Underground Zealot 01 - Soon

by JERRY JENKINS

Barton paled. “‘. . . in all its fullness,’” he said, smiling. “You scared the life out of me. I don’t think I’ve had anybody come to the side door in years. Thought we were busted. Everybody’s on edge now, with what happened yesterday. I lost a friend in South Central.”

  “That was a travesty.”

  “An abomination. C’mon back. Meet the others.”

  Barton pushed his way through the hanging plastic to a storeroom stocked with crates that stank of rotting fish. He smiled at Paul’s grimace.

  “Discourages visitors.”

  On the dock outside about a dozen people, most under thirty, were loading a delivery truck. “They’re almost finished,” Barton said, lifting a plywood sheet that revealed stairs to a hidden area.

  He led Paul down a narrow wooden staircase that seemed to end in a boiler room. Behind one of its plank walls lay a large windowless space furnished with sticks of furniture homeless people would have rejected.

  An old woman in a shawl had an open Bible in her lap. An elderly man appeared to be studying a commentary. He was taking notes.

  “Our teachers,” Barton said, introducing the married couple as Carl and Lois. “Carl was a pastor before the war. Has a collection of books and Bibles that alone could put him in prison for the rest of his life.”

  “Bring ’em on,” Carl said, winking and holding up his fists like a boxer. “Why, I oughta . . .”

  Lois, grinning, waved him off.

  “It’s wonderful that you have a library,” Paul said.

  “It’s invaluable in our mission. We’re in the tract business. We also supply most of the other groups in the West with printed literature.”

  “I’m surprised they’d need it,” Paul said. “It might be hard to lay hands on an original document, but once groups do—say, from you or even over the Internet—can’t they just make as many copies as they want?”

  “Some kinds of things, yes,” Carl said. “Flyers, leaflets, even photocopies of books for distribution—everybody does that—but we do something special here. Have you ever seen a book from the time before computer printing?”

  “I doubt it. When would that have been?”

  “Seventy or eighty years ago. I assure you they are quite different.”

  Lois leafed through her Bible and pulled out a small brochure. “This is one of our tracts,” she said. “You can see it’s two-color—I know computers can print millions of colors—but feel it. Just close your eyes and run your fingers over the page.”

  Paul did. “The letters are pressed into the paper.”

  “That’s right—and that’s why they call it letterpress. It’s a very old method of printing, and it’s a kind that can be done independent of computers, printers—even electricity if necessary. That’s one reason it’s so valuable. We believe the earth will soon be very different than it is now.”

  “After the Rapture.”

  “Not directly afterward, perhaps. But if you’ve read all the things that are to come, it’s not hard to imagine that electronic equipment will become useless at some point.”

  “That’s true.”

  “But that’s not our immediate reason for using letterpress in Operation Soon. You see, we think that if people come across things like this, whether today or after the Rapture, even if they’re not sure what they are, they will preserve them. If something is unusual, pleasing to the touch, and beautiful, it’s clear someone went to a lot of trouble to create it.

  Obviously, it must be of value. So they’ll try to read it and hopefully preserve it.”

  “Good theory,” Paul said. “I know I wouldn’t throw this away.”

  “I’m going to show him the press,” Barton said. He led Paul deeper into the room and through a curtain to reveal an ancient printing press.

  “Hard to find parts, ink, lubrication, that kinda thing, but it works fine.”

  Paul reached to touch the printing plates, but Barton said, “Don’t. The oil on your fingers could mar the impression.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You can see we’re not as productive as the people in Detroit, but we do our part. Of course, we save the press for special things. We do most of our regular leaflets—and also broadcasts—by computer. And now, with all the trouble, we’re making a major push.”

  Barton showed him large bundles of brochures. “We’re going to get these into the hands of the other groups and start flooding greater L.A.

  with them.”

  The brochures were titled “Risking Our Lives for Yours.” The copy stated unequivocally that the underground Christians in Los Angeles were not armed and never planned to be. “The slaughter of secret believers is genocide,” Paul read, “pure and simple. We are no threat to the government or the status quo. We merely believe that God is real, that Jesus is alive, that He died for the sins of the world, and that He is coming again soon. We will persist in spreading this word until none of us remain.”

  The brochure concluded with several verses from the Bible explaining how a person could receive Christ and be forgiven of sins and assured of a life with God for eternity.

  “Of course,” Barton said, “the penalty for distributing these is prison.”

  “And for creating them, death,” Carl said.

  “I don’t know what they’re so afraid of,” Lois said. “We’re just talking about the free exchange of ideas.”

  “Dangerous ideas, though,” Paul said. “You have to admit. I studied religion, and there is a huge legacy of religion-related atrocities throughout the history of civilization.”

  “But religion and true Christianity are two entirely different things.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, ma’am. But it’s important that we know where our opposition is coming from, what their mind-set is. They are terrified of what true spirituality and belief can do to people. Taken to extremes, it has resulted in war.”

  The workers from the dock began trickling down and were introduced to Paul. They shed their gloves and wet jackets and sat on the floor. “I bring you greetings from your brothers and sisters in Heartland,” Paul said. “They are praying for you.”

