Amen

By J F Reeves

Rancher Jesse Tullett has had enough. Too many mornings bring the unwelcome sight of another cattle mutilation on his ranch. This time they left a clue. This time Jesse resolves to launch his own investigation.

For the people who have called the arid lands of New Mexico home for millennia, the knowledge that something is festering in the deep underground caverns and cave systems below, is an accepted fact of life. Navaho tribal police officers, Joe Mist and Cyril Lightfoot, explored these chasms as boys and had seen things ... alien to them.

Disillusioned and world weary, Father Ted Ross settled in the small village of San Leone, New Mexico. Over the years he had seen things, and needed to distance himself from the evil infiltrating his beloved catholic church. What he hadnt counted on, was the demons he was about to confront, where bigger than the ones he had left at the Vatican.

John Sampras is a computer genius. He has been sent to Pine Gap, Australia, to install a new update on one of the worlds best kept secrets. What he finds, challenges every known ethic he was taught to believe in. Sampras knows the decision he makes could very well be the catalyst to destroy not only the New World Order, but all of humanity.

Independently, this ragtag band of strangers hardly make a ripple. Collectively they are humanities only hope.

AMEN is the End Game. The time where politics, religion and survival all grapple for centre stage. It is the Time of the End of this system of things - Armageddon is on our doorstep.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Jun 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781452524313

J F Reeves

Jennifer Reeves has spent more than thirty years as a novelist and screenwriter, using words to create new worlds. Originally from Durham, England, she now lives in Whyalla, South Australia, with her husband George, two sons, and their families.

Book preview

Prologue

Old Zebediah Casey had been running for most of his life from one thing or another. First, it was women—strange creatures with nothing more on their minds than making you go out of yours.

Then there was the army—conscription they called it. Well bugger that. If the government was stupid enough to irritate foreign powers and aggravate terrorists, let them clean up their own mess. All he asked for and expected was to be left alone; that was why he chose to live in an old backwoods cabin down by Steelers Pit in the Chuska Mountains of New Mexico. At least here, the only bugger he was accountable too was himself.

That was Zebediah’s brand of self-styled logic, and he was comfortable with that.

Or at least he had been before all those strange things started to happen.

The brunt of it though, started just over a week back when he found his old companion of twelve years, Doogie, a half wolf, half bad assed German Shepherd, dead not five metres from the cabin. Well in truth, the first part he found was near the cabin; the rest took some investigating. Old Doogie had cheesed somebody off all right.

It took Zeb the best part of a day to pick up the remaining pieces and give the faithful old animal a fitting burial.

Over the last couple of days, Zeb had done a lot of good, hard thinking. He didn’t mind when the alien mongrels first shifted into his neck of the woods; they had stayed out of his way and he liked the arrangement. But just lately they’d started to get adventurous. He noticed feed disappearing from his shed. One of his cows had gone missing.

And those strange noises at night! Didn’t take an Einstein to see it was them.

Yep, old Zeb knew what had to be done. He cleaned up the old shotgun, oiled the parts until he was satisfied she’d perform up to standard, stuffed his pockets with shotgun shells, gave Doogie’s makeshift cross one last look, and then braced himself, taking in a deep lungful of fresh Ponderosa pine.

Yes sir, they had infringed on his mountain.

They had taken what was his, and damn it, they had destroyed the best friend a man ever had.

With the determination of a man disposed to fairness, Zebediah Casey headed for the old cavern pits. He would show those alien mongrels who was king of this mountain.

COLORADO

Covering over the small body with a loose tarpaulin, Jesse Tullett slammed the tailgate shut on the old ranch utility. How was he ever going to explain this? And more to the point, who the hell would believe it?

During the night, there had been a light snowfall, just enough to dust everything with a powdered coating of what looked like icing sugar on Ma’s pound cake. The sky was dark and desultory, a warning of more snow to come.

Tullett’s ranch was a sizeable property in Bakers Flats, Colorado, and had been in the family for 140 years give or take. Jesse Tullett was feeling the pinch of old age and the frustration of past events that had been happening on and around his property of late.

The four men who had just joined him were all friends, neighbours, and patriots. Well, did he have a story to tell them!

First, though, he had to come up with a plan; and he didn’t want anyone talking him out of it. This was something he had to be in control of. When the shit hit the fan on this one, Jesse knew the repercussions would be a global hysteria at best. Hardly something you rushed into.

Yes, sir, this one needed some figuring out.

Jesse glared down at the reason he had summoned his friends out of their beds so early on a bitter cold day. Before them lay the dead body of his prized Polled Hereford stud bull. Dead was being kind, and there had been nothing kind in any of the cattle mutilations that had plagued each and every one of the ranchers since as far back as the late ’60s. In fact, it was a repetitious game of whodunit, and except for supposition and generalised theories; they had no proof as to what the hell was happening in their own backyards.

All the mutilations had been carried out with surgeon like precision. The cuts were precise, the carcass was devoid of blood, and the wounds cauterised. All bones were left intact. The mutilations always appeared on the right side of the animal, with the ear, eye, and tongue missing and the bottom jaw defleshed. The sexual reproductive organs, udder and the like were cored out and likewise missing.

This makes ninety-two in total. Jesse grimaced. Always the same MO—no tracks; no smell of decay; clean, concise cuts; not a drop of blood on the ground or surrounding the injuries.

Freddie Larzabal hunched down and scrutinised the wounds. No damn insects and no signs of predator activity.

Bert Cummins settled the hat back on his head and shifted uneasily inside his lamb’s wool jacket that had seen almost as many winters as he had himself. I heard a farmer in Argentina recently lost fifty-one cows in the same paddock. At the same damn time. I checked out the pictures, and there didn’t appear to be any signs of panic. It was like they all got zapped with an electrical charge and died where they stood. Bert shook his head. One cow gets spooked, they all run. But this was like something got the drop on them. What the hell is that all about? Fucking mass hypnotism?

