I, Judas

by Bob Mayer

  Pierce walked out of the Rose Center and toward the sprawling complex that was the museum proper. The building, with so many additions over the years, reflected a mixture of design styles. He paused before the Central Park West entrance with its towering white columns and bronze statue of Teddy Roosevelt on horseback. The large doors were closed. Pierce walked up the steps to the far left door and thumped it with his open palm. Within seconds it swung open and the guard smiled upon seeing him. The man had prosthetics in place of both hands, a roadside bomb had taken off both and scarred his face terribly, preventing him from working the day shift where he might scare tourists.

  “Evening, Mister Pierce.”

  “Evening, George. Why are you still working?”

  “Just me, sir. I kind of like it. Usually only a handful of us on duty at night, but now I have the whole place to myself. When I saw your text, I made sure I was close by the door.”

  Pierce nodded. “It’s as good a place as any.”

  “Yes, it is, sir. Any place in particular you’ll be visiting this evening?”

  “Just wandering,” Pierce said.

  George smiled. “Then enjoy, sir.”

  Pierce walked down the corridor, his footsteps echoing off the high walls and ceiling of the massive Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Hall. He passed under the model of the huge squid fighting a large blue whale. The battle recreated from one that had occurred in the darkness of the deep ocean, cast strange shadows on the walls. Generations of school children on class trips had passed underneath the papier-mâché mock-up since it was built in 1895.

  Pierce turned a corner and pushed open a door marked Restricted Access: Museum Personnel Only. He passed a cluster of offices, then storage areas. The dust grew heavier and the corridor narrower. The brick walls surrounding him were now part of the original museum building from 1877.

  A black steel door ended the corridor. It had no markings, knob or handle. Pierce reached out and placed his hand on the left side of the door, chest high. The steel was strangely warm, a result of the sensor built into it.

  There was a low click and the door slowly began to swing outward, Pierce stepping out of the way. He walked through, the door swinging shut behind him with a solid thud.

  Recessed lights along the edge of the ceiling illuminated the room. It was ten feet wide by twenty feet long. Every inch of wall space, except the door, was shelved and they were overflowing with old books, scrolls and manuscripts.

  At a long wooden table in the center of the room, a man was seated, perusing a scroll. He looked up as Pierce took the seat across from him.

  “So?” Peter Galbraith prompted.

  Pierce snorted as he settled in to the rickety wood chair. “Where to begin, old friend? Is it even worth beginning anything now that it appears the end is here?”

  “Do you believe the End is approaching?”

  “Something will happen,” Pierce said. He folded his hands in his lap and waited.

  Galbraith tapped the scroll. “The problem,” he began, “is which version of the Fifth Gospel is true? The one the Vatican sits on or the one Burton’s wife burned?”

  “Is that truly the problem? A question of knowledge?”

  A wry smile twisted Galbraith’s lips. “No. Of course not. It all comes down to faith.”

  “But faith isn’t the first thing you brought up.” Pierce leaned forward. “We’ve both had a chance to at least glance through both versions of the Fifth Gospel. While they vary wildly in some areas, there are some things both versions agree on. And some areas in which both agree with the four accepted gospels.”

  Galbraith waited, knowing his old friend would get to the point.

  “Matthew nineteen, verses twenty-three and twenty-four,” Pierce said. “’I tell you the truth, it is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.’” Pierce looked Galbraith in the eyes. “Mark and Luke basically say the same thing. As do both versions of Judas’s gospel.”

  “And we are rich, aren’t we?” Galbraith said. “Is your faith wearing on you now that the End is near?”

  “Doesn’t it worry you?” Pierce countered. “We’re the richest men in the world. We’ve spent our lives pursuing wealth and power and—’

  “For a greater cause,” Galbraith interrupted. “The wealth is just a means.”

  “That’s a wearisome argument,” Pierce said. “I’m not just talking of you and me and our companions, but almost all men. They spend their life pursuing the almighty dollar.”

