He threw up his hands and leaned away from her, certain she would throw a punch, but the activity on the computer screen drew their attention. Dudley folded his stick-figure arms and nodded toward the bulldog, the contact in Israel. “Eli, why don’t we start with you? Tell the others what you’ve been telling me.”
Every cartoon head turned toward the bulldog, who stood and leaned his paws on the roughly sketched conference table. “Intelligence confirms that the Russian army is mobilizing. The Russian navy has spent the last six months refurbishing the fleet at ports in the Black Sea, and infantry troops have begun to move southward from Moscow. Already there are reports of Russian troops bivouacking in the Caucasus Mountains.”
“What does it mean?” The Alanna character spoke up, her cartoon balloon flooding with words. “The Russian people know nothing of this. Though we hear much about the purge of Jews taking place in Moscow, there have been no reports of war, and nothing in the newspapers . . . but I read only the English translation.”
Michael propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his palm, trying to imagine whom Daniel had enlisted in Moscow. Was Alanna an American news correspondent? The ambassador’s wife? A missionary?
“May I speak?” The Jacob character, wearing Fred Flintstone’s saber-tooth tiger tunic, stood to address the group. “I know nothing of troop movements or the military, but I do know the ancient writings.”
“That’s Rabbi Witzun,” Devorah announced, crossing her arms as she leaned back in her chair. “Who else could it be?”
Michael’s mouth quirked with a wry smile. “Almost any rabbi in Europe. They all know the ancient writings.”
“I know the ancient writings,” Devorah countered, tugging on a rebellious dark curl. “And I’d wager my last shekel that we’re listening to Rav Witzun.”
The Jacob character continued: “The ancient writings foretell that Gog, a man, and Magog, a country, will invade the beloved land on the 24th day of Kislev, the anniversary of the laying of the foundation of the second temple. The Master of the universe, blessed be he, has already redeemed Jerusalem twice on that date. On the 24th day of the ninth month in 165 B.C.E. my people repulsed Antiochus Epiphanes, the Syrian who murdered more than 40,000 Jews and desecrated the holy temple.”
Jacob turned his head to address those at the other end of the table. “On that date in 1917, after the Turks had held Jerusalem for 400 years, the Allied Expeditionary force approached the Holy City. The commander of that Allied force sent biplanes circling over the city, while his men dropped leaflets that read ‘Flee Jerusalem.’ Unknown to him, a Muslim prophecy had predicted they would not lose Jerusalem until a prophet of Allah told them to go. The Englishman who signed the leaflet was the First Viscount Allenby, a British field marshal. When the Muslims saw his name—Allen-by, or Allah-man, on the warning leaflet, they panicked and fled the city. The British never had to fire a shot. All this happened to fulfill the prophet Isaiah’s words: ‘The Lord Almighty will hover over Jerusalem as a bird hovers around its nest. He will defend and save the city; he will pass over it and rescue it.’”
“I’ve never heard that story,” Michael whispered, his thoughts fiercely concentrated. “That’s amazing.”
“I believe,” wrote Jacob, words furiously filling his balloon, “that the prophet Haggai has clearly revealed that God will deliver Jerusalem once again on the 24th day of Kislev. If any army comes against the beautiful city—Russian or Arab or European—God will intervene. On the 24th day of the 9th month, the Creator of the universe, blessed be he, will deliver his holy city.”
Michael cocked an eyebrow at Devorah. “What is the twenty-fourth day of the ninth month on the English calendar?”
Devorah thought for a moment. “This year it will be December 21, the day before Chanukah.”
“If this rabbi is correct—” Michael let out a long, low whistle—“that’s less than four weeks away.”
Devorah stared at the computer screen, her deep-brown eyes large and surrounded by dark shadows. “If that is the day God is supposed to deliver Israel, an attack could begin at any time.” She looked at Michael, and some of the tension left her face. “If the rabbi is right. I’m not sure I place much faith in the ancient writings.”
Michael turned back to the screen. Daniel believed in the ancient writings. Even now Dudley DoRight’s balloon was flowing with almost poetic language: “‘I will make known my holy name among my people Israel. I will no longer let my holy name be profaned, and the nations will know that I the Lord am the Holy One in Israel. It is coming! It will surely take place, declares the Sovereign Lord. This is the day I have spoken of.’”
