Thunder of Heaven: A Joshua Jordan Novel

  Phase one of the operation had already been successful — the rendezvous between the four members of the rescue team and the IDF helicopter at a U.S. base in Baghdad. The two former Army Rangers and two retired Navy SEALs had arrived in Baghdad on a private jet that Rocky Bridger had booked for them. The Israeli Apache chopper had arrived a short time later; the arrival times were staggered to make them look coincidental.

  The IDF had asked permission of the U.S. military transition team in Baghdad to land their helicopter. The stopover allowed the new longrange Apache to get refueled. The pilots said they were running a recon mission over Turkish airspace and had encountered mechanical difficulties. Turkey, they said, had refused to allow them to land. The U.S. peacekeeping command met the whole thing with skepticism. The U.S. troops had been ordered to refrain from engaging in military operations, essentially prohibited from returning fire without specific orders. They were to avoid anything that looked like choosing sides or picking fights. It was also part of something bigger. The unofficial word in the American command posts in that part of the world was that United States foreign policy toward the Middle East was changing. America would edge away from its traditional support of Israel and toward more friendly partnerships with Arab nations. Conventional wisdom was that if all-out war broke out between Israel and the Arab League, the United States would ditch its longtime ally Israel.

  When the two IDF helicopter pilots had lifted off from the U.S. air base in Baghdad they kept eyeballing the radio receiver, waiting for something to go wrong, like someone back in Iraq or from the U.S. command center ordering them to return to base.

  But the order never came. That’s when one of the pilots gave the thumbs up to the four special-ops contract warriors who then climbed up to their seats and buckled in for the long flight.

  Now the chopper was approaching phase two, the drop-off point for the rescue team just off the Iranian coast. The pilots, on cue, radioed back to Israeli headquarters to report their status. That is when they received a message from Tel Aviv — in Hebrew and encrypted.

  After deciphering the communiqué, the pilot turned to the special-ops guys in the back. The tightened muscles in his face gave a hint that something was up. “HQ’s just informed us that Iran may be planning an imminent launch of several longrange missiles. Iran’s official explanation is that they’re only testing their defensive capability in light of Israel’s strike against Iran’s nuclear facility at Natanz.”

  The pilot then gave a gesture of disgust with his lips, as if he were ready to spit. “We know better.”

  In the back, Jack, the SEAL leader, turned to the guy sitting next to him, the lead Ranger, named Tom Cannonberry, though everyone called him “Cannon.” Jack said, “Sounds like the Israelis may be hunkering down for war. We all know what that means.”

  “Yeah,” Cannon spit back. “We may have just bought ourselves a one-way ticket to Iran.”

  A third rescue warrior piped up with a cynical half grin. “Looks like I’ll have time to do some shopping in Tehran, get my girlfriend a nice Persian rug …”

  The men fell quiet as the helicopter cut across the Caspian Sea that bordered northern Iran.

  When the chopper was over Iranian waters, another message came in from Israeli command. But this one the pilots did not — could not — share with the men they were transporting. “Intelligence sources indicate troop movements within southern Russia, several of the Republics, and also within Turkey and as far away as Sudan and Libya. Major mobilization. Some naval deployment as well. Please observe and report any of the same during your mission.”

  The helicopter was hovering over the sea, three miles off the coast of Iran. The drop-off point was confirmed by Israeli satellite imaging to have no radar installations and only a few patrol boats. They ran on a predictable schedule. It was 10:15 at night now, and they had a forty-five-minute window before the next Iranian patrol boat would be in the vicinity.

  Cannon gave the last-minute reminder to his crew. “Remember, all of us have to swim to the raft. I don’t want any bodies floating out there on the waves. We motor till we’re a quarter mile from the coast, and then we paddle. Our friends in the Mossad have one of their contacts in-country who is supposed to have a car fueled and waiting for us on an industrial access road about a mile and a half off the beach. Let’s hope they left the keys in the car.”

  Looking out of the open door of the Apache, Jack tossed the large inflatable raft, with its small electric motor, out into the darkness. They saw its blinking light get smaller until it finally hit the water and started bobbing.

