Thunder of Heaven: A Joshua Jordan Novel

  “EMP?” Frank looked over at Gallagher.

  Colwin opened his eyes wide. “What?”

  Gallagher explained, “Electromagnetic pulse. Knocks out all electronics within a certain radius. The new generation EMPs can zero in on communications transmissions.”

  “That kind of equipment,” Frank added, “is exactly what I’d expect from the kind of folks you’ve described, John. High-tech terrorists. Whoever’s planning this doesn’t hang out in caves. This is major technological apparatus.”

  Gallagher bent down and looked into the squad car, right into Colwin’s eyes. “These guys look like they’re ready to take a ride. We’ve got to stop them. You know any deputies who live within a mile or two, anyone we can round up in a hurry?”

  Colwin shook his head and thought hard. Then he looked up. His eyes lit up. “No deputies. But I’ve got another idea. Almost as good. Follow me.”

  Joshua was bracing himself for the next wave of torture. “Any idea when they’re coming back?” he asked the prisoner in the next cell.

  “No,” Dr. Abdu replied. “Haven’t heard anything. They usually beat me on alternate days … today is my day off.”

  Joshua hadn’t seen Dr. Abdu yet; he only knew him by his voice, but there was a kind of lightness to the tone in Dr. Abdu’s conversation that Joshua found remarkable, a calmness when he spoke of his beatings. Of course, Joshua still wondered whether his prison mate was telling him the truth. Joshua knew there were other prisoners too. He could hear them speaking in Farsi on his floor, though he couldn’t remember enough of the language to figure out what they were saying. Just a few words and phrases, mostly complaints about the food and thoughts about the safety of their friends and family.

  “Pssst,” Abdu whispered. “Colonel Jordan. Can you stand up?”

  Joshua moved his arms a little. No, his shoulders were not dislocated, though still incredibly painful. Maybe the rotator cuffs were torn though. He sat up. His legs felt wobbly, and the bottoms of his feet were beaten black and blue, but he figured he could stand for a few seconds.

  Dr. Abdu said, “Poke your head out the food window.”

  Joshua looked up at the square window in the solid metal door to his cell. A little wooden door on hinges swung open from the outside, just large enough to pass one’s head through.

  Joshua struggled to his feet. His knees buckled because of the pain in his feet, but he clamped his jaw down tight in a wild grimace and took two excruciating steps to the door. He hung on to the doorframe.

  He pushed his head through the opening. Looking to the left, he saw the head of Dr. Hermoz Abdu hanging out of the opening in his cell door. Abdu was wearing a kind of bandit’s bandana, which hid his face between his eyes and chin. His right ear had been cut off.

  “Oh, yes, I forget,” Abdu said, almost apologetically. Then he reached his fingers into the space left in the door window and yanked on the bandana. Now Joshua could see. Dr. Hermoz Abdu’s nose had been cut off as well. Joshua was starting to understand.

  “I used to prize my looks,” Abdu said with a laugh. “I had many lady friends. They used to say how handsome I was. I enjoyed that. I was what you call a playboy. But everything has changed. That’s okay, you know. Tell me, what do you prize, Colonel Jordan?”

  Joshua was feeling queasy, sick to his stomach from the roller coaster of pain he was feeling. But he held on. “Wife. Family. My country.”

  “Ah, yes. Is there anything else, Colonel Jordan?”

  Gripping the doorframe with shaking fists, Joshua was astonished how quickly the answer flashed into his brain. Pain had not obscured it. Fears about his own death had not diminished it. “Yes, there is something else.”

  Dr. Abdu fell silent.

  Joshua said, “My freedom.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. My control … of my life … important …”

  “Interesting,” Abdu said.

  Joshua stared back at this man who had been thrust into his life. He studied the horribly disfigured face that was looking back at him, the slashed, ugly orifice that used to be a nose. But there was a smile on Dr. Abdu’s face.

  Then Abdu added, “Interesting how some men in the outside world, powerful, rich, independent, are still prisoners, while other men, confined in prison cells, laying in their own urine, are the ones who are truly free.”

