Ark

by K. B. Kofoed

  “That’s right, John,” replied Jim, gaining confidence. “70 talents and 2400 shekels worth. We can’t ignore the bronze because that may have electrical properties, too.”

  “Cost?” John asked dispassionately.

  “Haven’t you priced this out before?” Jim thought John would be the first man to have that number.

  “No,” said John Wilcox calmly. “I knew it was a lot.”

  “Well,” said Jim, “don’t say this number in front of your accountant, but the cost of the gold and silver alone is in the $15 million ballpark. The actual number I got was $14,871,500, not counting the bronze, the acacia wood, and all the rest of the materials, plus labor. Maybe you could squeak by at 16.”

  John Wilcox was quiet for a moment. Finally he cleared his throat. “Well, Jim, you’ve done your homework. I’ll have to check it against the going rate when …” He stopped himself at that point.

  “To do the drawings I had to do plenty of homework,” Jim offered, just to break the ensuing silence. “I think, if you’re going to do this right, you’ll need better expertise than mine. I got the numbers out of the standard library references and the web. If you’re starting a project you check the numbers first, right?”

  “Am I getting a lecture here?” asked John, dryly.

  “No charge for that, John.” Jim forced a fairly convincing chuckle.

  John laughed. “I guess so,” he said. There was a pause. To Jim’s complete surprise, John said, “Tell you what, Jim. Is there a way you could make it out here this coming weekend?”

  “To Sandia?” Jim stared at the floor, composing his thoughts. Suddenly he was not only back on the team, but might be an active player. As he considered plane fare, the time away from his clients’ projects, and leaving his family, his spirits dampened. “I want to come, John,” Jim said doubtfully, “but the money’s tight lately and I can only spare Saturday and Sunday. I’ll lose my accounts if I don’t get the work done.”

  “Okay,” said John. “Back by Monday. I’ll have you flown out. Somebody will get back to you with info. Okay?”

  Jim hung up and smiled, wondering if he had ever been out of the loop. Looking at his notes, he tried to picture all that precious metal in one place, under a tarp on a Humvee, rolling down some dusty road to nowhere; truckloads of acacia wood, linen, goat hair cloth and ‘fine scarlet stuff,’ whatever that was. As he stared at his notes he also realized that, with all the materials and labor, they were looking at a construction cost of more than he’d quoted. Maybe twenty million dollars?

  “My God,” he muttered, “the government may be the only group with the resources to build this thing, after all.” Jim was glad at the prospect of seeing his questions answered. He was also a realist, though, and he knew that once the military was involved and the power of the ark was revealed to them, everything would change.

  Long ago, before all this business with the ark had started, Jim had regarded the Old Testament as an ancient curio, an outdated and irrelevant relic. Now he knew that the book of Exodus read almost like a diary, as if written by a biblical journalist. He’d heard all the popular renditions of the story in Sunday School, but many details were left out. Because he’d used the Bible like a technical manual, he knew the full story of the Ark of the Covenant. He’d never known, for example, that before the ark was ever built God revealed Himself in person to seventy elders at the foot of Mount Sinai. There was even a description of God himself, standing above a pool of turquoise, His body having a ‘clearness, like unto Heaven,’ whatever that meant. Now he knew there were thousands of Israelite witnesses to the events described in the book, not just a small group of desert tribesmen. These people weren’t easily convinced. The Bible made that perfectly clear. He pictured a vast enclave trudging aimlessly from oasis to oasis, mostly wondering where the next meal or drink of water would be found.

  Jim understood now that the story of Moses was really about the Hebrew Law and how it had been forged into people’s hearts and souls. Unquestionably, the ark was central to all that. It communicated the Law and policed it. It was also a feared weapon in battle. Jim looked up and sighed deeply. “God will smite those who disobey,” he muttered softly. He was no biblical scholar, but he understood that the story with which he’d become so personally involved wasn’t just a manual for building ancient furniture. This was the story of the Prophet Moses, the cofounder of three major religions.

  Years before, when he first investigated the ark, Jim had the idea that Eric Von Daniken might have been right when he asserted that the story of Moses was a tale of ancient astronauts, but he had abandoned that notion long ago. Reading the story had changed his mind. The ark wasn’t just a weapon that some space alien handed to Moses, as Von Daniken had claimed. It wasn’t like that at all. It was the living presence of God in their midst. “This is big,” he said aloud.

