Council Nine

By C.J. Lanet

Excerpt:

"The senseless tragedy by itself merely underscored a deep and abiding desire by radials to disrupt civilization and reduce daily life to chaos and pain. Yet a single frame of a prostrate young woman clutching to an infant with its head sheered from its body galvanized public opinion that had grown increasingly passive. Instantly, rage replaced pity. Her face and hair were badly burned. Her blouse, once a birthday present from her husband, covered nothing. Surrounding her smoldering head like a soft pillow was lush grass so incongruous to the brutality of the event that it seemed staged. Nevertheless, in her arms the dead infant carried a harsh message – the ancient and frustrating dilemma that evil prevails in the world. Can the all-powerful God prevent evil? If not, God was weak, not loving or simply nonexistent."

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.J. Lanet
• Release date: Jun 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476263304

C.J. Lanet

If you dare to waste one hour of time you lost the value of life. From my pen is this creed - the golden rule to prevent the mind from rusting. I have often regretted my writing, never my silence. Yet through it all - my words are not faked. Hands-on experience makes the difference. Indeed, it's impossible to be a writer without having lived. My short list of skills may offer an insight to what I say. Artist Gambler Gangster Industrialist Inventor Pilot Pirate Prizefighter Prophet Tycoon "Magic happens only when you make it happen." ________

Book preview

COUNCIL NINE

MISSION: IN WAR CONFUSION WINS.

C.J. Lanet

Council Nine

Published by C.J. Lanet at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 C.J. Lanet

Original manuscript as excerpt from Author’s Scrapbook Series One by C.J. Lanet

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

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Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Postscript

Notes

Introduction

Against a background of new world dynamics, COUNCIL NINE pits two opposing forces against each other: those who are working to insure that the United States maintains global dominance, and those who recognize that as world population increases each nation has equal entitlement to the earth's resources and its own destiny. Thus, the mandate is to reduce the United States to a nation among nations without special privileges by subverting the American way of life and exploiting its weak spot – atypical terrorism.

Hypothesis: The United States is simply not capable to effectively manage natural disasters for the benefit of its people, and simply exploits them after the fact to gain more control or to purge rival agendas. Whether earthquake, flood, heatwave, hurricane, landslide, tornado or volcanic eruption, these natural disasters and resulting losses depend on the vulnerability and resilience of the affected population. By manipulating the end game, the government can decide winners and losers with impunity. At issue in each case is 'human involvement.' For example, the 2005 Katrina Hurricane was a disaster, whereas hurricanes are a hazard. Distinguishing the difference reduces the adversity in a dollar and cents proposition. Each natural hazard has a distinctive footprint, which cannot be immediately addressed until the event runs its course. In the United States it's the Federal Emergency Management Agency that manages domestic emergencies. Yet, FEMA must depend on state and local officials to restore infrastructure and safeguard the population. To be sure, the response can only be administered at the local level with paper money and promises supplied by the federal government. Chaos rules in this precious window of time between reaction and survival. When Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, vandalism, related crimes and bureaucratic uncertainty cost more in human lives and damages than the actual storm incurred. Unofficially over 10,000 deaths were blamed on the catastrophe, while 100,000 plus were stranded. Most of the losses and pain were inflicted on enfranchise citizens, as if the disaster was the excuse for social cleansing. Katrina was not an isolated example of how a hazard became a benefit, while the commonplace people despise tragedy and got neat-nothing. Indeed, hazards repeat themselves, first as disaster, and afterwards a charade. So what was it, the storm or indifference that cost so much?

The more worldwide destruction, the more governments manipulate the events to insure nature is a larger villain. In the next 100 years the line between a natural disaster and manmade will be so blared, no one will know for sure, except COUNCIL NINE and others with similar pursuits.

Can a tsunami be artificially induced? At the moment the question does not have an answer, but COUNCIL NINE will spend whatever necessary to find out.

