by Tim LaHaye
It just might. “I’ve really got to go, son.”
“Wyatt.”
“Why?”
“Wyatt. That’s my name.”
“Well, thanks, Wyatt, and good-bye.”
“Mr. Berry!”
“Yes, Wyatt.”
“I’m not gonna be able to hear the box here if you fire up. Can’t you give me a second?”
From the radio on Wyatt’s makeshift desk in the middle of the hangar: “Officer 423, do you copy? Initiate code red screening effective immediately.”
“This is Wyatt. You mean those thorough checks on everybody, even small craft?”
“Where are you, 423?”
“Small-craft Hangar 3, sir.”
“Then that is what I mean, yes!”
Rayford quickly closed the door, but before he could settle into the cockpit, Wyatt came running. “Mr. Berry, sir! I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the craft!”
Rayford initiated the starting sequence, which only caused Wyatt to rush in front of the Gulfstream, waving, rifle dangling. He didn’t appear alarmed or even suspicious. It was clear he simply thought Rayford couldn’t hear him.
He motioned for Rayford to open the door. Rayford considered simply starting up as soon as Wyatt was clear of the front, hoping the GC was thin staffed enough and busy enough that they would ignore him. But he couldn’t risk an air pursuit or gung ho Wyatt from Fort Collins shooting at him on the runway.
He moved to the door and opened it three inches. “What is it, Wyatt?”
“I’ve been instructed, sir, to do a thorough check and search of even small craft before departure tonight, due to what happened in Jerusalem.”
“Even me, Wyatt? A small-town guy like you? An American?”
“Got to, sir. Sorry.”
“Wyatt, you know the Gulfstream, don’t you?”
“The Gulfstream, sir?”
“This aircraft.”
“No sir, I don’t. I’m not an aviation man. I’m a soldier.”
Rayford peeked through the slivered opening. “If you knew this plane, Wyatt, you’d know that if the door opens all the way, I have to start the whole ignition sequence over.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, some kind of a safety mechanism that keeps the engines from starting until the door is closed.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I have to—”
“I’m sorry, too, Wyatt, because the tower guys were complaining about you, and I was trying to keep you out of trouble, make you look good, by getting away quickly.”
“But my commanding officer just told me—”
“Wyatt! Listen to me! You think I shot Carpathia?”
“’Course not. I—”
“I’d need you to teach me about weapons, for one thing.”
“I could sure teach you, but—”
“I’ll bet you could. And I could teach you to fly—”
“I have to—”
“Wyatt, I just heard on the radio that two wide-bodies are in landing sequence right now, with another waiting to take off. Now my perimeter flange is going to overheat if I don’t get going, and you don’t want a fire in here. Tell your boss I was already on my way out when you got the order, then we’re both covered. You look quick, you avoid a fire, and you’re still following orders.”
Rayford kept a careful eye on Wyatt’s hands and flinched when the young man moved his right. If he leveled that rifle at him, Rayford would have to comply. But Wyatt saluted and pointed at Rayford. “Good thinkin’, sir. Carry on.”
Rayford fired up the engines and maneuvered onto the tarmac. He couldn’t wait to tell Mac about this one. He heard about other planes on a radio that wasn’t on yet? Perimeter flange? Fire? Tsion taught that part of the population decimation might be God’s way of removing his most incorrigible enemies in anticipation of the coming epic battle. Wyatt was living proof that the inept had survived. Rayford knew he wouldn’t always enjoy such fortune.
“Ben Gurion Tower to Gulfstream!”
Rayford leaned forward and looked as far as he could in both directions, both on the runway and in the sky.
“Gurion Tower to Gulfstream, do you copy?”
He was clear.
“Gulfstream, you are not cleared! Remain stationary.”
“Gulfstream to Tower,” Rayford said. “Proceeding, thank you.”
“Repeat, Gulfstream, you are not cleared!”
“Cleared by Officer 423, Tower.”
“Repeat?”
