OPERATION WRATH OF GOD, Chapter 6

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 6: The Good Shepherd

Azim had to check himself, or he’d have drawn his pistol. Clearly, this was a captured beastbot. The robot took a good look at both Azim and Amir, long enough to scan for Security ID’s. It did not fire a shot. The fake marks fed back their fake identities: Raqib (Sergeant) Jawad Hussein (Hillier) and Earif (Corporal) Ali Al-Hakim (Azim), displayed on Mastick’s laptop and the big screen.

When Mailk turned to look at Layla Dalila, however, there was a loud crack, and a second report when he scanned Commander Mastick. Both were unharmed. The machine gun rounds were replaced with blanks for the sake of the test.

‘Thank you, Malik, you can go,’ said the scientist. The robot walked stiffly out of the door, followed by the boffins.

‘So I outrank Hillier?’ said Azim.

‘Wait – I thought I was in command?’ said Amir.

‘Hillier is in operational command, but your cover is higher ranking than his.’

‘Why?’

‘Your Arabic is better,’ said Layla Dalila, looking at Azim.

‘Hussein? Really?’ said Amir, changing the subject.

‘It’s a common Iraqi name’, explained Mastick.

‘It’s quite clever, really. Who would suspect a guy called Hussein of being an American frogman?’ Observed Layla.

‘At least the chips work.’

‘That beastbot is running an older operating system. We can’t guarantee those fake marks will work with bots in the field. Bots with the latest software updates,’ cautioned Mastick.

‘But we have something you can use against them, just in case,’ said Dalila. She reached down and placed what looked like a science fiction laser on the table. It was a rifle, with an optical sight, trigger and stock, but the barrel appeared to have been covered by some kind of camouflaged nosecone.

‘Latest from Q branch,’ she said, with a wry smirk. MI6’s Technology and Innovation division was jokingly called Q branch, after the James Bond character. The director of the division was even called Q.

‘The EMPG. A battery powered directed energy weapon, that uses electromagnetic pulses of high intensity radio waves to disrupt and disable electronic devices. Aim and fire this thing at a drone or a beastbot within a two-mile range and you’ll disrupt its navigation and transmission and it will crash to the ground.’

‘How does this differ from the standard Iraqi Army EMPG anti-drone rifle?’ asked Azim, thinking that it looked pretty similar.

‘This model comes with a remote control’, she said, indicating a small battery-powered radio frequency remote control, disguised as a TV remote. ‘So you can quickly and covertly disable beastbots at military and police checkpoints. There’s also a timer on the remote.’

‘Can it be used against enemy personnel, too?’ asked Azim.

‘That’s against the Geneva Convention. But yes,’ she whispered, out of the side of her mouth.

***

Two weeks later, and Azim and Amir were standing ready in the hold of the MC130J Commando II plane, a variant of the Lockheed C-130 Hercules. The plane’s exterior lights were off, to minimize visibility against the night sky. The cargo door opened slowly, revealing the vast expanse of the Arabian Desert, a sea of dunes painted violet in the moonlight. The full moon and clear skies were a double-edged sword; they would make the parachutists more visible to troops on the ground, but they would also make it easier for Azim and Amir to navigate their way to the drop zone (DZ) in the Iraqi desert.

Azim and Amir donned their oxygen masks, visors and helmets. They wore their parachutes like backpacks: the oxygen mask was connected via tube to a tank of oxygen inside the pack. They had compasses attached to their wrists. Their Iraqi Army rucksacks, including their rifles, were strapped to their legs. Air whistled through the hold. The two operators shuffled toward the edge of the cargo ramp. The desert raced past them below. The plane was travelling at 120 knots (approximately 140 mph).

‘Green light in three!’ came the jumpmaster’s announcement.

The wind whipped around their legs. The operators nodded to each other.

‘Two.’

Amir took a deep breath.

‘One.’

Amir went first. He didn’t exactly jump, he simply stepped out of the plane and went into a couple of somersaults, the air rustling his uniform. Azim followed a second later, hot on his heels. Amir straightened up, holding his arms out bent at the elbow, with his legs bent slightly at the knee. His chin was up, going with the air resistance rather than fighting it, and his lower back was arched. That’s why it’s called the basic arch position.

Then he pulled the rip cord. There was a sharp backwards jerk around the shoulders as Amir’s canopy deployed. The sound of the air rushing past his head diminished. The night was quiet, and still. He heard Azim deploy above him.

Amir consulted the glow in the dark compass on his wrist. There wasn’t much in the way of landmarks to navigate by, but he knew that if he headed northwest, he couldn’t go too far wrong. He passed a road on the Saudi side of the border, then the border itself, with its double layered fences. But he was still at over 26,000 feet, and they had selected one of the least guarded stretches of border, so he wasn’t too concerned. The desert extended before him in all directions.Amir saw a road amidst the desert. That road meant he was in Iraq. He knew he had to keep the road on his left.

