by Quinn, Jack
Congressmen and women took every opportunity through all available media outlets to decry the declared authenticity of the document, call for the apprehension of its hijackers and exposure of the confidence game in which they were surely engaged. The United Nations passed a resolution to take the document in custody; the World Court sought to have the manuscript brought before it to determine it rightful ownership; and the hierarchy of each religious group sought to bring it under its own exclusive aegis.
Foreign heads of state and diplomats inveighed against the clandestine involvement of the United States in the theft of the precious treatise from a sovereign state and its heavy-handed attempt to take possession of the ancient artifact as the illegitimate guardian of an object that should in reality be the heritage of all the peoples of the earth. Within that same hour, the White House was besieged by accusations of blasphemy, collusion, and demands from every religious organization in the world for the seizure and confiscation of the professed Shimon autobiography. Raucous crowds wielding placards milled through the streets of every city, town and village on the globe demanded access to the document and the hanging of its thieves; impotent threats were made to confiscate and destroy this unknown, yet perceived threat to not only Christianity, but all extant religions of the world.
The news media went wild, each one displaying their own unique characteristic reportorial style. Daily newspapers that did not ordinarily publish a Sunday edition scrambled to put out a special supplement. Every news organization on Earth called in editorial writers, columnists, anchors, news directors and reporters assigned to contact Christian bishops, parish priests and Rabbis, the intelligentsia of the Catholic hierarchy, Jesuit university professors, plus religious leaders of practically every faith and denomination in the world for their comments, opinions and critiques of the scant announcement to date, and promised revelation of the first century manuscript the following week.
Magazines hastened to assemble their usual in-depth report and analysis of the unprecedented radio broadcast for interim publication; television networks and local channels without exception recruited diverse religious and Middle East antiquity historians for a sequence of commentaries some stations planned to run throughout the day. Although the medium of radio would owe Anthony T.P. Viola an eternal debt of gratitude for raising them from the lower depths of all news media, they too would air various panel discussions and capitalize on one of their
strongest program vehicles--the phone-in talk show.
The New York Sunday Times ran the front page cross-column headline: BROTHER OF JESUS AUTOBIOGRAPHY UNEARTHED FROM SYRIAN DESERT, followed by lead articles and commentaries with a predictably negative liberal slant. They also reported their own verification of the authenticity of that manuscript by the few experts who had examined portions of the original papyrus scrolls, submitted them to carbon, DNA, X-ray, MRI and other tests before confirming their age and provenance. Based on inquiries made by their reporters, and the assurance of veteran newswoman Andrea Madigan, the conclusion of a Sunday Times editorial was that they were prepared to accept the validity of the Shimon Autobiography, but reserved the right to evaluate the legitimacy of its contents.
The tabloid NY Daily News filled their entire front page with a typical headline, JESUS BRO WROTE BURGLED BIO. The lead story of that contentious paper cautioned its readers that the document could be a hoax and questioned the motives of reporter Madigan, who had been fired by NNC for an irresponsible on-air announcement and suffered from a terminal illness; could she have fabricated this outlandish story as the culmination of her high-profile news career?
The Washington Post carried the press release as written after their headline, WHITE HOUSE ON ANCIENT DOCUMENT: NO COMMENT. Their articles and editorial explored the ramifications of unveiling the manuscript by a group of unknown Americans soldiers to all nations
and religions of the world without prior examination or advice from any government or religious
sect.
The editorial challenge from The Chicago Sunday Times was clear and contentious in their banner headline: ANCIENT DOCUMENT, HOAX OR HORROR?
Three hours later, Californians awoke to the headline of The Los Angeles Times: 1ST
CENTURY MANUSCRIPT--BIBLE THREAT OR SEQUEL?
On that momentous Sunday, every international print and broadcast medium around the globe communicated the Shimon press release as issued, adding suspicion, questions and various comments to the paucity of information they possessed. Whether supportive, dismissive or skeptical of the alleged ancient artifact, the international press joined in their common cause to build and increase audience interest and circulation for what could be the highest rated, mega-ad revenue audience week in the history of journalism.
