by Tim LaHaye
Rayford remembered as if it were yesterday. He didn’t mind telling the story because it came to a good end, but he hated this part. Not just the horror, not just the loneliness, but the blame. If Chloe had never come to Christ, he wasn’t sure he could have forgiven himself.
He wondered about Mac. He would tell Mac what was going on, exactly who Nicolae Carpathia was, the whole package. He would tell him of the prophecies in Revelation, walk him through the judgments that had already come, show him how they had been foretold and could not be disputed. But if Mac was phony, if Mac worked for Carpathia, he would have already been brainwashed. He could fake this emotion, this interest. He could even insist he wanted to make a dangerous scuba dive with Rayford, just to stay on his good side.
But Rayford was already beyond the point of no return. Again he prayed silently that God might give him a sign whether Mac was sincere. If he wasn’t, he was one of the better actors Rayford had seen. It was hard to trust anyone anymore.
When they finally came in sight of the airfield at Al Basrah, Mac coached Ray to a gentle, if lengthy, touchdown. As Ray shut down the engine, Mac said, “That’s him. Coming down the ladder.”
They scrambled out of the chopper as a tiny, dark-faced, long-nosed, turbaned man in bare feet gingerly made his way down from a tower that looked more like a guard station at a prison. He had tossed his crutches down, and when he reached the ground, he hopped to them and deftly used them to rush to Mac. They embraced.
“What happened to you?” Mac asked.
“I was in the mess hall,” Albie said. “When the rumbles began, I knew immediately what it was. Foolishly, I raced for the tower. No one was there. We were not expecting traffic for a couple of hours. What I would do up there, I had no idea. The tower began falling before I even reached it. I was able to elude it, but a fuel truck was thrown into my path. I saw it at the last instant and tried to leap over the cab, which lay on its side. I almost reached the other side but twisted my ankle on the tire and scraped my shin on the lug nuts. But that is not the worst of it. I have broken bones in my foot. But there are no supplies to set it, and I am low on the priority list. It will grow strong. Allah will bless me.”
Mac introduced Rayford. “I want to hear your stories,” Albie said. “Where were you when it hit? Everything. I want to know everything. But first, if you have time, we could use help.”
Heavy machinery was already grading a huge area, preparing it for asphalt. “Your boss, the potentate himself, has expressed pleasure at our cooperation. We are trying to get underway as soon as possible to help the global peacekeeping effort. What a tragedy to have thrown in our way after all he has accomplished.”
Rayford said nothing.
Mac said, “Albie, we might be able to help later, but we need to eat.”
“The mess hall is gone,” Albie said. “As for your favorite place in town, I have not heard. Shall we check?”
“Do you have a vehicle?”
“That old pickup,” Albie said. They followed as he crutched his way to it. “Clutching will be difficult,” he said. “Do you mind?”
Mac slid behind the wheel. Albie sat in the middle, knees spread to keep from blocking the gearshift. The pickup rattled and lurched over unpaved roads until it arrived at the outskirts of the city. Rayford was sickened by the smell. He still found it hard to accept that this was part of God’s ultimate plan. Did this many people have to suffer to make some eternal point? He took comfort in that this was not God’s desired result. Rayford believed God was true to his word, that he had given people enough chances that he could now justify allowing this to get their attention.
Wailing men and women carried bodies over their shoulders or pushed them in wheelbarrows through the crowded streets. It seemed every other block had been left in pieces by the earthquake. Mac’s favorite eatery was missing a concrete block wall, but the management had draped something over it and was open for business. One of few eating establishments still open, it was wall to wall with customers who ate while standing. Mac and Rayford shouldered their way in, drawing angry stares until the townspeople saw Albie. Then they made room, as much as they could, still pressed shoulder to shoulder.
Rayford had little faith in the sanitation of this food, but still he was grateful for it. After two bites of a rolled-up pastry stuffed with ground lamb and seasonings, he whispered to Mac, “I can see and I can smell and yet somehow, even here, hunger is the best seasoning.”
On the way back, Mac pulled to the side of a dusty field and turned off the engine. “I wanted to know you were all right, Albie,” he said. “But this is also a business mission.”
“Splendid,” Albie said. “How can I help?”
“Scuba gear,” Mac said.
Albie furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. “Scuba,” he said simply. “You need everything? Wet suit, mask, snorkel, tanks, fins?”
“All that, yes.”
“Weights? Ballast? Lights?”
“I suppose.”
“Cash?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll have to check,” Albie said. “I have a source. I have not heard from him since the disaster. If the stuff is to be had, I can get it. Let’s leave it this way: If you do not hear from me, return in one month and it will be here.”
“I can’t wait that long,” Rayford said quickly.
“I cannot guarantee any sooner. Even that long seems very fast to me at a time like this.” Rayford couldn’t argue with that. “I thought this was for you, Mac,” Albie added.
“We need two sets.”
“Are you going to make a career of diving?”
“Hardly,” Mac said. “Why? You think we should rent instead?”
“Could we?” Rayford said.
Albie and Mac looked at Rayford and burst into laughter. “No rental on the black market,” Albie said.
