He read the note, exchanged glances with Balfour, and then turned back to the audience. “If you’ve followed my writing, read my book, listened to my interviews, or kept track of my e-newsletter, then you know that I have spoken of signs in the sky indicating the beginning of the end—the end only our followers will survive.” He held up the piece of paper. “I’ve just been handed a note that informs me of a meteor which struck a small town in Arizona.”
Gasps and excited chatter swept through the theater. Quetzal held up his hands. “Quiet. Please, quiet, everyone. The damage is minimal and there has been no loss of life.” He straightened and stared at the crowd. “Yet.”
Lisa set her pad and recorder on her lap and retrieved her Black-Berry. In a moment she was online, searching the web. She found confirmation on a news site.
“It’s true.” Lisa spoke to herself but the man next to her overheard.
“You had doubts?”
Albuquerque International Sunport Airport was crowded and noisy. Morgan had cleared security and was making his way through the mired mass of humanity clogging the walkways. He’d flown into this airport on several occasions to conduct business for his firm, but this was the first time he had found it so crowded.
The crowd didn’t bother him. He would have preferred more elbow room, but at least he wasn’t in a rush to catch a plane. He hadn’t had to do that for years.
He moved slowly through the terminal, too slowly for those behind him who grumbled and elbowed their way past him. He didn’t care. What other people thought of him had ceased to matter. Behind him he towed a small, rolling suitcase.
Unrecognizable music mixed with the sound of footsteps, crying children, and people on cell phones. Some of the faces looked familiar, fellow travelers to Roswell now returning home in droves.
One woman looked especially familiar. Same auburn hair, same height, same outfit from the night before when he sat next to her in a theater and listened to a man talk about the coming end of the world. He had hung on every word, and she had grumbled through the entire presentation.
Lisa Campbell. The name floated forward in his mind. She was studying the screen of her cell phone. He was still twenty feet away when he saw her lean her head back and stare at the ceiling. Whatever was on the screen had upset her.
“Bad news?” He stepped close. A large overnight bag rested near her feet. Next to it sat a computer bag.
“My plane—” She looked at him, wrinkled her brow, then offered a polite smile that he read as, “Oh, it’s you.”
“What about your plane? Run out of pretzels?”
“That I could live with.” Lisa peered at the small screen of her BlackBerry. “My flight has been canceled. Mechanical trouble of some sort. I guess I’m going to have to spend the night in the terminal.”
“What about a hotel?”
“Everything around the airport is full.”
Morgan slipped his hands into his pockets. “Where are you headed?”
“San Antonio by way of Denver.”
“That’s on my way. I can take you home if you want.”
She examined him as if trying to read his mind. It amused Morgan. “What makes you think your flight has an extra seat?” she said.
“I didn’t say I could get you on a flight. I said I can take you to San Antonio.”
“Why should I get in a car with a total stranger?” Her eyes narrowed.
“Did I mention a car?” He pointed to a window at the end of the terminal. “Follow me.”
She hesitated.
“Got something else to do? Come on. I’m harmless.” Morgan took the extended handle of his case and pulled it behind him. A glance over his shoulder showed Lisa was also in tow, her bag hung over her shoulder. She followed in his wake as he pressed through the milling crowd like the bow of a ship through the ocean.
He edged close to the large window. Lisa moved to his side but kept an arm’s distance between them.
“That’s mine. The one with the blue stripe along the fuselage.” At one time, he would have said those words with pride and a smile. Seeing the Cessna Citation Sovereign resting in the business area of the tarmac reminded him of another jet—the one that preceded this one.
“That’s yours?” Lisa eyes widened.
“Yes. Well, it belongs to my company; not to me personally. How about it? Can a guy offer you a lift?”
“What did you say your name was again?”
“How soon they forget.”
She shrugged. “I was preoccupied with my work.”
“Andrew Morgan from Oklahoma City.”
Lisa chewed her lip for a moment. “That name still rings a bell with me.”
“I probably owe you money. Come on—let me take you away from all this. You can keep me company. It’s lonely being the only passenger.”
Lisa let out a melodic laugh. “That sounds like heaven to me.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“You know, San Antonio isn’t on the way to Oklahoma City.”
“It is the way I travel.”
She straightened. “Wait, are you saying you’re the pilot?”
“No. You wouldn’t want that. The plane comes with a two-man crew. You’ll have to fetch your own snacks.”
Lisa grinned. “I can do that. I’ve never been in a private jet before.”
“Well, let’s fix that.” He took her computer bag. “We go through that door. We have a little time, but the pilot will need to file a new flight plan.”
An airport employee checked their identification and matched it against the manifest of private flights. He then escorted them through a security door and onto the tarmac. Minutes later, Morgan led Lisa into the luxurious interior of the finest business jet made.
SAN PEDRO YANCUITLALPAN, MEXICO
It was just 10:00 a.m., and the heat was already oppressive. The sun, which still had two more hours before it would reach its zenith, shone like a huge gold coin in the deep blue sky. Bob Newton stepped from the adobe-lined community building and onto the dusty street. Profirio Galicia followed him. Both men glanced around the impoverished community. A man rode a burro down the street; a teenage boy peddled his bicycle in the other direction. Newton sensed tenseness in the air.
