The many stories of brave people speaking out, even full-page ads signed by dozens unafraid to declare themselves, made Felicia and Cletus turn on the news. And from around the globe beamed stories of demonstrations, parades, speeches, harangues. “Underground believers, zealots, extremists, whatever anyone chooses to call them,” one man railed in Chicago’s Bughouse Square, “they are the new minority, the new oppressed.”
“How are they oppressed?” a heckler raged. “They did not suffer! We are the ones who lost sons, brothers, fathers.”
“God is on their side!” the speaker said. “I was an atheist who is now an agnostic. But that sounds foolish even to me when the promise of a curse, a plague, has been carried out before my eyes. Hear me: I will not worship this vengeful God. But neither will I ever again pretend He doesn’t exist and has not the power to squash me like a bug. All I’m saying is that the world will not come to an end if we beseech the government to lift the ban on the practice of religion. But it could very well end if we do not lift the ban. Do we want another judgment? another show of power from beyond the heavens? I don’t!
“The people of faith have played their trump card, and we have lost the hand. Let’s not risk losing the entire game.”
That diatribe and the back-and-forth of the masses was typical all over the globe. “We need not concede anything, believe anything, or even change our way of life,” a Frenchman opined in an open letter to the world. “Have we not learned to live and let live? Our provincial laws have oppressed these people in ways we would never allow ourselves to be oppressed. We don’t have to agree with them. We don’t have to like them. We don’t even have to acknowledge them. Just let them be; let them live as they wish. It’s such a small price to avoid a repeat of what we have endured . . . or worse.”
* * *
Ranold Decenti threw himself into his work. He had gone from semiretirement to full-time Zealot Underground task force chief and was now pressed into service as the ersatz director of the stateside NPO. Not only was it a job he had always relished, but he also found great satisfaction in filling his whole day, from early morning until late at night, with real work. No more dragging himself home for dinner at the end of a long day. He could have food delivered and keep working.
The former general checked and rechecked his budget, pleased—though he would not have used that term—to find that the sheer reduction in salaries due to The Incident would soon overcome the payment packages due the survivors. Decenti had millions transferred from glutted budgets into his own and had his secretary schedule a personal audience with Chancellor Dengler in Switzerland. Someone had to talk sense to the man or muscle him out of the way. The resistance consisted of paper tigers who understood one language: a dialect of intimidation that Ranold B. Decenti still understood, even if Baldwin Dengler did not. Dengler had made Ranold physically sick. Now he would set the chancellor straight.
“Does the March 22 deadline on signing the oaths of loyalty still stand, or does it not?” Ranold asked Dengler on the phone.
“I’ll speak to that in a moment, General. First tell me whether former agent Stepola has gotten my message. I have heard nothing from him or you.”
“I have done my part, Mr. Chancellor. I cannot make him call you.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Now, about that deadline.”
“Well, as you can imagine,” Dengler said, “everything is up in the air now. Everything is conditional, under review.”
Ranold could not even respond, so afraid was he that he might explode.
“You understand,” Dengler said. “Don’t you, General?”
Oh, do I ever.
* * *
“Something’s missing from all these stories,” Felicia said.
“Pray tell,” Cletus said.
“They fall short of telling what the underground resistance is all about. I mean, they acknowledge it’s made up of people of faith and that they called upon God to act on their behalf, and He did. But no one is acknowledging the other side of God. His love. His mercy. His interest in getting our attention.”
Cletus shook his head. “He got our attention all right, Felicia. Nobody’s gonna buy that He didn’t accomplish that.”
“Well, I’ve got an idea.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Why not broadcast Paul’s notes—the explanation of how to receive Christ—to everyone who has a computer?”
“That’s redundant, Felicia. Everyone has a computer. Most have more than one.”
“There you go.”
* * *
If there was one call Paul wanted most to return, it was Bia Balaam’s. He had considered her message, prayed about it, noodled it for hours, and he couldn’t come up with an explanation for it aside from what she had claimed.
If it was true that she was violating every NPO protocol by telling him so much, what motive could she have other than a personal one? Paul didn’t know, but he didn’t want to get duped either.
The ball remained in her court. She wanted to talk with him, not vice versa. Well, in fact, the opposite was also true, but she needn’t know that. Leave the burden on her, he decided. Let her come to him.
She tried. And she tried again. Every time she missed him—his choice, of course, to not talk with her—she left a more detailed message. Finally, she said, “All right, if this is what it takes to convince you, I’ll throw caution to the wind and leave myself vulnerable to treason.” And with that she proceeded to tell Paul she knew he had his family with him; precisely where the underground was located; the names of Jack Pass, Angela Pass Barger, and even Greenie Macintosh; the extent of the encroachment of NPO techies into the computer system; and the timing of the attack that would decimate the Columbia underground.
Paul couldn’t get to Jack fast enough. Dare they seek help from other regions? And how were they to go about that with their computer communications compromised?
