Thursday, April 19, 2018

#NXIVM, #Gulen, #Syria, and #Benghazi (cont.)

"That which hath been is that which will be and that which hath been done is that which shall be done, and there is nothing new under the sun." (Ecclesiastes 1:9)

The verse popped into my head repeatedly as I was reading detail after detail of what Keith Raniere did to his "converts". I kept thinking, "I have seen this movie before", and indeed I have. Many times, as a matter of fact. Let me give readers just one example from the following website (many thanks to Frank Parlato):

"According to the complaint, India told Jane Doe 2 that in order to learn more, she had to provide 'collateral', which Jane Doe 2 did in the form of a video in which Jane Doe 2 divulged a damaging secret...."


Did anyone else flash on any similar situations? The first thing that popped into my head was the Skull and Bones Society:


But that is only one of potentially dozens, if not hundreds, of such associations in this country and the implications are staggering. For years, those of us who love America have been stumped as to why men who seemed to care about this country as much as we do suddenly became incapable of standing their ground on any issue of importance, eventually coming to the conclusion they were being blackmailed over some unknown issues.

I urge everyone to go through Frank Parlato's website with a fine-toothed comb; it contains so much more than "just" India Oxenberg's case. Meanwhile, let us get back to cases that are similar to that of NXIVM. For those readers who were diligent during the email drops in the 2016 election, subsequent cases of human trafficking that have been uncovered, and a certain television star who has been trying fervently to educate us, another cult should come to mind: Scientology. And, for those readers who have been keeping up with "QAnon" who had Scientology spring to mind, they now have three little letters of the alphabet running through their minds: "C", "I", and "A". Let me just post a search page so that readers can take their pick(s) of relevant article(s):


CIA (and other intelligence agencies such as the KGB) have used sex in order to keep marks under control and/or force them into doing things they would not do otherwise. It is a despicable habit, and I could write a complete dissertation on this tactic, but time and space do not permit me to go down that trail at this time.

Which brings us to Benghazi. What could possibly connect a perverted cult to a terrorist attack in North Africa? How about Sara Bronfman and her husband, Baset Igtet? Did my readers go through the links I provided in my first post on April 15th? I deliberately left out the following article because it is simply so explosive it should have everyone's undivided attention:


When I first ran across this article I had no idea what I was going to find. I certainly had no idea how long my mouth was going to hang open after reading it. John Kerry and John McCain. The hair on the back of my neck is standing up just from typing those two names. Additionally, the mention of the U.S./Libya Chamber of Commerce has my brain reaching for something it cannot quite find, so I must pose a question to my readers: Didn't Ambassador Stevens attend some sort of ceremony a day or two before his death? If so, was it a ground-breaking or an opening for this CoC? (I am not being lazy; I have a zillion files and I am not putting my finger on the right page[s] yet.)

I was stunned, to say the least, when I ran across a connection between NXIVM and Benghazi. I would never have suspected in a million years. But, the evidence is clear that, at the very least, Igtet had a sentimental interest in his home town and, combined with what I uncovered in 2016, he is definitely someone I would label a "person of interest". For those who have not seen my Benghazi/PizzaGate post, here is the link:


I had no idea how right I was, did I? While this one article drew more readers than any article I have written before or since, I was still only scratching the surface. At the same time, the NXIVM connection seems to answer some questions that were left hanging after I tied PizzaGate to Benghazi, and resurrects some others I have yet to answer. Remember, we already knew about the gun-running (see link above), so the excuse that CIA had an annex in order to track weapons just does not fly. Now, if you would like to float a theory whereby CIA was monitoring human trafficking or doing something a little shadier like "helping" people make such liaisons, I am more than willing to listen. And, one last question: Who was the woman CIA was protecting that night before they were called back to the compound because of the attack? Supposedly she was talking about some sort of oil deal; could it have been Sara Bronfman and, if so, were they discussing oil, or human, distribution? So many questions, even after five-and-one-half years. 

At any rate, I believe I have given readers enough to digest, so let me close here and save Fethullah Gulen for next time. Please post any thoughts, possible answers, or questions in the comments section below. Thank you for reading!







