Thunder of Heaven: A Joshua Jordan Novel

by Tim LaHaye

  Tuscany, Italy

  The clandestine meeting was held at Caesar Demas’s country house in Tuscany. That site was chosen rather than his main villa in Rome out of concerns for security. His remote estate was nestled into the surrounding hills. His private guards were posted strategically throughout the two-thousand-acre compound. Helicopters circled the property. The driveway, which ambled for a mile through his vineyards, had two separate security gates with armed guards.

  Privacy was essential. After all, they were plotting a global revolution.

  Demas looked around his sunroom, the one with the large working table and the breathtaking view of the rolling hills brimming with his ripening vineyards. Around the table were Lexes Demitrov, deputy prime minister of Russia, the lovely Andrea Portleva, Russia’s ambassador to the U.S., and Gallen Abdulla, president of Turkey.

  The meeting was about to end. Demitrov summed up. “So, the timing is right.”

  “Perfect, it would seem,” Abdulla added.

  They all agreed. But Portleva, whose specialty, after all, was the U.S., stated the obvious. “America is on its knees, unraveling economically. Politically they are in chaos. And so sad about Virgil Corland’s health problems …” There were smiles all around. She continued. “And then there is the unfortunate nuclear attack in New Jersey. United States is a giant — but with feet of clay. The downfall is coming. So there will be the inevitable superpower vacuum.”

  Caesar Demas had a question for Abdulla. “And you feel that you can continue to keep the Islamic nations in our coalition, that Turkey can serve as the bridge to our Muslim partners, to Iran, and the entire Arab League, and to OPEC?”

  “Yes,” Abdulla answered. “Of course, now that Turkey has finally been admitted into the European Union, we can also serve as a liaison between our new alliance of nations and the EU.” He could have said more but didn’t. The two Russians and the Turk exchanged millisecond glances.

  Demas was the only one in the room who had not been informed about the specifics of the joint military offensive against Israel. All had agreed, Demas included, that he needed to be sequestered from the specifics of the impending war. He only knew how it was supposed to play out. Russia’s aid in destroying Israel would earn it the endearing support of the Arab League and would grant Russia a preferred seat at OPEC and the promise of Arab cooperation with Russia’s expansionist plans. Next, the coalition would begin a takeover of key parts of the African continent and South America, with Venezuela leading the way. With the United States paralyzed into indecision, and licking its own wounds, the only obstacle left to total world domination would be China. If all went according to plan, even China could not withstand a political network so vast that it covered three continents. Pakistan and the Muslims within India would help the cause on the subcontinent. As far as the EU, they had no taste for war and could be counted on to do little to stop the expansion of the Russian-Islamic empire — all except England, of course. By that time, however, Great Britain would be in no position to launch an attack. The Russian-Islamic coalition would negotiate with the English, throw them a few crumbs to keep them placid. Australia might be a problem, but they were so far removed geographically that they could be dealt with down the road.

  Caesar Demas had been promised the position of president of the new global alliance of nations with Russia in the lead. Because of that, it was thought wise to keep him out of the “dirty” business of the Jewish genocide to come. When that was over, the shift of global power would begin. The days of America’s domination — its leadership of the Western nations and NATO, and its “bullying tactics” in the U.N.’s Security Council — would soon be history.

  “Of course, I’m humbled,” Demas added, “at the confidence each of you has shown in me.”

  Demitrov smiled. He was thinking that, for all of Demas’s reputation as a ruthless international businessman, a friend of shadowy black marketers, and a tough global geopolitical negotiator who possessed the uncanny ability to manipulate heads of state, he had figured Caesar Demas for something else. While Demas could never conceive of himself this way, Demitrov truly believed that when push came to shove, the billionaire could be made to play an effective marionette at the end of strings that would stretch all the way back to Moscow.

  After the meeting, Demas’s guests left with their entourages, surrounded by armored limousine security. All except Andrea Portleva.

  When he thought they were alone, Demas gathered Portleva in his arms and began to kiss her and fondle her with abandon. She laughed a little but didn’t resist.

  Portleva, still in his embrace, said in a husky whisper, “So, Mr. Caesar Demas, it appears that your wish is now going to come true.”

  “What wish is that?”

  “Your desire to run the world, of course.”

  Now they both laughed.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Tomasso, his bodyguard, standing at the front door of the country home. Tomasso quickly jammed his hands into his pockets.

  Caesar Demas stared him down and then snapped, “Until further notice, keep everyone away …”

  Tomasso gave a quick nod of his head. “Yes, Mr. Demas. Whatever you say.”

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  In the condo outside Jerusalem, Esther Kinney was on the phone with her husband, Clint, who was still in the hospital.

  Deborah Jordan could see that Esther’s face had suddenly paled, as if she had received the kind of news that takes your breath away. While she held her Allfone to her ear, Esther made a quick movement with the other hand, as if she was about to bring it swiftly to her mouth, but stopped. Then she lowered it. She managed a struggling smile, told her husband she loved him, and ended the call.

