The Mark: The Beast Rules the World

by Tim LaHaye

  David liked the Russian because he was by the book, and that came in handy later in the day when Hannah was sent to the hangar to order the loading of cargo onto the Quasi Two. At last, because she had been assigned to David for the work in Israel, she could meet with him in his office without suspicion.

  “Worked like a charm,” she said. “Look at this.”

  She slid across his desk the ordering department’s copy of the load manifest. Handwritten under Special Note:

  Following repeated efforts by the acting loadmaster to dissuade Ms. Palemoon and her insistence that approval comes straight from Director Hassid, this plane was, in the opinion of said chief, overloaded by at least 20 percent. If this bill of lading is not countersigned by said director, cargo crew will not be responsible for the airworthiness of this craft.

  “I like it,” David said, scribbling his signature. “When we all go down, the investigation will begin and end with our Russian friend. He’ll be the grieving hero who wishes we would have listened, will probably be elevated to the position he wants, and we—along with millions of Nicks’ worth of plane and cargo—will be sadly explained away as human error. Mine.”

  “I’m so proud of you,” Hannah said, shaking his hand. “You kill me on my first assignment for you.” It appeared she was struck by the lack of humor in that, given David’s recent loss.

  “It’s all right, Hannah,” he said. “I catch myself using death references all the time, as if even I can’t remember.”

  She sighed. “This really is quite an ingenious plan. I can say that because I had so little to do with it.”

  “Me too,” David said. “If it works, we owe it to Mac and Abdullah. Mac admits to me, if not to Smitty himself, that the best stuff was Abdullah’s.”

  Two mornings later Mac and Abdullah ran through preflight as David and Hannah boarded the Quasi. The Russian fussed and shook his head, trying to get the pilots on his side. Mac told him, “He’s the boss. You can only do what you can do, and then you have to remember you’re the subordinate.”

  “Tell yourself that while your plane is going down,” he said.

  “If I thought it was life or death, I’d stand up to him,” Mac said.

  “My hands are clean,” the Russian said. “Your funeral.”

  Actually, Hannah had overstated the weight of every piece of equipment she’d loaded onto the plane. The cargo was big and bulky and strained at the cords, but the center of gravity was perfect and would allow Mac to navigate without adversely affecting the attitude of the craft.

  The only cargo heavier than it appeared were the pilots and passengers. Hannah had reminded them that should anything float to the surface from the wreckage, it should be their suitcases with clothes, shoes, personal belongings, and toiletries. Everyone carried an extra suitcase so they could leave evidence in the water and still have necessities.

  “Watch this,” Mac said as he maneuvered the sleek jet out of the hangar and onto the runway. As he made his first turn he increased his speed just enough to make the plane sway off course. “That ought to give loadmaster boy something to shake his head over.”

  Sure enough, as Mac waited for clearance to take off, operations asked him if he was aware the acting loadmaster had lodged an overload notice. “Doesn’t surprise me, tower,” Mac said. “We’ll take the heat.”

  “You know enough to abort if she’s not accelerating.”

  “Roger.”

  Mac made the plane fishtail slightly as he picked up speed down the runway and heard one more warning from the tower as he lifted off. “Caution noted,” Mac said.

  He set a course for Tel Aviv, but when they were equidistant from there and Resurrection International in Jordan, he informed both towers that he was going to land in Jordan as a precautionary measure. “To be safe, we have arranged to have some cargo driven to Tel Aviv.”

  Leah, with a printed order originating from David, had talked her way onto the tarmac in a nondescript van. She pulled alongside the left cargo bay, where the pilots and passengers helped load two guillotines and a half skid of injectors into the van. Mac set the autobrakes and the autopilots, and all four occupants crawled into the van and lay on the floor. Leah slowly drove between two hangars where Mac could peek through the window and still see the plane.

