by Tim LaHaye
“Answer my question, Suhail.”
“Yes, of course, but I have bad news.”
“I do not want bad news! Everybody was healthy! We had plenty of equipment for the Petra offensive. You were going to ignore the city—waiting to destroy it when Micah and Ben-Judah were both there—and overtake those not yet inside. What could be bad news? What do we hear from them?”
“Nothing. Our—”
“Nonsense! They were to report as soon as they had overtaken the insurgents. The world was to marvel at our complete success without firing a shot, no casualties for us versus total destruction of those who oppose me. What happened?”
“We’re not sure yet.”
“You must have had two hundred commanding officers alone!”
“More than that.”
“And not a word from one of them?”
“Our stratospheric photo planes show our forces advancing to within feet of overrunning approximately five hundred thousand outside Petra.”
“A cloud of dust and the enemy, in essence, plowed under.”
“That was the plan, Excellency.”
“And what? The old men in robes and long beards fought back with hidden daggers?”
“Our planes waited until the dust cloud settled and now find no evidence of our troops.”
Carpathia laughed.
“I wish I were teasing you, Potentate. High-altitude photographs ten minutes after the offensive show the same crowd outside Petra, and yet—”
“None of our troops, yes, you said that. And our armaments? One of the largest conglomerations of firepower ever assembled, you told me, split into three divisions. Invincible, you said.”
“Disappeared.”
“Can those photographs be transmitted here?”
“They’re waiting in your office, sir. But people I trust verify what we’re going to see . . . or not see, I should say.”
Carpathia’s voice sounded constricted, as if he’d rather explode than speak. “I want the potentate of each of the world regions on his way to New Babylon within the hour. Any who are not en route sixty minutes from now will be replaced. See to that immediately, and when you determine when the one from the farthest distance will arrive, set a meeting for the senior cabinet and me with the ten of them for an hour later. And these Jews,” he said slowly, “we expect them all to be in Petra as soon as they can be transported there?”
“Actually, they will not all fit. We expect Petra itself to be full and the rest to camp nearby.”
“What is required to level Petra and the surrounding area?”
“Two planes, two crews, two annihilation devices. We could launch a subsequent missile to ensure thorough devastation, though that might be overkill.”
“Ah, Suhail. You will one day come to realize that there is no such thing as overkill. Let the Jews and the Judah-ites think they have had their little victory. And keep the failed operation quiet. We never launched it. Our missing troops and vehicles and armaments never existed.”
“And what of the questions from their families?”
“The questions should go to the families. We demand to know where these soldiers are and what they have done with our equipment.”
“Tens of thousands AWOL? That’s what we will contend?”
“No, Suhail. Rather, I suggest you go on international television and tell the GCNN audience that the greatest military effort ever carried out was met by half a million unarmed Jews who made it disappear! Perhaps you could use a flip chart! Now you see us; now you do not!”
“I’m scared,” Marcel told Laslos as they stole out of the hideaway at nightfall.
“There is no need to be, son. You are just excited. You have endured tragedy, as we all have, but you are being given a second chance. If you are not safe with the Tribulation Force, you will never be.”
They walked the mile and a half in the dark on dirt paths Laslos had come to know well. Though he walked more than he rode and never drove anymore, he still felt the pain and weariness of his age. Marcel seemed to have to wait for him, and Laslos wished he could tell him to go on. But he wanted to feel useful. He was part of the escapade, part of the plan. These precious young people would be in his charge until he sent them off with Godspeed to rendezvous with George Sebastian.
Half a mile outside Ptolemaïs, Laslos spotted K’s tiny white car well off a rarely used road. Laslos stopped Marcel with a touch, then made a birdcall. K tapped the brake and the taillights went on briefly. “That means no one is around,” Laslos said. “Run to the car. I will be there.”
He knew Marcel wanted to stretch those lanky legs, and as Laslos shuffled along as quickly as he could, he enjoyed watching the boy lope to the car. K had long since removed the inside light, so when the door opened, the car still looked dark. When Laslos arrived, K was behind the wheel, Marcel next to him.
