A Creed for the Third Millennium

  I never want to see another helicopter again as long as I live, thought Dr Judith Carriol as her vehicle approached the temporary helipad marked out in the grass of the park just comfortably outside the palisaded compound in which the various Christians and governmental dignitaries were accommodated.

  An expert by now, she leaped from the glass bubble and ran across the grass without waiting more than a second after the pontoons touched the ground. In the act of entering the tent she stopped, realizing she would never find the light mechanism; she retreated back outside, turning towards the perimeter of the compound. The high palisade was policed by a hundred men.

  'Sentry!' she called.

  'Ma'am?' He loomed out of the darkness.

  'I need a flashlight.'

  'Yes, ma'am.' He disappeared.

  Half a minute later he was back, a flashlight beam bobbing up and down in time to his smart steps. With a snappy salute of respect he handed it to her and went back to his post, where a small dim puddle of light on the ground gave him his point of reference.

  With the flashlight held well down towards the wooden floor, Dr Carriol passed silently through the tent, and peeled the flap across Dr Christian's private cubicle away. The scant furnishings within slid uneasily in and out of the enveloping blackness as she directed the beam uncertainly towards the bed. There! The light came gliding up a leg, spilled across the tossed heap of coverings. He wasn't there! He wasn't in his bed!

  For a moment she stood not knowing which was best, to flood the whole damned tent with light, thereby rousing everybody, or to commence a stealthy systematic search. The decision came in seconds, disciplined and cool. If he was cracking she had to get him out quietly, before anyone understood what was the matter. Mama was pretty close to cracking herself. Yes, too close to the wire now to risk bringing it all down.

  So she prowled the tent in absolute silence, roving back and forth across every foot of it with her flashlight, into every backroom cranny, under the tables, behind the chairs. He was not there. He was not inside at all.

  'Sentry!'

  'Ma'am?'

  'Would you fetch me the officer of the watch, please?'

  He came five minutes later, five minutes during which she waited in static panic, steeling herself not to move.

  'Ma'am?' He leaned closer. 'Oh, Dr Carriol!'

  Major Withers himself. That was a break. 'Thank God for a familiar face!' she said. 'Major, you understand that I have Presidential authority, do you not?'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  'Dr Christian is missing from his bed, and he is not in the Christian tent anywhere. You may take my word for that. Now it is absolutely imperative that no fuss be made, that no hint be given to any other occupant of this compound that we have trouble. But we have to find Dr Christian! Quickly and quietly and with no more light than we can help. When we do find him, I want no attempt made to approach him. No matter who finds him, I want that man to report immediately to me. Only to me! I am going to stand here without moving, exactly where I am now, so I can be located without delay. Understood?'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  Again a wait, a long and painful wait, with the precious minutes galloping away into the coming dawn. Once she looked down at her watch by the light of the flashlight, and saw that it was nearly six. O God in heaven, let them find him! Let him not be out there on the other side of the palisade among the crowd! She had to get him away before the compound woke up, before the people outside woke up. Helicopters coming and going were bad enough. Thank God in this power-deprived day and age for two-hour daylight saving! They had a few more minutes before it became light enough to see. Across the grass little jerky jets of light flickered in and out of shrubbery and trees as a hundred men moved through the darkness.

  'Ma'am?'

  She jumped. 'yes?'

  'We've found him.'

  'Oh, thank God for that!'

  She followed after the major with her shoes hushing in the grass, shish shish, shish shish, quick and flawless in their rhythm. Good girl, Judith! You're calm. You'll save it yet. Just keep calm no matter what they've found.

  The major pointed into the blackest patch of shrubbery.

  She approached slowly, not playing her light around in case it frightened him.

  There he was! Huddled at the base of a great beech tree with his head wrapped in his arms, very still. She came up to him and knelt down beside him.

  'Joshua? Joshua, are you all right?'

  He didn't move.

  'It's Judith. What is it? What's the matter?'

  And he heard her. He heard a well-known human voice and understood that he was not yet dead, that this vale of tears was still his for the taking. But did he want to take? No! He smiled secretly into his arms.

