Under overcast skies, the crud was being loaded onto the plane. Three containers slid up the conveyor into the underbelly of the 747, Singapore Airlines. Singapoh know how to play the game! An echo from a cab driver years ago, not far from Changi Airport, touted as one of the most beautiful first impressions in the world to travelers. The echoed dialogue further brought to mind Clay’s childhood home, the Spice Islands, across the Pacific from his current location along the United States’ northwestern coast.
The man lowered and pocketed his recording-enabled binoculars and transmitted the video file to his team, who were set up only a few clicks away. Inside the pickup, the ambient environment was quieter. He started up the pickup and began the descent along the backside of the mountain, with “Blue Skies” by Willie Nelson playing inside his head, which made him grin. One day, soon perhaps.
Singapore Airlines—and some of their pilots—wasn’t the only airline exploiting loopholes and thus threatening all of life almost daily. But the cab driver’s quote echoed out of the past again and Clay wondered if the ‘game’ accounted for people like him and the spies with whom he’d aligned himself for this mission—
An invasive thought: You’ll never stop us, even if you pull this off.
Clay had learned to differentiate between invasive thoughts, which often though not always appeared out of left field, disrupting his internal monologue. This one had intent to dissuade him from anticipated actions or, short of that, damper his energy levels and confidence while attempting to carry out what he and the others intended. He parried it and let the thought dissolve, resuming his own controlled awareness.
He’d learned how take the sting out of attacks and much more after meeting a friend who confirmed across conversations and other measurements that AI was being used (with human operators) to target those who were both sensitive to the tech and could be controlled by it. Indeed, it was possible to be at risk and yet unaware (unable to detect) the manipulation. The prospect of widespread subliminal thought influence was a big concern of Clay’s, a concern he’d not yet been able to approach at scale; meanwhile, he’d not taken it lightly in his own case. Six years of building up a psychological defense framework had not been entirely without usefulness Now; such were the mysterious ways of Universe.
The fact that such a group was trying to stop Clay and his people from damaging the chem trail industry suggested at minimum an allegiance of factions—whether corporation or breakaway civ or government—with the chem trail cartel cooperative. Clay had wavered on how to make it clear to his team as well as to anyone with read/write access to his mind that he was willing to die on this effort: he was old enough and there is not to reason why…
Mingled with the sound of the pickup’s tires on gravel as the road switched back, came “Better not lose your grip here.”
Becoming audible and quickly louder too was the sonic waves of a chopper’s wings which carried it fast over the ridge seemingly toward his group’s position at the forested section along the edge of the road leading into the crud and fueling station where Clay had just confirmed the visual of the heavy metals being loaded.
Suddenly time seemed to slow. This had happened twice before in his life. While surfing a majestic wave on the north side of Maui and while involved in a multiple car crash on Minnesota’s I94 when a tire had spun off a semi. A projectile was incoming from the chopper, headed for him and his pickup. Turning off the road was not advisable because of the sheer dropoff but he could accelerate to have a chance…
He felt the pickup lift off as though springing forward from a trampoline. With his body and mind present fully, with everything in his awareness collapsed to this moment, each detail was apparent: his firm but supple grip on the steering wheel, the safety belt preventing his body from going through the windscreen, the shape of the valley over which the Blackhawk flew, the operator’s head turned to see what damage his attack would have on Clay…
The pickup landed hard on the front wheels and threatened to keep tipping end over end. But Clay’s decision to accelerate was just in time and the back wheels of the pickup came down hard on the gravel.
Things snapped to a normal pace.
Something, he couldn’t identify what, was shooting at the helicopter, which disappeared over the next ridge. If it made another pass Clay would rather not still be there. He braked, stopped the pickup, grabbed his bag and jumped over the switchback’s barrier onto the mountainside.
Childhood memories of Cops and Robbers on these rocky heights made him smile and renewed his focus—an interesting combination with adrenaline from the near-death incident moments ago still flowing. To avoid anyone getting a lock on him, Instead of thinking about where he was going, through subvocalization, he simply visualized his path without words.
The tree line was not far down. Picking his steps carefully, as much boot on the ground or stone or root as possible, brought him safely to cover. Keep your guard up, he thought. And in that moment a branch before him tipped strangely in the wind and Clay felt the need to duck. Instinctively, he dove behind the tree’s trunk. Seconds later the chopper reemerged and dropped a missile on his pickup. The explosion was felt before seen and metal fragments speared into nearby trees. He peered out to see the flame and smoke rising to meet the already hazy day.
Perhaps two thousand feet up a thick cloud layer sat purposefully, dimming the sun which appeared thrice its normal width as its rays were diffused… the plan was probably for the 747 to fly low, maybe 2,500 feet, to give the nearby cities and towns a targeted crop-dusting. Less spray needed for the same deleterious effects. Could then save some crud for additional sites and not more profits since controllers paid by population-size affected. Days like today were moneymakers and bad news for unsuspecting and suspecting humans alike.
It had come to this for several reasons. For decades this industry had exploited the fact that no one was going to hold them accountable for polluting the skies, dimming the sun, and poisoning all life, from the soil and plants to the very air breathed by animals and humans. The legal paths were considered, but would be too slow. When RFK Jr., despite experience and rhetoric, had run into major blockages which even Trump in the Republic’s executive seat could not presently deal with, another path was blocked. Sure, you could take out some of the owners or operators of particular companies in the public domain—as had occurred with in a different context to one medical executive—but then those owners and operators would be replaced and the game would continue.
