Fifth Gospel:The Odyssey of a Time Traveler in First-Century Palestine

by William Roskey

  A good point though. Which was harder to believe in? Einstein’s time dilation effect or a loving God? At the time, both were equally incomprehensible to me.

  23

  “I’m afraid this will be the last chance I’ll have to speak with you,” the President was saying to me. “For security reasons, I won’t be able to go down to Oak Ridge next week to … see you off, as it were. Too much attention has already been drawn to the project.”

  “I understand, sir,”

  “Good.” He smiled tightly and got up to look out the window at Lafayette Park, where brown-baggers from the various federal agencies were contentedly eating their lunches and taking full advantage of the idyllic summer day. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he stood there silently for a very long time before turning to face me again.

  “O’Brien, I’ve spent many a long hour trying to find the right words for this occasion, but they’ve consistently eluded me … I don’t know what to say. You’re a bright young man, and I know how much hard work you’ve put into your training. The sacrifices that you’ve made and will make for the sake of the mission are … heroic. To risk your life for your country in battle is one thing. But to do what you’re doing is another. You’re quite an unusual young man.

  “But I felt I couldn’t let you leave without one last exhortation on how vital this mission is. How very vital. For me to let you go without my being absolutely certain that you understand the full implications, the gravity, of this mission would be nothing short of criminal.” He turned back to look out the window again.

  “O’Brien, what is your personal opinion of Jesus Christ?”

  “Well, sir, I guess I won’t really know until I meet him.”

  “Touché, but you’re not getting off the hook that easily.”

  “Well, Mr. President,” I hedged, shifting uncomfortably in my chair, “I think that, regardless of whether he was the Son of God or not, he was a very good and wise man and a great teacher. The principles he espoused were …”

  “Very glib,” Ike said, spinning around to face me again. “A very enlightened, neutral, and inoffensive way to answer that question. And, oh so open-minded. Well, it won’t wash, O’Brien; it won’t wash at all.

  “You see, either Jesus Christ was exactly what He claimed to be, the Son of God, the Messiah, or He was not a wise and good man at all; He was a raving lunatic or a liar or both. There simply is no in between.” He folded his arms and leaned back against the window sill. “With this mission, we have the opportunity to settle the question once and for all time. And, regardless of what the answer is, the world will never be, can never be, the same again.

  “All of western civilization, whether people like it or not, is either directly or indirectly influenced by Christianity—our laws, our art, our literature, our music, our customs, our social contracts, our very calendar itself, all show the tremendous influence of the Galilean we know as Jesus Christ. With you, we have the opportunity of knowing beyond all doubt.” His voice softened, and he looked directly into my eyes. “A lot is riding on you, son. Perhaps more than either of us could possibly imagine.”

  “Sir,” I replied, “I’ll either accomplish the mission, or I’ll die trying.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I was embarrassed. Straight out of a Grade B melodrama. But I meant them, and he could see that I did. I guess that’s all that really mattered.

  “Good,” The President smiled, “I know you won’t let us down. Now there was one other thing I wanted to talk to you about. Is there anything at all I can do for you? Is there anything that needs to be done or that you’d like to do before … your departure? Clarence tells me that all your training has been completed. Perhaps you’d like a week’s vacation? We could fly you anywhere you’d like.” He’d carefully avoided the term “last request,” but that’s what he was asking about. It was an unexpected offer, and I hadn’t given any thought to it. The training had been so intensive I hadn’t had the time to do any thinking along those lines. “We could fly you anywhere.” Hmmmm. Fly. That was it!

  “Sir, I wonder if I could take just one last flight.”

  “Can do!” Ike beamed enthusiastically. “Clarence can arrange it though the Commanding Officer at Andrews. You name the plane, and if the United States owns it, you can fly it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “Just be careful.”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered, unable to suppress a smile.

