The Great Ark

by T. C. Driver

  “What's all this about, Cornelius?” Roger asked.

  “What is what, Roger?” I jokingly inquired.

  Roger shook his head and spoke. “You know, Sir. Our targets, who are they? Why this bombing mission. What the hell are we doing it for?”

  I answered softly. “You mean who's in charge? Who are we? Who's paying us? Who's on what side?”

  “Yes sir! You're old Navy like my Dad. He says we must be the United Nations or something.”

  I bowed my head and spoke. “Roger, I just don't know. We are not the United Nations, I'm sure of that. Roger, I believe we work for a private company with many countries owning stock. Who's paying the freight? Who's in charge? Wish I knew! That's all above my pay grade, Roger. Way above. I'm paid well and my expenses are small. My retirement is set now because of this voyage. I could go home today. I stay on to training you men for the money. Also, I love to fly! That may be wrong. I'm not proud of myself. This ship has been a good deal for me. I’m earning the highest pay of my life.”

  Roger was a well read, yet still young man. This was rare in his 'idiot, brain dead' supposedly 'high-tech' generation. We talked about history back through the Romans to present day. Talking into the late night, sipping red wine that his Dad had 'shipped him' at great expense. I gave him my 'each western generation sends its young people on two year missions of bombing the poor, dumb bastards of the world' speech. Roger said maybe it’s in our blood. We've been doing the same thing over and over in history. Each generation asking, but not knowing the reason why. Roger then spoke my own words back to me about Afghanistan and Vietnam. One hundred years of western troops and now letting the Chinese control it all. When we look back through history and see decade after decade country after country, King after President after Queen. Why the blood? Why the money? Is there no apparent good or sane reason?

  Roger started asking the 'wrong' questions, both in college and in flight briefings. Yes, Roger was, I am sure infected with my own skepticism about the worthiness and Godliness of our ship's mission.

  Roger Mensink was the one and only pilot and first B44 lost during the soon upcoming 'Big Attack' by our unknown, unseen enemy. Was his loss fate? Could his B44 have gone down too fast to eject? Could small arms fire really have taken the plane down? Or was it Joe Coe’s doing? Or even Chief of Staff Friday? I didn't want to think so. I kept these thoughts to my self, but I knew Roger also had them when he died.

  Another grueling two full months passed by after the famous 'Big Attack' before our deployment at Gumbo Station would come to an end. Gumbo was four full months of hitting Africa hard and ugly. We grew ever so weary of war, killing, destruction and blood. I knew the time partly because of my payments 'on line' to my ex-wife Patty back in Virginia. My Patty was the true love of my life! Oh, how I missed her! Each third night when going off duty, I'd call her before heading to the ship's Gospel Cafe, where I'd often stay late. My big, round table was comfortable and relaxed. I became known as the anti-professor or old school. I was soon nick-named by the students. Old school was their favorite.

  This night at my table, Billy Cash and his date, Pretty Penny, both honor students, started off conversation about Osama’s economic stimulus policy. The latest being stimulus number seventeen. Their professor had a theory on his screen during class. His screen used digital chalk.

  “Billy” I said. “Please listen very closely. The fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. Your professor is an ungodly fool; a blooming idiot. Just like the men who invented government stimulus. Did he talk about a sick pervert named John Maynard Keynes? Or a book called the General Theory of Money?

  “No, Cornelius. He just mentioned Keynesian economic models” said Billy.

  “Yes, Billy Cash” I continued. “That's old John Maynard alright. Your sick, progressive professor thinks John is a smart man. In truth, he is a pedophile pervert in full rebellion against God; a fool. I wouldn't follow his directions to the grocery store. Much less let him lead the economic policies of America. What he teaches about fiat based currency, money and banking is a perversion against the teachings of God. Just like his sick lust for sex with young boys. His economic teachings have never worked. They lead to disaster every time they are tried. When I say the old man's a pervert, I'm talking about old men raping five to ten year old boys. Really sick! Look up 'Ole John' on the web tonight and see all of his socialist, communist friends in Europe and Russia. The very type of banking system these ungodly men produced is what keeps modern slavery and serfdom flourishing in this world today. Free men, living in free republics, using real money does not allow slave camps and ungodly kingdoms to grow and prosper. So God's teaching on money, life, work, marriage and sex is always rebelled against. His Holy Bible is always hated.”

