Left Behind Page 2

  With warning sirens screaming and radio and television sending the doomed for what flimsy cover they might find, Israel defended herself for what would surely be the last time in history. The first battery of Israeli surface-to-air missiles hit their marks, and the sky was lit with orange-and-yellow balls of fire that would certainly do little to slow a Russian offensive for which there could be no defense.

  Those who knew the odds and what the radar screens foretold interpreted the deafening explosions in the sky as the Russian onslaught. Every military leader who knew what was coming expected to be put out of his misery in seconds when the fusillade reached the ground and covered the nation.

  From what he heard and saw in the military compound, Buck Williams knew the end was near. There was no escape. But as the night shone like day and the horrific, deafening explosions continued, nothing on the ground suffered. The building shook and rattled and rumbled. And yet it was not hit.

  Outside, warplanes slammed to the ground, digging craters and sending burning debris flying. Yet lines of communication stayed open. No other command posts had been hit. No reports of casualties. Nothing destroyed yet.

  Was this some sort of a cruel joke? Sure, the first Israeli missiles had taken out Russian fighters and caused missiles to explode too high to cause more than fire damage on the ground. But what had happened to the rest of the Russian air corps? Radar showed they had clearly sent nearly every plane they had, leaving hardly anything in reserve for defense. Thousands of planes swooped down on the tiny country’s most populated cities.

  The roar and the cacophony continued, the explosions so horrifying that veteran military leaders buried their faces and screamed in terror. Buck had always wanted to be near the front lines, but his survival instinct was on full throttle. He knew beyond doubt that he would die, and he found himself thinking the strangest thoughts. Why had he never married? Would there be remnants of his body for his father and brother to identify? Was there a God? Would death be the end?

  He crouched beneath a console, surprised by the urge to sob. This was not at all what he had expected war to sound like, to look like. He had imagined himself peeking at the action from a safe spot, recording in his mind the drama.

  Several minutes into the holocaust, Buck realized he would be no more dead outside than in. He felt no bravado, only uniqueness. He would be the only person in this post who would see and know what killed him. He made his way to a door on rubbery legs. No one seemed to notice or care to warn him. It was as if they had all been sentenced to death.

  He forced open the door against a furnace blast and had to shield his eyes from the whiteness of the blaze. The sky was afire. He still heard planes over the din and roar of the fire itself, and the occasional exploding missile sent new showers of flame into the air. He stood in stark terror and amazement as the great machines of war plummeted to the earth all over the city, crashing and burning. But they fell between buildings and in deserted streets and fields. Anything atomic and explosive erupted high in the atmosphere, and Buck stood there in the heat, his face blistering and his body pouring sweat. What in the world was happening?

  Then came chunks of ice and hailstones big as golf balls, forcing Buck to cover his head with his jacket. The earth shook and resounded, throwing him to the ground. Facedown in the freezing shards, he felt rain wash over him. Suddenly the only sound was the fire in the sky, and it began to fade as it drifted lower. After ten minutes of thunderous roaring, the fire dissipated, and scattered balls of flame flickered on the ground. The firelight disappeared as quickly as it had come. Stillness settled over the land.

  As clouds of smoke wafted away on a gentle breeze, the night sky reappeared in its blue-blackness and stars shone peacefully as if nothing had gone awry.

  Buck turned back to the building, his muddy leather jacket in his fist. The doorknob was still hot, and inside, military leaders wept and shuddered. The radio was alive with reports from Israeli pilots. They had not been able to get airborne in time to do anything but watch as the entire Russian air offensive seemed to destroy itself.

  Miraculously, not one casualty was reported in all of Israel. Otherwise Buck might have believed some mysterious malfunction had caused missile and plane to destroy each other. But witnesses reported that it had been a firestorm, along with rain and hail and an earthquake, that consumed the entire offensive effort.

