The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books (186 page)

Early after noon, Buck sat at his computer in the vastly enlarged shelter beneath the safe house. He and his father-in-law and Dr. Charles had done the bulk of the excavating work. It wasn’t that Dr. Ben-Judah had been unwilling or unable. He had proved remarkably fit for a man with his nose in scholarly works and his eyes on a computer screen the majority of every day.

But Buck and the others encouraged him to stay at his more important work via the Internet—teaching the masses of new believers and pleading for converts. It was clear Tsion felt he was slacking by letting the other men do the manual labor while he toiled at what he called
soft work
in an upstairs bedroom. For days all he had wanted to do was join the others in digging, sacking, and carrying the dirt from the cellar to the nearby fields. The others had told him they were fine without his help, that it was too crowded with four men in the cramped space, that his ministry was too crucial to be postponed by grunt work.

Finally, Buck recalled with a smile, Rayford had told Tsion, “You’re the elder, our pastor, our mentor, our scholar, but I have seniority and authority as ersatz head of this band, and I’m pulling rank.”

Tsion had straightened in the dank underground and leaned back, mock fear on his face. “Yes, sir,” he said. “And my assignment?”

“To stay out of our way, old man. You have the soft hands of the educated. Of course, so do we, but you’re in the way.”

Tsion had dragged a sleeve across his forehead. “Oh, Rayford, stop teasing me. I just want to help.”

Buck and Doc stopped their work and joined, in essence, in ganging up on Tsion. “Dr. Ben-Judah,” Floyd Charles said, “we all really do feel you’re wasting your time—
we’re
wasting your time—by letting you do this. Please, for our sakes, clear our consciences and let us finish without you.”

It was Rayford’s turn to feign offense. “So much for
my
authority,” he said. “I just gave an order, and now Sawbones pleads with him yet again!”

“You gentlemen are serious,” Tsion said, his Israeli accent thick as ever.

Rayford raised both hands. “Finally! The scholar gets it.”

Tsion trundled back upstairs, grumbling that it “still does not make any sense,” but he had not again tried to insert himself into the excavation team.

Buck was impressed with how the other three had melded. Rayford was the most technologically astute, Buck himself sometimes too analytical, and Floyd—despite his medical degree—seemingly content to do what he was told. Buck teased him about that, telling him he thought doctors assumed they knew everything. Floyd was not combative, but neither did Buck find him amused. In fact, Floyd seemed to run out of gas earlier every day, but he never slacked. He just spent a lot of time catching his breath, running his hands through his hair, and rubbing his eyes.

Rayford mapped out each day’s work with a rough sketch amalgamated from two sources. The first came from the meticulously hen-scratched spiral notebooks of the original owner of the place, Donny Moore, who had been crushed to death at the church during the great wrath of the Lamb earthquake nearly eighteen months before. Buck and Tsion had discovered Donny’s wife’s body in the demolished breakfast nook at the back of the house.

Donny had apparently planned for just such a future, somehow assuming that one day he and his wife would have to live in seclusion. Whether he feared nuclear fallout or just hiding from Global Community forces, he had crafted an expansive plan. His layout enlarged the tiny, dank cellar at the back of the house to extend beneath the entire other side of the duplex and far out into the yard.

The other source Rayford had consulted was the late Ken Ritz’s refinement of the original plan. Ken had honed his image as a clod-kicking blue-collar bush pilot. It turned out he was a graduate of the London School of Economics, licensed in all manner of high-speed jets, and—as these schematics showed—a self-taught architect. Ken had streamlined the excavation process, moved Donny’s support beams, and devised a central communications protocol. When all was in place, the shelter should be undetectable and the various satellite linkups, cellular receivers and transmitters, and infrared computer interfaces easy to access and service.

While Buck worked with Doc and Rayford, and Tsion wrote his masterful daily missives to his global audience, Chloe and Hattie busied themselves with their own pursuits. Hattie seemed to work out every spare moment, madly building tone and endurance and adding weight to what had become her emaciated frame. Buck worried she was up to something. She usually was. No one in the house was certain she hadn’t already compromised their location with her ill-conceived effort to buy her way to Europe months before. So far no one had come nosing around the place, but how long could that last?

Chloe spent the bulk of her time with baby Kenny, of course. When she wasn’t sneaking in a nap to try to regain her own strength, she used her free moments to work via the Net with her growing legion of Commodity Co-op suppliers and distributors. Already believers were beginning to buy and sell to and from each other, in anticipation of the dark day when they would be banished from normal trade.

The pressure of close quarters and lots of work, not to mention dread of the future, was Buck’s constant companion. He was grateful he could do his own writing and help Rayford and Doc with the shelter while still getting time with Chloe and Kenny. But somehow his days were as long as ever. The only time he and Chloe had to themselves was at the end of the day when they were barely awake enough to talk. Kenny slept in their room, and while he was not the type to bother the rest of the household, both Buck and Chloe were often up with him in the night.

Buck lay awake one midnight, pleased to hear Chloe’s deep rhythmic breathing and know she was asleep. He was mulling how to improve the efficiency of the Trib Force, hoping he could contribute as much as the other men seemed to. From the beginning, when the Force consisted of just the late Bruce Barnes, Rayford, Chloe, and him, Buck felt he had become part of a pivotal, cosmic effort. Among the earliest believers following the Rapture, the Tribulation Force was committed to winning people to Christ, opposing Antichrist, and surviving until the reappearing of Christ, now just over three and a half years away.

