CHAPTER 20

Five Years into the Tribulation

Chang spent hours monitoring the palace, his ears always pricking up when he heard Carpathia.

“Something in the atmosphere of that ancient Edom region interferes with our missiles, our flights, our artillery,” Nicolae said one evening. “The entire area has become a Bermuda Triangle. Ensure the peace but do not waste another Nick on armory that does no more than what we can accomplish diplomatically.”

Chang knew Global Community diplomacy was an oxymoron. Standard operating procedure no longer included any semblance of public relations for the potentate. Someone was trying to protect the potentate from it, but from all over the globe came evidence that even the millions of citizens who bore marks of loyalty to him now knew that the risen god of the world had become a despot king. Hundreds of thousands were dying everywhere for want of drinkable water.

One report from Region 7, the United African States, showed a woman railing in public before a small, obviously fearful crowd: “Justice, fair play, even juries are relics from another time! We obey the GC and bow to the image of the supreme ruler only because we all know someone who has been put to death for failing to!” She was shot to death where she stood, and the crowd scattered for its life.

From the same area came a sham of a recording depicting a programmed parade for the benefit of the Global Community News Network. The people marched listlessly, their faces blank, as they held aloft placards and chanted, “Hail, Carpathia” in monotones.

Chang both suffered and benefited from the chaos at the palace. In many ways New Babylon had become a ghost town. Citizens could no longer afford pilgrimages to the gleaming edifices. He knew from the real figures—not the cooked books whose summaries were announced to the populace—that half the world’s population at the time of the Rapture had now died.

The capital city of the world didn’t work very well anymore. Factions and minikingdoms sprang up, even around Carpathia—top people threatening, cajoling, surrounding themselves with sycophants. Everyone was suspicious of everyone else, while all were obsequious and cloying around the big boss. Revolt was out of the question. Theirs was a ruler who had proved himself impervious to death. What was the point of killing him again? You could take power for three days, but you had better loot the place and be gone when he resurrected.

The sad state of services in New Babylon was nothing compared to everywhere else in the world but Petra. Trib Force and Co-op fliers reported that everywhere they went, they saw that things simply wore out and were not replaced. The huge depletion of the population cost society half the people once employed in service jobs. Few were left to transport fuel, fix cars, keep streetlamps and traffic lights working, maintain order, protect businesses. Buck recounted in The Truth that the GC, especially at the local level, used their uniforms, badges, and weapons to get more for themselves. “Pity the shop owner who doesn’t grease the palm of his friendly neighborhood insurer of security.”

Chang watched all this from his spot as a journeyman techie in Aurelio Figueroa’s computer department—but mostly from the system so expertly designed and installed by his predecessor, David Hassid. Ironic, Chang thought, that it was the one thing still humming along perfectly.

Carpathia himself was a madman, and no one around him even pretended otherwise—except to his face. Everyone seemed to cater to his craziness, competing to see who could be first to curry his favor by carrying out his latest directive—which usually came in a fit of fury.

“Insubordination!” he shrieked late one night as Chang listened to his weary lieutenants trying to stay awake with him. “My sub-potentate in Region 7 must wake up tomorrow to find that the heads of both Libya and Ethiopia and their entire senior cabinets have been assassinated!”

Suhail Akbar said, “I’ll talk with him, Excellency. I’m sure he will realize that—”

“Did you not understand that to be a directive, Suhail?”

“Sir?”

“Did you not understand my order?”

“You literally want those leaders and their cabinets dead by morning?”

“If you cannot accomplish it, I will find—”

“It can be done, sir, but there would not be time to send our strike force from here—”

“You are director of Security and Intelligence! You have no contacts in Africa who can—”

“I’m on it, sir.”

“I should hope you are!”

The deed was accomplished by an S & I force of African Peacekeepers and Morale Monitors. Akbar was lauded the next day, then suffered in Carpathia’s doghouse for more than three weeks because the boss was having trouble “getting useful information out of Region 7.”

Rayford lived in an underground hut, like everyone else who worked out of the former military base in San Diego. And like Mac and Albie out of Al Basrah, Rayford flew missions directly between San Diego and other International Co-op centers—places so remote and well hidden that if the fliers could elude GC radar—and even that was crumbling with the loss of personnel all over the world—there were no pesky airport details they had to bluff their way past. The head of the Tribulation Force worried that he and his people might lower their guard and see their whole network come crashing down. He actually had felt more in control and careful when the GC had been at full strength. The world had become a cauldron of individual free-market systems.

When he was “home” in San Diego, Rayford studied the reports that came to Chloe from Co-op workers all over the globe. Hardly anywhere in the world escaped the evil influence of the GC-sponsored deceivers. Magicians, sorcerers, wizards, demonic apparitions, and deputies of Leon Fortunato preached a false gospel. They set themselves up as Christ figures, messiahs, soothsayers. They lauded the deity of Carpathia. They performed wonders and miracles and deceived countless thousands. These were lured away from considering the claims of Christ himself, usually by the promise of drinkable water, but once they had made their decisions for the evil ruler, either he snuffed them out as he had done in the Negev or God slew them. Tsion Ben-Judah continued to maintain that God was continually evening the score, removing from the earth those with the sign of the beast, because a great war was coming.

“It is not as if the God of gods could not defeat any foe he chooses,” Dr. Ben-Judah taught, “but the stench of the other side evangelizing for evil has offended him and kindled his wrath. Yet the wrath of God remains balanced by his great mercy and love. There has been not one report of death or injury to any of the 144,000 evangelists God has raised up to spread the truth about his Son.”

Though weary of the battle and longing for heaven or the Glorious Appearing—sometimes Rayford didn’t care which came first for him—still he thrilled to the reports from all over the world. The Tribulation Force saw many of these 144,000 brave men venture into public, calling the undecided from their homes to confront them with the claims of Christ. The men were powerful preachers, anointed of God with the gift of evangelism. Often they were accompanied by angels, guardians to protect them and their listeners. GC forces were incapable of stopping them.

“The archangels Gabriel and Michael have been seen in various parts of the world, making pronouncements for God and standing in defense of his people,” Tsion and Chaim told the people of Petra and thus the world via the Internet. Rayford thanked God silently as he read that the angel with the everlasting gospel, Christopher, often appeared in remote regions where Christ had never been preached. Nahum continued to warn of the coming fall of Babylon, sometimes with Christopher, sometimes by himself. And Caleb was reported somewhere else almost every day, warning of the consequences for anyone accepting the mark of the beast and worshiping his image.

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?”