Part 4: Alien Agenda, Why They Came, Why They Stayed...The Money Man...The Suburban...Autism...Savants...HAARP...The Kennedy Brothers

 Alien Agenda 

Why They Came 

Why They Stayed 

By Steve Peek

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: 

Charles Winston Merit 

There is a saying, “Choose your friends carefully.” The things I learned as a scribe creating executive summaries demonstrate how the people who run governments allow, often encourage, horrors among people—often even their own. The lack of interest in doing the right thing, and lack of compassion among the megalomaniacs behind government action or inaction, convinced my subconscious to exit the grid long before the idea manifested in my consciousness. By the time I fully understood what had to be done, I realized that some dark, secret part of my mind had been planning how best to provide my personal safety while removing the cloak from the worst sins of the world’s ever-changing cast of egomaniac power brokers. 

To apply leverage against megalomaniacs requires others of the same ilk who disagree with those in power. Volatility, expedience, and danger underlie the core qualities that make this type driven, charming, savvy, and cunning. In short, to befriend these people without a point of reference in their future plans is futile—unless you offer them something they can’t refuse. 

So, several years before skedaddling out of Washington, the land of pork and schemes, I did what I am good at: researched the richest and most powerful people in the country who did not agree with the direction the country was taking. No matter which direction the government took, there are always powerful people who feel disenfranchised, cheated, or lied to. 

Enter one of the most famous ‘bootstrap’ billionaires of the twentieth century, Charles Merit. There is no doubt he made himself a millionaire on his own, but his billions had a helping hand—from an unknown civil servant: me, Jim Tate. 

Charles Merit had grown up poor. Not lower-middle class: dirt poor. His father owned a four-hundred-acre farm in northern Alabama seven dirt road miles off Highway 90 near Piedmont, Alabama. Charles was barefoot until he started school. He wore hand-me-down shoes and everything else until he graduated from high school and met an Army recruiter in Gadsden. 

Charles thought the US Army wonderful compared to life working the family farm. They slept late and didn’t do any work before breakfast. The army had great food—all the time—and he could eat as much as he wanted, including meat. At first they went to school to learn army things, like finding your way with a compass or by stars at night, or how to shoot. He already knew most of it just from growing up in the country. They walked a fair amount, but not much more than he did going back and forth to the school building near Piedmont. He completed basic infantry training as Highly Qualified, which gave him a leg-up when it came time to become a private first class. He stayed at Ft. Benning, Georgia for another six weeks and completed Advanced Infantry Combat Training and won his private first class stripes along with every other guy in the unit. 

He was better friends with everyone in his squad then he had been with anyone back home. 

Flying Tiger Airlines was a commercial cargo aviation company that was rooted back in the original Flying Tigers in World War II. About the time the number of troops travelling between the US and Vietnam massively increased, a huge block of shares was purchased by an unknown investment group. Those who wanted more trouble than most could handle could follow the stock ownership as it wound from one shell company to another in places like the Isle of Mann, Zurich, Hong Kong, and Nassau. Eventually the trail stopped at the door of Lucy and Linda Johnson, the US president’s daughters. Fortunately, both the risk the Johnson sisters took in buying such a large stake in it, and the risk Flying Tigers took by purchasing new Boeing 707s, paid off as they became the US government’s airline of choice to shuttle thousands of our soldiers back and forth every day. [hmmm on the Johnson Sisters, not buying that for a second, more likely they were the face for the clowns in Virginia DC]

Charles Merit knew none of this when his platoon boarded The Flying Tiger 707 at Sea-Tac airport. It refueled in Japan and emptied the newly trained soldiers onto the frantic-paced activity of cargo, ammunitions, and soldiers (alive and dead) on the airstrip at Da Nang on the coast of the Quang Nam Province. From there his platoon was trucked to Hue and then deployed into the jungles. For thirteen months Charles Merit fought the heat, bugs, snakes, diseases, monsoons, and finally the official enemy, the North Vietnamese soldiers. Truth be told, his platoon rarely engaged troops actually from North Vietnam: the ones they chased, were chased by, attacked, and were attacked by were the Viet Cong, Victor Charles. The VC was a hybrid force of volunteers and forced levies from South Vietnam commanded by NCOs and officers from the North Vietnam regulars. Whatever they were, they were enough for Charles Merit. When his tour of duty ended, he sat in the back of the Flying Tiger 707, which was remarkably silent compared to his flight over. He spent the time remembering each of the thirty-three dead or wounded comrades from his platoon, his best friends. [That makes the Viet Cong the Al Qaeda and ISIS of the 60's and early 70's DC] 

He finished his enlistment washing officer’s cars at Ft. Hood, and returned to visit his parents for the first time since he joined up. 

Arriving home, he instantly recognized his home and family for what they were. Good people, but resolved to a life of burden and poverty. They were not the least upset they had lived on this small farm for four generations without—other than electricity and indoor plumbing—any significant improvements. They still worked from dawn to dusk laboring to afford themselves necessities like canned vegetables, repaired clothing, and chopped and hauled wood for heat and cooking. 

Charles realized the army and Vietnam had changed all this for him. Had he never left, he might have remained like them: ignorant but content with their lot. But he was changed, and even if he was the only one in his family to rise from this trap of poverty, he would do what he could to bring the rest of them out of this hole. 

The GI Bill paid for Charles to earn his degree in electrical engineering. He knew two people who owned electrical contract firms, and they were both, by his standards, rich. After graduation he joined a firm outside of Birmingham, but soon was at odds with the owners, who didn’t like a freshly graduated student telling them how to improve their quality. They had secretly abandoned the idea of quality ten years after becoming successful. They were in the business for money. Quality cost money, so the bottom line was: college kid was right and made them remember their own lofty dreams, which was a bad thing because now they were hooked on money. College kid had to go. 

Charles found a job with the state as an assistant electrical inspector for state-funded projects. He travelled all over Alabama. It was during this seven-year period that he discovered his passion: metal detectors. 

He had stopped at a rest area on Highway 72 near Russell Cave close to where Alabama, Georgia, and Tennessee meet. A man and his teenage son walked through a field behind the rest area holding metal detectors similar to what he’d seen used in Vietnam to detect mines. 

Charles watched them longer than he intended. Curious, he walked out and hailed them. When close enough, the father said hello, and the conversation began. 

The father-son team used metal detectors they made from kits to search for objects just beneath the soil. During the Civil War, elements of both Union and Confederate armies had passed through this area numerous times, and by doing detailed research, the pair of historical prospectors believed the immediate area had been the scene of at least two minor skirmishes in the 1860s. 

Charles walked along with the father and listened to tales of cannon balls, Minié balls, belt buckles, and uniform buttons found during previous outings. After a while the son was ready to stop for the day, so the father handed Charles his metal detector and a hand trowel, showed him how to use it, and sent him searching on his own for a half hour. 

Fifteen minutes into it, the detector yowled, beeped, and whistled. After two passes over an area, Charles set the awkward machine down and began to gently dig with a trowel. In short order he unearthed the remains of an officer’s sword from the Civil War. The blade was broken six inches above the guard, and it was about as rusty and pitted as any metal Charles had ever seen, but it was somehow beautiful to Merit and he was hooked. 

He worked for the state by day, and by night he studied local history, and designed and built metal detectors in his garage. On weekends, or if he were travelling overnight, he would head out to some place he’d discovered in books or articles. His reward was a quickly growing collection of historical, metal junk. His garage was filling up with boxes on shelves that held the ruins of hairbrushes, buckles, plows, hatpins, buttons, pieces of Civil War weapons, jars with tin tops: pretty much anything that could be associated with metal that was used between 1800 and 1950. His pride and joy was a tommy gun, a .45-caliber submachine gun favored by gangsters during the Roaring 20s through the Great Depression. 

Early on in his hobby, Charles began meeting men with similar interest walking the same fields. They were usually friendly and willing to talk late in the day when they were walked-out and it grew too dark to scan the ground. He enjoyed the conversations and sharing places new to each other. 

Charles met up with an older gentleman from Ohio named Daniel Parker. Retired and widowed, hunting for relics had become his whole life. Parker had actually written a book about it, and was the editor of a self published, quarterly magazine cleverly named Metal Detectives. 

They became friends and wrote letters back and forth a couple of times a month. Charles started writing articles about how to build better metal detectors, and had the idea to advertise his design in the magazine and build to order. 

