by Tim LaHaye
“I don’t know the specs on the Quantum,” Rayford said. “What kind of speed and range?”
“Oh, fast as a heavy but probably needs one more top-off before going overseas. How far you figure your escapee’s going anyway?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her to think she can march into Carpathia’s office and personally give him what for. Well, there’ll be no catching or intercepting that craft, will there?”
“Nope. What is it, almost one? That thing’s been airborne, I assume at maximum speed, an hour and a half. Even with twenty minutes on the east coast for landing, fuel, and takeoff, it’s still gonna be too far away by now.”
“You got enough information that I could radio the craft?”
“Think about it, Rayford. Whoever’s flying that plane is not going to answer unless he knows who’s calling.”
“Maybe I could spin him a yarn, urge him to put down in Spain due to a fuel irregularity or something that turned up here or wherever he refueled.”
“You’re dreaming, Ray. And I’d like to be.”
“Thanks for nothing, friend.”
“You’re going to have to go round her up yourself or turn some of your contacts onto her over there.”
“I know. I appreciate it, T. I’ll try to get out to the strip for some co-op business tomorrow.”
“Today, you mean?”
“Sorry,” Rayford said.
“I might bring a couple of people from our house church. We want to get behind this thing in a big way.”
For all Rayford knew, Hattie had the power to blow the lid off the co-op, too.
Mac McCullum had a full morning. After tipping his cap to Annie Christopher as he passed her office in the hangar, he arrived at his own office to three messages. The first was a list generated by Leon Fortunato’s secretary, outlining personnel authorized on the flight to Botswana in three days. The supreme commander, his valet, an assistant, a cook, and two servers would make up the GC contingent. Two aides would accompany President Ngumo of Botswana. “Note that the Supreme Commander has decreed that the plane shall be stationary while the Botswanians are aboard.”
The list also included captain and first officer in the cockpit, with an asterisk after the latter. At the bottom of the page the asterisk referred to a note: “The Supreme Commander believes you will be pleased by the resolution of this matter.”
Mac was. The second document was a note from Personnel regarding the application of Abdullah Smith for Condor 216 first officer. Not only had he been ranked high in every technical aspect save verbal acuity (“Somewhat laconic” read the summary), but he had also been judged “an outstanding citizen, loyal to the Global Community.”
Fortunato himself had scribbled in the margin, “Congratulations on a wonderful find, Mac. Smith will make a great contribution to the cause! S. C. L. F.”
If you only knew, Mac thought.
Mac’s third missive was from David Hassid. “Important message for you, Captain,” it read. “In person, please.”
Mac and David had learned to appear impersonal and professional in front of staff. Their difference in age helped. The entire GC complex, though ostensibly antimilitary because of Carpathia’s avowed pacifism, was pseudomilitary in its organizational structure. Mac felt comfortable with the chain of command, having spent so much of his life in uniform. And David often deferred to Mac’s counsel because David had come to the GC from the private sector. Now the two were on equal footing in separate branches, and it appeared their occasional face-to-faces attracted no attention.
David’s secretary ushered Mac into David’s office. “Captain,” David said, shaking his hand.
“Director,” Mac said, sitting.
When the secretary left, David said, “Get this,” and turned around his laptop so Mac could read it. The captain squinted at the screen and read Rayford’s account of the previous day’s activities at the safe house in Illinois. “Oh, man,” he said, “that doctor. The girl lives, the doctor dies. Beat that.”
“It gets worse,” David said.
Mac reached the news of Hattie’s disappearance. He settled back in his chair. “Does he really think—”
David held up a finger to stall him. “Let me get rid of this while I’m thinking of it.” With a few keystrokes the heavily encrypted file had been trashed. “That she’ll come here? I can’t imagine. I understand she’s ditzy, but how far does she think she’ll get? It’s a miracle she survived this long with all the things Carpathia has tried to get rid of her. She shows her face in New Babylon, she’s history.”
