I, Judas

by Bob Mayer

  It is the world’s largest monolith, rising three hundred and eighteen meters above the desert floor with a circumference of over eight kilometers. The Aborigine believe that there is a hollow below the rock and it gives off an energy they call Tjukurpa—the ‘dream time.’ They believe the area is inhabited by ancestral beings that helped form the world. Unlike most religions, the Aborigines do not have a creation myth—they believe the world has always existed. However, they do believe that these great ancestral beings, resembling humans, plants and animals, rose up from the formless Earth ages ago and shaped the land and all that walk upon it. These beings wandered aimlessly and carried out various tasks—many of which the Aborigine still do, such as camping, making fire, digging for water, etc. When these beings became tired, the ‘dream time’ ended.

  However, they left their mark everywhere, and thus the current Aborigine constantly have contact with the past and the formation. It shapes their way of life. At least it did until the coming of the white man.

  In the center of the Joint Defense Space Research Facility is a control building with eight large dishes evenly spaced around it. They were pointed toward the sky at various altitudes and directions. One of the dishes was linked to the Hubble Space Telescope on a continuous basis, monitoring every image the Hubble picked up. This fact was unknown to the Flight Operations Team (FOT) at the Space Telescope Science Institute in Baltimore, Maryland, which controlled the Hubble. In effect, this dish was spying on fellow Americans from the other side of the world.

  Inside the air-conditioned comfort of the control building, a United States Air Force Colonel watched his monitors with the bored gaze of a civilized man who'd been in the desert much too long, and didn’t see any beauty or spirituality in it. Besides the Hubble data, he was also forwarding intercepted data from the Australian airwaves to the National Security Agency Headquarters at Fort Meade, Maryland. It was illegal, not to mention impolite, for the guest Americans to be spying on their Australian hosts, but such was the reality of the world. Not that there was much of any worth to be picked up. Nor was Australia considered a likely threat to the United States, so the overall status of his mission was a relatively low priority in the big scheme of the American intelligence community, especially given the focus on the War on Terror.

  That was all going to change very shortly.

  A series of images on a live downlink from the Hubble began to pop up on the screen. The colonel checked the small data box on the bottom and saw that the Hubble was currently running a tasking for NASA, taking images of a specified section of the sky. The colonel stared as one image stayed on screen, and then zoomed, meaning that the scientist controlling Hubble had found something of interest.

  There was a small point of light in the center of the image. Not a star. The colonel knew that right away from having seen tens of thousands of Hubble images. It was too large and too bright. The colonel checked the direction that Hubble was pointed. Whatever it was taking pictures of was not one of the outer planets, removing the next obvious reason for the light.

  The colonel tapped some commands into the keyboard, accessing the computer in Maryland that the scientist was using, without the scientist being aware that he was being monitored.

  Time delay imagery. The colonel nodded. The scientist was trying to see if the object in the photographs was moving. Photos just minutes apart were being super-imposed over each other, and the computer was checking if there was the slightest difference in position.

  The colonel bolted upright as the answer came back. The object was indeed moving. Fast. Fast enough that a difference could be noted at such a great distance in just a few minutes, not hours.

  The computer was also analyzing the time lapse against the background of stars trying to get an estimate on range to the object. The quick deduction by the machine placed the object at a distance from Earth that put it relatively close, and above the course of Earth’s ellipse around the sun.

  The Colonel shook his head. That was impossible. He checked the computer. That section of sky had been scanned just two days ago, and there had been nothing noted. How could this thing have appeared literally out of nowhere? He moved up the timeline. It had not been there two hours ago, the last time that section had been checked.

  A red light on the console blinked; the scientist in Baltimore was doing something else. The colonel checked. The scientist was having the computer estimate the object’s trajectory. A red line shot forward from the object’s latest image, cutting down through the Solar System.

  “Damn,” the Colonel whispered as he saw that the red trace came very close to Earth’s location.

  Not just very close. The Colonel blinked as a green orbital line was extended from the small blue dot representing Earth. The scientist was extending the planet’s orbit. It intersected exactly with the red line. At the same time. Where the two met, the point began to blink.

  The Colonel spun about in his chair and ran to another console. It was lined with dozens of locked metal covers. He fumbled with the chain around his neck and retrieved a key. He slid it into the metal cover labeled FOT HUBBLE. He unlocked the cover and slammed his palm down on the red button inside.

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Two of the men wore finely tailored business suits. The rest were in the garb of the clergy of their various denominations. They were the Central Council of the Brotherhood whose lives were dedicated to their faith. The Head of the Brotherhood wore a black cassock, unadorned with sign of office or particular religious affiliation. His head was bare, his fingers unadorned with jewelry.

