0300 Book 3 - 11. Chapter 11: Signs and Portents

Chapter 11: Signs and Portents

And I will show signs and portents
in the heavens
and in the earth . . .
—Joel 2:30

“It’s a two part plan,” Danny said. “First, we’re going to soften up the Reverends with allegorical signs and portents of the so-called end times. Then, we’re going to charge them with a heresy that is spoken of in conjunction with the end times.”

Quite an ambitious plan, Tobor said.

Hush, son, and let Danny talk, I said.

“The Book of Revelation contains many signs that are to appear near the End Times. Many are fanciful, with hidden meanings that may not be easily understandable especially by the civilians, but all are quite vivid—scary, even. In addition, one of Corey’s guys had on his iPad a copy of the Scofield Reference Bible, the last Bible published before the Enlightenment swept that world in the early 1900s. It helped us locate some references in places other than Revelation.

“One of the most often quoted is also one we need to be careful of. Matthew 24:6 reads, And ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.

“In other words, if we start a war, they’ll see that as the fulfillment of prophecy?”

“Maybe.”

“And what will they do?”

“Maybe nothing. The next verse reads, . . . the stars of the heavens fell unto the earth.” Danny paused. The rest of us looked at one another. There were several raised eyebrows.

“Yes, and . . . ?”

“They didn’t seem to catch onto that after the Funeral. If they did, they didn’t say anything.”

“Oh.” I think we were all embarrassed not to have made that link.

“But that verse may be useful: it also warns of earthquakes,” Danny said.

“Earthquakes? We could probably do that if we tunneled deep enough and set off nuclear charges, but is that really a good idea?”

“Perhaps just reports of earthquakes on the televisor.”

“We can always put on our video instead of theirs.”

“How many times can we do that before they shut down the televisor system?

“How could they block us?”

“By broadcasting locally something other than a blank carrier wave—anything—old movies. We could overpower that, but it wouldn’t be nearly as effective.”

“How long before they figure that out?”

“No way of knowing.”

“We need a fallback strategy for the televisor signals,” I said. “Marty? I think that’s something for your to-do list.”

“What about those allegorical signs? What are some of them?”

John took that question. “They are the visions of the man for whom I am named. He wrote that he saw God with a two-edged sword coming from his mouth; riders on white, red, black, and pale horses armed with various weapons; angels; a dragon; a beast with seven heads, that rose from the sea—”

“Holographic images in the night sky!” Bobby interrupted. “I’m sorry for interrupting, John, but we can do this!”

“Where do we get projectors powerful enough?”

“The first holographs were created and projected with lasers, and our ships have some of the most powerful lasers ever developed,” George said.

“But they’re not at optical frequencies.”

“That’s just technology,” Bobby said. “And what about Dr. Adams’ programs for controlling rift energy? He’s already manipulating energies stronger than that. I’ll bet he can help.”

Danny continued the briefing. “The second phase is more subtle, perhaps too subtle. There are two references in Revelation to the Nicolaitan Heresy, that it was hated by the Lord God,” John said.

“According to Irenaeus, one of the earliest Christian Theologians, the followers of Nicolas, although considering themselves to be Christian, practice lives of unrestrained indulgence—not unlike what we know to happen at the _____ Palace Casino,” Andrew added. Andrew had been digging into the ship’s library, it seemed.

“We want to communicate, somehow, that what the Reverends are doing is anathema, and that they will be punished.”

“How do we do that? The civilians won’t understand it, the Army and the Sheriffs won’t understand it and if they do, they won’t care.”

Numerical weakness comes from having to prepare
against possible attacks;
numerical strength, from compelling our adversary
to make these preparations against us.
—Sun Tzu Maxim 6-18

“George? Work this into your kidnapping plans. We wondered what clues to leave; we’ve just had that question answered.”

“The signs and portents are for Bobby’s to-do list,” I said. “Bobby, you’re in charge of planning a psychological operations campaign based on the so-called signs and portents of the end times. You may call on anyone in the Task Force to be on your team.

“The trick for both George and Bobby’s teams will be to dishearten the Reverends without making them desperate, for desperate men with nothing to lose are a formidable foe.”

That will teach me to interrupt. We all heard Bobby’s thought.

