Authors: James F. David
The psychological break from the unrepentant family is the next to the last step in healing. Only when the client cuts the emotional strings to those that abused her can the last stage of healing begin.
—
HIDDEN TERRORS'. WOMEN IN THERAPY
, ROSA QUIGLY
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
D
aniel was home—his adopted home—sitting on the couch, watching television with Josh. They were eating ice cream, watching a television show that Daniel's parents would not have approved of. Daniel was free of his parents, free of the cult, free to do what he wanted, when he wanted, and with whom he wanted. Sure, Josh wanted Daniel to go back to school, but that was okay with Daniel. He knew there would be kids there that knew how to have a good time—and girls. He thought of Melody briefly, and then of her with Rob Evans—it hurt. Melody had been special to Daniel, but he wouldn't let them force him to do anything, not marry Melody, not stay on planet America. It was all worth it, but the image of Melody in the arms of Rob Evans haunted him.
Daniel scooped out a big spoonful of ice cream, tasting it again as if for the first time—cookies and cream, his favorite. They made ice cream occasionally on America, but always vanilla. That was another thing he hated about planet America, the sameness. Did everyone have to go to bed at the same time, worship the same way, and eat vanilla ice cream? Couldn't they crumble up a cookie and put it in the ice cream once in a while?
Tomorrow would help him forget his old life. Josh was going to pick up a driver's manual for Daniel so he could study for his permit. He had traveled light-years to gain his freedom, and a driver's license would complete his journey.
A news bulletin suddenly appeared on the screen.
"We interrupt our regularly scheduled program to bring you this special report."
Pictures of helicopters flying in circles around brightly lit buildings appeared, a voice explaining they were joining a cable news broadcast. Then the announcer identified the pictures as coming from the Fellowship launch compound in Mexico. A woman reporter could be heard now, describing the action below, saying over and over, "There has been gunfire, and we believe there have been casualties."
"You want to turn this off?" Josh asked.
"No," Daniel said.
"I'm sure your parents are safe on the space station," Josh said.
"I don't care about them, anyway."
"I don't care," Daniel repeated to himself, but he couldn't help but wonder if one of the running figures was his mother, or even his father. Now the picture swung wildly while the helicopter came about. Then the image stabilized on a sphere surrounded by two rings of soldiers—a helicopter hovering above. Daniel could see a body lying next to the sphere. He leaned close to the screen.
"There are a lot of men in the Fellowship, Daniel," Josh said.
"I know. I don't care anyway," Daniel said, even while he studied the screen closely.
When I hear people say that they worship many gods, I imagine myself telling my wife that I love other women as much as I love her. I don't think Evelyn would tolerate that and I don't think God would either.
— FLOYD REMPLE
FELLOWSHIP COMPOUND, MEXICO
T
roops were pounding on the hull of his sphere with rifle butts. Floyd looked through the porthole to see a rifle pointed at him. Reflexively, he shifted so the rifle couldn't be angled at him. He was lucky this model had only one porthole. There was more pounding on the hull. Floyd risked a glance and saw a face mouthing, "Open the hatch." Floyd ignored the command. He could hear and feel the thump of the helicopter overhead and knew weapons were aimed at the sphere.
Keeping away from the porthole, Floyd slid along the hull until he reached the flight controls and flipped the toggles to fire the particle guns, the gravity waves building. With power, the control panels lit up, Floyd scanning them quickly. The sphere was pressurized, the gravity field was surrounding the ship, all control circuits were functioning, their indicators glowing green. Now the pounding on the hull became intense, and he heard someone scrambling up on top of the sphere, trying to open the hatch, which was secured from inside.
Floyd couldn't fly the shuttle while squatting against the wall, but if he climbed into the pilot's chair he would expose himself to the porthole. Still, if he could give the sphere a little power, then he could maneuver out from under the helicopter and shoot into the air where he could safely strap into a chair and fly the sphere—it was a risky plan.
He chanced another peek at the porthole and saw the face mouthing something. The man put a hand over his ear, then held it in front of his lips. Floyd understood and put the earphones on. He turned on the power to the radio and heard someone speaking.
"Do not attempt to fly your sphere. We have a helicopter hovering overhead, and if you move horizontally we will shoot you down. We have armor-piercing weapons."
