by Tim LaHaye
Chang sensed something was about to give. He had succeeded in intercepting signals from geosynchronous satellites that supported communications among the millions of troops. They were about to move, and his key people needed to know.
He called George. “Expect an advance within sixty seconds,” he said.
“We’ve already been shelled,” George yelled. “You mean more than that?”
“Yes, they will be coming.”
“Rayford see you?”
“Left a little while ago. On his way to see Mac.”
“Thanks. Call Mac, would you? I’ll inform the others.”
Chang called and told Mac the same.
“Hey,” Mac said, “I can’t raise Sebastian, and Ray is overdue.”
“On his way,” Chang said.
He called Buck. “Expect ad—”
But he was cut off. He redialed. Nothing.
“They’re coming! They’re coming!”
Buck heard a young rebel shrieking just as his phone chirped and he saw an incendiary device hurled over the Rockefeller Museum, right at his position. He saw Unity Army troop movement from every side, and he grabbed his phone and held it up to his ear just as the bomb hit the wall right in front of him and clattered to the ground outside.
He recognized Chang’s voice just before the bomb blew a hole in the wall. Rock and shrapnel slammed his whole right side, killed his phone, and made him drop one Uzi. He felt something give way in his hip and his neck as his perch disintegrated.
One of the young boys near him had been blown into the air and cartwheeled to the pavement. Buck was determined to ride the wall as it fell. He reached for his neck and felt a torrent of blood. He was no medical student, but he could tell something had sliced his carotid artery—no small problem.
As the wall crumbled, he danced and high-stepped to stay upright, but he had to keep a hand on his neck. The remaining Uzi slid down into his left hand, but when he stabbed it into something to keep his balance, it fell away. He was unarmed, falling, and mortally wounded.
And the enemy was coming.
Rayford could break his fall only with his free hand, not daring to take pressure off his temple. His chin took as much of the brunt as the heel of his hand as he slid at what he guessed was a forty-five-degree angle. There would be no walking. All he could do was crawl now and try to stay alive.
Buck’s feet caught in a crevasse of shifting rock, and his upper body flopped forward. He was hanging upside down from the crumbling wall over the Old City. His hip was torn and bleeding too, and blood rushed to his head.
Even inside the tech center of a city made of rock, Chang felt the vibration of the millions of soldiers advancing on Petra. He was clicking here and there, flipping switches, and trying to make calls. How far would God let this go before sending the conquering King?
Fighting unconsciousness, he tried gingerly edging along, one hand ahead of him, the other occupied. Each inch made the angle seem steeper, the way more unstable. With every beat of his heart, every rush of blood, every stab of pain, he wondered what was the use. How important was it to stay alive? For what? For whom? “Come, Lord Jesus.”
Dizziness overwhelmed, pain stabbed. A lung had to be punctured. His breath came in wheezes, agonizing, piercing. The first hint of the end was the crazy rhythm of his heart. Racing, then skipping, then fluttering. Too much blood loss. Not enough to the brain. Not enough oxygen. Drowsiness overtook panic. Unconsciousness would be such a relief.
And so he allowed it. The lung was ready to burst. The heart fluttered and stopped. The pulsing blood became a pool.
He saw nothing through wide-open eyes. “Lord, please.” He heard the approach of the enemy. He felt it. But soon he felt nothing. With no blood pumping, no air moving, he fell limp and died.
To the memories of Frank LaHaye and Harry Jenkins, whom we shall again see
Special thanks to David Allen for expert technical consultation and to John Perrodin for additional biblical research
CHAPTER 1
Mac McCullum scanned the Petra perimeter with high-powered field glasses. Rayford should have reached him by now.
Mac’s watch showed 1300 hours—one in the afternoon, Carpathia Time. It had to be more than a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Sweat ran down his neck from the grayish red hair peeking out from under his cap, soaking his shirt. Mac detected not even a wisp of wind and wondered what his freckled, leathery face would look like in a few days.
Without taking his eyes from the lenses, Mac unholstered his phone and punched in the connection to Chang Wong in the computer center. “Where’s Ray?”
