by Glenn Kleier
“And that damned defense minister, Shaul Tamin, will never hold a press conference when it comes to Israeli security matters,” Hunter complained aloud to Feldman. Watching the Japanese scientists driving up, the cameraman tossed his newspaper in the back seat and swung out of the Rover to meet them. “We need more than a rehash for our follow-up story. Let's see what our scientist friends here can show us.”
Joined by all four astronomers this time, the reporters formed a hasty caravan and, before the other news teams were on to them, motored out into the desert heading due east.
In less than fifteen minutes, the Japanese identified the ravine where they claimed to have discovered the survivor. True to their account, there were discarded bandage wrappers and gauze, trampled brush, tire and cart tracks and footprints in the gravelly sand. But no sign of the survivor or the Bedouins.
Another hour's sweeping search of the vicinity turned up only a few bands of pilgrims and about twenty more kilograms of what the astronomers claimed were meteorite fragments.
“The couple that picked up the survivor are probably headed toward the main highway, and Jerusalem,” Hunter conjectured, and alerted the Japanese that they were breaking off the search.
Still unsure that their evidence had convinced Feldman and Hunter, the scientists were anxious. “Now you go on TV and tell truth?” the older man pleaded once more.
“You've been very helpful,” Feldman told them all. “We'll give it serious consideration.”
The astronomers thanked both men profusely and headed off to search for more fragments.
After they left, Hunter suggested, “How about we return to the ruins and set up our camera in the same spot as before to cut our follow-up?”
“Fine,” Feldman agreed, “only I don't know exactly how we should handle this. You don't buy into the meteorite crap, do you?”
“Hell no, but I think it's a godsend of a follow-up. The Jesus freaks are gonna have a field day with the news.”
Feldman was not convinced. “I got real problems with that, Breck. That's National Inquirer level stuff. If we come out with this meteorite garbage we're just legitimizing the Apocalypse cults. We might as well blow Gideon's trumpet.”
“It's not like we're creating the story here, Jon,” Hunter reasoned. “Those astrologers aren't millenarians, man, they're professionals! And eyewitnesses, no less. Bollinger checked them out. We're only reporting their expert opinion!”
“Astronomers,” Feldman corrected him, although he found the slip of tongue interesting. “I don't know, Breck, we really need to be responsible here.”
Hunter shook his head. “Okay, look. Let's go ahead and tape two cuts, including a meteor version. Then when we get back, we'll have these meteor samples we found checked. If they test out as fresh, we go with the story. Or at least let Bollinger rule on it. Fair enough? Hell, what if it does check out? We might be preventing a war here!”
Feldman shrugged. “God, I hate to take what amounts to the only hard news we've covered in three months and turn it into tabloid journalism.” He rose from his seat in the Rover, stretched and looked out at the smoke still emanating from the smoldering ruins. “I want to know what was going on over there. I want to find that survivor.”
12
Dyan IDF military base, Jerusalem, Israel 10:00 A.M., Sunday, December 26,1999
Alone in his private office, General Goene's somber mood was interrupted by a knock at the door. An adjutant entered to announce that WNN was telecasting a new development in the Negev Institute story. Swearing, Goene dismissed the assistant with an irritated wave and snatched up his remote control.
Materializing on his TV was a handsome, dark-haired, clean-shaven young man. He was standing in front of the main gate of the shattered Negev installation, a large black rock in his hand, thick smoke twisting up into the sky behind him.
“… substantiated reports from two independent authorities,” the man was saying, and photos of a Tel Aviv University geologist and an Oriental-looking scientist appeared in boxes at the corners of the screen. “The reputed attack on this Israeli research center yesterday may actually have been caused by a natural phenomenon, the impact of a large meteorite.”
The general glowered as the special report cut to taped interviews with the two authorities, who documented their claims with more large specimens of blackened ore.
“In their search for these meteorite fragments,” the reporter continued, “the team of astronomers also came across what they believe to be the only person to survive the disaster. A young female in her early twenties, short in height, slight build, dark hair, suffering from multiple injuries and possibly in a state of shock. She was last seen early yesterday morning near the explosion site, in the care of a Bedouin couple.”
