Ark (20 page)

Jim’s jaw slacked. “So all my concern about him was ...”

“Yup. A waste of time.”

“This boggles my mind,” said Jim, shaking his head and picking up the phone. “How do I get outside?”

“Just hit the pound sign.”

Playing over and over on the wall screen was an image of the ark behind a veil, between two posts. Computer generated waves moved into it, reflected from the back walls and sides of the Tabernacle. The ark suddenly flashed with a bright light. Gene played it over and over, slowing the moment to the split second. Still, even slowed down to a millionth of a second, the thing blinked on as though igniting a circular flame.

Jim dialed home and left a message on his machine that Kas could play, long distance, from her sister’s phone. He spoke hesitatingly and was brief.

He hung up the phone and sighed. “I miss home already.”

#

“Sewing rooms?” said Jim. “Then we go to carpentry?”

Gene was struggling with a sock and trying to read the sheet that had popped out of the fax machine with their wake up alarm at seven a.m. “Then we go to the foundry.”

“Foundry. The gold must have arrived,” said Jim.

For the first time since he’d arrived at Los Alamos, Jim felt real excitement replace trepidation. Having Gene act so casual around the place made Jim walk with greater ease. They were, after all, there only to observe. The General had implemented a very old plan that had been archived for seventy years. All he had to do was to follow the interpretation that took the form of a brief to be updated every five years. In it were the names of contractors and merchants. Experts and laymen who in some way had expertise to contribute to Operation Thunderbolt.

The General was aware that there was a unique aspect to this research project, the spiritual side. The memory of that part of the brief had tweaked the General’s sense of duty and made him accept the presence of Jim Wilson on the deck of Thunderbolt. “The most important military experiment of the millennium” was the way he characterized it when he met Jim and Gene on the tram that was to take them to the field auditorium where the Tabernacle of the Ark was to be constructed.

“You won’t believe this,” commented General Wilcox as he leaned back to speak to Jim from the front seat of the tram that ran in slot-car fashion down the center of a corridor. It turned a corner hard, snapping Jim’s neck a bit.

The General noticed Jim’s pained expression. “Watch yourself, son,” he said. “These chariots’ll kill your spine on the turns.” Then he turned his attention to a double door that opened to apparent daylight.

Jim’s eyes squinted as they entered a giant cavern that seemed to be several times the size of a football field. “Whooa,” he commented as the full effect of the scene met his gaze.

They had driven into a field that seemed surrounded by open desert, an illusion provided by vast cycloramas that lined the cavern. Overhead a high ceiling glowed with artificial daylight.

When he saw Jim’s face react to the scene, the General laughed.

Their little cart continued its steady journey out into the middle of the cavern. The floor was like a cleared dirt site for building, empty except for a few groups of people carrying tools. As he passed by a group he noticed that they were construction workers who seemed perfectly modern and normal in their coveralls, tool belts and hard hats. What caught Jim’s attention were the tools. They were made of wood and crudely fashioned metal.

“Couldn’t you get new tools?” said Jim. “Don’t tell me that with all this technology you couldn’t afford some decent building tools.”

“We’re talking cubits here, Jim,” said John Wilcox, riding next to his Dad. “The archeology boys want authenticity.”

“This isn’t at all what I expected,” said Jim. “Are you going to build it all underground? That’s not authentic.”

“We’ll build it here,” said General Wilcox. “We test it up top.”

The little car stopped and they got out. Lieutenant Irwin Bush greeted them like an old friend. His demeanor was less than military. He seemed almost off duty, the knees of his overalls crusted with dirt.

John called out, “Ir, you old dirt farmer, look at you.”

Embarrassed, Ir Bush dusted off his knees. “Laying cable,” he said. “How’re you guys?”

“Getting the cook’s tour,” said John. “Courtesy of Dad and Uncle Sam. So, are the tent makers and the carpenters ready to set up?”

As Jim surveyed the expanse of the field he could see a floor plan marked out in chalk dust. By the far wall was a pile of long boards Jim had earlier taken for stadium bleachers. “Is that acacia wood over there?” he asked, pointing to the distant pile.

The lieutenant looked over his shoulder. “You named it,” he said. “The foundry is due in soon, as soon as the exhaust fans are running. A problem this far down.”