Sunday, April 15, 2018

#NXIVM, #Gulen, #Syria, and #Benghazi

What a wild weekend. I was away from electronics for one day and when I returned I discovered we had bombed Syria yet again after yet another chemical attack. I am gratified to learn that people are beginning to catch on to this charade; as I checked my Twitter feed I saw more users blaming the chemicals on the "rebels". Unfortunately, that knowledge has not caught up to this administration and that is very troubling to me. I suspect the problem is "Mad Dog" Mattis, combined with President Trump's unwavering loyalty to those in uniform. While his attitude is a very refreshing change from the Barry years, that same attitude is causing him not to question the military around him because, "He has five rows of ribbons!" Oh, that General Flynn would not have been targeted by the Deep State. Trump really needs the sanity General Flynn would have provided.

Even more dangerous is all the fingers being pointed at Russia, not just over this chemical attack but also the poisoning of two "former" KGB agents. Somehow our government has forgotten what it is we stand for in this country. We do not execute people without benefit of trial. We do not take a vote, based upon no evidence, and find them guilty in a kangaroo court. Yet that seems to be where Nikki Haley excels. We had no evidence in Idlib. There was no time to accumulate evidence in Idlib. Yet we lobbed 59 missiles (at $1.5 million apiece) at Syria because, "Meh. Da babeees!" And we just did the same thing this weekend. There used to be something called an "investigation", but I guess it does not apply at the UN. 

The joke of the year, however, goes to the Skrypal case. Theresa May immediately jumped to the conclusion Putin had tried to kill them. She managed to get her good ole ally Mommy America to go along with her outrage. When Porton Down said it could not identify the substance, never mind its origin, no one at the UN heard them because everyone was too busy pounding on their desks screaming for vengeance. The funny part came late yesterday. I will post a link to the entire search page so that everyone can see what is so "funny":


OOPS. Theresa made a tiny little mistake there, huh? And before someone says, "Well, they could be wrong. Or maybe the Russkies paid off the Swiss. Or maybe..." let me just say: THAT IS THE POINT! Is there any particular reason that it was an international emergency to expel Russian diplomats before the ink was even dry on the order? Is there any particular reason no one cared what facts might come out during an investigation? What is this? The Salem Witch Trials?!

I have one more thing to address before I move on to other topics. It was bad enough when people were blaming Bashar al-Assad for using chemicals on civilians, but now the Russia hysteria has shifted to Syria, with people swearing the Syrians and the Russians are both committing these atrocities. That claim is positively ludicrous for any number of reasons. However, I would like my readers to review the following videos and see if they can figure out what is really happening. (HINT: Think Hamas and Israel.):


If anyone would like some funny bloopers to go along with the above Twitter "moment":


We call this "Pallywood". Any questions?

On a different subject, someone tweeted me early last week and asked if I had looked into NXIVM. I admitted I had not but promised I would do so. Well, I kept that promise and what I have discovered is insane. Many readers will have heard of Keith Raniere's arrest, and will also know the charges for which he was arrested. I am not addressing this issue because I want to bore my readers with information they already know. I am covering it because of what most of my readers likely do NOT know. In fact, it is so mind-boggling I am struggling to figure out how to write it in an organized fashion.

Actually, as I sit here considering an outline, I have decided just to put the information up for everyone to review. This is what professional journalists call a "developing story" so I think using this article as a primer I can write a detailed explanation in my follow-up post which will be much easier for everyone to follow.










These articles are in no particular order, but I urge everyone to go through them as you have time. HINT: If you do not run across the name "Clinton" several times, you missed something. I will post the follow-up article soon (it should not take long for more information to come out).

ONE FINAL NOTE: I promised Gulen and Benghazi. Astute readers will find the connections. For those who would like to wait for me to break it down in my next article, please stand by! 


Saturday, April 14, 2018

Voice for the Voiceless: The Homeless

Oddly enough, I am currently reading "Breakfast at Sally's" by Richard Le Mieux. It is Mieux' autobiography in which he describes his battle with homeless. His story is very much like my own, except he had a vehicle and I do not.

