Thunder of Heaven: A Joshua Jordan Novel

by Tim LaHaye

  Tulrude said, “We will be executing the constitutional transfer of power shortly.”

  “Excuse my bluntness, but this needs to be done quickly … if what you are telling me is true.”

  Tulrude’s eyes glinted with an inner explosion. “Are you questioning my honesty, Mr. Secretary of Defense?”

  “No, only the medical judgment of those who say the president is unable to execute the duties of the presidency.”

  “Well,” she snapped back, “that’s not your call to make, is it?”

  “I suppose not — ”

  “What is your question, Roland?”

  “It’s about Joshua Jordan. The Israeli government has indicated that during a test run of the RTS missile-defense system, Jordan was taken hostage and is presently inside Iran. I don’t have to tell you how sensitive this situation is. Jordan possesses vital American-defense information.”

  “You mean vital if we continue to use his RTS technology?”

  “Of course.”

  “But not vital if we discontinue using the RTS?”

  “That would be a reversal of policy — ”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no, but that is my call to make now that I will be assuming executive powers.”

  “But if our enemies acquire the RTS design, they could create their own Return-to-Sender laser shields.”

  “Well, if we don’t lob missiles at them, then the RTS formula won’t do them much good.”

  “If you’ll excuse me for saying so, that would represent a preposterous approach to national defense — ”

  “Well,” Tulrude blew back, “to answer your first point, no, I won’t excuse you, and secondly, I will not authorize any participation in any attempt to rescue Mr. Jordan. At least not at present. Things are much too delicate in our negotiations with Iran and Iran’s partners among the Arab League to jeopardize things with some harebrained scheme to try to get Jordan out.”

  “What about Israel’s interests?”

  “What about America’s interests? We both know about that Israel air strike against Iran’s installations. Iran fended them off. The entire Middle East is destabilized thanks to the decisions made in Tel Aviv. And you want me to worry about Israel?” She picked up a stack of news releases. “You see what the Internet dailies are saying? ‘Israel Provokes Mid-East War’ … ‘Naked Israeli Aggression — Massive Strike against Iran.’ You want more?”

  After that, Allenworth had stormed out of the White House. Now he was back at his office. He assigned his assistant secretary the distasteful task of advising the Israeli government that the United States would be unable “at present” to participate in any “direct action to accomplish the immediate rescue of Joshua Jordan. However, the United States will work through the Department of State to open up a dialogue with Iran and hopefully effect his release in the future …”

  In Tel Aviv, General Shapiro received the message from the U.S. Defense Department. He could only shake his head in disgust.

  Israel was in a state of high alert. The mission to proactively prevent Iran from launching a nuclear attack against Israel had been a disastrous failure. Now Israel had only one option: to brace for Iran’s brutal counterattack on the Israeli homeland. Israel was busy marshaling all of its military assets in hopes of stopping the inevitable.

  Shapiro delivered the news to the chief of staff for the Israeli Defense Forces. The chief, in turn, pulled together his strategic team for an emergency briefing.

  “It appears,” the chief announced, “that the Return-to-Sender system may now have an even greater significance for the defense of Israel. Which is interesting, considering the fact that its designer is now being held hostage in a jail cell somewhere in Tehran, according to our intelligence. Should we divert our attention from the task at hand, which is the defense of our very lives, homes, and families, to rescue him? What information will he be forced to divulge if we do not? And yet, even now, the Iranians may have already extracted strategic design plans from Jordan, including the details of Israel’s own version of RTS — ”

  “Don’t bank on that, General,” a voice came from the speakerphone. It was Clinton Kinney, from his hospital bed, recuperating from the two bullets that had pierced his chest, one lodging in a rib and another in his lung. “Jordan’s only been in custody for a day and a half. I don’t care what they’ve done to him up to now …”

  The group around the table at IDF command considered what they just heard.