  Now that he might actually witness the renewing of the ark, Jim found himself hovering between elation and fear. He might finally get the answers that had haunted him for so long, but what if those answers cost him his life?

  #

  On Thursday a woman from the military called to inform Jim she had reserved a ticket on a 7 a.m flight to Albuquerque, courtesy of John Wilcox. When the time came to go Lou drove him to the airport. He had promised to take on some of Jim’s work, but all the way to the airport Lou made sure that Jim wasn’t going to forget his obligations. He said at least three times, “I can’t run this business by myself.”

  By eight that morning Jim was leaning over an airliner tray, eating a piece of overly crisp honeydew melon and a stamped-out blueberry muffin. He gazed down from his window seat at the greenish brown folds of the Allegheny Mountains. In the two seats next to him a husband and wife chatted with friends across the aisle. The drone of the engines was making him drowsy. Jim fell asleep.

  He awoke to a large stuffed toy being dropped on his head. Jim opened his eyes to see a freckled gum snapping face an inch from his nose. “Sorry, mista,” said the kid.

  As Jim righted his chair, the captain announced the crossing of the scenic Mississippi River. He looked out the window and yawned. He had slept a long time. He caught a glimpse of the river, but they were at a great height and the ground below all looked the same.

  Clouds soon obscured the view and he opened his travel bag, taking out his notes and drawings. Staring at the sketch of the tabernacle Jim wondered if the drawing was accurate at all. What configurations had God and Moses discussed on the mountain? You can learn a LOT in forty days and nights on a mountain. He learned to drive in two weeks. He learned how to operate his computer in a week. He wondered how those untold instructions might have altered his drawing. The kid’s face loomed over him again. “Coooooooool,” said the boy. “What are thoooose? Can I COLOR them?”

  “No,” answered Jim as politely as he could.

  “Oh,” said the boy. He disappeared from view and remained in his seat for the remainder of the flight.

  A limousine was waiting for Jim when he exited the terminal. He spotted the driver holding up a sign that said “Mr. Wilson.” The chauffeur greeted him as pleasantly as the warm air did his senses. “Call me Jimmy,” said the driver. “Welcome to Albuquerque, Mr. Wilson.”

  “Is it always this warm in March?” Jim asked, stowing his bags in the opened trunk.

  “Well, it’s kinda’ cool today, Mr. Wilson. Freezin’ back east, is it? You probably won’t need that jacket.”

  “The plants back home seem happy enough, but people are still wearing topcoats, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You want to take it off? I’ll stow it.”

  Jim shook his head. “It’s leather. Not too hot in summer and keeps the wind away in winter. I wear it all the time. Are we going to the Sandia Base?”

  “No, I’m taking you to Santa Fe, to Mr. Wilcox’s estate.”

  The sky was nearly cloudless as they cruised along the expressway. The two Jims talked about anything but Jim’s reason f
or visiting. Jim expected the time-honored question to all travelers: ‘what brings you here?’ But it never came. Instead, Jimmy seemed more eager to hear about how the Philly teams were doing.

  “Well, as usual, the Flyers are up to their ass in penalties, and it’s too early to say anything about the Phils. The season opener was only a few days ago.”

  “Yeah,” the driver scoffed happily. “Dodgers kicked their ass.”

  “Dodger fan?” asked Jim.

  “Not really. Eagles fan,” said Jimmy. “I like football, myself. You?”

  Jim had always been taken for a sports buff. He could never figure out why. Perhaps it was his size. His six foot three frame made folks assume this, he guessed. From his viewpoint, the only advantage to size was being able to see over the people’s heads in crowds. To him the disadvantages far outweighed the perks people presume goes with tall genes. The plane ride had certainly reinforced that notion. His joints were stiff from being cramped into his seat for the entire flight from Philly.

  “I’ll bet you play basketball,” said Jimmy, almost on cue. “Whassup with the Owls?”

  “Owls?” said Jim, drawing a blank.

  “Temple Owls,” said Jimmy scornfully. “Led the league last year?”