Jim Moor, Jesse’s lifelong best friend, calmly looked out at the tall abaya’s beyond the ridge. He was equally as fed up but resolved that, like it or not, there was precious little they could do about it. "We have been putting up with this shit for the past fifty years, and we’re no closer now than we were then. There’s no one near ready to accept what we know as fact. And if we go spouting off our mouths, we got to answer to FEMA.

Geez, Jim, listen to what you’re saying, Sam Haskell snapped. This is not a school playground and we’re hardly dealing with the class bullies. They are picking our backyards to vent out their bullshit agendas, and we are doing fuck all to stop them.

Jesse inhaled cold air. Sam’s got a point. It’s not only our cattle; they’re branching out. Remember those bodies they found out at White Sands and Dulce? Human bodies, with identical incisions and surgical markings.

How many times do we have to go over this same old shit, Jesse? Freddie Larzabal grunted. It’s happened so often we just give each other a phone call and have us a bitch session. Seems we got past caring and just accepted the inevitable.

Is that what it had come down to? Not giving a shit anymore? Being taken for granted and letting them SOBs experiment on their livelihood?

How could Jesse tell them that he had found something that shed a light on the mutilations and then changed his mind at the last moment, leaving them temporarily out of the loop? Was he being selfish? Didn’t they have a right to know what he had found?

Over the years, they had all suffered the same trials and traumas, and they had somehow formed a brotherhood together because of it. And now here they were, wondering why he had called them out on a bitch of a morning to go over the same old ground. Maybe he should reconsider his agenda and do some sharing.

Jesse explained softly. Over the years, we’ve seen documentaries by well-meaning people who came out and recorded this psycho X-Files crap; UFO magazines have been writing about cattle mutilations and disappearances since 1972. Hell there was even that senator from New Mexico who insisted the FBI come out here and take a look—and what was it they said before they even started the investigation?

It was nothing more than predator activity and they would prove it! Sam added.

"And how long did they stuff us around? When they finally did release their findings, we all knew full well what it would say. Predator activity! No surprise there. Either they don’t believe what they’re seeing or else they could care less. It doesn’t affect them, so they turn a blind eye.

Maybe it’s time they had their eyes opened. Jesse Tullett gazed blearily down at the bloated carcass. Me and Tobias go back a long way. Hurts like hell that I lost a top stud bull—not counting a further ninety-one head of cows, many with calf. He looked away, grieving and angered. Ninety-two head in total. Well that’s ninety two head too many. This time, we’re going to fight them bastards on their own turf; no more feeling around in the dark. Those Federal mongrels are going to be held accountable.

As I recall, Bert reminded him, those were the same words you spouted off last time we found a mute, Jesse—and the countless times before that. When our tempers die down we’re left with the reality that what we’re up against is FEMA. And they keep a low profile, so all of this blows away in due time.

Until the next time, Sam offered feebly.

Jesse had a secret. Maybe now was a good time to share it.

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Kira Ireson threw her expensive camera bag onto the back seat of their millionth rental and leaned against the car, arms folded, bored and ready to defect. Her life sucked.

She had spent the last six months relegated to places where duelling banjos was a way of life and cryptozoology summed up the family pet. Why the hell had she allowed herself to be talked into taking a photographer’s job that kept her on the road for six months at a time, with only a week’s break in between.

Two years of throwing herself into her work to forget a broken relationship with an egocentric talk show host who thought the sun revolved around him and, regrettably, not her. She surmised that, in the greater scheme of togetherness, there had to be at least two participants to form a relationship, and sadly, there didn’t seem to be enough room for her. So she’d left.

Kira looked around and had never felt so desolate. Did I throw myself out of the frying pan and into the fire? she wondered. Is this it? In an attempt to escape one hostile situation, she had literally plunged herself into an even worse scenario. Her life could be summed up as boring, repetitive, and lonely. So much for making a name for herself photographing cryptozoology anomalies—the unexplained, conspiratorial, and unorthodox species—for one of the country’s top controversial magazines The Unexplained Truth. Two years of living out of suitcases and eating take-out was proving to be more oppressive than the relationship she was running away from.

Her partner, Ky Brady, was presently standing on the edge of a wilderness camping reserve, in the midst of a frantic discussion with an elderly man who was using explicit hand gestures apparently to prove a point.

Brady was patient if nothing else and reminded Kira of a reasonably fit, slender version of Sylvester Stallone, without the muscles, square jaw, and attitude. He was used to excitable people who had a point to make and a story to tell. That was his job. To find unusual, unexplained, conspiratorial, and unorthodox cases that would sell magazines and make his editor proud. He loved his job.

But lately things had gone south. Kira’s attitude was both lethargic and evasive, clearly noted in her inattention to producing the pictures needed to placate their editor. Clearly, Kira was in a slump, and things between them had soured.

As Brady approached the car, she raised her eyebrows and tried to sound civil—which, lately, had been an effort. Was it good for you, too?

You telling me I get off on people’s paranormal psychosis? He grinned.

That man just told you he was chased by a humanoid creature that resembled a giant seven-foot lizard. He clearly could not outrun your ninety-three-year-old grandmother with a ten-yard handicap, so why pander to him like you believe every word?

Ky opened the driver’s side door and glanced over the roof of their latest car rental.

Just because what Mr. Duchamps saw doesn’t fall into your area of scientific anomalies, Kira, does not mean the man is a liar. He got in the car and slammed the door a little harder than he’d intended.

Excuse me, she snapped, getting in the passenger side and doing likewise.

