by J W Brazier
Ellen was an unassuming ageless beauty of poise and elegance, nudging sixty. Her vibrant jade green eyes emanated a warm and friendly aura. She’d preserve her health and kept her tall, slim figure under control. The luster of her light brown hair, now peppered gray, had lost its hue with age.
Her favorite time in the office was early mornings, which afforded her the precious time alone to read her Bible—a taboo, politically incorrect act within the UN, but a personal choice she enjoyed. Immersed in the book of Psalms, Ellen felt a sudden change in the room air temperature, as if an icy wind had blown past her desk. She rubbed her arms. She’d experienced similar occurrences when dignitaries and their security visited with the ambassador, but never as strong as this.
The ambassador was in his office. No one could enter the waiting area without her noticing, so Ellen put her Bible away and waited. She sensed the arrival of someone or something.
Her wait was short lived, as the lobby door opened. A tall, large-framed man dressed in black stepped inside; she guessed him to be six-four or more. He wore his long black hair swept tight against his head and then back to a ponytail. His complexion: a pockmarked, rough, dark olive. Deep-set eyes looked almost black. The man walked toward her; his expression, a seditious smirk.
The stranger stopped halfway to her desk, as if he’d hit a barrier. Intrigued, Ellen watched the drama. The man stood still, his dark eyes narrowed, his hands clinched to fists at his side. Head and eyes moved, as if searching the room for something unseen by human sight.
The man’s piercing stare came to rest behind Ellen, as though he’d found his unseen challenger. Alarmed, but curious, she wondered, What’s he looking at? Ellen looked behind her, but saw nothing. He reached into his tailored jacket and pulled out an envelope.
Still, his darting eyes betrayed his fear of something that he alone saw. He stepped closer, holding the envelope. Ellen shivered, watching him approach. Not a word or greeting exchanged between them.
He glanced down at Ellen; his expression embodied his scorn. Ellen felt helpless, as if she were a prized pawn caught between two opposing conflicts. He let the envelope drop to her desk. His eyes darted back and forth, then again locked on the mysterious unseen presence he feared.
Finally, the messenger sneered. His upper lip curled, exposing oversized canine teeth. The surly man backed away toward the lobby doors and exited the office.
Ellen looked up and whispered, “Thank you, Lord.”
She picked up the envelope marked Urgent. In hand, she took the envelope to the ambassador’s office, knocked, and stepped inside. Ambassador Adderley was busy signing papers.
“Ambassador, sir, a message just arrived by courier. It’s marked Urgent.”
Gordon took the message and tore into the envelope. He whispered “Abram Solomon,” as if he were expecting the summons. Ellen stood in front of his desk, anticipating an immediate order, and it came after only a moment.
“Ellen, cancel or move all my appointments. I have to attend an urgent meeting. I’ll contact you later in the day.”
“Yes, sir. Do you care to leave an emergency number or location?”
“The secretary-general’s private office, Ellen, but unless New York City begins to sink into the Hudson River, don’t call me. I’ll return after lunch.”
“Yes, Mr. Ambassador.”
Ellen returned to her desk troubled, feeling an urgency to pray. She’d never seen Ambassador Adderley so emotional about an impromptu meeting with the UN secretary-general. He’d often said how he detested the man—or was it the other man he’d called by name: Abram Solomon? she wondered. Ellen settled at her desk just as the ambassador hobbled into the waiting area.
“Have a good day, Ambassador Adderley.”
“Thank you, Ellen. I hope so.”
*
Even after heading out of his office immediately upon receiving the urgent summons, Gordon Adderley still had to wait in the UN secretary-general’s outer office lobby. The secretary’s office was a massive space that sparked Gordon’s jealousy, being three times the size of his own office.
The UN secretary’s rude delay felt uncomfortable. Gordon wasn’t accustomed to waiting. The rebuff was unacceptable. His patience waning, his thoughts weighed whether to leave or stay.
I’m not a commoner, waiting for the king to summon me into his presence. I’m an ambassador of the United States. These foreign governments think they’re rulers by default, he mused.
