He had to get away. He would drive out of the area and take a chopper to an allied air base. They would launch another assault tomorrow, and another, as many as it took to rid the earth of the Jews.
Staring through the round circles of the gas mask, he lowered his head and kept his eyes on the rutted road. Bolts of lightning chased each other across the dark sky, as white and jagged as the bones of sun-bleached skeletons. The wind blew at the vehicle, raining sand upon the windshield, while Vladimir inhaled air so hot and wet he felt as though he were breathing through a vinyl-scented towel.
The vehicle bumped heavily over the road, and he crunched the gears, trying to work the sluggish trailer up to speed. The wind blew stronger now, and blowing sand obscured his vision. He pressed down on the brake and leaned forward to squint through the narrow windshield.
The men in his camp were dying. Several lay face down in the sand, others convulsed before his eyes, their hands reaching toward him like claws. The Sarin cloud had descended.
Setting his jaw in determination, Vladimir applied his foot to the accelerator and moved steadily through the gloom. If not for this mask he’d be on the ground, too. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he brought his fingers to the round filter cover at the end of the mask and felt for the reassuring rim of the lifesaving filter.
He couldn’t feel it.
Vladimir felt a sudden darkness behind his eyes. He slammed on the brake, a chilly dew forming on his skin as he lifted both hands and clutched at the round protuberance that jutted from the end of his mask. He lifted up the vinyl cover and gouged his thumbnail into the space between the two heavy layers of plastic, seeking the filter’s rim . . . and felt nothing.
He’d grabbed a mask without checking its filter . . . so he was breathing the same air as the dying men outside. He sniffled, then noted with professional detachment that he was already experiencing the first symptom of Sarin poisoning.
He wrenched the mask from his head and stared out the window at the empty pewter sky. This was a place of death, a cursed place of ruins and rocks. In a moment the pupils of his eyes would contract and he would have difficulty seeing, in two minutes he would feel as if a tank were sitting on his chest. These symptoms would be followed in rapid succession by nausea and vomiting, cramps and involuntary loss of bodily functions, twitching, jerking, convulsion, coma, and death.
His throat burned already; his mouth felt as dry as sandpaper.
He stumbled out from behind the steering wheel and moved toward the computer on his desk. With trembling fingers he accessed his e-mail program, then typed the first three letters of Romulus’s electronic address. Thankfully, the program picked up the thread and filled in the blank spaces.
Vladimir tabbed down to the message area and struggled to type on a keyboard he could no longer clearly see. His fingers seemed to have lost all coordination, however, and a sudden spasm of his chest muscles caught him off guard, pulling him to the floor.
Below his half-finished message, the laptop’s cursor blinked patiently:
Kill them all __
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Jerusalem
1203 hours
Friday, December 22
WHILE ASHER SNORED IN THE EASY CHAIR, NO LESS THE WORSE FOR HIS experience in the desert, Michael and Devorah sat in the prim parlor of her father’s house. The rabbi had not yet returned to Jerusalem, but Devorah had wanted to keep an eye on Asher and check on the condition of her father’s house after the earthquake.
Now Michael sat next to her on the sofa watching the television tuned to CNN. Forced to operate out of an affiliated office in Charleston, South Carolina, that network had sent its cameras around the world to survey the damage brought about by the war they were now calling “Gogol’s Invasion.”
Though few reporters correctly linked the war with God’s supernatural deliverance of his people, none could deny the significance of the worldwide earthquake that coincided with the Russian general’s advance. Cities around the world had trembled in the earthquake that rumbled beneath Israel at dawn on December 21, and portions of Tokyo, Athens, Rome, Sydney, San Francisco, and Mexico City had been reduced to rubble. Seismologists were still struggling to explain how the quake’s shock waves seemed to grow stronger as they spread from the epicenter of Jerusalem. “We can only surmise that this was a cataclysmic, extraordinary event,” one seismologist told a CNN reporter. “Some religious leaders are saying the source is supernatural, but there has to be a scientific explanation. We just haven’t discovered it yet.”
