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Silenced: The Wrath of God Descends
Copyright © 2004 by Jerry B. Jenkins. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph copyright © 2004 by Photos.com. All rights reserved.
Author photograph copyright © 2007 by Mike Healy Photography. All rights reserved.
Designed by Dean H. Renninger
Edited by Ken Petersen
Published in association with the literary agency of Vigliano and Associates, 584 Broadway, Suite 809, New York, NY 10012.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-4143-0283-6 (international edition)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jenkins, Jerry B.
Silenced : the wrath of God descends, a novel / Jerry Jenkins.
p. cm. — (Underground zealot series)
ISBN 978-0-8423-8410-0 (hc) — ISBN 978-0-8423-8411-7 (sc)
1. World War III—Fiction. 2. International organization—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series.
PS3560.E485S55 2004
813′.54—dc22 2004007010
Build: 2015-11-12 16:25:20
To
STANLEY C. BALDWIN
from whom I learned more
than from any other mentor
Thanks to
DIANNA JENKINS
DAVID VIGLIANO
RON BEERS
KEN PETERSEN
THE TYNDALE TEAM
TIM MACDONALD
and
MARY JO STEINKE
With gratitude to
JOHN PERRODIN
for research assistance
AT THE CONCLUSION OF WORLD WAR III
In the fall of 2009, it was determined by the new international government in Bern, Switzerland, that beginning January 1 of the following year, the designation A.D. (anno Domini, “in the year of our Lord,” or after the birth of Christ) would be replaced by P.3. (post–World War III). Thus, January 1, A.D. 2010, would become January 1, 1 P.3. This story takes place thirty-seven years later in 38 P.3.
WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE
AFTER THE THIRD WORLD WAR, a holy war that resulted in the destruction of entire nations, antireligion, antiwar factions toppled nearly every head of state, and an international government rose from the ashes and mud. The United States was redrawn into seven regions, the president deposed, and the vice president installed as regional governor, reporting to the International Government of Peace in Bern, Switzerland.
When he completed his graduate studies, Dr. Paul Stepola dreamed of a corporate job. But when his Ph.D. in religious studies didn’t open those doors, his wife, Jae, urged him to pursue the National Peace Organization. Jae’s father, Ranold B. Decenti, a retired army general, had helped build the NPO from the ashes of the FBI and the CIA. Like the CIA, the NPO is a foreign intelligence force—though a skeletal one, since in the postwar world the United Nations oversees global peacekeeping. And like the FBI, it handles interstate crimes—which these days were as likely to be international—such as fraud, racketeering, terrorism, and drug trafficking.
Paul trained at Langley, Virginia, then spent his first few years in Chicago on the racketeering squad where, surprisingly, his graduate work found purchase. Studying the world’s major religions had introduced him to a broad range of cultures, background that proved invaluable when investigations drew him or his colleagues overseas.
When the NPO initiates a new task force, the Zealot Underground, to expose and eliminate religious influence in the USSA, Chicago NPO bureau chief Bob Koontz taps Paul to provide intelligence and analysis of the underground. Paul leaps at the opportunity.
Becoming a key member of the Zealot Underground, Paul becomes enmeshed in the NPO’s covert operations. He is the decorated sole survivor of a raid on a small house church in San Francisco where he shoots and kills the leader, a widow. In a Texas investigation of oil-well sabotage he witnesses the stoning to death of an underground Christian. In a subsequent oil-field fire, Paul loses his sight.
While recovering and contemplating the possibility of never seeing again, Paul meets Stuart “Straight” Rathe, a volunteer at the hospital. Paul asks for the New Testament on disc so he can brush up on the beliefs of his targets in case he is ever able to work again.
The combination of his exposure to the New Testament and to Straight, a secret believer, leads to Paul’s dramatic conversion and the restoration of his sight. Paul cannot tell Jae, fearing she will tell her father and expose him to a death penalty. Straight introduces Paul to the leaders of the Christian underground, one of whom challenges Paul to become a double agent, staying in the NPO while secretly aiding the resistance.
Paul is able to appear committed to the NPO by arresting phony people of faith. Then the NPO calls his father-in-law out of retirement to head Special Projects, and he presses Paul into service for a major thrust against the Christian underground in Los Angeles.
In Los Angeles—where Paul and Ranold are staying at the opulent estate of movie mogul Tiny Allendo—Paul must appear loyal to the NPO while secretly warning underground Christian groups about the operation, led by top agent Bia Balaam.
One of the underground groups distributes a manifesto calling believers to ask God to prove Himself by drying up the Los Angeles water supply unless the extermination of Christians stops. Ranold and his Special Forces respond by planning a massive strike that will wipe out the L.A. underground.
Jae arrives in Los Angeles, further complicating Paul’s double agency, and settles in with Paul at Allendo’s mansion. While Jae shops on Rodeo Drive, Straight informs Paul by phone that the media has picked up the Christian manifesto. At Allendo’s mansion Paul can only wait . . . and pray.
