OPERATION WRATH OF GOD, Chapter 10

Copyright © 2026 Robert Ensor

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.First published February 2026.The author’s moral rights have been asserted.

All Bible quotations, unless otherwise stated or referenced, are taken from the online World English Bible (WEB), which is in the public domain. It is available at the following link: https://ebible.org/eng-web/index.htm. Sometimes I paraphrase the Bible and when I do so, I reference the chapter and verse. Direct quotations from the WEB are indicated by quotation marks. English language Bibles are translated from Hebrew and Greek manuscripts. I am no linguist, and I don’t know any linguists, so I have had to rely on others’ translations and romanizations of the Hebrew and Greek texts. Occasionally, I have examined the original Hebrew and Greek of the Bible, zeroing in on key words where the received English translation is debatable or misses the full meaning of the original. To clarify, the WEB refers to the Antichrist, the beasts, and the False Prophet, but makes no reference to any ‘Khan’ or ‘Lavani’, which are names for the Antichrist and the False Prophet given for the purposes of this book.

Disclaimer: I am not a doctor or a therapist and nothing in this book should be considered medical advice. Nor should it be considered a substitute for diagnoses, prescriptions and treatments from qualified doctors. If you have symptoms, I recommend that you see a doctor to rule out anything serious and get proper care.

Chapter 10: The Bowls of Wrath

That night, John dreamed that he was running along a road in the Middle East. It was a marathon, culminating in Jerusalem. He was greeted by smiling near eastern faces. He was utterly exhausted and crying with relief as the friendly locals encouraged him to reach the finish line. It had been a totally grueling race. A man was stood with a clipboard to record the results and check names against the list. John glanced at the clipboard and saw that his name was there, under B, next to Jakob Böhme.Burrows woke. The other side of the bed was empty. Penny was already up. She’d said something about going for a morning run. John would have gone with her, but he’d stayed late at the office last night and needed the extra sleep. Burrows rolled out of bed and went downstairs. His wife was still in her running clothes, black leggings and a light hoody. Her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail.

As he rounded the table to get to the coffee machine, John saw that Penny’s pale brow was wrinkled with concern as she perused her tablet at the breakfast table.

‘What’s up? Did Waitrose run out of avocadoes?’ he said, teasingly.

‘No,’ she said, unamused. She usually had a good sense of humour. Not this morning.

‘Look at this,’ she said, turning the tablet to face him.

The headline read: MYSTERIOUS SORE OUTBREAK OVERWHELMS NHS!

It was accompanied by a picture of what appeared to be a large ulcer with a black centre on a bald man’s forehead. The caption read: ‘It just came out of nowhere. I woke up in pain this morning and it was there,’ reported Dave Simms, 43.

John peered more closely at the photo. The sore was right next to the man’s Security ID, a small black 666-symbol on the skin of the forehead, marking the nanobot-RFID chip implant.

‘Did you see his mark?’ asked John.

Then Penny’s face fell even further.

‘You don’t think—'

‘Scroll down. Check your socials. Can you find someone with a sore who doesn’t have the mark?’

Penny scrolled down the page. Every person with a sore who was photographed in the news article had the mark. She checked her social media. It was flooded with images of skin lesions, only two of them from her friends. But, she realised, that made sense; the overt beast worshippers she knew had blocked Penny for her Christian beliefs, so she barely had any marked friends left.

‘The sore in Revelation 16:2 only affected those who worshipped the beast or his image and took his mark,’ John reiterated.

John and Penny obviously did not worship the Antichrist Malik Khan. They had no sores. A horrible thought struck Penny.

‘The kids!’

She handed the tablet to John and ran upstairs.

They’ll be fine, John told himself. If this was what he thought it was, his children hadn’t taken the mark and they hadn’t worshipped the beast, despite the popularity his bullying tactics and false miracles had won him on British playgrounds. But what if Peter had done it once, at school, under peer pressure? John reassured himself with the reflection that one of the main reasons for him to have children was to further the Davidic line, which was guaranteed as part of the Davidic covenant. That implied his sons would have children, which meant they would be admitted to the kingdom, not rejected as idolaters. In Ezekiel 46:16, the prince’s sons are in the Promised Land.

Penny shouted from upstairs, ‘The kids are okay. No sores!’

‘Of course,’ John said. He breathed out.

Inwardly he was relieved, but the apparent selectivity of the sores actually confirmed that the pressure was on. The sore on the beasters was the first of the bowl judgements, the series of catastrophes with which ‘God’s wrath is finished.’ (Revelation 15:1).

‘You don’t seem surprised?’

‘You’ve been following my countdown, right? We knew something like this was going to happen soon. I was a few days out with my estimate, but like it says in the Bible, “you will not know the day or the hour”.’[i]

‘I just…it all seemed so abstract. We haven’t had anything like this for so long. Now it’s really happening!’

‘It’ll be fine. Just stick to the plan, okay?’

She nodded, biting her lip with anxiety.

‘Dad, what’s going on?’ said little Matthew, wiping the sleep out of his eye and hugging his teddy bear on the landing.

‘Penny, get the kids dressed, we’re going to the bunker.’

‘Cool, the bunker! The bunker!’ shouted Peter, jumping up and down, his shock of blond hair bouncing freely.

‘What’s the bunker?’ asked little Matthew. He was more of a worrier.

John let Penny field that one. Instead, he got straight on the phone to his mother. She had taken care of him when he was sick. Now he would protect her.

‘Hello?’

‘Mum, it’s time.’

‘What time?’

‘The time I told you about. Time to go to the bunker in the RAF base.’

‘Oh, right. Really?’

‘Yes, what do you think all these sores are about? That’s bowl number one.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m not messing around mother, we need to go to the bunker. Now.’

Hearing the serious edge to his voice, she changed her tune.

‘Alright.’

‘Don’t bother getting your things, just bring a photo ID ­– your driver’s licence will do – and come meet me at my house,’ John said.

His family had already reported to the base’s main guardroom for vetting and provided their photo ID’s, which would cut down on time at the gate. Their sponsor was John.

