02 Thunder of Heaven: A Joshua Jordan Novel (18 page)

Ethan March had tried to connect with Deborah several times, but he only reached her voicemail. He left two messages. They weren’t returned. Then he took a chance and called the unlisted number at Hawk’s Nest that Deborah had given him. Abigail Jordan answered. She simply said, “Deb’s traveling with her father …” and didn’t elaborate.

After he hung up, Ethan thought back to his sense that Deborah’s mother had some doubts about him. He thought that was interesting, since her husband was the one who had known about Ethan’s screwups at McGill, and yet Joshua seemed to be willing to consider hiring him. Ethan had even come clean with Deborah about some of his dumber moves. In spite of that, Abigail was the cautious one.

Maybe it had something to do with the superreligious atmosphere that permeated the Jordan household — except for Joshua. They prayed before meals; Mrs. Jordan quoted the Bible; even Cal talked about his “spiritual journey” at the dinner table. Maybe Deborah’s mom only approved of Christian crusaders for her daughter.

Things started to add up when Ethan thought back to their picnic. They had traveled by horseback to Deborah’s favorite spot. After tying up the horses, they chatted as they ate lunch. Ethan could see that Deborah was different from the girls he flirted with in singles bars. Solid. Real depth. A great sense of humor. And beautiful. Oh, yeah.

Then the discussion got serious. Deborah looked him straight on. “So, you told me about flying that experimental F-35, getting the kinks
out — when everything went wrong and you thought you were going to crash.”

“Yeah. I had my hand on the handle, ready to blow the ejection seat.”

“And if you did?”

“Then I’d have been in for an interesting ride. We simulated it in flight school, but when you’re up there going Mach two and things go south, man, it’s really different.”

“But what I mean is, so you eject … and then your chute doesn’t open. What then?”

“Well, first there’s the smaller one, the drogue that opens. Then the main chute.”

“And if neither one opens?”

“You die.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you think about dying?”

“Of course.”

“Anything else? Thoughts about heaven? About God?”

“Sure, I guess, but not like you guys. Deb, you call yourself a Christian. You’ve obviously got a tight set of beliefs; you’re really strapped into that. But that’s not where I’m at.” Then he changed the subject. “Got any more fried chicken?”

Maybe that was a stupid dodge, but the more Ethan thought about it, the more he figured he was who he was. Why change?

Now, Ethan was driving to the unemployment office in Waltham, Massachusetts, the city he’d called home while he worked for Raytheon. As he drove, a sickening despair overcame him, a feeling of complete mission flameout. The thought of going on the public dole because he was unemployed made him want to vomit. That was for other guys. Not him.

He passed the office with the sign out front that said “Division of Unemployment Assistance.” He looked for a parking spot. But then he was shocked by what he saw. The line stretched outside and wrapped
around the building. A patrol cop was in the middle of the line, trying to separate two men who were arguing with each other.

Ethan slowed down. He eyed the dismal scene of out-of-work America and then drove away. Forget this, he thought. I’ve got my pension. Some savings. Besides, Joshua Jordan said I might talk to him about working with his company.

Of course, Ethan knew the downside too. He didn’t want the job just because he’d helped Jordan’s daughter in a crisis. That would make him a charity case. Besides, even if he did get the job, would Jordan, remembering Ethan’s wilder days, ever take his eye off him? Would he ever really trust him?

Then the image of Deb’s face, her smile, flooded back, overshadowing everything. He wanted to be with her, and he wondered what she was doing right now. According to her mother, Deborah was traveling with her father. Okay, did that mean they were on defense business? Had she forgotten about him?

Ethan’s feelings for Deb were pushing him back into a familiar pattern, a dangerous one. He found himself wanting to take risks, possibly doing something stupid, just to be with her, wherever she was.

Joshua and Deborah, squinting in the glare of the blazing Israeli sun, reached into their pockets for their sunglasses. Standing on the tarmac, they looked around and stretched.

Now that the Citation X jet was parked, Billy told his copilot to pull the bags out of the storage deck.

Joshua glanced at the sign on the edge of the runway. The top half was written in Hebrew, the bottom half in English: “Welcome to Ramat David Air Force Base.” A host of F-16 fighter jets were lined up at the far end of the field.

Across the tarmac, two IDF officers were striding quickly to their location, the younger one carrying a briefcase. Joshua recognized the older one, an officer with stars on his uniform and gray at his temples. He broke into a grin.

“Aluf mishne,
Colonel Kinney!” Joshua called out, and the two gave each other a hearty handshake.

Colonel Kinney then turned to Deborah with a wry smile. “You must be Joshua’s daughter? Great to meet you. Never mind your father, by the way … he’s just trying to impress us with his linguistic skills. He was using the Hebrew term for my rank.” Then he turned to Joshua. “How much Hebrew do you still remember, my friend?”