Tsunamis in all forms are long-standing natural disasters with the unrestricted power to destroy coastal communities. These hideous catastrophes come in two types: An earthquake-stimulated tsunami can create an 80-foot wave of water to kill anyone or anything in its path. Most deaths are caused by crushing debris traveling at high speed with the water, than being drowned or swept away. Physical destruction near the shoreline is usually total. During its devastating run survival in all forms becomes a limited option. Yet, the landslide-based tsunami whether triggered by an earthquake or other nature phenomena is by far the worst, except possibly the earth being hit by a meteor the size of Canada. Luckily, this second type of tsunami is extremely rare since the vast majority of landslides are too small to generate a significant wave. Even though a class one tsunami can create a tower of water higher than the Empire State building and carry destruction inland for 1200 miles, the likelihood would require the perfect occurrence of natural events, an almost impossible feat unless …

Those juggernauts of crushing water are cold face killers and the most terrifying event on earth, until recently not understood. A Great Wave as the Japanese word tsunami implies, although the meaning appears subjective since the earth is 74% water, and eventually will be the worst-case scenario for the end of mankind. As a result, we are merely short-term occupants of the water world called Earth.

On July 4, 2015, at 1:30 a.m., a large earthquake tore through the Canary Islands. Measuring a colossal 9.9 on the moment magnitude scale (MMS), the quake generated five times more energy than the infamous 2004 Banda Aceh disaster.¹ By comparison, the 1906 earthquake that obliterated San Francisco was nothing more than a minor snapping of a rubber band.

On the volcanic island of Las Plamas, the tremors were only the start of the earthquake’s devastation?

At seafront near the center of the quake, seismic waves caused underwater landslides. They, in turn, gave birth to a Class One tsunamis. A column of water 2000 feet high shattered the east coast from Boston in the north to Miami in the south and wreaked havoc beyond the Mississippi river. In its wake the Empire State building in New York City was sheered off at the 42nd floor; Washington, D.C. disappeared and the entire states of Florida and Georgia became a permanent part of the Atlantic Ocean.

COUNCIL NINE made it happen. And in the end the signature of man was managed not by the hand of God, but from indifference to human suffering.

Chapter One

Miserable mortals, like leaves, at one moment flame with life, eating the produce of the land, and at another moment weakly perish.²

EARLY MORNING, mid-day, cloudless sapphire sky, a blistering sun big and angry sat on the morning horizon as if about to explode. Below the stark desert floor stretched from end to end, intersected only by a single line of trucks, cars, vans and donkey carts. The multi-colored convoy wearyingly waited with human cargo to cross from the West Bank of Palestine, near Jerusalem into Israeli territory. A military helicopter made a noisy pass and continued north. On the ground, spiny tumbleweed occasionally rambled with the infrequent breeze. Nothing seemed to work except the temperature raced passed 115 Fahrenheit.

At the fenced checkpoint the creature line grudgingly lingered. The heat so intense the air radiated in quivering bands from the immobile objects. Intermittent movement on the line briefly distorted the scene. An ill-tempered guard in a light brown uniform motioned with his rifle for a small van to move beyond the fence. In varying degrees, the traffic sputtered and resentfully rolled forward, time measured in inches. The second vehicle, a rusty, faded, 4-door Fiat with one whitewall tire and no rims stopped at the gate. Perched on the roof were two larger steamer trunks and above them an open-air chicken coop with a dozen white and brown chickens. Two young boys hung from the back seat windows. Behind the wheel was Hassin Halili, 51 years old, tall, thin, hawk-like beak, salt and pepper straggly beard, wearing a limp, rag cap. He possessed all the markings of a lowly, marginal farmer. Next to him, Fatima Halili, his 21-year-old wife, breast-fed an infant girl, six-months old. Grotesquely over-weighted with streams of sweat pouring from exposed face and arms, she appeared bewildered as if lost between reality and a recurring nightmare. Clad in a tattered peasant dress, she could easily pass for a geek in a sideshow. Sparkling green eyes and raven-black, wavy hair enhanced her madness.

The rusty Fiat moved forward; its gears stripped, its frame creaked. Chickens chirped, while the occupants remained silent, resigned that such delays were routine. Blue smoke engulfed the car as it jerked to the fence and razor wire gate. Weapons in hand, two uniformed Israeli reservists stood in anxious anticipation, eyed the junk like it contained a bomb about to detonate.

