by Mark Romang
Skymolt lifted a wine glass to his mouth. Chateau Lafite Rothschild Bordeaux 1787 slid down his throat. This particular vintage is considered by many wine connoisseurs to be among the most expensive wines in the world. A bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild Bordeaux 1787 once fetched $156,000 dollars at an auction. The auctioneer claimed this particular bottle once belonged to Thomas Jefferson. But the auctioneer was wrong. Skymolt possessed Jefferson’s bottle. He acquired it in 1801, shortly after Jefferson became America’s third president.
Skymolt stood up and walked to the small bar. Besides moving his headquarters to Tel Aviv, Skymolt also took over the penthouse suite in the Moshe Aviv Tower skyscraper. The complete destruction of Babylon, including his palace, forced him to find another living arrangement in a different locale.
Skymolt poured himself another glass of the vintage wine. He came back to join Zarkien and Abbadelli. He ignored Abbadelli’s sniveling request. He instead looked at Zarkien. Skymolt understood why Abbadelli feared Zarkien. Sporting black armor and charcoal wings, flowing raven-colored hair and crimson eyes, and holding a sword nearly as long as Abbadelli’s legs, Zarkien cut an imposing figure. And that’s why he served as Skymolt’s top general. His intimidating presence alone caused willful demons to obey. “I know you have news, Zarkien. So let’s hear it.”
“I just came from the other side of the planet. Tanner Mason has been arrested. He is in custody and slated for execution within the next 24 to 36 hours.”
“What about his brother and sister?”
“They are still on the loose. But I suspect they will travel to Seattle to be near Tanner. Perhaps they can be apprehended there.”
Skymolt smiled. “Finally the brat has been silenced.” Tanner Mason’s evangelical broadcasts over his HAM radio caused thousands of unchipped people around the world to convert to Christianity. Skymolt had ordered Zarkien to find Mason and destroy his ministry. It had taken Zarkien longer than expected to fulfill the demand, nearly three years, but finally his general succeeded.
“I have additional news you will find enjoyable, Master. On my way here I stopped at the Megiddo plain. All ground troops have arrived and are in place. Best of all, the three froglike spirits have completed brainwashing the generals and the kings of the Earth gathered there on the plain. They are all of one accord, and have aimed their weapons and war machines on Jerusalem and the Jewish race.”
“Excellent. Things are falling into place.”
“My Lord, your ambitious plan to destroy Jerusalem and the Jews inside the city will surely succeed,” Vito Abbadelli gushed. “And then there will finally be peace in the world.”
“It has taken longer than I wanted, Vito, but things are falling into place at last.”
Zarkien asked, “What are my orders now, Master? Do you wish I travel back to Seattle and oversee Tanner Mason’s execution?”
“Let me think about that for a moment,” Skymolt said. He walked over to a plate glass window and looked out over the twinkling cityscape. Each light glowing in each window represented a person or family he wished to devour.
Skymolt quickly downed his second glass of wine. He then returned to his guests. “That won’t be necessary, Zarkien. For now, I want you to shadow me. There are plans afoot to try and kill me.”
“Who would attempt to do such a thing, especially after you already defied death when an assassin shot you in the head?” Abbadelli asked.
“There are seven world leaders who still hate me and long for my demise. They meet secretly and plot my death. And now they’re about to implement their plan.”
Abbadelli snorted. “How foolish they are. They will never succeed. You can’t kill the devil.”
Skymolt reached out and patted Abbadelli on the shoulder. “You are so right, Vito. And the seven world leaders will soon be taught this difficult lesson. It’s a lesson they will never forget.
****
Perched atop a high-rise rooftop, two buildings down from Henrik Skymolt’s lavish penthouse suite in the Moshe Aviv Tower, Theo Krueger trained a small telescope onto the windows to Skymolt’s top floor apartment. Despite the late hour, lights blazed in the suite.
Krueger wasn’t surprised by this. Skymolt usually kept long hours. The Swede didn’t seem to require much sleep. So Krueger continued to study the windows. He needed confirmation that Henrik Skymolt was really inside. A mistake couldn’t be made. The operation would only be attempted once.