  “Billy, this is the basics of how the system works; how John Maynard Keynes teaching have evolved and become destructive. How he still causes pain and misery long after his death. First start off with a ruling government authority, either a socialist elite or a royal owner of a slave camp province. Note that this does not happen in a free republic. This ruler sells the agricultural or industrial wages of his captive serfs or slaves to international groups or companies. They move in and start production of products for sale in Europe or America. Any 'hard currency' will do. Let's say he takes dollars for the goods he ships. This local tyrant pays his workers in some worthless, home currency he prints in his basement, usually made with pictures of himself or his wife (ha-ha). His slaves can't buy anything worldwide because they are paid starvation wages in phony money, which is only good at the tyrant's company store. Like the old coal miner's song ' Sixteen Tons' and what do you get? You have heard horror stories about people working for wages of $2.00/month. This fiat money slave system is why. This ruler, or king, then makes profits in dollars and holds them in his bank, making him a servant of our bank and our government. Our leaders will now lend him any amount of printed dollars, even put troops in his country, to keep him in power. If his slaves do a good job, Americans are then shipped products at very cheap, high profit rates. We send this ruler fiat money i.e.; 'pictures of our favorite presidents'. If he demanded gold, we could not buy things from him very often, because we are broke. Real money speaks truth and says man's most hated word: no. so, this ruler accepts fiat money; our just printed, paper money. When this ruler comes to America for a visit, he deposits his profits of dollars in our National Bank. These deposits of his are falsely called the U.S. National Debt. His deposit slip, or 'CD' is falsely called a Treasury bond. To a bank, a deposit is a liability. That interest must be paid on. A loan is the sale of money for profit. Our U.S. Bank (privately owned) is called the Federal Reserve Bank. It lends out the slave owner's deposit for a profit, but we the taxpayers, must pay the interest on his deposit. Why? Why ask why? The people who own our Bank also control our government. Yes, America does have a King; the stock owners of the Federal Reserve Bank. Who are they? What do they hold in reserve? I don't know. Do you?”

  “Phony fiat money (by government decree), or simply counterfeit money, is needed to keep the slave camps of the world open. Money must always be printed. Also, we Americans get some cheap buys at Walmart. Have you ever thought how do they do it? How can it be so cheap? Slavery, yes, simple enough, we live ' high on the hog' off the misery of enslaved, non-free people. By doing so, we will soon lose our own rights and freedom to their wealthy, world wide owners. The deposits into our National Bank made by these worldwide slave owners (or even our own fellow citizens) called treasury bills have no connection to a balanced budget whatsoever. T-bills can be sold and would be offered even during a budget surplus. Our Treasury and Fed are playing a shell game, just like the bum on a side street. Our big trading partners, are not fools, they don’t want to make a deposit, in a small branch office. They know one bank controls our note. T-bills are overseen and daily managed by the 'open market committee' or “the window” as bank and money supply sees fit. The Congress of the United States does not
even have the right or power to look at the king's books, much less control what is done, in his bank. Yes, our unknown king is above our laws like all true kings. Our currency is a bank note controlled by special interest groups owning the Federal Reserve Bank. Our Treasury Department and the Fed Bank can both print dollars. My question is simple. How much printed money will the market stand before collapse? When Washington spends more money than it takes in by taxes, this deficit small or large is always an inflation of the currency. This overdraft is always' printed money'! In relatively small amounts, it is not costly. This spending is always paid for by inflation or a loss of value to the currency. This money is not borrowed from anybody and it has nothing to do whatsoever with deposits made into the king's bank. Someone making a deposit does not 'make up for' overspending just because you write 'Fed' instead of Treasury on your dollar bills. Presidents Lincoln and Kennedy both tried printing treasury dollars. They did not live long after doing so. This unknown king of ours is very powerful!”

  “Free men, with real money and honest banking, trade with each other openly and freely. Slaves can't buy anything. Our money with Presidents on it is really no better than what the local dictator prints in his basement. We prop up his slave camp and the slave owner is stuck with our just printed dollars. In short, counterfeit money makes possible the world's slave camps.”

  “There is a group of economists who call themselves the Monetarist they are the so-called competitors to the Keynesian theory. Monetarists are only better by half. The favor the Fed bank money printing and control over direct spending (printing). The socialist Keynesian men, mostly democrats, are printing money and writing checks to every wino and bum in America, trying to buy enough votes to stay in power. Both groups are perpetuating a counterfeiting scheme to enrich themselves on the backs of third world slaves; who are often children tied to machines in sweat shops.”

