The Last Day (71 page)

“Standard Israeli issue,” Goene smirked, dropping the cuffs. As the frantic co-pilot groped futilely for his sidearm, Goene coldly squeezed off another shot. The unfortunate victim bucked forward and crumpled against the cockpit. The pilot immediately brought the helicopter around, screaming a distress call into his headset.

“Hold it steady or I shoot you where you sit!” Goene shouted up to the pilot, who quickly complied. Tamin, still manacled to the metal frame, could only watch with wide eyes and rising spirits.

In smug vengeance, Goene turned on Feldman. “Now you!” he growled, motioning the reporter to his feet with the gun.

Hunter started from his seat, but Goene negated the move by grabbing Feldman and sticking the gun to his neck. The tough war veteran was powerful, maintaining a vise grip on the reporter's injured arm. Never removing the gun, and carefully monitoring the frantic Hunter, Goene pulled Feldman roughly to the door in the back of the cabin, releasing him only long enough to unfasten the lock and turn the handle.

“For God's sake, Goene,” Hunter pleaded, “he just saved your life back there. Those nomads were gonna slice you to pieces.”

Goene's response was to cock his revolver. Stepping back from Feldman, the general placed the muzzle between the reporter's eyes with a triumphant look. “You've crossed me once too often, my arrogant young upstart,” he hissed. “But now I shut your big mouth for good. No last prayers for you, I have the last word!”

With burning vindictiveness, the general kicked open the door, and Feldman, staggered by the violent rupture of atmosphere, grasped on to a rib of the fuselage with his good hand, bracing himself against the outrushing torrent. The wind howled around him and he stared down at the desert floor a thousand feet below.

“Now,” Goene declared with victorious finality, “I send you to join your false Messiah—
in hell!”
With the speed of a striking cobra, the general lashed out with his gun and struck Feldman hard on the temple. Instantly, Hunter launched himself for Goene, but was too late. The soldier spun and planted a foot hard into the semiconscious Feldman's stomach, propelling him out the door into the open sky.

117

Somewhere over the southern Negev Desert 9:44
P.M
., Sunday, April 23, 2000

S
hrieking in savage rage at the loss of his friend, Hunter unleashed the full fury of his hatred, driving the general's thick body violently into the bulkhead, jarring loose the revolver.

But the war-hardened soldier proved as resilient as ever. Recovering quickly, he began attacking Hunter with a punishing barrage of martial arts. As they pounded and heaved each other across the cabin, Hunter's most pressing concern, beyond flying out the open door, was to deny Goene his pistol. The gun remained at large, skidding and bouncing unpredictably about the deck, narrowly eluding Hunter's grasp several times as the pilot desperately plunged the helicopter toward the ground.

An anxious Shaul Tamin, one arm still manacled to the bulkhead, attempted to snare the gun with an outstretched foot each time it rattled by. Missing it, he'd turn his attention to Hunter, connecting on occasion with a vicious kick.

Yet slowly, the former linebacker's superior strength and endurance were gaining the upper hand. He at last caught Goene with a stunning uppercut. As the general toppled to the deck, Hunter leaped for the revolver. His fingers were just closing on the handle when the aircraft suddenly set down with a jarring thud and the gun hop-scotched away once more, sliding neatly into the waiting hand of the snarling Goene.

Hunter winced as the report of successive gunshots thundered inside the cabin. It took him several moments to realize he'd somehow emerged unscathed. Opening his puzzled eyes, he spied the limp form of Goene lying face up on the floor, mortally wounded, blood spurting out of three holes in his chest. From the front of the helicopter, the pilot, his face ghastly pale and sweating, clutched a smoking pistol. A despairing Tamin let out with a groan.

Cautiously, Hunter approached the motionless body. He placed a boot on the general's slack forearm, bent down and tore away the gun. Goene, stubborn till the last, was clinging to life, but barely. His mouth gaped open in shock, his breath came in shallow gasps as he focused on the big cameraman looming above him.

Hunter, panting from exertion, glowered down at his despised adversary. He narrowed his eyes, searching for signs of remorse in the bitter, weathered face. There were none. Instead, Goene's lips began a slow curl into that vile, contemptuous, detestable sneer.

