Joyce opened a liquor cabinet and poured herself a drink. “MJ-12 used to be a science-dominated entity. Once the military industrial complex took over in the late 1950s, they began recruiting primarily from the Council on Foreign Relations, the Trilateral Commission, and the Bilderberg Group. This ensured MAJI would be controlled by a three-headed monster made up of the banks, the military, and Big Oil. Council’s agenda is now entirely driven by money. Money buys weapons, weapons keep the oil flowing, oil generates money.”
Joyce drained half her glass, then topped it off again before returning the vodka to its cabinet. “I did some checking… Your fiancé is investigating the $100 billion a year that gets lost in the Defense Department’s USAPs. He’s right when he says that’s the tip of the iceberg. MAJI’s annual budget is easily over a trillion dollars.”
Jessica reached for the ice pack, pressing it again to her throbbing head. “A trillion dollars every year? What do they spend it on?”
“Half that money is spent on maintaining these subterranean complexes, another thirty percent is payroll. What’s amazing is the effectiveness of compartmentalizing everything; the majority of the recipients have no idea who they’re working for. Then there’s the religious fanatics, the hired killers, the media, and of course, the politicians. MAJI’s tentacles are everywhere; they’re in the West Wing, on Capitol Hill, inside the Pentagon, the intelligence services, private industry… British Parliament. It’s metastatic cancer, and as Eisenhower feared, it’s grown completely out of control.”
“Where do even they get that kind of money?”
“If I told you that, it would make you physically ill.”
“I’m already physically ill; tell me.”
The captain nodded. “They sell everything… from cocaine and heroin… to women and children. They support rebel forces and sell them guns. They support dictators and terrorists in order to steal their nation’s resources. Most of all, they profit off of endless warfare that has been going on non-stop for forty-plus years. Saddam, Gaddafi, Osama bin Laden… now ISIS. It was our intelligence agencies who recruited and armed those lunatics.”
“Nine-eleven?”
“Please. Do you really believe nineteen Saudi hijackers who could barely operate a crop duster managed to take out their targets while outmaneuvering the most powerful air force in history? Dick Cheney’s been a high-ranking member of MAJI since before you were born; he was running war game exercises the morning of 9/11 that placed fake hijacked blips on the FAA’s screens, using them to divert the F-16 interceptors.”
Joyce drained her glass. “Iraq was all about oil, but not in the way you think. MAJI didn’t want the crude; they just wanted to control the flow in order to set the market. Afghanistan, of course is about heroin, a product controlled by the CIA and delivered by MAJI.” She glanced at her husband. “If you knew how they were delivering it…”
“Of course,” the captain said, cutting her off, “none of that compares to the next war they’ve been planning for more than thirty years.”
“Okay… enough,” Joyce snapped. “We have a major problem with this Chris Mull character. Where’s the zero-point device now?”
“I don’t know.” Jessica said, feeling queasy. “He managed to sneak it out of the Hive using the food services. When I order room service tonight the unit will be concealed within one of the serving dishes. I’m then supposed to wait until 2:30 in the morning and bring it to you.”
“It’s a set-up,” the captain stated. “Once you leave your apartment with the zero-point unit they’ll have you on video. That removes Mull from the equation and implicates you. From that moment on, you’re Mull’s pawn. He’ll be able to do whatever he wants with you. Trust me when I say this… there are some pretty sick individuals working down here.”
Feeling the bile rising in her esophagus, Jessica pushed past Joyce LaCombe and hurried down a short hall. Quickly locating the bathroom, she dropped to her knees before the toilet and wretched.
27
It was after ten p.m. by the time Adam and his new personal bodyguard, Hershel Eugene Evans, arrived at the Greenbelt apartment. It took the former Air Force Tech Sergeant twenty minutes to tap into the building’s security system cameras, allowing him to observe the parking lot, entrance, stairwells and elevators on his laptop computer.
The two men were in the middle of gorging on take-out Chinese food when the intercom buzzed, indicating a guest was waiting outside the building entrance.
Adam checked the small security screen by the front door; Eugene his laptop. “Captain, you know this guy?”
“Yeah. It’s my old boss.”
Dr. Michael Kemp looked tired. At 10:52 at night, this was hardly a social call.
Adam tossed an old army blanket over the Kemp Aerospace cardboard boxes stacked behind his sofa before opening the door. “Michael, what are you doing here?”
“Cut the bullshit and let me in.” The CEO of Kemp Aerospace Industries pushed his way inside, pausing when he spotted the armed man seated at the kitchen table. “Who’s this?”
“An old military buddy. Eugene Evans, Dr. Michael Kemp.”
“Adam, is there someplace we can talk in private?”
“Balcony or the bedroom; take your pick.”
“It’s starting to rain.”
Eugene grabbed his plate. “Talk here, I can eat in the bedroom.”
Kemp waited until the bodyguard had closed the bedroom door. “What the hell are you doing to me? I set up a division of my company to develop the prosthetic device you’re wearing; I paid you well. Is this how you repay me — by accusing Kemp Aerospace of subcontracting illegal projects? By threatening the defense contractors who feed us their scraps?”
“Michael—”
“You stabbed me in the back, Adam. And for what? Because you found a few bookkeeping discrepancies? Why didn’t you come to me first? I would have explained those black op projects were funded by the CIA. I know you’re new to the job, but the Central Intelligence Agency is not required to open their books to the goddam Under Secretary of Defense — Comptroller.”
“Do you think I just fell off the back of a turnip truck, Michael? Pahute Mesa is not a CIA project. Neither are the Groom Lake nor Dreamland MOCs. Those names correspond to something entirely different and you know it. And just because billions in funding were wired out of a CIA account doesn’t it make it acceptable or legal.”
“So that’s it then? You’re going to shut me down?”
“No. I was planning on granting you immunity to testify as part of the whistleblower program.”
“Screw your damn whistleblower program. Do you think Lockheed or SAIC or any of the majors will touch us after you subpoena them? You’ll make Kemp Aerospace radioactive. You’ll get nothing out of them, and you’ll get nothing out of me.”
“If that’s the case then why are you here?”
“I’m here as an emissary. The powers that be are willing to give you a sneak peek behind the curtain in exchange for your cooperation. They’ve asked me to invite you to a special meeting scheduled for next Tuesday evening at 7 p.m. at the Wrigley Mansion in Phoenix, Arizona. I suggest you hear them out.”
“Tell them I accept, on one condition: I want Jessica at the meeting.”
“Dr. Marulli, we’re outside your suite. I need you to open your eyes for the retinal scan. Dr. Marulli?” The nurse leaned over the wheelchair and gently squeezed Jessica’s shoulders until she opened her eyes—