by Steve Peek
A number of psychological studies have been conducted on people claiming to be abductees. Over a period of years, each study examined (often using hypnosis to obtain details) between 200 and 800 individuals who were prescreened to weed out those who might have created a false memory of a fictitious event for psychological reasons.
The people in the studies defy pigeon-holing. They are from every ethnic, educational, and economic background. The fabric of their recollections share common threads as outlined below.
Abduction: The subject is taken from their current environment. Most often they are taken from bedrooms while sleeping, but there are cases when they were taken from offices, parking lots, cars, and boats.
Examination: The subjects frequently undergo invasive physical procedures that include examination, stimulation, and implantation of the sex organs and orifices. Several older abductees (over 40 years old) have been rejected for physical reasons, including past, surgically caused infertility.
Conference: The hosts communicate with the subjects. This takes several forms. The host may communicate telepathically and ask the subject to answer questions that are psychologically revealing. The subject may be shown ‘projected’ images (sometimes hallucinations) and required to interact and role-play with these events. Some are required to answer questions. Others are tested with visual stimulation similar to parts of an IQ test. After having passed previous tests, the subject may be placed in front of a complicated-looking machine and told to operate it. The host stands back or leaves (maybe symbolizing withdrawing from the subject’s mind) and the subject ‘plays’ with the device until they gradually become aware they do know how to work the machine.
Tour: Whether the host intends to provide a tour or if the subject is simply being moved from area to area within the facility, the subject is under the impression he is being given a tour.
Loss of Memory: Subjects usually quickly forget the details of their experience, and most don’t remember it even happened at all until some time later when a random event triggers a memory.
Return: The subjects are returned to their Earthly environment. Most are placed back exactly where they were when the misadventure began, but sometimes, for unknown reasons, the hosts place them in a different physical location.
Loss of Time: Most subjects experience a block of lost time between what they last recall doing and the moment awareness returns.
Theophany: Subjects may have a feeling of a connection to God or their higher power. They feel a connection, oneness with the Universe. This feeling is usually not explored by the subject at the time.
Aftermath: This occurs if and after the subject remembers events of the abduction and spends time and energy dealing with the psychology of abduction events.
A broad overview of the stories of hundreds of people who were included in previous studies present something very clear: every event is highly orchestrated. Every action is predetermined. There is no sitting in a waiting room. The beings conducting the studies are task-oriented and focused on completing their portions of the study as efficiently as possible. They seem to function in units of three. Sometimes taller beings are present acting as supervisors, monitors, or specialists.
The majority of abductees are adults, but since the mid 1970s many children began reporting abductions. In some cases, one of their parents previously reported abduction.
One last element of an abduction scenario that is not standard but reported often enough to justify inclusion is the child presentation. As the name conjures, this involves the aliens showing an infant to the subject. The infant appears to be a hybrid of humans and the Grays.
Because of the Truman Treaty, every US president knows abduction/examinations of humans and animal mutilations take place on a large scale. It was easy for them to turn a blind eye because of the steady stream of benefits we received from the treaty.
Tucked away at research facilities and universities all over the world are groups of scientists and engineers working on miracle breakthroughs that will provide critical pieces to the assembly of everything from new propulsion techniques, free energy (it won’t be free to us), antigravity, mind control, and every other imaginable scientific topic. These groups are funded and often fed key information to hurry along their progress. Most are compartmented and the researchers are not aware their breakthroughs create falling dominoes in the creation of larger projects.
The ever-changing guard of the Roswell illuminati knew about the abductions of humans. They knew about the increasing numbers of people being abducted. They knew the examinations were invasive and psychologically damaging. Most damning, they knew the ultimate goal was to genetically alter specific human candidates.
It was not until the 1990s when the alien’s lines of falling dominoes began to spell a word—one with horrifying implications.
In July 2002, two Roswell illuminati, President George Bush and Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, retraced Truman’s trip into the high desert to renew the Truman Treaty. The HCU stood them up. The treaty expired at midnight and we stopped receiving beneficial contacts from the party of the second part.
By then we knew the goal of the abductions, but were addicted to the technology and willing to renegotiate. The HCU no longer needed our permission or cooperation. The number of genetically altered humans approached critical mass, and we no longer had the ability to stop them.
It turns out the HCU is a patient bunch. Unlike us, their goals are long-term. Not long-term like five, fifty, or even a hundred years.
Had it not been for an epidemic during the 1990s, we still might not know what the HCU was up to.
Now hear this.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: White Ford Van
“Reservoir Dogs,” Jim said to the driver. Neither of them had spoken since the ‘less we know’ conversation.
“What?” The man’s grip on the wheel tightened when Jim spoke. The man’s arms were large, with defined muscles.
“The movie,” Jim responded. “All the characters had made-up names, like Mr. Green. Mr. White. I was just thinking that since we will be together at least until Huntsville, we need to be able to communicate.”
The driver gave Jim a quick glance and a brief grin. “Good idea. I’ll be Mr. Blue. Sister Fran and Melanie have names, unfortunately. Who do you want to be?”
