The visualizer terrifying dreams

Никита Т

The visualizer terrifying dreams

Synopsis of the Novel The Visualizer’s Terrifying Dreams

It’s better to mistake a scoundrel for a saint a thousand times than once take a saint for a scoundrel.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

The Visualizer’s Terrifying Dreams is the sequel to Nikita T.’s cult novel The Visualizer, or The Man Who Alters Reality.

In this new book, readers will meet familiar heroes who must face new trials and confront the problems society poses, this time, while living abroad.

Whereas the first novel’s events essentially took place in Russia, this second installment unfolds mainly in the United States, where the protagonists escape after being confined in the psychiatric clinic of I. M. Rabinovich.

Once again, they find themselves battling the forces of evil, but now those forces take a different form. No longer deranged psychiatrists, their adversaries are powerful oligarchs representing a Masonic order. These men belong to a secret society disguised as an exclusive golf club, whose members include some of America’s wealthiest Jewish financiers and bankers, pillars of the U.S. financial elite, as well as corrupt government officials.

Obsessed with preserving their fading prosperity, they scheme to shrink the world’s population, blind to the truth that happiness cannot coexist with endless wars and global epidemics. They continue their revelry as if still young, unaware that the age of the “golden billion,” the era of mass consumption, is dying, and the collapse of their imperfect society draws near.

To stop the criminal designs of this secret cabal of financial magnates and multinational executives, the novel’s heroes create a global platform to publish exposes of their activities. They stand for free speech in the West, especially in America, and for the truth that powerful interests strive to conceal.

The Visualizer cycle is planned to continue with another book, tentatively titled The Return of the Visualizer, in which the protagonists leave the U.S. and return to Russia to confront the unresolved conflicts of their youth.

Amid today’s worldwide hysteria of war, these novels carry an openly antiwar message.

The first book, The Visualizer, or The Man Who Alters Reality, dealt with the dangers surrounding the creation and use of psychotronic weapons. I sought to portray the perils our generation will face if such weapons ever come to exist.

The sequel, The Visualizer’s Terrifying Dreams, explores a different but equally dire threat: a global epidemic unleashed through the reckless actions of conspirators and their accomplices, corrupt officials in the U.S. government. These forces lobby for the establishment of secret biolabs and CIA prisons across Eastern Europe, laying the groundwork for bioterrorism.

Mythological imagery runs through the story: the Masonic order is likened to the Lernaean Hydra, nearly impossible to slay, for one of its heads, corruption, is immortal.

Some events described here have roots in reality. Though the novel contains many fictional characters, specific episodes are drawn from life. The story is plausible enough to merit serious attention.

The action takes place in our own time. The central figures of The Visualizer and The Visualizer’s Terrifying Dreams are patients of I. M. Rabinovich’s psychiatric clinic, which has escaped to America and now strives to save the world from new perils, including the threat of biological contagion.

Since the events occur in the present day, many characters have recognizable prototypes, and the plot intersects with real contemporary events. In some sense, the book mirrors reality, but it remains a work of fiction, a fantasy thriller with echoes of truth.

Please don’t go hunting for real identities or launch journalistic investigations. These people do not exist; any resemblance is coincidental, born of the author’s imagination.

I hope you enjoy the novel and join its heroes in defending the universal values of freedom, peace, and human prosperity.

Prologue

No happiness equals tranquility.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

Didi Sanders was a pilot for the private airline Bermuda International.

Once, he had dreamed of flying high-speed transatlantic jets, but minor health issues had kept him from passing the rigorous medical exam. So instead of commanding a massive Boeing 777X or an Airbus A380, he piloted a small single-engine Beechcraft Bonanza.

He was both pilot and part-owner of the sturdy little aircraft, holding a fifty-percent share alongside the company. This arrangement let him fly regular routes to Miami under the airline’s banner and take on private jobs when official business was slow.

His clients were usually small-business owners or traders smuggling goods from the Bermudas into the United States. Occasionally, darker figures sought his services, people moving drugs, weapons, or other contraband. Didi disliked such dealings and accepted them rarely, only when the money was too good to refuse. Mostly, he handled legitimate charters and business-class passengers.

