Category Archives: Military

Military, Politics/Current Events, SHTF, TEOTWAWKI

All This and Civil War Two

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What began as an interview with R.A. Mathis about Homeland: Falling Down turned into quite a discussion about America teetering on the precipice of oblivion. Here is Part One:

 

HENRY BROWN: First of all, thanks for agreeing to do the interview.

R.A. MATHIS: Thank you for having me, Hank.

HENRY BROWN: After reading Ghosts of Babylon, I guess I assumed you might follow up with something similar, or possibly move on to more mainstream literature. What made you decide to spin a SHTF yarn?

R.A. MATHIS: I wrote Ghosts of Babylon because I had to. It began as an effort to mentally sort out my Iraq experience. The Homeland series is the same.
The seed was formed from the occasional news story of another general being fired for questionable reasons, a new executive order being announced, or the IRS being used as a weapon. That seed took root as these stories began to appear with alarming regularity. I thought it was just me being a bit paranoid, so put it aside and kept my mouth shut. But then I noticed others voicing the same concerns, both on the street and even in the popular media.
The last straw dropped when a guy came to our house to work on the air conditioner. We struck up a conversation as he worked. He told me that he was mortally afraid of the government. That’s when I began to realize how widespread the concern really was. (As a side note, I believe this sentiment is a contributor to the current election cycle’s rebellion against all things establishment.)

(HENRY BROWN: I would have to agree. And on the one hand it’s about time. But on the other…it seems to me that the pent-up outrage, now that it’s finally loose, is proving to be misdirected in many quarters.)

R.A. MATHIS: Homeland is an attempt to test the thesis, to mentally sort it out as a kind of mental experiment. Unfortunately, the thesis is proving all too plausible.

On a similar note, I noticed your Retreads series has gone from pulpy men’s adventure to a more serious SHTF genre. Why the shift?

HENRY BROWN: I’m not sure I can answer that in a way that makes sense to others, but I’ll try. Some of the times I’ve been happiest in life were when I had my head stuck in the sand–either voluntarily or unintentionally. That applies to the writing partition of my life, too. My whole experiment in men’s fiction was partly an effort to relive the fun and the rush of adventure lived vicariously through characters in some of the novels I read as a kid and young man. Better yet: to pass that experience along to new readers. Such was my ambition. (And yet, I couldn’t go Full Ostrich all the way–in Hell & Gone you can already see the government attitude–through the goons in their alphabet soup agencies–that certain law-abiding Americans are more dangerous than actual terrorists. In Tier Zero I sort of laid the ground work for False Flag by introducing some ugly little secrets of black ops, and how, if Washington doesn’t have a convenient one to exploit, our would-be rulers are willing to manufacture a crisis as an excuse for the next power grab in their agenda.) But I got to the point where I just couldn’t swallow the blue pill anymore.

I see the world around me drowning in deception. People who recognize this must not let the truth be buried. We have to shout it from the rooftops as best we can, despite the odds. If those sound like the words of a maniac, well, so be it.

I guess I should mention that I’ve had it in mind to write apocalyptic or post-apocalyptic fiction for a long time–but something a little less heavy, like the Last Ranger series or Doomsday Warrior before it (only without the mutants, the Zen philsophy and the weird psychodelic acid trip scenes). However, taking stock of the situation facing us in America, people need to wake up; not be somnambulized into maintaining their complacency.

The Retreads were established characters, who I and some readers really liked. If I could choose anybody to guard my flanks when facing Armageddon, it would be guys like them. After all, they were staring down the barrel of WWIII from their very debut, and handled it pretty well. At the same time, I knew that pulling out all the stops politically would piss off some readers who liked the previous books. Oh well. Life is too short and freedom is too precious to lose sleep over whether I offended somebody or not. I get offended constantly in books and movies. Suck it up and drive on.

Aren’t you sorry you asked that question, now?

When you introduced the DHS involvement with the regular army in Falling Down, it made perfect sense and I wondered why it hadn’t been done before (my own excuse is that I haven’t yet depicted conventional national military forces). After all, the Red Army had its political officers–military commisars or whatever, feared by all the regular soldiers. Same with the Soviet Navy. The Wermacht was, to an extent, gripped by terror due to the SS and Gestapo. Compared to me, your active duty experience is very up-to-date. Did you witness anything first-hand that confirmed for you this scenario will play out in a SHTF scenario?

R.A. MATHIS: You are exactly right about the Soviet commissars being the basis for the DHS “advisors” assigned to active units in the book. In fact, an important parameter of my “thought experiment” mentioned above is that there must be historical precedence for the events in the book, especially in the actions taken by the government. Knowing that the new regime would be suspicious, or even hostile, toward the military, commissars assigned to keep the troops in line would be a top priority. If you put yourself in the regime’s shoes, the DHS seemed like a perfect fit.
My first-hand military experience ended in 2006, before our current President took office. At that time, the political correctness machine was already in full swing, but I never experienced blatant meddling by civilian agents. That being said, the amount and pace of social engineering forced upon our men and women in uniform since then is both staggering and alarming.

There is something I found interesting as I read False Flag. The occult ceremonies woven into the plot and connected with the tier-zero units and other operatives. Can you go into more detail about their purpose to the regime and why you included them in the story? Also, are these ceremonies simply mind control, or are they really colluding with unseen forces?

HENRY BROWN: Well, now you’ve done it. If people didn’t believe me to be a tinfoil hat whack-job already…

This angle came entirely from my research, which encompassed everything from MK Ultra and Monarch to “satanic ritual abuse.” I followed the leads where they led and was astonished to discover how interconnected it all is. It all sounds crazy on the surface–some of it as if inspired by a B-horror movie or bad sci-fi. And don’t get me wrong–there are a lot of cockamamie wive’s tales out there. Unfortunately, much of it is mixed up with things that happen to be true. I could go on at great length on this subject, but will try to pare it down to just a couple aspects.

One of the first bombshells to land on me was that multiple personality disorder (MPD) can be artificially created in people. And I’m understating the fact here, because some who have studied it much more than I have will tell you that EVERY case of MPD was manufactured by high level experts in cognitive sciences; and furthermore, that they do so with a common denominator of ulterior motives, and with government funding.

