Apollyon

by Tim LaHaye

  “You’re asking the impossible, and I wouldn’t do it anyway. I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t give you every opportunity to believe.”

  “Let me die!”

  “Chaim, I do not understand you. I really don’t. You know the truth. Your suffering will be over in several weeks and—”

  “I will never survive that long!”

  “And you’ll have something to live for.”

  Chaim was silent and still for a long time, as if peace had come over him. But it had not. “To tell you the truth, my young friend, I don’t understand either. I confess I want to come to Christ. But a battle rages within me, and I simply cannot.”

  “You can!”

  “I cannot!”

  “Not being able to is not the problem, is it, Doctor?”

  Chaim shook his head miserably. “I will not.”

  “And you deny my charge that your pride keeps you from God.”

  “I admit it now! It is pride! But it’s there and it’s real. A man cannot become what he is not.”

  “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, Chaim! Paul, who had been an orthodox Jew, wrote, ‘If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.’”

  Chaim thrashed painfully for several minutes, but he said nothing. To Buck, that was progress. “Chaim?” he said softly.

  “Leave me alone, Cameron!”

  “I’ll be praying for you.”

  “You’ll be wasting time.”

  “Never. I love you, Chaim. We all do. God most of all.”

  “If God loved me, he would let me die.”

  “Not until you belong to him.”

  “That will never happen.”

  “Famous last words. Good-bye, friend. I’ll look forward to seeing you again.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Rayford loved his daughter with all that was in him. He always had. It wasn’t just because she was the only family he had left. He had loved Raymie too and still missed him terribly. Losing two wives in fewer than three years was a blow he knew would be with him until Jesus came again.

  But his relationship with Chloe had always been special. They’d had their moments, of course, when she was going through the process of breaking away from the family and becoming an independent young woman. Yet she was so much like him.

  That had made it difficult for her to believe that God was behind the disappearances in the first place. Flattered that she took after him and yet afraid her practicality might forever keep her from Christ, Rayford had agonized over her. The greatest day of his life—excluding when he himself became a believer—was when Chloe made her decision.

  He was thrilled when she and Buck married, despite the ten-year age difference. He didn’t know what he thought when he heard they were expecting and that he would be a grandfather with fewer than five years left on earth.

  But seeing Chloe in the full bloom of her pregnancy, he was transported. He remembered Irene, despite difficult pregnancies, looking radiant the further she progressed and, yes, the bigger she got. He had read all the books, knew the pitfalls. Rayford understood that Irene would not believe him when he said she was most beautiful when she was very pregnant.

  She had said the same things Chloe was saying now—that she felt like a cow, a barn, a barge. She hated the swollen joints, the sore back, the shortness of breath, the lack of mobility. “In a way I’m glad Buck is stuck in Israel,” she said. “I mean, I want him back and I want him back now, but he’s going to think I’ve doubled in size.”

  Rayford took the occasion to sit with Chloe. “Sweetheart,” he said, “indulge me. It may be politically incorrect to say that you are doing what you were meant to do. I know you’re more than a baby-making machine and that you have incredible things to offer this world. You made an impact even before the Rapture, but since, you’ve been a soldier. You’re going to make the world commodity co-op a lifesaver for millions of saints. But you need to do me a favor and stop bemoaning what this pregnancy is doing to your body.”

  “I know, Daddy,” she said. “But it’s just that I’m so—”

  “Beautiful,” he said. “Absolutely beautiful.”

  He said it with such feeling that it seemed to shut her up. She looked different, of course. Nothing was the same. With only a few weeks until her due date, she was full faced and ponderous. But he could still detect his little girl there, his Chloe when she had been a toddler, full of life and curiosity.

  “I’m frustrated for Buck that he can’t see you like this. Now don’t look at me like that. I mean it. He will find you so lovely, and believe it or not, he will find you attractive too. You’re not the first mom-to-be who equates pregnancy with being overweight. Husbands don’t think that way. He’ll see you the way I saw your mother when she was carrying you. He’ll be overcome with the knowledge that you’re carrying his and your child.”