‘Why can’t I go there directly?’

‘You need my pass. I have permission for my family to use the bunker, including you, but I’m the one with the security pass.’

‘Right-o. I’ll be there ASAP.’

Another incoming call. Sally.

‘I’ve got to go mum, work is calling.’

Then he cut her off and took the call from Hughes.

‘Is this what I think it is?’ Her voice was scared, uncertain. Not like her.

John took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ he said.

A heavy silence. John had recommended that Sally and other key personnel at Wargames should also reserve their spots in the base bunker, for just such a scenario. True to form, Sally had ignored his advice, despite the fact the bunker had already arguably saved his life a few years back. Memories were short, it seemed.

‘I’ll see you in the bunker, then,’ she said.

‘You didn’t reserve a place.’

‘I don’t need a reservation,’ she said, full of pride.

She hung up.

Burrows spent an anxious three minutes waiting for his mother. During that time, he ran upstairs to his study, rifled through the drawers, and snatched the signed letter from Group Captain Leighton Bedfellow authorising Burrows and up to five family members’ use of the bunker upon request, for any reason whatsoever. He threw on a hoody, some tracksuit bottoms and trainers, grabbed his pass and his car keys, bundled his wife and kids into the SUV and sat there waiting. He didn’t bring anything else; he knew the bunker was stocked with enough supplies to feed 100 people for a month.

Jennifer came skidding in across his front lawn in her hatchback and got in John’s car with Matthew on her lap. Burrows twisted the ignition and set off. Soon he was flooring it, even though it was only a four-minute drive. The automatic shifted to third gear: Burrows reached 40 mph on the residential roads around his estate.

‘Daddy, you’re speeding!’ cried Paul.

‘Sometimes speeding is good, son.’

‘You told us speeding was bad!’

‘Not today it isn’t,’ John said, hurling the car around a sharp right turn. The rear tyres skidded so he twisted the wheel to the left and the vehicle stabilised.

‘Daddy, does that make you a hippocite?’ said Paul.

‘No. Even the best rules sometimes have exceptions. Like turn the other cheek.’

‘Does that mean I can punch Ralph at school?’ asked Peter.

‘You won’t be going to school again, son. Not that one, anyway.’

‘Yay!’ Peter punched the car’s ceiling with excitement, making a nasty dent and hurting his hand.

Penny turned to tell him off. ‘Stop it Peter! You’ll damage the car!’

John said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

Then Penny realised that this was the last time they would ever use their car.

John drifted onto Scrumpton high street and shifted to fourth gear. Hurling through the heart of historic Scrumpton at 50 mph, John hit the brakes after he rounded the next corner. There was a traffic accident up ahead. Someone in a white SUV had crashed into a lamppost, doubtless because of the panic about the sores. They did not all know what was going to happen next, but everyone affected by the sores was rushing to the hospital in a bid to get seen sometime this week. The vehicle in front of John was a tractor.

Farmer Davies. The farmer decided to ram the smashed-up car out of the way. A bloke in a white van behind John cheered him on.

Burrows took to the sidewalk instead. Dear old Mrs. Finchley almost took a tumble over his bonnet when she was out walking her sausage dog, Hettie. She sidestepped the car just in time: Burrows went clean over the Dachshund, who emerged unharmed on the other side, too terrified even to bark.

Having circumnavigated the snarl up in the heart of the village, Burrows careened around the corner and into the RAF base. The queue for the security gate only consisted of three cars. He must have beat the rush – except for those personnel who lived on base, that is.

When his turn came, John presented his pass to Charlie, the Military Provost Guard Service private manning the gatehouse. The Military Provost Guard Service (MPGS) provide security on British military bases within the UK. Their motto is custodem custodire – guarding the guardians.

‘Bringing the family today?’ asked Charlie. He was 21 years old and his pasty face cracked a cheerful smile. Clearly, he had no idea what was happening, despite Burrows’ warnings.

‘As per my agreement with the MOD,’ John said, producing Bedfellow’s original signed letter from his glovebox.

Charlie’s eyebrows were raised. The letter was not only signed by Bedfellow. It was also signed by the Vice Chief of the Defence Staff, Louise Holdall.

‘Blimey. You’ve got friends in high places.’

‘Higher than you know,’ Burrows said.

Charlie raised the barrier and let Burrows through.

Burrows zoomed past his usual parking spot and landed in one of the RAF places, because it was closer to the bunker. He was not worried about parking fines.

The bunker was established during the Cold War for the purpose of preserving the RAF’s operational capability in the event of a nuclear war. In the early ‘90s, with the so-called ‘End of History’,[ii] the bunker had been dismissed as an anachronism and abandoned.

Following the Russian annexation of Crimea in 2014, the bunker was reinstated, along with some emergency food and water supplies, for the use of essential military personnel on the RAF base in times of conflict (read: World War Three), particularly the commissioned officers and Air Traffic and Weapons Controllers. Even after this refurbishment, it was still scarcely used, barely maintained and something of a running joke on the base. Most officers did not seriously believe that they would ever need to actually use the bunker. Permission was granted for Burrows and his family to use the bunker, partly due to lack of demand from nonessential RAF personnel. After years without a major catastrophe in the west, people had gotten complacent.

With his family in tow, Burrows marched along the road, past the fighter jet hangars and the runway on his left, and then past the old Cold War missile siloes with turfed roofs that looked like something out of the Teletubbies. The road turned right through some beech trees. Finally, they reached the bunker entrance.

The bunker was situated in a clearing in the middle of the coppice on the edge of the base, not far from the razor wire perimeter fence. It was dug into the clay, down a 10-metre concrete slope that led to a steel blast door. The door was currently open and guarded by three RAF Police personnel. It was three metres thick.

John knew they were RAF Police because, although they wore the same camouflage uniforms and were armed with the same SA80 assault rifles and pistols as the British Army’s MPGS, they had red ‘MP’ badges on their arms. The RAF Police are responsible for policing and securing all RAF service personnel, equipment and bases. Their motto is Fiat justitia – let justice be done.

