by Tom Wheeler
“CIA director Masters,” he said, and I nodded.
“Is he here?” I asked.
“Somewhere inconspicuous, yes,” said Crane, as he glanced around the room.
“The president of the United Nations,” came an announcement from a well-dressed man, introducing Ms. Cecilie Saevik to the stage. Looking at her through my binoculars, I was hit by a sudden jolt of fear.
“What’s wrong?” asked Crane.
“I’ve seen her in a dream,” I said, the binos glued to my eyes. “Or someone like her standing right there. It’s like . . .”
“Déjà vu?” asked Crane, turning his head. Our eyes met.
“Yes.”
Ms. Saevik moved confidently to the podium. Her fair skin and long blonde hair revealed her Norwegian heritage, her yellow and white dress showing an elegance that suited a president. After an impressive introduction, she introduced the first speaker. I considered my dream suggesting a woman was responsible for the downfall of mankind, not that I could say she was the one. Nor did the president of the United Nations have that much influence.
“The representative from Iran is recognized to address the assembly,” she said, moving casually from the podium and walking up the flight of stairs to take a seat behind it. Seventy-five-year-old Yousef Hashemi stood up and slowly walked to the microphone. He was dressed in a spotless white robe and a black turban. His face displayed a full gray pointed beard, his eyes brown and intense. He gently pushed the microphone up and bent his frame toward it without his lips touching.
“In the name of Allah the merciful, the compassionate Lord of the universe, the Creator of all life, peace and blessings be upon His messenger, along with his family, companions, and the nations which he represents,” he said slowly and methodically in Farsi, which was translated into the appropriate language for each listener. “Madame President, I take this opportunity to address the 74th Session of the United Nations General Assembly at a time when the world suffers from extreme nationalism, racism, and xenophobia. A Nazi disposition that adopts a unilateral worldview, imposing unjust sanctions on the Islamist government of Iran,” he said, pausing as his gaze floated through the audience.
“Satan himself is masquerading as an angel of light through the American regime, proven by the assassination of two of our greatest leaders, Ali Ahmadi and Akbar Ahmadinejad, in cold blood and without provocation. This has been done by the American president’s regime, who the world knows is a pathological liar who distorts reality to suit his self-serving agenda.
“The evidence collected by the Human Rights Council shows that Ali Ahmadi and Akbar Ahmadinejad were victims of a brutal and premeditated killing, planned and perpetrated by officials of the United States of America. It is also known that fragments within the US government orchestrated the recent nuclear attack on its own soil, to fuel nationalism and the American economy, and to spin this atrocity as provocation against Arab nations and the Muslim religion as it attempts to lead the world to complete dominance.”
A cold breeze hit me, identical to what I had felt in the House Chamber, causing my heart rate to spike. “Not again,” I muttered, not seeing anything darting around the room—yet.
The Iranian representative continued condemning the United States for another 30 minutes before asking the United Nations to establish an independent fact-finding group to look into the recent plane crash, Pak-un’s death, as well as the events of August 16, otherwise known as Diablo 8-16. He bowed and gave the floor back to the United Nations president, who returned to the microphone. Several individuals in suits made their way up and down the aisles. I kept my eyes on the guards directly beside POTUS, who had been escorted into the facility a few minutes earlier, as well as the other security officials who were located to the right of the podium. My heart raced.
“Thank you, Representative Hashemi. It is now time for a short break before the representative from the United States of America is recognized to address the assembly. Mr. President, you will begin in five minutes,” she said, before strutting from the podium.
President Tense was dressed in a dark two-piece suit with a red tie, the American flag pinned on his lapel. He walked slowly and intently, swaggering toward the podium, smiling slightly as he looked up at Cecilie Saevik as many of those in the chamber headed for the exits for the short break. An incredible light moved quickly through the huge room; my heart pounded in my chest, as I wondered if I could handle another viewing “behind the curtain.” Then a breathtakingly white angel dressed in celestial armor, just like Michael from my dream, landed next to the president, holding a sword larger than any person in the room. It was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen, mesmerizing me.
“Oh my God!” I said, awed. “Am I awake?”
“What? Do you see something, Mason?” asked Crane, with a concerned look.
“Don’t you?”
“What?” he asked, scanning the front of the room.
“You don’t see an angel?”
“Geez, Mason. This is no time to joke,” he chided, unintentionally reminding me to keep my sightings to myself or end up at Broughton.
“Sorry,” I said as another apparent phantasm darted across the room, landing opposite the angel. I wondered if these hallucinations could be from the sertraline I was taking for anxiety, except I had had them before I’d started that medication.
My eyes skittered around the room without blinking. I closed them, taking a deep breath. Upon opening them, I saw the epitome of evil, Saboteur. He was black and orange in color, with massive muscles, scales all over his body, beady eyes, a fearsome jaw, talons that looked to be over two feet long, and huge matching wings. He glared at the giant angel for a split second before lurching off toward one of the guards. Other demons paced the floor like vicious animals waiting for a war; one resembled a possessed goat. Some of the other flying creatures had heads like lions, eagles, oxen, or human beings.