* * *
Hector Hernandez told Felicia he loved her idea of disseminating Paul Stepola’s instructions on how to receive Christ, and he immediately set to work at home on a construct that would allow him to pull it off remotely. No trace of Hector’s work would appear on the NPO mainframe, but if everything worked correctly, every computer in the world would get Paul’s notes.
In an instant, everyone interested in how a person switched teams would be without excuse.
23
STRAIGHT BELIEVED there was wisdom in many counselors, but for now he wanted just one: Abraham, code name for the leader of the Watchmen—an elite squad of undergrounders, largely from the Michigan/Ohio salt mines. And despite the complication of traveling at a chaotic time like this, Abraham was apparently sufficiently alarmed by Straight’s story to suggest a face-to-face in Chicago.
“The man sounds credible to me,” Abraham said as they sat on a cold bench near Buckingham Fountain, idle during the frigid weather. “But that insight is not from God, merely from me.”
“And if he’s credible, how much do I give him?”
“How much do you know?”
“Enough. I get a printout of new patients. I recognize a lot of names from the news, and my contacts help me with others. Stepola knows the most, naturally, but others are helpful.”
“And what do you get out of this?”
“Sir?”
“It ought to be reciprocal, Dr. Rathe. Don’t you think?”
Straight shrugged. “I hadn’t considered that.”
“Consider it. Even in the best case, you and this surgeon are on the same side, and there is benefit to what he is doing. But you are every bit as vulnerable as he. Let’s say you give him a name or two, confirming you are part of the resistance, and he is not who he says he is. You’ve implicated yourself. At least make the risk worth your while.”
“And what do I want from him?”
Abraham offered a weary smile. “Think, man. What do we most need?”
“Brother, I haven’t thought clearly for days. F
orgive me and tell me.”
Abraham sighed. “You say this doctor assured you he doesn’t do any real harm to these patients, which would violate his oath. But surely a percentage of his cases are terminal nonetheless. It would seem a small thing for him to let you know who those are early enough that you can take advantage of the information.”
“And appropriate their IDs.”
Abraham clapped a hand on Straight’s knee. “See, you’re not so tired that it has completely clouded your judgment.”
* * *
After days of frustration, the governor of the Columbia Region, Haywood Hale, officially named Ranold B. Decenti interim head of NPO USSA. Ranold secretly wished the governor would visit him in his office at headquarters, but of course protocol required the general to visit the West Wing of the old White House.
The longer Ranold waited, the more agitated he became. He considered showing his pique and even bad-mouthing the international chancellor, but he felt the wind leave his sails when he was finally granted an audience.
The Oval Office certainly proved a thin representation of what it had been when presidents resided there. Governor Hale had actually installed cubicle walls and two clerical workers where beautiful furniture had once graced the place.
The tall, reedy governor was elderly now—in his late eighties, having been the last vice president in the old system before being assigned his current role by Baldwin Dengler’s predecessor. Despite tissue-paper skin and dark age spots on the backs of his hands, Hale still seemed sharp and none the worse for wear—despite a slight tremor, though his largely ceremonial duties were hardly taxing. Still, Ranold thought, he seemed more forthright and decisive even than Dengler.
“Two things I need to clarify for you, General,” the governor said. “One is that this is only an interim position. We are actively seeking a man of more appropriate age to lead the NPO. You have all the tools, of course: the reputation, the experience, and the respect of your colleagues—all of whom will be subordinates after today. But neither of us is a young man anymore, Ranold.”
“Granted.” Ranold was smiling but also seething. He hated when the obvious was paraded as novel. “And the second? Sir?”
“You may be wondering a bit at the delay.”
Now there was an understatement. “Oh no,” Ranold said. “I understand these things take time.”
“Well, this took longer than it should have, and I apologize. But the fact is that Chancellor Dengler himself sat on it a few days. You know he lost a son and other family members, and—”
“As did most of us.” Ranold regretted that as soon as it came from his mouth, because he could see he had offended, or at least irritated, the governor merely by interrupting him. “Forgive me, sir. I cut you off.”
“I was saying that besides the turmoil of his personal losses, I believe he had some hesitation about your appointment.”
Ranold feigned surprise. “Because of my age? I—”
“No, I don’t believe so, General. Apparently you have pressed the chancellor on certain issues. . . .”
“I won’t deny that,” Ranold said. “But I was under the impression he appreciates forthrightness—”
“Of course he does. As long as it’s—”
“Deferential and respectful, naturally.”
The governor stood and moved to sit on the corner of his desk, and Ranold was immediately insulted by the obvious attempt to intimidate. He had used the technique himself.
“General Decenti,” Hale began, “you of all people—with your military background—know that absolute adherence to the chain of command is indispensable. The chancellor, as your ultimate superior, has the right even to be wrong. You should feel free to steadfastly argue your positions with him, until he—”
“Announces a directive, naturally. Yes, I know that.”
“General, please allow me to finish a thought before—”
“I apologize, Governor.”
“If you do that with Chancellor Dengler, I could understand his reticence—”
“I don’t believe I have, sir, but let me suggest this: how about I make my first priority a personal visit to Bern where I assure the chancellor that we are on the same page.”
