by Tim LaHaye
“Keep moving,” the officer said. “If you need to get back this way you can get off at Route 53 and try the side streets, but don’t expect to get near that old Nike base.”
Rayford had to keep driving, but he and Buck hollered questions at every officer they passed while Amanda kept looking for a local station. Every one she tried carried the Emergency Broadcast System tone. “Put it on ‘scan,’” Chloe suggested. Finally the radio found an EBS station and Amanda locked it in.
A Cable News Network/Global Community Network radio correspondent was broadcasting live just outside Washington, D.C. “The fate of Global Community Potentate Nicolae Carpathia remains in question at this hour as Washington lies in ruins,” he said. “The massive assault was launched by east coast militia, with the aid of the United States of Britain and the former sovereign state of Egypt, now part of the Middle Eastern Commonwealth.
“Potentate Carpathia arrived here last night and was thought to be staying in the presidential suite of the Capital Noir, but eyewitnesses say that luxury hotel was leveled this morning.
“Global Community peacekeeping forces immediately retaliated by destroying a former Nike center in suburban Chicago. Reports from there indicate that thousands of civilian casualties have been reported in surrounding suburbs, and a colossal traffic tie-up is hampering rescue efforts.”
“Oh, dear God!” Amanda prayed.
“Other attacks we know about at this moment,” the reporter went on, “include a foray of Egyptian ground forces toward Iraq, obviously intending a siege upon New Babylon. That effort was quickly eliminated by Global Community air forces, which are now advancing on England. This may be a retaliatory strike for Britain’s part in the American militia action against Washington. Please hold. Ah, please stand by. . . . Potentate Carpathia is safe! He will address the nation via radio. We will stand by here and bring that to you as we receive it.”
“We’ve got to get to Bruce,” Chloe said, as Rayford inched along. “Everybody’s going to be taking 53 north, Dad. Let’s go south and double back.”
“It’ll be another few moments before Potentate Carpathia comes on,” the reporter said. “Apparently the GCN is ensuring that his transmission cannot be traced. Meanwhile, this news out of Chicago regarding the strike against the former Nike base: It appears to have been preemptive as well as retaliatory. Global Community intelligence today uncovered a plot to destroy Potentate Carpathia’s plane, which may or may not have contained Carpathia when it was flown to O’Hare International this morning. That plane is now airborne, destination unknown, though Global Community forces are marshaling in New York City.”
Amanda grabbed Rayford’s arm. “We could have been killed!”
When Rayford spoke, Buck thought he might break down. “Let’s just hope I didn’t fulfill Earl’s dream by getting him killed,” he said.
“You want me to drive, Rayford?” Buck asked.
“No, I’ll be all right.”
The radio announcer continued: “We’re on standby for a lie feed, excuse me, a live feed from Global Community Potentate Nicolae Carpathia. . . .”
“He had that right the first time,” Chloe said.
“. . . Meanwhile, this word from Chicago. GC peacekeeping forces spokesmen say the destruction of the old Nike base was effected without the use of nuclear weapons, and though they regret heavy civilian casualties in nearby suburbs, they have issued the following statement: ‘Casualties should be laid at the feet of the militia underground. Unauthorized military forces are illegal to start with, but the folly of mustering arms in a civilian area has literally blown up in their faces.’ There is, we repeat, no danger of radiation fallout in the Chicago area, though peacekeeping forces are not allowing automobile traffic near the site of the destruction. Please stand by now for this live feed from Potentate Nicolae Carpathia.”
Rayford had finally exited south onto Route 53, snaked his way through an Authorized Vehicles Only turnaround, and was heading north toward Rolling Meadows.
“Loyal citizens of the Global Community,” came the voice of Carpathia, “I come to you today with a broken heart, unable to tell you even from where I speak. For more than a year we have worked to draw this Global Community together under a banner of peace and harmony. Today, unfortunately, we have been reminded again that there are still those among us who would pull us apart.