“You’re going to cast all the stuff here?” said Jim. “Jeez.”

The General smiled in a condescending way. “Only the gold, son.”

“The silver, too, Sir,” said Lieutenant Bush.

Jim walked around the group in a wide circle, taking in the whole scene. It looked like a movie set. The cycloramas, the lights, everything ready to put on a show. Everything but the cameras.

The cavern had been hollowed out of solid mesa rock, hundreds of feet down, out of sight from prying satellite imagery which, as the General had explained, was open to all because of the nuclear anti-proliferation agreements. Now the Chinese, the Arabs, Ugandans, anyone with the money could tap into satellite images so refined that virtually nothing above ground could be hid.

The Army knew its mining. The practice that came from projects like Cheyenne Mountain, the Midbelt Express Tunnel, and the Bethesda Presidential Ramway had long ago proved them masters of artificial cavern construction. Moles, they called them. They had cleaned up and left long ago. Now the workers were moving in, among them, the General insisted, some devout Christians and plenty of Jews.

“I know a rabbi who’s doing the suits,” said Bush encouragingly.

Jim thought for a moment. “You mean the costumes of the Levites?” he asked. “Say, how far are you going to take this authenticity thing?”

General Wilcox turned to face Jim, wearing a stern expression. “Wilson. Remember that you are on the job. I expect more answers from you, when I ask for them, than questions. If you get my drift.”

“Just doing my job, Sir,” said Jim with a salute.

General Wilcox took out a cigar and lit it. “Civvies don’t salute,” he muttered. After several puffs to get it started he took it from his lips and used it like a pointer.

“Now that all of us are here,” began General Wilcox, “we are following protocol set down long ago. In case you’re wondering, the protocol resulted from a large body of research and work monitored by the military and supervised by a division of the Pentagon’s core weapons research wonks. The reason we are here today is that a dormant project, always deemed hypothetical, has been taken out of mothballs.”

The General pointed the cigar directly at Jim. “You seem to be a catalyst of some kind, Jim,” he said. “I have to say that you sure get my goat without trying,” he quipped, “but you’re part of the formula because we’ve always known that we need people like you on hand during shit like this. More than anything we try to keep our crews small, but that’s a hard thing to regulate, and that’s my job. I am the overseer here. Whatever’s needed, I fill the bill.”

The General watched a forklift entering through a distant passageway to the cavern carrying a load of what appeared to be bricks bound up with something that looked like wire mesh. The bricks glittered in the light. General Wilcox watched as the load was placed carefully next to a stack of long poles.

“As you can see, we’re now bringing materials in so the carpenters and tent makers can begin work. This is all new for everyone. We’re feeling our way here,” the General added. “A long time ago I was given this assignment. Like a file that gets passed along from schmuck to schmuck. Luck of the draw. I remember the first time I read the file. I laughed myself silly. Now I’m about to retire and I pull this lotto card. And I suppose I have you to thank for it, Mr. Wilson. Thanks a fuck of a lot.”

Lieutenant Bush looked at the General nervously, then at Jim.

Jim blinked at the General. “Hey, I feel like I’m about to be accused of something,” he said. “I’m just curious like anybody would be. I’m standing here thinking what a piece of work is man to concoct an extreme thing like this project. Then I’m thinking that my daughter’s dog might love to play here.”

“What does that mean, Mr. Wilson?” asked the General a bit too politely.

“That I see all of this as not entirely without some practical value,” said Jim. “Why go to all the trouble of building this cavern? Why do you need to bury it down here? Who cares if China or Libya knows that you’re building a tent. Armies never build tents?”

“Your question,” said the General severely, “would be answered if you hadn’t stayed up late shooting the shit with Henson instead of reading the material we gave you. Security is only part of the reason we’re down here,” he added. “The other reason is containment.”

‘The goldsmith is here,” offered Bush.

Jim noticed that Irwin Bush wore a barely visible radio receiver behind his ear.

Without further comment the General directed everyone back into the cab, and they drove toward an opening in the far wall. They left Bush standing in the center of the area. Jim looked back to see Ir join a group of hard hats carrying plans.

As they approached the wall he noticed observation windows set into the cyclorama. Even from a considerable distance the glass looked unreasonably thick.

