Fifth Gospel:The Odyssey of a Time Traveler in First-Century Palestine Read online

  THE ODYSSEY OF A TIME TRAVELER IN FIRST CENTURY PALESTINE

  FIFTH

  GOSPEL:

  WILLIAM ROSKEY

  iUniverse, Inc.

  Bloomington

  Fifth Gospel

  The Odyssey of a Time Traveler in First-Century Palestine

  Copyright © 1983, 2011 by William Roskey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  The 20th century characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The names (with the exception of historical figures, e.g., President Eisenhower and Albert Einstein) are also inventions of the author. With the exception of historical figures (e.g., Jesus Christ, his disciples, and others mentioned in the Bible), the 1st century characters are also fictitious.

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  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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  ISBN: 978-1-4620-2857-3 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4620-2859-7 (e)

  ISBN: 978-1-4620-2858-0 (dj)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011910680

  Printed in the United States of America

  iUniverse rev. date: 7/19/2011

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

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  15

  16

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  39

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  41

  42

  Epilogue

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  The whole thing had a strange dreamlike quality about it from the outset. I’d just landed at Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada after putting my F-l00 Super Sabre through its paces in mock dog fights with Grant, Riley, and Janeczek. Darting in and out of the massive canyons of altocumulus clouds, each of us had been piloting what at that time was undisputedly the hottest operational fighter plane in the world. Powered by its mighty Pratt & Whitney J57-P-21 afterburning turbojet, it could clip along at 822 mph at 35,000 feet. Its range was 575 miles, and its service ceiling was over 50,000 feet. The Super Sabre was the first operational fighter to exceed the speed of sound in level flight, and it had the twin distinctions of holding the last subsonic world speed record and the first supersonic world speed record. The normal armament was four 20-mm cannon, and there were six underwing pylons for air-to-surface missiles, bombs, or rockets. But today we had been loaded with nothing more lethal than cameras and film; we’d be viewing the processed films the following afternoon to critique tactics, reaction times, capabilities of the aircraft, and so on. The losers would buy drinks at the Officers Club.

  It was 1958, and none of us needed to be reminded that only five years before, too many of our buddies who lost dog fights over MIG Alley were buried in Korea, or, in some cases, splattered all over it. We were determined not to be caught short again. Lose to a camera today, correct your mistakes, and polish your style so you won’t die in a real dog fight tomorrow. It was good common sense and great fun too. I had been a big winner that afternoon, but, as I cut my engine and slid the canopy back, I felt an eerie prickling sensation on the back of my neck. Staring through the shimmering heat waves rising off the baking runway, I saw the blurred images of the ground crew. But there was another figure as well, a civilian in a black woolen suit. Radiating an aura of power and mystery, he stood out among the young, fatigue-clad mechanics. His eyes locked on mine instantly and never left me as I clambered out of the plane, down the side, and onto the ground.

  The closer I got to him, the more uneasy I became. He was a big man, not so much tall as he was broad. His gray eyes were intent; he was sizing me up, and those eyes had sized up many men before.

  “Captain O’Brien,” he said without preamble and without extending his hand, “I’m here to speak with you about your application to become a test pilot. Come with me please.” With that crisp announcement, he abruptly wheeled about and headed for the Operations Building. I fell in beside him, matching his brisk pace step for step.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Debriefing Room B.”

  He hadn’t returned my friendly smile, and I was beginning to get irritated. The air temperature at ground level was nudging 94 degrees, and the desert heat was already starting to hit me. I gave up the idea of having any kind of discussion with my anonymous and taciturn friend; instead, I just concentrated on getting into the air-conditioned building as quickly as possible and wrapping my hand around a bottle of ice-cold Coke. It was then that I realized that, with that black woolen suit on, my friend must have been feeling the same way. A woolen suit? He must have just flown in from the East. It was late November and undoubtedly pretty brisk back there. Could he have come all the way from the Pentagon? The thundering roar of five F-100s revving up just 75 yards away quickened our pace even more.

  The debriefing rooms were absolutely soundproof. Rooms A and C were large, always unlocked, and each was furnished with some thirty-odd one-armed school desks, a screen and projection equipment, huge blackboards, a lectern, and coffee and Coke machines. Debriefing Room B sat between them. Its door was always locked and neither I nor anyone I knew had ever been in it. My poker-faced companion pulled a key from his pocket and opened the door. When he flipped on the light switch, I saw that the room was obviously intended for briefing or debriefing a single pilot. It measured about nine by twelve feet, its only furnishings being a gray metal rectangular table, four gray metal chairs, and a water cooler. There were no wall maps, windows, screens, or blackboards. On the table lay a tape recorder and a microphone, a black phone, and a red phone. A paper shredder was next to the table. The lighting was soft and subdued. The room was all business. As if the atmosphere were not already sufficiently discomforting, my escort locked the door behind us, walked over to the table, and sat down without a word or a glance at me.