A queue of about thirty people had already formed outside the bunker. Most of them were senior officers, Air Traffic and Weapons Controllers and RAF Cyberspace Communications Specialists from the base. Inspired by Burrows’ example, there were a few civilian family members of RAF officers (permitted with one eye on post-disaster repopulation), but Bedfellow soon put a strict cap on nonessential personnel in the bunker.

John waved to Flight Lieutenant Berry Pigott and his wife Pilot Officer Helen Pigott, who were ahead of him in the line. Berry was a quiet, shy chap who occasionally liaised with the think tank, but he had taken Burrows seriously from the day he met him. Formerly an agnostic Jew, Berry had converted years ago because of John’s preaching. He was an RAF intelligence officer and had read I AM COMING SOON objectively, as an intelligence report. He had come to several of John and Penny’s services.

More personnel were joining the queue behind the Burrows family. Because they were British, even in an emergency, nobody tried to queue jump. How long will that last?, Burrows wondered.

‘Looks like we got here just in time,’ John noted.

Penny nodded. His mum Jen had that deer in the headlights look. The kids were restless, and blissfully oblivious to the gravity of the situation. Matthew and James started kicking one another and had to be pulled apart.

When they finally got to him, Burrows produced his letter and explained the situation. The RAF Police sergeant on doorman duty was a blonde, ruddy chap with no discernible eyebrows. He skim read the letter and looked up.

‘You are permitted access, but not your family,’ he said to John.

‘That’s nonsense. Did you read the letter? It’s signed by the Vice Chief of the Defence Staff!’ Burrows snapped.

‘I don’t care who signed it, I am in charge here,’ the MP said, squaring up to him. Obviously, either the sergeant wasn’t allowed in, or his family wasn’t, and he was resentful of some civvy boffin being given special privileges.

Berry Pigott, who had just been let through with his wife, turned around when he heard Burrows’ voice raised. As a Flight Lieutenant, Pigott outranked the sergeant.

‘I can vouch for him, sergeant.’

‘But sir—’

‘If you don’t want to get a stern call from number two at the MOD, I suggest that you let this man’s family in immediately.’

The sergeant bit his tongue as Burrows’ family filed past. James pulled a face at him. He scowled back.

Behind Burrows, Sally Hughes was barging her way to the front of the queue. Another woman elbowed her sharply in the chest. Sally clawed that woman in the eyes and kept coming.

‘Wing Commander Sally Hughes, Director of Wargames. Let me in,’ she said, with total confidence.

The guard said, ‘I don’t see you on the list, ma’am.’ He knew full well that she was retired. She wasn’t in uniform, for one, and serving RAF personnel were unlikely to be think tank directors.

‘There must have been a mistake. I’ll clear it up as soon as I’m in,’ she said, breezily.

‘I’m sorry ma’am, I’m under strict orders not to let anyone in who is not on the authorized personnel list,’ said the sergeant. After his ego-bruising altercation with Burrows, he was even more inclined to throw his weight around.

‘Look young man’ she said, assuming all the authority that came with being an ex-Wing Commander, in addition to her natural gravitas as a termagant. ‘The MOD pays me to think of worst-case scenarios and prepare for them. With all the chaos in the world, do you seriously think I did not foresee this scenario and request a place in the bunker?’

‘I don’t know, ma’am. All I know is your name is not on the list. Now if you’ll please move aside.’

In the end she had to be physically restrained by the sole RAF Policewoman at the bunker entrance. Hughes imagined Burrows’ smug face telling her, ‘I told you so’ and was enraged. Nonetheless, Sally was so supremely self-confident and well connected on the base that she believed she would be able to talk her way in, somehow. She called her fiancé, Squadron Leader Ian Coxwell, who was already safely ensconced in the bunker. No signal. Of course, the bunker walls were too thick. Undeterred, but increasingly frantic, Hughes stormed off to find a radio or landline that could contact personnel inside the bunker.

Burrows heard her distant shouts as he and his family entered an area with coat hooks, steel bins and showers. ‘This is for decontamination, in the event of a nuclear or chemical attack,’ Burrows explained. ‘In our case, it’s totally unnecessary,’ he said, pointedly.

‘Sorry sir, orders are for all entrants to undergo decontamination,’ explained the hazmat-suited RAF Police corporal.

The Burrows family were made to strip and shower before being allowed to pass through. Their clothes were taken for washing and they were handed dry working service dress uniforms: pale blue shirts and dark blue trousers with stable belts. Even the smallest uniforms were way too big for the boys, especially Matthew, who was practically swaddled in the shirt alone.

Penny complained.

‘Sorry, that’s all we have,’ said the RAF Policeman.

The Burrows family proceeded down the narrow, cream-coloured passage.

‘So this place would be okay if a nuclear bomb landed on it?’ asked Peter. He had no recollection of his previous visit to the bunker; he was a baby when he was here last, and the other boys weren’t even born.

‘Directly on it? Probably not. But it is designed to withstand a nearby nine-megaton blast. The outer shell of the bunker is made from concrete, reinforced with solid tungsten bars. The shell is the same thickness above, below and at the sides of the bunker. The walls are three metres thick, with a tungsten overlay of 2 inches, encased with brickwork and pitch to make it waterproof.’

They reached a second blast door, opened for them and manned by a skinny RAF Police corporal in his multi-terrain pattern camouflage uniform, who saluted Burrows because he now wore the uniform of a Leading Aircraftman, an equivalent rank.

Burrows returned his salute.

‘The blast doors are 4 feet thick, 12 feet high. They weigh 24 tons, equivalent to the weight of about fifteen cars,’ Burrows explained.

‘Wow,’ said little James.

After the second blast-proof door, they came to a central corridor with a black concrete floor and white-painted concrete walls. It was labelled Corridor C. A boxy 20^th century air filtration and ventilation system ran along the ceiling of every room, and the corridor.

‘What does the C stand for?’ asked Jen.

