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thousands are making some sort of a pilgrimage to the Wailing Wall. They're
lined up for miles, trying to get in and hear the preaching. Many are
converting and going out themselves to preach. The authorities seem powerless
to keep them out, despite the opposition of the Orthodox Jews. Anyone who
comes against the preachers is struck dumb or paralyzed, and many of the old
orthodox guard are joining forces with the preachers.
Amazing, the pilot responded. But even more amazing, it was all predicted
in the
Bible.
Buck was desperate to maintain his composure. He wasn't sure what he was
hearing, but Steele was impressive. Maybe the man was reaching to link Bible
prophecy with what was happening in Israel, but no one else had an
explanation. What Steele
had read to Buck from Revelation appeared clear. Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it
was mumbo jumbo. But it was the only theory that tied the incidents so closely
to any sort of explanation. What else would give Buck this constant case of
the chills?
Buck focused on Captain Steele, his pulse racing, looking neither right nor
left. He could not move. He was certain the women could hear his crashing
heart. Was all this possible? Could it be true? Had he been exposed to a clear
work of God in the destruction of the Russian air corps just to set him up for
a moment like this? Could he shake his head and make it all go away? Could he
sleep on it and come to his senses in the morning? Would a Conversation with
Bailey or Plank set him straight, snap him out of this silliness?
He sensed not. Something about this demanded attention. He wanted to believe
something that tied everything together and made it make sense. But Buck also
wanted to believe in Nicolae Carpathia. Maybe Buck was going through a scary
time where he was vulnerable to impressive people. That wasn't like him, but
then, who was himself these days? Who could be expected to be himself during
times like these?
Buck didn't want to rationalize this away, to talk himself out of it. He
wanted to ask
Rayford Steele about his own sister-in-law and niece and nephew. But that
would be personal, that would not relate to the story he was working on. This
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had not begun as a personal quest, a search for truth. This was merely a
fact-finding mission, an element in a bigger story.
In no way did Buck even begin to think he was going to pick a favorite theory
and espouse it as Global Weekly's position. He was supposed to round up all
the theories, from the plausible to the bizarre. Readers would add their own
in the
Letters column, or they would make a decision based on the credibility of the
sources. This airline pilot, unless Buck made him look like a lunatic, would
come off profound and convincing.
For the first time in his memory Buck Williams was speechless.
Rayford was certain he was not getting through. He only hoped this writer was
astute enough to understand, to quote him correctly, and to represent his
views in such a way that readers might look into Christianity. It was clear
that Williams wasn't buying it personally. If Rayford had to guess, he'd say
Williams was trying to hide a smirk or else he was so amused, or amazed, that
he couldn't frame a response.
Rayford had to remind himself that his purpose was to get through to Chloe
first and then maybe to influence the reading public, if the thing found its
way into print. If
Cameron Williams thought Rayford was totally out to lunch, he might just leave
him out, along with all his cockamamie views.
Buck did not trust himself to respond with coherence. He still had chills, yet
he felt sticky with sweat. What was happening to him? He managed a whisper. I
want to thank you for your time, and for dinner, he said. I will get back to
you before
using any of your quotes. That was nonsense, of course. He had said it only
to give himself a reason to reconnect with the pilot. He might have a lot of
personal questions about this, but he never allowed people he interviewed to
see their quotes in advance. He trusted his tape recorder and his memory, and
he had never been accused of misquoting.
Buck looked back up at the captain and saw a strange look cross his face. He
looked what? Disappointed? Yes, then resigned, suddenly Buck remembered who he
was dealing with. This was an intelligent, educated man. Surely he knew that
reporters never checked back with their sources. He probably thought he was
getting a journalistic brush-off.
A rookie mistake, Buck, he reprimanded himself. You just underestimated your
own source.
Buck was putting his equipment away when he noticed Chloe was crying, tears
streaming down her face. What was it with these women? Hattie Durham had been
weeping when she and the captain had finished talking that afternoon. Now
Chloe.
Buck could identify, at least with Chloe. If she was crying because she had
been moved by her father's sincerity and earnestness, it was no surprise. Buck
had a lump in his throat, and for the first time since he had lain facedown in
fear in Israel during the Russian attack, he wished he had a private place to
cry.
Could I ask you one more thing, off the record? he said. May I ask what you
and
Hattie were talking about this afternoon in the club?
Buck! Hattie scolded. That's none of your
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