Additional Titles








China's Road to Power

The Master Plan











By Al Duncan
April 12, 2013

Excerpt from The Master Plan

“If I wanted to maintain my sanity and stay alive, I needed to come up with a workable escape plan.”

Suddenly there was a loud commotion outside. Some of the men leaped up from their seats and ran to the windows positioned around the room. The young man I was talking with ran toward a window in the corner. He took one glance before he started waving and shouting for me to “Come here and look. This is what I was to tellin’ you about. Now you can see these goons in action for yourself.”

He was pointing down in the yard where we entered the gates after being unloaded from the trucks. Within the crowd of men in the yard below was a young man in his late teens or early twenties. He was calling to someone he apparently recognized, who was about twenty feet away. One of the goons saw him and started pushing through the crowd and telling the men to shut up and keep moving. When the goon was within reach, the young man hit him with all his might. The goon didn't fall because the crowd supported him, but when they realized the possibility of being mistaken for one of the instigators, they backed away from the young man as far as permissible.

One of the guards blew a whistle with a sharp, piercing sound that was so painful everyone in the yard immediately covered their ears. Seemingly from nowhere, four more goons appeared; two of them grabbed the young man's arms, while two more grabbed his legs.

His friend was frantically trying to make his way through the crowd. “Stop fighting them!” he yelled. Suddenly there was another sharp blast from a whistle and four more goons rushed to subdue the other young man in the same manner as his friend.

I looked through the crowd for the first young man, only to see the goons carrying him kicking and screaming through the parting crowd and across the yard. They held him securely between them like a battering ram. At first, the goons were walking, but they began to gain momentum until they were running at top speed. With the young man secure in their grasp, they headed straight for a concrete pillar.

The first thing to hit was his head. It splattered like a pumpkin. Then there wasn’t any head, and then there wasn’t any neck. They continued until there wasn’t anything left but limbs and mangled body parts, which they tossed on the ground. They did the same to his friend.

Afterward, one of the goons went over to a shed and picked up a garden hose. He and his comrades rinsed each other off, and then washed the remains into a gutter that ran under the fence line into an open field.

Men kept filling the yard while the goons ducked in and out of the crowd pushing and shouting, “Shut up and keep moving!”

Fear struck me. If I hadn’t taken heed when that guard warned me, like the two young men, my remains would have been washed into the gutter.

After returning to my place on the bench, I noticed that the man in front of me had proceeded to a desk and I was next. Although there was little continuity to my thoughts, I knew my situation was far more serious than I had first imagined. The youngster was right; these people had no regard for human life. If I wanted to maintain my sanity and stay alive, I needed to come up with a workable escape plan.

I was stunned by the cheerful manner in which the woman behind the desk asked my name. She was completely oblivious to what had just taken place. “I know my name is Lance Roberts, but I'm not sure of anything else,” I answered in response to her question.

After typing a few keystrokes, she scrolled down a long list and highlighted my name. After briefly studying the computer screen, she looked at me intently. Suddenly a smile filled her face. “Yes, I have quite the catalog of beauties for you, Mr. Roberts. I’m sure you'll find one to suit your fancy.”

She reached into the desk drawer and placed before me a color catalog of glossy photographs with females in various poses and suggestive captions written beneath them. “According to the partial file I have here, you are not gay. However, I am required to show you this catalog of males,” she said, laying another catalog similar to the one she had handed me previously. When she saw the disapproving look on my face, she quickly retrieved the catalog and placed it back into the drawers.

Near the end of the catalog, a beautiful young woman caught my eye. I pointed her out to the woman at the desk, gave her the page number as she requested, and told her, “She will be fine.”

The woman at the desk nodded, “She's a beauty. But I think I should warn you, from all reports, her personality is terrible!”

She searched through a long list of names attached to a clipboard on her desk and when she found my name, she highlighted it in yellow.

“Your number is 3900, this camp is 1100, and your cabin is number 4.” After pausing for a moment, she added, “Here is a word of advice, Mr. Roberts, and I hope you take heed for your own sake. Ignorance and stupidity are common behavior traits in the labor camps and swift punishment is usually the remedy. But cunning intelligence is considered a threat, and if an official feels threatened by it, you could be eliminated.”

