Authors: Tim LaHaye
From his position high on the exterior metal safety walkway of Israel’s new energy facility, Joshua had a spectacular view of Haifa Bay and the azure waters of the Mediterranean. He could see flames shooting up from Israel’s oil and gas platforms off the coast and the large blades of wind turbines that had been constructed along the shoreline.
His guide, Joel Harmon, one of Israel’s rising political stars, had connected with Joshua a few days earlier. He had invited Joshua to join him on a tour of the Haifa energy reprocessing plant today. It was under tight security, but Harmon, with his credentials, was able to whisk his guest through the double gates guarded by armed security and onto the grounds of the facility without a problem.
Harmon nodded to the display of energy infrastructure that stretched out along the coast. “Israel has been blessed with energy resources and the advanced technology to develop them. But what I am about to show you now is the most startling resource of all. No one saw this one coming. Of course, when we were able to turn back that incoming nuke from Iran with your RTS system and it dropped on the Golan Heights for lack of fuel, we all had the same thought — to retrieve the thing before our enemies got their hands on it. Which we did. But then there was a second thought — get the nuclear material, the uranium and plutonium, out of the warhead. As you know, under Prime Minister Bensky we’ve been tied into treaties that prohibit us
from developing defensive nuclear weapons. So, forget the military uses of the material.”
“So you’re using it for nuclear energy.”
“Exactly,” Harmon replied. He was pumped now, and Joshua saw it in his face. “As the newest member of the energy committee for the Knesset, I was all over that one. But this,” Harmon said, pointing to the metal door next to them on the fourth-story entrance to the massive building, “this was the crème de la crème.” He swung open the heavy door.
Inside, Joshua found himself on a metal catwalk several stories above the energy-processing operation. Below he could see a truck dumping a load onto a platform, with another right behind it in line.
Harmon explained, “When the invaders came at us two years ago, led by the Russian army, they were all using the hardware developed by Moscow. Very ingenious. Israel’s military radar is usually very effective, but the Russians built troop carriers and missile launchers, even tanks, not out of metal — but with lignostone.”
“Right,” Joshua added, “super-compressed wood. I’ve followed the research for years. In fact, I personally saw a handgun made out of it back in Seoul … at an uncomfortably close range. Impressive stuff.”
“You bet. Hard as steel but easy to cloak from radar because the material absorbs the radar pulse rather than reflecting it back like metal does. That gave our enemies a considerable advantage when they placed their troops near our borders. The couple extra hours of antiradar cloaking gave them a huge head start.” Harmon pointed to the truck down below. “After the war, when the dust cleared, we discovered we had our hands on massive amounts of lignostone. Tons and tons of it. The bright guys at the Technion Institute and several energy companies got to thinking — why not convert all this lignostone to combustible fuel?”
They walked along the catwalk, watching a load of scrap material being fed onto a conveyor belt that was moving it toward several grinding stations and then on to series of low-temperature furnaces. Joshua was already thinking about the remarkable fulfillment of a centuries-old biblical prophecy.
“The key here,” Harmon said, “was to create a usable material that can fuel Israel’s energy needs. So, how long do you think all of these lignostone armaments will provide energy for Israel?”
Joshua laughed. “Let me guess — seven years’ worth of burnable energy, precisely. Exactly as predicted in the book of Ezekiel …”
“Chapter 39, verses 9 and 10,” Harmon added with a grin. “So, as I was saying, we’ve been burning this material for the last two years at this new facility and processing it into reusable energy cells. According to the Old Testament, we’ve got another five years of home heating left for Israel. Josh, you are a Christian, and I am a Jew. We have that between us. But we are joined by something important. We both revere the Bible as the Word of God.”
“Yes, and something else.”
“Oh?”
“We both believe in the Messiah and know that He’s coming,” Joshua said. “I know His name to be Yeshua — Jesus, the Christ. You, on the other hand, still have to figure out whether your Messiah’s coming to this world will be His first time or His second.”
Harmon chuckled and waved an index finger at Joshua. “A discussion to be continued later.”
They walked down the metal stairs to the third level, where Joel Harmon led them to an elevator to the ground floor.
“The helicopter is waiting on the helipad,” Harmon said as they walked outside. “Since you’re an MIT grad and a world-class engineer, I figured you’d appreciate a tour of our facility here. Also, you’re getting a peek at some good news about Israel’s future.”