Cursing loudly, Goene smashed the remote control to his desk and grabbed for the phone. “Get me Lazzlo!” he shouted into the receiver, staring at the next news story without seeing it.
A minute later, the voice of Intelligence Commander David Lazzlo came over the speakerphone.
Goene disregarded Lazzlo's greeting. “I presume you caught the TV broadcast?” the general fumed. “They've gotten on to your meteor bullshit, and now they're talking about a survivor. A shell-shocked woman. God knows what information she'll spill! Where are we on a body count? If there is a survivor, I want to know who the hell she is and I want her found. Now, Goddammit!”
13
WNN news bureau, Jerusalem, Israel 9:17 A.M., Monday, December 27,1999
You struck a nerve, guys!” Bollinger congratulated Hunter and Feldman at the staff meeting. “The IDF is all hot over your meteorite story! And the survivor thing? Denying it so hard it's gotta be true!”
They'd never seen the bureau chief this enthused.
“We just got an official cable from the defense minister, Shaul Tamin himself,” Bollinger gloated, “personally demanding an immediate retraction. Tamin's releasing official government figures showing that the odds of a celestial object striking their facility are over six billion to one. He's threatening reprisals against Jordan. And Jordan's accusing the Israelis of self-sabotage as a ploy to derail the peace talks.”
“Is there any word from U.S. intelligence on the cause of the explosion?” Cissy asked.
“Nothing,” Bollinger replied. “So far, the allies can't come up with a better explanation than the meteorite. No one's claimed responsibility. Even the Hezbollah and Hamas plead innocent, for once.”
“I thought you might like to know”—Feldman offered up another tidbit—”I got a fax from Dr. Omato and his colleagues complaining that the IDF is attempting to revoke their visas.”
“I'll call our contacts in the Knesset and see what I can do,” Bollinger offered, frowning. “But the good news is,” and the bureau chief resumed his beaming, “WNN viewership is soaring. Our ratings are through the roof and we're getting additional funds and personnel to expand our investigations.”
While gratified by the turn of events, Feldman nevertheless couldn't overlook the global effects the meteorite story was having. Increasingly, predictions of a Second Coming were receiving worldwide attention and, for many people, a significant credibility boost. Millennial fervor was intensifying.
But there was yet another, more subtle change occurring in the collective millenarian psyche. The carefree attitudes once commonly held for the corning New Year had transmuted into a more sobering realization. Suddenly, the promise/curse of the new millennium was more tangible. And now, each night in Jerusalem, there were more and larger rallies, lasting later around blazing bonfires, stoked by equally fiery sermons. For the millenarians, the Last Day was rapidly approaching. And the world was watching.
14
National Ministry of the Universal Kingdom, Dallas, Texas 10:30 P.M. Wednesday, December 29,1999
The Right Reverend Solomon T. Brady, D.D., a short, thick-set, red-faced man with a perfect white pompadour, was furious at WNN. He loathed the sensationalistic media
attention freely bestowed on the ludicrous millenarians while his legitimate ministry had to pay thousands of dollars per minute for its vital broadcast time.
More to the point, he was peeved at the increasing allure the millennialists were exerting on his own flock. Brady fully recognized that his evangelistic followers were vulnerable to this type of apocalyptic appeal. But, while his own message may have traded somewhat on the fears of a Second Coming, he wasn't so opportunistic or obvious as to exploit the issue simply because the millennium was at hand.
Nor so shortsighted. While these millennialists might be having their day in the sun now, nightfall was rapidly approaching. Reverend Brady's lost sheep would quickly return to the fold come New Year's Day, more loyal and giving than ever. Finally, they'd comprehend what he'd been insistently preaching all along: that the Cataclysm would occur at a time no mortal man could foretell. Just as Christ had stated.
