DISTANT THUNDER
Jimmy Root, Jr
PROLOGUE
568 B.C.
The old man kicked at a clump of drying grass, while he wiped away the sweat that was burning his eyes.
Just standing in this heat weakened his spindly legs, and a scorching wind seared his lungs. It was the
season when relentless summer winds sucked the life out of just about every living thing in this "heart of
Babylon," greatest of all kingdoms, center of the universe.
"Bah," spat Ezekiel, the crusty old prophet. "There is one King who will lay claim, and it is not
Nebuchadnezzar!"
He wasn't concerned about his words falling on the ears of a stray Chaldean; he was already known by
most as a lunatic. In reality, only a handful of his own people actually listened to him. Mostly, he was
mocked as a babbling fool, and that only sharpened his frustration.
He was meandering along the eastern bank of the Chebar Canal, alone with his tortured thoughts and
nagging regrets. So many hopes and dreams had been piled up like refuse on a trash heap, sometimes he
wondered if there was any point in continuing what seemed to be a fruitless ministry. Worse, Ezekiel knew
he was nearing his last breath. The reality that he would not see his beloved Jerusalem again weighed
heavily upon him.
Stolen away from his homeland by the King of Babylon some thirty years earlier, the prophet had nearly
forgotten the beauty and blessing of Judah. Only images remained. Some were pleasant ponderings;
others were memories of shattered possibilities. But most glaring were the remembrances of a greater
invasion of wickedness that had consumed his people.
He'd cried out fervently while still in Israel, trying to awaken the people to the abomination of it all. Few
listened. Wretchedness had been unleashed upon the people, and it came from the iniquities of the people
themselves. No matter how passionately he'd challenged the depravity, there seemed to be no power
behind his words. None of his pronouncements carried the necessary weight to bring about change. His
desire to call upon the conscience of his people was simply not enough. So, with a heaviness that
accompanies a sense of failure, Ezekiel had left prophetic utterance to the few who claimed to have the
power.
It wasn’t until he’d settled in the hovel called Tel-abib, situated beside this dirty river, that he first began to
feel an odd stirring in his belly. Strangely, it signaled the arrival of a power that would energize his words. It
was also when his dreams began to turn dark. He was shown things he, to this day, could not comprehend.
His visions were so horrifyingly real that he’d developed a tremor in his hands and a slight twitch had
become noticeable under his eye. Whenever he shared the dreams and visions, the quaking and twitching
became so prominent that people would either discount him as sick or denounce him as a fool. With a wave
of a hand he was dismissed. But the inner stirring only intensified until it became a raging storm.
He lifted his head and looked toward a setting sun smeared by distant dust-filled winds. Slowly, his
thoughts turned to his once lovely Jerusalem, and it made him mourn. Worse, his wild visions concerned
that once great city. Over the last few weeks his waking dreams had disturbed him so much that he’d hardly
been able to stomach his food.
Whenever the trance fell, a huge valley would be stretched before him, a valley filled with nothing but
dust, dry bones and armor. It was a place of defeat and death, where all flesh had been picked clean by
vultures and jackals. Some great battle had been waged and an army had met complete annihilation.
With each repetition of the vision, the prophet would end up puzzled and confused. But the last few times,
some-thing different had happened. What seemed to have been a messenger from the Almighty had
appeared beside him. The figure was beyond comprehension, yet exuding a sorrowful compassion for this
lost people lying before him.
“What do you see, son of man? Describe it to me,” the bronze-hued, light shrouded being commanded.
Ezekiel’s knees were banging together like drums being played at a wedding feast. “I see bones, nothing
but bones. Bones separated from one another and piled high. Swords, helms, bucklers, and shields,”
Ezekiel answered weakly.
“Can these bones live again?” the being asked. “Can there be life in place of death?”
Ezekiel strained his eyes out over the valley looking for any sign of a survivor, any life at all. Not even a
bird remained to pick at the bones. Everything was desolate. With a shrug and a sigh, he let the question
stand for a moment. How does one give answer to such a riddle-speaking majestic being, when words fall
short of holiness and are shrouded in trepidation?
“You know, my Lord, you know,” was the prophet’s feeble reply.
“I tell you, son of man, these bones will live again.”