Jim thought about it a moment. He kept thinking about how a drink would be good about now. He really needed a drink. Or at least he thought he did. Drinking had ruined his life and now, crazy as it was, 07-1947 had provided him a chance to get it back. It was the second thing helping 07-1947 could do for him.
“Mr. Anon,” Jim said. “You know, like anonymous. So, Mr. Blue, why are you driving a rented panel van to Huntsville, Alabama?” Jim asked, rolling the stiffness out of his neck.
“The less we know, remember.” The driver seemed as fresh as when they had started.
“Can we at least talk about sports or something? I’m really nervous and talking helps,” Jim said.
“What sport do you want to talk about?” the driver asked.
“None, really. I don’t care much for sports.” Jim laughed softly then added, “How about 07-1947? What do you know about him?”
“Who?” Mr. Blue asked before he realized Jim was talking about the man he knew as Heaven’s Gate. Then he added, “Oh, you mean the man we are helping.”
“Yeah, if helping is what you want to call going on the run with a Secret Service, government-nanny nun and a kidnapped, autistic, ten-year-old girl,” Jim said. “Yeah, what do you know about that guy?”
“Nothing,” Mr. Blue lied. “All I know is someone saved my life in Afghanistan. I don’t know who it was, but your 07 does and he is calling in the chip I owe.”
“Wow. He’s saving my life too, in a different way. He’s…”
Another disposable cell phone rang in the box between their seats. Mr. Blue answered the phone that was lit and buzzing.
“Wait a minute. There’s a sign comin
g up. It says Christiansburg 14 miles.” Mr. Blue stopped talking and listened. Jim could only tell the voice on the other end was soft and calm.”
“Got it,” Mr. Blue said. The phone call ended and he began dismantling it so he could discard pieces along the roadside.
“Litterer,” Jim said as he threw the first piece out the window. “Change of plans?”
“No. We are swapping cars at a truck stop on highway 460, not far up the road,” Mr. Blue answered.
“Will we have time to pee?” It was Sister Fran. “Melanie will need to go as soon as she wakes up. It won’t do to let her wet the bed. It took years to get her to stop.”
“Sure, Sister,” Mr. Blue said. “We can get something to eat too.”
“Melanie and I will use the outdoor facilities. Park where we won’t be noticed. By now our photos and some bogus, kidnap Amber Alert is everywhere. The two of us can’t be seen. Get us some orange juice and ham sandwiches; they are Melanie’s favorites,” Sister Fran said, rising to her knees so she could see between the front seats.
Jim wondered if somehow his photo was, as they say on the reality TV shows, ‘on the wire.” He wondered what Annie, his ex-wife, would think of seeing his photo on America’s Most Wanted. He didn’t even want to think about that. It would end all chances of reconciling with her and the kids. So far everything 07 said had come true, and he told Jim if he followed the plan he and Annie will end up back together.
Mr. Blue pulled up to the front of the store portion of the truck stop and said, “I’m changing your name. You are now Mr. Braveheart. Mr. Anonymous is too negative. It creates low self-esteem. You go in, get me a large coffee, black, the stuff Sister Fran wants, and whatever you want.” He poked five twenty-dollar bills at Jim and continued, “Oh yeah, get another six-pack of water for the cooler, some toilet paper, and anything else you think we might need. I’ll be back here in a silver Mercedes SUV in ten minutes.”
Jim replied in the affirmative and noticed Melanie was awake and rubbing her eyes as he left the van. In the store, he went to the bathroom then bought the things on his mental list and, as an afterthought, picked up an LED reading light to use for the map and a dark-chocolate Dove bar.
He left the store and the silver SUV pulled up. The windows were as darkly tinted as any he had ever seen. Inside he handed the bags to Sister Fran between the front seats, snapped his seat belt, and let the acceleration push him back as Mr. Blue pulled out of the truck-stop parking lot.
“Can I turn on the overhead light?” Sister Fran asked. “Melanie wants her marbles.”
Jim had not heard a word from Melanie. Mr. Blue said, “Better not, someone might see in.”
“How about this?” Jim offered up the LED reading light.
“That will work if you keep it low,” Mr. Blue said as Jim handed it back to Sister Fran, who was setting up so Melanie could see her marbles on the floor mat.
Jim thought buying the reading lamp was a stroke of luck. It wasn’t luck at all.
As Jim prepared to take his first bite of the Dove bar, he felt Sister Fran’s hand on his shoulder. “She wants some,” Sister Fran said, smiling that annoying little smile.
Melanie was focused on her nine marbles, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. Jim handed Sister Fran the stick end of the ice cream bar. She took it and instantly, without looking up, Melanie reached for it. She took it from Sister Fran, took a small bite, and then handed it back.
“Does she want any more?” Jim asked kindly. “I don’t really need it.”
“Thank you, Mr.Braveheart. That was all she wanted. She says thank you.” Sister Fran sat back, opening a bottle of water.
“I didn’t hear her say anything. Is she psychic or something?” Jim said, looking at Melanie as if for the first time.
