A Mighty Shield: Prophesy Woven with International Intrigue

A Mighty Shield

Prophesy Woven with International Intrigue

Robert C. Hagan

Copyright © 2020 by Robert C. Hagan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Editing by Jan Hurst and Christian Faith Publishing.

All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®, Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Siberian Exile

The Dissident

A Mystical Message

The Golden Guide

Larisa’s Call

Accept or Reject?

Moscow’s Mayor

Senate Confirmation Hearings

Worship

An Early Skirmish

New Russian Home

Family Ties Revealed

Extortion

Surveillance Intensifies

Smackdown

The Scheme Brews

The Favor

Femme Fatale

To Historic Kiev

Tatyana

Foster’s Warning

The Killers

The Philosopher

A Greater Spiritual Power?

Independence Square

Hero of Independence Square

Goodbye

Punished

A Terrorist Squeals

The Mayor’s Plan

Intelligence from Russia

A Glimmer of Light

Business and Pleasure

Porto’s Dark Secrets

A Cult?

Conflicted

FSB’s Intent to Kill

The Ambassador and the Beauty

The Third Rome?

Now You Must Choose

Go

The Evil Plan Unleashed

CentCom in the Dark

Fuqua

An Eye for an Eye

The Master’s Charge

Desperate Escape

The National Security Council (NSC)

A Plea for Help

A Vote for Hate

Flight to Israel

Esther

Standing with Israel

Intel Bonanza

Evil Exposed

The United Nations General Assembly

Russia Jumps In

The Brink

Russian Bombers

Summoned

Communion

Ecstasy

Ben Aids Israel

Israel’s Back to the Wall

Far North

Blackmail

The Haifa Solution

Nuclear Armageddon Looms

Rescue or Trap?

Investigation

Bad News

Zariff’s Opportunity

Armageddon Poised to Strike

God and a Camel Driver

Stand Down

Laura’s Insight

Zariff’s Finale

A Cunning Move

War’s End Debated

Ben’s Training Intensifies

Vanished

Unfinished Business

Help for Anna

Illegal Immigrants

The Rest Stop

The Net Tightens

Esther’s Fears

Sprint Center Stakeout

Sprint Center Assassin

No Escape

Scramble

Traitor

Desperate Warning

Midnight Fire

A Time to Flee

Sanctuary

Professor Dudaev Tells All

Personal Revelations

This is what the sovereign Lord says: On that day thoughts will come into your mind and you will devise an evil scheme.

—Ezekiel 38:10

About the Author

Robert Hagan served as an officer under Admiral Rickover in the Nuclear Navy. After his military tour of duty, he worked in reactor design at Babcock and Wilcox. Later he was employed in several capacities, including as vice president of Quality and Engineering at a Midwest utility that built and operated a nuclear power plant. He has an undergraduate degree in engineering physics from the University of Kansas and a PhD in nuclear engineering from the University of Virginia.

Throughout his life, Hagan has studied scriptures and endeavored to learn from the embedded messages. He is a member of the Lutheran church, and supervised the design and construction of a church in the Wichita area.

He and his wife, Lois, now live in Walker, Minnesota, after thirty-eight years in Wichita, Kansas. They have fallen in love with their log home in the north woods and lakes environment of Minnesota. This novel is published as a standalone sequel to Joint Eagles.

Acknowledgments

The striking painting on the front cover was created by Julie Wall, a Christian painter, artist, and owner of the shop, Artist’s Vault, in Eldridge Iowa. She captured a vision of God’s manifest power, forecast thousands of years ago by Ezekiel.

My wife, Lois, encouraged, facilitated, and supported this novel’s creation in many ways. I am most grateful to her.

Also thanks to Dale Soderstrom, Pam Kruger and my sons for their important contributions.

Part 1

The Dissident

Chapter 1

Siberian Exile

March 1953

Priest Nickolas Korneyev’s cottage, Siberia, Russia

He is dying!

