by Tim LaHaye
“So somehow we need to show,” Cal said with his eyes closed and the muscles in his face tensed, “that we did not oppose the lawful authority of the federal government.”
“Which we do,” Abigail said, “by showing that our government refused to honor its sacred duty to protect American citizens, disregarding our many pleas, those of John Gallagher and Pack McHenry, that a nuclear catastrophe was on its way.”
“In other words,” Cal said summing up, “if the government abandons its authority, we can’t be guilty of opposing it.”
Abigail leaned back and lifted an open hand toward Cal. “Well done, Mr. Jordan. Let me urge you to think seriously about going to law school!”
After that, they disappeared into their own thoughts. Abigail knew that her defense would mean uncovering the seamy underbelly of Washington politics, and there was no tougher game of hardball anywhere.
Cal said, “So where do we start?”
Abigail’s answer caused even her to catch her breath. “By doing the very thing that every attorney who has ever lived counsels his client never, ever to do …”
The White House
President Tulrude neared the end of her phone call with Secretary of Defense Roland Allenworth. As usual, it was not a pleasant conversation.
“Madam President, all I’m asking is that we release a statement of intent to send our Sixth Fleet to a staging area in the Mediterranean for naval exercises.”
“Ro, that’s a statement I won’t authorize. You might as well issue a public statement saying that the U.S. is itching to join this war. Why else would we send our navy so close to the Russian flotilla?”
“Not true. Our presence could be a deterrent. It could defuse this whole invasion — ”
“Or suck us into another war in the Middle East. Are you crazy? This conversation is over.”
When Tulrude hit the End button on her console, Hank Strand, her chief of staff, was standing in the center of the Oval Office, trying to keep his chin up. “You wanted to see me?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard the scuttlebutt.”
“I’d prefer to hear it from you.”
“You’re being reassigned. New title — deputy to the press secretary.”
“From chief of staff? That’s a huge demotion.”
“Don’t look at it that way, Hank. I need someone I can count on to keep an eye on our press secretary. He made some comments last week in that press conference I didn’t like.”
“So now I’m your full-time spy, ratting on your staff? That’s a step down. Way down.”
“Call it anything you want.”
“You know, even back when I was Corland’s man, I was always really your man.”
“Many thanks. But loyalty only goes so far.”
“I just want you to know I’m unhappy about this.”
Tulrude snapped back. “If you want to be a chef, get used to the heat.”
Hank Strand turned to leave, assuming the conversation was over, but there was a smirk on his face — as if it wasn’t the end of the matter as far as he was concerned.
Again Tulrude’s console blinked red.
Her executive secretary announced over the intercom, “Madam President, it’s Attorney General Hamburg.”
“Can’t take it now.”
“He says it’s urgent.”
“What about?”
“The Jordan prosecution case.”
“Okay.” Quickly Tulrude turned to Hank Strand, who was still lingering at the door. “That’s all, Hank.”
Strand exited, nodded to the secret service agents outside, and closed the door behind him.
President Tulrude clicked on the attorney general.
“Madam President, it’s about the criminal case against the Jordans and their Roundtable … This has been your priority — ”
“And it better be yours too. What’s the problem?”
“Abigail Jordan. This could be a tough fight.”
“You’re kidding. She’ll be a pushover.”
“I’ve been in Washington legal circles for a long time. Abigail Jordan may purr like a house cat, but she bites like a tiger.”
“You have the full power of the United States government behind you and — ”
“This isn’t about power — ”
“It’s always about power — it starts there and ends there.”
“But what about justice? We can’t forget that these people were trying to save America from a nuclear attack.”
“They picked the wrong way to do it. Just because a bank robber plans to feed the poor, does that give him a pass?”
“And I can’t think of a single jury in America that would buy into that as a closing argument.”
“Then come up with better one. You’re the attorney general.”
“And it’s my responsibility to execute the laws of this nation faithfully. I’m just warning you that if we push this case, some very sensitive information might end up coming out.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No, it’s a fact. Abigail Jordan and her lawyer are smart. They’ll demand release of information about why you ordered us not to pursue Joshua Jordan’s warnings to President Corland about a nuclear threat.”
“Ever hear of executive privilege?”
“The Supreme Court, even one that favors you, doesn’t like executive privilege being used to cover up personal wrongdoing. Look what they did to Nixon in the Watergate case.”
“Wrongdoing? Wrongdoing? Don’t ever use that word in my presence. Besides, Corland’s going to take the rap for that.”
“But you pulled the strings. We all know Corland gave the order that Jordan’s nuclear concerns be investigated — but you did an end run. You made sure the investigations went nowhere. Sure, you had a plausible defense — maybe — that Jordan’s credibility on national-security issues might be questionable, but you made the call.”
“You’re way out of bounds, mister!”
After a pause, Attorney General Hamburg delivered this warning: “I just felt I had to put you on notice, Madam President. If this case continues, it may end up to be a political nightmare.”
“Sweet dreams, General Hamburg.”
