'More edgy and often disturbing science fiction based on real events, using pattern recognition to read between the lines of today's most shocking news stories.' Cast and crew: Vincent Murriotti Robert Lindleman Private Emily Greenwald Micah Xavier General Wilhelm Breaker Chief Scientist Robert Trumball Azura Sul Rabba Sul Boston Chief of Police Samuel McAlister Police Union Detective Roscoe Dane Former Vice President Al Gore Pope Francis
Table of Contents: 1...First Change 2...Spare Change 3...Change of View 4...In the Army Now 5...Spoon Fed at Club Med 6...Change of Direction 7...Changing Their Minds 8...Change Comes to Boston 9...Change of Heart 10..Change of Discharge
11..Changing Conditions 12..Containment 13..Change of Clothes 14..Changing Tracks 15..Change in Latitude 16..Change in Attitude 17..Change of Magnitude 18..Change in Longitude 19..Over and Under 20..Operation Party Pooper
21..Return to the Tower of Babel 22..Where Eagles Dare 23..Rust Never Sleeps-Operation Human Torch 24..The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men
Game Changers, epilogue
Chapter One The First Change Vincent Murriotti was 13 years old and in a bit of trouble. His father was an old school Italian who drove trucks for a living and was not the type to be summoned by an 8th grade teacher to meet for a conversation about the future of a son doing poorly in school. Vincent looked down again at his report card, the last one of the year, and every subject had the same red ink, letters and final grade; U-U-55. Science teacher Mr. Trumball walked up to Vincent’s desk and asked him to accompany him down to the principal’s office, where, he was informed, they would be calling his dad. Vincent wasn’t a dumb kid, not at all. He just had a revulsion for authority and his own idea about how to spend his time -and sitting at a school desk learning century-old garbage wasn’t it. The adrenaline coursed through his veins at the thought of losing his new bicycle, and a chance to take his girl to the midnight movies all summer. Then, there was summer school instead of the beach, and well, the stakes were high for a 13-year-old boy whose hormones were flying around like the swallows of San Juan Capistrano. With seemingly nothing to lose, young Vincent stood up, mumbled the word ‘restroom’ back over his shoulder, and was out the door before his teacher could protest. Mr. Trumball huffed in frustration as he placed hands on hips and waited for the boys return. Suddenly, fire alarms clanged loudly throughout the hallways, where kids, teachers and aides scrambled everywhere. PS 139 spilled its human contents down flights of stairs, through large double doors all around the old brick building, and out into the streets. Vincent used this opportunity to break from his class line, and run hop and skip the 3 miles home. In fact, by the time Vincent Murriotti ever saw the principal, it was the following school year, and he got a stern talking to. His father never even learned his son had been held back that year.
Chapter Two
Spare Change
The click-clack of his extra shiny shoes went echoing through the antiseptic white hallways, the sound bouncing around circular walls making it impossible to tell which direction it came from. Every thirty seven feet he was stopped by crash doors and challenged by guards, resplendent in their gray uniforms and white sashes. As a civilian with the highest military clearances, Mr. Murriotti was still finding it difficult to navigate the darkest reaches of the subterranean complex unfettered. When another tedious scan process swiped a beam of ultraviolet light across his badge, the doors retracted into the circular bulkhead and he was free to proceed another thirty-seven feet. In a last minute scramble, nameless men in fancy European suits were tracking his progress via large monitor screens from a room far below. They were using the extra time to discuss how the ‘little problem’ would be portrayed, finally deciding to be upfront with Mr. Murriotti. After all, it was they who had invited him in to change their game, as it were. It was probably best he knew the facts. When Murriotti arrived at Level 44, he stepped out of the aluminum alloy elevator some twenty-five hundred feet below ground level at an ultra-secret base beneath Colby, Kansas. For secrecy, the facility had been left unnamed, but was referred to in military and contractor circles as ‘Club Med’ as a nod to the unorthodox experiments said to go on there. Buzzed into the room, Mr. Murriotti felt himself bathed in blue light, and surrounded by helping hands guiding him to his seat at a table decorated with a fruit of scattered papers. After a long silence, a woman’s voice rang out from the inky azure fog. “Mr. Murriotti, thank you for coming. We apologize for the abruptness but some things even we cannot control. Which brings us to the point; in a world of uncertainty, some measure of steadiness must be exerted over global markets. We see that not just as job one, but as our sworn duty to the United States of America.” Murriotti interjected, “What can I do for you- short version?” The woman smiled impatiently through the mist. “We operate here on the keystone principle, an assumption that by controlling the placement or movement of several stones in key places, one can control a landslide. Recently, several of our keystones have grown restless and thirsty. We had to slake their thirst by re-allocating 2.3 trillion dollars in monies from the Fed to private offshore accounts under secret numerals of their choosing. “That’s a lot of quenching,” said Murriotti. The unnamed hostess, again smiling through the foggy blue, called him by his first name, saying, “Watch this Vincent.” She nodded almost imperceptibly, and on a giant screen came the Defense Secretary of the United States speaking on a talk show. The date on the bottom of the screen read ‘September 10th, 2001.’ His words were unambiguous and wholly damning. “Somehow, we have lost $2.3 Trillion dollars; I don’t exactly know how, I wasn’t in the loop. Our theory suggests this was caused by adherence to two separate accounting systems simultaneously, causing confusion.” “You’re saying the George W. Bush administration has lost two thousand billion dollars without a trace?” asked the show host incredulously. “Not at all” answered the Secretary, “not so much lost, as lost track of. We don’t know exactly where it is- we can’t find it, we have just for the time being lost track of 2.3 trillion dollars, that’s all I can tell you.” The screen went dark. The mysterious yet somehow familiar lady at the head of the table turned her gaze back to Murriotti. “I don’t want that in tomorrow’s headlines Vincent- do you understand?” she asked. “Perfectly” he answered and stood up to leave. “And it won’t be.” “Good” she said, heaving a heavy sigh of relief. “Thank you gentlemen, that will be all for now.” One of the men shot her a glance as he rose from the table, asking her, “What do we do now?” “Sit back and watch the show” she said with the smile of a monitor lizard.
Chapter Three
Change of View
Without fanfare, Vincent Murriotti disembarked an enormous jumbo jet that had landed at King Abdulaziz International Airport and made his way across the tarmac clutching a small silver suitcase. Handcuffed securely to his left wrist, it carried enough American currency to purchase passage into the Great Royal Palace Hotel at Jeddah – and the names of enough western spies and sympathizers to guarantee his safe passage out again. A sleek, black limousine skirted the runway and careened toward him as he walked briskly, suitcase in hand. It screeched to a halt, a rear door flung open, and Murriotti jumped in. The door slammed shut and he was gone. Bullet proof glass separating the front and back compartments opened with a hum and a hand extended through, palm up. It was soon filled with a thick stack of crisp American C-notes. The hand was withdrawn, the window partition closed again and the limo sped out of the airport. In minutes, the long black car rolled up the hotel’s U driveway and Vincent Murriotti stepped out beneath a ‘W’ shaped overhang. Valet’s immediately descended upon him but succeeded only in yanking him by the arm, and in turn, by the suitcase handcuffed to that arm. “I’ve got it, thank you” he said. He was approached momentarily by a young boy dressed in hotel garb, and led inside to a private booth in the back of the hotel café. The boy scurried away. Out of the shadow a bearded middle eastern sheik sat forward and addressed him by name. “Mr. Murriotti, how can I be of help to you sir?” “Thank you for seeing me” said Murriotti. “For my country, it is a time of great danger. Our markets and the people’s confidence are in peril. To be frank, financial shenanigans heretofore unprecedented in scope, have become public knowledge. But the cat is not yet out of the proverbial bag- yet.” The sheik repeated his question. He didn’t want too many details, having long ago learned how dangerous such knowledge can be. “Again, how can I be of help?” From there, an hour long conversation ensued, information was exchanged that would end the covert work of several double agents and the lives of some of them. Within the hour, Mohamed Atta and 18 subordinates were given the final go-ahead for their plan to hijack jet liners into the World Trade Center in Manhattan. On September 11th, 2001, the World Trade Center twin towers came down, along with Building 7 and part of the Pentagon. Any resistance within the U.S. Government was diluted by the fringe benefits that came along with the events in Manhattan that September morning. All these many years later, the American people and many in other nations as well, still wear the resulting chains of fear; chains with names like Patriot Act, Guantanamo, Project for a New American Century, and President Trump. In a single day, any talk about a missing 2.3 Trillion dollars was relegated to the back burner and attributed to an extremist lunatic fringe.