In a different but related domain, word on the street was that letters of marque were being issued to privateers (one of Clay’s friends on this mission had one of these letters) to take down cartel supply lines because the military could only do so much given its rebuilding and cleanout process to go along with the priorities of human trafficking rescues, to name just one of the competing priorities for resources.
No letters of marque for this mission, but it was finally forced because this chem trail business was simply anti-Life, had hurt and continued to hurt many, and so far there had been no counter except to tolerate it and educate on bodily defense… hardly effective long-term, just as the psychological defenses Clay had put up could only be a short-term fix for that problem. There are thousands hacking at the branches of evil for everyone that is striking at the root.
Not far through the forest, Clay found a hiking path he knew. He followed it, switching back down through the forested mountainside. It might only be another couple thousand feet to his team’s location. Despite his experience and training, Clay still hoped it would be uneventful.
About a thousand feet along, he sensed he was not alone. Sure enough, a hiker appeared around the switchback ahead, leaning into his poles to help him ascend. Clay continued toward him. The hiker registered him, paused to scratch his nose, and continued climbing. When Clay could see the whites of his eyes, the pupils dilated. Alert, Clay carried on walking. They would have to pass each other. It seemed for a moment like they would be able to do so with a harmless nod and a “nice day!” but within a few strides, the man lunged toward Clay using one of his poles as a spear.
Spherical sidestep.
Catch in his hand the man’s wrist.
Step forward with left leg, back to man.
Lift hiker over shoulder and place him gently enough in the dirt.
Clay’s Aikido dojo friends would have been proud to see the application of mastery, which no amount of subjective belts can equal. The hiker moaned and started to sit up.
Clay said, “Don’t make me kiss your cheek.”
The man was confused. “Why am I on the ground?”
Because your mind, and body, were momentarily taken over.
It’s what could happen if one bought into the “AI assistant”, which Clay and those researching with him feared may have already been rolled out in a benevolent pattern whereby the tech tried to help its victim to be stronger, smarter, healthier, and wealthier—imagine starting one’s day with a shower and hearing a voice inside announcing, “Hello human! Let’s get ready for your day!”—when in reality simply by completing one’s own thoughts a person was literally training the AI on how to push that person’s buttons, and through this read/write feedback exercise the total map of the mind and body was being drawn.
Clay reached the wood edge and one from his team signaled to him from across the road—Spark, Lively, and Jae should all be there. Clay wouldn’t be able to cross though as he became aware of a problem. Vehicles, armored, rumbled along from the direction of the fueling station. Drones, perhaps a dozen, floated along in sync with the cars and trucks. So they were coming out here to meet them instead of waiting to defend the plane.
Spark did what he did best, letting his rifle free on the drones, two of which exploded, the other spinning into the forest. Gunfire was returned.
There were still nine more drones and four more joined them, three of the multi-rotor type, and one much larger. At first glance, it appeared to be a flying RV.
The gunfire continued to be exchanged. Lively had repositioned himself separately from Spark and the first of the armored trucks drove over his censor mines. This set fire to them and the cars behind were unable, except one, to veer to avoid collision.
After downing the other drones, Jae attacked the flying RV but it seemed to be impenetrable.
Clay noticed something. “Hold your fire!” Spark, Lively, and Jae somehow heard him across the road despite the fires and smoke.
Clay stepped out of the ditch where he’d taken down the last target emerging from the veering car, and waved at the RV, which hovered about fifty feet away and fifty up from the road. “We need a ride!”
En route to the fueling station the team communicated to its operator where they needed to be to attack the 747 before it could take off after there was a negative response—something Clay later decided was relating to karmic binding—to firing their weapons from onboard the craft itself. Who was in the driver’s seat, what it was, and why it had brought the floaty RV there at all is another story. Spark had to be silenced by Clay when he tried to make small talk but he himself wondered how much one of these would cost and where he could get one. It was less than a minute before they were swept around the mountain into their requested position.
The cluster of trees was adjacent the tarmac, where they watched as the 747 complete its fueling; technicians could be seen removing the snaking pipes and the loud engines were already warming up, a suggestion that the pilots and overall operation knew there was danger… Even though they’d dealt with the armored cars and drones, there remained additional armed security with who knows what kind of weapons.
How can we get close enough?
The wind said, You will die if you try.
But Clay knew this: there’s not to reason why, there’s but to do and die.
Clay didn’t know who would follow him, but he took his weapon and made a dash for it. Soon, he felt Jae in pursuit and was both saddened and relieved. No hard feelings for Spark or Lively. As for him and Jae, they might lose their life, but the chances of succeeding greatly increased with two to load and fire. That was if they could get in range of the heavily fueled 747. The big plane backed away from the buildings and began turning for the runway.
Gunfire was incoming from the security forces. They ran into the spray of ammunition. A bullet whizzed past Clay’s face. They were almost there.
“Hoka hey!” shouted Jae, which invigorated Clay. Not long and they’d be dead. It was only yet to be determined whether they would be able to fire their arrows before that happened…
Because of Clay’s intense concentration he had somehow not heard the chopper coming in at their flank. Is this how it ends?
And then the RV came in over the top of them—as far as Clay could tell, out of nowhere—and matched their running speed. Suddenly none of the bullets could go any further and the missile launched by the Blackhawk deflected off of the RV’s energy shield like a pathetic toy.
Clay and Jae reached their position, readied, aimed, and let the flaming arrows fly.
“Blue Skies” by Willie Nelson played in Clay’s head as he and Jae watched the 747 immolate.
Tomorrow, the world would learn about the beginning of the end of the chem trail industry.