by J. L. ROBB
Vinny made his way to I-85 north, beginning a three-hour drive from Atlanta to the Great Smoky Mountains along the North Carolina-Tennessee border, with a brief stop at Magnolia Bakery where he would leave Charley’s van and walk two blocks up Satellite Boulevard to Waffle House, where Vinny would pick up his car, parked much earlier in the day while still dark.
From the Waffle House, Vinny would take a very circuitous route to the training camp of The Army of the Christian Soldier (TACS), a secretive and yet undiscovered Christian militant group working directly with al-Qaeda, at least the group considered themselves to be Christian. Of course, the Ku Klux Klan considered themselves to be Christian too. Vinny truly hated working with the devil.
The Christian group’s intent was to overthrow the government of the United States, take over the military, invade Israel and Jerusalem, ridding the world of the Jew problem, forever. Hitler tried and failed. The Army of the Christian Soldier would not. Then they would take care of the Muslim problem, all of them.
TACS thought Vinny to be one of them, not an al-Qaeda supporter. They all went fishing together and drank beer. Muslims did not drink beer. Vinny was not a camel jockey.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
***
The phone rang, waking Samarra from her restless sleep. She answered without checking the caller ID. She felt awful, her muscles ached.
“Hello?” Her speech was slurred.
“Samarra? Honey? Is that you?” Jack Russell hardly recognized his wife’s voice.
“It is. Hey Jack, where are you?”
“I’m still in Israel, remember? Are you okay? You don’t sound so good.”
“I’m all right,” Samarra began to get her bearings. “Oh yeah, you are in Israel.”
Jack was taken aback by this conversation. He was calling his wife from the King David Hotel in Jerusalem, just to check in and let Samarra know he would be home a day early. He heard the phone hit the floor.
“Sorry, I dropped the phone.” Samarra was groggy and could barely hold her head up.
Her hair was not so beautiful at this moment but disheveled, now damp from perspiration, glistening. Samarra knew this was not a glistening moment, her hair wet from a brewing fever.
“I’m coming home a day early and should arrive at Hartsfield tomorrow about noon.” Jack wondered if he should go home now. Samarra was not herself. “Are you sick?”
“No Jack, I’m fine. I think I’m coming down with a cold. That’s all.”
“Don’t give it to Thomas, you know how sick he can get.”
“Thomas?” Reality came back to life in an instant, waking Samarra from her stupor; and she began to sob quietly, finally remembering the events of the previous day, the finger, the ring.
“Jack, I’ll call you back in a little while. I have to run.” Samarra hung up the phone, leaving Jack with a dead line and a lot of questions. Samarra was not normal and was not a crier, but Jack could hear the tears.
Samarra’s kitchen television was still on, had been on all night she guessed. She didn’t even remember coming home a few hours earlier; but now the memories of the rescue vehicles and a ball of flame, came back to her.
The yellow-lettered streamer flowing across the bottom of the TV screen in Samarra’s kitchen, the same streamer that caught the attention of Rich Badey, investigative reporter, the night before at Park Place Café, continued to silently report the news of the vanishings. Samarra briefly thought Condi Zimmerman, the news lady, seemed to be working a lot lately; and Condi reported:
“Again, the latest news is troubling. Robert Jeremias’ plane has been located less than a mile off the shore of the Puerto Rican island of Vieques, still floating on the water’s surface. The pilot and copilot were found safe, pulled to shore by the locals who live on Vieques; but no other survivors have been found at this time. The plane was completely empty of passengers. It’s as though they simply vanished into thin air.
“If that isn’t bad enough, reports are still coming in from Italy, Spain and Israel, as well as the United States, reports about missing people.”
Condi paused a moment, sipping what looked like water, thinking about her best friend Mary Bower who was also missing. Not hearing from her all day yesterday, Condi stopped by Mary’s home to check because it was unusual. Mary and Condi talked every day, at least twice. Condi used her key to enter, when neither Mary nor her husband Bob came to the door. The house was empty, the cars in the garage, food on the table and a large pot of chili still simmered on the Thermadore range. Mary would never leave home with the stove on, Condi knew her well. Condi turned the gas burner off leaving the chili on the stove, and left.
“Several planes have disappeared from traffic control radars around the globe, not because of volcanic ash, as in the case of Mr. Jeremias’ plane of missionaries, but for no apparent reason.
“Twenty two people are missing, vanished, in Italy; thirty something from Spain and listen to this. A whopping 2342 Messianic Jews belonging to Jews for Jesus have disappeared from their headquarters compound in Acre, Israel. The Jews for Jesus have been under tremendous pressure to leave Israel during the past two years, so the question is: did the 2342 Messianic Jews just disappear into thin air or were they deported in the past day or two?
“In the United States and Mexico, reports are still rolling in with hundreds of missing.
“Some Christians are wondering if this is the rapture, the belief by many Christians that in The End they will disappear to meet Jesus in the clouds, just before the you-know-what hits the fan.
“We have with us now the Reverend Bob Linn. Reverend, welcome.”
“Thanks Condi, it’s a pleasure to be here.” Reverend Linn was an ordained minister, though many wondered why.
