Steven Clark Bradley's Blog: Author Steven Clark Bradley - Posts Tagged "patriot-acts"

All Fall Down
Patriot Acts Part Three


Ramallah, Palestine
June 6, 1995 1:58 p.m.

“The Two minute window is closing.” The operative reported perched high up inside a bombed out building in Ramallah, Palestine that had once been filled with families who had been forced to flee Israeli tanks, mortars and laser-guided bombs. With an uninhibited view, he looked out at the indescribable ruin and carnage that had already been inflicted on this people whose leaders had passed up every opening for peace.

“Copy that” the operative’s base contact affirmed.

There, with his precision fully automatic .50-cal. Barrett M82 ready to accelerate the conflict into a full-blown war, Colonel Fisher Harrison took in the complete and utter destruction of a society literally crumbling around his location. He looked to the left and saw the barricaded windows with camouflage material shrouding the soldiers posted there, ready and willing to fire at anything that moved.

Fisher raised his eyes and looked straight out ahead. His view was good enough to look into the Calandria refugee camp. It was a cauldron of vicious plots and miniature bomb making factories, which made ad hoc missiles and jackets designed to be used only once. He glanced downward and saw a mother with her scarf removed and wrapped around her three small terrified children’s eyes. Hoards of terrified city dwellers were crouched down, never glancing upward, and fleeing through the streets; trying to stumble on a loaf of bread and a few bottles of water during a lull in the barrage of attacks.

America's Emerging Culture of Death
by Steven Clark Bradley

The world had condemned Israel for its attacks, but Fisher had determined it was justified and obliged, just like the validation screaming in his head for the killing of the evil terrorist he was about to blow away. Every street was strewn with blown up cars, dead bodies and silence, only cut short by the frequent short volley of gunfire in every direction.

Smoke rose high into the sulfur-ridden darkened sky. Throughout the capital city of the land of a people without a country, old men, young women with children in their arms and in their wombs hid and prayed to the god in whose name they were fighting. Fisher doubted they deserved a country. Then he realized that his job, his own people deserved scarcely more than these who had been constantly lobbing missiles and sending suicide bombers into the heart of Israel.

Inside the so-called governmental zone, every building belonging to the Palestinian Authority was flattened except Arafat’s own presidential headquarters, but Fisher knew that the only reason the structure was still there was because Israeli forces had allowed it to remain. Arafat had been allowed to live, but with stipulations. The former leader of the Palestinian Liberation Organization who had carried out and ordered the torture and murder of hundreds of thousands of people was now the only hope for peace and survival for this war-weary people.

Arafat only left his compound twice a day to greet his followers and to speak with the press, which Fisher knew was now and which was why he had placed his very steady eye peering through a chamber that would place a beam of light, invisible to others, but very clear to Fisher, in the center of the President of the Palestinian Authority’s forehead. As soon as the clock struck two o’clock; as soon as the clock signaled the last breath for an elected leader who Fisher Harrison regarded as a terrorist, it would be time to unlock, pull back on the trigger and then get the hell away.

Fisher glanced constantly at his watch and thought about the SPU superintendent’s words before boarding the El Al flight to Tel Aviv in Chicago. He had travelled as a civilian and when he arrived at O’Hare Field, he was not allowed to board the flight until the next day. He knew that wasn’t a problem and that the SPU was impeccable in its ability to cover every base.

“It’s only a shaky finger or a call that can stop this murderer from meeting his 70 virgins.” Fisher quietly amused himself. “And the recall is almost over.” Fisher told himself.

Almost every mission had left him in a kind of obtuse, morose feeling of remorse and sorrow, but not this one. For Fisher Harrison, this was simply code enforcement. He was cleaning up the neighborhood. He was doing what he was trained to do, and he didn’t even have to convince himself, this time.

Obama's White House is Falling Down

“Hey Yasser, here’s hoping that all them virgins are men.” He almost laughed out loud. Then he remembered the superintendent’s orders and outrageous words. “What was it again?” he asked himself with his eye still staring out the end of a scope at the extremely exposed head and face of one of the twentieth century’s most ruthless terrorists.

“The war’s not getting the attention it needs, Colonel.”

“War; what war?” Fisher truthfully didn’t know what the superintendent was talking about.

“The war that your new mission is going to start. There’s never been a conflict that the SPU hasn’t had its hand in starting, since the founding of the nation. Now, I need you to get your ass over to that cursed place and blow the bastard away.”

“Blow him away; which one? That could be any number of bastards’, as you call them. Could even be you … sir.”

“I don’t care; just kill’em, Arafat, I mean. I want him dead, dancing with those virgins. I need a war, Colonel!” Fisher Harrison turned slowly with an unconcealed scowl poignantly stretched across his face.

Without ever taking his eye away from the scope attached to his M82, Fisher touched his face as he realized that his thoughts had produced the same expression of unbelief and anger in the present as in the past. He returned to the present mission at hand and glanced down at his watch. Only fifty-two seconds remained. His palms felt uncharacteristically wet and he wasn’t certain if he were afraid of the result of a successful mission or if he was exaggeratedly gleeful at once again meting out a guilty killer’s just recompense.

“What you need is to be shot on sight, Barlowe.” Fisher recalled telling his boss. “And, I hope I’m the one who gets to do that too.” The superintendant looked puzzled at first then his face took on an expression that told Fisher that his SPU superior knew Fisher would do it. “I can’t wait till that directive comes down …sir!”


“Colonel Harrison, I think the odds are more on my side than on yours. Just stay useful and you won’t have to forfeit your retirement plan. Anyway, it’s always been this way, and it won’t be changing anytime soon.”

“Then the country’s nothing but a lie and never existed at all.” Fisher blurted out.

“Well, Harrison, one day it is going to be just you and me, mono et mono. We’ll see then who has the biggest package, don’t you think? Anyway, we both have a boss. So, give me my war, Colonel Harrison.”

March 9, 2011, 3:23 p.m.
Outside Washington D.C.

Suddenly, Fisher felt himself shaken by explosions erupting in the distance and very close, and President Fisher Harrison felt his whole world start quaking. He leapt forward from his bed, but he was forced right back down on the mattress he was strapped to around his wrists and feet with a needle forcing a steady stream of sedatives into the veins of his left arm.

Fisher felt a throbbing, stabbing pain shoot through his head each time he tried to recall how he had gotten where he had suddenly awaken.

“I was speaking … yes, President Tate’s funeral…yes that’s it. Then …” He shook his head as the throbbing in his head became almost unbearable. “… then all hell broke loose.”

Part One: Brothers at War
A First-Hand View of Jacob's Trouble

He could barely recall it, but he could still hear what had to be the most deafening sounds even he, a man who had been battle tough, had ever heard in his life. He began to mouth the words to himself. “The sanctuary shook, the ground seemed to pound and then it all came down and … Margaret … Nate? Oh my God, Margaret! Nate.” He screamed. “Where are they? I can see it in my head. It just came tumbling down on all of us. Yes, I remember”

Fisher tried to get a hold of his fear and rationally wondered where he was. He lifted his head off the bed and looked around the dark room. It had a musky odor and seemed damp. Slowly, he brought all his skills to bear and tried to understand where he was. He recalled the dream he had just had. One set of words he had heard in the dream filled his mind.

“Well, Harrison, one day it is going to be just you and me, mono et mono. We’ll see then who has the biggest package, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Fisher told himself. “He wasn’t there! When we took the Falls Church facility, he wasn’t there! It had to be Barlowe!”

Part Two Brothers at War
The Heartlessness of Terrorism

Fisher heard clapping behind him and a spotlight flashed on forcing Fisher’s eyes closed from the light that had killed the darkness all round him. A voice spoke out behind the bed he was latched to.

“Bravo, bravo, you are a tough one, President Harrison. We knew you had been inoculated many years ago. So, we thought you’d not be under for too long. We needed just enough time to get you out and under control.”

“And my family, where are they?”

“Well, let’s talk about that a little later, why don’t we?”

Fisher began jerking at the straps and shouting and trying to rip his arms and feet loose. “You will tell me now.” Fisher screamed.