“. . . been . . . leared . . . two-three . . . wer.”
“You’re breaking up, Gulfstream! You are not cleared for takeoff. Repeat, not cleared!”
“. . . nection . . . wer, thank y—”
“Do we have your flight plan, Gulfstream?”
“. . . o copy, tow—”
“Flight plan?”
“. . . icer fo—, two, thr—”
“If you can hear any of this, Gulfstream, be aware that satellite coordinates have been scrambled and there is only manual positioning. Copy?”
Rayford depressed and released the talk button rapidly, then held it halfway down, creating static on the other end. No satellite capability? For once he would be glad for that. He needn’t worry about pursuit. If he was flying blind, so would the GC. Did that mean the phones were out too? He tried the safe house, then Laslos. Nothing. He only hoped he could connect with the Greek believers before he put down there. It made no sense to try to make it back to America. If Leah’s message meant what he thought and Hattie was no longer in Belgium, she could have long since led the GC to the safe house. He only hoped his message had gotten to David’s computer before the satellites went down.
Buck had been angry with his father-in-law before, but never like this. No contact? Nothing? What was he supposed to do, collect Leah from Brussels, and it was every man for himself? Now the phones didn’t seem to be working.
Did he dare try to make it to Chaim’s house and see what was going on? Why would the GC storm the place and force their way in? Were they too looking for Chaim? And why? Buck knew somebody already had to have the old man. Someone had spirited him, or his body, from the Gala site. No way a wheelchair-bound stroke victim could have made his own way out of that place with his contrivance in pieces on the ground.
Buck took a cab to the small place he had once used as an Israeli safe house. No one he recognized was living there. He walked several miles in the darkness through rubble, never far from the cacophony of sirens and the flashing light shows of emergency vehicles. When he finally arrived at Chaim’s, the place was deserted and dark. Had everyone been taken away? Emergency personnel were stretched, of course, but if they expected Chaim, wouldn’t someone be left to guard the place?
Buck crept to the back, suddenly aware of his fatigue. Grief and trauma did that to a person, he told himself. He had not gotten to know Jacov well, but how he had thrilled to the young man’s coming to belief in Christ! They had kept up some, not as much as either had liked, due to the risk of discovery. And though he knew he would see Jacov at the Glorious Appearing—if not before—he dreaded having to break the news to Jacov’s friend and coworker, Stefan.
Buck had the advantage of knowing, really knowing, this house. He feared he might be walking into a trap. He didn’t think the GC knew he was in Israel, but one could never be sure. Maybe they lay in wait for Chaim or even Jacov. It was possible Jacov’s death had not made the GC databases yet, though that was unlikely. But where was everyone else?
Buck found the back door unlocked, and he slipped in. A rechargeable flashlight was usually plugged into a socket near the floor, behind the food preparers’ table. Buck felt for it and found it, but he didn’t want to test it until he was confident no one was waiting to ambush him. He took it into the pantry and waited until he shut the door to turn it on. Then he felt foolish, reckless. He’d never been comfortable with the role he had been thrust into, still part journalist but also freedom fighter, raconteur.
What kind of a swashbuckling Trib Force veteran backs himself into a closet with nothing more to defend himself with than a cheap flashlight?
He tried the light switch on the pantry wall. Nothing. So the power had been cut. Buck flipped the flashlight on, then off quickly. Something in his peripheral vision froze him. Did he dare shine the light that way? He let out a quavery breath. Who would lie in wait in a pantry?
Buck aimed the light that direction and turned it on. Just an unusual arrangement of boxes and cans. He doused the light and moved quietly to the door. Creeping through the kitchen into the dining room, the parlor, and then the front room, Buck held the flashlight in front of him as if it were on, but it served more like a blind man’s cane. As his eyes began adjusting to the darkness, he became aware of pinpoints of light from the street, and he still heard sirens in the distance.