  Then Kinney added, “The plain fact is that Joshua Jordan hasn’t spilled his guts to the Iranians. At least not yet. I’d bet my life on it.”

  The last thing Abigail asked Victoria at Hawk’s Nest was to relay a desperate request to her husband, Pack, to get a group of trained men to New York City to stop the portable nuke attack.

  Victoria had called Abigail back to relay her husband’s response: “Abby, it’s in the works. Pack has deployed a small force of operatives to New York State as we speak. We received the expense money wired to the operations account. Thanks for that. One thing you need to know. Pack will not be considered a part of this. The Patriots are not part of this. Our men on the ground know only that you, as de facto leader of the Roundtable, are the one directing and authorizing this offensive. If things go bad …”

  Victoria didn’t have to finish the sentence. Abigail knew only too well the nightmare in store for her if this privately funded strike force of paramilitary agents was unsuccessful, or if innocent lives were lost in the attempt, or if they were just plain wrong about the threat to begin with. She was walking the outer line of treason in a desperate attempt to save her country.

  Now Abigail was on the phone with retired Army general Rocky Bridger. She had explained Josh’s desperate situation as a captive of the Iranians. She knew this wasn’t the first hostage situation Bridger had encountered.

  “Abigail, have you tried to reach your friend in the Patriot’s group about Joshua being captured?”

  “Yes, and I can’t get through.”

  Abigail knew, of course, that Pack McHenry was at some unnamed location in Paris, knee-deep in surveillance of the Russian offensive.

  When Abigail told Rocky Bridger that the Patriots were out of the mix, Bridger had only one plan for the rescue of Joshua.

  “Abby, I’m going to call together some special-ops guys I know. They’re all out of active service now, but well trained. Good men. If I ask them, they might just lend a hand. But I need some pretty powerful intel about where they’re keeping Joshua — maps of the area, scouting reports, structural details about the building itself …”

  Abigail understood. “I’m going to give you General Shapiro’s international number in Israel. He’s my contact. If anyone would know that information, it would be him.”

  Cal had been sitting next to his mother during the call. When she clicked off the phone, he opened up. “Okay, Mom. First things first. We need to pray.”

  FORTY-SIX

  Inside the metal barn in the Shenandoah Valley, Korstikoff stood over the portable nuclear weapon. It was close to completion. The delicate operations involving the neutron initiator and the use of uranium deuteride as the neutron source still needed to be dealt with, but he had personally supervised Iran’s development of those components. Once the initiator had been connected to the bomb, Korstikoff felt satisfied it would be a work of perfection. Now they were only hours away.

  The only other thing that needed to be done was to make the encrypted sat-fone calls to the collaborators to the north who were simultaneously preparing their bomb for New York City. The two teams would confirm final assembly and then coordinate the strikes so they would be only minutes apart. Even though the call should be very secure, they were taking no chances. Each had a method of making sure that no other telecommunications took place within a fifteen-mile radius of their positions. Their special devices would ensure absolute secrecy.

  When all of that was done, they would delicately load the bomb onto the truck, which wo
uld head up I-81 toward I-66, then into Washington, down Constitution Boulevard, and straight for the Capitol.

  The route would take the truck to a cul-de-sac at the bottom of the hill under the Capitol building, in the shadow of the Washington Monument, which was only a few blocks away.

  When detonated, this bomb, the bigger of the two, would send out a blast-furnace shock wave with the heat intensity of the sun. It would obliterate the Capitol and all of the members of the Senate and the House of Representatives. The White House would be blown clear off the surface of the earth. All the Senate and House offices and their staffs would be incinerated instantly. The Supreme Court, the Library of Congress, the Smithsonian, and the central offices of the entire federal government would be vaporized.

  Much of the Pentagon, farther from Capitol Hill and closer to the Beltway, would be devastated, though there would be survivors. But America’s ability to make immediate military decisions would be paralyzed.

  The rest of Washington, D.C. — the apartment buildings, condos, shops, the glass commercial towers housing lobbying organizations, law firms, trade associations — all would be shattered and in flames.