  On the way home, I mentally ran through the planes in the United States inventory. Any plane! I felt like a kid poring over a toy catalog during the Christmas season. Would it be the F11F Tiger that the Navy Blue Angels aerobatic team used? Made by Grumman, it clipped along at 890 mph and had a ceiling of 50,500 feet. Or how about the F-106 General Dynamics Delta Dart? Designed from scratch to Area Rule principles for minimum supersonic drag, its mighty Pratt & Whitney J75-P-17 afterburning turbojet moved the beauty along at a spritely Mach 2.31, or 1525 mph. How about an F-104 Lockheed Starfighter? Or the F-101 McDonnell Voodoo? By the time I reached home, I had decided. It would be the Delta Dart. Speed.

  Speed. That was always one of the things I enjoyed most about being a jet fighter pilot. Watching the earth flash by below you at speeds faster than sound itself could travel. Going into fantastic, eye-popping power dives, then barrel-rolling out of them. It’s a job for men who refuse to grow up completely, and I freely admit it. You’re not supposed to admit it. You’re supposed to maintain a solid, sober demeanor at all times, somewhat like a corporate tax accountant, and pretend that it’s not fun. The motto of the Strategic Air Command is “Peace Is Our Profession.” And according to some unwritten law, a man who enjoys that profession is viewed with extreme circumspection, especially by civilians. Image. You must maintain the correct image.

  One of the biggest disappointments of my life was reaching the age when I had to pretend to be grown-up. Once you pass your teens, you have to act like an adult, and I think that having to hide the child in you is a deplorable shame. Still, it’s far better to hide the kid in you than to lose him. Some are successful in the latter. You meet them all the time. They’re uniformly stuffy, pompous, and dull. They don’t enjoy life, and they seem to be dedicated to making sure that no one else does either.

  I was home quickly and wasted no time in dragging Clarence to the phone to make the arrangements for my last flight. It took only two short phone calls. He used that Top Secret Cosmic code stored in his head, which verified and authenticated the fact that this was at the direct and personal order of the President of the United States, that it was covered by the highest security classification, that no questions were to be asked, and that it was to be accomplished immediately. Having that code (which changed daily at midnight, Greenwich Mean Time) in hand or, in Clarence’s case, in brain, was better than having Aladdin’s lamp.

  The following morning, at 11:00 a.m., two very solicitous bird colonels and a bevy of junior officers escorted me and Clarence to a brand-new, sleek F-106A General Dynamics Delta Dart. The very first production units had only entered active service two weeks before. It was equipped with the new Hughes MA-1 interception system, which was designed to be integrated with the nationwide SAGE (semi-automatic ground environment) defense system with a digital computer used to track and select targets, and aim and fire the weapons. It was armed with four Falcon AAMs and two Genie nuclear-tipped air-to-air unguided rockets. And it was the hottest fighter plane in the world.

  I drank in its beauty as we approached it. I was in my pressure suit but per Clarence’s security measures, had ripped off my name tag and insignia of rank. In addition, by this time, my beard was in its full glory. I was getting some strange looks from our escorts. I ran an awed hand over its smooth metal skin. This baby had a service ceiling of 57,000 feet (10.8 miles) and a top speed of Mach 2.231 (1525 mph). Clarence eyed it with frank, if unprofessional, interest. He kicked one of the tires on the landing gear.

  “Hmmmm,” he said,
addressing our entourage thoughtfully, “how many miles does this thing have on it?” In the brief glance he shot at me, I caught the twinkle in his eye, and even then, that’s only because I’d been living with him for more than six months. One of the colonels frowned; the other was nonplused.

  “You mean hours, sir,” piped up a young second lieutenant. “We use hours of operation to measure engine wear, not miles.”

  “You mean like a taxicab?” I asked, putting on my best village idiot expression.

  “No, no!” Clarence exclaimed in mock exasperation, “taxi-cab meters run by the quarter mile.”

  “Except when they’re standing still,” I fired back heatedly. “When you’re idling with the flag down, the meter clicks a nickel off every minute! I should know! I drive one!”

  “O.K., O.K., Mr. Know-It-All. Do you think you can drive this crate?”

  The bird colonel who’d been frowning was now scowling, and his face was a bright cherry red. No sense of humor, I thought. The other officers stood immobile, like men carved from stone. Clarence and I were playing to a tough audience.

