The Faithful Remnant: No One Left Behind

By Albert O. Geraldi and Donna T. Geraldi C.PhD.

No One Left Behind is a realistic fiction grounded in biblical research pertaining to the post-tribulation theory and will appeal to readers interested in eschatological information found in the Old and New Testament.

Charles Rome, an Army Special Forces Captain veteran and FBI agent, together with supervisor Agent Kaitlyn Leery and Agent John Malcolm are assigned to investigate alleged drug trafficking and gun smuggling operations in the Castle Rock area of Colorado.

Their undercover work brings them to a 1,000-acre Ranch owned by ex-military Colonel Abram Morgan who has ex-Delta Force connections with the CIA. There they meet Pastor Daniel Forester and other ranch families only to find a much bigger situation exists apart from their assigned mission. A global crisis begins with the introduction of the Turkish Emperor Salahadin and his Attorney General Caesarius in forming a Ten-Nation Council in their effort to control the masses.

Captain Rome, Agents Kaitlyn and John and other ranchfolks, including Rome’s ex-Special Forces A-Team must face all odds in preparation for the coming devastating end-time signs in order that they may survive to the end so no one is left behind!

A Book of Revelation End-Time Study Guide that biblically supports the Post-Tribulation Theory—the impetus for writing The Faithful Remnant—will be made available for readers soon!

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jan 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781664252585

Albert O. Geraldi

Albert O. Geraldi, husband and father, is a Christian and devout believer in the written Word of God. He is a retired decorated NYC Police Officer and Academy Instructor who served in the Vietnam War as a Special Forces Green Beret A-Team sergeant. Mr. Geraldi is a 9th Degree Black belt Okinawan Martial Art instructor and the founder of Zenkokyu Ryukyu Kempo Karate-Do Renmei, Inc. Donna T. Geraldi, wife and mother, is a Christian and devout believer in the written Word of God. She is also a former NYC Police Officer and Academy Instructor. Mrs. Geraldi received a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology, a Master’s degree in Social Work, and a Doctorate in Christian Counseling. She is a Florida Licensed Clinical Social Worker, a Licensed Clinical Pastoral Counselor under the National Christian Counseling Association, and a Commissioned Minister of Counseling.

Book preview

ONE

THE AMAZON

T he jungle never sleeps. God’s tiniest creatures all struggling to survive the vigilant eyes of the harpy eagles soaring above the forest canopy and the kinkajous and golden lion tamarins perched in palmetto trees. It all begins with a dead calm, a veil of steam, a symphony of screeching animals, and, like drums beating in the distance, the sound of raindrops bouncing off bromeliad leaves and delicate ferns. Suddenly, the sky opens up in torrential spurts as the rain pours down upon the earth.

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Central American Air, a US covert passenger and cargo airline, like Air America during the Vietnam War, flew us out of Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

We landed on a deserted airfield located somewhere in southeast Darien Province, Panama. A van, parked on the airstrip, took us to a safe house a few miles further east near the South American border. DEA Agent McCormack and his team briefed us on a need-to-know basis about the mission. They equipped us with vital supplies and intelligence on the target area.

No one had to tell us what we already knew. The jungle was full of predators, especially the human kind, like South American freedom fighters, rebels, artifact smugglers, drug traffickers, and other counter narco-terrorist groups.

Our mission, Operation: King Snake, was to infiltrate a highly trafficked drug area in the interior Amazon rainforest, identified by US spy satellites, and to disrupt a heavy trade route that ran parallel along the Japura River, also known as Caqueta, a tributary of the Amazon River.

Closer to the border, we boarded a CAA chopper that was there waiting for us. With their laid-back style and off handed jokes, the pilots broke the palpable tension mounting in the claustrophobic cabin even before flying over the Colombian Cordillera Central. We landed as close as we could get to our prospective base camp on a sandbar near the Caqueta shoreline.

I am Captain Charles Rome, Team Leader, Special Forces Company B, Fort Bragg, A-team 214. My team consisted of twelve career military personnel, four of which, before being called, have already been deemed nonessential to the mission. The eight remaining team members, including myself, were Lieutenant Pete Cliette, executive officer; Master Top Sergeant Roberto Ramirez, intelligence expert; Sergeant First Class Thomas Smitty Smith, ex-Ranger pathfinder and senior weapons expert; Sergeant Thomas Doc Campbell, senior medic; Sergeant Guillermo Lopez, weapons expert; Sergeant Larry Boomer Roberts, demolitions expert; and last but not least, Sergeant Jim Russell, a communications expert. Our standing orders after completing the mission were to report back to Fort Bragg for debriefing and reassignment.