Suddenly, a swirling wind blew outward from the messenger and passed down the entire length of the
valley. It was accompanied by bursts of lightning as it rolled forward in raw, creative power.
A clicking sound could be heard, something far beyond Ezekiel’s knocking knees. It was the sickly pop of
bone reconnecting with bone. He looked toward the nearest pile of death and gasped as a soldier was
swiftly reassembled, then another. He witnessed a torrent of bones flying as if they were looking for the
correct skeleton to connect to. Then, sinew and tendon began to form in joints and spread rapidly over
each body. Flesh appeared. It was followed by clothing.
Armor flew into place on one lone soldier nearby. The new man took his place among the hundreds of
companies that were being formed across the entire valley. Then, silence. The army was standing, living,
breathing, and ready to march to war. Fear-generated sweat poured down Ezekiel’s face as he turned to
the messenger.
“I tell you, that which was dead will come to life. My wayward people were crushed under my discipline, but
they shall be restored. Jacob shall live again, and my servant David shall be king. I will make a covenant of
peace with them. I will be their God, and they will be my people. Then the whole world will see my sanctuary
standing in their company forever.” Then the man was gone.
It was the same nearly every night for the last moon cycle. Ezekiel grunted as he thought of how he was
getting to the point where he could repeat the words with each night’s visitation.
“Must be careful to not offend the Great Light,” he said to no one in particular.
At least thinking through these manifestations seemed to help lessen the distance he had to cover
between settlements as he faithfully conveyed God’s message to his people. However, this last part of the
vision needed a bit more consideration before he shared it. The people were already raising their eyebrows,
no need to confirm his lunacy just yet.
Suddenly, the prophet felt himself driven to his knees by the weight of a massive hand. He was pushed
mercilessly downward until his sunburned forehead touched the parched earth he’d been kicking moments
before. Then a voice said,
“Son of man, set your face to the north, to Gog of the land of Magog, to the chief prince of Meshech and
Tubal, and prophesy against him…”
Nizhniy Novgorod, Russia
August 1991
It was happening far too quickly. Only the politically far-sighted could interpret the future, and that future
held a deep foreboding for all remaining hard-line communists. The morning reports carried the signs of an
ominous final blow to the old Soviet Union. Vice President Gennadi Yanayev’s coup against Mikhail
Gorbachev appeared to have been brought to a speedy halt by the drunken mayor of Moscow, Boris
Yeltsin. The man had made his play by rallying the populace, and it was working. The empire, weakened by
massive internal corruption and a resurgent American military, could no longer stand the pressure rising
from its own grass roots. It was over.
Local KGB directorate head, Grigori Polkov, had seen the handwriting on the wall when the pillars of
communism began to fall, first in Poland, and finally in Berlin. He despised what was happening, and though
his hatred for capitalist society bordered on rabidity, his mind was clear enough to know that the fibers of
socialism were too deep, too en-trenched, to be driven from the psyche of the populace. Yet, the empire’s
resurrection was inevitable. He was sure of it. It would take careful strategy and great patience, but the
Russian Bear would rise again someday and he would be its head.
Polkov pulled his black Volga to the iron gate of the Novgorod Strategic Depository and waited for two
duty soldiers to approach the vehicle. A subtle nod was exchanged between he and his junior partner in the
passenger seat, and both pulled a P22 SIG Sauer silenced weapon from their jackets. The guards,
accustomed to the presence of the director, never knew what hit them.
Immediately, a short-bed Likhachev military transport vehicle pulled up behind Polkov’s sedan and both
proceeded to bunker 176 at the far end of the depository. There, three more guards were quietly
terminated, and the transport was backed to the large sliding doors.
Polkov knew there would be little time, but it would be enough for his purposes. Inside this particular
bunker were stored the entirety of the Soviet arsenal of portable, tactical nuclear weapons. Weighing less
than 75 lbs apiece, he was aware that the nukes could be used in a variety of ways. Polkov had two in
mind. One was as a method of terror and extortion. The other was as a missile compatible offensive
weapon. Polkov and his men would take as many as possible before their unauthorized intrusion was
discovered.
How the nukes would be used in the future was anyone’s guess, but one thing was certain, they would be
in his hands. Someday all would feel his power.
