by Tim LaHaye
Please be advised that Special Agent Ben Boling is being transferred from the Hewbright Investigation — Case No. WK-1377 — SA Boling’s authority to inquire and access investigative data on this case number is hereby terminated.
FORTY-TWO
Charleston, South Carolina
Outside the barbecue joint, the parking lot had been rigged up with a platform that had “Hewbright for President” banners everywhere and was filled with long tables heaped with food. Deborah Jordan was waiting patiently off to the side. She had been standing there for two hours, first listening to Hewbright’s stump speech, then watching him shake hands under the watchful eye of his Secret Service agent. A parade of well-wishers lined up to fill their paper plates with barbecued chicken, baked beans, and cornbread.
Finally, she spotted Katrena Amid with her staff credentials swinging around her neck. Deb strode up to her. “Sorry to bother you, Ms. Amid, but I’m Deborah, and I spoke to you earlier today about working as a volunteer on the national staff, remember? I came recommended from Abigail Jordan. She’s a personal friend and supporter of Senator Hewbright. I’ve got Pentagon experience in information services, and I graduated from West Point.”
“Yes,” Amid said, “I remember. You’re Deborah Shelly. We were waiting for our security folks to clear you. I haven’t heard back. Sorry.”
Deb persisted. “I’ve got my own car. I’ll pay my own expenses —”
“That’s nice, but we’ve got a lot of folks who want to work in the campaign, and we can’t fit all of them in. Perhaps you can work for us in your local precinct — that would be a great help to the senator.”
Just then, Deborah noticed that Senator Hewbright had worked his way down the end of the food tables and was shaking hands with a couple. He was just twenty feet away. Deborah excused herself and hurried off in his direction before Amid could protest. The Secret Service agent stepped in front of her when she was about ten feet from Senator Hewbright.
Deborah stopped, smiled cordially, and called out to the senator. “Senator Hewbright — Abigail Jordan says hello!”
Hewbright turned and squinted in her direction. He started moving toward Deborah as Katrena Amid stepped quickly in her direction to play interference. But Deborah beat her to the punch. Hewbright was next to Deborah and tossed a relaxed nod to his security guard. Deborah explained, “Abigail Jordan recommended me as a volunteer on your staff.”
“Oh? So, how is Abigail these days?” the senator said as he shook Deborah’s hand.
“Doing well, Senator. Working on her husband’s case, I believe, trying to reverse the nonsense caused by the Tulrude administration.”
Deborah pulled a letter out of her pocket and handed it to Hewbright. “Here’s Mrs. Jordan’s letter of recommendation.”
Hewbright scanned it while Katrena Amid grimaced.
“This young lady is Deborah Shelly,” Senator Hewbright said, holding up the letter and handing it to his staffer. “It says here you graduated with honors from West Point and work at the Pentagon.”
“Yes, sir. I applied for an extended leave with the hopes of being able to help with your campaign.”
“Of course, security is getting tighter these days. They’ll have to screen you.”
“Ms. Amid has already put my name in several hours ago. I filled out your security form. We’re just waiting now.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Hewbright added. “I have great admiration for Abigail and Joshua Jordan. If they say you should be on my national team, and you get clearance from security, then I say come onboard.” He turned to his assistant campaign chief of staff. “Katrena?”
She smiled tightly. “Yes, Senator, we could use her, absolutely.”
“Well, this is the last whistle-stop for me before our national convention, which starts tomorrow in Denver. I’m flying there tonight.”
“And you have the sufficient delegate count from your primary victories,” Deborah said brightly, “to sweep the convention.” She was silently thankful she had done her homework.
“On the other hand,” Hewbright said, “anything can happen at a political convention.” He waved to her and started to step away as his national campaign director beckoned to him. Hewbright stopped and took a step back toward Deborah. “I’m sure you know I’m an old military guy myself and a member of the armed services committee for more years than I can count. I’m really happy to have someone like you onboard.”
