CHAPTER EIGHT

STORM CLOUDS GATHER

Santero was sure Hauser had perished at sea with his secret with him.  Davidshu had made it impossible for him to hear otherwise.  Just as well, he thought, it would only be a matter of hours before the warhead was ready for launching.  Just the same, he wasn't taking any chances.  He had recalled his legion from the four corners of the earth and from its very bowels.  He commanded them to be ready to drag the screaming minions to damnation.

The nails in the hands of Christ could not compare to the immense pain he would bring the Godhead by dragging so many unwitting souls to the Fiery Lake.  How dare they call him The Father of Lies.  He knew he was powerful enough to create his own reality and what was truth to him anyway.  It was a sign of weakness, something to be exploited.  Before he was finished, they would see that the power of truth held nothing to the power of a lie.  They would see how many of the humans were willing to give up an eternity of peace, boundless love, music and fulfillment in exchange for a foul smelling Lake of Fire.  He wondered what kind of bargain the Mighty One would strike with him when he had gained control over so many of his snivelling, weak little creatures.  It didn't matter, the only deal he would accept was the Mighty One's surrender of the throne.  Santero was too blind to realize that in so doing, the very fabric of the universe would come undone.  He had seen the Mighty One create many things, but he did not realize that it was His own essence that held everything together.  It was impossible for the Mighty One to assign control of His throne to any other entity, for aside from the Godhead, there was no other power.  In the beginning, God was alone.  He had created the angels and mankind for company to share the wonders of His own majestic spirit.  He created human voices to sing, laugh, make humor, give adoration and talk to Him and to one another.  The Mighty One rejoiced in His creation the same way a mother eagle enjoyed watching her eaglets.  The departure of human spirits into the Lake of Fire was indeed a dreadful event.  The Mighty One had suffered once in eternity for all.  He would not forget.  The pain he had felt when he had separated himself to atone for the evils of mankind was an eternal pain.  Three days and nights in the Lake of Fire, the Son had lay forsaken, feeling the torment, the abject loneliness, the desolation.  All the fallen had come to taunt Him.  Strangely enough, a number of them had seemed to ask with their eyes for forgiveness.  Still, they cowered before Santero.  Try as he would, Santero would never allow any of them to change their chosen destiny.

Construction complete, the remaining workers had been sent to their underground dormitories.  Otto Mensch had sent most of them back.  Jorge Nurose had finally caught a small glimpse of the warhead.  He knew what it was instantly, even as it lay covered in the hangar under tarps.  He realized immediately the implications of a launch from Half Moon Bay.  He snooped about for a phone to call the U.S. Government, but found none.  He knew that evening the launch would take place.  One more day would be too late.

Under the pretention of going to see Otto Mensch about an engineering problem, he managed to persuade the dorm supervisor to let him out.  He saw the helicopters lined up to take Santero and the others to the vessel waiting off-shore.  With many of the workers gone, it was harder for him to walk about unseen.  A voice inside of him kept telling him to go for the fence.  While supervising the hauling away of some dirt from the underground launch pad, he had noticed that the fence had a two foot by eighteen inch gap about a thousand yards from the main gate.  He knew he would never make it down the main road into town.  His only chance was going to the sea and trying to swim to one of the other communities.

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have stood a chance.  The entire complex was under video surveillance, but now the complex was being evacuated and since most of the fallen had not wanted to abandon their human carriers, they had left their command posts vying for available space on the helicopters.  The fallout from the explosion would have killed them all within minutes of the blast.  The rumor had gotten around and none of them wanted to stay.  Santero had a full scale rebellion on his hands.  He had given in and was flying them out in groups with extra helicopters to take his loyal workers.  The camera was on but no one was watching to see Jorge Nurose slip through the barbed wire and down the hill to the Bay.  It was impossible for him to make his way up the coast by walking.  With the sky overcast, visibility was still difficult.  Several times unseen to him, Yoballa had kept him from seriously hurting himself.  It was as if a mysterious hand just kept his foot from stumbling.

