Joshua and the four-man rescue team were exhausted. Cannon looked through his binoculars and nodded. “That looks like a city up ahead. Must be Lerik — the secondary pickup point.”
After driving out of Tehran and back north to the Iranian coast, the rescue team and Joshua waited for the Israeli chopper to appear at the rendezvous point near Neka. But the Israelis didn’t show. Somehow, the team wasn’t surprised. Israel had other problems on its hands. As a result, the five men had to scramble. They had to swipe a powerboat and cross the Caspian Sea toward Azerbaijan. They fully expected the worst, namely, to meet up with Iranian patrol boats en route and then have to fight their way through. But for some reason the Iranian coast guard never appeared. All they could figure was that something big
must have happened, some change in Iranian military strategy regarding its coastline.
Just short of the border, they dumped the boat and walked inland, relieved that at least they were close to leaving Iran. They waited until nightfall to cross into Azerbaijan, then walked past the town of Astara and thirty miles north to Lerik.
Jack pulled out his GPS and secured the coordinates. They were now only a few miles from the pickup point, but they weren’t expecting an Israeli helicopter this time. The Israelis had summoned help from the Republic of Georgia, which lay to the north of Azerbaijan. Georgia had resisted an alliance with Russia and had secretly coordinated defenses with Israel. But as a former part of the Soviet Union, it retained mutual contacts with the Russian republics. So it was decided by Rocky Bridger and the IDF headquarters that a civilian commercial helicopter from Georgia was likely to raise few eyebrows if it was seen over Azerbaijan airspace. Georgia agreed to the plan and sent a two-pilot helicopter to the new pickup point.
The team looked at their watches. Cannon said, “We have six hours until pickup. Let’s find a safe place to crash for a couple of hours.”
They found a spot just off the main road. They settled at the edge of a thick forest of trees. Cannon pointed out that the trees were called
demir-agach,
the famous “iron tree,” with its orange leaves and fruit. A few of the guys picked some of the fruit off the branches. That was enough, together with the cooler full of food on the boat they had stolen, to help ease their nagging hunger for a while.
From their position they could see the road below. Cars passed. A convertible filled with several dark-haired, attractive girls passed, and the two younger special-ops guys, both of whom were single, cracked jokes. But Joshua couldn’t help thinking about Abigail, wondering if she’d been told about his rescue. Surely she had. He had left her behind with so many burdens. And he thought about Cal and was glad he was there with Abby. Joshua was certain that Cal would step up to the plate and be the man of the house in his absence.
And Joshua wondered about his country.
As he lay on the mossy forest floor, he was feeling his age, as well as
the effects of the beatings he had received in captivity. But one thought overshadowed even his bone-sickening fatigue and pain. He wished he could simply will the message across to the other side of the planet:
Abby, please know how much I love you, baby … I’m coming home …
Then he was struck with a thought, and he put it into silent words: God, please let Abby know I’m all right. Keep her safe. Deb and Cal too. Thanks for listening. Amen.
Down on the road, a few people on horses clip-clopped past. Then it was quiet for more than an hour. Joshua, in his exhaustion, drifted off into a deep, otherworldly sleep.
The quiet was broken, however, with the rumbling of a military convoy that echoed up to the forest — armored Humvees, tanks, troop transports, missile launchers — all rolling down the road.
The team members sat up fast and rigid, like pointer dogs.
Jack was the only one to speak. “Something’s about to break loose.”
The Russian general had just given the order: “The invasion of Israel and the destruction of the Jewish occupiers shall commence in twelve hours.”
Vice Admiral Sergei Trishnipov was enjoying the excellent vantage point from the bridge on the destroyer
Kiev.
He had a nearly three-hundred-degree view of the massive flotilla he was commanding. It had taken years for Russia to rebuild its sagging navy. Now, at last, he would show the world that Russia ruled the seas.
Most of the American press had readily accepted the explanation that this was nothing more than a “joint naval exercise,” so when NATO member states protested, Russia and its allies didn’t care. Without backing from the U.S., Europe was likely to do nothing, particularly because there was little love for the tiny nation that the Russian-Islamic coalition would be soon invading. Whatever sympathy existed for Israel had now disappeared after its preemptive strike against Iran, which was followed by the RTS-guided nuking of Bushehr.
The Russian-Islamic coalition was ready to make its defense to the world. After all, hadn’t an American-led coalition attacked Iraq over its invasion of Kuwait decades before? So why shouldn’t a Russian-led coalition of Middle Eastern nations invade Israel over its military aggression against Iran? Russia’s long-standing partnership with Syria and its use of the Syrian port of Tartus gave it an ideal launching platform for the naval phase of the invasion.
