by Paul Lalonde
“That is true, Mr. Pearl,” agreed the general. “That is why our defense minister has insisted that journalists have unlimited access to the front. We are a people of the Torah. The early scribes wrote the Word of God, and you are an electronic scribe. What you report reaches billions. Your words, your insight, and the truth the Lord gives you may be the only hope we have. We generals know how to destroy. You have the capability of bringing the truth. It is a special gift and I know you have been honored for it. We will see how God uses it in the days ahead.”
Chapter 7
THE DESIGNER OF THE WNN BROADCAST STUDIO had created what he called an “environment for the twenty-first century.” Brushed-aluminum trim on the desks curved gracefully into a sculpture that was meant to mimic the anatomy of the human heart. “The newsroom is the heartbeat of your communication empire,” he had explained in his initial proposal.
On the wall behind the anchor desk was a bank of monitors with satellite feeds from around the world, each labeled with the country of origin. And each reinforcing the idea that WNN provided breaking news worldwide, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. To Helen Hannah and the rest of the staff of WNN, this high-tech environment was their home.
Except Bronson. There had been a time when a live feed was enough for Helen to feel intimate with the man she loved, his voice transmitted through the tiny receiver, his image on a dozen monitors around the set. She could close her eyes and almost feel his touch. It was a false intimacy, and during his absences she had long used the network set to maintain that semblance of closeness.
But now he was far away in a place called Armageddon on an assignment that would keep them apart during the most tumultuous crisis the world had ever known.
It was 6:23 eastern time, and while the picture feed was being relayed, there was still no sound, no chance yet to speak to him. Instead, the director instructed Helen to switch to Yuri Breedlaff at the Pentagon, where Pentagon spokesperson Richard Stanfield was making an announcement.
“Mr. Stanfield,” the reporter queried, “it is our understanding that the president and his family are boarding the aerial command center in anticipation of a possible first-strike nuclear attack against Washington, D.C. Is that true?”
“I must argue with your choice of words, Mr. Breedlaff,” the spokesman responded. “As you well know, Air Force One is always a mobile command center. It is equipped with all the military codes and special equipment the president needs to conduct a war or run the country. There is nothing special about this particular trip.”
“That is not what we’re being told, Mr. Stanfield,” the reporter persisted. “We’ve heard from well-placed sources within your own agency that key personnel are being evacuated to Colorado Springs.”
“Colorado Springs has been a favorite vacation spot of the president since long before he entered politics,” Stanfield shot back. “He travels there often.”
“Except that it is not a vacation, is it?” Breedlaff probed. “The president is not staying in any of the town’s hotels, nor will he be visiting any of his friends. Our source tells us that he will be headquartered in the Strategic Air Command bunker created for his use during the Cold War. We have also determined that key members of Congress, the Senate, and his cabinet will be joining him.”
“Are you deliberately trying to panic the American people?” demanded an angry Stanfield.
“Please answer the question, Mr. Stanfield,” the reporter requested politely.
“I won’t dignify it with an answer,” the spokesman snapped back. “This interview is now over.”
Helen appeared on the screen, sitting at the news desk. “Yuri?” she said. “What can you tell us about the president and his family at this present moment?”
“You just heard the official version, Helen,” the reporter replied. “The president is on his way to Colorado Springs. There is, and I quote, ‘Nothing special about this trip.’ But members of Congress have also been confirmed to be among the presidential party. Our sources tell us that this is the start of an evacuation to assure the smooth running of the country should full-scale war break out. The situation is said to be extremely grave despite official denials.”
“Thank you, Yuri,” said Helen from the studio. “And for a frontline perspective, we bring you Bronson Pearl direct from Armageddon. Are you there, Bronson?” Her voice was calm and professional, betraying nothing of the inner turmoil she felt.
Bronson appeared on screen. “The situation becomes more tense by the moment, Helen,” he reported. “A few minutes ago the violence began escalating. There are reports of troop movements, but we have not been able to determine who is on the move and preparing to dominate the territory.”
