Judgment Day (4 page)

CHAPTER 5 MIRACLE

God is light; in him there is no darkness at all. . . if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another . . .

—I JOHN 1:5-7

R
everend Christy Maitland listened to Simon Ash, a neutral expression fixed on her face. It was a well-practiced expression, used daily in her work as a mediator. She could maintain the "I'm listening but not taking sides" look for hours, even under verbal assault. She had been called every name ever invented for women and even some typically reserved for men. She kept her placid expression through it all, always calm, always accepting.

Today was a good day for Christy, since no one had called her names yet. Her visitor, Simon Ash, was angry, but not at her. Simon was a short man, maybe five feet five, thin, nervous, his brown hair well into male pattern baldness. Simon had a penchant for brown clothes, today wearing brown slacks, white shirt, and a plaid bow tie. Simon always wore bow ties and he fiddled with them while he spoke. He fiddled even more when he was nervous.

Simon had recently taken up the cause of a gay couple enrolled at a local Christian college, and played with his bow tie as he described the ensuing fight with the administration. The couple, he explained, had come out of the closet during their junior year, creating an uproar on the campus. The college was owned by a denomination that still hadn't come to terms with gays in its midst. The gay students sought out Simon, asking him to represent them. Now Simon was in her office, describing his efforts. As a trustee of the Crow Foundation, which funded Christy's mediation service, he was always welcome in Christy's office.

"That fundamentalist college has rules against gays having sex and they are threatening to kick them out if they do."

Christy corrected him gently, her face neutral.

"The rule is no sex outside of marriage. It applies to heterosexual students as well."

"Exactly. That's why I had them flown to Hawaii where they got married. Now the college can't stop them from having sex. If the administration expels them we'll take them to court and go after their state and federal funds. If we can choke off their state and federal financial aid, we can shut them down. Without a breeding ground, these religious fanatics might finally be cleaned out."

"Simon, I'm a religious woman," Christy pointed out.

"You're not like them. You don't let your religion run your life."

Christy did not feel complimented. She had known Simon for several years, never understanding his passionate crusade against religion. Was there an issue from his childhood, an unresolved conflict related to his early religious experience? Trauma?

"I really came to see you for another reason," Simon said.

Fumbling in his coat pocket, Simon pulled out a folded piece of yellow paper.

"These were sent to news organizations all over the country. A friend at CBS sent me this."

Unfolding the paper, she read:

WITNESS A MIRACLE

OCTOBER 20, AT 4 P.M.

THE LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS FELLOWSHIP WILL INAUGURATE THE NEW CHRISTIAN AGE WITH THE LAUNCH OF THE SPACESHIP

Rising Savior

Light in the Darkness Fellowship Route 17, Christ's Home, California

"I've never heard of the Light in the Darkness Fellowship," Christy said.

"Not many have. They moved into the town of Exeter ten years ago. A few years later there was enough of them to outvote the local residents and they took over the city council. They made the news when they changed the name of the town. The locals were pretty unhappy but couldn't stop them. Since then the cult's been quiet. Until this arrived I didn't know they were a saucer cult."

Christy knew saucer cults were Christian offshoots that confounded their religious beliefs with belief in UFOs. The cults first appeared in the 1950s and had popped up regularly ever since. Virtually all of them claimed communication with "higher beings" and predicted world cataclysm. Usually, the groups drifted apart after their predictions failed and the saucers never appeared. Sometimes these cults took drastic action, like the Heaven's Gate mass suicide.

Christy looked at the announcement again.

"This doesn't say anything about flying saucers."

"What else could it be?"

Christy couldn't guess but wasn't as willing as Simon to jump to conclusions. That was an important trait for a mediator.

"I want you to go with me to see the saucer launch," he said.

Christy looked at the amateurish announcement.

"They couldn't even afford to pay for decent printing. They're not worth your time and effort."

"There's money there, they're just not spending it," Simon said.

Simon was holding back something.

"I just want to get a look at the cult," he said. "With you along, I might be able to meet the leaders."

Christy was being used. Simon wanted to use her reputation as a theological bridge builder to get an inside look at the cult. Uncomfortable playing the Judas goat, Christy looked for a way out.

"We'll never make it. It's at least a six-hour drive."

"I've got a plane."

Trapped, Christy assented, embarrassed because she was only doing it to protect her grant.

Using the highways as markers, Simon followed the long access road to the ranch. As soon as they crossed the perimeter their perception of the cult was shaped. A double row of barbed wire ran out of sight in both directions.

"See the barbed wire? Look, along the road, guard towers and multiple gates. It doesn't make sense," Simon said.

"Why?" Christy asked. "A lot of cults are security conscious and a little paranoid. Jim Jones in Guyana had his people believing the CIA was out to kill them."

"Saucer cults are usually different. I've never seen one that fortified their compound. They don't feel they need to since they've put themselves in the hands of higher beings—protection is extended to them. They don't lock out the world so they are easily penetrated. I joined one myself when I was in graduate school. It was my master's thesis."

"Are you sure this is safe? If they don't want people driving into their compound, they surely won't want people flying in."

"I called ahead. They have a landing strip and we're welcome to use it."

The central compound came into sight. Essentially a small town, it was laid out in an L shape. There were six wood-frame buildings that looked like shops, barns, garages, and other commercial structures. Surrounding the core were many smaller cottages. The road through the middle of the compound was paved but as they flew over the compound the pavement ended leaving two dirt ruts. Simon continued following the ruts. Then large concrete buildings came into sight. This is where the money had been spent. Several large multistory buildings sat in a semicircle next to a large concrete circle. There was a tower covered with antennae and another topped by a radar dome. Grandstands sat on the far side of the circle with cars parked behind; people sprinkled the seats. What Christy didn't see was a runway.

