by Tim LaHaye
Shapiro had sounded unusually calm. “General Bridger, good to talk to you again. It’s been a long time.” No hint in Shapiro’s voice of the coming attack from Iran that they were preparing for.
Rocky reciprocated the greeting and then told Shapiro that he already knew about the White House shooting down an organized attempt to rescue Joshua. “General,” Rocky said, “I’m putting together a private team to get Joshua Jordan out of there. What can you give us in the way of support?”
“I can share our intelligence,” Shapiro said. “I’d like to promise more. Too early to say right now.”
“Anything, General Shapiro …”
“I will send you an encrypted e-file with some photos of the building in Tehran where he is being held captive. A map of the area. It’s a special prison for dissidents, that sort of thing. They have probably tortured Colonel Jordan, I’m afraid …”
“I’d assumed that,” Rocky said.
“But it’s also heavily guarded.”
“I also figured that.”
“But one additional possibility …”
“I’m listening.”
“We have an Iranian inside Tehran. He’s been cooperating with us. We are trying to regain contact with him. I’ll send you the e-file on him. Name is Yoseff Abbas. Maybe he can help, don’t know for sure. We’re also looking into air support for your team.”
Rocky thanked the general, but after he hung up, his sense of history took over. So when Rocky Bridger connected by video Allfone with his strike force of four men who were winging their way across the Atlantic, he brought it up. “You fellas are all former special ops, I know, but you’re probably too young to remember another rescue plan. Like ours, it was privately organized, and like ours, it was to save some Americans held hostage in a prison inside Tehran. They happened to be employees of Ross Perot’s company over there. So Perot hired ‘Bull’ Simmons, retired Army colonel. Simmons put together a plan.”
“What are you thinking, sir?” one of the men asked.
“I am thinking about repeating history …”
FIFTY
Ethan March stood in baggage claim at the airport. He was leaving a voicemail for Deborah: “All right, Deb, I know what I’m about to tell you sounds crazy, but your voicemail said you were in Israel with your father. Then I happened to meet up with a friend of mine in the Air Force, active duty, detailed to the Pentagon. Without going into specifics, he hinted that Israel is digging in for a tough stand against an attack, probably from Iran. So … well, I really appreciated the chance to protect you on that flight out of JFK. Deborah … okay, I’m sorry, I haven’t been more up front about how I feel. But the truth is … I haven’t been able to get you off my mind. I know this is all very fast, but maybe our being on the same flight was fate or something. Not that your father can’t protect you. Please don’t think I would ever say that. I just want the privilege of looking after you myself. I guess that’s what I’m saying.”
He took a deep breath, then finished his message. “Anyway, Deb, I’m here in Tel Aviv. I flew to Rome, then caught the last flight into Israel. I don’t think Israel is letting any more flights in. Now I hear that Israel bombed Iran’s nuclear site. So the … well, chicken feathers are going to start flying … I guess that’s the polite way of saying it. I’d like to see you and make sure you’re safe. Call me. Okay? Thanks.”
Ethan clicked off his Allfone and watched the baggage conveyor. After a while, his bag came by and he snatched it. Through the glass doors he could see that it was early evening in Israel and darkness was falling. While he waited for Deborah to return his call, he had one question.
Okay smart guy, now what?
In the presidential palace in Tehran, an aging Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Iran’s long-reigning leader, was seated behind his ornate gilded desk. His hands rested comfortably on it, next to the special high-command Allfone. He was thinking.
Behind him, on either side of the floor-to-ceiling golden silk curtains, was a portrait of the grey-bearded Ayatollah Khomeini, the founder of the modern Islamic republic of Iran. Ahmadinejad had managed to hang on to power over the years, despite the sniping and complaining from the ruling imams. He had even been able to suppress the ever growing prodemocracy movement, though to his infernal rage, the “addicts of freedom,” as he called them privately, would still surge onto the streets of Tehran with banners calling for reform, free elections, and an end to his own push for the nuclear destruction of Israel. Yes, he had been able to hang on to power. But barely. The people in the street protests were swelling in number. He could arrest, imprison, or torture only so many per day.
