Thunder of Heaven: A Joshua Jordan Novel

  The copilot blurted out, “Bob, incoming — ”

  Blotzinger hit the countermeasures button. The flares designed to deflect heat-seeking missiles blew out from the underbelly, but they were not close enough to the Stinger missile to distract it. The missile kept streaking toward its target.

  Blotzinger could see what was happening. “Fire the RTS!” he screamed.

  The copilot hit the control for the RTS antimissile system while Blotzinger swung the big jet into an avoidance pattern.

  Their eyes were riveted to the screen.

  But for some terrifying reason the linear blip kept coming, closing in at a blinding speed, heading right for the belly of the jet.

  The RTS should have worked. Should have instantaneously transmitted a data-capturing/data-reconfiguring laser beam aimed straight for the guidance system in the missile. Should have reversed the flight path of the FIM-92A Stinger that was streaking toward the jet and turned it around, sending it back to its source.

  But something had gone horribly wrong.

  The last sound on the cockpit voice recorder was a millisecond-long scream of the copilot when he got a glimpse of the long steel cylinder full of explosives momentarily flashing into sight just before it struck.

  There was an unearthly blast. And in one blinding explosion they were all gone.

  On the ground a man was walking his dog. He screamed and jumped at the sound of the sky exploding into fire overhead. His dog howled and cowered on the ground. When the man looked up, he saw the fireball expanding in the air. Then he screamed again. He saw the charred pieces of the fuselage, cockpit, and wing assembly falling from the sky all around him and crashing onto the streets and houses of his Chicago suburb.

  Soon National Airlines Flight 433 out of JFK would be winging its way high in the sky over the warehouse where Ramzy nestled the missile launcher against his shoulder. Standing directly below the now-open retractable skylight, Ramzy peered through the clear pane of plastic on the launcher’s viewfinder, ready to line up the big 797 jet in its rectangular lines.

  As Deborah bent down to stuff the spilled items back into her purse, Ethan March joked, “No seat belt? Leave it to the Army to ignore flight regulations …”

  At that moment, the cockpit crew heard a shrill warning bell. The copilot pointed to a flashing light on the flight deck. An oblong object on the LCD screen was streaking toward them.

  The copilot shouted, “Oh my G — ”

  The pilot thrust his finger down on the primary countermeasure button. A flare shot out from the underbody of the jet toward the incoming heat-seeking missile in an attempt to detract it. But the missile kept coming.

  More alarm bells rang.

  The security screen flashed: “6 SECONDS TO IMPACT.”

  The pilot punched the button marked “RTS.” A laser beam shot out of a small orb on the belly of the National Airlines jet. The beam struck the missile’s guidance system right behind the heat-seeking tip.

  The pilot knew he had to put distance between the heat of his jet engines and the approaching missile, so he tried to bank into a twenty-degree yaw to the left. Passengers screamed as magazines, jackets, and purses flew into the air.

  In an instant, Deborah, still out of her seat belt, felt herself being lifted violently into the air. She would have smashed straight into the ceiling — headfirst, with the force of an automobile crash — if Ethan March hadn’t instantly reached over her and blocked her with his arms and held on to her. Up front, a stewardess lay unconscious on the floor, having hit her head against the bulkhead before she had buckled into her jump seat.

  Five hundred feet away, the RTS laser beam had triggered the guidance system of the missile into a mirror image of its trajectory. The infrared head of the missile was deactivated, and the Stinger began a turning loop away from the jet. The missile was now on a path back to earth at fifteen hundred miles per hour, returning to the warehouse where it had been launched.

  On the ground, Ramzy couldn’t afford to wait even a few seconds to verify his hit. The Stinger missile left a visible plume behind it and they had to clear out of the launch area before they were sighted. He hurriedly repacked the launcher into the case. Hassan was already sprinting toward Farhat and the van.

  That is when Hassan, standing outside, thought he saw the glint of something in the air — a thin metallic object streaking through the sky toward them.

