The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books (275 page)

He set a course for Tel Aviv, but when they were equidistant from there and Resurrection International in Jordan, he informed both towers that he was going to land in Jordan as a precautionary measure. “To be safe, we have arranged to have some cargo driven to Tel Aviv.”

Leah, with a printed order originating from David, had talked her way onto the tarmac in a nondescript van. She pulled alongside the left cargo bay, where the pilots and passengers helped load two guillotines and a half skid of injectors into the van. Mac set the autobrakes and the autopilots, and all four occupants crawled into the van and lay on the floor. Leah slowly drove between two hangars where Mac could peek through the window and still see the plane.

He communicated with the tower via portable radio and remote controlled the plane’s taxi and takeoff. As the Quasi gradually faded from sight, Mac communicated to the tower through an intentionally distorted connection that he believed he was losing radio power. He asked if they could inform Ben Gurion Tower that he was on schedule, would still perform the air show, and would appreciate it if they could be cleared for landing immediately following. He also hinted that he wished he had unloaded a little more cargo, but he was confident he could handle the rest of the trip.

“Advise abandoning show, considering,” Resurrection Tower said.

“Repeat?”

“Consider abandoning air show and proceed to immediate conventional landing.”

“No copy, tower.”

They repeated their advice, but Mac turned off the radio. Leah pulled out of the airport, and she and the four bogus victims headed for Mizpe Ramon. “We can all keep our fingers crossed,” Mac said. “I’ve seen those Quasis do amazing things based solely on what the flight management system onboard computer tells it to do. But this is a long flight on its own, and I’ve asked it to do some interesting stuff, barring turbulence.”

“Cross our fingers?” Hannah said. “Only God can make this work. You’re the expert, Captain McCullum, but if this thing goes down anywhere but deep in the Mediterranean, it won’t take long for someone to discover no one was aboard.”

Buck and Chaim had slipped into Israel without incident the day before and checked into the King David. Chaim still seemed out of sorts, having hid two commentaries in his briefcase. Buck thought he looked like a wise old monk in his costume, but privately he wondered whether the old man could command and hold an audience.

From the first time he met Dr. Rosenzweig to interview him as
Global Weekly
’s Man of the Year, Buck had been impressed with how soft-spoken the man was. He carried a heavy Israeli accent, though he had a strong command of English. But his scientific brilliance, his zest for life, and his passion were borne of an intense, distinct, quiet delivery. Would that convey the authority and command the respect he needed to serve as a latter-day Moses? Could this little man with his quiet demeanor lead the remnant of Israel and additional tribulation saints to the promised land of safety?

He would have to challenge the ruler of the world, defy the armies of Antichrist, stand on the front lines against Satan himself. Yes, Chaim had had the fortitude to carry out a murder plot against Carpathia, but by his own admission, he had not known at that time with whom he was dealing.

Buck kept to himself his misgivings and continued to pray. He had inserted himself in so many precarious spots in this very city that somehow the prospect of having a front-row seat to this bit of prophecy seemed par for the course.

It seemed the entire nation had turned out to welcome the potentate at Ben Gurion Airport, then merely waited as anticipation grew for his speech the next day. The initiation of the first public mark application center was one thing, but to see the risen ruler of the nations return to the very city of his death—well, that was what the country was gearing for.

Rumors abounded that His Excellency would flash the ultimate and final nose thumbing at the stubborn Judah-ites by using for himself one of their most sacred traditional sites, the very Via Dolorosa itself. No one could imagine the scene. Would there be opposition? Protesting? The majority of the populace would welcome its idol and admire his pluck. Could Carpathia take the place of the object of worship for many devout believers, humbly and with class paying homage to Jesus, one whom many now considered his predecessor?

And then his plan to address the world from within the rebuilt temple in Jerusalem . . . could he risk offending two major people groups on the same day? It was no secret that Christians, Messianic Jews, and Orthodox Jews were the last holdouts against Carpathianism. But hadn’t Carpathia himself and Reverend Fortunato proved his ascendancy through his resurrection and the deadly miracles? It was one thing to read the myths and legends and perhaps eyewitness accounts of a resurrection centuries ago. But to have seen with one’s own eyes a man come back from obvious death and to see his right-hand man imbued with supernatural powers—well, there was a religion for today.

Buck, whose
The Truth
coverage of some of the most dramatic incidents of the day had found an enormous audience of Judah-ites and Carpathianists alike, had engendered worldwide response by his account of some of the first uses of the loyalty enforcement facilitators. He attributed his account to eyewitnesses without identifying himself as one, so no one had a clue where the leak might have come from. He could hope only that even Carpathia sympathizers would be shocked at the inhumanity.

It seemed the entire world was on its way to the Holy Land. Tsion had urged believers to come. Chloe, through the International Commodity Co-op, had recruited pilots, planes, drivers, and vehicles. Meanwhile, Fortunato had rallied Carpathianists from all over the globe to celebrate the brave return of their idol to the location of his murder.

Somehow Jerusalem civic leaders had found the cash and the personnel to put at least a cosmetic sheen on the city. Banners, signs, and landscaping had sprung up seemingly overnight. While the 10 percent of the city that had been ravaged by the recent earthquake still lay in twisted ruins, the eyes of visitors were redirected to the new. If one didn’t look too closely, it resembled again the festive place that had welcomed the Global Gala.

Street vendors and kiosks offered palm branches, perfect for waving or laying in the path of the potentate, for just Nicks apiece. Hats, sandals, sunglasses, buttons bearing Nicolae’s picture—you name it—you could buy it.

