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Master Spies Die Laughing

A novel interpretation of undercover espionage and a singular lack of intellegience

BY DAN SPEERS 

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If you only read one

novel this summer,

it's got to be

Master Spies

Die Laughing

 

   An incredible story based on

actual reports, diaries, documented

conversations, and secret meetings

in the White House and Pentagon.

 A story that is so close to the truth

that it had to be published as a

novel. A story for every American.

  

Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick holds a copy of my book Master Spies Die Laughing. Now the truth is out. Parents, the police and the FBI discovered schools and official Peeping Toms can secretely turn on computer cameras and monitor everything a student does at home from homework to changing clothes. And with spy chips in your underwear, they can track you anywhere no matter what the hell you are doing.

 

This is Dan's funniest book ever...the truth about how a secret plan to attack Iran hatched during the final days of the Bush administration was bungled by inept intelligence

 
 
The beginnings . . .
 

Despite the failure to uncover weapons of mass destruction in an increasingly unpopular war that resulted in more than 4,000 American soldiers dead and ten times that many casualties, the administration continues to deny that the prewar intelligence relied upon to justify the invasion of Iraq was either misinterpreted or manipulated.

I would say it was more the lack of intelligence than anything else,” said a Presidential spokesperson, who wished to remain anonymous.

- IGNS News Item, Jan. 12, 2005



"We are not afraid to entrust the American people with unpleasant facts, foreign ideas, alien philosophies, and competitive values. For a nation that is afraid to let its people judge the truth and falsehood in an open market is a nation that is afraid of its people."

- John F. Kennedy, Nov. 21, 1963



"They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety."

- Benjamin Franklin, Historical Review of Pennsylvania, 1759



"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"

"Who will watch the watchers?"

- Decimus Junius Juvenalis (Juvenal)

Satires, II. 63. Roman rhetorician,

satirical poet.

Rome (c.100 A.D.)

Disclaimer
 

"I do solemnly swear that I will execute faithfully the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States."

 

On January 20, 2009, in accordance with Article II, Section I of the U.S. Constitution, a new President of the United States of America took the oath of office. Prior to being sworn in and during the transition of powers, the President-elect, staff, advisors and cabinet nominees were briefed by officials of the outgoing administration on certain matters involving national security.

For the record, both outgoing and incoming administrations categorically deny all knowledge of, participation in, or any connection to the events recounted here. Officially, Pars Raze never happened, conversations and actions attributed to the key participants depicted herein never took place, and no government agencies were involved.

Nor is there verification that official records relating to this matter were ordered sealed for a generation—reportedly until the year 2092. Although some details have been released under the Freedom of Information Act, the government continues to refuse to reclassify the information.

Rumors that former Vice President Richard B. Cheney secretly lives in a safe house and employs a double (said to be somewhat shorter and only resembling Cheney from the waist up) to fill in for him at public ceremonies, private events, and on the lecture circuit have been dismissed by his wife, Lynne Cheney, who, while reportedly writing her memoirs, working title, "Life Without Dick," maintains that she is happier than she has been in years.

An aide to the President terms allegations that terrorists attempted to blow up Mount Rushmore "conspiracy theories,” and claims that this fondest of all national treasures is merely undergoing a much needed and previously scheduled facelift after decades of wear inflicted by acid rain from China and South Dakota weather. Officials maintain that the giant canopy cloaking operations at the monument was designed only to protect the workers and the delicate resurfacing operations during the extended recovery phase.

Government officials, however, have verified that Mount Rushmore, like all significant national monuments, had been laser scanned and geometrically documented after 9/11 to insure authenticity and continuity in the event reconstruction might be required.

Shortly after the public ceremony, the President repeated the official oath of office with the words in the correct order. This time, there was no bible.

 
 

Master Spies Die Laughing

 

  Or visit the official Master Spies

  website at www.masterspies.com

 

 

 

BREAKING NEWS!!

