Jacob's Trouble 666 is a novel by Terry, which was published a number of years ago. It tells the story of Jacob Zen, a young, lower echelon U.S. government official, who is forced to take on staggering responsibilities, when millions of people vanish, and his world begins coming apart. Terry wanted to share with you this fictionalized account of the Rapture and of the first part of the Tribulation era in serialized form. Although it is fiction, it is a story that could take on startling reality with your very next breath, because Christ's shout: "Come up hither" (Rev 4:1) could happen at any moment!
Chapter 16
Each being of the human kind, must in times of acute personal crisis — be it physical crisis that threatens life, or moral crisis that promises personal gain at the price of one's own decency — every person, in such circumstance, must at a crucial, pivotal moment, set a course, which is in most instances irreversible, once selected and begun. In the face of totalitarianism, both types of crises merge at once to confront the resistant victim, and so, too, the decision to be made. Whether to walk the broad road of submission, almost certainly to destruction, because: 1) if one does nothing, simply hides away from those who seek his life, the seekers will sooner or later accomplish their purpose, or 2) if one joins the system surreptitiously, quietly acting the obedient subject of the evil rule (a thing nearly impossible because the innate, irrepressible will of the true resistor against such evil cannot long allow the pretense), he will be found out. Or, whether to walk the narrow path of aggressively combating the evil, no matter the cost to one's fellow beings, thereby, at the very minimum, delaying one's own demise (life is the greatest personal gain of all) while discharging one's pent-up hatred into the enslaving system.
Jacob already knew the course he had no choice but to follow. His philosophical ponderings were as much to salve his conscience with the idea that he had made his choice after long, rational deliberation, as it was to think through his plan to become a part oflNterface.
He sucked the smoke into his mouth and inhaled deeply, letting it escape slowly from his lungs through clenched teeth before snuffing out the cigarette. It was the latest of 10 he had smoked since being left alone four hours earlier by the others, who now slept in the various rooms of Kerry Vinchey's island house.
He had killed before; why did the pricking inner-voice not realize that fact, and leave him alone? Before, with the attache' case, then again at Marchek's home, the killings were self-defensive. The act he contemplated now would be one of premeditation, dredged out of the black recesses of the mind-realm from which the moral being must remain aloof, must constantly wage war with. But wasn't being falsely branded a murderer, an assassin, being made a hated, hunted creature marked for eradication, like a plague-carrying rodent, justification for doing whatever it took to fight them? Wouldn't a planned murder be a preferable, even moral action against a monstrous system that would soon be blood-purging itself of all dissenters?
Jacob stood from the kitchen table chair and stretched his aching body. He picked up the Bible and adjusted his position to read in the light of the single bulb above the table.
Common sense told him all things that had happened were either products of natural laws broken by men, or by-products of the actions of men trying to bring things back under man's control.
The disappearance of millions of people. The swift ascent to power by the European Confederation, led by Herrlich Krimhler. Human sensibility, said these things, and those written thousands of years ago by Biblical prophets, as related to each other, could be no more, than coincidence. But, if they were true --these prophecies Hugo Marchek believed as strongly as anyone ever believed anything — nothing could be more important than this old Book, to himself, to the world.
Jacob picked up the videocassette and pondered its significance, weighing it balance-fashion in his right hand against the Bible in his left, while walking into the small den. He fed the cassette into Vinchey's recorder and used the search mode to locate the point at which he wanted to begin.
Through neither desire nor fault of his own, he had been driven into the tangle, beginning when he met the eschatologist and continuing until now. Krimhler was dead; he, himself, stood accused of the murder before the world. If it were all a part of Biblical prophecy, and if Hugo Marchek was right about the Bible having the answers, surely Krimhler's death was recorded somewhere, maybe even his own involvement in the death.
He shook his head, smiling, almost laughing out loud. It was all too fantastic! Hunted, hated by the newly restructured world for murdering its savior. Framed like a hapless protagonist in some inconsequential detective novel. Jacob Zen, smack at the center of it all!
