Vacant stares from the directors.
“Well, if you illiterates knew your Bible you would recall Ecclesiastes, the tenth chapter, the first verse, and I quote, ‘Dead flies make a perfumer‘s oil ferment and stink; so a little folly outweighs wisdom and honor’,” said the chairman.
“A fly?” said Olivia. “Whoever or whatever prevents our pruning operations from succeeding is more effective than a bug. Our system is broken. We need to examine every link in this chain and find out where the disconnect lies.”
Randal Sanford agreed. His voice slurred from the wine, “There’s a fly. A real aggressive, dangerous fly, and it has corrupted our systems. Some evil cockroach keeps attacking our operators.”
Donald Snow asked, “What does our operations officer have to say about all these failures? Fifteen losses against two wins—pathetic.”
“Finally, the right question,” said Akebe.
CHAPTER TWO
Bubba Whiting occupied his favorite table at the Generator Coffee House and Bakery on Shackelford Road in West Little Rock. He devoured his second piece, their famous chocolate walnut pie, and a cup of iced coffee. “Yeah, so what are you sayin’, Andrew?”
“I’m not sayin’ anything, Bubba—I’m doin’.”
Bubba dropped his cell phone as the glass wall that separated him from the sidewalk exploded from the gunfire of three AR-15 automatic rifles. One round grazed his right shoulder and Bubba screamed, the pain searing his right side. He went to his knees next to two women who lay bloody beside him. He watched the three men in ski masks fire their weapons with grim smiles fixed on their mouths. Bullets zipped and cracked over Bubba’s head. Then everything went black. He never heard them yell, “Allah Akbar,” or saw them jump into the van they had stolen that morning and drive away before the North Little Rock S.W.A.T. team responded to yet another “Jihadist” mass shooting in America.
An urgent knocking at the saloon door.
“Not now. We’re in session,” said Akebe.
The muffled voice from behind the heavily padded, secure door, insisted, “Sir, a report from the operations center. It may bear on your meeting.”
“Get in here.”
Gene Philmore, the Medusa’s captain, shuffled into Akebe’s presence.
“Read it, Captain.”
“Today, zero eight hundred, Central Time. Subject: Failed Assassination Attempt on Doctor Anna Stone….”
Akebe growled and slammed both fists on the glass table. Veins in his neck and forehead bulged through his dark skin. A tiny slip of saliva oozed from the corner of his lips. He forced a phony smile, breathed deep, and became suddenly still as stone. He peered around the table at his subordinate directors. They were all stunned. Frozen.
“All right dear Captain, please proceed with the message from our operations officer.”
“Direct from Andrew Johansen, Operations Center: ‘Anna Stone eluded our attack. This so-called holistic healer has a set daily routine. She drives from her house in Cabot, Arkansas, to her office in Sherwood Monday through Friday, same route, same time every morning. This time, for some unknown reason, the woman stopped her car a quarter mile short of the bridge where our squad placed the demo. I activated the charge from this remote location with precisely the right lead time for the speed Anna Stone was driving, but Stone stopped her car and got out precisely when I triggered the demo. She avoided the explosion and still lives.’”
“Why would she do that?” asked Randal.
“Shut up, Randal. Continue, Captain.”
“‘The following is a recording of her cell phone call right after the explosion hit the local news:’
“‘Are you okay, honey?’ (Paul Stone)
“‘Yeah, I stopped my car just before the bridge blew up.’ (Anna Stone)
“‘Why?’ (Paul Stone)
“‘There was a woman with a baby on her lap sitting on the guardrail there. I thought I could help her, so I stopped. Then the bomb went off and I was tossed in the air, and I landed on my face.’ (Anna Stone)
“‘Dear Lord. Are you all right?’ (Paul Stone)
“‘My hands, elbows, and knees are all scraped up, but nothing serious.’ (Anna Stone)
“‘What about the woman?’ (Paul Stone)
“‘Never saw her again. Weird. She either hopped the guardrail with the baby and ran for it, or she disappeared into thin air.’” (Anna Stone)
“She’s covering for somebody,” slurred Randal. “She knows damn well why she stopped her car. Somebody tipped her off, and we gotta root him out and get rid of him.”
