Campbell swung open the front doors of the church, the daylight poured in, and he stepped outside. The pastor turned and said to Belltether, “Anyone who really wants to know had better have ears to hear …”
“Hear what?”
Pastor Campbell answered with only two words. Belltether had no idea what they meant. At least not then.
The two words were:
Ezekiel’s thunder.
PART 3
The Coming Thunder
With Moscow’s coffers replenished by the global oil boom, Adm. Vladimir Masorin, Russia’s naval commander, has announced ambitious plans to expand the country’s primary Black Sea base and establish a “permanent presence” in the eastern Mediterranean for the first time since the Cold War.
Washington Times, August 7, 2007
Russian Federation Navy group’s frigate “Ladny” and deep-sea tug “Shakhter” will make stops at the naval base of Taranto from 5 to 8 and Augusta from 13 to 15 September… . The presence of the naval group in the Mediterranean, belonging to the Black Sea fleet, is part of the development of international cooperation between the Italian Navy and the Russian Federation.
World Aeronautical Press Agency, September 2, 2010
A Russian flag in the center of Jerusalem, in such close proximity to the Holy Sepulcher, is priceless.
Sergei Stepashin, former Russian prime minister
and security police general
FIFTY-SIX
In the Situation Room of the White House, Secretary of Defense Roland Allenworth was using a red-dot laser pointer. He was aiming it at a digital wall map of the world, sending the iridescent dot to several points throughout Russia, over to its neighboring republics, across the Mediterranean, to points in the Middle East, and then to northern Africa.
President Tulrude had planned on devoting the majority of the national security meeting to the nuclear attacks on U.S. soil, both the New Jersey massacre and the foiled attempt in Virginia. She had a plan and a political “solution” she wanted to float once again as a cure for these terror attacks. If she could get her national security staff behind it, she could roll it out for America, and she would be viewed as its champion-in-chief. Now Allenworth’s report about this Russian thing was a distraction. Her tone was clipped. “So what’s the conclusion, Secretary Allenworth?”
“Madam President, we’re not sure yet. We are trying to locate a pattern to these large troop movements of Russia and its federation, as well as some of the Islamic nations. It’s a complicated picture. There are intense naval movements as well. We’re looking for some logical symmetry to them. Our agents are picking up Russian communiqués that indicate this is just a coordinated set of ‘war games,’ but the question is whether they’re giving us a false lead.”
“So, you have nothing definitive? Fine. Then keep us apprised …”
Admiral William Patch, the national security advisor to former president Corland, raised a finger to speak. Tulrude didn’t care for him, and she knew that the buzzer was about to sound on Patch’s tenure now that Corland was out of the picture. And Patch knew it as well. “I think,” Patch said, “that the secretary’s warnings are not just theoretical. This could be a major military engagement, possibly to expand the Russian Federation, maybe as a counterpunch against Israel now that it has fended off Iran’s attack …”
But the secretary of state threw a disgusted look at Patch. “What would Russia possibly have to gain by that? Russia would have to be concerned about our reaction to a military offensive like that. Besides, thanks to Madam President’s deft diplomacy, our relations with Russia are superb. They’ve increased oil allotments to the U.S. It’s all good …”
President Tulrude broke in. “Admiral Patch, our ambassador told me just yesterday that he believes Russia was probably going to flex its muscles in that region just to keep Israel and Iran from escalating an already nightmarish nuclear exchange that has occurred between those nations. Frankly, having Russia play policeman in that region is fine with me. The United States has enough problems of our own. We don’t need to do that job. In fact, right after the Natanz and Bushehr attacks, didn’t the EU Parliament even call for Russia to play — what was the wording — I think it was something like ‘the firmest possible security role to ensure peace in the Mediterranean.’ Along those lines. Am I right, people? This isn’t unusual. Russia’s been playing an increasing naval role in the Mediterranean over the last decade. Furthermore, two days ago, as a gesture of goodwill, the Russian prime minister pledged one half billion dollars in Russian aid to help rebuild the New Jersey area and outlying areas. Does that sound like a country that wants to offend us?”
