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 8
Morning poured into the bedroom, spilling across the thick, rose-red carpet and bathing the end of the flower-patterned bedspread with sunlight. Holding his hand over his eyes, Jacob fought to gain consciousness. The music of the birds helped draw his senses into focus.
"We certainly didn't act like someone who so desperately misses our lady friend back home!" The cheery female voice pulled him the rest of the way from his sleep. "I must say, I certainly missed none of my friends last evening!"
Fredria VanHorne stood over him smiling, holding a cup and saucer.
Jacob looked at his wrist for his watch; not finding it, he glanced around the unfamiliar surroundings. "What time is it?"
"Eight-thirty." She handed him the coffee when he had adjusted to receive it. "How do you like my little slice of the upper world?" She sat on the bed and swept the air with a slender arm.
"These days, I don't think there's any place you can find this much sunlight on the surface. How's it done?"
"Special lighting effects, recordings and scents created by some of my scientist friends. I wake every morning this way. Well, not exactly this way — but as far as the illusion of being on the surface is concerned." Fredria smiled coquettishly, then lay beside him. "I don't suppose I could keep you as my pet? To make my little place here just perfect?"
"Right now I can't think of a more desirable life's calling." He put the cup aside and took her in his arms and kissed her. "But it's a luxury neither of us can afford. I presume Herr Krimhler will require some help in saving the world."
"You are envious." Fredria laughed and cradled his face in her hands. "Maybe a little... yes."
"Of his wealth? Of the admiration people, particularly the ladies, have for him?" she said, still amused.
"Those two aren't mutually exclusive, are they?"
"It is my opinion that everything, with men, comes down to a matter of virility. You invariably link all accomplishments and failures to the ability to perform sexually."
"I didn't know your areas of expertise include psychology," Jacob interrupted.
"A woman doesn't have to be a psychologist to know the mind of a man. It is so obvious that you more often reason with your libido than with logic. That's not altogether bad, of course." She kissed his cheek lightly. "And Herr Krimhler?" "What about him?" "How's his reasoning ability?" "To get to the point you will eventually reach after all of this sparring, I have no idea how good a lover Herrlich Krimhler might be."
"Come now, Fredria. You've never...?" "No. I've neverl" she interrupted with playful irritation in her voice. "As a matter of fact, we girls have wondered among ourselves for quite some time why none of us have had the pleasure of his... attentions. He seems to have no interest, I am sorry to have to say. So automatically he is homosexual, right?" Her blue eyes flashed suspicion when she put the question.
"Did I say that?"
"Yes. With your thoughts... thinking with your libido. All things involving achievement translate into varying degrees of virility. Herrlich Krimhler has intellect, power, prestige, and limitless financial resources. He should be the great lover, but he seems to have no interest in women, therefore he must be homosexual. Do you want to know why there's the great number of homosexual males today? The problem is created by just that attitude. They are terrified they cannot live up to the standard ~ so they retreat into a less competitive, less threatening sexual world."
"I give up. He must not be homosexual. You've convinced me." He shrugged submission.
"You are obstinate, Jacob Zen!" She loosed her hair from its swirled-pile atop her head, letting it tumble about her shoulders to full length. "Now show me again how you think only with your libido."
Thoughts ricocheted in his head — kept pounding the same question over and over. Who was she? He closed his eyes, feeling her warmth, scenting her feminine essence, his apprehensions giving way not altogether grudgingly. Before losing control, those inner words came again, unmistakenly clear. "Watch that girl, Son. Remember Delilah, Salome, Mata Hari and all the rest..."
He was still mulling Conrad Wilson's admonition three-and-a-half hours later while he packed a gray blazer into a clothes bag. Karen's pretty face formed a translucent backdrop against which a hundred other thoughts flashed somewhere in the center of his brain. Trying to shrug off the depression as merely a feeling of guilt for having enjoyed the time spent with Fredria VanHorne, he rationalized that he and Karen had long ago made a pact. They agreed that sex with others was not wrong, unless the physical union forged emotional bonds, damaging their own love for each other. The theory was okay; the practice was flawed.
