I never heard of PROJECT BLACKHOLE before today. Dr. Bill Deagle and a
couple of his radio guests started talking about how HAARP was programmed to
create earthquakes wherever they wanted them to be. One of the guest
mentioned PROJECT BLACKHOLE so I had to look it up and see what it was.
HERE IT IS FOR YOUR READING PLEASURE. :-)
These memos are from the director of the N.S.A. at that time, John Michael
Mike" McConnell, which is currently the second director of National
Intelligence.
The following documents could provided some proof that the U.n.i.t.e.d
S.t.a.t.e.s G.e.o.l.o.g.i.c.a.l S.u.r.v.e.y (USGS) and the NSA have worked in
the past, specifically since 1995 , to create earthquakes.
The project was called P.r.o.j.e.c.t B.l.a.c.k.h.o.l.e. and was operated
from the White Sands area in New Mexico. The documents mentioned the plans or
the project to create an artifial earthquake of 9.8 in Palm Springs, California
in april 18th, 1995.
Obviously, this earthquake never ocurred, which arise questions about the
authenticity of the documents. However, is highly probable that the event was
just a possible secret military experiment or blackop .
It is widely known that USA has been experimenting with technologies to create
earthquakes.
Last Edited by
malchevic
on 04/01/2010 07:15 PM
NOTE: THE FOLLOWING IS AN OLD ARTICLE.
IT MENTIONS ART BELL'S WIFE ROMONA WHO PASSED AWAY SOME YEARS AGO. ART
BELL REMARRIED AND LIVES IN THE PHILLIPINES WITH HIS NEW WIFE AND LITTLE GIRL
AND THEY ARE VERY HAPPY THERE.
Weird, weird, weird stuff. In all my life . . . . My uplink transmitter was
dead as a doornail." For the first time in all his years of broadcasting, Bell
had lost his connection to the transmitter. Smack in the middle of that call.
Later that night, Bell offers listeners his take on the event: "That's beyond
coincidence. It was done to you."
The desert, it is said, does strange things to the eye. It is true: That man
with a straw hat, quivering in the remote distance, turns out to be a clump of
cactus. That cloud, on closer inspection, is a mountain. That fog is faraway
ice.
Eighty miles west of the nattering neon assault that is Las Vegas, a narrow
road leads to Pahrump, an ancient Indian settlement poised for development as
the next gambling paradise. Not far from the town's main drawing cards -- legal
brothels called Sheri's Ranch and the Chicken Ranch -- Bell's trailer commands a
plot of sand and rock, surrounded by satellite dishes and a chain-link fence.
By day, it's nothing special, the hideout of just one more American who found
his piece of paradise and straightaway nailed up a "No Trespassing" sign. But at
night, when the crystal-black sky explodes with stars and the mountains offer a
scarf of darkness, this trailer is transformed into a transmitter of freakish
fear and the sweetest of hopes. Kept company by a fistful of phone lines, a trio
of computers, an atomically synchronized clock and a framed, bare-breasted photo
of the actress Shannen Doherty, a 52-year-old man who hasn't had a good night's
sleep in nine years offers an insomniac nation a host of extravagant,
extraordinary, even extraterrestrial possibilities.
While the other big names of radio traffic in standard-issue news, politics
and family concerns, Bell's all-night talkfest concentrates on conspiracies and
coverups of the gravest order: alien abductions and crop circles, cloning and
bird flu, El Nin~o and pfiesteria, cattle mutilations and anthrax scares. In
Bell's world, visitors from other dimensions win equal time with Clinton and
Lewinsky. Callers who use remote viewing to look ahead in time are taken as
seriously as Washington pundits who claim to peer into the presidential future.
Bell, heard in Washington on WRC (570 AM), asks that we embrace all
possibilities. He is a preacher of sorts, a purveyor of gloom and doom on Earth,
and of hope and possibility in the great beyond. He is a loner who lives
modestly even now that Jacor Communications, which owns the Limbaugh and
Schlessinger shows, has bought his weekday and weekend programs for $9 million.
He is a grown-up geek who conducts his own search for meaning before a rapidly
growing audience of more than 10 million listeners. He is an intelligent man who
wears his gullibility proudly.
Last year, when a scientist told Bell that a UFO was hiding behind the
Hale-Bopp comet, he and many of his listeners took the claim at face value. So
did a purple-clad cult called Heaven's Gate, whose members shortly before their
mass suicide provided a link to Bell's World Wide Web site on their own site.
