A Premature Apocalypse Read online

  “Oh.” Now that sounded familiar.

  “Unfortunately, studies of turtles have done nothing for mankind. Their biochemistry is too different. Believe me, I know.”

  “You have a thing for turtles?”

  Dr. Stern didn’t rise to the challenge of a witty response. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his hands.

  “Five years ago, my granddaughter was born with Hutchinson–Gilford syndrome, a form of progeria. People with the syndrome age at ten times the usual rate. They don’t live past their thirteenth birthday. That’s how my interest in turtles began.”

  The doctor seemed to age right before Eli’s eyes, and he felt a pinch of empathy for the man, despite his own current predicament.

  Dr. Stern removed his glasses and wiped them with a lint cloth. “Genetics wasn’t my specialty. I had much to learn, and I spent a lot of money to set up this lab. But I was getting nowhere. The gap between turtles and humans was unbridgeable. And then you came along.”

  “Me?”

  “Scientific research tends to focus on the norm and to ignore outliers. But the outliers teach us the most. Your recovery from that accident—I’d seen nothing like it. Your cells regenerated beyond the ability of normal human cells, and they did not appear to age. You were an outlier. At last, I’d found my human turtle. The applications were endless: healing progeria; treating cancer; regenerating severed limbs; and the holy grail of human ambition, immortality.”

  Dr. Stern replaced his glasses. “And that’s why you should feel proud. Yesterday, I hit a brick wall. No matter how I analyzed your DNA, the algorithms found nothing unusual. Just another male human genome. But then I turned my investigation to epigenetics and the non-coding RNA sequences that determine which genes to activate and which to suppress. Now there was something very interesting! The secret to immortality had been sitting there for millennia, locked away in our dormant DNA; and now we have found the key to open it.”

  “Then let me go,” Eli said. “You’ve got my blood, my DNA, and RNA. You don’t need me anymore.”

  “It’s not that simple. The theory needs testing, and I might need you on hand for some time. You slipped away before; I won’t make that mistake again.”

  Eli wanted to shout and hurl threats, but he kept his mouth shut. The doctor would only sedate him again.

  Dr. Stern stood. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But it’s for the greater good.” He patted Eli on the shoulder and left the tent.

  Eli lay there in silence and focused on his breathing. When he had counted to fifty, he lifted his right hand from over the scalpel he had snatched from the trolley. Sorry, Dr. Stern, but Noga needs me. The greater good will have to wait.

  Chapter 48

  “Sir, we’re being followed.”

  The captain of the USS Ohio swiveled on his bucket seat in the dim red light of the control room. When you were a nuclear-powered submarine on a stealth mission in foreign waters, a tail was not good news. They sped through the Mediterranean toward the coast of Tel Aviv, all fourteen thermonuclear warheads ready for launch. He could slice the tension in the air with a Ka-Bar knife.

  “Followed by what?”

  The junior officer at the sonar station squinted at the display. Johnson was a NUB, or newbie, with a shaved head and an eager expression, but he’d performed well so far.

  “I don’t know, sir,” he said. “The sound signature is not in the system. Whatever it is, it’s big.”

  “A boomer?”

  The nuclear subs of other nations snooped around the oceans too. Friendlies operated at pre-allocated depths to avoid collisions. Non-friendlies were the problem. Something was cooking in the hallways of power, but Command had sent no warnings of potential underwater confrontations.

  “Too big, sir.”

  “Whales?” They’d sighted a sperm whale off Malta last week.

  “Negative. The target is way bigger than us.”

  The captain swore and ran a hand through his hair. A foreign sub would have lurked in the baffles, the sonar blind spot directly behind them. Unless they hadn’t noticed the USS Ohio yet. That would explain why they were making enough noise to register on the passive sonar.

  “Drop another hundred feet,” he told the navigation officer. Then he grabbed the 1MC handset and pressed the broadcast button. The crew fell silent for the duration of the message. “Rig for ultra-quiet,” he said, his voice echoing among the chambers of the pressurized tube. “All non-essential personnel, move to your racks at once.”

