by J W Brazier
“Sir, I believed I was acting in your best interests, as always. I’m sorry my actions have displeased you.”
“Abram, have you forgotten what I taught you?
“No, sir.”
Abram felt himself start to sweat. His thoughts jumbled into a cloud of confusion at his superior’s harsh rebukes.
“Abram, seeds of doubt trample faith. Doubt is our best weapon. It questions religion’s validity and loosens its restraints. Doubt is a tried-and-true method. Keep a person focused on self-centeredness, pleasures, and they’ll soon aggrandize their own intellectual superiority. Attack their will and emotions: those are the things that must be destroyed—not polarizing their resolve through persecution.”
“I understand, sir.”
“No, I don’t think you do, Abram. You’re my employee. You do not lead, you follow—something you’ve proved difficult to grasp. A person’s free will should be your focus, an essential lasting ingredient, never forced or coerced, even when faced with death. Persecution is free will’s opposite, and is short lived, which your actions on the Ohio River spawned. When free will rejects religious fantasies and chooses me, that choice is a savory prize indeed and eternal.”
“Oh, no, sir! I do understand, but you promised me if I would—”
“Promised, Abram? Power, wealth, and a long life were your wishes, and I gave them to you … and can take them away. I’m disappointed with your choices of late. Very unsatisfactory, Mr. Solomon. You’ve forgotten your place.”
“Sir, I apologize. It won’t happen again.”
“You’ve served me well since the day of my arrival in that Arkansas community, and I’m grateful for your nurturing during my times of maturing. And, with considerable regret, you’re correct: it won’t happen again. Your choice of using Miss Holland was another regrettable error in judgment that I can’t excuse. A group of individuals, because of Miss Holland’s actions, now know of my existence. Before they can mobilize others into an army of resistance, I’ll have to deal with them, all because of your bungling.”
Abram wanted to say something but held his tongue.
“You’ve allowed Mr. Ian Taylor to live even after I gave you implicit orders to leave no trace of my existence. Another error in judgment. It’s unfortunate, but your rebellion is inexcusable. There are penalties for those who fail me, Mr. Solomon.”
The telephone went silent.
“Sir! Sir!” Abram shouted.
Abram’s gut twisted within, and he felt like a man trapped in rising floodwaters, unable to escape, knowing he was about to drown. The one he’d chosen as his lord had just hung up on him.
Is he that angry? Abram wondered. No … No, he’s just upset. But … what did he mean by “penalties”?
Abram settled back in his seat, his thoughts still racing, his stomach still churning. The thought that he couldn’t correct his errors and fix the problem simply terrified him. He knew whom it was that he served.
He wouldn’t hurt me. He needs me, he reasoned.
Without warning, a violent shudder rippled the length of the airplane’s fuselage. Engines sputtered and stopped.
“We’ve lost power and hydraulics!” the pilot shouted over the speakers. “Brace yourself!”
“No!” Abram shouted. “Nooo!”
The jet nosed down in an uncontrollable death spiral, shaking as if being torn apart in the turbulent air. The pilot and copilot, it seemed, couldn’t regain glide control.
Abandoned by his master, Abram felt horrific terror as it held him in its icy grip. He couldn’t control the unfolding events, and he wrestled with the inescapable certainty of his imminent death.
Loose objects soon became flying projectiles thrown about the plane, slamming and crashing around Abram. He gripped the armrests, his seat belt strained at his stomach, and then a horrible wailing shriek and growling noise filled the cabin.
A pitch-black boiling mist mixed with flaming red hues appeared toward the cockpit door and moved in Abram’s direction. Horrible figures stepped out of that mist. And it wasn’t just smoke. There was no mistaking the origin of the dark shadows or the numbing truth that they’d come for him.
“No oh no no noooo!” Abram shouted, then followed with a string of curses.
The ancient Hebrew writings, he knew well, and their implications upon the souls of men were true. He’d rejected them as myths and legends. In his last few moments of life, he grappled with the certainty of his choice and that it was eternal. And that choice would haunt him ten thousand fold.
