by Ted Dekker
Ismael reached the crest and jerked back on his reins. The sea shimmered in the morning sun, less than two kilometers ahead, at the base of the hills. Barbed wire circled a camp by the sea. They had been led to an Eritrean military installation!
“What is this?” he demanded.
The horses stamped around him, snorting from their long run. No one answered.
“They came to the Eritrean army. Why?”
“There!” someone shouted. Ismael glanced to see one of his soldiers pointing down the hill towards the gates.
He saw them then, three camels galloping up to the main gate, a kilometer away. Rebecca, Caleb, and the Ark! Heat flared through his skull, and for a moment his sight shifted into doubles.
He snatched up his binoculars and trained them on the camels. So close and yet so far. He jerked the lenses to the gate. They were unguarded. Ismael dropped the binoculars and spurred his horse.
“After them!”
As one, the row of horses lunged down the hill towards the Eritrean base.
39
Camels reach their top speed at roughly twenty kilometers per hour in a full gallop, and Rebecca’s was doing every bit of that. She kept wanting to scream out for Caleb to stop, but she didn’t. Maybe because she knew it would be futile; maybe because of Caleb’s suggestion that the Arabs were behind them. Or maybe because his undaunted courage struck a chord deep in her gut, where she’d learned to draw judgment. But for whatever reason, she kept pace and hammered for the unmanned gates.
Several soldiers in the compound had noticed them and were staring past the gates, stunned by their charge. Or was it something else that had attracted them? She looked over her shoulder.
A thin line of horses broke the hill’s crest in a full gallop, kicking dust up in their charge.
The Arabs!
“Hiyah!” Panicked, she slammed her heels into the camel’s side. “Hiyah!”
Caleb rode on, his hair flying behind him in dark waves as he charged straight for the open gate. Then he was through and he veered to the right, towards the helicopters. A handful of soldiers stood unarmed, still transfixed by the sight. They were 150 kilometers north of a peaceful border— the Eritreans clearly weren’t expecting trouble. Somewhere, one of them began to yell a high-pitched warning.
Rebecca followed Caleb, her heart now thumping like a piston. He galloped past the first helipad, reached the second, and stopped at its edge in a cloud of dust. Rebecca pulled her snorting beast to a stop beside him. Caleb stared at the helicopter, face beaded with sweat, eyes brilliant and eager. He dropped from his camel. A mechanic gawked at him, wrench in hand.
“Unlash the Ark, Rebecca,” Caleb said without turning. His voice was low and soft. Unlash the Ark? He planned to use the helicopter.
She moved without taking the time to think further. Whatever they were going to do, they didn’t have much time. The Arabs would be at the gate in two minutes.
Caleb strode up to the mechanic and stopped. For a moment he just stared at the man. And then he spoke softly in a local dialect Rebecca couldn’t understand.
But the man did.
His eyes spread to their whites and watered, as if a dam of tears had waited behind those eyelids. The wrench fell from his fingers and clattered on the concrete.
Behind them men were yelling now—the alarm was spreading.
Caleb stared into the man’s eyes and continued speaking in a soft voice that brought a chill to Rebecca’s bones. There was something in his voice that seemed to ride the air and make for the spine, she thought. The man began muttering, as if overcome by a sudden anguish. He glanced beyond them to the Arabs and then scrambled into the cockpit, rattling in a high pitch now.
Caleb ran over to Rebecca and grabbed one end of the fake Ark from the camel’s back. “He’s the pilot. He will take us,” he said.
“What did you tell him?” she asked, stunned.
“I told him that God wanted him to help us.” He grinned and pulled one end of the feeding box from the camel. The sudden weight nearly knocked him over before Rebecca managed to steady her end.
“You just told him?”
“Yes! Ha! Believe, Rebecca. Believe.”
Yes, of course. Believe. If you just clench your eyes and believe hard enough, you can move a mountain. How silly of her not to understand.
They hauled the box into the helicopter as it revved up to a deafening roar. Caleb leapt in and pulled her into the bay. She glanced over her shoulder—the first Arabs had reached the gate.
“Get it up!” Rebecca yelled. “Get it up!”
The helicopter roared and then lifted off the ground, sending both her and Caleb crashing back to the canvas bench. The Huey rose three meters, tilted forward, and picked up speed in the direction of the Arabs. For what felt like an eternity, the open side of the Huey faced the lead Arab who’d pulled his horse back so that its hoofs pawed at the air.
Rebecca stared into the whites of Ismael’s eyes for the second time in three days. She blinked.
When the horse dropped to all fours, Ismael had his rifle at his shoulder, and a split second later the first slug crashed into the helicopter’s metal frame, centimeters from Rebecca’s head.
She ducked and threw herself back into Caleb. The bullets tore through the Huey’s roof. The pilot banked the helicopter hard to the right and they soared over a tin roof, barely missing a loose sheeting of aluminum that flapped up like a jaw under the buffeting wind.
And then they were over the water, beyond the effective reach of an AK-47.