  He communicated with the tower via portable radio and remote controlled the plane’s taxi and takeoff. As the Quasi gradually faded from sight, Mac communicated to the tower through an intentionally distorted connection that he believed he was losing radio power. He asked if they could inform Ben Gurion Tower that he was on schedule, would still perform the air show, and would appreciate it if they could be cleared for landing immediately following. He also hinted that he wished he had unloaded a little more cargo, but he was confident he could handle the rest of the trip.

  “Advise abandoning show, considering,” Resurrection Tower said.

  “Repeat?”

  “Consider abandoning air show and proceed to immediate conventional landing.”

  “No copy, tower.”

  They repeated their advice, but Mac turned off the radio. Leah pulled out of the airport, and she and the four bogus victims headed for Mizpe Ramon. “We can all keep our fingers crossed,” Mac said. “I’ve seen those Quasis do amazing things based solely on what the flight management system onboard computer tells it to do. But this is a long flight on its own, and I’ve asked it to do some interesting stuff, barring turbulence.”

  “Cross our fingers?” Hannah said. “Only God can make this work. You’re the expert, Captain McCullum, but if this thing goes down anywhere but deep in the Mediterranean, it won’t take long for someone to discover no one was aboard.”

  Buck and Chaim had slipped into Israel without incident the day before and checked into the King David. Chaim still seemed out of sorts, having hid two commentaries in his briefcase. Buck thought he looked like a wise old monk in his costume, but privately he wondered whether the old man could command and hold an audience.

  From the first time he met Dr. Rosenzweig to interview him as Global Weekly’s Man of the Year, Buck had been impressed with how soft-spoken the man was. He carried a heavy Israeli accent, though he had a strong command of English. But his scientific brilliance, his zest for life, and his passion were borne of an intense, distinct, quiet delivery. Would that convey the authority and command the respect he needed to serve as a latter-day Moses? Could this little man with his quiet demeanor lead the remnant of Israel and additional tribulation saints to the promised land of safety?

  He would have to challenge the ruler of the world, defy the armies of Antichrist, stand on the front lines against Satan himself. Yes, Chaim had had the fortitude to carry out a murder plot against Carpathia, but by his own admission, he had not known at that time with whom he was dealing.

  Buck kept to himself his misgivings and continued to pray. He had inserted himself in so many precarious spots in this very city that somehow the prospect of having a front-row seat to this bit of prophecy seemed par for the course.

  It seemed the entire nation had turned out to welcome the potentate at Ben Gurion Airport, then merely waited as anticipation grew for his speech the next day. The initiation of the first public mark application center was one thing, but to see the risen ruler of the nations return to the very city of his death—well, that was what the country was gearing for.

  Rumors abounded that His Excellency would flash the ultimate and final nose thumbing at the stubborn Judah-ites by using for himself one of their most sacred traditional sites, the very Via Dolorosa itself. No one could imagine the scene. Would there be opposition? Protesting? The majority of the populace would welcome its idol and admire his pluck. Could Carpathia take the place of the object of worship for many devout believers, humbly and with class paying homage to Jesus, one whom many now considered his predecessor?

  And then his plan to address the world from within the rebuilt temple in Jerusalem . . . could he risk offending two majo
r people groups on the same day? It was no secret that Christians, Messianic Jews, and Orthodox Jews were the last holdouts against Carpathianism. But hadn’t Carpathia himself and Reverend Fortunato proved his ascendancy through his resurrection and the deadly miracles? It was one thing to read the myths and legends and perhaps eyewitness accounts of a resurrection centuries ago. But to have seen with one’s own eyes a man come back from obvious death and to see his right-hand man imbued with supernatural powers—well, there was a religion for today.

  Buck, whose The Truth coverage of some of the most dramatic incidents of the day had found an enormous audience of Judah-ites and Carpathianists alike, had engendered worldwide response by his account of some of the first uses of the loyalty enforcement facilitators. He attributed his account to eyewitnesses without identifying himself as one, so no one had a clue where the leak might have come from. He could hope only that even Carpathia sympathizers would be shocked at the inhumanity.

