Mercury Falls

by Robert Kroese

  “Messy how?” asked Christine, knowing that there was only one kind of messy that was likely to get Harry’s interest.

  “Fighting,” said Troy. “Between the Israelis and the Syrians. Maybe the Iranians too.”

  “You mean,” Christine said, “like an actual war?”

  “Yeah, Christine,” said Harry. “Like an actual war. Don’t worry, we’ll be pulling Maria out of Afghanistan if the fighting drags on, but I want to get someone on the ground as soon as possible to get a sense of what’s going on over there.”

  “I don’t…” started Christine. “That is, I’m thrilled to have the opportunity, but I wouldn’t even know where to begin….”

  “Don’t worry,” said Harry. “Thanks to the Banner’s history of support for Israel, we’ve got some pretty good connections over there. General David Isaakson, for one.”

  Christine nodded weakly. She was certainly no expert on the Middle East, but she knew that name. Everybody knew that name.

  “You… want me to interview…” she began.

  “Yes, Christine. I want you to interview the guy they’re calling the Architect of the Apocalypse. I hope you’ll forgive this violation of your new policy.”

  She nodded again.

  “Troy,” said Harry, “Finish briefing Christine and then get her on the first flight to Tel Aviv.”

  SIX

  On the Mundane Plane, as you know, every name has an origin. Before Armageddon was an event, it was a place, like Kent State or Altamont. Unlike Kent State or Altamont, Armageddon was an event almost as soon as it was a place, and it continued to be that event over and over, until everybody knew the event and almost nobody remembered the place.

  The mountain of Megiddo – sometimes called Har-Mageddon, or Armageddon for short – has been the site of a lot of really big disagreements throughout human history. This is a rather surprising fact, as on first glance there wouldn’t appear to be anything near Megiddo worth disagreeing about. Megiddo is devoid of nearly everything that commonly causes violent disagreements among people, such as petroleum deposits, waterfront property and soccer matches.

  In actuality, the disagreements generally occurred elsewhere – often hundreds or even thousands of miles away – but no matter how vehemently the involved parties disagreed about whatever it was they were disagreeing about, they somehow always managed to agree to duke it out at Megiddo. The Battle of Megiddo is sort of the Superbowl of geopolitical conflicts – not so much a single event as a recurring contest featuring the two strongest teams of the current season.

  The Battle of Megiddo was first fought in the 15th Century B.C. between the armies of the Egyptian pharaoh Thutmose III and a large Canaanite coalition led by the rulers of the city-states of Megiddo and Kadesh.

  The Battle of Megiddo was next fought in 609 BC, between Egypt and the Kingdom of Judah.

  The Battle of Megiddo was again fought in 1918 between Allied troops, led by General Edmund Allenby, and the Ottoman army.

  The Battle of Megiddo was about to be fought again.

  Armageddon, the place, was scheduled to become Armageddon, the event, one last time, just days from the date of Christine’s linoleum installation. Christine had no way of knowing this, of course. She was, however, starting to feel very uneasy about her linoleum, for reasons she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

  So this is it, Christine thought. Armageddon.

  She looked around, trying to take in the spectacle. I should get a t-shirt, she thought. She supposed they offered a nice selection in the gift shop – maybe something along the lines of “I was at Armageddon and all I have to show for it is this lousy t-shirt.”

  Below the terrace, the sheer walls of the Jezreel Valley fell away. It was mid-morning, but much of the valley was still in shadow. Christine tried to picture massive armies clashing in the ultimate battle for the fate of the world below. Unfortunately, Christine didn’t have much of an attention span, and her thoughts drifted back to her linoleum. It had been less than a day, and already she was having trouble picturing the pattern in her mind. She wondered if that was normal.