  Joshua said, “The other men in this prison, what did they do?”

  “Different things. Some wrote against the ruling imams, against the tyrants who run the government. Others formed political groups.”

  “And you?”

  “I did something even more revolutionary. I left Islam and became a Christian. I follow Jesus now. I’m a preacher of the Gospel.”

  “That’s why they cut you up?”

  “First they cut off my ear, and they said it was to teach me not to listen to the words of the Christian infidels on the radio and TV. But I kept listening. I embraced the Savior, and my eyes were opened. I began speaking out, teaching others. I obtained a Bible and started reading it and memorizing it. I started a small underground church.”

  “And they caught you?”

  “Yes. Then they cut off my nose. They said that I should keep my nose out of the business of Islam. No more teaching other Muslims about the love of Jesus Christ. But you see that’s what drew me, like the powerful tide of the sea, the amazing love of Christ, his love for me. How could I be silent about that?”

  Now the pain was too much. Joshua could stand no longer. He collapsed at the foot of the cell door.

  Dr. Abdu said, “We need to talk, you and I, about how you can escape your prison.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  In Union Beach, New Jersey, the nuclear team had completed the assembly of their weapon. At the appointed time, they blasted their massive EMP signal over a ten-mile area, blocking all other telecommunications in that radius — further insurance of security for their sat-fone conference call. Their call linked them with both the terror cell in the Shenandoah Valley and the Russian special-operations headquarters along the northern Kyrgyzstan border. Radinovad, the brilliant Russian chief of clandestine activities, led the brief discussion from his office in the former museum building in the city of Taraz.

  “Metropolis, are you ready?” he asked the New Jersey group.

  “We are” was the reply.

  “And Marble Lady are you ready?”

  “Yes sir. Affirmative,” answered the terror cell in the Shenandoah Valley.

  “Any evidence of being compromised?”

  Both groups said no.

  “Let’s all check our atomic clocks.”

  They were all coordinated, down to the second.

  “Gentlemen, I must remind you that precision is key. Observe your schedules scrupulously. Thank you.”

  When Radinovad clicked off, he turned to several big satellite video screens in his office. He saw a host of blips on his electronic map. Each represented a naval warship from Russian-bloc nations heading to the Mediterranean.

  He glanced over at the landmass comprising Mother Russia and the nations surrounding it: Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan. Many dots within Russia, and several dots in the other countries, each representing the mobilization of troops. Then over in Turkey, more dots. Libya, Sudan, more dots.

  He sipped his espresso and was satisfied. The Russian commander wished for the day when he could take a few days off with his mistress, go to the secret resort along the Black Sea reserved for only high-ranking officials of the Russian republic and members of the FSB like him, go sailing and sunbathing. Pretty soon, he told himself.

  Until then, he had a front-row seat to a historic re-creation, like the Phoenix rising from the ashes. He put in an e-alert message to the rest of his team, telling them to come into his office for a briefing.

  Then he entertained an aggrandizing thought once again while he took another sip of the black, grainy espresso: The stage is dressed. The iron curtain
is ready to rise again. Our global drama will be greater than anything Tolstoy could have imagined. It will rewrite everything.

  Deputy Colwin was in the lead. His squad car roared down a dirt lane a half mile from the site of the terror cell. Gallagher and Treumeth were behind him in Gallagher’s rental, trying to keep up. They wondered what kind of wild-goose chase they were on because the sheriff’s deputy had not bothered to tell them where they were going.

  The two cars pulled up in front of a farmhouse. A few chickens wandered aimlessly on the lawn and clucked.

  Colwin sprinted up the steps and banged frantically on the door. “Ruby,” he called through the door. “Hurry it up!” It was a full minute before a big woman came to the door, wiping her hands.

  She said, “Corby, sorry. I was out back, cleanin’ chickens.”

  “Where’s Blackie?”

  “Inside. Trying to make a call. Says his cell phone went out when he was out on the tractor.”

