The Remnant: On the Brink of Armageddon

  Besides these, it was not uncommon for the Tribulation Force to see or feel the presence of angels protecting them wherever they went. Often, even outside of the routes to Petra, GC planes would intercept theirs, warn them, try to force them down, then shoot at them. Never knowing when and where they might be protected outside of the Negev, Tribulation Force pilots took evasive action. But thus far God had chosen to insulate them, to the frustration and astonishment of the GC.

  With less than two years to go before the Glorious Appearing, Rayford met with Buck and Chloe to assess the current state of the Tribulation Force. “Where are we,” he said, “and where do we need to be for maximum benefit to the entire body of believers around the world?”

  Chloe reported that Lionel Whalum and his wife had somehow been able to keep their home in Illinois, “though Leah and Hannah have developed serious cases of cabin fever. I mean, I think they’re encouraged by God’s work in their lives. Lionel was, of course, thrilled by Leah’s story of having been compelled to pray for him before he ran the final check on the cargo out of Argentina. You know, Dad, he’s one of our busiest pilots now, delivering supplies all over the world.”

  “How bad is it with Leah and Hannah?” Buck said. “I don’t know either of them that well, but Leah would get on anybody’s nerves. She still pining for Tsion?”

  “They keep low profiles,” Chloe said, “and say they feel as if they live only at night. They don’t dare venture out during the day. GC activity is spotty in that area of the suburbs, but all it would take is one report of someone without the mark, and one of our major thrusts would be jeopardized.”

  “I hardly ever hear from Z anymore,” Rayford said.

  Chloe shook her head. “Of all people, Zeke has probably changed the most. There’s almost zero call for his services there in western Wisconsin. No uniforms to tailor, no disguises to invent, no undercover agents to transform.”

  “Could we better use him out here?” Rayford said.

  “Not when you hear this,” Chloe said. “Zeke has sort of settled into a new persona. He’s taken such an interest in studying the Bible that he’s become the de facto assistant to the spiritual leader of the underground church there.”

  “Zeke an assistant pastor?” Rayford said. “Push me over with a feather.”

  “Chloe’s been keeping up with Enoch and some of his people,” Buck said.

  “Yeah, I apologized for intruding on their lives and their community, because I felt responsible for the split-up of much of The Place congregation. But Enoch reminded me that if I hadn’t discovered them, they never would have known of the coming destruction.

  “On the other hand, Dad, I know that if I had not been traipsing around Chicago in the middle of the night, there might never have been that secondary destruction.”

  One morning in Petra, the assemblage awoke to the news that all the seas of the world had spontaneously turned from blood to salt water again. “God has given me no special knowledge about this,” Tsion announced. “But it makes me wonder if something worse isn’t coming. And soon.”

  Little changed except that Carpathia tried to take the credit for the cleansing of the seas. He announced, “My people created a formula that has healed the waters. The plant and animal life of the oceans will surge back to life before long. And now that the oceans are clear again, all our beautiful lake and river waterways will soon be restored as well.”

  He was wrong, of course, and the blunder of his bluster cost him even more credibility. God had chosen, in his own time, to lift the plague from the seas, but the lakes and rivers remained blood.

  Just before being executed, a Swedish insurgent announced, “What our so-called potentate ignored in exulting over the revived seas is that there is still an international mess. Dead, rotting, smelly fish still blanket the shores around the world and still carry the diseases that have driven most of the coastline populations inland. And where are the refining plants to turn the seas into potable water? We die of thirst while the king hoards the resources.”

  Sixty-Eight Months into the Tribulation

  Chang was intrigued to hear of an unscheduled meeting in Carpathia’s conference room. Leon had actually called the meeting, much to Carpathia’s frustration, but Suhail Akbar, Viv Ivins, and Nicolae’s secretary Krystall all quickly came to Leon’s defense. “This is about water, Excellency,” Leon began. “Because you no longer need nourishment, including water, perhaps you don’t underst—”

  “Listen to me, Leon. There is water in food. Are you people not eating enough food?”

