The Emmanuel Project

by Ronald Brueckmann

  “If you feel this way, why did you join us?”

  “I had to.”

  “Yes my friend, you did. As did I. It is our duty. Now push those sad thoughts from your mind. Let us go have some food and drink. This lonely desert has bewitched you. Tomorrow you will feel different. Tomorrow we will march on Qumran. There we will taste victory. You will see. The Romans cannot stop us. It is the will of the Almighty!”

  CHAPTER 46

  Present-Day Israel

  After their break with the government, security on the Project became a prime concern. Keeping their work hidden from the public was one thing, keeping it out of the clutches of the Knesset raised the bar considerably. The Project directors joked that it was easier to find dark matter with a flashlight than it was to keep a secret from the Israeli government. But all joking aside, they knew they had to make some radical changes to keep the Project viable. Recognizing that their organization was comprised mostly of scientists who were accustomed to sharing information, and not a league of covert operatives, the Project directors began with the assumption that there would be leaks, probably many leaks. So the impact of any leak, whether intentional or not, had to be minimized. That meant reorganizing the entire program. Team leaders were tasked with rewriting all protocols and rigidly compartmentalizing every aspect of the Project. If they were to succeed, the flow of information had to be tightly regulated. Some of the scientists were not happy with this new approach to their research. But they remembered—all too vividly—the day the storm troopers ransacked the facility and shut them down. And how they had risked their freedom to save precious bits of data. They had gotten away with it once. The next time, they might not be so lucky.

  Every position within the Team was assigned a specific security level clearance and all Project correspondence was classified as confidential. All information was disseminated on an as-needed basis. The days of the casual rap sessions were over. The open forums and brainstorming roundtables were terminated. Only Project directors and Team leaders were granted total access. Only they had the big picture. And given their political leanings and their previous experience with the Mossad, most of the principal scientists were willing to rot in prison rather than cooperate with the military, if it ever came to that. It was a vastly different model than the unguarded scientific fraternity originally envisioned by Helmut Osterberg. But with mankind’s very existence at stake, the Team deemed their caution to be wholly justified.

  It was a much different environment for Dr. Robert Jankowski, too. His university encouraged a completely open exchange of information. That was one of the things he loved about academia. This here was a whole different ballgame. Yet he had absolutely no problem with the Team’s approach. He was along for the ride. Wherever they were headed, he was on board. After all, they were experimenting in time travel. Time travel! It still boggled his mind. Many of the scientists on the Project were bona fide geniuses and he was just an old shovel-bum archeologist, and a Johnny-come-lately to boot. So he kept his mouth shut, did his job, and deferred to their collective wisdom. He wondered if someday the government would catch wind of the Project and charge the whole lot of them with espionage or treason or something as grim. He hoped it would never come to that. But if it did…then so be it. It was worth the risk. They wouldn’t be the first scientists to be persecuted by the powers-that-be. And he doubted they would be the last.

  Allison Hollister, the brilliant American physicist, continued to be his primary contact on the Project. Robert surely couldn’t find any reason to complain about that. She was a delight, though she strictly followed the company line on information sharing. He was aware that other sub-teams were addressing the same issue as he, but was given no access to them. Even his own test subject was still a mystery, the Team refusing to reveal the subject’s identity until it was absolutely necessary. He did know that the proposed time traveler had been part of the original government project, one of the Mossad’s avenging Jewish angels. He also knew that the subject had an extensive education in Middle Eastern history and ancient languages. Still, he never made the connection. In his meetings with Allison, she always became rather coy when referring to the test subject, acting like a little schoolgirl with a secret. Robert didn’t know what to make of her odd behavior. Yet his discussions with the Nobel Prize winner were always a special treat for him and he looked forward to their conversations. She was incredibly intelligent, yet so funny and down-to-earth. Long and lean and drop-dead gorgeous, her beauty not created by cosmetics and hairstyles and fragrance, but fresh and honest, much like he remembered his own Rachel. He found himself wishing he were a younger man, much younger…and smarter…and better looking, and wealthier, and…and then he sheepishly discarded that whole train of thought. However, her curious behavior only served to make the test subject seem even more mysterious. Robert wondered who the time-travelling scholar-warrior would turn out to be.