  What am I even doing here? she wondered. I’m not qualified for this. I should be teaching high school English, not covering a war in the Middle East. I should be in the land of predicates and infinitives, not Predator missiles and intifadas. True, she had agitated for a “real assignment,” and they didn’t get much more real than this. But she had envisioned a happy medium between First Prophet Jonas Bitters and General David Isaakson of the Israeli Defense Force. Maybe a public official embroiled in some sort of sleazy sex scandal or, conversely, a porn star running for office.

  She had brushed up on the details of the situation on the plane ride over. This particular crisis had begun with the deaths of several Palestinian teenagers at the hands of Israeli soldiers in the West Bank. Harry’s disclaimers notwithstanding, the story had not blown over while she was in transit to Tel Aviv. In fact, it had done whatever the opposite of blowing over was.

  So here Christine stood, on the brink of Armageddon, thinking about needless carnage and her linoleum. The Olive Branch War, they were calling it. Well, except for the BBC, which insisted, as a matter of principle, on calling it the “so-called Olive Branch war.” She wondered what the point of it all was. She wondered why it was necessary for so many to suffer and die. She wondered if she would still like the pattern when she got home. She wondered why, five thousand miles away from her condo in Glendale, she couldn’t get her brain off her floor. Linoleum, she thought. That’s a funny word. Linoleum. Li-no-lee-um. Linoleumlinoleumlinoleum.

  Precisely at 10 a.m., she was met by a clean-cut man in a khaki uniform who showed her some credentials that could have been purchased from a vending machine for all she knew, and informed her that he was to escort her to the general. She was helped into the back of a Lincoln Navigator, blindfolded and then driven for nearly an hour along a circuitous route that seemed to be designed to hit every pothole in the Middle East. Finally, having reached the “undisclosed location” that was playing host to General Isaakson, she was led out of the vehicle and escorted inside some kind of building. Only then was the blindfold removed.

  The building was an unremarkable concrete block house. In place of ordinary home furnishings there were the hastily assembled trappings of an Israeli military headquarters: folding chairs, tables, laptops and telephones all tethered by a chaotic mass of wires that fed into a conduit running through the wall to a generator humming in the next room. Elite armed guards stood watch on the front porch. Israeli soldiers patrolled the alleyway outside. In the distance were the sounds of explosions and men shouting.

  At a folding table before her, engrossed in paperwork, was a stout, gray haired man. Christine recognized him from pictures as General David Isaakson, but he seemed smaller and less threatening than she expected. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

  “Do you ever get the feeling,” said Isaakson, looking up from the papers, “that you’re being manipulated by forces beyond your understanding?”

  The question unnerved Christine. Of course she had felt that way. In fact, it had never really occurred to her that there was any other way to feel. What was more disturbing was that this man, General David Isaakson, was arguably one of the most powerful men on earth.

  “No,” she said. “Have you?”

  “Not until about three weeks ago,” said General Isaakson.

  Even before the start of the Olive Branch war, thought Christine. “Why, what happened…”

  “I apologize,” said the general, shoving his chair back and snapping to his feet. “I’m being rude. My name is David Isaakson. You must be the reporter from the Banner.”

  “Christine Temetri,” said Christine, shaking the general’s hand.

  “Please, have a seat,” said the general. He gestured to another chair across the table.

  Christine sat down and the general took his seat.

  “So,” said the general. “So ho
w is Harry Giddings?”

  Christine involuntarily clenched her teeth and then forced a smile in an effort to counteract this display of pique, catching a glimpse of the unflattering result in a metallic briefcase on the general’s desk. She looked, she thought, like an otter whose head had been crushed with a mallet.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t like Harry. She didn’t, but it wasn’t that. Mostly she just disliked being asked about him, in the way that famous people’s children dislike being asked about their parents. Christine’s usual tactic was to turn the question around on the questioner. This, in fact, was her method of dealing with most questions, which is one of the reasons she wasn’t a very good substitute English teacher.

  Christine had learned years ago, as most journalists do, that the main drawback to asking so many questions was that questions tended to provoke answers. After all, it is difficult for a journalist to formulate a coherent narrative when subjects keep providing information that is, by and large, irrelevant to the point one is trying to make.

