by Tim LaHaye
Albie slapped the phone shut, unholstered his side arm, bounced to his feet, and said, “Let’s go.”
As Rayford loped along in the darkness, wondering how many minutes he might have left on earth, he was impressed that Chloe had no trouble keeping pace. He also wondered at the strange difference in Albie. He’d always been resourceful, but was there something else about him now, besides his new profession of faith?
Rayford wondered, why had he not assured himself of the integrity of Albie’s mark? Could he be sure of anything he saw under the dim interior light of the Rover, a wounded old man between him and Albie?
CHAPTER 19
Mr. Wong dropped to his knees next to David, weeping and crying out in his native tongue. His wife sat rocking, fists clenched, eyes closed, appearing more stunned than convinced.
Ming and Chang sat with hands covering their eyes, appearing to pray. To anyone else, it might appear they were praying to the new god of the world, but David knew.
He found it surreal that as Fortunato backed away from the lectern and joined the seven remaining potentates, they seemed to ignore the piles of ashes. They solemnly shook hands with their new leader, appearing to congratulate him on his speech and his display of power.
The security chief instructed his people to remove the barricade from in front of the single-file line. The couple in Dutch garb first refused to move toward the bier, but those behind them began to jostle and push, urging them on. The couple smiled with embarrassment, each clearly wanting the other to go first. They finally locked arms and shuffled along with mincing steps, seeming to want to see Carpathia’s body but afraid of not only the gigantic speaking and smoke-belching statue, but also the seats behind the bier, three of which contained only ashes.
Fortunato and the remaining seven stood in front of the row of seats, just far enough behind the coffin to stay out of the guards’ way and so that mourners would not be tempted to shake their hands or speak with them. It appeared to David that it suddenly came to Leon why people were shy about approaching. He turned first to one side and then the other and asked the potentates to move away from him.
Then he stepped back and, with a flourish, swept the ashes from each of the three seats, brushing and tidying them with his big hands. This stopped the processional and made anyone close by stare in amazement. With a satisfied look, Leon turned back to face the bier and motioned that the seven should rejoin him. As they did he clapped and rubbed his hands together, and the residue fell away. He and the potentates enjoyed a chuckle.
Three sets of headlights appeared on the horizon, maybe a half mile beyond the safe house. Rayford had feared this day, when the GC would swoop down upon them. He worried he would be gone or sleeping or unaware. How bizarre to be here and see it happening.
Albie and Chloe had picked up the pace and sprinted now. Rayford tried but found himself suddenly awkward and feeling his age again. “Closer to me now, Captain Steele,” Albie called out, then hollered the same to Chloe.
Rayford and Chloe closed ranks, now ten or twelve feet on either side of Albie and about four feet back. Behind them the roaring Land Rover came bouncing over the terrain, projecting eerie shadows on the safe house.
It seemed to Rayford that the three vehicles advancing from the other way had slowed and separated. He and Albie and Chloe stopped between the old garage and the house, and Leah skidded the Land Rover to Chloe’s right, next to the garage. “Hold,” Albie said quietly. “Hold and maintain positions.”
“We’re vulnerable, Albie,” Rayford said.
“Deputy Commander Elbaz, Mr. Berry,” Albie said. “And you have ceded command to me, have you not?”
“Temporarily,” Rayford said ruefully. If Albie was legit, he could take it as a joke. If Rayford had stupidly fallen for something and had sacrificed the Tribulation Force to a lapse in judgment, he was saying he would wrest back command and not go down without a fight.
The headlights before them now spread out, the vehicle to Rayford’s left heading farther that way, angling toward them and stopping about seventy-five yards away. The one in the middle advanced closer, maybe fifty yards away. And the one to the right mirrored the one on the left.
“Hold,” Albie said again. “Hold.”
“We’re targets here,” Rayford said.
“Hold.”
“I don’t feel good about this,” Chloe said.
“Hold. Trust me.”
Rayford held his breath. I wish I could. Lord, tell me I did the right thing.
Rayford started when he heard someone jump out of the center vehicle, equipment jangling as he hit the ground, and move toward the house. While he could still see all three sets of headlights, Rayford lost behind the house the silhouette of the soldier hurrying their way.
“Hold.”
“I’m holding, Alb—Deputy Commander, while they have an armed man on the other side of the house. What if he torches the place? What if the others join him? They have clear shots at us, while they’re protected by trees and the house.”
“Silence, Mr. Berry,” Albie said. “We are outmanned twelve to three.”
Rayford felt a deep foreboding. How would he know that?
“And unless one of you is packing,” Albie added, “we are out-armed twelve to one.”
“So, what,” Chloe said, “we’re surrendering? I’ll die first.”
“You might if you don’t let me handle this.”
Rayford had gone from suspicion to fear and now to full-blown dread. He had walked his charges into the biggest trap imaginable. Wasn’t it Albie himself who had once counseled to never trust anyone? They could be dead or in prison within half an hour.
“Global Community squadron leader!” Albie shouted, his voice deep and clear and louder than Rayford had ever heard it. “Show and identify yourself! I am GC Deputy Commander Marcus Elbaz, and that is an order!”
