Thunder of Heaven: A Joshua Jordan Novel

by Tim LaHaye

  Abigail ran inside to call Deborah, then stopped in her tracks. In the stress of the moment, she had completely forgotten that Deb wasn’t at West Point. A momentary rush of relief washed over her as she remembered that Josh had taken her to Israel with him.

  But just as quickly she had another thought. Was her daughter any safer in Israel?

  FORTY-ONE

  Gallagher was like a hunting dog listening for the whistle. He was straining to hear Abigail’s voice on the phone over the sound of traffic. “’Blast from the past’? Somebody in the Russian camp used that phrase?”

  “Yes,” Abigail said. “Victoria was very precise about it. Maybe it means nothing, but I thought you ought to know.”

  Gallagher was still in Richmond. He had tried a few of his local FBI contacts, fishing for information, but came up dry. He’d been standing in line at an espresso shop, with coffee and baked goods in hand, when Abigail’s call came. So he had to set the cup and bear claw down on a table and headed outside.

  To Gallagher, the assignments were clear. “Okay, I’m in Virginia now Abby. I need to know that Pack McHenry’s folks can handle New York while I work the Washington angle from here.”

  “I’ll call Victoria. I don’t think she’s boarded yet.”

  “Oh, and for what it’s worth, ask Cal if he’s got any brilliant information for me.”

  “Cal?”

  “Yeah. Hope it’s okay, but I threw him a little research bone. He wanted something to do. So I had him look up some stuff for me.”

  “John, I think Josh wanted to keep him out of this …”

  Gallagher smelled a family feud. “Sorry, Abby, hope I didn’t interfere.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Abigail sounded upbeat. “Bless you, John, for wanting to include him. I’ll talk to Cal.”

  After they hung up, Gallagher called Ken Leary, who was back at his office. He was put on hold. Finally Ken picked up.

  “Ken, I need everything you’ve got on the plans of the old Soviet guard and their plans for nuking the United States.”

  “Gee, thanks. You got a warehouse or two? I’ll need ‘em so I can fill them with everything we’ve got on that. Really, John …”

  “I don’t want the entire history of the Cold War. We’re talking the suitcase-nuke scenario.”

  “I’m not an expert on Soviet stuff. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  Just then Gallagher’s call-wait light flashed on his Allfone. He put Ken on hold and took the call.

  “John, this is Cal.”

  “Right. Hey, I’ve got a call going here. Can this wait?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got something interesting — ”

  “Interesting is not what I need. We’re up against it here, Cal.”

  “Well, you wanted research on Soviet plans for portable nukes inside the U.S. Well, this thing popped up …”

  “Quickly …”

  “Well, a former KGB agent wrote a book years ago about Soviet plans to hide nukes in Virginia — ”

  “Whoa, hold up, cowboy; I’m going to loop someone in.” Gallagher clicked back to Ken Leary and said he’d patch him into a three-way but reminded Ken that this would be a young civilian doing the talking.

  “Okay, Cal, keep going.”

  “Well, the former KGB guy’s name is Stanislav Lunev. He defected to the U.S. in ‘92. His book was published by Regnery in ‘98. He says the Kremlin had plans to plant nuclear weapons within driving distance of the Capitol, in a remote area of Virginia.”

  “Like where?”

  “Shenandoah Valley.”

  “Okay. Good work, Cal. You passed the test. Thanks. Now I got to go. Good talking with you. Bye.”

  After clicking off with Cal, Gallagher went into his jackhammer routine with Leary. “Ken, get everything on this Lunev. See about the backstory. Get the debriefings.”

  “I vaguely remember this guy.”

  “Me too. Some of my compatriots at the Bureau thought he might be a master exaggerator, but this Shenandoah Valley stuff is news to me. Maybe this is the ‘blast from the past’ that the Russians are talking about.”

  Ken Leary’s voice went up an octave. “I think the debriefing interviews would be in the archives at the Counterproliferation Center at the Agency. I’ll need information about the places where the Russians scouted out nuclear hiding spots.”

