"We've lost control," Metzger responded, as she ran a series of diagnostics to be sure that the readings were correct.
"What the hell happened?" several voices said at once.
Danielle continued working, madly trying to reestablish control. "Damn!" she said, finally, realizing this was not simply a faulty reading. "Colonel, it appears that somehow the Russians have taken control of all defensive capabilities."
"Can we get them back?" he asked, terrified of what her answer might be.
"I don't know, sir. I… "
"Wait a second," Joel interrupted. "We still have control of our offensive forces. How could we lose one but not the other? Could this just be an aberration in the system?"
Like the others, Scott Rosen was studying the situation, trying to get some idea of what went wrong and what could be done to correct it. It was he who answered Joel's question. "It's not an aberration," he replied. "I can't explain how they did it but I can explain what they've done. The fibre optics used for communication between the various sites in the offensive and defensive systems go through both the Strategic Defense Control Facility and the Off-Site Facility. For logistics reasons, control communications of missile silos go first through this facility and then to the SDCF; defensive control communications go first through the SDCF and then to this facility."
"Damn!" Joel said. "What damn fool decided to do that?!"
"Dr. Brown," answered Danielle Metzger. "But he couldn't have predicted that we'd ever be in a situation like this," she continued, becoming a little defensive on behalf of the late doctor who had been her mentor.
Scott continued his explanation. "Somehow they must have discovered that Sensor Facility 14 was a counterfeit facility and traced its input/output cables
"So can we get control back or not?" Colonel White asked, reasserting his authority. There was a long silent pause.
"I don't think so," Scott answered finally. "I think they may have cut the cables."
In all the confusion and disarray, no one noticed the faint sound of the radio in the background as it monitored the continuous loop of the words of the prophet Joel. Nor did they notice at first when the loop abruptly stopped and was replaced by another voice. It was the low, rich, and measured voice of Rabbi Saul Cohen. As the room fell silent for a moment, the familiar voice registered in Joel Felsberg's ears. At first he ignored it, but then suddenly he recognized it. "That's my sister's rabbi," he announced, surprising the others, who were trying to figure a way out of the present predicament. "What's going on up there? Why have they shut off the loop?" he asked as he turned the sound up enough to be heard clearly.
"Cohen? That son of a bitch!" Scott Rosen said, temporarily distracted from the more pressing subject at hand by his intense hatred for the rabbi. Scott was only too familiar with Cohen's powerful voice. Once, when he stayed overnight at his parents' house, Scott was awakened in the morning by that same voice as it joined with his parents and a few others in singing songs proclaiming Yeshua (Jesus) as the Jewish Messiah. It took all the forbearance he could muster to refrain from going into the kitchen and slugging the rabbi, and still he would have, had it not been for his mother, Liana Rosen. It was one thing for individual citizens of Israel like his parents to believe in Yeshua, but it was something else altogether for a rabbi, an Hasidic rabbi at that, to believe it. More recently – before their deaths in the Disaster – Scott's parents had spent every spare moment with Cohen on some mysterious project. Several times Joshua, Liana, and Cohen had disappeared for weeks, leaving only a note to indicate their expected date of return.
"All the earth has seen what has been done here today," Cohen said over the radio. "But you, oh Israel, have not glorified God. Instead you have congratulated yourselves for destroying your enemy. You have glorified yourself and now you have falsely used the words of the prophet Joel to suit your own needs. 'These words must not be used as a rallying cry for my people,' says the Lord. These are the words of the son of Satan, who will rally his evil forces to destroy you in the day of the Lord that is coming. Nevertheless, the Lord, your God is a patient and merciful God. Hear now the words of the prophet Ezekiel for the enemy of my people Israeclass="underline"
I will execute judgment upon him with plague and bloodshed; I will pour down torrents of rain, hailstones and burning sulfur on him and his troops and on the many nations with him… On the mountains of Israel you will fall, you and all your troops and the nations with you. I will give you as food to all kinds of carrion birds and wild animals.
You will fall in the open field, for I have spoken, declares the Sovereign Lord… and they will know that I am theLordP
"Today, oh Israel, today you shall behold the power and wrath of God! Here, oh Israel, is your true battle cry. 'Behold the hand of God! Behold the hand of God!'"
New York (4:55 a.m. New York, 11:55 a.m. Israel/Moscow)
Even in his sleep, Decker's mind was filled with the events of the day. Suddenly he was awakened as a scream of pure terror erupted from Christopher's room. Decker found the boy covered in sweat and trembling in fear. "What's wrong?!" Decker shouted, his own heart racing to match Christopher's.
Christopher sat up straight in bed and seemed unsure of his surroundings. As he looked around, the disorientation was slow to leave him. Finally, Decker saw a look of recognition in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," Christopher said. "I'm okay now. It was… just a dream." Decker had been a father long enough to recognize when a child was attempting to be brave. Christopher was visibly shaken and Decker wasn't about to just leave him alone.
"Was it the crucifixion dream again?" Decker asked.
"No, no," Christopher answered. "Nothing like that."
"Well, why don't you tell me about it."
Christopher seemed a little reluctant but Decker insisted. "It was really just a dumb dream," Christopher said, apologetically. "I've had the same dream before." Decker didn't budge. "Okay," Christopher said, giving in to Decker's insistence. "The dream has a weird feeling about it. It seems almost ancient, but at the same time it's clear and fresh. When the dream starts, I'm in a room with huge curtains hanging all around me. The curtains are beautiful, decorated with gold and silver threads. The floor of the room is made of stone and in the middle of the room is an old wooden box, like a crate, sitting on a table. I can't explain why, but in the dream I feel like I need to look in the box."
"What's in the box?" Decker asked.
"I don't know. In the dream it seems like there's something inside that I need to see, but at the same time, somehow I know that whatever it is, it's terrifying."
Decker read the terror in his eyes and was glad he had insisted that Christopher tell him about the dream. This was not the sort of thing a fifteen-year-old should have to face on his own.
"In the dream, when I approach the box and I'm just a few feet away, I look down and somehow the floor has disappeared. I start to fall, but I grab onto the table that the box is sitting on." Christopher stopped.
"Go on," Decker urged.
"That's as far as the dream ever went until tonight."
"So, what happened tonight?" Decker prodded, anxious to hear the conclusion to the strange dream.
"Well, usually I wake up at that point, but this time there was something else: a voice. It was a very deep, rich voice and it was saying, 'Behold the hand of God; Behold the hand of God!'"
Decker had no idea what the dream might mean but it certainly had his attention.
"And then there was another voice," Christopher continued. "Well, it wasn't exactly a voice: it was a laugh."
"A laugh?"
"Yes, sir. But it wasn't a friendly laugh. I can't really explain it except to say it was cold and cruel and terribly inhuman."
Moscow (12:37 p.m. Moscow/Israel, 5:37 a.m. New York)