  “A little late to turn philosopher or pauper, isn’t it?” Galbraith asked.

  “And your Great Commission?” Pierce asked. “Still on track?”

  Galbraith tapped the scroll. “Judas’s version of that is interesting.” He closed his eyes and recited: “’Matthew twenty-eight, verses sixteen through twenty: Then the eleven disciples went away into Galilee, into a mountain where Jesus had appointed them. And when they saw him, they worshipped him; but some doubted. And Jesus came and spoke unto them, saying, ‘All power is given unto me in heaven and in earth. Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.’”

  “And do you have Judas’s verse memorized as well?” Pierce asked.

  Galbraith opened his eyes and gave a wan smile. “My pastor didn’t preach from it much.” He looked down at the scroll. “’Judas four, verse twelve: Some of my fellow apostles worshipped Jesus absolutely, without even the shadow of a doubt. Others had questions. Jesus enjoyed the latter more than the former. He found the questions challenging. He did not seek blind obedience. Mary, more than any of us, posed queries and doubts. And Mary, more than any of us, he loved.

  “’Finally, after a week on the mountain, Jesus gathered us together. And he said:

  “’All my power has been given to me by my father in Heaven. It is your task to take my message and spread it as far and as wide as possible. Go forth and teach all the nations. Teach them in the way of the mind, and of the heart, and of the human path. Teach them to observe, to question, keeping in mind all I have told you. For, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.’”

  “Then it looks like he should be around soon,” Pierce said.

  Galbraith shook his head. “This is the Vatican’s version. The passage is the exact same in Burton’s. You know what the biggest difference between the two is? Besides the material that Vatican obviously jammed in there to damn Judas?”

  “The end is the beginning,” Pierce said.

  Galbraith nodded. “Judas quite clearly indicates he’s writing a prologue. That his Fifth Gospel isn’t complete. In fact, he says it’s merely a prelude to the real thing. But he doesn’t say what the real thing is, who wrote it, or where it is.”

  “Maybe, like the Intruder,” Pierce said, “the Fifth Gospel is something altogether different?”

  Galbraith pinched the top of his nose between thumb and forefinger, as if trying to force back a pending headache. “I didn’t call you here to argue or to discuss philosophy or theories.”

  “Why did you call me here?”

  “You destroyed the Mission.”

  Pierce’s silence was assent enough.

  “You should have been looking to your own affairs,” Galbraith continued, “instead of meddling in ours.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The nuclear weapons that you are futilely trying to use to stop the inevitable.” Galbraith abruptly stood. “Look to your own house, my old friend. Forget about the rich, focus on those who desire power.”

  Pierce stood and grabbed Galbraith’s arm as he made for the door. “There’s not much time. Tell me. We know about Pakistan and India.”

  “No matter how high the stakes, whether it
is the Rapture or the destruction of the planet,” Galbraith said, “there are still madmen who will destroy everything in their path to gain power, if only for a day. Chechen rebels ambushed a Russian convoy moving to Plesetsk carrying the last two bombs they were going to launch. The Russians destroyed the bombs rather than let them fall into Chechen hands. Not nuclear, but using conventional munitions. Your plan isn’t going to work. It was never going to work.” He removed Pierce’s hand from his arm. “Remember, next time we meet in St. Patricks; my ground.”

  “Do you think there will be a next time?” Pierce asked.

  “We’ll meet again.” Galbraith left the room. “At the Cathedral. Or some other place. And if the Needle is true, it won’t be a nice place.”

  Space. Earth Orbit

  Forster was sweating inside his space suit. He’d just returned from modifying the third GPS satellite into a Seed. While working, he’d seen a rocket launch from the west of the United States: Vandenburg. And one from South America: Kouro.

  He was ill. He’d had to choke down vomit several times. Doing that inside the suit would not only be messy and foul, it could kill him. And while he knew he was already a dead man, he had a job to complete.