“Not much,” Joshua said with a chuckle.
“Shalom.
And
boker tov.
That’s about it …”

Kinney waved the group toward a large military helicopter that was farther down the tarmac and had just started its rotors. As they walked, he said to Deborah, “Your dad might be downplaying his role, but when he was here a decade ago, we worked together on Iranian reconnaissance — his clandestine flyover of one of their nuclear facilities. He spent so much time with us that he started speaking the language pretty well. That’s when I first met him.”

They ducked and climbed into the chopper. Kinney instructed Joshua to sit up front next to the younger officer with the briefcase. “This is Major Tikva. He’s the operations liaison from General Shapiro’s command. He’ll brief you on the situation.”

Joshua responded to the last name of the officer seated next to him.
“Tikva.
Good name.”

“Yes,” Kinney said with a nod. “Especially for this mission.” Kinney reached forward and closed the metal doors.

“So,” Kinney said to Deborah as they sat in the rear seats, “you’ll be graduating from West Point soon … with honors, I bet.”

“I hope so, Colonel.”

“Must be interesting to pursue a military career in the Army when your father’s a bona fide Air Force hero.”

“Well, sir,” she said with a smile, “you know what we say in the Army: What do you have when you have an Air Force hero?” She paused for comic effect. “The bottom half of a real Army hero …”

Kinney roared with laughter. “Josh! Your daughter’s all right.”

The big CH-53 transport helicopter took off and started winging its way toward the Negev desert. Deborah studied the dry, tan profile
of the Israeli landscape; arid and harsh in places, yet studded here and there with lush fields of green.

She turned to Kinney and asked, “What part of Israel is the Ramat David Air Force Base in?”

“Southeast of Haifa, not far from Megiddo.”

Deborah’s face brightened. She knew about that place. “The Jezreel Valley?”

“Exactly. We’ll be flying over it shortly,” Kinney said, then added, “As a Christian you recognize that place, I’m sure … the book of Revelation chapter sixteen.”

Deborah was dumbfounded. Deborah tried to hide her surprise, but Kinney saw it in her face. “Surprised that a good Jewish fella like me knows the New Testament? And the prophecies of the apostle John about the final battle of Armageddon, or more literally,
Har Megiddo?”

She nodded.

“There’s a story there. I’ll share it with you sometime.”

Deborah went silent. It was almost more than she could process. As she gazed out the window, she remembered something she had wanted to ask. “Major Tikva’s name … my dad said it was a good name, and you said, ‘Especially for this mission.’ What’d you mean?”

“Tikva,”
Kinney said, looking ahead without expression, “means ‘hope.’ ”

Suddenly Deborah realized the sheer size of this adventure and wondered what she had really signed up for. She looked down to the valley floor below, with rocky outcroppings here and there and its trimmed agricultural fields spreading like a greenish tan tabletop all the way to the mountains at the horizon, occasionally studded by slender pines and bunches of date trees and palms.

This valley … yes, she had read all about it. She had been taught about it in Sunday school and at her mother’s knee.

A place of foreboding … but where Heaven would finally triumph.

Where this world would have its last, most horrific war.

In the grand palace of the Russian Federation overlooking the Black Sea, Andrea Portleva, Russia’s ambassador to the U.S., was walking down the marble steps to greet Caesar Demas. He had met her before. The long-legged beauty had always caught his eye. As she greeted Demas and led him to their meeting room, he toyed in his mind with the idea of beginning an affair with her, especially now that they would be doing business together. Of course, he was still married to his wheelchair-bound wife who, when she wasn’t wheeling herself endlessly around their villa outside of Rome, would have the servants drive her to their vineyards in the north. But such a marriage had never slowed his appetite for sexual trysts over the years, including a long parade of expensive call girls. The billionaire’s wallet could pay for anything he wanted, whenever he wanted it.

When they were settled in the small sitting room full of black oak chairs upholstered in leather, she ordered drinks. She was drinking vodka. He wanted gin.

After some pleasantries, Caesar Demas asked directly, “When?”

She replied, “A week. Maybe less.”

Demas wanted assurances. “Since I will have Russia’s backing, I need your guarantee that when it happens, it can’t be traced back to Moscow. That would taint everything I have been trying to do.”

“We have been playing this game with the United States in some form for almost a hundred years. We’ve perfected discretion and
subterfuge. Be assured, we have an even greater need to keep our hands clean than you do.”

Demas smiled and gazed into her face. “On the other hand, I can also appreciate a beautiful woman who has … well, less than clean hands.”

Portleva laughed. A good sign, Demas thought. He didn’t want to negotiate with a prude.

He redirected the conversation. “And the new international coalition, the one I have been building …”

“Yes, we still want you at the head. You’ve earned that, and you have shown a particular ability to forge a solid front made out of divergent nation groups. The European Union, well that didn’t surprise me, but bringing the Islamic nations, the Arab League along with the Asians … and key nations in the African continent and South America. Good work. You’ve been a busy boy …”

She sipped her drink, and he laughed.