The grey rock loomed in front of him.  He knew it would be impossible to climb over at night so Jorge opted to swim around it.  The surf was pounding pretty good coming in and out of the Bay.  He'd always been a strong swimmer, and having lived in Massachusetts, the cold water was nothing new to him either.  He took off his shirt and shoes and dove in.  His hands were numb within seconds.  He had all he could do to keep from being pulled into the rip tides around the huge stone.  After hours of considerable difficulty and unseen help from Yoballa, he marshalled all his strength and made it to the small inlet on the other side of the rock, where he collapsed on the cold sand.  He rubbed his hands and feet and put on his shoes and shirt, which he removed from his waist.  Cold and damp, they offered no warmth.  He knew it would be hours before he saw any sign of civilization and all he wanted to do was sleep.

Hauser slipped deeper into shock.  The men who came to interrogate him were forced to wait outside his room.  Every second that ticked by on the clock added to the impossibility of finding the missing warhead.  Hauser's body had responded to the I.V.s and his blistered face and chest had begun to heal, but his concussion kept him unconscious.

Bruce and his small group gathered in their church Sunday School room praying for help from the Mighty One.  Never before had the forces of Hell controlled a town so completely.  The numbers were overwhelming.  In the Castro District, the militant gays had dressed up and were dancing in the streets wearing animal costumes with horns on their heads.  They were ingesting every chemical known, with some having shed all their clothing to copulate in the streets.  The leading Witch of Wicca had been offering animal sacrifices next to the Japanese Gardens in Golden Gate Park.  Thousands had shed their clothing and were making love on the grassy field.  Several of the patrolmen who patrolled on horseback had been persuaded to shed their clothes and joined in on the debauchery.  In the Marina District, long-time neighbors had come out throwing cocktail parties in the streets.  Fights had broken out and several people had gotten so drunk they had stumbled into the water and died.  Across the Bay in Oakland, a grandson of a former Black Panther leader had gone out with his gang, broken into the police station and had taken to randomly shooting motorists from several overpasses.  Cars had piled up everywhere.  Passengers on BART were being lined up, forced to remove all their valuables and clothing, and were taunted by the young gangs of innumerable renegade youth.  Females young and old were raped at gunpoint.  At the Golden Gate Bridge, hundreds were gathered for a Black Mass and traffic had come to a standstill.  Ten runaway children had been tied upside down to crosses and were to be cannibalized.  In the shopping district around the St. Francis Hotel, nearly every display window had been broken.  No security guards were on duty and the police station had been largely deserted.  In Chinatown, Chun Lee had gone out of his nearly deserted church to investigate some noise and a raucous group of Chinese youth had doused him with gasoline, set him on fire and laughed as he screamed, running down the street.  They doused the church and torched that as well.  The trollies had stopped running.  People abandoned their cars everywhere.  The few followers of the Mighty One met in small groups and prayed for protection.  Some found the wandering rape victims and nursed them.  Others covered by themselves in the dark, afraid to come out of hiding.

The Warriors of God grieved as they watched the destruction of the people.  The Mighty One had not given the order to send them in.  The power of evil was overwhelming and only a few of the followers of the Mighty One had asked for help.  They watched in horror as the Fallen dragged soul after soul screaming into the bowels of the earth.  It was Raphael who finally approached Michael.

"When are we to intercede?" he asked.

"When the prayers of the faithful have touched the heart of the Mighty One," Michael replied.  "Then we can take our victory.  Those that must perish will perish.  Those that will live will live."

"Blessed be the name of the Most High."

Thousands of Warriors had gathered to watch the humans destroying one another, all of them ignorant to the demons spurring them on.  It was as if all sensibilities were gone.  Those who would have treated the sick in their jobs as nurses and doctors were watching as the young runaways were being cannibalized.  Those who would have restored old houses were looting and smashing windows.  A trolley car driver had taken out his trolley and jumped off letting it careen down a steep hill.   The trolley wiped out a large group gathered in front of a sex shop.  Violence, filth and the debauchery that had been done under the cover of darkness reared its ugly head in the light of day.

Billy and Louis left after the prayer meeting with Bruce and Denise.  They had planned on checking out a theater in the porno district that had been boarded up.  They were planning a new play and found out that the theater owner would give them a free ten-year lease in exchange for them fixing the place up.

Billy pulled his '91 yellow Vette out of the church parking lot and made his way over to the freeway.  He looked over at Louis motioning at some billowing smoke.

