by Tim LaHaye
The waiter laid the plates on the table. As he did, Campbell reached out with his knuckles and rapped them gently on the glass table top.
Tel Aviv
Abigail had taken to holding Joshua’s hand everywhere. Shopping, walking in the market, going from room to room in his apartment. This was only the second day of their reunion, and she didn’t want to let go.
“I want to stay with you,” she said in the hallway.
In the living room, Deborah was grabbing her purse, and Cal was checking his digital camera. They heard their mother and started to laugh.
“Just don’t start kissing in front of us again,” Deborah said, rolling her eyes.
“Yeah,” Cal added, “rule number one — no parental PDA in front of your offspring, even if we are adults.”
“Look, Abby, honey,” Joshua tried to explain, “I’ve got another flight planned in the F-35 LV today. We’re getting close to working the kinks out of the jet-mounted RTS system. We’d be separated anyway.”
“But we’ve been apart for two years,” she said with pleading in her voice. And she repeated it again. “Two years. I had started to feel like a widow, Josh.” She knew she was being unreasonable, but she didn’t care.
“I know, babe. This has been miserable for both of us,” he said. Then he drew her close. As he brought his lips close to hers, he turned toward his son and daughter. “Cover your eyes,” he yelled to them with a grin as they both groaned. He held her in a passionate embrace for a while. He pulled back but then went in for another kiss. More moaning from his son and daughter.
“Okay, tell me, Abby,” Joshua asked, “what is the name of that legal group you’re going to address?”
“The International Society of Lawyers.”
“Are you familiar with it?”
“The name rings a bell.”
“Who invited you?”
“I received an email from Fort Rice. He forwarded the invitation to me.”
“What are you going to talk about?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Take a guess — your case, of course. I’m the lunch speaker. They want me to address the subject of Wrongful Prosecution and Political Aspects of the American Legal System.”
“I can’t think of a better expert on the subject,” he said. “Now that the Department of Justice has voluntarily dismissed their case against me, thanks to you.”
“I think the DOJ just wanted to avoid the humiliation of our judge dismissing it in open court, so they beat the U.S. District Court to the punch.”
“You know,” Joshua said, “I was just thinking. I can call Clint McKinney and have the IDF escort you.”
“Dad,” Cal piped up, “what are you worried about? Besides, she’s not going to make it in time. We’ve got to leave right now if we’re going to make it to Jerusalem by noon.”
“I just want to make sure my bride is safe,” Joshua said.
“Really, Dad,” Deborah said, “Mom outsmarted the entire federal surveillance system, talked her way into the wilderness compound of one of the world’s most secretive recluses —”
“Yeah, thanks to me,” Cal added with a grin.
“Oh, whatever,” Deborah sniped. “And then she makes it back to D.C. in time to win your case. I think she can take care of herself.”
“Well,” Joshua said, “she’s got you two. Both of you are heroes in my book. You, Cal — getting your mom across country and back again, against everything the SIA could throw at you. And Deborah — putting your neck on the line to face down that threat to Hewbright …”
“God’s hand,” Deborah said, with a sudden and remarkable adulthood to her voice. “No question about it, Dad.”
Cal was nodding too. “Deb and I have been talking about that, how faithful the Lord has been, watching over us. All of us.”
“The sparrow,” Abigail began to say, ready to recite the familiar saying of Jesus — that even a sparrow cannot fall without the Heavenly Father’s notice. But this time it caught in her throat as she looked at her husband and thought about those words and what he did for so many years as a pilot and what he was about to do again. She began to tear up.
“What’s the matter, darling?” Joshua asked.
“Nothing,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Just full of emotions. So glad to be with you at last. All of us together. For whatever time we have.” Then she turned to Cal and Deborah. “Okay, let’s get moving.” As she stepped toward the door, she turned toward Joshua for one last look. “Have a good flight, my precious husband,” she said. She went back for one more kiss, then turned with her son and daughter and left.
Two hours later, in downtown Jerusalem on the edge of the Arab section, Abigail was on the sidewalk with a note in her hand that showed the address of the meeting. The green door to the Society of International Lawyers was locked. Cal and Deborah peeked in the windows.
“No lights. The place is shut down,” Cal said.
“Some wires got crossed,” Deborah said. “I say we take off, start our sightseeing.”
“I called my contact person,” Abigail murmured, looking at her Allfone and at the number she had called. “No answer.”
The neighborhood seemed unusually quiet. Abigail saw only one person, a shopkeeper in front of his corner grocery. In the distance was the sound of approaching vehicles. Suddenly Abigail felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. She turned to move toward their car, and she was about to shout to Cal and Deborah. But not in time.
In a single coordinated movement three vans raced in from a side street. They screeched to a halt at the curb in front of them. Doors flew open. Several armed Arab men poured out. They charged straight at the three members of the Jordan family.