That mix kept him afloat even in hard times. The steady airline work brought a dependable income; the occasional side job filled the gaps and paid his assistant’s wages.

He’d managed to save a modest sum and hoped one day to buy out the airline’s share of the plane, to be independent, his own man at last.

Today, there were no passengers. Out of habit more than need, Didi walked down to his beloved bird. The dispatcher had issued a storm warning, and in such weather, Bermuda International’s planes stayed grounded, guarded at the edge of the airfield by a private security firm.

A northwesterly wind drove dark, heavy clouds westward, ominous messengers of an approaching storm. It was hurricane season, when pilots preferred to sit tight. Most could be found at the small tavern on the outskirts of town known simply as The Pilots’ Bar, where only flyers ever drank.

But Didi needed money, so he didn’t linger there, though he liked a glass of whiskey or a glass of grappa on weekends.

Despite the forecast, his plane was always flight-ready, fuel tanks full. Didi prized order; he cared for his aircraft like a living creature, personally checking every detail. Maintenance was handled by his old friend Rodriguez, a man he trusted completely.

They had met by chance years earlier in that same bar. Rodriguez had once been a pilot himself until some minor infraction cost him his job. Desperate for work, he’d offered to maintain aircraft for a modest wage. Didi had invited him over, shared a bottle, and sealed the arrangement with a firm handshake.

They’d been close ever since, understanding each other without words. Didi valued not only Rodriguez’s skill but his loyalty, showing up even when pay was delayed. Delays were rare; Didi prided himself on honesty and prompt wages.

A sudden ringtone broke his reverie. Glancing at the cheap Chinese smartphone he’d bought in a back-alley shop, he saw the caller: his niece Jenny. She worked security at the local airport and often sent clients his way.

He was fond of Jenny, clever, quick, and reliable. Airport management knew what went on but turned a blind eye; they respected both her and her uncle.

“What is it, Jenny?” Didi asked. “Don’t tell me fools are willing to fly in this weather.”

“You guessed it,” she said. “Two rich gringos just came in; they need to get to Havana.”

“They’ve got cash, I hope? You know me, Jenny, I’ll risk my neck only if I’m well paid.”

“Look at those clouds rolling northwest, you’ll have a downpour any minute,” he said, half to himself. Flying to Cuba this time of year was risky and lengthy.

Then Jenny named the fee they were offering. Didi let out a low whistle. It was a generous sum, and he needed it. Just last week, the company owner had offered to sell him his share of the plane at favorable terms. This flight could cover part of the cost.

“All right, send them over,” Didi said after a pause. “But make sure their papers check out. I don’t need trouble.”

“Relax,” Jenny replied. “I already checked. U.S. passports, everything looks fine, though they don’t seem American to me. Too pale. Probably Europeans. The documents could be fakes, but they’re good ones.”

Jenny distrusted gringos, especially from the EU. Sometimes they turned out to be undercover agents, and that could bring the wrong kind of attention from Interpol.

Still, the money outweighed the risk, and she decided to send them to her uncle. She’d get a cut, and the promised commission was worth it.

Didi lit a Havana cigar and waited. He wanted to speak with the passengers before takeoff; he trusted his instincts about people. If someone gave him a bad feeling, he wouldn’t fly. His intuition had never failed him.

“Rodriguez, give the plane a full check,” he called out. “We’ve got an emergency charter. Make sure she’s in perfect shape. You see those clouds? I don’t want any surprises once we’re airborne.”

“Remember last year’s hurricane,” he added grimly, “the one that killed those techs and pilots from our company.”

“Don’t worry, boss,” Rodriguez said, beginning his usual preflight routine, practiced over many long years.

Soon, two men appeared in the distance, striding briskly across the tarmac. Pale-skinned, clearly foreign. One wore a white linen suit, the kind popular in Africa, in places like South Africa or the Central African Republic. Beneath it, a blue flannel shirt and a dark-maroon tie. A metal briefcase was handcuffed to his wrist, and a gold Rolex gleamed on the other. Real or not, it was worth a fortune.

His companion was dressed more casually: a bright shirt, shorts, and a U.S. Marine-style backpack slung over one shoulder. A digital gadget clasped his left wrist.

