Prologue Version 2

 Prologue
     Throughout history great men have been called upon, whether by fate or circumstance, to guard the light of humanity against the darkness of oppression and destruction wrought by the tyranny of evil men.  This paradox is manifest in the conscious nature of all things contrived within the realm of human perception.  As mankind exists so does the balance, the scales tipped by the virtue of those who govern.  While the world was slipping further into darkness, thirteen elder Bhikkhu-the high lamas of the Gelupga Monastery-gathered in a circle on the bank of the sacred waters of the Lhamo la-tso, a tradition they had been entrusted with for more than three thousand years. The eldest lama positioned himself in the center of the circle and together they chanted:
    "Palden Lhamo, guardian spirit of the lake.  We invoke you to fulfill your promise to our people and aid us in our search for the new Dalai Lama.  We call on you to reveal his reincarnation so the balance of life and death may be restored," their voices echoed, reverberating against the rocky canyon above the sacred lake.  The gray mountains rose high in the cloud filled sky behind them.  Situated deep in the Himalayas, this impenetrable fortress, rivaling the fabled walls of Troy, had guarded their way of life since long before the war that broke the world.  The ancient water of the Lhamo La-tso shimmered like a polished jewel in the moonlight.  Suddenly a gust of wind blew fiercely across the surface of the lake and it began to ripple faster; sending small waves crashing against the grassy bank.  The aqueous form of a woman rose and floated above the glossy pool.  The high lamas had stopped chanting and looked on in awe of her magisterial arrival.    
     "Gyelmo Maksorma," the eldest lama whispered in disbelief.
    "The Victorious One who turns back enemies," another whispered reverently.  The spirit then spoke in an ominous and commanding tone that howled like the wind.  
    “Throughout every age I have been known to you as Gyelmo Maksorma.  You are my devoted Bhikkhu.  Every man among you has honor, and therefore, I honor my promise to you.  You must find the "Chosen One" for the answers you seek.  You must look to the West for a young man with a pure heart.  Only he can restore the balance," the spirit commanded.  
    "But Victorious One, how will we know it is him, “asked the eldest High Lama as he stepped forward?
 "He will reveal himself to you when he shows the light of mercy before the world,” the spirit replied.  "You must hurry, for he is in grave danger.  The balance must be restored and the Dalai Lama must be reincarnated or all of mankind will be destroyed." The spirits body turned to mist and sank back into lake as the high lamas looked on in silence.  
    The eldest of the Bhikku, Lama Denjai, moved outside the circle quietly signaling the others to follow him back to the monastery. As the others fell in line behind him he reflected on the words of Palden Lhamo, 'You must look to the West for a young man with a pure heart.... He will show the light of mercy before the world.  Only he can restore the balance ...He was in grave danger....darkness will overtake the light and mankind will destroy itself if the Dalai Lama is not reincarnated.'
     The rest of the journey back to the monastery was made in soulful silence.  The elders were preserving their energy; a meditation technique that had been perfected over thousands of years of surviving the wretched, unforgiving cold of the Lhamo La-tso climate.  This his how the Gelupga had thrived where others would surely die. Lama Denjai's eyes feasted on the deliciously soft glow of the stars on the snow covered hilltops as they made their final ascent to their destination. Very few places on earth were as beautiful as Lhamo-Latso was in the moonlight.   
    The serenity of the moment soon faded however, and Lama Denjai and the elders bowed their heads somberly as they passed the empty ground where the Dalai Lama's living quarters had stood.  All that remained was a patch of burnt grass that was covered in snow.  It had been three years since the last Dalai Lama, "Gendan Gyatso," had tragically died in an explosion leaving his body burned beyond recognition with only his chromo-tag to confirm his identity.   He was Lama Denjai's oldest and closest friend.  The sad news of his demise had left the citizens of the Tibetan Province demoralized and leaderless, and millions of people around the world in mourning for a man who had dedicated his entire life promoting peace and humanity.      
