Mastermind- Rise of the Trojan Horse

by Tom Wheeler

  “Mm-hmm,” he said, making it clear he wasn’t with the program, but had no alternative other than to hear the dream.

  “It began in black and white. I assumed the time frame to be circa 1950, although it may have been earlier. Someone prominent was sitting at a long, dark table with three other men in suits, signing what appeared to be a bill of some sort. I assumed the man signing was the president.”

  “I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?” asked Iacono, as if that had gotten his attention. I repeated what I had just said.

  “Was it Roosevelt? Truman? Eisenhower?” asked Iacono, trying to understand who was president in the dream. At least now I knew he was listening.

  “I don’t know. I think he had round glasses. Probably Roosevelt or Truman,” I said.

  “Go on.”

  “Behind the president were 20-or-so men in suits, standing with hands resting on their stomachs, all beneath an assortment of prominently displayed flags. The men’s eyes were locked on the president signing the document.”

  “Did it look like the White House?” Iacono asked.

  “Sorry, don’t know that, either. But it wasn’t the Oval Office. The room was larger. Oh yeah, there was an image of a turtle on one of the flags.”

  “A turtle?”

  “Mm-hm,” I confirmed, pausing as I considered other details.

  “The scene shifted and the room became colored, the people’s dress more modern. President Tense now sat at the same table as his predecessor from years ago. He stood up as if to dismiss the celebratory atmosphere. The scene shifted again. Now I was walking into a large glass building. This was followed by a huge room like a large megachurch sanctuary, with people filling the pews. Except these pews had desks in front of them with paper—as if for notes. The people were also chatting amongst themselves in different languages—a cacophony of voices—until President Tense spoke. Then they put on headsets and became silent. I looked up at the massive walls, noticing they resembled huge organ pipes or bamboo.”

  “Excuse me? Organ pipes?”

  “It’s a dream. What can I say? Anyway, the people were formally dressed. I stared at the flag with the turtle, wondering what it represented.”

  “Was it the hearing room in the House of Representatives?” he asked. “The drapes can look like organ pipes.”

  “Too small. And no, I have seen that room.”

  “Was it the United Nations?” Iacono asked.

  “I don’t know what the UN looks like but it may have been. Then the flag caught fire in some inexplicable way.”

  “The flag with the turtle?”

  “Yes. One of the Secret Service agents or a security guard standing near the flag made eye contact with me, as if he knew the flag was burning, but didn’t react. I wondered if he had set the fire himself. While I was pondering the man, there was a large explosion. I was terrified and began praying as debris rained from the sky. The scene shifted again before I could see the results of the blast. Now I was walking through the White House as crying rang out from the rooms I passed. When I entered the Oval Office, a funeral was taking place. I knew it was for the president.”

  I took a deep breath. “That was it,” I said, a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  I heard Iacono breathe.

  “Mr. Iacono?” I asked.

  “Was it President Tense?” he asked hesitantly.

  “I don’t know, but President Tense was speaking. Oh . . . ,” I said, stopping.

  “Something else, Mason?” he asked.

  “I don’t know; it’s probably nothing. I had another dream last night, which indicated a woman was responsible for . . .”

  “For what?”

  “Sorry, I don’t know, just carnage,” I said, and I could hear Iacono take another deep breath. Enough about last night’s dream, I thought to myself.

  “Thanks, Mason. I think,” said Iacono.

  “Does the president have any speaking engagements before a large audience coming up?” I asked.

  “He’s scheduled to speak at the United Nations General Assembly next week, which is why I asked. If your dream is correct . . .”

  “Hold on,” I said, googling images of the room. A moment later several pictures appeared.

  “That’s it. That’s the room I saw!” I said as my stomach knotted. “You’ve got to tell the president not to speak at the United Nations.”

  “He has to speak, Mason; he called the meeting.”

  “Remember the last time I warned the president, Mr. Iacono?”

  “Yeah, you told him Hassan bin Laden is Rama Rhamine and alive.”

  “I meant the one where we got hit by a nuke.”

  “I’ll tell him your dream, Mason. Call me back if you think of anything else. Otherwise, please pray for us. I’ll make sure security is notified. Hey . . . ,” he said. “Do you have any good dreams?”

  

  46

  Planet Labs

  September 10

  There was little traffic as my SUV sang along North Atlantic Avenue, also called A1A. I reached for the radio as part of my normal driving ritual, my attention piqued by the advertisement for LEGAL-U.

  All his life, Jimmy’s had to get in line and show his ID, proving he was who he claimed, starting when he was just a boy . . . and it never stopped throughout his life. That is, until Jimmy got the LEGAL-U chip installed. Now, all Jimmy needs to do to speed through security at airports, stadiums, or other security stations, or even to buy his morning coffee at Starbucks, is wave his hand. It’s that easy. LEGAL-U. Helping You Live Life to the Fullest

  “Identification, please,” the guard at NASA requested as I pulled up to the station.

  “What’s that?” I asked, handing him my license.

  “Chip scanner,” he said as he wrote my name on the paper.

  “That was fast,” I said, since it hadn’t been there a week ago. “It looks like an E-ZPass booth.”

