by Tim LaHaye
After several hours on the telephone, Carolyn spoke up. Besides Joshua, she was the one most responsible for the overall operating principals behind the RTS. She was known for her bluntness. “We’re chasing our tails.”
Joshua dismissed that. “No, we’re missing something here. We have to stay on this until we find it.”
Carolyn wouldn’t budge. “Josh, just hear me out. We’re working with half the picture until we find out what the black box says and what the voice recorder picked up in the moments before the plane exploded. Till then we’re just working blind.”
Ted the diplomat, intervened. “I think she’s saying it’s not logical to start on the premise that the RTS failed, that it was a production defect or design flaw. Maybe it’s something else — ”
Joshua cut in. “Like what? Like maybe a flock of birds hit the engines?”
Carolyn said, “Come on, Josh.”
“No, you come on. Both of you. We can’t look for the easy way out. Eighty-eight people dead — that’s the body count. We need to find out why. You’re saying we should assume pilot error in firing the RTS? Is that what you’re saying? I don’t think so …”
“We’re not saying that,” Ted countered. “Just that I was with you, remember? At the White Sands missile-test range when we ran through the commercial jet RTS tests. Ten out of ten. Perfect scores all the way around. Then the tests by the Defense Advanced Research Agency and the Missile and Space Intelligence Center. No glitches. The RTS took everything the Pentagon could throw at it.”
Carolyn broke in again. “You know what’s going to happen, right? The other defense companies with their lasers, the traditional ones that act simply as blunt-force weapons, blasting things out of the air, that sort of thing, are going to tell the Pentagon to dump us and start working with their lasers. They’ll say the RTS comes with too much risk. And the politics behind this … you have to admit, Josh, we’ve been working in a political cyclone ever since the North Korean thing. Sure, RTS worked during that crisis last year, saved New York from the incoming North Korean nukes. But Congress and the press — they treated us like Nazis, for crying out loud.”
“We’re off track,” Joshua said.
But Ted needed to counter something else. “Listen, Carolyn, your point about the blunt-force kind of lasers … we all know why they don’t work well: too heavy, too bulky. They have to intercept at too close a range. And if they miss the target, they blow up some innocent plane. The solid-state ones are still lacking, and the chemically energized lasers are like elephants. But the RTS is like a cheetah, except it’s got the IQ of Einstein. Let’s keep reminding ourselves what your RTS laser defense, Joshua, has achieved. It doesn’t blast missiles out of the sky, which is still too hard to do accurately. Instead it captures data from a guidance system and recalibrates it with the speed of light. That’s revolutionary. Anyway, let’s keep an open mind … maybe, like Carolyn says, our assumptions are all wrong. Maybe it wasn’t installed properly.”
“Our staff supervised the installations on the commercial jets.”
“Then maybe another factor?”
“Look, people,” Joshua said with fatigue in his voice, “we have to face the possibility that we screwed up. And now there’s a death toll.”
“I’m not ready to take the rap for that,” Carolyn bulleted back, “not until we know every fact — and we’re far from that right now. And one more thing …”
Joshua asked, “What?”
“Like Ted says, our RTS is the best thing we’ve got to protect Americans from offensive missiles. The best. Period. Start doubting that, and more Americans are going to die.”
There was a knock on the door of Joshua’s study. Joshua put Ted and Carolyn on hold. Abigail was there in the doorway in her pajamas.
“Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“Not good. You should be asleep.”
“Are you kidding? Ted told me a few things when he called, so I have a pretty good idea about what’s going on and what’s in your head right now.”
Joshua snapped back, sharper than he should have, “So it’s Abby the mind reader?”
“On this I am. You’re shouldering the responsibility for the deaths of all those people on the Chicago flight. It was a horrible thing, but you can’t put this on yourself.”
“And why not?”
“Because it’s too early in the investigation to start taking blame.”
“Why is everyone trying to get me to shirk this thing?”
“No one’s doing that.”
“Sure you are. And Ted and Carolyn too. I’m the only one willing to admit failure.”
“Or maybe …,” Abigail started to say.
“What?”
Abigail’s eyes flashed. “Maybe it’s your maddening perfectionism, Josh, your obsession. Whether it’s missile defense or your children or — ”
“This isn’t about me.”
“I think it is. You’re too quick to beat yourself up. You’re a glutton for punishment over this RTS thing …”
Joshua shook his head.
Abigail bowed hers. “Sorry. That was a rotten thing to say.”
After a few moments of silence, Joshua said, “I’ve got to get back to my conference call. I’m flying out early tomorrow, back to the office. The jet’s ready.”
“Cal’s going to be disappointed. He’s arriving tomorrow afternoon.”
“He’ll understand.”
“He said he had something to tell you.”
“Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait.” Then Joshua softened. “Look, tell him we’ll definitely talk, okay?”
Then Joshua thought of something. “Did Ethan March stay overnight?”
“Yes. I put him in the guest wing. That all right?”
“Fine.”
“Speaking of New York, I didn’t tell you …”
“What?”
