The little girl closed her eyes, exhaustion overcoming her. Seconds later, she fell into sleep again.
Mary watched her daughter as she drifted to sleep, then wiped her eyes and slowly lay down on her bed. Lying on her pillow, she stared up at the dark, her mind drifting, unfocused, finding it difficult to concentrate.
She let her thoughts wander, knowing where they would go. She thought of the young men she had seen on the street. Two young men, two young preachers–they looked ridiculously out of place, like baby-faced monks in their white shirts and ties. “Go back to Utah!” her neighbor had mocked as they walked down the street. The boys had smiled and waved to her, then continued on their way. That was two weeks before, and she had not seen them since.
The young mother thought about them, then rolled onto her side. The night passed in silence, but sleep didn’t come, for the faces of the strangers seemed to haunt her somehow. Why couldn’t she forget them? It made no sense at all. Who were they, these preachers? And why did she burn inside?
Find them! a quiet voice seemed to cry in her soul. I have a great work for your daughter. Now go out and find them so they can save her life!
* * *
On that same night, Satan took stock of his kingdom.
The evil hand stretched its cold fingers across the dry autumn land, bringing disappointment and frustration that angered people’s souls. Though unseen, it was real, real as the heat of the sun, yet cold as ice water and brittle as bone. To some it brought darkness and a thirst for hate and revenge, jealousy and a lust for power and flesh. To others it brought a simple sense of unease–a sense that something wasn’t right, something deep and unknowable, a sense of distress for the future, as if something was coming, a sense of awkward discomfort, as if the world had changed and would never step back. The blackness settled like a blanket, covering the earth like black snow, falling slowly and silently until it draped the whole land.
The evil moved over his kingdom. As he passed, those who held to the light felt a shadow creep over their hearts. Some looked up at the moon, wondering what it could be, while others huddled in the safety only their homes could provide. They took a chill at his coming, hoping the day was not yet. His earthly servants, however, hardly noticed him pass; most denied altogether that he was even alive, and even those who did believe in him were looking for something different, something more obvious, something that fit the common perception of what he would be.
He walked on, always moving, full of dark energy. His work was almost complete and, unlike the old days, he could move freely now, go where he pleased, for he was always invited and most mortals wanted him there. Indeed, his enemies seemed to be falling away. They could hide in their families, they could deny he was there, but that didn’t stop him from marching where he would through the land.
And he was growing in power, the great prince of darkness, the prince of this world! The emotion grew inside him, an eruption of pride. He felt cold, dark and arrogant, but justified in conceit.
The shadow almost smiled.
Then a dim beam caught his eye.
He moved closer and snarled as a knot formed in his chest. He moved with more urgency, and the bitter seed grew. The tiny lights grew in number. Then he realized what they were.
These were the Great Ones–the valiant children of God! Looking upon them, he saw the strength of their souls. Another shudder ran through him. So the Great Ones were here. And they were seeking out each other so that they could fight him as one.
As he gazed upon these valiant spirits who had been saved for this day, he realized with a fury that they were not afraid. They knew who they were and what they had done. And because of that knowledge, they had no fear!
He pondered a moment before the memories returned; then a tremble stirred inside him and he snarled again. It was all coming back, memories from the premortal world.
He recognized these warriors; he knew every single one. He knew their names and their faces and the things they had done. He remembered specific acts of courage and their defiance of his commands. Everything he had dreamed of, everything he had desired, had been ripped from his fingers because of what these had done.
So the battle wasn’t over. They had come to fight him again.
He sneered with emotion, an unheavenly sound. He had to destroy them. Destroy them while they were young!
The last battle was upon him. But he was ready this time. He had learned many secrets about how to destroy men’s souls, and he understood the weakness that was born with the flesh.
He laughed in his anger. He was ready for them. He was more powerful! Let them come with their Great Ones. He was Terrible now.
The Great and the Terrible had assembled.
Let the battle begin.
Where Angels Fall
Where Angels Fall
© 2004 The Shipley Group
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P. O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City, Utah 84130. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book Company.
Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stewart, Chris, 1960-
Where angels fall / Chris Stewart.
p. cm. — (The great and terrible ; v. 2)
ISBN 1-59038-289-7 (hardbound : alk. paper)
eISBN 1-60641-618-9 (eletronic)
1. Middle East—Fiction. 2. Terrorism—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3569.T4593W48 2004
813'.54—dc22 2004014722
Printed in the United States of America 72076
Publishers Printing, Salt Lake City, Utah
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Neil and Clara Jensen,
two of the most giving people I know.
Prologue
It was calm. Peaceful and sweet. Like that brief moment in the morning before waking thoughts settle in, before the dim light filters through and the morning winds blow. It was the intense calm of nature, a peace that man cannot produce, like the silent roll of dark clouds before the coming storm or the calm of glassy water before the first raindrops fall. The peace seemed to emit from both above and below, from the sky and the ground and rock underneath, as if the earth herself paused as she took a long gulp of air.
