Mastermind- Rise of the Trojan Horse

by Tom Wheeler

  “Au contraire. Admitting weakness is not only a sign of masculinity, but a sign of wisdom and strength as well. No effective leader can be without it, despite the stereotypes. And, I might add, because you were bullied as a kid, you became a strong man who now confronts bullies.”

  For a moment I sat in thought, appreciating my counselor.

  “Are you taking your medication?” he asked.

  “Yes. I might go insane without it,” I said, being honest.

  “What about the stigma? Last time we spoke, you mentioned your concern about being ‘discovered,’ ” he said, using air quotes.

  “Besides your reminder that I wouldn’t deny myself heart medicine, I believe the Almighty One is offering help, and it is simply a choice whether to take it or not,” I said as Russ nodded. “In a strange way, it shows humility.”

  “Humility?”

  “The only reason many people don’t take it is because of what people might say, which is like chasing your tail. The older I get, the less I care what people think.”

  Again Russ nodded.

  “How’s Capucine?”

  “Good. Too far away,” I said as I stared into nowhere.

  An awkward pause followed.

  “You know it’s okay to grieve what you have witnessed. In fact, if you don’t let it out, it will likely haunt you,” he said, and I took the deepest breath I could. “Mason? Are you still listening?” he asked as my eyes met his.

  “Yeah, I heard you.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Besides becoming an antisocial buzzkill? I’ve always been a deep processor, emotionally aware, but now I walk around wondering what brick is going to fall next.”

  “Brick?”

  “As if my life is a house falling apart. I hardly know who I am anymore.”

  “Emotions can make us feel like strangers to ourselves. But you’re a hero; doesn’t that make you feel a bit better?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure I understand why the Almighty One would choose someone like me.”

  “Exactly,” he said with an affirming look.

  “What?” I made a face.

  “As long as you think that you are of value to Him, He cannot use you, since you have your own agenda. In my opinion, you are the perfect choice.”

  “Thank you, Russ, although I still wonder why He doesn’t just step in and deal with the issues Himself. Particularly as messed up as we all are.”

  “He did step in, through Emmanuel and through His followers, people like you. He’s the perfect father who uses His kids; it’s just that most of His kids deny He is their father. You don’t. You know Him, trust Him, and depend on Him despite your own flaws.”

  “Then why am I depressed?”

  “You were nearly blown up two times. Remember Elijah? One moment he’s calling down fire from heaven to consume the prophets of Baal and Asherah, and the next he’s running from Jezebel as if the Almighty One has abandoned him after his greatest victory.”

  I considered what Russ was saying.

  He continued, “Elijah had been running on adrenaline. Then he wanted to quit. But he came to his senses, left his pity party, and got back to his purpose.”

  I took another deep breath.

  “And the Almighty One is going to finish what He began in you,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “You’re a good soul, Russ,” I said, unscrewing the top of my water bottle and taking a sip, thankful I had a good counselor to speak with.

  “Don’t forget who you are and whose you are, Mason,” he replied, using the line he always used to conclude each session.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “I won’t, Dr. Freud,” I said as we both smiled.

  

  59

  Invasion of Kazakhstan

  September 24

  Washington, D.C.

  General Crane jerked up from his sleep with a gasp, as his mind had jetted back to February 26, 2002—the old film now playing in his head.

  Two days before the end of the Gulf War, a USAF F-117 Nighthawk dropped the last bombs on a dozen Iraqi T-54A type-59 tanks as British and American ground forces launched a massive rocket campaign. It was moving like clockwork until a hundred of the Iraqi soldiers came marching up the Highway of Death, Highway 80, between Kuwait and Iraq.

  Crane, the commanding officer at the time, jumped off his truck when he saw their hands raised, and rounded up the men in a situation that was becoming common but was still unnerving. There were simply too many Iraqis surrendering at once to keep things under control. He looked into each Iraqi’s eyes, knowing a lone militant could yank out a hidden weapon and open fire—not that it was common back then.

  Crane glanced at his own soldiers, barking orders at the top of his lungs. His eyes darted back and forth, zeroing in on five more Iraqi stragglers following the larger group, all with hands on top of their green helmets as they moved in the sand just beside the road. His face reacted to the third man in the line, a bit chubbier than the rest, with an untucked shirt hanging lower than normal, making his way to the truck but with a more nervous look. Then he stumbled. The last thing Crane remembered as he aimed his rifle at the man was hearing those words, ‘Allahu Akbar!’ just like the fellow at the UN had shouted. The man detonated his vest, blowing himself up along with four others, injuring six of Crane’s soldiers, as the entire scene turned black. The detonator had been in his hand the entire time, with no way to detect that he was a lunatic ready to blow everyone to kingdom come. Chesty was knocked unconscious but survived. However, three of his men lost limbs.

  Nobody had suspected a suicide bomber. Not back then and not last week.

  Crane closed his eyes hard, then opened them as a feeling of darkness sent chills throughout his body. He stared into the distance, all the memories rattling around in his mind as he considered the unknown ramifications of war on the human soul. Nobody knew the damage killing did except the soldiers who had actually been in a war. He had once been insulted when he’d heard someone say war made murderers out of the best of men; now he wondered if that wasn’t true in some psychotic way. He also remembered the former president saying the military was making killing machines out of soldiers, without realizing what he was saying. It was the ultimate human taboo—taking a life—even in war.

