The elderly Rosenzweig had been the only unanimous choice for Newsmaker of the
Year in the history of Global Weekly. Its staff had customarily steered clear of
anyone who would be an obvious pick as Time's Man of the Year. But Rosenzweig
was an automatic. Cameron Williams had gone into the staff meeting prepared to
argue for Rosenzweig and against whatever media star the others would typically
champion.
He was pleasantly surprised when executive editor Steve Plank opened with,
"Anybody want to nominate someone stupid, such as anyone other than the Nobel
prizewinner in chemistry?"
The senior staff members looked at each other, shook their heads, and pretended to
begin leaving. "Put the chairs on the wagon, the meetin' is over," Buck said. "Steve,
I'm not angling for it, but you know I know the guy and he trusts me."
"Not so fast, Cowboy," a rival said, then appealed to Plank. "You letting Buck
assign himself now?"
"I might," Steve said. "And what if I do?"
"I just think this is a technical piece, a science story," Buck's detractor muttered.
"I'd put the science writer on it."
"And you'd put the reader to sleep," Plank said. "C'mon, you know the writer for
showcase pieces comes from this group. And this is not a science piece any more
than the first one Buck did on him. This has to be told so the reader gets to know the
man and understands the significance of his achievement."
"Like that isn't obvious. It only changed the course of history."
"I'll make the assignment today," the executive editor said. "Thanks for your
willingness, Buck. I assume everyone else is willing as well." Expressions of
eagerness filled the room, but Buck also heard grumbled predictions that the fairhaired boy would get the nod. Which he did.
Such confidence from his boss and competition from his peers made him all the
more determined to outdo himself with every assignment. In Israel, Buck stayed in a
military compound and met with Rosenzweig in the same kibbutz on the outskirts of
Haifa where he had interviewed him a year earlier.
Rosenzweig was fascinating, of course, but it was his discovery, or invention—no
one knew quite how to categorize it—that was truly the "newsmaker of the year."
The humble man called himself a botanist, but he was in truth a chemical engineer
who had concocted a synthetic fertilizer that caused the desert sands of Israel to
bloom like a greenhouse.
"Irrigation has not been a problem for decades," the old man said. "But all that did
was make the sand wet. My formula, added to the water, fertilizes the sand."
Buck was not a scientist, but he knew enough to shake his head at that simple
statement. Rosenzweig's formula was fast making Israel the richest nation on earth, far more profitable than its oil-laden neighbors. Every inch of ground blossomed
with flowers and grains, including produce never before conceivable in Israel. The
Holy Land became an export capital, the envy of the world, with virtually zero
unemployment. Everyone prospered.
The prosperity brought about by the miracle formula changed the course of history
for Israel. Flush with cash and resources, Israel made peace with her neighbors. Free
trade and liberal passage allowed all who loved the nation to have access to it. What
they did not have access to, however, was the formula.
Buck had not even asked the old man to reveal the formula or the complicated
security process that protected it from any potential enemy. The very fact that Buck
was housed by the military evidenced the importance of security. Maintaining that
secret ensured the power and independence of the state of Israel. Never had Israel
enjoyed such tranquility. The walled city of Jerusalem was only a symbol now,
welcoming everyone who embraced peace. The old guard believed God had
rewarded them and compensated them for centuries of persecution.
Chaim Rosenzweig was honored throughout the world and revered in his own
country. Global leaders sought him out, and he was protected by security systems as
complex as those that protected heads of state. As heady as Israel became with
newfound glory, the nation's leaders were not stupid. A kidnapped and tortured
Rosenzweig could be forced to reveal a secret that would similarly revolutionize
any nation in the world.
Imagine what the formula might do if modified to work on the vast tundra of
Russia! Could regions bloom, though snow covered most of the year? Was this the
key to resurrecting that massive nation following the shattering of the Union of
Soviet Socialist Republics?
Russia had become a great brooding giant with a devastated economy and regressed
technology. All the nation had was military might, every spare mark going into
weaponry. And the switch from rubles to marks had not been a smooth transition for
the struggling nation. Streamlining world finance to three major currencies had
taken years, but once the change was made, most were happy with it. All of Europe
and Russia dealt exclusively in marks. Asia, Africa, and the Middle East traded in
yen. North and South America and Australia dealt in dollars. A move was afoot to
go to one global currency, but those nations that had reluctantly switched once were
loath to do it again.
Frustrated at their inability to profit from Israel's fortune and determined to
dominate and occupy the Holy Land, the Russians had launched an attack against
Israel in the middle of the night. The assault became known as the Russian Pearl
Harbor, and because of his interview with Rosenzweig, Buck Williams was in Haifa
when it happened. The Russians sent intercontinental ballistic missiles and nuclearequipped MIG fighter-bombers into the region. The number of aircraft and
warheads made it clear their mission was annihilation. To say the Israelis were caught off guard, Cameron Williams had written, was like
saying the Great Wall of China was long. When Israeli radar picked up the Russian
planes, they were nearly overhead. Israel's frantic plea for support from her
immediate neighbors and the United States was simultaneous with her demand to
know the intentions of the invaders of her airspace. By the time Israel and her allies
could have mounted anything close to a defense, it was obvious the Russians would
have her outnumbered a hundred to one.
They had only moments before the destruction would begin. There would be no
more negotiating, no more pleas for a sharing of the wealth with the hordes of the
north. If the Russians meant only to intimidate and bully, they would not have filled
the sky with missiles. Planes could turn back, but the missiles were armed and
targeted.
So this was no grandstand play designed to bring Israel to her knees. There was no
message for the victims. Receiving no explanation for war machines crossing her
borders and descending upon her, Israel was forced to defend herself, knowing full
well that the first volley would bring about her virtual disappearance from the face
of the earth.
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 hundreds and thousands of chunks ofburning, 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 and Libya.
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 in—?"
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. 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