Nimrod's Coat

The Hunt: Mesopotamia 3rd Millennium B.C.

Alshear looked past the seven thousand men of the hunt to the red mist that had followed them for three days. It had started as a faint, colored shimmer. By the first evening, it had grown thicker and higher into the sky, as if it wanted to meet the faint clouds above it. The following day, the red had mutated into the gray color of Alshear's andanicum sabre which hung on his left hip next to his blowgun. The clouds above the mist had grown wider and more numerous. And now, as the party rested and ate at Omar's well, the mist was a haunting, burnt rust color and had climbed past the clouds, hiding them and the northern mountains from view.

Around Alshear, his men seemed oblivious to the sky behind them. Could they not feel the strangeness of the air? Had they not felt the temperature swell hotter each day? Had not their mouths grown dry?

One of his meatkeepers stumbled nearby in a drunken dance of imbalance and raucous singing. Purple liquid stained the man's robe and dripped down his wide, braided beard.

As he passed Alshear, he lowered his eyes and bowed. With his focus on the ground, he should have seen the rock in front of him, but with many rocks in this grassland, who could blame the sot for not seeing it? He tripped and landed on his face. Keeping his gaze down, and still singing a song of victory and celebration, he slowly rose.

To the right of the drunk, a group of hunters watched a game of Twenty Squares. Fifty or so men surrounded two players, betting on the outcome and cheering the black and white pawns toward the race's finish.

As was tradition, the palid-skinned Shemite controlled the black pawns while Ham's dark-skinned descendant moved the white ones. It was the Shemite's turn. He shook and rolled his set of dice, then moved a pawn past the queen's rosette, drawing groans and exclamations. The other player rolled and positioned his own pawn beyond the rosette. A double omen and curse.

Farther out, men watered the oxen, the mounts, and the captured animals that were to be used for future food. Others filled storage containers with water. They were a few days out from the Euphrates, which was their next source of water, so thousands of containers had to be filled. Yet the men seemed in no hurry. They almost lazily moved wagons into position, filled their containers, and drove them out of the way so that other wagons with empty containers could be transitioned next to the well. The men sang jovial war songs as they took their time. And why wouldn't they? Certainly, they had reason to celebrate. They had had a successful expedition. Alshear, himself, would have been reveling with his men if his mind had not been occupied planning a much smaller, more personal, future hunt.

Unlike those common men who followed him, Alshear did not focus solely on proximal successes and duties. His father had taught him to seize opportunity and plan future conquests. Indeed, the salvation and unity of mankind demanded such a leader. How could man know what he should do unless one more worthy told him? How could fickle man be trusted to do what was best unless he was forced to do it? How could selfish man live in harmony unless someone higher than he made him?

But now, all that might be irrelevant. Alshear knew there were those who despised him and his father, who prayed for their demise. Could the red glow be the result of such prayers?

A small compression of air near Alshear's back interrupted his thoughts. With trained reflexes, he ducked and twisted in his seat. His right hand grabbed his sabre and thrust it toward the source of the disturbance. At the same time, his feet signaled his camel to kneel and his left hand moved the blowgun to his mouth. As he started to raise his left foot so that the could jump to the ground, he recognized the man who had pulled up next to him, the man's open palm frozen in the air where Alshear's back had been: Joriancumr, his father's High Priest.

Joriancumr smiled, no fear on his face. His ugly, sunburnt skin wrinkled as his nose twitched in amusement. “Expecting an assassin, Alshear?” Alshear raised his camel and relaxed into his seat. “Being careful. What brings you to talk with me?”

“A report,” Joriancumr said loudly. “Half the containers are full and more are being filled.”

Speaking in code sometimes made one sound stupid. Of course more water containers were being filled. Alshear didn't need a report to know that. But he did appreciate the covert message that Joriancumr had actually given him. It was better to appear vapid than for listening ears to understand the true meaning of certain conversations.

Alshear nodded and smiled. “Thank you for the briefing.”

Joriancumr threw his facecloth back around his nose and mouth and directed his mount to move. Then he must have changed his mind, for he next urged his camel right next to Alshear's. In a much quieter voice than he had used before, he asked, “The signs in the sky?”

Both men looked northward. During the few minutes they had spoken, the mist had changed color into swatches of brown and gold, like a desert cheetah's hide. It was now more solid and had climbed high enough to block any view of the mountains. The temperature had also risen.

