by J W Brazier
Tears also dripped off Pastor Steve’s cheeks and onto his shirt, anguished over the dire revelations and their future consequences. Sherry dabbed at tears, her head reclining on Steve’s big right shoulder.
Ian alone stood at the fireplace, caressing the amulet around his neck and staring into the comforting blaze. His moments of introspection centered on a time in Palestine with his friend Charles and that specific day in May of 1948.
Pearlette and Gus held each other close, whispering into each other’s ear. Brenda held Joshua’s arm and snuggled close, as if trying to become one with him.
Finally, Glenn rubbed at his damp face and eyes with both hands, then stood and walked to the fireplace. He looked around the room. There wasn’t a dry eye among the group.
“Wow,” Glenn whispered. “That’s powerful stuff.”
“Has anyone besides me wondered why we’re the only ones who know about Ian’s discovery and GEM-Tech’s experiments?” Brenda asked. “The public needs to hear this information.”
Dean nodded. “Mrs. Austin, I’m wondering the same thing, but we’ll have a problem with news of this caliber. Imagine, if you will, the newspaper headlines, ‘Antichrist Cloned in Northern Arkansas.’ Sounds like a cheap tabloid paper at a grocery checkout stand.”
Brenda gave a little smile. “Yes, I see your point. No one would believe us.”
“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Austin,” Dean said.
“Dean, please call me ‘Brenda.’ You’re making me feel old.”
“Well,” Sherry said, “this I know: plans are designed, be it by heaven’s benevolence or hell’s malevolence.”
Pastor Steve smiled and patted his wife’s knee. “Sherry’s correct, which brings emphasis back to Brenda’s question. Are we the only ones who know?”
Intrigued, Glenn wanted to pursue that question. “Elaborate a little further, Pastor.”
Steve stood to stretch his big frame and then joined Glenn at the fireplace.
“Ladies,” Brenda said, “I’d like to fix us something to drink. Care to give me a hand in the kitchen?”
Sherry, Pearlette, and Ann seized on her indirect cue and joined her in the kitchen.
“Glenn,” Steve said, “I’ll paraphrase it this way. The prophet Elijah was having his own little pity party. He wailed at God that he was the only believer left in the land because they’d killed all the other priests and prophets. The Lord told the old man to suck it up, to stop his moaning and complaining. He had seven thousand other souls who’d refused to bow their knees to false gods. Today, I’d call it refusing to bow to tyranny, for lack of a better word. I believe there are others out there who’ll play a different role in this puzzling mystery.”
Glenn smiled at the big man. “Steve, I believe you may be on to something. It rather puts our egos into perspective and who it is that’s in control.”
“You guys are the professionals,” Gus said, “but I’m a layman and deal with the public every day, and they’re saying something else.”
Joshua faced Gus. “Oh? How’s that, Gus?”
“Since you’ve become mayor, you stirred the roaches in the community. They’re coming out of the woodwork. Folks dislike having their moral choices exposed—and don’t dare touch their pocketbooks. You, Joshua, have done both. Living on government handouts is a lifetime occupation for many. They’re like a lifer in prison. Their institutionalized … and lazy. They’re content to suck off the tit of progressive socialist programs. Why give up free money, food, housing, and medical care? Heck, they’re getting free cell phones and a tax refund to boot. Why give all that up if all they have to do is give up their work ethic, morality, and freedom? Progressive politicians promising free stuff for votes appear to be winning.”
“Gus, what did your customers have to say about the terrorist exercises?” Joshua asked.
“Apathy, Joshua. They don’t care, plain and simple. A few thought it was the best thing since sliced bread; others bragged about forming a militia. The bragging was just deluded, puffed-up egos talking. A majority figured the cashless OWN card thing was a real bonanza. They wished it’d become a national ID, like a driver’s license. Now that’s scary. Not one person seemed concerned over that martial law episode or the UN trampling their freedom. People, maybe it’s just me, but I see Congress and the president annulling our freedoms with one progressive agenda after another. It’s all driven by knee-jerk reactions to skewed political polls or horrendous acts of terror.”