Chapter Four
In the Army Now
Vincent marched like he’d never marched before, with the Battle Hymn of the Republic blaring in his ears. This was the end of boot camp and he was finally going home for a month before deployment to whatever the latest extra-national excursion the US Government had planned. Afghanistan, Iraq, Yemen, Syria, Paris, Turkey; it could be anywhere at this point, and he didn’t really care. Just get me the hell out of this transient barracks, he thought. High on his perch, General Breaker scowled over the review like a hawk scans an open field for mice, only it wasn’t mice the General was looking for, but men. Men with a spine strong enough to serve, but not brittle enough to break. Men with minds that were open enough to love their country but malleable enough to keep that country safe when duty called. Far below, Vincent Murriotti and his buddy Robert Lindleman marched like proud penguins, feet lifting just a bit higher than the rest, and when the command came “Eyes left!” they seemed to scowl right back at the General in such a way as to put a cold chill down his spine. When the order came, “Company halt!” the General stood straight up to leave, pointing the two out of the crowd that he had chosen, and left a subordinate to gather them to his office afterward. The march began again, this time to ‘Hooray for the Red White & Blue’.
Chapter Five
Spoon Fed at Club Med
As new recruits out of boot camp, Bobby and Vinny had now been hand chosen by General Breaker, to participate in a further training program. They pulled up at the Colby, Kansas Visitors Center and were surprised to be greeted by valets, who took the keys to Robert’s Camaro and showed them inside. The two marveled at the way an old courthouse dome had been re-purposed as a roof for the center. It was a few minutes before they noticed they had been left all alone with nary a sound or secretary. “Hello?” shouted Vincent impatiently. “Hello?” The clarity of his words were lost in the echoes of the largely open and empty floor plan of the silo-like building, made of tin or some form of sheet metal. The sounds reverberated through what seemed like caves that reached far underground. In a few more minutes, he sat back down with his boot camp buddy and they waited together quietly. A pervasive low frequency hum took them by surprise and the center of the floor began sinking, slowly turning as it went. Down, down like a corkscrew the two men were drawn, still sitting on a couch covered with tweed fabric. “What the…?” said Bobby. Before too long, and after about 40 rotations in all, the two men were greeted in a large receiving area by a beautiful woman in white doctor’s smock holding a clip board. Samples of their blood, saliva, breath and skin were taken and examined, and all samples sent to a lab for further analysis. “Well boys” said an assisting nurse, “you’re official!” She left them with a smile. The two men were instructed to sit still on the couch and remain there. They complied, and noticed the room turning once again. Then down, down, down they went, shooting each other nervous glances but doing as they were told. When they reach another plateau, the rotating area of the floor came to a stop with a whir, click, and a loud metallic sound. Steam was released with a hiss from exhaust ports located where footlights would be if this had been a stage. It contained a foul stench like insecticide, and made them both wretch. A red light atop a nearby doorway changed to blue along with the sound of a chiming bell. The door slid open and in once again walked the doctor in her white medical attire, replete with clipboard. This time she wore a microphone around her neck and appeared ready to record the conversation. “Mr. Murriotti, to the best of your knowledge, have you in the last ten months been exposed to diphtheria, zeka or HVN1 nano virus?” “No, ma’am” he answered. “Mr. Lindleman, in the last 5 years, have you travelled outside the United States to Bogota, Sydney, Guam or any island in the Aleutian chain?” “No, ma’am.” “Come with me please” she said, and they followed her out the sliding door like kids arriving at summer school. She led them to a very bright white and empty room, where they were instructed to disrobe and shower. They followed her instructions and were given terrycloth gowns to wear. The three walked through a main corridor that resembled a long tube, passing room after room with all manner of seeming shenanigans going on inside them. On the left they got a brief glimpse of a teacher at a blackboard teaching a class, equations plastered across thirty feet of chalkboard. At the second room, Asian eyes peered out from atop sanitary masks, worn by women administering some form of massage to the black and blue bodies of seriously injured young men. A third room offered a fleeting view of medical personnel being interviewed by a panel of business people in crisp suits. The next room offered nothing to see but plenty to hear; blood curdling screams emanated from within only to become lost in the echoes of myriad other sounds bouncing around the hallways. The two men stopped looking into the rooms they passed by, and eventually arrived at a large elevator door. The door slid open, the doctor ushered them inside, and they all stood still as rails as the bottom fell out and they plunged downward into an abyss and lost consciousness.
Chapter Six
Change of Direction
A dozen years had passed since a suitcase full of intel had been exchanged for the green light on the World Trade Center jetliner skyjackings that not only kept any inquiry into the disappearance of some 5.9 trillion dollars from ever happening, but also caused a long-term derailment of the US Constitution and Bill of Rights. Then in 2003, George W. Bush went ahead with a unilateral invasion of Iraq, the reasoning behind which has always been kept a moving target. And now, all these years later, the bombing in Iraq still escalates, the United States military is still peripherally engaged, and what was supposed to take “days rather than weeks”, had become an open-ended conflict. But one thing had become clear; Al Qaeda and radical groups in the world aligned with them had been pounded into submission by the largest sustained military attack the world had ever known. Between kidnappings by the C.I.A. known as ‘extraordinary renditions’ torture and decades of imprisonment without charges for most at Guantanamo Bay- and some still there after two terms of Bush and two terms of Barack Obama- Al Qaeda was a mere flicker of the conflagration it once was. Now, in 2013, the time had come to reign in the wild horses of war, security, and private mercenary armies. And stories in the national news were beginning to reflect as much, because of all the social programs that were starving for funds. One *actual news article went so far as to interview the CIA Director John Brennan and Shawn Brimley, former director for strategic planning on the National Security Council. While Brennan spoke of the C.I.A. looking to move away from its policy of global targeted executions, Brimley was more realistic, warning that the security firms both public and private had grown up as cottage industries around the Iraq war, and would not go gently into the good night. In other words, it was not a good idea to talk about taking their funding, which for some ten years had never been limited or even questioned. In fact, it could be downright dangerous! *(Los Angeles Times, April 15th, 2003, ‘Counter-terrorism’s future is unclear’ by Ken Dilanian)
Chapter Seven
Changing their Minds
Vincent Murriotti awoke in a sitting position and with a terrible headache. On the left armrest was what looked like a doorbell and he rang it over and over until a nurse in angelic white burst into the circular room. It was only then that Vincent looked around himself, at more gadgets charts and screen readouts than he ever knew existed. “Water” he pleaded, “water please.” The nurse pulled a tube toward him that had already been hanging limp nearby. “Water” she answered. He sucked the tube for a long moment, stopping only for a quick breath, then resuming hydration. “You’ve been anesthetized” said the nurse, “thirst is normal.” “Why have I been put under,” he asked, and “where’s Robert?” “I’m sure you have a lot of questions and they will all be answered. The doctor will be in to see you shortly,” she said and then turned to leave. “Don’t drink too much all at once.” He heard moaning coming from behind a curtain that hung several yards to his left, and he called out, asking if it were his friend. “Robert?” “Yeah” came the answer. “Wow, my head feels like I really tied one on last night- where are we?” “Last thing I remember was that death fall,” he said. “Hell of a job interview!” The doctor walked in and began examining Vincent’s eyes as a nurse drew back the partition. He walked over to Robert Lindell and did the same thing. “Want to fill us in?” asked Murriotti. The door burst open again, and this time General Breaker strode in, flanked by a small team of soldiers and civilian business types. “I’ll be happy to explain everything, Vincent. But first I’m afraid you’ll have to sign this” he said, showing him a clipboard and thrusting it toward him. “What am I signing?” asked Murriotti, shaking the cobwebs out of his head. “This is a simple non-disclosure form, son. And in the interest of national security, I’m afraid you both will have to sign it before we can tell you anything” answered the General. “And if we refuse?” asked Lindell. “Then you’re free to go. But I must tell you, you’ve been chosen from among many recruits to participate in a Beta Program for national security, and that is quite an honor; a well-paying honor, I might add.” The two looked at each other from their respective hospital beds, now both in upright seated positions. “I joined the force to serve my country” said Vincent Murriotti. “Give me the pen.” The General smiled as both men signed on the dotted line. “See you in the morning, at 0530 hours. Nurse, get these men uniformed and fed. Then show them to their quarters.” The General and his soldiers snapped a crisp salute to both men, and left the room. One guard stayed behind. Meeting Ms Maxxi As reveille blared throughout the halls of the immense