When the car stopped again the General stepped out with his son. Jim and Gene were surprised to see John Wilcox’s servant and chauffeur Aaron step from an open door to greet them.

“Naw,” said Jim, looking at Gene. “Aaron’s the goldsmith?”

Gene nodded. “He IS a goldsmith; well, a metal worker. The General said that he wanted as few people as possible involved in this project. The plans call for a dry run with a minimal staff.”

Jim looked Gene up and down. “How do you know all this?”

“I did read the material,” said Gene with a smile. “In fact I contributed some of it. I’m the one who convinced the General to treat this ark carefully.”

Jim and Gene got out of the cab and greeted Aaron. “Who’s running the house, Aaron?” asked Gene.

Aaron smiled and told them that there was plenty of staff. He seemed different, more at ease. “I am glad to be here. This is more fun than I ever imagined. I mean, who would think that an amateur goldsmith like me would remake the Ark of the Covenant?”

John Wilcox pointed to the door and they all went into a large open workshop where high tech furnaces and piping lined the walls like appliances in a kitchen, except that in the middle of this kitchen was a giant forge and a pit of sand. The forge already glowed with what seemed to be a charcoal hearth, but John was quick to brag about the electrically heated lava stone.

“We don’t need much of an exhaust system,” said the General, pointing to a large dish-shaped stainless steel hood suspended from the ceiling, “but we still get the old fashioned forge.”

Aaron was examining a selection of tools piled randomly on a massive workbench.

The whole scene, a cacophony of old and new, looked to Jim like a ‘what’s wrong with this picture?’ image in a magazine.

Jim felt a kind of kinship with Aaron. They were both artists, for one thing, and Aaron had been helpful and friendly on more than one occasion. He felt comfortable as he walked over and stood next to Aaron as he examined the tools he would be using to hammer and shape the gold for the ark.

Jim picked up a small wooden hammer. “They give you everything you’ll need?”

Aaron gazed at Jim and smiled. “You want to know how I feel, I guess. That’s a bit more than I can put into a few words.”

Jim looked puzzled.

“I am a Jew,” explained Aaron, “but I have not attended to my faith. Of course, whether I’m a Jew or not is meaningless to John. I’m just the handiest metalworker, and I’ve been around from the beginning. Right place at the right time, I guess.”

“Exactly. Right place at the right time. Twenty years ago Gene was looking for an artist who did mechanical drawings and I was on hand. Like you.”

“Yes,” said Aaron seriously. “I know. But I’m building the ark. The last person to do that got in the Bible. Bezaleel ben Uri. That was his name.” He looked back at Jim. “Do you believe in God’s will, Jim?”

Jim didn’t know how to respond to that. Over his shoulder, not far out of earshot, was John Wilcox, Aaron’s employer. Jim felt he might have stepped on a land mine.

“I wouldn’t let it get to me, Aaron. Just consider it an honor. I would. Heck, I drew the thing, didn’t I? So we’re basically in the same position.”

Aaron smiled. “It is an honor. The greatest honor. I know that.”

“Is the gold here?” asked Jim. “When do you start work?”

“Today it’s being rolled into sheets. Also, the carpenters will bring everything in soon.”

Jim patted Aaron on the back. “You’ll do a great job. I know it.” Then he walked back to where Gene was giving some metalworking machines a cursory examination.

Part of Jim’s mind was still on what the General had said about containment. “I wanted to ask you, Gene,” he said. “What exactly did the General mean when I asked him about why the thing is being assembled underground? Security or something? What does that mean?”

“Containment. Isn’t that what he said? In case something goes wrong.”

Jim winked at Gene. “Goes wrong? Hey, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Um ... everything?”

They looked at each other for a moment and then laughed.

#

Taking stock of his day, Jim lay on the sofa in their shared apartment while Gene used the wall screen and his laptop, coupled to the Los Alamos master computers, to run the simulation of the ark again.

Jim tried to remember all the things he’d seen: the goat hair fabric being sewn into broad curtains by a few dozen women; linen fabric being embroidered with motifs of blue and scarlet stuff, as the Bible said, with large silhouettes of cherubs as decoration; woodworkers fashioning and milling stacks of acacia into planks and pillars. He even recognized the relatively small pile of precut boards set aside to be coated in gold leaf before being made into the ark. How inauspicious it looked. Just a pile of wood.