Judgment Day (15 page)

CHAPTER 26 ALLEGATIONS

It would be better for him to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around his neck than for him to cause one of these little ones to sin.

—LUKE 17:2

M
anuel Crow's Washington office lacked the mahogany that he preferred but the dark walnut hinted at luxury without offending constituents who came seeking favors. Visitors often commented on his office, comparing it favorably to other congressional offices. As a junior congressman, Crow had one of the smaller complexes, made up of an entry with a receptionist desk, small workroom, and two private rooms. Crow's office was on the left and Rachel's on the right. Unlike most congressional offices, Crow's was tidy, looking more like an upscale law office than the office of an underpaid public servant. The furniture and carpet were new, the desks matching, all paid for out of Crow's personal fortune. "Not a dime of taxpayers' money was spent on my office," Crow told every visitor.

Today Crow was meeting with Meaghan Slater, president of the Womyn's Congress. She wore a loose ankle-length dress that resembled burlap with a necklace of large wooden beads.

"The cult continues to grow in power," Crow was saying. "They have a near monopoly on space—even the Russians have begun using their launch services. Nine of the last ten satellites orbited were put up by the Fellowship. All the major networks and telecommunications companies send their signals through the cult's space platforms and they've leased every bit of space in their new space station. Worst of all, support in Congress for NASA is evaporating. My shortsighted colleagues can't see past the savings from using the services of the cult. Once we lose the independent ability to reach orbit, they will have a total monopoly. I know you haven't been a strong supporter of our space program in the past, but can't you see now how important it is for our nation to continue a presence in space?"

Crow watched Slater's brow wrinkle. She was in a quandary. She had long been a vocal critic of any spending that wasn't for social programs and while defense had taken most of her wrath, even the space program's two percent of the budget was too much for her. Now faced with a cult dedicated to traditional gender roles, she was rethinking her position. Crow pushed her a little further.

"That cult is like a runaway brush fire. The only way to stop it is to take away the fuel and that is their launch revenues. NASA must continue to launch its own satellites. I know I don't want my tax dollars going to support a religious cult, especially one that treats its followers the way Shepherd does. I don't have to tell you how they treat women."

She bristled at that and he knew he had her.

"Chattel!" she spat. "That's what women are in that cult, nothing but property. They give sixty percent of the donations but occupy only twenty percent of the management positions."

Crow nodded seriously while wondering where she got her statistics.

"They've turned the glass ceiling into the glass heavens," Slater said.

"That's a cogent way of putting it. Might I use that?"

"Yes, of course," Slater said, flattered.

"If those narrow-minded cultists can break the law of gravity, NASA's scientists—fifty-six percent of which are women—can too," Crow said. "That is, if we continue to give them the support they need."

Crow had created his NASA gender figures up on the spot but experience told him fanatics like Slater seldom cared to check numbers that supported their point of view.

"I'll see to it that the National Womyn's Congress supports continued funding for NASA," Slater said. "There will be special NSF and military funding too—both just as important," Crow said, pushing her for more.

"Will women be served by these grants?" Slater asked.

"No less than fifty percent of the grants will go to women—more if discrimination can be shown statistically."

Now Slater smiled. She knew women were always less than fifty percent of research scientists, since women continued to prefer careers in the social sciences to careers in hard sciences.

"If women are protected from discrimination, we will support your bill," Slater said.

Meaghan Slater stood, reaching for her coat. Crow stopped her, getting to his real agenda.

"There is another matter," Crow said gently.

Slater's severe features hardened and she sat back down reluctantly.

"I'm looking for advice on a sticky issue," Crow said. "There have been some serious allegations made about members of the Fellowship. It's about the children."

Slater's face softened, her interest piqued.

"Sexual abuse?" Slater suggested.

"I have no proof, only calls from concerned neighbors," Crow said.

"Is it ritual abuse?"

"I have no concrete evidence but I think so. It may be part of their religion."

"Patriarchies inevitably exploit women and children," Slater said.

"Sixty-three percent of women in the general population are sexually abused by family members at some time in their lives. The percentage is much higher among conservative Christians."