  “Exactly. Now, go, go, go.” Gallagher clicked off and fished in his pocket for a prescription bottle. He popped a pill in his mouth. He’d finally given in to the doctor’s orders to deal with his acid reflux. His chest was burning like a bucket of molten steel.

  Negev Desert, Israel

  It was blistering hot in the rocky desert plains in southern Israel, not far from the border with Egypt. Joshua Jordan was with a team of Israeli ballistic experts and weapons physicists. Earlier in the day they had arrived at an area marked by a tall stone obelisk with a warning in Hebrew and English: “ENTRANCE FORBIDDEN.” This was the IDF weapons-testing range. Joshua and the missile-defense team had just run through some tests for the Return-to-Sender system.

  One of the Israeli physicists approached Joshua. “Colonel Jordan, I have a concern about the ability of RTS to handle multiple warheads, and there’s also that matter of the RTS failure in the Chicago flight — ”

  “Doctor,” Joshua answered, “about the commercial jet … we’ve repeatedly requested the accident data from the NTSB so we can evaluate it ourselves. They’ve refused to cooperate. So was there an RTS failure? Or was it compromised by the pilot? By the airlines? Disengaged by a mechanic? We simply don’t know. As for the multiple warheads, the North Korean episode last year should answer that. RTS performed perfectly.”

  One of the weapons engineers shook his head. “We know you are required by the Pentagon to deliver a lower-quality weapon to us. So what aren’t we getting in this package? Will it compromise our ability to stop Iranian missiles?”

  Joshua dabbed the sweat from his neck. He took off his sunglasses and wiped his eyes. “Pentagon protocol requires a slightly different weapons version for our international partners. Same capabilities, but the engineering guts are a bit different, for obvious reasons. We don’t want anyone out there to be able to reverse engineer our exact design. Rest assured that the RTS system will protect Israel. As we saw today, we’re ten out of ten on the scorecard for the tests out here in … what desert is this, Clint?”

  Colonel Clinton Kinney reminded him. “Paran … where God brought Moses and the children of Israel after rescuing them from bondage in Egypt. He brought them here with a pillar of cloud to lead them. This became the staging area for their entrance into Canaan.”

  One of the military officers chuckled. “You’re forgetting something, Rabbi Kinney. A small matter of their wandering for forty years in the wilderness.”

  “Sure,” Kinney said. “Because of their cowardice and disobedience. Gentlemen, I think we have to believe that God is able and will do what He has promised to protect Israel. When the flood comes, He will part the sea. When the missiles come, God will deflect them. When the armies roll toward us, He will shake the ground with thunder and scatter them.”

  “Let’s hope,” another IDF officer quipped, “that God will make the RTS system work, because we all know that our nuclear capacity has been — ”

  “Circumcised?” said another officer, evoking laughter from the group. But beneath the laughter was the sobering realization that Israel, under crippling international pressure, had been forced to dismantle its own nuclear weapons system. Now the RTS system had an even higher value to this tiny nation surrounded by enemies.

  Just then, several Israeli F-16s roared overhead, swooping into the valley and leaving their white contrails behind.

  Kinney stepped up to Joshua. He said in a low voice, “They’re getting ready. Israel is not going to sit back and wait for Iran to make its final gambit. We’ll strike first.”

  That realization hit Joshua like a ton of bricks. He thought abou
t Deborah and whether it had been wise to bring her here. “Thanks for having your wife, Esther, spend the day with Deborah. Much appreciated.”

  “She’ll show her the sites in Jerusalem. They’re having a great time, I’m sure.”

  With their work done for the day, Joshua, Kinney, and the rest headed toward their vehicles.

  Just a few miles outside the testing perimeter, a small group of hikers was sitting in front of a small portable satellite monitor, watching the picture. Even though it was a little scrambled, they could make out the image of Joshua Jordan climbing into a Jeep next to Colonel Kinney.

  One of the hikers, speaking in perfect Persian, said to his fellow Iranians, “There he is. Jordan is the civilian. See him?”

  Then he added. “Give the command.”

