by Tim LaHaye
“So,” Rayford said, “all the benefits of the Trib Force, but none of the responsibilities.”
“Oh, they’ll pay,” Chloe said. “They’ll work. They’ll travel. They’ll exchange all kinds of things for food and necessities, just like any other co-op members. It’s not like they should owe us rent on a building we don’t own.”
“They’ve made a point about not answering to us?”
“No, I’m making that point. Is it a requirement that they be subordinate to you?”
“That’s not it at all, Chloe. We just don’t have time for squabbles, lack of organization, confusion about responsibility.”
Tsion held up a hand. “These are wonderful brothers and sisters, Captain Steele. I believe they will be a vibrant addition to the building and that we should take it a step at a time. See how it works while you and I are gone. I would not recommend using anyone new on this trip.”
Chloe shook her head. “It’s already been decided that it’s you and Tsion?”
“No—”
“What’s the point of a meeting about it if—”
“I said no, Chloe. Yes, Tsion and I are going. But others will go.”
“Me included, I hope.”
Rayford stared at her. “I might have hoped the same before you risked exposing us.”
Chloe stood. “I don’t believe this,” she said. “The co-op can’t go on without me? Buck can’t watch Kenny?”
Rayford looked to Buck, not wanting to be parental when Chloe’s husband was right there. “Careful, Chloe,” he said. “Daughter or not, there’s protocol.”
Buck reached up and took her hand. “Don’t talk yourself out of an interesting assignment,” he said.
“I’m not looking for interesting,” she said. “I’m looking for crucial.”
“How does Greece sound?” Rayford said, and she sat. “I’m going to Petra with Tsion. I’ll have a new look and a new name. As soon as the GC recognizes that I’m not Buck, we’re guessing their attention will be on Tsion anyway. We need another flyer for insurance over there, so Abdullah will go. I wanted you and Hannah to go to Greece. You’re the least exposed people we have, at least until we know for sure whether the GC still suspects Hannah and the others from the plane crash being at large. You would be less suspicious and threatening, being women.”
“Who would fly us?”
“If we can get the logistics done, Chang will have a GC plane delivered to Crete. You two and Mac would split off there and head into Greece while Tsion and Smitty and I go on to Petra. You’ll be posing as GC, and it’ll be dicey without the mark. Mac will trail you and keep an eye on you, also posing as GC. Ideally we want at least one of you to talk your way into overseeing the Sebastian situation for the senior cabinet.”
“How long will it take them to catch on to that?” Chloe said.
“It would work only as long as you made it work. We all need to get with Zeke for new identities, papers, looks. All but you anyway. I don’t think anybody knows what you look like. But how do I explain giving such an assignment to someone who pulled—”
“Captain,” Chloe said, “let me do it to prove myself.”
On instructions from the safe house in Chicago, Chang began building dossiers on everyone traveling to Crete, then to Greece or Petra. Rayford’s height and weight and a close enough birth date were entered, along with identification that showed him to be a brother to Abdullah Smith’s phony persona. Both would pose as Egyptians in full regalia. Fortunately, Abdullah had not shaved for nearly two weeks, and he would craft his long stubble into a goatee, which Zeke would tinge gray. Rayford would have his skin chemically darkened, allow a mustache to grow thick and dark, and wear glasses with small, round lenses.
Taking advantage of Hannah’s dark coloring, Zeke was transforming her into a New Delhi Indian, rather than a Native American. Chloe could go as she was, but with a new name and Canadian roots.
Mac was the challenge. He would be easily recognized as Carpathia’s former pilot, so his coloring was altered to eliminate his freckles and the hint of red in his hair. He would also be issued glasses but would have to rely on bluster as a GC commander with a new name to throw off overzealous clerks.
“The biggest advantage you all have,” Chang wrote Rayford, “is the decimated state of the GC around the world. ‘We’ are so understaffed, ill, and dying that maintaining strict security has become virtually impossible. Fortunately, in many areas, there are surplus vehicles, except in Israel, of course.”
Once everything was in place in the computer, Chang listened to more of Carpathia’s meeting while composing a nuanced—he hoped—message to his mother. The trouble was, she was not normally a woman attuned to nuances.
“We have our engineers working around the clock,” Carpathia was saying, “on the water issue. All saltwater marine industries are dead, of course. We have lost hundreds of thousands of citizens, who may never be retrieved off the high seas. Vessels can go only so far through a liquid with such a thick, sticky consistency, and the diseases brought by the rotting carcasses of sea creatures may be our most serious health issue ever. Yes, worse than the boils and sores. People only wished they could die from those. The water crisis is again decimating our citizenry.”
“Holiness,” someone said, “in our region we have seen an alarming trend. Even those with your mark of loyalty are beginning to speak out in protest against you. We counter with the fact that this is not your doing, but you know people. They want to blame someone, and you become the target.”
Before Carpathia could answer, Fortunato jumped in, and Chang thought he sounded like his old self. “This shall not be tolerated,” he said. “I hereby decree and shall pass this word along to the priests of Carpathianism in all ten regions of the world that from this day forward, every citizen of the world shall be required to worship the image of their supreme potentate, their true and risen lord, when they rise in the morning, after they eat their midday meal, and before they retire at night.”
