They had no plans. Not for that day, the next ten days, or six months, or ever. They also had no hope.
Their reward was certainly not what they had expected.
Guardian – System Two
37. THE GAME
Senator Jason Matthews walked slowly into his study and collapsed onto a plush, over-stuffed leather recliner. He leaned his head back and put soothing eye drops into his bloodshot, twitching eyes.
Jason was exhausted from another long week of closed, secure meetings. Regular attendees could be counted on one hand, excluding the thumb. Only President Garcia, his Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense, and, in his position as Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, Senator Matthews were there every day. Individual members of the Joint Chiefs and others were called in as required.
The issue at hand? How to respond to an intentional direct attack on the United States, an event that should have been catastrophic. It wasn’t, thanks to Roger, Justin, and Guardian. Few Americans were even aware that anything had happened, other than a massive storm and what appeared to be an unusual lightning event or exploding meteor. As key national advisors continued to meet, no one suspected that it was in fact Jason who planned the exact timing of the attack. Nor did anyone suspect his increasing frustration that Garcia was still President, and that Jason wasn’t at the helm of a new world order as the Joint Americas’ Premier.
So, the discussions continued, and Jason played along.
The Russians and their newly regained Ukrainian state? Unknown. By all appearances, Russian President Viktor Savin was sincere in his efforts to determine what happened and how—how what seemed to be a throwback to the Cold War could have remained operational after so many decades. How it could have been launched the long way around—over the South Pole—to attack the United States with a nuclear warhead.
The United States and Russian relations were at their lowest since before the Reagan/Gorbachev thaw of the Cold War. Russia continued to support Iran and Syria and other countries that championed terror attacks against U.S. and its Western allies. Most serious pundits judged relations with Russia as only marginally better than those between the U.S. and China. The Communist Party’s government in Beijing continued to support North Korea, which incessantly threatened a preemptive nuclear attack against South Korea and the U.S. Now that North Korea had successfully completed space launches that could also deliver nuclear warheads, many took that threat seriously.
Frankly, the United States didn’t have very good relations with some former friends either.
Doesn’t matter. A whole new world order is just months away.
Jason Matthews relaxed in his exclusive penthouse condominium, engulfed in his overstuffed chair, and smiled.
Perhaps just one drink tonight.
He began his game.
His multiphone App selected the date and time of July 22, 2022, 10:00 p.m. As his calendar entry opened for that block of time, Jason’s smile grew wider.
Oh, yes. I remember this very well!
No one had ever heard or read of Senator Matthew’s SORDAMN philosophy. No one ever would. It wasn’t as if Jason would one day write a book, “How to Control Everyone at All Times.” His greatest weapon was the absolute secrecy that he even had such a philosophy and how he employed it.
SORDAMN:
Self-Control. In all things, at all times.
Offense. Play several moves ahead. Readily lose visible battles to win invisible wars.
Remember: Who said what, verbatim; what they meant by what they said; and use either their actual words or their implied meaning back against them, as appropriate.
There were the other planks of Jason’s SORDAMN philosophy: Deceive (whenever appropriate), Avoid (anything that would limit or weaken his ultimate goals), Manipulate (always, toward his ultimate goals). And finally, Never (never regret, or waste energy on remorse).
His nightly game, which he relished for the sheer challenge of its difficulty, focused on Goal Three: Remember. And Jason excelled at remembering. Over the years, he had honed his skills by randomly selecting a past conversation and recalling all the details.
From a brief note in his multiphone calendar, he could remember who he talked with and what they had discussed. More importantly, he recalled significant details about that person, all key points of the conversation, and what the other person actually meant by what he said—or didn’t say.
The discipline made him like the only shipwreck survivor with a flashlight, or food, or water, or any of countless other critical items. But even better, nobody—not Chicago gangs, bosses, politicians—not Washington, or the press, or anyone else—could take that away from him.
July 22, 2022
“We need you to run for President.”
No prelude, no chit-chat. Right to the point.
“You’ve positioned yourself well. We’ve built the infrastructure and have the finances. The transition is almost complete. We need you in the White House.”
Not only did Jason fully agree, it was part of his own plan. But as always, he needed it to be “forced” on him, so he could humbly acquiesce to the will of the people.
Stan Bishop, the reclusive billionaire, continued.
“We have the usual media in our pocket, and we’ll attack the alternate media with everything we’ve got. They’ll be too busy fending off audits, lawsuits, and innuendos to focus on being ‘fair and balanced’ or to mounting an effective analysis.”
“Lawsuits?” Jason asked.
“Since Obama, we’ve quietly continued weaponized the IRS, CIA, Justice Department, part of the DOD—just about everything. We’re subtler now, of course. He pushed things ahead much faster than we intended, and ultimately, that led to Trump. He really set us back. That’s why we need you in the seat now. We’ll keep the other side busy while we complete our agenda.”
