Shall Not Perish: Time of Tribulation

By Cathy Kelley

Religious Program Specialist Rachel Weber had one objective only while enduring a nine-month deployment to the Persian Gulf, aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln: return to the states to reclaim her daughters after her ex-husband had tricked her into relinquishing full custody.

Not wishing to complicate her life further, she doesn’t anticipate falling in love again, let alone giving her heart to another man; that all changes when a handsome naval journalist crosses her path; followed by a coordinated Jihad aboard her ship, while at the same time Sailors and officers disappear before her eyes!

Life will never be the same for her again...or for anyone else, as similar catastrophic events occurred worldwide.

Among the confusion, chaos, economic uncertainty, and global war, nothing makes sense at all, until Syrian leader President Emmanuel enters the world stage, offering answers as to where all the vanished went. He promises peace and prosperity for all mankind, and delivers on his promises.

When the world trusts this global Savior for their very survival, Rachel must decide who she will trust, and who she will ultimately surrender her heart to in the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cathy Kelley
• Release date: Mar 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370686407

Cathy Kelley

Life is much like a novel, complete with a prologue, chapters, and epilogue. But what makes life most interesting are the filler chapters, consisting of various conflicts, climaxes, and resolutions. I believe my life, thus far, has provided me with many novel experiences. My prologue began when I was born on Valentine’s Day, on America's east coast, at the tail end of the 60s. As a happy though shy child, my first real conflict was when my parents divorced at age seven. It was then I learned life is not always what you want it to be or think it should be, but despite conflicts and climaxes, there will always be resolutions to most problems. As a teenager, I loved to ballet dance and was always creating a routine for the next talent show or recital. But I also loved to write, perhaps from my habit of often daydreaming, coupled with my adventurous side, knowing there was a whole world out there waiting to be explored. It was at age sixteen that I traveled throughout Europe with my grandmother and cousin. At age twenty-one, I enlisted in the United States Navy, which made sense being that my grandfather was a rear admiral. Perhaps it was an omen, however, when he asked me why I didn’t simply marry into the Navy; I wasn’t even out of boot camp when I met my husband-to-be. Within two months of us both graduating from Navy boot camp, we married in the cutest Navy chapel at the same base we met. It was then I took my grandfather’s advice to be a Navy wife rather than a Sailor at that point in my early twenties, having our first two sons. Anyone who has been married has experienced conflict, climax and resolution, time and time again. My husband and I have experienced quite a bit over the last twenty-seven years of marriage. But he has always been one to support me when I wished to spread my wings, of which I did at age thirty when I reenlisted in the United States Navy to finish what I started. It was then I experienced conflict when stationed aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln, as being a Sailor and deploying to the Middle East was no small feat. But speaking of feet, I did bring along my old ballet toe shoes for talent shows onboard. Nothing like dancing on the hangar bay while underway! While still a Sailor and working for Public Affairs at the base, we had our third son. Shortly thereafter, my career in the world’s finest Navy concluded. Being a fulltime mom while attending college tamed my adventurous side, and I quickly realized we don’t always have to leave town or the country; just the day to day life of a homemaker is life’s greatest venture. Remember when I mentioned life has various conflicts? Our biggest conflict occurred when our fourth son was diagnosed with Medulloblastoma brain cancer at age three. It was then I remembered we are not always in control when we think we are, but that we need to trust God and lean on Him and others. Also, remember the resolutions I mentioned earlier? Not only did we fight along with our son to beat the cancer, but I also resolved to have one more child, saving the cord in case our other son relapsed. What a blessing our fifth son has proven to be! Completing our family, we finally have one granddaughter! In closing, I love to write Christian romance. Everything from apocalyptic, to time travel, to paranormal, to abnormal...that’s me! My only wish now is that God gets the glory for all I publish, and those who read my stories are blessed beyond the words I come up with!

Book preview

Prologue

Three months earlier…

"Eternal Father, strong to save, whose arm hath bound the restless wave. Who bidd’st the mighty ocean deep, its own appointed limits keep. Oh hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril on the sea. Amen…"

Having purposely led only one stanza of the time-honored Navy hymn, Chaplain Conway stood bracing against the ferocious waves from the forecastle of the USS Abraham Lincoln. With both hands planted firmly on the wooden pulpit before him, it was at that defining moment he realized how angry, billowing seas was not the only destructive force he reckoned with that Sunday morning; while spiritual warfare was expected by any godly chaplain, surely battling his entire chain of command ought not be.

Yet as a dedicated United States Naval chaplain bound by strict naval protocols, he also had sworn to uphold his solemn oath to Almighty God. More recently, however, the two endeavors often conflicted with each other, making it most challenging to spiritually lead his shipmates toward heavenly places; amidst times of war, times of peace, through fair winds, following or perilous seas.

Undeniably, the seas had proven quite perilous the last few days underway, and up until that very morning, he doubted Sunday services even possible, let alone any hungry souls housed in earthly vessels would dare attend. Unlike the seasoned Navy chaplain, many Sailors were new to shipboard life, still attempting to earn their sea legs, and moreover, readjusting to the unprecedented ferocity of the Pacific Ocean. Unexaggerated rumors circulated ship’s medical personnel had never been so busy, nor ships’ crew so seasick.

While the chaplain observed many pale faces of Christian naval officers and enlisted seamen, something deep within him burdened his heart. Something ominous afflicted his very soul as Luke’s prophetic warnings penetrated his pensive mind: There shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring...

Chaplain Conway’s troubled gaze swept across some of America’s finest naval men and women, more anxious than ever to preach his Sunday sermon as planned. Carrying out the naval tradition dating back to his nation’s infancy he never took lightly. Whenever underway, the conventional lieutenant commander always upheld the second article of the Navy regulations of 1775 with remarkable zeal, providing Sunday sermons as well as divine services, twice daily; despite the growing religious hostilities permeating the powerful elites: both foreign and domestic.