FROM SOON: THE BEGINNING OF THE END
THEY ARRIVED AT THE ALLENDO estate a few hours before dinner and strolled the grounds in the sweltering heat. Jae kept her distance from the fountain so it wouldn’t ruin her hair, but she stared at it from inside the fence that separated the pool from the rest of the grounds.
“Who are all the young women?” she said.
“Party favors,” Paul said.
“And did you—”
“No.”
“And Daddy?”
“Don’t ask.”
Paul found himself silently praying every spare moment. . . .
Allendo was resplendent in his usual black on black, gold-mirrored shades in place. Tiny didn’t seem to sweat, while Paul felt as if he were swimming. The governor’s entourage arrived at ten to six, when Ranold also made his appearance for pictures and handshakes. He proudly introduced Jae to all the dignitaries. The governor’s wife appeared relieved to see Jae and insisted on staying at her side and sitting next to the Stepolas at dinner. . . .
Jae whispered, “There’s sure a lot of laughter for what should be a sober day. You’d think they were planning a surprise party.”
“Peculiar, considering people might die,” Paul said.
The governor’s wife agreed. “I know we’re targeting terrorists, but I find it hard to approve of jocularity at a time like this.”
Paul and Jae sat at the far end of the table, n
earest the pool. Tiny’s “party favors” continued to cavort in the water during dinner, and Paul envied them, longing to plunge in and cool off. The servers kept the wine flowing, but Paul concentrated on his tall glass of ice water.
What if there were more targets than Straight’s people had been able to reach? What if he had to go along and see his brothers and sisters killed? He fought to hold fast to his faith. He had to believe God would heed an entire nation’s prayers and make Himself known.
“So,” Juliet Peters said, as the waiters came around with dessert, “have we all been sufficiently warned of the judgment of God?”
She smiled and sipped water from her glass.
The others laughed.
“Yes,” Ranold said, sounding on the verge of a guffaw, “better stock up on water!”
“Indeed,” Allendo said. “I bought extra-long straws so we can drink out of the pool if necessary.”
Paul could hear the rush of the fountain from the front of the house, which showed high above the roof, and the splashing of the young women in the pool. Spare us, he prayed.
. . . Juliet Peters coughed. Someone cried out, and Paul looked up just in time to see one of the women at the pool plunge down a slide and slam into the dry bottom of the pool with a sickening thud. Her friends screamed.
The fountain had ceased.
The water glasses on the table were not only empty, but also dry. Even the sweat on the glass serving pitchers was gone.
Tiny Allendo jumped up so quickly his chair pitched backward. He stared at the pool, then whirled and looked at the fountain.
Paul studied the table. Even the liquid in the food had evaporated. The fruit tart had shriveled. The sorbet was colored powder. The wineglasses held a gooey residue.
Tiny’s voice sounded weak and timid. “Bottled water!” he croaked.
Waiters ran into the house, then came out, looking stricken. “The bottles are unopened, sir, but empty.”
Paul looked at the grass on the beautiful sprawling lawn under the lights. It was withering. By tomorrow it would be brown.
. . . Ranold stood, fingers fluttering, lips trembling. Tiny called out to his people. “Get to the store. Bring back all the water you can.”
But Paul knew what they would find. More empty bottles. God had more than answered the prayers of the faithful. He had done more than shut off the water supply to Los Angeles.
The mighty Lord and creator of the universe had withdrawn every drop of water in the wicked city. The word would spread throughout the land, and underground believers would rise up with confidence and strength, boldly proclaiming the message of faith. The powers that be would stop killing the people of God, or they would all wither like the grass and die.
The miracle would be known around the world within minutes. To those aboveground, it marked the beginning of what would become known as the Christian Guerilla War. To those underground, this was clearly the beginning of the end, the mark of what—and who—would be coming.
Soon.
PROLOGUE
IT TOOK LESS THAN a month for every United Seven States of America and International Government agency to concede that Los Angeles was not fixable. Initially the various heads and undersecretaries pointed at each other, insisting that one or another must act first before their own experts could wade in. As the foliage withered and services—particularly medical—shut down for lack of water in any form, eventually everyone reluctantly pulled out.
It was hard for the public to imagine life without water. Nothing to drink. Hardly anything to eat. Toilets wouldn’t flush. People couldn’t bathe. Anything and everything that in any way relied upon H2O became worthless. Thousands died. The rest, reluctantly but fast losing hope, slowly migrated elsewhere. The largest city in the world, by landmass, became a barren ghost town.
Except for people of faith. The underground became the sparse populace that had the run of the place. The endless miles of freeway pavement, once the crippled cars of the judged were moved aside, became a playground for the formerly oppressed. They had running water. Their bottles were full. Their machines had fluids and lubrication. And when they assumed control of the dead vehicle of a banished victim, it sprang back to life.