“I was about to ask you,” Chang said. “He left here forty-five minutes ago, and no one else has seen him either.”
“What do we hear from Buck?”
Mac noticed the hesitation. “Nothing new.”
“Since when?”
“Uh, Rayford heard from him late this morning.”
“And?”
Another beat. “Nothing to speak of.”
“What’re you sayin’, Chang?”
“Nothing.”
“I gathered. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing that won’t be cured in a little—”
“I don’t need double-talk, buddy.” Mac continued surveying the rocky slopes, feeling his pulse quicken despite his years and experience. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll call him myself.”
“Buck?”
“Well, who else?”
“I’ve tried. My sensor shows his phone inoperable.”
“Turned off?”
“Unlikely, Mr. McCullum.”
“Well, I should guess so. Malfunctioning? Damaged?”
“I’m hoping the former, sir.”
“Global Positioning System active, at least?”
“No, sir.”
Chaim Rosenzweig had not slept, and after only two light meals of manna, he expected to feel the fatigue. But no. The best he could calculate, this was the day. He felt the swelling anticipation in both his head and his chest. It was as if his mind raced as his heart ached for the greatest event in the history of the cosmos.
The old man’s senior advisers, a half-dozen elders, sat with him deep in the stone compound of Petra. Eleazar Tiberius, a broad globe of a man, offered that the million-plus pilgrims under their charge “are clearly as restless as we. Is there nothing we can tell them?”
“I have an activity in mind,” Chaim said. “But what would you have me say?”
“I am newer to this than you, Rabbi, but—”
“Please,” Chaim said, raising a hand. “Reserve such a title for Dr. Ben-Judah. I am merely a student, thrust into this—”
“Nonetheless,” Eleazar continued, “I sense the populace is as eager as I to know the exact moment of Messiah’s return. I mean, if it is, as you and Dr. Ben-Judah have for so long taught, seven years from the signing of the covenant between Antichrist and Israel, does that mean it will be to the minute? I recall the signing being at around four in the afternoon, Israel time, seven years ago today.”
Chaim smiled. “I have no idea. I do know this: God has His own economy of time. Do I believe Messiah will return today? Yes. Will it trouble me if He does not appear until tomorrow? No. My faith will not be shaken. But I expect Him soon.”
“And this activity you mentioned?”
“Yes, something to occupy the minds of the people while we wait. I came across a disc of a dramatic sermon from before the turn of the century by an African-American preacher, long since in heaven, of course. I propose calling the people together and showing it.”
“The Lord may come while it is playing,” an elder said.
“So much the better.”
“There remain unbelievers among us,” Eleazar said.
Chaim shook his head. “I confess that puzzles and disturbs me, but it also fulfills prophecy. There are those who enjoy the safety of Petra, even many who believe Jesus was the most influential person who ever lived, who have n
ot yet put their faith in Him. They do not recognize Him as the long-awaited Messiah, and they have not acknowledged Him as their Savior. This sermon is also evangelistic. Perhaps many of the undecided will take their stand before Messiah appears.”
“Better than waiting until the event itself,” someone said.
“Gather the people for a two-o’clock showing,” Chaim said, rising. “And let’s close in prayer.”
“Begging your pardon,” Eleazar said, “but do you feel the absence of Dr. Ben-Judah as keenly as I do?”
“More than you know, Eleazar. Let’s pray for him right now, and I will call him in a few minutes. I would love to share his greeting with the people and hear what has been happening in Jerusalem.”
Mac’s magnified vision fell upon colorful, metallic pieces glinting in the sun, perhaps a mile from his position. Oh no.
A red fuel tank and a tire looked very much like parts from Rayford’s all-terrain vehicle. Mac tried to steady his hands as he panned in a wide arc, looking for signs of his friend. It appeared the ATV could have been hit by a heat-seeking missile or smashed to bits by tumbling. Perhaps, he thought, no sign of Rayford nearby was good news.
