The Illuminati

by Larry Burkett

  Now, as secretary of the treasury, he was overseer of the Data-Net system. The cash-less economy, long predicted by Bible scholars, was fast becoming a reality—or nightmare, depending on which side of the system you were facing.

  Several days earlier Jason Franklin had instructed that Phase Three be implemented immediately. Initially the Data-Net system would be used to locate the Christians. Later the system would be used to choke off their resources.

  Siever had hired Dr. Jack Rhinehart to make the necessary changes to the system after Rhinehart had assured him there would be no difficulties. Rhinehart had been trying to work his way into the system ever since his colleague, Dr. Eison, had mentioned that Wells had been selected to design it. Siever knew they would eventually need to replace Wells, and Rhinehart had sold him on the idea that he could reprogram the system.

  That stupid Rhinehart screwed up the system, he thought again angrily. When he told Franklin, the warning had been clear.

  “Don’t slip up again,” Franklin warned. “We can’t afford mistakes at this point. Use Wells to fix the program.”

  Siever was trying to think of just how to do that when Wells called him. He was trying his best to placate the young scientist. “Jeff, we tried something that didn’t work very well. It’s extremely important that we get the program operable again immediately. I’ll send the details up to your office, but this information is top secret for now, so don’t discuss it with anyone.”

  Jeff Wells was clearly puzzled, and a little disturbed.

  “Why would Dr. Siever have someone else modify my work?” he asked Karen.

  “Really, Mr. Wells, do you think you’re the only programmer in the world?” she teased.

  “No, but you can’t just patch into a system as complicated as Data-Net,” Jeff said defensively. “Whoever wrote the subroutine didn’t understand complexity theory. I designed it with an optimal N-log(N) complexity, but somebody broke it. Now it’s got N-squared complexity, which means the whole system can’t help grinding to a halt.”

  “I was just kidding,” Karen replied, seeing his reaction to her remark. “You’re the only programmer I ever met who can make this system work. I have been helping since the start, and I still can’t do more than work inside your subroutines.”

  “It’s really not all that complicated,”Wells said for what seemed like the hundredth time. “It’s all a matter of using the right data structures for the job.”

  “Okay,”Karen replied, “I know. I know. I understand what you’re saying. I just don’t understand why it works.”

  Jeff was about to launch into his theory of complexity when the courier knocked on his door. He handed Jeff a sealed pouch and asked that he sign the receipt. After the courier left, Jeff opened the pouch. It contained a DVD-II and a letter from Russell Siever.

  “What does it say, Jeff?” Karen asked when she saw his frown.

  “Dr. Siever wants me to modify the Data-Net so it will screen a group of users from the system. He also wants the names and locations forwarded to the nearest local law enforcement when they try to use their cards.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Yes. It’s not much different from the file we set up to monitor how much credit a user has. But that’s not what’s bothering me.”

  “What is it, Jeff?” Karen asked. She had never seen him so grim.

  “The data file he wants created must be able to handle up to twenty million names initially.”

  “Twenty million!”

  “Think about it, Karen. We would be building a file of twenty million people who could potentially be barred from using the Data-Net. Essentially that means they would not be able to buy or sell anything.”

  “But Jeff, the whole purpose of Data-Net is to allow people to buy without currency anywhere in the world. Why would anyone want to stop twenty million people from using it?”

  “Control!” Jeff exclaimed as he finally realized what they were after. “Control! There is a group—a very large group—that someone wants to be able to control. What better way than to cut off their use of Data-Net? They would have no way to buy anything—not even food.”

  “They couldn’t do that,”Karen argued, unable to accept what Jeff was saying. “It would be illegal.”

  “Not if you had the ability to change the law,” Jeff’s mind was now racing in an effort to piece the puzzle together. “Why else would Dr. Siever also want their locations sent to the police? They want to be able to stop a large group of people from buying and to know where they are.”

  “Who are they looking for, Jeff ?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean who are the people they want to bar from using the system?”

  “I don’t know,” Jeff said as he looked at the disk in his hand. “But somewhere in this file is the answer, and I’ll find it. But, Karen, don’t say anything to anyone about it just yet. We don’t know who else is involved.

  “In the meantime, I’m going to stop what they’re doing in Data-Net by removing the patch. I’ll tell Dr. Siever I needed to do it to restore the system’s integrity.”

  A few minutes later, the terminal at the Texaco station outside Atlanta, as well as thousands of other Data-Net terminals that had been hung up, suddenly came to life.

  “Request approved,” the printer spewed out as the green light winked on.

  “Stupid system,” Bill Parks, the station owner, said as the terminal came alive. “It cost me twenty sales because I couldn’t handle anyone’s card.” His calls to the Data-Net 800 number had never gotten through. Thousands of other merchants across the nation also had their terminals hung up as they processed cards of the Christians in Rhinehart’s file. They had totally jammed the Data-Net’s 800 lines, trying to get the system to work.