“How shall we enforce such an order?” someone said.
“See to it,” Carpathia said. “This, from the Most High Reverend Father, is inspired!”
“But, sir, there are still many who have not yet even received the mark of loyalty!”
Fortunato again: “They shall surely die!”
“Reverend!” Carpathia said, admiration clear in his tone.
“I have spoken,” Leon said, warming to his point. “The time is long past for delays and excuses. Take the mark of loyalty to the god of this world or die! Anyone found without the mark on his or her forehead or right hand shall be given immediate opportunity to receive it, and upon their rejection, shall be put to death by guillotine.”
There was silence as Chang sensed the regional potentates were considering the ramifications.
Finally Carpathia spoke. “With one notable exception,” he said.
“Well, of course, Excellency,” Leon said. “You need not take your own mark of loyalty!”
“Oh, Reverend!” Carpathia said, clearly disappointed. “You were doing so well!”
“Forgive me, Your Worship. The exception?”
“The Jew! The Jew, Reverend Fortunato!”
“Of course!” Leon said. “As the potentate himself has clarified, the blade is too good for the Jew.”
Chang finished his letter to his mother with the following:
Assuming that you and Father have yet to take the mark of loyalty, ask Father how he would feel about a ruling that said he must take it immediately or die. What does that do in the heart and mind of someone who would otherwise be a loyalist? Does it rob him of any satisfaction he might get out of pledging allegiance to a leader?
That is what is coming, Mother, and you and he may hear it soon after receiving this. As soon as the regional potentate for the United Asian States returns from New Babylon, you may expect just that ruling. The time has never been riper for seeking another object of one’s devotion. It may seem riskier at
present, but in the end it will make the difference between eternal life and death.
CHAPTER 21
Rayford had never doubted Zeke’s brilliance or artistry, but the young man outdid himself over the next several days. Around the Strong Building, various members of the Tribulation Force and members of The Place shot double takes at the soon-to-leave crew as their looks changed daily. Rayford caught himself studying his own visage in the mirror, wondering how such a transformation was possible.
“Your young brother keeps going with this, Captain Steele,” Enoch said, “and you’ll find out what it’s like to be a black man.”
As the people from The Place moved in on another floor in stages, the two groups began to share meals and prayer times. Enoch promised that his people would pray for the Trib Force entourage every minute they were gone. “And then some of us want in on one of your trips. We wouldn’t even have to be disguised. Nobody’s expecting to see us.”
The day before the flight overseas, the Global Community News Network announced a special appearance of Carpathianism’s Most High Reverend Father Leon Fortunato. He had a message for the entire world, and it would be broadcast live over television, radio, and the Internet at noon Palace Time and every hour on the hour for twenty-four hours so all the peoples of the world would be able to see it.
At three in the morning in Chicago, per Rayford’s invitation, everyone in the Strong Building, except the babies, padded out and gathered in the commons near the elevator, where they watched television. The announcement would have proved anticlimactic, because it only reiterated what had been announced regionally anyway, save for what happened—which would be blamed, unfairly in this case, on the ubiquitous but elusive palace mole.
“We go live now to the sanctuary of the beautiful Church of Carpathia off the palace court here in New Babylon and the Reverend Fortunato.”
Leon had assembled a massive choir behind him, and as he stepped into the pulpit, clearly standing on a small riser to make himself look taller, he was in his finery. He had added to the purple and gray and gold busyness of the robe and tassels. On his pate perched an Islamic-looking, flattop, head-hugging cap. It seemed to try to incorporate the sacred symbol of every historical religion Leon could remember, but the effect made him look like an exploding ringmaster.
He stood there feigning solemnity and dignity while the choir sang “Hail Carpathia”; then he spread his notes before him.
“Fellow citizens of the Global Community and parishioners of the worldwide church of our risen lord, His Excellency, Supreme Potentate Nicolae Carpathia . . . I come to you this hour under the authority of our object of worship and with power imbued directly from him to bring to you a sacred proclamation.
“The time has expired on any grace period related to every citizen receiving and displaying the mark of loyalty to Nicolae Carpathia. Loyalty mark application centers remain open twenty-four hours a day for anyone who for any reason has not had the opportunity to get this accomplished. Effective immediately, anyone seen without the mark will be taken directly to a center for application or the alternative, the enforcement facilitator.
“Furthermore, all citizens are required to worship the image of Carpathia three times a day, as outlined by your regional potentate, also under threat of capital punishment for failing to do so.
“I know you share my love for and dedication to our deity and will enthusiastically participate in every opportunity to bring him praise. Thank you for your cooperation and attention, and may Lord Nicolae Carpathia bless you and bless the Global Community.”
Fortunato tried to finish with a half wave, half salute, but suddenly the lights went out in the church. They came back on just in time for everyone to see the choir stumbling over each other to flee and Fortunato falling off his little platform, trying to get up, and having to billow out the skirt of his robe to do it. All eyes seemed to be on something in the ceiling, but as the camera panned that way, something happened to the camera operator, and the picture shook and wobbled.