Mac raised Chang again. “Sorry to be a nuisance,” he said, “but what does your sensor say about Ray’s phone?”
“I was afraid you’d ask. It’s inoperable too, but its GPS is still pulsing. My screen shows it deep in a narrow crevasse a little over forty-five hundred feet below you.”
“I’m heading down there.”
“Wait, Mr. McCullum.”
“What?”
“I’ve got a lens pointed that way, and there’s no room in the opening for a person.”
“You can see the phone?”
“No, but I know it’s there. It can be the only thing there. The opening is too narrow for anything else.”
“So have you seen his ATV too?”
“I’m looking.”
“Well, I have. If that phone is due south of me, look about twenty degrees east.”
“Hang on . . . I see it.”
“But no sign of Ray, Chang. I’m going to look.”
“Sir? Could you send someone else?”
“Why? I’m twiddling my thumbs here. Big Dog One has the troops under control.”
“Frankly, I’d rather you go to Jerusalem.”
“You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?”
“Come see me, Mr. McCullum. I was honoring the confidence of Captain Steele, but I think you—and Dr. Rosenzweig—should know.”
Mac arrived at the tech center, deep in the bowels of Petra, a few minutes after one thirty in the afternoon. Chaim rose to meet him while Chang acknowledged him with a look but kept turning back to his numerous screens. Finally Chang pulled away and the three sat, far from the ears of others. Mac noticed, however, that many techies and others frequently stole glances in their direction.
“There’s no delicate way to say this,” Chang began. “Captain Steele told Naomi and me this morning that Mr. Williams had told him that Dr. Ben-Judah was killed in the fighting at Jerusalem.”
Mac stiffened.
Chaim buried his face in his hands. “I hope he did not suffer terribly,” the old man said.
“With Captain Steele missing now and—”
“What? Him too?” Chaim said. “And I am unable to raise Cameron on the phone. . . .”
“I felt you both should know. I mean, I know this may all be moot by this time tomorrow.”
“Perhaps even by four this afternoon,” Chaim said. “The question now is what to say, what to do.”
“Nothin’ we can do,” Mac said. “I’ve got Abdullah Smith looking for Ray. Chang here thinks I ought to go to Jerusalem.”
Chaim looked up in apparent surprise.
“I do,” Chang said. “From the looks of what’s left of his vehicle and his phone, odds are all Mr. Smith is going to find are Captain Steele’s remains. I’m sorry to be so blunt.”
“But a flight to Jerusalem now?” Chaim said. “Just to see whether Cameron—”
“It’s what I would want if it was me,” Mac said. “I know he may be dead, and either way, Jesus is comin’, but with Tsion gone, I’d just as soon get Buck outta there and back here with us.”
“Even for as little as an hour,” Chaim said, more a statement than a question.
“Like I say, that’s what I’d want.”
“And what do we tell the people?” Chaim said.
Minutes later, Mac was in Gus Zuckermandel’s quarters. He filled in the young man on his plans. “And here’s the hard part, Z. I want to leave in ten minutes.”
“Can you give me twenty?”
“Fifteen.”
“Deal.”
“What’ve you got, Z?” Mac said, as the forger yanked open a file drawer, riffled through several folders, and slapped one open on his desk.
“Your new identity,” Zeke said, moving to a closet, which he opened with a flourish. There were two dozen black-on-black Global Community Unity Army uniforms, from tinted eye-shield helmets to calf-length boots. “Find one that fits while I’m working on your documents. Don’t forget the gloves. Nobody’s checking for marks of loyalty anymore anyway, but just to be safe.”
“How do you do this, Z?” Mac said, approaching garments that looked his size.
“With lots of help. Sebastian’s boys have killed a few of ’em, and I got me a little crew that runs out and gathers up their stuff—papers, clothes, and all.”
“Weapons?”
“’Course.”
When Mac emerged with the uniform a perfect fit, he found Zeke mixing some sort of a brew.
“You look good, Mac,” he said. “Problem is, you got to be black.”
“And you can manage that in a few minutes?”
“If you’re game.”
