02 Thunder of Heaven: A Joshua Jordan Novel (30 page)
General Shapiro showed no emotion as his deputy, Lieutenant General Gavi Havrel, was giving his report, but it was a tough act. A half dozen other members of the general’s staff were sitting in, so Shapiro had to keep his game face on.
“General,” Havrel continued, “the size of the invading army … the naval flotilla … all those numbers have been verified.”
“And our air defenses?”
“We have F-16s here in the north, ready at your command. With bombing raids, we will try to contain the front amassing at the Syrian border. All the other bases are on high alert. The southern bases are protecting the Ovda Airport at Eilat. If necessary, they will destroy the landing strips so the invaders can’t use them. The fighters at Hatzerim Air Force Base are ready to fly. Hatzor base too. And Palmachim base, same thing, and of course that air base is ready to convert to your fallback headquarters if our northern command here has to …”
The words caught in his throat. Shapiro heard the same silent word in his own head:
Retreat.
Havrel finished his thought: “ — if our northern command has to evacuate.”
Shapiro turned to his diplomatic liaison. “Any word from the prime minister about his contact with President Tulrude in Washington?”
The aide shook his head. “President Tulrude has not spoken directly. She’s had her secretary of state relay the message to the prime minister that they are ‘carefully evaluating’ the situation. We’ve tried the secretary of defense — he’s been sympathetic in the past — but no luck. I think the White House is blocking our access to him.”
Shapiro asked. “The United Nations Security Council?”
“A tentative emergency meeting is scheduled for late tomorrow afternoon in New York.”
Shapiro’s face was ignited now. “That’s their idea of an emergency meeting, scheduled for the day
after
an invasion?”
His aide had to add, “Only a
tentative
meeting …”
“So much for
hasbara,”
Shapiro growled. His cynical comment about Israel’s efforts to build international support through public relations was met with nodding heads around the room. He had one more question — one last avenue about gathering help before Israel was swallowed up in the invading tide. “How about NATO?”
“They’ve declined. They say it’s not within the boundaries of their treaty obligations.”
Shapiro took it in. He could see the grim picture. He was a chess player, looking at a board that simply didn’t have enough pieces for
him to win. He could delay the enemy on its many fronts, but probably only by hours, not days. He could dance and weave, scramble, hit and run, but what he saw was something he had hoped never to see in his lifetime. So many young men and women — and not just soldiers — were going to perish. Civilians would fight to the death for their homes, which is exactly what they would have to do. Die.
The general turned to his staff. “We still have a few minutes. Why don’t each of you call your wives, families, close friends. Report back here in fifteen. That’s all.”
Their faces showed that they understood. The realization had just sunk in, like having to be told twice that a friend had just died. Everyone knew that they were about to have what might be their last conversation with the ones they loved.
A dozen tourists were winding their way along the path that led up the rocky cliffs. Halfway to the top, the guide stopped and started his lecture. He had lost his cell and had been out of touch with the news that day.
“Okay, the place we’re going to is called Masada. It’s the ancient site where Israel made its final defiant stand against the Roman army after the fall of Jerusalem in AD 70. Armed Jewish rebels and their families occupied the fortress at the top of this mountain. The tenth legion of the Roman army chased the rebels, following them to the wilderness here, and laid siege to the fortress. The Roman army eventually built a ramp on the western slope, so they could overtake the stronghold at the top. So Elazar Ben Yair, the Jewish commander in Masada, made a startling suggestion. He gathered the fighters and their families, about nine hundred and sixty men, women, and children, and told them it would be better to die free than to live as Roman slaves. So they made a suicide pact as the Roman soldiers marched toward their stronghold …”
Then the guide stopped. Something had caught his eye. He shielded his eyes from the sun and peered out over the desert below, to Highway 90 that ran alongside the Dead Sea and led to Masada. The tourists turned to see what he was looking at. There, on the highway, was a
slow, snaking caravan of cars, bumper to bumper, making their way to the ancient site of Masada. Some cars had already parked near the tour bus in the parking area. Families were getting out, lugging suitcases, food, supplies — and weapons.
One Jewish man, with his wife, son, and daughter, was hiking doubletime up the path and had already caught up to the tour group. Two Uzi machine guns hung from his shoulders. His family followed him with large backpacks and boxes. His young daughter carefully cradled the blue and white flag of Israel.
The man stopped next to the tour group. His face had an immovable resolve to it, hard and flinty, like the face of the cliffs that led to the ruins above them. His eyes met those of the tour guide. They did not need to say aloud what was clear to both of them.
The man with the machine guns spoke to the tourists, “My friends, I suggest that you leave this place as quickly as possible. For your own safety … unless you are prepared — all of you — to die with us.
“I’ve got bad news and worse news …”
Abigail braced herself. “Keep going, Harry.”
“The grand jury has just returned a multiple-count criminal indictment against you, Josh, and each member of the Roundtable.”
“So much for freedom of association,” she muttered. Abigail was incensed that the government would know the identities of the members, when they had worked so hard to keep that information confidential. “How did they find out?” But Abigail already knew the answer. Fort Rice had once interviewed an attorney for possible inclusion in the group. Fort hadn’t realized it, but the attorney was a mole, a confidant of Jessica Tulrude’s. So the crumbs weren’t hard to trace.
“I’m sorry, Abby.”
“What are the substantive charges?”
“As you predicted, only one, in every single count: seditious conspiracy.”
“So what’s the worse news, Harry?”
“I’ve talked to Attorney General Hamburg. He says he’s willing to dismiss the charges …”
Abigail waited for the
but.
“… but there’s a hitch.”
“There always is.”
“He says all the members — each of them — has to cooperate.”
Abigail had already figured it out. “This can’t be happening …”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“The attorney general wants them to testify against Joshua — to knife him in the back?”