A more profound rationale, one whose source he couldn't pinpoint, dissolved the barrier separating emotion from biological act. One sure thing emerged. Though he believed he had truly struggled to be the Renaissance man, a believer in the New Age Reformation, he would be hurt, even enraged, should Karen be with another man. A more deeply seeded worry troubled him while he, without thinking about it, placed clothing and toiletry articles into the bag. The feeling had been with him even before arriving at Naxos, where one might expect to be watched to some extent. It was, since the encounter with Hugo Marchek, a sense of having lost all privacy, of being constantly monitored. "Almost ready, are you?" Conrad Wilson said, then put an index finger to his lips, forewarning that unwanted eyes and ears watched and listened. Jacob, who stopped packing when Wilson entered the room, was quick to go along.
The old diplomat moved to Jacob's side by the bed. "Our message to the President can be one of optimism, Jake," Wilson said aloud, handing the younger man a leather portfolio. "I've prepared a briefing for him that pretty well sums up my feelings on the matter of tri-level participation, and what I think our part in it might evolve to."
He then crowded next to Jacob and began helping him put articles into the suitcase, a move to conceal the message he whispered. "There are mikes and cameras on us. There's no place we can meet right now where they can't watch us, so read those papers somewhere you won't be seen. You'll have to figure out where. In them, I've suggested a place we can meet just before you leave for D.C."
Wilson resumed normal volume. "Of course, you can give the President your observations, as well. Tell him how you feel about things."
"I'm sure we pretty much agree on things. But thanks. I'll add whatever observations I can, that I feel might help, of course."
"Good boy! Then I'll see you off at fourteen-thirty hours," the old man said, opening the door and turning to face him. "See you then, Uncle Conrad."
So this was to be the system that would save humanity from itself, he thought when Wilson left him. His suspicions were not unfounded after all. He was not paranoid! Cooperation among peoples was not merely to be sought, it would be assured. Demanded! At whatever price required. Would Western man now have his own KGB-style watchdogs? Even more efficient than the former Soviet terror-police because new, super-sensitive eavesdropping technologies would perform the surveillance? Would the citizen of the New Order have his own electronic Berlin Wall surrounding him, suffocating his every grope for lost liberty?
The realization waved over him in a hot flood of truth. The only difference between the Naxos cabal and the White House Project Eagle planners was the fact that the Unified European States and Herrlich Krimhler had been quicker to set up the machinery that would assure a successful grab for power. Was not a grab for power also the purpose of Project Eagle? Under either leadership, the individual would pay dearly for existence in the society to come.
For now, he must get a look into the portfolio without letting the snoops know about Wilson's note to him. He surveyed the room, hoping those watching thought he was attempting to find misplaced personal items instead of suspecting his real purpose ~ that of trying to locate surveillance devices. They were well hidden, probably within the vents at each corner of the room.
The closet might be the answer! Several articles of clothing remained hanging there, and that small space, off the short hallway would be easy enough to give a quick check for surveillance equipment. There must be an excuse for spending time in the closet however, because removing three or four shirts and a couple of suits from the rack would take only seconds; it would take longer to read his foster father's instructions.
He snapped the suitcase shut, lifted it and the portfolio from the bed, then set both against the small closet's back wall. While he fiddled with the clothes on the rack, he let his eyes roam the ceiling, floor and walls. Nothing in the closet that looked like snooping lenses or microphones... No vents... Now to buy time to accomplish his task.
After gathering all of the hangers at once and lifting the clothing from the racks, he let them slip from his hands, causing them to cover the suitcases and portfolio. He cursed angrily, loud enough for those watching and listening to hear, then knelt, supposedly to gather the mess, but letting his hand wander beneath the clothing and onto the leather folder. After unsnapping the single latch, Jacob slipped his hidden right hand into the case, gathering all the papers he could feel. With his left hand, he continued to pretend he was trying to get the clothing together, all the while taking care to keep his back turned to the room outside the closet doorway in order to block the view of those watching. He hurriedly read the instructions Wilson had paper-clipped to the thick briefing report to the President; they were scrawled in the diplomat's handwriting on a single yellow sheet:
At 12:15, go to Core Chamber Z-391. You will be given a package by someone who's on our team, I am assured that you won't be monitored while you are in that area, but you will, most likely, be watched up to that point. Find an excuse to go to the general area of that chamber, then get lost and stray into Z-391. You will be given instructions by our operative at that time. Also, you and I must grab a few minutes of privacy before you leave for D. C. Good luck, Son.