We accomplished a lot at this meeting, but there were still many open questions, including the one that was squarely in my lap: no matter how successful our psychological operations, we would still have to put boots on the ground.

Reverends’ World: Reaction to Missing Reverends

Lynchburg

“What does this mean?” the Scudder demanded. He waved a paper at his military aide.

“A routine report, sir,” the aide said after reading the document. “From some mining town to the north of us. The Reverend and his catamite have disappeared. Likely fell down an old mine shaft, according to the local Sheriff, who sent a request for a replacement. Don’t know how that got in your stack, sir. Should have been taken care of downstairs.”

Mt. Zion

“Reverend Winding Road, West Virginia and catamite disappeared. Sheriff sent Lynchburg replacement request.”

“Grassfire destroyed grain fields _____ County Sheriff’s Ranch. Shortfall made up from granaries Grand Prairie.”

“Train 40 boxcars wheat entered California bound Port Long Beach.”

The Colonel-General’s staff sifted through reports taken from the Reverends’ and the Sheriffs’ telegraph networks, transcribing the notes and turning key words into holes punched into rectangles of stiff paper which were fed into a clattering device. An ornate label on the side of the device read, “Hollerith Tabulator 1897” and “US Bureau of the Census.” Two weeks after the first information about a missing Reverend had been entered, one of the counters clicked high enough to call certain of the reports to the attention of a clerk, who brought them to the attention of the Colonel-General.

“Sir, in the past fifteen days, eight Reverends and their catamites have disappeared. The first was in a mining town, and it was supposed that they’d fallen into an old mine shaft. The second was presumed to have drowned in a local lake; the third—”

“Get to the point,” the Colonel-General said.

“This is unprecedented, sir. Occasionally there will be a report of a Reverend killed by his catamite; rarely, there will be a report of a Reverend murdered by a serf.”

“What do you make of it? And what other information do you have on these disappearances?”

“The reports have little detail, and nothing that established a pattern. Scribbled on the wall of one Reverend’s quarters was the verse, ‘Behold, I come quickly . . . ’ from Revelation 22:7 and elsewhere. The phrase ‘Sea of glass’ was scrawled on two walls. That, too, is from Revelation as is ‘Nicolaitan,’ found on three walls. All the walls, save the first, had at least one of these phrases.”

“Have Lynchburg, Chicago, or Las Vegas made the connection, yet?”

“There’s no traffic that indicates that they have, sir.”

“The Sheriffs?”

“No, sir.”

“Revelation.” The Colonel General pursed his lips and scheduled a meeting of his council.

Monterey

The Brotherhood was not based on rank or age, but on ability and what they thought of as integrity.

Their definition of integrity might have seemed a little odd, but their loyalty was to an ideal, and not to the failed implementation of that ideal in the California Republic. Faced with the presence of the Reverends to the east and the Pan-Asian Hegemony across the Pacific, the leaders of California did what fear had driven others to do—they compromised the principles of the Enlightenment and of the Republic in the name of pragmatism. That decision, as it always had and always would, led down the wrong path.

The Brotherhood was not a republic; it was a meritocracy. Knowledge, skill, and ability governed advancement and position. No one thought it unusual that an eighteen-year-old telegrapher and code clerk was a valued and respected member, or that he and Major Chastain shared a table in the back room of the 40&8.

“The Don sent a request for your full report,” the youngster said. “The Committee said that the Don had gotten all they had. That’s not true.”

“Are they hiding something from the Don?” Chastain asked.

“No, I think they’re just lazy or being coy for the sake of being coy.

“There’s something else,” the boy continued. “You know the Central Committee gets intel from someone in the _____ Palace Casino.”

Chastain nodded, and signaled for two more bottles of beer.

“We sent a summary message to Sacramento that the Las Vegas Reverends’ Council was worried about something. They’re missing a couple of their Reverends—and the men’s catamites—and there were odd messages written on the walls of the Reverends’ quarters.”

“Odd in what way?”

“I didn’t understand, but I memorized the words: Behold I am come quickly, and sea of glass, and nicolaitan.”

End-times signs, Major Chastain thought. And no one knows it? The Central Committee doesn’t recognize it?

He stood and thumped his beer bottle on the table. The room fell silent.