Floyd was afraid. He had nowhere to run, his fate certain, but he would not let the world get the sphere. Floyd prayed for deliverance, but couldn't concentrate, instead he thought of his family, and thought of Daniel. Evelyn knew he loved her, as did Faith, but there was unfinished business with Daniel.
"Shut down your engines," the voice said in his earphones, "and open the hatch. This is your last warning."
Floyd decided to risk taking off. If they had murder on their minds nothing he could do would change that. With the helicopter overhead he would have to angle his flight, but to do that he would have to expose himself to the porthole. It would take a few seconds to adjust the field and apply power. He visualized each move he would make, moving his hands and feet in rehearsal. When he felt ready to make his move, he counted down from ten. When he got to three the porthole exploded. Penetrated by a bullet, the slug fragmented when it hit the far wall, two pieces piercing Floyd's abdomen. Now his stomach felt on fire and he clutched it, feeling his shirt wet with his blood.
Men will kill to get something they want, and they'll die to protect something they have.
— GEORGE PROCTOR
FELLOWSHIP COMPOUND, MEXICO
C
olonel Watson ran his hand along the steel side of the Fellowship shuttle and across the name "Rock of Ages" stenciled on the hull. A Christian flag was painted below the name, and you could still see the faint red, white, and blue where the American flag had been removed.
"Lieutenant, have that flag scraped off and repaint the stars and stripes," he said. "Scrape the name off too."
In the midst of battle, Watson was already preparing to display his trophy. Then rifle fire sounded behind him. Watson's men were firing toward the warehouse, seeing something Watson could not. Suddenly a forklift raced out of the open warehouse door, toward the shuttle, sheets of steel held in the forks, protecting the driver. Bullets whined in all directions, the steel deflecting the small arms fire. Watson called for heavier weapons, but it would be too late, the forklift was going to ram the shuttle.
"Stop it," Watson shouted uselessly.
Then a man jumped from the forklift, running toward the warehouse. Half a dozen guns swung toward the running man and his back was peppered with small arms fire. The driver collapsed, facedown on the concrete. Now troops scattered, running from the path of the onrushing forklift. Watson backed away, firing at the machine, bullets ricocheting off the steel frame, watching in horror as the yellow forklift hit the shuttle dead center, arms piercing the wall with the sound of screaming metal. The bullet-riddled steel plates the forklift was carrying slammed into the wall of the shuttle, the lift coming to a sudden jolting stop, the engine stalling. Fearing explosion, his men ran from the shuttle, looking for cover, but there was only the sound of distant gunfire.
When he was sure the shuttle wouldn't explode, Watson picked himself up and studied the damage to his prize. The raised arms of the lift had punctured the shuttle at the cargo level, leaving the precious drive intact. Colonel Watson ordered the forklift started, and then backed out, leaving two holes. The damage didn't look too bad, although the shuttle would take some repair before it could fly into space again. Relieved, Watson ordered a barrier be erected around the shuttle to protect it from more sabotage.
With one prize in hand, Watson took a squad of men and headed for the sphere pads. As he walked, he checked in with the other units. One sphere and one shuttle had gotten away, but Watson had control of one shuttle and one sphere, and another sphere had been trapped on the ground, although the pilot refused to come out. Watson hurried toward the pad with the last prize, anxious to be there when the pilot surrendered the sphere. Three ships, surely Fry and the president would see that as a success, Watson thought, and promotion couldn't be far behind.
All progress has resulted from people who took unpopular positions.
—ADLAI STEVENSON
NEW HOPE STATION
I
ra and Shelly were crowded in the control center on New Hope, watching the news. New Hope was filled with settlers being transferred to
Covenant
for the voyage to the new world. All were watching monitors, the only noise restless children.
"Maybe we should cut off their broadcast," Shelly suggested.
"Let the world see what their government has come to," Ira said.
"I've got Micah on the radio," Cynthia said excitedly.
"Are you all right?" Shelly asked.
"Yes," Micah said. "Bobby Johnson's with me. Tell his family."
"Is Mark with you?" Ira asked.
"No. He went after the spheres, but only one has managed to lift off—Don Pell's flying it. He's rendezvoused with me. We're orbiting over the compound in case we can help. If Mark calls, contact us and we'll go after him."
