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MAGOG RISING
Book Two
Of
The Lightning Chronicles
Jimmy Root Jr.
Prologue
Tel-abib, Babylon
568 B.C.
Ezekiel’s mind was clear. His throat wasn’t. A hacking, gut-wrenching fight for breath commenced, and the force of the spasm nearly threw the old prophet from his perch atop the covered well.
Panic accompanied the fit, just as it always did whenever he choked. He desperately wanted to see the reaction of his hearers, but tears flooded his eyes and clouded his sight. It was all he could do to avert a fall.
His mind raced. Were they questioning his sanity again? Had they knelt to pick up stones, or were they turning back toward their homes in disgust and mockery? Still, the fiery hand of God remained on him, and a holy message seared his soul. He felt compelled to deliver this new word from the Lord, or he would experience the stale taste of shameful failure.
Ezekiel moved his hand from his stomach to his eyes and brushed away the collected water. To his amazement, the crowd had remained attentive, patiently waiting for the old man to gather himself. Something about his demeanor held them rooted in place. None could break free of the spell, even if that had been their desire.
Perhaps it was the sensation of a future hope that fastened the bottoms of their sandals to the Babylonian dirt. Hearing the Almighty proffer words that echoed their own yearning for vengeance may have immobilized them. Whatever the case, the people were seeing the crusty prophet in an entirely new and brilliant light.
With his voice finally recovered, Ezekiel continued, “On that day, when my people Israel are dwelling securely, you will come from your place out of the north, you and many peoples with you, all of them riding swiftly as a great host and a mighty army. You will come against my people Israel like a cloud covering the land. In the latter days I will bring you against my land, that the nations may know me, when through you, O Gog, I vindicate my holiness before their eyes.”
Ezekiel’s arms trembled beyond his control. His far-seeing eyes were actually witnessing the vast hordes from the north that would someday descend to slaughter the people of God. But the terror that crept into his heart was not from the sight of mighty armies, flowing lustily toward the small Promised Land. No, the fear sprang from the horrible and jealous wrath of an Almighty God; poised in vengeance, with a mind to destroy.
1968 Leningrad, USSR
Sickly and frail, the ten year old boy shivered from the chill emanating from the damp stone walls of the basement. Twenty-eight poorly clad men and women gathered to worship in this hidden place, hopefully out of the ever watchful eyes of the security police. What the small group was doing was illegal.
Two small, naked bulbs glowed, but barely enough light was available to reveal what was happening in the front of the room.
The boy with curly blond hair, was wrapped tightly in a ragged coat as he craned his neck to see around the elderly man sitting in front of him. His curiosity was piqued. Though his mother had explained it many times, he was determined to know what compelled her to risk everything to experience what she called “the presence of God.” Finding his vantage point totally inadequate, the boy moved out and eased his way toward the group gathered around a rickety kneeling bench.
Several people were standing in a semi-circle, with their hands outstretched and placed on the shoulders of a woman. She was bending forward in obvious pain. It was said that she’d wrenched her back, and though quite young and seemingly strong, she was unable to reach down and lift her own small child.
Kneeling before the woman, with his right hand cupped on her forehead and his left hand in the air, was the preacher. He was the leader of this illegal group of believers, and his eyes were shut tightly in earnest prayer, protecting her from some unseen enemy. His voice was barely audible. It wasn’t in Russian, and that fact puzzled the boy deeply.
He looked at his mother who was at the opposite side of the woman. She was doing the same as the preacher. “How strange,” he thought. The boy could tell something out-of-the-ordinary was at work, but it was beyond his understanding. He wasn’t sure he cared to be anywhere close to it, but didn’t want to back away either.
Strangely, the injured woman began to straighten. Then her hands rose into the air as if they were being empowered by an invisible force. Her grimace of misery slowly changed, and her face took on a depth of brightness that astonished the boy. He moved even closer.
Finally, the prayer broke and every eye opened to see the woman laughing in genuine gratitude. The entire gathering joined her while the boy stood transfixed, staring in awe.