  She turned to Deborah, Ethan March, and to the tour guide, Nony, and his wife, Sari, who had put them up in their home. She spoke slowly and with a clear, deliberate cadence. “Well … I had thought that with the victory … the great victory with Iran’s nuclear missiles turned around … and Deborah your father’s ingenious Return-to-Sender weapon that seemed to have saved Israel — with all of that … and the reports that the Hamas uprising in Jerusalem had been quelled by police and military … I had thought we were in the clear …” Then she fell silent.

  “Aren’t we?” Deborah asked.

  Esther shook her head no. She sat down with her hands in her lap, took a deep breath, and said, “Clint said we should try to find some way out of Israel if we can. If not, to find the safest place, a bunker, a basement. Lock the doors. Arm ourselves. Prepare to fight …”

  Ethan joined in. “Is this an invasion, Mrs. Kinney, a ground war? Is that what he’s talking about?”

  She nodded. “He couldn’t tell me any details except that the intelligence reports indicate a massive assault on Israel … from every direction … overwhelming forces against us …” Then her voice broke.

  Nony shrugged and paced, his arms outstretched. “There is no way to leave Israel. No planes. No boats. I have friends with private aircraft, but everything has been shut down since the Iranian attack. I can make some calls …” There was a long pause. Then Nony said, “But that would mean leaving Israel. Leave Israel?” His voice rose higher. “Leave Israel? The land given us by God Himself. No … no … this I will not do. We will stay. We will fight.” Then he turned to Deborah and Ethan. “This isn’t your war. I can call some friends. Perhaps there is a chance for you two to escape …”

  Deborah said it before Ethan had a chance, but she spoke for both of them: “This has become our war now.”

  Ethan added, “Deb, if you say we stay and fight with our friends here, then I’m in.”

  Deborah’s face was pensive, freighted with the weight of what she was about to say. “My father came here for a reason, not just a defense-contracting job. So here it is … I believe God brought my dad — and all of us — here, to this place, at this time. I’m not sure why, but I know this was no accident. So now we make our stand, right here. We just have to re
member somehow that the battle belongs to the Lord …”

  Esther smiled. She exhaled, then fell to her knees and reached her hands out to the others. “Let’s ask the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the King of the universe … let’s ask Him for victory, for safety, for His divine protection, to see His mighty hand … and let us pray, friends, that the nations of the earth will see that God is truly God …”

  At IDF Northern War Command in Israel, Ramat David Air Force Base

  General Shapiro showed no emotion as his deputy, Lieutenant General Gavi Havrel, was giving his report, but it was a tough act. A half dozen other members of the general’s staff were sitting in, so Shapiro had to keep his game face on.

  “General,” Havrel continued, “the size of the invading army … the naval flotilla … all those numbers have been verified.”

  “And our air defenses?”

  “We have F-16s here in the north, ready at your command. With bombing raids, we will try to contain the front amassing at the Syrian border. All the other bases are on high alert. The southern bases are protecting the Ovda Airport at Eilat. If necessary, they will destroy the landing strips so the invaders can’t use them. The fighters at Hatzerim Air Force Base are ready to fly. Hatzor base too. And Palmachim base, same thing, and of course that air base is ready to convert to your fallback headquarters if our northern command here has to …”

  The words caught in his throat. Shapiro heard the same silent word in his own head: Retreat.

  Havrel finished his thought: “ — if our northern command has to evacuate.”

  Shapiro turned to his diplomatic liaison. “Any word from the prime minister about his contact with President Tulrude in Washington?”

  The aide shook his head. “President Tulrude has not spoken directly. She’s had her secretary of state relay the message to the prime minister that they are ‘carefully evaluating’ the situation. We’ve tried the secretary of defense — he’s been sympathetic in the past — but no luck. I think the White House is blocking our access to him.”

  Shapiro asked. “The United Nations Security Council?”

  “A tentative emergency meeting is scheduled for late tomorrow afternoon in New York.”

  Shapiro’s face was ignited now. “That’s their idea of an emergency meeting, scheduled for the day after an invasion?”

  His aide had to add, “Only a tentative meeting …”

  “So much for hasbara,” Shapiro growled. His cynical comment about Israel’s efforts to build international support through public relations was met with nodding heads around the room. He had one more question — one last avenue about gathering help before Israel was swallowed up in the invading tide. “How about NATO?”

  “They’ve declined. They say it’s not within the boundaries of their treaty obligations.”

  Shapiro took it in. He could see the grim picture. He was a chess player, looking at a board that simply didn’t have enough pieces for him to win. He could delay the enemy on its many fronts, but probably only by hours, not days. He could dance and weave, scramble, hit and run, but what he saw was something he had hoped never to see in his lifetime. So many young men and women — and not just soldiers — were going to perish. Civilians would fight to the death for their homes, which is exactly what they would have to do. Die.

  The general turned to his staff. “We still have a few minutes. Why don’t each of you call your wives, families, close friends. Report back here in fifteen. That’s all.”

  Their faces showed that they understood. The realization had just sunk in, like having to be told twice that a friend had just died. Everyone knew that they were about to have what might be their last conversation with the ones they loved.

  Masada, Near the Dead Sea

  A dozen tourists were winding their way along the path that led up the rocky cliffs. Halfway to the top, the guide stopped and started his lecture. He had lost his cell and had been out of touch with the news that day.