  “Slave camps have managed to sell the world over one half of its manufacturing needs. Free men can not often compete. That is why your city manhole cover says 'Made in India', your clothes say 'Made in China', and your auto parts say 'Made in Mexico'. And why America has gone out of business. Free trade is good for wealth creation, but slavery lowers demand and wealth in the end, because slaves live poor lives; they cannot buy. Slaves are poor consumers; poor customers. The foundation of our money system is and has been against the teaching of God as written in his Holy Bible. Evil men have simply 'cut the coin'. John Maynard was not a wise man. God's ways work. John Maynard's ways will lead to a fall. The ungodly democratic, socialist party of Osoma is now finding this old counterfeiting scheme collapsing around them by its own weight. Surprise! God's way works! Man's way leads to destruction! Who could have known? Billy, you've got to stand for something or you're gonna fall for anything!”

  Billy Cash, tears in his eyes started to leave. “We can't talk about the Bible, Cornelius. Schools are against the Bible. People would laugh at us; ridicule us! Professors hate it. We would likely flunk our courses if we stood up for God.”

  “Yes, I know, Billy” I said, shaking my head. “There is no hope for America to come back. We have lost her.”

  Could nothing be done? Giant pictures of Osoma stood everywhere. The Bible, The Constitution and the Ten Commandments were all gone.

  The next three days of flying patrol was routine. Our second 'lost' plane was from extremely heavy, small arms fire from a so called 'private ship'. The ship looked like an old U. S. Navy frigate. Ships sold for cheap when the American Navy closed up, most for less than scrap price. The rapid fall of American power and influence was frightening. What or who would replace America? The Great Ark was part of this power vacuum for sure. What would the world come to? Sink down to?

  Sarah and I were sitting at my table early one evening waiting for the music to start at the Gospel Cafe. She had arrived first and waved me over as I walked by on deck. Being this early was not normal. It was very strange and out of character for her. Sarah was eating the Cafe's famous macaroni shrimp salad. I ordered pinto beans and cornbread with onions. Plus, I ate half of hers, which was our custom. A tall, lanky, Yankee, black Gospel Singer named Mike Russell (from Brooklyn) was sitting in with the house band and packing in an extra large, overflow capacity crowd at the Cafe! Mike was likable, talented and very popular on ship. He had a very different music style.

  To my surprise, Captain Joe Coe joined his daughter, Sarah, and I at our table dressed in casual street clothes. Captain Coe ordered wine and fruit salad. Not from the Gospel Cafe menu, but rather his personal cook and private stock. Stage music was dialed back to two/thirds its usual volume by the wave of Joe Coe's hand. His 'man Friday' was seated with a few other fellows across the room. Friday was a balding, thin, black man, Joe's chief of staff, and, yes, Friday was his real name.

  Captain Coe was blunt and to the point, as always. “I'm looking for some volunteers, Cornelius, for a landing party to India. It leaves in three days, one more duty cycle. The ship's next port of call will be the Australian International Spaceport supply harbor. We will train two semesters of college freshmen, just like we did in Brazil. I'd like to keep you as a flight instructor, Cornelius, but I need four people in India. There's a big air show coming up. Stunt flying like you did back in old days. Details will be given to you by Goldwater. Glancing to the table with Friday sitting across the Cafe, I then quickly recognized Paul Goldwater, my ex brother-in-law. This was a 'small world' moment of sucking disappointment. He was a VPI professor who married the older sister of my wife. Paul's a small, smart, girly man with tiny hands and a selfish, only child nature. He did, to his credit, have a good sense of humor.

  I mentioned not my knowing of Goldwater, because I could tell Sarah was going on this assignment also and I didn't want that little squirrel Paul knocking me off the list. Knock me off he would do, as soon as he knew about me. This family feud goes way back. Just to make sure Paul didn't 'find me out', I skipped all the briefings that he called. The next three days were spent on an intense air raid bombing campaign. Multiple sorties per shift, as if to use up our bullets before Gumbo Station time drew to a close. Twelve of our predator drones had already left the Ark, I presumed to another carrier replacing us. This increased the almost frantic pace of our flight schedule, and made it easier, yes, even possible, to avoid my ex brother-in-law right up to the last minute (ha-ha).

