The Rapture Dialogues: Dark Dimension (The Second Coming Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry James

  With that, Prouse moved to his seat several rows back, and clicked the buckle of his seatbelt.

  Christopher looked through the window just above the left wing. He saw in the distance a tapering cloud of dark gray.

  “The main part of the storm must be to our right,” he said to his wife, who strained to look past him, then looked across the aisle to the window opposite theirs.

  “It looks darker over there, but I can see only a tiny bit of sky,” she said.

  “It’s been so smooth, not a cloud. It sure came up fast,” Christopher fretted. “The pilot said it looked like clear flying all the way to New York, according to the weather people.”

  “Guess you can’t depend on the weather people,” Susie said. She added, “Except for the main Weather Person.”

  Christopher smiled, knowing whom she meant. If only he had her faith…

  The intercom chimed, and the expected “Fasten Seatbelt” light came on.

  The TWA captain said, “Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, the fasten seatbelt sign is on. Looks like we’ll have a bit of a bumpy ride for the next 20 or so minutes. We will try to make it through this turbulence with as little inconvenience to you as possible.”

  They felt the first bounces of rough air, the belly of the 707 bumping hard against the pockets of turbulence, as if it were a small speedboat slapping against choppy water while at full throttle. The violence increased, the whole aircraft seeming to move at unnatural angles. The huge wings rose and fell as if fluttering like an actual bird struggling against a Texas thunderstorm, the minister thought, while watching out his window.

  He guessed he should say a prayer. Better yet, he should ask Susie to pray. She was the one with the greater faith, he thought, only half-joking to himself. In the cockpit, Jeff Blackston wrestled with the plane’s controls, while his co-pilot assisted him.

  “We’ve got to get above this, guys. Are we clear to get altitude?”

  “Yes, Captain,” the navigator said. “We’re cleared to do whatever is necessary.”

  “That’s a little bit late, looks like. We’re in the middle of it now. Don’t think I’ve seen one I couldn’t get over…or around.”

  “If we could’ve started a little earlier,” the co-pilot said, letting the thought die.

  “Yeah, it was on us too quickly,” the pilot said. “But, we’ll be okay.”

  Randall Prouse did what he always did in these situations. He watched the flight attendants’ eyes. He looked for unease, and did see concern that bordered on panic in the eyes of the stewardess who lurched from seat to seat while going to strap herself in.

  He offered his own prayer, and knew he was joined by at least two others in the plane.

  The archaeologist flew the Atlantic often, at every time of day and night, at every time of every month. He had never been in such a storm, he thought, gripping the armrests hard, and praying harder.

  It was as if they had caught up with the same weird storm that had sent them into the cave near Qumran. The storm that, despite producing horrendous rain, inexplicably left the land completely dry--as if there had never been a storm.

  The ink-black sky seemed to ignite with irresistible violence while the 707 rose and fell hundreds of feet in a matter of seconds, no matter what Blackston and his co-pilot did to try to control the aircraft.

  Passengers remained abnormally quiet, except in the moments when the bird fell hard into storm-created troughs, its fall interrupted by sudden updrafts of great power. Shrill screams, even from the stewardesses, split the air, drowned out sometimes by tremendous thunderclaps.

  The engines roared loudly with each forced inflow, each massive super-burst of storm driven -wind.

  Christopher prayed silently while he saw the pyrotechnics beyond the shuddering wing. He held Susie’s left hand tightly, watching the brilliant discharges fragment the whirling clouds of night-like darkness.

  His eyes seemed to pierce the maelstrom, his vision invading the angry vortexes just beyond the707’s wingtip. There! In the center of the wind-generated violence! Susie felt his grip tighten, and she had to remove her small hand from his, or it would be crushed.

  “What’s wrong, Chris?” she asked.

  His eyes were wide, and he paid no attention to her question.

  “Chris?” she said, louder, gripping his arm to get his attention.

