by Tim LaHaye
“That speech alone, David, virtually sealed his appointment as secretary-general and eventual leader of the new world order. He took that podium as merely a guest speaker, president of a smallish country in the eastern European bloc. The position he ascended to was not even vacant when first he opened his mouth. Yet with brilliance, charm, wit, mastery of his subject, the use of every language of the U.N., and an astounding recitation of the history of that great institution, he had the entire world eating out of his hand. I grant that had we not just suffered the global vanishings that plunged us all into a grieving, terror-filled malaise, perhaps the size of the audience would not have been appropriate for the greatness of the address. But it was as if God ordained it, and His Excellency was the perfect man for the moment.”
Fortunato’s eyes had glazed over. “Ah, it was magical,” he said. “I knew in my soul that if I ever had the privilege to contribute even in a minuscule way to the ideals and objectives of that man, I would pledge my life to him. Have you ever felt that way about someone, David?”
“I believe I can empathize with that devotion, yes sir.”
That seemed to snap Leon from his reverie. “Really,” he said. “May I ask whom?”
“Whom? You mean who I, ah, idolize enough to pledge my life to? Yeah. My Father, actually.”
“That’s beautiful, David. He must be a wonderful man.”
“Oh, he is. He’s, like, God to me.”
“Indeed? What does he do?”
“He’s creative, works with his hands.”
“But his character, that’s what inspires you.”
“More than you’ll ever know. More than I can say.”
“That’s very special. I’d love to meet him someday.”
“Oh, you will,” David said. “I’m certain you’ll meet one day, face-to-face.”
“I’ll look forward to that. But I’ve completely left my train of thought. Let me make my point and then I’ll let you go. Forgive me, but I enjoy bringing along a young loyalist with promise.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“Anyway, I would like your people to use those computers to dig out important facts about each man I am visiting, his region, its history. By knowing as much as I can and being accurate about the details, I honor them. Can you provide me with that, David? Make me look good, which makes His Excellency look good, which is good for the Global Community.”
“I’ll take it as a personal challenge, sir.”
CHAPTER 18
Stars dotted an inky sky when Albie finally skidded to a dusty stop in a deserted plain. He left the old truck’s headlights burning, illuminating a boulder next to a mature tree about a hundred yards away. Albie hopped into the bed of the truck and scampered atop the cab. He peered behind them.
“Let my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness,” he said, “and I’ll be sure we’re alone.” Satisfied, he hopped down the way he had gone up. “I used to be able to drop all the way from the top to the ground. But the ankle . . . remember?”
“The earthquake,” Rayford said.
“Not a high medical priority, all things considered.”
He motioned for Rayford to follow him to the front of the truck, where he squatted before a headlamp and reached into his paper sack. He produced a rectangular block of black metal that looked like a box. It was about ten inches long, five inches wide, and an inch and a half deep.
“Captain Steele, this is ingenious. It costs extra, but I know you will want it. Watch carefully so you can see how easily it is done. Unless you know the trick, you cannot do it. First, get the feel of this in your hands.”
Rayford took the block and was impressed with its weight and density. There were no visible seams, and the block felt solid.
“Open it,” Albie said.
Rayford turned it every which way in the light, looking for a place to get a grip, trip a switch, squeeze a spring, anything. He saw nothing.
“Try,” Albie said.
Rayford gripped the block at both ends and pulled. He pushed to see if the sides had any give. He twisted it and shook it, pressed around the edges. “I’m convinced,” he said, handing it back.
“What does it remind you of?”
“Ballast. Maybe a weight of some kind. An old computer battery?”
“What would you tell a customs agent it is when it shows up black and ugly under the radar?”
“One of the above, I guess. Probably say it’s for the computer I left at my destination last time.”
“That will work, because he will not be able to open it either. Unless he does this, and the odds are he never would.”
Holding the block before him horizontally, Albie put his left thumb in the upper left corner with his left middle finger on the back of the lower left corner. He did the opposite with his right hand, thumb on the lower right corner, middle finger on the back of the upper corner. “I am pushing gently with my thumbs, which forces my fingers to resist. When I feel a most delicate disengagement, I then slide my thumbs along the bottom edge, put my index fingers along the top edge, grip tightly, and pull. See how easily it slides apart.”
Rayford felt as if he were witnessing a magic trick from a foot away without a clue how it was accomplished. Albie had slid the block apart only an inch or so, then quickly snapped it back shut. “The seams seem to disappear because this was fashioned from a solid block of steel. Try it, Captain.”
Rayford placed his thumbs and middle fingers where Albie had. When he pressed slightly with his thumbs and felt the pressure on his fingers, he sensed an ever so slight give. He was reminded of his penny toys as a kid when he tried to make a BB drop into a shallow hole in a piece of cardboard by tilting it this way and that. It worked only when you tilted just so far but not too much.
He grasped the ends of the block as Albie had done, and the unit smoothly slid apart. In his left hand was solid steel in the shape of a large jigsaw puzzle that perfectly aligned with the heavy handgun in his right. Amazing.
“Is it loaded?”
“I was taught there’s no such thing as an unloaded gun. Many people have been killed by guns they were certain were unloaded.”