Within his story is a description of how the homeless are viewed by society, stating, "...people are afraid of the homeless...disgusted when they see a person digging through a garbage can...frightened when someone unclean talks to them...." (p. 243)

Some of those fears are exacerbated by a relatively small percentage of people who are mentally ill and/or on illegal ugs, people who think nothing of turning the world into a garbage heap and who relieve themselves whenever and wherever the mood strikes.

He goes on to quote Elliot Lisbow's "Tell Them Who I Am" stating, "You are not needed anywhere, not wanted anywhere. Nobody cares what you do." (P. 248) How true that is. In fact, I have an acquaintance who was a self-professed "spook" for twenty-three years and one day I told him, "If the IC [intelligence community] ever wants to know what is going on in the world, they should pose as homeless people." He grinned and nodded his head.

I am serious. Over the course of three years (before I returned to Las Vegas) I have spied on the Egyptian Embassy, the Saudi Embassy, the State Department, and have listened to various phone conversations as well as those occurring at the table next to me that I am pretty sure included classified information. (Does a conversation with Samantha Power in the Green Room of the White House qualify? Who needs the NSA when people insist on shouting at the person on the other end of the call?! Besides, it makes panhandling a little less boring.)

So, yes, the homeless are ignored. However, I am happy to say I now have a home. Can you believe the VA has finally come through?!

NOTE: My next article will cover the debacle in Syria. Stay tuned!

Sunday, March 25, 2018

#LasVegasShooting: The #StephenPaddock Video

For those who have not seen it, here is the video supposedly given to the New York Times by MGM:


So  many things are wrong with it, beginning with the fact that we only see a half-dozen time stamps. The rest of the information is provided for us by an unknown narrator. How do we know "Stephen Paddock" drove to his home twice? Because the narrator said so? How do we know he went to the Ogden and staked out another concert? Because the narrator said so? 

Why is he wearing the same clothing throughout the video except for one time when he was wearing a white pullover instead of a grey one? "Stephen Paddock" did not have any other clothes? Not even when he allegedly made two trips to his home? Why did he suddenly decide to wear a ball cap on the day of the shooting? 

I would also like to know if the FBI in Las Vegas is trying to convince us that the hammer was used to break the windows? I am intrigued by all of the tiny pieces of glass all in a nice little pile next to the window. Why is the pile inside the room? Why is it all in one place? If the FBI is going to say the glass was blown inward, the glass should be spread out over the carpet, not sitting there like someone took a jar full of glass bits and poured them out on the rug.

Finally, where is the supporting documentation? Where are the key card logs? Where are the receipts showing when "Stephen Paddock" rented the two rooms? And, nothing on the video explains the room service receipt we have showing dinner for two people. Who was the second person? Did Marylou Danley ever appear? Her fingerprints were allegedly found on some of the ammunition. 

Let us take a look at how someone could break the windows at the Mandalay Bay:



By the way, why are the drapes closed? Would a shooter want to fight with them as he reloads and/or switches weapons? 

But let us answer the question of how someone could have broken those windows (because we definitely know they were broken). I have come across one possibility, oddly enough thanks to my extra-curricular reading rather than focused research. Some ammunition is made using tungsten carbide, otherwise known as armor-piercing bullets. The use of such ammunition can be dangerous; given the right load, it can ignite and cause fire:



A note to gun control advocates: It is already illegal to sell this ammunition, and it is not widely available. Yet it seems "Stephen Paddock" purchased these bullets in Arizona:


In my opinion, this answers the question of how he broke the windows. Remaining are all of the other questions, many of which I answered in my original article on the subject and which were supported in the video posted at the bottom of the post:


One piece remains. Were there helicopters firing on the crowd that night? I find that extremely difficult to believe. Tactically it would be a nightmare to conceal. However, I may have found one answer to the reports from some witnesses that they saw gunfire from the helos. Are any of my readers familiar with the Ghost Army?


If, as Mike Closer and I assert, the shooting was cover for an assassination, it is entirely possible special effects might have been used in order to distract from the real action. Obviously I cannot prove this theory (yet), but it makes more sense than firing live ammunition from helicopters that are impossible to conceal. 

