02 Thunder of Heaven: A Joshua Jordan Novel (10 page)

Deborah Jordan beamed. “Wow, this is awesome. My dad’s going to receive the Presidential Medal of Freedom!”

Joshua had the electronic draft of the letter from the White House in his hand. He turned to his son, Cal, who was standing to one side. “Well, first of all, I’m only one of eight recipients. And second, Cal, you actually deserve the credit for this.”

Cal shook his head and stumbled for a response. “No way, Dad …”

“Read the letter.” Joshua handed it to Cal. “It mentions my helping in the ‘terrorist’ incident in Grand Central Station. That was you, right in the middle of it. Or don’t you remember …”

Cal laughed. “Oh yeah, I remember all right.”

“Well, your mom and I have to leave today for Washington. I just got the call from my office last night. This thing really came in the bottom of the ninth. The Rose Garden ceremony is day after tomorrow. For some reason my office folks didn’t see the letter until yesterday.”

Abigail sauntered over and planted a big kiss on his lips. “Ninth inning or not, you deserve it, darling. They should have given it to you after the Korean incident. But … better late than never.”

As Abigail, Deborah, and Ethan moved into the big knotty pine-paneled kitchen for lunch, Cal hung back to talk with his father.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Right. Absolutely. What’s up?”

“I’ve been thinking …”

When Cal paused, Joshua chimed in. “I’m all ears.”

“Well, here’s the deal. I’ve dropped my art major. I’m going into poli-sci.”

“That’s quite a change. You sure about this?”

“Been thinking about it for a while. It sort of crystallized for me up in Boston.”

“I’m sorry, Cal, that Mom and I couldn’t be there. You know the story about our travel problems …”

“Yeah. No big deal. Mom explained.”

“Anyway, having your art show in a prestigious gallery … that’s a real honor. You clearly have talent.”

“Thanks.”

“Why political science?”

“I guess I realized after the Grand Central Station incident … that, well, there are important things I want to be part of. There’s bad stuff happening out there. I’d like to make a difference, be part of the ‘salt and light.’ ”

Joshua recognized the reference. He’d heard Abby quote that New Testament phrase more times than he could count. That had always been Abby’s thing. It was even Cal’s thing, and Deb’s as well. But not his. He was the religious holdout, even in the face of the near-miraculous rescue of his son. The stumbling, frantic prayer for help that he had uttered — that was answered. God had been there, he was sure of it. Still, the encounter with Christ that the rest of his family had experienced and talked about, he didn’t have that. He’d stopped — right at the one-yard line.

“You know what I mean, Dad …”

Joshua broke out of his thoughts. “Yeah, I do. Making a difference. Your mom and I believe in that. You know that.”

“One more thing.”

“Sure.”

“About the Roundtable group.”

“What about it?”

“Well, you and Mom are in it.”

“Right.”

“I’d like to be involved somehow.”

“What do you know about our group?”

“Not a lot. Just tidbits. Helping the country. Protecting it. Defending it. Filling in the gaps where things have fallen apart …”

“That’s a good description.”

“I think I could help. If I could just get a chance — ”

“Cal, your enthusiasm is great. Really. And I’m impressed that you’re so interested in what your mom and I do. It’s just that, the Roundtable … that’s not something that you can be part of.”

“Why not? I’m not talking about wanting to be a big shot, a decision maker. I’d be willing just to be a low-level assistant of some kind.”

“Look, Cal. I’m serious when I say this: I’m keeping you out of the Roundtable for your own good. We’re into some pretty heavy stuff, and if things go wrong, it could be very bad for your mom and me. You know about the controversial things we’ve been doing. People out there are gunning for us. That’s fine. We’re willing to accept that. But I don’t want that for you.”

Cal gave him a perplexed look. He wasn’t going to let it go that easily. “If this country’s really in the kind of bad shape we think it is, then why keep me out?”

“For your protection.”

“Yeah, and if this was the Revolutionary War and the British were coming up the driveway, then what? You’d toss me a mussel-loaded rifle and tell me to shoot straight, that’s what.”

“So, just like that, you’re talking like a soldier rather than an artist?”

“Oh, so soldiering is okay for Deb but not for me. Right?”

“She chose the Army life, Cal. You didn’t.”

“Mom’s a lawyer, not a soldier, but she’s involved. I want to study politics, make a change, just like you and Mom. I think I’ve earned this. I was the guy at Grand Central Station who almost got blown up by a terrorist …” Cal’s face changed a little. He had painfully overplayed his hand and knew it. His father had been right there with him that day, in the thick of it, and his dad had willingly risked death, just to save Cal.