“Mr. President, though that title hardly fits you any longer, we have to bring some sanity to the situation, as it is right now; so, first things first. I did notice that you recalled my words, mono et mono. That was impressive, to say the least that you remembered them and even in a drug-induced stupor, those words, from so many years ago, rang out in your mind. You either have a very well-tuned mind or I made a mighty impression on you. It’s probably a bit of both, don’t you think? We had you plugged in Fisher. We saw everything you saw, and I was proud of you. You haven’t lost a bit of your style, Mr. President.”

Part Three Brothers at War
Inside Ramallah

“Barlowe, if you hurt my family, I’ll kill you.”

“Now, Fisher, you’ve said that one before, but just as I told you in nineteen hundred ninety-five, I have the upper hand. It seems easy to conclude that now, don’t you think? But then, how could you know? The cat was away and mice did play. Fisher, you guys made us invisible and more lethal than ever. Did you think we put all our eggs into just one basket? Fisher, you know us better than that. You were one of us, and now, you are nothing; not SPU, not a father, not an operative and certainly not a president. You don’t need to get used to it, actually. You won’t be alive long enough to worry about it.”

“What have you done Barlowe? The nation can’t take much more right now.”

“Nation, what nation would that be? The new one or the old one? The one you never got a chance to lead, you know, the one I just destroyed? I do understand you, though. It will take some getting used to by the … what were they called before? Ah yes, the American people? So, stop with all the threats.”

Barlowe walked over to a door behind Fisher’s bed where he was secured. He waved his hand and closed the door and watched through a window as a mist filled the air and President Fisher Harrison fell back silent and motionless to the bed.

“Mr. President,” Barlowe said. “Don’t waste your breath. You don’t have too many left anyway. There will be more than enough time for killing later.”

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Steven worked a number of years in various countries in Europe, Asia, and Africa. He has been to 34 countries and has worked extensively with Kurdish refugees from Turkey, Iraq, and Syria. Steven also established a school by correspondence for African students in the African countries of The Gambia and Senegal West Africa. He is the founder of a Cultural Center for refugees in France, where he lived for six years. Speaking fluently in French and in Turkish, Steven has been in 34 countries. Before returning to the United States in 1995, Steven worked as an instructor of English and Business skills for four years at Bilkent University in Ankara, Turkey.

What would you feel if America fell and the nation was taken over by a dictatorial power? Would you adapt? Or, would you lay down body and soul to protect your homeland? Read Chapter two of Steven Clark Bradley's newest work in progress, Automated Response and feel what could happen unless we are vigilant and devoted to the United states of America.

Automated Response

Patriot Acts Part 3

A New Line Emerges

Chapter 2

Edgecombe County, North Carolina

September, 1969, 1:52 p.m.

“Just deal with it.” was the last thing Peter Barlowe’s father had told him, before he died.

Peter had walked into his home in Edgecombe County, North Carolina just as he had as far back as he could remember. There, to the right, he saw his father, Marshall sitting on the edge of the couch with his face buried in his palms, shaking and weeping a torrent of tears.

“Dad, where’s mom?”

Peter Barlowe looked at the various things that were scattered around his father, on the couch and the floor. He saw pictures of his childhood, his mom Betty and his dad’s great-great grandmother Winnifred Atkinson Barlowe’s portrait, who had lived in Edgecombe Co. The floor was littered with old folders everywhere; all of them opened with their contents spilling out.

What’s he looking for? Peter wondered. “Dad, where’s mom? You’re starting to scare me.”

Marshall Barlowe looked up at his son with a face that screamed out disaster and guilt.

“Mother, you want your mother? Well, boy, you ain’t got no mother. Not no more.”

Young Peter Barlowe took in the words from his father. The pitch, the expression across his father’s face and grave sound of his father’s voice, and most devastatingly terrible thing of all was the words themselves. It all told this young twelve year old boy that his life had been drastically altered and was in permanent disrepair.

Marshall Barlow sat on the edge of the couch with his eyes weeping into his palms. He raised his head and gazed at the son he had always loved; an affection he had rarely attempted to display.

The expression he saw on his son’s face made him hurt so badly that he had to hold the gun in his left hand down with his right lest he raise the barrel to his head and pull the trigger earlier than he figured he’d be forced to.

“Peter, I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t; I swear I did. Everything about that damn place is automated, and it’s only the beginning. Don’t try to run, cause they’ll kill you.”

Peter looked over at his father and took in the words that even he, at his young age, realized would be the last ones his father would ever say to him.

“Son, I love you, I always have. But, you cannot give up what’s ours and what was started by our kin, our blood.”

Peter walked slowly closer to his father and saw the gun in his hand.

“Dad, what’s wrong? I know about the lost colony and the stupid shooting over a stolen cup that was to have killed off all of them, and I know about the SPU. I’m not afraid; tell me what I have to do.” Tears rolled down the boy’s face and he felt as if his knees wobbling under him. He took a deep breath and steadied himself.

Marshall looked at his son, Peter with serious etched all over his face.

“My boy, Michael O’Rourke has taken the line; he stole it from Eldridge Harrison.”

Marshall saw the confounded stare in his son’s eyes.

“Peter, I know, you’re young, way too young to endure what has happen here today. I …”

“What has happened? Where is my mom?” Peter demanded.

“Son, listen to me, you can’t run! If you run, they’ll kill you, and I can’t stop it now. Once a thing like this gets rolling, there’s no stopping it. This will never be far from you, Peter. Once they take you …”

“Take me, take me where?”

“You have to grow up fast and stop the system. The new line will build it, and they’ll use it too.”

“Dad, I don’t understand anything you’re talking about.”

“That’s not important. They’re going to take you, son and when they do, you’ll be chipped. No one knows the things we’ve done. No one even comprehends how many masters we’ve served; all the while exacting all the power, funding, technology and information they took as their booty. Every president since Wilson’s been our puppet, and that was all under a civil leadership. When this crowd gets their claws on the codes we have from every nation that’s anything, no one will ever be able to stop the SPU.”

Peter mouthed the letters S.P.U. “You’ll forget these things after they block out this day, and God knows how many others from your memory. But, my only hope is that if you hear the words, ‘automated response’ they will force this day back into your mind. That’s the best I can do, son.” Marshall Barlowe stared back at his son and rose from the couch.

“Peter, listen carefully, they’ve built a system that will take down the whole thing down. Just deal with it …”

Young Peter Barlowe turned his head toward the shattering sound of breaking glass and then saw a hole appear in the center of his father’s forehead. Blood shot out of his dad’s head and splashed over Peter’s face. Peter dived to the floor and heard the back door fly open and slam loudly against the wall. He lay silently and exposed on the living room floor and saw four sets of feet enter the room. He saw them walking over to him and then they grabbed him and lifted him up.

“Peter, we got here as soon as we could. You’re dad’s had a nervous breakdown, I’m afraid.”

“Mr. O’Rourke, you just killed my dad. He told me everything. I will not go with you. Did you kill my mom too, you lying bastard?”

“Listen, calm down. I didn’t kill anyone. Your father was about to kill you too. Come on now, you’re delirious, and I’ve got just the thing to help you forget all about this.”

Michael O’Rourke walked over to Peter and put his arm around his shoulder. Peter pulled away from him and punched the much larger man in the ribs. O’Rourke felt it, too.

“I don’t know what to believe.” Peter said in a child’s manner that seemed to pretend it all away.

“Of course you don’t, Pete. That’s actually good, in a strange sort of way. In fact, I fully intend to tell you what to believe, my boy.” O’Rourke looked at his men.

“Get him outta here. And, one of you get back in here and clean up this mess.”

Michael O’Rourke, the new chief of the Strategic Perception Unit could not believe it had come off so flawlessly.

“Finally, it’s all mine. Now, I’m the real most powerful man in the world.”

Three large men picked up Peter Barlowe and cuffed him and led him outside. As they walked him out the back door that had been kicked off its hinges, Peter saw the lifeless body of his mother sprawled across the blood-splattered table, with a large knife protruding out of her chest.

