Underground Zealot 01 - Soon

  A NOVEL

  SOON

  THE BEGINNING OF THE END

  J E R RY B . J E N K I N S

  TYNDALE HOUSE PUBLISHERS, INC.

  WHEATON, ILLINOIS

  Visit Tyndale’s exciting Web site at www.tyndale.com Copyright © 2003 by Jerry B. Jenkins. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph copyright © 2003 by Brand X Pictures/Alamy. All rights reserved.

  Author photo copyright © 2003 by Jonathan Orenstein. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Dean H. Renninger

  Edited by Elisa Petrini and Ken Petersen

  Published in association with the literary agency of Vigliano and Associates, 584

  Broadway, Suite 809, New York, NY 10012.

  Some Scripture quotations are taken from the New King James Version. Copyright ©

  1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Some Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Jenkins, Jerry B.

  Soon : a novel / Jerry Jenkins.

  p. cm. — (The underground zealot series)

  ISBN 0-8423-5744-0 (Adobe PDF)

  ISBN 0-8423-5407-7 (Microsoft LIT)

  ISBN 0-8423-5391-7 (Palm PDB)

  ISBN 0-8423-6049-2 (Godspeed KML)

  I. Title

  PS3560.E485 S66 2003

  813′.54—dc22 2003016337

  To

  BILL OUDEMOLEN

  with affection

  Thanks to

  DIANNA JENKINS

  ELISA PETRINI

  DAVID VIGLIANO

  RON BEERS

  KEN PETERSEN

  THE TYNDALE TEAM

  JOHN PERRODIN

  TIM MACDONALD

  and

  MARY HAENLEIN

  AT THE CONCLUSION OF WORLD

  WAR III IN THE FALL OF 2009, it was

  determined by the new international

  government in Bern, Switzerland, that

  beginning January 1 of the following

  year, the designation A.D. (anno

  Domini, “in the year of our Lord” or after

  the birth of Christ) would be replaced by

  P.3. (post–World War III). Thus,

  January 1, A.D. 2010, would become

  January 1, 1 P.3.

  Prologue

  11:05 P.M., EASTERN STANDARD TIME

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 22, 36 P.3.

  BRIGHTWOOD PARK, WASHINGTON, D.C.,

  CAPITAL OF THE COLUMBIA REGION,

  UNITED SEVEN STATES OF AMERICA

  A COMMON CITIZEN would not have recognized the danger. But the lone occupant of the Chevy Electrolumina was retired Delta Force Command Sergeant Major Andrew Pass.

  He touched the tip of his right thumb to the tip of his pinkie, activating cells implanted in his molars. He could have dialed with his other fingertips, but he opted for voice recognition and quickly recited the numbers that would connect him on a secure, private circuit to his brother in the underground compound.

  “This is Jack, Andy,” came the answer that resonated off his cheekbones and directly to his eardrum. “GPS shows you heading north on Sixteenth toward Silver Spring.”

  “Roger that. My ETA was eleven-fifteen—”

  “Was?”

  “Yeah, I—”

  “Say no more. I see ’em. What kinda rig, Andy?”

  “Looks like an extended Suburban Hydro. They’re on to me.”

  “You sure?”

  “And I’m unarmed, Jack.”

  “Can you lose ’em?”

  “Snow’s deep and packed, but I have to try.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Just wanted you to get hold of Angela in case I can’t.”

  “No fatalism now, Andy. Come on.”

  “If I don’t see you in ten minutes, spread the word.”

  Andy pressed his pinkie and thumb tips together again and peeked in the rearview mirror. Smooth. The hydrogen-powered Suburban was hanging back almost three blocks. By now they had to know that he knew.

  Clearly they weren’t going to blow this by being overeager.

  He thought about calling his daughter himself, but he had to concentrate. Jack would know how to break it to her.

