damn siren!”

  #

  The media was all over the live feed of Shepherd One’s evasive tactics. Evidently an advanced order of commencement to fire upon Shepherd One was issued by the White House command, the international spotlight now focusing on the Burroughs’ administration.

  Chaotic scenes of the plane were viewed by every major media worldwide, the images intercepted and appropriated by every international news source, including Aljazeera. Although choppy, the images showed the plane in upheaval. People were screaming as they were carried across the fuselage in flight, hitting the walls hard before the webcam took flight. The eye remained alive, however, and caught images of what appeared to be a dead man, a bishop by dress, rolling down the aisle along with pillows, blankets and other debris. Shouts in Arabic could be heard and summarily interpreted, the claims that they were being fired upon by American fighter jets.

  And the media could not have been happier after receiving their pound of flesh which was quickly turning to gold.

  #

  The Flight Commander’s team was ready and in position, their guidance systems already locked onto Shepherd One. The problem was that Shepherd One had reached the vicinity of the Danger Zone, the landscapes of minor communities seen from their vantage point.

  “Two-Six-Four-Three to Base Command . . . Co
me in.”

  “. . . Go ahead, Two-Six-Four-Three . . .”

  “Base Command, our coordinates are reporting entry over populated areas. Do you still want to continue with the engagement?”

  “. . . That’s affirmative, Two-Six-Four-Three. You are to continue until further notice

  . . .”

  “Copy that.” The pilot positioned his thumb over the firing button. No matter how many devices Shepherd One had on board, it would never be enough to counter the incoming volley from his entire team.

  #

  The information hit the president’s table like a tsunami wave. Everything had been swept aside, including the current agenda.

  International news sources were tagging the Burroughs’ administration as the executioner of the world’s most recognized religious icon. Of course there had to be a reason why, there had to be a reason why. Nevertheless, that reason continued to elude the media when questions were asked without recompense.

  The Burroughs’ group could not expound for the fact it had not confirmed whether or not the weapons were actually on board. Or that the idea of taking down Shepherd One was based on a simple whim.

  They had taken action when nothing had yet to be proven.

  Unknowingly, the media had come to serve as a public relations nightmare and became an unwitting ally to the terrorists on board Shepherd One. And because they had the art of deception, they could no longer be employed as a tactical advantage in the scheme of things, since the world was now watching.

  “Abort!” The president hollered at Spaatz. “Abort the mission!”

  The Chief Commander of the Air Force nodded. “If it’s not too late,” he said, and then he promptly ordered his mission team to abandon all prior orders and fall back.

  The response was an overwhelming resonance of static.

  #

  The Flight Commander laid his thumb on the button, the moment to conclude the matter coming in a sudden rush of horrible and overwhelming regret for what he was about to do, but a situation that had to be accomplished, nevertheless. Forgive me . . .