  'I hurt,' he said, like a child.

  'I know. Come!' She slid her hand in under his left elbow, and got both of them to their feet quite easily.

  'Judith? Who is this Judith?' he asked, looking at her. Then he looked beyond her to where the dim thready outlines of a dozen men towered against a sky that dreamily cherished the first tiny hint of daybreak.

  'It is time to walk,' he said, remembering the only fact he had carried from sanity into madness with him.

  'No, Joshua, not today. It's over! The March of the Millennium is over! This is Washington. Now it's time for you to rest and be healed.'

  'No,' he said, more strongly. 'Walk! I walk!'

  'The streets are too crowded to walk, it's impossible.' She no longer knew the right things to say to him, she could not follow his thoughts.

  He stood stubbornly still. 'I walk.'

  'Then how about walking with me a little way, just as far as the fence? After that you can go off on your own, okay?'

  He smiled, began to obey, smelled her fear, and backed off. 'No! You're trying to trick me!'

  'Joshua, I wouldn't do that to you! I'm Judith! You know me, I'm Judith! Your own Judith!'

  'Judith?' he asked, his voice rising incredulously. 'No! Judith? No! You're Judas,' Judas come to betray me!' And he began to laugh. 'Oh, Judas, most beloved of all my disciples! Kiss me, show me it's over!' He began to weep. 'Judas, Judas, I want it to be over! Kiss me! Show me it's over! I cannot endure this pain. This waiting.'

  She bent forward and hovered on tiptoe with her face an inch from his cheek, her eyes closed, almost tasting the smell of his skin, which was stale and malodorous. Then her lips made the last enormous journey, and came to rest at one side of his mouth, his mouth bitten to shreds. 'There,' she said. 'It is over, Joshua.'

  And it was over. The only kiss he had ever asked her for. What might have happened to Judith Carriol and Joshua Christian if he had wanted to kiss her? Probably nothing different.

  It was over. He held out his hands to the soldiers. 'I am betrayed,' he said. 'My own beloved disciple has betrayed me to my death.'

  The men moved forward, surrounded him. He began to walk in their midst. Then he turned to where she followed, and said, 'How much did they have to pay you in this day and age?'

  Over. Over. Over. 'A promotion. A car. Independence. Power!' she said.

  'I could offer you none of those.'

  'Oh, I don't know. They're all thanks to you, really.'

  Through the trees and bushes. Out of the palisade to the waiting helicopter, blades whipping idly. One man leaped in first and held out his hands to Dr Christian, who took them and made the upward step easily with his long legs; the man leaned over him and buckled him securely into half the back seat, shoulders and hips, a good restraint harness, actually. Billy had been waiting with his engine turning over ever since she had alighted, thinking she would only be gone a very few minutes, and aware that to start the engine afresh would make more noise than idling and then taking off.

  Dr Carriol waited until the man in the back seat jumped out, then prepared to climb in herself. In midstep she detained the soldier, gestured him back into the helicopter. 'I might need you, Private. Buckle in beside Dr Christia
n, would you? I'll go up front with Billy.'

  A captain came running across the grass, pushed between the soldiers and ducked up to the helicopter. 'Dr Carriol!'

  She leaned out, impatient to be gone. 'What's up?'

  'Message from the White House, ma'am. Been waiting for you for some time. The President wants to see you in the White House at eight on the dot.'

  Damn! What next? Her watch said six-thirty, it was now quite light, and the crowds some distance off (kept off deliberately) were stirring, their rest terminated by the noise of the helicopter. She swung round to face the pilot. 'Billy, how long will it take us to get where we're going?'

  He had brought the appropriate charts with him from his base, so his course was plotted. 'Gotta gas up first, ma'am. Sorry, I would have gone and done it already, but I kept thinkin' you must be comin' any second. So — oh, about an hour, I guess. Half an hour comin' back, plus whatever time you wanna spend on the ground.'

  Ten minutes on the ground at Pocahontas Island at least, more very likely. What to do, what to do?

