Driver, T. C. (7 page)

“Phony fiat money (by government decree), or simply counterfeit money, is needed to keep the slave camps of the world open. Money must always be printed. Also, we Americans get some cheap buys at Walmart. Have you ever thought how do they do it? How can it be so cheap? Slavery, yes, simple enough, we live ' high on the hog' off the misery of enslaved, non-free people.
 
By doing so, we will soon lose our own rights and freedom to their wealthy, world wide owners. The deposits into our National Bank made by these worldwide slave owners (or even our own fellow citizens) called treasury bills have no connection to a balanced budget whatsoever. T-bills can be sold and would be offered even during a budget surplus.
 
Our Treasury and Fed are playing a shell game, just like the bum on a side street. Our big trading partners, are not fools, they don’t want to make a deposit, in a small branch office. They know one bank controls our note. T-bills are overseen and daily managed by the 'open market committee' or “the window” as bank and money supply sees fit. The Congress of the United States does not even have the right or power to look at the king's books, much less control what is done, in his bank.
 
Yes, our unknown king is above our laws like all true kings. Our currency is a bank note controlled by special interest groups owning the Federal Reserve Bank. Our Treasury Department and the Fed Bank can both print dollars. My question is simple. How much printed money will the market stand before collapse? When Washington spends more money than it takes in by taxes, this deficit small or large is always an inflation of the currency. This overdraft is always' printed money'! In relatively small amounts, it is not costly. This spending is always paid for by inflation or a loss of value to the currency. This money is not borrowed from anybody and it has nothing to do whatsoever with deposits made into the king's bank. Someone making a deposit does not 'make up for' overspending just because you write 'Fed' instead of Treasury on your dollar bills. Presidents Lincoln and Kennedy both tried printing treasury dollars. They did not live long after doing so. This unknown king of ours is very powerful!”

“Free men, with real money and honest banking, trade with each other openly and freely. Slaves can't buy anything. Our money with Presidents on it is really no better than what the local dictator prints in his basement. We prop up his slave camp and the slave owner is stuck with our just printed dollars. In short, counterfeit money makes possible the world's slave camps.”

“There is a group of economists who call themselves the Monetarist they are the so-called competitors to the Keynesian theory. Monetarists are only better by half. The favor the Fed bank money printing and control over direct spending (printing). The socialist Keynesian men, mostly democrats, are printing money and writing checks to every wino and bum in America, trying to buy enough votes to stay in power. Both groups are perpetuating a counterfeiting scheme to enrich themselves on the backs of third world slaves; who are often children tied to machines in sweat shops.”

“Slave camps have managed to sell the world over one half of its manufacturing needs. Free men can not often compete. That is why your city manhole cover says 'Made in India', your clothes say 'Made in China', and your auto parts say 'Made in Mexico'. And why America has gone out of business. Free trade is good for wealth creation, but slavery lowers demand and wealth in the end, because slaves live poor lives; they cannot buy. Slaves are poor consumers; poor customers. The foundation of our money system is and has been against the teaching of God as written in his Holy Bible. Evil men have simply 'cut the coin'. John Maynard was not a wise man. God's ways work. John Maynard's ways will lead to a fall. The ungodly democratic, socialist party of Osoma is now finding this old counterfeiting scheme collapsing around them by its own weight. Surprise! God's way works! Man's way leads to destruction! Who could have known? Billy, you've got to stand for something or you're gonna fall for anything!”

Billy Cash, tears in his eyes started to leave. “We can't talk about the Bible, Cornelius. Schools are against the Bible. People would laugh at us; ridicule us! Professors hate it. We would likely flunk our courses if we stood up for God.”

“Yes, I know, Billy” I said, shaking my head. “There is no hope for America to come back. We have lost her.”

Could nothing be done? Giant pictures of Osoma stood everywhere. The Bible, The Constitution and the Ten Commandments were all gone.

The next three days of flying patrol was routine. Our second 'lost' plane was from extremely heavy, small arms fire from a so called 'private ship'. The ship looked like an old U. S. Navy frigate. Ships sold for cheap when the American Navy closed up, most for less than scrap price. The rapid fall of American power and influence was frightening. What or who would replace America? The Great Ark was part of this power vacuum for sure. What would the world come to? Sink down to?

