Thunder of Heaven: A Joshua Jordan Novel by Tim LaHaye
It started coming back.
He had been climbing into the Jeep with Colonel Kinney. The other members of the IDF team had already left the testing site. He remembered seeing the dust from their trucks ahead.
Then, from somewhere behind them, an Israeli Apache helicopter came swooping down. It landed fifty feet away. A man wearing an IDF uniform came striding out with two other soldiers. He said, “Colonel Jordan, urgent message …”
The man in the IDF uniform held out a piece of paper. Joshua climbed out of the Jeep as Kinney yelled to him to stop. Then, one of the soldiers dropped to a kneeling position, close enough that Joshua could see the soldier was aiming a strange-looking handgun at him. Joshua turned back to the Jeep. Then something struck Joshua in the back of the thigh. He grasped for it. A dart protruded from his skin. He tried to run, but the dizziness stopped him. He dragged his feet as if they were cinder blocks. Gunshots, a lot of them, were being fired. He saw Clint Kinney firing back fiercely from the ground next to the Jeep, and then Kinney was hit and went down. Joshua fell into the vehicle and found the other handgun with the clip already in. He turned clumsily and started firing toward the helicopter, emptying the clip. Someone yelped in pain. But Joshua couldn’t hold on. The pistol dropped from his hand. He was blacking out. The last thing he remembered was a bearded man bending over him and laughing.
Now Joshua was in a concrete room hanging from a hook. There was enough light for him to get an idea of where he was. There was a drain in the middle of the floor. And blood stains. This place of cruelty had been used recently.
Then he heard voices outside. One guy asked, “Hale shoma chetor ast?” Another man answered something about being okay, but his wife was sick. They were making small talk. Joshua recognized the language. Persian Farsi, the language of Iran. Years before, when he’d been running spy plane flyovers to document Iran’s nuclear facilities, the Pentagon had taught him some Farsi in case he was shot down and captured.
That never happened, though there was a story behind that too. Although Josh was feeling light-headed and woozy with pain, he found himself floating back to that distant point in time, to that last time he’d flown his newest generation U-2. He’d been alone in the bubble, thousands of feet above Iran, with only the sound of his breathing in his mask. Inhale. Exhale. Then he spotted the site. He clicked on the high-speed cameras in the belly of the aircraft. They had crystal clear photo acuity, so that when the digital photos were downloaded, you’d practically be able to measure the size of the bolts on the girders of the nuclear plant.
Then the call came in, “Hollywood One, Hollywood One, you’ve been made! Abort … get out of there …”
But he didn’t abort. He wanted to finish the mission. He shouldn’t have made it out alive, but only later did he find out why he had.
A noise snapped him out of his reverie. The metal door to the room swung open. Three men strode in. The guy in the front had a neatly trimmed beard and wore the uniform of an officer in Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard. It was the military unit that controlled Iran’s nuclear-weapons program. Next to him was a large soldier.
“I am Captain Ackbar,” the officer announced. “You are our prisoner. We need some information.”
Another man, dressed as a civilian in a suit, stepped forward. “Colonel Jordan, the Iranian Atomic Energy Organization simply wishes to supply safe energy, electricity, modern conveniences to our people. But today, Israel bombed one of our facilities at Natanz — a ruthless act of aggression. We have the sovereign right to protect ourselves. If you can answer some simple questions, then we will let you go. You will be safely returned to your family.”
Joshua tried to lift his head to see the man.
The civilian from the IAEO continued. “We just want some data so we can protect ourselves. Nothing more. We mean no harm.”
Joshua growled in a hoarse voice, “Then why’s there blood on the floor?”
The soldier standing guard off to the side had a metal rod in his hand, and he stepped forward, but the officer stopped him. “There’s plenty of time for that …”
The civilian asked, “Have you supplied Israel with your Return-to-Sender technology?”
No answer.
“I will ask it again …”
Again, Joshua did not answer.
Now the big soldier was given the go-ahead. He stepped forward and lifted Joshua’s head so he could stare him in the face. Then, smiling a wide grin, the soldier took his stick and rammed it up, butt end, into Joshua’s solar plexus.
Joshua gasped for air, unable to breathe or scream in pain. Spittle ran down his mouth as he convulsed.
The civilian said to the officer, “We have a tight schedule. We need this information immediately, you understand …”
The officer nodded. “Don’t worry. We’ll get it.”
Hawk’s Nest, Colorado
When Abigail received the call from General Shapiro in Tel Aviv, it was early afternoon, mountain standard time. She vaguely knew who General Shapiro was, but her heart dropped like a brick when she heard his voice. After all these years expecting a call or a knock on the door, while Josh had run dangerous missions or tested new aircraft, a call never came. But today it did.
“I regret to inform you, Mrs. Jordan, that your husband has gone missing in the Negev desert.”
“Missing … I don’t understand …”
“His convoy was attacked. The attackers were dressed like Israeli soldiers. We believe he has been taken hostage.”
“By who? Where is he now?”
“Our best intelligence is that he is now somewhere inside Iran. We believe the Iranian government is behind this.”
