“So, the EMP and radical Islamists; the Chinese stealth invasion and vaccines; the blackbirds, mosquitoes, and weather warfare,” his wife said, her forehead crinkling in concentration. “That was all really The Consortium?”
Ryan proffered a somber nod. “Politicians worldwide were bought off and blackmailed, same as ours.”
“Why?” Franny’s voice wavered with emotion; grief, regret, and anger candy-coated in incredulity. “These people are insanely wealthy. Why can’t they just enjoy their lives and leave the rest of us alone? Why do they need to kill millions of innocents?”
“You can’t apply decency and common sense to evil. These bastards will do anything for the sake of world governance.”
Ryan had briefed his wife regarding human trafficking, but stopped short of disclosing the plight of the babies. How do you tell a woman in her eighth month of pregnancy that a cabal of cannibals is out there slaughtering infants?
Recently, he’d discovered that this wasn’t a modern scourge. According to ancient Jewish legend, Lilith was the first wife of Adam, a female demon known for killing newborn babies while they slept. The current tradition of singing infants to sleep evolved from that legend, and the word lullaby derived from the phrase Lilith abi, meaning, “Lilith, go away.”
Did reality inspire the myth about the Roman god, Saturn, eating his offspring upon their birth? he wondered.
Ryan set aside the Patriot Anon post and raised the volume of the newscast.
“Breaking tonight,” the anchor crooned excitedly. “Surveillance video has surfaced, proving that Secret Service Agents Peters and Leezuh were complicit in Abigail Webber’s abduction. This footage calls into question previous reports that had painted the agents as heroes ...”
This bombshell ought to destroy the media’s credibility, he thought. And dominate the news cycle for days.
“How’d you get the video past GNN’s censorship?” Franny asked.
“We did an end around and released it through social media first, directly to the people. And once it started trending, they were forced to acknowledge it or lose even more credibility.”
Alarm was twinkling in his wife’s turquoise eyes. “You should’ve degraded the resolution. These images could reveal sources and methods.”
“God, I hope so. Exposing Five Eyes abuse is a secondary objective.”
The multinational intelligence organization FVEY—comprised of the United States, England, Australia, Canada, and New Zealand—empowered member nations to spy on one another’s citizenry and share the information, deliberately circumventing their own national privacy laws.
A global CIA, Ryan thought. How the hell did we let that happen?
Another breaking news banner danced across the monitor, and he reclined against his comfy chair. Hands clasped behind his head, he settled in to enjoy the show.
“... And this just in. Former President William Patterson Quenten has broken his silence, speaking out about the assassinations of Ames, Arnold, Hanssen, and Burr ...”
Ryan shot forward, pulling the base of the recliner off the floor. His heart was bucking in his chest, meting out rhythmic blows of betrayal. And shock. And outrage.
“... TEradS mercenaries are responsible,” the former President explained. “More specifically, Kyle Murphy’s daughter and son-in-law. My contacts within the DOJ are telling me that Abigail Webber’s alleged abduction was actually an attempt by Secret Service agents to bring her in for questioning ... and that Vladislav Volkov intervened.”
“But what did the TEradS stand to gain from the assassinations?” a reporter shouted.
William Quenten’s silver eyes glinted; his lips twisted into a smirk. “I believe it was a failed coup against my administration, launched in cooperation with the Russians. This information hasn’t been made public, but the TEradS, under Ryan Andrews’ orders, also attempted to assassinate me with Alameda fever ...”
Ryan pressed the heels of his hands against his head to keep it from exploding.
That lying son of a bitch! The TEradS SAVED his life. We dispatched those traitors on HIS orders!
“... Given that these crimes occurred during Vice President Andrews’ tenure as TEradS commander,” the former President continued, “the current administration will undoubtedly obstruct justice. So I am calling on the DOJ to investigate this rogue branch of our military. I rue the day that my signature brought the TEradS into existence ...”
“Ryan,” Franny said, her voice a hushed whisper. “Please tell me that Rone anticipated this. That this is part of the plan.”
Feigning a smile, he said, “Of course, it is.”
Every nerve ending in his body was crackling, like an electrical short caused by too much emotion; two parts fear over what the future would bring; one part guilt for lying to his wife.
Tidbit # 2: Black Magic, Pills, & Babies
Thai police really did arrest a British national caught with “roasted and gold-plated” babies, which could be sold for approximately $6,376 each. For those who recognize the divinity Kuman Thong, these babies are believed to bring good luck—like a rabbit’s foot.
Https://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/05/22/roasted-fetuses-luggage-chow-hok-kuen-gold-leaf-corpses-thailand_n_1536361.html
Http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2146396/British-man-arrested-Thailand-suitcase-dead-babies-used-religious-ritual.html
Pills filled with powdered human baby flesh really were discovered by South Korean customs agents in 2012. Believed to be a medicinal “cure all” that’s able to boost stamina, these pills are in high demand in China and are most likely derived from aborted babies.
Http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2140702/South-Korea-customs-officials-thousands-pills-filled-powdered-human-baby-flesh.html
Https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-17980177
This information was included in hopes of raising awareness.