"Hey man," Louis motioned.  "Look, it looks like the projects are on fire."

"We'd better try another way.  Traffic is jammed."  Billy pulled his Vette around and went down a side street looking for another ramp onto the freeway.  They didn't get five blocks before they saw a group of kids with clubs and bats smashing windows on cars and creating mayhem.  As they pulled closer, the kids walked right up into the street.  The leader put his leather boot right on the hood of Billy's car.  Danny Johnson was a died-in-the-wool Aryan.  Cropped hair with a swastika cut along his left side.  He was barely fifteen.

"What do we have here?" he taunted.  "A nigger that thinks he's something driving a nice, beautiful Corvette."

Billy and Louis both got out of the car.  They watched in silence as Danny cut a swastika on the hood of the car.

"Be cool, man," Billy said.  "God never made colors.  Love comes in all colors."

"Love," Danny taunted, motioning to his friends for moral support.  "What you niggers know 'bout love?  All you doing is having babies on welfare.  I'm an Aryan, the master race.  Adolf didn't quite finish exterminating the Jews and niggers like you, but we're going to."

The gang circled around Billy and Louis.  Louis put both of his hands in the air in surrender.

"All right, you dudes are right.  Neither of us is white.  We're mongrels, but even mongrels have their place in your society as slaves and subservient workers.  Look, I can see you're important.  You're young, you have your own gang.  Think of the status you'll have with a car like this."  Louis reached over and took the keys out of the ignition.  "Take it--it's a gift from us.  We have no argument with your superiority.  We are not even worthy to walk on the same sidewalk as you.  All we ask for are the crumbs from your table."

Danny was in shock at being handed the keys to the Vette.  He looked at Billy to see his reaction.

"Go ahead, it's cool.  Really, you are the master race.  There will always be a place, even in the great Aryan society, for workers and slaves like us.  We can never live as your equals, but we could live as your slaves."

"Alright," Danny gestured to his gang members, "we were going to cut you up, but I see you've both been educated to your proper position in the New Order.  You can go."  Danny pulled out an Aryan brotherhood badge for each of them.  "Tie these on your arms.  If anyone tries to harm you, tell them you're servants of Danny Johnson.  After we take over, you can show your people the right way to serve their masters."

"Thank you."  Louis knelt at his feet.  He motioned for Billy to join him.

"Yes, thank you for allowing us to serve you," Billy said.

The gang departed with Danny driving the Vette.  Louis and Billy hoofed it for the freeway.  They were both speechless and could hardly even discuss the attack by the gang.  Finally, after minutes of speechlessness, Billy turned to Louis.

"Man, Louis," Billy said, "you can really talk your way out of anything.  We were this close from being dead.  You saved our hides.  Cost me my Vette, but hey, Chevy's still making those.  The fact is, you really did save my behind."

Louis chuckled and put his arms around Billy.  "You know, Billy, I know blacks just love to barbecue, but I'll tell you this, friend.  We were almost the main course.  If things are getting this crazy, we'd probably better just get back to the church."

Years earlier, the Archwarrior of Europe, Sensimellia, a large creature with deformed hands and a head that resembled a mutated ant, had inspired the writing of a young man, Adolf Hitler, who had written messages of racial hatred that had changed an entire continent.  He had ultimately lost when the followers of the Mighty One had banded together and prayed to end the madness.  Michael and Raphael had foiled their plans for atomic weapons that would have decimated the Allies and wrought a new dark age upon humanity.  With demonic spirits in charge, millions would have been rounded up and tortured and exterminated.  After losing Europe, Sensimellia had gone to South America where he had inspired the drug cartels and the accompanying misery.  He had engineered the rise of young peasant farmers into financial dictators who ruled their drug fiefdoms with the same cruelty and opulence the early Caesars had.

Sensimellia had come up to the Bay area and found several groups of young Aryan skinheads.  He had invaded Danny Johnson's spirit through the immense hate the young man carried over his mom leaving his father for a black man.