Some of those same folks will tell you that there absolutely are unseen forces at work. Certain spiritual beings are always looking for a body to occupy, and when a personality is split, they are given entry. This is stuff I don’t really want to believe. I’ve never been obsessed with UFOs, vampires, werewolves or witchcraft. I don’t watch “ghost hunter” shows or think zombies (as depicted in pop culture recently) are very credible. In most of the churches I’ve ever attended, great pains were made to downplay the supernatural in the Bible, and remove the paranormal/supernatural from the Christian worldview. Frankly, that tendency rubbed off on me, so I’ve never taken that stuff seriously most of my life. That is beginning to change. I’m at the point now that I do see a spiritual/occultic aspect to the postwar mind control efforts. But not many rational people can swallow that–which I certainly understand. What I tried to do was write that subplot in an ambiguous enough manner that the reader can take it whichever way they are most comfortable with–either just advanced brain-screwing built on the discoveries of the Nazi mind control pioneers with occultic trappings to make the victims believe they’re tapping into some ancient spiritual power; or human scientists carrying out the brain-screwing at the behest of the unseen beings they serve (knowingly or unknowingly). The bottom line for most readers, perhaps, is that it’s fiction. There are plenty of theories even more far out than this in other books or movies, and people suspend their disbelief for the sake of entertainment. Frankly, I’d love to be proven wrong about a lot of stuff I’ve said both on this blog and in my books.

As to what purpose our domestic enemies would have for such individuals…when you take stock of what they are doing and still intend to do, sleeper agents they can activate like flipping a switch can come in very handy. Especially in false flags. The cream of the crop could be held in reserve for really big jobs–high profile assassinations, for instance; while the unstable sleepers can be used as cannon fodder in the school-shooting-of-the-week. One investigator has discovered that many of the MPD cases are part of a “super soldier” program, which makes sense when you consider that the mind control endeavors in North America took over where the Nazi scientists left off. Pretty scary, if true.

You mentioned how the purge of the  US high command partly inspired you to write Falling Down. In my own SHTF book, that purge of field grade officers (which began in earnest about 2009) also plays a part. First off, I’m curious how the average Joe in the ranks feels about this today, as well as the junior grade officers. Secondly, you wrote it in such a way as to suggest that Colonel Lee bugged out before being nabbed by the DHS. Are we going to see him again in future installments?

R.A. MATHIS: On the purge subject: Like the old saying goes, you can’t fool the troops. I still have friends in uniform. They see the attack dogs ejected while the lapdogs are promoted. It has an adverse effect on morale across the width and breadth of the active force.
Yes, we will see more of Colonel Lee. Good catch on that one.

HENRY BROWN: Considering those purges, among other things, what is your general gut feeling about whether the regular military will hesitate to make war on American citizens?

R.A. MATHIS: That is why I included Cole in the book. I needed to see the situation through the eyes of a soldier. I don’t think they will obey that type of order, the outstanding conduct of our troops in the Middle East (with very few exceptions) over the last 13 years will testify to that. But what if extreme coercion is applied?  In Homeland, all military families are brought on base when it hits the fan. This allows the soldiers to focus on their jobs, knowing that their wives and children are protected and cared for. However, this move also gives the regime leverage. If a soldier refuses to commit atrocities, his family may be forfeit. That kind of pressure is enough to make good men do very bad things. I do not envy our troops in such a situation. The same tactic can be used on just about anybody. This was a key tool of the totalitarian regimes in the last century. I don’t see why future regimes would stop using it.

HENRY BROWN: I don’t envy them either. In fact, rarely does a day go by anymore that I don’t find myself opining that I couldn’t be a part of what the military has become. It is no place for a patriot, or even for a good soldier anymore.

R.A. MATHIS: What are your thoughts on the likelihood of the American military making war on its own citizens?

HENRY BROWN: No offense, but in my experience officers often have a perspective on situations and shared experience that is rosier than the grunts see it. I’ve been on the enlisted side and could write quite a hatchet-job on the rank-and-file, even back in my day and even in an elite unit.

It boils down to this: kids growing up in the USA have no appreciation for how good we’ve had it here. They not only take our freedom and rights for granted, they are conditioned to have contempt for America. Very few of them resist that conditioning. Those people grow up and join the armed forces and, big surprise, the motivation is rarely patriotism. It’s for college money and job training. And that’s how the recruiting commercials pitch it. They throw bait out for mercenaries and that’s what they get.  (But perhaps many did join in the months/years after 9/11 for a more altruistic motive).

Career soldiers would just as easily fight for any cause and as part of any army. That’s the impression I got of the average G.I.

All officers have some generic pretense of honor, but when the rubber meets the road, most officers and NCOs are serving their career ambitions, not their country. Some are better than others, but those who rise to the top are nothing more than uniformed politicians.

Baron Von Steuben gave us quite the compliment when he illustrated the uniqueness of the American soldier (unlike any other soldier who receives an order and automatically complies, Americans had to have confidence in the motive behind the order before they would comply). This is definitely no longer the case.

All of this was bad enough when I wore the uniform; I’m sure it’s much worse now. Thank God there are exceptions. But what few good soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen remain are either being purged, or forced out by the increasingly hostile environment the military is being transformed into. So yes: I’m afraid most will fire on American civilians, and with little hesitation–especially with the added head games they are sure to get immediately prior. I would love to be proven wrong, but won’t hold my breath.

So, whether faced with our own military or with modern-day Hessians under globalist command (assuming the 3 percenters have prepped adequately enough to avoid being simply starved to death) with no support from a foreign ally and probably without popular support, how viable do you consider a guerilla resistance effort to be?

R.A. MATHIS: You mention in False Flag that no insurgency has ever won without foreign intervention and popular support, which I thought was a very good point. The two things America has to counter that are the 2nd Amendment and the 2008 election of the best gun salesman the country has ever seen. We have over 300 million citizens and about as many firearms in this country. We are also buying up ammo as fast as it can be produced (at least what is left over after DHS gets their share). Combine that with hundreds of thousands of highly trained combat veterans scattered to every part of the country, and the odds don’t look so long.

(HENRY BROWN: What a coincidence that veterans, patriots and gun owners top the list of potential “domestic terrorists” the government is most worried about, eh?)

R.A. MATHIS: This alludes to the working title of Book Three, “Every Blade of Grass.”

HENRY BROWN: How appropriate–that very quote (whoever said it) was just going through my mind as your words sunk in.

