Four
HETCH-HETCHY WILDERNESS
THURSDAY EVENING
“Let the fire fall!” The
lonely cry carried down the cliff face, attenuated by great distance. At the
command a blazing tree stump fell loose, plunging majestically down the face of
the cliff followed by a glowing comet trail of sparks. As it rushed downward
the fiery missle appeared to grow in size until the remains of a massive,
ancient redwood were revealed; fully twelve feet in diameter. It struck the
rocks at the base of the cliff with a resounding crash, splintering into a
million burning torches. The piled firewood waiting below instantly ignited
into a gigantic bonfire.
The forbidden
spectacle pleased Ted Parker, primarily because of its complete illegality.
These days, anything that flaunted the law was near and dear to his heart. The
fire-fall had once been a great tradition in Yosemite. That tradition, like so
many others, had been discontinued because of pressure from the Sierra Club and
other environmental groups bent on ruining anything that somebody might enjoy.
Do-gooders always reminded Parker of the harsh, self-righteous, sin-battlin’
preachers of his childhood, always railing against some perceived depravity or
other. Who needs ‘em, he grimaced. Nothing but a bunch of whining killjoys,
anyway. A man’s got to be free to
make his own way in life, or die trying.
Hence the
purpose for his presence at tonight’s solemn gathering of the brethren. Parker
was about to change his life for the better. He would become one of the
Mariposa Militia. He intended to run things his way for a change, instead of
always running from the government.
Beyond the
leaping blaze of the firelight the surroundings were pitch dark on that
moonless night. Pitch dark as can only be experienced high in deep clefts of
the mountains, far from industrial pollution and city lights.
The High
Council of the Mariposa Battalion had convened before the campfire in this
lonely corner of Yosemite. Fear of discovery and arrest forced them to move
their encampments daily, lest the Feds pinpoint their location. Parker knew the
government would not hesitate to send in military troops loaded with heavy
firepower. Government goons had no qualms about massacring him and the rest of these brave freedom fighters.
We can’t afford any kind of permanent base,
he understood. All that would give us
would be another Ruby Ridge or Waco incident. Another chance for the
government’s jackbooted thugs to stage a publicly acceptable bloodbath. And all
on Prime Time television, too. Parker clenched his jaw in anger. Get it under control, Boy! You can’t afford
to be seen as a weakling. Tonight would be a special Council Fire. The
Militia was inducting Ted and some other guy he had just met as fledgling
members.
Parker gazed
through the shimmering flames of the blaze, watching the militia’s leader.
Horace B. Taylor, Commanding General of the Mariposa Battalion, stood tall and
ramrod straight. His bearing set an example of power and confidence. Parker
relaxed, feeling he had finally found a home.
After
hours of patient waiting, ceremony time had finally arrived. Parker watched as
the General strode forward in a self-assured manner, taking his position in
front of the bonfire. Standing in the place of honor he nodded to the drummers
to begin. A dozen men, holding a ragged assortment of drums began hammering out
individual rhythms. The pounding, discordant at first, soon melded into a
harmonious beat as the drummers became unified in spirit.
The percussive rhythms
signaled the traditional commencement of a Council Fire assembly. Rolling booms
of the tom-toms reverberated off the nearby stone walls of their secluded
encampment, filling the air with the sounds of rampant maleness. From every
corner of the campsite men began to gather. Most of them stood silent and
expectant as they awaited the evening’s council. A few of the more exuberant
men, unable to reign in their testosterone, began to howl like wolves in time
to the beating of the drums.
Parker
kept his expression stern and impassive as befitted a new guy. Inwardly though,
he smiled, his heart swelling with pride. These were real men, and it was his privilege to join them. Sure, most of them
came from weak, domesticated stock; indoctrinated in the public schools to grow
up as good little consumers. Coddled poodles, pampered when they pleased their
government masters, and punished when they showed any sign of independence. Well, not any more, exulted Parker. No, not any more, brother. We’re wild mongrel dogs now. Big Brother can punish us if he wants, but
these days he has to work at it. He might just get himself bitten too. After
all, even poodles have teeth.
The
drums rolled to a sudden stop. The time had come. Parker watched as General
Taylor dramatically raised his ceremonial staff into the air. In unison the
drummers let out a dramatic roll with another abrupt cut off.
The General
peered around to see he had the militia’s attention, “Brothers,” he shouted,
his gruff voice booming across the clearing. “I summon you to gather at the
Council Fires of the Elders, as have men since the ancient days of honor. We
are but a remnant of what remains of the last true Americans. Only a few are
left with the courage to stand as free men when all the world has bowed to
tyranny. Big Brother, who calls himself our legitimate government, has stripped
us of our lawful rights, overruled the will of the people and trampled our sacred
constitution.”