Brady fired the motor and backed out of the strand of leech grass, edging the car back onto the shoulder of the makeshift road. You’re getting cynical. He mused, These last two assignments have held as much interest for you as ABBA declaring a comeback.

Meaning?

You don’t entertain the thought of change anymore. You’re becoming a creature of habit. When was the last time you opened your mind up to the realm of extreme possibility?

She folded her arms in the adamant gesture of a scolded schoolgirl and settled for, You’re saying I’m stagnant?

I’m saying you’re stuck in a groove. You don’t allow yourself the indulgence of an open mind or a penchant for the curious anymore.

You really want me to visualise a naked lizard man chasing Mr. Deschamps through the forest with dishonourable intentions? She let out a long drawn breath. This could set my social life back twenty years, she said, adding softly, such as it is.

Brady mellowed just a touch. All right, maybe Mr. Deschamps is a lonely guy craving attention… bad example.

"Do I sense a but here?" She smirked.

You used to have an open mind, Kira. Today you had that poor man categorised and referenced before you even set eyes on him.

He talks to lizards, she snapped.

You talk to my fish, he countered.

It’s either that or a brick wall when you’re in one of your moods. A quiet moment that Kira didn’t feel particularly comfortable with followed.

Moods? he grated.

Like now. You’re pushing for an argument.

Are you referencing me now?

To be honest, Brady, just lately I wouldn’t know how to classify you.

He afforded her a look that said nothing. Then again, she read a lot into it.

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It had been raining most of the day, and the trip from the airport was one of wet discomfort. Brady’s clothes were wet, his hair was wet, his sense of humour was on par with a wet weekend, and so it went on.

Six months. Six continuous months of researching, hoarding, interviewing, harassing, travelling, sleeping in his clothes, starving, listening to Kira’s ever growing sarcasm about their shitty job, and so that, too, went on. That just about summed up his life. And so it went—on and on and on.

Ky Brady was hitting thirty-six. He was unmarried, unloved, and unappreciated by the mob that dictated his life and sent him on these ridiculous missions in search of the great unknown to bring back stories on cryptozoology, vampires, werewolves, alien abductions, and the like. It had gotten to the point he doubted what was fact and what was fiction anymore.

He was tired.

In truth, he was lonely.

Maybe it was the uselessness of this pilgrimage into the outer limits one time too many that made him realise his life was not flashing in front of his eyes with accredited accomplishments. He was not the desire of every gorgeous female in respectable circles, and he had no friends to invite over to a barbeque if he wanted or craved company. In essence, the only one who was glad to see him was his editor. And that was only when and if he got his assignments in on time.

Brady thought back to his pet goldfish.

Harry, he called him.

Why anyone would want to name a goldfish Harry, shows just how lonely and out of touch he was with reality. Nevertheless, he’d formed a comfortable attachment to Harry. His landlord Sam even came in and fed Harry when Brady was out doing his twilight zone thingy, and he had Harry to look forward to when he came home cold, lonely, and in need of a friendly chat.

Whether Sam, the landlord’s having forgotten about Harry was accidental or deliberate, Sam had suffered a massive heart attack and was rushed to the hospital. The callous bastard had failed to make provision for Harry, so poor Harry had starved to death and gone belly up in the huge, globular fishbowl that had been his life for the past two years.

Sam, however, had pulled through with flying colours, although he never could quite understand why Ky’s bright, cheery demeanour had diminished into nothing more than a snarl and barrage of obscenities that Sam took as a new language Ky had learned on one of his usual, strange country trek things and so stayed out of his way for a while.

The taxi pulled up outside Ky’s flat. He dragged his heavy, wet baggage over to the steps and let himself in. Before retrieving his bits and pieces from the porch, he flicked on the corner light, snapped on the gas heater, and put the kettle on. Bugger the bags. Come to think of it, bugger everyone and everything.

He nevertheless relented, brought in his bags, and whipped the door shut behind him.

He sneezed. Great. Does it get any better than this? A lonely wet welcome home, devoid of—

It was then he saw it.

He blinked twice.

No! Not possible.

It can’t be.

Then, bugger him, if suddenly he didn’t calm down and raise a smile. Over on the television, swimming merrily in the orphaned fish bowl was a replacement for Harry. Same size, same shape, same colour.

Nice one, Sam!

Damn, if this wasn’t turning out to be one of those warm, fuzzy Kodak moments—or would have been if not for the shrill of the telephone on the corner unit. How was this possible? He had only walked in the door, the clothes still wet on his back. What perverse individual could not even grant him the solitude of his arrival long enough to so much as let the percolator perk?

Brady was in two minds whether or not to pick it up, but as usual, protocol ruled and he made contact. Me! he snapped.

I’m glad we got that sorted, said the gruff reply.

I don’t believe you. I’ve been home, what, three and a half minutes. Call Kira. She deserves this!

She’s next on my list. You both put out some very productive work once you get past the whining, griping, nipping, and nausea of being together. I know marriages that haven’t lasted as long as you two.

Which puts us where?

Pack enough for several days. Something warm. New Mex is a bitch this time of year.

Give me a break, Carl. I haven’t unpacked from my last assignment.

Good, you’ve already saved time.

Ericson was a hard-nosed SOB who ruled the newsroom with an iron fist and a large expense account that Brady was privy to. Ericson indulged his penchant for overspending and travelling first-class. Brady couldn’t (shouldn’t) bite the hand that paid the chefs in gourmet restaurants who fed him.

He expelled the sigh of a defeatist. What happened in New Mexico that can’t wait for a hot shower—Chinese takeaway and a dozen hookers?

This was met with the silence that always pre-empts something you don’t want to hear.

Fallout, Brady. Jell-O is falling from the sky.