“No,” Secretary of Defense Allenworth replied with a smooth-as-glass calm in his voice. “That sounds like a country who wants to bribe us.”
Tulrude exploded with a loud caterwaul. “Don’t be ridiculous!”
Admiral Patch started to speak, but Tulrude cut him off. “You people would be the first to criticize me if I ignored American interests in favor of some tiny nation in the Middle East. But here I am, saying that America has suffered a nuclear attack, so let’s look to our own interests and not waste our time on some tiny nation in the Middle East.”
“By that,” Admiral Patch said, “you’re referring to Israel? America’s long-standing ally in a hostile area of the world?”
“Wake up, Admiral!” Tulrude snapped. “We have other allies. Arab allies. Russian allies. Global allies. United Nations as an ally. Check your calendar. This isn’t the 1950s.”
The room fell quiet. Tulrude said, “Now for a very timely matter. I’m happy to report that Congress is getting close to being able to pass my key proposal, the National Security through Identification Act. And I want you all on board with this.”
Helen Brokested, the director of Homeland Security, jumped in. “This legislation is brilliant. It mandates a biological identification tag imprint on the body of every American citizen. The BIDTag. Madam President, you have extolled its virtues before — in this very room, as a matter of fact, when you were vice president. The BIDTag would have stopped those nuclear murderers who set off the bomb in Union Beach and the terror cell in the Shenandoah … and the Mall of America bombing, as well as the Chicago air disaster. We could have identified each of them when they passed through the airports and train stations and public buildings, because they wouldn’t have had their BIDTag imprints. Or if they did, then their backgrounds, criminal records, associations — all of it would have instantly shown up on our screens. This is an idea, Madam President, whose time has truly come.”
Tulrude basked in the accolade. “I really do believe this is going to revolutionize national security. By imprinting every lawful American citizen with a tiny laser tattoo, invisible to the eye, painless, that contains all of their biological and personal identification data, criminal record, international travel data, we can screen them, and then we can instantly weed out the bad eggs from the good. After all, people do that when they go grocery shopping don’t they?”
A few of her advisors laughed and nodded. Admiral Patch wasn’t one of them.
Tulrude put a finer, much more somber point on it. “Eight thousand Americans dead, ladies and gentlemen, in New Jersey. And the number is growing. Our citizens want some assurance of safety. And I am the President who is about to give it to them.”
At Hawk’s Nest, Abigail was finishing up a phone call with Harry Smythe, her attorney. “Any more news about Josh?” Harry asked.
“No, not since the last call from Rocky Bridger, when he confirmed that Josh had been rescued and was out of Iran, thank the Lord.”
“Abby, I’m so sorry all of this is falling down on your head.”
“I’m trying to focus on the positive … Josh is safe. Deborah is okay. I talked to her. She’s tucked away in a friendly condo outside of Jerusalem. We’re working on getting her out of Israel … but, well, Deb is just like her dad — strong-willed. She’s refusing to leave without
her father. I guess I can’t blame her …”
“Well, I’ll let you know,” Harry said wrapping up the reason for the call, “the minute I find out anything about a criminal indictment against you on your involvement in the nuclear incident in New Jersey. Right now it’s hard to know where this thing is going.”
Abigail’s voice cracked. “All those thousands of people. Innocent people in that little town. Killed. And I can’t shake the feeling that I’m the one responsible. Harry the nightmares I have, every night, night after night …”
Harry got tough. “Look Abby. Two things are true. First, terrorists drove that bomb into New Jersey, not you. Get that straight in your head. If Josh were here he’d say the same thing. Brave men tried to stop it. You gave the order, but they volunteered. And brave men died trying. And it looks like the nuke would have gotten into the heart of New York City had it not been for you. And second, where was our government? Why does it take a semiretired lawyer in her log cabin in the Rockies to try to stop a nuclear attack?”
