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?”


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) “ as long as everyone stays in the airport...” (Mark nodded forcefully) “ 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?”


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?


“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?”


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?”


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.


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.


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."

Monday, December 25, 2017

Shell Games: General Flynn, the Las Vegas Shooting, and Fethullah Gulen

This article is a continuation of the one I published on the fourth. We finally have the Gulen link firmly in place, so I need to share with everyone what we have found. First, let me provide an article I ran across which sums up what we know to date quite nicely:

Readers will recall from my previous article that I had a tenuous tie between al-Waleed bin Talal, Huma Abedin, and Fethullah Gulen. I am happy to report that, thanks to some great people on Twitter, I have been able to solidify that connection. Specifically, Abdullah Omar Nasseef:

Then, there is former president Abdullah Gul:

Co-founder of the AKP? Perhaps, but remember Gulen also used to work with President Erdogan. These people are highly deceptive and will violate anything they allegedly believe in order to further the Hizmet:

And then we have what I think is the piece-de-resistance. Gokhan Ozkok:

Now, none of the above is enough to start putting people in jail, but it is much more than we had three weeks ago and now we have the Podesta Group involved! I am very excited, and I look forward to running down the latest information with great hope that I will be able to solidify these links even more as we go along.



We cannot omit our dearly beloved former director of CIA, now can we? And, Chuckie Schumer? And, Preet Bharara?

Monday, December 4, 2017

Shell Games: General Flynn, and the Las Vegas Shooting

...Or, should I say, the attempted assassination of Crown Prince Mohammad bin Salman (MBS)?

The past two months have been a Master's course in all things intelligence-related. While my initial urge was to return to Vegas after the shooting, it was the recent events surrounding General Flynn that have me en route as I write this. He is being sacrificed, either willingly or by force, and now I have a pretty good idea as to why.

Let me start with October First. As the news spread, most of us were in shock, although there were the requisite online trolls who immediately began screaming “False Flag!”, declaring everyone to be a “crisis actor”, all the “blood” was fake, there were no bullets, and no one was dead. By sheer coincidence, I happened to be speaking with a retired Seabee, and his first reaction was quite different. He announced in no uncertain terms that the barrage of machine gun bullets had been cover for a targeted assassination. I filed that away under, “OK”, and awaited news reports as they began to trickle in. At first, of course, no one knew if it was one or more shooters, etc., but before long we had the name “Stephen Paddock” and the source of the shooting was said to have been the 32nd floor of the Mandalay Bay Resort.

The first astonishing thing that happened is someone leaked the photo of “Stephen Paddock” dead on the hotel room floor, surrounded by a handful of shell casings and with several pictures of the rest of the room scattered with various types of guns. What struck my Seabee friend and myself was the multiple tripods, Paddock lying on top of one of the guns on a tripod, face up, with blood on his chest, and an apparent gunshot wound to the head. That wound appeared to have been inflicted through his mouth, and the only gun that would have been available for him to accomplish that feat was a two-inch silver pistol lying approximately eighteen inches away from his head...with an empty shell casing lying on top of the barrel! My friend and I just started laughing. I mean, we knew it was serious, we knew people were dead, but we just could not believe the “crime scene”. It was a joke! FYI: If I decide to eat a bullet, the gun will remain in my hand because my muscles will contract around it. The gun will not land eighteen inches over my head!

I mentioned the tripods. The “shooter” was on the 32nd floor, lying on his stomach, holding a gun on a tripod looking through a scope? To do what? Shoot a flock of birds flying fifteen hundred yards away from his window?! We are talking angles, people. If I want to spray a crowd approximately 320 feet below me and at an approximate forty-degree slope, (a crowd that will undoubtedly begin running), I do not want to lie flat, keep my gun position locked, and shoot straight ahead, do I?

So then the official reports began trickling out. Yes, it was one man. Yes, his name was “Stephen Paddock”. He was a gambler, and no one had any idea why he decided to shoot up a concert. I will just hit a few more highlights so I can get to the meat of my article. The story then changed to where the shots originated from the 29th floor, then a security guard emerged who had allegedly been wounded while trying to stop “Stephen Paddock”, then we were told the shooting began at approximately 10:08, but when the story emerged that Jesus Campos had allegedly been shot about fifteen minutes before that, suddenly Sheriff Lombardo became very agitated that reporters were actually expecting him to know what was going on! The icing on the cake now, by the way, is that not only did this overweight, obvious drinker, sustain fire for ten minutes (now allegedly twenty minutes!), he fired off 1,200 rounds and did so by firing two automatic weapons at the same time a la Rambo! But, wait! What about the tripods? (Details, details.) BTW, an expert special forces operator could not sustain fire like that for ten minutes without exhausting himself (assuming the barrel did not melt), never mind twenty!