He wanted to know more about the United States. “Jessica Tulrude. We still need her …”

“Of course …”

“I have pledged many millions to her presidential campaign.”

“She will be an important component, but we are concerned about President Corland.”

“His health is failing,” Demas said, dismissing Corland with a wave of his hand. “He’s a dead man walking. I don’t know why he hangs on. There is some conversation about his having a change of heart. In any case, it’s good that he won’t last. We can’t do business with Corland, now that he’s
gotten religion.
But Jessica Tulrude we can deal with. She still thinks she is going to have a dominant role in the coming global coalition. I have been working her from my end. She’s salivating to expand her power, not satisfied to be just the American president. She wants to be historic … the first U.S. head of a world government. Behind the scenes, I’ve promised her that.”

Portleva wondered, “After the great unpleasantness happens in the United States — irradiated populations, leveled cities — won’t she be
forced by her own political party and her own people to fight back, clawing and scratching like a caged animal against the aggressors?”

“By then, the United States will be so weakened, so declawed, that it will be worried about survival, not dominance. Tulrude will be at our mercy. I can play her, believe me. Besides, I think you have done a good job of hiding the identity of their true enemies. The only ones the Americans will be able to identify will be a handful of dead Islamic martyrs.”

“And the American media? What will happen there?”

Demas had already calculated that. “Remember 9/11. The American press bent over backward not to be condemning. Editors told their staffs not to use the phrase
Islamic terrorist.
There’s a sizable connection between Russia and the United States. Many folks from Russia and the Baltic republics live in America. The U.S. would not want to be politically incorrect toward Russians, now would they? The same 9/11 media backlash will happen again, but perhaps even more so now. Why, some of the media people may even intimate that it was American foreign policy that caused the attacks against them.”

That was a wonderful thought, and Portleva laughed. She reached over to grip his hand. “I think we are going to work well together.”

Then she raised her glass. He followed suit. She said, “Here’s to what is coming … the setting of the sun for America’s arrogance. And the bright sunrise for the new world order.”

Gallagher convinced Ken Leary, which was a major task in itself. What had finally turned Leary’s head is when Gallagher mentioned one name that, as it turned out, they both knew in common:
Pack McHenry.
“He’s the source,” Gallagher explained, “of all my information.”

They knew that McHenry was doing “way out there” surveillance for the CIA, along with his Patriot group, strictly as a black-ops subcontractor. Much of their work had tendrils into the American homeland, but always with international implications and usually because they had located a foreign source of aggression that directly threatened American citizens. Was it legal? Not if Jessica Tulrude and her ilk had
their way. But the FBI had been gutted by politics and hog-tied by insane regulations, many of them now the result of international treaties that the United States had been roped into.

Leary was now so concerned that he even violated one of the big commandments: he took his CIA laptop home. He knew he could be fired for that, but what did that matter in the face of this threat?

Gallagher and Leary ordered Chinese food and worked late into the night in Leary’s apartment along the James River on the Shockoe Slip.

Leary said, “Look, all I have is the suspicious names on inbound and outbound flights at Richmond International Airport. That’s all, John. They won’t grant me even a look-see at any of the bigger airports. I’ve been cordoned off from the rest of the Agency.”

They ran down the thousands of names on Leary’s computer. About 3:00 in the morning, they had narrowed the list to three names that fit Gallagher’s profile of Russian, North Korea, or Iranian involvement. One was a South Korean journalist with possible sympathies to China. He had flown into the U.S. three months before to cover some political news in Washington. But he had left the country for Venezuela.

The second was an Iranian diplomat suspected of spying for Tehran, but it couldn’t be proven. He had an apartment near Embassy Row in Washington.

Gallagher squinted at the last name. He stuck his finger on the laptop screen. “Who’s that?”

“Russian engineer. Taught at a technical institute over there. Now he’s a visiting professor here. Supposedly.”

“Is that his last name?”

“Right,” Leary said.

Gallagher said the name slowly. “K-o-r-s-t-i-k-o-f-f …” Then he asked, “What kind of engineering?”

Leary typed a search into his computer, then another. After about forty minutes, he started nodding his head. Then he nodded more vigorously.

“Okay, what’s the scoop?” Gallagher asked.

“It says here he also spent time disarming old Soviet nuclear missiles so they could comply with the nonproliferation treaties.”

Gallagher stood up straight. “I say we start working this guy Korstikoff — and I mean right
now.”

Leary was tired. “How about a few hours of shut-eye?”

“You go ahead. I saw an all-night coffee shop down the street. I’ll grab a triple espresso. No time for sleep. I got work to do.” “Like what?”

“Superhero type stuff … you wouldn’t understand …”