The Last Day

by Glenn Kleier

  Hunter smiled dourly and extended his hand. “Well, Padre, just in case I don't make the short list, it was nice knowing you. You're the only religious dude I ever liked.”

  Litti took the big man's hand and gave Hunter a fatherly smile. “It's never too late to repent, my boy. I think God would be proud to have you on his side.”

  106

  Mount of the Ascension, Jerusalem, Israel 8:44 A.M., Thursday, April 20, 2000

  The phone rang. It was Sullivan.

  “Good news, Jon. They've reinstated our visas.”

  “Yes!” Feldman shouted, setting aside the New Testament he'd been leafing through for clues to Jeza's plans.

  “They're letting a limited number of us back into Jerusalem, but they're not releasing our office headquarters yet,” Sullivan qualified. “I have visas for you and Hunter, and I'll be leaving for Jerusalem with Arnie, Cissy and team one shortly.”

  “Excellent.”

  “The Israelis are also allowing Jeza to make her public address,” he added. “It's set for two-thirty, Friday afternoon. They're erecting a large platform for her now near the north end of the East Wall, and they're shielding it from all sides with blastproof glass for protection.”

  “Good. What about the helicopter?”

  “The Ministry of Defense has agreed to provide an army helicopter on standby to evacuate Jeza and the cardinal after the speech, or in the event of an emergency. They'll place it as close as feasible to the stage and fly the two of them directly to Cairo, assuming Jeza's willing to go. We've made arrangements for the U.N. to take custody of them in Cairo with the hopes of getting asylum in Switzerland.”

  “And you've arranged for Hunter and me to be with her for the speech and evacuation?”

  “Well, not exactly. The IDF doesn't want us—especially you—involved in the operation. They want to handle the entire mission themselves. And the Israelis aren't permitting any media on the stage or in the helicopter. In fact, we don't even have access privileges to the Old City at this time.”

  “I don't like the sound of that, Nigel,” Feldman fretted. “Having the IDF involved makes me edgy. Goene's chief of staff now and he's hardly better than the Gogs. I've got a bad feeling about this.”

  “It's all we have at the moment, Jon.”

  “And why the hell aren't they letting us in for the speech? All the other media will be there.”

  “They claim space is at a premium and that all secured camera sites have already been allocated.”

  “That's bullshit!” Feldman vented. “Goene's screwing with us.”

  “I presume you've heard that there's been a major uprising at the internment camps in Afula?”

  “No.”

  “The militant Guardians of God revolted and broke out. They attacked an arms depot outside Megiddo where they captured a large cache of weapons. And now they're advancing on the second internment camp of the Messianic Guardians. At this time there are about a hundred thousand well-armed vigilantes. The U.N. and Israelis have both sent forces to try to stop them.”

  “My God, the armies of Gog and Magog!” Feldman breathed.

  “It appears so, doesn't it?” Sullivan concurred. “So you can see, the administration has larger problems at the moment than finding us seats for tomorrow. But we'll continue pressing the issue.”

  Signing off, Feldman swallowed the hard dose of reality and switched on the TV to view developments on the revolt He consoled himself with the knowledge that, at least, Jeza and Litti would now have a means of escape.

  At four o'clock, Feldman finally received a call from the cardinal. There was considerable commotion in the background.

  “Things are quite tense in here, Jon,” the clergyman shouted into a bad connection. “I've had trouble getting a call out to you, the Gogs keep cutting the lines. I presume you've heard that the speech is on?”

  Feldman affirmed.

  “Well, the Messiah is in seclusion, meditating, and everyone is convinced tomorrow is the Last Day. People have already staked out their spots in the courtyard and are staging vigils throughout the entire Old City. It's elbow to elbow all the way to the platform. Oh, by the way, they've set up a helicopter pad.”

  “Right,” Feldman confirmed. “They've promised us a chopper. It'll be there prior to the speech, and if at any time you and Jeza appear to be in danger, the Israelis have instructions to evacuate you immediately. Regardless, they're going to pull the two of you out as soon as the speech is over. You'll be flown to Cairo, and then, hopefully, to Switzerland.”