Meanwhile, one more mystery emerged. Someone had an account on something called “CheckMate”, where I guess you can run people's backgrounds for whatever reason. She sent “Stephen Paddock's” background. All the addresses matched, the ages matched, the histories matched; there was only one problem:


I even managed to pull him up on LinkedIn, with the same results...right before the LinkedIn profile photograph mysteriously disappeared.


So, less than two weeks into this debacle I was wishing I were an FBI agent because I wanted to drag everyone with a Las Vegas law enforcement badge into my office and do my very best impression of “Jethro Gibbs” with each-and-every one of them! These people were either the most ridiculous excuses for police officers I had ever seen, or they were lying-their-asses-off, and I was 99.9999% certain they were lying-their-asses-off!

And then a video hit the Internet. I watched it about a dozen times with my mouth on the floor. The video is of the Crown Prince (MBS) being extracted by armed guards in full gear out of the Tropicana the night of the shooting:

I guess Seabees must know a thing or two. Only now, I had even more questions! Who in hell was trying to kill the Crown Prince, why, and why in Las Vegas?! And why in the world would the Las Vegas FBI cover up such an assassination attempt? Why weren't the Justice Department, the State Department, and the President himself not screaming bloody murder?! Why wasn't King Salman ready to declare war on us (or at least on the State of Nevada!)?! Well, take a deep breath readers, because there is much more and it will involve General least, his military expertise, and part of the reason the FBI (and the “powers-that-be”) wanted him out-of-the-way.

My Seabee friend aside, I had strong suspicions almost from the start that Las Vegas was a military operation. As an analyst, I spent countless hours reviewing every audio I could find, every video I could find, and every analysis (no matter how far-fetched) I could find. When I was done, I was convinced I heard what is known as “cracker fire” (a type of firework) for the first few seconds (which would be used to confuse), followed by sustained bursts of belt-fed automatic weapons that were coming from at least two different directions. Was this a black op? If so, why? Were there really military helicopters present? Were they firing? If so, at whom? And, whose military choppers might those have been? Ours? Or the three Saudi helos that stay at Nellis for “training” purposes?

Then I heard about the Saudi purge, and the arrest of Al Waleed bin Talal, among others. I also learned he owned the top five floors of the Mandalay Bay (sorry; I am not Donald Trump. I really do not run in those circles). I was finally starting to get somewhere, but I still had a lot of pieces to find and put in place. What did it for me was something absolutely stunning that I learned involves Nellis AFB (which is located in North Las Vegas). For those who do not know, I am an Air Force veteran, and I have been to Nellis several times. Here are the triggering articles, which I will follow with the explanations:

The first article hit me like a ton of bricks. Here are Al Waleed bin Talal, teamed up with Huma Abedin (huh?!), promoting the Gulen Movement. Many readers will not have heard of Fetullah Gulen; those who have simply know he is a recluse who runs charter schools. Here is a short description of who Gulen really is:

The second article is just as bad, if not worse. Gulen schools have infiltrated twenty-six states, including military of which is Nellis Air Force Base! And, just before I get to General Flynn, readers should know that Saudi Arabia has also been trying to get Gulen's proteges out of their country:

Now we get to General Flynn. Remember the hilariously-funny story that circulated the Internet about his having been plotting to infiltrate Gulen's compound, exfiltrate/kidnap him, and ship him off to Turkey? While a three-star general does have better things to do, there is just a tiny, microscopic point of truth around which this insane joke/lie was built. Yes, General Flynn did “lobbying” work for Turkey, but I have a theory about that. Remember the attempted coup? The assassination of the Russian Ambassador, live on camera, despite his being in the most secure building in Turkey? Yes, that was Gulen, and that is one of the things General Flynn has been working on. His opinion of Islam is no secret, but since the public story about Gulen is that he is a “moderate” reformer simply interested in educating children in science, math, and engineering, certain people label General Flynn all manner of unkind things. However, if my readers listened to the interview I posted above with Clare Lopez, you realize Gulen wants very much to bring back the Ottoman Empire. And here we thought Erdogan was bad! Yes, he is pretty bad, but between the two Gulen wins the prize for the most destructive to the Turkish people.