  It was the last thing he would see.

  When the missile struck the warehouse it ignited the fuel tanks. There was a flash and a deafening roar as the warehouse disintegrated in the enveloping ball of fire. Hassan, Ramzy, and Farhat were consumed instantly. Four workers on the loading dock of the neighboring building were taking a break. They never knew what hit them. The shock wave from the blast blew them a hundred feet from the building, which imploded behind them. Its windows sprayed broken glass in a shimmering mist as the walls buckled. The sonic blast could be heard all the way to the New Jersey shore.

  In the cockpit of Flight 433, the LCD screen on the flight deck was flashing “FIELD CLEAR,” and the buzzer ceased. The pilot corrected his flight path.

  Deborah found herself in a heap on Ethan’s lap with his arms still locked around her. She climbed back into her seat as their hearts banged in their chests.

  Deborah threw a glance up to the ceiling of the plane, realizing what might have happened. She managed a smile and turned to Ethan. “Thanks. Really.”

  In the cockpit, the pilot radioed the tower. “Permission requested to use RTS secondary countermeasures per FAA rules. Over.”

  “Hey, what happened? What the — ”

  “Permission requested for RTS.”

  “Don’t understand — ”

  “Look, I’ll just take that as permission granted. Thanks, tower. Over.”

  Two minutes later, the men on the roof near LAX airport were monitoring the Los Angeles flight to Las Vegas. They had already received an ecstatic voice message on their sat-fone from the Chicago cell group: “Plane down! Plane down! Allah be praised!”

  Now the Chechen was helping the Arab missile expert shoulder the Stinger launcher.

  “Hear it? Listen. That’s our jet!” he cried out. Then he added, “We have to bring it down like our brothers in Chicago.”

  The missile man aimed his launcher. The 797 was appearing off to the left. His aim would be exact. He pulled the trigger, and the missile blew straight up into the sky, leading the approaching jet perfectly in its approach.

  In the cockpit, bells went off. The copilot automatically slammed down on the countermeasures button. Two flares shot out, heading for the incoming missile.

  The pilot next to him was yelling. “What is it? What is it?”

  But before he could get a response, he could see it on the screen. The flares had diverted the heat-seeking missile from its trajectory slightly, but just slightly. The pilot and copilot could see the missile for a split second. The pilot prayed aloud that the missile would not hone in on the heat from his engines.

  “Get away … get away…!”

  The missile shot past the jet with a trail of smoke. It kept traveling due west and eventually fell harmlessly into the Pacific surf, a half mile offshore.

  Three hours later, a group of Navy SEALS and the L.A. bomb squad located the missile and defused it. For some reason, the explosive never detonated.

  The RTS system hadn’t been utilized.

  FOUR

  In the Colorado Rockies, Joshua Jordan and his wife, Abigail, had been riding their horses. Earlier that day they had taken the pass that wound through the tall pines and eventually ended at the barn near their log mansion. Now the ride was over, the horses had been stalled, and they were walking in the door of their massive retreat house. Both were wondering when they would hear from their daughter, Deborah, who was soon expected at the Denver airport.

  Joshua migrated to the big family room, with its high-timbered crossbeams, and turned on the Internet television set.
Then he took a few steps back and dropped into a cowhide chair. On the end table were pictures from his years in the Air Force, before he’d started his own defense-contracting company. One framed photo showed Joshua and a former president, shaking hands after his successful surveillance flight over Iran. Another showed him with several members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The third, his favorite, showed Abigail back when she practiced law with a D.C. firm; she was heading down the steps of the federal courthouse in Washington after arguing a case to the Court of Appeals — one of many she would win.

  Suddenly, Joshua’s attention was drawn to the ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

  NORTHERN AIR FLIGHT FROM CHICAGO CRASHES ON TAKEOFF. FEAR NO SURVIVORS. FLIGHTS FROM LAX AND NEW YORK TURNED BACK.