Static in the antiquated phone system garbled the message. Gale force winds tore at the cottage’s wooden shingles and rattled its frosted windows.

Wait a minute! Priest Nickolas Korneyev shouted over the Siberian blizzard’s roar. I can’t hear. Stretching the phone cord to its limit, the priest sought a quieter and warmer spot. He shuffled across the aspen plank floor to stand near the wood-burning stove in the center of his home. Nickolas cupped one hand over his ear and pressed the cold receiver against the other.

Now, say again.

Viktor is dying, repeated the prison captain.

Nickolas breathed in sharply. Oh, no. How much time?

Today! You must come today.

With phone in hand, the robust priest ventured away from the warmth of the crackling fire to the tiny kitchen window. Rubbing his palm in circles against the quivering pane, he cleared a small hole in the thick coating of frost and peered out at the early spring blizzard.

The storm is bad and growing worse.

I know, but Viktor is desperate. He says he must see you before he dies. He is clinging to life until you come.

I understand. It’s vital for Viktor and me to talk. If Misha is up to it, I’ll be there today—storm or no storm.

After hanging up, Nickolas returned to the stove and stretched his gnarled hands toward the heat. Despite the fire’s warmth, he shivered at the thought of the frigid journey ahead.

Yet Nickolas fully grasped the urgency. Seeing Viktor Sumurov today is a must. For Russia’s sake, the gifted man’s writings must be preserved. As the prison priest, I am the one with the best chance of safely extracting Victor’s important works from Vorkuta.

Nickolas turned to gaze reverently at a painting of the Holy Mother. Grant Misha and me strength. I must reach Viktor in time.

*****

An hour later, engulfed in a swirling curtain of white, a lone horse-drawn sleigh plowed through the fierce storm. The howling wind and heavy snowfall blinded Nickolas to anything beyond his horse. Though the drifting snow erased all visible signs of the road, his dappled gray mare, Misha, unerringly sensed the path.

Wrapped in his great fur coat, with a heavy blanket tucked around his legs and a Siberian-fox-fur hat pulled low, Nickolas slackened the reins and gave his trotter her head. Either she gets us through this hellish storm or we perish.

Nickolas and Misha often traveled to Vorkuta Prison, the most notorious gulag in Siberia—or in all of Russia for that matter. Those prisoners whom Stalin would never allow back into Soviet society were banished to this hell to be worked in the mine, beaten and starved until they died.

This bitter winter, coupled with horrible treatment, has exacted a heavy toll on those poor imprisoned souls, Nickolas anguished to the wind, talking to himself to stay awake during the frigid sleigh ride. "How terribly ironic that so many die the very year Stalin dies and his grip of red terror on Russia relaxes.

Now it’s up to me. I believe Russia’s very future depends on Viktor Sumurov’s wisdom being proclaimed across the land. I must preserve his works.

A hint of the caustic humor that helped him survive these awful times surfaced. But what wouldn’t be preserved in this icebox?

As Misha plodded on through the frozen veil of white, the priest spoke incessantly. The freezing fog from his breath only added to the ice rapidly accumulating on his black beard and mustache.

Let’s see, he continued. Talk, Nickolas, talk. How I’ll miss this great man. My eulogy of him will convey that he is the bravest defier of Communist tyranny Russia ever sired. A devout Christian and a gifted writer, Viktor Sumurov is a tragic yet noble figure with literary skills rivaling those of our fabulous poet, Pushkin. I will say all of those things despite the risk of incurring the State’s wrath.

After a pause to press his lips together, tighten his wool scarf about his neck, and tug his hat lower, he continued his soliloquy. Fortunately, today the most ardent Christian captain is on duty. That makes things much simpler. In fact, Nickolas, you sly dog, you saw to it how, with the help of the few Christian captains, as Sumurov weakened, he was given every chance to write.

