by Tim LaHaye
“Liv,” she said, “and you all need immediate attention.”
“’Oo might you be?” Dart demanded of Fortunato.
“I am Supreme Commander Leon For—”
“That’s what I figured,” Dart said. “It’s too early for your boss to be dead, so I won’t ask if he’s on board that fireball out there.”
“Thankfully not,” Fortunato said.
“So what happened, the horsemen get you?”
“Oh, you’re one of those?” Fortunato said. “You see them too?”
“Sure do.”
“Dart,” his wife said softly, “we need to get them some help.”
“Yeah, I guess we better,” he said. “But I don’t mind tellin’ ya, I feel like I’m aidin’ and abettin’ the enemy. Personally, I’d leave you to die, but God’s gonna get you in the end anyway. Read the Book. We win.”
Fortunato turned on him. “You could be imprisoned for speaking disrespectfully of—”
“By the way, Mr. F.—you don’t mind me callin’ you Mr. F., do ya, because I’m gonna anyway—what’s yer major complaint? You look to be ambulatin’ all right.”
“You are required by law, sir, to refer to me as Su—”
“Let me tell you something, Mr. F. I don’t live under your laws no more. I answer to God. You can’t do a thing to me he dud’n allow, so take your best shot. Your man here sent up a Mayday, pretended believers were in trouble, the wife and I were intrigued believers might be on board the Antichrist’s own plane, so we—”
“Antichrist’s?! To refer to His Excellency, Potentate Nic—”
“You don’t get it yet, do you, F.? I think he’s the Antichrist, and you know what that makes you.”
“I’m not a student of that folderol, but I would advise you to—”
“Don’t need any advice there, mate, but I can get you some medical help. Looks like your biggest complaint is some torn suit pants and a coupla owies on your hands. These boys here need some real help.”
“Honestly, I—”
“There’s a medical office in the wing behind this one, and with your clout you oughta be able to pull somebody away from all the other victims.”
An announcement came over the public address system. “Attention! Attention please! Global Community Supreme Commander Leon Fortunato please report to GC Peacekeeping Forces headquarters in Wing B.”
As the announcement was repeated, Dart said, “That’s right next door to the infirmary, Mr. F. How ’bout you go on ahead and we’ll get your comrades here to the doctors.”
“I should have you arrested, you—”
“If that’s your priority right now, you go right ahead. But if I was you, I’d run to safety and let these boys get patched up. There’ll be plenty of time for chasin’ us once you’ve caught your breath.”
Fortunato’s face and neck flushed, and he looked as if he might burst. He turned to Mac. “No doubt His Excellency has provided assistance for us.”
“You should go on ahead, Commander,” Mac said. “Find out about Rehoboth, check in with Carp—, with the potentate.”
“I don’t trust this man.”
“Aw, c’mon, Mr. F. I’m harmless as a dove. Much as I’d like to kill a couple of your staff, I promise I won’t. We’ll get ’em where they’re goin’ and be on our way.”
Dart gently pushed Fortunato away from Abdullah and stuck his head under the Jordanian’s arm. Liv grabbed Mac’s belt with one hand and his left elbow with the other, leaving Fortunato free to go.
“You, sir,” Fortunato said as he reluctantly strode on ahead, “are a disgrace to the Global Community.”
“We’ll wear that one as a badge of honor, won’t we, Liv?”
“Oh, Dart,” she said.
“Thanks for not giving us away,” Mac said when Leon was out of earshot.
“Inside saints,” Dart said, his accent now Southern U.S., more like Mac’s. “I couldn’t believe it. I almost blew it. I saw yours and the little guy’s marks and figured the big man might be with us too. As soon as I saw him I knew who he was and had to cover.”
“It was brilliant,” Mac said, introducing himself and Abdullah.
“And how’d you like Dart and Olivia?” Dart said.
“That even threw me,” Liv said.
“You covered perfectly, honey,” Dart said. “‘Liv’ was a stroke of genius.”