Johnson had been a prime target for the Neo-Nazi hate groups and had quickly risen through the ranks to become a leader of the Nazi Bay Area Youth Brigade.  With Sensimellia's eloquence and hate streaming through his very life blood in just hours, the ranks of the groups had grown to over 5,000 strong.  Entire neighborhoods where blacks, whites, Orientals and Hispanics had lived peacefully side by side for years were smoldering embers with block upon block burned to the ground.  The Bay area fire department had found it so difficult to control them that they had become spectators just watching them burn to the ground.  The heat in many of the areas had risen to over 150 degrees.  Sensimellia had orchestrated it all.  He had Johnson send arson squads into areas with five-gallon cans of gasoline.  They lit up entire streets.  People that tried to stop them were beaten brutally and doused themselves.  The anarchy was unlike anything ever seen.  The governor, hearing about it and seeing it on the news, had requested Federal troops.  The President responded in spite of being advised that many of the areas of the city would be impossible to save.

The entire region surrounding Oakland where the largest number of blacks dwelled was burning, rows of houses, apartment complexes, and churches.  The westerly winds were catching the flames and lighting up entire blocks like Las Vegas.  Everywhere black women were on the sidewalks crying over their dead and missing children.  Water pressure had slowed to a trickle and people were passing out from heat exhaustion everywhere.  Those who had managed to get out went from house to house rousing other residents.  Guns were fired, and in many areas when the rescue squads had come, they were beaten by the angry residents.  The subway station had become a haven for the hundreds who had no place else to go.  Food and water were scarce and decent citizens had taken to looting just to survive.  It was four in the afternoon before the first troops had landed.  Many of the recruits were a bit trigger happy and had begun to shoot looters.  The dead were lying everywhere.

The spectacle was played out on CNN for the entire world to view.  Everywhere it was shown the followers of the Mighty One began to intercede.  It was a massive Spiritual Red Cross cry for relief for the souls of the Bay area.  Two street evangelists took out a portable generator in a pickup truck and set up near the worst fire in Oakland.  They had a trailer full of sandwiches and soft drinks their church had been making for a weekend gathering.  Hundreds flocked to the truck and received Christ.  The mood of the city went from one of despair to one of hope.  Everywhere, followers were coming out of their homes and taking in the homeless.  Busses from the wealthy area of Walnut Grove drove into the city, picked up the homeless and took them back to their comfortable suburbs.

The authorities were perplexed.  They knew that somewhere in the Bay area a nuclear warhead was being readied to destroy the city.  Rob Ondow, a former female impersonator who had entertained many nights at the Half Moon Bay estate, had overheard Santero and Cadaver and had gone to the authorities half scared out of his mind.  They were able to get a full description of Santero and confirmed it with Hauser who had briefly come out of shock.

The government responded instantly.  Planes were sent up to photograph the Half Moon Bay area.  A special Navy Seal squad had made an amphibious landing only to find the estate virtually deserted.  Evidence of massive construction was everywhere: underground dormitories, a kitchen stocked with provisions for hundreds, bathroom facilities and excavating equipment.  But there were no clues as to where the launching site was.  The launching pad was at the bottom of Half Moon Bay.  Santero's own divers had covered up the launch bay with tons of silt and seaweed.  The tunnel entrance to the launch bay had been cemented in.  The transmitter by which they were to receive the signal to launch was buried in the walls of an old fishing shack on the shore of the bay.  Santero's plan was foolproof.  The last of the workers had been killed and buried at sea.  Twenty miles out, Santero sat with Otto Mensch and Cadaver watching the news about the destruction of the Bay area.  They had planned a night time launch and had less than five hours prior to launching.

"Were all the workers accounted for, Otto?" Santero queried.

"All except Jorge Nurose," Otto replied.  "But there's no way he could have gotten to anybody."

"What area did he work in?"

"He worked in excavation."  Otto fidgeted nervously.  "Look, the security wasn't my assignment."

"Does he know the exact location of the launch bay?" Santero grew in rage.

"Yes, he does," Mensch said.  "He was one of the few.  In fact, the only one besides myself that did and isn't dead."

Several of the Fallen had flown home and told Santero that the Navy Seals were searching his estate for signs of the missile launcher.  He knew that Michael and Raphael would be guiding them.  He didn't have the faintest idea where the missing worker was . . .

It was four o'clock before Nurose woke up on the beach.  An elderly couple out walking their terrier had spotted him face down in the sand and were trying to decide what to do.  Their dog had gone over to sniff him and had begun to lick his face.  It woke him right up.  He looked a sight.  Seaweed was stringing from his hair and his face was caked with sand.

