The Days of Noah, The Complete Box Set: A Novel of the End Times in America

by Mark Goodwin

  “Next, these buildings were specifically designed to endure the impact of a 707, which was the largest commercial jet at the time they were built. The 767s that hit the buildings weren’t much bigger.

  “When the planes impacted, most of the fuel burned up in the fireball. The jet fuel that was left burning in the buildings emitted thick black smoke, which suggests the fire was starved for oxygen and was burning at a temperature of around 500 degrees Fahrenheit. The maximum temperature that can be reached by jet fuel burning under ideal conditions is 1,800 degrees. Depending on the alloy metals contained in steel, its melting point is typically around 2,800 degrees. The beams used in the World Trade Center were rated by Underwriters Laboratory to withstand temperatures of up to 2,000 degrees for at least two to three hours before they would begin to weaken. The North Tower fell perfectly into its own footprint one hour and forty-two minutes after it was hit, as if it was a precision-planned demolition. The South Tower did the same thing only fifty-six minutes after the impact.

  “Even if you want to believe the official story on the Twin Towers, how can you explain Building Seven collapsing from a small fire? It was never hit by a plane and never exposed to jet fuel, yet it fell, as if it was a planned demolition.

  “In fact, several pictures of support beams in the sublevels show perfectly cut beams with molten metal dripping down the front of the beams. It looks exactly like what you would see when thermite shape charges are used in demolition.”

  “You’ve certainly memorized a lot of facts and figures,” Noah responded.

  “Mr. Parker, the implications of what these facts and figures mean makes them the most important set of data in recent history,” Kramer replied.

  “We have some big problems with the plane that hit the Pentagon as well. For one thing, no pictures of the impact have ever been released. The government should release the videos or pictures that prove the type of plane that crashed. Surveillance cameras are all over the area where the plane hit.

  “Another major issue is the size of the hole made by the impact of the plane in the pictures of the Pentagon after the attack and before the wall collapsed. The hole is only seventeen feet wide, and the wingspan of the plane that hit it was 125 feet. There was no debris that would be consistent with a plane crash of that size. No tail section and no wings that didn’t damage the walls. Where did the wings go?”

  The class stared at Noah Parker like they were expecting him to debunk Allen Kramer’s theory, but he sat silently. He breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of the bell.

  Allen Kramer made one last comment. “A few well-made documentaries on YouTube cover a lot of the facts. Loose Change is a good one; also check out Ripple Effect. If you really want to know what the professionals think, check out the YouTube channel AE911truth. It represents a coalition of over 1,500 architects and engineers, including some very prominent ones, that disagree with the official story we’ve been told.”

  Noah gathered his things and kept his head down. He’d had enough of all this. As the last student left, Noah locked the classroom door and headed home.

  CHAPTER 2

  I live in the Managerial Age, in a world of “Admin.” The greatest evil is not now done in those sordid “dens of crime” that Dickens loved to paint. It is not done even in concentration camps and labour camps. In those we see its final result. But it is conceived and ordered (moved, seconded, carried, and minuted) in clean, carpeted, warmed and well-lighted offices, by quiet men with white collars and cut fingernails and smooth-shaven cheeks who do not need to raise their voices. Hence, naturally enough, my symbol for Hell is something like the bureaucracy of a police state or the office of a thoroughly nasty business concern.

  C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters

  Twenty-six-year-old Everett Carroll was recruited straight out of grad school at George Washington University into the CIA. His position as a Directorate of Intelligence Officer was a fancy way of saying analyst, but he knew it was an opportunity he couldn’t turn down.

  The job started at $88,000. It was understood that part of the pay was considered compensation for keeping your mouth shut, not asking questions, and doing exactly as you were told.

  Even with the rapid pace of inflation in recent years, Everett Carroll enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle afforded by the generous starting salary. He drove a new BMW, dressed fashionably, and ate out most evenings. Everett cared about his looks and his health. He hit the gym every morning before work and played tennis on Saturdays, when the weather permitted.