"...the Antichrist will be revealed in his time."
Hugo Marchek's voice jolted Jacob from his thoughts. He watched the give-and-take between Marchek, Ranee Jorgenson and Lauren Winchester, sensing again power in the old man's calmness.
The eschatologist spoke after several seconds of reflection. "Paul wrote in his second epistle to the Thessalonians regarding the matter of the last great dictator of the world, beginning in chapter two, the first verse."
Jacob heard for the second time Marchek's phenomenal recollection of the Scriptures; his own sense of concentration heightened when the old man quoted:
"...And now ye know what restraineth that he might be revealed in his time. For the mystery of iniquity doth already work; only he who now hindereth will continue to hinder until he be taken out of the way. And then shall that wicked one be revealed, whom the Lord shall consume with the spirit of his mouth, and shall destroy with the brightness of his coming."
Moments later, Marchek, departing from quoting Scripture, said: "When God's restraining hand is withdrawn, the time of tribulation shall fall on mankind. Society will degenerate, become vile, so horrible, that it will make Hitler's Germany look like a picnic. And, like the Germans of Hitler's time and Americans during the early 1930's, the people of the United States and Western Europe will be willing to give total authority to anyone who can convince them that he has the answers to their dilemmas. This son of perdition, this Antichrist, receiving his deceptive powers of signs and lying wonders from Satan, will be able to delude everyone into believing he is the long-awaited Messiah."
The tape continued to roll, Jacob mulling Marchek's words; the analysis short-circuited when Marchek's taped image continued to speak.
"I believe when the restraining influence of God Almighty is withdrawn, these things will bring on immediate and total collapse of civilization. What specific sign will issue in this withdrawing of God's hand? I am certain it will be the Rapture of all who have accepted Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior."
Jacob stopped the tape and paced while lighting a cigarette, many thoughts playing within his brain. Past time, seeming an eon ago, became liquid, flooding back into his memory; he was again in Marchek's study hearing the old man's words.
The words became more real than they were that night Marchek framed his beliefs, and Jacob suddenly made sense of them, whereas, in the actuality of that past time, the words had been weird, unacceptable, theological, mumbo-jumbo.
Then, he could not understand, much less accept, Marchek's preachments, but condescended to listen to Karen's friend. Now, he was desperate to have the words, the thoughts. He wanted to understand the beliefs, in order to make sense of his own maddening present.
Common, human reasoning less and less made sense; Marchek's explanation of his unwavering belief in the prophetic writings more and more testified truth. Jacob's world had deceived and betrayed him, was intent on killing him. The prophetical world spoken of by Hugo Marchek became increasingly lucid, became history unfolding.
Their discussion covered much that night, Marchek presenting many things to Jacob's uninitiated ears. How could he hope to recall it now? Yet the memory was etched, for the gist, if not for the precise, order and sequence of language, and replayed as clearly in his mind, as had the videotape moments earlier.
Ironically, Marchek had expressed the foundational reason for his own murder that night when he answered the question put to him by his guest: "You believe that it's you, personally, they're after? Not the ideology you represent? Not the resistance you throw in their way?" (Jacob spoke of the PAL organization.)
Marchek had answered: "It is me they want eliminated, because I am one among a very few who have insight into their master plan for bringing their kingdom into being."
"You're talking about some conspiracy to establish dictatorship?" Jacob remembered asking.
"...It will be supernatural!}' accomplished. It will be a one-world hell on earth, presided over by the Devil, himself, in the form of a superhuman dictator." continued Marcheck.
But, if Herrlich Krimhler was the Antichrist, and certainly the German had fit the characteristics described by Marchek, why was Krimhler dead? His skull was ripped apart by the assassin's bullet! Herrlich Krimler was dead.