Meanwhile, however, the Right Reverend had to endure the most difficult period of his ministry. His congregation, which had once numbered just shy of eight hundred thousand, had contracted substantially of late. Today's news was worse. Reverend Brady knew this in advance, looking up from his broad mahogany desk to find his chief accounting officer standing before him, shifting annoyingly from one foot to the other. The accountant had arrived in Brady's office as inconspicuously as an undertaker, to reluctantly present a report of the Universal Kingdom's latest contribution figures.
Reverend Brady impatiently flipped to the last pages to discover that receipts were off yet another seven percent from last week's depressing five-point decline. He angrily rejected the document back across his desk, sending a twenty-nine-dollar 1998 Universal Kingdom commemorative ashtray to its ruin on the marble floor. Without a word, Brady turned to scowl out his window at the bustling campus far below.
15
Mount of the Ascension, Jerusalem, Israel 5:30 P.M., Friday, December 31,1999
The Mount of the Ascension was the highest elevation in Jerusalem, its summit rising about four hundred meters above the city. Also known as Mount of Olives, at its base lay the sacred Garden of Gethsemane, where Christ last meditated prior to His arrest and Crucifixion. Between Gethsemane and the Golden Gate of the city was the deep and narrow Cedron Valley, a large Jewish cemetery.
Jewish tradition had it that when the Messiah came to Jerusalem on Judgment Day, He'd pass over the Mount of the Ascension/Olives, gather the dead buried in the Valley of Cedron and enter the Old City of Jerusalem through the Golden Gate. In defiance of such notions, however, the Arabs had sealed up the gate with stone many years ago.
This was the afternoon of the Day. Hunter, Feldman, Cissy and a full WNN crew had set up their equipment in a second-story apartment near the top of the mount. They were fortunate to have acquired these headquarters, as there were few residential areas and commercial structures here. The majority of buildings on the sparsely developed mount were religious sites, scattered among the Aleppo pines, olive trees and wizened scrub. They included sacred shrines, tombs, churches, temples and various ruins dating from the times of King David up through the Crusades and the Knights Templar.
WNN had rented out an entire flat for the night, paying an outrageous sum to temporarily dislodge its residents. From the vantage point of the apartment's balcony was an unobstructed view of the highest point on the mountain, the imposing Tower of the Church of the Ascension, about fifty meters to the left. It was precisely at this tower that Christians believed Jesus made His triumphant Ascension into heaven. Logically, then, it was here that most millenarians felt Christ would return.
From the courtyard area at the base of the Ascension Church and Tower, the assembled multitudes of millenarians spilled down the slope directly in front of the WNN apartment, across the Cedron Valley and all the way to the ancient city gates below. The crowd also included a considerable number of Muslims—Christians and Jews holding no monopoly on the terminal significance of this mountain. Islam also predicted that Judgment Day would occur on this spot.
“Not exactly Times Square, is it?” Hunter quipped as he trained his video camera on the crowd.
“No,” Feldman responded, “more like Apocalypse Central.”
Earlier in the day, Feldman and company had been down among the pilgrims, sending candid footage of millenarian interviews via satellite back to hungry audiences all over the world. Now, as the crowd grew too dense for comfort, Feldman had elected to retreat to their apartment above the fray to set up for the “climactic” evening.
Even before the godsend of the Negev laboratory disaster, WNN had been steadily priming its worldwide audience, shrewdly building toward this moment. And for tonight, WNN's executive producers had fashioned a special program. Cleverly, the coverage would be coordinated with the time zone changes. Once midnight had uneventfully passed in Jerusalem, the WNN coverage would shift to Rome for a live telecast of the Millennium Eve happenings there. Then, after doomsday failed to materialize in Rome, coverage would jump to New York, and on to Salt Lake City where the last bastion of millenarians would be crossing their fingers. By capitalizing on the time changes in this way, WNN would ensure itself a rotating, worldwide, prime-time audience.
All of which had given Feldman butterflies. The prospect of hosting potentially the largest live audience ever was intimidating. This surprise honor had been bestowed on him abruptly this morning when the intended announcer, who'd flown in yesterday from New York, had come down with a sudden flu. Honor or no, because Feldman was reasonably certain nothing apocalyptic was going to happen tonight he had to contend with the fact that he'd be presiding over the largest theatrical letdown of all time. A hell of a send-off for his last official day with WNN.
