“Now what?” Malcolm asked. “There’s nothing out here.”
“But we saw a light,” Clarise answered apprehensively. “Where did it come from?”
“Maybe the water—maybe it was a beacon after all.”
They looked out over the deep, inky blackness of the water. A small but clear white light suddenly pierced the darkness on the surface of the water. It didn’t flash.
“Is that a buoy?” Clarise asked.
“No idea. How close are those things supposed to be to shore? I can’t really judge the distance, but that’s got to be at least a couple hundred yards out.”
“Maybe they’re delivering him by boat.”
The two of them watched the light for a couple of minutes. It didn’t appear to be getting any closer. Malcolm scanned the beach on either side of them.
“Whatever the light is, it’s stationary,” he finally said, looking at Clarise as he voiced his thoughts. “I don’t think that’s them. Let’s go back to the car.”
“Hold on.” Clarise beckoned. “It’s gone.” She pointed to the now opaque darkness. Suddenly the solitary light reappeared.
“Sorry,” she said, disappointed. “I guess I just lost it in a wave.”
“Do you hear that?”
Clarise listened. “It sounds like the water’s getting rougher. I don’t feel any wind, though. The light looks a little higher.… Is it coming closer? I’d say we have a boat approaching, but it’s odd that it doesn’t look any closer.”
Malcolm didn’t reply. He stared straight ahead, intellectually trying to deny the realization forming in his brain. He wasn’t succeeding.
“Sherlock Holmes,” he whispered nervously. The faint wisps of his breath vanished quickly in the frigid air.
“What?”
“When you eliminate all other possibilities, what remains—no matter how improbable—is the answer. Get ready, Clarise.”
Malcolm pulled his TAR from his shoulder and steadied himself on one knee. Clarise didn’t ask why, but followed his lead. The two of them watched expectantly as the small white light kept slowly rising in the distance. The sound of water churning steadily gained volume. Off in the black expanse they could see tiny flecks of white spray extending in a long line parallel to the shore.
“What the—?” Clarise mumbled.
Suddenly a massive black object broke free of the surf and rose into the dark sky, the water spilling off its curved edges into the waves creating a thunderous splash.
“Holy God,” Clarise gasped as the round, black sphere rose and then halted its ascent, hanging mid-air above the water. It began to drift toward the shore in their direction.
Malcolm gazed at the craft, wonder and dread coursing through him in unison. The saucer was at least a football field in diameter, monstrous in comparison to the one he’d been in the previous summer. He stood up.
“Clarise?”
There was no reply.
Malcolm turned his head. Clarise was sitting, her mouth slightly agape, hands in her lap, staring in transfixed awe. Her rifle was lying next to her in the snow.
Now that the saucer was out of the water, there was little sound, save for a dull hum. The saucer had reached shore and was almost directly overhead at a distance of a couple hundred feet. It stopped.
“Clarise!”
The woman jerked her head toward the voice, snapping back to the reason they were there. She grabbed the TAR and stood up.
“I don’t know what’s going down, but be ready for anything.”
“Sorry, I’ve just never seen—”
“Trust me, I get it.”
A series of bright lights unexpectedly flashed on the underside of the craft and began alternating in a pattern that created the illusion of rotation. A smaller light at the very center of the saucer appeared and began to expand in diameter. Malcolm and Clarise squinted at the center light. To their surprise, they saw human forms.
“Landing party?” Clarise asked without looking in Malcolm’s direction.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Malcolm said, shaking his head. “Lord, not this way. Not—”
His prayer was cut short by a terrified scream. They watched in horror as one of the forms disappeared from the light into the darkness. They caught one more fleeting glimpse of the doomed man as the beams of light from under the craft hit the flailing body hurtling downward. They lost visual, and seconds later the body slammed the cold, wet sand just yards from where they stood with a sickening smack, loud enough to make them both jump.
