by Tim LaHaye
“Would the potentate want me to say I made a mistake when I didn’t?”
“But you did.”
“I did not.”
“His Excellency is most disappointed in you, son.”
“I’m not doing it, Director Akbar.”
“Excuse me?”
“I won’t play along. I take great pride in my work. I didn’t question the order. I believed these people were dangerous and a threat to the Global Community. I did what I was instructed to do, and I did it right. No one can tell me we missed the primary target or that our 82s didn’t waste that whole area and all those people. If you have evidence that proves concretely that they survived, then I’m going to call it what it is. I’ll accept no demotion and I won’t parrot a party line. If those people are still alive, they’re superior to us. If they are still alive, they win. We can’t compete with that.”
“You realize you leave me no choice.”
“Sir?”
“We cannot have personnel shirk responsibility for their own errors.”
“You will not be able to silence me.”
Akbar laughed and was interrupted by the intercom. “Primary pilot is waiting, sir.”
“Send him in.”
As soon as Chang heard the sound of the door, the Brit started in. “Tell him, Uri. Tell him we didn’t screw up.”
“What?”
And the conversation began anew, Akbar blaming the failure on the pilots, the Brit protesting, Uri silent for the moment. “Excuse me a moment, gentlemen,” Suhail said. The door opened and closed.
“Kerry,” Uri said, “listen to me. He’s right. The—”
“He’s not right! I saw what I saw and I will never—”
“Shh! Listen! You and I both know we launched perfectly. But I was there after you had gone. You heard my transmission. Those people survived the Blues and the Lance, lived through it all.”
“Impossible!”
“Impossible but true.”
“A miracle.”
“Obviously.”
“Then we must live with it, Uri. We must make the GC and the world face it. They are a more than formidable enemy, and unless we admit that, we’ll never have a chance to defeat them.”
“I agree. You heard me try to say it.”
“They took you off the air! Now they want to make us the scapegoats. Demote us. Make us admit failure.”
“Not me,” Uri said.
“That’s my man,” the Brit said.
They traded encouragement.
“Be strong.”
“Don’t give in.”
“Let’s stick together.”
Chang checked Akbar’s phone.
Suhail had called the medical wing and asked for Dr. Consuela Conchita. Only the day before Chang had read the staff bulletin announcing her promotion to surgeon general of the Global Community. “Connie,” Akbar said, “I need two heavy doses of sedative, the quick stuff. My conference room, ASAP. I’ll have security here, in case the patients resist. And bring gurneys from the morgue.”
“The morgue?”
“I want them cremated.”
“You’re asking for lethal doses?”
“No, no. I just want them out before they leave here, under sheets. The cremation will do the rest, will it not?”
“Kill them? Of course it will. You’re asking that we execute two people?”
“This is from the top floor, Consuela.”
A pause. “I understand.”
Chang grimaced as he listened to the recording of Akbar trying to convince the fliers that he had asked for injections to help calm them. Both began scuffling and shouting, and Chang could tell they were held down and given the shots. And now they were gone. Anyone who had seen either of them land in New Babylon and make their way from the hangar to the palace and to Akbar’s office would never admit it or mention it. They had been shot down by the enemy, and that was that.
Chang checked on the planes again. Already their serial numbers had been changed. And the original numbers were marked as lost in action. Somehow the total number of operative GC fighter-bombers in New Babylon did not change.
The story that had scrolled across Chang’s screen would broadcast around the world that night. No doubt Carpathia himself would express abject personal sorrow over the losses.
Chang checked the records in Greece and found that Nelson Stefanich had forwarded location coordinates to “Howie Johnson’s” team. It was a couple of hours yet till nightfall, when Mac planned to pay the visit. Chang had time to confirm Mac’s instructions to the crew at the Ptolemaïs airport to refuel the Rooster Tail and entered into the computer that Senior Commander Johnson had been cleared at the highest levels to fly it to New Babylon.