Nickolas reached for the sleigh’s reins and flicked them, sending a reassuring signal to Misha that he remained with her. He pulled his coat and blanket tighter about him as he recalled three years ago when Viktor was banished here to Vorkuta, after the infuriated and frustrated Soviet Security and Intelligence Service (KGB) gave up on forcing a confession from him.

"All of their means of torture, intimidation, and coercion forced no admission of guilt from my brave friend. The authorities concluded this defiant man must be isolated where he could no longer inspire others to resist Communist tyranny. They dared not kill him outright, for killing him would make him a martyr. So they banished him to this Vorkuta hell where he would quietly vanish from the face of the earth.

"The KGB’s decision to allow Sumurov to live a bit longer in exile was a fortunate mistake. Russia will benefit from the State’s error, because the starving Sumurov composed some of his most insightful and poignant works while imprisoned in this frozen wasteland.

If I can smuggle them out of Vorkuta, there is no doubt his inspired creations will someday bless our land.

Chapter 2

The Dissident

Later the same day

Vorkuta Prison, Siberia, Russia

Finally, the stone gray of the prison walls loomed faintly through the veil of blowing snow and, with amazing strength, Misha plowed through the deep drifts toward the main gate. At the prison entrance, the captain who had called Priest Nickolas earlier in the day met them and climbed aboard the snow-and-ice-encrusted sleigh.

Upon taking the reins, the captain ushered them to the prison camp’s best stable. Stiffly, a nearly frozen Nickolas dismounted and unhitched Misha from the sleigh and led her into the warm stall. One of the guards brought the exhausted mare a generous measure of hay and oats.

After caring for his horse, the priest followed the captain into a stark barracks that was serving as the prison’s makeshift infirmary. Nickolas stomped his boots and shook the snow from his great coat. Water dripped from his thawing beard.

The drafty, cavernous room held dozens of cots, each cradling the mere skeleton of a once-healthy man. The stench of vomit, urine, and rotting flesh slapped Nickolas hard; and involuntarily, he staggered. Never in all of his visits had he found a way to prepare for this awful assault on the senses and the soul. Amidst the suffocating smells, the pitiful cries of dying men rolled across the stark expanse of cots and echoed off the cold, wind-shaken walls.

Across the room, an unfolding drama caught Nickolas’s eye. With his rifle butt, a guard was poised to savagely strike one moaning prisoner.

Shut up! the brute scolded the helpless man.

Nickolas rushed to the man’s aid and caught the guard’s forearm before the prisoner could be hit. Tightening his grip on the offending arm, he ripped the man’s rifle away and fixed him with a scolding stare.

Startled, the soldier shook loose and backed away. The captain retrieved the guard’s weapon and ordered the chastened soldier to leave at once.

Nickolas covered the injured and gravely ill man with his own coat and stroked his face while murmuring a prayer for him. God will soon welcome you into His arms, my son.

After the man calmed, the captain led Priest Nickolas to a small, isolated room where the prisoner, Viktor Sumurov, was sequestered. Nickolas gasped at how severely the forty-year-old Sumurov had deteriorated; the prisoner’s frail body was that of a man of eighty-five.

Yet despite his weakened condition, Viktor appeared hard at work from his cot where he was propped into a sitting position by blankets and pillows. A single bulb, hanging from the ceiling by a frayed cord, cast dim light upon Sumurov and the books and papers that surrounded him.

Nickolas understood Sumurov was allowed the luxury of reading and writing only when the sympathetic captains were on duty. At other times, the documents remained hidden from the other stauncher, Communist captains, who believed Sumurov’s isolation served primarily to keep him from influencing the other prisoners.

Nickolas noted how Viktor’s brown eyes still flashed with a burning intensity as they met his own, and he found reassurance in his vital gaze. Despite years of the most brutal treatment, this man’s soul still lives.

Come in, my friends, bid Sumurov in a halting but warm voice. Nickolas, you made it through the storm. I worried about you out there alone.