R.A. MATHIS: I think the success of a resistance would vary by region. Rural areas would be virtual no-go zones for regime forces. Some urban areas may just welcome them like the Vichy French.
It seems to me that the biggest problem for the resistance would be the lack of electricity. If the regime restored power to each region as it was brought into compliance, it could make for effective deadly propaganda against the resistance. It’s the old “freedom vs security” dilemma on steroids. I’m not sure which way the populace would go in that case, especially in winter.

 That’s about the halfway mark. Look for the rest of the discussion next time. – Hank

Military, SHTF

When it Hits the Fan (Falling Down Excerpt)

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Here’s an excerpt from R.A. Mathis’ excelent SHTF novel, Homeland: Falling Down. – Hank

 

After what seemed like a hundred miles, they finally reached the hospital. The ground outside was littered with patients. Doctors and nurses rushed from one victim to the other, trying to conduct triage as best they could. Walking wounded crowded the emergency entrance, blocking the door. Cole had seen this before in Syrian refugee camps. Whether the staff knew it or not, that’s what this place was turning into. He couldn’t believe this was the same city he visited two nights before.
Lieutenant Young ordered the vehicles to form a perimeter around the entrance to clear the way for medical personnel. The crowd wasn’t happy about it, but relented. Young went in to find the administrator. Cole helped his passenger from the Humvee “You’re safe now.”
The woman sobbed. “They just pulled me from my car. I don’t know why. They tried to rape me. I was trying to get to my son’s school. He’s in the first grade. I never should have let him go this morning.”
“Some of our guys are going to schools. Tell Private Hicks which one your son goes to and we’ll try to get you to him.” He gave her an MRE and a bottle of water, wishing he could do more.
Cole noticed a nurse kneeling over an old man who was lying in the grass. Her blonde hair was pulled into a neat pony tail that fell gracefully over her shoulder as she treated a gash on the man’s forehead.
Cole grabbed a first aid pack from the back of his Humvee and walked over to her. He squatted next to the pretty nurse and handed her the sterile bandage. “This will help.”
“Thanks.” She examined the man’s head and asked Cole, “You have any water?”
“One sec.” Cole ran to his vehicle and brought back some bottled waters.
“Thanks again.” The nurse opened a bottle and washed out her patient’s wound, applied a spray-on antiseptic, and bound it with the dressing Cole gave her.
The old man took her hand. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She gave him another water. “Drink this. You’ll be fine. Just rest a while and call if you need me.”
“You’re an angel,” the old man said.
The man took the words right out of Cole’s mouth as he watched her brush a lock of hair from her deep blue eyes.
She held a hand out to Cole. “I’m Amber.”
He took it, hypnotized by the young nurse’s striking gaze. “I’m…Cole.” He regained his senses and looked at the multitude waiting for care. “You’ve got your hands full.”
“It’s getting worse every hour. We’re already low on bandages and antibiotics. I don’t know how long we can keep this up.”
“I’m here to help.”
“Be careful what you offer. I’ll put you to work.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Someone yelled, “Help! Somebody help! Please! My little girl!”
Cole saw a man carrying his daughter. She was pale and limp, her limbs dangling as he staggered through the crowd. Both were covered in blood.
Cole ran to them and took the child into his arms as Amber asked, “What happened to her?”
The father responded, “Car accident. Truck came out of nowhere.”
Cole sprinted to the ER, holding the girl tightly. A doctor blocked him and said, “You can’t take her in there. We don’t have any more room.”
Sergeant Crowe walked up and grabbed the doctor by the collar. “Make room.”
The doctor wilted under the sergeant’s cold stare and iron grip. “I’ll squeeze her in someplace. Follow me.”
Crowe took the child from Cole. Her eyes opened slightly and looked up at the crotchety sergeant. He said, “I gotcha, sweetheart. You’re gonna be okay.” He snapped at the doctor. “What the hell are you waitin’ for?”
The doctor trotted into the hospital with Crowe and the girl close on his heels.
Amber was true to her word. She worked Cole and his men relentlessly. He lost count of how many people they treated as the hours passed. For every one they helped, three more arrived in need of aid. By dusk, almost every inch of ground around the hospital was covered with wounded waiting for help.
Streetlights came to life as Amber went back to the E.R. for more supplies, but returned empty handed. Her warm breath puffed in the chilled night air as she told Cole, “They’re out of everything. Do you have any more supplies?”
“No. What little we had ran out hours ago.” He surveyed the mass of humanity sprawled across the grounds. “The temperature is dropping fast. If we don’t figure something out, most of these people will freeze to death by morning.”
Crowe grabbed an MRE and a bottled water from his vehicle and yelled, “Hicks!”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
“Take these to the little girl we brought in a few hours ago then report back to me with her status.”
“How do I find her, Sergeant?”
“Just tell ‘em she’s the one I brought in. They’ll know who you’re talkin’ about. Her name is Becky. Tell her Sarge says hi.”
“Will do, Sergeant.” Hicks sprinted into the hospital.
Cole jested, “I always thought you had a heart in there somewhere.”
Crowe saw Cole staring at him with a grin. “What the hell are you smilin’ at?”
Cole tried to straighten his face. “Nothing, Sergeant.”
“Then wipe off that shit eatin’ grin.”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
Smoke from the smoldering city burned Cole’s nostrils. The cold night bit at him through his Gor-Tex jacket. He gazed at the poor souls shivering on the hospital grounds, wondering how many would be alive come morning. The chatter and beeps of the Humvee radios filled his ears, making him feel detached from his surroundings. The audio didn’t match the visual.
He looked at the blood smeared across his uniform. A little girl’s blood. American blood. This wasn’t supposed to happen here. This happened in Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, and a hundred other places like them. But not here.
Amber asked, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Cole lied. “I’m good.”
Sergeant Crowe walked up to them and said, “These people are gonna freeze if we don’t do something. Gimme a hand. I got an idea.”
Cole, Amber, and several soldiers from the platoon helped Sergeant Crowe gather empty metal drums from inside the hospital and filled them with anything flammable.
Crowe told them, “We’ll set these on the ground and keep ‘em burnin’ all night. Gather the wounded around them close as you can. Should keep hypothermia from settin’ in. A nice warm burn barrel saved my ass on many a cold night.”
As the men set out the barrels, Crowe said to Cole in a low voice. “It’s time to think tactically. Prepare to defend this position.” He pointed to spots on the edge of the hospital grounds. I want fighting positions dug there, there, and there. You know the drill. Get moving.”
Amber ran up to Cole. “What’s going on?”
“We may have to defend this position.” Cole pointed to the hospital. “This place is full of drugs, food, and a bunch of other things people will need. If they’re desperate enough, they won’t think twice about killing us to get in.”
Amber shudder as gunshots crackled a few streets away.
Cole looked into her frightened eyes. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Private Hicks reported back. “Where’s Sergeant Crowe?”
“He’s over there.”
The soldier ran over to Crowe. “I found Becky.”
“How is she?”
“She didn’t make it, Sergeant. The docs said there was nothing they could do.”
Crowe stared at Hicks, his jaw grinding.
Hicks added, “Her dad said to thank you.”
“You take it from here,” Crow said to Cole, “I’ll check on the L.T……. Ain’t seen him in a while.” The platoon sergeant suddenly seemed old and tired.
Crowe turned and walked back to the hospital, kicking a trashcan over with a curse. Cole saw him wipe his eyes before going in.
The glow of fires in the city silhouetted the buildings nearby, casting ghostly shadows across Cole’s gaunt face as the last rays of sunlight disappeared. He looked at the sick and wounded civilians huddled around the fire barrels. The points of warmth shone brightly in the darkness. It looked as if the stars had fallen to Earth. Cole never believed in astrology, but he could easily read the ominous portents of these flickering terrestrial constellations.
Shouts echoed in the twilight from the edge of the clearing.
“Help!” a woman shouted.
“Hey!” More yelling. A man this time. “Dammit!”
Pop! Pop! Then screams. People running. Stampeding.
“C’mon!” Cole and his men rushed toward the disturbance, weapons at the ready.
A fire barrel went over. Flame danced across the frosty ground.
“Freeze!” Hank shouted as he ran at the front of his troopers.
A thug held a woman by the hair, her body shielding his, a gun to her head.
At their feet lay a well-dressed man bleeding from several bullet wounds to the chest.
“Back off or the bitch gets it!” the gunman yelled.
Sergeant Crowe arrived next to Cole.
“Take it easy,” he said to the gunman. “Put the gun down.”
“You first, soldier boy.”
“I’ll give you anything you want. Just don’t hurt me,” the woman sobbed.
“You can’t win this one. So put it down. Now!” Crowe ordered.
“Please, don’t let him hurt me,” the woman begged.
“Screw you!” The gunman whipped his pistol about and shot the sergeant.
Crowe staggered backward. Cole’s men returned fire as one. The shooter and the sergeant both hit the ground.

