A horse whinnies. A horse riding into his nightmare? And Jericho is half awake now, thinking it through, when the horse whinnies again.
He opens his eyes and rolls out of the lean-to onto the bank of the stream. A rider on a white horse looms over him. The morning sun is a fiery ball behind the rider’s head, masking his features in a halo of flaming spears.
“Are you with Jesus?” the rider asks.
“No, I’m with the 318th,” Jericho says, squinting, trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain.
“Then you are a blasphemer,” the man says.
“Blasphemer, boozer, brawler, and a few other words that start with ‘b,’ though brave and brilliant are not among them. Now, who the hell are you?”
Jericho squints but cannot make out the face of Brother David, who is dressed all in black, from his boots to his cowboy hat. “I am a servant of God.”
“I’ll bet the pay’s lousy, but a great retirement plan.”
“Do you mock me, pilgrim?”
“No, I don’t,” Jericho says, becoming serious. “I don’t mock anyone’s beliefs. I just go through life minding my own business. But if you were to ask me, I’d say God doesn’t want servants. He wants us to get on with our lives without hurting each other or doing too much damage to this good, green Earth.”
“That is not enough, pilgrim. Some of us are destined to carry out His will.”
“And how would you know just what He — or She — had in mind?”
“The aura of your chakras is a muddy brown, reflecting your confusion.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to take the old chakras into the shop for an aura change.”
The white horse gambols sideways, and the rider pulls tight on its reins. “The fool makes light of what he does not understand. As it is written, ‘They shall run to and fro to seek the Word of the Lord, and shall not find it.’ Amos, chapter eight, verse twelve.’”
“Amos said that? Does Andy agree?”
“Your soul is damned. It is all in the Book. It is all prophesied.”
“I never thought you could find answers in books.”
“Not books! The Book, for there is only one.”
“I didn’t learn a lot in school, but I do remember a teacher saying something like, ‘Beware the man of one book.’”
David seems to appraise him. “You are not quite the bumpkin you try to be, are you?”
Jericho’s eyes are nearly closed, the effects of a hangover accentuated by the glare of the morning sun. He puts some country twang in his voice. “I don’t hardly know what you mean.”
“Oh, but I think you do. The expression is, Timeo hominem unius libri. ‘I fear the man of one book.’ It is attributed to Thomas Aquinas.”
“Never met the fellow.”
“I suppose not. He probably didn’t make it to Possum Hollow, Arkansas or wherever you perfected this down-home persona which doubtless serves you well amongst the cretins you must deal with on a daily basis.”
“Sinkhole. I’m from Sinkhole, West Virginia.”
“How nice for you. How utterly perfect.”
“It surely is. Maybe you’ve been to the Club Med there.”
“Judging from your boots and fatigues, you’re in the Air Force. An enlisted man, I suppose.”
“Jack Jericho, E-5. You can call me Sergeant.” He shields his eyes from the sun with a hand. “Now, what’s your name, and why do you keep the sun behind you like a Sioux war party?”
“Why do you think, sergeant?”
“Well, you’re either hiding something or you just like to make other people uncomfortable.”
“What is it you are hiding, Sergeant Jack Jericho, under that mask of insouciance?”
“Damned if I know, but if you told me what in-soo-city-ants means, I’d take a stab at it.”
“You’re an interesting specimen, sergeant, but I don’t have time to show you the way.”
For the first time, Jericho notices the butt of a dark metal rifle protruding from a saddle holster. “Say, you haven’t been hunting moose with an M-16, have you, Reverend?”
David tugs the reins, and the horse angles a few steps to the side.
“Hear the word, pilgrim. ‘The angel shall sound his trumpet and a blazing torch shall fall from the sky.’”
“What is that, Bob Dylan? No, the Beatles, right? ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’?”
“The Bible teaches us to suffer fools gladly if we ourselves are wise,” David says.
“Must have missed that sermon.”
“You should join my congregation. Are you a believer?”
“Unless I was drunk as a skunk, I went to church every Sunday, up ‘til the time we lost our preacher ‘cause he was caught diddling one of the choir boys. I guess you could say my beliefs have been tested.”
“Do you know the Day of Reckoning beckons?”
“Funny, that’s what the preacher said when he was sober. When he was drunk, he said, ‘the day of Beckoning reckons.’”
“You are lost and wicked.” David yanks the reins to one side and roughly digs his heels into the horse’s ribs. The animal splashes across the river and bolts toward the woods, and in a moment, horse and rider are gone.
“I ain’t wicked,” Jack Jericho says to himself, blinking against the glare of the sun. “I’m just like most everyone else.”
BOOK TWO
In the Hole
-13-
The Valley of the Shadow of Death
The second lieutenant approaches the steel door of the Security Building, his combat boots crunching along a gravel path. He wears a blue flightsuit with zippered pockets and a black scarf, signifying the Black Pirates of the 318th Missile Squadron. Pinned to his chest is a medal depicting a missile blasting toward four stars. A missileer’s heaven. A sleeve patch shows a metallic fist gripping three lightning bolts, all sheathed by an olive branch. The iron fist in the velvet glove.
His nametag reads “Riordan, W.” He has pale blond hair and wears wire-rimmed glasses. He slides a coded card through a slot in the steel door, and a red light blinks above a recessed combination mike/speaker. “Lieutenant William Riordan, reporting,” he says crisply.
“No shit,” comes a scratchy voice through the speaker. “Hey, Billy, you’re damn near late. That ain’t like you. And Owens was early. That ain’t like him.”
“I have three minutes, sir.”
“Don’t ‘sir’ me, Billy Riordan. Call me Valoppi or just plain ‘V.’ Call me any damn thing you want. I’m a second louie, just like you, and if I hadn’t taken that ROTC money, I’d be wearing a pin-striped suit and pulling down forty k a year in a major accounting firm.”
“It’s against regulations for Owens to proceed into the hole without me,” Billy says. “It’s a no lone zone.”
“Yeah, so what? In another week, Billy boy, there’ll be no more regs, no more Technical Orders, no more missile, no more nothing.”
The latch buzzes, and Billy opens the door and enters the security bridge, an enclosed tunnel which runs through the building and beyond it to the silo elevator housing. Twenty paces along the metal bridge, Billy comes to a grated steel door with an electronic lock that can be opened only from Security Command inside the building.
Billy looks through the bulletproof window into Security Command, the nerve center of the building. A sign under the window reads, “Controlled Area. It is unlawful to enter this area without permission of the installation commander. Use of deadly force is authorized. Section 21, Internal Security Act of 1950.”