by Tim LaHaye
The Englishman intervened. “This technician and I are on our way to an urgent assignment. We have to stay on schedule.”
“And where would this assignment be located?” The guard gave a quick glance over at the ID badge that hung from Ethan’s neck.
“Karbala,” the Brit replied.
The guard straightened up and chortled. “I don’t think you’ll be making your assignment today,” he said. “But you can try.” Then he waved them through.
Ethan leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes.
“You’re not well,” the driver said.
“It’s nothing. What do you think the guard meant by that?”
“I take it to mean they’ll be searching cars along the highway. Checking closely. We may have a problem getting you very far from here.” That was when the Brit pulled the Range Rover over and turned it around on the highway.
“Where are you going?”
“If trouble is waiting up at Karbala, I’ll take you in the opposite direction. South, toward Al Hillah.”
Ethan relaxed just a little. It looked like God was supplying another miracle. He was feeling better and better about his chances of a clean escape.
Until twenty minutes later. That’s when the Englishman pulled his car over again to the side of the highway. He reached over and snatched up a pair of binoculars from the backseat and peered through them to get a better look at some activity up ahead on the highway.
“What is it?” Ethan asked.
“Not good. A roadblock. It looks like a large number of Global Alliance troops.” If the Brit expected Ethan to start coming unglued, he was about to be surprised. Ethan nodded in a matter-of-fact kind of way, with a strange kind of resolve. “The Lord has brought me this far.” He looked out the window to a strange collection of ancient ruins off to the side of the road and recited silently in his head a few verses from Psalm 46:
God is our refuge and strength,
A very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change
And though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea.
“Who are you, really?” the driver asked with an expression that was now full of searching and maybe even some deeper questions.
“Have you heard of the Remnant?”
“Ah yes, the Jesus followers.”
“I am a hunted man.”
“Do you have friends anywhere near here?”
“I don’t know,” Ethan said wearily. “But I’m hoping that some people from my group might be looking for me. Friends of mine.” He thought about the friends he had. Former Mossad spies, ex-CIA operatives, retired FBI agents. His voice took on an optimistic tone as he managed a smile. “On second thought, knowing them, I would say they’re probably mounting a rescue attempt.”
The Brit pointed over to the ancient stone ruins off in the distance. “For the time being, I suggest you stay over there.”
“What are those?”
“Uncovered not too long ago in an excavation after the Global Alliance moved in here at New Babylon. But Alexander Colliquin supposedly got nervous having archaeologists poking around so close to his government city, so he kicked them out. History says that King Nebuchadnezzar married the daughter of the king of the Medes, but his new wife was homesick for the lush gardens of her homeland instead of the harsh desert you see around you. So, as a compromise, he built a ‘middle ground’ for her—a lush retreat, right there.” And with that he pointed to the collection of tall, interlocking stone walls in the distance that formed a kind of labyrinth. “History calls them the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. These are the real ones.” Then the Brit added, “This can be your middle ground right now. You can hide behind those walls. Until help arrives for you. Let’s hope . . .”
They shook hands and the Englishman handed him an extra plastic bottle of water before he left.
Ethan had a final thought for the other man. “Keep an eye out for some Westerners who might be looking for me. If you do see them, please tell them where I am. And bid them Godspeed for me. High speed, if possible.”
As the Range Rover roared off down the highway and Ethan began the trek toward the stone walls off in the distance, he continued to feel an increased sense of dizziness and a terrific wave of head pain. His skull felt like he had been dropped on his head from a second-story window. But instead of dwelling on that, he was stuck on something else. He couldn’t shake the parting words from the Red Cross worker. Yes, he knew God was with him, and that God alone would be his ultimate help. But he also had to wonder something else: whether any human help would get to him before the Alliance troops did.
WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM
Washington, D.C.
President Hank Hewbright had pulled together a very small group. Just two men, in fact. He had been increasingly criticized in his own administration because he was relying on an ever-narrowing circle of confidants. He certainly could not trust his own vice president. His chief of staff had received news that Darrel Zandibar had remained in close contact with Jessica Tulrude despite his protestations claiming the opposite. Zandibar had lied about that right to Hewbright’s face. Nor did the president fully trust Elizabeth Tanner from Homeland Security or Terrance Tyler, his secretary of state, or even the director of the FBI, knowing as he did how it had been infiltrated by Tulrude’s people during her administration. He was confident they were still there in the Bureau.
Was he growing paranoid? Possibly. But one thing he knew for sure: now that he’d survived impeachment, Colliquin and his Alliance had every reason to mount a more aggressive kind of offensive against the United States, or perhaps even the presidency. In light of that, how could he be too careful?
He stood in front of the big screen in the situation room that displayed, with little digital triangles, the amassing of Global Alliance troops all along the Mexican border. “Their activity is always along our southern border,” Hewbright said. “What’s down there?”
The answer came from Secretary of Defense Rollie Allenworth. “It’s close to Bluffdale, Utah.”
“Our National Data Center?” Hewbright asked. “For what purpose?”