‘I don’t know why they call it corridor C. This is the only corridor in the facility.’It was the spine of the bunker. All the other rooms could be accessed from this hall. Burrows led them through the first door on their left.

It was quite a cramped room with 30 thin, flimsy looking bunk beds from the last century crammed in on either side of the centre aisle. Lockers were against the far wall. The room was dominated by a massive steel-encased water tank with a tank access ladder. There were a few civilians here: anxious adults and bored-looking kids.

‘This is the dormitory,’ said Burrows, as his family secured five beds towards the far wall and took their coats off. ‘Sleeps sixty. The base commander and his top-ranking officers have separate quarters, but we’re in here.’

‘That looks new,’ Penny said.

‘That’s the water tank. I got it updated. Holds 20,000 litres, in case you’re thirsty.’

The brass had only listened to his request to update the water tank after his predictions about the rain of hailstones mixed with blood, the embitterment of one third of the rivers and springs, and the massive lethal demonic army had been proven correct.

‘How long will that last?’ asked Jennifer.

‘For 100 people? About a week or so. After that, you’d go onto filtered water from the aquifer. But we won’t be here for a week. I doubt you’ll even need to sleep on that bed,’ he said.

‘I’m hungry. Where can we eat?’ said Peter.

‘This way.’ Burrows led them out into the corridor.

‘I’ll hold onto the beds and watch the boys,’ said Jennifer.

‘Good.’

The next door on the right was the air filtration and ventilation room. There were many large rusty pipes, gauges and buttons. It all looked rather complicated.

Ahead of Burrows, Squadron Leader Ian Coxwell left the radio room in a hurry. Coxwell was a tall, thin chap with greying hair, a patrician face and a long, crooked nose. He was in charge of the RAF Police on the base and therefore, the bunker’s security.

Inside the radio room were two desks with desktop computers from the noughties. Further along were some outdated Cold War era radios, that might actually work in a pinch. All sorts of confusing knobs and dials and telephones. John wasn’t overly concerned about contacting the outside world, so he’d allowed these museum pieces to remain in place.

Then the corridor turned 90 degrees left.

Next came the generator room. The generator was brand new. They passed a few Air Traffic and Weapons Controllers in uniform. And a Flight Lieutenant.

Afterwards, the corridor led to the canteen, and around it, forming a square. The canteen/kitchen was open plan, with two entrances on opposite sides of the room, both leading onto the square shaped corridor. There were three long plastic tables surrounded by ten chairs apiece. Beyond that dining area was a fairly basic kitchen with eight hobs, two ovens, two microwaves and two massive fridge-freezers. A pantry contained more canned goods. Canteen use would be temporally staggered with officers, enlisted, and civilians coming in at different times of day. There were no staff in the kitchen as yet, and Burrows was no cook, so he rifled through the cupboards and found Peter some filling, oat-based cereals and some glasses. He and the rest of the family could chew them dry and wash them down with water from the tank. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it would do. Then Penny took Peter back down the corridor.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked John.

‘To see what’s going on. There’s a Cold War Battle Command Post down here somewhere.’

‘Okay. See you later.’ She looked worried.

‘Bye.’

Burrows went straight through the canteen. On his left was another barracks, this one a bit more spacious, a boiler room next door to the officers’ quarters (so the Ruperts didn’t get cold feet), a door to the commander’s office and quarters, and a pokey little hole called the ‘IT, Coding and Encryption Room’, with two 20-year-old computers on separate desks. They were manned by a couple of molelike uniformed men wearing thick glasses, who looked like they lived down here, but probably didn’t.

‘Hello,’ one of them said. John nodded.

Then there was a room marked ‘Security and Armoury.’ The door was shut, and the room was guarded by an RAF Police corporal.

Next up was the hospital. It was a single room consisting of four beds, some medical supplies, including first aid kits, a white screen, pharmaceuticals and surgical equipment, and a desk and chair for the doctor, in this case the Medical Officer Geoffrey Bresswell. Patients with skin lesions had already formed a queue; Trowbridge had considered banning all personnel with the mark from the military, but backed down due to the threat of legal challenges. Bresswell was frantically checking the cupboards and shaking his head at a box of pills that were probably years out of date. There was also the ever-present ventilation shaft attached to the ceiling.

Finally, John came to the end of the corridor, and a room marked ‘Situation Area.’ This was where the RAF staff would coordinate air traffic and monitor the situation in the event of a Third World War and/or a nuclear conflict. In the centre of the room was a long table surrounded by fifteen chairs, many of them occupied by senior RAF officers. There were laptops open on the table and a large wall-mounted TV screen at one end of the room, for briefings. It was also equipped to receive satellite TV (there was a dish on the surface of the bunker, as well as a concealed radio antennae).

There were two clocks on the wall. The last time they were in the bunker, during the trumpet judgements, John had asked Coxwell about them. ‘One is a regular clock, the other is a doomsday clock, showing how close the world is to nuclear or environmental Armageddon,’ the Squadron Leader had explained. The doomsday clock was set at one second to midnight. Armageddon isn’t nuclear, John thought, it’s not even a battlefield. It’s where the soldiers are gathered for battle.

The TV was switched on, showing the news. Quite a few people in the Situation Room had sores, which they were doing their best to conceal. For every sore he could see John guessed there were at least three hidden beneath uniforms and berets. It was not yet confirmed whether or not they were the result of an infectious disease or an act of bioterrorism and it was so early in the process that no quarantine protocols were in force, unless you counted the basic decontamination that all bunker entrants were subject to. John knew the sores could not afflict he and his family, that they had not been transmitted like a virus – the symptoms had appeared too simultaneously for that – but were in fact endemic to the compromised spiritual-biological organisms of the marked. John marched straight over to Squadron Leader Ian Coxwell.

He was about to recommend that all those with sores be removed from the bunker as a security risk, or failing that, a potential biohazard, when he noticed that Coxwell himself had an unsightly black lesion covering half of his top lip. And another on his neck.

‘Oh Ian, what have you done?’ John said.

‘Oh, this? Since when did it become illegal to have a sore?’ he said, defensively.