From a portable guardhouse to the right of the barricade, a reservist emerged, older, sported a potbelly that extended over his tight uniform and belt. With a clipboard in hand, he slowly proceeded to the vehicle. The tinted window of the van was lowered as he approached. A quick brush of cool air from the cab flushed Potbelly. A brief exchange ensued while the driver presented his vehicle documents. At length, and the passing of ten crisp bills, Potbelly signaled the second gate to swing open.

The Fiat was waved forward, and stammered as if it may permanently expire before reaching the short distance. Potbelly followed the vehicle beyond the initial barrier.

Shut the god-damn thing off!

Instantly, the Fiat was silent.

Papers! barked Potbelly.

A mauled, sun-blackened hand presented documents. Upon reviewing the discolored and grimy papers, Potbelly stared into the car’s interior and shook his head.

All right. Get out. Let’s go, I don’t have all day.

Two reservists at the fence moved closer to the Fiat. Potbelly whispered to them. They laughed, as one of them returned to his post. The other reservist walked to the Fiat and poked at the wood and canvas trunk with the barrel of his rifle. To Hassin, he said, Take all the shit off the roof!

Nervously, Hassin removed the items and placed them on the ground. Chicken sounds aggravated the reservist, who without warning violently kicked the coop, stirring feathers and chicken shit, setting off the creatures into louder protests. Six-year-old Abdul Halili ran to their rescue, defiantly yelling.

Step back kid, shouted the reservist, before I shoot! You hear me, scrammmm.

He adjusted the leather strap holding the rifle and pointed the weapon a few inches from the boy’s head.

Abdul didn’t flinch, bent down and put his hand inside the coop to stroke the nearest bird. Fatima with her baby in tow quickly exited the car to shield her son.

Potbelly screamed at Hassin. Take the shit out … all of it.

My son doesn’t mean any harm. Please! She begged in a brawny Semitic inflection.

The reservist backed away, cursed under his breath.

A sudden hot gust blew sand and combined with the exhaust of the vehicles behind them created an instant toxic cloud. She covered the baby with her blouse, exposing a blotted breast. Amused by the view, Potbelly laughed.

Flimsy clothing rolled away from the trunks. Hassin quickly retrieved them, clutching the garments as if they were more precious than gold. He shouted at the children to assist him, as Fatima returned to the car, cuddling the infant.

Using the barrel of his rifle, the reservist pushed, poked and occasionally lifted personal wear and flipped them aside in disgust. Hassin did nothing, diverted his eyes and resolutely bowed his head.

Okay, ordered Potbelly, pick it all up. Let’s go! There’s a big line behind you.

While Hassin, and two boys quickly gathered their possessions, the reservist slammed his boot down on the chicken coop when Abdul and his younger bother, Mohamed, attempted to lift it. Back up, get in the car. He pointed the weapon at the coop. This stays!

No it ain’t, Abdul protested.

A furious backhand to the boy’s face by the reservist reeled him sideways like a beach ball kicked in flight. When Mohamed and his father moved closer to the reservist, a loud gunshot was heard. Smoke from the barrel was evident as the Potbelly quickly stood by Hassin and his sons. Back up … back-the-damn-up! … Now, you dirty bastards!

Fatima screamed. Balancing the baby with one arm, she shielded her son from further punishment. Abdul didn’t cry, merely rubbed his face and stared at the attacker.

Potbelly moved between the reservists. All right, enough of this. To Hassin, he ordered. Move it!

Hassin quickly gathered the items from the ground, tied the trunks to the roof and proceeded beyond the checkpoint. Minus the chicken coop, the Fiat, its clouds of blue smoke and trunks in tow, slowly gained speed as the boys leaned from the rear windows shouted obscenities at the reservists.

Heads in boys! … There’s little we can do. Hassin was reconciled to the truth.

Fatima sighed. Abdul, let me look at you. She twisted her body and leaned backward.

Oh Mom, I’m okay. They can’t hurt me.

I hate ‘em, shouted Mohamed.