“El Popo was upset last night,” Profirio said, nodding to the mountain just outside of town. “Soon villagers will be taking offerings again.”
“I’m afraid that won’t do them much good, Profirio,” Newton said as he studied the 17,887-foot tall, snowcapped volcano. “Cooked chickens and fruit might make me feel better, but it won’t do anything for El Popo.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Profirio countered.
“Couldn’t it?” Newton turned his eyes from the volcano to his interpreter. “I don’t think you want to be on the mountain if she goes. That would hurt.”
“You think her time is soon?”
“Popocatépetl has been acting up for years now and may continue to do so with very little danger, or it could go at any time.”
“You think she will erupt, don’t you?”
Newton turned and faced the man. He was tall, thin, and quick with a smile. Although only thirty-eight, he looked much older. In addition to serving as interpreter to Dr. Newton, Profirio was also the town clerk. “I can’t be sure, but the latest readings indicate that something is up. I think it may be time to call for an evacuation.”
Profirio shook his head. “We have had too many evacuations over the years. The people lose wages when they leave. It will be hard to get them to abandon their homes again.”
“They’ll have to, Profirio. San Pedro is in the worst possible situation here.” Newton removed the New York Mets baseball cap he was wearing and wiped his bald head. Newton was forty-two years old and a senior project manager for the US Geological Survey in Menlo Park, California. He had spent the last three months in San Pedro monitoring Popocatépetl, the volcano that residents called El Popo. He returned his attention to the road that led fro
m the town.
“You seem worried, amigo,” Profirio said. “Your friends will be back from the mountain soon.”
“I can’t help but worry. In April of 1996, five hikers died up there. That’s five too many deaths. My group should have been back by now.”
“Maybe it took longer to fix the radio monitor.”
“Perhaps, but that…”
They felt it before they heard it. A rumble—borne along by the hot wind of the day—echoed from the side of the mountain. A moment later the ground shook, vibrating everything within fifty miles. Fifteen seconds later, it was over.
“Another earthquake, amigo. A big one too.”
Newton ignored Profirio. His mind was on the mountain. “Where are they?” he asked aloud. “What could be keeping them?”
Once again the earth shook. Once again Newton’s heart skipped a beat.
“Wow.”
Morgan smiled at Lisa’s expression as they walked around inside the jet. “First time in one of these babies is always memorable.”
“I imagine it’s old hat to you.”
“Not really. I still have to pinch myself.”
The passenger compartment sported leather seats that faced each other. On the right side was a table crafted from teakwood, situated between a pair of seats. A cobalt blue carpet covered the deck.
“The restroom is in the back. There’s a tiny galley behind the front bulkhead. And opposite that, there’s a business center with fax, notepads, pens, and that kind of stuff. We have a wet bar if you’re interested.”
Lisa grimaced. “I don’t drink, but thanks. Tried it once in college. That was enough for me.”
“I don’t drink either.”
“Then why the wet bar?” Lisa took a seat at the fuselage-mounted table.
“I’m not the only one who uses the aircraft. It’s not my jet. My company owns it, and some of our clients and vendors like a beverage now and then.”
“But not you. It was the taste that put me off.”
“I like the taste of booze. I like what it does to me more.”
Lisa raised an eyebrow. “What it does to you?”
“Numbs the mind. I got too close to it for a while. I’m a bit of a health fanatic these days. I’d rather work out than drink.”
Lisa sputtered.
“Too honest? Life has taught me to be honest with myself about myself.” He waited for a response that didn’t come. “I need to talk to the pilots about our little detour. Can I bring you a soda or coffee?”
“I’m fine.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.” Morgan exited the aircraft.
Lisa felt fortunate; she also felt uneasy. Here she sat in a custom leather airplane seat on a business jet simply because a good-looking CEO had offered her a lift. She felt like a hitchhiker. Of course, this kind of hitchhiking she could learn to love.
She took in her surroundings again, impressed by the kind of wealth necessary to create an interior like this. Outside, the sound of the jet aircraft leaving solid ground to take to the air filtered in through the open door.
Drumming her fingers on the table, she resisted the urge to look in the drawers and galley. Instead, she retrieved her BlackBerry and checked the signal strength. Three bars were good enough. She activated the Internet browser and did a search for “Andrew Morgan.”
“Nuts.” The name was so common that Google returned over fifteen million hits. Most of those would only be vaguely related to the name. On the bulkhead that separated the cabin from the cockpit, there was a logo woven into the cloth covering: Morgan Natural Energy. She entered, “Andrew Morgan Morgan Natural Energy.” A few seconds later, she had several good hits.
Using journalistic skills honed since her college days, she scanned the sites. She learned he wasn’t yet forty and had been CEO for the last seven years following the death of his father. A business evaluation site gave the company five stars for leadership, innovation, and service.
On a whim, Lisa clicked on “Images.” Scores of photos appeared, too many to scan on her phone’s small screen. She did see photos of him in a tuxedo at a fund-raiser for some charity. She also saw images of him in what appeared to be foreign locations.