  “Except this has eyes on everyone inside the vehicle.”

  “Everyone who has a chip,” I added. “I don’t.”

  “Not yet,” he said, smiling funny. “Welcome, Mr. . . .”

  “Is Reese off today?” I asked interrupting and looking around.

  “No, sir.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He just finished sniffing your car,” he said as the head of the German Shepherd appeared. “Have a nice day, Mr. Thomas.”

  “You too,” I said as I drove toward the large building ahead, parked my car, grabbed my bag, pushed the door open, and got out. Slamming the door, I hit the switch that was accompanied by a beep telling me the door was locked, then headed up to the office to meet Dhilan.

  Dhilan sat at the table with his three screens.

  “Now, about the chip,” said Dhilan, without saying hello.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, setting down my bag.

  “You know, DECREE 2020?”

  “I thought that was voluntary,” I replied.

  “Today is a new day. The chip is voluntary, unless you want to keep your top secret clearance, then not so much,” he said as I shook my head, rolling my eyes. “Of course you can likely just call the president and get a pass.”

  “Funny. Is everyone just full of crap now, or do some still tell the truth?” I asked.

  “It’s voluntary to keep the public from overreacting. Don’t worry; they watch everyone using cell phones anyway, as Mr. Snowden so graciously revealed. This just makes you official, allows you a convenience many will beg to have, soon enough . . . and gives you a 10 percent tax deduction,” he said with a smile.

  “Famous last words. So that’s why the security guard . . . ,” I started to say, then stopped. “What’s that?” I asked, gesturing at a tiny device Dhilan was holding in the palm of his hand.

  “T
he chip that makes you official,” he said, moving his open palm toward me.

  “That’s it?” I stared at the device.

  “A decade ago nobody on the planet would have thought inserting a chip into someone’s hand was conceivable,” I said, having moved my eyes over his open hand, afraid to touch the chip, since I would likely lose it. “Heck, a year ago it was unheard of. So, you’re getting the chip?”

  “Getting one? I’ve got one,” he said, holding up his left hand and shaking it. “The chip was made before Diablo 8-16. President Crumpler wanted it to protect the borders, not that anyone was paying attention. Particularly his followers. Anyway, it became a security issue for top secret government employees a few days ago. I, however, was given a chip exactly one week after the detonation. The problem is, there aren’t enough chip readers outside our facility.”

  “I saw someone working on the doors. Is that what they’re installing? Part of Crumpler’s dystopian society?” I asked.

  “Mm-hmm, except Tense is president. Soon the entire building will be electronic. No chip, no entry.”

  “What about the security guards? Are they on their way out?”

  “We still need them; they just won’t have to check IDs,” said Dhilan.

  “Until we install androids in their place. You know that politician? Andrew . . .”

  “Lang?”

  “He believes machines are going to replace people.”

  “Lots of people think that,” said Dhilan. “Or they’ll be our demise,” he added, smiling since he remembered that had been my concern at CEDRA training.

  “Except this guy is a politician,” I said. “Personally, I think we’re going to go bankrupt before the world ends.”

  “Didn’t you hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “The United States has planted several entire forests of money trees. The stuff just keeps on growing,” Dhilan said sarcastically.

  “All this time I thought it was called marijuana,” I quipped, and we both laughed. “If it were marijuana, the US wouldn’t be $22 trillion in debt.”

  “Mark my words,” said Dhilan, “by the end of 2020, it will be difficult for any person, even the most skeptical, to access their bank account, buy groceries, or even go out to dinner without having a chip.”

  “What about cash?” I asked.

  “Obsolete. Cryptocurrency will become the new currency.”

  “Or Ameracoin—our version of Bitcoin. I read the article, although there’s resistance.”

  “Which is always the case,” Dhilan said, nodding. “But, like I keep saying, fear is a very effective transition technique. Time numbs everyone, sometimes in a lethargic way, others in an activist manner. But with all these mass shootings? Just you wait, by the end of 2020, the year of hindsight, there will be unprecedented changes in the United States of America.”

  “You’re prophetic now?” I asked, smiling.

  “The time has come when we can’t tell the difference between a real person and one we have created. That’s why you are here, Mason, to remind the country of the truth.”

  “Except nobody’s listening,” I said.

  “Au contraire, everyone is listening,” he said with pursed lips.

  “Even now?”

  “This room is soundproof. Nothing said here can ever be heard by anyone outside the room. And the equipment in this room is monitored 24/7 for breaches. But consider this the only place where that’s true. Got it?” he asked as I nodded.

  “Not to change subjects, but changing subjects, what’s to become of Cedra?” I said, wondering about the android I’d been shown in Tehran.

  “No idea, not that anyone has asked. I assume Cedra’s still locked up in the room where he was stored.”

  “Assume?” I asked with a quizzical look.

  “Did you have a dream about this, or are you just paranoid?”

  “Just paranoid. Can you blame me? What if that explosion was a distraction to steal Cedra?”

  “Thanks, Mason. You just single-handedly ruined my day.”

  “That must mean you think he’s gone.”