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VIRGINIA

Deep in the Virginia woods, light snow was falling on a stately lodge. Golden lights glistened from within, the makings for a warm cosy mood. However, the mood was anything but cosy.

A close-knit group of men known as the collective had come together on a matter of extreme urgency.

This elitist group of global financiers, shrouded with impunity, totally immune to all judicial systems and governmental bodies worldwide, was the ruling force in every major global conspiracy and all decision-making processes metered out in world politics.

The group comprised a dozen men, each with his start in groups like the Skull and Bones, the Trilateral Commission, and the Bilderbergers, to name but a few—men who had the influence and predominance of total control. The cream of the proverbial crops. They were the hidden hand, as it were, behind the presidential scene, manipulating the government’s puppets that, in turn, controlled its citizens. And to what horrific extent their manipulative dominance exceeded was beyond comprehension.

A Bell helicopter, privately owned, arrived and settled down on a helipad a hundred yards from the main lodge. A tall, ethereal gentleman, Artor Barshou, stepped out and was met by Armand Mendele, a much shorter man with a faint German accent who exuded authority. The two men shook hands and walked briskly towards the lodge.

The collective, distinguished though casually dressed, was enjoying a conversation around a roaring fire. These men had an authority that needed no explaining. Their meeting here today ensured the drawing of a protective shield of privacy around the Omega Cabal. These dozen men signified the ruling powers of our planet. These were not the 120 Bilderbergers or the individual Skull and Boners; this was the top of the world’s most powerful men list.

The decision-makers.

That faction of demigods who changed and plotted the course of the world. And even with demigods, there had to be a leader—one who was never voted in or elected by the others but had the power to command.

All conversation ceased when Mendele and Barshou entered the room. Mendele took charge, as expected. Now we are all here. Gentlemen, we have not much time. The Alien Agenda is of major importance in determining the outset of the New World Order’s final solution. He nodded to a security man, who hit a switch. The room darkened a degree, and a large glass wall map of the globe slid down to eye level. Six red lights dotted the map at different global locations.

This morning, at approximately the same time worldwide, six separate attacks on people in cave systems around the world, all simultaneously, were staged for our benefit. He pointed to each in turn. Piettre caves in Spain; Jenolan Caves, Australia; Kashmir caves, Himalayas; Blue Grotto, Greece; Trieste Mia, Italy; and the Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico.

Kessler blurted out, What kind of attacks?

Entire tour groups—184 people, including schoolchildren are now reported missing.

Immediate tension stretched around the room.

Von Eissman asked, You believe they’re exerting their authority?

I am convinced of it. They are showing us that there is a unity between them worldwide.

And they are doing this for what purpose? Barshou responded. Why now?

Everstone handed Barshou a scotch. To put us in our place. They have taken over twelve underground military bases worldwide and are growing in strength. They are using human hybrids as go-betweens and sacrifices for their greater good.

Which tells us what? They’re going to declare war on the human race?

They did that sixty years ago, Von Eissman countered. Now they’re planning to collect the spoils.

A tall, silver-haired man turned away from the fireplace and concentrated his thoughts on the map. Harold Bassinger was a man who had his finger on all the major security pulses in the world.

Bassinger likened this scenario to the early serpent cults, such as the ancient Neolithic cults who existed on the island of Malta and who built intricate underground temples. One such masterpiece was the Hypogeum of Hal Saflieni, which some actually believe connects at the lowest levels to a massive alien underground system, where tens of thousands of humans were sacrificed to appease the serpentine gods of the underworld. In the late 1930s, over thirty school children, teachers, and guides disappeared without a trace within the Hypogeum of Hal Saflieni catacombs in Malta—an incident that was reported in the National Geographic magazine in August 1940.

Gentlemen, the book of Revelation foretold the end—the inevitability of the last prophesy being fulfilled. ‘And there shall be war, fought in the heavens, on the earth’—he paused for effect—‘and under the ground.’ The place will be where they are at their strongest.

Which is? Mendele injected.

Von Eissman put down his drink. New Mexico. The underground caves and caverns surrounding the Dulce Air Force Base.

We must be sure. Barshou’s question demanded attention. Our survival depends on it.

I’m sure. He turned to the map and tapped the spot over Dulce, New Mexico. This is where they are their most vulnerable. It’s their Achilles heel.

We all have an Achilles heel, Eissman, Mendele reasoned. The one point in our human character that makes us vulnerable, accessible and defeatable. A weakness measured by our unacceptance to fail.

We cannot afford the luxury of failure. A favourable key point for us, however, is that, for the moment, we have an advantage. Von Eissman knew he had their fullest attention. We have what they want. They just don’t know it yet.

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ON THE ROAD

On the road again; who would have thought it? Bloody Ericson.

This time, Kira wasn’t alone in what she was feeling for the SOB. Kira was equally as pissed off. In fact, if snapping, griping, and mood swings were a sport, she would be an Olympic champion of megalithic proportions.

They had never been what you would call buddies, but after two years you would think he would at least have ingratiated himself in some small way. Her mood swings, as far as men were concerned, made her totally off limits. Whoever the fellow was she had her last affair with, he had left a lasting, indelible impression. Brady doubted that Kira had ever gotten over it and was determined never to let a man get too close again. Ever. Not ever. Maybe forever and ever. All men.

Kira sat back in the passenger seat of their 1050th rental watching the scenery go by in a blurred repetition of what was sadly shaping up to be life as she knew it—unfocussed and non-directional. Was that even a word?

I really miss the X-files. I could somehow relate to how Scully felt, she sighed.

Personally I think Mulder’s the one who needs the sympathy vote, Ky quipped, waiting for the answer he knew was coming.

Mulder can’t say no to any asinine assignment, and poor Scully was the one who got roped into going with him. Pray tell why Mulder deserves a sympathy vote?