  But, his mesmerized mind would not be reeled back into the plane. Not even by the woman he loved. The scene before him was apocalyptic. His brain and spirit were held fast in the supernatural conflict he witnessed.

  Gigantic, human-shaped beings clashed within the whirling storm clouds. One was black, flashing sparks of lightning-like flickers while it swung a red-hot, glowing sword. The other was a creature of spectacular light, emitting every imaginable color in electric-like discharges, wielding a sword as bright as when looking directly into the sun. When the swords met in combat, the violent atmosphere surrounding the 707 burst apart in one massive explosion, and then quickly closed again in preparation for the next clash.

  “Lord God!” Christopher said, his mouth open, his eyes wide, unblinking.

  “Chris!”

  Susie tugged at his arm, then tried to turn his face to her with her hand. His head turned again to the terrifying spectacle.

  “Chris?! What’s wrong?!”

  “Can’t you see them?” the minister asked, calmly, without emotion.

  “See what? The lightning?”

  Susie looked past him, through the window, seeing only the lightning and the blackness that rolled over the wings while it cut through the storm at 500 knots.

  “They’re trying to kill us. They want to stop us, Susie,” he said in the same unemotional tone.

  “Who?” Susie said, again looking past her husband, and seeing only the spectacular flashes of lightning.

  “But they can’t. The Lord God is our strength and fortress,” he said, seeing through supernaturally opened eyes, the gargantuans engaged in titanic battle just beyond the shuddering wing of the 707.

  Sharkton, Maine – June 23

  It was cool, almost fall-like. Lori had left her clothes in storage somewhere in San Antonio. She had nothing for such chilling weather.

  But, her mother had found a navy watch cap and a navy, heavy cotton turtleneck pullover in a box in the basement. The oversized sweater felt good, and it, with her well-worn denims, kept her warm while she walked along the steep ridge behind the old house. She stopped and looked over the Atlantic, her hands deep in the hand warmer pocket of the turtleneck.

  Laura watched her daughter from the rear-most turret window on the third floor. She smiled, seeing loose strands of Lori’s golden hair stream straight back beneath the watch cap, the stiff sea breeze bringing to land a slight sample of what autumn and winter would be like, living in Annabel Lee Mitford’s seaside home. She watched Lori kneel to pick a stone from the ground, then fling it as far as she could. Her daddy always told her she shouldn’t throw like a girl, Laura thought, another smile of nostalgia crossing her lips.

  Lori’s father had wanted a boy, of course, she thought. They all do. Girls can always come later. The first should be a boy…

  But, James would not have a baseball team full of boys in trade for his “Sunshine.”

  His first look at the baby with the straw-colored hair made him think of bright, cloudless days…of springtime, and lemon-colored butterflies on vivid-hued flowers that blanketed rich, green meadows.

  Well, she thought, maybe that was hers, not James’ vision of their baby girl. He did call her “Sunshine.”

  The name still fit, Lori’s mother thought, watching her daughter pick up another rock, and throw it like a girl toward the whitecapped Atlantic.

  Lori stood again with her hands thrust deep into the sweater’s tunnel-pocket. The cold wind stung her face and tried to but couldn’t dry the tears that kept filling her eyes and trickling over her cheeks.

  She mopped the tears with the sleeve o
f the sweater and wished for Mark. Dear Lord, she thought, please bring him back to me.

  Always the guilt came. What right did she, a sinner, have to ask God to do anything for her?

  “But, Lord, if you will bring him to me, I’ll…” She let the promise die, imagining the Almighty’s words.

  “You’ll…what?”

  Lori watched the gulls, white against the overcast skies, dive and swoop beyond the ridge, hundreds of them, sweeping toward the water in constant search of food.

  “You are there. I know you are there,” she said in words that were erased by the harsh wind.

  Robert Cooper grew more frustrated by the second. He shouted into the phone, his face reddened with his rising anger.

  “You mean we can find a single Russian spy, hiding out in a city of eight million people, but we can’t find a bunch of civilians traveling with a U-Haul nearly the size of a semi-tractor-trailer rig?!”

