Mastermind- Rise of the Trojan Horse

by Tom Wheeler

  “Are you okay?” asked the person to my right. The former president’s daughter was staring at me with concerned eyes, and the person on my left was whispering to the person next to her. I sat with my head in my hands.

  “Do you need a doctor?” the stranger behind me whispered into my ear. “Yes. NO! I’m fine,” I said, turning slightly, as House Speaker D’Alesandro shouted, “Order!” She wielded the maple-colored gavel on the desk three times, and the chatter calmed, everyone’s attention drawn to her pounding on the podium.

  “I just feel a little claustrophobic,” I said quietly, not knowing what else to say but appearing to give the spectator the right answer. Grateful the noise in the chamber had blocked me from being the spectacle of the evening, I looked around, wondering if Secret Service was present.

  I took out the white bandanna I carry with me and wiped my face. “Please, Emmanuel, calm me down or I am going to lose it,” I begged, taking a deep breath and blinking hard, still sweating profusely.

  The president continued. I could barely make sense of his words as my sensors were on high alert, noticing every movement in the room, and the expression on the face of every person in the crowd. A moment passed before I could hear him again.

  “...Chips will ensure that those required to have vaccines will have them,” he said, pausing. “School shootings have become commonplace, while heartbroken parents and terrified students scream for us to protect them, without Congress doing a damn thing to stop the carnage that plagues our young people!” The Republican side of the chamber gave him another standing ovation, causing him to pause, many Democrats’ mouths hanging open as if the two parties had switched places from their previous ideologies. I was shaking.

  “Well, fellow citizens, and my fellow Republicans, I’m done talking. It’s time to stop the evildoers from ransacking our land!” the president said, pausing between words as the Republican side of the house rose to its feet once again. “ ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help . . .’ ” the president intoned, quoting Psalm 121. An unexplainable peace returned to the room. My fear immediately lifted.

  “No more nonsense! Partisanship must die, or with it our republic. Thank you for your attention and cooperation. May God bless you, and may God bless the United States of America!” I took a deep breath, relieved that I could leave the chamber.

  President Tense moved quickly from the podium through the now-partisan mob that we normally see during a State of the Union address. And that was despite his demand that partisanship die.

  He looked intentionally into the eyes of each person whose hand he shook, smiles erupting over the faces of the Republican members of Congress. I grabbed the document I had brought with me that was at my feet, stood up, and glanced to my right, where now Ambassador Marína Crumpler was moving my way, still observing me with an odd expression. I waved and turned toward the aisle that would take me out of the chamber and to my car, all the while continuing to scan the chamber. Nothing. “Praise Emmanuel,” I said, feeling exhausted from the stress of the evening. Though I was grateful to be getting out of there, I remained deeply troubled. What is wrong with me, Emmanuel? I asked, wondering what I could do about my hallucinations—or actual sightings.

  

  6

  Heading to the DMZ

  September 2

  USS George H.W. Bush

  Sea of Japan

  “General,” Captain Holcomb greeted him, saluting as Crane looked out one of the 12 giant windows that lined the bridge of the massive aircraft carrier, as the praying mantis on the deck leaped back into his mind.

  “At ease, Captain,” General Crane replied.

  “When do you expect the president to give us our orders, sir?”

  Without answering, Crane glanced at the young, rangy, and uncommonly tall navigator studying maps next to the captain, and wondered how time could have passed so quickly—just yesterday Crane had been young and vibrant, but never that skinny. Another officer of similar age stood next to the navigator. He raised his binoculars to his eyes as he watched the jets come and go among bells, alarms, and a plethora of chatter while the captain stared at the GPS.

  “I’m sorry, Captain, come again?” Crane asked as he snapped back into the moment.

  “When do you expect the president to give us our orders, sir?”

  “It won’t be long. He’s finishing up his State of the Union address,” he said, knowing no further orders would be forthcoming.

  “Flight quarters, flight quarters, man all flight quarter stations!” came the loud voice of one of the officers into the small microphone behind Crane as the general watched two navy MH-60 Sea Hawk helicopters sitting on deck.

  “212 tab 4. Marshal 207. Hit it, six bells,” came the ubiquitous chatter in the bridge, followed by the clanging of the bells.

  The air boss now spoke. “Visitor to port catwalk, get below now!”

  Captain Holcomb turned to the officer. “Keep your eyes on that port catwalk. We’ve got a lot of new guys around,” he said, as more bells sounded, along with a loud alarm.

  “I’m going to head to my cabin, Captain. Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Crane said after a few moments.

  “Roger that,” replied Holcomb as Crane started to slip out. “You leaving at 1600? We’ve got some snazzy activities planned for the evening,” he informed the general, eyes still on the bow of his ship as the crew positioned another jet. “It’s not every day we get to accommodate the director of National Intelligence, not that your being a general isn’t enough, sir,” he said, smiling.

  “I have a meeting at the White House tomorrow. I’ll have to take a rain check and dream about joining your snazzy activities,” he said with a smile. “But thank you.”