“Will the war be limited to Armageddon, Bronson?” asked Helen tensely.
Bronson looked grim. “The generals have told me that if one country makes a serious power grab here in Israel, retaliation will be on a global basis. Cities have been targeted worldwide, and unless a miracle happens on this tiny strip of land, we could be seeing a conflict of unprecedented proportions.”
As Helen broke for a commercial she signaled the engineer to keep Bronson’s mike open. “Can’t you get out of there?” she asked him.
“This is where the story is, Helen,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“I don’t care about the story,” she shot back. “I care about you. You’re in ground zero of a war zone.”
He shook his head. “Helen, you’re in a city that’s as much a target as Megiddo, maybe more. This is our job. Whatever happens, we’ve got to witness it.”
“You can’t report a story if you’re dead,” she pleaded. “Bronson . . . I love you.”
“Helen . . . ,” he began.
Suddenly the picture began to shake and a loud noise broke into the satellite feed. Helen could see figures rushing around carrying gas masks, and the camera was set on the ground, still running, so that the operator could don her mask. Bronson was heard shouting something unintelligible and the picture went black as a violent explosion severed all connection with Armageddon.
“On in 5, 4, 3 . . .” The floor director signaled Helen that they were out of the commercial and were about to air footage of Franco Macalousso. Helen cleared her throat and read from the TelePrompter.
“In Rome, European Union President Franco Macalousso announced his departure for the Middle East in a last-minute attempt to defuse the situation. Macalousso has been instrumental in negotiating previous settlements among warring factions in Eastern Europe.” Helen’s voice caught, the last images of Bronson swimming in her mind. Something was happening. Something serious. She wanted to scream, cry, run to the engineers and see if they could restore contact to Armageddon. But she had to stay calm and be professional.
She found herself wishing she had said yes to Bronson Pearl. Her grandmother was right. What had she been waiting for? The end of the world?
The aircraft was a light pleasure craft with no military value, propeller driven, slow flying, and unable to perform complex maneuvers, the perfect plane for this clandestine mission. The pilot, not yet eighteen, was the son of fanatical extremists who believed that neither Jews nor Christians nor Moslems were practicing the true will of God. His father was in jail for the bombing of a marketplace in East Jerusalem. One brother had been killed by an Israeli commando unit, another brother was in training in Libya, hoping to return as part of a suicide squad. His mother operated a safe house in Jerusalem, a hiding place for agents traveling to and from their missions. They all shared the conviction that God worked through violent change, and that they were instruments of God.
The bombs that had been loaded on the aircraft could be hand-dropped by the pilot. A remote control device would trigger the explosions a few hundred feet above Tel Aviv. The detonations would send deadly chemicals raining downward where wind currents would then carry them for several miles over the city, blanketing it with an invisible mist of death.
The pilot checked his fuel and his
radio, Uzi machine pistol and a gas mask at his side. A small first-aid kit contained the antidote to the bombs’ chemical payload. His plan was to land the plane after the mission and walk away through the devastation he had caused. Everything in readiness, he hit the ignition.
Chung Kwan Wong was a military leader of the New China and a student of history who viewed himself carrying on the great tradition of the ancient emperors. For centuries the Chinese had been at a technological disadvantage with their enemies, constantly overrun by invading armies, conquered, and enduring the violence of bloodthirsty tyrants. But the unity of Chinese society was due, in part, to the people’s recognition of their unusual situation. Each time a conquering nation was repelled or overturned, the Chinese resumed the same legal and social system they had known for centuries. They kept their identity, never assimilating, biding their time until they could regain control of their vast territory.
The Chinese land mass and population, along with the unity of their society, had made them a global power, a giant finally roused to action after centuries of victimization.
