RAPTURE ADVENT OF THE
LAST DAYS
RAPTURE ADVENT OF THE
LAST DAYS
Jocolby Phillips
© 2019 Jocolby Phillips
Rapture Advent of the Last Days
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Elm Hill, an imprint of Thomas Nelson. Elm Hill and Thomas Nelson are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
Elm Hill titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.Zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.®
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019936950
ISBN 978-1-400325719 (Paperback)
ISBN 978-1-400325733 (eBook)
Information about External Hyperlinks in this ebook
Please note that footnotes in this ebook may contain hyperlinks to external websites as part of bibliographic citations. These hyperlinks have not been activated by the publisher, who cannot verify the accuracy of these links beyond the date of publication.
To my Savior, Jesus Christ; I dedicate this book to you. You transformed my life that many, including me all too often, judged and destined for failure and disgrace. I am now a person whose life is filled with boundless potential and success, and I thank you. Through my tears of pain and the questioning of the value my life held; you’ve waited and welcomed me despite my doubts of you. Whatever I’ve needed in any moment of life; I realize now you’ve provided: mother, father, doctor, friend, counselor, and so much more. I still feel unworthy when thinking of the mercy and grace I find in my life, but I am grateful that you love me unconditionally. I am humbled to be a vessel for your message in these trying days. May you and your eternal kingdom receive all the praise and glory of this book and the books that follow. Return soon, King Jesus. Love, J.P.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
CHAPTER 1
While Major Christopher Barrett had long ago stopped trusting or believing in God, he could not shake the feeling that God was trying to get his attention over the career he loved. He had desired at several points and for various reasons throughout his life to establish a relationship with Him. However, he carried deep emotional scars from a painful childhood—a childhood for which he blamed God daily, making trust impossible in his mind. The major felt God had been absent in his life when he had needed Him most, so he had stopped looking for His presence. The Army, and special operations in particular, provided the major with a sense of reliability and trust in himself over any faith he might have in God.
He always felt uneasy on missions where the absinthe-colored light provided by his night-vision goggles was required, but something about tonight’s mission made the feeling different, worse. His years of experience as a special forces officer demanded poise in this situation, but he felt he was wrestling with that “still, small voice” that his estranged wife Erin identified as the Holy Spirit. That voice had made it a practice of late to blare like a foghorn in his head. As a result here he was on one of the most significant missions of his military career, debating whether the Holy Spirit was battling him for his mind and soul.
Christopher had prepared for this mission mindlessly, which was admittedly out of character. The green glow of his goggles quickened his apprehension about this operation as his team approached the target location along the banks of the Tigris in Mosul, Iraq. General Amir bin Waleed, commander of the Mosul District Iraqi Army Commandos, had made recommendations on saving a French journalist, but in his opinion far too many of those recommendations had been followed when creating the rescue plan.
General Waleed insisted that the Americans take the Tigris to the ISIS stronghold, while his commandos secured the perimeter around the target to prevent escape. Though it seemed harmless enough, Christopher knew it potentially left his team vulnerable, yet here he was in the midst of Waleed’s plan with his unit. Very little intelligence on General Waleed’s unit had been provided to him, and the major knew enough not to place his men with Waleed’s, as first suggested by the sketchy Iraqi general. He had a strong feeling that he was missing something, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
It was too late for second-guessing now. The abrupt change in the din of the rigid inflatable boat’s high-powered engine pulled Major Barrett into the moment as the vessel rounded the last river bend before the target. One minute was called across the radio as the dark silhouette of the Bash Tapia Castle dominated the horizon. Per the plan, his twelve-man “A Team” would land behind the compound and split into two six-man elements, converging on the estimated location of the journalist. As the major steeled his mind for the fight ahead, all that mattered now was saving the journalist and bringing his men home alive.
As the two boats made shore below the fallen rear wall of the castle, the quiet stillness of the night was deafening; it seemed even nature was holding its breath. The exhale that broke the silence came with the sharp report of a DShK Russian heavy machine gun. Without speaking a word the team separated and began assaulting the castle, the team sergeant and his crew moving up the west side as Christopher and his team breached the eastern side.
His men worked their way along an ancient rock wall to a point where the incoming rounds of the DShK sounded like buzzing bees. He could hear the spent machine-gun brass cartridges hitting the ground as the air around him snapped from near misses. Two hand-grenade explosions silenced the machine gun raining lead on his team, providing a momentary lull. He should’ve received a situation update from his team sergeant’s crew by now, so the silent radio and the crack of an explosion in the distance were not reassuring.