  As he strapped on his life vest, Jack, the former Navy SEAL, turned to Cannon in the open door. Looking down at the sea below and then back at Cannon the land-loving ex-Ranger, Jack said with a smile, “Welcome to the swim club …” Then he jumped into the night.

  No one knew how it started. That was usually the case with protest marches like this one. At first, five hundred prodemocracy Iranians flooded the streets of Tehran. Then it grew to fifteen hundred. Many of the shops were still open. Their neon lights were glowing in the night, but their shelves were only half stocked with merchandise.

  The protestors were chanting, “Food, not war; food, not war.”

  The march was five blocks from the warehouse-turned-prison where Joshua Jordan and Dr. Abdu were being held.

  Inside, Dr. Abdu had just asked Joshua how he was feeling.

  Joshua did not stand up and put his head out the window of the cell as he had done before. He was too weak. Instead he leaned against the open bars as he talked.

  “Head hurts. Dizzy. Like someone used my brain for an electric outlet.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Helpless …”

  “Hmm …”

  “I came to help Israel, and I end up here. No escape. My wife and son are back at home … with this horrible crisis … I dumped in their lap …”

  Sitting on the dirty concrete floor, Joshua was stunned by how quickly things were ceasing to make sense. He’d always had a forceful personality, able to make things happen, work out problems, find the right avionics to keep things in the air and avoid a crash. But not now. Was it just the pain? He didn’t think so. Part of it maybe. But it was also something else.

  “My daughter is stranded in Israel. And Iran is planning an attack … nuclear … I worry that I may have signed her death sentence by bringing her with me to Israel. Helpless … helpless … desperate … that’s how I feel …”

  “Things don’t happen by accident …”

  “So you tell me …” Then Joshua remembered something. “Hey, I thought you said you were going to share some secret about my getting out of here.”

  “Did I?”

  “Don’t play games, Hermoz …”

  “No, I’m not. I said I had a secret for getting you out of your prison — ”

  “Exactly …”

  “But this place isn’t your prison.”

  Even in his pain and disorientation, Joshua was starting to get the picture.

  “You are imprisoned in yourself, Joshua. Till you get out of that, you’ll never be free. That’s why you need the key.”

  “And I suppose you have it hanging on your belt?”

  “No … in my heart.” Then Dr. Abdu added, “But if I give it to you, I warn you, Joshua … while it will cost you nothing … it will ask everything of you …”

  Then, somewhere outside in the night, they could hear something … chanting … crowds. Joshua had heard that before. “Another protest? In the streets?” he asked.

  Dr. Abdu said yes and translated the chants for Joshua.

  After some silence, Joshua asked, “How can it cost me nothing but ask me for everything?”

  “Oh, well,” Dr. Abdu answered, “a desperate man may have nothing in his pocket … or in his soul. Both are empty. Hollow. So he is willing to accept what is freely offered to him. But even a desperate man like you, Joshua, beaten, bloody, imprisoned — even
a desperate man has something he has yet to give.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  Word filtered from Iran to its contacts within Hamas in Gaza, at the southern end of Israel, where it bordered the Egyptian Sinai. It was the Persian word Qiam, the signal for Arabs everywhere, including the Palestinians in the Gaza, to become part of the Qiam, the “uprising.” The Iranian subversives in Gaza didn’t know about the impending missile strike. Their order was only to begin the insurgency.

  And so they did.

  Hamas terror cells rounded up hundreds of supporters and rushed the IDF checkpoints just north of the Gaza, overpowering the IDF officers there.

  They received a second message as well: “Take Jerusalem.” The implication would have been clear if they had the whole picture. The missiles that Iran had sent into the heart of Israel would spare Jerusalem. That city would now belong to Allah, and an army of Palestinian terrorists would be part of the effort to secure that city for Islam.

  In Jerusalem, warning sirens were blaring. The residents of the King David Hotel were rushing down the emergency stairs to the basement, which served as their bomb shelter for the hotel. People were shouting out questions to each other, trying to find out what had triggered the air-raid drill, but no one seemed to know.

