Dead Sea Rising

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  “Not anymore.”

  “Want to come with me so we don’t have to break into it?”

  Her dad rose. “I’ll come right back, Nic. I know you wanted to get going—”

  “I can wait,” she said. She’d hoped to find the box herself, but apparently that was never in the cards. Her parents’ apartment was still off-limits, and there was nothing there for her anyway. At least not now.

  CHAPTER 68

  Ur

  Terah could tell from Ikuppi’s refusal to even incline his ear to him that pleading was futile. Over the rough half mile from the servant village to his estate, Terah had sat behind Ikuppi on the floor of the chariot and tried to reason with him.

  “We have known each other far too long to allow this to come between us, my friend. You cared enough to warn me of the king’s intent. You helped me save my child. Foodstuffs and supplies and a little physical labor are all I ask of you now. That and your silence.”

  Silence he got plenty of, as Ikuppi resolutely facing forward, not even turning his head.

  “Just tell me you’re still with me, Ikuppi—that you will remain loyal and true. That I can continue to count on you. I got you your job, and there’s more I can do for you. Just help me while I am infirm, and I can ensure the rest of your life will be one of ease. I will even beseech the king to remove you from the front lines, to allow you to only supervise men.”

  When Terah’s compound came into view, he peered over the top of the chariot and struggled to his feet. “Who visits?” he said.

  Even now Ikuppi did not answer. Besides the chariot, now with one horse, that had been delivered, a donkey cart sat under the entryway portico, tethered to a post. “A servants’ wagon,” Terah said. “Whoever is here was not in the servants’ village to hear what’s happened.”

  “To hear your lie, you mean,” Ikuppi said flatly.

  “Oh, now you can hear and speak! The attack on Mutuum’s baby is your story too, remember.”

  “It’s a story, but it was never mine.”

  “Do you not see there was no other way?” Terah said. “It was this or my son! The gods gave me the answer, provided the substitute!”

  “So your servants are mere possessions with whom you may do as you wish. Terah, you sentenced that baby to death. You might as well have murdered him yourself.”

  “We don’t know the disposition of the child. For all we know—”

  “Of course we do! The seers consider your firstborn a threat to the throne, and King Nimrod wanted him dead. They believe that was your child! What chance is there that he is still alive?”

  “That is not our concern, Ikuppi. What the king does—”

  “It is my concern! You are less than a man if you can rid it from your conscience. I cannot.”

  “See who is within. They must be told what has become of Mutuum’s baby.”

  “Then you tell them,” Ikuppi said. “My words have already condemned me. You can ask no more.”

  He helped Terah down from the chariot and walked him inside. There, two of Belessunu’s servant girls tended to Abram. The boy was awake and alert, staring at the girl who held him, tiny hands reaching for her face.

  “Your wife is sleeping, master,” the other told him. “Oh no, sir! What has happened to you?”

  “It is a sad and terrible story, my dear,” Terah said. And he told the girls of the attack of the dogs and the death of the baby. Both went ashen.

  “You two must get back to your quarters to mourn with Mutuum and his wife,” Terah said. “Meanwhile, we will take Abram to the palace. The king wishes to see him.”

  “That is an honor, sir,” the servant said as she handed the baby to Ikuppi. “But he is too young to travel.”

  “You would have me refuse the king?”

  “Oh, no, sir!”

  When the girls had gone, Ikuppi slumped in a chair with the baby in his lap. “Does your lack of shame know no bounds?”

  “Ikuppi, think! When the news spreads that I have bestowed my son upon the king, those girls will believe they saw him just before that took place. Otherwise, I would have no choice.”

  “But to kill them too, of course. Why not? They are merely property. Dispensable. Are you sure you have thought through this entire thing, Terah? When the truth comes out, as it always does, your life will be worthless. How then will you protect your family?”