Pretty soon he was building two or three detectors a month and selling them for $250.00 each. Merit had advanced the state of the equipment by adding a discriminator dial that theoretically allowed the operator to dial out lighter metals and avoid digging up worthless bottle and jar tops. 

Three years into making detectors in his spare bedroom, two things happened that changed the course of his life. Had it not been for these things, he may never have become Charles Merit, billionaire. 

Though still selling only eight to ten detectors each month, Charles knew of an appliance-repair shop for sale and thought he could build his hobby into a thriving business. His wife nearly left him with their two-year-old daughter when he quit his job and rented the lawnmower-repair shop. He convinced her to stay. He was so convincing she became pregnant with their second child that night. 

Charles knew it would be rough at first, but between making and selling detectors and making simple repairs to televisions, radios, toasters, irons, and vacuum cleaners, he could make a go of it. 

The purchase of the repair business came with what goodwill could be garnered from the sparse population of Piedmont, Alabama. It also, he learned, came with a sub-distributorship, if he wanted to keep it, for comic books. Those superheroes needed help to reach Rexall Drugs, Winn-Dixie groceries, and other local retailers. Why not? thought Merit, hedging his bets to provide a thriving business for his family. 

Things took an unexpected direction. The limited circulation of Metal Detectives magazine capped Merit’s metal-detector business at nine to twelve units a month. He was not able to find another, similar magazine to allow him to build his market. It turned out Charles hated repairing appliances. But he did pretty well selling comic books. 

Two years into his diverging businesses, Merit hired a young man to build metal detectors and run the repair shop. He had expanded the comic book business enough to add the extra salary. 

Merit focused his fine engineering mind on expanding his comic-book business and territory. The aging distributor who provided Merit comic books wanted to meet, and that is how Merit ceased to be a sub-distributor and became a distributor with a warehouse in Huntsville. 

One Saturday he came into the repair shop to check with the young man he had hired to run it for him. He found fifteen kids ranging in age from 12 to 20 sitting at card tables playing a game with a strange-looking deck of cards. Before he could throw them out, Jim emerged from the back work area holding a greasy lawnmower blade and explaining two of the kids were his little brothers and he let them bring their friends to play a card game called Magic: the Gathering on Saturdays. Merit didn’t think he liked the responsibility, no, not just responsibility, the liability of having kids on the premises. 

While he was thinking about the best way to run the kids out of the store without pissing off their moms, who brought in the toasters, waffle irons, and hair curlers for repairs, he overheard two kids talking. The younger wanted a ride into Gadsden so he could buy some more Magic cards and try to buy some kind of special card called a Black Lotus. 

As he listened to these kids excitedly chattering away about having to drive forty miles to buy more cards to add to their collection, he had an epiphany: these were the same kids who bought comic books. They were paying eight dollars for a box of Magic cards, and $3.99 for a foil-packed set of cards they called a booster pack. Finally, whoever invented this game was either lucky or a genius. The kids had to keep adding hard-to-find cards to their decks to stay in the winning column, and it was addictive. 

In a burst of inspiration, Merit said he would take as many as would fit in his SUV to Gadsden. On the way down and back, the six kids were delighted to tell him more than he wanted to know about this new collectible card game. It seemed they knew all about it. 

They directed him to a store in a rundown strip center called The Dragon’s Lair. It was a dingy, small store that sold games and sports collectibles. The owner was a short, round, middle-aged man with a too-thin mustache in a stretched-too-tight, grayed-out T-shirt that advertised a game called Dungeons & Dragons. His name was Howard. 

Howard was as free with information as the kids. Merit left the store knowing everything he needed to start distributing this game if he wanted. The kids left, by Merit’s calculation, close to three hundred dollars behind in the store. Merit decided in that second that he wanted a piece of this. 

Two Saturdays later, twenty kids showed up at the repair shop to play their games and found an eight-foot metal rack of comic books, and a glass case displaying recently released new editions of Magic: The Gathering boxed sets and booster packs. The kids stayed until the shop closed at six that evening. They left thrilled that the nice Mr. Merit allowed them a place to play and buy comics and Magic cards. What a nice man he was.

Merit counted over $500 from the kids’ purchases for that day. He drove home imaging how much money he could make distributing this product with his comics. 

The next week he took orders. At first it was slow, as none of his merchants had heard of the phenomenon, but every time a store tried it they sold out and ordered more. A month later, all of his accounts were buying the cards from him. A month after that the cards were selling as well as comic books everywhere. 

Charles was on a weekly trip to check up on his warehouse in Huntsville. Before long he would need to expand. While in Walmart buying office supplies and printer paper, he checked out their comic-book section. It was a mess. It and the sports collectible trading cards that were next to the comic-book section had been rifled through and sold down until there wasn’t enough there to make it worth searching. In fact, it didn’t even look like a section at all. 

Two weeks later the lightbulb went off in Merit’s head, and he turned around and drove back to the Walmart in Huntsville. 

He spoke with the manager for ten minutes trying to learn how he might approach Walmart with his idea. The manager was busy and of little help at the moment, but gave Merit his card and told him he could call. Working with the store manager, they set up a test where Merit Distributors stocked and maintained the comic book and collectible trading card section. After three months the store’s sales had skyrocketed. The manager sent the test plan and results to Bentonville and was told to conduct a regional test using seventeen Walmart stores in the areas around Huntsville and Birmingham and report the results after six months. 

The total sales of comic books and trading cards at Walmart represented less than a tenth of one percent of the chain’s sales. The category shone in dollars generated per cubic foot of shelf space, but the volume wasn’t there to make it a major initiative for the retail giant. The fact that is was so small a portion of Walmart’s business and no one at corporate really cared about it so long as it made money allowed Merit to succeed. 

After the six-month test, there was another test in three hundred stores. After that the program went nationwide and this insignificant, miniscule wedge of the Walmart pie chart under the ‘other’ label made Merit a millionaire many times over. 

His new two-hundred-thousand-square-foot warehouse in Huntsville became the hub of ten national distribution centers, each with its own team of store checkers who were paid commission to stock, check, and restock Walmart stores with comic books, baseball and football cards, and, of course, Magic: The Gathering. 

By now his wife and two children had moved out. She left him for a man she said was more attentive and concerned with her needs above the coarse demands of business. She said business like it was a dirty word. Of course, she and her man friend did not marry after she divorced Merit, so she lived in a big house on some islands off South Carolina in a gated community and was neighbors with Barbara Streisand. Another ‘of course’ was that Charles paid for the house as well as a huge amount of monthly child support. 

But Merit, deep down, really didn’t care. He worked his employees like dogs. Driving, driving, never relenting, always expecting and demanding more. He built commission incentives so that the better an employee did at a store in one month, it was in the employee’s best financial interest to sell more the next month. Always more, never retreat. 

Merit hired a CEO, a COO, and a CFO. Between the three of them he paid almost one and a half million dollars in annual salary. There were only three rules for them to follow: increase sales, increase profits, and don’t piss off Walmart. It was made clear any infraction resulted in the loss of employment with Merit Distributors. 

Merit found himself returning to his love. He spent more and more time leisurely strolling fields with his ever-improving metal detectors. Sometimes those fields were in Europe or Australia or South America. While metal detectors still weren’t a staple in American households, Merit was determined to make and sell his brand. 

One fall Merit got a wild hair up his ass to go search a Civil War battlefield known as the Wilderness in northern Virginia. He jumped in his new Ford pickup truck, ramped on to Interstate 20 East, and imagined the century-old treasures he would find in the thick woods that had been fertilized by the blood of 20,000 soldiers a hundred years ago. The idea to go to the place came from a Civil War buff that lived in Virginia. They had met at a Civil War memorabilia convention some months before. Merit had a booth showing some of his treasures, but his prices, like most of the others there, were too high. He went to meet other metal detectives and swap tales of rusty treasures. 

My research had led me to Merit, among others. He already had enough wealth to be of use if I could win him over. 

I traveled to the memorabilia convention and, feigning interest in his hobby, stood looking at collection of rusty objects. After a while he looked up from the convention program, looked at my name badge, and said, “Can I help you, Mr. Tate?” 

“I hope so,” I responded, and leaned forward so he could see me studying his badge, “Mr. Merit. I’ve been interested in learning about the hobby for a few months now, and a friend told me this is a great place to meet people who know it inside out.” 