"Is everything okay with you, Mr. Zen?" The harsh, German-accented voice startled Jacob, who managed to quickly stuff the papers back into the case while concealing his activity from the man who tried to look over his shoulder. "May I help you?"
"No. I've about got it."
Jacob squatted over the jumble of clothing, effectively blocking the prying man's view. He snapped the case shut, draped the clothing over his forearm and hand that held the case, rose to his feet and walked to the bed where he dumped the load, taking care to see that the apparel covered the case.
Jacob could sense that the man in the orange and black jumpsuit uniform was verging on desperation, wanting to satisfy his curiosity about the portfolio. It gave him pleasure to keep the man, who he was sure had been instructed to be subtle in his investigation, from getting his way. And, he was not about to let the invader go verbally unpunished.
"Is it standard operating procedure here to walk in on someone without being invited?"
"I was told you would require assistance with your luggage."
"I made no such request. Even if I had, does that excuse you from the common courtesy of knocking?"
"I apologize, sir. Please forgive the intrusion." The words were insincere, practiced; the tone was as harsh as the accent. The man was sent to see what the camera could not, when Jacob had stayed in the closet longer than they felt necessary. He was pleased he had so easily out-maneuvered them. No doubt there would be cameras and microphones put in the closets to prevent guests from pulling such stunts in the future.
By noon, he had figured his plan of action for rendezvousing at the spot designated by his foster father. It would be accomplished under the pretext of again trying to get into contact with Karen by Holophone.
According to the Naxos complex's schematic layout he had been given as part of his orientation, the two chambers — the one housing the Communications Center and the Core Chamber Z-391 — were in close enough proximity to make it possible for someone not familiar with the complex to, as Wilson had suggested in his instructional note, stray into the wrong area.
At 12:09, an orange-uniformed guard approached him while he walked with briefcase in hand along a marble-floored corridor, feigning confusion.
"May I help you... Mr. Zen," the man said after looking at the identification badge pinned to the breast pocket of Jacob's coveralls.
"Isn't Communications around here somewhere?" Jacob's words rang hollow in his own ears, but were apparently convincing enough for the Naxos security man.
"Down the corridor and two turns to the right, sir," the man instructed, stepping closer to Jacob and pointing. "Z-three ninety-one will be on your right after the first turn."
The man's whispered words caused Jacob to jerk in surprise before realizing this was his contact. He hoped his expression hadn't betrayed them both.
"Thanks for your help," Jacob said out loud, then headed in the direction the man had pointed. He had done a credible job of appearing confused before opening the door marked Z-391, he tried to convince himself while ducking to keep from bumping his head against what looked like insulated piping that networked at eye-level throughout the room. The dimly lit chamber, he analyzed, was apparently a pumping station for one or more sections of the underground complex.
The thumping sound grew louder the farther he threaded his way toward the room's center, the noise finally stabilizing at a barely tolerable level.
He thought he heard something in addition to the pumping, like a clanking of metal against metal. Looking beneath the congestion of piping, he saw the guard who had stopped him in the hallway motioning to him from an opening in the wall just above the floor. Jacob squatted beneath the pipes to hear the man, who handed him a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper.
"Whatever happens, don't let this material out of your sight." The man's controlled tone told Jacob this was a career professional, most likely CIA.
"This is to be given only to the President, and only at the time he designates. You are to wait for his call at the White House, where you'll be staying until he calls for you. It's not likely you'll be personally searched, but once you leave U.E.S. Headquarters in Brussels, anything goes. Stay around people, that is crowds, as much as possible. Do not let them isolate you. They'll want to get a look inside that case... Might even kill for it... Make it look like a mugging. Don't give them the chance. The best way to prevent that is by staying public. You will be okay once you reach the White House, and our people will watch out for you once you get to Andrews."
The man's eyes were deadly calm, unblinking. It was easy for him to speak of life and death in terms of mission over human factors. "Remember, Mr. Zen, only President Parley is to receive this material. Absolutely no one else. Do you understand all of this?"
"Yes. But what if the case is snatched? I mean, I'm not a trained courier."
