by Glenn Kleier
Feldman was perhaps the only person present whose mind was on other things. This was his personal, sacred moment. As he approached Anke, he appreciated how truly beautiful she was. So fresh. So unsuspecting. It must have been the emotion of the moment, but Feldman was feeling light-headed. Awkward. He was losing his balance. As was Anke and the whole production crew around him. The entire apartment began to spasm and shudder violently.
Cameras and lights on tripods went hopping, rotating, toppling. The electricity cut off and there was an ungodly eruption of screams and panic from the throngs on the mountain. In a horrific return to reality, a revelation of fear gripped Feldman unlike anything he'd ever felt.
17
Brookforest subdivision, Racine, Wisconsin 4:00 P.M., Friday, December 31, 1999
Halfway around the world in the quiet, close-knit bedroom community of Brookforest, it was still Millennium Eve, late afternoon, Central Standard Tune.
A light snow was falling, adding to die several inches that previously blanketed the picturesque middle-class subdivision. Street lamps and the lights of many front-yard crèches and holiday displays were already aglow, hastened by overcast skies, tall spruce trees and the early nightfall of the season.
Abruptly, the winter serenity was shattered by a chorus of screams erupting from homes all across the neighborhood. Out the front door of one house burst a middle-aged woman, shrieking with fear, followed closely by her terrorized, howling dog.
Michelle Martin had made the mistake of swapping her customary afternoon Oprah Winfrey show for the spectacle of WNN's heavily promoted Millennial Eve vigil. And now, rather than the festive New Year's celebration she had anticipated, the forty-seven-year-old mother of two had just been broadsided by her greatest dread.
Mrs. Martin was oblivious to both her slippers and the snow as she fled out into the cul-de-sac to meet up with a gathering of her equally distraught neighbors.
“God help us all!” wailed a young mother, clutching her preschooler to her bosom.
“It's the Angel of Death!” Mr. Krazinski, an elderly retiree, cried. “It's the last plague of Egypt!”
“Yes!” Another near-hysterical resident made the fearful connection. “Just like in the movie The Ten Commandments! The Angel of Death is sweeping over the land, bearing judgment at midnight! We've got eight hours till it reaches us!”
Michelle Martin went whiter than the snow and dropped to the ground.
Weeping and gnashing their teeth, some twenty-odd people formed a prayer circle right there in the middle of the street, kneeling in the slush, salt and cinders, appealing to the mercy of their God.
18
Mount of the Ascension, Jerusalem, Israel 12:02 A.M., Saturday, January 1, 2000
Feldman was hopelessly disoriented. It had taken every ounce of his concentration to reach out and snare Anke as they collapsed to the apartment floor. He had cradled her on top of him, wrapping his arms around her, placing his cheek tightly against hers.
And then, just as suddenly as the violent tremors had begun, they ceased.
The earth was still again. In the darkened room, above the screams of the crowd, no one was stirring. Feldman, in urgent tones and short of breath, repeatedly asked Anke if she was okay. She didn't answer him, but he could feel her rapid breathing and she squeezed his arms, which were still wrapped tightly about her. He was afraid to lessen his grip lest she detect him shaking.
“Everyone okay?” It was the quavering voice of Bollinger. One by one, the entire crew checked in.
Feldman determined from their voices that there were several people still on the balcony. “You'd better move inside,” he warned, “it may not be safe out there.” Making a valiant effort to calm himself, he sat upright, still holding Anke in his lap, and began stroking her hair.
“What's happened?” she finally spoke, sounding small and anxious.
“Earthquake,” Hunter declared. “We've lost our power but we're okay now.”
“Earthquake my ass!” It was one of the production crew members from over near the balcony. “Any Christian worth his soul better have the fear of God in him right now!” A number of voices concurred and someone began the Lord's Prayer, with several people quickly joining in.