Clarise bolted toward the crumpled form, with Malcolm close behind. Father Fitzgerald’s face was buried in the sand, his head twisted unnaturally, blood seeping from the holes on the side of his head where his ears had been. His shoulder was smashed so severely that the collar bone had broken through his shirt and was now thrust deeply into his neck. The contorted position of the legs told Clarise the priest’s pelvis had been shattered as well. In despair, she cleared the neck wound as best she could and tore furiously into her backpack. She produced a wad of gauze and pressed it tightly to the puncture, trying to stop the flow of blood. She checked for a pulse, then looked at Malcolm and turned away.
Malcolm looked skyward and watched the inner circle of light close into blackness. The pattern of lights on the outer rim continued rhythmically. He gritted his teeth and raised the TAR.
“Don’t!” Clarise yelled, having caught the motion from the corner of her eye. She lunged at the wiry black man and pulled the weapon down as he fired. The bullets ripped harmlessly into the sand.
“Don’t,” she said breathlessly. “They could kill us all—and you know it won’t do any good.”
Malcolm looked at her, his face filled with enraged desperation. She held on to his arm, waiting for him to return to reason. “We have to tell Brian—now,” she urged. “The Colonel may have something else planned.”
Clarise released Malcolm’s arm and took the radio from her belt. She pressed the button to communicate. The device was unresponsive.
“It’s dead! But the batteries are brand new. What—?”
“It’s the saucer,” Malcolm said, looking upward. The low hum and rotation pattern were the same as before. “They’re sticking around just to jam our communications. We have to get away from here.” He looked down helplessly at Father Fitzgerald’s body. “I don’t want to leave him.”
“We can drag him to the car. Madison can help if we need her to.” She looked back at the car.
Malcolm put his rifle on his shoulder and moved toward the dead priest’s feet. He felt Clarise grab his arm once more and looked up at the car as she pointed. The inside light was on, but no one was visible.
They sprinted toward the SUV as fast as they could. Clarise began calling for Madison, frantic for her daughter. When she was within ten yards, she screamed even louder—not seeking a response this time, but because she now saw why the door was ajar: Madison’s foot was dangling out of the driver’s door, preventing it from closing.
Clarise got to the door and pulled it open. Madison was slumped across the tray that separated the two front seats, her head resting awkwardly on the passenger seat. Her strawberry blonde hair was draped over her face, revealing a small dart in her neck. Clarise quickly felt for a pulse. Malcolm pulled open the driver’s side back door. The car was empty.
“She’s alive!” Clarise exclaimed through tears of panic. “But she’s out cold.”
Malcolm ran around the outside of the car, looking for signs of Dee in the ambient light. The low hum abruptly ceased, and the two of them looked up. The black saucer was drifting low over the water, heading out to sea. Without any warning, it shot up and out of sight at a tremendous speed, and then it was gone.
Malcolm suddenly remembered that he’d tucked his flashlight into the back of his trousers. He pulled it out and turned it on. It worked. He frantically scanned the ground and found two sets of boot prints leading to and away from the vehicle. He jogged after th
em, calling for Dee, flashing his light down toward the recess on his left filled with water.
Farther down the road, the light revealed a small mound. He recognized Dee’s coat and ran toward it. He picked it up and felt moisture. He dropped it and shined the flashlight on his hand. His fingers were streaked with blood.
52
There is no neutral ground in the universe. Every square inch, every split second, is claimed by God and counter-claimed by Satan.
—C. S. Lewis
“So why are you telling me all this?”
Now that Father Fitzgerald’s rescue was underway, Brian wanted to bring the meeting to an end as quickly as possible, but the urge to discover the Colonel’s motivation for the conversation was irresistible.
The profanely haughty expression appeared once again on the Colonel’s face. Brian could tell he was more than eager to provide an answer.