Anya Seradin Borikov saw the look on the face of her young son, and she smiled. She was pleased that God had chosen this moment to begin proving himself to Pavel. Her anguished pleas for his salvation were seemingly being answered. In response, she gently wrapped her arm around his shoulders and coaxed him back to the chairs.
He couldn’t help but ask. “Mother, is that what you were telling me about? Was that really God doing one of his miracles?”
“Da, it was Pavel,” said Anya as she tried to rub warmth back into her hands. “God does many miracles.” The condition of her clothing, the bags under her eyes, and the very state of her existence said something different. But Anya’s faith refused to be dependent on the circumstances of her life.
“Why were people speaking those strange languages? You were doing it too.”
“I will explain it later, son. For now, it is time to hear the preacher. He has a message for us from God, and we need to hush and listen, da?”
She wasn’t trying to brush him off; the time to hear the Word had come and it held more importance than answering the boy’s questions. In fact, a deep hunger ached inside her for this moment, the sharing of the precious scriptures.
The people quickly took their seats and settled in to receive the words their faithful pastor had prepared for them. Many closed their eyes, so no distraction could steal away the value of what was about to be spoken. Others quietly folded their hands, almost reverently, though it was most likely an effort to stave off the penetrating cold.
The preacher opened a tattered, coverless book and prepared to speak from its fading pages. Few of the gatherers realized it was not even a full Bible. The man had learned, through the horrible experience of two, prolonged visits to a gulag, that it was not wise to keep the whole Bible in any one place. That which was deemed a danger by the authorities had become an object of the highest value. They might confiscate a part, but there would always be more.
The chosen passage came from the book of Genesis. “Comrade in Christ, I now take you to a passage that will urge you to find a way to participate in the emancipation of our Jewish brothers. They are suffering all over the motherland and this is a terrible affront to our Lord.”
“I do not take lightly, nor do I challenge you to ignore the great risks involved in helping deliver God’s chosen people to the land of promise. But all of us know that unless we do our part, most of the Jews will die by the persecuting hand of unbelievers. I am not willing to sit idly by and watch that happen, not if I can do anything about it.”
“Listen to the word of God in his great covenant promise to Abraham. He said: ‘And I will make of thee a great nation, and I will bless thee and make thy name great, so that thou wilt be a blessing. I will bless those who bless thee, and he who curses thee I will curse, and in thee, all the families of the earth shall be blessed.’ This is the word of the Lord, and it is true.”
“Though news of the outside world seldom reaches our ears, tidings have penetrated through the thick walls of our own nation: God has restored his covenant with Abraham. Israel has been renewed, and Jews from all over the globe, including from Russia itself, are making their way back to the Promised Land. I believe if we are to receive the fullness of God’s great blessings, we must bless the Jews by extending our helping hands.”
The boy saw heads nodding in agreement around the room. He had absolutely no idea what the preacher was talking about, but it was interesting to think that God might be involved in issuing blessings and curses. He also found it odd to think that one’s personal well-being might depend on how he or she treated another person, especially knowing that many of his own schoolmates called their neighbors “filthy Jew-dogs.” At times, caught up in the moment, Pavel had participated in the name calling. But now, he was troubled at his actions. Could he be cursed? What kind of God would choose one people above another? It made no sense at all. More thought would be needed to sort it out, so he shoved it into a quiet corner of his mind.
Suddenly, with a frightening crash, the door blew inward and splintered into several chunks. The two hanging bulbs began swinging back and forth, propelled by a sudden rush of air. The boy was startled as uniformed men from the GRU, the Soviet version of the German Gestapo, rushed in. Shouts accompanied the swinging of black, leather bound riot sticks. Several worshippers were struck by rifle butts without having shown the slightest hint of resistance. The intruders swiftly moved toward the preacher, toppling every person or chair in their path.
Anya and Pavel were some of the first to hit the floor, and he was immediately covered by his mother’s arms. Though his fear was palpable, his curiosity was stronger. He lifted his head to see a rabid GRU agent pummel the preacher in the face and stomach until blood began to trickle from the man’s mouth. The preacher spoke no words and offered no resistance, though fire seemed to burn in the dark pupils of his eyes.
