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“NASA scientists and engineers [have verified] that man-made structures and objects have been discovered on the Moon.”

Russian newspaper Vecherny Volgograd, 10-05-02

July 28

It was midnight at Montero and Secretary of Defense William H. Layton stood beside the joint chiefs of staff and the secretaries of the army, air force, and navy. Like the others, he was here to witness what promised to be the definitive step in the future of warfare—the insertion of the Nibiruan Key and the flight of the Reindeer. In addition to United States Government and military officials, representatives from the Alliance of Ten Nations with special Pentagon clearance as well as several members of NATO and the United Nations were in attendance.


Meanwhile on Mars, a celebration was about to begin. The joint U.S.-Soviet stealth archaeological team Outpost Alpha—named as such to represent the planet some now believed to be the original home of man—was preparing to commemorate the flight of the Reindeer by breaking open a case of Okhta vodka and getting drunk. A crude banner hung just inside the Mars Inhabitable Support Structure (MISS), announcing: “День нашего спасения прибывает!”

“Hey Nikolay,” a well-built American named Kevin said. “Where’s the booze?”

Kevin Thompson was the least-educated but most athletic member of Outpost Alpha. His job was to maintain the sophisticated equipment that created breathable air, rover fuel, and electricity. His pride and joy was the OGS, which among other things produced oxygen and mixed carbon dioxide from the Martian atmosphere with hydrogen from underground rivers to produce methane. The fuel was stored in metal bottles and used for generating electricity and fuel.

Nikolay pointed to a table in the corner of the MISS and replied in a heavy Russian accent, “They took it there. Have patience, my friend, I will join you.”

“Okay, but tell me, what’s the banner say?”

A Russian colleague named Abram had made the banner. Nikolay looked at it and said, “It is…how you say, a prophecy? I think it means the time of our salvation is come, something like that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Abram was across the room, writing in a journal. Nikolay waved to his comrad and shouted, “Абрам, что Вы подразумеваете баннером?”

Abram glanced at Nikolay and then at the American. He smiled a toothless smile. “Наш Христос собирается возвращаться! Наш создатель – в пределах досягаемости,” he said.

“Ah, he says the Nibiruan Key heralds the return of our Christ…our creator is within reach.”

Kevin smiled and waved back at Abram. “Oh…yeah. Good thinking Abram!” Then, under his breath, he added, “What a bozo.”


At Montero a technician climbed off the hydraulic scaffolding and carried the Nibiruan Key into the huge ETV. He walked past project leaders near the Enigma to the cockpit where Apol Leon was waiting. Apol took the key and turned regally toward the console. This was the moment everybody had waited for, the moment of truth.

A hush fell over the staging area as the atomic clock reached t-minus ten seconds and counting. Apol glanced at the scientists and military brass around him. These ignorant humans have no idea what’s going on, he thought. They stand here foolishly watching, as if some magic Santa sleigh were about to be turned on. Well Santa’s coming all right, and he knows who’s been naughty and nice. He knows, and the nice are going to die.

With the insertion of the key, Apol’s plan to compel a New World Order would begin. The “alien invasion” was only hours away, and with it a global crisis brought on by mass panic and fear of the unknown. The Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) would suspend the constitution, and martial law would be imposed. Then the UFO presence would thrust upon the world’s leaders the need for representation. That’s when Apol would emerge as the alien’s ambassadorial choice. His prominence and power would become universal, undisputed.

It was the perfect setup—the making of a global police state in which he would become a god. It was the kind of great deception he imagined Henry Kissinger had envisioned, when at the 1991 Bilderberger Conference in Evians, France, Kissinger reportedly said, “Today, America would be outraged if U.N. troops entered Los Angeles to restore order. Tomorrow they will be grateful! This is especially true if they were told that there were an outside threat from beyond, whether real or promulgated, that threatened our very existence. It is then that all peoples of the world will plead for deliverance from this evil. The one thing every man fears is the unknown. When presented with this scenario, individual rights will be willingly relinquished for the guarantee of their well-being granted to them by the World Government.”

