Sign up for email updates!



Share this!

“The first conclusion is that [unknown] supersonic aircraft are operating over the US. Secondly, we may conclude that the USAF and other services either cannot identify them, or that they are misleading the public because the operations are secret.”

“In Search of the Pentagon’s Hidden Budgets,” International Defense Review, 5-18-01


They moved secretly, quickly, methodically, driven by convictions and by the consortium’s mandates. They were Operation Gadfly’s assassins, and by 7:40 am their horrible duty had begun.

In Jerusalem, a window slid sideways at the home of Dr. Abraham Wiesel, a leading Nephilim geneticist and proponent of the New World Order. Mr. Wiesel had just finished eating when a silencer-readied 9mm FN Browning Hi-Power—favorite of the British SAS—pointed through the kitchen window and fired once, accomplishing the operative’s mission.

In China’s capital city of Beijing, the limousine driver that transported Ouyang Fung home from the Imperial Chinese Banquet opened the door and coughed in Ouyang’s face. The Nephilim Army Commander jumped from the vehicle, infuriated by the man’s action, and demanding an apology. The driver bowed over and over, asking for mercy and daubing the droplets of spittle from Ouyang’s cheek with his handkerchief. Yet he knew the true nature of his offense. Within twenty-four hours the commander would be dead from a pathogen-loaded virus.

Near Portland, Oregon, Phobos stood over the body of a scientist. The man had not been scheduled to die this soon but had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had challenged the wrong man. Even at his age, Phobos was the master of the quick, silent kill. He had cut the would-be informer off in midsentence, thrusting the heel of his powerful right palm against the researcher’s nose, exploding his facial bones and hemorrhaging his brain. The blond-haired man’s eyes were still open, staring up with astonishment. Next to him, in the maintenance room where Phobos had dragged his body, a light was blinking atop a one-kiloton SAMM suitcase nuclear warhead.


While the consortium’s assassins took out scientists and government officials in the League of Ten Nations, Father Malachi Malina, who was supposed to have flown to Washington DC to meet his family at the Basilica before fleeing the USA, had been detained at the Portland Airport. Now he was at police headquarters where two detectives working the Corsivino-Pitzer homicide were questioning him. The detectives were playing good-cop/bad-cop, with the “bad” one insisting that Malina was a person of interest in the murders.

Several times during the Q-and-A, Father Malina detected little “tells” in the questioning, voice inflections and inferences that led him to conclude that the department was actually on a fishing expedition. They—or somebody powerful enough to give them orders—were looking for information related to Malina’s Montero connection. The threat of a murder charge or complicity to such was simply an interrogation tool, a psy-ops trick to find out…what?…that he was part of an anti-UFO-alien-Nephilim-let’s-invite-the-Antichrist-to-take-over-the-world group? Of course he was, but they didn’t know anything beyond that, he was sure of it.

Still, Corsivino was dead, and that might mean somebody somewhere had smelled a rat. Or a fly? An Operation Gadfly?

“Get you some more coffee, Father?” Good Cop said, pointing to the Bunn-O-Matic near the candy machine. Good Cop was a solidly built, brown-eyed detective with a politician’s poise.

Father Malina sat at an oblong table near the opposite end of the small dark room with a one-way mirror on his left side and Bad Cop on his right. A single lamp near the coffee machine was strategically positioned to cast the desired shadows.

“Sure, thank you,” he said. The first cup of coffee was lousy but better than nothing.

Good Cop filled the styrofoam container with more of the gritty drink and returned to the table. He handed the Jesuit the twelve-ouncer and grinned sympathetically.

Bad Cop, an intimidating ex-Golden-Gloves heavyweight champion turned police investigator watched the priest as he sipped from the steaming receptacle, then continued the interrogation. “So let me get this straight,” he said with a rough Brooklyn accent. “You don’t know anything ’bout the murder of Dr. Corsivino or how he wound up in southeast Portland, eh?”

“I do not.”

The gravelly-voiced cop took a long drag on his Winston cigarette, watched the end of it glow red, then blew the mouthful of smoke in Malina’s direction. “I suppose you don’t know anything ’bout this Dave Pitzer fella either, huh, or his antigovernment preoccupations?”

“I already told you, I don’t.”