Trishnipov, who had helped shape the naval operation of the war, liked the plan. Four Russian aircraft carriers from his fleet would launch four hundred MiG fighter jets and bombers over Israeli airspace and pound Israeli defenses. Seven transport ships, carrying three hundred thousand soldiers from the Russian-Islamic alliance, would land simultaneously at Haifa and Tel Aviv. That was twice the size of Israel’s entire standing army. Then a dozen submarines and ten heavily armed patrol boats would seal off Israel’s coast.
At the same time, the coalition army would begin the land invasion from the north, advancing through Syria and pouring down into Israel. That force consisted of five hundred thousand troops from Russia, Turkey, Kazakhstan, Azerbaijan, as well as other Russian republics. From the south, another fifty thousand troops would blast their way into Israel, from the armies of Libya and the Sudan. Syria, Egypt, and Jordan would tell the world they had no choice but to permit the invading armies to cross their lands en route to Israel or else suffer annihilation themselves, but they would privately celebrate the anticipated decimation of the nation of Israel, that thorn in the side of Islam.
Trishnipov gazed through the window. It was a clear, mild day. He wished he was on the deck, catching the fresh air, instead of locked inside the glass-enclosed bridge. But this is where he needed to be. In full control of the naval invasion. As the vice admiral thought about the slaughter to come, he had to remind himself that he had no particular hatred for the Jews, although he remembered with a chuckle something his father, who had been a Soviet general, once said: “Now that we have run the Jews out of Russia, let them keep running …”
Within hours, though, there would be no more running. The Jews in Israel would have nowhere to escape. Invasion by sea, invasion from the north and south, overwhelming military power raining death down on the tiny nation.
Once, back at the Russian naval base at Murmansk, Trishnipov had been asked what the soldiers and sailors should expect once the war to obliterate Israel had begun. He had smiled and replied, “It will be like shooting fish in a barrel … a very small barrel.”
The clandestine meeting was held at Caesar Demas’s country house in Tuscany. That site was chosen rather than his main villa in Rome out of concerns for security. His remote estate was nestled into the surrounding hills. His private guards were posted strategically throughout the two-thousand-acre compound. Helicopters circled the property. The driveway, which ambled for a mile through his vineyards, had two separate security gates with armed guards.
Privacy was essential. After all, they were plotting a global revolution.
Demas looked around his sunroom, the one with the large working table and the breathtaking view of the rolling hills brimming with his ripening vineyards. Around the table were Lexes Demitrov, deputy prime minister of Russia, the lovely Andrea Portleva, Russia’s ambassador to the U.S., and Gallen Abdulla, president of Turkey.
The meeting was about to end. Demitrov summed up. “So, the timing is right.”
“Perfect, it would seem,” Abdulla added.
They all agreed. But Portleva, whose specialty, after all, was the U.S., stated the obvious. “America is on its knees, unraveling economically. Politically they are in chaos. And so sad about Virgil Corland’s health problems …” There were smiles all around. She continued. “And then there is the unfortunate nuclear attack in New Jersey. United States is a giant — but with feet of clay. The downfall is coming. So there will be the inevitable superpower vacuum.”
Caesar Demas had a question for Abdulla. “And you feel that you can continue to keep the Islamic nations in our coalition, that Turkey can serve as the bridge to our Muslim partners, to Iran, and the entire Arab League, and to OPEC?”
“Yes,” Abdulla answered. “Of course, now that Turkey has finally been admitted into the European Union, we can also serve as a liaison between our new alliance of nations and the EU.” He could have said more but didn’t. The two Russians and the Turk exchanged millisecond glances.
Demas was the only one in the room who had not been informed
about the specifics of the joint military offensive against Israel. All had agreed, Demas included, that he needed to be sequestered from the specifics of the impending war. He only knew how it was supposed to play out. Russia’s aid in destroying Israel would earn it the endearing support of the Arab League and would grant Russia a preferred seat at OPEC and the promise of Arab cooperation with Russia’s expansionist plans. Next, the coalition would begin a takeover of key parts of the African continent and South America, with Venezuela leading the way. With the United States paralyzed into indecision, and licking its own wounds, the only obstacle left to total world domination would be China. If all went according to plan, even China could not withstand a political network so vast that it covered three continents. Pakistan and the Muslims within India would help the cause on the subcontinent. As far as the EU, they had no taste for war and could be counted on to do little to stop the expansion of the Russian-Islamic empire — all except England, of course. By that time, however, Great Britain would be in no position to launch an attack. The Russian-Islamic coalition would negotiate with the English, throw them a few crumbs to keep them placid. Australia might be a problem, but they were so far removed geographically that they could be dealt with down the road.
