BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 70. Benton has more INSIDER WISDOM for President Little.

CHAPTER SEVENTY

Benton wasn’t finished expressing his views to the new President. His cancer had been kicking up again and he knew time was running out. How many more opportunities did he have, to impart his particular brand of insider wisdom to his Presidential friend and extended family member? Arriving at the main White House Guard Station, Benton was again waved through, held temporarily at First Floor Security, greeted by the President and led upstairs. Cissy and the kids were out the rest of the afternoon, so there was ample time to converse.

“Good to see you again, Jim,” said Jackson as the men took their seats. Benton draped his jacket over a nearby chair and sank into the richly upholstered, green velvet. “So, can I just jump in, Sir?” Benton felt he had been mincing his words, more or less, for awhile.

“Of course,” said Jackson, eagerly awaiting his friend’s information. What hadn’t they covered in the last meeting?

“I'm sure you recall our past discussion of how, in my opinion, this country was created by founding fathers who had their own special interests at heart,” began Benton, glancing beyond the President to the doorway, trying to keep his volume below diatribe level.

“They were ready, willing, and able to see the riches of this new land, and they succeeded in becoming rich beyond their wildest dreams. Their world, as they knew it, worked perfectly. They had the slave-farmers to tend crops, and slave-carpenters to build their estates and outbuildings. They held ownership of lands – some bequeathed from King George himself – that stretched farther than the eye could see. And what they were the very best at was involving the common man in their trials and tribulations. If Britain threatened their economic base with a sales tax, threatened to cut their new-world profits in half, then they could wage resistance beyond their own rather grand resources by getting the populace up in arms, revving up things to a Revolutionary War pitch.”

Jackson held off comments, curious, as always, about where his dear friend was taking things. He’d heard most of it before, in one radical Brown history class or another, but knew he had some serious gaps in the history of early American practices.

“Since most often the land owners – the ‘privileged class,’ we’ll call them – owned printing presses and typesetting apparatuses, they could produce handbills, extol the virtues of opposing the British or any hostile group, and thus spare the members of their own families, and secret societies, the muss and fuss. In other words, the rabble worked for them. Nothing has changed since then, my friend.”

President Little sat quietly for a few moments. By virtue of his election, he was now one of the chosen few, a man with means and the greatest of political connections. But he wasn’t, as yet, a member of any secret society.

“Yes, Jim. I remember how you've previously described the foundation of economic development and the boy’s club of the rich manipulating the man on the street, and all. But now that I've been initiated into that rich man’s club it almost feels like I should defend it, as another caring official who is willing to fight and sacrifice himself for the common good.”

“Oops. I can see how I've already failed to read the tea leaves,” said Benton, half apologizing. “Please excuse me. But perhaps the main subject of this little talk is how even you, Mr. President, must nowadays be considered as just a common everyday millionaire. The people at the very top of the heap, those individuals that Eisenhower warned us about – the Military Industrial Complex – have such extreme resources, that the ratio of Founding Fathers versus shop owners has remained virtually the same. We need to examine the slave-to-master bit more carefully, at least as far as percentages go. But please let me try to get this conversation back on track one.”

President Little again fell silent, as the older man shifted his weight in his chair.

“Both you and I, and everyone who has accessed any Internet conspiracy theory site knows that income tax collection is illegal. There is no law to support the government wrenching big chunks of income out of our pockets each year. Yet US citizens dutifully turn over virtually all monies earned from the first three months of each year, when tax time rolls around. They do this – relinquish their hard-earned funds – by threat of incarceration at a federal penitentiary. Hey, no one wants to go to jail, right?

“Now, let’s imagine all those payments in hard currency, rolling into the national treasury––that’s a reserve of which you, as President, are seemingly in control. This amounts to around four trillion annually, or about 25% of the sixteen trillion we identify as our Gross National Product. The President, along with his Secretary of the Treasury and Congress, are ostensibly in charge of allocating these funds so that the government runs smoothly and meets its financial obligations in any one year. Through this massive fund, the government pays for its wars, personnel, utilities, new construction, workers salaries, street repair, and of course makes allotments in the form of ‘financial aid’ to foreign countries.”