“Oh, God, please, no! Oh God, please don’t let them. No!” Abram called out to the God he’d spurned.
The shrieking dark figures now engulfed him. He could smell their putrid odors and he felt their claws. Abram screamed and now cursed God. His fight, a futile effort against the dark shadows. He gasped for breath, trying to speak, raising a trembling hand, and looking heavenward one last time.
The luxury jet plunged into the sea. The doomed plane’s sudden impact and explosion muffled the screams of its occupants. In the end, Abram Solomon lost his eternal soul, deceived by his chosen master.
Chapter 36
“Farnsworth, where are you? Are you in position?”
Ben adjusted the microphone hooked over his right ear, listening for George. Farnsworth, though, didn’t respond. So Ben spoke louder.
“George, talk to me, man!”
“We’re almost there.”
Ben breathed a sigh of relief. “You see any security around the house?”
“No, nothing yet. But we’re not in a good spot. I’ll let you know in a few minutes,” George replied, panting for breath.
Ben leaned on a large red oak tree to rest. The climb over hills and through dense woods had already drained his strength.
In recent years, Olivia had pleaded to take his doctor’s advice serious. “Wives are always nagging,” he’d grumbled. Ben’s doctors, though, had indeed warned him. Two arteries had over 90 percent blockage. He was a walking heart attack waiting to happen, but he wouldn’t listen to his estranged wife or doctors.
Now, anger, revenge, and distorted pride drove Ben to seek his own brand of retribution. Joshua Austin had cost him money and position. Ben picked up his high-powered rifle and slung it over his shoulder. Skin flushed and breath labored, he struggled through the thick underbrush toward the Austin home.
“Ben, don’t do this.”
He froze upon hearing a male voice, then pulled the rifle off his shoulder and held it at the ready. Whoever had spoken, he was close. Ben searched the woods, turning slow in all directions.
I’m not crazy. Someone’s out there, watching.
“Who’s there? Come on out and show yourself.”
No reply or sound.
In those tense moments, Ben felt the blood pulsating in his temples. Unnerved, but cautious, he slung the rifle back to his shoulder and moved toward his target.
*
George Farnsworth’s men maneuvered their way through the woods’ tangled undergrowth. He’d managed with little effort to entice six other co-conspirators—all lowlife bar thugs.
Before the UN soldiers had departed White River, George pilfered military radio headsets for each of his men. Junior Boggs, the group’s point man, crouched low, then crawled up a small embankment six hundred yards from the Austin home. Two dogs barked near the house.
“Farnsworth, you hear that?” Junior whispered into his mic.
“Yeah, Junior, I hear them,” George said. “We gotta take those critters out. Joe Bob, get your fat butt up there with Junior. Stay out of sight and pick a good spot. Take those dogs out.”
“Got ya, boss,” Joe Bob said. “I’m on my way.”
“Junior, you see any security people?” George asked.
“Nope, nary a thing.”
“Keep your eyes peeled,” George said. “All of you keep alert. Austin has some good-sized men hiding out. They could be anywhere.”
*
Roger
Pauley sat at his computer, engrossed with polishing a script for his on-air Sunday editorial: “Intolerant America and the Coming New World Order.” He glanced up, feeling someone watching him. He peeked over his glasses to see his boss standing in his office doorway.
“Mr. Kennedy. I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t see you standing there. Come in and have a seat.”
Andrew Kennedy, sole owner of Channel 13, kept a close eye on his station’s activities and quality of news broadcasts. He’d allowed his station manager and employees wide liberties with day-to-day operations. When those hard and final decisions needed his attention, though, Andrew stayed on call, even though he was now seventy-two years old. He visited once a month with the station manager unless on vacation, which was frequent. A semi-retired, but happy married man, he stayed away enjoying quality time with his wife of fifty years. Today was one of the days he had come to work.
Andrew extended his hand. Roger grasped and released his firm handshake. Then Andrew sat in a chair across from Roger, crossed his legs, and began.
“Roger, I apologize for barging in unannounced.”
“Oh, not at all, sir, you’re the owner. You can do as you wish.”
