Soon (30 page)

Paul headed back to the Allendo estate. “Just leave it running,” one of the chauffeurs said when Paul pulled up to the front door. The doorman let him in and escorted him downstairs to a game parlor. Tiny Allendo was dealing cards at an expansive green-felted table, and he and Ranold—beautiful young women at their shoulders—were smoking cigars. Paul recognized the other two men at the table as executives from L.A. Idea Co. Some of the women he’d seen earlier at the pool were playing billiards.

“Come on in!” Tiny called out. “We’re celebrating. Not even I expected this much success since the last time we sat together.”

“I don’t play,” Paul said.

Tiny made a show of letting the cards fall from his hands and spray all over the table. “Then we won’t either,” he said. “We’d rather share war stories anyway, wouldn’t we, boys?”

“I would!” Ranold said much too loudly and boozily.“C’mon over here, Paulie. What a day, huh? Huh?”

Paul sat, unable to feign enthusiasm. “It was quite a day.”

“They got the billboard vandal,” Tiny said.

“I know,” Paul said. “Some kind of computer freak?”

“Crackpot hacker—with guns.”

“Was there anything on his computers?”

“Obliterated!” Ranold said. “Smashed to dust. No one will ever recover that sabotage program.”

That was a relief. Paul assumed Specs kept a lot of information about his brothers and sisters buried in there somewhere.

“I heard LAPD is going to investigate the raid,” Paul said. “You know, to allay the fears of the public.”

“They most certainly had better not!” Ranold said. “Where did you hear that? I don’t care what those crazies in South Central think about it, we weren’t going to stand there and be cut down. Now what’s this about LAPD? I’ll get on the phone right now—”

“I’m kidding, Ranold. I’m sure they’re fully satisfied that the site will be replete with the charred remains of weapons arsenals the likes of which none of us has ever seen before.”

“Local doesn’t check up on federal, Paul. You know that. We check up on them. I’d like to investigate why LAPD never recognized the threats we found in a matter of hours.”

“Hear, hear!” Allendo said, lifting a glass.

31

PAUL TUMBLED
into one of the most comfortable beds he’d ever enjoyed but found sleep elusive. He was tormented, wondering how he could stop the killing while serving as a member of the task force determined to carry it out. He began to pray for underground believers all over the country, for his wife and children, and even for Angela Pass, whom he knew he had treated shabbily.

God, why am I here? It can’t be to witness the slaughter of my
brothers and sisters. Please let me know the purpose You have for me.

Finally he dozed, waking at five-thirty surprisingly refreshed. He told his valet to express his regrets for skipping breakfast due to an early schedule and asked that his car be brought around. Although it was not yet six when he emerged from the house, the gushing hundred-foot tower of water from Allendo’s garish gold fountain sent a light spray teasing over his head and face. Paul felt as if he were being spit upon. It was hard to pinpoint what was most distasteful about Tiny Allendo, amid all his wretched excesses, but the fountain had to be close to the top of his list.

Paul had to admit that being waited on hand and foot and having your car parked and brought to you were nice perks. But it wasn’t real life. Who lived like this? People who didn’t deserve to, he decided.

Checking his GPS screen, Paul made his way to the port. When he arrived at the breakwater that protected the harbor from the sea, he recognized immediately that this would be no easy task. Warehouses and wharves lined a wall that had to be miles long.

As was true nearly every day, the port was hopping. San Pedro Bay was already full of ships from around the world, staging and maneuvering into position to off-load fish and goods. At any other time, Paul would have loved the salty, fishy air. But it seemed he brought trouble to fellow believers, and he hoped he wasn’t cursing this band just by looking them up.

Paul’s nondescript sedan seemed to draw no attention as he worked his way into the bustling area. He parked on a side street and began walking. None of the signs gave him a clue, but he didn’t expect the one in question to blatantly call itself the Fishers of Men. As the sun rose, sweat broke out on his forehead, and his mission seemed futile. Paul guessed he was four miles from his car when a sign stopped him.

He had come to a rusting blue-and-gray metal building that sat on a pier just off the water. The front was unmarked, but a hand-painted sign over the side utility door read “Sapiens Fisheries.”
Clever.

He knocked loudly, sending a metallic rattle echoing over the waterfront.

“It’s open!”

The aromas that enticed Paul outside sickened him in an enclosed area. The place stank. The filthy concrete floor led to a steel-and-wood counter that contained scales of various sizes. A forklift stood near a huge sheet of plastic that separated the front from the dock in back, where personnel apparently unloaded cargoes of fish.