  My last bombing run at Gumbo Station was very disturbing to me. This is not good for a professional warrior. A man can't let it get too personal. We blew up a tall dam holding back a deep blue, fresh water reservoir. I could see a young couple standing on the dam overlook outside a red Isuzu pick-up truck just before my bombs hit the cement dam face just below them. My whole squad, five more B44s behind me also drilled the dam face.

  These General Sherman-like methods made me sick at heart and stomach. How precious water was in this arid climate of Africa. We fly boy warriors killed thousands of Africans with our bombs. Yes we did our level best but the truth is we were small fries in the killing game. The big, and most cost effective, killers were dirty water, AIDS, starvation, disease (malaria) by insects (by stopping DDT), civil and religious wars and of course, free abortion. World leaders are depopulating Africa. For some reason or other, elite humanist, false science environmentalists have decided that Africa must be saved from humans to save the world. Killing off all the Africans has been a top world priority for over sixty years.

  Our ship's first experimental use of 'Beetle Bombs' started this last week of Gumbo Station'. These 'beetles' were large and black. They could clean corpses down to clean, white bone quickly, a marvel to watch on damage assessment photos. I thought of all the pain and death inflicted on others by yours truly and men like me. All from the safe cockpit I loved so much. I tried to pray for forgiveness, but I knew I wasn't truly repentant and therefore, totally unworthy of God's gift of grace.

  The next morning I would board a helicopter, saying goodbye once more to the terrible horrors and smells of w
ar, hopefully, for the last time. My heart was no longer that of a warrior. Knowing how and when to quit was not so easy. While running across the flight deck towards my chopper, I was against the light. The tower said nothing, thank God. I jumped in and slammed the chopper door shut, even as the big bird wound up for take-off from the ship. Sitting in the back seat already was Paul Goldwater, Sarah and Unk, a loudmouthed, Ukrainian, light skinned black man nick-named the weasel' by Captain Coe. Riding shotgun was the head of aircraft maintenance, Marshall (Duck) Moore, an Irish American who was hell to work for, but a great storyteller. Who the pilot was, I still don't know. Some Boeing company guy, I believe. This masked, mystery pilot wore a complete Blackhawk weapons system helmet, but was flying a Bell cargo chopper with no weapons. I wondered, what's up with that? Who would use that big, old heavy helmet?

  Paul Goldwater, across the seat from me, shook his head and said “Oh, God! It is you! Call Coe! Let me out of this damn chopper! *#*#*#*#*#*#*

  “Too late, now, boss” I said with a smile. While thinking to myself. At least that little creep Paul Goldwater was across the seat!

  Thank God for small and large blessings. And so began my great Indian adventure!

  Chapter 3 Lost in India

  Our chopper landed on a small refueling island in the middle of the vast Indian Ocean a long seven hours later. Goldwater and I ate lunch away from the others only to trade verbal stabs with each other. Where's the love (ha-ha)? Yes, family, but neither one of us was looking forward to working together. Maybe without the evil stepsister duo, Sissy and Debbie, we two men could at least not kill each other on this trip.

  “Keep your hands off of me, Paul” I shouted! Truly, we two old men (fools) nearly came to blows. Unk, Sarah and Paul each ordered a sub and a large pizza to go. 'Duck', or Marshall Moore, ordered a sub and two large pizzas with bread sticks; a deal. I thought this ' a bit much', but ordered pizza for myself, also. I guess Subway and Pizza Hut are worldwide now. This island was no more than a big sand bar in the middle of the endless, blue ocean waves. We landed in India; again, seven hours later, another island (still not mainland) and fueled again. This stop we had only a porta-potty break. Each leg of our journey was seven hours long. This transport chopper used the old fifty-five gallon drum fuel tank extension method from Vietnam that I had not seen in years. We were all cramped and cranky. By the end of this leg, I would have more respect for our strange, masked pilot. This raspy voiced Darth Vader pilot became our trusted ally, but never a friend. The mystery pilot's voice roared ' As in the days of Noah, so shall it be' painfully chilling everyone on board to the bone with fear. This dark, soggy, monsoon night was thick, wet, dreary and long. When we finally landed next to three large hangers, we had again traveled a span of seven hours. Three diminished, dusk to dawn lights, one on the front of each hangar, fought for our attention, each trying to shine through the heavy buckets of downpour. Water stood on the football field size pavement over six inches deep, which miserably soaked our footwear as we ran. The wind and constant heavy rain were unmerciful; endless. Each of us was totally spent, soaked and cranky, even Duck (haha). Each person was glad to be free of our chopper prison hell.