With the transfer had come the new letter, the E for Explosives, and the only four letter agency had become the first five letter agency. Behind their backs, BATFE agents were still called “F-Troop” by the FBI for their tendency to screw up major cases, such as the initial attack at Waco. (Not that the FBI had covered itself in glory ending the standoff.)
It was fair to say that the FBI and ATF had shared a long, complex, and often troubled bureaucratic relationship before these three G-men found themselves watching an ATF gun store compliance visit on this particular Thursday afternoon in Virginia.
George Hammet went to the counter and presented his credentials, the black leather wallet containing his gold badge and laminated BATFE identification card. The conversation between the young store employee and his customer halted in mid-sentence.
“ATF. I’m here for a compliance check. Where’s the owner, Joe Bardiwell?”
“In the back, wait one.” The employee pushed a button concealed behind the counter, and in a few moments a heavy steel door to the back rooms of the building opened. A middle-aged man wearing a leather machinist’s apron and clear safety glasses stepped out. Before the door closed behind him a few louder shots could be heard from the range. Bardiwell had thick dark hair and a mustache, and at first glance might have been said to resemble Antonio Banderas. Besides owning the store and its indoor range, he was a highly respected gunsmith, well known for his custom modifications to standard grade hunting rifles. His work shop and reloading room was in the back, along with his office, storage rooms, and the four lane pistol range.
“ATF again? And there’re four of you today? What’s the problem? I just had a check last week, and everything was in perfect order.”
Agent Hammet already knew this to be factually correct. As the Norfolk ASIC (Assistant Special-Agent-In-Charge) he was responsible for scheduling the compliance check Bardiwell was referring to. “I see that all of your semi-auto rifles are gone,” he said, pointing to the nearly empty gun racks behind the counters. As in most gun stores, the pistols were in glass cases beneath the counters, the rifles and shotguns were lined up in vertical racks along the back walls. “Have you turned them in, or sold them? Where are they?”
“Oh, I guess I sold just about every one of them. It’s been a busy week.”
“Sold them? All of them? Why would anybody buy a rifle that’s about to be prohibited? Did you inform the purchasers of the new law?”
Bardiwell tried not to smile. “They all know about the law, everybody does. And why they want the rifles is their business. This week selling them is still perfectly legal, there’s nothing in the law which comes into effect before next Tuesday.”
“But the weapons will be illegal in five days! You’re aiding and abetting criminal activity!”
“I don’t see how. I didn’t write the law, and there’s nothing in the law about not selling them this week, not one word. Call your Congressman if you don’t like the way they wrote the law.”
“But buying an assault rifle a week before they’re illegal clearly shows intent to break the law.”
“First, they’re semi-automatic rifles, not assault rifles. Assault rifles have a fully automatic capability. You know that. And I didn’t ask them about their ‘intent.’ They were all qualified buyers who passed the instant background check. I just sell legal firearms to qualified buyers for a living. And this week they’re still legal.”
“Let me see your form 4473’s, let me see all your paperwork for the last week.” Hammet was asking for all of the yellow federal firearms purchase forms filled out by each purchaser, which by law were retained at the gun stores. Theoretically this was to prevent the information from being centrally collected, which would constitute national firearms registration. The ATF routinely collected information from the forms in the conduct of actual criminal investigations, which was permitted. Lately they had taken to bringing in their own laptop computers and scanners, and copying forms wholesale, which should not have been permitted. The “Beltway Sniper” case in 2002 had finally buried the pretense that the ATF could not go on wide-net fishing expeditions. They had collected and culled through every 4473 in Maryland and Virginia on that case, and a new precedent had been set.
Joe Bardiwell went to his back office and returned in a minute with a stack of yellow cards. Usually an ATF agent would try to slip into the office to mine data in privacy, but Bardiwell had built a heavy hinged section into his counter to prevent his offices or storage rooms from being rushed by armed robbers, (or federal agents without a warrant). The seemingly unbroken counter top served its purpose, and Hammet remained on the public side of the store. Bardiwell laid the forms on the counter top in front of the ATF agent. “The last sales are on top, they go back in order. Rifles, pistols, everything.”
George Hammet quickly flipped through the cards. “AR-15, SKS, Bushmaster, FAL, an AR-180, two Ruger Mini-14s, another FAL….Jesus, you sold all of these yesterday! Did you think these guns were bought by people who intended to comply with the law?”
Joe Bardiwell shrugged. “How would I know? And why should I be left with unsold inventory I already paid for?”
Hammet picked up the entire inch-thick stack of forms and turned to leave the store. Bardiwell said, “You can’t take them out of here, you know the law. Those are my records, and they have to stay secured in my office, that’s the law. You can copy pertinent information in pursuing an investigation, but you can’t take the forms out of here as long as I’m in business.”
Bardiwell was making that statement for the record in front of witnesses, and knowing as well that his video surveillance cameras would catch the ATF agent in clear violation of the statutes if he left with the forms. It would not be above the ATF to take the forms on one day, and then arrest a firearms dealer for not having them as required by law on the next. Bardiwell’s store had two video cameras that were meant to be seen, and two more that were hidden. The ATF had been known to remove surveillance videotapes after harassing and abusing firearms dealers.