Chung Kwan Wong understood all this, but he also understood that the perilous situation in the Middle East had given him and his fellow navy submarine officers a unique opportunity. If they could target a ship of one of the superpowers with the tactical nuclear weapon they had secretly loaded, they could trigger a conflict that would change history. The war Wong envisioned would destroy the United States, Britain, France, Russia, Germany, India, and most other powerful nations, and demoralization would prevent the survivors from continuing the battle. China, of course, would not escape the carnage, but their advantage lay in pure numbers. With major cities in China destroyed there would still be a billion people inhabiting the nation, a population seeking the leadership of young military officers—men like Wong, trained to understand the past, foresee the future, and act in the present.
It was 3:00 P.M. when Wong made his desperate move, ordering the loading of the tactical nuclear warhead as a “training exercise” and targeting an American troop ship with almost five thousand sailors on board. He joked with his men as the digital clock counted down to the firing. None of them knew he had changed the computer codes and that this time the launch was for real.
Franco Macalousso’s plane touched down on a military landing strip. No throngs of admirers, no special escort, no reporters shouting questions greeted him. As he and two aides hurried to a waiting staff car, a converted four-wheel-drive vehicle, with the tires designed to stay inflated under attack and an undercarriage reinforced against land mines. The passenger compartment was built to sustain a direct hit from a tactical rocket. Nothing was going to stop the president of the European Union from reaching his objective.
Helen Hannah was resting on a small couch in the break room. Her newscast was over and the on-air staff was on twenty-four-hour alert. Most had gone home to their families. A few took hotel rooms close to the studio. Only Helen decided to stay, knowing that if Bronson Pearl was still alive, his most likely link to the States would be through WNN.
It was 2:30 in the morning when an engineer tapped her on the shoulder.
“Helen?” he said. “Helen?”
Helen murmured something barely intelligible as she woke up. She had not thought she could sleep until Bronson’s whereabouts were known. Now, from the look on the engineer’s face, she feared the worst.
“What is it?” she demanded. “Is it Bronson?”
“We’ve got the feed up again,” he told her. “There was a sniper attack, but Bronson is fine. Look, he’s on the line. Ask him yourself.”
Helen rushed to a small broadcast booth where the engineer switched the satellite signal directly to a monitor.
“Bronson,” she cried with relief. “What’s happening?”
“Macalousso’s here,” he replied, “but I don’t think he can do anything. I think only God can do anything now.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded. “Has the war begun?”
“Not around Megiddo,” he told her. “We’re in the eye of the hurricane for the moment, but you can feel the wind shifting.”
“I don’t understand,” she stammered.
“It’s like General Alizar said,” Bronson explained. “The people of Israel have to fight. Everything in their history is being acted out in this time and in this place. Nothing makes sense to them except survival.”
“I can’t believe all this is happening and we’re so far apart,” Helen said with a tremor in her voice. “I want to hold you, Bronson. I feel like we’re married to microphones when we should be . . .”
“Married to each other?” he asked. “Is that what you’re thinking, Helen?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “Yes, even though I know I’m going to lose you like I’ve lost everyone else who ever mattered to me.”
“I love you,” Bronson declared, “and I’m going to marry you when I get back. And I will get back. I promise.”
Helen watched in horror as Bronson looked off in the distance, fear on his face. There was a deafening explosion, and the screen faded to black.
“Bronson!” screamed Helen.
“I’m okay,” she heard him say over her earphones. “The explosion just knocked out the camera. We’ve still got voice.”
“Are you all right?” she asked, choking back her own fear.
“It’s happening, Helen,” he told her. “It’s getting worse.
There’s troop movement up ahead. One of the planes just dropped a bomb. I may have to change position.” Helen heard another explosion. Then Bronson’s voice crackling with static said, “That’s it. I’m moving. I love you, Helen.”
“And I love you, my darling,” Helen whispered back. “God keep you safe.”
Chapter 8
IT WAS EARLY AFTERNOON IN NEW YORK when Helen Hannah interrupted WNN’s scheduled programming for an emergency report from the Middle East. An exhausted Bronson Pearl, his face shadowed by a two-day growth of beard, came onto the screen.