SIXTY-TWO
The long guns of the armored divisions of the Russian-Islamic coalition had been stationed in Jordan near the border with Israel. The Jordanian government filed a formal protest with the United Nations, saying that it did not consent to a “military occupation.” But everyone versed in Middle Eastern politics knew it was a ruse.
Then the shelling of the suburbs of Tel Aviv from the 200 mm guns in Jordan began. Apartment buildings, homes, and government buildings on the outskirts of the fashionable Mediterranean city started exploding and crumbling into dust.
The IDF staff in the Tel Aviv headquarters was sent into a reinforced bunker. They decided to send fighters from the Ramat David Air Base to pummel the gun positions on the other side of the Jordan River, but before they were airborne, nearly two dozen Israeli jets were damaged or destroyed by the incoming shells, which were also aimed at the air base.
As the enemy coalition expected, the IDF also sent fighter jets to control the airspace over Tel Aviv, expecting an air attack on the city. The first wave of enemy planes was launched from the decks of the Russian aircraft carriers at dawn. Fifty bombers and MiG fighter jets engaged the IDF jets in a ferocious air battle. Most of the MiGs were destroyed or routed. But not until they had dropped enough bombs to devastate downtown Tel Aviv. The streets were crawling with citizens running for their lives, seeking shelter amidst the screaming air-raid sirens. In the art museum, the most priceless pieces had been quickly locked in an underground vault; the rest were run down the stairs by volunteers who then placed them in waiting vans. The hospital was hit and was now running on emergency generators.
But the toll on the air force was crippling. Half of Israel’s forty jets had been lost in the battle for Tel Aviv. Parachutes of the ejecting Israeli pilots floa
ted through the sky. At IDF central command, General Shapiro knew that losing so many fighters so early could spell doom for any chance of victory.
Then came the news of the enemy’s advance in the north. The Russian-Islamic coalition was moving toward the Israeli border. Soon they would be at Tel Dan.
So the order went out for a hundred of Israel’s F-16s and F-15s — a full third of their entire air force — to get airborne and head north. But when they arrived, they were attacked on both flanks by Russian MiGs, one sortie from the sea and one from across the border in Syria. Thirty-seven of the IDF fighter bombers got through and dropped enough bombs to slow down the invasion, but not for long. When it was over, the Russian-Islamic army of a half million troops had lost only eighteen thousand soldiers on the ground. General Viktor Oragoff was elated. In his words, “Those are acceptable losses. More than acceptable.”
But the Israeli Air Force had been crippled. General Shapiro watched as his chess pieces rapidly disappeared on the war-ravaged board.
The Israelis blasted deep trenches in Highway 90 along the Hula Valley in an effort to slow down the invader’s armored divisions. But the Russians had anticipated that. Their engineering division was equipped with portable titanium steel mini-bridges that could be unfolded and dropped over the trenches so that the troop movements would not be slowed.
From the vantage point of General Viktor Oragoff and General Izmet over the ground invasion in the north, and from the perspective of Vice Admiral Sergei Trishnipov in his sea command on the Mediterranean, nothing was going to stop the coalition from ripping the land of Israel out of the dead hands of the Jews.
The big artillery shells lobbed from the coalition army in Jordan started arriving in the suburbs of Jerusalem. The air-raid sirens blew.
Ethan, Deborah, Esther, Nony, and his wife, Sari, scrambled down the stairway, already jammed with residents, to the reinforced basement below. The apartment tower was shaking. Distant explosions erupted every ten seconds on the streets outside. By the time the five of them had reached the bunker, the shelling was getting closer. The walls vibrated, and cement dust floated down on them from the joists.
Deborah grabbed Ethan’s hand and held it tight. They found a spot in the corner and sat by themselves. She said, “I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Shoot.”
“I’ve found myself having some pretty powerful feelings for you. That’s a dangerous thing for me …”
Ethan, trying to play the alpha male, said, “You certainly picked a strange time to tell me that! But don’t worry, sweetheart; I’ll get us out of this.”
“No, you don’t understand. You’re a wonderful guy — more than wonderful. What you’ve done for me, well, there’s no way I can tell you how much that means. But I’m not sure this is going to work … between us.”
Ethan felt as if he’d been hit in the gut. “I don’t understand” was all he could say. Still, this didn’t really feel like a complete surprise.
Deborah had a hard time looking at him while she talked. “I tried to talk about this once before, at Hawk’s Nest. Maybe I should have pursued it more. I’m sure it’s my fault. I let my feelings get in the way, led you on. Now you’re right in the middle of this because of me.”
“I’m not clear. Tell me straight.”
“It’s about the differences between us. And something about you.”
“My life’s an open book. Some of the pages are a little ripped, but it’s open.”
“Okay, Ethan, I have to know for sure where you’re at with God.”
Ethan was taken aback. He knew Deb was an ardent Christian. He’d heard her talk about religious stuff, her beliefs. And there was that talk about God she’d tried to get into on their picnic together. Okay, yes, he’d changed the subject — on purpose. He’d dodged it. So now it was truth or consequences.
He said, “Well, let’s just say — ”
Just then a shell struck the courtyard outside the condo tower. They could hear glass shattering and walls collapsing above them. Ethan listened for more. It was quiet for a moment.
