by Terry James
The snow became less blinding to the areas ahead when they stopped.
“It’s over there,” April said, pointing a gloved finger past her passenger to the right. “I want you to see this.”
She revved the engine, then steered the machine at slow speed toward the region she had indicated. They stopped at the promontory above a vast valley landscape that stretched until it vanished in the agglomeration of opaqueness created by the snow veil in the distance.
“I just wanted you to see this, Clark. Is this not the most gorgeous view you’ve ever seen?”
He said nothing, and she turned from her own enthrallment with the view, feeling his eyes upon her.
“No. This is the most gorgeous view I’ve ever seen.”
He gazed into her loveliness, his words bringing them together even before their embrace meshed their heavily clothed bodies. They kissed deeply, passionately, then she gently pushed him away.
“We’re fogging the windshield,” she joked weakly.
Clark reached to pull her to himself again, but she moved him back with a light touch of her outstretched right hand.
“Let’s have some hot chocolate,” she said. “Will you reach back and open that case?”
He did so with reluctance.
“Get the Thermos, and those big thermal mugs.”
Clark pulled them from the case as instructed. April took the big thermos and opened the top. Steam filled the air between them, further covering the snowmobile’s windscreen.
“Guess I had better get some defrost going,” she said, manipulating several sliding levers set within the dashboard.
“It will just fog up again,” he said. “But it won’t be the hot chocolate.”
“I do want you to see the valley a bit, first. Let’s have the hot chocolate, then we’ll… think about other things,” she said, pouring the hot liquid into a mug, then handing it to him.
“I had the kitchen make this especially for us. Mazie –our chief cook—makes the best chocolate there is. See what you think,” April said, pouring a mug for herself.
“Fantastic!” Clark’s declaration was made facetiously, after a cursory sip. April’s wide, eyes narrowed in disapproval.
“No main course, no dessert,” she said with a matter-of-factness that was reminiscent of his mother at the dinner table in early childhood.
“In that case, I’ll be a clean-plater,” he said.
“Clean-plater?”
“That’s an award they gave us in preschool, as I remember. If you ate everything on your plate, you got a “Clean-Plater Award.”
She smiled, looking seductively into his eyes that stared back at her above the mug from which he sipped. She raised her own mug of hot chocolate in his direction.
“Cheers. Here’s hoping you get that … Clean-Plater Award.”
The defroster soon cleared the windshield of fog. The valley before them lay blanketed in white, the evergreens and rocky protrusions on the valley floor presenting a masterpiece of winter nature-art. Occasional nearby cascades of snow obscured part of the masterpiece, before slackening, thus returning the vista to its full magnificence.
Clark would rather look at April Warmath. And did so, drinking in her stunning profile while she admired the scene before them.
Then, her lovely features changed, distorted and blurred. Clark blinked to try to recapture clear vision. She turned to him, a look of perplexity on her face. He looked out the windshield and saw the panorama of valley snow-art waving in flag-like motion –a nauseating field of white, green and grays. He looked back at the girl. She reached to take the mug of half-drunk hot chocolate from his wavering grip.
The sky brightened somewhat while he again looked to the dark lavender-gray roof of the valley –the thick snow clouds now lit by brilliant spheres. He squinted to see them, strained his undulating brain to make sense of the scene. He tried to speak, to form a question about the disks that pulsed with white and colored light while they hovered. The lights aligned in a triangular configuration, but then began whirling in his fading vision, becoming a blended, milky mixture that snapped to black.
Morgan suddenly felt uneasy while she tried for the fifth time to call Clark’s cell phone. The answer was always the same after four or so rings. “Your call has been forwarded…”
The phone was always on or very near her brother. She had never failed to reach him on his cell, any time, night or day. The feeling was one of suddenly losing a part of herself –something without which she could not function.
“Peenie, Mommy will be back. I won’t leave you in your crate. You be a good boy, okay?”
She knelt to hug the rottweiler, who shifted his front feet, unsure of what was expected of him. He became still when she issued the familiar instruction.
“Stay.”
Jeddy’s mistress stood, checked her features in the big mirror above the dresser, then turned again to the dog. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, and then we’ll go for a walk, Peanut. Okay?”
The rottweiler whined, registering his request to go with her.
“Not this time. I’ll leave the TV on,” she said, turning on the set with a flick of the remote.
Ten minutes later, Morgan stood in front of the rustic log gift shop less than 100 feet from her own cabin. She strained to see between the now sporadic snowflakes that came in occasional light showers. He was late.
She heard his approach, before she saw the horse turn the corner of a distant building. The high-pitched ringing of sleigh bells attached to the animal’s harness told her Blake Robbins would soon keep his appointment with her.
Her heart beat faster, when she finally could make out his face within the parka’s hood. He smiled, while he gave a quick wave of his free, mittened hand. She hurried to him, and he helped her into the sleigh’s seat.
The clouds grew darker while they moved along the valley floor, toward the even darker forests of evergreen that nestled against the mountains miles in the distance.
