Mastermind- Rise of the Trojan Horse

by Tom Wheeler

  “You are assuming inserting a microchip into the body is a form of the mark of the beast. Do you believe that to be true of a pacemaker?” he asked. “Or the chips inserted into formerly blind people, allowing them to see again?” he pressed on with heightening intensity. “Or ankle bracelets law enforcement places on suspected or paroled criminals?”

  “A pacemaker is a medical device, as is the device allowing sight; it’s not a draconian government GPS,” I replied. “As for the ankle bracelet—it is temporary.”

  “We are using technology for good rather than harm,” he answered with emphasis. “Besides, the smartphone is just a large chip everyone voluntarily carries.” I nodded, since he had made a very good point.

  “Huh,” I responded.

  “DECREE 2020 is voluntary and not my idea; it was President Obama’s,” he reminded me, pausing. “Is that your thesis?” he asked, staring at the document I was holding.

  “Yes,” I answered, wondering if the biometric tracking system’s roots truly could be traced back to President Obama.

  “That was quick. What did you conclude?” President Tense queried, taking it from me and flipping through its pages, stopping once or twice to read a sentence or two, then handing it back to me.

  “You really want to know?”

  “I asked you to write it. Of course,” he replied.

  “The only way to convince a culture that you’re eliminating risk is to become authoritarian. The only way to prevent the advent of an authoritarian regime is to have a strong Christian influence.”

  “What about the fact that religion is the excuse of those who just detonated a nuke on American soil?” he asked. “And the fact that many authoritarian regimes support a particular religion?”

  “Authoritarian regimes often support religion when it is cheaper to buy them off than to squash them. It’s a facade they maintain in order to get needed support from the people. It’s the way Hitler rose to power, since Germany was primarily and supposedly ‘Christian,’ ” I said as Tense’s eyes narrowed.

  “Didn’t you just contradict your own findings by saying Germany was ‘Christian’?”

  “Only as a paradox. Had I not used the word supposedly, then you’d be correct. But when I use Christian, I mean real Christians, the ones who talk the talk and walk the walk.”

  “Did you connect your theories to the United States?” the president asked, ignoring my comment. I felt the same cold breeze I’d felt in the House Chamber, causing my head to twitch.

  8

  Confronting the President

  “Are you okay?” the president asked me, his eyes narrowed at my behavior.

  I nodded. Distracted, I continued. “According to my thesis, the issue for the United States is threefold: the rise of the Muslim faith, which, as you know, has Sharia law at its root; a faltering Christian base, which has been deteriorating for decades, giving more and more authority to an agnostic society and government; and the fact that our judicial system was weaponized by president Crumpler. We are either subtly or blatantly giving the devil, the real one, access to America to a greater degree than at any other time in our history,” I said as goose bumps ravaged my body from an unexplainable feeling of fear.

  “The devil? Right. I believe in evil—who doesn’t?—but it doesn’t reside in a person.”

  “Do you see that?” I asked the president, pointing toward the mist.

  “See what?” he asked, his eyes opening wide. “You sure you’re okay?” he said as he looked at me intensely. For a moment I wondered.

  “I’m fine, just tired,” I said as I saw eyes peering around the corner, sending my heart racing. I turned away.

  “Sharia law is ridiculous. Statistically we’re 70 percent Christian,” he replied, obviously unable to see the mist or the eyes.

  “Yeah, well, like I just said. My thesis challenges the cultural definition of ‘Christian.’ Abraham Lincoln said the United States wouldn’t die at the hand of outside forces—”

  “. . . but through national suicide, yes,” the president interrupted. “I have spoken at length with the head of the Evangelical Church, Pastor Jeff Bertor.” As I silently prayed, the mist disappeared.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He referred to you as a fanatic, painting all politicians with the same broad brush. He also mentioned you don’t have a seminary degree, nor are you ordained. Rush Fillbrow called you a dreamer,” the president said, arms tightly folded across his chest.