As incredible as the earthquake was, the reports of nuclear devastation were far more compelling. According to the latest reports, more than twenty nuclear warheads had been launched at key cities in the United States, including most of the military installations on the East and West Coasts. Most of the nuclear missiles had been detected and successfully intercepted, but New York, Atlanta, Washington D.C., and Los Angeles had had been targeted for multistrike attacks and sustained overwhelming damage.
In those cities, the Federal Emergency Management Agency had stepped in to declare martial law. President Stedman had escaped injury only because he had decided to spend Christmas away from Washington; Vice President John Miller was counted among the known dead. Though the capital had been annihilated, due to the holiday break, every congressional representative had survived.
A flash of wild grief ripped through Michael as he watched the newscasts. With the single exception of Pearl Harbor, no American city had ever been bombed by a foreign power. The horror of nuclear war left him speechless. His eyes filled as he saw burned children screaming, mothers weeping for their dead babies, angry fathers venting their frustration and pain in violence. Michael had grown accustomed to the face of war, but even he had tended to compartmentalize it—war was something that happened to other countries in faraway places. In the constant flow of televised images, he realized how false his assumptions had been.
America was vulnerable—more vulnerable than he had realized. And now Americans were suffering even more than the Israelis. God had stepped in to defend his chosen people and his holy city.
Shifting on the sofa, Devorah turned to look at him, her eyes shining moist and her voice husky. “How are you feeling?”
He shook his head and shrugged, unable to find words to convey his thoughts. Daniel Prentice, wherever he was, had been right about everything, though he had taken his cues from a couple of prophets who had been dead for over two thousand years. If the prophets could predict this war, they could predict other future events, too . . . and Michael intended to find out what would happen next.
He would never again waste time with doubt. He’d be ready.
Devorah reached out and pressed her hand to his shoulder in a compassionate caress. He did not look at her, for he knew what that touch, here in her father’s house where such things were forbidden, had cost her.
The CNN camera was now focused on Adrian Romulus, who wore an expression of shocked sympathy as he toured the outskirts of the war-torn cities with William Blackstone. At one point in the photo op, Blackstone stopped and stared into the camera. “The blame for this devastation can be laid only at the feet of one man—Samuel Stedman. Stedman has been covertly aiding Israel throughout his term, and I promise to undertake a full investigation. As soon as I am inaugurated, we will discover the truth about what caused this tragedy and we will make reparation to the families who have suffered unspeakable loss. We will rebuild. We will overcome war and hate and destruction!”
The scene changed, and footage of a flaming Mississippi synagogue blazed across the television screen. “Bill Blackstone blames President Stedman, but most residents in this coastal town blame Israel for yesterday’s horror,” the news reporter said. “And though the Russian government has apologized for the deadly attacks, said to have been triggered by an outmoded automated defense system, Americans are in no mood for forgiveness.” Devorah lowered her head and pushed at a wayward dark curl. “My father a
lways said anti-Semitism would run rampant in the last days.”
Michael looked at her. “You sound like a believer.”
“Perhaps I am.” A smile trembled over her lips. “In the last two days I have seen things that cannot be explained by logic or reason or technology. They must have sprung from the hand of God.” She trembled slightly, as though a chilly breeze had just blown over her. “Do you remember the Sukkot service? We recited the traditional psalms that night, and I haven’t been able to get the words out of my mind.”
She looked up at him, alert and present, but with the traces of memory in her eyes. “It is better to trust in the LORD than to put confidence in man,” she whispered. “It is better to trust in the LORD than to put confidence in princes. All nations compassed me about: but in the name of the LORD will I destroy them. They compassed me about like bees; they are quenched as the fire of thorns: for in the name of the LORD I will destroy them.”
She lifted her brows and smiled, waiting for him to respond, but Michael stared at her with deadly concentration. “I’m afraid I wasn’t following much that night. Most of the prayers were in Hebrew.”