  CHAPTER 69

  Vietnam

  For six months, Red had kept Ben sane as the lunacy of war and bureaucracy created a living hell for everyone in Southeast Asia. She was twice his age and seemed to be one of few there for the right reasons. She told him her purpose in life was to get wounded soldiers patched up enough to endure the flight home. They called any plane—military or civilian—a Freedom Bird if it went from Vietnam to the States. These long, multistop flights back became the sole goal of most Cherries—new guys—from the moment they landed in the war zone.

  Red was attractive but didn’t give off any vibe of availability—even to soldiers her own age. “Medical care or friendship is all I offer,” she’d say. “There’s plenty of young nurses here to fall in love with.”

  Ben just enjoyed getting to know her and being able to talk through what he could not look away from every day. “Will it always affect me this way?”

  “I hope so,” Red said. “You don’t want to take this in stride, do you?”

  “What I want is to quit seeing it even when I shut my eyes.”

  “Trouble sleeping?”

  “’Course! We must see more than even the guys on the front lines.”

  “Oh, no question. You can’t let it affect your work, but don’t expect it to become the norm. Just because you see the docs and us nurses acting like these kids’ injuries are nothing we haven’t seen before, don’t think we wouldn’t rather cover our eyes and ears and run away too. But then where would these guys be? As long as they’re breathing, we want ’em believing we’re gonna get them home.”

  Ben pressed his lips together as emotion choked him. “I just held a kid’s hand while he stared at me, pleading with his eyes. But I was as scared as he was. Everything inside him, from his sternum to his navel, looked obliterated. I told him we had just the surgeon for him. I lied to his face, Red! He didn’t need a doc. He needed a miracle. And he didn’t get it.”

  Red pressed a hand over Ben’s and whispered, “When I’m home on leave, people tell me my work must be so rewarding. I just say something about the privilege. And it is a privilege. But as you’re finding out, there’s little reward.”

  “And sure no glamour.”

  Red nodded. “The gung ho guys sober up quick if they catch duty here.”

  Venturing into town with Red and her friends took Ben’s mind off the carnage briefly. They would head out at the end of their shifts, the nurses always accompanied by men with weapons—or at least boys with weapons. Something about being with Red made Ben feel more like a boy than a man. In his eyes she was a no-nonsense woman of the world. She knew how to have fun but was always in control, and cautious. The first time she’d invited him along, she told him, “In town imagine yourself inside a zoo. Any doe-eyed animal, no matter how big or small or seemingly passive, can be wild after all. And you become prey.”

  “You’re calling the nationals animals?”

  “Of course not. I’ve befriended many of them, and the US is here to protect them. But can you tell a South Vietnamese from a VC? Neither can I. I’ve treated lots of people who approached a smiling child or a doddering grandma, not expecting to be torn in half.”

  Ben winced. That was something he hoped to put out of his mind, but if Red intended to remind him he was never really on his own time, she succeeded.

  The first several times he went along on a visit to town, the small contingent from the hospital just strolled around, but the others’ wariness was not lost on Ben. It seemed they largely ignored the nationals, avoiding their curious glances—he assumed to keep from appearing confrontat
ional. “Occasionally they cause a deliberate distraction,” Red said. “Keep a hand on your wallet.”

  “I’ll keep a hand right here,” Ben said, cradling his M14.

  “That works too,” she said.

  One evening in town Red led Ben and four of her other coworkers to a restaurant where they were directed to a ridiculously small table. Red assured Ben it would be fine. A waitress passed out menus and stood waiting. Ben felt pressured to quickly scan the menu, but Red said, “Take your time. She’s in no hurry.”

  The six of them decided on a local rice dish they said was common to South Vietnam, but it was exotic to Ben. Red told him it would consist of broken rice with grilled, marinated thick-cut pork and fresh vegetables. She ordered in Vietnamese, and Ben soon discovered why they didn’t need more table space. No place settings. They each used chopsticks to eat from a small rice bowl in their hand, to which they added the main dish from a serving bowl on the table. Their beer came with ice, which Red had to assure Ben was safe too.