Often Iran’s president would wonder to himself: How did Saddam Hussein do it so effectively for so long?
But now it was decision time. He would give the order to launch Iran’s three nuclear warheads on the newest version of their Qiam — “Uprising” — missiles. Two of the targets within Israel were easy to choose: Tel Aviv and the harbor at Haifa. Some of his advisors wanted to destroy Jerusalem, but that posed several problems. The mosques on the Temple Mount in the heart of the Old City were Islamic holy sites. “That,” Ahmadinejad told them, “would be very bad public relations.” Then there were the Sunnis to be placated. That was critical in his attempt to unite the Arab Islamic world in preparation for his war against Israel and the West. As a Shiite, he didn’t share their view about the location where the future Islamic messiah, the Mahdi, the “twelfth imam” long awaited and prophesied in Islam, would end up appearing. But the Sunnis envisioned it taking place on the Temple Mount.
He didn’t mind preserving Jerusalem. It belonged to Allah anyway. So Ahmadinejad had decided that the third site would be Galilee. The city of Tiberias on the sea. It was a popular tourist site. Christians would cross the sea of Galilee in their tourist boats and sing to their Jesus, about His Godlike powers and His being their savior, the suffering Son of God. Ahmadinejad and his fellow Muslims considered them infidels. Yes, Islam considered Jesus a prophet, but when the twelfth imam, their true savior, appeared — and his appearing was very close now — Jesus would step back and bow to his authority. So the nuclear incineration of Tiberias along with Tel Aviv and Haifa would be a good choice.
Iran’s president savored the moment. Decades of dreaming about the decimation of Israel, reducing its major cities to smoldering garbage dumps, was about to bear fruit. Still, there were lingering questions about Israel’s Return-to-Sender systems. He had received word from the interrogators that the American inventor of RTS had given them no information. What a pity. Effective torture was an art form. Apparently, Iran’s secret police were losing their touch.
But he wasn’t worried. According to media accounts, RTS had failed to protect the American airliner that was blasted from the sky after departing O’Hare airport. Also, there was credible intelligence that Israel had obtained a less-than-reliable system. Although the Iranian secret police disagreed among themselves on whether that intelligence was credible, even if it were not, there was a new component in the guidance system of Iran’s Qiam missile. The Russians had provided an antilaser shield in the nose cone to protect it from the RTS laser intrusion.
Most important of all, surely, Allah would be with them. Ahmadinejad was certain of that.
He picked up the receiver. A voice on the other end, from Iran’s nuclear launch site at Bushehr, said, “Yes, Mr. President.”
“Commence the attack, General.”
“Joshua? Talk to me …”
Dr. Abdu was still trying to raise a response, but so far nothing. Then he thought he heard some stirring in the cell next to his. More rustling. Then the sound of something shuffling on the floor. Dr. Abdu had poked his head out of the window in the door to his cell, craning his neck to see Joshua’s cell.
Then something appeared in the food window of Joshua’s cell. Joshua’s head slowly emerged. He turned toward Dr. Abdu, who could see that both of Joshua’s eyes were blackened, and he had blood running from hi
s ears and nose. Dr. Abdu gave a start and jerked his head slightly when he saw it.
Joshua noticed it. He mustered the strength for a weak attempt at humor: “Who’s … worse looking now?”
Shaking his head and beaming with a wide grin, Dr. Abdu said, “So happy to see you alive my friend. So very good to see you again.”
“Have you … heard anything … about war … with Israel?”
“No, Joshua. Nothing.”
“Think I’ll rest now … then we’ll talk …”
With that Joshua drew his head back into his cell and collapsed onto the floor.
FIFTY-ONE
John Gallagher’s counterterrorism team consisted of him, a fellow former FBI agent, a local sheriff’s deputy, and three farmers. That’s all he had to work with. But they were all in position.
