All Is Not Broken

At 1230 p.m. on 27 March 2011 Mr. Edward Schulken, a Navy Veteran, was laid to rest in San Diego California with full military honors. His flag draped coffin rested just in front of a pulpit where a Navy Chaplain spoke fondly about a man he never knew.  In his eulogy for the stranger, the chaplain could only note that, “ours was not to judge.”

The group of men that had come to say farewell to Ed sat, heads bowed, in silent reflection. Many of them had long hair, grey beards, and bifocals. Some wore leather vests and had driven to the service on their Harleys. Like the chaplain who spoke so eloquently before them, they did not know Mr. Schulken either.  Still, they listened somberly.

After the short service, two veterans stood at each end of the coffin, raised our nation’s flag from its lid, and folded it with the care and skill of craftsmen. When they were done a ship’s bell rang, Taps played, and honor guards fired rifles into the air.  After a moment of silence those that that had come to pay their respects formed a line, came forward one at a time, and laid a violet on Edward’s box.  As this happened, one older gentleman wearing a VFW hat sat quietly in his seat – weeping. Perhaps his tears were for Ed, and perhaps they were not. They were tears nonetheless.

After the ceremony, the men gathered outside the chapel and continued to talk about the man that they did not know.  Many had tear filled eyes, and referred to Ed using terms like brother, hero, and patriot.  When everyone departed, Edward Shulken took his last car ride to a local veteran’s cemetery where he was laid in the ground and covered up forever.

Edward’s family and friends had not been at the memorial service, because he had none.  Truth be told, Edward had lived the last years of his life homeless, alone, and forgotten in the streets of San Diego.  No one will ever know what misfortune or poor personal choices led to Ed’s demise, but among the group of men who had assembled to wish him farewell, no one really cared. All that they knew (and had to know) was that Mr. Edward Schulken had served honorably in the United States Navy and was a brother-in-arms. All that mattered to them was that when our nation called, Ed stood to be counted in a rare group of men and women who would willingly sacrifice everything for her.  To those who had come to pay their respects, this stranger was family.

The men who buried Ed were Veterans from the Dignity Memorial Group.  According to DMG, there are over 150,000 homeless veterans across the United States, and they are dying by the dozen every day.  So these men and women do their best to do the right thing.  They collect funds, reserve plots in the ground, and when these homeless Veterans are found dead in  alleys, dark corners, and forgotten places, they bury them honorably.

Edward Schulken’s name will likely never be spoken again.  The grass on top of his grave will be neatly mowed however, and every Veteran’s day someone will place a small American Flag by his headstone to acknowledge his Service.  Though it is likely that no one will ever weep over his grave, many will come and honor what his resting place represents.  They will weep over their own loved ones, and in doing so… in some small way…will remember Ed too.  He will be surrounded by his brothers and sisters-in-arms for all time, and they will lay together as they once stood together.  In death, Ed has finally found his home and his family.

Over the next week, as you listen to stories about nuclear meltdowns, economic collapse, war, suffering, and political turmoil, take a moment to say a short prayer of thanks for the men and women that brought Edward Schulken home.  As long as there are people like this among us, we can all take comfort in knowing that all is not broken.

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The Example (Part VII)

After wrapping things up with the police, Carl and his family loaded  into Lanum’s truck and headed back to his FBI office. The events of the evening were still spinning in their heads, and the ride was very quiet.  Carl was furious at what had happened. His wife and children could have been taken or even killed.  Just the thought of it made his skin crawl.

After a few moments Carl reached over and grabbed Katie’s hand squeezing it tightly.  Katie returned the squeeze and laid her head on his shoulder. In the dim light of the cab, Carl could see the tear lines still etched on her face.  No matter what happened over the next couple of days, one thing was clear. He had to protect his family.

Before they had departed the ranch, Lanum had made arrangements for Katie, the kids, and her parents to stay at the FBI facility. It was not very big and there weren’t many creature comforts, but there were a couple of cots, some sofas, and showers. Lanum had also arranged for all night security.  Carl agreed to the plan simply because he did not have a better one.  Whoever had attacked his family could still be out there, and he wanted to make sure that they were safe.

“Now you guys will be fine at my office,” Lanum announced breaking the silence. “You will have a place to sleep, and bathrooms with showers. It’s nothing like home, but it will only be for a couple of days until I can get something else arranged. The outside doors are dead bolted and no one, I mean no one, will be able to get in or out unless we want them to.”

Carl nodded his head. “I can’t thank you enough Lanum.  You saved my family from God knows what, and I am in your debt.”  Carl paused awkwardly.  He did not want to offend Agent Tate’s generosity, but could not help but wonder whether it was Lanum the FBI Agent or Lanum the Texan that was helping them out. “You know Lanum, something else is bothering me a bit.”

“Yeah me too,” Tate responded not waiting to hear what Carl had to say. “I think that what happened tonight was an inside job.”

Agent Tate’s comment completely derailed Carl’s train of thought. “An inside job?” he responded trying to get his head around the thought. “You mean someone at the camp is doing this?”

Lanum shook his head, “I am not sure but I have a strong hunch.”

Carl’s interest was piqued. “Well who do you think it is?” he asked.

“I have no idea, but I think that I can figure it out with your help,” Lanum continued.  “I want to show you something when we get to the office.”

—

After spending about a half hour getting the kids tucked into their beds, Katie and Carl walked into their makeshift bedroom in Lanum’s office.  Katie plopped down onto the small couch that Lanum had thoughtfully made into a bed for her, and began to cry once again.  “Carl, baby, what would those men have done with us? I mean, if Lanum had not shown up would they have killed us? Would they have killed our boys?”  Carl sat down beside her and gave her a long reassuring hug. “Honey I don’t know what might have happened, but I do know that thanks to Agent Tate, you guys are all safe and sound now. That is all I care about.”  Tears streamed down Katie’s face. “But what about you?” she continued.  “What is going to happen to you?”

Carl truly had no idea what to say.  He knew that his place was back at the station with the two thousand Texans that had come to join him.  He also knew that he had to finish what he started.  He squeezed her tightly a second time and kissed the top of her head.  “I’ll be okay sweetie,” he assured her.  “I have about two thousand friends at the station watching my back.”

Katie was clearly unimpressed by his feeble attempt to console her. She pulled away from him, wiped the tears from her face and looked at  him sternly. “Carl…before you go back to that station and play Davey Crockett or whatever you are going to do, just remember that you have two boys who need a father…not a martyr.” Carl smiled and looked deeply into her watery eyes. “No Davy Crockett,” he assured her, “I promise.”  Carl held Katie in his arms until she fell asleep, and then laid her down on the sofa and pulled the covers up over her shoulders.

Carl walked back out to the main office and found Lanum busy at one of the computers.  Lanum saw him walk out and motioned him over.

“Hey Carl, come over here and take a look at this,” Lanum said nodding toward the computer.  Carl sat down next to him and looked at the screen.  It was a picture of the buses that had carried off the protesters earlier that day.

“Is this that website you were telling me about?” Carl queried. “Agents of Justice or something?”

Lanum nodded.  “Agents for Social Justice,” he corrected. “This is the site that posted pictures of the protest literally minutes after the buses disappeared.”

Carl remembered their earlier conversation. “So these pictures had to be taken by someone in the camp, right?”

Lanum was transfixed on the screen.  “Yeah, but there is something else about these pictures that’s bothering me, and I cannot put my finger on it.”

Carl and Lanum sat in silence looking at the photo for several minutes.  It clearly showed the buses pulling away, surrounded by flags and cheering Texans.  As Carl looked at the scene, he could once again feel the exuberance of the moment.  It had been a great show of unity, and a feeling that he would remember for the rest of his life. Oddly enough however, the more he looked at the picture, the more he was troubled by it as well. Lanum was right…something was most definitely wrong.

All of a sudden, Lanum sat straight up in his chair breaking the silence. “It’s over their heads! That’s the problem! This damn picture is being taken from over everyone’s head!” Carl looked at the picture again and instantly felt somewhat stupid for not seeing it earlier.  The picture had clearly been taken from four or five feet above the crowd. Then it hit him. It had to have been taken from the stage. The angle was perfect.

“It’s the stage,” Carl announced to Lanum. “This picture had to have been taken from the stage!”

Lanum rocked forward in his chair and looked a Carl.  “How many folks were on the stage when all this was happening?  I expect it was loaded with flag wavers right?”

Carl paused and thought back to the moment.  Everything had happened so fast, most of the encounter had been a blur to him.  Then he remembered.  He had looked at the stage at one point in the ordeal, and had only seen Shorty and a few of his crew on the platform.  In fact, he remembered seeing Shorty singing into the microphone while two of his cowboys waved flags next to him.  “You know,” Carl mused, “I can only remember seeing Shorty on stage…yeah Shorty and a couple of his crew.”

“Who’s Shorty?” Lanum pressed.

“Oh, that’s just his nickname; I think he told me that his name was Billy T. Winslow or something like that,” Carl explained. “He and his crew were the first group to show up after I went to the press.”

Lanum continued to dig.  “How well do you know this Shorty fellah?”

Carl paused for a moment collecting his thoughts.  “Well I supposed I don’t really know anything about him other than the fact that he and his boys drove down from El Paso as soon as they saw the news report.   He has been a real leader though…pretty much organized the entire campsite. He assigns duties, organizes watches, and had has collected a lot of information from the campers.”

Lanum listened intently. “What type of information?”

Once again, Carl felt as if he was being left behind in the conversation.  “Well I don’t know…where they were from, how many in their group, what kind of firearms they had brought with them, how much ammunition, that kind of stuff.”

“What has he been doing with all that information?” Lanum asked. “Do you know?”

Carl felt himself becoming defensive.  “Well…I suppose he’s been collecting it so that we know what kind of…you know… capability we had in case things went badly with the Feds.”  Carl felt awkward saying this to Lanum, but continued anyway. “Shorty felt like we needed a full list of all our ammo and firepower so that we would know how to best…I don’t know….use it if we had to.”

Lanum was unshaken.  “So Shorty knows where everyone in the camp is from, how many guns they have, how much ammo they have, and where in the camp it all is?”

Carl was clearly flustered, but trying hard not to show it. “I suppose that you’re right but…”

“And you really don’t know him from Adam when it gets right down to it.” Lanum interrupted.

Carl paused feeling embarrassed and nodded in agreement.  “No he showed up on day one with a truckload of gear and cowboys and…well…just took charge. I figured he was just trying to be a good neighbor.”

Lanum looked back at the screen scratching his chin. “And he was on stage when all this was happening?”

Carl felt defensive once again.  “Yeah, but how could he have taken a picture without someone else seeing him?”

Lanum chuckled, trying to be polite.  “Carl my friend,  how many folks do you think were out there snapping digital photos and sending them to their wives and girlfriends?Hell, he could have taken a dozen pictures and no one would have noticed. If what you are saying is true however, and they were the only ones on stage, then one of them must have taken this picture.” The weight of what Lanum was saying started to hit Carl.  He had been so thankful for Shorty’s leadership that he had never once questioned anything he was doing.

Lanum stood up and stretched.  “Well  first thing tomorrow I am going to find out a little more about your Mr.  Shorty.”

—

Carl pulled up to the Fill n’ Fuel about 3 in the morning.  The camp was quiet, and despite the glow from about 200 camp fires, things were dark and peaceful. Carl walked into his office and shut the door. It had been the longest day of his life and he was exhausted.  He plopped down into his desk chair, and rocked his head back for a moment. He could not get Katie’s tear soaked face out of his mind.  How could someone want to hurt her or his children? Could Shorty really be a spy?  Carl’s head began to spin.  In just 36 hours his 30 day notice would be up, and he had no idea what was going to happen.  Would it be war, or just some type of Waco stand off?  Would his campers turn tail if shooting started?  Where was Clifford? Why was the Governor’s office treating him like a leper? Carl felt like his head was about to explode with questions. How he longed for the simple days, when his only concern was the price of diesel. God how he wished it all was nothing but a bad dream. After a few minutes, his exhaustion got the best of him and he slipped into a deep dreamless sleep.

The next thing Carl heard was someone banging on his office door.  The sun was bright and the room had already heated up to well over 80 degrees.  He jumped up from his chair, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and walked to the door.  A young boy that he recognized from the camp was standing there wide-eyed.

“Mr. Lamonte,” he panted as if he had been running, “they’re here!”  Carl did not understand what the boy meant.  “Who is here son?” he asked.  The boy pointed down the access road.  “The black cars…  they’re here!” He paused and swallowed trying to catch his breath.  “There are a lot of them too!”