Not alone. Misha guided me through.

Misha is a noble creature.

She is, indeed.

Sumurov strained to be heard above the stormy gales moaning outside. Come closer, my dear Nickolas. We have much to discuss.

Viktor, shouldn’t you be resting and not pushing so hard?

No. My rest will be this very day with my Lord. There’s little time left to tell you what must be told.

The dying man coughed and turned to the waiting captain, who stood in the doorway.

Thank you, my friend, for bringing Nickolas here, and for allowing me to have my books and supplies. God’s blessing upon you.

The captain, his eyes moistening, bowed to Viktor. It’s my privilege to help you, sir. I’ll take my leave, but I will check back later.

After the captain departed, Nickolas settled into a rickety chair beside Sumurov’s cot.

Viktor, have you heard that Stalin died? Now things will get better for the Church and the people.

Yes, I’ve heard. Things will get better slowly—too slowly. I predict it will be four more decades before Russia can rid herself of the Communist infestation.

Will there be a Church left in four decades?

That is the question. How well the Church survives and rebounds is crucial. Its ability to recover from the Communist onslaught will determine Russia’s future. I’ve written about this and, when the time is right, my thoughts and warnings must get out to our people.

They will, Viktor. That I vow.

Then Nickolas hesitated. He had struggled with whether he should tell Sumurov his disturbing news, but after prayer, he’d found the answer to be yes. Still, he found it difficult to actually say the words.

I bring you news, at once glorious and sad, he continued. Our resistance network uncovered word of your wife.

The prisoner’s frail body tensed and his brow knit as he searched Nickolas’s demeanor for any hint of his next words.

What have you heard of my dear Irina?

There was an agony woven into Viktor’s question, and Nickolas understood why. The Communist State had banished Irina to the Mongolian frontier—part of their brutal punishment for Viktor’s refusal to confess to trumped-up charges of his alleged role in insurrection activities.

Viktor had confided to Nickolas how in their last moments together, Irina had admonished him to never give in, but to always stand for truth. She firmly believed his noble resistance would bear good fruit and had assured him that the day would come when the godless dictators would be defeated and Russia would return to God. You must resist, she had encouraged, for the sake of Russia’s future—and for our unborn child’s future.

Days later, Viktor had been arrested and his pregnant wife taken from him.

Nickolas grasped his friend’s emaciated hand in his own strong palms before venturing, We learned your wife was banished to Borzya, near the Manchurian border.

Yes, yes, I expected as much. Viktor labored to lean forward, then fixed Nickolas with a questioning stare.

Nickolas shifted uncomfortably. Viktor, she gave birth to a child, your daughter. She’s a beautiful little girl named Marina, but—

But what?

Irina was poor, alone, and had no care during childbirth.

Viktor sighed and said, Go on.

Your daughter is alive and well. A wealthy Orthodox family adopted her. But I’m terribly sorry, Viktor. Your wife did not survive.

Viktor moaned. Irina died alone? He sank back into his pillows.

I’m so sorry. Nickolas squeezed his friend’s frail hand tighter.

These days, Viktor’s deepest emotions were largely invisible, with the exception of his haunting eyes and his writing. But now the dying man closed his eyes and wept.

After a long pause, Sumurov peered up at Nickolas. Does the State know Marina is my daughter?

No. Circumstances of her birth were hidden from all except a local priest.

If the KGB ever discovers the truth, they will kill her.

That’s true. They must not find out.

Viktor shook his head. The KGB is relentless. She will eventually be found and pronounced a threat to be eliminated.

He bowed his head and closed his eyes. Pray with me, Nickolas. God, I ask only this—please care for and protect my daughter. Let her, and any of her children, live and flourish as great Russian Christians.

Nickolas suspected the news of Irina’s death and his daughter’s survival confirmed for Viktor that his mission was nearly finished. And indeed, it appeared today that Viktor would join his beloved Irina in heaven; but first, he obviously intended to take care of business.