Frank Treumeth, Deputy Colwin, and Blackie Horvath were situated on the left side of the clearing, spread out in cross-fire fashion along the flank of the metal barn. Blackie had the high-powered deer rifle with a scope, since Frank and Colwin figured he had kept up with his distance shooting more than they had. Frank had his own handgun and a Western-style Winchester rifle. When Blackie saw it, he kidded Frank and called him “the Rifleman,” after the old black-and-white television western. Colwin was holding the riot-quelling shotgun that he had snatched from his squad car.
Gallagher and Dumpster were on the other side of the clearing, scanning the metal barn. Their angle of aim was forty-five degrees to the front of the barn, the same as Frank’s team on the other side. That way the two teams wouldn’t inadvertently fire at each other.
Dumpster lay behind a bush at the edge of the woods, about twenty yards from Gallagher. He was sighting through the scope of his big .45-caliber rifle. According to the plan, when the armed men appeared, Deputy Colwin would use his bullhorn to shout a warning for them to drop their weapons. After a full two seconds, when they didn’t obey, Dumpster would fire first. He’d try to hit the first gunman in the nearest shoulder. Then he’d fire off a second shot, aiming at whichever man was closest.
Then Blackie would fire, aiming for either the gunman nearest him or any of the men that Dumpster missed, though Blackie said matter-of-factly, “Dumpster doesn’t miss.”
Ruby Horvath with her Remington over-and-under pump-action shotgun was positioned about an eighth of a mile down the long gravel drive that led to the metal barn. That way if the truck got through somehow, she would stop it, though Gallagher was also hoping that Ruby would be clear of any fireworks.
“Call me old-fashioned,” Gallagher cracked, “but I like to keep the womenfolk protected.”
They waited. Ten minutes went by. Twenty minutes. Forty-five. Gallagher started getting restless. He looked at the cars parked in front of the barn. They were empty. And no one was in the white panel truck, which had a sign for a plumbing service painted on its side. He wondered if the bomb had even been loaded yet. What if it had? What if it hadn’t? Each scenario carried its own catastrophic risk, but Gallagher resigned himself to the fact that they would have to play the ball where it lay — wherever that happened to be.
He kept asking himself one question, and it was starting to drive him crazy:
What are they waiting for?
Near Union Beach, New Jersey, the three commandos waited in their SUV, parked near the side of the sewage treatment plant bordering the machine shop. The engine was running. The curved dish of their longrange listening device was pointed at the machine shop, and they were relaying all of the audio to Jim Yaniky who was still positioned miles away. He, in turn, was feeding it to a translation service so that the translation could be bulleted back upstream to the three commandos. The voices were saying:
“The engineers should be ready to board by now.”
“What does the gas gauge on the truck say?”
To that someone answered, “Don’t worry. Filled it yesterday.”
Several references to “Allah.”
Someone asked about the GPS on the truck. Another man said he had checked it out and it worked.
But nothing about a bomb … or their departure time.
The commandos would have to wait.
In his position in a neighboring town, Jim Yaniky tapped his hands on the steering wheel of his Hummer. He gazed out the window at a colored wind sock atop a local deli shop across the street. The wind had picked up. He worried about the quality of the audio feed of the listening device being affected.
Jim looked at the wind sock again. The wind was gusting to the east, in the direction of the ocean.
“Ethan you have no idea … your timing … oh, I don’t know how to describe this …”
“Just start talking, Deb.”
“So are you really in Israel right now? This exact minute?”
“One hundred percent in Tel Aviv. Sitting at the airport. What’s going on? You sound — ”
“Thank You, God,” she whispered, “that Ethan’s here …”
“Deb, talk to me.”
“Dad’s been taken …”
“What do you mean? Taken where?”
“No, taken. Captured. They think by some terror group. Possibly Iranian. I’ve been pleading for more information, but the IDF won’t tell me any more than that … I’ve spoken to my mom, and she doesn’t know anything more either. You know my mom. She just said, ‘Stay put. Stay safe. Let the IDF take care of it.’ ”
Ethan March was stunned. He tried to sort it all out.