  The marble monuments, Lincoln, Jefferson, Washington, would be blown into rubble.

  Korstikoff looked at his watch. He needed to check his flight out of Dulles to make sure it was still on time. He wanted to avoid Reagan National. He had no intention of being anywhere near the blast.

  John Gallagher was twenty miles from the exit off of I-81 that led to the spot where he was betting the nuclear terror cell might have set up shop. He was gambling on a location designated by the KGB decades before.

  His Allfone rang. He clicked it on. A familiar voice from the past said, “John, Frank Treumeth here. Long time — ”

  “You said it,” said Gallagher.

  “You sound like you’re in a rush — ”

  “That’s putting it mildly. I gotta crisis. I’m working freelance now.”

  “Gee, John, that kinda language makes me nervous. I’m running an outdoors shop now; fishing gear, kayak tours — ”

  “You still own guns?”

  “You kidding?”

  “Still know how to shoot ‘em?”

  “Okay, what’s up?”

  “A portable nuke has been located here in the valley.”

  “What!”

  “I’m not kidding. Excellent intelligence on this. The Feds are in total denial.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t get me started. I just need to know if you can help …”

  “Who you working for?”

  “Does the name Joshua Jordan mean anything?”

  “The Air Force laser guy?”

  “Right. Washington doesn’t trust him, but I do. He’s received credible evidence of a suitcase-type nuclear device being assembled not far from you. The clock’s ticking. This may have to be a citizen’s arrest …”

  “Okay, listen, John. You’re a good guy, did some pretty gutsy stuff in your career. But here’s what I heard … you were ordered into some kind of counseling cause you didn’t cooperate. You got pushed out of the Bureau. I’m sorry buddy, but this whole thing sounds crazy — ”

  “I don’t beg well. I can’t get down on my knees ‘cause I’ve got arthritis. But if could, I would. I’m on my knees, crying like a little girl for you to help me.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “I know you’re connected here. I don’t think the Feds will get involved, or if they do, it’ll be too late. I’m sure you got street cred out here in Petticoat Junction, you know, with officer Barney Fife or whoever’s the local constable. You need to round them up and get some firepower to join me at the site.”

  “What site?”

  “I have reason to believe — ”

  “So you don’t know for sure?”

  “Not absolutely.”

  Frank Treumeth groaned on the other end.

  “How do I get through to you, Frank?”

  Then someone, a woman in the background, was yelling something to Frank, who yelled back, “Honey, it’s John Gallagher. He’s on the phone.”

  Then Gallagher could hear Frank’s wife groaning too.

  “Look, John,” said Frank, “I think I need to talk this over with Sandra first. This is really way out there.”

  “Fine,” Gallagher said, “go ahead and talk it over, but I’m telling you, it’s time to cross the Delaware. You know? We gotta stop the Hessians and save the Republic. You with me or not?”

  Pause.

  “Okay,” Frank said. “Whatever …” Then he hung up.

  Minutes later Gallagher saw a sign saying that his exit was ten miles away. His esophagus was burning again. Stress.

  He started calculating the ludicrous stand he was about to make. One man against … how many? He had his clip-loaded Berretta with him and a permit to carry. He also had his 357 Magnum Short Barrel with him. But these guys, if he knew anything about terror cells, would have armed guards packing automatic weapons, maybe shoulder-mounted grenade launchers.

  If they really had a small nuke destined to turn Washington into a big landfill, they weren’t going down easy.

  More acid searing his chest.

  His Allfone rang. He snapped it on. He hit the Video button this time; if Frank was going to turn him down, he was going to do it to his face.

  Frank Treumeth’s face flickered on the screen.

  “Okay, I talked to my wife.” Frank didn’t look happy. “You know, John, she remembers you from the Bureau. Never liked you. Didn’t know if you were aware of that.”

