The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books

by Tim LaHaye

  Floyd shook his head. “I wasn’t wild about your going to Israel. And if I never hear again about you running from helicopter to jet, it’ll be too soon. But overexertion at that stage of pregnancy would have shown up in different problems.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as nothing that turned up, so I’m not going to talk about it. How’s that? You’ve already been through all the predictable stuff—convinced you’re going to have a monster, convinced the baby has already died, certain your baby doesn’t have all its parts. You don’t need to worry about stuff you might have caused but didn’t. Now when do you expect Papa?”

  “Sometime tonight,” she said. “That’s all I know.”

  Abdullah Smith seemed pleased that Buck showed up when he said he would. “I heard you were a man of your word,” Buck said, “and wanted to show that I am too.”

  Abdullah, as usual, did not respond. He grabbed one of Buck’s bags and led him briskly toward his plane. Buck tried to guess which one it would be. He passed the prop jobs, knowing they would never get him across the Atlantic. But Abdullah also passed a Learjet and a brand-new Hajiman, a smaller version of the Concorde and just as fast.

  Buck stopped and stared when Abdullah pulled back the Plexiglas cockpit shield of what he recognized as an Egyptian fighter jet. It would fly nearly two thousand miles an hour at very high altitudes but had to have a shorter than usual fuel range.

  “This is your plane?” Buck said.

  “Please to board,” Abdullah said. “Fuel tank enlarged. Small cargo hold added. Stop in Greece, stop in London, stop in Greenland, stop in Wheeling.”

  Buck was impressed that he knew where he was going. It was clear his hope of stretching out, getting some reading done, even dozing, was not in the cards.

  “Passenger must board first,” Abdullah said.

  Buck climbed in and tried to show that he knew his way around this type of craft, after having done a series of articles on ride-alongs with American fighter pilots. That was before the reign of Nicolae Carpathia and the wholesale marketing of such surplus craft to private citizens.

  Buck was about to strap on his helmet and oxygen mask when Abdullah sighed and said, “Belt.”

  Buck was sitting on it. So much for showing off. He had to stand, as much as one could in that confined space, while Abdullah reached beneath him to retrieve the belt. Once strapped in, he tried to put the helmet on. Again the pilot had to assist—untangling his straps, twisting the helmet just so, and smacking it on top until it settled into correct, and extremely tight, position. It pressed against Buck’s temples and cheekbones. He started to put the mouthpiece in until Abdullah reminded him, “Not until high altitude.”

  “Right. I knew that.”

  Abdullah fit just ahead of him, giving Buck the feeling they were on a luge, Abdullah’s head just inches from Buck’s nose.

  Taking a jet fighter from a staging area, out onto the tarmac, into line, and then out onto the runway would have taken up to half an hour in the States. Buck learned that in Amman, the airport was like the street market. No lines or queues. It was first come, first served, and you were on your own. Abdullah sang something into the radio about jet, charter, passenger, cargo, and Greece, all while moving the fighter directly onto the runway. He didn’t wait for instructions from ground control.

  The Amman airport had only recently reopened after rebuilding, and while air traffic was down because of the plague of locusts, several flights were lined up. Two wide-bodies sat at the front of the line, followed by a standard jet, a Learjet, and another big plane. Abdullah turned to get Buck’s attention and pointed to the fuel gauge, which showed full.

  Buck gave a thumbs-up sign, which he intended to imply that he felt good about having lots of fuel. Abdullah, apparently, took it to mean that Buck wanted to get into the air—and now. He taxied quickly around other planes, reached the line of craft cleared and in line for takeoff, and passed them one by one. Buck was speechless. He imagined if the other pilots had horns, they’d have been honking, like drivers in traffic do to those who ride the shoulder.

  As Abdullah passed the second wide-body, the first began to roll. Abdullah slipped in behind it, and suddenly he and Buck were next in line. Buck craned his neck to see if emergency vehicles were coming or whether the other planes would just pull ahead and get back in their original order. No scolding came from the tower. As soon as the big jet was well on its way down the runway, Abdullah pulled out.