All the raw emotions of pain and loss Hunter bad endured at the hands of this ruthless man came seething up inside him. He raised the gun and his finger encircled the trigger. But as he glared with primal hatred into the leering eyes of his enemy, Hunter suddenly halted, staggered by an utterly extraordinary vision. There, appearing in the face of tins despicable creature, was the unmistakable image of a lonely, frightened, abused little boy.

Hunter gasped and the gun slipped from his fingers. While the pilot and Tamin stared in astonished disbelief, the big man dropped slowly to his knees. He paused, his hands trembling, and then carefully, tenderly, Hunter gathered Goene up into his arms, gently cradling his head, stroking his temple, comforting and consoling the dying soldier through his last battle.

118

Somewhere over the southern Negev Desert 9:44
P.M
., Sunday, April 23, 2000

F
eldman was falling. Floating in the air on his back, drifting down through the desert's cool night sky. His eyes were closed and there was no sound but the rhythmic whoosh of air and a distant chorus of angels.

With great effort, he opened his eyes to the purple sky overhead. Staring back at him, the moon lorded full and enormously pale. From its shimmering face, there arose the growing shadow of a celestial form, falling even faster than he, racing down after him in a tunnel of white light.

It was Jeza. Jeza unlike he'd ever seen Her. Even more godly, if possible, than before. Transformed. Transfigured. Her skin shining like burnished gold. Her robes flowing outward in tongues of flame. Her hair as black as pitch smoke, sweeping freely, gracefully away in endless plumes.

She swooped down and soared above him, gliding in, hovering, maneuvering close. She was scant inches away now, staring far into his soul once again.

Ever so slowly, a smile began to form on her exquisite face. Softly, sweetly. It was satiating. Divine. Gazing up at her in enraptured fascination, Feldman was drawn once more into that demanding, honest, sapphirine clarity.

To a place where the origin of all mysteries resided. To a place where his amorphous conflicts and confusions could no longer elude him. He comprehended now the intense, disruptive, deeply moving emotions he'd been feeling toward this incredible being. Those unfamiliar, unexplored stirrings She had awakened within him.

They came from the
soul.
The supernatural love of man for the deific. That irresistible, inescapable, eternal yearning to bond with one's supreme parent. A holy longing for spirtual unity.

And clearly now, he also understood that the great affection he held for Anke sprang from the
heart.
The natural love of man for his own kind. A human compulsion for emotional and physical unity.

The balanced equation.

No longer were his passions interknotted and chaotic. At long last, he was at peace with himself.

Softly, the Messiah whispered,
“Mors vita est.”
Death is Life. And he realized she was repeating her last words.

His as well.

He wasn't fearful. He had grasped the fuller meaning of her words: to unleash the greatest potential of life, you must first overcome the constraining fear of death. An awareness that set a brilliant wave of energy coursing through his mind. A New Light that illuminated his way.

Although he could accept his fate, there was still one truly large regret he would carry with him. If only he could have seen Anke once more. To tell her what he knew now. To hold her in his arms one last time before letting her go forever.

Feldman could sense the ground hurtling imminently toward him. He shut his eyes, waiting, but there was no impact. Just the continuing, rhythmic whoosh of rushing air. Cautiously, he hazardéd a squint.

He found himself lying in a hospital bed. In a quiet, private room, filled to capacity with floral baskets and bouquets and well-wishes. At the foot of his bed, asleep in a chair, slouched a snoring Hunter, the source of the whooshing.

Outside, the sun was either just rising or setting, Feldman couldn't be sure. In a corner of the ceiling across his room, a WNN newscast was in progress on a suspended TV, its volume muted.

Feldman felt disoriented and, at the same time, amazingly lucid. Attempting to sit up, he was surprised to find an arm in a cast and his chest and ankle heavily wrapped. However, surprisingly, he wasn't in much pain.

He fumbled for the bed control, pushing a button to elevate his head and shoulders to a more upright position. Blinking his eyes, Feldman wondered what he was doing here. Or, more specifically, why he was still alive.
It's another miracle,
he thought to himself.
Jeza swooped down and She saved me.

Thirsty, he whispered in a weak, cracking voice, a little hesitant to awaken his sleeping friend, “Hey, Breck? Could I have some water, please?”