Merit’s face seemed to lose interest as he said, “It’s great fun. If you don’t already have a metal detector, I can sell you one of those. They are the best.” He pointed to a stack of six, long narrow boxes stacked on the end of his table. 

“Merit, Merit,” I said, then acted surprised. “You must be Charles Merit. I’ve read your articles in Metal Detectives. You are the one that got me interested in this in the first place.” 

Merit beamed. “Yes, yes,” 

I acted excited. “Of course I will buy one! I understand yours are the best. Handmade.” 102S

He pulled a box on the stack and leaned it against the back side of the tabletop while he opened a manual receipt book. 

“You lucked out,” Merit said as he pressed a ballpoint pen too hard against the paper and carbon in the receipt book. “Brand-new model. This baby can be tuned to pick up specific types of metals. You are going to love it.” 

“This is so cool,” I said. “I thought I was going to have to order one by mail.” I pulled out my checkbook. “How much?” I asked. 

I got Merit to promise to show me how to work his detector before dinner. We spent thirty minutes while Merit proudly demonstrated his device’s abilities. About halfway through, I mentioned that I did research for the Federal Parks Service and had access to all sorts of maps and information about historical battles, routes of march, and campsites for armies during America’s wars on our soil. 

Before dinner he bought me a drink. Merit was particularly interested in where armies set up camps. Finding battlefields was not difficult, and if you went to one on a bad day you might find an army of men with detectors prowling the ground. 

Merit insisted on taking me to dinner, and proceeded to pump me to see what kind of information he might have gained access to. By the end of the convention, I had a new friend for life. It is easy to make friends if the other person thinks you have something they want but can’t find themselves. 

Before Merit came to visit the area that had been part of the Wilderness Campaign in 1865, I spent a weekend with a friend of a friend who taught history at Virginia Military Institute in Lexington, Virginia. As a favor to his friend, he took me into the bowels of VMI’s archives and showed me where I might go to have a good chance of finding artifacts. 

A week later, Merit and I worked our way through thickets, shrubs, and briars, trying to make room to operate metal detectors. In short order the excitement of beeps and buzzes began to show us where to dig, and we found more bounty in a few hours than Merit had ever imagined could be in one place. 

After two more shared field trips we became fast friends, but my job took me out of the country, so it was going to be a while before we could hover our metal hoops over hard dirt again. Thank God. 

Merit and I corresponded two or three times a year and stayed connected. Then, a few weeks after the World Trade Center towers were brought down by planes carrying hijackers who believed that a merciful God wanted them to kill several thousand innocent people, I called Merit. 

We chatted for a few minutes about the good old days. Finally, I told Merit the reason I called and asked if he could come to Washington, DC as soon as possible. I waited for him to break the long silence on the phone. 

“You sure about this?” he asked. 

I could almost see his brows furrowed and his head tilted as he listened for any hint of fallacy. “I’m positive,” I said, then added, “we can work out the details when you are here.” 

It was a short conversation, but interesting and urgent enough that Merit grabbed a flight out of Atlanta the next day and met Jim in Georgetown for dinner that night. 

Jim brought a friend, the soon-to-be-retired General Conway. Conway had spent the last ten years of his career heading up a military physical security unit that examined ways to provide security for bases. Conway had an idea. The idea had been carefully fed to him by Jim Tate so that it would seem to originate in the general’s mind. 

By the end of that evening, a handshake confirmed the start of a new company. Merit was going to muster his assets and answer his country’s call to secure it from terrorists. Conway was going to provide Merit’s company the connections and inside information to sell the US government. 

Next time you go through an airport security area, take a moment and read the name on almost all the equipment used to detect contraband. Eight out of ten times, no matter where you are in the Western world, the name on the equipment is Merit Electronics. 

What did I receive in appreciation? Charles Merit owes me a huge favor. That and a small finder’s fee, a tiny fraction of a percent royalty in a Swiss bank account that over the years has grown into several million dollars, which allows me the ability to do the things that need to be done.

CHAPTER NINETEEN: 

Huntsville, Alabama 

Before they circled the gas station a second time, they saw the Suburban and fell in line behind it. In less than a mile they pulled into a large warehouse complex’s loading docks. A white-haired, red-faced man with bushy eyebrows left the Suburban, shot them a quick glance and waved then went to a security keypad and entered a code. A ground-level loading-dock door rose. The man reentered the Suburban and drove inside. 

Mr. Blue followed. 

The warehouse, which Jim thought might be close to half a million square feet, was nearly empty. 

The blustery-faced man turned on a bank of overhead lights and walked over to the Mercedes’s driver’s door. As Mr. Blue exited, the white-haired man held out his hand in greeting. Blue took it without a word. 

The man smiled as he exchanged greetings with Sister Fran and Melanie. 

When he and Jim shook hands, their eyes locked, and Jim thought there was something familiar about the man. 

“Well, you all must be very tired,” White Hair said. “We have an hour before we leave here. Follow me and I’ll take you to the showers where you can get cleaned up and refreshed.” 

He disappeared through a set of double, swinging doors and the rest followed. 

The showers were of the industrial type for warehouse workers. Jim Sees and Mr. Blue showered without speaking. In the locker room, stacked on benches, were new clothes: camouflaged jumpsuits of the deer-hunter variety, and packages of new underwear and socks. 

“Nice,” Mr. Blue said reading the size label in the jumpsuit in one of the stacks. 

“A little too close to prison, if you ask me,” Jim said, eyeing the clothing. 

Jim finished dressing first and went out of the men’s locker room then back through the double doors. 

White Hair extended an unopened bottle of ice-cold water, saying, “Sorry, I was so excited I forgot to offer this to you before. I have some soft drinks if you would rather.” 

Jim nodded and said, “Thanks, this is great.” Jim could not help noticing how familiar White Hair looked. He couldn’t help himself. “I think I’ve seen you before. I just can’t...” 

White Hair went from cordial to all business in an instant. “Better not go there, son. Maybe when this is all over we can belly up to a bar somewhere and give each other knowing winks about how we pulled the wool over the government’s eyes and fucked it up the ass. For now, the less we know….” 

“The better.” Jim cut him off by taking a long drink, the icy water cleansing and refreshing his throat. “Are we waiting on a call from Mr. Big?” Jim asked, emphasizing the last two words. 

“Yes… we are waiting on a call, but not from whoever you think Mr. Big is.” White Hair gave Jim a slightly disapproving look. 

Jim thought White Hair did not look like the kind of guy he wanted disapproving of him, so he thought it best for him to shut up so long as his anxiety and fear were showing in his speech. 

Mr. Blue came through the doors and was handed a bottle of water. A few minutes later the girls came out wearing their own jumpsuits. 

No one wanted to talk. Each person was lost in his or her own wonderings and fears. Just as it was becoming obviously uncomfortable, a phone rang. 

White Hair pulled it from his shirt pocket and said, “Ready?” He paused for a second, then said, “Be there in ten minutes.” 

He turned to the others and motioned toward his Suburban. “If you will, we have to be somewhere soon.” 

They loaded up in the car and pulled out of the door. Once the door was down and locked, White Hair drove the big vehicle deftly as a sports car. 

Jim watched from the backseat, trying to remember street names so he could find his way back to the Mercedes if he needed. After a few minutes they turned left and drove into the Madison County Executive Airport. White Hair drove up to a guardhouse next to a twelve-foot-wide gate in a sturdy, steel fence. He lowered the window and winked at the guard, who pressed a button and the gate began to retract along the fence. 

White Hair passed through and stopped the car twenty yards away from a Falcon 900 private jet. 

“Here we are, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s go,” White Hair said, exiting the car and beginning a conversation with a pilot who had come to the car. 

Jim Sees wasn’t sure of anything anymore. His visions of doom and imprisonment for life in a mudhole in Guantanamo Bay had eroded any confidence he had about this misadventure. He didn’t know much about the Falcon 900 other than it was built by a French company and could cruise at nearly six hundred miles per hour for four or five thousand miles without refueling. This one had two additional fuel pods tucked under its wings that could add a couple of thousand more miles. If he stepped on that plane, he could be anywhere when it landed. 

“I’m not going,” Jim said flatly. “This is it for me. I did not sign on to become an international fugitive.” 