Decision made, Gordon turned around, supported by his cane, and left the spectacular window view of New York City and the Hudson River. He limped past a clerk’s desk toward the elevator, swaying like a peg-legged pirate.
“I have a busy schedule,” he said to the clerk. “Inform the secretary-general to make an appointment with me another time. Good day!”
The petite oriental woman appeared flustered, then she picked up the phone and made a call while still in earshot of Gordon.
“Sir, the US ambassador was waiting to see you, and now he’s leaving … rather upset. Actually, he’s furious, sir.”
A few seconds later, Secretary-General Juan Carlos Hernandez entered his enormous outer office at a quick pace.
“Gordon!” he called.
Gordon stopped a few paces from the elevator and began to turn around.
“Gordon, my old friend! How nice of you to come on short notice. I apologize for the delay and inconvenience I’ve caused you.”
Gordon presented his best diplomatic face. Despite the UN leader’s bogus congeniality, Gordon hated rude behavior from anyone, especially himself.
“Not at all, Carlos. You did say urgent, did you not?”
“Yes, yes, I did. Please, come in. Abram’s waiting for us.”
Carlos turned to lead the way to his inner office and moved off at a quick step. Gordon, though, wasn’t in such good health. He looked gaunt, felt drained, and always walked with the aid of a cane, thanks to a debilitating stroke a year earlier.
As he shlumped along, Gordon considered how well he and Carlos fit together. Juan Carlos Hernandez was a seasoned and ruthless diplomat. He spoke eight fluent languages, was revered by only a few, but feared by all member nations. His driving ambition: the establishment of a one-world alliance, to be achieved at any cost.
Juan Carlos and Gordon Adderley were committed globalists in lock-step agreement. They believed their main obstacles impeding a world government transition were the US Constitution and the Christian roots of America. Since 2008, though, both agreed America was ripe for a monumental departure from its foundation as a constitutional republic, given its economic and political climate. Progressive propaganda had finally succeeded. Americans were growing accustomed to the idea of an eventual established one-world alliance. All it needed was the right nudge—the right incentives, the right circumstances to bring it about, with or without bloodshed.
Their ideal takeover scheme would be that America yield willingly. Their groomed and handpicked new president was on board. It would only be a matter of time—sooner than later, Gordon hoped, as he wanted to be around to see it happen in person.
Gordon finally entered the secretary-general’s opulent office, and Abram Solomon walked up to him immediately.
“Ambassador Adderley,” Abram said, “I’m so pleased you could attend our meeting. It’s been too long between our visits, my friend.”
Gordon saw Juan Carlos smile as Abram worked his magic, like some stalking predator anticipating its meal.
“Abram Solomon,” Gordon said. “You’re a scoundrel, but it’s good to see you again. Where’ve you been hiding? It’s been two years at least. I believe the last we spoke was in Paris?”
“At least two years, and, yes, it was Paris, Ambassador, but here we are now.”
“Yes, and here we are.”
In the awkward silence that followed, Juan Carlos pushed a button on his desk. A servant appeared at the doorway.
“Secretary-General, may I be of service, sir?�
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Juan Carlos gestured with open arms. “My friends, what can I offer you for refreshments? Something to drink, perhaps?”
Abram spoke first. “A latté would be nice, thank you—too early for stronger spirits before lunch.”
Gordon nodded. “Yes, the same for me please.”
Juan Carlos snapped his finger. “Three café lattés.”
His servant bowed and left the room. Gordon turned his back and limped to a chair, and sat.
“Gordon, Abram’s called our meeting to discuss his current project.”
Gordon didn’t need to guess what project. He’d already briefed the president in private.
“Oh, yes, Abram’s little experiment—I mean, exercise.”
A knock came, and the refreshments arrived. Abram waited for the attendant to leave and then began speaking.
“Experiment, exercise … but still our project, Ambassador, remember?”
Gordon grinned, nodding. “Yes, I stand corrected—our project.”