Jason remembered the conversation well. He and Stan went through the list of inside media and government personnel who could assist with the needed astroturfing. The process should go smoothly, as Jason had already established himself as a maverick—a trusted short-term statesman in sharp contrast to the proverbial Washington career insider.
They had continued talking about the progressive plans, including what they privately called the Balaam Initiatives; get people to support the very decisions that would bring about their own downfall. They were like the plans of Saul Alinsky that the Clintons, the Obamas, and hundreds of others had followed since the seventies—but on steroids. And they were working.
It had all gone so well. Recalling the compliments from his “angel,” Jason smiled. Even the younger billionaire hadn’t suspected how effectively he was being played. Oh yes, SORDAMN worked.
Usually.
One time, one man, one debate. And Jason Matthews lost the presidency.
I hate Christians.
He didn’t hate the lukewarm, country-club, so-called Christians who checked the block every Sunday morning. Or the ones who went to church another once or twice each week for extra credit. Not them. No, Jason loved them, because they were easy to manipulate. Make them think they’re doing something good for the downtrodden, and they’ll do just about anything without even basic fact-checking. Totally unaware of second and third order consequences until it was too late. They never seem to learn that the very effects of those consequences were often the motives behind the actions in the first place.
Mindless puppets.
Not them. It was the ones who actually believed John 3:16, that Jesus was serious when He told a religious leader that he must be “born again.” These were the hardest to manipulate. And occasionally, like with Juan Garcia, it was as if they could see right through the very best façade. Even Jason’s.
Jason had never lost a debate. He excelled in high school and collegiate competitions, relishing his keen ability to verbally shred his opponents—sometimes literally to tears. His first few presidential debates were perfectly scripted. He was asked all
the right questions, in the right order, with precise lead-ins so he could attack his opponents. With great elegance, he mercilessly ripped the contenders to pieces one by one. But that last debate!
Jason had finally argued Juan to the brink of launching an emotional attack that would allow him to deal a brutal counterattack, a final death blow to the conservative. The particular issue was unimportant. His strategy was. He carefully twisted facts, sprinkled in innuendo, and added a generous dash of character assassination. Then he pulled out a famous Obama line, “We’re better than that,” meaning his plan might benefit one percent at the expense of ninety-nine percent. It was the perfect setup. Juan fell right into the trap. Then suddenly, in mid-sentence, the man paused ever so slightly, cocked his head to one side, and looked intently at Jason. Calmly, slowly, almost sadly, Juan said eight simple words. Words that at any other time, in any other context, would have been ignored. But that night, they were words that all the analysts said cost Jason the presidency.
“Jason. Do you really believe what you’re saying?”
That was all. No further argument. No back-and-forth. When Juan was asked questions, he’d state facts, present his appraisal and the best path forward. He would describe how his plan would uphold the U.S. Constitution and personal freedoms. He’d also provide a quick assessment of the pros and cons of his approach, how he would mitigate any cons, and sometimes even name who should draft the required legislation. On one occasion, he even recommended his opponent, Senator Jason Matthews, as his preferred point-man.
Not even the carefully planted moderators could recover enough to feed Jason the questions that would allow him to regain the upper hand. There was no leverage, no traction left. Nothing.
Overnight, Jason’s ratings dropped six points. Juan’s skyrocketed eight points. One month later, Juan won the election.
“God, I hate that man!” Jason exclaimed, alone in his living room sanctuary.
The irony was that Jason did, in fact, believe in the existence of God. And he hated Him even more than he hated Juan.
Jason decided he would have that second drink.
Doesn’t matter. I’ll have the White House within two years. Might even move my capital to Chicago.
He may have lost the election, but his consolation prize was unheard of in modern history. Jason had only been a senator for one term before running for president and was already serving as the Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. Among his many responsibilities, this position allowed him to oversee all the classified “black” DOD programs. Then after losing the Presidency, for the first time since 1949, the Senate’s President Pro Tem was not the senior senator. By a clear majority, the Senate selected the junior senator from Illinois…Jason Matthews.
So simple; third in succession to the Presidency. Everything had been in place to take out the President, Madame Vice President, and the Speaker of the House just a few days earlier.
It’ll take a while to set everything up again and then stage the terrorist attacks. We’ll make it happen. I’ll make it happen.
Normally his “game” didn’t bring up so much baggage.
Jason took a long, deep breath. He clasped his hands behind his head, leaned back in his plush leather chair, looked up at the cathedral ceiling in his opulent penthouse study, and smiled.
38. PAST, PRESENT, AND PURPOSE
You’re going to die tonight.
You may prevent World War III for another year or two. But you’re going to die.
All three shots missed. If Battle Short doesn’t work, you’re still going to die, and hundreds of thousands more.
You’re alive, but nobody can see you. No one can hear you. No one can touch you. Not now, not ever.
So much had occurred in the past several weeks. Roger was more depressed than any time he could remember. For the first time since the difficult years following the loss of his family, he wept.
He sat on the “soft” concrete floor of the Grand Forks hangar; his back against the firm side of Guardian’s left main landing gear and wept uncontrollably.
