Edge of Apocalypse (38 page)

No rash moves. Cal's life is on the line.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Cal Jordan was starting to regain consciousness. He guessed he was in a moving vehicle. A van or a truck. He was lying on a hard surface with a black hood over his head and duct tape over his mouth. His hands and feet had been bound so tightly that it felt as if the circulation was slowly being cut off.

As his head cleared Cal became aware of the dull pain in the left side of his neck. And some oozing from a needle prick there. He didn't know anything about the drug Nembutal, but he was certainly feeling the aftereffects of being injected with it. Even worse was the severe headache pounding inside his skull like a jackhammer.

But after assessing the pain and confusion, fear set in.
What's happening? I was in...my dorm room. Someone was there with me. Something about the lights...in the ceiling...we were looking at the ceiling. How'd I get here? Okay, I'm tied up. In a van or something. There was a guy in my room. He must have done this. I've got to get out. Now.

Cal struggled, but it was impossible to budge. Not only were his wrists and legs tied together, but his neck, torso and legs were strapped down to the floor of the van. As he tried to free himself, his breathing got labored. It was difficult for him to suck in air because of the tape over his mouth, and he tried to breathe through his nose but as he frantically tried to do that he panicked and hyperventilated and nearly passed out.

There was the sensation of movement, and the sound of road underneath tires and braking, and momentary stopping. Then it started up again.

For a moment, when he thought the van would stop, Cal felt somewhat hopeful that it all would end soon. But just as quickly, his perspective changed into something dark and dreadful. As if he had just walked past the warped mirrors of a carnival fun house.

What will happen when the car stops? I've been kidnapped, but by who? What do they want? Money. Mom and Dad would pay ransom for me. I'll be okay. Just can't look at the kidnappers--I'm okay as long as I can't identify them.

Then the van started slowing down again. And it stopped.

But this time the driver put it into park and turned off the engine.

Cal's heart was thumping so loudly inside his chest that he wondered if it was creating an echo in the van.

In that split second something became clear to Cal. His assumptions about his own faith were now being spread out onto a table of terror. Everything he thought he knew about God and his relationship with a Savior who guided his steps and indwelled his life. All of that was now being tested in the very center of the fire. He had once survived the mad riot of humanity in the train station that day when the missiles were coming. But even that didn't compare with this. Nothing was like this.

He summoned his simple knowledge that there was an unseen Lord. And that He would surely listen and answer. He formed the words in his mouth and said them silently.
Oh, God, protect me. Please.

A minute later came the sound of the double doors opening in the rear of the van.

Someone was climbing in. Then the doors slammed shut. Even with the black hood over his head Cal could tell that a bright light was now filling the area in the back of the van where he was strapped to the floor.

The hood was yanked off, and the duct tape was pulled off his mouth ripping the hairs off his upper lip.

A face was staring at him, backlit by the painful glare of a photographer's lamp.

"I will give you a minute to get used to the light," Atta Zimler said.

Cal thought he could recognize the voice. It sounded like the maintenance man in his dorm room. Then he could see the man's face better. Yes, it was him.

Then Cal saw that the man had set up a tripod with a camcorder on it. Zimler was holding the hard copies of two e-newspapers.

"Cal Jordan," Zimler said with a strange nonchalance. "You are going to make a little movie for your father. You are to say your name into the video camera. And today's date. And that you have not been harmed. Then I want you to beg for your life. Because if your father doesn't give me what I want, I will kill you, Cal. And I will videotape it all and put your execution on VideoNet so that millions of people can enjoy it. Do you understand what I have just told you?"

Cal was terrified and couldn't speak, but he nodded his head.

Zimler screamed into his face, "Say it out loud--say that you understand me!"

"I understand you."

"Good," Zimler said with a weird pleasantness to his voice. Then Zimler added, "You know, Cal, this is going to be very interesting." And he smiled at Cal. "Do you know why?"

Cal, still dumbstruck with terror, could only shake his head no.