Shaken by news accounts linking him to the suicide, Bell would eventually
spurn the notion of the secret spacecraft. Actually, he insists, he "disproved"
the claim on the air well before the Heaven's Gate members took their lives. But
his initial reaction was typical Bell: If you say so, sure.
TRAVELERS
In bed late at night, a seven-transistor radio tucked under his pillow, the
adolescent Bell listened to the talkers who first gave voice to the great
American obsessions -- the eternal debate over the John F. Kennedy
assassination, the rumblings about CIA mind-control experiments, the well-worn
tales of ordinary people who said they'd been abducted by creatures from outer
space.
It would be many years before some of those issues would become acceptable in
daylight, but the great web of conspiracy was already being spun in the privacy
of the night, and Bell felt himself a part of that invisible community. While
his parents fought and meandered around the nation -- Bell, a Marine brat, says
he attended 35 high schools -- radio was a constant. Days, he raised hell,
making bombs and rockets. Nights, he pretended to be on the air, a rock deejay
with a gaggle of groupies.
He got his FCC ham license at age 13. For most of his 38 years in radio,
Bell, a square-faced man with a thick salt-and-pepper mustache, big ears and
rectangular wire-rim glasses, had little opportunity to share his interest in
the bizarre. In college -- including a brief stop at the University of Maryland
-- he studied engineering before dropping out to do radio. He was a rockin' boss
jock spinning the hits on little stations in New England, California, even in
Okinawa, where he spent six years working at a U.S. military station. He set a
world record for seesawing while broadcasting -- 57 hours. But mostly, it was
time, temp, a couple of quips, and bam into the music, mastering the deejay's
tricks of the period -- step right over the intro, but don't ever walk on that
vocal!
Bell eventually tired of radio and became a cable guy, a job that brought him
to Las Vegas in the mid-'80s. An AM station asked him back to a part-time,
overnight job as a talk show host. For several years, he was a West Coast
phenomenon, popular enough, but among radio industry executives, considered a
regional oddity.
There was something about the West, with its great expanses of empty land and
sky. "Out here, everything is bigger," Bell says. "You see strange things and
that changes you."
DREAMLAND
Welcome to Dreamland, a program dedicated to an examination of areas of the
human experience not easily or neatly put in a box, things seen at the edge of
vision, awakening a part of the mind as yet not mapped. . . -- Opening of Bell's
Sunday night show
Dreamland is also the name used by military pilots for the expanse of desert
north of Bell's house, Area 51, where pilots get to fly experimental craft they
previously could only dream about.
It was on the way home to Pahrump from Vegas one summer night that Bell had
his own close encounter. Just before midnight, Art and his wife were about a
mile from home when Ramona blurted, "What the hell is that?"
Art cut the engine, and the two of them looked behind the car and up.
Hovering over the road was an enormous triangular craft, each side about 150
feet long, with two bright lights at each point of the triangle. After a while,
the craft floated directly over the Bells. The thing was barely moving. And,
Bell says, "It was silent. Dead silent. It did not appear to have an engine."
After a few moments, the craft floated across the valley and out of sight.
Bell calls this his "UFO experience," and says flatly: "It really doesn't matter
that much to me if anyone believes me. Thousands of people seeing the same thing
cannot all be wrong."
VOICE OF NIGHT
The show ends at 3 a.m. Pacific time, and Bell steps out into the cool desert
air. He stares up at the mountains, walks around, then slips inside the gray
concrete building he has just erected behind the house. It looks like a
truncated barn; inside, it is a racquetball court and steam room. It is where he
goes to return to earthly reality.
"There is a difference in what people are willing to consider, daytime versus
nighttime," Bell says. "It's dark and you don't know what's out there. And the
way things are now, there may be something."
Bell's voice is not a sleepy sound; he is not the soothing FM deejay or the
romantic companion of a listener's dreams. No, there is a certain formality to
Bell's diction, a classic announcer's voice with an almost Canadian enunciation,
as if he were the Official Voice of Night.
He offers a defense against the sapping mystery of night. The listener lies
alone in bed, perhaps with only a 40-watt bulb and a clock radio as protection
from solitude. Bell's voice arrives as a beacon -- stiff yet warm, distant yet
close enough to comfort.
Overnight is the only time radio is not governed by focus groups and audience
surveys. It is one of radio's oldest traditions: Free from the tyranny of time
and temp, news and ads, an individual intelligence can expose itself to
listeners in cars and bars and empty offices and wrinkled sheets.
