9. RECONSTITUTE
Jason was unaware of the brief reprieve he had received. What he was aware of was conflict. Not the normal external conflict he thrived on. It was a strange internal turmoil he had not experienced in, what? Years?
The evening had gone well enough. Business as usual, then some “entertainment.”
He thoroughly enjoyed his “side businesses” as he called them and always had a purpose for each one beyond simple dollars and cents.
The Jackson Longevity Research Center had identified and was perfecting FSAT back in 1991. But the facility was destroyed and key personnel were killed when “Bull” Thatcher went crazy. Then there was Richardson, who had since died, and Karen, who continued to elude him. Without FSAT or any other breakthrough to prolong life, Jason wanted a good source of fresh, healthy transplant organs should he ever need them. Hence, the profitable business of harvesting late term aborted babies and artificially growing them several more months. Which also became a superb revenue stream.
He then learned of the plights of many of the young girls who came to his clinics. Some had few or no family connections and were already emotionally scarred and easy to manipulate. He realized he’d found a gold mine for domestic human trafficking. His designer narcotic, brutally addictive after just one dose, made them easy to control. They would do anything—absolutely anything—for that next hit. Even recruiting their boyfriends into the trade for those who preferred that form of entertainment.
Again, very lucrative. And again, much to Jason’s personal benefit.
But this last girl troubled him.
She met all his demands, and he gave her the drug. But rather than falling asleep, she became agitated, weepy. He hadn’t expected that, didn’t need it with everything else on his mind.
She cried out to Jesus to forgive her, rescue her, deliver her, and set her free.
Jason wanted to slam his fist into her pretty face, or worse. But strange feelings from decades ago welled up. He called his special number for an early pickup, and they recovered her without incident. Only after she left did he admit that at least that evening, her prayer had been partially answered.
Jason thought back to his mother, who died of pneumonia one cold, damp Chicago winter when he was eight. She used to call on that name. She used to pray for him, her “pretty boy” as she used to call young Jason. Then she was gone.
She wasn’t there to protect him from the men who ran over his father. Sometimes because of his long hours, Jason’s Dad had to leave him at other homes till late at night, or over extended weekends. Some of those men also referred to Jason as a “pretty boy,” but it was not a term of endearment. And it certainly didn’t result in a loving outcome.
Jason hadn’t thought of his pre-adult years in a decade or more. Far too painful. The loneliness, the hurt, the betrayal. He had grown hard, calculating, and even heartless.
But his mother’s prayers?
How many had he killed? How many more deaths was he responsible for? Was forgiveness even possible for him?
Weakness!
No. He was accountable to no one. As a human, he was at the top of a ridiculous series of mindless, random events that occurred over thirteen point seven billion years. And he had earned his way to the pinnacle of the human race. It was all chance, and then hard work. Everyone else was there for his pleasure, to serve him. He would bow to no one, have mercy on no one, and regret nothing.
Jason pulled out his smartphone and made a note: “Never regret, or waste energy on remorse.” He needed to come up with a strong, private philosophy statement to memorize and meditate on. No time for emotional nonsense; no time for any form of weakness.
Jason toyed with the idea of having the twelve-year-old girl brought back up to him. He started to dial the number but decided he was too tired. He took a quick shower, had his second and final drink for the night, and went to sleep.
Unknown to him, a Presence departed from his penthouse. It had been around Jason several other times, offering emotional healing, forgiveness, a fulfilling purpose, and eternal peace and joy that would one day far exceed all the hurt of his troubled childhood. But Jason had again rejected the offer. For the last time. Jason had left the door of his heart closed and would never experience that gentle tug at his conscience again.
+ + +
A handshake. A handshake and a heart attack. Or a stroke, or maybe some combination of the two. If it didn’t kill him, it would be severe enough to force him into medical retirement.
Stephanie had hacked into Jason’s medical records from recent years. She marveled at how insecure the Federal site still was, even after the fiasco with Obamacare. In moments, she had a full summary of his overall health, which was actually quite good. He should live to a strong eighty or older before a gradual decline would slow him down in his early nineties. But if you read carefully enough… a little tug here, a little imbalance there?
She would simply attend one of his social functions. She wasn’t able to access his private calendar, but his official schedule was very easy for her to hack. Jason had plenty of “I love me” opportunities where he would get to wave the flag, say “God bless America” and campaign for whatever else he didn’t believe in. The thought of him holding or even worse, of him kissing a baby turned her stomach.
Get an invitation, pass through security, shake hands with my right hand, clasp my left hand over his, subcutaneous injection, and death within twenty-four hours.
She would continue to work the details, such as whether to use DMSO or micro-needles at the bottom of a ring. Also, she needed to work out the correct hormones and quantities.
Six months earlier a doctor had prescribed a T-3 hormone for mild hypothyroidism.
So… A very high dose injection to put him in thyrotoxicosis, along with adrenalin and cortisol, to really put him over the edge. All natural, normal, unsuspicious…
One particular event on his calendar caught her eye. He was scheduled to speak at a large job fair in a major city hard-hit by federal sanctions against so-called Sanctuary Cities. His motivational speech would be, “American Exceptionalism through a Strong Middle Class.” None of which he actually believed, she noted with sarcasm. She would have been appalled had she known the true extent of his hypocrisy.