“It’s simple, actually.” The Colonel looked again at his watch. “I’m telling you all this because I want you to suffer,” he answered coldly. “I want you alive and well so that you feel the full brunt of defeat—not only that of Andrew’s hopes, or those of his associates, but that of the people of your God.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. The whole history of the Church shows that believers will resist evil unto death—and persecution and martyrdom has been the seed of the Church all over the world. You’ll never kill it off.”
“Exactly. Real believers won’t be forced by death to deny the faith. Spiritual suicide is more what we have in mind.”
Brian tried to be coy, but once again couldn’t disguise his confusion.
“You can’t yet understand the coherence of all that I’ve told you this evening. That will require some discovery on your part.”
Brian gave a slight shrug, trying to look calm. “You said Jesus would be on your side. Are you going to try to convince everyone that Jesus was really an alien and then turn people against Him? Maybe the alien Jesus raptures everyone but the real Christians, destroying their faith?”
“Please, professor. We aren’t planning something so intellectually childish as a fake rapture. But we’ll certainly make use of such shallow end-times thinking. There’s a much better way to strangle the life out of the Church than some nineteenth-century contrivance like a rapture. Many Christians don’t even believe in one—but they all believe that Jesus promised to return.”
“Seems like a waste of time,” Brian replied, hoping to get more detail.
“Our agenda will produce the right villain to move the target audience to the right savior.”
Brian sat silently again, choosing to let the Colonel follow his train of thought uninterrupted.
“You’re too quiet, professor. I know it isn’t because you’re not following. Perhaps a question will get you to open up a little.” The Colonel smiled as he held his hands in front of his face, tapping his fingertips together. “Tell me, Dr. Scott, do you believe that those who express faith in Jesus are eternally secure?”
Brian didn’t move. In any other context, he’d have enjoyed the academic discussion, but he could sense this wasn’t about scholarly jousting.
“Your continued silence tells me that you understood immediately that I worded the question very deliberately. Expressing faith and possessing faith are two different things, especially for someone like you who pours over the text so diligently—a quaint obsession that will indeed bring you to suffer in the wake of this conversation.”
Brian held back, unsure how the Colonel had managed to weaponize this point of theology.
“The idea of eternal security is a good example of something millions of Christians consider obvious, but that you don’t—because you see something hidden in plain sight. Untold masses of Christian believers feel secure in their path to heaven for one of two reasons. Some find assurance because they think they’re chosen by God—elect is the word they’d used. But they never stop to consider that their Old Testament has every Israelite elect—but that didn’t keep huge numbers of them, maybe most of them, from worshiping other gods and perishing in Nebuchadnezzar’s conquest and the exile in Babylon. How tragic—how confusing. How can you have the elect going astray after other gods if election means salvation? Do those who don’t choose to worship Yahweh find a home in the presence of Yahweh?”
“Of course not,” Brian replied, now discerning what was coming.
“But if they’re not in heaven, then what did being elect mean? You know the answer to this because you see it clearly in the text—election and salvation are not synonyms. That means people who at one time expressed loyalty to the God of Israel—and by extension, to His Christ—could turn to unbelief and forfeit salvation of their own free will. I do hope you noticed I used the word express there as well.”
“I did.”
“Good. And let’s not forget that all humans—God’s imagers, as you taught us all this past summer—must have true freedom of will. If they didn’t, they couldn’t image God—they could not be like God without sharing that attribute. That brings us to the second reason so many presume their heavenly destiny is sure: because their faith is in the gospel story of the New Testament.”
“That’s obvious,” Brian objected. “That’s biblical theology.”
“Of course it is.… It’s also the perfect tool to eviscerate the Church.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
A cocky grin creased the Colonel’s mouth. “What if millions believed they had put their faith in the right thing—or person—but they were deceived? What if the Jesus they thought was the object of their faith was—but also wasn’t—Jesus? I’ll ask it this way: If one believes a lie, isn’t that belief still unbelief? Oh, dear. What would the writer of the book of Hebrews say?” He paused, as if waiting for an answer. “You do recall that he was worried about this sort of thing. Would your loving God have believing unbelievers as His children? He didn’t do that with the Jews, did He?”