Mac nodded. “She’s got to be holing up somewhere, waiting to surprise him.”
“I can’t see her getting close.”
Mac shook his head. “I know. Your people loaded two sets of metal detectors on the two-one-six last week.”
“Plan is to use them even for dignitaries. ’Course, that’s due to a basic distrust of Pete Two, you know.”
“I know firsthand. Fortunato’s got all ten kings, excuse me, regional international subpotentates—or whatever Saint Nick is allowing them to call themselves this week—primed for that snuffing. It’s almost like he wants them willing to do the deed themselves.”
“Like those guys would agree on anything,” David said. “How many of ’em you think are really loyal to Carpathia?”
Mac shrugged. “More than half. Not more than seven, though. I know three who would usurp given half a chance.”
“Would they take him out?”
“In a New Babylon minute. ’Course, Pete would too.”
“You think?”
Mac sat forward and pressed his palms together. “I’ve heard him say it. He rubs Carpathia raw with his brashness, but he pretends to be cooperative. Carpathia makes nice with him all the time, as if they handpicked each other. I’ll tell you what: if Leon doesn’t get rid of Mathews soon, he’s going to have to answer. It’s a directive clear as if it were on paper.”
David stood and pulled some files from a drawer behind him, then spread them on the desk. “In case anyone’s watching,” he said, and Mac leaned over as if studying them.
“They’re upside-down, you idiot,” Mac said, controlling his smile.
“Wouldn’t want to be distracted,” David said.
“You know what Rayford used to dream out loud?”
“Tell me.”
“Crashing on purpose with Carpathia aboard.”
David straightened and cocked his head. “That’s not even biblical, is it? I mean, if he’s who we think he is, he’s not going to die till the forty-second month, is he? And even then he doesn’t stay dead.”
“I’m just telling you.”
“Doesn’t even sound like Captain Steele. He always seemed so even and sensible.”
“Didn’t mean to spoil your image of him.”
“Believe me, you didn’t. I can’t deny I’ve fantasized about how I’d do it.”
Mac stood and headed to the door. “Same here,” he said.
CHAPTER 6
Emotional turmoil took as much out of Buck as did physical labor. Often, after toiling all day with Rayford and Floyd in the underground shelter, he had trouble falling asleep. But now he had taken to bed his grief over Floyd, fear of how Hattie could imperil the Tribulation Force, and dread over the strange behavior of his father-in-law. Buck was exhausted beyond measure. Lying next to his damaged but resilient wife, he fought to stay awake and listen to her.
He and Chloe had so little time to talk anymore, despite spending most of their days in the same house. She lamented not being as involved as she once had, housebound with the baby, slowed by her injuries from the earthquake.
“But no one else could do what you’re doing with the co-op, babe,” he said. “Imagine the millions who will depend on you for their lives.”
“But I’m on the periphery,” she said. “I spent most of today comforting you and Daddy and taking care of the baby.”
“We needed you.”
; “I have needs too, Buck.”
He draped his arm across her. “Want me to watch Kenny so you can go with your dad to see T tomorrow? They’re talking co-op business.”
“I’d love that.”
Buck thought he had responded. He had meant to. But when Chloe removed his arm from her and turned away, he realized he had drifted off. She had said something more; he was aware of that now. He tried to muster the energy to force his eyes open and apologize, finish the conversation. But the more he tried, the more jumbled his thoughts became. Desperate that he was missing a huge opportunity to be to his wife what she needed him to be, he slipped over the edge of consciousness.
Late in the afternoon in New Babylon, David was urgently ordered to the office of Global Community Supreme Commander Leon Fortunato. Leon’s opulent quarters comprised the entire seventeenth floor of the new palace, only one below His Excellency, the potentate’s.
Though David reported directly to him, a face-to-face with Fortunato had become rare. The organization chart, as Mac had mentioned more than once, had to look like a spaghetti bowl. Ostensibly, Carpathia himself had only one subordinate—besides his secretary and the ever-present gaggle of obsequious lackeys—and that was Fortunato. But the entire administrative wing of the palace was filled with sycophants who dressed like the potentate and the supreme commander, walked like them, talked like them, and bowed and scraped in their presence.