It occurred to Rebecca that she was lying back on Caleb’s chest. He had thrown his arms around her stomach in a firm embrace. She glanced up. He stared directly ahead, out the front windshield, looking half lost and half transfixed by the distant clouds.
Rebecca pushed herself up, but his arms continued to hold her. She lay back down, encircled by his arms.
“Caleb.”
He looked down, eyes distant. He suddenly came to himself and blinked.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. He quickly removed his arms and then helped her up. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?” She felt his hand on the back of her head, stroking, concerned. And then he jerked that back as well.
“Yes.” She cleared her throat and looked at him. He was blushing and trying to look preoccupied.
She turned back towards the compound. The Arabs were surrounding the other helicopter, but Eritrean soldiers were pouring out of the buildings, with guns now.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To Saudi Arabia.”
“Saudi!” She spun back. “That’s like jumping into the fire! Do we even have the fuel? Saudi Arabia’s over three hundred kilometers.”
Caleb spoke to the pilot, who gripped the stick with white knuckles. The man looked back, unsure.
Caleb reached a hand out to his shoulder and spoke gently. The man nodded slowly and answered him.
“Yes,” Caleb said to Rebecca. “We have the fuel.”
“And . . .” She paused. Part of her hated to ask. This whole thing was now firmly in a world beyond her. “And what are we going to do in Saudi Arabia?”
He looked beyond her to the blue waters without answering.
“Caleb? Don’t tell me you don’t know.”
“I will know.”
She faced the open door to her left. Three times now she had seen things she had no business seeing. First with Father Hadane and the charging Arabs, then with Caleb and Ismael, and now with this helicopter pilot. Whatever else the implications might be, the most significant was that Father Hadane and Caleb knew something she didn’t. Their source of power was greater than hers. Christianity.
No, not Christianity, but this strange notion of following in the Nazarene’s footsteps, which wasn’t necessarily Christianity, was it? Not according to Caleb. They actually seemed to think that following the crucified man gave them a power beyond this world. And to watch them, she could hardly dispute it.
Goodness, the implications were too much. She stared out the doorway and let the beating blades dull her thinking.
Ismael shoved his pistol under the pilot’s jaw. “Fly!” He motioned after the fleeing helicopter. “Get in! Get in!”
His men had taken cover by the hangar and exchanged fire with a band of Eritrean soldiers who’d come from nowhere, pouring lead into the horses. Three had fallen before they reached the helipads. The rest had scattered for cover like fools. Couldn’t they make the simple deduction that the Eritreans wouldn’t shoot their own helicopter unless it was their last resort?
Three fifty-five-gallon barrels of fuel lined the cement pad—if a stray bullet hit one of those . . .
“Get in!” he barked one last time, shoving his gun into the man’s larynx. The pilot spun and jumped into the cockpit, muttering in a high pitch.
“Shut up and start it!”
Ismael ducked under the tail boom and trained his weapon on a soldier running across the compound for a better angle. He pulled the trigger and shifted his sights before the man fell. He’d always had the knack for quick target acquisition, and he used it now, pulling the trigger five times in under ten seconds. Each time a man fell; each time the balance of power shifted a little; each time catching the Jew became more possible.
The rotor wound up above him, like a jet. Some of the Eritreans saw that the deadly fire was coming from his position, and they began to shout out warnings. But the lull in their concentration only gave the Syrian Republican Guard the time they needed to pour steady unreturned fire into the soldiers’ positions.
The first broke for cover and Ismael barked an order. “Let him go!”
The Republican Guard understood immediately—it was a common tactic used when you wanted to give the enemy an escape route. Disengagement was often preferable to a firefight. Within a few seconds two others saw that the man had retreated easily and they followed, leaving only a couple of stubborn soldiers to defend the position.
Ismael took one out with a bullet through the head and the other cursed and ducked behind a woodshed.
“In the helicopter!” Ismael yelled at his men. “Hurry!”
Six of the remaining eight Republican Guard fit easily. Two did not.
“Up!” Ismael pushed his pistol behind the pilot’s ear. “Up!”
The helicopter whined and lifted off the ground. One of the soldiers grabbed for the skids, and Ismael shot him through the head. The other jumped back and then fled beyond Ismael’s line of sight.
“Shoot him,” he ordered.
Captain Asid stared at him as if he’d been ordered to jump. “He’s my own man!”
“He also has information. Shoot him!” Ismael shifted his pistol to Asid.
The captain swung his rifle out the door and shot four times. Ismael saw the prone body when they made their turn.
The helicopter broke the shoreline and headed directly northeast after the other Huey. Ismael pulled a map from the console and studied it quickly. The Jew was headed for either Shuqaiq or Al Birk. Either way, they would have to go north for Jerusalem. He held the map up to the pilot, jabbed at it. “Where! Where are they going?”
The pilot spoke in his own language, but pointed to Al Birk.
Ismael pointed at Doqa, 150 kilometers north of Al Birk. “Take us there,” he demanded.
The pilot shook his head vehemently, running off a string of unintelligible words. He pointed a trembling finger at the gas gauge.