Another of the production crew flipped on a cigarette lighter, but Hunter warned against gas leaks and it immediately clicked out. A few moments later, someone ferreted out a flashlight, which helped locate a battery-powered halogen flood lamp. The dusty room was reilluminated with an eerie blue light.
Feldman could see two of the crew near the balcony, another at the window, and others scattered about the room. Bollinger was under a table, Hunter and Cissy were crouched together in a corner.
Sounds of sirens and emergency vehicles came filtering in from outside mixed with the unceasing din of the crowd. Inconsolable screams of hysteria, anguished crying and fearful prayers joined triumphant choruses of hymnals and psalms amid the reinvigorated caterwauling of the doomsdayers.
“What's going on out there?” Bollinger called over to the crew at the balcony.
One of them stopped praying and responded, “I can't see a whole lot. The lights are out all over. Lots of people moving around, plenty of commotion. But only a couple of buildings on fire that I can see.”
Anke's hair had come undone from its clasp and Feldman drew several long, soft strands from her face. She looked up at him anxiously, her brow troubled, her lips pressed firmly together, her hold on his arm undiminished.
One by one, the prayers in the room ceased and a few decided it was safe to stand. The apartment was in disarray, but Feldman noticed that while there were cracks in the walls and ceilings, none seemed serious. He helped Anke rise, and supporting her against his side, together they worked their way over to the balcony for a look outside.
At least in the darkness, the damage appeared limited. “Maybe it was just a warning,” the born-again Christian crew member hoped, his voice still trembling. “Maybe that's all there is for now.”
“This is just too unbelievable!” Bollinger stammered.
“To say the absolute least,” Cissy underscored. She rested her head against Hunter's chest, closing her eyes. She'd been crying. Watching her, Feldman raised his eyes to meet Hunter's pensive, unwavering gaze. They traded questioning looks until Hunter shrugged his shoulders, shook his head in denial and looked away out over the balcony again.
A crew member announced that the phones were dead. Cellular phones were still functioning, although the range appeared limited to the immediate vicinity.
“God, I bet the whole world is going apeshit right now,” Bollinger said. He was beginning to recover his journalistic senses. “I wonder if any of the networks here are back on line yet.” He pointed to an engineer. “Jimmy, see if we can get some battery power to the satellite link and let's try to get some updates out of here. Joe, where are you?” Joe's faltering voice emanated from the stairwell. “Joe, go up on the roof and check the dish. Somebody see if Israel Radio is alive and has anything on this.”
“Israel Radio is dead,” someone quickly reported back.
“The dish is fine,” Joe called down from the roof a few minutes later.
Whether by managerial brilliance or rote instinct, Bollinger's firm commands to his crew were remedial. Everyone, including Anke, pitched in to reassemble the operations. Patched together with batteries and cables, the WNN team was once more the first to get the story out. Their transmission lacked any video, and the audio quality was poor, but amazingly they were back on the air to the WNN European Bureau by 12:42 A.M.
To rejoin a world in uproar.
Hunter had succeeded in nursing a satellite TV monitor back to life, and as the team crowded around, a fuzzy picture and squawking audio relayed the tale. For forty-one minutes and forty-eight seconds, all anyone outside Jerusalem knew was that, at the designated hour of the new millennium, some supernatural calamity had struck the Holy Land. Just as had been predicted for so long, by so man
y. Forty-one minutes and forty-eight seconds was time enough to foment mass hysteria, suicides, heart attacks and assorted insanities on a global scale.
Everywhere, cathedrals, churches, synagogues and temples were breached by stampeding mobs seeking refuge from the wrath of God. Many were trampled or crushed to death. Random violence, lootings and rioting ignited spontaneously and unpredictably in major cities worldwide.
In Times Square, New York, the throngs of assembled revelers had panicked in the streets as they watched Jerusalem tremble, scream and fade to black on the giant Jumbotron video screen above them. In the ensuing onslaught on the subways, hundreds of hapless people were forced off the congested platforms onto the electric tracks and in front of oncoming trains. (Later that evening, inexplicably, the illuminated globe high atop Number One Times Square would short out all its lights and refuse to descend to the New Year.)