“Huh!” uttered from my lungs at the terrifying sight I had now seen too many times before, as the room was filled with flying creatures darting through the air and walls. I felt disoriented and nauseated, as if I was going to get sick. I stood up, trembling, heading toward the exit.
I began praying for protection and understanding.
I could see Saboteur scanning the room, as if he knew someone was praying. Then they disappeared.
“Mason!” General Crane called as I put my index finger in the air and continued moving toward the exit.
“I’ll be right back,” I uttered. Fortunately there were still a couple of minutes before the president was scheduled to speak. I bolted to the men’s room.
54
POTUS ADDRESSES THE U.N.
The United Nations
New York, New York
“Thank you, Madame President,” President Tense said as she seated herself and I made my way back to my seat. “And thank you, representatives of this great world in which we all struggle to peacefully coexist. While the accusations against the United States are being investigated—with our full support, I should add—we adamantly deny any involvement in the tragic airline crash that took the lives of both Ali Ahmadi and Akbar Ahmadinejad. We, too, look forward to discovering the circumstances of the plane crash, particularly since Iran has been known to mistakenly shoot down airliners, even those filled with its own citizens. We wish to extend our deepest sympathies to the families of Supreme Leader Ali Ahmadi, President Akbar Ahmadinejad, and the people of Iran. We grieve with you and your country. The same is true of the people of North Korea.
“However, I wish to remind the representative from Iran and the world that the United States of America sustained a premeditated nuclear attack that no nation represented in this room would ever want to experience on its soil,” he said as I scanned the facility.
“The US has prima facie evidence that the Iranian government provided the nuclear weapon th
at was detonated on our soil, knowing full well it was the intent of the terrorists to detonate the weapon in America. Therefore, let the world hear the United States of America forewarn the Iranian government to immediately stand down from both its rhetoric and its apparent military mobilization in the Persian Gulf, or face full retaliation by the government of the United States. The recent bombing of an oil tanker in the Gulf and missile attacks on Saudi Arabia have created undue tension, and warranted our attacks on the nearby vessels as defensive reactions rather than offensive or retaliatory gestures.
“If the Iranian government so much as blinks with attitude, we will consider your attitude as instigation for a retaliatory nuclear strike on Tehran, of equal or greater magnitude, but in the heart of Tehran. If Iran responds to that strike, the US will shoot down your missiles and bomb every major city in Iran with the full support of NATO until the US receives the full surrender of the Iranian government,” he intoned. “The first nuclear weapon was detonated on American soil. If the world wants peace, then the world must stand down immediately—including the Russian, North Korean, and Chinese governments—or face the war all of us have tried to avoid for decades. A war the US is fully capable of winning.”
As the president made these remarks, the entire body began murmuring. Several members, particularly the Russians, North Koreans, and Chinese, appeared uncomfortable. Saboteur reappeared. I watched him leap from his post toward the Archangel Michael, who raised his sword. Then Saboteur disappeared into one of the security guards as a huge cloud of darkness appeared, chasing Michael from the podium. The angels formerly chasing the demons were now being chased as they darted out of the room. The dark cloud swooped toward the Iranian members of the assembly and disappeared into various bodies.
Moments later, the Iranian entourage gathered their notes, stashed them in their briefcases, and walked out. All of them. The press snapped pictures as they made their way to the exits, with most of the eyes in the room following them. I noticed that one of the UN security guards moved from the table on the right, toward the platform. My heart began pounding as another guard turned and greeted the guard I was watching. I felt the same evil chill go up my spine that I had encountered upon entering the majestic room two hours ago. A moment later, I watched Marína Crumpler head toward the exit, as if to speak to the entourage walking out of the session, her things still on the desk where she sat.
“General?” I said, nodding toward the man I was watching again as I said a silent prayer.
Crane held his radio in hand, ready to engage the Secret Service on call.
“Be advised, agent on the far side of the room,” he said as one of the Secret Service agents moved toward the president as part of protocol. The security guard stuck his neck out, as if he had seen something, before returning to his position.
“False alarm,” Crane stated into his radio as he watched the man, whose demeanor appeared normal.
“That guy’s possessed, General,” I whispered. Crane’s eyes narrowed, as if he truly believed I’d lost my mind. “I know it sounds strange, but he is.”
The president finished his speech and started to make his way out without incident as Cecilie Saevik returned to the podium. I kept the binoculars squashed against my eyes, watching POTUS head toward the exit. Relieved that nothing had happened, I put the binos down and took a deep breath. I was wrong.
A moment later, I focused in on the odd security guard as he stood at his post. Another moment passed, and my heart rate returned to a gallop, since President Tense had stopped rather than exiting the building. I kept the binos glued to my eyes as I scanned the area.
“Get out, Mr. President. What are you doing?” I muttered, my binos returning to the guard. “General,” I said quietly.
“What is it?” he asked as I handed him the binos.
“Look at his chest,” I said.
“Whose chest?”
“The same guard I told you is possessed,” I said in a loud whisper, and Crane centered the binoculars on the area. “Doesn’t it look odd? He also seems agitated or nervous.”
