by Jack Heart and Orage
[ Editor’s note: Part III is an abridgment from Jack Heart and Orage’s blog article, and contains a link to the complete article at the bottom. What Jack describes about concerted interference is true on this end, because whenever his articles were posted in the last three years here on VT, the article read counter would frequently get turned off by some other “team”, and it wasn’t the home team. With the counter out of order, Jack’s articles could be marginalized from making it into the VT Top 10 or Top 50. At the time, for practical reasons we didn’t look into the problem further. ]
Laurie’s Joe was friends with the government security lady. He had the keys to her condo, which he spent a lot of time in when she was away. He was very different from military Joe and although he wasn’t a big man; right beneath his warm and friendly veneer there was something menacing about him, much like myself at the time, but with Joe there was an undertone of malice.
He was the only one who would answer me back. One night in the courtyard round about the second or third keg, I was accusing them all of being aliens, haranguing all of them for being Wyrdos, M too. None of it was unusual. I didn’t keep my mouth shut about what I saw and heard; least ways, not to the perpetrators.
As if he had been waiting for it Joe says to me “you’re always accusing everybody else of being an alien. Haven’t you figured it out yet? You’re the alien.” Then military Joe immediately jumps to my defense denying for everything he’s worth that I’m an alien and aggressively admonishing Joe for saying such a thing to me. There were about a dozen other people out there listening to this bizarre exchange intently. Afterwards no one said a thing for the rest of the night…
The night on the beach was one of the strangest of the many strange nights I have known.
Around sundown a couple of unmarked black helicopters passed over, going from west to east along the surf line, which was about the length of a football field down from the camper. No sooner had I remarked to Joe about how low they were flying than another appears in the west heading east along the beach no higher than a couple of hundred feet. Joe stepped out from the camper and walked down a ways toward the beach so his silhouette was clear in the light of the setting sun and started signaling toward it like he was hailing a cab.
By then I could see it was a brand new Apache gunship painted gunmetal black with no markings. It veered up the beach straight at us and settled over our camper so close that the sand from its prop wash was stinging my face. All the while Joe was acting like it was a joke. He continued to signal the pilot who if he could roll down the window was by now close enough to spit on him. After about thirty seconds of this, the gunship rose to about four hundred feet and took off to the east.
I don’t remember it getting dark, but I was probably in the camper doing something obscene with M. When we came out there was a firework display on the bay side of the island and a lot of boats had come in close on the ocean side to watch. The barrier beach is less than a thousand feet wide at Smiths Point, so they had front row seats, along with us and everybody else who had a camper on the beach.
About a quarter mile offshore, all lit up, was a boat that was close to three hundred foot long. It dwarfed the eighty to hundred and twenty foot party boats that were out there.
The water is no more than twenty to twenty five foot deep where it was. I have never seen a boat that big that close to a Long Island beach. I could not see what kind of boat it was. But it was there and then it was gone, I didn’t see it coming in or going back out. When the display was over, we went inside the camper…
When we came back out there was nobody, not a single soul on the beach and the campers around us looked eerily deserted; in fact they looked like the tombstones in a graveyard. The darkness seemed perceptibly tinged with a blue haze and the beach shimmered with a pale white glow. The only sound was the sound of the surf.
All the boats were gone except for the three hundred footer. It was now a good three miles off the beach, where it would stay for the rest of the night. It was the only other sign of life that night, except for the light display that was taking place high in the eastern sky over the ocean. There were so many lights coming and going it could only have been a military exercise. But Joe started insisting they were UFO’s.
He wrapped himself in a beach blanket to look like Moses. He already had the long staff which he had carved from a piece of bamboo earlier. He climbed to the top of the highest dune, about thirty feet and began a sermon about how if we wanted to leave, all we had to do is want them too and they would come and get us. Uncannily, one of the lights broke off as if on cue and started heading towards us. It seemed like it took forever to get to us and as it did the light on it grew brighter and brighter.
When it finally got close enough to see it turned out to be a helicopter with a search light. Joe still standing on the sand dune in his Moses attire solemnly pronounced that one of us didn’t want to see it so that’s how we all saw it, as a helicopter. If everyone had really wanted to see it, it would have remained a UFO, which was really what it was. Everyone laughed uneasily.
We were in an alternate reality, a parallel universe. Back then, we didn’t know what it was called, but I’m pretty sure we all knew we were in one.
There was nobody around, not one of the thousands of people camped out at Smiths Point beach that night was to be seen, not a soul and we knew there wasn’t going to be any either. Feeling sensual in a very dark kind of way, M and I went over the dunes to explore the bay side of the island, among other things. I don’t remember when we took our clothes off, but I remember skinny dipping in the bay.
When we came out we sat on a blanket she had set up on a dune. Suddenly, I felt what I thought was a hypodermic needle being pushed into my shoulder. I swatted at it and saw her do the same to her arm. After it happened a couple of more times to each of us I did end up mashing what appeared to be a very large mosquito on my forearm but she and I were just looking at each other. I lived on the water all my life and I’ve been bitten by thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of mosquitoes, never like this. We grabbed up our stuff and ran full speed back to the camper not bothering to put our clothes back on…
[D]aybreak… I was tending a bonfire in front of the camper and trying to make out what kind of boat the three-hundred-foot enigma still out there was. I never was able to identify it, even in the morning light.