Krueger knew the bomb would cause horrific, collateral damage. There was no escaping it. The MOAB—Massive Ordnance Air Blast bomb—is the world’s second largest non-nuclear bomb. Weighing in at 21,000 pounds, and dropped at high-altitude from a C-130J’s payload door, the satellite-guided MOAB produces a blast radius a mile in each direction.
Thousands of innocent civilians will die. But Krueger figured the deaths would be worth it if Henrik Skymolt was among the dead.
And he wasn’t the only one who thought this way. Seven world leaders thought the same way, including UK Prime Minister Brett Loring. Krueger personally knew Brett Loring. Both were former British SAS—Special Air Service soldiers. Krueger and Loring even served together. But then Loring veered off and took a different path, becoming a politician. Still, they maintained their friendship over the years. And now Krueger was a spy for the UK prime minister.
Krueger continued to scan the penthouse. Doubts eddied in his mind like the breeze swirled through his sandy hair. Truth be known, he wasn’t sure if the MOAB was nearly enough ordnance to kill Skymolt. And he had good reason to doubt.
Krueger was the assassin who shot Skymolt in the head. It had been the perfect kill shot, one of his best ever from such a long range. The 7.62 mm round entered Skymolt’s skull just over the left temple. The brain damage had been catastrophic, and Skymolt died shortly thereafter.
The Swede’s corpse was embalmed and laid to rest in a tomb. Krueger attended the funeral, and along with millions more observing the funeral on television, watched it all take place. And then three days later the impossible happened. Skymolt appeared, fully alive and no worse for wear. At first it was thought an elaborate hoax had been carried out. But then Skymolt himself led a news camera crew to the empty tomb where he’d been interred.
What made the situation even more bizarre was that Krueger was a double-agent. Besides working for Brett Loring, he served on Skymolt’s staff as the Swede’s chief intelligence advisor. Every morning he sat not far away from Skymolt in a conference room with other cabinet members and gave a daily intelligence report. Krueger had covered his tracks well, but he still felt paranoia ripple through his body every time Skymolt asked him a question.
Frequently during the staff meetings Krueger found himself looking at the place on Skymolt’s head where the bullet entered. He just couldn’t figure it out. No scars could be seen, not even a blemish where the mortician sewed Skymolt’s head together. Maybe Skymolt is God, Krueger thought. And if he’s not God he’s a bona fide zombie.
Krueger sighed heavily. He hated that he’d taken Skymolt’s RFID chip. At the time it had seemed like the thing to do. He’d put it off as long as he could. But then he ran out of food, bills piled up, and his landlord threatened to boot him out of his flat. So he sold his soul to the devil and got himself implanted. He deeply regretted his decision. But there was no going back now.
Krueger blinked his eyes and forced the unpleasant daydreams to leave his mind. He focused his telescope to its greatest clarification. Earlier he had watched a limousine drop Vito Abbadelli off in front of the Moshe Aviv Tower. He assumed Abbadelli was still in Skymolt’s suite. Now he just needed confirmation that Skymolt was in there. If both men were in the skyscraper at the same time the world might still have a chance at a future.
“Bingo,” Krueger said under his breath. He watched Henrik Skymolt appear before a plate glass window. The six-foot-eight-inch Swede looked out over the cityscape and drank from a wine glass.
Krueger moved his head away from the telescope. He pulled a
compact satellite phone from his windbreaker. He punched a button, speed-dialing Brett Loring. The prime minister answered on the prearranged fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Both letters have been delivered into the mailbox,” Krueger said.
“Both letters?”
“Yes, the second letter is the FP,” Krueger said, referring to Abbadelli, who some refer to as the False Prophet. “I suggest you make the next delivery an express one,” Krueger added.
“Is the package to be delivered to the same mailing address?”
“Yes”
“Okay, here is the confirmation number,” Loring said, and rattled off a series of numbers, which were actually the longitude and latitude coordinates of the Moshe Aviv Tower that Skymolt used as his living quarters.
Krueger repeated the numbers back. He wanted to make certain no errors were made.
The UK prime minister came back onto the line. “Estimated delivery time is 79 minutes. Good-bye.”
