Glenn Kleier - The Last Day

Hardly a half kilometer away from their goal, however, and completely without warning, a thin, bearded, weather-beaten Bedouin in a hooded robe suddenly rose up in the beam of their headlamps, waving desperately for them to stop.

Narrowly avoiding him, the car spun out of control, rotated twice and careened to a dusty halt. The nomad, seemingly unaffected by his close call, jabbered at them excitedly in Arabic. The old man pointed alternately to the flames of the destroyed facility beyond and to a nearby gully.

The astronomers grew excited with the assumption that the Bedouin had found a piece of the meteorite. But their excitement quickly gave way to shock. As they hurried in the indicated direction, their panning flashlights revealed a nomad woman crouching over a motionless human form curled naked on its side in a fetal position.

Somewhere south of Jerusalem, Israel 1:42 A.M., Saturday, December 25,1999

In the convoluted topography of southern Israel, there were few direct highways to anywhere. And although the research institute was only about seventy-five kilometers due south of Jerusalem, Hunter and Feldman had to take a roundabout route. The first legs went quickly with Feldman's aggressive driving.

“So, you still thinkin’ of quitting WNN when all this is over?” Hunter rehashed a dead topic.

Feldman smiled, turned and raised an eyebrow at his friend. “Hey, if you'll recall, ‘quitting’ isn't exactly the operative word here. My contract ends when this millennium story's over.”

Hunter shook his head, knowing better. “Hell, Bollinger told me he's asked you to be a part of our East Coast special assignments crew. Party time, man! We'd kick some ass together back in New York!”

‘Tempting,” Feldman said, laughing at his friend's enthusiasm, “but I can't pass up this deal in Washington-a chance to cover a presidential election. An opportunity to do some really serious reporting. WNN's too crazy for me. You know I'm too conservative to make it in show-biz news.”

Hunter shrugged his big shoulders. “I just hate to see us break up a good team. It's been fun.”

Feldman nodded his agreement. “Yeah, it's been great working with you, Breck. I'm going to miss you and all the gang. Hard to believe I'm coming up on my last day.”

As they zigzagged south, the terrain became increasingly rugged, the vegetation sparse. In the crisp, clear night air, the reporters could make out the beginnings of the scabrous Negev Mountains, massive sandstone formations thrust up in ever-higher, primeval slabs. Soon, they had to exit the transit highway at a small desert kibbutz town marked “Dehmoena” on the map, but spelled “Dimona” on the road sign. A common situation in this country, which has no uniform rules of spelling. Hunter and Feldman were used to these inconsistencies, but regardless, the beacon of the glowing fires told them this was the place.

Concealed on three sides by a box canyon and sunken slightly, the remains of the installation were virtually impossible to see from any angle but due east. And at ground level, even that angle was unsatisfying. Particularly since the Israeli military, which was everywhere, was ensuring that bystanders kept their distance. The two journalists were not surprised to see more than a hundred vagabond millenarians drawn to the disaster.

“Shit, we're not going to get anything from way out here,” Hunter fumed, watching the Israelis holding the curious onlookers well away from the front gate area.

“No,” Feldman concurred.

“And the militia will never let media through.” Hunter spoke from experience.

“Especially if this is a covert military facility,” Feldman added. “But we have to try.”

Hunter nodded in agreement. “Why don't you see what you can learn from some of these onlookers while I check out the equipment. Then we'll drive up to the front gate and talk with the field commander.”

One group of about twenty men and women appeared as though they'd been there awhile. Next to their old faded-blue school bus, they had a small camp stove with a blackened pot of coffee perking. Feldman walked up and introduced himself to a scraggy-bearded man in worn blue jeans and sandals, seated on the ground with an old U.S. army blanket around him. Despite his bedraggled appearance, the man had a ready, pleasant smile, and he responded in German-accented but excellent English.

“Fredrich Vilhousen, from Hamburg,” he said.

“Tourist or pilgrim?” Feldman began with his standard millenarian entree.

“We are Sentries of the Dominion,” Vilhousen explained, “one of the largest new orders in Europe.”

Feldman had never heard of them.

“We've been in Tangiers and are traveling to Jerusalem to meet up with our main group for the Arrival. We are called to make ready His Way, and to His purpose-”

“Sorry, Fredrich”-Feldman had no interest in yet another take on the Second Coming-“right now my only concern is to learn more about the air strike here. Did you see it happen?”

“Air strike?” The German looked puzzled. “No air strike! It was the Hammer of God, the First Sign!”

Feldman started to nod and back away.

“It was no air strike,” the millenarian insisted. “We see it come out of the eastern sky, a bright burning star, and it light up the whole desert. And then it strike this laboratory of evil. Righteous, man!”

A missile, then, Feldman concluded to himself. Probably a cruise missile. So how did the Jordanians get ahold of one of those?

“Okay, thanks. And, uh, good luck with the Arrival and all.” Feldman was not a particularly cynical person, at least not as bad as Hunter. But the past months of evangelical barking had jaded him somewhat. Now that he was on to something far more meaty, he wasn't about to muck up this story by giving it a millenarian spin. He took one last look at the Sentries of the Dominion and turned to go. They were all so alike, these millenarians. Yet each different. At least this group seemed a bit more subdued than most. Of the thirty-some-odd sects he'd reported on, he least liked the hell and damnation crowd. The doomsdayers. Zealots whom Feldman found less man sane and more than scary.

While generally lumped into the millenarian classification, too, these doomsday militants, Feldman realized, weren't certifiable millenarians. To be precise, as Feldman had discovered through thorough research on the subject, true millenarianism included only those who subscribed literally to the New Testament Book of Revelation, chapter twenty. This scripture proclaimed that Christ would return, physically, to subdue Satan and rule on earth in peace, harmony and happiness for a thousand years.

And of these true millenarians, there were further sub-classifications: the postmillennial optimists, who held that Christ would bring peace on earth at the Last Day through His Church. And the premillennial pessimists, who believed peace would come only through a decisive battle between the forces of Christ and the forces of Satan.

While also adhering to the Book of Revelation, the doomsdayers-or “Apocalyptics,” as they were more accurately called-tended to see the millennium not as a beginning but as an end. Their vision was one of earthly annihilation in which all who did not subscribe verbatim to their narrow interpretations of scripture would perish miserably in hellfire. The faithful, on the other hand, would be escorted triumphantly and corporally to heaven by Christ Himself. These were generalizations on all accounts, of course, because there was a broad spectrum of ideologies at work. Feldman had come across many subtle distinctions separating the different eschatologies- those formal branches of theology that dealt with the end of the world and/or the Second Coming.