02 Thunder of Heaven: A Joshua Jordan Novel (20 page)
It was blistering hot in the rocky desert plains in southern Israel, not far from the border with Egypt. Joshua Jordan was with a team of Israeli ballistic experts and weapons physicists. Earlier in the day they had arrived at an area marked by a tall stone obelisk with a warning in Hebrew and English: “E
NTRANCE
F
ORBIDDEN
.” This was the IDF weapons-testing range. Joshua and the missile-defense team had just run through some tests for the Return-to-Sender system.
One of the Israeli physicists approached Joshua. “Colonel Jordan, I have a concern about the ability of RTS to handle multiple warheads, and there’s also that matter of the RTS failure in the Chicago flight — ”
“Doctor,” Joshua answered, “about the commercial jet … we’ve repeatedly requested the accident data from the NTSB so we can evaluate it ourselves. They’ve refused to cooperate. So was there an RTS failure? Or was it compromised by the pilot? By the airlines? Disengaged by a mechanic? We simply don’t know. As for the multiple warheads, the North Korean episode last year should answer that. RTS performed perfectly.”
One of the weapons engineers shook his head. “We know you are required by the Pentagon to deliver a lower-quality weapon to us. So
what
aren’t
we getting in this package? Will it compromise our ability to stop Iranian missiles?”
Joshua dabbed the sweat from his neck. He took off his sunglasses and wiped his eyes. “Pentagon protocol requires a
slightly different
weapons version for our international partners. Same capabilities, but the engineering guts are a bit different, for obvious reasons. We don’t want anyone out there to be able to reverse engineer our exact design. Rest assured that the RTS system will protect Israel. As we saw today, we’re ten out of ten on the scorecard for the tests out here in … what desert is this, Clint?”
Colonel Clinton Kinney reminded him. “Paran … where God brought Moses and the children of Israel after rescuing them from bondage in Egypt. He brought them here with a pillar of cloud to lead them. This became the staging area for their entrance into Canaan.”
One of the military officers chuckled. “You’re forgetting something,
Rabbi
Kinney. A small matter of their wandering for forty years in the wilderness.”
“Sure,” Kinney said. “Because of their cowardice and disobedience. Gentlemen, I think we have to believe that God is able and will do what He has promised to protect Israel. When the flood comes, He will part the sea. When the missiles come, God will deflect them. When the armies roll toward us, He will shake the ground with thunder and scatter them.”
“Let’s hope,” another IDF officer quipped, “that God will make the RTS system work, because we all know that our nuclear capacity has been — ”
“Circumcised?” said another officer, evoking laughter from the group. But beneath the laughter was the sobering realization that Israel, under crippling international pressure, had been forced to dismantle its own nuclear weapons system. Now the RTS system had an even higher value to this tiny nation surrounded by enemies.
Just then, several Israeli F-16s roared overhead, swooping into the valley and leaving their white contrails behind.
Kinney stepped up to Joshua. He said in a low voice, “They’re
getting ready. Israel is not going to sit back and wait for Iran to make its final gambit. We’ll strike first.”
That realization hit Joshua like a ton of bricks. He thought about Deborah and whether it had been wise to bring her here. “Thanks for having your wife, Esther, spend the day with Deborah. Much appreciated.”
“She’ll show her the sites in Jerusalem. They’re having a great time, I’m sure.”
With their work done for the day, Joshua, Kinney, and the rest headed toward their vehicles.
Just a few miles outside the testing perimeter, a small group of hikers was sitting in front of a small portable satellite monitor, watching the picture. Even though it was a little scrambled, they could make out the image of Joshua Jordan climbing into a Jeep next to Colonel Kinney.
One of the hikers, speaking in perfect Persian, said to his fellow Iranians, “There he is. Jordan is the civilian. See him?”
Then he added. “Give the command.”
