by Jones, Rick
After kissing the tips of his fingers and pressing them against the photo, Simone raced his way to the Comm Center to contact President Burroughs.
. . . White wall, black wall . . . Black wall, white wall . . .
#
“The units are frozen at nearly forty-nine hundred feet,” said Simone from the video. “But we can still land the plane at that level.”
The time was getting late and the president and his team were beginning to look like they felt, tired and haggard. “How do you propose to do that?” asked President Burroughs. “LAX is less than two hundred feet above sea level.”
On screen Simone raised a finger in emphasis. “I’m not talking about LAX. I’m talking about Denver International Airport, which is fifty-four hundred and thirty one feet above sea level. That gives them a window of five hundred feet.”
The president appeared genuinely keyed up. “Thank you, Doctor. We’ll take your plan under advisement. All I ask is that you stand by.”
“I can do that.”
“Thank you once again, Ray.”
The monitor winked dead.
“You think Shepherd One can make it that far?” asked Burroughs, looking at Thornton.
The Chief Advisor shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong guy. The only one who knows for sure is them,” he said, jabbing his thumb skyward. “But it sounded like the plane was coming apart at the seams, according to Father Kimball’s last message. But do we really want to attempt another flight path over American soil in the condition she’s in, Mr. President?”
Burroughs considered this.
“The entire metro area, including Denver itself, has a population of two point five million people. And we all know that aviation accidents usually happen during liftoff or landing. And with the condition Shepherd One is in, Mr. President, it may be too much for her to overcome.”
Doug Craner immediately asserted himself. “Mr. President, we have a prime opportunity here. The media has reported severe damage to the aircraft and I think we should avail ourselves to that advantage. The Flying Falcons are still circling Shepherd One. This could be made to look like a product of too much damage.”
“Are you asking me to take her down now? After everything those people have been through.”
“I’m thinking about the security of this nation, Mr. President. You dodged a bullet once. How many more do you think you can dodge before you end up mortally wounded?”
“Before, Mr. President,” said Dean Hamilton, “we planned to take her down because we were not in control and didn’t know Hakam’s intentions. We’re now in total control . . . And she is over the Pacific.”
The president found himself once again in the same predicament as before, waging a one-man battle against the rationality of his team. “This is true. But we were willing to take her down over the western side of the Rockies. I believe that those people, including the pope and the man solely responsible for quashing nuclear devastation over a city of four million, deserve better.”
“You’re exchanging one threat for another,” said Doug.
“That may be. But it’s a challenge I’m willing to meet.” The president made his way to the tracking screen of Shepherd One. The plane was approximately eighty miles beyond the California shoreline; Denver another 850 miles. It would be close to a three-hour jaunt, maybe more considering the damages. “Have the Flight Commander of the Fighting Falcons inform Shepherd One to divert their heading to Denver International.”
#
“ . . . Two-Six-Four-Three to Shepherd One . . .”
Enzio switched on the mike. “Go ahead, Two-Six-Four-Three.”
“ . . . Shepherd One, you are to divert your coordinates to 39 degrees, 50 minutes, 57.8 seconds latitude; 104 degrees, 40 minutes, 23.9 seconds longitude. Do you copy? . . .”
Enzio typed the coordinates into the computer. The numbers popped up as the location of Denver International Airport, DIA. “Two-Six-Four-Three, those coordinates show up as DIA. Is this correct?”
“. . . That’s affirmative, Shepherd One. Can you cover the distance? . . .”
Enzio could feel the vibration of the yolk growing worse. Apparently the strain of the air entering the fuselage was applying intense pressure with the tail cone. But by going in an eastward trajectory they would be flying with the jet stream, which would give them a substantial push and less fuel consumption. “That’s affirmative, Two-Six-Four-Three . . . She can make it.”
“. . . Copy that, Shepherd One . . . Two-Six-Four-Three out . . .”
Barring the lights from the cockpit console, the room was relatively dark. Yet the pope’s robe continued to give off an afterglow. “And where are we to go now?” he asked.
“They want us to go to Denver,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because there’s a solution for everything,” said Kimball, stepping into the cockpit. “That’s why. Denver International is high enough to land this plane without consequence.”
“But the question is,” the pontiff started, “can she make it?”
Enzio wanted to believe she could as he banked for an eastward trajectory. In the back, as he made the curve, they could hear the metal creaking like the timbers of an ancient ship.
#
Everyone’s motor inside Raven Rock seemed to be at high-speed, the chattering throughout the center sounding like a Dow Jones rally. Seated at the presidential table, President James Burroughs and his team enumerated on what was to be done to ensure the optimum safety at Denver International Airport.
“All flights coming into and leaving Denver International Airport have been postponed,” said Thornton, “The entire area surrounding DIA has been cordoned off. And the terminals have been locked down. The positive thing is that it’s late there, so we were able to move quickly on this.”
The president looked at the tracking screen. Shepherd One was nearing the airport. “Who do we have on the ground when she lands?” he asked.