She reached for her computer, hoping her wireless service would be fast enough for another quick Internet search. Before she could unzip the bag her host reappeared.
“Look out the window.” He stepped in the craft.
“What?”
“The window. Look out it.”
“At what?”
“Oh, for the love of…Just look.” Morgan pointed at the window by her head.
Lisa turned and scanned as much of the airport as the window allowed.
Morgan sat in the seat at the opposite side of the table and stared out the window.
“What am I supposed to be seeing?”
“The airplane.”
Lisa snapped her head around. “You don’t mean it! There’s an aircraft at the airport? How could that happen?” She followed the words with a chuckle.
“Cute. I thought reporters were supposed be observant. The Bombardier.”
“The more you talk, the more confused I become.”
He chortled. “The other business jet. The one taxiing on the tarmac. Look at the tail section. That’s the tall metal thing sticking out of the back of the plane.”
“That much I know.” She studied the sleek craft. “What about it?”
“The logo. It doesn’t look familiar to you?”
“Should it?”
Morgan sighed for effect. “The snake. The feathers.”
Lisa didn’t know what to say.
“Robert Quetzal was wearing a lapel pin just like that.”
Lisa furrowed her brow. “How could you see something as small as a lapel pin? Oh, the projection screen.” Her attention had been divided by Quetzal’s speech, the crowd, her notepad, and her recorder. She hadn’t looked at anything beyond the man’s appearance. “That’s his jet?”
“That’d be my guess.”
“I suppose if I said, ‘Follow that plane,’ you’d get right on it.”
“Sure. As long as he’s going to San Antonio.”
“Mr. Morgan?”
Lisa looked forward to the open door. A man in dark pants and a white shirt with a captain’s chevrons on the shoulders’ epaulets stepped into the cabin. A younger man with only three gold stripes on his shoulders followed and then slipped into the cockpit.
“Yes, Steve.”
“We’re ready, sir. With your permission, we’ll see if we can get this thing to fly.”
Morgan rose and walked forward.
Lisa sneaked a look at her cell phone, toggled over to the search results, and was about to sign off when she saw a link that caught her eye. It was listed under “News.” She followed the link, which took her to an archived article for an Oklahoma newspaper: OILMAN’S FAMILY DIES IN PLANE CRASH.
Fifteen minutes later, the jet took to the air.
As the jet flew east, Morgan moved across the cabin and took a seat next to one of the port windows. Below, the desert was painted in ever-changing hues of brown. He knew he couldn’t see the area where it happened. It was too many miles away and behind them. Colorado was to their north, the red-painted Utah.
“Is that where it happened?” Lisa’s voice was soft and measured, just loud enough to be heard over the engine noise.
Morgan tore his eyes away and looked at his guest. “Where what happened?”
She didn’t answer his question. “Do you know who Horatio G. Spafford was?”
“No. Should I?”
She shrugged. “He was a successful lawyer in the late 1800s. He lived what some considered a charmed life. He had fame and more money than he knew what to do with. He was also a man of faith and very involved in the evangelistic movement led by Dwight Moody and others.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
She shifted in her chair. “They lost a son to scarlet
fever. The boy was only four. Not long after that, the family lost much of its wealth in the great Chicago fire. Still, they remained faithful, and Spafford continued helping in evangelistic work. His wife, Anna, however, still struggled with their losses. They decided to take a cruise to Europe, but a business emergency kept Spafford home. He sent his wife and other children on ahead.”
“There’s a point to this.” Morgan didn’t like where this was headed.
“The ship his family was on was rammed and sunk in three miles of water in less than twelve minutes. Out of three hundred and seven passengers, only eighty-one survived. Anna Spafford was one of them. They found her floating unconscious in the water. Later she would describe being towed under by the sinking ship. The current, filled with debris, pulled one of her children from her arms. A young man had rescued two of the girls, but they were too weak to hold on to the planks he used as a life preserver. They slipped beneath the surface. When she reached shore, she sent a telegram to her husband telling him she was the lone survivor.”
“Lisa—”
She held up a hand. He could see tears in her eyes. “Survivors watched Anna closely. They thought she might take her own life. Who could blame her? Lost one child to disease and three more by drowning.”
“You think I’m suicidal? You don’t know me well enough to—”
“She heard a soft voice: ‘You were saved for a purpose.’ That voice got her through.” She inhaled deeply before continuing. “Horatio Spafford sailed for Europe to be with his wife. The captain of his ship called him to the bridge and told him that they were passing over the spot where his wife’s ship went down. That night, he wrote the words that became one of the best-known hymns in Christendom: ‘It Is Well with My Soul.’ Have you ever heard it?”
“I grew up in the Bible Belt. Of course I’ve heard it.” He looked away. “I take it you’re one of the faithful.”
“I’m a Christian, yes. I write for an online Christian newspaper.”
“I should have known.”
“Shall I step out of the plane?”
That made Morgan smile. “That might tarnish my image as a gentleman. How do you know so much about Spafford?”
The Mayan Apocalypse Page 3