Qbit: Theta Wave

By James Dominic

In 1938, the United States of America was fooled by a radio broadcast called The War of the Worlds. Two men are going to do it again. They are going to fool the world with a movie called America.
Johnathan Flakes was an average documentary producer. He lost his wife in the Bali Bomb Blast in 2002. He lost his sense of purpose. He travelled to India looking for it. A Rickshaw Driver helps him. Johnathan Flakes called the Rickshaw Driver Michael Lingdon. They sat together and learned lessons from a charismatic swami. They stepped together towards forgiveness. They plotted together to end the madness that is tearing the world apart. The urge in Humans to kill Humans, in the name of God. They made a movie. A movie called America. At the core of America was the second line in the Declaration of Independence. At the core of America was a technology called Qbit.
An ultra-secret NSA team called Alpha Flight found something disturbing in the movie America. They found codes embedded in it. Codes made from Theta Wave.
The Traveller, a ruthless terrorist, vowed to bring Capitalism to its knee by detonating a nuclear device in the heart of Hollywood. He had a change of heart after watching a movie. A movie called America.
The movie America was released in the fall of 2015. It changed the world. The technology behind the movie was called Qbit. Qbit was the brainchild of one Michael Lingdon. In the summer of 2016, the world was looking for a man named Michael Lingdon.
The man who changed the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Singapore
• Release date: Jun 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543746174

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by James Dominic.

ISBN:                Hardcover                    978-1-5437-4616-7

                          Softcover                       978-1-5437-4615-0

                          eBook                            978-1-5437-4617-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

www.partridgepublishing.com/singapore

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Nikola Tesla, the famous scientist died in the Hotel New Yorker in 1943. In 1943, the Hotel New Yorker was powered by 2 giant coal fired steam boilers that produced DC current. In fact, the Hotel New Yorker powered the whole Manhattan Garment District. Qbit is a speculation as to why the man who invented Alternating Current died in a hotel powered by Direct Current.

Most of Nikola Tesla’s artefacts were seized by the Alien Property Custodian although at the time of his death, he was a naturalized American citizen. This novel speculates as to what happened to those artefacts. Among the artefacts were a series of articles known as the Tesla Files.

In 1897, Nikola Tesla met with an Indian sage by the name of Swami Vivekananda. This novel is a speculation of the conversation that transpired between them.

Theta wave radiated by our brain is around 7Hz. We radiate Theta wave when we are dreaming. Theta wave falls close with the earth’s resonance which is known as the Schumann’s resonance.

The following individuals have found great discoveries in dreams. Newton, Archimedes, Da Vinci, Einstein, and the list go on. It has lent credence to the saying ‘sleep with pen and paper’.

The Irish Mentalist Keith Barry proved that it is possible to hypnotize an entire audience in a theatre into believing something that they had never seen.

Truth is a powerful sedative.

                It can actually put you to sleep.

Belief is just a motive in motion.

We believe in a lot of things. We believe in this country. We believe in God. We believe in you, and you can believe in me. Truth adds force to this motive in motion.

The stronger the truth,

The greater the force of this motion.

To believe, you must question. But nobody questions a truth once you believed it.

And as the motion gets stronger and the wheel turns faster, we simply believe without questioning. We are put to sleep.

To my loving wife Rajeswary and my three little superheroes, Gabriel, Michael and Ruth Rajeetham Deeptha.

and

to those who believe that all men are created equal and that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream.

Merrily merrily merrily merrily, life is but a dream…

Canal de Chelles,

Neuilly-sur-Marne, Paris

11 September 2013

7.25 p.m.

Two years before the release of the movie America.

The man in the grey woollen overcoat walked briskly along the cobbled pavement, a cobbled pavement hugging Canal de Chelles. He furtively glanced at the body of water to his left before looking at his wrist. Canal de Chelles had no river traffic. Instead, it turned crimson with the setting sun. Tag Heuer on his wrist said 7.25 p.m. He pulled his cap over his brow and checked his backpack. His backpack contained plastic explosives, enough plastic explosives to level Eiffel Tower to the ground.

The man in the grey woollen overcoat had paced this route countless times. He knew each step, each blade of grass. He kept a steady gait. He checked himself as he approached his target. He slowed his breathing and started counting. He stopped counting when he reached fifty. Fifty was a good number. Somehow the world always marked it as the halfway line. His target was a group of immigrants: Eastern Europeans, Bulgarians, Greeks, Estonians, and Lithuanians. He could see a street mime twenty yards ahead to his right, closing up his stand. He didn’t look European; the mime looked Middle Eastern. An old man with a walking stick stood talking to the mime. He too looked Middle Eastern. The thin crowd before him shared a common bond, religion. A religion called Islam.