Sarah and I were sitting at my table early one evening waiting for the music to start at the Gospel Cafe. She had arrived first and waved me over as I walked by on deck. Being this early was not normal. It was very strange and out of character for her. Sarah was eating the Cafe's famous macaroni shrimp salad. I ordered pinto beans and cornbread with onions. Plus, I ate half of hers, which was our custom. A tall, lanky, Yankee, black Gospel Singer
  
named Mike Russell (from Brooklyn) was sitting in with the house band and packing in an extra large, overflow capacity crowd at the Cafe! Mike was likable, talented and very popular on ship. He had a very different music style.

To my surprise, Captain Joe Coe joined his daughter, Sarah, and I at our table dressed in casual street clothes. Captain Coe ordered wine and fruit salad. Not from the Gospel Cafe menu, but rather his personal cook and private stock. Stage music was dialed back to two/thirds its usual volume by the wave of Joe Coe's hand. His 'man Friday' was seated with a few other fellows across the room. Friday was a balding, thin, black man, Joe's chief of staff, and, yes, Friday was his real name.

Captain Coe was blunt and to the point, as always. “I'm looking for some volunteers, Cornelius, for a landing party to India. It leaves in three days, one more duty cycle. The ship's next port of call will be the Australian International Spaceport supply harbor. We will train two semesters of college freshmen, just like we did in Brazil. I'd like to keep you as a flight instructor, Cornelius, but I need four people in India. There's a big air show coming up. Stunt flying like you did back in old days. Details will be given to you by Goldwater. Glancing to the table with Friday sitting across the Cafe, I then quickly recognized Paul Goldwater, my ex brother-in-law.
 
This was a 'small world' moment of sucking disappointment. He was a VPI professor who married the older sister of my wife. Paul's a small, smart, girly man with tiny hands and a selfish, only child nature. He did, to his credit, have a good sense of humor.

I mentioned not my knowing of Goldwater, because I could tell Sarah was going on this assignment also and I didn't want that little squirrel Paul knocking me off the list. Knock me off he would do, as soon as he knew about me. This family feud goes way back. Just to make sure Paul didn't 'find me out', I skipped all the briefings that he called. The next three days were spent on an intense air raid bombing campaign.
 
Multiple sorties per shift, as if to use up our bullets before Gumbo Station time drew to a close. Twelve of our predator drones had already left the Ark, I presumed to another carrier replacing us. This increased the almost frantic pace of our flight schedule, and made it easier, yes, even possible, to avoid my ex brother-in-law right up to the last minute (ha-ha).

My last bombing run at Gumbo Station was very disturbing to me. This is not good for a professional warrior. A man can't let it get too personal. We blew up a tall dam holding back a deep blue, fresh water reservoir. I could see a young couple standing on the dam overlook outside a red Isuzu pick-up truck just before my bombs hit the cement dam face just below them. My whole squad, five more B44s behind me also drilled the dam face.

These General Sherman-like methods made me sick at heart and stomach. How precious water was in this arid climate of Africa. We fly boy warriors killed thousands of Africans with our bombs. Yes we did our level best but the truth is we were small fries in the killing game. The big, and most cost effective, killers were dirty water, AIDS, starvation, disease (malaria) by insects (by stopping DDT), civil and religious wars and of course, free abortion. World leaders are depopulating Africa. For some reason or other, elite humanist, false science environmentalists have decided that Africa must be saved from humans to save the world. Killing off all the Africans has been a top world priority for over sixty years.

Our ship's first experimental use of 'Beetle Bombs' started this last week of Gumbo Station'. These 'beetles' were large and black. They could clean corpses down to clean, white bone quickly, a marvel to watch on damage assessment photos. I thought of all the pain and death inflicted on others by yours truly and men like me. All from the safe cockpit I loved so much. I tried to pray for forgiveness, but I knew I wasn't truly repentant and therefore, totally unworthy of God's gift of grace.

