by Ted Dekker
“You may save far more than you lose,” Rebecca said.
“As I said. Very happy,” the man replied.
An American satellite had already seen the tanks roll into Jordan, three hours before Rebecca saw them, in the dead of night. It was a little unusual, but they had been tracking the joint Saudi-Egyptian exercise for three days now, and this latest push north didn’t receive the attention it otherwise would have.
But the landscape began to change during the midmorning hours.
The movement began in the Sinai Peninsula, south of Israel—long rows of tanks rolling towards the fifty-kilometer ribbon of land known as the Gaza Strip. Thirteen hundred M-60 and M-1A1 tanks approached the border, dragging enough self-propelled artillery to flatten Tel Aviv at the push of a few buttons.
The Saudi mechanized division Rebecca had encountered pushed further north, through Jordan, along Israel’s eastern border, and was joined by a Jordanian armored division south of the Dead Sea.
Jordan had the weakest military among Israel’s neighbors, but what it lost in brute strength, it gained in geography, with the longest common border, nearly a third of which ran along the Palestinian controlled West Bank. Two hundred upgraded M-60A1 tanks rolled for this border along the West Bank. All twenty-four of Jordan’s AH-IS attack helicopters put down on three bases west of Amman, a twenty-minute flight from Jerusalem.
Syria sent three bloated mechanized divisions south into Jordan. Syria had the land power among the Arab nations, and it began to flex its muscles now. Fifteen hundred tanks, eight hundred of which were T-72s rolled south of the Golan towards Ma’ad. Two more divisions lined along the Golan itself, just beyond the border. A sixth division headed into Lebanon, towards the northern tip of Israel.
In all over six thousand tanks and twice as many APCs and launchers converged on Israel’s borders, like ants scrambling to feed at the edge of a splotch of honey. From a twenty-thousand-foot reconnaissance shot, the region looked like a ring of fire. Plumes of dust rose in the still morning air, trailing thousands of tanks, as if the desert surrounding Israel were venting like a volcano, preparing to erupt.
The Atlantic phone lines began to burn midmorning. The president of the United States canceled an appearance at the Kennedy Space Center and boarded a plane for Washington. Something was up. Something major. By all appearances the Middle East had begun to melt down without warning.
He was a new president who’d based his candidacy on domestic policy. When he was finally told by Israel’s prime minister that they had retrieved the Ark of the Covenant, and that the Arabs were taking issue, the president asked how a gold box could bring the Middle East to its knees. What, in God’s name, did a relic have to do with the Temple Mount, and for that matter how could a single plot of land the size of the White House lawn bring grown men to blows?
Ben Gurion hung up on him.
The news spread like wildfire through the IDF, and the reserves clogged all the arteries flocking to their assigned posts. Very few knew that the Arabs were gathering, and even fewer knew why. They were calling it an exercise, but the rumors were already flying through the streets. Israel raced to arm herself nonetheless, like an ant unknowingly preparing to take on an elephant.
A few isolated groups of Palestinians were discovered and arrested, but the bulk of Colonel Du’ad’s men remained hidden, watching with wide eyes, waiting for the order.
By noon the land of Israel and her neighbors had armed themselves with enough destructive power to flatten every building in all of their respective lands a hundred times over with the single strike of a match. The situation gave the term powder keg new meaning.
But the matches weren’t lighting.
Not yet.
46
Of the 116 seats facing the podium in the Knesset Plenum, all but one was filled. Isaac Mendal was in the hospital and couldn’t make the emergency session, but he had arranged for a closed circuit through one of the cameras in the Plenum.
Each chair sat behind one of a dozen long continuous desks that wrapped around the room, like landscaped tiers. A giant horseshoe-shaped table known as the government table, reserved for the prime minister and the ministers, sat facing the podium, where the secretary general, the sergeant at arms, and the Speaker sat stoically. David Ben Solomon stood in the middle of this empty horseshoe, beside the table that held the Ark of the Covenant, hidden under a black velvet cloth.