Rayford had to grin at his own naiveté, but laughing seemed a distant pleasure.
Back at the airport Rayford and Mac each manned a shovel while a dump truck brought in a gravel base for the runway. Before they knew it, several hours had passed. They sent someone for Albie.
“Can you get a message to New Babylon?” Mac said.
“It will require a relay, but both Qar and Wasit have been on the air since this morning, so yes, is possible.”
Mac wrote the instructions, asking that a dispatch go to Global Community radio base informing them that Steele and McCullum were engaged in a cooperative volunteer airport rebuilding project and would return by nightfall.
It was nearly nine-thirty Tuesday morning, Central Standard Time, when Buck was jolted awake. The day was bright and sunny, yet he had slept soundly since that brief dream in the middle of the night. A constant sound had played at the edges of his consciousness. But for how long? As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he realized the noise had been with him for some time.
It seemed to come from the backyard, from beyond the Range Rover. He padded to the window and opened it, pressing his cheek against the screen and looking as far that way as he could. Maybe it was emergency workers, and he and Tsion would have power sooner than they thought.
What was that smell? Had a catering truck pulled up for the workmen? He threw on some clothes. The light was on in the hallway. Had it not been a dream after all? He skipped down the stairs in his bare feet. “Tsion! We have power! What’s happening?”
Tsion came from the kitchen with a skillet full of food and began scooping it onto a plate at the table. “Sit down, sit down, my friend. Are you not proud of me?”
“You found food!”
“I did more than that, Buck! I discovered a generator, and a big one!”
Buck bowed his head and said a brief prayer. “Did you eat, Tsion?”
“Yes, go ahead. I could not wait. I could not sleep in the middle of the night, so I tiptoed in and took your flashlight. I did not rouse you, did I?”
“No,” Buck said, his mouth full. “But later I thought I dre
amed I saw lights in the hallway.”
“It was not a dream, Buck! I lugged that generator out of the cellar and into the backyard myself. It took me forever to fill it with gas and clean the spark plug and get it fired up. But as soon as I hooked it to the cable in the basement, lights came on, the refrigerator came on, everything started happening. I am sorry to have disturbed you. I tiptoed into my bedroom and knelt by my bed, just praising the Lord for our good fortune.”
“I heard you.”
“Forgive me.”
“It was like music,” Buck said. “And this food is like nectar.”
“You need sustenance. You are going back to Loretta’s. I will stay here and see if I can get on the Internet. If I cannot, I have much studying to do and messages to write so they will be ready to go to the faithful when I can get hooked up. Before you leave, however, you will help me get into Donny’s briefcase, no?”
“You’ve decided that’s OK, then?”
“Under other circumstances, no. But we have so few tools for survival now, Cameron. We must take advantage of anything that might be there.”
Fortunately, Donny’s well remained intact, and somehow, under a steaming shower a few minutes later, Buck’s spirits were raised. What was it about creature comforts that made the day look brighter, despite the crisis? Buck knew he was in denial. Whenever he felt his realistic, practical, journalist side take over, he fought it. He wanted to think Chloe had somehow escaped death, but her car was still at the house. On the other hand, he hadn’t found her body. Tons of debris still covered the place, and he had not been able to dig through much of it. Was he up to displacing every piece of trash from the foundation to prove to himself she was or wasn’t there? He was willing. He simply hoped there was a better way.
On his way out of the house, Buck was intrigued that Tsion had not waited for him to get Donny’s briefcase from the Rover. The rabbi had it on the table. He wore a shy, impish look. They were about to break into someone’s personal belongings, and both had convinced themselves it was what Donny would have wanted. They were also prepared to close it back up and discard it if what they found was personal.
“There are all kinds of tools in the basement,” Tsion said. “I could use some care and do this in such a way that it would not threaten the integrity of the structure.”
“What!?” Buck said. “Threaten the integrity of the structure? You mean not hurt this cheap briefcase? How ’bout I just save you the time and effort?”
Buck turned the five-inch-deep plastic briefcase vertically and held it between his knees as he sat in a kitchen chair. He angled both knees left and drove the heel of his hand into the case, forcing it to fall between his ankles and land on one corner. That caused the latches to separate and the case to spring out of shape and fly open. His legs kept it from opening wide and spilling. With a feeling of accomplishment, he plopped it on the table and spun it around so Tsion could open it.
“This is what this young man has been lugging with him everywhere he goes?” Tsion said.
Buck leaned over to peek in. There, in neatly stacked rows, were dozens of small spiral notebooks, each not quite as large as a stenographer’s notebook. They were labeled on the front with dates in block hand printing. Tsion grabbed a few and Buck took more. He fanned them in his hands and noticed that each contained approximately two months’ worth of entries.
“This may be his personal diary,” Buck said.
“Yes,” Tsion said. “If so, we must not violate his confidence.”
They looked at each other. Buck wondered which of them was going to look, to determine whether these were private notes that should be discarded or technical notes that might be of assistance to the Tribulation Force. Tsion raised his eyebrows and nodded to Buck. Buck opened one notebook to the middle. It read: “Talked to Bruce B. about underground necessities. He still seems reluctant about suggesting location. I don’t need to know. I outlined specifications, electric, water, phone, ventilation, etc.”