"Really, I didn't know the situation was that bad," Crow said, again wondering about her numbers.

"Many women and children have buried the abuse so deep it takes months of therapy to uncover," Slater said.

"That may be the case here," Crow said, encouraging her. "The children talk of what they call 'Reverend Shepherd's special hugs/ "

"Shepherd's involved in the abuse?" Slater asked, unable to hide her excitement.

"It looks that way. Ira Breitling too. Breitling likes to take children on what he calls 'field trips.' He checks them out of school like they were x-rated videos."

Now Slater's severe face reddened. Crow had pushed the snowball over the edge and it was picking up speed and mass. Soon the cult would be hit with an avalanche.

"I'll have my people look into this," she said.

"Soon, I hope. I fear for the children."

"I have a friend—Rosa Quigly—she's worked with child protection agencies all over the country," Slater said.

"The author? I've heard of her work with recovered memories—a remarkable woman."

"She helped me remember my own abuse—it was my father."

"It must have been painful," Crow sympathized in the voice he'd used as a funeral director.

"My father still refuses to deal with his issues. He won't admit what he did. We haven't spoken for seven years. My mother's so terrified of him she still defends him."

Her voice was trembling now,- Crow feigned concern and then gently changed the subject.

"Is it possible to keep my name out of this? Those that came to me could be identified if I get involved. If I can keep their trust they may continue to feed me information. Of course if you need to use my name, I'll stand behind you."

"I need a place to start the investigation," Slater said.

"I can give you a couple of names to contact. Two families that live in Christ's Home."

"I don't see any need to involve you, but if you do get any more information . . ."

"You'll be the first to know."

When she was gone Rachel came in, curling up on the sofa, her shapely legs tucked under her bottom.

"How did it go?"

"Like the Bible says," Crow said, " 'suffer the little children . . . '"

CHAPTER 27 LICHTER

. . . and so we conclude that the destruction of the
Rising Savior
was the result of a series of human blunders. Rather than the results of a farfetched government plot as some have alleged, it was nothing more than an unfortunate accident.

— CONGRESSWOMAN SYLVIA SWANSON

G
ood night, Bill," the guard said.

"Good night," Lichter said, closing his car door, disliking the familiarity of the guard. It was bad enough he had to be walked to his car. At least the guards could show proper deference.

Studying the cars in the lot as he had been trained, Lichter drove in circles until he was sure no one was following him. Finally, he took the access road to the highway, nervously studying every passing car. After two of NASA's engineers had mysteriously disappeared, the staff had undergone security training. Lichter had been particularly attentive. The men who had disappeared were on the list of names he had provided Rachel Waters two years ago. The missing engineers had emerged unscathed from the six-month-long internal investigation, then disappeared a year later.

Lichter left the causeway leading from the launch facility, checking his rearview mirror, studying the cars behind him, unsure of what to look for. Was the Fellowship seeking revenge? Congressman Crow cleaning up loose ends?

A family in a minivan with Oregon license plates was behind him, teenagers in a custom-painted orange Mustang next to them. Lichter slowed—both cars passed. Now Lichter sped up, falling in behind the minivan. Now different cars came up behind and he repeated the maneuver, then repeated it twice more. Finally, he reached his exit, confident no one was following.

His payment from Crow was due and his checking account overdrawn again. Parking in the post office lot, Lichter waited, hoping to get to his box when no one was around. The customer flow was sporadic, but there were always two or three coming or going. Finally, he gave up and walked to the entrance, eyeing everyone, observing no unusual behavior. The payment was in his box. He briefly fingered the hundred-dollar bills, feeling the usual thrill, then tucked it into a front pocket.

As he exited he noticed a minivan with Oregon plates. Odd, he thought, seeing two cars from a state that far away in one day. Looking up he recognized the family he'd seen on the highway. The mother was shooing her two children down the sidewalk while her husband walked toward the post office door. Strangely, the children were climbing into another van, one with Florida license plates. The husband was about to pass him when his hand whipped out, punching Lichter in the solar plexus. Lichter's breath exploded from his lungs. Grabbed from behind, Lichter was lifted by his arms and dragged to the van with the Oregon plates. They threw him onto the floor, climbing in after him, holding him down with their feet.