  He also wondered if his feelings weren’t a form of post-traumatic stress. No, he didn’t wonder; he knew they were. He just wasn’t willing to share that with anyone, since it would eliminate any potential promotion. He blamed any issues that came up on family pressures.

  He shook his head, trying to move from the darkness back to the issue at hand—the president. Crane’s new goal was to get through the year without becoming one of the crazies, saying or doing things that he might regret. He couldn’t afford to lose his pension and retirement benefits, or end up in jail for serving his country with the wrong politicians. He would keep those thoughts to himself. Having had long enough to process his situation, he walked down the hall to the Oval Office and waited outside the open door.

  “Come in, Chesty,” said President Tense, sitting behind his desk.

  “Mr. President. How are you feeling?” General Crane inquired, approaching.

  “Like a martini, shaken and stirred,” said the president, standing up and moving to the front of the desk to offer his hand to General Crane, who took it. “But alive,” he said with a warm smile.

  “You were wise to listen to Mason. I’m not sure I would have,” said Crane. A battle still raged in his own mind over the issue of faith. He wanted to believe Mason was special, but the man was too normal for Crane, who had this idea that prophets had fire blazing in their eyes or lived in a desert eating grasshoppers or something. Not just a normal Joe who had the same problems as everyone else, but
with a different attitude, a different set of boundaries (moral ones), a different faith—the real one—and a unique ability to predict future events. He considered his own son’s faith.

  “This is shrapnel from the blast,” the president said, handing a jar that held a bunch of nails and steel balls to Crane, who glanced at the contents before handing it back.

  “What’s the matter?” asked the president. The face of the North Korean soldier Nero had killed with the jerk of his hands flashed into General Crane’s mind as he heard Mason’s voice saying the suicide bomber was possessed.

  “Chesty?” asked the president as Crane quickly shook his head.

  “Excuse me? Oh, nothing, sir. I know what’s inside a suicide vest. I’m just glad you weren’t hurt.”

  “Except they pulled some of these out of my vest. You sure you’re all right?”

  “I told you I am. What do you want me to do, spell it out for you?” snapped Crane, suddenly fearing the worst.

  The president looked at Crane, who knew he’d spoken harshly. “Forgive me, Mr. President . . .”

  “Is this about your son?” the president asked.

  “Grandson. No. Yes. I don’t know,” said Chesty, tears forming in his eyes as he tried in vain to control them.

  “Take care of yourself, General. I need you. I want you to head to Camp David to meet the vice president and one of our ambassadors.”

  “I don’t meet with ambassadors, sir,” said Crane.

  “I’ve never asked you to, General. I’m asking now. Details are being sent to your e-mail account. How’s Mason?” the president inquired.

  “Seems okay, slight concussion, same as me and many of the others in that room, at least the lucky ones.”

  “Mason’s got a sixth sense. You do know that, right?” said the president, moving behind his desk and sitting down.

  “I can’t deny the kid has premonitions,” offered Crane as he sat down in one of the chairs in front of the president’s desk.

  “You think he’s psychic?” asked Tense.

  “I don’t know, Mr. President, I really don’t . . .”

  “Well, I know you didn’t come to welcome me back. What do you have?” interrupted the president.

  “We still have no idea how Eller got that vest inside the UN,” he said. The president’s expression intensified. “But there’s video footage of Jonah Soul having visited the United Nations with an unknown woman.”

  “Jonah is no stranger to the United Nations. What’s special about this visit?” asked the president.

  “The woman he was with fits the description from the dead lunatic in California,” he said calmly.

  The president took a deep breath. “Did Dhilan find anything in those satellite photographs?”

  “No. Whoever did it knew what they were doing. But there is a clip of Jonah talking to the perpetrator, Jonathan Eller, at the UN.”

  “It could be a coincidence,” the president said. “Eller was security.”

  “That’s what we said about that strange conversation we picked up in South Dakota. There are too many little things that keep coming up,” said Crane, and the president rubbed his chin. “Mason doesn’t believe in coincidences,” he blurted out.

  “So, you are listening?” The president smiled. “Could someone be setting him up?”

  “Mason?” asked the general.

  “Mason?” the president echoed with a look of surprise. “You think Mason is making up these dreams while he . . .”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “I meant Jonah. You sure you’re okay, Chesty?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s been a long week. Who would set up Jonah? And why? Tom is working on a lead, but—” Crane replied, referring to the CIA’s best analyst, Tom Kallam.

  “What lead?” Tense interrupted.

  “Don’t know. Tom told Wesley he needed more time and didn’t want to speculate. It does appear President Crutin is planning on annexing Kazakhstan.”

  “So I was right,” said the president, walking to the window.

  “It’s inconclusive, but he appears to be nibbling on one of the Baltic states as well, although it’s not clear to our assets which one,” said Crane.

