2) The subtypes found in Africa are different from the one found in North America. This should raise an obvious question: How could the view that HIV originated in Africa and was brought to America withstand any serious inquiry, when they are completely different subtypes? Would it not be logical that if they were from the same place, they would be the same subtype? If not, why not?
3) AIDS in the U.S. still disproportionately affects gay men and IV drug users. Yet it remains primarily a heterosexual disease in Africa.
4) According to Max Essex, a leading AIDS researcher, HIV subtype B, the predominant strain in the U.S., has a particular affinity for rectal tissue. Subtypes A, D, and C have an affinity for vaginal tissue. See: http://www.avert.org/hiv-types.htm
5) This affinity for different tissue types likely accounts for why AIDS, after thirty years in the U.S., is still not a primarily heterosexually transmitted disease, while in Africa it is.
6) The ability to target specific cell/tissue types has long been a feature of biological weapons research. See: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ethnic_bioweapon
7) The AIDS epidemic did not originate in Africa, but was first recognized in 1981 in the U.S. The first few cases of AIDS appeared in Manhattan and were reported to the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta in 1979. The African AIDS epidemic hadn’t begun until 1982 at the earliest, according to HIV discoverer Luc Montagnier in his book, Virus.
A few health professionals have linked the hepatitis B vaccine trials, conducted at the New York Blood Center beginning in the fall of 1978, with the outbreak of AIDS in that city. The experiment used young, healthy, gay and bisexual men in the experiment. For details on these experiments, Google “gay vaccine experiments and the origin of AIDS.”
When blood donated by gay men at the New York Blood Center was retrospectively tested for HIV in the mid-1980s, HIV was not present in any of the specimens from 1977 or earlier. HIV was found in 6% of blood samples taken in 1978. By 1979, 30% of blood samples from trial participants tested positive for HIV – an unprecedented infection rate, especially at a time in which the epidemic was unrecognized and at a time when AIDS was unknown in Africa.
8) KSHV (Kaposi’s sarcoma-associated Herpesvirus), a close relative to a simian virus that causes cancer in apes (Herpesvirus saimiri), has been identified as the cause of Kaposi’s sarcoma in North American AIDS victims. This cancer-causing human virus also spontaneously appeared in 1978 in the New York gay community when HIV did. So not one, but two simian viruses “jumped species” at the same time, apparently affecting only homosexual men in New York, followed closely by their brethren in L.A., S.F., Chicago, etc. http://rense.com/general45/cant.htm
9) The New York Blood Center created a chimp virus lab in West Africa in 1974. This lab, VILAB II, was established in Liberia to develop the hepatitis B vaccine in simians. In 1978, this vaccine was injected into gay men at the NY Blood Center in the hepatitis B vaccine trials.
10) Studies conducted during the 1980s and 1990s, analyzing adults infected by HIV, demonstrated responses between 33% and 56% to recombinant vaccines like the hepatitis B vaccine. The hepatitis B trial saw 96+% demonstrated response, leading me to conclude that HIV could not have been present in the cohort group prior to inoculation. http://www.jped.com.br/conteudo/06-82-S55/ing_print.htm
11) Here is an excellent summary of the various theories for the origin of the AIDS epidemic in the U.S. and Africa. Of particular note are the unanswered questions in the “official” theory – #1 of the six postulated. I find #5 to be the most plausible, although it is, by definition, unpopular with the scientists who make up the power elite in the U.S. for obvious reasons. #6 also warrants further exploration, given the host of inconsistencies in the official AIDS explanation. http://www.kckcc.edu/ejournal/archives/october2010/article/TheMysteriousOriginofHumanImmunodeficiencyVirus.aspx
12) The U.S. military conducted thousands of radiation experiments on U.S. citizens for a period of over 60 years, without informed consent. This was kept classified until it was revealed in 1993. See: http://www.amazon.com/The-Plutonium-Files-Experiments-ebook/dp/B0046A9JC0 and http://www.counterpunch.org/2013/04/12/inhuman-radiation-experiments/#_ednref1
13) The Tuskegee syphilis trial is well-documented historical fact. For more information, see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tuskegee_syphilis_experiment
14) Likewise, the Guatemalan venereal disease experimentation is documented fact. Particularly troubling is that this experimentation took place at the same time the Nuremburg trials were in process for Nazi doctors doing experimentation without informed consent. See: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syphilis_experiments_in_Guatemala
Skepticism is always the first line of defense against deception in its many forms. I encourage everyone to do their own research using these links as a starting point, and discover the hard facts rather than blindly accepting the spin that has been created to advance a palatable worldview.