  Ambition won. Sighing, she unlatched her harness and swung her legs out of the bubble. 'Billy, you'll have to take Dr Christian down on your own and then come back for me.' Frowning, she turned her head to study Dr Christian, who sagged limply, eyes closed, held upright by his harness. The soldier with him in the back seat. Could he be trusted? Would Joshua stay quiet, or would he have another fit of wanting to walk? Would he become violent? Maybe she ought to send Major Withers instead. She looked down at the small group of men and studied the major's face as intently as she had Dr Christian's, saw something she didn't really like in it. The captain, then… No. No. Back to the private already strapped in. A strong lad, in training. Good enough at his age to have been picked for this VIP guard assignment. Quiet and steady face. What lay behind it? Was he discreet? Oh, for God's sake, woman, decide! Decide! The medical team would undoubtedly already be there, of course, that was a help. Yes, of course, of course… It was only a matter of the journey down. He'd be all right.

  'Billy,' she said to the pilot, 'you'll have to go without me, I daren't risk being late to see the President. Get Dr Christian down to the rendezvous as soon as you possibly can, okay? Find the house I told you about and put your bird down as close as you can get to it' She turned to the soldier. 'Can I trust you, Private?'

  He stared at her out of wide grey eyes. 'Yes, ma'am.'

  'All right, then. Dr Christian is sick We're taking him to a special place for treatment. He's physically ill, not mentally ill, but he's in such terrible pain he's a bit deranged — only temporary, you understand. I want you to look after him on the way down. And when Billy lands I want you to escort Dr Christian to the house there. Don't wait to scout around; the less you see, the better for yourself. There will be doctors and nurses waiting for Dr Christian. So just take him to the house and then get the hell out. Got it?'

  He looked as if he was prepared to die to bring off this most important mission of his life successfully; and probably for the chance to ride in a helicopter.

  'Got it, ma'am,' said the soldier. 'I am to look after Dr Christian on the flight, then escort him to the house. I am not to wait. I am not to look around. I am to go straight back to the bird.'

  'Good man!' She smiled at him. 'Not a word to a soul, even your commanding officers. Orders of the President.'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  She gave Billy an affectionate pat on the arm and climbed out. Then, leaning into the back of the craft, she touched Dr Christian on the knee.

  'Joshua?'

  He opened his eyes and gazed down at her; a vestige of sad sweet reason flickered, went out.

  'You'll be fine now, my dear. Believe me, you are going to be fine! Sleep if you can. And when you wake up, it will all be over. You can start to live again. Nasty old Judas Carriol will be out of your life forever.'

  He made no answer, seemed not to know she was there.

  She swung round and ducked out of range of the rotors, then stood with the soldiers as the helicopter lifted itself off the ground in its languid, death-defying fashion. It ascended very slowly to about two hundred feet, clear of every obstacle in the vicinity, then the turbine engines began to shriek, and it shot forward, jet-propelled.

  Dr Carriol suddenly realized that the ring of silent men around her was gazing at her with that curiously wooden expression well-trained troops adopt at the inexplicable gyrations of High Command. She set her lips.

  'Nothing happened here this morning,' she said. 'I mean nothing. You've seen nothing, you've heard nothing. And that order will change only if your new orders come from the President. Understood?'

  'Yes, ma'am,' said Major Withers.

  Billy the pilot looked at his fuel gauge, did a swift calculation, and nodded. He loved Dr Christian. All those months of ferrying him around the country had cemented his awe and admiration for this incredible and incredibly nice man. They never seemed to understand how hard it was on the poor guy, plodding from one place to another without a break. So here he was getting his break at last, but too late to be in shape to finish what he started. However, Billy figured there was one final good turn he could do Dr Christian before their paths diverged. There was fuel at Hatteras, it was a defence-warning station. So he could go straight on down to this Pocahontas Island, give Dr Christian over into medical care for his much needed and long overdue rest, then he'd fly on to Hatteras and gas up there instead of farting around forever filling out forms at one of the bases down along his route.

