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  BY DAWN’S

  EARLY LIGHT

  BY DAWN’S

  EARLY LIGHT

  Grant R. Jeffrey

  and Angela Hunt

  Copyright © 1999 by Grant R. Jeffrey and Angela E. Hunt

  Published by Word Publishing, Nashville, Tennessee. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any other means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the authors or the publisher.

  Scripture quotations in this book are from the HOLY BIBLE: NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  The Jewish Bible quotes are from The Holy Scriptures, Hebrew and English, The Society for Distributing Hebrew Scriptures, Middlesex, England.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jeffrey, Grant R.

  By dawn’s early light / Grant R. Jeffrey with Angela Elwell Hunt.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-8499-1609-7 (hardcover)

  ISBN 0-8499-3781-7 (trade paper)

  1. Hunt, Angela Elwell, 1957– . II. Title.

  Printed in the United States of America

  9 0 1 2 3 4 5 QPB 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  CONTENTS

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  Like its predecessor, Flee the Darkness, this is a work of fiction based upon fact. Michael Reed, Devorah Cohen, Alanna Ivanova, and Vladimir Gogol have been created from imagination. Their function is to represent people who will live through situations and circumstances similar to those detailed in these pages. The amazing weapons and sophisticated computer systems described in this book do exist.

  The war of Gog and Magog, described in Ezekiel 38–39, will come to pass. As we researched this book, we had no difficulty finding current information about the Russian-Arab alliance. We found several articles in which the world’s top intelligence analysts predict that Russia will invade the Middle East in the not-too-distant future.

  We cannot predict the timing of this coming war—only God knows when it will begin and if it will occur before or after the moment when Christ summons his church to heaven. But because fiction must be rooted in a time and place, we have devised a possible scenario depicting how Gog’s invasion may come to pass in the light of biblical prophecy. It is our prayer that you will take this story to heart and walk in hope as the day of Christ’s coming approaches.

  We owe a special word of thanks to Captain Thomas H. Orr, USNR; Petty Officer First Class Cheryl L. Orr, USNR; and Gary and Ranee McCollum, USAF.

  Maranatha! The Lord returns!

  Grant R. Jeffrey

  Angela Hunt

  In the darkness . . . the sound of a man

  Breathing, testing his faith

  On emptiness, nailing his questions

  One by one to an untenanted cross.

  —R. S. Thomas, Pieta

  CHAPTER ONE

  Fort Meade, Maryland

  0801 hours

  Monday, October 9, 2000

  THE TROUBLE FIRST APPEARED AS A TINY WARNING FLAG.

  Capt. Michael Reed saw it the moment after he typed in his password and tapped his computer touchpad. His usual desktop replaced the whirling screen saver, and the warning flag lit up the monitor’s lower right-hand corner.

  He clicked on it, then shifted uneasily in his chair as the screen filled with an urgent e-mail message from Bob Johnson, one of his intelligence section chiefs. Johnson’s note referred to the attached encrypted communiqué, and Michael frowned as he pressed his index finger to the biometric sensor attached to his keyboard.

  Every hour the National Security Agency’s worldwide electronic eavesdropping infrastructure pulled in millions of signals from e-mail, telephone calls, and fax transmissions around the world, but only communications using certain key words were analyzed and deciphered. Information from the Echelon system, fondly referred to as “the big ear,” was also available to Britain, Canada, New Zealand, and Australia, whose security officials shared the task of analyzing data and forwarding intercepts to the appropriate country. Johnson’s information had come from British agents, who had relayed it at 6:00 A.M. EST. Johnson had immediately forwarded the message, wanting it to reach Michael ASAP.

  The biometric reader flashed its acceptance of his fingerprint, and the attachment unscrambled in a flurry of letters. Resting his arm on the sliding keyboard tray, Michael skimmed a series of disjointed messages that sent a spasm of panic through his body like the trilling of an alarm bell.

  He pushed away from the computer and punched the intercom on his desk. “Gloria—place a call to the National Photographic Interpretation Center. Tell them I’m en route and I want to see the latest recon photos of military bases in Russia, Iraq, Turkey, and Syria.” He hesitated, tapping his fingers on the desk. “On second thought, tell them I want to see the entire Middle East, the latest shots they have.”

  “Right away, sir. I was just about to bring in your coffee—”

  “No coffee today, Gloria. I’m leaving now.”

  Michael sent the fragmented messages to his printer, then studied the printed sheet for a long moment, feeding it, line by line, to his memory. When he had absorbed all the pertinent data, he slid the page into the shredder, then stood and plucked his overcoat from the tilting coatrack in the corner behind his desk.

