Molon Labe!

by Boston T. Party

  near Lander, Wyoming

  " . . . and have a warrant to search these premises," lead FBI agent Malone says.

  "Search for what?" Kyle demands. "What's going on?"

  "I'll ask the questions here. Just sit tight and do not interfere. If you need to go to the bathroom, one of the agents will accompany you. Now, do you have any other weapons in the house?"

  Logan, Utah

  Why did they break into my home? What do they want? Why are the FBI wearing masks? Aren't they proud of what they do? Only criminals wear masks! He forces himself to continue deep, regular breathing as his body desperately needs dirigible volumes of oxygen. Must press on and escape! They will kill me rather than let me surrender! I might as well go down like a man, fighting! The bastards have left me with nothing to lose!

  The FBI has discovered the (admittedly rare) flip-side to dynamic entry raids: causing such desperation in a subject can backfire. In a "fight or flight" scenario, some men fought, even against overwhelming odds. A man with "no way out" just may create one. And you don't want to be in his way when he does.

  Swan hears the agents coming down the hall. They will be through the kitchen in seconds . . . after having stepped over four of their buddies. And they will be very, very pissed.

  near Lander, Wyoming

  An agent leers at a naked Susan Bradford on the living room sofa. "Got any concealed weapons on you, Honey?"

  Susan glares at the agent in black tactical garb. "You're a creep!"

  "And you're really sexy when you're angry, didya know that?"

  Logan, Utah

  A solid plan crystallizes in Swan's mind. Run to the fence on his left, hop over and take cover behind the neighbor's woodpile. From there, the alley. A good plan now is better than a perfect plan later.

  Agents are in the kitchen now and he is still outside by the steps.

  Move or die!

  Swan springs up and runs to the fence. In his eagerness to escape he neglects to pie out and clear the left corner of his house. Given his limited training and practice, it is an understandable lapse. He has done extremely well to have gotten even this far against highly-trained multiple assailants. Five for five is pretty good.

  But, a mistake is a mistake, and not clearing your last corner is one of the worst ones to make. You have the rest of your life to solve your problem. How long you live depends on how well you do it. Swan does not notice a member of Green Team against the wall, behind his peripheral vision.

  As Swan runs towards the fence and safety, already imagining how he will bound over and land, the agent draws a careful bead on the running man and squeezes the trigger of his 9mm MP5.

  Five rapid tubercular coughs are heard from the AWC suppressor, echoed by five sickening thuds of impact.

  near Lander, Wyoming

  "My wife and I are both naked and handcuffed! Why are you worried about weapons in the house? Still feeling a bit inferior? Are we not defenseless enough for you?"

  Logan, Utah

  Swan is stitched across the back with a ragged diagonal line. The impacts feel like hammer blows but the US Armor Level IIIA vest does its job, stopping rounds #2, #3, #4, and #5. Although a 9mm subgun is not a rifle, being hit in the back with four rounds within a half second will drop a man. Swan falls facedown and is immediately swarmed by Green Team. His M1A is kicked away and gloved hands yank the Glock from its holster.

  near Lander, Wyoming

  "Shut up, Bradford," commands Malone. "We know you and Swan had something to do with Denver. The Bureau may be slow, but "

  "Swan? What does Frank have to do with this?" Kyle demands.

  "You tell us, farmboy. What were you two doing in Denver?" sneers the agent. Since the Bradfords are not under arrest only detained no Miranda reading of their rights is required.

  Kyle Bradford never placed much stock in ESP but he suddenly has a sense almost strong enough to pass for actual knowledge: his boyhood buddy Frank Swan is in very bad trouble.

  Logan, Utah

  No bulletproof vest, however, can protect what it doesn't cover. Swan is bleeding profusely from the first round, which shattered his left thigh bone and severed the femoral artery. From just below his groin, hot oil of life spurts out regular bursts, soaking his sweatpants and the cold ground beneath him. In the moonlight it looks black. Because he is shivering he must be cold, though he is too numb to feel it. Wounded! How bad?

  His lungs howl for air, but gasping for breath is a difficult task with angry men pinning him down. His consciousness begins to evaporate, gently, like a fading dream.

  near Lander, Wyoming

  "Susan! They're raiding Frank's place right now!" Kyle shouts. "

  Frank? What's happening?" Susan yells from the living room.

