By Dawn's Early Light

by Grant R. Jeffrey

  “Have you a protected space?” Michael asked.

  Devorah shook her head. “Every apartment building has one, but tenants are instructed to enter within two minutes of the warning siren. Once everyone is present, the doors are sealed. I couldn’t ask them to open it for me—we may be contaminated at any moment.”

  Michael reached into the space behind her seat and pulled out the two gas masks. “Put this on. I’ll put the other one on Asher.”

  He dropped the mask into Devorah’s lap, but she pushed it away. “What about you? I couldn’t take your mask.”

  “You’re driving. I can’t have you passing out on the road.”

  As Michael leaned over the seat to slip the second mask over Asher’s face, Devorah looked in the rearview mirror and saw her brother’s eyelids flutter at Michael’s touch—a good sign. When Asher’s mask was in place, Michael settled back in his seat and gave her a cocky grin. “I’ve been vaccinated for just about everything you can think of. So go ahead. Put on your mask and drive us out of here.”

  Though she wasn’t certain she believed him, she slipped on the cumbersome gas mask and started the car. Backing carefully through the shifting crowd, she did a three-point turn and moved out, carefully negotiating the road through the limited visibility of the gas mask. It took an hour to drive a distance she usually covered in half that time, but apparently the threat of incoming missiles had frightened most of the terrorists into hiding. The road between Tel Aviv and Ramla was clear, though they passed several burning cars. Just outside Lydda, someone got off a lucky shot and spiderwebbed the windshield. She accelerated as Michael turned to scan the street, his Uzi in hand.

  Once at her apartment, she and Michael carried Asher upstairs. While Michael went back out to bring in the weapons, Devorah tended Asher. He regained consciousness briefly, then smiled through a haze of pain while she cleaned the wound in his thigh. “We’ll get you to a hospital first thing in the morning,” she told him, her voice sounding thick and muffled through her mask. “Fortunately, the blade missed the artery and only scraped the bone, I think. Now go to sleep, and keep this mask on. I’ll check on you in the morning.”

  Asher didn’t speak but closed his eyes and opened them again, signifying his understanding. When she was certain he would sleep, Devorah went downstairs and into the kitchen. Michael stood at the sink with his hands in his pockets, his face turned toward the window. The sun had begun to sink toward the west, and the strong golden rays bathed the kitchen and Michael’s strong profile in a radiant glow.

  Leaning against the doorframe, Devorah resisted an unexpected wave of hot tears. This man had just saved her and her brother, and now he stood, alone and unprotected, against whatever chemicals or biological organisms might be riding the air currents outside. The apartment building had been strangely silent when they entered, and she knew her neighbors, their children, and even their pets were safely tucked into the protected spaces located near the staircase on each floor. They would not come out until the sirens stopped wailing and the all-clear signal was broadcast on television and radio.

  She glanced toward the clock and blinked in amazement when she saw that it was only 3:30. She felt as though she had aged five years in the last three hours.

  Michael moved into the living room and turned on the television. Wordlessly, she followed him and lowered herself to the padded arm of her sofa while he flipped through the channels in search of CNN. After finding the cable station, he stepped back and crossed his arms as the pictures and sound filled the living room.

  Horror snaked down Devorah’s backbone as she watched her worst nightmares flicker across the television screen. The news footage showed Russian troops on the slopes of the Golan Heights and tanks advancing through Syria in long columns. “Israeli bombers have launched preemptive strikes against key military installations in Jordan, Syria, and Lebanon,” the newscaster said, his voice stern and utterly impersonal. “In the first twenty-four hours of the 1967 Six-Day War, Israel had destroyed over three hundred enemy aircraft, but the Israeli Air Defense Forces are hopelessly outnumbered by the Russian jets now threatening Israel’s borders. Israeli bombers have managed to infiltrate Syrian air defenses in several locations, but nothing has stopped the progress of the mighty Russo-Arab army. United Nations officials, of course, are hoping this assault will force Israel to surrender the Palestinian lands so peace can finally come to the Middle East.”