subterranean complex, the two soldiers hopped quickly out of bed just as they had been doing since the beginning of boot camp. This time however, they were in such unfamiliar environs that they chose to stand at the base of their bunks at attention. The door swung open and in walked a guard who led them out into a busy hall where people of many disciplines were rushing around like schoolkids trying not to be late for their next class. The guard walked the pair to a hatchway that opened with a circular device not unlike those on a navy ship. “Go ahead in” he instructed. Lindell grabbed hold of the rounded bar with both hands and twisted forcefully. The hatch popped open as did their ears, apparently from some change in atmospheric pressure. They were greeted by a warm feminine voice who invited them to come in and sit down. “ Welcome, recruits Murriotti and Lindleman, my name is Ms Maxxine; you may call me Maxxi. I will be guiding you through your training, which will begin immediately and can be expected to last about three weeks.” They both sat down at the only bench in the room and stared wide eyed at the small computer monitor. Maxxi was a computer program, a simulation of everything attractive in a woman; beautiful hair, perfect teeth, skin and eyes- oh, those eyes! Vincent found himself continually shaking his head as if trying to stay awake on a lonely stretch of road. Through his peripheral vision he could see Robert was doing the same thing. A quiet alarm sounded as though someone had just sent an e mail, and Maxxi spoke again. “My sensors detect you both are hungry with nutrition levels below the optimum for learning.” At that, a tray slid out from beneath the monitor revealing toast, ham, utensils and potatoes. A tall, recyclable cup slid down a tube, one of which was near the left hand of each man. No sooner had the cup hit bottom than a stream of orange juice poured delicately from above, with not a single drop spilled or wasted. The two men shot each other a brief glance, then allowed their hunger to guide them through what turned out to be a satisfying breakfast. “Thank you, Maxxi” said Murriotti. “Your welcome, Vincent” she answered with a friendly wink.
Chapter Eight
Change Comes to Boston
The pride of Boston, the crowning achievement, that’s what the Marathon was. And this year the event was once again garnering global attention. World-class runners came from as far away as Kenya to run the Boston Marathon, perhaps the most prestigious such event in the world. The festivities included hot air balloons, parades, no less than fourteen bands on 2 stages, and the crowning of ‘Miss Boston.’ Jacqueline Hansen was the honorary official starter of this year’s elite women’s race, which would include Joan Samuelson, winner of the 1979 and 1983 Boston Marathons, as well as she having gone on to win in the Los Angeles Olympic Games Marathon in 1984. Star power was everywhere, and the Boston Athletic Association was beaming with pride. And they weren’t the only ones; private mercenary group members stood security, albeit covertly and their black uniforms replete with skull ball caps dotted the crowds lining the route. One of these men stood at the finish line, hand held to ear, where a small ear piece garbled out secret security orders. Nodding a balding head that sat on a massive neck, the man beckoned with his right hand toward others in nearby positions, motioning for them to cross the still empty street. Walking toward them were two young men of middle eastern decent. The mercenary in charge stood blocking the sidewalk and handed one of them an overstuffed backpack. They looked fearfully at the imposing man, dressed so darkly and blocking their progress. They ducked to go around, and as they did, the man spoke to them in a clear but quiet voice. “It is time to win the race to paradise” said the man. He then handed them the backpack and turned to walk away himself. The two men now seemed in a trance like state, with one helping to strap the backpack on the other. Security details began moving in from all sides, converging on the two. When all were in position, they were given the ‘hold’ order, and they stopped their approach, forming a circle some 50 feet around the two men. The men stood in front of a store on the corner, mere feet from the finish line of the Boston Marathon. One took off his backpack and dropped it lightly to the floor next to the other, and walked inside to buy a soda. By the time he emerged from the store, runners were crossing the finish line to much fanfare. The crowd roared and nobody noticed the two men walking away or the backpack they left behind. Huge men in dark clothing scurried around the busy downtown streets and buildings, removing in the chaos many surveillance cameras and using bats to disable those they could not. Seconds later, an explosion so powerful it shook the ground, rocked the square. The security forces tightened their circle and pounced on the two men. They dragged them away, completely ignoring the battered and bloody people scattered around ground zero, which was the finish line of the 117th running of the Boston Marathon.
Land of Lies
Hard to believe but what do you know We're back where we started at the terrorist show Show us all the money, don't try to slow it up Tomorrow is the marathon and we might blow it up
Call us the Al Qaeda or you can call us ISIS But you know who we really are no matter how you slice this Our child is 9/11, our product global fear An inside threat is what you get so wave the flag and cheer
No one will believe you as the fire trucks roll by with giant flags and body bags and mom and apple pie Don't dare to miss a payment or they'll be bodies on the pavement The modern day gestapo is a mobster bunch of cavemen
Water filled with isotopes, bible verses on the rifle scopes You can check it out on Snopes, the public are a bunch of dopes You tried to vote for hope and change but all that stuff is out of range We protect America honey, now pay us our protection money JR
*LA Times story 1 day before the Boston Marathon Bombing... Excerpt: "There's clear recognition, from the White House on down, that as we wind down these wars we need to address the hard question of what does a sustainable counter-terrorism policy look like for the next phase," said Shawn Brimley, who left the White House last year as director for strategic planning on the National Security Council. The new CIA director, John Brennan, has indicated he is eager to move his agency away from targeted killings and back to its core responsibilities, spying and espionage. One option under discussion at the White House is to transfer much of the CIA's drone fleet to the Pentagon. But drones aside, Brimley warned that America's immense counter-terrorism agencies and their supporters will resist ratcheting back, even at a time of shrinking budgets. "You give a bureaucracy 10 years of unfettered growth and no real hard questions, and you're going to have an entire industry looking at Al Qaeda nodes as an existential threat," Brimley said. -LA Times"
The following day, headlines across the nation and world proclaimed in large block letters: TERROR IN BOSTON (Los Angeles Times, page 1, Tuesday, April 16th, 2013). From that moment on, all plans to cut security funding were reversed, and the United States Congress shifted billions more dollars to agencies and private security companies fighting the ‘war on terror.’
Chapter Nine
Change of Heart
The two soldiers lay on their backs, strapped to their bunks, faces positioned to look at monitor screens featuring their teacher, Maxxi. This time the screens were larger, and the room was dark, creating the illusion that Maxxi was standing before them. Neither could see the other’s monitor screen and the computer had generated quite different images for the two men, each according to a profile based on a porn history gleaned from their childhood computers. For Lindell, Maxxi was a large hipped woman, short but athletic, with the same hair color and texture and skin tones as his mother. For Vincent Murriotti, Maxxi was something out of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, thin as a rail, long, flowing hair, and with almost non-existent breasts and posterior. The men were so positioned as to have to crane their necks to watch their respective screens, which were always kept at an angle just above the threshold between discomfort and pain. Maxxi ran off a series of questions for the men, taking a mental survey that went on for hours every day. Each time a soldier gave a desirable answer to a question, the angle of his monitor shifted imperceptibly, easing his pain slightly. When an answer was deemed undesirable, the image of Maxxi would fade, turn and leave. Upon return, Maxxi would be clad in less revealing attire, until she would not return at all and the session would end. If the soldier answered a string of questions in the desired manner, Maxxi would smile, politely excuse herself, and return momentarily wearing less clothing. Within a short amount of time, the soldiers were hooked and answered the questions very carefully. Their off time was spent alone in separate quarters and dreaming about Maxxi. When the first month had passed, the training got more severe; wrong answers were met with electric shocks via a small wire attached at the pinky toe, and correct answers were rewarded by a computer generated image of Maxxi, returning in wilder and wilder makeup and dress. The screens began to alternate between video clips of Maxxi dancing sensually, and American flags waving in the breeze with large battalions of uniformed soldiers marching in the background. Occasionally, the room would fill with the roar of thunder, and images of stealth bomber jets would appear to zoom across the ceiling in Blue Angel formation, with different color smoke emanating from their wingtips. This smoke cascaded down over the men in their bunks, replete with the stench of burning jet fuel. Simultaneously, the strains of the Star Spangled Banner played joyously over an audio center that separated bass, treble and midrange frequencies to create a three-dimensional experience. Then it was back to beautiful Maxxi and her sultry performance. By the second month the men never gave an undesirable answer.