Hale reached to shake Ranold’s hand, and the latter was struck by the fragility of the man’s grip. “Now you’re talking, General. On the other hand, don’t make the mistake of assuming I didn’t know those arrangements have already been made.”
Decenti felt himself redden. “Do I need to fire my secretary? She’s been with me for more than—”
Hale shook his head and held up a hand, smiling broadly. “Your secretary has not betrayed you, General. Chancellor Dengler’s has betrayed him.”
* * *
Paul knocked and slipped into a meeting of the elders where Jack Pass stood at a flip chart and Greenie Macintosh sat in the front row. Paul signaled Jack that he needed to see him, but Jack merely nodded and kept going. He had written Isaiah 59 on the board, and when Paul sat, the elder near him slid a Bible his way.
Paul turned to the passage and speed-scanned it:
Behold, the LORD’s hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; nor His ear heavy, that it cannot hear.
But your iniquities have separated you from your God; and your sins have hidden His face from you, so that He will not hear.
For your hands are defiled with blood, and your fingers with iniquity; your lips have spoken lies, your tongue has muttered perversity.
No one calls for justice, nor does any plead for truth.
They trust in empty words and speak lies; they conceive evil and bring forth iniquity. . . .
Their feet run to evil, and they make haste to shed innocent blood; their thoughts are thoughts of iniquity; wasting and destruction are in their paths.
The way of peace they have not known, and there is no justice in their ways; they have made themselves crooked paths; whoever takes that way shall not know peace.
Therefore justice is far from us, nor does righteousness overtake us; we look for light, but there is darkness! For brightness, but we walk in blackness! . . .
Justice is turned back, and righteousness stands afar off; for truth is fallen in the street, and equity cannot enter.
So truth fails, and he who departs from evil makes himself a prey. Then the LORD saw it, and it displeased Him that there was no justice.
He saw that there was no man, and wondered that there was no intercessor; therefore His own arm brought salvation for Him; and His own righteousness, it sustained Him.
For He put on righteousness as a breastplate, and a helmet of salvation on His head; He put on the garments of vengeance for clothing, and was clad with zeal as a cloak.
According to their deeds, accordingly He will repay, fury to His adversaries, recompense to His enemies; the coastlands He will fully repay.
So shall they fear the name of the LORD from the west, and His glory from the rising of the sun; when the enemy comes in like a flood, the Spirit of the LORD will lift up a standard against him.
“Do you see what that’s saying, gentlemen?” Jack said. “People fear the name of the Lord from the west because He brought the drought upon Los Angeles. They will fear His glory from the rising of the sun, which happens where?”
“The east,” someone said. “Where we are.”
“Where we are,” Jack echoed with such gravity that Paul feared he had lost his mind.
“You’re proof-texting!” Greenie said. “Be careful, Jack. You can’t tell me that when this was written, the writer was thinking of California and Washington, D.C.”
That seemed to stop Jack, but not for long. “Listen to Amos 5:24,” he said. “‘Let justice run down like water, and righteousness like a mighty stream.’”
“Now you’re going to tell us that’s a prescription for Operation Noah,” Greenie said.
“Well, what would you call it?”
“I agree with you, Jack,” one of the younger elders said. �
��If we were to vote right now—”
“We’re not going to vote right now,” Paul said. “We have more pressing business.”
Jack shot him a look. “What could be more pressing than this, Paul? We have to act.”
“We have to get out is what we have to do. And we have ten days.”
24
IT WAS QUIET TIME FOR THE KIDS, and a couple of high schoolers were watching them. Jae got Angela alone.
“You’re out of sorts today,” Angela said. “What’s up?”
“Do you realize I can’t go to my brother’s or even my mother’s funeral?”
Angela nodded. “I wouldn’t have been able to go to my father’s if it were today,” she said. “Horrible as it was, at least I was not known as part of the underground when he was murdered. It did help to be there.”
“I can’t even talk to my father,” Jae said. “Who knows whether he’ll even have funerals for them?”
“Oh, surely . . . his wife and son?”
“You don’t know him, Angela. I’m going to have to call my sister-in-law to find out.”
“Sad,” Angela said. “Could you use some good news?”
“Could I ever.”
“I think your kids are close.”
“Really?”
“Yes. In fact, so close that my sons think Brie and Connor are already believers. They were telling them that the next step is getting out of here and telling their friends about Jesus.”
“I wonder if Brie and Connor have even made friends at school here yet,” Jae said, “even if they could get out. They couldn’t, by the way, could they?”
“Have friends? Why not?”
“No, not that. They’ve been here such a short time. If they wanted to tell somebody about Jesus, it would be their friends in Chicago. But I mean they couldn’t get out of here, right?”
“Without your permission or knowledge? No. It’s as hard to get out of here as it is to get in.”
* * *
All eyes were on Paul, so it was time to put up or shut up. But before he could even get into Bia Balaam’s warning, a junior techie from the computer area rushed in and thrust a printout at Jack.
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