The floor rushed toward her. Alanna felt the carpet against her cheek, smelled its musty odor, saw a single rose petal before her eyes, and it was white, as pure as the light from the windows, as perfect as the place where she’d find herself when she opened her eyes again.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
From: D. Prentice
To: Michael Reed
Date: Friday, December 15, 2000 7:15 p.m.
Subject: Alanna James Ivanova
Dear Michael:
We would be naive to think we could mount a war against evil without experiencing casualties. Lauren and I were saddened to hear that Alanna James Ivanova, whom you knew as “Alanna from Moscow” died this week. According to the report given to Irene Nance, the American ambassador’s wife, Alanna died in her sleep from an undiagnosed heart defect. Because she was the widow of a Russian citizen, she was buried quietly and, from all accounts, quickly.
Alanna was a brave soul. We shall miss her.
D.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Jerusalem
0915 hours
Tuesday, December 19
AS THE DAYS OF DECEMBER SLOWLY TICKED BY WITHOUT INCIDENT, MICHAEL felt some of the tension ease out of his neck and shoulders. The Russian troops were still advancing, several of the Arab nations had begun to mobilize, and a contingent of UN troops had landed in Lebanon and set up peacekeeping bases along the southern border. But such movements, he knew, were mere posturing in the grim ballet of war. If Israel decided to close even one of the disputed military bases, or if any of the advancing armies tired of shadowboxing, the entire situation could dissolve and the advancing armies would turn homeward.
Michael skimmed the daily IDF intelligence reports with grim satisfaction. Despite their histrionics and hyperbole, the Arab armies were unlikely to rush into the theater of war, no matter how well the Russians had trained them. In four other wars Israel had managed to defeat them against all odds, and the experience had left the Arabs undeniably skittish.
Michael had lived and worked under the cloud of impending war before, and he knew it could be weeks, even months, before the storm either broke or blew away. Daniel stood by his prediction of December 21 as the date when God would deliver Israel, but when December 19 dawned without an enemy in sight, Michael took a moment to send a quick e-mail to his friend: “Hey, buddy: Two days out, and all is quiet here. I think you got your years mixed up!”
He found himself humming a Christmas carol as he dressed. Because he knew Devorah would want to be with her family at Chanukah, he had planned a festive brunch at his hotel. She was supposed to meet him at ten for a quick bite before they left for the air base at Uvda.
She was waiting in the lobby when he came downstairs.
“You’re early.” He resisted the urge to kiss her cheek.
She shrugged. “I picked up my files at the base and decided to read them later. Besides,” she said, grinning, “I am starving.”
Michael slipped the waiter a generous tip and asked for one of the tables out in the sunny courtyard. After the waiter seated them, Michael whisked two small objects out of his coat pocket—a four-inch Christmas tree and a five-inch menorah, complete with tiny candles. Grinning, he set them in the center of the linen-covered table.
For once she was speechless. “You are insane,” she whispered, the light of appreciation glowing in her eyes.
Michael folded his hands and leaned toward her. “All quiet on the northern front this morning?”
“Nothing has changed.” She unfolded her napkin and dropped it into her lap, then reached out to touch the tiny bristles on the Christmas tree. Her smile relaxed as she looked up at him. “I’ve always wanted to decorate a tree, you know. But my father would faint if I even suggested such a thing.”
“Lots of interfaith families in America celebrate both holidays.” Michael took pains to keep his voice light. “They have a tree and a menorah and treat each holiday as special. After all, the dates do run together.”
She gave him a warning look that put an immediate damper on his rising spirits. “I don’t think I like the way this conversation is going.”
He swallowed his disappointment and looked out at the street, where scores of shoppers moved up and down the sidewalk in a restless throng. “Then we’ll talk about something else.”
“That’s probably best.”