  “Okay, the place we’re going to is called Masada. It’s the ancient site where Israel made its final defiant stand against the Roman army after the fall of Jerusalem in AD 70. Armed Jewish rebels and their families occupied the fortress at the top of this mountain. The tenth legion of the Roman army chased the rebels, following them to the wilderness here, and laid siege to the fortress. The Roman army eventually built a ramp on the western slope, so they could overtake the stronghold at the top. So Elazar Ben Yair, the Jewish commander in Masada, made a startling suggestion. He gathered the fighters and their families, about nine hundred and sixty men, women, and children, and told them it would be better to die free than to live as Roman slaves. So they made a suicide pact as the Roman soldiers marched toward their stronghold …”

  Then the guide stopped. Something had caught his eye. He shielded his eyes from the sun and peered out over the desert below, to Highway 90 that ran alongside the Dead Sea and led to Masada. The tourists turned to see what he was looking at. There, on the highway, was a slow, snaking caravan of cars, bumper to bumper, making their way to the ancient site of Masada. Some cars had already parked near the tour bus in the parking area. Families were getting out, lugging suitcases, food, supplies — and weapons.

  One Jewish man, with his wife, son, and daughter, was hiking doubletime up the path and had already caught up to the tour group. Two Uzi machine guns hung from his shoulders. His family followed him with large backpacks and boxes. His young daughter carefully cradled the blue and white flag of Israel.

  The man stopped next to the tour group. His face had an immovable resolve to it, hard and flinty, like the face of the cliffs that led to the ruins above them. His eyes met those of the tour guide. They did not need to say aloud what was clear to both of them.

  The man with the machine guns spoke to the tourists, “My friends, I suggest that you leave this place as quickly as possible. For your own safety … unless you are prepared — all of you — to die with us.

  FIFTY-NINE

  “I’ve got bad news and worse news …”

  Abigail braced herself. “Keep going, Harry.”

  “The grand jury has just returned a multiple-count criminal indictment against you, Josh, and each member of the Roundtable.”

  “So much for freedom of association,” she muttered. Abigail was incensed that the government would know the identities of the members, when they had worked so hard to keep that information confidential. “How did they find out?” But Abigail already knew the answer. Fort Rice had once interviewed an attorney for possible inclusion in the group. Fort hadn’t realized it, but the attorney was a mole, a confidant of Jessica Tulrude’s. So the crumbs weren’t hard to trace.

  “I’m sorry, Abby.”

  “What are the substantive charges?”

  “As you predicted, only one, in every single count: seditious conspiracy.”

  “So what’s the worse news, Harry?”

  “I’ve talked to Attorney General Hamburg. He says he’s willing to dismiss the charges …”

  Abigail waited for the but.

  “… but there’s a hitch.”

  “There always is.”

  “He says all the members — each of them — has to cooperate.”

  Abigail had already figured it out. “This can’t be happening …”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “The attorney general wants them to testify against Joshua — to knife him in the back?”

  “Not just that.”

  “It gets worse?”

  “Hamburg says the same goes for you.”

  She couldn’t respond, at least not at first.

  Harry filled in the blanks. “I know what you’re thinking … the husband-wife privilege not to testify against each other. But Hamburg says he’ll be satisfied if you merely nail Josh with things said in the company of others, where the privilege would be waived anyway — ”

  Abigail cut him off. “Tell the attorney general — and, Harry, I want you to quote my words exactl
y — that I will rot in jail, in the worst cell in the world, the filthiest hellhole in the prison system, before I lie about my husband … before I turn on him. Have you got my position on that?”

  “I figured you’d say that.” Then he added, “Sorry, Abby, but as your attorney I had to disclose what Hamburg said. Frankly, it made me sick to my stomach.”

  “I can appreciate that, but you can take Tums for that. My problems are more complicated than indigestion.”

  Before clicking off, Harry said, “One last thing, Abby. We need you to turn yourself over to the authorities. You know the routine: handcuffs, media photographers, the whole nine yards. Then the initial court appearance. It’ll be a feeding frenzy for the press.”

  “Can you buy a little time?”

  “A day or two, max.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going into hiding. I’ll produce myself … if it comes to that. I just need time to think. And to pray.”

  After the call, Abby dashed down to the barn where Cal was watering the horses and mucking the stables. He dropped his bucket and leaned back against the wooden slats of the stable, as Abby told him what Smythe had said. She could see the fear in Cal’s eyes, but he didn’t waver. He asked her to clarify something. “Mom, you told me once about that lawyer who was a mole … who spilled the information about the Roundtable …”

  “Allen Fulsin, a D.C. attorney. He had connections to the vice president’s office.”

  “Something sounds unethical about that. Or am I wrong?”

  “No, your instincts are right, Cal. Fulsin was interviewed regarding his serving on the legal committee for the Roundtable. That’s attorney-client privilege. Then Fulsin gave the information to the White House to use against us. Probably to Jessica Tulrude who is the one who had the ties to Fulsin.”

  “Can’t we use that to get the case dismissed?”