Soon (31 page)

32

BARTON JAMES WALKED
Paul all the way back to his car. “If you’re making the rounds,” he said, “greet the others for us. Tell them we stand ready to die for the cause.”

“I hope that doesn’t become necessary,” Paul said.

“I should tell you, we’re planning something outlandish for twilight tonight.”

“Do I want to hear this?” Paul said.

“Sure ya do. It’s not exactly Gideon-like, but it’s something. We have access to a robotic plane I can control from the ground. Or I should say from the water. It takes off from and lands in the Bay. We’re going to blanket the city with leaflets and hope the craft doesn’t get shot out of the air. If it does, we lose an expensive plane but no people.”

“It’s audacious,” Paul said. “I’ve got to give you that. But if you’re caught?”

“Big trouble.”

“You said it.”

“It’s not the type of thing that’s going to keep the army from wiping out believers,” Paul said. “But I like it. It’s in-your-face, and it gets the word out. Any of your people been caught yet?”

“No. Close, but no. Three of our members were chased on foot for about a mile one night, but they escaped without showing their faces and, we hope, without leading anyone to us. Are believers dying in other states like they are here?”

“Not on this scale,” Paul said. “Individuals have been martyred, yes. But bringing in the army is an ugly turn. It’s as if the government has decided to wage all-out war on us. The fainthearted are going to start bailing on us if they think there’s a chance they won’t survive.”

“There are no fainthearted here, sir,” Barton said. “This isn’t a movement for fence-straddlers.”

“If we can just come up with something Gideon-like, Barton. Something that will pull all these people together and show them that God will work through them, even to thwart the might of the army. What would bring this city to its knees?”

“On my way back I’m going to pray over this city,” Barton said. “Pray that God will give you an idea.”

“Maybe He’ll give
you
an idea.”

“I don’t have that kind of a mind, sir,” Barton said. “And I don’t need that burden. But you can bet I’ll help carry it out.”

“You came up with the one for tonight, didn’t you?”

“The truth? It was Lois’s idea.”

As Paul sat eating in the parking lot of a fastfood joint, a call came from his mother-in-law.

“Jae asked that I call you,” she said. “She asked me to express her regret that she missed your call and to tell you that she will call you when she is able.”

Really? That doesn’t sound like Jae.
“Do you know where she is?”

“No, she still hasn’t told me.”

That doesn’t sound like her either.
“I suppose Dad has kept you informed as to what’s happening out here.”

“Oh no. I don’t hear from him when he’s on the road. He’s busy with high-level meetings from dawn to dusk. I’m sure I’ll hear about it when he returns.”

Paul checked in with Straight, who picked up on the first ring and sounded devastated.

“What’s wrong?” Paul said.

“You don’t know?”

Straight seemed overcome and couldn’t speak.

“Take your time, friend,” Paul said, flipping the channels on his pocket computer until he found a news site.
What?
The army had struck the former site of Loyola Marymount University in the Westchester area of Los Angeles, a few minutes from LAX.

“Paul,” Straight managed finally, “calls from inside just as it was going down told us about two hundred members there were mourning the dead from South Central. They were in a make-shift chapel, and they had no weapons at the whole site. The leadership saw the army amassing and tried to negotiate. Well, there was no negotiating. They were shot dead at the door; then the army leaders retreated to their positions and obliterated the place. Those people were slaughtered.”

Paul stuffed the rest of his food in the bag and raced off, chastising himself for not finding a way to warn the believers at Loyola. He’d told Specs to contact them, but he must not have gotten through in time.

Traffic was snarled within miles of the black smoke billowing over the site of the massacre. Finally, Paul ditched the car and jogged more than a mile to the site. Panting and sweaty, he found his father-in-law beside Bia Balaam with a network news reporter sticking a microphone in their faces.

“We’re talking live with Tactical Chief Bia Balaam and General Ranold Decenti, World War III hero and now military consultant to the new National Anti-Christian task force. Chief Balaam, what happened here?”

“Our intelligence-gathering contingent has been monitoring the anti-American subversive activities of a heavily armed and dangerous faction of religious fanatics, more than a thousand strong, who were planning to take over Los Angeles and eventually all of Pacifica. We surrounded the place before dawn, awakened their leadership, and ordered them to stand down and surrender peacefully. They promised to discuss an amicable resolution with their colleagues, and we gave them a deadline of noon to surrender their weapons and be taken into custody without incident.

“When there was no further communication from them, we prepared for the worst. One minute after the deadline, they opened fire on our forces, and we were forced to defend ourselves. Fortunately we suffered no casualties or injuries, and they apparently turned their massive weapons cache on themselves. We were forced to retreat as they bombed and burned the buildings and killed themselves.”

“How many dead do you expect?”