He had to put up with Scully’s constant griping and bitching.

That’s a sexist remark if ever I’ve heard one.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say, Scully could very well be your secret mentor.

In what way?

He pointed to a picture of an apple on a passing billboard. If I say that’s an apple, you would say it was an orange until such time you could scientifically scrutinise the hell out of it and prove it to the contrary.

Funny!

I meant it as an insult!

Duh, ya think?

He threw his head back and looked gleeful. There you go, Kira. Proved my point exactly. You always have to make a bitchy comeback.

Kira sat back and studied him for a very long time.

He didn’t once return the stare. Nor did he comment.

At long last, she looked straight ahead—and burst out crying.

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Twenty minutes after Kira had unleashed the waterworks, their rental sedan was parked outside a small backwoods roadside stop. Brady had ordered two coffees and was sitting alone in a corner booth. Kira joined him a few minutes later. It was awkward for both of them.

I ordered you a coffee and piece of pie. I hope that—

That’s fine. She smiled, not looking at him. She stirred the coffee and took a sip. I’m sorry about the tear thing. Must be that time of the month.

If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s Erickson. We’ve been on the go for the best part of eighteen months, living out of cases and touring the countries eddies and backwoods. Not exactly a sane existence. And then having me and only me for company is enough to send anyone over the edge. He gazed down at his coffee mug. What I’m trying to say is, I pushed you—and I’m sorry.

Don’t apologise, Brady. Don’t ever do that. Our relationship is based on honesty, and that’s what I admire the most about you. I had it coming. End of story.

Brady didn’t quite know how to handle that. He settled for perusing the menu.

Halfway through a lunch of good homemade pot roast, Brady’s cell phone sprang to life. The timing cut through the silence he was sharing with Kira and momentarily relieved the tension. He slipped out the phone and flapped it open. Brady… Shouldn’t take long, why?

He listened for what seemed like an eternity. When the call was over, he slipped the phone back inside his jacket and looked almost gleeful. At last they’ve given us something we can get our teeth into. He smiled.

That rules out Jell-O! she mused.

Oh there’ll always be Jell-O, Kira. Fortunately, Ericson has a real case for us. I’m talking about straight down the line investigating.

Kira stopped chewing on her cheeseburger and was prompted to ask, Which is?

The Carlsbad Caverns. Apparently a whole group of tourists have completely disappeared.

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WASHINGTON

News media personnel and cameramen were milling around, setting up, taking their places, chatting and flipping out notebooks for the upcoming interview with Miles Veerhoven, a seasoned government spokesperson. The government newsroom was alive with the prospect of shedding some light on the latest FEMA disaster.

Newshounds and ace reporters were getting antsy; they wanted to be first heard, the first to hit the government’s PR man with the scathing questions that begged answers of late. And they were restless.

A thirty-eight-year-old television presenter, Rod Foster, looked around at the small select group of seasoned reporters and journalists and knew today was going to be all-out war. They were all there under the auspices of FEMA, or what most people referred to as the secret government of the United States. The agency was never comprised of an elected body, never involved itself in public disclosures, yet had a quasi-secret budget in the billions of dollars.

At present, FEMA was the most powerful entity in the United States.

To throw more fuel on the present burning situation, FEMA was never even created under constitutional law by Congress. It was the product of a presidential executive order. And that was Rod Foster’s biggest ache—to the point where these executive orders were feeding his ulcer big time.

It started with President Carter, who issued a presidential executive order conceiving FEMA after Hurricane Hugo in 1989 did so much damage. One of its by-products, or tasks, was being the federal coordinating body during times of domestic disasters, such as flood damage, hurricanes, and earthquake catastrophes.

Then Hurricane Andrew happened. It was four days before FEMA responded, leaving Dade County Emergency Management Director Kate Hale screaming for backup that came far too late. It was a disaster of horrific proportions.

From its inception, FEMA proved to be a big fat lemon that almost had Congress threatening to abolish it completely or pass it over to the DOD (Department of Defense), until a ray of sunshine in the guise of James Lee Witt, a former Arkansas state emergency manager, asked for one year to get FEMA’s act together—to squash its reputation as a turkey and bring it into line with the structure its people should have adhered to from the beginning.

Witt started out by demanding a total audit on FEMA’s funds and found it had never been audited. Partially because of the fact he found and saved $3 million by the audit, FEMA soon grew from the tiny mustard seed it once had been to the awesome, huge, gigantic redwood it now was, later nurtured on by such people as General Richard Secord and Lt. Col. Oliver North, the architects on the Iran-Contra scandal and let’s not forget the fiasco of the America’s savings and loans institutions. From such humble beginnings grew a monstrosity of such evil and corruption, it had become a festering carbuncle on the backside of the good ole US of A.

All the structure that had been good about it came crashing down when James Lee Witt left the job; and to put the FEMA cherry on the top, the beast of an agency had even been given control of the State Defense Forces’ neo-Nazi civilian army—the shadow army, biding its time like a hungary vulture waiting for the National Guard to be called to do duty overseas.

The stupid irony was few people even knew that FEMA was clearly the most powerful organization in the United States today. Hurricane Andrew focused attention on FEMA after it smashed into the US mainland and reeked untold amount of damage, unleashing not only a natural storm but a political storm that soon had more body and power than Andrew could ever hope to contain.

FEMA had spent $4.36 billion building secret bunkers throughout the United States in anticipation of government disruption by foreign or domestic upheaval, looking to serve and protect the very elect who put it there—and having no resources or aid left for the decent hard-working people that were made homeless because of such a natural disaster, followed by an even bigger post-political disaster.