Chapter Ten
Change of Discharge
Private Emily Greenwald wasn’t looking for attention, she was looking for a college education. These days a college education meant out-of-reach tuition, and burning the candle at both ends. Long hours studying, book-ended by long hours of working some menial job to try and pay for it all. There was only one solution; so she joined the military. What she hadn’t counted on, however, was being shipped straight to the hot zone in Afghanistan after boot camp. It scared her to death to hear bullets and bombs in the night, regardless how far away from the front line she was. But there was one thing even more frightening- a thousand sex-starved, hormone-hungry fellow soldiers around her 24-7. It was impossible to walk anywhere without hands on her butt, whistles and remarks. She wasn’t even that pretty, for Christ sakes. But out here in the desert, she was a hamburger in a sea of chopped liver. At first she held her own and gave as good as she got, but after half a tour, it began to weigh on her. She grew so accustomed to sleeping with a proverbial eye open that she simply stopped sleeping at all. And since the mess hall was the worst place of all, she spent so much time avoiding it that she pretty much stopped eating. Her health took a real dive, and her commanding officer noticed. “I’m ordering you to see the base corpsman, Greenwald. Do it now” he said, sounding very much like he meant it. She snapped to attention, saluted as she about-faced, and went off to report to the infirmary. There, she was met by a nurse who made them both tea and had Emily sit quietly as long as she liked, until she felt comfortable enough to tell her story. “It is mainly harmless,” she said “except for one man who really scares me.” “Why does he scare you?” asked the nurse. “Go ahead, you can tell me, it stops right here, I promise you, Emily.” “There’s something about him, he’s just not all there. I don’t know, I just get the heebie-jeebies, that’s all. His name is Xavier, and he’s going to get me, he says it all the time and I just know he will.” She began to cry leaning forward into the kind nurse’s hands. It was the release of long pent up emotions and it did her a world of good. The nurse called in the MP at the door and mouthed the words, ‘go find him.’ Micah Xavier Johnson was suffering himself from a lack of sleep, a lack of friends and a lack of female companionship. But mostly, he suffered from a lack of intelligence. He was one of those people who just seemed to look at the line between good and bad decisions, and all he saw was a blur. The nurse had him reported back to the commanding officer, and he, along with his working orders, sat waiting outside the C.O.’s office. Within minutes of entering, Micah was ordered to pack his gear, surrender his papers and report to the base transient barracks for transfer back to the mainland. He was handed an ‘other than honorable’ discharge and ordered to see the base doctor for full examination when he got there. Xavier was in a bad way as he left the office, bleary-eyed. He had nowhere else to go, knew no other life. In his opinion, he hadn’t done anything so bad- he liked a girl and he did his best to let her know it. He staggered toward his division and fell against his locker, crying softly. A hand came down on his shoulder, and he turned to see a tall graying officer with a square jaw and steely eyes. “Micah Xavier?” asked the officer. “Yessir” he answered, through quivering lips. “How would you like to join our special program? It’s designed just for people like you- and it’ll get you an honorable discharge.”
Chapter Eleven
Changing Conditions
Rabba Sul stood ankle deep in water that had now reached the front entrance of the hut in which he had been born. In all his nine years, he had never seen it so high, but he did not bother to turn and run. There was simply nowhere left to go. In fact, he still considered himself blessed by Pi-ca-yah, because the hut stood above the water at all. Most huts in Nuatambu were already gone, having been submerged long ago by the encroaching sea. Choiseul Island is one of the thirty or so remaining reef islands in the Solomons, and they were all sinking fast. It was just a matter of time. Rabba would miss going to the island school, where he had learned much about his ancestry, and also about the vast and mysterious world ‘across the water.’ He loved to fish and prided himself on being able to hold his breath longer than any other boy on the island, but secretly, he had always dreamed of visiting that other world. And today would be that day. Rabba and his father, Azura Sul, were to rendezvous this morning with a large white canoe, larger, he was told, than any he had ever seen. And so it was that later in the day came the 175 foot Hatteras, -half yacht, half research vessel called the SEA TREK. The mission was to whisk the two away on a whirlwind global good-will educational tour, from their sinking home in the Solomon Islands, around the Cape of Good Hope, then all the way across the Atlantic Ocean to Cuba. Then they would embark on yet another transoceanic journey to Europe, where they would be the honored special guests of former Vice President of the United States, Al Gore at a meeting on climate change. The meeting was to be held at an undisclosed location somewhere in Europe, and Azura had been told other high profile celebrities would be attending. Azura Sul was the ’big man’ of his island village, akin to a tribal chief. Like his father, grandfather and many grandfathers before him, Azura was born on the water, named for the water, and had lived and fished there all his life. Sadly, it had become obvious that this string was at its end, and he and his son Rabba would not die as they had lived- naturally. But with many generations still downstream, there was always the great honor in helping to solve the problem. He had read in the news about this man Al Gore, and he had also heard of him from the mouths of tourists to Choiseul in better times. Once on the research vessel, the two islanders were treated to dinner and a movie, ‘An Inconvenient Truth’, for which father did the translation as best he could manage. The movie held them rapt, but the food left much to be desired, considering the two had eaten only the ultimate in fresh seafood all their lives. The idea of a meal without spiny lobster was nothing either of them were comfortable with. As the time came for departure, the large white ship was surrounded by dozens of outrigger canoes that escorted them a good distance off the island. When the swells grew too treacherous, they all turned back, and Rabba watched their waving arms until they had all faded below the horizon.
Chapter Twelve
Containment
With the streets of many of the nation’s biggest cities filled with angry people marching in protest against what had become an epidemic of police shootings of unarmed black men and children, the chief of police watched the newest report from between his fingers, hands cupped over his eyes. Yet another shooting, but this time, an officer who had shot a young black man sitting in the driver’s seat of his stopped automobile was filmed on a cell phone by the young man’s significant other from the passenger’s seat. The video, which captured the screaming officer pointing his service revolver at the couple’s young daughter as she sat crying in the back seat, horrified the nation. There could be no excuses; no claims of a broken police surveillance camera, an uncooperative suspect, or other mitigating circumstance that might lend legitimacy to the shooting. This was a clear cut case of an out of control police officer administering a summary execution upon a citizen of the United States. And it was all captured, sound, video, and all. “What do you want us to say to the press?” asked Detective Roscoe Dane, head of the local police union. Chief McAlister rubbed his eyes, shook his head and answered, “Nerves.” “Nerves?” the union leader asked. “Nerves,” the chief repeated. “Chief, I dunno if…” The chief, who was a large man, grabbed the detective by the scruff of the collar and drew him in close enough to whisper, “Get your hands on the last week of work logs- add fifty hours to his time on duty.” He released the detective, produced a small flask of spirits from an inside pocket of his uniform, and poured its contents into the coffee on his desk. “Do it now!” The detective saluted and scurried from the room. No sooner had the detective left the room than another man walked into the lobby and up to the desk of the police chief. “Press outside!” the chief shouted. The stranger gave him a smirk and held out a card at arm’s length, identifying him as a member of the Central Intelligence Agency. “That was handled very well, Chief McAlister” he said. “I’ll make a mental note of that for the future- but that video, have you seen it?” The chief only nodded. “Well, that video, jeeze,” said the agent shaking his head. “For now, the best we can do is containment. And there’s not much time for it, I’m afraid” The chief looked up hopefully through bloodshot eyes. “Containment?” he asked. “Containment,” said the agent again. “Just cook those books like you said and we’ll play our card from Club Med.” “What the hell is Club Med?” asked the chief. “Need to know basis, and you don’t need to know,” answered the agent. “You don’t even want to know; let it suffice to say that somebody upstairs realizes this could be the flash point for a revolution we don’t want or need. I was sent to see the situation firsthand, and it’s bad, as advertised.” The agent could see the chief was only getting more confused, so he made it simple and said, ”We’re gonna help you.” Then he pointed his hand like a gun at the chief and said, “I was never here, chief.” He picked the whiskey flask up off the desk, held it up and said, “To your health, chief.” He drained the last drops before sitting it back down. He raised both eyebrows menacingly, turned to an assistant who handed him the DVD from the lobby surveillance camera and they walked out into the night. The phone rang loudly on the large oak desk, and the chief picked it up and slammed it right back down. It rang again. The chief put his head back into his hands.