Hugo Marchek said something that night. If only he could remember. Something about the eschatologist's purpose in fighting the establishment of the hellish order. Jacob stared out the window into the blue-blackness of the early morning, straining to recall Marchek's words about postponing the coming order's rise to power.
"To answer your question, how will it be done?" the old man had said. "How shall we accomplish the postponement of Satan establishing his Antichrist government? I am not at all certain it can be done. Notice I said postponement of, not stop, its establishment. I only know I must try to do my part to hold it off as long as possible."
Was this all part of postponing the coming to power of an Antichrist? An Antichrist other than Herrlich Krimhler? Did Hugo Marchek's people assassinate the German and, he, Jacob Zen, just happened to be the convenient target for Krimhler's security people to blame?
But Marchek's followers must have been taken in the Rapture, or dissolution or whatever, if, like the old man said, only true believers in Jesus Christ would disappear when it happened. Some of Marchek's people, however, like Karen, were believers in Marchek, not believers in Jesus Christ. And therefore, might have been determined to get Krimhler, whom they considered the head of the organization that murdered the gentle old man.
The wristwatch; the fanatical attempts on his own life; the Allegiant tracking device they planted against his skull. No. The Naxos group had Jacob Zen picked as the mark to focus the hatred of the world upon from the time Fredria VanHorne seduced and drugged him. No doubt the blueprint for the framing was drawn well before that. All of it tied in some way to Conrad Wilson, to Karen Mossberg, and to Hugo Marchek, whose voice he heard again now, seeing with his imagination the thin, wrinkled face superimposed over the dark Atlantic sky.
And, in Jacob's mind's-eye, Marchek held the old Bible in his hand while he spoke. "I assure you these facts can be learned by anyone who cares to carefully read this book... It is all here. The answers from beginning to end."
Jacob heard again Marchek's words, whose meaning now seemed clear. "God uses human agents to carry out his work, sometimes willingly on their part, sometimes without them knowing it. And, since you might very well be carrying out a mission for the Supreme, I suggest you study His written Orders..."
The eschatologist held up the Bible in Jacob's memory. "I pray that you read this book... When the great disappearance of humanity occurs, Jacob, depend on this old book to guide you. Follow your burning need to get to the bottom of the great dictatorship."
He sat in a chair near the window and clicked on the table lamp at its side. AH other avenues took him to dead ends. Time now to follow Marchek's advice, given that night. Time to see if the worn old volume really was the road map.
And, if it could answer his most pressing questions: Why,if Herrlich Krimhler was the Antichrist Marchek spoke of, was Krimhler now dead, unable to fulfill his prophetical role as the world's last, most despotic tyrant? Would that role now fall to another of the Devil's chosen? Had the end-time dictatorship been postponed through the actions of the Almighty's human agents, if it were they who assassinated Krimhler? And, a larger, more personally affecting question: If the Naxos people did set up Jacob Zen from some earlier point, and pinning the blame on him for Krimhler's murder, why would they then continue to try to kill him on the highway, at Marchek's home, before the assassination took place? Probably, he pondered, because the men trying to kill him did not know of the greater design to assassinate Krimhler. Or, they planned to capture him and hold him until after the assassination, then bring him out before the public as the killer. Or, hold his dead body until after Krimhler's murder, and tell the world Jacob Zen had been killed upon discovery that he was the assassin. And, they wanted the materials he carried in the attache' case.
Where to look in the book? Where to begin? So much of it, maybe all of it, symbolic. How could he, who had rarely glimpsed into the Christian Bible, or for that matter, into any other religion's holy writings, possibly hope to learn much from his study? Nowhere else to turn. All other roads to understanding, blocked. So many books of prophecy to choose from. Which to read first?
Logically, all important end-time predictions should be wrapped up in the last part of the book. Such was the way with works authored by mortal writers. Why not with the one volume touted by Christians to be written through direct inspiration of the one, true Deity?