It was a good plan. A perfect plan. One that was about to become reality.

Suddenly from the hangar floor, General Layton, watching the atomic clock, signaled that the time had come by motioning to a soldier standing on the hydraulic platform, who nodded to a technician standing just inside the ETV, who gave thumbs up to Apol Leon at the console.

Apol lifted the Nibiruan Key and kissed it pontifically, then slid it into the ancient receptacle and joined his hands to his lips, as if in a prayer gesture.

The assembly on the hangar floor froze, contemplating every possibility.

A presence moved through the ship and licked the side of Apol’s face.

He blushed.

Then the ozone charged with static and crawled over the officials, raising the hair on the tops of their arms. A faint sound, barely discernable, began bowing and thumping like a kettledrum in the distance.

Those in the ship thought they saw something, then moved back, as slowly a throbbing blackness, pulsating like an ebony ball, materialized between the four columns of the Enigma. The orb swelled and collapsed in sync to the pistonlike sounds, its skin undulating like a soap bubble, rolling and swirling as if it were alive, breathing and dancing to the echoing rhythm of some unfathomable universe.



One hundred and twenty miles away, a senior technician on duty at the U.S. Air Force’s top-secret Satellite Control Facility was glancing over his Outdoorsman magazine when he unexpectedly caught sight of something unusual on his SCF monitor. Whatever it was, it looked ablaze. He dropped from his reclined position and rolled his chair toward the screen. “Somebody find the colonel,” he said a second later. “Tell him to get in here…quick.”

The sergeant tossed the magazine aside and readjusted the cameras to optimize mapping sensitivity. An early-warning satellite was reporting anomalous changes both inside and outside Earth’s atmosphere, unlike anything the senior tech had seen before.

He changed the RTC settings and raced outside to look at the sky.

Nothing unusual could be verified visually.

He returned to his station and stared at the monitor again. The huge flare was growing, indicating incredible temperature increases.

Why the instruments were reporting what his eyes could not substantiate was a mystery. As far as the computer was concerned, the sky was on fire, burning through and coming apart like a rip in the fabric of space.

“Dadgummit!” he said impatiently, “Where’s the watch commander!?”

Just then the colonel raced into the room. “What is it, Sergeant!?”

“We’ve got unknown acquisitions, sir…take a look at this.”

Quick-stepping to the remote tracking computer, the colonel leaned over the sergeant’s shoulder. The screen was detailing a rapidly expanding redness.

“Are you mapping this?” he questioned.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is it monochromatic? Oriental bird flashing?” he asked, insinuating that the Chinese might be pointing a laser at the satellite to confuse the Americans.

“It’s no laser, sir.”

The colonel stepped backwards, still watching the screen as he picked up the hot line to NORAD.

The commander-in-chief at the North American Aerospace Defense Command Center answered. “CINC-NORAD.”

“This is Cricket Control,” the Colonel said. “KH-20 is picking up massive energy readings. Do you have unscheduled thermals?”

“We have activity from terrestrial to celestial.”

“To celestial?”


“How wide?”

“From the blue to the red planet.”

“Are you certain?”


“What is it? Heat?”


“Solar flare?”


“What, then?”

“We cannot substantiate the cause at this time, Colonel, but whatever it is…it’s growing exponentially. Cricket is to continue coordination of SGLS auto-tracking and range/range data to Mission Control.”

“Roger that,” the Colonel said, and hung up.

At the computer, the senior tech was mumbling under his breath, “M-maybe Hell opened its mouth to let us peek inside.”


He looked at the Colonel apprehensively. “Something Grandma told me…something from the Bible.”

“What’s your grandma’s Bible got to do with this, Sergeant?”

“She said in the last days Hell would open and a great furnace with bug-headed demons would crawl out of it…or something like that…”

“Hell! Bugs! Stop acting stupid, Sergeant, and readjust those satellite settings!”

“Y-yes, sir.”