Chapter Thirteen
Change of Clothes
The final indoctrination session came in the third month, and found soldiers Vincent Murriotti and his buddy Robert Lindleman awakening at reveille. They then reported to the mess decks for bag lunch including sandwich, apple, OJ and fruit cup, taken to go. By zero five thirty hours, both were seated in the circular laboratory, quietly munching this austerity breakfast, necks craned to watch the big screen -300 sq ft- suspended high above by steel cables that lit up like icicle lights on Christmas. On the screen was their beloved Maxxi, made up to look a lot like Cleopatra, replete with eye sparkles, over-the-top makeup and heavy gold jewelry. She spoke to the men in a sensual monotone causing their eyelids to constantly slam shut like guillotines, though they struggled mightily against it. Murriotti didn’t really hear the words, but caught some of it with his conscious mind. He remembered, “Save American lives,” “Paris,” “Eiffel Tower” and “squirrel suit.” The camera panned out slowly, revealing a large snake Maxxi held in her lap like a kitten. She smiled like the Mona Lisa, stroking its nape with impossibly long red fingernails. The men became increasingly aroused, squirming in their seats until the camera panned back in on Maxxi’s beautiful, if computer generated, face. The next time the soldiers dozed off to slumber, they were awakened by the warmth of a bubbling liquid rising all around them. “Remain perfectly still,” commanded Maxxi, and they did so. The gelatinous medium rose around them until they were submerged to the waist, and Vincent felt like he was in a lava lamp, or back in the womb. He had never experienced such comfort in slumber, and his mission became as clear to him as the Statue of Liberty through the Pinnacle Scope atop the Empire State Building. Then the liquid suddenly receded as quickly as it had come. The next thing the men knew, they were standing at the hatchway, waiting for the lights to change, signaling for them to leave. Strangely, they weren’t wet at all. Robert patted himself down trying to find a trace of liquid, but could not. The screen above them was now pale and empty and they never saw that laboratory again. Upon arrival back at their bunks, they changed clothes immediately and threw their old clothing into a trash bin in the hallway. Without conversation, they retired for the night. Reveille would come early.
Chapter Fourteen
Changing Tracks
Micah Xavier awoke with the mother of all migraines. Morning sun shone through the window of his room; his real room. He shook the cobwebs out for a moment and pawed at the sleep in his eyes. How long had he been home? How much of what he remembered was a dream? He stared up at the fighter plane models he had hung from the ceiling ten years earlier. He saw his uniform hanging, pressed and starched, from the hook on his closet door. It came flooding back; he was a soldier. He had put his life on the line in Afghanistan over and over, only to come home to a world gone mad in his own country. It seemed like being African American was a crime in and of itself, and it frustrated him to think he may have been fighting in the wrong theater. Any Afghani who had ever shot at him, at least they were defending their home. He lost count of the doors he had kicked down at 4am, opening up with an M-16, while his buddies tossed in a grenade or two. The closest Micah had ever gotten to knowing any of these native people was stepping over their burnt ashes on the floor, shouting “clear!” and running back catch back up with his unit outside as they moved on to doorway of the next home. Now he was having breakfast back in Dallas, at the table in the kitchen of the house he grew up in, and it all seemed like a dream. Well, some of it, anyway. He had spent the last seven months at a secure facility in a location never disclosed to him and now he was home. Somehow. He had joined what some deemed ‘black separatist hate groups’ after watching one too many news programs featuring police shootings of unarmed and what he considered completely innocent young black men. Unfailingly, these police got away with murder, he thought. Still, he had a new lease on life- beautiful girlfriend, school money, and an honorable discharge. He had already lined up a dozen quality job interviews and the future looked promising. Then one afternoon, he saw an internet video shot on a woman’s cellphone showing her boyfriend slumped in the driver’s seat, dead or dying, and a frantic Minnesota policeman cupping a pistol in both hands, pointing at a young child in the rear seat and screaming at the top of his lungs. Interestingly, he didn’t feel much of anything, as though shock had taken over. The watch on his wrist vibrated three times at four second intervals. Text played beneath the numeral six saying, ‘Micah Do Dallas’ then the watch went dark, and all vibrating ceased. He finished his eggs, took a long hot shower, and gathered up an arsenal. When the Black SUV was loaded with some of the world’s most effective pistols, grenades, long rifles and ammunition, Micah locked the doors and opened the garage. He didn’t pack any food or water knowing he wouldn’t need any of it. His orders had come from Club Med and there was no higher authority. “Micah Xavier, you better bring it back full of gas and in the same condition you left with it in,” said his mother. “I love you ma” said Micah, holding her tightly. “What’s all this?” she asked- “It’s just a car, son!” Micah drove off, never to return. There was a huge rally happening downtown Dallas, and thousands of angry black folks, along with many supporters of other persuasions were marching in protest of yet another police shooting of an innocent black man, this time in Minnesota. Micah stopped the SUV and made several calls. He called the newsroom, he called the Chief of Police, and he posted on his Facebook page. Within a few hours, he had shot a dozen police, killed five of them, and in a twist, been killed by a robot police used to execute him when he refused to surrender. Micah had committed murder, but so had the police, who saw fit to pronounce themselves judge jury and executioners. But the next morning, the horrifying headlines about the cell phone video showing the rabid, screaming cop shooting through the window at an innocent family never materialized. All news headlines, news stories and newspapers carried the same thing: 5 POLICE SHOT DEAD IN DALLAS BY MEMBER OF BLACK HATE GROUP. And so the game, once more, had been changed.
Chapter Fifteen
Change in Latitude
Rabba Sul stood strong against the tropical wind, basking in the pre-dawn glow with one hand on his tribal head piece the other clamped onto a guy wire of the huge mast. It was hard to tell where the sea salt ended and his body salt began, such was his people’s bond to the Mother Sea. He could hear the flying fish slapping against the water, punctuated by the occasional thunderclap of a landing Manta. He breathed in deeply through the nostrils and slowly exhaled from the mouth, lips mumbling some reverent morning prayer. “Rabba Sul” came his father’s voice, booming from behind. “Father, you frightened me!” he answered with a smile, hand over his heart. “Rabba, the people on the journey so far have all been walking in the new water, as have we, and they already know what you have come to show them. Now we shall go to places where people do not know. Some have never even seen the water.” “Father how is it possible for a person to live without the Moana? How can one live without Mahi or kelp?” asked Rabba Sul. “Son, it is not so different to swim and fish the land as to swim and fish the sea. The real emptiness is living without the spirit, as many of the land dwellers try to do. Of course, it is impossible, but they spend a lifetime, they waste a lifetime figuring it out for themselves.” “Where will today’s sun rise for us, father?” “Cuba, my son. And it will be a special day, I promise you! Now off to breakfast, Rabba Sul- they made soft shell crab sandwiches just for you!” Azura watched his son scamper off happily, and then turned his eyes to the horizon. Tomorrow, they would meet the holy white man. Perhaps he could make them all listen.
