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Whirlwind 2032

The New Millennium had been a big disappointment almost from the beginning. After the September 11, 2001 attacks, the US Government began a campaign of covert occupation, beginning with out-of-control military spending on what almost all would agree was merely a 'war for oil', and suppressing free speech by covertly censoring Internet Web sites, seeding NEWS reports with propaganda, surveillance of US citizens, and passage of the USA Patriot Act.

Subsequently, the government required everyone to carry National ID cards, and when those measures failed, required every citizen to be implanted with RFID chips, without which no legal currency transactions could be conducted.

Small groups of citizens all across the country went 'off the grid', living in remote areas and surviving by hunting, trapping, subsistence farming, and trading marihuana for food and essential supplies with 'chipped' citizens.

One group a congregation of Born-Again Christians in the Southern New Jersey Pine Barrens known as 'The Pineland Group', lived in the vast forest preserve and managed to avoid the authorities for years. When the pastor of the church was approached by police and almost arrested during one of his sermons in the woods, it set in motion a grass-roots revolt resembling the 'Occupy' movement of 2011, that led the the group into re-naming itself 'Whirlwind' after the passage in Hosea 8:7, and the pastor's 12 year-old son playing a pivotal role in the overthrow of the government that had de-evolved into a Techno-Nazi dictatorship; another Nazi Reich. The handsome and intelligent young boy became a national hero and teen heartthrob, leading his minister stepfather to the presidency of a new nation called 'The Free States of America' after a military coup de' etat.

During his term of office, the new President issued over 30 Executive Orders that reversed a majority of the unconstitutional laws passed by Congress over the last hundred years, restored the currency to a gold-based standard, dealt with terrorism with an iron hand, and was loved by all.

The ending to the story is particularly poignant, and although it is strictly fiction, one can easily envision such a revolt happening in the United States if drastic changes are not made.

0NOTE: The cover for this book is being re-designed by Robert Germino

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Just a small sample of the action-packed novel:

Excerpt from “Whirlwind 2032” - © Copyright 2016 – David Todeschini – all rights reserved


 After the close of business that day, and just as the sun was setting, Dave and Sean climbed onto the roof of the building by shimmying up the heavy-gauge copper gutter downspouts. They avoided the outside surveillance cameras by utilizing ‘blind spots’ – they knew the angles and field of vision capabilities for the cameras by looking up the manufacturer’s specifications.


They were able to gain access to a small air vent after removing a dozen Allen screws securing its louvered security screen. The vent was much too small to crawl through, but just big enough for their purposes. They were able to lower the sawed-off shotgun, and all the ammunition and supplies they would need into the men’s restroom air ventilation shaft using a backpacker’s pup-tent bag. They would retrieve it in the morning and carry out their plan to kidnap the people behind the human trafficking trade, and force them to give Eddie up.


When the Municipal building opened the next day, Dave and Sean entered the building and signed in at the security desk on the pretense of going to traffic court. They passed through the metal detector and explosive sniffer portal without setting off any alarms because they had nothing on their persons. As they walked down the hall, Dave recognized someone he had seen or had dealings with before, but couldn’t at the moment, remember from where. They waited until CPS supervisor George Pulver walked into his office. Once they knew Pulver was in his office, they entered the men’s room and barricaded the door shut. They removed the air vent screen and retrieved their weapons and supplies. Quickly, before anyone could react, the men exited the bathroom, raced across the hall and drop-kicked Pulver’s office door taking it completely off its hinges, crashing it to the floor.


The secretary tried to press the silent alarm, but was quickly subdued by jolts from Sean’s Tazer gun. Pulver was unable to retrieve his handgun from a locked desk drawer before the two ex-Marines had him face down on his desk with both his arms in a hammerlock and held at gunpoint. Sean cocked the a 12-guage buckshot load into the shotgun’s chamber and looped the bungee cord around the man’s neck, turning the weapon and twisting the cord, then holding the weapon by the grip with his right arm looped into the carrying strap. “Stand up, mother-fucker!” Sean yelled, as Dave held the detonator tightly and pulled the pin on the homemade “dead-man’s switch”.