A restless stir
moved through the men around Parker at these words. They responded with murmurs
of agreement and shouts of encouragement.
“Most
of the common folk in our once great country have meekly surrendered their
independence,” General Taylor shook a ham-sized fist. “But there are still a
few brave souls willing to fight back… You men,” he pointed with both hands,
“are counted among that small but courageous number. Many of our brethren have
already paid for our freedom with their very lives. For us it is either victory
or death!” Taylor threw back his head repeating the challenge to the world:
“victory or death!” He quieted himself and sought eye contact with individual
members of the crowd. “Oh, we could give up. That’s right; we could go home,
return to a life of peaceful servitude. We could do that. But I say: Death
before dishonor!”
The canyon
erupted with resounding cheers from the assembly. Parker joined them with
enthusiasm.
General Taylor
crouched low, peering from side to side as if confiding some deep insight. “Our
families aren’t being killed by Nazis or Russkies. No foreign soldier never
attacked this sacred soil, driving us from our homes. No, it’s jackbooted
thugs—cold-hearted assassins from our own Government—they gunned down an
innocent family at Ruby Ridge. Then they went on down to Waco Texas so they
could barbecue a bunch of innocent men, women, and children. Those traitors
from D.C. paraded the patriots—true Americans—from the Oklahoma City Federal
building in front of a kangaroo court to gain a conviction. And let's never
forget little Elian Gonzalez, ripped out of his own home by machinegun-toting
storm troopers. Never forget,” Taylor slapped a huge fist into his open palm.
“Never forget, because the Resistance continues!”
Around him,
Parker felt the crowd swelling, alive with ceaseless encouragement, and cheers.
He knew the General had his audience. With the murmur of their voices, their
active body language, and continuous eye contact they responded to everything
Taylor said. Their restlessness increased as Taylor elevated the vehemence of
his rhetoric.
“The
weak members of society have no future; either with real American’s like us, or
with the corrupt excuse for a government back there in Washington D.C. I pity
the weak, by God I do! Most of them live out their pathetic lives in their safe
little sheep pens. Some are so far-gone that they take their own lives hoping
for a ride on an imaginary space ship to Neverland! They are nothing more than
human debris who’ve forfeited their right to even be called men!”
A grand,
masculine hurrah erupted from the crowd, not unlike the sound that one hears
from outside a football stadium as a touchdown is scored. But these men were
not cheering a mere game. Their passion was devoted to an objective they
believed in with all their hearts, a cause worth dying for. Yes, a cause worth killing for. Parker
knew he wanted to be part of that cause.
“And
that is what you wonderful guys are,” Taylor abruptly switched styles, lowering
his voice so they had to strain to hear. “You are Men," he said with firm
conviction, "men who will not bow their necks to oppression. Men who will
take a stand against political corruption and police-state thuggery. We, my
friends, are the true American patriots.” Taylor’s voice rose to a crescendo.
“We will never rest until the day we have restored our beloved country to the
rule of the people. Either we triumph gloriously or they’ll have to bury our
cold, defiant bodies in our native, blood-washed soil!"
The
General paused, stuck his hands in his pockets as if contemplating a moment
before speaking quietly. “You know, all those big shots back in Washington
promise safety and comfort. Oh, sure, it’s yours for the asking. All you have
to do is sit down, shut up, and pay your confiscatory taxes.” Taylor
deliberately spat on the ground. “Well,” he wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“I’ve got one little question for you: Is comfort so wonderful, or safety so
precious that we should surrender ourselves to servitude and prison under a
corrupt government?” The General snatched up a brand from the fire and smashed
the blazing stick into a shower of sparks. “Never! In the words of our great
American forefathers: ‘Give me liberty, or give me death!’”
Taylor gestured,
his arms outspread in the air, a large “V” for victory, a flamboyant ending for
his gaudy speech. The men of the battalion appeared to recognize the gesture,
for they broke into thunderous applause. Men gathered into small huddles,
spontaneously chattering among themselves about the import of the General’s
message. They were pumped. Parker heard snatches of conversation as he
continued to watch the General. He appeared mighty pleased with himself.
“At’s tellin
‘em, Gen’rul!”
“We’re with
you, General; just say the word and we’ll attack!”
“I’d wade into
Hell itself, as long as Eugene Taylor led me!”