Her smile deepened into laughter. “Sorry, I forgot. But don’t you see? The psalmist wrote about the very thing that has happened in the State of Israel. We were surrounded by a swarm of nations, but God himself swatted them away. In the end, it wasn’t our weapons or America or even luck that saved us—it was the hand of God. I see that now . . . so clearly.”
Michael said nothing but reached out and ran his hand over her riotous hair as he pretended to turn his attention back to the television. Some part of him was thrilled that Devorah had found her way back to the faith of her father, but another part wanted to curl up and protect the place in his heart only she had managed to touch.
He pressed his hand to her head, his heart swelling with a feeling he had thought long dead. He loved her. He dredged the admission from a place beyond logic and reason and knew he could never confess the truth. Loving her would mean taking her away from her people and her home, and he could no more do that than he could remain in Israel. Soon he would be needed at home, in the service of his country, just as Devorah would be needed in Israel.
As the knowledge twisted and turned inside him, he sighed heavily and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Look, I’m really tired,” he said, hunching forward. “Why don’t you show me where I can bed down? I’ll see you in the morning.”
A new anguish seared his heart when she stood, her face bleak with hurt. “You can sleep in Asher’s room,” she said, her voice polite and distant. “Good night, Captain Reed.”
Adrian Romulus pressed the button on the limo, then closed his eyes in relief as the dark-tinted glass rose silently to block the sights, sounds, and smells of the devastation around him. For a few days he had actually hoped Gogol might pull it off, but then the dark voice whispered in Romulus’s dream, and he knew Gogol would fail.
It was part of the Master’s plan. One man would fall so another might rise. One nation would be humbled so others would be chastised and another would be thrust into the blinding white light of international attention.
Israel sat in the spotlight now, that valiant little nation whose capital, Jerusalem, would soon become Romulus’s footstool. Jerusalem, the Holy City, would be his once he had wooed and won the Jewish people to his side. Like any intelligent suitor, Romulus knew just what would win the affections of a shy bride.
A temple. Rising white and gold on the mountain of God, dwarfing the sons of men.
“The driver wants to know where you want to go, Adrian.” Elijah Reis’s voice, dark and smooth, broke into Romulus’s thoughts.
Romulus thought for a moment, then opened his eyes and gave his companion a confident smile. “The nearest functional airport,” he said, letting his hand fall upon Elijah’s. “We have important plans to make and a conference to organize. I want to go home.”
He crossed his hands at his waist and closed his eyes again, settling back into the car’s upholstery as Elijah lowered the slide and gave instructions to the driver.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
0800 hours
Saturday, December 23
IN THE SPARE BEDROOM OF THE RABBI’S HOUSE, MICHAEL AWOKE ON A CLEAR Sabbath morning to the sound of dancing and music. An odd impromptu marching band moved down the cobbled length of Etyopya Street, the clarinet and cymbals celebrating the defeat of General Gogol and his multinational force.
Michael pulled on a pair of Asher’s sweatpants and moved into the living room. Devorah stood at the window, one hand holding back the edge of a curtain. The warm sunlight of early morning shone on her face, gilding its loveliness, and Michael caught his breath.
He clenched his fists, restraining his natural impulses. Not now. Not ever. He would ruin a beautiful friendship if he thought that way.
He tucked his hands securely under his arms and moved to stand beside her, forcing his eyes to remain on the street outside. “Quite a celebration, hmm?”
She hit him with a sudden smile that made his heart turn over. “Quite. The news has been playing on television since six. General Gogol is dead, a victim of his own chemical weapon. It’s too early to tell, but it would appear that nearly 80 percent of the troops encamped around Israel are dead.”
“Eighty-three point thirty-three percent,” Michael whispered, taking pains to keep his eyes focused on the street musicians.
“You heard the report?”
“I read Ezekiel. The prophet predicted that only one in six of Gog’s army would survive the devastation. That’s an 83.33 percent mortality rate.”