Bottom line, there was no money left in the kitty for FEMA to do the job it was originally appointed to do, and that was to work for and help the poor people caught up in major disasters. Somehow, FEMA had grown into an ugly part of the political system that fed off the president’s black operations projects. It had worked on National Security programs since 1979 when its predecessor, the Federal Emergency Preparedness Agency had secretly spent millions of dollars before President Carter formed it into FEMA.

This hybrid band of the elect stood on the threshold of taking over complete control, many times. Different scenarios but with FEMA waiting in the shadows ready to accept the mantle of total power. Each time it had been withdrawn at the last minute, the crisis in each case not sufficient to warrant risking martial law.

But the time was getting uncomfortably nearer, and that was why the media were all there today—to find out FEMA’s overall power.

A power that could potentially unleash the devil—giving FEMA enough control to suspend the constitution of the United States.

Once the reigns of government were in FEMA’s hands, they would then appoint military commanders to run state and local governments.

FEMA would then have the right to order the detention of anyone who agency enforcers believed would engage in, or else conspire with others to engage in, acts of espionage or sabotage.

The plan also authorised the establishment of internment camps (concentration camps) for detaining the accused without trial—a horrifying scenario at best, when your freedom was taken away along with all your rights.

The side door swung open, and the podium suddenly burst into life with the appearance of Miles Veerhoven, a well-groomed man in his fifties, thick as two short planks, and in no way ready to share any of the government’s secrets with this media fiasco. He knew how to ruse, and he knew how to console. Today he would do both.

Veerhoven stilled the crowd with his comfortable yet confident laid-back approach to the impending assault he knew was about to be unleashed. Ladies and gentlemen, good morning. Keep your questions brief, and I will try to get to as many of you as I can in our allotted time frame.

Which is? Scholls shot at him from the front row, waving the microphone at a forty-five-degree angle directly at his face.

For you, Scholls, that was your first and last question.

There was a generalised roar of laughter from the crowd and a smirk from Veerhoven.

A young lady three rows back shot up her hand.

Veerhoven acknowledged with a sharp nod. Sally?

It is no secret that FEMA failed to commit the necessary funds needed for the last major disaster we experienced, making it a trifecta of blunders. Why was there no relief money in the kitty? Again.

FEMA’s expenditure over the past year has badly depleted the relief aid needed for the Miami catastrophe, but the agency is currently in the process of rectifying that as we speak. Make no mistake, there is funding available—

Rod Foster, perhaps the brightest flame in the room, couldn’t resist. Only not for the purpose it was intended, isn’t that right, Veerhoven? Why has FEMA spent billions to implement emergency housing in case of— he held up two fingers, making quote signs in the air-‘terrorist attacks, natural disasters, category 4/5 hurricanes slamming into two distinct parts of the East Coast at the same time’ and yet there is nothing in the agenda to use that money for the present—for the now, when people are screaming for housing from the last hurricane that hit? Those of our citizens who are currently in abject need, have been put on the back-burner to make way for a hypothetical attack or natural holocaust that could/might happen in the near future.

A balding man at the back shouted, "I hate to agree with Foster, but we’re all here for the same reason. To find out where the money for our disaster aid has gone."

Billions of dollars supposedly allocated to FEMA has plainly disappeared, interjected Monica from the NYCN. Why has it disappeared, Mr. Veerhoven? Who the hell has been skinning the public?

Foster gave her a sideways look that said, Duh, who do you think? He settled for, You answered your own question, Monica. FEMA—which, as we all know, stands for Fucking Everyone, Mainly Americans.

Veerhoven tried to gain control, his voice rising along with his blood pressure. FEMA is not the issue here today, people, we are—

Foster broke in, Not who’s issue, Veerhoven? The federal government’s? Tell the poor bastards seeking government restitution for new housing and relief that there isn’t any. There’s no cavalry coming.

Another voice from the back. Their money was used to finance secret projects we’re not supposed to know about. High-level accommodation in underground bunkers to ensure the safety of our nation’s hierarchy against terrorist attacks, if and when they happen. Again, leaving decent people homeless in the present because of a possible threat to our future. Once again, the American public is considered a bunch of mushrooms—kept in the dark and fed on government bullshit.

What about the military’s attack on a small town in Texas under the auspices of FEMA? Foster challenged, getting a noticeable reaction from the stoic Veerhoven. It’s only now people are prepared to come forward and say what really happened. It was labelled a test-case scenario in case of a terrorist attack using biochemical airborne viruses. Three innocent people were killed during this mock-up because of the heavy-handed tactics enforced by FEMA’s hit squads.

A general outburst sounded in the crowd, all present agreeing with Foster’s statement. Several questions slammed Veerhoven simultaneously.

Phillips from one of the major radio networks was stung into reacting. And I’ve got news for you, Veerhoven. FEMA is the issue here today. This is not an isolated incident. The Colorado mining disaster, the Trade Center, the Arkansas fiasco. But let’s get down to the main reason why the government is doing this snow job press conference—executive orders and FEMA’s role in them.

Journalists fired a barrage of bullet-fisted questions at the official, in quick succession.

People are traumatised over the state of our nation’s finances, but where will that put us if the banking systems fail and money is withheld from its own customers. There will be anarchy in the streets. What measures has the government put in place for crowd control?

Monica yelled, Will we see FEMA declare martial law and start shooting its own citizens?

Questions were flying like out-of-control scud missiles, and Veerhoven was the target being shot down. For the first time in his fifteen-year career as designated spokesperson and neutralizer for the government, the man who could defuse any situation with his guile, nous, and persuasive competency, was feeling the brunt of a situation that was fast getting out of control.

The media horde were not to be pacified.

Exasperated, he left the podium.

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Rod Foster returned from the government press conference to the usual regime of in-house fighting and griping malcontents, none of whom could understand why he got more money than they did or why he got to strut his ego before the cameras of a major network news show in preference to them.

