Last War (29 page)

    
Czyra questioned everything about 9/11. That’s where his fame began. The 9/11 truthers took a hold of his very well collected info, and used it for their cause.

    
His new video, as usual, always lead back to that tragedy. It was an impossible battle because a lot of the site’s claims seemed so egregiously speculative. A large amount of Americans would reject most of it. He had a huge following, but as many as there were following him, there was a double fold of those who casted the site off as tin-foil, not mentally sane, weirdos—or paranoid conspiracy theorists.

    
Jason knew that’s exactly how Czyra and his reporters appeared, but he felt what was being done was necessary, if nothing else, to the public who had gotten into a pattern of following whatever came out of D.C. via the television.

    
A portion of his insides made him feel that there was something good about what Czyra was doing, despite the wide criticism by the mainstream. The right idea, but in the wrong tree. There’s, indeed, a huge conspiracy, but Czyra’s claims were lukewarm at best.

     The actual conspiracy, in fact, may make someone
look crazier than the ones that exist on the internet.

     Jason buried his head
into his hand, dug the tip of his fingers into his temples and attempted to rub the tension out. He wondered if it was time for him to go back to work. His time of letting things develop was over. That familiar nagging feeling that began some four years ago was telling him it was time to act. He hadn’t felt the feeling this strong in three years.

    
He picked up his head and carried his burning hot laptop into his apartment. He needed a starting place. The chaos on TV was playing in rotation; a series of video from UAVs showed the terrorists entering the stadium, charging the field and shooting at players. They’d show the mayhem of the fans fighting to get out of harms way, too.

    
From those scenes, they’d switch to interviews. The disastrous imagery was constant.
Is that where I should start his new investigation? Or should I pick up from where I left off with Tameka and 9/11?

    
He had so much information gathered and known about 9/11, that he figured he’d start there again. His first contact was obvious. Czyra.



Upstate New York

Covert underground W
arehouse.

    
A desolate spacious underground bunker housed Jason’s car. A group of hackers were put on a team to try to crack into Jason’s vehicle computer system. In 2004, when the car was seized, it was issued as routine data collection. After the DHS’ staff of hackers couldn’t get into Jason’s car system, they raised the priority on the task, and employed white hat contractors to get it done. 

    
“Sir! We’ve got a breakthrough on UPT-1. We’ve cracked the code. We’re in.”

    
The lead hacker in the bunker ran over. “It’s about time. Took us four years to do it.”

    
“Three.”

    
“What do you see?”

    
“I see a lot of text messages from two people. A Christine and a Max. I see phone calls to and from the … I don’t know where this is. Look it up.”

    
As the working hacker looked up the number, the lead man searched through the information. “This is nothing but benign usage of stolen government caliber equipment.  This car is loaded with military grade technology. It can do things that most humans couldn’t even think up in a movie script. Most of it is unused, though. That’s the biggest thing about this car. Don’t think there’s anything really damaging on here. What’s this last folder though?”

    
The hacker attempted to open and it asked for another code. As he began to try to decode it, the apparent became more focused: this code was more encrypted than the initial.

    
He approached the working technician and flipped him hacking software. “You’re going to need the big boy stuff for this. You have even more work on your hands than before. Good luck.”

    
“Well, where are you going?”

    
“I’m going to report to defense our findings. Search what you’ve found today, and have a detailed report on my desk by the end of the day. We can learn from what he may still have through his interactions with his wife. Tomorrow we’ll begin trying to crack the next code.”

     “OK.
Sir, one more thing.”

    
“Wassup?”

     “This system says ‘one of three’.”

     “There must be two other vehicle prototypes out there like this, then. We’ll attempt to track those down, too. Good catch, my man.”



Westfields Marriott Hotel.

Chantilly, Virginia 1:00 a.m.

     Czyra sat at the edge of a stiff mattress in a hotel room, wired up on endless cups of coffee. Jason had contacted him, and he wanted to have an event big enough for his arrival and speech.

It was time to get the ‘take back America revolution’
going faster than usual; faster than they normally could without a man of Jason’s caliber.

    
As Czyra and his camera man captured footage of what they believed was going to be an exposing of the world governments for once and for all.

    
His crew viewed this mission as just short of a suicide mission. Czyra looked into the camera’s lens with focus. His whole body surged with an electrical pulse from head to toe. He could hear a hum of anxiety in his head. He spoke firmly into the camera:

    
“This is the same hotel that I lost Jasmine in, folks. During one of these meetings. I’m ready to face this and show the world how revolutionary Americans are. Let’s show them what happens when we band together. Let’s change the world, again.” He held up a note on the Brendenhall paper with the “B” on it. “This note accompanied five fingers that they sliced off of Jasmine – it represents to me, how far they think they can go to dominate all of us. Now, I’m here, to face them head-to-head.
My fingers
aren’t going anywhere but in their eye-sockets if they come within arms length of me.”

    
Czyra shook his head in attempt to stave off his anxiety and emotion. “There are a few Brendenhalls in here tonight. The rest will come tomorrow. At some point in between that time, they’re going to have to do something to evacuate this hotel. They cleared most of it out by setting everyone’s checkout for yesterday morning. But, I refused to leave. They didn’t plan for this, and now they probably don’t know what to do. As far as they know, I’m just a citizen that they have to deal with tomorrow. I’m forcing their hand. Come and get me!” 