  “Good to have you aboard, sir,” said the captain, glancing at Crane for a moment.

  “Thank you, Captain Holcomb. Hey, have you ever seen one of those Asian hornets?” Crane asked, turning back toward the captain.

  “Yak-killer hornet,” the captain replied, giving Crane a quick glance.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Those hornets are colloquially known as yak-killers, sir; nasty. They feed on other insects, larger ones,” Holcomb answered, eyes to front.

  “Ever seen a praying mantis on this ship?”

  “They’re not out here, sir. I have heard of Operation Praying Mantis, though,” he said, shooting another split-second glance. “We blew up the Sassan and Sirri oil platforms, along with a handful of nasties after the USS Hornet struck a mine in the Persian Gulf. Damn Iranians. If it hadn’t been for some competent generals, we might still be dodging those mines.”

  “We blew up one of their frigates around Abu Musa. You’re right,” said Crane.

  “The Sabalan, I believe,” the captain agreed. “The Iranians claimed the ship was full of innocents praying to Allah for peace. We believed they were preying on infidels.” The captain gave Crane a look of sarcasm. “We’ve already passed the tipping point with those clowns,” he said, giving Crane a longer look and obviously referring to the president’s disclosure that Iran was behind the recent attack on America. “Time to teach them a lesson they’ll never forget.”

  “Right,” Crane said as he walked out of the bridge, wondering why that had stuck in his mind. Huh. The Iranians and the North Koreans. It’s always them, he thought to himself, justifying the actions he was about to take.

  He descended the short set of stairs, then maneuvered some 500 feet to the second deck, returning to his officer’s quarters, where he sat down at the small table. On his screen was Maxey’s view of the cockpit of the jet he sat inside as it continued toward South Korea. He knew it wouldn’t be long before they would reach a division of the K-16 Air Base in the southern part of the country. That piqued his nerves again. While retaliation was expected from the United States in answer to
the detonation of a nuclear bomb on US soil two weeks ago, nobody—not even the Joint Chiefs—had a complete idea of what the US was going to do.

  He closed his laptop and took a deep breath before heading to the “clean shirt” mess hall for officers. Wild rice, grilled chicken, and broccoli wasn’t his favorite meal, but it was healthier than the pizza being served in the “dirt shirt” mess. He grabbed a cup half filled with ice and hit the fountain drink marked Sprite, something else he wasn’t supposed to have, but for some reason he wanted a change from his usual fix of coffee.

  After inhaling his food, he headed back to his quarters, grabbed his laptop, and sat back down at his small table, squirming uncomfortably in his chair. He spent the next couple of hours perusing the latest CIA report about its worldwide assets, dozing off from time to time until his forehead slammed against the table. He shook his head back and forth, pushing his index finger and thumb into his eyes.

  For a moment loneliness struck him, something he hadn’t experienced. Not like this. He’d been at sea plenty of times over the course of his life; being surrounded by thousands of crew members and nothing but miles and miles of water was normal. But times were different, and Crane was at a different place in his life. He thought of his wife and family. He missed time with his grandson.

  He stared at the screen a second before noticing that Maxey was on the ground, donning the green fatigues of a North Korean soldier, identical to those worn by guards at the DMZ. Crane watched him stare, expressionless, into a mirror in the locker room at the US Army base in Dongducheon, South Korea, called Camp Casey.

  “Unbelievable,” Crane said, marveling as Maxey secured his cap as if he were one of the soldiers of the North Korean army. Moments later, the android headed out to the helicopter that would take him just south of the DMZ.

  Crane stood up and stretched big while groaning loudly before eventually sitting back down at his computer. This time he saw Maxey running down the long, invisible DMZ line separating North and South Korea—the most politically sensitive and most militarily policed border in the world. Maxey continued through the forest, brush moving out of the way of his path as if the camera were attached to a wild panther or Jurassic Park dinosaur. Moments later, the general saw Maxey’s hand switch on his jet pack, making him airborne to avoid the millions of land mines as he continued toward the facility 90 kilometers north of Pyongyang—the one President Tense believed had proof that the weapon detonated on US soil had come from North Korea. The complex also happened to be the residence of the Rose, Pak-un, supreme leader of North Korea—Maxey’s target.

  

  7

  The President Beckoned

  I had gone a few steps before I heard the voice.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Thomas?” asked a stocky, 40-something bald man with an earbud stuck in his ear, startling me. Obviously Secret Service, he now had his hand on my wrist as he leaned over several people in the aisle. “I’m sorry, excuse me,” he repeated to the man shuffling his feet beside me. I switched the document to my other hand as I felt myself tighten. What now?

  “Are you arresting me?” I asked, glancing around as the former president’s daughter and I exchanged looks. Crap, I thought. I could feel my body flush from my chest to my face.

  “The president would like a word with you,” he said. “Will you please come with me?” Before I could object, he was escorting me in front of the others toward the exit. Help me, Emmanuel. I wondered how on earth they had seen me flipping out in the audience. Or perhaps he just wanted my thesis? But how would he have known I’d finished it? Why had I even brought it with me? All these questions were running through my mind.

