by Tim LaHaye
“Will that affect your meetings?” Rayford said, trying to sound casual.
“I don’t see how it concerns you one way or the other. We can easily meet on the plane while it is being refueled. You can keep the air-conditioning on, right?”
“Sure,” Rayford said, trying to think quickly, “there is still a lot I’d like to teach myself about this craft. I’ll stay in the cockpit or in my quarters and keep out of your way.”
“See that you do.”
Buck checked in with Donny Moore, who said he had found some incredible deals on individual components and was putting together the five mega-laptops himself. “That’ll save you a little money,” he said. “Just a little over twenty thousand apiece, I figure.”
“And I can have these when I get back from a trip, on Sunday?”
“Guaranteed, sir.”
Buck told key people at Global Community Weekly his new satellite phone number and asked that they keep it confidential except from Carpathia, Plank, and Rosenzweig. Buck carefully packed his one big, leather shoulder bag and spent the rest of the day working on Bruce’s transcripts and trying to reach Rosenzweig. The old man had seemed to be trying to tell him, not in so many words, that he knew Dr. Ben-Judah was alive and safe somewhere. He just hoped Rosenzweig had followed his advice and was keeping Carpathia out of the picture. Buck had no idea where Tsion Ben-Judah might be hiding out. But if Rosenzweig knew, Buck wanted to talk with him before he and Ken Ritz hit the ground at Ben Gurion Airport.
How long, he wondered, before he and his loved ones would be hiding out in the shelter under the church?
Security was tight at Baghdad. Rayford had been instructed not to communicate with the tower there so as not to allow enemy aircraft to know where they were. Rayford was convinced that the retaliatory strikes by Global Community forces in London and Cairo, not to mention North America, would have kept all but the suicidal out of Iraq. However, he did what he was told.
Leon Fortunato communicated by phone with both Baghdad and New Babylon towers. Rayford phoned ahead to be sure there was a place he and McCullum could stretch their legs and relax inside the terminal. Despite his years of flying, there came certain points even for him when he became claustrophobic aboard a plane.
A ring of heavily armed GC soldiers surrounded the plane as it slowly rolled to a stop at the most secure end of the Baghdad terminal. The six-member crew of stewards and flight attendants were the first to get off. Fortunato waited until Rayford and McCullum had run through their postflight checklist. He got off with them. “Captain Steele,” he said, “I will be bringing the three other ambassadors back on board within the hour.”
“And when would you like to leave for New Babylon?”
“Probably not for another four hours or so.”
“International aviation rules prohibit me from flying again for twenty-four hours.”
“Nonsense,” Fortunato said. “How do you feel?”
“Exhausted.”
“Nevertheless, you’re the only one qualified to fly this plane, and you’ll be flying it when we say you’ll be flying it.”
“So international aviation rules go out the window?”
“Steele, you know that international rules on everything are embodied in the man sitting on that plane. When he wants to go to New Babylon, you’ll fly him to New Babylon. Understood?”
“And if I refuse?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Let me remind you, Leon, that once I’ve gotten a break, I’ll want to be on that plane, familiarizing myself with all its details.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just stay out of our way. And I would appreciate it if you would refer to me as Mr. Fortunato.”
“That means a lot to you, does it, Leon?”
“Don’t push me, Steele.”
As they entered the terminal, Rayford said, “As I am the only one who can fly that plane, I would appreciate it if you would call me Captain Steele.”
Late in the afternoon, Chicago time, Buck broke from the fascinating reading of Bruce Barnes’s writing and finally got through to Chaim Rosenzweig.
“Cameron! I have finally talked live with our mutual friend. Let us not mention his name on the phone. He did not speak to me long, but he sounded so empty and hollow that it moved me to my very soul. It was a strange message, Cameron. He simply said that you would know whom to talk with about his whereabouts.”
“That I would know?”
“That’s what he said, Cameron. That you would know. Do you suppose he means N.C.?”