  He lurched forward as the accelerator disengaged and the sub lost speed.

  “Toby,” he said to his executive officer and second in command. “Make sure they shut off the water heater and reactor cooling pumps.”

  Toby nodded and hurried off, his boots clanking on the steel floor.

  The captain held his breath while they floated one thousand feet below the surface. Over his ten years in the Silent Service, he’d seen a lot of crazy stuff, but a vessel that large appearing out of nowhere was a first. If they lay still, the threat might pass them by unnoticed.

  “Still there?”

  “Yes, sir,” Johnson said.

  The unidentified submergible had not spotted them. Otherwise, it would have slipped behind them and disappeared, or clamped down in full stealth mode, as they had. Unless… unless the craft didn’t consider them to be a threat.

  Terror gripped his heart as he remembered a science fiction film he had seen as a teenager. An alien spacecraft parked at the bottom of an oceanic abyss had gobbled human subs and drilling platforms. Was an extraterrestrial vessel, with technology and firepower far superior to their own, hunting them?

  “Sir, they’re closing in on us. Fast.”

  Crap!

  “Battle Stations Torpedo!” the captain cried. “Ahead Flank Cavitate!”

  The order meant “get the hell out of here and make a splash if you have to!”

  The crew sprang into action, pushing buttons and pulling levers. Their sub’s forward acceleration pressed the captain against the hard back of the seat. The XO returned to the control room, holding onto shelves and piping to keep his balance.

  The sub could reach twenty knots, twenty-five at full throttle and in perfect conditions. That might be enough to outrun the foreign craft, but not its torpedoes.

  “Any fish in the water?” Torpedoes, he meant.

  “Negative, but they’ve picked up speed. They’re gaining on us!”

  If the foreign craft’s goal was to freak them out, it had succeeded.

  “Join the Navy,” they had said. “Subs haven’t seen combat since the Second World War, and nuclear warfare isn’t a real threat.” He should have gone for a desk job on solid ground.

  “Any change?”

  “They’re almost on us, sir. No sign of slowing.”

  “Dear God!” They would ram them—a suicide mission one thousand feet beneath the deep. But no government had such a large submergible, never mind terrorist organizations.

  The captain squeezed the 1MC handset. “Inbound! Brace for impact!” He had drilled the emergency procedures for many unlikely scenarios but never a high-speed intentional collision. He dropped to the floor and wrapped his arms around his seat.

  Three tense seconds passed.

  “Johnson?”

  Johnson shook his head, failing to believe his eyes. “She’s on top of us, sir. Now to starboard. Wait, no. Port. It’s as if she’s… swallowed us.”

  The captain shuddered. Heads turned to him, eyes wide.

  “Outside pressure?”

  Another engineer said, “Unchanged sir. We’re still one thousand feet.”

  “She hasn’t swallowed us,” the captain said. “She’s swimming circles around us.” Time to test his theory. “Slow us down, nice and easy.”

  The hum of the engines fell.

  “Johnson?”

  “No change, sir.”

  Whatever was toying with them had perfect maneuverability i
n the ocean.

  “Turn on the sonar speaker.”

  Johnson flipped a switch.

  Two seconds passed in silence. Then a loud baritone gurgle made him jump. Biologics, for sure, but this wasn’t the chatter of dolphins or the drone of whale-song. The sound was unlike anything he had heard before.

  “Let’s breach, nice and slow.”

  Metal groaned from the ballast tanks as air rushed in and expelled seawater.

  The ascent took three long minutes.

  “We’ve breached, sir.”

  The captain could tell. The vessel’s rounded hull, optimized for underwater performance, pitched from side to side, the sickening rolls they experienced during surface transits.

  “XO,” he said. “You have the Deck and Conn.”

  “Sir!”

  “Open the hatch.”

  Without explaining, he made for the stairwell. He had to see this with his own two eyes.