"Habla Espanol," Jorge spoke to the people.  He was disoriented and didn't have the faintest idea how he had managed to wash up on a beach.  

The couple looked at one another.

"This is Moss Beach, young man, not Tijuana," Gloria Hampton spoke.

"Is there a phone nearby?" Jorge asked.

"No, I'm afraid not.  We don't get many phone calls and there's not another house for at least another mile around here," Henry Hampton spoke.

"Well, do you have a car?  It's a matter of grave national security."

Jorge had realized how much time had passed and how little time there was left.

Yoballa had not given up.  He had nearly pushed the Hamptons out for an afternoon walk by making their dog, Red, scratch the door for over four hours before they finally decided to let him out.

Yoballa found that animals were much more sensitive to divine guidance than people.  He knew they could sense the presence of the Fallen when they were hundreds of yards away.  Animals had found themselves thrust along with man into a hostile world where many had been forced to change their nature just to survive.  Those species that had been domesticated fared quite a bit better, learning about the love of the Mighty One through the kindness of His man servants.  Henry Hampton was a retired Methodist minister who had once rode the circuit-preaching revival.  In his eighties, he had taken his small nest egg and fixed up his parents' old place in Moss Beach where he had planned to live until the good Lord saw fit to take him and the Mrs. home.  It was then he noticed the cross tattooed on Jorge's arm.

"You some kind of Christian, son?" he asked.  "Used to be a minister myself."

"Yes," Jorge approached them.  "Look, this is going to sound crazy, but a demon- possessed madman just built a nuclear missile launcher under Half Moon Bay.  He's planning on blowing up this whole area tonight.  I'm probably the only one who escaped.  We need to get to the police.  Would you take me?"

"Me and the Mrs. have a car, a '73 Buick Skylark.  Pretty good shape.  I've got cataracts, and the Mrs., well, neither of us have licenses.  Little Charles Barnes runs our groceries up to us."

"Does your car start?" Jorge asked.

"Yeah," Henry replied.  "We start it up all the time.  Johnny Edwards, the local sheriff, told us he didn't care if we had a license or not--just so long as we stayed on our own dirt road."

"Can I use it and can you give me directions to the local police station?  If I don't warn somebody, this whole place is going to go," Jorge said frantically.

"Sure, that's the walkway to our house there.  Come on, Red, time to go back home."

Jorge accompanied them up to their house and found their '73 Buick.  After about fifteen tries, he finally got it to turn over.  He managed to back it out of their garage where it stalled again.  He knew it probably the battery probably was juiced out.  He struggled and pushed it to where their driveway began to slope down.  With the dog nervously barking at his feet, he pushed the car.  Unseen to him, Yoballa shouldered quite a bit of the weight.  He was thankful it wasn't an automatic.  As he rolled downhill, he turned the ignition key on and popped the clutch in second.  The engine caught and kicked in.  It had been very hard to understand the directions from the Hamptons, but he knew if he headed east he would find Highway One.  He barrelled onto Highway One not even bothering to stop for the sign.  Lucy Barnes from California Highway Patrol was just getting out of the doughnut shop when she saw him cruise right through the light.  She dropped her coffee and doughnuts, jumped in her car, turned the sirens on and took off after him.  He pulled over, jumped out of the car, and approached her.  She was out in a second, leveling a gun right at his chest.

Lucy masqueraded as a law-abiding Highway Patrol officer, using her job as an excuse to pick up runaway kids which she would take to their coven secretly back in an old winery in the hills.  There they would ritualistically torture and then sacrifice them.  As the High Priestess, she was entitled to select the form of torture.  Jorge didn't have the faintest idea who was leveling the gun at him.  Yoballa did.  Lucy's spirit was inhabited by Dacanno, the guardian of the Aztecs who had been inspiring human sacrifice from the very first time he had urged Cain to kill his brother Able.  Dacanno had lived throughout the world, controlling a list of people that would read like a Who's Who of the dregs of society: Pizzaro who had delighted in cutting up the defenseless Indians, Stalin and Idi Amin, from whom he had been exorcised.  Yoballa had battled him before.