Didi instantly pegged which of them was in charge, the younger man, the modestly dressed one. His keen eyes spoke of unusual intelligence. Men with such eyes, Didi knew, became either great leaders or dangerous criminals. He was rarely wrong.

Overall, the pair seemed harmless enough, no hint of CIA or police. Still, he wanted a word to confirm their intentions and their ability to pay.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “before we take off, I need a few details. My niece tells me you’re bound for the Island of Freedom. I trust you’re ready to cover the cost of such a trip?”

“Of course,” said the younger man. He calmly pulled a bundle of dollars from his backpack, counted out half, and handed it to Didi. “You’ll get the rest when we’re safely in Havana.” His gaze was level, assessing the pilot’s competence.

“We’d like to ride your bird as soon as possible,” his companion added with a grin, lifting the briefcase chained to his wrist. “We’ve got a delivery to make in Havana.”

“Then you should’ve booked a Boeing,” Didi replied. “My plane tops out around three-seventy kilometers an hour. Havana is five and a half hours away. A jet could do it in two and a half.” He never lied to clients, though honesty often cost him.

“Yes, we know,” the man said with a sigh. “But no airliners are flying in this weather. The lady at reception told us you might be willing, for the right price.”

“You’re our only chance,” he added with a friendly smile.

Jenny hadn’t let him down. She had a gift for sending him the right sort of passengers, the kind who paid well and caused no trouble. Of course, she took her share, but who in this world doesn’t need money? Didi certainly did.

“All right, gentlemen,” he said finally. “Let’s hope we can slip past that thunderhead and reach the Island of Freedom safe and sound.” He pointed toward the gathering storm. “Climb aboard.”

The decision was made. Despite the weather, they would fly to Cuba.

He glanced at the sky, midday sun breaking through the clouds, glinting off cockpit glass and polished fuselage. Nothing yet hinted at danger. Rodriguez was finishing the checks. Time to move before the storm closed in.

Didi signaled for boarding. The passengers hurried inside, dreaming of a Havana hotel room by nightfall, two luxury suites reserved in advance.

Zimmerman had made sure of that, proudly telling his companion he’d secured the best rooms in town.

Chapter 1

Reflection is the path to immortality; the absence of reflection, the path to death.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

Kirill climbed into the cabin and looked around. Though from the outside the Beechcraft Bonanza seemed small, inside it was surprisingly spacious, a cabin clearly designed for business-class passengers.

The seats were comfortable enough to stretch your legs and enjoy the view through the portholes beside them on both sides of the little private plane.

In the middle stood a carved rectangular table of mahogany, bolted firmly to the floor so there was no danger of its toppling onto passengers in flight. At the rear was a small bar. Apparently, both the pilot and his mechanic valued comfort; they’d gone to the trouble of refitting the single-engine plane to make it cozier and more convenient for their guests.

Right after him, Zimmerman climbed aboard and immediately expressed his approval.

“All that’s missing is a bartender, a few pretty stewardesses, and a couple of glasses of tequila,” he said in English, glancing around the cabin and taking a seat opposite Kirill, on the far side of the table.

“Well, I don’t have any stewardesses,” the pilot joked, clearly eager to exchange a few words with the friendly passengers who were quickly growing on him. “But as for drinks, there’s a bottle of Canadian whiskey in the little bar at the back. I keep it for business-class travelers like you.”

The sea and endless sandy beaches made them cheerful and pleasant folk, a sharp contrast to the Europeans and Americans who came here for vacations but never lingered long.He smiled, that open, easy smile common among the people of Bermuda, setting them apart from foreigners.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll keep the cockpit door open,” the pilot added. “The only air conditioner’s up front, and it’s already getting hot back here.”

It was indeed the perfect choice, smooth, aged, the label claiming ten years in oak barrels. They had a long flight ahead, and whiskey was just the thing to make it a bit more bearable.“No problem,” said Kirill, remembering to thank him for the whiskey, which they’d already poured into their glasses.

“Any chance you’ve got ice?” asked Zimmerman with a grin, ever the one for comfort and a friendly atmosphere, which was already forming between them and the pilot.