“You killed my mom! You bastards killed my mom!” Peter screamed and fought to get away from his captures.

Two of the men carried twelve-year-old Peter Barlow out of the house and to a black car with US Government plates. They jostled him into the car and he looked to his left at another young unconscious body next to him, in the back seat.

“Fish, Fisher is that you?”

“Oh, don’t worry about him; he’s OK. As a matter of fact, why don’t you join him?

The SPU operative placed a mask over his own face and closed the backseat divider and pressed a button his on his dash board that sprayed half the normal dose of gas that he’s have administered to an adult. The young boy pounded on the divider but soon, he felt his strength give way to a sleepy, foggy haze and everything went dark.

Falls Church, Virginia inside SPU Center

March 7, 2011

“I remember.” Peter said quietly, but more loudly than he had intended as the darkness of 1969 fade and his eyes gazed into the darkness of 2011. He fine-tuned his ears to the sounds of soldiers as they walked down the huge Falls Church facility corridors.

“It’s an automated response.” Memories started flashing and streaming through his mind and he saw what this horrible system would do.

“Peter, listen carefully, they’ve build a system that will take down the whole …” his father had said. “Just before they blew him away.” Peter whispered. “…if they take us down, everything goes with us.” He had heard so often since he had become part of the SPU. The memory shot through his mind and he grasped the sides of his head. “We’ve chipped every soldier, Marine, Seaman and Airman since 1988, and Reagan, Clinton nor Bush knew a thing about it. Even Tate didn’t get that information.” He groaned in mental agony.

“Your dad killed himself!”

“No, you killed him.” Peter Barlowe, heard his mind silently cry out.

“Your father killed your mother; stabbed her in the heart.”

“You lie.” He screamed out loudly and looked down at his watch. “Only two minutes.” He told himself. “I have to stop it.” He heard the sound of heavy footsteps voices approaching his location. He stopped breathing and listened carefully.

“This O’Rourke guy is dead.” One soldier said to the other. “Yea, Harrison’s not gonna take any shit!”

“Jaime’s dead? That leaves only me to take all the heat.” Barlowe realized.

He positioned himself with his back to the wall of the cleaning room and switched his flashlight on. Peter looked down at the chameleon suit he had put on. He pulled the mask over his face and pressed a button on the inside of his jacket. The suit came to life and he took on the colors and blended into the room, but the suit’s one flaw was the initialization process that produced a whining sound that the SPU techs had not managed to rectify, and which the soldiers policing the corridor could hear.

“Did you hear that?” One soldier said to the other. Barlowe heard the soldiers walking toward the door.

“I have to get to the chamber and reset it the failsafe.” His watch told him he had forty-eight seconds.

He heard the footprints coming his way and saw light break through the darkness as the cleaning room door slowly opened. He pulled his legs back prepared himself.

Two US Army soldiers aimed their weapons into the room and looked inside. They saw nothing and walked into the room. When they came close enough to trip over Peter, he drove the force of both his adrenalin-laced legs into the chest of one of the soldiers. Peter leapt to his feet and rapidly raced down the corridor, firing as he ran as fast as his legs would take him.

The Army advance soldier was one of a team of ten sent in to conduct code enforcement and to shoot anyone on sight who threatened US Forces in any way. The soldier ran into the corridor and saw him. The one soldier still left breathing ran after him and radioed his commander.

“I got him, Peter Barlowe …”

“One second…”

“One second, I ain’t got one …”

“Who are you, what company?”

“Taggart, sir, Advanced Infantry Clearance.”

“Give it to me, soldier.”

“I got Barlowe. You know, like the number two … sir.”

“You’ve got a shoot to kill on that dirt bag, Taggart. You Copy?”

“You better believe it … sir. Target is racing around into the left corridor.”

“Secretary Blake wants Barlowe dead. Do you copy that?”

“That’s affirmative and happy to oblige; engaging now.”

Taggart crouched forward and advanced with his weapon held tightly and impatiently ready. When Taggart turned the corner, Barlowe sprayed bullets in every direction. Taggart took cover and returned fire, even though he couldn’t see anything except the holes that Barlowe was inflicting upon the facility walls.

Barlowe turned to run and a bullet grazed the chameleon suit’s programs controller, which rendered him instantly visible with only 22 seconds left to stop the automated response.

“I think I’ve brought a knife to a gunfight.” He knew he had no chance to stop it and only one chance to remain a free man, even if no one else would be.

Barlow turned and looked at Taggart. The rest of Taggart’s men ran up behind Barlowe, with their weapons trained directly on him.

“Get down on the floor, now.” Taggart screamed.

Barlowe looked at his watch. “Hmm, seven seconds.” He told himself as he looked up at the soldiers.

“I said get down on the floor.” Another of the armed soldiers shouted.

“It’s alright boys. You’ll be working for me in three, two, one.”

Taggart, who had appeared deadly ready to blow Barlowe away, suddenly dropped his weapons to his sides and stood at attention.

President Harrison and his family and staff had already been airlifted out, the first to leave the facility and were already in the air in Marine One. Throughout the whole facility, every man and woman in uniform simply stopped searching and stood at attention waiting for their next orders.

“My goodness,” Barlowe said in great amazement. “Will you look at that?”

He walked up to the soldiers who did not bat an eye. He took one of the radios and set it to intercom.

“Thank you for your service. You are serving under a new protocol now, a new set of rules. Be as you were until further notice. You are under the orders of Peter Barlowe, your new Commander in Chief. Await my orders and return to your base.”

“I could get used to this.” Barlowe said out loud. “I think I already have.” He heard the echo of hundreds of voices resonating throughout the facility with the same two words.

“Yes, Sir.”

Patriot Acts by Steven Clark Bradley



Author Steven Clark Bradley
From The Mind of Steven Clark Bradley
Steven Clark Bradley @ Inspired Author
Steven Clark Bradley - Nikki Leigh Virtual Book Tours
Steven Clark Bradley @ The Power of The Written Word
Steven Clark Bradley @ Communati.com
Steven Clark Bradley @ Blogtalk Radio.com
Steven Clark Bradley @ Facebook
Steven Clark Bradley @ Twitter.com
Steven Clark Bradley @ Xanga.com
Steven Clark Bradley @ Amazon.com
Steven Clark Bradley @ yuku.com
Steven Clark Bradley @ Bookmarket.com
Steven Clark Bradley @ Published Authors.com
Steven Clark Bradley @ Word That Work
Steven Clark Bradley @ Goodreads.com

(A Work In Progress)
In September 2008, The Fed and the treasury came to President George W. Bush and issued him a suicide threat like Secretary Henry Paulson walked into the Oval Office and put a gun to his own head and said, $800,000,000,000.00 (In Billions) or in 24 hours we die and 5 trillion dollars would disappear with the entire world economy. President Bush said yes. What if had said NO?

Do you find it still impossible that this great nation of freedom could be overrun by forces, not from a foreign power, but by forces that have been ordered to turn upon their own people. Right now, the voices of the American have been loud and passionate. All the polls show that this government is contravening the clear and verifiable will of the American people. This government and this president is stubbornly going against the large majority of the American electorate to put in place a plan for nationalized health care that will change our nation forever. This law will make us one of the most tightly controlled nations on the planet.

If Obama can disregard the minds and will of the people, is any evil action from Obama, Pelosi and Harry Reid really unimaginable? My new book, Executive order Patriot Acts Part III (Still a work in progress) explores what could happen when we no longer care what the people of America think, when the only solution to tyranny is revolution.

After what America is enduring with Health care, Cap and Trade, Internet Neutrality, Obama's shadow government, Pre-crime detention and wholesale submission to the United Nation, is it really hard to imagine that President Barack Obama could order American forces to break the will of the the American people and demand that they bend the knee, shut up and walk the plank that will end our freedom? After all we see festering right now, is revolution, armed conflict unimaginable? You decide.

Steven Clark Bradley
Author of Patriot Acts Nimrod Rising StillBorn! Probable Cause

Executive Order
Chapter Fifteen


The White House, Washington, D.C.
March 11, 2011 3:42 p.m.