CHAPTER ONE
NEWS…..DATELINE…..NOVEMBER 5
“BERNARD R. CLIFTON WAS DECLARED THE PRESIDENT-ELECT OF THE UNITED STATES VERY
EARLY LAST EVENING. CITING HIS VICTORY AS A MANDATE FOR PEACE, CLIFTON IMMEDIATELY
PROMISED TO WITHDRAW US FORCES FROM IRAQ AND THE MIDDLE EAST. “
NEWS….DATELINE….NOVEMBER 22
“WITH A NEWLY ELECTED GROUP OF FRESH-MAN DEMOCRATS AT HER SIDE, THE SPEAKER OF
THE HOUSE CHALLENGED THE OUTGOING PRESIDENT TO IMMEDIATELY IMPLEMENT A STEPPED-UP
PHASED WITHDRAWAL FROM IRAQ.”
NEWS….DATELINE……FEBRUARY 1
“IN AN UNPRECEDENTED STATEMENT, PRESIDENT BERNARD R. CLIFTON ISSUED A PUBLIC
APOLOGY TO THE PEOPLE OF IRAQ FOR CRIMES COMMITTED BY THE PREVIOUS ADMINISTRATION”
NEWS…..DATELINE….MARCH 30
“FRENCH PRESIDENT ANDRE D’TIENE PUSHED FOR A PEACEKEEPING PRESENCE IN JERUSALEM
HEADED BY THE NEWLY FORMED MEDITERRANEAN UNION.”
NEWS….DATELINE…..APRIL 16
GRIGORI POLKOV NAMED HIMSELF CZAR TODAY IN MOSCOW. IN TURN, PRESIDENT CLIFTON REAF-
FIRMED HIS SUPPORT OF THIS GENUINE ALLY OF AMERICA.
Leavenworth, Kansas
National Military Cemetery
October 15
There was so much pain, so much loss; it was nearly beyond his ability to bear. More than an hour had
passed since the grave had been filled, yet here sat his mother, silently ad-justing a wreath and several
arrangements of flowers against his brother’s headstone. He had to turn away, but even then, the sight was
overwhelming.
White crosses marched into the distance at every angle, stony-white and cold. Sunlight, occasionally
forcing its way through the cloudy autumn sky, starkly proclaimed that death was commander on this parade
ground. All the pages of honor and heroism that might be written about the fallen lives represented here
could not hide the reality that so many had been so futilely wasted, and for what? Liberty? Failed ambitions
giving way to political expediency? The latter was the claim of the ever-present cynics.
“America has no business being over there and this is what we get,” was the fatalistic pragmatism that
most had taken hold of, and that view had prevailed. Last fall’s presidential election proved it. A “cut our
losses” Vietnam rerun was the result, practically discounting the sacrificial death for home and country
made by thousands.
A sigh was all Ty Dempsey could manage as he waited a short distance away from his kneeling mother,
Martha. Though only thirty-two, he’d accumulated six years of experience as a pastor. He thought he’d
gone through every emotional extreme life had to offer. Taking care of others, feeling their grief, their joy,
their anger, and even their disillusionment was his calling. But nothing had prepared him for this depth of
pain.
Nathan J. Dempsey had been killed in Iraq just last week at age twenty-three, one of the final casualties of
a haphazard withdrawal from the Middle East. By his mother’s side another fresh bouquet leaned against a
cross, the marker of an old soldier gone on to be with his maker just two years before. Jimmy Dempsey had
died at age sixty-four from a cancer whose deadly seed had been sown in his body while he fought to
survive the jungles of Vietnam.
Ty still mourned the death of his father, a man who’d been so adversely affected that even his family had
been kept at an emotional arm’s distance. Though the he’d given a gallant effort, he could never break the
vice-like grip of battle and death that had brutally held him for all these years. In the end, the old war itself
mercifully brought closure to his suffering, both physically and mentally. But not to his mother, the grief that
had been lurking all too near the surface since her husband’s death now cruelly hovered like the windy, cold
clouds overhead.
Ty allowed himself the small comfort of leaning his solid, six foot, two inch frame against a large oak tree
that would take on the responsibility of shading his brother’s grave, its crisp brown leaves soon to become a
soft blanket over the dead. A sob was caught under the knot in his throat as he watched his mother stretch
a hand toward her husband’s headstone. He could hardly contain his pain; his mind morbidly envisioned this
brave woman being lowered into the hole that would someday be prepared between these two men that she
loved so deeply, so completely.