Laslos squeezed into the minuscule backseat, directly behind Marcel. K, older than Laslos, bald and bony, wore a small black stocking cap and spoke with difficulty because most of his front teeth were missing. He said, “He ith rithen,” and the boy and Laslos—though wheezing—said, “Christ is risen indeed.”
K drove carefully to the edge of the city and parked on a dark street. “You know where you are?” Laslos asked the boy.
“I think so,” Marcel said. “The co-op is in the cellar under the pub a block and a half that way?”
“And you know the password?”
“Of course. They have my stuff.”
“And they will confirm that the girl—”
“Georgiana.”
“—yes, is waiting.”
Marcel nodded and jumped out of the car. Laslos quickly cranked down his window. “Psst! Do not run,” he whispered. And the boy slowed.
K turned and grinned at him. “Young people,” he said.
“How long until our luck runs out, K?”
K shook his head and his smile faded. “We are already living on next month’th time, Lathloth.”
“What happens if you ever get stopped?”
“Thath the end of it,” K said. “They’ll take me to get the mark but I’ll tell them to jutht kill me, becauth I’m through fighting.”
Laslos clapped his friend on the shoulder. “But you’re doing damage until the time comes, eh?”
“Muth ath I can.”
Marcel returned, a canvas bag over his shoulder. “Any problem?” Laslos said.
He shook his head, tossing the bag in the back, leaving just enough room for the girl. “She’s supposed to be there, and nobody followed me. Look for one small stone on top of two others, eight kilometers from the airport. She’ll be in the underbrush near there. Just pull over and she’ll find us.”
K stayed outside the city and headed toward the airport road. They saw no GC Peacekeepers or vehicles, but still Laslos found his right leg bouncing, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. When they passed the 10K sign, Laslos leaned forward and helped K watch the odometer. A few minutes later Marcel said, “There!”
K’s headlights showed two small stones on the left side of the road with another laid casually atop them. No one would have noticed if they hadn’t been looking for them. K checked his mirrors, and Laslos shifted so he could look out the back too. “Nobody,” he said.
K pulled off to the side, his right front tire crunching the three stones. He sat with the engine idling and the lights on, squinting into the rearview mirror. “Let’s go, young lady,” Laslos muttered. “We don’t want to be seen.”
“Want me to call for her?” Marcel said.
“She was supposed to find us, right?”
“Right.”
“Always stick to the plan. If the plan changes, you don’t improvise. You leave.”
K nodded. “Ten thecondth,” he said. “I won’t thtay here longer.”
“There she is!” Marcel said.
Georgiana ran up to the car, and Laslos leaned across Marcel’s bag to open her door. She was shivering in jeans and a white, short-sleeve
shirt, and a ratty, red baseball cap hooding her eyes. She carried a small, dark green satchel, barely a foot long. “Marcel,” she said. “Good to see you again.”
“Yeah, hi! Let’s go!”
She jumped in and put her bag between her feet. “You must be Laslos,” she said. “I’m Georgiana.” She squeezed his arm. Her dark fingers were cold. She put her hands on K’s shoulders. “And this must be K.”
Marcel raised a hand, and she gripped it. “This is exciting,” she said, then rubbed her palms together.
“He ith rithen,” K said.
“Amen!” she said, nearly squealing. “He is risen indeed!”
“Is that all you brought?” Laslos said.
“It’s all I have, sir,” she said, smiling. “And all I need.”
“Venturing out into the new world with hardly a thing to your name.”
“God is able,” she said. “Marcel tells me you have a gun.”
“Marcel has the mouth of a young man,” Laslos said. “You must both learn to say little and listen much.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Am I talking too much? Just excited, that’s all. I haven’t felt this way since the day Mr. Williams let me go.”
Marcel nodded.
“So I can’t see your gun, Mr. Laslos?”