Unquestionably, preaching the whole counsel of God as a naval chaplain had become increasingly difficult as of late. Every word he preached from the pulpit was now meticulously scrutinized like never before. Therefore, the chaplain planned his latest sermon with utmost discernment, striving to be harmless as a dove, yet wise as the very conniving serpent he wrestled with.

As we embark on this mighty ship and deploy to the Persian Gulf, a voyage filled with indubitable adversity and great uncertainty, we mustn’t lose sight in that God is our Anchor, God is our Compass, and God is our heavenly Captain, who controls not only the perilous seas, but also our very destinies.

Amen! cried a young, pale seaman, praising Jesus one second, then feebly bent over the very next, grasping his vomit bag, dispelling what little morning chow scarcely consumed.

Despite his congregation’s precarious infirmities, Chaplain Conway fervently preached. I have always believed God has brought into this world devout men and women of the highest caliber to exemplify what is predominantly significant to each generation. One such godly man was the late President Abraham Lincoln. I believe this sobering letter written by President Lincoln himself will show us all, over one hundred years later, both our divine purpose and destiny for such a time as ours.

While he humbly recited the poignant letter, a nauseated, female petty officer stood nearby displaying the large board, commemorating both the message and the late President. The entire congregation appreciated the historical significance the sober letter represented in 1864, and the spiritual message it conveyed to twenty-first century Christian Sailors.

Executive Mansion, Washington, November 21, 1864.

Mrs. Bixby, Boston, Massachusetts:

DEAR MADAM: I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant-General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save. I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.

Yours very sincerely and respectfully,

Abraham Lincoln.

As Americans, Christian Sailors, are we, too, willing to lay such a costly sacrifice upon the altar of freedom as our brave ancestors? Not for our country alone, but also for our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ? Just how much are we willing to sacrifice and lay upon the altar of religious freedom? Just how bold are we willing to be when faced with persecution for our faith, regardless from where that persecution originates?

The chaplain next shared a quote from whom their mighty nuclear aircraft carrier personified. "President Abraham Lincoln once said, and I quote, ‘My concern is not whether God is on our side; my greatest concern is to be on God's side, for God is always right.’ So, I must ask all of us here this morning, are we faithfully on God’s side?"

Apart from two petty officers and one lieutenant succumbing to seasickness, only the sound of rushing waves tossing the carrier to and fro could be heard as many convicted Christians silently considered the chaplain’s thought provoking question.

"President Abraham Lincoln also once said, and I quote, ‘I can see how it might be possible for a man to look down upon the earth and be an atheist, but I cannot conceive how a man could look up into the heavens and say there is no God.’ When we look down on the earth we can see the depravity of mankind, can’t we? We can see the hatred for others that abounds…void of peace and safety, it seems, everywhere. Therefore, how easy to say there is no God, though God is not to blame, the wickedness of mankind is. But when we look up and see the stars and the magnificence of the heavens, how can we say there is no God? For even the Bible records that the fool has said in his heart there is no God. Yet do we not see a foolish world denying the very existence of the true God?"

The chaplain momentarily paused, aware of the two atheists glaring at him from the back of the forecastle, speaking mockeries amongst themselves. They were the same offended airman who filed an official complaint regarding his offensive sermon last week while still in port, warranting explicit warning from the Commanding Officer that he preaches in a more ‘politically correct’ tone; one that would include all faiths, or more specifically, no faith at all.

Another quote of the late President’s worthy of mentioning, Chaplain Conway declared, No man is poor who has a godly mother. I would like to personally add to that one, if I may, that no shipmate is poor who has a godly chaplain.

Numerous Sailors laughed, some cheered, and a few uttered their weak amen, despite their churning stomachs and ill countenances.

I would like to also share some sobering words of President Abraham Lincoln, while respectfully replacing the American Civil War with the applicable wars our nation struggles with today, both foreign and domestic. I hope you will each take with you his inspiring message that will encourage and remind that none of you are on this ship in vain, or by coincidence. Regardless of rank or rate, each one of you has a God-given purpose to fulfill, providing it is God’s will of whom you wisely seek.

Amen! Preach it! a black lieutenant cheered, swaying back and forth in her metal chair on the starboard side. Several times she steadied herself on the massive anchor chain, praising the name of Jesus.

"The will of God prevails. In great contests, each nation claims to act in accordance with the will of God. Both may be, and one must be, wrong. God cannot be for and against the same thing at the same time. In all present wars, it is quite possible that God's purpose is something different from the purpose of any and all nations - and yet the human instrumentalities, working just as they do, are of the best adaption to affect His purpose. I am almost ready to say that this is probably true - that God wills this global contest, and wills that it shall not end yet; by His mere great power, on the minds of the now global contestants, He could have either saved or destroyed America without human contest. Yet the global contest began, and, having begun, He could give the final victory to either side any day. Yet the global contest proceeds."

Clearing his throat several times, Chaplain Conway hesitated before adding his own personal conviction. As a side note, even atheists are contestants of such contests where spiritual matters are concerned, whether they realize it or not. In the end, such a contest will conclude, and victory shall be God’s, not theirs.

The two atheists angrily shook their heads, clearly displeased with the zealous chaplain and his divisive message. Having recorded every preached word as incriminating evidence, they stormed off mouthing their cursing sentiments of which was perceptible to all attending the morning service. Chaplain Conway regrettably sighed. He knew what that all meant for the cause of Christ, and quite possibly his naval career.

Refusing to compromise now, he concluded his sermon on a biblically prophetic note. "I end our service this morning with one last famous quote by President Abraham Lincoln. ‘That this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.’ While Jesus tarries, let us pray that God deems America worthy enough still. And that God provides America with godly leaders, unlike… the chaplain momentarily paused, certain what he was about to say was worthy of court martial. Regardless, he boldly preached his religious conviction, more fearful of God than man, …unlike this present ungodly government, which includes our Commander in Chief.

I pray this in the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

ONE

Surely such a beautiful and astute woman as you shouldn’t be sitting here all alone, reading archaic books…

Faintly distracted by some intrusive Sailor’s deep voice, while at the same time two verses shy of having read the entire sixty-six books of her bequeathed, tattered Bible, Religious Program Specialist Rachel Weber mulled over the second to the last verse of the final chapter from the Book of Revelation.