“No! No! Chaim, I’m still praying you’re keeping him out of this.”
“I am, Cameron, but it is not easy! Who else can intercede for the life of my friend? I am frantic that the worst will happen, and I will feel responsible.”
“I’m coming there. Can you arrange a car for me?”
“Our mutual friend’s car and driver are available, but dare I trust him?”
“Do you think he had anything to do with the trouble?”
“I should think he had more to do with getting our friend to safety.”
“Then he is probably in danger,” Buck said.
“Oh, I hope not,” Rosenzweig said. “Anyway, I will meet you at the airport myself. Somehow we will get you where you need to go. Can I arrange a room for you somewhere?”
“You know where I’ve always stayed,” Buck said, “but I think I’d better stay somewhere else this time.”
“Very well, Cameron. There’s a nice hotel within driving distance of your usual, and I am known there.”
Rayford stretched and stood watching the Cable News Network/Global Community Network television broadcast originating in Atlanta and beamed throughout the world. It was clear Carpathia had completely effected his will and spin onto the news directors at every venue. While the stories carried the horrifying pictures of war, bloodshed, injury, and death, each also spoke glowingly of the swift and decisive action of the potentate in responding to the crisis and crushing the rebellion. Water supplies had been contaminated, power was out in many areas, millions were instantly homeless.
Rayford noticed activity outside the terminal. A dolly carrying television equipment, including a camera, were wheeled toward the Condor 216. Soon enough, CNN/GCN announced the impending live television broadcast from Potentate Carpathia at an unknown location. Rayford shook his head and went to a desk in the corner, where he found stationery from a Middle Eastern airline and began composing a letter to Earl Halliday’s wife.
Logic told Rayford he should not feel responsible. Apparently Halliday had been cooperating with Carpathia and his people on the Condor 216 long before Rayford was even aware of it. However, there would be no way Mrs. Halliday would know or understand anything except that it appeared Rayford had led his old friend and boss directly to his death. Rayford didn’t even know yet how Earl had been killed. Perhaps everyone on his flight to Glenview had perished. All he knew was that the deed had been done, and Earl Halliday was no more. As he sat trying to compose a letter with words that could never be right, he felt a huge, dark cloud of depression begin to settle on him. He missed his wife. He missed his daughter. He grieved over his pastor. He mourned the loss of friends and acquaintances, new and old. How had it come to this?
Rayford knew he was not responsible for what Nicolae Carpathia meted out against his enemies. The terrible, dark judgment on the earth rendered by this evil man would not stop if Rayford merely quit his job. Hundreds of pilots could fly this plane. He himself had learned in half an hour. He didn’t need the job, didn’t want the job, didn’t ask for the job. Somehow, he knew God had placed him there. For what? Was this surprising bugging of the intercom system by Earl Halliday a gift directly from God that allowed Rayford to somehow protect a few from the wrath of Carpathia?
Already he believed it had saved his daughter and son-in-law from certain death in the Chicago bombings, and now, as he looked at television reports from America’s West Coast, he wished there had
been something he could have done to have warned people in San Francisco and Los Angeles of their impending doom. He was fighting an uphill battle, and in himself he didn’t have the strength to carry on.
He finished the brief note of condolence and regret to Mrs. Halliday, lowered his head to his arms on the desk, felt a lump in his throat, but was unable to produce tears. He knew he could cry twenty-four hours a day from now until the end of the Tribulation, when his pastor had promised that Christ would return yet again in what Bruce had called “the Glorious Appearing.” How he longed for that day! Would he or his loved ones survive to see it, or would they be “tribulation martyrs,” as Bruce had been? At times like this Rayford wished for some quick, painless death that would take him directly to heaven to be with Christ. It was selfish, he knew. He wouldn’t really want to leave those he loved and who loved him, but the prospect of five more years of this was nearly unbearable.
And now came a brief address from Global Community Potentate Nicolae Carpathia. Rayford knew he was sitting within two hundred feet of the man, and yet he watched it on television, as did millions of others across the globe.