That done, Chang found Stefanich’s cell phone number and called it in to Mac. “Got everything else you need?” Chang said.
“Well, I’d still like to know the disposition of the Stavros kid.”
“Nothing on that here, sir. Do you hold out any hope?”
“Always, Chang. But that’s just me.”
“Ask Stefanich.”
“Oh, I will. Hey, Chang?”
“Sir?”
“Who’s better than you?”
“Thank you, sir.”
Finally, Chang was able to check his other recordings from throughout the day. He located the one emanating from Carpathia’s office and backed up to several minutes before Nicolae, his secretary Krystall, Leon Fortunato, Suhail Akbar, and Viv Ivins sat watching the feed from the cockpit of the initial fighter-bomber. Suhail had just told the potentate he had arranged for him to watch live, and Carpathia had expressed excited anticipation. Chang sped through several minutes of setup and of Nicolae welcoming the various ones into the room.
Then, pay dirt. Akbar informed Carpathia that the fighter-bombers were set for takeoff from Amman, and that he could bring that up on the monitor, “if you wish.”
“If I wish? Please!”
“Palace to Amman Command,” Suhail said.
“Amman. Go ahead, Palace.”
“Initiate visual coverage of takeoff.”
“Roger that.”
Several seconds of silence. Then Carpathia. “Suhail, these are fighter-bombers? Is it an optical illusion? They look huge.”
“Oh, they are, Eminence. They have been in service only a few weeks. Notice how high they sit off the ground. The gear is the tallest of any fighter ever. It has to be to allow room for the payload.”
“That is the bomb, underneath?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Talk about huge. It looks massive!”
“Way too big to be carried internally, sir. It’s four and a half feet in diameter and eleven feet long. The thing weighs fifteen thousand pounds.”
“You do not say!”
“Oh, yes, sir. It’s carried on what we call an underbelly centerline station.”
“And what is it, Suhail? What are we serving the enemy today?”
“The Americans used to call these Big Blue 82s. They are concussion bombs. Eighty percent of their weight is made up of a gel consisting of polystyrene, ammonium nitrate, and powdered aluminum.”
“Is it as powerful as it is large?”
“Excellency,” Suhail said, “nothing but a nuclear weapon would be more so. These are designed to detonate just a few feet off the ground and generate a thousand pounds of pressure per square inch. It should kill everything—even the little creatures below the ground—in an area as large as two thousand acres. The mushroom cloud alone will rise more than a mile. And we’re dropping two.”
“Plus a missile.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fire?”
“Oh, Your Highness, that’s the best part. Each concussion bomb creates a fireball six thousand feet in diameter.”
Chang recoiled at a loud hiss, and he imagined a nearly overcome Carpathia inhaling deeply through his nose and exhaling through clenched teeth.
Later, when the pilo
ts let loose their payloads, Nicolae said, “Suhail! How quickly can we get this on television?”
“I’m sure it’s just a matter of a few switches, Excel—”
“Do it! Do it now!”
Someone left the room.
The recording was interrupted only with occasional outbursts from Carpathia. “Ahh! Look! Ooh! Perfect! On target! Both of them. The best revenge is success.”
“Absolutely.”
“And victory.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Total and complete,” Nicolae said.
Several grunted.
A loud sigh ended in a hum. It reminded Chang of a lion he had seen at the zoo in Beijing. It had just gorged itself on several pounds of raw beef, roared, yawned and stretched, settled its wide chin on its paws, and sighed like that, followed by a low rumbling from deep inside.
For several minutes they watched, and occasionally someone congratulated Nicolae. “Finally, Your Lordship.” That was Viv Ivins. Carpathia did not respond, making Chang wonder if she was still in his doghouse.
To all the other compliments he merely said, “Thank you. Thank you.”
The suggestion from the primary pilot to abort the missile launch was immediately rejected by Suhail. “Yes,” Nicolae said in the background. “Very good, Director Akbar. The final dart.”