“No, Roger, that’s not true, but there are times when I have to say ‘Enough.’ That’s why I’m here today.”
Roger felt like a hammer had slammed into his chest, wondering what he could have done to bring the owner into his office.
“I … I’m at a loss, sir. I don’t understand?”
“Roger, I’ll cut to the chase. It saves both of us energy and time. I’ve had a little chat this morning with your former station manager, Ed Bailey. A nefarious trend is developing in our news reporting that concerns our viewers—and me. I’m receiving a great many complaints, all concerned about a central issue.”
“Former” station manager? Roger mused.
“Uh … Problems, sir? I wasn’t aware of a problem. Our Nielsen ratings are off a bit, but we have a talented staff that can correct our slump.”
Andrew waved a hand in the air. “Mere numbers, Mr. Pauley, but to be frank, ratings aren’t my immediate concern. Channel 13’s foundation, from it first day on the air, rested on truth and integrity. We strived to earn the viewers’ trust with fair and balanced programming. Thus, our employees should never interject their own bias, partisan political proclivities, or religious views. We don’t interpret or present a predisposed sense of truth or conclusion, even with editorials or commentaries. Am I getting through to you, Mr. Pauley?”
Roger cut his eyes at Andrew. “I believe you’re overstepping your bounds, Mr. Kennedy. How dare you dictate anything. The world’s changing. Progressive journalism dominates the airwaves. You need to get on board.”
Andrew looked at Roger, smiled, and stood. He stepped closer to Roger’s desk. “You’re one gold-plated, conceited, arrogant jerk, I’ll give you that, Mr. Pauley.”
Roger felt his face grow hot. He stood up and opened his mouth to speak, but Andrew raised his hand.
“Ah, ah, don’t speak yet, Roger. I’m almost through here.”
Roger settled back into his chair, biding his time, and then he’d unleash. He remembered that his contract gave him wide liberties.
“Good journalists, and I emphasize the word ‘good,’ strive to stay neutral. Professional journalists write and report truthful facts whether good, bad, liked, or disliked by their audience. Journalists’ personal views are and should stay personal and private. Broadcast news stays within the context of a truthful foundation, not inclined conjectures or regurgitating a popular biased politically correct agenda.
“Without question, they should never engage in religious slandering, bigotry, or racism of any kind. Never should our employees try to sway public opinion to a particular political party or agenda.
“Operation Chameleon, it appears, brought out your true colors, Mr. Pauley. The media is a powerful tool. In the wrong hands, it can be a mighty weapon without mercy. It can be an instrument wielded, attacking anyone or anything it chooses, almost without impunity.
“My station and its employees will conduct themselves and my business in a professional manner. This station will not engage in dishonest political sensationalism, Mr. Pauley.”
“Are you finished, Mr. Kennedy?” Roger asked, ready to flex his muscles.
Andrew, though, shook his head. “No, I’ve got one more item of business, and then I’ll be done.”
An impish smile curled the corners of Mr. Kennedy’s mouth. He turned and walked to Roger’s office door, then turned inside its threshold. Roger waited, waiting to unleash his temper. But then two tall sheriff’s deputies appeared and stood behind Andrew Kennedy.
“You’re fired, Mr. Pauley. I want you out of my building and off my premises in quick order. These deputies will assist your departure. Now, Roger, I’m done. You have a nice day.”
*
After a wonderful meal, Ann and Dean separated from the crowd to enjoy each other’s company on the back porch. In the kitchen, Brenda and Sherry chatted and cleaned up dinner dishes. The children played in their rooms.
Joshua, Glenn, Steve, and Ian had moved to the den, relaxing and discussing a range of topics. Ian Taylor entertained them with adventurous tall tales of his relic-hunting days from around the world.
“How long will you be in town, Mr. Boyd?” Steve asked.
“I leave for New York on Monday morning. I wish I had more time, but my magazine needs their editor present.” Glenn took a few steps to stand by Ian. “Ian, as you know, Deborah and I dated years ago. She cherished your friendship, and I miss her to this very day. I envy your years of friendship with her. Thank you for sharing a few of those fond memories with me. Next time I’m out this way, I’d like to visit with you, if that would be okay?”