Carl grabbed his binoculars and ran across the street, hopping up onto the stage for a better view.  Most of the camp had been alerted and several hundred Texans had moved to the front of the camp for a look as well.  Carl raised his binoculars and looked down the access road toward the highway.  There, off in the distance, was a neat row of black SUV’s. They were a few miles away, but Carl was able to count about 25 of them.  Behind the SUVs he could see a couple of large black vans, and what could only be described as an armored personnel carrier.  Carl could also make out a group a three or four men standing in front of one of SUVs looking at what appeared to be a large map spread out on the hood.  Carl swallowed hard as he surveyed the scene.

“Well old buddy looks like the Federales have found the Alamo!” a familiar voice rang out.

Shorty walked up next to Carl and slapped him on the back.  “I reckon that’s just the first batch of them,” he continued giving Carl a big toothy grin. “My guess is that there will be a couple of hundred by tomorrow afternoon.”

Carl lowered his binoculars.  “Well I guess we know that they weren’t bluffing.” he replied trying not to sound too nervous.  Shorty looked at Carl for a moment as if sizing him up and changed the subject.  “Hey buddy, I heard about what happened out at your place last night. It’s all over the camp this morning. I’m real sorry ‘bout that.”

Carl tried his best to keep his voice from wavering. “Yeah … thanks,” he responded.

Shorty paused for a moment to look through his binoculars.  “You know, if you like I can send a couple of my boys out to your place tonight to keep an eye on things.  Hell I’ll do it myself if that’ll make you feel better.”  Carl looked at Shorty and smiled. “That’s real nice of you Shorty, but I have made other arrangements.”

Shorty looked at Carl curiously.  “Oh I got ya, you’re keeping the family hold up somewhere.  Did you take them to a friend’s house or somethin’?” Shorty’s curiosity would not have bothered Carl in the least just a day before, but after his conversation with Lanum he felt extremely wary.  “No,” he replied, “but they are safe.”

“So where you got ‘em stashed?” Shorty pressed.

Carl paused. He could not tell if Shorty really wanted to know, or if he was just trying to get a reaction. “They’re safe Shorty, let’s just leave it at that,” he responded.

Shorty looked off into the distance and nodded his head. “Probably the right thing to do,” he noted. “You can’t be too careful when it comes to protecting your family. You’re smart to not tell me where they are…even if you do trust me.”  Shorty looked at Carl, “You do trust me right?” Carl’s face flushed.  Shorty’s question had caught him off guard, and he was having trouble finding the right response.  “Sure, I mean, why wouldn’t I?” he replied awkwardly.

Shorty changed the subject and motioned to the line of Feds off in the distance.  “Those fellahs out there mean business and they are going to be paying us a visit sometime tomorrow.” Carl regrouped a bit, and tried to make conversation. “Well I think we have them out numbered about 15 to one. I’m not sure that they are going to try anything right away.” Shorty sighed. “The truth is, they got themselves more fire power in those SUVs than all these cowboys combined.  Most of these good ‘ole boys came out here with hunting rifles, pea shooters, and antiques.  Even the few folks with decent guns, may not be willing to raise them against another human being.  Shootin’ a person is a lot different than baggin’ a buck.”

Shorty reached into his boot, pulled out a cigar, and lit it.  “Nope, my guess is that half of these fellah’s will turn tail if shooting starts. The fact is, when those boys are ready to come, they’ll ride right through the middle of camp.” Carl felt a gnawing in the pit of his stomach.  Regardless of whether or not Shorty was a spy, he was telling the truth and Carl knew it.

At that moment a Hank Williams ringtone broke the silence.  Carl watched as Shorty reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.  As he flipped the top open to answer, a flash of reflected sunlight caught Carl’s eye.  It was a reflection off of the lens of the cell phone’s camera. Seeing this was all that Carl needed.  Shorty had to have been the one.  His cowboys had been busy waving flags; they could not have taken the pictures. No…it had to have been Shorty. As Carl stared at the phone, he could hear his heart beating in his ears.  He needed to get to Lanum’s office fast.  It was at that moment however, that he realized Shorty had quit talking and was looking directly at him.  “What’s wrong ‘ole buddy, you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Shorty asked in a low serious voice. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Carl tried to regain his composure. “Um, no, I just remembered that I need to run a few errands. I will stop by and we can talk later.” Before Shorty could reply, Carl jumped from the stage and headed for his truck.  He knew it was Shorty and, after that episode on the stage, he was pretty sure Shorty knew he did.

—

Carl found himself back at Lanum’s office a half hour later.  It was Sunday and the only person there besides his family and Lanum was a security guard.  Carl told Lanum about his conversation with Shorty and the line of black cars. Lanum listened intently saying nothing the entire time. When Carl finished, Lanum motioned him over to his computer.

“I have been doing some checking on your buddy Shorty,” Lanum said tapping the computer screen.  I didn’t find anyone named Billy or William Winslow, but I did find this in our criminal database.” Lanum backed away from the screen so that Carl could see.  What he saw sent a cold shiver down his spine.  It was a picture of Shorty.  Beside the picture was the name Michael “Shorty” Williams.

Carl was stunned. “How did you find this?” he asked.  “You’ve never even seen him!”

“But I have,” Katie’s voice chimed from across the room.

Lanum spun around in his chair and gave Carl a big grin.  “Yep, Katie and I have been doing a lot of snooping around today.  It seems as though she has a great eye for detail.”

Katie stepped up beside Carl and smiled when she saw his look of surprise. “What did you expect? These jerks tried to kill my father and kidnap our children. Did you think I was going to pass the time knitting a sweater?”

Lanum did not give Carl a chance to respond.  “It seems as if our friend Shorty has several warrants out for his arrest. They are mostly for environmental terrorism, burning SUVs, killing cattle, things like that. It all looks petty until this last warrant.  It seems that he is wanted by the Dallas police for kidnapping and attempted murder.  It also appears that he is ex-special forces. Perhaps he started his career with the CIA and has since gone free agent.”

Carl gave Lanum an embarrassed look. “I am pretty sure that he knows we are onto him too.”

“What makes you so sure?” Lanum queried.

“I am not a good liar,” Carl confessed. “He tried to get me to tell him where I had taken Katie and the kids this morning, and when I didn’t he clearly got suspicious.”

At that moment there was a buzz at the door. Lanum handed a twenty dollar bill to the security guard, and motioned for him to go open the door.  “I ordered some pizza a little while ago.” Lanum informed the room.  “I hope pepperoni is good with everyone…”

At that moment a shot rang out through the headquarters and the security guard flew backwards over a desk with blood gushing from his back.  Lanum reached for his gun, but before he could draw it, a figure appeared from around the corner holding a large caliber revolver.  It was Shorty.

“Now everyone stay calm,” Shorty ordered, “and we will be done real quick like.” Shorty shifted his gaze to Lanum. “First off, I would like you to finish skinnin’ that pistol, lay it on the ground, and push it over to me with your foot.”

Lanum laid his weapon on the floor and kicked it toward Shorty. “Just what do you hope to accomplish by holding a Federal Agent at gunpoint?” Lanum growled as Shorty picked up the pistol.  “I hope to get paid,” Shorty chuckled as he swung the gun toward Lanum and fired.  Katie screamed as Lanum dropped to the ground clutching his leg in pain.

“You see,” Shorty continued, “I could care less about your little war, but the folks that hired me care about it…a lot. And they have paid me handsomely to ensure it goes their way.”

Carl pushed Katie behind him. “Who the hell is paying you?” he demanded.

Shorty swung his pistol toward Carl.  “You got no idea what you’ve started do ya ‘ole buddy?  You really have no idea!” Shorty could not contain his amusement and let out a deep belly laugh.

Carl felt a rarefied form of anger surging through his veins.  “Well why don’t you enlighten us!” he shot back.

Shorty’s disposition changed instantly.  “You, ‘ole buddy, are not in a position to be making any demands,” he growled.  “Now here’s what’s going to happen.  I am going to take your wife and kids on a little ride. You, ‘ole buddy, are going to head back to the station, crawl up on that stage, and tell everyone there that you have cut a deal with the Feds and that the standoff is over.  You will tell them that if they do not clear out within’ 24 hours, the black vans are going to come in and start arresting everyone in sight.”

“And if I don’t?” Carl hissed.

Shorty smiled and looked at Katie. “If you don’t, then I start mailing your wife and kids back to you a piece at a time until you change your mind.”

Katie began to sob. “You will take my family over my dead body,” Carl spat back in rage.

Shorty smiled. “Well I have a plan for that too if that’s the way you want to roll,” he chuckled cocking his pistol.  Katie screamed as Carl braced for the shot.  At that moment a figure emerged from around the corner behind Shorty.  It was Carl’s father-in-law and he was holding a baseball bat. With a swing that would have made Jose Canseco jealous, he sent Shorty flying across the room.  The force of the impact caused Shorty to drop his revolver and Carl lunged forward grabbing the gun.

Shorty came to rest with his back against the office wall. He was dazed and had blood oozing from the left side of his head.  Carl stepped over him and pointed the gun at his face.  “Now you move one muscle…’ole buddy…and so help me God I will finish the job,”  he yelled.  Shorty responded with a groan as he tried to focus his eyes on the gun barrel. “I guess that I am in a position to make demands after all!” Carl continued. “Now I want to know who sent you and what they are planning!”

As Carl spoke, Lanum struggled to his feet.  He was bleeding badly from his right inner thigh, but was conscious.  He limped over toward Carl and sat down.  “Give me the gun Carl,” he ordered.  “If you shoot this bastard, it’s murder.  If I shoot him, it’s community service.”

Carl handed the gun to Lanum. “You need an ambulance,” he observed looking at Lanum’s bloody leg.

“I’m okay for now.” Lanum responded keeping his focus on Shorty.  “Now suppose you tell us exactly who sent you.”

Shorty reached up and dabbed the blood on his head with his finger.  “You know, all of this is useless don’t you? Do you think it’s just me? There are over 100 plants in your little camp just waiting on the word,” he laughed.  “You have no idea who you are dealing with.”  As Shorty spoke he moved his left hand behind his back where Lanum’s gun had fallen.  “This thing is already over and you boys are too stupid to know it!” he continued.  “I pity you both.”

Shorty grabbed the gun and swung it forward toward the two men.  In a second Lanum fired three shots squarely into Shorty’s chest killing him instantly. Lanum wasted no time. Kneeling over Shorty’s body he started fishing through his pockets.  Finding his wallet, he put it in his pocket.  “I am going to call for support in about 5 minutes.” Lanum explained. ” That will be enough time for you to get your family out of here and back to the station.”

Carl was in shock. “What about your leg.  I can’t leave you here!”

Lanum gave Carl a stern look. His face was pale from blood loss and pain, but Carl could tell that he was in charge of the situation. “Carl you cannot be here when the cops come.  I want you and your family out of town.”

“What about you,” Carl asked again.  “What are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Lanum replied.  “I am going to get this leg patched up and will call you as soon as I can.”

Once again, Carl had no idea what to say. “Lanum buddy I’m sorry about all this.”

Lanum waved him off.  “Get your family and get outta here. I am going to dig through this guy’s stuff and see what I can find out about these other plants. You got a fight coming tomorrow and we need to find out who they are…now get your family back to the station and stay put.”

Carl realized that Lanum was right.  He needed to get back to the campsite as soon as possible. Shorty’s crew would notice him missing soon, and he needed to get back in case things got ugly.  He looked at Lanum and smiled.  “Thanks again buddy,” he said.

Lanum looked at Carl and grinned.  “Go on, get out of here.  You’re just making me bleed more.” As Carl started to turn Lanum grabbed him by the arm.  “And by the way Carl, just in case you were wondering…I have chosen sides.”

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The Example (Part VI)

It had been almost an hour since the buses had departed and the camp was still celebrating their victory.   Shorty had led the campers in song for about a half hour and, when his voice finally gave out, a makeshift band of guitar players took to the stage and continued the sing along.  It was well after dark now, but Carl could still see folks waving their flags in the glow of the campfires.   The lights from the news crews were burning brightly as well. As Carl watched lines of correspondents reporting on the evening’s events he could not help but feel proud.  The CNN cameras that had been set up in an attempt to catch exclusive video of a mob scene, had instead spent the last two hours filming a patriotic celebration.  Carl had no idea how the next few days were going to unfold but, for the first time since the ordeal had started, he felt hopeful.

As Carl watched the celebration from his chair next to the RC Cola machine, he noticed Shorty walking across the parking lot toward him.

“Howdy partner!” Shorty croaked still hoarse from all the singing.

Carl waved back and motioned for him to pull up a chair.

“It’s been one hell of a night, ain’t it?” Shorty continued as he sat next to Carl.

“You can say that again,” Carl responded.

“You know that was a great idea you had with the flag and the singing.” Shorty noted as he looked over the still growing camp. “We dodged a real bullet this evening.”

Carl nodded.  “I cannot help but wonder who tipped off the press. Those news crews knew what was about to happen.”