“Granted. But if I aimed and shot . . .”
“Would a bullet be fired? Yes.”
“Got anything you don’t care about that could be set atop that rock?”
“Just aim at the rock for now. It takes getting used to.”
“I was a fair marksman in the military years ago.”
“Only years? Not decades?”
“Cute. Insulted by my fence.”
“Familiarize yourself with your weapon.”
Rayford set the block on the ground and turned the gun over and over in his hand. Heavy as it was, it had excellent balance and settled easily into his palm. He worried it might be difficult to hold steady due to the weight.
“That mechanism,” Albie said, “is found in no other handgun. Only in high-powered rifles. It does not cock. It is semiautomatic. You have to pull the trigger anew for each shot, but it will fire off a round as quickly as you can release the trigger and trip it again. It is probably the loudest handgun made, and I recommend something in the ear nearest the weapon. For now, just plug your ear with your other hand.”
“I don’t see a safety.”
“There is none. You simply aim and fire. The rationale behind this piece is that you do not separate the block and produce it unless you intend to shoot it. You do not shoot it unless you intend to destroy what you are shooting. If you shoot at that rock enough times, you will destroy it. If you shoot a person in a kill zone from within two hundred feet, you will kill him. If you hit him in a neutral zone from that same distance, your ammunition will sever skin, flesh, fat, tendon, ligament, muscle, and bone and will pass through the body leaving two holes. Provided you are at least ten feet away, the soft hollow-point shell has time to spread out due to the heat of the firing explosion and the centrifugal force caused by the spinning. Rifling grooves etched in
side the barrel induce the spin. The projectile then will be roughly an inch and a half in diameter.”
“The bullet spreads into a spinning disk?”
“Exactly. And as I told you on the phone, a man missed by the projectile by two inches from thirty feet away suffered a deep laceration from the air displacement alone. Should you hit someone from between ten feet and two hundred feet, the bullet will leave an exit wound of nearly six inches in diameter, depending on what body part is expelled with it. The thin, jagged, spinning bullet bores through anything in its path, gathers the gore around it like grass in a power-mower blade, and turns itself into a larger object of destruction. During the testing of this weapon a technician was accidentally shot just above the knee from approximately twenty feet away. His leg was effectively amputated, the lower portion attached by a thin ribbon of skin on each side of the knee.”
Rayford shook his head and gazed at the ugliness in his hand. What was he thinking? That he would ever dare carry such a monstrosity, let alone use it? He would be hard pressed to justify this as a defensive weapon.
“Are you trying to talk me into this or out of it?”
Albie shrugged. “I want you satisfied with your purchase. No complaints. I said you could go cheaper. You said you wanted performance. What you do with this is your business, and I wouldn’t even want to make it mine. But I guarantee you, Captain, if you ever have to use it on someone, you won’t have to use it twice.”
“I don’t know,” Rayford said, his haunches aching from crouching. He shifted his weight, picked up the other half of the block, and held it facing the gun to see how they aligned.
“At least try it,” Albie said. “It’s an experience.”
“I’ll bet it is.”
Rayford dropped the block again, stood between the headlights, spread his legs, aimed the gun at the rock, and steadied his shooting hand at the wrist with his other hand.
Albie covered both ears, then interrupted. “You really should put something in that right ear.”
Rayford dug in his pocket for the note Albie had written. He tore a piece from it, moistened it with his tongue, and crumpled it into a small ball. He pushed it into his ear and resumed firing position. “I wish I could cock it just for timing,” he said. “It’s as if the gun’s ready and I’m not.”
“I’m not hearing you,” Albie said, too loudly. “I’m afraid you’ll shoot when I take my hands from my ears.”
The gun was only slightly closer to Rayford’s protected ear. When he squeezed the trigger, the recoil drove him back against the hood of the truck. He slid to where his seat hit the bumper, but there wasn’t enough room to hold him, and he plopped in the dirt. The explosion sounded like a bomb and then like nothing, as he was temporarily deafened and didn’t even hear the echo. Rayford was glad he had not squeezed off another round when he flopped.
Albie looked at him expectantly.
“You’re right,” Rayford said, his ear ringing. “An experience.”
“Look,” Albie said, pointing into the distance.
Rayford squinted. The rock looked none the worse for wear. “Did I hit it?”
“You hit the tree!”
Rayford could hardly believe it. The bullet had hit the trunk about eight feet off the ground, just below the branches. “I need to see this,” he said, struggling to his feet. Albie followed him as he got close enough to see that a gash had been taken out of the tree that left less than half the trunk intact. The weight of the branches finally overtook the gaping hole and the top of the tree came crashing down, bouncing off the rock.
“I’ve heard of tree surgeons,” Albie said. “But . . .”
“How many rounds does it hold?”
“Nine. Want to try again and see if you can hit what you’re aiming at?”
“I’ll have to compensate. It pulls up and to the right.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“You saw what I hit. I was aiming into the middle of the rock.”
“Pardon me, Captain, but the problem was not the gun. It was the shooter.”
“What?”
“In your profession they would call it pilot error.”
“What did I do?”
