The Observer - Trilogy -: One - Jupiter's Whistling Kettle

Cover art concept: Xaviére Cristeau.

Cover designer: Jason Alexander.

© 2014. All rights reserved by the author.

ISBN: 9781483539850

For Carole, Vixter, and Robére,

Three of the very finest,

Without whom,

None of this would be happening.

~ Preface ~

THE OBSERVER is a radical trilogy of works that will bring to light the most terrifying question ever to be unearthed in the modern world. Incisive and robust in its research, this odyssey confronts a disturbing and arcane enigma. One that has roamed Earth since antiquity.

Underscored by a time-layered landscape of historical and political events. From the space programs of the USA and the USSR. Between 1961 and 1970. An unimaginably bizarre and deathly fraud is brought to light. One so vast in stature it will be virtually impossible for the public mind to comprehend, let alone believe.

Stripped of its shining façade, NASA’S monumental Apollo space program is exposed as a glittering Trojan horse. With a hidden function. It is the first major step in the development of a space-borne nuclear strike force. But for what greater purpose? What threat could there be, requiring such an antidote, in the cold emptiness of space?

~ Prelude ~

Rising from the burnt out ruins of Nazi Germany’s Third Reich an invisible Phoenix soared west across the Atlantic. Its poisonous talons took root in the rich virgin soils of post-war USA. Mesmerized by its own self-confidence, a confetti-covered nation stood spellbound. As the silent clockwork of an unthinkable agenda was set in motion. A bizarre riddle beyond imagining, whose consequence will decree the final destiny of mankind—the Armageddon. And its hideous aftermath.

January 1961: Departing speech of outgoing Republican President Dwight D. Eisenhower openly warns of the spurious growing relationship between government and big business in the US. His thinly veiled words of warning are delivered to the American public fifteen years too late.

May 25, 1961: America’s 35th President, new frontiersman John F. Kennedy, throws down the gauntlet of challenge. Making it clear to the entire world, in his historic mission speech, that the United States is intending to put a man on the moon before decade’s end, the President boldly states.

His mesmerizing words ignite a nation. But when he shows reluctance for the assault on Cuba, as well as the Vietnam War, Kennedy falls from grace and is eliminated. By a higher echelon of power. A hidden order of control that has covertly fashioned the US military industrial complex and the US government’s secular authorities, namely the FBI, the Pentagon, the CIA, and NASA, into an aggressive Fourth Reich.

An invisible evil shows its hand. One that deliberately fuels war and global conflict as the catalyst for its technological weapons development program. Its fear mongering agenda will ultimately reach beyond this world. In doing so it will see the Earth and humanity reduced to a smoking ruin, just like Hitler’s Nazi Germany and Tojo’s Imperialist Japan.

In the year 2,000 B.C. the Earth is earmarked. It will be transformed into a revolving battlestar. By the beginning of the 3rd millennium a.d. But to do battle with whom? The human race is enslaved. As the workforce that will build this mighty Colossus. The whips of law and order, and religious doctrine, are used to keep the populous subservient.

The Apollo program is laid down as the cornerstone of the final thrust toward this alarming technological development. As the last decades of the 20th century roll by, heavy taxation is used to fund the most elite weapon system that mankind has ever seen. Who is responsible for this dangerous agenda? And why has no one rebelled against it?

~ Introduction ~

¿Por que ahora?

Pourquoi maintenant?

Why now?

I’ve been asked in many languages...

"Why start spitting all this conspiracy stuff now? After all these years?"

Answer: A strange combination of timings, really.

I was scaling the lofty walls of an absurdly long (code for self-indulgent) trilogy. Titled THE IDEALIST. When a sweet friend of mine (who knew I’d given up watching television news and reading newspapers) told me, circa 2004. That the President of the United States. George W. Bush Jnr. (Yep, good ol’ Derba-ya) Had announced to the world that NASA was going...

"Back to the moon in 2018."

An alarm bell immediately rang out loudly in my mind. And I heard the screeching of brakes.

"Back—to the Moon?" I pondered.