It was the last peace, the great peace, the deep breath before the last of the Last Days, the final chance to prepare before the scroll of heaven was unrolled.
The golden age of the Restoration had drawn to a close, and the heavens paused and waited for the long plunge ahead.
Over the previous hundred years, freedom had been taken to most of the nations on earth. Wars had been fought and many evils destroyed, with democracies rising from the ruins of totalitarian regimes. As freedom spread, the economic engines began to power a class of leisure in almost every nation on earth, bringing a degree of wealth and comfort unparalleled in the history of the world. And with the rise of freedom, the truth also spread, covering the earth with the power of God until pockets of true believers could be found throughout the world.
But democracies, with all their beauties, are also the most fragile of governments known to man. They are delicate and weak and dependent on good. And when the people turn to darkness, their democracies are doomed, for a government cannot exceed the moral worth of the people it rules. And while the economic and moral prosperity that follows freedom can provide fertile ground for the truth, history has proven that prosperity will inevitably sprout the weeds of selfishness, pride, and decay.
When the people become physically comfortable, the truth is ignored. And when they become wealthy, the truth is despised.
So it was that, a
s the world grew rich, the Deceiver spread his evil until wealth, power, and ambition became the only measure of success. Like spoiled children in a nursery always crying for more, screaming and pouting because they didn’t get their share, the people became so self-centered and selfish they were incapable of good. In this ground of rot, the hate of God began to take hold. Shrill voices began screeching against that which was good. Women cast off their children as if they were scars. Men abandoned their families, while children reviled their parents and lost themselves in new pleasures so acute they bordered on pain. Gender was lost and the concept of marriage destroyed. Some people worshiped their bodies. Some worshiped their minds. Most worshiped nothing.
And the heavens wept for the children who were born into a world without hope.
And still the hate grew. Public figures rose up, brainless and empty, spewing vile rhetoric against their own nations and the freedoms that had once made them great. Great leaders preached the loathing of anything decent or good. Hypocritical of the failings of virtue, endlessly forgiving of the failures of vice, the world grew ripe, like an apple stored in a damp cellar too long. Though the outward appearance didn’t show it, the earth had rotted inside. The peel remained red and supple, if perhaps a bit wrinkled, but on the inside the world was a worm-filled and putrid mass of brown pulp. What appeared to be well and healthy was, underneath the peeling, sick to the core.
The signs of the rot could be seen by anyone who cared to look.
But few people did. Why would they want to smell the decay when they were satisfied with following the preachers of money, lust, and hate?
So a golden age faded like the sun behind a dark cloud. The winds began to blow. The flames would soon rise. The earth had been washed, and now the fire was near.
And some people saw it coming. But only a few.
* * *
The aircraft was a military transport flying over the waters of the Mediterranean Sea. The general was asleep in the dim cabin, and the window shades had been pulled down. His long legs were stretched out, his arms at his side, and he dreamed as he slept, a dream of great beauty that turned suddenly cold.
In his dream it was a warm summer day. The air was clean, almost crisp, and the sun warmed his neck. He stood in the middle of a great field, the grass stretching for miles in every direction around him, lush and so green it almost hurt his eyes. And it was quiet, as quiet as he had ever experienced in his life, so quiet he could hear his own heart beat in his chest. The sun slipped behind a shadow, and he looked up to see a line of beautiful clouds, a billowing cluster of thunderstorms blowing in from the east. A cloud shaped like a nearly perfect anvil, dark blue with white edges illuminated by the low sun, blew out in front of the storm. The backlighting tinted the clouds in deep purples and pinks and cast random shafts of sunlight on the green grass below. It was beautiful, simply stunning. It took his breath away.
He felt so small, so insignificant. The sky was so huge, and he was so small. The grassy field rolled for miles, and the clouds were like monsters billowing over his head.
But the storms quickly turned black, and lightning began to flash from the sky. It turned dark, the wind blew, and he felt a deep, sudden chill as the cold air swept down from the heights of the storm.
Then he heard it: a nearly silent whistle. Something fell from the sky and he looked up to see a white burst of light. The nuclear core grew into a white-hot mushroom with deep orange and black edges where the air had been vaporized. Another explosion, then another, on his right and his left. It seemed like the whole world was exploding in flame, the nuclear detonations filling the entire sky. He saw a blast wave move toward him from the closest mushroom cloud, a black wall of fire and heat that emitted from the fireball. It moved across the green grass like the winds of a tornado, a wall of superheated air that was bloated with smoke and destruction, dirt, sand, and flying debris.
The black wall screamed toward him. And he knew he was dead.
* * *
The general awoke with a start, his underarms sweaty. His back was tense, his head hurt, and his mouth had turned dry. He looked around, disoriented, and realized he must have called out.
“Are you all right, sir?” his aide asked him as he moved to his side.
General Brighton slowly nodded, then rubbed at his eyes.
“A bad dream, sir?”