  FORTY-TWO

  Iranian Airspace

  Joel was at the head of the formation of Israeli F-16 fighter bombers. They were flanked by a protection squadron of F-15s. They were flying low, perilously low, at ninety feet above the desert floor. In the valley between the Karkas Mountains, they were hoping to avoid any ground radar within a twenty-mile radius. At the speed they were traveling, they would reach Iran’s Natanz nuclear launch facility and drop their bombs before Iran’s antiaircraft missiles were ready to launch. They would have loved to have the new American F-35 jets, but the U.S. government balked at giving Israel the new fighters.

  David, flying on Joel’s starboard, noticed something and laughed. Below, a goat herder, who had heard the roar of the low-flying jets and must have thought the sky was falling, was sprawling spread-eagle on the hardscrabble ground, surrounded by his herd. “Let’s hope he doesn’t have a cell phone,” David quipped.

  “Okay, final checkpoint approaching,” Joel radioed back to the formation behind him.

  So far the flight had been uneventful, which was surprising. Maybe this would be a repeat of the Israel’s bombing of Saddam Hussein’s nuclear facility in Iraq in 1981. They had used a similar flight plan back then. The IAF launched a surprise attack and swept over the location, bombed it, and got out without a scratch.

  “Check your radar-detection receivers, and keep your eye on the circle on your screen for the incoming missiles nearest you …” Joel checked his flight-deck clock. “Right about now they’re probably scrambling their jets.” He knew that the Iranians had the newest generation of Russian MiG fighters. But the F-15s would be able to handle them. Command had calculated the time that would be needed for the Iranians to prepare their antiaircraft-missile controls and then hone in on the incoming jets. If they were lucky …

  “Okay, everybody, let’s get into welded wing formation; tighten up folks.”

  The jets pulled into a near wing-tip-to-wing-tip position. Just a matter of moments now until the strike.

  The large buildings of the Natanz facility came into sight in the distance. Since most of the centrifuges and uranium-enrichment equipment were underground, the F-16s were carrying super bunker-busters that would crack the ground wide open and blow down deep enough to destroy everything, including the nuclear-launch missiles they were told were in the adjacent silos.

  Joel only knew what IDF command had told him. Those in charge of the operation, like General Shapiro, had to rely on intelligence, information from people like Rafi, their own clandestine agent in Jordan, and Yoseff, the Iranian insider whose motivation was unimpeachable: he needed to rescue his brother and sister from an Israeli prison.

  But there was something the pilots did not know, any of them.

  As each of the bomber pilots hit their Drop buttons to let loose their deadly payload, their flight-deck radar-detection screens lit up. One circle. Two circles. Three circles.

  “We’ve been painted!” Joel cried out. “Drop and get out …”

  Now the sky was filled with antiaircraft missiles. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.

  Joel dropped his bombs and pulled his F-16 skyward. But something — a red flash — caught his eye to the starboard. It was from the ball of fire from the missile strike that had just decimated David’s F-16. No parachute. No escape.

  “I’m hit,” another F-15 pilot screamed over the radio.

  Below, Joel saw bright explosions from the fighter jets of his team being destroyed, one after another. His radar showed three Iranian MiGs fast on his tail.

  Everything had gone wrong.

  Miles away, in another part of Iran, at the nuclear launch site at Bushehr, the facility that the U.N. and the IAEA had declared to be safe and used only for public-energy purposes, the chief of operations and his officers were cheering wildly. “Allah Ackbar!”

  The plan had worked. Yoseff and Rafi had been deliberately duped. The site at Natanz had been abandoned, and the equipment moved to tunnels in the mountains. The empty facility was a piece of dramatic stage dressing. Military theater. The real nuclear-launch command and the silos loaded with nuclear warheads at Bushehr were untouched. When Iranian intelligence grew suspicious that some of the local citizens in Bushehr might try to filter information to the West about the nuclear missile site, they evacuated the entire city, forcing the residents to move out. Iranian nuclear command would take no chances. The Bushehr facility was too valuable.