Pulver stood on his feet, winded. He started to say something, but was cut off by the dorsal part of Sean’s foot impacting his scrotum. “Shut the fuck up, scumbag!” Sean said. “Now, you don’t know me”, Dave said, “but I’m your worst fuckin’ nightmare come vividly true. I’m gonna’ ask you a question, and if I don’t get an answer, or if I get bullshit, I will take that fancy letter-opener you have on the desk over there, and I’m gonna’ push it ever so slowly through your nut-sack and deep up into your asshole – Got it?” The man nodded in the affirmative. “Good!”


At that point, a dozen security guards stormed into the office, with their LASER-sighted weapons drawn. “Put down the weapon! Now! Do it! Do it NOW!” they yelled. Sean calmly responded, “Wow! Just like on Flashpoint! Now, gentlemen, before you act hastily and get everyone in this building killed, let me explain the situation you are in. I have Mister Pulver here at the end of a 12-guage street-sweeper shotgun. The magazine is loaded with 12 rounds of 00-Buckshot, plus one in the chamber, and the tip of my finger behind the trigger here, keeps this elastic cord from pressing it back and firing the weapon.


The bungee cord around this faggot’s neck ensures that he cannot wiggle out of the line-of-fire – And the lead weight; well, that insures that one of you hotshots with a 50-caliber FMJ[1] won’t be able to deflect the barrel – and if this asshole here failed High School Physics, four pounds of lead plus the weight of the barrel–  say, five pounds, is massive, and not easily moved by even a 50-caliber FMJ, or one of those Kung-Fu style blocking maneuvers. You remember your physics don’t ya’? An object in motion tends to stay in motion; an object at rest tends to stay at rest. I don’t have handcuffs on him because if he so much as sneezes or farts without my express permission, he’s a fuckin’ dead man, and his wife will bury him in a closed coffin with a fuckin’ wax replica of his dumb-ass-lookin’ head.


If I fall, or he tries to pull away, the bungee cord makes sure the aim is dead-on when my finger falls out from behind the trigger, and thirteen rounds get fired in less than six seconds. This lard-ass douche-bag ain’t quick enough to duck that many shots fired that fast; and you’ll have a new style of wallpaper ‒ called “grey matter” ‒ what little of it is in the brain-pan there. And my very good friend there, well, he has somethin’ very special…. tell ‘em what you got there, pal”.


Dave turned to the guards and said, “What I’m holding here is a modified Piezo-type electronic detonator. It is rigged with a spring that is being held back by my finger in this slot on the grip. Should I be shot, or get a little buggy with my PTSD, or if I just get crazy all-of-a-sudden and decide to let it go, the spring inside this tube will press the detonator”. Dave opened his jacket revealing a Molle’ vest packed with 8 pounds of Military-grade Semtex. “If this shit goes off, gentlemen…. minimum safe distance is 1/8th of a mile. Don’t worry – If it does go off, you won’t feel a thing! Totally painless. It’ll be like fuckin’ Dilaudid[2] on steroids; only you won’t wake up. Now, before I get nervous and have an epileptic seizure or some shit, I suggest you safety your weapons, eject the clips and the chambered rounds and put them on the floor nice ‘n easy, barrels pointed towards you. Then like David Peel’s band[3] once sung, ‘up against the wall, mother-fuckers!’”



The security guards and police reluctantly complied and stepped away. Sean pulled Mr. Pulver by the bungee cord around his neck and told him to sit down in the chair behind his desk. “Hey guys! How ‘bout a selfie for the Facebook page, eh? Whaddaya’ say?” With his free hand, he took out his cell phone and snapped a 30-Megapixel wide-angle shot of him holding Mister Pulver at the point of a Street Sweeper; a photo which automatically appeared in his Dropbox[4] folder and was set to post to his Facebook page every time a file in the Dropbox camera folder was added.


