The Indwelling

by Tim LaHaye

  “And so are they. I called to tell them I had been assigned crowd control and they insisted on coming.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Leah, I am so worried about my parents. They do not know about either Chang or me being believers. They were such admirers of Carpathia that they are sick with grief. I want to tell them and persuade them, but it would take a miracle.”

  “It’s always a miracle, Ming. We’ll pray with you that it will happen.”

  “You don’t know my father.”

  “I know, but God is bigger than any of that. How are you getting to New Babylon? I heard all flights were full.”

  “Military transport. I don’t know how my family found seats, except that my father has a lot of influence with the GC. His business contributes more than 20 percent of its profits to New Babylon. They are expecting another million people there tomorrow. I’m telling you, Leah, even prisoners here are mourning Carpathia.”

  “When you’re there, look up David Hassid and Annie Christopher.”

  “Believers?”

  “Of course. Keep up the front. Pretend to argue with them. They’ll notice your mark and play along to protect you. Introduce your brother. I’ll tip them off that your parents don’t know. Hey, any more news on Hattie or on Cameron Williams’s family?”

  A pause.

  “You can tell me, Ming.”

  “Well, it’s sort of good news and bad news.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The Williamses’ home burned and two bodies were discovered, identified as Cameron Williams’s father and brother.”

  “And?”

  “This is unconfirmed, Leah, but there is some evidence that they may have become believers.”

  “That will be so helpful if Buck could know that for sure.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out without being too obvious, but someone said the murders and the torching had to wait because they were at a church-type meeting.”

  “Does that mean the GC knows where the church meets?”

  “Likely. They know more than most believers want to think.”

  “We’ve got to warn that church.”

  Buck listened to T talk on the radio to the tower at Kozani. “Very low on fuel. I may make one test pass, but I’d better go for it.”

  “On the downside, Super Juliet, we have no foam and no prospects to get any soon.”

  “Roger that.”

  “You have friends in high places, Juliet.”

  “Repeat?”

  “You have new equipment coming.”

  “I’m not following you, tower.”

  “Man named Albie. Know him?”

  “Heard of him. Friend of a friend.”

  “That’s what he said. He’s delivering a plane for you, assuming yours is going to need some rehab.”

  “Roger. What’s he bringing?”

  “No idea.”

  “How’s he going to get back?”

  “I believe he’s planning to do the fix on yours and take it in trade.”

  “He’d better be bringing something pretty nice.”

  “Just hope yours is worth trading after you scrape our runway.”

  “Roger.”

  Buck looked at T. “Do you believe that? Rayford had to set that up.”

  “Wonder when Albie’s expected.”

  Buck shook his head. “He’s got a lot longer flight than we do, and who knows where he’s getting the craft?”

  “I can’t wait to see it.”

  “I can’t wait to see if we survive.”

  “I believe we will,” T said. “We’ll take a look at the situation, and slide her in there nice and smooth.”

  “I love the confidence in your voice.”

  “Must be my acting background.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Truth is, Buck, I need both of you strapped in in the very back seats. I’ll call out altitude readings. By fifty feet, you should be braced and tucked, but you can get into that position anytime after you hear one hundred feet. Got it?”

  Buck nodded.

  “We’re close. Get Chaim ready.”

  Buck stood and was moving into the cabin when T said, “Oh, no!”

  “What?”

  The interior lights went dark. Battery-operated emergency lights eerily illuminated the control board.

  “What’s happening?” Chaim called out. “Someone talk to me.”

  “Let’s just say we won’t have to jettison fuel,” T said. “Get strapped in now, back seats, and don’t talk to me till we’re on the ground.”

  “I’m ready for heaven!” Chaim said. “But tonight I prefer asphalt to gold, if you don’t mind.”

  “Shut up, Doctor,” T said, and he called the tower on batteries. “Mayday, Kozani tower, this is the Super J, and we’re out of fuel, repeat, out of fuel. On battery backup, landing lights may not be fully operational.”