“Worse than Geraldo Rivera and his Al Capone vault,” Hunter insensitively suggested.
But, as WNN had calculated, the magnitude of the inevitable disappointment would itself be newsworthy. There'd be ample backpedaling, rationalizing millenarians to keep the story interesting. Irrespective, Feldman could content himself with the knowledge that, shortly afterward, he'd be off to Washington, D.C., and a whole new life in the preeminent world of U.S. political news coverage.
Outside WNN's rented apartment, it was beginning to drift into evening. Looking beyond the balcony across the mountainside and off into the ancient land of the Israelites, Feldman was taken with how quickly this harsh, drought-stricken country softened in the pink and purple twilight. If ever there were a night for a religious experience, this would be it. But not for the destruction of the world. More for a quiet, divine social visit.
Except for the gathering of a few clouds far off to the southwest, the sky was clear, starlit and still. Peaceful but for the singing, chanting and sermonizing of the millenarians attempting to solidify their positions with God.
Feldman donned a sweater and returned to the balcony with a black coffee. Inside, their preparation work finished, Hunter and Cissy were making sport of one another again while Bollinger talked with the home office and the rest of the crew wandered downstairs for a break. Yawning and stretching, Feldman couldn't be sure he'd heard someone call his name.
There it was again. It had come from somewhere down below. Leaning over the second-floor balcony, he scanned the crowd, before finally doing a double-take on the alluring, upturned visage of Anke Heuriskein.
“Am I disturbing your final meditation?” she called up.
“Wait there, I'll be right down!” he shouted back, and he was gone, depositing the coffee cup so hastily on the rail it spilled over the side onto a turbaned, semitoothless man below. The poor victim, his black, angry eyes searching the mysteriously vacant balcony above him, swore profusely in an acerbic Middle Eastern tongue.
Feldman was thrilled at his good fortune. Although Anke had taken his phone number at the embassy party, he'd never heard from her. So he'd impatiently searched for her number in both the Tel Aviv city phone book and Tel Aviv University directory, to no avail. Finally, with the help of a un
iversity professor friend, he'd gotten what he'd been looking for. Only to be greeted by the beep of an answering machine.
He'd left three messages: asking her to call; asking her to dinner; asking her to meet him this evening for the televised finale, given that Millennium Eve would be his last official day with WNN and he'd be leaving for the States shortly. His last invitation was days ago and he'd heard nothing. Yet, he'd sincerely believed he'd made a favorable first impression. He'd felt the chemistry.
His feet were in no way as light as his heart as he tripped over squatters in the stairwell, nearly taking a nasty fall. Undaunted, he pressed his way out into the square, fearful he'd lost her in the crowd. But there she was, waiting for him, smiling with those appealingly full and sensual lips. He reached through the last barrier of people and drew her safely to him. Wrapping his arm snugly around her shoulders, he worked their way back to safety, shielding her protectively from the buffeting crowd.
Struggling once more past the loiterers in the stairwell, at last reaching the sanctuary of the makeshift WNN news room, he closed the noise and turmoil behind them. Turning to her inside the door, his eyes were aglow with delight and adrenaline.
“I didn't think you'd gotten any of my messages,” he said, still out of breath from his exertion.
“I hadn't until yesterday,” Anke explained. “I live in Jerusalem, you know. I was here all week.”
This was good, Feldman concluded. She hadn't been ignoring him. “It's great to see you, Anke, you look wonderful!”
And she did. Her thick hair was straight now, pulled back loosely and held up with a simple clip. It didn't appear as if she were wearing makeup, not that she had any need. Hers was that exceptional complexion with the healthy gleam of a natural tan.
It intrigued Feldman how each time he saw her she looked so different and yet so gorgeously the same. There was a versatility to her beauty that slipped dimensions. Tonight, she exhibited a more casual, girlish demeanor. As he looked into her face, he saw a sweetness, almost an innocence, that made her feel far more familiar than their brief acquaintance gave him any right.