by Tim LaHaye
This had been the hardest separation Abigail had ever had from Joshua. They had endured separation before. Many times. But there was always the promise of an ending point. Missions had beginnings and endings. Assignments would last for a finite amount of time. But not this one. She ached for him and prayed endlessly for their reunion. In the end, however, she was convinced that with God’s help the only solution to their dilemma rested in her own hands. She had to find a way to crack open the phony case against her husband.
Suddenly she noticed Cal looking up from the computer screen.
“Okay,” he said, “earlier I sent a message to Dad and asked him to update us. Now something just came through from him. But it looks like he embargoed it — sent it earlier but timed it for release now for some reason. I’m going through the ChangeCipherSpec sequence for encryption.”
Cal held the palm of his hand close to the screen for five seconds.
Then the screen read — “Palmprint Authentication Complete.”
Abigail grinned. “I can’t wait to hear about his trip to South Korea. He must be back in Israel by now.”
A few moments later Cal announced, “Here it comes.”
Cal read it aloud: “‘I will call you on the encrypted Allfone whenever I can. But currently caught up in paperwork. Love you all more than I can say. Buried in red tape. Be strong, Abby, and know I love you more than life itself. Love to you, Cal, and Debbie too. God is in control. Josh.’”
Abigail stood up straight, a stunned look on her face.
“Mom, what’s up?”
“That business about ‘buried in red tape’ …”
“What about it?”
“That’s code.”
“For what?”
“It’s our private message. His way of letting me know he’s on a dangerous assignment — again. He started using the phrase years ago, when he flew those missions.”
“You sure?”
His mother threw him a look that left no doubt. She shook her head. “He hadn’t hinted at anything to me. Just going to Seoul to speak at a church, then to return to Israel. His temporary home — the man without a country.” Then she asked into the air, “So, what in the world is Josh involved in?”
“You know Dad,” Cal said. “He takes risks, sure. But not foolish ones. I’m sure there’s a good explanation.”
Then a stern look swept over Cal’s face, as if he were going to do a tricky U-turn in the conversation. “You know, Mom, I deliberately avoided talking about the deadline today …”
Abigail’s face tightened. She knew where he was going. “Cal, you know I’ve made my decision. I have to follow the leading of the Lord in this. Not that it’s wrong for you and Deb. You had to make the decision yourselves. But for me … I feel compelled to protest, knowing in my heart and from the prophecies in the Word of God where this BIDTag process is ultimately going to lead. I know what it says in Revelation … how it all comes together in the end. And so do you, Cal. Total control. A mark that enables you to buy and sell, to function financially. No, I can’t believe the BIDTag is the mark of the Antichrist … but it’s the first step, okay? Everything in my spirit tells me to fight this thing, to take a stand.”
“You’re going to catch heat by not getting tagged.”
“Those are my reasons.”
“So why did you let Deborah and me get them? Why didn’t you tell us you were going to hold out?”
“Because Deborah would lose her job at the Pentagon …”
“You mean that great assignment where all she does is file papers and sit on her hands? Every time I talk to her she complains.”
“She ought to be glad she’s there at all. You and your sister happen to be connected to one of the most controversial families in America. Sorry, but that’s a fact. I’m shocked that some of our enemies on Capitol Hill didn’t block her Pentagon assignment. As far as you’re concerned, Cal, you needed to get tagged to get accepted to law school. A law degree is going to come in handy. You’ve told us you want to continue the work your Dad and I have started, right?”
“But they’ll target you, Mom. You’re already in their sights. With that material-witness order keeping you from leaving the United States while Dad’s case is pending. And now if you refuse to comply with the BIDTag law, the government will come down on you like a ton of bricks.”
Abigail had resolve in her eyes, but her voice was soft, confident, settled. “These are extraordinary days. We’re called to take extraordinary risks.”
Cal narrowed his eyes as he studied the back of his right hand, the site of the invisible laser “tag” that he had received like most Americans. “Well, anyway, I’ve been reading some stuff. There are some theories out there about possibly reversing the laser tag imprint by erasing the QR code imprinted in the tissues. Or possibly other ways to avoid complying with this tagging law.”
Abigail turned to look out the big windows with a wistful expression, taking in the New York skyline. She and Joshua had felt that events in the United States and around the world were racing like a bullet train toward God’s prophetic closure. How she and Joshua were going to face all of that as it unfolded — and the example they would set for their children — that was the challenge now.
“You know, Mom,” Cal added, still not letting it go, “they will come after you. The White House. The president and her buddies. They won’t rest. Just like they went after Dad when he stood up to them and exposed the rotten stuff that has been going on in this administration. They’ll hunt you down, Mom. You know they will.”
She smiled, but in her face was a faint shadow of fatigue, the signs of an embattled life. As usual, Abigail mustered an optimistic response. “I’m a good runner, remember?”
Iowa City, Iowa
A long line of people wrapped around the government office building and wound down the street. Some were nervous, bouncing on their toes. Others looked around aimlessly, wrinkled their brows, or fidgeted.
A farmer and his wife stood with forty people still ahead of them in the line that stretched up to the glass door with black lettering on the glass: SECURITY AND IDENTIFICATION AGENCY — SIA.