Excerpt from
Ramsey’s Gold
†
Russell Blake
Copyright © 2015 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
Southwest of Cajamarca, Peru, A.D. 1532
Lightning flashed through the anthracite clouds that roiled over the jungle canopy as an explosion of thunder shook the earth. A long line of llamas, their matted fur drenched from the constant downpour, shambled along a trail deep in the rainforest. The animals staggered under heavy loads strapped to their backs, hooves slipping in the mud and pulling free with a sucking sound.
Thousands of the unfortunate beasts had been conscripted into duty on the far side of the Andes Mountains, their drovers trudging beside them to see to it that none wandered off with precious cargo. Inkarri, the head of the expedition, had made it clear that this was a sacred mission, with the destiny and survival of the Inca Empire at stake.
Only two months earlier the Spanish conquistadors had betrayed Atahualpa, the Inca emperor, whom they’d captured through trickery. After hundreds of loads of ransom had been delivered to the Spanish leader in the Inca city of Cajamarca, the conquistadores had broken their promise and executed Atahualpa. Word had spread through the Inca world of the treachery, and an edict had gone out: the prosperous Inca nation’s treasure was to be safeguarded, far away from the invaders.
Inkarri had traveled for many weeks, first crossing the Andes and then tackling the western jungle’s swollen rivers. He’d braved impossible terrain to put as many natural barriers between his people and the invaders as possible. Now, hundreds of miles from home, the procession was running short of resources. Many of the animals had perished along the way, and every surviving beast now bore an insupportable burden.
Inkarri knew his trek couldn’t continue. The latest attack on his group by the hostile Amazon natives had taken its toll – hundreds of his men had died repelling the assaults. He slowed at the head of the column and cocked his head, his bronze features haggard from the trip’s demands, and listened intently.
From the thick underbrush ahead came Lomu, his second in command, who’d been scouting with an advance party for possible new routes. Inkarri held his hand over his head to signal a stop.
Lomu wiped rain from his face before leaning in close. “I found a promising site an hour away. It has streams – tributaries to the big river that winds through the area, so there will be plentiful fish,” he said in a quiet voice. “And I saw an auspicious omen. A jaguar, standing in the center of a small clearing. It’s what we’ve been waiting for. As clear as the gods could make it.”
Inkarri looked to the sky. “An hour, you say? Very well. We have another few left before it gets dark. How difficult does it look to defend?”
“If attacked we would have the high ground. And there’s a narrow river that runs along the northernmost section, which will serve as a natural barrier.”
Inkarri nodded. “Pass the word down the line. We’re headed to our new home.”
Lomu rushed to share the n
ews with the men. They were close to their journey’s end, and the beginning of a new, secret life in an inhospitable wilderness. Their mission was clear – to establish a new city away from the Spanish where the wealth of the nation would be safe, a cradle for the fresh start of the civilization. When they had done so, Inkarri would return to the empire with news, leaving a trail of false clues and deceptive directions to confound any would-be pursuers. He’d seen the avarice of the conquistadores, and witnessed their duplicity, and knew their lust for gold and emeralds would never die – that he and his kind would never be safe.