Calmly, his father said, "No son, you must not hate. Hate is wasted on bad thoughts. Revenge: it’s the only deed that counts."

Fatima shook her head. No Hassin. Don’t teach our children such things. Let God be the judge, not us.

Stop woman! Take care of Bushra.

Hassin looked at the baby in his wife’s arms and accelerated the Fiat. The tiny motor strained, yet briskly performed. The boys are my responsibility.

Mohamed leaned on the front seat behind his father. Yeah dad, revenge.

Chapter Two

Every tradition grows ever more venerable – the more remote is its origin, the more confused that origin is. The reverence due to it increases from generation to generation. The tradition finally takes hold and inspires awe.³

THE LANDSCAPE ON both sides of the cement road was sparse with an occasional building as the Fiat rambled along. With no traffic in either direction, Hassin finally relaxed as the welcomed breeze streamed into the car. Ahead, possibly two miles, the markings of a village became visible, and loomed larger as the Fiat made up the distance. Slowing at a watermelon stand with a colorful canopy, he pulled off the road, partly shading the car under the white and green striped Nylon tent. Hassin and his sons exited the car. Before them were fifty large green and yellow spotted watermelons. Abdul lifted the biggest one his eyesight could find, and advanced on wobbly legs to show his father.

This is it, Pop! I saw it right off. It’s the …

Before he could finish the sentence, the heavy melon slipped from his arms, and hit the ground with a dull thump. Instantly, the melon split open like a raw egg sizzling on a hot grill, splattered into more red pieces than one could count in a minute.

Oh Pop, it just slipped, I’m sorry!

An old man reached Abdul before his father had an opportunity to hit the boy for being so careless.

Ah, to be young again and foolish. What’s one melon, no damage when we have hundreds?

Watermelon Man, half bent already, supplied the rest of the short distance, picked up a good size chunk and tasted it.

Not bad! Why is it, the best ones break first?

I will pay, offered Hassin. Abdul … Abdul, you will work twice as hard! Tell the man you’re sorry!

Abdul and his brother Mohamed attempted to gather the fragments to no avail. Most of the pieces were too small, and quickly reduced to sticky slim.

Watermelon Man laughed. Let it be. It’s good for business to show the customers how red they are.

Black flies had other ideas, and converged on the bits with reckless abandonment. At length, Watermelon Man poured a large water pile over the debris. Instantly, the flies flew off.

"Enough of this. … So, they finally opened the road. … Take what you want, my prices are fair. Let the boy alone, we all take mistakes. This one is not too bad." He offered a toothless snort.

Thank you for your kindness, sir. I apologize for my irresponsible son.

No problem. We were both boys once. Such a good time that was.

We waited five hours. Too hot, and the day is getting worse. The guards, they … why am I complaining?

When will all this stop?

Hassin pulled a long, thin knife from his leather belt, sliced in half a full sized melon, and quartered it again. To Mohamed he ordered. Here, take this to your mother.

A smiling Mohamed had the melon in both hands and delivered the large piece to Fatima through the open window of the car.

Abdul’s voice echoed from the back of the stall. Hey Pop, all the really big ones are in the back. Come look!

Watermelon Man coyly smiled when Hassin gave him a knowing look.

Mocking surprise, Hassin said, what, you keep the best and the biggest ones in the back for your better customers?

No, no. The small ones are sweeter, just as good. Don’t worry; the one you cut is half-price. Go, pick from the back, if you like? I’m an honest farmer.

Abdul ran to his father’s side and said, We got two really big ones.

Yeah, Pop, go look, added Mohamed.

Good! laughed Hassin. But let me take them to the car.

The boys giggled.

After paying Watermelon Man and boarding the two melons, Hassin and the boys returned to the small table under the canopy, and finished eating the melon originally sliced open by Hassin.

The first crop is always the best. What’s in the field now, not so good.

Very sweet, I hope the others are just as good. It is kind of you …

Not to worry. My farm is small, but good. You’ll see and be well satisfied. Why not, we should all stick together? So, I assume you’re going to Jerusalem?