Shorty reached down into the top of his right boot, and pulled out a pack of small cigars.

“You smoke?” he asked offering the pack to Carl.

Carl shook his head.  “No I quit a few years ago, when I had my second kid. I figured I wanted to stay around a while to see them grow up.”

“Good damn thing,” Shorty shot back as he lit his cigar. “It’s a nasty damn habit.”

With that Shorty reached into the top of his other boot and pulled out a small silver flask.  He opened it up, took a long swig, and extended the container toward Carl.

“Now not smoking is commendable,” Shorty snorted,” but not drinkin’ or smokin’ is just downright contemptible.”

Carl chuckled, took the flask from Shorty thankfully, and tilted it skyward.

—

The ranch house looked pale through the night vision binoculars, but it was clear enough.  From what the two men could tell there were about four or five people inside.  They had seen an older man and woman through the kitchen window, and just a few minutes earlier they had seen a lady that looked like Carl’s wife in the living room.

They had waited in dark of the tree line for about 20 minutes after dispatching Sheriff Motter to make sure that no one had heard the commotion.  After realizing that they had killed him, the two masked men had carried Motter’s corps into the woods and covered it with leaves.  They were only concerned about getting it out of sight for the moment, because they would be long gone in a couple of hours.

The man put down his binoculars and motioned to his accomplice.

“Looks like they are getting ready for dinner,” he whispered through his stocking mask. “Let’s get this done and get out of here.”

The other man nodded, pulled a back pack off of his shoulders, and unzipped it.   Reaching inside he pulled out two 9 mm pistols, chambered rounds in each, and handed one of the to the first man.

They had done this type of thing many times over the years, but this was the first time that they had ever been asked to do it in the United States. Their plan was simple and well rehearsed.  They would sneak up to the house, cut the phone lines, and then break in through the kitchen door.  They would give grandpa a good beating, hog tie grandma, take the wife and kids, and set the house on fire.  If everything went smoothly, which it would, they would be in and out in less than 15 minutes.  Once they had Katie and the kids, their instructions were to deliver them to a safe house just outside of Oklahoma City.  They would hold them there, until ordered to set them free…or something else. Either way was fine with them.  It wasn’t personal; they were just doing their job.  After taking one more scan through his binoculars, the first man nodded and they started slowly working themselves toward the house.

—

Carl and Shorty sat quietly for some time sipping on Maker’s Mark and watching the campers celebrate.  Thanks to ample amounts of Lone Star beer, the flag waving had singing had turned into what Carl could only describe as the world’s largest Karaoke party.   Someone had plugged a stereo into the PA system on the stage and a long line of crocked crooners were now awaiting their turn to out sing George Strait.  The current contestant was in the middle of a horribly off key version of All My Ex’s Live in Texas.  After finishing his hatchet job on the song, he took a long swig from what looked like a Wild Turkey bottle, gave the booing crowd a good natured finger, and stepped off stage.

As Carl and Shorty watched from their seats at the station a Sheriff’s car pulled up blocking their view.  The driver, an old friend of Carl’s, emerged from the car and walked over to where they were sitting.

“Howdy Carl, you keeping this rowdy bunch under control?” the Sheriff queried.

“How are you Pete,” Carl responded standing up to shake the Sheriff’s hand.

“Doing okay as long as your army across the road stays drunk and friendly,” Pete responded.

Pete and Carl had known each other for about 10 years.  Pete Cameron was one of the senior Sheriffs in the area and frequented the truck stop for free coffee and snacks.  Carl had an unwritten deal with the local Sheriff’s Department that coffee and donuts were always free on or off duty.  Carl saw it as his way of giving back to the community, and the Sheriffs had always reciprocated by hanging out at his place and patrolling the station regularly.

Once, several years earlier, Sheriff Cameron had responded to a burglary alarm at the station, and had arrived to find two local hoodlums leaving the store with their arms full of beer.   When he stepped out of his car one of the robbers saw him, panicked, and threw a beer bottle at him breaking his nose.  Despite the pain and blood gushing from his nostrils, Pete managed to apprehend both suspects.  By the time Carl arrived at the station, Pete had both suspects hog tied and in the back of his car, both writhing in pain from a liberal application of pepper spray.   Carl was so thankful he refused to take Pete’s money for fuel for over a year.  Soon they had become good friends and Pete stopped by the station every few days to chat and drink coffee.

“I think they are policing themselves pretty well,” Carl responded extending the flask Pete’s way.

Pete politely waved it off.  “No thanks buddy, I am actually here on official business,” Pete continued.  Carl withdrew the whisky and gave Pete a curious look.

“Someone causing trouble in the camp?” Carl asked curiously.

“No, nothing like that,” Pete responded.  “I was actually wondering if you would do me a favor.  Deputy Motter out at your place is not answering his radio, and I think the lazy ole’ goat has fallen asleep again. I don’t want to get him in trouble with the office, so I was wondering if you could call your house and have someone go out, knock on the window, and wake his butt up?” Carl smiled and pulled out his cell phone. “You bet,” he replied as he dialed his home number.

Carl stood waiting as his home phone rang and rang.  There was no answer.  Carl’s smile faded as the phone rang a tenth time. Everyone was supposed to be at home.  Someone should have answered almost immediately.  Even if they had not, the answering machine should have picked up on the fifth ring; something was wrong.   As the phone continued to ring, Carl could see Pete’s demeanor change.

“Where are they?” Pete asked clearly showing his concern.

Carl lowered his phone and disconnected the call.  “That’s strange,” he mused.  “They are supposed to be at the house, and no one is answering.  The answering machine did not even pick up.”

Pete needed to hear nothing more.  “The damn line has been cut!” he exclaimed turning and heading for his patrol car.  “We gotta get out there fast!”   Carl felt is stomach turn.  “You’re taking me too Pete,” he blurted as he ran to the car behind the Sheriff. Pete had no time to argue and motioned for him to get in on the passenger side.  Pete was on the accelerator before Carl had his door shut.

Shorty watched as the patrol car sped away toward Carl’s place. He took another swig from his flask and then crushed out his cigar on the concrete.  “Looks like the war’s already started ole buddy,” he chuckled to himself.

—

The corral fences around the ranch house had made for good cover and the two men had been able to slip up to the house quickly.  Once the phone lines were cut they made their way to just under the kitchen window.  The first man raised a small dental mirror up to the window above them and angled it so that he could see inside.  It looked as if everyone was sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner.  He lowered the mirror and nodded to the man behind him.  It was time to get busy.

The two figures crept past the window to the kitchen door, and then stood against the wall. They pulled out their pistols, and then threw their collective body weight against the door.  With almost no protest, the door jam splintered and the door flew inward in a shower of glass.

Katie was facing the door and saw it fly opened.  She stood and screamed reaching out for her two children. Her father was the next on his feet, a bit disoriented from the invasion he fumbled for the revolver he had laid beside him on the table.   Before he could reach for it though the first man shot, hitting him squarely in his right shoulder.  Katie’s father fell to the ground in a pool of his own blood.  Katies mother screamed and fell to the ground next to him cradling his head.

“Okay, everyone be calm and no one else will get shot,” the first man called out as they advanced into the kitchen.  Katie grabbed her children who were both crying hysterically and pushed them behind her.

“Get out of my house!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.  “Leave my family alone, please!” she pleaded.   In the corner of her eye she could see her father on the floor reaching for his revolver on the ground next to him.  She desperately tried to get the attention of the assailants.  “My husband will find out who you are, and he will have you arrested,” she threatened realizing how stupid she sounded as she said the words.  “You won’t get away with this!” she screamed as the men came closer.

Her father grabbed the gun, but the noise alerted the men to his actions.  The first man moved over him kicking the gun from his hand. “I guess you don’t think we’re serious,” he yelled at the terrified family.  He pointed his 9 mm at Katie’s father’s head.  “It looks like I am going to have to show you just how serious I am.  Katie’s father closed his eyes as the man started to squeeze the trigger.

The shot that rang out however, did not come from the assailant’s gun.  It came from somewhere behind them in the living room.  It was followed immediately by another shot.  The first man dropped to his knees and fell across Katie’s father – dead.  Katie could see blood racing from a large hole in his back.  The second man flew against the refrigerator door and slid down it leaving a trail of blood smeared on its surface.  Katie screamed again and closed her eyes clutching her children.

From behind the kitchen door Lanum Tate emerged holding what looked like a .357 magnum revolver.  He advanced on the two men at gunpoint, took their weapons, and checked their pulses.

“Is everyone okay!” he demanded as he looked into Katie’s terrified eyes.   He realized that they did not know exactly who he was, so he reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge.  Lanum Tate FBI, he announced, “is everyone okay?”

“My dad has been shot and needs an ambulance,” Katie cried coming to grips with what just had happened.  “Please help us!”

At that moment Lanum saw the reflection of flashing lights outside as several cars sped to a stop at the front door.

“Okay, that is the police, and they don’t know I am here.  Everyone be calm, lay face down on the floor, and let me handle this,” he ordered.  They did as he ordered, but Katie was in such shock that she found it hard to move her arms and legs. Tate laid his pistol on the ground, held his badge over his head and started announcing his presence.

“Agent Lanum Tate FBI! The area is secure, do not shoot!”   At that moment the front door burst open and three Deputy Sheriffs entered with their weapons drawn.  “On the ground!” they began yelling.  “Get on the ground now!”  Agent Tate complied while holding up his badge.  “I am an FBI agent and I have secured the area!” he repeated.  “Do not shoot!”

Realizing who he was, the deputies put their guns down, and came to his aid.  Pete came into the back door shortly afterwards with Carl close behind him.

“Carl!” Katie cried running to his arms with their children.  “They shot daddy,” she sobbed into his chest,  please don’t let him die!”  Carl’s eyes began to well up with tears of rage and relief. “It’s okay baby,” he whispered to her.  “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Carl looked up and saw Lanum.

“Agent Tate!” he exclaimed in shock. “How did you know…”

Tate smiled and shook his head.  “I didn’t know, but I suspected that someone might try something, so I drove out to have a look for myself. When I got here I found an empty patrol car so I headed for the house.  I got inside just in time to stop that one from killing your father-in-law,” he explained pointing to the first dead man.

Carl was at a loss for words.  “Thank you,” he fumbled.  “Thanks for saving my wife and children.”

Katie started to sob harder and squeezed Carl tightly.

—

A half hour later, the house was a full crime scene.  Pete had roped off the area, and had ushered the entire family to the safety of his SUV outside.   An ambulance had arrived as well and paramedics were busily tending to Carl’s father-in-law.   Carl sat quietly next to his family trying his best to calm them, and himself, down.  After what seemed like an hour, Sheriff Cameron walked over to the vehicle.

“Hey Carl, do mind if I have a couple of words with you in private?” he asked.

Carl paused and then nodded yes. “I will be right back,” he whispered to Katie.  “I promise you are safe here,” he assured her.  As soon as she released him he opened the door and stepped out.  Together Carl and Pete walked past the tape and back into the kitchen.

“Carl, we have run background checks on both of these men and I am very concerned,” Pete explained. Carl did not understand what Pete was telling him.  “Do you mean they have criminal records?” Carl asked not sure how to respond.

“No,” Pete responded. “That’s just it.  They don’t have any records.  Their driver’s licenses are fakes, their fingerprints trace to two entirely different people, and the van they were driving was stolen 3 days ago in Tulsa Oklahoma.”

Carl was dumfounded.  “So these guys don’t exist?  Is that what you are telling me?”

Pete paused trying to choose his words carefully.  “Carl, these guys are not your average criminals. Their van was loaded with gear, and they seem to have been planning this for quite a while. Everything I see here points to a professional job. “

Carl let Pete’s words soak in.  “You mean they were assassins or something?” he asked in disbelief.

“I don’t know who or what they are,” Pete responded, ”but if that FBI agent had not shown up in time, my  guess from the ropes and handcuffs in their van is that your family would be gone right now.”

Carl’s head was spinning once again.  “You mean they were going to kidnap them?” he pressed.

“That’s what it looks like to me.” Pete concluded.  “I think that someone who does not like what is happening over at your station wanted to send you a message, and they sent these guys to do it.”

“That is what I think as well,” Lanum responded as he walked up behind them.  “I think that this is the same group that vandalized your station and sent your manager to the hospital.”

Carl turned to face Lanum.  “So who are they?” he asked again. “Who is trying to hurt my family?”

“I am not exactly sure just yet,” Lanum continued, “but I believe that the same group that sent those protesters to your camp earlier this afternoon sent these guys to your house.”

Pete nodded his head. “Makes sense to me,” he agreed. “But who?”

