The Great Deception

Prologue

Chapter 1: Flash Bang

Chapter 2: It’s a New World

Chapter 3: German Affairs

Chapter 4: Moldova

Chapter 5: Surprise

Chapter 6: It’s a Wrap

Chapter 7: Picked Up

Chapter 8: The Messenger

Chapter 9: Interrogation

Chapter 10: Road Trip

Chapter 11: Cerebrum Transfiguration
Surgery

Chapter 12: Getting Somewhere

Chapter 13: Winding Down

Epilogue

End

*You will be taken for a ride on several
layers of timelines. All at once.

Scorpion
leadership

• Howard
  —
  director-general of
  Scorpion/antichrist figure
  

• Maxwell
  —
  the False Prophet,
  Howard
  ’
  s right
  hand man
  

World Leaders

• Germany: President Lothar Kirsch
  

• England: Prime Minister Jasper Turpin
  

• Russia: President Igor Orloff
  

Free Republic of North
America

• President Alexander Toporvsky--leader of the
  FRN
  

(Free Republic of North America)

• Edmond
  Drezzler
  —
  VP of
  the FRN
  

• Donald
  Holiday
  —
  Director
  of CCC (Central Cyber Corps)
  

• Alfred Demsky--Director of Sentinel (FRN's
  intelligence agency)
  

• Ahmed
  Negler
  —
  National
  Security Advisor in the Toporvsky administration
  

• Edith
  Wharton
  —
  Secretary
  of State
  

FRN Security Forces Chain
of Command

• Gene
  Barker
  —
  Minister
  of Defense
  

• Base Commander Bill Rescheck over the Texas
  militia
  

• Base Commander Abraham Steffords over
  Eielson Air Force Base
  

• Brigadier-general Thomas Harding
  

• Mike
  Dumphrey
  —
  Air
  Boss
  

Alfonso
Marcello
—
Mossad
agent

Sofia
Keller
—
Interior
Minister of Germany

Amalia
—
Secretary of the Interior
Ministry

Wendel
—
Commissioner of the Interior
Ministry

Jabour
—
mysterious messenger

King Rehan Kahlil of the United Islamic
Caliphate

Seth
Markov
—
Mossad
agent

Baruch
—
Mossad agent

Tyrone
Banks
—
ex-Mossad

Azriel Markov

Esther

Stacy

Ephraim Markov (Malach Kemper)

"I have some visitors for you to see," the
rude awakening to pleasant dreams said.

What time was it? It didn't matter. Time was
irrelevant in the subterranean world of the Ozarks.

Heather yawned and stretched. She had only
been in her cell for a mere forty-eight hours, but to her it seemed
like she had already reached old age.

Heather squinted in the dim light to see who
was there to see her.

The guy on the left stood no more than five
foot eight she surmised. Something about him registered as French,
but she didn't know why. Heather had actually been a foreign
exchange student to France as a sixteenyear-old going through UK's
Post Sixteen education, similar to high school in America. Heather
chose silence over a warm reception of her visitors....Her mind,
actually quite distant from the four walls that trapped her. This
prompted the guard to get her attention. "Heather?"

She had learned so much about their storied
history. Not only that, but she also spent a few years of ecstasy
in the "City of Lights"...Paris. While there Heather became rather
fond of crusty bread and caf
é
cr
è
me (coffee served with hot cream) for
breakfast. She loved trundling along at a snail's pace with the
slow foot traffic along the narrow sidewalks, hearing the angry
honks of vespas and vendors shouting out to pedestrians, eager to
make a sale. It all seemed like a romantic reverie to her now.

"Heather?" the jailer's voice beckoned once
again, a little louder than the first time.

If only the black site had breakfast like
that
, she fantasized. It must have been that time of day, the
AM. Unless her biological clock and fantasies were so out of sync
with each other, Heather's stomach was convinced a meal of some
kind was in short order. Heck, anything would do for the hungry
woman in her hour of desperation. Prison rations--a spoon-full of
beans and rice-actually held some appeal to the starving prisoner
about now.

"I'm not gonna call you again," the angry
officer said reaching out with a night stick, ready to punish her
with it.

The snarky warden finally got through to
Heather.

Her head slowly swiveled to eye the other
stranger that stood at the entrance to her cell. He was much more
handsome than the French fellow. And younger!

She suddenly found her voice...it came out
in the form of a question.

"What's your name?"

Damion stared at her a little longer than he
should have. When she spoke all he saw was a pair of lips
moving.

Christophe next to him had been less
distracted by Heather's attractiveness. "I believe she just asked
you what your name is," he kindly prodded the billionaire for a
response.

"Huh, wha--?"