It was just a few nights later, M and I were bouncing around the bars on Park Avenue in Babylon with my cousin and his fiancé when we first heard the news. TWA Flight 800 out of Kennedy Airport, scheduled to stop in Paris and Rome, had just gone down about a dozen miles off the beach east of Moriches Inlet. Two hundred and thirty people were killed, including a bunch of teenage girls who were going to see Paris for their summer vacation. The plane had gone down exactly where we had seen the light show a few nights before.
What ensued was the largest recovery operation in the history of aviation. Everything they found that wasn’t the black boxes or a corpse went right to an old Grumman facility in Calverton, which was the command center for the entire “investigation.”
The whole thing was a mega production circus act worthy of Zahi Hawass. The investigation actually included the FBI’s undocumented removal of wreckage from the facility. The facility is practically right next door to the Brookhaven Lab. No plausible explanation for why Flight 800 went down ever has been given…
I had forgotten about the twentieth century. I had to, if I wanted to live in the twenty-first. I had lived fifteen years in a world that I knew wasn’t real. But as Bob Dylan noted in Tangled Up in Blue: “But all the while I was alone the past was close behind…”
By the end of 2011… I started thinking, why not write the book? Everyone else writes a book. Why not write the book? … Seven of the main characters in the book have died since its completion. The last one was Grace who died abruptly in England right after we published the first part of this essay; Peter Pan Meets Pyramid Head. All have died unexpectedly, some “overdoses,” some for no apparent reason at all. They ranged in age from late forty’s to mid fifties.
By the end of 2012, the book Those Who would Arouse Leviathan was done. If you believed what’s in it, and back then I still didn’t, it’s the most important thing ever written…
By the summer of 2013, assorted gremlins and spooks had begun to tumble out every window I opened on the internet. From the things I saw them doing, manipulating Facebook like it was some kind of video game and indeed the internet itself, they were professionals of the highest caliber. They were showing off and briefing me in the same motion, all the while pushing me to write for Veterans Today (VT).
By then I had become well-acquainted with the Glen Greenwald crowd from OS and their myopic view of a world that doesn’t extend beyond the “teachings” of Noam Chomsky. They had no idea how the world really works. Most of the writers on Veterans Today didn’t either, just filling in Jew when they couldn’t figure something out.
But Gordon Duff, the senior editor of VT, was different. He knew “the News” was just a euphemism they use for the pig slop they feed to the farm animals. He sometimes used his position as a journalist to accidentally on purpose blurt out the truth. Usually it would be in interviews that were quickly removed from the internet but not before I heard them. From what I heard, I knew he had seen what I had seen, and I hadn’t been able to say that since I met Preston Nichols.
After polishing it up a bit, I submitted a term paper to Gordon Duff for publication in VT that I had recently written on Afghanistan in order for the vicious yuppie to get her Business Associates [degree]. I explained to him in the email I sent it with that intelligence work was not really my forte, but I knew more about the occult than any man would ever live to know.
I told him I would write a multi-part essay for him on the prophecies that are driving the world’s current events, events which are otherwise impossible to understand without knowledge of those prophecies. He didn’t even ask any questions. He just told me to go for it…
While writing on OS, I had published The Cross, the Rabbi and the Skinwalker towards the end of 2011. In seventeen thousand or so words, I presented irrefutable proof of a massive academic conspiracy to cover history up rather than teach it. The information in that piece immediately went viral. Scott Wolter, whose evidence for the authenticity of the Kensington Rune Stone, a tablet that puts the Norse in America hundreds of years before Columbus, was prominently featured. He found himself the host of a new TV show, Unearthing America, months after its publication.
Ancient Aliens was plagiarizing whole sections with impunity, at least until Phillip Coppens, the show’s star “researcher,” died of galloping cancer at the end of 2012. They say the extremely rare cancer that afflicted him, Angiosarcoma, is commonly found only in dogs…
For Gordon Duff, I would write Behind the Bush: Aleister Crowley, Yeats, the Anti Christ & Armageddon; close to thirty thousand words which I broke up into nine parts.
For the first five parts, I relied heavily on the information in the Skinwalker piece to prove that Synarchism existed long before Alexandre Saint-Yves d’Alveyd recoined the word in the latter part of the nineteenth century to describe rule by secret society.
The Brotherhood of the Snake, what would now be referred to as the Illuminati, is referenced in the earliest known form of writing, the cuneiform tablets of ancient Sumer or Babylon.
Parts six to nine contained their deepest darkest secrets, which I know because I lived them. For them, I needed look no further than my unpublished book. Everything that was in parts six to nine is in the book. I figured if I am a good enough writer, and I know I am, I could force the book’s publication by using the Internet to create a demand for the information.
After working day and night for two months straight, I finally finished at 4:30 in the morning on a Sunday and immediately forwarded the first five parts followed by the last four to Gordon Duff. It wasn’t five minutes before part 1 was on VT, as if he had been waiting for it. Three hours later it was viral.
When I read the VT version, there was a hyperlink on the words Brotherhood of the Snake that wasn’t in what I submitted. The link went to a journal titled Contact, The Phoenix Project Journal, volume 33; number 5 issued August 22, 2001…
For Jack and Orage’s full article (Part III), read here.
Jack Heart, pen name for George Esposito, is known for his extensive research and writings that provide high-quality information and authentic alternatives to mainstream narratives on a wide variety of subjects. His life experiences make for a highly intriguing perspective.