‘That’s more than a cold sore. It’s the sore afflicting those who worshipped the beast. It’s what I warned you would happen if you followed that maniac!’

‘Would you stop saying I told you so!’ Coxwell exploded.

‘It’s my job to predict the future!’

‘Everyone, be quiet!’ yelled Group Captain Leighton Bedfellow, the commander of the base.

Bedfellow was a sixty-year-old posh bloke from a family who had been rearing officers since the Napoleonic Wars. There were flecks of grey in his crew cut, and he was overweight. To rise to Group Captain, equivalent to a colonel in the army, one had to be part politician. Which meant Bedfellow was good at keeping his mouth shut and towing the party line. A bit of an invertebrate. Not the best man to be in charge right now, John reflected. But it was usually the scum that rose to the top in our present age. All of that would change very shortly, he knew.

They were listening to the news, on the big screen. There were images of dead whales and fish washing up on the shores of Sardinia, Italy, Spain, Greece, and Cyprus. All around the Med, it seemed. Dead Jellyfish in Barcelona. One of them was a turritopsis dornhii, an immortal jellyfish that could self-regenerate and theoretically live for millions of years. Scientists were making much of this. Even the immortal jellyfish was dead!

‘So are there any life forms left in the Mediterranean Sea?’ asked the reporter, a black woman in her fifties.

‘We haven’t been able to detect any, no’, said the expert commentator, marine biologist Sue Whimpers, from the University of Southern Poole.

‘What could possibly cause this?’

‘Right now, we have no idea. We have to wait for the test results to come back, then we’ll be in a better position to answer that question.’

‘That’s the second bowl judgement,’ Burrows said, not remotely phased about being in a room full of people who nominally outranked him. His true rank had been revealed by God, and he had long since learned that worldly status did not necessarily equate to intelligence or fortitude.

‘Excuse me, who are you?’ asked one of the older officers.

‘John Burrows.’

‘What’s your position? Are you even in the RAF?’ said Flight Lieutenant ‘Blimp’ Tarpley, a heavyset martinet of the first order.

‘He’s an analyst in the Wargames Foresight Department,’ said Coxwell, with that dour look that descended on his face any time Burrows’ name was mentioned.

Burrows felt a room full of disapproving eyes crawling over him. He remained defiant.

‘Many who are first will be last and the last will be first’,[iii] he said.

That gave them pause. They didn’t know what it meant, but they sensed that on some level, it wasn’t good news for them.

‘I don’t have time for riddles, Burrows, so could you get to the point?’ said Bedfellow.

‘It’s the second bowl of The Book of Revelation.’

‘The second bowl?’ Tarpley asked, thinking of cereals.

‘The bowls of wrath are emptied by angels in heaven and produce catastrophes here on earth. Number one, sores on those who worshipped the beast (Revelation 16:2). We’ve had that. Number two: every living thing in the sea died (Revelation 16:3). That’s unfolding right now. Three: the rivers and springs become blood (Revelation 16:4). Four: an angel scorches people with great fire (Revelation 16:8). Five: the beast’s kingdom is darkened (Revelation 16:10), and there is a gathering together of armies for war by the beast and the False Prophet (Revelation 16:16). Six: the Euphrates dries up (Revelation 16:12). Seven: thunder, lightning, hailstones (Revelation 16:21) and a massive earthquake (Revelation 16:18).’

‘I don’t know about any of that. I’m in here because it’s protocol during an emergency. There’s a chance this is some kind of epidemic,’ said Tarpley, with an uneasy look at Coxwell’s upper lip.

‘Now now Tarpley, I am familiar with Burrows’ work. He’s got a lot of things right, so we can’t just dismiss him out of hand. I will go so far as to say I believe it is true that we find ourselves in the midst of another sequence of catastrophes, and I doubt very much that we’ve had the finale yet. That’s why we’re here,’ said Bedfellow.

‘Thank you, sir. Almost everyone thought I was nuts when I predicted a demonic army would rampage across the world killing people. Then it happened,’ said Burrows.

‘Yes, I seem to recall you saying, “I told you so” an awful lot a few years back,’ said Bedfellow.

‘Well unless you want me to say it again, listen up. We won’t be down here for long.’

‘How long do you think, just out of interest?’ asked Bletchley Morrison, an RAF drone Pilot Officer with glasses, the meekness of a dormouse, and the physique of a man who sits at a desk all day.

‘According to the timeline I drew up, based on Bible prophecy, this is the Day of the Lord. In most usages, the Day of the Lord is what it sounds like: a day. So if I’m right, it’ll all be over by the evening. But until then, the biggest threats you face are the hailstones, the scorching fire from heaven and the record-breaking earthquake.’

‘Why do you say, “you?” and not we?’

‘Because I’ll be out of here before the earthquake.’

‘Really? Planning on going somewhere?’ said Wing Commander Nigel Buscot, who looked like the kind of bloke you would see hanging around the golf club parking lot.

‘Yes, Petra.’

‘Oh, the cliffy temple thing?’ said Coxwell, distractedly.

‘My wife and I went there about ten years ago. It was lovely. Just beautiful,’ said Morrison, blandly.

‘In the rapture. My wife, my mother and I will be translated alive into immortal bodies and fly to the Middle East.’

Dead silence. Then there was the odd snigger around the Situation Room.

‘He’s right, you know,’ Flight Lt. Berry Piggot blurted. ‘It will happen exactly as Burrows said.’ Burrows smiled at him. Bless you, Berry. That willingness to speak truths people scoffed at was the meat and potatoes of being a real Christian.

‘Sir, request permission to remove this fruit loop from the Situation Room?’ demanded Coxwell.

‘Denied. I might not agree with some of his wilder beliefs, but the fact is, Burrows has a better track record at predicting the future than any of you chaps. Besides, there is no operation in here, except staying alive. So he can hardly interfere with anything unless he becomes abusive or violent. That hasn’t happened yet.’

‘Sir, all this talk of fire from heaven and massive earthquakes is bad for morale,’ said Coxwell.