“Several hundred.”

“General Decenti, what about eyewitness reports from area residents who say they saw military personnel arrive after eleven-thirty, and that you yourself, sir, arrived just before the battle?”

“They are mistaken. I have been here since dawn, and they must have merely seen me coming from another area of the stakeout.”

As soon as Ranold was free, Paul confronted him. “Why wasn’t I informed this was even planned? I am here to interrogate subjects and interpret their answers for you and the others as it relates to the overall religious picture. I’m finding out about these sieges when the public does, and there never seems to be anyone left to question.”

“First of all, Paul, this is Chief Balaam’s operation. Secondly, they are hardly sieges. We would love for these people to respond appropriately and cooperatively and to be able to give you no end of subjects to examine. But they are zealots, extremists. They will not listen to reason. They will not negotiate. The first sign the government is at their door, they start shooting.”

“Shooting?”

“That’s the same argumentative and self-righteous tone you had in South Central, and you wonder why you didn’t hear we were going to strike.”

“I deserved to know. Otherwise, why am I here?”

“You want the truth, Paul? I didn’t think you were up to it. That’s why it’s Balaam, not you, running this show. Maybe it’s your injury, I don’t know, but you’ve grown soft on me, Son. It’s been months, man. Time to get over it. Meanwhile, you must see the value of a surgical strike.”

“Surgical? This looks more like butchery. And is this your idea of a press blackout?”

Ranold gave him a withering look. “You’re hopeless, Paul. How many times have we talked about using the press to our advantage? Truth is perception. People believe what they hear, especially on the news. The time had come to send a message with a major strike—that this religious subversion is a cancer, a threat to our very way of life. Insurrection cannot be tolerated. We must—and we will—combat it with all our might. You should be proud of what we’ve done here today, Paul. The rest of America will be.”

Paul was speechless. Balaam was still in thrall with the reporters, so at least he was spared her boasting about the strike. He drifted away to look for survivors to interrogate.

But there were none.

One of the chauffeurs nodded to Paul as he drove through the gate at Allendo’s. A houseman was waiting when he pulled up to the front door, now shadowed by the gold fountain, the never-ending geyser. It was all Paul could do to be cordial. His valet informed him, “Dinner remains on schedule for seven o’clock. Mr. Allendo asked that I let you know that he and General Decenti are en route and will be on time.”

They were indeed on time, and from the tone of the festivities, it was clear that only Paul had a problem with what had gone on that day. Ranold was right. America was proud of them. Tiny had invited many friends and movie-business associates, all of whom crowded around Chief Balaam, who looked like the blade of a knife in a silver gown.

For the celebration Allendo had told the caterers to pull out all the stops. They came up with a spread featuring every sort of delicacy, most colored Tiny’s trademark gold. Ranold seemed to be having the time of his life, wolfing down toast points heaped with golden and black caviar and guzzling champagne from a gold-rimmed flute. But the
pièce de résistance
among the hors d’oeuvres was live sushi, small golden fish that darted through a trough down the middle of the table, which the bravest caught with tiny spears. Paul was revolted.

Bia Balaam appeared at his side, spear in hand. “Caught one yet?”

“No,” Paul said. “Can’t say that I’ve tried.”

“Maybe it’s the sport you don’t care for.”

“Spearing fish in a trough doesn’t seem sporting to me.”

“You seem very scrupulous, Dr. Stepola.”

“I try to do what’s right, Agent Balaam.”

“I’m sure you do. But what counts most is the ability to do what’s necessary.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I hope you do. And please also keep in mind that I am
Chief
Balaam.”

At twilight the guests were distracted by the hum of an airplane. “That’s awfully close,” Tiny said. “Even small personal planes are diverted from this neighborhood.”

The sound grew louder until the buzz was directly overhead. “I’m filing a complaint,” Tiny said. “Disrupting a party . . . I don’t know who these people think they are, or who they think we are. This isn’t some barbecue in the Valley.”

A cloud suddenly masked the darkening sky. As Paul and the others watched, it seemed to disintegrate and drift to earth. Paper from the sky. Hundreds of fluttering leaflets.

Some guests shrieked. Others caught the flyers and read their messages aloud. They cited miracles, warning of the coming judgment and offering salvation through Christ. Tiny barked and the service staff scrambled, frantically gathering leaflets.

Red-faced, Balaam demanded a phone. Ranold shook his fist at the sky, bellowing drunken threats. Paul was thrilled but afraid for Barton. To hide his feelings, Paul strolled to the fountain. The bottom was clogged with sodden flyers, and the new ones blanketing the surface churned with the force of the spray. And a plan came to him—a plan so clear and complete he believed it was from God Himself.

Paul knew what he and the underground believers of Los Angeles had to do.