    Lama Denjai smiled greatfully as he and the other twelve elders escaped the bone-chilling brutality of the Himalayan night into the warm-welcoming air of the Monastery's receiving room. The soft, harmonious crackling of firewood  burning in the hearth resonated delightfully in his ears, and filled Lama Denjai with a sense of peace like a lullaby being hummed to a child.  Exhausted by the evening's activity he said goodnight to the others and hurried off to his room, not even removing his cloak or outerwear.   Traversing the stone floor of the corridor flames from the lantern danced wildly as the weight of the Spirits warning truly settled on him.  We must restore the balance.  
    There were those who believed the Euro-Russian President, Vladimir Khokarov, had the Dalai Lama assassinated.  He had already tried to invade The Republic of the Asian States twice in his 16 year reign.  What the High Lamas did know for certain was that Gendan Gyatso's soul was in turmoil and until his killer was identified and the balance of life and death restored, there could be no Dalai Lama.  And a new war would rip the world apart again.  

    VLADAMIR KHOKAROV, President of Euro-Russia, sat at the head of the oval mahogany table with his arms crossed in his high back leather chair.  He waited eagerly for the presentation to begin. This top secret meeting had been hastily assembled in the war room of his military compound just moments ago by High-General Sergei Polinski with every senior level military leader in attendance.  Khokarov towered a full head above most of the other officers present.  His salt and pepper colored hair was cut short consistent with his military background.  But despite his aged appearance, no one doubted his physical prowess.  They were joined by Finish Biotech Scientist Sari Karjilinen.
Sari stood at the far end of the "war room".  At less than 5 feet tall she was short even for a woman. Her blond hair was pulled back and worn in a bun at the top of her head.  She wore a dark gray suit jacket and matching knee length skirt.  A pair of navy blue horn rimmed glasses framed her pale blue eyes.  In Khokarov's opinion she resembled a child playing dress up.  
    Sari's eyes darted around the room ensuring nothing had been overlooked.  Don't panic now-Sari-breathe she told herself determined not to let a mindless oversight tarnish her entire life's work; especially in front of such an impressive and formidable group of men.  She could feel her hands growing clammy and the glands in her throat swelling as she nervously fidgeted with her glasses.  Her eyes continued scanning the table until they fell upon Sergei Polinski.  Sari felt a momentary reprieve from her tension in his warm smile and cool blue eyes.  Had there ever been such a man as Sergei, so handsome and confident in his uniform?  Forcing her thoughts back to the presentation, her gaze fell upon the man sitting to Sergei's left.  President Khokarov gave her the nod to begin.
"Gentlemen, my apologies for interrupting your morning schedules, but a breakthrough have been made in Chromo-Tag technology, surpassing anything the world has ever seen.  The information contained in your dossiers briefly outlines the nature of my work in the field of Chromo-Tag Manipulation and more significantly to you, its military applications."  Sari waited momentarily for the whispers and mutterings to subside as her confidence grew.  I have developed a program utilizing a series of complex algorithms that when transmitted to a person's chromo-tag will severely affect the individual's central nervous system.  This form of behavior modification allows our program to take control of that individual's actions by monitoring and recording the behavioral synapses unique to that individual. Then using the recorded patterns, the program generates its own synapses.  Thus allowing a remote user to control that individual's actions for a period of three minutes; the time necessary for the human brain to recognize it’s being manipulated and circumvent the program.  
"Can you say that in layman’s terms," the man sitting closest to her asked? The wings on his uniform and hat indicated he was the High General of the Air Forces.  You mean can I dumb it down for you General, she thought.  
"Yes General, just imagine that for three minutes your soldiers or yourselves will have a marionette that doesn't need strings,” Sari replied. The men around the room began talking amongst themselves and looking at one another with smiles, and raised eyebrows.  Content with her performance so far, Sari folded her arms over her breasts and smiled.  Her anxiety simply vanished and every eyeball in the room was fixated on her.
"How does it work?" asked a man wearing a civilian suit and tie.  He must be the Director of the Euro-Russian Intelligence Agency or ERIA she thought.  
"That’s a good question,"  Sari met his eyes with hers and using her hands as an aid she responded, " If you could turn your attention to the screen behind me,  this diagram maps the process involved in establishing connection to a specific Chromo-Tag.  Every citizen of our planet is implanted with a Chromo-Tag when they are born which is then registered into National databases by their home country.  Every registration contains an encrypted control number that becomes activated for communications when they are six years old.  