A television camera and its lone operator looked down from the second-story gallery above them, filming as it normally did, but this time only for Isaac Mendal, as requested. For obvious reasons, broadcasting an image of the Ark could prove catastrophic.
The gavel sounded and Solomon looked up at a sea of questioning faces. The emergency session wasn’t an everyday occasion.
“Ladies and gentlemen, a point of order before we begin. I have asked the Speaker for permission to examine an old question with you, and I beg your indulgence for just a few minutes.”
Several objections rumbled from the seats—comments about wasting time that referred to some of his past performances in the Plenum.
Solomon ignored them and turned to the table. “I want you to imagine, for the sake of argument, that the Ark of the Covenant is under this black cloth.”
A silence settled over them.
“And I want to know whether you would vote for the rebuilding of the Temple, on the Temple Mount, if we had indeed uncovered the Ark of the Covenant and put it before you today.”
They stared at him as if he must be mad—as if they didn’t understand what he could possibly be saying. The notion that the Ark sat under that black cloth was absurd. And the idea of being called here to discuss this idiotic notion was clearly beyond most of their comprehension.
But that was precisely what Solomon wanted. Let them get their philosophical quibbles out of the way before they understood what was happening. The prime minister, the Speaker, and, with some coaxing, Stephen Goldstein had all agreed that to uncover the Ark before the arguments had been cast would throw the group into an emotional quandary that would only lengthen the overall arguments and extend the meeting. Time was the last thing they had now. The Arabs were gathering, their own military was screaming murder, and the world was demanding answers.
“I don’t know about the Ark, my dear old friend,” Shmuel Weiss of the Labor Party said, “but surely my phone didn’t ring off its hook at five this morning because of some wives’ tale you would like to discuss.” A few members chuckled. “Maybe it would make more sense to talk about why our reservists are being called out on an exercise without it being scheduled. The country is a mess this morning, or didn’t you notice?”
“I’m sure you have many questions, Shmuel, and I’m sure someone who’s qualified will answer them,” Solomon returned. “But for now please try to concentrate on mine.”
“Why should we discuss an absurd abstraction in an emergency session?” Shmuel demanded.
“Because, however absurd, the issue of the Temple Mount and the Waqf ’s current excavations around Solomon’s Stables do play a part in this session.” They all knew about the Muslims’ “archaeological dig” to make room for yet another mosque, and Solomon counted on his mention of it to throw them off track for the moment. “So indulge me for a few minutes. I’ve done the same for you a dozen times.”
Several of them immediately objected and demanded to know about the reserves being called as well. But a member of the Labor Party took up Solomon’s question.
“We don’t even know precisely where the original Temple was built! Risking a war over a fifteen-hundred-square-meter piece of real estate that may or may not have any historical significance is not clear thinking.”
“Nonsense!” A Likud Party member returned immediately. “Only the most politically motivated archaeologist even suggests such a thing! Among the serious scholars there is no doubt. And among the people there is no doubt.”
The debate had launched itself as Solomon kne
w it would.
The Speaker banged his gavel. “We will follow proper protocol here.”
Another stood and received a nod. It was Chaim Peled, an Orthodox scholar, and they all knew what he was going to say before he said it. “As you know, the Muslim claim to the Al-Aqsa Mosque as the mosque from which Mohammed supposedly rose to heaven is absurd. Mohammed died in A.D. 632. The Dome of the Rock was a Byzantine church until 691 and the Al-Aqsa was built even later. Twenty years later. Neither even existed during Mohammed’s life. But we let the world of Islam pretend anyway? The evidence for King Solomon’s Temple, on the other hand, is incontrovertible. The whole thing is an embarrassment. We should take the Temple Mount, with or without this hypothetical Ark.”
“And this from the Orthodox?” Shmuel shot back. “Would not God strike you dead if you went to take the Mount?”