“Well, I am not sure, but one of my folks at the agency did a little online research this evening,  and called me just before I came out here.  He told me that several pictures of the protest buses popped up on a far-left website the Bureau has been tracking.  In the text below the pictures it noted that the fight was going to “get very ugly tonight.”

Carl did not see the connection.  “So what?” he asked.  So one of the protesters took some pictures while they were at the camp, and decided to lash out a bit on their web site after we sent them packing.  I don’t see the connection with what happened here.”

Lanum paused again.  “The pictures were of the buses leaving, so the person that took them was still in your camp.  It might have even been one of these guys for all we know.

Carl paused.  It was starting to make sense now.  Someone had put operatives in the camp and they were the ones causing the trouble. “What is the name of the site?” Carl asked Lanum.

“It is a group called the Agents for Social Justice or ASJ. They are nobodies, but they appear to have links to many more prominent organizations including LeadOn.org.

Carl could not believe his ears. “You mean LeadOn.org is trying to kill or kidnap my family?”

Lanum continued ignoring Carl’s question.  “When we find out who in that camp took those pictures, we will know who did this to your family.”

—

A pickup truck had been parked quietly near the edge of the Lamonte place for about an hour.  The driver had been watching the events of the evening unfold at a safe distance. He was angry.  This was the second time his plan had failed. Now he was going to have to take matters into his own hands.  With his lights off, he pulled away slowly being careful not to be detected.  As he drove off he picked up his cell and made a call.

“We didn’t do it,” he said looking into his rear view mirror.  “Those amateurs screwed it up big time. I am going back to camp before folks realize I am missing. Tomorrow I plan on finishing things myself.”

The driver hung up his phone, tossed it onto the passenger seat, and reached into his boot top for a cigar.

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The Example (Part V)

The next few hours were a blur for Carl.  Between the police, firemen, investigators, and news reporters he did not know which way was up.  Questions poured in from so many directions, he could not keep track of who he was talking to.  Finally, at about 6 a.m. the last fire truck pulled away from what was left of his station.  The morning sun was just starting to peek across the prairie, and hazy ribbons of light were casting a golden hue across the truck stop.   To Carl, it looked like nothing less than a war zone.  The business that he had worked and toiled his whole life to build was practically in ruins.  As Carl surveyed the damage he pulled in a deep breath of cool morning air.  The store front was still partially splattered with paint, his new diesel island was a smoking ruin, and his station manager Marcus was in the hospital burned from head to toe.  Perhaps he was even dead by now.

Carl felt a wave of helplessness wash over him.  He had never wanted any of this. For the first time since the whole mess had started, Carl felt as if he was about to snap.  Tears welled in his eyes so heavily that he had to brush them away with his flannel shirt sleeve. He kept seeing Marcus’ burned face in his mind. What if it had been him? Had he stayed at the station that evening instead of coming home, he would have been the one in intensive care…not Marcus.

At that moment Carl felt compelled to do something that he had not done in years. Looking around to make sure he was alone, Carl sat down on a curb by the burned out pumps, bowed his head, and said a prayer.  The words came to him slowly at first but the more he prayed, the more the words began to gush from his heart.  First he prayed for Marcus, and then he prayed for the safety of Katie and the kids.   Tears began to stream down his face as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut.  “Dear God, if I am the one responsible for this mess, forgive me,” he said out loud.  “If I am not, please give me the wisdom not to make it worse,” he concluded.

Carl looked up into the morning sun now blurred by his tears.  All of a sudden he noticed a figure standing in front of him.

“Hey, are you Carl Lamonte?” the figure inquired.

Carl jumped up and wiped his eyes on his sleeve, feeling simultaneously embarrassed and relieved.

“That’s what they call me,” Carl responded clearing his throat.  “How can I help you?”

As he spoke, his vision cleared.  The man in front of him was wearing a dusty Stetson cowboy hat. He was a big fellow with a meticulously waxed grey mustache, and he had what looked like a Marlin 30-30 leaver action rifle across his shoulder.   The sight of the gun threw Carl off for a moment, but the Cheshire cat smile on the man’s face threw him off even more.

“Well I’ll be damned!” the stranger exclaimed at the top of his voice as he reached out with his free hand.

Carl extended his hand and the man grabbed it tightly pumping it up and down in the air.  As he shook Carl’s hand he looked over his shoulder to a pickup truck full of men.

“Hey boys, I told you this was him!” he yelled pumping Carl’s hand even harder.

Carl was confused, and still somewhat concerned about the rifle on the man’s shoulder.

“May I have the pleasure of knowing who is trying to break my arm?” Carl quipped.

“Oh hell,” the man exclaimed turning his attention back to Carl.  “I’m sorry son, I just got carried away when I saw you sittin’ over here havin’ a conversation with the good Lord. My name is Billy T. Winslow, but all my friends call me Shorty.”

Carl caught his breath and managed a smile.  “You look pretty tall to be named Shorty,” he replied not really knowing what else to say.

“Well, I didn’t say it was a good name!” the man replied with a chuckle.

“So what can I do for you Mr. Winslow?” Carl continued.

“Call me Shorty please,” Carl’s new acquaintance boomed. “Me and my boys are here for your little barbeque.”

Carl was confused.  “Well the barbeque isn’t for another week and a half,” he noted.

“Yeah I know,” Shorty shot back. “We just figured we would get here before the rush.”

“The rush?” Carl asked somewhat amused.

“Yeah buddy,” Shorty responded without hesitation. “The way I see it, things are going to start filling up quick around here, and we wanted to be right up front when the fun starts….now where can we pitch a few tents?”

Carl paused, soaking in the conversation.

“Well I’m not so sure you and your boys want to stay here right now. Things have been pretty crazy lately.”

Shorty’s grin appeared once again as he slapped Carl on his shoulder.

“Well why the hell do you think we’re here?” Shorty chuckled.  “We drove all the way from El Paso last night after we saw you on the news.  Now, why don’t we just set our camp over by the access road across the street?”

Carl did not know what to say.

“So what is the gun for Shorty?” he asked.

Shorty dropped the gun off his shoulder and looked it over.

“Oh, this lil’ pea shooter?  We just figured we would pass the time plinkin’ at tin cans and such waiting on the barbeque to start,” he explained.

Carl was feeling a bit overwhelmed. “So you drove all the way from El Paso just to come to my barbeque and plink at tin cans?” he pressed.

“You got it partner!” Shorty confirmed with another friendly slap on the shoulder.   Carl looked back at the truck full of cowboy hats.  “Well, the station is closed, so I am afraid you guys will be on your own,” he warned.

Shorty let out another chuckle. “Son, I’ve been pissin’ in prairie dog holes since I was two years old….Now you just go about your business and we will be just fine.”

Carl was at a loss for an argument.  “Well that’s county land over there, so I can’t be responsible if the Sheriff comes out and runs you off, but until that happens  you are welcome to use the station restrooms and showers around back.”

Shorty’s grin beamed even wider. “Well, that’s right neighborly of you son!” he exclaimed. “But I think we will be fine just as we come.”  With that Shorty spun around on his boot heals and headed back for the pickup truck. After about three steps, he turned around again.

“I forgot one thing ole’ buddy,” Shorty hollered back.

“What is that?” Carl responded curiously.

“Thank you!”

Carl found himself confused once again.  It was a feeling that he was getting used to.  “Thanks for what?” Carl inquired.

Shorty walked back to where Carl was standing, his big smile now gone.

“Thank you for remindin’ us just who the hell we are,” Shorty replied looking Carl directly in his eyes. “Thank you for reminding us that we are Texans!”

With that, Shorty returned to his truck, hopped in, and drove his crew across  the access road. Carl watched them for a few minutes as they unloaded tents, coolers, and more rifles.  Before long they had set camp and were boiling what looked like a pot of coffee.

Carl went back inside his station. He needed to call the hospital to check on Marcus and then check in with Katie.  After a few minutes he was able to reach the head nurse at the emergency room. She was polite but clearly busy.  According to her, Marcus was alive but still in shock.  They were treating his burns and other injuries but the jury was still out as to whether or not he would make it through the night. Carl then talked to Marcus’ wife Rosalinda, and assured her that he would do everything he could to find out who had done this to her husband.  Rosalinda did not speak much English, but he could hear the overwhelming pain and sorrow in her voice.   Marcus was in a bad way for sure. If he lived, he was going to have to go through months of painful skin grafts on his face and arms. According to the doctor, he may also have suffered severe brain damage from the beating he took.  Carl hung up the phone, sat down in his desk chair, and rocked back rubbing his eyes.  He could only imagine how much Marcus’ medical bills would be.  Perhaps he would find a way to help. Maybe he could get back on the news and ask for donations.  Carl closed his eyes, exhaled, and slipped into a sorely needed sleep.

Around noon, he was jolted awake by a banging on the quick store’s front door.  He looked around the corner of his office door and saw Katie outside.  Carl jumped up from his chair rubbing his face and unlocked the bolt.

“Hey sweetie,” Katie chirped as she kissed him on the cheek.

“Hey,” Carl replied still groggy.

“Well…I brought you some sandwiches for lunch, but from the looks of things outside, you aren’t going to need them,” she replied gesturing over her shoulder with her thumb. “It looks like dinner is already cooking!”

Carl figured that she was talking about Shorty’s group.

“Oh that’s just five or six cowboys from El Paso that came down to see the show,” he explained.

Katie gave him a weird look. “Five or six? You really didn’t do well in math did you?”

With that, Carl stepped out of the station and looked across the access road.  In the few hours that he had been asleep, things had changed fairly significantly.  Scanning the prairie Carl could count no fewer than about 30 tents.  People were all over the place, fires were burning, music was playing, and it even appeared that one group had a horse shoe match going.  As he watched, three more trucks pulled up and about 15 men in cowboy hats jumped out with bed rolls, rifles, and coolers.

“What did you do to get all these folks here?” Katie asked in astonishment.

Carl had to think a moment for the answer to come to him. “Well, I reckon I prayed,” he confessed under his breath.  Katie did not bat an eye. “See what a little churching can do?’ she admonished.  “Aren’t you glad I didn’t let you stay at home and watch the Cowboys every Sunday?”

Carl was lost for words.  In just a little over four hours, the prairie had swelled from 5 cowboys to about 40.  As he stood with Katie surveying the growing crowd, two young men crossed the access road with what looked like a big platter.  As they came closer, he recognized them as two of Shorty’s crew.

“Mr. Lamonte?”

“That’s me,” Carl responded.

“Uncle Shorty said for us to bring you some lunch,” one of the men said extending a foil covered tray.

Carl shook his head. “Well that’s not necessary…”

“Please tell your Uncle Shorty we are much obliged!” Katie cut in taking the tray.

The men smiled, tipped their hats, and headed back for their camp.

Carl gave Katie an irritated look. “Honey I don’t even know those fellah’s…”

Once again Katie cut him off. “Carl baby, I love you but sometimes I wonder what you are thinking.  Look across the street.  Just since we’ve been standing here another five truck loads of people have pulled in. I don’t claim to fully understand what is going on here, but one thing seems pretty clear.”

“What’s that?” Carl sighed.

“They are here for us, and we need to be thankful, “Katie admonished.  “Now you be neighborly, because they may be the only friends we have in a few days.” Katie lifted the tin foil, pulled out a spare rib, and took a small bite.  “Oh, this is tasty,” she exclaimed licking the tips of her fingers.  “No one barbeques like a Texan!”

—

With each passing day, the crowd across from the station continued to grow.   By the end of the week, Carl could count about 300 tents and twice as many people.  Shorty had also proven to be a natural leader.  Each morning he would send his boys out to meet with the new arrivals, get their names, and make a list of any weapons and ammunition they had brought with them.  He also started separating the prairie into sections.  The area by the access road and highway was reserved for cars and tents, while larger campers and RVs were sent to the rear. Carl had made his showers available and set up several hoses for water but, with his station in the condition it was, he had little else to offer.  Friday afternoon, to Carl’s surprise, five flatbed trucks pulled up fully loaded with green portable toilets.  A half a dozen men jumped out and, without even asking, started lining them up along the side of the street.  As the last john was being lowered to the ground, an older man in overalls walked over to Carl and shook his hand.

“Hope you don’t mind a few out houses on the road,” he said gesturing over his shoulder.

Carl had been concerned about facilities for the growing crowd and was, in fact, grateful.

“Not at all, thank you very kindly,” he responded.

“I am happy to help,” the man continued.  “I got a 60 day notice just like everyone else in this state, so I figured I would do my part to help out.  I will send a truck by every day to clean them up.”

As word of the amassing crowd spread, businesses around the area started pouring out their support.  Local donut shops brought pastries and coffee, restaurant owners showed up with trays of sandwiches, and a garbage removal company dropped off about twenty large  dumpsters.  A San Antonio radio station even donated a portable stage and PA system for Shorty (now the de facto camp boss) to make his morning announcements from.   Carl had never in his life seen such an outpouring of community support, and as the crowds grew to well over a thousand people, the goods kept pouring in.