  “I hate basketball,” said Jim.

  “Oh,” said the driver.

  So ended the conversation and the macho camaraderie. Jim was content to sit quietly and watch, through tinted glass, as the dry New Mexico landscape silently rolled by. Sagebrush, scrub pines, and an occasional palm or Joshua tree suggested a Florida turned desert. In the distance the shadowy blue-gray mountains were an unmoving backdrop in spite of the car’s considerable speed. Fence posts whizzed by as Jim mused on having found a way to get Jimmy to step on it and get them to their destination faster. He was eager to stretch the final tenacious kinks from his frame.

  Finally, after almost a half hour of stony silence from the driver, the limo pulled into an elaborately landscaped and gardened driveway and stopped before a huge wrought iron gate. Jimmy pressed a button on the leather dash and the gate swung open. Beyond it a huge lawn dotted with topiary and blooming azalea bushes reminded Jim of estates he’d seen in the pricy outer burbs of Philly.

  “This place looks like home,” Jim quipped happily. “Was that the plan?”

  “Uh huh,” said Jimmy. “The boss doesn’t like the desert much.”

  A gray haired man stood waiting between the tall columns that dominated the antebellum-styled mansion. When the limo pulled to a stop on the bricked cul-de-sac Jim opened the door and stepped out without waiting for the driver to do it for him. The man walked casually toward Jim with an outstretched hand. Even in civilian clothes he looked military. His gray hair was thick but cut short to match his modest but well groomed mustache. “Mr. Wilcox?” said Jim. “I’m Jim Wilson. Friend of your son’s?”

  “Call me General Wilcox,” said the man, stone-faced, with his hand still extended. He laughed explosively when he saw Jim’s expression change.

  “My friends call me Max,” said the General. “I was just brassin’ you.”

  Jim was already confused. “Max? I thought your name is ...”

  “Lawrence? Yes, that’s right, but you can still call me Max. Folks have since I was a kid.”

  Jimmy stood at the opened door the limo, waiting for orders. “By the way,” said Jim, glancing at him, “I like your driver. We had a nice talk on the way. Dodger fan. Right, Jimmy?”

  The driver smiled and bobbed his head enthusiastically.

  “We’re lucky to have found him,” said Max, acknowledging the driver with a reflexive salute.

  “Great talking to you, Mr. Wilson,” said the driver. “Hope you have a good time while you’re here.” He tipped his cap to his boss and got into the car.

  Wilcox didn’t waste time. “Jim,” he said, “I understand you’re the designer of the ark. Right?”

  “I drew the pictures and diagrams, but I think it was God who designed the ark, Sir,” he said with a carefully added chuckle.

  The General looked Jim over for a moment and smiled. “Of course.”

  When they entered the house, the interior disappointed Jim. He’d half expected southwestern décor, but what greeted his eye was a Victorian palace more suitable to Boston than to Santa Fe. Jim found it strangely disquieting. From the elaborate inner foyer to the mahogany paneled dining and living rooms, everywhere his eye attempted to rest Jim saw ornamental overkill. It almost gave him a headache. Gracing several wood paneled walls were mementos, plaques, and animal heads, many of the things Jim had felt were missing from John Wilcox’s rustic mansion. “No Southwestern décor?” he asked.

  “Anything but,” said General Wilcox. “That’s a house rule. Every god damned house around here is damned adobe, steer skulls and Indian blankets all over the walls,” he said. “I came here because of sinus trouble.” He paused and adjusted the cuff of his white linen shirt. “Took me years to get a Sandia post for that. Now I’m stuck here.” He glanced at Jim to see if he’d been heard.

  “Can’t get another transfer?” offered Jim.

  The General stiffened a bit. “I’m having a ball at Sandia. Besides, why risk giving up all this? Took me years to collect this stuff.”

  “A half hour ago, I figured I’d be in staying in a Southwestern hotel or Pentagon south.” Jim peered into the Victorian living room and pointed to a large stone fireplace full of glowing logs. “I didn’t expect this. That’s for sure.”

  “Well, it’s good you’re not here to study Southwestern architecture,” offered the General. “You’re here as our guest. Part of the project, Jim.”

  “The project?”