“My God, how much pain should one person have to take?” he whispered. “Where’s the comfort in all of
this hurt, this death?”
He looked toward the cemetery entrance at several crosses honoring other young men cut down before
their lives had really begun, many for whom he’d performed a funeral service. He could still see his mother
sharing silent strength and solace with women in deep hurt, placing an arm around one, organizing a dinner
for another. How many times during those eulogies had he feared for the safety of his brother, or worried
about the horrible pain they would experience should Nathan die?
A shade of guilt passed over him as he considered that fear again, a seeming lack of faith. Had what he’d
feared most now come upon him? No, that cruelty was not part of his God. It was the irrationality of his own
grief that he would have to sort through and bear.
Ty felt a wisp of wind cool his cheek where a tear had ended its quick flow. The last son faithfully stepped
to his mother, gently placed his hand under the crook of her arm, and gave her the tug that signaled that
the most difficult moment had arrived.
“It’s time to go Mom,” he said in a soft voice. “Folks will be waiting for us at the house.”
“I know, but part of me just wants to rest here, the part that is so tired of doing this,” she sighed. “I
thought I’d prepared myself, but here I am, still asking God why it had to be Nathan. Is that wrong Ty? Is it
wrong to wish this would have been somebody else’s boy?” Another tear pooled in her eye, and the corners
of her small mouth quivered downward in pain.
“No Mom, you’re hurting and it is okay to ask that question. I’m asking some questions too.”
With one last adjustment to the wreath she slowly stood. Once on her feet she paused as if another
thought needed to be expressed, but she just couldn’t put the proper words to it. Then, with a quick, sad
smile, and a pat of Ty’s hand, she turned and began the short walk from beneath the arms of the old oak to
the waiting car. A house full of friends and well wishers needed tending back in Plattsville.
Kansas City, Missouri
Later That Evening
Hamid Jamal could find no peace. It wasn’t because of the later-than-normal traffic on the avenue below,
but the apprehension heaving in his gut at the prospects of botching the mission a few short days from now.
He had no doubt that what he was embarking upon was holy in the eyes of Allah. He was also certain that
the judgmental scrutiny of his superiors would be locked on him. That meant his eternity was hanging in the
balance.
The pressure was eating at him and making his stomach churn. It was more than the poorly made humus
he had en-joyed earlier in the evening. No, this abdominal tension rested solely on a prospect that brought
him deep trepidation. Ha-mid was afraid that he might not be up to the gruesome task. Would he be able to
fulfill what he believed was his earthly purpose, his very reason for being?
He rolled to his side and stared across the small room he’d become so intimately familiar with these last
few weeks. t may have been efficient, but it was not used. A convenience store, the near daily visit to the
City Market’s Arabic restaurant, and a microwave were all Hamid had needed to get by. Although the food
was below his Iranian standards, it was a place that gave him the ability to blend into his surroundings in this
American heartland city.
He had been quite pleasantly surprised at the quantities of middle-eastern men living in the downtown
vicinity, not to mention their outspoken disdain for their host country's politics and people. Freedom of
speech was as foreign to him as he was to these odd capitalist infidels, but it proved itself something to be
taken advantage of. Several times he’d allowed himself to inwardly ridicule the obvious softness of these
pampered people. How could this be the nation that had silenced Saddam and subdued Khadafy? Not one
of them would last a week living under the extreme demands of Islam in his native country of Iran. Their
softness and wickedness would be exposed.
Still bothered and fidgety, Hamid rose from the bed and looked out his window toward the glowing building
situated several blocks to the northeast. The huge, bowl-shaped, glass arena was just beginning to release
the thousands of people who had gathered within its bowels for a concert. He wasn’t sure of the particular
singer, nor the style of music being per-formed, but thousands of people filled the area and that was all that
mattered. The traffic below was a confirmation that his chosen location would be the perfect place from
which to send multitudes of infidels on a journey to the face of Allah. There, they would receive his severe
judgment for their unbelief.
The covert contact which had set the final stages of the operation into motion was made ten days earlier.