  There was a low murmur in the room, all wondering why they had been summoned with no notice at the highest priority. It was an hour after midnight in Atlanta, and the building below them was empty of all workers except for a rather significant amount of security personnel. There were twelve men in the room, and some had served for over five decades, the newest member for only eleven years. They were seated around an oval table. The chatter ceased as the Head stood. The room they were gathered in was on the top floor of a modern office building that housed the Brotherhood’s headquarters. The walls were thick, and the room had just been swept to make sure it was clear of listening devices. There were no windows, and the only light came from deep-set halogens that illuminated everything in an even, low glow. The building was located less than five miles from Atlanta International Airport, and several of the men gathered in the room had just flown in on private jets.

  “My Brothers in true faith,” the Head began, but then paused, a most unusual thing for a man who was never known to be at a loss for words. Finally, he settled on three simple words: “Are you ready?”

  The atmosphere in the room went from electric to nuclear. Several men fell to their knees, hands clasped. The Head held up a hand to quiet the others. “There is not much time. The great cosmic missile of destruction sent by God, Wormwood, has been spotted. The estimate is that it will strike our planet in less than three days.”

  Once more, the room dissolved into bedlam. These were men who were used to control and power, but even though they had prayed every day about this, the reality was more than any had anticipated.

  “Three days, my brothers,” the Head pressed on, voice rising over and silencing the others. “Not years. We knew that there would be some variances, but we had not expected this. We must remember, though, that Peter wrote: ‘with the Lord one day is as a thousand years and a thousand years as one day.’ So we must accept that years can be days if it is God’s will.” The Head’s voice shifted, going a level deeper. “’And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as if it were a lamp and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters; and the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became Wormwood and many men died of the water, because they were made bitter.’”

  Every man in the room had those words and many more memorized. It was what their life was dedicated to. Th
e Head continued. “The third trumpet was blown by the third angel, so perhaps that is why we only have three days. And Wormwood is the sign of the sixth seal, a cosmic catastrophe. When we first formed, we accepted that all the prophecies were words built around an event. It was the event that was important, not the words. For they were words made by men. It is God who is truth and the One who makes the events happen. And only God can know the complete truth. So, the number of trumpets and seals and the order, that is for God to know. But we do know what we must do.”

  “What of the Great Commission?” one of the men in a suit called out. He was among the richest and most powerful men in America, and it was his financing that had allowed them to begin work on the Great Commission Project many years ago.

  The Head nodded. “That is still our primary mission. As soon as I heard of this sign, I contacted the Project Director, Brother Abaku. I told him he had less than three days to be ready. He assured me that it will be difficult, but it will be done.” The Head smiled. “It is divine will. The launch from the Guiana Space Centre to complete the last step has been scheduled for tomorrow for over two years. I do not believe Wormwood appearing now and giving us three days is a coincidence.”

  “There are no coincidences in God’s world,” one of the men said in a deep voice that had resounded from many a pulpit and was well known to hundreds of millions of fundamentalists around the world.

  The Head nodded. “No, there are not. I take the timing as a fortuitous sign that God absolutely favors our plan.”

  “We are indeed blessed,” one of the others cried out.

  The Head noticed that one of the men wearing a suit was not as caught up as the others. He made eye contact and the man cleared his throat, the others slowly turning toward him.

  “How long ago was Wormwood spotted?” the man asked.

  “It was picked up by the Hubble seven hours ago.”

  “Seven hours ago,” the man wondered out loud. “How come the media hasn’t reported this?”

  “As soon as Wormwood was spotted by the Hubble,” the Head explained, “the National Security Agency shut down the Flight Operations Team in Baltimore that controls the space telescope. The building was locked down from the outside, and the staff on duty secured. The government is keeping this information top secret to prevent panic. The President is meeting with the National Security Council as we speak, trying to determine a course of action; not that anything they do will make a difference against God’s will.”

  “They cannot prevent the word and will of God from spreading,” one of the clerics agreed.

  The Head nodded. “That is why we are preparing the Great Commission. That is our duty.”

  “With the Guiana launch tomorrow,” the man in the suit persisted, “how long until all the Seeds of the Word are sown?”

  The Head did not mask his irritation. The man knew the timeline better than anyone in the room. His name was Peter Galbraith, and he was believed to be one of the three wealthiest men in the world. The Head knew they had needed him, although sometimes he had privately questioned the pact they had made with a man who rarely displayed his faith. Galbraith was the one who always threw rational thinking and logic like cold water onto the flames of their fervor.

  “Two days,” the Head answered.

  “Tomorrow to launch,” Galbraith said. “Two to sow. Three days. Just in time. Convenient.”

  “God’s will is not to be mocked,” a cleric with a British accent scolded.

  “The reason I asked,” Galbraith pressed on, “is that others will also be reacting.”

  “We are not reacting,” the Head corrected. “We are acting.”

  Galbraith shrugged. “All right, we’re acting. Then there are those who will not only be reacting to Wormwood but to our actions as well. We know the Illuminati are aware of some of what we’re doing. They can react to a lot in three days.”

  “They will be too late,” the Head said.

  “Perhaps,” Galbraith allowed. “But do not underestimate them.”

