The Forge of God tfog-1 Page 25

  Among their numbers are approximately ten thousand Forge of Godders, with their various prophets and religious guides. The American branch of this cult has arisen in just three weeks, sown in the fertile religious ground of the American South and West by the President’s blunt, uncompromising words. I have spoken with these people, and they share the President’ s convictions. Most are fundamentalist Christians, seeing this as the Apocalypse predicted in the Bible. But many come from other faiths, other religions, around the world. They say they will stay here until the end. As one cultist told me, “This is the center. This is where it’s at. Forget Australia. The End of the World begins right here, in Death Valley.”

  38

  December 1

  Lieutenant Colonel Rogers, in mufti of hunter’s cap and bush jacket and denims, hands in jacket pockets, stood at the edge of the Furnace Creek airstrip. A sleek eight-passenger private LearFan Special coasted to a stop twenty yards beyond, its two in-line props swishing the air with a diminishing chop-chop-chop. The plane’s landing lights were extinguished and its side door opened. Two passengers — a man and a woman — stepped down almost immediately, peering around in the darkness, then approached Rogers.

  “The President refuses to see any of us,” said the man. Dressed in a recently donned and still disarrayed overcoat, black suit, and a silk shirt, he was very portly, late middle-aged, and completely bald. The woman was slender, in her forties, with large attractive eyes, a narrow jaw, and full lips. She, too, wore an overcoat and beneath that a dark pants suit.

  “What does your group plan now?” the woman asked.

  Rogers rubbed his jaw reflectively. “My group…hasn’t fixed its plans yet,” he said. “We’re not used to this kind of activity.”

  “Congress and the committees are really on Crockerman’s tail. They may bring him down,” the man said. “We still haven’t gotten McClennan and Rotterjack to join us. Loyalists to the last.” The bulky bald man curled his lip. Loyalty beyond pragmatism was not something he understood. “Even so, it may be too late. Have you talked to the task force?”

  “We’re going to keep them out of this, as much as possible,” Rogers said. “I talked to Gordon, and he even broached this sort of plan to me, but we don’t know which of them might have supported his decision covertly.”

  “Do you have the sleeping bag?” the woman asked.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Do you know where you’ll get it, if the time comes? Oak Ridge is in my district…”

  “We will not get it from civilian sources,” Rogers said.

  “What about the codes, the complications, the authorization you’ll need…the chain of command?” the woman persisted.

  “That’s on our end. We’ll take care of it. If the time comes.”

  “They have the smoking gun, goddammit,” the man said. “We’ve already been shot.”

  “Yes, sir. I read the papers.”

  “The admiral should know,” the man said, with the air of drawing their conversation to a conclusion,” that our group can do no more in a reasonable period of time. If we do bring the President to ground, it will take months. We can’t stop or delay the swearing in. The recommendation from the House Judiciary Committee will take weeks. The trial could drag on for half a year beyond that. He’s going to hold out for at least that long. That puts the ball in your court.”

  Rogers nodded.

  “Do you know when you’ll act?” the woman asked.

  “We don’t even know if we can, or whether we will if we can. It’s all up in the air.”

  “Decisions have to be made soon,” she reiterated. “Everybody’s too upset…this is too extraordinary a conclave for it to stay secret long.”

  Rogers agreed. The two returned to their LearFan Special and the plane’s counterrotating props began to spin again, with eerie softness. Rogers returned to his truck and drove away from the airport as the plane whined into the blackness and silence of the overcast night.

  Around the bogus cinder cone, for a distance of several hundred yards, soldiers patrolled well-lighted squares of the desert in Jeeps and on foot. Beyond the patrols and the fences, a mile from the object of their interest, the civilians gathered in trucks and vans and motor homes. Even this late, almost into the morning, campfires burned in the middle of wide circles of mesmerized watchers. Raucous laughter in one area was countered by gospel singing in another. Rogers, maneuvering his truck down the fenced approach corridor to the site, wondered if they would ever sleep.

  39

  December 15

  Two o’clock in the morning, the phone beside their bed rang, and Arthur came awake immediately, leaning forward to pick up the receiver. It was Ithaca Feinman. She was calling from a hospital in Los Angeles.

  “He’s going fast,” she said softly.

  “So soon?”

  “I know. He says he’s fighting, but…”

  “I’ll leave…” He looked at his watch. “This morning. I can be down there by eight or nine, maybe earlier.”

  “He says he’s sorry, but he wants you here,” Ithaca said.

  “I’m on my way.”

  He hung up and wandered into the living room to look for Francine, who said she had not been asleep, but had been sitting on the living room couch with Gauge’s head in her lap, worrying about something, she wasn’t sure what.

  “Harry’s going, or at least Ithaca thinks so.”

  “Oh, God,” Francine said. “You’re flying down there?”

  “Yes.”

  She swallowed hard. “Go see him. Say…Say goodbye for me if he’s really…Oh, Arthur.” Her voice was a trembling whisper. “This is an awful time, isn’t it?”

  He was nearly in tears. “We’ll make it through,” he said.