 

Stay tuned for a discussion between me and the author about America’s fate in the near future, and how it might play out. – Hank

Military, Non-Fiction/Documentary

The Warrior Poets

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I’m pleased to turn over the reins today to a fellow author and soldier. Enjoy this guest post from R. A. Mathis.

– Hank

 

The author and the soldier live in very different worlds, but sometimes those worlds collide. On rare occasions, pen and sword are both wielded deftly by the same hand.

Many veterans record their wartime recollections in straight forward narratives and memoirs, but few filter their experiences through the lens of fiction. Of these, only a miniscule fraction is ever published. This is especially true of our most recent conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. A quick search on Amazon or the local bookstore will produce an avalanche of veteran-authored non-fiction about any conflict you care to name with a pitifully small sampling of novels penned by vets. But this small band includes some literary giants such as Hemingway, Vonnegut, and Tolkien to name a few. Torch in one hand, quill in the other, these brave souls explore the cavernous depths of human nature, illuminating its flaws, virtues, and fears. They peer into the places we try to keep hidden and pull out the ugly truths that plague us as individuals and society as a whole.

I imagine many of them turn to fiction for the same reason I did. The sights, sounds, smells, stress, and emotions of combat are a lot for the mind to take in…too much, actually. Eventually, you have to switch off your humanity for the sake of your sanity. Emotion is removed from your thought process because it has to be. The shredded body of a kid killed by an insurgent’s IED isn’t somebody’s child. It’s just a thing. You think, that’s a shame. But in the back of your mind, you know it was a six-year-old boy – what was left of him. You still hear the child’s mother wailing when you’re lying in your bunk or manning an observation post in the quite of the night. You still don’t sleep. Your stomach still stays in knots. Your loved ones still hear it in your voice when you call home. You try to stuff it all in the deepest corner of your head you can find. You tell yourself, “Just get through it. You can think about it later.”

Eventually, if you’re lucky enough to make it home, you do think about it…a lot. There were questions, doubts, and guilt. Did I make the right decisions? Did I take the right actions? What should I have done differently? Could I have saved a fellow soldier? Why did I make it home? Why didn’t he?

I turned to writing as a form of self-therapy to help work through what was going on in my head. Memoirs are invaluable historical documents and may even aid their writers in venting some of the emotional steam imparted by the pressure cooker of war, but they rarely delve into the deeper, darker places of the soul. Fiction does. I was soon writing for hours a night. It was as if a dam had burst and everything I’d stuffed away in those remote emotional nooks came spilling out all at once through my fingers and onto the keyboard. Eventually, a novel began to take form. The first draft was pretty rough. The final still isn’t Shakespeare, but it’s honest.

War, like all evil, changes everything it touches. All soldiers know that going in. At least they should. All they can do is try to make it a change for the better. My own writing is a product of this ongoing challenge.

Endeavoring to join the ranks of those warrior poets who successfully picked up the pen after laying down the sword, I present my own feeble effort. It’s an attempt to convey the grit, heartbreak, uncertainty, humor, brutality, camaraderie, despair, exhilaration, deprivation, and terror that is war. My predecessors have set the bar high and it’s frustrating as hell trying to reach it. But like them, I’m a soldier. And like a good soldier, I’ll press on.

From his Amazon Page:

A jack-of-all-trades and master of some, R.A. Mathis has worn many hats as a husband, father, student, teacher, soldier, and then some. However, he has always been a writer. After graduating from the University of Tennessee with a BS in mathematics, he served nine years in the army as an armored cavalry officer, rising to the rank of captain and holding a secret-level clearance. During that time, he served a yearlong combat tour in Iraq. He has since earned an MBA and transitioned to the field of finance. Rob currently lives in Tennessee with his wife and family.