Frances O’Donelly weighed in. “Take it easy there, slugger. Anna had no reason to be secretive on the phone with her husband. This naive little country doctor had no idea that her phone was bugged. If someone warned her about an attack on her life, she would have stayed home and called the police. It took nearly five minutes for the cops to respond. No, she never got an actual warning. She sounded convinced that she saw a mother and child in distress, and she stopped to assist them.”
“Enough, people,” said Akebe. “What else, Captain?”
“Yes, sir, last paragraph here: ‘I have eliminated the operations team that failed the mission, Bubba Whiting and Team Kilo. Made it look like an attack by radical Islamist. Although the target of the mission still lives, we succeeded in causing chaos in North Little Rock with two violent incidents. Traffic on Route 167 will be stopped for days, and the population is reeling from the shooting in the cafe.’
“End of message, sir.”
“Get out,” snarled Akebe.
The chairman’s countenance turned stony. The drumbeat in his brain pounded against his skull. He closed his eyes and watched a horrifying parade of cackling demons swirl around the invisible realm, accusing him, taunting him, calling him a miserable failure.
Akebe’s trance lifted. He surveyed the stunned faces at the table, then he shot a quick bolt of telekinetic energy at each director that erased the last few minutes from their brains.
“Well, another failure. The fly in the ointment has interfered again. The question before us is whether or not Andrew Johansen continues as the Directorate’s operations officer. I say remove him.
“That concludes my report. Next is Romano Goldstein, director of Healthcare and Pharmaceutical Control. Give your report first, then your assessment of Johansen.”
“I’ll be brief,” said Romano.
“That’ll be a first,” said Randal.
“For over twenty years we have successfully invaded America’s medical establishment—from their schools to the legislation governing their practices to the unbreakable ties they have with large pharmaceutical corporations. The new overarching Affordable Care Act, expertly engineered by our chairman, effectively shackles health insurance companies to government bureaucrats and health care providers. Doctors no longer diagnose illnesses or injuries and look for cures. They just read our detailed protocols and prescribe chemicals, thereby discharging an unceasing flow of mind-numbing chemicals into the brains of American citizens.
“People like Anna Stone who refuse to accept the medical establishment’s protocols and those few well-educated physicians who have somehow escaped our brainwashing mechanisms in med school pose the biggest threat to our plans.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Frances, “but who, for instance? Can you name anyone?”
Dr. Goldstein stammered, “One of them is running for president; can’t recall the name. He clings to radically conservative views, devoutly religious principles, and unconventional medical practices.”
Olivia jumped in, “Yes, and how many times has our brilliant operations officer tried to take him out? Four? Five?”
“As our chairman has mentioned, we’ve failed too often, and this ‘fly in the ointment’ seems especially protective of this doctor turned politician. Andrew must remain in command of his pruning squads to ensure our ultimate success.
“So, my assessment of Andrew….”
“Briefly, I’m begging you,” said Randal.
“In Andrew Johansen,” continued Romano Goldstein, “I developed a rare amalgamation of human traits. My staff at the Loving Center, where I preside over the world’s most brilliant staff of psychologists, certified Andrew as a sociopath. He possesses genius-level intelligence. An orphan, he suffers from a pathological dissociative disorder that keeps him from caring about any other human being. He works for days without rest. Andrew Johansen is a cocktail of psychotic disorders, the perfect specimen to serve as our operations officer.
“That, Randal, is my brief description of Andrew Johansen. My only advice to the board is that when you consider your vote for his elimination, remember it will be very difficult to find a replacement.”
Akebe said, “Thank you, Romano. Randal, you’re up next.”