Feldman, his eyes fixed on these unsettling scenes of chaos, made a valiant effort to restore reason to the world. Suppressing pent-up emotions, in a calm and soothing voice, he sent his desperately awaited message of reassurance crackling out across the dark skies. Frantic engineers at WNN's European Bureau cobbled the audio together with file footage of the Holy City, rushing the report out to a rampaging world.
19
Mount of the Ascension, Jerusalem, Israel 2:27 A.M., Saturday, January 1, 2000
Feldman and crew maintained their transmissions until the batteries expired at approximately two-thirty A.M. Mideast time. Two of Bollinger's men had been able to make limited scouting expeditions out into the city. They confirmed by cellular phone that damage was extensive in many areas. However, given the apparent magnitude of the quake, casualties were relatively light. This had all been dutifully transmitted to the European Bureau.
After they'd done everything they could, after all the gear had been packed and stowed in the vans, Bollinger gathered the exhausted team and asked for their attention. Looking at their tired faces, the news director shook his head in reflective disbelief. “Gang, I can't stand here and pretend that I understand what went on tonight any more than you do. Maybe tomorrow, in the light of day, this will all make more sense.
“After twenty-six years in this business, I guess I'm not a particularly religious sort of person, but I have to confess that this whole thing has truly spooked the hell out of me, too. One thing I do know is that you were extraordinarily professional and calm during all of this, and I'm extremely proud of all of you.”
He looked over at Feldman, who was slouched wearily on the end of a couch with Anke. “And I don't know where you found this amazing young lady, Jon, but she's been a real trouper tonight, and we all thank you, Anke.”
There was a simultaneous murmur of agreement, to which Anke responded with a weak smile.
“A few things before we break camp,” Bollinger concluded. “I'm confident that at least some of our transmissions have been successfully received. Either way, there's no doubt headquarters is, at this very moment, rushing up additional support from Cairo. While the phone lines and electric are out, let's all stay close to our mobile phones, but use them sparingly so you don't waste the batteries. If repair crews reestablish communication links outside the region, I'll get word to you on what's happening in the world. Otherwise, plan on a staff meeting at the office at eight A.M. sharp.
“And Jon.” Bollinger called Feldman aside for a moment. “Since it looks like your departure for the States might be delayed a bit, maybe you'd consider sticking with us a few more days to help us sort through this new development.”
“Fine,” Feldman graciously agreed. “I don't start until next Thursday, anyway.” Besides, he didn't mind an excuse that would buy him a little more time with his new acquaintance.
Hunter stood next in line to talk with Feldman. “So, you're hangin’ with us awhile longer, eh? Great! We're gonna need you until all this dust settles!”
“Only for a few days,” Feldman confirmed.
Hunter nodded. “Look, you go ahead in the Rover and get Anke home, I'll take Cissy in her car. And, uh, I may be late to the meeting tomorrow.”
Feldman thought he understood and nodded. He'd noticed for some time the coalescing relationship between Hunter and Cissy. And he loved the way they teased one another mercilessly with underlying affection.
But there was more behind the intent, introspective look on the cameraman's face. This was not about Cissy.
It took Feldman over an hour to drive Anke the two and a half kilometers to her home, picking their way carefully down the mount through the throngs and around fallen debris in the streets.
Feldman was continually impressed with this remarkable woman. She had recovered quickly from her initial alarm and had worked relentlessly with the rest of the team in whatever capacity asked of her to get them back on the air. Now she sat quietly, interrupting her private thoughts occasionally to give a brief smile and point directions.
Fortunately, there appeared to be little damage to the northern section of town. When they arrived in front of Anke's contemporary white villa, it looked untouched.
Anke turned to him in her seat and put her hand on his. “Jon, please don't take this the wrong way …”
Here it came. He felt his gut knotting as he looked into that exquisite face. This sounded like the intro to a permanent farewell. It wasn't often that he'd been on the receiving end.
