by Tim LaHaye
Perhaps I should have consulted you rather than scheduling this to be sent to you after the fact, but I feel directed to exercise faith and believe God. I look at what I’ve written and I don’t even sound like myself. I know I don’t deserve this any more than I deserved God’s love and forgiveness.
Maybe this is all silly and will not happen. If I chicken out, it will not have been of God and I will intercept this before it gets to you. But if you receive it, I assume I will not see you until you are in heaven. I love you and all the others, in Christ.
Your sister,
Hattie Durham
Rayford gathered the troops at the airstrip. He introduced the Fatal Four and explained their roles. “Deputy Commander Elbaz,” he said, referring to Albie, “will ferry Mr. Hassid to Petra, where he will begin setting up the communications center. Jewish by blood, Mr. Hassid plans to stay with the displaced believers.”
A hand went up, an African’s. “Is Hassid the one we have to thank for being able to stand here today?”
“Among many,” Rayford said. “But it’s safe to say that without the GC thinking this is their own operation, we’d be getting strafed right now.”
Someone else asked, “How realistic is it that this can last?”
“We’re in no-man’s-land,” Rayford said. “Once the fleeing Israelis are followed here, it will be obvious what we are doing. As you know, the healthy will walk. But it is quite a journey, and the GC should quickly overtake them. We believe God will protect them. The elderly, the toddlers, and the infirm will need rides. You will recognize them by the mark of the believer and probably also by the fear on their faces. Anyone arriving here in any manner should be transported immediately to Petra by helicopter. Some of these birds have huge capacities, so fill ’em up. Petra is about fifty miles southeast of here. You all have the flight plans.”
“It sounds like a death flight,” someone called out.
“By any human standard, it is,” Rayford said. “But we are the wings of the eagle.”
“The co-op didn’t call for food or clothing,” someone said. “How will these people survive?”
“Anyone want to address that?” Rayford said, and several talked over each other, explaining that God would provide manna and water and that clothes would not wear out.
Finally Rayford raised a hand. “One thing we don’t know is timing. Carpathia is on schedule to begin down the Via Dolorosa at 1100 hours. That will end at the Garden Tomb. Whether he will speak from there or head for the temple, we don’t know. We’ve heard that the winning image of the potentate has been chosen and moved to the Temple Mount, where people are already gathering to worship it and take the mark of loyalty.”
“Of the beast, you mean!”
“Of course. And many want to do that with Carpathia present. When he learns the crowds are waiting for him, he’ll want to be there.”
“Are your people in place, Captain Steele?”
“As far as we know. The only one we have not heard from is not crucial to the operation, unless she has been compromised.”
“When will Carpathia be opposed?”
“Our man may debate him before he enters the temple. Who knows? The crowd may oppose him—at their peril, of course. You must remember, it is not just Jewish and Gentile believers and unbelievers in Jerusalem. There are also Orthodox Jews who do not embrace Jesus as their Messiah but who have never accepted Carpathia as deity either. They could very well oppose him and refuse to take the mark. Then, of course, there are many undecided.”
“They’ll decide soon, won’t they?”
“Likely,” Rayford said. “And many will decide the wrong way. Without Christ, they will succumb to fear, especially when they see the consequences of opposing Carpathia. Okay, it’s time for transportation troops to head toward Israel. When the time comes, help anyone who needs it.”
“And if we are stopped?”
“You’re on your own,” Rayford said.
“I’m going to tell them I’m on my way to get the mark of loyalty.”
“That’s lying,” someone else shouted.
“I have no problem lying to Carpathia’s people!”
“I do!”
Rayford held up a hand again. “Do what God tells you to do,” he said. “We’re depending on him to protect his chosen people and those who are here to help them.”
Buck found a perch overlooking Pilate’s court behind several thousand cheering supplicants. The elderly Rosenzweig appeared to gasp for breath without making a sound. Sweat appeared on his forehead, and Buck thought it a credit to Zeke that it did not affect the old man’s phony color. This was more than makeup.
