Solomon's Porch (50 page)

“The devil wants us to hate, to lash out, to seek revenge. He’s counting on it. Satan does not share God’s faith in us, Gail. He thinks we are too weak, too stupid to realize it’s a trap.”

“If we fight back, launch a retaliatory strike or war, we’re through. We will not get any more second chances. This is it. It’s time for humanity to grow up or to be destroyed.”

“But … ”

“But nothing! God has spoken. Don’t ask me why things are the way they are, or why God allowed the evil one to destroy those cities. I don’t know, but I do know what must be done now. I need you, sister. I need all of you.”

The President and the disciples had been listening to Gail and Peter argue for half an hour. No one had said a word. They knew love was working things out, binding them even closer together through the venting of fears, frustrations, and doubts. Gail wasn’t only speaking for herself; everyone else in the room shared her sentiments to some degree.

“Peter, I have said my peace. I will do as you say, with a willing heart that would follow you anywhere. But do not ask me to lie down and watch you die. That is the one thing I will not do.”

Gail could say no more. Her tears were flowing, hands shaking. She stood and said “please excuse me,” walked out and went to the President’s private chapel to try and work out her issues with the Lord.

“You know that I’ve seen this day coming, Peter,” Larry said. “I’m not sure if my vision was an inevitability or only one possible future.”

“All futures must be possible, Larry, from our perspective anyway, because we have free will,” Peter reminded.

“Then, if we must go into the arena, Peter, we should go in knowing that all of us will not make it out alive. I’m totally sure of that much, brother.”

Peter understood what Larry was asking him to do.

“Does anyone here wish to remain in the White House?” Peter asked. “Let the will of God be your guide, do not blindly follow me or anyone else.”

“Death does not frighten me,” Enrique Vargas said. “Lord knows I’ve seen more of it than any man here. As a soldier in the army of man, I respected it, feared it. As a soldier in the army of God, death has no power over me. God’s will be done. I’m with you.”

Every other head in the room nodded in agreement.

“Mr. President,” said the voice over the intercom, “General Wagner is here to see you.”

“Show him in,” the President replied.

“Gentlemen, I too am willing to lay down my life for God and country, but we’ll have eighty thousand plus other citizens in that stadium with us. I’ve asked the army to provide security for the event. Yes, I know that’s not altogether kosher, using the military rather than civilian security forces, but I don’t have time to be worried about details. A strong presence, a show of strength, may deter more violence.”

“Mr. President, if I may, sir … ” Peter was interrupted before he could finish his sentence.

“I know how you feel, Peter, but this is my responsibility. I’m with you a hundred percent, we will not back down an inch from our initiatives. But the troops will be deployed. It’s my call and my decision is final.”

All Peter could say was, “Yes sir.” There was no more time for debate anyway. They had less than forty-five minutes to get to RFK and be ready to face their destiny.

Twenty-Nine

“Where is the damned fool? He needs to be tucked away in his official residence; saying nothing, doing less.”

“Relax. He’s on his way home. The President asked for his resignation, remember? To keep up appearances, he’s been making the rounds, gauging sentiment. We can’t be too obvious about this now can we?”

“You’ve got him under control, right?” He’s not going to get some f***ing attack of righteousness on us, is he? Once he’s in, he’s in. We have only blackmail as leverage. Better be enough.”

“You worry too much. I was wondering why you didn’t go ape s*** over all the troops. There must be two thousand soldiers milling around RFK right now. That little wrinkle doesn’t bother you?”

“You said the Secret Service remains in overall control of the security, yes?”

“That’s correct.”

“Then why should I be worried?”

“Well said, I think I’m rubbing off on you at last.”

Evil had set its trap. The President’s former senior advisors were confident and proud of themselves, congratulating each other on their cleverness and shrewd decision making. They believed that they were superior, the vanguard of a ruling elite poised to present itself as the only viable alternative to “the failed traditional American political system.”

“Who will defend you?” they will shortly ask a paralyzed nation. “Who can you trust?” they will soon shout. Using the backdrop of the scorched and radioactive ruins of Los Angeles and San Francisco, they will petition Americans to abandon what’s left of their liberties for a short time to fight and destroy the ruthless enemies of our society.

They will offer both security and revenge and all they will demand in exchange is a little leeway to get the job done.

The beast, who orchestrated all of this mayhem and hate, was at the ready. He was confident that his puppets would soon be in control of the most powerful nation on earth.

Then he would act and send all of the hated ape scum humans where they belonged, to hell. Satan would then assume his rightful place as their sole lord and master and use his dominion over man as the catalyst to achieve final victory in his ages old war against the Creator.

“What a stupid country,” Mustapha said to himself, taking a position in a service duct behind the currently unused electronic display arrayed on the stadium’s south side. “So rich, so vain. They are like overfed livestock, weak and good only for the butchering.”

“Mustapha” could not believe how easy it was to get into RFK with his weapon and set up. A tall, dark haired man from the American Secret Service itself had walked him right in and tucked him safely into place.

“The Americans are a disgrace. Even their elite soldiers are traitors, no doubt for money.” Mustapha had no one to talk with now except Allah, but that was sufficient. He was certain that very soon he would be in Paradise with the Prophet reaping his eternal reward. While he had an escape plan, he knew how futile and stupid it would be to try and run away. Besides, he was no coward. The assassin had spent his whole life preparing for this day, for this highest honor.

By killing the President of the United States and the false Christian prophet Carson, Mustapha knew he would be immortalized. He would become a martyr hero of Islam and put another nail in the coffin of Christendom’s dying civilization.