After stopping for a moment to say something to George Caulfield, Hank Hewbright headed to the big campaign bus to get some down time.
In the campaign bus Zeta Milla was pouring a cup of coffee for Senator Hewbright. She mixed in some creamer and a packet of Sweet’N Low. “Hank, here’s your coffee, just the way you like it.”
“Wow, that’s real service. Thanks, Zeta.”
He dropped into a soft swivel chair and loosened his tie. “I know your focus is South and Central America and the island nations, but that briefing book you put together on the Russian Republics and China for my future debates with President Tulrude was exceptional.”
“Glad it was helpful. I’ve told you a million times, I’ll do whatever I can to help. You’re very special.”
He nodded humbly. “It’s been a long primary season,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “but now the convention. Then the debates, and then the home stretch to the election.”
Milla sat next to him in the other swivel chair. “If you allow me to say so, Hank, I know that Ginny, from what I knew of her, would have loved to have been here to see this. She would have been so proud of what you’ve accomplished — and all that you will accomplish as the leader of the Free World. This is your time, Hank. Relish it.”
“Funny you should mention Ginny. I haven’t said this to many people — but she’s been on my mind because of what she said shortly before she died, about her wanting to see me run.”
Zeta reached over and rubbed his hand. He squeezed back. He looked her in the eyes, then broke the gaze and slowly released her hand. “We have to be careful, Zeta. About mixing the personal with the political. Sometimes the lines get blurred. It’s not about Ginny either. She told me pointblank that I would need a woman in my life when she was gone.”
Zeta smiled and nodded, but she wasn’t surprised to hear Hank’s confession. She replied, “Whoever that woman is, she’ll be very lucky. I’ve never met a man like you, Hank.” Then she pulled his hand to her lips and kissed it. Standing up to leave, she said, “You need time. Today was a long day. I’ll be around … anything you need … anything. Just ask.”
As she walked out of the bus, she ran into George Caulfield who asked where Hewbright was.
“In the bus,” Zeta answered. “We were having some private time together.”
The campaign director stopped in his tracks and gave her a withering look. Then he mounted the steps into the bus.
Zeta continued on. There was a lot of work to do.
An hour later, Katrena Amid, holding her Allfone, strode up to Deborah. “Right. Just heard. Got an expedited approval from the security people. Looks like we’ll be seeing you in Denver. You’ll have to get your own transportation though. We’ll have your credentials by the time you arrive.”
Deborah breathed easier and thanked Katrena. In her peripheral vision Deborah caught Zeta Milla. As Katrena hurried off, Deborah casually jogged over to Milla, who was putting some papers into a briefcase. “Excuse me, but aren’t you Zeta Milla?”
The Cuban woman smiled politely. “Yes, I am.”
“I’m Deborah. New campaign worker. Volunteer. I know you’re one of the shining lights among the senator’s foreign relations advisors, and I just wanted to introduce myself.”
“Kind of you to say so,” Milla said, going back to her papers.
“I’m a West Point grad with a strong interest in foreign relations. So I’m thrilled I might be able to work with you.”
Zeta Milla turned quickly to face her. “I’m afraid not. Cam
paign staff — especially volunteers — don’t consort with professional policy advisors. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
Milla gathered up her reports, stuffed them in her briefcase, and walked quickly away.
FORTY-THREE
Abigail and Cal were in the Citation X, winging their way through the darkness back to Washington, D.C. Abigail was relieved she might be able to get to her court appearance on time after all. She glanced over at Cal, who was fast asleep and snoring loudly. But she couldn’t sleep. Her mind kept clicking despite the fatigue that threatened to overwhelm her.
The reading light above her head was on. She was cramming for the oral arguments that would commence in just a matter of hours. She knew the laws related to the issues in the case, of course, and she had the facts down cold. But she didn’t know what was on the mind of the three appellate judges who would be hearing the case. She wouldn’t know that until she was standing at the podium in the federal courtroom. The green light would flash on, signifying her turn to start her argument, and then — if everything had gone perfectly up to that point — she would argue the wrongness of the case against Joshua and field a raft of questions from the judges.