Action, Military, Reviews

13 Hours–Provoking Questions That Should Be Asked

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Only the gullible put their faith in Hollywood anymore. When you go into the theater, expect to be lied to if the film is “based on a true story,” or for the leftist agenda and their cultural Marxist tropes to get in the way of telling a decent story if it’s not.

Keep your guard up…and once in a while you’ll be pleasantly surprised.

What Hollywood would like to do is have everyone forget about Benghazi. Failing that, they would prefer to feed it through the leftward-cranking revisionist machine in which incompetent traitors like Hillary and Hussein are the heroes, and “right-wing extremists” are somehow the villains.

For whatever reasons, Michael Bay didn’t make that movie. Of course he doesn’t put a spotlight on the culpability of the US State Department, or tackle the unasked questions of why Ambassador Stevens was there in the first place, what he was doing, and by whose orders…but c’mon. That’s kinda like not being stung by the scorpion, then, on top of that, expecting him to pay you for taking him across the river. Count your blessings.

Here’s my list of pros and cons about the movie:

PRO: Very solid acting, from pretty much everybody. The CIA station chief stood out, in particular.

CON: It’s rough keeping track of all the characters, especially at first. They are introduced rapidly and you really don’t know much about their respective personalities until deep in the film.

PRO: The action is intense, and believable.

CON: As with the characters, there are several different entities involved in the Benghazi debacle, and there is no exposition to introduce you. If the viewer hasn’t studied Benghazi beforehand, he might feel a bit overwhelmed and out of the loop. There’s GRS; the QRF in Tripoli; plus security details for the consulate and the CIA Annex; and Feb 17. The interrelations are never politely explained.

PRO: If the movie is accurate, then what I initially heard about Glen Doherty’s role was not. Makes me want to dig a little to see what else I had faulty info on.

CON: There are the usual little nits to pick about scenes and shots in the firefight(s). These are usually due to either the director’s ignorance about tactics, or his sacrifice of accuracy for cinematic purposes.

UNDECIDED: Speaking of accuracy vs. dramatic license, the plot doesn’t perfectly progress after the pattern the audience is used to, and the simple explanation for that is because real life doesn’t, either. I know first-hand that it’s very difficult telling a true story that is dramatic/exciting; and probably impossible to tell a story that is both 100% accurate and 100% captivating. Considering that, the writers and director did an admirable job finding a balance.

PRO: While there is enough ambiguity to avoid revealing the smoking gun in Hillary’s hand (and the Obamanible Hussein’s, for that matter), this movie does cause thinking men to ask important questions.

Questions that should have been relentlessly asked since 2012, by the bulk of the American population.

Historical, Military, Music, TEOTWAWKI

INDEPENDENCE DAY (Up Yours, New World Order.)

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It’s pretty sad what has happened to our holidays. Thanksgiving has become Turkey Day; Christmas is now Santa Clause Day, and the Fourth of July has become Fireworks Day. This loss of our American (Judeo-Christian)  heritage was well underway by the time I was born, but I at least had the opportunity to educate myself.

For the record, the American Revolution did not begin with the signing of the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776. Nor did it start at the Boston Tea Party. The war began at Concord Bridge on April 19, 1775, when “right-wing extremists” opposed the forces of offshore interests who came to enforce “gun control” and disarm the militia.

This project was conceived as a book trailer for Henry Brown’s apocalyptic novel False Flag. The plan was to use the KISS principle (keep it simple, stupid). Just a quick 30 seconds and out.

Trouble was, after 30 seconds, Wagner’s Death of Siegfried just refused to be faded down. The music causes shivers and goose bumps, and demands to be played through to the end. Whatever Wagner’s personal ideology was, the man was one helluva composer.

Then the pendulum swung in the opposite direction on the project–enormous sequences based on the Bill of Rights, and montages contrasting Norman Rockwell’s America with what we have now…it was a lot of work, and after spending most of a weekend editing, it was only becoming more ambitious.

The Voice of Reason spoke up, and most of those set-piece montages were scrapped. A couple rough spots remained but further revisions were forbidden and we got it uploaded.

Below is another ambitious sequence driven by a Wagner soundtrack…but with a slightly (cough!) bigger budget to work with:

As you’re watching the fireworks tonight, remember that the pretty rockets and aesthetic explosions were meant to remind us that our nation was forged in war. Our freedom was not handed to our forefathers on a platter, as it was to us. It was not cheap. The liberty we have taken for granted was purchased with human blood.

Because we have taken it for granted, it is being stripped from us as I write this. At this late hour, it will not be inexpensive to contest the matter.

Military, Sneak Peek/Sample Chapters, TEOTWAWKI

Purging the Armed Forces

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4

Y MINUS TWO

CAMP PENDLETON

OCEANSIDE, CALIFORNIA

Brigadier General Clayton P. Vine, USMC, looked up from the training schedule when the intercom buzzed. One of his staffers told him the civilian V.I.P. had arrived. Vine had played power games when he was younger, forcing people to wait unnecessarily on him when they were on time for appointments; but he had grown out of that. The military–and the government in general–wasted entirely too much time with stupid little games designed to prove who had more power.

“Let him in.”

The door opened and one of Vine’s marines announced the visitor before shutting the door behind the State Department errand boy.

The errand boy was a mid-30s nerd with one of those fancy new Blue Tooths and a haircut that appeared downright unsanitary. He glanced around the office–which was tastefully built of stained wood—not that cheap paneling that simulated the real thing. The walls, of course, were bedecked with a few framed photos and several framed awards. There was also a US flag and the Colors of Vine’s present command.

The errand boy strode forward and shook the general’s hand. Vine encouraged him to have a seat, and he did.

Vine asked him all the polite garbage like how his flight had been, if he had any trouble finding Vine’s headquarters,and so forth. He had entertained errand boys before, and knew these pleasantries were expected. One never wanted to piss off anyone from the State Department.

The errand boy made a few polite comments about formations of marines he’d seen marching as he passed on his way here.

Finally the errand boy got around to business…in a bureaucratic way. “Well, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, the domestic situation is a bit worrisome.”

Vine said nothing, unsure what the errand boy was referring to. He wondered what exactly Washington was worried about. There were issues with police and demonstrators in various cities, but that was hardly a concern of the Marines. He could be referring to the influx of radical Muslims, hiding among the hordes of Latin refugees invading the country. But that was unlikely, since the administration he worked for obviously wanted to make the situation on the border worse, not better. None of it made sense to Vine, but then politics rarely did. Most of what the Marine Corps did made sense; which was one reason Vine loved being a marine.