At a blind drop, Hamid had found a note written in Farsi with a single word written across its face,
RETRIBUTION. The meaning was clear. One of the fabled Russian suitcase nuclear devices, supposedly
missing for years, had arrived. As far as he knew, several were to have been loaded on various container
ships in China, with destinations to ports in San Diego, L.A., and Seattle. All were filled with crates of toys,
the bombs nestled safely away and undetected. Ironically, one container ship carried the updated version of
the famous G.I. Joe action figure for little boys.
Port security in this nation was absolutely baffling. Even after having suffered the attacks of 9-11, the
American government remained an awkward behemoth in the area of homeland security. It had basically
accomplished nothing beyond inspiring the irritation of its pampered travelers. That lax would be remedied
by horror.
The transfer to local warehouses had evidently taken place without incident after the ships arrived at
port. Shipment to key American cities, in which specific targets had been located, was to be handled by two
nationally networked street-gangs who benefited by receiving a hefty sum of Iranian-based oil revenue. He
easily imagined the money being multiplied by the illicit drug trade that infected the nation. That made him
smile.
The presence of the note at the drop gave confirmation to a date previously established by his masters.
It also verified that all targets were set, operatives were in place, and a spectacular display of Allah’s
judgment was at hand. The Great Satan would be stricken and, as far as he knew, the little Satan, the
illegal state of Israel, would also be a target for Allah’s retribution. The thought quickened his heartbeat and
made him smile.
Running his long, slim fingers through his black hair, Hamid reached under the tattered lampshade
resting on the table and switched it on. An arena pamphlet mapping all en-trances, concourses, and seating
sections had been laid out for several days of study. His plan was simple. Knowing there was absolutely no
possibility of entering the arena with a bomb strapped around his waist, he would make his way to the
building from the south by walking among the enthusiastic, clueless crowds. He would follow the flow around
the eastern concourse until he stood just outside what would be a crowded southeast entrance overlooking
the busy interstate just below. He would choose the largest mass of concert-goers available and get into
line to enter the building. From that point, the destruction would be complete and awesome.
The effect of these attacks in multiple cities would cripple the country. These people were living in a world
of dreams that was about to be shattered. Here in this city, the masses had deceived themselves into
believing that, simply by their location in the middle of the country, they were safe. He would prove them
wrong in just a few short days…by the will of Allah.
Plattsville, Missouri
(Ten days later)
Sunday Morning, October 25
9:50 a.m. Local Time
The photo album seemed heavier than normal. At least it felt that way to Ty, as he thumbed through
page after page of pictures portraying the life of his brother. He was amazed at the care and precision his
mother had taken in documenting every step, every graduation, every life event, not to mention all of the
unsuspecting moments caught on film. However, his eyes continued to be drawn from the pages of the
book to the credenza across his small office. There, the dignified face of a proud Marine in full dress blues
looked back at him, sword and scabbard at his side, and a tight white cover on his closely cropped head.
Nathan had that look that said to all enemies, foreign and domestic, “not on my watch, buddy!”
Ty could clearly see the passion against terrorism that had led his brother to enlist. A set of deep blue
eyes, nearly a mirror image of his own, stared back at him and seemed to challenge a world of evil. It was
not only that challenging spirit that caused Ty’s heart to swell, but also the knowledge that Nathan had
acted with a true sense of righteous indignation in joining the most respected military unit on the planet.
The loss of his brother had deposited Ty in a void the likes he hadn’t know before, not even when his
father had passed. The vivid memory of Nathan’s depth of purpose, and the realization that his own life
lacked that passion, had driven him to his knees. It had literally been two weeks of soul-searching, trying to
sort out his faith and the direction of his life. In the process of praying his way out of a pit of grief, God
began to speak. Scripture passages that had long been dead to Ty were suddenly given life and meaning.
Biblical history dovetailed with current events in a more meaningful way than he’d ever realized. The Word
came to life before his eyes, even through the tears of his grief.
It was in those quiet moments that the Spirit of God began to show him the certain fulfillment of prophetic
events, which he’d always considered allegorical or figurative. The bigger picture slowly began to come into
focus; the whys started connecting with Biblical answers, and Ty’s spiritual eyes were opened. As a result, a
sense of urgency was birthed in his heart and a new passion began to revitalize his life’s purpose. That
purpose would be made public today in the message he would share. He only hoped his still-grieving heart
was up to the task.