"You don't have to be." The man reached behind him into the wall's recess, and brought out a small canvas pouch. "Here's all you need to do the job." He handed it to Jacob. "It contains a special pair of courier cuffs you will attach to the case and to your wrist." He took the cuffs from the bag. "They look like any other set of cuffs, but they're not, I assure you." He held up the gleaming cuffs so Jacob could see them in the scant light. "They have a timer lock that can only be safely released before the preset time, by a certain combination of things, which only you and I and the President will know about. If the cuffs are forced open before that time, the timer, through remote electronics, activates a device inside the package I gave you to give the President. That device has enough explosive charge to destroy the package and anyone or anything within ten or fifteen feet of it."
"But what if someone removes the handle of the briefcase, or cuts it open?"
"In that case, when they open the package and unfasten a latch to get to the materials, the device will explode without the help of the timer in the cuffs. When the tinier opens the cuffs at the preset time, there can no longer be an electronically activated detonation, but the latch on the box is still a functioning detonator."
"There's no way this thing can be safely taken off my wrist until the automatic timer unlocks it at the preset time?"
"The key," The man held up a key, then handed it to Jacob, "will unlock the cuffs. At the same time, just as when they are forced open, the cuffs activate the countdown to detonation. Snapping the cuffs together again shuts off the electronic detonator."
"How long from the time they are unlocked or pried open until the package explodes?"
"Three minutes, exactly — One-hundred-eighty seconds. Snapping the cuffs back together after they are opened by key automatically restores three full minutes of time until detonation. However, if the cuffs have been forced open, then for some reason snapped back together, the time will continue counting down until detonation."
"Then the countdown can't be stopped once the cuffs ^rt forced open?"
"There's only one way this device can be disarmed, totally," the man said clinically, reaching behind him again and bringing out a blue metal rectangular box. "The materials in the package you are to give the President are inside a box identical to this one," he said, holding it in the palm of his hand. "This is the latch." He pointed with an index finger to a stainless steel mechanism near where the lid of the box overlapped the box's deeper portion in a tight fit. "As you can see, it sticks out from the box to some extent and looks to be a latch you must pull up to open. If you pull straight up, like so..." He put his thumb under the latch and pushed up. "...there is an instantaneous explosion; it is, in effect, a manual detonator. But if you push three times inwardly..." He did so and the lid of the box sprang open, "...you do two things — disarm the explosive device and open the box. If you then re-close the lid, you rearm the device. Have you got all this straight?"
"I'd better have," Jacob joked feebly. It was all quite clever and spy-like, but why was he chosen to deliver the volatile (in more ways than one) package to the President? He supposed he should be excited over the honor; at least he should be nervous in anticipation of the hazardous mission. He was neither; probably, he pondered, the result of having too much happen to him, too recently. "Yes. I understand."
"Remember. If this box is shut again, it is automatically rearmed. Our people in D.C. will deactivate the thing." Jacob nodded understanding.
"Good luck then, Mr. Zen."
The operative shrunk back into the opening behind him, leaving Jacob suddenly alone in the humming, semi-darkened pumping station, feeling the meeting was unfinished, wondering if he had gotten all the instructions right.
Two minutes later, he stood near the spot where Fredria had introduced him to the elaborate Naxos Communications Center. This time, however, there were no men and women in white smocks rushing frantically about their respective jobs of interacting with the unfathomable machinery that lined the walls, although the equipment seemed to be fully activated. A row of multi-colored lights blinked in what appeared to be rippling synchronization along one large wall panel above the control board Fredria VanHorne had manipulated to put him in contact with Karen.
Standing alone in the chamber produced eerie sensations of being the pawn of some Promethean mind. Symbolically, the last man standing in some future courtroom, being judged by his own ultimate, final computer-creation. The silence of the room, except for his own shuffling and heel-clicking sounds, brought home the total efficiency of this exponential intelligence, devoid of warm, familiar... mortal noises. The human was not, after all, needed. He could take his breaks for food, for conversation, for whatever, while his superior electronic progeny carried on with business — even the business of security.
He had been admitted, after inserting his identifier card-badge into the slot device at the door, and now the huge room seemed to follow him with its artificial senses. He smiled, letting his eyes roam the chamber, feeling a fool for crediting the technology with so much thought power. It was machinery erected by mankind, nothing more. — So, to it!