“You can make some yourself,” the pilot called back. “There’s a freezer to the right of the bar. You can get water from the lavatory.” He was already in the cockpit, starting the engine. “There’s also lime and juice in the bar. Hope that makes your trip more pleasant.” He smiled again.

He wouldn’t have minded a glass of whiskey himself, but pilots weren’t allowed, nor should they be.

The engine roared to life, and the plane began to taxi slowly down the wide runway that started just beyond the hangar, where the little private aircraft had been sheltered in the shade earlier.

“You’ll want to hurry up,” the pilot warned. “Once the tower clears us for takeoff, in about ten or fifteen minutes, you won’t be able to move around so freely. You’ll have to buckle up and stay seated.”

“Yes, boss,” Zimmerman replied cheerfully and hurried to the freezer to fill the ice trays before takeoff. He hated drinking warm whiskey, unlike Kirill, who had already finished his first glass of the strong, pleasantly warm liquor.

Sure enough, about twelve minutes later, the order to take off came through, and the pilot told them to fasten their seatbelts immediately. The plane was already rolling down the runway, eager to rise.

After a short run, the Bonanza lifted from the ground and climbed swiftly.

At first, nothing hinted at trouble. The plane gained altitude smoothly, soaring over Bermuda’s long beaches. Through the portholes, the passengers watched the breathtaking scenes of untouched nature and the neat houses along the shore.

Kirill loved such landscapes and regretted not being able to stay longer on those pristine islands. He loved the warm sea, the sun that shone here year-round, unlike Russia, where winter dragged on for more than half the year.

But there was no time to linger. The cargo they were transporting in the sealed case was dangerous, and as team leader, Kirill wanted to hand it over to the specialists waiting for it as soon as possible. All the arrangements had been made. In Havana, the rest of their small group awaited them, ready to help at a moment’s notice.

The trouble began halfway there, just after they crossed into the infamous Bermuda Triangle. On the map, that zone lay roughly between Miami, Puerto Rico, and Bermuda, also covering parts of the Bahamas.

Kirill had once read that more than two thousand ships and about two hundred planes had been lost in those waters. And now Didi Sanders’s little aircraft was about to feel the foul breath of that cursed place that had swallowed so many people and their machines.

At about three thousand meters, directly ahead, a small dark cloud appeared. But as the plane drew closer, the cloud didn’t shrink; it grew, swelling until it seemed to fill half the sky, threatening to engulf the tiny aircraft caught in its path.Strange things started happening once they crossed the imaginary line connecting the Bahamas and Puerto Rico.

Sanders had never seen clouds like that before, though he had flown this route regularly for the past ten or fifteen years. From other pilots of Bermuda International, he’d heard eerie stories about planes disappearing, and in their final transmissions, they often mentioned such a strange, mysterious cloud.

The pilot had no choice but to fly through the mist and emerge on the other side. But barely fifteen minutes later, another storm cloud loomed, darker and more menacing than the first. It was enormous, and there was no way around it. Sanders drew a deep breath and steered straight toward the heart of the storm, though nothing good could come of it for him or his passengers.

Darkness fell, thick as night. Not a single ray of light pierced the dense shroud of cloud. But as it turned out, it wasn’t a thunderstorm at all. There was no rain.

Didi Sanders began to worry, and his anxiety spread to his passengers.

“What’s going on?” Kirill called out.

“Who knows what surprises this cloud has in store,” he added, pointing at the mist that was closing in around them.“We’re entering a turbulence zone,” the pilot replied. “You’d better strap in.”

Suddenly, flashes of light began to pulse outside the windows, appearing and vanishing, appearing again. There was no thunder, which meant it wasn’t lightning. The flashes were so bright they illuminated everything around them, the only light in that dark, eerie place.

The thick cloud stretched for tens of miles around the plane. Sanders had been flying through it for half an hour, yet it still didn’t end. Worse, radio contact with the tower had been cut off, a very bad sign, even for a veteran pilot like him. Usually, even in a storm, the radio worked; he could call for help or advice. Now he couldn’t. No one could hear him, and he couldn’t send a distress signal.