The following link contains some footage of what is being described as muzzle flashes from a helicopter:


It simply makes no sense, especially in this day and age of camera phones (not to mention the shooting occurred in a tourist town where everyone has a camera and/or video recorder). I could be wrong, but fake gunfire is a possibility that should be explored if we are to be thorough.

More as events warrant.





Monday, February 19, 2018

The Crazy Road to Lackland

[The following is a true story, but identities have been concealed. I left out a few minor details, but otherwise this is a complete recounting of one beautiful day in Dallas in November, 1978.]

I was barely 17 when I enlisted in the military. I was so proud when I took my oath on induction day; I was in the Air Force! Wide-eyed, with stars in my eyes, I looked forward to arriving at basic training and playing the game my father warned me about for the next six weeks.

Ten other people were sitting in the reception area awaiting our travel instructions when someone called my name. I jumped up and went over to the woman's desk. She pushed a map toward me and said, “You are in charge of getting these people to Lackland.”

I was incredulous. “Me?! Are you sure?” I looked around the room. “I am the youngest person here!”

She looked at the paper in front of her. “Is your name Smith?”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“You're it. Go straight to the airport, and make sure everyone stays inside once you arrive.”

In a state of shock I took the map, studied it for a minute, then led everyone to the street and headed toward DFW Airport, falling back so I could keep an eye on everyone. One of the recruits fell in next to me and introduced himself.

“Hi, my name is Mark. So, how does it feel to be in charge?”

“Terrifying!”

He smiled. “Why is that?”

I said, “There are ten of you and one of me. If everyone decides to take off running in ten different directions, how am I supposed to catch them all?”

Mark laughed. “This is a volunteer military, so I don't think you have to worry about that. Although, someone might give you a problem.”

I was so relieved at his comment that I missed the caveat.

We arrived at the terminal around noon, but our flight did not take off until after eight. I looked around at the expectant faces and said, “Well, we have eight hours before the plane leaves, and I don't see any reason for us to sit here staring at each other singing 'Kumbaya'...” (Mark snickered) “...so as long as everyone stays in the airport...” (Mark nodded forcefully) “...you can go to the gift shop, get something to eat, whatever you want to do, and we will all meet back here at 5:00.” That was still ridiculously early in my mind, but my father had drilled into me the need to leave early for everything so that, in the event nuclear war suddenly broke out, we would still get where we were going on time.

Little did I know just how wise that advice would turn out to be.

I wandered around the airport, stopped and ate a slice of pizza, wandered around some more, and finally wound my way back to the terminal. At five o'clock I did a head count. Nine. One person was missing, but I was not terribly concerned because I am extremely time-conscious and I realize not everyone is, so I decided to give it until 5:30, which is exactly what I told Mark when he inquired.

Staring at the clock, I waited expectantly. When five-thirty rolled around, I stood up.

“Does anyone know who is missing?”

Silence.

My stomach dropped to the ground. While I had been counting heads, I had failed to note names and faces. Now, here I was with my you-know-what hanging out with no information to go on. I was screwed.

After an interminable pause, Mark stepped away from the group. Despite my predicament, I remember being struck by his military bearing and thinking how great he was going to be once he got out of Lackland. (Readers who have caught on at this point may commence laughing.)

“Ma'am, the person you are looking for is John Denton. You were actually talking to him earlier. He is six feet tall, wearing green fatigues.”

(How did I miss green fatigues?)

I still did not remember John, but I nodded in acknowledgment. I was already humiliated enough.

“Alright. We are going to break up into groups.” I paired everyone off, and assigned each team an area. I realized this was an exercise in futility; the chances of finding one man at DFW (assuming he was even in the airport) were sub-zero, but I could not stand there doing nothing.

Mark spoke up again. “Ma'am, if it's alright with you, I would prefer to stick with you. I might be able to be of assistance.”

I paused for a second. I had already lost one person. I was not about to lose another one, so the idea of sending one person out alone was not appealing to me. But, Mark had been helpful thus far, so reluctantly I agreed, telling everyone to meet back at the terminal in an hour.

We split up and Mark and I tried paging John. When that did not work, Mark suggested we go up a staircase nearby and search that area. When we hit the landing, I sent him right, I went left, and we began a door-by-door search. I was in a (barely) controlled state-of-panic, but I had worked search-and-rescue while I was a police explorer, so I knew what to do.