“It is no secret that I am, always have been, and always will be, a pacifist. I do not believe in war. I do not believe in weaponry. I do not believe in bloodshed. On the other hand, I feel responsible for you, my brother or my sister in this global village.
“Global Community peacekeeping forces have already crushed the resistance. The death of innocent civilians weighs heavy on me, but I pledge immediate judgment upon all enemies of peace. The beautiful capital of the United States of North America has been laid waste, and you will hear stories of more destruction and death. Our goal remains peace and reconstruction. I will be back at the secure headquarters in New Babylon in due time and will communicate with you frequently.
“Above all, do not fear. Live in confidence that no threat to global tranquility will be tolerated, and no enemy of peace will survive.”
As Rayford looked for a route that would get him near Northwest Community Hospital, the CNN/GCN correspondent came back on. “This late word: Anti–Global Community militia forces have threatened nuclear war on New York City, primarily Kennedy International Airport. Civilians are fleeing the area and causing one of the worst pedestrian and auto traffic jams in that city’s history. Peacekeeping forces say they have the ability and technology to intercept missiles but are worried about residual damage to outlying areas.
“And now this from London: A one-hundred-megaton bomb has destroyed Heathrow Airport, and radiation fallout threatens the populace for miles. The bomb was apparently dropped by peacekeeping forces after contraband Egyptian and British fighter-bombers were discovered rallying from a closed military airstrip near Heathrow. The warships, which have all been shot from the sky, were reportedly nuclear-equipped and en route to Baghdad and New Babylon.”
“It’s the end of the world,” Chloe whispered. “God help us.”
“Maybe we should just try to get to New Hope,” Amanda suggested.
“Not till we check on Bruce,” Rayford said. He asked stunned passersby if it was possible to get to Northwest Community Hospital on foot.
“It’s possible,” a woman said. “It’s right past that field and over the rise. But I don’t know how close they’ll let you get to what’s left of it.”
“It was hit?”
“Was it hit? Mister, it’s just up the road and across the street from the old Nike base. Most people think it got hit first.”
“I’m going,” Rayford said.
“Me too,” Buck said.
“We’re all going,” Chloe insisted, but Rayford held up a hand.
“We’re not all going. It’s going to be hard enough for one of us to get past security. Buck or I will have a better chance because we have Global Community identification. I think one of us with an ID should go, and the other should stay with the wives. We all have to be with someone who can get past the red tape if necessary.”
“I want to go,” Buck said, “but you make the call.”
“Stay and make sure the car is positioned so we can get out of here and get to Mount Prospect. If I’m not back in half an hour, take the risk and come looking for me.”
“Daddy, if Bruce is any better, try to bring him with you.”
“Don’t worry, Chloe,” Rayford said. “I’m ahead of you.”
As soon as Rayford had jogged through the muddy weeds and out of sight, Buck regretted agreeing to stay behind. He had always been a person of action, and as he watched shell-shocked citizens milling about and commiserating, he could hardly stand still.
Rayford’s heart sank as he came over the rise and saw the hospital. Part of the full height of the structure was still intact, but much
of it was rubble. Emergency vehicles surrounded the mess, with white-uniformed rescue workers scurrying about. A long stretch of police barrier tape had been stretched around the hospital campus. As Rayford lifted it to duck under, a security guard, weapon ready, ran toward him.
“Halt!” he called out. “This is a restricted area!”
“I have clearance!” Rayford shouted, waving his ID wallet.
“Stay right there!” the guard hollered. When he got to Rayford he took the wallet and studied it, comparing the photo to Rayford’s face. “Wow! Clearance level 2-A. You work for Carpathia himself?”
Rayford nodded.
“What’s your job?”
“Classified.”
“Is he around here?”
“No, and I wouldn’t tell you if he was.”
“You’re all good,” the guard said, and Rayford headed toward what had been the front of the building. He was largely ignored by people too busy to care who did or did not have clearance to be there. Body after body was laid out in a neat row and covered. “Any survivors?” Rayford asked an emergency medical technician.