News trucks were also arriving in droves.  Fox News, CBS, NBC, ABC, and CNN had set up large media enclaves and were reporting live from the site daily.   Their correspondents would stroll through the crowd, interview campers, and give live reports almost hourly.  Carl was amazed as he listened to the interviews.  It seemed as if Shorty had even handed out talking points.  Without exception, everyone interviewed would simply state that they were there for the barbeque, and to show their support for Texas.

To Carl, the atmosphere almost seemed festive.  Texas state flags and American flags flew from just about every tent, country music thumped endlessly through the air, and the popping of fire arms could be heard off in the distance as campers set up skeet shoots and target competitions.  Folks were getting along, working together, and generally having a pretty damn good time.   It was the most amazing and humbling thing that he had ever witnessed.

Since the fire, Lanum had arranged for a Sheriff’s car to be posted at Carl’s home 24/7, so Carl had been spending most of his evenings at the station.  He did not want to involve his children in the madness, so he and Katie had agreed that they would stay at the ranch until things had died down.   Carl set up a cot in his office at the quick store and spent most of his days giving interviews, talking to Shorty and other campers, and doing what he could to help out.  He still had no idea how things were going to unfold, but when he looked out across the growing sea of tents and campers, it was clear that things had become much bigger than just him.

Late Tuesday afternoon Carl was sitting by his old RC Cola machine resting, when a group of CNN workers pulled up in a large truck and started unloading cameras, generators, lighting, and cables. The reporters that Carl been accustomed to seeing would usually have nothing more than a single shoulder camera and light, so all the activity piqued his interest.  Within an hour, the crew had set up a string of cameras and lights up and down the access road.  At about 6 p.m. a man in a headset appeared and motioned for the cameramen to start filming.  It was at that very second that a line of large buses appeared in the distance. As they approached the station, Carl could tell that they were different.  As they drove between the station and the camp, Carl could see that they had large images of Texas with red slashes through them painted on their sides.  As the buses drove by a voice on a PA began to chant, “Texans are Traitors!”

Everything came to a complete halt across the prairie, and hundreds watched in silence as the buses drove past, not sure just what they were seeing.  The buses pulled into the overnight lot of the station and before Carl could get to them, dozens of people started pouring out.  They were holding anti-Texas signs, peace signs, and upside down American flags.  Carl stopped and watched in shock as over two hundred angry protesters amassed on his property, chanting, shouting profanity, and pumping their fists in the air.   Almost, as if rehearsed, they formed up in rows and marched out toward the access road right in front of the news cameras.  Carl looked back across the street toward the camp and saw something that sent a cold chill down his spine; it was the shape of a thousand people moving en masse toward the street.   Carl shivered; someone had set this up with the media and they were counting on a fight.  How else would the CNN guys have known exactly when to arrive?  As he watched the tide of people moving toward the protesters, he could see Shorty stepping onto the stage.

“Everybody calm down!” Shorty yelled into the microphone.  “This is nothin’ but a trick to try and get us kicked outta here!” he continued.  Some folks turned and started to listen, but hundreds still headed for the street.  Shorty continued undaunted.  “Lay one finger on those losers and this whole thing is over!  If we do not hold the high ground we will lose this battle!”

Carl’s mind was racing, someone had to do something quick or there was going to be a full scale riot. All of a sudden he had an idea. He dashed into his office and grabbed a furled up Texas state flag that he kept for special occasions.  Running outside, he crossed the street waving it over his head. “Grab your flags and line the road!” he yelled at the top of his voice.  “Grab your flags!”

Shorty could see what Carl was doing, so he grabbed a Texas flag off of the stage and started waving it over his head as well. “Grab your flags!” he yelled into the microphone.  “Let’s remind these folks just where they are!”  Shorty’s sons came up to the stage and started waving flags as well.  “Line the street with your flags!” Shorty’s voice boomed over and over from the PA.

As Carl stood on the street with his flag he could see the crowd start to reverse its advance.  All of a sudden he saw flags coming down from tents, RVs, and pickup trucks all across the massive camp.  By the hundreds, people started lining up next to Carl and cheering.  In what seemed like just a few seconds hundreds of  flags appeared up and down both sides of the street. Those without flags took off their shirts and waved them over their heads cheering wildly.

The protesters were clearly shaken, and about a quarter of them ran back to the safety of their buses.  The rest however, started marching down the street screaming, cussing, and spitting at those who had lined up on the roadside.

As the protesters neared, Carl heard a man next to him singing God Bless America under his breath. Carl could not help but join in. “Stand beside her and guide her…” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.  Almost simultaneously another 50 people joined in raising their voices in unison.  Shorty heard the singing and joined in on the PA.  Soon the song rang out on both sides of the road completely drowning out the shouts from the protesters.

“Keep singing!” Shorty bellowed into the microphone.  “Show the world that no one messes with Texas!”

As Carl sang he felt tears welling up in his eyes for the second time in a week. This time however, it was because he was proud.  Not only was he proud to be a Texan, he was proud to be an American.   This was not a fight for Texas; it was a fight for the America that he had loved so dearly his entire life. He was fighting for the America that had allowed him to build a thriving truck stop from nothing but an old gas station with a rebuilt RC Cola machine.  He was fighting for the country that had sent waves of Marines up the beach at Iwo Jima, put a man on the moon, invented baseball, and defeated the Soviet empire.   Many on the news had referred to the crisis as the “New Civil War,” but in Carl’s mind it was a rescue operation.

At that moment, Carl was snapped out of his thoughts by a deafening cheer.  He looked down the street toward the protesters. Apparently they had reconsidered their plan, and were in the process of making a hasty retreat to their buses.   As they retreated, a cry rose up across the prairie.

“Texas…Texas….Texas!”

The chant boomed like thunder across the open plains, and seemed to shake the very ground on which Carl was standing.  He watched as the buses pulled back onto the road and drove through the crowd past rows of flags and raised cowboy hats.  The noise was so deafening, Carl could not even hear the bus engines as they drove by.  As the protesters disappeared toward the interstate, another cheer arose from the crowd.  This time it was one of victory.

—

Deputy Motter took a sip from his coffee and cringed. It was cold and bitter, and so was he.  This was the third night in a row that he had been assigned to sit out in front of the Lamonte ranch and make sure no one tried to vandalize it.  This was what was known in the business as crap duty.   He had listened to the radio intently as every Sheriff within a hundred miles had sped to the Fill & Fuel to stop a riot.  He had then listened in amazement when the units arrived only to find a bunch of  cowboys singing the national anthem and waving flags.  The fact that he had not been there really pissed Motter off. It was just not fair that he had been given babysitting duty while the rest of the state was making world news.

Motter glanced toward the house and made his hourly report on the radio.  “This is unit 23, all quiet at the Lamonte ranch,” he droned into the handset.  Dropping the microphone back into its holder, Motter opened his car door and stepped out to stretch his legs.  The evening was uncharacteristically cool for summer, and it made Motter want a warm cup of coffee even more.  He picked up his binoculars and scanned the pastures around the ranch house.  From his vantage, all appeared to be normal.   Motter let out a sigh and looked at his watch.  His relief would not be there for another 5 hours.

At that moment a twig snapped somewhere behind him. Deputy Motter turned around to find two eyes staring at him through a black stocking mask. Before he could reach for his gun, the cold steel of a crowbar came crashing down on his head sending him to the ground.  Motter struggled to get back to his feet. The pain was unbearable, and he could feel blood running down his neck.   He got to his knees and tried to reach for his gun again, but for some reason his hands were not working correctly.  He never felt the second blow.

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Old Glory

I am the Flag of the United States of America. My name is Old Glory.

I fly atop the world’s tallest buildings I stand watch in America’s halls of justice.

I fly majestically over great institutions of learning.

I stand guard with the greatest military power in the World.

Look up and see Me!

I stand for Peace, Honor, Truth, and Justice.

I stand for Freedom!

I am confident, I am arrogant, and I am proud.

When I am flown with my fellow banners, my head is held a little higher – my colors are a little truer.

I BOW TO NO ONE!

I am recognized all over the world.

I am saluted, I am respected, I am loved, and I am feared!

For more than 200 years, I have fought in every battle of every war;

Antietam, Gettysburg, Shiloh, Appomattox, San Juan Hill, the trenches of France, the Argonne Forest, Anzio, Rome, the beaches of Normandy,

the jungles of Guam, Okinawa, Tarawa, Korea, Vietnam and in the heat of the Persian Gulf.

I was there.

I lead my Sailors and Marines ashore,

I watch over them and they love me.

I was on a small hill at Iwo Jima.

I was dirty, battle torn, and tired but my Sailors and Marines cheered me!

I WAS PROUD!

I have been soiled, burned, torn, and trampled on the streets of countries that I have helped to set free.

It does not Hurt for I am invincible.

I have also been soiled, burned, torn, and trampled on the streets of my own country,

And when it is done by those with whom I have served in battle, it hurts!

But I shall overcome because…

I am strong!

I have slipped the surly bounds of earth and, from my vantage point on the moon,

I stand watch over the new frontiers of space.

I have been the silent witness to all of America’s finest hours.

But my finest hour comes when I am torn into strips,

To be used as bandages for my wounded comrades on the field of battle,

When I fly half mast to honor my dead countrymen,

And when I lie in the trembling arms of a grieving mother at the graveside of her fallen son or daughter.

I am proud!

My Name is “Old Glory”  and long may I wave dear God – Long may I wave.

On this Veteran’s Day, Head Muscle would like to thank all Americans who have bravely donned the cloth of our nation.

Your sacrifice is remembered. God bless and Godspeed!

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The Example (Part III)

Carl was jolted awake at 4:30 a.m. by a loud ringing sound.  He had been lost in a deep dreamless sleep, and the abrupt ringing had startled and disoriented him.  After slapping the top of the alarm clock two or three times, he realized that he was hearing the classic ringer on his cell phone.  It was a special ring tone that he used for his station manager Marcus Ramirez.  Marcus had been with Carl for about 15 years, and was simply the best station manager in the business.  He was honest, great with the customers, and the most reliable and conscientious employee Carl had ever hired.   Most importantly however, Marcus did not bother Carl with the small stuff. He ran the station, did the hiring and firing, made sure the numbers balanced, and even placed fuel orders when Carl could not.

The fact that Marcus was calling at 4:30 in the morning clearly meant that something was dreadfully wrong at the station.  Carl jumped out of bed, grabbed his jeans from the floor, and fished his phone out of the pocket.

“Marcus is that you?”

“Yes sir, it’s me alright,” Marcus responded.  “I am very sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but you need to come to the station right away.”

“What’s wrong?” Carl demanded.

“Mr. Lamonte, you just need to get down here as quickly as possible,” Marcus persisted.

“Okay,” Carl conceded, “I will be there in 10 minutes.”

Carl closed his phone and tugged his jeans on. In the 15 years that Marcus had worked for him, he had never heard him so shaken. Carl grabbed a clean shirt from his closet, jumped into his truck, and peeled out down his gravel driveway. His mind was racing. What on earth could have gotten Marcus so upset?  In what seemed like only a few seconds Carl was pulling into the station, and the first thing that he saw took his breath away.  Someone had scrawled the word “traitor” in red paint across the windows of the quick store.  It had clearly been a rush job, and bright red paint was splattered everywhere.   As Carl pulled up to the store, Marcus stepped outside to meet him.

“They really hit us good Mr. Lamonte,” Marcus sighed.

As Carl looked at the red mess his blood began to boil. “Who the hell would do something like this?” he growled under his breath.

“That’s not all sir,” Marcus continued.  “They cut our pump lines too.”

Carl felt his heart skip a beat. He had been so fixated on the red paint, he had completely missed the pumps.  He spun around on his heels and looked at the closest diesel island.  Each of the pump hoses had been severed in two.

“I am going to have to order replacement hoses,” Marcus continued, “I don’t think we will get them for a day or two.”

Carl could take it no longer. He had kept his end of the deal and stayed silent much longer than he had wanted to. He was not going to stay silent any longer.  Carl stormed into his office, slammed the door and called the Governor’s office. Once again no one picked up the phone and Carl was passed to an automated attendant.

“You have reached the office of the Governor of Texas,” it droned. “We are unable to take your call at this moment. Please leave a short message and one of our staff will return your call at the earliest opportunity….”

Carl did not try to be polite.

“This is Carl Lamonte and I am tired of waiting for the Governor to return my calls,” he bellowed into the receiver. “I have done it your way for two weeks, and I am fed up! If you do not call me back today and tell me what you are planning to do to save my station, I am going public!”