“Got a letter from Pastor Campbell. It was a thank-you for the gift I sent from both of us, the one for the Eternity Church inner-city project. He said he was looking forward to another round of golf with you, you know, when you’re back in the city.”
Joshua didn’t answer. Golf seemed absurdly irrelevant at the moment.
“Okay, I’ll leave you alone.” As she was about to leave, she added, “I’m just thankful we have our daughter, considering what could have happened.”
Joshua nodded. He was embarrassed that his RTS analysis had distracted him from the fact that Deborah was safe and sound … thanks to Ethan.
But when Joshua looked back to where Abigail had been standing, she was gone, and the door was closed.
THIRTEEN
In the City of Taraz, at the border of Northern Kyrgyzstan and Southern Kazakhstan
It was a fine day for planning death and mass destruction.
Particularly for the silver-haired Ivan Radinovad, Russia’s debonair chief of special operations. For several years he had headed up a secret project, something called — “Invisible Bear.” Now it was on the verge of final, devastating implementation.
Radinovad leaned back in his chair and looked around the room. He was pleased with his new strategic headquarters. He had taken over the old stone-walled museum situated on the ancient Silk Road. The museum was part of the mausoleum of Manas, who was a folk hero and an ancient mythical figure in Central Asia. Considering the discussion he was about to have, there was a certain poetic symbolism in his selection of this place. According to legend, Manas sported a variety of magical weapons, and when he died, his widow put a false inscription on his grave to trick his enemies so they wouldn’t desecrate his resting place.
So there it was. Advanced weaponry and deception. Nothing could epitomize Russia’s plan better than that.
And Kyrgyzstan was a good choice to house Russia’s secret meetings for dominance, which involved its partnership with Iran and North Korea. It was remote and would avoid the global scrutiny of Moscow or its other major cities. Over the years Russia had gat
hered back its union of former Soviet republics.
Russia’s concerns about a watching world were justified. It had provided missile technology to North Korea. And back in 2010, Russia had successfully defied the world and provided enriched uranium to Iran for its nuclear program and had even helped build its reactors.
But Iran wasn’t the focus of the meeting that day with Radinovad.
Today it was North Korea’s turn.
The Russian looked across the table at the emotionless face of Po Kungang, North Korea’s head of offensive nuclear ambitions. Po turned to his left and right. Both of his North Korean assistants gave him a quick head bow of agreement.
Po was a man of considerable power in his country. He had worked personally under Jang Song-taek, the man selected to insure the transition of succession from Kim Jong-il to Kim’s son, Kim Jong-un, shortly before the elder Kim’s death. But Jang had been more than just a pencil-pushing bureaucrat. He ran the National Defense Commission. He was cold, unstoppable, and brutal. And for Po Kungang, he had been Jang’s most promising disciple.
“So, then, it is done,” Po announced. “And you will implement this through … intermediaries.”
The Russian nodded. “Yes. We have good connections. Well-trained cell groups. And the scientific muscle to put this together.”
“Good. North Korea will have its revenge. But like your Russia, we need the cloak of anonymity. The international community will have suspicions about who’s behind this attack. But they must never have proof. Now these cell groups … they must not be sidetracked by their own personal zeal …”
“That won’t be a problem. They share a common purpose with us. They’ve always dreamed of a nuclear strike, and now it is going to happen. A great opportunity. They won’t disappoint.”
“And the ships?” Po asked.
“We have the final route picked out. It is still easy to transfer ownership and thus switch shipping names and flags at each port without raising suspicions. We will move your ship with the nuclear material and the detonator to the first port. Meanwhile, the weapon hardware, which has been quality-controlled by our scientists, will be on another ship. They will eventually meet up in Durban, and the components will continue on to the shores of the target. Then inland, the two bombs will be assembled and driven to their destinations.”
Po nodded vigorously. “And that …,” Po said, his granite face breaking into a rare expression of joy, “is when the great flower will bloom.”
The North Korean cupped his hands and slowly, delicately, expanded his fingers, like a street mime, in the graceful arching shape of a blooming flower. But that wasn’t it. Po was simulating the image of a nuclear mushroom cloud rising in the sky.
Now they were all smiling.
FOURTEEN
HAWK’S NEST
“I’m not some giggling school girl. I’m a grown woman. Somehow you seem to forget that.”
Abigail was studying her daughter’s posture. Resistant. Arms folded over her chest. Abigail tried the reasonable approach. Sort of. “Of course you’re a grown woman, but I’m your mother. My job doesn’t end just because you’re in the top three of your class at West Point. In terms of your life, maybe Dad and I aren’t president and vice president anymore, but we still serve on your cabinet.”
“Cute analogy,” Deborah sighed, “but I need the freedom to exercise my own judgment when it comes to relationships. Okay?”
Deborah didn’t wait for an answer. She rose from her porch chair. She pretended to study the mountains and the morning sun now rising over the peaks, yet her posture gave her away. She thrust her hands in her jeans, agitated, and rocked back and forth on her toes.