  The question that came out of her mouth was not one she had rehearsed on the plane ride over.

  “How well do you know Mr. Giddings?” She asked.

  “We met at that conference in Norway a while back. We’ve had occasional contact since.” He added, after a moment, “He seems very sincere in his love for the land of Israel.”

  Christine frowned. “It doesn’t bother you that Harry’s interest in Israel stems from his belief that Israel is destined to play a pivotal role in the Christian Apocalypse?

  The general shrugged. “I’m a soldier, not an ideologue. I take allies wherever I find them.” He went on, “It’s quite a vote of confidence that Harry sent you here to cover this story. I must admit that I’m not familiar with your work. Have you been to the Middle East before?”

  “Er,” said Christine. “Not exactly. In college, I came very close…”

  “How close?” said the general, taking a drag on his cigarette.

  “Portugal.”

  “I see,” said the general, clearly unamused.

  Christine felt a sudden tickling of sweat down her left side. The initial pleasantries having concluded, the interview was going badly. The general waited stolidly, his stone gray eyes seeming to stare through her. Christine was used to feeling morally and intellectually superior to her subjects, but Isaakson made her feel silly and insignificant. She wished very much she hadn’t said that thing about Portugal. Had she offended him? Forget it, she told herself. Just press on. Make your next question count.

  “I understand,” she said, “that Israel is often referred to as the Portugal of the Middle East.”

  The general, his face still expressionless, said nothing.

  A bead of sweat trickled down her right side as well. She shivered involuntarily and then tried to hide it by coughing. The dusty air caught in her throat and she broke into an authentic coughing fit. Good lord, what am I doing? Christine thought. Get a hold of yourself.

  When she finally recovered, she said, “To tell you the truth, General, I really don’t know why Mr. Giddings sent me here.”

  “But you have covered a war before?”

  “In a sense,” said Christine.

  “What sense?”

  “Well, in the sense that a three day takeover of a Circle K by seventeen inbred mountain people calling themselves the Army of Heaven can be considered a war.”

  Christine’s thoughts drifted to a kid she knew growing up, named Steve. Steve was both mentally slow and exceptionally large for his age – a combination that frequently resulted in people looking at him the way General Isaakson was looking at Christine now.

  “The fact is,” Christine said, “I’m out of my league on this assignment. Normally I do what we call ‘fluff’ pieces. I mean, our readers don’t consider them fluff pieces, because, well, they’re mostly a little insane, but between you and me I haven’t done much serious news. You remember that guy who claimed his dog was channeling Nostradamus? I covered that. Oh, and I broke the story about the Toltec prophecy that said the world would end on August 31st of last year. I probably would have gotten a Pulitzer for that one if the awards had been given out before Labor Day.”

  “No matter,” said Isaakson. “You must be sure to make it to Jerusalem.”

  Christine was somewhat heartened by the fact that Isaakson didn’t seem ready to dismiss her entirely despite her performance. She could only guess that he appreciated her honesty. “I would certainly like to,” she said, “but I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be here. I expect to be replaced by the first string in a day or two.”

  The general smiled wryly. He was either warming to Christine or had at least decided to find her amusing. He looked about the dim room at the hastily assembled trappings of the Israeli force’s headquarters. Isaakson seemed pleased at the humble appearance of the nerve center guiding this arm of his nation’s massive incursion into Syria.

  “It’s a shame,” he said.

  “What is?”

  “That you won’t be here for a few days longer.”

  “Why?”

  The general took another drag on his cigarette. Christine noted that the pack, lying on the table next to the case, was labeled Lucky Strike. “You’re going to miss the end of the war.”

  Christine was skeptical. “The end of the war? I’m certainly no military expert, but everybody seems to think you’re hopelessly bogged down in Imtan….”

  “We’re keeping three divisions of Syrian troops occupied in Imtan.”