Later Buck would wonder whether he had smelled the blood before he heard it. Yes, heard it. He knew something was wrong as soon as he reached the front room. It was in the air. Heat? A presence? Someone. He stopped and tried to make out shapes. He felt his own heart, but something reached his ears more insistently even than that thumping. Dripping. Drip, drip, pause, drip-drip, drip. From two sources? Part of him didn’t want to know, to see. He turned his back to windows at the front, pointed the flashlight toward the sounds, and braced himself, ready to defend himself with bare hands and the flashlight, if necessary.
He turned on the light but immediately shut his eyes to the horror. He dropped to his knees, the wind gushing from him. “Oh, God,” he prayed. “No! Please!” Was there no end to the carnage? He would rather die than find his friends, his comrades (someday his own family?) like this. In the split second he had allowed himself to take in the scene, it became clear that two victims sat side by side in wood chairs, Hannelore on the left, her mother on the right. They were bound and gagged, heads tilted back, blood dripping into pools on the floor.
Buck did not want to reveal himself to anyone outside. Plainly, this scene was created to “welcome” someone home; certainly the perpetrators had no idea he would stumble upon it. Buck knelt before the chairs, repulsed by the sound of the drips. He knew if either of the women had survived, their respiration would have been noisy with their heads in that position. Still, he had to make sure. He lodged the flashlight between his knees, angled it toward the women, and turned it on. As he reached to check for Hannelore’s pulse, the flashlight slipped and illumined her ankles, tied securely to the front legs of the chair. As he angled the light up again and tightened his knees to support it, he noticed her wrists tied behind her. A smallish woman, Hannelore’s torso was stretched to allow her hands to go around the back of the chair. Great gushes of air rushed past Buck’s gritted teeth.
He grabbed the flashlight and moved behind the chair to feel her wrist, but that put his arm in line with the blood dripping from her head. And though her wrist was warm, as he feared, there was no pulse.
Hannelore’s mother, less than a foot away, was bound in the same position. A squat, heavy woman, her arms had been yanked into contorted positions to allow her wrists to be tied. She too was dead.
Who could have done this? And wouldn’t Stefan, his Middle East maleness coming to the fore, have fought to the death to prevent it? Where could he be? Buck wanted to pan the light back and forth along the floor toward the front, but that might have been suicidal, he would be so obvious from the street. It was all he could do to keep from calling Stefan’s name.
Chaim had not been home when Buck had talked with Hannelore on the phone. Did this massacre mean Chaim had arrived, or that he hadn’t? Had Chaim himself been forced to witness this? Buck’s first task was to locate Stefan, his second to check the entirety of the huge house for Chaim. If Chaim had not returned and this was all meant as a warning for him, could the place be staked out, surrounded? Perhaps it was.
Buck feared he would find not just Stefan’s body, but also Chaim’s. But how would Chaim have gotten there? Who might have caught him, rescued him, or helped him off that platform? And what was the purpose of murdering these innocents? Had they been tortured for information and eliminated once they provided it, or because they had not? Or was this simply vengeance? Chaim had been vitriolic in his revulsion of GC Peacekeepers, of the breaking of the covenant between the GC and Israel. Though he had never been a religious Jew, he expressed horror over the intrusion of the world government into the very affairs of the temple. First the Jews had been allowed to rebuild; then they were not allowed to conduct themselves the way they wished in the new temple.
But do you extinguish the household of a statesman, a national treasure, for such an offense? And what of the man himself? Buck’s head throbbed, his chest felt tight, and he was short of breath. He was desperate to be with Chloe and Kenny and felt as if he could hold them tight for three and a half years. He knew the odds. Each had only a one in four chance of surviving until the Glorious Appearing. But even if he, or they, had to go to heaven before that, he didn’t want it to be this way. No one deserved this. No one but Carpathia.