“Anyone hear anything about end times or the apocalypse coming out of the Reverends’ territory?”

He looked around the room, but was met with headshakes and blank looks.

“If you do, let me know, please. I’ll file a report as soon as I get there.”

“There?” the boy telegrapher asked.

“Camp Santa Ana,” Major Chastain said. The Brotherhood’s plan must be moved up. Santa Ana is the most likely place. There is not as much time as we had thought. “You must tell the others all you know.”

The Major didn’t need to tell the boy to continue to gather information from the telegraph; that was understood.

“You will also tell the rest that we must prepare, now, to make contact with the people in boxy aeroplanes, and that I believe Santa Ana is the most likely place to do that. The rest of the Brotherhood must look for other ways to contact them, to offer alliance with them.”

Beloved Boy Servant

“Daddy?” George’s voice on my communicator woke me.

I knew he was out with a kidnap team, and my heart skipped a beat before I felt puzzlement and not fear.

“What ’cha got, George?”

George switched to talking mind-to-mind. There must have been someone he didn’t want to overhear.

“I’ve got a boy who doesn’t want to leave his Reverend. He says he loves him; he’s afraid for him.”

“What’s the Reverend thinking?”

“He’s afraid for the boy; he’s afraid we will hurt him. It’s almost like he’s the boy’s daddy, or something.”

“Reassure them both, bring them both—together—but keep an eye on the Reverend. I don’t want to take a chance on him hurting the boy.”

I remembered what John Patmos had thought of our coffee, and asked that the Reverend and the boy be served hot chocolate. They were in an interrogation cell, guarded by George. I watched on the monitor. They were separated by the width of a table. I felt that the boy wanted to be held, to be comforted by the man. I felt that the man wanted to hold and comfort the boy. I felt his anger at George, who stood guard.

They both looked up when I entered the room. “What is your relationship with this boy?” I asked. My voice was terse, but not loud. I tried to show no emotion.

“He is my beloved boy-servant,” the man said. “His name is Toby. I am Reverend Grady. Who are you, and why are we here?”

“I will answer your questions in a moment. First, how old are you, and how old is Toby?”

“I am twenty-eight; Toby is fifteen.”

Thirteen years difference. Danny was eight and I was fourteen. Was there such a difference between our situations?

“Do you have sexual contact with Toby?”

Both Toby and the man turned white. I didn’t need to be a telepath to sense their abject fear: the stink of sweat filled the room.

“Please do not be afraid,” I said, and pushed reassurance.

“Why not? You are the Inquisition, are you not? You will torture and then kill us!”

“No, we are not the Inquisition. We are both more powerful and more understanding than they are. Please, answer the question.”

“Yes,” the man whispered.

“Do you force yourself on him, or have you ever done so?”

“No!” Another whisper. “He is my beloved boy-servant . . . ”

His fear for the boy, more than for himself, was palpable. So was his love. I believed him.

“The boy behind you is my beloved boy-servant,” I said. “And my son. I am Commodore Paul Stewart—”

“Artie’s father?” Toby interrupted. “I don’t believe you!”

“Yes, I am Artie’s father. Would you believe me if he were here?”

The boy nodded. Artie was asleep, but arrived within a few minutes.

Toby’s eyes got wide. “You really are Artie!”

Artie grinned. “I hope so. I’d hate to think I woke up in someone else’s bed!”

The Reverend told us little more than we already knew. He was aware neither of the disappearance of others nor of the end times messages the kidnap teams had left behind.

“You’re going to invade, aren’t you?” he said.

I was startled at his perspicacity, and told him so.

“You must not harm my people!” he said. We were in my Ready Room. The man stood; his fists were clenched. George and Danny, who were present for security, immediately moved toward him. He quickly sat down.

My first thought had been to make him a house parent to the boys—former catamites—now being treated in the USF Hope. I rejected that idea, understanding that it would be very, very hard to convince boys who had been repeatedly raped by their Reverends to trust any adult. However . . .

“Reverend? Would you be willing to meet with some of my planners, to discuss with them our strategy—yes, we will almost certainly invade—and help them determine ways to avoid civilian casualties?”

He agreed, and I looked forward to Fleet Personnel’s reaction when I put a second expert from the Reverends’ World on the payroll.