* * *
Sergeant Major Jackson Williams shook his head in shock after the grenade explosion. The smell of his own heat-singed face and cauterized skin forced him back into the reality that Rev and two others were dead. He radioed a brief situation update to Christopher. “Three men down, continuing to move to the target.” Knowing there was still a job ahead and nothing he could do for Rev and the others at the moment, he told the two soldiers left in his element to form up. The three men formed an inverted triangle, clearing the remaining ISIS fighters from the
corridor leading into the interior stateroom of the castle.
* * *
Jackson’s first situation report confirmed Christopher’s fears: men down. He fought the urge to try to salvage the situation. He knew Jackson well, and if he was continuing the mission then the soldiers were gone. More pressing, the path in front of Christopher quickly escalated into a crisis as his group approached the great room adjacent to the hostage. He was sure that some of the figures firing AK-47s at them were General Waleed’s commandos.
The battle was short-lived given the poor accuracy of the enemy, but the fight proved to him that Waleed and his men had betrayed his team.
Four of the dead men wore the uniform of the Mosul District commandos. It took all of Christopher’s willpower to remain focused, blaming himself for not seeing Waleed’s betrayal due to his distraction with the “voice” in his head. Even worse, some of his men had paid the ultimate price for his error. The scene of carnage and the ever-increasing tug on his soul were too much at the moment. He wanted to give in to his emotions, fall to the floor, and scream like a lost child. Instead he came to rest on one knee, seeming to the others to be preparing his equipment for the final assault.
The major’s mental war raged in the midst of this real battle. What is wrong with me? Why so much emotion? He heard himself say aloud, “Get it together, Barrett.” The still, small voice seemed almost audible in his mind. “You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday. A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you.” He knew the words were from Psalm 91, which Rev often quoted to all of them.
He braced himself for the fight he was sure was awaiting him on the other side of the two massive wooden doors blocking access to the journalist. “Let’s go,” was all the major could muster to say as he radioed his people and led the charge into the stateroom.
The ancient grandeur of the stateroom lingered with old tiled murals dotting the walls, accented by a vaulted and buttressed ceiling, all of which seemed misplaced given the savagely brutal display before him. There was little doubt in Christopher’s mind about the journalist’s fate at the hands of ISIS. The low light provided by the old candelabra ceiling lights gave off just enough light to reveal that they were too late; he didn’t need his hi-tech goggles to see that she was dead. Half clothed, gagged, and bound at the ankles with her hands pulled behind her, she sat in a plush ottoman where the chair’s seeming comfort belied the horrific scene. The team medic rushed over only to confirm what everyone already knew.
Strangely no fighters were guarding the journalist, though a large part of Christopher wished someone was left so justice could be doled out for this crime. Instead a horrible, crushing sense of failure filled him as he looked at the disheveled and matted brunette locks of hair covering the victim’s face. So much loss of life tonight, he thought, consumed with rage and disappointment. And I know one more person set to expire tonight…General Amir bin Waleed, the major thought as he ran alone toward the castle entry where Waleed was supposed to be positioned.
* * *
Jackson held up a single fist to his remaining two soldiers, signaling them to halt as he tried to establish radio contact before entering the stateroom, but his attention was captured by a lone figure darting out of the room and down the adjacent hallway. “Barrett, this is Williams, over.” Nothing returned across the radio. “Barrett, this is Williams.” Still no answer. “Any green element, any green element, this—” the sergeant major was cut off by a reply on the radio.“Hey, Green 9, we are in the stateroom with the target. You’re clear to approach.”
“What the…?” Jackson could not even finish his sentence as he walked toward the men clustered around the lifeless woman. He knew from her body position that she was gone. Trying to break the hold that the strikingly beautiful deceased victim held over the men, the sergeant major screamed, “Barrett is where?”
The medic responded, “He’s right…well, Sarge, he was right over there.” He pointed near the hallway where Jackson had seen the running figure.
The sergeant major grabbed the nearest man and barked, “Take charge. Recover the journalist’s body and the bodies of our brothers.” He turned his attention to the two men who had fought through the castle with him. “You two, with me,” he ordered as he began running after Major Christopher Barrett.
* * *
The crisp fall night air and the star-filled sky were a refreshing reprieve from the stagnant castle. As Christopher flipped on his night-vision goggles, he quickly recognized his vulnerability and the foolishness of letting his emotions lead him out here alone—always a dangerous position. He spotted the command vehicle of General Waleed and noted the absence of commandos securing the perimeter. Did Waleed kill the journalist, try to destroy our team, and then flee into the Mosul night? he wondered.