  “We haven’t heard from them about South Central,” Barton said. “A contact usually passes on their messages.”

  “Quinn?” Paul said.

  “Yeah, Specs,” he said. Others smiled and nodded.

  “I have bad news,” Paul said. He told them about Specs, and several gasped. Some covered their faces and wept.

  “He’s a loss,” Barton said, his voice thick. “All he ever wanted was to help people and spread the word. What are we going to do? We can’t stay hidden much longer, and we don’t want to, but if they’re gonna set the army on us, what chance do we have? We’re in a position of total weakness. We have nothing on them.”

  “We have to do something big,” Carl said. “Something that will get the attention of the nation. We have to cripple this army, unless we want to see more of us wiped out.”

  Barton stood. “Carl’s teaching the last several months has fired us up to where we’re ready to stand out because we believe that much in our cause. If they’re going to kill us anyway just for spreading the word about Jesus, we might as well take them on. I agree we have to do something that slows their campaign. If we don’t, we’re not going to be here much longer.”

  “The various groups are going to have to come together,” Paul said.

  “There has to be strength in numbers.”

  “But we’re no match for the army.”

  “Neither was Gideon,” Paul said. “It isn’t might that makes right, or the government would be right. We have God on our side, and we need Him to give us the victory, just like Gideon.”

  Old Carl struggled to his feet. “Gideon is a perfect model, people. Let me remind you of his story.” He quickly turned pages in his Bible and read:

  The angel of the Lord appeared to him and said, “Mighty hero, the Lord is with you!”

  “Sir,” Gideon replied, “if th
e Lord is with us, why has all this happened to us? And where are all the miracles our ancestors told us about? Didn’t they say, ‘The Lord brought us up out of Egypt’?

  But now the Lord has abandoned us and handed us over to the Midianites.”

  Then the Lord turned to him and said, “Go with the strength you have and rescue Israel from the Midianites. I am sending you!”

  “But Lord,” Gideon replied, “how can I rescue Israel? My

  clan is the weakest in the whole tribe of Manasseh, and I am the least in my entire family!”

  The Lord said to him, “I will be with you. And you will destroy the Midianites as if you were fighting against one man.”

  “You see, people,” Carl said, “the Israelites had been delivered out of captivity from Egypt, but when they forgot God and disobeyed Him, He turned them over to the Midianites, who tormented them for seven years.

  Now when God called Gideon a hero and told him to go with the strength of the Lord—a lot of people don’t know or remember this—but Gideon lit out with an army of thirty-two thousand men.

  “God told him he had too many, that if he won with that big an army, the Israelites would take the credit themselves. So He told Gideon to tell anyone to leave if they were timid or afraid. Twenty-two thousand of them took off, leaving only ten thousand. Remember now, this is to fight against an army of a hundred and thirty-five thousand. But God told him he still had too many. Gideon was to take his ten thousand men to a spring and tell them to drink. The ones who got down on all fours and stuck their mouths in the spring were sent home. Only three hundred dipped the water with their hands. And they became Gideon’s army.

  “When Gideon attacked the Midianites, they were so frightened that a hundred and twenty thousand of them killed each other, and the remaining fifteen thousand took off across the desert. Gideon finally tracked them down too.

  “I don’t know how God is going to use whatever is left of the underground believers in Los Angeles to defeat the army. But I believe He would have us be as the men of Gideon, brave and willing to do whatever is necessary. And He will win the battle.”

  32

  Barton James walked Paul all the way back to his car. “If you’re making the rounds,” he said, “greet the others for us. Tell them we stand ready to die for the cause.”

  “I hope that doesn’t become necessary,” Paul said.

  “I should tell you, we’re planning something outlandish for twilight tonight.”

  “Do I want to hear this?” Paul said.

  “Sure ya do. It’s not exactly Gideon-like, but it’s something. We have access to a robotic plane I can control from the ground. Or I should say from the water. It takes off from and lands in the Bay. We’re going to blanket the city with leaflets and hope the craft doesn’t get shot out of the air. If it does, we lose an expensive plane but no people.”

  “It’s audacious,” Paul said. “I’ve got to give you that. But if you’re caught?”

  “Big trouble.”

  “You said it.”

  “It’s not the type of thing that’s going to keep the army from wiping out believers,” Paul said. “But I like it. It’s in-your-face, and it gets the word out. Any of your people been caught yet?”

  “No. Close, but no. Three of our members were chased on foot for about a mile one night, but they escaped without showing their faces and, we hope, without leading anyone to us. Are believers dying in other states like they are here?”

  “Not on this scale,” Paul said. “Individuals have been martyred, yes.

  But bringing in the army is an ugly turn. It’s as if the government has decided to wage all-out war on us. The fainthearted are going to start bailing on us if they think there’s a chance they won’t survive.”

  “There are no fainthearted here, sir,” Barton said. “This isn’t a movement for fence-straddlers.”

  “If we can just come up with something Gideon-like, Barton.

  Something that will pull all these people together and show them that God will work through them, even to thwart the might of the army. What would bring this city to its knees?”