Callaghan’s smile conceded his embarrassment at his inability to solve their critical mass communications dilemma compared to the solution of these professional news people. “I can see how we might have mishandled this on our own,” he admitted to Andrea.
Since the press release was intended for worldwide distribution, its contents required no secrecy restrictions. To protect its point of origin, however, Sammy used anonymous bulk e-mails to contact U.S. and international news organizations. T.P. scheduled their recording session for Saturday, post-production editing, re-recording and quality enhancement on Sunday. The finished one-hour tape would be ready for satellite up-link on Monday evening.
Sam and T.P. had determined what type of satellite transmission and recording equipment they needed, and where they could rent it in Albany, the largest city close to their secluded location.
Sammy felt relaxed beside Geoff at the wheel of the Land Rover as they crossed the state line on Route 2, slowing on the snow-covered dual lane secondary road to pass through villages and towns, negotiating laboring semi-trailer trucks hauling mammoth logs climbing the steep hills and curves along the way. He was pretty much in the picture now, for the first time since Andrea had returned from the Syrian Desert with the embryonic story that had catapulted them from the relative security of lucrative careers into a maelstrom of doubt, flailing single-handed against implacable bulwarks of secrecy and deception to a mind-numbing 2,000 year old document that could turn the entire planet into chaos and conflagration.
Sammy spoke without turning his head from staring past the metronome motion of the windshield wipers. “I’m sure you’ve considered the various kinds of reception this... revelation could have among the general populace.”
“That’s out of our hands,” Geoff said. “The manuscript belongs to the entire human race. Not just one religion or nation. It needs no filtering or attendant instructions by some religious hierarchy or government authority.”
‘Hands off’ Sammy thought like the Preacher Lady and her sister admonished. He turned to gaze out the side window of the cruising Rover through the falling flakes at stubby pines atop the short, vertical cliff of scarred rock exposed when the highway had been blasted through the lower hills of the Berkshires, its granite face occasionally imbedded with thick icicles in shadowed crevices hidden from the sun.
“Regardless of the consequences.”
Charlie turned from watching the road to grin at his passenger. “You know, Sam, when we realized what we had, for some reason known only to God, what we’d been entrusted with--we couldn’t help get a mite philosophical.”
Sammy returned the confidence with a nod of understanding.
“Mankind, ordinary men and women of all religions and countries, are what they are. Whether you believe we were created thus by a Supreme Being or evolved at random to our present state, I think if there is an Omniscient Power, He’s had a hands-off policy for our species for a very long time. People will make of Shimon’s writings what they will, just as we have with every other natural or human-devised event since our decent from the trees.”
Charlie took the access ramp to Interstate 787 into downtown Albany.
“We are what we are,” Sammy observed.
“Must be tough enough for gay grunts in the military,” Sam said. “I had to tiptoe through the tulips as an officer.”
Charlie’s expression turned grim. “Tell me about it.”
“Don’t! Ask or tell.”
Charlie took his eyes off the road again. “Are you with anyone now?”
“Not for a while.”
They drove in silence for some time before Sammy said, “It’s amazing the way you guys kept the lid on this for almost two years.”
“Just another clandestine op,” Geoff said. “You’ve been there, I’ll bet. I couldn’t begin to count the quasi-legal military missions the public’s never heard of.”
“Still. It’s a wonder you kept a secret that big, so long. What, seven people, without an ounce of dissension?”
“The natural discipline of troopers at first. Then a total commitment to a cause. Something we believed in doing. That was right, no gray area. Honor, truth, the right stuff. Concepts important enough to die for.”
Sammy lowered the heater and cracked his side window to admit a thin stream of cold, fresh air; humbled, slightly embarrassed at the verbalization of the euphoric feeling he’d experienced since becoming a trusted participant in this cataclysmic undertaking.
“There are holes in your story,” Sam said.
Geoff smiled at the monotonous motion of the windshield wipers flicking aside large flakes of wet snow, contemplating whether or not to test their incredible secret with this intelligent mind. “You’d think we were crazy.”
“Try me.”
Geoff drew a deep breath. “Hannah was right behind the scout who triggered the cluster bomb.”
“Get out! She’d have been blown to bits.”
