by Tim LaHaye
“We need to get out of here,” Rayford said. “Those guys think we’re just friends in here for a drink. We can’t stay till dark.”
“We should get closer to Chicago,” Chloe said.
“That’ll look more suspicious,” Rayford said, “unless we can find a place where we could leave the cars out of sight and still be able to walk into the city.”
“Where the L tracks end now?” Chloe suggested.
“They end everywhere,” Leah said. “Totally shut down, right?”
“Well,” Chloe said, “the tracks are torn up heading in from the south, and then they’re OK in the city, but they’re closed.”
Rayford looked to the ceiling. “So how about we find a place to hide the cars down that way, coming in from separate directions, then follow the tracks into the city.”
Leah nodded. “Good idea.”
Chloe said, “That’s what I thought.”
“If you’re where I think you are,” T said, “it looks impossible.”
“You can see the road?” Buck said. “Why can’t I hear you?”
“Wind, maybe, but you’ll hear me soon. I’m already lower than I want to be, but I sure hope I’m looking at the wrong road.”
“There’s only one possibility in this area,” Buck said. “If you see any stretch of open road, you’re looking at us.”
“Buck, do you have any idea how long it takes for one of these to stop? An aircraft carrier would be easier.”
“Any options?”
“Yeah! I land at Jerusalem Airport or better yet, Tel Aviv, and we hope for the best.”
“It would be more efficient for Chaim to commit suicide right here than to risk that, T. They’re looking for him.”
“I’m willing to try this, Buck, but it sure seems an uninspired way to become a martyr.”
“I hear you.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean I literally hear you. Flash your landing lights. . . . I see you! You’re way to my right!”
“Adjusting.”
“More. More! More! There! No, a little left now! Hold.”
“I see nothing!”
“Use your lights when you need to. That’ll help me too.”
“I don’t like what I’m not seeing.” The landing lights came on and stayed on this time. “Now I don’t like what I am seeing.”
“You seem high. I thought you were too low.”
“I was lower than I wanted to be with all those emergency lights off to the left down there. Let’s hope they’re too busy to look up.”
“You still seem high.”
“I am. But I still don’t see you either.”
“If you stay up there, I’m safe. You gonna go ’round again?”
“Negative. I have one shot and I’m going to make it work.”
“You’d better start dropping.”
“Here I come.”
Buck put his phone down and waved, though he couldn’t imagine T seeing him from that angle. The plane drifted right, and Buck tried to signal T back to center. With his lights still on, T should have been able to see that for himself.
As the Super J screamed past him, Buck grabbed his phone and shouted, “You straight?”
“Straight as I can get! No way this works! Too steep! Too fast!”
“Abort?”
“Too late!”
Buck shut his eyes as the plane dropped and the hot exhaust swept past him. He covered his ears, knowing that would never block the sound of the impact. But what he heard wasn’t a plane crash. He thought he detected the screech of tires over the din of the jets, but that may have been wishful thinking. He peeked through the dust and exhaust to see the plane bounce a couple of feet, the red exhaust flame pouring out the sides as the plane used reverse thrust in a desperate attempt to slow down.
The next impact resounded like a rifle shot. White smoke billowed from beneath the craft, and the plane began spinning wildly—the landing lights illuminating the ditch and grass, then shining toward him. Suddenly the lights went off, but he could hear the jets continue to run. The noise abated except for the whine of the engine, but Buck no longer saw anything. The plane had to be facing him. He had not heard the fuselage break up, as he had feared if T couldn’t stop.
He ran toward the plane, amazed to see Chaim beside him, keeping pace.
The New Babylon night was warm and dry. Spotlights from a dozen angles bathed the palace courtyard, nearly bright as day. Nothing would compete with the merciless, cloudless, sun-filled daytime sky, but until then, everyone could clearly see all there was to see.