Still, Chaim had not spoken since they left the hotel, even when Buck merely asked how he was doing. He only shrugged or nodded. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if there was a problem?”
Chaim nodded miserably, looking away.
“God will be with you.”
He nodded slightly again. But Buck noticed he was trembling. Was it possible they had chosen the wrong Moses? Could Tsion have miscalculated? Tsion himself would have been so much better, having spoken in public for so many years as a rabbi and a scholar. Chaim was brilliant and fluent in his own field, but to expect this ancient, tiny, quaking man with the weak—and perhaps now nonexistent—voice to call down the Antichrist, to rally the very remnant of Israel, to stand against the forces of Satan? Buck wondered if he himself would have been a better choice. Despite Chaim’s almost comical getup, he appeared not even to be noticed by the crowd. How could he command an audience?
Buck had worried what he would say or do if GC Peacekeeping forces or Morale Monitors checked for his mark of loyalty. But loudspeaker trucks threaded their way through the streets, announcing that all citizens “are expected to display the mark of loyalty to the risen potentate. Why not take care of this painless and thrilling obligation while His Excellency is here?”
Many in the crowd already had the mark, of course, but others talked among themselves about where the nearest loyalty administration center was. “I’m taking mine at the Temple Mount today,” a woman said, and several agreed.
Buck was amazed at the number of men and women who carried toddlers waving real and fake palm branches. Someone passed out sheets with the lyrics to “Hail Carpathia,” and when people spontaneously broke into song, others assumed Carpathia had appeared and began a rousing ovation.
Finally Buck spotted a motorcade, led and followed by GC tanks topped with revolving blue and red and orange lights. Between the tanks were three oversized black vehicles. When the convoy stopped, a deafening cheer rose. The first vehicle disgorged local and regional dignitaries, then Most High Reverend Father Leon Fortunato in full clerical regalia. Buck stared as the man straightened his robe, front and back, and slowly continued smoothing it in back. Finally he kept his left hand just below his hip as he walked, clearly trying to hide it but unable to keep from massaging an apparently tender spot.
The second vehicle produced GC brass, including Akbar and Moon, and then, to a renewed burst of applause and aving, Viv Ivins. From more than a hundred yards away, she stood out among the dark-suited men. Her white hair and pale face appeared supported by a column of sky blue, a natty suit tailored to her short, matronly frame. She carried her head high and moved directly to a small lectern and microphone, where she held both hands aloft for silence.
All eyes had been on the third vehicle, its doors still closed, though the driver stood guard at the rear left and Akbar at the rear right, hand on the handle. Buck noticed that while the attention refocused on Viv Ivins, Leon went to work on his backside, riffling his fingers over the area. He couldn’t stop, even when Ms. Ivins introduced him as “our spiritual leader of international Carpathianism, the Reverend Fortunato!”
He muted the applause with his free hand, then asked everyone to join him in singing. He began directing with both hands, but Buck wondered if anyone in the crowd missed it when he kept directing with the ri
ght hand and scratching with the left.
Hail Carpathia, our lord and risen king;
Hail Carpathia, rules o’er everything.
We’ll worship him until we die;
He’s our beloved Nicolae.
Hail Carpathia, our lord and risen king.
Buck felt conspicuous not singing, but Chaim seemed not to care what anyone thought. He merely bowed his head and stared at the ground. When Leon urged the people to “sing it once more as we welcome the object of our worship,” people clapped and waved as they sang. Buck, ever the wordsmith, changed the lyrics on the spot and sang:
Fail, Carpathia, you fake and stupid thing;
Fail, Carpathia, fool of everything.
I’ll hassle you until you die;
You’re headed for a lake of fire.
Fail, Carpathia, you fake and stupid thing.