“Are you done?”
“No,” the Colonel growled, his demeanor suddenly shifting. He hadn’t raised his voice, but his tone was commanding.
Before he could respond, Brian saw the Colonel’s attention was once more diverted. He turned and looked over his shoulder. The waitress was approaching.
“Is there something wrong with your fish?” she asked sincerely, looking at Brian.
“No,” he said apologetically, then glanced at the Colonel. “I just didn’t have an appetite this evening. You can take it away.”
“Would you like dessert?” she asked the Colonel with a smile.
“No, thank you, dear,” he said with feigned charm. “You can bring me the check.”
Brian waited for the waitress to leave and then went on the attack. “It wouldn’t be hard to expose a false Christ. The New Testament clearly warns that false Christs will show up. It’s too clear about the nature and character of Jesus. Even miraculous acts won’t be enough, since anyone with an ounce of biblical knowledge will know other divine beings have real power. Nothing short of Jesus Himself is going to draw the attention of real believers.”
“Right again,” the Colonel answered confidently, eyebrows raised. He went on with deliberation, choosing his words carefully. “What if there was no ambiguity that the resurrected Jesus had returned, precisely as promised, to do exactly what He’s supposed to do—crush the antichrist and his minions and usher in the earthly kingdom of God, the renewed Eden? What if there was a way to confirm the reality of His resurrected flesh, validating that most crucial element in the New Testament story? Would there be any reason to doubt? Would there be any reason not to believe when that Jesus rescues Jerusalem from assured devastation and conquers an unconquerable enemy?”
Brian hesitated, knowing he was being led to a predetermined conclusion. Rather than protest, he decided to go along. “I suppose not.”
“And so the end will come,” the Colonel replied. “There
are other ways to destroy the faith of those who say they believe. This is just the most interesting to us. And you’ll have a front-row seat for it. You’re here for my entertainment, Dr. Scott. When you see the myth emerging, I want you to know it’s all a trap, that it’s all a horrible mistake.”
The Colonel smiled menacingly. “We’ll give every dimwitted Bible believer what they’ve longed for—proof that their Scriptures are absolutely genuine—while we steal their place at Yahweh’s table. We won’t have to threaten them with death—they’ll voluntarily forfeit their faith without ever knowing they’re doing it. Jesus has to save the day, and the faithful must rally to His cause or be cast into outer darkness. Isn’t that what He said?”
“You’re talking in circles,” Brian challenged him, trying not to erupt. “You’re so enamored with your position and whatever little cabal you lead that you’re drifting toward insanity. Your ego is what will destroy you, not to mention God’s own plan.”
“No doubt it feels that way now,” the Colonel answered bitterly. “But in a short time, all of this will be disturbingly clear.”
“You’ll fail,” Brian replied with an unexpected calm. “You act as though you’re God. You aren’t. You’ll learn who is, one way or the other.”
“Oh, we know who God is, professor,” the Colonel said though gritted teeth, his eyes narrowing. “It isn’t that my associates and I don’t believe the God of the Bible exists. We do. It’s that we hate Him. We may never be able to defeat Him totally, but we can rob Him of His children. Didn’t Jesus wonder whether He would find faith on the earth when He comes again—right after saying that many who call Him Lord and who do great things in His name are told to depart into darkness?”
“You’re going to fail,” Brian repeated.
“Have you mentally put yourself in our scenario yet, Dr. Scott? It’s an exquisite place. Unless your God mercifully takes your life early, you’ll be here when all this transpires. You’ll have the unenviable task of telling people that what they see happening in real time isn’t true—that it’s the work of some insane Air Force colonel. And when Jesus shows up and ends the threat on cue, you’ll get to tell everyone that was the point—that they shouldn’t believe the salvation they just witnessed, which is in precise fulfillment of the Bible you say you’re trying to defend.”
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