“So we’re supposed to believe that you, a close friend of the conspirator Corsivino, and a man who made it his business to challenge government agencies…even going so far as to be fired from a local government contractor I might add…knew nothing about Corsivino’s trip to the…wha’d you call it?” Bad Cop said, looking at Good Cop.

“The Gray Hideaway.”

“You knew nothing ’bout his recent and fateful trip to this local terrorist hideout?”

Whereas Malina knew that Corsivino was coming to Portland on the day that he died, his trip to southeast Portland and to the so-called Gray Hideaway was an unplanned digression that neither Malina nor the other members of the consortium were aware of until after the murder. Therefore he answered honestly when he responded, “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, I don’t know anything about this Green Hideaway or Andrew’s trip to it.”

Bad Cop leaned across the table, so close that Father Malina could smell the blend of coffee and nicotine on his breath. “It’s called the Gray Hideaway…and don’t get cute with me, buddy. A little cooperation could go a long way at resolving this issue.”

Good Cop placed his hand on Bad Cop’s shoulder, pulled him back, and sat down beside him. “Father,” he said, “if it’s okay with you, let’s leave this point for a moment, and let me ask you about a couple of other people. Would that be okay? Are you comfortable? Do you need to go to the bathroom or to stretch your legs first?”

Malina knew this was a game. He could play too. “I’m fine.”



“Good. Now then. What, if anything, can you tell me about a professor of history named Donald Jones, a local teacher of theology who’s also known as ‘Indy’?”

“Don’t know anything about the man,” he said.

“Are you sure? Think now, because this is very important. Our investigation shows that Dr. Corsivino was in the presence of this man on the day that he died.”

“Like I said, I don’t know him.”

“All right, that’s fine. How about a local businessman named Nathan Reel? Ever heard of him? He seems to have come up missing.”


“What about the Ryback family—Joe, Sheri, Allie…any of those names ring a bell?”

“I’ve never met any of them,” he said, which was technically true. Malina hoped Good Cop wouldn’t press this question, for he certainly knew about Joe and Sheri’s situation.

As if detecting the subtlety, Good Cop glanced quickly at Bad Cop, then back at Malina. He held his poker face and spoke softly. “I see. What about Phobos? Does that sound familiar? Know anything about the name Phobos?”

Malina smiled. “Sure, it was a Soviet probe…or actually two probes. The Phobos One, which disappeared on approach to the Phobos Moon, and Phobos Two, which was sent as a replacement probe to establish geosynchronous orbit around Mars. Its mission was to provide infrared imaging of the Martain moon. Instead, it photographed what many believe to be a fifteen-mile-long UFO above the dead rock. Curiously, it disappeared just like the first probe on March…”

“That’s interesting, Father,” Good Cop interrupted. “But it’s not what I meant. I’m curious about a particular man, somebody whose allegiance to certain underground agencies might have led to the murder of Dr. Corsivino and Dave Pitzer. We believe he goes by the code-name Phobos.”

Malina answered with subtlety again, this time a double entendre. “I’m unable to identify any such person,” he said, inferring one thing but meaning another. He knew Phobos had nothing to do with the murders, and he was constrained by his pledge not to give him up.

Suddenly Bad Cop leaned over and whispered something in Good Cop’s ear. Perhaps he knew what Malina was doing. The two officers got up and walked to a wall at the far end of the interrogation area. They spoke in hushed tones until at one point Malina thought he heard them whispering about “holding him for further questioning.” He knew they could. Ever since that awful day in New York City, when Osama bin Laden’s al- Qaida network crashed two airliners into the World Trade Center’s twin towers, police authority to detain anybody suspected of “terrorism” had been greatly expanded.

He glanced at his watch. Soon, the suitcase nuclear warhead would detonate beneath Montero, creating a diminutive earthquake throughout the Portland area.

Then it dawned on him. The imminent jolt might produce a distraction, a small chance to escape. If he could stall the detectives, prolong the Q-and-A and divert the subject around Phobos until the SAMM imploded, he might have a chance to run from the building during the confusion.

“Maybe I can explain something that might have contributed to Corsivino’s murder,” he said coolly to the detectives. “It has to do with his and my opposition to a New World Order. It has to do with what we believe is the real power operating behind the governments of this world.”