Krueger killed the connection and dropped the SAT phone back into his pocket. He looked through his telescope in time to see Skymolt walk away from the window. Krueger dismantled his portable telescope. He stuffed the telescope parts into an attaché case, rose to a half-crouch and ran to a rooftop door. He ripped open the door and entered a poorly lit stairwell. He fairly flew down the steps. He was in danger now and wanted to leave the scene and get as far away from the city as he could.
This portion of Tel Aviv will not exist in 79 minutes.
With any luck I won’t have to go to work tomorrow, Krueger thought as he fled down the steps.
Chapter 36
Downtown Seattle—UWC West Precinct
That same moment
“We have only one more thing to go over before you are processed and taken back to your cell. Every death row inmate receives a last meal before their execution. So Tanner, do you have a craving for anything in particular?”
Tanner lifted his head and looked at Officer Whitfield. The middle-aged man acted kindly, but Tanner got the feeling it was forced graciousness. The man displayed acting abilities any thespian would covet. “What I crave you cannot give me.”
“If you want seafood, you’re right. I cannot give it to you.”
Tanner shook his head. “I’ll pass. I’m really not all that hungry.”
“Are you sure?”
“I keep visualizing the executioner swinging his axe down on my neck. So you can understand why I’m not hungry.”
The officer’s dark eyes narrowed conspiratorially. “Our Lord, Henrik Skymolt has ordered your execution. But I’m sure I can delay it several days or even weeks if you cooperate and tell me where your siblings are. Think of me as your representative, Tanner. I will be with you during your stay here, and I will be with you when you are executed. I am the only one who can help you.”
“I will never betray my brother and sister.”
“I have several different truth serums here at the precinct. If I deem it necessary I will inject you with one of them, or perhaps all of them.”
“The truth is I don’t know. We fled the bunker and split up. They could be hiding anywhere on the peninsula. There is natural cover everywhere: dense timber and thickets, caves and mountains,” Tanner said. He had lied about not being hungry. He could eat a horse raw. But he was afraid to consume anything offered to him. The officer talked about injecting him with truth serums. But Tanner believed the same drugs could be ground up into food or dissolved into drinks.”
Officer Whitfield sighed. He smoothed his neatly pressed uniform slacks. “Very well, I tried to help you, Tanner.”
“I do appreciate your kindness. But it must be hard doing your job—preparing people to die. It’s like you’re an undertaker for the living.”
“It’s not so bad. It pays my bills and provides me food.”
“Do you feel guilty?”
Whitfield snorted. “Why would I feel any guilt?”
“You’re putting innocent people to death, and you’re doing it in a barbaric way.”
“I’m simply following orders, Tanner. And if you would have simply obeyed our Lord Henrik’s mandate you wouldn’t be sitting here in handcuffs and leg irons.”
“Henrik Skymolt isn’t the Lord. And he never will be.”
Officer Whitfield picked up a pen and notepad. “Do you have a last statement you would like me to read to the crowd just before you are executed?”
“What crowd?”
“Your execution will be a public one. It will take place at Westlake Park. There will be hundreds if not thousands in attendance.”
“Tell them, ‘Jesus is Lord. And to Jesus I commit my spirit.’”
Whitfield’s eyes narrowed again. “I cannot say that. You must know this, Tanner.”
“You don’t have to. Let me say it. You surely won’t get in trouble for something I say.”
“You will look like a fool. Do you really wish your last act to be a foolish one?”
“I want to honor my Lord God all the way to the end, to my last gasping breath.”
“I will mull over your request. But I will not promise you anything.”
Tanner nodded. “Promises are rarely kept. More often than not they’re broken.”
Whitfield stood up from the table. “I will have officers come and get you and take you back to your cell.” Whitfield walked to a door and opened it. “The next time we see each other will be the day after tomorrow on the execution stage. Goodnight, Tanner,” he said as he left the room.
Tanner didn’t reply. He hung his head. All he had left now was his faith. His brave remarks about honoring God all the way to his last breath sounded good. But actually doing it was another thing altogether. Lord, you were terribly afraid when you were in the garden praying. But you went through with it anyway. Make me brave. Give me courage so I can do the same.