“I do not agree with some of my brothers that we must wait for the Messiah to rebuild,” Chaim returned. “But the Temple will be rebuilt—our prophets have made that clear. Perhaps you are standing in the way of the Messiah’s coming by refusing to build.”
That set off a dozen protests at once.
Solomon let them argue for twenty minutes—old arguments from a dozen perspectives, peppered by strenuous objections to spending so much time on a conundrum based on a hypothetical abstraction. Someone even had the gall to bring up the American Christians who were clearly looking for the rebuilding of the Temple as predicted by their own prophecy.
Every point thrown out by the skeptics was quickly countered by the more faithful. And every argument cast by the faithful was quickly trashed by the skeptics. And then the objections were repeated in slightly different language, testing Solomon, who mostly listened now, to his limit.
The soft conversation of those in the background built to a steady dull roar. The demands that they get on with whatever had brought them here began to increase.
Solomon looked up and caught the eye of the prime minister who was talking into a red phone with quiet urgency. He nodded and tapped his watch. Whatever was happening on the other end of that line could not be good. Solomon nodded.
He held up his arms. “May I have your attention, please!”
A member from the United Arab List was in midspeech—the timing could have been better. The man ignored him and continued.
The prime minister hung up the phone, pushed himself back from the government table, and stood.
“Ladies and gentlemen . . .”
The room quieted. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my duty to inform you that as we speak forces for Egypt, Jordan, and Syria have gathered on our borders and are threatening a fully coordinated assault on Israel.”
Now the silence was complete.
Every head in the room jerked to face the prime minister. Somewhere a sheaf of papers slipped from a desk and slapped to the floor.
And then, as if a switch had been thrown, the members broke into questions of alarm as one. Above them boomed the outraged voice of the Deputy Speaker, Rafael Dayan, who hadn’t been told and clearly thought he should have been told.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Solomon decided it would be now. He grabbed the corner of the velvet cloth covering the Ark and yanked it. The sheet flapped through the air like a huge, black batwing and then settled slowly to the ground, revealing the brilliant gold chest with its two cherubim bowed in reverence.
“This!” Solomon yelled above them all. “This, my friends, is the meaning of this!”
A singular gasp seemed to evacuate the room of its air. They stared, stunned and blinking, at the large chest of glimmering gold.
“The Ark of the Covenant has been found, oh Israel! And it stands before you today.” Solomon’s voice echoed in the room. His heart pounded in the silence.
Somewhere a single wail broke out softly. And then the truth seemed to hit them all at once. The Ark of the Testimony, the Ark of God’s Covenant, the same Ark that had brought their ancestors into the Promised Land, stood on the floor of the Knesset, wrapped in gold so bright that it appeared luminescent.
Shouts of alarm mixed with cries to God as bedlam swept through the auditorium. Haim Edri, an Orthodox Jew from the Likud, vaulted his desk and rushed for the front, locks flying. Dozens of members began to move for the aisles; some stood immobilized; still others began to shout in outrage. It all joined into a strange roar that could just as easily have been a choir of angels as far as Solomon was concerned. Only in his wildest dreams had he imagined such a response.
“Silence!” The Speaker slammed his gavel. “Silence! Silence!”
But they did not silence. In fact, the volume seemed to surge. Someone grabbed Haim Edri before he got to the government table and hauled him down, yelling something about touching the Ark.
A gunshot suddenly thundered over their heads. Silence engulfed them. A guard lowered his rifle and looked tentatively at the prime minister.
“Thank you, Samuel,” Ben Gurion said. “Everyone return to your seats immediately. We will do this in an orderly fashion or we won’t do it at all. Our nation is facing a terrible crisis, and we must act quickly! Sit down!”
They hesitated and then moved back to their seats. Most of them sat. Haim Edri stood to one side, bobbing at the Ark and weeping softly as he had done a thousand times at the Wailing Wall. Four others joined him, and no one could dare to object. Part of Solomon wanted to join them as well.
