by David Berko
Alexander stayed for a moment longer and a thought suddenly flitted through his mind. He occasionally attended the chapel services held for his cabinet and executive staff. For some reason though, his memory was being accessed and a message from Reverend Mark Hill played again. He heard Revelations 3:3 and its foreboding warning on Christ's return that would happen like a thief in the night. Something inside of him shivered, and he knew not why. The cabin wasn't cold....
A little turbulence rocked the room and sent the hanging jacket to the floor in a heap. Alexander frowned. Margaret, his deceased wife, had tried to tell him a good many things in their marriage on the end times and about Christ. He had been too stubborn and intellectual to listen or care though. But now, it seemed he came to a crossroads of sorts. Which path would his weary feet take him down? The broad one that led to destruction or the straight and narrow? All these things circulated around for another minute before a knock on the door startled him, reminding the president of a prior commitment to a conference call.
--
In the year 2041 the continent of North America still didn't find rest or peace. Greedy despotic tyrants ruled with a heavy hand over their dwindling populations in the six sectors. Border disputes and civil unrest hadn't ceased to desist, either. However, what little shaky stability and balance they might have enjoyed was about to get rocked again.
The deep-sixing of the U.S. economy and its influence fit like glove in hand with Scorpion's globalist ambitions. Up to this point, they had done everything right to destroy capitalism; they dethroned the world's most powerful sovereign nation, which, consequently functioned as the aorta artery in the world's economy. Last but not least, Scorpion had so infiltrated the hearts and minds of the world's population that it wouldn't have been too far- fetched to think a one world government was finally within reach. And it was.
Even though Scorpion and the powers that be had so much control over everything...man still had a free will and a mind that could act independently from pop culture and the mainstream's modus operandi. That didn't stonewall their devious plans, however. Not in the least. Through Hollywood and its movies on aliens and first contact gone wrong, through conspiracy theories on secret military bases and reverse engineering crashed spacecraft, Howard & Company baited the public for an orchestrated "invasion" that would be coming to cities near you.
If the plan worked like they thought it would, a faked alien invasion would not only scare the populous, it would unite it. That was all by design and it fell right into the lap of a capable leader to lead humanity to victory over the war- mongering ET's. It was all a very diabolical scheme. What played on screens across the world for decades was soon about to get a little more realistic, in real time. Suddenly, the world would need reunification and a strong military power to do it. That was where Antichrist and his unholy legions came in.
A darkness descended across the four corners of the Earth in anticipation of the great evil that was to come.
--
Beverly Hills, California
A look of horror washed over Christophe's little frame. He felt like a victim at the worst kind of fun house with monsters at every turn. The tests on Damion's super weapon platform--the republic's only hope as a deterrent against Scorpion aggression--were meeting stiff resistance at every turn. Now, the world's leading innovator, Damion, unwittingly had a Big Brother surveillance system installed in his mansion with it watching his every move for the past two years. This couldn't be happening.
Where was his faith though? Gerard had a God on his side much bigger than the worries of a republic. He was only human, however. Anxiety logically fit into the job description that went with being the chief scientist at LabiaCorp, one of Damion's lead think tanks.
In the heat of the moment Christophe wished to be back, seaside, with his wife Kathy and the grandchildren making sand castles on the shore. Or perhaps even pulling weeds in the garden in the backyard. Anything besides his present set of circumstances would have been welcomed.
…
It sounded like the Fourth of July from the basement: even worse it felt like an earthquake all throughout the sprawling building. Subfloors groaned and buckled, plaster crumbled--covering everything in thick clouds of choking dust.
Damion did a three hundred and sixty degree pan of his work center in the basement. Whoever it was really liked to make an entrance. "They're here," he groaned in between exasperated gasps. But there was no way for the doctor to hear him over the noise though.
"Is there an exit to escape this mess?" Christophe yelled as loud as his feeble vocal chords would let him.
Damion understood perfectly. He shook his head in defeat. "The only way out leads us straight into a death trap!" He vehemently cursed their misfortune.
Christophe did something very unexpected. He stopped dead in his tracks and closed his eyes to pray.
The billionaire saw this and lost his cool. "What are you doing?!" he madly wanted to know.
The scientist actually answered Damion. "Praying for a way out."
Damion heard more explosions that sounded like they came from a sub-level crawlspace under the foundation. He grabbed the doctor by the arm and tugged with the desperation of someone about to die. "We're about to get company..." he panicked.
"Let them come," Gerard said, already accepting the outcome. "It's our way out."
--
Chapter 19
Air Force One
The cherry wood double door entrance to the conference room was opened by two men on the president's security detail. Toporvsky nodded to the man on the right who returned the president's gesture with a slight bow and a standard "Mr. President" greeting.
The chief of staff, security advisor, and secretary of state all sat at the opulent table with their dossiers already open to the talk's agenda. Alexander mumbled his apologies for his delay and keeping them waiting.
