Thunder of Heaven: A Joshua Jordan Novel

  The doorbell rang. When he swung it open, his daughter stood in the doorway, bag in hand.

  “Greetings, Daddy!” Deborah gave him an enthusiastic hug and marched inside.

  He was about to explain that he needed to leave in a few minutes for his private hanger at JFK, but Deborah jumped in first. “Look, I know all about the Israel trip.”

  “Oh?”

  “A few days ago Mom said you might have to fly overseas. Then I just happened to overhear the phone call you got from the Israeli military folks. And last night she called me and said you were staying in New York getting ready for an overseas trip. I put it all together.”

  “So …”

  “So now that I’ll be graduating at the end of this term, I have some time off, two weeks before classes start, and …”

  “And?”

  “You know my interests, Daddy. You’re doing the kind of work I want to be involved in: national defense, counterintelligence. I couldn’t have a better professional mentor than my own father.”

  “I’m flattered, honey, really, but let’s talk about this when I get back.”

  “I have a better idea. Let’s talk about it on the flight over to Israel …”

  Joshua couldn’t hold back a smile. “Well, at least you’ve got moxie.”

  “No, listen. This isn’t a stretch. It’s perfectly logical. It’s an opportunity for me to watch and learn while you confer about weapons with a friendly nation. It’s the ultimate military practicum. That’ll put me heads and shoulders above my classmates.”

  Joshua pushed back gently. “Deb, you don’t have a security clearance.”

  “I don’t need one. Obviously, I’ll be excluded from anything top secret. That’s okay with me.”

  Her father’s back straightened, and his jaw flexed. “Well, I’m certainly glad it’s okay with you …”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I know I can only attend the nonclearance stuff. Then you can tell me to get lost when the confidential discussions begin. Whatever I can be part of, whatever that means, this would be an unbelievable chance for me.”

  She took his hand and squeezed it. “Please, Dad. I really want this …”

  “I’m not sure it’s safe, darling.”

  “I’ve chosen life in the military. I assume the risk. Just like you did.”

  Joshua took a deep breath. He could take risks for himself, but not for his kids. He looked hard at his daughter. A grown woman. That look of resolve in her eyes. Yes, he recognized that look. It was one of the things he loved about Abby. The soft exterior that covered an iron will. Deb had it too. So here he was, standing in front of a daughter who was third in her class at West Point and the youngest cadet ever allowed in the program. It suddenly became clear. She was part of the proud tradition. She had earned it.

  “Deb, have you talked to your mother?”

  She shook her head no.

  Now Joshua had one more thought. There’ll be hell to pay from Abby.

  After a few seconds, he looked Deborah in the eye. “You’re sure about this?”

  She snapped back, “One hundred percent, sir.”

  For Joshua, there was only one more question to ask.

  “You have your passport?”

  Tehran, Iran

  Yoseff Abbas was Iranian — but he was also something else, which meant he had reason to be scared.

  He glanced over his shoulder as he walked. He looked again and again. He checked the plate-glass windows of the stores he passed, to see if anyone was following him. What he feared was the MOIS, Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence and Security, the dreaded secret police. He’d gone to the food market near the Vali-E Asr, with its pricey shops and little boutiques, to pick up some groceries, but the store was packed with customers, and the lines were awful. Abbas knew how the U.N. sanctions had made life harder for the average citizen — but it hadn’t stopped Iran’s plans for a nuclear showdown with Israel.

  And of all people he ought to know.

  Back at his upscale apartment, he sent yet another urgent encrypted email to Rafi, his counterpart in the Israeli Mossad. The last he’d heard, Rafi was in Amman, Jordan, but in the last twenty four hours, he’d dropped off the radar. Yoseff’s orders were not to send anything directly to Tel Aviv … too easy for the Iranians to trace. Instead he was to use Rafi. But the intel that Yoseff had gathered simply couldn’t wait. He was toying with blowing protocol completely, contacting IDF headquarters at the Kirya compound in Israel and letting them know what he knew.

