BEWARE THE COUNTERFEIT RAPTURE! - Sandra Ghost

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critical computer systems--including NORAD to Cheyenne Mountain deep underground. That's about the extent of preparation but there is so much to do to reinforce the grid. Four Secretaries of Homeland Security have stated publicly that we could be on the brink of a catastrophic cyber-attack but not one single one has had a plan to counteract it." He looked at his watch. "Better go."

      As they went down the stairs of their split level home, she asked, "You think when people wake up to the possibility of a disaster, there'll be a run on food in the stores?"

      He locked the front door behind them. "'Fraid so." He suddenly grinned, "But we'll just let them have all the rice cakes there are. Okay?

      Up on Elsia Drive, at Ayview Estates--a posh collection of unique townhouses--Scarlett, the Wilson's daughter, lay on the queen-size bed trying to decide what to do on her day off. She propped several pillows behind her head and stared around the bedroom. In one dormer window a fussy dressing table, skirted in pink satin, sat primly like a coed waiting to go to a prom. On its glass top atomizers of perfume were scrambled with tubes of lipstick, pots of blush and lip-gloss, bottles of foundation in various shades, and graduated sizes of makeup brushes. A large, ornate, gold pedestal mirror presided in the middle of the mess.

      A tall, walnut Victorian armoire with full-length mirror stood opposite the bed. Scarlett struck various poses on the bed, while assessing her image in the mirror. The red lips pouted, then smiled. She stretched out her voluptuous figure this way and that, flipping her long, dark hair into different styles. She sighed and stretched, then slipped into a matching pair of shorts and halter top the color of cayenne pepper.

      The fragrance of an expensive brand of Kona coffee beckoned from downstairs. Thank goodness she had not been too drunk to remember to set the timer the night before. There was no hangover--good scotch seldom betrayed its drinker. Scarlett had "partied hardy" with several of the other real estate agents in her firm. They had all gone skinny dipping in Laura's pool after the bars closed. She scarcely remembered driving home.

      Scarlett, the baby of the Wilson family, had been the apple of her Daddy's eye since she could toddle around. Horace spoiled her with expensive toys, indulged his daughter's temper tantrums. As she grew older, he lavished his paternal love in the form of an unlimited allowance, an ice-blue Mercedes 380 SL convertible upon graduation from high school. "It matches your eyes," he had told her. While her grades were shameful, Scarlett enjoyed the distinction of being the best dressed coed on campus at Shenandoah University, and barely scraped by academically in order to graduate.

      Scarlett took her fictional namesake to heart. Whether by design or subconsciously imposed, she had developed a pronounced southern drawl at about the age of twelve--shortly after seeing the movie, "Gone With The Wind". Horace and Marianne thought it was adorable when she stamped her foot in a fit of temper. Now, at the age of twenty-five an occasional "fiddle dee dee" still slipped into her conversation. The affectations were not nearly so adorable in adulthood, but she tossed her head in defiance at what other people thought, living on the edge in everything she did. Her beauty had always seemed to lend a passport of indulging acceptance to her aberrant behavior.

      Her mother, Marianne, had been acutely aware of the normal mother/daughter rifts which seemed to paint themselves on the landscape of relationships during teenage years. Her relationship with Scarlett, however, had turned into an uncivil war. Making trips to fortunetellers had been a fad among her daughter's crowd in high school. When this practice was exposed, Marianne begged her daughter to stop, "You're opening up yourself to demons, sweetheart," she admonished. At one pajama party Scarlett had held, Marianne opened the bedroom door to find candles lit, and a seance going on. She had sent the girls packing--Scarlett was furious--Horace even angrier.

      When she tried to explain to her husband and daughter that God had said in His Word that these practices were an abomination to Him, Scarlett had shot back, "You carry your old fashioned Christianity too far, Mother. Get a life!" she fumed. To Marianne's chagrin, Horace had sided with Scarlett.

      Now, Scarlett sipped the Kona coffee and stretched out on the chaise lounge in the morning sun which bathed her patio. Brilliant fuchsia flowers crawled between the stones of the rock garden which seemed to spill down the hill onto the patio in a splash of color.

      Life is so good, ,she thought as she wiggled perfectly pedicured toes in a casual salute to the sun. She'd just lie in the sun, cook out some of the Cuttysark from last night. Get a tan until it was time to go to her parents for dinner. She stretched like a languishing cat, then an unpleasant thought presented itself: what if her mother got on her again about the New Age church she was attending, she vowed a walk-out. Her nostrils distended slightly at the intrusion of unpleasantness. She tossed her head and the long, dark hair re-arranged itself on her shoulders.

      The portable telephone lay on the tiled table beside her. Her psychic was #2 on the speed dial. She'd find out what real estate business deals to pursue on Monday. She never made a move without consulting "Princess Crystal" and felt sorry for all those who didn't have such "wonderful guidance" in their lives. They'd never met, but Scarlett considered Crystal was her best friend. Her psychic's charges, billed directly to her telephone, were higher each month than all the utilities added together. What did she care? Her real estate broker was pleased with her sales, and if she ran out of money, there were always Daddy's deep pockets to dip into.

      She propped herself higher on the burgundy cushions, anticipation heightened as the number rang. There was a connection."Oh, Crystal, dahling" she drawled, "I have so many questions to ask you. Have you got the time now?" (At $5.00 per minute, of course she had the time.) Crystal looked at her watch--their conversation had begun at 11:03 AM.

      At that moment a scramble was taking place at the FAA in Leesburg, Virginia. Long rows of air traffic controllers sat in a huge room watching the large radarscopes which displayed air traffic for their sectors. The long sweeping hand of the beacons on the screens could become mesmerizing. Several people were clustered behind one particular controller, all examining the scope. "This is really weird," he scratched his head. "There were three blips that suddenly appeared on the screen--no transponder signature--close to the checkpoint in Linden...over Front Royal. They maneuvered together too fast for aircraft. Then they evaporated off the screen in one sweep. Gone!"

      "Could have been an anomaly," one of those gathered offered.

      The shift duty officer patted his shoulder. "Sure, sure, Charlie. Maybe you oughta' cut down on the Budweiser on those days off."

      The time was 11:05 AM.

      CHAPTER TWO

      The Wilson's dining room was formal. A long mahogany Queen Anne period table and matching chairs stretched the length of the room. Antique cut crystal pieces sparkled behind a huge beveled glass breakfront in one corner. An elaborate Queen Anne sideboard, which had belonged to Marianne's mother, spanned one wall; on it, a large silver tea service was regally centered on the expanse of cherry wood, which had been polished to a rich, warm patina. A Waterford crystal chandelier, suspended over the table, caught the sunlight in its winking prisms. The table was set informally with linen place mats instead of a cloth, and paper napkins.

      Marianne and Lee carried large platters of thickly sliced roast beef and steaming corn on the cob to the table. Jesse followed behind them with a bowl of mashed potatoes and the gravy boat. Scarlett, her father, and Lance were still in the living room; the Sunday paper was scattered all over the floor like the aftermath of a ticker tape parade. Scarlett, needlepoint pillows propped behind her head, was curled up on the love seat. She was reading her horoscope.

      Lee leaned into the room through the archway, "Come on, you guys. It's on the table."

      Once everyone was seated, Marianne asked, "Jesse, will you say the blessing for us?"

      The silence seemed momentarily awkward, and then, "Father, we praise and thank you for this food, and for all of the blessings You've given us. Keep our family

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