Four weeks. Plenty of time to get her spare aliases in order. She could plan the exact concoction and administration that would be natural but lethal to him yet harmless to anyone else, plan her trip, and then decide what to do with her new freedom.
She still had Don Draper’s card.
10. MAN MAKES HIS PLANS...
The weeks ticked by for Stephanie. Materials came to her motel, and she checked them off against her priority list. Just two more weeks.
She continued to check social information and news each morning and manage her businesses after dinner. She’d read the Bible and pray only occasionally.
The next morning, she read the news buzz of an impending solar flare that could be severe. She quickly got into deeper scientific feeds from NASA and learned that Solar Cycle Twenty-Five was starting early. IRIS, the Interface Region Imaging Spectrograph sun watching telescope, indicated that a huge Coronal Mass Ejection appeared to be heading straight to Earth. Some speculated that it could even produce a solar EMP; not the fast-cycle E1 and E2 bursts from a nuclear detonation, but a longer E3 cycle that would be especially problematic for electric power grids.
Stephanie had followed stories of upgrades to the country’s electrical grid and other infrastructure. Too, she usually kept a little extra water, canned tuna, and other miscellaneous items on hand; just in case. She didn’t expect the event to have much of an impact on her, personally.
Hours later the event seemed to be a non-issue until the tail end of one news story caught her attention. There was speculation that the storm might have caused a system reset on a drone flying over Savannah as a possible explanation of a mid-air collision.
Stephanie turned the volume up as th
e story continued, accompanied by pictures of a severely damaged four-seat general aviation aircraft that had attempted to land with a damaged rudder on a runway with a high cross wind.
“The pilot, Roger Brandon…”
“Roger?!” Stephanie exclaimed.
“… is credited with an almost impossible landing under the circumstances, but his wife Cindy was pronounced dead at the scene. His son, Frank, died during transport to the hospital. Roger’s daughter Susan is in critical condition, and Roger is in serious but stable condition, with possible paralysis from his lower back and down. The FAA is investigating.”
Stephanie broke down into uncontrolled sobs. The tragedy affecting her dear friends suddenly put her own issues in a different perspective. Had she really obsessed over Jason for several months, since the attack on her back in Nashville? Was she actually planning to murder him?
Roger and Cindy. She met them at a church by chance, the only time Roger shared from a pulpit. His simple but profound message on building foundations was a life-changing challenge and new direction after the loss of her husband. It had guided her relationship with Christ, and indeed her entire life, until that recent morning in Nashville. And Roger just lost Cindy and his son?
She cried, prayed, and paced for hours. It has been said that God cannot truly use a man…or a woman…until that person is broken. His strength is perfected in weakness. As that thought came to her mind, Stephanie clenched her fists. “I’m the strongest person alive!” She drew back to put a fist through the solid panel door to her apartment then let her arms fall limp at her side as she realized what she had just shouted.
Over the years, as she sought to build a strong foundation for her life, she had memorized and meditated on large portions of Scripture. She knew the exact reference: 2 Corinthians 12:10; “… for when I am weak, then I am strong.”
The message was clear now. She could either continue to go forward on her own, in her strength. Or she could humble herself, be meek before the Lord, and be strong in His presence.
A flood of other Scriptures and Biblical principles rushed over her. She thought of David refusing to kill Saul, choosing rather to place his trust in God. She thought of how Abigail had approached David and kept him from avenging himself against the fool, Nabal. She remembered the words of Jesus on the cross, asking His Father to forgive those who crucified Him, and of Stephen asking God not to hold the sin against the men who stoned him to death. And finally, the warning from the Bible books of Romans and Hebrews that vengeance is God’s, and that it is for Him to repay.
But Jason is so brutal. He’s so incredibly wicked. He hurt me so much…
“Pharaoh.”
She had remembered God’s word about Pharaoh in Exodus 9:16: “… For this reason I have allowed you to remain, in order to show you My power and in order to proclaim My name through all the earth.”
And she remembered the outcome of that judgment against Pharaoh. God had a bigger plan concerning Jason. It would bring God glory, and Jason would be dealt with severely.
Roger. He had lost so much, and would probably never walk again. He might also lose his daughter.
Stephanie—Karen—knew that she had received her next assignment. Not to go after Jason, but to go after some supplies. It had been years since she’d taken up a paint brush, but a picture had to be put on canvas. And she had to send it to Roger.
She envisioned Christ in a beautiful heavenly setting. But down here, it was as if she and Roger were on a stark, treacherous mountain in the midst of a raging thunderstorm, trying to hold on. As she kept thinking through how she felt, and what she knew of Scripture, the picture started filling in. Christ was regally dressed in white, standing at the top of the mountain in heaven. His arms were bare and muscular, and He was confidently pulling on a strong rope that extended below the heavenly white clouds, and down through a terrible thunderstorm below. The end of the rope was attached to a mountain climber—her! Roger! The climber was struggling but was secure. To the side of Jesus, the Scripture was written, “All authority has been given to Me in heaven and on earth.” Near the rope, up above the clouds: “There is salvation in no one else.” Also, beside the rope, but down below in the storm, was written: “Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you shall be saved.” Finally, below the struggling mountain climber, the words: “For man is born for trouble, as sparks fly upward.”
