by Jones, Rick
Inside a heath food restaurant she toyed with her salad as she read the Washington Post, her eyes focused on the printed page rather than her surroundings, as taught by Mossad no matter the circumstance. But she was in America, which was unlike her beloved Israel that was always under constant threat. Here, there were no volleys of rockets or suicide bombers.
Less than ten feet away a man dressed in suit and tie was sipping a latte while staring at the busy D.C. streets, the weather warm, sunny, the day turning out to be wonderful. On the table was a folded copy of the Post. And positioned within the paper was a .22 caliber Colt automatic with an attached suppressor.
The operative waited for the abort command through his wireless earpiece. If it did not come within the next twenty minutes, then he was to take her out. At that time he would grip the weapon, keep it shielded beneath the paper, and as he walked by put a bullet in her head with the gun sounding no louder than a spit. By the time she was discovered slumped forward in her salad he would have already immersed himself with the crowd.
The man checked his watch.
He had almost fifteen minutes to go.
He sipped his latte.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Arab moved slowly down the aisle with his head moving in such a way it appeared that he expected nothing out of the norm. When he rounded the bend to the kitchen his eyes vaulted to the size of communion wafers. He did not expect to see Kimball standing there waiting.
Before the terrorist could begin to raise his weapon, Kimball came across with his KA-BAR and cut the man’s throat before he could utter a warning cry. He then followed through with an uppercut thrust with the second knife and jammed the blade beneath the man’s chin, driving the point upward into the man’s brain and through the cap of his skull, killing the terrorist within two heartbeats.
After the man slid quietly to the floor as dead weight, Kimball removed the KA-BAR and wiped the blade clean on the man’s white shirt, leaving a bloody stripe. He then grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him to a lavatory where he deposited the body between the basin and stainless steel toilet. He then returned to the kitchen to reexamine his position.
The Garrote Assassin sat on an armrest overlooking the bishops like a sheep herder, once in a while leveling his firearm at a bishop and making a mock gesture of firing his weapon. This guy was a real prick, no doubt.
If Kimball was going to take him out, he knew he would have to do so from a distance. And this was his forte, what he had become elite at. Repositioning the knife so that the pointed end of the blade was pinched between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the perfect balance and weight of the hilt, Kimball was ready to let it fly.
So when the Garrote Assassin got to his feet, he did just that.
The terrorist never saw the flight of the knife as it punched into his shoulder, the sudden white-hot pain causing the Garrote Assassin to go dizzy before he realized what happened. When he looked up and noted the flight of the second knife, the weapon turning over with the slowness of a bad dream as it got closer, the sound of its revolutions sounding like a heartbeat waning to its last thump as it traversed the distance between them, he knew his life was coming to an end the moment the knife pierced his throat with the point exiting through the back of his neck.
For a fleeting moment the motion of his good arm became choppy as it searched blindly through open air, his hand finally coming to rest on the lodged hilt in his throat, which he was too shocked to remove. In an instant of blurred vision, as his world began to spiral out of control, he saw a man standing before him bearing a look of apathy. He was wearing a Roman Catholic collar so white it gave off a halo glow. On his shirt and equally emblazoned was the insignia of the silver Pattée and the symbol’s flanking lions.
Vatican . . . Knight.
It was the assassin’s last thought when an all-consuming darkness finally overtook him.
#
“I don’t know how you got up here, but that’s hardly significant.”
Kimball turned to see Hakam standing ten feet away. In his hand was the BlackBerry, his thumb on the center button.
“Take one step, Vatican Knight, and I will depress this button. Life as you know it will cease and desist. And you know what I’m talking about.”
Kimball knew exactly what he was talking about. He was talking about the payload.
“And the one who was making the rounds of the plane?” asked Hakam.
“He’s stuffed away in one of the heads in the back.”
“No doubt in the same shape as my friend here,” he said, tipping his chin in the direction of the Garrote Assassin. That left him with two disabled soldiers. “I will say this, you are good. And I don’t say that lightly. These men were the best at what they did. I’m not talking about typical warriors who train in al-Qaeda camps, either. These men were seasoned fighters from leading military factions.”
“They were complacent and fought like pussies.”
If the Arab was taken aback, he did not show it. “Now what to do with you,” he said.
From the corner of their eyes they saw the Wounded Leg Assassin with his arm raised, a firearm pointed in their direction. He was leaning against the partition that separated the holding area from the cockpit, using the wall as a crutch. He was gray-faced with dark rings circling his eyes, the look of a man with one foot in the grave. He was sickly and weak; his eyes having the red and rheumy look of fever to them. In his hand the gun wavered unsteadily.
“Let me take him, al-Khatib.”
Hakam took a step closer to the injured man and spoke to him in Arabic. “Put the weapon down,” he told him. “You’re in no shape—”
“In the praise of Allah—” The gun went off in quick succession, five loud reports, each shot going wide of the Vatican Knight.
Against the far wall pock marks could be seen and the hiss of escaping air heard, as if a seal had been suddenly lifted or breached. Everyone remained still, afraid to breathe, each man knowing what was about to come, but tried to wish the truth away.