It seemed like just a minute before I hear my name being called. I turned and Mark was summoning me. I ran over to him and he led me around a corner, stopping in front of a door.

“He's in here.”

I looked around for a sign, but I did not see one.

“What is this?”

“It's a bar. John is drunk, and he is refusing to get on the plane.”

I was thunder-struck. Volunteer military, remember?

“Whyyyy?”

“It seems John got into a little legal trouble and the judge gave him a choice between jail and the military. He chose the military, and now he has changed his mind.”

I was speechless. A thousand things were going through my mind. As I continued to stare at him, Mark continued. “You do realize how serious this is?”

“Yes. If he does not go to Lackland he is AWOL, and I am in deep shit.”

“True. But do you know John has been AWOL since 5:00?”

“Nooooooooooo...!”

He said, “Listen! Whether you know it or not, when you told everyone to be back at the terminal by five, that was a direct order! John has been AWOL for almost an hour now.”

I stared at him in disbelief, but every word he spoke rang true. There was just something very authoritative about him. (Yeah, I know.) My wheels spun, and in about five seconds I said, “OK. I have an idea, but I am only 17. Can I even go in there?”

“Yes. You can go in. You just cannot drink.”

“OK. Follow my lead.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Just follow my lead.” I started toward the door, then turned back around. “And, whatever you do, do not blow my cover.”

Mark gave me a concerned look, but he followed me inside. I swept the bar and no one was there. Mark pointed at a booth. I locked onto John, and about halfway there I completely changed my demeanor. John was staring at his drink when I approached.

“Hiya, John. Whatcha doin'?”

“Having a drink,” he mumbled.

“Mind if we join you?”

He half-heartedly pointed at the seat across from him, and we slid in.

“Whatcha drinkin'?”

“A Cuba Libra.”

“What's a Cuba Libra?”

Mark answered, “It's a rum and coke. Cuba Libra is spanish for 'Free Cuba'.”

The waitress arrived at the table. “What can I get for you?”

Without missing a beat, I looked up and replied, “I'll have a Cuba Libra.”

I diverted my gaze and stared at the back of the booth with my best poker face because, not only was I afraid of being carded but, I expected...and received...the look Mark gave me.

It was filled with daggers.

Begrudgingly, he ordered the same, but his tone and facial expression made it clear he was not happy, and I knew he was now watching me like a hawk. The drinks came, and I took a small sip.

“Hmmm. Not bad. I've never had one of these before.” I took another sip, looked over at John, and said, “So, what's wrong?”

It all came gushing out. For the next five minutes he carried on about how the military was going to be like prison, he couldn't do it, he didn't want to do it, blah, blah. I let him go until he fell silent. Then I said, “But, John. From what I understand, you are looking at six months in prison, right?”

He nodded.

“Basic training is only six weeks, and it is not what the real military is like. They will call you every name in the book, talk about your mother and your sister, and all you have to do is let it go right over your head. It's a game..” I held my hands out in the form of a balancing scale. “Six months. Six weeks. Come on. You can do anything for six weeks.” Which was not entirely true, but I was trying to make a sale.

I waited for a minute, but I could see John was not convinced. I reached across the table and lightly touched his hand. “Look. I don't know if we will be able to communicate, but if we can and you need help, I will do whatever I can to help you. OK? I don't want to see you go to jail. Will you just do it for me? Please?”

Slowly, John met my gaze. He sat there for a moment, then slowly nodded. “OK. I guess. For you.” Relieved, I looked at Mark. He tapped his watch, but I had been looking. 6:30. Time to go.

We got up. Mark settled the bill, and we made our way back to the terminal with John zig-zagging all the way. When we arrived, he fell into the nearest chair, damned near knocking it over.

I said, “Man, he is gone.”

Mark looked at me matter-of-factly. “You do realize they will not let him board if they know he is drunk?”

No, I knew so such thing! Here I was, patting myself on the back for a job-well-done, and now I get another curve ball! I stared at him, incredulous.

In answer to my unspoken question, Mark nodded. “FAA regulations. They will not let him on the plane if they think he is intoxicated.”