“I appreciate your warning,” I said with a nod. After witnessing their example of elimination in the yard below, I didn't want any part of it. If I planned to stay alive long enough to escape, I had to be discreet.

After her warning, she lowered her head and began examining the papers on her desk. “Next!” she hollered, while pointing to the line of men exiting through the doorway at the opposite end of the room.

My next stop was the clothing room where I was handed a week's supply of clothing as I passed the open window. I swung the sack over my shoulder, imitating the man in front of me.

Uniformed guards and goons marched a hundred of us to our cabins about two miles away. The dusty road we traveled ran beside a twelve-foot high, chain-link fence topped with rows of razor wire. Far in the distance, the sun was slowly descending behind a grove of trees. The heat was sweltering, and the load I was carrying only made the situation worse.

All I could think about was getting out of here. The question was how. If someone was able to scale the fence unnoticed, there was a constant patrol of guards, and miles of flat land to cover before reaching the seclusion of the trees. Although I was determined to find a way to escape, I had to bide my time for now. My biggest problem would be staying alive until then.

By the time we reached the barracks, I was sweating profusely. Each man had a cabin, and when we reached number 4, I obediently climbed the steps and went inside.

The small living room contained a well-used couch with two end tables and lamps on either side. Standing before it was a battered coffee table. The kitchen was barely large enough to contain the two-burner stove and oven, the doll-sized refrigerator, a washer and dryer, the table and two chairs.

I opened the bedroom door, set the sack of clothes on the floor, rifled through the sack and pulled out a towel and a change of clothes, squeezed past the double bed and entered the bathroom. There was a toilet, a small mirror over the sink, and a bathtub and shower combination.

When I saw the shower, I took off my clothes, threw them on the bed and stepped in. I drew the shower curtain, turned on the water, adjusted the flow and moved underneath. It was the most relaxing and refreshing feeling I had experienced since, when? I tried to remember what my life was like before regaining consciousness in the truck. I knew there was another world beyond the perimeter of this fence, but it was too distant for my mind to recall.

As I finished rinsing myself, I heard a door shut. I remembered that I had left the bathroom door open, so I hurriedly pulled back the shower curtain to get the towel. I looked up to find myself staring into the face of the girl I had picked out of the catalog. She was wearing a khaki dress that gathered around her small waist and stopped just above her knees. The pictures in the catalog did her little justice; she was infinitely more beautiful in the flesh. Her eyes seemed as large as silver dollars, and her full mouth glistened with moisture. She stood there, staring at me with a look of indifference.

Attempting to cover myself with my hands was senseless; I would only look more foolish. So I politely asked, “Would you please hand me that towel off the rack?”

She handed me the towel, folded her arms and leaned against the doorframe. Without a word, she continued watching me with that look of indifference.

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I thanked her for bringing me the towel, wrapped it around me, picked up my change of clothes and walked toward the door leading into the bedroom. “Excuse me,” I said as I passed her. “If you don't mind, I'd appreciate a little privacy while I get dressed.”

She followed me into the bedroom, compounding my discomfort. “What is your name?” I asked, hoping to distract her attention from what I was doing.

“My name's Monique Duval, and this is a prison labor camp, not the Boy Scouts. If you’re that sensitive, you will never survive here!”

It had been a long, hectic day, so I walked past her, shut the door behind me and finished dressing alone, in the living room.

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“Al Duncan is the author of The Master Plan, which is now being revised. He is also compiling a booklet of about 60 short articles for publication and future availability. Until recently, he wrote a weekly column for a local newspaper, the Lake County Record Bee, distributed by Associated Press. The readers were basically secular and unaware of the New World Order, so his articles were written hoping to educate the reader on this subject. However, Al realizes that NewsWithViews attracts an informed reader, who is seeking to expand his or her understanding of the truths behind the daily events, and how these truths can best help them meet the challenges ahead.

“Al is the fourth generation of Real Estate Brokers and for the past eight years he has owned Al Duncan Real Estate, Inc. in Clearlake, California. For the past seven years he has been on the financial committee, participated as a Sunday greeter and head usher at Lake County Bible Fellowship in Lakeport, California.”











My next stop was the clothing room where I was handed a week's supply of clothing as I passed the open window. I swung the sack over my shoulder, imitating the man in front of me.