  “Then ask them what the Almighty One thinks,” I said, looking the president in the eyes.

  “Touché,” he said, smiling while dropping his arms.

  “How’s the former president?” I asked, feeling I’d better change the subject or I might just start telling him what I’d been seeing, ending these sessions.

  “Still in ICU at Walter Reed. I’ve got to head back to the White House. Thank you for joining us tonight.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  “I look forward to reading your thesis,” he said, offering his hand. “And thank you for preparing it for me, Mason. I know you’re busy.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, handing it to him, now grateful I had brought it with me.

  “If you do have any prophetic revelations . . . ,” he started to say.

  “I’ll call this number. Thank you again, sir,” I said, as the president turned to walk out.

  

  9

  Wind Cave

  September 2

  South Dakota

  Even the last cup of coffee Jonah Soul had consumed couldn’t keep his tired eyes from shutting as he managed his Mercedes into the Black Hills of South Dakota. The caverns of Wind Cave had been decided upon before Diablo 8-16 as a rendezvous point because of their convenience on the route east toward Washington, DC. And also because Hassan had known that after two weeks on the run, given he survived the nuclear detonation, the caves would likely be the safest place to meet.

  Jonah silently thanked Jack Dawson for his part in the plot, not that Jack knew anything about Jonah’s connections to Russia or their plan to displace the United States of America as the world’s greatest superpower. Jack simply believed Jonah was a greedy chairman making himself rich by funding the company where he worked, Phoenix Corporation. Jonah glanced in the mirror. He caught the shadow of his face, a face that appeared older. Darker. Or perhaps the shadows made him appear that way, since he couldn’t believe he looked the 66 years he’d lived. He glanced at his watch. 1:18 a.m.—he was hours early.

  Jonah turned in to the entrance to the caves, exhausted. He gazed at the narrow waning crescent moon hanging in the distant sky—for a split second wondering if the life of deceit he was living was worth his soul. Then he remembered his father and dismissed the thought. He parked in the least conspicuous area of the moderate array of lots and turned off the car. Next he fumbled anxiously with the pop-up dummy that had been riding next to him, moving her to the backseat. The dummy was a pain in his rear end, but one never knew when a subtle ruffle in speculative intelligence sighting wouldn’t at least cause enough doubt to keep his secrets secret. Jonah settled himself in his seat and dozed off to sleep.

  Hours later, he woke up shivering; the outdoor temperature must have been freezing or below. He turned on the car, cranked the heat, and cracked his window open so he wouldn’t die of carbon monoxide poisoning. He looked around to ensure he was alone. He was. He hit the door lock and dozed off again.

  An hour passed. Then two.

  Boom, boom, boom, came the sound on Jonah’s window, jolting him out of a deep sleep. A light was shining in his eyes. He raised his arm to block the light from his face, blinking hard and attempting to focus on whoever was holding the light. He turned his face, covered his eyes, and lowered his window a crack more.

  “What do you want?” he asked, slightly disorient
ed.

  “What are you doing out here? You could freeze to death. Why aren’t you at a hotel?” came the voice as the first signs of daylight showed in the distance. Jonah shook his head back and forth, still trying to focus on the strange man at his window.

  “Excuse me?” Jonah asked, quickly formulating a plan to grab his pistol if this went south.

  “Where’s your parking pass?” the man asked in a slightly lowered tone as Jonah noticed another vehicle moving off in the distance. “Who’s in the backseat?”

  “What’s it to you?” Jonah retorted, still groggy.

  “It costs $11 to park,” the man replied.

  “Who are you?” Jonah inquired.

  “Park ranger.”

  “Why don’t you have a uniform?” The man was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and a small backpack, and Jonah now recognized his accent as Middle Eastern.

  “You got identification?” the man demanded. Jonah complied, lowering his window.

  “Jonah Soul,” the man read, peering at Jonah’s face.

  “My daughter is in the back,” Jonah told him.

  “Where’s Jack?” the man asked as he placed his gun muzzle against Jonah’s temple.

