The Last Day (63 page)

Unfortunately, as the Martins had heard in alarming radio reports during their long, frantic drive from Racine, virtually as many Jeza detractors as supporters had shown up. Because the assembly was a free event, no tickets were required and there was no mechanism to screen attendees. The anti-Jeza crowd entered the stadium as freely as the Jeza advocates, each gravitating toward opposite sides of the huge, 76,129 seat arena, filling it to capacity and spilling over into the parking lots outside.

The small detail of campus police assigned to this event had not been impervious to the clues of an impending disaster. Early on, in the predawn light as the crowds steadily grew, they had nervously appealed to the city police force, which soon also recognized the gravity of the situation. Having concluded that any attempts to cancel the event would ignite a riot, they called in more substantial reinforcements. The National Guard was rushed to the scene in helicopters, quickly setting up a phalanx in the center of the playing field, back to back, facing the opposing sides. Riot control gear at the ready, the edgy Guardsmen had awaited Jeza's speech with rising apprehension.

An indication of what was to come occurred the instant the prophetess first appeared on the stadium's viewing screen. While the pro-Jeza side erupted in an exultant cheer, the opposing faction immediately began booing and hissing and shouting Antichrist epithets across the gridiron. As the Messiah began her address, the protesters had cried out all the louder, attempting to drown her out.

Enraged at having their assembly defiled and Jeza's message obscured, the Messianic Guardians of God were already primed for battle. But then, in that final, climactic moment when the prophetess was ruthlessly gunned down, it became all too much for them. They had erupted in an uncontrollable frenzy and began charging down out of the stands, provoking a mirror response from their opponents.

The luckless National Guardsmen, like pharaoh's soldiers caught in the middle of the parted Red Sea, had gaped in horror as the two giant waves descended upon them. Without exception, they broke ranks and bolted, every man for himself, toward the exits.

The attacking armies collided midfield, assaulting each other with abandon, unwittingly injuring many of their own fellow supporters in the confused melee. The tragedy had resulted in thousands of casualties.

Similar scenarios were occurring all across the globe, as the latest news reports from the Martins’ car radio revealed. Reaction to Jeza's passing was creating an unremitting nightmare of violence between the two antagonistic millenarian factions.

Tom Martin could stand it no longer. He switched off the radio in frustration. As another screaming ambulance made its way past him down the center of the road leading to the coliseum, he spontaneously swung his car out behind it, following it through the entrance gates, defying all police commands to stop.

Pulling in behind the parking ambulance, the Martins watched in horror as National Guardsmen, police and firefighters scrambled back and forth with the injured and/or arrested.

“Oh my God!” Michelle Martin broke down, spying two paramedics carrying a young woman on a stretcher to the back of the ambulance.

“It isn't Shelley,” her husband assured her. “I saw blond hair.”

“God help us, we'll never find them in this awful mess!” Mrs. Martin cried.

Yet, miraculously, in the midst of all the chaos, their daughter found them. Holding a blood-soaked scarf to the back of her head, Shelley Martin burst into tears of relief at the sight of her parents’ car.

“Daddy! Mom!” she screeched, and her father rushed out of his vehicle to snatch his daughter away from the turmoil.

“Oh, thank God you're here!” she wailed, as he bundled her into the front seat between himself and his wife. “It's so
terrible!”

“Shelley!” her father gasped at the sight of the blood. “Are you hurt bad?”

She shook her head, still weeping.

“Sweetie,” Michelle Martin implored, stroking her head, “have you seen Tommy? We think he's here somewhere. He drove up with some of his friends this morning and—”

Shelley's face contorted. “Yes!” she waded. “He had a club in his hand! It was like he was in a trance or something. He was with a bunch of his friends, his shirt was open and he had one of those awful Guardian of God badges tattooed on his chest. His friend attacked me with a club and was about to hit me again when Tommy jumped on him. They were swallowed up in the riot and I haven't seen Tommy since.”

Her mother groaned and sank back in her seat, tears streaming down her cheeks. She stared out the window, up into the turbulent clouds of black smoke still issuing from inside the coliseum.

Somehow she knew she'd never see her son alive again.