Before getting to that point, however, she had to get inside the courthouse, which meant getting past the security guards with their BIDTag scanner just inside the entrance. She lifted the back of her right hand to the light. The laser tattoo was invisible — just like the real BIDTags.
When Chiro Hashimoto had escorted her and Cal out of his lodge and down a path through the woods to a lonely cement building that had a huge satellite dish mounted behind, he assured them his system would work. “My BIDTag facsimiles are the closest counterfeit you will ever see,” he bragged, “perfect in every detail. I was able to duplicate the government’s laser imprint system. You know why?”
Before Abigail or Cal could respond, Hashimoto answered, “Because I’m the one who designed it for IntraTonics, who then sold it to the government!” And with that he laughed raucously. “I consulted with bioengineers and medical experts about using nonlethal lasers to imprint permanent, invisible code matrices on human skin. Not easy. But I did it. You have to admit — the idea was pretty cool, right?”
“Now the question is,” Cal replied, “will your counterfeit BIDTag, created out here in the forest, simulate the government’s system? Is it close enough that the tag screeners at the courthouse will give her a pass?”
“I’ve built my own scanners,” Hashimoto said as he unlocked the door to the cement building, “very close to the ones the government uses. So I can test the result. Passes every time.”
Once inside, he flicked on the florescent overhead lights. What Abigail and Cal saw was a fully functioning tech lab, complete with rows of computers linked together, laser guns inside glass tubes, and a table with microscopes. But there was more. Cal drifted over to the other side of the room where a row of chairs were lined up behind a long metal table. On the table there were rows of zephyrs, receivers, shortwave transmitters, voice analyzing screens, cryptographic cipher machines, and monitors — all cabled together in a massive tangle of electrical cords.
“This is your own listening station, isn’t it?” Cal said, pointing to the strange collection of electronics.
“We’re not finished yet,” Hashimoto said, “but when we are, I’m going to watch the government’s surveillance just as closely as they watch the citizens of America.”
“Why?” Abigail asked.
“Well, why are you here, right now with me, in the Olympic National Forest?” he shot back. “Because we don’t trust how our government has morphed — turning into a predator, devouring information about everyone in the nation. I don’t trust how it’s going to use that data. We are entering a new ice age, where freedom will be extinct. The big freeze. And so, this,” Hashimoto said, gesturing to his makeshift surveillance laboratory, “is my Ice Station Zebra.”
Cal chuckled at the movie reference. Chiro took Abigail over to one of the laser tubes. “The key,” he continued, “was to take the basic laser-imprint system I devised and refine it. Changed it so in my version the imprint is only temporary and would fade from the surface of the skin. That was really hard to do, but I did it. That way if we have to venture out into society we can laser-tag ourselves with a little invisible QRC box on the skin that contains harmless basic bits of information that will satisfy the government scanners but won’t give away anything. Then, after a few days — poof — the laser tag starts to dissolve.”
Hashimoto dumped himself onto a lab stool in front of a computer. He started typing in a flurry. “I’m creating your QRC pattern that will contain only a little bit of data about you, which I will put into the system.” When he had finished, Abigail placed her hand into a brace that lined up the back of her hand against the glass-enclosed end of the laser tube. “Okay. Now your own personal QRC matrix has been loaded into the laser for transmittal in the form of a little invisible pattern that will be lasered onto your skin. Don’t move,” he said. He typed in a code that was connected to the laser and flipped a switch. “In twenty seconds you’ll feel it,” he said. “Unlike the government’s version, you will feel mine, and it’ll hurt a little.”
The laser whirred — first softly; then, with a minor roar, a stream of light as gossamer thin as a spider web shot through the tube onto Abigail’s hand. She winced. Then it was over.
As the three of them walked back to the lodge in the dusk, Cal thought of something the tech genius had said. “You described your scanners as ‘very close’ to the kind used by the government. Which is fine as far as it goes. But have you ever sent your temporary laser tags — like the one you just gave my mom — through the government scanners to see if they will pass security?”