Monterrey
Office of the Commanding General

“What is Major Chastain up to, now?” the general demanded. He set his coffee cup down hard enough to splash a few drops on the paper he’d been reading.

“Damn!” Coffee was expensive and scarce even for the general. He wiped the drops with a finger and then licked his finger.

His aide, a major, shook his head. “I didn’t see the report, sir.”

“Well, read the damn thing,” the general said.

The aide, who had helped Major Chastain prepare the report, skimmed it briefly, frowned, and said. “This doesn’t make any sense, sir. He’s claiming that the aeroplanes he saw at the Fatima thing were not from the Reverends’ army? Yet where else could they be from? That sort of plane doesn’t have the range to fly from anywhere else but an Army base, nearby. He doesn’t think the Pan-Asians have an airfield in the middle of Reverends’ territory, does he?”

The aide’s chuckle put the general at ease.

“What should we do with him?” the general asked.

The aide tried not to show his relief. That question was the culmination of a series of reports, conversations, and rumors planted for the sole consumption of the general.

“Send him to Santa Ana, sir,” the aide said, and chuckled, again. Santa Ana was the California Army’s version of Ultima Thule. Although no one knew the meaning of that phrase, it had survived in the soldiers’ lexicon.

“That’s not as funny as you might think,” the colonel said. “Cut the orders, immediately.”

The men in the inner room of The 40 & 8 spoke quickly, in low tones. No notes were taken, despite the quantity of intelligence that was exchanged. The next morning, Major Chastain and two duffle bags were on a train to Barstow. From there, a motorcar would take him to Camp Santa Ana. Two cases of wine from the Russian River Valley were loaded, as well, but they did not appear on any official manifest.

* * * * *

“Don? Sir? The man from Monterrey is here. He’s the one who was at Fatima!” The Don’s orderly’s voice cracked with his excitement. The major’s reputation had been established by his report. Despite, or perhaps because of, the scarcity of information in the report, the stories of Major Chastain’s exploits had grown.

The official orders, which the major carried from Monterrey, had been supplemented by a telegraphic message that contained an innocuous code group that meant to the Don that his new officer was a member of The Brotherhood. That made it easy for the Don and the major to exchange confidences. On the second evening after Chastain’s arrival, he and the Don sat in the Don’s quarters.

“You know, don’t you, that the people in boxy aeroplanes are going to attack the Reverends,” Major Chastain said. “They may attack us.”

Half of a bottle of the Russian River wine had been drunk. The Don poured the remainder into their glasses before he spoke.

“I have come to the same conclusion. What makes you think so?”

Major Chastain told of his experience at Fatima, including the parts he’d left out in his report to the Central Committee.

“You spoke with one of them?” The Don kept his composure, but barely.

“Yes, he said his name was Terry—” Chastain saw something flicker across the Don’s face. “What?”

“You said he was about twelve?” the Don said.

Chastain nodded.

The Don spoke slowly. “There was a boy named Terry in the Children’s Army that was going to attack the Christmas Convocation at Las Vegas. He was twelve.

“Couldn’t be the same boy, though. Our Terry was to have been a suicide bomber. We saw in the video how those boys killed themselves trying to protect their brothers from the tanks. It is unlikely that any survived to be rescued. Please, continue.”

“I’m convinced that the aeroplanes at the event were not from the Reverends’ Army. I’m convinced that the sandstorm wasn’t natural, and that it could only have been created by someone with technology and power much greater than we possess. And, I’m convinced that the gas generators were destroyed with explosives much more powerful than anything we, the Pan-Asians, the Mujahedeen, or the Reverends have.”

“Major Chastain? You’ve revealed enough to justify your court-martial and execution. I salute your courage and forethought, and I thank you for your trust. Please let me return it with something equally sensitive and secret.”

The major, who had blanched at the Don’s first words, relaxed and nodded. “Of course.”

“Some of our boys and one of our instructors are telepathic. Do you know the word?”

The major nodded.

“I am convinced that the meteors which appeared over Las Vegas were, indeed, the bodies of some of our soldiers who died in the battle. One of our boys who had escaped from the _____ Palace Casino, felt both sorrow and anger from beyond our camp, and from millions of people.”

