Book Review: The Truman Prophecy (2015), Excerpt #3

From Part 2: Toto: Curtain #2: Linchpin

Vertical_GFA“A man dies when he refuses to stand up for that which is right. A man dies when he refuses to stand up for justice. A man dies when he refuses to take a stand for that which is true.” — Martin Luther King, Jr.

[Excerpt from The Truman Prophecy,
due for publication 12/25/15.]

________________________________ 3Q_2015

Neil wishes he’d never seen that damned DVD.

“Architects and Engineers” for chrissakes!

And he, a highly prized one… by the Rocket Men.

“So what’s it going to be, Mr. Hansen?” asked the company’s special agent. “Do we have a deal?”

A deal?

The real deal had been ironed out a half century ago, from kindergarten, as an unspoken codicil for exceptional engineering and science kids from Anytown, America. Becoming a post-collegiate-honors, signed in red-white-and-blue invisible-ink contract that Hansen would, indeed, be taking the Blue Pill… with the silver lining.

[Though, underneath, he felt, reluctantly.]

Realistically, how could he pass up the offer? Yes, it was implicit… but rock sure. He’d marry his high-school sweetheart, then with hard, intelligent work, he’d rise through well-paying jobs with topnotch companies, have a nice home, regulation children, a workshop for tinkering, a pole barn for housing cool manly-man projects, eventually a cottage up north, a boat for water skiing… and even a social life and time for his one true passion in life (aside from elegantly solving technical problems): fly fishing.

The catch?

Don’ be askin’ no deep questions.

Don’t stick your curious nose behind the curtain.

Neil was smart and good-natured. Curiosity was ingrained in him. He liked people. Well, most people. Okay, some people—the ones who looked at the world logically and weren’t driven by addictions or emotions, who exhibited real intelligence or at least common sense.

People who didn’t go along with some idiotic sentiment just because their pastor—or a TV ad—spouted it.

People who didn’t puff themselves up on account of position, fame, money, athletic prowess, etc.

People who didn’t see the state or government programs as the answer to every personal problem… or think that the feds were always embarked on some worthy mission to make the world safe for corporations.

In fact, Neil, strictly speaking, was a classic advocate of Constitutional liberty, and had been ever since he started picking up and reading those thousands of books—most of them technical—that nonetheless included the Founders’ documents.

At the immediate agent’s question of whether they had a deal, Neil launched into flashback mode, remembering how even as a boy shunted into advanced classes he sensed a behind-the-scenes Hand at work… belonging to those in that puffed-up, Secret Squirrel category.

It was much easier to look away at the start.

As he grew into adulthood, it became harder not to ask questions, to probe no further into the Whos, or into the ‘What’s in it for thems?’. Yet, despite his high native curiosity, Neil had kept the angst of not looking buried deep in his subconscious—until lately.

Sure enough, that ignored 900# gorilla, the Secret Squirrel Hand, clamored evermore for attention. Or was it the man-eating plant in Little Shop of Horrors saying “Feed me, Neil! Feeeed Meeee!”?

Neil had no illusions about ‘the deal.’ The smarmy agent, who technically lived in SE Michigan, had DC Beltway written all over him. He had just finished showing the Hansens—Neil’s wife Angie was along for the ride, and, of course, to make the ultimate decision—a magnificent trophy cottage on the bluffs overlooking Lake Michigan, just north of Arcadia, west of the Chippewa Trail (Michigan Highway 22).

“3,000 square feet if it’s an inch,” Angie said.

“I know, I know,” came back Neil, “with maintenance and rolled into the agreement. Good thing, because at 57 my days of climbing ladders are done with.”

“Or routine lawn maintenance for that matter,” she reminded him.

“Not much in the way of grounds for these sorts of places, anyway,” he said. “It’s everything we’ve ever dreamed of—view, luxury, closeness to ‘fields and streams,’ and deluxe accommodation for guests.”

“Which of course means family and a very few close friends,” Angie confirmed.