“You flinched.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did. You expected the powerful sound and action, and you caused the barrel to point up and to the right. This time, concentrate not only on not doing that, but also on planting your back foot and taking the recoil in your legs.”
“Too much to think about.”
“But try. Otherwise, you’re on the ground again and the tree has been put out of its misery.”
Rayford filled both ears this time, made sure his right leg was planted behind his left with the knee slightly bent. Indeed, he had to fight the urge to flinch as he squeezed the trigger. This time, not dazed by the sound and not driven back against the truck, his eyes were on the rock when a huge chuck of it was blown off the top. Rayford retrieved a piece at least ten inches in diameter and three inches thick.
“Who makes this thing, anyway?”
“Those who need to know, know.”
“There’s no signage on it,” Rayford said. “What do they call it?”
“People who know the weapon have nicknamed it the Saber.”
“Why?”
Albie shrugged. “Probably because the other piece could be called a sheath. When it’s pieced together it’s like a sword in its sheath.”
Albie showed him how to reassemble the block, returned it to the sack, and drove him back toward the marketplace.
“Needless to say, I don’t carry that kind of cash,” Rayford said.
“I got it on consignment. Can you get it to me in two weeks?”
“It’ll come from Mac.”
“Good enough. . . . Uh-oh.”
Rayford looked up. The road into the crowded commercial area was blocked by GC Peacekeepers, lights flashing. Albie took to the side streets. As he drew within sight of the café he stopped abruptly and sighed. Rayford sat forward, his head touching the windshield. The crowd was in the street, the café empty save for the table where Rayford and Albie had left the Tuttles.
Trudy sat in the same pose as when they had left, head nestled in her forearms on the table. But a huge chunk was missing from the back of her head and her arms were covered with blood that still dripped from the table.
Next to her, facing Rayford, sat the big, blond, freckle-faced Dwayne. His head had fallen back and his arms hung at his sides, palms up, thumbs pointing out. His forehead bore a neat round hole and his chair rested in a pool of his blood.
Rayford grabbed the door handle, but Albie’s fingers dug into his arm like talons. “You can do nothing for them, friend. Don’t reveal yourself to your enemies. Lend me your phone.”
In a daze, Rayford handed it to him, then pounded his fists into the dash as Albie backed out of the area and drove across the sand. He spoke quickly in his native tongue, then slapped the phone shut and set it on the seat next to Rayford.
Rayford could not stop pounding. His head throbbed, the heels of his hands shot through with pain. His teeth were clenched and a buzz had invaded his brain. He felt as if his head might explode. Instinct told him to pray, but he could not. His strength left him as if he had opened a drainpipe and let it escape. He slumped in the seat.
“Listen carefully to me,” Albie said. “You know whoever did that is after you. They will be lying in wait at the airport and there’ll likely be a fighter or two in the air somewhere. Can you fly that plane?”
“Yes.”
“I told my man there to announce that due to winds and curfews in surrounding areas he was shutting down the airport. He will give people ten minutes to leave before turning off the runway lights. He tells me no one is near your plane, but that the airport is busier than normal with pedestrian traffic. The place will be dark and hopefully empty by the time we get there. Still, to be safe, I will let you out before I enter the tower. Stay in t
he darkness until you reach the plane. When I hear your engines, I will light the runway for you.”
Rayford could not speak, not even to thank Albie. Here was a man who was not even a believer. But he was an enemy of Carpathia and willing to do anything to thwart him. He didn’t know Rayford’s situation and told him repeatedly he didn’t want to know. But he was risking his own life by trying to get Rayford into the air, and Rayford would never forget it.
They were within sight of the airport when the lights went off and a short line of cars snaked out of the lot. Albie stopped and nodded that Rayford should go, pointing wide to the right around the airfield, which was now a sea of blackness. Rayford grabbed the bag and started to leave, but Albie caught him and took the block out. He opened the gun and handed Rayford both pieces. He poured extra ammunition into his palm and stuffed it in Rayford’s pocket.
“Just in case,” he said, stuffing the bag beneath the seat.
Fury had again constricted Rayford’s throat, and he could not emit a sound. He slipped the gun in one pocket and the block in another, gathered up his phone, and thrust out his hand toward Albie. They squeezed hard and Albie said, “I know. Now go.”
Rayford loped across the sand and scrub grass in the darkness, hearing his own panting. When finally his vocal chords loosened, he moaned with each breath. Then he emitted a closed-mouth growl so loud and fierce that it dizzied him, and he nearly tumbled. He was within a hundred feet of the plane when he heard footsteps angling toward him and a shout. “Rayford Steele! Halt! GC Peacekeeper!”
Rayford gave off a guttural, “No!” and kept moving, reaching into his pocket for the gun.
“You’re under arrest!”
He kept moving.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Rayford felt that tingle in his back. Had it really been that very morning that he had eluded another GC gun? He whirled, his own weapon raised.
The faint light from the road in the distance silhouetted the GC man, closing on him, weapon aimed.
Rayford stopped. “Don’t make me shoot you!” he screamed, but the man kept coming. Rayford fired at his feet, hitting the ground a yard in front of the man.