  Things had gone far enough, I thought. There’s a world of difference between an interview and an interrogation, and I decided it was time someone taught this guy the difference before things went any further. I followe
d him to the table in the center of the room, dumped my crash helmet on it in front of him, then casually ambled over to the water cooler. I drank two cups of water, leisurely unzipped my pressure suit at the wrists, ankles, and neck. Then I drew a third cup of water. Still no response. I draped my arm over the top of the five-gallon jug and tried hard to look relaxed. I don’t readily cooperate with people who try to intimidate me. I know that stress interviews probably have a legitimate place in personnel selection for certain types of jobs, but I don’t have to put up with it. About a minute ticked by before the man sighed and spoke.

  “Let’s neither of us play games, Captain O’Brien. Please sit down.”

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Jones.”

  I stalked over to the table, picked up my helmet, and headed for the door. “I knew it. The word is out that you CIA clowns are looking for another crop of U-2 pilots. Well, wrong number. One of these days, and it’s only a matter of time, one of those things is going to be shot down. Mrs. O’Brien didn’t raise any fools. See you around ‘Jones.’”

  “O’Brien, I’m not from the CIA and wouldn’t know a U-2 from a Piper Cub. What I do know is this: you’d be a fool to walk out of this room before hearing me out. I’ve flown more than 2,000 miles just to talk to you, and if I were in your shoes, that fact alone would tend to make me a wee bit curious.”

  “Come on, Jones?”

  In response, he pulled out a black leather case and flipped it open. It revealed the badge and I.D. of Clarence David Jones, “a duly appointed Special Agent of the United States Secret Service.”

  “I think I’ll sit down for a bit.”

  “Thanks, Captain.”

  Still determined not to give him any psychological advantage by sitting directly opposite him in the classic interrogation pose, I pulled out a chair at the end of the table and sat at his right hand. Jones responded with a wry little smile and nodded as if he had expected me to do that all along. I found out later that he had. I found out over the course of the next several days that Clarence David Jones was no ordinary cop, that he had investigated my entire life with such minute attention to detail that he very literally knew more about me than I did, and most importantly, I found that had I left the room at that point, I would have thrown away an opportunity that millions would have gladly died for.

  2

  “All right, Captain. You’re cleared for Top Secret already; that, fortunately, saves us some time. But, in addition, I need your signature on this.” He withdrew a form from his inside coat pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to me. I scanned it quickly. It was the standard briefing security form, stating that I, the undersigned, understood that if I ever disclosed any of the information about to be imparted to me to any unauthorized person or persons, I would be liable to prosecution under Title XVIII, United States Code, and could be sentenced for up to twenty years in a federal penitentiary. I had signed dozens of them in my six years in the Air Force. Without hesitation, I took a ballpoint pen from the zippered sleeve pocket on my flight suit, signed and dated the form, and handed it back to Jones.

  “O.K., what’s going on here?”

  “I’m head of the White House detail of the Secret Service, but my duties very often include jobs that no one would ever associate with the Secret Service. There are various reasons for that, none of which we need go into. I report directly to the President, and only to the President. A certain—”

  “You’re looking for a new pilot or copilot for Air Force One! Now that’s more like it. I—”

  “Captain, if you’ll just let me do the talking, we’ll both arrive at our destination a little faster. As I was saying, a certain very important and very sensitive special project is underway, and, aside from being responsible for project security, I’m doing the recruiting for a key position. What we need is a young man in excellent physical condition, fast reflexes, and proven physical courage—not unlike a fighter pilot with recent wartime experience. You’re credited with seven confirmed kills in Korea, all seven MIG-15s. That impresses me, as does your bailout 52 miles behind enemy lines and your subsequent actions: you freed a truckload of American and South Korean POWs and led them back to our lines, going smack dab through the middle of a Chinese division. You were resourceful and inventive. Your war record obviously impressed others as well. In addition to your Purple Hearts, you walked away with the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Silver Star. The Army awarded you an honorary Combat Infantryman’s Badge in recognition of all the damage you and your raggedy bunch of POWs did to North Korea’s and China’s finest on your way back to friendly lines.