  Logan, Utah

  "Where the fuck are they?!" screams a White Team agent. "What did you do with them?!" He presumes that Swan will, under such pressure, reveal where he had taken the three Denver abductees.

  Swan hears the words through a thickening fog but does not understand. He thinks he means the dead guys in the kitchen and backyard, but that doesn't make sense. Nothing about any of this makes sense.

  "Wh who?" Swan manages to ask.

  While an agent has a knee to Swan's neck and a Springfield Armory .45 to his head, another agent is wrenching his hands behind his back and cuffing him. Two other agents are holding Swan down by his legs.

  "You know goddamn well who, asshole!"

  One of the Red Team agents looks up and says, "Scrote's wearing a vest! He knew we were coming, Dennis!"

  "Yeah, no shit!" the White Team agent says. "He blocked his front door, too! Took us forever to get through!"

  The urgent flurry of radio chatter and the icy handcuffs on his wrists remind Swan that he is in police custody. He has never been arrested in his life. He is terribly confused. Police! He vaguely recalls something from a thin yellow book about keeping silent and demanding to speak with your attorney.

  "C call my lawyer," Swan says barely, but with clear umbrage. He takes several more labored breaths, accepting the sudden realization that he would never see the inside of a courtroom. He is dying, and knows it.

  A feathery swooshing sensation engulfs him as animus detaches from corpus, all 65 trillion cells being evacuated of spirit. Going home. In a giddy state of shock he confuses the steam from his blood soaking the frozen earth as his soul floating into the starry night.

  Hello!

  Swan giggles softly.

  "Fucker's laughing at us!" the White Team agent spits.

  Before his bloodpressure fades out, Swan's forty three years of life muster one last defiant tug. It is his final thought and emotion a parting shot of anger.

  Otto!

  The thread breaks and he is untethered. So it was a dream after all! Swan floats away, unweighted, toward a beautiful, loving light. He hears singing, soft and lovely. Water in water, spirit in spirit, he is gone. Only the barest suggestion of a smile is left on his face.

  SWAT commander Wilcox coldly stares down at the deceased mechanic. "Little late for your lawyer, Mr. Swan."

  There is much shouting as EMT personnel rush into the house and backyard for the wounded agents. Three in the kitchen are dead, but the fourth took his hit to the ceramic trauma plate and is only winded. The agent shot through the tree is critically injured to the head, and not expected to make it to the hospital. The other agent would live but the .308 wounds are devastating. His arm will require amputation just below the shoulder.

  Wilcox abruptly turns to the White Team agent. "And you, Seńor Dumbfuck! You really dropped your pack on this one! You know better than to question a subject before he's been Mirandized! What if he told you some-thing? It could have got tossed out because he wasn't aware of his rights! Do I need to send you back to Quantico for a refresher?"

  "Sorry, sir. Wasn't thinking," the agent replies, eyes down, chastised.

  The neighborhood is now alive with dozens of frightened though unquench
ably curious residents in bathrobes. A multitude of dogs are barking. Squad cars are screeching up in front of Swan's home with lights flashing, and more police and EMT are pouring onto the property.

  A Green Team member implores, "Sir, Swan had to know we were coming. Look at his gear! Vest, Peltors who's ever seen such a thing? And who uses a rifle in his house?"

  Wilcox considers this. "Somebody who doesn't fuck around, that's who. Probably militia. He nearly escaped, too. He may have a car and driver waiting. I want a grid search of the surrounding ten blocks. Now!"

  "Yes, sir!"

  Wilcox seems to decide something else. "Yeah, I think he knew we were coming. Probably got tipped off by someone in the PD or SO just before we got on line. And now six of my men are dead or wounded! If this thing was leaked I'm gonna have somebody's Logan, Utah ass on a spit, I swear to God!"

  near Lander, Wyoming

  After twenty minutes the Bradfords are finally allowed to cover themselves with their own bed sheets. Their farmhouse is ransacked over the course of five hours. Agents confiscate all firearms, paper records, disks, as well as the computer.