The Holophone's chamber was dark; the chair he had sat in during his attempt to talk to Karen had to be turned to face the glass and metal enclosure. Fredria's console board to the right of the chair looked at first glance to be a jumble of every conceivable kind of toggle and button and lever. He decided, upon closer examination, that there was a pattern to the tangle. He determined to have a go at activating the Holophone, musing that any catastrophe resulting from his fiddling could be charged to the U.S. State Department. What were a few million more electronic dollars, added to a multi-trillion dollar deficit, that would soon be wiped clean with one or two strokes of the presidential pen? Each control was clearly marked in English, French and German. He pressed a green button with the designation: "Holophone Chamber Initiator." The darkened chamber filled instantly with misty light and began the remembered low humming that increased in volume and became rhythmic after several seconds.
Although uneasy over unfamiliarity with the technology, his need to reach Karen overcame his worry about angering anyone who might walk in and find him at his unauthorized activity. Too, he welcomed the chance to be alone while he made the attempt. There were questions to be answered — questions his last session at the Holophone brought up that would not go away. Why was all of Stone Oaks' communications out? Why was Karen subdued in her one-sided conversation yesterday, yet during their earlier Brussels' conversation she had been near panic? Why, just before the communication broke off, did the video and audio slip backward in time, then repeat, when it was supposed to be a live rather than recorded transmission?
Jacob sat in the big chair, hopeful his button manipulations had accomplished the same things Fredria's manipulations accomplished a day earlier. At the same time, the thought struck... he was most likely not alone. Why would they let him wander into this super-sensitive area, with its operators nowhere in sight, and not be watching through their many security cameras?
No time now for assessing everything that bothered him. Such as, Conrad Wilson not letting him in on the whole truth about Project Eagle; his being under surveillance at Naxos; the ominous package he carried in the briefcase; and ultimately whether there would be survival of freedom for the people of the Western world — All must be pushed aside for now. AH that mattered, at the moment, was talking to Karen and getting to her at McLean, once the package was delivered to the President.
He pushed the button on the right arm of the chair while facing the Holochamber, whose noise had reached a high, steady hum. He glanced up to the marquee above the chamber and read the input information on the display. When he finished the input, like before, the white mist of light in the chamber formed into a solid mass. After a few seconds, like the first time at the Holophone, someone answered on a conventional telephone. Fredria had said that the video portion of the Holophone would work once the picturephone was connected.
"Hello? This is Jacob Zen." he responded to the voice on the other end.
"Yes? This is Stone Oaks, residence of Ambassador Conrad J. Wilson. May I help you?"
It was Cogdon.
"Cog... Get me Karen on the picture-phone." He relaxed, relieved that he remembered the procedure necessary to complete the connection.
"Yes, Jacob." Cogdon's voice was cut off. Jacob heard muffled voices in the background at Stone Oaks, then Cogdon was on the line. "Jacob, we shall have to get her out of her bath. Can you hold for a moment?"
The same words as last time! He turned to look around the big room. Was someone playing an elaborate prank?
Cogdon's voice was on the line again. "She's on her way to the basement, now. How is everything with you and the Ambassador?" The words, the inflection were the same! Exactly the same!
Jacob remained silent, listening, his heart jumping near his throat.
Seconds later Karen's voice came through the line. "Hello?" He started to answer, but didn't. "Where are you?" the voice said. Her image had formed in the chamber, and, like before, she put her right hand over her eyes, trying, apparently, to shield them from excessive brightness. He waited for her to speak, knowing it was futile to talk, himself.
"Jacob, I'm told the picture-phone unit has lost audio reception and they can't fix it. They say all our phones here are having problems right now, and I can't see you clearly at all. In order to talk with you, I'll have to leave Stone Oaks, and I don't think you would want me to do that. I'm fine. Can you call me later? They tell me they'll have the problem fixed as soon as possible."
There followed a long pause, Karen's image becoming clearly visible within the Holochamber. Finally, her image spoke again. "Jacob, I don't know whether you're still on the line, because the picture is a blur now, but I want you to know... I love you..." The image broke up, and she was gone.