I could not believe what I was hearing. I was seventeen-years-old; how was I supposed to know FAA regulations?!

With no time to spare, my wheels spun again, and about five seconds later I had devised a plan.

“OK. I have an idea, but I cannot pull it off. Who is the sturdiest female we have?”

To his credit, this time Mark did not bother to ask me what I planned. He pointed at a woman. “Probably Mary.” I looked her over and was not convinced, but she would have to do. I called her over and, as she approached, I felt a little better; she looked more muscular close-up. I explained the situation.

Impatiently, with more than a little sarcasm, she asked, “What do you want me to do about it?” Ordinarily I would have addressed her attitude but, in the interest of time, I let it go.

“You know those couples you see in shopping malls and stuff, hanging onto each other and clinging as if they will die if they let go?”

“Yeah.”

I put on my brightest face and my biggest grin. “How would you like to be John's girlfriend?”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mark suppress a grin, but I was honed in on Mary whose look made it clear she did not appreciate the genius of my plan.

She replied indignantly, “I'm married.”

Keeping my same, bright-eyed expression I said, “I didn't order you to marry the man.”

That did it. Mark had just taken a swig of coffee and, in his attempt to keep from laughing, began to choke on it. Two men, just to the left of us, jumped to their feet in unison to help him, but Mark waved them off. As he began to recover, I maintained my focus on Mary.

I said, “It's acting. Weren't you ever in a school play?”

“Of course.”

“OK, then.” I repeated, “It's acting. I would do it myself, but look at him and look at me.” (At the time, I weighed all of 110 pounds.) “If he stumbles, we are both going to hit the floor. I need someone sturdy, and you are it.”

Mark was looking at me with a very amused expression in his eyes and I thought I saw just a hint of respect. In contrast, Mary breathed in slowly while continuing to glare at me.

After a moment, she said, “Alright. I'll do it. But if touches anything, I am going to deck him.”

I pleaded, “Just remember. It is acting.”

So, with the plan in place, Mary went over to John and filled him in. When the boarding call came, Mark suggested we stay back in the line so we could make sure John got boarded. As I watched, his hand started creeping down Mary's back, and under my breath I said, “She is going to hit him....”

And, sure as shit, right when they got to the stewardess, John tripped.

I stopped breathing, but Mary did her job and leaned back into him, bringing him upright. The attendant handed them their boarding passes, and they walked down the ramp together.

He was aboard.

I had only flown one other time but I loved it, so I found my seat and settled in for a nice, relaxing, one-hour flight to San Antonio.

Unfortunately, John had other ideas.

Mark's seat assignment was somewhere else on the plane, but suddenly he appeared and asked my seatmate if he would mind exchanging seats. The man agreed and Mark sat down.

“I hope this is OK. We've gone this far; I thought it would be nice if we took the flight together.”

“Sure! That's fine.”

Suddenly, before we had even left the gate, I heard John's voice from about eight rows behind us, hassling the stewardesses for a drink. At this point, I understood he was in danger of being thrown off the plane.

I was also tired of this shit.

I yanked off my seat belt and, trying not to draw more attention, placed my knees in the seat and leaned over the back. I tried to flag John down, but he was too busy searching the cabin for a flight attendant, so I got the attention of a guy about three rows in front of him.

“Get him,” I requested in as low a voice as I could. He did, and when John and I locked eyes I hissed, “Sit down!” He immediately did so, and I followed up with, “Now, shut up!”

I turned back around, fell back into my seat, angrily slapped the seat belt back on, and took a deep breath. I looked over at Mark, who was perusing a magazine and taking everything in, but who was not reacting to it visibly.

I said, “You know, you would have thought I shot him the way he dropped back into his chair.”

Mark replied, “He thought you were going to be nice like you were in the bar.”

In a dead monotone I said, “That was then.”

I still held out hope I would be able to enjoy the flight, but it was not to be. No sooner were we airborne than I heard John trying to get a drink from anyone who passed by. Then, about midway through the trip he announced to the entire cabin,

I. Said. I. Want. A. Rum. And. Coke. !”

I was so frustrated I pinched the top of my nose, closed my eyes, and just started slowly shaking my head back-and-forth.