  The British cleric next to Galbraith turned on him. “We are fulfilling God’s will. The unfaithful can’t stop us.”

  Galbraith had been at enough meetings of the Brotherhood to know better than to reply.

  A man with the collar of a Catholic priest raised a hand to pose an issue of another sort. “And what of the Dark One?”

  There was a moment of silence around the table.

  “That is also our holy duty,” the Head finally agreed. “The word has been sent to bring together the Wrath to deal with the Great Betrayer.” He raised his hands. “Let us pray, for the moment we have long awaited will soon be upon us, and the wicked will be judged and damned for eternity. We faithful will be saved.”

  New York City

  The Triumvirate of the Illuminati met on the top floor of one of the tallest buildings in New York City. Years earlier the view to the south had been split by the towers of the World Trade Center. One of the three men had been in this room that fateful day, and watched the first jet fly by, followed by the second. He witnessed the acts of religious radicalism, a most dangerous weapon, regardless of which faith it sprang from.

  The entire top floor was his domain. This special conference room, from which he ran his multinational conglomerate, was the most secure. It was also the place where the Triumvirate met in times of crisis. That day in 2001 had qualified.

  This day even more so.

  The other two men were reading the thin file folder they’d been handed when they arrived. From the base of the T-shaped table, Charles Brunswick waited for them to finish. He was a tall, thin man, with a full head of silver hair. He wore an expensive three-piece suit, with a gold chain loop from one side of the vest to the other, where an antique pocket watch resided. A family heirloom that been passed down four generations. As had the money.

  He glanced from one wing of the table to the other, taking in the other two men who shared the highest power in the Illuminati. Between the three of them, they controlled more wealth and assets than most countries. But one would never find their visages peering out from the cover of Fortune magazine. They shunned publicity and notoriety.

  Combined, they had over seventy years serving on the Triumvirate. As a team, the three had been working together for sixteen years since the predecessor of the most recent member had died. Thus, there was no unnecessary conversation or questions, as the intelligence Brunswick had placed in the folders was read.

  How he had gotten the information was not an issue. Through their various holdings and employees they had access to all intelligence the United States government possessed; and more. There was even a wire transcript in the folder of the meeting the President had just had with his National Security Council regarding the inbound ‘Intruder.’ That was the brand new, official, classified term for it, which in the transcript the NSC had shortened to just the letters—I.T.—to make it even less clear what they were talking about.

  The decision by the President to classify the sighting, illegally detain those workers at the Flight Observation Center who had first spotted it under Federal custody, and keep the entire thing under tight wraps was laid out in a series of executive orders issued at the end of the meeting. There was also an emergency committee of experts being brought to the Pentagon to deal with the ‘problem.’ Several of those experts worked for subsidiaries owned by the three men in the room, as they controlled a large portion of the Defense industry that supplied and supported the military and NASA.

  Both men finished reading the pages at almost the same time and closed the folders, placing them neatly in front of them on the gleaming tabletop. There were no phones, computers, televisions or any other electronic devices in the room. This was because anything that allowed electronic data in could also send it out. The room was kept secure 24/7 by both external electronic shielding and physical guard. The walls were lined with material that prevented any sort of eavesdropping. The windows were Tempest-proof so that sound
could not be picked up from them by the vibration, and tinted so that one could see out, but no one could see in. They were also armored to the point where they could take a direct hit from a rocket-propelled grenade. Over fifty armed men kept the building, and particularly the top floors, secure. There were surface-to-air missiles positioned on the roof—missiles that had been there several years before 2001.

  There would be no transcript of this meeting. There had never been a record of a meeting of the Triumvirate.

  “Who else knows?” The man across the table and to Brunswick’s right asked. His name was Thornton. His skin was well tanned, his hair cut short and completely gray. Unknown to almost everyone, he controlled the two largest aerospace firms in the country, firms that regularly ‘competed’ against each other for defense contracts. There were so many layers and shell companies beneath him that it would take a lifetime to unravel the complex arrangements that hid Thornton, whose father and grandfather had spent two lifetimes putting those arrangements together.

  “The National Security Council has locked this down tight,” Brunswick said. “Inside the government, perhaps fifty people.”

  “So it will leak soon,” the man on the left commented dryly with a tint of the south in his tone. His name was Pierce. He knew about leaks because he owned, through his own web of shells, sixty-four percent of all television, film and radio media in the country. And that was just one part of his vast empire. His physical appearance suggested a street thug, his head large and slightly misshapen, and the result of a childhood accident. His suit, shoes, and demeanor said otherwise.

  “And the Brotherhood,” Brunswick added. He did not bother to tell them how the Brotherhood had gotten their information. They had brushed up against the Brotherhood in the past and knew that the power of faith was a stronger bond for many, stronger than their oaths of secrecy to their governments. The Brotherhood had its tentacles of religion and God intertwined all around the world and in every government. They were sunk deeply into the higher ranks of the United States military along with the rank and file.