  Had it been a divinely appointed meteor shower? Perhaps. But what accounted for thousands of chunks of burning, twisted, molten steel smashing to the ground in Haifa, Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Jericho, even Bethlehem—leveling ancient walls but not so much as scratching one living creature? Daylight revealed the carnage and exposed Russia’s secret alliance with Middle Eastern nations, primarily Ethiopia, Libya, and Iran.

  Among the ruins, the Israelis found combustible material that would serve as fuel and preserve their natural resources for more than six years. Special task forces competed with buzzards and vultures for the flesh of the enemy dead, trying to bury them before their bones were picked clean and disease threatened the nation.

  Buck remembered it vividly, as if it were yesterday. Had he not been there and seen it himself, he would not have believed it. And it took more than he had in him to get any reader of Global Weekly to buy it either.

  Editors and readers had their own explanations for the phenomenon, but Buck admitted, if only to himself, that he became a believer in God that day. Jewish scholars pointed out passages from the Bible that talked about God destroying Israel’s enemies with a firestorm, earthquake, hail, and rain. Buck was stunned when he read Ezekiel 38 and 39 about a great enemy from the north invading Israel with the help of Persia, Libya, and Ethiopia. More stark was that the Scriptures foretold of weapons of war used as fire fuel and enemy soldiers eaten by birds or buried in a common grave.

  Christian friends wanted Buck to take the next step and believe in Christ, now that he was so clearly spiritually attuned. He wasn’t prepared to go that far, but he was certainly a different person and a different journalist from then on. To him, nothing was beyond belief.

  Not sure whether he’d follow through with anything overt, Captain Rayford Steele felt an irresistible urge to see Hattie Durham right then. He unstrapped himself and squeezed his first officer’s shoulder on the way out of the cockpit. “We’re still on auto, Christopher,” he said as the younger man roused and straightened his headphones. “I’m gonna make the sunup stroll.”

  Christopher squinted and licked his lips. “Doesn’t look like sunup to me, Cap.”

  “Probably another hour or two. I’ll see if anybody’s stirring anyway.”

  “Roger. If they are, tell ’em Chris says, ‘Hey.’”

  Rayford snorted and nodded. As he opened the cockpit door, Hattie Durham nearly bowled him over.

  “No need to knock,” he said. “I’m coming.”

  The senior flight attendant pulled him into the galleyway, but there was no passion in her touch. Her fingers felt like talons on his forearm, and her body shuddered in the darkness.

  “Hattie—”

  She pressed him back against the cooking compartments, her face close to his. Had she not been clearly terrified, he might have enjoyed this and returned her embrace. Her knees buckled as she tried to speak, and her voice came in a whiny squeal.

  “People are missing,” she managed in a whisper, burying her head in his chest.

  He took her shoulders and tried to push her back, but she fought to stay close. “What do you m—?”

  She was sobbing now, her body out of control. “A whole bunch of people, just gone!”

  “Hattie, this is a big plane. They’ve wandered to the lavs or—”

  She pulled his head down so she could speak directly into his ear. Despite her weeping, she was plainly fighting to make herself understood. “I’ve been everywhere. I’m telling you, dozens of people are missing.”

  “Hattie, it’s still dark. We’ll find—”

  “I’m not crazy!
See for yourself! All over the plane, people have disappeared.”

  “It’s a joke. They’re hiding, trying to—”

  “Ray! Their shoes, their socks, their clothes, everything was left behind. These people are gone!”

  Hattie slipped from his grasp and knelt whimpering in the corner. Rayford wanted to comfort her, to enlist her help, or to get Chris to go with him through the plane. More than anything he wanted to believe the woman was crazy. She knew better than to put him on. It was obvious she really believed people had disappeared.

  He had been daydreaming in the cockpit. Was he asleep now? He bit his lip hard and winced at the pain. So he was wide awake. He stepped into first class, where an elderly woman sat stunned in the predawn haze, her husband’s sweater and trousers in her hands. “What in the world?” she said. “Harold?”