Finally Suhail Akbar opened the car door with a flourish and a deep bow, and Carpathia bounded out alone. The crowds gasped, then roared and applauded at the youthful man wearing gold sandals and an iridescent white robe, cinched at the waist with a silver belt that seemed to glow with its own light source. As bodyguards in sunglasses and black suits, hands clasped before them, formed a half circle behind him, Nicolae stood with eyes closed, face beatifically pointed toward the clouds and palms outstretched as if eager to embrace everyone at once.
Buck stole a glance at Chaim, who merely squinted at Antichrist in the distance, his face a mix of sadness and disgust.
As the vehicles discreetly pulled away, a camouflage canvas-covered military truck slowly rolled to within twenty feet of Carpathia. Buck saw Fortunato kneel and reach under his robe to vigorously scratch his ankle.
Two uniformed GC Peacekeepers lowered a ramp from the truck; then one jumped onto the trailer and the other reached for a dangling rope. One pulling, the other pushing, they brought into view a monstrous pink sow that, despite its enormous bulk, daintily stepped down the ramp and turned slowly to face Carpathia. The animal, which had clearly been drugged, reacted lethargically to the mayhem.
A black leather strap with a flat leather pad and rounded, covered stirrups was fastened around its middle. Carpathia approached and cupped the pig’s fleshy face in his hands, looking over his shoulder to the crowd, which was now laughing and whooping in frenzy. One of the Peacekeepers handed him what appeared to be a noose, which Carpathia draped around the sow’s neck.
Then, with one hand on the rope and the hem of his own garment—which he hiked up to his knee—and the other steadied by a Peacekeeper, Nicolae placed his left foot in a stirrup and swung his right over the pig’s back. He let go of the Peacekeeper’s hand and smoothed his robe back down over his legs, held the rope with both hands, and looked again to the crowd for a response. The pig had moved not an inch under Nicolae’s weight, and as he yanked on the rope, tightening the knot around its neck, the spindly legs felt for purchase on the pavement and slowly turned to move the other direction. Nicolae waved as the crowd exulted.
“I don’t get it!” a man in front of Buck said, his accent German. “What’s he doing?”
“Putting all previous religions in their places, Friedrich!” his wife said, her eyes glued to the scene. “Even Christianity. Especially Christianity.”
“But what’s with the pig?”
“Christianity has Jewish roots,” she said, still not looking at him. “What’s more offensive to a Jew than an animal he’s not allowed to eat?”
The man shrugged, and finally she turned to look at him. “It’s hardly subtle.”
“That’s what I’m thinking! You’d think he’d have more class.”
“Hey,” she said, “you come back from the dead, and you can define class any way you want.”
The spectacle was broadcast internationally on radio and television and via the Internet. David followed it on his computer as Albie helicoptered him toward Petra. Carpathia’s brazenness shouldn’t have surprised him, but with relatives in Israel and childhood memories of the place, the whole pageant gave him a headache. David’s scalp itched, but he dared not scratch it. He pressed his palm over the healing area, which reminded him of Hannah’s treating him. That, of course, reminded him of what he was doing when he had collapsed—searching for his missing fiancée in the aftermath of Carpathia’s resurrection—and he felt the familiar ache for Annie. He would see her again in less than three and a half years, but that made the second half of the Tribulation seem even longer. If he stayed in Petra, it would be that long before he saw Hannah again too.
David envied Buck Williams and his marriage. He couldn’t wait to meet Chloe, the brain behind the International Commodity Co-op. Besides creating an underground where believers would be able to buy and sell from each other when they were restricted from world markets, she had almost single-handedly brought together the personnel for Operation Eagle without having met them. In a cooler behind Albie was food enough to last David until the fleeing Israelis joined him. Maybe God would feed David with manna before the others arrived. He hoped bringing food was not evidence of faithlessness.
Chloe Williams had arranged for the shipment of the latest high-tech computer equipment from various parts of the world, and that too was in the cargo hold. David could only guess how long it would take him and Albie to unload. He studied an aerial sketch of the area and wondered where he would set up and where he would live. “This place sure doesn’t look like it could house all the believers in Israel.”