  Malone's cell phone rings. It is Wilcox, calling from Utah with the bad news. Moods blacken as word spreads to the agents.

  Bondo is still screaming his little lungs out. The leering FBI agent says to Susan, "Will you shut up that fucking bird?"

  Susan coldly replies, "You've broken into his home and he's upset. As long as you're here, he'll keep screaming."

  The agent counters, "If you don't shut him up right now, I will!"

  "Oh, are you going to shoot our parrot? Federal agents seem to have a thing against family pets. Let's see, the ATF hates cats, the US Marshals hate dogs I guess the FBI hates parrots," Susan taunts. "What do US Customs hate, ferrets?"

  The scene is getting ugly so another agent interrupts with, "Mike, just put his cage in a closet or something!"

  Special Agent Michael Tipton has an idea. "How about outside?"

  "It's below freezing out there!" Susan vehemently objects. "He's a tropical bird; he can't handle the cold!"

  "Tough shit, lady. You had your chance," Tipton sneers. "Maybe if he quiets down I'll remember to bring him back inside before he turns into a parrotsicle." He chuckles at his new word.

  Tipton picks up Bondo's cage and carries it outside. On the way he says to the bird, "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will "

  Later that day a Salt Lake City spokesman for the FBI announces with thinly concealed pride the twin raids in connection with the Denver kidnappings. "Although we cannot comment on any evidence so far uncovered, our investigations are continuing."

  An Internet reporter pipes up. "How do you explain the bloodshed in the Logan raid? We hear from a neighbor that the SWAT team did not identify themselves and were fired upon by Mr. Swan as intruders."

  The FBI spokesman replies with an indignant wave of dismissal. "That is simply not true. The raid was lawfully executed and Mr. Swan knew that law enforcement were present. He blocked his front door in order to delay entry, and then chose to fire upon federal agents with a deadly assault rifle rather than peaceably surrender. It was a bloody and unsolicited attack on law enforcement officers legitimately performing their sworn duties."

  "How did Swan manage to kill four agents and wound two others?" asks another reporter.

  Just like the FBI at Rosebud, North Dakota and Miami, just like the US Marshals at Ruby Ridge, and just like the ATF at Waco, whenever any federal agency takes a licking, two old excuses are always trotted out.

  They knew we were coming. We were outgunned.

  "Do you mean to say that the FBI suspects a leak from local law enforcement in Logan?"

  "We are investigating that possibility, yes," replies the Bureau suit.

  The Bradfords are not charged with any crime, and their case becomes a new cause célebre amongst the civil rights groups. At a national press conference with their attorney, they speak for the first time.

  In a steady, acidic voice, Kyle explains, "Without any provocation or probable cause, the Waffen FBI surrounded the home of my childhood friend Frank Swan who was asleep. They never called him on the phone. They chose not to wait until he was driving to work. No, they surrounded a harm less, slumbering man at 4:30 in the morning like hyenas. As the FBI burst into his home, Frank woke up and began to defend himself from what he no doubt thought was a pre dawn home invasion by assailants.

  "While his dog, Otto, was dying on the living room floor after protect ing his master, Frank fought his way out of the house and nearly made it to safety when FBI Special Agent Donald Hoyt shot him five times in the back with a submachine gun. The FBI have expressed no apology for their obscene display of naked power. The FBI have expressed no remorse over my friend's needless death. Instead, they remain defensive and arrogant over the public outrage, and insist that the four agents 'died for their country.' I profoundly disagree. These agents are the type of government thugs that Americans fought over two hundred years ago on the road between Concord and Boston. Every 'dynamic entry' raid is meant to say, 'We are all powerful; you are noth ing.' How many more innocent people must be cut down by machinegun fire in the middle of the night before we admit that federal law enforcement is at war with the American people?!

  "At precisely the same time, my wife and I were also raided by the FBI, though fortunately by agents less trigger happy than those who killed Frank. In that raid we lost a member of our family. My wife Susan would like to tell you about it. Honey?"

