When he gets back to the precinct, his captain is ripping him a new one. He is asking why Dixon didn’t wait for the guys to come back. How didn’t he know someone was there with a dart gun? Why did he leave him with a nurse alone? And the volume continues to rise until Dixon throws up his hands in defense and apology. “But apparently, you aren’t grown up enough to be trusted with anything substantial, so you’re getting a partner. Full time!” Dixon blusters a moment, but Captain Reynolds says, “And if you say one more word about it, you’ll be suspended for a month . . . without pay!” Dixon shuts up and lets down his hands.
“Did we get anything on the hospital surveillance cams?”
“White, female, five-eight or nine, 145 pounds; Unusual to say the least, but hardly an identifier.”
“Bear said something,” Dixon pauses to recall. “He said that when she blew through the pack on the highway, she was wearing Tiny’s colors.”
“Who the hell is Tiny?”
“The largest of the dead guys from that Westside trailer.”
“So what?” ask Reynolds.
“So, maybe we should be looking for more DNA evidence from the trailer . . . more than just the identities of the dead. Maybe we should have the bodies swabbed down for contact; starting with Tiny!”
Reynolds calls down to the coroner and orders the workups, and in another day, they are done. Her DNA appears on all parts of Tiny – non-sexual contact says the coroner – and on several of the other men – forced contact from a fight – and the CODIS report comes back on her DNA, saying that she is “Deleted.”
“What the hell does that mean? Deleted!” asks Dixon.
“I asked the same thing,” says the Captain. “The senior tech said that if someone’s records are expunged then any fragments of their records and files will be marked, by the management software on the computers as ‘deleted,’ with little or no hope of tracking them down.”
Dixon looks at him with a confused doggie look, tilting his head to one side. “The records are likely deleted because she is a Wit-Sec party, a terror informer, or she was deleted because she has become a military ghost.”
Remembering that the men’s DNA had turned up on a rape/murder report, Dixon had that report pulled and found that the Asian girl that was raped and killed, and she has an adopted sister. All records of the sister’s existence seem to have disappeared, but he contacted the dead girl’s parents and went by to ask a few questions.
Just as an aside, since the two exploding bike incidents, whenever a pair of motorcycles or more pull into a group of cars on the road, the cars slow down, pull aside, or just get a few more yards away from the bikes. Cars will even leave the road, take an exit, pull onto the shoulder, to be certain that if the bike nearby were to explode, they are trying to be as safe as they can be.
The President
I want the people to know that they still have two out of three branches of the government working for them, and that ain’t bad.[8]
E-Day Minus 7 Years and a Week
It was the early Twenty-First Century when a forty-ish Prosperity Gospel preacher named Harrison took his cues from some of his predecessors in “ministry” and opened a radio station called K-LORD. His church had begun as a spin-off of another popular religious corporation in Houston that really showed him the way to his first hundred million. His real success came from also adopting the principles of Jeremiah Wright (preaching the oppression of the masses in Liberation Theology), along with Karl Marx (making the masses the rulers of the classes), and by taking his “radio” straight to the Internet for broadcast and pod-casts. This meant that his entire radio investment could be built up slowly, in small bites, allowing for exponential growth from each hour of time and dollar spent. In ten years’ time, he had nearly ten million contributors and thirty five million listeners in forty countries, tuning in to hear the message, live streaming, and recorded, by the forty-seven people he called “Messengers of Truth.” In twenty years, he went from being a disciple in Houston to a station builder in a basement in Poughkeepsie, to dozens of server towers, five full-time studios, employing a few hundred people – many of whom worked for reduced wages as ministers – and he still had his eyes set on bigger things.
Harrison had started his own health care exchange that traded in the government services, especially what they called “Women’s Healthright Services” and he was raking it in. A considerable sum was hidden through shell companies and stored in the Cayman Islands, Switzerland, Dubai, and the BHO President’s Bank of Kenya. Whenever he is ready to retire . . . But, men like him never retire, because there is never enough of anything to satisfy them.
The secession of Texas and the other several states took its toll on almost all enterprises in what was left of the United States, but Billy Harrison managed to continue all of his activities, pretty much unhindered, and undamaged. Why? Because people have to have hope or they die, and whether any of what he was selling was real didn’t matter; he was selling hope. And make no mistake, call it what you will, he was selling the hell out of it. Between the ministry broadcasts and the health care outlets, along with a few outside investments, and a collection of outlet malls, he was soon taking home about 25 million a month, USD; funneled into the Cayman accounts and others.
Some years into the process, he decided he should be a Senator, so he spent a few million dollars, bought a lot of airtime on stations other than his own, and of course his preacher battalion, kept promoting him in all pod-casts and broadcasts. The end result, as expected, was his election to office. He still attended weekly meetings of the boards via Vids, and if his Senate duties conflicted, he would reschedule the board meeting because, well, they were a board of managers, doing his bidding, not a board of directors, in the traditional sense. Another few years in, he had moved south and become the Mayor of New York City, then four years later, Governor of New York. He often commented – in private of course – that he looked upon himself as one of the pigs from Animal Farm. This was because of his humble beginnings, along with how he had virtually taken over the networking kingdom and religious enterprises of the world from all those Jesus types. To him though, the enterprise that he had taken over was everything into which he could get his hands – not just the network . . . not just religion.