109

Mount of the Ascension, Jerusalem, Israel 2:12
A.M
., Saturday, April 22, 2000

F
eldman sat alone on the villa balcony, staring out into the still city. The rains had continued steadily until precisely midnight, then stopped promptly, as if turned off by a switch. Now the clouds had dissipated and the stars emerged timidly, one by one, on a moonless, immaculate night.

For the moment, there were no throngs in the streets. No shouting. No violence. Ironically, it was peaceful and quiet in the Holy Land. The millenarians were all stilled, huddled in their tents and shelters, unable to get at each other due to the considerable flooding and oppressive mud.

And Feldman had never felt so despondent.

Thankfully, his associates displayed considerable respect for his feelings, granting him the distance he needed. Only now had his emotions quelled enough that he could reflect back on the TV coverage of the cowardly assassination.

Jeza had indeed been evacuated promptly in the Israeli military helicopter and flown directly to Hadassah Hospital a short distance away in north Jerusalem. She was pronounced dead on arrival. The body was being held under tight security by a full division of the Israeli Defense Force. The Israeli prime minister, Eziah Ben-Miriam, had announced a day of mourning and called for a special session of the full Knesset as soon as the roads were passable. There would be hell to pay over the botched security job, it was said.

Feldman found appalling the incessant stories of mindless, vengeful rampages across the planet that marked Jeza's passing. Finally, succumbing to acute exhaustion and his painful injuries, he escaped into the kind mercy of sleep.

Hours later, Feldman woke to a clear, sunlit morning, the air washed clean by yesterday's torrent. Turning painfully to his right, he was surprised to find Hunter slouched in a chair next to him, sleeping. The villa awakened early, and yawning cohorts strolled out from their various nests to inquire about the two newsmen's well-being.

Cissy brought out coffee and bakery goods, and checked Feldman's temperature with a cool, soothing hand. “We've got to get you to a doctor this morning and have you looked at,” she said, trying to sound like a Jewish mom. “You may have a broken bone or two.”

He smiled, nodded, and she placed his glasses on his nose, having readjusted their crookedness.

The phone rang and Filson yelled out from the living room, “Hey, Jon, feel like talking to someone from the Israeli Defense Force?”

Feldman pained himself attempting to safely set down his cream cheese bagel. “Ouch! Damn!”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes!”

Filson brought out a phone and Feldman recognized the voice of his mysterious acquaintance.

“Mr. Feldman, I trust I'm not calling too early.”

Feldman detected a tenseness in the voice that was never present before. “No. I didn't get a chance to fully express my appreciation for your help yesterday.”

The voice hesitated for a moment and then responded simply, “Yes.”

“What can I do for you, sir?” Feldman asked.

“I need to see you, Mr. Feldman. This morning. Immediately, if possible.”

“Where are you?” Feldman inquired, unsure that he was fit to travel.

“This must remain absolutely confidential,” the voice insisted. “There's considerable danger involved.”

“You have my word,” Feldman pledged.

“I'm at Hadassah Hospital. I'll send a helicopter for you. And I'd also like to invite your associate, Mr. Hunter, if he'll be kind enough to bring his camera.”

“Can you tell me what this is all about?” Feldman asked, amazed to learn that this call was originating from behind the walls where the Messiah's body now rested.

“I'm sorry, I can't say anything more over the phone. All I can do is assure you that you'll find the trip here worthwhile.”

Putting aside his mood and discomfort, Feldman didn't hesitate further. “We can leave whenever you wish. We're located on the—”

“Yes. I know where you are.”

“Of course,” Feldman smiled drolly. “We'll be ready.”

Hunter looked over with questions in his bloodshot eyes.

“It's confidential till we're in the air,” Feldman explained, “but you and I are going for a little helicopter ride. And you'll need your equipment.”

Hunter grimaced and rolled out of his chair with a grunt.

The helicopter was hardly on the ground thirty seconds. From under a gray and blue flight helmet, one of the air crew looked familiar. It was Corporal Lyman, the female security guard from the Dung Gate. She nodded soberly to the two newsmen, and they nodded back.