Suddenly remembering who it was that he recognized out in the lobby, Dave demanded, “Hey yo! Bring us that Family Court Judge in here – What’s his name? Oh, yeah – Judge Feldstein. Yeah – Bring that Kike mother-fucker in here within ten minutes, or I make Mister Pulver here a fuckin’ hip replacement candidate with a .44 magnum FMJ through his pelvis–  Well, MOVE, somebody! You have 9 minutes and thirty seconds!” A security guard left and ran down the hall in search of Feldstein.


Sean addressed the group of guards and police in the room. “Now, while we are waiting, this is what we want. I want my son brought to me within two hours ‒ he had better be unharmed ‒ I want a fully-fueled Robinson R44 helicopter and a pilot on the roof with the engine running and the props rotating at zero-pitch right after my son is returned to me.


We want two million dollars deposited to a numbered account in Belize. Failure to comply with our demands, failure to meet time constraints, failure to wire the money, or if any of you in this fuckin’ building tries to be a                                                                                 hero or attempts to leave this room, this fucker’s head gets blown apart like an M-80 in a fuckin’ watermelon”. Sean wrote the Belize account number on a piece of paper, balled it up, and threw it to one of the guards and told him, “Take that number to the County treasurer. I will verify that the deposit is in the account within 90 minutes. If the money isn’t there by then, six of your buddies here, chosen at random, leave this office in body bags”.


 Pulver looked at Sean and attempted to speak, and when he did, Sean shoved the barrel of the shotgun in his mouth, breaking off several of his teeth. “You got something to say, you tree-jumpin’[5] cho-moe?”[6] The man nodded his head. “It better be good ‒ it better be real fuckin’ important”, Sean said. “I don’t know where your son is, sir!” Pulver said, blood dripping from his lower lip. Sean yelled, “Wrong answer, dick-weed. Remind me to cut your left nut off and poke it down your throat with a Bic pen until you choke.


I know that you are the chief Mother-Fucker-What’s-In-Charge of the rich boy’s pedophile club upstate. You better get on the phone, and do whatever you gotta’ do to get my boy back to me in one hour and fifty minutes from now, else you, and everyone in this fuckin’ building are gonna’ be dead and dismembered. Of course, Dave and me will go with you, but we were ready a long time ago to die for our country, and you can bet that we won’t be lickin’ no fuckin’ salamis[7] on the way out!”


Judge Feldstein was brought in by the guard who went after him. When the guard attempted to sneak back out the door, Dave shot him in the back of the head with his .44 Desert Eagle, exploding his skull and covering the wall with bloody, dripping brain matter. “We said ‘nobody leaves’. Did we say that? Oh, and I forgot to mention – I never miss. I was a Marine sniper back in the day, and I never wasted a perfectly good bullet by missing my target. He looked over to Sean and said, “It’s good to know that I haven’t lost my fuckin’ touch, eh?”


Sean motioned for Feldstein to come closer. When he came within reach, Sean grabbed him by the necktie, with his left hand, twisted it several times and got in his face; “You bag of sub-human shit! You are a fuckin’ disgrace to your people. Hitler stopped one Jew too soon, because he didn’t gas the two people who fucked us good folk, by spawning the likes of you.


You’re one of the ring leaders of the perv scumbags aint’ ya? Who ordered my son taken from me? I know that you know. You people did it for money. You did it because that’s how you have that yacht out on Long Lake, the Cessna with the pontoons, the two-million dollar lakefront house, and the seven-figure bank account. What the fuck are you doing down here in New Jersey? Ain’t your jurisdiction in upstate New York somewhere? You better start talkin’ because if you don’t talk, or you tell me bullshit, my people will set everything you own on fire, and torture everyone you love slowly to death, and we will make you watch the videos on YouTube before we kill you slowly, in such searing fuckin’ pain that you couldn’t possibly imagine!”