White Hair gave him that disapproving look again, only this time without the courtesy of reservation. He told the pilot to prepare the plane for takeoff immediately and turned back to Jim. “If you stay here, son, there’s a good chance you will be arrested and spend the rest of your life in federal prison for some trumped-up crime you didn’t commit. Your jailers will be instructed to make sure your charming fellow inmates will take turns fucking you up the ass until you bleed to death.” 

White Hair stared steadily at Jim. Seeing he was making no headway, he went on. “I’m not a patient man. You’ve seen only my good side. I have my instructions and I’m going to make sure they are followed. Do you understand?” 

Jim unconsciously took a half step back. It pissed him off to be spoken to this way. Then suddenly, like a flash from the blue, something about White Hair’s angry, threatening expression triggered his memory and he knew who White Hair was. He started to say his name, then thought better of it. Instead he said, in as cool a voice as he could muster, “I appreciate your candor, but I am not getting on that plane.” 

White Hair seemed to swell up, his face glowing bright red, anger seething. 

Mr. Blue said, “Now everyone just calm down a moment,” as he walked casually over to Jim. 

He leaned close to Jim and said very softly, “Mr. Braveheart, I understand your concern. I’ve even had some of the same thoughts and doubts you have, but there is no turning back from this until it is finished.” 

Jim kept his eyes on White Hair, who now had a hand in his jacket pocket, fingering a gun no doubt. “Mr. Blue,” Jim spoke as softly as he had been spoken too, “we don’t know where this plane is going, and once we are on it we lose all control. I’m not going.” 

Mr. Blue touched his elbow, almost gently and whispered, “I don’t know you and you don’t know me. You’ve been okay so far and I don’t want to give you a reason not to like me, but you can either get on that plane on your own, right now, or you will wake up on that plane and hate me for the rest of your life. It’s your choice.” 

Jim looked in the bigger man’s eyes. There was no malice, no enjoyment, only resolve. 

“Okay,” Jim said, and started toward the plane. 

Inside he took the seat closest to the door and cockpit. The others filed past him, including White Hair himself. 

The copilot closed and sealed the door and took his seat as the plane began accelerating down the five-thousand-foot runway. In no time, they were airborne and the plane was climbing fast. 

When the plane leveled out, the copilot reappeared and showed them the bathroom and the galley with a small refrigerator stocked with drinks, snacks, and sandwiches. He then explained how to use the video screens and keyboards that popped up from the chairs’ arms. 

After the copilot returned to the cockpit, White Hair rose and went to the galley area and stood only a few inches from Jim. 

“Well, get cozy everyone. Next stop, Colombia. That’s about seven or eight hours of togetherness.” He glanced at Jim as he continued, “Our ‘travel advisor’ has provided travelling documents and cash for each of us, which will be distributed before we leave the plane. So sit back and enjoy the flight.” 

White Hair leaned down and said to Jim, “I am glad you came.” 

A very unhappy Jim raised his eyes in defiance of one of America’s richest and most ruthless men. He wondered what 1947-07 had done to enlist the help of Charles Merit, a.k.a., Mr. White Hair.

CHAPTER TWENTY 

There is a neurological condition with a broad range of symptoms, ranging from minimal levels allowing near-normal functionality to those who are essentially mental cripples, unable to function in society. The falling dominoes spelled autism. 

It is first seen in children around two or three-years old. It is quite possible for a two year old to speak beautifully then, over the next four months, lose it all. The child may be left unable to learn, think, communicate, and interact with other humans. 

Those on the lower end of the syndrome do not suffer to this extent, but live with various degrees of learning disabilities. The worst cases sink into an abyss of disability, unable to speak or function, and trapped in repetitive, seemingly pointless movements. 

Autism was identified in the 1940s. Early studies indicated it was a rare disorder among children. Studies conducted between 1947 and 1950 estimated that 1:10,000 suffered from autism. These cases probably included only extremes. 

During the 1960s and 1970s, additional studies held steady at about 2:10,000 of the population, up a little from 1950, but not drastically. The occurrence of autism appeared to be on a slight upward trend, but no one showed concern until 2007. 

The CDC began broad-based studies of autism in 1996 and found that about 7:10,000 people were autistic (still less than one per thousand). Between 1996 and 2007, the number grew from .07 to 5.5 per thousand—in other words, in 1996 less than one child per 1000 had autism. By 2007 one out of 185 was autistic. Between 2007 and 2010 the number rose to 1 person out of every 150. 

So how did we go from 1:10,000 in 1950 to 1:150 today? 

In 1990, the new Individuals with Disabilities Act added autistic children to its list of people served under the educational provisions of the law. This alone is enough to create a huge swell in the number of kids diagnosed and receiving benefits in the form of special schooling. Additionally, the symptoms included in autism expanded, including many people before who were otherwise classified as disabled. 

Another theory that sent parents running to attorneys was that the MMR (Measles, Mumps, and Rubella) vaccination caused autism. The study that ‘proved’ this turned out to be impossible to duplicate, which in the scientific world usually spells s-c-a-m. Which it was. A prominent researcher in the UK, David Wakefield, perpetrated the fraud to maintain and increase grant money from the UK National Legal Fund administered by Richard Barr, a prominent class-action-suit specialist. The test subjects were eventually revealed to be children of Barr’s clients between the ages of 2 and 9 years old, some of which did not even have autism. The plan was to reap billions from the companies that manufactured the vaccine. 

The CDC put all their numbers in their giant computer and came to the following conclusions: 

The changes to the Americans with Disabilities Act in 1990 increased the number of cases. 

The high level of awareness about autism today compared to before 1990 stimulates more parents to have their children examined for autism. 

Broadening the symptoms placed under the autism umbrellas, which allowed people who before were diagnosed with mental retardation, Asperger’s, and other syndromes to be included in the autistic spectrum increased counts. 

Accounting for all of the above, the CDC concluded the autism epidemic is real. The total new cases represented by the reasons above might, if given the most liberal translation, account for 30 percent of the increase. The other 70 percent of the increase remains a complete mystery. Well, not a mystery to the people who keep it covered. 

The Roswell illuminati know the increase in autism is directly related to the number of abductions. Today the increase in autism will continue even without increasing the number of abductions. The HCU has achieved critical mass. Enough peas are planted. 

So, what causes autism? More importantly, why would anyone want to increase the population of a planet with people who could not function in society? 

What causes autism? No one really knows. The brain is the most complicated thing so far encountered. We are only now obtaining a basic understanding of how it functions. There are solid theories about what creates an autistic brain and how the HCU can poke around and increase the frequency, so let’s address what we know. 

Mild to severe autistics generally possess some or all of the following conditions: 

#Repetitive movement such as hand flapping, making sounds, head rolling, or body rocking. 

#Compulsive behavior is intended and appears to follow rules, such as arranging objects in stacks or lines. 

#Sameness, which means resistance to change: for example, insisting that the furniture not be moved, or refusing to be interrupted. 

#Ritualistic behavior involves an unvarying pattern of daily activities, such as an unchanging menu or a dressing ritual. This is closely associated with sameness, and an independent validation has suggested combining the two factors. 

#Restricted behavior that is limited in focus, interest, or activity, such as preoccupation with a single television program, toy, or game. 

#Self-injury includes movements that injure or can injure the person, such as eye poking, skin picking, hand biting, and head banging. A 2007 study reported that self-injury at some point affected about 30 percent of children with ASD. 

No single repetitive behavior seems to be specific to autism, but only autism appears to have an elevated pattern of occurrence and severity of these behaviors. 

Autistics are simply wired differently. Their brains are physically different from those of the general population. 

What we don’t know about autism will eventually fill many books. What we do know about the autistic brain is: 

At a certain point in post-natal development, autistic brains are larger. 

Testosterone is linked to autism. 

Certain portions of the brain, such as the amygdala, may be enlarged in autistic brains. 

Certain parts of the brain may function differently in autistic people. 

"Mini-columns" (small structures within the cortex) in the brain may be formed differently and be more numerous in autistic brains. (This results in autistic brains having less ability to block sensory input.) 

The entire brain may function differently in autistic people. 

Some autistic brains show clear signs of inflammation, suggesting the disease is associated with activation of the immune system. These findings reinforce the idea that immune response in the brain is involved in autism. It is not clear if the inflammation is a consequence of disease, or a cause of it, or both. 