Both men and their equipment were quickly hauled aboard and swept airborne. The hospital, located on the northern, more open side of the city, was but a short distance away. Feldman could see a thick crowd of millenarians already congregating outside the tall, stone perimeter walls. The rain and mud hadn't discouraged them for long. A thin row of Israeli guards kept them at bay.

“Look.” Hunter pointed inside the grounds to where patients and medical staff were being loaded aboard military transports. “It looks like they're evacuating the hospital.” Hunter duly recorded the scene on videotape.

The two newsmen were met on the roof heliport by four armed military, who carried Hunter's equipment for him as the cameraman assisted the ailing Feldman. Awaiting them inside was a trim, middle-aged man in the military uniform of an Israeli Defense Force commander. The officer was of medium height, with a tired, strained face, and troubled blue eyes.

He extended a right hand to Feldman, which Feldman had to grasp with his left. “Commander David Lazzlo,” he introduced himself. “A pleasure to meet you.” But there was no pleasure in his voice.

“Likewise,” Feldman returned. “This is my associate, Breck Hunter.”

“Certainly,” Lazzlo took the big man's hand. “Please come with me, gentlemen.”

Patiently allowing for Feldman's restrictive injuries, Lazzlo escorted them down a long hall to an office area where he invited them inside behind closed doors, offering them a seat.

“Can you tell me, Commander,” Feldman asked, “is Cardinal Litti here, and is he okay?”

“Yes to both questions, Mr. Feldman. And if you like, you'll be able to see him shortly. However, I'm afraid we don't have much time, and I really must press forward with several issues.”

“By all means,” Feldman assured him, settling stiffly into his chair. “It's your show.”

Lazzlo looked grim. “Very good. Gentlemen, let me just inform you from the outset that, for what I'm about to disclose, I could be shot. And if either of you are caught with the information I'm giving you, it could cost you your lives, as well.”

“Caught by who?” Hunter wanted to know.

“Let me explain this from the beginning and it will make much more sense to you,” Lazzlo responded. “First, let me tell you that I'm a twelve-year veteran of the IDF, the last four of which I was in charge of intelligence operations, until just recently.

“Let me also say that what I'm about to tell you will no doubt upset you greatly. It upsets
me
greatly, as there are many things in which I've been personally involved that I now know were terribly wrong. I only ask that you withhold judgment and hear me out completely.”

Hunter and Feldman looked at each other and agreed.

“I will confess to you up front that I was well aware of Defense Minister Tamin's secret Negev laboratory experiments. However, beyond the IDF high command and the scientists who worked at the institute, no one else knew the true nature of what went On there. Tamin had to make damned certain that neither the Ben-Miriam administration nor the Knesset were ever apprised of the facts. Experimental procedures, such as the neurochip implantations and intelligence infusions, are forbidden by the Israeli Constitution unless sanctioned first by the Israeli Medical Board. Which, of course, these weren't.”

“Do you mind if I take notes, Commander?” Feldman requested, fumbling with a pen and notepad.

Noticing his bandaged right hand, the officer smiled dryly. “It doesn't look like that's a viable option for you. You can record this if you wish. I'm no longer concerned with the consequences.”

“And why is that, Commander?” Feldman asked, as. Hunter fired up his camera.

“You will learn soon enough.” Lazzlo kept control of the agenda.

“There's been much speculation regarding the actual cause of the Negev Institute's destruction. Let me tell you, as the chief investigating officer, I was unable to come up with a definitive answer.

“I can at least tell you what it wasn't. It was not sabotage, as some of the media have claimed. The destruction was caused by a projectile originating from beyond Israel's borders, due east. It wasn't a missile. At least not of any conventional design we've ever seen. There was no detectable propulsion system or warhead, We know that the projectile was a solid, superheated mass, approximately two feet in diameter at its widest composed of forty percent iron, six percent nickel and fifty-four percent silicates, weighing approximately one quarter ton.

“The most logical explanation we could arrive at is that the projectile was delivered by a super cannon, such as Iraq had been developing at one time before your country kindly destroyed it.”

“What about the meteorite theory?” Hunter wanted to know.