Blake held the horse’s reins in his left hand. He slipped his right arm around Morgan, nudging her to move closer. He looked into her eyes.
“Cold?” he asked, pulling the heavy blanket of tanned bear fur higher around her.
“You’re nice and warm,” she said, snuggling as close to him as she could.
They said nothing for a time, Morgan drinking in the breath-taking horizon of white, with the black trunks of the hardwoods standing starkly, interspersed with the spruce, pine, and other varieties of evergreens that helped make it a magical landscape through which to slide behind the giant chestnut that tugged the sleigh without effort toward no particular destination.
Snow began falling in greater profusion, and Blake reached behind to pull the sleigh’s top over them. Morgan looked to the horse, concerned that he had to endure the deluge. The animal, she realized then, was covered with a weather-proof blanket of some sort. He seemed none the worse for wear while he high-stepped through the snow, white puffs of his breath exhaled into the 20-degree air, without evidence of exertion.
“This is kind of new to a California girl, isn’t it?” Blake’s question was visible, his breath, like the horses, issued with white clouds into the frigid air.
“I’ve been skiing and sledding, but never like this. A horse-drawn sleigh in all of this beauty…”
“I thought we had better take advantage of this opportunity. When I found out they keep a sleigh around for patrolling the areas nearby the main complex, I used my special influence to acquire its use.”
“Special influence?” she said, laughing at the pomposity of his tone.
“Yeah, well, I begged, with great agony in my plea.”
“I’m glad you used all of your “special influence.” It’s wonderful,” Morgan said, laying her cheek against Blake’s shoulder.
“They use the motorized things, the snowmobiles, for longer trips, I think,” he said, holding her more tightly against his side.
Morgan felt his warmt
h even through the heavy winter clothing they both wore. Could this be the man she had thought about, dreamed about, discussed with her mother and her closest friends since she was old enough to be interested in boys? He knew all the right buttons to push, that was for sure. Maybe there was something to God’s making love matches in Heaven, after all…
She closed her eyes and held onto the arm he had removed from around her to reach beneath the seat.
“I’ve brought some hot cider for us. You like cider, I hope…”
“Yeah. Love it,” she said, taking the Thermos from Blake.
“There are a couple of Styrofoam cups under your side, in a sack…”
Morgan retrieved the sack, removed the cups, and opened the Thermos. She poured the steaming cider into one of the cups and handed it to him before pouring some for herself.
Soon, Blake pulled the horse to a stop. They sat atop a sprawling ridge, high above a deep gorge of white. The expanse was broken near its center by a large stream that narrowed in perspective to a vanishing point among a thick forest of evergreens.
“It’s beautiful, Blake. Do you come here with lots of girls?”
Her question was probing, not rhetorical.
“Only one who is important to me,” he said, looking into her questioning gaze.
“Morgan,” he said, moving toward her while pulling her to his lips. “You are the one who means so much to me.”
They kissed, the rapidly dropping temperature about them unable to chill the heat of their embrace.
“Blake…I…” Morgan’s words would not form. She struggled to keep her eyes open, and they met a surrealistic scene above the valley below them. A huge light appeared, at first brightening out their surroundings, then dimming to reveal a gigantic, glowing disk against the dark clouds. The thing began its slow descent. It turned, like several wheels within other wheels. It was moving toward the valley floor.
The cold, white world surrounding her in her convoluting attempts at thought became a darkening, ambient heat that melted her confusion to nothingness.
The 737 shuddered on its way to the 35,000-foot cruising altitude assigned it by the air traffic controllers at Phoenix International. The turbulence wasn’t a surprise. The captain had warned shortly after take-off 10 minutes earlier to expect a bit of rough air before leaving the airspace over Arizona.
Some in the fully loaded tourist section gripped the handles of their seat armrests, their faces masks of fear. Some looked around the semi-darkness, wide-eyed, analyzing whether to panic, based upon reaction to the bumpy ride manifested by others.
Randall Prouse, seasoned by thousands of hours of plane rides both rough and smooth, paid no attention to either the bumpy ride or to his inexperienced fellow passengers. He was behind on a manuscript due at his publisher. He couldn’t be distracted by the worries of others. Long ago, he had put his flying anxieties in the very capable hands of the Lord.
He glanced at the laptop screen, then to an open book between the keyboard sitting atop the pull-down tray and his lap. The sky was dark now, and he strained to read the words on the page. Tired of the stress to his eyes, he reached above to click on the small light that beamed directly downward.
The passenger to his right seemed to be dozing, so wouldn’t be bothered by the light. Randy mused that the heavy-set man, like himself, must be a regular flyer, with no indication that the bumping and swaying bothered him. Plus, the man’s breath that reeked with bourbon –the thing that drew Prouse’s attention to the lightly snoring passenger—no doubt helped with the peaceful sleep.
The archaeologist sat back in the cramped seat and kneaded the bridge of his nose after removing his reading glasses. He stared out the porthole to his left, barely able to discern the glow from the position lights beneath the wing. Memories flooded his mind of things he and Christopher Banyon discussed before his departure for New York from Phoenix International.