“I am placing the nation under emergency powers effective upon my signing of this document. The powers of the emergency powers will not be enforced until tonight, but the temporary powers of the moment do immediately grant the president the power to appoint anyone to vital vacant seats in the Executive Branch.”

Michelle handed Fisher the document and he placed his signature in the appropriate place. Then, Michelle gave President Harrison a second document. Fisher read it out loud.

“By the powers under the State of National Emergency act of 1977, which grants the president the power to appoint any vital vacant seat and it shall not be automatically removed when emergency rule is lifted, and only shall the president’s appointments be removed by resignation, end of life issues or impeachment for high crimes and misdemeanors, as prescribed by law and the Constitution of the United States of America.

“Therefore, I hereby appoint Hamilton W. Smith to be Vice President of the United States.” Fisher signed the appointment letter and looked at Hamilton. Fisher thought he looked excited and terrified at the same time.

“Hamilton Smith, would you raise your right hand?” Fisher asked.

Hamilton raised his hand and slightly pulled it down two times before Fisher recited the words and Hamilton repeated them. Secret Service came to the door and Fisher, Michelle and Vice President Hamilton Smith all walked out of the Oval Office and headed to two different escorted cars and headed for two different escorted places. Hamilton’s was in hiding, while Fisher’s destination was for the whole world to see. Fisher leaned over to speak to Hamilton as they walked down the White House hallway. “Hamilton, way back in time, at Iron Mountain prison in Alaska, you remember.” They stood in front of two different limousines and Fisher took his new vice president’s hand and congratulated him. “Well, Hamilton, I just wanted to take back some words from way back then I said in a moment of foolish jesting. “You’re not just a Smith; you are Vice President Smith.”

In Route to Raven Rock Mountain Defense Base
March 11, 2011, 3:52 p.m.

“Approach, I need some assistance. This is Captain Ray Jerrod, the coordinates you have sent us do not work. You are taking us into the wall of the mountain.” Jerrod pulled and banked left. Jerrod was a good pilot, and he knew this was not an error. Such errors don’t just happen.

A mountain wall appeared before the pilot and he heaved the yoke back all the way. He feared a stall as he had aimed the nose almost straight upward. Margaret and Nate were strapped in, but both had passed out from forces that neither this plane nor human bodies were built to withstand.

“Control, this is GB1 taking evasive action maneuvers and …”

“We’re gonna make it.” The pilot screamed out and straightened out the airplane. “Get back there and check on them.” The navigator specialist got out of his seat and opened the cockpit door. He saw the First lady slumped over and her baby had started to cry.

He quickly walked over and called out her name. “Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Harrison are you alright?” Margaret’s began to move and her eyes blinked and finally, she moaned and cried out,

“Where’s my baby?”

Roger, GB1.” The control officer passed his microphone to a tall man with wavy hair in
nicely knitted suit. “He’s all yours Mr. Berkowitz.”

Over Iceland, the Atlantic Ocean
March 11, 2011 3:55 p.m.

“Well, Peter, you are a man of character, whatever that means, but I like you. You’re the other side of me.”

“You lie; I am nothing like you. I breathe air not money and power.” Peter suddenly shouted into Berkowitz’s ear piece, making him wince a bit.

“Well, it lives. I thought you had found Jesus or something and were on your way to paradise. Very well, here goes nothing.”

Berkowitz took a card from his pocket and swiped and his screen came up. He logged onto the same channel the Peter Barlowe used to control his forces. Then he punched in his personal code and a signal was instantly sent to the pilot of the GB1. As the code streamed it found the command to find the micro-circuit lying dormant in the back of the scalp of one Captain Ray Jerrod, the pilot who was now trying to fly the First Lady and her son to safety. The subject was found and it instantly sent the command to obey Berkowitz’s command. It also registered inside the data crunching computers of the NSA and the CIA.

In Route to Raven Rock Mountain Defense Base
March 11, 2011, 3:57 p.m.

Pilot Ray Jerrod felt it overtake him slowly. He thought it was air sickness then it was like an instantaneous bout of the stomach flu and then just before he was sure he was going to die, he went calm and felt fine. It was the strangest feeling he had ever had.

“It’s OK honey, we’re OK now,” Margaret told her baby, which she knew was a lie.

“Mrs. Harrison, I want to stay here with you and help, but I have to assist the pilot. Are you OK?”

“Thank you; my son is OK, so I’ll be fine.” Margaret had the greatest urge to scream out for her husband and only let it resonate in her head. Fisher, where are you? Fisher, I love you.

Over Iceland, the Atlantic Ocean
March 11, 2011 3:57 p.m.

“Captain, you are a true patriot, full of everything our money could buy, and that’s a hell of a lot. The problem is, I am not, and I don’t need to be. These are your orders.”

En route to Joint Session of Congress
Washington, D.C.
March 11, 2011 4:05 p.m.

President Fisher Harrison rode in his limousine for the just over two mile ride between 1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW and 100 Constitution Ave NE. He looked out the windows and the two most prominent things he saw were throngs of people with great distress stretched across their faces waving and shouting out well wishes to their new president and soldiers as far as the eye could see. They were all there in battle fatigues and seemingly ready to fight a war or to start one. Of course they all think I ordered them out here.

Fisher saw one man in particular holding up a large sign with the map of the United States prominently displayed with drops of blood dripping down. It read, ‘Is America’s Democracy Bleeding?’Another sign showed a flag shaped into the United States with all the colors running into each other. The words across it read, ‘Why are these colors running?’

They all spoke to him and he knew these fine people loved him, but not as much as they simply needed him and it gave Fisher great fear and trembling to imagine three hundred million Americans thrown to the dictatorial rule of whatever political charade the Consortium would raise up to hide behind.

Fisher’s motorcade continued on and stress seemed to form all over Fisher’s body, and he felt a trembling inside his arms, hands and legs. He knew it was all far too big for his feeble arms to carry. Fisher waved and didn’t know if the people outside could see him or not, but he caught a glimpse of an old man with an Air Force uniform on and holding a sign that was plain and simple, but which bore words that were just like a ray of light in a dark and frozen world to Fisher Harrison. He had needed to read its message before taking on a great nemesis such as the Consortium.

“Driver, I want you to stop the car for a moment. Do you see the big plain sign behind us?”
“Yes, sir, but that against protocol.”

“I realize that, but I need you to ask him, not tell him, but ask him if the president could see him for just a moment.”

The driver radioed to one of the cars behind the president’s to talk with the man. A moment later, a Secret Service agent was standing by the president’s door with the older gentleman. Fisher lowered the window and looked at the sign that told him how to proceed. It gave him hope and told him God had heard his pleas. Fisher read the words. He had heard President Tate use them before. Then Fisher spoke them out loud. “The World does not depend on you.”

Fisher looked up at the man standing by Fisher’s window and the old man saw that the president had tears in his eyes. His face had taken on a deep shade of red due to the adrenaline woven together with sorrow.

“Please forgive me for accosting you this way, but your sign touched me so much and it is a direct answer to me from God through you. We need direction, my brother.”

“Mr. President, the honor and privilege is all mine. Would you like to have it, sir? The sign I mean.”

”That’s really generous of you, but it is of much greater value right where you are. Right now, you just might be more powerful than I am, in this awful situation; and isn’t that the way it’s truly supposed to be?”

“I will never forget this day, Mr. President.”

“Please don’t, and remember how your simple message gave a president great resolve. What a truth and stress reliever to know someone is bigger than our feeble abilities to control the deeds of evil men and women.”

Fisher put his arm out the window and shook the elderly man’s hand. “I wish I could get out and thank you appropriately, but these guys might kill me trying to protect me. I will do my best to preserve what you worked so hard to have and to pass on to your children. Thank you for letting God employ you, sir. ‘The world does not depend on you.’ I really love that. Pray for America.”

President Fisher Harrison had no idea how his resolve would soon be placed under maximum danger.

In Route to Raven Rock Mountain Defense Base
March 11, 2011, 4:12 p.m.