“The American embassy … have you contacted them … or the Pentagon?”
“We have contacted the U.S. Defense Intelligence Agency and the Pentagon.”
“What are they doing about it?”
“We have every confidence that they will assist us in trying to locate and extract your husband.”
Her words were trembling. “Oh, dear God, please protect my husband …” Then in the next breath she asked General Shapiro, “Deborah, my daughter …”
“She’s safe. She’s with Colonel Kinney’s wife, Esther.”
“I have to get over there, General, to Israel …”
“I wouldn’t advise that, Mrs. Jordan — ”
“A rescue plan. We need one immediately.”
“We’re working on that. I promise we will keep you informed minute by minute.”
Shapiro had no more information. When Abigail hung up, she stood in the middle of the big family room and shrieked Cal’s name.
He had been working close by outside, repairing a section of broken railing on the big wraparound porch. Now that his father was overseas, he was taking care of a few repairs that his dad had planned on doing.
Cal sprinted through the front door. He found his mother with her hands over her face, shaking as she sobbed. Abigail blurted through her tears, “Your dad’s in trouble. He’s been grabbed by terrorists. They think he’s being held hostage in Iran …”
Cal reeled and his face drained. When he caught his breath he asked, “Who’s going to get him out?”
“The Israelis are working on it … waiting to hear from Washington.”
Abigail wiped her eyes and tried to take a deep breath. She and Cal locked eyes. Instinctively, they had the same thought.
Cal voiced it first. “No way, Mom … we can’t wait for the politicians or the White House. They’ve been gunning for Dad. They’ll let him twist in the wind …”
“Exactly. I’m calling Rocky Bridger. He was invaluable during your crisis at Grand Central Station.”
“How about John Gallagher?”
“Can’t afford to take him off task. What he’s doing for us right now is critical to American security.”
“So it’s true then … what Gallagher had me researching, about Russia, a nuclear threat?”
For Abigail i
As she looked at her son, she knew that a convergence of circumstances had now brought him into the inner sanctum. She also knew that there were no accidents, not in a universe governed by a God who directed the destinies of people as well as nations.
“Welcome to the Roundtable,” she said.
FORTY-FOUR
John Gallagher gunned his rental car toward Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. After getting off I-64, he streaked up Interstate 81 at eighty-five miles an hour. He hoped the state police were busy stopping everyone else.
Ken Leary called. “Okay, I got into the archives … read the reports. Several spots in the Valley were mentioned.”
“Go down the list … geez, oh geez, I hope we’re not too late.”
The key was to isolate the one that the Russians thought was truly a “blast from the past.” Gallagher and Leary agreed on one, which seemed to be the best from a strategic standpoint. It was just off of I-81, about ten minutes by car from I-66, which led directly to downtown Washington.
But Gallagher also knew that if he placed all his eggs in one basket, and lost the bet on which basket, he was about to lose hundreds of thousands of lives, the U.S. Capitol, and most of the American government in the bargain.
To make matters worse, Gallagher felt like he was doing that balancing act while running a gunnysack race.
“Thanks, Ken,” he said. “Gotta go.”
Gallagher fished through his private book of phone numbers, until he came across a retired FBI guy by the name of Frank Treumeth. Gallagher remembered that Frank had bought a place in the Shenandoah when he left the Bureau and was doing something “folksy,” like being a fishing guide or something. The last case they had worked together was in North Carolina, busting up a terror cell that was smuggling drugs to finance their plans to then bomb bridges in major cities during rush hour.
He voice called the number into his Allfone while driving. It rang at the other end. It kept ringing. Then he heard a voicemail. “Hi, this is Doris and Frank. We wanna talk, and so do you. So leave a message.”
“Frank, hey, John Gallagher here. Retired from the Bureau just like you; you may have heard. How’s the fishing? Say, got an emergency here. Don’t want to overplay my hand, but I really, really need to talk to you ASAP. Please, buddy. Give me a ring, pronto. Okay?”
As Gallagher flew up the interstate, he knew that Frank Treumeth was the only play he had left. Sure, Gallagher had some other backup plans if Frank was unavailable, but in the light of day they all looked tragically stupid.
For a fleeting second he thought, I left the FBI … so why am I still trying to save the world?
But as quickly as he asked that question, he answered it.
Because it’s worth saving.
Tehran, Iran
Yoseff Abbas was running for his life. He’d abandoned his apartment as soon as he heard about the Israeli attack on the Natanz facility and how the whole thing had been a setup. He realized he’d been played for a pawn by the Iranian leadership. That meant that Iran’s ruthless MOIS agents were on to him and would be looking for him at that very moment.
He stuck to the back alleys of Tehran as he walked, trying to figure out where he could go. He had received several calls from his Israeli Mossad contact, but he didn’t pick up. Of course, no messages were left. He never trusted the Israelis completely, and now he couldn’t trust anyone in the Iranian government.
That left him only one option. He needed a safe house. He only knew of one place, even though he knew all the reasons why this place might spell death for him too.