The prime minister walked out to the Ark.
“Now, I know this is out of the ordinary, but given the circumstances we face, I’m sure you’ll understand,” he said. “I won’t go into all the details, but last night the Ark you see before you crossed into our borders from Ethiopia where it has evidently been hidden for at least fifteen hundred years. It arrived in Jerusalem at about three this morning. We have had our best archaeologists study it within the confines of the Law, and there is a unanimous consensus. What you see is the same Ark carried by our forefather David many years ago.”
They began to talk in hushed tones again, and the prime minister quieted them with another stern warning. Three more joined the group nodding and praying with Haim Edri.
“Our neighbors know that we have the Ark. They believe that we’ll now demand the Temple Mount back. Evidently they have taken advantage of the situation to force our hand. As we speak, our own forces are building to full strength. We currently have a squadron in the air, and our own mechanized divisions are already rolling into position. Within twelve hours we will be at full military strength.”
The Plenum had calmed to a deathly quiet, broken only by a single soft wail from the lips of Haim Edri.
“All because of the Ark?” someone asked.
A dozen members erupted to silence the member. “Of course for the Ark! Are you not a Jew?”
Solomon knew then he would have his way. He glanced at Goldstein who stared at him with angry eyes.
“How can we be sure this is the Ark?” Shmuel demanded. “Does it contain the tablets?”
“You know that we can’t even touch it, much less open it. But the poles are a different story. They are at least three thousand years old. This we have verified. The goldwork dates back to our best understanding of the age. The rabbi has examined it—there can be no doubt, my friends.”
“And does the rabbi say that God’s presence dwells there?” The question rang from the back and sent a hush over them.
Solomon stepped forward. A tremble had taken to his legs. “To doubt this would be to doubt Judaism,” he said softly. “Everything which makes us Jews is held in this chest, my dear friends. Without it, there would be no Jew today. Let no one be mistaken, the Creator of the heavens and the earth has granted us favor today. It is time for his people to claim their inheritance once again.”
For long seconds, no one spoke. They only stared, as if frozen by the weight of the moment.
“Then we have to build our Temple,” Shmuel Weiss said. He stood slowly and then turned to fa
ce his peers. “I know this is not what you would expect from me, my friends.” His voice was tight with emotion. “But the world of the Jew has just changed. We cannot allow the mockery of God any longer.”
“You’re making a mistake!”
They spun to Goldstein who stood across the room. “Maybe you didn’t hear the prime minister.” He shoved a finger towards the east. “There are over six thousand tanks lining our borders as we speak. We are outnumbered three to one on the ground. The Arabs will crush us!”
“Joshua was outnumbered a hundred to one!” someone cried.
“Joshua wasn’t up against chemical weapons!”
“How dare you question the power of God!”
“I don’t question his power. I question how many Jews will die in the next twenty-four hours.”
Solomon stretched his hand out. “Perhaps you live in the wrong country, Stephen. We are Jews who exist because of God. And now we must exist for God. Without him we are not Jews. Deny this Ark, and you are not a Jew.”
He faced the rest. “The military balance is even, but the spiritual balance is not. They have camped in our throne room too long. Today God has sent us an imperative.” He pointed at the Ark without looking its way. “An imperative no Jew can deny.”
The room erupted again, but now mostly with those in agreement. Someone yelled for the prime minister to speak.
Ben Gurion eyed Solomon. “I see it quite plainly,” he said when they had quieted. “If we have the Ark, we must have the Temple. Our history is very clear.”
“But our history does not have to be written here today,” Goldstein said. “We must talk to the Arabs. Surely—”
“You are wrong, Stephen. We talked to General Abu Ismael of the Syrian forces half an hour ago. They are demanding that we deliver the Ark to them by nightfall. Nothing less will satisfy them. They see this as their opportunity, and I believe they will take it. The Ark is as much a convenience as a problem for them. I think our hand has been forced. Forced by God, himself, perhaps.”