Deborah’s voice cracked. “Please come down here.”
“Where?”
“Jerusalem. I’m staying at the King David Hotel. I wanted to head up to IDF headquarters in Tel Aviv to see if I can get more information, but Esther Kinney … a friend … says it’s too dangerous. Tel Aviv and most of Israel is under some kind of alert. Nobody seems to know why. Esther’s husband was wounded in the same attack involving my dad. He’s in a hospital in southern Israel.”
“That explains the chaos I see going on up here in the Tel Aviv airport.”
“Can you get down here?”
“I’ll be there. I’m leaving right now. I’ll meet you at the hotel.”
Ethan grabbed his bag and rushed out to the ground-transportation area outside of baggage claim. There was a line of horn-honking cabs and minibuses, all filled, all trying to get out of Ben Gurion Airport and the greater Tel Aviv area. He pleaded with several cabbies, but they all turned him down. Every one of them was crowded to capacity.
Across the boulevard Ethan saw an older man leaning on a car, talking on a cell phone. The car had a sign that said something in Hebrew, but in English it read, “All Israel Tours.”
Ethan threaded his way through the traffic and over to the car.
The man finished his call, clicked it shut, and waved to Ethan. “Sorry, no tours today …”
“No, you don’t understand. I don’t want a tour. I need a ride — ”
“You and the rest of Israel.”
“I’ll pay you whatever you want.”
“My friend, I have a wife down at the Kibbutz at Kiryat Anavim and I need to join her. She heard the news, and she’s going crazy. Our country is under an alert.”
“I need to get to Jerusalem.”
The tour guide lifted an eyebrow. “What’s the rush … other than staying alive?”
“My girlfriend is down there in Jerusalem. It’s a long story.”
“If it’s about a woman, the story is always long.”
“Can you take me?”
“I can take you, my friend, as far as Kiryat Anavim, where my home is. It’s right outside Jerusalem.”
“Please, I need to get into Jerusalem, to the King David Hotel …”
Ethan didn’t wait; he tossed his bag into the car, ran around to the passenger side, and hopped in.
The tour guide shook his head at the sky. Then he climbed in behind the wheel and pulled into the traffic.
“You look too young to have hearing problems. I said I could
take you to the outskirts of Jerusalem …”
As they slowly snaked through the traffic, Ethan said, “The long story is not about the girl. I’m falling in love with her. That’s just the short story. Haven’t known her for long. But I don’t need to …”
“I’ve heard that one before.”
“The real story is that her father is an American military hero … Air Force colonel. He came over here to help Israel. Now he’s in deep trouble; he’s being held by the Iranians. So I need to get to his daughter, to look after her … she’s the woman I’m in love with. There. That’s the long story.”
“And you? Your story?”
“I was in the Air Force with this colonel. He’s true blue. He’s my personal hero.”
“So, this colonel … what kind of ‘help’ was he giving to Israel, exactly?”
“He invents defensive weapons.”
The man drummed his index fingers on the steering wheel and bobbed his head. Then he said, “My name is Nony.” He reached over to shake Ethan’s hand.
“Good to meet you, Nony. My name’s Ethan.”
Nony said, “Okay. So, I think we can make a little side trip into Jerusalem, to the King David Hotel … drop you off before I hightail it back to my condo and my wife. I’ll call her and tell her right now.”
When they finally left the airport and were on Highway 1 southeast to Jerusalem, they looked ahead. Stretching as far as the eye could see was a line of slow-moving cars, also heading to Jerusalem.
“They tell us,” Nony said, ”when we have these air-raid drills to put on our gas masks. But you know what? This won’t be gas. That madman Ahmadinejad has nuclear bombs. Forget about the gas masks …”
FIFTY-TWO
The four bearded men were lying on the floor of an Israeli Apache helicopter. According to plan, the next stop would be Iran and their attempt to rescue Joshua Jordan. The drop-off point was approaching.