Joshua clenched his jaw. “I’m trying to protect you, Cal. Just like
that day in New York. It’s too bad you can’t see that. You have no idea how dangerous this might get for Mom and me, for all of us in the group. But not for you. You’re staying out of it. Understood?”

The last question hung in the air. It was rhetorical but had the tone of a military order.

His father tried to wrap his arm around him, but Cal stood frozen where he was. His father said, “Let’s get some grub. Carletta has fixed some awesome stuff for lunch.”

After the meal, everyone scattered. Abigail went to the master bedroom to pack. Deborah huddled in a corner of the kitchen, laughing with Ethan March. Joshua asked Deborah if he could talk with Ethan, alone. Joshua led Ethan into the big living room.

Before he could speak, however, Ethan blurted out, “I want to congratulate you, sir, on the Medal of Freedom. You’re an amazing man, if I can say that.”

Joshua gave him a matter-of-fact nod. “Thanks. But frankly, Ethan, I’m a realist. It’s an election year. Most likely, the White House is giving me the medal as a way to pick up votes. Don’t get me wrong. I’m humbled and honored, but I’m cautious too.”

“Cautious?”

Jordan avoided going down that road. “Ethan, are you thinking about staying in defense contracting?”

“Yes, sir. I did well at Raytheon before I got laid off. You’ve actually been an inspiration for me. Air Force flier. Then into defense engineering.”

“Okay, then send me your résumé. I’ll take a look. Who knows, maybe we have an opening at Jordan Technology.”

“Outstanding, sir. I’ll shoot that out to you right away.”

Ethan reached out and patted Joshua on the side of the shoulder. “So, you do remember me from our stint together at McGill Air Base?”

Joshua’s expression changed. “I remember that you set some flying records.”

Ethan’s grin got bigger.

“And I recall your getting reprimanded on two occasions for taking joyrides with experimental aircraft without authorization …”

Ethan’s smile faded. “I can explain that sir …”

“And reprimands in your file about getting into a couple of fights.”

“You know about that?”

“I make it a habit of knowing about the men under me. The main thing I recall from your file, Ethan, is that you had difficulty taking orders when you disagreed with them.”

Ethan’s bravado disappeared. He looked down for an instant but then looked up, straight into Joshua’s eyes and said, “With all due respect, sir, I admit my faults … all of them. But I also recall a story about a decorated flying ace, doing surveillance over Iran’s nuclear facilities. When the Iranian radar painted him, and enemy ground-to-air missiles were about to be launched right up his tail, command signaled him to abort. The flier refused and kept his heading. He got the spy shots from the camera in that U-2X ultrasonic jet and returned to base without a scratch. Mission complete. That was one gutsy move that you did, sir, if I may say so. And that flight of yours over Iran is a legend among my flying buddies.”

Joshua was suddenly taken aback by Ethan’s account. But he also remembered what he learned at his briefing later at the Pentagon about that flight. Something he hadn’t told anyone since. There was a reason he hadn’t been blown right out of the sky. Somebody else had his back. In fact, a guy on the ground had sacrificed his life to insure that didn’t happen.

He looked at Ethan. Young. Talented. Overly eager. Way too cocky. But Joshua saw the potential — and the need for Ethan March to have somebody watch his back.

“Send me that résumé,” Joshua said. “But no promises.” Then he shook Ethan’s hand.

Cal was cutting through the big living room, with its mammoth fieldstone fireplace and bear rug on the wall. He glanced over just as Ethan was thanking Joshua for something and the two were shaking hands.
Cal stopped, struck by what he saw. His face tightened. When his father caught him out of the corner of his eye, Cal continued walking, through the room, out the front door, and down the front-porch steps without stopping.

Joshua had a plan. He’d come up with it earlier on the porch but kept it secret from everyone except Abby. His idea was to use the White House ceremony as an opportunity to slip the intelligence he’d received about an impending attack against the U.S. directly to the president. Joshua trusted Pack McHenry’s intel sources, but just being at an event with the commander in chief wasn’t enough. The real obstacles were the political realities he knew all too well. He had met with presidents before. Merely being honored with a Presidential Medal of Freedom wouldn’t guarantee him private, confidential access to the most powerful man in the world. That much he knew.