  “And how many divisions have you deployed there?”

  “Three.”

  “Ah. Forgive me for questioning your military genius. Remind me of the strategic importance of Imtan again?”

  “It has no intrinsic value as a strategic target.”

  “Then why are you attacking it?”

  “A better question would be, ‘Why are they defending it?’”

  “If I had to guess,” Christine said flatly, “I’d say it was because you are attacking it.”

  The general’s lips pursed in mild irritation.

  “A valid reason, but not a sufficient explanation in itself,” the general said. “If the target had no strategic importance, one would expect the enemy to put up little resistance.”

  “So,” Christine began. “You’re attacking Imtan…”

  “Because the Syrians are defending it. Precisely. Also….” The general paused, his stony façade failing to conceal his eagerness to tell more.

  General Isaakson was nearly seventy, but he looked twenty years younger. This, Christine reasoned, was God’s way of compensating him for the fact that he was brutally ugly and had looked to be on the verge of middle age since his bar mitzvah. He had been born with a full head of bristly white hair matted by amniotic fluid and meconium – an aspect which he seemed to have taken pains to maintain over the years as he had bounded up the ranks of the Israeli military. He looked the same in every picture Christine had seen of him. The hideous scar running from his left temple to his upper lip, which she had at first taken for a war injury, was present even in his school pictures. During the course of her hurried background work on him she had learned that it was the result of an accident that occurred at the age of ten, when he was helping his father build frame a horse barn just outside of Bethlehem. He had fallen from a ladder and his face had caught on an exposed nail. Tetanus nearly killed him, and the scar healed irregularly, so that although it had faded over the years, even today it looked like a river that had flooded its banks. This event, the last in a long string of carpentry-related mishaps, prompted David Benjamin Isaakson to swear off construction and pursue a career as an officer in the IDF.

  War had been as kind to him as his civilian upbringing had been cruel. It seemed that every skirmish took a little more of the edge off Isaakson’s disconcerting visage, and he had been known to joke that he would start to look for a wife only after Armageddon had rendered him passably handsome. As a recently promo
ted Aluf in the Israeli army in the early part of the twenty-first century, his involvement in the big showdown was looking like a safe bet.

  “What?” Christine said impatiently. “There’s something about Imtan that the public isn’t aware of?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t go into detail,” Isaakson said. “But off the record… We have intelligence that indicates that Imtan may be of particular importance.”

  “You seem to be getting a lot of bad intelligence lately.”

  “Some bad, some good.”

  “That Palestinian school? Was that good or bad?”

  “Hmm. Taken in isolation, that was a disaster. But you have to understand, there is more to the picture….”

  “I saw the part of the picture with the forty-eight dead children. It would take a lot of puppies and rainbows in the rest of the picture to balance that out.”

  “Christine,” Isaakson said quietly. It was the first time he had used her first name. “Christine, I like you. You have a good soul. That is why I’m telling you this, not because you’re a reporter, or because you work for Harry Giddings. I feel that you need to know, because I believe in what I’m doing here, and I want you to be able to say, after I’m gone, that I was a brave man who believed in what he was doing. Understand?”

  “I do,” said Christine, but she suspected that this display had very little to do with his concern for her opinion and very much to do with the fact that she worked for Harry Giddings. Perhaps she was being cynical, but the idea that this battle-hardened general was suddenly opening up to her of his own accord was difficult to swallow.

  “We’ve been getting a lot of intelligence lately,” the general said. “I can’t tell you the source, but this intelligence, these tips, they seem to come in threes.”

  “Three tips at a time,” Christine repeated, impatient with the game. “About what? Enemy positions? Munitions locations? Getting red wine out of cashmere?”

  “Various tactical considerations,” Isaakson said. “The thing is, one of the tips is inevitably wrong. As a result of this sort of misinformation – and I’m not necessarily saying this is what happened – we might end up bombing a school full of children or….”