Glenn Kleier - The Last Day

Leaving the Sentries of the Dominion to their millennium preparations, Feldman returned to the Rover, where Hunter was fitting a video camera with a fresh battery.

“What they saw strike the research center sounds like either the righteous hand of God or maybe a Tomahawk cruise missile,” Feldman reported.

Hunter smiled thinly and grunted.

“So now,” Feldman proposed, “what say we try the direct approach, shall we?” And they headed over to the main gate for a chat with the presiding officer.

“It doesn't look like they're letting anyone but military personnel through,” Feldman remarked as they approached, observing the clot of spectators at the entry area.

As the reporters worked their way toward the front of the crowd, they noticed an IDF guard rousting a millenarian from behind the temporary barricades. The unfortunate man had crept undetected to the perimeter and had sneaked a snapshot of the inferno through the chain link fence.

If anything, a photograph from the vicinity of the fence was actually worse than one taken farther back, due to the proximity of the tall protective embankments surrounding the institute inside. Nevertheless, the intolerant guard confiscated the man's camera, smashing it on the ground with the butt of his rifle before rudely ejecting the trespasser.

Hunter prudently lowered the video camera from his shoulder and the two newsmen slunk quietly back into the crowd. They decided to retreat to a hillside to see if a telescopic shot might work. It didn't. The facility had been cleverly placed. There was simply no vantage point anywhere around that could afford them a view of the ruins. The two were about to pack it in when, through his video camera zoom lens, Hunter noticed a small line of vehicles approaching along one of the access roads. Zooming in even closer, he identified in the orange light of the flaming ruins six wide-bodied, Jeep-like Humvees and two Land Rovers carrying more Israeli militia and technical support personnel.

“Jon, I've got an idea!” Hunter exclaimed, not taking his eyes off the convoy, unconsciously pushing Feldman toward their vehicle.

“Wh-what?” Feldman sputtered as he staggered forward, ill-prepared to move in the precise direction Hunter had suddenly chosen for him.

“I'll drive and you just do exactly as I say…”

In the dust and difficulty of working their convoy through the milling spectators, the military detachment didn't notice another Land Rover slipping deftly into place behind them. Scrambling into his Desert Storm fatigue jacket as he drove, Hunter narrowly skirted a careless millenarian.

Swearing, the cameraman pulled a Gl-issue hat from his bag, plopped it on Feldman's head and pushed a clipboard of papers at him. “Now,” he said, “when we get to the gate, you look real assertive and official-like. I'm gonna blow by the guard and if he gives you any shit, you wave this clipboard at him and shout ‘Containment team!’ in Hebrew. Got it?’

Feldman grinned and nodded his head. “Sure, but I don't know any Hebrew.”

“What do you mean, you don't know any Hebrew?’ Hunter shouted. “You're half Jewish, aren't you? I've heard you speak it before!”

“All I know are a few Yiddish curse words.”

“Then just say it in English, for God's sake. There are plenty enough transplant Jewish consultants working around here. They'll just have to think we're a Jewish-American containment team.”

The vehicles ahead were slowing down. The guards looked each car over before waving them quickly through, preoccupied with holding the civilian onlookers at bay. Feldman was on the passenger side closest to the gate house. Not at all optimistic about this, he sure as hell didn't want to get detained or arrested out here in the middle of the desert on what was supposed to be a relaxing Christmas Day.

Hunter slowed the Rover, taking Feldman right up to the guard. Feldman looked stem and held up the papers while the guard narrowed his eyes at the meaningless forms. Hunter accelerated, the guard opened his mouth to object, Feldman shouted “Containment team!” and they roared off.

“Don't look back,” Hunter warned, watching a befuddled guard recede in the rearview mirror.

If Hunter was as surprised at their good fortune as Feldman, he didn't show it.

Feldman smiled to himself. While he preferred to do things by the book, he appreciated Hunter's brash but effective style. Now they could turn their attention to the direction of the billowing black smoke, the source of which was coming into view.

“Pull around the berm, up that hill,” Feldman pointed. “Let's get a look at this sucker.”

Taking the Rover to the top of a rise inside the grounds, they finally had a good view of the entire disaster. The devastation was massive. Typically, Israeli desert installations were basic and Spartan. But this facility had been impressive. Except for its shattered windows, the V arms of the laboratory were intact. The once enormous dome, however, was reduced to a fractured shell, still smoking and belching hot gas into the night sky.

Feldman turned to see Hunter already scanning the scene with his video camera.

“Let's do a quick take right here,” Hunter suggested, motioning Feldman into position in front of the ruins and running off some fast footage. “I want to stash at least a background tape in case we get noticed.” Finished, he shook the cassette loose from his camera and wedged it under the front seat.

As Hunter began shooting the second tape, an Israeli guard team caught sight of the camera, scrambled a vehicle up the hill and confronted them. The reporters were held at gunpoint for an hour and a half and passed back and forth between uncertain field officers while their press papers were checked and rechecked. Finally convinced the two were nothing more than media nuisances, the Israelis confiscated what they thought was the only videotape and escorted the newsmen in their Rover out of the compound, directing them to a point well beyond the fence.

“No problem.” Hunter grinned at Feldman once they were safely out of reach. “We'll just shoot your sequence from out here with the fire in the background and let the editing team cut back and forth to the footage we stashed.”

Creeping back as close to the perimeter fence as they dared, Hunter switched on his camera and lights, and rolled tape as Feldman, framed by the smoke and flames, delivered an overview of the devastation.

“This is Jon Feldman for WNN reporting from just outside the Israeli Negev Research Institute in southern Israel where a surprise, early Christmas morning missile strike has destroyed a reputed military research installation…”

They had the package to WNN's Jerusalem office in time to make the noon feed. And thanks to a slow news day, Feldman's ruffled, unshaven good looks and reflective, almost shy delivery were served up with Christmas dinner all across the globe.

The Vatican, Rome, Italy 4:37 A.M., Saturday, December 25,1999

So far, it bad not been a good day for Pope Nicholas VI. Tired and alone in his chambers with his thoughts, the Holy Father had been up since well before midnight, roused from his sleep by a distressing nightmare of fire, death and destruction that had left him with severe heartburn.

Frowning, the paternal-looking, gray-haired pontiff drew aside the drapery of his balcony window to peer out once more at the multitudes gathering in vast St. Peter's Square. The unrelenting rain, he was certain, had significantly reduced the numbers of faithful come to receive his annual Christmas Day blessing. Unfortunately, this left him with a disproportionately larger crowd of the peculiar millenarian sects that, for weeks now, had been making the Vatican their personal Mecca.