SIXTY-ONE
New York, AmeriNews Network Headquarters
Terri Schultz was bolting out of her office but stopped momentarily to glance at herself in the round mirror on the wall. The news manager didn’t like what she saw. Yikes, I’m a mess. She ran a brush through her hair, grabbed her e-pad, embedded with her notes, and sprinted down the hall.
The tech assistant outside the recording room waved for her to hurry up. “Come on, Terri, he’s on the line.”
As she reached the door her assistant reminded her, “Don’t forget to get his waiver about our recording him …”
She halted and gave him a withering look. “I’ve been doing this for a decade, remember?”
Then Terri scooted into the recording booth and strapped on the headset. “Okay, Dr. Derringer, are you there?”
“I am.”
“I can’t thank you enough for your willingness to give us your expertise. Phil Rankowitz speaks very highly of you.”
“Phil and I go way back. He did a TV series years ago on our work here at the NIH.”
“We told you that we’re going to record this conversation. I sent you the written waiver. We’d like you to email that back to us, preferably right now, before we start.”
“Sure. I realize, you know, how … explosive this whole thing is. Might be. I can’t say I’m excited about getting sucked into what might be the political firestorm of the century. On the other hand, well, it is what it is, I guess …”
Dr. Derringer excused himself and turned to his office manager to discuss the waiver. He returned to Terri. “We can’t email from this desk, the computer’s down. Give me just a minute. I’ll sign it. We’ll get it to you stat. Then we can talk.”
While Terri was on hold, she placed her finger on the fingerprint ID of her e-pad, and it lit up, revealing the outline of her questions. She wiped the palm of her hand on her jeans. Wow, cold sweat. Steady girl. Just because you’re about to break a story that’s a twenty-first-century version of the Lincoln assassination, no need to unravel.
Taking a deep breath, she took stock of the moment. Phil Rankowitz had entrusted her with the medical side of this story. She figured that ought to count for something, right? And even being hired by AmeriNews was a great boost for her, after her job at
the New York Times folded when it shifted to an all-Internet format. And while she didn’t share Phil’s religious super-zeal about Jesus, they did share the desire to tell the public the truth.
Dr. Derringer came back on the line. He said he was ready. Terri checked her Allfone and saw the email. She opened the attachment. The signed waiver from the doctor was there. She gave the signal to the board operator across the glass from her to start rolling tape. Then, on the record, she asked him if he was consenting to the recording of the interview. He said yes. So she began.
“Dr. Derringer, as head of pharmacology at the National Institutes of Health, you agreed to analyze a blood sample that had been taken from former President Virgil Corland in the emergency room in a hospital in Leesburg, Virginia, shortly after he had suffered a massive episode connected with his medical condition of transient ischemic attack, is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s right. I tested the blood sample, determined that it was suitable to yield results. I examined it for several different components and to see what chemical or medical agents may have been in his bloodstream at the time. I reached some conclusions and had them double-checked with my colleagues at the NIH.”
“Do you personally know Dr. Jack Puttner, the interim physician for the president at the time?”
“No. I only know of him — that he originally had been the physician for Vice President Tulrude.”
“Can you give me a short and concise layman’s summary of what you found in the president’s blood?”
“Short and concise? I suppose I can.”
“Anything I need to know before you explain that to me?”
There was a pause. Terri prodded him a bit. “Doctor?”
“Only this — better buckle your seatbelt …”
The White House
Inside the Oval Office, Chief of Staff Natali Traup stood stiffly in the center of the carpet’s presidential seal as President Tulrude glared at her. The president stood behind her desk, her shoulders hunched and her hands flat on the desk top. Tulrude had a look of contempt mixed with fury as she began to yell. Bits of spittle flew from her mouth.
“What do you mean he won’t return your calls? Did you say who you were — that you were calling for the president of … the United States … of America?”
“Yes, I told him,” Traup said. “I called several times. I said this message is for Dr. Jack Puttner and that President Tulrude needed to speak with him immediately. That it’s a matter of grave urgency.”
“If our intel is correct, and AmeriNews is trying to do a scoop on Virgil Corland, and they’re pursuing some sick, extremist, right-wing plot to tie me to some attempt to worsen Corland’s medical situation … or even … to cause his …” But she didn’t finish the sentence. Then a thought flashed over her face, and she changed course. “You should have told Puttner in the voicemail that this is a matter of national security. You should have said that.”
“But it isn’t.”
“It is. It’s an attack on the credibility of the president — me. That’s national security.”
“No,” Traup said quietly but firmly. “It isn’t, with all due respect, Madam President. What it really is, I think, is a matter of political security. Yours. And your reelection.”
“And that directly affects you. You’d better decide whose side you’re on, because you will be called upon to apply some serious pressure on the good Doctor Puttner to play ball with us before the prosecutors sit down with him. Do you understand me?”