  Yet for Yoseff, this whole thing felt like a bitter act of betrayal. As a proud Iranian, he hated what he was doing. He felt like a traitor — even though he despised that crazy man, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, and the Ayatollahs and their ilk. Thinking back, he wished he’d been left alone to study Persian literature and Sufi poetry and teach at the university. That was his passion. But then his brother and sister were captured by the Israelis up in the Golan, spying for Iran, and placed in indefinite detention. Yes, he told them, he would give the IDF what they wanted in return for the release of his siblings and their safe passage back to Iran. What choice did he have? He also cursed the fact that he had accepted a lucrative job as a documents researcher in the Atomic Energy Organization of Iran, the AEOI. This made him a useful pawn for Israel.

  Suddenly he received a secure text message from Rafi. It was terse: “Send pictures immediately using HD encrypt code.”

  Yoseff jumped into the chair at his computer and uploaded an array of digital pictures that showed Iran’s nuclear refinement facility at Natanz. The photos proved that the site contained missile silos. It seemed grotesquely audacious for Iran to weaponize the very facility that Israel and the Western nations had complained about and Americans had put under surveillance with a spy plane so many years before.

  But now Iran’s program was complete, the nuclear warheads were armed, and the missiles were being readied for launch. Yoseff needed to get his siblings out of Israel before death rained down from the sky. He even thought that maybe, if he prevented Iran’s missiles from leaving the silos, just maybe he could save not only his brother and sister, but also millions of innocent Iranians who would be caught in the horrors of a full-fledged war when Israel retaliated.

  Yoseff put his index finger down on his computer keyboard and hit Send.

  It was done. For good measure he double-checked his Sent folder. Delivery and receipt were verified.

  Suddenly, Yoseff felt sick with fear. He knew he needed to vacate his apartment and go into hiding. At least for a while. Or maybe longer.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Hawk’s Nest, Colorado

  Abigail kicked off the meeting.

  “Everybody’s here. Thank you for coming. And those of you on speakerphone too. You all know that Joshua had emergency business out of the country. He’s not free to discuss the details, but he suggested I stand in as chair. No one objected, so here I am. Okay. Let’s start.”

  Abigail was seated at the head of the long table in the conference room at Hawk’s Nest. A few members, like John Gallagher, were there in person.

  She quickly cranked the meeting into high gear. “The question before us is whether to take action on the possible nuclear threat that our contact, the Patriot, has explained to us. He’s available to be hooked into this meeting. He’s standing by.”

  Senator Alvin Leander, who was there in person, led off. No one was surprised at that since they all expected opposition from him. “So, what verification do we have that our government is standing down on this? I’m skeptical.”

  Abigail suggested that they loop the Patriot into the meeting by Allfone. The group agreed. After a minute, he announced that he was on. Leander asked his question again.

  Pack McHenry said, “I have it on good authority that Attorney General Hamburg has downplayed the risk.”

  Fort Rice, the retired state supreme court judge, was usually the most cautious member of the Roundtable. He had flown in from his home in Idaho. “W
hat do you mean ‘downplayed’? Define that for me.”

  McHenry explained. “The AG has officially informed all U.S. intelligence and investigative agencies that Joshua Jordan was the source of the information about this possible Russian – North Korean – Iranian plot, and that Joshua is an unreliable source.”

  Beverly Rose Cortez, a Fortune 500 business exec, sputtered through her speakerphone connection, “Josh is a national hero. The president hung a medal around his neck just this week.”

  But McHenry reminded her of the lay of the land in Washington. “Of course you’re right. We all see that, and many Americans do too. But Josh also refused to obey a congressional subpoena last year regarding his RTS design, and then he disobeyed a federal court order. On Capitol Hill that can make even a hero look like damaged goods, particularly among the top brass in the DOJ whom he thumbed his nose at.”