After another twenty minutes of drifting, the two men saw the unique U-shaped rocky outcrop that marked their DZ. Amir adjusted his canopy accordingly, circled around, flared his canopy by pulling down both toggles in unison, raised his legs and came in toward the sand as gently as he could. He aimed to avoid the rocks on the ground, but visibility wasn’t perfect.

It was a heavy landing, given all the weight he was carrying. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he rolled left in a textbook Parachute Landing Fall. Then he got to his feet and gathered up his civilian parachute canopy. Amir dug a hole with his extensible shovel and buried the parachute under some sand and rocks. Azim landed 20 metres away without incident and similarly disposed of his parachute.

After two hour’s marching, the operators had covered eight miles. The terrain here was flat, with occasional patches of scrub, rocky outcrops and broader sand dunes. Trudging through the wilderness, the operators habitually scanned the horizon.

Their cover as soldiers enabled them to bring Iraqi night vision goggles (NVG’s) for this mission, Glock pistols and a couple of hand grenades apiece. Azim had an M4 with an ACOG scope. The M4 had iron sights and the standard mag containing thirty 5.56mm rounds. Azim also had a pair of high-powered binoculars for his role as spotter.

Amir had the semi-automatic SVD rifle firing a magazine of 7.62x54 mm bullets and the PSO-1 4x24 magnification telescopic sight with unique inverted triangle crosshairs. The SVD was a Soviet-made museum piece that had been in service since 1963 but was still functional and reliable. Amir would have preferred his MK 12 with custom grips and night vision scope, but that would have stuck out like a sore thumb on an Iraqi soldier, and the Iraqi resistance were unlikely to have it. They wore desert camo fatigues with M80 helmets and bulletproof vests, standard for the Iraqi Army’s domestic operations. The new Iraqi flag was emblazoned on their arms. The flag was just like the previous Iraqi flag, only it had Khan’s Olive Branch symbol in the centre, like the flags of the other nations comprising the Olive Branch Alliance. Their rucksack supplies included standard Iraqi Army rations, spare magazines for the rifles and pistols, maps, torches and compasses. Amir’s rucksack also included the EMPG directed energy weapon. Both men had iron canteens holding a litre of water, and standard-issue Iraqi Army combat knives.

Azim caught sight of something on the horizon.

About a klick ahead, a square building came into view.

Azim lifted up his night vision goggles and waited a few minutes for his eyes to adjust so he could inspect it by moonlight. It was better not to approach friendlies with NVG’s on: they made you look intimidating.

The building was a mud-brick house. A flock of twenty sheep was pastured in the scrubland to the rear of the shack. An old, blue jeep was parked in front of the house, near a dirt road. A man was pacing around outside the house wearing thobe robes. The shepherd.

‘That’s our contact,’ Azim said.

‘You sure?’ asked Hillier.

‘Positive.’

The operators trudged over to the man through the sand.

Azim raised his hand. Both operators lowered their weapons, but not so low they couldn’t eliminate the man within a fraction of a second if need be.

The man saw them coming in the clear moonlight. He produced a Russian pistol and challenged them in Arabic. ‘Who sent you?’ he cried.

‘A higher power,’ came Azim’s answer, also in Arabic. The area was otherwise deserted; they didn’t need to worry about being overheard.

Having received the correct response, the shepherd appeared to calm down. He lowered his pistol.

Marani’s long dark beard was flecked with grey. Despite all the dust in the desert, the man’s thobe was somehow immaculately white.

‘Thank Allah it is you! I nearly shot you.’

‘You were told to expect two men wearing Iraqi Army uniforms?’

‘My contact never said anything about the uniforms.’

Hillier shook his head. Communication with assets in the Iraqi resistance was patchy at best. Digital communications were off limits thanks to the Antichrist’s firewall and the risk of interception by the data surveillance wing of his intelligence service. Radios were high risk; anyone found with one was subject to arrest, and Khan’s INI was actively searching for unauthorised transmissions, so although radio transmissions were used by the resistance, for high stakes ops like this, they were generally avoided.

To be on the safe side, messages were conveyed across the border by civilian drones. These messages were then decrypted and destroyed, along with the drones, by the recipients. When there was a high need for secrecy, the messages were passed from the CIA’s Riyadh station to Saudi fishermen, who relayed them to the resistance via the coast. These messages were not written down in case the couriers were intercepted by Khan’s forces, so they had to be memorised. Inevitably, passing through so many hands, and relying on the human memory, the messages were often distorted, as they are in a game of Telephone. Ironically, modern technology had pushed the intelligence agencies to use ancient tradecraft.

The three men shook hands.

‘Abu Marani’ the resistance contact said, placing his hand over his heart as a sign of respect.