    
Czyra had a gut feeling that he was going to get to the bottom of this by disrupting their plans. And with him being known as “the biggest conspiracy theorist in America”, they couldn’t kill him. It would spark too much uproar.

    
He continued to speak into the camera, “This is frequent place where they meet with the President’s administration. They do it, maybe, every six months. Now, I don’t know for certain what they discuss, but it’s no doubt something that is intended to change the world.”

    
He looked at his watch again. 12:59 a.m. He had worked hard to gain this sort of status. He rejected the title of ‘conspiracy theorist’. He more saw himself more as a ‘truth talker’—a truth seeker—a revolutionist. He also knew that title was the only thing that allowed him to reach such a far audience – his audience were mostly conspiracy seekers. His title as ‘leader of the conspiracy theorists’, in his mind, was the elites’ way of managing people who spoke some of the more tough issues to face.

    
“You have to understand. The Brendenhall Group’s motives are not strictly political.” Cyzra continued. “They’re a group of men who are all rich; the richest in the world. Geoff Gastroton from the head of CBS, Heath Masterly, the head of Heath Oil, Yaris Boschan, the head of Boschan Bank and 20 other members like that all the way from electronic companies to car companies. Random rich people who control our economy. They live all over the world—but, this morning, they’re all gonna be in this hotel—with our President’s administration and only lord knows who else -- discussing their self-progression and the domination of we the people. What is their goal?”

     Barely taking a break from his last sentence, he broke into his next point. “Now let me ask you this: what if all the richest people in your church, or your workplace all formed a clique—made a pact, and met with y
our priest or boss on a regular? What if you began to notice that things for the rest of you in the congregation or workplace started to deteriorate, but nothing ever seemed to happen to them? In fact, they became more comfortable. What would that make you think? How would that make you feel? We, the people, need answers. They haven’t offered up one.”

    
Again, almost anxiously and obsessively, he looked at his watch again. “It’s 1:20 a.m., and I’d guess they’d want to get in here early. If they’re going to do it, they have to do it soon. No matter what they do, though, I’m going to stand right here. They killed my friend, they killed my girl and they’re going to have to face the music.”

    
The night was still, and all that could be heard were crickets and the occasional car tire crackling over rocks outside of the window in the parking lot. “If they don’t get us out, we can crash. I’m not moving from this room until I’m forced.”

     Czyra’s eyes
grew heavy. It had been a long day that hadn’t, yet, ended. He thought there would be action in the hotel by that time, but there was none. He remembered Dany. He began to speak about the fire in which Dany disappeared. In the middle of relaying that story for the live internet viewers, there was a loud yelping siren sound that blared into the room.

    
“There it is, folks. This is their way of flushing us out. Now, let’s stand firm. Make them force us out of here. There’s no fire at all in here. I’ll bet you any money. Watch this, they’re about to go through the whole nine yards.”

    
The alarm rang a loud solid monotone holler. The men stayed put with the camera still rolling.

    
Despite the boisterousness of the firebell, the hotel was motionless. They were, indeed, the only few men left in that hotel.

    
Czyra focused back into the camera. “They’re gonna have to come get us if they want us out. We sleep heavy.” He chuckled.

    
Some 20 minutes into the fire alarm, a heavy pound on the door jarred it loose. Smoke billowed into the room. A ladder slapped against the window on the opposite side of the room.

    
Firemen ran in with their masks on and ushered the men towards the window.

    
Czyra tried to dodge the firemen and run towards the smoke-filled door. After a few juke moves and squirming away from the firefighters he reached the door. He couldn’t see through the smoke, and the heat was far too much to bear.

    
Choking on the smoke, he began to feel delirious and disoriented. A firefighter grabbed him from behind and carried him to the other side of the room. Another firefighter grabbed a hold of him and helped him down the ladder where a stretcher awaited him.

    
They placed him on the stretcher as he began to fade back into his senses.

    
“No, I’m fine. I don’t need to go to the hospital.” He said.

    
One of the firefighters chimed in. “You have too much smoke in your lungs. We need to check you out.”

    
Strapped in really tight, they wheeled him off to the ambulance and loaded  him up. While on the stretcher, Czyra couldn’t see any smoke on the building from afar. “Where are my other guys? Where are they?”

    
“They’ll be fine, sir. We’re working with them.”



Westfields Marriott hotel.

Chantilly, Virginia

Brendenhall meeting

    
Michael sat in the backseat of his limo as it approached the hotel. A report chimed through his limo’s news report. The men were describing the intruder attempt incident and warning folks to keep a look out.

     Michael had finally, found
time to think about the initial stressful task at hand: changing America’s culture drastically while reducing collateral damage as much as possible. As the top man at the DHS, that was his job.

     He had to do it without
his lifetime right-hand man, and that killed him.

    
As they approached the hotel gate, the jeers of protesters grew louder.

    
“We know what you’re doin in there, and Operation F.A.I.T.H. will never work.” A man with a bullhorn shouted. “You’re not going to take our rights – you’re not going to take our religion, you can’t be our god! We will not stand for any of this, and you’re underestimating the American people. Once you become bold enough to strike, you’ll be met with a rude awakening.”