He which testifieth these things saith, Surely I come quickly. Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus.

Skeptically analyzing just what exactly that prophetic verse implied two thousand years’ prior, Rachel briefly paused, redirecting her attention across the aft mess deck to where a large, rather intimidating Master-at-Arms audibly lead two Captain’s Mast bound enlisted Sailors through the galley. Both third class petty officers marched somber in their dress whites, lugging heavy sea bags, having been found guilty of fraternization late one night on the ship’s catwalk.

Viewing the spectacle with disdain, she sanctimoniously judged them both from afar, convinced beyond any shadow of doubt theirs was one ‘Uniform Code of Military Justice’ violation she would never be found guilty of.

Once the militant exhibition concluded, Rachel returned her tired eyes back to her worn Bible, determined to complete her current task at hand; despite the intrusive Sailor continued to stalk her from behind. Naturally she expected the man would soon move on to friendlier prospects. After all, they always did, particularly when she refused to make any contact.

Ignoring her latest stalker, she read the final verse from the Book of Revelation, thereby accomplishing her heart-felt undertaking to read the Bible in its entirety.

The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen.

Stoically, Rachel slowly shut the Book, bowed her blonde head, and closed her blue eyes. Though not lost in deep, spiritual prayer, rather mournful reflection of her recently deceased grandmother; a humble and virtuous woman who had willed her only prized possession to her granddaughter: her passed down from several generations’ King James Bible.

Mission complete, grandmother, she somberly whispered under her strained breath, all the while combating bittersweet tears, mindful of how even four months later her death still felt agonizingly surreal.

Has Lincoln’s Fat Cat got your tongue? the Sailor lightheartedly asked her, whereby not only alerting Rachel of the man’s lingering presence, but also revealing himself to be more tenacious than all the others. Clearly a glutton for punishment, in Rachel’s adept opinion.

From the moment the attractive thirty-year-old, divorced mother of twin girls reported to the USS Abraham Lincoln, one week prior to the nuclear aircraft carrier departing San Diego for a ten-month deployment, various Sailors unequivocally paid her special attention. When the mature petty officer third class made it threateningly clear she was uninterested, word quickly spread from stem to stern, port to starboard side. By the time the ship was well underway by day two and bound for the Persian Gulf, all males were quick to make a hole whenever they saw the shrewd RP3 coming their way, paranoid she might carry out her threat and report any Sailor for unwelcome or even perceived advances without a second thought. Consequently, no Sailor in his right mind risked pay grade reduction, monetary fines, and quite possibly a dishonorable discharge.

More recently, however, what initially began as simple Sailor flirtation three months’ prior had now transitioned into a brazen quest to chip away at Rachel’s iron wall. As a result, she had also become the brunt of many a Sailors’ jokes. Rumors circulated there was even a bounty of sorts upon her head. Last she heard the price was up to one hundred dollars, donor compliments of some anonymous Supply Department seaman, payable to any Sailor who could capture her attention long enough to secure a date, or, whatever else the cunning Sailor had in mind.

She logically presumed her latest brazen contender currently stood behind her, particularly when he assertively announced, Playing hard to get, I see. Truth be told, I rather appreciate a worthy challenge.

Ironically, her curiosity suddenly perked. Speculating whether this Sailor was part of air wing or ship’s company, Rachel secretly pondered her latest challenger’s identity, doubtful he was some young, inexperienced seaman recently sent to the fleet. His cocky, assured demeanor suggested he had served in the Navy for quite some time.

With plenty of time on her hands and no better place to be, she flippantly explored the various possibilities…perchance he worked as one of those Rainbow Sideboys who spent his entire naval career roving the flight deck, dressed in a designated colored jersey, indicative of his specific job. She briefly envisioned the faceless man, though tanned and handsome, proudly lining up opposite other colored jersey crewmembers, rendering honors to distinguished arriving visitors…

Do you come here often? he playfully asked her next, expecting her response.

Of course, Rachel never said a word to the man, though she did think he sounded attractive enough. She even attempted to match his striking voice with one who dexterously handled aircraft movement, flexing tight muscles in his yellow jersey, half tempted to turn around and confirm her assumption.

On the other hand, should she about-face, she might encounter a short, stocky man wearing a purple jersey, a busy aircraft refueler. She quickly dismissed the man would be wearing a blue jersey, as a menial elevator operator somehow seemed beneath him. He could be sporting a green jersey, she ventured, part of the catapult and arresting crew. She then considered the probability he wore a red shirt as a brave crash and salvage crewmember, appreciating the metaphor of him crashing and burning where she was concerned. If he wore a brown jersey, well, at that moment she failed to recall what his job would entail.

Leisurely stirring her glass of iced tea with a straw, she wrapped up her trivial guessing game swiftly and deliberately, deciding her mystery stalker wore a white jersey, proud to be the Lincoln’s safety and landing signalman; safe to say, he got his signals crossed here.

Regardless the Navy uniform this latest Casanova wore or rate he possessed, it made little difference to her in the long run, really, suspecting he had moved on by now. For no Sailor ever stuck around after a minute or two of blatant disregard. Yet to Rachel’s astonishment and aggravation, the man sat down beside her, making his uninvited presence quite known.

Do you really think you can ignore me forever, Sailor? Mark my words, sooner or later, you’ll look at me, he declared with a hint of inscrutability.

Oh, Sailor boy, are you ever in for a crude awakening, she wryly thought. Although his hypnotic voice and remarkable perseverance frankly intrigued her, she remained perfectly unresponsive to him, determined to put both him and his alter ego in their rightful place. Let the battle of wills commence, she confidently thought, presuming he was desperately vying for the reward money. All things considered, she felt some pity for the poor sap.

Can you please pass the salt? he politely requested of her. Expecting to cunningly get an arousal out of her, Rachel never even so much as flinched. One might have assumed her both blind and deaf under other circumstances.