  The wheel turned and the hatch lifted outward on its hinges. A few rungs further and he stepped into the blue sky. A crisp sea breeze ruffled his hair. The deep blue of the Mediterranean lapped at the immense, sleek bulk of the sub, and stretched to every horizon.

  He twisted around at the waist. Behind him, the black sail of the sub towered above, a crown of sensory masts jutting into the sky.

  They were alone. No sign of their mysterious escort. Had she shied away from the surface, preferring the cool, dark depths?

  The captain was about to return to Command and Control when the waterfall sound of crashing water sounded behind him—the unmistakable roar of a breaching sub.

  He turned slowly. A large black mass rose above the waves. The smooth slippery mountain rose and rose, its shadow eclipsing the sub.

  That was no sub.

  Barnacles speckled the slick blubbery hide. But this was no whale either. A flipper breached the water, like the wing of a Boeing 747. He followed the line of the elongated neck, which stretched on and on, passing over the tall sail of the sub and falling toward him.

  The captain twisted around and came face-to-face with the creature. The head, tiny in proportion to its body, was taller than the captain. A wet warmth spread through his trunks and trickled down his leg. His muscles turned to stone.

  Large reptilian eyes considered him with interest and blinked. Then the scaly lips parted, revealing rows of long, sharp teeth, and the sea monster smiled.

  Chapter 49

  “Don’t go!” Galit ran after her father as he dragged his suitcase out the door of the Prime Minister’s Residence. “Please, Aba.”

  Her family’s arrival had overwhelmed her and heightened the tensions between her and Moshe, but the sight of her father storming out of her home clawed at her conscience.

  “No jobs,” he said. “No cigars. Searching through our stuff like we’re common thieves!”

  “But Aba, I told you. They were searching for bugs.”

  “Bugs, shmugs! We can tell when we’re not wanted.”

  Galit’s mother rolled her eyes at his histrionics but followed him.

  “Mom, do something!”

  “It’s no use, dear. I’ll call you when we land. Good thing we didn’t sell the house.”

  Outside, her father handed the suitcase to a Secret Service agent, who hefted it into the trunk of a ministerial SUV. Her brother, sister-in-law, and their kids waited in the ample back seat of another SUV.

  “Bye-bye, Granny and Grandpa!” Talya said.

  Galit’s mom leaned down to kiss her granddaughter. Her dad mussed Talya’s head of dark curls.

  Then he cursed. “Look at that crowd.”

  Galit did. Outside the gates, a throng of protesters blocked the street. When they caught sight of her, they hurled abuse.

  “Murderers!” said one, an old lady in a green shawl.

  “Traitors!” cried another.

  “Run along inside,” Galit told Talya.

  The country had gone crazy. On Channel Two, citizens fought in the streets and peaceful rallies turned bloody as the cameras rolled. Now the barbarians were at the gates.

  Galit stepped up to the open window of the SUV. “Are you sure it’s safe to leave?” Did the storm clouds of anarchy have a silver lining?

  “We’ll sure as hell drive out of here!”

  The car doors slammed, windows closed, and the SUVs advanced toward the gate. Galit didn’t watch them go; her presence would only agitate the angry mob.

  Back indoors, she threw herself onto the living room couch and burst into tears. A month after becoming the First Lady, her life had fallen apart. The entire country had followed suit. Earthquakes. Riots. Police interrogations.

  A lifetime ago, when Moshe had told her about Gurion’s proposal, she had known that politics would shove them into the public spotlight, but she hadn’t expected the attention to be so cruel or unbearable. She missed the old days. Moshe and her against the world. Now they seemed separated by a chasm wider than that caused by the earthquake.

  There came a loud knocking on the door. Galit wiped her tears and rose to answer.

  Her father marched inside when she opened the door, his head cowed, but still seething.

  “We’re back!” her mother said, singing the words. Her brother and his family followed her in.

  “Couldn’t get out?”

  “Your security people know how to handle them. But our flight was canceled.”

  “When’s the next one?” Flights to the US left Israel many times a day.