In many autistic people, the brain develops too quickly beginning at about 12 months. By age ten, their brains as a whole are at a normal size, but "wired" atypically. While people with autism are handicapped in social and communication skills because of the brain’s different wiring, they are likely to have other enhanced abilities. One such example is an ability to use visual stimulation and the right side of the brain to compensate for verbal skills. For example, autistic kids generally find “Waldo” much faster than control children. Often, as the test progresses, the control children are unable to find “Waldo” at all while the autistics continue to locate the cartoon character. 

The evidence in the 1970s and 80s indicated genetics had little to do with autism. Between then and now something changed—drastically. Between 10-15 percent of autism cases now have an identifiable Mendelian (single gene) condition, chromosome abnormality, or is associated with numerous genetic disorders. 

So, back to the question: why would aliens annually abduct tens of thousands of people (in the US alone—probably hundreds of thousands worldwide) with the goal of engineering the births of autistic children? 

They aren’t. That would be silly, unless they could receive something of value from the autistic population. So what could be mined from a planet full of autistic people? 

We already know autistic brains are wired differently. We also know specific areas of the brain are enlarged and more active than normal brain counterparts. Their ability to block input (sights, sounds, odors, etc.) is diminished. We also know the oversized areas of the autistic brain function faster than their counterparts in the normal brain. If brains were made by HP, the normal brain would have a 2.10 gigahertz processor and the autistic brain would have a 3.76 processor.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 

Can you spell savant? 

Savants’ brains have superpowers. The powers differ from one to the next but they almost always involve one or more of the following: 

Photographic memory 

Counting 

Match 

Repetition of pattern 

Total Recall 

Perfect Pitch 

Exactness of memories See all details but often not the whole (facial recognition) 

All of these people are extraordinarily special. They are also extremely rare. Below is a list of the top 10. 

Kim Peek 

Leslie Lemke 

Alonzo Clemons 

Gottfried Mind 

Gilles Tréhin 

Jedediah Buxton 

Orlando Serrell 

Stephen Wiltshire 

Ellen Boudreaux 

Daniel Tammet 

These are the most famous in a current world population of approximately 50 gifted savants. 

Kim Peek died in 2010. He was the inspiration for the character Raymond in the movie Rainman. 

Orlando Serrell is interesting because he was not born a savant. He was hit in the head while playing baseball. 

Probably the most interesting is Daniel Tammet. So far, he is the only savant with the cognitive ability to tell us what he sees in his mind and how he does his amazing mental feats. For example: he became famous by carrying out Pi to 22,514 decimal places—in his head. He also decided to learn to speak Icelandic, a terribly difficult language. He moved to a cabin in Iceland. Three weeks later he was fluent. 

US intelligence agencies spent years trying to learn how to create and use savants. Imagine a person who is able to glimpse a room for five seconds then later recall and draw every detail down to the specific books on the shelves. 

Or someone like Kim Peek who read a book’s left page with his left eye and the other page with his right. Every five seconds, he turned the page and read the next two pages. That’s a hundred pages in about four minutes. Kim could recite word-for-word what he read with 98 percent accuracy. During his life he read more than 10,000 books, and could recall the words of all of them. He could not button his shirt, tie his shoes, or tell you what any of the words he read meant, but he was the world’s greatest human database. 

After the Korean War, the US began experimenting with various forms of mind-control using US military personnel. It sounds cruel, but the same people who called this shot also stationed thousands of GIs in trenches and foxholes a mile or two from ground zero at test sites and told them not to look at the flash when the nuclear device exploded. (How many of those guys died from related diseases?) 

We knew the bomb was bad for people. We had only inconvenient suspicions that dozens of mind-altering hallucinogens, shock treatments, chemically induced hypnosis, and various forms of deprivation would really harm someone. 

The 1947 medical trials at Nuremberg made it clear to the world that experimentation with unknowing human subjects is morally and legally unacceptable. The United States Military Tribunal established the Nuremberg Code as a standard against which to judge German scientists who experimented with human subjects. 

As the trials proceeded and we understood the true horror of what these Nazi doctors had done, we sorted out the worst. Found guilty, they were hanged, incinerated, then flown to secret locations where they were given new identities and sent to America to work for the US government. They were able to keep up the good work. 

What began as Operation Paperclip in 1947 evolved into and birthed a myriad of nightmare experiments including Project Chatter, Project Bluebird, and Project Artichoke in the early 1950s. 

Between 1953 and 1964, under the guise of 149 different projects, the Department of Defense, working with the CIA, gave drugs to thousands of ‘volunteers’, who were clueless as to what was really going into their bodies. 

In 1973, CIA Director Robert Helms ordered the destruction of all documents related to these experiments. It was a massive cover-up. On one hand his order destroyed virtually all damning evidence that the US had participated in and led an activity we condemned during the war crimes. On the other hand, it prevented anyone from ever discovering that, after twenty years of turning young soldiers into pot-smoking vegetables with multiple flashbacks, we found what we wanted. 

Before the program officially ended (we don’t know if it is really over or just rolled over into some new bundle of experiments), the good doctors were trying manually to create savants. 

The vast majority of autistics are not savants. The vast majority of savants are autistic. The few that are not autistic have suffered head trauma. 

By studying the brains of savants, one of the things we see is that the blood flow in the left frontal cortex is restricted. 

It would not be surprising to discover that, before the CIA bailed and burned all the evidence, autistic people were subjected to brain surgery in attempts to create savants. 

It would not be surprising because that has been the alien’s goals all along—breeding savants. Their approach of genetic alteration is more patient than ours. 

Our make-your-own-savant lab set includes two or three doctors who alter blood flow in the brains of one or two hundred autistics. They don’t know how it needs to be altered, only that it does—pretty low odds of success. 

The alien team prefers Mendelian genetics. Their doctors, hundreds of them, alter the allele in tens of thousands of people every year. They throw genetic switches that produce autism generally. They know most savants are autistic. They also throw more switches along the track of the double helix so autism is changed from recessive to dominant. Pretty soon the autism rate goes from 1:10,000 to 1:150 and continues to grow. 

The aliens are playing blackjack at the Genetic Casino and, like Rainman, they are counting cards. 

In 1950 the Earth’s population was estimated to be 2.5 billion people. The autism rate of 1:10,000 produced 680,000 cases. The current crop of 50 savants is harvested from this autistic population, rendering 1 savant for every 13,600 autistics. 

In 2010 the world population is calculated at 6.8 billion people. An autism rate of 1:150 generates 45,333,000 cases. At the previous rate of one savant for every 13,600 cases, this base produces 3,333 savants. 

If the HCU were to stop poking our peapods now, the number of people with both dominant and recessive genes that produce autism would continue to increase the occurrence rate to 1:100 by 2050. If the HCU continue to plow our peas, the ratio could easily hit 1:75. Think about it: one out of every seventy-five people on the planet could be autistic, requiring special care and education. 

Why on Earth would aliens so badly need savants who can, just by looking, say how many matches fell out of a box, that you were born on a Wednesday and, two years from now, your birthday will fall on a Wednesday again? 

There is no reason. Not on Earth anyway. The aliens are breeding riverboat pilots, navigators who can move vehicles safely from one port to the next on an ever-changing river of universes. 

Mark Twain told of riverboat pilots on the Mississippi River in America’s early days when barges, steamships, and pole boats moved continuous streams of cargo up and down the river. At places the river’s current, affected by rainfall, snowmelt, and drought, drastically changed the sandbars on the river bottom in days, sometimes hours. 

People did not want their cargo or ships running aground and being lost, so they employed pilots for specific points along the river. The pilot would board, make the captain and crew aware of any changes, then guide the boat toward or away from a swirling eddy or the opposite shore of a muddy river emptying into the Mississippi. In his section of the river, the riverboat pilot was king. He could take boats safely through in the dead of night or in lashing storm. Take him fifty miles up river and he was useless.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 

To understand why a president of the United States would sell out his own people, you have to understand what the world was like at the time. After World War II, the political landscape was not at all like it is today. What we now see as empty shadows of Soviet boogeyman were real monsters in those days. 

The Soviets had won World War II. If you don’t believe this, look at the casualties suffered by the Soviets and Germans on the Eastern Front. Sure Bradley lateraled the ball to Patton and let him make a couple of end-runs. Montgomery tediously nipped along the Western Front, and the 8th Air Force bombed the German war machine relentlessly and without mercy. All of that contributed to the fall of the Third Reich, but the Russians, with their millions of vengeful, battle-hardened soldiers, and their thousands of nonstop, thundering cannons, beat the hell out of the Germans. The Russians didn’t stop coming. Kill twenty, thirty, a hundred thousand, not a problem as long as they pushed the red ribbon forward on the map. There were plenty of men, tanks, and artillery. It would be only a matter of time before the Soviet army crashed into Berlin and turned the goose-stepping Wehrmacht into gooseshitting comrades. 