He got up slowly from the chair — seeing or hearing nothing while he walked to the control board and switched off the Holographic machinery. Confusion clouded his thoughts, then slowly gave way to the realization he had come to some time before. He had been deceived at every level. By those here in the pit of Naxos; by Fredria Vanhorne; by his own government — by Conrad Wilson. There was only one person he could trust, and she had been forced to participate in the deception. What did they do to her to get her to cooperate in betraying him? Why did they let him live, if he was such a liability that he couldn't be trusted to be a full partner in their plans? But someone had tried — on the Interstate! Why not since, though? Why were they waiting?
He looked at his wrist for the watch that wasn't there, then to a digital clock inset in Fredria VanHorne's console board. 13:D8. He quickly translated into civilian time — 1:08. Less than an hour-and-a-half before he would leave for Brussels on his way to D.C..
How deeply involved was his foster father? The thought that Conrad Wilson might willingly be a part of deceiving him, of possibly hurting Karen, pained him, as much as, his fear that she had been harmed by whatever force was sucking him ever deeper into itself.
At LEVEL 2. Jacob emerged from the Degermination Center holding the briefcase in his left hand while straightening his necktie with his right. He then switched the case to his right hand and stretched his left arm, exposing his wrist. He cursed quietly, seeing the vacant spot where his watch should be.
"Jacob!"
He turned to see Fredria VanHorne trotting toward him. "Wait! I'll walk with you to the surface lift."
He did so, enjoying the movement of her feminine form beneath the snugly fitting white coveralls she wore.
"Why must you leave just now?" Her question was sincere enough. But any expert operative would have, among other talents, the ability to act. She put her arm through the crook of his and they walked slowly up the wide, red-carpeted concourse.
"Something's come up in Washington; they want me there by tomorrow night for a meeting. I really don't know myself what it's about."
"Nothing to do with Miss... what's the name?"
"Karen."
"Yes... Miss Mossberg."
"No. Nothing to do with her. Like I said, I don't know what it's about, exactly. Maybe you can tell me."
Fredria seemed to recoil. "I? How could I possibly know why you are called to Washington?"
"Because it may have something to do with the new computer union between continents. Since Krimhler is at the center of it all, I assumed you would know something about it."
"It could be the Satelvid Interact phase we'll be instituting within the next two weeks," she said absently, apparently thinking out loud. She stopped and looked up at him. "I shouldn't have said that," she said, realizing the breach of security.
"I'll know about it by tomorrow night anyway. And I do have top clearance in most of these things."
"Oh, I know I can rely on your discretion. After all, we have shared many... secrets, have we not?"
Jacob smiled, but wanted to distance himself from Fredria and from the Naxos complex as quickly as possible. "What time do you have?"
She took her arm from his to see her watch. "Fourteen-twelve." She took his arm again while they continued up the concourse. "I am sorry about your watch, Jacob, but it will turn up somewhere within my apartment. Shall I mail it to you?"
"I'd appreciate that. It was a gift," he said, stopping in front of a large, electronically activated door marked SURFACE LIFT and turning to face her. He saw a softness in her expression he had not seen before, and she pulled him to her and kissed his lips.
"I shall not forget you, Jacob Zen. Please do not forget your Fredria." She kissed him again — a warm, lingering kiss that caused, for the moment, thoughts of deception and suspicion and clandestine betrayal to melt beneath her undeniable charm. Maybe she didn't know anything about the phony link-up to Stone Oaks. About the insidious intrigues of those she served... About...
He tried to force his ties to her from his emotions, recalling Conrad Wilson's warning: "Remember Delilah, Salome, Mata Hari and all the rest..."
Fredria VanHorne had to be aware of what was going on. Regardless, time no longer afforded the luxury of personal involvement. Whether she was innocent or guilty, he would remove her from his thoughts. For his sake and for Karen's.
He bent to give her a brief, detached kiss of goodbye. "How could I ever forget you?"
On the surface, the air hung heavy with humidity, an untimely fog obscuring all but those objects within 40 meters of them. The two men shuffled slowly away from the helicopter that soon would fly him to Brussels.
Conrad Wilson spoke quietly so not to be overheard by the contingent of Naxos guards and Unified European States officials gathered near the huge black and gold bird.
"I wish I could do this myself, Jake, but there's just no way. I've got to stick around here and try to keep the toehold we've managed to dig."