‘Azim. Amir,’ said Azim, pointing to Hillier.

Marani scrutinised them closely with his flinty eyes, eyes that were used to squinting through intense sun and sandstorms. He was a tough, old school Iraqi.

‘I don’t know why you are here, but I hope you kill that little Satan and put an end to this mess once and for all.’

Azim was surprised. Good guess, old man.

‘I’m not at liberty to discuss our objective. For your safety and ours.’

‘Whatever you say.’

Marani invited them inside for a meal, which was gratefully accepted. ‘My house is your house. For tonight, anyway.’

The Iraqis were renowned for their hospitality. Dates, rice and goats’ milk were offered. It was simple but wholesome fare, made from fresh ingredients. A man of Marani’s age wouldn’t necessarily be expected to have little children hanging around at home, but Azim and Hillier noted the absence of a wife. They decided not to mention it: in all likelihood, given the series of catastrophes that had shaken the region, she was dead.

Sat on a rug on the floor, poking at his rice, Azim asked, ‘So how do you survive without the Security ID?’

Marani shrugged. ‘I get by. I have my goats. And the well.’

‘I can’t imagine there’s much of a black market around here.’

‘There are a few like-minded shepherds and farmers. We trade what we can.’ He didn’t go into any further detail, and Azim didn’t press him. The man wants to protect his friends.

‘You are very brave,’ Azim said instead. ‘To resist the temptation of the mark.’

‘The infidel with the mark are paid 100,000 shekels a year – for doing nothing! It is enough for food and rent!’ Marani said, heatedly.

‘The Universal Basic Income?’

Marani nodded, warming to his theme.

‘The infidel receive this income whether they are seeking work or not. AI and robots are doing so much now that it is no longer necessary for the majority to work.’

‘I thought the mark meant they had AI in their brain that was supposed to make them geniuses?’

Marani scoffed. ‘Yes, they have AI, they can spout a bunch of fake propaganda and basic facts. But when they work, they still need to be paid a salary, and there are not many jobs they can do better than AI and robots, who do not need salaries.’

‘What do they do all day – the unemployed ones?’ asked Azim, though he had a pretty good idea, based on a similar scheme in the UK.

‘They sin. They fornicate, do drugs, watch TV.’

That was Khan’s perverse incentive system, designed to corrupt a population at breakneck pace.

Azim shook his head in sympathy.

When the meal was over, Marani handed them the keys to the jeep, as per his mission, with the warning: ‘She is old. Very old. Once you start, do not stop, or it is a nightmare to get her going again.’

Azim and Hillier shared a concerned look. They went outside and inspected the vehicle. It was rusting, and at least 40 years old. There was no left-wing mirror. Faced with the alternative of a four-day hike, Azim and Amir climbed into the jeep and drove off down the dirt road.

Marani had provided them with a map, but the road they were on was not on his map. It was just marked as desert. So they simply headed north. The plan was to use small country tracks and byways to avoid most of the military checkpoints.

‘Not sure how I feel about framing the Iraqi resistance…’ said Azim. ‘These are good people.’

‘I don’t like it either. But it’s better than starting World War Three.’

A long silence. Amir watched the moonlit desert go by through the window.

‘If we do encounter a checkpoint, you do the talking,’ said Hillier. ‘My Arabic is a little rusty.’

‘I noticed,’ said Azim, scowling. ‘America does not have anyone who can speak better Arabic? Why did they send you?’

‘Because I’m the best shot in the United States Military,’ Amir said, stone cold. Then he cracked a smile. ‘And my Arabic is not that bad.’

‘You compete in the interservice rifle matches?’ Azim asked.

‘Winner, two years running.’

‘Impressive,’ Azim said, nodding. ‘If it is true.’

‘You’ll see.’

Amir passed the time by setting up his directed energy weapon on its tripod in the footwell of the backseat. It was covered by his standard issue Iraqi army jacket. The remote control he kept in his pocket, for emergencies.

‘Will that thing make us feel sick, too?’ asked Azim, jerking his head toward the back seat. Directed energy weapons could create pain, nausea and dizziness in humans. They could also produce hearing loss, tinnitus and other strange sounds as a result of nervous system interference, though this was supposed to be nonlethal. The idea was to temporarily disorient the enemy police and soldiers and disable their electronics for long enough to attack or escape if things went awry at a checkpoint.

‘Hopefully we never have to find out.’

After three hours of driving, sticking to bumpy country roads and the desert, the first pale grey light of dawn was visible on the horizon. In that light, Azim saw a camo Humvee with a machine gun on the roof and some men stood beside it on the road ahead. Soldiers, with AK’s. Three of them. And a beastbot: 7 foot-tall, wearing the ominous hooded black robe of Malik Khan.

Azim cursed. 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-7