He should be used to it by now, but today, this day, Foster had had enough. He worked hard for his stories, researched painstakingly, and followed his source’s leads to unorthodox locations and situations, all to the same ends.

He seemed to be on the firing line every day of his life.

Network producers vetoed top stories, squashed highly controversial material that it deemed not suitable for the public at large, and in general told him what to do. There was no such thing as free press.

The public was not only left out of the loop, people were being lied to. And this fed his ulcer big time. He knew this was the time to take that long overdue holiday he had promised himself for the past four years. He needed to chill out and get his perspective back, in the hopes he’d return more relaxed—more human.

Rod Foster knew he had pushed the tolerance level up to warp factor ten… and rising. He read the day’s headlines in the paper. No mention of FEMA’s incompetence - big surprise there. The networks were always in accordance with government policy; after all, the media moguls who owned the tabloids owned the news and owned the rights to veto the truth. Journalists and reporters were merely whores to the higher echelons that paid their salaries to tell the public what was convenient.

His anger, though, was directed more at the public for not having the intelligence and common sense to ask more questions—to demand their right to know answers in matters that had obviously been suppressed. Why the hell didn’t Joe Public get more involved with key issues that were blatantly being covered up? This was 2014 for crying out loud. Didn’t we have individual opinions about being screwed over in print?

Foster threw the paper down on top of one of the steadily mounting folders that invaded every conceivable space on his desk, somehow defying the laws of gravity, and slumped wearily into the old doe-hide swivel chair that tilted and now seemed to be on its last circular rotation.

Maybe that had been the last straw. The chair groaned and held none of the security he needed at that present moment.

In truth, he was bone tired and fed up.

He wanted out.

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That night, Rod Foster cooked pasta Alfredo with a side of crusty French bread and even managed to toss together an Italian salad, lightly scattered with full black olives. He loved olives.

Snatching odd mouthfuls of Donnelly’s Lambrusco while savouring the smell wafting through the cosy pine galley of his forty-five-foot cabin cruiser confidently named Free Willy, he was at last beginning to unwind.

He put on a CD of Savage Garden. Definitely not the music a modern discerning man would even contemplate with an Italian mood, but then, who was to say he was discerning?

Rod ate slowly, relaxing on the top deck of his boat, which needing more repairs than he had time to give it, and listened to the waves beat a continuous tattoo against the wooden hull.

The lights of the harbour bounced off the water, swirling into ethereal patterns of nonsense that played merrily along with a chorus of Affirmation—in particular, I believe in Karma, what you give is what you get returned / I believe God does not endorse TV evangelists.

Damn good lyrics, he mused. Damn good group, Savage Garden. Pity about the split.

He ate heartily, drank slowly, and let the night fold around him. This was more like it. Total peace. Or as close to it as he had come for some time.

Behind him, an undetermined creak on the top deck was definitely out of place. He reacted by grabbing his best and closest friend, a 9mm Glock, out from under a towel on a nearby seat and slid silently under the table.

At first glance, anyone watching him would allocate his behaviour to the realms of paranoia and mental instability; people who knew him would expect this bizarre behaviour.

He had shitted off a lot of factors in the federal government just lately and was walking a tightrope with key men in key positions. At least three of them would love to blow him away with a Weatherby shotgun and gladly go to the gas chamber for the privilege.

Rod Foster had enemies. And he expected retaliation.

The creaking sounded closer. Rod could just make out a pair of legs that was gingerly approaching at a hesitant pace. He made sure there was only one pair of legs before he bravely revealed his hiding place, pointing the Glock straight between the eyes of an elderly gentleman, who at that moment came pretty close to wetting himself.

Mr. Foster? Rod Foster? the man asked shakily.

Who wants to know? was the snapping comeback.

Me, for one. Jesse Tullett. I… er… was looking for the front door, so to speak.

The man straightened himself, determined not to let his nervousness show. Rod returned the weapon under the towel on the chair beside him and pointed to the seat opposite.

Sorry about the welcome. I’ve pissed off a lot of people lately. He smirked and regained his seat to finish off his salad.

Jesse took the chair offered and gazed out at the water. Interesting location. For someone with enemies, you are extremely easy to find.

The old man looked like he had travelled a long distance and would not rest until he had unburdened himself of the heavy load he was carrying. Something about the man peaked Foster’s interest. Mind if I ask why you’re here? he asked, popping an olive into his mouth and leaning back in his seat.

Do you believe in ETs, Mr. Foster?

You mean little grey aliens with wrap-around eyes?

Tullett nodded.

The return comment was blunt. No!

Maybe this will change your mind. Tullett fossicked around in his top pocket and pulled out a photo. He slid it across the table.

For a long instant, Foster remained centred on the man. He picked up the photo.

"I own a property in Colorado. Bakers Flats to be precise. For the past thirty years, I have been plagued by missing cows and cattle mutilations. My neighbours tried to impress on me that silence would ensure the peace. But I’ve got a little theory about that. Silence allows the federal dickheads that are behind this to rape and pillage with accountability to no son of a bitch.

And quite frankly, I have had enough of wiping their asses for them. This time, they are going to be held accountable.

But Rod wasn’t listening. He was too busy staring at the photo in his hands.

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And in these days, those who have power will gather the lands and the riches of the earth for their own pleasure and will oppress the many others who suffer need, will subjugate them and keep them in bondage and use them to increase their riches; and they will oppress even the animals of the field, setting up the abominable thing. But God will send them His messengers, and these will proclaim His laws, which people have hidden with their tradition, and those who transgress them will die.