David and Annie were among the hundreds of employees allowed—or in their case assigned—to file past the bier ahead of the pilgrims from around the globe. The couple waited on the steps while ten pallbearers—four men on each side and one at each end—solemnly carried in the draped Plexiglas box, accompanied by a live orchestra playing a dirge. From behind the barricades an eighth of a mile away, the mourning began. Employees began to wail too. The men gently placed the bier atop the pedestal and carefully positioned it. A technician, with what appeared to be a portable vacuum cleaner tucked under one arm, knelt between one of the end men and a side man and screwed a pressure gauge into the rubber stopper at the foot end. He checked the readout twice, then hooked a hose to the stopper, twisted a dial, and ran the suction machine for two seconds. He checked the pressure once more, removed everything but the stopper, then hurried away.
The eight side men backed smartly away while the two on the ends removed the shroud. Annie seemed to recoil. David was stunned. He had expected Carpathia to appear lifelike. The work of Dr. Eikenberry had been astounding, of course, as there was no evidence of trauma. Yet somehow, even in a dark suit, white shirt, and striped tie, Carpathia appeared more lifeless than any corpse David had ever seen.
The bier itself was shaped like an old-fashioned pine box, the torso area expanding to contain Carpathia’s robust physique. The lid was two inches thick and bolted to the sides with huge, stainless steel screws that bit deep into the plastic, pulled the casket gasket tight, and were secured at their undersides by self-locking washers and screws.
The lid was not three inches above Carpathia’s face, and as people passed, they could lean over the velvet ropes and see their breath on the top. If this was Carpathia, he would be closer to his people in death than he had ever been in life.
David had listened to the revised autopsy report wherein all references to the sword and its damage were omitted and the bullet trauma was added. At the end of that, Dr. Eikenberry had launched a clinical play-by-play as she secured the eyelids with adhesive and stitched the lips with invisible thread.
David was curious and wanted a closer look. Fortunately, the cluster in front of them paused for more than a minute. David leaned forward and studied the remains, knowing this probably made him look grief stricken. He wondered if this was really Carpathia. The body looked stiff, cold, pale. Could it be a wax figure? Might the resurrection occur in the morgue refrigerator? The vacuum-sealed Plexiglas bier certainly would not be conducive.
Carpathia’s hands were more lifelike and convincing. Left was draped over right at the waist, and they looked manicured and only slightly paler than in life. They rested within a quarter inch of the transparent lid. David almost wished the man were worthy of this display.
David was stunned when several ahead of him made religious gestures, from crossing themselves to bowing. A woman nearly toppled as she gave in to tears, and David wondered what the outcry from the public would be like if GC personnel reacted like this.
Three armed guards stood on the other side of the bier. When any mourner touched the glass, the closest guard leaned over and wiped the prints away, polishing, polishing.
Finally the line moved, and David tried to guide Annie for a closer look. She surreptitiously stiffened, and he let her stay outside him as they passed. The man behind David collapsed to his knees upon full view of the body and moaned in a foreign tongue.
David turned to see it was Bakar.
Annie left, still looking exhausted, and David moved atop an observation deck that had been fashioned as the second floor of one of the medical tents. He watched as the barricades were pulled away and the crowd slowly began to move toward the bier.
Someone hurrying around the outside of the courtyard distracted David, heading toward where the evidence room had already been dismantled. It was a woman carrying a bulky, paper package. He scampered down and excused himself through the crowd to get to the area from the opposite direction of the woman.
When he arrived he saw her, Dr. Eikenberry, hurrying back the way she had come. Guy Blod stood there with the package. He looked at David and shrugged. “We’re going to make dawn,” he said. “Thanks to your help.”
David didn’t want to be pals with Guy. But he did want to know what was in the package. “What’ve you got there, Minister Blod?”
“Just something she said the Supreme Commander wants in the statue.”
“In the statue?”
Guy nodded. “Which means it has to go in now, because once we weld this together, the only things that will get inside it will have to be smaller than the eyeballs, nostrils, or mouth. I mean, at four times life-size, they’ll be plenty big, but . . .”
