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"At this time, we lack corroborating information suggesting that al-Qaeda is prepared to attack the United States in the near term," said Homeland Security spokeswoman Michelle Petrovich. "But we recognize that al-Qaeda remains committed to striking the homeland."

OXYMORON, OR JUST A MORON?
 

LEFTBEHIND.COM

Check out the new look of http://www.leftbehind.com that will premiere
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THE INDWELLING
by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins

Chapter 1, Part 1

BUCK braced himself with his elbow crooked around a scaffolding pole.
Thousands of panicked people fleeing the scene had, like him, started
and involuntarily turned away from the deafening gunshot. It had come
from perhaps a hundred feet to Buck’s right and was so loud he would not
have been surprised if even those at the back of the throng of some two million
had heard it plainly.

He was no expert, but to Buck it had sounded like a high-powered rifle.
The only weapon smaller that had emitted such a report was the ugly
handgun Carpathia had used to destroy the skulls of Moishe and Eli three
days before. Actually, the sounds were eerily similar.
Had Carpathia’s own weapon been fired? Might someone on his own staff
have targeted him?

The lectern had shattered loudly as well, like a tree branch split by
lightning. And that gigantic backdrop sailing into the distance ... Buck
wanted to bolt with the rest of the crowd, but he worried about Chaim.
Had he been hit? And where was Jacov? Just ten minutes before, Jacov had
waited below stage left where Buck could see him. No way Chaim’s
friend and aide would abandon him during a crisis.

As people stampeded by, some went under the scaffold, most went around
it, and some jostled both Buck and the support poles, making the
structure sway. Buck held tight and looked to where giant speakers three
stories up leaned this way and that, threatening their flimsy plywood supports.

Buck could choose his poison: step into the surging crowd and risk being
trampled or step up a few feet on the angled crossbar. He stepped up and
immediately felt the fluidity of the structure. It bounced and seemed to
want to spin as Buck looked toward the platform over the tops of a
thousand streaking heads. He had heard Carpathia’s lament and
Fortunato’s keening, but suddenly the sound—at least in the speakers
above him—went dead.

Buck glanced up just in time to see a ten-foot-square speaker box tumble
from the top. "Look out!" he shrieked to the crowd, but no one heard or
noticed. He up again to be sure he was out of the way. The box snapped
its umbilical like string, which redirected its path some fifteen feet
away from the tower. Buck watched in horror as a woman was crushed
beneath it and several other men and women were staggered. A man tried
to drag the victim from beneath the speaker, but the crowd behind him
never slowed. Suddenly the running mass became a cauldron of humanity,
trampling each other in their desperation to get free of the carnage.

Buck could not help. The entire scaffolding was pivoting, and he felt
himself swing left. He hung on, not daring to drop into the torrent of
screaming bodies. He caught sight of Jacov at last, trying to make his
way up the side steps to the platform where Carpathia’s security
detail brandished Uzis.

A helicopter attempted to land near the stage but had to wait until the
crowd cleared. Chaim sat motionless in his chair, facing to Buck’s
right, away from Carpathia and Fortunato. He appeared stiff, his head
cocked and rigid, as if unable to move. If he had not been shot, Buck
wondered if he’d had another stroke, or worse, a heart attack. He knew
if Jacov could get to him, he would protect Chaim and get him somewhere safe.

Buck tried to keep an eye on Jacov while Fortunato waved at the
helicopters, pleading with one to land and get Carpathia out of there.
Jacov finally broke free and sprinted up the steps, only to be dealt a
blow from the butt end of an Uzi that knocked him off his feet and into the crowd.

The impact snapped Jacov’s head back so violently that Buck was certain
he was unconscious and unable to protect himself from trampling. Buck
leaped off the scaffold and into the fray, fighting his way toward Jacov. He
moved around the fallen speaker box and felt the sticky blood underfoot.

As Buck neared where he thought Jacov should be he took one more look at
the platform before the angle would obscure his view. Chaim’s chair was
moving! He was headed full speed toward the back of the platform.

Had he leaned against the joystick? Was he out of control? If he didn’t
stop or turn, he would pitch twelve feet to the pavement and certain
death. His head was still cocked, his body stiff. Buck reached Jacov, who
lay splayed, his head awkwardly flopped to one side, eyes staring, limbs limp.
A sob worked its way to Buck’s throat as he elbowed stragglers out of the way and
knelt to put a thumb and fore-finger to Jacov’s throat. No pulse.