Natali Traup took a step backward, just off the presidential seal. “I understand,” she said quietly. “And because of that, I will have to do some thinking. About many things.”
Launch Site, Edge of the Negev Desert, Israel
Abigail had been beaten. Her left cheek was bruised, and her left eye nearly closed with swelling. Her Islamic terrorist captors had shown her no mercy. Cal and Deborah had been manhandled even worse. From her position strapped to a metal chair bolted to the floor, she could see them both, tied in their chairs next to her. Deborah was bleeding from the mouth and had a gash across her forehead, and both of Cal’s eyes had been blackened and it looked as if some of his teeth were missing.
On the other hand, four of the nine members of the Al Aqsa Jihad terror group who grabbed them were now out of commission, thanks to the ferocious struggle put up by Cal and Deborah and the injuries they dealt out: a broken arm, a busted nose, a few fractured ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a concussion.
But there were still five of them left, and they all had weapons. They captured and tied up the Jordans and dragged them into the van to be taken to the site of their captivity.
Abigail looked up at the roof of the garage that was part of the Bedouin school grounds. Half of the tin roof had been retracted with a long-handled pole and was now open. She could see the blue sky of late afternoon above. She thought about Joshua and prayed that he was safe. She knew that whatever was going on — whatever the horrid plan that their kidnappers had in mind — it must surely have something to do with Joshua and his RTS system. Maybe even retaliation for his system having been used against Iran two years before.
As she thought about that, she also studied an object nearby that looked like a long cylinder on a work bench, draped with a tarp.
A missile.
The five men huddled near a side door as if waiting for someone. Deborah whispered to her mother, though her speech was garbled because of her injuries. “Don’t like …” she started to say, but the rest was inaudible. She tried again. “Don’t like that we’re not blindfolded.”
Abigail nodded. The captors were not concerned about being recognized. They were clearly not planning on leaving witnesses. Then the door swung open.
The terror cell leader popped in. The other men smiled and bowed from the waist. Tarek Fahad spoke to them in Arabic. The men scrambled. Several headed to the work bench where they pulled the tarp off the missile containing the Elixir of Allah. The others scampered to a corner of the garage where they retrieved a satellite television camera. They set up the camera directly in front of Abigail, Cal, and Deborah. The savage broadcast would be linked to a television station, set to broadcast the live feed of their grisly fate.
SIXTY-TWO
Israeli Airspace, over the Northern Sector of the Negev Desert
In the cockpit of the F-35 LV fighter jet, Joshua peered through his helmet visor. He focused first on the forward screen on the flight deck, then the one on the left, and the lit-up LCDs on each. “I’m checking the threat warning prime and the auxiliary right now,” he reported. “They’re both operational. I’m still getting used to the layout. A different configuration than I’m used to.”
The voice of the test pilot on the ground at the control tower responded, “That’s because it’s been adapted for your RTS system. Just maintain your current airspeed. Our guys down here are going to tee-up the unarmed bird to send your way for the first test.”
There was another voice. This time it was Colonel Clint McKinney. “Hey, Josh, Clint here.”
“Good to hear your voice, man. You down there in the tower?”
“Yeah, stopped by to make sure these guys don’t go too easy on you, you know, on account of your advanced age.”
Joshua laughed. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“By the way,” Clint added, “got a message from command that I was supposed to pass on to you.”
“Oh, from who?”
“A friend of yours — Judge Fort Rice — says that Phil Rankowitz is ready to bust the big story wide open. Said you’d know what that means.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, “I sure do. Thanks.”
To Joshua, it was a long time coming. Now it sounded as if Phil had gathered enough information to break the story about President Virgil Corland’s illness, and Tulrude’s complicity in a plot to take him out. Finally, he thought, the truth about her rotten administration might get out to the American people.
Clint a
dded, “He also mentioned something about your last message to him …”
“Right,” Joshua replied, “I thanked him for passing on the invitation for Abigail to speak to that international lawyer’s group in Jerusalem today.”
“Well, that was why he was trying to get hold of you.”
“What’s up?”
“Judge Rice says that he doesn’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. He never passed on any such invitation.”
Joshua spent only two seconds processing that. Then his heart sank. “Clint, do me a favor. You’ve got Abby’s number. Give her a call immediately and make sure everything’s okay. Something doesn’t sound right.”
“I follow you,” Clint said. “Will do.”
When Joshua had first lifted off in the F-35 that day, he had felt the weight of two burdens. The first was the reason he was in the sky at that moment, trying to engineer a fix for his RTS system. But the other was down on the ground — knowing that Ethan was out there somewhere acting as a decoy on a dangerous mission. Joshua’s prayer that morning as he climbed into his flight suit had been for the safety of his protégé. But Clint McKinney’s message had just shoved all of that to the back of the line. Front and center, now, was the wellbeing of his wife.
Abby — are you safe?
Northern Bethesda, Maryland