  “Hell, yes. It’s your big idea, isn’t it? It’s only gonna cost around twenty mil. We’re getting the gold right now from Sharkley at Knox.”

  “Knox? Fort Knox?”

  “That’s where all the gold is,” said Wilcox.

  “Isn’t that gold, well, tied up?”

  Max winked at Jim. “Sure,” and then laughed when he saw Jim’s expression. “That got your attention, huh?”

  Jim felt like a rookie in the big leagues, and was shocked that his knees weakened a bit. “Begging your pardon, General,” said Jim, “will I be staying here?”

  “No. At Sandia,” said the General. “I’m buying your services at double your standard fee. I want you to go to work tonight. I brought you here so we could meet.”

  “Is the project a rush job?” asked Jim.

  Max shook his head. “Some microwave techies want to see you. Heading back to Alaska tomorrow. Sorry about that. I wanted to welcome you, give you a chance to stretch your feet. Don’t worry. There’s time to have a drink with me before you have to get back into that limo.”

  #

  The room at Sandia was pleasant, and actually had a cactus on a nightstand. Jim wondered if he could take it with him. Souvenir of Sandia, ‘the nuclear nuts of the nation’, as it was described by Lieutenant Ned Bloom when he’d greeted Jim in General Wilcox’s suite somewhere deep in the bowels of Sandia Mountain.

  Jim had been quickly ushered to his room and given an hour, at his request, to collect his thoughts and go over his notes. He lay back on a large cot, closed his tired desert-dried eyes, and began to doze off as he listened to the steady hum of the air conditioning. The brief visit with the senior Wilcox had spooked him. After it he’d been happy to rejoin the Dodgers controversy with Jimmy all the way back to Albuquerque. He was also eager to see for himself the mythic Sandia Laboratories.

  The telephone in his room rang at eight p.m. sharp.

  “I hear you’ve met the loony,” said the voice of John Wilcox. “How’d it go with Dad?”

  Jim laughed. “Greetings, John. It was fine, thanks. I wondered if you’d show up.” He turned on the bedside lamp.

  “Yeah, greetings and welcome. So? What did you think?”

  “I wouldn’t call him a loony,” Jim yawned, “but it sure sounds like he wants
to push the project ahead, and fast. He asks the right questions. Made my head swim, but maybe that’s just jet lag.”

  John laughed. “He’s a loony. Anyway, I have Gene here. We’re at The Pit. Ned will bring you here in a half hour, if that’s okay?”

  A half hour later, Jim found himself going deep underground, following Lt. Bloom through corridors with lit wall panels that imitated picture windows showing Southwestern scenery. He stopped and studied one closely. Not only was there a southwestern backdrop with plants and small aspen trees filling gap behind the glass, but there was also a trickling imitation waterfall with a few birds flitting around it.

  “Isn’t this a bit extravagant?” Jim asked the lieutenant who was waiting for him a few yards down the hallway, tapping his foot impatiently.

  “Keeps us from feeling like moles,” Ned replied. “Waterfalls and birds. Nice, huh?”

  Jim wasn’t sure. To him it was just another bizarre detail in an alien environment. Without comment he quickly rejoined his guide. Soon they entered an empty bare bones conference room. A long folding table and eight chairs were its only furniture. Behind the chair at the far end of the room was a large movie screen. Two spotlights spilled onto it from above, filling the room with a soft glow. Ned excused himself and left Jim alone in the room.

  A few minutes later the door opened and two officers in flight suits entered, followed by Gene and John Wilcox. The greetings were cordial but brief because everyone seemed eager to get started. John introduced Jim to Lieutenants Irwin Bush and Dean Williams. “These are the techies I was telling you about, Jim,” Gene explained.

  “General Wilcox says you need our help with a project?” asked Lieutenant Bush.

  Williams nodded. “Not to rush this but we have a plane to catch in,” he looked at his watch, “forty-six minutes.”

  Jim reached into the case he was carrying and took out his drawings. “We’ve seen your sketches,” said Bush. “We’ve got copies.” He pulled a seat away from the table and sat down. “I’ve looked over them.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Up front, here. I happen to be a religious person and have a small problem with this, but I’ll let it pass and concentrate on the mechanics.”