“Three so far,” the man said. “All women. Two nurses and a doctor. They were outside for a smoke.”
“No one inside?”
“We hear voices,” the man said. “But we haven’t gotten to anyone in time yet.”
Breathing a prayer, Rayford folded his wallet so his ID was facing out. He slid it into his breast pocket. He strode to the makeshift outdoor morgue where several EMTs moved among the remains, lifting sheets and taking notes, trying to reconcile patient and employee lists with body parts and ID bracelets.
“Help or get out of the way,” a heavyset woman said as she brushed past Rayford.
“I’m looking for a Bruce Barnes,” Rayford said.
The woman, whose nameplate read Patricia Devlin, stopped and squinted, cocked her head, and checked her clipboard. She flipped through the three top pages, shaking her head. “Staff or patient?” she asked.
“Patient. Brought into the emergency room. He was in a coma last we heard.”
“Probably ICU then,” she said. “Check over there.” Patricia pointed to six bodies at the end of a row. “Just a minute,” she added, flipping to yet one more page. “Barnes, ICU. Yep, that’s where he was. There’s still more inside, you know, but ICU was just about vaporized.”
“So he might be here and he might still be inside?”
“If he’s out here, hon, he’s confirmed dead. If he’s still inside, they may never find him.”
“No chance for anybody in ICU?”
“Not so far. Relative?”
“Closer than a brother.”
“You want I should check for you?”
Rayford’s face contorted, and he could hardly speak. “I’d be grateful.”
Patricia Devlin moved quickly, surprisingly agile for her size. Her thick, white-soled shoes were muddy. She knelt by the bodies one by one, checking, as Rayford stood ten feet away, his hand covering his mouth, a sob rising in his throat.
At the fourth body, Miss Devlin began to lift the sheet when she hesitated and checked the still-intact wristband. She looked back at Rayford, and he knew. The tears began to roll. She rose and approached. “Your friend is presentable,” she said. “Some of these I wouldn’t dare show you, but you could see him.”
Rayford forced himself to put one foot in front of the other. The woman reached down and slowly pulled back the sheet, revealing Bruce, eyes open, lifeless and still. Rayford fought for composure, his chest heaving. He reached to close Bruce’s eyes, but the nurse stopped him. “I can’t let you do that.” She reached with a gloved hand. “I’ll do it.”
“Could you check for a pulse?” Rayford managed.
“Oh, sir,” she said, deep sympathy in her voice, “they don’t bring them out here unless they’ve been pronounced.”
“Please,” he whispered, crying openly now. “For me.”
And as Rayford stood in the bluster of suburban Chicago’s early afternoon, his hands to his face, a woman he had never met before and would never see again placed a thumb and forefinger at the pressure points under his pastor’s jaw.
Without looking at Rayford, she took her hand away, replaced the sheet over Bruce Barnes’s head, and went back about her business. Rayford’s legs buckled, and he knelt on the muddy pavement. Sirens blared in the distance, emergency lights flashed all around him, and his family waited less than half a mile away. It was just him and them now. No teacher. No mentor. Just the four of them.
As he rose and trudged back down the rise with his awful news, Rayford heard the Emergency Broadcast System station blaring from every vehicle he passed. Washington had been obliterated. Heathrow was gone. There had been death in the Egyptian desert and in the skies over London. New York was on alert.
Buck was nearly ready to go after Rayford when he saw a tall form appear on the horizon. From his gait and the slump of his shoulders, Buck knew.
“Oh, no,” he whispered, and Chloe and Amanda began to cry. The three of them rushed to meet Rayford and walk him back to the car.
The Red Horse of the Apocalypse was on the rampage.
To Beverly and to Dianna
CHAPTER 1
It was the worst of times; it was the worst of times.
Rayford Steele’s knees ached as he sat behind the wheel of the rented Lincoln. He had dropped to the pavement at the crushing realization of his pastor’s death. The physical pain, though it would stay with him for days, would prove minor compared to the mental anguish of having yet again lost one of the dearest people in his life.