“May I?” David said, reaching for the package.
“Whatever,” Guy said. “It’s going to burn anyway.”
“Burn?”
“Or melt. The hollow legs will be an eternal furnace; don’t you love it?”
“What’s not to love?” David said, peeking through a corner of the paper. In his hands was the real murder weapon.
CHAPTER 12
As Rayford followed Leah and Chloe out of the ersatz bar, one of the GC Peacekeepers was coming in. “You wouldn’t be Ken Ritz, would you?”
Rayford fought for composure and noticed Leah stiffen and Chloe shoot the man a double take. With a furtive nudge, Rayford urged Chloe to keep moving and hoped Leah would do the same.
“Who’s askin’?” Rayford said.
“Just yes or no, pardner,” the guard said.
“Then no,” Rayford said, brushing past.
“Hold on a second there, pop.” Rayford preferred pardner. “Let me see some ID.”
“I told you I’m not whoever you’re looking for.”
The guard stood in the doorway with his hand out. Rayford showed his papers.
“So, Mr. Berry, you know Ken Ritz?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“How about your friends?”
“Guess you’d have to ask them.”
“No need to be a smart aleck.”
“My apologies, but how would I know about them if I don’t know him?”
The guard nodded his dismissal, and as Rayford emerged, he heard him calling out in the bar: “Ken Ritz in here? R-I-T-Z!”
Leah and Chloe waited by the Rover while the other guard had one foot on the bumper of the Suburban. He was on the phone.
Rayford walked nonchalantly to the driver’s side of the Rover, and the three climbed in. As he pulled away, Rayford said, “Well, so much for the Suburban.”
“Thanks to me,” Chloe said. “Go ahead and say it, you two. This is all my fault.”
Chaim’s bravado had finally cracked. Buck thought it might have been due to exhaustion from the running, but for whatever reason, the old man was in a panic. Buck was strangely encouraged. There was little more difficult than rescuing someone who didn’t care to be rescued. At least Chaim retained a degree of self-preservation. It was a start.
The Super J sat at a severe angle with a blown tire. The door swung down and T leaned out. “You must be Dr. Rosenzweig,” he shouted.
“Yeah, hey, hi, how are ya,” Chaim said with a wave. “You know we got people coming, and you’ve got a flat tire?”
“I was afraid of that,” T said. He reached to shake Rosenzweig’s hand.
“Save the introductions until the GC shoots us,” Chaim said. “We’ve got to get out of here. Have you taken off in a plane with only one tire?”
“We’re not going to outrun anybody on foot. Let’s give this a try.”
Buck stepped up behind Rosenzweig and tried to guide him up the stairs. He wouldn’t be moved. “This is lunacy, Cameron! There’s barely enough road here to take off if the plane was healthy.”
“You ready to turn yourself in?”
“No!”
“Well, we’re leaving. You coming or taking your chances?” Buck pushed past him up the steps. He grabbed the handle and set himself to lift the door. “Last call,” he said.
“There’s no chance on the plane,” Rosenzweig whined. “We’re all going to die.”
“No, Chaim,” Buck said. “Our only chance is in the air. Have you given up?”
Rosenzweig leaped aboard as T muscled the plane to the end of the road, turned around, and gave it full throttle. Buck and Chaim, listing far to the left, buckled themselves in. Buck prayed. Chaim muttered, “Lunacy, lunacy. No chance. No hope.”
With the engines screaming, the plane was shuddering, though they weren’t moving. Buck didn’t know what T was doing. As he released the brake and maneuvered the controls, the Super J teetered crazily as it shot down the road.
At the other end the pavement had been twisted and tossed up onto its side to form a four- or five-foot barrier. As they hurtled straight toward it, Buck knew T had to find the right combination of speed and runway to pull this off. Buck couldn’t tear his eyes from the barrier. Chaim sat with his head between his legs, hands clasped behind his head. He moaned, “Oh, God, oh God, oh God,” and Buck had the impression it was a sincere prayer.