  He had been with the Company, what insiders called the CIA, for two years. So far his tasks were menial and narrow in scope. He had never been given the big picture of what the overall mission was. He wasn’t allowed to discuss his task list with other coworkers, not that he had enough details to discuss anyway.

  Everett didn’t work at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia; rather, he worked in a sprawling office park west of Leesburg, Virginia. The offices were leased to the CIA by International Technologies but bore no CIA insignia anywhere. Everett was expected to say he worked for International Tech. His keycard and access badge showed the International Tech logo, which was simply IT. Everett suspected other companies that worked for the intelligence community leased space in the office park, but he was not allowed to talk to any of them, so he would never know.

  The cafeteria was a sterile room in the basement. Too-bright florescent lights reflected off the stark white walls. It felt like a good space for doing experiments on rats. The food wasn’t anything to speak of either, but no restaurants were nearby, and he had only a forty-five-minute lunch break.

  “I’ll take the chicken parmesan, please.” Everett smiled and wondered if the lady serving his food knew she worked in a CIA facility.

  Everett took his plastic plate, grabbed a Styrofoam bowl of salad, and proceeded to the cashier.

  “Everett!” Twenty-eight-year-old Ken Gordon waved his hand.

  Everett joined Ken at his table.

  Ken pointed to Everett’s plate. “What’s that supposed to be?”

  “Chicken parm.”

  Ken nodded and unwrapped a beautiful ham and Swiss on pumpernickel rye.

  “Did your girlfriend make that?” Everett asked.

  “Yeah. You need to settle down and find a woman who will make you lunch so you don’t have to eat that stuff.”

  Everett cut into his lunch. “Dating is tough when you can’t talk about your job. Not that I would know what to say about it anyway. I guess I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

  Ken smiled. “Lisa doesn’t ask about my work, but I know what you mean. I don’t know the purpose of anything I do.”

  Ken and Everett had mastered the art of talking about work without talking about work.

  “It’s not what I had in mind when I was recruited,” Everett said.

  Ken opened his bag of jalapeno, kettle-cooked potato chips. “Yeah, you would’ve made a good Jason Bourne.”

  Everett laughed. “I have to try to catch Jones after lunch.”

  “That guy creeps me out,” Ken said. “Rumor has it that he used to work in the field. His limp is supposedly from a gunshot wound he got in China. It landed him the supervisor position at this facility. And John Jones? There’s no way that’s his real name. Why on earth would you initiate a conversation with him?”

  Everett finished chewing and took a drink from his Evian bottle. “Some credit cards I’m monitoring—oh, I probably shouldn’t say anything.”

  “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I’ve learned to suppress my curiosity.”

  The two finished eating and managed to avoid further work-related subjects. After lunch, Everett stopped by Jones’s office. He was still out, so Everett returned to his desk and his work. It was difficult to have a sense of purpose without knowing why he was doing what he was doing.

  Two hours later, Agent John Jones stopped by Everett’s cubicle. “Everett, you wanted to see me?”

 
“Yes sir, uh . . . how did you know?” Everett tilted his head.

  “Come on back whenever you’re ready.” Jones walked away without answering.

  Everett grabbed his file and followed Agent Jones back to his large glass-walled office. “May I close the door?”

  Jones pushed his horn-rimmed glasses into a more secure position and raised his open hand.

  Everett looked in suspense, waiting for an answer. After he sensed he wasn’t getting one, he slowly closed the door, giving Agent Jones ample opportunity to stop him if he didn’t want the door closed.

  Jones pushed a button on the side of his desk, and the blinds lowered to cover the glass walls. “How can I help you, Everett?”

  Everett was creeped out. He understood what Ken meant. “I noticed a pattern in some of the credit cards I’m monitoring. A large portion of the ones in a specific file are being used to purchase cryptocurrencies. All of the purchases are being reported as fraudulent charges. The only thing I can see that they have in common is that they are all coming from one specific file. It leads me to believe that it could be someone inside the Company that is siphoning off funds. Once the cryptocurrencies are purchased, the funds are completely anonymous and untraceable.”