“Why are they doing this mother?” the terrified boy whispered. He could feel her trembling, but noticed that she was again praying quietly in that strange, foreign tongue. Somehow, it soothed him.
“Shh—Pavel, they do not want us to worship God. They are wrong! Always remember, they are wrong!” she said more in lament than frustration or fear.
The boy looked deep into his mother’s eyes and saw a terrible look of resignation, as if she knew something long awaited was about to transpire. He turned his head into her bosom as she squeezed him tighter than he’d ever felt.
Just then, cruel hands jerked the boy to his feet and away from his now sobbing mother. Then a booted foot crashed into her belly. But for her thick woolen coat, she would have been fatally injured. As it was, she writhed in pain, fighting for the air that had been expelled from her body.
An agent dragged Pavel to the back of room and held him there while Anya was left alone to recover from the vicious assault. The boy could not take his eyes off his mother. He wanted to call to her, but he instinctively knew she would be the recipient of a merciless reprisal. Instead, he quietly watched with a mixture of confusion and rising panic.
The members of the small gathering were forced to move toward the far wall of the basement, both the men and the women. The line stretched across the length of the room, and at the extreme end of the line stood the bruised and bleeding preacher. Everyone was now an extension of his pain.
The women wept and quietly prayed for an unseen deliverance. The few men present had a far off look in their eyes, aware of what was coming next.
As Pavel watched, the preacher’s eyes locked onto his own and the little man’s voice rang out in an impromptu prophetic command. And though the boy could not comprehend the meaning of it, it would hover in the depths of his consciousness for the entirety of his life.
“I say unto you, I have chosen you to protect my people. All who bless them will be blessed by me. All who stand against them will stand against me. Remember your calling in the latter years and seek me. I will perform my works, and you shall witness them all!” A rifle butt abruptly ended the utterance.
Then the voice of his mother rang out. They would be the last words she would say to her only child. “Pavel, I love you. You must follow Jesus. Look for Jesus!”
A violent jerk on his arm sent him reeling up the cold steps in the iron grip of the agent. He stumbled, struck his shin on the edge of one of the wooden steps, and cried out in pain, but the man paid no attention. They climbed until they reached the nearly-disintegrated stoop at the top.
“Boy, you will forget what you’ve seen and heard. The motherland needs you, and you now belong to her. Do you hear me boy?” the agent growled.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You are going to the Leningrad Military Academy,” answered the agent with a shade of pride. “We have great plans for boys like you!”
They paused to listen for the approach of the other intruders from below, and Pavel could hear the footfalls of several men rapidly mounting the stairs. Their voices held a mixture of humor and derision. Then, the sharp sound of gunfire was imprinted into the boy’s mind and would hauntingly remain a part of his psyche forever.
Chapter One
DATELINE…NOVEMBER 5… “AMERICA UNDER SIEGE” …. THE NATION WRITHES IN THE AFTERMATH OF FIVE NUCLEAR DETONATIONS…
ASSOCIATED PRESS…..LOCAL, STATE, AND NATIONAL EMERGENCY SERVICES ARE STRETCHED TO THE BREAKING POINT….PANIC HAS OVERRIDDEN THE POPULACE…
FOX NEWS……PRESIDENT BERNARD R. YANGTON HAS BEEN SPIRITED INTO A SECURE INSTALLATION…
REUTERS NEWS SERVICE…UNITED NATIONS CONSENSUS IS BUILDING FOR MILITARY ACTION AGAINST THE ROGUE STATE OF ISRAEL FOR ITS ARBITRARY AND UNRESTRAINED USE OF NUCLEAR WEAPONS…
CNN… PRESIDENT YANGTON HAS ORDERED ALL CARRIER BATTLE GROUPS TO RETURN TO THEIR RESPECTIVE HOME BASE… THE PRESIDENT HAS IMPOSED A STATE MARSHALL LAW WITHIN THE CONFINES OF THE CITIES EFFECTED BY THE NUCLEAR BLASTS…
ASSOCIATED PRESS…HAS THE ECONOMY TANKED? IN THE WAKE OF AN ALREADY TROUBLED ECONOMY, THE TRAGIC ATTACK ON AMERICA HAS FORCED WALL STREET TO CEASE ALL TRADING. IT IS NOT EXPECTED TO RESUME OPERATIONS DUE TO FEAR OF A WORLD ECONOMIC MELTDOWN…
Ramat David Air Base
117th Air Wing, Israeli Air Force
Thursday 3:15 a.m. Local Time
Captain Moshe Eldan of the Israeli Air Force, and near-ace pilot of an F-16 Barak Lightning, taxied his fighter to the tarmac directly in front of the designated bunker. A mixture of fatigue and sadness had washed over him, slowly at first, but now with increasing intensity. The night had been spent in either tedious terrain-hugging flight or adrenaline-packed combat operations against Iran. Both had the propensity to physically and mentally drain a pilot, and Moshe was feeling it.
