by Tim LaHaye
Rayford also had a fleeting thought that this might be a call from Hattie Durham. He had waited as long as he could before heading back, hoping to connect with her before her return. Like Carpathia and Fortunato, he had no luck trying to reach her by phone in Denver.
But the call was from his copilot, Mac McCullum. “Get off that plane, Steele, and stretch your legs. Your taxi is here.”
“Hey, Mac! What’s that mean?”
“It means the big boss doesn’t want to wait. Meet me at the helipad on the other side of the terminal. I’m coptering you back to headquarters.”
Rayford had wanted to put off his return to New Babylon as long as possible, but at least a helicopter ride was a diversion. He envied McCullum’s ability to easily switch back and forth between copiloting jumbo jets and flying whirlybirds. Rayford hadn’t piloted a helicopter since his military days more than twenty years before.
Global Community Weekly was released to the public every Thursday, with the following Monday’s date on the cover. Buck tingled with excitement merely anticipating that day’s issue.
At the safe house it was decided that Amanda and Chloe would drive up to Milwaukee to pick up Hattie. Loretta would come home from the church office in time to host a small luncheon for her. Buck would go to the office to see the first copies of the magazine and head for Loretta’s house when he got the call from Chloe that she and Amanda and Hattie were home.
Buck had gone out on a limb with his cover story. Purporting, as usual, to take a neutral, objective, journalistic viewpoint, Buck started with much of the material Bruce would have preached the Sunday morning of his own funeral. Buck did the writing, but he assigned reporters from every Global Community Weekly office still standing in several countries to interview local and regional clergymen about the prophecies in the book of Revelation.
For some reason, his reporters—most of them skeptics—went at this task with glee. Buck was faxed, modemed, phoned, couriered, and mailed dispatches from all over the world. His cover story title, and the specific question he wanted his reporters to ask religious leaders, was “Will we suffer the ‘wrath of the Lamb’?”
Buck had enjoyed this self-assigned task more than all the other cover stories he had ever done. That included his Person of the Year stories, even the one on Chaim Rosenzweig. He had spent nearly three days and nights, hardly sleeping, collating, contrasting, and comparing the various reports.
He, of course, could detect fellow believers in some of the comments. Despite the skepticism and cynicism of most of the reporters, tribulation-saint pastors and a few converted Jews were quoted that the “wrath of the Lamb” predicted in Revelation 6 was literal and imminent. The vast majority of the quotes were from clergy formerly representing various and sundry religions and denominations, but now serving Enigma Babylon One World Faith. Almost to a person, these men and women “faith guides” (no one was called a reverend or a pastor or a priest anymore) took their lead from Pontifex Maximus Peter Mathews. Buck himself had talked to Mathews. His view, echoed dozens of times, was that the book of Revelation was “wonderful, archaic, beautiful literature, to be taken symbolically, figuratively, metaphorically. This earthquake,” Mathews had told Buck by phone, a smile in his voice, “could refer to anything. It may have happened already. It may refer to something someone imagined going on in heaven. Who knows? It may be some story related to the old theory of an eternal man in the sky who created the world. I don’t know about you, but I have not seen any apocalyptic horsemen. I haven’t seen anyone die for their religion. I haven’t seen anyone ‘slain for the word of God,’ as the previous verses say. I haven’t seen anyone in a white robe. And I don’t expect to endure any earthquake. Regardless of your view on the person or concept of God, or a god, hardly anyone today would imagine a supreme spirit-being full of goodness and light subjecting the entire earth—already suffering from so recent a devastating war—to a calamity like an earthquake.”
“But,” Buck had asked him, “are you not aware that this idea of fearing the ‘wrath of the Lamb’ is a doctrine still preached in many churches?”
“Of course,” Mathews had responded. “But these are the same holdovers from your right-wing, fanatical, fundamentalist factions who have always taken the Bible literally. These same preachers, and I daresay many of their parishioners, are the ones who take the creation account—the Adam and Eve myth, if you will—literally. They believe the entire world was under water at the time of Noah and that only he and his three sons and their wives survived to begin the entire human race as we now know it.”
“But you, as a Catholic, as the former pope—”
“Not just the former pope, Mr. Williams, also a former Catholic. I feel a great responsibility as leader of the Global Community’s faith to set aside all trappings of parochialism. I must, in the spirit of unity and conciliation and ecumenism, be prepared to admit that much Catholic thought and scholarship was just as rigid and narrow-minded as that which I’m criticizing here.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t care to be too specific, at the risk of offending those few who still like to refer to themselves as Catholics, but the idea of a literal virgin birth should be seen as an incredible leap of logic. The idea that the Holy Roman Catholic Church was the only true church was almost as damaging as the evangelical Protestant view that Jesus was the only way to God. That assumes, of course, that Jesus was, as so many of my Bible-worshiping friends like to say, ‘the only begotten Son of the Father.’ By now I’m sure that most thinking people realize that God is, at most, a spirit, an idea, if you will. If they like to infuse him, or it, or her, with some characteristics of purity and goodness, it only follows that we are all sons and daughters of God.”