The general’s face flushed, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“No problem, sir. Too much stress, I’ll bet.”
The general reached for the open bottle he had left in the cup holder in his armrest and sucked in a mouthful of warm water. He felt a trickle of sweat run down his left rib and he stared at his lap, where his hands shook like a leaf.
His aide noticed him shaking. “Are you sure you’re okay, sir? Can I get you anything?”
“I’m okay,” Brighton answered. He squinted his eyebrows, then looked away. “It was just a very . . . unusual dream.”
“And not a good one; I can see that from the sweat on your forehead.”
“It seemed so real,” the general said as he took another sip of water. His aide watched him a moment, then relaxed in his seat.
“Where are we?” General Brighton asked after a long moment of silence.
“Approaching the Middle East coast. You should be able to see Egypt and Israel by now.”
Brighton pushed up the plastic window shade and looked out on the sea. Then he gasped and sat back, his chest tightening around his ribs. He passed a quick hand over his eyes, then looked out the window again.
Looking out to the east, he saw the very same cloud formations he had just dreamed: the same shapes, the same colors, the same perfect blue anvil and straight shafts of light.
He gasped as he stared at the scene, and his aide moved again to his side. The general gestured him away and returned his eyes to the sky.
Brighton shook his head to clear it, but the clouds didn’t change. He saw the first flash of lightning and swallowed hard.
He thought a long moment as his aircraft flew east, his heart pumping like a drum in his head.
He didn’t understand it.
And he almost didn’t want to know.
His Fall
“The hour is not yet, but is nigh at hand, when peace shall be taken from the earth.”
—D&C 1:35
Chapter One
Prince Abdullah al-Rahman lay nearly drunk on a beach on the southern tip of France. Behind him, La Villa de Ambassador II, one of the finest resorts on the Mediterranean coast, rose over the shoreline. Cyprus trees swayed in rhythm with the wind, and the sand was so even it looked as if it had been raked. The grass above the beach was perfectly manicured, the air was clean, and the water sparkled with a million diamonds from the Mediterranean sun. The sky overhead was a perfect blue. Behind him, on the other side of the wrought-iron security gates that surrounded the Ambassador II, the beautiful resort towns of Monte Carlo and Nice lay equal distances away, one city to the east, the other to the west. Around him, the beach was completely deserted, for Prince Abdullah’s bodyguards had already chased away not only his own family members but the tourists who had wandered up from one of the other resorts as well. It was late afternoon as Prince Abdullah sat alone on the sand, staring out on the sea.
The prince and his entourage had leased the entire La Villa de Ambassador II for the week—all 225 rooms, three gourmet restaurants, spa, golf course, and private beach. For the next seven days it all belonged to him and his group of ninety-seven security forces, concubines, wives, and friends. Abdullah and his family had come to France to get away from the desert heat—and to shop, which meant that in addition to the cost of the resort, one of his wives had transferred a couple of million dollars into their petty cash account.
But Abdullah wasn’t interested in shopping. He had other things on his mind.
At twenty-five, the prince was young and trim, with a finely sculptured face and almost European features, thanks to his mother
, a beautiful Moroccan Muslim with mixed European and Arab blood. He had a fine nose and strong eyes over thick lips; and, unlike most of his Arab brothers, the prince didn’t consider facial hair an indication of his manhood, so he kept his face clean shaven.
One of the wealthiest men in the world, Prince Abdullah al-Rahman was the second oldest son to King Fahd bin Saud Faysal, monarch of the House of Saud, and grandson of King Saud Aziz, the first king of modern-day Saudi Arabia. As a royal prince in the kingdom that held the largest oil reserves in the world, he and his family were unbelievably wealthy. There was no whim or desire, no pleasure or need that the prince could ask for and not have given to him. Along with his wealth, the royal prince held the reins to great power, for the world economy revolved around oil, and the politics of oil revolved around the Saudi Arabian peninsula.
Yet despite all his power, despite all his wealth, the prince was not satisfied and always wanted more. It was as if he had an insatiable hunger, an unquenchable thirst. Like a dying man in the desert who was forced to eat sand, no matter how much he ate it did not quench what he craved.
It was never enough. He always wanted more.
And now what he had been given was going to be taken from him! His imbecile father was going to package up the kingdom and give it away. In the name of democracy—a completely foreign concept in their part of the world—his idiot father, King Fahd bin Saud Faysal, was going to destroy everything his ancestors had worked for for almost three hundred years. He was going to give up the kingdom and institute a democratic regime.
All of it gone, destroyed in one generation! Like a wisp of black smoke, his family’s wealth would disappear. And his older brother was going to help him.
Unless Prince Abdullah stopped them both.
But how? What to do? He was completely distraught.
He cursed violently as the bitter rage grew inside him, a hot, burning furnace of hate for his father—and lust for what he might lose. If it were not for his father . . . if it were not for his brother, the crown prince . . . if Abdullah had played his cards right, he might have one day been king.
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