Judgment Day (12 page)

CHAPTER 20 REACTION

Religious belief is based on the assumption of the supernatural; that every action is guided by the hand of God, or a demon, or a spiritual force. This belief persists despite the fact that no one has ever been able to substantiate the existence of a spiritual world.

—
RELIGION, PLAGUES, AND EARTHQUAKES'
.

NATURAL AND UNNATURAL DISASTERS
, MARION WADE

C
omfortable in his favorite chair, Crow sipped his wine, watching his television expectantly. The chair was leather stretched over a hardwood frame with mahogany trim. The television was the latest in high-definition technology, a thin wall screen, six feet wide. Crystal-clear coverage of the launch filled the wall, shot from a hill outside the cult's compound. There was no sound coming from the speakers built into the walls around the room. Crow had turned the sound off, unable to tolerate the inane babble of the reporters.

Crow put his wine down, picking up his Cuban cigar, sucking in the rich smoke, holding it in his lungs, then expelling the smoke in a long, slow, luxurious blow. Crow studied the woods between the compound and the launch site, wondering if his assassin was hidden there. The mechanic had refused to tell him when he would strike, so watching the launches had become a ritual for Crow, ever hopeful that this would be the night.

Now the telescopic camera focused in on the cult ship. The air around the
Rising Savior
began to glow and it soon became too intense for the camera, the scene switching to a wide shot from the hill. Now the
Rising Savior
appeared to be a glowing ball in the distance. The glow died and the wide shot of the compound was replaced by a tight shot of the
Rising Savior. A
dust cloud was swirling around the ship and Crow leaned forward watching the ship lift. Now the camera angle widened and Crow held his breath in anticipation. When the
Rising Savior
cleared the top of the hangar Crow relaxed, disappointed. Placing his cigar in a crystal ashtray, he picked up his glass. He was running out of patience with the mechanic.

Suddenly a missile streaked across the screen, missing the
Rising Savior
, continuing across the compound and out of camera range. Crow punched the mute button to restore the sound.

"What was that? Was that a missile?" a confused reporter said dumbly.

A muffled booming was heard in the background and the camera jerked up, the picture blurring.

"Over there, a fireball. An explosion!" Then the reporter became serious. "There has been an attack on the spaceship
Rising Savior
by an unknown party or parties."

Crow threw his glass at the screen, shattering the goblet, the wine spilling across the screen and down the wall. Now Crow watched the action through a pink stain. The camera focused on the site of the explosion and the brush fire spreading out from the impact site. Then the camera pointed back into the compound, the reporter declaring, "Something is happening."

Crow stood, approaching the screen, wiping away the wine with the sleeve of his silk shirt. Then he stood dumbfounded as he realized he had underestimated his enemy.

CHAPTER 21 FLUSHED

By this sign [the cross] shalt thou conquer him.

—FROM THE VISION OF CONSTANTINE, A.D. 313

C
ameras were rolling as the
Rising Savior
lifted off, reporters providing running commentary along with the video feed to the cable networks carrying the launch live. The broadcast networks were recording, preparing footage for late-night newscasts and the morning network talk shows. Roland was reminded of the Apollo program, before the public was satiated with space spectaculars. The interest in the Fellowship launches was still high but waning, the broadcast networks now selecting which launches to cover live.

Roland's heart still pounded from excitement whenever the
Rising Savior
was rolled to the pad, not because the launches were thrilling—they lacked the explosive beauty of a shuttle launch—but because of the potential they represented. The Fellowship held the key to a permanent presence in space.

Suddenly a missile climbed from the trees, streaking under the
Rising Savior
, continuing across the valley, exploding on contact with the far hill. Roland leapt to his feet. A small fire could be seen in the distance where the missile exploded in the dry hills. All around him excited reporters babbled to their viewers about what they had just witnessed. The reporters built the story, describing what happened with words like "war zone," "battle," and "carnage," despite the fact that only one missile had been fired.

Roland studied the dark compound for signs of attack. All was quiet—no attackers, no defenders. Then the hangar door slowly opened and the incredible happened.