  “Good, Jon. I've asked Jeza if she'd consider leaving the city after her assembly—I didn't tell her what we had in mind, exactly—and she simply said that it wouldn't be necessary. That's not a no, is it?”

  “Not from my perspective,” Feldman concluded.

  “What about you and Breck?”

  “Well, so far we've got our visas, but the IDF isn't allowing us into the Old City yet. We're still hoping to get a berth inside the courtyard or on a rooftop somewhere to video the speech. Nothing's definite, but it doesn't look like we'll be joining you on stage or for the evacuation.”

  “Will you be meeting us in Cairo, then?” the nervous cardinal asked.

  “I'm not sure, Alphonse. If we can get down there quick enough, yes. But we don't want to delay your departure. We don't see Cairo as exactly a safe haven, either. But in any event, we'll be joining up with you at the earliest possible time.”

  Feldman was pleasantly surprised to hear the clergyman speaking positively about the future. Perhaps even Litti was straying from his doomsday bent. “Try to get some sleep tonight, Alphonse,” he urged, “you'll want to be fresh for tomorrow.”

  “It will be difficult with the all-night ceremonies that are planned, but I'll try. You do the same. I'll call you tomorrow morning if possible. If not, best of luck to you. And God bless you for your efforts. We'll see each other soon, I'm certain.”

  “It's been a pleasure, Your Eminence,” Feldman felt a tightening sensation in his throat. “Please be very careful tomorrow. I'm not real comfortable with some of the Israeli military behind the evacuation, so stay on your toes.”

  Four hours later, WNN team one rolled up to the mountain villa in an RV, shy one member. Erin Cross, Feldman was told by a pleased Cissy, was feeling ill and wouldn't be joining them.

  A short time thereafter, Feldman received a strange phone call. The voice on the other end was hauntingly familiar.

  “Hello, Mr. Feldman. I'm with the Israeli Defense Force.”

  “How did you get my number here?” Feldman asked, alarmed and annoyed.

  “Oh, I've known of your whereabouts from the time you arrived Saturday night,” the caller responded, non-threateningly. “But don't be concerned, you're in no trouble. You're completely safe.”

  “Do I know you?” Feldman inquired. “I know your voice.”

  “Well, it's been a while since we've spoken, Mr. Feldman. Last time, I believe you were in a hurry to leave Israel.”

  Feldman made the connection. He immediately softened his tone. “I never had a chance to thank you, sir. You did us a great service. We're all very appreciative.”

  “No thanks necessary,” the voice assured him. “And now I'd like to perform yet another service for you. I've made provisions to get you inside the Old City for tomorrow's affair.”

  “Outstanding!”

  “Well, not entirely. The location I've been able to set up for you isn't the best. It's a little removed from the stage, but it will give you an unobstructed view. With a telephoto lens, you and your videographer, Mr. Hunter, should be able to make do.

  “Unfortunately, I can only make arrangements for the two of you. You both will need to meet representatives of the IDF near the Dung Gate by twelve-thirty tomorrow afternoon. Look for a Corporal Illa Lyman. She will provide you and Mr. Hunter with the necessary papers and escort you to your designated position. Once there, please do not leave your area under any circumstances until a
fter the speech is concluded.”

  Feldman was scribbling this information in his notebook. “I'm very indebted to you, sir. Now, please, can you tell me your name, and why you've taken these risks to help us?”

  “You'll pardon me, but I would prefer to maintain my low profile for the time being.” He hung up.

  “Who was that?” Hunter wanted to know, looking up from the TV.

  Feldman grinned. “Oh, just some more divine intervention, I would say.”

  107

  Mount of the Ascension, Jerusalem, Israel 6:03 A.M., Friday, April 21, 2000

  Feldman had slept fitfully and wasn't spared his typical allocation of strange dreams, the last of which awakened him.