Joshua thanked him as they rounded the corner of the massive building.
Harmon suddenly became somber. “Now for the tough part about our future. When you arrive in Jerusalem and meet with Prime Minister Benksy, you will find him surrounded by vipers.”
“That’s a pretty harsh assessment.”
“I’m being frank. Bensky’s a good man, but he’s living under a geopolitical delusion, as if he’s been bewitched by advisors who have sold him on this crazy plan of the U.N.’s secretary-general.”
“I already have strong feelings about Coliquin.”
“Sure,” Harmon said shrugging, “I read the quote in the
Jerusalem Herald
where you called Coliquin ‘an impressive voice full of reason, hope, and peace, but with an agenda straight from hell.’ And you call
me
harsh!” Joel Harmon capped it off with a snicker.
Joshua gave him a befuddled look. “Joel, that’s why I questioned your decision to have me join you and the members of your Hamonah party when you meet with Bensky this afternoon. I’m nothing but a lightning rod.”
“So maybe we need a lightning strike.” After a moment, Harmon added, “Look, Josh, whether you like it or not, when your RTS system saved Israel from that Iranian nuke attack the year before last, you became a hero to a lot of Israelis.”
Joshua shook his head. “Not all Israelis …”
“Okay, true,” Harmon shot back, grinning, “but you’ve read the Old Testament … our wandering in the desert under Moses … arguing, squabbling. Since when have Israelis ever been able to agree on much of anything?”
Joshua chuckled. “Seriously, Joel. I think you need someone else to plead your position to Bensky. Not me. This is when I wish I could substitute my wife, a brilliant lawyer with terrific negotiation skills. But not me. I’ve never been strong on diplomacy. If I open my mouth, I’ll be a bull in a china shop.”
Harmon halted and lifted his index finger into the air. “We need a real hero like you, who loves Israel, who has already helped to defend her.” Then, after pausing and lowering his hand, he added, “And a man who has connections …”
“What kind?”
“Let’s be honest, if Tulrude wins your presidential election, Israel will be in serious trouble. Tulrude has abandoned all support for our nation. On the other hand, if Hewbright wins, our future looks a lot brighter. When Hewbright was in the United States Senate he consistently backed Israel on security and terrorism issues. And we happen to know, Josh, that you, your wife, and your entire Roundtable group are backing Senator Hewbright. And we also know that the senator admires you.”
“And here I thought I knew something about clandestine surveillance,” Joshua remarked. “You Israelis always impress me with the accuracy of your covert intelligence.”
By now the helicopter was in view. As the two men approached it, Joshua still didn’t feel any differently about the upcoming meeting with the prime minister.
He said a silent prayer.
God, help me keep my feet on the ground during this meeting … and my foot out of my mouth
.
The meeting lasted over an hour. Some heated words were exchanged, but Harmon and the three other members of the Hamonah Party kept the rancor to a minimum. Prime Minister Bensky listened throughout but talked little. He left that up to his two advisors, Chad Zadok, his chief of staff, and Dimi Eliud, his press secretary.
Near the end of the meeting Zadok looked up from his digital clipboard and said, “The prime minister appreciates your thoughts on the U.N. peace proposal. Thanks for dialoguing with us. However, the prime minister has another meeting.”
Joel Harmon leaned forward in his chair, his hands open, as if he was going to grab someone by the shoulders. “Please, Mr. Prime Minister, can you at least share with us that you are open to our concerns, that you are willing to delay this dangerous deal with Mr. Coliquin and his envoy?”
“Why?” Zadok shot back, “so you and your fledgling little Hamonah Party can have more time to muster coalition strength behind your weak position?”
“This treaty with Coliquin and the U.N. is bad for Israel. Some truths are self-evident,” Harmon said, shooting a quick glance at Joshua.
Now Dimi Eliud jumped into the fray. “Quoting from America’s Declaration of Independence isn’t the right answer for an Israeli problem.” Then she directed her attention to Joshua, who had been silent. “Or does Colonel Jordan think differently?”
Joshua smiled but didn’t bite.
Chad Zadok joined in. “Yes, why don’t you share your thoughts with us, Colonel Jordan?”
Joshua’s smile quickly evaporated. Instead of answering, he looked at Prime Minister Sol Bensky, who gestured for him to speak.
“I would rather not,” he said, hedging.