Turning to the back of Marchek's Bible, Jacob searched quickly through the heavily underlined, notation-filled pages for any references he might find about a final world ruler.
The Revelation. The last book. Author: John the Apostle. Theme: Consummation, Verse 9:
"I, John, who also am your brother, and companion in tribulation, and in the kingdom and patience of Jesus Christ, was in the isle that is called Patmos..."
Patmos! Separated from Naxos by only a few miles of pored Aegean waters! He poured quickly over succeeding verses. "I was in the Spirit on the Lord's day, and heard behind me a great voice, as of a trumpet, Saying, I am Alpha and Omega, the first and the last; and, What thou seest, write in a book...
"Write the things which thou hast seen, and the things which are, and the things which shall be hereafter."
John, a disciple of the Christian Messiah, received his vision of the end-time within miles of Naxos, where he, Jacob, it more and more appeared, fell heir to fate's commission to follow this nightmare to its conclusion, or to his own end. The fact now seemed more than eerie coincidence, his own juxtaposition to Marchek, to the prophetical text. There must be much written about the coming dictator, at least some reference to the Naxos complex. Of course, Marchek had quoted verses about the Antichrist during the taping of the show. Were they from The Revelation?
He smiled inwardly. How could he actually believe all the things bounding through his mind, the things printed on these ancient pages? For sure, things happening to his world were real; his shredded nerves gave witness with every pump of his heart that his existence was something more than delusion. This Bible should be no harder to accept than the things he had seen and felt since leaving that Clyclade pit. His eyes moved more swiftly through chapters 9,10, 11, and 12, stopping as if by programmed impulse when they met the small, italicized heading just above the bold number 13: "And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea..."
John saw it from Patmos! The old prophet had seen across the stretch of water separating the two tiny islands, across the centuries, the whole Naxos mystery! Those mysteries written of 2,000 years before, churned now in Jacob's mind, crystallizing, focusing the vision's message. John, the Apostle of Christ, the prophet, saw the last great dictator appear to rise from the sea, from the bowels of the island of Naxos! The revelation, fantastic though it was, diminished in the light of yet another, when he reached verse 3. "...And I saw one of his heads as though it were wounded to death; and his deadly wound was healed, and all the world wondered after the beast"
It had to be! The prophecy of the assassination! A deadly wound -- but one that would be healed! Krimhler, if he were the beast of Revelation, would somehow come back to life according to this passage! He read on ravenously, digesting the words.
"...And it was given unto him to make war with the saints, and to overcome them; and power was given him over all kindreds, and tongues, and nations. And all that dwell upon the earth shall worship him, whose names are not written in the book of life of the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world... "...And I beheld another beast coming up out of the earth; and he had two horns like a lamb, and he spoke like a dragon. And he exerciseth all the power of the first beast before him, and causeth the earth and them who dwell on it to worship the first beast, whose deadly wound was healed,"
If the words were more than mere symbolism, or the rantings of a nearly-starved old man banished to die on his tiny, desolate island-prison, John was describing the ruthless subjugation of a future world. The first true world dictatorship. The horror-existence predicted by Hugo Marchek, not the Utopian paradise promised by the INterface propagandists. Either system of spirit enslavement would be unacceptable to freedom-loving men and women; the systems would differ only in degree of physical atrocity. Either evil ~ the one detailed in the Biblical prophecies that predicted quick bloom into a state of abominable horrors, or that phased-in growth apparently intended by the Naxos criminals, now in its first stages — either evil would, finally, metamorphose into soul-rending monstrosity.
Should he change his plan in the face of things he learned from his readings? Revenge remained a factor in his will to carry through; the remote hope, too, that Karen might be alive. And, somewhere in the back of his brain a new ember of incentive burned. To, as best he could, help carry out Hugo Marchek's obsession in life — to hinder, to postpone, the inevitable dominion by the Naxos power grabbers, whether they were or were not of the Antichrist order like his friend had believed. He would not turn his back now that his objectives were more clearly focused in his thinking. His commitment, if it were altered, was altered toward greater determination to get to the heart of the beast and tear at it for whatever time was left to him on the planet.