Jackson heard a clock chime somewhere off in the distance and figured it was probably 2:00 PM. Benton didn’t pause at all, but kept his target in sight.

“We control the world through these seemingly unselfish acts of foreign aid, dangling a carrot here, an olive branch there. At any rate, the American people pay in, and their government spends. My question to you is, how do you think the descendants of the founding fathers manage to grab a lion’s share of these tax dollars?”

“Well, I don’t think they do,” answered Jackson. “I mean, it’s all included in the yearly budget, each item carefully itemized and scrutinized by members of Congress and our own Treasury agents.”

Benton enjoying his partner’s naive response.

“Then, let me ask you this,” said Benton, his eyes narrowing a bit. “Who exactly is the Military Industrial Complex of 2014?”

The President didn’t have an instant answer, so just sat there waiting for his friend to Q&A himself. But Benton just answered with another question. “Who manufactures the nuclear warheads; the stingers, rifles, handguns, armored tanks, fighter jets, landmines, bullets, night goggles, helmets, jeeps, drones, guidance systems and so on?”

“Various companies, government contractors chosen for their low bids on these high-ticket items,” answered the President, confident that his answer was correct. When Benton returned with a “No,” Jackson felt like he’d been hit with a shockwave. He quickly recovered in anticipation of an explanation.

“Everyone is made to believe that the process is fair, orderly, reasonable, with the lowest bid winning contracts,” explained Benton, confidently, “but what if I told you that often it is the absolute highest bidder who actually wins when it comes to our armaments? Remember the $500 toilet seat and $200 hammers that were somehow ok’d by the Pentagon in the 1980s? That was just one example of unmentionables that were purchased in the name of ‘conscientious government spending.’ Our current Homeland Security ‘terrorist’ budget is a runaway in amounts that make these inflated Pentagon numbers look like chicken feed.”

“But – ” The President found himself temporarily speechless. “How does – why do the Senate and other sub-committees pass these budgets, ratify amounts that they know are obviously wasteful and vulnerable to controversy?” The new President was completely dismayed at what he’d heard.

“Just get on the web, my friend, and you'll understand what’s at stake here. Take a surf to Lockheed Martin dot com, for instance, to the site where many military products are listed neatly as hot links in alphabetical headings. At Lockheed Martin you’ll discover hundreds of their products, from the smallest, most modest guidance system to the U-2 surveillance bombers. Each Lockheed entry is, in fact, a product that it must sell somewhere in the world. That’s how a company, any company, makes its revenue, supports its workforce, pays its taxes and keeps afloat. If a company of that size can’t move its inventory off the shelves, clear last year’s model and thusly restock with the latest goods, it will go belly up.

“So...how do Lockheed, Boeing, Northrop and other mega- companies turn over their inventory?”

Jackson waited for the answer.

“Well, WE AUTHORIZE EACH AND EVERY EXPENDITURE!” Realizing that he was inappropriately ramping up the volume, Benton gave pause. Who knew who was listening? he reminded himself. “Sorry, old friend. I must apologize for the edging up – these diatribe levels sneaking in.”

Jackson nodded, his interest still peaking. “No worries. Please continue.

“We pay for the development of these missile systems, and deploy drones in the Mid-East, all in the name of “supporting our troops.” Our duly-elected representatives in the House and Senate vote on these expenditures. That’s how we authorize everything. But who we vote for hardly matters. That’s because the super-rich and their associates make sure things always work out well, in their favor. We turn over billions – pardon me, trillions – to companies that develop and build arms, supply products for our military excursions.

Now, do those same-brand missiles, guidance systems, bombers and the like ever end up in the hands of our enemies?”