Buck had led him. “The idea of heaven and hell then . . . ?”
“Heaven is a state of mind. Heaven is what you can make of your life here on earth. I believe we’re heading toward a utopian state. Hell? More damage has been done to more tender psyches by the wholly mythical idea that—well, let me put it this way: Let’s say those fundamentalists, these people who believe we’re about to suffer the ‘wrath of the Lamb,’ are right that there is a loving, personal God who cares about each one of us. How does that jibe? Is it possible he would create something that he would eventually burn up? It makes no sense.”
“But don’t Christian believers, the ones you’re trying to characterize, say that God is not willing that any should perish? In other words, he doesn’t send people to hell. Hell is judgment for those who don’t believe, but everyone is given the opportunity.”
“You have summarized their position well, Mr. Williams. But, as I’m sure you can see, it just doesn’t hold water.”
Early that morning, before the door was unlocked, Buck picked up the shrink-wrapped bundle of Global Community Weeklys and lugged them inside. The secretaries would distribute one to each desk, but for now Buck ripped off the plastic and set a magazine before him. The cover, which had been tweaked at the international headquarters office, was even better than Buck had hoped. Under the logo was a stylized illustration of a huge mountain range splitting from one end to the other. A red moon hung over the scene, and the copy read: “Will You Suffer the Wrath of the Lamb?”
Buck turned to the extra-long story inside that carried his byline. Characteristic of a Buck Williams story, he had covered all the bases. He had quoted leaders from Carpathia and Mathews to local faith guides. There was even a smattering of quotes from the man on the street.
The biggest coup, in Buck’s mind, was a sidebar carrying a brief but very cogent and articulate word study by none other than Rabbi Tsion Ben-Judah. He explained who the sacrificed Lamb was in Scripture and how the imagery had begun in the Old Testament and was fulfilled by Jesus in the New Testament.
Buck had been suspicious about not having been called on the carpet by anyone but his old friend Steve Plank regarding his potential involvement in the escape of Tsion Ben-Judah. Quoting Tsion extensively
in his own sidebar could have made it seem as if Buck were rubbing in the faces of his superiors his knowledge of Ben-Judah’s whereabouts. But he had headed that off. When the story was filed and sent via satellite to the various print plant facilities, Buck added a note that “Dr. Ben-Judah learned of this story over the Internet and has submitted his view via computer from an undisclosed location.”
Also amusing to Buck, if anything about this cosmic subject could be amusing, was that one of his enterprising young reporters from Africa took it upon himself to interview geological scholars in a university in Zimbabwe. Their conclusion? “The idea of a global earthquake is, on the face of it, illogical. Earthquakes are caused by faults, by underground plates rubbing against each other. It’s cause and effect. The reason it happens in certain areas at certain times is, logically, because it’s not happening other places at the same time. These plates move and crash together because they have nowhere else to go. You never hear of simultaneous earthquakes. There is not one in North America and one in South America at precisely the same time. The odds against one earth-wide geological event, which would really be simultaneous earthquakes all over the globe, are astronomical.”
McCullum landed the chopper on the roof of the Global Community international headquarters building in New Babylon. He helped carry Rayford’s bags into the elevator that took them past Carpathia’s Suite 216, an entire floor of offices and conference rooms. Rayford had never understood its address, as it was not on the second floor at all. Carpathia and his senior staff occupied the top floor of the eighteen-story building.
Rayford hoped Carpathia would not know precisely when they arrived. He assumed he would have to face the man when he flew him to Rome to pick up Mathews, but Rayford wanted to get unpacked, freshen up, and settle in at his condo before getting back on board a plane again right away. He was grateful they were not intercepted. He had a couple of hours before takeoff. “See you on the 216, Mac,” he said.
The phones began ringing at the Global Weekly office even before anyone else began to arrive. Buck let the answering machine take the calls, and it wasn’t long before he rolled his chair to the receptionist’s desk and just sat listening to the comments. One woman said, “So, Global Community Weekly has stooped to the level of the tabloids, covering every latest fairy tale to come out of the so-called church. Leave this trash to the yellow journalists.”
Another said, “I wouldn’t have dreamed people still believe this malarkey. That you could dig up that many weirdos to contribute to one story is a tribute to investigative journalism. Thanks for exposing them to the light and showing them what fools they really are.”
Only the occasional call carried the tone of this one from a woman in Florida: “Why didn’t somebody tell me about this before? I’ve been reading Revelation since the minute this magazine hit my doorstep, and I’m scared to death. What am I supposed to do now?”
Buck hoped she would read deep enough into the article to discover what a converted Jew from Norway said was the only protection from the coming earthquake: “No one should assume there will be shelter. If you believe, as I do, that Jesus Christ is the only hope for salvation, you should repent of your sins and receive him before the threat of death visits you.”
Buck’s personal phone buzzed. It was Verna.
“Buck, I’m keeping your secret, so I hope you’re keeping your end of the bargain.”
“I am. What’s got you so agitated this morning?”
“Your cover story, of course. I knew it was coming, but I didn’t expect it to be so overt. Do you think you’ve hidden behind your objectivity? Don’t you think this exposes you as a proponent?”