“So Reverend Linn, is this the rapture? What do you think?” Condi Zimmerman asked the questions.
“Of course not Condi, and I’m not sure why the news is covering it as such. Your station receives federal funds, as do other news stations; and the spewing of religious fantasy should not be allowed on the federal airwaves. It is an issue of church and state.”
“Reverend Linn, that will have to be a conversation during a different interview. If it’s not the rapture, then what is it?” Condi persisted.
“Reverend Linn, I apologize. We have breaking news from the White House and will come back to our discussion in a few.”
Dan Brumfield, the White House spokesman, appeared calm as he took the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am sure you have heard and are wondering about all the disappearances of loved ones. This is not a panic situation; and every police agency is investigating, including Interpol. I am sure we will get to the bottom of this soon.
“We do have other disturbing news. There has been some recent, abnormal solar activity that has resulted in a Coronal Mass Ejection, CME for short, an ejection of solar gases and radiation. This happens fairly often, but apparently this CME is massive and is journeying straight toward Earth. I am sure you already heard something about it this morning on CNN, and I apologize to the public for not coming forthwith sooner. Scooped by CNN again.
The room full of reporters laughed quietly, nervously.
“While this ejection has nothing to do with man-made global warming and the current unseasonal temperatures, it could have an impact on our national electrical grid systems. In the event that the impact is as projected by Goddard Space Flight Center in Maryland, we encourage all citizens to stay home and indoors for the next 36-48 hours.
“I know that’s a lot to ask, but if you’re driving or flying, this radiation could short-circuit the onboard electrical systems.
“All plane traffic is being halted globally for the next two days. We know what a mess this will cause, but the President feels an ounce of precaution, well, you know the saying.
“I will not take any questions, but there will be further updates as they develop.”
Dan Brumfield turned and left the podiu
m, reporters shouting out questions as though they hadn’t heard Dan say there would be no questions and answers.
Condi continued:
“I’m sorry about that Reverend Linn. Where were we? Oh yes, the rapture. Why are you so sure it’s not the rapture? How do you explain the disappearance of two thousand and some folks in Israel, part of the thousands of Jews for Jesus members there?”
“Condi, I am sure there is a reasonable, believable explanation. We do not need to resort to myth. The term rapture is never mentioned in the Bible, not the Old or New Testaments. This is a myth perpetrated by early Christian fanatics, and the Jews for Jesus is more of a cult than an organization. They were probably escorted out of Israel by the Israeli Defense Force. The IDF don’t think much of Messianic so-called Jews. Jews cannot be Christians, we all know that.”
“But wait Reverend Linn, wasn’t Jesus Jewish? Weren’t all his followers, at least before his execution at the hands of the Romans, Jewish?” Condi knew something about this subject, being a Sunday school teacher of Old Testament studies.
“Condi, I believe in Jesus as much as anyone; but surely you don’t believe all the stories these early Christians made up.
“What the hell was that?” The Reverend felt the sudden shift in the floor of the studio before asking that un-reverend like question.
“Are we having an earthquake?”
Fox News went off the air, the TV now a blur of nothingness, the good Reverend Linn wondering if Manhattan was on a fault-line.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jeff’s friends, now departed, made it seem a little lonely. Chad left for a speaking engagement at Georgia Tech, and then back to Reagan International Airport, formerly Washington National. From there he would drive back to Greenbelt, Maryland, and spend the next couple of days at Goddard, following the incoming solar storm and monitoring its effects around the world. It was sure to be interesting. Then there was this thing heading toward earth that had now disappeared again. That was bothersome.
When Jeff dropped Bill off at Dunwoody MARTA, Bill would fly Delta’s new non-stop from Atlanta to Tel Aviv, where he would be chauffeured to the Negev Nuclear Research Center, located in the Negev Desert, just a few miles southeast of Dimona, Israel. Dimona is a small town, less than fifty thousand, born out of the 1950s under the direction of Israel’s first Prime Minister, David Ben-Gurion. Dimona took its name from the Biblical scripture, Joshua 15:21-22, where the ancient city of Dimona is listed as a town in the ancient tribe of Judah, almost 3400 years ago, after the twelve tribes of ancient Israel split into Israel in the north and Judah in the south.
Jeff didn’t envy Bill with all his travel and wondered how he had the energy. He was no spring chicken, for Pete’s sake. Finding his cell phone in the now empty passenger seat of the GTR, Jeff answered on the third ring.
“Jeff, did you hear?”
Jeff heard panic in Melissa’s voice, the question asked before Jeff could say Hello. During the years they had been married, pre-divorce, pre-new hubby, he had only heard that voice once before. That was the time she thought Audry had been kidnapped at the Target store, but she hadn’t.
“Did I hear what?”
“Jeff, I can’t believe you didn’t hear! You’re always watching the news!” Melissa began to softly cry.
“What’s wrong Melissa? Calm down Hon. Tell me.” Jeff still used his favorite moniker for Melissa, even after the years of separation.
“Robert’s plane is missing, crashed off Puerto Rico somewhere. I’m heading to the airport now.”