Allenworth nodded. “As you know, that data center is the core of our digital surveillance and electronic intelligence, and the repository of practically everything that our nation knows about everything. And, of course, there also is the world’s most advanced computer hardware that makes it all possible.”
“But it’s well guarded and secure.”
“Yes. It’s right there on the grounds of the Utah National Guard. And we have a very strong military presence and security details protecting the perimeter. And we have intercept security all over the facility.”
“Then what’s the Alliance planning?”
Allenworth shrugged. “Not an internal military coup, that’s for sure. You have the full support of the Pentagon and the Joint Chiefs. And I can’t imagine that the Alliance military will mount a land invasion and try to fight their way up to Utah. We’d stop them well in advance of their ever getting close to the data center.”
“Then what?” Hewbright wondered out loud.
William Tatter, his CIA director, spoke up. “Our intel from Babylon is that Alexander Colliquin definitely wants the data center. The question is why. Our guess is either sabotage, or conversion of the facility to their own use. It’s the most advanced computing facility in the world.”
“Anything definitive?” Hewbright asked.
“Not yet. But we have a reliable asset who is located just off the China mainland; he told us once that there was a person who might know more about this than we do.”
“Who is that?”
“A Remnant resister. An expatriated American. Former air force pilot.”
Hewbright’s face lit up. “It sounds a lot like one of the good guys who’s no longer with us—Joshua Jordan.”
“Close,” Tatter said. “His name is Ethan March. He was a
protégé of Jordan’s. He’s Jordan’s successor and the leader of the Jesus Remnant movement.”
“Can we talk to him?”
“According to our contact, March had been in Athens and then relocated to Hong Kong. But we didn’t have authorization to enlist him as one of our own assets. So it all ended there.”
“If this Ethan March is half the man that Joshua Jordan was,” Allenworth interjected, “and if he knows anything about the intentions of that crazy fox Alexander Colliquin, I say we need to bring him into the fold, stat.”
Tatter agreed. “We can pursue this man, Mr. President, if you give the say-so.”
Hewbright nodded. “Then I say so. Let’s get Mr. Ethan March. Do whatever it takes to bring him in. Wherever he is.”
FIFTY-ONE
NEW BABYLON, IRAQ
In the underground interrogation bunker beneath the main palace of Chancellor Colliquin, Mr. Martisse had been pursuing the investigation into Ethan’s escape and the bizarre “accident” in the lab room. Martisse had just finished questioning witnesses, including the lab chief and his tech assistant, who had both been knocked unconscious by the mysterious blast in the control room adjacent to Animal Testing Room #6. So far, Martisse had come up with very few tangible leads.
Now a green light illuminated over the door to the concrete-walled room. Martisse stood up from his metal desk, where he had been reviewing his notes from the interrogation sessions, and strode quickly over to the door. He placed his index finger and thumb on the ID pad. A little screen lit up with the face of Alexander Colliquin on the other side of the door. Martisse tapped the icon on the screen for the retinal-scan identification for his visitor. The screen read Retinal scan verified, but with unexplained anomalies.
“Hurry up, you fool,” Colliquin growled through the speakerphone on the other side. “Let me in.”
Martisse buzzed him in, and when Colliquin swept into the room, his chief of security gave a quick bow.
“What have you learned?” Colliquin demanded.
“Not much yet. I was just preparing my report—”
“I don’t want a report,” Colliquin said with an icy stare. “I want to know what happened up in that lab room and where Ethan March is.”
“Sir, we’ve finally solved a computer glitch and have now downloaded a photo of Ethan March from the drone-bot database. We’ve shown the photo to your security detail. Two security guards thought they recognized him having entered the same elevator with them while using a lab technician’s ID tag.”
On hearing that, Colliquin clenched his jaw and glanced away for a nanosecond. He seemed to be lost in some embarrassing thought. Then he collected himself and shot back, “But that information doesn’t answer any of my questions, does it?”
Martisse shook his head.
“And you are in charge of security, are you not?”
Martisse nodded again.
“And this incident constituted a security breach, did it not?”
“Yes,” Martisse replied, swallowing hard. “Regrettably, it does.”
Inexplicably, Colliquin reached out toward Martisse, holding a hand on each side of Martisse’s head, though not touching him. Startled, Martisse began to take a step backward.
“Don’t be frightened,” Colliquin said in a cool, quiet voice. “I sense that you are anxious.”
“Your Excellency,” Martisse said in a plaintive voice, “I was going to warn you about something. The retina scan noted some ‘anomalies’ in your eyes. Perhaps you should have that checked out by an ophthalmologist.”
“No, there is no need for that,” Colliquin said. “But I can understand your concern.” His hands were still poised on either side of Martisse’s head, and now he brought his face close to the other man’s. “You see, I had a remarkable experience recently. In my private chapel. The question now is an important one: To what degree have my otherwise extraordinary natural powers been supernaturally enhanced? Until I know that, how can I accurately determine the full limits of my power? You do see my dilemma, don’t you?”
Martisse gave a confused nod of his head.
Colliquin closed his eyes, still holding his hands poised on either side of Martisse’s skull. After a moment, he opened them again. But when he did, he seemed to be looking right through Martisse and all the way to the concrete wall behind him.