Over the course of a week, nearly everything that could shake a man had been imposed upon him. It had been worse than a run-away roller coaster. Moshe had lost a friend and comrade in arms to aerial combat, gotten himself shot out of the sky, discovered a sinister plot to attack Israel, chased a rocket through the sky to no avail, witnessed the horror of a nuclear blast on his own people, and had begun an inner search for truth. Now, he and his squadron were arriving after a mission that would, most likely, touch off the beginnings of World War III.
Cold night air rushed into the cramped cock-pit as the canopy of his Lightning elevated itself high above the fuselage. Moshe shut down the powerful engine and pulled the flight gloves off his hands one finger at a time. He looked to his left to see his wingman Ruben Cohen doing the same about twenty yards away. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This night only seemed to get longer.
The round, rubber-ended hooks of a ladder slapped over the side of the cockpit, and the ruddy face of his young crewman popped up right behind it. The kid reached in and unbuckled the seat harness and high-tech helmet connections as he went through the process of freeing his squadron leader.
“Welcome home Captain. It’s time to put this thing in the barn,” he said with more enthusiasm than Moshe had the capability of dealing with. Therefore, no answer was returned.
“Are you alright, Sir?” he asked.
“I’m just tired, kid.”
“Understood, Sir. From what I’ve heard, that was an incredible mission. The good news is, the entire wing made it back in one piece. Way to go!” The young technician didn’t quite have the guts to reach in and pat Moshe on the back, though his exuberance said otherwise.
“Thanks. Let’s just get me out of this thing,” Moshe said with obvious fatigue. Still, the knowledge that the IDF attack on Iran’s nuclear facilities had suffered no losses was stunning. He’d have to process once he recovered a bit.
Finally free, Moshe climbed down the ladder to the asphalt surface of the tarmac. He then turned towards a jeep parked beside the earth-covered bunker that would soon receive his Lightning. It was not only a wise thing to do, but buttoning up the squadron was an absolute necessity. No one could know when a counterattack might come from one of the enraged Arab states, but it was sure to happen at some point. It was even possible that the now quiet Hizbollah forces along the Israeli/Lebanese border may have a few more missiles to launch. Israel could not afford to lose any of its more valuable defense assets.
His walk lacked enthusiasm, and that was only natural. Haifa, Israel’s second largest city had been stricken by an Iranian made nuclear-tipped missile. Thousands were dead, and the small nation would be reeling for weeks in the aftermath. What further tragedies waited around the corner? Further combat was assured, but how far would Israel be taken into the abyss before the prophetic rescue he’d been hearing about actually happened?
With the peril of the last several days had come a level of revelation that had astounded Moshe. The words of the ancient prophets of Israel seemed to be on the verge of fulfillment, and he had been drawn into a mode of thinking that had been diametrically opposite of his worldview, that is until the current moment. His wife Tasha had been the catalyst of the unthinkable. She’d taken him to a Christian church, and now he knew he would never be the same.
Moshe was jarred into the present by the young crewman. “Sir, if you’ll wait a few moments, Private Levins will take you and Lieutenant Cohen back to headquarters. You’ll be picking up a couple of other pilots along the way,” he suggested, hoping the Captain wouldn’t be put out by an extra inconvenience.