He sighted and ranged his weapon. He was ready. All that was left to do was to wait and pray.

What should have been an orderly and joyous celebration was now a confused and frightened mix of people. The majority of the jittery crowd came to RFK seeking solace, to be reassured by Peter Carson and the President that the restriction was not a cruel deception gone hopelessly awry.

For the select, their faith was only strengthened by the California attacks. They came to the stadium to receive their marching orders, to be blessed by and to support their prophet.

Others showed to pin blame, to point fingers, to say “I told you so” and to clamor for a vengeful response. In other times and in different contexts, this group would have been correctly labeled patriots, righteous defenders of God, and country. They wanted to define the enemy, find him and kill him and then come home to the glory and the parades.

But the paradigm of using violent force as an effective national defense was no longer viable. From the time man first became civilized in the river valleys of Iraq until now, it had always been true that the first duty of any government was to protect its citizens against aggression. The enemy was always at the door; failure to provide an adequate armed defense sooner or later doomed your country, or your kingdom, or your city-state.

The relationship between the use of violence and national security was so ingrained in human experience that it seemed suicidal to abandon it, but the restriction shook this assumption of the need for organized savagery to its foundations. God exposed the myth, challenged the lie. Then the California bombings, coming when they did, reignited all of man’s primal fears, and through terror caused people to run back to the all too comforting false security blanket of hate.

As Peter, the President, the disciples, and Gail approached the hastily set up stage through a tunnel of soldiers, they could hear the opposing chants coming from the frothy crowd, the conflicting calls for murder and mercy.

When they emerged into view, an eerie silence broke out, as if now the factions wanted to wait to hear something they could either cheer or deride before making any more noise.

Peter was about to walk up to the dais when Malik grabbed his arm.

“Mr. Pete, no. Don’t go. Please, bro.”

“Malik, we talked about this. I don’t have a choice.”

“Mr. Pete, it’s the beast. He’s waitin’ for ya. I can see him. He’s right there.” Malik pointed to a platform about fifty feet off of the stage that held cameras and other electronic equipment. “He’s goin’ to kill you, Mr. Pete. I swear I know he is. For the love of God, Mr. Pete … Why you smilin’?”

“You know why, Malik.”

“Because you’ve known all along this was goin’ to happen?”

“Yes, brother. I have known.”

“Jesus Christ wants you dead? How can that be?”

“There comes a point in the lives of certain men of God, brother, when they become of greater service to the Kingdom as martyrs than they can be as living men. I have reached that time, Malik. You may too someday, but you haven’t yet.”

None of the rest of the group could hear the conversation between Peter and Malik. They were standing fifteen feet away from them. The President, the disciples and Gail had also stopped approaching the dais when Malik halted Peter.

“Aren’t you scared, bro? I’ve seen and caused more’n my share of death, Mr. Pete. It’s brutal, ugly.”

“Sure, I’m scared, but God is with me. Christ strengthens me, brother, as He does you. He will never leave us or forsake us.”

“What if I just hit ya with one of these sledgehammers, Mr. Pete. I could lay you out so fast make your head spin.”

“No doubt. Go ahead, friend,” Peter said, as he took a step back and stuck out his chin. “But know that you would be betraying all you love, all we stand for. God didn’t pull you out of hell so you could quit on Him now, brother. You must be strong.”

Rather than hit him, Malik reached over and hugged Peter so hard he thought Malik might be trying to knock him out without throwing a punch. But Malik released Peter in a few seconds, gave him a kiss on the cheek and whispered in his ear.

“Don’t worry about Mrs. Pete and little Kev. I swear to you no one will ever harm them. I will guard them with my life and soul.”

“I was counting on that, Malik. God bless you.”

Malik almost started sobbing, but he instantly sucked it up. If there was one thing he understood and admired, it was courage. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and motioned for the rest of the group to move forward.

“You are the bravest person I know, Mr. Pete. I would follow you into hell.”

“I think you’re about to do just that.”

Nothing Peter had been through or ever imagined could have adequately prepared him for the intimidating pressure of standing in front of almost a hundred thousand emotionally charged people in a stadium designed to hold no more than eighty. Every heart and mind was focused on him, anxiously waiting to see what he would say and do.

Peter suddenly felt hopelessly weak and small, even more overmatched and inadequate than he did before the roundtable. He knew that the only cure for his fear was prayer. One last time Peter Carson called on the Power to intervene on his behalf.

The disciples formed a circle. Someone handed Peter a microphone. He began to pray.

“Lord, we ask for Your mercy and favor today. Strengthen everyone here, Christ. Let no one act out of fear or hate, but rather seek Your power through love and mercy. Reach out Your marvelous hand, Lord, and pull us toward the Light and away from the darkness. We pray this in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.”

Something like sixty thousand voices boomed “Amen” after Peter finished, the rest of the crowd kept silent.

After the prayer, Peter could feel the Energy surging through him. Just that quickly God infused him with His grace, replacing the weakness of his flesh with the power of the Spirit.

Mustapha was unmoved by the Christian’s impotent plea. He had finished praying minutes earlier, but unbeknownst to him, Allah, the Creator, wasn’t listening to his prayers. The vile beast perched fifty yards below him on the equipment stand was Mustapha’s god, and he had done his job well. Satan made sure that Mustapha was completely focused on his “godly” task of committing bloody murder. Mustapha would not find out who had really been answering his prayers and how displeased Allah was with him until it was far too late to do him any good.

“Brothers and sisters,” Peter began, “I ask you all to join me in another short prayer. If you would like to do so please stand, bow your head and take your neighbor’s hand.”