In line immediately in front of them was a man in a suit with shoulder-length hair, who carried a briefcase. Behind them a truck driver was getting impatient.
The trucker patted his pockets for his cell phone, then realized that he had left it in his rig. “Who’s got the time?” he called out.
“Almost noon,” the farmer’s wife replied.
“Oh, great,” he groaned, “I’ve got a load to drop off in Traverse City, Michigan. No way I’m going to make it. This is crazy. Why am I here? Can somebody tell me that?”
“I’ll tell you why,” the guy in the suit said, whipping around. “Five years in jail and a maximum fine of $50,000 if you don’t, that’s why.”
“You a lawyer?”
“Yeah. And don’t blame me. I supported the legal groups that have been fighting this.”
“Why didn’t the courts stop it?”
“We tried. A few cases were won at the trial level, but even more lost. Then every single legal challenge got shot down on appeal. Very scary.”
The farmer wasn’t convinced. “I heard they caught some child molester at a theme park yesterday using this tagging program.”
His wife chimed in, “Because he had the tag marking on his hand, that’s how they got him … with this laser tattoo …”
“Fine,” the lawyer said, “so this one guy has a BIDTag — his Biological Identification Tag — and the police pick him up. So what? Meanwhile the rest of us law-abiding citizens have the last vestiges of our right to privacy completely stripped away.”
“But it doesn’t hurt, they say. You can’t even see it on your skin,” the farmer’s wife added.
“Which is beside the point,” the lawyer countered. “It’s the idea that creeps me out. Inside that glass door, you’re going to have to stick your hand into a machine. Right? They put that in
visible imprint on you. Bang, right there, keyed into that little digital imprint are all your medical records, court records, tax returns, every public record that ever had your name on it. And all that stuff, every bit of it is accessible because of that laser configuration …”
“Yeah, I wondered how that works,” the truck driver said.
“Look,” the lawyer said, “you know those little UPC boxes with those lines inside that look like a maze — you’ve seen them in the corner of ads? They’re called Quick Response, or QR, codes. For years we’ve been using them. Brilliant actually. Just scan the code box with your Allfone, and bingo, your cell is connected to some part of the Internet where the product is listed. You push a button, and just like that you’ve ordered something off the web, and in two days it shows up at your front door.”
“I just ordered a part for my air brakes using that,” the trucker said.
The lawyer bobbed his head. “There you go. Only one problem. The invisible QR code has all your personal data in it. Every time you enter a park, a shopping center, a post office, an airport, a restaurant, the federal scanning screens will be able to pick you up. So some civil-service creep in a government office somewhere can not only check out where you are at that very moment, he’ll also know everything about you. With one stroke on a keypad. And they update your data constantly. Anytime you get a traffic ticket, go to court over something, or have a medical procedure, they update your QR code automatically. So now they’ve got your entire personal data file — everything — instantly accessible on the back of your hand, and at the same time they know where you are at any time. Time was that the government would need a warrant before they could get most of that in formation — but not any more.”
“All I know,” the farmer said, “is that before we started this tag program, we had terrorist attacks all over this country. But not a single one since. I remember telling Mary here when the first one hit — when that ferry full of people got blown up — I said, look out, here it comes. Sure enough, after that we had the bombing at the Mall of America …”
His wife added, “My sister-in-law knew someone on the plane that got shot down leaving O’Hare. I kept asking myself, how do these people get their hands on those little missile things …”
“Shoulder-mounted missiles,” the lawyer added.
The trucker leaned in closer. “I got a better one than that. So, those scumbag terrorists set off that portable nuke in New Jersey, and that was on a Tuesday. Well, I was scheduled to pick up a load. Guess where? About twenty miles from that exact spot, the very next morning. Can you believe that?”
“Well, actually,” the lawyer said, “you’re right, the nuke was set off by terrorists. And I know they were supposedly on their way to New York City, and that was their real target. But I think that the feds would have stopped them if that defense contractor, that Jordan guy and his right-wing Roundtable group of billionaire hyper-patriots, hadn’t tried to use their private army to stop them.”
The truck driver had a comeback. “Well, I thought that the feds, the FBI, and Homeland Security had messed up on that deal and weren’t doing anything to stop it … or that the White House blocked them or something … so at the last minute that Jordan guy and his Roundtable had a bunch of former special-ops men try to stop them, and then the terrorists ended up pulling the trigger right then. I mean … I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but a few thousand dead in New Jersey’s a lot better than a million dead in New York!”
The lawyer shook his head violently. “No way, no. We can’t have a bunch of private Rambos trying to stop nukes, can we? They should’ve stayed out of it altogether. I’m glad they’re prosecuting him. I hope he rots in jail.”
“It’s a crazy world,” the farmer’s wife said. “My brother keeps saying this is the beginning of the end —”
Her husband elbowed her and whispered, “Let’s leave Bobbie out of this; the guy’s got problems …”
His wife shrugged but kept on talking. “I’m just saying that with what happened over in Israel, the way that war ended there, with earthquakes and volcanic eruptions — anyhow, Bobbie said that’s what finally convinced him. Ever since then he’s been going to church regular, talking about Jesus and the Bible all the time. And if you knew my brother before, my gosh, you’d never believe it was the same guy.”
