While she was speaking, something deep within me stirred. Her words came across with precision, her tone was measured, and on the surface, everything appeared orderly. But I knew—something wasn’t right. It wasn’t what she said, but what she didn’t say. There was a weight behind her voice that didn’t match the message. A tension beneath the surface. My ruach (spirit) was alert.

As the meeting ended and the team began to file out, a man in uniform approached me. His face felt strangely familiar, like someone I had seen before in another setting—another time. With a slight smirk, he asked, “So, you’re a Navy SEAL now?”

I looked at him without blinking. “No.”

He paused, confused. “Then how did you get on this team?”

I held his gaze and answered with quiet authority, “Because I was anointed.”

That was it. No further questions. He understood. Something in my tone, or maybe the truth behind it, silenced him. There are some things that training can’t explain. This was one of them.

Once the room had cleared and the murmurs of the departing men faded into silence, I made my way to the commander. Something in me wouldn’t settle. I had to know the truth. I looked her directly in the eye and asked, “So, where are we really going?”

Without hesitation, she smiled and replied, “Out to eat. I want to treat the guys for all their hard work. But I want it to be a surprise.”

Her answer didn’t sit right with me, but she offered it so casually, as if nothing more was at stake. Still, we prepared to depart the way we always did—submerged.

Our transport was a compact submarine, not large by any means, but built precisely for missions like ours. It was just enough for the team. Inside were narrow sleeping quarters, a small cafeteria, workstations, and seats for transit. It had everything necessary to live, travel, and prepare without ever needing the surface. This was how elite operations moved—quietly, unseen, and beneath the chaos above.

We were headed toward a pier in the heart of the city—a place lined with eateries and restaurants, the kind of location that made her explanation seem plausible on the surface. But as we neared the drop point, something shifted. I sensed it before I saw it, and without hesitation, I gave the order:

“Stop.”

The team responded immediately. No questions. Just trust.

That’s when it happened. My eyes turned completely white—like pure milk. But I wasn’t blind. This transformation granted me a heightened form of vision, far beyond natural sight. I didn’t just see what was ahead; I saw into it—into the unfolding events, the cause behind them, the structure beneath them. I was shown not only what was happening, but how, why, and with a clarity no man could give. It was divine insight, poured into me from above, and it came without effort—only obedience.

And here’s the part that really stood out. The communication I received came directly from the throne of YaHU’aH. It wasn’t a thought, a feeling, or even a vision I had to interpret—it was direct. There was no uncertainty, no delay, no confusion. I knew it very clearly and it was without question. What I received didn’t pass through a filter of my own understanding—it was pure, absolute instruction. And in that moment, I was even able to see the feet of His throne, and His own feet as He sat upon it. Though it was brief, it was unmistakable. The throne was real. The presence was real. And I knew without a shadow of doubt—I had just been given command from the Most High Himself.

Then as the dream was unfolding, I gave the men instructions to suit up, to wear a special bubble-type helmet, and to bring their entire kit. The command was sharp, without hesitation, as if something in me knew time was critical. These weren’t ordinary helmets—they enclosed the entire head like a sealed dome, built to endure whatever was coming. It wasn’t just physical protection; it felt like these helmets were designed to shield their minds from outside interference and keep them locked into the mission. Their kits were not travel-light gear—each man was to carry his full loadout, every tool, every weapon, every supply. This was not a training op. This was war-readiness. And they obeyed immediately, no questions asked—as if they too sensed the weight of what was about to unfold.

As the team stood in silence, taking in the weight of what I had seen and the halt I had ordered, a quiet stir began to ripple among them. One by one, the men started to speak—not in panic, not in despair, but in solemn reflection. They spoke of their families. Not with fear that they had perished, but with a deep yearning to be with them. It was as if, somehow, their families had been prepared for this very hour. The way they spoke, you could feel it—they weren’t worried, they were ready. Their hearts were already set.

And as their voices rose gently in longing, I felt the pull too. My own family crossed my mind—the weight of my love for them pressing in. But the mission stood before us, greater than emotion, higher than comfort.

I looked at the men and reminded them with steady conviction: “We are fully in the fight now. We finish before we go home.” And with those words, the resolve returned. We knew why we were sent.

The commander never once stepped outside the submarine. She remained seated within, untouched by the devastation that had reduced the city to ash. Her demeanor was unmoved—indifferent—as though she couldn’t see the weight of what had fallen.

I spoke to her directly, not out of anger but with firm clarity. I told her we needed to conserve the remaining food supplies. It wasn’t a plea—it was instruction. Not driven by fear, but grounded in wisdom. I made it clear: we had to prepare, not react. We would need to locate a viable place to restock when the time was right.

This wasn’t about scarcity. It wasn’t about surviving a disaster. This was war. And it had only just begun.

Even more phenomenally, I could see directly into the submarine—without being inside. Though separated by distance and steel, my sight pierced through the vessel as if it were open before me. She was not listening. Ignoring what I had said, she continued eating. Without speaking further, I lifted my hand and waved it toward the food access area of the submarine, and it immediately sealed shut. She could no longer consume what was meant to sustain us all. The dream ended with the team I was on, fully ready, stepping out to make war with the enemy.

The dream ended with our team, now fully equipped, stepping forward to make war—not in defense, not in retreat, but in strength. It had begun. The true battle. The divine mission. And as the vision faded, one truth remained louder than anything I had heard: This was not a dream. It was a scroll.
It was the living word of YaHU’aH, made flesh in time. And we were living in the pages.