  Chloe seemed to appreciate the pep talk. “I’m really stressed about him coming home,” she said. “I know he’s leaving Israel at six their time, but who knows how long he’ll be in Greece?”

  “Not long. He wants to get home.”

  “And it being a charter, they’ll keep moving I think. I wish I could meet him at the airport.”

  “Doc says you shouldn’t—”

  “Ride in the car, especially on these roads, I know. I don’t really want to endure that. But Buck and I have been apart so long. And as much as we worry about bringing a baby into the world at this time in history, we’ve both grown so attached to this child already that we can’t wait to meet him . . . or her.”

  “I can’t wait to be a grandfather,” Rayford said. “I’ve been praying for this child since I knew it existed. I just worry that life is going to be so hard for all of us that I won’t get the opportunity to be the kind of grandpa I want to be.”

  “You’ll be great. I’m glad you’re not still flying for Carpathia. I wouldn’t want to worry about you all the time.”

  Rayford stood and looked out the window. The morning sun was harsh. “I’m getting back into the war,” he said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, I can blame it on you. You’ve taken Ken’s idea so far that it’s going to give me a full-time job. I’m going to be flying almost as much as when I was with Pan-Con.”

  “For the co-op?”

  He nodded. “I’ve told you about T.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We’re going to run the airlift operation out of Palwaukee. I’ll be flying all over the world. If those fishermen in the Bering Strait are as successful as you seem to think they’ll be, I’ll have enough business up there to last till the Glorious Appearing.”

  Floyd Charles knocked on the doorjamb. “Time for a little checkup. You want Dad to wait outside?”

  “What’re we doing?” Chloe said.

  “Just checking heartbeats, yours and Junior’s.”

  “He can stay. Can he listen?”

  “Sure.”

  Floyd took Chloe’s pulse first, then listened to her heart with his stethoscope. He spread lubricating jelly on her protruding belly and used a battery-powered monitor to amplify the liquid sounds of the fetal heartbeat. Rayford fought tears, and Chloe beamed. “Sounds like a big boy to me,” Doc Charles said.

  As he finished up, Chloe asked, “Everything still fine?”

  “No major problems,” he said.

  Rayford glanced at Floyd. He was not as light as usual. He had not even smiled when he joked about her having a boy. She didn’t want to know the sex of the baby, and he had never tested to find out.

  “How about other than major problems, Floyd?” she said, her voice flat. “You usually say everything’s great.”

  She had spoken exactly what was on Rayford’s mind, and his heart sank when Floyd pulled up a chair.

  “You noticed that, did you?” he said.

  “Oh, no,” she said.

  Floyd put a hand on her shoulder. “Chloe, liste
n to me.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Chloe, what did I say? I said no major problems, and I meant it. Do you think I would say that if it wasn’t true?”

  “So what’s the minor problem?”

  “Some reduction in the baby’s pulse.”

  “You’re kidding,” Rayford said. “If I’d had to guess, I would have said it sounded too fast.”

  “All fetal pulses are faster than ours,” Floyd said. “And the reduction is so slight that I hardly gave it a second thought last week.”

  “This has been going on for a week?” Chloe said.

  Floyd nodded. “We’re talking about a fraction of a percentage decrease in six days. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

  “But if it means anything,” Chloe said, “what would it mean?”

  “We don’t want to see an actual slowdown of the fetal pulse. Like 5 percent, especially 10 percent or more.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  “Because that could mean some threat to viability.”

  “English, Doctor,” Chloe said.

  “As the baby gets into position for birth, the umbilical cord could tighten around the chest or the neck.”

  “Do you think that’s happening?”

  “No. I’m just watching heart rate, Chloe. That’s all.”

  “Is it a possibility?”

