Bang, bang, bang! “Freeze, or I’ll shoot!”
A government sniper killed Vickie Weaver with her baby in her arms. This was during an attempt to murder the entire Weaver family because Randy Weaver refused to be an informant. Whatever Randy’s personal beliefs, this should have inspired a march on Washington with torches and pitchforks.
Not long after, an army of ATF goons, backed by FBI shooters, tanks and choppers, laid siege to a home and church with no probable cause for even a search warrant. The somewhat kooky religious people near Waco, Texas were burned to death for the crime of exercising their rights protected by the First and Second Amendment. The big crime committed there–according to the government/media complex–is that a few of the victims had the audacity to shoot back when masked men in combat gear began destroying their property and killing their friends and family.
The EPA, BLM, IRS and other out-of-control Gestapo agencies have been bulldozing through the inalienable rights of American citizens for a few decades, using some ridiculous excuses to do so. In recent memory, the BLM and other jackbooted federal thugs attempted to intimidate the last surviving ranching family in the Moapa Valley into giving up the grazing rights they’ve had for a century and a half. The feds rustled Bundy’s cattle, destroyed his irrigation during calving season, and prepared to attack the men, women and children who owned the cattle.
But Bundy didn’t back down, and Americans from all over the region showed up to face off with the Nuremburg Rangers. You could call it a line in the sand.
Amazingly, the feds backed down. There are a number of possible reasons. One is that if shots were fired in anger, it might very well have turned our Cold Civil War hot, and The Man wasn’t perfectly pre-positioned for it at that moment of time.
But the All-Seeing Eye was tracking every single individual who showed up to stand with the besieged rancher. You can bet every single one of them is now high up on the threat list for “domestic terrorism” at the Utah Data Center and elsewhere. Such individuals will be the very first targets in extraction operations like the ones being practiced as a part of Jade Helm ’15.
So, in 4GW terms, you could consider the Bundy Ranch standoff as a probe. Specifically, a recon-by-fire.
14
D MINUS 65
NSA DATA CENTER
CAMP WILLIAMS, UTAH
Justin yawned, checked the time, and turned back to his monitor. He’d been at it for 12 hours so far today. He’d put in a couple more before calling it quits for the night.
The room he sat in was crowded with computers, separated by small cubicles. There were ten tired, uncomfortable people in there, all trying to maintain enthusiasm for this project despite the long hours.
Justin closed the file he had just completed and went back to Surveillance Photo 18F-5 from the Garber Ranch. Several more zones of the photo had been grayed out since he last looked at it. He moved his cursor over an active zone and clicked on it. The zone grew to fill his screen, and he zoomed in on the little Ford Ranger parked on the side of the road. He kept zooming closer until he could make out the license plate, then split his screen to open the Motor Vehicle database.
“We got any more coffee?” asked Barnes, from the adjacent cubicle.
“Had about half a pot left an hour ago,” Justin replied, checking the blackened bottom of his styrofoam cup to ensure his last dose hadn’t magically reappeared.
“Which means it’s empty again, and I’ll be the one who has to fill it,” Barnes complained. “You’d think they could get us one of those fancy machines where you just slide a packet in, push a button and it gives you espresso, coffee, cappuccino or whatever.”
“They spent all the money on these work stations,” Justin said.
Frawley, the green-eyed blonde in the cubicle to his right, rolled back in her chair and asked, “Did you hear the latest about that defensive back at Miami?”
Justin shook his head. “I don’t follow football that much anymore.”
Frawley looked almost hurt. “But…”
Tench, the short brassy-haired black woman in the cubicle to his left, rolled back and said, “I thought you were a wide receiver for UCLA.”
“Tight end,” he corrected. “But I’m done with football.”
Justin’s love for the game had been cooling for a while even before his back injury during senior year. It had cooled even more in recent years.
“You shoulda’ stuck with that,” Tench said. “You coulda’ been makin’ big money.”
“You’re still in terrific shape, too,” Frawley said. “Most guys put on a lot of weight after they stop playing.”
“That’s Ex-Jock Syndrome,” Justin said. “Guys who try to bulk up or trim down for their position ruin their metabolism. I never did that.”
“So I guess you wouldn’t be interested in joining a fantasy league,” Frawley said.
“No. But thanks anyway,” Justin said. His co-workers rolled their chairs back into their cubicles.
He ran the license plates through the database, pulling up the name and address of the person who registered the Ford Ranger. The owner had driven across two states to join the DomTers at Chapanee. Justin initiated a new file and began filling in the details.
First he checked for a criminal record. There was none. Some speeding tickets when the DomTer was a teenager, and an accident report filed 15 years ago made up the only entries on the rap sheet.
He looked up the DomTer’s cellphone number and flagged it for monitoring and tracking.