“The President and Secretary thought it important that we touch base with our senior commanders in all the Armed Forces,” the errand boy said. “And I thought it best to meet with you face-to-face.”

“That’s good,” Vine said, resisting the urge to demand he get to the point. “I appreciate it.”

“Even with all this technology nowadays, I still think it’s the best way to communicate.” The errand boy checked something on his beeping smartphone, then slid it back in his pocket. “First of all, I want to personally thank you for your service to the President over the years.”

Vine nodded. His career had spanned the terms of a few presidents, and he considered his service as to the Corps anyway, but he went along with the assumption, hoping the errand boy would spit out what was on his mind.

“I understand you’re up for promotion.”

Vine nodded and smiled, which was not what he wanted to do. This civilian dweeb mentioning specifics of his career made his stomach queasy.

“Obviously my superiors and I understand how important it is to retain quality leadership,” Errand Boy said. “My uncle served in the Marine Corps, so I know the deal.”

You don’t know your sphincter from a gopher hole, kid. You should have sent your uncle to talk to me.

“So with the situation like it is, it’s imperative that the President knows he can count on you.”

“You lost me, son,” Vine said. “I’ve been in the Corps so long I can’t remember life before it. I’ve served with honor and been faithful to my duty. Is there some reason the President—or anyone else—suddenly questions my ethics?”

“Of course not,” the errand boy replied. “I took a look at your records, and your ethics are peerless…except, of course, for that brief dalliance with the young woman in Japan about 30 years ago.”

The queasy feeling got worse, and Vine’s blood ran cold. How did the State Department know about the affair? His wife never found out, and neither had his commanding officer. He would certainly have heard about it if they had. He’d felt guilty about the moral lapse for years afterwards, but finally chalked it up to youthful recklessness—no harm/no foul—and forgot about it.

“So it’s not really about ethics,” the errand boy said. “It’s about loyalty.”

The cold, sinking sensation intensified. Vine couldn’t very well swear to his own loyalty when they knew he’d once cheated on his wife.

The errand boy chuckled and held his hands up, palms-forward. “Hey, don’t worry. I’m not here because anybody’s upset that you got a little side action when you were young.”

“Why are you here, then?” Vine asked, losing his ability to maintain the polite tone.

“As I said, the domestic situation is getting ugly, General. Not everybody out there welcomes change. And change isn’t always easy–sometimes it makes things uncomfortable, even though it ultimately works for the greater good. And sometimes bringing change requires some people to adjust their methods, and perspective.”

Now it was dawning on Vine what this was about. He’d heard scuttlebutt about a purge taking place across all the branches of the armed forces. He knew about a few of the senior commanders who were sacked a while back—vocal critics of how Benghazi was handled. He assumed that was the extent of the purge. Obviously not.

“What specific change are we talking about?” Vine asked.

“Well,” Errand Boy said, “there are some old traditions and rigid ideas about what the military can and should be used for. We need to take our concept of the armed forces to a whole new level. Times like these call for flexibility. For thinking outside the box.”

“All right,” Vine said, in a tone meant to coax out more information.

Errand Boy crossed his legs the way a lady does, removed his glasses, and polished the lenses with a handkerchief “The ways of war are changing, as I’m sure you know, General. There’s no more one nation against another, sending bomber formations at each other’s factories; soldiers stabbing each other with bayonets; that sort of thing. At least not in the developed world. We’ve got modern technology; a different definition of victory; and different threats. Our men and women in uniform won’t necessarily be tasked with fighting enemy soldiers…or shipping off to some faraway land to do it.”

“Let me spell out what I think you’re driving at,” Vine said, his face heating up. “And you tell me if I’m right: the President wants to know if I’m willing to command my marines to fire on American civilians, based on his say-so.”

The errand boy’s head rocked back on his neck as if he’d just received an invisible slow-motion blow to the face. “Well, I wouldn’t…”

“And you all believe that what I did in Japan is an insurance policy just in case I don’t want to dance to the President’s tune,” Vine interrupted. “Is that it?”

“I assure you, nobody in Washington thinks any less of you because of some harmless booty call in the previous century,” the errand boy said, nonchalantly.

“And furthermore,” Vine continued, “my promotion, and therefore my career, depends on me agreeing to this. Does that sum it up?”

The errand boy shrugged. “Perhaps that’s not the most delicate way to phrase it. But yes.”

Vine wanted to tell him where to stick delicate phrases. Vine had never concerned himself with politics. There were only a few times he even bothered to vote, and he’d never even watched a presidential debate. The only campaign promises that motivated him had to do with the military budget.

Vine’s father, however, had been different. A marine, for sure, but he also considered history and politics to be important. In one of their last conversations before he passed away, Vine’s father reminded him that Clayton had taken an oath to uphold and defend the Constitution. Vine had never read the Constitution, and only knew what other people claimed that it said. His father said that it was the law of the land–the fundamental core of American government. His father said America was unique because, here, individual rights were sacred whether laws were written acknowledging them or not. In America, government’s purpose was to protect those rights.

His father would go on at length about this, and Vine couldn’t remember all the details, but that was the gist of it.

Vine hadn’t studied what his father had; and didn’t agree with him about everything…but something just struck him as wrong about using the Marines as a weapon against Americans.

“I’m curious,” Vine said. “Why are you so sure we’re going to need to fight a war against our own civilians? The country’s what—240 years old or so? There’s never been a need for this before.”

The errand boy frowned and checked his watch. His whole demeanor changed as the pleasant, respectful facade was dropped. He paused before speaking. “It’s obvious from your hesitation that you’re not the man for the job. I thought you were smarter than this. But not everybody can handle the adjustments necessary to make change work.”

“Why won’t you answer the question?” Vine asked. “Why are you so sure you’ll need my marines to kill civilians? I mean, even in the Civil War, armies fought other armies. What do you anticipate?”

The errand boy stood from his seat and gave a curt nod. “Of course I don’t need to tell you that the subject and details of this conversation are classified; not to be disclosed to anyone without the expressed permission of the President.”

Vine rose to his own feet. “We didn’t discuss anything of strategic significance, young fellah—there’s no national security concerns here. I’m not legally obligated to keep any of this secret. But then I suppose that’s where the implied blackmail threat comes in.”