David, the youngest member of the management staff, seemed to have garnered the respect of the brass with what appeared only appropriate deference. But for the moment, he was in trouble.
As soon as Fortunato’s door was shut, before David could even sit in the gargantuan room, Leon started in on him. “I want to know where those computers are and why they aren’t being installed as we speak.”
“The, uh, gross of—”
“The biggest single shipment of hardware since we equipped the castle—excuse me, the palace,” Leon said, planting his meaty frame in the thronelike leather chair behind his desk. “You know what I’m talking about. The more you hem and haw, the more suspicious—”
“No, sir, of course I know. We took delivery of those yesterday and—”
“Where are they?”
“—they’re not in position to be directly moved into th—”
“What’s wrong with them?” Leon barked, and finally pointed to a chair.
David sat. “It’s a technical thing, sir.”
“A glitch?”
“It’s a, an orienting problem. Positioning renders them inoperative in the palace.”
Leon glared at him. “Do they need to be replaced?”
“That would be the only solution, yes, sir.”
“Then replace them. You understand me, don’t you, Director Hassid?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You get my drift?”
“Sir?”
“When I get exercised, you understand it’s not just me?”
“I know, yes, sir.”
“His Excellency is eager that I—you—that we get a handle on this. He has confidence, because I assured him he could, that you will complete this assignment.”
“We will get that equipment installed as soon as humanly possible.”
Leon shook his head. “I’m not talking about just the blamed installation! I’m talking about tracing the opposition.”
“Of course.”
“His Excellency is a pacifist, as you know. But he also knows the only power a man of peace has is information. That’s why he monitors those two crazy preachers in Jerusalem. Their day will come. They have admitted as much themselves. And sympathetic as he is to variant views, a small but influential faction has the attention of those rebellious to the new world order. Would you not agree?”
“Agree, sir?”
Fortunato looked frustrated. “That His Excellency has reason to be concerned about this Ben-Judah character and his own former publisher, who is spewing anti-GC propaganda!”
“Oh, yes, absolutely. Dangerous. I mean, if there were just small pockets of these types out there, who cares? But, they seem to have rallied under the banner of—”
“Exactly. And they’re harboring the mother of His Excellency’s child. She must be found before she tries to abort, or worse, reveal information that could damage . . .”
Leon let his thought trail off. “Anyway,” he said, “replace that order or fix that orientation or whatever problem, and get people on this.”
Buck was grateful to have awakened before Chloe. He kissed her cheek and straightened her blankets. He left a note on the bedside table: “Sorry I drifted off. Go with your dad today. I’ll cover here. I love you.”
He padded to the kitchen, where Tsion sat alone, shoulders hunched, eating breakfast. “Cameron!” he whispered. “If I had known you were coming, I would have fixed something for you.”
“No need. Gonna get a head start on my writing so I can watch the baby.” Cameron poured himself a glass of juice and leaned against the counter. “Chloe’s going with Ray to see T about the co-op.”
Tsion nodded wearily. “I miss Floyd. I knew something had to be wrong when he did not get up with me yesterday.” He sighed. “Doc had a good mind. Many questions.”
“I don’t have that mind, but I do have questions. You were working on your commentary about the second woe, the sixth Trumpet Judgment.”
“Which I am late on,” Tsion said. “With everything that happened, I was unable to post it yesterday. I hope to have it done this morning. And I hope my absence for a day did not cause panic among the audience.”
“Everybody prays you will not be taken off the Net.”
“David Hassid assures me we can stay ahead of Carpathia technologically. Yet when he explains how he bounces our signal from satellite to satellite and cell to cell, I am lost. I just thank God he knows what he is doing.”
Buck rinsed out his glass. “You were wrestling with something yesterday.”
