CHARLEY, DAVE, LORI, and Carl awoke in the darkness Friday morning, showered and dressed quickly, and by 5:30, they were eating a healthy breakfast of whole-grain cereal and melon. Then they climbed into Charley’s high-powered, four-wheel-drive pickup and headed for a garage on the edge of town. Inside the flat, tin building were two nondescript flatbed trucks with removable stake siding. They quickly loaded ten empty fifty-gallon drums onto each truck and lashed them securely with ropes.

“Charley, what’s this all about?” Dave asked. “I thought we were going to see some Bible teacher.”

Charley laughed. “We are! But, in light of what’s coming, we’re going to need a lot of diesel fuel. El Refugio is too far out in the hills for regular deliveries, so we’ll have to make sure we’ve got what we need . . . when we need it.”

Charley and Dave drove the big flatbed trucks. Carl and Lori took the pickup. They drove to an all-night service station, topped off the tanks, then pumped a thousand gallons of diesel fuel into the drums. As Charley paid the bill, he paused to talk to the attendant. “We’ve got some serious dozer work up in the hills,” he said. “How are you doing?”

The attendant shook his head. “I can’t stop thinking about all those people in Los Angeles last night. They say that San Francisco was practically washed away during the night. Seattle’s next. Only the Lord knows how bad it’s finally going to get.”

“Ed,” Charley answered, noting the nametag on the coveralls, “all we can do now is trust in the Lord.”

“You got that straight, mister. Thanks for the business.”

The little convoy moved north out of Albuquerque, then west to a branch of the Rio Puerco into the foothills toward the Continental Divide. After a three-hour drive, they entered a lovely mountain valley. Through a grove of trees was John Edwards’s impressive spread, El Refugio.

THE CENTRAL BUILDING at El Refugio was a large multipurpose structure with the natural log-and-adobe design of the region. The living room, a large den and meeting room, kitchen facilities, and guest rooms were all on the first floor. Upstairs were several bedrooms. Farther up, at the top of the long, winding stairway, was John Edwards’s private study. Flanking the residence on either side were two rustic bunkhouses. To one side of the main building was an impressive array of communications equipment, including a satellite telephone antenna, two satellite TV receiver dishes, and a satellite TV and data transmission dish.

John Edwards came out to greet them, dusting off his hands on his blue jeans. He was a tall, powerfully built man in his early seventies with gray hair pulled back into a ponytail, revealing a deeply lined and tanned face. He looked like a cowhand with faded jeans, rough hide cowboy boots, a blue workshirt, and denim jacket.