It had been a long time since David had suffered such carping. On the way to his office from the palace hangar, past a full-dress color guard of pallbearers and a heavily armed ring of security personnel, his phone had signaled a top-level emergency message. The call could have originated only locally, of course, but this sort of a code was reserved for life-and-death situations. He did not recognize the callback number but knew it was located in the palace proper.
Normally he would have called back immediately, fearing danger to Annie or himself, but he took a moment to trace the number against the personnel list and found that the call came from the Arts and Sciences wing. He had been there only once, knew virtually no one there, and had been so repulsed by what was considered artistic that he recalled rushing back to his quarters feeling soiled.
Wanting at least one more clue before replying, David called his own voice mail, only to be met by the foul, nasty rantings of a sassy artiste. David had not heard such profanity and gutter language since high school. The gist of the message: “Where are you? Where could you be at a time like this? It’s the middle of the night! Do you even know of the murder? Call me! It’s an emergency!”
David’s phone vibrated again—same number. He waited ninety seconds and called his voice mail again. “Do you know who I am? Guy Blod?!” The man pronounced Guy as Gee with a hard G, the French way, and Blod to rhyme with cod, as if Scandinavian. David had seen him scurrying around a few times but had never spoken with him. His reputation preceded him. He was the temperamental but lauded painter and sculptor, Carpathia’s own choice for minister of the creative arts. Not only had he painted several of the so-called masterpieces that graced the great hall and the palace, but he had also sculpted many of the statues of world heroes in the courtyard and supervised the decorating of all GC buildings in New Babylon. He was considered a genius, but David—though admittedly no expert—considered his work laughably gaudy and decidedly profane. “The more shocking and anti-God the better” had to have been Blod’s premise.
Part of David wanted Guy Blod to have to wait for a callback, but this was the wrong time to start puffing his anti-GC chest. He would take no guff from Guy Blod, but he had to remain above suspicion and ingratiated to Fortunato. He dialed Blod as he settled behind his computer and began to program it to record directly from the morgue on a sound-activated basis.
As Blod answered, David noticed a list of messages on his computer. “This is Guy,” he announced, “and you had better be David Hassid.” He put the emphasis on the first syllable.
“It’s hah-SEED,” David said.
“That should be easy enough to remember, Mr. Hayseed. Now where have you been?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve been trying to call you!”
“That’s why I called you, sir.”
“Don’t get smart with me. Don’t you know what’s happened?”
“Nobody tells m
e anything, Mr. Blod.” David chuckled. “Of course I know what’s happened. Did it occur to you that that might have been why I was difficult to reach?”
“Well, I need stuff and I need it right now!”
“What do you need, sir?”
“Can you get it for me?”
“Depends on what it is, Blod.”
“That’s Mr. Blod to you, sweetie. I was told you could get anything.”
“Well, almost.”
“I have nowhere else to turn.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You’d better. Now come to my office.”
“Excuse me?”
“Is this a bad connection? I said, come . . . to . . . my . . .”
“I heard you, sir, but I have many things on my plate tonight, as you can imagine, and I can’t just—”
“You can do as you’re told. Now get your tail over here, and I mean right now.” Click.
David hung up and checked his messages. Most alarming was one from Rayford: “Our botanist reports the bird has flown. May need new real estate soonest. Signed, Geo. Logic”
David squinted at the screen for several seconds, wishing he could call someone at the safe house, or Rayford. He was tempted to put the satellites back in operation just long enough to do it, but he knew someone would discover that and he would have to answer for it. So Hattie was gone and the safe house was in jeopardy. He deleted the message and hacked his way into the mainframe database of abandoned, condemned, destroyed, and/or radioactive buildings in the Midwest. He looked at his watch when the phone rang. Six minutes had passed.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Is this David Hayseed?”
“This is Director Hassid, yes.”
“Do you know who this is?”
“Yes! It sounds like Minister Blood. Haven’t talked to you in ages. Good to hear from you again—”
“That’s Blod, and did I or did I not tell you to get over here?”
“Is this multiple choice? I believe you did.”
“Then why are you not here?”
