Robert Ferrigno - Sins of the Assassin

Peterson showed his DB9 to the Secret Service agent and sat down in the jump seat opposite Bartholomew. He clasped his seat belt. Nodded at Bartholomew as the plane started moving.

Bartholomew watched the tarmac roll past, faster and faster, the big jet rapidly gathering speed. He felt as though he were beginning his ascent into Paradise.

Rakkim pointed and Spider turned, the two of them watching the president’s jet rising above the city. Not a plane in the sky other than Air Force One and the six fighter jets providing an escort. People in the surrounding houses walked out into their backyards, shading their eyes with their hands. Most of them crossed themselves. Even with all that had happened, the constant religious tension and steady decline in the quality of life, President Kingsley was the only politician that drew support across all classes and faiths.

Rakkim clasped his hands toward Air Force One. “Salaam alaikum.”

“Shalom,” said Spider.

“Mr. President!” Sarah pressed a finger against her ear link. Static. “Sir!” She was one of only a dozen people who had a direct link to the chief executive. Day or night she should have been able to reach him on this emergency frequency. She stared at the holographic image of the gold airplane on the screen. “Sir!” The gold airplane’s cockpit was filled with fire, and the frightened pilot looked just like the president. “Mr. President?” Static. Sound of electronic snow drifting higher and higher.

Bartholomew stared out at the city below, the neat grid of streets and skyscrapers, the lush green parks…the golden dome of the Great Mosque. It was never more beautiful than now. The great engines of the jet thrummed all around him, the power of man, dwarfed only by the will of Allah.

He slipped off his watch. Time was irrelevant now. He saw Peterson watching him and turned again to the window. Faint static filled the air, every electronic device in the plane overwhelmed by the chaff-Air Force One generated a stream of jamming frequencies across the spectrum on takeoff and landing to prevent a missile attack.

Bartholomew thought of his mother and father down below…in a small house off Green Lake with a neatly trimmed yard and a rusting basketball hoop over the garage. He hadn’t lived at home for years, but his father kept the hoop up anyway. Said he liked to look at it as he left for work in the morning. Bartholomew was their only son, their greatest joy. He hoped they were not looking up in the sky right now, following the president’s progress. He should have been proud of his handiwork, his small part in the vast design, but Bartholomew was weak. He hoped his parents were busy with other things.

“Mr. President!”

“Sarah?” More static. “-that you?”

“Mr. President, thank God.” Tears rolled down Sarah’s cheeks. She could see her mother in the doorway, holding Michael in her arms. Leo stood beside her. “Mr. President, order your plane to land, now.”

“Sarah…” Static crackled, then cleared. “What’s wrong?”

“Please order your plane to land, sir. I don’t care where, just put it down.”

“Yes…yes, of course.”

Sarah heard the president order the pilot to land, his voice steady. Then she heard…silence. All the static of the transmission was gone. All that remained was the president’s voice, perfectly clear, saying, “That’s odd.” And the pounding of her heart, getting louder.

“Mr. President? What’s happening, sir?”

The president cleared his throat. “It seems…we seem to have lost power.”

Bartholomew listened to the nervous whispers from the rear of the plane. The prayers.

A Secret Service agent jerked him from his seat, pushed him toward the main console. “Fix it.”

Peterson was already at work with his DB9, trying to make a connection.

Seventeen separate networks, triple redundancy. Yet, exactly eighteen minutes after Bartholomew had run his preflight diagnostic, every system went dead. Irrevocably dead. The secret was a molecular timer inserted with Eagleton’s DB9. Perfectly normal until eighteen minutes later, at which point the whole system fried.

The floor of the plane tilted down. The pilot performed brilliantly of course, but he had no stabilizers, no engines, no wing flaps, no communications. He had nothing…but a heavy piece of metal, and gravity was calling. The floor tilted farther…farther.

The Secret Service agent kicked Bartholomew in the ass. “Do something.”

Bartholomew fell to his knees, pressed his forehead against the cool carpet, and offered his devotion and praise to Allah, and the Wise Old One who served him.

And as for him who was outrageous and preferred the life of this world, verily, hell is the resort!

But as for him who feared the station of his Lord, and prohibited his soul from lust, verily, Paradise is the resort!

“I saw…I saw it on TV,” panted Colarusso, out of breath. “You know what’s going on?”

Spider shook his head, focused on the small, silver shape that was the president’s plane. He watched as it rolled over, spinning slowly as it fell.

Rakkim ran down the stairs.

“It’s quite all right, Sarah.” The president sounded relaxed. At peace.

“Send out a Mayday-”

“We have no communications at all.” The president chuckled. “It’s just you and I, dear girl.”

Sarah could hear weeping in the background. “The ejection pod-”

“A total systems failure, according to the pilot,” said the president. “There may be some mechanical explanation…or it could be our enemies have finally succeeded.”

Sarah’s mother had turned on the television, stared at the image of Air Force One dropping out of blue, blue sky. She sobbed, trying to distract Michael with a stuffed bear.

“Pay attention, Sarah,” chided the president. “With the vice president and I gone…Sarah, please, don’t cry…”

Sarah heard the background noise from the plane getting louder through her ear link, heard people shouting and the rush and rattle of wind.

“Sarah…tell Rakkim-”

Sarah’s earpiece went dead.

Leo covered his mouth as the television showed a fireball…the tail structure of Air Force One scattered among the fields of red tulips just north of the city…then cut back to the studio news anchor, a handsome man with gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He couldn’t speak, lips trembling, finally shook his head, and walked off camera.

Assalaamu Alaikum. A state of national emergency is now declared, said a deep voice, as the other anchor and the weatherman exchanged stunned glances. Until further notice, all forms of communication within the capital are now blocked in the interests of national security. Please go to your homes and await further word from the Office of the President. The screen went to an image of the flag billowing over the Presidential Palace.

Sarah heard pounding at the front door. She wiped her tears, checked the security monitors. Yelled to Leo and her mother.

Rakkim’s throat tightened as he saw the security shutter to their apartment half-raised. “Stop the car.”

“What’s the-?” started Colarusso, but it was too late.

Rakkim had already rolled out the door of the moving vehicle, sprinting toward the abandoned storefront below their apartment, terrified at what he would find inside.

The raised security shutter was Sarah’s signal for danger. With communications down throughout the capital, even the presidential com link, he hadn’t been able to get through to her, and she hadn’t been able to reach him, but she was still able to warn him. She had time for that. Maybe time enough for her to grab the baby, for her and Katherine and Leo to escape through one of the emergency exits. Time enough to reach their rally point, their prearranged meeting place. Maybe.