As he approached the vehicle with his M4 carbine rifle at the ready, the answer became clear. General Waleed and his security detail were dead. He, like the major, had missed the infiltration of ISIS fighters into the ranks of the Mosul commandos. Unfortunately it was too late for General Waleed, but his death vindicated him of betrayal in Christopher’s mind.
The familiar voice of Sergeant Major Jackson Williams filled Christopher’s earpiece. “Green 6, this is Green 9. What’s your location?”
“Green 9, I see you. Keep walking to your twelve o’clock.”
Jackson didn’t know whether to punch Christopher or hug him. Instead he chose a passive-aggressive question. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” the major stated flatly. “I take that back. I am far from okay. This night has been a colossal disaster, and I am at fault.”
“Look, we don’t have the time, nor is this the place, for a pity party. I’ve already got guys securing Rev and the other casualties. I suggest we load up the journalist and our guys on the back of that five-ton truck and convoy back to Camp Marez,” Jackson said, pointing to an abandoned cargo truck near Waleed’s command vehicle.
Hearing Rev’s name as a casualty was like a devastating punch to Christopher’s gut. Rev was his best soldier and dear friend. He could only mutter numbly, “Yeah, that’s fine.”
“Fine? Look, Barrett, get it together,” Williams demanded loudly.
Christopher, while grateful to his mentor and friend for handling the situation, bristled outwardly before turning abruptly to walk toward the men loading the fallen soldiers and the journalist, not trusting himself to respond. He felt alone, despite being surrounded by chaos and some of the people he knew best in the world. He had endless questions about why the night had played out as it had. If God was trying to reach him, the major was tired of receiving the call. Tonight’s operation just reinforced that God was not to be trusted when he needed Him most.
As Christopher watched the truck carrying the bodies of his men and the French journalist leave the Bash Tapia Castle, the voice returned. “I will never leave you, nor forsake you. So say with confidence, The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can mere mortals do to me?” The voice seemed to refute the major’s thoughts that God had been absent from his life tonight. Am I going crazy? Is this real? he thought. Is God really challenging me, using my own thoughts?
* * *
With the team settling back in at their headquarters at Camp Marez on the outskirts of Mosul, Major Barrett called the group together. “We will hold a short memorial in an hour for Rev and the other men who gave their lives tonight.”
The sergeant major separated himself from the group and began walking toward a solitary berm at the end of the compound that overlooked the rest of the camp. His abrupt departure caught Christopher’s eye as Jackson’s figure was consumed by the darkness. He slowly followed the team sergeant to the edge of the berm, lit only by a single moth-encircled floodlight, and sat down gingerly next to his long-time mentor, hoping to find solace.
>
“You call her yet?” Jackson asked, staring at the endless Mosul night sky.
Christopher nervously chuckled. “No, I haven’t contacted Erin. I see you remember my post-mission habit.” Jackson let the comment hang in the air and fade away without replying, purposefully forcing the major to break the awkward silence. “So what’s on your mind, Jackson?”
“Rev is on my mind,” Jackson responded without turning to face Christopher. “More importantly, Rev’s last Bible study is uppermost in my mind right now.”
“His Bible study?” The words had come out more sarcastically than the major intended, and he could see the offense on Jackson’s partially illuminated face as he briefly turned toward Christopher.
“Yeah, the Bible study! I mean, this young man had such a passion for his beliefs. How can you not be curious to know more about what drove his desire? I mean, with all we just went through tonight, the real question is, how are you not curious about God?”
Christopher didn’t want to get into a religious debate or reveal to Jackson the spiritual battle in his own mind of late, especially given how raw their emotions seemed at the moment. Standing, he shot back, “You’re not the only one dealing with the loss of good men here. I am sorry I let the team down tonight and, yeah, I remember that Bible study and all the ones you missed.”
Jackson ignored Christopher and tried to recall Rev’s last Bible study as he relished the chill of the night air. He knew it was wrong not to acknowledge Christopher’s departure, but he wanted to cherish his few memories of Rev, the man who had made God seem real to him. It was only the chattering and gathering of soldiers near the dining facility that pulled Jackson back from his thoughts and into the present. He stood and rubbed his sweat-matted brown hair while stretching his stiff and aching frame, realizing that the year he had spent behind a desk at Special Operations Command Headquarters, commonly called SOCOM, in Tampa Bay had done him no favors for fieldwork. For a man of average build in his early forties, Jackson was proud of the way he had held up during the operation tonight. He was still strong and felt he had a few good years of service in the Army left in him.
Rapture Advent of the Last Days Page 1