“Something,” Sister Fran answered and took a drink of water.
The driver pulled into a rest stop and asked Jim, “You seem wide awake. Can you drive for a while so I can get some sleep?”
They switched seats. Jim looked at the route to Huntsville and pulled back on to the freeway.
The overcast sky and the rhythm of the highway allowed Jim to relax a little, and his mind went back to how he came to be a candidate for America’s Most Wanted.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Fairfax Drive, Arlington, VA
“Yes sir,” the middle-aged woman in the perfectly pressed, gray pantsuit said into the phone. Her face flushed. She hated anything that smelled of failure, and right now it was being inferred she reeked of it. The guy doing the inferring was Lance Swaggert, a thirty-something regional campaign manager whose only expertise since graduating from Princeton was helping reelect politicians. He had parlayed this into an undersecretary post at Homeland Security. Kate called Lance Swaggert ‘TLS’: the little shit. “Sir,” she emphasized the word a little too much, “we are sharing everything we know or think we know with your office, the FBI, the CIA, and the NSA.”
There was a pause while she listened, the expression on her face annoyed as her skin darkened a shade. “No sir, we have not sent anyone anything in the last half hour because we don’t have anything new.” Only those who had worked with her for years could detect the taste of anger in her voice.
The voice on the phone grew louder, and she held the receiver from her ear, rolling her eyes, wanting this to be over. The others in the room heard the voice coming out of the phone almost as a WHA-WHA-WHA-WHA-WHA-WHA-BLAH-BLAH, then very distinctly, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“Clearly, sir. Good-bye.” She placed the receiver down before TLS could add any other unnecessary threats or urgings.
She said to the others in the room, “I’m going out for a smoke. Come get me if you get anything.” What she really wanted was to go out for a drink, but there would be none of that until the girl was found and safely back in the care of Uncle Sam.
Tom Cray looked up from his array of computer screens and watched his boss walk out of the room. She doesn’t deserve this, he thought, and decided to take a break himself. They had been on their version of DEFCON 1 for more than fifteen hours, and he had not been to the bathroom in the last six or seven. The coffee in his bladder demanded attention.
Tom had been with this unit longer than anyone currently working. He was transferred from another covert government computer unit after September 11, 2001. He’d been here nearly ten years, and still missed the camaraderie of the old team. They had dubbed themselves the Original Geeks, and they were proud of their uncanny programming prowess.
When he was transferred to the newly formed Department of Homeland Security’s Interception Department, he felt it was the patriotic thing to do. Sure he would miss his old team, but he would help build a new team.
Wrong.
He was twenty years senior to everyone else at Team Intercept. His first boss, a twenty-something, political appointee who didn’t know shit from shinola about anything other than running political campaigns, didn’t like him from the start. Tom was worried the asshole might start appreciating his skill and keep him. If the boss wanted him transferred, he would most likely go back to his beloved Geeks. There weren’t too many other places they could put him because of how much he knew.
Bad luck struck again. Tom’s new boss was so inept even the government couldn’t overlook his lack of skills and ability to get things done. After a little more than a year, he was promoted and replaced with Katherine Hollister. Kate, as she introduced herself, didn’t know shit from shinola about things high tech. What she knew about was managing an FBI field team in the heat of battle. She was also smart—scary smart. When it came to fitting tiny clues—things others didn’t even recognize as clues—into the puzzle, it was as if she were psychic. She wasn’t always fast about it. Sometimes it took a day or two, even a week before she came back saying, “Bring up the file you showed me last week on such-and-such.” She would stare at it for a few minutes, then share her eureka moment with the rest of the team. She was almost always right when this happened, and the o
ther members of the unit came to trust her sparks of brilliance.
Tom and Kate understood each other. She knew who he was and what he could do. She also bridged the age gap between Tom and the others in the unit.
She didn’t deserve the treatment she was receiving from whatever under-assistant secretary of Homeland Security who was unlucky enough to be there this week.
How did Tom know she didn’t deserve it? Because he knew who was behind the missing girl. He had met him a couple of times at Geek Happy Hour. The boss of the Geeks, Bob Cleburne, had known James Tate a long time. They had worked together, gone fishing together, and could be friends because both were equally trusted by the keepers of the SUVs. Tom didn’t know James Tate that well himself, primarily from stories Bob Cleburne had related. But he knew this: Tate had skipped out on his government retirement three years ago and vanished from the grid. Everything at the government’s intelligence disposal was at one time or another focused on finding him.
But Tate was good. Tom suspected Tate had planned this for years. Every now and then a clue would pop up—usually from the Internet—that hinted Tate was within reach, or at least on the planet, but most of the time the clue led to a dead end. If half of what Bob Cleburne said about Tate was true, catching him would be a full-time job for the US government.
So now, for the last fifteen hours, Team Intercept had been evaluating computer-filtered fragments of cell phone calls, text messages, e-mails, chat rooms, and instant messages looking for anything that would lead to the missing girl and her teacher—a nun for Christ’s sake—or to Tate, who was suspected of organizing the kidnapping.
