by Terry James
The Nephilim had something to do with the angels who rebelled. Something, therefore, to do with the bene elohim.
He must get back to Randall Prouse as soon as possible. He could talk to him about these matters without betraying pastor-parishioner confidentiality. Laura hadn’t told him not to discuss the strange things, the death of her husband. He would have to make sure he didn’t mention names. But, when he talked about a crash--And, Randy already knew that he had been called away from their conversation to go to a church member who had lost her husband in the T-38 crash at Randolph. Most likely, his friend had already put two and two together. Keeping the matter confidential was already out the window, he thought, pulling the VW into the long drive running alongside the building. He would simply talk to Laura before going to see Randy. He would ask her permission to discuss these things.
Christopher fumbled for the keys. Got to get rid of some of these. Too many, he thought. But which? They all still served a purpose. Maybe break them up into several rings of keys. There! He found the right one and inserted the key. He twisted it, turned the knob and switched on the wall switch once he was fully inside. He walked the series of smaller hallways that ran through the complex of class-rooms and staff offices behind the sanctuary. He switched on the top lights of his study and began going through several stacks of unfinished business.
He picked up a book, with a note-paper clipped to the cover. It was from the church secretary: “A friend said give this to you.”
He read from the cover: “Our Struggle by Randall Prouse.” Sub-title: “A life-long battle for the soul of man.”
He opened the hardback and saw the personally inscribed words: “To a brother and friend of like mind–Randy”
He turned to the next page and read the only words printed there.
“For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places”–Ephesians 6:12.
He reread the words, a warm wash of inward prompting spreading throughout his spirit. “A watchman watches,” the inner voice said in a wind-like whisper.
The clock against the wall of the darkened living room chimed two o’clock. Laura turned in her bed, her arm stretching, her hand reaching to find her husband. She felt only the empty place left there by the crash.
A tear rolled down her cheek, even though the sedatives would not let her come to consciousness. But she fought hard to find a rational thought, and finally she sat up in the bed, trying to clear her eyes and her brain.
Daylight. She looked at the clock on the nightstand. No. It wasn’t daytime, not unless it was two in the afternoon. And she knew she hadn’t slept that long.
She rubbed her eyes.
There was no sunlight coming in through the bedroom window.
Sitting on the side of the bed, she felt with her feet for the soft slippers. When she stood, she collapsed back to a sitting position on the bed’s edge. Her head whirled, and she sat for a moment before trying to rise.
She managed, with struggle, to stand again, then shuffled slowly to the bedroom door and opened it. Bright light pierced her eyes and made her shut them and shield them with her right hand.
Sun? Not sun, but a brilliant white light coming from somewhere she couldn’t determine.
She walked a short way into the living room, hearing a low, humming sound. The hum grew louder and turned into a growl that sounded at first like a large, angry dog. But, she realized, the more alert her senses became, she was hearing words. Words spoken by at least two voices.
The words intermingled, as if in an echo chamber, in a language she hadn’t heard.
The French doors--they were open! Who had opened them? From where, from whom were these words coming?
She walked to the doors. They were open wide, the balcony filled with the bright, white light. She saw them, then.
Her daughter, in her nightgown, stared into the sky. Mark stood beside her in only his briefs, also staring skyward.
They held hands, while their mouths moved in unison. The strange, indecipherable words came in deep incantations that ripped Laura from her grogginess.
She looked upward, to the source of the light, her eyes growing wide. She tried to scream, but couldn’t, just before everything went black.
“What happened?”
Christopher Banyon hurried toward Mark, who sat in the waiting-room chair against one wall.
“We don’t know,” he said, while the minister stood above him.
“I found her about five this morning, lying on the living room floor. It looked like she had fallen, maybe knocked herself out.”
Banyon had rushed to Brooke General after learning through Mark’s phone call that Laura was in a coma. He sat beside the Marine and looked around the waiting area.
“Is Lori with her mother?”
“Yes. She’s been with her the whole time.”
“You say she hit her head?” Banyon said.
“No. We don’t know. That was just a guess. She was totally out when we put her in bed, so she couldn’t tell us anything. They haven’t found any marks on her, so far as I know. Of course, there could be a bruise on her head they haven’t found yet…I just don’t know.”
Mark stood and began pacing, looking down one hallway, then another. He glanced at his watch.
“8:59.”
“Will you still be flying out this morning?” Banyon said.
“Yes. At 11,” he answered.
The minister knew the fact that the pilot had to leave frustrated him. “You don’t have to worry about them, Mark,” he said, trying to put the Marine at ease. “I’ll stay with them.”
Mark said nothing but smiled his appreciation. Still no sign of the doctor, or Lori, or anyone who could clue him in on Laura’s progress.
Mark determined that it was time for him to seek someone out. He had to leave now, drive to Randolph, check in with Base Ops and Transit, then pre-flight the bird.
Lori entered the hallway from a room far down the corridor and hurried in his direction when she saw him.
A voice called to him from the opposite direction--the direction of the elevators.
“Capt. Lansing!”
