The Eye of Moloch

by Glenn Beck

  • • •

  A bevy of nurses on constant call would aid him if required but he’d vowed to himself that he would stand and walk on his own through all but the most trying days.

  After swallowing the line of pills and arcane tinctures arranged as always on his bedside table, he set his jaw, took up his cane, and readied himself to rise again. With some effort he sat upright, endured a wave of dizziness and let it pass on through, and then left his bed and stood upon the smooth, cool floor.

  As was his custom, while still in pajamas he took his morning inventory of the most treasured things in his surroundings. All were priceless and quite irreplaceable, but more important, they were reminders.

  The veined white marble beneath his feet was harvested from the towering halls once walked by the pharaohs of Egypt. For a period far longer than the upstart reign of Christendom their subjects believed these earthbound rulers to be divine, and they might as well have been; their unbroken dominion spanned forty centuries.

  The Great Pyramid had been as old and mysterious to Cleopatra as her own time is to the present day; the very apex of its long-lost capstone, nearly half a ton of inlaid gold and alabaster, was now the cornerstone of his décor in the grand foyer.

  An Irish temple nestled near a bend on the River Boyne was older still, older than Stonehenge by a millennium and once a place of pagan worship in the cult of Baal. Its stolen altar now graced his western balcony, where he often sat to reflect with his afternoon tea.

  A heavy faceted orb of purest emerald, whose aspect suggested a great unblinking eye, was set above the granite hearth in his study. This priceless, cursed stone had been taken in the spoils of some ancient war, chipped from the face of a great graven image of Moloch once worshiped by the high priests of Sidon. It was a symbol now of an awesome power that technology was fast delivering into his waiting hands. The myriad human sacrifices this eye had overseen would be dwarfed by those in the terrible, cleansing carnage soon to come.

  Even the wood in his walking stick spoke an encouraging whisper from the ages. It was turned from the trunk of a precious Norway spruce that had lived and grown on the side of a mountain in Sweden for nearly ten thousand years. When this oldest of trees was only a seedling, the polished stone ax was still the pinnacle of human invention.

  In the presence of such things his own age seemed less daunting, his enemies less formidable, and the completion of his lifelong project somehow nearer at hand. These things helped him remember that on the long timeline of history, the United States of America had managed to survive for barely an instant. And its last days were numbered; that failing experiment was the only remaining barrier that stood between Aaron Doyle and the realization of his dream.

  And then, in his private study he came to the centerpiece of his home. This, a twelfth-century chessboard with pieces carved from walrus ivory, was the arena where he had once spent many an hour matching wits with his philosophical rival, William Merchant. Those early bitter contests had often ended in a draw, but now the real-world game was finally about to be won.

  Though the two men had been estranged for many years, once this was all over Doyle had always hoped they might meet again. To that end, two comfortable chairs were placed on either side and the old board was set up for a last match, should the day of their reunion ever come.

  • • •

  When he returned to the bedroom he dressed himself in simple clothes; years before he’d chosen comfort over style when there was no one left above him to impress. A fetching young lady in a plain uniform appeared to do his zippers, clasps, and buttons. She left a tray of fresh juices for his breakfast, her pretty eyes averted all the while, and promptly vanished again.

  With his morning pains eased somewhat after the walk, now dressed, fed, and medicated he felt ready for the day’s agenda to begin.

  His lingering storm would be causing havoc with the rush-hour commuters scuttling far below; it was still much easier for science to make it rain than to make it stop again. Despite the snarled traffic, however, he was pleased to see that his first appointment had already arrived and was waiting in the sunroom. He was standing by the windows, taking in his first view of the Persian Gulf from the dizzying heights of the Burj Khalifa.

  His guest turned to face him as he walked up close beside. He seemed utterly tongue-tied at the sudden sight of his reclusive host, a man he’d no doubt heard described only in the folklore of his cutthroat profession. At length it fell to the elder man to break the reverent silence that hung between them.

  “At last we meet in person,” he said, extending his fragile hand. “Mr. Warren Landers, I’m Aaron Doyle.”

  • • •

  Landers reported that the muscle was now in place for the upcoming structured chaos to be unleashed on American soil. The decaying European Union, the ever-volatile Middle East, the chaos pillaging Africa, the powder kegs of central and southern Asia—in those regions the downward spirals Aaron Doyle had also fostered were already building momentum past the point of no return. Soon, as their own nations fell toward ruin all eyes would turn to the United States, and they would see then that the mythic soul of this last citadel of hope and freedom was as empty and diseased as all the rest.

  “You’ve done good work,” Doyle said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But you must be wondering why I asked you to come here and discuss these matters with me. In the past I’ve always dealt only with Arthur Gardner, so it seems I’ve put you in an awkward position. You’ve now gone over the head of your employer, or behind his back as the case may be.”

  “I trust your judgment,” Landers said, “and I do have a sense of why I’m here.”