Feldstein broke down and told Sean that his son was being held in the North Jersey town of Saddle River, and the car ride from there to here would be at least 3 hours, traffic notwithstanding. Sean demanded that Feldstein put the boy on his private Cessna and get him here within the time frame demanded. Feldstein got on his cell phone and made the arrangements with the pilot. Within 15 minutes, the boy was at Teterboro Airport and on the plane heading home.


Outside the room, the SWAT team was planning how they could rescue the hostages. The team leader Bill Goetz assessing the situation gave his briefing. “Gentlemen…. We have two actors ‒ both with elite military backgrounds ‒ holding a room full of hostages, most of whom are security people and at least half a dozen of your fellow officers. One actor is rigged with enough explosives to level this building wired to a fail-safe ‘dead man’s switch’ DIY[8] detonator.


The other has a court official at gunpoint; he’s using a sawed-off assault-style automatic shotgun with the muzzle secured around the hostage’s neck with a bungee cord, and the trigger pulled back by elastic cord, and being held forward by the actor’s finger in the trigger guard behind the trigger. Even with two perfectly executed headshots from vantage points we simply don’t have, the way they’re rigged, everyone in the building will be launched into orbit if we fail; and I’m afraid that chances are 100% in favor of catastrophic failure if we attempt a rescue. There is simply no other option but to negotiate, but they are not willing to make any concessions”.


The negotiator called the desk phone in Pulver’s office. “That has to be the SWAT Team negotiator”, Dave said. “I’ll get it” Sean replied. Sean picked up the phone. Before the negotiator had a chance to speak, Sean yelled into the phone, “This is Sean Dempsey. I know who you are. These scumbags kidnapped my son and took him up to North Jersey to be sold as a sex slave overseas. I am doing what I have to do to get him back. There will be no negotiations. There will be no bullshitting or delay tactics. There will be no concessions, and there will be no acts of so-called ‘good faith’.


Either my son is back here within one hour and forty minutes from now, or we start killing everyone in the room ‒ one dead motherfucker every ten minutes until my son walks through the door unharmed, or until we run out of bullets or motherfuckers to shoot. This whole building comes down on your fuckin’ heads with 8 pounds of Semtex right after I decapitate this cho-moe here with a point-blank 12-guage buckshot tap in the noggin’. God and His league of angels help you if you don’t comply. And while I got you on the phone, call Papa John’s and send us up a dozen large pizzas ‒ assorted toppings ‒ and twelve 2-litre bottles of assorted soft drinks”. He slammed the phone on the desk, yanked the cord from the wall, and then hurled the phone through the window out into the street. “Guess you told him, eh, Sean?” Dave joked. “Yeah. Fuckin’ aye I told ‘im!” Sean replied.


Thirty minutes passed and the pizzas and drinks arrived. Dave had everyone in the room served by one of the guards. “Don’t forget to tip the waiters”, Sean joked. “Hey! What the fuck? Who eats pizza without crushed red peppers and fuckin’ Parmesan cheese?” he yelled into the hallway.

Ninety minutes passed, and there was still no sign of Eddie. The Judge’s cell phone started ringing. He didn’t answer, and it stopped after 30 seconds, and then started ringing again. Feldstein looked at Sean who said “It’s obviously for you, asshole! Answer the fuckin’ thing!” The Judge answered the call, and then handed the phone to Sean. “It’s for you”, he said. “I’m not expecting any calls”, Sean said as he put the phone on speaker. “Who the hell is this, and what the fuck do you want? Is my son here? You have eight minutes”. The negotiator on the other end replied, “He’s at Pomona airport in Atlantic City. The State Police are running escort on the Atlantic City Expressway ‒ ETA is about 25 minutes”. Sean replied, “Well, that’s unfortunate ‒ really fuckin’ unfortunate, because that means there will be two dead pigs on the floor and another one bleeding out when he gets here. I told you that terms and conditions are NOT fuckin’ negotiable. Hold on....”