  “Anything is a possibility. That’s why I’m not listing everything that can go wrong.”

  “If this is so minor, why are you telling me?”

  “For one thing, you asked. I just want to prepare you for a form of treatment should the symptoms persist.”

  “But you said the reduction in rate right now is not worth worrying about.”

  “OK, if the symptoms get worse.”

  “What would you do?”

  “At least get you on oxygen for the better part of each day.”

  “I need to stand up a minute,” Chloe said.

  She started to move, and Rayford reached to help. Floyd didn’t. “Actually,” he said, “I’d prefer that you take it very easy until I can get out and get you some oxygen tomorrow.”

  “I can’t even stand up?”

  “For necessities. If it’s just to shift position, try not to.”

  “All right,” she said, “my dad and I are bottom-line people. Give me the worst-case scenario.”

  “I’ve dealt with enough pregnant women, especially at this stage of gestation, to know it’s not best to dwell on all the negative possibilities.”

  “I’m not pregnant women, Doc. I’m Chloe, and you know me, and you know I’m going to bug you to death until you tell me the worst case.”

  “All right,” he said. “I see the oxygen solving the problem. If it doesn’t, I’ll have you on monitors around the clock to warn of a significant change in fetal pulse. Worst case, we might want to induce labor. It might mean a cesarean section because of the likelihood of an umbilical cord problem.”

  Chloe fell silent and looked at Rayford. He said, “You don’t like to induce, right?”

  “Of course not. I used to say nature knows best. That baby comes when he is ready. Now I know that God knows best. But he has also given us brains and miracle medicines and technologies that allow us to do what we need to do when things don’t go the way we wish.”

  Chloe looked uncomfortable. “I need to know one thing, Floyd. Did I contribute to this? Was there something I shouldn’t have done, or something I should have done differently?”

  Floyd shook his head. “I wasn’t wild about your going to Israel. And if I never hear again about you running from helicopter to jet, it’ll be too soon. But overexertion at that stage of pregnancy would have shown up in different problems.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as nothing that turned up, so I’m not going to talk about it. How’s that? You’ve already been through all the predictable stuff—convinced you’re going to have a monster, convinced the baby has already died, certain your baby doesn’t have all its parts. You don’t need to worry about stuff you might have caused but didn’t. Now when do you expect Papa?”

  “Sometime tonight,” she said. “That’s all I know.”

  Abdullah Smith seemed pleased that Buck showed up when he said he would. “I heard you were a man of your word,” Buck said, “and wanted to show that I am too.”

  Abdullah, as usual, did not respond. He grabbed one of Buck’s bags and led him briskly toward his plane. Buck tried to guess which one it would be. He passed the prop jobs, knowing they would never get him across the Atlantic. But Abdullah also passed a Learjet and a brand-new Hajiman, a smaller version of the Concorde and just as fast.

  Buck stopped and stared when Abdullah pulled back the Plexiglas cockpit shield of what he recognized as an Egyptian fighter jet. It would fly nearly two thousand miles an hour at very high altitudes but had to have a shorter than usual fuel range.

  “This is your plane?” Buck said.

  “Please to board,” Abdullah said. “Fuel tank enlarged. Small cargo hold added. Stop in Greece, stop in London, stop in Greenland, stop in Wheeling.”

  Buck was impressed that he knew where he was going. It was clear his hope of stretching out, getting some reading done, even dozing, was not in the cards.

  “Passenger must board first,” Abdullah said.

  Buck climbed in and tried to show that he knew his way around this type of craft, after having done a series of articles on ride-alongs with American fighter pilots. That was before the reign of Nicolae Carpathia and the wholesale marketing of such surplus craft to private citizens.

  Buck was about to strap on his helmet and oxygen mask when Abdullah sighed and said, “Belt.”