  Shots of Israeli bombers flashed on the screen beneath the newscaster’s words. Those images were followed by video clips of barefoot, bedraggled Syrian children who wept as buildings burned in the background.

  Devorah stared, amazed that the media could cast the IDF in a negative light even as one of the largest armies the world had ever known bore down upon Israel.

  The newscaster turned next to political news, profiling several men and women who were rumored to be Cabinet appointees for president-elect William Blackstone.

  “That’s it?” Devorah didn’t know whether to be surprised or relieved.

  “Apparently so.” Michael punched at the remote and found the local emergency channel, which displayed the bright red and black emergency warning symbol. He muted the sound, then dropped the remote on the sofa and turned to her.

  A silence settled upon them, an absence of sound that had an almost physical density. Devorah lowered her eyes as a wave of emotion threatened to pull her under. “I think I should stay in my room, in case Asher needs anything,” she said, suddenly grateful for the hot confines of the mask over her face. Michael couldn’t see the tears in her eyes and would attribute the thickness of her voice to the mask. “I’ll sleep on the floor there tonight. You can raid the refrigerator, help yourself to anything, and sleep on the couch or the floor in the living room, whatever is most comfortable.”

  A sparkle of sunlight caught his eye as he glanced at her. “Thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  She gestured down the hall. “There’s a bathroom—if you’d like to shower. I think you’re still wearing a coat of desert sand.”

  His smile deepened. “I guess I am.”

  “My computer is by the phone in the kitchen—if you want to try and reach Daniel.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Michael?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  He gave her a smile that sent her pulses racing. “Aw, shucks, ma’am. ’Tweren’t nothing.”

  She had no idea what his words were supposed to mean, but his tone drew her like a magnet. In a heartbeat, her arms were around his shoulders, her head pressed to his chest. For an instant he stood motionless, as still as a statue, then his hand swept the tangle of curls that spilled from the straps of her awkward mask. She thought, she hoped, she was almost certain he pressed his lips to the top of her head.

  “There, now.” His tender voice was as intimate as a kiss. “Go take care of your brother. I’ll make myself at home here and see you in the morning.”

  Sniffling, she pulled out of his embrace, then realized that crying and protective gear did not mix. She’d be drowning in her gas mask if she didn’t get a hold of herself.

  She walked through the kitchen and into the hallway, then turned. He had moved to the kitchen sink and rolled up his sleeves. He was soaping his hands and arms, washing his skin with the diligence of a surgeon scrubbing for surgery.

  “I hope I see you in the morning,” she whispered, knowing that an unexpected attack in the night could end it all.

  She turned and walked slowly toward her bedroom, wondering if any of them would wake to see another day.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Ramla, Israel

  0600 hours

  Thursday, December 21

  The twenty-fourth day of Kislev, 5761

  A DULL RUMBLE PENETRATED AND SHOOK THE MISTY WORLD OF DEVORAH’S dream. She clung to the soft darkness as hard as she could, burying her face in her pillow, then swam up into the space between sleeping and waking, knowing that her world
had undeniably shifted on its axis.

  She sat up in the heavy gray light of her bedroom, felt the soft nubs of her carpet beneath her palms, and heard the stertorous sounds of Asher’s breathing. That was all—just the sounds of quiet, punctuated by Asher’s snoring breaths. The warning sirens had fallen silent.

  She pulled the cumbersome mask from her face, then took a moment to breathe in the clean scents of fresh air.

  The world shifted dizzily as the events of the past forty-eight hours came back with a rush. She closed her eyes until it righted itself, then leaned onto her bed and pressed her palm to Asher’s forehead. His skin was cool and clammy, thank heaven, not feverish. She lifted the gas mask from his face as well and noticed that his brows lifted in an expression that looked like gratitude.

  She felt the corner of her mouth lift in a smile when Asher shifted beneath her touch. He was going to be fine. Just a little rest, a few stitches, and he’d be back to work.