They introduced themselves as Dwayne and Trudy Tuttle from Oklahoma. “I change the flag and motto on that plane every few days. We’ve been Germans, Norwegians, Brits. We’re with the International Commodity Co-op. Heard of it?”
“If big-mouth here doesn’t get us killed,” Trudy said.
“Never thought I’d get a chance to tell the False Prophet what I thought of him to his face.”
“The False Prophet?” Mac said. “Leon?”
“Claims Carpathia raised him from the dead, didn’t he? Worships the guy, calls him His Excellency. You watch and see if it doesn’t turn out that way. So, what’s your story? You infiltrate, or find Jesus after you were already with the GC?”
Buck looked in the mirror. His facial scars were still red and prominent more than a year after his injuries. The surgery he’d found in a makeshift Jerusalem clinic may have been better than he expected, but there was no hiding his disfigurement. Chloe appeared behind him and handed Kenny to him. “Stop thinking that,” she said.
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb. You think you can use your new face to your advantage.”
“Of course,” Buck said.
He wondered if handing him the baby was her way of making him want to stay put. But they had been through this before too. She had accepted that her frontline globe-trotting was over. She wasn’t about to drag a baby into danger, much as she wanted to be where the action was. Her running the Commodity Co-op was crucial not only to the Tribulation Force, but also to the millions of new believers who would soon have no other source for trade.
Chloe had told Buck she wished he could be content with his behind-the-scenes work, countering the propaganda of Global Community Weekly with his own The Truth. But with the new technology provided by David Hassid, Buck could do that from anywhere without being traced. The expansion of the cellar was nearly finished, and Buck felt needed in so many other places.
They had also discussed his responsibility to the baby. Sure, this was different from normal child rearing, knowing that Kenny’s real growing-up years would be in Christ’s earthly kingdom. Still, it was important for a young child to have both parents present as much as possible. Buck had argued that though he might be gone two to three weeks at a time, when he was home he was home twenty-four hours a day. “It’s a wash,” he’d say. “I’d net the same hours with him as I would if I were working away from home.”
Buck took the baby to the kitchen and Chloe followed him. “You’ve got that look in your eye,” she said. “A few more days cooped up here and there’ll be no stopping you. Where you going?”
“You know me too well,” he said. “Truth is, Tsion wants someone to go back to Israel. Check in on Chaim. He’s encouraged by the e-mails they trade, but he believes someone has to be there face-to-face before the old man will make his decision.”
Chloe shook her head. “I want to disagree, but I can’t. Daddy can’t risk it. He’s got it in his head to track down Hattie before she blows our cover or gets herself killed. Tsion certainly can’t go. I don’t know what the world would do without him. I know God has everything under control and I suppose he could raise up someone like he did to replace Bruce, but—”
“I know. We ought to be hiring armed guards and moving him out of sight.”
“When are you going, Buck?”
She had a way of cutting to the chase.
“Tsion wants to talk to you about it.”
She smiled. “Like having a friend ask your parents for a favor? He thinks I can’t turn him down.”
“Well, can you?”
She
snorted. “I can’t even turn you down. But if you get yourself killed, I’ll hate you for the rest of my life.”
“Thought I’d go see Zeke after dark.”
She reached for Kenny. “That’s what I thought. Stock up on stuff for the baby. I’ll make a list of other stuff we need. Talk to Leah too. She says we’re low on some basics.”
That night Buck rolled into a dilapidated one-pump gas station in what had once been downtown Des Plaines. Believers knew the station as a source for fuel, foodstuffs, and assorted sundries. Zeke managed the place with Zeke Jr.—who went by Z—a middle-twenties longhair covered with tattoos. He had made his living tattooing, pinstriping cars and trucks, and airbrushing monsters and muscle cars onto T-shirts. He also airbrushed the occasional mural on the side of an 18-wheeler. That business, needless to say, had dried up long ago.