Deep strains of organ music filtered their way across the platform, and into his little private office refuge. It
was his first Sunday back in the pulpit after just ten days of grieving, and part of him wished for another
week just to get a better grip on how he was going to help his mother. He was sensing that an emotional
funk had settled on both of them, his spiritual revitalization notwithstanding.
After having gone through several days of emotional trauma, his normally high-octane mind had
somehow sent it-self into neutral. He’d never really separated himself from his ministerial work during his
grief, but Ty knew he wasn’t completely present and accounted for. It was because of the funk, meaning he
would have to depend completely on God. He was sure the people of his congregation would understood,
but still he hated the feeling
Most of them had been right there, bringing meals, cleaning house for him as well as for his mother just a
few blocks away. Teenagers from the youth group had spent two evenings raking up and burning leaves in
his yard, and that had been fun to watch, especially when one of their fires got a bit out of control. But it was
only a small reprieve, and all too quickly he was back into his humorless funk.
Ty noticed that a chatter of voices had joined the harmony of notes coming from both the organ and
piano as musicians warmed up, indicating the sanctuary was filling. He gently closed the album, set it aside,
and reached for his Bible.
This could turn out to be an interesting day. The congregation really needed no words of comfort over
Nathan’s death. The kid had grown up down the road in Kansas City, and since his big brother had held this
position for only a few years, most of the folks were simply shirttail acquaintances. It had been barely a year
since Ty had found the little house across town, so his mom could be closer him son after her husband had
died. However, the people of his congregation had adopted her quickly and completely.
No, Ty knew his congregation’s concern would be for his own emotional state more than their need to be
spiritually fed. Many would attend only because of curiosity. They were wondering how he would preach. It
was time to find out, and it would probably be somewhat of a shock. God had been spiritually nudging him to
go an entirely different direction, one that was way outside of normal. With a slow deep breath he stood,
straightened his necktie, made sure his notes were tucked into his Bible, and left the room to fulfill his calling
as a Pastor.
Ramat David Air Base, Northern Israel
IAF 117th Fighter Squadron
Sunday, 6:00 p.m. Local Time
Captain Moshe Eldan, call sign Dagger, was an intense, thirty-four year old F-16I pilot. In the self-
describing vernacular of an elite set of men and women, he was called a “lightning driver.” Though he was
an average Jewish man, his deep brown eyes gave evidence of an intense inner flame. It was that fire that
propelled him into the skies as an aerial warrior for his small country.
He sat in the ready room, carefully sipping at a very hot cup of tea. Separation from his beloved daily
gallon of coffee had left him in a constant state of irritation. His sweet wife Tasha had forced that particular
deprivation two weeks earlier. He smiled as he recalled the ‘day of judgment.’
“Why is it that I always get hammered whenever one of those health-conscience articles hits you in the
eye?” Moshe grunted. He knew full well that his wife simply wanted him to live with at least some modicum of
health.
“You’re addicted and need to get healthy!” she’d bluntly stated in her characteristically feisty way. He
loved that about her because on a loving level, it matched his own intensity in battle.
“I am a fighter pilot. What does health have to do with me?” he spouted as she placed his thermos under
the cup-board and his coffee beans in a wastebasket.
“Your nerves are as tight as fiddle strings, Moshe. That nasty sludge is gumming up your brain too.
You’ve got to learn to take care of yourself while you have the time. You are not the strapping boy you used
to be,” she replied, hands on her hips and her cute little brows furrowed.
“What are you saying, love? Look at these ripples across my abs. This is not the belly of a girlyman,” he
replied in his most manly, Jewish bravado as he thumped his stomach.
“Pah,” she teased. A coy smirk appeared on her face, her head slightly tilted in that playful orneriness
that easily melted his heart. “Save that for that young lieutenant at the base, the one with the big cow eyes
and the flirty smile who constantly coos at you.”
“Cow eyes? Harsh! How can you say something like that about such a nice girl? At least she recognizes
a true hero when he walks into the room,” he said.