  Joshua yelled to Abigail, who dashed into the room. Joshua pointed at the message that was still scrolling.

  A look of panic came over Abigail’s face. “Flight numbers … what flight numbers?”

  “They haven’t given any. What’s Deborah’s flight out of JFK? Where’d you write that down?” Abigail dashed to her study. Joshua was trying to make sense out of it.

  Three flights in three parts of the country. One crashed. Two turned around. This is sounding terribly familiar …

  FIVE

  Washington, D.C.

  Mike Leaky sat at his desk eating a Cuban sandwich and slurping Mountain Dew from a plastic bottle. He was hitting the Dew because he needed an energy boost. He’d been out late partying the night before.

  His job at the U.S. Geological Survey, National Climate Change and Wildlife Science Center, was to analyze weather data, specifically on global warming. Sometimes the endless stats all seemed to blur together. Like today. He chugged more Dew while he reviewed the latest printout in the empty computer room.

  As he studied it, he groaned, “Oh, no, man. No …”

  It seemed clear that he had entered the hundred-year average rather than the one-year average. So he loaded the parameters into his computer once again, this time making sure he was asking for the one-year average. He punched Enter and waited.

  Bored, he decided to wander down to the office of his supervisor, Dr. Henry Smithson. When he got there, Smithson and Ernie, his assistant, were glued to the little Internet television set.

  When Mike started to ask what they were watching, Smithson put his finger to his lips and pointed to the screen. There was footage of the smoking, charred wreckage that had landed in the Chicago neighborhood.

  Smithson said, “This is awful. No facts yet. The NTSB is investigating but isn’t talking. Someone on the ground thought they saw an explosion in the air. Just to make sure, other flights are being cancelled. Know anyone flying today?”

  Mike shook his head.

  “Me neither.”

  Smithson hit the search function on his remote, and on the right-hand column of the screen a series of weblogs and Insta-News articles appeared. All were reporting the same thing. Smithson scrolled down. After fifteen more entries, all nearly identical, one finally looked different. It was from a new web-and-wire service called AmeriNews. The headline read: MISSILE SITED IN CHICAGO, HEADING FOR DOOMED PLANE …

  Ernie chirped out, “Hey, lookit that!” and pointed to the headline.

  Smithson just grunted back, “AmeriNews? You got to be kidding, Ernie. Bunch of crazies. Members of the flat-earth society.”

  He clicked off the Google search and enlarged the TV footage. Mike hung around for a minute, watching the gruesome coverage, then looked at his watch and figured he should get back to work.

  In his office Mike checked the screen, hit the Print button, and after a few seconds collected his papers. He sat down with the earth-temperature average index and reached for his Cuban sandwich. He took a big bite and savored the crunchy thinly sliced dill pickle and the spicy meat. It was just the way he liked it. He chewed once. The side of his cheek bulged.

  Then he saw it — at the bottom of the last page of the index.

  He nearly choked. He coughed and gagged. He was so dumbfounded that he’d forgotten to keep chewing.

  This can’t be right. No way.

  He scanned every page, following the trail of data, point by point, until he got to the end. It made sense mathematically. It all fit — except for the one-year average. That had to be wrong again. But it wasn’t. It was correct. He checked it. For a moment Mike felt as if he was about to have an out-of-body experience. “I must be going nuts.”

  Or was it something else?

  If the data was correct, it meant that the newest average worldwide temperatures were climbing to dangerous levels. Catastrophic global warming had finally kicked into overdrive. Due to carbon dioxide emissions from cars and factories? Of course. There could be no other scientific explanation. At least not one that was respectable.

  When Mike realized what that meant he snatched the papers and sprinted down the hall like a maniac, his frenzied footsteps echoing off the linoleum floor. He reached Smithson’s office.

  Dr. Smithson and Ernie were still watching television when Mike burst in. His frantic entrance made the Ph.D. of climatology and his research assistant whip around in their chairs. Mike raised the papers in the air. His face had the stunned look of a pedestrian who almost got hit by a bus.