"Your bullets won't touch him, Dacanno.  Your mission to destroy so many will backfire in your face as so many others have before."  Yoballa stood to his full height in front of Jorge as Lucy pulled the trigger on her forty five.

Six direct slugs Yoballa deflected while Dacanno fumed, "We will destroy this earth.  The Mighty One will regret having made any of these humans."

Lucy threw herself on Jorge and started beating him about the head.  It took a few moments, but Jorge realized that the officer meant to kill him and wrestled her off by grabbing her hair and slamming her head into the pavement.  Several passersby had stopped.  George Woods, a retired Army Sergeant, grabbed the car radio and radioed in an emergency.  Lucy was stunned.  She tried to get up and come at him again with her nightstick, but the two teenagers tackled her.  The veteran walked up to Jorge.

"If I didn't see it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it.  You took six shots to the chest and not one of them touched you."  He stooped down and picked up a bullet.  "Look, they fell in front of you like they hit some wall."

The crowd grew as another Highway Patrol officer pulled up.  George Woods walked up to them.

"I saw it with my own eyes, officer.  She pulled him over, he got out, approached her car, and she went crazy and started firing at him."

Two officers handcuffed Barnes and led her into the patrol car.  Lieutenant Atwood Stanley approached Jorge.  "What's the story?"

"Look," Jorge said, "I know this is going to sound crazy, but you've got to patch me through to the governor or somebody.  I just came from Half Moon Bay.  I swam across it and up to Moss Beach.  A madman Santero just finished a missile-launching installation and he's planning on launching a nuclear warhead tonight.  Right here."

"You're for real?" Atwood said.  "You don't look like you've had too much sleep and your car doesn't look like it's been out of the garage for years."

"Officer, I know it looks strange.  I was brought in illegally to work on this project.  I was the only worker to survive.  All the rest have been killed and dumped into the ocean."

"That makes sense.  Just last week, three bodies of illegals washed onto the shore."  Atwood motioned for him to sit in the patrol car.  "I'm going to look like an awful fool for doing this if this is just some story you made up.  But it's got to be important if some wacko cop just takes six shots at you, misses each one and you don't care less."

Atwood stepped into the patrol car and drove off with Jorge.  "What did you say the name of this guy was--Sanchez?"

"No," Jorge insisted.  "His name is Santero.  Look, the guy's probably the devil himself.  The launch is scheduled for nine o'clock.  What time is it now?"

"Five thirty."  Atwood stepped on the gas.  "We'd better get to headquarters."

They pulled into headquarters at ten minutes to six.  The car had travelled over 120 miles per hour up and down the hilly road.  Several times Jorge thought they had had it, but Atwood had proved to be an expert at high speed driving.  For the last ten minutes, Jorge sat back and watched the scenery speed by.  In his mind he began to think of how the missile could be stopped.  He knew all the launching was to be done by remote control through high band frequencies.  He began to assemble a list of the things he was going to ask the governor.  By the time they had arrived at the station, the governor's assistant was already on the phone.  He found out they were already searching the estate.

"Governor, I know where the missile-launching system is.  We have less than three hours to dismantle it," Jorge spoke.

"I don't know who you are, but you are a Godsend.  The Navy Seals are on the Santero estate right now.  They know it was him that took possession of the missile, but there's no sign of the launching system," the governor spoke.

"It's under the bay.  Remember, Governor, the missile was submarine fit.  They designed a launching pad under the bay.  Get a scuba team down immediately.  There's no time.  Maybe you can have one of the ocean labs lend you one of their small submarines," Jorge spoke.

"Hang tight.  We're sending a helicopter over from Presidio to pick you up and take you to the estate.  It should be there in minutes and if this madness can be stopped, we're going to owe you your own parade."

Even as they finished their conversation and Jorge told the governor the list of items needed, the military officials were on the other lines sending the commands down the ranks.  Several bulldozers were being airlifted in to clear the cement that had been poured down the entrance to the tunnel leading to the missile launcher.  Ten highly trained Seal divers were being flown up from San Diego and radio frequency-jamming devices were being brought up from Edwards.  The military was responding in a precise, well-oiled way.  The graveness of the situation was lost on no one.