Parker slowly
nodded his head, judging the speech a rousing success. General Taylor gave them
all time to revel in the moment, then called for their renewed attention. It
was time for the next item on the agenda.
The General
gestured to his sergeant, Buck Larson. Larson grabbed Parker and the other new
guy, manhandling them to a position before the council fire. Larson gave a
wicked grin as he whipped out leather thongs and bound their arms behind them.
“You boys are gonna love this,” he cackled. After that he covered Parker and
Mullen’s heads with shabby black hoods and Parker saw no more.
This is it, he exulted. I had to jump through a lot of hoops to get
here. I had to turn over my property
to the Militia. I had to submit to intensive background checks and wait like a
daddy in the delivery room. And I wasn’t the only one either. Other men had
applied as well, he knew. But just me and
one other guy have the honor of standing here before the Council Fire. All
the tests he had passed to this point were merely the preliminaries. Tonight, before the assembled
Battalion, he had to demonstrate his courage and manhood by passing the final test
before total acceptance.
The rowdy
throng hushed as their General called for attention again. “Brothers,” he
began, “these two men desire to join our ranks as brothers-in-arms. On my right
hand is Ted Parker, on my left, Ev Mullins. Parker here, found himself
maliciously accused of child abuse. Without any evidence or even a warrant,
government goons busted right into his home and took his precious babies away.
He lost his children, his wife, and his job. He wants nothing more than the
chance to fight back against that kind of evil, authoritarian oppression.”
Parker felt the
slap as Taylor clapped a large hand on the man to Parker’s left. “Brother
Mullins used to run a successful small business. It was destroyed and
confiscated from him by deceit and outright lies from our supposedly kinder and
gentler Internal Revenue Service.” General Taylor spat into the fire. “Men,
these brothers have suffered unjustly just as we all have. Just like the rest
of us, they want some pay back. They desire to take up arms and stand shoulder
to shoulder, fighting the battle with us.
Taylor paused
for effect before asking dramatically, “Well, what say you?”
Sergeant Larson
spoke up on cue, “General, I move that we accept these good men as brothers in
arms, providing they prove their worth.” A voice from the crowd seconded the
motion. A vote was taken and Mullins and Parker were immediately elected by
acclamation.
Under the heavy
hood, Parker listened as best he could to the muffled proceedings. He nearly
missed it as the General put a ceremonial question to them, “Are you ready to
demonstrate your worth as men?”
“Yes!”
Parker responded. He heard Mullin’s muffled response leak from beneath the
stout hood.
“So
be it,” The General decreed. “I now command you both to take one step forward.”
At
this order Parker felt two threatening points of pressure pushing against the
dirty fabric over his eyes. Maybe they were only fingers, but they could be
knives. This is a test of courage, he
realized. Hesitating but a moment, Parker steeled himself and took a good step
forward. As he did the pressure disappeared, followed immediately by a cheer of
appreciation from the assembly. Apparently he and Mullins had both passed the
test.
“You
have demonstrated your bravery but you must pass one last test,” proclaimed the
General. “You must survive the Gauntlet!” The cheering men quieted. Parker
could hear them forming into two columns, facing one another. Sergeant Larson
checked their heavy black hoods to ensure they were still in place. He roughly
grasped Parker by the upper arm. “Run for your lives, you Sissies!” he ordered.
With that Parker felt himself shoved down what he guessed was a living corridor
of waiting militiamen.
Ted Parker
stumbled, running blind through the savage gauntlet. From either side, men
struck out at him with fists and open handed slaps. Some kicked with heavily
booted feet, trying to trip the two inductees. Mullins fell, taking Parker down
with him. But the heavy tumble brought no respite from the hail of blows. Both
men helped each other, staggering to their feet to continue their passage
through the maliciously cruel ritual.
How much longer can this go on? Parker
wondered as he struggled to keep moving. Working together the two finally
dragged each other out the other side of the living, mass punishment. Head
bowed, chest heaving, knees trembling, Parker stood resolute, waiting for more.
Instead, he felt a knife slice through his bonds. The smothering hood was
yanked from his battered head. Eyes blinking in the glare of the firelight,
Parker grinned at Mullins and the welcoming throng, their faces swollen and
bloody. General Taylor strode up to them and grabbed each in turn in a bone
crushing bear hug, welcoming two more converts to the fold.
***
Twenty-four
thousand miles overhead, in geostationary orbit, a National Oceanographic and
Atmospheric Administration weather satellite mapped the ever-changing weather
patterns over North America. As a matter of course it noted the thermal
signature from the Mariposa Battalion’s council fire. The satellite was a data
collection platform operated by NOAA and designated as GOESDCS-1995#4. For ease
of usage the technical name was shortened to GEO-95/4.