  “I’ll be in touch shortly,” he told his secretary as he strode past her desk in the outer office. “I may need you to make another appointment for me—with someone higher up in the chain of command.”

  Beneath a cloud of white hair, Gloria’s eyes widened. “Sounds serious.”

  Michael nodded and moved toward the door. “I’ll be back later.”

  “Shall I order lunch for you in the office?”

  “Don’t bother.�
�� Michael paused at the door long enough to slip into his overcoat and give his secretary a grim smile. “The beginning of World War III could spoil my appetite.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Moscow

  1614 hours

  “SWEETHEART?”

  Through the haze of sleep, he felt a light hand touch his shoulder.

  “Vladimir, you need to wake up now. Your telephone is ringing.”

  Adrift in the soft, honeyed tones of his mistress, Vladimir clutched at satin sheets gathered at his waist, then sat up. He blinked once, peering through the fuzzy shadows of Alanna’s bedroom, then took the phone from her pale hand.

  “Yes?” His voice was gruff with sleep and irritation. His aide knew better than to disturb him here, so this had to be news of monumental importance.

  As Petrov’s nasal voice buzzed in his ear, Vladimir gestured for Alanna to switch on the bedside lamp. Her hand, a dim shadow enfolded in the feathers of her peignoir—his latest and most expensive gift to date— floated across his field of vision and clicked at the lamp. Bright light flooded the nightstand, revealing two crystal goblets, his Tokarev TT-33 pistol, and Alanna’s ridiculous windup alarm clock, its spindly hands reminding him that it was four fifteen—and very late. But it had been a long night.

  Beside the table, swaying slightly to a tune playing softly on the radio, Alanna edged her lower lip forward in a pout. Vladimir forced himself to concentrate on the caller. Oleg Petrov, his aide and the only man permitted to have this number, wanted to patch through an important call.

  As the line clicked and momentarily went silent, Vladimir picked up one of the goblets, drained the dregs of last night’s wine, then cleared his throat. Adrian Romulus, president of the European Union, would expect Russia’s minister of defense to be clearheaded and alert at four o’clock on a Monday afternoon.

  The line clicked again and hummed quietly as the encryption system synchronized with the base station calling him. Suddenly Romulus’s voice, crisp and clear, filled Vladimir’s ear. “General! I am delighted to be able to finally return your call. I trust you are well.”

  “Very well, thank you.” Vladimir closed his eyes to the sight of Alanna’s pouting pose. The woman had no shame—and no sense of politics. “I trust you are in good health, President Romulus.”

  “Always.” Though Romulus’s voice was deep and controlled, Vladimir could hear the hint of a smile in it. “What can I do for you, General?”

  Vladimir stiffened his spine and turned toward the window, where daylight fringed the closed blinds. “I am in need of guidance, my friend. In three days’ time I am scheduled to hold a clandestine convocation of several of Russia’s allies, but my intelligence operators tell me I cannot invite them to Moscow. The Americans have too many eyes and ears here.”

  Romulus’s chuckle was deep and easy. “I would be pleased to extend an invitation to visit either my apartments in Brussels or my chateau in Paris. Both are at your disposal, General. And both are totally secure.”

  “But this short notice cannot be convenient for you—”

  “It is my pleasure to serve you, General. I will do you a favor—and someday you may perform a service for me.”

  It was only as the tension went out of Vladimir’s shoulders that he noticed it had been there. “Ah, President Romulus, you are most generous. I think Paris would be best-suited for our cause. The French are remarkably uninterested in other people’s affairs.”

  “Then it is settled. I would be pleased to be your host during this important meeting.”

  “You are very kind, my friend.” Unable to conceal his pleasure, Vladimir turned and smiled at Alanna. “We are most grateful for your hospitality.”

  “I am only doing my part for peace and justice.” Romulus’s voice echoed with depth and authority. “And if there is nothing else, I shall see you in one week’s time. Have your aide contact Adam Archer, my military advisor in Brussels. He will make all the arrangements.”

  Vladimir flinched at the name. “Archer—isn’t he an American?”

  Romulus chuckled, and despite his misgivings, Vladimir felt soothed by the sound of the man’s laughter. “Don’t worry, General. Archer is completely reliable. He worked for me even in America—do you recall the explosion that killed Victoria Stedman?”

  Vladimir lifted a brow, impressed. The American president’s wife had been killed by a car bomb, and for months the international community had wondered which mastermind had managed to breach the almost impenetrable White House security. If Archer had been responsible for that bombing, he was a talented man.

  “I had no idea.”

  “It is true. Archer is a security expert, and you need not fear the trip to Paris. So come, General, and let me aid your cause in this small way. I shall look forward to seeing you.”