Devorah looked at Michael, her brows slanting a question. “May I?”
“Be my guest. After all, you’re seated at the table, too.”
Devorah pulled the laptop closer and hit the question mark key. Instantly a balloon appeared above Little Orphan Annie’s head.
Devorah bit her lip and began to type: “Friends—I respect all of you and your opinions. But if the full truth be known, the ancient writings also foretell that Israel’s enemy will be ruled by a king, Armillus, who will be born from a union between Satan and the stone statue of a girl in Rome. Can this possibly be true? Of course not. So we should tread carefully, sorting fact from fable, and reality from religious rhetoric.”
Jacob, or Fred Flintstone, leapt to his feet. “Twenty-five centuries ago, the Book of Zerubbabel refers to a false messiah by the name Armillus, also known by the name Romulus. I believe this man is Adrian Romulus, president of the European Union.
“Buckle your seat belt,” Michael murmured, as several of the other characters lifted their hands, waiting for permission to speak. “It’s going to be a bumpy night.”
Dudley DoRight grinned on the computer screen, and for an instant Michael thought he could almost see a resemblance to the man he had met years before. Dudley’s balloon filled as Daniel began to type: “After much study, I am certain, my friends, that the allied nations the Bible describes will shortly come against Israel. I have heard rumors that Adrian Romulus—no matter what his origin—has at least given tacit approval for this attack. The allied troops will be led by Vladimir Vasilievich Gogol, high commander of Russia’s armies. If Scripture is true, and I believe it is, many nations will be allied with him, and Israel cannot stand against the advancing horde unless God himself delivers his people.”
The conference room vanished, and the screen filled with a three-dimensional map of the Middle East. A small revolving star of David marked the location of Jerusalem, and a solid red star, directly to the north, pinpointed Moscow.
Daniel’s parting words scrolled across the bottom of the screen. “Pray with me for the peace of Jerusalem, friends. My prayers and thoughts will be with each of you in the days ahead.”
Though Michael wasn’t willing to accept all of Daniel’s apocalyptic predictions, in the days that followed he often felt a dire sense of foreboding. He filed his report about the Israeli need for ASAT technology with his NSA superiors and sent a copy to the White House, knowing that the NSA would bury it and Stedman was virtually powerless. He and Devorah continued to visit and inspect military bases despite the fact that Daniel apparently believed Israel’s preparation would mean little in the face of God’s prophetic plan.
They visited the Jerusalem airport, Hertzlia Airfield, and Sde Dov Airport in Tel Aviv. They devoted an entire week to an inspection of Ramat David Air Base in northern Israel, and Michael noted with approval that all airmen at this base wore flight crew uniforms without rank insignia. Although all flight personnel proudly wore their squadron patches, not a single uniform exhibited any stars, bars, or wings. If one of these fliers were shot down, the enemy would not be able to tell if they had captured a colonel pilot or a sergeant flight engineer.
Though the Israeli Air Force would undoubtedly play a huge role in defending the country from a border attack, Michael knew the coastline was also vulnerable
. He and Devorah devoted two weeks to inspecting the Israeli naval bases—Ashdod and Haifa on the Mediterranean, Eilat on the Gulf of Aqaba. At Haifa, Michael met several operators who were part of Flotilla Thirteen, the Israeli Navy’s counterpart to the American SEALs. One of the commandos was quick to point out that though the Israeli Navy was small, during the Yom Kippur War of ‘73 it sank eight Arab FFLs and destroyed or evaded over seventy Arab Soviet-supplied SS-N-2 Styx missiles without losing a single Israeli vessel.
Michael couldn’t help but be impressed with the pride and honor exhibited by nearly every member of the Israeli Defense Forces. They were driven, not by the latent patriotism or opportunism that prompted most Americans to serve in the armed forces, but by sheer necessity. Tiny Israel was surrounded on three sides by nations that either were or had been antagonistic, and she could not afford to drop her guard for one moment.