  As the hatch was swinging shut, there was a flash of light further out in space.

  Another nuclear weapon had exploded in the vicinity of Wormwood.

  New York City

  “We won’t know if it had any effect for a while,” Thornton said. “Even if it did, just a few explosions will have minimal impact.”

  Brunswick paced about the room. “The loss of that Soyuz is throwing off the timetable. Everyone’s rushing and there’s bound to be more accidents.”

  Pierce barely heard as he tried to catch his breath. It had been a dangerous trip back to the building. Twice he’d had to run to avoid groups who looked bent on mayhem, which was a positive way to put a spin on it.

  “The Russians lost two of the nukes en route to Plesetsk,” he informed them.

  “Damn!” Thornton cursed. “There’s not enough time.”

  “We need to focus on the Final Option,” Brunswich said.

  Pierce was going through a pile of messages that awaited him, and he didn’t want them to focus on the Final Option. “One of the Brotherhood’s team is dead. My agent.”

  Brunswick frowned. “How do you know he’s dead if he was your agent?”

  Pierce didn’t answer, turning another page and looking at an intelligence flimsy. “Task Force Kali will be going wheels-up soon. The President is going to have to make a go/no go decision when the aircraft reach the Afghan-Pakistan border in a little over an hour.”

  Brunswick slapped the tabletop. “Damn fools!”

  “The Pakistanis know the Indians haven’t loaded the US nukes on the missiles. The natural conclusion is that the Indians are going to use those nukes on the border.”

  “At least they’re still firing the rockets, even if they are using their own nukes,” Thornton said.

  “You know,” Pierce said as he dropped the flimsy onto the table, “even if this plan works and we divert the Intruder, there might not be much of the planet left to save.”

  Abbottabad, Pakistan

  The message was received using the most advanced and sophisticated communications technology the United States Military possessed. Scrambled, frequency hopped, bounced through a satellite, and unscrambled. And the five letter groupings still made no sense:

  WLSON HRZAQ WOSLR KDWIW

  QNDTM MAEOY WQAWP HTISM

  RHMWL PALTM THRML HRNWL

  ZXSTY PIWER

  It was going to be decoded by Captain Martinez the old-fashioned way: using a one-time pad and a trigraph. The trigraph linked all the letters in the alphabet in three-letter combinations. An experienced Special Forces commo man had the trigraph memorized; Martinez still had to use the acetate trigraph he’d first received two years ago in the Special Forces Qualification Course at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

  The key component in the decoding, and what made this system unbreakable, was the middle letter of the three-letter grouping. This came from a one-time pad. A one-time pad consisted of letters randomly generated by a computer in five-letter groupings. Each page of the pad equaled each message received or sent. A duplicate of the one-time pad that Martinez carried was at Task Force Kali’s headquarters. Without the matching pad, it would be impossible to decode the message.

  Martinez matched the original message letter with the one-time pad letter to come up with a third letter. The message was the one he’d been dreading:

  TASKF ORCEK ALIAG OREPE ATGOE TABOR DERCR OSSING INSEV ENSIX MINUT ESINI TIATE CLOCK ATMES SAGET RANSM ISSIO NDATE TIMES TAMPG ODSPE EDXXX

  His mind, used to seeing the groupings, quickly separated out the words:

  TASK FORCE KALI A GO REPEAT GO ETA BORDER CROSSING IN SEVEN SIX MINUTES INITIATE CLOCK AT MESSAGE TRANSMISSION DATE TIME STAMP GOD SPEED XXX

  Martinez fingered the cross around his neck and said a quick prayer. His chest and back were covered with eight tattooed names. One for each man he’d served with over the years, first in the Infantry and then in Special Forces, who’d all made the ultimate sacrifice.