[As the premier advanced concepts man for the Rocket Shop (the common nickname for one Homer and Sons Engine Company, est. 1965, Commerce, Michigan) her husband kept to himself for the most part. She had been more than content to be life-companion, bear and raise the children, manage affairs[1]… take the traditional role. Nor was she a gregarious socialite. Meaning, the cottage would be effectively about as empty when they were there as when they were not there.]

“I’m thinking about you, Angie, if we go ahead,” Neil confided. “Right now, the company wants me to head up the special engineering of the black project near Manistee, which of course I can’t tell you anything about. That’ll take maybe five years, to my early retirement at 62.”

“So you’re saying here’s where we will live? The cottage becomes a home?” she asked.

“Uh huh.”

“That’s what I’ve been assuming all along, dear,” she replied. “I know what you’re thinking: ‘Will she be happy moving here and living here full time—we’ll have enough money for southern digs in the winter months—making new friends, finding a church, filling her days?’ The answer is yes I will.”

“But if you’re going to be away a lot, I may take a lover.”

“Funny,” said Neil.

“Who’s joking?” smiled Angie.

“Well, fine, then, just stow him when the kids visit… and the grandkids… if our two sons ever figure out the procreation thing.”

“And when our relatives show up…” she said.

“Seriously, being another three-to-four hours from the outer NW Detroit exurbs where we live now will surely cut down on the family gatherings,” Neil offered. “Even though the company is actually giving this new home to us, we’re the ones who will be living here. If it doesn’t feel right or it doesn’t feel like we—each of us—can make it feel right, let’s just say no to the whole enchilada.”

Neil didn’t tell her that he was having misgivings on the copious black-money side of the deal, too. Over the years he’d billed plenty of black-project hours at the Rocket Shop. Not his cup of tea. He knew clearly that ‘black’ meant not ‘unseen by a foreign-country enemy’ rather ‘unseen by the American-people enemy.’

Angie said, “Neil, darling, I’m with you 100% no matter what you decide; I’m happy to continue to make life with you either on the small lake where we live in Highland or on the big lake up here. I won’t be lonely or a fish out of water either way. Why don’t we take another week or two to think about it… back home.”

“Splendid idea,” Neil agreed.

“Mr. Whiplash,” said Neil to the special agent, “we need more time to discuss and to think about this.”

“Please, call me Snidely,” replied the agent. “How much time? And do you need to discuss the entire package—employment and housing—or just the home itself?”

“Another week or two. And both, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Hansen,” Snidely (not his real name) continued. “You realize that the package the Rocket Shop is offering—thanks to the special budget available from my DC bosses running ‘the Project’—pays for the Arcadia home entirely, then compensates you at an inflation-adjusted $250,000 per year salary, plus expenses, and an annual new company Cadillac?”

“Not to mention the country club membership and property tax payments for five years or until the end of the project or until I retire at 65… whichever comes last?” queried Neil.


“I also understand that during my time with the project I sign away my freedom to speak to anyone, not just about the project, but also regarding any matter of politics that isn’t cleared by the project team in Washington.”

“Yes, that is also correct,” confirmed Snidely.

“And the normal penalties apply for failure to abide by these rules, I assume,” said Neil.

“Afraid so. But realistically no one at the top is going to hold your feet to the fire. They’ve scoured the country, in fact they’ve scoured the world, and no one else comes close to your abilities.”

“That’s good to know, I guess,” Neil said.

Neil kept to himself his reservations about the project: What he did know: it was space weapons’ work, specifically propulsion delivery systems for implementing the so-called ‘Rods from God’ (RFG) [official designation: kinetic energy (KE) weapons] missile platforms.

From the book, StarTram: The new race to space [re: using magnetic levitation (maglev) technology to cheaply and recurringly launch tons of payload off the earth], Neil saw that any power having thousands of these RFG platforms in polar orbit would routinely negate any competing military or insurrectionist force on the planet. [Maglev launchers would make such an RFG implementation temptingly cheap.]

To many, the military and national security benefits of launching many thousands of tons of weaponized hardware into space at very low cost will be irresistible. What nation would not seek to continuously monitor in great detail every point on Earth, to see if any threat was developing? Hundreds of low-cost satellites in low earth orbit could view every location by high definition visual, infrared, and radar scans.