The Russians had the biggest army in the world. Just as important, every one of them was on the European continent, their supply lines following railroad tracks back to the second-most-impressive war machine in mankind’s history of murdering one another for greed or love. When the war ended, there they sat, this giant Russian bear bristling with cannons, tanks, and bayonets, looking hungrily at the rest of Europe. 

Only one thing kept them from rolling through all of Europe: they did not have an atomic bomb and we did. They knew the British and American navies and air forces would prevent them taking England. If they crushed forward and claimed everything from France to Spain to Greece, it would be short lived. The US would radiate their victorious armies with nuclear bombs, and they would be back where they started. Stalin felt sure he would have an atomic bomb soon with which he could level the playing field. Then he could unleash his brutal bear again and keep what would be easily won. 

If you don’t believe that during the 1950s and 60s the Soviets were intent on dominating all of Europe, then you either didn’t live then, can’t read, or had one of those all-too-common college professors who see the world as seen by the intellectual progressives in the early 1900s. All for one and one for all. Tell all the dead Soviet leaders how wonderfully that system worked. 

So, the lines were drawn, the Russian bear was given Poland and Hungary and the Balkans to say, “Nice bear, good bear. Thank you for killing all those horrid Nazis.” 

But the bear kept looking at all that land, people, and industry, and the Cold War was born. 

The problem with the Soviet Union was it had no real industrial economy. It was a vast machine for making war. Almost all non-agriculture employees in Russia worked in some weapons-related factory. The Soviets came up with their infamous Five Year Plan. The idea was to gradually shift factories from making tanks and bombs to making clothes, diapers, furniture, shoes, and all manner of goods that they could sell to Europeans and make a profit. Since they controlled the wages, they could easily undersell European competitors. 

It was a great plan. After five years it did not work, so they made some minor changes and extended it another five, and then another and another until it was obvious even to the Politburo it would never work. The reason it would never work is summed up in this famous quote from a Russian janitor who was interviewed by a French journalist in the 60s. 

The journalist, who wrote for a French Communist newspaper, noticed the janitor going into a supply room for half an hour at a time. When the janitor came out with broom in hand, he smelled of vodka. He would push his broom for a half hour, put the trash in a large steel drum, then go back into the storage room. Finally the journalist asked the janitor if he felt it was right to work only half the time. The janitor said, “Why not. They pretend to pay us and we pretend to work.” 

Taken aback and offended by this un-comrade-like attitude, he demanded to see the janitor’s boss. The janitor said, “He’s in there,” pointing to the supply room. 

So, like it or not, the Soviets were stuck with a wartime economy that would eventually fail, but it was what they had, so they became the world’s greatest rattler of sabers with the philosophy that if we threaten to take over three countries next year but back away from two, then we have a new country and a new year. 

Since the Soviets could not do much other than make more weapons and maintain their enormous armies, America, and particularly James Forrestal, was faced with an enormous challenge. How to keep the Russian bear in check while at the same time reducing our military spending? Fortunately, we had the atom bomb and they didn’t: for a while. 

On August 29, 1949, the Soviet Union detonated its first atomic bomb and things became very serious in the US. America is a republic. Other than judges, we don’t have leaders for life. Elected officials had to keep voters at home happy. All the soldiers and sailors returned from World War II and needed jobs. The America of those days, flush with manufacturing capacity, new techniques, new generations of machines, answered the call, and “Made in America” became a tag seen in every corner of the world. We, not the Russians, made the socks, cars, record players, TVs, and bottled soda drinks that the world clamored for. The economy was busting at the seams, but the government’s tax revenue in those days was nowhere near what it was today. The Revenue Act of 1948 set the average income tax rate at a whopping 5 percent. 

So somehow, while reducing the defense budget, we had to stay enough ahead of the Soviets to keep them from bullying their way through Europe. 

Enter the Truman Treaty. 

The beads and mirrors the HUC offered us were just the ticket. In a year we went from being two or three years ahead of the Soviets in new weapon development to a decade ahead. It wasn’t like the HUC handed us a laser that would knock an aircraft out of the sky. Instead they provided us key pieces of information that allowed leaps to occur. 

We disguised the information as research originating within secret government labs, and invited trusted universities to participate in sure-bet scientific breakthroughs. But even with pieces of the puzzle given to us, it still took time to assemble the information and formulae into theories, data, and tests. The HUC fulfilled their promise, and we stayed a decade or more ahead of the Soviets in everything except rocketry, which allowed the Soviets to win the first leg of the space race with their seventeen-pound beeping satellite, Sputnik. It was a tragic day for American pride in 1957 when we had to admit this beeping basketball orbiting Earth meant we had lost something to the red-devil Russians, who everyone knew were just waiting to push the button and make America’s children file into the school halls or curl up under their desk where they would be safe from the violent nuclear explosion that surely followed the next shrill civil-defense siren. 

But the US powers weren’t that concerned with rocketry. We had Werner von Braun and the top Nazi scientists, who hurled V-1 buzz bombs and V-2 rockets across the English Channel and pissed off the Brits who, by that time of the war, thought they were through being bombed. The Royal Air force displayed their annoyance by stepping up their nighttime raids of civilian German cities, and firebombed Dresden and a few others virtually out of existence. 

The problem was Congress and the American people didn’t know about all those alien beads and mirrors. It was as if a single voice of patriotism cried out demanding we win the space race. We were, after all by God, America, and it was fundamentally wrong this great nation should lose anything. So Congress, aroused from their usual stupor, went on a spending spree and funded numerous programs that would put us back into first place. And in their usual lack of oversight or follow-up, they never noticed a great deal of that money went to fund projects they had no idea existed. With the extra money, the HUC research took another great step forward. 

The information that came out while trying to catch up to the Russians, who also beat us putting a man in space? Don’t worry, your astronaut heroes are safe, the moon landings were real, and most of the technology that put them there was from the Germans and our own scientists. Teflon, Velcro, and the computer technology were spin-offs of NASA. 

The list of things we have today as a result of the Truman Treaty is long, and many items on it are not so benevolent as Velcro and Teflon.[Teflon is not benevolent, research  C8, every single person on the planet now has it in their bloodstream, courtesy of the DuPonts DC]

Lasers, masers, and plasma torches leap to mind. The equivalent of the wheel in antigravity propulsion. (It turns out it’s not antigravity at all, but manipulation of electromagnetic fields. Einstein loved the simplicity of the theory and died a happy camper.) 

Then there is stealth technology. We all saw that secret unveiled in the Gulf War. The next generation is even stealthier. In addition to being almost completely invisible to most types of radar and infrared detection systems, they are also about 90 percent invisible to cameras and eyes. 

The new stealth aircraft are powered by one of two types of new propulsion systems, one of which allows the plane to cruise at mach 12 and accelerate to mach 20 in a heartbeat. The other is a tad slower, but makes up for it by allowing the craft to operate as far out as any satellites orbit. Wonder what they have in mind for that one? 

Books will eventually be written about each of the technologies born from the Truman Treaty, but this isn’t one of them. But there is one technology that has become so vile I bring it to attention for two reasons. 

It is perhaps the most despicable weapon ever created. I also threatened to tell what I know about it after the episode where I was nearly roadkill in Lisbon. An e-mail found its way to George Tenet, who was then head of the CIA. The information was about this not-so-secret project with a very secret purpose. It hinted I knew everything about it, and it should be considered a shot across the bow. The more pressure the SUV drivers put on me, the more information I would release. 

The result was another scene of me fleeing from Montevideo because someone was able to trace my untraceable e-mail. So here goes. 

The High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program (HAARP) operates a major ionospheric research facility at Gakona, Alaska, and is based on a US Patent issued to Dr. Bernard J. Eastlund of Spring, Texas, patent application number 06/690,354 filed on January 10, 1985. 

Conspiracy theorists can’t seem to contain themselves on this one. The latest is that the firing of HAARP was the cause of the 2011 earthquake in Japan that brought about the destruction and meltdown of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant. 