The Navigator Specialist reentered the cockpit and strapped himself in for what he knew would be a rough landing.

“Ray, did they radio you?”

“Yes, they did”

“And … what’d they tell you?” The navigator looked out ahead and saw the well hidden runway. “Great, Captain, you did it.”

Captain Ray Jarrod looked over at his Navigation Specialist and pulled out his side arm.

Jarrod said the words exactly as he had been instructed. “Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?”

The navigator laughed and looked at the pilot and saw his friend and comrade, Captain Jarrod’s sidearm staring back at him; “Yea Captain … Yea I have been told that a few times. What are you doing, Captain?”

“Well, they’ll never tell you that again.” Captain Ray Jarrod squeezed the trigger and unloaded three shots into the navigator’s head. Then, his next orders flashed through his mind.

He switched on the intercom and spoke to the First lady. “Mrs. Harrison, we have the runway in sight.”

Patriot Acts

by Steven Clark Bradley

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I hope everyone who reads this will not just think
it is entertainment or the irrational rambling of a scared
American. I am not afraid; I am convinced that no one
will secure our future except us.
That is why I declare the main theme of Patriot Acts
in one key phrase:

No unconditional Talks
Just patriot Acts!

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What would you feel if America fell and the nation was taken over by a dictatorial power? Would you adapt? Or, would you lay down body and soul to protect your homeland? Read Chapter four of Steven Clark Bradley's newest work in progress, The Consortium - Automated Response and feel what could happen unless we are vigilant and devoted to the United states of America.

The Consortium

Automated Response

Patriot Acts Part III

Chapter Four

SPU Facility,

Falls Church, Virginia

March 7, 2011 10:49 a.m.

“It’s over.” Peter Barlowe told himself. The truth was obvious and the reality of it was flooding his mind with thoughts from his past. Memories of things long forgotten were now somehow engulfing him; like someone had switched something on or had powered something down in his brain. It felt like his conscience knew that his whole life had come crashing down.

Peter Barlowe tried to get his mind around it all and the events that had just taken place. “I’ve somehow always known, but seemed only like a dream.” Peter Barlowe whispered to himself and trying to make his mind absorb it.

He pulled a jacket and pants out of the bag he had assembled in his office just before all hell had broken out and the Falls Church facility was overrun with armed military personnel.

“I’m going down, that’s for sure.” he realized while stretching a lightweight shirt over his torso and fitting the skullcap over his head.

But I can see it all so clearly now; must be what it feels like to come out of a comma. he thought. “I have to tell the president.” he decided and whispered this time quietly, while he pulled the pants up over his clothes and got his feet into the right position.

They’re looking for me, and I might even turn myself in. He debated with himself. For now, Peter Barlowe, the defunct Superintendent of the dead and gone Strategic Perception Unit, pulled the gloves over his hands and set the eyepiece in place.

The chameleon suit would give him time. Peter rushed into a janitor’s room and quietly closed the door. He had to figure out how he preferred to die. “It ain’t a thing to be taken lightly.” He tried to persuade himself.

Peter carefully got down on the floor and sat in the absolute blackness and listened to the sounds of hundreds of feet walking up and down the maze of hallways that made up the Falls Church facility.

“They can’t have any idea what they have just unleashed.” Peter told no one except himself.

He didn’t care at all what had happened to Jaime O’Rourke. “He was better off dead anyway.” Peter paused in reflection and then whispered. “So uncivilized; he took us to ruin, though he was probably just following orders, and didn’t we all?”

Thoughts that he had lost for so many years were now clearly focused in his mind; his past, his school, his friends, his bedroom and then his mom and dad were all flying past his mind’s eyes; all the things he seemed to have forgotten during his time in the SPU.

Seated in the darkness, the sounds of military personnel voices, radio relays and footsteps subsided and he succumbed to the pull of his mental visions, from so many years earlier.

Edgecombe County, North Carolina

September, 1969, 1:52 p.m.

“Just deal with it.” was the last thing Peter Barlowe’s father ever told him, before he died.

Twelve year old Peter Barlowe walked into his home in Edgecombe County, North Carolina just as he had as far back as he could remember. There, to the right, he saw his father, Marshall sitting on the edge of the couch; his face buried in his palms, shaking and weeping a torrent of tears.

“Dad, where’s mom?”

Peter Barlowe looked at the things that were scattered around his father, on the couch and the floor. He saw pictures of his childhood, his mom, Betty and his dad’s great-great grandmother, Winnifred Atkinson Barlowe’s portrait. The floor was littered with old folders everywhere; all of them opened with their contents spilling out.

What’s he looking for? Peter wondered. “Dad, where’s mom? You’re starting to scare me.”

Marshall Barlowe looked up at his son with a face that screamed out disaster and guilt.

“Mother, you want your mother? Well, boy, you haven’t got a mother anymore; you’ve never had one. The Consortium made sure of that. You’re nothing but a hybrid”

Young Peter Barlowe took in his father’s words. The pitch, the expression across his father’s face and the grave sound of his father’s voice, and the most devastatingly terrible things of all were the words themselves. It all told the young twelve-year old boy that his life was about to be drastically altered and to remain permanently in disrepair.

Marshall Barlowe sat on the edge of the couch with his eyes weeping into his palms. He raised his head and gazed at the boy he had always loved, though in the affection department, Marshall Barlowe had rarely attempted to display any, though he possessed a lot of love for young Peter Barlowe.

The expression Marshall Barlowe saw stretched across his son’s face made the man hurt inside so badly that he had to use his right hand to force the gun in his left hand down so he wouldn’t raise the barrel up to his own head and pull the trigger earlier than he figured he’d be forced to do.

“Peter, I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t; I swear I did. Everything about that damn place is automated, and it’s only the beginning. Don’t try to run; cause, they’ll kill you. This isn’t what the SPU was for.”

Peter looked over at his father and took in the words that even he, at his young age, realized would be the last ones his father would ever say to him.

“Peter, I love you, I always have. But, you cannot give up what’s ours and what was started by my kin, my blood; to make us competitive, not to kill presidents and senators.”

Peter walked slowly closer to his father and saw the gun in his hand.

“Dad, what’s wrong? I know about the SPU. I know what the Consortium is too. I’m not afraid; tell me what I have to do.” Tears rolled down the boy’s face and young Peter Barlowe felt his knees wobbling under him. He took a deep breath and steadied himself.

Marshall looked at Peter with regret etched all over his face.

“My boy, Michael O’Rourke has taken the line; he’s the Consortium’s hand-picked thief, and he stole it from Eldridge Harrison and killed him.”

Marshall saw the confounded stare in his son’s eyes.

“Peter, I know, you’re young, way too young to endure what has happen here today. I …”

“Yea, that … what has happened, dad? Where is my mom?” Peter demanded.

“Mom, you got no mom, never did. Listen to me, you can’t run. If you run, they’ll kill you, and I can’t stop it now. Once a thing like this gets rolling, there’s no stopping it. This will never be far from you, Peter. Once they take you …”

“Take me, take me where?” Peter looked around desperately to see who was trying to take him away.

“You have to grow up fast and stop the system. The new line will build it, and they’ll use it too, to control everyone.”

“Dad, I don’t understand anything you’re talking about.”

“That’s not important. They’re going to take you, Peter, and when they do, you’ll be chipped. No one knows the things we’ve done; we don’t even know ourselves. No one even comprehends how many masters we’ve served; all the while exacting all the power, funding, technology and information they could take as their booty.

“The SPU and every president has been the puppet of the Consortium since Wilson. When O’Rourke’s crowd gets their claws on the codes we have, from every nation that’s anything, no one will ever be able to stop the Consortium, all provided by the SPU and Michael O’Rourke.

“Peter, you’ll forget these things after they block out this day, and God knows how many other days, nights, even years they will expunge from your memory. But, my only hope is that you will find a way around the control that will be placed upon you. You’ll have to teach your mind to control it and to listen to you.”

“What are you talking about? Whose gonna control me?”

“You will have to force your will over the control. It can be done, but you’ll have to constantly force this day back into your mind. That’s the best I can do.” Marshall Barlowe stared back at Peter and rose from the couch.