It seemed there was no way the J would get enough lift to clear the barrier. T seemed to be doing everything he could to keep the plane level, but the imbalance had to be affecting speed too. At the last instant T seemed to abandon balance and put all his efforts into thrust. The jet lifted off the road, then dropped, and the tire chirped on the pavement before lifting yet again.
Buck grimaced and held his breath as they swept toward the barrier. T must have rolled just enough to avoid a direct hit, because the plane lurched right, and something underneath slammed the barrier. Now they were in no-man’s-land.
“God forgive me!” Chaim shouted as the jet was tossed back to the left, then dipped and nearly crashed as T pulled out all the stops. The tail seemed to drag, and Buck couldn’t imagine how it stayed airborne. They headed for a grove of trees, but it was as if T knew he couldn’t afford the drag that a turn would require. He seemed to set the jet at the shallowest possible angle to clear the trees. That was their one chance to get airborne, and if successful, the Super J would rocket into the night toward Greece. T would have to worry later about conserving fuel and landing on one tire.
Buck sat with fists clenched, eyes shut, grimacing, fully expecting to hit the trees and crash. He was pressed back against his seat, his head feeling the G forces as the Super J broke into open sky. He allowed his eyes to open, and in his peripheral vision, Chaim remained hunched over, now lamenting in Hebrew.
Buck unstrapped but found himself struggling to step toward the cockpit against the acceleration and upward deck slope. “You did it, T!”
“Lost what was left of that bad tire, though,” T said. “Think we lost the whole wheel assembly. I thought we were going down.”
“Me too. That was some takeoff.”
“I’ve got about two hours to decide how to land. I know one-wheel landings can be done, but I’d almost rather pull up the one good wheel and go in belly first.”
“Would this thing take it?”
“Not like a big one would. I’d say we’re fifty-fifty for success either way.”
“That’s all?”
T reached for Buck’s hand. “I’ll see you in heaven, regardless.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I mean it. If I didn’t believe that, I’d have taken my chances with the GC back there.”
/> Buck started when Chaim spoke, and he realized the Israeli was standing right behind him. “You see, Cameron? I was right! I should not have come! Now we have a one-in-two chance of surviving, and you two are just fine, knowing where you’re going . . .”
“I wouldn’t say I’m fine, Chaim,” Buck said. “I’ll be leaving a wife and son.”
“You’ve already given up?” T said. “I said we’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of landing successfully. Even a crash landing doesn’t have to be fatal.”
“Thanks for that cheery word,” Buck said, turning to head back to his seat.
“Pray for me,” T called after him.
“I will,” Buck said.
“So will I,” Chaim said, and Buck shot him a look. He didn’t appear to be kidding.
After Rosenzweig was buckled in, Buck leaned over and clapped him on the knee. “You don’t have to be afraid of death, you know. I mean dying, yeah, I’m afraid of that too, afraid it’ll hurt, that I might burn. I hate leaving my family. But you’re right. T and I know where we’re going.”
Chaim looked terrible, worse than Buck had seen him since the night before. He couldn’t make it compute. Chaim had seemed almost giddy after escaping the Gala. Then he was suicidal after hearing about Jacov and his family and Stefan. But now he looked grave. So, he was human after all. Despite all the talk of suicide, he was afraid to die.
Buck knew he had to be as forthright with Chaim as he had ever been. “We may meet God tonight, Chaim,” he began, but Rosenzweig immediately made a face and waved him off.
“Don’t think I wasn’t listening all these years, Cameron. There is nothing more you can tell me.”
“Still you refuse?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said I don’t need to be walked through this.”
Buck couldn’t believe it. Chaim said that as if he were going to do “this” on his own.
“I do have one question, however, Cameron. I know you don’t consider yourself an expert like Dr. Ben-Judah, but what is your best guess about how God feels about motives?”
“Motives?”
