CHARLEY MCATEE, DAVE BUSBY, and Carl and Lori Throneberry watched the horror in Los Angeles on big-screen television as much as they were able for over two hours. They had been mesmerized and virtually speechless throughout most of it, but when it was clear they were all reaching a saturation point, Charley touched the remote control, and the set went dark.

He stood up and shook the knots out of his spine. “There is nothing we can do to help the situation now,” he said, “except pray for the families of the dead and those who are still alive north of L.A. But there is still a lot we can do personally to get ready for what’s coming.”

Dave Busby leaned back and extended his arms and legs to their full length. “I’m getting too old for this, Charley,” he said. “Basketball’s demanding, but this business is much, much harder.” Standing up, he said, “When we first got here, you told us we were going to meet an old friend of yours, didn’t you? When is that going to happen?”

“Good for you, Dave,” said Charley. “I’m glad you asked. We need to be up at five o’clock and rolling out of this place no later than six.”

“Five?” Lori gasped. “You mean, like, five o’clock—in the morning?”“Yep.” Charley nodded and smiled.

“Whew!” Carl whistled. “That’s pretty early, Charley. Where are we going at that time of day?”

“We’re going to pick up three truckloads of supplies and diesel fuel to take to a special place in the mountains called El Refugio.”

“El Refugio,” Lori repeated. “That’s interesting. The refuge. Sounds like the right place for a bunch of refugees like us. . . .”

“You’re right, Lori,” Charley said, “and this will be a chance for you and Carl to meet the man I told you about earlier. He built El Refugio with his own money. Most people call him Pastor Jack. His real name is John Edwards. He’s a descendant of Jonathan Edwards, who was one of the great early preachers, back in the middle 1700s. He’s really proud of that heritage. Three hundred years later, Pastor Jack’s still carrying on the tradition.” Charley yawned and stretched. “Anyway, let’s get some sleep. What do you say?”

With little coaxing, they all went to their assigned quarters and fell fast asleep.

IN WASHINGTON, VALERY RUST was watching the television news when two Secret Service agents showed up at the door with her husband in tow. She looked up, amazed to see the president home so early in the midst of such a crisis. He was expected to be at a top-level meeting with the entire cabinet through most of the evening. But Ted Rust was too groggy to think about the crisis facing America. And he was obviously in no condition to meet with anyone.