“Peter, There are so many things you do not understand. Listen carefully; they’ve built a system that will give the Consortium complete control over everything. It is military, economic and social calamity that no nation on Earth will survive in its present form. They’re going to take the whole thing down. You have to deal with it. Let them have you, teach you and prepare you, but never let them own you. One day, you will bring them all down.

“I have raised you since you were barely ten pounds. I have so much sadness to tell you though that I am not …”

Young Peter Barlowe heard a cracking sound and turned his head toward the shattering sound of breaking glass that followed and hit the ground at the same time. He turned back to his father and saw a blood-spewing hole erupt in the center of his father’s forehead. Blood shot out of his dad’s head and splashed over Peter’s face. Peter saw a set of papers lying on the floor that were marked, Berkowitz Holdings.” He heard the back door fly open and slam loudly against the wall. He quickly took the papers and folded them and shoved them under his shorts and lay silently and exposed on the living room floor and saw four sets of feet enter the room. He saw them walking over to him and then they grabbed him and lifted him up.

“Peter, we got here as soon as we could. You’re dad’s had a nervous breakdown, I’m afraid.”

“Mr. O’Rourke, you just killed my dad. He told me everything. I will not go with you. Did you kill my mom too, you lying bastard?”

“Listen, calm down. I didn’t kill anyone. Your father was about to kill you too. Come on now, you’re delirious, and I’ve got just the thing to help you forget all about this.”

Michael O’Rourke walked over to Peter and put his arm around his shoulder. Peter pulled away from him and punched the much larger man in the ribs. O’Rourke felt it, too.

"I don’t know what to believe, but you can never make me believe that.” Peter shouted.

“Of course you don’t, Pete. But I can make you believe or forget anything I want you to. In fact, I fully intend to tell you what to believe, my boy.” O’Rourke looked at his men. “Make the call.”

“Yes sir.” O’Rourke’s man walked over to the house phone and dialed a number.

“Secure Routing, what’s your request?”

“I need a secure line to Copenhagen.”

“One second to find an empty secure trunk line. I’m dialing now. Your call is connected.”

“Sir, we have it all in play.” O’Rourke said

“Did you kill Barlowe Sr.?”

“Yes sir, but have not found his documents yet.”

“Then burn it all down. Those are the only copies that can transfer my holdings to someone else.”

“Burn the house, you mean?”

“What, are you deaf? I said, burn the whole damn thing. I liked Eldridge Harrison, he was a great man, but just too full of remorse to keep him around. Barlowe was of less value, but he had damnation in his hands with those documents. So, burn the whole damn thing and chip the boy. His real dad was no dummy, and I am sure the fruit of his father’s loins is of the same caliber. You got that?”

“As we speak, sir.” The phone went dead. O’Rourke slammed the phone down.

“Get him outta here; one of you, get back in here and burn this place.”

Michael O’Rourke, the new chief of the Strategic Perception Unit could not believe it had come off so flawlessly.

“Finally, the SPU’s all mine.”

Three large men picked up Peter Barlowe and cuffed him and led him outside. As they walked him out the back door that had been kicked off its hinges, Peter saw the lifeless body of his mother sprawled across the blood-splattered table, with a large knife protruding out of her chest.

“You killed my mom. You bastards killed my mom.” Peter screamed and fought to get away from his abductors.

Two of the men carried twelve-year-old Peter Barlow out of the house and to a black car with US Government plates. They jostled him into the car and he looked to his left at another young unconscious body next to him, in the back seat.

“Fish, Fisher is that you?”

“Oh, you know young Fisher Harrison, don’t you? Don’t worry about him; he’s OK. He’s been visiting us for a few days from Indiana. As a matter of fact, why don’t you join him?”

The SPU operative placed a mask over his own face and closed the backseat divider and pressed a button his on his dash board that sprayed half the normal dose of gas that he’d have administered to an adult. The young boy pounded on the divider but soon, he felt his strength give way to a sleepy, foggy haze and everything went dark.

Inside SPU Center

Falls Church, Virginia

March 7, 2011 11:04 a.m.

“I remember.” Peter said quietly, but more loudly than he had intended with his head swimming and his heart pounding in his chest, he felt numb as the darkness of 1969 faded in his mind’s eyes and he peered and gaped into the darkness of 2011. He fine-tuned his ears to the sounds of soldiers, as they walked up and down the huge Falls Church facility corridors.

“It’s an automated response.” Peter recalled from his thoughts of the past that had flooded every chamber of his previously barricaded mind.

Memories started flashing and streaming through his mind and he saw what this horrible system would do. His mind could almost feel the skin around his face pressed back and felt a searing heat blistering his face by the destruction that his mind pictured.

Would this be the ultimate price for working for the devil? Peter wondered. It’s like I’ve been there before, like something’s been put back in place in my mind. He remembered when he and O’Rourke had met them. Berkowitz, yes that’s right. Now, there’s a man devoted only to power; someone who’d only give up his throne if he could take us all with him. Peter Barlowe remembered everything.

“Peter, listen carefully, they’ve build a system that will take down the whole thing down.” his father had said. “Just before they blew him away.” Peter whispered. “…if they take us down, everything goes with us.” He had heard the words so often since he had become part of the SPU. The memory shot through his mind and he gripped the sides of his head.

“We’ve chipped every soldier, Marine, Seaman and Airman since 1988, and neither Reagan, Clinton nor Bush knew a thing about it. Even Tate didn’t get that information.” He groaned in mental agony.

He heard in his mind what his handlers had engrained in his young mind after he had been chipped. “Your dad killed himself.”

No, you killed him. Peter Barlowe, heard his mind silently cry out.

“Your father killed your mother; stabbed her in the heart.”

“You lie!” He started to scream out loudly, but he clasped his hand over his mouth and looked down at his watch. “Only two minutes.” He told himself. “I have to stop it.” He heard the sound of heavy footsteps voices approaching his location. He stopped breathing and listened carefully.

“This O’Rourke guy is dead.” One soldier said to the other. “Yea, Harrison’s not gonna take any crap.”

“Jaime’s dead? That leaves only me to take all the heat.” Barlowe realized.

He positioned himself with his back to the wall of the cleaning room and switched his flashlight on. Peter looked down at the chameleon suit he had put on. He pulled the mask over his face and pressed a button on the inside of his jacket. The suit came to life and he took on the colors and blended into the room, but the suit’s one flaw was the initialization process that produced a low whining sound that the SPU techs had not managed to rectify.

“Did you hear that?” One soldier asked the other. Barlowe heard the soldiers walking toward the door.

“I have to get to the chamber and reset the failsafe or lookout it’s a brave new world.” His watch told him he had forty-eight seconds.

He heard the footprints coming his way and saw light break through the darkness as the cleaning room door slowly opened. He pulled his legs back prepared himself.

Two US Army soldiers aimed their weapons into the room and looked inside. They saw nothing and walked into the room. When they came close enough to trip over Peter, he drove the force of both his adrenalin-laced legs into the chest of one of the soldiers, crushing his chest instantly. Peter leapt to his feet and rapidly raced down the corridor, firing as he ran as fast as his legs would take him.

The Army advance soldier was one of a team of ten sent to conduct code enforcement and to shoot anyone on sight who threatened US Forces in any way. The soldier ran into the corridor and saw Peter. The one soldier still left breathing ran after him and radioed his commander.

“I got him, Peter Barlowe …”

“One second…”

“One second, I ain’t got one second…”

“Who are you, what company?”

“Taggart, sir, Advanced Infantry Clearance.”

“Give it to me, soldier.”

“I got Barlowe. You know, like the number two … sir.”

“You’ve got a shoot to kill on that dirt bag, Taggart. You Copy?”

"You better believe it … sir. He’s in the left corridor.”

“Secretary Blake wants Barlowe dead. Do you copy that?”

“That’s affirmative and happy to oblige; engaging now.”