“Melchizedek's prophecy?” Joriancumr again questioned.

Alshear tried to spit to show his disgust at such a thought, but couldn't. His mouth was too dry. He ran his tongue along the back of his teeth and sucked in the dry air. The skin between his eyes wrinkled and his lips curled out. A sibilant cry came from him, like a cornered beast of prey.

“A cursing on him and his warnings,” he snarled. “The sooner we complete the tower and kill his god, the better.”

The wind picked up, blowing the men's linen robes. In the distance, lightening forked through the wall of mist, illuminating it like the haunting spine of a dragon. Anger filled Alshear's words with proud bravado. How dare Melchizedek's foul god try to destroy them! Alshear and his people were far greater than the followers of Melchizedek. Both men and animals cowered before the royal descendants of Ham. Likewise, this god who had threatened to scatter Alshear's people would soon bow to the true king—or else he would know the pain of arrow and sword.

One day, that true king would be Alshear. He was the eldest son and rightful heir of the throne. No god had a right to take that away from him. Melchizedek would pay for his threats. As soon as the tower of Babel was complete, Alshear's people would storm the heavens and slaughter the inhabitants. Then both earth and sky would worship Alshear. Melchizedek would bow in pitiful fear. He would bow, and then his trembling heart would be displayed from the top of the tower as a warning to all against the vanity of rebellion.

But what to do now? After they reached the Euphrates they would still be days away from Babel and its tower. Even if they somehow made it back before the storm reached them, the tower was months from being finished. For now, the coward-god could hide in the sky and attack them.

As wise as Alshear was, he knew he needed guidance.

“What does the oracle say?” he asked Joriancumr, turning his camel so that he was facing away from the growing storm.

Joriancumr reached into his robe and withdrew a small, leather pouch tied off with dried sheep sinew. He alighted from his camel, and using the tip of his sword, drew a broad circle in the ground, traversing the circumference thrice. Kneeling, he shook from the pouch seven fresh knucklebones and cast them upon the ground. They landed in two lines which crossed each other. Instantly, his normally red face turned the color of sun-bleached wood.

Alshear did not need the high priest to interpret the bones' meaning.

Death was coming.

A Good Night's Sleep: Cache Valley, Utah, USA Modern Day

High up in Utah's Rocky Mountains of the United States, protected by his warm and comfortable home, John Case opened his eyes. His two year old son, Luke, stood in the partly open doorway, dimly illuminated by nightlights from his bedroom.

“I sleepy,” he murmured.

If his son was sleepy, John knew the cure: “Get back into bed,” he gently commanded.

“You bed.” Luke stood still a moment longer, then walked forward. The bed covers moved away from John, then grew tight as his son pulled on them to help him climb onto the bed. Once successfully on top, the covers went slack again. Luke snuggled under them and against John. This was unusual behavior for Luke. Sometimes he wanted to fall asleep in his parents' bed, but never as a toddler had he tried to sleep with them during the middle of the night. Cry, yes. Have leg aches, yes. But not wake his dad up at one or two or whatever time it was in the morning so he could crawl into bed with him.

Perhaps Luke would fall asleep quickly. Then John could carry him back to his own bed and enjoy sleeping again.

John moved closer to his wife, Callie, so Luke would have more space and wouldn't fall off the bed. Callie, however, was already sleeping on John's side of the mattress. He nudged her, but instead of turning away from him, she rolled on top of his elbow. At almost the same time, Luke crawled onto his shoulder and upper arm. He had become a mattress. He closed his eyes and tried to rest. Unfortunately, the light seeping into the room, though faint, irritated his eyes. An internal pressure from a sinus cold squeezed his head. He was uncomfortably squished. And even if he could have slept with all of that, he didn't dare allow himself to drift off because his arm might fall asleep.

Luke's breathing wasn't slowing. How long would it take for him to slumber?

Trying to relax, John focused on the feel of the air against his nostrils as he inhaled, on the weight of his chest as it rose and fell, on the patterns of light and dark behind his closed eyelids. It wasn't working. Ever sense his family had been held hostage two weeks earlier he had had trouble falling asleep. The two Cuban intelligence agents had disappeared after the explosion. And although the FBI had captured multiple Iranian operatives, there was evidence suggesting a few members of the MOIS cell might still be at large.