  A soft, gloomy light infiltrated the living room where he lay on the floor, on his bedroll in a corner. The only one yet stirring, he slipped on his pants and tiptoed through a minefield of sleeping bodies out onto the balcony. In all directions, the surrounding countryside was coated with pilgrims as far as the eye could see. He thought to himself that this must have been what it looked like to the pharaoh as the Israelites gathered for their exodus to the promised land. He prayed that history wasn't repeating itself.

  Because no more people would be admitted into the Wailing Wall commons, which was already filled well beyond capacity, enormous-screen TVs had been set up in several strategic places outside the Old City where mass viewing of Jeza's speech would be possible. Large speakers sat at intervals atop the huge walls, facing out to every point of the compass. If not able to see her, at least the multitudes would be able to hear this much anticipated address to the world—Jeza's first direct speech to the general public since; her initial appearance at the Mount of the Beatitudes.

  It didn't look to be a pretty day. Although the sun had broken, it was overcast and there was a strong breeze coming out of the east.

  Good, Feldman thought to himself, surveying the threatening clouds. It sure wouldn't hurt to put a little damper on today's events.

  For the rest of the morning, Feldman, Hunter and the WNN staff worked on their preparations for the upcoming telecast. After final equipment check, the crew assembled in the front room to give the two men their send-off. It was as if he and Hunter were soldiers leaving their families for the front. The accustomed frivolity and irreverence were gone. The solemnity of the handshakes and hugs he received told Feldman that, despite the secular convictions his associates had been touting, millenarian fears had crept in.

  They left in a car with Bollinger driving, slowly picking their way down the mountain road through the dense crowds. The closer they drew to the Old City, the slower the going. At length, they reached the Dung Gate, so called for the heaps of rubbish and horse manure once piled here by the Romans and Byzantines during ancient times.

  Bollinger pulled over to the side to assess the situation. “Anyone see a female corporal anywhere?”

  “I see IDF soldiers manning the gate over there, and they don't seem to be letting anyone in or out,” Hunter reported, angling around in his seat to better inspect things. “But I don't see a female soldier yet.”

  “We've got five minutes.” Feldman checked his watch. “They said twelve-thirty, let's not get nervous.” This was hypocritical advice.

  “I hope you brought your raincoats,” Bollinger cautioned, glancing up at the sky. “It looks like we could get some weather. Maybe this damned drought is about to break.”

  “Yeah, nice day for a Judgment, eh?” Hunter opined.

  “Or a Rapture,” Feldman added.

  At precisely twelve-thirty, a new group of soldiers pulled up to relieve the old. The officer in command was a no-nonsense, capable-looking young female with dark hair and eyes to match. She saluted the departing soldiers and stationed her fresh men in front of the gate, machine guns drawn.

  Feldman slid out of the car, grabbed his equipment bag and leaned back in through the side window. “Okay, Arnie, I'll check this out. If all goes well I'll signal for Breck. We'll keep in touch by cellular phone once we're settled inside.”

  “Check.” Bollinger gave Feldman the thumbs-up. “Be careful now. I don't have to tell you it could get rough in there.”

  Feldman returned the gesture, smiled grimly, and trotted over to address the corporal. In a few minutes he was receiving papers and waving Hunter to join him.

  After repeating the formalities with the cameraman, the corporal picked up what looked like an empty coffee can, and along with three soldiers, silently escorted the two newsmen through the huge gate. Once inside, the reporters could see, high above the dense crowd, a platform erected at the northeastern end of the plaza, flush against the great East Wall. Unfortunately, Feldman and Hunter were being led in the opposite direction.

  “I don't suppose there's any way we might influence you toward a better location?” Hunter suggested to the young corporal, flipping the corners of a large bankroll. Without losing her stride, she looked first at the money, then at Hunter, pulled the bolt on her rifle and silently continued on her way.

  “Maybe I should've offered my body,” Hunter whispered to Feldman, loud enough for the officer to hear.

  It was slow going through the standing-room-only crowd of chanting, singing, praying millenarians. The entire quadrangle was a sea of mixed cults, ethnicities and ages. It reminded Feldman of the eclectic crowd he'd witnessed the night of Millennium Eve, only the mood here was considerably more intense.