  “Busy,” said Jonah. “Hello, Hassan. Or should I call you Rama?”

  “Jack’s never too busy. Who’s really in the back?” he asked.

  “A dummy,” said Jonah, pulling the blanket off the face.

  “You almost lost your life, Mr. Soul. I want to talk to Jack,” Hassan bin Laden, a.k.a. Rama Rhamine, told him. Jonah sniffed hard. Jonah had never met Hassan, but he wasn’t risking Jack meeting the terrorist responsible for Diablo 8-16, since Jack was being played and might decide a nuke was going too far—even for him.

  “Right. You want the data or not? Here,” said Jonah, sticking the USB drive through the window, avoiding the flashlight’s beam. Hassan took the device and moved to the passenger’s side of the car, letting himself in—the gun still pointed at Jonah. He pocketed the flashlight, slipped off his backpack, grabbed a small laptop from its pouch, stuck the USB device into the computer, and eyed the data, still holding the gun with his free hand. The computer reflected light on his weary face.

  “You all right?” asked Jonah, noticing Hassan’s pungent smell.

  “Anacostia is 4.3789 miles from the White House?” asked Hassan, staring at the screen, ignoring the question. “I thought it was 5 miles?” he demanded, looking Jonah in the eyes. For a second, Jonah felt like he was looking at pure evil.

  “It’s 5 miles by car. Missiles don’t follow highways,” said Jonah sarcastically. “How’d you know to tap on my window?”

  “Who else arrives to a closed park at one in the morning?”

  “Were you really going to shoot me?” asked Jonah sheepishly.

  “I still might,” said Hassan. “I’m still not convinced you aren’t the FBI.”

  “Short version, Jack doesn’t know who you are, nor could we take the chance that he found out,” Jonah replied nervously.

  “How do you know me?”

  “General Troy,” replied Jonah, risking a glance at Hassan, whose eyes looked cold, distant, quick, and dangerous. Jonah wasn’t scared of many people, but the son of Osama bin Laden was a scary man—unafraid to die and looking the part. “Now are you going to shoot me?” Jonah asked.

  “If I shoot you, I eliminate my diversion,” Hassan said convincingly.

  “That’s comforting,” Jonah retorted. “We’re still finalizing the actuator. The one on that USB is hit or miss, at least if your target is the White House.”

  “Why isn’t this the finalized actuator?” Hassan asked, ignoring the comment.

  “Mason Thomas has been out of pocket. But we’ve arranged the site in Anacostia. General Troyanskiy said he’ll meet you with the actuator.” Jonah knew Hassan realized that the only way to hit the target with the second nuke was to have the adjusted actuator.

  Hassan looked Jonah in the eyes.

  “He got the nukes to enter the country; I suspect he’ll do what he says,” said Hassan, as if talking to himself rather than Jonah.

  “Where’s the vest?” Jonah asked.

  “In the cave. Are you going to wear it?” retorted Hassan.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It will if you give me the wrong answer,” said Hassan stoically.

  “Jonathan Eller, Mustafa’s brother, will wear it. I hope you got a new car. There were reports of a car similar to the one you brought into the country.”

  “You think I’m an idiot? Have the infidels figured out who I am?”

  “No, not according to General Troy. They believe Rama is dead and you are a ghost.”

  “I will call you when I am outside of Anacostia. If you have the actuator ready for me at the site . . . ,” he said, walking away, “I will take out the White House.”

  Once Hassan had disappeared into the darkness, Jonah took a deep breath. The thought entered his mind to chase him down and shoot the crazy SOB between the eyes, as revenge against all religious fanatics whose insanity destroyed people in the name of their god—just like Jonah’s father. But instead the image of his father in bed with Jonah’s fiancée flashed into his mind. This time he couldn’t shake it off. He vividly recalled the time his father had told him it was Allah’s will that he sleep with his fiancée because Jonah would not accept his father’s Muslim faith. It had been some form of revenge meant to keep Jonah on the straight and narrow. Back then, he had stared at his father’s gun as his father had put on his police uniform. Jonah was waiting for the opportune time to yank it out of the holster and shoot him in the groin, but had decided instead he would make America and Iran pay for their corruption by working for a foreign government that could put the religious factions head to head, just like during the Crusades hundreds of years ago.