Leonard Palmer instantly told the president that no apology was necessary. To which Alexander gratefully thanked the man for his kindness.
"We wait on you, sir," the chief of staff made his case in point.
Alexander turned before he took his seat at the head of the table, smiling broadly. "I try not to test your good graces in that regard, I assure you."
Secretary of State Edith Warton swept her bangs one way. "You're never an imposition. It's an honor to serve, sir."
The president was flattered by all the good will and kind words said. As he found his spot, he noticed his security advisor across from him shuffling some papers and rifling through them for one in particular. "What's on your mind, Ahmed?" he gently asked.
"That's what I wanted to bring up, today, sir."
Alexander's face didn't alter. "Let's have it Negler. Every iota, jot and tittle."
The security advisor scan read the paper he held in his hand to find his place to begin detailing the urgent matter of business. "We may have a regime change, again," he said, pressing his chapped lips together.
"Yes?" Alexander didn't take his gaze off his advisor.
The man felt the lights in the room grow more intense and his breathing became a little shallow. He swallowed hard and proceeded though. "CCC has been tracking a lead on credible intelligence that indicates an assassination that took place within the past twenty-four hours in Sector Three. That's not all, either."
By now the president was already at the edge of his chair with his weight all in his elbows that were on the table. His face blanched at the first part of the report that was just revealed. "And?"
Ahmed Negler adjusted his shirt collar and loosened his tie a notch. "We believe..."
Leonard and Edith were riveted to the man's story. Their eyes didn't blink for the longest time.
"...we believe," he said again, trying to sound sure of himself, "that there's been a death all the way at the top of Scorpion's chain of command."
That last statement sucked all of the oxygen out of the atmosphere.
Everyone spoke at on
ce.
Apologies ensued. Once again the president came back with asking more questions for clarification. "You are," he paused and looked pained, "sure of this?"
"Seventy-eight percent certain." The security advisor answered with the greatest degree of confidence he could muster in the Intel he held in his sweaty palm.
Alexander knew that number was high enough to warrant pursuant intelligence gathering and espionage. He had Alfred Demsky back at Sentinel to trust to that end. His face grew thoughtful as he attempted to direct the course of conversation. "Motives?"
"Uncertain, Mr. President," Ahmed said regrettably--not even offering an educated guess which the president most certainly would ask for. And he did.
"Best guess. Certainly the agency has to have some ideas...."
"Best guess?" Ahmed paused to give his listeners a chance to catch their breath, too. "It was an inside job to make way for another to rise to the top."
Alexander audibly gasped. It hadn't been the answer he steeled himself for. The reality finally dawned on him: Chaplain Mark Hill's sermons suddenly were holding more water than he gave them credit before. From all appearances, the world was on the verge of a one world government led by Antichrist himself.
"You said you wanted a conference call?" the president stated more than asked.
This time it was Leonard who was up to bat. He looked at his Rolex and calmly searched for the president's eye contact. “Yes, I think we should--”
"Good!" Alexander hastily interrupted without waiting for the man to finish. "Computer..." he directed the command to the artificial intelligence behind the paneled walls that waited for commands like this "...establish a line with Alfred Demsky of Sentinel. Order beta, alpha, alpha, gamma, tango, charly, delta."
Voice recognition software went to work with the president's security clearance credentials.
Success.
Another man abruptly appeared in the room--only he entered through the holo emitter from the ceiling over the conference table.
The hologram looked worn: his usual dapper appearance replaced by a grungy one.
Ahmed Negler opened his mouth first to comment. "Geeze, you look like " (And this would be the part in the show bleeped out by the producers.)
Alfred warily looked at the man whom he liaised with on a frequent basis over matters of national security. "Yeah, me and the rest of the agency. The good news just keeps coming in," he sarcastically joked.
"What good news can we fake to the international community and our own people?" Secretary of State Edith Warton was thinking out loud.
"I'm afraid they need to know the truth," the Sentinel director stated matter of factly.
The president sweated under his polyester suit jacket. "I want results Demsky. We need to know if Scorpion intends to rule from S3 and who's calling the shots for that God- forsaken scourge of humanity."
These demands didn't surprise the seasoned director of intelligence. The man heaved a sigh and managed to acknowledge the president's request with a weak head nod. "It shall be done."
"Oh, one more thing," Alexander said determinedly, rising from his great chair. "We need to consult the Bible on what to do during times such as these."
--
Dreamland, Nevada
Then I saw a beast rising up out of the sea. It had seven heads and ten horns, with ten crowns on its horns. And written on each head were names that blasphemed God. 2 This beast looked like a leopard, but it had the feet of a bear and the mouth of a lion! And the dragon gave the beast his own power and throne and great authority.
--Revelations 13:1-2
…
The Beast and the False Prophet were still on floor twenty deep underneath the Papoose Mountain Range in the sector popularly identified as Area 51 for the longest time. But that had been its designation given to it by the American government which now ceased to exist.