Ok, let’s try this instead, shall we? Would you care for some friendly conversation? he asked her next.

Ha! Fool me once, shame on that Sailor, fool me twice, shame on this Sailor, she warned of herself, recalling the last time she welcomed a fellow Sailor for some friendly conversation on the aft mess deck. She spent hours at the mercy of some heartbroken boatswain’s mate who had received a ‘dear John’ email from his girlfriend early into their WESTPAC, expecting her to be his rebound Sailor, or at the very least, his personal shoulder to cry on. The fact that Rachel was unqualified to advise any Sailor, as that was the chaplains’ job, warranted utmost caution. All she needed was to offer the wrong advice, then be liable for a suicide attempt off the flight deck.

Besides, she had her own personal problems to contend with…

I bet your beautiful eyes sparkle under a starlit sky. Why not join me on the fantail for a moonlit stroll?

Rachel nearly laughed after hearing his cheesy pickup line, had she not been in one of her Friday night, petulant moods. Ironically, two months prior, she had been enjoying a fantail moonlit stroll, purposely alone, when approached by one pompous, redneck Seaman who might as well been reenacting the part of some imperious Frenchman in Paris. The only stunt he didn’t pull was to pinch her personal stern. He did, nonetheless, offer money to perform a lewd act, of which she learned at that decisive moment she possessed a pretty-good left hook. Even Rocky would have been impressed.

Apparently still undefeated, the Sailor’s voice dripped with sarcasm when he addressed her again. "Oh, I understand perfectly now. I’m not your type at all. No male Sailor would be. My bad…you’re a gay shipmate."

I’m hardly gay, she denied at once, albeit successfully baited by him at last. While she might have lost that battle, she would win the war, she vowed, altering her tactical maneuvers slightly. No longer on the offense with her conniving foe, but now defense, militarily thinking, ok, Sailor, two can play this battleship game!

Well, since I can ask and you can tell…are you sure you’re not really gay? he ribbed her.

Refusing to look at him, Rachel replied, Quite. She then asked him, Are you gay?

Actually, I am feeling a bit merry and vivacious tonight. Pretty Sailors do that to me.

"So vivaciously happy for you," she mocked him in return, thinking she had a genuine buffoon on her hands this time.

"So, if you’re not gay, and I don’t mean vivaciously gay, then at your mature age you’re just…what word am I looking for…prudish?" he poked fun at her.

Ass, she mumbled under her offended breath, easily provoked once again by the vile man.

"Now that’s not very Christian of you, the Sailor scolded her, laughing. Isn’t profanity a sin?"

Rachel angrily raised her head, tilting it slightly to the right, still refusing to look him in the face. "I’m not a Christian, thank you very much."

Really? I stand corrected.

You stand to be made a fool of! she snapped back at him, irritated how he refused to take seriously her disinterest and carry on. Bet or no bet, surely, he must be aware of her Medusa-like reputation; such a reputation promising to turn any offender’s Naval career to stone. True, she never actually reported any Sailor for harassment of this sort, mainly because her silent bark was her bite. But clearly this man was intentionally calling her bluff. Purposely taunting her like no other Sailor ever dared; despite the Navy’s most stringent zero-tolerance, sexual harassment policy.

The man drolly laughed yet again, thoroughly enjoying passing his out-to-sea time at her expense. "It just so happens that I’m up to the challenge to prove you wrong, Petty Officer Medusa."

Whatever floats your boat, she told him blasé style, resolved to ignore him and not allow the obnoxious scoundrel to get under her skin any further. But when he continued to harass her, daring her to look his way, she glanced at her tray, half-tempted to hurl her untouched banana cream pie at his pompous face.

No need to be rude, he told her, his tone purposely restrained. We’re all on the same boat, you know. Same side, too.

For just that split second, Rachel felt a twinge of guilt. She didn’t wish to be rude to this Sailor, much less any male Sailor. The fact was she had no business being in the Navy at her age, at the mercy of so many lecherous men; out to sea and outnumbered. Furthermore, she didn’t blame the male Sailors for their biological weakness, per se, who were young and virile, trapped on a floating vessel with attractive females in their midst. It was simply human nature reacting, and while the United States Navy enforced certain legal protocols, testosterone all too often had the final say.

Nevertheless, Rachel also had the final say. While she might be willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, she was more unwilling to become their sacrificial Sailor. Mentally and physically drained, she simply wished to be left alone. Who wouldn’t after three months of grueling sea duty, twelve hour shifts, seven days a week, far from land and all but losing her sanity?

I do believe the wheels of fate are turning here, my dear petty officer. You’re assigned to this ship, and I’m assigned to this ship-

I don’t believe in fate, she dryly interrupted him. But I do believe this conversation is fatally over and out.

She grabbed hold of her tray and cleverly slid its contents along with her body clear to the other end of the table, grateful he didn’t follower her. Alone at last, she triumphantly smirked, thinking, if that doesn’t make him give up as all the others had…

Of course, apparently, she should have known better. He wasn’t like any of the others.

You forgot something, Sailor. Dropping her Bible on the table, he now hovered over her, proudly chuckling. "And by the way, I have all night to play your hard to get game, shipmate."

"And you’re obviously too sure of yourself, shipmate," she told him, growing increasingly unsure of her own self, thanks to him. There was something about this man she couldn’t quite put her finger upon that troubled her the most.

And you’re obviously too scared to take a chance, he challenged her.

Rachel overtly scoffed, With you?

Yes, he confidently replied.

I rather take my chances blindfolded, dodging Hornets in the dead of night across the flight deck than take a chance with the likes of you, she told him, increasingly agitated, which only provoked more laughter from the man.

She should have simply retired to her berthing for the night, but thoughts of laying in her rack unable to sleep tormented her more than any pushy Sailor ever could. Neither did she have any desire to return to ship’s library where she spent her last twelve hours. Needing something constructive to do with herself, she readjusted the pie on her tray, pondering how good her aim might be, once again tempted to toss the pie in the Sailor’s face.