“No problem,” Moshe answered without turning back. His strength seemed to be waning, and there was still the after-action debriefing that had to be endured. A yearning to see his Tasha made him wish he could by-pass it all and just head for home. The feeling didn’t do his attitude any good.
He remembered the expression on her face when he’d left her earlier in the evening, how the look of worry in her hazel eyes had almost been too much for him to handle. She’d been through as many emotional twists and turns as he had over the last few days, and maybe more. All he wanted was to step aside from war, fear, and heartache, and find his way into her arms.
“Throw in a hot shower and a pair of soft sheets with it,” he mumbled in response to his own weary thoughts.
“What’s that Captain?” Ruben Cohen asked as he came trotting toward the spot where Moshe was just about to climb into the front passenger seat the jeep.
“Man, how is it you have any energy right now? It makes me sick!” Moshe didn’t have enough juice left to add a smile to the comment. He really meant it.
“I’m not as old as you are, but sure kicked some Iranian butt! I guess I’m a little pumped up.” Rueben answered.
Moshe countered with irritation, “Well, try and deflate yourself some. This thing is just getting started.”
Ruben swung his legs into the back seat of the jeep and leaned forward. “What do you mean?”
“You realize no one’s is going to sit back and shrug at what we just did, don’t you?
“I’d think it would inject a new element of fear into the equation. If they’re going to mess with us, they’d better be prepared to get new holes drilled into their sand dunes,” Ruben said matter-of-factly.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is. Whenever they get hit between the eyes like that they always turn out to be cowards,” Rueben argued, absolutely sure of himself. Moshe admired the pride of the young, now combat-proven pilot. But there was much more to this game than the rookie could see.
“Rueben, this is different. You’re going to find out that a few things may have changed this time.”
“How so?”
“Well for one, we’re alone! Israel will have to do this solo!”
Private Levins scooted behind the wheel of the Jeep, and the three headed rapidly down the tarmac toward the next set of bunkers. It was done in silence. The excitement that had been boiling within the junior pilot had been squelched by a fresh dose of reality.
Plattsville, Missouri
Wednesday: 7:15 p.m., Local Time
The headlights of Marty Schoenburg’s car flashed in Ty’s face as it turned sharply off the street and into the parking lot of Faith Community Church. Speed, or the lack thereof, didn’t seem to be an issue for the young deacon.
Pastor Ty Dempsey had his strong arms wrapped tightly around his fiancé Blake Sieler. His tall, solid frame practically enveloped her petite figure. They’d been engaged for all of three days after a whirlwind romance. The blonde haired, gifted singer had captured his heart, and that fact had been his salvation over the last few weeks.
Things had not gone well for the Pastor of Faith Community Church. His recent preaching of the prophetic portions of the Bible had caused a terrible stir within the congregation’s leadership. Ty’s only saving grace was found in the fact that his words concerning Israel had come true. Israel was viciously attacked and then responded by destroying Damascus. He’d predicted it. It happened. His ministry was saved.
Worse, the second emphasis of his preaching had happened. He’d predicted a renewal of terrorism in America for its rejection of Israel. And now their gaze was transfixed on the horror still lighting the night sky over Kansas City. Around them, anguished sobs could be heard from several of the women of his congregation. Most of the men stood in shocked disbelief. Others were attempting to comfort their terrified families.
No one had imagined that such a nightmare could have actually become reality, but here it was, playing out before their astonished eyes. As with so many tragic and shocking events, none of the good people standing there were able to look away from the scene to the south. Not eighteen miles away, a nuclear-produced mushroom had extended several miles into the sky and was beginning to unfurl its umbrella-like shadow over the whole of central Kansas City. Fires burned beneath its reach. The fact that their church was on the highest rise in the area gave them an eerie sensation of having been given a front-row seat to terror.
Echoes of distant explosions came in continuous waves. Gas mains around the circumference of the wounded inner city were igniting on a steady basis. Hundreds of flickering glows were easily recognizable as fires out of control, even from this distance. All other illumination was non-existent. It was obvious that all power to the metropolis had been truncated by the massive explosion.