“Miklos. I do not bring my gun out of my home. I am not looking to hurt anyone. It is for my safety, that’s all.”
“But K has a gun,” she said, squeezing his shoulders again. “Don’t you, young man?”
K smiled shyly and shook his head as he pulled the car back onto the road.
“You watch too much television,” Laslos said. “American TV, am I right?”
“Not for a long time. When I do see it, it’s all Carpathia, Carpathia, Carpathia.”
Laslos’s leg was still bouncing, his hands still pressed together. “You’re both clear on the plan, then?” he said.
“If Marcel is, I am,” Georgiana said. “He’s the one who told me. We’re meeting this George guy off the road up from the airport. He’ll take us in like we’re his prisoners, and the computer will show that’s what he’s there for.”
“Yes, and you must avoid eye contact, look sullen, and just go directly to the plane with him. Maybe you could let Marcel wear your hat low enough to cover his eyes and you could let your hair hang in your face.”
She was still rubbing her hands together. “This thing wouldn’t fit him. Anyway, we’ll recognize the pilot how again?”
“He should be the only man on the road looking for you,” Laslos said.
“But he’s a big man, right? An American?”
“Way over six feet tall and almost two hundred and fifty pounds,” Marcel said. “Light hair, blue eyes, and—”
“You’ll know him,” Laslos said. “We should pray.”
“Yes,” Georgiana said. “Please.”
“Why don’t you pray?” Laslos said.
“I’m too nervous,” she said.
“All right,” Laslos said. “Lord, we thank you for these young people and ask you to go before them and protect them. We—”
“There he is!” Georgiana said. “Is that him?”
A big, young man strode purposefully up the right side of the road. He wore big boots, khaki pants, and a light, zippered jacket. His hair looked almost white, his face dark. Laslos couldn’t make out the eye color, but the man stopped and looked directly into the car as K slowed and passed, pulling over fifty yards beyond him.
Marcel reached for his door handle, and Georgiana reached for her bag.
“Wait!” Laslos said. “He’s early.” He rolled down his window and leaned to stick his head out, aware that Georgiana was digging in her bag and ready to go.
“Mr. Miklos?” the man called out, but Laslos thought he detected a European accent.
“Hey, Mr. Sebastian!” Marcel shouted before Laslos could shush him.
Now jogging and having cut the distance between him and the car, the man hollered, “Marcel? Georgiana?”
“Keep rolling, K,” Laslos said. “This isn’t right.”
“Why?” Georgiana said. “What’s wrong?”
“If that’s Sebastian,” Laslos said as K slowly pulled back onto the road, “he’ll find us.”
“No!” Georgiana whined. “Stop!”
“We’ll not make this transfer in the middle of the road,” Laslos said.
“K, pull over,” Georgiana said with sudden authority. She pulled a huge handgun with a silencer from her bag and pressed it against Laslos’s temple. “I’ll kill him if you don’t stop.”
“Don’t stop, K!” Laslos cried. “Marcel is for real! I know him!”
K stopped accelerating but coasted. “Stop now,” she said. “I mean it.”
Marcel whipped around, kneeling on the seat to face her. He yanked her cap off, and as the silencer pulled away from Laslos’s head, he turned to see Georgiana’s forehead and the mark of the beast. The whistling, abbreviated punch of the shot filled the car with the acrid smell of gunpowder, and Marcel was driven back with such force that he folded under the dashboard. The windshield was covered with gore, and Laslos grimaced at the gaping hole in the back of the boy’s head.
“Stop now, K!” she wailed, pointing the gun at the back of his head. The older man wrenched the wheel back and forth, pushing the accelerator to the floor. The little car rocked violently, and Laslos felt himself bang into his door handle before his bulk went flying back over Marcel’s bag toward the girl.
