Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

“Who’s payin’ for all this?” Olin Simmons asked. Throughout this break from the executive meeting he’d been salivating over the sights of the expanding base like a diabetic at a doughnut store.

“This?” Landers said. “For the men I report to, as spending goes this is a drop in the ocean. And the wealthy don’t waste; compared to the fortunes to be had when this is over they’re making a very small investment here.”

“Tell you what, I never would have thought it was all about money.”

“It’s not—at least not in the way you and I think of money. They each already have more money than a million men could squander in a lifetime. Money, and land, and gold, and works of art—even whole governments—those are all just things to be collected and compared, like the notches on your bedpost. They’re a simple way to keep score so they can prove who’s won in the end.”

The other man took a step closer and leaned against the railing. “Who are these people, the ones at the top, the ones you work for? You can’t tell me, can you?”

“I’m sure you’d be disappointed.”

“Try me.”

“On paper, I work for a gentleman named Arthur Gardner.”

“And he’s in the New World Order, am I right? Or the Bilderbergers? Or the CFR?”

Landers smiled. “He’s in public relations.”

“Public relations?”

“He runs a multinational firm called Doyle & Merchant.”

“Doyle & Merchant.” Simmons pronounced the names as though they left an unmanly taste in his mouth. “Sounds like a couple of San Francisco rump-wranglers.”

“Be that as it may. You can believe it or not, but as much as any single force in human history they’ve shaped the world you live in, and the world that’s about to come.”

“What with, words and pretty pictures?” He spat again. “You’re right. I don’t believe it.”

“Of course you don’t,” Landers said. “And they wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Another lackey came to the balcony and informed the two that Mr. Pierce was almost ready now for the conference to resume.

Olin Simmons let out a sigh, cracked his neck, and started for the door, but Landers stopped him.

“Tell me something,” Landers said. “Are you ready for more?”

“Sure. I’m not much of a man for meetings, but this one’s blowin’ my mind—”

“No,” Landers interrupted, and he made a subtle show of looking behind him and through the open door to ensure they were alone. “What I mean, Olin, is that a time may come soon when I need more from you. And I want to know if you’ll be ready to step up and do what needs to be done when I ask you.”

Simmons pocketed his tobacco pouch and considered that for a moment. “When you ask me what?” By the sly tone of this question it was already clear he had an inkling of its answer.

“I have to trust in the leadership I leave in charge here,” Landers said. “I’m talking about Mr. Pierce, and his future with us. Just watch while we’re in there, and you’ll see what I’m seeing. Everyone must serve their purpose, and I need to decide how faithfully he’s going to serve his. Be ready to give me your counsel before I leave.”

Landers put out his right hand, and after a thoughtful moment Olin Simmons took it with a firm shake and all the gravity appropriate to the pledge of a new allegiance.

Chapter 14

Before the final session of their pre-deployment conference could resume, word arrived at the Pierce compound that the remains of two men had been found, identified, and recovered from the adjacent woods.

These had been a pair of the organization’s best commandos, both sent out in pursuit of Molly Ross on the night of her recent escape. A third was still missing in action—the nineteen-year-old nephew of the little General himself—and considering the fate of the other two and the amount of time that had passed without contact, it was only realistic to presume this young man to be dead at the enemy’s hands as well.

As Warren Landers returned to the meeting room the other attendees were still milling about on their break, grumbling about the dismal news from the field. George Pierce sat alone, deep in study at the head of the table, with unfolded maps and a ream of handwritten notes spread around him. A Bible lay open to its final pages nearby. He continued this way, seemingly engaged in his own intrigues even after the assembly was called back to order.

Throughout the night, Landers laid out the details of the nationwide tactical plan.

Their orders were simple enough for men of this class to understand and carry out; no real comprehension of the broader design was required. Timing and orchestration would be the key to their role in this coup d’état, like the sequenced detonations of a controlled demolition. Without such an underlying scheme, in fact, if executed randomly and one by one these small assignments he gave might have little impact on a prepared and courageous public.

Fortunately, prepared and courageous was not the trending status of the modern American people.

Many thoughtful decades had been devoted to sinking deep faults into the foundation of what was once the home of the brave. Though a sad minority still clung stubbornly to their gold, God, and guns, it was fear, dependence, and submission that had finally replaced the rickety illusions of faith and freedom at the heart of the last great nation to fall.

The strategy was sound, and he knew it would work because it always had. The principles of leveraged terror—problem-reaction-solution—had proven themselves since the ancient reign of Diocletian. Three hundred organized men can easily bring 300 million simpering cowards to their knees. Still, timing and precision were required at every step and nothing could be left to chance. Terrorism done wrong can awaken strength and unity in a population under attack, and that could quickly undo even the best-laid plans.

At appropriate points he opened the floor for discussion. For the most part the men were concerned with how, where, and when, leaving the all-important why in the hands of their new leadership. During these interchanges George Pierce continued to offer nothing but the occasional terse comment and a conspicuous lack of engagement.

Near dawn, as things were winding down, two men arrived at the conference room door. One carried the duffel bag that had been found earlier; the tags attached showed it had been forensically processed, as Landers had ordered. At a gesture from Landers the bag was brought over and slid onto the table near him.

The second man went directly to Pierce’s side to whisper into his ear. From across the room Landers could see the color rising in his face and when the message had been fully delivered the little man brought his fist down onto the bare wood with enough force to overturn a dozen water glasses nearby.

The meeting had come to a full stop and no one uttered a sound until he spoke.

“They found my nephew Billy Clark,” Pierce said softly. “And they found him dead.”

A long moment of silence ensued, apparently out of group respect for the dear departed. For Landers himself it had always been a particular annoyance to try to summon a show of sympathy when he felt none whatsoever. He took the opportunity to glance over the stapled paperwork that accompanied the canvas bag and that passed a bit of the time. After what seemed an appropriate interval he let out a deep, vocal breath and checked his watch. There was, after all, a schedule to keep.

This obvious prompt did not escape the notice of George Pierce. “Have you got somewhere you need to be?” he hissed.