It was nearly time for Buck to head for Palwaukee Airport. Verna Zee was back at the Global Community Weekly office with the new (to her) used car Buck had promised to buy her from the fleet of leftovers from New Hope. Loretta was at the church office fielding the constant phone calls about Sunday’s memorial service. Chloe hobbled around on a cane, needing crutches but unable to manage them with her sprained wrist in a sling. That left Amanda to take Buck to the airport.
“I want to ride along,” Chloe said.
“Are you sure you’re up to it, hon?” Buck said.
Chloe’s voice was quavery. “Buck, I hate to say it, but in this day and age we never know when we might or might not ever see each other again.”
“You’re being a little maudlin, aren’t you?” he said.
“Buck!” Amanda said in a scolding tone. “You cater to her feelings now. I had to kiss my husband good-bye in front of the Antichrist. You think that gives me confidence about whether I’ll ever see him again?”
Buck was properly chastised. “Let’s go,” he said. He jogged out to the Range Rover and swung his bag into the back, returning quickly to help Chloe to the car. Amanda sat in the backseat and would drive Chloe home later.
Buck was amazed that the built-in TV had survived Chloe’s crash. He was not in a position to see it, but he listened as Amanda and Chloe watched. Nicolae Carpathia, in his usual overly humble manner, was holding forth:
“Make no mistake, my brothers and sisters, there will be many dark days ahead. It will take tremendous resources to begin the rebuilding process, but because of the generosity of the seven loyal global regions and with the support of those citizens in the other three areas who were loyal to the Global Community and not to the insurrectionists, we are amassing the largest relief fund in the history of mankind. This will be administered to needy nations from New Babylon and the Global Community headquarters under my personal supervision. With the chaos that has resulted from this most sinister and unwise rebellion, local efforts to rebuild and care for the displaced will likely be thwarted by opportunists and looters. The relief effort carried out under the auspices of the Global Community will be handled in a swift and generous way that will allow as many loyal members of the Global Community as possible to return to their prosperous standard of living.
“Continue to resist naysayers and insurrectionists. Continue to support the Global Community. And remember that though I did not seek this position, I accept it with gravity and with resolve to pour out my life in service to the brotherhood and sisterhood of mankind. I appreciate your support as we set about to sacrificially stand by each other and pull ourselves out of this morass and to a higher plane than any of us could reach without the help of the other.”
Buck shook his head. “He sure tells ’em what they wanna hear, doesn’t he?”
Chloe and Amanda were silent.
Rayford told First Officer McCullum to hang loose and be ready to depart for New Babylon whenever they were asked. He guessed it would be several hours yet. “But, at least stay available,” Rayford told him.
When Rayford boarded the plane, ostensibly to familiarize himself better with all the new whistles and bells, he went first to the pilot’s quarters, noticing that Carpathia and his aides were merely greeting and small-talking with the seven loyal ambassadors to the Global Community.
When Rayford moved from his quarters into the cockpit, he noticed Fortunato look up. He whispered something to Carpathia. Carpathia agreed, and the entire meeting was moved back one compartment in the middle of the aircraft. “This will be more comfortable anyway,” Carpathia was saying. “There is a nice conference table in here.”
Rayford shut the cockpit door and locked it. He pulled out pre- and postflight checklists and put them on a clipboard with other blank sheets, just to make it look good in case someone knocked. He sat in his chair, applied his headphones, and hit the intercom button.
The Middle Eastern ambassador was speaking. “Dr. Rosenzweig sends his most heartfelt and loyal greetings to you, Potentate. There is an urgent personal matter he wants me to share with you.”
“Is it confidential?” Carpathia said.
“I don’t believe so, sir. It concerns Rabbi Tsion Ben-Judah.”
“The scholar who has been creating such a furor with his controversial message?”
“One and the same,” the Middle Eastern ambassador said. “Apparently his wife and two stepchildren have been murdered by zealots, and Dr. Ben-Judah himself is in hiding somewhere.”