  “I guess,” I replied to Clarence with a careless shrug, “seen one plane, and you’ve seen ’em all.”

  The nonscowling colonel spoke. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but this is the newest, most advanced and sophisticated jet fighter in the world. Might I suggest that another plane be more suitable for … whatever it is you have in mind?”

  “This farce has gone far enough,” exploded the cherry red colonel. “O.K., ‘Mr. Jones,’ I want to see some identification, and I want some questions answered right away. I’m entitled to that and—”

  It was the one and only time I’d ever seen Clarence erupt. He terrified me, and I wasn’t even the object of his fury.

  “No, you are not entitled, Colonel. You are interfering with an activity classified at the Top Secret Cosmic level, and ordered by the President himself. You’re entitled to nothing but the coded authentication, which you’ve already received. But if you want identification, mister, O.K., you’ve got it.” Clarence flipped open the small leather case that held his Secret Service badge and I.D. He shoved it under the colonel’s nose. “That’s right, Jones is the name. Now after my colleague takes off, you and I are going to have a little discussion on the chain of command.” He turned to me. “O.K., let’s get you up in the driver’s seat of this heap.”

  A junior officer stepped forward and whispered into the ear of the other colonel, who then spoke to Clarence. “Ah, excuse me, Mr. Jones, but it’s just come to my attention that your friend hasn’t filed a flight plan.” Clarence looked at me.

  “That right, Junior?” I nodded in response.

  “Yes, that’s true, Colonel. He hasn’t.” Turning back to me he said, “O.K., son, the keys are in the dash. Don’t bring it back too late. Your mom and I want to go out dancing at the Elks Club. And don’t forget to put gas in it.”

  “I can dig it,” I smiled. He clapped me on the shoulder, and we climbed up onto the left wing.

  “Boy, Clarence, you really blasted that guy.”

  “I guess I did, didn’t I?” he said with genuine regret. “Come on.” To my surprise, we climbed back onto the runway. Clarence beckoned to the colonel, and he came over.

  “Colonel, please excuse me for losing my temper. I’m truly sorry. It’s just that if you knew who this man is and knew what he’s already done for his country, along with the things he’s going to have to face, the things he’s volunteered to face … well, you’d be shaking his hand and, along with me and the President, offering to help him in any way you can.” Clarence squinted off into the horizon before continuing. “Heroes are hard to come by these days, and we did a lot of searching before we found this man. He’s a good man, and, what’s more than that, he’s become a good friend. We were just trying to have a little fun. A defense mechanism, I guess. Nevertheless, the fun wasn’t intended to be at your expense. I’m sorry if it turned out that way.”

  “I’m sorry too, Mr. Jones. I was out of line.” He shook my hand then Clarence’s.

  As I was settling into the cockpit, I knew I had to ask. “Clarence, you didn’t need to do that. The guy acted like a jerk. He deserved to be put in his place. Why the apology?”

  “You don’t know?” His sad face searched mine. “You really don’t know?” I shook my head. “Because, Lightfoot, if you treat a jerk like a jerk, he’ll just become a vicious and embittered jerk. You’ve got to treat him the same way you’d want to be treated … Abe Lincoln once said that the best way to get rid of an enemy is to make him your friend.”

  “Now you’ve put me in my place.” He smiled and handed me my helmet.

  “Enjoy, Lightfoot. Get up there above the clouds, and just forget everything for a while.”

  In a few moments, I was off and thundering down the runway. The plane was a dream. I streaked directly for the ocean, acclimating myself to the ultra-sensitive controls as I went. At full throttle, I reached the Atlantic in minutes, and then my world consisted of nothing but shades of blue. Blue ocean and blue sky. Aside from the brilliant white heaps of cumulus clouds, there was nothing else. I corkscrewed, did lazy barrel rolls, put the craft into screaming eyeball-popping power dives, skimmed across the ocean at a speed of 1300 mph and an altitude of twenty feet, and climbed higher than I’d ever climbed before—to more than ten miles above the earth’s surface. I was a free creature of the sky, existing only to fly, to soar, to glide.