Geoff compressed his lips, eyes fixed on the road ahead, nodding agreement.
Sam’s laugh was a nervous chuckle. “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men?”
Charlie’s expression was solemn. “Hannah did put herself together again.”
Sammy threw his head back and roared. “Now pull the other one.”
“According to the Bible, Thomas, who didn’t see Jesus appear to the other apostles after His crucifixion, had the same reaction.”
Sammy’s tone was disparaging. “Hannah came back to life after she was scattered all over the desert?”
Geoff shrugged. “I knew you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Then why hasn’t she resurrected herself from the assassination?”
Geoff frowned, compressing his lips, squinting out the windshield at the wind-blown snowfall.
Sam snapped his head around toward the driver, his expression incredulous.
* * * * * *
Frank Morrissey raced through his first reading of Section One of the Shimon autobiography behind the closed door of the den, his mind reaching out to grasp the significance of the words of a largely unknown historical person who was not only close to the most influential religious figure of all time, but related to him. The experienced anchor’s initial excitement was tempered by successive readings, until he achieved an impassioned command of the phrasing, breathing breaks, pauses, word and phrase emphasis implied by the author, finally marking his document copy with penciled symbols he would discuss with T.P. during rehearsal.
While Frank acclimated himself to the awesome document he would record that afternoon, T.P. worked with Andrea in the technical studio
Sammy had set up his recording and uplink electronics in the lodge dining room, reviewing the protocol for transmission as T.P. suggested changes to Andy’s delivery through the voice synthesizer and revisions to the summary report she would deliver to their massive radio audience as a preface to Frank’s reading of the autobiography itself.
At 2:30 Frank walked into the make-shift studio in a navy turtleneck, khaki trousers, and moccasins, a frown on his face, the muscles at the side of his jaw flexing from grinding his teeth.
Sammy pushed Andrea into the viewing section of the lodge dining room, across which the men had erected a wall-to-wall, soundproof glass partition, separating the studio area from the rest of the room enclosing the audio console at which T.P. would act as sound engineer, monitoring dials, gauges, levers and lighted buttons.
Sammy sat in a chair next to Andrea, turning to flash a nervous grin and thumbs up to Callaghan, Cassandra and the ex-paratroopers seated with them behind the partition. He held a copy of the initial pages of the first century autobiography, scanning each page again before clipping successive sheets onto Andrea’s book-holder from which they would follow Frank’s final taping he would later compress for satellite uplink.
T.P. handed Frank the first section of the document they had finalized earlier, that he would record that afternoon. Frank hefted the copy. “This is awesome. I just hope I’m up to it.”
“WE THINK YOU ARE,” Andrea reassured him through her synthesizer, “OR YOU WOULDN’T BE SITTING HERE. RELAX. YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE HISTORY TODAY.”
Sammy walked around the partition, extended his hand and Frank shook it. “Break a leg,” he said.
The news director insured the sequential pagination of his and the announcer’s document script, then took his seat at the console, adjusting volume, bass, wave, midi and treble levels to Frank’s voice and his own satisfaction.
Andrea had balked at the need to utilize an electronic device to supplement her speech, and
had been difficult, practically abusive, when Sammy had shown her how to use it. Without the device, her vocal chords produced a slurred, barely audible whisper less than halfway through the introduction she had rehearsed with Sam, and her feisty attitude had evaporated.
T.P. glanced at his watch, waited several interminable moments before preceding her introduction with a terse review of Andrea’s credentials as a renowned investigative reporter, and explanation of her mechanical voice caused by her terrible disease. Then he keyed Andrea’s prerecorded intro.
