Glenn Kleier - The Last Day

An anxious Shaul Tamin, one arm still manacled to the bulkhead, attempted to snare the gun with an outstretched foot each time it rattled by. Missing it, he'd turn his attention to Hunter, connecting on occasion with a vicious kick.

Yet slowly, the former linebacker's superior strength and endurance were gaining the upper hand. He at last caught Goene with a stunning uppercut. As the general toppled to the deck, Hunter leaped for the revolver. His fingers were just closing on the handle when the aircraft suddenly set down with a jarring thud and the gun hop-scotched away once more, sliding neatly into the waiting hand of the snarling Goene.

Hunter winced as the report of successive gunshots thundered inside the cabin. It took him several moments to realize he'd somehow emerged unscathed. Opening his puzzled eyes, he spied the limp form of Goene lying face up on the floor, mortally wounded, blood spurting out of three holes in his chest. From the front of the helicopter, the pilot, his face ghastly pale and sweating, clutched a smoking pistol. A despairing Tamin let out with a groan.

Cautiously, Hunter approached the motionless body. He placed a boot on the general's slack forearm, bent down and tore away the gun. Goene, stubborn till the last, was clinging to life, but barely. His mouth gaped open in shock, his breath came in shallow gasps as he focused on the big cameraman looming above him.

Hunter, panting from exertion, glowered down at his despised adversary. He narrowed his eyes, searching for signs of remorse in the bitter, weathered face. There were none. Instead, Goene's lips began a slow curl into that vile, contemptuous, detestable sneer.

All the raw emotions of pain and loss Hunter bad endured at the hands of this ruthless man came seething up inside him. He raised the gun and his finger encircled the trigger. But as he glared with primal hatred into the leering eyes of his enemy, Hunter suddenly halted, staggered by an utterly extraordinary vision. There, appearing in the face of tins despicable creature, was the unmistakable image of a lonely, frightened, abused little boy.

Hunter gasped and the gun slipped from his fingers. While the pilot and Tamin stared in astonished disbelief, the big man dropped slowly to his knees. He paused, his hands trembling, and then carefully, tenderly, Hunter gathered Goene up into his arms, gently cradling his head, stroking his temple, comforting and consoling the dying soldier through his last battle.

Somewhere over the southern Negev Desert 9:44 P.M., Sunday, April 23, 2000

Feldman was falling. Floating in the air on his back, drifting down through the desert's cool night sky. His eyes were closed and there was no sound but the rhythmic whoosh of air and a distant chorus of angels.

With great effort, he opened his eyes to the purple sky overhead. Staring back at him, the moon lorded full and enormously pale. From its shimmering face, there arose the growing shadow of a celestial form, falling even faster than he, racing down after him in a tunnel of white light.

It was Jeza. Jeza unlike he'd ever seen Her. Even more godly, if possible, than before. Transformed. Transfigured. Her skin shining like burnished gold. Her robes flowing outward in tongues of flame. Her hair as black as pitch smoke, sweeping freely, gracefully away in endless plumes.

She swooped down and soared above him, gliding in, hovering, maneuvering close. She was scant inches away now, staring far into his soul once again.

Ever so slowly, a smile began to form on her exquisite face. Softly, sweetly. It was satiating. Divine. Gazing up at her in enraptured fascination, Feldman was drawn once more into that demanding, honest, sapphirine clarity.

To a place where the origin of all mysteries resided. To a place where his amorphous conflicts and confusions could no longer elude him. He comprehended now the intense, disruptive, deeply moving emotions he'd been feeling toward this incredible being. Those unfamiliar, unexplored stirrings She had awakened within him.

They came from the soul. The supernatural love of man for the deific. That irresistible, inescapable, eternal yearning to bond with one's supreme parent. A holy longing for spirtual unity.

And clearly now, he also understood that the great affection he held for Anke sprang from the heart. The natural love of man for his own kind. A human compulsion for emotional and physical unity.

The balanced equation.

No longer were his passions interknotted and chaotic. At long last, he was at peace with himself.

Softly, the Messiah whispered, “Mors vita est.” Death is Life. And he realized she was repeating her last words.

His as well.

He wasn't fearful. He had grasped the fuller meaning of her words: to unleash the greatest potential of life, you must first overcome the constraining fear of death. An awareness that set a brilliant wave of energy coursing through his mind. A New Light that illuminated his way.

Although he could accept his fate, there was still one truly large regret he would carry with him. If only he could have seen Anke once more. To tell her what he knew now. To hold her in his arms one last time before letting her go forever.

Feldman could sense the ground hurtling imminently toward him. He shut his eyes, waiting, but there was no impact. Just the continuing, rhythmic whoosh of rushing air. Cautiously, he hazarded a squint.

He found himself lying in a hospital bed. In a quiet, private room, filled to capacity with floral baskets and bouquets and well-wishes. At the foot of his bed, asleep in a chair, slouched a snoring Hunter, the source of the whooshing.

Outside, the sun was either just rising or setting, Feldman couldn't be sure. In a corner of the ceiling across his room, a WNN newscast was in progress on a suspended TV, its volume muted.

Feldman felt disoriented and, at the same time, amazingly lucid. Attempting to sit up, he was surprised to find an arm in a cast and his chest and ankle heavily wrapped. However, surprisingly, he wasn't in much pain.

He fumbled for the bed control, pushing a button to elevate his head and shoulders to a more upright position. Blinking his eyes, Feldman wondered what he was doing here. Or, more specifically, why he was still alive. It's another miracle, he thought to himself. Jeza swooped down and She saved me.

Thirsty, he whispered in a weak, cracking voice, a little hesitant to awaken his sleeping friend, “Hey, Breck? Could I have some water, please?”

Hunter snorted and looked up with a bleary, muddled expression. “Huh? Yeah, sure, man, hold on.” His eyes suddenly snapped wide, his jaw dropped and his face lit up. “Jon, my God, you're back!”

Feldman smiled and the cameraman wrapped him up in his big, lanky arms. It hurt.

Seeming to recognize this, Hunter controlled himself better. “Thank God!” he cried. “We didn't know if you were ever gonna wake up! This is incredible! Just incredible! I gotta call the others!”

“Breck, wait,” Feldman stopped him. “First, you've got to tell me what happened!”

Hunter pulled back, his face flushed with emotion, his eyes watery, and he poured Feldman a shaky glass of water. “Yeah, right. Sure, sure. Well, uh, do you remember anything?”

“The last thing I remember was Goene smashing me in the face and kicking me out the helicopter. And then I sort of had this vision of Jeza coming to say good-bye to me.”

“A little prematurely.” Hunter grinned.

“So how come I'm not dead?”

Hunter shook his head. “Jon, you fell square onto one of those Bedouin tents. It cushioned you like a giant airbag. Broke your fall and saved your life. You busted some bones and got a concussion-from Goene's sucker punch or from the fall, or both. Either way, you've been unconscious. No one could say if you'd ever come out of it. I mean, the entire world is outside your window, prayin’ for you!”