  Buck was sitting on it. So much for showing off. He had to stand, as much as one could in that confined space, while Abdullah reached beneath him to retrieve the belt. Once strapped in, he tried to put the helmet on. Again the pilot had to assist—untangling his straps, twisting the helmet just so, and smacking it on top until it settled into correct, and extremely tight, position. It pressed against Buck’s temples and cheekbones. He started to put the mouthpiece in until Abdullah reminded him, “Not until high altitude.”

  “Right. I knew that.”

  Abdullah fit just ahead of him, giving Buck the feeling they were on a luge, Abdullah’s head just inches from Buck’s nose.

  Taking a jet fighter from a staging area, out onto the tarmac, into line, and then out onto the runway would have taken up to half an hour in the States. Buck learned that in Amman, the airport was like the street market. No lines or queues. It was first come, first served, and you were on your own. Abdullah sang something into the radio about jet, charter, passenger, cargo, and Greece, all while moving the fighter directly onto the runway. He didn’t wait for instructions from ground control.

  The Amman airport had only recently reopened after rebuilding, and while air traffic was down because of the plague of locusts, several flights were lined up. Two wide-bodies sat at the front of the line, followed by a standard jet, a Learjet, and another big plane. Abdullah turned to get Buck’s attention and pointed to the fuel gauge, which showed full.

  Buck gave a thumbs-up sign, which he intended to imply that he felt good about having lots of fuel. Abdullah, apparently, took it to mean that Buck wanted to get into the air—and now. He taxied quickly around other planes, reached the line of craft cleared and in line for takeoff, and passed them one by one. Buck was speechless. He imagined if the other pilots had horns, they’d have been honking, like drivers in traffic do to those who ride the shoulder.

  As Abdullah passed the second wide-body, the first began to roll. Abdullah slipped in behind it, and suddenly he and Buck were next in line. Buck craned his neck to see if emergency vehicles were coming or whether the other planes would just pull ahead and get back in their original order. No scolding came from the tower. As soon as the big jet was well on its way down the runway, Abdullah pulled out.

  “Edward Zulu Zulu Two N
iner taking off, tower,” he said into the radio.

  Buck fully expected someone to come back with, “Just where do you think you’re going, young man?” But no one did.

  “Ten-four, Abdullah,” was all he heard.

  There was no warming up and little building speed. Abdullah drove the fighter to the end of the runway, lined her up, and punched it. Buck’s head was driven back, and his stomach flattened. He could not have leaned forward if he’d wanted to. Clearly breaking every rule of international aviation, Abdullah reached takeoff speed in a few hundred yards and was airborne. He rocketed above and beyond the jet in front of him, and Buck felt as if they were flying straight up.

  He was pressed back in his seat, staring at clouds. It seemed only minutes later Abdullah reached the apex of his climb, and just like that, he seemed to throttle back and start his descent. It was like a roller-coaster ride, blasting to the peak and then rolling down the other side. Abdullah mashed a button that allowed him to speak directly into Buck’s headset. “Amman to Athens just up and down,” he said.

  “But we’re not going to Athens, remember?”

  Abdullah smacked his helmet. “Ptolemaïs, right?”

  “Right!”

  The plane shot straight up again. Abdullah dug through a set of rolled-up maps and said, “No problem.”

  And he was right. Minutes later he came screaming onto the runway of the small airport. “How long with friends?” he said, taxiing to the fuel pumps.

  Rayford reassured Chloe, and they agreed they’d rather Floyd tell the truth than sugarcoat it and run into problems later. But after he brought her water, Rayford moved upstairs to talk to Tsion. The rabbi welcomed him warmly. “Almost finished with my lesson for today,” he said. “I’ll transmit it in an hour or so. Anyway, I always have time for you.”

  Rayford told him of the potential complication with the baby. “I will pray,” Tsion said. “And I would ask you to pray for me as well.”

  “Sure, Tsion. Anything specific?”

  “Well, yes. Frankly, I feel lonely and overwhelmed, and I hate that feeling.”