Buck wanted to drag the body from the scene but feared he would be
recognized despite his extensive facial scars. There was nothing he
could do for Jacov. But what about Chaim? Buck sprinted left around the
platform and skidded to a stop at the back corner, from where he could see
Chaim’s wheelchair crumpled on the ground, backstage center. The heavy
batteries had broken open and lay twenty feet from the chair, which had one
wheel bent almost in half, seat pad missing, and a footrest broken off. Was Buck
about to find another friend dead?

He loped to the mangled chair and searched the area, including under the
platform. Besides splinters from what he was sure had been the lectern,
he found nothing. How could Chaim have survived this? Many of the world
rulers had scrambled off the back of the stage, certainly having to turn
and hang from the edge first to serious injury. Even then, many would
have had to have suffered sprained or broken ankles. But an elderly
stroke victim riding in a metal chair twelve feet to concrete?
Buck feared Chaim could not have survived. But who would have carried
him off?

A chopper landed on the other side of the platform, and medical
personnel rushed the stage. The security detail fanned out and began
descending the stairs to clear the area.

Four emergency medical technicians crowded around Carpathia and
Fortunato while others attended the trampled and the crushed, including
the woman beneath the speaker box. Jacov was lifted into a body bag.
Buck nearly wept at having to leave his brother that way, yet he knew
Jacov was in heaven. He ran to catch up with the crowd now spilling into
the streets.

Buck knew Jacov was dead. From the wound at the back of Carpathia’s
head, he assumed Nicolae was dead or soon would be. And he had to assume
Chaim was dead too.

Buck longed for the end of all this and the glorious appearing of
Christ. But that was still another three and a half years off.

Rayford felt a fool, running with the crowd, the hem of
his robe in his hands to keep from tripping. He had
dropped the Saber and its box and wanted to use his
arms for more speed. But he had to run like a woman in
a long skirt. Adrenaline carried him, because he felt fast
as ever, regardless. Rayford really wanted to shed the
robe and turban, but the last thing he needed just then
was to look like a Westerner.
Had he murdered Carpathia? He had tried to,
intended to, but couldn’t pull the trigger. Then, when he
was bumped and the gun went off, he couldn’t imagine
he’d been lucky enough to find his target. Could the bul-let
have ricocheted off the lectern and into Carpathia?
Could it also have passed through him and taken out the
backdrop? It didn’t seem possible.
If he had killed the potentate, there was certainly no
satisfaction in it, no relief or sense of accomplishment.
As he hurried along, the screams and moans of
Carpathia’s faithful all around him, Rayford felt he was
running from a prison of his own making.
He was sucking wind by the time the crowd thinned
and began to disperse, and when he stopped to bend at
the waist, hands on his hips, to catch his breath, a couple
hurrying past said, "Isn’t it awful? They think he’s dead!"
"It’s awful," Rayford gasped, not looking at them.
Assuming TV cameras had caught everything, espe-cially
him with the gun raised, it wouldn’t be long before
he would be sought. As soon as he was away from the
busy streets, he shed the garb and stuffed it in a trash
barrel. He found his car, eager to get to Tel Aviv and out
of Israel before it became impossible.
Mac stood near the back of the throng, far enough from
the gun that the report didn’t reach his ears until after the
massive crowd began to move. While others near him
shrieked and gasped and pleaded to know what was going
on, he kept his eyes on the stage, relief washing over him.
So, he would not have to sacrifice himself and Abdullah to
be sure Carpathia was dead. From the commotion down
front and from his view of the platform via jumbo screens
nearby, it was clear to Mac that Nicolae had suffered the
massive head wound believers knew was coming.
Ever the professional, Mac knew what would be
expected of him. He slid his cell phone from his jacket
and dialed the Tel Aviv tower. "You got a jockey certi-fied
to shuttle the 216 to Jerusalem?"
"Already looking, sir. This is a tragedy."
"Yeah."
Mac dialed Abdullah. From the limited noise in the
background, he could tell his first officer was not at the
Gala. "You hear, Ab?"
"I heard. Shall I go get the Phoenix?"
"Hang loose; they’re trying to get it here. I saw you
leave the hotel. Where are you?"
"Doctor Pita’s. I suppose I’ll look suspicious finishing
my meal when the big boss is dying and everyone else
has run into the streets looking for a TV."
"Stick it in your pocket, and if you don’t hear from
me, meet me at Jerusalem Airport in an hour."
Mac made his way to the front of the plaza as the
place emptied in a frenzy. He flashed his ID when neces-sary,
and by the time he reached the platform, it was
clear Carpathia was in the final throes of life. His wrists
were drawn up under his chin, eyes shut tight and bleeding, blood
trickling also from his ears and mouth, and
his legs shook violently, toes pointed, knees locked.
"Oh, he’s gone! He’s gone!" Leon wailed. "Someone do something."
The four emergency medical technicians, portable mon-itors
beeping, knelt over Carpathia. They cleared his
mouth so they could administer oxygen, studied a blood
pressure gauge, pumped his chest, cradled his head, and
tried to stanch the flow from a wound that left them
kneeling in more blood than it seemed a body could hold.
Mac peeked past the panicky Fortunato to see
Carpathia’s normally tanned hands and face already
pale. No one could survive this, and Mac wondered if
the bodily movements were merely posthumous reflexes.
"There is a hospital nearby, Commander," one of the
EMTs said, which threw Fortunato into a rage. He had
just made eye contact with Mac and seemed about to say
something when he turned on the EMT.
"Are you crazy? These—these people are not qualified!
We must get him to New Babylon."
He turned to Mac. "Is the 216 ready?"
"On its way from Tel Aviv. Should be able to lift off in an hour."
"An hour?! Should we helicopter him straight to Tel Aviv?"
"Jerusalem Airport will be faster," Mac said.
"There’s no room to stabilize him in a chopper, sir," the EMT said.
"We have no choice!" Fortunato said. "An ambulance would be too slow."