The Zekes had lost the Mrs. and two teenage daughters in a fire resulting from the disappearances. They had been led to Christ by a long-haul trucker. Zeke and his son now attended an underground meeting of believers in Arlington Heights, carefully keeping their faith hidden from unbelievers so they could serve as a major supplier and helper. Z had been a no-account druggie whose on-again off-again tattooing and art merely financed his daily high. Now he was the emotional, soft-spoken artist behind most of the fake IDs local Christians used to survive.
Zeke was filling the tank of Buck’s Rover and watching for strangers or customers without the mark of God on their foreheads. “Need some stuff,” Buck said. “Including Z’s handiwork.”
“Gotcha,” Zeke said. “He’s down there watchin’ TV and doin’ his Ben-Judah study. Lemme have your list. I’ll drive your rig into the garage and load it for ya.”
Buck got out to venture inside when another car pulled in behind his. “You got enough to fill me?” the man called out. “Or are you rationing today?”
“I can handle it,” Zeke said. “Let me get this transmission job on the rack and I’ll be right with you.”
Buck empathized with the daily tension of living a lie just to stay alive. He moseyed inside, which to unknowing eyes looked a typical greasy station. Brand-name calendars, pictures of cars, an oily phone book, everything dingy. A panel in the tiny washroom, however, was a ruse. The sign said, Danger. High Voltage. Do Not Touch. And a low-level buzz in the fingers awaited anyone who doubted it.
That, however, was the extent of the danger. Knowing where to push and slide the panel opened one into a wooden staircase that led to Zeke’s own shelter, fashioned out of the earth beneath and behind the station. Deep in the back, Zeke would fill Buck’s list and transport the goods up a rickety staircase into the garage, where he would transfer them to the Rover. In a cozy though windowless and cool earthen room dominated by an oversized ventilation shaft sat the fleshy Z, wearing black cowboy boots, black jeans, and a black leather vest over bare arms and chest. As Zeke had said, Z was watching the news while scribbling notes on a dog-eared spiral notebook with his laptop open.
“Hey, Buck,” Z said flatly, putting his stuff away and slowly rising. “What can I do ya for?”
“Need a new identity.”
Z squatted behind a sagging lime green couch and swung open a noisy two-drawer filing cabinet that was clearly off its track. He finger-walked his way through about ten files and yanked them out. When the door wouldn’t shut all the way, Z resorted to slamming it with his boot. Papers stuck out of the tightly jammed drawer, and Z smiled sheepishly at Buck.
“Choose yer pick,” he said, fanning the folders onto the couch.
Buck sat and looked at each folder under the lamp. Z’s filing system may have been makeshift, but he sure knew where everything was. Each folder had vital statistics on white males approximately Buck’s size and age. “Inventory’s getting bigger,” Buck said.
Z nodded, his eyes on the TV again. “These smokin’ horses are leavin’ bodies everywhere. You seen ’em suckers?”
“Not yet. Sound scary.”
“Yep. ’Salmost too easy, though. All I got to do is get the wallets before the GC gets the body. Gives people a lot more to choose from.”
“This guy,” Buck said, putting an open folder at the top of the stack and handing it to Z.
Z tossed the extras behind the couch and studied the file as he set up his camera. Buck sat before a plain blue background and posed for straight-ons and profiles. “Thought of you when I seen him,” Z said. “Driver’s license, passport, citizen’s card, anything else?”
“Yeah, make me a card-carrying member of Enigma Babylon Faith. And an organ donor. Why not?”
“Can do. Fast-track?”
“Couple of days?” Buck said.
“Easy.”
By the time Buck found Zeke and exited through the garage, he knew Z was plying his trade under a magnifying light in the other room. The next time Buck ventured out in public, he would carry authentic-looking, well-used identification documents with his new face in place of that of the deceased Greg North.
Mac had never enjoyed such medical attention. While Johannesburg seemed in disarray, thousands of citizens dead or dying, Fortunato’s clout opened every door. Regional GC Peacekeeping Forces swept in on Carpathia’s own authority and took charge of Rehoboth’s palace. He was discovered dead in his office, along with dozens more of his staff.