You know, petty officer, it’s never good to eat alone. I could get me some pie and join you. I’d even feed you if you ask me nicely.

Feed on this! she shouted at him, tossing the pie upward and over her shoulder like a Frisbee, expecting a well-deserved smack landing across his smug face. However, her vengeful grin quickly faded to a disparaged scowl when she never heard the plastic plate hit the deck, but instead observed the man’s steady hand return the plate to her tray, all pie still intact, having caught her dessert with perfect agility. She marveled how the arresting cables on the flight deck couldn’t have snatched a jet landing with such spontaneous and accurate precision.

As you can see, I have good reflexes, he told her, laughing.

Rachel sat there utterly stunned, contemptuously eyeing the pie on her tray. Just one more try, she irrationally speculated, confidently plotting a second shot. As if this Johnny Bench character read minds, too, he quickly seized her hands and secured them tightly behind her back, physically preventing her from another attempt.

Are you insane? Let go of my hands, she demanded through clenched teeth, uncomfortable that he now touched her. Not because she was in any pain or discomfort, but his touch was just as startling it seemed as his hypnotic voice.

Can I trust you to behave like an adult then? he patronizingly asked her.

You must really be hard up for money, she angrily criticized him. A measly hundred buck bet is really a waste of both our time, don’t you think?

It’s up to two hundred now, he quickly informed her. Three hundred when I get you alone on the catwalk.

Appalled by his demeaning innuendo, she vainly searched for the intimidating Master-at-Arms. Prepared to turn this hideous Sailor over to Security’s human bulldog, how she wanted to see him humbled, clothed in his dress whites while shamefully dragging his loaded sea bag all the way up to the bridge.

Let me go before I have you written up! she yelled at him. And don’t think I won’t!

Negative, ghost rider, I can’t let you go, followed his calm reply.

Why not? she asked him, frustrated he accomplished his calculated objective to debase her when she miserably failed to keep her cool.

Because should you succeed in hitting me with that pie, I’d have no choice but to report you for violation of the UCMJ, he warned her, Article 128, to be exact. Do you really wish risking your name printed in the Plan of the Day, disgracefully court-martialed for committing an assault by intentionally inflicting grievous bodily harm with a deadly weapon of banana cream pie?

What are you some gung-ho want-a-be JAG Sailor, or just an honorary member of the Clown Troupe, out for some Friday night kicks at my expense? Rachel questioned if he was serious or joking, surely the latter. But I’m certain you’re breaking plenty of UCMJs of your own!

Ok, I’ll let you go, but only on one condition. That you share your pie with me, he told her, clearly toying with her.

Sure. I forgot a spoon, though. Why don’t you go fetch us one, she sweetly instructed him, expecting him to oblige after her hands were set free, of which she wisely secured in her lap.

That won’t be necessary. Not only am I flexible, but resourceful, too, he told her. She gasped when his finger dug into her pie, scooping whipped cream and then forcing her to taste it. I wouldn’t mind if you returned the favor, petty officer. Since I’m a betting Sailor, I bet your finger tastes delectable.

Aghast, Rachel sat fuming in her seat while curious spectators gathered to watch. A few males even cheered her tormentor on, placing bets in his favor. While it had been a good month since any brazen Sailor had attempted to get her attention, none of them had stooped so low as this one. Clearly, making verbal contact with him proved lethal. If anything, it enabled him. She could only imagine the upper hand he would gain if she turned around and faced him. And as if things couldn’t get humiliatingly worse, he serenaded her now.

"You never close your eyes any more when I kiss your lips. And there’s no tenderness like before in your fingertips. You’re trying hard not to show it, baby, but baby, baby I know it. You’ve lost that lovin’ feeling. You’ve lost that lovin’ feeling. You’ve lost that lovin’ feeling now it’s gone, gone, gone-"

You need to be gone, she interrupted him and his singing debut, spitefully adding, and you’re no Tom Cruise, bud! Maybe Popeye, but no Tom Cruise!

Rachel awaited his comic reply to which she could only assume he would be hard pressed to find. She had him, alright. He was mocked for all to see, as many Sailors still watched them both, thoroughly enjoying their theatrical impromptu performance. But that didn’t matter at this point. She finally won this mudslinging war, reaping the spoils of satisfaction at his expense. Hearing nothing further, she suspected him indeed gone, having finally retreated in defeat.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she was about to gather her belongings and depart the galley when she heard his familiar voice speak to her again, cunningly loud and clear.

Ok, Petty Officer Olive Oyl, you got me, he teased, demonstrating her only reward was another laugh. And when he added, I yam what I yam, and that’s all what I yam, the entire mess deck roared with laughter, applauding his superb impersonation of Popeye the Sailor man.

No longer having the upper hand, much less any hand, Rachel played her final card at the same time all spectators thankfully dispersed. Revisiting her fail-proof strategy that had never failed her before, she plotted his final demise. Wishing she had a magazine, or better yet her Nook, her eyes subsequently fell to her Bible, of which she ostentatiously flipped to the book of Acts and pretended to intentionally read.

You sure you’re not a Christian? he interrogated her. After all, you do work with the chaplains, and you are reading a Bible. I think you’re just in denial. Let me guess…your parents were devout Christians, but you rebelled. And it nearly killed them.

Baited once more by her apparent equal who successfully hit a painful nerve, her resolve to ignore him all too promptly waned as Rachel hissed, I’ve already told you I’m no Christian! If you must know, I’m agnostic!

He calmly repeated, Agnostic…you mean atheist?

What’s the damn difference? she murmured.

Well, since you asked -

Look, I don’t really care! Rachel venomously yelled at him.

Well, you should care since agnostics are typically noncommittal on this issue. Better to be an atheist, at least then you’re committed to having no faith in God. Trust me. It’s imperative to be certain regarding such controversial matters. His mouth closely whispered into her ear, Nothing worse than a flip-flopping agnostic.

And nothing worse than a flippant Sailor who refuses to accept his ship’s not docking in my port, Rachel indignantly replied. Now kindly cast off!