“I don’t know. I hope not. Even if Carpathia didn’t own this magazine, I would want to come across as objective.”
“You’re deluding yourself.”
Buck scrambled mentally for an answer. In one way, he appreciated the warning. In another, this was old news. Maybe Verna was just trying to find some point of contact, some reason to start a dialogue again. “Verna, I urge you to keep thinking about what you heard from Loretta, Chloe, and Amanda.”
“And from you. Don’t leave yourself out.” Her tone was mocking and sarcastic.
“I mean it, Verna. If you ever want to talk about this stuff, you can come to me.”
“With what your religion says about homosexuals, are you kidding?”
“My Bible doesn’t differentiate between homosexuals and heterosexuals,” Buck said. “It may call practicing homosexuals sinners, but it also calls heterosexual sex outside of marriage sinful.”
“Semantics, Buck. Semantics.”
“Just remember what I said, Verna. I don’t want our personality conflict to get in the way of what’s real and true. You were right when you said the outbreak of the war made our skirmishes petty. I’m willing to put those behind us.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she sounded almost impressed. “Well, thank you, Buck. I’ll keep that in mind.”
By late morning Chicago time it was early evening in Iraq. Rayford and McCullum were flying Carpathia, Fortunato, and Dr. Kline to Rome to pick up One World Faith Supreme Pontiff Peter Mathews. Rayford knew Carpathia wanted to pave the way for the apostate union of religions to move to New Babylon, but he wasn’t sure how Dr. Kline fit into this meeting. By listening in on his bugging device, he soon found out.
As was his usual custom, Rayford took off, quickly reached cruising altitude, put the plane on autopilot, and turned over control to Mac McCullum. “I feel like I’ve been on a plane all day,” he said, leaning back in his seat, pulling the bill of his cap down over his eyes, applying his headphones, and appearing to drift off to sleep. In the approximately two hours it took to fly from New Babylon to Rome, Rayford would get a lesson in new-world-order international diplomacy. But before they got down to business, Carpathia checked with Fortunato on the flight plans of Hattie Durham.
Fortunato told him, “She is on some kind of a multi-leg journey that has a long layover in Milwaukee, then heads for Boston. She’ll fly nonstop from Boston to Baghdad. She’ll lose several hours coming this way, but I think we can expect her tomorrow morning.”
Carpathia sounded peeved. “How long before we get the international terminal finished in New Babylon? I am tired of everything having to come through Baghdad.”
“They’re telling us a couple of months now.”
“And these are the same building engineers who tell us everything else in New Babylon is state of the art?”
“Yes, sir. Have you noticed problems?”
“No, but it almost makes me wish this ‘wrath of the Lamb’ business was more than a myth. I would like to put the true test to their earthquake-proof claims.”
“I saw that piece today,” Dr. Kline said. “Interesting bit of fiction. That Williams can make an interesting story out of anything, can’t he?”
“Yes,” Carpathia said solemnly. “I suspect he has made an interesting story of his own background.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I do not follow either,” Carpathia said. “Our intelligence forces link him to the disappearance of Rabbi Ben-Judah.”
Rayford straightened and listened more closely. He didn’t want McCullum to realize he was listening on a different frequency, but neither did he want to miss anything.
“We are learning more and more about our brilliant young journalist,” Carpathia said. “He has never been forthcoming about his ties to my own pilot, but then neither has Captain Steele. I still do not mind having them around. They may think they are in strategy proximity to me, but I am also able to learn much about the opposition through them.”
So there it is, Rayford thought. The gauntlet is down.
“Leon, what is the latest on those two crazy men in Jerusalem?”
Fortunato sounded disgusted. “They’ve got the whole nation of Israel up in arms again,” he said. “You know it hasn’t rained there since they began all that preaching. And that trick t
hey pulled on the water supply—turning it to blood—during the temple ceremonies, they’re doing that again.”
“What has set them off this time?”
“I think you know.”
“I have asked you not to be circumspect with me, Leon. When I ask you a question, I expect—”
“Forgive me, Potentate. They have been carrying on about the arrest and torture of people associated with Dr. Ben-Judah. They are saying that until those suspects have been released and the search has been called off, all water supplies will be polluted by blood.”
“How do they do that?”
“No one knows, but it’s very real, isn’t it Dr. Kline?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “I have been sent samples. There is a high water content, but it is mostly blood.”
“Human blood?”
“It has all the characteristics of human blood, although the type is difficult to determine. It borders on some cross between human and animal blood.”
“How is morale in Israel?” Carpathia asked.
“The people are angry with the two preachers. They want to kill them.”
“That is not all bad,” Carpathia said. “Can we not get that done?”
“No one dares. The death count on those who’ve made attacks on them is over a dozen by now. You learn your lesson after a while.”
“We are going to find a way,” Carpathia said. “Meanwhile, let the suspects go. Ben-Judah cannot get far. Anyway, without being able to show his face in public, he cannot do us much harm. If those two rascals do not immediately purify the water supply, we will see how they stand up to an atomic blast.”
“You’re not serious, are you?” Dr. Kline said.