  The words of John Gillespie Magee, Jr.’s exquisite sonnet, which I hadn’t read for years, slipped into my mind as clearly as if I were reading them at that moment.

  Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

  And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

  Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

  Of sun-split clouds …

  And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod

  The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

  Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

  24

  I didn’t know how to say goodbye to the Jones family, the family that, in a very real sense, had become my own. Clarence was the brother I’d never had, and Marge the sister. The kids were my nephews and nieces. So I resolved the problem in a way I’m not particularly proud of; I stole away like a thief in the night. As soon as everyone was asleep on the night before Clarence and I were scheduled to leave for Oak Ridge, I crept around the house, “executing my will,” such as it was.

  A large lump rose in my throat as I left my Colt .45 Peacemaker on Clarence’s nightstand, along with a note that didn’t say nearly enough. Going around to the other side of the bed, I covered Marge with my mother’s blanket. Then I went into the room across the hall and left my father’s railroad watch on Cindy’s nightstand. She’d often admired it and, even though she had only about two weeks of life left in which to enjoy it, well at least it was two weeks. As I walked out of the room, I smiled to myself in the darkness. What a grandly ironic farewell gift from me—a timepiece.

  Then I quietly left the house and walked around the block to where I’d secreted the rental car. I jumped in and hit the road to Tennessee. I had, of course, no baggage, and I didn’t look back.

  Road signs on the outskirts of Oak Ridge identify it as “America’s Secret City,” and so it was for years. Construction on Oak Ridge began on November 22, 1942, and proceeded at a fantastic pace. Vast resources were urgently needed to produce enriched uranium 235 and a pilot reactor for the production and processing of plutonium. The Manhattan Project had top priority from the beginning, as well as top secrecy. Even though, a scant two and a half years after ground was broken, Oak Ridge was the fifth largest city in Tennessee with a population of 75,000, it appeared on no maps. All roads to and from it were controlled by military checkpoints, and no one either entered or left the city without the express permission of the military commander. Huge fences topped with barbed wire surrounded the entire city. The perimeter was cea
selessly patrolled by men who were told to shoot first and to ask questions later. All it inhabitants were sworn to secrecy. Finally, on August 6, 1945, the existence, as well as the role of the city, was revealed. Nevertheless, it wasn’t until March 19, 1949, that the checkpoints were dismantled, the fences came down, and Oak Ridge became an open city.

  I parked the car and walked Oak Ridge’s clean, quiet streets aimlessly, feeling quite sorry for myself. I’d tried to sleep and couldn’t, tried to read and couldn’t. I couldn’t even think straight. Kaleidoscopic images just kept flashing and tumbling across my mind’s eye—supersonic aircraft and camels, electric power plants and millstones, Clarence, Amanda Clearwater, the U.S. Marines storming a beach defended by Roman legionnaires—my mind was spinning. We were coming right down to the wire now, and, after all the careful preparation, after all the time spent in psychological acclimatization, I realized that I just couldn’t handle it. The human mind is by far the most complex and sophisticated thing that man has ever run across. It can adapt to practically anything. But it had finally met its match, I thought. It could not adapt to traveling two millennia back into time to meet the most important figure in all of human history. Son of God or not, he had changed the world for all time to come. I was a simple man who felt most at home on the desert with a canteen of water, some beef jerky, a knife, my blanket, and my Colt. I was way out of my league this time.

  But I was half-Irish and half-Apache. That made me all crazy. They’d picked their man well. Not only that, I didn’t have any better offers at the moment. When I heard a church bell chime 6 p.m., I shrugged resignedly and began walking toward the L-2 Facility. When I was ushered into the operations booth, it was 78 minutes and counting until H-hour. Technicians flipped switches and turned knobs on consoles that looked like something out of Flash Gordon, only a thousand times more advanced. Dr. Jankor and Clarence stood conferring with two important looking men I’d never seen before. Jankor was the first to see me. He grinned with relief, then Clarence turned and saw me. They excused themselves and came over to me. Jankor spoke first.