  He glanced over at the other occupant of the hide hole. Sergeant First Class Daw was asleep, as much as one could be asleep in a six by four by five-foot deep hole, crowded with all their gear, weapons, food and water. And body waste, solids in plastic baggies and urine disposed in a catch-hole, in the bottom on the downslope side.

  The hole was on the side of a steep eight thousand foot high peak, about five hundred feet from the very top. The first team here had choppered in at night in 2002 and disembarked on the opposite slope and climbed over the mountain and begun work on the hole. Working only at night, it took three weeks to dig, with the men climbing back over the mountain before dawn to hide every morning.

  Covered with camouflage, protected by thermal wrapping from heat sensors, the hole had been occupied every single second since it was completed. The two-man recon teams did nine-day stints. They were extracted after a new team took their place. Martinez and Daw had been there for five days.

  Martinez knew the drill. They’d rehearsed it over a hundred times back at Kandahar. Six beacons were emplaced on the mountain below, leading down to the large, camouflaged tunnel entrance to the nuclear complex, which had been bored into the rock by the Pakistanis. A laser designator with a fresh battery was in a heavy plastic case, ready for use to guide in missiles from Air Force planes if needed. Infrared strobe lights to guide helicopters and parachutists. It was a complicated choreography in an intense timeline that would even give Task Force Kali a chance of securing the facility.

  Martinez didn’t initiate the plan.

  He’d been in this hole seven times before, always volunteering to go when his team’s rotation came up, taking the place of one of his men. It was on his sixth rotation when he came up with the idea. That was the rotation when those damn SEALs took out Osama, farther below, in that house in town. He’d watched the raid through a telescope, knowing how close it was to compromising Task Force Kali and the hide site. Seeing that, he knew that even the POTUS, the big man himself, having given the go-ahead for Seal Team Six, didn’t know about Kali. Or else he wouldn’t have risked running one Spec Ops mission where another Spec Ops team was sitting on nukes. Obama might have been a high value target, but nukes trumped revenge.

  Secrets within secrets.

  So Martinez had come up with his own secret plan.

  Using the appropriate page in the one-time pad, he quickly encoded a five-word message. He placed it in his breast pocket. He filled his rucksack with the equipment he’d need, being careful not to wake Daw.

  He placed the decoded incoming message on top of the laser designator. Daw would see it when he woke up in thirty minutes, when his watch pulsed against his wrist. He could initiate. Because in forty-five minutes, Martinez’s plan would either work, or Kali would work their dark magic and perha
ps start World War III.

  Then he left the hide hole.

  Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan

  The first to take off were the helicopters, because they were slower. Little Birds, AH-60s, led the way, followed by MH-47 Chinooks and MH-60 Nighthawks. From other airfields in Afghanistan, HC-130J Combat King refueling aircraft took off, the bladders inside the cargo bays bulging with fuel. They would rendezvous with the helicopters just before the border and refuel the Chinooks and Nighthawks. The Little Birds, four seaters containing pilot, co-pilot, and two Special Forces men, were on one-way missions. They weren’t capable of being refueled, and didn’t have the range to make it to the target and back.

  The theory was that the men on board would be exfiltrated by the other choppers.

  ‘Theory’ being the operative word. Exfiltration, among Special Operations soldiers, always seemed to be the part of the plan that received the least amount of attention from others.

  As soon as the rotary wing aircraft were clear, the fixed wing began to take off.

  Task Force Kali was airborne.

  The Very Large Array, New Mexico

  In the control room of the Very Large Array, Abaku was going over the math. It was what he did. Math was perfect, it was factual, and it had definite answers. He was using a handheld calculator, a pencil, and a legal pad.

  The Very Large Array was something much different than the single satellite dish he’d used at the Mission. The seven dishes along each of the three arms were maneuverable. While they were primarily used as receivers, they could also broadcast. The mathematical problem now was adjusting his old math to the new math with the new form of transmitting.

  “You do not trust my figures on the computer?” Sergut had come up behind him, un-noticed in Abaku’s focus.