Chapter 12
DAY 706
Wednesday, January 25th
43
District Three, Fort Meade
SEQUESTERED INSIDE A small office within the NSA campus, Bradley peered at a blank wall, lost in thought. He’d been rehashing the former President’s deceitful statements for hours, turning them in his mind, searching for an angle that would exonerate the TEradS.
I can claim to have acted alone, on the direct orders of Volkov, to insulate Kyle and Ryan, Bradley thought, but I can’t absolve Abby.
He’d been on a C-130 headed back to District Six, surrounded by military witnesses, when that .50 caliber round nearly bisected Aaron Burr at the surrender ceremony.
Why did I let Franny dupe me into boarding that aircraft?
If only I’d remained in Washington ...
Stop focusing on past events that can’t be changed, he chided himself. Find a way to protect Abby.
A breath-stealing pain propagated through his chest, a squeezing ache as if his heart was being crushed in a vise. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to get married, buy a house with a white picket fence, raise two or three kids, and grow old together.
Did Abby read the e-mail yet?
Certain that his “activation” would result in treason, Bradley had ended their relationship—quasi-publicly. He regretted adding a layer of humiliation onto heartache, but it was critical evidence, proving that their “marriage” had been dissolved prior to whatever mind-controlled atrocities Volkov had in store.
Bradley couldn’t let Abby be charged with murder, war crimes, or treason; couldn’t allow her to face execution or spend her life in prison.
“And the software says ...”
Bradley pivoted toward the jovial voice. CJ’s NSA buddy, Python, had astute gunmetal-blue eyes set beneath a pair of wiry dark brows. His head was shaved clean, most likely to erase a receding hairline, and a ball of facial hair graced his chin.
“... the faceprints match!”
Skeptical of the technology that converted distances between facial featu
res into a creepy arrangement of nodes and lines, Bradley said, “You’re sure?”
“Affirmative. Vladislav Volkov is William Julian Jackson.” Python pushed back his chair. “Fingerprints on both IDs match our records for Jackson, and your briefcase is encased in buckypaper.”
“What the hell is buckypaper?” CJ demanded.
“Carbon nanotubes 50,000 times thinner than a human hair; one tenth the weight of steel and 500 times stronger. Amazing stuff,” Python prattled. “Has all kinds of applications, reflects heat, filters air and water, grows biological tissue, serves as armor plating, conducts electric. Could even replace LCD screens.”
“Volkov’s fingerprints,” Bradley said, “can you use them to open the briefcase?”
Stroking his chin, Python shook his head. “Already tried. Lock’s not programmed for his prints.”
“So, how do we get it open?” CJ asked. “Take a plasma cutter to it?”
“That might destroy the documents inside,” Bradley said, assuming that the security scans had been accurate. “Those letters, A-D-M-T-E-R. They have to be the key.”
“What if ADM is a title?” Python let out a triumphant gurgling laugh. “As in Admiral Tyler Emery Rone! I’ll give him a call.”
Bradley’s thoughts wandered back to Abby.
Maybe I can cut a deal with Volkov. Get him to assert that Abby was under mind control when she shot Aaron Burr. Would he want to assume credit for the historic event? Would a court regard mind control as temporary insanity?
He grimaced. I couldn’t even convince Ryan that the owl was real; how could a jury be convinced?
Admiral Rone entered the office, and Bradley and CJ snapped to attention.
“As you were, gentlemen.”
Python brought his boss up to speed, causing Rone’s square jaw to waggle. His eyebrow’s contracted, and he pressed his thumb against the biometric reader.
A soft click permeated the room.
“Why would Volkov use my fingerprint?” the Admiral asked, seemingly baffled.
“Maybe Volkov wants you to have whatever’s inside,” Python replied.
Did the crazy general hack into NSA files? Bradley wondered. Or sneak into the Admiral’s residence to lift his prints?
The briefcase contained a thick file folder with a handwritten note stapled to the cover, and Rone read it aloud.
“Dear Admiral Rone, My name is William Julian Jackson, a.k.a. Vladislav Volkov, and I am not the traitor you believe me to be. Since receiving asylum in Russia, I have headed a team of American expatriates and former Special Forces from around the globe. We are funded by an anonymous group and are tasked with hunting down and neutralizing CIA dark projects.
“To elude congressional oversight, the agency moved its weapons research lab offshore, and they were in the final testing phase of Project Night Owl when my team destroyed the facility. Only one owl survived and it remains in my possession.
“The next generation was dubbed Project Phaedra, Latin for overlord. My team destroyed the network of seven satellites shortly after the EMP. And, no, we did not damage any U.S. military satellites. That was The Consortium.
“The current generation, project name unknown, is being assembled at an unidentified site referred to as White Rabbit. It is our assessment that, like the owl, it will be capable of detecting active thoughts in real time, but will be unable to retrieve stored memories or knowledge unless the host is reminiscing—stimulating the brain with electrical pulses. Think of this technology as a signals intercept as opposed to genuine mind reading ...”
Thank God, Bradley thought. Volkov wasn’t able to extract classified info from my brain.