(How did I get myself into this?)

In a subdued tone, Mark asked, “Are you planning to do anything about that?”

I was not angry with Mark. I was just fed up with the situation. In a stern tone I answered, “Look. My orders were to get him to San Antonio. His ass is going to San Antonio. If he arrives in handcuffs, that's his problem.”

To which Mark calmly replied, “OK. But if the pilot radios ahead and the police meet the plane, and John goes to jail, he doesn't get to Lackland, and that's your problem.”

Out of sheer exhaustion, I exhaled sharply and dropped my head to my chest.

Mark laughed sympathetically and said, “Tell you what. Why don't you let me take a shot at this?”

My head snapped up. “Are you sure? It is my responsibility.”

Mark nodded. “You've had enough. I think what is needed here is a fresh voice.”

I watched him as he walked back to John and whispered something in his ear. Obviously I could not hear what was said, but John's eyes got as big as saucers and was suddenly sitting ramrod straight. When Mark returned I asked him what he said.

Offhandedly he answered, “I just reminded him what was at stake.”

I was still curious, but I was too tired to pursue the matter.

Later, when we reached the in-processing center, Mark disappeared for a while. He eventually returned with a clipboard containing an after action report to fill out. I was completely sapped of energy, so it never even occurred to me to ask why he was acting as a go-between. He disappeared again and, as I sat there waiting, the almost total silence was broken by loud, boisterous laughter coming from the back of the hangar. The crazy thought crossed my mind that they were laughing about my exploits at the airport, but I was spent. I curled up in my seat and was asleep before my head hit my knees.

Epilogue

I never saw Mark again, and I have often wondered what became of him. For those who have yet to catch on, Mark was no recruit. He was likely an officer, and I place him somewhere around the rank of major. As for John, word got back to me that he washed out of Basic after two weeks. Presumably, he went to jail. The courts long since have abandoned that ridiculous program.

And, I am happy to report that everything Lackland had in store for me paled in comparison to that day.


End

Friday, February 2, 2018

#LasVegasShooting Reconnaissance: The Tropicana

First, a personal note: I apologize for disappearing again; I was back in the hospital. The good news is, I now know what is wrong with me! (OK, so maybe not mentally, but....) No, seriously. I have suddenly taken to falling on a regular basis, and I was beginning to imagine fun things like brain tumors. Thankfully, it is nothing so serious. I have a fractured L-2, which will heal on its own. I just have to figure out how to keep from falling anymore while I get well.

And, when I am done, find out which local lawyer wants 33% of my lawsuit against Boulder City, where I fell and injured myself in the first place, and who refused to run the one simple test they ran at the hospital I am in currently that would have diagnosed my problem!

So, I just wanted to mention that in case I disappear again. Please do not worry if that happens before February first. However, once I get back to The Strip, that is another subject entirely.

Meanwhile, I never had a chance to write up what I did on my first trip. I sent a couple of messages to people, but I never actually wrote it up in my blog! So, yes, when I first got here I headed straight for the crime scene and did some good, old-fashioned, reconnaissance. Realizing the story we were told was a bunch of hooey, my approach to the area was far different than the one used by most reporters who hit the scene before the smoke even cleared.

Before I did anything, I headed straight for the Tropicana, laptop-in-hand. Having never been there before, I wanted to re-trace Mohammad bin Salman's steps that night. The online speculation was so insane I thought I would lay it to rest once-and-for-all. I froze the infamous video of his extraction at a spot with plenty of “land marks”, got my bearings, and then walked the route. All of my questions were answered pretty much immediately.

For people who have never been inside this particular casino, the gambling floor is surprisingly small, at least to me. Following is the extraction video for everyone's easy reference. As you watch it, picture yourself at the front of the casino looking toward the rear:

The Crown Prince is walking to the front of the Tropicana from what can accurately be described as a cubbyhole-sized area in back. If readers were to start at the beginning of this video and work backwards from it, MBS (Mohammad bin Salman) had just passed a snack bar and Starbucks to his right. He most likely entered the area from one of several stairways/employee doors; the only other thing behind him (from the angle on the video) is a public elevator and a set of glass doors that go out onto an enclosed Wedding garden. This “garden” has a couple of small, man-made waterfalls, and is enclosed by a wrought-iron fence with no visible entrance/exit gate other than through the Tropicana itself.