Michael didn’t answer but let the silence stretch between them. Long ago he had learned that all you had to do to make someone talk was stop talking yourself—most people were so uncomfortable with silence that they naturally babbled to fill the emptiness. But Devorah was at ease with quiet and with him, so she wrapped her fingers around her water goblet and joined him in watching the street.
While Devorah ordered, Michael kept his eyes on the ebbing tide of street traffic and struggled to get a handle on his emotions. He had never intended to feel this way about an Israeli woman—he had never thought he’d feel this way again. But Devorah had crept into the empty places of his heart and filled them with her brightness. The thought of leaving Israel without her filled him with despair.
He found himself following the timber of her voice as she asked the waiter about a dish on the menu. Michael deliberately focused his gaze outward, watching a young man who struggled to pedal a bicycle against the steep slope of the street. Two bulging bags hung over the bicycle’s back wheel, and the man stood on the pedals, forcing his weight to push the bike up the hill. Despite the cool air, sweat streamed down the man’s temple and into his dark beard, darkening the red scarf tied at his neck.
For no reason at all, the man on the bike turned his head and caught Michael’s eye. While Michael watched with an eerie sense of déjà vu, the line of the man’s mouth curved, a sudden twitch in the darkly bearded face, and the hair on the back of Michael’s neck rose with premonition. Prodded by some long-buried instinct, he rose from his chair as the cyclist turned the handlebars and darted across the road, bringing a car to a screeching halt. The young man careened through a crowded marketplace where women and tourists gathered around open-air booths, then he turned again and sent a gleeful smile winging across the street . . . toward Michael.
His heart contracted like a squeezed fist.
“May I take your order, sir?”
Michael lifted his hand, and in that instant the market exploded. Michael flinched, then pushed the scrambling waiter aside in an effort to reach Devorah, but she had already ducked beneath the table. Michael slipped to the ground and used the low brick courtyard railing for cover. Dust and debris rained down through air filled with smoke and sound.
Michael’s ears rang from the concussion of the explosion, but after a moment he crawled under the table and reached out to Devorah.
“Are you all right?” he asked, anxiously searching her face for lacerations.
With her hands braced on the concrete flooring, Devorah nodded. “I’m fine. What was that?”
Michael peered out over the tabletop and scanned the carnage in the marketplace. “I think it was a bicyclist. I saw this guy ride by just before the explosion, and he grinned at me like he knew I knew what he was about to do.”
The words had scarcely left his mouth when another boom echoed from a different part of the city. Devorah’s eyes widened further, then the pager at her waist emitted a dull throbbing sound.
She glanced at her belt. “It’s 101—the emergency signal. I have to return to the base.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Michael took her arm and led her out of the pandemonium, then sprinted with her to her car.
Twenty minutes later, they stood in a briefing room outside the ground corps commander’s office. “The PLO has apparently orchestrated strikes in every city,” the major general told them. Droplets of sweat ran down his pale face, but his eyes glinted with determination. “We believe this is a diversion for the troops amassed on our north
ern, eastern, and southern borders. We are sending police and reservists to combat the terrorist strikes while our active duty personnel remain on full alert at their bases. The air force has already sent up E-2C Hawkeyes to assess the developing situation.”
Devorah caught Michael’s eye and mouthed three words: “It has begun.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
District of Columbia
0800 hours
STANDING IN THE VERMEIL ROOM, SAMUEL STEDMAN LACED HIS HANDS BEHIND his back and smiled at a group of sixth graders who had come to sing carols before the White House Christmas tree. Victoria had always insisted upon placing the tree in this room, where the portraits of six serene first ladies brought a touch of personality to the austere surroundings.
One of the sixth graders caught Sam’s eye, and he smiled, remembering how Jessica had looked at that age. Elementary and middle school had passed too quickly; he had been on the road with political campaigns during her concerts, athletic events, and school parties. He would give anything to relive those years.
“O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, how lovely are your branches.”