  Andy took a right and then a left, dousing his lights. That wouldn’t shake the Suburban, and with its colossal power pack, it could run him down in seconds, even in this weather. For the moment he was out of his pursuers’ line of vision. Andy reached deep into his pocket and pulled out the flat, smooth, white stone that told those he wanted to know that he was one of them. He lowered his window a few inches and tossed it into the frigid night. He was going to have to ditch the Chevy too.

  He wheeled into an alley, eyes peeled for a spot to hide the small car.

  Nothing. He leaped out and sprinted three blocks through icy flurries, darting in and out of shadows, keeping to alleyways. He was grateful his daily jog and workout afforded him such conditioning at fifty-six. But he chastised himself for leaving the compound without a weapon.

  It had been months since Andy had had even a close call, but that was no excuse for laxity. If only he could distance himself enough from the Suburban, he could get Jack to have someone pick him up in a fresh, unsuspected car.

  Another black Suburban whooshed past ahead of him and slid to a stop. Andy heard doors slamming and boots crunching. He whirled to head back out the way he came, but the original tailing Hydro roared up, blocking his escape. Andy slipped but stayed upright as he quickly moved left to use a window ledge, hoping to hoist himself atop a one-story building. Too late. His pursuers had filled the alley, and he faced the barrels of high-powered weapons.

  A rawboned, thin-lipped woman with a shock of silver hair stepped forward. “Andrew Pass?”

  He would not respond.

  Another uniform, a young man, patted him down. The vapor rushing from his mouth told Andy the kid was excited. “Unarmed.” He cuffed Andy’s hands behind his back, the steel cold on his wrists. “I’ll wand him.”

  Oh no.

  He ran a detector over Andy’s limbs, stopping when a high tone signaled the ID biochip beneath the skin of his right forearm. The young man studied an LED readout. “It’s Pass, all right.”

  Silver Hair waved the rest of the uniforms into position. They guided Andy to a windowless truck and boosted him into the back. When the door was shut, Andy lowered himself to the floor. With his hands behind him he couldn’t keep from pitching and rolling, banging into the door as the truck took off.

  Would his family or his compatriots have a clue what became of him?

  Could he escape? He had to try. He had to do something.

  Andy judged the ride at between ten and fifteen minutes, at a speed that sent him bashing from wall to wall. When the truck finally skidded to a stop, he wrenched himself into a sitting position by planting one foot and pressing his shoulder against the side of the truck. The doors opened, and he was yanked to the ground.

  The icy pavement was gritty, and the air smelled of moldering brick.

  They seemed to be in a run-down industrial park. A few buildings were operational, judging by their outside lights, but no doubt were deserted at this hour. The others
looked abandoned, black hulks beyond the headlights of the cars ringing Andy—the Suburbans and a new one, a sleek dark limousine. Andy strained to see who was inside, but its tinted windows were impenetrable . Some big shot. He shuddered.

  The silver-haired woman stood by the limo, talking to someone in the backseat. She came into the light, nodding to an underling who directed one of the Suburbans to the front door of the dark ruin to the left. Two men pulled a fifty-five-gallon drum from the back of the vehicle and awkwardly rolled it into the building. Two others grabbed Andy’s arms and hustled him toward the door, a third propelling him from behind. They shoved him through the door and into a cavernous room where the two with the drum were prying off the perforated lid. It clanged to the floor.

  Andy closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, acrid fumes attacking his nostrils. Fear flared in him. He had imagined such a moment. He prayed he would remain stoic.

  The woman loomed over Andy, her eyes as silvery as her hair. Psycho eyes.

  She moved close and bent toward Andy’s ear, her breath hot and wet.

  “Recognize those fumes, Major?”

  Andy glared, pulse raging, determined to stay silent. Surrender wasn’t in his nature. A flying kick could topple this witch. A lowered shoulder and a head butt might take out one or two more. But the odds were ludicrous. Even if he could make it to the door, there were at least four men outside, plus the driver and whoever else was in the limo—all were surely armed. Was he willing to die their way or with bullets in his back?