  Deborah Jordan and Esther Kinney were caught in the stairwell amidst a shoving mass of humanity. They were shoulder to shoulder on the cement stairs, on the level below the lobby when, somewhere farther down the stairs there was a gunshot. Then another. Screams. Someone down there shouted, “Go back up! Go back!”

  Now the crowd was turning around, with people toppling off their feet and being pulled under by the crush of the mob. Below, Hamas gunmen had entered the hotel and were randomly shooting hotel guests trapped on the stairway.

  Deborah was only ten feet from an exit door leading to the hotel lobby, but the crush of people in the stairwell was crowding the trapped hotel guests against the door, keeping it from being opened.

  “Do this!” Deborah shouted to those around her. Then she turned to face the crowd behind her with her arms up in front of her and fists tucked under her chin like an offensive lineman in a football game. Several others followed suit, forming a human defensive chain to hold back the mob that was pushing up the stairs in a frenzy. With the space that Deborah’s maneuver had created, a man in the stairwell next to her was finally able to swing the door open.

  The crowd, including Deborah and Esther, poured through the exit door and into the familiar lobby, with its blue ceiling and tall square columns. People were scattering in all directions, running for their lives. There were more shots. Now they were ringing out in the lobby from somewhere.

  A gunman appeared with a revolver, and he was shooting randomly at the hotel guests.

  Deborah called to Esther, “To the pool!”

  They dodged across the lobby and down one hallway until they found the door leading to the outdoor pool. It was surrounded by trees and shrubs. Deborah jumped down behind some bushes and Esther joined her. They were out of breath. Deborah surveyed the area to see if it was safe to escape the hotel grounds.

  Just then she saw a bearded gunman jogging around the perimeter of the pool, looking for victims. “Stay down,” she whispered to Esther.

  Deborah peaked through the bushes. Suddenly, a broad-shouldered, clean-shaven man, who looked like a tourist, ran up to the gunman from behind. He locked his forearm around the gunman’s throat. The two struggled. The tourist took him to the ground and slammed the gunman’s head on the pavement. Then again. The gunman was still. The tourist took the gun.

  Only when he stood did Deborah get a good look at him.

  “Ethan!” she screamed out.

  Ethan March, gun in hand, whipped around as he recognized her voice. They locked glances. He sprinted around the pool and into her arms.

  “Ethan, thank God you’re all right!” Deborah was crying as they hugged.

  He said, “I thought I saw you running through the lobby. I followed you. Deb, the downtown is chaos — a killing zone. I’ve got to get you out of here. A tour guide dropped me off on the way to his condo outside the city, just as the sirens went off. No one seems to know what the threat is or what’s going on … but there’s clearly small-arms fire coming from small groups of terrorists. Nony, the tour guy, was on his cell with his wife, and she said the Israeli army has set up a checkpoint over where she is and it’s much safer. He said if I found you, I could bring you to his place. We can camp out with them. But Nony took off after dropping me here. He had get to his wife. We’ll have to go on foot over to his condo. It’ll be quite a hike I’m afraid. There’s not a cab to be found.”

  “Ethan, this is Esther,” Deborah said pointing to her. “My friend who — ”

  Before Deborah could finish her sentence, Ethan said, “Esther, come with us. You’ll be safer.”

  Joshua was still sitting with his back against the bars. Dr. Abdu was on the floor of his cell, his face at the bars, where his cell met Joshua’s. Joshua’s head still felt like it had imploded, but his thinking was clearer now.

  Abdu said, “So you know it intellectually …”

  “Sure.”

  “About God?”

  “Yeah. He’s out there …”

  “But in the Bible, Jesus said that even the demons acknowledge that.”

  “So?”

  “Here’s the real question. What do you think about Jesus Christ?”

  “Pretty much the same.”

  “Explain.”

  “Thought about it. Haven’t told Abby … that’s my wife … very much about it. Should have though. I worked a lot out in my own head.”