  “How about Dumpster?”

  “He’s inside with him.”

  Colwin dodged inside with Ruby. There was a flurry of activity, and Colwin came flying out with Ruby, a man in his fifties, and a very large guy about six-four and three hundred pounds. They were carrying rifles and shotguns and a large plastic container that looked like a fishing tackle box. It had Remington and Winchester stickers on it.

  Colwin pointed to the older man. “This is Blackie Horvath, parttime volunteer emergency-services coordinator. He’s a gun permit instructor. This is Ruby, his wife. She won the ladies’ shotgun competition last year.”

  Ruby turned to Blackie and pointed to one of his shotguns. “Hon, give me that Remington over-and-under will you? She’s my favorite …”

  Gallagher turned to the huge man holding two hunting rifles with scopes attached.

  “Let me guess, you’re Dumpster?”

  The huge guy smiled wide and nodded.

  Ruby said, “My boy Dumpster here won the state wrestling championship in high school for his weight division.”

  Gallagher shot back, “You don’t have Sumo wrestling here, do you, Mrs. Horvath?”

  She bulleted back, squinting her eyes at Gallagher, “Dumpster did two tours in Iraq. Sharpshooter. Can shoot the head off a chicken at a thousand yards.”

  Gallagher stepped up and shook the man’s hand. “Dumpster, you’re my new best friend.”

  Colwin, already standing by his squad car, shouted that the Horvath family would ride with him, and he’d finish briefing them on the ride back to the site.

  The two cars spit gravel and raced back up the driveway.

  The whole thing seemed ridiculously surreal to Gallagher. Then again, that would describe most of his experience at the FBI. Gallagher looked at the squad car ahead. Dumpster’s huge head bobbed with each bump in the dirt road. Gallagher tried to put a label on the whole thing, and he succeeded: Special-ops unit of the Beverly Hillbillies versus some very scary terrorists.

  Or maybe it was more like a picture Gallagher remembered from his childhood, a picture of ordinary farmers running with muskets — on their way to Lexington and Concord.

  Gallagher nodded at the squad car ahead of them and said, “Frank, we could do a whole lot worse …”

  FORTY-NINE

  Four miles outside of Union Beach, New Jersey, three men from Pack McHenry’s team sat in a black SUV in a McDonald’s parking lot. They were waiting for the “go” authorization from their contact. All three were former special-operations agents from the U.S. Coast Guard. A fourth, Jim Yaniky, another reserve member of the Coast Guard special ops, was coming separately but had been delayed. He was still several miles away. They told him to pull over and wait. If the truck with the nuke got past them for some reason, then Yaniky could intercept it, like a “goalie” at the end line, though they all knew that was a pretty lousy Plan B. The main objective was to stop the truck before it left its assembly location, because once it was on the road, the dice became dangerously loaded against them. The team knew that the delivery vehicle would probably be rigged with a detonator that could be activated from the cab of the truck, so that if the terrorists felt themselves threatened, they could simply do a rolling detonation.

  All of these civilians had been tasked by a simple call and a code number, which they knew was from McHenry’s Patriot group. They also knew they were to consider themselves working only at the behest of one person. If stopped and detained, they would deny any connection to Pack McHenry or his Patriots.

  The call was placed by Jim Yaniky, who had been designated team coordinator.

  At Hawk’s Nest, the phone rang. Abigail Jordan had been on a round-the-clock vigil, trying to work with Rocky Bridger to rescue her husband. Abigail picked up.

  “Mrs. Jordan,” said the voice, “my name is Jim Yaniky. I’m one of four former members of the U.S. Coast Guard strike force, retired but on reserve. We understand you’d like us to perform a citizens’ action to halt suspected criminal behavior in or around Union Beach, New Jersey, namely, the transport of a truck thought to be carrying a nuclear weapon?”

  “Yes, Mr. Yaniky, that’s correct.” She thought for a moment. “As former members of the U.S. Coast Guard, then you’re all exempt from the restrictions of the federal Posse Comitatus Act, which prohibits members of the other branches of the military from performing law-enforcement duties?”