It would take months to create a habitable enclave, but when he’d done so, he would set up small camps along the trail to help new arrivals find the city. Once he was back among his people, he would recruit women and more able-bodied men to colonize the area and build a new capital.
Inkarri watched Lomu disappear down the column of tired llamas, communicating the tidings to men who had been through an ordeal unlike any in their people’s history. The jungles east of the mountains had been the limit of the Inca world, and it was only a compulsion to survive that had driven Inkarri’s group into its reaches.
At last they arrived at the site. The sun broke through the clouds – the first pause in the rain in three days. Inkarri eyed the trees, taking the measure of the area. After several moments of silence, he moved to the center of the clearing and stood, his arms spread, the sun’s dimming rays warming him as he offered a quiet prayer of gratitude for bringing them safely to this spot. When he faced his warrior brethren, gathered in a large ring around him, he beamed confidence and conviction.
“Our quest is over. Remove the treasure from the animals and let them rest. Organize patrols to ensure our safety this night, for tomorrow we begin building a new future in this place.” Inkarri paused, taking in the men’s expressions. “Oh, Inti, god of sun and light, and Apocatequil, god of thunder, thank you for leading us to this blessed spot. We shall honor you with a city the likes of which has never been seen. It shall be called Paititi, after the jaguar father you sent as a sign. Its riches shall be legendary – the stuff of which dreams are made.”
Lomu gazed at the hundreds of bags the men were placing on the wet ground, brimming with gold and jewels, and his eyes came to rest on the pride of the Incas: a massive chain crafted from thousands of pounds of gold, its gemstone-crusted serpentine links glowing orange in the waning light, so heavy that it had taken a hundred men to carry it. Even with all the other riches in the clearing, it was breathtaking to behold, and Lomu felt justifiable satisfaction in spiriting it away to safety.
The road ahead would be hard. But they would do it, and survive as a people until the Spanish were driven from the shores. Temples would be built, babies would be born, trade routes established, the empire would flourish, and their deeds would be spoken of in hushed tones of awe and respect.
They would achieve the impossible and be remembered in their culture until the end of time. Stories would be told around fires, and the name of their city would be known far and wide as the crowning jewel in the Inca crown – the great promise of its future, the legendary new center of the noble and ancient civilization’s universe: Paititi, the City of Gold.
Chapter Two
Patricia hurried from her flower shop to the car. Night had fallen hours ago and traffic had dwindled to nothing, leaving the downtown deserted. She normally didn’t stay at the store after dark, but it was the end of the month and there were accounts to be balanced. Times were hard now, and she’d been handling the bookkeeping herself. She considered herself lucky that she still had a business.
Her sensible heels clicked on the sidewalk, her breath steaming in the frigid night air, and then she heard the sound again – something or someone was gaining on her. She struggled to stay calm as she reached into her purse for the can of pepper spray she’d hidden there years ago, praying that it still worked.
Patricia’s hand fumbled in the bag, a knock-off Coach she’d gotten on a Mexican cruise in better days, and her trembling fingers felt the distinctive cylinder. She tried to remember the effective range, but all she could think of was that she should run. Run as fast as her feet would carry her, run to safety, to her waiting car.
She hesitated at the junction of two gloomy streets, ears straining for any hint of a pursuer. A scrape from behind her, no more than twenty yards, reaffirmed her worst fears before she forced them away and slowed her breathing. That could have been anything. A cat. One of the heaping garbage bags she’d passed rustling in the breeze. Something shifting inside them, or a rat burrowing for buried treasure. Anything at all.
When she rounded the corner she sprinted for the parking lot, all pretense of calm gone as she ran on tiptoes to avoid the sound of her heels alerting whoever was behind her that she was in full flight. Because now, in spite of her inner dialogue, she was sure someone was tailing her.
Visions of serial killers played through her imagination as she reached the waist-high concrete wall that encircled the lot. She pushed through the gate, wincing at the groan of its corroded hinges, and made her way to her car as she fished in her overcoat for her key ring. God, she hoped it would start on the first try. She cursed silently at how she’d been putting off taking the old Buick to the dealership for months.