MSNBC, ABC, CNN, NBC and other news channels are reporting the news that spy chips are being hidden in your underwear, spy chips that can be used to track you anywhere you go. And this on the heels of other secrets revealed by Dan his book last year. Yes, it's true. Remember the underwear bomb. Dan predicted the underwear bomb in his book, Master Spies Die Laughing, page 55. But that's not all--spy chips, underwear bombs, and now . .

 

 It Happened Again!

 

Spy-Cams Hidden in Student

Laptops Secretly Spy on Kids

 

Just over a year ago, I wrote all about how spy chips were being hidden in laptop computers in America.

 

Now the truth is out. Parents, the police and the FBI have discovered that school administrators and official Peeping Toms can secretely turn on computer cameras and monitor everything a student does at home from homework to changing clothes

 

And the story goes on . . .!

 

The Secret's Out!

Dan revealed the underwear bomb in his book, Master Spies Die Laughing, page 55.

 

The NSA has a copy of my book. Why the hell didn't they read it?

 

Everything is in the book--the liquid trigger, the detonator, the PETN. Had the authorities listened to me, they might have prevented the attempted Christmas Day bombing.

 

Read It for Yourself!

But the panty bomb is only the tip of what's really undercover, especially when you kids school can secretely tape your kids at home in their underwear. Far fetched? Not really.

 

 

I hate to say I told you so

But what they show they really show

X-Scanners

  

Airport scanners show all just fine,     

Give new meaning to "butt in line."

 

Skip underwear with underwire,

Unless a hand pat you desire.  

 

Profiles reveal the inner you.

Scanners display the under you.

 

The latest body scan fashion: 

Are your bra and panties matching?

 

You may as well grin and bare it,      

Your X-scan is going to share it.

 

   Male or female, X-scans will out

  Even those with the slightest doubt.

 

        X-scanners show us what you've got,     

       As well as what that you have not.

  

   The full body scan is nothing to fear. 

 Just be sure you're wearing clean underwear.

 

       From airports to every public venue,

       Scanners will soon reveal the inner you.

 

   A full body scan is what they want done?

 Might fly naked; it's safer and more fun.

 

       X-scans show patriotic hue,     

       Red butt, white groin and p-p blue.

 

Scanners can't show what's hid in your panty

If you fool them by not wearing any.

 

Ja hear? Dat full boooty scan caught Denzil.

Yep. TSA found lead in his pencil.

 

The full body scan you can't duck.

It shows every nip and tuck.

 

Twits

X-scanners invoke leering eyes / That can see through any disguise.

  

It seems to be slightly obscene / To be exposed by a machine  See body scan pix / It does show your fix

 

Except when scanning from the rear / Male and female details are clear  

 

Had the NSA read my book / For panty bombs they would have looked.

 

Damn. I write this crap as fiction / FOX gives my crap bendiction.

  

The panty bomb is an old bit / But talk about your crotch rocket.

  

Full body scans uncover spies / And market for lead-lined panties.

  

No disrespect, no tie, and no bolero / What does it show if I go commando?


 

Order your special personalized autographed edition.

 

Autographed Editions
Enter recipient's name(s)

 

Hard Cover            $35

Soft Cover              22

Bundle 1 of each     50

 

 

 

Prologue

 

 

Had the closed circuit television cameras monitoring the service tunnel beneath the White House been working properly, they would have instantly detected two intruders darting from side to side in the normally secure subbasement corridor.

 

And all hell would have broken loose.

 

Four floors above the subbasement at one end of a room that does not appear on any of the publicly available blueprints of the White House, four Secret Service officers hunkered over a table cluttered with stacks of reports, laptops, PDAs, cell phones, desk phones and abandoned coffee cups. The three men and one woman were discussing plans for the President’s upcoming speech at the National Counterterrorism Center.

 

To their right and behind a sealed door that led to a room accessible only by using a special code, thumbprint, and iris scan, three uniformed officers monitored separate banks of console-mounted video screens. These three security officers controlled eighty-four discrete cameras installed inside, outside, over and under the White House. The cameras were the eyes and ears of an automated analysis software program, Guardian V4, that was backed up by a secret storage facility in a formerly abandoned but now renovated mine in West Virginia.