  Passing out of the plaza into the heart of the Old City, the party crossed several narrow alleys, turned down a side street and then stopped in front of what appeared to be an old four-story warehouse. It bore on its door the same bold, yellow signage, in multiple languages, that appeared on the other buildings nearby: “Roof access prohibited as of 4.20.2000 by order of the IDF. Violators subject to immediate arrest and imprisonment.”

  The corporal withdrew a key from her breast pocket and unlocked the door. “Up here,” she said, motioning with the muzzle of her gun toward a dark, dank stairwell. Her adjutants stood aside to guard the entryway and the two newsmen accompanied her up four flights of wooden stairs all the way to the rooftop. Swinging open a door, they stepped out into a cool breeze.

  “The roof is bad over here.” She gestured with her gun to her left. “So keep to your right and you'll be fine. The street-level door locks from the inside, so you shouldn't be disturbed. When you finish, let yourself out as you came. There are no toilet facilities.” She dropped the coffee can to the roof. “Use this as necessary and carry your waste away with you. Any questions?”

  “Will you be back to walk us home?” Hunter flirted.

  She looked the big man up and down with a raised eyebrow and snorted, “I would rather experience doomsday!” Both Hunter and Feldman burst out laughing, appreciating the break in the tension. This was not shared by Corporal Lyman, who wasted no time ducking back into the darkness of the stairwell.

  Hunter hooked a thumb in the direction of her departure. “From the Goene school of charisma,” he smirked, and began unloading his equipment.

  Feldman walked out toward the edge of the roof in the direction of the stage to survey the scene. He saw that their budding was connected directly to the one in front of them, one story below him, which was connected to the budding in front of it, and so on. From the looks of things, the two newsmen could work their way from roof to roof to the very front row of buildings at the perimeter of the huge quadrangle. If the opportunity presented itself. Beyond the rooftops, directly adjacent to the stage, Feldman was comforted to see a military helicopter resting on its pad.

  As the mystery voice on the phone had promised, the stage in the Wailing Wall plaza was certainly visible from here, but it must have been a good hundred meters away. All of the other news crews were far better situated on the periphery of the plaza, either on the surrounding walls, or on the tops of buildings at the edge of the open common. No one was set as far back as WNN.

  “We're not going to get any decent audio from up here,
” Feldman stated the obvious.

  “No,” Hunter agreed. “Headquarters will just have to fall back on simulcast audio from some other network, like we anticipated. But hopefully, you and I'll be able to hear her speech. They've got a decent sound system set up on the stage,” he pointed over at the series of horizontal, two foot by eight foot speaker boxes placed on their sides along the front of the platform.

  “What do you make of the empty rooftops out there?” Feldman asked. He guessed he was standing on the sixth row of buildings back from the edge of the plaza, and was surprised to see that there were no spectators on any of the roofs in front of them. The viewpath was deserted.

  Hunter dropped a camera case and walked over next to Feldman. “Hmmph. Bad roofs, like the corporal told us? Or maybe security. See how we look down a bit on the platform from up here? That would make it easy to lob a rocket or grenade over the top of the glass shield. All the windows facing out onto the square are probably stationed with militia. But I don't know why the hell they couldn't have gotten us a little closer, anyway.”

  “I guess we're lucky to be here at all,” Feldman conceded.

  Hunter pulled up a tripod and positioned his camera on top. “Yeah, only I don't like the angle. I'm too low. I can't get you and the speaker's platform in the same shot.”

  Feldman walked over to squint through the lens. “What do you suggest?”

  “Well, with all the open access in front of us, maybe we should just try moving a little closer?”

  Feldman considered this for a moment and then observed the large number of Israeli military stationed around the perimeter areas. “No,” he sighed. “If we get kicked out of here, WNN will be completely dark on this whole event. We'd better play it safe.”

  Hunter peered around and fastened his gaze on the higher roof of the building behind them to their left “Up there,” he proposed. “Let me see what it looks like from up there. You hand the camera up to me.”

  Before Feldman could object, Hunter was off. “Watch out for the roof,” he called after him.