"Put your hands behind you," said one.

"You've got the wrong man," Lichter gasped.

Pain shot through his middle,- he'd been punched in the kidney with a hard metal fist. Quickly Lichter put his arms behind his back, where they were taped. When the man bent to tape his mouth a set of brass knuckles dropped onto the floorboard. Crying now, Lichter stared at the brass knuckles, terrified of what other instruments were awaiting him at the end of the ride.

CHAPTER 28 NEW HOPE

SETI (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence), deep space probes, the Hubble space telescope, and other astronautical advances have brought us more understanding of the universe, but no evidence of another advanced species. Still, it is premature to conclude that we are alone in the universe.

—
ALONE IN THE VOID?
, JAMES LOFF

FELLOWSHIP COMPOUND, CALIFORNIA

H
ow many tons of cargo are you taking up?" Roland asked. "Sorry, Mr. Symes. I can't really say."

He stepped back while the cargo handler finished attaching hooks to the base of the sealed container. Then the handler signaled someone inside and an electric motor dragged the heavy container into the ship.

"Two tons, at least," Roland suggested.

"If you say so," the man said.

When the last container was loaded, the doors of the hatch were closed, latching electrically. "God's Love" was stenciled on the doors and below it American and Christian flags.

"Better get on board, sir," the cargo handler said.

Roland gave up trying to get information and climbed a ladder to the window level of the ship. The interior resembled an airliner absent of distinctive paint and logos. There were no flight attendants and no pretzels on this flight—champagne was out of the question. Roland wasn't sure there was even safety equipment. The craft certainly wasn't approved for passenger

travel, which was why the ship was flying out of the Guadalupe facility.

Representatives of the FAA, the FCC, and OSHA filled the front seats.

Next were the Disney executives, three men and a woman, each wearing gold pins in the shape of the world's most famous mouse. Media representatives came next—Wyatt Powder was there with his cameraman. There were others Roland knew and he nodded as he passed. Christy Maitland was sitting by herself and he slid in next to her. Wyatt Powder winked at him when he did. Roland didn't like Powder. He was typical of too many on-air personalities—a good-looking talking head. Of average intelligence at best, Wyatt had a great reading voice—and on that careers in broadcasting were built.

"If you put your hand on my knee I'll scream," Christy said.

"What?" Roland asked, caught off guard.

"I saw Mr. Powder wink. I understand men-speak."

"Don't worry. I know you're involved."

"lam?"

"You and Mark Shepherd? Don't you read the
National Enquirer2."

"I was mentioned in the
National Enquirer2."
Christy asked, amazed.

"You've been in all the tabloids. So is it true?"

"We're friends," Christy parried.

"You've been into space before, haven't you?" Roland probed.

"I'm not here to be interviewed."

"Sorry," Roland said. "Force of habit." Then with a smile he said, "So, were you in space before?"

Christy sighed.

"Yes. I was with Mark the night the
Rising Savior
was destroyed."

"A terrible accident."

"I wouldn't call it an accident around here," Christy said.

"They still believe NASA sabotaged their launch vehicle?" Roland asked. "Both the NASA investigation and the congressional subcommittee concluded it was an accident, not a plot."

"Mark explained how unlikely it is that the command to fire the engines could be accidentally substituted for one to stabilize the craft."

"It was more complicated than that."

"Yes, and therefore more unlikely," Christy said.

"Unlikely, but not impossible. Besides, why would NASA want to destroy the
Rising Savior2
. They knew there was more than one launch vehicle. Not to mention they lost their own satellite."

The entrance of Congressman Crow and Congresswoman Swanson interrupted their conversation. After little more than a year in the House of Representatives, Manuel Crow was already a player, wrangling himself a seat on the new National Technologies Committee. Sylvia Swanson chaired the committee and when the junket into space had been arranged, she had surprised her colleagues by selecting Crow to accompany her.

Roland watched Crow's orchestrated entrance. His shiny black eyes darted left and right as he flashed his well-practiced smile to the other passengers, greeting each by name with a warm handshake and a few friendly words.

"What do you think of the congressman?" Roland asked Christy.