Jeff’s first thought was his dream, his premonition about the car-train crash that may have killed Robert a couple of days earlier. He hated it when that happened, but too often it did. Did he see something on the news last night at Park Place about planes crashing?
“Don’t hang up, tell me what you know.” He was genuinely concerned and would’ve never wished for such a thing to happen, no matter how much he still cared for Melissa.
“All I know is, they found his plane just off the coast of some island by Puerto Rico, V-something.”
“Vieques?”
“That’s right, Vieques. The pilot and the copilot were found alive. Everyone else, every single passenger is nowhere to be found. I don’t know if they survived and swam to shore, maybe walked inland or something. I’m grasping at straws, I guess.”
Jeff could feel her worry and desperation.
“What time’s the flight? I’ll take you to Hartsfield. Where are you now?”
“Jeff, you don’t have to take me, I’m fine. Plus I’m halfway there. I fly out of the International Terminal, Terminal E, I think, at five-something this afternoon. I’ll call you when I get to San Juan.”
“Where’s Audry?”
“She’s in Raleigh with Sheri and Bennett, spending the week. I gotta go Jeff. I’ll call later.” Melissa’s phone went silent, the connection broken.
Jeff liked Melissa’s cousins in Raleigh. Sheri and Bennett Kichler seemed to be busy like everyone else; but they always had time, made time, for their kids and most anyone else who needed it.
As soon as he folded his cell phone and placed it back in the passenger seat, it rang again. The ringtone identified the caller as someone Jeff did not recognize. He didn’t answer, would just see if whoever left a message, though the number did look vaguely familiar. He did not feel very conversational at the moment.
The indicator sounded, and Jeff waited for the message.
“Jeff, this is Jack Russell. Samarra’s in the hospital, and I knew you would want to know. I’m at the King David in Jerusalem, was going to fly home; but all flights have been grounded, some kind of solar interference.
“When Semantha, the nanny, didn’t answer, I had emergency rescue go out. They found Samarra on the bedroom floor, unconscious. She is in a coma for the moment and is in isolation at Emory. You can’t visit. Just wanted you to know. I will be back on a military flight late tonight. I will have a car waiting at Dobbins. They do not have a clue what is wrong with her.”
Good grief, Jeff thought. What else can go wrong?
***
Vinny delivered one vial of the Spanish Flu serum and one vial of powder to The Army of the Christian Soldier. TACS had been helpful in making this ordeal happen. It was their computer whiz that hacked into the security software at CDC and locked the camera activity for thirty minutes while Samarra got the goodies to the chiller room and exited. They also locked the back entrance parking lot cameras long enough for Vinny to affix the small C4 explosive to the undercarriage of the security guard’s little, blue truck. Once the guard started the truck, the time-delay would set, then five minutes later, probably somewhere on I-85, little blue truck go Boom! Vinny wished he could watch it happen.
“I have to get back to Atlanta before church tonight. Guard that stuff carefully dude, it’s very, very dangerous, not the powder so much but the liquid. The powder is the antidote, just in case, as long as you don’t inhale too much, no more than half a thimble full. I would suggest you and your crew do this before you open the liquid vial.”
“Do we need to keep the liquid on dry ice Vinny?”
“Nah, don’t worry about it if you plan to do whatever it is you’re going to do within forty-eight hours. Gotta scoot dude.” He left.
Vinny smiled as he drove south toward Atlanta, proud of his wit, his intelligence, his deceptive mind. He was proud of his ability to lie.
Vinny knew the Spanish Flu powder wasn’t an antidote and figured by now the TACS crew were all snorting a line or two, just like it was cocaine, so they wouldn’t get infected. He laughed out loud. In twelve hours max, maybe sooner, the Christian soldiers would not be marching onward, but to their graves. There they would await the Great Day of Judgment, before being condemned to the depths of hell where they belonged. In about twelve hours, they will be wishing for hell, not knowing they are already there.
The drive south went faster than the drive north had been. Vinny planned his
next step. He wasn’t rushing back to go to church. He had an appointment to service the air conditioning at Concourse E, the International Terminal at Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, the busiest airport in the world.
Vinny loved going to the airport, had always had an obsession about owning a plane someday so he could fly over Allah’s green earth and admire the great work of the Architect of the Universe.
Vinny stopped by his apartment for some unfinished business, exited his service truck and carried the toolbox inside. His place was almost empty, except for the four small R-22 freon containers he would need to recharge the air conditioning equipment, or so security would think. Unscrewing the valves on the fake canisters of freon, Vinny donned his oxygen mask and protective gear. He didn’t really care if he became infected, he would go out as a martyr. But first he would walk through a crowded mall or the Five Points MARTA station, spreading Allah’s plague as he went, coughing, sneezing and wheezing on as many people as possible.
Carefully, he emptied the powder into the fake-green R-22 freon containers, cautiously screwed the valves back on and connected the canisters, one-at-a-time, to the small, portable air compressor that was still in the apartment. Watching the air pressure gauge, Vinny stopped the compressor when the internal pressure reached 2500 PSI, about the same as a SCUBA tank.