He walked into the dark room where Kerry Vinchey slept and snapped on the lamp beside the bed, causing the pilot to stir. He shook Vinchey, who turned from the light and settled again for sleep. "It's time to get started, Kerry."
Watching the helicopter strain to break free from the high grass between the thickly forested surroundings brought back the nauseating sensation of total aloneness he felt in those dark hours following the moment the Treasury agent's face disappeared from the rearview mirror. The chopper's final jerk skyward, before beginning its smooth ascent eastward, seemed the action that broke his tie with all that was civilized. Now began the trek through both a literal and symbolic jungle, toward an enemy that both terrified and drew him with irresistible fascination. Forcing himself to gather his wits, to consolidate his thoughts of what had been, with those of what was to come, dispelled the loneliness while he moved as quietly through the heavy underbrush as the dry forest floor would allow.
Hours of videotapes that he had watched, pages of documents given him by Conrad Wilson's operative during their clandestine meeting before he departed Naxos that he had digested while at Melissa's apartment, then again at Vinchey's island house, along with chapters of Biblical prophecies he had read, formed an amalgam, swirling nucleus in his mind, from which a clear path of action emerged.
Assaulting this remote INterface substation, if his analysis of the video profile on the Sector Coordinator was reliable, should not be too hard to do. Not the physical part of the assault, at any rate. The highly secretive nature of INterface's controlling structure meant that the tape he viewed was intended for the eyes of but a few. There was no need for elaborate security around these secluded computer centers; no one, other than each person chosen to be Sector Coordinator, knew where his own little concrete block building was located. One person could manage the machinery, so the INterface masters apparently reasoned.
Still, the things he saw and studied on the tapes and documents, detailed though they were, were only theoretical, basic envisionings of the INterface planners about how the Sector Coordinator should interact with the total system. Had the documents being stolen forced them to change their blueprint? If he ran into more than one person in the blockhouse, he would have his answer, because their plan called for one Sector Coordinator to act as caretaker of the ultra-sophisticated computer machinery, which was designed to operate itself. The Sector Coordinator was meant to perform only accountability functions, and to troubleshoot when things broke down. Each Coordinator was known personally by only one man in INterface government, according to the videotape and the papers he had studied. The arrangement was no doubt designed to isolate the individual from other Coordinators, thereby lessening the chances for collusion which might manipulate INterface machinery contrary to the Naxos group's intentions.
He gained confidence from the thoughts. The INterface blueprint was too intricate, too brilliant for them to take back to the drawing board. Ultimately, if the thief was not caught, the immensity, the complexity of it all would absorb him, neutralizing the thief s ability to put his knowledge to use. They would not change the blueprint because of such minor annoyances.
But his confidence had a double edge. His task was immense; he remembered the hours spent studying the Sector Coordinator's responsibilities to INterface, and the many and varied controls placed upon the Coordinator. Parts of his own plan worried him deeply. The identification process, when the Sector Coordinator was required to respond to Central Computer Command — Would his be the right solution? The Allegiant he carried in the backpack, could he make them swallow the deception? Could he make it all work together — his plan to penetrate INterface? Would there be enough time?
Much of his hope rested in how well Kerry Vinchey carried out his part. Having to depend on someone else went against his best judgment, weakened his effort. But, to put his own plan into action, itself an elaborate one, meant having to trust the pilot to use his skills as a flyer.
The air became harder to breathe because of the increased humidity, the closer he came to his objective. A light mist thickened to become fog in the distance, beyond the immediate density of bush and high grass in which he knelt, using binoculars to pierce the boiling haze. The stench was like that of the cities he left behind; not the normal smells of a forest shrouded with fog, or even of odors given off by the decaying dampness of marshland. The scents reeked of gasoline engine fumes. Smog, even here, 100 kilometers from the nearest town of more than 500 in population.