The errand boy already had his back to Vine by then, but flashed him a wry grin over the shoulder on his way out the door.

The errand boy walked back to his rental car using one thumb to compose a text message. Once behind the wheel, he finished it.

“Nix Vine. Won’t play ball.”

He sent the message, started the engine, and scrolled through his notes to find the next senior officer on the list.

And just like that, Clayton P. Vine’s career in the United States Marine Corps was over.

Within the next few days Vine would be notified that his second star had been pinned on somebody else’s uniform.

Someone who passed the litmus test.

Vine would be thanked for his service and forcibly retired. If he leaked the reason behind his sacking, his affair with the young lady in Japan would be leaked, adding disgrace to injury.

For the rest of his life, Vine would wonder if he’d done the right thing. Was his instinctive moral resistance important enough to throw away what he loved most of all?

For the first time in 40 years, he felt the urge to cry. The Marine Corps was his entire identity. Wasn’t it worth keeping, at any price?

Despite the anguish of his shockingly crushed spirit, he suspected it wasn’t.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Historical, Military

D-Day in Pictures

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I’ve posted something on D-Day pretty much every anniversary since I began blogging. This time I won’t be writing so much about it–just showing imagery.

normandybeaches
These are the beach heads that had to be established. Only the one designated “Omaha” had heavy German resistance.

 

Ike meets with paratroopers of the 101st before their midnight jump into Hitler's "Fortress Europe."
Ike meets with paratroopers of the 101st before their midnight jump into Hitler’s “Fortress Europe.”

 

"One minute!" U.S. Paratroopers about to be scattered to hell & gone through a land crawling with Germans.
“One minute!” U.S. Paratroopers about to be scattered to hell & gone through a land crawling with Germans.

 

At H-Hour the ramps drop and ground-pounders have to slog through the surf through German fire.
At H-Hour the ramps drop and ground-pounders have to slog through the surf into German fire.

 

Here's what the folks back home knew.
Here’s what the folks back home knew.


This guy did a fairly decent job on the video, though he’s not informed well on the UN and China. But hey, most people in our dumbed-down culture don’t even know what WW2 was.

Military, Sneak Peek/Sample Chapters, TEOTWAWKI

Why’s a Sharp Brotha Like You Workin’ For the White Man?

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Chapter 2 from False Flag.

(Read Prologue and Chapter 1 here.)

2

Y MINUS TWO

BAGHDAD, IRAQ

Jake McCallum hadn’t had many visitors since he’d been in the hospital. A few guys from Security Solutions, International, including the president of the private military company, dropped by. Ingrid–a field surgeon and his on-again, off-again girlfriend, checked in regularly. But his closest friend in SSI, Leon Campbell, was stateside. And after the first few days there was little break from the bedridden monotony in the cool, white room.

At six-foot-eight and with a massive, carefully-sculpted musculature, it was agonizing for Mac to lay here and feel himself atrophy. His arm was broken and his knee recovering from surgery. In a civilian context he would have been released to recover at home; but here he was treated like a wounded soldier because it wouldn’t be safe for him in-country in his vulnerable condition.

A black man, who was not Leon, appeared in the doorway and rapped his knuckles on the jamb. He was a little shorter than Leon, and huskier. “What’s up, my brotha?” the man greeted.

Mac noted his business formal attire, despite the environment. His shoes were in the latest style. The creases in his pants were razor-sharp, and his jacket was tailored to his V-shaped torso. With perfectly trimmed mustache and goatee, he looked like a model for the cover of Jet or something. Mac had rubbed elbows with plenty of Agency guys over here. Agency guys usually dressed business/casual Nobody except politicians dressed sharper than that.

From his bed, Mac chinned an acknowledgment of the visitor, who then entered with a very subtle three-legged swagger.

“DeAngelo Jeffries,” the man said, extending his hand. Mac wrapped his own huge paw (the one he could still use) around the offered hand and pumped it once.

“I’m in town for a while, checking things out,” Jeffries said. “Guy I’m with was assigned to debrief your girlfriend—tall Swedish blonde—so I thought I’d come by and holla at ya.”

“Debriefing” meant Jeffries was working for the Agency in some capacity. McCallum had wondered if his trip to Indonesia would get their attention.

“Nurse said they had to do some work on your knee,” Jeffries said, sliding the chair over to seat himself at bedside.

“Yeah,” Mac said. “I can get around on crutches for now. Hopefully I’ll be able to put weight on it before much longer.”

“Knee injuries are no joke, man,” Jeffries said. “I had to have mine scoped a few years back. It’s like the most critical joint in your body. Has to withstand the most abuse.”

“Hurt it playin’ ball?” Mac asked, slipping into a ‘hood accent without conscious thought.

“Yeah, you know it,” Jeffries said. “But nothin’ like yours. Speakin’ of ball, I know you had to play somewhere, with your height.”

Mac shrugged massive shoulders. “High school. A little college, before I went in the Army. So if somebody’s debriefing Ingrid, that means you’re here to debrief me.”

Jeffries shrugged this time. “Naw, man–nothin’ official. Wouldn’t do that here, anyway. But rumors go ’round, and I’m supposed to ask you some questions. That’s all.”

“What you wanna know?”

“You know: routine stuff. Like were you injured here or somewhere else?”

“On vacation,” Mac said, technically telling the truth.

“Where’d you go?” Jeffries asked, in a friendly, conversational, none-too-concerned tone of voice.

“Indonesia,” Mac replied, wondering how much Ingrid was telling this guy’s partner. She didn’t know everything, but she knew enough to raise some eyebrows in certain circles where a smart person never wanted to cause eyebrows to be raised. “My first time over there.”

“SOCOM never sent you over there, huh?” Jeffries asked, surprised.

So Jeffries had read Mac’s dossier.

“Not me,” Mac said. “They always had me focused on the Middle East. Taught me Arabic; oriented me on Islam; all that.”

Jeffries nodded. “I guess it makes sense you got a Private Military Company over here. Ain’t too many brothas got that kinda’ juice at War, Incorporated.”

“I’m only vice president,” Mac said.

Jeffries chuckled. “Looks to me like you do all the work at SSI, while the president just handles the administrative end.”

Mac shrugged again. “Nigga behind the trigga. You know.”