  “Edward Zulu Zulu Two Niner taking off, tower,” he said into the radio.

  Buck fully expected someone to come back with, “Just where do you think you’re going, young man?” But no one did.

  “Ten-four, Abdullah,” was all he heard.

  There was no warming up and little building speed. Abdullah drove the fighter to the end of the runway, lined her up, and punched it. Buck’s head was driven back, and his stomach flattened. He could not have leaned forward if he’d wanted to. Clearly breaking every rule of international aviation, Abdullah reached takeoff speed in a few hundred yards and was airborne. He rocketed above and beyond the jet in front of him, and Buck felt as if they were flying straight up.

  He was pressed back in his seat, staring at clouds. It seemed only minutes later Abdullah reached the apex of his climb, and just like that, he seemed to throttle back and start his descent. It was like a roller-coaster ride, blasting to the peak and then rolling down the other side. Abdullah mashed a button that allowed him to speak directly into Buck’s headset. “Amman to Athens just up and down,” he said.

  “But we’re not going to Athens, remember?”

  Abdullah smacked his helmet. “Ptolemaïs, right?”

  “Right!”

  The plane shot straight up again. Abdullah dug through a set of rolled-up maps and said, “No problem.”

  And he was right. Minutes later he came screaming onto the runway of the small airport. “How long with friends?” he said, taxiing to the fuel pumps.

  Rayford reassured Chloe, and they agreed they’d rather Floyd tell the truth than sugarcoat it and run into problems later. But after he brought her water, Rayford moved upstairs to talk to Tsion. The rabbi welcomed him warmly. “Almost finished with my lesson for today,” he said. “I’ll transmit it in an hour or so. Anyway, I always have time for you.”

  Rayford told him of the potential complication with the baby. “I will pray,” Tsion said. “And I would ask you to pray for me as well.”

  “Sure, Tsion. Anything specific?”

  “Well, yes. Frankly, I feel lonely and overwhelmed, and I hate that feeling.”

  “It’s sure understandable.”

  “I know. And I have a deep sense of joy, such as we get when we are in fellowship with the Lord. I have told him this, of course, but I would appreciate knowing someone else is praying for me too.”

  “I’m sure we all do, Tsion.”

  “I am most blessed to have such a loving family to replace my loss. We have all suffered. Sometimes it just overtakes me. I knew this locust plague was coming, but I never thought through the ramifications. In many ways I wish we had been more prepared. Our enemy has been incapacitated for months. Yet while we count on them for so many things, like transportation, communications, and the like, this has crippled us too.

  “I don’t know,” he said, rising and stretching. “I don’t expect to find happiness anymore. I am looking forward to the birth of this little one as if it were my own. That will bring a ray of sunshine.”

  “And we want you to be another parent to it, Tsion.”

  “The contrast alone will be sobering though, won’t it?

  “The contrast?”

  “This fresh, young innocent will not know why Hattie is crying. Won’t know of our losses. Won’t understand that we live in terror, enemies of the state. And there will be no need to teach the little one of all the despair of the past, as we would if we were raising it to adulthood. By the time this baby is five years old, it will already
be living in the millennial kingdom with Jesus Christ in control. Imagine.”

  Tsion had a way of bringing perspective to everything. Yet Rayford was sobered by the rabbi’s angst. Millions around the world expected Dr. Ben-Judah to be their spiritual leader. They had to assume he was at peace with his own mature walk with God. Yet he was a new believer too. While a great scholar and theologian, he was but a man. Like most others, he had suffered grievously. He still had his days of despair.

  Rayford began feeling lonely in advance. Floyd would have plenty of doctoring to do in the safe house with a new baby and Hattie still ailing. Buck had told Rayford he looked forward to some modicum of normalcy and permanence, so he could make his Internet magazine what it needed to be to compete with Carpathia’s Global Community rags. Chloe would be busy with the baby and the details of the commodity co-op. And Hattie, when she finally recuperated, would itch to get out of there.

