“I sent you a package,” Fort Rice said.
“It’s sitting right here with all my other mail that’s piled up,” Joshua said. “But I haven’t opened it yet.”
“You’ll want to read it. And share it with the Roundtable. It’s a copy of a deposition transcript that was sent to me by a lawyer friend of mine. Long story short—it’s part of a lawsuit brought by the families of several people who were killed in the melee in New York City when that talk-show host, Ivan Teretsky, blurted out over the air that Manhattan was about to be nuked. The suit is against Teretsky and his radio network. But you need to start reading at page one hundred and forty-five.”
“Why?”
“It’s the testimony of a guy named Lance Porteau. He was the live-in boyfriend of a Lana Orvilla, the White House chief of staff for Vice President Jessica Tulrude.”
“Oh, this sounds interesting…”
“The plaintiffs’ lawyers were trying to figure out who telephoned Teretsky and spilled the beans about the North Korean missiles headed our way. So they looked at a list of the radio program employees. One of them was a radio engineer by the name of Reggie Orvilla. He’s the brother of Lana Orvilla. It so happens that Lana was in the briefing room with the vice president when the missile alert went out. She panicked and called the radio station, thinking she was calling her brother to warn him, but it was the studio line, and Teretsky picked up and heard it all. Well, this gets better…in the White House situation room, Lana Orvilla had heard the vice president say that she knew that the RTS system would be used. She didn’t object to it at all. And Tulrude was yelling at the Pentagon brass saying that she was speaking for the president. That Corland supposedly approved of everything she said.”
“That’s a hundred and eighty degrees opposite of what the White House told Congress…that they didn’t authorize the use of RTS…”
“Exactly.”
“And this Lance Porteau guy…”
“Lana Orvilla told him everything. So it can’t be protected with executive privilege.”
Joshua went silent as he was putting this all together.
Then he said, “We’ve got to get this out on AmeriNews.”
“I figured that. I see your media plan is doing fantastically, everybody’s talking about it…”
“Our media plan,” Joshua said. Then he asked, “But why was Tulrude speaking for the president during a national crisis?’
“That’s the big mystery. Nobody knows. Not yet.”
Later that day, in the nation’s capital, a small, closed-door meeting took place in the West Wing of the White House. This was an unusual conference, perhaps even bizarre—even by Washington standards.
Hank Strand, President Corland’s chief of staff, was confiding in the vice president. What he had to say was arguably a breach of ethics, certainly of protocol and probably illegal. But Strand was worrying about his political and professional future. In Washington, that often trumps everything else.
Strand appeared calm, but his voice was lowered and clearly stressed. “They finally have a diagnosis.”
“And?”
“Something called ‘transient ischemic attack.’”
“That’s what causes the president’s blackouts?”
“Right. Usually people with that disorder are really old. It’s a little tough to diagnose. Which is why it took the medical gurus so long to figure it out. But in any case, the president really isn’t old enough to fit the usual profile…”
“So?”
“Well, there’s only one other suggestion for why he’s developed that condition.”
“And?” Tulrude wanted the punch line.
Strand took a second to set the stage.
“You know, Madam Vice President, that the president would fire me in a heartbeat if he knew I was telling you this.”
Jessica Tulrude leaned forward and patted his hand. “Don’t worry, Hank. This is a safe place. I’ll protect you.”
Hank Strand had just heard the magic words. So he answered the vice president’s question. Strand said, “Drug use.”
Tulrude gave a startled look like she had just seen a protester enter her office holding a pie in one hand.
“Drugs? What kind of drugs…”
“Nothing you can get from your local pharmacist, let’s just say that.”
A string of profanities flew out of Tulrude’s mouth.
Hank Strand waited for the smoke to clear. Then he spoke up again. “I think, Madam Vice President, this can all be managed. You’ve already been doing a masterful job of taking over. Pulling the strings. I admire that. The president knows he can’t run again. Not with this lurking in the background. You’ll get the nod for the nomination. Now all we have to do—you and I—is make sure no one on God’s green earth ever finds out about this drug thing. At least not until after the election. When you’re elected the next president of the United States. And I’m your next chief of staff.”