Harry’s tone softened just a little. “Abby, you’re putting up a brave front, but I can hear the anguish underneath.” But then the quintessential Harry Smythe came out. The ‘I told you so,’ coming from an attorney who never liked the idea of the Roundtable in the first place. “I just want you to recall, Abby, that you told me yourself that you knew the legal risks. You knew the Roundtable could be prosecuted by a hostile, motivated Department of Justice. Now it’s come home to roost. ”
She didn’t like to hear that, but Harry was right.
After she hung up, she noticed that Cal had slipped out onto the porch and was standing next to her.
“Any news?”
“No,” Abby said. “Harry’s waiting to see if the grand jury’s going to issue an indictment against me and the Roundtable.”
“You’re a hero, Mom. So is Dad. But I guess that doesn’t mean anything.”
But Abigail didn’t feel like a hero. She had blood on her hands. And the weight of that thought was almost too much to bear. “We do everything we can do. Even when it ends … in terrible disaster. Then all we can do is stand and wait on the Lord. No matter how difficult …” She had to choke back tears.
Cal put his hand on his mother’s shoulder and squeezed it. “Any news about Dad?”
She regained her composure. “Nothing new. Cal, where in the world is Josh right now? Where?”
The southern Tip of Azerbaijan
Joshua and the four-man rescue team were exhausted. Cannon looked through his binoculars and nodded. “That looks like a city up ahead. Must be Lerik — the secondary pickup point.”
After driving out of Tehran and back north to the Iranian coast, the rescue team and Joshua waited for the Israeli chopper to appear at the rendezvous point near Neka. But the Israelis didn’t show. Somehow, the team wasn’t surprised. Israel had other problems on its hands. As a result, the five men had to scramble. They had to swipe a powerboat and cross the Caspian Sea toward Azerbaijan. They fully expected the worst, namely, to meet up with Iranian patrol boats en route and then have to fight their way through. But for some reason the Iranian coast guard never appeared. All they could figure was that something big must have happened, some change in Iranian military strategy regarding its coastline.
Just short of the border, they dumped the boat and walked inland, relieved that at least they were close to leaving Iran. They waited until nightfall to cross into Azerbaijan, then walked past the town of Astara and thirty miles north to Lerik.
Jack pulled out his GPS and secured the coordinates. They were now only a few miles from the pickup point, but they weren’t expecting an Israeli helicopter this time. The Israelis had summoned help from the Republic of Georgia, which lay to the north of Azerbaijan. Georgia had resisted an alliance with Russia and had secretly coordinated defenses with Israel. But as a former part of the Soviet Union, it retained mutual contacts with the Russian republics. So it was decided by Rocky Bridger and the IDF headquarters that a civilian commercial helicopter from Georgia was likely to raise few eyebrows if it was seen over Azerbaijan airspace. Georgia agreed to the plan and sent a two-pilot helicopter to the new pickup point.
The team looked at their watches. Cannon said, “We have six hours until pickup. Let’s find a safe place to crash for a couple of hours.”
They found a spot just off the main road. They settled at the edge of a thick forest of trees. Cannon pointed out that the trees were called demir-agach, the famous “iron tree,” with its orange leaves and fruit. A few of the guys picked some of the fruit off the branches. That was enough, together with the cooler full of food on the boat they had stolen, to help ease their nagging hunger for a while.
From their position they could see the road below. Cars passed. A convertible filled with several dark-haired, attractive girls passed, and the two younger special-ops guys, both of whom were single, cracked jokes. But Joshua couldn’t help thinking about Abigail, wondering if she’d been told about his rescue. Surely she had. He had left her behind with so many burdens. And he thought about Cal and was glad he was there with Abby. Joshua was certain that Cal would step up to the plate and be the man of the house in his absence.
And Joshua wondered about his country.