Malina needed to be cautious. He wasn’t sure if the detectives understood the truth about Montero. They might be legitimate homicide investigators—good men, just doing their jobs. On the other hand, they might be Montero pawns. Their questions about Phobos had made him wonder. It wouldn’t surprise him if they were. Government “black operations” projects often employed local and national law enforcement personnel on a limited basis. He needed to play his cards right. Keep Good-Cop/Bad-Cop talking, stay out of the holding cell, and be ready when the earth moved.

“I’m listening,” Bad Cop said, walking back to the table and sitting down. Good Cop followed and remained standing, watching Malina’s facial expressions as he spoke.


On the opposite side of the one-way mirror, a Man in Black was near the glass listening to the interrogation of Father Malina and waiting to see if the priest would give up the identity of Phobos. The MIB’s opinion was that Malina would never squeal. Men like him were always willing to suffer imprisonment for what they believed in. He didn’t need to hear any more of the interrogation to understand something else, too—the priest was stonewalling, and that probably wasn’t going to change. He lit a cigarette and pulled a cell phone from his pocket, dialed it, and listened as the phone on the other end of the line rang.


“Are either of you gentlemen religious?” Father Malina surprised the two cops by asking.

Bad Cop huffed sarcastically and shook his head. “Well, Father, It depends on who’s asking, and what her hair color is.”

Good Cop frowned at Bad Cop, then looked at the priest. “I’m Catholic, Father, although it’s been a while since my last confession.”

“Then you are aware of the idea of literal Evil? Of a real, personal Devil?”

“Yes, Father.”

“What about the book of Revelation and the possibility of Armageddon?”


Malina didn’t know if Good Cop was being honest, but said, “Well, I believe Dr. Corsivino died for his belief in such things.”

“Why do you say that, Father? Was he also a Catholic?”

“No. He was Protestant, a charismatic, but his belief about certain global objectives—things he believed was being carried out by humans in league with devils—undoubtedly led to his murder.”

Malina could tell Good Cop was intrigued.

“It starts with a theory, you see, an idea that Dr. Corsivino and I happen to agree with. We both believe the Kingdom of Darkness has been historically overspiritualized.”

Malina was sure that, coming from a priest, this comment would sound peculiar.

Good Cop took the bait. “What do you mean…overspiritualized?”

“I mean that people tend to perceive angels and demons as lacking physical or scientific ability. Technology is often viewed as only a human trait. Yet everything we see in Scripture leads us to believe that God made all creatures instinctively capable of some level of mechanics. Whether it’s spiders weaving traps, ants building colonies, or humans building factories and flying machines, God made all living things inherently creative. Does that suggest that He also made angels capable of advancing technology?”

Malina hesitated, stalling for time but pretending to want an answer.

“I don’t know, Father, perhaps,” Good Cop said.

“Well certainly it does. In fact, Romans 1:20 tells us that the invisible things of God are understood by the things we can see. Such Scriptures lead me to believe that Lucifer and his angels had technology at their disposal before the Genesis creation, and probably developed it to a level so far above human ingenuity as to appear ‘supernatural.’”

“You mean the angels manufactured physical objects…like buildings and machines?”

“That and more, probably. Ancient books and archaeology support the notion that prehistoric Luciferian angels created cities, including extraplanetary ones, and even unconventional weapons in their quest to overthrow God. They manufactured advanced, combat flying machines, which they used in the Great War against God and His creation.”

Bad Cop had been silent to this point. Now he scoffed, took another drag on his cigarette, and, as the smoke leaked from his nicotine-tainted lips, said, “What a fairy tale. All that Bible stuff was written by a bunch of tired old Jews trying to scare their enemies with claims of a mighty God, and you know it.”

Malina’s brow dropped. “As a matter of fact, I don’t. This is a solid, universal story. Cultures from around the world documented the event I’m referring to—Sumerians, Egyptians, Greeks, and the Hebrews. Even the ancient Chinese told of a primeval war involving ‘flying carts.’ A sanskrit text, the Drona Parva, actually documented ‘dogfights’ by the angels in their flying machines.”

“So a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far away, a war was fought b’tween the Klingons and the Vulcans, eh,” Bad Cop sneered. “And who won this war of yours, Father? Luke Skywalker? No, let me guess. It was God! Right!?”