  CHAPTER 47

  Ancient Palestine (circa 30 CE)

  It was too late. Shimon had made a grave tactical error, and it was going to cost them dearly. The Romans were already forming battle lines, their officers racing along the ridge on their spirited Arabian stallions, shouting orders while the legionnaires formed up in ranks three deep. It was their customary attack formation, tried and true, efficient, and deadly. Javelin in hand, gladius hanging ready in its scabbard, they moved with choreographed precision, their large curved shields locking together to form an impenetrable barrier.

  Viktor scanned the hopelessly indefensible terrain that surrounded him. Straight ahead, the Roman army was deployed along the top of a sharp rise. To his right, the land dropped into a steep and narrow wadi. On the left lay an impassible boulder-strewn slope. Behind him, where the canyon rose nearly vertical, an enemy flanking force had rushed into position, blocking the narrow gap in the towering rock wall, denying any possibility of escape. The great Jewish army had rushed headlong into a trap. There was little room to maneuver, no way to retreat, and nowhere to regroup. Nothing now to do but stand and fight…and die. The ambushers had become the ambushed.

  Marching all night in darkness to escape detection, by dawn, the combined forces of Shimon and James had managed to move within striking distance of Qumran. As the temperature rose with the sun, the exhausted troops expected the column to make camp, but their commanders had pushed them forward, eager to prove the mettle of their army. Skirting the northern end of the Dead Sea, Shimon had driven his army deep into the Judean wilderness before doubling back, intending to approach the Roman garrison from the cover of the desolate hills rather than the open shoreline. Even with the noncombatants left behind, the column of soldiers was noisy and agonizingly slow as they worked their way through the sun-scorched maze of canyons. Raising a cloud of dust that could be seen for miles, Viktor doubted they would be surprising anyone.

  James had remained behind with the supply train and the siege machines, camped in the desert outside Jericho. With many civilians and few warriors, they were vulnerable, especially camped so close to the town. But James expected the Romans to be too busy to be a threat to them. Shimon was to move ahead with a stripped-down fighting force and strike swiftly and decisively before the garrison could prepare for an attack. It was a solid plan, and with the Almighty’s blessing they expected to prevail.

  At first the plan seemed to be working. Just after daybreak, scouts reported on a Roman encampment to the south of their position. Climbing high onto a rocky ledge, Shimon surveyed the twisting labyrinth of canyons and gullies and dry wadis that eventually emptied into the Dead Sea. From his vantage point, he could clearly see the enemy force directly ahead. It looked like a substantial patrol…one and a half…maybe two centuries of legionnaires, bivouacked at the far end of a box canyon. He watched as the Romans leisurely broke camp, serenely ignorant of his presence. The sun had barely breached the horizon and much of the gorge still lay in shadow, but he could see things clearly enough…a force of nearly two hundred legionnai
res caught unaware outside the fortified walls of the garrison. It was a gift from the Almighty, an opportunity that could not be squandered.

  Scrambling down the crumbling hillside, Shimon directed his commanders to attack the Romans without delay. Roused to action, the weary warriors hurried toward the isolated Roman force, visions of a great Hebrew victory filling their heads. Still, for the fledgling army the going was slow, and beyond the ridge the rising dust revealed that the enemy was already moving out. Afraid that their advantage was slipping away, Shimon spurred his force forward, rushing blindly through the rocky maze and charging through a narrow defile in the canyon wall. Spreading out on the low end of a towering box canyon, Viktor and his comrades began quick-marching up yet another slope, the remains of the abandoned Roman camp littering the dusty ground around them.