When the pilot sounded insubordinate, Suhail immediately countered. Then silence, finally broken by Carpathia. “Was I hearing things, or did he dare cross you?”
“He came right to the edge, Excellency.”
“Reprimand him!” Leon squawked.
“I do not believe he meant for me to hear it. He is watching in person what we are seeing on a screen. Of course it sounds like overkill to him.”
“But still . . . ,” Leon said.
Someone shushed him.
When the missile hit and the pilot began his halting, disbelieving commentary, Chang heard a chair roll back as if someone had stood suddenly.
“What?!” That was Nicolae.
“Impossible!” Fortunato.
“Cut the feed!” Carpathia said, and Akbar repeated it, loud.
Footsteps away from the table and, Chang assumed, toward the monitor. The door opening. The sounds of people leaving, evidently everyone but Nicolae and Suhail.
“Two of our largest incendiary bombs?” Carpathia whispered. “You said one was more than enough.”
“It should have been.”
“We saw the flames, watched them burn, for how long?”
“Long enough.”
Several minutes of relative silence, during which Chang believed he heard Carpathia panting. And when the potentate finally spoke, he sounded desperate and short of breath. “Listen to me, Suhail.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you listening?”
“I am, sir.”
“Deal with those pilots. They missed. They failed. Their eyes deceived them. Do not allow this victory to go to the Judah-ites. Do not.”
“I hear you, sir.”
“Then contact the other nine regional potentates, personally, on my behalf. Tell them the Judah-ites have raised arms against us and have dealt a severe blow. We shall retaliate. I told them this only recently.”
“You did, sir.”
“But the time is now; the budget is limitless. I will sanction, condone, support, and reward the death of any Jew anywhere in the world. I want this done as a top priority, by any means. Imprison them. Torture them. Humiliate them. Shame them. Blaspheme their god. Plunder everything they own. Nothing is more important to the potentate. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Go quickly. Do it now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Suhail?”
“Sir?”
“Send Reverend Fortunato in.”
In seconds, Leon came bustling. “Oh, Highness, I don’t know what to say. I can’t understand it. What went—”
“My dear Most High Reverend Fortunato. Kiss my hand.”
“How may I serve you, Potentate? I kneel before you.”
“Be still and hear me. Are you still my most trusted devotee—?”
“Oh, yes, Supre—”
“Shh—my Reverend Father of Carpathianism?”
“I am, sincerely.”
“Leon, do you love me?”
“You know I do.”
“Do you cherish me?”
“With all my—”
“Do you worship me?”
“Oh, my beloved—”
“Stand up, Leon, and hear me. My enemies mock me. They perform miracles. They poison my people, call sores down on them from heaven, turn the seas into blood. And now! And now they survive bombs and fire! But I too have power. You know this. It is available to you, Leon. I have seen you use it. I have seen you call down lightning that slays those who would oppose me.
“Leon, I want to fight fire with fire. I want Jesuses. Do you hear me?”
“Sir?”
“I want messiahs.”
“Messiahs?”
“I want saviors in my name.”
“Tell me more, Excellency.”
“Find them—thousands of them. Train them, raise them up, imbue them with the power with which I have blessed you. I want them healing the sick, turning water to blood and blood to water. I want them performing miracles in my name, drawing the undecided, yea, even the enemy away from his god and to me.”
“I will do it, Excellency.”
“Will you?”
“I will if you will empower me.”
“Kneel before me again, Leon.”
“Lay your hands on me, risen one.”
“I confer upon you all the power vested in me from above and below the earth! I give you power to do great and mighty and wonderful and terrifying things, acts so splendiferous and phantasmagorical that no man can see them and not be persuaded that I am his god.”
Leon sobbed. “Thank you, lord. Thank you, Excellency.”
“Go, Leon,” Carpathia said. “Go quickly and do it now.”