  I hope those folks don’t come back after the rings, Parks thought guiltily. Nancy sure would love to have them. But I guess it probably isn’t real anyway. Nobody would be crazy enough to trade a diamond that big for a tank of gas.

  In his study, Mark Hunt was working on his news announcement. First he would tell the American people he had personal evidence that the group called the Constitutional Rights Committee were not terrorists and that the assassinations were not associated with mainline Christianity in any way. Next he would tell what he knew about the riots: that the organizers were not the ones who started the shooting, but some other group that had infiltrated their organization. He knew he didn’t have all the proof to back up his statements, but it would defuse the tensions around the country. Intuitively, he knew that he was right. Somehow Rutland and Siever were behind the whole thing. McMillan was a good man basically. He’d have the FBI track this thing to its origins as soon as Randall was gone.

  He had decided to reinstate the furloughed session of Congress immediately. He might not agree with Grant and his crowd, but he trusted them more than he did Rutland and Siever. Jason Franklin was another matter. He would expose Franklin and his Society. It might mean his impeachment since he had violated campaign contribution rules, but that was a chance he would just have to take.

  In another office, Cal Rutland was scanning computer files, searching for the president’s personal notepad. He found it under “Hunt news,” with the current date. He typed in: “Review Hunt news, 08/12/15.”

  “Access denied,” the terminal replied. “Please provide access code.”

  “So he put an access code on his notepad. He’s getting smarter,” Rutland said under his breath. He began a search for the necessary access code. He had tried at least a dozen codes, none of which would work. For the first time in a long time Rutland began to feel the pang of panic. He needed access to that file or the whole plan could fail.

  Then he tried “HUNT” as his access code.

  “File available,” the terminal responded.

  Another stroke of a few keys and the message that President Hunt had prepared for the news gathering appeared on the screen.

  “Stupid, real stupid
, Mr. President,” Rutland gloated. “You almost had me there. But now I’ve got you.”

  Scanning the file, Rutland saw that it had been routed to the printer in the president’s office and the file closed. The White House computer system had been designed so that once a message had been closed, it could not be erased without a permanent copy being made for the archives. However, it could be moved around as long as the typist knew the access code. This was a feature that allowed secretaries to move rough drafts from the files of staff workers and correct them as necessary. The same system applied to the president’s files.

  Rutland had already prepared an alternate draft of the president’s planned news conference announcement, one that was much more to his liking. He simply typed in, “Change: Hunt news, 08/12/15, to: Rutland, 08/12/15, move to: Rutland’s file.” In the wink of an eye, the computer responded and the notes typed by President Hunt disappeared. The terminal responded,“Changed:Hunt news, 08/12/15, to: Rutland, 08/12/15, moved to: Rutland file.”

  Then he typed: “Change: Rutland memo, 08/12/15, to: Hunt news, 08/12/15, move to: Hunt file.” Again the computer responded and the screen showed: “Changed: Rutland memo, 08/12/15, to: Hunt news, 08/12/15, moved to: Hunt file.”

  Cal Rutland had taken his notes and substituted them for the president’s original notes. If anyone were to bother to check, they would see only what he wanted them to see.

  Ten minutes before two, Rutland noted. He’ll be in makeup by now. He wouldn’t have a press conference on World War III without his makeup, Rutland thought with disgust. He stroked the keyboard again and the printer in the president’s office came to life, spewing out the information Rutland had just fed into it. In the outer office, Margaret Miller, the president’s typist, heard the printer, but thought nothing about it. It was part of President Hunt’s normal routine to have staff members forward memos to his private office. She’d pick it up later and file it for him.

  A few seconds later Rutland walked in and said, “I need something from his office.”

  “I don’t know, Cal,” she said hesitantly. “He doesn’t allow anyone in his office when he’s out.”

  Rutland’s eyes flashed with anger. “He sent me to get something. Do you want to call him in makeup to ask him?”

  Margaret cringed. “No, I guess it’s okay,” she said weakly. “If he sent you.”

  Rutland strode past her before she could say anything else, slamming the office door behind him. He went directly to the printer and retrieved the notes that had been printed.

  “Off of his own machine—what irony,” Rutland muttered under his breath. He folded the notes in exactly the same fashion he had seen Hunt do so many times before, and slipped them into his coat pocket.

  The press was gathered for the conference; every network had sent their people, and there was great anticipation. No one had the vaguest idea what President Hunt was going to announce, but speculation ranged from declaring martial law (because of the attacks stemming from the riots) to permanently abolishing the Congress. In their wildest imaginations they could not have anticipated what his real intentions were: to expose a hidden organization within the government.

  The sound level in the room made it almost impossible to hear, requiring everyone to talk even louder, further compounding the problem. Camera crews were constantly shouting at reporters who forced their way to the front, often blocking an angle to the podium that a cameraman had fought hard to clear. Security men were everywhere, but the overcrowded conditions made their jobs almost impossible. Most had to be content with standing in back of the room where few of the news people wanted to be. Each person entering the room had to pass through a metal detector, but the sheer volume of carrying cases and suitcase-like containers housing cameras and recorders made a search almost impossible. Tension among the security guards was high since they had so little actual control over the group. “This is really strange,” one of them had commented earlier.“Rutland is always so cautious about crowds. I wonder why he allowed so many people in this time?”

