not ruined by the crash and wetness.
“Please, I'm unarmed,” Feldman said.
“Gogormagog?” the guerrilla asked.
“What?” Feldman did not understand German.
“Are you Gog or Magog?” the question came slower. “Are you for Jeza or against Her?”
Feldman finally comprehended. But not knowing which hands he'd fallen into, he hedged. “Uh, I'm uh, I'm a reporter. Jon Feldman, WNN News,” he said, and wiped the mud from an ID card he retrieved from his vest pocket.
The eyes of the militant suddenly widened, and the man blurted out cheerily, “Jon Feldman! My good friend Jon Feldman! I did not recognize you with the mud.”
Assisting the newsman from the wreckage, the German called out to his colleagues. “Ya! Look, we have my good friend Jon Feldman, from World News Network!”
“My associate is injured,” Feldman appealed to his captor. “Please, help us!”
“Ya, Jon! You remember me?” the strange man asked. “Fredrich Vilhousen, from Hamburg! We meet at the Negev laboratory the night of God's Hammer!”
Unsure, Feldman was not going to jeopardize his good fortune. “Of course. Am I glad to see you! We were just shot down by the Israelis. You've got to help us!”
“Ya! We help you. Come.”
Feldman was glad to see Hunter had wriggled his way to a safer distance and was now sitting up, conversing with two of Vilhousen's three men.
“So which are you, Gog or Magog?” Feldman asked apprehensively as the German assisted him with a supporting shoulder.
“Magog, of course!” came the welcomed reply. “We are here for the Armageddon! The Gogs are coming to attack us and take Jeza's body. They think we are going to fake the Resurrection by stealing her away. But we will defeat them, as the Bible predicts.”
Although there was a little color in Hunter's face now, it was obvious he'd taken a nasty hit. At the very least, he had serious gashes on his right thigh and temple that the Magogs were attempting to bandage.
“Can you help us get back to our headquarters?” Feldman pleaded again. “We have some extremely important news about the Messiah that we have to get out of here.”
“Ya, ya, but look. We have trouble.”
Feldman swung around, peering up into the air where Vilhousen was pointing. Swooping over the buildings behind them and heading directly toward the crash site was an Israeli military helicopter.
Hunter saw it, too. “Damn, Feldman. Get the hell out of here!”
Feldman looked to his friend, then back at the charging helicopter, then to his friend once more. “No, I'm not leaving you. Not that I could make it anyway. Not in this mud, not in my condition.”
Over Hunter's protests, Feldman unbuttoned his shirt and extracted a limp package. He grabbed Vilhousen's arm hard with his right hand, despite the pain.
“Fredrich, listen to me,” he implored, his eyes boring into the German's. “This package is a message to the world about Jeza.
Dumbfounded, Vilhousen accepted the package, nodding, his eyes wide with his responsibility.
Reaching up with discomfort, Hunter also waved a videotape at the perplexed German. “Here, I saved this. You might as well take it, too.”
“Go!” Feldman shouted, sending the German on his way with a hard push. “Hurry,
Vilhousen and his men took off arduously through the slime as the chopper circled once and then closed in.
“Damn it, Jon!” Hunter yelled at his friend. “You can't entrust that information to them. You've got to go, too!”
Feldman trudged slowly and painfully over to his partner. “Sorry, guy, but I can barely walk under the best of circumstances. I'd never make it in this muck.” He shaded his eyes against the sun and the oncoming gunship, concern growing on his face. “And I'm not so sure Vilhousen will, either.”
At the sight of the fleeing Magogs, the helicopter hovered indecisively between investigating the downed craft and chasing the escaping men. Suddenly it pivoted toward Vilhousen's band and a high-caliber gun erupted from the undercarriage, discharging a volley of bullets and kicking up sprays of mud around the scattering guerrillas. One of the shots found its mark and a man fell headlong into the mire.
Frantically, Feldman began waving his arms at the helicopter and pointing at the wreckage.
“The bastards!” Hunter yelled. “Did they get our messenger?”
“No,” Feldman detected from his higher vantage point, holding his bream. “Not yet!”
But the helicopter finally decided against pursuit and swung back around to settle in alongside the two newsmen. Feldman flopped back down next to Hunter.
“How bad are you, Breck?” he asked.
“I don't know. I've got triple vision, my ears are ringin’ like an alarm clock, and my leg's got a crater in it. Not too bad, I guess.”
Three Israeli military had reached them now, pointing rifles in their faces. “You will come with us,” one said. It took four men to lug the cumbersome Hunter into the helicopter's bay. Two other Israelis carefully inspected the downed wreck, shook their heads back at their comrades and then returned to the chopper for take off.
Feldman and Hunter were stripped of their IDs and not allowed to talk as they were flown directly to an IDF command center across Jerusalem on the western side of the city. They were shoved roughly into a large barracks and hauled up before an office door where, despite their condition, they were made to wait, precariously supporting one another.
Finally, the door to the office opened and the prisoners were admitted into the malevolent presence of their old nemesis, Senior General Alleza Goene himself. Seated next to Goene in a red-leather wingback chair was another man. A short, slightly heavy set individual, perhaps sixty years of age, with neatly combed gray hair. He was dressed in an expensive business suit. Although they'd never met, Feldman recognized him instantly.
The guards held the two reporters firmly at attention by their upper arms.
“Well!” Goene looked up from his conversation, not unpleasantly surprised at the newsmen's bedraggled appearance. “We're not looking so high and mighty today, now are we?” he sneered.
Feldman and Hunter glared back silently.
Goene gestured to the man next to him. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to Israel's esteemed minister of defense, Shaul Tamin.”
Tamin did not bother to rise. He sized up the newsmen with a methodical, imperious stare, scrutinizing them through cold eyes under heavy lids.
“Your ambition has no conscience, does it, gentlemen?” Tamin remarked, speaking in a resonant voice with little accent.
The reporters eyed him warily.
“Thanks to your illustrious reporting,” Tamin continued, “Israel is about to confront Armageddon. I trust you're proud of your work?”
“We're just a couple of journalists trying to do our jobs, Tamin,” Feldman replied dryly.
“Journalists?” The minister sniffed. “Ah, is that how you characterize yourselves? Endangering Israel's national security; inciting riots and rebellion; creating a worldwide climate of fear and despair-all in the name of good journalism! I see. What consummate professionals you are.”
Hunter shook himself free of his guard. “And I suppose you two are just a couple of loyal patriots aren't you? Plotting the gutless murder of a defenseless little woman, all in the name of good politics. What consummate
Feldman grabbed his friend's arm in warning.
Goene's self-satisfied leer evaporated, but Tamin betrayed nothing.