Burrows turned to the Squadron Leader, looking daggers, as if Coxwell were insubordinate.

‘How do you think morale would be if I said everything is going to be alright, and then history’s biggest earthquake hit several hours later?’ said Burrows, icily.

Ian Coxwell didn’t have an answer to that one. His pasty face turned red with rage. Burrows knew he’d seek revenge and he found the idea tedious to contemplate. He felt like he did on the last day of school. He just wanted to get the hell out of here and enter a world where people like Sally Hughes and Ian Coxwell were thin on the ground.

He looked at the clock on the wall. It was still only 8 a.m. The Day of the Lord was frequently described as a day of darkness. ‘It will be a unique day which is known to Yahweh – not day, and not night; but it will come to pass at evening time there will be light.’ (Zechariah 14:7). Assuming today was that dark day, evening was usually reckoned from 5 p.m. to nightfall. Sunset came at 7 p.m. in the UK, but that would be 9 p.m. UK time in Israel, the focal point of most Bible prophecy. No more than 13 hours to go, then.

Seeing that nothing was to be gained by staying in the Situation Room any longer, John backtracked down Corridor C to talk with his wife and mother. He separated them from the children, who were busy jumping on the beds.

‘The trumpet will sound at some point today. We will be translated into glorified bodies. We’ll live forever, without tasting death. But the kids won’t be coming with us,’ he had shied away from stating this directly until now, though he had implied as much on several occasions. But the hour drew near; Penny had to be prepared.

‘Is there any way you’re wrong?’ Penny said, bottom lip trembling.

‘In the vision I had of the rapture it was you, me and my mum. We rose into the sky and the kids were still on the ground in their normal bodies.’

Penny looked uneasy and sceptical. She didn’t want to believe that last part.

‘The visions of God do not lie. They have led me to predict almost everything that happened in the last seven years,’ Burrows said.

‘I can’t leave them,’ Penny said. Her big blue eyes were now filling with tears.

‘They will enter the kingdom and we will be reunited with them in Jerusalem. They will live to a ripe old age and die peacefully. Well beyond the average life expectancy of this age. You and I will be the eternal patriarch and matriarch, witnessing generations upon generations of Davidic descendants flourish in my allotment.’

‘Flourish and die,’ she said, sobbing now. Jennifer put her hand on Penny’s shoulder. John struggled to control himself, too.

‘Is there nothing you can do? Can’t you make another deal with Jesus to have them raptured?’ Jennifer asked her son.

‘No.’

Penny gasped in horror and covered her mouth.

‘I’ll tell you why. There has to be Davidic descendants. Lots of them, to fulfil God’s promise to King David: “your house will be made sure before you forever.”’

‘Can’t we just have more kids? In the kingdom, I mean?’ asked Penny.

‘Not in glorified bodies. “For in the resurrection they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are like God’s angels in heaven”.[iv] There’s also no childbirth, because we can’t have new souls entering God’s final kingdom after the Last Judgement. They may not be fit for the eternal state. The bottom line is, the boys have to be in mortal bodies to eventually have kids of their own and keep the line going. Which means they can’t be raptured.’

‘But we’re not about to enter the final kingdom.’

‘No, we’re entering the thousand-year kingdom. But we will have the bodies that the other saved Christians will be given at the end of the thousand years. We and the elect are the vineyard workers who were hired last but paid first, while the workers hired earlier will also get paid, just at a later date.[v] “The wages of sin is death”.[vi] The wages of service is eternal life in the immortal body. That’s why the elect are called first fruits to God and to the Lamb.[vii] The first fruits are the first parts of the wheat harvest, picked out of the field earlier than the rest. Revelation also differentiates between a “first resurrection” and a second resurrection.’[viii]It wasn’t the first time Penny had heard this, but repetition never hurt.

‘What if I don’t want to be taken up in the rapture – what if I’d rather stay?’ said Penny, in a tremulous voice, with a wild look in her eye.

‘You won’t. I’ve seen the outcome. You will be changed, and you will come with me, and you will want to do it, not without misgivings, granted, but you will know that it is for the best. The kids will live long with us in paradise. That’s a better deal than most people get. This is a happy ending, even for them. If you were to stay behind (and you won’t), then eventually, you would die with them. It wouldn’t save them. At the end of the millennium, they will get their immortal bodies and we can be together forever in the New Jerusalem.’

‘What about in the short term? I’m just supposed to leave them while I fly around like a goddess and fight the Antichrist in Jerusalem?’

‘Yes. We’ll be reunited within a week. Helen will take care of them and deliver them safely to Jerusalem. It’s all been arranged.’

‘And you didn’t think of telling me beforehand, but you tell Helen?’

‘I tried to tell you. You didn’t want to hear.’

‘It’s true. He did,’ added Jennifer.

‘You knew, too?’ Penny said.

‘Yes. John’s always said there had to be mortal descendants of David to be able to reproduce and further the line. The implication was obvious.’

Penny broke down sobbing. John put his arm around her.

‘Look, this is the price of immortality. There’s nothing to be gained by throwing away your wage. It wouldn’t extend their life at all. It would only kill you.’

Penny nodded through the tears.

‘I promise you both, our family will survive this day intact, according to everything the Lord has promised me,’ John said, grimly, looking both women in the eye.

Penny saw that he meant it. It was the same look of absolute gravity he’d used when he spoke his one-line wedding vow: ‘I will always have your back.’ That was not the official church wedding, but the ‘wild wedding’ in the forest two months before. If there was one thing Penny knew about John, he was a man of his word, and would move heaven and earth to keep it, regardless of the consequences. Most people made all kinds of promises that they were unable to see through. Not John. That absolute trustworthiness was vanishingly rare in the 21^st century, and so when he told her they would all live through this day, she believed him.

Berry Piggott entered the dormitory with a drawn expression on his face.

‘Burrows, there’s been a development. You’ll want to see.’

When they were out of the room and marching down the corridor, Berry said, ‘the rivers and springs have turned to blood.’

‘Where?’