  As Francine folded some shirts and pants for him, he slipped his toiletries into a suitcase and called the airport to book a flight for six-thirty. For a few seconds, dithering in the yellow light of the bedside lamp, he tried to gather his wits, remember if he had left anything behind, if there was anybody else he should notify.

  Francine drove him to the airport. “Come back soon,” she said, then, realizing the double implication, she shook her head. “Our love to Ithaca and Harry. I’ll miss you.”

  They hugged, and she drove off to get Marty ready for school.

  At this hour, the airport was almost deserted. Arthur sat in the sterile black and gray waiting area near his gate, reading a discarded newspaper. He glanced at his watch, and then looked up to see a thin, nervous-looking woman, hardly more than a girl, standing a few feet away, staring at him. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I followed you from your house. You’re Arthur Gordon, aren’t you?”

  Arthur narrowed his eyes, puzzled. He didn’t answer.

  “I know you are. I’ve been watching your house. I know that sounds terrible, but I have. There’s something I have to give you. It’s very important.” She opened the shopping bag and took out a cardboard box large enough to hold a baseball. “Please don’t be alarmed. It’s not a bomb or anything. I showed it to the airport security people. They think it’s a toy, a Japanese toy for my cousin. But it’s for you.” She held out the box.

  Arthur looked her over carefully, then said,

  “Open it for me, please.” He seemed to be operating on some automatic program, cautious and calm at once. He hadn’t given much thought to assassination attempts before, but he could be a likely target for Forge of Godders or anybody tipped over the edge by the news of the last few weeks.

  “All right.” She opened the box and removed an ovoid object, steel or silver, brightly polished. She held it out to him. “Please. It’s important.”

  With some reluctance — it did resemble a toy more than anything sinister — he took the object. Quickly, it unfolded its legs, gripped his palm, and before he could react, nipped him on the fleshy part of the thumb. He stood up and tried to fling it away, swearing, but
it would not let go. Warmth spread quickly up his arm and he sat down again, face pale, lips drawn back. The young woman retreated, shaking her head and crying. “It’s important,” she said. “It really is.”

  “All right,” Arthur said, more calm on the exterior than deep in his mind. The spider crawled into his suit coat, cut through the fabric of his shirt, and nipped him again on the abdomen.

  The woman walked off quickly. He paid her little attention.

  By boarding time, he was beginning to receive information, slowly at first. On the aircraft, as he pretended to nap, the information became more detailed, and his fear subsided.

  40

  Hicks had stayed in Washington, hoping with a kind of desperate hope that there was still something he could do. The White House did not summon him. Beyond the occasional television interviews, fewer and fewer since the fiasco on Freefire, he was woefully unoccupied. His book had sold in a fresh spurt the past few weeks, but he had refused to discuss it with anybody. His publishers had given up on him.

  He took long, cold walks in the snow, ranging a mile or more from the hotel in the gray midafternoons. The government was still paying his expenses; he was still ostensibly part of the task force, although nobody on the task force had talked with him since the President’s speech. Even after the extensive reports of explosions in the asteroids, he had been approached only by the press.

  When he was not out walking, he sat in his room, dressed in an oatmeal-colored suit, his overcoat and rubbers laid out on the bed and the floor, staring at his image in the mirror above the desk. His eye tracked down slowly to the computer on the desktop, then to the blank television screen. He had never felt so useless, so between, in his life.

  The phone rang, He stood and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Is this Mr. Trevor Hicks?” a young male voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Reuben Bordes. You don’t know me, but I’ve got a reason to see you.”

  “Why? Who are you, Mr. Bordes?”

  “I’m just a kid, actually, but my reason is good. I mean, I’m not dumb or crazy. I’m in the bus station right now.” The youth chuckled. “I went to a lot of trouble to find you. I went to the library and learned your publisher, and I called them, but they couldn’t give your address…you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “So I called them back a couple of days later, I couldn’t think of anything else to do, and said I was with the local television station, and we wanted to interview you. They wouldn’t give me your address even then. So I figured you might be staying in hotels, and I started calling hotels. I’ve been doing that all day. I think I got lucky.”

  “Why do you need to talk to me?”

  “I’m not a nut, Mr. Hicks. But I’ve had some odd things happen to me in the last week. I’ve got some information. I know somebody…well, who wants to get in touch with you,”

  The lines in Hicks’s face deepened. “I don’t think it’s worth the bother, do you?” He started to put the phone down.

  “Mr. Hicks, wait. Please listen and don’t hang up just yet. This is important. I’d have to come out to the hotel and find you if you hung up.”

  Oh, Christ, Hicks thought.

  “I’m being told something now, something important.” The youth didn’t speak for a few seconds. “All right. I got it now. The asteroids. There’s a battle, there was a battle going on out there. There’s this place called Europa, it’s a moon but not our own, isn’t it? That wasn’t a battle. We have friends coming. They needed the…what was it, water under the ice in Europa? For power. And the rock way under the water and ice. To make more…things. Not like the machines in Australia and Death Valley. Do you understand?”

  “No,” Hicks said. A spark went off in his head. Something intuited. The boy’s accent was urban, middle-western bland. His voice was resonant and he sounded convinced and rational, words crisp. “You could be a complete nut, whoever you are,” Hicks said.