"What's your name?" Heather repeated the
question, this time staring full into Damion's face, her brown eyes
shining.

Damion almost had forgotten about Kara, the
news reporter he would have gone out with later in the week had it
not been for his current fate. Yet, for some reason she seemed less
and less enchanting in comparison to the woman before him. Her
British accent was...refreshing. Something about her made the
self-made, rich genius feel at peace. Kara only gave him an
overdose of nervous excitement he never quite grew accustomed to
much less comfortable with.

"Damion, Damion Westover," he shyly replied.
His green eyes couldn't maintain contact with Heather's when he
spoke to her. "What are they doing here?" Heather asked the warden
who still was there. He only shrugged and turned to leave. "You
have thirty minutes," he said over his shoulder to Damion and
Christophe.

Heather watched him walk down the hall and
disappear around the corner. Her gaze then returned to the pair of
men. They just stood there looking stupid and listless. Her mind
quickly thought up a good question to break the ice. "What charges
were you guys brought here on?

--

Mossad safe house: Barcelona, Spain

It is the second largest city in Spain,
largest commercial hub in Europe...with a population

of four million, not including the
metro…welcome to Barcelona.

Majestic Spanish cathedrals with their
towering minarets and buttresses sharply contrasted against the
modern glass and steel skyscrapers that made up the panorama of
Barcelona's skyline along the northeastern shore of the Iberian
Peninsula off the Mediterranean.

In the Fort Pienc neighborhood of the
Eixample district in the old part of the city, a vagrant stumbled
around, looking all pathetic. He dressed better than he was able to
afford even though his standard of living was well below the
poverty line.

His shifty eyes hid behind a pair of
oversized sunglasses. He wore a kerchief to cover his mess of hair.
Large golden earrings tugged at his earlobe's cartilage. Everything
else about him was normal. Whatever that was.

Alley cats hissed at him; stray dogs would
growl; and people either shunned him or pretended like he didn't
exist. For the latter, the poor man didn't know which was better.
That little saying that went something like you can't judge a book
by its cover? This soul was living proof of that. He existed to fly
in the face of man's empty appraisal of the outer appearance when
forming character judgments.

During the day he assumed the lowly status
of down-and-outer, drifter. By night he was a completely different
person with a different identity and everything. His daytime role
as a bum was the perfect cover for the clandestine services that he
performed. This was how he lived for many years after he
expatriated from Israel back in late 2029. Dekel Hornik was his
real name, however his Spanish alias was much cleverer than that.
They
called him Alfonso Marcello.

...

It was eleven o' clock in Barcelona on a
Wednesday morning. The sun smiled down on the Mediterranean coastal
city. The temperature rose to a crisp sixty-five degrees out, but
with the sun it felt warmer than the thermometer would lead one to
believe.

Alfonso walked by a row of street vendors,
offending the customers with his body odor.

His last shower had been three days prior.
Deodorant was a negative.

His final destination was a little secluded
park. In his hand he held a copy of
La Vanguardia
newspaper.
The mystery vagrant never actually read it, but looked the part,
posing in the park with his daily copy opened up somewhere towards
the business section. Nothing too strange or out of the ordinary
with that.

Blending in was easy. Reading a newspaper in
a park or tooling around town didn't require a degree in stealth
from Israel's intelligence agency, Mossad, whom he worked for.
However, staying off-grid when he was on assignment proved most
challenging.

--

Scorpion War Room:

Vandenberg AFB, California

Once the former home to the U.S. Air Force's
Space Command, Vandenberg Air Force Base now serves Scorpion as its
strategic war room location. The base is located near Lompoc,
California--a town of less than fifty thousand souls.

More importantly though is the Santa Ynez
Mountains that overshadow the base. They form the perfect natural
barrier to the east. Due west of Vandenberg an underwater gateway
in the Pacific connects the great blue ocean with Scorpion's war
room that exists deep below the nearby mountain range.

Earlier that morning Scorpion's
directorgeneral, Howard (no one knew his last name), sent out the
invitation to the rest of the world's supreme leaders to attend an
event they soon would never forget. Russia the Bear, Germany the
Leopard, and Great Britain the Lion all would send their supreme
diplomats to attend the symposium of a lifetime. History's timeline
was about to experience a major jolt the seven continents would all
feel.

--

West LA, California

Mike Dumphree is the Airboss of the AWACS
plane that directs the traffic and foresees threats before the rest
of the force can.

On that April the 24th of 2041, there was no
way he could have anticipated what was over the skies of Los
Angeles. His own two eyes detected trouble before his advanced
radar ever did. Whatever was out there was unlike anything ever
encountered by man.