The man in the grey overcoat stood amongst them and did the unpredictable. But more than that, he unwittingly made an adjustment. An adjustment that was about to change the world.

Central Directorate of Homeland Intelligence

Levallois-Perret, Paris

11 September 2013

10.15 p.m.

The Central Director of the French Internal Security, DCRI, stared at the piece of paper in front of him. He reached for his desk phone and dialled the direct number to the interior minister. He whispered into the receiver before gently putting it down. He sat in silence, contemplating the words he had just whispered.

The Liepencroft Project.

He wished hard he had never heard the words before. But then, he was never good at making wishes. He got up, took the paper, and neatly folded it in two. He then staggered to the balcony behind. He opened the glass door and felt a gentle breeze on his face. The night was cool, but a warm sensation started flooding all over him. He retrieved a gold-plated lighter from his left breast pocket. He burned the paper in hand, careful not to let the smoke waft back into the room and trigger an alarm. Paper slowly turned to ash, and the gentle breeze carried it away into the black night. Central Director of the French Internal Security returned to his desk. He took a fresh piece of paper and started writing.

The Traveller

Neuilly-Sur-Seine, Paris

12 September 2013

12.15 a.m.

A man stared intently at his Sony eighty-four-inch OLED TV. The house was quiet. The man lived alone. The house was spacious, and the land surrounding it was even more so. The man was rich. He stared intently at the images playing out before him with hands clasped, as if praying. It showed a ground sprinkled with bits and pieces of flesh. One of the pieces belonged to a friend and neighbour. Underneath the image, captions flowed. He felt rage burning within as he read. ‘Gas explosion… Burger cart… Canal de Chelles… Defective stove suspected.’ He switched off the TV and flung the remote. The remote landed with a thud on the soft carpeted floor. He knew what had happened. He knew what had happened because he was an absolute master at it.

Three days later, he stopped at a United Emirates ticketing counter and bought a sojourned ticket back to his native land.

He was about to travel.

French Interior Ministry

Bretigny-Sur-Orge, Paris

12 September 2013

12.32 a.m.

The French interior minister looked at his watch. It was 12.32 am. He’d cancelled family dinner at 8.30 p.m. He switched off his phone by 10.30 p.m. He violated two things considered sacred to his wife. His wife would be nagging until morning. But nagging was the least of his problems. He dabbed his shiny forehead with his silk handkerchief as he walked to his car. The words kept playing over and over again in his head.

The Liepencroft Project.

The man in the grey woollen overcoat was part of it. He was not a Muslim. No, he was the first Christian suicide bomber.

Chapter 1

Dolby Theater

Hollywood, Los Angeles

28 February 2016

The 88th Academy Awards

Films and life are like clay, waiting for us to mold it. And when you trust your own insides and that becomes achievement, it’s a kind of principle that seems to me is at work with everyone. God bless that principle. God bless that potential that we all have for making anything possible if we think we deserve it.

—Shirley MacLaine

The movie America created Oscar history. It garnered academy awards in twelve categories including best actor and best movie. It broke box office sales in over twenty countries and became the highest grossing film in motion picture history. But more than that, it started a movement, a global shift in political correctness. It ultimately brought about world peace.

The movie was created with a technology called Qbit.

49093.png

Some moments can last forever, lodging into our memory like pebbles, crystal-clear pebbles. These pebbles are few. They can be ugly, and they can be beautiful, but we always call these pebbles life-defining moments. They are moments in life that can change you forever.

On a balmy February night in Hollywood, I underwent that moment. I received an Oscar. Me, a forty-five-year-old former junkie with no family. A drifter.

I drifted all the way to India. India was the best thing that has ever happened to me. I met a rickshaw driver who knew the world better than anyone else, and I learned lessons from a revered swami—lessons so profound that it made me wonder why I ever went to school in the first place. That rickshaw driver and those lessons propelled me to achieve something that I had always thought impossible: a blockbuster movie. I mean, I’d just made a super blockbuster movie. People watched my movie, and then they watched it again. And again and again. MTV said it was the most watched movie ever.

My friend the rickshaw driver said it has something to do with the way we think. Thinking involves frequency. Every thought is a frequency floating in time and space. The rickshaw driver riveted this fact into my head. The swami did it in a gentler way.

Lights dimmed, and a warm applause ensued as the show began. Silver dust billowed from funnels hidden on top the stage glimmering like distant stars.

Stardust.

As I sat there waiting for my life-defining moment, Michio Kaku, the theoretical physicist, came to mind. ‘We are all made of star dust,’ he’d said. He’d said on the Discovery Channel. While sitting there staring at the ceiling, I realised that everything is made from star dust. And I mean everything in the universe. You, me… even the chair on which I was sitting. Somehow we are all connected, and I mean everything and everyone. Don’t believe me? Try reading the Upanishads. The Upanishads spoke of it nearly three thousand years ago.

