Blasphemy wf-2

by Douglas Preston

  They all stared upward in uncomprehending horror at the dozens of dark shapes sliding down the ropes.

  PASTOR RUSSELL EDDY WATCHED HIS CONGREGATION fling the last soldier over the cliff. While he genuinely deplored violence, the soldier had resisted the will of God. So be it. Perhaps they would find solace and redemption when Christ raised them from the dead and redeemed His flock. Perhaps.

  He climbed up on the hood of a Humvee and took stock. The soldiers had fired on his congregation, which had surged forward with tsunami-like force up to the cliff’s edge until most of the soldiers had vanished over the rim into the black void.

  His will be done.

  Pastor Eddy gazed out over the miracle. The road was packed with people pouring in from the Dugway, torches and flashlights dipping in the darkness. They flowed over the fence into the security area and milled about, waiting for direction. A half mile back, the flames from the burning hangars at the airstrip leapt above the scrubby trees, casting a lurid glow across the mesa top. The acrid smell of gasoline and burnt plastic drifted through the air.

  In front of him, people were massing along the edge of the cliff. The soldiers had left a lot of gear at the top of the cliffs, which Doke evidently knew how to use. He had served ten years in the Special Forces, he had told Eddy. He was helping people into rappelling gear, straps and slings with various carabiners and equipment, and showing them how to rappel down the cliff face, convincing them they could do it.

  And they were doing it. It was easy with the equipment. It took no special skills. Doke’s people poured over the edge by the score, sliding down the ropes, a human waterfall disappearing into the darkness below. They were sending back up the straps and slings and carabiners to be reused, again and again.

  Eddy watched Doke shouting and giving orders. Lifting his radio, Eddy called the group at the airstrip. “I see you torched the hangars. Good work.”

  “What should we do about the chopper?”

  “Is it guarded?”

  “One soldier and the pilot. He’s armed—and pretty freaked out.”

  “Kill them.” The words just came out. “Don’t let them take off.”

  “Yes, Pastor.”

  “Any heavy equipment around?”

  “There’s a backhoe here.”

  “Trench the runway and helipads.”

  Eddy watched the crowds. They still mobbed the mountain, despite roadblocks and mass arrests. It was an incredible sight. The time had come to initiate the next phase of attack.

  Eddy raised his arms and called out, “Christians! Listen up! ”

  The growing crowd shifted, paused.

  Eddy pointed a shaking finger. “You see those high-tension lines?”

  “Take them down!” cried a voice from the crowd.

  “That’s right! We’re going to kill the power to Isabella!” he cried. “I’m calling for volunteers to scale those towers and rip down the lines!”

  “Rip them down!” the crowd roared. “ Rip them down!”

  “Cut their power!”

  “Cut their power!”

  A chunk of the crowd split off and swarmed toward the closest tower, which stood a hundred yards away.

  Eddy held up both arms and a second hush fell.

  He pointed again, this time at the cluster of antennae, dishes, microwave horns, and cell-phone transmitters at the top of the elevator building, perched on the edge of the cliffs.

  “Blind the eyes and stop the ears of Satan!”

  “Blind Satan!”

  More milling people broke away and swarmed around the elevator. The crowd now had direction. They had something to do. He watched with grim satisfaction as the mob piled up around the fence surrounding one of the giant struts of the tower. The mob pressed and heaved, and with a screech the fence went down. They poured in. One man caught the rung of the ladder, swung himself up, and began to climb, followed by another, and another, until in a few minutes it looked like a line of ants inching up a tree.

  Eddy hopped off the Humvee and strode to Doke at the edge of the cliffs. “My work’s done up here. I’m going down. I’m the one God chose to confront the Antichrist. You take command up top.”

  Doke embraced him. “God bless you, Pastor.”

  “Now show me the best way to descend this cliff face.”

  Doke pulled a set of nylon straps from a heap at his feet and slipped them around Eddy’s legs and pelvis. He fixed them in place with a locking carabiner, slipping a brake bar over it. “This is called a Swiss seat,” he said. “The doubled rope goes through this brake bar—if you let go, it brakes you to a stop. One hand here, one hand here, lean out, give little hops as you let the rope slide through the carabiner.” He grinned, slapped Eddy’s shoulder. “Simple!” He turned: “Make way,” he cried. “Make way for Pastor Eddy! He’s going down the ropes!”