David guessed the temperature at 110 degrees. He couldn’t remember being out at midday in New Babylon when it was this hot. He removed his uniform cap and wiped a sleeve across his brow. He was dripping. There was no wind. Just the relentless sun, the body heat of four million people, and the acrid smoke from the imposing statue.
The image began to move as if an earth tremor made it sway and bounce, but nothing else was affected. All eyes turned toward it in terror and word spread quickly throughout the courtyard that something was happening. For a long minute the thing seemed to vibrate in place. Then it rocked, and the smoke began to billow once more.
The image soon glowed red hot, and the smoke poured out so fast that it again formed clouds that darkened the sky. The temperature dropped immediately, but going from daylight to dusk so quickly made many fall to their faces.
The image roared, “Fear not and flee not! Flee not or you shall surely die!”
The blackness covered the sky in the immediate area, but when David sneaked a glance at the horizon, it remained light. At the edges, all the way around as he turned, lightning burst from the low-riding smoke and struck the ground. Seconds later the thunderclaps rolled in, shaking the area.
“Flee not!” the image shouted again. “Defy me at your peril!”
Leon stood with his arms folded, gazing at the statue as the seven potentates dropped to all fours, wide-eyed. The armed guards fell to their knees.
People at the far edges of the crowd turned and ran, only to be struck by lightning as the rest of the throng watched in horror. “You would defy me?” the statue roared. “Be silent! Be still! Fear not! Flee not! And behold!”
People froze in place, staring. The smoke stopped rising, yet the sky remained dark. It formed itself into roiling, growing black clouds mixed with deep reds and purples.
David, secure in his faith and believing he knew what was going on, still found himself shaking, shuddering, heart ablaze.
“Gaze not upon me,” the statue said, now with no smoke coming from its face. As it cooled it faded from orange to red and back to black. It no longer moved.
“Gaze upon your lord god.”
It was as if the statue had shrunk, David thought, but it had merely become still, silent, and cold. People slowly rose, and all eyes turned upon the glass coffin where Carpathia, unmolested, remained reposed. Millions stood in the quickly cooled desert, the sky pitch, horrifying clouds churning. The people folded their arms against the sudden chill. Shoulders hunched, they stared at Carpathia’s lifeless body.
“I have eleven Peacekeepers with weapons trained on you, sir!” came the reply from the far corner of the safe house. “I’ll need to see some identification!”
“Fair enough!” Albie called back. “But be prepared with your own, as I am your superior officer!”
“I suggest we meet on your side of the house with weapons holstered!”
“Agreed!” Albie said, making a show of returning his side arm to its strapped sheath on his belt.
“And your aides?”
“Same as yours, sir,” Albie said. “Weapons trained on you.”
The squadron leader stepped out from behind the house with his weapon secured, arms away from his body, hands empty. Albie stepped toward him with purpose. “Excellent approach, sir. I’m reaching for my papers now.”
“As am I.”
The squadron leader pulled a flashlight from behind his belt and they compared documents. “Sorry for the confusion, Deputy Commander,” the young man said. “Do I know you?”
“You should, Datillo. I likely taught you. Where did you train?”
“BASALT, sir. Baltimore Area Squadron Leadership Training.”
“I only guest lectured there. I was at Chesapeake.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Squadron Leader Datillo, may I ask what you’re doing here?”
Datillo pulled order papers from his pocket. “We were led to believe this was headquarters of a Judah-ite faction, maybe even the central safe house. Our orders were to lay siege to it, apprehend any occupants, determine the whereabouts and identities of any others, and destroy the facility.”
“Torch it?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
Suddenly Albie moved closer to the young squadron leader. “Datillo, where did these orders come from?”
“I assumed New Babylon, sir.”
“You assumed. Did you check them with the regional director?”
“No, sir, I—”
“Datillo, do you know what time it is?”
“Sir?”
“Do we not both speak English, Datillo? It’s not my mother tongue, but it’s yours. Is my accent too thick for you, son?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“After 0400 hours, sir. Requesting permission to check my watch.”
“Granted.”
“It’s 0430, sir.”
“It’s 0430, Datillo. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Mean anything, sir?”
“Listen to me, Squadron Leader. I’m going to tell you this outside the listening range of your subordinates, though you don’t deserve it. I’m going to resist the temptation to inform North American States Midwest Regional Director Crawford that you did not check orders through him before proceeding. And I’m even going to give you a pass on your unbelievable lack of awareness of the time zone differences between North America and the Carpathian States. I ask you again, Squadron Leader Datillo, what is the significance of 0430 hours?”
“I beg your pardon, Deputy Commander, and I appreciate your lenience on the other matters—particularly not embarrassing me in the presence of my subordinates. But, sir, I am drawing a complete blank on the time issue.”
“Honestly,” Albie said, “I don’t know where they get you kids or what you’re doing during basic training. Did you or did you not sit in any of my guest lectures at BASALT?”
“I honestly don’t recall, sir.”
“Then you didn’t, because you wouldn’t have forgotten. And you would know what time it is in New Babylon when it’s 0430 in your part of the world.”