    Until now, Chromo-tags could only access the learning, and memory parts of the brain.  But I have discovered how to manipulate the parts of the brain that control a person’s behavior and decision making.  All we need is the encryption code for the corresponding tag we want to manipulate."
"So does it allow us to completely control the individual?"  The man in the suit followed.  
    "The answer to that question- as of now-is no.  So far it only temporarily interrupts their brain's activity, rendering them defenseless and unable to make quick decisions,” Sari explained.  "The program is essentially a paralytic virus transmitted to their Chromo-Tag via satellite." Excitement buzzed around the table and the officers reacted more openly and much louder than before.  Sari observed the various heads nodding their approval.
    President Khokarov cleared his throat, quickly ending any dialogue between the other military leaders.  "So first we need to obtain a list of military personnel from our enemies, and then gain access to their Chromo-Tag control codes."
    "Exactly, Mr. President, if you do that you will render your adversaries defenseless for three minutes while your forces impose their will.  Imagine the possibilities gentlemen."  As Sari delivered the closing words of her presentation she leaned forward and emphatically placed both hands on the table  
    Gasps, and applause erupted from these battle hardened heroes and they rose together in reverence of the brilliant mind of this four-foot-eleven-inch woman from Finland, who had instantly became larger than life. The only two men still sitting were President Khokarov and High General Polinski. Both men were smiling but Sari knew it was for very different reasons.  Polinski beamed with pride for having introduced the Euro-Russian President to the Finish beauty with the idea of Chromo-Tag manipulation three years ago.  When Khokarov had agreed to finance the endeavor he had high hopes, but this far exceeded even his wildest dreams.  If her technology was successful he could not only take control of The Republic of the Asian States, in time the entire world could be his; even the United States of America.  
    Khokarov's American counterpart, President Caidan Johnson, was up for re-election in the coming days. Although they had been allies for the twelve years Johnson had been in office Khokarov's true opinion of the man was less than flattering.  Vladimir was contemptuous of any leader who lacked vision and any ambition beyond making money.  Sure, Johnson had shared the wealth from a few of the schemes he and Massoud had cooked up over the years, he didn’t really possess the killer instinct and do whatever attitude that had raised Khokarov to the level of world supremacy his country had reached.  Khokarov on the other hand was merciless; using his technological and military prowess to subjugate the weak.  
    It was no secret Khokarov wanted to seize control of the defenseless Asian provinces that comprised the Euro-Russian borderlands.  He ruled his own country through fear and domination.  During his 16 year reign as Euro-Russian President, he had won re-election four times killing each opponent with his bare hands.  Vladimir Khokarov had declared war on the Republic of the Asian States twice, forcing the Asian government to appeal to United Nations to intercede on their behalf.  The two previous attempts had failed because he wasn't strong enough to take on the United Nations and invade Asia; at least not until now.    

SAMIR MASSOUD, leader of the United Islamic States, sighed and shook his head in disgust at the reports of rioting outside the Presidential home of American President Caidan Johonson.  All twelve screens of the multiplex hanging in Samir's office televised the images of the breaking news.  Thousands of angry protesters clothed in tattered rags converged on the sidewalk and into the streets outside the metal entry gates of the Washington DC mansion, While armed security forces, and DC metro police officers, outfitted in riot gear, stood with their chromo guns aimed at the angry mob.  
    Samir lowered his head and massaged his temples attempting to alleviate the pressure building in his head.  He felt it most acutely behind his eyes.    Most of the news crews were filming from hover stands floating mere feet above the crowds to avoid being trampled to death.  Their close-ups revealed crude, dirt-covered American's, holding up signs, shouting profanities, and throwing glass bottles and rocks over the gates. Cries for Johnson's resignation and execution roared According to the journalists, the common story being reported was one of hunger and poverty.   Samir clinched his fist and slammed it against his tele-desk infuriated by what he was witnessing.   He had warned Johnson during his last visit to the United States six years ago this would happen if he let his people continue to starve. That moron will be lucky to make it through the week without being assassinated.   Getting up quickly from behind his desk, he stomped over to the multiplex and unplugged the chord form the wall.  Samir growled in frustration as he stomped back across the floor to his desk.  Standing beside his chair and breathing heavily with rage,  he paged Aahil, his assistant on the tele-desk.  A second later Aahil's image popped up on the tele-desk and from the frigtened  look on his face he already knew about the protests.
