The Illuminati (61 page)

The largest media corporation in the world, the Galt Network, owned twenty newspapers, the World News Network, and the World Satellite Broadcasting System. The head of this conglomerate was Thomas Galt. Galt traveled throughout the world, checking on his empire. But when he was in America, he made his home in a small town just outside of Atlanta.

For years he had led the media assault against Christianity. When the government propaganda against Christians began, he gave maximum coverage to the stories. The liberal perspective of the other networks paled when compared to that of Galt's. He felt Christians were bigoted and tried to force their “Victorian” values on everyone else. Since Galt had lived a decadent lifestyle for most of his years, the attack on Christianity was his defense mechanism against the truth.

During the last year, however, Galt had begun to doubt his convictions about everything, including Christianity. He had often fought the Christians on abortion, the Crack Babies Bill, legalized drugs, and many other issues he personally believed in. His irritation over their absoluteness had motivated him to support any issue opposed by John Elder and his “mob,” as he referred to them. But now, having observed the state of the world since all of his pet issues had been implemented, he knew he had been wrong. Clearly the legalization of drugs had spread their use throughout American society. Where the liberals had once been certain that the legalization of drugs would reduce crime, the exact opposite had happened. The former drug lords became legitimized businessmen, but youth gangs had taken over the illicit drug trade. The use of cheap substitutes that killed thousands of users every month became the new underground drug scene.

Once the Crack Babies Bill was passed and became law, it was assumed that humanity would benefit. Instead, a huge new business had been developed. Women on drugs were solicited to have children just so they could be processed for their organs. Wealthy clients, many of them his own friends, would place orders for mothers with compatible blood types to be artificially inseminated so that the organs of their offspring could be harvested. In their quest for eternal life the wealthy were literally killing their own children.

Galt, now almost eighty, had built his company from a small advertising agency in Atlanta to a worldwide empire. In the process he had gone through several wives, lost his own children to drugs and alcohol, and lived a wretched, tormented life. He was simply tired of life and what was happening to Christians and Jews in America. The evidence was overwhelming that they were being persecuted, perhaps even murdered. He had been in the media business long enough that he didn't believe the world's publicity. He knew the facts could be selectively skewed to make them appear any way the broadcaster desired. He also knew this latest information about the Society was true. He had been contacted more than a few times by influential men, including Jason Franklin, who wanted him to join a secret society. Several years back he had even attended one of their meetings. All that garbage about serving mankind and honoring the one they called the “Great Leader” reminded him of a college fraternity. The whole idea was ridiculous to him, and he had told them so.

He had helped to spread the propaganda about Christian terrorists though his media empire, but he really was tired of it all. Death would be relief. But in the back of his mind was a nagging doubt, planted there by his grandmother. She had been a devoted Christian and had often told him Bible stories when he was a child. Some of them he remembered even now, more than seventy years later—especially the one about the rich man and Lazarus. What if he was wrong? What if, instead of finding peace at death, he did go to a place of eternal torment?

He had gone through this argument with himself many times. There was no resolution to it.
Maybe it is just the addle-brained thinking of a senile old man
, he thought. He often thought about God. But, he reasoned, if he were God he would never allow someone like Thomas Galt into his kingdom. He had done too many things to too many people in his climb to the top. And through his media empire, he had even helped kill or incarcerate many of God's followers.

In one of those divine coincidences, Donald Shepperd called Thomas Galt just as he was seriously considering suicide. The boldest move the CRC group had ever made was about to take place and they needed the help of a major network. Since the WNN was the biggest network, Shepperd decided to contact Galt. The decision was made after Jeff searched the records and verified that Galt was not a member of the Society. He had never donated funds to any of their hundreds of front organizations, nor had he attended more than one of their leadership meetings. Wells had obtained Galt's private home number at his farm near Atlanta. All Shepperd could do was hope he was actually there.

When the phone rang, the housekeeper answered, “May I help you?”

“Yes. My name is Shepperd. I work with Pastor John Elder's organization. Ask Mr. Galt if he will talk with me for one minute. Tell him it's critical.”

The long-time housekeeper was also accustomed to peculiar calls to one of the world's wealthiest and most eccentric men. She pressed the hold button and told Galt, “Sir, there is a Mr. Shepperd on the line. Says he works with Pastor Elder. He wants to talk with you. Says it's critical.”

“Tell him I'm not here,” Galt growled as he sipped his third brandy in the last hour. It didn't seem to help dull his conscience anymore, he noted wearily.

“He isn't at home,” the housekeeper said with no conviction.

“Wait!” Shepperd said forcefully. “Tell him I have information about the Society.”

Punching the hold button, she repeated what Shepperd had told her. “He says he has information about the Society.”

“I don't care . . .” Galt started to say. Then he stopped.“No, I'll talk to him.”

The housekeeper carried the cordless phone over to where Galt was sitting and handed it to him.

“This is Galt. What do you want?”

“My name is Shepperd . . .”

Galt cut him off. “I know who you are. You're the FBI agent working with the terrorists.”

“You know better than that, Galt. They're no more terrorists than Little Orphan Annie. We have information that will sink the Society once and for all, but we need your help.”

“My help!” Galt almost choked on his drink.“We haven't exactly been allies, you know.”

“If you're a real newsman you'll want to hear the truth,” Shepperd snapped. “If not, then God will use someone else.” The comment even surprised Shepperd. He really did believe what John Elder had said recently—“If God is for us, who can stand against us?”

“Why should I help a bunch of idiots who are against everything progressive?” Galt said without any real conviction.

“Because you have seen the price Americans have paid for much of that progress,” Shepperd responded. He could sense Galt's softening. He had hit a sensitive spot. He continued, “You and the others in the media have done these people a lot of harm. But I can tell you that not one of them bears you any malice. Now we want our country back, and you can help.”

