by Tim LaHaye
“She’s top notch. Controversy doesn’t mean she doesn’t have credibility. I can’t tell you details yet, but she has some strong suspicions, and I think she may be right on target. So the question is — do you want to save the senator?” Gallagher raised a toasted English muffin, shook his head with a sorrowful look as he examined it, and took a large bite.
Boling leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. “Okay. I need to trust you here. Which is probably my first mistake.”
Instead of giving another smart-aleck zinger, Gallagher just listened as Boling continued.
“You probably figured out why I’m up here in Casper, Gallagher. Hewbright’s Senate seat is from Wyoming. His local office is here in Casper. So I’m doing the obvious.”
Gallagher offered his take on that. “Obvious as in, scrounging for leads among the locals from Hewbright’s stomping ground. And as in, questioning Hewbright’s local office for details on the campaign worker killed in Wichita?”
Boling smiled.
“Any leads?” Gallagher asked.
“Not yet. And if I had any, I couldn’t tell you the gritty details. You’re a civilian now, Gallagher. Sorry.”
“And of course,” Gallagher said nonchalantly, “you checked the records for the visitors to the Wichita campaign office where the victim worked. To see who, from Hewbright’s circle of confidants, may have visited there shortly before Tedrich’s disappearance?”
“Did you even consider the fact,” Boling shot back, “that the murder may have been purely random — with no political connection to Hewbright’s campaign at all?”
“Could be,” Gallagher replied, “but I’d still check it out, people in—people out.”
“Don’t worry. The local police are already doing the spadework.”
“I’d check it yourself. Real close. Find out who from Hewbright’s national staff may have visited Tedrich unofficially right before he vanished.”
Boling squinted. “I just might do that.” Then he added, “So, Gallagher, I just have one question.”
“Yeah?”
“What’s Abigail Jordan’s interest in all this?”
“Seems clear enough to me,” Gallagher said with a shrug as he popped the rest of the English muffin into his mouth. When he was done and his mouth was empty, he wiped it with a napkin and then finished his thought.
“She wants to save America.”
TWENTY
As she sat with her mother in the family’s New York penthouse, Deborah Jordan felt particularly low. She had just realized that she was like her father in one way — she too could bury her hurt and pretend it wasn’t there. But only for a while. Eventually it would come bubbling out. Like now.
Deborah had to admit her mother was right. “Okay. Sure. At the time, yes, I was devastated.”
“I know you were, dear,” Abigail said, “but what about now? How do you feel about Ethan?”
“I know it was the right thing to do,” Deborah said. She was pensive but sure she was right. Outside, the night had fallen and the lights of the New York City skyline outlined the skyscrapers, as if they were studded with tiny blinking jewels.
Deborah rested her foot on her overnight bag, which was already packed on the floor in front of her. “I like Ethan,” she said. “He’s a good man … just not the one for me. Since we broke up I’ve been absolutely convinced of that. But I owe him some contact. I want to find out how he’s doing.”
There was a flicker of a smile in the corner of Abigail’s mouth. “Oh, he’s probably been dragged into a world of trouble, considering that your father’s his boss now …”
Both of them burst into laughter.
Deborah reached out and rubbed her mother’s hand. “You really miss Dad, don’t you?”
“Honey, I ache for Josh. I know the Lord is allowing this for some reason. But it does hurt being away from him.”
“I miss him too,” Deborah said. “My constant prayer is that all of us — you, Dad, Cal, and I — can have a grand reunion sometime. Very soon, I hope.”
“I feel in my heart it’s going to happen. You may be too young to think this way — but I also feel this wonderful peace — about all of us being together with the Lord. Heaven is going to be the ultimate reunion.”
“Lately you and Dad seem to be talking end-times stuff constantly. It’s pretty clear you think things are rushing toward the last days, don’t you?”
“I know some of the media coverage makes us look like we’re running around crying that the sky is falling. But when God lays it out in the Bible, and you see the pattern of world events converging — lining up the way that Scripture describes — I think it would be wrong to keep quiet about it.”
Deborah tapped the back of her mother’s hand with her finger. “This,” Deborah said, “is going to be a problem for you, Mom. I’m hearing all kinds of stuff at the Pentagon about how the feds are going after nontaggers. That’s what they are calling you people who didn’t get the BIDTag. On the other hand, there’s something else … maybe good news.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s this guy, Tom Birdow, he works at DISA, the defense information agency. He’s always stopping by my desk —”
“My daughter, the man magnet!”
Deborah tried not to smile but found it impossible. “Oh, you are such a mom …”
“Alright, so this Tom guy …”
“Yeah, he’s always dropping tidbits of information about what’s happening with the Security Identification Agency and Homeland Security regarding the BIDTag. Right before I came up here, he mentioned a possible amnesty program for nontaggers. President Tulrude shot it down, but Tom heard it may come up again.”
Abigail smiled and looked out at the black sky and the twinkling lights of the city. “Don’t worry about that, darling,” she said to her daughter. “I won’t be getting a BIDTag. That’s all there is to it.”
Deborah’s eyes flashed like she wanted to pursue it, but instead, she switched to something else. “What were you and Cal talking about earlier — after we got home from the movie?”