  “Is monitoring fraudulent charges on your task specification dossier?” Jones asked.

  “Well, no,” Everett replied. “I’m watching for unusual purchases: firearms, ammunition, long-term storage food, tactical equipment, gold bullion, silver coins, components that can be used to manufacture explosives. I’m to cross check those transactions against the NSA database and make sure the purchasers are already flagged by Homeland. If the purchases are of a sufficient dollar amount or quantity, I’m to integrate all of their data to a second-tier watch list. I then aggregate the purchaser’s social media posts, e-mails, phone calls, and movements, logged by the GPS in their cell phones, to a level three protocol and forward the analysis to a tier-two watch-list specialist.

  “Originally, I thought it could be a group of domestic terrorists diverting the funds to cryptocurrency accounts so they could use them for making untraceable purchases of guns or explosives. After looking closely at the individuals, the only commonality I could find was that they are in the same CIA file. Political views, websites visited, religious affiliations, and geographical locations are as diverse as you can imagine. They look like a random cross section of America—other than the usual things that got them on the list in the first place, of course.”

  Jones crossed his hands and rocked in his executive chair. “Good work, Everett. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, though. No cryptocurrency is untraceable. The NSA just hasn’t integrated our systems with the Utah data center yet. Once that’s online, you’ll be able to trace cryptocurrencies as easily as credit cards and RFID-tagged US paper currency. Out of curiosity, which cryptocurrencies were purchased?”

  “Litecoin, Ripple, Darkcoin, Nxt. What was obviously missing from the currencies purchased was Bitcoin.”

  Jones nodded and smiled. “Let me know if you need anything else. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Everett knew that was his cue to leave. “Thank you, Agent Jones.”

  As he returned to his cubicle, Everett glanced at his watch. “Ten till five.” He logged out, shut down his computer, and headed toward the door. He cleared security and was soon on his way home.

  Everett spoke aloud as he drove. “That guy knew something. I wasn’t giving him any new information. If anything, I was only confirming what he was already aware of.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Wisdom is supreme; therefore get wisdom. Though it cost all you have, get understanding.

  Proverbs 4:7

  “Daddy!” Lacy met her father at the door each day after work.

  “Hi, sweetheart.” Noah grabbed the little girl and squeezed her in his arms.

  “Supper will be ready in twenty minutes,” Cassie said. “How was your day?”

  “Good. Yours?” Noah put Lacy back down and hugged his wife from behind as she continued preparing the meal.

  Cassie smiled. “Well, let me tell you what a smart daughter you have. We learned all about the Revolutionary War today.”

  “Is that still in the Community Core curriculum you got from the Tennessee Department of Education?” Noah inquired.

  “Ha.” Cassie shot Noah a look. “You’re not serious are you?”

  Noah shrugged. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Pork chops, turnip greens, and fried apples. That’s probably that last of the greens we’ll get from the garden this year.”

  “But you froze a lot,” Noah said.

  “We have a freezer full of vegetables. The garden produced well this year. Hurry up and take your shower. Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.” Cassie stirred the apples.

  Lacy followed Noah as he tossed his running clothes in the wash. He had to do it as soon as he arrived home so he wouldn’t forget. If left to cure overnight, his exercise attire would be especially rank.

  “I helped Mom pick the apples for dinner,” Lacy said.

  “That is fantastic! I am very blessed to have two wonderful ladies to take care of the garden and the fruit trees while I’m at work. Daddy’s going to get a shower. I’ll be right out.” Noah kissed Lacy on the head as he closed the bathroom door.

  “Okay.” Lacy trotted off.

  At dinner, Noah was quiet.

  “So what happened at school today? Something has you thinking,” Cassie probed.