"Where are we supposed to land?"

"Here it is."

Simon banked the plane into a turn and Christy saw a long strip of green grass.

"You can land there?"

"This plane can."

Christy held her breath as Simon throttled back and set the flaps. Then throttling forward and back, he brought the plane in for a bumpy landing. Happy to be on the ground, Christy quickly climbed out expecting someone to be waiting for them—there wasn't.

"Simon, this doesn't fit either. Miles of security fence and guard towers but no one to take charge of us when we land?"

"It's odd, all right," Simon said, nervously playing with his bow tie. "A cult this security conscious should have had guards waiting for us. Let's get a look around while we still can."

Christy followed Simon toward the buildings. The largest was four stories tall with a large airplane hangar door. The others looked to be industrial buildings, made of concrete blocks and corrugated steel. A few people could be seen in windows, but they ignored Simon and Christy. They circled the buildings but saw nothing unusual and no one challenged them. Finally, Simon stopped in front of the grandstands, studying the concrete circle. It was a plain, poured concrete slab.

"Landing pad for the flying saucers," Simon declared.

"It could be a heliport," Christy suggested.

"Not with these cuckoos. It's a saucer pad, all right. I've seen them before. There's two of them in Wyoming, one just outside of Gillette. That one has its own lights and generator."

Christy saw nothing but normal outdoor lighting around the compound. With nothing left to see, they joined the handful of visitors gathered on the grandstands. An empty podium stood in front of the stands. Simon pulled Christy high into the stands directly in front of the podium, toward a black man in sunglasses who stared at Simon.

"I should have known you'd show up here, Simon."

"I never miss a freak show," Simon replied. "This is Christy Maitland. Christy, this is Roland Symes, you might have read some of his columns."

She recognized Symes's name from his byline. He wrote for the
San Francisco Journal
and was syndicated nationally. Symes was an attractive man, just under six feet tall, hair cropped short, his skin dark, but his facial features reflecting a racial mix with narrow nose but wide lips.

"That's Reverend Maitland, isn't it? I tried to interview you after you brought those white supremacists in."

Christy had been inundated with requests for interviews after she talked a group of white supremacists into surrendering to federal authorities. It had been three grueling days in the Idaho panhandle and afterward she wanted nothing but a bath and soft bed. She turned down all but one interview.

"I did talk to a pool reporter."

"I don't report what every other reporter has. Maybe when this fiasco is over you could spare me a few minutes?"

Even sitting, Symes was clearly a tall, thin man. His eyes were intense and Christy squirmed, searching for a polite way to say no. Simon saved her.

"What brings the great Symes to an event like this?" Simon asked. "A high school bake-off would be more newsworthy."

"I'm not here for the show. You see that guy down there," he said, pointing.

Christy followed his point to see a man reclining on the front bench.

His head was tilted back—eyes closed. He was balding, with blond hair combed to cover bare scalp. His face was tan, but soft-looking with rounded features. His body looked lean and hard.

"He supplies automatic weapons to every religious gun nut in the country," Roland said.

"George Proctor," Simon said.

"Very good, Simon. Everyone knows he does it but he's slick and no one can prove it."

"And you can?" Simon asked.

"I just want an interview."

As Simon and Symes talked, Christy noticed George Proctor's eyes open. Then he turned and stared at them. Closing his eyes again, he stood and began stepping from seat to seat, climbing the grandstand. Only after he faced them did he open his eyes. They were a vibrant blue. He spoke in slow, measured tones.

"My mother taught me it was wrong to talk behind someone's back."

"You've got good hearing," Symes said.

Proctor turned around, sat, reclining and closing his eyes.

"I see more than I hear," Proctor said.

"My name's Roland Symes. I'm a columnist and I'd like to interview you."

"No."

"It's a chance to give your views to a national audience."

"Pick up a Bible and a copy of the Constitution of the United States of America if you want my views."

"I want your spin."

Proctor turned back around, his eyes still closed.

"You don't spin God's word or the Constitution. The Bible speaks directly to your heart and the Constitution to your mind. An honest man can sense the truth in both."

"Where in the Bible does it say you've got a right to own an Uzi?"

"Samson would have used one on the Philistines if he'd had one."

"That's the kind of thing my readers want to hear," Symes said.

"The story today is what's going to happen here," Proctor said, indicating the concrete pad behind him.

"A saucer landing?" Simon cut in.

Proctor turned to face him, his eyes still tightly shut.

"It's not a landing, it's a launch," Proctor said. Then he stood and walked back down the grandstand, his eyes still closed.

"He's as creepy as they come," Simon said.

"He's dangerous," Symes said. "I won't get anything out of him today." Symes stood to leave when two men and a woman approached the podium. Symes sat down again, staying for the show. A dozen more sect members exited the nearest building and spread out, circling the concrete pad. The cultists faced the grandstands that contained about a dozen spectators. One of the men stepped to the podium and pulled a card out of his pocket. He looked to be in his forties, of average height and build, with brown hair and eyes. His most distinguishing feature was a Roman nose. When he spoke it was with a loud resonant voice that would be well suited to a preacher.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in a word of prayer. Father God, creator and sustainer of life, master of the universe, we thank You for leading us here today and making this great event possible. We thank You for Your continuing love and for opening this door for Your people. Sustain us as we seek to carry out Your vision. Amen."

"Typically egocentric," Simon whispered. "Cultists always think they are the center of the universe. It's as if God doesn't have anything else to do but watch over them."