  He listened to the response on the other end of the line, and then interrupted the agent. “I’ll tell you something. If you don’t have a lead on these people by this afternoon, I’ll find someone who can do your job. You obviously can’t do it! Find them! Do you understand me?!”

  He slammed the receiver onto its cradle, not waiting for a response from his underling.

  The door to Gerhardt Frobe’s office opened, and a female lab technician walked in.

  “You just walk in?!” Cooper shouted, his complexion again reddening. He noticed, then, the sallow skin, the glassy eyes beneath the lab tech’s glasses. He saw the wicked grin that crossed the young woman’s face, and his blood ran cold.

  “Maybe you are the someone who will be replaced,” the woman said, starting the words with her own voice, but finishing with an echoing voice from another world.

  Cooper’s face went from hypertensive to ashen. His senses darkened, realizing the threat he faced.

  “What is the problem, Mr. Director?” the voice asked with a snicker, the words moving in and out of human and non-human intonation.

  The woman walked in front of the desk, behind which the Director of Covert Operations sat, his eyes betraying his fear.

  “Cat got your tongue, Mr. Director?” the thing possessing the woman said. The mouth of the Dimensional’s host gaped, the creature’s laughter sounding as if it issued from a cavernous abyss.

  “I’m…we’re trying to get a line on them,” Cooper said, his forehead beginning to bead sweat.

  “It’s not working,” the thing growled from deeply inside its host.

  “We will use drugs on Lansing--make him work for us in finding them. I’ll take off the velvet gloves,” Cooper said through clenched teeth, his rage again beginning to rise.

  “And, he will react like a drugged robot, you fool,” the voice of the thing possessing the young woman said. “Subtlety has always worked better for us,” it said. “Iron always goes to a magnet, bees to honey. Let us turn our bee loose, Mr. Director…see where he flies.”

  Robert Cooper, who had stood in the presence of the evilness that pervaded Gerhardt Frobe’s office, sat again in the swivel chair, removed the silk handkerchief from the pocket of his navy pinstriped suit, and mopped the perspiration from his forehead.

  The thing spoke again from within its host. “Our young friend will never expose his…true love…to us. He knows we are extorting him, to get to her, and the others. Set our bird free. He cannot resist homing in on his…true love.”

  The voice seethed with contempt and sarcasm while it instructed Cooper.

  “Subtlety, Mr. Director. Set our bird free…”

  TWA Captain Jeff Blackston looked over the cockpit gauges. Everything had settled to normal range.

  “Take it, Brian,” he said, releasing the flight control when his co-pilot had the bird firmly in hand.

  The pilot flexed his fingers and rubbed his forearms while gyrating his neck and shoulders to loosen the tensions. His body ached from more than 20 solid minutes of wrestling with the 707.

  “I’ve never seen one like that,” Blackston said, fingering the intercom switch. “Stewardess Jurgens,” he said into the mouthpiece of his headphone. “Will you come forward, please?”

  Moments later she opened the cockpit door and stuck her head inside.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “How are the passengers?” Blackston questioned, still stretching his tense muscles.

  “Some are pretty shook up. But, everyone seems okay,” she said.

  “Think we could get some coffee up here, sweetheart? Looks like clear sailing to the Apple,” the captain said.

  “Sure,” the girl said, and started to close the cabin door. She opened it again.

  “Thanks, guys…Good job,” she said, before going to get the hard-earned coffee.

  Christopher Banyon pulled his wife’s left hand to his lips and kissed it.

  “Looks like your prayers brought the sunshine again,” he said, feeling wrung out by the spectacle he had witnessed during the storm’s most furious moments.

  Susie said nothing but leaned to her left to peck him on his cheek with her lips. “The Lord is with us, Susie. If ever I doubted, I know now. I’ve seen His forces in action.”

  His wife snuggled close to his arm. “Was there ever any real doubt?” she said, at the same moment starting a silent prayer of thanks for coming through the storm safely. Susie felt a presence while her eyes were closed. She opened them wide, in surprise.