“We have now confirmed that Tel Aviv, Israel’s largest city, has been struck by one or more chemical weapons,” he reported through tight lips. “The exact nature of the poison is unknown, though it appears to be a fast-acting nerve gas absorbed through the pores of the skin. Thousands are believed dead already, and . . .
“A spokesman for the Israeli Defense Department is expected to make a statement at this time. We will be switching to the Knesset Building for that.”
The scene switched to a somber man, standing at a podium, speaking angrily. “. . . an act both heinous and cowardly,” he railed. “Poison is a weapon of genocide, a cloud of death meant to eradicate all human life.”
He paused to compose himself then continued, “The enemies of peace have accomplished nothing of military importance. Tel Aviv defense emplacements are unharmed. All communication links remain open. Airfields, missile emplacements, army barracks, weapon-storage units . . . all are untouched. This attack had only one purpose, to kill as many people as quickly as possible. We are estimating one hundred percent casualties among those who were outside when the bombs detonated.”
“Are these the same terrorists who used gas in apartment buildings a few months ago?” asked the correspondent for the Chicago Tribune.
“Those cases remain unsolved so we cannot tell if the same people are involved,” the spokesman answered. “We do not yet have samples of the substances found in those buildings for comparison. But they are quite similar in execution.”
“Mr. Cohen,” shouted a reporter for the Los Angeles Times. “Isn’t your family living in Tel Aviv?”
“Yes,” he said, his face suddenly tense. Several of the other reporters glared at the tactless reporter who had asked the question. Every reporter knew Ben Cohen’s family was in Tel Aviv. They knew that only Cohen’s job kept him from being by their side at this time. And they also knew that it would be a miracle if any of them were alive. “I have not heard from my family since the attack,” Cohen
continued, swallowing hard. “I do not know if they are alive. I do not know if anyone is alive. As many as two-thirds of the population of Tel Aviv may be dead right now. And my family may be among them.” His speech was clipped, his jaw set, his eyes filled with tears. Several photographers moved in for close-ups, focusing on the type of poignant personal drama that sold the newspapers.
Dusk fell on Edna Williams’s neighborhood, announcing the end of another day. Sadea Vadalia rolled down the steel shutters on the windows of her specialty shop. Herman Waring sat in a back booth of his diner reading a racing form. And James Misanno’s Pizza Heaven gradually filled with the usual assortment of gang members, drug abusers, pimps and prostitutes, and latchkey teens. The café’s outside walls were covered with graffiti: “R.I.P Little Tone”; “We loved you, Antoine”; “Kill the 83rd Street Rolling Gangstas.” Several mom and pop “delicatessens” were open, but not to buy a corned beef sandwich or roast beef on rye. Instead the shelves were filled with cigarettes, forty-ounce bottles of malt liquor, condoms, and in the back room, cheap handguns. Cars moved slowly through the neighborhood with suburbanites cruising for action, drug dealers settling accounts, and lonely men looking for cheap motels that rented by the hour.
The neighborhood’s elderly, like Edna Williams, sometimes felt as if they were living in a waiting room. Some would depart only in death. Some would leave for nursing homes. And most hoped that one day a son or daughter would move them to a spare bedroom in a safe suburb where they would finally be free of fear.
Yet where most saw despair, Edna Williams saw hope as she took to streets even most police avoided. “Folks aren’t open to the Lord’s message when everything in their lives is right,” she explained to Pastor Holmes when he came to visit one day. “Look at those boys over there,” she suggested, pointing out her apartment window at a half dozen gang members standing in the doorway of an abandoned building across the street. “See the tall one? That’s Jo-Jo. His mother is a drug addict. The one with the cap is Angelo. His father used to beat him so badly, he has permanent nerve damage. LeMar’s had so many different parents he doesn’t know who to call Mom and Dad.”