‘Egypt, maybe elsewhere. I don’t know yet.’

‘Is our water blood?’

‘I don’t know. We’re still using the water from the storage tank. That’s fine.’

‘Good. The tank will last until this is over.’

They walked into the Situation Room. The news headline on screen had changed. EXODUS REDUX: RIVERS OF BLOOD IN EGYPT.

At that moment, RAF Intelligence Officer Delia Wrencombe waltzed in from the radio room wearing Number Two Service Working Dress, her black hair tied back in a severe military bun.

‘Sir, we have reports that the rivers and springs have been turned to blood,’ she said.

‘We know Delia, we know,’ said Bedfellow.

She turned to look at the TV screen. The Nile was wine red.

‘Oh.’

‘I told you so,’ said John, with a pointed look at Coxwell. ‘The bowl judgements are concentrated because God shortened the days for the sake of his elect. Without that shortening, “no flesh would have been saved.’’[ix]

Coxwell scowled at him. But he couldn’t say a thing, because Burrows was clearly right. He rose from his padded seat and approached Bedfellow.

‘Sir, may I discuss something with you in private?’

‘What’s this about?’

‘Sally.’

‘I’m sorry Coxwell, but my hands are tied. If I start letting people in who aren’t on the list, especially nonessential personnel, it sets a dangerous precedent.’

‘Burrows and his family are nonessential personnel!’ he exploded.

‘Not to God, we aren’t,’ said John.

‘He has a signed letter from the MOD Vice Chief of the Defence Staff securing their places here. Look, Ian, if I let Sally in, I have to let everyone’s family in. We’d have too many people for the base’s food and water supply! We have no idea how long we’ll be down here.’

‘You heard Burrows! The man who always gets it bloody right! We’re here for a day, tops. That’s what he said.’

‘Unfortunately, that has yet to be confirmed. I’m sure Sally would understand that we have to collect evidence and account for contingencies before making predictions. That is, after all, her job.’

The TV news was now showing images of fires. Forest fires in southern Europe and California, fire falling from the sky, skyscrapers ablaze, people running around the streets of major western cities, burning alive.

‘This is why I insisted on being in the bunker,’ John said, within earshot of Coxwell and Blimp Tarpley.

As he recalled, Coxwell had thought he was paranoid for making the request and had tried unsuccessfully to block it. Now his fiancé was stuck outside. Burrows resisted the urge to feel smug about it. The fact was, God had allowed him to know what was coming and he was extremely fortunate.

The news footage shifted to drone imagery of Petra, Jordan, where hundreds of thousands of Jewish refugees were hiding from the fire in ancient buildings carved into the rocks.

On the ground in Petra, Rabbi Kravitz had warned everyone to abandon their tents in the basin and hide as soon as the sores were reported on the news, because although the remnant were unafflicted by sores, they were a harbinger of greater hazards.

Colonel Moshe Aviram agreed with Kravitz and ordered everyone inside the buildings and gorges as a precautionary measure, keeping a skeleton crew of IDF soldiers to guard the mouths of the gorges and watch Wadi Musa on the one side and the wilderness on the other. The high cliffs and the buildings carved into them made Petra ideal for avoiding the fire from heaven.

The main chamber of the Treasury was carved directly from the sandstone. The interior was smooth and unadorned. A giant crack ran across the ceiling. Doorways led to small side rooms from the main chamber.

Those who ignored Burrows’ book, and its warning, were burned alive in the basin. A few others who could not find a place inside were also set ablaze in the gorges – one man came running into The Treasury. They saw his flesh char as he screamed to death before their eyes, illuminating the expressions of horror on the faces of the children like some ghastly human torch. The water that had supernaturally sprung from the rock had now turned to blood. The gorges were gushing with a flash flood of thick red claret. The messengers had to splash through it.

‘This is not so much a punishment as a warning from God’ cried Kravitz. ‘Burrows taught that this very day Jesus would come to deliver us! But only when we pray for him to come and save us! Only when we acknowledge him as the Messiah, will he come!’

This was met by a chorus of jeers. Some of the atheistic and Orthodox teenagers threw rocks at Kravitz. The rocks pelted into his arms, chest and legs. Kravitz’s Christian supporters stepped in to shield the old man and took the blows for him. Then two of Moshe’s IDF soldiers barged in and put a stop to the roughhousing.

Leah Cohen’s water broke. She cried for the doctor. When he saw the puddle on the floor, the doctor yelled, ‘She’s going into labour!’ Dr. Gershowitz laid Leah down in a side chamber and placed a blanket over her as she prepared to give birth.With the rain of fire and the wrath of God knocking at the door, Kravitz exhorted the people in The Treasury to pray, and in their terror, many were listening. Many were praying. ‘Pray to Jesus – not only Yahweh, but Jesus the Messiah! The anointed one! Yahweh the Father wants us to pray for Jesus to save us – Yahweh the Word is Jesus! The angel of the Lord in Genesis, who revealed himself to Abraham and Sarah[x] – he incarnated as Jesus! Pray to Christ for deliverance! Do you not see that God made a promise and he is trying to keep it? Do you not see that all morality is about doing what we say we will do? Do you not see that Israel broke the covenant of Moses,[xi] that the world broke the new covenant of Jesus’ blood? Do you not see that the world has broken the covenant of Noah,[xii] that prevented another Flood? Do you not see that the Bible is all about God finding ways to maintain his covenants, for his name’s sake? Do you not see that the difference between God and humanity is that God keeps his promises and humans do not, unless that same God be in them as the father’s blood is in the son? We must receive the Spirit of our Father, the Holy Spirit of the prophets, in order to keep the laws of God. They are impossible for anyone to obey perfectly, Jew or Gentile, without first receiving the Body of Christ and the Spirit of God! The great prophet Moses predicted millennia ago, he predicted that we would turn back to God in an hour of tribulation and be delivered safely into the land (Deuteronomy 30:1–4)! I tell you, O house of Israel, the time has come. Fulfil the prophecy. Do the will of God! For your own sakes!’