  Time was running out.

  “Actions have consequences, An-dy,” the woman said. “Now others will get the message. The USSA does not tolerate subversives.”

  Andy wanted to spit in her face. Stay silent. Strong. His mind reeled.

  Torture? Death? He’d risked death on the battlefield but had never faced such personal horror. Was his faith strong enough?

  “Here’s your chance at bona fide martyrdom, Andy. Sainthood.”

  So this was it then? Ignominious death without a fight? Andy had been taught that courage was not fearlessness but rather the management of fear. He wasn’t managing well. I’m actually going to die.

  Two enforcers lifted him over the barrel, which was lined with napalm. As they lowered him Andy tried to kick, but his heels caught the rim of the drum as his hands and back slid into three inches of the surprisingly cool, jellied gasoline. One of the uniformed men jammed Andy’s feet into the drum. There he sat, pinned—feet above his head, chin pressed so tight to his chest that he could barely breathe.

  “Ready, sir!” the woman called out.

  Andy heard no reply but assumed her superior officer—the person in the limo?—was now in the building. For what? To see me suffer?

  “Okay, hit it,” the woman barked.

  Someone pressed the lid down over the barrel, sealing Andy in. Dim light peeked through the holes. None of his training had cured his claustrophobia. His breath came in great rushes through clenched teeth.

  “Stand back ten feet, gentlemen.”

  The strike of a match. The tiny flame dropping into the barrel. The explosion of fumes. Andy willed himself to make no sound, but he failed.

  He had drawn in enough air to fill his lungs just before the conflagration enveloped him with a heat so hellish he could not fathom it. And he exhaled with a scream so piercing he could hear it above the roar of the fire.

  He screamed as long as he could, knowing his next breath would draw in the flames and fuel for which his body had become a mere wick. Insane from the pain and unable to move, Andy finally sucked in the killing breath—the merciful, final invasion that roasted his lungs and heart and transported him from one world to the next.

  1

  Washington, D.C., still knew how to do holidays. Though the city was now merely one of seven capitals of the United Seven States of America, at times like this it harkened back to its glory days and reminded old-timers of the turn of the century—before the war changed everything, including the calendar.

  Dense snowfall didn’t slow traffic or seem to dampen spirits this December 24—Wintermas Eve—of 36 P.3. Lights bedecked the monuments, those that had survived the war or been erected since. Only the war memorials remained dark. While military heroes were acknowledged with appropriate burials, war itself had not been commemorated for more than thirty-five years.

  The main thoroughfares of the historic city sparkled with blinking white lights that washed the trees with cheer. The West Wing, all that was left of the White House, shone through the splatty downfall. And behind it the Columbia Region’s Wintermas tree illuminated the lawn. Santas dotted street corners, ringing bells and thanking passersby for donations, but not to the Salvation Army, for neither salvation nor army remained de rigueur.

  The money would go to international humanitarian relief.

  On a tony, tree-lined street in old Georgetown sat a row of nearly identical three-story brownstones. In the driveway of one on a corner, snow slid off the steaming hood of a rented Ford Arc, and the car’s electric power pack began to cool. Fresh footprints—of two adults and two children—led to the front door. While there were no outside decorations, the den window boasted a gleaming Wintermas tree.

  Inside that den, Dr. Paul Stepola, Jae Stepola, and their young family from Chicago awkwardly settled in with her parents, the former army Lieutenant General Ranold B. Decenti and his wife, Margaret.

  This was the first Wintermas Eve in their ten years of marriage that the Stepolas had celebrated with the Decentis. Traditionally they spent holidays in Chicago with Paul’s mother, who was alone, while the Decentis—thanks to Ranold’s postwar ascendancy in the National Peace Organization, for which Paul also worked—attended a ceaseless round of high-level year-end parties. But Ranold had eased out of the administrative fray, and that September, Paul’s mother had passed away after a protracted and painful battle with brain cancer. Her death was expected and not unwelcome, so it wasn’t sadness at the change of venue that made the holiday greetings so stiff. The four adults had greeted each other with handshakes. Daughter Brie, seven, and son Connor, five, were formally acknowledged.