He walked to an entryway off the alley, opened the blue-painted door, and climbed the stairs. At the top, he knocked three times, then twice more.
The door opened. A familiar face from his university days was in the doorway.
“So, Yoseff Abbas,” the other man said, smiling, “you’ve finally decided to join the CDCI?”
Yoseff shrugged as he entered the apartment. On the wall was a poster that read: “The CDCI — Agents of Change.” Underneath that it read: “Committee for Democratic Change in Iran.”
A few miles from that apartment was a nondescript, two-story building that had once been a warehouse. The government of Iran had converted it into a secret prison, a place for the forgotten, the forlorn, and the brutalized enemies of Iran.
That was where Joshua Jordan was being held. In the third cell from the end on the second floor. His innards had been punched in with a metal rod, the bottoms of his feet beaten, and finally he had been strapped in a crude electric chair and shocked repeatedly.
When they tossed him back into his cell, he was out cold for several hours.
When he regained consciousness, he thought he’d been roused by someone talking to him. He was slowly aware of several voices. Some talking. Others yelling. All in Farsi.
Except one.
“Colonel Jordan,” the voice said, cutting through the din, and in the English of an educated Iranian. The voice had a strange nasal quality to it. “There is a bowl of water in your cell. You should take it. Be sure and hydrate. You must avoid dehydration.”
Joshua dragged himself slowly and painfully over to the clay bowl that had some putrid water in it. He tried to use only his hands and wrists to pull himself along because his arms felt as if they may have been dislocated. But he couldn’t pick up the bowl. He lapped the stale water like a dog.
The voice went on. “It seems they want you to drink water like a dog. They’re trying to reduce you to a dog.”
With great effort, Joshua rolled over onto his side to check out his cell. It was concrete, with bars on one wall facing the hallway and a solid metal door with some kind of small window in it. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
“You speak English?”
“A lot of educated Iranians do,” said the voice, which Joshua now realized was coming from a nearby cell.
“Who are you?”
“Dr. Hermoz Abdu.”
“I wish you were in my cell. I need a medical doctor.”
“No,” the man said, “I’m not that kind of doctor; sorry.”
Joshua collected his strength. “How do you know who I am?”
“I hear things.”
“Why are you here?”
“I am what you might call an enemy of the state but a friend of the Iranian people.”
Joshua knew he couldn’t afford to trust anyone. They had tried to break him in a short amount of time, using a rapid torrent of pain. No chance for something like waterboarding. When he was flying for the Air Force they had taught him how to endure that. But he had figured out the reason for the quick, dirty, maximum pain routine they were using. Iran was obviously planning a retaliatory strike against Israel. They needed to know the specifics of the RTS missile-defense system that was in place — and they needed it quick. Joshua figured he just needed to hold on through the torture for a short period of time.
On the other hand, once the attack was launched, what reason would the Iranians have to keep him alive? He thought about that. And he had already made up his mind. I don’t want to die.
He had so much to live for. Now, it seemed, more than ever. And so much left undone. Not just his “official” business with the Roundtable or even his defensive-weapon designs that he sincerely believed could protect innocent life. More than that. His wife, his precious Abby. And his son, Cal, ever seeking to please a father who regrettably was so hard to please. And his headstrong Deb.
Yet he knew there was something even beyond all of those things that he would have to deal with, a force that had been pursuing him, making him choose his course as if he were in the middle of a crossroads in a strange land. He felt he had become a kind of fugitive. But from what? His life seemed to be closing in on him like the walls of his filthy cell.
So
Time was short. He had to take a chance.
Joshua asked, “Why should I trust you?”
The other man laughed, but it really wasn’t from amusement. More from irony perhaps.
“If you could see me,” Dr. Abdu said, “then you would understand. Besides, Colonel Jordan, I have a secret. And it can save you.”
FORTY-FIVE
U.S. Secretary of Defense Roland Allenworth had traveled to the White House to discuss the Joshua Jordan hostage situation. He had been unable to meet with President Corland, so he was led to the Situation Room. When he walked in, the only people there were Vice President Tulrude and Corland’s chief of staff, Hank Strand.
Allenworth was not pleased. “Where’s the president?”
“There’s been an incident,” Tulrude said. Then she nodded to Strand.
The chief of staff said, “As you know, the president has been in poor health …”
“That’s nothing new. Where is he? When can I talk to him? This can’t wait.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Strand said. “He’s in a coma. It happened very suddenly. He passed out again. This time he didn’t wake up.”
The look on Allenworth’s face said it all. He never liked Tulrude, but she’d been a nonissue at first, particularly because Allenworth worked directly with Corland as a member of his cabinet. He had wondered, sometimes, why Corland had picked him. In the beginning Allenworth had been a staunch advocate for the Pentagon, and many of his positions diverged from Corland’s internationalist tendencies. But things had changed over the last year. Corland and he had begun to work well together.
Allenworth had always feared Tulrude’s politics, her lust for power, and her constant deference to the “international community of nations.” Now his worst fears were being realized.
Allenworth asked the obvious question. “Do I call you Madam President?”