Sean pulled a buzzing cell phone out of his pocket, dismissed the reminder, and logged onto the Belize bank’s Web site using a ‘hot-key’. He entered the password for his Roboform[9] app, which logged him into the numbered account. The balance was two million, one hundred twenty thousand dollars; the two million he demanded, plus the 120K he had deposited from unreported income over the years. He was going to need the money because he could not go back home now. If he got out of here alive, he would have to stay with the Resistance, going ‘off-the-grid’ in a non-extradition country and essentially disappearing into thin air.


“Hello…. The money transfer into the Belize bank account is confirmed – thank you for that!” Sean said. The negotiator was sweating, knowing that he had no hope of controlling the situation, or even mitigating the problem by talking. “I want you to talk with the boy right now”, the negotiator said, hoping that it would buy some time and prevent the execution of hostages. “Patch me through to the squad car”, he ordered the radio operator. In a few seconds, Sean was talking to his son via a phone patch on the Police cruiser’s radio. Thousands of Internet-based police scanners[10] were tuned in as the NEWS coverage aired the siege at the Municipal building.


“Eddie?” “Hi, dad”. The cruiser sirens could be heard blaring over the channel. “Are you OK son?” “Yeah, I guess. Just shook-up – no biggie, but I’m tired....” Sean cut him short “OK, my man! You’ll be here in a few minutes”. “OK, bye dad. Over and out”. Eddie had no idea what he narrowly escaped, or what his father was doing to get him back. The police cruiser was doing 105 MPH.


Twenty more minutes passed and the deadline for his son’s arrival had expired. Dave walked over to the guards who were standing up against the wall. He looked them all in the eyes, turning the cylinder on his .357 Smith & Wesson L-frame revolver with his thumb. His watch beeped. “Oh-ohh! – time’s up!” he announced. “Eeeenie-meenee-myneee-moe!” He picked one of the guards, put the muzzle of the hand-held cannon to the man’s forehead and cocked the hammer back. Just then, Eddie ran in the door.


“Oooohhh, somebody’s got a fuckin’ Guardian Angel, alright!” Dave joked as he lowered the weapon and slowly dropped the hammer. The boy ran crying into his father’s embrace. “Let’s get out of here! Everybody out! Stay together. If I lose head-count, six of the rest of you who remain will be shot in the back of the head. So if youse-r gonna’ run…. run together. I got six rounds.… fourteen hundred feet-per-second, one hundred fifty eight grain FMJ Glazers.[11] Which of you hero-ass mother-fuckers want to try his luck?” Sean yelled. There was silence. “I didn’t think so”, Sean said.


The group of guards went out the door first, followed by Dave and Sean with his son in tow. They were not worried about being ambushed, because anyone close enough to try would be killed instantly by the explosion if Dave lost his grip on the detonator, and Pulver would die instantly if Sean so much as tripped over a crack in the hallway tiles. As they walked down the long hallway, Eddie started to ask his father, “Dad? What’s going?...”. Sean cut him off, “Not now, son. The hallway was lined with SWAT Team and police, their weapons holstered, and rifles slung muzzles-down behind their backs so as to not present even the appearance of a threat.


“Where’s my chopper?” Sean screamed. “On the roof helipad and idling just as you asked” one of the SWAT Team members replied. “Excellent!” Dave said.


As they reached the roof via the elevator and a flight of stairs from the 4th floor, the chopper was there waiting. The security guards and others were released at the top of the stairs. Sean, Pulver, and the boy boarded first, followed by Dave and Judge Feldstein. “Go!” Dave commanded the pilot. “Where to?” the pilot asked. “Towards Ong’s Hat.[12] I’ll direct you as we go”. They were only minutes away from the Resistance’s camp. Dave took the pilot’s headset off his head, broke the headset plug off in the console, then threw the headset out a window. He took a pencil from the pre-flight clipboard and jammed it into the co-pilot’s headset jack and broke it off flush with the dashboard. “Your comm is down temporarily, captain”, he said.