  “All flights to the United States have been canceled until further notice. An executive order from the President himself.”

  “Your husband,” her father growled, pacing the entrance hall, his hands balled in his pockets, “has wrecked our relations with our main ally. If only he’d listened to my advice. To any advice!”

  Her mother shook her head and walked off to the guest rooms. “Time to unpack,” she said. “Again. Have those lovely Secret Service men bring the bags up.”

  Galit blinked. Her conscience quieted. Beware what you wish for. Now she had to put up with her family—indefinitely!

  More knocking at the door. This time, two uniformed police officers stood in the doorway, a string bean and a sweet potato, both with serious looks.

  “Let me guess. More questioning?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said String Bean.

  “Moshe’s still at the office. The Prime Minister has things to do besides talking with you.”

  The officers exchanged a look. “We’re not here for the Prime Minister,” String Bean said. “We’ve come for you.”

  Chapter 50

  Tuesday afternoon, the cabinet members stared at the object on the conference room table—a large golden envelope with Moshe Karlin’s name embossed in the center.

  “When did it arrive?” Moshe asked.

  “This morning,” Ettie said. She had transported the letter to Knesset from the Prime Minister’s Office building. Her manner had soured since the earthquake. Did his secretary believe the corruption charges or did she also hold him responsible for the earthquake?

  “Security checked it?”

  She gave him a look of reproach over her half-moon spectacles. “Of course. They said it’s clean. No traces of anthrax. Or fingerprints. What’s surprising is how it got here with no one noticing. Besides for the contents, of course.”

  Moshe picked up the envelope. Everybody else seemed to know what lay within and it was time he caught up.

  “Thank you, Ettie.”

  Taking the hint, she left the room and closed the door behind her.

  The card within, like the envelope, was gold. The thick paper had a satin sheen. He read the message aloud: “The Messiah Coronation. Wednesday, 12 PM. The Sultan’s Pool, Jerusalem. Dress: Formal.”

  Moshe glanced about for the hidden camera. “Is this a prank?”

  Shmuel said, “Someone went to a lot of trouble to pull it off.”

  Sivan said, “And somebody seems to think you’re the
Messiah.”

  “The mob outside would disagree. According to them, I’m a murderer and a traitor. Besides, the invitation doesn’t say I’m the Messiah of this coronation.”

  “It could be a good PR move,” she said.

  “What could?”

  “Crowning you as the Messiah. Things have gotten pretty weird lately: the Sixth Aliyah; earthquakes. People could use the crutch.”

  “Yeah, but what happens when they find out I’m not the Messiah?” The room fell silent. “Come on, you don’t really think…?” He turned to Rabbi Yosef—he’d set them straight—but the rabbi wasn’t there. “Where’s Rabbi Yosef?”

  “With Reverend Adams,” Sivan said. “Last I heard.”

  “Ah.” He’d have to argue this one alone. “I think I’d know if I was the Messiah. And I hope he’d do a better job. Who’s behind this ‘Messiah Coronation’ anyway?”

  “Nobody seems to know,” Shmuel said. “A stage is under construction at the Sultan’s Pool. The sign outside mentions the Jerusalem Cinematheque, but their office knew nothing about it.”

  Moshe pushed the letter aside. “This is another of Gurion’s diversions. We have bigger problems to deal with.” He waved at the seats, collapsed onto a chair, and surveyed the ministers who had made it to the meeting. Once again, Rafi was missing. He sincerely hoped that this time he’d return bearing good tidings. “Sivan, can we speak freely?”

  She nodded. “This room is clean of bugs.”

  “Bugs?” Shmuel said.

  Moshe spelled it out. “Gurion’s been eavesdropping on our every word since day one, and he’s used that information well. On my way here, the ambassadors of both the US and Russia called. Each is convinced that we’ve made a secret pact with the other and that we’re going to use our new weapon of mass destruction, the Zombie Army.”

  Savta Sarah said, “What Zombie Army? Those new arrivals can barely tie their own shoelaces.”