“Whatever it takes.”
Mac whipped off his helmet, jacket, shirt, and gloves. Zeke used the mix to paint him dark brown from the shoulders to the hairline. “Keep the helmet on, ’cause I haven’t got time to make the hair authentic.”
“Check.”
“And let’s do your hands, just in case.” Zeke dyed Mac’s skin from midforearm to fingertips. “This should dry in two and a half minutes. Then an instant photo, and you’re on your way. Give my best to Buck and Tsion.”
Mac hesitated. “You betcha. Zeke, you’re a genius.”
The younger man snorted. “Just here to serve.”
Mac was sprinting to a chopper when he reached Abdullah Smith by phone.
“Nothing yet, Mac. I will let you know as soon as I discover anything.”
As Mac lifted off, he saw multitudes streaming from all corners of Petra and gathering at the central meeting place.
Chaim was alarmed at the mood of the throng. It was the biggest crowd he had ever drawn at Petra, and it was noisy, clearly preoccupied, antsy. He heard nervous laughter, saw lots of embracing. When one or two would look to the skies, hundreds—sometimes thousands—did likewise.
“My beloved brothers and sisters in Messiah,” he began, “as well as the seekers and undecided among us, please try to quiet yourselves and settle for a moment. Please! I know we all expect the imminent return of our Lord and Savior, and I can think of no greater privilege than to have Him appear as we speak. But—”
He was interrupted by thunderous applause and cheering.
Chaim gestured that they should be seated. “I share your enthusiasm! And while I know that there will be nothing else on your minds until He comes, I thought there might be value in focusing specifically on Him this afternoon. I know there remain among us many who are withholding their decisions about Him until He appears. Consider this my last effort to persuade you not to wait. We do not know what may befall us at that moment, whether God will allow scoffers and mockers and rejecters to change their minds. Pray He will not harden your heart due to your rebellion or unbelief. Surely there has been more than enough evidence than anyone could need to reveal the trut
h of God’s plan.
“While we watch and wait, consider the thoughts of a great preacher from decades past. His name was Dr. Shadrach Meshach Lockridge, and his message is entitled ‘My King Is . . .’”
Chaim signaled for the disc to play, and it was projected off two white walls of smooth stone, each several stories high, where all could see it. The sound system carried it to the ends of the seated masses.
Lockridge proved to be animated and thunderous, interrupting his own cadence of shouts and growls with whispers and huge smiles. The disc caught him near the end of his sermon, and he was picking up steam.
“The Bible says my king is a seven-way king. He’s the king of the Jews; that’s a racial king. He’s the king of Israel; that’s a national king. He’s the king of righteousness. He’s the king of the ages. He’s the king of heaven. He’s the king of glory. He’s the king of kings. Besides being a seven-way king, He’s the Lord of lords. That’s my king. Well, I wonder, do you know Him?”
Hundreds of thousands applauded, and many stood, only to sit again as Lockridge continued.
“David said, ‘The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth His handiwork.’ My king is a sovereign king. No means of measure can define His limitless love. No far-seeing telescope can bring into visibility the coastline of His shoreless supply. No barrier can hinder Him from pouring out His blessings.
“He’s enduringly strong. He’s entirely sincere. He’s eternally steadfast. He’s immortally graceful. He’s infinitely powerful. He’s impartially merciful. Do you know Him?”
Many shouted their agreement.
“He’s the greatest phenomenon that has ever crossed the horizon of this world. He’s God’s Son. He’s the sinner’s Savior. He’s the centerpiece of civilization. He stands in the solitude of Himself. He’s honest and He’s unique. He’s unparalleled. He’s unprecedented.
“He is the loftiest idea in literature. He’s the highest personality in philosophy. He is the supreme problem in higher criticism. He’s the fundamental doctrine of true theology. He’s the core, the necessity for spiritual religion. He’s the miracle of the ages. Yes, He is. He’s the superlative of everything good that you choose to call Him. He’s the only one qualified to be our all-sufficiency. I wonder if you know Him today.”