Jerry Battling barely had time to kiss his newborn daughter and bed-bound wife goodbye when the transportation officer came to pick him up.  They never briefed him, but he knew it was the real thing.  Six foot seven, a solid two hundred fifty-five pounds, his whole life had been in preparation for serving his country in the Navy Seals.  Tai Kwon Do Karate from ages eight to eighteen where he had won his third national championship, Jesuit High School in San Diego and then his acceptance into Annapolis.  A miracle in itself.  He was ready.  If his country asked for his life, it was there to take.  He had made an oath.  He saw the F-15 lined up and was immediately given a helmet and directed to the rear seat.  All the planes were off in minutes.  The formation looked like the old blue angels streaking for the San Francisco International Airport.  All commercial and private air travel had been redirected to the overtaxed facility in San Jose and Sacramento.  Three Bell helicopters stood by to take them to the Santero estate.  Already the Navy had secured a small submarine and two more were being brought in.  Within thirty minutes of leaving his house, Battling found himself being suited up in wet gear to locate an underwater missile launching site.

Jorge knew it was there, but wasn't sure exactly where it was.  Every time he had gone down the tunnel, all he could remember was that it twisted around in several different directions.  The commander had been able to utilize his help in uncovering the tunnel.  Mensch had built a brick garden shack on top of the tunnel and poured well over 700 yards of cement down the entrance.  Bulldozers began to remove the earth around the shack hoping to find where the tunnel twisted to.

Hauser awoke from his coma to find Denise sitting by his side, running her fingers through his hair.  In the far Circle of Light, Pamela and Dave Gleason watched her parents reunion feeling joy that their many prayers had been answered.

"Denise," Jerry sat up, "I'm sorry."

"I know what you did.  I don't know why, but I know you did the right thing by coming forth," Denise said, continuing to stroke his hair.

"How am I ever going to face anybody if all those people die?  I'll be worse than Benedict Arnold.  Jerry Hauser, mass murderer," Hauser said, weeping.

"They'll find it before it goes off.  They will.  Look, nobody blames you.  You made a mistake.  God will forgive you.  Come on, honey, I said I'd stick with you for better or worse," Denise said.  "Let me pray for you.  Watch, God will take care of everything."

As Denise prayed with Jerry, a weight was lifted off of him.  The anguish and the guilt disappeared like caked dirt on the side of a pickup truck at a high-powered car wash.  The gloom that had made his eyes grey with worry vanished and a soft light that had invaded his body was a small strand that had travelled through time and space to fill every pore of his body with comfort and love.  The tears that washed down his face were tears of joy, and he realized that if God had forgiven him, then he should forgive himself as well.  He had made a serious mistake.  He was prepared to face the consequences.  Right now he was intent on asking the Mighty One to keep his mistakes from harming others.

Activity buzzed in the Circle of Light, and Michael and Raphael appeared before the throne of the Mighty One to await their instruction on how much intervention they would be allowed for the humans.  Michael had developed a definite affection for humans and had come to know many of them personally.  As he stood before the throne, he thought of the time when Paul was almost stoned in Athens and he had rescued him, and of the time he had pushed apart the jail and loosened his leg irons.  He knew that when people interceded, the Mighty One always came through.

"Almighty Creator, what is it you wish?  The city of San Francisco and the entire Bay area is awash with blood.  Most of the city is on fire," Michael interceded.

"I see, Messenger Michael.  I know you are standing by, but now you again shall see My hand.  I have prepared a storm to squelch the fires and I will protect My people who have humbled themselves and called upon My name," the Mighty One boomed out.  "Take the other winged messengers and shield My followers from any harm.  Protect the innocent and defeat those who would destroy My creation.  Go.  I have placed the power in your hands to accomplish My purposes.  The time is short, the world watches.  You, Raphael, protect those children who would be harmed.  Gather them away from the madness, shield them from those who would destroy them."

"Thank you, oh Mighty One.  All praise and honor and exultation be unto You," Raphael extolled.

In an instant, they were commanding the Warriors who materialized as if from nowhere.  A tremendous battle took place.  The demons who had gathered from around the world found themselves surrounded and being hacked to pieces.  One after another they were being flung into the abyss.  Roaming gangs stopped their rampage as if the very thought of harming anyone or anything had suddenly become repulsive.  Several rapists apologized to the women they were assaulting and ran away.  Overhead, a storm of unprecedented magnitude began to rage.  Rain poured down in torrents.