The men looked at each other and nodded. Gus had hit the nail square on the head.
“Gus is spot on,” Joshua said. “A few weeks after the election, I met with Governor Clayton, in Heber Springs. That’s where I first met the Abram Solomon mentioned on the tape. They were probing to see if I would be a team player or not when Operation Chameleon started. Since a strong conservative and independent base elected me, they figured that strong base would become an obstacle. Governor Clayton ordered me then to cooperate with the UN and their NGO reps to the fullest. He emphasized that his marching orders came from the president. The UN dictated my jurisdictional limits. The president gave his stamp of approval to the operation with an executive order by means of the Domestic Terrorist Act. So for all intents and purposes, the president knew that during Operation Chameleon, White River was under UN control by foreign nationals.” Joshua turned to Ian and motioned to him with a hand. “Ian, you can jump in here anytime.”
Ian grinned. “Oh no. You guys are doing just fine.”
*
Dean noticed Glenn’s familiar posturing when considering a train of thought: the folded arms and rubbing his chin.
Oh, here it comes, Dean thought. A dangling cigar moving in his mouth would complete this scene.
“Bear with me a moment, men,” Glenn said. “See if this makes sense to any of you. I’m thinking Operation Chameleon and Project Phoenix are connected. I believe the staging for both projects was set in motion with Ian and Dr. Wagner’s Palestine expedition. Israel’s independence in 1948 launched plans for something even bigger.”
The men just stared at Glenn.
“Now, I could be wrong, guys, but hear me out. A successful plan has to have a foundation on which to build. In 1962, a single atheist files suit. The Supreme Court rules against the Bible and prayer in our public schools. Every other religion in the public forum from A to Z is okay, except you can’t mention Jesus Christ. The nation succumbed. Crime of every sort escalated from coast to coast. Generations grew up in an amoral vacuum.
“In the early 1970s, a single individual advanced abortion to the Supreme Court. They finally defined an unborn baby as only a fetus—and nonhuman. Fifty million babies have been slaughtered since then and we’re still counting. And lest we forget, Nazi Germany had Jews declared nonhuman to legitimize the Holocaust.
“Congress and the president are destroying the American economy. My contacts are suggesting, from evidence they’re seeing, that it’s intentional. The president circumvents our Constitution with his socialist progressive agendas. Congress enacts laws against the will of the American people. So goes the US economy, so goes the world. What better way to accelerate a one-world government and one-world currency. Hence, we have the first introduction of a cashless system with the OWN card and implants in White River.
“In every instance I’ve mentioned, progressive socialism and its perversions win the day. A minority rules over the majority while a conservative Christian America remains apathetic and silent. Progressives are stamping out our history and Christian heritage. America is abandoning its foundations as a constitutional republic for a postmodern secular-humanistic society.
“I could go on, but suffice it to say, the American people have succumbed to a postmodern form of tyranny, and absolute truth is now relative. Christianity in America seems to have become a traveling stage show, and everyone is laughing except the true believers in Christ. Pardon my crude pun, gentlemen, but America’s screwed—meaning, game’s over … Elvis has le
ft the building.
“Fast-forward to present day. A UN army on American soil conducts training exercises using UN resolutions in an American city. Bound by laws from an International Criminal Court, our president and his socialist czars gave their nod of approval. They used the excuse for terrorist training to camouflage another experiment into a one-world government. With the help of the president’s media friends, news was stifled from the public and Congress.”
Joshua raised a hand. “Glenn, everything you’ve said—and I’m scared to say it—shows an orchestrated pattern. It’s almost as if it were a series of dominoes, all placed in just the right order ready to fall, given the right push. I’m afraid none of us will like the outcome.”
Glenn nodded. “I agree, Joshua, but let’s keep going. Abram Solomon gets what he and his co-conspirators have been after for years: their DNA source. But why Judas Iscariot? Well, I think I know.