Christopher was uncharacteristically agitated. Susie had looked at Randy with pleading in her eyes. He moved to allay both hers and Christopher’s concerns.
“Chris, the best thing for you to do is to recover from…whatever made you pass out. If this is some sort of vision from the Lord –like those years ago at Qumran—don’t you have faith that God will make that clear?”
“Listen to Randy, Chris. This worrying yourself and not eating or sleeping is going to hurt your health,” Susie had said with authority in her tone. “Just call Laura and talk to her about it. She won’t mind.”
“Yeah. Give her a call, Chris. Can’t hurt anything. And, it will put your mind at ease that you at least followed up on the…episode,” Randy Prouse put in.
“Laura probably won’t want to hear about this. It will only worry her. No need to cause her sleepless nights, too. It’s just that it wasn’t like a dream, Randy,” Christopher said, his eyes pleading for understanding. “It was real. It is as vivid now as when I was in it. One doesn’t retain such vivid memories of mere dreams--do they?”
“Call Laura. She will want to know,” Susie said.
Prouse’s mind snapped back to his present with the flight attendant’s question.
“Sir, can I get you something to drink?”
“Oh. Yes. Coffee, please. Black.” he said, replacing the glasses on his nose and looking again at the work before him.
He wondered if Christopher Banyon had been able to get in touch with Laura Morgan. He would call as soon as they touched down at JFK to find out.
He forced his attention back to the screen and began typing:
“The Temple Mount continues to be the greatest singular point for potentially igniting nuclear conflict in the world today. Moriah commands the attention of the international community’s diplomats as no other…”
Something glinted in his peripheral vision from the porthole to his left, and he peered into the blackness that shrouded the big jet. Bright, oval objects shone brilliantly just in front and slightly above the plane’s left wing. They remained in unwavering formation, and grew brighter, larger in the black night sky.
Prouse removed the reading glasses, and rubbed his eyes, blinking to clear his vision.
Still there! In unwavering positions just above and in front of the wing.
Did the flight crew see them? Did others see them? He quickly glanced at the seats in front of him. The backs of the seats were too high to see if the others were gawking at the spectacle. People on the other side of the aisle most likely couldn’t get the same view as passengers on his side.
The lead object appeared to be slightly larger than the two flanking it. It changed color ever so slightly, turning a bluish white, then it changed again to a faint orange hue.
The three objects drew nearer the plane, and now he could see them with perfect clarity. These were disks. Vehicles unlike he had seen, but had often read and heard about, and had always believed existed. The disks were like Christopher had reported seeing above the plateau in the desert.
The craft moved away from the 737, then vanished. The sky was again deep black, except for the slightly illuminated left wing that glowed with the hue of the position light.
Prouse noticed the laptop’s screen was as black as the sky outside the aircraft. Before he could reach to try and reboot the computer, his eyes widened in astonishment. On the inactive screen, the words glowed in blood red characters: “Beware the Sons of God, daughters of men.”
Chapter 11
The generators were getting on his last nerve, despite the fact they were the very best money could buy. The noise, though half the level caused by less technologically superior machinery, was maddening in the partially darkened cavern.
The thin-framed man lay still, while the two Egyptian-trained doctors worked above the Saudi on a hospital-type bed.
“Make haste. Remove these horrors from me,” Osama bin Laden said in Arabic, raising his head so that his long-bearded chin met his chest in watching the proceedings. The doctor in charge said nothing but hurried to detach
the intravenous tubes that attached bin Laden to the dialysis machine near one wall of the cave-room.
It was over for another half-day, he thought, as he, with the assistance of the doctor, swiveled to sit on the edge of the bed. “Another session in hell over with,” the lanky terrorist grumbled to himself, allowing the two men who stood on either side of him to lift him by his elbows to his feet.
His blood was cleansed for the moment, and he had much to do this fall morning. Time to meet with his underlings for planning the attacks in Europe--- plottings that had been thwarted earlier in the month by the heathens–the CIA and MI-5. But the next time it would work. The bombers would get through. Hundreds of the infidels would die in sacrifice to Allah.
“Exalted one,” a small man, his voice raised with excitement, hurried through the cave’s entrance to bin Laden, who continued to try to find his weakness-impaired balance.
“Yes?!” said the irritated leader, standing more than a head and a half taller than the man.
“He returns!”
“Who? Who returns, you little fool?” bin Laden said, gripping his temples with the thumb and fingertips of his right hand, closing his eyes tightly, and opening them several times to help clear his faltering vision.
“The Afghani Musahad Kahlied!”
Bin Laden removed his kneading fingers from his head and angrily pulled his arms from the doctors who had been steadying him.
“Kahlied?” The al-Qaeda leader let his knowledge of the Afghani file through his still reeling brain. “Kahlied was captured by the Americans more than two months ago.”
“Yes, exalted one. That is correct. But, he tells us he escaped. That he has much to tell you,” the short Saudi said with excitement.
Bin Laden remained silent while the Arab looked up at his leader, who frowned in concentration.
“Where is he?”