I dropped what I was doing and began mapping out the course of THE OBSERVER trilogy. I opened a new blank document right then and there.

Why would anyone spend the umpteen years required in front of a computer screen to research and write such a work? (Not to mention the editing, distribution, and marketing process required in wake of its completion. Aye karumba!)

Catharsis is the blunt and truthful answer.

It’s been a lifelong series of observations. That have led to the concepts and ideas contained within these pages. And more than fifteen years of off-shoot research and self-education to lay the foundation. It obviously required a timely precipitating agent. To yield this unwieldy mass of protoplasm into a cohesive form. The announcement of the 2018 NASA moon mission was the catalyst that set THE OBSERVER trilogy in motion.

There is a growing school of thought worldwide. That is openly questioning whether it was possible for NASA to send astronauts to the moon in the late 1960s. Was the technology of the era able to handle the dangers of space? The longer they leave it before returning, the more bizarre this riddle becomes. Ironically the vast majority of this doubt is coming from within the US itself. It appears that the residents are the main ones responsible for burning down the house—to quote one disgruntled Apollo astronaut. A Gallup poll of the US public revealed that up to 81% of the population does not trust the federal government. Trust and confidence which was climbing, suddenly took a sharp turn in the opposite direction on September 11, 2001.

To set the record straight THE OBSERVER trilogy is a work of fiction. It is an intensely researched conspiracy-thriller/space-race/science-fiction/UFO/paranormal/shamanic saga. (Look that one up in your Funk’n’Wagnalls:— A specific sub-genre of fiction.)

The broader creative license that fiction entails. Has been happily traded for the sharp landscape of factual historical events. Punctuated by the established timeframe of the Apollo and Soviet space programs of the 1960s.

The theoretical astro-quantum physics proposals. Voiced by the main protagonist, Oxford honors graduate, Professor Michael Hart. Have yet to be debunked, or even rebuked, by NASA. Or any other space research authority, for that matter. Adding substantial credibility to the storyline.

The metaphysical proposals introduced by the second protagonist, UCLA anthropologist, Dr. Paul Navarro. Including the knowledge obtained from the associated ethereal plane journeys beyond Earth. And indeed the third dimension itself. Cannot be disproved. The fact that knowledge gained from remote-viewing the Akashic record (the Grand Time Library where all knowledge and history is stored) has proven uncannily accurate when cross-referenced with recorded history. Also adds considerable weight and depth to the structure.

In the decades since the space race ended. After the death of rocket science genius. Werhner von Braun, in 1976. Other curious evidence has come to light. Regarding mankind’s unearthly need to venture into space. The works of qualified journalist, science author, and ancient Middle-Eastern languages expert. The late (and great) Zecharia Sitchin. Particularly his brilliantly researched book Genesis Revisited. And his compelling Earth Chronicles series. Are showing us the deeper foundations of our new space-borne direction. It is where part of our makeup has come from. And, it would seem, where we are headed back to. The future was/is the past.

Sitchin states in the opening paragraph of his brilliant first book, The 12th Planet (1976):

"In many ways, modern man—Homo Sapiens—is a stranger to Earth."

Thoughts rarely even considered by the bulk of humanity, became elementary fact to the observant mind of Zecharia Sitchin. Based on decades of diverse and scholarly research. From the ancient clay tablet texts of Sumer in Mesopotamia. Sitchin predicted the presence of another planet in our solar system. One with an unusual yo-yo-like orbit. That was not yet recorded by modern science. The cuneiform texts that he has deciphered, state that this large astral body. Approximately the size of Neptune. Would be found in the direction of the constellation of Orion. And at an inclined angle of 30 degrees above the Earth’s ecliptic plane.

In 1983. Just seven years after the first publication of The 12th Planet. A NASA satellite captured an infra-red image of a planet in the deep space beyond Pluto. Exactly where Sitchin said it would be. How on Earth could this be possible? The odds against this being a coincidence are mind-bendingly improbable.