Let me summarize how all of this relates to Las Vegas. We already know what bin Talal was doing, and now we know why he wants the Crown Prince dead. MBS truly is a reformer and, what is worse, he is young enough that the 100+ other wannabe kings in Saudi Arabia will die long before he even reaches senior citizen status. And, I would be remiss if I did not tie this all back to the FBI. James Comey appointed the current head of the Las Vegas office, Aaron Rouse. Further, our dearly beloved Robert Mueller? The guy who was so upset that General Flynn might have dared to kidnap an “American citizen” and bring him back to Turkey? (BTW, that story changed, too, if readers recall; at one time the General was alleged to have been collaborating with Gulen in order to overthrow Erdogan!) Yes, well, I will conclude with the following video about Robert Mueller. It contains a truckload of information, but I want everyone to pay close attention to who the man is who presents one of Gulen's followers with an award for excellence:

And just as I am hitting “publish” on this article, I have arrived in Las Vegas. Please wish me luck, everyone. My greatest desire is to find a way to throw all of this right back at the Clinton Mafia.

God Bless General Flynn,
and May God Bless America.

LaDonna Mosier

PARTING THOUGHT: In the back of my mind is another scenario. When planning an operation of this magnitude, more often than not there is no exact date for its execution. Soldiers rehearse, and rehearse, and rehearse some more, while waiting for the moment when (and IF) they get the “go”. In fact, many times they do not even know the target(s) until the last possible moment. The festival provided a fantastic opportunity, but there is one thing I have not mentioned. “Q Clearance Anonymous” has insinuated multiple times that President Trump might have been in Las Vegas that night. He asked what planes might have no insignia, he asked about air traffic in and out of McCarran, and he also asked (if POTUS were in Vegas) with whom he might have been meeting. We know McCarran was shut down the rest of that night, after reports of shots having been fired at the airport itself. There is the possibility, however remote, that October First might have been an attempted “twofer”. Let us just keep that filed away in our minds as this investigation proceeds.

NOTE: Readers will note glaring omissions from the narrative we have been given on the Las Vegas Shooting. These omissions were for time/space purposes only. I have plenty more evidence that I can and will share as we go along.


Someone calling his company "B-Right News Corp." sent me the following video just a couple of days after I posted this article. The similarities between my scenario and his are uncanny. Watch, enjoy, and comment:

Saturday, September 16, 2017

#ImranAwan, #Pakistan, and #September11th

Just when we think the 9/11 story has gotten as bad as it possibly can get, something else comes along. In this case, a new revelation has coincided with my reading "The New Pearl Harbor" by David Ray Griffin.

I encourage everyone to read this book. For those who have not done so, we begin in Pakistan. How many readers have heard, or have at least suspected, that the United States created the Taliban?

"Impressed by the ruthlessness and willingness of the then-emerging Taliban to cut a pipeline deal, the State Department and Pakistan's Inter-Services Intelligence agency agreed to funnel arms and funding to the Taliban." Ibid, p. 90; "Taliban", Ahmed Rashid, quoted by Ted Rall, San Francisco Chronicle, November 2, 2001.

Some readers may know that Unocal was involved in the proposed pipeline, but how many people know that Hamid Karzai of the Northern Alliance, who became Prime Minister of Afghanistan post-9/11, formerly advised Unocal on the proposed Trans-Afghanistan Pipeline (TAPI)?

How many readers believe that everything in the Middle East can be boiled down to one three-letter word, o-i-l? Oil is the simple explanation, but there is much more to our involvement in Middle Eastern and Central Asian affairs than that. Unfortunately, Trump has fallen prey to ignorance because, while claiming to have declared war on the opioid epidemic, he has committed to an increased presence in Afghanistan while hoping to convince our "partner", Pakistan, to help in the supposed War on Terror, seemingly unaware that our troops are standing guard over poppy fields. And, our involvement in drug trafficking is not a new concept; our major bankers made their fortunes on opium before the United States even declared its independence from Great Britain:

So, what does any of this have to do with Imran Awan, who reportedly first went to work for Robert Wexler in 2004? Just this:

According to Awan's LinkedIn profile, he began working for Congress in January 2000, which should raise everyone's eyebrows. David Ray Griffin and many others have linked both World Trade Center bombings with the attack on the USS Cole so that, if Awan and/or Pakistan was involved in September 11th, we must also look at any possible links to Yemen.

Which brings us to our favorite CIA operative, Evan McMullin. He states on Twitter that his job was to convince al-Qaeda operatives to work for the United States. In what capacity? Where did he recruit these members of al-Qaeda? Pakistan? Afghanistan? Both? Does he know the Awan brothers? Could he have been working to secure the TAPI pipeline? Or, was McMullin following the age-old CIA tradition of drug-running?

"The New Pearl Harbor" covers every conceivable angle of the 9/11 attacks and, again, I encourage everyone to read it. Griffin goes into minute detail, and the bibliography is fifty pages long! Getting back to the focus of this article, our involvement with the ISI and the Taliban/al-Qaeda is of grave concern, as is Pakistan's evident infiltration of our intelligence community and whatever role McMullin played in all of this. 