The bulldozer discovered the tunnel, and with carefully planed C-4s, the squad was able to blow through it and they cleared out the debris that blocked the way to the missile launching site.

Jerry Battling, underwater in his scuba gear, had uncovered the hatch bay.  The Seals were hooking underwater explosives to it.  In less than thirty minutes, the missile was to be launched.  Overhead, the moon appeared intermittently through the raging storm clouds.  In spite of the chill of the fall air, the downpour was tropical in nature and quite warm.  It was if the Mighty One himself had bathed the Bay area in His tears.  Years ago, Jesus had wept outside of Jerusalem, reflecting upon its coming demise.  Now, the Mighty One wept at the many slain and fallen.  His creatures had gone wild once more, only saved by the intercession of His followers worldwide.

At sea, the waves grew larger and the huge vessel that Santero was on began to shake about as if it were a plastic boat in a bathtub.  Back and forth it rocked as Santero counted the time until the launching.  He licked his lips in anticipation of the deliciousness of the soon-eternal torment of the many.  The ship captain came into the launch room to report.

"Sir," the captain spoke, "the waves . . . I've never seen anything like it.  They are towering."

"Damn the waves," Santero shouted, nearly being knocked out of his seat.  "Turn the boat towards shore.  It's two minutes to launch."

"The lightning could interfere with our remote," Otto stated.

"It damn well better not," Santero retorted.  "If it does, I'll personally tie you to a lightning rod and roast you myself."

As Santero got up to look out on the ocean, a huge wave rolled over the craft, pushing them twenty feet under water.  After several seconds, the boat rose to the top, but it had taken on a lot of water.

"Damn you, Mighty One.  You don't play fair.  You said I could do what I wanted with that city," Santero raged against the storm.

The next wave, nearly eighty feet in height, rolled the boat over.  It would not come up.  Just as Santero was to have pushed the button that would launch the missile, his carrier was sent into the deep.  Although what was left of the humans died, the fallen inside them quickly ascended to the heavens where they decided to join their brothers in combat for the city.  Thousands of their comrades were retreating with their wings cut off and legs and arms severed.  Thousands more were bound and being led off by the Warriors and thousands into the Lake of Fire.  Santero came upon Michael.

"You have it your way again, Michael," he hissed.

"I have no pleasure in your destruction, Santero," Michael replied.  "It brings me sadness to see how you never tire of raging against the Kingdom.  Sometimes I think . . ."

"That I'll grovel and beg for mercy and forgiveness at His feet.  That once again you and I will be brothers in His creation," Santero mocked.  "It's a dream.  That's all, Michael.  For now I have my dream to bring torment and misery to these creatures about which the Mighty One thinks so highly."

"The Lord rebuke you, Santero," Michael retorted.  "I shant."

The End

© June 19, 1991

EPILOGUE

The rebuilding of San Francisco took nearly nine months.  Charity groups and private foundations replaced many of the houses, and a new spirit of brotherhood grew between the different races.  The gay population took a back seat in city politics and once again disappeared into the closet.  It was no longer cool to be openly homosexual.  Laws that made homosexual marriages legal were repealed and mandatory AIDS testing was enacted for all city residents.  Those with the virus were quarantined in a large area and forced to abstain from sexual relations.  The churches flourished as they had never flourished.  Bruce became the city-wide spokesman for spiritual policy and decided to run for mayor.  Billy's plays were seen nationwide as other cities turned to him for advice in dealing with their own gang problems.  Jerry Hauser was given seven years and Denise continued to reach out to unwed mothers.  Jorge returned to Central America a hero.  The porn movie industry all but died.  Sex shops and porno stores were given thirty-day notices to suspend business activity.  Those that didn't were heavily fined.  Many had gone out of business as the city's appetite had changed from the perverted to the wholesome.  Summer classical concerts in the park and street-side performances by gospel quartets, rappers and string quartets once again made San Francisco one of America's most musical cities.  Michael was appointed personal guardian over the city which he had saved and grew to love the Bay area inhabitants more than he had ever loved any other group on earth.