“Ha, ha,” Hashimoto replied.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Cal pressed.
Hashimoto’s reply left a cloud of uncertainty hanging in the air. “Do you think I would leave my compound to test it out on the federal government?”
Now, airborne in the Citation X, Abigail stared at the back of her hand, wondering what was there. Would it be her passport into the court building in Washington? The rest would have to remain as it always had remained, in the sovereignty of God. She tried to review her notes for the case, but her eyes were too heavy. Before long she was fast asleep.
FORTY-FOUR
Jerusalem
Pastor Peter Campbell staked out a spot on the Western Wall plaza to preach. He knew it would be controversial, but he fixed his eyes on the earthmoving equipment, tractors, and cranes on the Temple Mount just above the plaza. It seemed clear that the climax of history was rushing up. How could he wait? This was a time for boldness. He had left his Eternity Church in Manhattan in the hands of his assistant pastor so he could come to Jerusalem for exactly this moment. He thought about runners who had trained and prepared all of their life for the Olympics and had one chance to compete. Would any one of them balk when it was time to stride up to the starting blocks?
Forty members of his small Jerusalem congregation gathered around Campbell as he started to preach. Onlookers started drifting over to hear him. Soon the group swelled to over a hundred. Campbell had a small portable amplifier and a wireless mic headset. As he spoke, his voice was calm, unrushed.
“Two millennia ago, a fisherman-turned-disciple by the name of Peter walked into the center of this city. Filled with the Spirit of God, he told the crowd what he himself had seen and heard about the person of Jesus Christ. Peter was an eyewitness. And he gave testimony that Jesus, his beloved friend, rabbi, Savior, and King — the very Son of God — died on a bloody Roman cross not far from here. But he died for an incredible purpose — to take away the sins of everyone standing here today — me and you — everyone who ever trod these stones and everyone who ever lived. He paid the price that only the sinless Holy One of God could pay — the man who was truly God in the flesh and who had dwelled among us. He took on Himself the puni
shment destined for us and willingly accepted the sentence of torture and death. Right here in this city.
“But it didn’t end there. Jesus walked out of the tomb three days later, just as He said He would. And Peter was an eyewitness to that too. Possessing such earthshaking news, Peter could not be silent about it. And neither can I. Many years ago my life was transformed by the power of Jesus Christ who walked out of that grave — it started on the day I confessed that I was a sinner and that Jesus, the Son of God, was my Savior and Lord, and that I wanted Him to live and dwell in my heart — that is when everything changed. And it can change for you. Thousands responded to Peter’s message that day in this city two thousand years ago. But God is not interested in thousands or millions or billions. Numbers don’t impress Him. He is the one who cast a trillion stars across the universe. God will soon enter this planet and bring an end to human history. His Son, Jesus the Christ, will establish His Kingdom. But there is one particular number that does concern the heart of God.” Peter Campbell pointed his index finger up to heaven. “That number is the number one. Which means you,” and he pointed to a young man wearing a UT Longhorns football sweatshirt in the crowd. “And you.” He pointed to a mother with her hands on a baby carriage. “And you, my friend.” He gestured to a bearded Hasidim in the very back of the crowd, who was wearing a black hat and long coat.
“Today, you are building a great temple,” Campbell said, pointing to the construction on the Temple Mount. The sounds of tractor treads and diesel engines could be heard. “But know this — that God is building His temple. And it is not a thing made by human hands. It is an assembly of people who have chosen to believe in, receive, and follow Jesus. They are His temple, the work of the hands of God. And today God welcomes you to become part of His great spiritual assembly. He holds the door open. And when God opens a door no man can close it. You can walk through that door right now. Jesus is that door. And He wants to welcome you, like a prodigal son or daughter, and to lift the burdens from your soul. But also know this — a day will come when that door will close. And when God closes the door, no man can open it.”