“It won’t,” Albie said. “We’re estimating a million people will need refuge. Petra will hold about a quarter of that.”
“What do you plan to do with the rest?”
“Expand the borders, that’s all. The co-op has tents for the others.”
“Will they be safe? Outside Petra, I mean?”
Albie shook his head. “There’s only so much we know, brother. This is a faith mission.”
At a little after three in the morning in Chicago, Tsion lay with his hands behind his head on the cot in his study. He fought sleep as he watched the broadcast on his computer monitor. Hearing voices in the commons area, he padded out to find Chloe, Kenny on her lap, watching television.
“Do you believe this?” he said.
“Dis!” Kenny said, and Chloe shushed him.
She pressed her lips together. “I wish I were there.”
“You should be pleased with what God has allowed you to accomplish, Chloe. Every report says things are going like clockwork.”
“I know. And I’ve learned what strangers can do when they have a bond.”
Tsion sat on the floor. “The vehicle advance should be underway by now.”
“It is,” she said. “And it’s one of the riskiest parts. We didn’t have time to put GC insignias on the vehicles.”
“God knows,” Tsion said.
“Gott!” Kenny said.
“That’s God in German, you know,” Tsion said.
“I doubt he’s bilingual,” Chloe said. “But apparently Buck is. Never studied another language and now he’s speaking Hebrew without even knowing it.”
It was clear to Buck that Carpathia had decided not to address the crowds until either the Garden Tomb or the Temple Mount. All along the Via Dolorosa he confused many by skipping traditional sites, and the people sang and chanted and cheered. Chaim seemed to move more and more slowly, and Buck worried about his health.
The drugged pig was even weaker, however, and the milling throngs found it hilarious somehow when her front legs buckled and she dropped to her knees, nearly pitching Carpathia on his head. They laughed and laughed as aides rushed to help Carpathia off the animal. He formed a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pretended to pop the sow where she rested. Then he dragged a finger across his own neck, as if remembering the actual plan for the porker.
Nicolae strode on while the military truck pulled into view and half a dozen Peacekeepers worked on getting the pig back on four feet and into the trailer. The potentate jogged from the ce
ntral bus station area up to the traditional site of Calvary, and it was all Buck could do to watch. He was grateful there was no mock crucifixion, but still it turned his stomach to see Carpathia stand at the edge of the Mount and again spread his arms as if embracing the world.
Suddenly Fortunato stepped beside his boss and tried to mimic his pose. He could hold it only so long before having to scratch his backside or his ankle. Some in the crowd seemed to develop sympathetic itches. “Behold the lamb who takes away the sins of the world!” Fortunato bellowed.
Buck gritted his teeth and looked away, noticing that Chaim’s breath now came in short gasps.
The sky blackened, and people pulled their collars up and looked around for shelter. “You need not move if you are loyal to your risen ruler!” Fortunato said. “I have been imbued with power from on high to call down fire on the enemies of the king of this world. Let the loyalists declare themselves!”
Buck froze. While thousands jumped and screamed and waved, he stood stock-still, fearing that just about anyone would be able to tell he opposed Carpathia. Chaim crossed his arms and stared directly up at Fortunato, as if daring the man to strike him dead.
“Today you shall have opportunity to worship the image of your god!” Fortunato shouted, but he could be seen only when lightning flashed. Buck saw rapturous looks on the faces of the crowd. “But now you have opportunity to praise him in person! All glory to the lover of your souls!”
Thousands knelt and raised their arms to Nicolae, who remained with his hands outstretched, drinking in the worship.
“How many of you will receive the mark of loyalty even this day at the Temple Mount?” Fortunato implored, now scratching in three places, including his stomach.
Buck stared at the strobelike image of Carpathia’s pitiful sycophant, wondering if he would be revealed and struck dead by the man whose power came from the pit of hell.