Not
specifically a spy satellite, it kept only the Northern Hemisphere of the
Americas in view. Its photographic imaging capabilities were not designed to
resolve small objects, nor did it directly link its data to any Defense
Department satellite. It was simply a wide-field, low resolution, atmospheric
data collection platform.
However,
GEO-95/4 was not completely useless for domestic surveillance. It was quite
capable of activities not strictly meteorological in nature. The National
Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration designated GEO-95/4 as a random
reporting platform. It had been programmed to record and report when certain
pre-defined sensor thresholds were triggered by environmental events; earthquakes,
fires and tornadoes would fit those parameters. The disastrous 1988 Yellowstone
fire had taught the US Forest and National Park Service the value of advanced
fire warning and prediction. Since then those services regularly received
notification from the National Weather Service concerning potential forest
fires.
At 2318:37
Eastern Daylight Time GEO-95/4 noted a thermal bloom at an unauthorized site
within the confines of Yosemite National Park. Unfortunately, there are more
thermal sources within the view of any given weather satellite than their
programming could ever handle. The elaborate systems would be constantly
overloaded had they been required to report everything they were capable of
detecting. That problem had been solved by software, which automatically
eliminated known thermal sources from the satellite’s search parameters. Signal
strength was also set at a pre-programmed threshold so that minor thermal
sources, such as toasters and garage door openers, were not reported.
Additionally, the search areas were limited by pre-defined criterion. In the
case of GEO-95/4, the satellite’s primary tasking had it monitoring the large
tracts of forested land under government authority.
At the National
Environmental Satellite Data Information Service operations center, the
automatic observation systems recorded a random data dump from GEO-95/4.
NESDIS’s Satellite Analysis Branch is located at Wallops Island, on Maryland’s
Delmarva Peninsula, The Satellite Analysis Branch is primarily tasked with
supporting disaster mitigation and early warning services to Federal Emergency
Management Agency and other government agencies.
That night an
on-site junior analyst, alerted to the random report, was working the swing
shift. Her immediate analysis of the data showed that the thermal bloom was in
an area restricted to camping and camp fires. The image did not appear to be
expanding. Therefore, it was most likely an unauthorized campfire, and a large
one, at that.
Checking her
standing orders, she noted that the U.S. Forest Service, the National Park
Service, the Bureau of Land Management and the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and
Firearms were all on the notification list. She prepared a standardized
notification form and set the fax machine to send the data to the interested
agencies. The machine hummed to life and began dialing the first programmed
number. The analyst took the opportunity to leave the room for a quick break.
When she
returned, ten minutes later, she saw that the fax had gone through to the USFS
the NPS and the BLM, but the BATF had not received notification. She dialed up
the number by hand but the BATF fax line simply did not respond. Probably a heavy print queue, she
thought. Oh, well. She left the machine
to continue its repeated attempts and went back to the ever-increasing pile of
data awaiting analysis.
Ten minutes
later the fax machine let out a triple beep. A printed message emerged
informing her that the machine had made twenty unsuccessful attempts and now
switched to standby mode. Telling herself to try again in ten minutes, she
turned away from the fax machine and went back to work. She did not think of
the BATF fax for another hour and a half.
***
By the time the
Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms received the requested data, which then
had to work its way through the cumbersome routing network all the way to a
sleepy BATF Special Agent in Charge, it was already 04:00 local time in
Yosemite.
Bill James, the
SAC, sat up in bed, rubbing crusted sleep from his eyes. He forced his fuddled
brain awake, then gave the local duty officer his orders; “Roust the field
agents out of their beds and call up the aircrews. I want helicopters in the
air by first light.” James dropped the phone into its cradle. Probably another wild goose chase, he
growled. He kicked his feet over the side and stepped onto an inhumanly cold
floor. The chill helped him dress quicker.
Just over ninety minutes
later, two bureau helicopters lifted off from Yosemite Village. Bill James sat
behind the pilots as they clawed for altitude. The UH-60’s roared over the
mountainous terrain, crossing Tioga road as they sped north. The fire had been
detected near the Hech Hechy reservoir. As they approached the area, the
co-pilot spotted a thin curl of smoke ascending through a thick stand of trees.
James had his men dropped in clearings on either side of the smoke spiral. They
closed in while the helicopters rode shotgun, watching for militiamen.
It was to no avail. By
the time James and his agents reached the spot the Mariposa Battalion had
doused their council fire and cleared out hours ago.
No comments:
Post a Comment