A million meters high in the sky, a jumbo stealth craft flies at supersonic speed. The size of a football pitch, it zooms through the air using a propulsion system unseen in civilian flight. Undetectable to radar and flown on the outer rim of the Thermosphere, one hundred kilometres high, its existence is a secret to the world below, but more than anything, it’s a genuine ‘UFO.’
“Note,” the text books quote, “An unidentified-flying-object isn’t necessarily alien. It’s something no one can explain, neither a plane, balloon, cloud or helicopter; being unidentifiable is what makes a UFO, a UFO.”
Time to time orders are given for low fly-bys over populated civilian areas. It’s an ongoing directive to confuse the public and install fear within its psychology, “Mess with the public’s mind and they’ll never think straight again,” is the preconceived wisdom of the management. “Keeping the public on their toes and fearing an imminent alien invasion, is always prudent and should be promoted on any given opportunity,” the text books quote.
The craft had been in the air for over a month now, keeping tabs upon the world below, responding to events and creating events of it's own. It’s the command centre of the world’s most secretive organisation.
Many people would guess it to be the Knight’s Templar and many others would shout the Free-Mason’s. Both will be wrong because it’s never officially been named, but for arguments sake, ‘The Committee of the 300’, would be a fair guess, uou could describe the organisation as the top 0.000000001 of the population, or better still, why not just settle with the Illuminati.
Back on the craft, an operative knocks on the Commander’s door and enters.
“It’s gone sir,” he says coming to attention in front of the Commander’s desk, with a sharp click of the heels.
“And what exactly is gone, Spencer,” the Commander replies.
“The Golden Cube Sir, the Golden Cube has gone Sir.”
“It better not have,” the Commander replies sternly.
“It’s gone sir. It’s really gone.”
“Where, when and bloody well how?” the Commander shouts as he slams his palms onto the table and rises behind his desk ready to pounce.
“London, twenty seconds ago, theft.”
Hitting the intercom button to his secretary in the adjoining room, the Commander barks, “Brenda, get the British Prime Minister on the phone for me now.”
Turning back to Spencer he says, “OK, you know what to do, get on with it.”
Spencer turns and leaves the Commander deep in thought.
“Commander, the British Prime Minister is waiting on the line one, connecting you now,” interrupts Brenda.
“David, young man,” the Commander says, with politeness and a smile, “The dragon fruit has fallen from the tree and has landed in Loch Ness, the water is deep and there is a mermaid called Sally-Ann eating sushi and carrot fritters.”
“I’m listening,” he replies.
“Something important has gone missing and we need to pull out all the stops to get it back.”
“Yes, of-course, we’re at your disposal as always. What have you lost?” the Prime minister asks.
“The doomsday tool, David, the Doomsday tool has gone missing,” replies the commander in a dead-pan tone of voice.
“Wow really, the Dooms-day tool. It sounds really serious, what is the Dooms-days tool?”
“The Doomsday tool is what’s going to bury us all under six-foot-of-shit if we don’t get it back. Just open the door and say no more. I’m sending my people over, full cooperation on this one David.”
“Yes, yes of-course, mi casa es su casa, as they say in Spain, hey.”
“Good, OK, Loch Ness is 230 meters deep,” says the Commander before putting the phone down and looking at the list on his desk.
From a hundred and one things to do, four had been ticked, time for number five, “Brenda, get me Mother.”
