|You're on a mission to
save the children. You weave your way through hundreds of
people who don't care. You bite your lip. You stave
your anger they aren't interested and don't care about the nuclear
bomb making in North Korea, or the suicide bombing in Chechnya, or the
fact rogue scientists are cloning human beings, or that twins of the
victims of Nine Eleven are meeting here, or, worst of all, you're on a
mission like Balto, the sled dog, to save the children from a deadly
29, 2002—Ground Zero Plus 473
North Korea, Human Clones & Nine Eleven Twins Fuel Terrorism's
Editor, New York City Combat Correspondent News
GROUND ZERO, New York City, Dec. 29-- My
six-month old grandson was sick last night. He coughed deep from
his lungs, had a low-grade fever, was lethargic and didn't
smile much. My wife and I were babysitting. I
fixed the thermometer and scoured New York City for a late-night drug
store that carried pediatric Pedeolyte, a fluid to stave off
dehydration, rich in electrolytes. I kept looking at the
little guy, thinking about the Beast of Terror running around inside
his blood, attacking his white cells, driving him into a state of
The Beast of
Terror spreading venom
Sick children stir something in
parents, grandparents and loved ones. You forget about
yourself, your problems, your confusions, your angst, and focus on the
child--this small ball of flesh and bones entrusted to your care.
Whatever "baggage" you brought into the room of the sick child quickly
evaporates when the child's cry or cough or body temperature reminds
you that being a Sentinel of Vigilance for a Child is the greatest of
all glories, the most powerful of all emotions.
Hunting down the Pedeolyte
after the majority of drug stores closed was like searching for the
antidote to the Beast of Terror's venom injected in the young baby's
body when your head was turned. Angus didn't appear
sick when his parents left, but almost as soon as the door was shut he began
to hack and cough and his tiny body became limp, surrendering to the
battle inside his body between the "good cells" and the "bad cells."
gently rocking sick Angus
drooped. Fluids ran from his nose. He clutched my
wife who rocked him close to her, his head buried against her chest, secure in the knowledge
that someone was close to him, protecting, guarding him.
Out in the madding Saturday
night crowd of people clogging the East Village sidewalks, I weaved up
and across the streets in search of the magic elixir that would help
him flush out his dehydrated system and build defenses against the
"Terror Creatures" weakening his body. A few years ago
during a flu epidemic I had been visiting my children in New York and
came down with a crippling case of the flu. I clambered aboard a
plane and returned to Southern California early since I refused to be
so incapacitated in New York. I was sure I
was going to die for I was almost unable to lift one foot after the
other. I rushed to the Emergency Room and got some
medicine, and the doctors suggested I get Pedeolyte to replace the
loss of minerals in my body. I dragged myself to the drug store,
got a bottle, and drank it alcoholically. It was like magic.
In less than an hour I was renewed, not feeling chipper, but able to
move about without the sense of dread that death was about to descend
In my mind, the Pedeolyte was the miracle
cure for Baby Angus. One swig of it, I thought, would
bring him back to life, etch upon his face his usual happy smile, and give
him the energy to laugh and shout out his gurgles that everyone tried
to interpret as words.
Around me, the body of humanity had no idea
about my mission--that I was en route to "save my grandson."
The people were laughing and talking, engaged in what I considered
irrelevant conversations about how they looked or who was coming to
what party, or what bar had the best music, or who won the football
games, or how "so-and-so" had
been rude or arrogant. On New York City sidewalks you hear
bits and pieces of thousands of conversations, as though you were the
Homeland Security Wiretap Team plugging in randomly to everyone's
Finally, I located the elixir at a 24-hour
pharmacy. There was a long line, maybe twenty people and
only one attendant manning the cash register. I wanted to
shout--"I'm On A Mission From God! Get Out Of My Way!" but I
didn't. I shuffled my feet and inched my 6-4, 275-pound frame
toward the register without once telling anyone in front of me that my
mission was more important than their need for chewing gum, or breath
fresheners, or hand lotion. After paying for the
Pedeolyte, I mushed my way back to our daughter's apartment, elated I
had in my possession a "cure" for the ailing child's dehydration.
of Vigilant Balto in Central Park
I thought of the statue of Balto in
Central Park, the famed Husky who led the dog sled team 1,000 miles to
Nome, Alaska in 1925 to save the children of the town from an epidemic
of deadly diphtheria. Balto braved temperatures below 40 degrees
and "winds that could knock a tree down" to save the children of Nome.
Balto died in 1933 and his body is preserved and displayed at
Cleveland's Natural History Museum where he spent half of his life.
I felt like Balto, Canine of
Vigilance. No ice or storm or wild creature crossing my
path could stop me from getting to the apartment door with the
life-saving Pedeolyte. I was Balto, hero of the frozen
north, protector of sick children.
There was still snow and ice left on the
streets from the Christmas Day snowstorm, adding to my imagery of
being Balto. The wind whipped, chilling my ears as I worked my
way between, around and sometimes through the throngs who cluttered
the sidewalks. I slit my eyes as I thought Balto might have against
the fierce wind and snow and trudged over the ice and fragments of
snow. Finally, I made it to the apartment. I wanted
to howl in glee.
On the way home after our daughter and
son-in-law returned, and we handed over Baby Angus to their care, I
again listened to the conversations of the people on the
streets. It was Saturday night, and on average they were relatively
young people, in their thirties. They weren't
talking about North Korea, or Iraq or the cloning of babies by cults,
or the recent Chechen government building bombing by two suicide
bomber trucks that killed 55 and
wounded 123. What they
were talking about seemed so mundane to me I wanted to shout:
"Don't you know the children of Nome, Alaska are dying of diphtheria!"
