0300 Book 3 - 13. Chapter 13: Signs and Portentz

Chapter 13: Signs and Portents

Chicago was among the largest cities in the Reverends’ territory, and it was conveniently close to a large body of water. While Lake Michigan wasn’t the sea, it would do. The first of the signs and portents was scheduled for a moonless night, just off what was in our world the Fleet Pier. USF Resolute hovered about 10,000 feet above the lake. Bobby and his team were on the bridge, hovering over Dr. Adams’s shoulders. The rest of the GWGs—and much of the Task Force—watched on video.

“What in hell was that?”

The Senior Reverend of Chicago woke, wondered briefly where he was, felt the warmth of the boy next to him, and realized he was in his bed on the 7th floor penthouse of the tallest building in Chicago. What he had heard was the first clarion-call of the sea serpent that was at that moment rising from the waters of Lake Michigan a hundred yards beyond his window.

The trumpet melody became broken and ugly as the Senior stumbled to the window and pulled back the curtains. Green light turned his pale skin a glaucous hue. His penis, flaccid after his assault on the boy, was shadowed by the flab that hung from his waist.

The boy cowered in the covers. He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew the Reverend was unhappy, and when the Reverend was unhappy, he beat the boy.

“Jesus Fucking Christ, what the fuck is that!?” the Reverend said. The boy tried to burrow through the mattress. He was sure he would be beaten, now.

But the Reverend did not turn to beat the boy. He did not turn at all. He stood motionless as the green light brightened and the sound became more and more discordant.

A final blast from the trumpets and the beast sank beneath the black waters of the lake. The Senior let go the curtain, and stumbled back to the bed. The boy felt the man trembling.

Neither the boy nor the Reverend had fallen asleep before there was a knock on the door. It was a firm knock. Not the timid knock of a servant or serf.

“Fuck goddamn fuck,” the Senior said. Louder, he exclaimed, “I’m coming.” The boy was again afraid.

“Senior, there was—”

“I know, I know, I saw it.”

“But what was it?”

“The fucking Beast from Revelation would be my guess,” the Senior said. “What else?”

“But . . . sir!”

“If it’s the Beast from Revelation, we’re screwed,” the Senior said. “If it’s a beast from beneath the lake, we’re probably screwed. If it’s neither of those things, we’re definitely screwed. If I’m going to be screwed, it’s going to be after a decent night’s sleep.”

The senior relented. “Send a telegram to the Scudder and the other Seniors and report what was seen . . . not what was imagined, but what was seen—and heard. Call a meeting of the Chicago Council for 10:00 AM. Make no other comment. And ensure I’m not disturbed until morning.”

The Reverend at the door nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The Senior lay back on the bed, spread his legs, lifted his knees, and addressed the boy. “Come on, boy. If I’m going to be screwed by a monster or screwed in Hell I want a last, pleasant memory. Stroke your dick and screw me.”

Lynchburg, Virginia

Perspiration had evaporated leaving greenish rings under the arms of the Scudder’s otherwise white coat. Even in the foothills of the Shenandoah Mountains, it was warm—unseasonably warm. His counselors were more uncomfortable, and the white, salty evaporate showed plainly on their black coats. As long as the Scudder kept on his coat, none of the others would dare remove his.

“What was it?” He had asked the question a dozen times, and had received a dozen non-answers.

“Have you asked the Inquisition?” he asked. He was reluctant to do so, but there was nowhere else to turn.

“Didn’t have to, sir. They sent a message asking us what we thought of it.”

“Goddamn bastards!” the Scudder said. “They know we would have less idea than they, and they’ve just dumped it into our laps.

“Anything from the Army? They have people in Chicago, don’t they?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Who knows about this? Chicago, I suppose. The Inquisition. The Army. The Sheriffs. But few of our people . . . ”

The men exchanged glances. Each eye contact seemed to say, You tell him.

Finally, one man screwed his courage to the sticking post, and said, “Sir, they interrupted the broadcast last night, and sent the image and sound too. We suspect everyone on our televisor network saw it. They said it was the fulfillment of a prophecy that spelled the end of what they called mindless slavery of the mind.”

“Goddamn it, why don’t you tell me these things?” the Scudder demanded. It was a rhetorical question; he didn’t expect an answer. He knew the answer. These men feared him. And that, for once, made him a little bit afraid, himself.

“I will issue a call for prayer in tonight’s broadcast. Find a way to keep whoever it is from stopping the broadcast!”

The Scudder rose and left the room. As soon as he was in his quarters, he tossed his stained jacket into a corner, and called for ice, bourbon, and a boy.