He turned from watching Lori walking toward him, to see the impeccably dressed man with two younger men following him.
Robert Cooper held out his right hand and shook Mark’s.
“Good morning, Captain,” he said with a tight smile. He reached to take Lori’s hand, clasping both of his around hers.
“I’m Robert Cooper. How is your mother, my dear?” Cooper said, trying to sound paternal and concerned.
“The doctors aren’t sure of her condition yet,” she answered, casting a questioning look in Mark’s direction.
“Lori, this is Deputy Director Cooper of the Defense Department,” Mark said.
Lori said nothing but nodded in the direction of the stocky man in the perfectly tailored navy pinstriped suit.
“And these gentlemen,” Cooper said, motioning to the men, who nodded to Lori, “are from the Treasury Department.”
“We are very sorry to hear of your mother’s accident, Miss Morgan. We can’t do much to help the doctors at this point, but, I do think we’ll be able to help in a way that will improve things for you,” Cooper looked up at Mark, “and for you, Captain.”
Christopher Banyon had stood and walked to a table full of magazines. He pretended to be interested in one of them but listened while the deputy director talked.
“So, you don’t know what happened last night? I mean, what happened when Mrs. Morgan fell?”
“No. Mark woke up around five and found her in the middle of the living room floor.”
“Well, let’s pray that she recovers very quickly,” Cooper said, taking her right hand again, and patting it.
“Thank you,” she said with a slight smile, thinking she didn’t like this man with the strong personality. He had bulli
ed her father. But, he seemed genuine in his effort to console her.
Why was he, a man of such high rank in government, bothering with her? With the problem of her mother?
“Now!” Cooper’s tone became upbeat, his smile stretching in a straight, taut line across large, but barely exposed teeth. “There’s something your government wants to do for you.”
“Shall we be seated?” He motioned for them to take their seats.
“First, Mark, I’ve some good news. You are on a week’s leave as of this moment. You don’t have to report at Andrews until next Tuesday.”
The words brought an instant smile to Lori’s face. Mark was pleased, but at the same time, questions raked at his thoughts. The same questions as always…
What was it all about? Why the special attention? Why was the President of the United States so interested in an F-4 pilot?
The deputy director seemed to have a prescient understanding of Mark’s unspoken questions.
“Ah, yes, why the special treatment? What’s our interest? Right?”
Cooper laughed. “Well, put your mind at ease, Captain. We’ve found a way for you to pay us back for our generosity!”
Chapter 9
The funeral had no body, so there was no casket on display. In a way, it was best. If there was no casket, the absence could provide the illusion, at least, that there was no death.
It was more a memorial service than a funeral, and that’s the way Lori wanted it. Her mother was still in a coma, although the doctors at Wilford Hall, to which she had been transferred, said her responses to neuro-sensitivity tests showed improvement.
Christopher Banyon sat near the back of the chapel’s little sanctuary, listening along with the 75 or so others who came to memorialize Lt. Col. James Masterson Morgan. He watched Lori and Mark from his distant seat, then cut his eyes to Robert Cooper, who sat far to their right, flanked by the Secret Service agents that had been with him in Brooke General at Fort Sam Houston two days before.
Lori had explained to Rev. Banyon that even though he was her mother’s pastor, Laura would want Father Joseph Malhooney, the base chaplain, to perform the ceremony.
Her father had become good friends with the lieutenant colonel / chaplain since coming to Randolph as an instructor pilot. They hadn’t talked much about matters of religious value, according to her dad, but he had enjoyed their socializing at the Officer’s Club.
Father Malhooney was wrapping it up now, 15 minutes after the services began with three short testimonies to the quality and good character of Lt. Col. James M. Morgan. They all sang “Amazing Grace” leaving Father Malhooney a little less than seven minutes to complete the memorial service.
All in all, it was a very depressing service, Christopher Banyon thought while Malhooney spoke the closing words.
“He lives on, in our hearts. And, he lives with our memories as a great pilot, an excellent officer, a good husband, a good father, and a terrific friend. Sleep well, James Morgan.”
The priest then offered in an authoritative tone, “Amen, and Amen.”
Banyon started to go to Mark and Lori but saw that Cooper and the agents were already surrounding them, the deputy director of covert operations for the defense department holding Lori’s hand in both of his and giving her words of condolence. Before Banyon could make his way to Lori, he saw Cooper and the agents hustle both her and Mark Lansing out a side door.
He hurried to the door and arrived outside into the overcast day just in time to see them leave in a long, dark car…the personal limousine of Robert Cooper.
Christopher pulled into the parking lot of the 12-story apartment building an hour and a half later. Lori’s little TR-5 was in its parking place.
He signed the guest register at the lobby desk under the watchful gaze of a uniformed guard. Two minutes later he pushed the doorbell on Laura’s apartment door.
He turned an ear toward the door, hearing thumping, like the sound of someone pounding. Momentarily, the door opened, and he stood face to face with a man dressed in a white jumpsuit. The man had a hammer in one hand.
“Yes?” the man said.
“Isn’t this the Morgans’ apartment?” he asked with puzzlement in his voice.