  “I don’t know,” his companion responded. “Maybe it’s something really big and they wanted all the media here.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t like it. You could sneak a rocket launcher in here in some of those boxes.”

  Earlier that day one of the demonstrators from the CRC group in Washington had received a call from Rutland. After he hung up the phone, he had made his way to a drop box at the bus station. There he retrieved a small package containing a plastic cylinder and a vial of deadly nerve poison—developed from the venom of the black mamba snake in Africa. Also in the box was a press pass that would get him through White House security.

  As a long-time member of the Society’s infiltration group, he knew the risks well. Rutland had told him that once it was done he would be on his own. That’s okay, he thought grimly. This is what I joined for. He pocketed the items and headed back to his car, his curled lip revealing the only sign of his inner mood. The Christians will sure get tagged with this one, he mused darkly.

  When he arrived at the White House his press pass cleared him through security with no difficulty. He tensed slightly as he passed through the metal detector, but he had been careful to remove his keys, change, and even his metal belt buckle so he wouldn’t get stopped by a random alarm. The plastic tube, now armed with its lethal projectile, passed without detection.

  Once inside the room, he worked his way as close to the podium as he dared. Several of the cameramen swore at him when he obstructed their line of sight, but he apologized and moved slightly to one side. He kept his right hand in his pants pocket, firmly gripping the slender tube.

  The room suddenly hushed as the door to the president’s entrance opened. Two security men entered first, followed by President Hunt. He approached the Plexiglas podium with the air of a man with a mission. His normal press smile was absent, and the grim look on his face told everyone in the room this was to be no normal press conference. He reached into his inside coat pocket and removed several sheets of notes, obviously his message for the public.

  Just as he laid the notes on the podium and looked up to speak, a slight pop, like the discharge of a pellet gun, sounded. A small projectile, no larger than an upholstery tack, struck the president in the neck, just above his collar. Instantly he fell to the floor, motionless.

  The whole thing occurred so swiftly that no one really knew what had happened. Pandemonium broke out. Some of the reporters in the front thought that the president had fainted and moved forward to help. They were pushed back roughly by the secret service men who had drawn their weapons.

  A woman reporter, who had been standing near the right side of the podium when the ‘pop’ sounded, saw the man next to her drop something to the floor. “He shot the president!” she screamed and pointed to the man standing beside her.

  The assassin pushed her aside and rushed for the door through which the president had entered. But the large crowd made a quick escape impossible, and the security police had the better position from the perimeter of the room. They moved to cut off all the exits immediately.

  Just as the assassin was pushing his way to the outside of the crowd, one of the president’s security men leveled his weapon and fired several shots at nearly point blank range. He was dead before hitting the floor. The shots sparked panic in the room full of news people. En masse, they pushed and shoved toward the exits, overwhelming the security guards who were hopelessly trapped against the outside walls.

  In the melee, Cal Rutland picked up the notes Hunt had brought with him. They had fallen to the floor when the president fell, pulling the podium over with him. Swiftly he exchanged the notes from his pocket with those on the floor, sticking the president’s notes in his coat pocket.

  In the meantime, several secret service men had made their way to the president. Pressing his fingers against the president’s neck, one of them said, “He’s dead. There’s no pulse.”

  “Quick, call the emergen
cy team!” one of his associates called out to the others in the room. “Begin CPR,” he commanded the agent kneeling over the president.

  “It won’t do any good,” the man said as he loosened the president’s shirt collar. “Look!”

  He was pointing to a small dart sticking in the president’s neck.

  “He’s been shot with a poisoned dart,” the agent exclaimed as his eyes settled on the downed assassin.

  The room was clearing quickly as the reporters and news people were brought under control. Several of the seasoned war correspondents had stayed at their positions, cameras running to record the events. The entire nation was treated to the scene of the most popular president in history being assassinated on live television.

  One of the reporters snatched up the papers it appeared the president had been carrying. As he began reading them, he suddenly shouted, “Hunt had proof that the Constitutional Rights Committee was planning mass assassinations! He was going to declare martial law!”

  Suddenly the fear that had gripped the media evaporated and they rushed back to see the notes for themselves. The reporter who had first picked up the papers suddenly realized he had a bonanza of news information in his hands and attempted to confiscate them for his network’s use. Instead he was confronted by the imposing figure of Cal Rutland, who simply reached out and took the papers while two secret service men held the shocked reporter’s arms.

  “I will make copies of the president’s notes available to all media representatives,” he announced calmly, as he held the papers up for all to see. “You may have two representatives from the media go with one of our agents to copy the notes.”

  “What happened to President Hunt?” one of the women reporters asked. “Is he alive?”