Overwhelmed with sadness and admiration, Nickolas watched a grieving Viktor Sumurov summon all of his remaining strength to carry forward their final communion.

Listen carefully, my dear Nickolas, he spoke hoarsely. There are things you must do. When you leave today, take with you all of my works, which include my concerns for Russia’s future. In them, I warn that Ezekiel’s ancient prophecies must be taken seriously. The Jewish people are returning from around the world to the land of Israel, just as Ezekiel foretold. Ezekiel’s prophecies hold ominous portent for Russia. Russia’s very future depends upon a Christian reawakening.

Viktor reached across the bed to touch a dog-eared ream of paper. This manuscript that I placed on top deals with Ezekiel’s prophecies relevant to Russia. Make sure to give this warning of the coming storm to Dimitri Dudaev. He will know what to do.

But he escaped to the United States, the priest responded in surprise. Getting anything out of here to him is nearly impossible.

You must! Viktor’s eyes flashed fire again.

The priest hesitated, then assured, I will.

You must also give him this set of papers.

What are they regarding?

My compilation of the direst threats to Christianity. God has revealed to me how a popular secular philosophy arising in the Western world today threatens many souls.

Isn’t Communism enough of a threat?

Viktor raised an eyebrow at his friend’s question. Communism isn’t even a clever lie. It’s brutal, leads to inefficiencies, and will eventually die of its inherent shortcomings. Science is its god, and science is merely man’s feeble attempt to understand the world God has created—without, according to Marx, admitting it was created. A rather untenable position, wouldn’t you say?

Puzzled, Nickolas stroked his still-damp beard. What is this bigger threat?

"A belief system advanced by a philosopher from Portugal. His arguments are most clever, compelling, and corrupting. Comparing his works to Marx’s Communist Manifesto is like comparing a great work of art to the scribblings of a child. My critique of his dangerous theories and premises must be published, for I fear something awful will come from this man’s perverted works. He slyly asserts the devil is the supreme spiritual power ruling the earth."

Who is it that makes this argument?

His name is Alberto Franciscus.

Viktor weakly motioned and whispered, Give me your hand. Did you bring the medal?

Yes. Here it is. I only keep it safe, for it is yours.

Viktor Sumurov sighed, Thank you, Nickolas, for caring for this most ancient and valued treasure, the lost St. Alexander Nevsky medal. To behold it one last time grants me solace that our mission is true and must go forward.

Through your courage and insight, you light the way for a better Russia, Nickolas assured him.

But now it is time for this treasure to be passed on to the next leader of our sacred mission. See that it and the originating mission statement reaches Professor Dimitri Dudaev. Tell him he is now the one leading our holy mission.

Exhausted by the exchange, Viktor sank back into the pile of pillows and closed his eyes. His breathing became shallow and rapid.

Nickolas leaned closer and felt Sumurov’s hand growing cold.

Viktor grasped Nickolas’s arm. I love Russia so deeply, he whispered, struggling for his last breath. Pray for her return to God. There lies her true destiny, her path to greatness.

A major tremor shook Viktor Sumurov’s body, and he sank into his pillows for his final rest.

His eloquence is finally stilled, the priest prayed, much as the raging blizzard has quieted the world outside. Yet as surely as spring’s return, his warnings will blossom to embrace his Russia with a mighty impact and a rare beauty.

Part 2

The Call

Chapter 3

A Mystical Message

Sixty-six years later, September 15, 2019

Loon Lake, Northwest Ontario, Canada

Laura struggled to scale the steep, rocky slope. After a few strides forward, the loose rocks gave away and she slid awkwardly backward. Still she labored to gain ground.

I can’t quit! I must reach the top. Someone familiar is calling to me.

As she drew closer to the crest of the hill, Laura paused to catch her breath and listen.