Visiting my bother Ibrahim and his new family; maybe a little holiday? I promised my wife after Bushra was born.

Hey Pop remember, the bike you said Mohamed and me could share?

Hassin smiled and stirred Abdul’s hair with his hand. Don’t worry son. You’ll get Ibrahim’s bike.

You picked a bad time, cautioned the farmer. They are more anxious than ever. Not good, even snipers; very bad.

We don’t bother anyone.

That’s all well and good, but bullets have their own will …

Fatima with infant in tow exited the car, walked toward the group.

He stood and said proudly, my wife, Fatima. To her he said, Mutasen has been kind to us; you have heard?"

Yes, thank you. We are grateful.

"What are two melons here or there? I was telling your husband to be careful in Jerusalem. It’s not safe …"

Hassin waved his hands.

Don’t worry, my dear. We’ll only be in the city a few minutes. Anyway, Ibrahim’s house is to the north.

Anxiously, Fatima smiled and rocked her infant. You are happy. See, how things change? One minute you are mad, the next…

Mohammed interrupted. Oh Mom, this … this is different.

En route to Jerusalem proper, the traffic intensified as the rural road expanded into a four-lane highway with fast moving vehicles the norm. As her husband cautiously maneuvered the car to the slowest lane, Fatima reflected on the general conditions of things, pondered questions with impossible answers. Her thoughts dwelled on the continuous chanting of the village alders:

Jerusalem, the world’s oldest and holiest city, proclaimed by Muslims throughout the world as the site of Islam’s most sacred shrines and the goal of our Prophet Muhammad’s to posses it exclusively, while the State of Israel made it the capital. For the Christians, it is the scene of their Savior’s agony and triumph; for the Jews, Jerusalem is the focus of age-old yearnings, a living proof of ancient grandeur and independence. …Who’s right? Are we privileged to learn the truth in our lifetime, or continue to suffer without relief? Indeed, for the grace of God, goes God.

The rusty Fiat was behind a precariously wobbling, ancient truck overloaded with various odd sized, used lumber and ‘throwaway’ junk. Vehicles continued to race by as the car absorbed the dumps of a modern city with its network of streets, high-rise buildings, restaurants and coffeehouses. In due course, Hassin stirred the Fiat off the wide ramp onto a local street and heavy pedestrian traffic. From the front windshield, the diverse activities of the city flushed with vim and vigor always confused him.

The different styles, shapes and colors flashed across his eyes and produced a sense of wonder, delight and fear. Stopped at an intersection by a female in uniform, directed traffic with the flair of a professional, Hassin incessantly marveled at the many uses women preferred over the honorable task of being a dedicated wife and full time mother to her children. What happened to the ultimate promise a wife kept with Allah – the family and marriage as the tradition that upheld it? How can women be good mothers wearing uniforms, directing traffic? Maybe the Jew was less than human to allow its women such ungodly errands?

Arabs in traditional and modern dress; Christians, Western and Oriental, in their infinite variety of secular and monastic vestments; Jews in fashionable or orthodox garb; and assorted tourists combined in vibrant, kaleidoscopic patterns. Traffic noise, coalesced with the sound of the city energized the boys, while their parents were less than confident of progress and change.

So much noise and disorder. Fatima ventured.

Wow Pop, can we stop and walk around? Abdul couldn’t keep his eyes on one scene more than five seconds. His head spun with each new vision like a yoyo on a short string. We should live here. Look at that, wow! Mom did you see? Can we Pop; can we walk around, just for a minute, please?

… Maybe at the end of the week. Ibrahim is expecting us. We’ll have plenty of time, I promise.

Gunshots were heard. For a split second the crowd appeared to stop, then continued as if nothing happened. Against the traffic light, signaling red, the woman cop earnestly waved the Fiat and the other vehicles in the same lane to move forward.

Fatima held her infant closer. I knew it! Oh my God! Please God, keep us safe.

Fireworks Mom! We got to get some … and bring ‘em home. This place is neat. Abdul pulled his brother’s arm for agreement.

Why, we have rifles? Mohamed questioned.

It’s not the same, smirked Abdul. "We can throw ‘em