  “You said you’d take them home to meet your mom. Your mother. They heard you out around Europa. When they were building. Now they’re here. I found one dissecting a mouse, Mr. Hicks. Learning all about it. I think they want to help, but I’m very confused. They haven’t hurt me.”

  Hicks remembered: he had made that statement in California, on a local radio show. It would have been very difficult for a midwestern teenager to have heard it.

  There was something earnest and truly awed and frightened in the young man’s voice. Hicks glanced at the ceiling, licking his lips, realizing he had already made his decision.

  He had always been something of a romantic. To stay in journalism so long, one had to secretly believe in events full of drama and significance, key moments, points of turnaround in history. He was beginning to shake with excitement. Instincts conflicting — reporter’s instincts, survival instincts.

  “Can you come out to the hotel?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I can take a cab.”

  “I’ll meet you in the lobby. I’d rather be careful, you know. I’ll be in the middle of lots of people.” He hoped the lobby was crowded. “How will I know you?”

  “I’m tall, like a basketball player. I’m black. I’ll be in an old green army coat.”

  “All right,” Hicks said. “In an hour?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  PERSPECTIVE

  KNBC man-in-the-street interview, December 15, 1996, conducted at the gate to the Universal Studios tour “Earthbase 2500” attraction: Anchor: We’re asking people what they think about the President’s proclamation. Middle-aged Man (Laughs): I don’t know…I can’t make heads or tails, can you? (Cut away)

  Anchor: Excuse me, we’re asking people what they think about the President’s statement that the Earth is going to be destroyed.

  Young Woman: He’s crazy, and they should get him out of office. There aren’t any such things as what he’ s talking about.

  Anchor: Standing here, in the shadow of a giant invading spacecraft, its weapons aimed at the crowd, how can you be so sure?

  Young Woman: Because I’m educated, dammit. He’s crazy and he shouldn’t be in office.

  Anchor (Moving on to an adolescent boy): Excuse me. What do you think of the President’ s statement that aliens have landed and are intent on destroying the Earth?

  Adolescent Boy: It scares me.

  Anchor: Is that all?

  Adolescent Boy: Isn’t that enough?

  41

  What Arthur saw, in the bed, was already a ghost: thin wrinkled arms pale on the counterpane, face blotched, pale translucent green oxygen tube going to his nose, drugs seeping into his arm controlled by a small blue box with a flat-screen readout.

  His oldest and dearest friend had become ancient, shrunken. Even Harry’s eyes were dull, and the grip of his hot hand was weak.

  A curtain had been stretched between Harry’s bed and the room’s other occupant, a heart patient who slept all during Arthur’s visit.

  Ithaca sat in a chair at Harry’s right, face tightly controlled but eyes rimmed in sleepless red, hair drawn into a bun. She wore a white blouse and skirt with a reddish-brown sweater. She would never wear black, Arthur knew; not even to Harry’s funeral.

  “Glad you could come,” Harry said hoarsely, his voice barely a whisper.

  “I didn’t think it would be so soon,” Arthur said.

  “Magic bullets missed their target.” He gave a tiny shrug of his shoulders. “Status report: I’d cash in, but who stole my bag of chips?”

  Simply talking tired Harry now. He closed his eyes and let go of Arthur’s hand, withdrawing his slowly until it dropped to the sheet. “Tell me what’s going on in the real world. Any hope?”

  Arthur spoke of the conference and the objects within the Earth.

  Harry listened intently. “Ithaca reads from the newspapers…I’ve been watching TV,” he said when Arthur finished. “I finished my essay…about two days ago. Dictating. It’s on tape.” He point
ed to a portable recorder on the nightstand. “Good thing, too. I can’t concentrate now. Too many…ups and downs. Sons of bitches. Can no more will them away…than I can make myself healthy, huh?”

  “I guess not,” Arthur said.

  “All the king’s men.” He drummed his fingers softly on the bed. “Anybody willing…to kill Captain Cook?”

  Arthur smiled, his cheek twitching.

  “Hope. Let’s hope.” Harry rolled his head to one side, facing a framed poster of sequoias to the left of the window. “The essay is for you alone. I don’t want it published. It’s not my best work. Use it…as you see fit.” He closed his eyes. “Sometimes I don’t know whether I’m dreaming or not. I wish I was dreaming now.”

  Arthur turned to Ithaca. “Harry and I have to speak alone for just a few minutes.”

  “All right,” Ithaca said, with barely concealed resentment. She stood up and went into the corridor.

  “Something juicy?” Harry asked, opening his eyes again.

  “Do you remember when we were eleven, and I played that trick on you?”

  “Which one?” Harry asked.

  “I said I had been inhabited by a spaceman. That my body was being used to help investigate the Earth.”

  “Jesus,” Harry said, shaking his head, smiling. “I’d forgotten about that one. You really took it to extremes.”

  “I was a kid. Life was dull.”

  “You spent three weeks acting like an alien whenever you were around me. Asking all sorts of weird questions, telling me about life on your planet.”