“Glenn, I’d be honored and would love to have you.”
Glenn nodded, then turned back toward the others.
“Glenn, you’re a believer, aren’t you?” Steve asked.
Glenn smiled, figuring the big man had to ask that question or he’d bust. “Yes, Steve, I am, for several years, thanks to Deborah.”
“Forgive my big friend, Glenn,” Joshua said. “He’s always on the job.”
Glenn gave a little smile, then nodded and moved to the fireplace.
Ian noticed Glenn seemed nervous. Something was on his mind. He figured his new friend would come to it soon enough.
*
The allure of Dean’s intimate moments alone with Ann made his heart soar, but he felt awkward and tense. Ann played with her hands. She hoped he’d open up and say what was on his mind.
He’s acting like a nervous schoolboy asking a girl to the prom, she thought.
But Dean just couldn’t get the passionate words that burned in his heart to come out of his mouth. The living room’s double French door windows drew his attention away. Their moment alone became awkward.
Through the glass, Dean noticed that Glenn had begun to pace, while Ian stood at the fireplace, arms folded and looking amused by Glenn’s edgy behavior. Dean recognized his boss’s posturing with one missing ingredient: the unlit cigar. Dean turned and looked back at Ann, then reached out and took her hand, realizing he’d let his opportunity pass.
“Ann, would you mind if we went inside? My boss looks agitated and I still have a few questions for Ian.”
“Sure, I understand. I need to help the ladies anyway,” she said with a forced smile, but then, while walking beside him, she thought, No, I don’t understand.
The two came inside. Ann headed to the kitchen and the inquisitive ladies. Dean strolled into the living room, grinning like a young boy experiencing his first crush.
“Well, well, Mr. Cohen. You’ve decided to join our discussions,” Joshua said.
Feeling embarrassed, Dean crossed the room and stood next to Glenn at the fireplace. Glenn smiled, but said nothing, and then turned his attention to the men in the room. He figured, given the relaxed atmosphere, a discussion of O
peration Chameleon and the GEM-Tech experiments was fair game.
“Joshua, Ian, mind if I ask each of you a few questions?” Glenn asked.
Ian smiled. “Depends on what they are, Glenn. I’ll try.”
“By all means Glenn, ask away,” Joshua said.
“Well, for starters, I assume everyone present has listened to Deborah Holland’s tapes,” Glenn asked. “Is that correct?”
Joshua nodded. “Yes, we all have. A powerful testimony to her involvement with GEM-Tech’s bizarre science experiment.”
“Powerful indeed, Joshua,” Glenn said. “A successful genetic reproduction experiment occurring in 1980. Bizarre, perhaps, but today, it’s reality.”
“Mr. Boyd,” Steve said, “cloning another human couldn’t have happened in 1980. That requires sophisticated technology that just didn’t exist then.”
Glenn nodded. “Correct, Steve. I also wondered about that same thing, until I started digging. But the scientists I contacted all agreed that, yes, it was possible. But it’d take money, scientific talent, donor quality, and sophisticated technology, as you’ve said.”
“But, Glenn,” Joshua said, “Deborah’s tapes didn’t declare outright whether Project Phoenix was successful.”
“Correct. She discussed in detail about possible disease cures through DNA manipulation in embryonic reproduction, but nothing about its results.”
Ian reached out and touched Glenn’s shoulder. “Glenn, you’re forgetting. There’s another reason Deborah sent her tapes to you. She reached out to explain her actions and decisions to more than a friend. Deborah loved you and told me as much on many occasions. You’re a fortunate man, Glenn Boyd. I envy you.”
Glenn’s eyes grew moist. “Thank you for reminding me. Deborah was a different woman before GEM-Tech’s Project Phoenix. It was love at first sight.”
Ian smiled and patted Glenn’s shoulder. “She said the same thing.”
Glenn saw Ann venture into the living room from the kitchen. The moment he feared had arrived.