Text rolled across the bottom of the screen: “Please stand by. We have temporarily lost picture and sound.” Yet the interior of the church was in plain sight. And while the camera seemed to be at a cockeyed angle, showing only the empty platform and choir loft, the sound of people stampeding out the doors was clear as well.
Suddenly superimposed over the screen was a face so bright it lit the room from the television. The voice was so loud that a woman sitting near Enoch reached up and turned the volume off. Yet the voice could still be heard.
“If anyone worships the beast and his image and receives his mark on his forehead or on his hand, he himself shall also drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is poured out full strength into the cup of his indignation. He shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the presence of the holy angels and in the presence of the Lamb.
“And the smoke of their torment ascends forever and ever; and they have no rest day or night, who worship the beast and his image, and whoever receives the mark of his name.
“Here is the patience of the saints; here are those who keep the commandments of God and the faith of Jesus.
“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.”
The scene changed to the GCNN anchor desk in New Babylon, where a woman said, “We apologize for that malfunction, which should be ignored. We will now show again Reverend Fortunato’s message in its entirety.”
This time, as soon as the video rolled, the message from the bright visage overwhelmed it. Again the error message flashed but could not overcome the angelic announcement. Back at the GCNN desk the anchorwoman said the network would be off the air until further notice. But the instant the screen went dark, it came back on again with the message. Script from the network announced technical difficulties, but nothing could eradicate the shining face and the loud pronouncement.
Chang checked his computer, and there too the message played and played. He went outside into the hot sun, and there in the sky was the overpowering image of the angel of God. Chang dropped hard to his knees, panting, astounded that anyone anywhere in the world could doubt that Carpathia was the enemy of the one true God, and after this, they could doubt it only out of stubborn rebellion. He ran back in to e-mail his parents, only to discover they had already written him.
Your father says we will risk our lives, live in hiding, or face the death machines before we will take the mark. He is nearly suicidal over forcing you. I tell him you already sealed by God, and so is Ming. I will connect to Ben-Judah Web site. We will be worshipers of God and fugitives. Pray.
Rayford knew it was folly to expect his people to rest during the day in anticipation of an early-evening flight from Chicago to Cyprus, then to Jordan. But they tried. Having their new friends from The Place in and out all day—singing, praying, and having church—was like a prelude to heaven. Before they piled into the Humvee, in which Buck would deliver them to the aircraft, the whole group huddled in a huge circle on their knees, praying.
George Sebastian’s training was out the window by now. The resolve, the meditation techniques, the strength of character had been scraped away, replaced by hunger, thirst, loneliness, and, yes, fear. His silence had brought blows, none enough to do permanent damage, he knew, at least not yet. But his forehead and the back of his head had been butted enough times by the stock of a rifle that pain echoed through his skull.
George had been laced across the shoulders and shoulder blades repeatedly by what felt to him like the chain off a bicycle or motorcycle. Finally a fist struck him in the cheek and the jaw so many times that he knew he would never look the same. He tried and tried to time the swings and punches from his captors so that he could move with the blow. Finally he got the idea to do the opposite. When he sensed a fist was coming, heard the inhale of the assailant, felt the air movement, he lifted his chin and took it square. Just before he hit the floor and lost consciousness, he knew he had succeeded. Sleep, in any form, had to cover his body’s ra
vaging need for food and water.
They had not been able to get to him with talk of his family. He knew better than to think his family would be any safer if he talked. If they really knew where his wife and child were, they could easily already be dead. He had despaired of his own life by now too. As long as he would wake up in heaven, there was no sense in giving up a thing.
The power to maintain silence had not come from within, but from without. He had, at long last, surrendered to God even whatever resources he thought he had. He came to on the cold floor in a corner with no idea of the passage of time, only that his middle was racked with hunger, his throat desiccated.
His captors argued. “Do you want him dead? You get us killed if we lose him. Give him some water. Enough to keep him alive anyway.”
A few drops on his lips felt like a fresh spring, but he forced himself not to drink it in for fear they would think it was enough to satisfy him. He let most of it dribble until they quit being stingy with the bottle. He grasped the neck of it with his teeth and sucked as hard as he could, filling himself with enough to refresh him before they twisted it away. Then they pulled him back to the chair and resumed.
Abdullah landed at what was left of the airport at Larnaca on Cyprus midmorning. Albie’s contact had recommended it as one of the least patrolled airstrips in the United Carpathian States. He proved dead-on. And he was waiting with a craft, appropriated by Chang’s computer magic, that Mac would fly to Greece and land at an abandoned strip Chang had located some eighty miles west of Ptolemaïs. He had forged an order to a local GC operative, requiring him to deliver six Peacekeeper vehicles to an earthquake-damaged vacant lot a half mile from there. The memo came back to the bogus New Babylon commander: “You’re out of your mind. Best I can do is one.”
“Watch your tone,” Chang’s imaginary brass had answered. “One will do for now.”