The FBI had assured John they had taken care of things so the Iranians would no longer believe that he was Big J. But what if they were wrong? Luke was breathing even faster now. Maybe toddlers were different than adults. Maybe their breathing didn't become slow and deep when they slept. Or maybe a dream was causing Luke's fast breaths. Regardless, Luke hadn't moved in a few minutes, so it was time to try putting him in his own bed.

John sat up and wrapped his arm around his son. In the grayness, Luke may have opened his eyes and watched as his dad carried him out of the master room, across the hallway and into his own bedroom. Certainly, though softly, he demurred as John carefully placed him on his bed. In spite of his verbal protest, he rolled onto his side, allowing his dad to spread a sheet and blanket over him.

From across the room, Ruby, barely two months old, stirred in her crib. John looked down at her and smiled.

Light from outside the window combined with light from the nightlight, allowing him to see her tiny, curled fingers and cute, delicate nose. Maybe that same light was what woke Luke up. As John reached toward the controller wand to close the blinds, he glanced between the open slats. A dark, Jeep-like SUV sat parked in front of his house. Light from the porch reached the street and dimly illuminated a man in the driver's seat, his face clearly turned toward John. The man looked down for a moment, then back up, as if waiting to view something.

Was he someone who had lost his way and was trying to figure out if this was really his destination? Or was he an international operative wanting to get back at John for not selling his country the L-LID missile schematics? Was John's family in danger again.

Staying out of view of the window, John closed the blinds. Then he grabbed his heavy-duty, metal Maglite flashlight from under his bed (useful as an attack baton) and a couple of steak knives from the kitchen. He had locked all the exterior doors earlier, but checked them again. Finally, he called the police and asked for a courtesy drive-by to check out the vehicle and its driver. Perhaps he was overreacting, but who could blame him?

Instead of going back to his own bed, John dropped a pillow on the floor near his son. He lay on his side, a home-spun weapon in each hand.

Despite the cool temperature, he didn't cover himself with a sheet or blanket; they would only make it harder for him to react if an intruder entered the room.

After about ten minutes he heard a car drive up and park. A door closed.

A few minutes later, an engine started and two cars drove off. Staying low, John peeked between the lowest window slats. The man and the SUV were gone.

Of course, if the stranger wanted to, he could drive back at any moment and resume his surveillance or break into their home. John cringed at the thought. He would stay in his infants' room and protect them the rest of the night.

But what about in the morning? John and his family would be leaving to Arizona for a job interview and a vacation. Would the man take advantage of their absence and rob the house? Or would he follow them, waiting for an auspicious moment to torment them? In just a few hours John might have his answer.

I'itoi: Budapest, Hungary Modern Day

War, bad choices, and political machinations had led to a loss of land, life, and optimism in Hungary, despite its ancient and mighty history. The Treaty of Trianon following World War I had forced the Kingdom of Hungary to give up over two thirds of its land. In the ensuing years, Communism and Fascism caused untold suffering and turned man against man. Even now that the Hungarians were a free people, political turmoil still buffeted them.

While foreign powers had certainly exerted damaging influence, some of Hungary's troubles were caused by its own citizens. One of these was Mátyás Rákosi.

Shortly after WWII, the country's government had consisted of multiple parties. Rákosi, as leader of the Communist Party, had used threats and public passion to destroy a few members of his opposition, then more members, and then more, until the parties merged and all that remained were the Communists, under the disingenuous title of Magyar Dolgozók Pártja or Hungarian Working People's Party.

The life of Rákosi illustrated an important truth that the man called Papa Go had spent his life pondering: power was gained through illusion, manipulation, and the patient, systematic execution of willful planning. The Hungarians needed a national identity that tied them to their past and helped them feel powerful and hopeful again. Papa Go intended to use the lessons of Rákosi and others to help them achieve that. Indeed, he had been working on that all morning.

He sat down his mirrorless DSLR camera with super telephoto lens and smiled. Outside, Hungary's conservative presidential candidate slowly walked away, unaware that he had been caught dozing in the park, his sleepiness caused by something placed into his lunch. What was worse for him, a model had followed him and, while he slept, posed next to him on the park bench in such a way that scandalous headlines based on Papa Go's photos would be easy to write and believe.