He began to suspect the two clouds were somehow connected, and that he’d never escape their reach. Perhaps he would join the ranks of those who had vanished in the Atlantic, swallowed by the Bermuda Triangle.

After a while, the cloud began to swirl, forming something like a vortex, a funnel cloud, the kind he had seen off the coast of Florida. The plane was caught right in the center, which might have been the only reason it was still intact.

There was no turbulence yet, but that could change at any moment. Sanders was beginning to lose hope when he suddenly saw a light ahead, a bright opening, sunlight breaking through. A miracle, a gift from above. He turned the plane toward it, clinging to the controls, praying they’d make it through.

He was almost free. Sweat soaked the back of his shirt. Then the impossible happened, the swirling walls began to close in, as if the cloud were alive, refusing to let them go.

The opening ahead narrowed rapidly. One by one, the navigation instruments failed. The compass spun wildly counterclockwise. Something was very wrong. It was as if someone, or something, had taken control of the aircraft. Yet the plane didn’t fall. It continued forward, steady as before, that, at least, was a good sign.

All of Sanders’s attempts to take back manual control were useless. It felt as though the plane was being carried by an invisible current within the strange cloud. He had no idea where they were heading or how.

“I’ll try to get my bird back,” he said, turning back to the controls, ignoring the men behind him.“Gentlemen, we’ve lost control of the aircraft!” Sanders shouted to his passengers. “There are life vests under your seats; now’s the time to put them on. I hope you know how to use them.”

He fiddled with the radio again, desperate to send a mayday.

Then the plane lurched. Zimmerman, who hadn’t yet fastened his seat belt, slammed his head hard against the aluminum partition separating the cabin from the cockpit. A swelling rose on his forehead and a bruise bloomed under his eye, painful but not life-threatening.

“Buckle up, now,” Kirill hissed in Russian. “You realize what happens if the sealed vial in your case breaks? The entire planet would be doomed, an unstoppable plague. I have no wish to become the Lucifer blamed for ending the world.”

Kirill looked around. He needed to calm down, get a grip, but it wasn’t easy.

He closed his eyes and sank into his memories. The events of the past few days flashed before him, all that had led to this ill-fated flight to the Island of Freedom.

Chapter 2

Don’t waste time on empty talk; speak of what matters, or remain silent.

Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

Six months before the events described.

Stephen Kubrick had a reputation as an efficient manager. He worked as a department head at the Washington branch of Goldman Sachs and did everything in his power to grow the bank’s capital, and, of course, his own. Yet his finances weren’t growing as quickly as those of other managers, and that troubled him.

He wasn’t exactly reaching for the stars, and perhaps that was why his career had stalled. His parents were ordinary clerks, and he hadn’t inherited from them any useful connections or capital that could have changed his life for the better. The bank valued him, but no one was in a hurry to move him up the ladder. Stephen brought in steady, reliable income, but he couldn’t leap beyond himself and land one of those mind-blowing deals for a huge sum of money, the kind his friends seemed to pull off so easily.

For a long time, he couldn’t understand why, until he got involved with Eugenia, who worked as a secretary for his boss. She managed to hint at something that might help his career.

It happened by chance, at a corporate party. Despite her stunning looks, no one seemed eager to approach her, and she sat bored and aloof, a strange sight for such a dazzling girl with a knockout figure.

Stephen offered her a drink, and she agreed. They spent the evening pleasantly enough and discovered they had many acquaintances in common. They amused themselves by recalling the various flaws and quirks of their relatives, friends, and colleagues. Those without position, wealth, or connections got it worst of all. It was funny, and somehow that cruelty delighted her. She laughed with him freely, almost giddily.

Afterward, they exchanged numbers and agreed to call each other. Stephen offered her a ride home. During the drive, Eugenia asked whether he was a member of a Masonic lodge, as was customary in their circle.

The fact that he wasn’t, in her opinion, was a serious flaw, one she could help him fix. Apparently, Stephen had made a good impression on her, and she intended to continue their acquaintance.

From what Stephen gathered, membership in a Masonic lodge opened new doors, including financial ones. It allowed its initiates to form close ties with the “powers that be,” which, unsurprisingly, led to rapid career advancement.