Carl slammed the phone down. He was furious that he had trusted them, and knew that he should have seen this coming.  Carl felt a chill run down his spine.  With two weeks left before the 30 day deadline, he still had no plan and felt more alone than ever.  At that moment a familiar voice broke his thoughts.

“What’s all the ruckus about in here?  What you going public with Carl, a new brand of beef jerky?”

Carl turned around and saw one of his regular truckers standing at his office door.

“Hey there Clifford…sorry for the outburst,” Carl sighed.

“No worries buddy,” Clifford replied with a grin. “You were shaking the coffee pots out in the store so I wanted to bring you a cup before it all spilled.”

With that, Clifford extended a mug of hot black coffee Carl’s way.  Carl regained his composure, smiled, and took the cup thankfully. Clifford had been one of Carl’s first station regulars.  He was an independent owner operator and ran a coast-to-coast route between Jacksonville Florida and San Diego California.  San Antonio was a regular stopping point for him, and over the years he and Carl had become fast friends.  Clifford was from the “old school” of trucking when it was more of a lifestyle than a business.   He would often grumble about the “new guys” with their GPS units and corporate cell phones.  “There are a lot of truck drivers out there,” he would often tell Carl over a beer in the overnight lot, “but truckers are a dying breed.”

“So, if you don’t mind my nosin’ in, why were you calling the Governor’s office?” Clifford pressed.  “Are you trying to find out what they are going to do when everyone’s 60 day notice runs out?”

Carl was tired of holding it in. “I wish I had a 60 day notice,” he moaned. “They gave me a 30.”

Clifford’s jaw dropped in disbelief.  “You mean to tell me they only gave you 30 days?”

Carl nodded his head and told his friend about the notice, the slow rolling by the Governor’s office, and the FBI incident from the night before. As he told Cliff the story he felt a huge weight being lifted from his shoulders. Finally, someone else knew what he had been going through.

Cliff took it all in while sipping his coffee.  “So if no one knows…who did that to the front of your store?”

Carl clinched his jaw in frustration. “I only wish I knew.”

“Well someone sure as hell knows,” Cliff persisted, “and they clearly think you are a traitor.”

Carl could see the red paint from inside his office. “Well I am going to get some answers real fast,” he rumbled.

A moment of silence passed as both men sipped their coffee and pondered the predicament. After a few minutes Clifford spoke up. “Well…the way I figure it Carl, you are on your own.”

Carl looked down at his coffee, knowing in his heart that his friend was right.

“The way I see it,” Clifford continued, “the Governor’s office isn’t going to do a damn thing.”

“What do you mean?” Carl queried.

“Well think about it for crying out loud,” Clifford scolded.  “All the businesses in the state have received 60 day notices except for you…one little gas station. Doesn’t that seem kind of funny?”

“I suppose it does,” Carl conceded.

“You’re damn right it does,” Cliff continued. “Why on earth would they give a little independent truck stop in the Texas prairie a 30 day notice?”

Carl assumed the question was rhetorical and did not answer.

“You my friend are the test!” Cliff concluded.

Carl listened intently. “What kind of test am I exactly?”

“Well, my guess is that the Governor’s office does not know what the Feds are going to do, and the Feds have no idea what the Governor is going to do.  I mean, how on earth are the Feds going to foreclose on tens of thousands of Texas small businesses?  It would be political suicide and they know it.

“So why the heck am I getting the silent treatment?” Carl inquired.

Cliff continued undaunted. “Well think about it from the Governor’s perspective for a minute. What is he going to do, call out the Texas National Guard and have them stand in front of every store in the state? And even if he did, what would his marching orders be? Shoot any Fed who tries to park in the parking lot?  I mean, I love my state, but I just don’t see it.  So, they have set you up to settle the whole issue.”

“So I’m nothing but a big patsy, is that what you are telling me?”

“That’s the way I see it,” Cliff concluded. “All those 60 day notices mean absolutely nothing.  Nope…what matters is what happens right here.”

Carl’s head was spinning.  “So why did they do this to my station?”

Cliff leaned forward and looked Carl directly in the eye. “Ole buddy, whether you like it or not, there is a fight brewin’ and the first battle is going to take place right here at your station.  It is also a sad fact that, no matter which side wins, you’re going to be a casualty.”

Carl put his coffee down and took in Cliff’s words. He had suspected that this was the case, and hearing it from his friend only confirmed it. Once again he felt his anger beginning to rise.

“So what am I supposed to do Cliff, stand out front with my shotgun and let my kids watch me get shot down on television?” Carl blurted in frustration.

Clifford rocked back in his chair ignoring Carl’s comment. “I think we are going to have to solve this problem Texas style.”

Carl gave Cliff a sarcastic look. “What are we going to do, hold up in the Alamo? I seem to remember that not ending so well.”

Clifford rocked forward in his chair and stood up.  Carl could not help but notice the grin on his face.  Cliff walked over and slapped Carl on the back so hard that he almost dropped his coffee cup.

“No ole’ buddy,” Cliff beamed, “we are going to have ourselves a barbeque!”

Carl was dumbfounded.  “A what?” he asked trying to make sense of what he just heard.

Clifford was undeterred.  “I will handle the details. All you need to do is advertise.”

Carl was still lost. “What exactly do I advertise?”

Clifford looked at Carl with a big toothy grin. “Why the first annual Fill & Fuel secession barbeque of course!”

With that, Clifford let out a big belly laugh and headed out of the room.  “We got two weeks Carl, get the word out, and I’ll supply the rest!”

Carl put his coffee down on the desk. “A secession barbeque,” he repeated under his breath. He was not entirely sure what his buddy was up to but, knowing Cliff, it was going to be a wild ride.   Carl stared at the pile of unpaid bills on his desk.  The fact was, he had already wasted two weeks waiting on the Governor’s office to give him a plan.  He had done what they asked him to do and stayed quiet, but all it had gotten him was a vandalized station.  Carl had hoped that they would help him out, but it now seemed clear that Cliff was right. He was on his own.  Carl shrugged his shoulders in resignation.  “What the hell,” he said to himself.  “A barbeque sounds like the best idea I’ve heard yet.”

Carl stood up, grabbed his keys, and headed for his truck.  As he walked across the parking lot, he could see that Marcus was already busy cleaning the paint off of the front of the station.   “I am heading into town Marcus,” Carl called out without stopping.

Marcus hopped down his ladder and ran to catch up.  “I should have this clean in a few hours Mr. Lamonte,” he panted.

Carl turned to Marcus as he reached his truck.  “That’s good, thanks for taking care of the mess.”

Marcus gave Carl a hesitant smile and nodded his head nervously.  “I am worried,” he continued. “What if the people that did this come back tonight?  What are we going to do?”

Carl looked into Marcus’ worried eyes and smiled. “We, mi amigo, are going to have us a Texas barbeque!”

With that Carl hopped into his truck and peeled out. As he hit the highway entrance, he flipped his cell phone open and dialed information.  “Fox 29 News San Antonio,” he told the operator.  After a few rings he was greeted by a woman’s voice.

“Fox 29 news room, may I help you?”

“Yes ma’am, this is Carl Lamonte owner of the Fill & Fuel Truck Stop.  I will be there in 20 minutes with your leading story for this evening’s news…”

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Rivers of Progress

At the confluence of the great Shenandoah and Potomac rivers there is a place that rests in the arms of history. Nestled quietly in a forest of silver maple and box elder, Harpers Ferry stands as a monument to the ambitions, dreams, and determination of a young nation. Surrounded by rushing water and rolling hills of hardwood, it is lost in a different time. It was a time when Americans were busy carving a trail through a new and uncharted land; a time when our nation’s destiny, though uncertain, held great promise.  Standing on a large stone overlooking the area in 1783 Thomas Jefferson noted:

“On your right comes up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the foot of a mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. On your left lies the Potomac in quest of a passage also. In the moment of their junction, they rush together against the mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea…this scene is worth a voyage across the Atlantic.”

Though his description paints a beautiful picture for the mind’s eye, Thomas Jefferson saw one thing when he looked across the hillsides to the waters below – progress. Locked in the racing water of these two great rivers he saw the power necessary to build and prosper a nation.  Soon after in 1785 George Washington, then president of the Patowmac Company, advocated the area’s industrial potential and proposed it as the site for a new federal armory and arsenal.  Harpers Ferry, which had started off as little more than a river crossing for travelers, was on its way to greatness.

The Rock On Which Thomas Jefferson First Stood To Survey The Area

View Today From Jefferson Rock

In 1799 construction of the arsenal began, and Harpers Ferry became one of only two locations in the country to host, what was at the time, such a ‘high-tech’ industry. Soon, with the success of the arsenal, other industries began to flood into the area. Cotton mills, grain mills, pulp mills, stores, supply depots, and construction companies moved in, staking their claims on the firmament of opportunity.

From 1801 to about 1861 Harpers Ferry became nothing less than an industrial boomtown. Its population swelled into the thousands, and it became one of our nation’s most promising industrial cities.  As its industry flourished, it also became known as a place of great innovation. It was at Harpers Ferry that Captain John Hall refined the art of rifle manufacturing into a science. Hall painstakingly designed machines and fabrication techniques so precise that, for the first time in history, rifles could be built with interchangeable parts. For years each rifle had been custom built by individual craftsmen, no two being exactly alike. Hall’s innovations in manufacturing revolutionized the industry, and made it possible for the US Army to take spare rifle parts into the battlefield for the first time.

In 1833 mass transportation came to Harpers Ferry. First, the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal arrived linking the Harpers Ferry with Washington City. It was a massive engineering effort consisting of miles of waterway, locks, and ports. It was, for all intents and purposes, our nation’s first super highway, and Harpers Ferry was its western most stop. Just a year later the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad came into town.  Demand for raw materials and goods were so high, Harpers Ferry was a logical stop along the B&O route. In just a few decades, Harpers Ferry found itself on the forefront of innovation, industry, and transportation. It was nothing less than a shining example of American ingenuity and progressive thinking.

The men and women who lived and worked there came from all corners of the earth. They were Danish, German, Italian, Irish, Polish, and Asian. Searching to create something better for themselves, they built stores, hotels, produce markets, machine shops, bakeries, and flower mills.  Many had come with nothing but, through their own sweat, built lives for themselves and their families upon these shores. Like the great rivers that surrounded them, they moved forward seeking a new vent for their lives, undaunted by the obstacles in their path.  These early progressives set out to carve a new home from the wilderness, and write a new tale of dignity, opportunity, and freedom for all the world to read.

Then the war came….

Its strategic position in the northern Shenandoah Valley, made Harpers Ferry a key objective for both the Union and the Confederacy. Over the course of the war, it changed hands between 8 and 13 times, the arsenal was burned to the ground, and the population dropped from over 3,000 to fewer than 100.  The most devastating battle took place in September 1863 when Stonewall Jackson placed artillery on the hills surrounding the town and systematically began to destroy it from above.  For three days the Union garrison there took a hellish bombardment from Confederate artillery.  The town was turned into rubble, bridges were cast into the rivers, and once busy factories were turned into morgues.  The Confederate artillery fire was so heavy; Colonel William H. Trimble of the 60th Ohio wrote that there was:

“Not a place where you could lay the palm of your hand and say it was safe.”

On the third day of relentless Confederate bombardment, 15 September, 12,000 demoralized Union troops surrendered to General Jackson in the largest mass surrender in US history.  Harpers Ferry had been devastated in the process.  In a twist of irony, the town that both armies had coveted so, lay in ruins.

Harpers Ferry was no stranger to irony however. When John Brown and his raiders came into town in 1859 to capture the armory and start a slave revolt, the very first person they killed was a gentleman named Heywood Shepherd – a free black man.  When Brown’s team of raiders laid siege to a small armory, President James Buchanan sent none other than Col Robert E. Lee with a detachment of US Marines to put an end to the insurrection. Brown would then be hung for treason against the United States in Virginia, a state that would soon commit the ultimate treason. Perhaps the most profound irony however, was that Harpers Ferry was ultimately destroyed by the very people who had once labored so hard to make it great.  The very people, who had once manned its factories, had also manned the artillery that laid it to waste. The very country that Harpers Ferry had helped to forge, first turned their guns on it, and then later their backs.

Factories In Ruins After War

After the war, Harpers Ferry was only a shell of what it once was. Though many tried to come back and rebuild their lives, a series of tragic floods destroyed everything again.   Additionally, the expansion of the railroad had brought once distant cities closer together, and had created new industrial centers that were far less susceptible to catastrophe. Soon, most of the remaining factories in Harpers Ferry closed their doors, packed up their equipment, and moved their dreams to higher ground.