  The crowd parted and Doke led Eddy to the edge of the cliffs. Eddy turned, grasped the rope as directed, and eased himself over the edge, kicking gingerly off the cliff face as he’d seen the others do—his heart in his mouth, praying furiously.

  64

  “IT’S A HOWLING MOB OUT THERE,” Wardlaw said, pointing to the front monitor.

  Hazelius finally broke away from the Visualizer. The main feed showed the entire security zone overrun with people brandishing knives, axes, rifles, their torches bobbing and blazing

  “They’re climbing the elevator!”

  “Good God.” Hazelius wiped his face with his sleeve. “Ken,” he shouted, “how much more time does Isabella have?”

  “The bad coil could drop superconductivity at any time,” Dolby cried, “and then we’re dead meat. The beams might kink, cut through the vacuum pipe, and cause an explosion.”

  “How big?”

  “Maybe real big—we have no precedent.” He glanced at his screen. “Harlan! Pump some more juice into the system. Keep the magnetic flux up.”

  “I’m at a hundred and ten percent of rated power as it is,” said St. Vincent.

  “Push it,” said Dolby.

  “If the grid fails, we lose power and we’re also dead.”

  “Crank it.”

  Harlan St. Vincent keyed in the command.

  “What about the mob?” Wardlaw yelled. “They’ve set fire to the hangars at the airfield!”

  “They can’t get in here,” said Hazelius calmly.

  “They’re still descending the ropes.”

  “We’re safe in here.”

  Ford watched on the screen as the mob swarmed up the elevator building, finally reaching the roof. The camera shook, tilted crazily, and then the screen went black with a pop.

  “Gregory, we’ve got to shut down Isabella,” said Dolby.

  “Ken, just give me five more minutes.”

  Dolby stared, his jaw trembling with raw emotion.

  “Five more. I beg you. We may be talking to God, Ken. God .”

  Sweat streamed down Dolby’s face. His jaw twitched. He gave a single, sharp nod and turned back to his machine.

  “This new religion you want us to preach,” Hazelius said, “what will we ask people to worship? Where’s the beauty and awe in this?”

  Ford strained to read the answer, half-hidden by a blizzard of snow breaking out across the screen.

  I ask you to contemplate the universe that you now know exists. Is it not, by itself, more awe-inspiring than any God concept offered by the historical religions? A hundred billion galaxies, lonely islands of fire flung like bright coins in a vastness of space so immense that it is beyond the biological comprehension of the human mind. And I say to you, that the universe you have discovered is only a tiny fraction of the extent and magnificence of the creation. You inhabit but the tiniest blue speck in the infinite vaults of heaven, and yet this speck is precious to me, being an essential part of the whole. That is why I have come to you. Worship me and my great works, not some tribal god imagined by warring pastoralists thousands of years ago.

  Dolby stared, his face sli
ck with sweat, his jaw clenched. Hazelius swiveled his thin, eager face back to the Visualizer. “More, tell us more.”

  “I’m getting alarms across the grid,” said St. Vincent, his calm voice just beginning to crack. “Transformers are overheating on Line One halfway to the Colorado border.”

  Trace the lineaments of my face with your scientific instruments. Search for me in the cosmos and in the electron. For I am the God of deep time and space, the God of superclusters and voids, the God of the Big Bang and the inflation, the God of dark matter and dark energy.

  The Bridge began to shake, and the smell of burning electronics filled the air.

  The security cams at the airport showed both hangars burning furiously. A mob had surrounded a helicopter on the helipad. A soldier carrying an M-16 stood in the helicopter bay, firing over their heads, trying to warn them off. The chopper was powering up.

  “Where did all these people come from?” Innes stared at the screens, his voice rising shrilly above the screaming of Isabella.

  Science and faith cannot coexist. One will destroy the other. You must make sure science is the surviving party, or your little blue speck will be lost . . ..

  Edelstein spoke. “My p5s are overheating.”