  “Roger, Juliet,” came the response, as Buck settled in across the aisle from Chaim. “Cleared to land.”

  “Roger,” T said. He started to talk to himself as he went through all the emergency procedures. He looked too busy to talk on the radio. “Let’s see here, emergency engine shutdown, then set up the best glide speed. The one gear will not come up, so forget that. Better do a partial gear-up landing checklist.”

  T’s hand flew all over the panels, and Buck could see from the back through the front window that the airport boundary fence was going to be a problem.

  “Approach, can you call off altitudes for Juliet?” T said to approach control, also on tower frequency.

  “No problem, Juliet, one thousand and holding below glide path.”

  T worried out loud how he was going to control the plane on the ground with only one gear. “Nine hundred . . . eight hundred . . . seven . . . six . . . five-fifty.” He concentrated on keeping the best possible glide airspeed, in a desperate attempt to make the field.

  “Runways are clear, emergency teams in place, Juliet,” the tower reported. “Four hundred . . . below glide path . . . looks like you will land short . . . watch out for the boundary fence, Juliet.”

  “Roger,” T said. “Three hundred . . . two . . .”

  Tsion stood and stretched and checked on Kenny. He felt as if he’d been out for hours, yet he was as weary as when he nodded off. While he was determined not to miss anything in New Babylon, he knew he needed sleep. He sat back down and settled in, hoping, praying he would again be transported to the very portals of heaven. He didn’t know what to call what had happened to him or how to assess it, but it had been the privilege of a lifetime. He was left with so many questions and so much more to come. But before he slept he again felt compelled to pray for his brothers and sisters on the front lines.

  David headed for his quarters, phoning Guy on the way. “I’d like to see the positioning of the statue when you’re ready.”

  “Now?”

  “I say, when you’re ready. The regular schedule will be fine.”

  “You’re asking permission?”

  “I’m just saying I’d like to watch. There a problem with that?”

  “I don’t need my hand held.”

  “Believe me, Guy, I don’t want to hold your hand.”

  “Protocol demands that you not refer to me by my first name.”

  “Sorry, Blood.”

  “It’s Blod, and my last name isn’t appropriate either!”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s that bad.”

  “Ooh! My title is Minister!”

  “Sorry, Reverend Minister. But your supreme commander and mine wants a liaison from administration present when you move naked boy into position.”

  “How rude and tacky.”

  “That’s sort of what I thought, but I’m surprised you agree.”

  “David!”

  “Ah, Director Hassid to you, Minister Blood. Anyway, he chose me, so don’t leave home without me.”

  “David! I am a minister, theref
ore I qualify as a liaison from administration. You just stay in bed until you can be civil.”

  “Sorry, Minnie, but I have a direct order. If you want to contest it, you may take it up with him.”

  “Just wait till he hears what you called the potentate.”

  “Oh, if you tell him that, please clarify that I was referring to your statue. And you might add that you yourself admitted it was—what did you say?—rude and tacky.”

  “Five a.m., Hayseed, and we’re not waiting for you.”

  “Oh, good. I’d hate to miss that. Have a nice day.”

  Buck knew he should have his head buried, as Chaim did, but he was too curious. He leaned out into the aisle where he could see through the cockpit. The plane was too steeply nose down, and clearly T was going to try one last maneuver to somehow clear the south fence, which preceded about a hundred yards of grass and then the runway. It struck Buck that most of the tire marks on the runway were at least a quarter mile from the edge of the pavement and only a couple of others showed nearer, none of them really close to the grass. He would not bet T could get the Super J over the fence, let alone into the grass, forget the runway proper.

  “Your landing gear is down, Juliet! Repeat, down! Full gear down on right, partial assemblage on left! Good luck!”

  “We don’t do luck!” Buck shouted, as the fence disappeared from view. “God, do your thing through T!”