He set his sights on the Presidency, and for the price of 3.87 billion USD; along with whatever the supporting PAC’s and SuperPAC’s spent, the Presidency was his. This is not such an impressive achievement as one may think, now that there are only 24 states, Socialism is the general means of function in all matters, and they have nationalized almost everything that creates anything. Thanks to the campaign finance reforms put in place in the past decade, he could have gotten twice that much money directly from the ChiComms and never would have violated the rules, as long as he laundered the money through the party. He ran as the Conservative candidate, because he used the word “God” a little too much, and mentioned Faith from time to time, but with his “far right leanings,” he still managed to avoid a recount in his victory. Sixteen states brought in well over 54%, with three more states showing him as winning by one or two percent. By Twentieth Century standards though, he would never have been counted as a conservative, being just to the right of Olympia Snowe. Nevertheless, in the modern view of things, just saying the word “God” could get you branded a right-winger.
As a Senator he had sponsored the Bill to create a National Ministry of Information, following the European model of speech, as regards titles, and as President he created a National Ministry of Religious Life, which promoted religious involvement while not, officially, endorsing a particular religion. In fact, the creation of the Ministry was challenged by several anti-constitution organizations, and the Supreme Court of the day decided that the Constitution needed to be “reimagined” for the modern age. Strangely, the government adopted a standard that came to be known as the “Olsteen/Universalist Standard of Religious Metrics” to determine what was and what was not a
cceptable as a “religion” in the national marketplace of ideas. The conclusion of the matter was that, as one Justice wrote in the unanimous decision, “We find that it is acceptable and considerable that all people should believe in something, but that none of those people can find superiority in their belief such that they would be permitted to attempt to sway someone else’s beliefs to theirs.” In essence, as the Unitarians have said all along, “It is okay to believe anything, so long as you don’t believe it strongly enough to express that someone else is wrong, or to force that thought on anyone else.”
K-LORD seems to have benefited more than any other ministry, but that shouldn’t bother even the founders of the nation because it is hardly a religion by any common definition of theirs. Like the government, it has become little more than a wish bank, into which much was put, but from which little would ever return. The most important thing they had to say – either K-LORD or the government – was that “you gotta believe in something” and they weren’t in competition, really; because the government got your tax money, and K-LORD got all they could ever ask for. So now, K-LORD – and its subsidiaries – exceeding thirty-five million donors, which, averaging about $60 per month, is one of the largest cash flow enterprises on the planet. And, in a moment of nostalgia, like Roosevelt and Carter, the President’s “Sweater and Fireplace Talks,” his weekly message is carried over their waves to the eyes and ears of millions – first by K-LORD, then later by the regular newsreaders.
Today, however, the newsreaders are not invited, as the President meets with his security council, NASA, and the director of Climate Management. Some of the Pentagon boys are here, led by General Zachary Thomas, who greets POTUS with a salute, followed by a handshake, and the passing of a folder into his hands. “Mr. President, there are over sixty objects that have passed through the Asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter, which we originally thought were loose stones; some of which occasionally escape the group due to random impacts. But these are not random, sir, and they are not stones.”
“What makes you so certain, General?”
Dr. Forsythe of NASA interjects, “Well, sir, they all emerged from the asteroid belt about the same time, entered what appears to be two formations, set a banked course, and . . . well sir . . . they’re all headed this way.” The President looks up in a startled glaze. “There are no signs of impacts in the area, no new debris, and their trajectories are adjusting as they go.”
“Adjusting?”
“Yes, sir!” Thomas replies. “They are curving around the far side of Mars instead of impacting, and they have taken up a curved and uniform redirection toward Earth, sir.”
“Mr. President, there is intelligence out there, and we have got to figure out how we can communicate.” This was Johnson, from the Ministry of Climate Management.
“Why are you here, Johnson?” asks the President.
“When we originally discovered their direction, sir, we assumed them to be inanimate objects which may or may not strike the Earth. If they do impact the planet, we would need all the science available in my department, just to figure out how to survive it.” The President gives him a look of some chagrin, since it is now known that these are not random flying objects, but flight vehicles of some sort. “But knowing that they are space ships, we still need to know whatever we can about how they work – how their engines consume fuel and expel waste – so that we are on our toes regarding the damage they doubtless will do to our environment.”
“What if these men are truly green?” the President says smugly, with ill humor, before changing direction to the NASA rep, Timmons to ask, “If they are traveling across the galaxy do you think they are burning coal?” He is already tired of Johnson. “When do we expect contact?”