  “Give me one minute!” Hazelius roared. He turned to the screen, shouting over the din, “What should we do?”

  With my words you will prevail. Tell the world what happened here. Tell the world that God has spoken to the human race—for the first time. Yes, for the first time!

  “But how can we explain you if you can’t tell us what you are?”

  Do not repeat the mistake of the historical religions and involve yourselves in disputation about who I am or what I think. I surpass all understanding. I am the God of a universe so vast, only the God numbers can describe it, of which I have given you the first.

  “Oh shit,” said Wardlaw, staring at the security monitors.

  Ford turned his attention back to the security screens. The mob bombarded the chopper with rocks and gunfire, while the soldier guarding it fired over their heads. Someone tossed a Molotov cocktail at the chopper. Falling short, it drenched the tarmac in front with flames. The soldier lowered his weapon and fired into the crowd. The chopper started to rise.

  “Oh my God,” said Wardlaw, his face looking sick.

  Despite the carnage, the raging throng closed in, their return fire flashing and flaring off the chopper’s armor.

  You are the prophets leading your world into the future. What future will you choose? You hold the key . . ..

  As Ford watched, a half dozen Molotov cocktails came flying out of the crowd, bursting against the side of the chopper. The fire swept upward, engulfing the rotors. A fuel line ignited, and with a massive thump the chopper detonated, a roiling ball of fire levitating into the night sky. The pieces of the chopper rained back down on the asphalt, a cascade of fire, spreading rapidly as the burning fuel ran in all directions. A moment later a soldier jumped out of the surging flames, flailing, sheeted with fire, and collapsed burning on the tarmac.

  “Oh Jesus,” Wardlaw said. “They blew up the chopper.”

  Hazelius, staring at the Visualizer, paid no attention.

  “And now look at this!” Wardlaw cried, his finger stabbing at a screen. “The mob’s outside the Bunker door! They’re after Isabella. They’re killing the soldiers out there!”

  Dolby cried. “I’m shutting down Isabella.”

  “No!” Hazelius rushed Dolby and they struggled briefly, but Dolby was ready this time and flung the smaller man to the ground. He turned back to the keyboard.

  “It’s locked on! Isabella’s locked!” he screamed. “It won’t accept the shutdown codes!”

  “Oh Jesus, we’re dead,” said Innes. “We are dead.”

  65

  BERN WOLF SHRANK INTO THE SHADOWS of the titanium door, behind the soldiers. The swelling crowd had poured down the ropes like they were possessed and were now forcing them all up against the rocks to the rear. What soldiers had ever faced a situation like this before, a rampaging mass of fellow Americans, a civilian mob that included women? It was crazy. Who were these people? Branch Davidians? Ku Klux Klanners? They were dressed every which way, armed with everything from rifles to ninja stars. Many of them waved makeshift, improvised crosses and pressed in on the soldiers, who could retreat no farther.

  Doerfler finally spoke. “This is U.S. government property,” he shouted. “Lay your weapons on the ground. Do it now .”

  An emaciated figure stepped forward from the crowd, a big revolver in his hands.

  “My name’s Pastor Russell Eddy. We’re here as God’s army to destroy this infernal machine and the Antichrist within. Step aside and let us pass.”

  The crowd was sweaty, their eyes eerily bright in the artificial lights, their bodies swaying with excitement. Some wept, tears streaming down their faces. More continued down the ropes. There didn’t seem to be any limit to their numbers or any way to stop them.

  Wolf stared at them with sick fascination. They looked possessed.

  “I don’t give a damn who you are,” barked Doerfler, “or why you’re here. I’m telling you one last time: lay down your weapons.”

  “Or what?” Eddy asked, his voice bolder.

  “Or my men will defend themselves and this U.S. government installation using all available means. Now lay down your weapons.”

  “No,” said the scrawny pastor. “We won’t lay down our weapons. You are agents of the New World Order, soldiers of the Antichrist!”

  Doerfler walked toward Eddy with his hand out. He spoke loudly. “Give me the gun, pal.”

  Eddy pointed the revolver at him.

  “Look at you,” said Doerfler derisively. “You fire that and the only person you’re going to hurt is yourself. Give it to me. Now.”