Most political candidates had something to hide in their background. If, like this one, they didn't have dirty secrets, then rumors, accusations, and staged or photoshopped images all worked to ensure that the right people gained power. Even an image of a candidate shaking the wrong person's hand could be used to manipulate sentiment. The masses tended to believe almost anything. Especially lies. Especially blatantly false lies.

Crossing to his closet, Papa Go withdrew a Native American face mask painted in contrasting brilliant blue and red stripes. White beads ran down the center of the mask from forehead to chin. Long feathers hung where hair would have been on a live head.

He adjusted the mask over his face, and opened his laptop. The voice modulating software was set to automatically change his voice.

1:05 p.m. The phone on his computer rang. He answered. “Good evening, Healing Bear.”

“Good evening, I'itoi,” a deep, electronic voice answered back. Like Papa Go, the caller was using a voice modulator. “How's the weather in Budapest?”

“Calm, but I smell change in the air.” Papa Go smiled. “How are the Tower Callers doing?”

“Making progress. Three more groups have promised to join us. Ten are vacillating, but their people are growing angry. They want their rights restored.”

“And the scorpion tails?”

“Delivered. More on the way.”

“What about the bean eaters?”

“Intent on keeping things as they are.”

PapaGo lightly pounded his left fist on the table, out of view of the videocam. “Triple the Tower Callers there. Employ some at the casino and the rec center. They need to understand the primacy of reclaiming their sovereignty and being redressed for the crimes against them. Ever since the white man came they have been abused. They must understand that they can rise up like I'itoi. They are the ones with the God-given right to rule America. It was stolen from them, but it can be theirs again.”

“It will be theirs. . . . but more Tower Callers means more costs.”

Papa Go clenched his fist, digging carefully manicured nails into his palm. Who did this person think he was asking for more money? He was already paid royally, and there was extra money in his account to hire a hundred more people to stir up trouble and raise discontent. Healing Bear did not want the money to employ others. He wanted it for himself.

“I'itoi?” the caller hesitantly said.

Papa Go increased the bass channel of the modulator, making his voice more menacing. “You already have the money.”

“I know, Sir, but keeping people happy is expensive.”

“Perhaps their leader needs to cut his own expenses then. I am not a bank, Healing Bear. I am simply a man seeking to free a people from centuries of oppression. Perhaps I can help you budget better by reducing your stipend . . . just so you get the practice.”

“The budget is not the concern. As you say, I simply want to help free these people. Sadly, the cost of hiring persuasive individuals gets higher every day.”

“It is better to live in moderate riches than to die a billionaire, is it not, Healing Bear?”

“Loyalty is not purchased with threats, I'itoi. We both want the same thing. Liberation. Liberation costs money.”

The eyes of the caller stared back at Papa Go through a wooden mask in the shape of a bear's face. Papa Go could read eyes. There was no fear in this man's. The caller was right. Loyalty wasn't engendered through threats. Enemies were.

“I'll send another hundred thousand this afternoon.”

“Thank you. You'll be pleased with the results.”

Yes, he would be pleased. . . . or else Healing Bear would soon see the Great Spirit that greeted all men when they died. He turned the modulator back to its original setting to give an appearance of amelioration.

“Thank you, too” Papa Go responded. “You are a true friend of liberty. Please report when more groups are willing to accept shipments.” Without waiting for a reply, Papa Go closed the laptop, effectively hanging up the call. He carefully wrapped the face mask and packed it in its box in the closet.

People like Healing Bear were essential to his plans. War, itself, was easy to engineer. World War One was an excellent case in point: the assassination of one person led to the deaths of hundreds of thousands thanks to alliances and the base emotions of man. One had only to persuade various groups of people to form legal alliances, then endanger one member of the group, and suddenly, millions of people were fighting a war on your behalf, and they didn't even know they were doing it.

Engineers of war and death, however, were sometimes discovered and punished. For example, Cain, the first murderer, was cursed by God and his deed made public through the millennia. Therefore, in addition to utilizing demagoguery, flattery, idealism, and money, Papa Go had learned to never do the dirty work himself.

That's why Healing Bear was important: if anything happened, he would be the one facing justice and Papa Go would be free to continue orchestrating a world society of peace and order.