  “Roger!” T shouted as he yanked on the stick; the plane bucked ever so slightly, clearing the fence, then swept tail first onto the grass.

  The impact slammed Buck so deep into his seat that he felt it in every fiber of his being. Chaim had let out a terrific grunt on impact, and it seemed his face was near his shoes. Buck wished he’d been in the same position, because he felt soft tissue give way from his tailbone to his neck, and he was sure both shoulders had nearly been torn from their sockets. He felt it in his feet, ankles, and knees, and the plane was still nose up as the rear tore through the sod.

  That meant at least one more impact was to come, but Buck couldn’t imagine they would feel it in the back, at least not the way they felt the first one.

  The angle and speed T had brought the plane in on somehow carried the craft all the way to the runway on its tail. When the tail hit the edge of the runway, the nose slammed down in a shower of sparks so fast that the front half of the fuselage tore away from the back and the two huge pieces of airplane went sliding and scraping, spinning in opposite directions.

  Buck was aware of sky and pavement and lights and hangars and sparks and noise and dizziness, until the G forces were too much and he felt himself losing consciousness. “Lord,” he said as blissful darkness invaded his brain, “I can recover from this. Leave me here awhile. Chloe, I love you. Kenny . . .”

  Exhausted as he was, David could not sleep. He lay in his quarters, wondering why he got such joy out of tormenting Guy Blod. He couldn’t shake from his memory Rayford’s story of having tormented Hattie Durham’s friend Bo, and how Bo had eventually committed suicide. Sure, Guy was a case, and David enjoyed beating him in a battle of wits and sarcasm. But was he laying groundwork for ever having a positive influence on the man? Guy’s becoming a believer seemed remote, but who would have guessed David himself would have ever come to faith? A young Israeli techie with street smarts, he had been a skeptical agnostic his whole life. Could he start over with Guy, or would the man laugh in his face? Regardless, he had to do the right thing.

  David tapped out a love message for Annie, telling her that while he agreed they should not even think about children until after the Glorious Appearing, he still wanted to marry her. Her response would determine his next move in the relationship.

  He took one last look at messages and E-mail and thought he had an idea where every Trib Force member was. All absent and accounted for, he decided. By now Buck and Chaim ought to be in Greece. He wondered what Chaim was doing for identification.

  With a brief prayer for Tsion, who he hoped would get back to his daily Internet studies and commentaries soon, David fell into bed. He asked forgiveness for how he had treated Guy Blod and asked God to give him special compassion for the man. Of course it would not be safe for him to declare himself a believer to a GC insider yet, but he didn’t want to shut the door to opportunities once he and Annie had escaped.

  Buck’s eyes flew open, and he feared he might be going into shock. The night air hit him like a polar blast, though he knew it was not that cold. He could not even see his breath. He sat in the jagged back half of the Super J, staring straight down the runway to the front half, which faced him about half a mile away. He had to get out, get to T, make sure he was OK. T had saved their lives. What a masterful job of flying the lifeless bird!

  Chaim! Buck looked to his left to find the old man still curled upon himself, bent all the way forward, the back of his head pressed against the seat in front of him. How could he have not broken his neck? Did Buck dare move him?

  “Chaim! Chaim, are you all right?”

  Rosenzweig did not move. Buck gently touched Chaim’s back and noticed that his own hand quivered like the last leaf on a maple tree. He clasped his hands together to control himself, but his whole body shuddered. Was anything broken, punctured, severed? It didn’t appear so, but he would be sore for days. And he must not allow himself to slip into shock.

  Worried about Chaim, Buck unstrapped himself and reached for his right wrist, which was by Chaim’s foot, his hands tightly wrapped around the ankles. He could not loosen Chaim’s grip, so he forced his fingers between Chaim’s leg and wrist. Not only did he have a pulse, but it was strong and dangerously fast.