“... It can hijack sensory inputs, therefore it can download data into the brain, but it cannot override or suppress a subject’s private thoughts. It can merely eavesdrop on them. The technology’s control over body movements, sensory inputs, and bodily functions, however, is absolute; essentially transforming a human being into a robot, acting against his or her will. Intercepted comms suggest that the device will become operational on the anniversary of the EMP, February fourteenth.
“Although the CIA succeeded in wiping out my team, the intel we gathered survived. I have provided encryption codes that will allow you to covertly commandeer their operational weapons systems and to penetrate ConNet, the Consortium’s private Internet, which has effectively quarantined the NSA since the electromagnetic pulse ...”
“Private Internet?” Python sputtered. “Those sons of bitches!”
Rone’s complexion paled, and he licked his lips before continuing.
“Please offer my apologies to Bradley for this scavenger hunt. I couldn’t simply download sensitive information in advance because the human mind is now subject to hacking. I did, however, install open-source, background information and language skills to maximize his chances of success. Make sure Bradley understands that I forgive him for shooting Dmitry and that he can honor my son’s sacrifice by finding White Rabbit and destroying the next-generation mind-control device.
“Godspeed, William Julian Jackson.
“P.S.—Arlon Times, July 3, 2016, Burglar gets more than he bargained for.”
“Sounds like a news headline.” Python rotated his chair toward his computer, and his fingers danced over the keyboard. “Yup, here it is: Around 12:30 am Sunday, two masked men armed with a BB gun crept into the cellar and attacked Arnie Smith’s son. Without saying a word, the boy grabbed a nearby machete, started swinging, and one man’s hand was severed. ‘They picked the wrong house,’ Smith said. ‘My son may be soft-spoken and gentle, but he’s going to defend himself. That’s my boy!’ ”
Rone’s penetrating gaze migrated to Bradley. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“As a matter of fact, sir, it does ...”
44
District Three, Washington, D.C.
KYLE SETTLED ONTO the chair behind the Resolute desk and massaged his throbbing temples. The ramifications of the former President’s testimony were rioting through his mind. Would Abby be prosecuted for the assassination of Aaron Burr? Would she and Bradley be sentenced to life in prison ... or worse?
The door to the Oval Office swung open, and Kyle squinted at Ryan and General Quenten.
“My brother cut a deal with The Consortium,” Quenten said, disgust and frustration souring his features. “Immunity from war crimes related to the meteors and weather warfare—crimes he didn’t even commit—in exchange for Abby, Bradley, Ryan, and yours truly.”
“But you were all just following orders,” Kyle protested. “HIS orders!”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ryan said. “Soldiers are obligated to refuse unlawful orders. As commander of the TEradS, responsibility for those assassinations rests with me. I’ll confess contingent upon immunity for Abby and Bradley.”
“If that was a viable option,” Quenten argued, “I would confess to clear all three of you. But, unfortunately, justice is not the objective here. The Consortium wants the Murphy-Andrews administration gone by any means necessary—resignation, impeachment, Article 25, or assassination. Then they’ll install Johanna Krupp, current speaker of the House, as Commander in Chief, thereby reclaiming the power of the presidency.”
Ryan’s arms folded across his chest. His mouth tightened. “We can’t let that happen. What if all four of us step down? Since Kyle didn’t have anything to do with the black op, he maintains power, appoints a new VP, and the plan to drain the swamp perseveres.”
Quenten’s head was shaking dolefully. “Kyle’s vice-presidential nominee will require congressional approval. Only people under Consortium control will make it through; and once they have their guy inserted as number two, you can bank on a sudden, tragic death for Kyle.” The General exhaled audibly. His hazel eyes volleyed between Ryan and Kyle. “Anything short of maintaining the Murphy-Andrews administration will subject the American people—and the world—to a global dictatorship rife with pedophiles, cannibals, and satan worshippers who
practice human sacrifice.”
Kyle swiveled his chair toward the bay windows to hide his angst.
How am I supposed to choose between my daughter’s life and the future of humanity?
Beyond the South Lawn, there were hundreds of protestors, demanding that his “regime must go.”
Do they have any idea what principles they’re defending? Are they spirit-cooking, demon-obsessed satanists? Blackmailed patsies with something to hide? Or merely gullible souls brainwashed by propaganda?
Sighing, he turned back toward Quenten. “What if I pardon all four of you and take my chances with impeachment?”
“That may be our best move,” Quenten said.
A loud thump resounded, the door to the Oval Office opened, and Admiral Rone marched into the room. Using a remote control, he raised a monitor hidden inside a credenza and directed their attention to the screen. “This is happening in real time, just outside District Nine in Mariupol.”
Night Sector soldiers clad in black poured from an old school bus onto the town’s main street. Their rifle barrels swept for threats; their fingers poised on triggers.
Unarmed civilians amassed in front of a colorful Tudor-style building to confront the rogue army. Shouts escalated into angry gestures, and Night Sector unleashed an intimidating barrage of rifle rounds above their heads. Most citizens retreated in panic, scurrying behind a barricade constructed from rubber tires, sand bags, and rusted-out vehicles. Only one man in his fifties held his ground; and, despite hands raised above his head, a soldier shot him in the leg.
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 17
