“You know,” John Edwards began again, “I believe that the motto we all need to live by is spelled out clearly in the lessons we’ve seen in the Scriptures. We are called, we have been chosen, and we are to be faithful. That’s why each one of us is here. We have been called and chosen. Now, it’s up to us to be faithful.”

“Called, chosen, faithful,” said Dave Busby. “I like it—the new team motto!”

John Edwards closed his Bible and stood. “Dinner will be ready soon.” He turned to the Quintanas. “Let me show you to your rooms.”

As if on cue, everyone stood up, stretching and yawning. Manuel said, “I’d just like to ask one last question. I understand what you’re saying about the Lord’s power. But these two agents of Satan you’ve been telling us about—do you really think they can pull off some kind of worldwide dictatorship?”

“Manuel, I believe they can, but only for a relatively short time.”

“Next question,” Carl joined in. “Can you pull off what you are trying to do here?”

“With the Lord’s help, we will—or we’ll die trying, Carl.”

“Jack, if Cathy agrees,” said Manuel, “you can count me in. I’d be happy—and lucky, too, I might add—to help you out with your communications and equipment.”

“It’s more than luck, Manuel,” said John Edwards. “It’s a calling, and there’s work for all of us here. We’ll have to get moving quickly. I fear that we’re going to be looking into the face of the Antichrist very soon.”

Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SUNDAY MORNING WAS two hours away when the exhausted United States cabinet reconvened in the White House Cabinet Room. President Ted Rust was presiding. By his side was his new vice president, Mark Beaulieu. Late the night before, after a lengthy session of the crisis management team, Secretary of Defense Al Augustus had approached Beaulieu with congratulations. He found the man charming, sporting a warm smile and ready wit.

In the midst of the casual banter, Augustus had made an off-hand remark. It was innocuous, inconsequential. But as he looked into Beaulieu’s eyes, expecting a twinkle or a grin, he saw something else. The eyes of the new vice president stared back, cold as ice, without feeling. Al felt as if he were looking at someone else. Then, as if a slide had been changed in a projector, the cold expression vanished, and Mark Beaulieu’s face was once again filled with the charm and warmth for which he was noted.

As they parted, Al Augustus thought, Maybe I’ve been up too long, or maybe I’m hallucinating. But, no, I felt it. It was cold and icy. It was evil. There is something very disturbing, something sinister about that guy.