  “So you’re going to let your country be destroyed because your wife thinks I’m a jerk …”

  “Not exactly.”

  Gallagher was listening.

  “Despite all that … I told her I didn’t feel I had enough to go on to stick my neck out for you …”

  Gallagher kept listening.

  “And Sandra said, and I quote, ‘Then you’re gutless, Frank.’ So,” Frank continued, “I put in a call to Corby Colwin, the deputy sheriff. He’s on his way over here. I didn’t tell him much, for obvious reasons, but Corby and I will meet you in his cruiser. Where will you be?”

  Gallagher gave him the exit number, which was right in front of him at the moment, and clicked off the cell. He turned onto the exit ramp and pulled over on the shoulder by the stop sign to wait.

  He leaned back in the driver’s seat and whispered, “Thank You, God.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Deputy Corby Colwin, Frank Treumeth, and John Gallagher stood in front of the security gate a quarter of a mile down the gravel road from the sign that read “Mountain Pass Machine Parts Co.” The electronic gate was locked.

  Deputy Colwin scrunched up his face, as if he was about to be slapped. “Okay … this is a problem.”

  Gallagher said, “We can’t afford to announce ourselves. I say we take a trek through the woods.”

  Frank said, “Okay, but if those people really are in there, won’t they have sensors out in the woods too?”

  “Yeah, but they might just attribute that to a false signal, some animal or something. Our options are limited here.”

  “Okay, hear me out,” the deputy said. “I know you say this could be serious — ”

  “Right,” Gallagher snapped. “Nuclear weapons … mass destruction … somewhat serious, I’d say, yeah …”

  The deputy said, “And I don’t have a warrant.”

  “You’ve got exigent circumstances.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Gallagher. I’ve only got your word on this nuclear business.”

  Frank said, “Corby, how about zoning? The sign said this is a light industrial shop here. But isn’t this all zoned A-1 agricultural?”

  “I suppose you’re right. But only technically.”

  “Great. Then you’ve got probable cause to enter their property. You’ve got Gallagher’s report and a possible violation of zoning restrictions. That’ll do, won’t it?”

/>   Deputy Colwin was squinting and fidgeting.

  “All we’re asking,” Frank said, almost pleading, “is that you take a walk with us onto their property and take a look-see. No big deal, right? I mean really, Corby, you’ve gone onto property to catch wildlife poachers for crying out loud. You think we just might have something here more serious than illegal shooting of coyotes?”

  Five minutes later the three of them were stomping through the thick woodland brush outside the perimeter of the barn. They came to the edge of a clearing. It was a large metal barn with a few cars and a truck in front. But no signs of life. Colwin took out a pair of binoculars. They got down to kneeling positions as Colwin studied the scene.

  “Nothing happening that I can see.”

  Then a swarthy-skinned man exited the building and walked to the truck. He entered the cab, fished out some papers, and went back inside the barn.

  “That doesn’t tell me anything,” Deputy Colwin said.

  A few minutes later, two other men walked out of the barn, carrying automatic weapons.

  “Okay,” the deputy said, “now that does tell me something …”

  The three of them crawled backward until they could safely stand up without being seen. They made their way through the underbrush back to their cars.

  Deputy Colwin said, “I’m willing to bet what we’re actually dealing with here is some heavy-duty drug trafficking.”

  “Or a bomb,” Gallagher said stiffly, “something right out of your worst nightmares.”

  Frank Treumeth was beginning to think that Gallagher might be on to something.

  Just then, they heard a quick electronic screech. Gallagher pulled out his Allfone. It was dead. He pulled out the battery, booted it back up. Nothing. It was still dead. Frank and Deputy Colwin did the same, and their Allfones were also dead.

  Colwin swiped his face with his hand. “I gotta get to the squad car, call for major backup. I need more deputies, state police, anything.” He sprinted to his cruiser and jumped in. He grabbed his police radio and tried to call dispatch. But it was dead too. “What’s going on here?”