"Aahil, get your a*s in here!" Massoud shouted into the screen.  
Aahil's breath froze in his chest and when he opened his mouth to reply nothing came out.  A moment later the door to Samir's office slid open.  
"Aahil get me President Johnson on the secured phone." He told his secretary.
Aahil came back a moment later and announced, “I have President Johnson on the secured line sir" Samir touched the button that converted his entire desk to a transparent screen and instructed Aahil to leave the room.  
"Caidan I have to be honest with you.  I am very concerned about what I saw on the news just now.  Can you explain what the hell is going on at your house in Washington, DC?"
    "Oh, that? That's nothing to worry about Samir.  It was a little messy, but they are clearing everyone out now.  It's just a bunch of poor people blaming me for their problems.  It's under control," Johnson said non-chalantly.
    "You are telling me you aren't concerned, Caidan?  The news is reporting you have the lowest approval rating in the history of the United States.  They are also claiming that over fifty percent of the population is unemployed thanks to your slave labor laws.  How many assassination attempts have you survived in the last year...three?  And now they are rioting at the gates of your home?International News Today, said that "bunch of poor people" organized the largest political protest since the war that broke the world, possibly ever."  
    "Well Samir, I can't make everyone happy.  These lazy bums want a handout and the office of the President is not a charity or a homeless shelter,"  Johnson muttered.  My concerns are with the people who make the real money."  Samir bit his bottom lip to keep from verbally assaulting the ignorant fool.  Aahil's eyes widened as he watched his boss start trembling.    Samir exhaled deeply, attempting to recover his composure.  
"How are the preparations for your re-election fight coming along?" Samir asked changing subjects to avoid berating the man.   
"Its fantastic! Johnson exaggerated. "I'm as strong as a bull and I feel better than I did four years ago when I killed the older Manning.  His younger brother will meet with the same fate."  
"Do not make the mistake of underestimating your enemy, my brother.  I hear that the younger Manning is bigger and stronger than his predecessor.  And he no doubt is starving for revenge,” Samir cautioned.   "But, I have an idea that is going to keep you alive and in office for four more years," he continued.
"You have my attention Samir" replied Johnson as he leaned closer to his video phone.  
"I'll explain it all to you tomorrow.  Just keep yourself alive for the next twenty-four hours until we talk again."  Samir clicked the button ending the call.
Samir's eyes looked up from the desk and found Aahil standing timidly in the corner in the room.  Aahil was a gigantic fellow.  His back was almost as wide as the doorway into Samir's office.  But, Aahil detested violence and arguing.  He was soft, but he was good at his job.  So Samir kept him around.      
"Aahil who is leading the polls right now in America," Samir asked.
"I'll send you a report Mr. President,"  Aahil replied, anxious to escape the room.
"A moment later Samir's desk buzzed, announcing he had received an email.  As his eyes scanned the results of the polls,  his fist found his desk again in frustration.  
The most recent polls revealed the majority of voters favored Manning slighlty ahead of Jade Stone, the daughter of Ben Stone, the energy mogul.  If the results were accurate Manning would almost certainly win the nomination.  Manning had been outspoken in condemning the American's reliance on inflated foreign oil; Samir's oil.  If elected Manning had vowed to quash the monopoly the Islamic States had on the American oil supply and open competitive bidding from other countries. This infuriated Samir.
    If Manning did win and killed Johnson their big money schemes would die along with him, and Samir simply could not allow that to happen. The Americans bought more oil from his country than anyone else and over the years Johnson and Samir became the wealthiest men on the planet.  Those foolish American people had no idea they were paying three times what the rest of the world was. Samir knew if they ever found out they would have Johnson's head on a spit.