Three hours later OGS Maintenance Director Kevin Thompson stumbled from the MISS air lock and fell flat on his face in the Martian terrain. He was drunk as a skunk and evidently thought it was funny. At least he’d remembered to put on his Extravehicular Mobility Unit (EMU) spacesuit before venturing outside the Inhabitable Structure.

Managing to get back on his feet, he began singing a song by Don McLean.

Did you write the book of love…and do you believe in God above…’cause the Bible tells you so?…And do you believe in Rock and Roll…can music save your mortal soul…and can you teach me how to dance real slow?…

Inside the MISS, the sound engineer who was watching Kevin turned his helmet-cam and microphone off. Kevin’s singing was awful, and the cam’s recording of the prehistoric Avenue of the Dead passing erratically beneath his feet was as boring as it could get. Kevin had taken his turn at perimeter check a thousand times before and hadn’t needed any help. He could do it this time without being monitored, even if he was as drunk as everybody else planned on getting.

Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack Flash sat on a candle stick, ’cause fire is the devil’s only friend.… And as I watched him on the stage…my hands were clenched in fists of rage…no angel born in hell could break that Satan’s spell…


Moving silently near the south side of the Great Mars Pyramid, the ground responded to the human insertion of the Nibiruan Key by gliding open and spewing acrid smoke into the Martian atmosphere. Quetzalcoatl, that hoary dragon that had relished the sacrifice of tens of thousands of ancient earthlings, peered menacingly up from the abyss. It had been imprisoned there during the Great War with Michael, the chief prince of Israel. Now it detected an approaching heartbeat and smiled demonically, warmed by the notion that business was about to resume. Heartbeats were such a delightful thing, especially when ripped from the chest and offered in sacrifice to the Feathered Serpent.

Quetzalcoatl heard singing.

And as the flames climbed high into the night…to light the sacrificial rite…I saw Satan laughing with delight…the day the music died…

Spontaneously he raced from his prison, his vast serpentine belly slithering along the ancient stone-way so meticulously aligned with the Dog Star Sirius, honing in on the vulnerable lush.


Kevin thought he saw something moving in the middle of the ancient city, near the Well of Sacrifice. Was it a set of eyes? Crouching, sliding along the ground? Nah, couldn’t be. Too big! Plus nothing could survive outside an EMU anyway.

And in the streets the children screamed…the lovers cried and the poets dreamed…but not a word was spoken…the church bells all were broken…And the three men I admire most…the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost…they caught the last train for the coast…the day the music died…


Quetzalcoatl waited until Kevin floundered inside the City Center, to the area near the prehistoric flat-topped Pyramid and the gigantic Chacmool altar where human abductees were brought by the Grays and sacrificed to the god. He waited and remembered the sweet taste of blood, thick and satisfying like summer honey upon his forked tongue.

Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie.… Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry.… Them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye…singing this’ll be the day that I die.… This’ll be the day that I die…

Quetzalcoatl circled Kevin, closing to within several yards before charging him. The demon raised its ten-foot-wide head and leered into the inebriated eyes. Kevin teetered as if trying to decide what he was looking at, but was too late. In a flash Quetzalcoatl clamped his razor-like incisors around his right arm, biting through the tender meat and cutting off the appendage at the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. Kevin reacted as if he was so drunk he didn’t realize what had happened.

“H-hey! Whad’s goin’ on?” he slurred, trying to set up and attempting to use both arms. He flailed sideways as the poisonous atmosphere began seeping in around the missing arm’s stub, taking his breath away.

Quetzalcoatl leaned forward and smiled, allowing Kevin to focus on the arm piece dangling from his mouth.

Kevin looked confused, then burst into screaming as he began kicking at the demon, bouncing rocks and dust off the monster’s scaly hide.

Trembling with delight, Quetzalcoatl laughed and chewed the mouthful of arm, grinding it in his teeth. His nocturnal eyes, dead and predatory, rolled up like a great white shark’s as he lurched forward and slurped the rest of Kevin’s body into his hyperextended jaws.