"I'll tell you why," Zimler explained. "Because when this is over we are going to find out something important about your father, the great Joshua Jordan. I've really wondered about this...which does he love more? His son or his country?"

Less than a two-hour drive from Cal's location in the back of Zimler's van, Joshua Jordan's legal fate was being debated. In the federal court building in Washington, D.C. Harry Smythe had managed to arrange a short hearing before Judge Jenkins. Only one assistant U.S. attorney representing Congress bothered to show up.

"I am requesting," Smythe said, "that you drop the bench warrant for arrest issued against my client, Mr. Jordan. The basis of the warrant--that he had ignored a lawful subpoena issued by a committee of the U.S. Senate--is now moot because that subpoena has been withdrawn by Senator Straworth, the chairman. I would also emphasize that the government has no objection to our request."

"All that is very interesting," the judge snapped back, "but that doesn't bind me in my decision. I have the discretion to execute my bench warrant regardless of the validity of the original basis for contempt charges. You're a good lawyer; I'm sure you recognize that--"

"I do," Smythe shot back. "But equity and fairness--"

"Is something for me to decide," Judge Jenkins said, finishing his sentence. "And I've decided that this court needs to satisfy itself that Joshua Jordan has due respect for the rule of law. Particularly in light of his defiance of Congress and his disregard for this court. I'd like to address Mr. Jordan personally, here in my courtroom. Is he here?"

Smythe shook his head and prepared himself for another humiliation.

"He's not, Your Honor."

Harry Smythe had called Joshua earlier to suggest that he attend the court appearance with him but got his voicemail. He left a message but never heard back from Joshua, which was unusual. Smythe was now left without an explanation for the judge and had little to placate her.

Judge Jenkins took a minute to collect herself, but she wasn't able to fully hide her fury. "If your client doesn't have the respect for this court to appear personally to request the bench warrant be withdrawn, then I have no compulsion to withdraw it."

"But, judge, you've put both me and my client on the horns of an intractable dilemma," Smythe complained.

"That's your problem," Judge Jenkins countered. "The bench warrant continues in full force and effect. I've already ordered a small army of federal marshals to hunt down and arrest Mr. Jordan. Good day to you, Mr. Smythe."

FIFTY-EIGHT

As a retired general, Rocky Bridger had several friends who owned helicopters. He was able, on short notice, to get one of them to chopper him down to Manhattan. They located a helipad within a block of the Palace Hotel.

During their two-hour wait for Rocky to arrive, Joshua and Abigail remained frozen in the hotel room, sitting next to Joshua's Allfone.

But no call came in.

Then Abigail turned to Joshua and made a surprising suggestion.

"You wanted Rocky here," she began, "so that he could help us figure out the practical logistics of this horrible situation. And I agreed. But now I also want someone else here to help me figure something out."

"Figure out what?"

"The spiritual logistics," she said. "I need Pastor Paul Campbell here with me."

"Abby, is that really necessary?" Joshua unloaded. He had been mentally consumed by Cal's situation and how he might be rescued. Joshua didn't need outside interference. "We need to keep this to a small circle of people we can trust."

"Which is why I need my pastor here. He's trustworthy."

"Look, this is no place for a pastor. We're wading into war here--"

"Then consider him a battlefield chaplain. This is the scariest thing we've ever faced. Even worse than your spy-plane missions. This is our son's life we're talking about. Our son...The decisions we make right here could either save him or kill him. Please, Josh, please understand..."

That's when Rocky Bridger buzzed their hotel suite and said he was on his way up.

Joshua turned to Abigail. His beautiful wife's face was twisted with emotion. She was a smart woman, but more than that she had a habit of being right about things that she was the most passionate about.

"Okay," Joshua said to Abigail. "Call Pastor Campbell. Tell him only that we have an urgent personal matter to discuss with him, and we need him over here. But he can't tell anyone where he's going or why."

She smiled and wiped her tears away with the back of her hand.