FINAL THOUGHTS:

On a recent trip to Harpers Ferry National Park, I walked along the banks of the Shenandoah River past the overgrown remains of its once great factories. As I walked, I could not help but become overwhelmed with the history that laid in ruin around me. This place, Harpers Ferry, was much more than a river mill town. It was nothing less than the story of a nation and the people who had built it. In less than 100 years it had grown from a lonely ferry crossing in the northern Shenandoah Valley, to a prominent center of industry and innovation.  It had been envisioned by Jefferson and Washington, but built a stone at a time by real  American ‘progressives.’ They were people who yearned for a better way of life, and were willing to sacrifice everything to fulfill their dream. They asked for nothing, wanted no guarantees, and needed no social justice. They did not expect their government to provide them anything other than the freedom that they needed to live, work, and prosper.  They were progressives in the truest sense of the word. They built a nation from nothing, and changed the lives of every American for the better. Most importantly, they did not expect to consume the fruit of progress, until they had first labored to create it.

Remains Of Old Rail Bridge – First Destroyed By Confederates And Then Floods

Flood Gates Sit Dormant On Banks Of The Shenandoah River

Ruins of Water Powered Saw Mill

The Once Great C&O Canal

Dry Remains Of C&O Lock

As I pondered these ‘true progressives’ it hit me. Harpers Ferry may have died, but the rivers around it were still flowing, seeking a vent. When the town could no longer sustain the aspirations of its people, the river of progress simply diverted itself elsewhere – but it never stopped flowing.  The American progressive spirit that built Harpers Ferry was alive and well, moving out in all directions and building new cities upon the very same dreams.  This was able to happen because America, by its very nature, is progress.  Our founding fathers were the ultimate progressives. They had a vision of a new type of government; one that valued opportunity, freedom, and dignity over repression and subjugation. The very rivers that flowed through Harpers Ferry had flowed through them first, and they still seek their vent today in the hearts and minds of every American.

The 21st century finds our nation embroiled in yet another great battle.  Not with bullets and artillery, but rather with ideas and expectations. Never, since the great Civil War, has our nation been more divided on how we should progress. In the same ironic way Harpers Ferry was destroyed by those who built it, the modern day self-appointed ‘progressive’ is now threatening to destroy America. From health care to energy and banking, they are working to undermine the very might of our nation. In 2010, tried and true institutions created by true progressives such as free enterprise, individual freedom, self determination, and opportunity are under assault by notions of social justice, fairness, and entitlement. The foundations that not only built Harpers Ferry, but also built our nation are rapidly being eroded by a new river overflowing with antipathy. Those who currently, call themselves ‘progressives’ are nothing of the sort. They have no idea what it means to build a nation, but rather choose to focus their efforts on tearing down our greatness. In truth, it would be far more accurate to describe them as ‘regressives.’ Instead of moving our nation’s ideals forward and continuing to build on America’s firm banks, they dam the river of progress and then curse the flood. They can no more understand the currents that pushed Captain John Hall, anymore than he would be able to comprehend their twisted view of America.

I believe that our nation is at a crossroads in history, and that the decisions we make in the next two years will define who we are for generations to come. The forces that drive our country forward will always live in the human spirit, and will flourish wherever they are given purchase. If we do not allow them to flow, they will most assuredly seek another place to vent. And just like Harpers Ferry, we will find ourselves quietly nestled between the silver maple and box elder – a nation that was once great.

Harpers Ferry Shenandoah Street Frozen In Time

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Obama Mandates Blanks For Military Weapons

Head Muscle Press (11 April, 2010) – This past week Obama has dramatically reshaped America’s security policy by pledging to reduce our nuclear arsenal by thirty percent, and promising our adversaries that we would not use nukes on them, even if they attacked with chemical or biological weapons.  Though the President has received harsh criticism for these moves, it would seem that he is only just beginning.   In a surprise announcement early this morning, a White House spokesperson told stunned reporters that military units deploying to Iraq and Afghanistan will be issued blank cartridges for their weapons. “We have studied this very closely,” the spokesperson announced, “and we have determined that the leading cause of enemy fatalities on the battlefield, is US inflicted gunshot wounds.  The President feels that this cannot continue, and that we must take immediate steps to reduce these tragic combat-related enemy casualties.”  According to the President’s plan, military units will begin deploying into the theater with blank cartridges by late this summer.  These units will be deployed to areas where fighting has been heaviest over the past year, and coincidentally where the most enemy gunshot fatalities have been recorded.  “Obama believes that, by focusing in these areas, we should see and immediate and substantial increase in enemy survival rates during combat operations,” the spokesperson noted. “The President’s revolutionary new approach should put a stop to combat related enemy casualties once and for all.” Some military analysts are already projecting that, under Obama’s plan,  America is on track to reach French levels of wartime non-lethality by 2012.

Our source then invited us to a desert shooting range, to observe a group of troops already training in this new type of non-combat.  While at the range, our source also agreed to a short interview. Transcript follows:

(Shooting in the background)

HM: (yelling) Thank you so much for the opportunity to come out to observe this new training. Can you tell me exactly what is going on?

Source: (yelling back) Sure, it is really quite simple.  Each person you see shooting has their magazines loaded with the new round, and they are familiarizing themselves its operational capabilities.

HM: So are they all firing blank cartridges?

Source: Please! Obama would never send our troops into combat with “blanks!”  How absurd!  They are actually Projectile Deficient Simulated Rounds, or PDSRs as we call them.

HM: (pausing) So, what exactly are they shooting…at?

Source: Well, if you look downrange, you will see a number of hostile pop-up targets appear.  When the Soldier sees the target, he fires his new PDSR equipped weapon at it.

HM: (confused) But there are no bullets to hit the targets with?  What’s the point?

Source: (rolling eyes) Well – obviously – the point is not to kill them! Were you not listening at the press conference?

HM: Yes, but I’m still not sure that I get it. All these new rounds do is make noise.

Source: (exhaling heavily) Well, Obama believes that if we can make enough noise, over time, our enemies will see the futility of their resistance and just…well…give up.

HM: That sure sounds like a crazy plan to me.

Source: It worked for the health care bill didn’t it?

HM: Oh…good point.  So how long before everyone in-theater is shooting the new blanks…I mean PDSRs?

Source: Well a logistical movement of this magnitude will take time.  We have millions of conventional rounds which will have to be used up first. But the good news is, we’ve come up with a couple of contingency plans to minimize enemy casualties in the meantime.

HM: Oh really? Can you tell us about them?

Source: Well first, Central Command has issued a directive to all combat units that, when engaging in combat, they are to miss their enemies when firing on them.

HM: Miss their enemies?

Source: Yeah, I mean, they shoot and everything.. just not at the people shooting at them.  We are suggesting that they pick a pretty cloud or a sand dune, and shoot at them if possible.  It’s a pretty good interim plan, but not foolproof.

HM: Why not?

Source: Well, for 8 full years, the Bush administration had a policy of training our Soldiers and Marines to kill our enemies. Obama really inherited a mess in that respect.  It is going to take him some time to fix things.

HM: So you are concerned that until the new PDSRs arrive, some enemy casualties are inevitable even with the “mandatory miss” order?

Source: Regrettably so but, if it becomes a real problem, Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid have come up with a plan to deal with that as well.

HM: Oh really? What is it?

Source: Well…this is technically top secret, but…..oh what the heck.  If enemy killing gets too rampant, we have a plan to deploy a US led UN Security contingent to protect them from our US forces.

HM: (baffled) What? You mean a US led force would actually protect our enemies from other US forces?

Source: Why of course! Obama would never allow US troops to be led by a foreign UN commander? Do you think he’s a nut or something?

HM: So we could actually see a scenario where US forces are fighting each other to protect our enemies?

Source: Yep. What a powerful way for Obama to show the world his commitment to ending the war!  It really makes me well up with pride….

HM: (in disbelief) Well it’s a “change”…that’s for sure.

Source: Well I have to run. We are testing Obama’s new hand grenade design today.

HM: (encouraged) Oh, so our troops will still have hand grenades?

Source: Well kind of…these new grenades are a little different though.

HM: How so?

Source: Well for one thing – they’re chocolate.

HM: (shocked) Chocolate?

Source: Yes, but only a mild milk chocolate. The terrorists don’t seem to digest the dark stuff to easily. They get….well….the poopies.

HM: So we are going to throw chocolate grenades at our enemies?

Source: Yeah, but that solid chocolate can leave quite a welt if it hits one of them on the head.  I think that we may end up having to fill them with fluffy nougat to soften the impact.  It will make them lower fat as well…

With that our source departed for the an undisclosed proving ground to observe the new chocolate grenade test.  At the end of the day, it seems as if Obama has mandated a fundamental change to the way our forces will fight…or not fight during combat.  Though unprecedented, it seems very much in line with his self-imposed nuclear restrictions, stockpile reductions, and passive acceptance of Iran’s nuclear ambitions.  Whether or not his new policies will actually work, will undoubtedly be a subject of considerable debate over the next several months. One thing seems certain however, thanks to Obama, the US will be firing blanks on the world stage for some time to come.

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The Man Who Saved Washington

The war was not going especially well for Lewis “Lew” Wallace.  Early on, he had established himself as a competent commander while serving under Ulysses S. Grant, and was widely regarded as a “rising star” in the Union Army.  As a Brigadier General, he performed superbly at the battle for Ft Henry, but it was at the siege of Ft Donelson that he really began to break out of the pack.  On 15 February 1862, the Confederates at Ft Donelson staged a surprise attack on the surrounding Union Army, sending it into disarray.   Seeing that  Brig Gen John McClemand’s forces were taking a beating by the Confederates,  Lewis took the initiative and moved his brigade up to reinforce the center of the Union line, eventually repelling the attack.  Lew’s battlefield savvy was the talk of the Army that evening, and soon afterward Grant promoted him to Major General.  He was clearly on track for greatness…until Shiloh.

Having been overrun by the Confederate Army, Grant called for Wallace’s  Division to come up and reinforce the front.  Receiving the order, Lew moved his forces immediately.  Grant had not been specific about the route to take however, and Wallace had a choice of two roads.  The first road was worn and  rutted while the other was relatively smooth.  Wallace choose the nicer of the two roads thinking it would get him to the right position.  Unfortunately, he was wrong.   By the time his division had made it to the front, the Union had been beaten back so badly that he actually found himself in the rear of the attacking Confederate troops.  Rather than seize the opportunity and attack from the rear, Lew decided to march his division back to where they had started and take the correct road. When he  finally joined up with Grant it was nearly 7pm and the fighting was all but over for the day. Grant was furious.  The next day, Wallace fought bravely and ultimately helped the Union win the battle, but the damage to his reputation was done.  When people began to hear of the horrible casualties at Shiloh, Grant needed a scapegoat and Wallace’s blunder was still fresh in his mind.   Grant laid the blame squarely in Wallace’s lap, removed him from command, and reassigned him,  in disgrace, to first defend Cincinnati and then to run the garrison at Baltimore.  The Union Army’s brightest star had fallen from the sky almost as quickly as he had risen. He had disgraced his name, his family, and his country.  Major General Lew Wallace was finished; a casualty of wartime politics.

As bad as things were going for Wallace in the summer of 1864, they were going much worse for Robert E. Lee.  His once unstoppable army was now in tatters, and besieged by Union forces in Petersburg, VA.   Grant had adopted a much different strategy than his predecessors, and had pursued Lee relentlessly giving his army little time to rest or resupply.   They were now pinned down in Petersburg incapable of going toe to toe with Grant’s vastly superior numbers.  Lee was desperate for relief.  He needed time to rest, resupply, and relocate his army.  Lee  knew that if he did not take action soon, the war would be lost.  So, he came up with a daring plan to do the only thing he knew how to do – attack.

Lee’s plan was to send Lt General Jubal Early up through the Shenandoah Valley with a Corps of 15,000 men.  He would cross into Maryland near Fredrick, and make his way down the Georgetown Pike to Washington.  In order to pursue Lee’s army, Grant had called just about every available unit from Washington leaving the capital practically undefended.  If  Jubal could maintain the element of surprise, he would be able to take Washington and force Grant to withdraw his forces from Virgina.  Perhaps, Lincoln could even be persuaded to accept a negotiated peace as ransom.   It was a brilliant plan, but Lee understood the risks well.  On one occasion he confided to  his generals:

“If we are successful, we have everything to fight for. If we fail, there will be nothing left to fight for.”

So Jubal Early headed north through the Shenandoah Valley with his infantry, for one last glorious battle.  He was Lee’s most capable general and he did not plan on failing. The road was wide open all the way to Washington City, and victory seemed within reach.  If anyone could pull it off, “Ole’ Jube” could.