Sam steered his thoughts away from painful memories and forced himself to smile at the children. They were from a small school in Maryland and had probably sold dozens of cookies and brownies to raise the money for this trip to Washington. For their sakes, he needed to honestly enjoy their singing.
Jack Powell stepped into the room, nodded at one of the group’s chaperones, then strode across the carpet, ignoring the choir director. Sam felt his smile freeze—Jack was either being uncommonly rude, or a true disaster had just occurred.
Jack came forward, caught Sam’s arm, and leaned in. “Word from Israel, Mr. President.” His voice dissolved in a thready whisper. “The invasion has begun.”
Sam felt a cold panic start somewhere between his shoulder blades and prickle down his spine. He had hoped—oh, how he had hoped—that the Russians would wait until he left office. Then he could sit in the solitude of his North Carolina cabin and call down curses upon Blackstone until his throat ached. But now he would have to act. He was still president of the United States.
Sam leaned forward, grateful that the children were still singing. Perhaps the sound of their music would drown out the pounding beat of his heart. “Assemble the members of my Cabinet and the National Security Council. We will meet in an hour. First, though, I will need some time alone in my office.”
Powell nodded and stalked out of the room, and Sam forced himself to casually tap his foot to the gentle rhythm of the children’s song. He’d listen to one more selection, then he’d thank them and send them home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Jerusalem
1510 hours
ALONE IN HIS OFFICE AT THE YESHIVA, BARAM COHEN CLOSED THE DOOR AND adjusted the venetian blinds that covered the window facing the outer hallway. The window to the street he left open, and through the panes he heard the sound of gunshots in the distance, like the thin crack of breaking sticks. These were the sounds of terrorists doing their best to strike fear in the hearts of God’s people. Earlier he had heard explosions and felt the brick building tremble as it shuddered in sympathy for the city.
The yeshiva had sent its students home to brace for whatever evil was approaching. The halls now echoed with silence broken only by the occasional sound from outside and priestly prayers.
Closing his eyes, Baram pulled his prayer shawl over his head, then lifted his hands and began the ritual chant of his afternoon prayers. He had just completed Ashrei when a cloud shadowed the yeshiva, filling the small room with a cold, almost palpable darkness.
Baram fell silent as the wings of shadowy foreboding brushed his spirit. Now frigid air swept across the backs of his legs, and his scalp tingled beneath his prayer shawl. An evil presence seemed to fill the room with the reeking stench of an animal’s breath.
Icy fear twisted around Baram’s heart as he closed his eyes and lifted his thoughts to the Creator of the universe. “Master of the world who was king before any form was created,” he prayed, his voice hoarse, “He is One, and there is no second to compare to him or be his equal. He is my God and my living Redeemer, and the Rock of my fate in times of distress. He is my banner and He is a refuge for me, my portion on the day I cry out.”
Another explosion rocked the city, this one quite close. Baram clenched his fists as the crackling roar faded, then held his breath during the silent moment between the blast and the screams that would follow. “Into your hand I entrust my spirit,” he whispered, hearing a note halfway between disbelief and pleading in his voice. “When I sleep and when I wake, HaShem is with me and I am not afraid.”
He lowered his head, knowing with pulse-pounding certainty that the time had come. The great sages had predicted the birth pangs of the anointed one; they had foretold the Ikvot Meshicha, the terrible time just before the Messiah appears. Baram himself had noted the increase in pride, wars, poverty, foolishness, and lack of respect for elders and righteous men. His own children had departed from the true path, preferring to walk with those who would establish a secular Jewish state and not Eretz Yisroel, the promised kingdom of God.
“Now I understand,” he said, bowing his head as tears welled within his eyes, “why the ancient ones prayed, ‘Let the Messiah come, but at a time when I will not see him.’ We have suffered through the ages, but it is not enough. I will praise you, HaShem, but first I will bow my head with sorrow for the things that must come.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
From: Michael Reed
To: President Samuel Stedman
Date: Tuesday, December 19, 2000 7:04 p.m.