 

Inside the monitor center, a security officer tapped a console to pause an image frame for a closer look. The officer’s curiosity was triggered not by any of the cameras installed in the subbasement—none of those four units there had detected or was displaying the on-going intrusion—but by the arrival of a seafood delivery truck at the rear service entrance. The delivery driver produced an ID and waited while the outside security guard ran the card through a handheld Personal Identification Scanner. Within seconds, the driver’s name and photo appeared on the inside screen along with a confirming image from the internal security database. Satisfied, the inside officer tapped the console, restoring control to Guardian V4.

i


 

GV4was both a bargain and a triumph of American ingenuity. Its internal algorithms and AI eNeurologic systems could detect intruders from as little as a slight change in lighting or a momentary shadow on a distant wall. Its sensitivity was legendary. During beta testing, a flour moth in the basement pantry had triggered an alarm that locked down the White House for hours.

 

On this particular day, however, there were no flour moths and the President was away on what was billed as a foreign "farewell tour." While the President was having more going-away tours than a rock star, the White House staff was barely going through the motions. There was no denying that the White House was shutting down.

 

With Congress in recess and national attention divided between upcoming elections and an economy in the doldrums, many opinion leaders were opining that the lame duck administration was increasingly irrelevant. Even the pre-trip press gaggles in the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room had become more pro forma than formative, producing little more than the usual personnel announcements, obligatory statements on the growing financial crisis, and the endless supply of fact sheets notoriously light on facts. When a stand-in for Dana Perino at a news briefing earlier in the month inadvertently read the President’s schedule for Tuesday on Wednesday, no one noticed until Thursday.

 

Requests for White House press credentials had fallen to the lowest level since Jimmy Carter roamed the White House in a sweater turning down the thermostats. Some photo ops were now covered solely by those staff members who still shared the passion. Many West Wing staffers were either sending out résumés or shopping memoirs to publishers. Even the false alarms at the White House two weeks earlier hadn’t ramped up the alert level, especially when one of the back room operators in the deputy chief of staff’s office figured out that publicizing the false alarms could be interpreted by late night comedians as symbolic of a disintegrating administration.

ii


 

Still, something had to be done about the alarms and daily disruptions compromising the electronic security system. After crawling over the wiring for three full days, PEPCO and staff engineers blamed it on the hefty energy requirements of the computer and communications equipment supporting the White House. Electrical demands had doubled and then doubled again over the last eight years. Overheated wires, weakened cables, corroded insulators, and heat-fractured connectors overloaded the antiquated White House wiring.

 

The entire electrical system needed replacing but with renovation budgets ensnared in Congressional bickering, engineers were forced to come up with a scheme to filter the fluctuations. Trouble was, the workaround required a fifteen-second delay. No sweat, the engineers said. Only a handful of people were aware of the fifteen-second gaps in the security system and, anyway, an outage had to last longer than fifteen seconds to trigger an alarm.

 

Plant security reported the kludge to maintenance. Maintenance advised the political appointee, who dictated a memo for his secretary to send out to staff. However, the secretary left the proof copy in the hotel room where she and the political hack shared a nooner. Since no one suspected the fluctuations were anything more than normal wear and tear on an already outmoded, overworked electrical system overdue for overhaul anyway, the memo, like the affair between the politico who dictated the memo and his secretary who took the dictation, slipped through a crack.