“Enter stage right, the antichrist. He uses Judas Iscariot’s DNA to clone his body and then uses a prostitute mother to bear the clone. Judas betrayed Jesus the first time—and now he’s here a second time to finish the job. He’s mocking God at every turn, or so he thinks.
“Anyway, he’s using Operation Chameleon as a pretense. He wants to explore, probe, and test the biggest obstacle to his world power grab: America. The US has the highest concentration of Christians in the world—another hindrance. Biblical morality in the US, for the most part, is out the window, gone, and socialist humanism is in vogue. A perfect setting or microcosm for a trial run at a world government scenario. A brilliant plan for a One World Alliance, wouldn’t you say?
“I believe our knowledge of this clone’s existence is purposed. White River, gentlemen, in my opinion, was and is a preliminary walkthrough for man’s next big adventure, and we’re smack dab in the middle of its beginning.”
Chapter 38
Ben Archer had exiled FBI special agent Jamal Rashid to an obscure office area at the end of a corridor. Ben’s rude welcome to White River pretty much said: “Here’s your office, Mr. FBI. This is the extent of my assistance. Now stay out of my way.”
Jamal’s broom-closet space accommodated a telephone, a small desk, two chairs, a coat rack, and one file cabinet. Jamal understood the message and knew complaining was useless. The cramped quarters afforded one consolation: distance from the prying eyes of Ben Archer and his flirtatious snooping secretary, Angela Newberry.
When his job became more than he could bear, Jamal kept reminding himself, This assignment is temporary. His directives on the surface seemed simple: stay inconspicuous and participate with UN and local law enforcement. Except later, his job took a dark turn with one piece of dirty business he detested. The terrorist attacks on the Ohio River had provoked the FBI’s resurrection of an old project from 1999. His domestic terrorism unit called it “Megiddo.”
Washington wanted his specific data collected in secret to later enhance the OWN system. His inside associates at the Bureau said preparations were in the mix using that OWN and Megiddo data for an anticipated directive from the president: the distinct possibility of martial law on a nationwide scale.
The day’s Megiddo data lay on the corner of Jamal’s desk in a pile of case folders. He’d confiscated unregistered guns at a large mobile home trailer park ten miles south of White River. Most of the gun owners had been in compliance and carried their OWN cards or had implants, making his job easier.
As instructed, he’d added their incriminating data to the Megiddo files, but wrestled with guilt. Washington was playing fast and loose with American citizens’ Constitutional rights. He felt exploited and used, doing unknown bureaucrats’ dirty work. He’d betrayer the public’s trust.
What disturbed him most were mandates the president had signed from the UN’s International Criminal Courts. A provocative and unusual treatment by UN foreign nationals upon US citizens during the exercise, Jews and Christians in particular. Muslims and illegal aliens got a free pass.
The OWN system flagged citizens by their religious and political affiliations and often detained them by force. Entire families were housed in barracks on GEM-Tech’s property, indicative of old World War II concentration camps. Most returned to their homes in two hours or less. Others experienced a twenty-four-hour overnight stay for further questioning. Some proved cooperative, but then there were the malcontents who forced rougher treatment.
Jamal eased back in his chair and stretched his long legs atop a corner of his desk. “Hate this assignment. I’m glad it’s over,” he muttered, throwing a finished case into the growing pile. He clasped his hands behind his head and rested against the wall, contemplating a wearisome thought.
After ten years in the field, if he’d learned anything with the FBI, he could smell a setup. The deeper his involvement with Operation Chameleon, the more it reeked—the more it seemed designed to fit an off-the-table covert operation.
Think, Jamal. Look at the facts. A few fanatical Christian terrorists made a statement. Why? Or were they Muslim jihadists, disguised and reported as Christian? The planning … the timing was way too convenient. Their precise coordination wasn’t a coincidence.
So what was their motive and purposed outcome? Their strike coincided with the day Operation Chameleon started its final phase—and on the anniversary of 9-11. Way too convenient. Why target the most famous of Muslim holy sites? Was it a provocation, a purposed distraction, or a statement?