Wilson gripped Jacob's shirt sleeve between thumb and fingertips and nudged him even farther from the group of men, turning his face from their direction and talking out of the corner of his mouth secretively.
"Jake. Something catastrophic has happened to the Russians. I watched it all this morning with Krimhler and his bunch through one of their special communications set-ups. They swarmed full-force into the Middle East, just like you and I talked about — The Russians, the Turks, and, get this, some renegade divisions of the German Army, which was something we didn't anticipate. Iran and Libya formed a pincer action from the east and south, with Egypt apparently only providing passage through their territory. I guess Israel was their objective. At least, they appeared intent on taking over the entire Palestine region."
The reason for the completely deserted Holochamber room. Fredria knew about the invasion, but didn't mention it.
"What happened? Who stopped them?" Jacob's mind went almost blank, feeling his senses darken with the rush of emotion.
"It was total blitzkrieg, Jake. Nothing could've stopped them short of nuclear weaponry. They came with every conventional thing they could bring. I still can't figure out what happened. According to the limited video we had, and the reports from people along Israel's northern borders, there were unbelievable deluges of rain, followed by falling fire and hailstones — some as big as medicine balls, they said.
"But the weirdest reports were those telling of greenish vapors escaping from wide cracks in the ground and engulfing the men and weapons. When that happened, according to the reports, the ground troops, those commanding, those driving the tanks and so forth, just went berserk! They began slaughtering each other! They say in some areas there's blood standing in five-foot deep pools. Bodies stacked five and more high for as far as the eye can see!" Conrad Wilson drifted into his own disbelief, staring downward at nothing in particular.
Jacob questioned through his shock, not realizing what he was asking until he had asked it. "Then Israel wasn't affected?"
Wilson's glazed eyes cleared when the question brought him back. "What?... No. They never got to the Golan Heights. Every plane was knocked out of the sky by the storm and by the hail. The Jews are saying, 'God did it for them.'"
Both men were silent for several seconds, then Wilson straightened, as if he had searched inwardly and found new resolve. "Not only that, reports are that every site in and around Russia , where they had their ICBM bases and their reserve forces of conventional weaponry, were hit by these tremendously large hailstones or meteorites, or whatever they were. The Russian coalition's military capacity is destroyed! Do you know what that means, Jake?"
"The world has a chance for real peace for the first time in history, I should imagine."
"It means that now the war is between us and the U.E.S.. Now, more than ever, we've got to see to it that the United States gets control in what will very, very shortly emerge from all this. Whoever moves the quickest will be the future, my boy! That's got to be us, because the Europeans have made a mess of every civilization that they've developed."
Jacob started to say that Herrlich Krimhler had already put forward a plan, just the night before. That Project Eagle was only in the kindergarten stage of development, whereas Krimhler's, the Naxos group's, was on the verge of graduation, of implementation. As if it were masterfully arranged to coincide with the obliteration of the Russian war machine. But Wilson spoke first.
"There's definitely a double-cross in the making here, and I'm not sure diplomacy, or political shenanigans, or anything else we can do, can head it off. But we've got to have a go at it!"
Wilson put his hand on the younger man's back while they continued to distance themselves from the helicopter and the group gathered around it. "I can't overemphasize the critical nature of the materials contained in that briefcase, Son. I'm convinced that if we can't come up with a near-perfect strategy immediately, there's no way the North American continent is going to be able to even hold its own in this thing."
Both men stopped, Wilson's arm pressuring his foster son to turn toward the helicopter. Only a small portion of the aircraft's golden fuselage could be seen through the coagulant fog while Wilson spoke. "Now, Son, I realize it's not fair to ask you to make this trip, giving you only enough stuff on it to scare the devil right out of you, but it's got to be up to the head man to fill you in as he sees fit. To be blunt, Son... although I trust you implicitly, it wouldn't be prudent to let you have the whole plate-full right now. The less you know, the less anybody could..." The old man let his thought go unsaid, his gray eyes reflecting worry. "Everything is so critical now because of this development in the Middle-East." Wilson squeezed Jacob's arm in a gesture of affection.
The rotors began turning with an accelerating whine, violently churning the green gray mist, which began to dissipate, improving their view of the aircraft.
"If there be a God," Wilson said, distantly, "we have surely seen Him at work this day, I think."