  The line went dead. Vladimir switched off the power, then stared at the cell phone while Alanna lowered herself to his side.

  “Why so serious, sweetheart?” she whispered, her breath softly fanning his ear. One of her hands rose to stroke his neck. “You look like a man with deep thoughts.”

  “Not deep thoughts,” he placed the phone on the nightstand, “only deep ambitions.” As he turned to look at her, he felt the pressures of leadership fly from his shoulders. With this regal beauty by his side, he would rescue Russia from the threat of economic, military, and cultural collapse. Like Peter the Great and Joseph Stalin, he would be the strong man to lead Russia forward . . . but his plans could wait for another hour.

  “So tell me, love,” he whispered, his hands spanning her narrow waist, “what would you like me to bring you from Paris? A bottle of perfume, perhaps? A string of pearls?”

  He lowered his head to her sweet-smelling throat and breathed a kiss there while she giggled and slipped her pale arms around his neck.

  CHAPTER THREE

  District of Columbia

  0930 hours

  NAVIGATING THROUGH THE SEA OF WASHINGTON TRAFFIC, MICHAEL REED thought it apt that the National Photographic Interpretation Center was located in a former heavy gun factory in the rear of the navy yard. Government workers no longer manufactured guns in the bright yellow cement building, but they certainly studied them. Though the NSA had access to satellite imagery, the NPIC guys were experts in evaluation. Photographs of missile batteries, silos, restricted military buildings, launch pads, and terrorist training camps streamed daily through the NPIC, where they were pored over by trained technicians capable of spotting a signpost out of place.

  Michael parked in a visitor’s parking spot, then flashed his NSA badge at the pair of guards at the security checkpoint. Within moments he was ushered into a room the size of a football field, divided into a maze of gray Dilbertesque cubicles. Richard Blanchard, the chief analyst and the man lucky enough to merit the first cubicle on the right, looked up from a report, his eyes quickly moving to Michael’s shoulder. Seeing the four bars, he lowered his coffee cup and stood. “Morning, Captain. How can I help?”

  “I’m Michael Reed, and I’m sorry to interrupt your morning coffee.” Michael extended his hand with a grim smile. “But we’ve gathered some interesting electronic intelligence regarding the Middle East. I’m hoping you’ll be able to send me back to my office believing that what we picked up is nothing serious.”

  Blanchard’s handshake was solid. “I have a hunch I might know exactly what you gathered . . . or what the ELINT was buzzing about, anyway. My Middle East analysts are going over the latest photos from Big Bird right now. The film canisters arrived late yesterday afternoon, and my Middle East people stayed here all night going over them.”

  “Shall we take a look?” Michael stepped back through the doorway and allowed Blanchard to slip out of his cubicle and lead the way through the maze. As they walked, Michael peered into several different compartments, where analysts were studying their computer screens with absorbed attention. A poster above one man’s monitor summed up the agency’s mantra: God Is in the Details.
>
  Michael followed Blanchard inside a larger cubicle where three analysts were poring over actual photographs on glossy paper. Blanchard introduced them as Tom Dixon, Henry Kenyon, and Blake Townsend. Michael nodded a brief greeting to each.

  “We had these shots printed up,” Blanchard said, “once we noticed the anomalies. We were expecting company—you and other action officers from the CIA, DIA, NSC—the whole alphabet soup of the intel community.” He set his coffee cup on the table and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “We may still hear from the others.”

  Michael moved around to the side of the table where Dixon and Kenyon were bent over photographs. “All right, guys—tell me what’s up.”

  “Not a heckuva lot, and that’s what worries me.” Dixon lowered the photograph in his hand and looked up at Michael, his unshaven gray beard bristling as he set his chin. He shoved the picture in Michael’s direction. “That’s a shot of the primo Palestinian terrorist training camp in the Gaza Strip. What do you see?”

  Michael picked up the photo and scanned it. The overhead shot revealed several tents, a parked jeep, a rectangular building, and two lumpish figures dressed in the head-to-toe black robes worn by Muslim women. From the length of the building’s shadow, he surmised that the photo had been taken in early morning. “I see two BMOs and not much else,” he said, shrugging.

  “That’s the point.” The analyst took the picture from Michael. “The black moving objects shouldn’t even be there—the women wouldn’t be present if the men were training. The infrared shot tells us the men are gone—there are no warm bodies in the building or the tents, nothing but those two women on the street. Now look at this shot, taken at the same time of day, same place, last week.”

  Michael accepted a second photograph and frowned at the difference. There were more than a dozen vehicles in this grainy black-and-white, three camels, and two Arabs with machine guns stationed outside the building. In front of one tent, Michael saw at least two dozen men kneeling in prayer, facing the southeast . . . and Mecca.