Ignoring her latest sardonic comeback, the man calmly asked her, So tell me, petty officer, are you ashamed or proud to be an atheist?

Yes…I mean no…I mean…look, just leave me alone already! Rachel yelled, frustrated by him though perhaps more with herself. Never had any acerbic Sailor on this ship so underhandedly provoked and manipulated her into such an angered frenzy.

So, does that mean you’re really an atheist? he pursued further.

Sure, if you’ll go away, then fine. I’m an atheist! she shouted at him, slamming the Bible shut, effectively goaded by him like no other.

At least whoever this annoying Sailor was, she rationalized to herself while licking her wounds, she found some comfort knowing she refused to give him the satisfaction of turning around to face him. Though it was clear that was his intention all along, knowing if she turned to face him that he might still win the reward money and title holder, but also the personal satisfaction of being the only Sailor to have provoked the Lincoln’s Medusa enough to stare him in the eye.

The Sailor again laughed. As fellow heathens, I’d be remiss not to ask you out on a date. Of course, being underway makes it a tad bit difficult, but I’m sure we can indiscreetly improvise until we reach an exotic port. I think we’d make cute liberty buddies, don’t you?

A date…fat chance! She venomously thought, like there is no way I’m going anywhere with you!

What with one more year remaining of her naval obligation, Rachel was not about to disembark with any smooth-talking Sailor, no matter how exotic the port. Then again, what with tensions skyrocketing in the Middle East, fat chance disembarking her ship at any port. Already due to most of the world’s ever intensifying hostilities and random bloodshed in the most diverse places, their ship’s commanding officer had essentially cancelled last month’s Hong Kong and Singapore port visits. Rumor speculated docking in Jebel Ali next week was cancelled, too, by order of the Admiral of the Fifth Fleet.

To her dismay, he spoke yet again. Now about setting a date for our liberty-

Look, it’s not happening! she yelled at him, incensed.

You sure about that? he asked her as his muscular arms leaned over her, and one side of his smoothly shaven face briefly lined up evenly against her livid one.

Rachel helplessly glanced down at his tanned hands which straddled her Bible on the table. They were strong hands, well groomed, perhaps…even recently manicured? Whatever his job entailed on the ship, she reasoned, it didn’t involve getting his fingers dirty.

Quite sure, she told him rather feebly. How insidious that she felt her breath had been taken away from her in one fell swoop. He stood too close to her, feeling his upper body leaning up against her back. Ashamed, she contemplated was she more furious or more fascinated by this magnetic man.

You might actually think I’m a pretty good guy if you give me a chance, his entrancing mouth whispered in her ear.

Yeah, a real stellar guy, she mocked.

Only one way to find out, he offered her still.

I’ll pass, she barely whispered, outwardly determined yet inwardly doubting her own resolve. Somehow, he was beginning to wear her down as she continued to breathe in his intoxicating cologne. But what really alarmed her was her displeasure when he no longer leaned over her, taking his manly scent with him.

Should you have a change of heart, come over to Public Affairs and I’ll give you a personal tour. Just ask for MC1 Ryan.

So, the man is a naval journalist. Despite she hadn’t looked at his face, she was certain she’d never encountered him before now, which only heightened the mystery. Rachel was about to turn around and confront her stalker once and for all, but when he placed an intricate rose designed from a white galley napkin atop her Bible, she felt momentarily paralyzed, transfixed by his simple, kind gesture. Having successfully chipped away at some of her iron wall, her growing indecision soon was replaced with unmistakable longing…a yearning for something, but what, she demanded of herself…Surely not a friend of sorts, or even crazier, a boyfriend?

Sensing he no longer stood behind her, Rachel nonchalantly glanced back just in time to spy the retreating Sailor. Dressed in his working Navy uniform, the man confidently walked tall with broad shoulders, sporting a head of dark hair beneath his working uniform’s cap, of which she observed him casually readjust. Though she couldn’t confirm he was repulsive or handsome, she somehow suspected the latter, judging by the back of him that the front would be equally pleasant enough to gaze upon.

"For a Sailor, that is," she muttered under her exasperated breath, grateful he finally left her alone, while at the same time she felt strangely disappointed.

TWO

"I see you’ve met the newest addition to the Lincoln."

Taken aback, Rachel swiftly turned to find her fellow RP staring aimlessly at the same man who, by Rachel’s persnickety standards, failed to exhibit appropriate seaman conduct, though he was undeniably persistent. And undeniably intriguing, she dared admit only to herself.

Is he gone? Rachel asked with trepidation, her face visibly flushed. Having impulsively let her guard down, she vowed never again to allow moronic curiosity to get the better of her, only hoping the portentous man hadn’t noticed she looked back to spy his identity.

"He’s out of sight though not out of mind, eh, Petty Officer Weber? Goes to show late night carrier onboard delivery drops some worthy cargo from time to time. Now that’s my kind of male call!"

Rachel rolled her eyes as Seaman Stone took her seat across from hers. "That’s what the cat dragged in last night? When the ship’s powerful steam catapults vividly came to mind, she insisted, If you ask me, the Fat Cats need to catapult that common rat back to wherever he came from and do all of us female Sailors a huge favor."

Oh, he’s no common rat, Seaman Stone insisted, nibbling at her fried chicken dinner at an uneven pace. Trust me.

They’re all rats, trust me! I know from rodent experience, Rachel impulsively countered.

What experience? Seaman Stone immediately questioned, acutely intrigued. You’re the most tight-lipped Sailor I’ve ever met in the Navy. You never reveal anything remotely personal about your life back home.

Rachel defensively shook her head, despite the young seaman discerned correctly. She more appropriately resembled a sealed clam, and all the boiling water in the world wouldn’t pry her open. They say dead ones stay closed, and in her own case, albeit it for good reason. She couldn’t imagine anyone would want to ingest her personal toxic tale any more than she wished to gullibly air her misfortune...