For more than half a century, the great clear-channel stations have carried
50,000-watt signals from the Northeast to the Midwest, from the Mississippi to
the Potomac, filling the night with voices such as Jean Shepherd, who spun
fabulously improvised tales of an Indiana childhood on New York's WOR; or Herb
Jepko, who presided over a gathering of truckers, little old ladies and night
clerks with his gentle Nightcappers club out of Salt Lake City; or Larry King,
who first from Miami and then from Washington paved the way for an explosion in
talk media.
But the king of the night was Long John Nebel, the onetime carnival huckster
who transfixed several generations of listeners with all-night tales of UFOs and
government conspiracies, multiple personalities and parapsychology. Nebel, who
once sold lucky numbers on the streets of downtown Washington, used his New York
talk show to sell sand dollars, vitamins and life insurance. He might spend four
or five hours on the air probing the passions of a young radical such as Malcolm
X, but politics was secondary: Nebel was the first to make the connection
between the night and the eerie topics that could keep listeners saying to
themselves, "Well, just another 20 minutes."
It was Nebel's show that Bell listened to as a sleepless adolescent; it was
Nebel who first opened Bell's ears to the possibilities of a world beyond. But
while Nebel was first and foremost a pitchman, a "magnificent charlatan," as his
biographer, Donald Bain, put it, Bell actually believes what he's saying. He is
wedded to the night not because it is where he finally hit it big, but because
it is where he is philosophically comfortable.
Everyone else in radio these days is a clone, Bell says. Limbaugh, Ollie
North, Gordon Liddy -- "famous criminals, morning shows that compete to find the
worst language you can manage to get on the air, the most controversial topics.
Guns! Abortion!"
Outside, the sagebrush flops around in the wind. Bell seems out of sorts in
the midday sun -- one reason he says he will never do TV or daytime radio. "I
talk about weird stuff," he says quietly. "What I do only works at night, only
on the radio."
Claire Reese, general manager of KDWN in Las Vegas, where Bell worked for six
years before his show went national three years ago, put Bell on days for a
brief period. The show bombed. "He didn't really tick until he was on at night,"
she says. "Night people are just different."
"Art is a loner," Reese says. "He's headstrong, wants to do things his way.
He's so engrossed in what he does that he doesn't need anything but what he has
out there in the desert."
HEARING IS BELIEVING
You will never hear Bell tell off a guest, no matter how harebrained the
tale, no matter how preposterous the claims. It's not that he believes every
word, but that he believes his job is "to help them get their story out, no
matter how wild. Unless someone is dangerously misinforming my audience, that's
not the role of this host. Let the audience decide."
A guest predicts an explosion on the sun that will wipe out all plant life in
Africa. Bell acts as if he's just heard that tomorrow will be partly cloudy with
a chance of showers.
"That comes from a remote viewer, someone reporting from a discipline that
the U.S. military spent $20 million developing," he says. "Just let them unwind
their story."
Is there no limit to what Bell would put on the air? "Well," he says, "I had
Tom Metzger, the white supremacist, on the other night, so pretty much no. "
At the end of that broadcast, Bell told Metzger, "I am married to a
brown-skinned Asian woman. What does that make me?"
A traitor to your race, Metzger said.
"Thanks very much, Tom," Bell replied. "Good night."
"He sunk his own ship," the host says a few days later. "And I was only
polite."
`CHILDISH INANITIES'
If Art Bell believes half of what is claimed on his program, he is either the
world's most gullible man or a raving lunatic. Or he is right, and the people
who call themselves rational are wrong.
The Committee for the Scientific Investigation of Claims of the Paranormal,
an organization of scientists and science buffs devoted to puncturing the claims
of believers in alternate realities, has dissected and dismissed Bell's writings
and radio rhetoric.
"The plague of pompous pieties, platitudes and propaganda never ceases!" says
Robert Baker, psychology professor emeritus at the University of Kentucky,
reviewing Bell's book, "The Quickening." "It is very difficult for us to believe
Bell . . . would have the unmitigated gall to ask the public to pay $24.95 for
336 pages of childish inanities or to have them read such drivel as, `Ghosts and
apparitions exist and houses can be haunted. Of that there is no doubt.' "
Baker and other scientists reject Bell's notions as irresponsible,
"inexhaustible ignorance," but the broadcaster is undaunted. "Belief in the
paranormal is like religious faith. It's something you can't lay your hands on,"
he says. "I have something beyond faith. I've gone beyond faith because I have
seen these things."
Last March, Bell asked his listeners to "try to send mental connective
thoughts to ask these beings to show themselves." And on March 13, he says, "a
craft described as two miles long was seen and photographed over Phoenix. There
is something on the outer edge of what I do."