  With the morning sun at their back, blinding the Jewish troops, the Romans suddenly appeared on the rise in front of the freedom fighters, while a flanking force quickly slipped in behind them, sealing the only traversable entrance to the canyon. This wasn’t just a couple of isolated centuries of legionnaires. Nor was it a force caught unaware. Shielding his eyes from the morning glare, Viktor roughly estimated their numbers to be in excess of a full cohort. Shimon had been lured into a trap. His army was not strong enough to fight a thousand battle-hardened and battle-ready troops. And they had been caught on impossibly indefensible ground. It was all wrong. They no longer needed haste, they needed a miracle. He could see that same grim realization on the faces of his comrades.

  At the head of his army, Shimon calmly surveyed the field of battle, looking for any advantage in terrain or deployment. But as Viktor had already concluded, there was no advantage to be had. Wheeling his mount around, Shimon urged the horse up unto a low rock mound and called his troops to order.

  “Sons of Israel,” he shouted. “We have been betrayed. A traitor must have divulged our plans to the enemy. We are caught in a trap. The only way out of here is straight through those Roman dogs. Most of their strength is to our front. They have placed fewer men to the rear. But if we try to retreat back through that rift, we will be slaughtered from behind. They expect us to run from their glorious might like jackals. On this day they will learn otherwise. On my command, I want every man to head straight for their standard bearer. That is where the tribune will be. Our attack will take them by surprise. And mixed together with them, they will not be able to throw their javelins or use their archers for fear of hitting their own. Fight your way toward that standard. Destroy that pagan symbol and everyone around it. If we cut off the head of the serpent, the body will shrivel and die. They are overconfident. They expect us to fall to our knees and surrender. They expect us to surrender and be butchered like sheep. This day, we have come here to fight and fight we will. And we will be victorious. Now remember, on my command move straight for the standard bearer. Smash that pagan idol. Drench it in Roman blood. Fight, sons of Israel. Fight for the glory of God. Fight for the survival of our people. Fight for your wives, your fathers, your mothers, your children. Show them the power of Israel. When we are done here, we will meet back at James’s camp. May the Almighty protect you.”

  As the Jewish army awaited Shimon’s signal, a pennant was raised, and the Roman formation moved forward. Viktor could see the three ranks moving as one…the hastati, the principes, and the triarii. The names of the battle order coming to him unbidden, fragments of some history lesson studied in that other life. The Roman war machine marched closer as he and his comrades waited for the command that would unleash a terrible bloodbath. Sweat pouring from their bodies, swords and pikes and daggers wet in their hands, their muscles coiled to the breaking point, they waited. The devout were praying. Others were cursing. To his left, Tamir growled like a cornered beast.

  The hastati skirmish line trotted forward, unleashing a barrage of javelins before drawing their swords and melting back into the ranks. Shimon’s men managed to dodge the majority of the projectiles, but some of the spears found their mark. Men screamed and fell to the ground in agony. No one turned to help them, every warrior focused on what lay ahead. From somewhere to the rear came a fusillade from the Roman archers, the missiles pouring down like a deadly rain. Viktor felt a searing pain in his leg as a long Roman arrow tore through his calf before embedding in the dirt beside him. He looked down, saw blood running down his leg, and quickly pushed it out of his mind. It would not impede him. It could not impede him, or he wouldn’t live to see the sunset. Someone grasped his arm…Tamir…the look of concern for his friend unmistakable. Viktor shook his head and pointed his sword toward the approaching Roman battle line, his message equally clear. Do not worry about me. Worry about them. The huge man nodded his shaggy head and turned to face the enemy, his sandals pawing the earth like a rutting stag. Above the turmoil, Shimon’s roar cut through the churning dusty air and the Hebrew patriots surged forward as one.