  “I’m not surprised after the drama in Ukraine. If President Crumpler were still in office—”

  “He’d have been impeached. Well, I suppose fate had another plan.”

  “Fate? What is fate?” asked the president rhetorically. “What else did Lydia say? I am assuming your intel came from either her or Vladimir,” he said, standing and turning around, arms crossed on his chest as he looked at Crane. Crane considered what it must be like living in Russia as US spies like Cynthia and Victor Pollard, aliases Lydia and Vladimir, your entire life a lie—although politicians seemed to be walking the same fine line.

  “Yes. Vladimir sent a coded message that the FSB was convened for an all-night meeting.” The president nodded. “But they were left out. They believe it was to establish a pro-Russian government in Kazakhstan. President Crutin says the Russian Federation is adhering to the principle of self-determination, doing what the people want . . .”

  “Their typical cover story,” the president responded, as Crane considered similar spin offered in the US when an administration wanted the people to believe or disbelieve something.

  “Vladimir was clear that this was another ploy by Crutin,” said Crane. “They are convinced America is unwilling to fight another war on foreign soil.”

  “Crutin isn’t stupid. This has likely been his plan all along. It’s as if he has just been waiting for the right time,” he said, shaking his head. “What was Crumpler thinking—?”

  “There’s something else,” Crane said, interrupting. “Neither Lydia nor Vladimir knows for sure, but something is in play that Crutin is keeping hush-hush. The only thing they heard was ‘operatsiya vrag sredi vas.’ ”

  “Which means?”

  “In Russian, an operation with an enemy in your midst, like a Trojan horse, except Trojan horse in Russian is ‘troyanskiy kon.’ ”

  “A Trojan horse in our midst? How the hell—?”

  “It’s coincidental. I’m just telling you what they heard. They’re trying to get more information before . . .”

  “Are you sure they weren’t somehow referring to our Trojan Horse?” asked the president.

  “Nobody knows about our plan outside of you, me, Wesley, and Dhilan,” Crane said, then paused. “And Marína.”

  “Don’t start, General. What do you have against her, anyway?”

  “A feeling,” responded Crane.

  “Yeah, well, the moment we start making decisions based on feelings . . .”

  An uncomfortable pause followed.

  “Another reason to have those damn chips with a GPS installed,” said Tense. “What about Dhilan?”

  “I asked Wesley to speak with him to see what is possible,” said Crane as a buzzing came from the president’s intercom, interrupting the discussion. “Mr. President, Wesley Masters is here to see you,” came the voice.

  The president pressed the intercom. “Send him in.”

  

  60

  PSYCHIC ESPIONAGE

  “Mr. President,” said Wesley, walking into the Oval Office, dressed in a standard navy blue suit, white shirt, and red tie.

  “We were just talking about you, Wesley,” said General Crane.

  “Well, my good timing, I suppose. In what regard?”

  “The Trojan Horse,” said the president, as Wesley flashed a hawkish look. “Excuse me, Operation Gemini Twin.”

  Wesley looked General Crane up and down in an unusual manner, as Crane observed with furrowed brow. It wasn’t that Crane didn’t trust Wesley Masters; he just didn’t appreciate his style.

  “After our last meeting, my initial though
t was to go forward with the plan as discussed, except I wasn’t convinced we could pull it off,” Wesley said. “Then having a homegrown terrorist, not a foreign power, get a suicide vest into the United Nations and detonate it, I wondered if it was the best use of our assets.”

  “Except Russia might have been behind that bombing as well without our knowledge, unless you know something we don’t,” said Crane.

  “No. There is no more information on Jonah Soul,” said Wesley. “It appears coincidental. And Jonathan Eller had no contact with the Russians. Apparently he was the man who allowed the vest to get through security. All that is to say, I did further research into neural eclosion, excuse me, neural hatching. I read Leon Tuss’s most recent paper.”

  “Go on,” said the president.

  “Psychic espionage is real, as are the implants,” said Wesley. “Despite the recent bombing, there are still enough concerns about Russia to pursue the idea of a Trojan horse inside the Kremlin.”

  “Except they are untested,” Crane said.

  “So were the androids when you sent them into Afghanistan,” said Wesley, eyebrows raised.

  Crane took a deep breath.

  “Would saying ‘touché’ be in order?” asked the president, looking at Crane.

  “You’re suggesting we put the mind-reading device on Anna?” asked Crane as Wesley’s expression intensified.

  “No. In her.”

  “Our earlier conversation was a suggestion to research—”

  “And I did,” Wesley interrupted.

  “How do you expect to pull that off?” asked Crane.

  “I’ll need access to Steve Mescher and the support of Leon Tuss,” said Wesley. “I have an idea.”

  “You spoke with Mescher?”

  “I did.”

  Crane’s eyes narrowed, wondering how on earth Wesley had had contact with Dr. Mescher, the most prominent neurologist in the country, and the lead scientist at Area 51. “I was the assistant CIA director for years,” said Wesley, apparently reading Crane’s expression. “If we are going to fight a global war on terror, we need to take advantage of people involved in the technology as part of their patriotic duty. I’d like to invite those two men, along with Capucine Foushé, to a meeting,” he said as Crane sat down.