Craner perused his data report. “We have a six-man federal force and a manageable crew from the fire department.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s enough, if she doesn’t land properly.”
Burroughs could hear the objectionable tone in the CIA Director’s voice. He had taken another gamble, he knew that. And by doing so he was risking an additional two dozen lives on the ground. But this time they had minimal control. Shepherd One was under the guidance of a master pilot whose agenda was to land the plane safely.
“How long before they reach DIA?”
Craner looked at his watch. “About fifty minutes,” he said.
The president took a step closer to the screen and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “How long before Dr. Simone reaches Denver?”
“Soon.”
The president sighed inwardly, hoping above hope that he had not gone too far by taking another critical gamble against the requests of his team. And though he was not a devout man, he believed that Shepherd One had persevered because a grander reason existed that was above their comprehension.
Feeling an odd sense of impending disaster, the president hoped that he had not ventured too far this time with his decision.
#
The lights to the interior of Shepherd One hadn’t worked since the breach in the fuselage, the entire cabin submersed in absolute darkness. Sitting alone in one of the seats in the center aisle with his hair blowing like the whipping mane of a horse, a seat-belted Kimball stared out through the gaping hole and into the night sky. Although he knew they were moving, the skyscape appeared to be at a standstill, the stars shining as countless pinpricks of light. He could make designs of the configurations—could see the swirls of distant galaxies with total clarity.
The last time he saw the sky with such vision was the moment of his epiphany in Iraq after burying the shepherd boys. It was there when he first began to wonder of a greater existence. Now, looking at the same sky years later, he could only wonder if it was another sign of a
coming epiphany, if a second epiphany was to come at all. Or was this a final glimpse of a Heaven he may never reach, but a reminder of what he could have had.
Kimball turned away from the view offered by the hole and eased his head back into the cushion of his seat. For the past two hours the flight had grown increasingly erratic as the noise became unmusical, the ride itself in a flutter as the unsteady aerodynamics of the plane began to grow in magnitude, threatening its structure.
On Shepherd One’s descent it became worse; the shuddering was like riding the downhill slope of a roller coaster, the plane now in a buffet with its aerodynamic components in excitation because the pilot was manipulating the speed brakes. To Kimball it seemed like the plane was being shaken by the Divine Hand of Providence.
Yet Kimball did not pray. Instead, he faced the gaping hole to view the stars one last time, wondering if a higher order existed.
He was positive that mystery would soon be answered.
#
Shepherd One was coming in unbalanced, the wings tipping from side to side, a distinct signature that the spoilers and flaps were oscillating between the pilot’s control and the plane’s attempt to take on a life of its own.
It was a battle Enzio was losing.
Parked in a gauntlet alongside the tarmac, the bar lights of the fire engines were in full swing, the colors of red, white and blue lighting up the night sky as the plane neared.
When Shepherd One approached and passed overhead of the vehicles, one of its wings clipped a truck, shearing its rooftop hose assemblage and a piece of Shepherd One’s wing. In the aftermath the plane overcorrected itself and swung to the other side, the wing tip striking the tarmac and raising a rooster tail of sparks, before the plane landed hard on its wheels and righted itself. The impact, however, caused the fragile metal surrounding the hole to crumple inward with the fuselage taking on a slight V appearance, as it sped down the runway faster than normal.
As Enzio applied the brakes and fixed the flaps, the metal creaked in protest as Shepherd One neared the runway’s stop barrier. Beside him Pope Pius firmly pressed his legs against the floorboard and braced himself against the impending collision against the barrier, that rushed at them with amazing speed.
Knowing he would not be able to stop in time, Enzio advised the pope to ‘hang on,’ then closed his eyes as the nose of Shepherd One came to an immediate halt when it struck the sand hill, the dirt flying everywhere in grand explosion as the sudden stop in momentum caused the bended wreck of the fuselage to take on more of a V shape.
What had been crippled was now completely lost. Shepherd One was dying as its engines wound down to their last revolution.
In the end, however, she had done them well.
#
Shepherd One was surrounded by fire engines and their flashing array of lights. On board was the six-man team of federal agents. Soon after, Dr. Simone discovered the weapons secured in the cargo bay with the altimeters’ reading at 5431 feet.
Pope Pius, although rattled, remained stalwart as he and the bishops were helped off the plane and to more peaceful quarters.
Captain Enzio Pastore, one-time hero within the Aeronautica Milatare, looked every bit as the shell of a man who lost his entire family. But when he stepped off the plane he was quickly reunited via telephone with his wife. They were fine, she told him. Soon afterward he resigned his post as the Vatican’s pilot and moved to Venice to start a family business. Somewhere in all of this his son, Basilio, no longer needed to be a man, but steadily played out what was left of his youth and resumed his play as a soccer star.
However, a mystery remained.
When they cleared the plane everyone surviving the ordeal was accounted for with the exception of one man. Father Kimball. When the authorities questioned Pope Pius regarding this priest, the pope emphatically denied anybody with the surname of Kimball, which was the truth. Nor was he a cleric as they alluded to.