There would again come a time when he would quote Romans 8:28–29, the Twenty-Third Psalm, and many other Bible verses he had committed to memory and had meditated on regularly.
He would again rejoice that his prayer for Justin’s salvation had been answered, literally while Justin rode his motorcycle to Directed Paradigms, Incorporated—DPI—to check on the software issue.
But at the moment, he understood Elijah’s deep depression after confronting the false prophets of Baal and experiencing incredible miracles from God. Not that he considered himself a prophet, or even anyone special. But the “fiery darts” of Satan made him feel like a lone rabbit trapped above ground, downfield at a sniper training range. His mood was dark, foreboding. The crushing loneliness and isolation? Overwhelming.
Eventually, Roger would also be able to meditate on the “full armor of God” described in Ephesians, chapter 6. But for now, the loneliness was crushing. He also felt a twinge in his side signaling the onset of another gallbladder attack. In emotional, physical, and spiritual exhaustion, he lay down beside the aircraft and eventually fell into a restless sleep. Dreams returned. Strange, ultra-high definition 4K, immersive 3-D dreams.
Am I awake and dreaming? Is this part of what healed my paralysis? Electroshock? EMP? What in the world?
He had accepted Cliff Nesmith’s job offer to work at PDI on the hypersonic manned interceptor. General Alvarez said he had four years, which took him to his planned retirement. He had moved to the Space Coast, found a suitable condo to accommodate his paraplegia, and joined Community Church. So much else occurred over those first years, including the tornado that destroyed most of the church, then the beloved pastor’s sudden fatal heart attack.
Roger woke up and was even more depressed as he answered the call of nature and walked to the bathroom. In the dismal gray light that matched his mood, he walked through the bathroom door, took care of business, and walked back through the wall toward the aircraft.
Wonder if I’d die quietly in my sleep if I just lay down right here away from the aircraft? Nah. Probably wake up coughing so hard I’d crack a rib.
He walked back to the aircraft, his critical lifeline to the strange, new interdimensional reality, and lay down.
He was exhausted, but he just tossed and turned for what seemed like hours. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep and began to dream again.
The much smaller church, under its new pastor, began a series of studies that were designed not to know more about God, but to more personally experience a relationship with God. They studied ‘Experiencing God’ by Henry Blackaby, ‘Secrets of the Vine’ by Bruce Wilkinson, and more.
In his strange, waking dream, Roger saw and heard himself sharing about an unusual, personal experience with God.
Like an outsider looking in, he relived his telling of his daughter’s struggles as a young adult and the tough consequences of her terrible lifestyle. He shared how she eventually connected the dots and realized her need to know Jesus. But then, the very next day on their flight back to Savannah, he described the terrible crash that killed his family and left him paralyzed.
“You might think, ‘That’s not much of a deal. You trust in Christ, then get killed in a freak accident!’ I personally believe that God had prolonged Susan’s days to give her that one last opportunity to accept or reject him forever. And I know she’s with him today.”
“I’ve never told this to anyone before. It’s the most spectacular miracle I’ve ever witnessed.
“Susan and I were in the same hospital before a blood clot took her life. After they did all they could to save her, they wheeled me in to see her. My heart broke. My wife had died instantly, and my son died before they got him to the hospital. Now Susan. A thousand questions overwhelmed me. Suddenly—at that precise moment—an afternoon thunderstorm ended. A tiny opening appeared in a sky full of heavy clouds, and a sunbeam lasered through the hospital r
oom’s window. The light spotlighted Susan’s face. Just her face. And I saw an angelic look of peace. I hadn’t seen her so peaceful since she was a child. I already knew and believed she was with Jesus. But that miracle was just there, just then, just for me, so I could see even more clearly that my family was in the presence of the living Light of the World.”
The strange dream-state fast-forwarded as Roger saw the church grow and lives change. At PDI, Guardian came together as computer-aided designs, then models, then actual constructs using PDIs—Cliff’s—proprietary and highly classified 3-D additive manufacturing processes. Test flights began. It was time for the next series at Groom Dry Lake just north of Las Vegas, to finally allow the Guardian prototype to use its classified scram jet and magneto-hydrodynamic ion drive.
Then, he remembered the last message he heard his pastor share, the Sunday before Roger flew out to Groom Dry Lake. It was a message about building one’s life on a solid foundation.
Roger awoke with a start. He remembered! Pastor Andy’s words were almost identical to what he had shared years earlier at his former church when he filled in for Pastor Hicks; the message that had such an impact on Karen Richardson. After Brother Andy’s message, Roger had rolled his wheelchair forward and prayed with the pastor. He recommitted his remaining years to serving God. He asked the Holy Spirit to enable him for whatever purpose God had for him.
That was less than two weeks ago. Yes, it was the Sunday before his flight in Guardian that saved countless lives around Virginia!
Roger bowed his head in sincere reverence. “Thank You, Lord God Almighty.”
The Guardian Collection (End of the Sixth Age Book 2) Page 19