Of far more interest is the number of external exits that cover the perimeter of the casino. The largest and most logical rear exit is the “Team Entrance” which, for those who are unfamiliar with the Tropicana, exits directly into the line-of-sight of...The Mandalay Bay. What I am about to outline is a back-up plan for what Mike Closer outlined in his Periscope. For my civilian readers, I was given an invaluable tip many years ago from a career Army counter-intelligence operative. Anytime you want to sabotage something (assassinate someone; same idea), you do not just plant one explosive and hope for the best. You always set several so that, despite one-or-more-failures, the plan still goes through. So, while the idea of setting up the Crown Prince at the Four Seasons is one possible scenario (certainly the easiest), we must explore others as there had to have been a minimum of one fall-back position. 

I was extremely impressed with the Crown Prince's extraction. Right through the front. Everyone in the casino under control. Hard to do. But, when you go to the Tropicana, you see just how ingenious it was. The video ends with everyone disappearing behind a pillar. If you were present in the casino, you would know they were headed straight for the front desk. There are a couple of stairs that lead to the reservation “pit”, and then, if you go through the employee door, there are five unmarked exits from that area. Again, ingenious. I am still trying to figure out their route to McCarren; there are about a dozen but, from a security standpoint, I am not sure which one they picked.

Now, can the Las Vegas Sheriff's Department and the freaking FBI Las Vegas stop jacking with us, and tell us what we already know?!

Thursday, January 25, 2018

General Flynn vs. The Gulen Movement

{I have been sidelined by an illness at a hospital without WiFi so I apologize for my absence.}

My topic today is one that threatens our national security and, in my opinion, that failure falls in the lap of the State Department.

I imagine most people turned on the "King of Queens" during the Gang of Eight fight, but Ted Cruz's campaign against handing out H1Bs to everyone who applies was correct; the practice is both stupid and dangerous.

General Flynn's dismissal was really just one more fight in this battle. He wrote an excellent piece of the dangers of the Gulen Movement which oddly was published on Election Day. This is not the first time the General has been way-laid over Gulen; he was canned by Obama in 2013 over the same issue.

Let me explain the H1B program for everyone. It is designed so that, for example, if we have a shortage of engineers we allow people to come here and fill that need. However, Gulen's charter schools (160 at last count) have requested and received an inordinate amount of these visas. robably the most ludicrous is bringing in teachers from Turkey to teach English! Really?! We have no English teachers? We have to import them from other countries?!

It gets worse. Please listen to the following link. I posted the Clare Lopez interview in the first article in this series; here is Sibel Edmonds, the leading expert on Gulen:


Now read General Flynn's OpEd from November 8, 2016:


This movement is so insidious and dangerous because it operates under the guise of peace and love. General Flynn likened Fethula Gulen to Osama bin Laden. I see Gulen more like Yasser Arafat, who preached peace in English while inciting violence in Arabic.

So, I am back to work now, sniffing around. BTW, did you know these "schools" are paid for with your tax money? Why did CIA call Gulen an "asset"? Why does Gulen have government-funded armed protection? Why would a "scholar" with a third-grade education need any protection at all?

My best guess is General Flynn's crusade against the Gulen movement is what ties him to Turkey and Russia. Putin hates terrorism (unless he is the one engaging in it), and Erdogan wants Gulen's head on a platter. At this point I cannot say for certain, but I am working on it.

What I do know is, anyone who gets too close to stopping Gulen becomes a target and I believe General Flynn became "the enemy" because of that OpEd. He had to know what would happen; all he had to do was wait two months and he could have done what he pleased. My question is: Why did he fire that shot? Or did the shot come from The Hill? (Parenthetically, why did he walk into an FBI "routine word trap"?)

Regardless of the answer to my question(s), the goal is to clear General Flynn's name, but in that process maybe we can eradicate this scourge.

So, back to The Strip I go. I will update as things arise.


"The person you are looking for is usually right there in front of us, hiding in the details all the time."