Chapter Sixteen
Change in Attitude
By late morning, the SEA TREK had made landfall at the port of Mariel, a Special Economic Development Zone, where business and industry are encouraged to be sustainable and use clean technology. It is a work in progress. As Azura carried their bags ashore, Rabba Zul looked up from the pamphlet he was reading and asked, “Father, is there really a clean way to destroy the world?” Azura shook his head and smiled at his son. “The Earth probably doesn’t think so, Rabba.” The two were met on the dock by a young man dressed in clothes that amounted to not much more than soiled rags. His dirty face wore a genuine smile though, and although he obviously suffered from a condition of the spine like a hunch-back, he still projected the aura of a man tall in stature. “Rabba Sul?” asked the disheveled man. “Yes” answered Azura. “This way, please” said he, showing them the open rear door of a taxi cab. It was too bad Azure and Rabba had lived all their lives on an island atoll, or they would have recognized the rarity of such a vehicle, a genuine 1951 Mercury, and in pristine condition. Rabba Zul decided he liked the yellow and black design, and smiled broadly, looking out the window at Cuba, 2015. It was September 19th, to be exact, and the men were on their way to Jose Marti International Airport. There, they would meet Cardinal Jaime Ortega, a close confidant of Pope Francis. Although Azura had his own religious beliefs, steeped in island tradition, he was a well-read man, and absolutely loved Saint Francis of Assisi. And unless you’ve been on the Moon for the past few years, you know the similarities between Saint and Pope Francis are astounding- and wholly refreshing. Pope Francis has given new hope to billions across the globe, reaching out to indigenous peoples, women, and people of other religions. Perhaps the most important thing any human has ever done in history, has been Pope Francis embracing the science behind global climate change. In May, 2015, Pope Francis had warned the world’s leaders about climate change, calling upon them to ‘safeguard creation.’ In response, failed Republican Presidential Candidate Rick Santorum said on June 3rd, 2015 that, “The pope should leave climate change to scientists.” Mr. Santorum was then quickly taken out behind the proverbial woodshed by Pope Francis, who replied via a news reporter that he ‘owns a Master’s Degree in chemistry.”
Chapter Seventeen
Change of Magnitude
The crowd swallowed little Rabba Zul and his father like the whale swallowed Jonah. Nobody knows how many faithful were on hand to greet Pope Francis the morning of September 19th, but according to papal spokesman Federico Lombardi, a robust 100,000 people lined the route to the airport. As the gigantic white Alitalia jet approached, the crowd roared like a stormy sea, sounding to young Rabba like the roiling of a large Conch shell held close to his ear. Like all very large craft, the Boeing 777 was deceptive to the eye, hardly seeming to move at all, until you looked away for a moment. When you looked back, it was a lot closer. Rabba dared not look away again until he heard the wheels screech like an abandoned dog upon the return of his long lost master. The huge jet was as white as an angel and as large as the skeleton lizards at the museum. It sported two colorful flags at the fore, one on each side, and they flapped proudly in the stiff breeze. The retro engines whined as they brought the jet to a full stop, and a thousand ants dressed as people surrounded it, attaching all manner of bridges, brows, decks and walkways. The Imperial Cuban Guard took up positions surrounding the entire tarmac, all dressed to match the heavenly motif of the day. Even their rifles were white as they snapped to parade rest, never to move again for the rest of the festivities. The bottom of the fuselage dropped open like the toothy lower jaw of Moby Dick, releasing the recognizable bubble topped ‘pope-mobile’ which rolled slowly ahead once it touched the runway, coming to a stop at the bottom of the official gangplank that looked like a stairway to heaven. The immense crowd roared their approval when the pontiff appeared at the doorway, backlit, engulfed in a smoky mist, and the silhouette of hope incarnate. Two officers dressed like the Imperial Guardsmen came up behind Rabba Zul, took him under each arm, and whisked him off toward the plane over the protestations of Azura. As the Pope descended the stairway, he was met halfway by the two soldiers who pushed Rabba up to meet him. A hush fell over the minions as Francis held his staff aloft. “Yours is one of the few languages I have not mastered” he laughed with a hearty guffaw and bright smile. “I hope you will forgive an old man if we speak English?” he asked. Rabba was astonished at the humility and immediately disarmed by the smile, so charming and genuine. He threw his arms around the Pope’s shoulders and cried. “We’re sinking into the ocean, please help us!” he begged. “All will unfold as it should” the Pope answered. He then gestured toward the crowd and showed them the boy. “This is the worst effect of a changing climate,” he said via a small but powerful microphone, his words echoing across the airport and bouncing back many times. “This is what we must attend to.” The guards took Rabba back to his father, waiting at an airport café, with a meal fit for a king strewn artistically across the table. And with all Rabba’s favorites! “You spoke up for our people, son, we are all proud of you.” Before the meal was through, the Cardinal stopped by their table to deliver a message from Pope Francis. “The holy one will meet you in Paris at the Eiffel Tower. The American named Al Gore is putting together a concert event the world can’t ignore there, and you Rabba Zul, are to be guest of honor. Do enjoy your stay in Cuba. Your boat leaves Sunday after the service.” He tipped his headpiece and left with a group of men in red flowing robes.
Chapter Eighteen
Change in Longitude
Pope Francis gave three days of speeches while in Cuba, mostly delivered in sweltering heat. Most notably, he invited citizens on the last day to attend as families. The family, he said, would protect a people from two present day phenomena; fragmentation and uniformity. In either case, he stressed, people become isolated and easy to rule and manipulate. Father and son arrived at the dock freshly showered and sporting colorful billowy clothes made especially for their sea faring by an old seamstress known to the Cardinal. They packed their gear aboard the SEA TREK and said last goodbyes to a surprisingly large crowd of well-wishers, some of whom went as far as to kiss Rabba’s hand. Although this made him uncomfortable, he allowed it for their sake. His father watched, smiling at this son who was so much wiser than his years. The vessel threw off her last ropes as the morning sun rose high into the sky, and the familiar sensation of motion made itself felt in everyone’s stomach. Rabba hunched over the starboard side to marvel at the dolphins who were escorting them out of the harbor. They were spinning and jumping, smiling and playing, so obviously loving life. So, too, was Rabba Sul. The next port of call was West Palm Beach Florida, where Rabba Sul was booked to speak at an event at the Forum Club of the Palm Beaches Palm Beach County Convention Center. Appearing at the venue on that same day was a republican senator who called climate change a hoax. Rabba did his best to tell his story, along with a slide show of his sinking home, but it wasn’t a very kind audience, to put it mildly. There was a lot of laughing and scoffing, and even heckling from the crowd. The only thing Azura could do was be strong for his son and put on a brave, dignified face. When it was over, he whisked Rabba out of the building and they never looked back. The next attempt at cross-cultural bonding was a speech at Emanuel A.M.E. Church in Charlseton, South Carolina. This time it went much better, and the entire congregation danced, sang, prayed and held hands, calling out for their savior to come to the aid of the drowning peoples of the island of Choiseul. This positivity went a long way to giving the islanders new hope for the future. Maybe people could be made to understand after all.
Chapter Nineteen
Over and Under
The Sea Trek cut through the cold Atlantic at about 20 knots, expertly hopping from one wave crest to the next, piloted by the seasoned crew. A chill wind blew from the fantail forward, lending an extra and welcome push. The U.S. Eastern seaboard was now several hundred miles behind them and no land could be seen in any direction, although an occasional cloud formation fooled the eye into seeing the Island of King Kong and such. Rabba lay face down on his bunk, arms wrapped tightly as he drifted in and out of strange dreams. For a moment, he remembered seeing his beloved island home come under siege from all directions by the unrelenting tentacles of a vast Kraken. A moment later, the dream was mercifully forgotten. He never did seem to be able to remember his dreams. Sometimes it was a good thing. His father Azura stood sentinel mere feet away, smiling at the sight of his brave son, and bowing his head in ancient islander prayer. He was certain Moana and Tangaroa were smiling down on Rabba just as he was. The Sea Trek carved her way ever Eastward, the Captain steering a course for the star Capella. Unbeknownst to the Captain, those very ocean Gods were indeed looking down on the Sea Trek- but they were not smiling. Also unbeknownst to the Sea Trek crew was the high altitude military spy plane shadowing them some six miles above. Dark and featureless, with no identifying marks or numbers, this aircraft was normally used for what are known in the covert world as ‘Extraordinary Renditions.’ This time, the mission was different. Inside and behind the pilot sat two soldiers headed on a night hawk flight to Paris, France. Their names were Vincent Murriotti and Robert Lindelman, and their orders were to break up a big party.