“I still am,” Tsion said. “For centuries scholars believed prophetic literature was figurative, open to endless interpretation. That could not have been what God intended. Why would he make it so difficult? I believe when the Scriptures say the writer saw something in a vision, it is symbolic of something else. But when the writer simply says that certain things happen, I take those literally. So far I have been proven right.
“The passage I am working on, where John sees—in a vision—200 million horsemen who have the power to slay a third of the remaining population, seems by necessity figurative. I doubt these men and animals will be literal beings, but I believe their impact will be very real nonetheless. They will indeed slay a third of the population.”
Buck squinted, and the teacher looked away. “This is a new one,” Buck said. “You really don’t know, do you?”
Tsion shook his head. “Yet I feel a great responsibility for the readers God has entrusted to me. I do not want to get ahead of him, but neither do I want to hang back in fear. All I can do is to be honest about how I am tussling with this. It is time many of these believers start interpreting the Scriptures for themselves anyway.”
“When is this judgment supposed to happen?”
“All we know for sure is that it comes next chronologically and that it must occur before the midpoint of the Tribulation. Unless God himself makes it happen in an instant, it appears it could take several weeks.”
Tsion had, the day before, merely transmitted the scriptural passage he would comment on the next day. Running the body of text alone resulted in the largest cyberspace audience in history, awaiting Dr. Ben-Judah’s fearful teaching on Revelation 9:15-21:
So the four angels, who had been prepared for the hour and day and month and year, were released to kill a third of mankind.
Now the number of the army of the horsemen was two hundred million; I heard the number of them.
And thus I saw the horses in the vision: those who sat on them had breastplates of fiery red, hyacinth blue, and sulfur ye
llow; and the heads of the horses were like the heads of lions; and out of their mouths came fire, smoke, and brimstone.
By these three plagues a third of mankind was killed—by the fire and the smoke and the brimstone which came out of their mouths.
For their power is in their mouth and in their tails; for their tails are like serpents, having heads; and with them they do harm.
But the rest of mankind, who were not killed by these plagues, did not repent of the works of their hands, that they should not worship demons, and idols of gold, silver, brass, stone, and wood, which can neither see nor hear nor walk.
And they did not repent of their murders or their sorceries or their sexual immorality or their thefts.
David returned to his office conflicted by the fear Leon had engendered and the thrill of having toyed with the man once again. From his laptop, ignoring a flashing Message sign, he ordered another gross of the computers, directing that they be delivered to the palace airstrip. No sense drawing further suspicion. He could thwart whatever his experts detected by planting viruses in the equipment or merely misinterpreting their findings.
Buck sat with the others at a meeting of the stateside Tribulation Force at 11 a.m. Tuesday. He reported he’d just gotten word from David that Abdullah Smith was to be Mac’s new first officer. Rayford raised a fist of celebration.
Then Rayford said, “A couple of updates. We’re getting the word to people we trust to keep an eye out for Hattie. She can do us more harm than anyone I can think of. I’m calling a break on work in the cellar for a day. Chloe and I are meeting with T this afternoon. All right, Mrs. Rose, the floor is yours.”
Leah stood to speak, which seemed to surprise the others as much as it did Buck. They scooted their chairs back to soften the angle as they looked up at her. She spoke softly and seemed more self-conscious than when she had met them the night before. Her story came in a monotone, as if she were covering her emotions.
“I gather that you people were fairly normal before the Rapture, except that you weren’t believers. I was messed up. I grew up in a home where my dad was an alcoholic, my mother a manic-depressive. My parents’ fights were the neighborhood entertainment until they divorced when I was twelve. Within three years I smoked, drank, slept around, did drugs, and nearly killed myself more than once. I had an abortion when I was seventeen and then tried to drink away the horror of it. I dropped out of school and lived in a friend’s apartment. I consumed more booze and dope than food, and when I found myself wandering the streets and passing blood in the middle of the night, I came to the end of myself.