Seriously, girl. All I know is you’re from the East Coast, and that’s only because of your accent. She glanced at her left hand and surmised, Not married either, it appears. Any special guy or kids back home?

Having struck a pained nerve, desperate to redirect their congenial conversation to more of a professional banter, Rachel stiffly inquired, "Is Chaplain Conway set up for this Sunday’s service? I really don’t understand Engineering’s awards ceremony being scheduled at the same time when the Protestant service is religiously held there on the forecastle…no pun intended."

It’s all good, Seaman Stone confirmed while peering anxiously about the mess deck.

And what of the missing candles? Rachel asked, noting the young woman barely touched her dinner, but continued to thoroughly search for something, or perhaps someone.

The missing candles…oh, you mean the Shabbot candles. Yep, they’ve been found in the oddest place. Someone must have been playing a practical joke, moving them to the POW/MIA table, Seaman Stone informed, pointing toward the ceremonial table setting of one plate, silverware, a single rose, and salt shaker.

Rachel’s eyes respectfully fell upon the symbolic table, noticing two fresh chili dogs smothered the plate. Yes, the ship seems to have no shortage of impractical pranksters, she dryly asserted, watching the young woman check her reflection in the metal napkin dispenser. Well, at least we’re not missing any Sailors, Rachel added as an afterthought.

Amen to that one, Seamen Stone echoed Rachel’s sentiment. Now if the Rapture hits, that’s a different story.

Rachel painstakingly drew in a deep breath and held it, taking her time to slowly release her tension. You know, my poor grandmother used to talk about that silly Rapture all the time, convinced Jesus was coming back in her lifetime. Of course, He didn’t.

I take it you don’t believe in the Rapture? Seaman Stone asked with the faintest air of antipathy in her voice.

Not one iota, Rachel returned without any reservations.

Seaman Stone gasped. "Didn’t you watch Nicholas Cage in that Left Behind remake movie? Made some doubters of the Bible question their beliefs…though my complaint was it never mentioned Jesus even once. It was like the producers left behind Jesus!"

"Considering the genre, not sorry to say I missed that one, though Cage has always been one of my favorite actors. But I certainly don’t believe in Christians vanishing into thin air while everyone else is left behind on Earth to face some global devil, Rachel ridiculed at the same time she recognized the second-class hospital corpsman waving to her, making his way back to ship’s Medical. What about that vanishing prayer rug? HM2 Hasson asked me earlier if we found his prayer rug he left behind in the chapel late last night."

Unfortunately, I found his missing Muslim prayer rug, Seaman Stone confirmed, deeply frowning. "Honestly, I just don’t believe when the father of our Navy kicked off prayer from his three-masted Bonhomme Richard, John Paul Jones issued orders for someone to fetch him the Muslim prayer rug so his men could all pray to Allah. In fact, even President Jefferson warned about the Koran and Islam to the American people-"

You don’t seem to hold any qualms of Jews lighting their Shabbot candles and reading from their Hebrew prayer books, Rachel fairly analyzed. I really don’t understand why Islam troubles you. After all, if people want to be religious, why not just let them be religious in their own way without judgmental condemnation?

While Seaman Stone pondered a worthy rebuttal, Rachel picked up the napkin rose and lackadaisically twirled it between her fingers, temporarily spellbound once again by its rare simplicity. Or was she more spellbound by its complex designer? Concerned with where such impractical thoughts of hers delved, she was about to smartly toss the rose in with the trash on her tray, but quickly reconsidered, gently tucking it into her shirt pocket instead. After all, it was an artistic original, she reasoned.

It’s gotten to the point where God must request permission to come aboard, Seaman Stone finally offered her worthy rebuttal. "Even worse, permission is rarely granted, being denied more and more by the powers that be. Yet every false god out there is being told, come aboard, no problem! I don’t believe welcoming false gods onto our ship protects any of us. My God is a jealous God, and without God’s protective hand, we’re all spiritually sunk. What I really fear is that in time, we’ll all be literally sunk!"

Rachel’s eyes critically narrowed. You really have to accept all religions, Seaman Stone. The Navy always has.

Oh, no, the Navy always has not! I believe only since the nineties have countless false religions like Islam, Hinduism, and Buddhism infiltrated our long standing and godly tradition. It was the Jewish and Christian Scriptures that America was built upon, and our naval traditions too. Now anything goes! It won’t be long before we’re all serving under atheist chaplains.

Rachel shrugged with indifference. Is that really such a bad thing?

It is when there’s only one way to Heaven, and that’s through faith in Jesus Christ alone.

Discreetly, Rachel mentally dissected the young southern native, who clearly had been born, bred, and brainwashed in the Bible belt to believe only one way led to Heaven. So many religious people these days embraced other possibilities. Prominent religious leaders, too, such as the latest Catholic Pope, welcomed and united all religions, citing everyone worshipped the same God in the end.

Only fundamental Christians and radical Islamists refused to unite under one umbrella, the latter one suicidal while taking innocent lives with them. Perhaps that is another reason why religious fundamentalism disgusted her so much. In the end, it often led to self-righteous separatism, or senseless destruction and bloodshed.

Times have changed since John Paul Jones, President Jefferson, and President Lincoln for that matter, and we just have to change with them, Rachel gently defended, harboring a personal vendetta against religious fundamentalism of all kinds. Her father and mother sacrificed their lives for such, and her grandmother would have gladly done so, too, had circumstances warranted.

Well, I sure don’t have to change! You think Islamic nations would welcome Christians into their military folds? I don’t see Muslims concerned with offending Christians for praying in the name of Allah. But don’t dare pray in the name of Jesus! America is so incredibly far gone now and so removed from God, Seaman Stone asserted with unadulterated grief. If God is not in charge of our military, the devil gladly will be.

Now you’re sounding a trifle like Chaplain Conway.

I guess so. We’re both fundamental Baptists, Seaman Stone pointed out. Then again, even Chaplain Conway has toned down his preaching some, complying with the Navy’s politically correct agenda, especially after being written up for failure of naval compliance when we first got underway. Of course, I see him being wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove, as the Bible commands us Christians to be.