  When their shifts jibed again, Ben and Red and a couple of other nurses headed to town once more. The other three visited a large, multi-booth market under what seemed an acre-long canopy. Ben opted to wait outside. Crowded, noisy, open-air markets reminded him too much of the mayhem at the hospital.

  Despite brandishing an M14 and towering over the nationals, Ben felt strangely vulnerable as he sat people watching. Still, his eyes grew heavy and he nearly dozed off in the blistering heat. He forced himself to stay alert. No telling what might happen if someone saw him sleeping, weapon at his side. The last thing he wanted was to send someone, or be sent himself, to the hospital he was trying to avoid.

  When Ben noticed commotion at the busy intersection fifteen feet from his bench, he recalled one of Red’s warnings. “Keep a hand on your wallet.”

  This didn’t look anything like a manufactured distraction. A beautiful Vietnamese girl with lustrous ebony hair to her waist—she could have been as young as fifteen—had been approached by a young Vietnamese man, maybe in his late teens. He smiled and gestured, but she shook her head.

  The girl was tiny and small-boned, with delicate features and nearly translucent skin—except where the sun had bronzed her prominent cheekbones. She attempted to keep walking and the guy stepped in front of her. Ben couldn’t read her look. Scared? Puzzled? Or were these just friends banztering? She tried again to move around the boy and he moved again to block her.

  Ben rose.

  The girl turned around and headed back the way she had come, but the boy overtook her and blocked her again.

  “Hey!” Ben shouted. “Leave her alone!”

  Both quickly looked his way, and she was clearly terrified. But of him or the guy?

  “Not your business!” the boy said.

  “It is now,” Ben said, approaching.

  The boy stepped directly in front of him, glaring. “Nothing to do with you, GI. What’re you gonna do?”

  “Glad you understand English, son. Let her go.”

  “Just go back to your bench.”

  Ben waved her on, and she seemed to thank him with her eyes. She touched his arm as she passed and whispered, “Thank you, sir.”

  The boy started to follow her, but Ben stepped into his path. “One more step and you’ll regret it.”

  “You gonna shoot me, GI?”

  “I don’t need a bullet to stop you.”

  “Then what you gonna do, big man?”

  “Take a step and find out.”

  The teen sneered at Ben, waved him off, and walked the other way, giving him one last look and crossing his fingers at him. What meant good luck in America was this kid’s way of giving Ben the finger.

  Ben sat back down feeling proud of himself, until he imagined bragging about this to Red and her friends. The tiny Asian had been no real threat, so maybe he ought to change his account to include two adult thugs. That made him smile. And when he did tell the others, he told the truth and they all laughed. “Our hero,” Red said. “Don’t we all just feel so much safer in his presence now?”

  About two weeks later, the little entourage returned to the same restaurant where Ben had been introduced to the iced beer. He sat directly across from Red and stared past her when she said, “Where are you right now, soldier?”

  He had to rerack his brain to register what she had asked. “Wait, what? I’m in Nam. What do you mean?”

  “Missed you there for a second,” she said, a tease in her tone. “Thought you’d left us and were maybe, I don’t know, in love?”

  “Oh, her?” he said and felt his cheeks flush. “I could swear she was the girl I rescued in front of the market a couple of weeks ago. But she’s too young to be working here.”

  “Anybody working here has to at least be of age,” Red said, looking behind her. “That girl’s the one? Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” Ben said. “But how old does she look to you?”

  “They all look younger than they are. But she’s waited on me before. Been here a while. You notice she’s in mourning, right?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Ben, don’t stare, but with a face like hers, it’s easy to miss she’s the only server here in drab colors.”

  “Hmph, you’re right.”

  “They officially mourn for seven weeks here, but they won’t wear bright colors for two years. And that little black patch on her blouse—sometimes those are white—indicates she’s lost an immediate family member.”

  “Wonder who?” Ben said, his eyes still following the young woman.

  “Oh, that’d be a good opening line,” Red said. “See how far you get with that.”

  “I’d at least like to greet her.”