“ ‘Millions,’ he said,” Chastain murmured.

“The boy is level-headed and not given to exaggeration. I’m convinced that the people with boxy aeroplanes—

“Damn it! I’m tired of using so many words to describe them,” the Don said, and then laughed. “As mysterious as they are, we should probably call them Arcana.”

“Or Enigma,” Chastain suggested. “That word has a long association with mystery in the intelligence profession.”

“Enigma it is, then,” the Don said. “Where are these Enigma, then? South America? Africa? The old Russian empire—we know the Pan-Asian’s hold on the Russians is tenuous?”

“And, how can we contact them?” Major Chastain added. “How can we keep them from lumping us with the Reverends when they invade?”

“Those are, indeed, the questions,” the Don said.

“Does the Central Committee know that we intercept messages from their agent at the _____ Palace Casino?” the Don asked.

Chastain snorted wine out his nose, barely missing his uniform trousers. “For how long?”

“At least four years,” the Don said. “I take it from your reaction that the Committee doesn’t know?”

“Almost certainly not,” Chastain said.

“Are you aware of the spate of kidnappings of Reverends? The messages that have been left?”

Chastain nodded. “End-times signs. Do you know what that means?”

The Don nodded, and then asked, “Enigma do you think?”

“Almost certainly. Who else could get away with something like that?”

“Does the Inquisition know?” the Don asked.

“That, I’m afraid, is something I cannot answer,” Chastain said. “We are aware they exist. We are aware their headquarters is in something called Mt. Zion. We are aware that they have covens of scientists in Chicago and Miami. We have never, however, captured one of them nor have we been able to break their code.”

The Don’s orderly called the men to breakfast before Chastain completed his briefing to the Don.

2009-04-15
Paul’s Birthday

I was a commodore. There were eleven ships of the line plus a hospital ship under my command. Among them, there were probably a thousand shuttlecraft of various types. There was one that was designated for my exclusive use: the Flag Shuttle. I didn’t have to steal a shuttle. However, I was not supposed to go anywhere, even on board my flagship, without security, so it took some of the veil and some of the push before I could reach my shuttlecraft on the flight deck.

I opened the door, walked to the cockpit, and found George waiting for me. He was in the left seat—the pilot’s seat.

“Hi, Daddy,” he said. “You forgot your parka and bunny boots. They’re in the back. So are mine. Ready to roll?”

“George, what are you doing here, and where is Danny?” I sputtered.

“Stealing shuttles is my gig,” he said. “Besides, Danny’s got . . . ” George stopped talking. And blocked, hard. I knew better than try to force him.

I settled into the co-pilot’s seat. “Do Kevin and Casey know you’re stealing their shuttle?” I asked.

“Actually, I changed the transponder code,” George said. “They’ll never know. Neither will the bridge crew.”

Changed transponder codes? That’s supposed to be impossible outside of drydock. Not for the GWGs, I guess. And certainly not for George.

George opened a comm channel. “Supply shuttle Vesto Silpher requests departure for Fleet Logistics Depot Banff,” he said.

He shut off the microphone and said, “Banff is the closest legitimate base to Denali. That’s where you want to go, right?”

I nodded. That was all I could do.

“Hold me!” George demanded over the howling of the wind.

I wrapped my arms around him. He looked up at me, and then unsnapped his safety line. “I love you, Daddy!” he said, as he trusted me with his life. I felt tears freeze on my cheeks, but I also felt George’s love and trust.

I walked slowly back to the shuttle, holding tightly to George, knowing that if I tripped, I might loose that grip and he would die. I knew if he died, I would, too.

When we were inside the shuttle, with the door closed, I pushed back the hoods of our parkas and looked into the eyes of my son.

“I love you, George,” I said.

“I know, Daddy, and I love you, too.”

I thought perhaps George would accompany me back to my quarters, but he pleaded duty.

Danny was waiting when I reached my quarters. I don’t know where he got the white, terry bathrobes with the logo of a certain five-star hotel on them, but I remembered several times when white, terry bathrobes and been a prelude to our physical intimacy.

After Danny fell asleep, cuddled next to me, I lay awake wondering: which was the better gift: George’s love and trust or Danny’s more physical expression of love?