All I can hear is my own heavy breathing and my heart pounding. Maybe if I rest a moment, I’ll be able to make out who is calling me.

After a brief pause, Laura lamented, Darn! Still can’t hear clearly. I must push on and get closer. Get moving, feet.

Upon reaching the crest where the treacherous slope gave way to a verdant meadow, she thought, It’s easier going now and the distant voice is clearer. Is it possibly my mom? Can it be? I must get closer!

Breaking into a run, she squinted in a vain attempt to pierce the fog bank lying ahead. She rejoiced, for finally, the call became clear. It is Mom! Yeah! But I can see only a silhouette of her through the fog.

Laura shivered. My feet are cold. No wonder. They’re bare! Why don’t I have my hiking boots on? Maybe I was just in too big a hurry.

Laura’s run across the meadow ended abruptly when she faced a new barrier. It’s a really high rail fence, like the fences mom’s horses used to soar over. Maybe I can climb it.

Planting her foot on the lowest rail and gripping the higher rails, Laura lifted herself up only to slip back. What the heck? That dumb rail spun me off. Maybe if I skip the loose lower rail, I can make it over. Ouch! Same thing! It spins too!

Undaunted, Laura challenged the fence again.

Laura! Laura, quit struggling. Relax and listen to me. I love you, but you can’t come to this side yet.

I can barely see your outline through this dumb fence, Mom. I miss you terribly. I just want to hug you. Why is it I can’t?

We remain separate for now. We will be together again, but God has a mission for you. I was unable to tell you everything of our family’s past. Now only one person on your side can tell you what you must know. He is our dear friend. Listen closely to everything he has to say.

Who is he?

You know him. He is the renowned Russian historian and our family’s best friend, Professor Dudaev.

You’re fading. I can’t hear you. Please don’t go, Mom. I miss you so. Please.

*****

Laura felt herself being shaken and heard a new voice, one very close.

Laura, you were dreaming again.

"Is that…is that you, Ben? What is real? I just don’t know anymore.

During your sleep, you twisted, kicked, and rolled around and actually fell out of bed. Are you okay?

I think so. With Ben’s help, Laura pulled herself back onto their foldout futon and sat rigidly upright. She pressed the golden yellow and brown quilt to her body.

Was it the same dream, Laura?

Yes. Only this time, I got closer and actually talked with Mom.

Ben looked questioningly into Laura’s anxious face, Tell me everything now before you forget.

Laura shook her head in disagreement, Oh, I will never forget.

Ben is concerned and so am I. This dream keeps recurring since my mother’s death. Is it abnormal for this to go on for a year? Maybe I need a therapist. Apparently, I’m one stressed-out girl. I still have nightmares about the Russian Mafia attack that injured Ben so terribly. Those scum made him pay for his heroic role in Joint Eagles.

If that attack wasn’t enough, Mom developed Alzheimer’s and became unable to communicate or recollect past events. What a brilliant mind and spirit to be so hobbled. Before Alzheimer’s debilitated her, she told me there was something remaining hidden in our family background. She promised she would tell me all about it when the time was right and it was safe to do so. That time never came.

"There was something new in this dream, Ben. Mom named someone on this side who can tell me about the secrets of my family’s past.

This side?

Yes, I think Mom meant someone still living here on earth.

And ‘the other side’ is heaven, where your mom is?

I think so, Ben. Laura shuddered despite the warm quilt that she held tightly about her.

So your mom told you who this person is?

Yes, she did! He is Professor Dimetri Dudaev.

That makes some sense. For many years, he has been a friend and a benefactor to you and your mother. He came to her funeral and offered a most touching eulogy, which hinted at untold secrets. I believe he may have secretly been in love with your mother.

Yes, but possibly more as a father or uncle than a lover.

Maybe! Guess we may never know.