He finally gave up on the mental gymnastics, dropped his feet to the floor, and repositioned himself behind the desk to finish his work. A logical answer would emerge sooner or later.
He glanced at a picture of Mayor Austin on the wall by the door. Gazing at the picture, he thought about how the mayor had proven to be a fighter. He’d challenged the UN’s authority to property searches, seizures, and detentions of US citizens. He remembered the mayor’s words from a speech: “None of the UN’s tactics during this exercise supersede the Constitution and the public’s civil liberties.”
He admired the mayor. He stood firm on his principles and wasn’t afraid to buck the UN and the Domestic Terrorist Act. For Jamal, that presented a quandary. He agreed with the mayor.
Jamal checked his watch. It was almost 4:00 p.m. He had one last report to finish when, in mid-sentence, he stopped typing. He had a moment of clarity to questions he’d pondered over earlier.
“That’s it! Of course,” he said aloud. “What better way to take out your opposition than to make them out to be terrorists. Defeat them with their own weapons.”
He had another idea. “Know your enemy” had been his favorite motto for a while. The FBI had taught him techniques to profile a case or individual. He turned, eyeing a Christian Bible lying next to his copy of the Koran given to him by his late father.
Maybe there’s something here I can use. Let’s see … Was it Revelation? No … John the Revelator, he remembered.
He picked up the Bible, stood, and thumbed through its pages, paying little heed to what he read. A few passages seemed to leap off the pages and stopped him cold. He read the verses in red aloud: “‘I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’”
Jamal looked at his father’s gift. He wondered if he was being disrespectful, or worse, an infidel by reading the Bible. He shuffled through more pages, stopping at random in the Gospel of John: “‘No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draws him; and I will raise him up at the last day.’” He thought about the passage, then continued to read. “‘Most assuredly, I say to you, he who believes in me has everlasting life.’”
Jamal slammed the book closed and threw it on the desk.
Joshua Austin’s Christian commitments are no different from my commitments as a Muslim. Or … were they? he wondered. Jesus was a good teacher and prophet, but not the person Christians claimed … or is he?
The red-lettered words were powerful. They’d penetrated his thoughts and haunted him like a recycling catchy tune
you can’t get out of your head.
It’s ridiculous Christian dogma, he thought.
“He isn’t the Mahdi!” he shouted to the book next to the Koran, as if by addressing it, the thing would argue back. Nervous and agitated by the red-lettered words, he shuffled folders, pausing to look at the book and mumble his frustration in Arabic, then slammed the folders on the desk.
“Jamal, it’s a Christian book! Nothing more!” he shouted again.
The thing he couldn’t ignore, those words inspired a joyful sensation of hope and cleansing. He continued arguing with the inanimate book, pacing the small space as if the debate would help clear his conscience.
“I’m of Arab descent, taught and raised Muslim. Get a grip! Don’t be influenced by these infidels.”
Logic and reasoning failed to stay those inescapable words in red. They’d seared his heart and filled a questioning void. He felt lifted out of himself for the first time in his adult life. The words had a life of their own, as if the author had spoken directly to him.
He sat pondering those words, their meaning, repeating them, thinking about each one. Besieged with questioning thoughts, the telephone rang. He grabbed for it, thankful for the interruption.
“Hello. Special Agent Rashid.”
“Agent Rashid! You need to … You need to …”
Recognizing the agitated voice, Jamal jumped to his feet. “Sheriff Frazier! Slow down, take a breath.”
Jamal listened to Sheriff Frazier’s chilling words. Then he grabbed his jacket off the coatrack.
“I’m on my way, Sheriff.”
*
“I’ve got you in my sights now, Austin.”
Ben refocused his .30-30 rifle scope and rechecked the attached laser pointer on a tree stump. He pulled three shells from his jacket pocket and loaded the first cartridge. His hands and fingers trembled.
“Ben! Ben, you see them?”
Ben cursed several times, spooked by the sudden, unexpected shout in his earpiece. He dropped his other two shells into the crushed grass beside him.