This man, Father Kimball, if he existed, was nowhere to be found.
#
Raven Rock (Presidential Bunker)
0730 hours
They stood at the summit of Raven Rock: the president, his Chief Advisor Alan Thornton, CIA Director Doug Craner, and Attorney General Dean Hamilton. The rest of the team headed back to Washington.
From their vantage point they viewed miles of green treetops in all directions and a perfect blue sky without a cloud to be seen. The morning air was crisp, clean, and had a snap to it. No one could have asked for a better day.
“It is beautiful,” commented the president as he nodded appreciation. “It just makes you wonder how much longer we have until the next go-around when someone actually sets off a nuke on American territory.”
“We might not be so lucky next time,” said Thornton.
“That’s what I mean.” The president then pointed to the luscious landscape. “All this could be wiped out in a matter of a split second,” he said. “All of it.”
“A lesson learned,” said Dean. “Obviously we need to shore up our borders.”
The presidential team remained quiet as they admired the scenery. In the air, wafting lightly in the breeze was the smell of honeysuckle.
“Any further word on Father Kimball?” asked Burroughs. The matter had to come up sooner or later—the mystery too deep not to be bandied about.
“Nothing,” said his CIA Director. Craner moved beside him and leaned against the corral fencing, his eyes locked on the panoramic view. “The remaining survivors were all accounted for with the exception of the one man not on the passenger list, this Father Kimball. My agents said all the priests on board that plane couldn’t have punched out a clock, let alone punch out a terrorist. They were elderly men in their sixties, hardly soldier material.”
“And no one was willing to talk about the mystery of Father Kimball, including the pontiff?”
“Not a single soul.”
“It’s unlikely for the pope to lie.”
“Perhaps he didn’t. Maybe he manipulated the facts to hide the truth. The Church, after all, is not without its secrets.”
The president shook his head. “But for what reason? I mean, we know he was on board that plane. Where the hell could he have gone? The moment Shepherd One landed we were all over her like a pack of dogs on a three-legged cat.”
Nobody had an answer.
In the background the rotors of Marine One were beginning to spin, the revolutions picking up into blinding speed. It was time to go back home.
From that moment no one mentioned Father Kimball, nor did they speak of the self-proclaimed soldier and personal valet of Pope Pius XIII. Obviously the man never existed.
For the president, for them all, the mystery as to who Father Kimball really was would remain just that, a mystery.
EPILOGUE
Three days after Shepherd One landed safely at Denver International Airport, the news talked about nothing else. The focus, of course, was on the terrorists’ capability to bypass all security measures and commandeer the jumbo jet. And, of course, the justification from airport officials was that Shepherd One and its staff was not considered a faction of ‘hostile intent.’ Congressmen and senators from all over the nation were up-in-arms and called for a dog-and-pony-show Hearing. Obviously somebody at TSA and the regulatory system had to be held accountable, right? And senators would have to yell into their mikes from their seated stations in examination of TSA principals, who would get dressed down with stern reprimands. And of course they would appear humble and on the defense, pointing the accusing finger at standing regulations. Just another political exercise in futility, which Kimball had seen many times before while he sat inside the terminal of the Hartsfield-International Airport staring up at a TV screen watching CNN as he waited for his flight.
It was amazing how much the media altered the story based on assumptions, he thought. They weren’t even close to the truth. Perhaps fiction was far more interesting.
When Shepherd One landed h
e saw the federal agents board the plane, which prompted him to seek shelter below. After getting to the cargo bay, he then worked his way to the level below that one, which was an area not much larger than a crawlspace, and worked his way aft. Reaching the hatch, he lowered himself to the tarmac and escaped into the darkness. It was really quite simple since the area had been cordoned off, giving him a wide area to roam while under the cover of night.
Now, three days later and trying to look less conspicuous by discarding the cleric’s shirt and Roman collar, Kimball made his way east. With the aid of Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci he was able to catch a flight to Rome under the name and false ID of John Antonucci.
And Kimball held no regrets for his decision to abscond from the States for a second time.
He was going home to the Vatican where he belonged.
For Kimball Hayden is more than a soldier.
He is a Knight.
He is a Vatican Knight.
More From Hive Collective:
The Iscariot Agenda - Book three of the Vatican Knights series
by Rick Jones
$2.99 - Buy Now!
Synopsis:
Kimball Hayden is the Commander of an elite commando group known as the Vatican Knights, a black-op force that works for the Church to protect its sovereignty, its interests, and the welfare of its citizenry. But Kimball is being stalked by someone from the past, a soldier that is stronger, faster, and far more brutal--an assassin so deadly not even the Vatican Knights can stop him. This Alpha Assassin has set Kimball within the crosshairs and is systematically destroying his old team of elite fighters, the Force Elite. Kimball is then sent to confront this killer who leaves behind lettered clues carved into the flesh of his teammates: ISCARIOT. Not only does Kimball have to battle something far more dangerous than anything he has ever encountered, but he must destroy this Alpha Assassin before this killer brings his personal war to the Vatican.