“Was,” the maintenance man said. “I guess that was the name. Don’t really know.”
“What? What happened? Where are the Morgans?” The minister looked around inside. The apartment had no furniture. Two men in jumpsuits like the one this man wore painted the walls.
“We’re getting this fixed up for the next tenant,” he said. “I really don’t know about the folks who lived here. You’ll have to check with management, downstairs.”
“Thank you,” Banyon said after a few seconds, turning away with a perplexed expression.
He looked for Lori’s sport car upon leaving the building. It was gone.
He stood in a phone booth several minutes later, thumbing through the San Antonio phone book attached to the booth by a steel mesh-covered cord. Traffic whisked by less than 100 feet away, along Loop 410. He closed the folding door, and the noise lessened to a tolerable level.
He had talked to the apartment building’s assistant manager, who told him the Morgans had left no forwarding address.
He found the number of Wilford Hall’s Admissions Office and dialed after inserting the required coinage.
“No, sir. We don’t show a Mrs. Laura Morgan. There’s been no such person admitted that I’ve found.”
The woman had taken several minutes to check admissions records, and Banyon was certain that Wilford Hall--the admission’s office, at least--had no record of Laura having been there.
The gleaming C-141 settled onto the east runway. It came between sorties that were fully up to schedule at Randolph Air Force Base. The crash investigation involving Col. Beery’s downed T-38 continued. But, Lt. Gen. Sam Maddox ruled that the critical mission of getting fighter pilots ready for advanced fighter-combat training, then on to Vietnam, took precedence over the crash incident.
Mark admired the huge, chrome-like 141 while it rolled up from the south end. This was all for him, Laura, and her mother. They--the Department of Defense, he guessed--sent this gigantic bird just for them.
Why? He wondered now, seeing the stainless steel-appearing Starlifter pull ever closer. Something clawed at the back of his mind, seeing the monster turn off the taxiway and head for the parking area where Lyndon Johnson’s bird had sat the weekend past.
It was the markings. It had no discernable markings other than an American flag on the tall vertical stabilizer beneath the horizontal stabilizer affixed to the top.
Robert Cooper had told him little. Just that the President had taken a special interest in the situation. Cooper didn’t know the full scope of the matter, he had explained.
Mark didn’t believe him. Deputy Director Robert Cooper was not someone in whom he would put his full confidence.
But the President of the United States--and it could have been no other. There was only one such man. He had told him to not let the President or the nation down. Most likely, only President Johnson, himself, could have ordered this special aircraft--from what Air Command, he didn’t know--to airlift three insignificant people, two of them civilians, to he didn’t know where.
“Arrangements have been made, Captain,” Robert Cooper shouted to be heard above the Starlifter’s many engines while it rolled to a stop less than 80 feet from them.
“The F-4 will be sent for by your colleagues at Egland. And, we got your things from the seat box. One of my people will see to it they are put on the plane.”
No sooner had the C-141 shut down than the rearmost portion opened, a big ramp whirring to a rest on the tarmac.
“I know you have questions, lots of them, Captain, and they will be answered--at least partially--in the very near future.”
They watched as a white ambulance with blue Air Force markings rolled to the base of the ramp leading up to the Starlifter’s belly.
&
nbsp; When the ambulance was aboard, they watched Lori’s TR-5, driven by an enlisted man in an Air Force uniform, pull to the base of the ramp and stop.
“Miss Morgan said that we had no deal if we didn’t bring that car,” Cooper said with a grunt-like laugh. “So, it’s coming, too.”
“The expense of all this. What’s so important that you would lay out this much expense?”
Mark’s words were incredulous, spilling out without his meaning to say them aloud. The cost for just the flying time, alone, was staggering for an aircraft this size.
“At 26, you’re awfully concerned about your government’s spending habits,” Cooper said, Mark thought, with an edge of abrasiveness in his tone. “Your service to your country will more than pay for it,” Cooper then said with a laugh, slapping Mark on the back, taking the Marine’s arm in his hand, and starting to walk toward the awaiting mammoth silver Starlifter.
Lori wiped her mother’s forehead with a smooth, damp cloth. She dabbed a bit of water on another cloth and applied it carefully and slowly to Laura’s mouth. When she smoothed on Laura’s parched lips a thin film of the ointment the doctors had given her, her mother’s lips again took on a healthy look.
Lori sat with Laura in the ambulance, beside the stretcher that had transported her mother from Wilford Hall on the other side of San Antonio earlier that day. Laura’s eyes were sometimes open, but stared straight ahead, seeing nothing.
Her mother had passed every neurological test the Wilford Hall specialists could think to give her.
“It will just take time,” they had reassured before packing them into the ambulance for the ride to Randolph and the rendezvous with the Air Force transport.
Lori was worried that they had misdiagnosed her mother’s condition. The woman she knew as vibrant and livelier than anyone of her acquaintance looked now like an old woman struggling for life.
“She will begin to rally quickly, once recovery begins to set in,” they had told her. “There’s no reason, physically, that she shouldn’t recover,” they had assured.