Turning violently, he dragged Kevin down the Avenue of the Dead, over the rough pathway toward the Chacmool, shredding his waist with his fangs as he went, deep enough to torture but not enough to kill him. Seconds later, near the ancient altar, he thrust his forked tongue into Kevin’s chest cavity and scooped out his heart, slapping it on the Chacmool with a crimson splash. Flipping the remainder of Kevin’s carcass into his hideously large gullet, he ground the human remains into oblivion.


An hour later, at Area 51’s Mission Control, a male voice crackled over the radio. “Omega Control, Omega Control. This is Outpost Alpha, do you copy?”

“This is Omega Control, Alpha, we copy.”

“Omega, this is a level-ten message. Repeat, a level ten, coded high priority.”

“Acknowledged, Alpha. You are clear to proceed with level-ten transmission.”

“Omega, we’ve got unknowns. Kevin Thompson is gone and we have mass tango movement near the city center.”

Tango, Alpha?”

“Mass tango movement. Betty Lou indicates one hundred sixty-four thousand dots and climbing,” the man said, meaning the MISS computer was picking up unknown life forms on the Martian terrain.

“Have you checked Betty Lou, is she operating correctly?”

“She is…and we have visual verification from the Great Pyramid cameras.”

“You’re sure the dots read organic…not mechanical or electrical?”

“Yes, sir. Looks like lava flowing out of the ground near the pyramid’s edge. Flowing up and breaking into organic strands. Cameras twenty-three through twenty-eight near the Face are also picking up ground movement, but no dots there yet.”

“And what about Kevin? You said he’s gone?”

“Nobody knows what happened to him, He simply disappeared. He was conducting a perimeter check when his tag went straight line. We’re still looking for his signal…thought we had a heartbeat earlier…could’ve been…eh…wait a minute.… Betty Lou says we’re at three hundred sixty-seven thousand dots at the pyramid now. Gains seem to be doubling every few seconds.”

“Do the signatures indicate random or intelligent movement?”

“I would say intelligent. Dots…eem to be oving toward the Face, the Cit…nter, and …oming…ward the MISS.”

“Say again, Alpha, you’re breaking up. Did you say the dots are moving toward the MISS?”


“Alpha, this is Omega Control, do you copy, over?”

“Alpha, do you read, this is Omega Control.”


“Alpha, say again.”


“Alpha, this is Omega Control. What is your situation?”

At once the microphone cracked and Omega Control heard what sounded like crunching, hissing, then gurgling and automatic weapons fire, a Russian briefly yelling profanities, and suddenly abrupt silence.

“Alpha, this is Omega Control, do you copy?… Alpha, do you copy?… Alpha, this is Omega Control, report please.… Alpha?”


Katherine was dreaming again, and for the first time her vision was different. As she hung from the cliff’s edge, looking out over the sea, the millions of apelike monstrosities swimming in the waters below her rose up and stood in uniform columns like soldiers preparing to march.

The great dragon came out of the waters too, metamorphosing into a strange yet desirable man wearing a ten-horned crown. He walked upon the water and sat down upon a coal black throne, facing the giant army. Speaking with the dragon’s voice, he said:

“Come forth flying serpents, you deceptive ones with your Gray legions. Come forth, for the time of my wrath is come. The humans have chosen the forbidden technology, and a body has been prepared me. I will be born the perditious son of their choosing. At their invitation I will walk the earth and enslave the Most High’s creation. I will reclaim my former glory, the glory I had when I governed the Galaxy, before the time of the Fall. I will revisit the stones of fire, Mars and Nibiru, and I will conquer those who wear my mark when I am called the Beast.”

Suddenly the sea divided and rolled back, revealing a subterranean world filled with fiery-eyed serpents crawling atop each other inside a hidden chaos. Katherine watched as the reptiles transmogrified into well-dressed men in black suits. The MIB crawled from the pit and took command positions in front of the giant army. Dark glasses covered their elliptical eyes, but couldn’t hide what Katherine knew—the men in black were reptilian demons. Reptilian demons were men in black. What did that mean?

She awoke, and screamed. A man in a black suit stood over her.

“Now you and the other cow ssshall come with me,” Apol Leon slurred with a demented grin.


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