  That left Rayford to be the one on the go. He looked forward to being back in the cockpit. He had resigned himself to the fact that his life would consist of hard work, being careful to remain free and just trying to stay alive. But the Glorious Appearing seemed further away all the time. How he longed to be with Jesus! To be reunited with his family!

  His life as an accomplished commercial pilot seemed eons ago now. It was hard to comprehend that it had been fewer than three years since he was just a suburban husband and father, and none too good a one, with nothing more to worry about than where and when he was flying next.

  Rayford couldn’t complain of having had nothing important to occupy his time. But the cost of getting to this point! He could empathize with Tsion. If the Tribulation was hard on a regular Joe like Rayford, he couldn’t imagine what it must be like for one called to rally the 144,000 witnesses and teach maybe a billion other new souls.

  Early in the afternoon Rayford took a call from T Delanty. “I want to start digging tomorrow,” he said. “You still willing to help?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. If my son-in-law gets in at a decent hour, I’ll be ready when you are.”

  “How about seven in the morning?”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “I hear Ernie’s getting better. Bo probably would be too, but he tried to kill himself three ways. He’s a mess.”

  “Buy him out.”

  “I will, and that will be easy because the way we’re set up, all I have to do is make him an offer he can’t match. He was left some money, but his share in the airport is so small, I should be able to make him go away. I worry about Ernie.”

  “How so?”

  “He was close to Ken, Ray. At least as close as a person could hope to get. I know Ken considered him a believer; he had me fooled too.”

  “I’m the third stooge on that list,” Rayford said.

  “It’s possible Ken confided in Ernie.”

  “Nah. He only just told me on the flight to Israel.”

  “You say that like you guys have been buddies for years. He hardly knew you, Rayford, and yet he told you he buried his gold. I had heard the rumor myself, and I don’t feel like I knew Ken well at all. Ernie worked with him, ingratiated himself. I don’t believe for a second that Ken promised him a thing. That wouldn’t make sense. But still I’ll bet Ernie knows more than he’ll let on.”

  “You think he’ll get better and show up with a shovel?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “First, Mr. Williams, call me Laslos. It comes from my first name, Lukas, and my last name, Miklos. OK?”

  Buck agreed as they embraced in the small air terminal. “And you must call me Buck.”

  “I thought your name was Cameron.”

  “My friends call me Buck.”

  “Then Buck it is. I want to take you to meet with the believers.”

  “Oh, Laslos, I’m sorry. I cannot. I’d love to, and maybe I will get back here and do that. But do you understand that I have been away from my wife for many months—”

  Laslos looked stricken. “Yes, but—”

  “And that she is in her last couple of weeks of pregnancy?”

  “You’re going to be a father! Splendid! And everything is fine, except that this is the worst time . . . well, you know that.”

  Buck nodded. “My father-in-law wanted me to discuss with you your role in the international commodity co-op.”

  “Yes!” Laslos said, sitting and pointing to a chair for Buck. “I have been reading what Dr. Ben-Judah says about it. It is a brilliant idea. What would we do without it? We would all die, and that is what the evil one wants, right? Am I not a good student?”

  “Do you see a role for yourself or your company?”

  Laslos cocked his head. “I’ll do what I can. My company mines lignite. It is used in power plants. If there is any call for it in the community of believers, I would be happy to be involved.”

  Buck leaned forward. “Laslos, do you understand what it will mean when citizens of the Global Community are required to wear the sign of the beast on their hand or on their forehead?”

  “I think so. Without it they cannot buy or sell. But I do not consider myself a citizen of the Global Community, and I would die before I would wear the sign of Antichrist.”

  “That’s great, friend,” Buck said. “But do you see how it will affect you? You will not be able to sell. Your whole business and livelihood are built on a product you sell.”

  “But they need my product!”