  “Look around, Ben. Take a number and wait your turn.”

  Soldiers of all ages, ranks, and ethnicities seemed to surreptitiously watch her.

  Ben had found her stunning on the street, but when she approached the table, she left him nearly speechless. “Chào mọi nguòi,” she said. He’d been in the country long enough to know that meant “Hello, everyone.”

  “Hi,” Ben managed with a small wave. “Do you remem—”

  “It’s you!” she said. “I was so hoping to run into you again so I could thank you one more time.”

  “You speak such good English,” Ben blurted, feeling klutzy.

  She smiled. “My father taught me from a very young age. It is he who I mourn.”

  “Sorry for your loss,” Red said.

  “Thank you. Cancer took him two years ago next week.”

  “So you’re about to burn your mourning clothes.”

  “Yes!”

  “What’s that about?” Ben said.

  “Let’s not get her in trouble for talking while she’s working,” Red said. “I’ll tell you later.” She turned back to the waitress. “But may we know your name?”

  “Bian Win,” she said. “That’s how it sounds to you, anyway. Win is spelled N-g-u-y-e-n.”

  “Bian Win,” Ben said.

  “Yes, but if we are to be friends, you must call me Charm.”

  “Charm Win. You look too young to be working.”

  “Oh, I like to look young,” she said. “But I am twenty.”

  Ben could hardly believe it. The beauty he had guessed was a young teen was a year older than he was.

  When Charm had taken their orders, the others teased Ben. “She likes you!”

  “Nah.”

  “It’s obvious! She lights up when she talks to you.”

  “Stop. And what’s with the clothes-burning thing?”

  Red said, “A tradition here is that they wear the same clothes they wore to the funeral for memorial services every seven days for the first forty-nine days. Then they have another memorial on the one hundredth day, the first year anniversary, and the second. Then they burn those clothes and the extended mourning period is over.”

  “And isn’t it true,” one of the other nurses said, “that they don’t ma
rry while in mourning?”

  “That’s right. Keep that in mind, Ben.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Why don’t we jump light-years ahead of ourselves. She’s probably got guys all over the place.”

  CHAPTER 70

  Ur

  Terah sat in the great room tenderly supporting Abram in his lap, the newborn softly clicking his tongue and emitting sighs in his sleep. Terah found himself conflicted, perplexed at how his heart and soul could have callously sentenced one man’s son to certain death and an hour later feel overwhelmed with such boundless love for his own son. In the same day he had also threatened the lives of the midwife and her grown son, forced his friend on the king’s guard to violate his own conscience and moral code—under a threat to his life and the lives of his family—and was even willing to kill his wife’s servant girls if they interfered with his master plan.

  But had that idea not come directly to him from the gods themselves? Even the shattered fragments of the idols he had fashioned to represent them seemed to have spoken deeply to his inner being. If that required sacrificing servants or subordinates and even their families, well, the result was all that mattered. If his son was destined to be an “exalted father,” whatever Terah had to do to ensure that was the right course.

  His problem was separating what he was sure was of the gods and what might have been an intrusion by the one Belessunu believed was the one true God. Which god had led him to a haven where he had been able to avoid death at the fangs of the wild dogs? Which had warned him to worship no other gods? Which had suggested the prophetic name for his son? Terah couldn’t shake the feeling that this inscrutable tenderness and love for Abram had salved his conscience to where anything that served it seemed justifiable.

  But was it? Or was Ikuppi right, that Terah had abandoned his senses and any vestige of his scruples?

  Terah could barely rise and get around with his crutch when not holding the baby, so unless he found a way to safely lay the boy down, he was stuck where he was. He had been foolhardy in sending Ikuppi to do his bidding, leaving him alone with the baby.

  Ikuppi returned after a couple of hours, having delivered the food and supplies to Mutuum and his wife. The king’s guard looked miserable, poking his head in the door and saying he had returned to the storehouse and filled his chariot with what Terah had requested. “I’ll now fill the other, but I need to know where you want all these goods.”