“And I would rather you did,” Bensky said in a soft voice. “I have heard many things about you, Colonel Jordan. Some good and some not so nice. So please speak freely. What do you think about this peace proposal? About Secretary-General Coliquin?”
“I tremble,” Joshua began.
Chad Zadok latched onto that. “You what?”
“I said I tremble.”
“You? The great Colonel Joshua Jordan, trembling with fear?” There was derision in Zadok’s voice.
“I tremble,” Joshua continued, “because of what I have read.”
“About what?” Bensky asked.
“I have studied the Bible for the last two years,” Joshua replied. “I am no scholar, but I tremble at what it says in 1 Kings 11:1.”
Benksy’s face looked as if he were searching his memory, but coming up blank.
Joshua quoted the verse from the Old Testament. “‘Solomon, however, loved many foreign women —’”
“How dare you!” Zadok cried out.
“Mr. Prime Minister,” Joshua said, disregarding the chief of staff, “adultery can come in many different forms, don’t you agree? I know you must see that God has warned Israel throughout Scripture about entering into political treaties and intrigues with foreign powers — political adultery — when it can cause the nation to depart from God’s purposes.”
Dimi Eliud jumped to her feet. “Gentlemen, this meeting is
over
.”
Sol Bensky said nothing. He sat motionless in his high-backed chair, glumly staring straight ahead, as Joshua, Joel Harmon, and his small entourage tentatively rose to leave. Then the group was briskly escorted from the room. Zadok and Eliud closed the door and quickly returned to their chairs across from the prime minister.
Zadok led off. “Now you see, sir, exactly what we are dealing with.
Joshua Jordan is the foreign enemy here. He is the agitator. And our young, impressionable member of the Knesset, Joel Harmon, has been taken with Jordan’s radical views.”
“You still have a strong coalition in the Knesset behind you,” Dimi Eliud added, “for a while. We don’t know how long that will hold. The treaty with the U.N. must be signed immediately.”
“And,” Zadok added, “Colonel Jordan must also be neutralized before he wins any more converts to his anti-Coliquin views. Sadly, he does have a certain influence among some Israelis.”
“But he is a defender of Israel,” Bensky said limply, “and I for one appreciate the RTS technology he designed … and for his zeal for our nation. This is so difficult.” Bensky put a hand to his forehead and rubbed it slowly.
“Of course, Mr. Prime Minister,” Zadok said in a voice that was soothing, almost musical, like chimes in the wind, “we understand. That is why you must allow us — Ms. Eliud and myself — to take care of this Colonel Jordan business. You needn’t worry about it anymore.”
“Yes,” Dimi Eliud added, “Joshua Jordan can be taken out of the equation. And very quickly.”
Eliud and Zadok locked glances. Without a word, all three knew what had to be done.
Washington, D.C
.
When Abigail received the text message, it was a jolt. It was from former Department of Justice Prosecutor Harley Collingwood. His text simply said “Meet me at Jefferson Memorial” and gave the time.
So once again Abigail chartered the family’s private jet from the hangar at JFK and flew down to Washington. And once again, Cal went along for the ride. Abigail had been so absorbed in trying to dig up further information on the potential threat against Senator Hewbright that she had been able, for a few hours at least, to put her husband’s excruciating legal dilemma out of her mind. But not entirely. She couldn’t forget that Collingwood’s inside information about the activities of the prosecutors in Attorney General Hamburg’s Department of Justice office might be her only hope. Collingwood might know how they had managed to get Attorney Alan Fulsin to spin his false story about Joshua’s alleged plan to create a takeover of the defense and security apparatus of the U.S. government.
Abigail and Cal had just landed at the private hangar at Reagan International, and she was about to step into the limo when she said to Cal, “So, you’ll be all right?”
He nodded with a smile. “Mom, I’m old enough to take care of myself. Don’t worry.”
“What are you going to do?”
He shrugged. “I’ll fill you in later. I’ll be okay. Really.”
She hesitated. “Something’s going on. Anything you want to share?”
“Mom, get to your meeting. You’re going to be late.”
Ignoring her maternal instincts, Abigail ducked into the backseat. The driver closed the door and hopped behind the wheel.
After ten minutes of heavy traffic along the Potomac, Abigail’s Allfone lit up. It was John Gallagher. When she answered, he gave her the update on his Hewbright investigation. “Okay, Abby. Here’s the dope. I’ve been in contact with the FBI agent, as you know.”