CHAPTER 5
George felt pretty good, considering. How long had it been since they had put him in the backseat of the Jeep? He was opposite the driver’s side with Elena in front of him, Plato beside him. The leader slid in behind the wheel and told Plato to blindfold George again. George liked the fact that he was again sitting on his hands, giving him an excuse to bounce and tumble into Plato. If he timed it right, maybe he could even bang heads with him.
The leader backed up the Jeep and stopped, idling. “Where is he?” he asked, testy.
“There, by the road.”
“What is he doing there?” A loud sigh. “Socrates! Come here!” George heard the hobbling footsteps. “Are you finished with the car?”
“Hidden, Aristotle.”
“Give me the keys.”
“Why? What if I need it?”
“That will ruin everything! Give them to me.”
George heard the jangling as Aristotle took the car keys. “Think, man!” he said. “This way, no matter what happens, you have no keys to surrender. And stay away from the road! You have no reason to be outside. Just wait in there.” Aristotle lowered his voice, as if thinking a blind Sebastian couldn’t hear either. “Remember, the closer you come to the edge, the more believable you are.”
“You know I can do it.”
“You know I do! You can still produce tears at will? Take it right to the brink. It has to look like you tried everything before you crumbled. Now, I am sorry you are hurt, but this is just as important as what we are doing.”
Chloe could see why her father so admired Mac. He was earthy and plain, but he was also meticulous. He had spread the pages of the local GC’s Sebastian file on the dashboard of his borrowed car. In the woods north of Ptolemaïs, with the other vehicle—the hot-wired Jeep—hidden deeper in the underbrush, they studied the record. Chloe leaned in from the passenger’s side; Hannah peeked over their shoulders from the backseat.
All three wore GC-issue camouflage, their faces streaked with grease.
“They were thinkin’ when they got this gal that looks like the Stavros girl.”
“Georgiana,” Hannah said.
“Right. This one’s real name is Elena, last initial A. Hmm, the only one whose actual name is given. Guess they don’t feel any need to protect her. Then a couple of no-account locals, both of which it looks like tried to get out of Peacekeeping duty but wound up on this vigilante squad. Oh, get a load of these monikers.”
“One of them’s the leader, Mac,” Hannah said, pointing.
Mac shook his head. “Aristotle. Other one’s Socrates. Real creative. Given this, shouldn’t Elena be Helen? Of Troy, get it? And the big guy, the one that’s supposed to pass for George. Plato? Oh, for the love of all things sacred! Well, whatever you gotta do to keep track of each other. He’s French. Brought in just for this. Sebastian would be insulted. This guy’s heavy, but he’s under six-two. He’s no George.”
Mac kept glancing at his watch, and as night fell, they kept reading, memorizing. They finally had to resort to the dome light and three tiny flashlights. “The original plan wasn’t half bad,” Chloe said. “Only somebody didn’t cooperate.”
“I don’t know the boy or the other old guy, the driver,” Mac said. “But from what I know of Miklos, my money’s on him. Anyway, somebody smelled a rat. They were supposed to pick up the girl eight kilometers north of the airport, then have Plato, pretending to be Sebastian, show up just down the road.”
“But Sebastian was expecting to hook up with them closer to the airport,” Hannah said.
“They must’ve wanted to be sure the deal was done before he came looking,” Mac said. “They’re pretty proud of this change of plans. Looks like they originally wanted to take ’em all in, including George, and then threaten to kill the others if George wouldn’t talk. Then, even if he did, they were gonna execute ’em together if they wouldn’t take the mark.”
Chloe had turned the page slightly. “Did we know this?” she said.
“What’s that?” Mac said.
“The shootings, all three of them, were done by the girl.”
Chloe had that tingling sensation inside as the zero hour drew near. Mac had studied the coordinates and determined they were about forty minutes from where George was being held. At 2130 hours he called Stefanich on his cell with the number provided by Chang.