“As a matter of fact it was, my friend. God defeated Lucifer and his rebellious angels and cast them out of the planetary belt over which they had governed for eons, from an area the prophet Ezekiel called ‘the stones of fire.’ He cast them down and forbade them to use their technology again. Following that, Lucifer’s implements of war were outlawed.”

“So that was the end of Battlestar Galactica!”

“Well, it certainly put a kink in the use of Lucifer’s science for a while,” Malina said, refusing to let the officer unnerve him. “But the book of Revelation tells us that another war, a modern battle between Good and Evil, called Armageddon, is coming. At that battle Satan will have nothing left to lose. I believe he’ll pull out all the stops and reuse the forbidden technology. That’s when the Antichrist will come, and the advanced, physical war machines of Lucifer will fly again.”

Bad Cop shook his head as if to pity such ignorance. “Father,” he said flatly. “Where are you going with this mumbo jumbo? Does this have anything to do with our investigation?”

“Don’t you see, my son, it has everything to do with your investigation. Dr. Corsivino was killed for his belief that Satan is working in league with evil men and fallen angels to manufacture the Endgame. He believed that the earth is facing imminent war against such technology. Evidently somebody agreed, and had him killed to conceal it.”

Bad Cop rose from his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh they did, did they? Well if this Antichrist is coming, and the Bible predicted it, how could Corsivino have stopped it from happening anyway? Isn’t that a contradiction?”

“Not necessarily.”


“The spirit of Antichrist has been around since the Crucifixion, always pushing to come into the world. Every generation sees his attempt at incarnation, his Caligula or Hitler. Until sufficient numbers of mankind embrace his arrival, however, God will make a way to overcome his evil plan. In each age it is our responsibility to fight the Darkness and to embrace the Light.”

Bad Cop uncrossed his arms and snuffed his cigarette out. He put the stub of it in his shirt pocket and walked to the door. “And wit’ that, I think I’ve heard about all the nonsense I can stand.”



Behind the police department’s one-way mirror, the Man in Black pulled back from the glass, whispering into the cell phone, “Whatever the priest knows, he isn’t saying. I would go with your first impression concerning Phobos if I were you. Frankly, he’s the only one I know that has sufficient security clearance and widespread knowledge of the participants. As you know, General, he’s always been resistant to the Reindeer program. My bet is, he’s your man.”

The voice on the other end of the line said, “All right then,” and hung up.


Moments later the phone rang at Montero’s security office. The officer on duty picked up the receiver. “Security, this is Paul.”

“Paul, this is General Layton. I’m in flight to Portland and need to know if Admiral Stark is on the premises.”

“Just a sec, sir,” the security officer said. He punched the Admiral’s name into the computer keypad. “Yes, it appears he checked in first thing this morning.”

“Do you know where he’s located currently?”

“I’m afraid that’s an unknown, sir. He’s not wearing a locator; as you know most high-ranking officers don’t. I can have him paged if you like.”

“I don’t want him paged, Paul; I want him arrested. I’m ordering you to put him under guard and to hold him until my arrival.”

There was a slight pause, then, “Arrest Admiral Stark, sir?”

“That’s what I said, Paul. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, sir, General. Does this have anything to do with the security breach we are experiencing at the moment?”

“What security breach?”

“We have an unknown on the premises. A young man on Level Twenty. The SOF team has been dispatched and should have him in custody in a minute or two. We know where he is. He won’t make it far.”

In a quick harsh whisper, Layton said, “Well for Pete’s sake, Paul, make sure you contain that situation. Place the highest priority on this. It could be a national security issue. And find Admiral Stark!”

“Yes, sir. We’ll confront the Admiral ASAP. I’ll also post extra men at the gate. Call you as soon as we have him, sir? On your mobile?”

“No…that’s unnecessary. I’ll be there in a little while anyway. Just be sure…”

Layton paused.

“Yes, sir?”

“Be sure to put your best men on this. Don’t try arresting Stark with rookies. Don’t underestimate him.”

“Yes, sir, General Layton.”

Layton turned the cell phone off and considered what he had ordered. Arresting a decorated war hero and personal friend of the president could be political suicide.

God help us if Admiral Stark is not Phobos, he thought.

A moment later, reflecting on the situation, he reassessed that opinion. Actually…God help us if he is.


Category: Featured, Featured Articles