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  SATAN’S GAMBIT

  SATAN’S GAMBIT

  BOOK ONE

  Battle Lines Are Drawn

  A Novel By

  GENE CONTI, MD

  SATAN’S GAMBIT

  Copyright © 2017 by Gene Conti

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means—whether electronic, digital, mechanical, or otherwise—without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  World Ahead Press is a division of WND Books. The views and opinions expressed in this book are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of WND Books.

  DISCLAIMER

  Many of the characters and individuals whom I have included in the novel are real; and in some cases, famous celebrities. In reality I do not know if they are in agreement or in support of any of the ideas, tenets or propositions I have put forth in my novel. I have included them only in the hope of making the novel more interesting.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-944212-68-1

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-944212-69-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  16 17 18 19 20 21 LSI 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  DEDICATION

  To the absolutely wonderful nurses I have worked with throughout the years in the emergency department. They truly have nerves of steel, hearts of gold and the patience of Job.

  The women and men in the emergency department are the tip of the medical/nursing spear. They are the first to fight on the front lines and in the trenches. Do not be deceived. The emergency department of today is a war room of controlled (and at times not so controlled) chaos.

  The entire medical system today is in free-fall. The meltdown commenced a few years ago. These women and men are the glue who are trying to hold it together. Daily they are subjected to ridicule, harassment, and physical abuse; being cussed, punched, spit at; and have their lives threatened by the very people who they are trying to care for. This is not your “ER” of twenty years ago, or even ten years ago. There is not an emergency physician or other health care provider today who could even begin to function without their support and assistance. They are more than deserving of your honor and respect.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Preface

  Acknowledgments

  1. The Last Day

  2. Battle of Chosin

  3. Fall of Saigon

  4. The Escape

  5. The Presidents

  6. Mr. Pen and a Phone

  7. Compliant Weasel

  8. Key to the Future

  9. The Monks

  10. A Dream and a Plan

  11. The Job Offer

  12. The Matrix Exposed

  13. The Pledge

  14. Blue Pill or Red Pill

  15. Cussin’ Jar

  16. Lunch Break

  17. Bias

  18. Brainwashed

  19. Nana’s

  20. On the Dole

  21. Judgment at Nuremberg

  22. A Workout

  23. What Is Truth?

  24. Mother Gaia

  25. Blind Chance

  26. The Hoagie

  27. Social Justice

  28. Love and Respect

  29. Rocky Road

  30. Secret Sects

  31. Wrong or Right

  32. Ugly Alien

  33. Borel’s Law

  34. Mr. and Mrs. Mousetrap

  35. Mental Masturbation

  36. E.T. Phone Home

  37. The Rod

  38. Maggie’s Confession

  39. Mister Fred

  40. Bombardier Beetle

  41. Cover Girl

  42. The World Ecology Flag

  43. A New Religion

  44. Rent-a-Mob

  45. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity

  46. Brother Francis

  47. Ask the Animals

  48. Myth and Fairytales

  49. Dr. Mercurio

  50. Marx’s Friend

  51. Übermenschen

  52. The Cuckoo’s Nest

  53. The Queen B

  54. The Office

  55. Decadence

  56. In the Dark

  57. Sustainable Development

  58. T-Chip

  59. Chaperones

  60. Smoke and Mirrors

  61. The Big If

  62. Millions and Billions

  63. Evidence vs. Opinion

  64. Profound Realization

  65. Round One

  66. Extra Credit

  67. If It Quacks Like a Duck

  68. Dinosaur Trick

  69. Marx and Lenin

  70. Mega sequences

  71. Kola Borehole

  72. Suspended

  73. O’Dark Thirty

  74. The Dean

  75. Blueshirts

  76. The Solution

  PREFACE

  We as a nation stand looking back on what has taken place over the past few decades. Many of us are confused as to what has happened to us, and why. This novel takes place just a few short years into the future and is an attempt to answer these very crucial questions.

  I believe things will get worse before they get better. However, in order for we as humanity to have a brighter future, and we will, we must understand what exactly has transpired. Only then can we correct our mistakes.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This novel could never have been written without positive constructive input and criticism from people whom I admire. There are several individuals who I would like to thank for their sage advice and comments: Ted Flynn, Colleen Flynn, Robert Keitzer, Dawn Bennett, R.N., Lucille Gross, R.N., Alanna LoGioco and, of course, my loving wife, Barbara. Also posthumously my parents, both of whom persisted in prayer for me to return to the straight and narrow way.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE LAST DAY

  The sun was shining through the classroom windows, providing warmth to the room; it was comforting and almost consoling after yesterday’s cold rain. I could hear the birds chirping and singing outside, which brightened my spirits. The classroom was a standard size room, not like the classic lecture halls with theater-style seating as portrayed in most movie settings.

  I had begun packing my personal books, science texts, DVDs, and reams of lecture notes that I had used for the course throughout the past two semesters. The fossils and other props I had shown to the students during the class lectures would have to be carefully covered with bubble wrap before boxing.