“Hey, look,” the truck driver said pointing. “Finally. The line’s moving.”
The Security and Identification Agency, Washington, D.C.
Jeremy, the data clerk, stared at the list of names on his computer screen. As his supervisor, Mr. Porter, walked by, Jeremy flagged him over. “Mr. Porter, I have a question.”
Porter carried his cup of coffee over to his clerk’s desk. “What’s the problem?”
“No problem. It’s just I’m not sure of the directive.”
“Which one?”
“The ETD — Enhanced Tracking Directive.”
“You know the drill.”
“Yeah, I understand the ETD. I’ve already synced everything onto the BIDTag tracking matrix, with the list of names with outstanding arrest warrants, the terror watch list, the dangerous deportees list, all criminal defendants … I’ve got all that already loaded into the system.”
“Then what’s the issue?”
“This list, sir.” He pointed to the screen. “Just got this today. It looks like the names of people who have failed to submit to the BIDTag program, the ones who haven’t been tagged. I assumed, based on your memo, they needed to be in-putted too.”
“Right. The nontaggers. You need to put them into the same ETD system.”
“Okay, I’ve been doing that. For some time. I’m up to the Js now. But two questions. First, if they haven’t been tagged, how are we going to track them under the ETD system?”
“You forgot,” Porter said, pointing to the computer screen, “to do this.” He touched a small icon that read — FRS. When he did, a small box on the screen lit up with the words Facial Recognition System.
“You have to make sure you also load the nontaggers into the FRS program. So we can pick them up using facial-recognition coordinates off their drivers licenses rather than the BIDTag, which, of course, they won’t have. Then we can pick them up through the video scanners and follow them wherever they are, just like the others on the list.”
“Gotcha,” the clerk said with a nod. “Second question. This is a list of people who never got their BIDTag. But today’s the deadline. Some of them may have waited until the last minute to get their laser tag.”
“No problem,” Porter said. “We can simply purge their names from the list if they end up getting tagged today.”
The supervisor gave a nod, indicating the end of the discussion, and he toted his coffee back to his office. The clerk returned to the list of names. He touched the screen to feed the next nontagger’s name on the list into the tracking system.
The screen read: “JORDAN, ABIGAIL.”
FIVE
The prisoner, Captain Jimmy Louder, was in his green jumpsuit, his face gaunt and eyes sunken. He was thinner now than in the pictures Joshua had seen in Seoul.
In the North Korean facility in Pyongyang, Louder was sitting at a metal table in a stark white conference room. Two military guards in drab olive uniforms and square caps were a few feet behind him, standing at attention, ramrod straight. Each held an automatic weapon.
Across the table, Gavi and Rivka, with their Red Cross ID badges hanging from their necks, sat on either side of Joshua. Gavi had a clipboard and was reading from it — a banal series of questions, inconsequential but perfunctory sounding. He asked about Louder’s physical condition, sleeping habits, medical attention …
Joshua stole a glance at his Allfone watch. They had been there three minutes. Two to go. Then it would begin. He felt the sweat trickling down his back, and his heart pounded. For an instant he wondered if the thumping in his chest was loud enough for the guards to hear. An impossibility, he knew, but he f
elt vulnerable. He was feeling his age. He could no longer run ten miles without getting winded or breeze through survival exercises. The years were catching up with him. He was not the special-ops pilot he used to be, but just a civilian defense contractor, currently barred from returning to his own country. And now he was in North Korea, trying to help a fellow pilot. As Joshua sat in the metal chair he wished he could encourage Louder somehow about the rescue that was about to take place, but he knew he couldn’t. He had one simple hope, and he put it into a silent prayer. God, I don’t want to let this poor guy down. Help me. And he added another unspoken request. And let me see Abigail again.
“Your eating habits,” Gavi said to Louder without a flicker of tension, with an almost bored expression. “Are you eating regularly?”
Louder nodded. His eyes showed that he might be expecting something, but what, Joshua couldn’t decipher. Did he know about the mission?
“Yes,” Louder replied, “I’m eating.”
Joshua had one job now, as he sat across from Louder. He simply had to keep his cool. That was it. But it was crucial. The plan to use these two Israeli Mossad agents, posing as Red Cross workers, to launch a rescue had been in the works for over a year. In the White House, President Tulrude had balked, undoubtedly because of her stated goal of melding the United States with the growing international movement toward a single global government. Then there was the pressure from Tulrude’s close confidant — the secretary-general of the United Nations, Alexander Coliquin. He had urged the president against taking any unilateral action, even against tyrannical nations like North Korea, and presumably including even the rescue of a downed American pilot, for fear of another retaliatory nuclear strike. That concern had struck Joshua as far-fetched as long as the United States still had Joshua’s RTS anti-missile-system technology. On the other hand, Joshua also knew how the Pentagon had decided to rescue one of its own, quietly, under the radar, encouraging and assisting the mission to get Louder out.