The blockhouse! Less than 75 meters in the distance, materializing, then seeming to disappear again within the maze that curled between it and him. A large satellite disc atop the flat roof pointed northeastward, aimed in the general direction of the orbits of the several satellites which followed each other's traverse above the continent. No windows. No apparent electronic security devices to alert the Sector Coordinator to approaching visitors. Such devices would be distracting to the man or woman, whose job it was to assure that the controlling machinery was cared for. Windows would tempt one to break the monotony by looking out them; security devices would be constantly tripped by wildlife, distracting to the man or woman. What if the Coordinator were a woman? What then? But, they would not put a woman in so remote a post as this one... surely.
Jacob crouched in the last of the high grass 15 feet from the foliage through which he had just passed and 40 yards from the blockhouse, which sat half-hidden within a copse across the small clearing. He pulled the backpack from his shoulders and checked through it, finding a liquid-filled bottle, Chloroform, and a thick roll of gauze.
If he were wrong; if there were security contrivances... No time to be concerned now. He crouched lower and struggled with the backpack, slipping it over his arms and into place over his shoulders and back.
He crawled infiltration-course style, staying as flat as possible and moving across the wet, decomposing vegetation. Its stench taking his breath. The humidity causing his face flesh to drip sweat, which trickled into and burned his eyes, when he raised his head to see how far he had come and how far he had to go. Another 20 meters or so. Most of it, up a slight incline from the depression where he now must slither through several meters of mud.
Quick movement near his head! A hissing noise, like air escaping, only in short, uneven bursts. A snake! Three-and-a-half feet directly in front of his venerable face! A gray brown snake, thick as a man's wrist, its white mouth wide, its fangs curved daggers poised to deliver its venom!
His heart thumped wildly while he calculated whether the moccasin could reach his head from that distance. This type had an unusually long strike capability compared to other snakes. Must remain still, watch the nervous reptile. Back away out of range slowly... very slowly.
The snake broke its tight coil and swiftly undulated from Jacob's path, disappearing into the matted marsh-grass. Sweat ran into his eyes while he scanned the grass for the snake, for others that might lie nearby.
His senses brought to a new level of alertness by the encounter with the snake, he crouched moments later, beside the blockhouse and again pulled the backpack from his shoulders and checked its contents — Kerry Vinchey's .45 Army Colt, the Chloroform, the British Commando Knife, the Allegiant device, wrapped in foil — all in order. He glanced at the watch borrowed from the pilot, almost time for the diversion.
He squatted against the building, strapped the knife and its holster to his right calf, and waited.
Seven minutes passed, then 12. There! The thumping whir of the engine! Within seconds the black machine appeared just above the trees. Approaching slowly, then hovering over the block building, its motor noise vibrating the air about his ears, causing the building and ground to quake as he made his way to the corner where the side and front of the building met. Would it work? Or would the man inside alert his superiors before checking the disturbance?
The metal door opened, slightly at first, then swung fully open. A man in a bright orange jumpsuit stepped into the smog-diffused light with one hand shielding his eyes from the brightness while he looked upward at the helicopter intruder. Jacob noticed a dark object in the man's right hand. A pistol! No! An automatic assault rifle! Raised now, taking aim at the aircraft. He had to move now! The weapon could bring the copter down in a single burst!
Would the INterface agent turn the fire upon him when he rushed? The helicopter's engine was deafening, the sound held close to the ground by the heavy, wet atmospheric conditions. The gunman would not see him until it was too late - Maybe.
The thoughts raced, as did his legs, toward the man who now held the weapon with both hands, trying to zero-in on the helicopter. He half-turned to meet Jacob as Jacob left his feet, knocking the Naxos agent to the ground with a body block. Both men scrambled for the rifle, which flew from the man's hand at the impact. The man was too powerful for Jacob, easily throwing him aside and crawling frantically toward the gun. Jacob was quicker, diving from several feet away and landing on the man's back, wrapping his right arm around the throat jerking upward with all his strength. The man reared up, straightening to throw his rider, but Jacob straightened with him and rode out the man's effort, ending up in a kneeling position behind the Sector Coordinator.
