Wolf strolled over. “Hey, what’s up?”
“There’s been an attack up top. No one knows who.”
From above, scattered popping sounds echoed down the cliffs and the sky bloomed red above the mesa rim. “What’s going on?”
Miller glanced at Wolf. “They set fire to the hangars at the airfield . . . . They’ve surrounded the chopper.”
“They? Who the hell’s
Miller shook his head. The other members of the team were engaged by radio in furious conversation with the team above. The popping sounds became louder—and Wolf realized it was gunfire. He heard a faint cry. Everyone stared up. A moment later something came hurtling down the cliff, accompanied by a long choking scream. It flashed in and out of the lights on its way past them, a figure in uniform. The scream ended abruptly far below in a faint smack and a rattle of loose, falling rocks.
“What the hell was that!” one of the soldiers cried.
“They threw Frankie off the cliff!”
“Look! Coming down the fixed lines!” another soldier yelled.
They all stared upward in uncomprehending horror at the dozens of dark shapes sliding down the ropes.
PASTOR RUSSELL EDDY WATCHED HIS CONGREGATION fling the last soldier over the cliff. While he genuinely deplored violence, the soldier had resisted the will of God. So be it. Perhaps they would find solace and redemption when Christ raised them from the dead and redeemed His flock. Perhaps.
He climbed up on the hood of a Humvee and took stock. The soldiers had fired on his congregation, which had surged forward with tsunami-like force up to the cliff’s edge until most of the soldiers had vanished over the rim into the black void.
His will be done.
Pastor Eddy gazed out over the miracle. The road was packed with people pouring in from the Dugway, torches and flashlights dipping in the darkness. They flowed over the fence into the security area and milled about, waiting for direction. A half mile back, the flames from the burning hangars at the airstrip leapt above the scrubby trees, casting a lurid glow across the mesa top. The acrid smell of gasoline and burnt plastic drifted through the air.
In front of him, people were massing along the edge of the cliff. The soldiers had left a lot of gear at the top of the cliffs, which Doke evidently knew how to use. He had served ten years in the Special Forces, he had told Eddy. He was helping people into rappelling gear, straps and slings with various carabiners and equipment, and showing them how to rappel down the cliff face, convincing them they could do it.
And they were doing it. It was easy with the equipment. It took no special skills. Doke’s people poured over the edge by the score, sliding down the ropes, a human waterfall disappearing into the darkness below. They were sending back up the straps and slings and carabiners to be reused, again and again.
Eddy watched Doke shouting and giving orders. Lifting his radio, Eddy called the group at the airstrip. “I see you torched the hangars. Good work.”
“What should we do about the chopper?”
“Is it guarded?”
“One soldier and the pilot. He’s armed—and pretty freaked out.”
“Kill them.” The words just came out. “Don’t let them take off.”
“Yes, Pastor.”
“Any heavy equipment around?”
“There’s a backhoe here.”
“Trench the runway and helipads.”
Eddy watched the crowds. They still mobbed the mountain, despite roadblocks and mass arrests. It was an incredible sight. The time had come to initiate the next phase of attack.
Eddy raised his arms and called out, “Christians!
The growing crowd shifted, paused.
Eddy pointed a shaking finger. “You see those high-tension lines?”
“
“That’s right! We’re going to kill the power to Isabella!” he cried. “I’m calling for volunteers to scale those towers and rip down the lines!”
“
“Cut their power!”
A chunk of the crowd split off and swarmed toward the closest tower, which stood a hundred yards away.
Eddy held up both arms and a second hush fell.
He pointed again, this time at the cluster of antennae, dishes, microwave horns, and cell-phone transmitters at the top of the elevator building, perched on the edge of the cliffs.
“Blind the eyes and stop the ears of Satan!”
More milling people broke away and swarmed around the elevator. The crowd now had direction. They had something to do. He watched with grim satisfaction as the mob piled up around the fence surrounding one of the giant struts of the tower. The mob pressed and heaved, and with a screech the fence went down. They poured in. One man caught the rung of the ladder, swung himself up, and began to climb, followed by another, and another, until in a few minutes it looked like a line of ants inching up a tree.
Eddy hopped off the Humvee and strode to Doke at the edge of the cliffs. “My work’s done up here. I’m going down. I’m the one God chose to confront the Antichrist. You take command up top.”
Doke embraced him. “God bless you, Pastor.”
“Now show me the best way to descend this cliff face.”
Doke pulled a set of nylon straps from a heap at his feet and slipped them around Eddy’s legs and pelvis. He fixed them in place with a locking carabiner, slipping a brake bar over it. “This is called a Swiss seat,” he said. “The doubled rope goes through this brake bar—if you let go, it brakes you to a stop. One hand here, one hand here, lean out, give little hops as you let the rope slide through the carabiner.” He grinned, slapped Eddy’s shoulder. “Simple!” He turned: “Make way,” he cried. “Make way for Pastor Eddy! He’s going down the ropes!”
The crowd parted and Doke led Eddy to the edge of the cliffs. Eddy turned, grasped the rope as directed, and eased himself over the edge, kicking gingerly off the cliff face as he’d seen the others do—his heart in his mouth, praying furiously.
64
“IT’S A HOWLING MOB OUT THERE,” Wardlaw said, pointing to the front monitor.
Hazelius finally broke away from the Visualizer. The main feed showed the entire security zone overrun with people brandishing knives, axes, rifles, their torches bobbing and blazing
“They’re climbing the elevator!”
“Good God.” Hazelius wiped his face with his sleeve. “Ken,” he shouted, “how much more time does Isabella have?”
“The bad coil could drop superconductivity at any time,” Dolby cried, “and then we’re dead meat. The beams might kink, cut through the vacuum pipe, and cause an explosion.”
“How big?”
“Maybe real big—we have no precedent.” He glanced at his screen. “Harlan! Pump some more juice into the system. Keep the magnetic flux up.”
“I’m at a hundred and ten percent of rated power as it is,” said St. Vincent.
“Push it,” said Dolby.
“If the grid fails, we lose power and we’re also dead.”
“Crank it.”
Harlan St. Vincent keyed in the command.