He and Devorah stood inside a new Elisra ECM/ESM electronic warfare suite on board a Sa’ar V and watched a demonstration of the new Israeli-designed Typhoon naval gun system. The gun, mounted on a patrol boat, employed a 25mm cannon and could be fired by remote control, thus reducing the risk to seamen manning it. With the added capabilities of the new Dolphin submarines and Eilat/Sa’ar V missile corvettes, Michael believed the Israeli Navy would confront her enemies with a remarkable demonstration of strength. But could she beat them back? If pressed, he would have answered no.
On every base, Michael noticed a subtle rise in tension. By the end of November the IDF was holding regular drills; on weekends the reservists reported for special training. In commanders’ offices, lights burned twenty-four hours a day and empty coffee cups proliferated upon tables strewn with maps and field reports, yet life as usual continued on the streets of Jerusalem.
Michael marveled at the calm pace of life around him. Though intelligence reports indicated that the Russians were continuing to mobilize their troops, the average Israeli citizen seemed indifferent to the menace in the north. Michael had to remind himself that these people had not only lived through the constant threat of terrorism, but also Desert Storm, when Saddam Hussein rained Scud missiles upon them and the peril of biological or chemical weapons was an inescapable reality. As a people, the Israelis had grown used to the specter of annihilation.
By the beginning of December, the United Nations Security Council debate over Israel’s continued military presence in the disputed territories had grown into a raging furor. While the Arab nations launched diatribe after diatribe against Israel for maintaining its military bases in the West Bank, the UN ambassador from Spain challenged the Russian representative with a series of harsh questions: “What does Israel possess that you could possibly want? Are you planning to invade the land for citrus fruits and vegetables? Your land is more productive than hers and nearly one thousand times as large!”
The representative from the United Kingdom lodged a rather gentle diplomatic protest, and the American ambassador to the United Nations, Julia Chittendon, scolded Russia and the Arab nations for mobilizing their troops.
But on December 8, when the Security Council voted on the resolution to send troops against Israel to enforce the peace treaty and evacuate the disputed territories, all nine rotating members and the United Kingdom, France, China, and Russia voted in favor. Doubtless bowing to pressure from the incoming Blackstone administration, the American ambassador abstained. The resolution passed.
That night, Michael sat in a vinyl chair on the balcony of his hotel room and watched the city lights of Jerusalem begin to twinkle in the pinkish glow of the setting sun. His laptop sat on the small table next to him, and from the screen Daniel’s last message shone in the faint light of the display:
By now you’ve heard, of course. President Sam personally called Julia Chittendon, but she wouldn’t listen. She’s thinking now of Blackstone.
Ezekiel saw it clearly. He wrote: “Sheba and Dedan and the merchants of Tarshish and all her villages will say to you, ‘Have you come to plunder? Have you gathered your hordes to loot, to carry off silver and gold, to take away livestock and goods and to seize much plunder?’”
The prophet called it, Michael. The other nations went through the motions of chiding Gog and Magog, but they cannot stop him. Time is growing short.
A breeze blew past Michael, bringing with it unintelligible voices from an overhead balcony. More shaken by the day’s events than he cared to admit, he folded his hands on his bent knee and scanned the horizon. Ever since coming to Israel, he had hoped that something would change— Stedman would work a miracle in Congress or Daniel would pull another computer virus out of his bag of tricks and do something to stymie the Russian-Arab armies. But apparently no one could stop the storm blowing toward Israel from the north.
Daniel Prentice’s prophetic ramblings seemed less incredible every day.
Far over the horizon, bright arteries of lightning pulsed in the sky, followed by a low throb of thunder. A thin ribbon of sweat wandered down Michael’s back. A voice in his head whispered that he ought to feel honored to know he was Samuel Stedman’s only hope in the Middle East, apparently the only military operative still working for Israel’s safety. Though less than six weeks remained in Stedman’s term, the president had not ordered him home. Michael interpreted the silence to mean that he was to continue acting on Stedman’s behalf. He had no idea what he would be able to do if the Russians decided to move, but as long as he remained in Israel, he would do what he could. When Blackstone was inaugurated, Michael would almost certainly be recalled immediately.