  Jonah let Hassan go. Then he took another deep breath. After a moment, he called General Troy to let him know Hassan bin Laden was indeed alive, and moving toward the second checkpoint—the White House.

  

  10

  HASSAN BIN LADEN

  The fog was so dense I couldn’t see my feet, although I was looking down at them. I moved my hands in front of my face. Nothing. I carefully took another step, feeling sand as if I was on a beach or desert. I waved my hands and arms vigorously in front of me to move the air, but it didn’t disturb the fog. I stretched out my arms, my hands in front of me ensuring I didn’t bump into something. I took another step. A bright light was rising quickly in the background.

  The fog lifted slowly. I could see debris scattered about, as if some lone structure had been shredded. As the fog cleared, I saw several people on the ground, dead. I recognized the place as the mobile home from the dream I’d had when I was 11, 18 years ago, before 9-11. The dead man was the man I remembered as chief, the man spying on the enemy. He was a four-star general. I saw the same jihadist shooter from my dream walking away in slow motion, although he resembled Rama Rhamine, who was now dead.

  “Why did you do it?” I asked the stranger draped in white, an AK-47 secured over his shoulder. My hands were shaking, heart racing. He turned and smiled. He looked to be my age, his dark brown eyes filled with evil.

  “You should never have gotten involved in this,” he said without answering as he continued walking.

  “I thought Allah was a god of compassion, mercy, and—”

  “Wrath,” the stranger interrupted, turning around. His eyes blazed with fire, his teeth like those of a shark. I was immediately overwhelmed by the presence of evil, as if the devil himself was either lurking in this man or somewhere near.

  “You are an infidel, an unbeliever. The Qur’an is clear: ‘Kill the infidel wherever you find them,’ ” he said, quoting the Sword Verse, as it is known to jihadists.

  “The Qur’an also sa
ys, ‘If any of the unbelievers asks you for sanctuary, then take them into your houses so that they might hear the word of God and then let them go on their way,’ ” I answered, having studied the Qur’an.

  “You are misquoting the Qur’an.”

  “The fundamental principle of the Qur’an allows fighting in self-defense, and against those who actively fight against you—not anybody. Islam seeks peace and reconciliation. My religion says Emmanuel is the Son of God, sent to save humanity from their sins. In fact, that is why He was crucified,” I said as his nose twitched upward, revealing teeth more like a vampire’s than a person’s. His face became enraged.

  “You are an infidel!” he shouted, dismissing me.

  The scene shifted.

  I was now in a car following the nameless fellow, praying the Almighty One would save his soul and protect America from further harm. I passed a sign that read “Anacostia Parkway, Kingman and Heritage Islands, Anacostia, Washington, DC—8 miles” as if this was his intended destination.

  Next I could see him closer at hand, sitting behind the wheel. His demeanor changed as he answered his phone.

  “Aailia?” he asked, appearing nervous, more like a man who was afraid of doing something he would regret than someone possessed by the devil.

  Who is Aailia? I asked myself, hearing the conversation as if I were on the phone with him.

  “I am heading toward the final site. How are you?” He sounded as if he truly cared for her.

  “They came looking for you in Tehran and Afghanistan,” the woman said. I continued to listen to both sides of their conversation, intrigued by his humanity, never wondering how I could actually hear her speaking.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “The Americans,” she said, pausing. “Come home, Hassan. You already did what you set out to do.” Fear electrified my body as I realized the man I was following was Hassan bin Laden, son of Osama bin Laden, the Muslim jihadist responsible for 9-11. But he looks like Rama Rhamine! My heart thumped in my chest.