  “You have a high linguistic aptitude and that is critical. You scored high in the desert survival training course you took last year. So much so that you were asked to stay on as an instructor. You are the only man who ever gained weight during the week-long practical field exercise. That says something about you. Your psychological profile indicates that you give your optimum performances under conditions of extreme adversity. You’re essentially a loner. Another plus.” Jones was ticking the points off on his fingers as he spoke.

  “We also would like a man who has a good foundation in the practical or applied sciences, but who doesn’t possess the tunnel vision that the professional scientist or technician so often falls prey to. We want a man who has a larger view. One who can look beyond the immediate to see the big picture and be able to recognize the not so obvious consequences of his actions … or inactions. Say for example, like a serious student of world history.

  “I’m truly sorry that I can’t tell you much more than that, Captain. I can only tell you more when and if you pass the interview. The interview, should you decide you want to try out for the job, will be like no other interview you’ve ever had. It will be just you and me, in this room, for the next three to four days. I’ll ask you so many questions and I’ll ask them so fast, your head will be in a constant state of spin. Many of the questions will seem strange to you, even bizarre. You’ll probably feel that some of the questions I ask are none of my business. At anytime during the interview, you can walk out of here, and that’s the end of it. There will be no record made of our talks, written, taped, or otherwise. Whether you go or stay, you must, of course, never discuss this interview with anyone. Your commanding officer has already been told that you’ll be assisting me in the conduct of a highly classified investigation for the next several days. You’ve been temporarily relieved of all duties until further notice. You can tell your buddies at the BOQ the same thing. You guys are all used to keeping your mouths shut. I don’t foresee any problem there. No one around here is going to try to pump you about a highly classified Secret Service investigation.

  “Well, are you in?”

  “It’s not the only game in town, but it’s by far the most interesting one I’ve seen in quite awhile. I’m in.”

  “O.K., then.”

  Jones stood up, took off his suit jacket, and folded it carefully over one of the empty chairs. Next he took off his tie and unbuttoned his collar. After he drank a couple of cups of water from the cooler, he returned to the table and sat down again. He looked alert and ready to go the distance.

  “I’m going to start off with the dirtiest trick in the interviewer’s bag: tell me about yourself.”

  “Any particular areas you’re interested in?”

  “Everything.”

  “O.K.”

  I settled back in my chair collecting my thoughts and concentrating on relaxing my breathing and the tension in my major muscle groups. If he was ready to go the distance, so was I. “I am Aloysius Lightfoot O’Brien, Captain, United States Air Force, serial number 15731429. Date and place of birth: December 18, 1930, Globe, Arizona. Blood type O. No religious preference. I graduated from the University of Arizona in June 1952, at which time I entered into active duty with the Air Force. My major in college was history, my minor, chemistry. I am not now, nor have I ever been married. I—”

  Jones had held
up his hand. “O’Brien, I asked you to tell me about yourself. The kind of stuff you’re coming out with is all either stamped on your dog tags, written in your personnel folder, or both. I already know everything about you that’s on paper, and a lot not on paper. I want you to tell me what you think about and dream about. I want your opinions, your likes, your dislikes, your fears. I want you to tell me what you’re proud of, what you’re ashamed of, how you think about certain books you’ve read, speeches you’ve heard, and places you’ve been. I want to know who you really are and who you want to be. I want to know where you want to be and what you want to be doing five years from today, ten years from today, and thirty years from today. The last thing in the world I need is facts; I’ve already have more than enough of them. I know what grades you got in each of your school courses, your Air Force test scores … I even know who you took to your high school junior prom.”

  He was laying it on a bit too thick now, I thought. “Who?” I laughed.

  “Nancy Josephs.”

  I stopped laughing. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Whatever this was all about, I was in over my head; I was playing with the big boys. Whatever this was, it was big.

  Jones smiled sympathetically. “Look, perhaps it would help if I started out by just asking you specific questions. After a little bit, you’ll begin to see what I’m after, and from there it will just evolve into a long conversation.”

  “Thanks, that would help a lot.”

  “All right. Your father was killed in a barroom brawl in Globe when you were ten years old. How did you feel about it?”

  “ Bad,” I shrugged, puzzled. “I liked my dad.”

  “Didn’t you feel any anger, resentment, hatred?”

  “Why should I have?”

  “What started the brawl were certain insulting and obscene remarks about your father being a ‘squaw man’ and some vulgar remarks about his ‘squaw.’ Your mother was a full-flooded Chiricahua Apache. He and you and your mother had it tough in Globe. You and your mother especially were the objects of ridicule and bigotry. You were a ‘half-breed,’ and your mother, well, they called your mother a lot of things. Kids especially can be merciless to anyone who’s different. Then your father is killed.” Jones had let his voice trail off. I picked up on the cue.