There was one unsecured sphere left, and the drama on the screen told them someone was inside, refusing to come out—it could be Mark.
Worry about Mark's fate, and watching the
drama
on the screen, held their attention. It was at that moment the shuttle
Atlantis
carrying the recovered sphere made its second course correction, climbing toward New Hope station.
CHAPTER 121 IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY
Then she called, "Samson, the Philistines are upon you!" He awoke from his sleep and thought, "I'll go out as before and shake myself free." But he did not know that the Lord had left him. Then the Philistines seized him, gouged out his eyes, and took him down to Gaza. Binding him with bronze shackles, they set him to grinding in the prison.
—JUDGES 16:20 — 22
FELLOWSHIP COMPOUND, MEXICO
M
ark watched in horror when the soldier fired a round into the sphere's porthole. Mark prayed Floyd was safe—a steel sphere wasn't the place to be if bullets were ricocheting around. Floyd had to surrender or die, and the world would have a sphere—another sphere, he reminded himself. President Crow was committing murder to get hold of the Fellowship's technology. Then Mark realized that there was another place where Crow could acquire Fellowship technology, and that the attack might not be limited to Earth. Reluctantly, he left Floyd trapped in the sphere, promising himself to free his friend somehow, someday.
Keeping low, Mark hurried through the stacks of cargo toward the control center on the second story of the warehouse. New Hope station needed to be warned and the ships docked there moved to lunar orbit, safely out of reach. Ahead of him a soldier stepped into his path, M-16 pointed at Mark. Turning back, Mark ran to an intersection and turned left, now running head up, full speed. Another soldier appeared and he dodged down another aisle, now moving away from the warehouse. Another soldier appeared and he had to stop, and turn, only to face another. He was surrounded. Like a trapped animal he looked around wildly. There was no way to go but up and he jumped, grabbing the top of a steel container, then pushing himself up with his hands. His knee was over the top of the container when hands grabbed his other leg and he was pulled down into the hands of his enemies.
According to Soviet reports, he [Colonel Vladimir M. Komarov] died when the Soyuz plunged through the atmosphere and, parachute lines hopelessly tangled, crashed into the ground. Tass declared that the Soyuz had performed normally in orbit and had been successfully braked with retro-rockets. [Komarov was dead, the Space Age's first casualty in flight.]
—
WE REACH THE MOON
, JOHN N. WILFORD
FELLOWSHIP COMPOUND, MEXICO
T
he fire burned in Floyd's belly and his legs were growing numb. His shirt and pants were soaked with blood. He was dying. If he surrendered to the troops outside the sphere, he might be saved. They would have medics and he could be airlifted to a hospital in one of their helicopters. To save his life he would have to give them the sphere—the technology God had revealed to Ira to fulfill his vision. Floyd desperately wanted to live, to see his wife and children again, and especially Daniel—he hated the thought of dying without reconciling with his son. But as desperate as he was to hold his son in his arms again, he could not betray God's trust.
"Open the hatch or we'll fire," a soldier shouted through the porthole over the roar of the helicopter's turbine engine.
Asking Jesus to give him the strength, Floyd chose to be a faithful servant.
"I'm shot," he said, pushing himself to his feet.
When there was no response, he forced himself to shout, pain radiating out from his gut to his limbs and head with each word.
"Open the hatch, we have a medic," a soldier shouted back.
"I'm bleeding," Floyd shouted, stepping to the center of the sphere.
Floyd could see the soldier's face in the open porthole, dust swirling behind the soldier from the backwash of the helicopter. As soon as Floyd exposed himself, the soldier aimed a pistol at him. Noting his blood-soaked clothes, the soldier said, "Open the hatch and we'll get you a medic."
Nodding, Floyd tried to straighten up, as if to reach the hatch release above him, then he buckled over in pain, falling over the back of the pilot's seat. Spears of fire shot through his body when he hit the seat. The arm with the gun poked deeper into the sphere, turning toward him.
"Open the hatch or I'll shoot," the soldier shouted.
"I'm trying. It hurts," Floyd said.
"Open the hatch now!"
Summoning his remaining strength, Floyd lunged toward the controls, shoving the joystick and the power lever at the same time. A bullet tore into his side but there was only so much pain a person can feel. The sphere shot upward; Floyd slammed to the deck of the sphere, unconscious.