Tulrude was eying Hank Strand. She was nodding. He was smiling. Strand could see this was going fairly well. The two of them could do some very effective damage control together.
Strand was now thinking, This just might be the beginning of a wonderful friendship…
SEVENTY
Two Months Later
In the region called Krasnodar Krai, nestled in the foothills of the Caucasus Mountains, three men had gathered in a well-guarded mansion belonging to the Russian Federation. In times past it had been one of Stalin’s secret neoclassical resort palaces, with a spectacular view of the Black Sea. But in recent years Russia had been using it for discreet meetings. Like this one. The men were now alone in an oak-paneled library. All the doors had been shut.
One of them was Ivan Kranstikov, a silver-haired physicist, former KGB agent, and the head of the Russia’s tactical nuclear-assessment unit within the FSB. Yet he didn’t have the disheveled look of a scientist. He was elegantly dressed. Nor did he have the tough bluntness of a former Russian counterintelligence officer. But he was that too. All of which made him a uniquely valuable asset in Russia’s global blueprint.
The second man was dressed simply in a black suit with a collarless white shirt. He was Hasan Rashmanadhi, the chief arms negotiator for Iran.
Last was a short, stocky, humorless fellow in a bland uniform. Po Kumgang was the political overseer of North Korea’s nuclear program.
Kranstikov offered his guests some Russian tea. When they declined he got down to business.
He described their meeting as an “extraordinary melding of common interests.” Then he began reciting the current situation: Russia had been saddled with the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty and the Geneva and Lisbon Protocols. Under international pressure it had been forced to close—but did not destroy—its plutonium production facility. Russia still had an enormous stockpile of nuclear weapons, but they were all aging or obsolete, and all of them were under intense international scrutiny.
Then he turned to Po Kumgang. “It must be remembered that we supplied your country with its first nuclear reactor.”
“Old history,” the North Korean spit back. “That was decades ago.”
“And your promises to us regarding weapons,” Rashmanadhi pointed out, “have never been fully satisfied.”
“Then it’s good we three are talking,” Kranstikov said. “To bind us together in a common pursuit.”
“Which is what?” the Iranian asked.
“Russia has the technological experience and know-how in nuclear weaponry. But,” he said with a sigh, “there are disadvantages to world leadership. There are many eyes on us. On the other hand, your countries, North Korea and Iran, have successfully played the game of cat and mouse. You have both begun admirable uranium-enrichment programs and plutonium production against all odds. You are to be congratulated. Yet you both have certain lacks. Iran lacks strong missile-delivery systems and is relatively new to this technology. Russia can help with that. North Korea cannot launch long-range nuclear wea
pons. Russia can provide that. In short, we can lend you both a high degree of technical assistance to bring your nuclear weapons programs to the highest levels.”
“And what is it that Russia lacks?” Rashmanadhi asked.
The Russian smiled.
He knew what it was that Russia wanted. But he wasn’t going to spell it out. Not yet. Rashmanadhi had already told him privately that Iran wanted to launch a devastating and decisive nuclear attack against Israel. Moscow knew that Russia’s secret assistance with that deadly project would earn it the everlasting cooperation of all of the oil-producing Arab nations.
So instead of the unvarnished truth, Kranstikov gave them diplomatic platitudes but frosted with a tasty hint of the bottom line. “We want a nuclear partnership with both of your countries,” the Russian said.
“What about Return-to-Sender?” Po Kumgang cried out, jutting his arms out to both sides.
Kranstikov understood his concern. North Korea desperately wanted revenge against the United States for the attack on its ship when it was decimated by its own nukes. It wanted to strike America, but it was still concerned about Joshua Jordan’s RTS missile-defense system.
“There are ways,” he said, “of accomplishing your desired nuclear aim against America without having to worry about the RTS shield.”
Po Kumgang didn’t smile. By all appearances he seemed incapable of that. But he arched his eyebrows and nodded vigorously. That was good enough.
The Russian knew that a successful strike against the United States would not obliterate it. But an East Coast nuclear strike at the center of commerce in New York and another at the seat of government in Washington could reduce America almost instantly to a second-rate country.