  “So they will put you in jail and take over your mines.”

  “I will fight them to the death.”

  “You probably will. What I’m suggesting is that you look for another commodity to trade, something more internationally marketable, something your brothers and sisters in Christ need and will be unable to get when the mark of the beast is ushered in.”

  Laslos appeared deep in thought. He nodded. “And I have another idea,” he said. “I will build my lignite business and sell it before they quit buying from me.”

  “Great idea!”

  “It happens all the time, Buck. You make yourself so indispensable to your biggest client that it only makes sense that they buy you out.”

  “And who is your biggest client?”

  Laslos sat back and smiled sadly, but Buck detected a gleam in his eye. “The Global Community,” he said.

  CHAPTER 20

  Rayford ran into Floyd Charles angrily slamming stuff around. “Which vehicle can I use?” Floyd asked.

  “Makes no difference, Doc,” Rayford said. “Rover’s running fine. I’m taking Ken’s Suburban to T tomorrow. See if his little church group can use it. It’s rightfully his anyway.”

  “I’ll take Buck’s.”

  “Where you going?”

  “I’ve got to get some oxygen, Ray. I don’t want to be caught off guard without O2 when I need it. And I don’t want Chloe as stressed as I am.”

  “That bad? Should I be worried?”

  “Nah! It’s not Chloe as much as Hattie now. She thinks she’s better, so she wants to get up and get out. Well, she can’t without help, and I’m not going to help her. She has made a turn for the better, but she’s underweight, and her vitals are average. But, like you say, she doesn’t report to us.”

  “You want me to talk to her? Maybe I can shame her into doing what you say, after all we’ve done for her.”

  “If you think it’ll do any good.”

  “Where you getting O2, Kenosha?”

  “I don’t dare show my face there again. I called Leah at Arthur Young. She’s got a couple of tanks for me.”

  “You know who you can check in on over there? Hattie’s young Ernie.”

  “No kidding?”

  “T told me Ernie and his friend Bo were being treated there.”

  Buck was ill by the time Abdullah landed at Heathrow. Cramped, nauseated, exhausted, tense—he was a mess. All he wanted was to get home to Chloe.

  Heathrow was a shell of what it had been before World War 3 and the great ear
thquake. But Carpathia had poured money into it and made it high-tech and efficient, if not as big as it had been. With the waning population, nothing needed to be as big as before.

  Heathrow tower flatly rejected Abdullah’s announced sequences. He seemed frustrated but didn’t rebel. Buck wondered what he did before becoming a believer. Maybe he’d been a terrorist.

  Abdullah seemed cognizant of Buck’s wish to keep moving. He returned from refueling with two cellophane-wrapped cheese sandwiches that looked as if they’d been sitting for days. He offered one to Buck, who refused only because he was queasy. Abdullah must have assumed Buck was in too great a hurry to eat, because as soon as the deliberate ground control officer cleared him for takeoff, they were streaking toward Greenland.

  Buck felt as if he were running a sprint that would never end. He assumed that at some point he could try to relax, but the jet seemed always on the verge of exploding or crashing. When his phone chirped in his pocket, Buck went through all sorts of vain gyrations to get in a position where he could reach it.

  Abdullah noticed and asked if anything was wrong. “Need an emergency landing?” he asked.

  “No!” Buck hollered, sensing the hope in Abdullah’s question. Apparently a normal race from Jordan to America wasn’t enough of a thrill for Abdullah. But where does one execute an emergency landing between London and Greenland? Surely he would have had to turn back to London, but Abdullah seemed more likely to find an aircraft carrier.

  When they finally reached Greenland for the final refueling, Buck extricated himself from his seat and learned that his caller had been Dr. Charles. He called him back.

  “I can’t really talk to you right now, Buck, sorry. I’m picking up supplies at a hospital.”

  “Well, give me a hint, Doc. Everything OK there?”

  “Let’s just say I hope you’re on schedule.”

  “That doesn’t sound good. Chloe OK?”