The official HAARP website says that it is a facility for conducting research of communications systems in the Earth’s Ionosphere. They are not lying. They do this, but they also do a growing number of other, less innocent things. HAARP was originally based on Eastman’s patent, and over the years has become a very scary thing. So scary the Russians and a number of other countries have entered the business of conducting research to improve communications systems in the ionosphere above their nations. The project is shrouded in secrecy and misinformation that encourages conspiracy theorists. 

Now hear this. 

HAARP was started under the aegis of Ronald Reagan as part of the Star Wars Defense Initiative. Please get online and read Dr. Eastman’s patent. It clearly states that by sending high-energy radio-frequency signals into the ionosphere we can manipulate the ions to form a plasma shield that can burn out all electronics in an incoming missile. The area of the shield theorized in the patent is approximately thirty miles in diameter. By placing three different arrays of HAARP-like antennae at specific locations relative to each other and the electromagnetic field’s jet stream over the arctic, the plasma can be manipulated to present a shield anywhere within five hundred miles of the facilities. 

So, HAARP began as a missile-defense shield. So far, so good. To prevent people from knowing what it really did and then extrapolating what it could lead to, the facility actually does play in the ionosphere to create ways to make sure solar flares don’t disrupt satellite communication. That is the official cover story. 

The ionosphere is unique in Earth’s ecosystem as a place where much of the matter exists as plasma. Plasma is known in physics as the fourth state, the first three being solid, liquid, and gas. Most of outer space contains plasma, making it the most common state in the universe. 

This book is not a physics book. If it were, I could not write it. What you need to know about plasma is that during the time of day the ionosphere is exposed to the sun, plasma is naturally generated. At times of solar disturbance, it can increase thousands of folds. If you want to know what we can do with plasma today, look up a plasma torch, if you want to know what we can do with it in ten years look up plasma propulsion. If you want to know what we can do with it in twenty-five years watch Star Trek. 

The three facilities that comprise HAARP each beam 3.6 million watts of focused radio waves for a total of 10.8 million watts. What’s a watt worth? A 100-watt light bulb uses 100 watts of electricity per hour. In 10 hours it uses 1,000 watts, or a kilowatt hour. To help put this into perspective, the three HAARP facilities together beam 222,000 times more power than the most powerful radio station. It would take the power production of a nuclear aircraft carrier an hour to equal the amount of energy HAARP’s antennae beam into the ionosphere in a fifteen-second pulse. That is a hell of a lot of energy. 

As the Star Wars Missile Defense Shield proved its effectiveness in tests, other ideas popped into the heads of the physicists concerning plasma. 

Once you start producing plasma, it uses the Earth’s magnetic field and helical atomic movement to make itself larger and more dangerous so long as the energy is fed into it. The first results of these experiments were to produce what are known as lightning balls. These sometimes occur naturally on Earth, and are usually associated with earthquakes or volcanic eruptions. Everyday, thunderstorm lightning is plasma, and for a billionth of a second it is hotter than the surface of the sun. If you have seen where lightning strikes in the desert, you can find sand that has been fused into glass. 

HAARP was discovered to be capable of producing plasma balls in ever increasing size and power. But what do you do with a giant, super-powerful plasma ball? 

The same thing you do with any ball, bounce it? The operators at HAARP experimented until they could bounce the plasma ball off stable layers of the ionosphere and send it earthward. But that allowed only playing in the northern hemisphere, so they learned how to bounce it off the moon and gained the power to direct it to anyplace on the globe. 

Are you scared yet? Do you want to be? Go to YouTube and search for ‘UFO avoids missile.’ What you see is documented, NASA—not bogus— footage shot from a shuttle showing a UFO moving toward the Earth. Suddenly it zigzags away from the Earth, and a bolt of light flies through the space the UFO would have occupied had it not taken evasive action. Just go to YouTube. 

So what is so horrible about HAARP? The great minds that ricochet plasma balls off the moon discovered other things they can do with the same facility. To some extent they can control weather in limited areas (limited at the moment). I don’t think they have reached the tornado/hurricane/new ice age yet, but they can make it rain marginally more in deserts or less in rainforest. 

HAARP probably is not the cause of the 2011 earthquake in Japan. Someday it may be able to encourage shifting tectonic plates or bulging volcanoes to act prematurely. 

And oh yes, just for the record, it does a wonderful job of helping to make sure spy satellites are not disrupted by normal solar activity.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 

Even with the technology and world dominance gained, not every US president thought the Truman Treaty was a good idea, and several had second thoughts. One in particular was going to do something about it. 

President John F. Kennedy made a lot of people angry. He was the media darling of the three TV networks of the day. They broadcast more coverage per viewer hour of Kennedy, his wife Jackie, and their kids than any time before or since. He was charming, arrogant, aloof, disarming, charitable, ruthless, thoughtful, deceptive, innocent, and crafty. Publically it seemed every politician in Washington liked him, even Republicans. Privately, many from both sides of the aisle waited, spiders in webs hanging in every congressional office, ready to trap and wrap him at the first opportunity. 

Kenney had two other attributes that made him great: intelligence and vision. One made him a living legend, the other a resident of Arlington National Cemetery. 

Kennedy loved intelligence and mental nimbleness. He read several newspapers at breakfast, and often played word games and puzzles. He kept himself razor sharp and admired brain power in others. Everyone who regularly socialized with JFK had to be on their toes. Well, almost everyone. There was Marilyn. She probably wasn’t on her toes when the two of them socialized. But I hear she was actually smarter than people give her credit for. One thing for sure, Kennedy trusted her. Kennedy was smart enough to know that he was the ‘Peoples’ President’, and so long as he remained so, he would remain in office. This knowledge gave him the courage to act on convictions. 

Kennedy’s vision is what caused him trouble. 

JFK strongly supported his little brother, Robert Kennedy, in his role as US Attorney General. When the New York Times and The New Republic questioned Robert’s appointment to the position because he had no experience in state or federal court, his big brother quipped, “I can't see that it's wrong to give him a little legal experience before he goes out to practice law.” 

RFK was a pit bull in his attacks against organized crime (the 50s and 60s were the heyday of the crime lords and godfathers), the corruption among union leaders, and the only true ‘untouchable’ at the FBI: J. Edgar Hoover. President Kennedy encouraged him to move forward in reining in these forces. Even when political pressure was brought to bear on the president, he never blinked, not once. This endorsement made both the Kennedy boys unpopular in Washington social circles that rippled out, gathering more mass to crush these sons of Irish immigrants. 

While RFK tempted powerful fates, JFK made other enemies. 

When Kennedy took office, the US had less than 100 CIA spooks in Vietnam gathering information and keeping us informed of developments on both sides. In 1961, Kennedy sent 400 Special Forces soldiers to help train South Vietnamese officers to fight a defensive war against Uncle Ho and his Viet Cong. Kennedy clearly understood what would happen if South Vietnam fell to the communist north: there would be an Asian holocaust as neighboring countries fell like dominoes. Kennedy initiated a number of presidential initiatives and congressional programs that led to 50,000 troops being deployed by 1965. Eventually, over 800,000 American boys would become disillusioned with their own government, and America would lose its first war. Vietnam was never a popular war. From the very beginning politicians, media, and college kids questioned Kennedy’s motives and began chipping away at the walls of Kennedy’s Camelot. On the other side of the Pacific, the same people who kept trying to assassinate the leaders in Saigon didn’t take to the idea that the tyrant had a friend with a lot of guns. At home and abroad, Kennedy took some shots about sending troops to support a puppet democracy. Kennedy’s vision proved accurate: nearly six million people were slaughtered and bulldozed into mass graves in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia after we deserted the people we went to save. 

Then there was the Bay of Pigs. Fidel Castro made monkeys out of Congress, and not only kept the US from supporting Batista, but also received a little covert help from us. Then he shows up in New York smoking big cigars to speak to the UN delegates who can’t believe they get to live in America and America is paying for it. 

Castro talks about imperialist pigs, capitalist dogs, and weak moral degenerates that lack will, and how the nurturing caring that is communism will change Cuba into a paradise. Ten years later it is a bankrupt country with failing infrastructure and surviving from aid from the Soviet Union given in return for a port for Russian subs. The best job you can find there, outside of being one of Castro’s communist barons, is prostituting yourself to the Russian sailors who come into port smelling of cabbage soup, looking for rum, and waving thick wads of rubles (worth about $3.50) wanting to get laid in this new tropical paradise. 