The bigger, stronger man got to one knee, his face scarlet and contorted; the jugular and heavy veins bulged while Jacob jerked and squeezed with all his strength. Suddenly, the man spasmed to his feet, but in a squatting position. He used all his leg power m one tremendous recoil backward, landing on Jacob's chest and stomach, forcing the air from his attacker's lungs.
The Sector Coordinator was on the smaller man, tearing at his face and throat with powerful hands, slamming his right fist against the side of Jacob's head. Jacob desperately searched his right leg with his fingertips while the man pressed his elbow against Jacob's Adam's apple. Lower - inching, crawling his fingers lower. The hard, horizontally-ribbed handle! The black, deadly commando knife, free of its holster.
His vision becoming blurry, dark; if not now, it would be too late! In a heaving burst of effort, he arched upward with his back, buttocks and heels, at the same time turning abruptly onto his left side. The sudden change of position threw the heavier man off balance. Jacob thrust the 8-inch blade into the Coordinator's chest beneath the sternum. Blood gushed from where the knife blade remained lodged, drenching Jacob's right hand and forearm, the warm •quid's cupreous odor singeing his nostrils while it saturated his clothing. He stared into the man's eyes, only inches from his own. They were bulging, straining to burst from their sockets. The mouth opened, dripping saliva, the swollen, blue lips quivering as if trying to orm a word. A slow gurgling whine escaped from between the man's clenched teeth. An unspoken appeal for help to the one who had taken his life, before the cold eyes turned upward until only their whites shown, reflecting the dingy yellow sky. A final, violent convulsion, expelling air, blood and expectorate from the agony-twisted mouth, then total surrender to death.
Still holding the handle of the knife, his gaze transfixed upon the lifeless eyes that glared back unseeingly. Jacob's hand seemed welded to the killing instrument locked through the dead man's breastbone by the blade's serrated upper edge. He did not see or hear someone running from the opening where the helicopter had moments before sat down.
"Jacob!" Vinchey said nothing more for several seconds, seeing the crimson gore. He pulled his friend free from the body, having to force Jacob's fingers from the knife handle. "Come on, Jake. You had no choice. He would've killed us both."
Standing in the doorway several minutes later, the men glanced apprehensively at the ashen-faced corpse they had just finished clothing in jeans and a blue denim shirt. Jacob knelt and covered the body with an Army blanket.
Vinchey put a hand on Jacob's shoulder. "He had to die. If not now, then when I got him to Putnamville."
"It's not the same. I've never killed like this... Not like this."
"You saved my life, Jake. You had no choice. He'd have brought us both down with that Uzi. We have too much to do to stand here flogging ourselves for something that had to be done. You said yourself, it's a war we're fighting. The man was our enemy. It's not wrong to defend yourself against an enemy who's trying to put you and the people you love in chains."
The rationalization and the image of Karen, painfully etched in his conscience, did much to relieve the guilt feeling. Vinchey was right. No time to mourn this agent of the Naxos devils. Too much to be done.
"Let's get on with it, then," he said, reaching into the backpack. "Heat the paraffin; I'll implant the transponder."
Each went about his task quickly, Kerry j Vinchey melting the wax substance over the portable burner, Jacob placing the tiny metallic Allegiant, j needle point first, against the back of the corpse's neck just below the occipital bone, gently, carefully inserting it into the death-cooling skin. Vinchey poured the now liquid wax into the mold Jacob had prepared days before. With Jacob's help, he placed the dead man's right index finger and thumb into the molten paraffin and held the hand immobile while Jacob discharged C02 around the mold from the fire extinguisher taken from the helicopter.