  “He has changed, hasn’t he, of late? Then it isn’t my imagination. You know, I have an old adversary in this campaign, and in the past he’s occasionally turned the hearts of my best generals to his side of the cause, and I’ve done the same to him. But with Arthur I believe it’s different. He couldn’t be bought with any offer of money or power, but he’s been vulnerable in another way. After all I’d invested in him, I once nearly lost him to the love of a common woman. And now I fear I may be losing him to a late-blooming love for his only son.”

  Landers nodded, looking appropriately concerned. Despite the nearly authentic expression of solemn regret on his face, there was also an undercurrent there that could best be described as anticipation.

  “Now then, before we enjoy our brunch,” Aaron Doyle said, “let us discuss how we shall finally bring the brief and teetering empire of the United States of America to an unceremonious close. And on a related subject, tell me everything you know about this little troublemaker, Molly Ross, and the possibly useful bond she still maintains with our young man, Noah Gardner.”

  Chapter 19

  You Can Lead a Horse to Slaughter,

  but You Can’t Make Him Think

  or

  How I Spent My 16th Birthday

  by Noah W. Gardner

  Period 7, Mrs. Schantz

  3/21/1997

  Honors English

  Introduction

  How are a modern slaughterhouse and the field of public relations alike?

  Last year, when a group of investors set out to build a new kind of meat-processing plant—far bigger and more efficient than ever—they didn’t go to an architect, or a stockman, or any general contractor experienced in the field. Instead they hired the world’s preeminent social engineer. So on my 16th birthday they came to 500 Fifth Avenue in New York City, and they sat down with my father, Arthur Gardner.

  If it seems strange to you that the principles of public relations might apply so directly to the mechanics of a humane slaughterhouse, you’re not alone. I didn’t get it either, not until that Saturday morning when I watched this client presentation unfold.

  My father took the men through his drawings and explained things as he went. A great deal of information was given, but the basic concepts behind his compassionate k
illing machine were as follows:

  1. The Overton Window. There must be no straight lines-of-sight on that last mile leading to the long knives and electric saws. Gentle winding curves would obscure the forward view and break the distance down into an easy series of short and nonthreatening segments, each willingly taken, the animals nudged along to one point after the next. Safety and rest—not the butcher’s blade—must always seem to be waiting just beyond the next corner up ahead.

  2. Divide and Conquer. Pigs and cattle and sheep are natural subscribers to the two-party system. They will blindly follow a kindred leader, and will tend to walk in the opposite direction to that traveled by a thing they distrust. Either or both of these instincts can be employed to march them peacefully to a place they would never otherwise choose to go.

  3. Misdirection and Media Control. Lest fear should spoil the meat, along the path toward the kill-chute everything the animals see and hear must be crafted to lull them into a state of calm submission. Any whiff of the truth could interrupt progress and alert them to the danger they’re approaching.

  4. The Free Choice Illusion. Throughout their final walk they should have just enough space around them to feel the comfort of false freedom. Even as the path constricts and their choices narrow, moving steadily onward must seem to be their own decision, right up until the moment when the hammer falls.

  5. The Rebel Gene. A lone, independent agitator is the most dangerous animal in the herd. These rare individuals seem to be born with a sense of what’s to come and will endure harsh and repeated punishments as they attempt to warn the others. Provision must be made to remove and silence these unusual creatures the instant they step out of line.

  For the men attending, this meeting was a huge success. By the time it was over they’d gotten everything they wanted and more. For my part, I was left with the troubling feeling that I had glimpsed behind the wizard’s curtain and learned things I’d rather not have known, both about my father, Arthur Gardner, and the industry he’d helped to pioneer.

  There was a key difference, of course, between the herding and handling of that livestock and the crass manipulation of the buying, voting, and consuming public.

  Once the animals were killed the goal was to squeeze every last bit of worth from the carcass: muscle, blood, bone, sinew, skin, and entrails; nothing should be left in the end. In the case of the American people the same sort of value extraction was being plotted, only they were to be systematically drained of all their worth before they died, not after.

  The youthful rebellion on display in this prep school essay was quickly put down without a fight. Noah’s teacher valued her job and knew her place, so she reported to his father immediately and shredded all copies of the paper at the old man’s request. She then quietly gave her student a grade of D-minus on the assignment and that was the end of it, in more ways than one.

  His naïve exposé would turn out to be the high-water mark of Noah Gardner’s adolescent protests against the establishment. He soon saw that it was a war he wouldn’t win, so there was nothing to be gained in resistance and so many comforts to be lost.

  Likewise, his stand as a conscientious vegetarian lasted less than half a year. His idealistic quest to become an establishment-battling lawyer barely survived one tough semester at New York University. Several devil-may-care and fun-filled years later, Noah found that he’d done what he’d once sworn to himself and his dying mother that he never, ever would.

  There was no particular point when he could say he’d sold out and turned that final, gentle corner, but one day not long ago—the day he’d met Molly Ross, in fact—he woke up to fully realize he’d become his father’s son.

  Needless to say, that day didn’t turn out so well.

  • • •

  As he dreamed, Noah wasn’t reliving past days but only watching them file past in the dark, skipping parts he couldn’t bear and dwelling in others that had gone by too quickly. In the midst of a particularly fond memory he felt an itch and a soreness by his ear. He tried to move his hand to ease the discomfort and felt the cinch of the strap, found his wrist restrained, and opened his eyes.