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AUSTRALIA

Jerry Taylor was an excellent pilot. He was also an avid conspiracy theorist, one of the reasons he was flying his small Cessna low over a large expanse of arid, red dirt somewhere over Pine Gap, Central Australia. This was the forbidden zone to most pilots, and Jerry knew he was pushing his luck invading this particular bit of airspace.

He had heard a lot of stories lately about strange phenomena happening around Pine Gap. Weird disk-shaped aircraft had been reported by people over the past forty years, so that in itself was not one of the contributing factors for this renegade infringement of CIA airspace. A mixture of reasons, spanning over a dozen years of being restricted by the Yanks of all people, brought him to the zone.

Just who exactly, did they think they were?

This was Australia. His country. These foreigners (CIA nickheads) had moved into the old geological survey building opposite the RSL in Alice Springs and promptly stuck up a sign telling everyone it was now the property of the CIA. Talk about cheek. Who the hell gave them the authority to park their carcasses on a prime piece of location and tell everybody else it was hands off?

Well Jerry Taylor and his group of Associates at A.S.S.O.L.E. (Australian Scientific Studies of Lunatic Explorations) had their own theories about this. US cargo planes had been seen landing at Alice Springs late at night, offloading all types of high-tech equipment, as well as strange disks and assorted fly ware—big enough to support the theory that it was these disks that were flying about at night peaking everyone’s interest. Well 5 per cent of everyone’s interest. The other 95 per cent were either dead, comatose, mentally retarded, Alzheimer’s victims, or too damn disinterested to know what these trespassers were doing to their own country.

And damn it, no one cared.

Here, in his own home town of Alice Springs, pilots were told where too fly and where not to fly and given no suitable explanation of these restrictions when they were under the impression the air above them was free and so was the country they lived in. Or so he thought. Somehow it seemed insulting to be banned from flying over his own patch of turf by the United States of friggin’ America.

Straws had been drawn by the four respective group members, all qualified, seasoned pilots, and Jerry was thrilled that he had drawn the short straw. His mission was simple. Get in, take photos of the external base and surrounds, and get the hell out. Basically a flyover without dropping bombs, he smirked.

Easy-peasy, chalk and cheesy.

Or it would have been if not for the emergence of those six shiny lights that suddenly appeared from out of nowhere, darting around the plane and blinding him with small blasts of green flashes.

What in blazes!?

The Cessna’s motor coughed, choked, and became erratic. Frantically, Jerry eyed the small gauges and found himself struggling to keep the plane level. He could feel his heart hammering against his chest walls, a sickening feeling telling him this was not the place to lose control. Then, as abruptly as they had appeared, the lights hastily vanished, enabling Jerry to once again regain control of the aircraft.

After his whirlwind struggle to keep the Cessna stable, he did a quick take out of the side window into the surrounding blue sky and was puzzled at the speed with which the whole scene had taken place.

Where did they go?

Without warning, two unmarked black helicopters burst into his line of vision, one on either side of him. Each chopper had an armed soldier, dressed in black, holding what looked to be an extensive piece of firepower, aimed directly at him.

They motioned for him to land the plane.

With no runway or clearing, just bulldust and saltbush, Jerry Taylor knew he was royally screwed.

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COLORADO

The first of the two black helicopters to buzz the small town of Bakers Flats was an Apache with a Gatling gun mounted under the chin. The second helicopter was similar to a MacDonnell 500E and festooned with antennae and electronic detection gear. Jim Moor knew the appearance of the formation was that the 500E detected targets and the Apache shot them down.

Jim threw a few sacks of grain and feed into the back of the Ute and slammed the tailgate shut. Damn, he hated those federal dickheads. FEMA was ignoring the pleas of the farmers and townspeople to keep the helicopters away from their homes and stock; the petitions and demands fell on deaf ears.

Before Jim fired the engine of the old pickup, two more black helicopters, an AH-1 Cobra and UH-1 Huey followed the first two choppers, humming in loud and low.

They wanted to be seen.

Why else would they deliberately roar through a peaceful, sleepy town that was barely on the map?

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Five miles away, Jesse Tullett was on his way back to his property with Rod Foster occupying the passenger seat beside him. Rod had a short fuse when it came to people who weren’t honest or interesting enough to engage his time or hold his interest; yet he was starting to really like this old guy. Jesse Tullett was what you would call a gentleman rancher. He wanted nothing that he wasn’t entitled to and worked hard for the privilege of doing his family and his country proud. Rod realised that, sadly, such honesty was all too often a one-way street.

As they broke over a small crest, the sight that greeted them made Jesse swerve the car into an erratic doughnut spin, coming to a stop on the shoulder of the unsealed road.

There before them was a black, unmarked Cobra attack-gunship hovering just above the elevated terrain. Jesse and Foster then exited the vehicle, visually observing the hovering chopper.

Do you often get escorted to your premises by a tactical defence unit, Jesse? Or are these jokers making a personal statement?

Any chance these boys are serious, son, we wouldn’t be standing here.

This was taking up close and personal back to shaky extremes. The gunship looked big. It looked menacing.

It looked like a black metallic insect that was sizing up its lunch.

The Cobra suddenly pulled back, immediately climbed to a hundred feet, and assumed the normal nose-down attack position. This was clearly an engage-and-evade manoeuvre. In this strange set of circumstances, the helicopter then proceeded to execute a set of rapid pirouettes, circling the two men for a rotation of three spins.

Then just as suddenly, it pulled up and cut right before speeding away.

Rod Foster had had some pretty interesting run-ins in his life, but this was one particular escapade that left him visibly shaken. This attack helicopter, under the auspices of FEMA from Peters Mountain Base in Cismont, Virginia, its own artillery for crying out loud, was now turning on the citizens that supported it.

What’s happening, Jesse?! he demanded to know. Talk to me, here!

"Let’s just say I have something they