Iranian Airspace
Joel was at the head of the formation of Israeli F-16 fighter bombers. They were flanked by a protection squadron of F-15s. They were flying low, perilously low, at ninety feet above the desert floor. In the valley between the Karkas Mountains, they were hoping to avoid any ground radar within a twenty-mile radius. At the speed they were traveling, they would reach Iran’s Natanz nuclear launch facility and drop their bombs before Iran’s antiaircraft missiles were ready to launch. They would have loved to have the new American F-35 jets, but the U.S. government balked at giving Israel the new fighters.
David, flying on Joel’s starboard, noticed something and laughed. Below, a goat herder, who had heard the roar of the low-flying jets and must have thought the sky was falling, was sprawling spread-eagle on the hardscrabble ground, surrounded by his herd. “Let’s hope he doesn’t have a cell phone,” David quipped.
“Okay, final checkpoint approaching,” Joel radioed back to the formation behind him.
So far the flight had been uneventful, which was surprising. Maybe this would be a repeat of the Israel’s bombing of Saddam Hussein’s nuclear facility in Iraq in 1981. They had used a similar flight plan back then. The IAF launched a surprise attack and swept over the location, bombed it, and got out without a scratch.
“Check your radar-detection receivers, and keep your eye on the circle on your screen for the incoming missiles nearest you …” Joel
checked his flight-deck clock. “Right about now they’re probably scrambling their jets.” He knew that the Iranians had the newest generation of Russian MiG fighters. But the F-15s would be able to handle them. Command had calculated the time that would be needed for the Iranians to prepare their antiaircraft-missile controls and then hone in on the incoming jets. If they were lucky …
“Okay, everybody, let’s get into welded wing formation; tighten up folks.”
The jets pulled into a near wing-tip-to-wing-tip position. Just a matter of moments now until the strike.
The large buildings of the Natanz facility came into sight in the distance. Since most of the centrifuges and uranium-enrichment equipment were underground, the F-16s were carrying super bunker-busters that would crack the ground wide open and blow down deep enough to destroy everything, including the nuclear-launch missiles they were told were in the adjacent silos.
Joel only knew what IDF command had told him. Those in charge of the operation, like General Shapiro, had to rely on intelligence, information from people like Rafi, their own clandestine agent in Jordan, and Yoseff, the Iranian insider whose motivation was unimpeachable: he needed to rescue his brother and sister from an Israeli prison.
But there was something the pilots did not know, any of them.
As each of the bomber pilots hit their Drop buttons to let loose their deadly payload, their flight-deck radar-detection screens lit up. One circle. Two circles. Three circles.
“We’ve been painted!” Joel cried out. “Drop and get out …”
Now the sky was filled with antiaircraft missiles. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.
Joel dropped his bombs and pulled his F-16 skyward. But something — a red flash — caught his eye to the starboard. It was from the ball of fire from the missile strike that had just decimated David’s F-16. No parachute. No escape.
“I’m hit,” another F-15 pilot screamed over the radio.
Below, Joel saw bright explosions from the fighter jets of his team
being destroyed, one after another. His radar showed three Iranian MiGs fast on his tail.
Everything had gone wrong.
Miles away, in another part of Iran, at the nuclear launch site at Bushehr, the facility that the U.N. and the IAEA had declared to be safe and used only for public-energy purposes, the chief of operations and his officers were cheering wildly.
“Allah Ackbar!”
The plan had worked. Yoseff and Rafi had been deliberately duped. The site at Natanz had been abandoned, and the equipment moved to tunnels in the mountains. The empty facility was a piece of dramatic stage dressing. Military theater. The real nuclear-launch command and the silos loaded with nuclear warheads at Bushehr were untouched. When Iranian intelligence grew suspicious that some of the local citizens in Bushehr might try to filter information to the West about the nuclear missile site, they evacuated the entire city, forcing the residents to move out. Iranian nuclear command would take no chances. The Bushehr facility was too valuable.
The Iranian chief of operations smiled now as he thought of the gift of good fortune concerning the useless Israeli strike against Natanz.