Wasting no further time, as Gordon expected, Abram dove straight into their business at hand: “Gentlemen, our busy schedules prevent a lengthy meeting. Allow me to highlight the successes in our project before lunch. The OWN card creation was a Federal Reserve and IMF masterpiece, but my favorite innovation was the introduction of nano-chip implants. We anticipated citizen resistance, but my surprise came at how fast they yielded and embraced our new technology. If those rural citizens believed a cashless economy was inevitable, think of the possibilities when applied to larger cities, states, and nations. Control, gentlemen … We’ll achieve absolute control.”
Abram turned toward Juan Carlos. “Secretary-General, your design has played out well for our beginning. Using NGOs to facilitate our OWN system and link terrorism training with the International Criminal Courts under Resolution 666-689 was brilliant.”
Now he turned toward Gordon and smiled. “Ambassador, your inspiration of using US forces in tandem with the UN added legitimacy to the entire project and became a vehicle for multilateral global participation.”
Gordon raised a finger. “Pardon the interruption, Abram. I’ve received nervous memos from the White House. There’s a new mayor in White River who, by our accounts, is mobilizing a growing resistance to our project. He’s trying to raise a ruckus in the press and get the word out anyway he can. Mainstream media isn’t buying it … yet. Although one outlet is snooping around at ground level, Governor Clayton has them checkmated, for now.”
Abram’s response was quick: “Ambassador, I’ve met this Joshua Austin. I’ll deal with him in due time, and any other malcontent. I’ve initiated a plan that’s already in motion. The outcome will brand anyone that’s anti-government as potential terrorist threats. They’ll be looked upon as obstacles to the future progress of the United States functioning in a global community.”
Gordon leaned back in his chair, realizing that, to carry out such a task, Abram’s plan would have to surmount the 9-11 attacks. The death toll, he knew, would be staggering.
*
By 1:00 p.m., the three authors of sedition had finished the UN secretary-general’s extravagant five-course lunch. Servants cleared the table and disappeared. Abram checked his watch..
“Gentlemen,” Abram said, “I’ve enjoyed our get-together. However, I’ve allowed my allotted time to slip away. It’s regrettable that we’re not able to enjoy these moments more often. So let us toast to conclude our business.”
Abram raised his glass to the clink of the other two and said, “The exercise in White River exceeded my expectations, as I’ve said. At first, doom-and-gloom advocates frightened segments of the population. Later, the citizenry labeled those naysayers as troublemakers. Their warnings backfired and turned the community against their rhetoric.”
Juan Carlos emptied his glass of wine and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “Abram, Operation Chameleon concludes after its third phase. You haven’t revealed what you’ve planned for that final phase.”
Gordon noted that Abram couldn’t conceal his smirk of approval at Juan Carlos’s question.
“You’re intuitive, Secretary-General.”
Curious himself now, Gordon set his wine glass down and rested on his elbows, listening, ready for the other shoe to drop.
“My friends, we’ve always known to create our One World Alliance, seeds of change would need planting, watered, and nurtured worldwide. Create an environment where the world screams for the change that we’ll provided. Religion exacerbates those efforts and has proven to be a plague on mankind. Are we agreed?”
Without hesitation, both Gordon and Juan Carlos said in unison, “Agreed.”
Abram smiled and crossed the room to the massive windows. A moment passed, with his back to the other two, as if rehearsing his response. He turned about and faced his cohorts with a smug expression.
“I thought as much—an excellent decision. Part of my third phase will strike the match, as it were, spreading the flames of change and rejection of religious fanatics. The result: a one-world government intervention is embraced as the only hope and solution for peace, safety, and economic stability. In obedience to our leader, we’ll reward their cooperation and provide for their needs, their bellies, and their passions. Give them peace on earth and goodwill. The world will bow to his wishes.”
“Sounds noble, Abram, and doable,” Gordon said, “but you’re forgetting the US Constitution and America’s bedrock Christian roots.”