  “The Iranians just told US citizens to get out and stay out or risk execution. We had an agreement with the board of CEDRA, but you’re right—they have been dismissed. There’s no telling and no way to check,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Ready?” he queried, standing with a modified hypodermic syringe/injector.

  I held out my wrist, turned up. “No, but I suppose you’re right. Cell phones already track us,” I said, turning away and wondering just where this was all headed, but knowing if push came to shove, I could take out the chip.

  “I’m not putting it in your wrist, but between your thumb and index finger,” he said, taking my wrist and turning it over.

  “Ouch! Crap!” I said as the chip was installed.

  “You’ve been chipped! Welcome to the club. Wait till the press hears about you.”

  “Except they won’t, not unless you leak it,” I said, smiling.

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  

  47

  Revelation

  September 10

  Washington, D.C.

  General Crane’s eyes narrowed as he sat at his desk at the Pentagon, one elbow resting on top, the other hand holding the phone receiver. “What do you mean he’s dead?” he asked.

  “Someone authorized his release. As soon as he got outside the gate, his head was taken off by a military-grade bullet,” said Shareef Hoke, director of the FBI. “He’s been dead a week.”

  “Who was he?” asked Crane.

  “He’s the wacko who was certain gold had been stolen by an alien,” responded Shareef. “They locked him up for larceny.” He paused. “Wells Fargo confirmed 30 gold bars are missing. They’re dumbfounded, since nobody believed it possible, and yet the gold is gone.”

  “So the ‘nobody’ who told authorities the bank had been robbed, who nobody listened to, including us, was shot leaving jail?” Crane queried, using air quotes on “nobody.”

  “Assassinated is more like it—around midnight,” Shareef confirmed. “He had been released. We listened to the man; it just didn’t make the top of our priority list. Until now. Anyway, the license plate number he gave us was bogus.”

  “Does anyone else see the absurdity in this?”

  “Yes, sir. But you know how the system works. Deals are made all the time. Money talks. Sometimes people walk. We incarcerate more people than any other country in the world.”

  “They don’t walk out the back door at midnight,” said Crane, taking a deep breath, wondering just what Ralph Duncan had seen that had caused his death.

  “Epstein was able to hang himself because of an overworked and understaffed jail; this isn’t much different. Life is far too complex to keep tabs on everyone and everything, even with chips.”

  “I thought Epstein was . . . never mind. Why are we just now hearing this news?”

  “The Warden tried to cover it up. Evidently that New York Times reporter . . .”

  “Lisa Cummings?”

  “Yes, I believe so. She was snooping and called the FBI.”

  Shareef paused. Crane took a deep breath.

  “We have followed up with the bank manager,” Shareef said, “but the cameras were out, and he was on the East Coast at the time.”

  “What about Planet Labs?” asked Crane, referring to the only company in the world that had roaming satellites taking pictures of just about everything.

  “They’re sending their pictures to Dhilan.”

  “Dhilan? Don’t you have analysts that can write algorithms?”

  “Not like Dhilan.”

  “How much detail do those cameras see, anyway?” asked Crane.

  “An object four inches long.”

&n
bsp; “Not bad.”

  “The problem is finding the image in the millions of images they take; like finding a needle in a haystack,” said Shareef.

  “Well, I suppose that goes with the territory. Good work, Shareef. Keep me posted,” the general said as he stuffed the news into his brain, trying to understand what it would mean if the crazy man who’d said a bank was robbed by a robot . . . was right. That, along with Mason Thomas suggesting Rama Rhamine was Hassan bin Laden and still alive and well, was enough of an excuse for the four-star general to open his bottom drawer, grab the bottle of 124 proof Angel’s Envy bourbon hidden along with a small glass under a stack of papers, pour himself a half glass, and shoot it down. He opened and closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then returned the bottle and glass back where he kept them.

  

  48

  Deep Secret

  NASA

  Cape Canaveral, Florida

  My head rested on the steering wheel of my SUV in the dark as I tried to declutter my mind, which, tonight, was agonizing over Capucine. I envied people who didn’t give a rat’s butt what others thought about them, or didn’t ever think they’d be rejected if fully exposed. I just wasn’t one of them—not yet, anyway; not that I’d share that with anyone other than a counselor. And that was despite the Grand Book’s attempts at getting me to let go of all those things that encumbered me. When my inadequacies met romance, I felt like I could be stopped dead in my tracks: too concerned I wouldn’t be accepted by the girl I fully exposed myself to—metaphorically speaking, although a literal interpretation was also true. In this case, Capucine appeared to be a “what you see is what you get” kind of person, although who really knew what was going on in the mind of another person? Robin Williams, for example. Who knew the funniest man on the planet was depressed? They say most serial killers look like Mr. Rogers, totally normal and harmless. I suppose faith is trusting . . .

  Tap, tap, tap, came a noise from my window, startling me out of my contemplative state. I hit the automatic button, lowering my window as the warm Florida breeze hit the chilled air blasting from the A/C.

  “Glad I caught you,” said Dhilan, bending down. “What are you doing sitting in your car at 8:30 p.m. on a Friday?”