  “God help us. It’s happening …”

  SIX

  In the conference room of Eternity Church in Manhattan, the small group of men had their own special custom for meetings of this kind: no cell phones, no wireless handheld devices. That meant they were temporarily cut off from the news of the day and that they could focus on the subject at hand with a hydraulic kind of intensity.

  Today they felt a palpable atmosphere of anticipation, though no one said it aloud. It was like being on the beach when the tide suddenly sucks back and you know a tsunami is about to hit.

  The chairman of this small biannual conclave was Peter Campbell, head pastor of Eternity Church, which was housed in a historic brown-brick cathedral in downtown New York. Forty-three, athletic, and with a calm kind of kinetic energy, he had a passion for the study of Bible prophecies.

  The other six members of the group had the same passion. Two of them were professors at seminaries. Two others were pastors. One of them was the head of the Israel Study Institute in Jerusalem. And then there was the oldest, “Doc,” a retired president of a Bible college, who had authored expositions on the books of Daniel, Ezekiel, and Revelation and during his long ministry had picked up a master’s degree in archeology as well as a Ph.D. in Semitic languages.

  They had spent the last hour in prayer. Each felt a crushing burden for what they saw off on the thin line of the horizon.

  A seminary professor led off. “We’ve met here together for the last three years, contemplating and debating, wondering what we would do if this day ever came in our lifetime. And now it’s here.”

  “And yet,” one of the pastors said, “we all know the admonition from our Lord, standing on the Mount of Olives — ”

  Another pastor chimed in, quoting “‘Of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, but My Father only.’”

  One of the seminary theologians had a point to make, the same idea that he had voiced before. “But remember what event the Lord is referring to in that passage. Not the events leading up to His coming, but rather, the actual occurrence of His physical appearance. Which means that we might be able to identify the preappearing events, the stage setting, so to speak, with great accuracy. While still not knowing the actual day or hour of the second coming of Christ.”

  “Doc” cleared his throat loudly. The room grew quiet as he took a swig of water. He removed his tinted glasses from his wrinkled face and put them on the table. He was not prone to speak quickly. He would choose his words carefully, like a sculptor cutting a face out of marble, with each blow calibrated just so. He knew that every word, like a chisel on stone, had consequences.

  His voice was weak and had the trem
olo of age. “Great events cast long shadows. Can we deny that we see the shadows of these epochal events approaching? Some are even at our doorstep. Jesus upbraided the Pharisees, didn’t He, for failing to read the signs of the times? Will we be like them, failing to tell the world the very thing that we see? While the world is saying it is a good day because it’s morning … friends, we realize that the sky is red. How can we stay silent?”

  No one spoke for a full minute. Finally Peter Campbell said, “I believe, just like the apostles of old, that we have ‘to declare what we have seen and what we have heard,’ tell the truth — unvarnished — and let the chips fall where they may.” No one dissented. So it would begin.

  SEVEN

  After three desperate hours in their Colorado retreat, Joshua and Abigail Jordan finally heard the voice of their daughter. They were both on the line. Abigail blurted out, “Deb, are you all right?”

  “Our flight got shaken up a bit. I have a few bruises, but I’m okay.”

  Abigail sighed, “Thank You, God. What in the world happened?”

  “Mom, I’m not sure. The plane took a dive. Things flew everywhere. Then we returned to JFK. They’ve been interviewing us nonstop but not giving us information.”

  As a former Capitol Hill lawyer, Abigail wanted the backstory. “Which agency questioned you? The NTSB?”

  “Yeah … National Transportation Safety Board. Right.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Guys in suits. Probably FBI. Gee, why don’t I remember for sure?”

  That caught Joshua’s attention, and he immediately asked, “Why’d they turn your flight around?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. One minute we were taking off; the next minute the plane goes into … well, it almost seemed like evasive maneuvers, and then everything went crazy …”