“About some concerns of mine, about Senator Hewbright’s campaign and the senator himself.”
“Concerns … like what?”
Abigail leaned over and pulled her daughter close. “My dear, have I told you lately how proud I am of your position at the Pentagon?”
Deborah rolled her eyes and smiled. “Nice dodge, Mom.”
“No, not dodging. The fact is that you work in the Department of Defense. Given that, I have to be careful about the things I can share with you.”
“Come on …”
“I’m serious. I don’t want to put you in a compromising position because of information you learn from me. You know, about the Roundtable. Things like that.”
“So — you’re shutting me out?”
“No. I’m protecting you.”
“I still think that’s a lame excuse, pardon my bluntness.”
“Once in a while you remind me so much of your dad. Blunt is okay. Sometimes.”
Abigail looked down at Deborah’s overnight bag on the floor. “I’m sorry to see you leave, but you’d better get going so you can catch your cab to the station. The zip train isn’t going to wait.”
As Deborah stood up and gave her mother a long hug, Abigail whispered in her ear, “Who knows, dear, how God might use your position at the Pentagon.”
Los Angeles, California
The banquet hall was filled with fourteen hundred campaign contributors, who had all given at least $20,000 apiece. In the soft glow of the crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, President Tulrude was wrapping up her address to her party faithful.
The waitstaff hurried the plates from the table, careful not to intrude on the president’s address. In the back of the room, one of the smiling waiters had his Allfone turned on video function and was holding it discreetly under a towel with the lens pointing at the president.
“And no
one can deny,” she said, “my impressive record on national security. Since my succession to the White House and the implementation of my BIDTag program, not a single act of terrorism has been perpetrated against this great nation. When I took over, we had domestic airplanes being shot at and a nuclear nightmare in New Jersey. Today we are safer than we have ever been. Terrorists like Anwar al-Madrassa and his ilk are on the run, hiding in their caves. We have them stymied because they cannot sneak their operatives across our borders. They can’t have their thugs show up at airports, malls, public buildings, sports stadiums, or train stations — because if they do, our BIDTag scanners will pick them up. If they have been tagged, then we have access to their data. And if they haven’t been tagged, our nationwide scanners in every public place will alert us — so either way, in a heartbeat, we’ve got them!”
That provoked a standing ovation. It lasted a full minute. When the crowd finally returned to their seats, Tulrude continued, “We have answered the pundits who said my program wouldn’t work. We have responded to the civil-liberties advocates — I know many of them personally and respect them — and the courts have upheld the constitutionality of my identification program. As for the fanatics who wail and moan about my bringing about the end of the world, wondering whether I have a 666 on my forehead …” The room erupted in raucous laughter. “As for them,” she continued, “if they say I’m the devil, well, then I say to hell with them!”
Gleefully, the audience rose again to their feet, laughing, shouting, and applauding wildly.
Islamabad, Pakistan
In a sparsely furnished apartment off Ibn-e Sina Road, the reigning terror King, Anwar al-Madrassa, was holding court. His three deputies sat on the floor in front of him. Madrassa was lounging on a worn couch next to a tea table, on which stood a tarnished brass hookah. The screen on Madrassa’s personal laptop was illuminated. They had just finished watching a video on YouTube.
Madrassa smiled beneficently. “So, you all paid close attention to President Tulrude’s remarks?”
The deputies on the floor nodded in unison.
“And what did you notice?”
One lieutenant offered a thought. “She is arrogant.”
“Of course, of course,” Madrassa said, brushing it off. “She is an American infidel.”
Smiles and chuckles from the men on the floor.
Another deputy shouted out. “She is very proud of her BIDTag program.”
“Ah, yes,” Madrassa said, nodding, “boasting that there have been no attacks on her homeland since it began. What she does not know is that we take our time. And now, my beloved friends, that time has come.”
He reached down to his laptop and tapped a corner of the screen, then waved his finger over the menu until two photographs appeared. Under each was a name in Arabic.
Madrassa explained, “I have been in touch with certain intermediaries. They, in turn, have been in contact with the highest political powers. You see? From this humble little apartment, Allah be praised, our influence has now reached all the way up to the meeting places of world leaders. By using their blind assistance, we will begin to mount our most dramatic campaign of all. The first stage is ready to begin. Would you like to see for yourselves who will be the first targets of our fiery retribution?”
The eyes of the men on the floor flashed.
Anwar al-Madrassa turned the screen so they could examine the faces. “Two infidel enemies of our most holy jihad have set themselves against us … but not for long.”
On the screen was a photo of a man and of a woman. Under the pictures were names.
Joshua Jordan. Abigail Jordan.
TWENTY-ONE
Haifa, Israel
From his position high on the exterior metal safety walkway of Israel’s new energy facility, Joshua had a spectacular view of Haifa Bay and the azure waters of the Mediterranean. He could see flames shooting up from Israel’s oil and gas platforms off the coast and the large blades of wind turbines that had been constructed along the shoreline.