“How?” Galt asked.

“I'll send the instructions to your home today. After you have a chance to read them I'll contact you.”

“No!” Galt said with an uncharacteristic sense of urgency. “I want to see this group of ragtag radicals you're involved with for myself.”

That surprised Shepperd. He hadn't really expected Galt to get involved at all. Why would he want to check them out personally? Maybe he had a trap in mind.

“I can't do that,” Shepperd said. “There is too much at risk.”

“For whom, Mr. Shepperd? You or me? If you won't comply, I want nothing to do with it.”

Shepperd thought for a moment, then answered, “Okay, but it will have to be on my terms. I'll have someone pick you up at the MARTA station in Marietta at six o'clock this evening.”

“I'll be there,” Galt said as he hung up.
Now why did I do that?
he asked himself.
Maybe I am getting senile
.

Shepperd decided that they had to take a chance on Galt. They might be able to pull off the plan without him, but there was no certainty that any of the other media types would help either. He placed a call to his contact in Atlanta, filling him in on the details of the meeting with Galt.

At six o'clock that evening an old man got off the MARTA train and stood just inside the terminal. Several tough-looking youths were milling around outside the terminal, and there appeared to be no security guards on duty.

A man could get mugged in this place
, Galt said to himself. He wished he had not made his bodyguard stay home, but he knew the presence of an armed guard would probably have scared off the people he was to meet. Now he wasn't so sure it had been a good idea.

Two of the young toughs entered the station and eyed him carefully. “What you doin' here, ol' man?” the smaller of the two asked.

“You talking to me?” Galt responded nonchalantly.

“Yeah, ol' man. Where's your wheelchair?”

“I left it with your babysitter,” Galt said with the same grit that had put him on the top of the pile.

The youth turned red-faced, as his companion laughed. “It don't look like he knows who you are,” the other teenager quipped.

“You shut up!” the smaller teen said through clenched teeth, adding a few more choice words. “I'm gonna cut you up, ol' man,” he spat out as he clicked the switchblade open.

“If that's what you've got planned, you'd better bring a lunch, sonny,” Galt said as he gripped his cane. “I took care of better men than you when I was twelve.”

The youth took his position in front of Galt and started to swing the knife back and forth. Just then the turnstile doors swung and a large man stepped inside. “You can go now, guys,” he said grinning. “He's alone.”

The youths smiled back and slapped his hand as they exited. “Later, brother,” said the knife-wielding youth as he passed the big man.

Galt sat down on the bench, his energy depleted.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Galt, but I had to know if you were really alone. I guess you are.”

“Yes,” Galt replied. “Though I had my doubts about the wisdom of it a few seconds ago. You're with Shepperd?”

“Yes, I'm Paul Brown,” the man answered Galt as he shook his hand with a firm grip. “I'm really glad to meet you, Mr. Galt. We should get started; it's a long trip.”

With Brown leading the way, Galt followed him to the waiting van. Once inside, another man ran a transmitter detector over his body.

“You gentlemen don't seem to trust anyone,” Galt commented when the second man signaled that the sweep was negative.

“No, that's not true; we trust a great many people,” Brown said. “I hope you'll be one of them.”

Galt sat in silence as they drove away. In a few minutes they came to the old Peachtree-Dekalb Airport, which was all but abandoned except for a few private planes. As they approached one of the hangars, a sleek business jet was being tugged out.

“You mean we're going to fly?” Galt asked.

“Yes, sir,” Brown answered. “We had to relocate a few months back. It seems the government didn't appreciate us.”

“I heard about that,” Galt responded. “A friend in Washington said you boys left our politicians a little red-faced.” The story about the aborted bust in Atlanta had eventually spread throughout Washington, where there were few secrets.

As the jet roared into the sky, Galt asked, “Do you mind telling me where we're going?”

“Sorry, sir, I can't do that. In fact, if you don't object, we'll pull the curtain shut. It would be better if you didn't know where we're located at any point. No offense.”

“None taken,” Galt replied.

After making a wide sweep to the south, the pilot pointed the plane toward Dentville, Mississippi, where another landing strip was prepared for their arrival. Even if Galt was working with the government to pinpoint their location, he would have a difficult time orienting himself. Twenty minutes later the plane slowed and began its approach into Dentville.

It touched down with hardly a bump and Galt said, “You have a good pilot.”

“Yes, sir,” Brown agreed. “He's an air force general.”

After the plane rolled to a stop, General Abbott made his way back to the passenger compartment. “Welcome to . . .” then he paused, thought about it, and said, “Welcome to the real America, Mr. Galt. I'm Abbott.”

“I know you by reputation, General. I understand you helped put a stop to a military takeover.”

“Some in the administration might say I helped with a military takeover, Mr. Galt. Only time will judge.”

Once they reached the waiting van, Thomas Galt found the curtains drawn again. “I see you're a cautious group of men,” he said to General Abbott.

“You would be too, sir, if you had had the entire might of the United States government directed against you for as long as these people have.”

“I suppose so,” Galt agreed, “but it would seem they have given as well as they got.”

“Not so, Mr. Galt. These people have had their constitutional rights denied, their families arrested, their properties confiscated, and their lives threatened. And you, sir, were part and parcel of their misery.”

“We only reported the news as we saw it,” Galt said without any conviction in his voice.

“No, Mr. Galt. You heard what you wanted to hear. Then you reported the news that would give you the highest ratings, not the truth. It would seem the founders of this nation did well in protecting the rights of a free press, but they never envisioned the abuse that it could lead to. The only crime that the Christians are guilty of is being courageous enough to stand up for their convictions. The only crime the Jews are guilty of is their parentage.”