  'Cheer up, Doc!' he shouted over his shoulder. 'We'll get you there quick as a shake of an ant's dick!'

  Dr Carriol trudged across the grass towards the Christian tent, her feet obeying her; wonderfully obedient feet she had! They traipsed one after the other to the entrance flap, they led her rocking through it, and into a tiny crowd of waiting Christians.

  Mama pounced first, trembling. 'Judith, Joshua is gone! He's started the March without us!'

  Dr Carriol plodded to the first chair, sank into it and looked up at them, eyes glazed with weariness, face haggard. This morning she looked her age. 'Martha, honey, is there any hot coffee? I must have something stimulating to drink, or I'll never last the distance.'

  Martha went to a table where a steaming carafe stood, poured a mug full and gave it to Dr Carriol. She did the task it seemed grudgingly, face sullen; ever since setting eyes on Joshua again in New York City she had been different, looking at Dr Carriol with loathing as this outsider took complete charge of Joshua, shutting them out.

  'Mama, sit down,' said Dr Carriol gently, sipping at the fluid in her mug and wincing. 'Ow! That's hot!' She leaned forward limply. 'I'm afraid Joshua hasn't started without you, it's you who must start without him. He's all right, but he's ill. I've known it ever since New Brunswick, but he wouldn't listen to reason and I felt I couldn't betray him—' She broke off, remembered pain pouring through her. Betray. He had called her Judas. Insane he might be, but still it hurt. Betray. Was that what she had done all those months and months ago in frozen Hartford? She tried the treacherous — oh apt adjective! — word again, stumbled again. 'Betray him.' No, she was not going to cry. Never cry. 'He wanted to walk. And I let him. You know Joshua. He wouldn't be talked out of it, and he wouldn't let me tell anyone else. But this morning he — he — he just wasn't able to walk any more. So the President has set up a special hospital for him alone, where he can be treated and rest in absolute peace and quiet. I've just shipped him off by helicopter.'

  Mama cried, of course; Mama had done a lot of crying in the months since she arrived in Mobile to be with Joshua, share his triumph. She would have done better by herself to have stayed in Holloman. Mary wouldn't have done all that fruitless and impotent suffering. That fresh beauty of hers had diminished little by little to the middle-aged relics of perfect bones; nothing much was left now to suggest how dazzling and young she had been a year ago. Only a year ago?

  'Why didn't you tell us?' asked Mama through
her tears.

  'Mama, I wanted to, believe me! I've not kept him from you for kicks, or to suit some design of my own. He has always dictated our behaviour, including mine. He didn't even want me to find out he was ill. What I do know is that more than anything he wants you to finish the March for him. Will you?'

  'Of course,' said James gently. Dear, gentle James!

  'It goes without saying,' said Andrew stiffly.

  But Martha turned into a tigress. 'I want to go to him! I insist on going to him!'

  'That is quite impossible,' said Dr Carriol. 'Joshua is in a special hospital under Presidential security. I'm sorry, but what goes for Mama must go for you too, Martha.'

  'This is some plot!' cried the young woman fiercely. 'I don't believe a word you've told us! Where is he? What have you done with him?'

  Andrew got up quickly. 'Martha, stop being silly. Come with me at once.'

  She began to weep, but her husband was scant of sympathy; he grasped her hand by the arm and marched her into their own cubicle, where everyone else, uncomfortable, could hear her weeping and protesting more and more desperately.

  Andrew came out. 'Sorry,' he said, and looked towards his sister. 'You pipe down too. Enough! Not a word! Go and cry on Martha's shoulder if you must, but don't stay here looking like a dying duck in a rainstorm!'

  Mary turned and left immediately; and within moments Martha's stormy grief was quieter, the two voices, one teary and hiccoughing, the other low and tender, merging indistinctly.

  Dr Carriol sat blinking, intrigued despite her exhaustion.

  'It's all right, Judith,' said Andrew, sitting down next to Mama and taking her hand. 'Martha has always had a bit of a crush on Joshua, you know, and it makes her very silly occasionally. As for Mary — well, Mary is Mary.'