  The man wearing a tightly fitted suit and white shirt led me down the stairs, through the vibrant crowd of the most powerful men and women in the world who were escaping the chamber to Statuary Hall.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I asked, unwilling to proactively mention my hallucinations, but needing to know.

  “I don’t know, did you?” the man asked. My heart fluttered a little, since that wasn’t the response I was hoping to hear. I could see the bright lights from the news reporters revealing the media’s sparsely spaced areas for interviews. We crossed the floor as the mob continued to mobilize slowly in the famous hall. I was trying unsuccessfully to avoid being anxious, all the while looking around for shadows of creatures.

  “It will take him some time before he reaches you,” the man said. “Would you mind waiting here?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Reese Cropper, Secret Service,” he said, then disappeared, not waiting long enough for a response. I noticed the bronze statue of Thomas Edison now beside me. Marína Crumpler was being escorted to an interview station some 50 feet away from me, probably as ambassador to the United Nations rather than as the wife of the former president. A moment later, before I could plan my escape if necessary, the agent returned, whisking me through the crowd and out of the hall into a more secluded area. Moments later, two fairly remote double doors were before us. My anxiety grew, although I figured he wouldn’t have left me alone moments ago had he wanted to arrest me.

  “The president will be with you shortly,” said Agent Cropper as he moved toward the doors. Taking a position beside them, he stood ramrod straight, his hands folded together over his stomach, as if he was now my protection service as well as the president’s.

  “Hello, Mason,” President Tense greeted me, extending his hand, his entourage behind him. I noticed his face was more worn since the last time we’d met at the White House, when he was the vice president—just a few weeks ago. “Thank you for coming,” he said.

  “I’m not sure what you think I did, but I can explain,” I said, moving toward him and taking his hand, still believing someone must have seen my erratic behavior and reported me.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Nothing,” I said, relieved. “That was quite a speech.” I took a deep breath, reassured I wasn’t about to be committed to a mental hospital, but completely convinced I needed to keep my hallucinations or sightings to myself if I wanted to avoid that fate.

  “Well, I didn’t ask for this job, but while I have it, I’m not going to be a political pawn. How’s your shoulder?”

  “Healing up fine, thank you. It’s my mind that’s still trying to cope with being kidnapped, then shot in Iran, and living to tell about it,” I said, considering whether that series of traumatic events could explain my sightings.

  “You were fortunate. The Almighty One must want to keep you around a bit longer,” he said with a smile.

  “Evidently. I’m sure He’s pleased with the prayer you prayed on national television. I hope you’ll continue to ask Americans to turn to their Creator once again,” I said, pausing, “. . . before more tragedies occur.”

  “Except now my Muslim, Jewish, and Buddhist colleagues are already asking for airtime. They felt like my prayer following Diablo 8-16 discriminated against them and was a slap in the face. My next speech will have quotes from the Qur’an.”

  “Someone will always be offended. Truth has that impact on people, but we’re still called to be faithful,” I said sheepishly.

  “Getting to the truth can be difficult, if not impossible. I doubt that will happen again. Listen, I’m not at liberty to explain where we are in the process of a response to the attack, but have you had any more dreams?” the president asked.

  “Is that why you brought me here?” He nodded. “No, sir. No dreams. Not like the one I had before Diablo 8-16,” I said, referring to a clear warning to the United States to repent or face the consequences, something former president Crumpler had dismissed.

  “I’d like for you to prayerfully consider what the Almighty One is saying the response of the United States should be,” President Tense replied. “As you can imagine, there’s a lot of pressure to respond in kind. While that’s an option, I’m
wondering if there aren’t others. Here’s a card with my number.”

  “You mean options besides DECREE 2020?” I asked as I glanced at the card, then pocketed it. “Mr. President, I realize I’m not privy to the vast information you have, but if you don’t feel like you’ve heard from the Almighty One yourself, I plead with you not to do anything until you do hear. A fellow named King Saul learned that lesson the hard way. May I speak freely?”

  “Isn’t that what you are doing? Please.”

  “I don’t mean to speculate, nor do I assume to have the answers, but inserting chips into citizens’ skin is a man-made answer to a God-size problem. The Grand Book says, ‘Unless the Almighty One protects a city, guarding it with sentries will do no good.’ DECREE 2020 may protect America from those who wish to do it harm, but at the expense of the very freedom on which this country was founded. Freedom provided only by the Almighty One,” I told him, gaining confidence.

  The president looked up at the ceiling, then back at me.

  “I, too, trust the Almighty One, Mason, but I have a job to do—protect Americans. And the good Lord put me in office, just as you said in your interview on CNN.”

  “Then you also heard me quote Revelation 13:16–17 and remind listeners that the current chaos we are dealing with in our country is symptomatic of an America without proper boundaries, which only come from the Grand Book,” I said, referring to a short interview I’d had recently on CNN when they had learned that I was the one who’d recommended the prayer before the catastrophic event.