Next he checked for prior military service. The DomTer, Gary Fram, served in the Army, in the combat arms. That moved him up the danger scale quite a few notches.
Justin looked over his medical records and filled in the requests for peripheral checks of his wife and children. He shifted to Fram’s financial history and status, and confirmed his political affiliation by voter registration. The man’s voting history started out typically sporadic, then he became a hell-or-high-water voter for several years. But he quit voting altogether after 2012. This would flag his profile as an extreme risk.
For variety’s sake, Justin investigated his public library habits next. (Normally he put this off for later in the process, but switching around the routine helped relieve some of the monotony.) Several books checked out on the American Revolution, the Constitution, the Federal Reserve, and various survival topics all fit the profile and confirmed the risk level.
He ran the man’s identifiers through the firearm sales database. Though this database was far from complete, it still showed a rifle and shotgun purchase, along with several ammunition purchases. The caliber of the ammo purchased indicated at least two additional weapons owned.
Only then did Justin begin poring through Fram’s email, search engine and social networking history. This was the most tedious, time consuming portion of any profile. It generated anywhere from dozens to hundreds of peripheral requests for profiles of potential accomplices, but the intelligence rewards were too juicy to pass up.
Fram hadn’t said anything that could yet be construed to suggest criminal intent, but his wife posted pictures on Facebook of him posing with a couple different weapons which did not show up on the firearm sales search.
Justin still had a long way to go on the social networking history when time came to go home. He would have to continue that tomorrow. He estimated that it would take another day and a half before he could wrap up with an analysis of the DomTer’s home, based on satellite and street-level images from Google. Only after all that was complete could the DomTer’s residence be more thoroughly investigated via thermal imaging, ground-penetrating radar and other methods available by satellite or U.A.V…assuming he or his wife hadn’t bought into DropCam or some other service that installed cameras inside their home, which would make everything easier.
Justin began shutting down and gathering his stuff.
“You calling it a day?” Barnes asked.
“Yeah,” Justin said, logging out of succeeding security layers. “My eyes are burning. Guess I’ll be back in about 10, 12 hours.”
“You know what we’re doing here, right?” Barnes asked, rising to his feet and hurrying around the cubicle row to where Justin stood.
Justin shrugged, not sure what his co-worker was driving at. But no doubt Barnes would do his best to enlighten him, whether the enlightenment was welcome or not.
“It’s like ‘reconnaissance by fire’,” Barnes said, grinning at the opportunity to share his theory. He was retired Air Force, and looked for the military angle in everything. “You know those old fashioned wars…infantry attacking defensive positions and all that. Well, what you do is send a heavy patrol out at night and make contact, but just to harass—not to try overrunning the position or anything. The defenders open fire, and you take note of how their defenses are laid out–where their machineguns are; mortars, artillery; whatever. And which parts of the perimeter are only defended by riflemen. Then when you’re ready to attack, you knock out their heavy weapons first, then hit them where they’re weakest. Of course today you don’t have to do that because we got satellite intelligence and so forth, but you get the idea: we’re probing the DomTers to find their strong and weak links.”
“You think we intended to back down from the standoff all along?” Justin asked, incredulous.
“Well, the whole operation may have been part test balloon,” Barnes said. “If that old cowboy prick had been reasonable, we’d have just moved on and taken care of business. But these DomTers are feeling their oats. They think they won’t get a spanking–or that it won’t hurt that much. So we’ll let them go on thinking that, while we just pin down where all their assets are.”
“I wonder why we don’t spend this level of effort on the folks swarming across the southern border,” Justin wondered aloud. “I mean, Domestic Terrorists aren’t the only threat we have to worry about.”
Barnes frowned, shrugged, and headed back to the coffee maker.
Justin left the “data mine” and exited through a series of security checkpoints until he finally made it outside the building. On the way to his car, he considered his short conversation with Barnes. He hoped he hadn’t come off as critical, or the Department might decide he had tendencies that were sympathetic to the enemy.
The enemy.
It should be bizarre thinking of American citizens that way, but Justin was getting used to it. It kind of bothered him at first when reading department memorandums gave him the impression that a civil war was expected by his bosses, and their bosses. Mainstream culture was clueless that anyone even considered it possible. Yet in the minds of many intelligence professionals, it was a done deal.
Justin remembered enough world history to know that evolution of a state and its culture was inevitable. The great empires all lasted approximately 200 years before corruption ate them away from the inside, or weakened them enough to be toppled by external forces. That meant the United States of America was on borrowed time anyway.
At least his job was secure. In the emerging global order his kind of work would always be in demand.
###
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The link to False Flag is also on the upper right sidebar. You can watch the accompanying Youtube video here.
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