“Right now,” Ethan said, looking up at the ceiling, which was still dropping flakes of plaster, “it’d be nice to have the Big Guy up there as a close friend! Can you pull some strings to get the shelling stopped — ”
“Ethan, I’m serious.”
“I am too — about not getting blown up.”
“I’m talking about you, personally, what’s in your heart.”
Ethan’s face changed. He dropped his cocky smile. Deborah was not going to let it drop. He could see that. And he had to admire her for it. “All right, look,” he said. “I haven’t exactly spent a lot of time thinking about the mysteries of God. I just haven’t. I’m a doer. I’m an action guy. Religion sometimes — and pardon me for saying this — seems like it’s all about praying and reading the Bible and keeping real quiet in church. Hush, hush. So what’s the point?”
“At least you’re honest.”
Ethan could see the disappointment in her face. “So after all of this, you’re going to ditch me because I’m honest?”
“No, not at all. But I can’t get into a serious relationship with you, emotionally, romantically, because of something else.”
“And that would be …”
“The Bible says that when people receive Christ they become new creatures. There’s a spirit that’s born in you — His spirit. That’s what happened to me. You’re a great guy. You’re a hero, Ethan … coming over here for me. And I get this feeling that God has great plans for you, something incredible. But you haven’t made the decision to follow Christ. Not yet. A couple of miles from here, Jesus Christ walked, preached, died, and then amazed the whole world. He walked out of a tomb to prove He was the Son of God — our Redeemer. As scary as this war is … and believe me I’m scared … what happened with Jesus, why He came in the first place — it’s more important than any of this. So the question is, are you willing to follow Him, receive Christ, receive His forgiveness of your sins, let Him turn you into a new creature?”
Ethan’s head bobbed back slightly. “This is pretty heavy.”
“Maybe. But it’s something that separates us right now. Even worse, until you make that decision, it’s going to separate you from God.”
Ethan nodded. He was getting the picture. “I think I’m going to take a pass on this, Deb. Maybe I need to change in some ways, okay, but I’m not seeing the need to take the same path that you did. I’m sorry.”
Deborah turned her face to the side. “I told myself I wouldn’t cry …”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s not you,” she said. She lifted his strong hands to her lips and kissed them. Then she let go. “It’s me. I should have known better.”
Just then the upper level of the condo tower was hit with a spine-shaking explosion. The lights in the bunker dimmed and then went out. They sat in darkness until a few people with flashlights and lighters lit them.
In the dim, flickering light, Ethan could see the tears streaming down Deborah’s face.
SIXTY-THREE
Curtis Belltether had been gathering tidbits from some of his news contacts about the war in Israel. For a split second he wondered what he was doing on Wilshire Boulevard, in Los Angeles, instead of trying to get a scoop on what was really happening in the Middle East. Or maybe covering the breaking news about Hank Strand, the president’s chief of staff, who had just abruptly resigned from the White House to “pursue other opportunities in the private sector,” whatever that meant.
But as Belltether strode to the front desk of the Hilton Hotel to ask about a guest who was staying in the big penthouse upstairs, he remembered why he was there. He was working on a piece about the unification of world religions and how it was the force behind the global-warming movement, and this was the last hair on the dog’s tail for his investigative report.
This climate piece would be the second of two blockbuster exposés he would soon be publi
shing. The first one, which he’d already finished, uncovered what really happened when the Chicago flight was shot down by terrorists. He had discovered that the Return-to-Sender system on that jet had not failed after all. The fact is it had been disabled by the airlines because they mindlessly thought that FAA regulations required it.
But Belltether was running short on cash. He needed to fund some travel for the rest of his climate report. So he started looking around for a publication that would buy the RTS article. He had contacted Phil Rankowitz, the retired television exec who ran AmeriNews. To his joy, Rankowitz jumped at the offer to buy the piece. When Belltether further found out that RTS designer Joshua Jordan and his wife, Abigail, were friends of Rankowitz’s and that they were all connected with a group that had launched AmeriNews in the first place, Belltether knew the article would be a perfect fit.
Belltether already had a title for his second article: “The Gods of Climate.” The guy he was about to interview in the L.A. Hilton was practically the “Zeus” in this new religious-environmental movement.
The web reporter announced himself at the front desk. “I’m here to see Alexander Coliquin.” The desk clerk gave Belltether a second glance and left her post to go to another phone to check on something out of earshot. Belltether had tracked Coliquin down in Los Angeles where he knew that the Romanian ambassador was scheduled to address a large convention the next day sponsored by something called the “World Religious Unity Coalition for Climate.”
Thirty minutes later, Belltether was sitting in one of the burgundy velvet chairs in Coliquin’s massive suite, and the two were engaged in a conversation that hadn’t gone anywhere. Yet. The reporter found the guy to be every bit as charming and intelligent as he’d heard. Coliquin did not allow any taping but permitted Belltether to take notes.
Toward the end, the writer honed in on his subject. “I find it ironic that you’re leading a global religious movement about climate.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve heard from several sources that you’re actually an atheist. Is that true?”