In the interim, between Castro’s speech at the UN and the smelly Russian sailors enjoying the paradise, there were two major incidents: the Bay of Pigs and the Cuban Missile Crisis, both under Kennedy’s occupancy of the White House. 

The Bay of Pigs was essentially a CIA operation approved and supported by Kennedy. The idea was simple: if Cuban exiles from Miami could establish a beachhead in their native country, the US was honor-bound to make sure they were not massacred in their homeland (read as the US would bomb the shit out of the Cuban military and send troops so the exiled freedom fighters could take back their sugarcane fields and resume their profitable business with Coca Cola.) The only problem with this is Robert Kennedy convinced his brother the Cuban exiles were partially funded by organized crime who would take back their Cuban casino businesses before the first cane was made into syrup. President Kennedy also had knowledge that not only was the CIA aware of criminal involvement, but that august organization had courted it from the beginning. 

The bottom line is JFK was pissed. He pulled the plug on official US follow-up support of the invasion of Cuba, and the exiles who left Miami Beach wished they had stayed home. 

More and madder enemies are the outcome for the Kennedy boys. 

The Bay of Pigs is pretty well known. One of Kennedy’s actions as president is not so well known: Executive Order #11110 of June 4, 1963. Kennedy’s vision saw something in the future, something politicians did not want to deal with in 1963, and don’t want to deal with it today. He saw the eventual devaluation of the American dollar. 

Failing to receive enough Congressional support to even have his idea introduced in Congress, he did what all presidents do when they can: issue an Executive Order. 11110 was really an amendment to 10289, an Executive Order created by Harry Truman. 

Essentially, 11110 makes the Department of the Treasury, specifically the Secretary of the Treasury, the only entity authorized to issue US currency, and this currency must be backed by silver. 

Had this order come to fruition, the privately owned Federal Reserve Bank would have been put out of business, today we would all be working for silver-backed money instead of Treasury Notes, and Congress would not have driven the national debt beyond more than we could afford. This was an elegant way to insure stable and responsible spending by politicians. 

By November of 1963, Kennedy was dead. By November of 1968 all currency backed by silver was taken out of circulation and sold to collectors for more than face value. Obviously, the number of Kennedy haters increased when the President’s pen signed good ol’ 11110. 

The final straw that pushed at least one of JFK’s enemies to action was the problem of UFOs. 

President Kennedy had a public UFO experience as a college student. He and forty other people watched a UFO for three to four minutes off Cape Cod. The object was clearly visible and close enough that some detail could be seen. 

He had a second experience in the cold Pacific waters the early morning of 2 August, 1943. 

Today most people don’t remember John F. Kennedy as a World War II hero. He commanded an 80-foot, fast-patrol torpedo boat, the PT 109. Earlier on the moonless night of 1 August, PT 109 idled on one engine to prevent Japanese aircraft from spotting its wake. A Japanese destroyer, the Amagiri, returning to Rabaul where it deployed supplies and 900 troops, was full speed ahead trying to make it back to base before sunrise brought death from above in the form of American fighter bombers. 

PT 109’s crew had about 10 seconds from the time the destroyer’s bow raced out of the pitch blackness and cut their small boat in half around 1:00 AM on 2 August, 1943. 

Making a heroic swim, towing a badly burned sailor, Kennedy led his small group of survivors to a small island three and a half miles from the spot of the collision. It was only one hundred yards in diameter, and had no food or water. 

Japanese were on all the larger islands in the area, so Kennedy and his crew hid by day. On the next night, Kennedy swam another two and a half miles to an island he suspected had coconut trees. After arriving on this island and confirming it had coconut trees, he rested an hour, then started his swim back. 

While not infested, the waters were the hunting grounds of both sharks and saltwater crocodiles. Halfway back to the island occupied by his crew, Kennedy paused to tread water and listen. After a few seconds of looking in all directions, he noticed a submerged light moving toward him and rising toward the surface. 

It passed under him and emerged from the water about one hundred yards away then hovered a few feet above the sea. The light looked about five feet in diameter and glowed dull red, much like the combat lights on a naval ship. Kennedy remained as motionless as he could in the gentle swells. After ten or fifteen seconds the light moved toward Kennedy, circled three times a few feet above his head, then shot straight up until it vanished two or three seconds later. Kennedy made it back to the island and fell asleep, exhausted, with the rest of his crew. The next night he led his men to the other island, where they lived on coconuts for six days before being discovered by two Australian coast watchers in a dugout canoe. 

None of Kennedy’s men had seen the light. 

During the presidential transition, Eisenhower made Kennedy aware of the Truman Treaty and alerted him that he was troubled by the inherent wrongness of keeping this from the American people. He told JFK he planned to warn the country in a veiled and obtuse way that they had something to worry about. This became the famous Military-Industrial Complex speech. 

Eisenhower’s second experience with UFOs is one of the most striking in all UFO reports. His first experience, though much less dramatic than the second, somewhat prepared him for what was to come. 

During World War II, while commanding all the allied armed forces in Europe, Eisenhower was briefed several times that US and British pilots were being tracked by unidentified aircraft. The common thread in the reports from hundreds of pilots was that the object, a metallic shape without wings, would match the pilot’s speed and course, follow for a while from a distance, then gradually come closer and hold course. No maneuver could shake the strange craft. It stayed in a fixed position relative to the fighter or bomber. After a while it streaked off, sometimes straight up, at incredible speeds. The problem became big enough to reach the desk of British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, who met with Eisenhower on this subject and directed Eisenhower to keep a lid on these stories. US and British air force generals were told to verbally instruct all division and squadron commanders to order pilots to never again discuss these events. 

You may have read stories of Eisenhower’s second crossing of paths with aliens. You may also be confused by the writers of those tales. 

Eisenhower did meet with aliens on the night of 20 February, 1954 at what later became known as Edwards Air Force Base. He did not sign a treaty with the grays. Truman did that. In fact, Eisenhower did not even meet with grays. He met with another race entirely who don’t approve of the grays. Physically, this group is closer to our own height, thin but muscular, have a slightly bluish cast to otherwise white skin, have white hair and oversized noses. They essentially looked like Scandinavian Jimmy Durante crossed with Smurfs. 

This group had come to warn us about the grays and to help us extradite ourselves from the Truman Treaty. They told Eisenhower exactly what the grays were up to and what it would eventually do the human population on Earth. 

The Smurfs wanted to trade our not working with the grays for training in their spiritual technology. They flatly refused to help us build weapons or other technologies. Needless to say, we bowed out of that offer and continued down the Gray Brick Road. 

The sad thing about this is we were not sufficiently advanced in quantum physics to understand what the Smurfs offered. We refused heaven and kept hell. 

Kennedy admired Eisenhower. He may have been one of five men who could tell this story and have Kennedy believe it. If what Ike said was true, the Truman Treaty was a bad deal with bad people: well not people. The more information Kennedy gained (and it was not easy even for him to find details) the less he liked it. The president of vision saw something, something evil, something wrong, and decided it was time to come clean with American people. 

We don’t know everyone who knew the president’s intentions, probably not many. Robert Kennedy knew JFK wanted to blow the whistle. And at least one other person knew—Marilyn Monroe. Whoever it was, someone spilled the beans and at 12:30 PM (CST) on 22 November, 1963 the people at Dealy Plaza in Dallas, TX saw JFK’s brains blown out because someone believed he was about to tell the world that, “We are not alone.” 

It wasn’t long before someone figured out that Marilyn Monroe and Bobby Kennedy may know more than they should and they too fell victim to the SUV drivers.

next

I have never met Melanie. I have seen photos and read reports. It is hard not to like her.

PART 5 OF 5

https://exploringrealhistory.blogspot.com/2021/01/part-5-of-5-alien-agenda-why-they-came.html

130s

FAIR USE NOTICE

This site contains copyrighted material the use of which has not always been specifically authorized by the copyright owner. As a journalist, I am making such material available in my efforts to advance understanding of artistic, cultural, historic, religious and political issues. I believe this constitutes a 'fair use' of any such copyrighted material as provided for in section 107 of the US Copyright Law.

In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. Section 107, the material on this site is distributed without profit to those who have expressed a prior interest in receiving the included information for research and educational purposes. Copyrighted material can be removed on the request of the owner.