It was only a couple of months ago when I wrote a series on the 9/11 attacks, detailing all of the problems with the official account of that day. When we add Imran Awan to the mix, the result is indescribably disturbing. If we operate under the premise that one or more factions within our government orchestrated or at least allowed September 11th to occur, then positioning one or more ISI agents where they can monitor intelligence in the preceding months makes perfect sense. And McMullin's possible involvement is absolutely chilling.

Drugs and oil. Are these the reasons 2,997 people were murdered? The reason we continue to sponsor terrorism while claiming to be at war with it? The reason we continue to protect drug routes while claiming we care about the "opioid epidemic"? And, given this latest twist, I now believe more firmly than ever that Robert O'Neill is an annuitant. He did not kill Osama bin Laden. My regular readers will recall the following article from Seymour Hersh:

Now that we know how closely the United States works with Pakistan's ISI, O'Neill's claim is all the more ridiculous. Would we really jeopardize our relationship with our "partner" by invading Pakistan's air space and storming a compound where the ISI was guarding bin Laden? The Obama Administration's story is now nothing short of ludicrous.

The key to unlocking this mess is Evan McMullin. As I have stated previously, he did not just pop up out of nowhere last year. What does he know? We need to find out.

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

The #AwanBrothers, #SethRich, and Much More

So much has happened since I posted my last article; so much, in fact, that I am having great difficulty deciding what to write.

After almost a year, I am back on Twitter, which almost immediately buried me with information surrounding the Imran Awan case that I had not seen on any other Internet site I frequent.

People who know me in real life will recall I had serious suspicions that Evan McMullin was the Ross Perot of the 2016 election, the entire purpose of his campaign being to split the Republican vote, guaranteeing Hillary Clinton the presidency. As it turns out, McMullin was working behind-the-scenes many years before the election, and may have played an integral role in the Awan brothers saga. More on that at another time.

What we do know for certain is that John McCain was not the first person to obtain the fraudulent Trump Dossier from Fusion GPS. While Rick Wilson denies allegations that he was the go-between, what we do know is that McMullin handed that dossier over to CIA at least a month before McCain went to the FBI.

Meanwhile, Debbie Wasserman-Schultz (and almost two doezen other congressmen, most notably one Adam Schiff) is in more hot water than she can imagine, and it goes much deeper than having rigged the Democratic primary in Hillary's favor. A few months ago, I was watching a video update on the Seth Rich murder when the commentator said that NCIS was investigating. I could not imagine why, since their jurisdiction is quite specific, until George Webb mentioned something I have not heard from any other source. We all know the House Intelligence Committee was compromised because of the supposed break-in of Democratic congressional offices (I still content it was staged), but until now we had no specifics.

Now we know. CENTCOM was breached.

That information brings up a truckload of questions. The Awan brothers worked in Congress since at least 2004; how many missions were compromised as a result? How long has MacDill AFB known about it? Could it be the reason for Extortion 17? What about Camp Chapman? Benghazi? Yemen? The list goes on.

And, just where does McMullin fit in? He did not pop up out-of-the-blue last year. In which part(s) of South Asia was he stationed? Pakistan, by any chance? Did our all-American, good temple-going Mormon, help Christopher Steele concoct the Trump Dossier? If not, how did he find out about it? I have also noticed an odd rendition of The Three Musketeers: McMullin, Ted Lieu, and Ana Navarro. What is up with that?

One other thing I need to toss into the mix. I do not have evidence proving the following event is tied to the Awan case, but it is suspicious-as-hell.

In March, I was temporarily staying in Kensington, Maryland. One Thursday night, we were awakened by an explosion. The ground shook; we had no idea what had happened. Shortly afterward, a chorus of sirens piqued our curiosity, but we did not hear anything until early Friday morning. What we heard was a house exploding; reports were that over seventy firefighters responded to the scene.

A couple of days later, the owner's body was recovered and identified. Officials said Steven Martin Beck, 61, shot his dog and himself in the basement and that the house had exploded due to a gas leak. Does anyone else find this story to be bizarre? What if I include the fact that Mr. Beck was a CPA who worked in D.C., his house was supposed to have been sold at auction that Friday but his attorneys had pulled it from the auction the day before the explosion, and that he organized Northrup Grumman's annual Military Bowl? Is anyone suspicious yet? I am.

Meanwhile, it turns out Seth Rich was unmasked as being Julian Assange's source by none other than Susan "It was a Video" Rice and the FBI. Andrew McCabe and James Comey strike again. 

Events in the Imran Awan case are breaking with lightning speed, and I will post more articles as the information becomes available. I think it is safe to say one of the main reasons for the sudden rise of Antifa is to distract from a scandal that makes Watergate look like Romper Room.

Stay tuned.


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