Chapter Twenty
Operation Party Pooper
The US Pentagon spared no expense when it had Lockheed build the SR-72 Hypersonic aircraft, next generation to the SR-71 Blackbird. At 31,680 feet altitude, the black spy jet was hustling across the Atlantic at Mach 6, or 4,603 miles per hour, courtesy of a combined cycle power plant. The two agents sat comfortably reclined with feet in stirrups and a brace at their backs making for easy access to the computer screen that dropped down in front of them. As was always the case, the first voice they heard was that of Ms Maxxi. “Your country is depending on you and I’m so proud of you.” Ms Maxxi used her own arms to caress herself onscreen as she spoke in her seductive CGI voice. “Godspeed boys. Now I turn you over to General Breaker.” “Gentlemen, According to my radar, you are about 5 miles above the bogie and opening rapidly. This is a perfect time to brief you on the mission. You’ll understand soon enough why we named it Party Pooper. I direct your eyes to the lower right-hand corner of your screen. Please use your stylus to activate the dark blue icon, put on your headphones and let Maxxi do the talking. It would be hard to overstate the threat. Good luck, and your country thanks you.” The tablets shown brightly in the now-darkened rear seats of the fuselage, a pleasant buzz accompanying a non-descript image not unlike the thong section of a two-piece bikini. As was always the case with covert persuasion, sex played a central role in securing loyal attention. “Gentlemen” the demure voice of Maxxi continued, “certain dark elements are in the final phase of implementing a plan to impede the free enterprise upon which our democracy is built. So treacherous is the plan that it requires your special counter action, action that taken alone on its face and without context, might seem otherwise inappropriate, to say the least. However, your training will enable you to move past any emotions of the moment and do what must be done for the good of our world, nation, democracy and economy.” The image on both men’s screens morphed into crystal clarity as the thong began the slow, undulating motion of a dancing woman’s hips. Invisible to the naked eye was a counter image flickering on and off too fast for the mind but not for the brain. Two screens showed two nightclubs with two access doors and many dancing shadows. Loud rock music blared from a gigantic public-address system, throwing a cadence out over a crowd of zombie-like humanoid creatures, each replete with devil horns and feline eyes. Both men alternated rapidly between social revulsion and sexual arousal and back again. In the upper corner of their screens was a digital readout of their vitals, and a monitor beeping in unison with their now rapid heartbeats. They were instructed by Maxxi to fondle themselves with their left hands and embrace the lower receiver of the military issue automatic assault rifles with their right. This they continued to orgasm as they watched images of themselves onscreen, showering bullets across the crowded concert arena floor, and all to the soft cooing of Maxxi’s voice, urging them on to greater sexual and murderous heights. Afterward, the lights came back on in the cabin, the fuselage portholes opened vertically, and the blue sky resplendent with white puffy cumulous clouds became visible outside. After a short burst of static, the voice of General Breaker came on. “Men, the forces of darkness are throwing the world a self-destruct party, marking a milestone in the long struggle of Americans to be masters of our own destiny. Although global warming has now been conclusively proven to be the greatest hoax in modern history by a few neo-liberal control freaks, they now have managed to bring even the pope on board with their insidious plan to smother free market capitalism. As of 0800 hours tomorrow local Paris time, a rock concert is planned to kick off that will make Woodstock look like a coffee shop acoustic solo act. The goal of this concert is to brainwash otherwise good obedient citizens into embracing what former Vice President Al Gore calls paradigm change and a move away from the very fossil fuels we all depend on every day of our lives, every person, everybody, in every city town and every country on Earth. And the scope of this treacherous undertaking is global; a concert that will run 24 straight hours on 8 continents, including concerts in Paris, New York, Rio de Janeiro, Beijing, Sydney and Cape Town. Two billion people are expected to tune in to the 24-hour event across 200 television networks.” Then the image of Al Gore came onto the screen, and he was speaking in a news interview about the event: “Live Earth, as we are calling this, the biggest concert of all time, is designed to galvanize public support for climate action ahead of make-or-break United Nations’ talks in Paris in December on combating global warming. It is absolutely crucial that we build public will for an agreement. The purpose is to have billions of voices with one message, to demand climate action now,” said Al Gore. General Breaker came back online and said, “This would be a catastrophe for America and you won’t let it happen.” “But sir” Murriotti asked, how can we stop it from happening?” “You can’t” answered the General. “But you can make sure nobody notices it all, by following your instructions, without question, without guilt, and without fail. And upon your return to the homeland, Maxxi will greet you as heroes- Maxxi in the flesh.” The screens went dark and the tablets slid up and out of view. A red light came on the overhead saying buckle up, and that landing was 5 minutes away.
Chapter Twenty One
Return to the Tower of Babel
Diesel engines whined as construction lifts and other heave machinery unloaded electronic equipment from a line of trucks now some 2 miles long. Marshal amplifiers, monitors, foot lamps, mixers; all tools of the touring music trade, taken from flatbeds and containers and placed gingerly on the loading platforms. A tall bald-headed man with clipboard in hand marked every parcel of every delivery and marked it as a matter of record. The stately Al Gore, former Vice President of the United States stood by excitedly chattering with news media folk, along with a who’s-who of world-known personalities. The entire first level of the Eiffel Tower was completely overwhelmed with music managers, politicians, artists and media. Those present included actors and activists Jared Leto, Patrick J. Adams, Ed Begley Jr., Maria Paula Fildago, Pierre Rabhi, Ryan Reynolds, Calum Worthy and many more. Global media on hand were too numerous to list. Even the recording artists and performers scheduled to play at the Eiffel Tower this day read like a who’s who of the entertainment world. Standing, sitting or in abbasome state of repose were none other than Sir Elton John, Fall Out Boy, Bon Jovi, Vance Joy, Walk the Moon, Hozier, Duran Duran and more! As for world leaders, those in attendance were Heads of State and others, again, too numerous to list. Presidents, Mayors, Ministers, Advisors, Secretaries, and others from all of the world at the highest level of government. Now what was interesting was the notable absence of security personnel. Considering the former U.S. VP, and current U.S. Secretary to the DOE along with the top Advisor to Barack Obama and more being on hand and in the flesh, the dearth of security was conspicuous. Still, the amplifiers stacked like mountains at the foot of this modern-day Tower of Babel, with man in all his arrogance about to be stirred and shaken like a James Bond martini, relegated quickly from world dominators to so many red fire ants beneath the dredging paws of the Giant Anteater. “Testing, 1-2-3 testing” came the loudspeaker jargon against a backdrop of electronic feedback, squeaks and chirps. “Test, test, check one, check one.” These words could be heard crisply from the Eiffel Tower to the nearby cities of Pantin and Montrouge. Suddenly, the crowd of several tens of thousands that had already gathered gave out an audible gasp at the sight of Pope Francis arriving at the head of his motorcade waving out the front passenger window of a Nissan Leaf. Behind him was a long line of other, all-electric vehicles. In fact, only the American dignitaries dared show up in large, oil guzzling black sport utility vehicles, a detail that did not go unnoticed by the world press corps. Right on schedule, Al Gore took the mic and the largest show in the history of the planet took on a life of its own: “Friends, fellow citizens of the world, my name is Al Gore and this is ’24 Hours of Reality and Live Earth: The World is Watching’.” A roar went up from nearly 500,000 onlookers and billions more across the globe via podcasts, radio, video, TV, Cable and streaming live. Holy people in colorful robes danced ancient dances and beautiful Latina ladies turned magnificent cartwheels to the delight of the masses. Hope was being reborn on the biggest stage in global history and people were seeing it all in real time. Fireworks burst above the Arc De Triumph as French jets zoomed low, emitting the Red, White and Blue smoke of the French Tricolore. Duran Duran took to the stage and with the single stroke of an impossibly loud electric guitar power chord, the healing had begun.