Taggart crouched forward and advanced with his weapon held tightly and impatiently ready. When Taggart turned the corner, Barlowe sprayed bullets in every direction. Taggart took cover and returned fire, even though he couldn’t see anything except the holes that Barlowe was inflicting upon the facility walls.

“Sergeant, you still with us? I can’t see you, Taggart.” Taggart’s commanding officer looked around at his personnel busy at backing up their forces at their consuls. “That’s his name, right?”

“Yes sir, it’s Taggart.”

“That’s affirmative, still in pursuit and the bastard’s invisible and shooting. Not in the talking mood, for the moment, sir!”

“Copy that.”

Barlowe turned to run and a bullet grazed the chameleon suit’s programs controller, which rendered him instantly visible with only twenty-two seconds left to stop the automated response.

“I think I’ve brought a knife to a gunfight.” Peter knew he had no chance to stop it and the failsafe was the only chance Barlowe had to remain a free man, even if no one else would be.

Barlow turned and looked at Taggart. The rest of Taggart’s men ran up behind Barlowe, with their weapons drawn and trained directly on him.

“Get down on the floor, now!” Taggart screamed.

Barlowe got down and looked at his watch. “Hmm, seven seconds.” He told himself as he looked up at the soldiers.

“I said get down flat and face down on the floor!” Another of the armed soldiers shouted.

“Listen to me. You’ve got to stop the clock.” Three, two, one.

“This is your last…” Taggart, who had appeared deadly ready to blow Barlowe away suddenly dropped his weapons to his sides and stood calmly and relaxed.

Throughout the whole facility, every man and woman in uniform simply stopped searching and stood at attention, waiting for their next orders.

International Monetary Fund Headquarters
Copenhagen, Denmark

March 7, 2011 5:05 p.m.

“Good, oh will you look at that?” Warren Berkowitz said in great amazement watching from his IMF office.”

“Ha-Ha, will you look at that?” Berkowitz pressed a button.

“Yes sir.”

“Patch me into the intercom.”

“One second please … The line is yours, Mr. Berkowitz.”

Berkowitz stood up and stared at his screen with Barlowe lying face down on the floor for a moment. The soldiers were all standing at attention in their various areas of the facility; spread out on various screens across Berkowitz’s wall. He did not bat an eye.

“Thank you for your service, Peter Barlowe.” Berkowitz’s voice echoed throughout the facility. Barlowe raised his head and looked in every direction.

“Mr. Barlowe, this is Warren Berkowitz. We have met before, you know.”

“Yes, I know, I remember you, one of several slimy internationalists who have kept me alive since I was brought to you.” Peter said. He looked upward and defiantly screamed. “I remember everything!”

Peter rose to his feet and looked around in amazement. They were almost robotically compliant. Some of the best forces the nation had were down in the underground facility. Now, every one of them had amassed in a ring around Peter Barlow. They all still moved and looked very alive and totally acquiescent. Taggart just stood there and looked at Peter and appeared normal in every way.

Richmond Control,

Richmond Virginia

March 7, 2011, 11:06 a.m.

“Secretary Blake, we’ve lost contact with Taggart … with everyone.”

“What did you just say?”

“Sir, all communications are shut down. I have no live connections right now.”

“Who the hell’s in charge of this country right now?” the Secretary queried and demanded to know.

Inside SPU Center

Falls Church, Virginia

March 7, 2011, 11:07 a.m.

“You’re an amazing man, Mr. Barlowe. You are the first, if my memory serves me as well as yours evidently does you. Is that right, gentlemen? Is he not the first to get it all back.” Everyone agreed, as they almost always did.

“Actually, I would be the second, Mr. Berkowitz.” Peter said. “The first one is the President of the United States.”

“Ah, yes, you would be right on that one. We have plans for him, just as we have for you. As you can see, or at least hear, we’ve come a bit out of the shadows. Hard to believe you’ve worked for us all your life already and have never been as close to death as you are right now. That puts you at quite a crossroads just now. Now, don’t feel bad. We too, have a crossroad or two ahead of us in the next few days. Sorry, I am addicted to adrenaline.”

“Peter, we have initiated a new program and we want you to direct it, enforce it. It’s really not that different from what you’ve been doing since you joined the SPU as a child. The SPU was our little sect all the time, anyway. This will mean serving under a new protocol now, a new set of rules. Get up and take off that amazing suit we paid to develop for you.”

Peter Barlowe slowly removed the suit.

“You are under the orders of the Consortium now. So, you really have two options. Roll with it and continue your service to the Consortium or call it a day and we’ll see you in hell. Peter Barlowe, it’s actually that simple. If you are with us, return to your base and await my orders.”

Barlowe looked around at the military personnel.

“They’re all chipped, aren’t they?”

“Is that what you call it? So are you, but you somehow beat it. We want your heart, not your mind or your motivations. The secret to keeping power is to never stop amassing it. You know that bit about absolute power corrupting absolutely? Well, it’s absolutely true. Amazing changes will take hold of this nation and the world in the next few days. If you’re in, your orders are in your SUV parked at the back of the base, the black one. I need a house divided against itself in one year from today.” Berkowitz replied. “But, I need an answer now.”

“I think I have already given you one. What’s this about an automated response.”

“Wonderful.” Berkowitz said. “It is great not to have to kill you after all we’ve invested in you.”

Berkowitz pressed a button on his console.

“This is your commander. Take Mr. Barlowe to base and be as you were until you get further orders.”

Richmond Control

Richmond Virginia

March 7, 2011, 11:09 a.m.

“Sir, we are connected. Everything seems normal, but that was not normal, right Captain?”

“Not like any normal I’ve ever seen.”

Inside SPU Center

Falls Church, Virginia

March 7, 2011, 11:09 a.m.

“Okay, Peter my boy, let the year begin. You will have everything you need to get the job done and rid the world of this evil country once and for all.” Berkowitz looked at his troops and told them to take Peter to the base. Peter was amazed when he heard the echo of hundreds of voices resonating throughout the facility with the same two words.

“Yes, Sir.”

The Consortium finishes the Patriot Acts Trilogy...

In Part One we saw an evil plot between Iran and right-wing radical American Nazis to destroy the nation. In Part II, the plausible scenario of a biological terror attack ruthlessly is hatched by enemies of the state. In Part III of the Patriot Acts series the world banking and global power brokers are explored.

In September, 2008, The Fed and the treasury came to President George W. Bush and issued him a suicide threat. Secretary Henry Paulson walked into the Oval Office and put a gun to his own head and said, $800 Billion or in 24 hours we die and 5 trillion dollars would disappear with the entire world economy. President Bush said yes. What if he had said NO?

Chapter Fifteen

The White House,

Washington, D.C.

March 11, 2012 3:42 p.m.

“I am placing the nation under emergency powers effective upon my signing of this document. The authority of the Emergency Powers Act will not be enforced until tonight, but the temporary powers of the moment do immediately grant the president the power to appoint anyone to vital vacant seats in the Executive Branch. Technically, the speaker has not officially recalled Congress back from recess. I love that word recess; it suits them perfectly.” Fisher chuckled.

Michelle handed Fisher the document and he placed his signature in the appropriate place. Then, Michelle gave President Harrison a second document. Fisher read it out loud.

“By the powers under the State of National Emergency act of 1977, the president has the power to appoint any vital vacant seat and it shall not be automatically removed when and if emergency rule is lifted, and only shall the president’s appointments be removed by resignation, end of life issues or impeachment for high crimes and misdemeanors, as prescribed by law and the Constitution of the United States of America.

“Therefore, I hereby appoint Hamilton W. Smith to be Vice President of the United States.” Fisher signed the appointment letter and looked at Hamilton. Fisher thought he looked excited and terrified at the same time.

“Hamilton Smith, would you raise your right hand?” Fisher asked.

Hamilton raised his hand and slightly pulled it down two times before Fisher recited the words and Hamilton repeated them. Secret Service came to the door and Fisher, Michelle and Vice President Hamilton Smith all walked out of the Oval Office and headed to two different escorted cars which would depart for two different escorted places.

Hamilton’s destination was in hiding in an undisclosed location, while Fisher’s destination was for the whole world to see. Fisher leaned over to speak to Hamilton as they walked down the White House hallway.