  Randall Prouse leaned forward to be heard above the engine’s whine.

  “Chris, I didn’t know what I was signing up for when I got hooked up with you,” the archaeologist joked. “Is there any way to resign from this outfit?”

  “Only if you want to be on the losing side,” the minister said, solemnly, but with facetiousness equal to that of his big friend’s.

  New York City looked good to Randall Prouse several hours later, while the 707 circled over the Atlantic in its approach to JFK. He saw the familiar part of the skyline, and the new excavation that would grow to become the World Trade Center on the lower east side of Manhattan. The construction presented a massive gouge in the earth. The planned 90-story skyscrapers would, by 1970, change the world’s greatest city for the better, he determined. But, as always, New York paled in comparison to seeing San Marcos after one of his long trips away from the Texas city … and from Ruth.

  Taos – June 24

  “You are free to take your father and go,” Cooper said, handing several pieces of paper to Mark. “Your orders have been cleared to return to Egland,” he said, turning, then, to take his seat behind the late Gerhardt Frobe’s big desk.

  Mark was stunned, and could only think to ask, “Dad…When can I see him?”

  “He’s not exactly at full health. But, they tell me he’s about as well as can be expected. He can travel, without major medical attention,” Robert Cooper said clinically. “Agent Browne will take you to him.”

  Cooper spoke into the intercom on the desk. “Agent Browne…Will you step in here, please?”

  The office door opened, and a tall agent from Covert Operations stepped into the office.

  “Will you show the major to Suite 310?”

  Mark’s reasoning returned to full functioning, while he watched the stocky Director go through the long drawer of the oak desk. Cooper withdrew a thick envelope from the drawer, then stood and walked to Mark.

  “Major, these are your father’s medical records--in brief, of course. After this many years he has a warehouse full, as you can imagine. These are all you will need. Most are classified and must remain with the Defense Department.”

  Mark took the envelope, his hatred simmering just below the surface of his emotions. He must remain calm, take full advantage of this--this what? They were just going to let them go? The thought flew in the face of everything he had learned about this man, about the clandestine service he ran. They would never just let him, and his Dad go, not without arranging to track them wherever they went.

 
“You served your nation well, Maj. Lansing. The President--we all are very proud of you and grateful to you for what you’ve done,” Cooper said, reaching his hand to Mark, who, not knowing quite what to make of it, took the hand to complete the congratulations.

  “You will see that your orders contain a 30-day leave. We insist you take it, before returning to Egland.”

  Mark started to ask why they wanted him to take the leave, to ask what they had planned for tracking him, while he blindly, foolishly led them to Lori, and the others.

  “You’ll see, too, that your government will pick up the tab for your father, any time he needs medical attention. So long as it’s at a military hospital. Except in cases of medical emergencies, when he’s not near a military facility. In that case, we’ll take care of expenses until he can be placed in a military hospital.”

  Cooper was a cool, calculating deceiver. Perfect for his brand of clandestine evil, Mark thought. While Cooper plotted to destroy his victim-to-be, he calmly pulled off the role of the typical government bureaucrat, giving a standard release-from-duty lecture.

  “You’re free to leave when you get your father. Agent Browne will brief you on military transportation, if you choose to leave the Taos area,” Cooper added.

  Mark stood silently, fingering the papers. He turned, then, to follow the agent from the room.

  He stopped and turned to look at Robert Cooper, who said with a tight-lipped smile, “Good luck, Major.”

  Chapter 17

  He sat there, stooped, wrinkled, and gray-haired, in a brown leather flight jacket. He didn’t look up when Mark approached, strange emotions running through the younger man’s mind.

  “Dad?”

  Clark Lansing looked upward, then straight ahead again. There was no hint of recognition in the older man’s age-yellowed eyes.

  Mark knelt on one knee in front of his father. He reached out to grasp him on both arms, looking into the eyes of the Dad he hadn’t seen since that day in July of 1947.