  Buck heard footsteps and shouting as three emergency workers appeared, demanding to know if there were any survivors. “I need a blanket,” he said. “Freezing. And he needs someone who knows what they’re doing to get him out of here and check for neck injuries.”

  “Blood,” one of the men said.

  “Where?” Buck said.

  “The man’s shoes. Look.”

  Blood dripped from Chaim’s face to his shoes.

  “Sir!” they called to him. “Sir!” Turning to Buck, one said, “What is his name?”

  “Just call him Doctor. He’ll hear you.”

  Someone tossed Buck a blanket, and he saw more workers sprinting down the runway to the other half of the plane. He tried to stand. Everything hurt. His head throbbed. He was dizzy. He pulled the blanket around himself, feeling every muscle and bone, and staggered out the front of the wreckage to solid ground. He stood there, swaying, assuring everyone he was all right. He had to get to T. There was nothing he could do for Chaim. If the worst he had was a racing pulse and facial lacerations, he should be all right. It was too late to tell him not to use his own name.

  Buck started toward the other end of the runway, but he moved so slowly and shook so much that he wondered if he could make it. The ground beckoned and almost took him several times. But though he knew he had to look like a drunk, he kept forcing one foot in front of the other. An emergency medical technician ran toward him from the cockpit half and another came from the tail end. As they got close to Buck, he thought they were going to carry him the rest of the way. He would not have resisted.

  But they ignored him and shouted to each other. The one from behind him told the other, “Old guy back there looks like the Israeli who died in a house fire last night.”

  “He gets that a lot,” Buck said, realizing that neither heard him.

  “How’s the pilot?” the first EMT said, but Buck didn’t hear the response.

  “What’d he say?” he called after the man, who was now running for the cockpit.

  “He didn’t!”

  Buck hadn’t seen the man shake his head in response either, but maybe he hadn’t been watching carefully enough. At long last he arrived at the front end of the plane. No one was working on T. That could be good or bad. He heard someone call for a body bag.

  That couldn’t be. If he and
Chaim had survived the jolt, surely T had. He was in better shape than either passenger. One of the workers tried to block Buck’s way into the plane, but Buck gave him a look and a weak shove, and the man knew there would be no dissuading him. “Please don’t touch the body,” the man said.

  “It’s not a body,” Buck slurred. They had for sure misread this one, hurriedly misdiagnosed whatever the problem was. “It’s a friend, our pilot.”

  The cockpit portion had come to rest directly by a huge runway lamp, which filled the wreckage with light. Buck saw no blood, no bones, no twisted limbs. He stepped behind T, who was sitting straight up, still strapped in. His left hand lay limp on his lap, his right hung open-palmed in the space between the seats. T’s head hung forward, chin on his chest.

  “T,” Buck said, a hand on his shoulder, “how we doin’, pal?”

  T felt warm, thick, and muscly. Buck put a finger to the right pressure point in the neck. Nothing. Buck felt the blanket slide from his shoulders. He slumped painfully into the seat across from T and grabbed the lifeless hand in both of his. “Oh, T,” he said. “Oh, T.”

  The rational part of his brain told him there would be more of this. More friends and fellow believers would die. They would reunite within three and a half years. But though he didn’t know T the way Rayford had, this one still hurt. Here was a quiet, steady man who had risked his life and freedom more than once for the Tribulation Force. And now he had made the ultimate sacrifice.

  “We need to remove the body and the wreckage, sir. I’m sorry. This is an active runway.”

  Buck stood and bent over T, taking his head in his arms. “I’ll see you at the Eastern Gate,” he whispered.

  Buck dragged his blanket out of the plane but could walk no farther. He tried to sit on the edge of the runway but couldn’t catch himself and rolled on his back. A stiff breeze chilled the back of his neck, and he didn’t have the energy to protest when he felt a hand in his pocket. “Anyone meeting you here, Mr. Staub?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who?”

  “Miklos.”

  “Lukas Miklos, the lignite guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s in the terminal. Can you make it?”