Upanishads was left in the dust as the Kodak ceiling jumped at me. The view was absolutely breath taking. Lights dazzled here and there amidst beautiful sculptured trellis, exploding like miniature supernovas, Kodak Theatre’s signature.

The Kodak Theatre.

I grew up calling it the Oscar Theatre. I was six when I first visited Hollywood Boulevard. You can’t remember much when you are six, but a pebble was lodged. A crystal-clear pebble lodged into my memory as I took my first step on the Hollywood Walk of Fame almost thirty years ago.

Jonathan Flakes—yours truly—was not a bright kid. I was a bit of a slow learner, and spelling troubled me like a buzzing bee until fifth grade. Mother was there to help. Mother was always there to help. She helped me spell Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin. They were the favourites of my favourites. Mother tugged my sleeve, pointing to the rest of my favourites. I giggled the way an exited six-year-old giggled. They were all there, all of them. All my stars. Dreamy-eyed, I followed Mother, clutching her dress in one hand and an ice cream cone in the other. Step by step, we followed the lingering footprints of bygone stars. Those lingering footprints lodged another pebble; it was like a staircase to heaven. Engraved onto each step was a footprint, a name. At the very top stood a big Cornetto with my name emblazoned on it. I grew up dreaming of that Cornetto, of that staircase, of those footprints. Those beautiful stars of Hollywood. I wanted to be just like them.

Back then, we didn’t go into the theatre. Kodak Theatre wasn’t built yet.

My second visit to Hollywood took place three years ago, and this time life took a turn for the worst. I was aimlessly wondering alone on Hollywood Boulevard, and those footprints seemed a tad too big for me. I bumped along with hundreds of other tourists and finally stood before the Kodak Theatre. I stared at the golden plaque before stepping in—just another lost tourist with a bunch of brochures in his hand. One brochure said that the Oscar Theatre was designed and built by David Rockwell, the founder of Rockwell Group. David Rockwell put his heart into it; he left his mark on it. The mark became famous, and David Rockwell became famous. He went on to design the famed Nobu Restaurants.

I kept walking. I kept flipping. I found another interesting article. The theatre now belonged to Dolby Laboratories. It used to belong to Eastman Kodak. The change of guards marked the passing of a giant into oblivion. There was a time when we used to load rolls of films into our cameras. We snapped photos, took the film rolls to our local photo shops, developed them, and used the postal service to mail them to our loved ones. Now we simply click, save it to a disk drive, or post it on Instagram. None of us cared to realise how a giant of an industry was slowly choked to death.

In January 2012, Eastman Kodak, a company founded in 1888, filed for chapter eleven bankruptcy protection. In February 2012, the lease for the Oscar Theatre was handed over to Dolby Laboratories. As an acoustic expert, Dolby Laboratories refitted the auditorium with its latest sound system, Dolby Atmos, and changed the golden plaque to Dolby Theatre.

That Balmy February night in Hollywood marked the third time I was in Hollywood. I had an invitation, a card. I was not a mere spectator or a lost tourist. I was about to realise my moment. I was about to receive the Oscar. I was about to make a profound change to the way we think, the way we connect.

My friend the rickshaw driver had taught me about connection. He’d had a radical idea which he’d claimed came from Nikola Tesla himself. I’d been sceptical of him. Not anymore. The rickshaw driver had taught me something else: Theta waves.

Theta waves… 7.83 Hertz. For a thousand years, the ancient Vedic Rishis in India paddled up the Bhagirathi, the Upper Ganges River. They gathered at Gaumukh, the mouth of the Bhagirathi, at the foot of the Gangotri glacier in the Garhwal Himalayas. There they sat in the lotus position and meditated the OM mantra. The mantra corresponded to a certain base frequency. It was exactly 7.83 Hz. My friend the rickshaw driver called this the Connecting Frequency. It’s something like, ‘Hello, this is Mother Nature calling.’ I am going to teach the world how to answer that call.

49091.png

Sean Connery, with a bowtie and a neatly pressed tuxedo, took to the centre stage. With his unmistakable musky Scottish accent, he presented the Oscar for best actor.

‘The winner of the academy award for an actor in a leading role goes to… Arnold Schwarzenegger.’ The crowd gave a standing ovation as a hulking figure in his late sixties bounced up the stage with a youthful spirit. His square-jawed face beamed with pride. His lifelong dream had been achieved. He was breathless, speechless, and (as with the rest of the audience) proud to be an American.

Next, Sharon Stone presented the Oscar for best film. ‘I am opening this envelope with abated anticipation.’ She took a deep breath; the audience held theirs. The silence was deafening. It was so deafening that one could hear a pin drop.