Our unit operated within the parameters of culpable deniability. That meant if our mission goes beyond expected operational parameters, in laymen’s terms, if anything goes wrong, the government would deny all knowledge of our existence.

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Trudging at a grueling pace about seven clicks through the invasive foliage, we finally came to a clearing and set up camp. A few days into the mission, after scouting the area, locating the trail, and setting up a vantage point, we were getting antsy for some action. The soggy underbrush and heavy rainfall kept us in a perpetual state of wet. Soaked to the bone, our jungle fatigues, like a second layer of skin, irritated mostly our private parts with every move.

On a dry patch of ground, I sat pitching my knife into the dirt, a bad habit I picked up to relieve the boredom. I hate bugs! I growled, swatting the air around my head in vain. Besides the bugs, the rain, and this lousy jungle, what I hated the most was the incessant waiting.

They’re reassigning me when I get back to Fort Bragg, I confessed to Sergeant Lopez, sitting within earshot.

Just like that? What about the team? Lopez asked as he wiped dirt and sweat across his camo-greased forehead.

When I get back, I’ll see what I can do. I heard myself promise him, not really knowing what, if anything, I could do.

Do you know where they’re sending you?

Haven’t got my orders yet, but I think they plan to send me to some UN contingent. It doesn’t matter, though; I’m resigning my commission. As soon as we’re finished playing around here, I start FBI training in Quantico.

So, that’s the secret you’ve been hiding from us all these months?

Yeah, I mumbled to myself. I guess I didn’t want to jinx it.

We sat in silence for a brief second before the jungle sounds started closing in. Branches rustled in the near distance. Someone or something was coming closer to us. We positioned ourselves for a possible attack. Only until we realized it was our rain-soaked camouflaged demolitions expert did we relax.

Sir, there’s activity on the trail down by the river, Boomer reported. Doc and Lieutenant have set up there, Sir.

Alright, we’re on! I ordered, rallying the others, Let’s move!

Lieutenant Cliette and Sergeant Campbell were already positioned atop a ridge overlooking a well-trodden trail when we got to the vantage point. As nothing ever stayed the same for very long in the jungle, the worn condition of a path indicated either recent traffic or, more than likely, regular use.

These guys have been talking nonstop all the way from downriver! Doc Campbell said, cupping his hand around his ear, They don’t seem worried about anyone hearing them.

How many are there, do you think? I asked.

Three, four, maybe five the most, he answered. They have donkeys; you can hear them braying.

Before positioning the team, I told Boomer and Lopez to place a few shape chargers up ahead for a likely distraction, if necessary.

I said a silent prayer as they closed in on our location, hoping the branches we had cut earlier stayed hidden from view. I signaled Ramirez and Lopez to work the front of the trail and Smitty and Boomer to work the back in case of a likely retreat.

I checked the line; we were ready.

We waited for the sound of their voices and cigarette smoke to become more distinct and their pack animals’ instinctual behavior more difficult to control. Before they had a chance to notice anything amiss, I signaled Doc, the only one with an unsuppressed weapon, to fire two rounds into the air.

Ramirez, from behind a low-lying bush, yelled out in Spanish, Halt, you are surrounded! Throw down your weapons and put your hands in the air!

Instead, two traffickers decided to lift their weapons and start shooting haphazardly into the surrounding brush. Then, after a sudden pause in the action, a line of suppressed fire whizzed through the air, a series of spent brass hit the ground. As soon as the smoke settled, Lopez and Boomer ran into the scene from opposing sides; Smitty and Ramirez held back, acting as cover.

After searching the prisoners, their hands and feet tied together with flex cuffs, we had them sit back-to-back on the ground in a circle. Ramirez and Lieutenant Cliette questioned the prisoners while the rest of us searched through their packs.

Look at all this junk! Boomer said, rifling through a pack strapped to the side of a donkey.

You know, some of this stuff could be very valuable! Lopez said, searching the pack on the opposite side.

What do you know about valuable? Boomer asked skeptically.

When you’re from the Bronx, Lopez replied, you learn fast what is and isn’t valuable.