Chaplain Conway’s a good man, Rachel respectfully acknowledged. While I might not personally agree with his extreme religious views, he is an honorable man. Perhaps that’s why the Navy hasn’t kick him out.

Not for lack of trying.

I have a sneaking suspicion his luck might run out when we get back to San Diego.

Seaman Stone frowned. "Chaplain Conway’s a godly preacher, one of the few left, especially serving within the Navy. His final authority is always the Bible. Cautiously she whispered, Unlike so many sellout chaplains these days, Chaplain Conway strives to not be derelict of duty when it comes to the Lord’s marching orders."

I have to say that you sound a lot like my late grandmother, Rachel confided, picking up her Bible and holding it sentimentally close to her chest. She left me this when she died. All she had left to her name, but it was her last will and testament that I read it, cover to cover. My grandmother was always speaking of the old ways and how the new ways would lead to all our destruction, individually and as a nation. She was convinced since America abandoned God, He would have no choice but to abandon America.

Seaman Stone’s demeanor remained sober. If only those leading our nation and our militaries understood kicking God out will bring about our ultimate demise.

Rachel carelessly shrugged. My grandmother was just old school, not very popular today.

Your grandmother was a wise woman, esteemed Seaman Stone.

Wise and stubborn, Rachel relayed in retrospect. But she solely raised me since my own parents died on the senseless battlefield the best she could.

Your parents both served in the military? Which branch?

Rachel shook her head. Actually, they were missionaries to Iran. Both were caught with stacks of Bibles they smuggled into the country in the middle of the night and beheaded by sunrise the next morning. I’d have been there, too, but Mother didn’t feel comfortable bringing a toddler on that specific trip.

Seaman Stone sighed. Wow! What amazing Christians they were. You must be so very proud of them.

I’m proud of their heroic stand to defend something they strongly believed in, but not happy they left me practically an orphan for a God who probably… Rachel stopped herself, not only because she didn’t wish to get into a religious debate on whether God existed, but because it would only serve to mourn her own plight, equating history was similarly repeating itself where her own daughters were concerned.

Sensing Rachel’s desire to discontinue their painful discourse, Seaman Stone rattled on and on regarding the lack of galley varieties and how it seemed unfair the officers ate caviar on gold platters while the enlisted ate tuna on plastic plates. They get lobster and filet mignon, and we get imitation crab and Hamburger Helper.

Rachel laughed. Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve always heard we Navy folks eat better than ground forces. And I much prefer my metal rack to a muddy, snake infested hole in the ground.

Speaking of which, I thought you’d have been crammed inside your metal rack, catching up on your beauty sleep. Not that you need to worry about that department.

Even for a thirty-year-old spinster?

Are you kidding? You don’t look a day over twenty-five. And I still say you look like that pretty actress…what is her name…the daughter of that other actress?

You mean Goldie Hawn’s daughter? Rachel speculated, keenly aware of their uncanny, mutual resemblance. Seaman Stone wasn’t the first to mention Rachel’s Hollywood twin, as a fan even requested her autograph once.

"Yeah, she was so funny in that movie How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days chick flick. Now there’s a fun way to pass our endless time on this ship. Seaman Stone’s brown, saintly eyes lit up with devilish mischief. Drive some poor Sailor half nutty."

Rachel smiled, sinisterly musing she had just the nutty Sailor in mind, too, searching the mess deck just in case her secret admirer lurked nearby, watching her. Oddly enough, such a thought excited her. She instinctively regained her practical composure while she had the actress’ name on the tip of her tongue, Carry…no Kay…Kate Hudson.

That’s right, Kate Hudson. You so look like her, Seaman Stone earnestly complimented. In fact, you also have her witty sense of humor her movie characters often portray.

Rachel regrettably heaved a sigh. She certainly didn’t feel witty, glamorous, or high on life these days. Hadn’t for several years. Currently her nauseated stomach felt like it was twisted in Navy knots; mainly from the three, greasy chili dogs she hastily consumed while reading of the apocalyptic doom portrayed in the last book of her Bible. Why couldn’t her grandmother have just willed her some fictional mystery books instead?

I would’ve been in my rack hours ago, but reading the entire Book of Revelation took me longer than I’d planned for my exciting Friday evening. After attempting to knock out the Bible since San Diego, I felt like I was in a race to finish. Besides, all dressed up in my fashionable Navy uniform and nowhere to go.

Glancing about the all too familiar enlisted mess deck, nothing seemed out of place to her. She was surrounded by the same dreary, steel bulkhead, stale smelling and mundane atmosphere, haze grey and underway - day in, day out, night in, night out…

Just so happens that the Book of Revelation’s my favorite. It’s actually a very Jewish book. Even Hebrew rabbis agree, Seaman Stone emphatically proclaimed. And so much of what we see happening in the chaotic world today perfectly lines up with the prophecies of Revelation.

Rachel feared the well-meaning RP might recite the entire Book of Revelation by memory. Yes, I know. I’m not sure who’s quoted Revelation and juxtaposed current events to me more. You or my late grandmother. Before the obsessed RP could spout off her latest prophetic last days’ prediction, Rachel slyly asked, Has it been busy back at the office?

Nope, came Seaman Stone’s vague reply, and once again the young RP scanned the immediate area, clearly preoccupied.

Perfect. Rachel gratefully counted upon her Saturday duty remaining uneventful. Other than an occasional distraught Sailor begging to go home, not a whole lot of excitement came her way lately. No wonder she was quick to complete the entire…Rachel’s wayward mind drifted to the tall, broad shouldered naval journalist. What did that brass Sailor call Grandmother’s Bible…an archaic book?

Any Sailors schedule appointments with either chaplain? Rachel inquired further while in the back of her mind she recalled being invited to Public Affairs for a personal tour. She checked her watch and questioned was it too late, but then quickly dismissed taking the Sailor up on his outlandish offer. She could only imagine the kind of tour he had in mind!

Seaman Stone shook her chestnut head back and forth. "Are you kidding?