LT Gen Jubal Early (CSA)

The secret did not last long however. As Jubal’s Corps neared Maryland, workers for the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad spotted them and got word to B&O President John W. Garrett.   Concerned that the Confederates were going to destroy his rail line, Garrett found Major General Wallace in Baltimore and pleaded with him to defend the railroad.   Unsure of whether Jubal was headed for Baltimore or Washington, Wallace decided to move as many men as he could to a small bridge and rail junction near the Monocacy River just south of Fredrick.  If the Confederates were going to come down the Georgetown Pike, they would have to pass this point regardless of their final destination, and it was there at the Monocacy Bridge that Wallace would make his stand.  He sent word of his intentions to Grant and then moved out without delay.

Wallace rounded up approximately 2,500 men, most with no battle experience whatsoever, and headed from Baltimore to the rail junction at Monocasy.   Lew knew that he would be facing over 15,000 battle hardened Confederates, and that the odds were horribly stacked against his ragtag force. He also knew that they were the only thing between Jubal Early and Washington.  If he could just give Grant enough time to bring reinforcements up the Chesapeake to Washington, then the city might be saved.  Wallace was not fighting for a victory at Monocacy; he was fighting for time.

Lew’s plan was pretty simple.  He would station his troops on the south side of the Monocacy River by the bridge and the railroad crossing, and fight like hell to keep the Confederates from crossing over.  With only six cannon and one 24 pound Howitzer he knew that Jubal would have him significantly out-gunned,  so to slow them down further he would send a line of skirmishers north of the river to engage Jubal’s men as far forward as possible.  On the morning of 9 July, 1864 he arrayed his artillery and troops around the bridges the best that he could and waited for the southern juggernaut to arrive.   In a bit of lucky timing, an additional 3,000 battle hardened men arrived that morning with the compliments of General Grant.  The odds were better, but Jubal would still have nearly a three to one superiority.  Wallace was ready for a fight however, and perhaps a bit of redemption in the process.

Later that morning Lew and his commanders watched quietly as Jubal’s Corps filed south toward the railroad junction and the Monocacy Bridge.  When the Confederates were in range of his skirmishers they open fired, and Lew’s battle for time had begun.  Lt General Early pushed forward toward the bridge with 4 Regiments.  They marched in a massive formation across the freshly hewn fields of the Best Farm toward the Monocacy Bridge. Early also set up a number of artillery batteries on the farm’s front lawn sending a fierce barrage toward Lew’s lines.  The map below shows a rough layout of the battle.

The Battle of Monocacy July 9, 1864

Confederate Cannons Point South On The Best Farm Lawn

The battle was intense and men on both sides started to fall.  Thanks to the fearless efforts of men like Lt George Davis, who received a Congressional Medal of Honor for his bravery, the thin Union line held.  So fierce was their resistance, that Jubal met with his generals and determined that a direct attack on the bridges was too risky.  Instead, he sent two of his generals and 3,000 infantry west to find a good place to cross the river and attack the left flank of Wallace’s line.   Soon, they found a suitable crossing a couple of miles downstream at a place called Worthington Farm. Once across, they formed up for a simultaneous attack with the main force.

The Old Worthington Farm Where Jubal’s Generals Crossed

Wallace had read Jubal’s plan however, and shifted his most battle hardened troops west to meet the Confederates head on.  They lined up along a fence separating Worthington Farm from Thomas Farm and waited for the Confederates to come.  At 1030, they appeared directly in front of Wallace’s troops, unaware of their presence.   Wallace’s men open fired inflicting horrendous casualties on the Confederates, eventually forcing them to withdraw and regroup.   Things were quiet until about 2:30 in the afternoon when the Confederates came again. This time, they circled around the Thomas Farm fence line and focused their attack on the Thomas House itself.  The fighting was fierce and often hand to hand with rifle butts and bayonets.   Over the next hour and a half, the Thomas Farm changed hands several times.  Wallace’s troops held their line however, driving the attacking Confederate Regiments back time after time.   While the fighting was raging to the west, Wallace ordered the Monocacy bridge burned so that the Confederate forces would not be able to storm it.  Lt Davis and his skirmishers were inadvertently left on the other side of the river, and had to withdraw across the B&O railroad tressel while under heavy fire.

The Thomas Farm On Wallace’s Left Flank

The Field Between Thomas And Worthington Farms Where the Monocacy Battle Raged

A Modern Bridge Now Crosses The Monocacy Where The Old One Once Stood

The B&O Rail Tressel Saved By Wallace Still Operates Today

Wallace’s troops fought valiantly for the entire day, successfully holding a vastly superior force at bay.  At 4:00 in the afternoon however, low on ammunition, and having lost over 20% of their force they could hold their ground no longer.   As the Confederates swarmed their flank a third time, Wallace ordered his men to withdraw to the east and start heading for Baltimore.   They had lost over 1,200 men but had inflicted about 900 casualties on Jubal’s forces, severely reducing their combat effectiveness.  They had also tired out the Confederates so badly that Jubal had no choice but to make camp at Monocacy for the evening before proceeding to Washington City.  Though Major General Wallace had technically lost the battle, he had bought General Grant an extra day to get reinforcements up the Chesapeake to Washington.

When Jubal arrived at Ft Stevens on the outskirts of Washington City two days later, he found two fresh Union Divisions ready for a fight.   Early attacked Ft Stevens on the afternoon of 11 July but the Union reinforcements held firm, making it impossible for him to enter the city.  Jubal realized that his opportunity to take the Union Capital had passed.  He had literally arrived a day late because of the battle at Monocacy.  The battle in which Major General Lewis “Lew” Wallace stood his ground and saved Washington.

The importance of Wallace’s stand at Monocacy was not lost on General Grant.  In his memoirs he noted that Wallace’s defeat contributed:

“…a greater benefit to the cause than often falls to the lot of a commander of equal force to render by means of a victory.”

Lew Wallace had been disgraced at Shiloh, removed from his command, and shoved to the side by his nation.  He had been ridiculed by his seniors, and criticized by politicians.  His once bright military career had been shattered into a thousand shards of glass, and he was destined to be nothing more than a footnote to failure in the history books.  Instead of drowning in his own bitterness, however, Major General Lew Wallace chose to stand up and answer the call of his countrymen.  Once again, he risked everything to save what he held dear.  Had he failed, and Jubal reached Washington a day early,  they would have beaten Grant’s reinforcements and taken the city.  Lincoln himself would have been held hostage until a negotiated peace to the war was achieved.  The consequences of Wallace’s actions are simply incalculable.  Against all odds, he rallied his forces and gave the Union the additional day that they so desperately needed.   A day that ultimately resulted in the final defeat of the Confederacy, and an end to the bloodiest war in American History.

Final thoughts:

I am not providing you this, rather lengthy, history lesson in order to draw some loose analogy to our present-day political struggles.  To do so would trivialize the importance of what happened at Monocacy River that day. My point for telling this fantastic story, is to remind us all that America is great because Americans are great.  History shows us time and again that, when others would declare defeat, we stand up and renew the fight.  Lew Wallace reminds us of this fact.  Had he not fearlessly stood his ground that day at Monocacy River, our nation’s history may have been profoundly different.  At the very least, the war could have lasted years longer, costing both sides thousands of more lives. Lew stood his ground and, in doing so, gave us all an example of what it means to be an American.

In this modern age of relative prosperity and comfort it is easy to overlook the roots of greatness that make this country strong. We are those roots.  Just like Lew, each of us has the power to stand up and be counted.  Monocacy is a reminder to each of us that the fate of our nation is firmly in our hands, and that our heritage of courage is all that stands between us and tyranny.   Lew knew this to be true, and that is why he responded so valiantly when his nation called on him.  If history is any measure of the future, we can be sure that there will be many more Monocacy moments.  Perhaps it will be your turn to stand up and be counted. How will you respond?

Editor’s Note:  After the war, Lew Wallace became famous for one more great contribution to the world.  In 1880 he wrote “Ben Hur: A Tale of the Christ.”  It became the top selling book of the 19th Century and has never been taken out of print.

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From the Mouth of a Tyrant

There is a storm coming, and it may well be closer than we think.  Soon, the flash of light we see on the horizon may not be lightning, but rather the glow from a nuclear test somewhere in the Iranian wilderness.  As we occupy ourselves with political issues like health care reform, cap-and-trade, jobs bills, and bank taxes our enemy, Iran, is building a nuclear weapon.  Make no mistake about it, all other global crises considered, Iran’s effort  to build a bomb is the defining issue of the next decade.  If they succeed in their quest and deliver a weapon to Hamas, Al Qaeda, or Hezbollah, millions of lives will be held hostage and the world as we know it may truly cease to exist.

This storm is no surprise however.  Iran has been quite outspoken on its desire to become a nuclear power and, thanks to people like A.Q Khan, they will soon have enough operational centrifuges to refine the fuel for about 20 bombs a year.  Even the IAEA has come out and admitted in their latest report that Iran’s  nuclear program appears to have military implications.   What about their intentions with such a weapon though?  Could it truly be defensive in nature? Fortunately, we do not have to rely on third party conjecture here, we have Mahmoud himself!  President Ahmadinejad has, in fact,  told the world what they can expect from Iran as soon as they have “the bomb.”  Just in case you have forgotten, here it is again – straight from the mouth of a tyrant:

“The Zionist regime wants to establish its base upon the ruins of the civilizations of the region…The uniform shout of the Iranian nation is forever ‘Death to Israel.’…” – October 2009 Fars News Agency

“This (the Israeli) regime’s days are numbered and it is on its way to collapse. This regime is dying.” – September 2009  Al Quds rally Tehran

“Don’t be afraid of those Zionists. They are on the verge of death. Their time has passed. Do not surrender your people to them…Unless they are put in their place at the very beginning of their conspiracy, they will jeopardize the security of the whole world, they will jeopardize the security of the whole region… They want the entire world. At their very first step, you must crush their step, crush their leg, so that they do not dare to invade the Islamic lands”  – April 2009 Iranian News Channel interview

“I have heard some say the idea of Greater Israel has expired….I say that the idea of lesser Israel has expired, too.” – September 2009 Press Conference Tehran

“We will witness the dismantling of the corrupt regime (Israel) in the very near future.” – August 2008 Speech in Tehran

“Today the reason for the Zionist regime’s existence is questioned, and this regime is on its way to annihilation.…” May 2008 remarks on Israeli Independence Day

“With God’s help, the countdown button for the destruction of the Zionist regime has been pushed by the hands of the children of Lebanon andPalestine . . . By God’s will, we will witness the destruction of this regime in the near future.” – April 2008 quote Fars News Agency

“The Zionists are the true manifestation of Satan . . . “ February 2007 Meeting in Khartoum

“Thanks to people’s wishes and God’s will the trend for the existence of the Zionist regime is downwards and this is what God has promised and what all nations want…Just as the Soviet Union was wiped out and today does not exist, so will the Zionist regime soon be wiped out.” – December 2006 Holocaust Conference

“Israel is destined for destruction and will soon disappear. Israel is a contradiction to nature, we foresee its rapid disappearance and destruction.” – November 2006

“The Zionist regime is counterfeit and illegitimate and cannot survive” – October 2006 Iranian Television

Never does Mahmoud explicitly state that Iran will wipe Israel off  the face of the map, but rather he says that this will be accomplished by the Palestinians.  Is this nothing more than rhetoric designed solely to draw regional favor, or is it something far more insidious?  Perhaps, just perhaps, he is telling Hamas and Hezbollah that they will soon receive the tool that they need to destroy Israel forever.  If such a weapon were deployed and detonated by one of these groups, Iran would have all the plausible denial that they would need to avoid direct confrontation with the west. They would even vow to help find the culprit while giving a behind the scenes “wink” to their friends. It is the perfect scenario for a perfect storm.

Our President however, seems content to walk into the hurricane with little more than a pocket umbrella. While Mahmoud continues to make statements like the ones above, Obama responds with a brand of soft diplomacy that would make Neville Chamberlain wince:

“For nearly three decades relations between our nations have been strained, but at this holiday we are reminded of the common humanity that binds us together…This process will not be advanced by threats. We seek instead engagement that is honest and grounded in mutual respect.” – President Obama’s 2009 video appeal to Iranian People.

These words would fail to send shivers down even the weakest leader’s spine. They are almost conciliatory in their tone and convey a weaknesses of US will that neither Tomahawk Missiles nor F-16s can fix. In the end, they may generate some type of “Munich Agreement” but will do little to stop the advancing storm. It is no wonder that our little friend the tyrant presses on.  He truly believes that he has nothing to fear, and maybe he is right.

So, as time progresses and our leaders continue to prattle on about sanctions and international pressure, please listen closely to the words of our tyrant friend.  He is forecasting the track of a great storm, and its eye is headed directly for Jerusalem and freedom loving people everywhere.  We may still have time to avoid the storm, but decisive military action is the only answer, and it must be taken without delay.  If we do not act now, and act decisively, then no one should feel rage on the dark day that the storm strikes…only shame.

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