Hunter snorted and looked up with a bleary, muddled expression. “Huh? Yeah, sure, man, hold on.” His eyes suddenly snapped wide, his jaw dropped and his face lit up. “Jon, my God, you're back!”

Feldman smiled and the cameraman wrapped him up in his big, lanky arms. It hurt.

Seeming to recognize this, Hunter controlled himself better. “Thank God!” he cried. “We didn't know if you were ever gonna wake up! This is incredible! Just incredible! I gotta call the others!”

“Breck, wait,” Feldman stopped him. “First, you've got to tell me what happened!”

Hunter pulled back, his face flushed with emotion, his eyes watery, and he poured Feldman a shaky glass of water. “Yeah, right. Sure, sure. Well, uh, do you remember anything?”

“The last thing I remember was Goene smashing me in the face and kicking me out the helicopter. And then I sort of had this vision of Jeza coming to say good-bye to me.”

“A little prematurely.” Hunter grinned.

“So how come I'm not dead?”

Hunter shook his head. “Jon, you fell square onto one of those Bedouin tents. It cushioned you like a giant airbag. Broke your fall and saved your life. You busted some bones and got a concussion—from Goene's sucker punch or from the fall, or both. Either way, you've been unconscious. No one could say if you'd ever come out of it. I mean, the entire world is outside your window, prayin’ for you!”

Hunter walked over to the drapes and pulled them aside briefly. The sun was a trifle higher on the horizon now, so it was dawn. Despite the hour, the entire landscape beyond was filled with people. Many were slumbering on blankets and in sleeping bags in the open air, or in tents. But many were awake and holding quiet vigil with lighted candles in the diminishing shadows. They reacted with excitement to Hunter's fleeting presence at the window.

Across the room, the silent TV displayed a video of thousands of millenarians packing up and heading out of Jerusalem. A wider shot showed steady streams of them merging into vast caravans snaking their way along the roads out of the Holy City. Israeli soldiers were smiling to the cameras as they directed traffic. Nearby, groups of celebrating Arab women were shown laughing, waving their veils above their heads in liberation. A headline font on the screen read, “Holy Land Returning to Normal.”

“How long have I been out?” Feldman asked.

“Five days,” Hunter informed him.

On the TV, a scene of celebration at Times Square looked as if the Yankees had just won the World Series. A huge bonfire roared in the middle of an enormous crowd. Under a sign bearing the initials “NRA,” bucket brigades of cheering people fed an unending supply of empty rifles and pistols, knives and assorted weaponry into the blaze. A headline banner on the screen read: “National Rifle Association Changes Name to National Resistance to Arms.”

“Five days?” Feldman was amazed.

“Yeah, we've been taking turns watching over you.”

“We?”

“Me, Cissy, Alphonse and Anke. I had the morning shift today.”

“Anke? Anke was here!” Any pain Feldman had been experiencing was gone.

“She's still here,” Hunter explained. “She's been here since about three o'clock Monday morning. Came as soon as she heard the news. She and Cissy are in a room down the hall now gettin’ some sleep. They're wasted.”

“I’ve got to see her!” Feldman insisted. “Just as soon as she wakes, okay? It's very important!”

“No problem, man, she's certainly gonna want to see you. But how about I get the doctor now?”

“Wait a minute!” Feldman stopped him. “First tell me what happened with Goene and Tamin.”

Hunter sighed and sat back in his chair, shaking his head soberly, looking off into space. “Tamin is in an Israeli prison awaiting trial. Goene is dead.”

Noticing Hunter's unusually somber expression, Feldman nodded slowly, a tightening in his throat. Tentatively, he asked, “And how did he die?”

The pilot shot him. Saved my life…”

Relieved, Feldman started to pursue the issue further but noticed Hunter's strange, disturbed expression, and thought better of it.

There was a report on the TV of a priest being interviewed by a news correspondent in front of a moving van. Across the screen a headline read: “More Church Closings.” The video cut away to show people packing boxes in the sacristy and moving out furniture. The segment ended with the pastor locking the front door of the church.

At that moment, Alphonse Litti, breezing into the room to relieve Hunter, drew up short in joyous surprise. He was beside himself, grabbing Feldman and hugging him repeatedly and excitedly.