Howard's aura hadn't changed that whole evening. He continually glowed like an angel of light. His facade however shrouded the fastidious Great Deceiver that lay just underneath. That was existentially how the symbiotic relationship between flesh and Lucifer worked. Both eager and willing to see the day of darkness and evil have its harvest.
"Your excellency," Maxwell said at length.
Howard raised his eyebrows in anticipation.
"Peace for the Middle East...when do you wish to negotiate that?"
The Old Man was pleased with the question. His right cheek twitched a little. "We will get to that, soon. But first, I must prime the pump on the military-industrial complex I will use to flood the woman." He was referring to Israel with the anthropomorphic reference.
An uneasy silence filled the atmosphere for a long moment.
"Before long I will have every knee bow and every tongue confess that you are lord," Maxwell unwaveringly declared out of the blue.
The false prophet's words charged the beast up. His voice came out in peals of thunder. "Go out and make disciples, Maxwell. Show them signs and wonders. Make them believe in me."
"You will be far greater than anyone that has ever walked the face of this earth," the prophet said falling down to worship the beast again.
Howard moved around his desk to sit again. He contemplatively stared at his reflection in the glass surface. "What are you waiting for? You've got a PR campaign trail to hit," he said with a little venom. "I will be greater than Nebuchadnezzar. Than Christ," he said the last name with the utmost repugnance.
Maxwell rose off the rug a few inches. "You alone are worthy of praise!" he lavished.
--
Beverly Hills, California
The assault had full momentum now.
Monty rode into the fray on his VTOL (vertical take-off and landing) Stinger craft. The jet supported a multi- mission role with its flexible and adaptable airframe. Also, with a rear hatch, it could land paratroopers into the battle.
The Stinger's armament wasn't unsubstantial for the job by any stretch of the imagination. Twin high-yield fiber laser cannons would scorch everything the intense beams of energy had the misfortune of coming in contact with: This was a tremendous upgrade from the aging Vulcan gatling guns used in war planes for decades.
Monty made another pass of the overlook. The pilot looked through his night vision/FLIR-equipped (forward- looking-infrared-radar) tactical flight helmet. His plane's on-board targeting system scanned the ground below for any heat signatures. Real-time imaging of everything in the combat zone revealed with acute accuracy the scene below.
An electronic tag on Allen's combat uniform dropped a pin of his position on the ground. This would really help avoid friendly fire. What Monty tried to figure out from the images was where his man Allen stood in relation to the still-alive former Navy Seal he needed to take out.
Then he saw it. "There you are," he triumphantly said over his headset on all channels.
Some static and then Allen's voice, "Say again, Falcon one-one?"
"I have a clear shot at James Helgden. He's hiding by the burning fountain in the cul-de-sac. Clever rat."
"I don't have an angle," Allen admitted. "You are clear to engage." The henchman added some derogatory language to undercut the prey before the dead man passed on into the next life.
"Fox four," the pilot said through his helmet mic. (That was the language to engage target with the cannons.)
Colorless photon rays streaked down through the atmosphere and connected with the crosshairs on the Seal's head. Instant casualty of war.
The radio hissed in the cockpit. "Confirmed kill. Nice shootin' Falcon one-one," Allen congratulated the skillful Canadian pilot.
All of a sudden a hullabaloo of commotion sparked around the promenade; activity registered on Monty's radar.
Rodney's voice came through loud and clear. "We have met the enemy!" he panicked. "Bogies at your twelve position!" he relayed to the cavalry in the sky.
"Roger that," the Stinger confirmed. "Weapons free-- firing, firing...firing!"
&nb
sp; …
The pounding may have been the quaking hearts of the two colleagues and friends huddling together, scared silly, or more accurately it may have been the foundation ready to burst. A tremor shook the home with such a violence that there wasn't a last man standing.
C4 explosive tore through the thick poured concrete floor. The chunks of debris fell like cinder bombs raining down from an angry volcanic eruption. Two men dressed in military fatigues with menacing black rifles emerged from the crater using thick ropes, carabiners and grappling hooks.
Henry's steel-toed combat boot landed on terra firma with a solid clunk. He let his partner hang on the ropes for a little longer than need be. Even in the heat of the moment the leader had his sense of humor with him. The Sudanese man however had left his wits at the door.
"Coming?" Henry snarled at his companion all while taking short intimidating steps towards the cowering victims.
Damion visibly shuddered under the robe he was still wearing in front of his...well, he wasn't sure what they were or what they wanted with him, yet.
His stare finally left the hulking ex-Chicago gangster for the lanky, tree-like giant that came running towards him with a gun swaying from side to side to uneven strides. Damion's eyes grew as big as saucers. "Take me now, Virgin Mary," he murmured as he crossed himself. That much he knew how to do as a nominal Catholic.