“That is not personal,” Tsion said. “Let me study these today and see if there is anything we can use. I am amazed how he stacked them. I do not believe he could have fit another one in, and he used every bit of space.”
“What’s this?” Buck said, leafing to the back. “Look at these. He hand drew these schematics.”
“That is my shelter!” Tsion exalted. “That is where I have been staying. So, he designed it.”
“But it looks like Bruce never told him where he was building it.”
Tsion pointed to a passage on the next page: “Putting a duplicate shelter in my backyard has proven more labor intensive than I expected. Sandy is getting a kick out of it. Bagging the dirt and storing it in her van takes her mind off our loss. She enjoys the clandestine nature of it. We take turns dumping it in various locations. Today we loaded so much that the back tires looked as if they might explode. It was the first time I had seen her smile in months.”
Buck and Tsion looked at each other. “Is it possible?” Tsion said. “A shelter in his backyard?”
“How did we miss it?” Buck said. “We were digging out there last night.”
They moved to the back door and gazed out on the lawn. A fence between Donny’s home and the rubble next door had been ripped up and moved by the quake. “Maybe I parked over the entrance,” Buck said.
He backed the Rover out of the way. “I see nothing here,” Tsion said. “But the journal indicates this was more than a dream. They were moving dirt.”
“I’ll find some metal rods today,” Buck said. “We can poke them through the grass and see if we can find this thing.”
“Yes, you go. Finish up at Loretta’s. I have much work today on the computer.”
The sun was setting in Iraq. “We’d better head back,” Rayford said, breathing hard.
“What are they gonna do?” Mac said. “Fire us?”
“As long as he’s got you around, Mac, he could follow through on his threat to put me in jail.”
“That would be just like him, to think one man can fly that Condor halfway around the world and back. By the way, you ever wonder why he calls that thing the 216? The number on his office was 216 too, even though it was on the top floor of an eighteen-story building.”
“Never thought about it,” Rayford said. “I can’t see a reason to care. Maybe he’s got a fetish for that number.”
As he and Mac trudged back toward the new tower with shovels over their shoulders, Albie hurried to them on his crutches. “I can’t thank you enough for your help, gentlemen. You are true friends of Allah and Iraq. True friends of the Global Community.”
“The Global Community might not appreciate hearing you honor Allah,” Rayford said. “You are a loyalist, and yet you have not joined Enigma Babylon Faith?”
“On my mother’s grave, I should never mock Allah with such blasphemy.”
So, Rayford thought, Christians and Jews are not the only holdouts against the new Pope Peter.
Albie led them back to where they turned in their shovels. He spoke in hushed tones. “I am happy to inform you that I have already made some initial inquiries. I should have no trouble procuring your equipment.”
“All of it?” Mac said.
“All of it.”
“How much?” Mac said.
“I have taken the liberty of writing that down,” Albie said.
He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and leaned on his crutches as he opened it in the fading light.
“Ho! Man!” Rayford said. “That’s four times what I would pay for two scuba outfits.”
Albie stuffed the paper back into his pocket. “It is exactly double retail. Not a penny more. If you do not want the merchandise, tell me now.”
“That does look high,” Mac said. “But you have never done me wrong. We will trust you.”
“Need a deposit?” Rayford said, hoping to assuage the man’s feelings.
“No,” he said, eyes darting to Mac but not at Rayford. “You trust me
, I’ll trust you.”
Rayford nodded.
Albie thrust out his bony hand and gripped Rayford’s fiercely. “I will see you in thirty days then, unless you hear from me otherwise.”
Mac took the controls for the flight back. “Got enough energy to finish your story, Ray?”
Buck stopped at the ruins of New Hope Village Church on his way to Loretta’s and strolled past the crater where the old woman’s car rested twenty feet below. Her body was there too, but he could not bring himself to look. If animals had gotten to her, he didn’t want to know. He also avoided the spot where he had found Donny Moore. More movement of the earth had further entombed him.
He carefully climbed to where the underground shelter lay. Clearly, more debris had shifted. He slipped and nearly fell down the concrete stairs that led to the door. He wondered if anything salvageable could be dragged out. He could always come back. Buck headed for the Range Rover and brushed his fingers across his still swollen cheek. Why was it flesh wounds looked worse and felt more tender the second day?
Traffic dotted the area today. Any front-end loader, bulldozer, or dragline that had not sunk out of sight appeared to have been called into service. Buck couldn’t park where he had the day before. Road crews rammed the uptwisted pavement in front of Loretta’s house. Dump trucks were loaded with the huge chunks. Where they would take it and what they would do with it, Buck had no idea. All he knew was that there was nothing else for anyone to do but start rebuilding. He couldn’t imagine this area ever looking like its old self again, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before it was rebuilt.
Buck drove over a small pile of trash and parked next to one of the felled trees in Loretta’s front yard. Workers ignored him as he slowly circled the house, wondering whether to continue picking through what was left of it.
A man with a clipboard studied the residue of the house next door. He shot pictures and took notes.