‘Ladies and gentleman, with pride and honour, I present you the winner of the academy award for this year’s best motion picture. Amer—’

She couldn’t finish. Her voice was drowned out as the audience jumped to their feet with a thunderous applause. The stage band started playing the theme song for the movie as the camera panned towards the group of people behind it. It focused briefly on Jonathan Flakes before panning out again. The group stood up and congratulated themselves before making their way up the stage. They felt Hollywood. They breathed Hollywood. Today, they were Hollywood. But an important individual was missing from the group, an individual pivotal to the making of America.

Mike Timmons, CNN’s Oscar correspondent, turned to his counterpart Shernize Desalsos in disbelief. He earned a scream from his cameraman as the camera started rolling.

‘There you have it, folks!’ Mike Timmons turned to the camera, screaming above the roar of the crowd. ‘America just made motion picture history. Who would have thought that a low-budget movie with surprisingly stunning sound and visual effects would have grabbed twelve awards, including Arnold Schwarzenegger as best actor? Can you believe it? Arnie the Terminator has just won the best actor award!’

Shernize cut in. ‘That’s right, Mike, believe is the buzzword. But the one thing that jumped out and bit me was a dream called the American dream—an almost forgotten dream. America breathed life back into that dream and made the world believe in it.’

‘That’s right, Shernize,’ Mike replied. ‘Believe it or not, this is no longer an American dream. Looks like the whole world is dreaming the same dream.’

Department of Homeland Security

Central Immigration Division, Washington D.C.

21 December 2015

Three months after the release of the movie America

Senior Chief Woltzoff jumped in his seat, almost spilling his morning coffee. His eyes bulged as he read the monthly report. Twenty seconds later, he rushed to his superintendent with the report neatly tucked under his left armpit.

‘George, global application for American citizenship has just rocketed through the roof.’

There was no reply.

Woltzoff thumped the report on the table. ‘The staff will take years to process through all this. What are we going to do?’

Again, no reply.

Superintendent George was busy planning his next investment. Stocks had been booming since 2008. He moused over to Bloomberg’s stock report and read the headlines before looking at the report stacked in front of him. He gave a lethargic look before scratching the back of his left ear. ‘We do what always do, chief,’ Superintendent George replied. ‘We’ll escalate it to the brass. That’s what we’ll do. And I am going to get my morning coffee before going through your report. That’s what I am going to do.’

Senior Chief Woltzoff frowned. He felt disappointed. He clicked his tongue, irritated with his superior’s indifference. ‘Thanks, George,’ he replied. ‘And we can always sing the Star-spangled Banner while we are slurping our morning coffee.’

‘Sure. Put it in the memo,’ Superintendent George replied, this time tainted with a tinge of sarcasm. ‘Singing is good. It’s almost Christmas. Maybe we can get a choir going around here.’

Guam National Service Centre

Hagatna, Guam, Western Pacific Ocean

21 April 2016

Two months after the 88th Academy Awards

The note arrived by mail. It was addressed to Guam National Service Centre. Guam National Service Centre didn’t exist. The address was real. So were the office, the Thomas Jefferson portrait, and the plush leathered sofas. But Guam National Service Centre was a front, a drop-off point for the NSA—a place to leave something behind for someone else to find. Only a few knew about it: the upper echelon of the underworld elite.

The note said, ‘My struggle is over.’ It was signed in Arabic. Signed with a common name, Khaled, but the handwriting was exquisite. It caused a furore when the note was put under the forensic light.

At the bottom of the note was a GPS coordinate.

NSACTC

Fort Meade, Maryland, Virginia

25 April 2016

‘General Maclanster.’ Jenny grabbed the General’s arm, swinging him around. ‘Sir!’ she screamed, pointing exasperatedly at her iPad. ‘I think you need to take a look at this. Global Partners are trafficking unusual reports of turmoil in Sierra Focus Point. We are streaming live from Baghdad, Kabul, and Jakarta. Sir, an unusual drop in threat level is detected.’

The General stared at the iPad, puzzled. He grunted impatiently. ‘This doesn’t make sense. Don’t trust Global Partners. Get our own assessment going, Jenny. Get back to me when you find something worth blabbering about.’ The General brushed her off and stomped to his office. It was nine in the morning. Nine in the morning always meant a decaffeinated latte and a large slice of mango.

Jenny came running after him. ‘Sir, Pinoptic is signalling imminent threat.’ A sense of urgency, almost overpowering, spurred the General. ‘Global Partners are saying that the threat level is dropping. Pinoptic is saying the opposite. What I am hearing and what I am seeing doesn’t jive.’

He made an abrupt U-turn to NSACTC. ‘Jenny, get the Doctor and the Professor. Meet me in CTC. Get moving!’ he