She fired through K’s neck and he went limp, the car losing speed and angling toward the gravel. Laslos wrapped his massive arms around the girl and pressed the bottoms of his feet against the door on his side, trying to smash her against her own door. He could only hope the gun was buried somewhere in the crush, but the sounds of more than one set of running footsteps told him that unless he wrestled it away from her, he would soon join his wife in heaven.
The car thudded to a stop, and they both rolled forward into the back of K’s seat. Two other men had joined the Sebastian impostor, and all carried weapons. One jerked the girl’s door open and dragged her out with one hand. Laslos tried to hang on, but he had no leverage. He lay on Marcel’s bag across the backseat, his arms leaden, gasping.
“You all right, Elena?” one of the men said.
Laslos saw her nod with disgust. “He’s the only one left,” she said, pressing the gun to his forehead. He turned his hands over, opening his palms toward heaven, and closed his eyes.
“We’re short-staffed tonight, sir. Hard copy is quicker than the computer, if you don’t mind.”
“I hear you,” George said. “But I told you, Old Man Elbaz had me on recon runs over rebel territory in the Negev, and we were all required to leave our IDs at the field HQ. It’s all in the computer.”
The airport GC clerk swore. “They never think about what those decisions mean to us little guys.”
“They never think at all,” George said. “Sorry.”
“What’re ya gonna do?” the clerk said, sighing as he tapped his fingers atop the monitor, waiting for the info. “Hey, what about all the guys goin’ AWOL in Jordan?”
“Don’t think I wasn’t tempted,” George said. “Strangest deal I’ve ever seen.”
“You get the boils?”
“Who didn’t?”
“Here it is. You’re good. You got a number for me? Six digits.”
“Zero-four-zero-three-zero-one.”
“That’s it. And where’re your prisoners?”
“Being held up the road.”
“Need a vehicle?”
“That would be great.”
“You’re coming right back?”
“Right back. I’ll secure ’em in the plane and bring the wheels directly to you.”
The clerk tossed him a set of keys and pointed to a Jeep. George decided he could get used to Trib Force work, if it was all this easy. Couldn’t be.
He sped a mile and a half up the road and pulled
over. What was that in the distance? The girl? Alone? He turned on his brights. She was running toward him. Screaming.
He stepped out. “Georgiana?”
“George?”
“Yes!”
“We were ambushed!”
As she got closer he saw she was covered in blood. He reached for her. “What happened? Where are the oth—”
But as the girl slumped against him, wrapping her arms around his waist, she called out, “Unarmed!” Two men, one about his size, rushed from the bushes with weapons trained on him. Another pulled a Jeep into view, doors standing open.
The big man jumped into the car George had borrowed at the airport. The other kept a weapon on him as the girl handcuffed and blindfolded him. He was tempted to drive his bulk into her, make her pay for whatever she was involved in. But he wanted to conserve his strength for any real chance to escape. They pushed him into the Jeep, and as it took off, he heard the other vehicle behind.
“We’re going to have fun with you, Yank,” the driver said. “By the time we’re through, we’ll know everything you know.”
Fat chance, George thought—and wanted to say. But he had already blundered enough, leaving his plane and his weapons unprotected and venturing unarmed into enemy territory, trusting a risky plan devised by well-intentioned brothers, but civilians after all. Maybe the proverbial horse had already escaped the open barn, but too late or not, his training kicked in. Not only would he not say, “Fat chance,” but he would also not say anything. The only way these people would know he was capable of uttering a word was if they remembered he had spoken to the girl. Unless he somehow escaped, his next word would be spoken in heaven.
He bounced and lost his balance as the Jeep accelerated, and he kept bouncing off the door, then almost into the lap of the captor to his left. The man kept pushing George back upright. He could have planted his feet more firmly and kept from jostling so much, but he didn’t mind being a two-hundred-forty-pound irritant to the enemy.
“So, George Sebastian of San Diego,” the driver said, “and a newly recruited Judah-ite. A little information will buy you some dinner, and a lot will have you on your way back to the wife and little one before you know it. Hungry?”
George did not respond, not even with a nod or shake of the head.