The building was dimly lit, and while Paul heard activity in the back, the only soul up front was a thick young man, probably late twenties, in cover-all rain gear and boots. His dirty blond hair, peeking out from under a greasy cap, was wet and matted. He had a reddish beard and almost nonexistent lips.

“Ya don’t look like a fisherman,” the young man said. “And our permits are up-to-date. So what’s yer business?”

“You’re fishers of men, are you?” Paul said.

Red Beard hesitated. “Actually, we’re just laborers, off-loading for a fish broker who serves local merchants—stores and restaurants. Can I help you?”

“Dr. Paul Stepola,” he said, extending a hand. “From Chicago.”

“Barton James,” the young man said, removing wet gloves before shaking. “What can I do for you?”

“‘My purpose is to give life . . . ,’” Paul said.

Barton paled. “‘. . . in all its fullness,’” he said, smiling. “You scared the life out of me. I don’t think I’ve had anybody come to the side door in years. Thought we were busted. Everybody’s on edge now, with what happened yesterday. I lost a friend in South Central.”

“That was a travesty.”

“An abomination. C’mon back. Meet the others.”

Barton pushed his way through the hanging plastic to a storeroom stocked with crates that stank of rotting fish. He smiled at Paul’s grimace. “Discourages visitors.”

On the dock outside about a dozen people, most under thirty, were loading a delivery truck. “They’re almost finished,” Barton said, lifting a plywood sheet that revealed stairs to a hidden area.

He led Paul down a narrow wooden staircase that seemed to end in a boiler room. Behind one of its plank walls lay a large windowless space furnished with sticks of furniture homeless people would have rejected. An old woman in a shawl had an open Bible in her lap. An elderly man appeared to be studying a commentary. He was taking notes.

“Our teachers,” Barton said, introducing the married couple as Carl and Lois. “Carl was a pastor before the war. Has a collection of books and Bibles that alone could put him in prison for the rest of his life.”

“Bring ’em on,” Carl said, winking and holding up his fists like a boxer. “Why, I oughta . . .”

Lois, grinning, waved him off.

“It’s wonderful that you have a library,” Paul said.

“It’s invaluable in our mission. We’re in the tract business. We also supply most of the other groups in the West with printed literature.”

“I’m surprised they’d need it,” Paul said. “It might be hard to lay hands on an original document, but once groups do—say, from you or even over the Internet—can’t they just make as many copies as they want?”

“Some kinds of things, yes,” Carl said. “Flyers, leaflets, even photocopies of books for distribution—everybody does that—but we do something special here. Have you ever seen a book from the time before computer printing?”

“I doubt it. When would that have been?”

“Seventy or eighty years ago. I assure you they are quite different.”

Lois leafed through her Bible and pulled out a small brochure. “This is one of our tracts,” she said. “You can see it’s two-color—I know computers can print millions of colors—but feel it. Just close your eyes and run your fingers over the page.”

Paul did. “The letters are pressed into the paper.”

“That’s right—and that’s why they call it letterpress. It’s a very old method of printing, and it’s a kind that can be done independent of computers, printers—even electricity if necessary. That’s one reason it’s so valuable. We believe the earth will soon be very different than it is now.”

“After the Rapture.”

“Not directly afterward, perhaps. But if you’ve read all the things that are to come, it’s not hard to imagine that electronic equipment will become useless at some point.”

“That’s true.”

“But that’s not our immediate reason for using letterpress in Operation Soon. You see, we think that if people come across things like this, whether today or after the Rapture, even if they’re not sure what they are, they will preserve them. If something is unusual, pleasing to the touch, and beautiful, it’s clear someone went to a lot of trouble to create it. Obviously, it must be of value. So they’ll try to read it and hopefully preserve it.”

“Good theory,” Paul said. “I know I wouldn’t throw this away.”

“I’m going to show him the press,” Barton said. He led Paul deeper into the room and through a curtain to reveal an ancient printing press.

“Hard to find parts, ink, lubrication, that kinda thing, but it works fine.”

Paul reached to touch the printing plates, but Barton said, “Don’t. The oil on your fingers could mar the impression.”

“Sorry.”

“You can see we’re not as productive as the people in Detroit, but we do our part. Of course, we save the press for special things. We do most of our regular leaflets—and also broadcasts—by computer. And now, with all the trouble, we’re making a major push.”

Barton showed him large bundles of brochures. “We’re going to get these into the hands of the other groups and start flooding greater L.A. with them.”