Mt. Zion

“Mass hysteria, like Fatima?”

“Some sort of mirage? The Jewish scientists suggest that what they call an inversion layer of cold air just above the lake could have reflected lights from somewhere on the lake shore miles away . . . ”

“The descriptions are too consistent among the Senior’s message, among what our people saw, and what the Jewish scientists reported. It was not mass hysteria.

“The Jewish scientists caveat their observation by saying that the clarity of the image, as well as the sound which accompanied it, belie the notion of an inversion layer.

“There must be another explanation.”

The Colonel-General sat back in his chair and waited.

“At the risk of being tried for heresy,” his cousin, the Inquisitor General, said, “It wasn’t the Beast of Revelation, although that seems to be the conclusion of many of the Reverends.” He gestured to the telegraph message forms.

“The Scudder has issued a call to prayer. The Senior of Las Vegas has—”

“They are fools, all of them,” Lt. Thackery interrupted the Inquisitor General. “It was a creation of the people in boxy aeroplanes. And, frankly, I’m tired of referring to them by that circumlocution.”

Several of the men looked at the Colonel-General, expecting him to chastise, perhaps shoot, the Lieutenant. He disappointed them.

“You are right on all three counts,” he said. “The Scudder is a fool as is the Senior of Chicago. This was not a mirage, or a miracle, but the product of a technology that is far beyond ours. Those who are responsible shall henceforth be called Arcana, which means hidden. We shall not refer to them as enemies, for we do not know their motives and it would be foolish to eliminate any possibility of cooperation or amity before we know more.

“Lt. Thackery, you are now Colonel Thackery. You will assemble a team of Jewish scientists from Chicago to begin the project we discussed earlier. Every resource of the Inquisition is yours. Gentlemen: understand and heed that charge. What Colonel Thackery is to undertake may be the only thing that saves us from the Arcana. You will give him every possible assistance.”

Camp Santa Ana

The Don sat alone in his office. From a bottom drawer, he pulled a pipe and a packet of Virginia tobacco. Tobacco was one of the luxury trade goods that the government of California accepted from the Reverends and shipped to the Pan-Asians in return for weapons and televisors. A little found its way into the hands of the Don.

Smoking was a filthy and dangerous habit; the Don knew that. He also knew that he was already dying of a disease unrelated to smoking.

He played again the broadcast of the sea monster. The image and sound both had unusual clarity. The Scudder’s call to prayer in response, was more interesting, however.

After his pipe was burning smoothly, the Don took paper and pen, and prepared a message for Monterrey.

The monster was created by the same people who rescued our child-soldiers west of Las Vegas. I have no proof, but it is the only logical answer. They are preparing to invade the Reverends’ territory. I have no proof of that, either, but it is the only logical course of action for them. They probably know from our boys that California is not the Reverends, but they may know little about us other than what our children whom they rescued have told them. Nevertheless, I am heartened, because it means that we may, someday, see those children, again. I am heartened, because it means that these people, whoever they are, may share values similar to ours. What do you plan to do? For what should we be prepared? How can we ally ourselves with them?

The Don signed the message, and handed it to the boy corporal who stood waiting.

The boy read the message while he walked down the hallway to the telegraph terminal. Artie’s alive, and he will come back! The boy thought. The Don did not see the tears that formed in Martin’s eyes.

USF Charleston

The boys offered me a preview of the briefing they’d prepared for the Task Force. As they came into my Briefing Room, they all went to Bobby and his team to offer a hug, and a Bravo Zulu.

When everyone was assembled, Marty began. “There was a lot of traffic originating in Chicago on all networks,” he announced. “Thanks to the Charleston’s electronics fabrication shop and a few forays by George’s teams, we were able to intercept, we think, all of it.

“We still have not broken the code on the Arcana net, but knowing what the messages were about could help a great deal.”

Cam picked up the briefing. “The Reverends’ reaction ranges from frightened to—to more mildly—puzzled. The message from the Senior of Chicago wasn’t very emphatic, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. A telegram from Las Vegas to Lynchburg was much more emphatic, and reads, What in the hell is going on, and what are you going to do about it? This message had a code group we have associated with private messages among the most senior of the reverends. The message from the Senior of Chicago contained no such code group.

“It is significant that the message from Las Vegas contains what we would think of as profanity.

“The Army in Chicago hopes that the Reverends will figure it out. Their message to Lynchburg seems to intimate that the Army is prepared to take action, even if they’re not tasked to do so by the Scudder. That, to, is significant.