“LAST SEPTEMBER 7th, I REPORTED AN ALLEGATION BY BEDOUIN NOMADS I ENCOUNTERED IN THE SYRIAN DESERT THE PREVIOUS SPRING. THOSE WANDERING ARABS CLAIMED THAT DURING APRIL 2003, THE FIRST MONTH OF THE IRAQ WAR, AMERICAN SOLDIERS OF THE 82ND AIRBORNE DIVISION KILLED SEVERAL TRIBESMEN IN A FIREFIGHT AND LOOTED A PRICELESS ARTIFACT BURIED BENEATH THE DESERT SANDS. THAT ASSERTION WAS ECHOED BY THE PROVISIONARY IRAQI GOVERNMENT, BUT DENIED IN MY OWN QUERIES TO THE PENTAGON, THE COMMANDER OF THE 82ND DIVISION, AND WHITE HOUSE SPOKESPEOPLE. IN THE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED MY BROADCAST RELATING THOSE EVENTS JUST 90 DAYS AGO, I PURSUED THAT ARAB CONTENTION WITH INTERVIEWS OF TROOPERS WHO WERE IN THE AREA WHERE THE NOMADS CLAIMED THE CONFRONTATION TOOK PLACE, FOLLOWED LEADS TO CITIES AND TOWNS AROUND THE COUNTRY THAT FINALLY IDENTIFIED TWO PRINCIPALS IN THE ARTIFACT THEFT. DURING THAT INVESTIGATION, I ALSO DETERMINED THAT THE STOLEN ARTIFACT WAS NOT A PRECIOUS CACHE OF GOLD AND GEMS, BUT AN ANCIENT DOCUMENT WRITTEN IN ARAMAIC, AUTHENTICATED BY EXPERTS AND TRANSLATED INTO COLLOQUIAL ENGLISH. UPON OUR GUARANTEE OF TEMPORARY CONFIDENTIALITY REGARDING THEIR IDENTITY, AND CERTAIN OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING THIS PHENOMENAL DOCUMENT, THE SOLDIERS IN POSSESSION OF THE MANUSCRIPT HAVE ALLOWED THIS REPORTER TO EXECUTE THEIR INTENT TO SHARE IT WITH THE ENTIRE HUMAN RACE. I CAN ASSURE YOU THAT FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS SURROUNDING THE DISCOVERY AND HANDLING OF THIS INCREDIBLE MANUSCRIPT WILL FOLLOW. FRANK MORRISSEY WILL NOW READ THE VERBATIM AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF SHIMON, BROTHER OF JESUS OF NAZARETH.
Frank sat perched on the edge of a padded, straight-back chair wearing outsized earphones, facing Viola within the cramped jury-rigged sound studio. He adjusted the oval microphone of slotted chrome on the table before him, picked up the sheaf of paper beside it in both hands and gave a nod to T.P.
On Monday night, Sammy rolled his swivel chair to the end of the dining room table where they had set up the satellite communications equipment. He checked the specialized computer, the VCR tape player interface, and confirmed the position of the rooftop transmission disk. Geoff
monitored the Universal Coordinated Time on his laptop, raising his hand to signal Sammy to activate the uplink that would send the first segment of the two thousand year old autobiography to a twenty-first century global orbiting satellite for a listening audience of seven billion people.
Charlie’s hand cut through the air. “Send.”
Sammy pressed the red button on his console and the encrypted voice of Andrea, then Frank Morrissey soared twelve miles into the stratosphere for pickup by every radio network on earth.
Shimon’s Tale
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Syrian Desert
3818 Iyar (CE 72 May)
Men have named me Red Warrior. I have questioned often the accuracy of that sobriquet over the years, because a Jew who wields a sword among a race of submissive talkers need not spill much human blood to be so designated. On the other hand, I have fought for my dignity in my youth, for my life in the Circus, and for my freedom as a rebel. You may judge for yourself.
On this day, I recoup my strength on tufts of grass in the shade of a tall palm tree on an oasis in the vast expanse of undulating desert some 400 milia passumm2.to the north and east of Jerusalem. All phases of the moon have occurred since I escaped the Temple raging in flames, Jerusalem sacked, the last of our rebel command killed, captured, tortured or crucified. Few of our number have surrendered to the cruel retribution of soldiers in Vespasian’s legions3. Except for several besieged outposts, our rebellion has been defeated by the might of the Roman Empire. Our people fought hard and bravely for six bloody years against a better equipped, better trained army of legionnaires4 seasoned in the art of war, in the end, to no avail. Perhaps it was knowing when to retreat and how, that allows me to lie here in the dry heat that broils the flesh and steals one’s breath; an old soldier’s inner guide, the experience of many battles survived by wit as much as skill.