Tel Aviv was choked with foot and vehicular traffic that led to the seashore and the great makeshift amphitheater that would house the mark application equipment. Everything was in place, including covered areas to blunt the brunt of the sun. All that was left to be installed were the injectors, the enforcement facilitators, and the personnel to man the site. People were already in line, eager to be among the first to pledge their loyalty to Nicolae. Part of Buck wanted to be Moishe or Eli or even Chaim, if he could pull it off. As he parked his rental several blocks from the site, Buck dreamed of abandoning reason and shouting to the uninformed, “Don’t do it! You’re selling your soul to the devil!”

He looked at his watch and quickened his pace. He wanted the best view of the air show, because he knew how much of a show it would be. As he headed for the shore, he called Rayford. “Four minutes to visual contact,” he said. “I allowed just enough time and should be in perfect position.”

“Remember every detail.”

“Don’t insult me, Dad. How will I ever be able to forget this? Are they on schedule?”

“On their way. The airport maneuver was successful. They’re worried about the flight management system, since there’s no chance to personally monitor it. A malfunction could kill innocents.”

“I would be one.”

“My point. Mac has communicated with Moon’s people by phone, telling them when to expect him and letting him know they have a malfunctioning radio.”

“How are things at Eagle central?”

“Amazing. These virtual strangers show up with their parts of the construction plan and no supervision until now, and they simply cooperate, get along, and get the work going. They were further along than Albie and I could believe, and we’re ahead of schedule. Dozens of choppers are already here. That’ll take care of getting the infirm into Petra without walking the gorge. So far we believe we’re still undetected, but that won’t last long.”

Zeke had done such a thorough job on Buck that he started every time he caught a glimpse of himself. As he camped out near a concession stand, he felt as invisible as he had in the underbrush near where Moishe and Eli had been resurrected. Crowds seemed to materialize from everywhere in anticipation of an actual live appearance by Nicolae himself. And he did not disappoint.

A half dozen SUVs rumbled to the site, and the power elite of the world stepped out and strode quickly to the platform to wild applause. Carpathia was at the top of his game, humbly thanking everyone for coming and for making him and the Reverend Fortunato, the ten sub-potentates, and their respective Carpathianism representatives feel so welcome. He produced his usual blather about the improving state of the world, his renewed energy “after three days of the best sleep I’ve ever had,” and how he looked forward to the rest of his time in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.

“And now,” he said with relish, “before a wonderful surprise for you, I give you the new head of our perfected religion, the Most High Reverend Leon Fortunato.”

Leon immediately dropped to one knee and took Nicolae’s right hand in both of his and kissed it. When he reached the lectern he said, “Allow me to teach you a new anthem that focuses on the one who died for us and now lives for us.” In a surprisingly facile baritone and decent pitch, Leon sang a heartfelt and energetic version of “Hail Carpathia, Our Lord and Risen King.”

Buck shuddered. He felt the familiar tingle of expectancy when he caught site of the Quasi in the distance and heard its high drone. The crowd had quickly picked up the lyrics and simple, stirring melody, and as their second attempt at it ended, Carpathia returned to praise the technology evident in the new Quasi Two that was bringing “not only the equipment needed for this site, but also a brief display of its capabilities, ably demonstrated by the pilot of my own Phoenix 216, Captain Mac McCullum. Enjoy.”

The crowd exulted as the impressive jet came screaming over the city toward the shore. Buck was surprised how low it was, but the people
oohed
and
aahed,
clearly persuaded that this was part of the show. Buck worried that the computer program had somehow jumped off track and might result in disaster.

The plane surged out along the shoreline, the Mediterranean gleaming in the sun. The craft suddenly picked up speed and rolled up onto one side, then flattened, then onto the other before swooping low again. To Buck it seemed to clear the water by no more than ten feet, and he couldn’t imagine Mac’s having programmed that thin a margin for error.

A long, low turn brought the frisky craft directly over the dignitaries, who tried to maintain their dignity while squinting into the sky, willing themselves not to give in to the urge to duck, ties flapping in the breeze. The Quasi made another turn toward the Mediterranean, running parallel to the water for a blistering quarter mile, then pointing straight up.

The crowd murmured as the thing ascended like a missile, and they had to wonder as even Buck did, though he knew the craft was empty, what it would feel like to be on board. Any astute spectator knew the plane was in trouble before it became obvious. As it slowed to its apex, it drifted backward, nose over tail for a straight plunge toward the water with its underbelly toward the shore.

People talked excitedly and laughed in anticipation of the pullout that would level the plane at the last possible instant. Just when it appeared there was no more room or time, they knew she would rocket parallel, run out to sea, and then turn back toward Ben Gurion to more applause.

Except that the Quasi never pulled out. This plane was not free-falling toward the Mediterranean. No, this multimillion-Nick marvel of modern technology was accelerating, her burner cans hot, the vapor shimmering in a long trail. The strange attitude and angle sent the craft careening toward the shore approximately three-quarters of a mile south of the crowd.

The Quasi and ostensibly her two-man crew and two passengers slammed the beach perfectly perpendicular at near the speed of sound. The first impression of the shocked-to-silence crowd had to be the same as Buck’s. The screaming jet engines still resonated even after the plane disintegrated, hidden in a billowing globe of angry black-and-orange flames. An eerie silence swept in, followed less than half a second later by the nauseating sound of the impact, a thundering explosion accompanied by the roar and hiss of the raging fire.

First one spectator cried out, then another. No one moved. There was no need to run, not away from the crash or toward it. The plane had been there in all its glory, teasing their expectations before fulfilling their worst fears, and now nothing but glowing pieces, the thing all but vaporized in a sand crater.