 

Which was why no one realized that the fifteen-second gaps were more than sufficient for the two intruders in the White House subbasement to activate handheld transponders and send the cameras into ten-second visual loops. The officers on duty in the monitor center several floors above the tunnel might as well have been blind. They could not see the intruders dart from one zone to another and then drop to the floor in a steady zigzag pattern that circumvented the security defenses. Nor did the officers see one of the interlopers slip back the top of his right glove, check his watch and hold up two fingers. His cohort nodded and crouched. The first man hit a button on his transponder, waited a moment for the red light on the next camera to flicker, and the pair dashed into the final sector.

iii


Out of the tracking zone, the men huddled in a cul de sac hard against a section of tunnel wall that concealed an abandoned, Civil War-era dumbwaiter shaft. The dumbwaiter itself was long gone, but the shaft that had originally connected Lincoln’s private family dining room on the north side of the White House to the basement kitchen remained.

 

One of the men slipped a digital meter from a pouch and slid the device back and forth against the wall. He watched the numbers race up and down and chalked the low points on either side and at the top, marking the exact location of the shaft behind a boarded façade installed when Teddy Roosevelt was president. The shaft had been easier to hide than to remove and since no one had thought to memorialize the location in White House blueprints, its existence soon faded from institutional knowledge. Except for a footnote in a dependably unreadable chronicle of the period written by a sincere but obtuse Harvard historian, the defunct dumbwaiter eventually became one of those obscure relics of history. Although not entirely forgotten.

 

Using a laser, one of the intruders measured the distance from the far corner of the tunnel and cast a line exactly one foot, two inches from the floor. He marked the spot with chalk. His partner locked a small bit into a handheld drill and bored a hole in the center of the mark. A bit brace and a four-inch, circular hole-cutter quickly slashed through the lath and wire-reinforced plaster panel, releasing a whiff of cold musk.

 

The driller took half a dozen small packages of composition plastique from a pouch. As he connected each packet to a harness, the second man fed the array through the hole into the shaft. When he reached the end of the yoke, he attached an M118 PETN detonator and inserted a plastic tube filled with mercury fulminate. To this, he connected a small black box, checked the preset date and time, and pressed the ON button. A red LED began blinking in one-second increments. The timer display went from 005:00:00:00 to 004:23:59:59. In exactly 4 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes, 59 seconds, an electrical pulse from the timer would detonate a massive explosion directly beneath the White House.

iv


 

Satisfied, the man set the box in the hole, then peeked in after it to confirm that the timer continued to operate. He drew back and nodded. His partner took a device resembling a small umbrella from his pouch, poked the top through the hole and clicked a button on the handle. A plastic dome unfolded inside the shaft. He pulled the handle toward his chest, drawing the dome flat and tight against the inside of the opening. An adhesive ring on the rim of the dome sealed itself to the inside of the shaft. A quick twist and snap and the handle popped free.

 

His companion squeezed a tube of tinted sealing compound into the opening, angling the bottom of the tube to fill and smooth the surface. Wielding a fine bristled brush powdered with a few quick dips into the dust on the floor, he blended the patch to match the rest of the wall. Satisfied, he took a moment to admire his handiwork. “Excellent,” the man whispered. “Pars Raze is locked and loaded.”

 

After retrieving their tools and sanitizing the area, the two men reversed their tracks, surreptitiously retreating back through the tunnel to where a service ladder ran to the basement level just below the main floor. Moments later, carrying tools and wearing security badges pinned to blue maintenance uniforms, they exited the utility elevator on the ground floor and strolled to the White House service entrance where a secret service office scanned their IDs into his handheld PIS. Processed and approved, the pair ambled outside to a maintenance truck, nodding with broad smiles to the two security men checking a crate of lobsters on its way to the kitchen.

 

Several hours later, they were on the Capitol Beltway in a late model car, two men with their suit coats in the back seat, ties askew and collars undone, joining the thousands of other commuters heading for their Virginia homes after a hard day’s work. The man in the passenger seat suddenly straightened. “Say, Buck,” he asked, “isn’t the President doing a dog and pony show on the war out west somewhere?”

Nope. He's on some sort of farewell tour. Overseas. Why?”

 

The lobsters. In the crate. With the President out of the White House, who do you suppose the lobsters were for?”

 

The driver glanced over and shook his head. “Haven’t a clue.”

 

  

v