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

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