“Well, if you mean do I know the time difference, yes sir, I do.”
“You do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m listening.”
“At this time of the year, there’s a nine-hour time difference.”
“Very good, Datillo. What time does that make it in New Babylon right now?”
“Uh, let’s see, they’re later than we are, so it’s, ah, 1330 hours.”
“Do I have to walk you through this, son?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid so.”
“What is today, Squadron Leader?”
“Saturday, sir.”
“You lose. Try again. It’s after midnight, officer.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s Sunday morning already.”
“Which makes it what in New Babylon?”
“Sunday afternoon.”
“It’s Sunday afternoon in New Babylon, Datillo. Ring any bells?”
Datillo’s shoulders slumped. “It’s the funeral, isn’t it, sir?”
“Ding-ding-ding-ding! Datillo hits the jackpot! You’re aware of the moratorium on combat-related activity anywhere in the world during the funeral, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And every GC directive requires CPR, correct?”
“Concrete Peacekeeping Reasoning, yes, sir.”
“And the CPR behind this directive?”
“Um, that no untoward publicity crowd out the funeral as the top news story.”
“There you go. Now, Datillo, I can tell you’re an earnest young man. You and your people are going to evacuate this area. You may return at 1000 hours and torch this place, if I leave it standing. My people and I were onto this location long before you were, and we have already apprehended the occupants and evacuated the building. I have a crew here to comb the residence for evidence, and we should be finished by dawn. Do not return until 1000, and if you see smoke on the horizon before that, you’ll have no need to come then either. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, sir. Any way my people and I can assist, sir?”
“Only by following orders and leaving now. And I’ll make a deal with you, son. You don’t tell your superiors of the serious mistakes you made this morning, and I won’t either.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“I know you do. Now move out.”
Datillo saluted and trotted back to the middle Jeep. It popped a U-turn, as did the other two before falling in line behind it. And they raced off in the darkness.
The sky was so black that the lights of the palace courtyard came on automatically. The TV lights were trained on the coffin, and David was sure every eye but his was too. He searched and searched sector 53 for Annie, praying she would stand strong. He couldn’t locate her.
David turned back. Heat waves shimmered off the statue in the comparatively chilly air. The potentates appeared paralyzed. Even Fortunato had paled and wasn’t moving, his gaze on the casket. A rim of light along the horizon looked like the rim of hair on a bald man. Clouds of ebony and other deep shades, produced by smoke from the statue, hung ominously over the immense gathering. People stood stock-still, riveted. Brilliant lights bathed the platform.
David’s eyes were drawn to the body. What was that? Almost imperceptible movement? Or had it been his imagination? He had imagined a corpse’s chest rising and falling at a funeral before. But until now, Carpathia’s body hadn’t given even the illusion of life.
Carpathia’s left index finger lifted an inch off his wrist for an instant, then fell again. A few people gasped, but David assumed most had not seen it. Then it rose and fell twice. Next it lifted half an inch, uncurling as if pointing.
One of the potentates apparently saw that and recoiled, trying to back away but falling over a chair. As he scrambled to his feet and tried to exit, lightning struck ten feet from him and knocked him back to where he had been. He stood shakily and brushed himself off, reluctantly looking at Carpathia again.
Now the index finger twitched, and all the potentates stiffened. The guards went into assault position, as if prepared to shoot a dead body. Carpathia’s hands separated and rested at his sides. Those close enough began to weep, their faces contorted in terror. It seemed they wanted to escape but could not move.
Those ahead of David edged closer, careful to keep someone between them and the bier. Those in front held their ground or tried to step back, but no one behind them would have that.
Now it was clear that Carpathia’s chest did rise and fall. Many fell to their knees, hiding their eyes, crying out.
Nicolae’s eyes popped open. David stared, then tore his gaze away to see even Leon and the kings trembling.
The corpse’s lips separated, and Nicolae lifted his head until it pressed against the Plexiglas lid. Everyone within a hundred yards of the coffin, including Fortunato, collapsed, covering their faces but, David noticed, most peeking through intertwined fingers.
As if stretching, Carpathia tilted his head back, grimaced, and lifted his knees until they too met the lid of the casket. He straightened his left leg until his heel met the large rubber stopper and forced it free with a loud thwock! The plug flew out and knocked the cap off one of the prostrate guards. He dropped his weapon and rubbed his head as the projectile bounced and rolled and finally stopped under a chair.
With the vacuum seal broken, Carpathia slowly brought his hands to his chest, palms up, heels of his hands resting on the underside of the lid. Moans and gasps and shrieks came from the crowd for as far as David could see and hear. Everyone was on the ground now, either peering at the screens or trying to see the platform.
Carpathia lifted his knees again, ripping the massive stainless steel bolts free of the glass. Then he pushed mightily until the top end shattered loose. The lid, more than eighty pounds of Plexiglas, flew away from the coffin, bolts flying, and smashed into the lectern, knocking it over and taking the microphone with it.
Carpathia catapulted himself to a standing position in the narrow end of his own coffin. He turned triumphantly to face the crowd, and David noticed makeup, putty, surgical staples, and stitches in the box where Nicolae’s head had lain.