“Right. Agent Boling.”
“We’ve been talking. I got him to open up. No small miracle, by the way. It turns out that shortly before the disappearance of this Hewbright campaign worker, this Perry Tedrich guy, he had a visit from someone on Hewbright’s national campaign staff.”
“And?”
“Hewbright’s assistant campaign manager. Woman by the name of —”
“Katrena Amid.”
“Abby, you take all the fun out. Right. That’s her. You know her?”
“Just met her once. In Denver, after one of the Senator’s speeches.” Abigail didn’t yet elaborate about the sixth sense she had around Katrena. After reflecting a moment, Abigail followed up. “But you’re sure it was her — Katrena Amid — who visited Perry Tedrich right before he disappeared?”
“Sure I’m sure. Why?”
Abigail didn’t respond.
Gallagher went on. “You know, Abby, you never told me why you thought that Hewbright might have some kind of mole or dirty operative within his staff. Wanna share that with your good buddy John Gallagher?”
“Not yet, John.”
“Any reason?”
“I don’t want my ideas to color your investigation.”
“Wow. Now you’re sounding like my old supervisor at the Bureau. Always went by the book.”
“It’s just that I have such a high regard for your ability, John. I
need your untainted impressions. All of this could be just a wild-eyed theory. Maybe I’ve got you chasing a fantasy.”
“On the other hand, one thing is not fiction.”
“What’s that?”
“Hewbright’s Wichita election guy was murdered and dumped in a shallow grave. Nothing make-believe about that.”
On his second visit, Cal could see a remarkable change. Former President Corland was sitting up straight, his eyes bright and clear, and his speech — while still slow — was intelligible and coherent. When Cal arrived, Corland’s wife had told Cal that her husband was having “one of his better days.” Then she headed down to the cafeteria, leaving Cal and Corland alone with a nurse nearby.
Corland asked Cal, in a series of strained words, about his plans for the future.
“Law school,” Cal said.
Corland smiled and nodded. “Following your mother …”
“Sort of. Though she never pressured me. I was going into art at first. Actually had some of my paintings shown in a gallery up in Boston. But things changed, and I decided to go in another direction.”
“Happens sometimes,” Corland said and then nodded to the nurse to leave them alone. She smiled and dutifully left that area of the day room.
He noticed that Corland followed her with his eyes too. Now the only person in sight was a Secret Service agent seated on a chair just outside the room, out of earshot.
Corland immediately opened up. “I wanted you here … to tell you …”
“What?”
“Secrets.”
Cal didn’t know how to respond.
“Can I trust you?” Corland said.
“Yes. Absolutely. But why me?”
“I trusted your dad. And he was right about what he told me in the
White House. About threatened attack. But my people wouldn’t listen. They undercut me. Nuclear attack … new Jersey … never would have happened … if they had believed your father. I’m glad his Roundtable … tried to help. At least New York was saved. I wish your Dad was here for me to tell this to …” Corland stopped. Then after thinking something through, he continued. “But he’s not.”
“No,” Cal said with emotion in his voice that had suddenly arisen and surprised even him. He struggled to say it. “I wish he was here too.”
“So,” Corland said with a smile, “I have to trust someone. I’ll tell you then. Trust you. Maybe you … are like your dad?”
Cal smiled. It was an accolade he didn’t think he had earned, but he nodded and leaned back in the soft chair in the sunroom to listen.
Corland proceeded to explain about his White House physician having health problems himself, and how his personal doctor had to resign. President Corland had been treated for his condition of transient ischemic attack, a syndrome that threatened his ability to continue in his duties if not kept under control. The public had not been told about it up to then. When Corland’s own White House physician left, Jessica Tulrude insisted that until a new White House doctor was appointed, Corland ought to use the vice president’s personal physician — Dr. Jack Puttner. Up to that point, Corland pointed out to Cal, his own doctor had prescribed only blood thinners to decrease the risk of blackouts.
“But Puttner gave me something else,” Corland said, “and right after that … after a speech in Virginia, I had that terrible attack in the limo. Almost died.”
“What kind of medicine?”
“Not sure,” Corland said. Then his face took on an intense, twisted grimace. “But I think … Dr. Puttner and Tulrude … tried to kill me.”