Abigail had a momentary thought as she looked at the empty rustic chair that her daughter had just vacated. It had been fashioned out of intertwined tree limbs. Abigail had lovingly picked it out at a crafter’s shop in the mountains when they first moved in. How little my children understand the love that went into picking out that furniture—something masculine and rugged that Josh would like; something comfortable for the family in sit in, to dream in, to make memories in.
Abigail glanced over at her daughter and her resistant posture. Yes, you’re a woman, my darling daughter, and I do love you so. But you still have so much to learn.
Abigail had been surprised by her daughter over the last twenty-four hours. Deborah had been glued to Ethan’s side until this morning, when he announced he was taking a jog. Deborah wanted to join him, but Abigail talked her into joining her on the porch. Deborah seemed ready to fall for this man, who was still a near stranger, even if he had been her gallant rescuer. Abigail realized she still had things to learn about her own daughter.
“Deb, sit down.”
“That sounds like an order.”
“Come on. Stop the game playing. Just sit with me for a few minutes.”
Deborah cocked her head with a look of futility and dropped into the chair.
“Darling,” Abigail began again, “all I did was to remind you to guard your heart. That’s all.”
“No, it’s much more than that. I can decipher your mom-talk. Translation: you’re telling me, ‘Don’t get involved with Ethan March.’ Don’t deny it. I know you too well, and that’s exactly what you’re implying. You’ve sized him up and already have a verdict.”
“Not at all. Just take things slowly. You know very little about him.”
“Like what? Mom, this isn’t a marriage proposal we’re talking about. I’m just trying to get to know him.”
“As a Christian, you can’t be unequally partnered with a nonbeliever. The Bible’s clear on that. I didn’t come to the Lord until years after I married your father. He’s a great man and a good husband. But you know how I’ve struggled with the fact that he hasn’t made the same commitment to Christ I have. My advice is to handle first things first, like finding out where Ethan is spiritually.”
“Well, if you cut me some slack and leave us alone, maybe I could do my own personal intel, get some private time with him, and find out.”
“And there’s an age difference. He’s seven years older.”
Deborah gave an exasperated grunt and threw her head back.
Then Abigail spotted Ethan in the distance, running toward them, returning from his jog. She had to talk quickly. “Just take your time. That’s all. I respect you, trust you, love you. Which means I’ll always give you straight talk, especially about things that are really important.”
As Ethan jogged up to them, he slowed to a walk, hands on his hips as he panted.
Deborah tried not to stare, but she couldn’t help it. Ethan was in a pair of sweatpants and a tank top with the words “Big Dog” in large letters on the front. His arms and torso were well-muscled, almost sculpted. He hadn’t shaved yet. He was handsome, and she had already memorized his slightly skewed nose, but now realized that he had a scar on his left cheekbone.
While Deborah stared at Ethan, her mother was staring at her.
Ethan flashed a big smile. “Good morning, ladies.”
“Good morning, Ethan,” Abigail started. “Have a good sleep?”
“Perfect. Thanks.” He turned and took in the mountains in the distance. “Man, this place is magnificent.”
Before her mother could respond, Deborah jumped in. “Ethan, how about you and I go horseback riding? We could pack a lunch. It’ll be a blast. I bet you haven’t been given the official Hawk’s Nest tour. Come on, I’ll show you around.”
Deborah reached out and took his arm. As they walked away, she threw her mother a look as they rounded the side of the house.
Abigail was left on the porch alone. She knew that her children were, well, not children anymore. Was she having problems letting go? Or did she have fears about her own role in life right now? She had been an accomplished and successful lawyer on Capitol Hill, but being a mother was different. It defined her — down to her soul.
She sat down and put her feet up on the rough-hewn log cof
fee table, leaning back, closing her eyes, and she did what she did whenever she felt confused — she prayed. There was never anything high church about it, just plain talk to her Heavenly Father. She hadn’t known her own father very well; she was ten when he died. But God was always there, even if she sometimes ached for the Lord to be there in the flesh.
As she prayed, she lost track of time. It must have been a half an hour later when she heard car tires crunching over gravel. She opened her eyes. Her son, Cal, was climbing out of his Jeep with his suitcase in his hand.
She strolled down the porch steps, gave him a long hug, and peppered him with kisses.
“How’d your art show go? I am so sorry Dad and I couldn’t make it, but you know how proud we are. Your father was fit to be tied when he learned our jet had developed a minor gauge problem. Not a big deal apparently but you know your father. Anyway, by then we couldn’t catch a commercial flight. ”
“Don’t worry about it mom. The show was … oh, interesting, I guess. Where’s Dad?”
“Had to fly to New York at the break of dawn. Finally got the gauge problem fixed. And some security upgrades. Anyway, I know he wanted to see you, but he’s got a real crisis on his hands.”
Cal’s voice was tinged with cynicism. “Dad handling some crisis? Yeah. That’d be something new.”
Abigail replied with a sly smile, “Hey, mister, he’s bailed you out of a crisis or two.”