  Noah didn’t want to have this conversation, but there was no real way around it. “Every year the school has a 9/11 Remembrance Day. It’s part of Community Core. It ignited some conspiracy theory debate in sixth period today.”

  “The 9/11 anniversary was almost two weeks ago. Why are you still talking about it?” Cassie asked.

  Noah shook his head. “We were talking about choosing a career, and one kid thought being a demolitions expert wouldn’t require much training because of the way the Towers fell. The next thing you know, it was a full-blown conspiracy conversation.”

  “And you’re still sticking with the official story?”

  “I don’t know, Cass.” Noah sighed. “What good does it do to speculate? It’s not like we could do anything about it. If it is some government conspiracy, there is absolutely nothing we can do to change what happened. How could anyone possibly know for sure? If the evidence is there, it would be all over the news.”

  Cassie patted his hand. “Plenty of reputable people have investigated the evidence. It’s there if you want to listen to it. As for being able to change the past, you’re right. There’s nothing we can do. However, we can certainly do our best to figure out what it all means for our future. If the conspiracy theory is true, we can ask ourselves why it was done or why it was allowed to happen.”

  Noah looked at Lacy to be sure she wasn’t getting upset by the conversation. She clearly was listening but didn’t look troubled. “What possible reason could the government have in helping to plan or allowing the attacks to happen?”

  Cassie cut into her pork chop. “If that’s the case, it could have been to get Americans to give up their rights in the name of keeping them safe. It could have been to get public support for military intervention in the Middle East. It could have been to advance the agenda of the globalists, or any combination of those things.”

  Noah shook his head. “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Have you ever heard of Operation Northwoods?” Cassie replied.

  Noah shook his head as he took a forkful of turnip greens.

  “It was a top-secret document put together by the Pentagon to use a false-flag operation to get political support for invading Cuba in the sixties. The plan was to switch an American jetliner with a military jet, shoot it down, and blame it on Cuba. The document was declassified, so you can download the whole thing from the Internet,” Cassie explained.

  Noah furrowed his brow. “Why didn’t the news report on that?”r />
  “ABC reported on it decades ago. People don’t pay attention to those types of stories. People either trust the government or stick their heads in the sand because they think there’s nothing they can do.”

  “I’m not sticking my head in the sand. I try to be politically informed. I vote. What else can I do?” Noah asked.

  “Watching Fox News doesn’t make you politically informed. It might be better than the other mainstream-media outlets, but it’s a corporate-controlled channel that pours out propaganda, just like the others. Anytime someone gets on there and starts heading for the deep side of the pool, they get cut. To name a few who were cut from Fox, you have John Stossel and Judge Napolitano. I’m no fan of Glenn Beck, but he covered more truth than all the other shows on Fox put together. Huckabee had fantastic ratings, and they cut him,” Cassie said.

  “I’ll look up Operation Northwoods after dinner,” Noah said.

  “Look into the sinking of the Lusitania also,” Cassie added. “The Germans sinking that ship filled with American passengers was the reason the US got involved in World War I. The Germans posted warnings in American newspapers not to sail in the area because it was a war zone, yet the Lusitania sailed right into a place known to be filled with German subs. If the government was looking for public support to get into the war, that event gave them what they wanted.”

  Noah considered everything he’d heard as he finished his dinner. That night as he lay in bed, he tried to put it out of his mind so he could sleep. He couldn’t deny that Cassie and the rest of the conspiracy people had some valid points in their arguments.

  CHAPTER 4

  The absence of a police state is that people are free, and if you don’t commit crimes you can do what you want. But today, you can’t open up a business, you can’t develop land, you can’t go to the bank, you can’t go to the doctor without the government knowing what you’re doing. They talk about medical privacy, that’s gone. Financial privacy, that’s gone. The right to own property, that’s essentially gone. So you have to get permission from the government for almost everything. And if that is the definition of a police state, that you can’t do anything unless the government gives you permission, we’re well on our way.