Caesar Demas had been promised the position of president of the new global alliance of nations with Russia in the lead. Because of that, it was thought wise to keep him out of the “dirty” business of the Jewish genocide to come. When that was over, the shift of global power would begin. The days of America’s domination — its leadership of the Western nations and NATO, and its “bullying tactics” in the U.N.’s Security Council — would soon be history.
“Of course, I’m humbled,” Demas added, “at the confidence each of you has shown in me.”
Demitrov smiled. He was thinking that, for all of Demas’s reputation as a ruthless international businessman, a friend of shadowy black marketers, and a tough global geopolitical negotiator who possessed the uncanny ability to manipulate heads of state, he had figured Caesar Demas for something else. While Demas could never conceive of
himself this way, Demitrov truly believed that when push came to shove, the billionaire could be made to play an effective marionette at the end of strings that would stretch all the way back to Moscow.
After the meeting, Demas’s guests left with their entourages, surrounded by armored limousine security. All except Andrea Portleva.
When he thought they were alone, Demas gathered Portleva in his arms and began to kiss her and fondle her with abandon. She laughed a little but didn’t resist.
Portleva, still in his embrace, said in a husky whisper, “So, Mr. Caesar Demas, it appears that your wish is now going to come true.”
“What wish is that?”
“Your desire to run the world, of course.”
Now they both laughed.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Tomasso, his bodyguard, standing at the front door of the country home. Tomasso quickly jammed his hands into his pockets.
Caesar Demas stared him down and then snapped, “Until further notice, keep everyone away …”
Tomasso gave a quick nod of his head. “Yes, Mr. Demas. Whatever you say.”
In the condo outside Jerusalem, Esther Kinney was on the phone with her husband, Clint, who was still in the hospital.
Deborah Jordan could see that Esther’s face had suddenly paled, as if she had received the kind of news that takes your breath away. While she held her Allfone to her ear, Esther made a quick movement with the other hand, as if she was about to bring it swiftly to her mouth, but stopped. Then she lowered it. She managed a struggling smile, told her husband she loved him, and ended the call.
She turned to Deborah, Ethan March, and to the tour guide, Nony, and his wife, Sari, who had put them up in their home. She spoke slowly and with a clear, deliberate cadence. “Well … I had thought that with the victory … the great victory with Iran’s nuclear missiles turned around … and Deborah your father’s ingenious Return-to-Sender weapon that seemed to have saved Israel — with all of that … and the reports that the Hamas uprising in Jerusalem had been quelled by police and military … I had thought we were in the clear …” Then she fell silent.
“Aren’t we?” Deborah asked.
Esther shook her head no. She sat down with her hands in her lap, took a deep breath, and said, “Clint said we should try to find some way out of Israel if we can. If not, to find the safest place, a bunker, a basement. Lock the doors. Arm ourselves. Prepare to fight …”
Ethan joined in. “Is this an invasion, Mrs. Kinney, a ground war? Is that what he’s talking about?”
She nodded. “He couldn’t tell me any details except that the intelligence reports indicate a massive assault on Israel … from every direction … overwhelming forces against us …” Then her voice broke.
Nony shrugged and paced, his arms outstretched. “There is no way to leave Israel. No planes. No boats. I have friends with private aircraft, but everything has been shut down since the Iranian attack. I can make some calls …” There was a long pause. Then Nony said, “But that would mean leaving Israel. Leave Israel?” His voice rose higher.
“Leave Israel?
The land given us by God Himself. No … no … this I will
not
do. We will stay. We will fight.” Then he turned to Deborah and Ethan. “This isn’t your war. I can call some friends. Perhaps there is a chance for you two to escape …”
Deborah said it before Ethan had a chance, but she spoke for both of them: “This has become our war now.”
Ethan added, “Deb, if you say we stay and fight with our friends here, then I’m in.”
Deborah’s face was pensive, freighted with the weight of what she was about to say. “My father came here for a reason, not just a defense-contracting job. So here it is … I believe God brought my dad — and all of us — here, to this place, at this time. I’m not sure why, but I know this was no accident. So now we make our stand, right here. We just have to remember somehow that the battle belongs to the Lord …”
Esther smiled. She exhaled, then fell to her knees and reached her hands out to the others. “Let’s ask the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the King of the universe … let’s ask Him for victory, for safety, for His divine protection, to see His mighty hand … and let us pray, friends, that the nations of the earth will see that God is truly God …”