“They shouldn’t,” said the President. “At least we have laws that forbid the trading and exchange of high-profile weapon systems to known enemies – Iran and Syria. Even the Saudis don’t have an easy time possessing our most advance guidance systems.” Benton's face looked gleeful enough for the President to add, “Do they?”

“Ostensibly, no.” After a beat, Benton added, “Secretly, yes.”
The President waited.

“Israel sold arms, US arms, secretly to Iran in the mid-1980s, to the tune of half a billion dollars per year. That Iran was its sworn enemy at the time hardly matted. The dollars, Euros or whatever, are so huge in this arms business that governments need to sell to the highest bidders, whether friend or foe. And wars need to be generated, campaigns initiated, battalions marched, boats launched, fighter jets flown, tanks rolled, soldiers marched – and killed. And it’s been this way since...well, since whenever you consider the first organized wars occurred. Pardon me if this sounds too kindergarten. Perhaps it just helps me, personally, to recap this illogicalness...”

“No. Please continue,” urged the President. Benton always helped to refresh priorities, keeping a focus on the most critical areas of government, when things like “Tuesday’s menu,” or something equally mundane, fought for supremacy on daily to-do lists.

“Imagine the huge profits generated by every man and his brother during our Civil War, whether on the same side or not. Brothers fighting with government-issued guns, swords, cannons, and clothed in pants, belt buckles, shirts, hats, shoes, socks. Man, those profits really wet the whistle of the industrialists!”

“I’ve long realized that wars move military products off the shelves,” said Jackson, adding, “but why is it so hard to retain this basic information? Part of my brain just refuses to believe that it’s really this bad.”

“Sorry to say, old chap, but I’m just halfway along here.” An understanding look crossed Benton’s face. “It’s dirtier than anyone can fathom. When you factor in the billion-plus heroin crop profits from Afghanistan and Pakistan, with the trillion-plus profits from arms dealing throughout the world, and throw in the scores of bribes paid to people in high places to get such mega-deals concluded, there starts to emerge a portrait of epic-scale skullduggery. Entire governments, including our own, are selling – trading – arms and drugs, without any concern to the harm that’s done to our soldiers in the field. And ultimately you, as Commander in Chief, get to write the letters of condolence when Mr. and Mrs. Smith’s son or daughter don’t return from some foreign war. All sold to the public as ‘keeping America safe.’

“The deception goes terribly deep. And I’m afraid Kennedy saw it and tried to stop it. That meant, of course, going against his own father’s wishes. And we know where that got him.”

Benton had promised himself to not to beat around the bush, but as he eased into the final topic of the day, he braced himself for his Presidential buddy’s next response.

“So, dear friend, the New World Order is simply a new step to an old dance. If my weapon is bigger, more deadly, then I rule you, enslave you and your fellow tribe members. But this next development, a deep secret even within the intelligence community, is key to the kind of future you may expect.”

Jackson shifted in his chair.

“Scientists in Germany – German but employed by the CIA – have invented a bacteria that can eradicate radioactive fallout.” Benton let that statement resonate for a few seconds.

“Holy shit!” The President of the United State couldn’t help using an expletive.

“The bacteria is delivered by missile or ground, is soluble in liquid – think water – and cycles within twenty-four hours, cutting the half- life of Uranium 238 and its fissionable counterpart, Plutonium 239, from 4.5 billion years to a matter of days.

“The devouring bacteria is non-invasive to humans or animals, completely safe, yet it thoroughly eradicates radioactive isotopes, clearing and cleaning off all surfaces. And it extinguishes itself, becoming a harmless dust that can literally be swept up into a dustpan. No respirator or face mask is even required. What that means is, the blast area of an atomic bomb detonation can be reclaimed by living inhabitants almost immediately after detonation, aside from whatever radioactive elements get airborne, I know I don’t need to explain the implications of this development. And you can ask yourself why I happen to know about this before the President of the United States.”

————

https://www.scienceabc.com/eyeopeners/can-microbes-eat-radiation.html