“Yeah, okay,” said Randal, “business and finance have seen a couple major leaps forward, thanks partly to Akebe’s influence over congress with the passing of the Patriot Act despite all the misguided attempts to repeal it. This law gives us unprecedented access to just about every list in America. We have deep roots in all the databases where the NSA and the FBI are rapidly harvesting personal information on every US citizen. The illegals are causing us some problems, though. I don’t know what we’re doing accepting so many of them. They’re hard to track.
“Anyway, as you know I have been elected chairman of the board at Columbine Capitol and I have installed my people in all the key positions. We have enhanced our capability to digitally invade every TV network and alter their broadcasts so the public gets only the information we want them to get.”
“Example, please,” said Donald.
“Sure. One of the networks, I think it was Fox, did an interview with this freethinking jerk of a Navy Seal veteran. He’s telling the audience that his treatment for PTSD at the VA is all messed up. He says all the doctor does is look in his cook book—that’s what he had the gall to call it—and dish out meds. Then he talks about how he went to a homeopathic practitioner for treatment and he gets better—healed, he says, from the mental trauma. Well you know we don’t want to spread that kind of garbage, so my guys just grab the broadcast out of thin air, reprogram it, and have the soldier tell the world how great his VA doctor is.
“On top of that, we now have identified several new targets that are obstructing our successful campaign of controlling the minds of all Americans.”
Frances O’Donelly asked, “Any names, Randal, in the business world?”
“Well, most notable is a New York billionaire and TV personality. He’s making noises about running for president.”
“Ridiculous,” said Frances, “Such a peacock couldn’t get nominated, never mind elected. Don’t waste our resources going after such an imbecile.”
“Fine, then I’ll take the name off Andrew’s list then,” said a sulking Randal.
“But I want to weigh in on what to do with Andrew. I say we keep him. He has created an entire network of ingenious technological advancements without which my operations would be impossible. Just last month he came up with that plan to use structures that look like cellphone towers to broadcast mind-controlling microwaves. Good plan. That’s it from me.”
Akebe listened intently to his board. He heard nothing new from Olivia Kingston who briefed on her programs to expand the food industry’s degradation of the nutritional value of processed food. Her only advance seemed to be in the increased popularity of energy drinks that are successfully poisoning the younger age groups. The chairman was mildly impressed when she mentioned her direct control over Montasso Incorporated and, like Sanders, she has placed Directorate agents in key positions in that agrochemical company.
“My research shows,” Olivia said, “that over sixty-five percent of the US population buys into Montasso’s propaganda. I’m reading from their website here, ‘Monstasso works with farmers from around the world to make agriculture more productive and sustainable. Our technologies enable farmers to get more from every acre of farmland. Specifically, we are working to double yields in our core crops by 2030.’”
“Right,” said Randal, “but you have your threats. The Organic Consumers Association has to be taken out. And we need more visibility on the protestors. By my last count we have only terminated a dozen or so of these radicals. You have more problems than you realize, lady.”
Olivia cast him a look of superiority from her well-bred, nearly masculine face, molded by centuries of aristocratic DNA.
Akebe said, “And your position on our operations officer, Olivia?”
“Randal’s so misguided on this. We need to get rid of the arrogant slob.”
Randal said, “Olivia, you can’t see beyond your bigotry. Andrew is an essential asset to the Directorate.”
“That’s enough, people,” said Akebe. “Donald, your report on climate control.”
“Well our latest pilot program to cause continuous cloud cover is ready to go national. We’ve blanketed the northeast US with almost continuous clouds for eight months. The only reason we allowed an occasional day of sunlight is so the locals wouldn’t realize how bad we are making it for them. The effects are phenomenal. We’re seeing a spike in clinical depression and suicides. We’re still studying the effects on how the lack of sunlight is having on general mental capacity.
“I want to thank Randal for manipulating the local and national weather broadcasts on TV. His people have been able to alter the weather reporting so when meteorologists report on the unusual stretches of cloudy days, our agents have effectively kept that information from the public. Even internet articles on the lack of sunshine get buried.