  Work! She glanced at the alarm clock, which had begun to jangle and skitter across the nightstand, its hard plastic feet tapping the laminated tabletop like a pair of castanets. In horrified amazement she watched the clock finish its course and drop with a soft plop onto the carpet.

  She picked up the clock, stunned. She hadn’t set the alarm, so why—

  She froze at the sound of breaking dishes, then stood and ran for the stairs.

  Wearing his trousers, a pair of socks, and a sincerely baffled expression, Michael stood in the kitchen before an open cupboard. “What is it?” she asked, her eyes taking in the rattling pottery on the floor and countertop. “A missile?” Another clattering caught her attention—in the living room, a bookshelf spilled its bounty while a pair of framed photographs danced off the coffee table and shattered on the stone fireplace hearth. Michael swept her laptop computer off the kitchen table and held it, protecting it from the same fate.

  Michael looked up, his eyes roving over the shuddering walls and ceiling. “I think this is an earthquake. Look.”

  He pointed toward the seam between the kitchen wall and ceiling. Stepping forward, Devorah saw that the plaster had cracked—before her eyes, an ugly fissure zigzagged down the wall, creating a gap between the plaster and the surface beneath it. She gripped the kitchen counter as the rumbling began again, stronger this time. The cupboard doors swung on their hinges as if blown by a strong wind; the stove jostled forward while the plumbing groaned beneath the sink.

  “I’ve lived here all my life,” she said, lifting her voice to be heard above the noise, “and we’ve never had an earthquake!”

  “Under the table!”

  Michael pushed the kitchen chairs out of the way and pulled Devorah under the table just as another stack of dishes slid to the edge of the cupboard and fell, shattering on the edge of the counter and the tile floor.

  She clapped her hand over her ears to block the noise. “What about Asher?”

  “He’ll be fine—as long as the roof holds.” Slipping his arms around her, Michael held her tight as the rumbling died away. A moment later, they crawled out from beneath the table and stepped carefully through the broken glass. Devorah took a moment to run upstairs and check her brother— he had slept through the entire thing.

  “Don’t move,” Devorah cautioned as she came back into the kitchen. She tiptoed toward the pantry. “The broom’s in here.”

  While Devorah swept away the mess, Michael plugged in Devorah’s laptop and accessed her e-mail program. She had just put the broom away when she heard him shout.

  “What?”

  “A message from Daniel.” He pointed to the computer screen. “I was going to read this yesterday, but we left Tel Aviv in a hurry and the phone lines were tied up last night.”

  Devorah wiped her dusty hands on a dishtowel as she moved toward the computer. As usual, Daniel’s message was relevant and to the point:

  Dear Michael and Devorah:

  Read Ezekiel 38:18–39:6. You’ll find a map of tomorrow’s activities. I have a hunch the day will begin with movin’ and shakin’.

  oh, and you don’t have to worry about the Dead Hand. As of midnight, the Dead Hand is off-line. I inserted a bug into the program that’s going to be nibbling at the Russians’ programs for some time to come. Might even cause them some problems in the field.

  Just doing my little bit for truth and justice. God is going to do the big stuff.

  Daniel

  Michael looked at Devorah, a gleam of triumph in his eyes. “Daniel sent this yesterday.”

  Despite the good news, she felt a sudden chill. “How could he know we were going to have an earthquake? What is he, a seismologist?”

  “Do you have a copy of the Hebrew Bible? The writings of Ezekiel?”

  Devorah nodded, then walked slowly toward the living room. Her books were strewn all over the floor, partially hidden by the collapsed bookshelves. “It’ll take me a minute to find what I’m looking for,” she called, sobered by the frightening possibility that the writings she had ignored for years might be more relevant than today’s newspaper.

  She finally found the book she needed under a stack of contemporary novels. She blew the dust from the worn cover then took the volume into the kitchen and handed it to Michael. He opened it, then laughed and handed the book back to her. “You’ll have to read it, sweetheart. My Hebrew isn’t all it should be.”