His guide, Joel Harmon, one of Israel’s rising political stars, had connected with Joshua a few days earlier. He had invited Joshua to join him on a tour of the Haifa energy reprocessing plant today. It was under tight security, but Harmon, with his credentials, was able to whisk his guest through the double gates guarded by armed security and onto the grounds of the facility without a problem.
Harmon nodded to the display of energy infrastructure that stretched out along the coast. “Israel has been blessed with energy resources and the advanced technology to develop them. But what I am about to show you now is the most startling resource of all. No one saw this one coming. Of course, when we were able to turn back that incoming nuke from Iran with your RTS system and it dropped on the Golan Heights for lack of fuel, we all had the same thought — to retrieve the thing before our enemies got their hands on it. Which we did. But then there was a second thought — get the nuclear material, the uranium and plutonium, out of the warhead. As you know, under Prime Minister Bensky we’ve been tied into treaties that prohibit us from developing defensive nuclear weapons. So, forget the military uses of the material.”
“So you’re using it for nuclear energy.”
“Exactly,” Harmon replied. He was pumped now, and Joshua saw it in his face. “As the newest member of the energy committee for the Knesset, I was all over that one. But this,” Harmon said, pointing to the metal door next to them on the fourth-story entrance to the massive building, “this was the crème de la crème.” He swung open the heavy door.
Inside, Joshua found himself on a metal catwalk several stories above the energy-processing operation. Below he could see a truck dumping a load onto a platform, with another right behind it in line.
Harmon explained, “When the invaders came at us two years ago, led by the Russian army, they were all using the hardware developed by Moscow. Very ingenious. Israel’s military radar is usually very effective, but the Russians built troop carriers and missile launchers, even tanks, not out of metal — but with lignostone.”
“Right,” Joshua added, “super-compressed wood. I’ve followed the research for years. In fact, I personally saw a handgun made out of it back in Seoul … at an uncomfortably close range. Impressive stuff.”
“You bet. Hard as steel but easy to cloak from radar because the material absorbs the radar pulse rather than reflecting it back like metal does. That gave our enemies a considerable advantage when they placed their troops near our borders. The couple extra hours of antiradar cloaking gave them a huge head start.” Harmon pointed to the truck down below. “After the war, when the dust cleared, we discovered we had our hands on massive amounts of lignostone. Tons and tons of it. The bright guys at the Technion Institute and several energy companies got to thinking — why not convert all this lignostone to combustible fuel?”
They walked along the catwalk, watching a load of scrap material being fed onto a conveyor belt that was moving it toward several grinding stations and then on to series of low-temperature furnaces. Joshua was already thinking about the remarkable fulfillment of a centuries-old biblical prophecy.
“The key here,” Harmon said, “was to create a usable material that can fuel Israel’s energy needs. So, how long do you think all of these lignostone armaments will provide energy for Israel?”
Joshua laughed. “Let me guess — seven years’ worth of burnable energy, precisely. Exactly as predicted in the book of Ezekiel …”
“Chapter 39, verses 9 and 10,” Harmon added with a grin. “So, as I was saying, we’ve been burning this material for the last two years at this new facility and processing it into reusable energy cells. According to the Old Testament, we’ve got another five years of home heating left for Israel. Josh, you are a Christian, and I am a Jew. We have that between us. But we are joined by something important. We both revere the Bible as the Word of God.”
“Yes, and something else.”
“Oh?”
“We
both believe in the Messiah and know that He’s coming,” Joshua said. “I know His name to be Yeshua — Jesus, the Christ. You, on the other hand, still have to figure out whether your Messiah’s coming to this world will be His first time or His second.”
Harmon chuckled and waved an index finger at Joshua. “A discussion to be continued later.”
They walked down the metal stairs to the third level, where Joel Harmon led them to an elevator to the ground floor.
“The helicopter is waiting on the helipad,” Harmon said as they walked outside. “Since you’re an MIT grad and a world-class engineer, I figured you’d appreciate a tour of our facility here. Also, you’re getting a peek at some good news about Israel’s future.”
Joshua thanked him as they rounded the corner of the massive building.
Harmon suddenly became somber. “Now for the tough part about our future. When you arrive in Jerusalem and meet with Prime Minister Benksy, you will find him surrounded by vipers.”
“That’s a pretty harsh assessment.”
“I’m being frank. Bensky’s a good man, but he’s living under a geopolitical delusion, as if he’s been bewitched by advisors who have sold him on this crazy plan of the U.N.’s secretary-general.”
“I already have strong feelings about Coliquin.”
“Sure,” Harmon said shrugging, “I read the quote in the Jerusalem Herald where you called Coliquin ‘an impressive voice full of reason, hope, and peace, but with an agenda straight from hell.’ And you call me harsh!” Joel Harmon capped it off with a snicker.
Joshua gave him a befuddled look. “Joel, that’s why I questioned your decision to have me join you and the members of your Hamonah party when you meet with Bensky this afternoon. I’m nothing but a lightning rod.”
“So maybe we need a lightning strike.” After a moment, Harmon added, “Look, Josh, whether you like it or not, when your RTS system saved Israel from that Iranian nuke attack the year before last, you became a hero to a lot of Israelis.”