Martisse, frozen in place, began to whimper and moan. “What is happening to me?” he cried out, but his arms were fixed at his side as if restrained by some magnetic force.
A cracking sound became audible. Martisse screamed as his skull, right along the top of the neurocranium, began to fracture.
And then his eyes rolled back.
Colliquin released his hands from his invisible hold and Martisse’s body dropped like a sack of meat to the floor.
As Colliquin studied the corpse, he addressed himself, as if he were delivering a college lecture. “The bony structure of the skull is quite thick. One of the thickest layers of protection for any organism known to nature. So, by my estimate, it appears that I have just exerted more than a ton of pressure in order to cause the fracture of that bony structure. And all of that by my mere act of mental will and concentration. Splendid. Absolutely splendid.”
He stepped back and took a last look at the dead man on the floor. “Good practice for the moment when I meet up with Ethan March.”
SATHER AIR BASE, IRAQ
As Rivka peeked out of the canopy of the military fighter jet, she spotted the military air base down below that was just outside of Baghdad. Ten hours earlier she had made a vow: with God’s help she was not going to let the obstacles of time or distance keep her from reaching Ethan. She was getting closer to making good on that promise.
She had flown the first leg of her trip out of Hong Kong in Zhang Lee’s private jet until they reached Bangkok, Thailand, where they landed. In the interim she had called on Gavi Davidson, a former spy partner from her Israeli Mossad days, and asked him for some urgent help. Gavi told her that a brand-new F-140 fighter jet from the IAF was fueling there in Bangkok, on a routine, long-distance test run. Gavi had to laugh when he told her that one of the few advantages of the “lousy” deal that Prime Minister Bensky had cut with Alexander Colliquin was that, at least for the time being, Israel’s forces had more mobility traveling around the world, and refueling on the way—as long as the mission was peaceful, of course.
After landing at the Bangkok commercial airport, Rivka had grabbed a cab to the military air base and met up with a young Israeli pilot who had been flying solo in the new two-seater fighter jet. When IAF headquarters in Tel Aviv found out that one of their best former Mossad agents would be sitting in the second seat, they gave their lightning-fast approval. The pilot warned her about the Mach-two-and-a-half takeoff power of the new F-140.
When the fighter jet launched off from the Singapore runway like a missile, Rivka realized the pilot wasn’t kidding—she felt as if her stomach had been relocated. But in the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. She was winging her way to Iraq. Ethan was there somewhere, and she had the invincible feeling that she was getting closer and that God would bring them together again, even though she had no idea how that was going to happen.
But now, as Rivka studied the Iraqi air base far beneath them, and as the fighter plane began its descent, Rivka’s brain went into hyperdrive. Her buddy Gavi had said he would try to rustle up a contact for her in the Baghdad area so she could catch up to Pack McHenry’s team. But Gavi gave no details and made no promises. Even though her ride in the F-140 had cut her travel time down considerably, she knew Pack and his crew were still well ahead of her. The agreed plan was that Pack and company would begin advancing toward New Babylon the minute that they were in-country. Rivka and Pack had linked their encrypted GPS devices in the event they both were in the same part of Iraq around the same time. Pack said if it worked out, he would locate her geoposition and pick her up himself. If not, Pack said he had an idea about havi
ng some friends of his track her position and give her a lift.
As soon as Rivka’s jet finished taxiing to a stop, and the landing gear was secured and the canopy popped, she stripped off her helmet and mask and began to scamper out of the jet. She yanked her Allfone out of her flight suit and hit speed dial for Gavi. It rang . . . and kept ringing. “Come on, Gavi, pick up,” she muttered. But it didn’t happen. She left a hurried message. “Gavi, it’s me, Rivka. I’m at Sather Air Base. Where is your pickup guy for me? Do you have one? Call me, please.”
She clicked off her cell and looked around. Huge concrete bunkers, a lot of large corrugated metal hangars and sheds, and several runways. Pretty much the same as when it had been turned over to the Iraqis from the U.S. military, and then later to the Global Alliance. Beyond the base she saw the flat, brown desert, with just a few palm trees and an occasional green tuft of shrubbery, and swirls of dust that drifted aimlessly.
Rivka hit another number on her Allfone, trying to get in touch with Pack and his team. But no luck there either, and she was forced to leave a message advising him of her location, asking for his, and wanting any update on the status of Ethan.
She glanced over at her F-140 pilot, who was now coming out of the air base security building accompanied by two Global Alliance security guards who looked to be Iraqi nationals. The three of them halted, and one of the Alliance guards passed some paperwork back to the pilot, who motioned toward Rivka. The Alliance guard shielded his eyes for a moment as he spotted Rivka, who was still in her flight suit. Then he nodded to the pilot, and he and his Alliance partner walked back into the building.
Rivka prayed silently. Lord, I feel like I am stuck here now on a bad sightseeing tour. I want to be part of the rescue. Please keep Ethan safe. And bring us together, Father. She paused. Then she muttered, “And forgive my impertinence. You’re God, and I’m not. You’re in control. I do believe that, Lord. Down to the marrow of my bones.”