“Look, the president is almost out, Mason,” Crane said, handing back the binos. “Your dream was just that . . .” I immediately clamped them back to my eyes, watching the same man.
“Huh! He just pulled his right hand out of his pocket, holding an orange band of some sort,” I said with emotion. “If you are wrong, sir, with all due respect, you are about to be revealed as someone who made a colossal mistake,” I warned.
55
Allahu Akbar
Under normal circumstances, someone pulling a hand from a pocket would not be alarming, particularly a vetted security guard. But these weren’t normal times, nor was this guard’s current demeanor normal. I was peering intently at the man, who truly appeared nervous.
“General!” I said, loud enough to bother General Crane. He grabbed my binoculars, while many around us turned to stare. After a moment, the general apparently noticed what I meant. “There is something orange in his hand . . . it’s a . . . DEATHSTAR!” Crane screamed into his radio, standing straight up, followed by oohs and ahhs throughout the chamber. “BOMB!”
“Allahu Akbar!” yelled the security guard, running toward Cecilie Saevik as three Secret Service agents rushed the president from the room. Three others rushed the man, who was still screaming in Arabic, trying to make his way to the podium. A high-pitched pop sounded, similar to an M-80, followed by a large fireball engulfing the entire room as shrapnel shot in every direction. I didn’t feel anything penetrate my skin but felt like I was hit with an invisible sledgehammer. Time appeared to stop, and a whooshing sound filled the room, followed by the same eerie quiet I remembered from Iran as the area was engulfed in a thick fog. The explosion had hit so fast, in the blink of an eye. I prayed.
A moment passed. Glass came showering down as I got down on my knees and grabbed my head.
Another moment passed as the room appeared to go silent—nerve cells had likely been destroyed in my ears, causing my eardrums to register nothing but buzzing. This was probably the case for everyone except those closest to the bomb, who might have lost their hearing altogether.
Then someone screamed, the bone-chilling kind. I lurched from my knees, wiping my eyes while watching the nightmare unfold. Many in the back began racing toward the exits, while those closer to the front staggered in the same direction—all with panic-stricken faces. Water now fell from the sprinkler system. I stood up, squinting to see through the murk as the group closest to the bomb was moving around like zombies: disoriented and terrified, some attempting to stand while others walked around in shock. Some walked with hands on their heads, as if in a total state of hysteria; several bodies lay scattered about. Nearest to me everyone was running as the smell of gunpowder, human flesh, and barbecue assaulted my nostrils; debris continued falling from above, now covered in water. The screaming increased; others were moaning, horrified by the fact that their worst nightmare had come true.
“General!” I shouted over the high-pitched screaming. “Are you okay?”
“Oh my God!” shouted a woman.
“Aaaaaagh!” sounded in stereo from various areas of the room.
“I’m okay, Mason,” he said, stumbling to his feet, wiping the ash from his face with his sleeves. The buzzing raged in my ears as I resumed praying silently. I could see lights darting around the room as if the angels had been called to help, perhaps by those who prayed amid the carnage.
“You?”
“I’m good,” I replied, tasting dust. More screams could be heard.
“Stay put,” were his last words as Crane raced off toward the exit to help ensure that the president safely got out of the building. I stood, swaying a bit. I opened and closed my eyes hard as my entire body shook uncontrollably. I ignored my pain as the adrenaline kicked in. Moving on quivering legs toward the aisle to help attend to the wounded,
I could barely see the podium, where at least 30 police officers were converging on the scene. It seemed like it had been minutes, but it was likely only seconds later.
“Are you okay?” I asked a middle-aged woman sitting in the debris, looking around with terror etched on her face. I remembered the ABC of emergency care from training I had received as a beach lifeguard—airway, breathing, circulation, and mental aptitude.
“Main kahaan hoon? Kya hua?” she said slowly, glancing around aimlessly. I assumed she was speaking some form of Hindi.
“Let me help you,” I said as I held her hand and waved an EMT or paramedic already on scene to the woman, since her cognitive abilities appeared to have been impacted.
“Are you okay, sir?” I asked another fellow with the same look of fear etched on his face.
“My arm is bleeding!” he said, showing me the blood covering his right arm along with the soot made by the bomb.
“What is your name?” I asked as I silently prayed for the man.
“Alexander Tubert,” he said, clearly and immediately.
“My name is Mason Thomas. Do you know where you are?” I asked.
“New York City, the United Nations General Assembly. Who would do something like this?” he asked.
“Here, put this on your injury and hold it tight. One of the EMTs will be with you shortly,” I said, handing him the white handkerchief I kept with me, and moving on to another person a few steps away who was not moving, but who had a barely palpable pulse.
“Hey, over here! This man needs help!” I said, waving over another EMT as I headed toward a row of bodies, some alive and moving, some obviously dead.
Minutes later, EMTs had flooded the assembly area. I helped as much as I could, but eventually they took over. It was then that I could feel my own body aches, as if I were a test dummy strapped into a car and rammed into a concrete wall—even as far back as I had been from the blast. My emotions felt like a huge sheet of glass bowing after an earthquake, nearing breaking point but finding a way to maintain its form without exploding.