“Hamilton, way back in time, at Iron Mountain prison in Alaska, you remember.” They stood in front of two different limousines and Fisher took his new vice president’s hand and congratulated him. “Well, Hamilton, I just wanted to take back some words from way back when I said in a moment of foolish jesting. Because you’re not just a Smith; you are Vice President Smith.”

In Route to Raven Rock

Mountain Defense Base

March 11, 2012, 3:52 p.m.

“Approach, I need assistance. This is Captain Ray Jerrod; the coordinates you have sent us do not work. You are taking us into the wall of the mountain.” Jerrod pulled and banked left. Jerrod was a good pilot, and he knew this was not an error. Such errors don’t just happen.

A mountain wall appeared before the pilot and he heaved the yoke back all the way. He feared a stall as he had aimed the nose almost straight upward. Margaret and Nate were strapped in, but both had passed out from forces that neither this plane nor human bodies were built to withstand.

“Control, this is GB1 taking evasive action maneuvers and …”

“We’re gonna make it.” The pilot screamed out and straightened out the airplane. “Get back there and check on them.” The navigator specialist got out of his seat and opened the cockpit door. He saw the First lady slumped over and her baby had started crying.

He quickly walked over and called out her name. “Mrs. Harrison … Mrs. Harrison, are you alright?” Margaret’s eyelids began to move and her eyes blinked and finally, she moaned and cried out,

“Where’s my baby?”

Over Iceland,

the Atlantic Ocean

March 11, 2012 7:55 p.m.

Roger, GB1.” The control officer passed his microphone to a tall man with wavy hair in a nicely knitted suit. “He’s all yours Mr. Berkowitz.”

“Well, Peter, so you are a man of character, whatever that means, but I like you. You’re the other side of me.”

“You lie; I am nothing like you. I breathe air not money and power.” Peter suddenly shouted into Berkowitz’s ear piece, making him wince a bit.

"Well, it lives. I thought you had found Jesus or something and were on your way to paradise. Very well, here goes nothing.”

Berkowitz took a card from his pocket and swiped it and his screen came up. He logged onto the same channel that Peter Barlowe used to control his forces. Then he punched in his personal code and a signal was instantly sent to the pilot of the GB1. As the code streamed it found the command to find the micro-circuit lying dormant in the back of the scalp of one Captain Ray Jerrod, the pilot who was now trying to fly the First Lady and her son to safety. The subject was found and it instantly sent the command to obey Berkowitz’s command. It also registered inside the data crunching computers of Homeland Security, the Pentagon, the NSA and the CIA.

In Route to Raven Rock

Mountain Defense Base

March 11, 2012, 3:57 p.m.

Pilot Captain Ray Jerrod felt Berkowitz’s commands overtake him slowly. He thought it was air sickness then it was like an instantaneous bout of the stomach flu and then just before he was sure he was going to die, he went calm and felt fine. It was the strangest feeling he had ever had.

In Route to Raven Rock

Mountain Defense Base

First Lady’s Cabin

March 11, 2012, 3:57 p.m.

“It’s OK honey, we’re OK now,” Margaret told her baby, which she knew was a lie.

“Mrs. Harrison, I want to stay here with you and help, but I have to assist the pilot. Are you OK?”

“Thank you; my son is OK, so I’ll be fine.” Margaret had the greatest urge to scream out for her husband and only let it resonate in her head. Fisher, where are you? Fisher, I love you.

Over Iceland, the Atlantic Ocean

March 11, 2012 7:57 p.m.

Berkowitz spoke to the pilot. “Captain, you are a true patriot, full of everything our money could buy, and that’s a hell of a lot. The problem is, I am not, and I don’t need to be. These are your orders.”

En route to Joint Session of Congress

Washington, D.C.

March 11, 2012 4:05 p.m.

President Fisher Harrison rode in his limousine for the just over a two mile ride between 1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW and 100 Constitution Ave NE. He looked out the windows and the two most prominent things he saw were throngs of people with great distress stretched across their faces waving and shouting out well wishes to their a president they trusted. He also saw throngs of soldiers as far as the eye could see. They were all there in battle fatigues and seemingly ready to fight a war or to start one. Of course they all think I ordered them out here.

Fisher saw one man in particular holding up a large sign with the map of the United States prominently displayed with drops of blood dripping down. It read, ‘Is America’s Democracy Bleeding?’Another sign showed a flag shaped into the United States with all the colors running into each other. The words across it read, ‘Why are these colors running?’

They all spoke to him and he knew these fine people loved him, but not as much as they simply needed him, and it gave Fisher great fear and trembling to imagine three hundred million Americans thrown to the dictatorial rule of whatever political charade the Consortium would raise up to hide behind.

Fisher’s motorcade continued on and stress seemed to form all over Fisher’s body, and he felt a trembling inside his arms, hands and legs. He knew it was all far too big for his feeble arms to carry. Fisher waved and didn’t know if the people outside could see him or not, but he caught a glimpse of an old man in a Air Force uniform and holding a sign that was plain and simple, but which bore words that were just like a ray of light in a dark and frozen world to Fisher Harrison. He had needed to read its message before taking on a great nemesis such as the Consortium.

“Driver, I want you to stop the car for a moment. Do you see the big plain sign behind us?”

“Yes, sir, but that against protocol.”

"I realize that, but I need you to ask him, not tell him, but ask him if the president could see him for just a moment.”

The driver radioed to one of the cars behind the president’s to talk with the man. A moment later, a Secret Service agent was standing by the president’s door with the older gentleman. Fisher lowered the window and looked at the sign that told him how to proceed. It gave him hope and told him God had heard his pleas. Fisher read the words. He had heard President Tate use them before. Then Fisher spoke them out loud. “Don’t be afraid to fight this war.”

Fisher looked up at the man standing by Fisher’s window and the old man saw that the president had tears in his eyes. His face had taken on a deep shade of red due to the adrenaline woven together with sorrow.

“Please forgive me for accosting you this way, but your sign touched me so much and it is a direct answer to me from God through you. We need direction, my brother.”

“Mr. President, the honor and privilege is all mine. Would you like to have it, sir? The sign I mean.”

”That’s really generous of you, but it is of much greater value right where you are. Right now, you just might be more powerful than I am, in this awful situation; and isn’t that the way it’s truly supposed to be?”

“Here, let me sign it and that means I will follow your advice, my friend.” Fisher said and placed his signature on the poster.

“I will never forget this day, Mr. President.”

“Please don’t, and remember how your simple message gave a president great resolve. What a truth and stress reliever to know someone is bigger than our feeble abilities to control the deeds and intents of evil men and women.”

Fisher put his arm out the window and shook the elderly man’s hand. “I wish I could get out and thank you appropriately, but these guys might kill me trying to protect me. I will do my best to preserve that you have worked so hard to have and to pass on to your children. Thank you for letting God employ you, sir. ‘Don’t be afraid to fight this war.’ I really love that. Pray for America.”

President Fisher Harrison had no idea how his resolve would soon be placed under maximum danger.

In Route to Raven Rock

Mountain Defense Base

March 11, 2012, 4:12 p.m.

The Navigator Specialist reentered the cockpit and strapped himself in for what he knew would be a rough landing.

“Ray, did they radio you?”

“Yes, they did.”

“And … what’d they tell you?” The navigator looked out ahead and saw the well hidden runway. “Great, Captain, you did it.”

Captain Ray Jarrod looked over at his Navigation Specialist and pulled out his side arm.

Jarrod said the words exactly as he had been instructed. “Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?”

The navigator laughed “Yea Captain …” He looked at the pilot and saw his friend and comrade, Captain Jarrod’s sidearm staring back at him. “Yea I have been told that a few times. What are you doing, Captain?”

“Well, they’ll never tell you that again.” Captain Ray Jarrod squeezed the trigger and unloaded three shots into the navigator’s head. Then, his next orders flashed through his mind.

He switched on the intercom and spoke to the First lady. “Mrs. Harrison, we have the runway in sight...”