  “That’s pretty much it, yes.”

  Abigail now understood why Pack McHenry had selected these men. If things went bad, federal prosecutors would not be able to argue that this law had been violated at least. Now she only had a dozen other federal laws to worry about.

  “You understand, Mrs. Jordan, we consider you to be our principal in this action. May we proceed under your direction and advice?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “I understand my responsibility, Mr. Yaniky, for this mission.” Abigail was now fully committed. She knew she was way past second-guessing, but there was still a critical part of the plan she needed to know. She couldn’t launch an armed campaign unless her soldiers knew where the enemy was.

  “Have you located the cell group?”

  “They’re in Union Beach, ma’am, south of New York City.”

  “How’d you find them?”

  “They used an electromagnetic pulse to blow out the local electronics. We figured they were doing covert communications and didn’t want to risk being picked up. We’ve got special Allfones to resist that. They were designed, by the way, by your husband’s company, Jordan Technologies, ma’am.”

  Abigail felt a lump in her throat. Joshua’s work had come full circle.

  Yaniky finished, “We have an EMP tracker. We pinpointed the source. We’re pretty sure they’re at that spot. Uh … one moment.” He put her on hold. Ten seconds later he came back. “Sorry ma’am, it’s go time!”

  “God go with you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Only when Abigail clicked off her Allfone did the immensity of the challenge hit her. During his military career, her husband had been the one responsible for the lives of those ordered into harm’s way. Now she was the one shouldering that responsibility. She uttered a quivering prayer. Then she went back to her other task, waiting for Rocky Bridger’s call, which she was expecting shortly.

  Before leaving the machine shop in Union Beach, Dr. Kush Mahi confirmed that the bomb was ready to load. He was now on his way to Newark Airport to catch an international flight out of the country before the nukes were detonated. The gunmen had gingerly packed the nuke into a shipping crate and had carefully lifted it onto the truck. Painted on the sides of the truck was an advertisement for Mexican food. With a large Hispanic festival going on in downtown Manhattan, the truck would blend in perfectly.

  The torture team had come back for Joshua. They dragged him to the windowless cement room and strapped him down. Again they shocked him with electricity. Again and again and again. Each time the voltage got higher. Joshua groaned and whimpered with pain. He wondered ho
w long he could withstand the excruciating jolts before he began spilling his guts about the RTS units he’d provided to Israel.

  But one thought helped him keep it together: one of the last conversations he had with Abigail. He tried to conjure up her beautiful face, but he couldn’t. Was he losing his mind? Was his memory deteriorating? But he could remember what she’d said. She had told him that Israel would play a critically important part in the global scheme of things, in God’s vast plan, more than perhaps Joshua ever imagined.

  That was what he was hanging on to, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just a rope to grab, to keep from giving up, to keep his focus off the pain, to help him tough it out just one more time …

  When it was over, Joshua’s tormentors dumped his nearly lifeless body back into his cell.

  After the Iranian guards left, Dr. Abdu waited over an hour for sounds from Joshua’s cell. Then he called out, “Joshua, my friend, are you awake? Can you hear me?”

  There was no response.

  “Joshua?”

  The rest of the prisoners were quiet too, listening. But there was no reply.

  Rocky Bridger had to do everything remotely. He didn’t like that. As a four-star general in the U.S. Army, he had always preferred to be in the presence of as many of the men whom he would send into harm’s way as possible. But the present desperate timeline didn’t allow that.

  Four heavily armed men, two former Army Rangers and two retired Navy SEALs, were on a private jet heading for Baghdad, Iraq. That was the closest staging point to Iran. Rocky pulled some strings with his former Army colleagues in the Pentagon for their landing. They were cleared for entrance into Iraq as “private VIP security contractors.”

  Though the mission was expensive, all the costs were covered by the Roundtable through Abigail’s quick work.

  Rocky was on a video Allfone call with the team, mapping out the strategy. He had just finished a conversation with Israeli general Shapiro.