I wanted to be Balto, Sentinel of
Greater Vigilance. I wanted to snarl and bark at the youth, grab
them with my teeth and shake them until they stopped worrying about
how cool they thought they were, or how their new back pack could hold more
stuff, or what this person thought of that one, or what bar had the
best deal on drinks.
It seemed the streets of New York were
flowing with the virus of Complacency, injected by the Beast of Terror
who doesn't want people to think about anything but themselves, about
their own little small worlds measured by the mirror's reflection or
how much money they have in their pocket, or how many heads turn when
they waltz by.
"The children in Nome are dying!"
Photo of the
Yongbyon Nuclear Facility taken by a French Spy Satellite
in 1993 showing a MW reactor and a reprocessing plant under
I really wanted to shout those words.
I wanted all of the people on the streets to be talking about
Vigilance, worrying about North Korea shoving out the weapons
inspectors, hooding the television cameras in the Yongbyon nuclear
facility and bringing in 8,000 spent nuclear fuel rods to make
plutonium for nuclear bombs. I wanted them to be arguing over
South Korean President Kim Dae-jung's "sunshine policy" strategy to
bring North and South Korea closer despite North Korea's flagrant
refusal to abide by the nuclear non-proliferation treaty.
I wanted them to argue the illogic of President Bush's pre-emptive
attack strategy against Iraq and his "hands off" attitude about
blowing up the nuclear manufacturing plant in North Korea, which
allegedly has produced two nuclear bombs and intends on building three
more. I wanted them to argue why Asia doesn't have a NATO,
and to support the presence rather than removal of 37,000 American
troops guarding the DMZ which is 150 miles wide and two and a half
There was not a whisper heard of those
issues as we weaved our way through the spools of people sewing their
way up and down First Avenue in the chilly night.
There was even silence on the cloning
issue. Rogue scientists claim they have cloned human
children. Small groups working outside the international
scientific community allege to have "created" the first human clone, a
child born to replicate its parents, to extend in the 21st Century
what Adolph Hitler demanded in the 20th Century--that a "super race"
be formed, minus all the flaws of races with inferior qualities, that
would rise up and lead the world the way they wanted it led.
distributed by the Clonaid company started by Rael in 1997
Little factual information is
available from these rogue cloners because they do not want to share
their data with the science of cloning for a number of reasons--the
strongest being the moral criticism of playing "God" with life.
Nothing, I thought, could endanger human beings more than twisting
nature's will and creating life to specifications. I
shivered in the cold air not just because my physical self was victim
to the icy winds, but because the draft in my soul caught the empty
winds of Complacency among so many. One day, I thought,
the world will awaken to a strange mutation of human life, and instead
of worrying about how one looks or what bar he or she will find the
most excitement, the dilemma will be the future of humanity as we have
The final aggravation was there was nothing about the World
Trade Center twins uniting to share their common feelings toward their
brothers and sisters who died on September 11, 2001.
More than 50 victims of the World Trade Center attack were twins, and
their counterparts gathered here the other day to share their stories
about what it was like to have their genetic duplicate killed under
the crushing destruction of the Twin Towers.
The universe connects twins with a
special cognition, a knowledge between themselves uncommon between
average brothers and sisters, sisters and sisters, brothers and
brothers. Identical or fraternal, history has
recorded the heightened sensory knowledge of one twin for another.
There is some avenue of communication little understood that allows a
twin to "feel" the other twin's emotions, to sense the other twin's
I wondered if the twin conference
talked about their counterparts being Sentinels of Vigilance?
I wondered if they knew they hovered over Ground Zero, eyes panning
the horizon, ever Vigilant to ward off Terrorism with their Shields of
Vigilance and Swords of Vigilance? I wondered why, also,
the people on the streets didn't want to talk about the twins, or
North Korea, or the clones.
I felt like an alien last night.
I knew the scattering of humanity on
the streets represented those wishing to "escape" reality, and
justified their lack of tackling the issues to pre-planned Saturday
Night Complacency. After all, they had worked hard all year and
now they were out to wash themselves in the Holiday joy and excitement of the
city. Why chew on such grisly issues as North Korea?
Iraq? Cloning? Nine Eleven Twins? Chechnya
embryos from Clonaid
Why should they be Baltos?
But my efforts to justify their
Complacency only angered me.
I caught myself resenting the
simple-mindedness of those passing by, speaking in shapeless,
meaningless terms about nothingness.
I supposed I had spent too many days as a
TerrorHunter. I supposed I was thinking too much about the
safety of my grandson's health, and the health of all the children,
past, present and future.
I thought about the South Korean children
who climb up into an observatory looking from South Korea to North
Korea and are told by their teachers--"One day you will be able to
visit there." I thought about the concept of peace, and how the
Beast of Terror draws lines between nations and peoples, fueling the
derision with Fear, Intimidation and Complacency.
I wished the people last night had
spoken one word of Vigilance, just to reassure me they weren't
swallowed by the Beast of Terror, weren't consumed by his hunger to
blind the youth to the future of the world, and how to deal with it.
with sled dogs of Vigilance
I was disappointed, however.
Not a word of Vigilance was heard except, "Look Out!" when a taxi
brushed too close to a group standing on corner.
As I lay in bed, I thought of Balto.
I thought of him standing at attention up in the sky, with the
Sentinels of Vigilance, howling.
awakening the Spirit of Vigilance
I hoped he would awaken the
Spirit of Vigilance in those walking the streets. Vigilance, I
knew, was the serum that would fight the deadly Terrorism disease of
Complacency. I just hoped Balto had enough of it to go around.
If you want to inoculate
yourself from Complacency, take Balto's serum today. Take the
Pledge of Vigilance (see below)
Dec. 28--David Letterman Puts Laugh Into Face Of Terrorism
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