  CHAPTER 48

  Present-Day Israel

  Viktor Jankowski was a highly trained yet expendable pawn, trained to run toward danger regardless of his own safety, training that ran contrary to eons of nature’s practical programming. He was a young man who had taken a blood oath to defend his homeland at any cost. Pledging to lay down his life if necessary, to give that last full measure of devotion, as so many of his comrades and his ancestors had done before him. His service record showed a brave and disciplined soldier. One who repeatedly placed himself in harm’s way to spare his countrymen the pain and loss that he himself had been forced to endure as a child. A pain that never eased. The loss of his mother dominating his childhood and shaping the man he would become. Yet he was not driven by vengeance. His was a deep-rooted desire to shield the children of Israel from the hate and violence of what he regarded as a malevolently anti-Semitic world. He was a good soldier, respected by his subordinates and trusted by his superiors. To some he was a hero, having performed countless acts of valor. To others he was just a bit too zealous, a bit too reactionary. One thing was certain, he had served far above and beyond the call of duty.

  A decorated soldier, Viktor’s dedication was beyond question. But years of military service had wrought disillusionment and frustration. With the changing times and the changing administrations, he had found it increasingly difficult to successfully perform his duties. Somewhere in all the internal and external and international politics surrounding the security of his country, they had gotten off the track. Instead of taking the fight to the enemy like Ben-Gurion and Dyan and Sharon had done, his unit had been relegated to policing mobs of rock-throwing Palestinian kids on the West Bank. His elite anti-terrorist commandos, trained for warfare, were tasked with disciplining juvenile delinquents, while extremist regimes, intent on Israel’s destruction, operated with impunity just beyond the border—arming terrorists, dropping rockets on frontier settlements, kidnapping local officials, firing on Israeli patrols while hiding behind innocent women and children. The enemy was literally getting away with murder while the IDF cautiously picked their way through a minefield of international public opinion. Security forces were expected to operate with their hands tied, then persistently second-guessed and publicly accused of criminal incompetence. Commando squads were ordered to undergo cultural sensitivity training, as if they were the source of the problem, as if good manners would make the Israeli people safer, as if a soldier could reason with an enemy who hated them to the bone. It was demoralizing. So when word came down that the Mossad high command was looking for volunteers to participate in a mission that might secure the Israeli homeland forever, Viktor did not hesitate. It might be his last chance to make a real difference before age forced him to make way for a new generation, and he jumped at the opportunity.

  Based in the wilds of the Negev desert, the training had been rigorous and classified and highly irregular, the objective more rumor than fact. All rather typical of a covert operation. Also typical, many applicants washed out in the first few weeks. As usual, Viktor excelled. His
intelligence and leadership ability catching the attention of the commanding officer and earning him an invitation to the Project headquarters in Haifa. His hopes were high, but the meetings there were disappointingly uninformative, the encounter consisting mostly of a series of psychological tests. The staff was obviously looking him over, but they were giving nothing back in return. He still didn’t know who they were or what they were doing. Yet he knew it had to be something big…real big. He could feel the electricity buzzing through the halls of the facility, could see the barely contained excitement in the eyes of his tight-lipped hosts. He went back to the base reenergized, ready for whatever they threw at him. But nothing came of it. And a few weeks later, the commandos were informed that the mission had been scrapped and they were all being reassigned. Disheartened, Viktor decided it was a good time to make a clean break with the military and return to civilian life. Teaching at a nice quiet university sounded like a pleasant change of pace. Maybe he could find a tenured professorship like his father. Maybe he’d give it a shot. It would surely make the old man happy.

  As he halfheartedly explored employment opportunities at various universities, Viktor discovered that making such a big change was not going to be an easy thing. He felt like the proverbial fish out of water. In the months following his interviews with a stream of cynical history professors and craggy archeology professors and sleepy anthropology professors, he worried that after leading a team of commandos and directing covert operations for the Mossad, the academic life might be way too somnolent for him. Lecturing bored students and grading tests and dealing with petty departmental politics was a universe away from the life-and-death decisions of a special-ops squad leader. He began to question his life choices, began to worry about what the future held for him. His whole existence had been one of commitment and purpose, and he now found himself adrift.