  It seemed the entire world was on its way to the Holy Land. Tsion had urged believers to come. Chloe, through the International Commodity Co-op, had recruited pilots, planes, drivers, and vehicles. Meanwhile, Fortunato had rallied Carpathianists from all over the globe to celebrate the brave return of their idol to the location of his murder.

  Somehow Jerusalem civic leaders had found the cash and the personnel to put at least a cosmetic sheen on the city. Banners, signs, and landscaping had sprung up seemingly overnight. While the 10 percent of the city that had been ravaged by the recent earthquake still lay in twisted ruins, the eyes of visitors were redirected to the new. If one didn’t look too closely, it resembled again the festive place that had welcomed the Global Gala.

  Street vendors and kiosks offered palm branches, perfect for waving or laying in the path of the potentate, for just Nicks apiece. Hats, sandals, sunglasses, buttons bearing Nicolae’s picture—you name it—you could buy it.

  Tel Aviv was choked with foot and vehicular traffic that led to the seashore and the great makeshift amphitheater that would house the mark application equipment. Everything was in place, including covered areas to blunt the brunt of the sun. All that was left to be installed were the injectors, the enforcement facilitators, and the personnel to man the site. People were already in line, eager to be among the first to pledge their loyalty to Nicolae. Part of Buck wanted to be Moishe or Eli or even Chaim, if he could pull it off. As he parked his rental several blocks from the site, Buck dreamed of abandoning reason and shouting to the uninformed, “Don’t do it! You’re selling your soul to the devil!”

  He looked at his watch and quickened his pace. He wanted the best view of the air show, because he knew how much of a show it would be. As he headed for the shore, he called Rayford. “Four minutes to visual contact,” he said. “I allowed just enough time and should be in perfect position.”

  “Remember every detail.”

  “Don’t insult me, Dad. How will I ever be able to forget this? Are they on schedule?”

  “On their way. The airport maneuver was successful. They’re worried about the flight management system, since there’s no chance to personally monitor it. A malfunction could kill innocents.”

  “I would be one.”

  “My point. Mac has communicated with Moon’s people by phone, telling them when to expect him and letting him know they have a malfunctioning radio.”

  “How are things at Eagle central?”

  “Amazing. These virtual strangers show up with their parts of the construction plan and no supervision until now, and they simply cooperate, get along, and get the work going. They were further along than Albie and I could believe, and we’re ahead of schedule. Dozens of choppers are already here. That’ll take care of getting the infirm into Petra without walking the gorge. So far we believe we’re still undetected, but that won’t last long.”

  Zeke had done such a thorough job on Buck that he started every time he caught a glimpse of himself. As he camped out near a concession stand, he felt as invisible as he had in the underbrush near where Moishe and Eli had been resurrected. Crowds seemed to materialize from everywhere in anticipation of an actual live appearance by Nicolae himself. And he did not disappoint.

  A half dozen SUVs rumbled to the site, and the power elite of the world stepped out and strode quickly to the platform to wild applause. Carpathia was at the top of his game, humbly thanking everyone for coming and for making him and the Reverend Fortunato, the ten sub-potentates, and their respective Carpathianism representatives feel so welcome. He produced his usual blather about the improving state of the world, his renewed energy “after three days of the best sleep I’ve ever had,” and how he looked forward to the rest of his time in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.

  “And now,” he said with relish, “before a wonderful surprise for you, I give you the new head of our perfected religion, the Most High Reverend Leon Fortunato.”

  Leon immediately dropped to one knee and took Nicolae’s right hand in both of his and kissed it. When he reached the lectern he said, “Allow me to teach you a new anthem that focuses on the one who died for us and now lives for us.” In a surprisingly facile baritone and decent pitch, Leon sang a heartfelt and energetic version of “Hail Carpathia, Our Lord and Risen King.”

  Buck shuddered. He felt the familiar tingle of expectancy when he caught site of the Quasi in the distance and heard its high drone. The crowd had quickly picked up the lyrics and simple, stirring melody, and as their second attempt at it ended, Carpathia returned to praise the technology evident in the new Quasi Two that was bringing “not only the equipment needed for this site, but also a brief display of its capabilities, ably demonstrated by the pilot of my own Phoenix 216, Captain Mac McCullum. Enjoy.”