As the door opened the lights in the compound were turned off. The reporters around Roland quieted, whispering their commentary now, everyone expecting a response from the cult. Suddenly the hangar opening lit up, the white light brighter than day. Then the hangar faded to dark again, followed by another bright glow and another fade to dark. Three more times the hangar glowed briefly. Then a steady dull glow could be seen from the hangar. The reporters continued in whisper mode, describing in great redundancy what they saw below. Another minute passed, the compound dark, then a ship flew out of the opening and shot into the sky.

"Wasn't that the
Rising Savior2." a
reporter asked.

Before he finished another ship flew out and then three more in quick succession, all of them identical to the
Rising Savior
.

Roland was furious with himself for not guessing their scam—the launch schedule was too grueling to be believed. There were a half-dozen
Rising Saviors
, not a single ship as they had been led to believe.

As Roland watched the last of the ships disappear he wondered what other secrets the cult was hiding.

CHAPTER 22 SHEPHERD'S PRAYER

To test the power of prayer, Sir Francis Galton compared the shipwreck rates of slave ships with those of ships carrying missionaries. Congregations routinely prayed for missionaries, but not for slavers. Galton found that the oceans claimed slavers and missionaries equally often.

—
A HISTORY OF GOOD AND EVIL
, ROBERT WINSTON, PH.D.

S
itting in a chair, hands folded, head down, Mark Shepherd meditated, keeping his mind clear, open so God could speak to him. He had prayed like this twice daily since receiving his vision and never once had God spoken to him—no deep booming voices, no small whisper, no visions like that night in the hospital chapel, not even a fleeting image. It was as if God expected that one vision—one communication—to be sufficient to guide Mark down the long road God had placed before him. Coming as it did shortly after Anita's death, Mark had latched on to that vision like a drowning man would a life preserver. The vision, and meeting Ira, had given him a sense of direction and a feeling that he was doing something important. One day he had been a lonely man, despairing in a chapel, his nascent family buried, and the next a man with a new family—a family of believers.

That family—the Fellowship—started with Mark and Ira and now thousands of people looked to him for leadership. The companionship was welcomed at first but now had grown into a burden he would willingly turn over to others. God asked too much of him, breaking his back with the load. Mark's days were spent in endless meetings, making dozens of decisions, seldom confident he'd made the right one. Now there was a new distraction—Christy Maitland.

Christy's face, her smell, her words, were pleasant intrusions, welcome distractions from his burden. He felt some guilt when he thought of Anita, long-buried but still loved, but she would want the best for him. He desperately wanted a helpmate but in his vision he had been alone on that desert. Mark had often wondered if the traffic accident that took Anita and their unborn son had been an act of God, designed to prepare him for his task. If God had taken a woman he loved once, would God do it again?

Mark's watch beeped and he left his office in the San Antonio compound, walking the short hall to the conference room. Mark's office was like the rest of the compound, sparsely furnished with a desk chair, side chair for visitors, and a table that he used for a desk. A five-year-old computer hummed on the tabletop and four file cabinets lined one wall. There were no pictures or decorations, not even a cross. The floor was yellowed linoleum, the walls Sheetrock painted white. The conference room was also sparsely furnished. It was the largest office in what used to be a furniture factory. The name of the factory was still painted on the exterior, nearly unreadable, bleached by the relentless Texas sun.

The others were already gathered. They sat on folding metal chairs around an old Sunday school table with a Formica top and folding legs. The stain of finger paints and Magic Markers still marred the surface. Shelly and John Henry sat to his right, and Ira and Floyd Remple to his left. Sally Roper, the financial manager, sat at the far end of the table. Mark presided over the meetings, but Ira set the agenda.

"George Proctor wants to see you, Mark," Ira said.

"Tell him to get lost, Mark. He'll only bring us trouble," Shelly said.

John faked embarrassment, then said in a soft voice, "What my gentle wife is trying to say, Mark, is that Mr. Proctor may not be part of God's plan for the Fellowship."