  “Potentate, the situation is dire. We try to harvest water from the seas and convert it. But even getting new ships out there is a chore.”

  “It is true, unfortunately,” Akbar said, “and our troops everywhere are suffering.”

  “I’m suffering,” Viv said. “Personally, I mean. There are times I think I should die if I don’t find a swallow of water.”

  “Ms. Ivins,” Carpathia said, “we shall not allow the administration of the Global Community to grind to a halt because you are thirsty. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Highness. Forgive that selfish expression. I don’t know what I—”

  “In fact, do you have a whit of expertise in this area?”

  “Sir?”

  “In the matter before us! Do you bring anything to the table that helps get us to a solution? Are you an expert? a scientist? a hydrologist? There is no need to shake your head. I know the answers. If you do not have pressing business in your office, why do you not just sit and listen and be grateful that you draw a paycheck here?”

  “Would you prefer I leave?”

  “Of course!”

  Chang heard her chair push back from the table.

  “A little tie with my family,” Nicolae said, “and you ride that horse as if it is your own! Do not turn from me when I address you!”

  “I thought you wanted me to leave!” she whimpered.

  “I do not cater to subjects, employees, friends, or otherwise who disrespect their sovereign. This same attitude made you think you could sit on MY THRONE in MY TEMPLE!”

  “Your Lordship, I have apologized over and over for that indiscretion! I am humiliated, repentant, and—”

  “Excellency,” Leon said softly, “that was more than two years ago. . . .”

  “You!” Carpathia roared. “You call this meeting and now you counter me as well?”

  “No, sir. I apologize if it sounds as if I am c—”

  “What would you call it? Would you like to join Aunt Viv and return to your office to work on what you have been assigned? You are head of the church, man! What happens to Carpathianism while you worry about water? Where are the scientists, the technologists who have something to offer here?”

  Leon did not respond.

  “Ms. Ivins, why are you still here?”

  “I—but I thought you—”

  “Go! For the love of all—”

  “Sir,” Suhail began, as if the voice of reason, “I did consult the experts before coming, and—”

  “Finally! Someone who uses the brain I gave him! What do you have?”

  “If you’ll notice here, Your Highness . . .”

  Chang heard the rattle of paper, as if Akbar was spreading a document.

  “Satellite photography has detected a spring in the middle of Petra that has apparently been producing freshwater since the day of the bombings.”

  “So we are back to Petra, are we, Director Akbar? The site of so many billions of Nicks poured into the desert sands?”

  “It has been a boondoggle, sir, but notice what the aerial photography shows. Apparently the missile struck an aquifer that supplies thousands of gallons of pure water every day. It only stands to reason that the source of this spring extends far outside the city of Petra, and our people see no reason why we could not access it as well.”

  “Where do they believe it extends?”

  “To the east.”

  “And
how deep?”

  “They are not able to tell from this kind of technology, but if a missile could tap into it in Petra, surely we could drill—or even use another missile—east of there.”

  “Use a missile to tap into a spring? Suhail, have you heard of using too much equipment for a job?”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but two daisy cutter bombs and a Lance missile produced only drinking water for a million of our enemies.”

  Mac had called Abdullah to tell him of the news of the finishing of a new Co-op airstrip, “beautifully hidden” just east of Ta’izz, north of the Gulf of Aden in southern Yemen. “Albie’s got a shipment he’d like to deliver to Petra, if you could run it down there sometime in the next day or so.”

  “Me?” Abdullah said. “By myself?”

  “Need me to hold your hand there, Smitty?”

  “No. It is not that. It is just that such errands are so much more fun with company.”

  “Yeah, I’m a barrel o’ laughs, but that’s a quick one-man run you can do with one of the lighter planes.”

  “One of Mr. Whalum’s people left a Lear here. Can the new strip take a Lear?”