“But”—she dropped the other shoe—”I live by myself and I'd just prefer not to be alone right now.”
He was traveling the wrong wavelength and her words didn't register right away. He said nothing and she felt compelled to elaborate. “You see, there's a loft upstairs, and if you don't mind a pull-out bed, I'll wake you in time for your meeting and fix you a nice breakfast, and you can leave whenever—”
Feldman was up to speed finally, and so was his pulse. “Oh, absolutely, I wouldn't consider leaving you alone right now!” he insisted, quickly bolting from the car and slinging his carry-all over his shoulder.
20
Somewhere in Jerusalem, Israel 3:41 A.M., Saturday, January 1, 2000
Out in the disrupted city streets, Hunter had no thought of sleep. He'd dropped Cissy off at her apartment, resisting her persistent, tempting offer to stay and ride in together for the eight o'clock meeting. Instead, he'd decided to fight the impossible road conditions back to WNN headquarters, alone, promising Cissy to return with break-fast and her car in time to make the meeting.
After several hours, Hunter arrived at the WNN offices to find the building relatively undamaged but the electricity out. Switching on emergency backup batteries, he sat at an editing bay reviewing his videotape of the moments leading up to the earthquake—particularly the segment featuring the interview with the odd Satanist, Astarte. Hunter's interest focused on the electrical storm in the background, and he used the special Advanced Definition Optics of the editing system to zoom in on the vicinity and enhance the image.
In his opinion, the storm was peculiar. Very intense and very concentrated. Stationary over one location for an extended period. Yet, while he hadn't been paying particular attention at the time, he could recall no trace of the storm after the earthquake. It was as if it simply vanished with the tremors. All this stirred unreconcilably in his mind as he carefully inspected the video footage.
Finally, as the first light of morning arrived, it dawned on him. Hunter slapped the table. Pausing the tape, flashlight in hand, he hustled over to a large map of Israel suspended on the far wall of the room. Locating the Mount of the Ascension, he attempted to orient the view he'd had from the villa balcony. Before he could accomplish this, he was distracted by the gradually increasing sound of pounding on the door of the front office.
Hunter tolerated interruptions poorly. But his irritation evaporated quickly as he opened the door to a very striking young woman flanked by two seemingly unworthy male companions. It was one of the WNN support teams, hurriedly arrived from Cairo, he learned. They'd come in style
, traveling in a fully equipped, self-sufficient, forty-foot mobile video RV.
21
Romema Ilit housing development, Jerusalem, Israel 5:50 A.M., Saturday, January 1, 2000
In his dream, Feldman was a child again. He was studying his catechism with his beautiful, dark-haired mother. But try as he might, he couldn't remember any of his lessons, and it disappointed her greatly. He sighed and stared down at his text once more, but it had changed.
Instead of catechism, it was the Talmud. He looked back up into his father's face this time. His father was frowning, speaking to Feldman sternly in Yiddish, but Feldman couldn't understand. Feldman closed his eyes, crying, and he heard his mother's voice, soothing now, comforting. “Jon, Jon, it's okay, shush.”
He opened his eyes and the face was now Anke's. Her hair was down around her bare shoulders, a thin-strapped nightgown falling delicately across her breasts. She was smiling and whispering. “You were having a nightmare, Jon. I heard you all the way downstairs.”
The moon was up now and half full, infiltrating the room with a creamy light. Feldman was embarrassed. “What did I say?”
Anke laughed softly. “You were calling for your parents. First ‘Mama!’ Then ‘Papa!’ ”
Feldman smiled ruefully and shook his head, attempting to dislodge the uncomfortable, long-buried emotions his dream had resurrected. “My mother was Catholic and my father Jewish,” he explained. “They each wanted me raised in their own faith and it used to create a lot of tension between them. I was reliving an episode, I guess.”