"I won't meet with him," Mark said. "Associating with George Proctor will just make it harder for us to reach our goal."

"Maybe you should meet with him," Ira said.

Surprised, everyone turned to look at Ira. Ira had always disliked Proctor.

"He gave me this when he asked to see you," Ira said.

Ira handed Marks strange-looking pair of goggles.

"What are these?"

"Night-vision goggles," Ira said. "Proctor said the last owner of those goggles also owned a Stinger missile."

"Proctor knows who fired at the
Rising Savior2."
Shelly asked.

"He'll only talk to Mark," Ira said.

"I'll see him after the meeting," Mark decided.

"Sally, please give us a financial update," Ira said, moving the meeting along.

Sally Roper was a tiny sixty-year-old woman with white hair, skin tanned a deep brown, and soft gray eyes, bright with intelligence. Despite her diminutive size, she controlled the Fellowship's finances and she wielded great power.

"Tithing is steady, donations are up twenty-two percent over last month, and twenty-three members switched to worker status, saving us sixty percent of their salaries. Our cash reserves are down to $5,354,000 but we have a number of contracts lined up that should provide steady revenue until the new space station is operational. We're retrieving the Chinese weather satellite that malfunctioned last week and will return it to orbit later this month. We're repositioning two satellites for Hughes and NASA has finally come through. We've contracted to take up a supply module for space station Freedom and they want us to rescue the Solar IV satellite.

They can't get their booster to push it into a usable orbit."

"Why are they still funding the space station when we can do it for less?" Shelly asked.

"Congress has cut back the funding for Freedom, but not cut it off,"

Sally said.

"They never will," Ira argued. "The space program employs people in all the key electoral states. If they put NASA out of business, they lose their jobs and the president loses votes."

"We've received requests from the NSF and three universities for time on board New Hope," Sally continued. "The University of Hawaii has temporarily halted construction of the new observatory on Mauna Kea. They want to explore with us the possibility of locating the telescope on New Hope."

"Get deposits from NASA and the others but no one gets on the station until six months after we're operational."

The others nodded, Ira making a note. The rest of the business was routine and much of the work was delegated to deacons. When they were done Ira waited with Mark to meet with George Proctor.

Proctor came in, eyes closed, walking directly to the table and sitting down. Mark had seen Proctor's closed-eyes act before and didn't understand the point.

"What do these goggles mean?" Mark asked.

"I took them from the man who attacked the
Rising Savior,"
Proctor said.

"How did you find him?"

"We were there that night. He won't be shooting any more missiles at you."

After the attack, the Fellowship's security people had found a hole in the fence but nothing else. Mark was relieved to know the man wasn't loose, but he was bothered that Proctor had killed the man.

"Thanks for saving my people," Mark said.

"You're welcome."

Mark had nothing more to say but Proctor remained, eyes closed.

"Was there something else?" Mark asked.

"We've been providing security for your people but without access to your properties we can't do a proper job."

"We have a security force," Ira said.

"Where were they when the missile was fired?"

"We can't afford you," Mark said.

"I'm not asking to be paid."

"Then why do it?" Ira asked.

"Because God told me to."

Mark's and Ira's visions had brought them together; was it possible Proctor had experienced his own vision? Why he latched on to the Fellowship wasn't clear but Mark felt his motivations weren't mercenary.

"I don't want anyone hurt," Mark said.

"I don't either," Proctor said.

"You'll follow my orders?"

"If I can't, I'll tell you."

"Fair enough. I'll get you access privileges to our properties."

Proctor smiled now, opening his eyes.

"I'm here to help you succeed, Reverend Shepherd."

Mark wasn't sure what Proctor knew about the Fellowship's goal but Proctor was admired by many in the Fellowship. When he was gone, Mark left for two hours of simulator training. Pilot training was one of the few pleasures Mark took from his job.

On his way to the hangar Christy came to mind again and Mark wondered if there was any place for her in his future? Was it safe for him to be with her? He hoped so, because he was tired of facing the future alone.