  Paul had never settled on how to address his father-in-law. He had tried Dad, General, Ranold, and even the sixty-six-year-old’s last title in the NPO, Deputy Director. This year Paul called the man sir and lied that it was wonderful to see him again.

  Margaret Decenti might as well have been invisible. She smiled occasionally but rarely spoke. Her lot in life, it appeared to Paul, was to do her husband’s bidding. This she did, largely with a blank expression.

  Occasionally she would ask Jae to tell the kids to stop doing one thing or another.

  Complicating this year’s festivities for Paul was that Jae was again on his case about the time he spent on the road—her code for not trusting him. He had been caught in an indiscretion, which she persisted in calling an “affair,” more than six years before. At thirty-six, a muscular six-foot-three, and possessed of a quick wit, he had always been attractive to women. Often when traveling he would have dinner with a female colleague who, after a few drinks, would radiate the signals of invitation, sometimes even brazenly. If the woman was appealing—and not infrequently she was—Paul didn’t say no.

  These encounters were mostly onetime, no-strings flings that livened up the boredom of travel and, to Paul’s mind, had nothing to do with his marriage. But Jae sifted through his luggage like Sherlock Holmes and quizzed him relentlessly. Her jealous obsessions and tight-lipped silences were wearing him down. Paul used to love merely gazing at Jae. Now he could hardly stand being in the same room.

  They had met in graduate school at the University of the District of Columbia in 22 P.3., just after Paul had left the army’s top secret, elite counterterrorist strike unit, Delta Force. He had joined the army to honor his father, who had been killed in World War III when Paul was an infant.

  Despite his obvious proclivity for it, the military wasn’t much of a career sin
ce there was little armed conflict in the world anymore. So Paul had chosen to pursue a doctorate in religious studies, with the encouragement of his mother.

  She had taught him that every war stemmed from the fairy tales of religious extremists and that the most rewarding career he could choose would be one in which he helped maintain an intellectual, humanistic society that eschewed both religion and war. “Study the major religions,”

  she’d say again and again, “and you’ll see. You’ll find out what makes people follow despots like sheep. Study history or be doomed to repeat it.”

  It seemed everything Paul read of religion bore out his mother’s belief.

  His religious studies program was a virtual military history course, especially when it came to World War III. It had been sparked by the Muslim holy war against Jews and the West, which began with the American World Trade Center attacks in 2001. The U.S. invasion of Iraq in 2003 led to an escalation of the Israel-versus-Palestine conflict, prompting devastating terrorist attacks in the nations that tried to quell it—

  in both North America and Europe—in 2008. Meanwhile, Catholics and Protestants continued to war in Northern Ireland, culminating in the destruction of major landmarks in London; the Balkans exploded with the mutual persecutions of the Catholics, Muslims, and Orthodox Serbs; Hindus and Muslims battled over Kashmir; and various Asian religious factions skirmished. Soon the globe was ablaze with attacks, counterattacks, reprisals, and finally, an all-out nuclear war that most thought signaled the end of the world.

  Jae had been a local girl studying economics, and Paul’s immediate attraction to her was returned. She was tall and lithe, a celebration for the eyes. He—she said—would easily pass muster with her father, an ex-army general and one of the founding fathers of the NPO. They married in 26

  P.3., right after grad school.

  Paul dreamed of a corporate job, but when his Ph.D. in religious studies didn’t open those doors, Jae urged him to pursue the NPO. The National Peace Organization had risen from the ashes of the FBI and the CIA after World War III. Like the CIA, it was a foreign intelligence force—though a skeletal one, since in the postwar world the United Nations oversaw global peacekeeping. And like the FBI, it handled interstate crimes—which, these days, were as likely to be international—