Jeffries shook his head, sadly. “We come all this way. Even got a brotha into the White House. But the white man still has the white collar.”

“Even in a war zone,” Mac agreed, chuckling himself, relieved that Jeffries didn’t seem to be hungry for details about his “vacation.”

“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Jeffries said, suddenly serious. “But there’s a new development here. Al Qaeda is reorganizing; working on changing their name.”

Mac knew “former” Al Qaeda cells were instrumental in a lot of regional mischief. And white people were making entirely too big a deal that American tax dollars were buying weapons which found their way into the hands of the late Osama Bin Laden’s jihadists. The issue was much more complex than who was behind the 9/11 attacks and whether the new regime in Syria would be more hostile to the US than the old one was. Now, evidently, the jihadists were getting ready to topple the precarious post-Saddam regime here in Iraq, too.

“The withdrawal is a done deal,” Jeffries said. “The day is coming when you won’t have the Army or Marines here to back you up.”

“I go to the briefings,” Mac said.

“You ever consider working domestically?”

“In the States?” Mac nodded. “I tried to get on a SWAT team after I left the Army. Wound up a contractor instead.”

Jeffries shook his head, frowning. “I ain’t sayin’ you wouldn’t be good at it, but SWAT—that’s local stuff. The Man wants to keep us local and small scale, but we need to get in where the power is, on the federal level.”

“You mean like what you’re doing?” Mac asked.

Jeffries nodded. “I’m at the federal level. I got my finger on the pulse; feel me? And if bad stuff goes down, I’m in a position to do somethin’. Look at the whole Eric Garner thing…did you follow that?”

Mac shook his head slowly. “Yeah. Man, that jury…”

“That jury was just the start, man. You know I can’t talk about everything, but trust me, my brotha: it’s gonna get real ugly before too long. The man sees us movin’ up, now, and he don’t like it. I mean, we even got one of ours into the White House. White House. White. It’s their house, the way they see it. And they’re frothin’ at the mouth to make make sure us uppity Negroes don’t ever get up there again. There’s gonna be a backlash sooner or later, and you can kinda’ see it happening already.”

Mac considered his white friends. Some of them were just consumed with hate for Obama. They could rattle off facts and statistics to justify it, but what was the real reason? Then there were loose cannons like Josh Rennenkampf, who Mac was sure must be a closet Neo-Nazi.

“You got too much talent to waste on a SWAT team,” Jeffries went on, laughing derisively. “Or to waste bein’ a contractor.” He swept his hand in an arc–not to indicate the room they occupied or even the whole hospital, but the volatile country surrounding it, along with the chaos and military/political quagmire it represented.

“I dunno,” Mac said. “Contracting has been a good fit for me.”

“Well you might wanna think it over, my brotha. I might be able to hook you up, you ever decide to give it a try.”

“I appreciate it, man,” Mac said.

Jeffries stood from his chair. “Tell you what: I’m not gonna pry into your personal business about the vacation right now. You’re in the hospital, on pain meds. I’m just gonna say you fell asleep before you told me much. You get with Ingrid, find out what she said, then you can get your stories straight. Then we can finish debriefing. Sound good to you?”

Mac nodded, dumbly. When they shook hands again, it was in the familiar street method passed down and constantly revised by young men ever since the Vietnam era.

After Jeffries left the room, Ingrid came to visit him. She was a tall, well-proportioned, attractive Scandinavian woman, with a lab coat on over a nice casual blouse and pants. She asked how he was doing, and if he’d been questioned.

“Yeah. And he’s not done, either. What did you tell them?”

Ingrid shrugged. “What I know, which wasn’t much. I was on the boat when all of you went ashore. But I did see the one firefight.”

Mac groaned. Why did she have to mention that?

Well, he guessed the Agency probably knew about it already, anyway. “What did they seem most interested in?”

“Who all was there,” she said. “They knew about Tommy Scarred Wolf and his brother. And about you. They wanted other names, but I couldn’t remember them. I just gave physical descriptions.”

“Alright. If they come back to ask if you remember anything else, say no.”

They chatted for a bit, then she kissed him and left.

Mac pondered the whole strange encounter with Jeffries. The agent had saved Mac a whole lot of hassle, not asking questions there probably weren’t any safe answers for. In fact, if somebody really wanted to be a jerk, they could classify Mac as a suspected accomplice in the murder Tommy and Vince were framed for back in Medan, Indonesia.

Something bothered Mac about how easy Jeffries had made it for him. On the other hand, he was grateful to finally find an ally who saw things how they really were in this white man’s world. The negative possibilities surrounding Jeffries’ behavior paled in comparison.

Historical, Military, Reviews

Memorial Day – the Unmemorable Movie

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Memorial Day opens with Kyle Vogel stateside, going to visit his grandfather, a holstered Walther P-38 in hand. From there we flash back to Iraq in 2005, with SSgt Kyle Vogel’s squad encountering an IED. Then we flash back even further to 1993, when a young Kyle discovers his grandfather’s footlocker full of souvenirs from WWII.
Kyle strikes a bargain with the WWII veteran: He will select three items from the footlocker, and his grandfather will tell him the story behind them.
Not a bad way to spend Memorial Day. Not a bad gimmick to juxtapose soldier’s stories from World War Two and Gulf War Two, either. Loaded with potential, in fact.

memorialdayposter
For a low-budget film, the producers managed to round up some nice costumes and props, as well as a name actor and his son (to play the grandfather “Opaw” as a young soldier). A good flick could have been made with what they had to work with. Maybe even a great one. It’s been done before and could have been done this time. Overcoming the budget constraints would have been possible, but the film makers seem, to me, to be stuck in the “B” movie mindset. Or maybe that’s all they’re capable of.
First off, they desperately needed a competent technical advisor. This was obvious from the first scene in Iraq and only became more painful as the flashbacks mounted. But that’s not the only aspect of the film that grew increasingly tiresome.  Add the acting, writing and direction to that abominable snowball.
The director really wanted to make this a sentimental tearjerker, but fell on his cinematic face. The movie has a lot of positive Amazon reviews, and I have no explanation for that. I found all the hamfisted dramatic contrivances so inept that it took what remaining discipline my crotchety old civilian self still has to watch it all the way through.
This might be a Hallmark Movie Channel late night special some day, but even if it isn’t, I advise against paying money to watch it.