Tsion, whom God had provided to replace Bruce, was a priceless commodity who needed to be protected above all. His knowledge and passion, along with his ability to communicate on a layman’s level, made him Nicolae Carpathia’s number one enemy. At least number one after the two witnesses at the Wailing Wall, who continued to torment unbelievers with plagues and judgments.

Chloe astounded him with her ability to run an international company while taking care of a new baby. Doc was clearly a gift from God, having saved Hattie’s life and keeping the rest of them healthy. Hattie was the only unbeliever and understandably selfish. She spent most of her time on herself.

But Buck worried most about Rayford. His father-in-law had not been himself lately. He seemed to seethe, short-tempered with Hattie and often lost in thought, his face clouded with despair. Rayford also had begun taking breaks from the house, walking nowhere in the middle of the day. Buck knew Rayford would not be careless, but he wished someone could help. He asked Tsion to probe, but the rabbi said, “Captain Steele eventually comes to me when he wants to reveal something. I do not feel free to pursue private matters with him.”

Buck had asked Doc’s opinion. “He’s my mentor, not the other way around,” Floyd said. “I go to him with my problems; I don’t expect him to come to me with his.”

Chloe begged off too. “Buck, Daddy is a traditional, almost old-world father. He’ll give me all the unsolicited advice he wishes, but I wouldn’t dream of trying to get him to open up to me.”

“But you see it, don’t you?”

“Of course. But what do you expect? We’re all crazy by now. Is this any way to live? Going nowhere in daylight except to Palwaukee once in a while, having to use aliases and worry constantly about being found out?”

Buck’s compatriots all had reasons for not confronting Rayford. Buck would have to do it.
Oh, joy,
he thought.

David Hassid sat in the passenger seat of GC Chopper One, watching with Mac McCullum. The ground crew at New Babylon Airport hooked a thick steel cable from the helicopter to three bundled skids containing 144 computers. The crew chief signaled Mac to begin a slow ascent until the cable was taut. Then he gently lifted off, ostensibly to deliver the cargo to the Global Community palace.

Mac said, “The skids should take care of themselves, provided you keep away from that release lever. You wouldn’t really do that, would you?”

“To delay my own staff from finding Tsion’s and Buck’s and Chloe’s transmission point? You bet I would, if it was the only way.”

“If?”

“C’mon, Mac. You know me better than that by now. You think I would trash that many computers? I may be only about a third your age—”

“Hey!”

“All right, a little less than half, but give me some credit. You think the number of computers we ordered was lost on me?”

Mac held up a finger and depressed his radio transmitter. “GC Chopper One to palace tower, over.”

“This is tower, One, go.”

“ETA three minutes, over.”

“Roger, out.”

Mac turned to David. “I figured that’s why you ordered a gross. One for every thousand witnesses.”

“Not that it’ll parcel out that way, but no, I’m not going to crash them in the desert.”

“But I’m not putting down at the palace either, am I?”

David smiled and shook his head. From their position he had a view of the sprawling palace complex. Acres and acres of buildings surrounded the great gleaming castle—what else could he call it—Carpathia had erected in honor of himself. Every imaginable convenience was included, thousands of employees dedicated to every Carpathia whim.

David dug his secure phone from his pocket and punched a speed number. “Corporal A. Christopher,” he said. “Director Hassid calling.” He covered the phone and told Mac, “Your new cargo chief for the Condor.”

“Do I know him?”

David shrugged and shook his head. “Yes, Corporal Christopher. Is the Condor hold accessible? . . . Excellent. Be ready for us. . . . Well, I can’t help that, Corporal. You may feel free to speak with Personnel, but my understanding is that you have no say in that.”

David held the phone away from his face and turned it off. “Hung up on me,” he said.

“Nobody likes the cargo job for the two-one-six,” Mac said. “Not enough work. You trust this guy?”

“No choice,” David said.

Buck had temporarily moved his computer to the kitchen table and was rapping out a story for
The Truth
when Rayford returned from his morning walk. “Hey,” Buck said. Rayford only nodded and stood at the top of the stairs to the cellar.

Buck’s resolve nearly left him. “What’s the plan today, Ray?”

“Same as always,” Rayford muttered. “We’ve got to start getting walls up down here. And then we’ve got to make the shelter invisible. No apparent access. Where’s Doc?”

“Haven’t seen him. Hattie’s in the—”

“Other side, of course. Training for a marathon, no doubt. She’s going to wind up getting us all killed.”

“Hey, Dad,” Buck tried, “way to look on the bright side.”

Rayford ignored him. “Where’s everybody else?” he said.

“Tsion’s upstairs. Chloe’s on her computer in the living room. Kenny’s napping. I told you where Hattie is; only Floyd is AWOL. He might be downstairs, but I didn’t notice him go down.”

“Don’t say he’s AWOL, Buck. That’s not funny.”

It was unusual for Rayford to chastise him, and Buck hardly knew how to respond. “I just mean he’s unaccounted for, Ray. Truth is, he hasn’t looked well lately and looked awful yesterday. Wonder if he’s sleeping in.”

“Till noon? What was the matter with him?”

“I saw a little yellow in his eyes.”

“I didn’t.”

“It’s dark down there.”

“Then how’d you see it?”