"He's a respected philanthropist."

"Doesn't his foundation support your center?"

"Yes, but I've never met him. As far as I know no one speaks ill of him."

"No one would dare," Roland said.

Crow approached, holding out his hand to Christy.

"Reverend Maitland, I'm glad to finally meet you. I've so admired your work."

"Thanks for your generous support," Christy said.

"It's been a good investment. Next time our country beats the war drums, I'm going to recommend we resolve the issue at your center."

Crow was still holding her hand and leaning over Roland, ignoring him, so Roland pushed his hand into the congressman's face.

"Roland Symes,
San Francisco Journal."

His smile still fixed, Crow leaned back, taking Roland's hand.

"I've enjoyed your columns on the Fellowship," Crow said smoothly.

"I've enjoyed your services, too."

"My services?" Crow asked, puzzled.

"My grandmother is buried in Autumn Rest Cemetery."

"A beautiful place to spend eternity."

Practiced smile still in place, Crow worked back up the aisle.

"Is your grandmother really in one of his cemeteries?" Christy asked.

"No. She wouldn't be caught dead there."

Now smiling, Christy turned to the window and with a jerk the
God's Love
was pulled toward the hangar door.

"How big is this Disney deal?" Roland asked.

"It's the key to their expansion."

"What expansion?"

"New space facilities. Stations, transports, communications platforms."

"They have all that," Roland said. "There must be more to their plans."

"It's all very expensive. Disney has pledged to finance a new station—Space-Disney—plus four passenger shuttles. They'll fly tourists up from all their theme parks. The Fellowship will get a share of the revenue and Disney will sign a long-term agreement to use the Fellowship's orbital facilities for all their cable and network broadcasts."

The loudspeaker crackled.

"Welcome aboard the Space Transportation System
God's Love," Mark
Shepherd said over a loudspeaker. "Please remain seated until we reach the space station New Hope. We will be experiencing weightlessness during the flight which may result in nausea. For your convenience there are airsickness bags under each seat. Before we begin, I would like to ask God's protection on the trip."

Roland stared at the ceiling while Shepherd prayed. Then they were off, their stomachs dropping as if in an accelerating elevator.

"This is a better ride than I thought," Roland said nervously.

"Since the missile attack they get into orbit as quickly as possible,"

Christy said.

Roland's stomach fluttered, so he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Opening his eyes he saw there was nothing but gray outside the window. Closing his eyes and then opening them again, he found they were through the clouds and climbing fast. Quickly the clouds dropped away, becoming a white smear below.

"I think we're safe now, they can slow down," Roland said.

"We're only rising at about five hundred miles an hour. We won't even break the sound barrier. They try to be good neighbors."

"If they were good neighbors they would take some of the money they spend on space hardware and help the people living in the shantytown that's grown up around their Guadalupe launch facility."

"They do spend in the town," Christy said.

"The Mexican government has given them tax breaks—that doesn't help the poor and there are a lot of them in Mexico. They should want to pay taxes."

"Look out the window again, Mr. Symes. I liked you better when you were too sick to talk."

"It's talking that keeps me from getting sick."

"Really," Christy said. Then she turned to the window, ignoring him.

Now the sky was darker but without stars. Roland had no sense of motion, yet his stomach still pushed its contents toward his throat. Wishing he hadn't been so argumentative, he closed his eyes, opening them only occasionally, seeing his arrival in space in flashes. Nearly an hour into the flight the acceleration ended and Roland was introduced to zero gravity. For a few seconds he loved the dreamy feeling of having no body, but then the motion detectors in his ears gave up trying to make sense of conflicting signals and he was hit with a wave of nausea. Soon muscle spasms ejected the contents of his stomach into a plastic airsickness bag. There was still a little juice left for the second heave, but he was dry with the third retch. It was a Ziploc bag and he made sure the yellow and blue halves made green the entire length, then he tucked it back under his seat. Christy held out her bag and he snatched it.

"We're almost there, Roland," Christy said. "If you're ready for it you can see the space station through the window."