Cracks and fissures ran from one pock mark to another, like connecting the dots, the lines racing as pressure undermined the wall. Nearby windows began to break, the noise of the quick moving fractures sounded like ice cracking beneath one’s feet on the surface of a frozen pond. And then the wall gave—the metal tearing and wrenching, the edges of the hole peeling outward toward the open sky with the sound of a locomotive rushing through the gaping hole. Anything not tacked down took flight—gravity a non factor as the Garrote Assassin was lifted and whisked through the hole, his limbs boneless as he cleared the edges easily. The gap was that large. Pillows, blankets, newspapers, magazines vacated the plane. A nearby row of seats closest to the opening also began to pull loose from their floor bolts. And then the entire row was gone, along with the three bishops who were seat-belted into them.
Wounded Leg took flight as well as Wounded Arm, both men having been sucked out with such velocity that neither of them had time to cry out. Kimball was lifted, too, his hand reaching out and grabbing the leg extension of a chair, his body weightless, his legs scissoring in the air behind him.
At the same time Hakam could feel himself rise and get pulled forward, his body quickly claimed by the pulling effects as he started his way toward the opening. With his world moving too quickly for him to comprehend, a large hand closed over his wrist.
The Vatican Knight had grabbed him, both men now whipping like pennants in a strong wind.
With one hand Hakam held on with all the power he could muster. But it was not enough. In the other was the BlackBerry. “Don’t let go of me!” he pleaded. “Please! I don’t want to die!”
Kimball stared at the BlackBerry, knew its function. But his grasp was slipping, which meant Hakam was slipping away as well.
Kimball strained, hoping to hang on long enough for the plane to stabilize. “Why should I let you live?” he cried over the deafening noise of flushing air. “Isn’t this wha
t you wanted? Isn’t this what it’s all about for you?”
The Arab released the BlackBerry, the unit whipping through the air so fast Kimball barely saw it leave the man’s hand. The only reason why he grabbed Hakam was for the unit. Without it he could no longer reconfigure the payload impotent. It had been Hakam’s only trump card. And now it was gone.
There was no need for Kimball to maintain his hold any longer. And then he spotted Pope Pius looking down on him with remarkable passivity, his keen eyes waiting to see which path Kimball would take, the one leading to the redemption he has sought for, or the one that will surely continue to pave the way to his own personal Hell.
He turned to Hakam whose face appeared longer, thinner, and quite stricken. “Reach up and hang on with your other hand!” yelled Kimball.
“I don’t want to die!”
“Reach up with your other hand!”
Hakam did, but the mounting suction was proving too great and the grips of both men were beginning to slip.
“Don’t let go!” Hakam was beyond panic. And it was the most emotionally animated he had ever been. “Please . . .”
Hakam’s grasp was beginning to ride down Kimball’s wrist.
“Hang on!”
Now they were hanging by the crooks of their fingertips, Hakam screaming, his eyes bemoaning the fact that his life was about to come to a horrible end. And then they were free, Hakam caroming hard off the ceiling before being sucked out of the fuselage.
With his free hand Kimball grabbed the leg of the chair with a double-fisted hold and gazed upon the pope.
The pontiff was looking at him with approval because he had chosen his path well. He had chosen to save the life of a man despite failing in his endeavor. He had chosen the path of redemption.
As the air began to stabilize, Kimball became more gravity oriented and his legs gradually made their way back to the floor. When he got to his feet he noted the hole and the sharp metal edges surrounding it. Suddenly there was a loud booming pop, which was closely followed by a turbulent pitch that dropped Kimball to his backside.
Shepherd One was taking a nosedive.
#
The Flight Commander of the Fighting Falcons remained behind Shepherd One at a comfortable distance with the rest of his team, the planes flying in straight-line formation.
And then it happened quickly and without warning.
A portion of the portside wall of Shepherd One blew outward, the mild concussion of the explosion causing the jets to waver in their pattern before regaining their balance. From the blast-hole came the signs of anything not tethered down. The first was a body, which was followed by more bodies, including a benched-row seating of bishops. Thirty seconds after that a final body was drawn through the opening, someone small, the man pin wheeling his arms like crazy as he began his five-mile plummet.
And then there was the flash of a second explosion, the licks of flame leaping from one of the portside engines before quickly dying out.
“Base Command, this is Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three, come in . . .”
“. . . This is Base Command, go ahead Two-Six-Four-Three . . .”
Before the pilot could answer, Shepherd One nosed its way into a steep descent.
“Base Command, Shepherd One is going down. I repeat: Shepherd One is going down.”
#
Everyone in the Raven Rock underground got to their feet.
“Come again, Two-Six-Four-Three?”
“. . . Shepherd One is going down. A wall blew out from the portside and it appears one of the engines is gone as well . . . She’s falling into the heart of LA . . .”
President Burroughs had grossly misjudged his call and was now second guessing himself. He purposely placed his entire faith on an unknown soldier hoping to avoid political fallout with the nation he was helming. If he ordered the evacuation of Los Angeles, the fallout would have come in the form of unmitigated loss of confidence from an entire population who expected their government to protect them on all fronts since Americans, as a whole, had taken their sense of security for granted. If they had been informed that a nuclear payload made its way across the American border, and now that payload was flying above the city of Los Angeles, then the confidence as a nation would have been shaken to the core, if not entirely broken. Not only would there have been blind panic in LA, but throughout the nation as a whole. If a nuclear weapon breached the security lines once, then it could happen again.
