TWENTY-THREE
Joshua Jordan hadn’t expected his day would end this way. He sat forward in the chair, his hands cupped in his lap, waiting, anticipating, and tense.
Finally President Corland strolled into the Oval Office. His chief of staff, Hank Strand, was standing off to the side. Strand had greeted Joshua when the Secret Service first led him past the president’s smiling appointment secretary, Judith, and then into the historic office. Joshua felt a flush of pride at being an American when he entered that alcove of power and, once again, recognized the Great Seal embossed in the carpet and the famous Resolute Desk in front of the bay windows.
A pale, tired-looking President Corland walked over to Joshua. He sidestepped the ornate oak coffee table that had been a gift from the president of Belarus. Corland reached out and shook Joshua’s hand. Corland plunked down on the gold-brocaded couch, an arm’s length from Joshua.
The president began with startling informality. He asked about Joshua’s wife and wanted to know if she had ever considered rejoining her previous Washington-based law firm, one of D.C.’s most prestigious.
Joshua smiled. “No, she has other pursuits and other clients now.”
But Joshua didn’t say what he was actually thinking: No, Mr. President, keeping me out of trouble seems to be her full-time job lately.
President Corland asked about his daughter, the soon-to-be West Point graduate, and then asked about Cal by name. “How is he doing? Did he recover from his injuries in the Grand Central Station incident?”
Joshua appreciated that. “Yes, thank goodness his injuries were minor — at least physically — which is amazing, considering what could have happened.”
“You were severely injured yourself, saving your son,” said Corland. “I read the rundown of what you went through. You’re a tough customer.”
“I had a lot of help that day.”
The president nodded. “By ‘help’ you mean …”
“FBI Agent Gallagher, the NYPD, others …”
More nodding from the president; then he added, “And help from other places? Divine providence, Mr. Jordan? … It has shaped the history of this room we’re sitting in. Do you believe in divine intervention? Your wife was known to be a woman of faith while she was still working in D.C.”
Hank Strand fidgeted in the corner.
Corland noticed him. “Hank, come over here and join us.”
Strand dutifully walked over and sat at the end of the couch.
The president continued, “So, divine guidance … where do you stand on that?”
It was a surreal moment, nothing like what he had planned for. An almost out-of-body experience, especially for someone like Joshua. Even as a flier and an engineering genius he had been able to go through life with his feet firmly on the ground.
“I think the way things turned out at Grand Central Station that day … you might say was a miracle, Mr. President.”
“And the North Korean missile episode? That too?”
Joshua thought it eerie that the president of the United States would have put it that way. In his own private thoughts, not even shared with his wife, Joshua had replayed that day in Manhattan: the incoming nuclear missiles from the North Korean ship. The disabled East Coast antimissile defenses. The scrambled jets that wouldn’t have made it in time to intercept. Joshua, his team, and their partners at the Pentagon had only one shot at two approaching missiles with the Return-to-Sender laser system. It hadn’t even been fully tested at that point. He knew that day — in the hollow of his gut as he stood with his team, every muscle tensed and sweat beading on his back as they synchronized with the weapons guys on the USS Tiger Shark to launch the RTS-armed defense missile in hopes of turning the North Korean nukes around — he knew the odds were against him, against catching both missiles perfectly and redirecting their guidance data. But that’s what happened. And Joshua knew, deep down, that it wasn’t his weapons design genius that had actually saved New York City. Not really.
But something — or Someone — else had.
“Yes, Mr. President,” Joshua finally said, “that was a miracle too.”
Corland’s voice lowered a bit. “You know, some of us, as we get older, occasionally get wiser. Even presidents sometimes wise-up as time goes on. For instance, I fully realize now that God directs the destinies of nations. That much is certain. I also believe he can rescue us individually, save us, preserve us for Himself. If we let Him, of course. Redemption. It’s an old-fashioned word. My grandmother was a Sunday school teacher. She talked about it all the time, the redemptive power of the cross. I think I’ve finally come to understand what she was talking about.”
Then, without warning, Corland changed the subject. He said he wished he could have given Joshua more recognition, in a more visible way, for Joshua’s RTS contribution in the North Korean nuke crisis, back when it had happened the year before.
Joshua remarked that no apology was needed, but he did sense an opening at that moment, a chance to share his pressing intel from Pack McHenry concerning the two coordinated nuclear attacks within the United States.
Not a man to hesitate, Joshua said, “Mr. President, on that issue … regarding threats against the United States, sir, I have some urgent and disturbing information I need to share with you.”
Hank Strand’s back straightened as he sat on the couch, one hand on each knee.
Joshua kept talking. “I can’t reveal my sources, but you must trust me when I say that they are highly credible.”
Corland didn’t flinch. “Go on.”
“Mr. President, we have information that America is soon going to be under a coordinated nuclear attack, and it will come from within our own shores.”