How could an ancient agrarian society from Mesopotamia have such acute knowledge of deep space—more informed than that of modern man? Modern archaeology has revealed that the Sumerian civilization has no stone-age predecessor. In the words of one research chronicler, It’s as though they just dropped in out of the sky—and brought an entire civilization with them.

These are the spheres that my mind now travels in. These works and other related writings are the most exciting and inspirational studies I have ever read. Although the human masses do not appear ready for such a cutting edge thesis, Zecharia Sitchin’s works are the first presentations that have ever made logical sense (to me) of who we are, how we got here, why we are slowly destroying this beautiful planet. And importantly, why we are venturing back into space.

~ Acknowledgements ~

As the years have slid by, many things have come to light that encourage one to think and dream in ever broader circles. From the altruistic patriotism of the space-race. Right down to the tiniest spiral shell on a windswept beach. Certain things will resonate with certain minds. And others not. It is the cumulative effect of these echoes that illuminate the broader picture of what we see—of what we are able to comprehend.

I would like to pay personal tribute to the following ancient gods, kings, people, and organizations, for making the tapestry of our lives a richer and more fascinating place.

Lord Enki, King Anu, St. John the Divine, Thoth, Enlil, Ninmah, Mother Shipton, Michel Nostradamus, Zecharia Sitchin, Noam Chomsky, Neil Young, Donovan, Ken Russell, Stanley Kubrick, Trevor Ravenscroft, Walter Johannes Stein, Rudolf Steiner, Aldous Huxley, Lewis Carroll, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, William Blake, Nikola Tesla, H. G. Wells, Galileo Galilee, Nicolaus Copernicus, Leonardo da Vinci, Professor Robert Winston, Sir David Attenborough, Erik vøn Daniken, King Ashurbanipal, Ezekiel, Ian Fleming, National Geographic Society, NASA, and Hollywood in general.

From the highest altruism of our creator’s vision, to the convoluting sprawl of energy that constitutes modern Hollywood—this fiction draws inspiration from both and all betwixt.

~ Contents ~

Job

Revelations

I First Inkling

Twilight

Elderdale High

II Golden Girl

III The Country Club

IV University of Moscow

V A Comet’s Tale

VI Stately Sommers Manor

VII Major Jeb Riarsen

VIII Lead Shield

IX Rescue Mission

X Giant Bullet

XI Valley of the Kings

XII Fernanda

XIII Set of Keys

XIV First Flight

XV Back on Terra Firma

Postscript

Job

Brevard County, Florida

August 25, 1968

Sunday Morning

A disheveled young professor was staggering along a deserted strip of shimmering black asphalt. In the flame red sun of late August, the State 405 was a certified no-man’s land. A scorching corridor of federal tar. Melting into the swelter of an endless savannah. And the day’s heat was already smiting at the anvil.

In the rippling glare of the mirage. The solitary male figure in the distance slowed to a weary standstill. He panned the broad remoteness of a featureless horizon. He lifted his glasses to wipe the grit from his eyes. The past eighteen hours of his life had been the harshest he’d ever endured. And things were only set to get worse. Temperatures across the South had sent the mercury soaring. He removed his suit jacket and tossed it over a tired shoulder. Surrounding him was a glowering seamless mirage of dancing pain. In the hue of beaten copper. He sighed a worn breath as he contemplated the burning road ahead.

In an air-conditioned office somewhere up in Washington DC. It was nothing more than a thin gray line. Etched across a map. An expedient solution to a problem in the South. Created at the stroke of a pencil. But the reality of being caught in its grip was something else. At this time of year the 405 was merciless. A living slice of hell that could blur a man’s vision. And send his powers of reason somersaulting into oblivion.

The professor was in a quandary. Grappling to make sense of the predicament he found himself in. He had no clear idea of where he was. Or the danger he was being driven into. Everglade swamp lined the edge of this bitumen fry pan. For countless miles in both directions. And the occasional stray gator was known to cross without warning.