  The events of yesterday still had my mind roiling. In retrospect, I’m surprised I was able to teach two semesters before the powers that be finally had to crush me. It was just a matter of time. I should feel grateful that I was able to accomplish the little that I did. Hopefully the kids got the message. The question is: did I impact them enough, enough for them to carry the torch?

  The serenity of the classroom was suddenly broken when Maria, one of my students, rushed into the room. Exhausted and panting she is extremely agitated and stumbling over her words.

  “Maria, calm down and breathe slowly; what has you so upset?”

  “Someone has killed himself. Someone has killed himself.” Confused and crying - her head and eyes wandering about without focus or direction.

  “Maria,” I grabbed both her shoulders firmly, “look at me! Organize your thoughts and tell me what has happened. Who has killed himself?”

  “A few of us were inside the coffee shop when we heard some loud talking, almost screaming from someone outside on the patio.”

  “The outside patio of the coffee shop?” I asked.

  “Yes, Yes, and then we heard a loud gunshot.” As her breathing started to slow down, she looked an
d spoke directly to me. “There were a few students and faculty sitting outside on the patio and they began to scream … and … and everyone inside the coffee shop ran out to the patio.”

  Maria started to become flustered again. I gripped her shoulders once more and calmly asked, “Maria, when you got out to the patio, what did you see?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” I asked, repeating what she just told me.

  “Well, some of the kids who were originally on the patio when the gunshot went off were still screaming when Father Flanagan ran up. He took charge rather quickly and began questioning those who were present.”

  “What did they tell him?”

  “That some guy was standing on that little wall on the edge of the patio ranting and raving about something; then he took a gun out and shot himself in the head.”

  “And the body?”

  “It must have fallen off the wall into that deep ravine below. Everyone ran to the wall, but couldn’t see anything, probably because of all the trees and bushes and stuff way down there. Father Flanagan found the gun on the patio next to the wall where it landed after the guy shot himself. Someone heard him say something about blood on the gun and that he was going to contact the police.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  BATTLE OF CHOSIN

  It was just over a year ago that Father Ed Flanagan talked me into doing the teaching stint at his college. He felt that I really had something to offer the youth and pressed me to meet with the dean as soon as possible, so as to get me on the fall roster. Of course, Father Ed paved the way for my meeting with Dean Avery, which went as smooth as silk.

  Father Ed Flanagan was quite a colorful character. He was widely well known and respected by a broad swath of people from diverse backgrounds. I came to know of Father Ed through his books and articles. It may have been through the writings on WND that I was first exposed to him. I was drawn to his style, which revealed his character. He was definitely not the PC type. He told it how it was. More of a kick butt and take names kind of personage.

  The more I read his books, the more I wanted to meet him. My wife, Emily, encouraged me to contact him. With some persistent prodding, I finally did. He was a bit cautious at first, but in short order we hit it off. We were two peas from the same pod. After that first luncheon at Clyde’s, a well-appointed Washington restaurant, we both knew neither of us needed to put on airs. Early on we met frequently for coffee or beer at some local pub or bar and grill, in town, not far from Georgetown University. We would find a quiet corner and just talk for hours.

  Father Ed wasn’t always a Roman Catholic priest. His father was Irish and mother was Scottish. His accent and speech expressions are a mixture of both the Scottish burr and the Irish brogue with the requisite blarney thrown in occasionally for emphasis. When he was about fifteen years old he lied about his age and “snuck” into the marines. He went through basic training at Parris Island and then was immediately shipped to Korea as part of the 1st Marine Division.

  Ed quickly saw action and was involved in the Battle of Chosin Reservoir in November to December of 1950. Temps dropped to minus thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Firing pins failed on their rifles. Blood plasma froze and was useless. The Navy Corsairs had no choice but to drop napalm on the Chinese hordes descending over and upon our marines, which ignited on our own troops as well.

  Ed was near his commanding officer, Lt. Don Carlos Faith, when shrapnel from a grenade injured them both. Ed watched as Lieutenant Faith died from a mortal wound. Ed himself would have bled to death if it weren’t for the freezing temperatures, which stopped him from exsangunating.

  Ed was one of the “Chosin Few” as they were called. He survived after a splenectomy, and losing a small finger and a few toes that had developed frostbite and subsequent gangrene. They had to be amputated at a mobile army surgical hospital (M*A*S*H*) — without anesthesia.

  There are no atheists in foxholes, as Corporal Flanagan soon learned, and that the utopian Marxist philosophy of communism can only be established with bullets and bayonets.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FALL OF SAIGON

  The tall, skinny, kid that had entered the Marines was honorably discharged a few years later, and was now a tough-as-nails man with the physique to back it up. He bummed around for a while after returning to the states, taking all manner of odd jobs from working in a lumber mill to serving as a bouncer in a dance club. But something was gnawing at him.

  Ed attended college at Georgetown University and majored in philosophy with a minor in political science. After graduation, he worked in Washington as an entry-level bureaucrat at one of the alphabet agencies. Ed hated the mundane work, but loved meeting and networking with people. He made some good contacts higher up in the pecking order and saw how all the political intrigue of the Washington scene could be addicting. He developed some close friends he really trusted while trying to avoid the K Street boys, or ravenous human parasites as he called them.