  A wave of body panic shot through him, the really urgent kind the primitive brain reserves for those times when you absolutely, positively must escape from something nearby that would kill you if you tried to hold your ground.

  The door banged open, the overhead lights blazed on, and a nurse and two muscular orderlies rushed into the room to keep him down.

  A needle popped under the skin of his arm. He tried to cry out but there was no voice to it. And he never took his eyes from the mortal threat in the shape of Arthur Gardner sitting without emotion in the chair across the room, not until the drugs took hold, his surroundings began to swirl and recede, and he felt himself drifting away.

  • • •

  This time there’d been no dreams at all.

  When he woke again he was looking into a winsome and familiar face at the bedside. If their aim had been to put him at ease with the presence of someone he trusted, they’d actually chosen pretty well. It was Ellen Davenport—now Dr. Ellen Davenport—his closest friend from their younger, country-clubbing years.

  “Hi there,” Ellen said, as if nothing whatsoever were wrong.

  “What are you doing here?” Noah asked. His hands were no longer restrained though she was holding both of them in hers. “And where the hell are we?”

  Her smile seemed forced and very professional, more a tool of patient management than a genuine expression. “We’re at a clinic outside of Denver. You were injured and flown here by medevac, but that’s been a little while ago now.”

  “How long?”

  “Several days.”

  “Several days?”

  “I just found out, and I dropped everything when I got the call. That’s all I know. And I’m here for you because your father called and said you needed me.”

  “My father.”

  “He wants to talk to you, Noah.”

  “Well, I don’t want to talk to him.”

  She sighed, released his hands, and adjusted his covers. “Look, I know all about your issues with your dad—”

  “Actually, I’d bet your debt to Johns Hopkins that you don’t have any idea.”

  “Let me finish. He’s changed, Noah. He told me that he had, and I’ve seen it. If you’d heard him when he called me—no, listen—if you’d heard him you’d know that whatever’s gone on between you, letting him in here now is the right thing to do.”

  “He’s why I’m here, Ellen. He did this, no one else. He’s why all this has happened to me. When I came to you for help back then, remember? I’d gotten wrapped up with this girl named Molly Ross. She was just using me in the beginning, trying to expose what my father was doing, but in the end I really tried to help her. When he saw I’d turned against him he almost killed me for it, and then he had me locked up in some godforsaken government work camp, and—”

  “Okay, okay, just relax.” By her gentle tone and the look on her face Ellen was recalling her training on how to deal with a psychotic in the grip of a delusion. In any case, when she’d calmed him down that line of conversation was tabled for the moment. She stood, fussed a bit with the IV pump, lightly checked his bandages, and put a cool hand to his forehead as if to calm him as she gauged his temperature. “You’ve got some lacerations and some burns and a mild concussion. How do you feel?”

  “Groggy.”

  “You must be. The chart says you’ve been in and out since you got here, but mostly out. They’ve been overdoing the sedation for some reason. I’ve put a stop to that, and as long as you don’t get physical with the staff again, my orders should stand.”

  He laid his head back, thinking. “Thank you.”

  She nodded. “Now, if I raise the bed a little so you can sit up and have a visitor, do you think you can handle that?”

  “Sure. But not him.”

  “Look at it this way,” she said. “He’s here
, and he won’t leave until he sees you. I’m going to put my career and my normal relationships and my fine life in the big city on hold and stay here to take care of you. Whatever else he’s done, he made that happen, too, Noah. And he’s assured me that whatever’s gone on since I last saw you in New York, everything will be different going forward.”

  “Different? Is that how he put it? Because it’s like signing a pact with the devil when you’re dealing with him; you’ve got to analyze every damned word.”

  “Better, then,” Ellen said. “Everything will be better. He promised me, Gardner, and I promise you.”

  When she’d left, it seemed that whoever else was lurking outside the room felt it best to give him a few minutes alone. The quiet time didn’t help anything. Every second that passed only dripped more acid tension into his gut. By the time the handle turned and the door began to open, his fists were clenched so hard he felt the nails biting into his palms.

  And then his father came into the room.

  Something had diminished about the man, there was no denying it. He’d always seemed younger than his age, buoyed up from within by some boundless hamster wheel of manic energy. Now he was seventy-five, and for the first time that Noah could remember, every single year of it showed.

  Arthur Gardner turned to look up into the ceiling-mounted camera behind a smoky glass dome near the corner. He made a motion toward it with his hand as if to order a pause in the surveillance, and he waited to see it comply. That little red light just continued its steady glow. After a time he relented the effort and seemed to accept the fact that whatever he was going to say or do here, it would be watched.

  There was a physical difference in his walk as he came on forward, maybe a weakness of one side that required a compensation.

  “Stop right there,” Noah said.

  The old man halted so abruptly he had to brace himself with one hand on the footboard.

  “Son,” he began. But nothing more followed.

  “Ellen told me you had something to say. Let’s get on with it.”