He only hinted in the eulogy at how mom’s story would someday come out. Also, he helped mom and I by editing our books and articles. He was a fountain of historical facts and folklore on the old Soviet Union. It was as if he held inside info from the Soviet era. I’ve listened on podcasts to his college history lecture series. Those sections on the czars, especially Czar Alexander, were my favorites.

Count me as crazy, but I think we must invite him to come here and tell you all he knows about your family’s past.

Oh, Ben, thanks for humoring me on this. I want terribly to hear what Dudaev can reveal.

By all means, call him. Tell him you must hear all about your family history.

Chapter 4

The Golden Guide

September 22, 2019

Loon Lake, Northwest Ontario, Canada

His golden retriever loped easily at his side as Ben Andrew jogged along a trail that wound through thick groves of mature pines and quaking aspens. Already, he and his dog had run a mile from his and Laura’s cabin.

These forest jaunts lift me up. I can focus on my recovery. The musk of the spruce bogs, the pungent pine needles, and the haunting call of the loons fill my senses and assure me all is well.

Ben’s left eye was covered with a protective black patch. His eye had been damaged beyond repair by the Russian Mafia attack retaliating against his service to the U.S. government in a venture called Joint Eagles. His doctors offered slight hope that the optic nerve serving his other eye, though badly traumatized from internal hemorrhaging, could heal over time. Pushing the slipping patch back to its proper spot, he thought, That darned patch won’t stay where it belongs especially when I’m running. Maybe someday I will see again, if only with one eye. I must hold on to hope, no matter how slim.

For months, he had concentrated on his physical recovery while learning to depend on his new guide dog, Sadie. Sadie is amazing. Our bond of trust and understanding deepens every day.

What the heck? Sadie just stopped and almost pulled my arm off! That’s weird!

What is it, girl? She is standing still despite my urging her forward. It must be her warning of trouble ahead.

Ben slid his foot forward. Nothing. As he inched carefully forward, he stretched his arms out in front and groped in the air. Sure enough, there it is. A large paper birch trunk leaning right at my head. Yesterday’s strong gusts must have knocked it over.

Feeling along the trunk, Ben tore off a scroll of the peeling bark, then ducked his head to clear the obstacle. He tucked the bark into his backpack. I’ll save this for Laura. She likes to write poems or sketch scenes on the bark scraps.

Ben reached down to pat Sadie. Good girl. They trained you well, didn’t they? That tree sure would’ve wiped me out, but not you.

Resuming his jog, he marveled, I’m lucky to have Sadie. Through the training center program, we learned to work as a team, yet now she seems more than a guide and has become almost a therapy dog.

Ben recalled how he and Laura had decided to return to this remote Canadian cabin despite it being the scene of the brutal Mafia attack. Both Laura and he truly loved this repose where woods, lakes, and wildlife merged into a rare climax of earth’s best offerings.

I hear the hermit thrush, telling me we chose wisely. The reclusive bird always lurks in the distance. Laura maintains its call has the quality of a pipe organ. Maybe she’s right, but now it’s time to get on with my workouts.

Why am I so driven? Is it overcompensation for my blindness, or unresolved anger at the attackers, or is it something else? I feel God’s pleasure with my struggle to recover.

A bit farther down the trail, Sadie stopped again. This time, I know why. The trail forks and she needs a command.

Left, Sadie. This fork leads deeper into the woods where my workout stations await.

*****

After the rope climb, heavy log lift, and the chin-up stations, Ben arrived at his favorite. Here he honed his lifelong skills while also venting his frustrations. He ferociously practiced the martial arts, which he’d learned as a child from his grandpa. Throughout his life, he had refined his combat skills, and here he creatively adapted his art to accommodate his blindness. He specialized in both the Filipino style of arnis and a more lethal form, eskrima. For these exercises, he had several props, including a leather-reinforced tackling dummy suspended by a long rope that hung from a high limb of a towering red pine.

Where is the darned tether? After groping about, he found the tie. Okay, here it is.

He released the heavy bag, which began