  The Iranian chief of operations smiled now as he thought of the gift of good fortune concerning the useless Israeli strike against Natanz. Thank you, Israel. Now we can launch our nuclear warheads at you and can claim to the whole world that it was self-defense.

  Old City, Jerusalem

  Deborah Jordan couldn’t take it in fast enough: the narrow cobblestone streets, the women in head coverings peaking out of small windows, the crowds of pilgrims and tourists, and merchants selling leather goods or dates laid out in trays.

  “I’ve always wanted to come here,” she said. “Especially this, the Via Dolorosa. This is unbelievable. This route, the way of the cross. The path taken by Jesus on the way to the crucifixion … almost …” Deborah stammered and couldn’t finish.

  Esther McKinney, the colonel’s wife, was bright-eyed and smiling at her young visitor. “We thought you’d appreciate it.”

  Esther stopped in the middle of the narrow street. “Now, turn around and look up.”

  When she did, Deborah recognized an ancient, graceful stone arch connecting the buildings on either side.

  “Now imagine,” Esther said, “you are here two thousand years ago. Make the stores and buildings disappear. Tradition says that this Roman arch is the place — or at least near the place — where Pilate appeared with Jesus. The gospel of John makes it clear. The Roman governor had allowed Jesus to be found guilty, though he admitted there was no evidence for it. Then he ordered him to be scourged. The Roman guards mocked Jesus and rammed a crown of thorns down on his head, beat him, and laid a purple robe on his back, which had been torn open by the whip and was bleeding. Then Pontius Pilate said to those in attendance, ‘Behold the Man.’ ”

  Deborah was silent. Her face showed her astonishment.

  Esther said, “But Pilate was only half right. He forgot the other part.”

  “Which part?”

  “He should have said, ‘Behold the Son of God’ …”

  Deborah smiled. “It’s interesting I’m here now. This place … at this point in my life. I’ve been a Christian for a while, received Christ as a teenager, but lately I’ve been wondering about things. My life, plans, people …”

  “People?”

  “Well, there’s this guy …”

  Esther laughed loudly. “Yes, there’s always a guy, isn’t there!”

  “So, I’ve got some things to work out. I need to take things to the Lord. I need some guidance.” Then she looked at Esther. “It must be hard on you, being Jewish here in Israel, as deeply involved in the government as your husband is, yet both of you also being …”

  “… Also being messianic Christians too? Believing that Jesus, Yeshua, is the promised One? The once-and-for-all sacrificial Lamb, offered up to take away the sins o
f the world for all who trust in Him? Yes. It’s not been easy. But who says any of this is supposed to be easy? It’s supposed to be true and right. Yes. It’s a sensitive issue. We handle it with discretion. Clint doesn’t wear ‘Jesus Saves’ Tshirts to work, if you know what I mean!”

  Esther looked at her watch. Then she checked her cell phone. “Deborah, have you received a call from your father in the last hour?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Oh, probably nothing. Clint usually calls about this time each day. It’s a routine we have because of the way things are here. Clint and I have a joke: we say living in Israel is like the thorn trees, lovely from a distance but painful at close quarters. Life in Israel is beautiful but precarious. Clint and Josh were at a remote testing site today but should have been back by now.”

  Deborah pulled out her Allfone and dialed her father’s private number. It rang ten times and then went to voicemail. “No answer,” she said.

  Deborah thought she caught something in Esther’s expression, a vague look of apprehension. The next moment Esther said, “Let’s keep walking. So much to see. I know a great place for lunch.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Tehran, Iran

  Joshua cried out. Somewhere in his numbness and confusion he felt searing pain. He couldn’t locate it at first. His body was not on the ground. He thought he was flying … no … that wasn’t it. I’m hanging.

  Joshua Jordan struggled to see where he was. As he did, he located the source of his torturing pain. In each of his shoulders. They were pinned behind him, in hog-tie fashion. He was hanging from a wall. The tips of his feet were barely touching the concrete floor. His chest had been stripped bare, and his shoes and socks were off.

  He blinked and shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. Think back, think back. What happened …?