Chapter Twenty Two
Where Eagles Dare
The Sea Trek made landfall that morning and the only thing on Azura’s mind was getting Rabba Sul to the show. It wasn’t hard to find their way, as the Eiffel Tower shone brilliantly against the sky. The day was spent clearing customs and checking into a hotel. By the time they were all cleaned up, dressed and out the door, it was afternoon. They could see the blue laser light show spearing its barbs of light out into space all around the tower’s pinnacle. It reminded Rabba of the halo on the Lady of Guadalupe’. She was not unlike Moana, he thought. In no time at all, they had reunited with Pope Francis and Mr. Gore, and all the bands signed autographs for Rabba, to the delight of his doting father. By now, the crowds were too massive to count and the music was fantastic. Shortly after Duran Duran did their show and an encore, a long pause ensued before the next acts took the stage. It was at this point that the first news reports came in of a shooting at the nearby Bataclan theater, where a band from California calling themselves the ‘Eagles of Death Metal’ were onstage, playing in solidarity with the show at the Tower. The SR-72 landed on a clandestine dirt airstrip outside of the area, and weapons had to be left behind for obvious reasons. The pair of agents took public transportation into Paris and were dropped off right in front of the Bataclan theater. Famished from the long flight, they approached a local food cart and wolfed down all the Cheddar melts made with Cabot fondue they could eat. “La chose la plus proche de L’Ame’rique” said the vendor, smiling. “Merci,” answered the agent, understanding the language. The vendor had said this was the closest thing he served to an American dish. It was delicious, thought Murriotti- a fitting last meal. Then the vendor continued, “Puis-je vous intéresser quelque chose de plus épicé? (Can I interest you in something spicier perhaps?), and at this he popped open a lower cabinet that held two AK-47 automatic rifles and a sack full of 30 round magazines. Again, Murriotti said only, “Merci.” Meanwhile, back at HQ, General Breaker was the first to know Operation Party Pooper had gone ‘live’. His radio crackled, then was brought into clarity with a few fine-tuning adjustments by a slew of radio operators. “Op underway, *hisssh* Stand by please*Crssssh* -over” Agent Murriotti lay just outside the rear fire-exit door in prone position as he stowed the transmitter and popped another 30 round magazine in the AK-47 Kalashnikov. It reminded him of sneaking into the movie theater as a teenager for the midnight creep show. The kids would all chip in, pay somebody’s admission, and wait in the back alley for the door to burst open. They would all rush in, too many to follow for the usher and most would get to see the whole movie. But this was a real-live creep show, and he kicked the door opened a second time, spraying the room in a sweeping motion, peeling off 100 rounds a minute, allowing for changing out the magazine. Most of his rounds killed several people each, passing through soft tissue again and again. His headphones shut down and automatically switched to the Star-spangled banner with a heavy metal drum and bass accompaniment that made it fun to kill. Back in Washington, a red phone rang and a gravelly voice answered, “Hello?” “General Breaker here” he answered. “Let’s get this party started, General.” “Yessir,” came the reply, and both lines -along with over 120 people- fell dead.
Chapter Twenty Three
Rust Never Sleeps, Operation Human Torch
The smell for both men was overwhelming as they sat together, one white, one black, at a small table in the cramped café. The heat had the white man sweltering while his African counterpart seemed comfortable swatting flies with the tail of a recently departed Giraffe. Between gasps for breath, the white man- representing the American government- counted large bills of currency over and over in front of the Africaner. One man was sickened by the smell of body odor, the other by the smell of cologne. This was culture shock at its base. “Please stop playing with your money and tell me why it is that I am here,” demanded the African. The American looked around the café and then fixed his gaze back into the eyes of the other man. Such a gaze was not unlike that of a cobra about to pounce, thought the black man. “This is a lot of money Debare. More than you will see for the rest of your days, should you live to be a thousand.” “Money from the devil” Debare hissed back. “It can only mean doing the devils work.” Debare was a poor man, but not without his own ambitions. His name meant ‘born in good times’ in Nigerian. But in all his life he had yet to see such times. Like so many others, he was an otherwise good man caught in a vulnerable state, the preferred prey of the Game Changers. “People from nearby villages have been videotaped by drones we are flying in the area. The recordings show many people striking our pipeline with tools and stealing gasoline. My friends in Washington would like to give you this money and give it to you on a monthly basis. All you have to do is make sure that when enough people take part in such thievery of American resources, a fire starts. This will discourage future theft, save us money, and make you wealthy for the rest of your days.” “And how will you know I have done such a deed?” asked Debare. “Believe me Debare, when a hundred or so people burn to death, it makes the news. We will hear of it! And so long as we do hear of it once in a while, the payments will continue arriving in your P.O. Box. Agreed?” Debare did not answer. He simply gathered the fat wads of large bills in an animal skin satchell purse and walked out the door. “Good day” said he. Within hours of this encounter, news broke that several hundred men, women and children had been incinerated when a large pool of gasoline mysteriously ignited as they waded in knee deep and scooping up buckets of gas as it leaked from a ruptured pipeline leading to the refinery at Zinder.
Chapter Twenty Four
The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men
News of the shooting spread like wildfire and those on the right end of the political spectrum ran with it like wide receivers at the Super Bowl. The commentators lashed out at Al Gore, the Pope and anybody connected with the historic climate concert. ‘How dare you play politics at a time like this?’ was the general theme of one vicious diatribe after another. Within 5 hours from the first band’s first note, the concert was postponed, then cancelled. When Al Gore finally came out with his second movie, entitled ‘An Inconvenient Sequel’, he was faced with a world which had never even heard about his ill-fated global climate concert, and so the dye was cast; the Game Changers had changed the game indeed. Undoubtedly the most important event in the history of civilization, the one that could have truly put climate disruption on the map and set people on a whole new, more sustainable course, was dashed forever. Ask anybody involved in the conservation or entertainment world about Al Gore’s Global Concert for Climate Change, involving the Pope, many world leaders and featuring entertainers like Elton John, Bon Jovi, Duran Duran, and others, and they’ll give you a puzzled look and say, “No I don’t know anything about it.” On November 13th, 2015, Al Gore sent out this tweet to the world: Al Gore tweet: ‘We send our condolences to the families of those who have been killed or injured.’
Hijacked Headlines
This is the tale of a billion sheep The governments got them all fast asleep They're walking and talking but asleep all the same Now they have french flags in front of their names
This is the tale of another attack People have died and we’re taken aback But somehow it has a recurring theme Pearl Harbor, nine eleven, another bad dream
This is the saga of a planet gone wild Flowers in winter, the weathers too mild And powerful forces at work and at play Control information, it’s worse every day
It’s hard to believe this is cause and effect But here comes big oil you’re about to elect This is the tale of a fork in the road A terrorist bombing about to explode
I just read the paper, the headlines of fear We’re shooting and bombing for Christmas this year But someone worked hard to successfully time it The headlines were hijacked away from the climate
Joseph John Racano 11/16/15
The Game Changers, epilogue
In the several years since these shootings in Paris, the world has exploded into violence, much of it not only in Russia and the USA bombing each other in Syria by proxy, but also in the form of mass school shootings, mainly in America where such behavior had never been seen before. All manner of sleight of hand and manufactured investigations, accusations, trials, scandals and prosecutions have now become the norm, and I can’t help but read between the lines and see the scandals for what they are; mainly contrived, certainly all blown way out of proportion, and I ask myself with each media festooned event: “Who benefits, who stood to gain? What scandal was obscured by another, new, emerging scandal? And of course, I also pray, in the immortal words of The Who: We don’t get fooled again.”