“She also recognizes your addiction to that dirty water. That’s why I called her and quite politely asked
her to stop handing you a fresh mug, whenever you pass your pudgy belly by her desk.” Her smile had
widened, lighting up her soft complexion and hazel eyes like nothing else could. When she unconsciously
brushed a strand of her auburn hair away from the side of her face, he had to turn away. A passion-initiated
embrace, at that moment, wouldn’t allow him to get his subtle protest into the air. He also knew time wouldn’t
allow for a genuinely romantic pursuit.
“You did what? Don’t you know you’ve now become a direct threat to the continued safety of Eretz
Israel? Of all of the meddling...” It was all he could get out.
Suddenly, he’d felt her full lips press against his cheek, while her small hands reach around his waist.
The hug had lingered just long enough to cut off whatever conjured offense he was about to proclaim, and
then out the door she’d gone. It was Sunday and she was punctual to a fault in getting to the church she’d
began frequenting nearly a year earlier.
Now, Moshe looked up from his cooling tea and gazed out over the asphalt tarmac toward his plane. The
last rays of the evening sun reflected brightly off the stately tail of his fully armed and ready F-16, Barak,
which in Hebrew means Lightning. The name was an apt description to the most versa-tile and dangerous
fighter jet in the world.
The airfield lights were beginning to stand out against the deepening shadows, and he noticed his
wingman walking around a nearby fighter. Ground crews methodically worked at the continual process of
inspection and flight preparation for all of the warplanes on the base. Living the reality that the base was
under six minutes flying time from possible combat required a ready alert status at all times.
The last three nights, Moshe and his squadron had rotated duty between patrolling the skies over the
nation, and flying simulated bombing sorties deep in the desert of the Negev. This stream of alternating
patrol and training missions took a toll on both plane and pilot, but vigilance was a requirement for this
branch of the Israeli Air Force.
They never knew if the current activity along the border was part of a decade long cycle, or whether a
more serious incursion into his homeland was at the door. Remaining alert was standard operating
procedure whatever the case. Israel could not take the risk of permitting itself even the smallest of relaxing
breaths, no matter what agreements or rhetoric spewed from the politicians in Tel-Aviv. It was understood
by every defender that those who sought Israel’s destruction would pounce as quickly as a cat on an
inattentive mouse.
Still, great hope had been birthed that the recent formation of a Palestinian state, including a divided
Jerusalem, the West Bank, and Gaza strip, would somehow transition the region toward a peaceful state of
co-existence. Although a skeptic from birth, Moshe had held to the slim possibility that their lives might
possibly be transformed into a semblance of normalcy. Of course, normal for an Israeli was anything but
normal for any other society in the world. Yet there seemed to be a thread of hope that things might change.
For some time following the historic agreement signed by outgoing American President Johnson Brown,
the former Israeli Prime Minister, and Palestinian faction leaders, many felt there would be a new stability
and security. French President, Andre D’tiene, the erstwhile leader of the Mediterranean Union, along with
Prime Minister Grigori Polkov of Russia, had witnessed the signatures. As usual, Islamic madmen from Iran
and Syria were doing everything in their power to car bomb the fragile peace that had been purchased by
forfeiting historically Jewish territory.
After the signing, a sigh went up from the land, a sigh that only happens when the constant pressure of
war and conflict appears to have come to its end. Moshe could literally feel it in the air. For nearly a year,
the Democratic Islamic State of Palestine held the attention of the entire world as it set up a parliamentary
government, established and guarded boundaries, and maintained a headlock on the fanatical Hamas
factions that had created upheaval for a generation. Free commerce, the same as existed before the
formation occurred, continued and increased. That economic activity was one of the positive results. Israel
had even gone so far as to dismantle the tall dividing walls that had been constructed four years earlier to
prevent suicidal islamofacists from killing innocent civilians.
Employment among Palestinian men increased dramatically as the new nation established its own
defense forces. Amazingly, the freely elected Palestinian President had done the unthinkable and hired IAF
Security experts to train his infant forces. The challenge was met and the unbelievable had happened. Rival
factions united and submitted to military and security training by their Israeli counterparts. The resulting
cease in suicide attacks against the Israelis was nothing short of amazing to Moshe. People actually began
to move about and function without fear, at least in the interior of the country. However, the northern border,
where Hizbollah fighters continued to operate, was a different story. So, Moshe drank his bland tea and
vowed to remain vigilant throughout the night, just in case some terrorist with an imminent death wish
decided to seek out his promised celestial virgin.