A decision she prayed wouldn’t prove her undoing.
Patricia fumbled with her keys and got the door open. She wasted no time sliding behind the wheel and throwing her purse on the seat beside her before twisting the ignition. The doors locked automatically as the starter ground.
“No. Oh, God, no. Come on. Come on!” she murmured.
Two black-gloved hands slammed against the driver’s side window. Patricia screamed and wrenched the ignition again. With a phlegmy roar, the engine coughed a cloud of black exhaust. She shifted into gear and floored the accelerator just as she registered the unmistakable shape of a pistol in her side mirror. Patricia swerved toward the street, ducking in panic as she saw the orange blossom of a muzzle flash and her rear window blew out in a shower of safety-glass fragments.
The old vehicle bounced over the curb with a jolt as she cut the driveway too tight, and then she was speeding down the empty street. Behind her, a pair of headlights blazed to life and grew frighteningly large. She gazed in spellbound horror in her rear view mirror as the shooter’s vehicle pulled after her, and she spun the wheel, hurtling toward the highway that led to the safety of her modest home ten minutes outside town.
Patricia blew through the red light at the base of the onramp. Panic replaced her momentary relief when the glare of headlights reappeared behind her, gaining on her even as she strained to drive the gas pedal through the floorboard, pulse pounding in her ears, a band of pressure tightening around her chest.
“Come on. Come on…” she hissed, willing the aging Buick to greater speed as she raced by the old gas station that marked the town periphery, the arched windows of its fifties-era building as dark as the night sky.
A cold wind tore at the trees along the highway as the speedometer needle inched past eighty, faster than she’d ever forced it, but insufficient to pull away from the vehicle closing on her. Her gaze darted to the mirror again, where she could see the other car a hundred yards behind.
Patricia was doing ninety-six miles per hour when she missed the curve just before the river bridge. Her tires screeched like a wounded animal, and then she was sailing through space in a graceless arc.
The sedan chasing her slowed until it rolled to a stop halfway across the bridge’s span. The passenger reached up with a gloved hand and flipped the interior light off, and then opened his door and stepped out into the freezing gloom. His head swiveled right, then left, verifying that he was alone. He approached the edge of the bridge and peered into the darkness at the inky rushing water of the river hundreds of feet below. There, at the base of the gorge, was the Buick, partially submerged, mangled beyond recognition.
He shook his head and pulled his overcoat
around him, slim protection against the chill wind as he returned to the waiting car.
“Nobody could have survived that,” he said, swinging the door open.
“Now what?” the driver asked, hands loose on the wheel.
The passenger glanced at the moon grinning crookedly from between the clouds.
“Now it gets hard.”
Chapter Three
Drake Simmons peered over the dashboard of his Honda Accord at the row of clapboard homes across the street and took another sip from his lukewarm can of cola.
He hated stakeouts. Endless hours watching and waiting for the perp to appear, which often never happened, rendering for naught his patient vigil living off caffeine and peeing into a Gatorade bottle. He ran a hand over the dusting of dark beard on his lean face and wondered again how he’d wound up in this business rather than using his journalism degree.
The job market had gone from bad to worse since he’d graduated five years ago. Finding criminals who’d skipped out on their bond wasn’t quite in the same league as being an investigative reporter, but it required many of the same attributes: patience, dogged determination, research skills, and a certain crazy recklessness that had defined his character since childhood. It was just a lower-rent version of how he’d imagined himself, playing out his Woodward and Bernstein fantasies as the star of a major newspaper.
The door to one of the squalid houses opened and a tall man with the jaundiced pallor of an addict sauntered down the stairs, eyes scanning the street. Drake slumped down behind the steering wheel and pushed a long lock of dark brown hair off his forehead, and then adjusted his Oakley sunglasses before sliding up just enough to see.
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