Thank you, Israel. Now we can launch our nuclear warheads at you and can claim to the whole world that it was self-defense.
Deborah Jordan couldn’t take it in fast enough: the narrow cobblestone streets, the women in head coverings peaking out of small windows, the crowds of pilgrims and tourists, and merchants selling leather goods or dates laid out in trays.
“I’ve always wanted to come here,” she said. “Especially this, the Via Dolorosa. This is unbelievable. This route, the way of the cross. The path taken by Jesus on the way to the crucifixion … almost …” Deborah stammered and couldn’t finish.
Esther McKinney, the colonel’s wife, was bright-eyed and smiling at her young visitor. “We thought you’d appreciate it.”
Esther stopped in the middle of the narrow street. “Now, turn around and look up.”
When she did, Deborah recognized an ancient, graceful stone arch connecting the buildings on either side.
“Now imagine,” Esther said, “you are here two thousand years ago. Make the stores and buildings disappear. Tradition says that this Roman arch is the place — or at least near the place — where Pilate appeared with Jesus. The gospel of John makes it clear. The Roman governor had allowed Jesus to be found guilty, though he admitted there was no evidence for it. Then he ordered him to be scourged. The Roman guards mocked Jesus and rammed a crown of thorns down on his head, beat him, and laid a purple robe on his back, which had been torn open by the whip and was bleeding. Then Pontius Pilate said to those in attendance, ‘Behold the Man.’ ”
Deborah was silent. Her face showed her astonishment.
Esther said, “But Pilate was only half right. He forgot the other part.”
“Which part?”
“He should have said, ‘Behold the Son of God’ …”
Deborah smiled. “It’s interesting I’m here now. This place … at this point in my life. I’ve been a Christian for a while, received Christ as a teenager, but lately I’ve been wondering about things. My life, plans, people …”
“People?”
“Well, there’s this guy …”
Esther laughed loudly. “Yes, there’s always a guy, isn’t there!”
“So, I’ve got some things to work out. I need to take things to the Lord. I need some guidance.” Then she looked at Esther. “It must be hard on you, being Jewish here in Israel, as deeply involved in the government as your husband is, yet both of you also being …”
“… Also being messianic Christians too? Believing that Jesus, Yeshua, is the promised One? The once-and-for-all sacrificial Lamb, offered up to take away the sins of the world for all who trust in Him? Yes. It’s not been easy. But who says any of this is supposed to be easy? It’s supposed to be true and right. Yes. It’s a sensitive issue. We handle
it with discretion. Clint doesn’t wear ‘Jesus Saves’ Tshirts to work, if you know what I mean!”
Esther looked at her watch. Then she checked her cell phone. “Deborah, have you received a call from your father in the last hour?”
“No. Why?”
“Oh, probably nothing. Clint usually calls about this time each day. It’s a routine we have because of the way things are here. Clint and I have a joke: we say living in Israel is like the thorn trees, lovely from a distance but painful at close quarters. Life in Israel is beautiful but precarious. Clint and Josh were at a remote testing site today but should have been back by now.”
Deborah pulled out her Allfone and dialed her father’s private number. It rang ten times and then went to voicemail. “No answer,” she said.
Deborah thought she caught something in Esther’s expression, a vague look of apprehension. The next moment Esther said, “Let’s keep walking. So much to see. I know a great place for lunch.”
Tehran, Iran
Joshua cried out. Somewhere in his numbness and confusion he felt searing pain. He couldn’t locate it at first. His body was not on the ground. He thought he was flying … no … that wasn’t it.
I’m hanging.
Joshua Jordan struggled to see where he was. As he did, he located the source of his torturing pain. In each of his shoulders. They were pinned behind him, in hog-tie fashion. He was hanging from a wall. The tips of his feet were barely touching the concrete floor. His chest had been stripped bare, and his shoes and socks were off.
He blinked and shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs.
Think back, think back. What happened …?
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.”