The Christians were assisting Kravitz in his ministry. They messaged the people in the other buildings and caves to pray. They livestreamed Kravitz’s sermon. The reception was patchy due to the cliffs. Then the internet went down.

One brave Jewish Christian, a boy named Hillel, stepped forward. ‘I will deliver the message in person!’ he said. Before the others could stop him, Hillel ran and delivered the rabbi’s message to those in the Tomb of Unayshu. Miraculously, the fireballs landed just behind him and a little before him, but he remained untouched.

***

Meanwhile, the MPGS guards at the gatehouse made a transmission to the Situation Room via UHF (ultra-high frequency) radio: ‘They’re coming for the bunker. We can’t stop them. There’s too many.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Khan’s followers. Some people who are just desperate. It’s raining fire out here!’

Watching the CCTV camera feed on the big screen, they saw an angry mob break into the base, killing Charlie Dempson and Anastas Nowak, the guards at the gatehouse. The mob was armed, some with guns, others with cricket bats and knives.

A squad of eight MPGS soldiers issued a verbal warning.The mob kept coming.The soldiers fired warning shots.The mob kept coming.

There was a moment of indecision. Rocks and petrol bombs were hurled at the soldiers. The MPGS and the RAF retreated to the buildings. A handgun was fired in their direction. Then one of the soldiers started shooting into the crowd with his L85 rifle.

They kept coming.

The platoon of MPGS soldiers formed up outside the station headquarters building, where most of the base’s nonessential personnel were located. Bedfellow had left Flight Lieutenant Martin Challow in charge.

The MPGS opened fire. The mob returned fire, trampled over the corpses of their dead, and kept coming.

Seeing the size of the mob, and their implacability, some MPGS and RAF personnel from the station HQ ran, got in their cars and fled out of the alternative exit road. Others fell back to the hangars. The guards who remained in position were soon overwhelmed. They were slaughtered, stabbed, beaten to death and shot.

Burrows walked toward the screen and took a closer look at the mob. Some of them wore the Olive Branch armbands and colours of committed beasters. These also had marks and lesions on their hands and foreheads, as far as Burrows could see. Others did not have the armbands.

One of the mob’s leaders, a husky man in his thirties, was continuously looking at his smartphone, as if following directions. Then it dawned on Burrows. ‘They’re headed for the bunker.’

The officers around the table turned to him with terror in their eyes. Then they looked on in horror as the mob marched towards the small wood where the bunker was hidden.

The three RAF Police personnel outside the bunker opened fire on the mob. They kept their shooting accurate at first. Then panic set in and controlled shots turned into long bursts of full automatic gunfire. Some of the rabble were cut down, perhaps a dozen, but the numbers were too great. Because they opened fire around the same time, the guards reloaded at the same time. The mob took the opportunity to advance. The RAF Police were hit with blunt weapons and disappeared under the shouting, kicking mass of people.

John was hit by a sudden wave of guilt; if he and his family hadn’t taken up six spaces, some of these guards and other personnel would probably have been allowed in the bunker. They were RAF, after all. It was their base.

He was however grateful that it was God’s will that he and his family should survive, that the house of David should live on, and he thanked God for the blessing of being born the Son of Christ.

‘The blast doors are sealed?’ demanded Bedfellow, a strain of anxiety creeping into his normally bluff manner.

‘Of course,’ said Tarpley, with the utmost confidence.

‘We’ll be okay. The doors are designed to withstand a 9-megaton blast. One does not simply break into a nuclear bunker,’ said Pilot Officer ‘Pork’ Barrington, a confident, dapper looking chap with slicked back hair, a cleft chin and a square jaw.

‘I for one think we should let as many people in as we can take,’ said Coxwell. ‘If we don’t let them in, we’re killing them. We’re responsible.’

‘Have you seen that mob? They look more bloodthirsty than the villagers who chased Frankenstein! No bloody way are we letting them in here,’ said Blimp Tarpley.

‘It’s protocol to not allow anyone else in after the doors close. Especially people who pose a threat to the personnel already in the bunker,’ said Bedfellow. ‘I’m sorry, but that is the rule, and in this case the rule actually makes sense.’

Coxwell stormed away from the table, muttering darkly in the shadows.

‘If it was women and children from Scrumpton, I might have acted differently,’ Bedfellow said, addressing the room. ‘But this is clearly an armed mob. Many of them have beast-marks—'

‘—Security ID’s!’ interjected Tarpley. For the first time, John noticed a lesion behind his ear.

‘Whatever. You all know what I’m talking about and they have it. At this point, you have to question whether or not this is an armed uprising against the state.’

‘A revolution,’ said Berry.

‘Something along those lines. Wrencombe, call Waddington and see if this is an isolated incident.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the intelligence officer. She hurried off to the radio room to make the transmission to RAF Waddington, the hub of RAF Intelligence.

John kept his eye on the CCTV footage. The mob was pounding and hammering on the steel and concrete door. Someone had brought a power saw. It was predictably ineffective, but quite unnerving all the same to have a crowd of people trying to break in and possibly kill you.

Then the unthinkable happened. The blast doors started to slowly swing open. The angry mob was beginning to slip inside. First a trickle, then a flood. They were breached. Everyone in the Situation Room stood speechless and horror-stricken.

A thought occurred to John. The Situation Room was the most defensible position in the entire bunker. The dormitory, on the other hand, was only 15 metres from the blast door. His family was in danger.

 Read the next chapter here: https://www.robertensor.com/post/operation-wrath-of-god-the-rapture-the-second-coming-the-campaign-of-armageddon-and-the-kingdom-o-11

[i] Matthew 24:36.

[ii] Fukuyama, Francis. 1992. The End of History and the Last Man.

[iii] Matthew 19:30.

[iv] Matthew 22:30.

[v] Matthew 20:1–16.

[vi] Romans 6:23.

[vii] Revelation 14:4.

[viii] Revelation 20:6.

[ix] Matthew 24:22.

[x] Genesis 18.

[xi] Jeremiah 11:10.

[xii] Genesis 9.