"Now the latex," said Jacob after several minutes of cooling the wax. He carefully pulled the corpse's finger and thumb from the paraffin.
Vinchey melted the rubber-like substance, then poured it into another mold, this one consisting of three pieces — two solid metal finger-sized molds, both of which fit into the third containing the just-poured latex. Jacob cooled the mold apparatus with C02 until the latex compound was in a gelatinous state, at which time, he pulled the two finger-like molds from the latex-filled mold, each finger now thick with the coagulating rubber substance. He then forced them downward into the mold of hardened paraffin where the dead man's finger and thumb had been moments before. Jacob held the mold assembly immobile while the pilot applied C02.
"Let's hope this works as well as it did when I was a kid using this stuff to make models of my hands and feet," Jacob said, glancing at the pilot and nodding that the molds had cooled long enough.
He carefully, slowly peeled the paraffin away from the now cooled rubber-covered molds, examining them to see that the removal had not damaged the latex stretched over the metal fingers.
Jacob touched the latex, then pulled the material and let it snap against the molds. "Good. It's set, now."
After rolling the rubber coverings down the molds until they came loose from the tips of the metal fingers, he placed one covering over his right index finger, the other over his right thumb, then rolled them carefully down each digit.
"Make the prints," he instructed Vinchey, who pressed the tips of the dead man's right index finger and right thumb onto an ink pad, then onto a sheet of paper.
Jacob pressed his own latex-covered thumb and index finger against the ink pad then onto the paper below the dead man's prints. "Perfect!... Absolutely perfect, Jacob!"
Vinchey examined the two sets of prints with a magnifying glass, comparing first the thumb prints, then the index fingerprints. Jacob scrutinized them when the pilot finished and handed him the glass.
"They look perfect, but we don't know how precisely the computer analyzes the print impressions. They do look good though, don't they?" "A human eye couldn't tell the difference." "There's only one way to determine if the computer's eye can. There won't be but one chance to test it, if it's not good enough.
"You know what has to be done, Kerry." The men stood beneath the drooping blades of the helicopter, Vinchey pulling the parachute over his shoulders, then jumping it into place on his back. He reached to take Jacob's extended hand when he finished with the chute.
"You have any questions?" Jacob asked. "No questions. My job will be simple compared to yours. I don't envy you."
"Yeah. I think I've prepared right for it. I've studied those tapes and papers until, now, I have to force them out of my mind. I've looked the equipment over and it's just about like I pictured it."
"You think the transponder will withstand the crash?" Vinchey nodded toward the Sector Coordinator's body, which sat strapped in the helicopter's right seat.
"It's supposed to survive just about anything, according to the tapes. The main thing we have to make sure of is that the body doesn't survive in an identifiable form."
"I'll find the deepest gorge in the area and drop it from two-thousand or so. It'll have full tanks, so there should be some kind of explosion when it hits. Shouldn't be enough left to give them any clue to how many people were in the bird." "Can you get out safely?" "There's some risk, of course. I don't look forward to it, but if I didn't think I'd make it, I wouldn't do it." "You're sure it will burn?" "I guarantee it. I've put an incendiary charge with an impact detonator on one of the tanks." "That's going to add to your risk."
"If I'm going to lose the chopper, I'm going to make sure it counts for something. It'll be okay. Just have to make sure I don't run into any trees on the way up."
"I'm sorry about your helicopter, Kerry."
"I'll borrow another one somewhere. Don't worry about it. I just hope they pick up on the signal sent by that thing."
"The crash will be well within their range. They'll pick up on it." Jacob shook Vinchey's hand again, then pulled the pilot to himself for a brief embrace. "Take care, Kerry. I can't afford to lose any more friends. And take care of those ladies. They've meant a lot to me."
His own tone, and the emotion evident in the pilot's eyes summed up their feelings. They were, unless some unbelieved-in force who determined fate willed otherwise, seeing each other for the last time.