Somewhere overhead a jetliner whispered through the cloudy sky. Looking up, Michael stared at the low clouds and thought of home. Those same clouds, hovering over a Maryland horizon, would bring snow, just as snow brought Christmas and fir trees, hot chocolate and mittens.
He bent his head, knowing that people at home were thinking more of Christmas and shopping than of Israel and the looming threat of war. Though there wasn’t a Christmas tree or stocking to be found in Old Jerusalem, the Palestinians who occupied Bethlehem were delighted by the hordes of religious pilgrims who would soon flood the ancient shrines and fill their coffers with American dollars and Israeli shekels. The spirit of capitalism thrived even under the shadow of war.
But not even the thought of Christmas and Aunt Margo’s pumpkin pie could entice Michael home this year. Devorah had told him that the latest intelligence reports showed continued Russian-Arab troop movement through the Caucasus, and Muslim revolutionaries were demonstrating on the streets in support of claiming Jerusalem for their own capital. Yasir Arafat’s bizarre claims, scoffed at in years past, now seemed prophetic.
With a shiver of vivid recollection, Michael recalled seeing a 1998 video clip recorded by Palestinian Television. Standing before a cheering crowd, Arafat had proclaimed, “The battle for Jerusalem is a battle of life or death, life or death, life or death!” The mob erupted with shouts and the chattering sound of ululation, a sea of uplifted fists and rifles enforcing his prediction.
Soon, a nation’s life or death would be decided on the sloping mountains of the Golan Heights, the geographic invasion route into Israel since biblical days. Asher Cohen would be among the men defending the nation, Rabbi Cohen and Rabbi Witzun would be among those praying for it. And Devorah . . .
Michael swallowed hard and wrapped his arms about himself. He had not intended to feel anything for Devorah but friendship and camaraderie. He had never considered himself a romantic man, and he didn’t know what to do with the slender delicate thread that had formed between them and entwined their lives.
He closed his eyes and studied the memory of his last love. He and Janis had married soon after high school. While he served his country, their lives were a hopscotch quilt of days spent together and days spent apart. He had truly loved Janis, but with a feeling based upon affection and the exuberance of youth. That love would have deepened with the arrival of their child and the passage of time. If not for the bombing in Lebanon,
he might have retired from the military and gone into the insurance business with Janis’s father, carving out a quiet life in Roanoke, Virginia.
But God had allowed a tragedy . . . and Michael had remained in the military, surrendering himself completely to the job of hunting men. As a SEAL he had learned to shoot and scoot, to kill tangos without hesitation and move out before he had time to think about the death he was leaving behind. Even at the NSA, he had learned to remain detached from his work. He did his job and moved on when the job was done.
A cynical inner voice whispered that he should move on now. Why not? The United Nations had voted. Just as George Bush obtained UN approval to use American troops to force Iraq out of Kuwait, Gogol had just obtained the UN’s blessing to use Russian and Arab troops to drive Israel out of the disputed territories. For the sake of her own survival, Israel would resist with every means in her power, possibly including nuclear weapons. This pleasant Jerusalem mountaintop might soon become a scorched wasteland . . . unless Daniel was right and God really cared about what happened to these contentious people.
Pensively, Michael looked out into the gathering darkness. He could go home, file his last report, congratulate the president on a brave attempt, and go to Aunt Margo’s house for Christmas. Samuel Stedman would certainly understand, and Daniel would agree that Michael had done his job. But if he left now, he’d sacrifice precious weeks with Devorah.
He’d be leaving part of his soul behind if he left her now. She understood him. As part of the IDF’s counterterrorist team, she had learned to live with the thrill of terror, to calm her heartbeat and wait for the striking moment. Like him, she had tasted fear, savored it, learned to use it. She had experienced that plane of heightened emotion only professional soldiers and daredevils ever reach, and she understood him like no other woman he had ever met.
He breathed deep and felt a stab of memory, a broken remnant of the dream he’d had before coming to Israel. He smiled, thinking about Janis and what she had said about his trip. God saved you because he loves you, Michael. He’s always had a plan for you, and the greatest part is yet to come.
By Dawn's Early Light Page 28