“The other program we have initiated since our last board meeting is causing droughts in those areas in California where the large organic farms have cropped up.
“And, Chairman Cheron, your ingenious strategy of brainwashing key leaders in the government regarding global warming has created a marvelous smokescreen that has effectively concealed our meteorological manipulations. We have an iron grip on the scientific community. Not only are they publishing peer-reviewed papers and articles that support the climate hoax, they have also spread their influence globally. And any freethinking scholar who tries to publish or teach the truth gets ostracized, and often loses tenure.
“Now about Andrew Johansen: Olivia, you need to get some long-range perspective on this. The young man has served us well for what—fifteen years? Give the boy a break. Keep him on.”
Olivia stood up and banged the table. “He’s a failure. He’s the fly in the ointment.”
Randal said, “Pipe down, woman. You don’t know what you’re talking about. The fly is external.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that, you miserable drunk. I deserve more respect than that.”
Akebe raised his hand, just slightly. He smiled his disturbing grin. “Let’s stay on point, folks.”
Akebe watched the two powerful executives comply with his rebuke like children to a stern father. Thank you, Ogoun, for giving me this controlling power.
CHAPTER THREE
Across the continent on a granite outcropping just south of Cape Ann, Massachusetts, Gabriella stood with her face to the wind, focusing all her prophetic energy on the Directorate’s meeting. Their high-tech security measures obscured the details of their conversations from her, but Gabriella was able to catch the gist. She leaped her way up the rocks to her cottage on the bluff where dinner was almost ready.
“The Directorate will be searching for us,” Gabriella stated quietly as she placed the serving bowl of pasta on the dinner table. Before sitting down, the aged woman turned her back to the room, looked out the bay window, and took her time scanning the Atlantic horizon beyond their rocky point. Past the visible realm, Gabriella “saw” the shimmering formation of the angelic platoon she had requested. They halted in the air above Cielavista where they would establish their war room.
Gabriella’s granddaughter and grandson-in-law waite
d respectfully for their perduring Nonina to take her seat at the head of the table. Accustomed as they were to the ancient Sicilian’s agility, they still marveled at her inexhaustible energy. Gabriella spun on her toe, dipped onto her chair, and slid it forward to the table, her lips murmuring in prayer.
“Who are these people?” said Sandy as she dished out the pesto pasta with chicken into three bowls while Sandy’s husband, Henry, poured the wine.
“The ones who are orchestrating all these murders,” Gabriella said.
“Well, maybe we just have to hold off for a while,” said Henry after his first sip.
“Oh, no, no, no,” said Gabriella, “many good, important people will die. We cannot let that happen. I have to continue protecting their targets. They have attempted to kill an important presidential candidate several times. But we must initiate countermeasures. Henry, you will take charge of that.”
“No problem,” Henry said.
Gabriella read his eyes. He didn’t have the slightest inkling of what she was talking about. Gabriella knew that in twenty-eight years Henry Baker had never become comfortable living here with her and her granddaughter, where every daily event burst onto the calendar with unpredictable spontaneity.
Gabriella could see it coming—another raging episode roiling up in Henry’s gut. Lord, I know that but for your grace, this marriage would never have lasted a year.
“Frances, your report on education control?”
“We’re well entrenched in all levels of public education from preschool to postdoctorate. The leverage we have with government funding keeps them all in line. From the top down, professors and teachers provide very little thought-provoking instruction. The students are not rewarded for understanding the principles behind the facts, just rote memory. Every curricula simply provides the formula for repetition and test-taking. The whole idea of standardized testing gives us a tremendous tool for control.
“We must continue pruning out the freethinkers who pop up all over the place. Although we have over ninety percent of public school teachers and college professors totally brainwashed into our mold, the resistance is coming from stubborn students and their parents. When we hear of these dissenters we attempt to hypnotize them, but if that doesn’t work we target them for elimination.
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