  A shot rang out and Doerfler was punched back, surprised; he fell, rolled, and began to rise, drawing his own sidearm. He’d obviously been wearing body armor.

  A second shot from the revolver blew the top of his head off.

  Wolf threw himself to the ground, scrambling on his hands and knees and huddling against the cover of the rough rock. A roar like the end of the world erupted around him: automatic fire, explosions, screaming. He wrapped himself up in fetal position, burying his head in his hands, trying to shrink into the rock itself, while gunfire pounded and blasted all around, the snick and thud of bullets showering him with chips. The din went on for what seemed like an eternity, with terrible death-screaming and the wet, ripping sounds of bullets tearing people apart. He clamped his hands over his ears, trying to block it out.

  The furor subsided, and in a moment all was still, except for his ringing ears.

  He remained in a ball, stunned senseless.

  A hand rested on his shoulder. He jerked away.

  “Take it easy. It’s all right now. Get up.”

  He kept his eyes tightly shut. A hand grabbed his shirt, pulled him roughly to his feet, popping off half his buttons.

  “Look at me.”

  Wolf raised his face and opened his eyes. It was dark—the lights had been shot out. Bodies lay everywhere, a scene out of hell, worse than hell, people cut in half, body parts strewn about. There were horribly wounded people, some making strange sounds, gurgling, coughing, a few screaming. Already the mob was dragging bodies to the cliff edge and rolling them off.

  He recognized the man holding him: the same Pastor Eddy who had started the firefight by shooting down Doerfler. He was splattered with the blood of others.

  “Who are you?” Eddy asked.

  “I’m . . . I’m just the computer guy.”

  Eddy looked at him, not unkindly. “Are you with us?” he asked quietly. “Do you accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”

  Wolf opened his mouth, but only a croak came out.

  “Pastor,” a voice said, “we don’t have a lot of time.”

  “There’s always time to save a soul.” Eddy stared, his
eyes dark. “I repeat: Do you accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior? The time has come to choose sides. The Day of Judgment is come.”

  Wolf finally managed to nod.

  “Down on your knees, brother. We’re going to pray.”

  Wolf hardly knew what he was doing. It was like something out of the Middle Ages, a forced conversion. He tried to kneel on shaking legs but wasn’t fast enough and someone pushed him down. He lost his balance and fell to his side, his shirt falling open.

  “Let us pray,” said Eddy, falling to his knees beside Wolf and grasping both his hands in his own, bowing his forehead until it was touching Wolf’s hands, wrapped in his own. “Heavenly Father, do you accept this sinner now in his hour of need? And do you, sinner, accept the Word of Truth that you might be born again?”

  “Do I . . . what?” Wolf tried to concentrate.

  “I repeat: Do you accept Jesus as your personal savior?”

  Wolf felt sick. “Yes,” he said hastily. “Yes, I do . . . I do.”

  “Praise God! Let us pray.”

  Wolf bowed his head and closed his eyes tightly. What the hell am I doing?

  Eddy’s voice intruded. “Let us pray out loud,” he said. “Ask Jesus into your heart. If you do it freely and sincerely, you will see the kingdom of heaven. It’s that simple.” He clasped his hands and began to pray loudly.

  Wolf mumbled along with him for a moment and then felt his throat close up.

  “You have to pray with me,” said Eddy.

  “I . . . no,” said Wolf.

  “But to receive Jesus, you have to pray. You must ask—”

  “No. I won’t.”

  “My friend—my dear friend—this is your last chance. The Judgment is upon us. The Rapture is at hand. I speak to you not as your enemy, but as one who loves you.”

  “We love you,” said voices from the crowd. “ We love you.”

  “I suppose you also loved the soldiers you murdered,” Wolf said. He was horrified at what he was doing. Where did this sudden, insane courage come from?

  He felt the barrel of a gun lightly touch his temple. “Your last chance,” came Eddy’s gentle voice. He could feel how steady the barrel was in the man’s hand.

  Wolf closed his eyes and said nothing. He felt the faint tremble as the hand tightened, the finger depressing the trigger. A wrenching boom—and then nothing.