Feeling better, Roland leaned over Christy. New Hope space station was ahead, bigger than he had imagined. Twelve cylinders with three connecting segments floated in space. Suddenly the ship rotated, the New Hope spinning in the window. Roland put his head low, dry heaving into the bag. A couple of rows ahead another person regurgitated and then three others joined in.

A soft bump signaled docking. Remaining in their seats as instructed, most of the passengers played with objects, spinning them in the zero gravity. Then Crow unbuckled, launching himself into the aisle, somersaulting in midair. Looking green, Congresswoman Swanson leaned out with a video camera recording Crow's antics. Now Crow floated upside down, his fingers in a "V" sign for the camera.

"It looks like Crow is shooting his next campaign video," Roland said.

Shepherd appeared from the flight deck, pulling himself along the wall, pausing by the hatch, watching a panel of lights. When they were all green he pounded on the hatch with a wrench. After an answering clang, he released the hatch by pulling a long-handled bar. A slight rush of air brought them the smell of the space station.

"Phew," Roland said. "That's stale."

"It's recycled air," Christy explained. "In and out of the lungs of the station's occupants over and over."

"That's slightly disgusting," Roland said.

"Then I better not tell you what they drink up here," Christy said.

"Welcome to New Hope," Shepherd announced. "Release your seat belts and pull yourself forward using the handholds built into the head rests. Move slowly making sure you have a new grip before you release your old one."

Conditioned by a lifetime of living with gravity, the passengers carefully pulled themselves toward the aisle, then single file toward the door. Going his own way, Crow floated above the seats pulling himself hand over hand to the door.

Roland paused in the aisle letting Christy pull herself ahead. Then he mimicked Crow and floated over the seats. His stomach empty, he didn't worry about soiling the cabin. When they were gathered at the door, Shepherd led them into the station. The corridor was lined with handholds and they pulled themselves along, most trying to keep their heads up and their feet down, even though up and down were meaningless. Once through the hatch they gathered in a hexagonal room. A middle-aged couple stood against the far wall, their feet hooked under a rail attached just above the floor. Roland had expected space suits, or fancy coveralls, but instead they were wearing denim overalls and athletic shoes. Both wore their hair short, and wire-rimmed glasses held on with elastic straps.

"Welcome everyone," the woman said. "We hope you enjoyed your trip up."

Roland pulled close to Christy's ear. "They look like a couple of farmers."

"I'm Susan and this is my husband Cal. Would everyone please get a firm grip on a handhold, we have a surprise for you."

Puzzled, Roland tightened his grip, hoping the surprise didn't involve spinning. Cal waited for a sign from Shepherd and then punched a few buttons on a panel and a green light went on—then nothing. Slowly Roland's stomach began churning again. Pressing his knotting stomach, he felt like he was falling—he was. Slowly his feet settled to the deck, his weight returning.

"Artificial gravity!" Crow declared.

The Disney people babbled excitedly, one holding a bag of vomit.

"We're at normal gravity now," Cal announced. "You'll feel better in a few minutes, just walk around. All of the modules have artificial gravity, although two are designed for zero gravity research and manufacturing. One module is being leased by a consortium of universities and will function as a space observatory. The first of three telescopes will be installed next week."

Roland took out a notepad and scribbled.

"Can we get a look at the observatory?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," Cal said. "We're trying to meet a construction deadline and we can't interrupt the workers."

"There's plenty to see, anyway," Susan said, smiling sweetly.

Roland smiled back, mocking her smile.

"While fire is unlikely, every interior surface is coated with fire retardant paint," Cal explained. "When exposed to heat the paint blisters into a thick fire retardant. There's also a halogen extinguishing system in every module."

"You can't breathe halogen," Roland pointed out.

"That's right," Susan said. "That's why each of the red panels you have passed contains breathing masks."

The guide resumed talking but it was more propaganda about the sect's achievements and how they were all "God's blessings." Roland inched closer to a wall. Virtually every surface in the station was covered with compartments, all with closed doors—an irresistible temptation.

"If you will follow me into the next module," Susan said.

Twin steel doors, resembling something from a submarine, connected the compartments. While the guide twisted the wheel releasing the lock, Roland opened a compartment. It was filled with toilet paper.