Subject: Attack Commencement
Dear Mr. President:
As I am certain you know, the allied Russian-Arab attack commenced with the shelling of Bet She’an at 1500 hours. The IDF ground forces were anticipating a strike and responded in kind, and the air defense forces thus far have kept the invaders outside Israel’s borders.
The situation is being exacerbated, however, by PLo strikes within cities.
We have not had a moment’s rest since the terrorist strikes began at 1000 hours, Jerusalem time.
Please, sir. I know the situation is difficult, but we could use any help you can authorize. I will continue with my efforts to aid IDF officials unless directed otherwise.
Thank you, sir, for any help you can give.
Capt. Michael Reed
SAMUEL STEDMAN STARED AT THE MESSAGE FORWARDED FROM DANIEL PRENTICE, then turned away with a feeling of shame, as though he had abandoned someone drowning. What could he do?
Jack Powell sat across from him, a copy of Reed’s message in his hand. “I can’t believe you’ve kept him over there.” A critical tone lined Powell’s voice. “After that fiasco at the Knesset, I thought you’d bring him home.”
“Reed did what he had to do to save those people. I’d send him again if I had to.”
“And you’d pay for it again, too.”
Sam ignored the comment. Powell had convinced himself that the brouhaha over American involvement at the Knesset situation had turned the entire campaign in Blackstone’s favor, but Sam knew better. He’d lost because the American people had been duped. While Blackstone and the pundits turned a blind eye to blatant anti-Semitism in the United Nations, Sam had quietly been trying to help Israel in a tangible way. The world was preparing to grab that tiny nation by the throat while Blackstone and the UN choked America with a string of lies.
Powell leaned into the lamplight, which accented the lines of heartsickness and weariness on his face. “Sam, it’s over. I know you have a soft spot in your heart for Israel, but the American people would have a fit if you authorized a military strike on those Russian troops. You’d be committing us to World War III.”
Sam clenched his mouth tighter. “The War Powers Act allows me to commit troops for sixty days without congressional authorization.”<
br />
“You don’t have sixty days left. If you sent our people over, Blackstone would pull those troops back ten minutes after he’s sworn in. You would have risked our national security, spent millions to mobilize a peacetime army, and for what? So they can go over there and trade blows with the Russians for a couple of weeks? Forget it, Sam. You can’t do this—especially at Christmas. You can’t expect America’s mothers to get behind the idea of sending their boys overseas during the holidays.”
“What about America’s Jewish mothers?” Sam’s voice coagulated with sarcasm. “They aren’t celebrating Christmas.”
“They don’t want their sons killed, either. Listen, Sam—America’s Jews don’t see themselves as part of Israel. If they believed in Zionism, they’d have emigrated long ago. They’re Americans, and they don’t want to go to war, not for anybody.” A shadow of annoyance crossed Powell’s face. “Sam, we’ve already done a lot. America has been Israel’s best friend. We’ve sold them weapons and technology and satellites. We’ve provided foreign aid packages paid for with billions of American tax dollars. And I’m telling you straight—unless you want to go down in history as a president who left office in a cloud of shame, you’ll let Israel take care of herself this time. We can’t afford to lose the ground we’ve gained in our relations with the Russians, and we don’t dare risk our access to Arab oil.”
Silence, thick as fog, wrapped itself around them. Sam stared past his chief of staff for a long moment. “I could order the Sixth Fleet to move closer. Not to engage the enemy, but merely to intimidate.”
Powell gave him a black look. “The Russian fleet is in the Mediterranean. You think they are going to understand that we’re just bluffing? It’s too great a risk, sir. They might fire on us, and if a single American boy dies, you’ll be vilified in every paper from here to Kalamazoo. Blackstone has sold our people on the concept of peace and safety and cast you as a war-mongering wolf. You can’t risk sending our people in.”
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