  “Sure. A 30 or smaller. Anyway, watch for us around noon. When do you think you’d do this?”

  “Probably today. If I finish with my hair and nail appointments in time. I was going to have my face done too, but—”

  “What in heaven’s name are you goin’ on about?”

  Abdullah laughed. “I finally got you, Mr. Mac! I was doing a joke on you!”

  “Very funny, Smitty.”

  “I got you, didn’t I, cowboy?”

  Abdullah was checking the weather at the communications center when Naomi called out to him. “Mr. Smith, could you tell me what you make of this?”

  He hurried over.

  “What does that look like to you?” she said.

  Abdullah’s stomach dropped. Dare he say it? Dare he not? “That looks like incoming.”

  “That’s what I thought! What do I do?”

  “Get Tsion and Chaim. Code red.”

  “May I tell them you said that, sir?”

  “Tell them whatever you need to, but quickly.”

  She pushed a button and spoke into a microphone. “Communications central to leadership.”

  “Leadership here. Morning, Naomi.”

  “I need Drs. Ben-Judah and Rosenzweig here ASAP on a code red, authorized by Mr. Smith.”

  “I will not ask you to repeat that if you can confirm what I thought you said.”

  “That’s affirmative, Leadership. Code red.”

  Abdullah met Tsion and Chaim at the entrance. Several grave-looking elders accompanied them. “Abdullah,” Chaim said, “code reds are reserved for threats to the well-being of the whole.”

  “Follow me.”

  He took them to Naomi, where they formed a half circle behind her and stared at the screen.

  “A missile?”

  “Looks like it,” Abdullah said.

  “Headed for the city?”

  “Actually no, but close.”

  “From?”

  “Probably Amman.”

  “Time?”

  “Minutes.”

  “Target?”

  “Looks east.”

  “Where they have been drilling?”

  Abdullah nodded.

  Tsion said, “They have been drilling for weeks, and we have seen nothing. No oil, no water, no blood. Now they are going to bomb the place? It is not like Carpathia to take up arms against his own forces, depleted as they are. Do we have time to watch? Would it be prudent?”

  Abdullah studied the screen. “I was at ground zero for two bombs and a missile two years ago. I would not fear another missile at least a mile from here. We have field glasses on tripods at the high place north of the Siq.”

  “Shall I warn the people?” Naomi said.

  Tsion thought a moment. “Just tell them,” he said, “to not be alarmed by an explosion within—when would you say, Abdullah?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  “This is not a surprise to the drilling crew,” Abdullah said a few minutes later, bent to look through high-powered binoculars.

  “They have moved,” Tsion said.

  “Quite a ways, actually. More than a mile. Maybe two. And the drill rigging has been disassembled. That tells me that they don’t want it destroyed by the missile. It is probably programmed internally for a specific coordinate.”

  Chaim sat on a rock, breathing heavily. “Is it just my age or is it particularly warm today?”

  “I am perspiring more than usual myself, my friend,” Tsion said.

  Abdullah pulled up from the binocs and shaded his eyes with his hand. “Now that you mention it, look at the sun.”

  It seemed larger, brighter, higher than it should have been.

  “What time is it?” Tsion said.

  “About ten.”

  “Why, that could be a noonday sun! You don’t suppose . . .”

  Abdullah heard a whistling sound in the distance. He looked north. A white plume appeared on the horizon. “Missile,” he said. “It will be hard to follow with the glasses, but you could try.”

  “I can see it with the naked eye,” Tsion said.

  “I am warm,” Chaim said.

  They watched as the winding missile streaked into view and began to descend. It appeared aimed for the original drilling site. It soared past the disassembled drilling rig on the desert floor, then slammed a hundred yards south of it, raising a huge cloud of sand and soil and digging a deep, wide crater.