The next morning I would board a helicopter, saying goodbye once more to the terrible horrors and smells of war, hopefully, for the last time. My heart was no longer that of a warrior. Knowing how and when to quit was not so easy. While running across the flight deck towards my chopper, I was against the light. The tower said nothing, thank God. I jumped in and slammed the chopper door shut, even as the big bird wound up for take-off from the ship. Sitting in the back seat already was Paul Goldwater, Sarah and Unk, a loudmouthed, Ukrainian, light skinned black man nick-named the weasel' by Captain Coe. Riding shotgun was the head of aircraft maintenance, Marshall (Duck) Moore, an Irish American who was hell to work for, but a great storyteller. Who the pilot was, I still don't know. Some Boeing company guy, I believe. This masked, mystery pilot wore a complete Blackhawk weapons system helmet, but was flying a Bell cargo chopper with no weapons. I wondered, what's up with that? Who would use that big, old heavy helmet?

Paul Goldwater, across the seat from me, shook his head and said “Oh, God! It is you! Call Coe! Let me out of this damn chopper! *#*#*#*#*#*#*

“Too late, now, boss” I said with a smile. While
thinking to myself. At least that little creep Paul Goldwater was across the seat!

Thank God for small and large blessings. And so began my great Indian adventure!

Our chopper landed on a small refueling island in the middle of the vast Indian Ocean a long seven hours later.
 
Goldwater and I ate lunch away from the others only to trade verbal stabs with each other. Where's the love (ha-ha)? Yes, family, but neither one of us was looking forward to working together. Maybe without the evil stepsister duo, Sissy and Debbie, we two men could at least not kill each other on this trip.

“Keep your hands off of me, Paul” I shouted! Truly, we two old men (fools) nearly came to blows. Unk, Sarah and Paul each ordered a sub and a large pizza to go. 'Duck', or Marshall Moore, ordered a sub and two large pizzas with bread sticks; a deal. I thought this ' a bit much', but ordered pizza for myself, also. I guess Subway and Pizza Hut are worldwide now. This island was no more than a big sand bar in the middle of the endless, blue ocean waves. We landed in India; again, seven hours later, another island (still not mainland) and fueled again. This stop we had
  
only a porta-potty break. Each leg of our journey was seven hours long. This transport chopper used the old fifty-five gallon drum fuel tank extension method from Vietnam that I had not seen in years. We were all cramped and cranky. By the end of this leg, I would have more respect for our strange, masked pilot. This raspy voiced Darth Vader pilot became our trusted ally, but never a friend. The mystery pilot's voice roared ' As in the days of Noah, so shall it be' painfully chilling everyone on board to the bone with fear. This dark, soggy, monsoon night was thick, wet, dreary and long. When we finally landed next to three large hangers, we had again traveled a span of seven hours. Three diminished, dusk to dawn lights, one on the front of each hangar, fought for our attention, each trying to shine through the heavy buckets of downpour. Water stood on the football field size pavement over six inches deep, which miserably soaked our footwear as we ran. The wind and constant heavy rain were unmerciful; endless. Each of us was totally spent, soaked and cranky, even Duck (haha). Each person was glad to be free of our chopper prison hell.

An Indian couple known to Goldwater, welcomed us into their simple house across the back alley from hangar one. We all plunged through their door from the storm and flood. Stopping cold, we wedged tight together inside; no room for us in the Inn. Unk, Moore and I cleaned off chairs in the front room piled high with junk and slept into the next day's afternoon. No food or drink was offered to us and by the looks and smells inside, that was a blessing. Our group of six persons, and very many large cockroaches joined the old couple in refuge from the flood. We all huddled together in their little house. Afternoon sunshine brought still no relief from the never ending rain. At 3pm, we all, (now almost dry) stood in hangar one. Unk was describing our flight plan on large, 'clean', stainless steel mechanics tables. Cold pizza never tasted so good. We tore into our boxes. All except Duck. He ate all of his food in the chopper yesterday. Nobody would show ole Duck any pizza mercy. Nobody that is, except my Sarah.