As he lay on the mossy forest floor, he was feeling his age, as well as the effects of the beatings he had received in captivity. But one thought overshadowed even his bone-sickening fatigue and pain. He wished he could simply will the message across to the other side of the planet: Abby, please know how much I love you, baby … I’m coming home …
Then he was struck with a thought, and he put it into silent words: God, please let Abby know I’m all right. Keep her safe. Deb and Cal too. Thanks for listening. Amen.
Down on the road, a few people on horses clip-clopped past. Then it was quiet for more than an hour. Joshua, in his exhaustion, drifted off into a deep, otherworldly sleep.
The quiet was broken, however, with the rumbling of a military convoy that echoed up to the forest — armored Humvees, tanks, troop transports, missile launchers — all rolling down the road.
The team members sat up fast and rigid, like pointer dogs.
Jack was the only one to speak. “Something’s about to break loose.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
On the Mediterranean Sea
The Russian general had just given the order: “The invasion of Israel and the destruction of the Jewish occupiers shall commence in twelve hours.”
Vice Admiral Sergei Trishnipov was enjoying the excellent vantage point from the bridge on the destroyer Kiev. He had a nearly three-hundred-degree view of the massive flotilla he was commanding. It had taken years for Russia to rebuild its sagging navy. Now, at last, he would show the world that Russia ruled the seas.
Most of the American press had readily accepted the explanation that this was nothing more than a “joint naval exercise,” so when NATO member states protested, Russia and its allies didn’t care. Without backing from the U.S., Europe was likely to do nothing, particularly because there was little love for the tiny nation that the Russian-Islamic coalition would be soon invading. Whatever sympathy existed for Israel had now disappeared after its preemptive strike against Iran, which was followed by the RTS-guided nuking of Bushehr.
The Russian-Islamic coalition was ready to make its defense to the world. After all, hadn’t an American-led coalition attacked Iraq over its invasion of Kuwait decades before? So why shouldn’t a Russian-led coalition of Middle Eastern nations invade Israel over its military aggression against Iran? Russia’s long-standing partnership with Syria and its use of the Syrian port of Tartus gave it an ideal launching platform for the naval phase of the invasion.
Trishnipov, who had helped shape the naval operation of the war, liked the plan. Four Russian aircraft carriers from his fleet would launch four hundred MiG fighter jets and bombers over Israeli airspace and pound Israeli defenses. Seven transport ships, carrying three hundred thousand soldiers fro
m the Russian-Islamic alliance, would land simultaneously at Haifa and Tel Aviv. That was twice the size of Israel’s entire standing army. Then a dozen submarines and ten heavily armed patrol boats would seal off Israel’s coast.
At the same time, the coalition army would begin the land invasion from the north, advancing through Syria and pouring down into Israel. That force consisted of five hundred thousand troops from Russia, Turkey, Kazakhstan, Azerbaijan, as well as other Russian republics. From the south, another fifty thousand troops would blast their way into Israel, from the armies of Libya and the Sudan. Syria, Egypt, and Jordan would tell the world they had no choice but to permit the invading armies to cross their lands en route to Israel or else suffer annihilation themselves, but they would privately celebrate the anticipated decimation of the nation of Israel, that thorn in the side of Islam.
Trishnipov gazed through the window. It was a clear, mild day. He wished he was on the deck, catching the fresh air, instead of locked inside the glass-enclosed bridge. But this is where he needed to be. In full control of the naval invasion. As the vice admiral thought about the slaughter to come, he had to remind himself that he had no particular hatred for the Jews, although he remembered with a chuckle something his father, who had been a Soviet general, once said: “Now that we have run the Jews out of Russia, let them keep running …”
Within hours, though, there would be no more running. The Jews in Israel would have nowhere to escape. Invasion by sea, invasion from the north and south, overwhelming military power raining death down on the tiny nation.
Once, back at the Russian naval base at Murmansk, Trishnipov had been asked what the soldiers and sailors should expect once the war to obliterate Israel had begun. He had smiled and replied, “It will be like shooting fish in a barrel … a very small barrel.”