Devorah bit her lip and let the curtain fall. “I ought to wake Asher. He should be enjoying this, too.”
“Wait.” The word slipped from Michael’s lips before he could stop it. “Before you go—”
Her steady gaze bore into him in silent expectation. “Yes, Michael?”
“Devorah.” Against his will, his hands reached out, touched her shoulders, slipped down her arms. Even in her mother’s old chenille robe and with her hair askew, she radiated a vitality that drew him like a magnet. “I’m sorry I hurt you last night. And before you wake Asher, there’s something we need to discuss.”
She looked away, but he knew she could tell what he meant.
Driven by a sense of urgency, he brought one hand to the warmth of her neck. “Devorah, my work here is finished. In less than a month, William Blackstone will be sworn in as the next U.S. president. He’ll yank me back to Fort Meade as soon as he can.”
A rush of pink stained her cheek. “Do you have to go?”
“Do I have a reason to stay?”
She looked at him then, and at the base of her throat a pulse beat and swelled as though her heart had risen from its usual place. Michael pulled her close, relishing the swirling heat that drew them together and the rush of blood through his veins. Her touch made him forget where he was even as his mind warned him he had no business pursuing a relationship that would destroy everything Devorah held dear.
She reached up, placed her hands along the sides of his face, and smiled at him through her tears. “You have given me so much,” she whispered, admiration and affection radiating from the dark depths of her eyes. “Tell me what to do.”
His arms tightened and drew her close as his common sense skittered into the shadows. He lowered his head, about to kiss her, then the abrupt slam of a car door brought him back to his senses.
As footsteps scraped over the cobblestones and the front door creaked open, Michael and Devorah reluctantly parted. Michael tensed as Rabbi Cohen walked into the room. With one glance the rabbi took in Devorah’s sleep-tousled hair and robe, Michael’s sweatpants, and the dark flushes on their faces. He nodded slowly, his expression a mask of stone.
“I am glad you are both here,” he said, bringing his palms to rest on the cane in his hand. “Dress yourselves. We are going to take a drive.”
A muscle quivered at Devorah’
s jaw as she stepped away from Michael and ran a hand through her hair. “Where are we going, Abba?”
“You will see.”
As embarrassed as a preacher’s kid caught with his hand in the collection plate, Michael gestured toward the bedroom where he had slept. “Asher’s here, too. He and I shared a room last night.”
The rabbi’s implacable expression was unnerving. “Let Asher sleep. This trip is for the two of you only.”
Devorah paused long enough to give Michael a single worried smile, then moved toward her room.
The rabbi, who insisted upon riding in the backseat, gave Devorah directions to an obscure military base located in the emptiness of the Negev. “Abba, that base has been abandoned for years,” she said, frowning at the printed directions.
“It is not abandoned.” The rabbi stared out his window, a watchful fixity in his face. “It is where I have been living for the last three days. Drive, Daughter.”
Devorah obeyed without another word, and soon they were on the open highway and driving south into the desert region. She switched on the radio as they drove, and Michael listened in amazement as Israeli Radio broadcast updates on the events of the previous three days. “Israeli emergency teams have been overtaxed as they attempt to clear the mountains of the more than one million dead,” the broadcaster announced, his voice heavy. “Already there have been reports of vultures and buzzards gathering in the valleys, and authorities worry about plague-infected animals spreading disease in inhabited areas. The prime minister’s cabinet is designating specially created government burial teams to rid the land of battle casualties. IDF officials have also expressed amazement at the sheer number of munitions left behind. It is estimated that a fortune in armaments has been abandoned in the valleys of Lebanon and on the plains of Jordan and Syria. Incredibly, a professor at Jerusalem University has pointed out that many of these weapons are made of a compressed wood product that could serve very well as fuel.” The broadcaster broke into a wry chuckle. “Imagine that, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll not have to import coal for years.”
By Dawn's Early Light Page 37