Abram grinned again. “It’s not as difficult as you may think, Ambassador. Know your enemy; destroy his very foundations, not by storming his gates, but from within his own house and with his own weapons. White River is our first test of more to come. You’ll see that a great majority of so-called Christian America won’t walk their talk in the winepress of affliction and hardships. We’ll test that resolve when they see their God has abandoned them and doesn’t answer prayers. We will be waiting.”
“So you say—and maybe easy enough for the weak minded,” Gordon snapped, “but America’s Constitution is another story!”
“Ambassador,” Abram said, “the man we groomed, the one we bought and paid for, is your president, remember? When I pull a string, he moves. There are three possible US Supreme Court justices up for confirmation in his second term. A majority can inflict irreversible damage to your US Constitution—a prime opportunity to begin its dismantling. I’ve given him the names of the ones I want. He’s eager, Ambassador, and will fill all federal court vacancies with handpicked hardcore progressive judges. With our help, he’ll fundamentally change America … forever.”
Abram turned to face the secretary-general. “Juan, you and I, the Ambassador, and the US secretary of state will intensify our efforts. We have to erode the sovereignty rights of US citizens through the UN General Assembly. The current political climate offers a prime opportunity to test the strengths of new UN resolutions through the International Criminal Courts. My friends, since 9-11, we’ve put the US economy on a path to insolvency, affecting global markets. Your president, Ambassador, added trillions in new debt and plans on doubling that in his second term. America will collapse like a house of cards. We hold the purse strings, gentlemen. Now is our time to advance our cause.”
Gordon began to feel shaken inside at what he was hearing. “Abram, what you’re suggesting invites the possibility of bloodshed—the government against its own people.”
Abram nodded. “In all probability, yes, Ambassador. When all other persuasions fail, total control may have to come from the point of a gun.”
Gordon felt his mood turn somber at that. “Abram, accomplishing a task, as you’ve suggested, isn’t possible unless another 9-11 event occurs. An incident of that magnitude would create your terrorist. Are you suggesting a specific group of people?”
“Correct, Ambassador, and such an event would launch a united front against those terrorist radicals—i.e., the religious types—would it not?” Abram came and stood close to Gordon. �
�America is the one nation that carries the weight and the power to hold us back; we have to eradicate her from the equation. Your country alone, Ambassador, could stalemate decades of our work. Ambassador, I’ve noticed your uncertainty, maybe even regrets. I need to know now, sir, if you’ll follow our lead and be our voice in your government.”
Gordon looked away, thinking, I’ve made my choice. The time has come to pay the ultimate price, cut the cord, and drift off into an uncharted future.
The thought did excite him, but deep inside, he felt a final severing of his own soul from God, family, and country. He looked up and saw Abram’s stern expression.
“No regrets, Abram. I hope you’ll relay that to … well, you know whom I mean. It’s important that he knows my intentions. Will you do that for me?”
Abram smiled and returned to his chair and sat. “He already knows, Ambassador.”
Chapter 29
2:15 a.m.—Wednesday, September 11, 2019
Abram Solomon felt confident about his plan for phase three. His initiative, monumental—and no one would expect his chosen catalyst. Its outcome, the unthinkable. Afterward, terrorists would have a new face.
Public opinions reshaped, malcontents silenced, policies changed, laws made against these new faces of terrorism. Efforts to thwart the formation of the One World Alliance, silenced. What Ambassador Adderley feared was on its way.
Phase three was about to attack the innocent and unsuspecting as they slept snug and warm. The cold breath of death began to blow; temperatures plunged across the entire length of the Ohio River Valley.
In the pitch-black of night, an unseasonably bitter-cold air mass descended over land and waters still warm from the fleeting summer. A billowing, impenetrable fog bank began to form, reducing visibility to zero, baffling meteorologists.
The thick white mist, as if it were a gigantic belching smokestack, swallowed everything in its path from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to Cairo, Illinois, 981 miles away.
Engulfed in the dense fog, a lone riverboat, the Miss Jean, along with her crew of eight men, navigated her way by radar through the murky waters farther downriver.