Some devoted listeners hang on Bell's every word: In about 40 cities around
the country, and in London and Tokyo, Art Bell Chat Clubs meet regularly to hear
talks by UFOlogists and folks who claim to have had near-death and past-life
experiences. "The majority of the members are people who are interested in
finding the truth, no matter what it is," says Tim Cannon, a former limo driver
in Denver who launched the chat clubs. "We're searching, trying to make a change
in the world, like Art."
Bell is grateful for such devotion, but cautious. He admits having fallen for
his own listeners' hoaxes, including a 1995 scenario called Project Blackhole
that predicted a Los Angeles earthquake. And he readily concedes that some of
his listeners have lost contact with the rails.
"The proportion of nuts is probably slightly in excess of what the American
people are, and according to the American Psychiatric Association, one in every
four Americans has a mental disorder of some type," Bell says. "But I'll say
this: What is weird and crackpot crazy tonight is on the front page of The
Washington Post three months later. I was talking about El Nin~o and the weather
changes we're going to face a year ago, and I was a crackpot then. I'm a prophet
now." He laughs.
BLACK OPS
Internet chat lines these days are abuzz with claims that Bell is "on a
secret government black ops payroll." Michael Hemmingson, a listener who first
proposed the notion, wonders whether the U.S. government uses Bell to
disseminate disinformation and keep tabs on what Americans believe.
The conspiracy widens with the inevitable list of Bell's guests who have
mysteriously disappeared after appearing on his program. Why then, the theorist
asks, has no harm come to Bell himself?
Bell has played along, posting the entire exchange about his possible
government ties on his Web site and remarking on the air that "I'm not afraid.
If they're gonna come after me, they're gonna come after me."
When a Las Vegas newsman leaves a message asking about the rumor, Bell puts
this shouted reply on the reporter's voice mail: "I can't talk to you! You're
one of them!"
He manages to hold back his laughter until he's off the phone.
THE QUICKENING
Life is accelerating. Natural disasters and unnatural acts, invasions from
afar and disappointments from next door, a weakening social fabric and
frightening forces of destruction, emerging viruses and disturbing weather
patterns -- it all adds up to what Bell calls the Quickening.
"The world is not the same, not a place to feel safe in," he writes in "The
Quickening." The book catalogues the daily advance of the forces of decline.
Nearly everywhere Bell looks, he sees doom: El Nin~o, U.N. peacekeepers,
economic globalization, militias, cults, stressed parents, unchecked
consumerism.
"Most of us want to pretend we are the masters of our environment," Bell
writes. "But we are completely vulnerable. . . ."
America in particular has gone soft, he believes, spoiled by wealth and an
exaggerated sense of security. Bell's interest in politics has waned. He once
supported Barry Goldwater, voted for Ross Perot last time around, and has come
to consider Clinton a good president, even if he is "the monster from our id."
Now, Bell considers himself a libertarian. But more than that, he is a typical
American -- increasingly tuned out from things political, searching for
something more.
"My hopes for America are virtually nonexistent," he writes in his
autobiography, "The Art of Bell."
Bell is dressed entirely in black. As he talks about his vision of the
future, his voice darkens, he scrunches his face so his skin bulges in tight
horizontal folds.
In his living room, the Weather Channel monitors the physical world. Suddenly
the screen goes dark. Every light in the house flickers. The skies outside are
clear.
"See that?" he shouts, then nervously picks up his pack of Carltons. "That's
what we deal with out here."
HOME ON THE RANGE
Ever since he was a kid, packing up over and over to follow his military
parents to a new assignment, Bell has craved a place like this. His. With no one
to tell him what to do, no one to tell him to pick up and move.
Trust, patriotism, respect -- these can all be stripped away. Bell, for one,
blames Richard Nixon for creating a nation of cynics, a people who gave up on
one reality and went off in search of another. "I've created my stability right
here," he says in his trailer, remote control in hand. "This is my little Ozzie
and Harriet world in a world that's changing."
He and Ramona, who helps produce "Dreamland" and assists with the torrent of
calls, buy nothing on credit, practice their shooting to fend off any intruders
(none so far), and care for their cats. "Everything you see around you isn't
lavish," Bell says, "but it's paid for."
"I move in and out of these two worlds every day. I need to have one to
balance the other. I can do my five hours of the present, pathetic state of the
world, and then I need the other hours to have my own world."
In the middle of the night, in a trailer deep in the desert, with Ramona
asleep in the other room, Bell sits alone like the rest of us, vulnerable. The
desert remembers everything we want to forget, the bombs and experiments,
secrets and lies. The listener lies in bed, also wanting to forget. Art Bell
helps him to remember things he never knew.