  The crowd exulted as the impressive jet came screaming over the city toward the shore. Buck was surprised how low it was, but the people oohed and aahed, clearly persuaded that this was part of the show. Buck worried that the computer program had somehow jumped off track and might result in disaster.

  The plane surged out along the shoreline, the Mediterranean gleaming in the sun. The craft suddenly picked up speed and rolled up onto one side, then flattened, then onto the other before swooping low again. To Buck it seemed to clear the water by no more than ten feet, and he couldn’t imagine Mac’s having programmed that thin a margin for error.

  A long, low turn brought the frisky craft directly over the dignitaries, who tried to maintain their dignity while squinting into the sky, willing themselves not to give in to the urge to duck, ties flapping in the breeze. The Quasi made another turn toward the Mediterranean, running parallel to the water for a blistering quarter mile, then pointing straight up.

  The crowd murmured as the thing ascended like a missile, and they had to wonder as even Buck did, though he knew the craft was empty, what it would feel like to be on board. Any astute spectator knew the plane was in trouble before it became obvious. As it slowed to its apex, it drifted backward, nose over tail for a straight plunge toward the water with its underbelly toward the shore.

  People talked excitedly and laughed in anticipation of the pullout that would level the plane at the last possible instant. Just when it appeared there was no more room or time, they knew she would rocket parallel, run out to sea, and then turn back toward Ben Gurion to more applause.

  Except that the Quasi never pulled out. This plane was not free-falling toward the Mediterranean. No, this multimillion-Nick marvel of modern technology was accelerating, her burner cans hot, the vapor shimmering in a long trail. The strange attitude and angle sent the craft careening toward the shore approximately three-quarters of a mile south of the crowd.

  The Quasi and ostensibly her two-man crew and two passengers slammed the beach perfectly perpendicular at near the speed of sound. The first impression of the shocked-to-silence crowd had to be the same as Buck’s. The screaming jet engines still resonated even after the plane disintegrated, hidden in a billowing globe of angry black-and-orange flames. An eerie s
ilence swept in, followed less than half a second later by the nauseating sound of the impact, a thundering explosion accompanied by the roar and hiss of the raging fire.

  First one spectator cried out, then another. No one moved. There was no need to run, not away from the crash or toward it. The plane had been there in all its glory, teasing their expectations before fulfilling their worst fears, and now nothing but glowing pieces, the thing all but vaporized in a sand crater.

  Another tragedy in a world of pain.

  Numbly, people turned toward the sound of the PA system. Carpathia had returned and was speaking so compassionately and softly that they had to strain to catch every word. “Peace be unto you. My peace I give you. Not as the world gives. Would you please quietly make your way from this place, honoring it as the sacred place of the end for four brave employees. I will ask that the loyalty mark application site be appropriately relocated, and thank you for your reverence during this tragedy.”

  He turned and whispered briefly to Leon, who then stepped to the mike and spread his hands wide, the folds of his robed arms creating great wings. “Beloved, while this sadly preempts and concludes today’s activities in Tel Aviv, tomorrow’s agenda shall remain in place. We look forward to your presence in Jerusalem.”

  Buck hurried to his car and phoned Rayford. “The ship is down on the shore. No one could have survived it. On my way back to the voice that will cry in the wilderness.”

  Buck was struck by an unusual emotion as he merged into traffic that crawled toward the ancient city. It was as if he had seen his comrades go down in that plane. He knew it was empty, yet there had been such a dramatic finality to the ruse. He wished he knew whether it was the end of something or the beginning of something. Could he hope the GC was too busy to thoroughly investigate the site? Fat chance.

  All Buck knew was that what he had endured in three and a half years was a walk in the park compared to what was coming. The entire drive back he spent in silent prayer for every loved one and Trib Force member. Buck had little doubt that the indwelt Antichrist would not hesitate to use his every resource to quash the rebellion scheduled to rise against him the next day.