  Cortez followed up. “What does this mean in practical terms?”

  “It means,” Gallagher interjected, “that the federal agencies are all going to drop this whole nuclear threat issue into the nearest hole in the nearest outhouse, excuse my French.”

  Phil Rankowitz, the former TV-network executive, was also on speakerphone. “What about our running a major media piece on the government’s failure to protect Americans? Use our AmeriNews service to break the story over the Internet? It’s worked before. Our readership is on a tremendous growth curve.”

  “Forget that,” General Rocky Bridger growled. “We’re talking about funding some black-ops-type paramilitary action here to stop some bad guys who want to blow us up, right? That’s not the kind of thing you blast all over the media.”

  Abigail said, “Let’s focus. First question: do we agree there’s a credible threat to American security and American lives?”

  No dissents were voiced.

  “Okay, next. Should the Roundtable fund and support an effort to counter that threat? Are there any objections?”

  Leander spoke up. “I have no objection, but I do have an extreme caution. I’m feeling incredibly uneasy about this.”

  Rocky Bridger shot out, “The question isn’t who feels warm and fuzzy …”

  Silence for a few moments. Then Abigail said. “Then hearing no formal objections — ”

  John Gallagher jumped in. “Then we’re talking about direct action, tracking down the scum and hitting them hard, inviting the Feds to join us … but don’t hold your breath. Remember, I saw the changeover at the FBI in the last few years. I was there. From the top down everything was injected with a big dose of politics, like everybody got formaldehyde pumped into their veins.”

  Abigail addressed Pack McHenry. “Mr. Patriot, what would you need?”

  “My group is effective, but small. We need additional investigative staff, and we need it yesterday. And we need people who are willing to shoot to kill if necessary. And we’re also talking a million and a half, maybe two.”

  “Dollars?” Cortez asked.

  “Right.”

  Gallagher said, “I say we get ready to rumble.”

  Judge Rice wrinkled his brow; he scratched his eyebrow, then lifted his hand to speak. “I’m not sure we are about … what this group is about … is hiring private paramilitary operatives within our own country. That sounds like vigilantism. We could be in deep trouble for that. Abby, you’re not just the temporary chair here; you’re also the head of the legal section. What’s your take on the ramifications here? I’m already convinced we have criminal exposure …”

  Abigail leaned forward. “You’re right, Fort. A skilled, motivated federal prosecutor could put together a case against the Roundtable, against all of us, alleging a conspiracy, using the seditious conspiracy statute.”

  Fort Rice turned to face the big star-shaped speakerphone in the middle of the table. He addressed his next question to the Patriot. “Sir, whoever you are … one more question. Do you have any information regarding whether the attorney general’s office knows about us?”

  “Yes. They do.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. There are prosecutors in Attorney General Hamburg’s office who want to bring a grand jury investigation into your activities.”

  Alvin Leander pounced on that. “See? This is exactly what I was afraid of — ”

  Gallagher shot back. “Senator, with all due respect, you knew our group wasn’t the Rotary Club — ”

  “Let me clarify something,” Abigail cut in. “We will not — I repeat — will not obstruct or interfere with any lawful action of the United States government. What we are talking about here — ”

  “What we’re talking about,” Phil Rankowitz jumped in, “is filling in where the federal government has failed. When they don’t show up, and evil is going to happen — ”

  “Sort of like the legion of superheroes,” Gallagher said with a grin. “Batman, Superman, flying into disaster scenes to save the citizens when the local constables can’t get their act together.”

  Leander was shaking his head. “Not for me. I didn’t join to be some kind of covert strike force. I want change, I want my country back, but — ”

  “You’re not going to have a country to save,” Rocky Bridger shot out, his seventy-year-old face purple with emotion, “if we drag our heels.”

  For another four hours they debated the issue. The final decision was a compromise. The Patriot was only authorized to investigate the matter further and to make a detailed “wish list” of what he needed and how much it would cost. John Gallagher said the compromise was a “cop-out.” Rocky Bridger was also visibly upset.