The brochures were titled “Risking Our Lives for Yours.” The copy stated unequivocally that the underground Christians in Los Angeles were not armed and never planned to be. “The slaughter of secret believers is genocide,” Paul read, “pure and simple. We are no threat to the government or the status quo. We merely believe that God is real, that Jesus is alive, that He died for the sins of the world, and that He is coming again soon. We will persist in spreading this word until none of us remain.”

The brochure concluded with several verses from the Bible explaining how a person could receive Christ and be forgiven of sins and assured of a life with God for eternity.

“Of course,” Barton said, “the penalty for distributing these is prison.”

“And for creating them, death,” Carl said.

“I don’t know what they’re so afraid of,” Lois said. “We’re just talking about the free exchange of ideas.”

“Dangerous ideas, though,” Paul said. “You have to admit. I studied religion, and there is a huge legacy of religion-related atrocities throughout the history of civilization.”

“But religion and true Christianity are two entirely different things.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, ma’am. But it’s important that we know where our opposition is coming from, what their mind-set is. They are terrified of what true spirituality and belief can do to people. Taken to extremes, it
has
resulted in war.”

The workers from the dock began trickling down and were introduced to Paul. They shed their gloves and wet jackets and sat on the floor. “I bring you greetings from your brothers and sisters in Heartland,” Paul said. “They are praying for you.”

“We haven’t heard from them about South Central,” Barton said. “A contact usually passes on their messages.”

“Quinn?” Paul said.

“Yeah, Specs,” he said. Others smiled and nodded.

“I have bad news,” Paul said. He told them about Specs, and several gasped. Some covered their faces and wept.

“He’s a loss,” Barton said, his voice thick. “All he ever wanted was to help people and spread the word. What are we going to do? We can’t stay hidden much longer, and we don’t want to, but if they’re gonna set the army on us, what chance do we have? We’re in a position of total weakness. We have nothing on them.”

“We have to do something big,” Carl said. “Something that will get the attention of the nation. We have to cripple this army, unless we want to see more of us wiped out.”

Barton stood. “Carl’s teaching the last several months has fired us up to where we’re ready to stand out because we believe that much in our cause. If they’re going to kill us anyway just for spreading the word about Jesus, we might as well take them on. I agree we have to do something that slows their campaign. If we don’t, we’re not going to be here much longer.”

“The various groups are going to have to come together,” Paul said. “There has to be strength in numbers.”

“But we’re no match for the army.”

“Neither was Gideon,” Paul said. “It isn’t might that makes right, or the government would be right. We have God on our side, and we need Him to give us the victory, just like Gideon.”

Old Carl struggled to his feet. “Gideon is a perfect model, people. Let me remind you of his story.” He quickly turned pages in his Bible and read:
The angel of the Lord appeared to him and said, “Mighty
hero, the Lord is with you!”

“Sir,” Gideon replied, “if the Lord is with us, why has all
this happened to us? And where are all the miracles our ancestors
told us about? Didn’t they say, ‘The Lord brought us up
out of Egypt’? But now the Lord has abandoned us and
handed us over to the Midianites.”

Then the Lord turned to him and said, “Go with the
strength you have and rescue Israel from the Midianites. I am
sending you!”

“But Lord,” Gideon replied, “how can I rescue Israel? My
clan is the weakest in the whole tribe of Manasseh, and I am
the least in my entire family!”

The Lord said to him, “I will be with you. And you will destroy
the Midianites as if you were fighting against one man.”

“You see, people,” Carl said, “the Israelites had been delivered out of captivity from Egypt, but when they forgot God and disobeyed Him, He turned them over to the Midianites, who tormented them for seven years. Now when God called Gideon a hero and told him to go with the strength of the Lord—a lot of people don’t know or remember this—but Gideon lit out with an army of thirty-two thousand men.

“God told him he had too many, that if he won with that big an army, the Israelites would take the credit themselves. So He told Gideon to tell anyone to leave if they were timid or afraid. Twenty-two thousand of them took off, leaving only ten thousand. Remember now, this is to fight against an army of a hundred and thirty-five thousand. But God told him he still had too many. Gideon was to take his ten thousand men to a spring and tell them to drink. The ones who got down on all fours and stuck their mouths in the spring were sent home. Only three hundred dipped the water with their hands. And they became Gideon’s army.

“When Gideon attacked the Midianites, they were so frightened that a hundred and twenty thousand of them killed each other, and the remaining fifteen thousand took off across the desert. Gideon finally tracked them down too.

“I don’t know how God is going to use whatever is left of the underground believers in Los Angeles to defeat the army. But I believe He would have us be as the men of Gideon, brave and willing to do whatever is necessary. And
He
will win the battle.”