posted on Dec, 28 2007 @ 06:10 PM
Pan shot outside the White house, then an hall shot and last a door opening into a conference room.
"All rise." (The varied group of well dressed men and women stand as a white haired elder gentleman enters from a side door.)
"Be seated" (Everyone sits, adjusting themselves, as the man strides confidently to the head of the table, placing a thick folder on the surface and
then leaning on the table without taking a seat.)
"I don't have time for a lot of formality on this ATS issue. I see some new faces here from last nights session, and I'll trust others to bring
these people up to speed on what we're faced with." (The speaker looks down and opens the folder midway through the documents.) "These people are a
danger to everything we've built up in the last fifty years. The question is, how do we handle it?"
"As head of the Internet Security Forces, tell me Mr. Simmons, just how much do these people know?" (The man at the head of the table looks at a
hatchet faced individual midway down the table on the left side.)
"To be honest, Mr President, too much and not enough." (Simmons leans back in his chair,removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.)
"They seem to know that there are plans that might not be in their best interest, but nobody can agree on just what the plans are, or what to do
about them. Basically, they're too divided right now to do anything other than talk."
"And what is your department's best guess for how long they will stay in this undecided state?" (The President snaps this out.)
"Days, months, years, who knows." (Simmons responds, eyes closed and showing all the signs of being physically exhausted.) "These people talk
endlessly. they love to talk. Some of them are really close to guessing the truth of things, but who knows when they'll convince enough people for it
"Close matters." (The President is obviously agitated by the response. Shifting his gaze across the table to a dark haired women across from
Simmons, he gentles his voice to ask his next question.) "Ms. Fiengeld, have matters changed?"
"Only that the subject, one Mr. Simon Grey, is now in custody, instead of just under observation, as before." (Ms.Fiengeld smiles a tight smile of
triumph towards the President.) "He'll tell us everything he knows before the sun goes down in Cuba."
(The president nods, looking down at his papers, then looks up quickly at the man seated at the other end of the table.)
"Mr. Whitfield, is Homeland Security on schedule for Operation Sweeper?" (The president shows a slight sign of stress as the creases around his
already sunken eyes deepen.)
"It has been ready for a long time, Mr. President." (Whitfield looks at the president with his calm and confident manner known well within the
beltway.) "When you give the word, we move."
"But can you be sure that you contain the problem?" (The tension in the president's voice makes the tone sharper than normal in a board
"Have we ever failed to remove our targets? Even before we got this new name of Homeland Security? Did we fail at Dallas? At Waco? At New York? At a
thousand malls and schools and post offices?" (The self satisfied voice of Whitfield leaves no room for doubt.) "We do what we do, and someone else
gets the credit. It's how we work best. We're always ready. We're always sure."
"These people are scattered across the globe. I just want a clean operation." (The president looks at his papers once more, then looks back at
Whitfield.) "It's the vocal thinkers that matter. The rest are just sheep. But the thinkers can do damage."
"Sir, it's all planned, set, ready. We take them, Ms. Fiengeld gives them a home, for as long as they last." (Whitfield flashes a slight smile
across the table at the dark haired matron.) "Being spread out even helps, because their disappearance is a local event. After a week, they're
"OK ladies and gentlemen." (The president bows his head and pauses, giving a final thought to his words, then raises his head to look around the
table.) "This is the moment. We do it now. Everything is in our favor. It's time to roll up the carpet and start over. Our way. By this time
tomorrow, I want complete and utter control to be centered in this room. No questions, no exceptions."
(Picking up his folder of papers, the president of the North American Union strides from the room without another word, as those at the table struggle
to their feet in respect.)