Then Joshua made the point again. "I hope that guy keeps his mouth shut."

The doorbell rang, and Rocky Bridger was standing in the doorway. Abigail greeted him with a long hug, thanked him for coming, and then scurried past him on her way down to the hotel business center to call Pastor Campbell.

As Joshua reached his hand out it suddenly struck him that Rocky looked shorter and older as the two men clasped hands firmly and just stood there for a few long moments.

They studied the anguish in each other's eyes. Rocky had just lost a son-in-law, and he had come from a house where he had been trying to comfort his heartbroken daughter and his granddaughter. Joshua's son was now being held hostage--his life hanging by a thread. And it appeared clear that those two tragic attacks were related. They were both tied to Joshua's RTS technology. This was a toll that Joshua had not counted on.

Joshua briefed him again, this time in detail, about the information from the Liberty University security staff and then what the hostage taker had said on the phone.

"And the kidnapper hasn't contacted you further?" Rocky asked.

"No. He just said to wait for his call."

"Let's be straight here, Josh, I'm no expert in hostage situations. You know that..."

"That's not how I remember it. That situation with that downed pilot in Ecuador who was captured by FARC rebels--you managed to get that guy rescued pretty smoothly..."

"I had a whole lot of help..."

"You're still the best man in a crisis I've ever known."

"Well, then are you willing to take some advice from this old general?"

"You know I am."

"You need to spread your net a little wider."

"How?"

"I know you're concerned that someone has been helping this criminal."

"He's got to be plenty connected. I heard from my Patriot friend that foreign interests were after me because of RTS. And we figure that this lunatic tortured your son-in-law to get information about my family. Then he takes my son. The breadcrumbs stretch from my son's college dormitory room all the way across the planet to some unknown international terrorists who are probably orchestrating this."

"I'm not exactly saying we ought to call the FBI and report a kidnapping..."

"Then what?"

"It's like the 9/11 scenario," Rocky said. "Failure to coordinate intelligence sources can be disastrous. I think we need to bring in that guy you sent me to--Gallagher. He seems to be working this from the other direction. He's trailing a suspect, and he doesn't know where he will hit next. Gallagher just knows that it points in your direction. This could be the link."

"And what if he feels obliged to run this up the command, and it leaks out to the kidnappers' contacts--whoever they are--that's a chance I don't think we can take."

"All I know is that after talking to Agent John Gallagher, I had this feeling."

"About what ?"

"I've spent my whole career taking and giving orders," Rocky said. "A
lot
of order taking way back at the beginning. Then you get your stripes, and later some stars and ribbons, and finally you're giving more orders than you have to take. But it all comes down to chain of command. I recognized that tone when I spoke to Agent Gallagher. The guy's not exactly following orders--not to the letter--but he's still trying not to buck it either. But he's way out there at the outer perimeter. With his toes on the edge of the cliff."

"So, you think we need to bring him in?"

"Yes. I think he knows who murdered Roger. I also think he'll have an idea who your kidnapper is. Likely the same scum did both. Gallagher has the big picture--unlike the local detectives who interviewed me. Gallagher knows a lot; I'd bank my retirement on it."

"Then the question is--will the kidnapper find out?"

"What if he does?"

"No, no, then he kills Cal..."

"Maybe not."

"I can't even take that risk."

"Cal may be at the same risk whether you contact Gallagher or not."

"But I have to go with what I know. The caller says don't contact the police or the FBI."

"But if Gallagher is out there on the perimeter, like I think he is, maybe he's pursuing this on a discrete channel, in a sequestered way," Rocky said, "in which case the chances are less that our hostage creep will find out. And if this is the same monster who killed Roger...then I want Agent Gallagher to know what we know. I want Roger avenged as much as I know you want Cal to be saved."

"You really think we can risk bringing Gallagher into this?" Joshua asked again. His eyes were closed as he tried to calculate the incalculable, picturing his son on a sacrificial slab. One wrong move and the blade goes down and the blood starts flying.