The harsh, rising notes of sirens broke into the vigil. More rescue teams were heading down the highway toward the devastated city. Local civilians had aggressively trained for such emergencies, but even the well-prepared among them would be forced to plow their way through thick layers of unbridled shock in order to offer any assistance.
Ty felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Marty standing behind him. The young deacon, a school teacher by profession, leaned forward and spoke quietly, “Pastor, you’re not going to believe this. It’s really bad.” Both statements were crisply enunciated for emphasis.
“What do you mean, Marty?”
“That,” he said while pointing at the epicenter of the explosion, “was the Sprint Center. All local television has been knocked out, but CNN is reporting that by the EMP signature, the electro-magnetic-pulse, it was a nuke. But that’s not all. The same thing happened in four other cities, and the entire country is panicked.”
“My God! What cities?” Ty asked with his full attention locked on Marty, not believing he could be rattled more than he was already.
“They’re saying that Seattle was hit during a basketball game, Detroit, and Houston too. Another nuke went off in Baltimore at some sort of religious convention. This thing was obviously well planned, and everybody is thinking they might be next. Mass panic seems to be taking over.”
“Oh Lord! Oh Jesus!” It was all Ty could say.
“It is way too premature, but they’re guessing that a quarter of a million people were probably killed instantly. This is really bad!” Marty repeated the exclamation.
Blake turned to Marty, “Have they said anything about the damage, about how bad it is outside the loop?” There was barely masked fear in her quiet question.
“No. They’re all still trying to find out the details. Everyone’s too shaken up to know anything yet,” Marty answered.
“Look Marty, I want you to go back home and see if you can get a better picture of the situation around Kansas City. We need to know. I’m going to gather everyone into the church and see if we can calm them down enough to pray,” Ty said, fighting his own sense of anxiety.
“Okay, then what?”
“I want you back here in a half hour or forty-five minutes with the big picture. Then, we’re going to have a little meeting and attempt to come up with a preliminary plan. All I can see is a rush of people trying to get away from that thing, and its going to be sooner, not later.” Ty pointed toward the southern sky and the gruesome mushroom cloud.
“You got it, Pastor. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“And Marty, are the phones working?”
“The land lines are still functioning, at least locally. Cell traffic is out,” Mary answered.
“Would you have your wife call everyone she can think of and get them here as soon as possible.”
“Will do,” Marty answered as he turned and began to run back to his car.
Ty used his forefinger to gently slide a few strands of Blake’s long blond hair from off her cheek then placed it under her chin. He raised her face so he could look directly into her eyes. “Blake, they’re going to be alright,” he tried to reassure her.
“Ty, the last time I talked to dad, he said they were thinking of going to that concert tonight…and even if they didn’t go, they live really close to that area. I’m scared,” she said, her voice breaking. Then she began to cry. Blake’s parents lived in the Roanoke area of Kansas City, just southwest of the downtown loop. Their home was no more than five miles from the Sprint Center.
Ty held her and tried to swallow the huge lump in his throat.
“Heavenly Father, we need your help. We don’t know what’s happened with Blake’s parents, or where they are, but you do. Keep your hand on them, and somehow put us into contact with each other. I also ask for extra peace and comfort for Blake until we hear something. We trust you in everything. Just help us through this. Amen!” He prayed just loud enough for Blake to hear.
“Amen,” she echoed with a sniff. She then looked up at him. “I love you, Ty.”
“I might be clueless about a lot of things right now, but I do know this, I love you too. Try not to worry too much. We’ll do something to find out about your parents as soon as it looks possible. In the meantime, I think we’re in for a long, long night. Are you ready for it?”
She pulled a tissue from her coat pocket and dabbed it under her eyes and nose. “I think so. I’m right beside you!”
Ty looked once more out over the distance to the devastated city core then turned his attention to his emotionally scattered flock. It was time to gather them up, do some comforting, and then start exploring how the Lord might want to use them.
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