The president raked his fingers nervously through his hair as he let his conscience run interference, believing he should have listened to his staff. Yes, informing the masses would have caused internal and irreparable damages, the American constituency no doubt imposing a death sentence upon his administration. How many people could he have saved by evacuating the city? A hundred thousand people, maybe more? Now he would have to bear the loss of those souls and the decision making that cost them their lives.
Perhaps good intentions paved the road to Hell after all, he considered.
#
Enzio immediately felt the draw and pull of air caused by a breach in the fuselage. Everything not tacked down in the cockpit was pulled out the door, the force so great it lifted Enzio from his seat, which he was eternally grateful to have been securely belted in.
The plane seesawed from side to side trying to balance itself as if on the point of the fulcrum, but failed, the up-and-down movement getting worse, not better, the tips of the wings dipping in wild vacillation, which threatened to throw Shepherd One into a spiral.
As the drawing pressure began to alleviate, a modicum of control returned to Enzio and the plane started to level off. But when a booming pop sounded, Shepherd One began a steady decline as the angle of its nose and the subsequent follow through of its body started to tip toward a vertical position that promised a head-on collision with Earth.
The altimeter on the flight panel began to descend, going from its set level of 25,000 feet to a scrolling set of numbers that rolled downward.
. . . 24,000 feet . . .
. . . 23,500 feet . . .
. . . 23,000 feet . . .
From the overhead panel a light winked on, signifying that Shepherd One had lost thrust from one of its engines, hence the pop which was more likely an explosion that threw off the plane’s balance. In quick succession he switched a series of toggles to readjust Shepherd One’s power to the three remaining engines, and then applied all his strength to the yolk that vibrated heavily in his hands.
. . . 22,000 feet . . .
. . . 21,000 feet . . .
. . . 20,000 feet . . .
The plane rattled to the point where Enzio was sure the rivets holding Shepherd One together would pop loose. But they didn’t. The entire construction was a marvel of engineering as the equalized thrusts and flaps began to engage themselves, the nose rising, the wings steadying, all in slow progression.
. . . 17,000 feet . . .
. . . 16,500 feet . . .
. . . 16,000 feet . . .
The belly of the aircraft began to level back into a horizontal plane, the flight smoothing out.
. . . 15,000 feet . . .
. . . 14,500 feet . . .
At 13,900 feet, Shepherd One had leveled off.
#
“Base Command, this is Fighting Falcon Two-Six-Four-Three . . .”
“. . . Go ahead, Two-Six-Four-Three.”
“Base Command, it appears Shepherd One had stabilized and is maintaining a level of thirteen thousand nine hundred feet. However, the aircraft has substantial damage to its porthole side with a massive breach in the fuselage fore of the wing. Do you copy?”
“. . . Repeat, Two-Six-Four-Three . . . Did you say Shepherd One is maintaining their altitude with substantial damage? . . .”
“That’s affirmative.”
“. . . Two-Six-Four-Three, you are to immediately make contact with Shepherd One and obtain their current situation. Do you copy? . . .”
“Aff
irmative, Base Command . . . Engaging . . .”
“. . . Copy that . . .”
#
Kimball Hayden worked his way to the cockpit with his hair continuing to whip about the crown of his head as if in a wind tunnel, and grabbed the edges of the doorway. “Enzio.”
The pilot turned. “Father Hayden, how did you get up here? I thought you were locked below.” And then he saw the combat knives attached to his thighs. Somehow, he thought, they looked natural on him. “What are you doing with those?” he asked, pointing to the weapons.
Kimball stepped into the cockpit and ignored the question. “What’s our altitude?” he said with urgency.
The pilot checked the altimeter. “We’re maintaining at thirteen thousand nine hundred feet.”
“Don’t go any lower,” he told him. “Not one inch.”
Enzio looked past Kimball and beyond the door. And Kimball intuited the pilot’s puzzled appearance as to what happened to Hakam and his team, as well as to Shepherd One.
“They’re all gone,” he said, “along with three of our own.”
“And the pontiff?”
“Given the circumstances, he’s doing well.”
Enzio look pleased after learning the pope’s fate. It was the look of deliverance. “I also heard multiple gunshots,” he said. “And then the blowout occurred. How bad is she damaged?”
“It’s extensive, Enzio—and I mean very.”
“Will she hold another two hours plus?”
Kimball thought this an odd question. “I would think you were more of an expert on that, not me. Why?”
Enzio closed his eyes and swallowed. In his mind’s eye he could see his wife’s lovely face and the faces of his children. He could see his son trying too hard to be a man, his need for adulthood coming in the form of macho posturing that hadn’t quite measured up to a true grown-up, both parents still seeing the little boy in him. And Enzio smiled in a dreamy sort of way that made Kimball think the man was lost in his own utopia where everything was in perfect harmony. It was short lived, however, when Enzio snapped his eyes open.