  “What does your head say?”

  Joshua wondered about that. Was his brain really working after all he’d been through? He tried to recall something, just to test his memory, his thinking process. At least that’s what he told himself. Okay, see if you can lay it out logically. Make sure the gears are working …

  So he started to talk. “Abby’s got this pastor. Peter Campbell. He’s explained it. You look at the accuracy of the stuff in the Gospel stories … about Jesus. Historical verification. Credible accounts … good historical data. And the stories come from eyewitnesses … the versions of the New Testament passed down … they’re reliable. So you’ve got that. And the fact that Jesus fulfilled all those prophecies … a hundred of them in the Old Testament, Pastor Campbell said, delivered centuries before the birth of Christ … about the miracles the Messiah would perform and even His manner of death. Jesus was the perfect fit. The only fit … and then there’s the people … who have faith in Jesus … it’s like they’ve walked into something miraculous. Life changing … That’s what my head’s telling me.”

  On the last point, he had to think about Dr. Abdu, his brutalized, disfigured face, but the man also exuded an inner calm, a peace beyond earthly explanation.

  “So,” Abdu said. “That is what your head says …”

  “Yeah.”

  “What does your heart say?”

  Joshua paused for a second or two. “My heart? Well … that’s a holdout.”

  “Too bad, because even though it’s all free — gaining salvation, eternal life, forgiveness of your sins, restoration of a relationship with the living God — all of that is totally free and available right now for you, what God wants from you now is all that you have to offer Him. God wants all of you. Your brain? Certainly. Yes, of course. But your heart as well. Trust in God’s Son Jesus Christ by faith, using your brain as well as your heart. My question now is a very simple one for you, Joshua … are you ready for that?”

  There was no response …

  Until several minutes later. Joshua had thought it out. Was all of this just an accident of fate? His being there, in a jail cell in Tehran, next to an Iranian pastor who was talking to him about the Christian Gospel? It seemed as though, in some strange way, for him it had to be in a place like this, on a concrete floor spotted with filth, blood, and c
ockroaches — though he didn’t know why exactly. Somehow it just fit.

  For Joshua the time for avoidance had ceased.

  A voice came out of Joshua’s cell. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yeah, now.”

  “I have questions for you,” Dr. Abdu said.

  “I’m ready.”

  “Do you believe that you’re a sinner, Joshua, that you have broken God’s laws, are guilty of sin, and separated from God as a result?”

  “That I’ve offended God? That’s a no-brainer … odd … never admitted that out loud before …”

  “Do you repent of your sins … and do you want to receive forgiveness for them? Do you want to come into a relationship with the living God?”

  “Hermoz, truth be told … I’ve tried to keep this a secret … tried to keep it screwed on tight …”

  “Secret?”

  “Tried hard to succeed at the externals in my life: military career, professional life. But the inside of me … a pretty dark, lonely, restless place … is a mess. Morally … spiritually … and every other way. I think God’s the only one who can fix it.”

  “Then do you accept the work of Jesus Christ on the cross, the Son of God, who was the only, once-and-for-all, perfect sacrifice for your sins, and who then walked out of the grave three days later?”

  “I accept that. I believe that … as God is my witness I do …”

  “Do you invite Jesus the Christ to come and live inside you through the Spirit of God and to be your Savior and your Lord?”

  But Joshua’s voice stopped at that point.

  There was weeping somewhere, until Joshua realized that the tears were his own. His face was against the cold steel bars. Bowed and broken. Cornered and isolated. Faced with the most important decision he would ever make. In a forsaken place of torture. A jail cell that smelled of urine. A place of heartless cruelty. But one thought surfaced … this place … it reminded him of something else. The place of the cross? Where Jesus paid the price for him … crucifixion. He had known it abstractly, but now it was much more than that. As if he was standing before the crude, bloody cross of Christ. Now it finally seemed to make sense to him. That a place of horror and cruelty could also become the source of all that is good and true. So too this jail cell could be the right place, at the right time, for something miraculously good to happen.