“He should have expected no better,” Nicolae said.
Rayford shuddered as he always did when Carpathia’s voice waxed grave.
“I couldn’t agree with you more, Potentate,” the ambassador said. “I can’t believe those zealots let him slip through their fingers.”
“So, what does Rosenzweig want from me?”
“He wants you to intercede on Ben-Judah’s behalf.”
“With whom?”
“I suppose with the zealots,” the ambassador said, bursting into laughter.
Rayford recognized Carpathia’s laughter as well, and soon the others joined in.
“OK, gentlemen, calm down,” Carpathia said. “Perhaps what I should do is accede to Dr. Rosenzweig’s request and speak directly with the head of the zealot faction. I would give him my full blessing and support and perhaps even supply some technology that would help him find his prey and eliminate him with dispatch.”
The ambassador responded, “Seriously, Potentate, how shall I respond to Dr. Rosenzweig?”
“Stall him for a while. Be hard to reach. Then tell him that you have not found the proper moment to raise the issue with me. After an appropriate lapse, tell him I have been too busy to pursue it. Finally, you can tell him that I have chosen to remain neutral on the subject.”
“Very good, sir.”
But Carpathia was not neutral. He had just begun to warm to the subject. Rayford heard the squeak of a leather seat and imagined Carpathia leaning forward to speak earnestly to his cadre of international henchmen. “But let me tell you this, gentlemen. A person such as Dr. Ben-Judah is much more dangerous to our cause than an old fool like Rosenzweig. Rosenzweig is a brilliant scientist, but he is not wise in the ways of the world. Ben-Judah is more than a brilliant scholar. He has the ability to sway people, which would not be a bad thing if he served our cause. But he wants to fill his countrymen’s minds with this blather about the Messiah having already returned. How anyone can still insist on taking the Bible literally and interpreting its prophecies in that light is beyond me, but tens of thousands of converts and devotees have sprung up in Israel and around the world due to his preaching at Teddy Kollek Stadium and in other huge venues. People will believe anything. And when they do, they are dangerous. Ben-Judah’s time is short, and I will not stand in the way of his demise. Now, let us get
down to business.”
Rayford pulled up the top two sheets on his clipboard and began to take notes, as Carpathia outlined immediate plans.
“We must act swiftly,” he was saying, “while the people are most vulnerable and open. They will look to the Global Community for help and aid, and we will give it to them. However, they will give it to us first. We had an enormous storehouse of income before the rebuilding of Babylon. We will need much more to effect our plan of raising the level of Third World countries so that the entire globe is on equal footing. I tell you, gentlemen, I was so excited and full of ideas last night that I could not sit down for our takeoff out of San Francisco. I was nearly thrown into this room from the forward cabin when we started down the runway. Here is what I was thinking about:
“You all have been doing a wonderful job of moving to the one-world currency. We are close to a cashless society, which can only help the Global Community administration. Upon your return to your respective areas, I would like you to announce, simultaneously, the initiation of a ten-cent tax on all electronic money transfers. When we get to the totally cashless system, you can imagine that every transaction will be electronic. I estimate that this will generate more than one and a half trillion dollars annually.
“I am also initiating a one-dollar-per-barrel tax on oil at the well, plus a ten-cents-per-gallon tax at the pump on gasoline. My economic advisers tell me this could net us more than half a trillion dollars every year. You knew the time would come for a tax to the Global Community on each area’s gross national product. That time has come. While the insurrectionists from Egypt, Great Britain, and North America have been devastated militarily, they must also be disciplined with a 50 percent tax on their GNP. The rest of you will pay 30 percent.
“Now do not give me those looks, gentlemen. You understand that everything you pay in will be returned to you in multiplied benefits. We are building a new global community. Pain is part of the process. The devastation and death of this war will blossom into a utopia unlike any the world has ever seen. And you will be in the forefront of it. Your countries and regions will benefit, and you personally most of all.