If this stuff is any good, like you say, maybe we could sell it and then retire like the captain, Boomer said, repeating what Lopez had told him earlier.

Captain, retire? Captain who? Sergeant Russell asked, looking over at me.

Boomer continued foraging through the saddlebag without a clue. After Lopez realized he had told Boomer something that was said to him in confidence, he purposely ignored the surprised look on my face.

What else did I expect? I thought. That’s the way this group operates, like one big happy family.

Turning to address Jim’s concern, I assured him, We’ll talk!

When he started to insist, I held up my hand to stop him and said, perhaps a bit too harshly, Later, Jim, we’ll discuss it later.

With the packs’ contents now revealed, I realized what Lopez had meant about getting rich. These men weren’t drug traffickers. They were artifact smugglers! I declared the mission compromised and ordered Jim to call in for an extraction team.

In no time at all, the chopper spotted our ground smoke and landed. The blades whipped up a frenzy of sand, smoke, and the smell of spent fuel as we threw our gear into the chopper and jumped in. Our fatigues, drenched in sweat, slowly tightened around our bodies, like a hoarfrost cocoon, as we climbed higher into the atmosphere. In silence, we headed back to the Panama airfield, thinking about what we had just been through; the rain, the bugs, the sleepless nights, and the fact that we almost got killed—all for nothing.

Onboard the jet back to Fort Bragg, exhausted, we wrapped ourselves in US Army issued woolen blankets and slept the entire way. The first thing I did back on base was to take a hot shower. The water felt good as it purged the remnants of jungle muck from my aching body.

After eating the first decent meal in over a week, my team and I went for a debriefing. A useless stream of unrelated, unanswerable questions by people who knew absolutely nothing about where we came from or what we were assigned to do. We told them the rehearsed cover story DEA agent McCormack had taught us back at the safe house. Not the actual story until we heard the password.

That evening, the team met at the NCO Club for drinks. After one too many, Lopez repeated my plan to join the FBI to the rest of the team. Old news by that time, the conversation, thank God, quickly changed.

So, Gil, what are you going to do with all that junk you brought back from the jungle? Ramirez asked candidly in front of the whole group. Back in New York, a cousin of mine is working on some connections. Lopez boasted, unashamed, I figure, after we get out, maybe you and I can work together. I know we could put these government skills to better use, don’t you think?

For the rest of the evening, he discussed his plans to Ramirez, and whoever in the group would listen.

The following day, I learned from the higher officials that Lieutenant Cliette was assigned my UN post. He was not a happy camper, except for the fact he summarily was promoted to Captain.

Timing is everything, and life has a funny way of winding the clock! I thought.

Before heading off to Quantico, I had planned to spend some time on Long Island visiting my brother Scott, his wife Marie, who lived in Smithtown, New York, with their two kids. However, since I was so soon off a mission, I decided to forego the family visit.

TWO

QUANTICO

"A lways keep your options open, son." I heard my father’s voice in my head. My only option now was to keep in touch with my former A-team if the FBI gig didn’t work out.

The last time I heard anything about the team, Lopez had retired. He and Ramirez started an Inca Artifacts business in South America. The company was doing well enough for them to buy two condominiums in the Bahamas. Smitty was reassigned somewhere in the Middle East on classified CIA business and the others I would catch up on later.

The first morning reporting to the FBI academy in Quantico, Virginia, was a bit unnerving. The guards at the gate checked my orders and ID card, then let me in. I felt like a duck out of water, a stranger in an unfamiliar setting. I knew no one, and no one knew me. The unit I just left easily integrated people of all ages, sizes, and ranks. Here, I didn’t know what to expect.

Orientation took place in a 1,000-seat auditorium packed with what seemed like mostly pubescent candidates who eyed me warily, thinking I was probably a faculty member or possibly a domestic spy. Either way was fine with me. Sitting there, I knew the only way I would get through the next few months was to learn what I needed to learn, relearn what I already knew, and, more importantly, keep a low profile.

As for my military rank and experience, and being the ripe old age of thirty-two, I would stand out like a sore thumb, especially in some of the more familiar, easier courses like leadership, firearms, and physical training. The forensic science and technology courses, on the other hand, may prove to be a bit more challenging.