God would take care of her friend. He would take care of her. And in His way, the Righteous Judge of heaven and earth would certainly take care of Jason.
But if he or any of his people ever threaten me, I will defend myself, she affirmed.
Someday, somehow, maybe she and Roger would meet again, and she would be able to personally thank him. Twice now, God had used him to guide the strongest, healthiest, most intelligent person on the face of the earth back to the firm foundation that Jesus spoke of in Matthew 7:24-27.
God was in control. She would turn back to seek the Lord with her whole heart and walk in His light. He had given her a future and a hope, and she would wait upon Him. She would stay in seclusion—maybe leave the country again—and continue her research. She would continue funding the causes she felt compelled to support trying to make a difference for good while she could.
A sense of calm returned, absent since that fateful morning in Nashville.
One day it would all be clear. She was unique for a reason.
Suddenly, as if she had stepped into a cold wind, Karen shuddered. Deep in her spirit she felt something new, a strange sense of apprehension. Something wasn’t right. It’s as if something in the spirit world had shifted. Like a countdown had begun. What it would lead to, or when, she had now idea. But it wasn’t going to be good.
11. SELAH…
Years pass. Karen continues her research and anonymous support of programs, organizations and ministries helping tens of thousands.
But always looking over her shoulder.
Jason’s power and influence grow deeper, more sinister. Plans discussed with Stan continue to progress, even as the United States and other Western countries slowly move toward socialism, bankruptcy and anarchy.
Roger Brandon lost his last remaining family member, his daughter. He also lost the use of his legs and was confined to a wheelchair. Now alone, he accepted one final engineering program before retirement.
Roger was urged by Cliff Nesmith to manage an exorbitantly expensive, ultra-Top-Secret program for a manned, hypersonic aircraft designed to intercept ICBM warheads. It would bypass ill-advised treaties that limited American Anti-Ballistic Missile defenses.
The aircraft’s classified code name: Guardian. Anticipated top speed: Mach 10.
+ + +
The Countdown began in 2020. Finally, in November 2025, everything is ready.
Jason Matthews and others meticulously brought hundreds of people together across multiple continents at a specific time…to instigate a crisis that would usher in One World Peace Now. Jason may not have become America’s forty-sixth president, but he will be her first Premier. At least, that would be a good start.
Guardian – Mach Ten
12. THE CALL
The terse message quickly went out over secure channels to key personnel worldwide: “Instigator launched. Stand by to implement Phase 2.”
Within twenty minutes, the Secret Service raced the president and senior United States leaders to shelters deep under the Washington, D.C. streets. There had not been time to board the unique Boeing 747-8, also known as Air Force One, and head north away from the potential impact zone.
+ + +
Justin Townsend wasn’t one to be melodramatic. As an experienced lead software engineer, he dealt in facts. But these facts were brutal. After tonight, things would change. Everything would change.
His apartment was a balmy seventy-four degrees, but he shivered. His hands shook. Justin often knocked out multiple reps of leg presses with a very respectful load of iron, but now his legs felt as sturdy as Jell-O. He hurried
to his bedroom, grabbing the door frame with a trembling arm. With the other hand he pushed his Multiphone—his critical lifeline—against his ear, trying to catch every word. It was hard because of the noise at the other end.
A distant memory flashed like a horror movie trailer. There was only one other time he’d felt this scared, this out of control. He was eight, playing sandlot football. His older brother came out of a pile-up of kids with a compound fracture of his left arm. “I think I broke it,” his brother had said, cradling his z-shaped forearm. Justin almost passed out at the sight.
But now? Justin wasn’t eight. He was only a few years shy of the big “four zero,” although the handsome, athletic African American looked years younger. Still, he felt like that helpless child again. For the second time in his life, fear gripped him. Terror.
Justin struggled to focus and respond to what he’d heard. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. His usual quick-witted nature? Nowhere to be found.
It wasn’t a doctor with a diagnosis of the Big C. No sudden, unexpected death of a loved one. He hadn’t lost his job…or his upcoming promotion. No papers were served. But the call from Roger Brandon had shaken him to the core.
“They’re getting ready to put me in the cockpit. Stay on the line till we go live through Guardian.”
Like I’d just hang up and call back later. There might not be a “later.” At least, not until the end of World War Three.
He doubted there would be any cellular smartphone service up to the current 2025 Six-G standards at that point.
He will die. Maybe we’ll all die.
+ + +
Less than a day before, Justin had sat in a high-tech cubicle squirreled away in a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—SCIF—due to the top secret nature of the program. He monitored the progress and success of Guardian’s latest test flight, this time with the low-power solid rocket boosters, or SRBs. The full power version would come later.
The Guardian Collection (End of the Sixth Age Book 2) Page 5