Which would then allow the Russian Federation to concentrate its energies and resources against the only competitor that stood between it and world dominance—China.
“So,” Kranstikov said, “shall we talk frankly? About how we can move forward as partners?”
“Yes,” Hasan Rashmanadhi said quickly, “let us move forward.” There was a surprising urgency in his voice. Not even a hint of diplomatic masking or doublespeak.
Po Kumgang crossed his arms and nodded firmly. His leaders were anxious for revenge against the United States.
Kranstikov smiled. He had a remarkable epiphany.
This is going to happen even faster than I thought.
The whole Jordan family had come to Hawk’s Nest early, before the next scheduled meeting of the Roundtable. They knew it would also do a world of good for Cal. Joshua was up and about, although he’d been warned by his doctor to avoid strenuous activities. He was told no horseback riding. Debbie was disappointed about that, but Abby was glad that her husband was trying to be smart about his recovery.
Still, Joshua had one thing already planned, and nothing, certainly not doctor’s orders, was going to dissuade him. As soon as the Roundtable recessed, he and his son, Cal, were going backpacking for two days into the Rockies. Cal said he would carry the heavier pack with the tent, even with his finger in a cast, to give his dad’s lacerated back some rest. And he was bringing some portable fishing rods so they could try fly-fishing for trout in the fast-running streams along the way. It would be a slow-paced hike, leisurely, no pressure.
Joshua said all that was fine. He just wanted the time alone with his son out there with the big sky and the mountains.
Now Joshua was standing outside the door to the large great room, which was used for the Roundtable meetings. Abigail was standing next to him. They could hear the voices of all the other members of the Roundtable chattering on the other side. Even Fortis Rice had come. He said he’d thought things over and had decided that his “conflict of interest” had disappeared. He now wanted back in. They were glad to have him.
Joshua turned to his wife. “Well, dear, are you ready?”
She smiled and asked him playfully, “Are you sure you can trust your wife as the newest member of this secret cabal?”
“I’ll remind you,” he shot back with a grin, “that Fort Rice said he’d come back only on one condition—that you head up the Roundtable’s legal unit.”
Joshua put his hand on the doorknob, but his wife stopped him.
“Hey, you still didn’t answer the question!” she said still nursing a bit of a tease in her voice. “Can you trust me?”
He reached over and gave her a long, lingering kiss. “With my life,” he whispered. Then he swung open the door.
As Joshua and Abigail entered the room, the members of the Roundtable were on their feet, giving both of them a standing ovation.
There were well-wishes and welcomes all around the table for a few minutes. But as much as he enjoyed it, Joshua had an urgent item of business to attend to. He called the meeting to order.
“I am going to address something that has just come to my attention,” he said. “Forgive me for putting this ahead of the agenda. But when I explain, I think you’ll understand why.”
But before continuing, Joshua Jordan took a moment to lean back with his hands resting on each arm of the leather captain’s chair. Out the window he caught a glimpse of the tall pines slowly swaying in the breeze. He yearned to be out there. In the fresh air. With the smell of the woods. But not yet.
There was a certainty in Joshua Jordan’s posture and a look of ease as he directed his attention back to the group, to the dire business at hand. He looked across the big table, over to Abigail. For a moment they locked glances. There was the unspoken understanding between them that once again life was about to get complicated and very dangerous. Abigail knew exactly what it was that her husband was about to announce, that it was so explosive that some might even call it treason.
Yet when Joshua spoke, his voice was calm and unhurried. “I have received credible intelligence about two things,” he said. He had to take a breath before he continued. “First, a nuclear attack is imminent. It will come against the United States. And also against Israel.”
Then as he studied the faces of the members of the Roundtable, his trusted friends, patriots all, he continued. “The second thing is equally important. The current administration will dismiss this intel and will not take action.”
After giving the group a moment to consider that astonishing announcement, he finished his thought. “Which means, my friends, only one thing,” Joshua explained. For an instant he saw a fleeting image before him of the harrowing trouble ahead. But that wouldn’t stop him. Not by a long shot.
“Our course is clear. Because the White House will not act—then we must.”
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Tim LaHaye, Edge of Apocalypse
(Series: The End Series # 1)
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