Mac and Abdullah had been examined and prepped at the airport infirmary, then transported to the palace for surgery. Leon told them, “You’ll also hear that Rehoboth’s family was wiped out by the smoke and fire plague. But the smell of GC gunfire may still hang in the air.”
As Mac and Abdullah were wheeled into the palace, the bodies of Rehoboth’s various families were wheeled out. “The news will be clear that Rehoboth failed in an assassination attempt, but we will likely explain the family deaths as plague related. Our enemies will know the truth.”
“And Ngumo?” Mac asked.
“Oh, dead, of course. And his secretary, as you said. Rehoboth masterminded that and engineered it from his office. Ngumo was eliminated, Rehoboth’s impostor/assassins were put in place, and Rehoboth was ready to take over once His Excellency was dead.”
Mac underwent several hours of surgery by a hand specialist, had major work done on his shoulder, and doctors also redressed his scalp and ear wounds. After several hours of anesthetized sleep, he awoke on his left side, facing Abdullah’s bed. His first officer’s leg was bandaged and elevated. Abdullah pointed to a jar on his bedstand. It contained a mangled bullet that had been dug from his quadriceps.
“Much damage,” Abdullah said. “But not life threatening.”
Mac’s heavily bandaged shoulder was still numb. His right hand, thickly gauze-wrapped and shaped like a gun, rested on his side.
A GC doctor, a native of India, entered the recovery room. “I was told you were waking,” he said. “Successful surgery on three major areas. Your head was the least of it and will heal first. The shoulder will have considerable scarring, but only bullet fragments needed to be removed, and there was no structural damage. You will feel nerve numbness and may have limited mobility. Your hand was saved, fingers intact. This will cause you much discomfort for many weeks, and you will likely require therapy to learn to use it. The ring and middle fingers will be stationary and stiff. We have curved them into a permanent position. The little finger will have no use. You may get limited use from the index finger, but no promises. The thumb will not bend.”
“If I can grip the controls with one finger, poke buttons, and flip switches, I can fly again,” Mac said.
“I agree,” the doctor said. “You were most fortunate.”
Fortunato visited. “You will be pleased to know that you both will be receiving the highest award for bravery given by the Global Community,” he said. “The Golden Circle, the potentate’s prize for valor, will be presented by His Excellency himself as thanks for saving my life.”
Neither Mac nor Abdullah responded.
“Well, I know you’re pleased an
d that only your modesty prohibits you from feeling worthy. Now rest. You will recuperate and rehabilitate here as long as necessary, then you will be transported to New Babylon by your former first officer in the new Global One.”
“How long will it take to build that?” Mac asked, knowing Fortunato had no clue how long it took to manufacture an airplane.
“It will be painted tomorrow,” he said. “Peter the Second has graciously consented to make it a gift to His Excellency. Affairs of state will not be interrupted by this dark episode. The new regional potentate of the U.S. of Africa—a loyalist handpicked by Potentate Carpathia himself—will be installed within the week.”
Buck drove home with a vehicle full of supplies, a full tank of gas, and a preoccupation about Mac and Abdullah. The radio was full of news of the insurrection and death of Bindura Rehoboth. GC casualties had included a cook and two aides, but accounts of the destruction of Global Community One left Buck wondering. He called home, pleased to discover that Rayford had heard from David and that their compatriots were worse for wear but alive.
A week later David and Annie sat in the Personnel office at the Global Community palace. The personnel director held David’s memo. “So the bottom line, Mr. Hassid, is that you take responsibility for Ms. Christopher’s breach of procedure protocol?”
David nodded. “I should have told her something that basic.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Why is it the department head’s responsibility when the subordinate has a procedure manual?”
David shifted. “Annie—Ms. Christopher—may have been distracted by a romantic interest on the part of a coworker.”
The director looked over the top of his glasses. “Really,” he said, more statement than question. “That hardly excuses the violation. Are you interested in pursuing this relationship, Ms. Christopher?”
“Very much.”
“And this coworker is in your department?”