Rayford felt Amanda’s eyes on him. She laid one comforting hand on his thigh. In the backseat his daughter, Chloe, and her husband, Buck, each had a hand on his shoulder.
What now? Rayford wondered. What do we do without Bruce? Where do we go?
The Emergency Broadcast System station droned on with the news of chaos, devastation, destruction, and cell phone failure throughout the world. Unable to speak over the lump in his throat, Rayford busied himself maneuvering his way through the incongruous traffic jams. Why were people out? What did they expect to see? Weren’t they afraid of more bombs, or fallout?
“I need to get to the Chicago bureau office,” Buck said.
“You can use the car after we get to the church,” Rayford managed. “I need to get the word out about Bruce.”
Global Community peacekeeping forces supervised local police and emergency relief personnel directing traffic and trying to get people to return to their homes. Rayford relied on his many years in the Chicago area to use back roads and side streets to get around the major thoroughfares, which were hopelessly clogged.
Rayford wondered if he should have taken Buck up on his offer to drive. But Rayford had not wanted to appear weak. He shook his head. There’s no limit to the pilot’s ego! He felt as if he could curl into a ball and cry himself to sleep.
Nearly two years since the vanishing of his wife and son, along with millions of others, Rayford no longer harbored illusions about his life in the twilight of history. He had been devastated. He lived with deep pain and regret. This was so hard. . . .
Rayford knew his life could be even worse. Suppose he had not become a believer in Christ and was still lost forever. Suppose he had not found a new love and was alone. Suppose Chloe had also vanished. Or he had never met Buck. There was much to be grateful for. Were it not for the physical touch of the other three in that car, Rayford wondered if he would have had the will to go on.
He could hardly imagine not having come to know and love Bruce Barnes. He had learned more and been enlightened and inspired more by Bruce than anyone else he’d ever met. And it wasn’t just Bruce’s knowledge and teaching that made the difference. It was his passion. Here was a man who immediately and clearly saw that he had missed the greatest truth ever communicated to mankind, and he was not about to repeat the mistake.
“Daddy, those two guards by the overpass se
em to be waving at you,” Chloe said.
“I’m trying to ignore them,” Rayford said. “All these nobodies-trying-to-be-somebodies think they have a better idea about where the traffic should go. If we listen to them, we’ll be here for hours. I just want to get to the church.”
“He’s hollering at you with a bullhorn,” Amanda said, and she lowered her window a few inches.
“You in the white Lincoln!” came the booming voice. Rayford quickly turned off the radio. “Are you Rayford Steele?”
“How would they know that?” Buck said.
“Is there any limit to the Global Community intelligence network?” Rayford said, disgusted.
“If you’re Rayford Steele,” came the voice again, “please pull your vehicle to the shoulder!”
Rayford considered ignoring even that but thought better of it. There would be no outrunning these people if they knew who he was. But how did they know?
He pulled over.
Buck Williams pulled his hand from Rayford’s shoulder and craned his neck to see two uniformed soldiers scampering down the embankment. He had no idea how Global Community forces had tracked down Rayford, but one thing was certain: it would not be good for Buck to be discovered with Carpathia’s pilot.
“Ray,” he said quickly, “I’ve got one set of phony IDs in the name of Herb Katz. Tell ’em I’m a pilot friend of yours or something.”
“OK,” Rayford said, “but my guess is they’ll be deferential to me. Obviously, Nicolae is merely trying to reconnect with me.”
Buck hoped Rayford was right. It made sense that Carpathia would want to make sure his pilot was all right and could somehow get him back to New Babylon. The two uniforms now stood behind the Lincoln, one speaking into a walkie-talkie, the other on a cell phone. Buck decided to go on the offensive and opened his door.
“Please remain in the vehicle,” Walkie-Talkie said.
Buck slumped back into his seat and switched his phony papers with his real ones. Chloe looked terrified. Buck put his arm around her and drew her close. “Carpathia must have put out an all points bulletin. He knew your dad had to rent a car, so it didn’t take long to track him down.”