“The Sheriff of Chicago—apparently a central recruiting source for labor camps—doesn’t seem to care, either, as long as boys continue to get to the camps to replace those who are killed.

“The Scudder has issued a call for prayer, and promised that it will save the people.”

“What does this tell us about them?” I asked.

“Sir, you know I don’t like to speculate—” Cam began.

“Cam, it’s just your brothers,” I interrupted. “Please, tell us what you think.”

Cam hesitated, but I knew it was only because he was thinking about how to say what he needed to say, not because he was reluctant to answer me.

“Okay, Paul,” he said, and then grinned. “First, the Senior of Chicago is a smart dude. He knows that we’re behind the mirage. He knows that the game is up, and is pragmatic about that. We may be able to take advantage of that.

“The Senior of Las Vegas is powerful, and knows it. He may be about to challenge the Scudder for leadership. We may be able to take advantage of that.

“The Army and the Sheriffs are also pragmatists, and they’re wondering how to get themselves on the winning side of what they know to be a battle to come.”

“Thank you, Cam,” I said. “Guys? Keep what Cam just said to yourselves, but use it to prompt your teams to look outside the box at ideas and strategies.”

Buffalo, New York, on Lake Erie, was our next target. Someone suggested Miami, which was a larger town, but Cam argued against that. “That’s one place we want to avoid,” he said. “Too much traffic on the Arcana network to Miami, including in the clear messages about our capabilities. We don’t want to give them any more clues.”

There was discussion, but not argument, about whether to replicate the sea monster or create another portent. It was agreed to use the sea monster, again. Bobby’s team kept their own council, and we all wondered what they’d come up with, next.

Buffalo was another success, at least as far as generating telegraph traffic and calls for prayer, and turning Lynchburg into a beehive of activity. The Army garrisons at both Lynchburg and Fort Pickett were reinforced, and tent cities for soldiers were erected at both locations. The Scudder’s daily televisor message was increased from one hour to two hours. We watched carefully. Bobby’s psyops team recruited psychologists to assess the likely impact of the Scudder’s messages, and decided not to try to block them. Actually, even the non-psychologists detected a little hysteria in the broadcasts. It looked as if the Scudder were doing our work for us.

Bobby’s team created other images: the four horsemen, and a figure of a man in a white robe with a sword projecting from his mouth. Since there was no water near Las Vegas, Dr. Adams projected on different nights those two images—complete with a voice reading pieces of Revelation—over Las Vegas.

The telegraph message from Las Vegas to the Scudder suggested that the images had created significant consternation: The Senior probably pissed his pants, was Cam’s informal assessment.

Alliances?

The subject of the next meeting of the Fleet Intel Team, which now numbered more than 3,000 men and boys, was so important that it was broadcast to the entire task force. I saw that a link had been established from Geneva, and knew that Admiral Davis was watching as well.

I began by asking the first key question, “What are the chances of negotiating with people in power in the Reverends’ territory?”

Kevin was already standing at the lectern. The camera zoomed in. “Sir, we do not believe that would be possible.

“In the first place, the Reverends are blinded by their belief. Not their belief in the religion they push on the common people, but on the belief that they are in control and that they can remain in control.

“Our psyops is working, though. We’re seeing what can only be described as panic in some of the telegraph messages. The Reverends are calling on the Army to reinforce key locations. Troops are being pulled out of towns and villages and sent to Las Vegas, Chicago, Buffalo, Miami, and, of course, Lynchburg.

“Such concentrations of troops are problematic for our strategy in one way—it’s likely, eventually, we will have to face large numbers of Army personnel in battle. However, by cutting the number of troops in outlying towns, they’re making our plan easier. If that makes sense . . .”

The Operations Team had come up with a list of requests for me to relay to Admiral Davis. I took him up on his invitation to call, anytime.

“We’ll be building as fast as we invade. I would like to swap about half the Marines for Seabees. This is going to be a war of construction, not destruction.”

I paused to give the Admiral a chance to think. “Approved,” he said. “Except that the Seabees will be additions rather than replacements for the Marines. Take another look at the number of targets you have, and I think you’ll agree.”

I may have blushed at that, but Admiral Davis didn’t let on that he’d seen, so I continued. “In each town and village we will negotiate conditions for providing power and other aid. These conditions will include the establishment of a school, and universal education.”

The Admiral interrupted. “You said in each town and village. Is there no chance a central government can be established, to avoid a piecemeal approach?”

“All of our research suggests not; all of our simulations say not; and, my gut tells me no.”