  Rayford scanned the rest of first class. Most passengers were still asleep, including a young man by the window, his laptop computer on the tray table. But indeed several seats were empty. As Rayford’s eyes grew accustomed to the low light, he strode quickly to the stairway. He started down, but the woman called to him.

  “Sir, my husband—”

  Rayford put a finger to his lips and whispered, “I know. We’ll find him. I’ll be right back.”

  What nonsense! he thought as he descended, aware of Hattie right behind him. “We’ll find him”?

  Hattie grabbed his shoulder and he slowed. “Should I turn on the cabin lights?”

  “No,” he whispered. “The less people know right now, the better.”

  Rayford wanted to be strong, to have answers, to be an example to his crew, to Hattie. But when he reached the lower level he knew the rest of the flight would be chaotic. He was as scared as anyone on board. As he scanned the seats, he nearly panicked. He backed into a secluded spot behind the bulkhead and slapped himself hard on the cheek.

  This was no joke, no trick, no dream. Something was terribly wrong, and there was no place to run. There would be enough confusion and terror without his losing control. Nothing had prepared him for this, and he would be the one everybody would look to. But for what? What was he supposed to do?

  First one, then another cried out when they realized their seatmates were missing but that their clothes were still there. They cried, they screamed, they leaped from their seats. Hattie grabbed Rayford from behind and wrapped her hands so tight around his chest that he could hardly breathe. “Rayford, what is this?”

  He pulled her hands apart and turned to face her. “Hattie, listen. I don’t know any more than you do. But we’ve got to calm these people and get on the ground. I’ll make some kind of an announcement, and you and your people keep everybody in their seats. OK?”

  She nodded but she didn’t look OK at all. As he edged past her to hurry back to the cockpit, he heard her scream. So much for calming the passengers, he thought as he whirled to see her on her knees in the aisle. She lifted a blazer, shirt and tie still intact. Trousers lay at her feet. Hattie frantically turned the blazer to the low light and read the name tag. “Tony!” she wailed. “Tony’s gone!”

  Rayford snatched the clothes from her and tossed them behind the bulkhead. He lifted Hattie by her elbows and pulled her out of sight. “Hattie, we’re hours from touchdown. We can’t have a planeload of hysterical people. I’m going to make an announcement, but you have to do your job. Can you?”

  She nodded, her eyes vacant. He forced her to look at him. “Will you?” he said.

  She nodded again. “Rayford, are we going to die?”

  “No,” he said. “That I’m sure of.”

  But he wasn’t sure of anything. How could he know? He’d rather have faced an engine fire or even an uncontrolled dive. A crash into the ocean had to be better than this. How would he keep people calm in such a nightmare?

  By now keeping the cabin lights off was doing more harm than good, and he was glad to be able to give Hattie a specific assignment. “I don’t know what I’m going to say,” he said, “but get the lights on so we can make an accurate record of who’s here and who’s gone, and then get more of those foreign visitor declaration forms.”

  “For what?”

  “Just do it. Have them ready.”

  Rayford didn’t know if he had done the right thing by leaving Hattie in charge of the passengers and crew. As he raced up the stairs, he caught sight of another attendant backing out of a galleyway, screaming. By now poor Christopher in the cockpit was the only one on the plane unaware of what was happening. Worse, Rayford had told Hattie he didn’t know what was happening any more than she did.

  The terrifying truth was that he knew all too well. Irene had been right. He, and most of his passengers, had been left behind.

  CHAPTER 2

  Cameron Williams had roused when the old woman directly in front of him called out to the pilot. The pilot had shushed her, causing her to peek back at Buck. He dragged his fingers through his longish blond hair and forced a groggy smile. “Trouble, ma’am?”

  “It’s my Harold,” she said.

  Buck had helped the old man put his herringbone wool jacket and felt hat in the overhead bin when they boarded. Harold was a short, dapper gentleman in penny loafers, brown slacks, and a tan sweater-vest over a shirt and tie. He was balding, and Buck assumed he would want the hat again later when the air-conditioning kicked in.