And there was another matter to consider, his founding of the Roundtable itself. He had recently asked Abby to give him legal advice about any legal liability the group might have for its activities and how close they were to the edge of danger. When he did, she just gave him one of those knowing looks. She’d already done her homework even before he’d asked — typical of Abby. But when she told her husband what she’d come up with, she adopted her serious lawyer posture.

She cited the federal laws against “seditious conspiracy”: 18 United States Code Section 2384. Abby said that in the hands of a skillful, mean-spirited prosecutor, the meaning of the word “force” in that criminal law could actually be stretched to cover some of their plans to help protect the United States from foreign threats. Every member of the Roundtable, especially Joshua, could be made to look like a wealthy criminal vigilante interfering with U.S. policy — in effect, running their own shadow government. It was a real risk. It didn’t
matter that they loved their country or believed the nation’s leaders were failing its citizens and imperiling its safety from enemies foreign and domestic. The point remained, in the end, that their clandestine activities could land them all in jail.

Maybe he was just being paranoid, but the facts were undeniable. Not long ago, Joshua had boldly defied a congressional subpoena in his effort to protect the proprietary design of his RTS antimissile system to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. Then there was the contempt-of-court charge brought against him by a federal judge over the same issue, forcing him to go into hiding to avoid service of federal papers. Sure, things finally worked out and the charges were dropped — thanks to Abby’s brilliant maneuvering — but he knew that some people in the White House were still trying to bring him down.

What if his inclusion in the Medal of Freedom event was just an elaborate trap, to get him close enough so the Feds could grab him on some charges he wasn’t even aware of yet? And why did they instruct him that only one family member could accompany him to the ceremony? But his anxiety over all that seemed absurd. Why would the administration bestow a medal on someone just so they could arrest him?

As the president of the United States addressed the small audience in the Rose Garden ceremony, Joshua was still wondering what had truly brought him to that place.

He found himself in a row of eight recipients, all standing behind President Virgil Corland. The president spoke from a podium embossed with the familiar presidential seal, as press cameras whirred and fluttered. They had a great shot. The sprawling trees of the White House lawn framed the event, and far off in the background stood the white obelisk of the Washington Monument. Joshua looked out and located Abigail’s warm, loving face.

Joshua had not been prepared for how haggard the president looked: tired eyes, pale, sunken skin. He realized why the administration had denied the cameras any close-ups.

When it came time for Joshua to receive his medal, Corland said it was for recognition of his “acts of bravery and civic duty in foiling a criminal plot at Grand Central Station, which not only threatened the life of his own son, Cal Jordan, but also posed a threat involving America’s national security.” Joshua thought it was strange to get a medal for that; he’d have walked through hell to save his own son. That’s just what a father does.

Most likely the president was ramping up for his reelection campaign and wanted to pander to voters who supported a strong national defense. But beyond that, Joshua got the feeling that he was there, in this glittering Rose Garden ceremony, because he was a chess piece in some kind of high-stakes political game.

When it was over, the president went down the row of medal recipients and shook hands with each of them. Joshua noticed that he took the time to converse at length with every other medalist, but when he got to Joshua, he simply gave a quick shake, silently smiled, and then moved on without saying a word.

When those on the dais dispersed, the president was quickly ushered by his staff and Secret Service detail back inside the White House. Joshua strode over to Abigail. Around his neck was the blue ribbon, and dangling from it was the white five-pointed star edged in gold and laying against the background of a red pentagonal shield.

Abigail reached out to touch the medal. Her smile was uncontainable, a gentle explosion of love, passion, and pride.

She was about to say something when her eyes darted off to something behind Joshua. Before he could turn around, Joshua felt a hand on his arm. Two square-shouldered men in suits stared at him from behind sunglasses, with tiny electronic ear buds in their ears.

“Mr. Jordan, please come with us.”

“What’s this about?” Joshua asked.

“You need to come now, Mr. Jordan …”

Abigail tried to keep things light. “I hope our Medal of Freedom winner here isn’t in some hot water,” she said with a halting attempt at a joke.

The men didn’t smile.

“I’m not just his wife,” Abigail said. “I’m also his lawyer.”

One of the men, ignoring her comment, said, blandly, “Mrs. Jordan, you need to go back to the checkin tent beyond the West Wing. Wait there for more information.”

Joshua turned to Abigail. He looked her in the eye but was staring right into her heart. “Don’t worry, Abby. I’ll be right back.”

“You’d better be,” Abigail snapped, loud enough for the two men in suits to hear.

She kept her eyes on Joshua as he walked away, sandwiched between the two federal agents, until they disappeared in the milling crowd of smiling families and glad-handing politicians.