I was no stranger to hitting the books. In my spare time, Fort Bragg’s Psychological Warfare Center library was like a second home. For the next twenty weeks, I had planned to familiarize myself with the entire FBI complex—a virtual Disneyland for grownups. Besides a classroom facility, three dormitory buildings, a dining hall, library, chapel, administrative offices, a large gymnasium with inside and outside track; they even had a mock city called Hogan’s Alley, a defensive driving track, indoor firing range, eight outdoor firing ranges, four skeet ranges, and a 200-yard rifle range.

Over the next few months, instructors and trainees from all over the country added more significance to the learning experience with military and paramilitary backgrounds. I hardly had time for anything else between the classroom work, field exercises, seminars, homework assignments, and other daily activities. The hardest thing to do was keep my mouth shut and not reveal too much information about my past military and personal life. Not surprisingly, my years of martial arts training while in the First Special Forces on Okinawa came in handy; it taught me the value of self-discipline and knowing when and when not to make a move.

On graduation day, I sat among a successful group of dedicated men and women. I was proud to be in their company and came away with more lifelong friends than ever expected. It was a good week. Actually, it was a good five months, barring one final glitch. It seemed everyone, all but two male and one female agent and myself, had already gotten their orders.

Were they going to give me some desk job in Alaska or somewhere? I wondered. Even the UN job would have been better than that! After a day or two went by, I started giving serious thought to reenlisting.

After a week of waiting, I finally received a call. First, I thought it was for another psych evaluation. But it turned out to be an interview that lasted several hours for some top-secret job. When the interview, more like an interrogation, was over, I still had no idea what I would be doing or where, for that matter, I would be assigned.

Of course not, Rome, it’s a secret. I told myself.

When the UN started pushing its weight around, and things started to heat up in the Middle East, I thought maybe that’s where they were going to send me. I tried contacting my team for some details. Getting no response, I tried praying. I’m no stranger to prayer, mind you. I know the Bible says to knock, and I do a lot of that. But lately, I don’t know.

When my orders finally came down, it was like a voice from heaven. Go up to the Rocky Mountains, Rome! Save the world from drug running, firearm smuggling maniacs, and motorcycle militants! What didn’t make the list, I remembered thinking, was world famine.

Weeks before starting my assignment, I started growing out my hair and beard. Not so easy to do after twelve years in the military. Being single, I had nothing to pack except for a toothbrush and a map. Maybe some trinkets I had picked up around the world.

I shoved my bag and myself into the front seat of my 2014 FJ Cruiser and drove off to find my purpose in life. Ha!

THREE

THE RANCH

T he drive from Fayetteville, North Carolina, to Castle Rock, Colorado, took longer than I had expected. The trip was worth it, though. In the Springtime, every blade of grass, flower, and tree branch buds on the verge of blooming.

After driving five hours north along a mosaic tree lined Blue Ridge Mountains highway, I spent the first night in a hotel in West Virginia. The following day, Interstate 64 took me west for about seven hours, in time to see the sunset over Blue Springs Lake in Missouri. That night, I slept in my SUV under the stars.

After filling up on coffee, carbs, and sausages at a local Waffle House the following morning, I set out west along Interstate 70 for a long haul across the Midwestern states, stopping only once for dinner.

Passing through quaint little towns, some not so quaint, I had plenty of time to think. What would it have been like to live during the frontier days as compared to today? A time when old western towns dotted the rolling plains, having lone star saloons, rustic log cabins, and natural hot springs. A time when people trapped and ate their food. Instead of today’s surplus of golf courses and tennis courts and people living in planned developments, eating in fancy restaurants. Times indeed have changed, and quickly too, I thought, considering the frontier days were only some two hundred years ago!

The sixteen hundred plus mile drive, up and down elevations of 4,000 feet or more, I finally headed south on US 85 Santa Fe Drive to Castle Rock, Colorado. Castle Rock on the map is between Denver and Colorado Springs, the original home of the Arapahoe and Cheyenne Indians.

My final destination, Circle JM Ranch. Forty-two acres of lush green pastures showcased by snowcapped mountains, a two-story white house, two huge barns, a granary, a workshop, a large red tractor, and other farm vehicles. Instantly, I knew I was going to like it here.

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The following day, I met my Field Supervisor, FBI Special Agent Kaitlyn Leery, a thirty-year-old forensics research specialist. Six years in the military, she was an Army warrant officer and a 2nd grade helicopter pilot. She’s been with the Bureau now for five years and just recently assigned to Castle Rock. Her cover is a sales clerk in a local farm supply store.

My cover is Charles Leery. I