  The rumble of the explosion reached them in seconds, and the cloud slowly dissipated. Abdullah readjusted the binoculars to study the crater. “I cannot imagine it went nearly as deep as the hole they had already been drilling,” he said. “Regardless, so far it has produced nothing.”

  “I am amused,” Tsion said, “but I wonder what they thought they might accomplish. If they were hoping to strike water, would they not have simply produced a geyser of blood anyway?”

  CHAPTER 21

  Chang took an unusual risk and surreptitiously followed the missile-for-water effort from his desk at work. He listened through headphones but kept an eye out for anyone walking by.

  Nicolae swore. “What did that little project cost, Suhail?”

  “It wasn’t cheap, Excellency, but let’s not assume failure just yet.”

  “Assume? The Lance we sent to Petra immediately produced a gusher that flows to this day! This is a disaster plain as day!”

  “You may be right.”

  “I am always right! Face it. You are going to have to attack this water thing another way.”

  Chang heard a knock and Krystall’s voice. “Begging your pardon, sir, but we are getting strange reports.”

  “What kind of reports?”

  “Some kind of a heat wave. The lines are jammed. People are—”

  Chang heard shouting and realized it came from his office and not from the surveillance. He quickly exed out and removed his earphones. He followed his coworkers to the windows, where they crowded to look outside.

  “Get back!” Mr. Figueroa screamed as he burst from his office. “Get away from the windows!”

  But like toddlers, these people wanted to do whatever they were told not to, and anyway, they were curious. What was causing all the explosions outside? Fortunately for the crowd around the window Chang peered out from, it wasn’t the first to go. But two of their coworkers—the cocky, condescending Lars and a young woman—were impaled with shards of glass when the window before them gave way.

  As they lay writhing, pale and panicked, the steamy desert air blew in. The first woman who knelt to aid the injured immediately reddened from the heat, and as she surrendered and tried to evade it, her hair curled, produced sparks, burst into flames, and was singed off.

  Others tried to drag the first two to safety, but they too had to scamper from the heat.

  “What is this?” someone shrieke
d. “What’s happening?”

  Those in front of Chang quickly backed away from the window, and he saw what was going on below. Car tires exploded. People leaped from their cars, then tried to get back in, burning their hands on the door handles. Windshields melted, greenery turned brown, withered, then became torches. A dog yanked loose from its leash, raced in circles, then dropped, panting, before being incinerated.

  “To the basement!” Figueroa shouted, and to people who seemed reluctant to leave the fallen injured, “It’s too late to help them!”

  People watched over their shoulders as they hurried away, and by the time they reached the door, they saw Lars and the young woman flailing at flames that would soon consume them.

  Chang was one of the last out of the room, because he was only faking the effects of the heat. He saw the results, but aside from being aware that the temperature outside seemed higher than normal, he was impervious to the killing force.

  He was glad to reach the elevator just as the doors were closing. “I’ll catch the next one,” he said and ran to his quarters instead.

  At midnight in San Diego, Rayford was awakened by insistent tones from his computer. He dragged himself out of bed and turned on the monitor. Tsion was informing his cyberaudience around the world that the terrible fourth Bowl Judgment had struck, as prophesied in the Bible, and would affect every time zone on the earth as the sun rose. “Here in Petra,” he wrote, “by ten in the morning, people out in the sun without the seal of God were burned alive. This may seem an unparalleled opportunity to plead once again for the souls of men and women, because millions will lose loved ones. But the Scriptures also indicate that this may come so late in the hearts of the undecided that they will have already been hardened.

  “Revelation 16:8-9 says, ‘Then the fourth angel poured out his bowl on the sun, and power was given to him to scorch men with fire. And men were scorched with great heat, and they blasphemed the name of God who has power over these plagues; and they did not repent and give Him glory.’”

  Rayford keyed in a request to interact privately with Tsion or Chaim; he did not care which. “I know both of you will be terribly busy just now, but if either can spare a moment for the sake of the Tribulation Force, I would appreciate it.”