  Still something was yearning within him. His spirit was unsettled. One beautiful summer day he visited a Marine buddy who was undergoing some physical rehab at the National Rehabilitation Hospital off Irving Street. It was a great reunion. They laughed until they cried, exchanging old war stories, and then talked about family and work and things. Upon leaving the facility, that pesky feeling was bugging Ed again. He drove around McMillan Park and headed east on Irving Street, crossed over North Capitol Street, and began to head up Michigan Avenue when he spotted a beautiful building on his left. He double backed and pulled into the main parking area. The white marble structure glistened in the high noonday sun. It was the Basilica of the Immaculate Conception. It reminded him somewhat of Hagia Sofia Mosque which he had seen while on one of his bureaucratic jaunts to Istanbul, Turkey for the agency. The Hagia Sophia was originally a massive cathedral, built in the sixth century, in the former city of Constantinople, which was converted to a mosque with the fall of Constantinople by the Muslim Ottoman Turks in 1453.

  An indescribable gentle force was lulling him to go inside. Once inside the basilica, Ed looked around, was suddenly overwhelmed, and dropped to his knees. He knew what was wanted of him. It still took him another year to work through all his conflicting emotions and desires that were pulling him in a multitude of directions. Deep in his heart and soul, he knew what was his true calling.

  Five years later he was ordained a priest lying prostate before the Cardinal, a supplicant before God. He had attended the Theological College of the Catholic University of America, which was essentially on the same campus as the Basilica of the Immaculate Conception he had walked into several years earlier.

  By the time Ed was ordained, the Viet Nam conflict was in full swing, and the new Father Ed wanted to be in the thick of it. He knew his Marines and others in the military, as well as the Vietnamese people, needed him—they needed God. He volunteered and was sent over as a chaplain with the Marines. Besides his pastoral care to the soldiers and civilians, he was helping establish orphanages and teaching the staff to raise chickens. The chicken business didn’t always work out well as the starving urban civilians usually ate the chickens before there were enough eggs to repopulate the coops. It wasn’t long before his buddies with the alphabet agencies got wind that Ed was in Nam, and he soon was roped into aiding “the cause” doing some covert work for the CIA.

  Father Ed never trusted President Lyndon Johnson. He didn’t think the president was prosecuting the war as a battle to be won but as a prolonged protracted minimalist campaign to benefit the military-industrial complex that President Eisenhower had warned about in his farewell speech. Initially Father Ed was the good Boy Scout and thought he could make a difference. But the carnage around him and the senseless deaths of American lives as cannon fodder for the elite took its toll.

  Father Ed was at the fall of Saigon on April 29, 1975, when the Air America helicopters evacuated CIA personnel from the rooftop of Gia Long Street in Saigon. From a clandestine locati
on, he watched in silent outrage as American flags were ripped down, burnt, and trampled upon. It had been only a few months since he had discovered that the events in the Gulf of Tonkin, which originally brought us into the war, was a false flag op. The incident was provoked so that the president would have an excuse to start a war.

  Father Ed refused to just leave the Vietnamese people to a grisly fate. North Korea resounded in his mind. He knew firsthand what awaited these poor people. Slavery and starvation were certain. A quick death would be a blessing. The USA had sold them out. The Viet Cong captured Saigon the next day.

  Not exactly Jungle Jim, Father Ed had learned a lot about survival from the rural Vietnamese people over those years. For them it was routine daily life to live off the land. Instead of Father Ed helping them, the Vietnamese who he could trust, were helping him. To harbor an American, and a priest at that, would mean torture and death for one’s entire family. Word did get out that a CIA operative—Father Ed—was still at large.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE ESCAPE

  After losing their pursuers in the wilds of the Mekong Delta, Father Ed and several families, who had been targeted by the new Communist regime for aiding the Americans, made it to the tip of the Vietnamese peninsula. Three families each lost a member when they disturbed the domain of a brood of swamp snakes. The entire band was exhausted, dehydrated, and bloated from innumerable mosquito bites and the blood-sucking leeches that had attached to every exposed body part.

  It was there that they received a blessing from heaven—a Mekong Delta Freighter. It was owned by one of the families’ relatives, and he hated the Viet Cong. They had killed his youngest son for not giving over his meager fishing catch and other supplies that they demanded. Classic communist “share the wealth” mentality.

  As they were loading the freighter, Father Ed noticed a case of number 10 cans in a cardboard box with American military labeling on it. Stenciled on the side was CHOC PUD. He asked the freighter captain what that was all about. He said that some of the Navy swift-boat sailors gave it to him as a present. Told him it “fell off a truck.” The captain said it was really “good stuff.” They used it as bait to lure some of the small swamp animals into their cage traps. The animals loved it. With that Father Ed picked up the case and brought it aboard the freighter. He said, “The kids will love this stuff.”