“Doqa!” Ismael yelled. He drew a more direct line to the coastline south of Doqa, and then up the coast. They would get over land and then fly north towards Doqa. If they ran out of fuel, they could land in the desert. Either way they were going further north. Doqa was just a head start.
The pilot eyed the map and then the gas gauge. He nodded, but his face was white.
Ismael leaned back and took a deep breath. He caught Captain Asid’s gaze. “We are finished chasing,” Ismael said. “This time they come to us.”
The first helicopter pounded its way over the sea for half an hour before either of them spoke again.
“Rebecca.”
She turned to Caleb. He held out a large hand. She hesitated and then reached for it. He held her hand gently. “Thank you.”
“Thank you? For what?”
“For . . . believing.” His eyes searched hers.
“I’m not really sure I am believing anything,” she said.
“You’re believing me. Maybe you underestimate what that means.”
“And maybe you underestimate the position you’ve put me in,” she said.
“And you me.”
“And me you what?”
“Maybe you underestimate the position you’ve put me in,” he said.
“You’re doing what you think you need to do, with or without me,” she said.
“Two weeks ago I was dying in the desert. And then God sent you to me.”
“I came to deceive you.”
“And instead you brought me truth. Now I’m living with that.”
“With what?”
“With you, Rebecca.” He looked away, sheepishly. “And I have a confession. Back at the road, if you would have turned and gone on to Massawa, I would have followed you.”
She tilted her head. “But you didn’t, did you? You left me.”
“I didn’t leave; I led! And you followed! You believed in me. And I think I believe in you.”
It struck her then that he was saying more than she was hearing. In his own way he was telling her that he cared for her. Maybe more. Heat flushed her neck and she turned away.
“As I said, I’m not sure what I believe,” she said.
They were saying belief, but they were meaning love. Because love and belief were the same, at least that’s what Caleb had said. Or maybe it was all in her mind.
She felt his stare on her and looked back. His eyes were green and soft, and she knew looking into them that it was not in her mind.
Not at all.
The phone was slippery with sweat in Abu’s hand. How the situation had progressed to the point of making this call, he still could not completely fathom. Eleven of his best trained men, fully equipped, had entered the desert after one woman a week ago, but at every step the Jew had eluded them. Now Ismael was after her in a helicopter over the Red Sea. And she had the Ark.
The Ark of the Covenant was actually on its way to Jerusalem aboard a helicopter! The Saudis would stop them, of course—every unit along the coast had been put on full alert as a result of Ismael’s information. Egypt was slowly easing the tanks it already had in the Sinai into a position that would enable rapid mobilization. The Saudis continued their military exercises with Egypt near Jordan’s border, conveniently cutting off every road that led to Israel. If necessary they could have the equivalent of two full tank divisions on Israel’s southern border within three hours. The Jew would have to pass through those divisions to reach Jerusalem. If the Ark was in Saudi Arabia, it had virtually no chance of reaching Jerusalem.
But Abu was taking no chances. Rebecca had proven surprisingly resourceful. Dirty Harry was about to go live. Forty thousand Palestinian soldiers were about to hear the words they had waited to hear for over fifty years.
Colonel Muhammed Du’ad’s voice filled the phone. “Yes?”
“Colonel. You know who this is?” It was a secure line, but in the Middle East, nothing was really secure. They followed the protocol for all PLO transmissions.
“Yes.”
“The time has come.”
The phone was silent for a few moments.
“And our brothers?”
“Your brothers are all in agreement. All of them.”
“I see. How long do we have?”
“Two days. Move into position, but do nothing before you hear from me personally. Nothi
ng, do you understand?”
“Do I strike you as a man with a low intelligence?”
Typical Hamas contempt. “No. But if you move prematurely, it will be your men who die. We will act only when we know their intentions. Then we act quickly.”
“Of course,” Du’ad said. He sounded nonchalant, but Abu heard the heaviness of his breathing.
“Be careful, my friend. It isn’t likely that you will be needed. We cannot overstep ourselves. This is only a precaution.”
“Of course.”
“God be praised,” Abu said.
The line went dead.
Abu swore and dropped his phone in its cradle.
40
Rebecca and Caleb reached the beach fifteen kilometers north of Al Birk in just over forty minutes, with no sign of pursuit. If Ismael had survived the Eritreans, he either hadn’t made it off the ground, or was too far behind to make a difference. But either way the Saudis were surely alerted by now, and Rebecca insisted that they avoid something so obvious as an airfield. For all they knew, Al Birk was already crawling with the Saudi National Guard, looking for a Jew and a man in a tunic.
The pilot set them down on a deserted wash of sand with less than a hundred liters of fuel to spare before lifting off and angling south.
“Now what?” Rebecca said. “We’re thirteen hundred kilometers south of my country, in hostile territory, stranded on a beach. But the plan has come to you, right?”
“Yes,” he said. “We should make for the road.” He untied a white cotton scarf he’d wrapped around his midsection. “Cover your head and face. It’s the custom for Muslim women here to wear an abaaya.”
“I’m not Muslim,” she said, but wrapped the cloth around her head anyway. She had no intention of standing out in this hostile land.
“You look marvelous,” he said with a wink.