"But an ambulance has equipment that might—"
"Just get him into the chopper!" Fortunato said.
But as the EMT turned away looking disgusted, a
female colleague looked up at him. Carpathia was still.
"No vitals," she said. "He’s flat lined."
"No!" Leon bellowed, bullying his way between them
and kneeling in Nicolae’s blood. Again he leaned over
the body, but rather than holding Carpathia to him, he
buried his face in the lifeless chest and sobbed aloud.
Security Chief Walter Moon dismissed the EMTs with
a nod, and as they gathered up their equipment and went
for the gurney, he gently pulled Leon away from
Carpathia. "Don’t drape the body," he said. "Let’s load
’im up now. Say nothing about his condition until we’re back home."
"Who did this, Walter?" Fortunato whined. "Did we catch him?"
Moon shrugged and shook his head.
Buck ran toward the hostel. He dialed Chaim’s number
again, as he had all along the way. Still busy. The people
in Chaim’s house—Stefan the valet, Jacov’s wife,
Hannelore, and Hannelore’s mother—had to have been
watching on TV and were likely calling anyone they
knew for news of their loved ones.
Finally, Hannelore answered. "Jacov!" she shouted.
"No, Hannelore, this is Greg North."
"Buck!" she wailed. "What happened? Where—"
Hannelore!" Buck said. "Your phone is not secure!"
"I don’t care anymore, Buck! If we die, we die! Where
is Jacov? What happened to Chaim?"
"I need to meet you somewhere, Hannelore. If Chaim shows up there—"
"Chaim is all right?"
"I don’t know. I didn’t see him after—"
"Did you see Jacov?"
"Meet me, Hannelore. Call me from another phone and—"
"Buck, you tell me right now! Did you see him?"
"I saw him."
"Is he alive?"
"Hannelore—"
"Buck, is he dead?"
"I’m sorry. Yes."
She began to wail, and in the background Buck heard a
scream. Hannelore’s mother? Had she deduced the news?
"Buck, they’re here!"
"What? Who?"
He heard a door smashing, a yell, another scream.
"GC!" she whispered fiercely. And the phone went dead.
Onboard the Phoenix 216, Nicolae Carpathia’s personal
physician examined him and pronounced him dead.
"Where were you?" Leon demanded. "You could have done something."
"Where I was supposed to be, Commander," the doc-
tor said, "in the auxiliary trailer a hundred yards behind
the platform. Security would not let me out, fearing more
gunfire."