  Susan Bradford steps up to the microphone. She is a trim, fresh faced brunette about 35 years old. "During their search of our farmhouse, one of the Cheyenne FBI agents, Michael Tipton, intentionally put our tame, caged parrot outside to freeze to death. We raised Bondo from a chick, taught him to sing, do chin-ups with his beak, and many other cute tricks. Agent Tipton killed a harmless family pet in a cowardly and despicable act. When we demanded that the FBI buy us another bird out of simple decency, they laughed in our face! So, if you have a dog, cat, hamster, parrot, or goldfish, beware agencies of federal law enforcement!"

  Their press conference revives the story with new life. They repeatedly air a video of Bondo singing "I Left My Heart in San Francisco," and his cruel death strikes a chord with the public.

  The Cheyenne FBI SAC is furious. "Tipton, you killed their parrot?"

  "Uh, well, not on purpose, sir. We just forgot to bring it back in." "'We'? What's this 'we' shit? You mean 'you'! You forgot to bring it back in! Hell, 'forgot' my ass! 'Parrotsicle'? You just had to teach Mrs. Bradford a lesson, didn't you?"

  "No, sir! I was busy conducting a search of the premises and forgot to return the bird indoors."

  "Aww, bullshit! Look, I don't give a fuck about their parrot, either, but the damn bird has become some kind of martyr. The entire country is talking about it and we look like assholes. Even Leno made a joke about it last night. The audience actually booed! Booed the FBI! You remember the first commandment from the Academy, don't you, Tipton?"

  "Uh, don't embarrass the Bureau?" Tipton ventures.

  "That's right, don't embarrass the Bureau! You stepped in shit and now we all stink! Devereaux himself called me about this."

  Tipton blanches. "The AD of CID?"

  "The same. And the Director's pissed. So, guess what, my bird-hating friend you're buying the Bradfords a new parrot. And try to act real sorry in front of the media. Get out; go home!"

  Tipton leaves the SAC in a huff and stalks through the office to the elevators. A lone voice from a cubicle sings out in mock-parrot style, "Go get 'em, Feathers! Bwarrk! " The room erupts in laughter.

  Special Agent Michael Tipton groans. He now has his Bureau nickname, and it's nothing as macho as "Speed" or "Hammer." The more he resists being called "Feathers" the more his colleagues will use it. He'll never live it down. He knows FBI culture well enough to understand that tattoos are less permanent.

  He pictures his future clearly: H
e will come to work and find his desk drawers filled with goose down. He will get anonymous Tweety Bird cards in the mail. Fellow agents will learn the Monty Python "Dead Parrot" sketch by heart and recite it just within earshot. An application to the Audubon Society will be filled out in Tipton's name.

  It will never end. No humor was as vicious as cop humor.

  Fucking parrot! He stabs the elevator button with sufficient force to fold his fingernail painfully in half. He swears loudly.

  A fellow agent walks past and tosses out, "Going . . . down, Tipton?"

  Just before the elevator doors close, from deep within the Cheyenne FBI offices comes a raucous Bwarrk! As he descends Tipton can still hear the laughter a floor and a half above through the elevator shaft.

  After nine weeks of investigations of the Swan and Bradford raids, several things finally became known. First, Frank Swan and Kyle Bradford did independently travel through Denver, but the purpose of their trips was to look at a fishing cabin near Fairplay that they were considering buying. Second, all attempts to link the two men to terrorist activity failed. They weren't even members of any militias. Finally, no evidence could be found that the men had anything to do with the Denver kidnappings. Although they had read the Krassny posts online, so had hundreds of thousands of other Americans.

  The FBI had barked up the wrong pair of trees, resulting in the death of five men, a dog, and a parrot. It is an unmitigated public relations disaster. Howls of protest rain on the Bureau, and Gore Vidal comes out of retirement in Italy to pen a scorching article on the "eerie and persistent incompetence" of the FBI. Animal rights groups make a particularly ugly stink. There is even talk in Congress of merging the FBI with the Department of Homeland Security, and that really gets the Bureau's attention.

  The brother and parents of Frank Swan sued, as did the Bradfords. The Justice Department quickly settled out of court as a "humanitarian gesture" though without admitting any fault. They had done the same thing regarding Ruby Ridge, tossing out $3.1 million to the surviving Weaver family to shut down their $200 million civil suit.