  Abigail adjourned the meeting and asked Pack McHenry to call her back separately. When he did, only Abigail and Gallagher were in the room. The rest had left.

  “I want you to know,” Gallagher said, that I’m not waiting for the Mickey Mouse Club here to give me the go-ahead. I’m going to figure out something on my own.”

  “Stick with us, John,” Abigail pleaded. “There’s strength is unity. Hang with us.”

  “Speaking of hanging,” Pack McHenry said from the speakerphone. “Wasn’t it Ben Franklin, on signing the Declaration of Independence, who said, ‘We must all hang together or assuredly we’ll all hang separately’?”

  “And I’m just trying,” Abigail said with a struggling smile, “to keep every one of us off the gallows.”

  Gallagher said he had an early flight the next morning so he’d catch some dinner and retire early to the guest wing with a few of the other members of the Roundtable.

  Abigail checked her Allfone voicemail when she was alone. There was only one message. It was from Joshua.

  Honey, we are about to take off. First, want to remind you how much I love you. Thanks for being you. For leading things with the group while I’m out of pocket. Also … how lucky am I? To be married to a brainy beauty like you. Not only that, but somebody who’s on speaking terms with the Almighty.

  Abigail laughed and then teared up a little. She loved the guy something fierce. There was still only one real thing left undone between them — and she shouted it at her Allfone: “Oh, Josh, I love you so. But for crying out loud, why don’t you just give in to the Lord? Open your heart to Jesus and get yourself radically saved!”

  But the rest of Josh’s message took a strange turn.

  Also, I have a surprising twist to my trip. A passenger with your same last name. I’ve decided to let Deborah come along. Thought this would be a great practicum for her. I’m taking responsibility for this. And for her. I’ll talk this over with you when I can. Sorry to break it this way. It came up suddenly. Love you like crazy, Abby. You know I’ll miss you. Bye.

  Abigail had just taken the roller coaster. Now she was dumbfounded. She marched upstairs looking for Cal. She found him in his bedroom hunched over his computer. He was scribbling notes on a pad.

  She had that look of fiery determination on her face, and her son saw it. “Cal, did you know anything about Deb going to Israel with Dad?”


  He looked up, his eyes wide open. “You’re kidding. So she really did it?”

  “You knew?”

  “No, not really. She just said something about how she was going to ask Dad.”

  Abigail turned away, talking out loud to the air. “And why am I the last one to hear this?”

  “Sorry,” Cal said. “I thought she was just blowing smoke.”

  Abigail was wordless for a second, then muttered, “Lord, give me patience with that man. And with that girl.”

  Abigail gestured to Cal’s computer. “What are you working on?”

  “Just some research.”

  Abigail was still reeling from Joshua’s message. So she didn’t notice the secretive smile on Cal’s face just before he turned back to his project.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Union Beach, New Jersey

  “We had to move. Very dangerous to stay in Clifton. Everything had to go.”

  The Indonesian armed with an automatic weapon was trying to explain the change of plans to Dr. Kush Mahikindrani, the team leader for the New York attack. The Muslim nuclear physicist from India, whom everybody called “Dr. Kush Mahi,” was not happy.

  “How do I know that the components weren’t damaged when you moved our operations?”

  The Indonesian tried to assure him. “Don’t worry. We were very careful. With everything. Promise.”

  Dr. Kush Mahi looked around the large machine shop. When he had driven to the new location, he scouted out the area. The shop was in Union Beach, New Jersey, not far from the sewage treatment plant. Suitable but not ideal. The original plan had been to assemble the small nuclear weapon in a much more remote area in Clifton, just a short drive from New York City. But not now. Union Beach was more than twenty miles from Manhattan as the crow flies. Driving the bomb into the city would be double or triple that distance. And the trip would be across state lines, and the route more complicated.