  “Does he need something?”

  “He’s gone!”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “He’s disappeared!”

  “Well, I’m sure he slipped off to the washroom while you were sleeping.”

  “Would you mind checking for me? And take a blanket.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’m afraid he’s gone off naked. He’s a religious person, and he’ll be terribly embarrassed.”

  Buck suppressed a smile when he noticed the woman’s pained expression. He climbed over the sleeping executive on the aisle, who had far exceeded his limit of free drinks, and leaned in to take a blanket from the old woman. Indeed, Harold’s clothes were in a neat pile on his seat, his glasses and hearing aid on top. The pant legs still hung over the edge and led to his shoes and socks. Bizarre, Buck thought. Why so fastidious? He remembered a friend in high school who had a form of epilepsy that occasionally caused him to black out when he seemed perfectly conscious. He might remove his shoes and socks in public or come out of a washroom with his clothes open.

  “Does your husband have a history of epilepsy?”

  “No.”

  “Sleepwalking?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  The first-class lavs were unoccupied, but as Buck headed for the stairs he found several other passengers in the aisle. “Excuse me,” he said, “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Who isn’t?” a woman said.

  Buck pushed his way past several people and found lines to the washrooms in business and economy. The pilot brushed past him without a word, and Buck was soon met by the senior flight attendant. “Sir, I need to ask you to return to your seat and fasten your belt.”

  “I’m looking for—”

  “Everybody is looking for someone,” she said. “We hope to have some information for you in a few minutes. Now, please.” She steered him back toward the stairs, then slipped past him and took the steps two at a time.

  Halfway up the stairs Buck turned and surveyed the scene. It was the middle of the night, for heaven’s sake, and as the cabin lights came on, he shuddered. All over the plane, people were holding up clothes and gasping or shrieking that someone was missing.

  Somehow he knew this was no dream, and he felt the same terror he had endured awaiting his death in Israel. What was he going to tell Harold’s wife? You’re not the only one? Lots of people left their clothes in their seats?

  As he hurried back to his seat, his mind searched its memory banks for anything he had ever read, seen, or heard of any technology that could remove people from their clothes and make
them disappear from a decidedly secure environment. Whoever did this, were they on the plane? Would they make demands? Would another wave of disappearances be next? Would he become a victim? Where would he find himself?

  Fear seemed to pervade the cabin as he climbed over his sleeping seatmate again. He stood and leaned over the back of the chair ahead of him. “Apparently many people are missing,” he told the old woman. She looked as puzzled and fearful as Buck himself felt.

  He sat down as the intercom came on and the captain addressed the passengers. After instructing them to return to their assigned seats, the captain explained, “I’m going to ask the flight attendants to check the lavatories and be sure everybody is accounted for. Then I’ll ask them to pass out foreign entry cards. If anyone in your party is missing, I would like you to fill out the card in his or her name and list every shred of detail you can think of, from date of birth to description.

  “I’m sure you all realize that we have a very troubling situation. The cards will give us a count of those missing, and I’ll have something to give authorities. My first officer, Mr. Smith, will now make a cursory count of empty seats. I will try to contact Pan-Continental. I must tell you, however, that our location makes it extremely difficult to communicate with the ground without long delays. I will try to raise them on the satellite phone. As soon as I know anything, I’ll convey it to you. In the meantime, I appreciate your cooperation and calm.”

  Buck watched as the first officer came rushing from the cockpit, hatless and flushed. He hurried down one aisle and up the other, eyes darting from seat to seat as the flight attendants passed out cards.

  Buck’s seatmate roused, drooling, when an attendant asked if anyone in his party was missing. “Missing? No. And there’s nobody in this party but me.” He curled up again and went back to sleep, unaware.

  The first officer had been gone only a few minutes when Rayford heard his key in the cockpit door and it banged open. Christopher flopped into his chair, ignored the seat belt, and sat with his head in his hands.