Shepherd One by Rick Jones Page B
Authors: Rick Jones
Tags: thriller, Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Military, War & Military, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Terrorism, Thrillers & Suspense, Thriller & Suspense, Spies & Politics, Assassinations
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even
if it was by the inches, it made the president feel less ineffective.
Nevertheless, it still was not enough.
Somewhere, whether it be some Podunk town or major
cosmopolitan city, two weapons of mass destruction with half the yield that
took out Hiroshima were making their way to their assigned stationary points.
If not Washington or New York City, then it would be
somewhere else.
No matter what, the president saw no upside at all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Los Angeles , California
1837 Hours Pacific Standard Time
Al-Khatib Hakam was in the moment of
prayer within his hotel suite. The room was simple and far from luxurious. In
fact, it wasn’t rated much higher than the room of a franchised motel. But
Hakam wanted to keep a low profile.
In the room’s center, Hakam knelt on a prayer rug with his
forehead resting against the fabric, and then sat up with his eyes closed and
his hands held in homage. He repeated this motion for twenty minutes—bowing and
rising, his meditation so deep everything around him did not seem to exist.
When he completed his session he rolled up the rug and
placed it on top of the bureau, treating it with reverence by passing his hand
over the fabric the way most people would stroke the fur of a loved pet. It was
the first rug he ever possessed, since joining the ranks as a Muslim. And it
would be the last rug he would ever own since he had less than thirty-six hours
to live. Although he would not live to see the outcome of his mission, he knew
the Muslim world would revel in the success of his team once the assignment was
completed.
Al-Khatib Hakam, American born citizen from Dearborn,
Michigan and an honorary graduate from Columbia University, was about to
cripple a nation.
In the aftermath of his session he still spoke to Allah,
asking Him to see this through. And he did so with a preamble of a smile on his
lips. There was no doubt in his mind his team was fully capable of performing
their assigned tasks, since they were the best in their field as seasoned
soldiers. They had fought wars up front, close, and personal. And they had
served as well-traveled journeyman fighting from Afghan to Baghdad with venom
in their hearts and devotion in their spirits before finding a place by his
side.
He was certain nothing could stop them or save the enemy.
And for the moment he felt something tremendously wonderful.
He felt . . .
. . . invincible.
Looking at his watch, Hakam ordered the final commencement.
Right now his team was moving into position. And if all went well, then by this
time tomorrow Hakam and his team would be airborne with an incredible arsenal.
All he had to do was sit back, be patient, and rely on his team to get the job
done.
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
if it was by the inches, it made the president feel less ineffective.
Nevertheless, it still was not enough.
Somewhere, whether it be some Podunk town or major
cosmopolitan city, two weapons of mass destruction with half the yield that
took out Hiroshima were making their way to their assigned stationary points.
If not Washington or New York City, then it would be
somewhere else.
No matter what, the president saw no upside at all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Los Angeles , California
1837 Hours Pacific Standard Time
Al-Khatib Hakam was in the moment of
prayer within his hotel suite. The room was simple and far from luxurious. In
fact, it wasn’t rated much higher than the room of a franchised motel. But
Hakam wanted to keep a low profile.
In the room’s center, Hakam knelt on a prayer rug with his
forehead resting against the fabric, and then sat up with his eyes closed and
his hands held in homage. He repeated this motion for twenty minutes—bowing and
rising, his meditation so deep everything around him did not seem to exist.
When he completed his session he rolled up the rug and
placed it on top of the bureau, treating it with reverence by passing his hand
over the fabric the way most people would stroke the fur of a loved pet. It was
the first rug he ever possessed, since joining the ranks as a Muslim. And it
would be the last rug he would ever own since he had less than thirty-six hours
to live. Although he would not live to see the outcome of his mission, he knew
the Muslim world would revel in the success of his team once the assignment was
completed.
Al-Khatib Hakam, American born citizen from Dearborn,
Michigan and an honorary graduate from Columbia University, was about to
cripple a nation.
In the aftermath of his session he still spoke to Allah,
asking Him to see this through. And he did so with a preamble of a smile on his
lips. There was no doubt in his mind his team was fully capable of performing
their assigned tasks, since they were the best in their field as seasoned
soldiers. They had fought wars up front, close, and personal. And they had
served as well-traveled journeyman fighting from Afghan to Baghdad with venom
in their hearts and devotion in their spirits before finding a place by his
side.
He was certain nothing could stop them or save the enemy.
And for the moment he felt something tremendously wonderful.
He felt . . .
. . . invincible.
Looking at his watch, Hakam ordered the final commencement.
Right now his team was moving into position. And if all went well, then by this
time tomorrow Hakam and his team would be airborne with an incredible arsenal.
All he had to do was sit back, be patient, and rely on his team to get the job
done.
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
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