  “On my way back I’m going to pray over this city,” Barton said. “Pray that God will give you an idea.”

  “Maybe He’ll give you an idea.”

  “I don’t have that kind of a mind, sir,” Barton said. “And I don’t need that burden. But you can bet I’ll help carry it out.”

  “You came up with the one for tonight, didn’t you?”

  “The truth? It was Lois’s idea.”

  * * *

  As Paul sat eating in the parking lot of a fast-food joint, a call came from his mother-in-law.

  “Jae asked that I call you,” she said. “She asked me to express her regret that she missed your call and to tell you that she will call you when she is able.”

  Really? That doesn’t sound like Jae. “Do you know where she is?”

  “No, she still hasn’t told me.”

  That doesn’t sound like her either. “I suppose Dad has kept you informed as to what’s happening out here.”

  “Oh no. I don’t hear from him when he’s on the road. He’s busy with high-level meetings from dawn to dusk. I’m sure I’ll hear about it when he returns.”

  Paul checked in with Straight, who picked up on the first ring and sounded devastated.

  “What’s wrong?” Paul said.

  “You don’t know?”

  Straight seemed overcome and couldn’t speak.

  “Take your time, friend,” Paul said, flipping the channels on his pocket computer until he found a news site. What? The army had struck the former site of Loyola Marymount University in the Westchester area of Los Angeles, a few minutes from LAX.

  “Paul,” Straight managed finally, “calls from inside just as it was going down told us about two hundred members there were mourning the dead from South Central. They were in a makeshift chapel, and they had no weapons at the whole site. The leadership saw the army amassing and tried to negotiate. Well, there was no negotiating. They were shot dead at the door; then the army leaders retreated to their positions and obliterated the place. Those people were slaughtered.”

  Paul stuffed the rest of his food in the bag and raced off, chastising himself for not finding a way to warn the believers at Loyola. He’d told Specs to contact them, but he must not have gotten through in time.

  Traffic was snarled within miles of the black smoke billowing over the site of the massacre. Finally, Paul ditched the car and jogged more than a mile to the site. Panting and sweaty, he found his father-in-law beside Bia Balaam with a network news reporter sticking a microphone in their faces.

  “We’re talking live with Tactical Chief Bia Balaam and General Ranold Decenti, World War III hero and now military consultant to the new National Anti-Christian task force. Chief Balaam, what happened here?”

  “Our intelligence-gathering contingent has been monitoring the anti-American subversive activities of a heavily armed and dangerous faction of religious fanatics, more than a thousand strong, who were planning to take over Los Angeles and eventually all of Pacifica. We surrounded the place before dawn, awakened their leadership, and ordered them to stand down and surrender peacefully. They promised to discuss an amicable resolution with their colleagues, and we gave them a deadline of noon to surrender their weapons and be taken into custody without incident.

  “When there was no further communication from them, we prepared for the worst. One minute after the deadline, they opened fire on our forces, and we were forced to defend ourselves. Fortunately we suffered no casualties or injuries, and they apparently turned their massive weapons cache on themselves. We were forced to retreat as they bombed and burned the buildings and killed themselves.”

  “How many dead do you expect?”

  “Several hundred.”

  “General Decenti, what about eyewitness reports from area residents who say they saw military personnel arrive after eleven-thirty, and that you y
ourself, sir, arrived just before the battle?”

  “They are mistaken. I have been here since dawn, and they must have merely seen me coming from another area of the stakeout.”

  As soon as Ranold was free, Paul confronted him. “Why wasn’t I informed this was even planned? I am here to interrogate subjects and interpret their answers for you and the others as it relates to the overall religious picture. I’m finding out about these sieges when the public does, and there never seems to be anyone left to question.”

  “First of all, Paul, this is Chief Balaam’s operation. Secondly, they are hardly sieges. We would love for these people to respond appropriately and cooperatively and to be able to give you no end of subjects to examine. But they are zealots, extremists. They will not listen to reason.

  They will not negotiate. The first sign the government is at their door, they start shooting.”

  “Shooting?”

  “That’s the same argumentative and self-righteous tone you had in South Central, and you wonder why you didn’t hear we were going to strike.”

  “I deserved to know. Otherwise, why am I here?”

  “You want the truth, Paul? I didn’t think you were up to it. That’s why it’s Balaam, not you, running this show. Maybe it’s your injury, I don’t know, but you’ve grown soft on me, Son. It’s been months, man. Time to get over it. Meanwhile, you must see the value of a surgical strike.”

  “Surgical? This looks more like butchery. And is this your idea of a press blackout?”

  Ranold gave him a withering look. “You’re hopeless, Paul. How many times have we talked about using the press to our advantage? Truth is perception. People believe what they hear, especially on the news. The time had come to send a message with a major strike—that this religious subversion is a cancer, a threat to our very way of life. Insurrection cannot be tolerated. We must—and we will—combat it with all our might. You should be proud of what we’ve done here today, Paul. The rest of America will be.”

  Paul was speechless. Balaam was still in thrall with the reporters, so at least he was spared her boasting about the strike. He drifted away to look for survivors to interrogate.