  Blushing, she took the copy of Scriptures and flipped through the pages, from right to left, until she found the writings of the prophet Ezekiel. With a quick intake of breath, she began to translate the passage Daniel had mentioned: “And it shall come to pass at the same time when Gog shall come against the land of Israel, saith the Lord GOD, that my fury shall come up in my face. For in my jealousy and in the fire of my wrath have I spoken, surely in that day there shall be a great shaking in the land of Israel; so that the fishes of the sea, and the fowls of the heaven, and the beasts of the field, and all creeping things that creep upon the earth, and all the men that are upon the face of the earth, shall shake at my presence, and the mountains shall be thrown down, and the steep places shall fall, and every wall shall fall to the ground. And I will call for a sword against him throughout all my mountains, saith the Lord GOD; every man’s sword shall be against his brother. And I will plead against him with pestilence and with blood; and I will rain upon him, and upon his bands, and upon the many people that are with him, an overflowing rain, and great hailstones, fire, and brimstone. Then will I magnify myself, and sanctify myself; and I will be known in the eyes of many nations, and they shall know that I am the LORD.

  “Therefore, thou son of man, prophesy against Gog, and say, ‘Thus saith the Lord GOD; Behold, I am against thee, O Gog, the chief prince of Meshech and Tubal: And I will turn thee back, and leave but the sixth part of thee, and will cause thee to come up from the north parts, and will bring thee upon the mountains of Israel: And I will smite thy bow out of thy left hand, and will cause thine arrows to fall out of thy right hand. Thou shalt fall upon the mountains of Israel, thou, and all thy bands, and the people that is with thee: I will give thee unto the ravenous birds of every sort, and to the beasts of the field to be devoured. Thou shalt fall upon the open field, for I have spoken it, saith the Lord GOD. And I will send a fire on Magog, and among them that dwell carelessly in the isles; and they shall know that I am the LORD.’”

  When she had finished reading, Devorah sat in a stunned huddle, the book resting upon her lap.

  Michael broke the silence. “God’s vengeance has begun.”

  She winced slightly, as if her flesh had been nipped by an unseen hand. “But—fire and brimstone? Surely we aren’t meant to take this literally—”

  “God’s judgment began with an earthquake this morning, on the twenty-fourth day of the month of Kislev, just as Daniel and the rabbi predicted. And it will continue, just as Ezekiel said, with fire and rain and plague and men killing one another.”

  Devorah ran her hand through her hair, her mind whirli
ng. Thoughts she dared not formulate came welling up, an ugly horde of them. She had based her life upon the simple belief that God helped those who helped themselves, but if Michael was right and all these things came to pass, God didn’t need her help. He didn’t need any of them—not the Strategic Defense Command, not the Americans, not the nuclear arsenal. He wouldn’t need anything to defend Israel.

  She scrambled to her feet and left the book of Scriptures on the table. “This is all crazy,” she said, folding her hands across her chest. “The earthquake is undoubtedly due to an explosion, maybe a bomb or a missile. I don’t know why Gogol and his army didn’t blow us off the face of the earth last night—the defense systems must be holding far better than we thought they would.” She flung out her hands, gesturing to the mess in her kitchen and the cracked walls. “That’s all this is. Reverberations from a missile that struck near here. Or maybe vibrations from a launch of one of our missiles. They could be launching Patriots from across the street, for all we know. Or maybe your president sent those F-22s, and we’re hearing the sonic booms from a couple of jets doing mach three—”

  “Negative on that,” Michael murmured, tapping at the keyboard. “According to this message from the head of the Joint Chiefs, the weapons intended for Israel are presently sitting at an Italian air base—grounded by a nasty weather formation over Israel. They haven’t made it in, and they probably won’t, at least not until the weather clears.”

  “There are still a thousand things that could explain all this. Geological faults, the bad weather, the sonic booms from all the jet activity—” Devorah raked her fingers through her hair again, realizing that she was babbling to cover her confusion.

  Michael looked at her, an impudent grin on his face. “So what do we do now?”