The “Rod from God” is an old idea studied by the US Defense Department, but never implemented because of the high cost of rocket launch. It is very simple—just a telephone pole of high density metal like tungsten, with a diameter of about 1 foot. A short burn from a small attached rocket motor causes it to deorbit and head for its target on Earth. Weighing 4 tons, the Rod would strike its target at near orbital speed, with an explosive power equivalent to a 20-ton bomb. As a long rod, it could penetrate many feet into the ground to destroy subsurface structures. Or, just before impact, it could split into multiple pieces to destroy a large surface area.

What was it John Lennon said?

The world is run by insane men for insane purposes.

Solution? In the same book—in fact, under the next heading ‘Marooned on Earth?’—the Maglev-StarTram authors (Powell, Maise, and Pellegrino) write:

Imagine billions of small dense metal bullet-like objects orbiting in space above the Earth, traveling at 18,000 mph. You are aboard a spacecraft bound for a Space Hotel, or the transfer station for the Mars Colony. Hit by one of these “bullets,” the resulting shock wave would probably break the spacecraft and you into little pieces. Still want to go into space, even if it were as cheap as air travel? Not likely, even for brave explorers.

Now suppose that ‘Big Brother,’ winner of the New Race to Space, plans to Maglev Launch thousands of “Rods from God” and satellites into orbit, to dominate the other countries in the world. Clearly, Big Brother does not want hundreds of millions of orbiting debris objects in space. However, the countries about to be dominated will want those debris objects in orbit—it’s their only defense.

Creating a massive debris blanket in orbit around the Earth would destroy any weapon or satellite launched by Big Brother within a few weeks. Even better, the destroyed weapon or satellite would disintegrate into thousands of additional debris objects. Eventually, as Big Brother attempted to build his arsenal in space, trillions of debris objects would exist in orbit. No weapon or satellite could survive for more than a few days.

The Good News! No Big Brother in Space. The Bad News! Humanity would be forever marooned on Earth. No exploring the Solar System, no beaming clean electric power down to Earth, no protecting the planet from asteroids and comets. No mining of near-Earth asteroids.

Creating the debris blanket is not that difficult. Working together, the non Big Brother countries could launch a thousand tons of debris objects—100 million 10 gram “bullets”—into orbit in a year if they did not want to risk nuclear war by attacking Big Brother’s StarTram launcher….

Once again, John Lennon’s words ring out:

So the solution to the insanity of world domination via RFGs is the prophylactic insanity of a Doomsday Shroud. Pick your poison. And here Neil Hansen is being enticed by Big Brother-USA to ensure Maglev-StarTram gets this bizarre Planetary Death Dance off to a sweet, bountiful, can-do, All-American start!

Hansen also knows that RFGs are not mere idle speculation by science fiction junkies. Fact is, credible reports from alternative media show they’ve already been deployed by the US military surreptitiously, even used against targets in the Far East.

Something is telling him that someone on the inside, possibly ol’ Neil himself, had better start thinking outside the box. Hey?

He has lately suspected the Hand behind the curtain, Secret Squirrel, Inc., to be disconnected from ‘reality human.’ Delusional, intravenous heading toward Pluto. Suddenly, Neil is seized with the absolute conviction that under no circumstances can he or will he continue down his predestined gold-plated Blue Pill path.

But how can he avoid it? How can he unplug?

Grasping at straws for a palatable Red Pill answer, the DVD from Architects and Engineers for 9/11 Truth, Experts Speak Out, beckons… only this time, Neil doesn’t disclaim ‘Why me, Lord?’, instead sees a ray of hope.

“But, of course,” Neil smiles.

The one true balls-to-the-wall Red Pill fanatic he’s ever known—truther and sworn enemy of ‘Le Machine’—, Hiram T. Chance: engineer, libertarian, international man of intrigue. After all these years, Mr. Hi Chance may, indeed, have shown Neil the way out of the Death Star dilemma…

Neil frowns, “But the choice may kill me… literally.”

[1] Not that either of them would succumb to temptation. 🙂

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