Dave put the pin back in the detonator and took off the Semtex-packed Molle’ vest. He then produced a pair of handcuffs and shackled Pulver and Feldstein together by their right ankles. He took a self-locking carabiner and secured the handcuff chain to a cargo hook on the flight deck. “You can’t run too far hooked-up like this”, he said. “Face-down on the deck!” Dave commanded the two, and they immediately complied. Sean pulled a rescue knife from his belt and used the seatbelt blade to cut the elastic cord pulling the trigger back, then the bungee cord around Pulver’s neck. “I guess we’re done with these two?” he asked Dave. “Yeah – just about”. Dave replied.


Dave directed the pilot to the LZ that was a mile and a half from the Resistance’s camp, and the helicopter put down in the white sugar sand a short distance west southwest of the Carranza Memorial. As the helicopter descended, Dave took the cell phone from his pocket, and put it into a small snap-fastened pocket on the Molle’ vest, connecting the headphone jack to a plug that was dangling out of another small snap-fastened pocket. He rolled up the vest and stowed it under the empty co-pilot’s seat. As Sean and the boy jumped out and ran to the tree line, Dave told the pilot, “You’re free to go. Say nothing of this LZ to anyone. Promise me!” The pilot replied “Agreed”. Dave ran off into the woods as the helicopter took off with Pulver and Feldstein still aboard lying face down on the flight deck shackled together.


As they hiked towards the camp, Dave said “Shit! – Shit! – I lost my fuckin’ cell phone. Sean, ring my number will ya’? 856-555-1080”. Sean dialed the number on his phone. It rang twice, and then the helicopter exploded over the Pine Barrens between Hammonton and Batsto. The aviation fuel ignited a number of small brush fires which were completely extinguished by a moderate rain which started twenty minutes later.


“Damn!” Sean complained. “The pilot had nothing to do with – I mean Pulver and Feldstein deserved it, but….” Dave interrupted, “That’s what’s known as ‘collateral damage’ – but trust me ‒ that pilot was part of their operation. That was Pulver’s private helicopter – I know because I researched the FAA registrations and demanded a Robinson R44 for that very reason. I have the records, and the tail number is – I mean was – Pulver’s. The pilot was on his payroll, and was part of their Tree-Jumper[13] club, too. Fuck ‘em, Sean, fuck ‘em where they breed! They got what was comin’ to them for a long, long, long time. Let God sort ‘em out”.


Dave took Sean’s cell phone and removed the battery. There are no rocks in the Pine Barrens, so he palmed the device and smashed it against the trunk of a Douglas Fir tree. “Welcome to the Resistance, Sean”, he said.



[1] FMJ – Full Metal Jacket – a bullet completely coated in copper or steel alloy.

[2] Dilaudid (hydromorphone hydrochloride), a hydrogenated ketone of morphine, is an opioid analgesic.

[3] “David Peele & The Lower East Side” see:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Peel_(musician) 

[4] Dropbox – a “cloud” storage system – see: www.MakeALotOfDough.com/sharefiles.htm

[5] Tree Jumper (noun) Prison slang used to describe a child molester.

[6] Cho Moe – prison slang for “child molester”.

[7] Lickin’ salami – “salami licker” – (slang) derogatory insult against Muslims who greet each other by saying “As-salamu alaykum” which loosely translates to “peace be upon you”.

[8] DIY – “Do-It-Yourself”.

[9] Roboform – a PC and Android app that stores all the passwords for Web sites in an encrypted file accessible with a single master password that enters the URL and fills-in logon and password information, and is portable (sync) between devices.

[10] There are numerous Android and iPhone apps that enable anyone to tune into police scanners anywhere in the world.

[11] A Glazer bullet has a core of very tightly packed lead pellets. On impact, the bullet fractures along manufactured stress lines in the jacket—imparting all the bullet’s energy very quickly rather than over-penetrating a target or ricocheting on a miss

[12] Ong’s Hat is a ghost town in Pemberton Township, NJ It is located on New Jersey Route 72 west of its intersection with Route 70.

[13] Tree Jumper – prison slang for child molester /sex-offender.


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