****
Flying 410 miles per hour at an altitude of 28,000 feet, the aft door/ramp on the C-130J cargo plane had already been lowered. The noise inside the hold was incredible. The MOAB bomb sat in its cradle atop a platform, oblivious to the wind noise.
Every day for the past month at Incirlik Air Base, a flight crew had performed a pre-flight checklist on this particular C-130J Hercules, making sure the plane could be called upon at a moment’s notice. Upon receiving word that the operation was greenlighted, the plane’s four turboprop engines immediately fired up. In mere minutes the giant plane rocketed down the runway and put wings in the air for Israel. That had been seventy-five minutes ago.
The C-130J reached its delivery location. The drogue parachute flew out the aft door and rapidly extracted the MOAB bomb, including its cradle and platform, from the plane. In the dark sky the MOAB left its cradle and platform, its grid fins opened, and the bomb began its GPS guided descent toward Henrik Skymolt’s penthouse suite.
****
Zarkien had been performing sentinel duty in the ground floor lobby when he received word of the treasonous plot. He wasted no time and instantly flew up to the penthouse suite. With only one flap of his great wings, he burst through 67 ceilings and 68 floors of the 771 ft. skyscraper. Zarkien’s spirit form accelerated through bed after bed and the people sleeping soundly in them. To some he would become a brief interlude in their dreams, and to others a terrifying nightmare.
In less than three seconds Zarkien materialized through the floor of the penthouse suite. He found Henrik Skymolt and Vito Abbadelli sitting on a couch together and poring over the next day’s itinerary. “Master, a bomb will soon drop from the sky onto this building! We must vacate immediately!”
“Are you sure about this?” Vito Abbadelli asked.
Zarkien glared at Abbadelli. “Yes, I’m sure. We have only a minute or two before this building is turned into rubble.”
Henrik Skymolt stood up. “Take Vito up to the helipad and get him into the chopper. I’ll get the pilot. He’s staying on the floor below us.”
Zarkien grabbed Abbadelli by his scruff and dr
agged him out the door. The fat little man struggled to keep his legs moving fast enough. At the end of a corridor they came to a door leading to a stairwell. Zarkien almost floated through the steel door, but then remembered Abbadelli couldn’t do the same. “Open the door!” Zarkien growled. Abbadelli sobbed and yanked open the door. Zarkien dragged his companion up the steps.
Outside on the roof, a helicopter sat on a helipad. Security lights shone all around it. And against the pre-dawn darkness, the white chopper gleamed like a diamond on a black velvet display counter. They hustled up to the helicopter. Abbadelli opened the door and climbed into the copilot seat in the front. He started to buckle himself in. His hands shook and his fingers fumbled. “That’s Henrik’s spot, you fool!” Zarkien roared.
“Forgive me, Zarkien,” Abbadelli stammered, and climbed into a passenger seat in the back.
Zarkien stood outside the chopper. He peered up at the dark sky and looked for signs of the approaching bomb. He could easily fly away in time, and so could Lucifer if didn’t have to reside in Skymolt’s corpse.
Zarkien heard a noise and detected movement. He turned his head toward the rooftop door and saw his master and the pilot jog up to the chopper. The pilot was barefoot and bare-chested. He wore only his underwear. His eyes looked swollen from sleep. “Where do I fly us?”
“It doesn’t matter. Pick a direction and fly as far and as fast as you can. Don’t do your checklist. There isn’t time,” Skymolt hissed.
The pilot nodded and climbed into the pilot seat. Skymolt climbed into the copilot seat next to him. He looked at Zarkien. “I want you to gather as many demons as you can and take them to the Mount of Olives. Take the high ground and dig in. Understood?”
Zarkien nodded. “I will gather the greatest demonic army ever assembled.”
The helicopter came to life. Its rotors began to spin, and soon the blades whistled at a high speed. The helicopter lifted off the helipad and flew north. Zarkien didn’t watch it go. He gathered himself and took flight. He flew south over the city. He hadn’t made it far when he heard a massive explosion and felt the concussive shock wave buffet his form. Not since God roared in anger and expelled Lucifer and his traitorous angels from heaven had Zarkien experienced such fury.