Loosening his collar and tie he ambled on. Gingerly hoping his shadow may lead the way out. Hoping it might flag down a ride. To help ease the burden of his struggle. The Florida everglades had a spooky tone all of their own. Even in broad daylight. They were vast and uncompromising. And held a peculiar eerie silence that spoke volumes. In his bewildered state he was about to join the ranks of its countless victims. The loudest scream in the middle of nowhere would fade to nothing—heard by no one.

He approached a boggy patch of marsh that came dangerously close to the asphalt. A shining pair of reptilian eyes. With their demonic vertical slit pupils. Traced the gritting footsteps of this weary man. A fully grown alligator, almost twenty feet in length. Weighing in at a staggering two thousand pounds. Lay in wait. Among the reeds at the edge of a concrete culvert. Alerted by the sound of slow swaggering footsteps. It quietly surfaced to spy its quarry. And this wily hunter was hungry. Instinctively it knew its prey had somehow been weakened.

The young professor was a stranger to the South. His temperate English metabolism was out of its depth in the harshness of Florida’s August heat. He ambled on toward the imminent danger. His demeanor was not unlike that of a drunken Sunday morning sailor. Stumbling home after a Saturday night bender. The bender he’d been on had nothing to do with drink. Quite the opposite. The dehydration he’d been forced to endure had left him equally disorientated.

His reflexes were definitely not at their best. Not that it would have made any difference. Contrary to the slow waddling gait they were famous for. The prehistoric creature of these murky swamplands, stalking him, was lightning fast. They’d been known to run down a dog, given that it stayed in a straight line.

They were not good at cornering. Or sudden turns on dry land. But they had immense strength. And a bite more powerful than an industrial vice. One thrash of its muscular tail could snap a man’s leg like a twig. One thrust of its mighty flesh could lift its two thousand pound hulk completely out of water from a standing start.

Inching itself forward it drew its four mighty claws to the front. Pressing them down firmly into the muddy bog. Its wits were now sharply focused on its lone human prey. It was poised and ready to strike. The professor stumbled on. Oblivious to the mighty peril he was headed for. The gravel gritting beneath the soles of his leather shoes. Sounded off like the tired meter of an old pendulum clock whose time was about to run out.

What manner of justice would it be for one so bright and of such integrity to end up as a meal in passing for a mindless predator older than the dinosaurs? How could an Englishman with two honors degrees from Oxford University, fall victim to the hunger of a reptilian beast that would kill and eat anything that moved? The scent of his English blood was in the air. Tempting the razor toothed killer to strike. As the seconds ticked by. Its cold-blooded focus sharpened to a needle point.

In the rippling heat of the mirage on the low flat horizon something was moving. Something large was rising up, and quickly. The professor froze in his tracks as he looked up to see an unidentified shape looming before him. His blood turned to ice-water. Was this good news? Or would it be bad? Over a low shimmering rise in the distance the desperate sound of a hurtling V8 came into earshot. He closed his eyes and trained his mind on the approaching sound. Brushing at his eardrums was the whistling hiss of a speeding car tearing through the morning glare.

There he is, Dad! cried the mayor’s daughter. Up there in the distance! Past that next culvert! I’d know him anywhere! Penelope was pointing strongly forward from the passenger seat of her father’s car. She sat close to her mother, Salma, who was anxiously clinging to her husband’s leg. She’d never seen him drive like this before. His mind was focused on rescuing the professor.

If anything were to happen to his only daughter’s favorite science teacher, he knew there’d be hell to pay. And not just from her. The board at Elderdale High School had powerful connections both in and out of state. These were well-to-do Southern people. They would want serious answers.

In the shimmering heat and glare the car began to slow. Mere seconds from its lunging strike the beast of the swampland took heed of this pressing arrival. Its patient hunt and prehistoric hunger was thwarted. In the nick of time. The disheveled young professor would have been no match for the stealth and might of two hundred million years.

Somewhere in the swamp gator’s tiny brain an alarm bell rang. Withdrawing back into the reeds it disappeared beneath the murky waters of its lair. Its kind had become aware of the thundering sound of American motor vehicles. Instinctively it knew not