Unable to explain such a catastrophe to the populace, the government resorted to threatening to obliterate life in the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area. This was met with a furious outcry. What about the landmarks, the homes, the office buildings? If a cure were ever found, what would there be to return to? Was this not admitting that the majority had lost to the minority?
Worse, there were those who—given the poverty of the government’s ability to explain, let alone rectify, the situation—suggested that the claim of the rebels must be true: God had sent this plague on Los Angeles because of the slaughter of innocents. And should the government compound its culpability by attempting to wipe out the rest of them, what would stop Him from expanding the scope of the disaster?
This proved the greatest nightmare for the government since religion had been banned internationally more than three and a half decades prior. The year 38 P.3. (which would have been known as 2047) was shaping up to become the year of the underground, of the rebels, of the resistance. In all the USSA’s regions, underground factions seemed to take heart from what had transpired in L.A. It was as if God had had enough of the carnage, the persecution. Secret believers came to hope that He would not abandon them, that they might grow bolder and be able to count on His protection, even His vengeance against their pursuers.
In Columbia—formerly the nation’s capital—people who were found bearing the flat, smooth, white stones that identified them as believers were suddenly feared. While the NPO had a mandate to round the believers up and prosecute them—the sentence, death—private citizens suddenly quit turning them in. Rather, the populace looked the other way when they happened upon a rebel planting literature in a public place. Some even risked stealing a glance at the printed material, though none dared being caught with it on their person.
In Atlantica, where the underground carried ailanthus leaves that marked them, some believers in the office buildings of New York City were bold enough to establish hybrid groups made up of some from one cell and the rest from others.
In Gulfland, medallions depicting the Bible were left at scenes of what otherwise might have appeared to be industrial sabotage. Yet officials refused to follow leads that might have pointed them to the resistance.
In Heartland, particularly in Chicago, bold rebels were actually seen wearing crown-shaped pins on their lapels in public. Yet not one was followed to a gathering place of believers.
In Sunterra, where San Francisco was soon named the capital, replacing the ghost town to the south, it was commonly known that house churches—much like the one that had been destroyed—were springing up all over. Ancient Lincoln-head pennies identified believers there.
In both Rockland and Pacifica, rumor had it that underground believers were having tiny tattoos applied on the ankle. Insurrectionists in Rockland chose crosses; in Pacifica the ichthus, sign of the fish, was the choice. Authorities broadcast far and wide that such decisions were self-inflicted death penalties and announced rewards for information leading to the capture of anyone so bold as to sport such a sign. Yet no news of an execution came forth.
Eventually the government seemed to decide that noisy retaliation was not worth the risk of another Los Angeles. While some agencies continued to feverishly study a way to remedy the situation there, the new national modus operandi became to hearken back to the propaganda of wartime—to the rhetoric that had resulted in the banning of religion.
The government fought fire with fire. Every attempt by the underground to establish that God was alive and well and that He might soon return was met with a barrage of information from Columbia. With a flurry of e-mail and Internet broadcasts, television and radio pronouncements, messages broadcast to every personal digital assistant in the country, the USSA was reminded
by its leadership of the new core values that had resulted in more than thirty-six years of peace on earth.
“Remember,” citizens were told, “that war results from religion. The propagation of fairy tales, of promises of pie in the sky by and by, devalues the human mind and reduces men and women to puppets, automatons, sheep. Ask yourself what ultimate positive effect religion has ever had on a society. Eventually, extremists arise, mutually exclusive sects emerge, and war and bloodshed follow.”
The tactic seemed to work, at least temporarily, in the USSA, which had been embarrassed globally by becoming known as the nation of civil unrest. Elsewhere it appeared there was no underground, that the international community had succeeded in bringing entire nations into line. Human goodness and intellect were revered; religion was an ugly stepsister of the past.
By early January of 38 P.3., the USSA was on the cusp of becoming a model of how to quell such uprisings—largely with a docile response to the underground and eschewing real confrontation.
Charlotte Ian, twenty-two, left the suburban London flat she shared with four other young women at a quarter past six the morning of Thursday, January 10, 38 P.3. She hadn’t had time to do her hair the way she liked, but that was less important than being on time. Mr. Woodyard, the supervisor of guides at Stephen’s Tower (formerly St. Stephen’s Tower) had remarked in her most recent performance review that he expected her uniform to be “clean and crisp,” her hair “fashionable but done in a way that doesn’t draw attention to itself,” and “most important, that you never be one minute late again. I’m serious, Miss Ian. This is a plum position if I may say, and many wait eagerly in line behind you. You must be here, in place, and ready to go when the first tour is scheduled. I should also like to warn you not to let your plumpness get the better of you. We like a tidy image and your uniform should fit appropriately.”
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