Thomas interrupts saying, “When examined from here, they look almost random in their assembly, scattered as it were. But when seen from the Alan Shepard telescope, sir, in orbit around Mars . . .” he flips his tablet to show a view of the incoming objects. “As you can see, Mr. President, There are two formations of 36 crafts, flying in a sort of V formations, and they are expanding their interval as they go. At their current rate of travel, they should arrive in about 157 hours, sir.” He shows Harrison his countdown clock for arrival. “They will undoubtedly have to slow down upon approach, but this should still be a pretty good guess, sir.”
“I suppose guessing is the best we can do right now, eh?”
“No sir,” says the General, “We also have this.” He hands him a letter written by a guy in New York, “This was copied and sent to the big three news outlets, about three weeks ago. It is from Jeremiah, the old news man.”
“I thought he was dead,” says Harrison.
“Everyone thought he was dead, sir. No one has heard from him in over a decade. However, this letter outlines, in no small detail, the current trends of the stock market, the sudden movement of an enormous amount of cash, and even the government’s involvement in a gambling scheme of some sort, along with the numerous criminal enterprises that are involved. And toward the end, it mentions this – our current predicament, predicted . . . down to the day.”
“Are you shitting me?” The President almost snatches the letter from the General as he turns aside, reading it on his way to his desk. He descends slowly into his chair, laying the letter on the desktop, and he turns the page. Another page is turned and the President asks, “Has anyone checked into the numbers at the bottom of the letter?”
“Yes, sir. Those are the opening numbers of the Dow for the past week.”
“You got this a while ago?”
“Yes, sir. Three weeks ago . . . relayed from the network.”
“Sir,” one of the Pentagon boys says, “Even if you know the closing numbers they are not the same as the opening numbers, and you can’t possibly know the closing numbers before lunch, much less a day or more in advance. Those numbers go way beyond any level of probability and pass well into the realm of impossibility. Add to that the prediction of the visitation we are now expecting . . . It’s just impossible, Mr. President,” he says, with his hands outstretched.
“Is there a way he is in cahoots with the visitors? Could he be in communication with them in some way that we don’t know?” The President is trying to discover a conspiracy.
Timmons of NASA says, “Well, sir, I don’t expect so, but anything is possible. I just don’t see how, since he sweeps a soup kitchen for his shelter. If he had access to that kind of tech, he could be a billionaire.”
“So, what does he want?” asks Harrison.
“Well, that’s just it sir . . . he doesn’t seem to want anything,” says the General. “He is passing this information along, as if it is just a notification. The signature is rather uncommon so I asked around. I am told that it is a Colophon – a sort of signature that is found in the Book of Genesis to close out an account – like, ‘These are the days of Adam.’ Only, unlike those in Genesis, this one is in English and says, as you can see, ‘The End; The Account of all Mankind.’ Then he affixes his name as just, Jeremiah.”
“Is this some sort of threat?”
“No, sir. Jeremiah has never uttered a threatening word, but he has exposed a lot of the underbelly of politics, which is why he had to be put in his place so long ago.”
“I want him watched. I want to know if he does anything that even looks suspicious. Understand?” He pauses to review the letter a little more, then he says, “And we have to keep the news quiet on this thing.”
“That won’t be a problem sir. We’ve already sent a blast that little green men, space ships, or any otherworldly adventures are strictly off the market as news stories. After all, this isn’t the Twentieth Century. The press is still free, only so long as they don’t rock the boat.”
“In the meantime, Walid, I can see that we are going to need some offensive and defensive power in play and pronto. Get all Spec-Ops, MarSOC, Tac-Ops, SOCOM, Seals, Green Berets, and the rest. I want your ten best ready at a moment
’s notice to get Jeremiah, and anyone he associates with, into my hands. But for now . . . just watch him like a hawk.” He thinks for a moment about himself and says, “And I want the detail protecting the First Family doubled as well; tripled if we are out of Castle.”
For three days, the word from those watching Jeremiah is mops, brooms, dishes, and sleep. On the fourth day, the ships all accelerate to take up positions above the Earth, but still well out of view by curious eyes and cheap telescopes. Even an excellent telescope – not belonging to the governments or to the universities that belong to the governments – would likely never see them. Each ship is rather cigar shaped, pointed at one end, reflective in surface, and they are positioned to display only their most narrow point.
Jeremiah
I will raise up for them a prophet like you from among their fellow Israelites, and I will put my words in his mouth. He will tell them everything I command him.[9]
E-Day Minus 7 Years
“Jeremiah is an idiot.” Everyone says so. Sometimes they say, “He’s not playing with a full deck,” or that, “He’s a few fries short of a Moppet Meal.” He talks to strangers and anyone who will listen about anything, nothing, everything, and always it seems well above the heads of his listeners, or with words too foolish to believe. He used to be important, but not anymore. He used to be the chief news anchor on LBN – the Landrieu Broadcast News – but he kept going back to talking about stock crashes and Jesus, college collapses, fuel overages, an international economic crisis, little green men, government conspiracies, and the list goes on. He wouldn’t toe the party line; keep to the script from the Congressional Ulema in DC. A non-fatal fatwa had been issued after several warnings had come, and Jeremiah was jobless, homeless, and most said, useless.
The Warriors' Ends- Soldiers of the Apocalypse Page 10