I wrestled with the question until I understood that they were all the same: that trust and intimacy and love were intertwined.

Camp Santa Ana

The Don and Major Chastain continued their discussion the following evening.

“The Brotherhood is of a mind, then?” the Don asked after Chastain had described the plan.

“We are,” Chastain said. “It has been ratified by the council and a majority of the members. We will attempt to contact Enigma and to make alliance with them, even if the Republic and the Army do not. We will not fight against California, but neither will we be bound by their hard-headedness.”

Yucatan

The Fleet Marines were exclusively warriors; however, every member of Fleet had received the same kind of training I’d received as a Cadet at Edmonton: super-soakers, laser-tag, paint-ball, and MK-7 marksmanship, as well as war games such as the one I refereed at the Yucatan, the one where we found Alberto.

A talk with the Commandant of Fleet School Sydney and a brief request to Admiral Davis—required since the operation would cross lines of command—and we were set: 2,000 of the Australian students would be the Blue Army and some 4,000 of my people—sailors, cadets, marines—would be the Green Army and non-combatant civilians. Several troop ships would serve as floating barracks.

Captain Moultrie was senior, and his Charleston was the Flag Ship of the task force; however, he asked his former roommate, Captain Howard of the USF Enterprise to work with the Commandant of Fleet School Sydney to plan the exercise. We did not invite the usual observers, politicians, or the press, but promised invitations to the victory parties. I think most of the usual guests preferred that to standing on platforms in the jungle heat watching icons move around on monitors.

Captain Howard borrowed several of the Marine Gunnery Sergeants from throughout the Task Force as well as a couple of my boys to work with the staff of Fleet School Australia. It took surprisingly little time before they were ready. The School Commandant had pressed me to join the referees, so I wasn’t supposed to know any of the details, although George and Danny managed to find out a great deal, and spent the week before the exercise grinning at me, and blocking.

Scamps!

The exercise told us a great deal—none of which was good. Casualties on the defending side, the Reverends’ Army augmented by Sheriffs, were high. Their weapons were no match for ours; but they fought tenaciously. The planners had assumed the Reverends forces would be callous, and the referees watched in horror as the Reverends’ Army casually executed not only their own wounded, but any of ours they managed to surround or overwhelm. Captain Howard called off the exercise after the first six hours, ordered everyone to take a day off from all military duties, and then visited me.

“Sir, I don’t know what to say. I know that we’d hoped that the simulations were wrong, but they were dead on.

“Sorry, bad choice of words.”

“Captain, you anticipated my request to call off the exercise by mere minutes. I was glad to see that. It validates my thoughts, and that’s always appreciated. The exercise proved what we all suspected: we cannot use the tactics of the last war to fight the next one.

“The kids from Fleet School Australia cannot be denied a complete exercise, however. How quickly can this be converted to a standard Yucatan exercise, kids against kids?”

Captain Howard managed a smile. “The plans are already in the can,” he said. “I recommend we give everyone a couple of days down time, first. Perhaps a picnic, or something. A couple of days delay shouldn’t be a problem, I don’t think. But the Australian Commandant should make that decision.”

“Yes, he should. Would you coordinate that, please? And I like the picnic idea. Offer our facilities and services for the picnic, and see if you can get all our youngsters involved. Perhaps some sports competitions?”

The picnic and sports competition turned into a Field Day that was a huge success. I wanted the adults—sailors and marines—who had participated in the first exercise to be able to unwind, too. Some of them refereed the kids’ games; others held their own ship-against-ship competitions or sailors-versus-marines games; and all enjoyed the many kegs of Australian beer that Tobor hijacked before they could reach their destination. I didn’t ask to which account he billed that shipment.

Chapter End Notes: Paul’s advice to Bobby, that desperate men with nothing to lose are a formidable foe, is based on Sun Tzu’s Maxim 7-36: “When you surround an army, leave an outlet free. Do not press a desperate foe too hard.” Tu Mu added, “ . . . make him believe that there is a road to safety, and thus prevent his fighting with the courage of despair . . . After that, you may crush him.” A folk saying, quoted by Ch’en Hao puts it this way: “Birds and beasts when brought to bay/Will use their claws and teeth.”