“Not just that.”
“It gets worse?”
“Hamburg says the same goes for you.”
She couldn’t respond, at least not at first.
Harry filled in the blanks. “I know what you’re thinking … the husband-wife privilege not to testify against each other. But Hamburg says he’ll be satisfied if you merely nail Josh with things said in the company of others, where the privilege would be waived anyway — ”
Abigail cut him off. “Tell the attorney general — and, Harry, I want you to quote my words exactly — that I will rot in jail, in the worst cell in the world, the filthiest hellhole in the prison system, before I lie about my husband … before I turn on him. Have you got my position on that?”
“I figured you’d say that.” Then he added, “Sorry, Abby, but as your attorney I had to disclose what Hamburg said. Frankly, it made me sick to my stomach.”
“I can appreciate that, but you can take Tums for that. My problems are more complicated than indigestion.”
Before clicking off, Harry said, “One last thing, Abby. We need you to turn yourself over to the authorities. You know the routine: handcuffs, media photographers, the whole nine yards. Then the initial court appearance. It’ll be a feeding frenzy for the press.”
“Can you buy a little time?”
“A day or two, max.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going into hiding. I’ll produce myself … if it comes to that. I just need time to think. And to pray.”
After the call, Abby dashed down to the barn where Cal was watering the horses and mucking the stables. He dropped his bucket and leaned back against the wooden slats of the stable, as Abby told him what Smythe had said. She could see the fear in Cal’s eyes, but he didn’t waver. He asked her to clarify something. “Mom, you told me once about that lawyer who was a mole … who spilled the information about the Roundtable …”
“Allen Fulsin, a D.C. attorney. He had connections to the vice president’s office.”
“Something sounds unethical about that. Or am I wrong?”
“No, your instincts are right, Cal. Fulsin was interviewed regarding his serving on the legal committee for the Roundtable. That’s attorney-client privilege. Then Fulsin gave the information to the White House to use against us. Probably to Jessica Tulrude who is the one who had the ties to Fulsin.”
“Can’t we use that to get the case dismissed?”
“Maybe. If we can show that the White House deliberately used Fulsin as a spy in his capacity as an attorney initiate for the Roundtable. But Fulsin didn’t learn much about us. Just some background stuff — who we are, the members, that sort of thing. But I’ll take whatever we can get as a defense. I just have this sneaking suspicion …”
“What?”
“Call it woman’s intuition … that if we dig deep enough into Jessica Tulrude’s attitude about us, Josh and I, and the Roundtable, we may hit pay dirt. On the other hand, maybe I’m just grabbing at straws.”
Abigail silently chewed on that for a moment … the fact that Allen Fulsin was known to have ties to Jessica Tulrude when she was vice president.
There might be something there. It keeps coming back to Tulrude.
She turned to Cal. “When you’re finished with our four-legged friends, come on up to the house and clean up. You and I have work to do. You’re going to be my paralegal. You’re the guy who changed his major to poli-sci, remember? You’re about to get an advanced course in the collision between law and politics.”
Cal smiled and nodded.
As Abigail trudged back to the lodge, she began to let herself go a little emotionally. She had wanted to be confident in front of her son. But when she privately allowed herself to see the trouble she was in, she suddenly felt as if she were slipping down, farther and farther, being slowly sucked into quicksand.
God, give me wisdom. Help me keep my mind straight. And please, protect Josh …
She was shaken out of her prayer by the ringtone of her Allfone. It was Rocky Bridger.
“Abby, there’s news about Josh. Plan A — being picked up in northern Iran by an Israeli helicopter — didn’t happen, but don’t worry, there’s a plan B — an alternate pickup site farther north. I’m told that Josh and the team are okay. They’re waiting right now at the secondary rendezvous point.”
She whispered, “Thank You, Lord.”
“Now, something else. This is classified, but you need to hear it. I don’t want you seeing this on the evening news first …”
“Evening news?”
“There’s a monster invasion underway — right now. May be breaking in the next few hours or so. Ships are gathering in the Mediterranean. Armies massing in the north in Syria and in the South in Egypt. A Russian-led coalition, Abby. They’re going to attack Israel.”
Abigail reeled. She stopped at the front steps and dropped down on the first step. Deborah, the one that she thought was safe, was now in the crosshairs of a war. “Deb … my Deb …”
“I’ve tried to make contact with her, Abby, but the Israelis have locked down satellite communications. I’m trying to get to her through IDF command, but as you can imagine, they’re preparing for an all-out invasion.”
Rocky’s voice stumbled. “Abby, I’ll stay on this until I get answers — about Debbie and Josh. Hang in there, dear. No one’s giving up.”
After the call, Abigail sat listless for a moment and stared at the immovable mountains that pierced the blue sky. She could only voice a trembling whisper from the Psalms:
But the lovingkindness of the Lord
is from everlasting to everlasting
on those who fear Him,
And His righteousness to children’s children …
Grigori, the Georgian pilot of the MI-26 Halo helicopter, was on his radio. Neither the special-ops guys nor Joshua, as they sat in the jump seats, could understand what he was saying, but they could read his face and body language. It looked like there was a complication. Grigori and his copilot talked back and forth during the radio conversation.
The pickup in Azerbaijan had been flawless. The saving grace was that the helicopter was branded with a Black Sea Petro-Chem sign on the side, and the Georgian Ministry of Commerce had alerted the Russians, Turks, Syrians, each of them that one of their commercial aircraft was off course. The coalition said they would allow it to travel through their airspace but couldn’t guarantee its safety. Not ideal, but a plan. The idea was to transport the Americans directly back to Israel with a drop-off point in Israel, near the Syrian border. They’d been assured that everything had been cleared with the Israelis.