“And just exactly how long do you expect to stay in business Bardiwell? Maybe not as long as you think, if you’ve been selling assault rifles with the intent to evade the law. That’s conspiracy, at the very least! You’ll be hearing from us, Bardiwell.” Hammet held onto the entire stack of yellow cards and turned for the door.
The older customer, who had been at the counter watching and listening to the entire exchange, suddenly blurted out, “Hey Mr. BATF man, I thought there was no federal gun registration? But there you go, walking out the door with the 4473’s.”
Hammet stopped and shot a withering look back at the civilian who had unexpectedly challenged him, but the man continued.
“Let me ask you something Mr. BATF… excuse me, Mr. BATF-E man. After next Tuesday, are you going to be kicking down those peoples’ doors? Waking up the babies with concussion grenades? Stomping on their kittens and shooting their dogs? Throwing pregnant women around and causing miscarriages? Isn’t that what you do, in your black ninja suits, hiding your faces behind masks? We’ve got Muslim terrorists running around loose, but all you can think about is taking away regular peoples’ guns. Now why is that?”
George Hammet, the Norfolk ATF Assistant Special-Agent-In-Charge (ASIC) was accustomed to receiving obsequious courtesy in gun stores and was momentarily stunned into silence by the outburst. His face had turned an instant shade of red. When he regained his voice he called back, “and just who the hell are you, Gomer?”
“Gomer? Just who the hell am I? Who the hell am I? I’m just somebody that was bleeding in the jungle for this country when you were still in diapers, that’s who! ‘Killin’ a commie for mommy’, so she could raise you up to be a BATF man. Yessir, above the law, taking the yellow forms away, so you can go smash down their doors next week. But hey, you think it’s all fine and dandy if the lawyers up in Washington decide to tear up the Bill of Rights. That’s just fine by you, as long as they sign your paycheck, isn’
t it?”
Hammet was in the middle of the aisle, and turned back. “I’m going to need to see some ID, and I’m going to need to see it right now.”
“I’m sure you would, and I’d like to see your ID too while we’re at it, so I’ll know who to file the lawsuit against.”
“Shut up, you asshole! Leave it alone, if you know what’s good for you. Leave it alone—or else!”
“Or else what? You’ll arrest me for impeding a federal agent in the breaking of the law?” The two men were now standing only feet apart. The older man, the civilian in the black t-shirt and vest stayed by the counter, he had carefully made no threatening move toward Special Agent Hammet. Two of the FBI agents approached Hammet from the side, whispering for him to cool it and leave. The situation could easily have escalated into a full-out armed confrontation right there in the gun store, and the out-of-town FBI agents didn’t want to be dragged into a protracted snafu of the ATF agent’s creation.
The civilian had more to say, he wouldn’t leave it alone. “I earned the right to say my piece over in that jungle, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. And let me tell you something: all of us that went over there, we all took an oath to defend the Constitution from ALL enemies, foreign AND domestic, do you read me sonny?”
“I don’t need a lecture on defending the Constitution from a—”
“No? Well maybe it’s time you read up on it! Maybe it’s about time to figure it all out again, figure out just exactly who’s defending the Constitution, and who’s crapping on it. So my question to you is this: just exactly who wants to disarm us all so bad, and why?” Long harbored thoughts were flying through the old veteran’s mind now, and he couldn’t stop his mouth from firing off wild shots. “Let me tell you something else, whoever wrote that damn law is either the biggest fool who ever lived, or he just flat-out wants to start a civil war in this country.”
The three FBI agents looked at Hammet and at the old crackpot with some amusement, but mostly they just wanted to get out of the store while they could, without the situation escalating to a level which would require them to fill out reams of unwanted paperwork.
“You don’t believe me huh?” the old veteran continued, now addressing all four of them. “Then why’d every decent rifle in Tidewater, and probably everywhere, get bought up this week? Look around in here. There’s not a rifle or an ammunition magazine left, and not hardly a box of rifle bullets. Now why do you think that is? So people can throw them all in dumpsters come next Tuesday? You federal boys better think about it long and hard, and pick which side of the Constitution you’re going to stand on.”
Hammet said, “Put a cork in it old man, or we’ll arrest you for threatening federal officers!” His bulging neck was practically splitting his shirt collar, his face was almost purple. He was trying to regain his composure and his control over the situation. Threatening arrest usually did the trick: nobody wanted to be handcuffed and taken away to jail.
But the angry man just sneered. “I’m way too old for you to scare me that way sonny! Now the VC and the NVA, they scared me plenty back in the day, but not you, oh no, not hardly. And let me tell you something else: Charlie taught me a thing or two over there—things I ain’t never forgot! And not just me, no sir, not just me by a long shot.”
George Hammet spun and headed out the door, still red-faced with anger, the three FBI men trailing behind him in line. The last FBI agent turned back around at the front door, nodded slightly, flashed a ‘thumbs up’ sign against his chest in the old man’s direction and shot him a wink. Then they were gone.
****
In the shop the ranting man’s anger immediately turned to regret. “I’m sorry Joe, I guess I really crapped in the coffee pot this time. I mean, I really put you in the shit with those assholes. But seeing that BATF guy hauling out your 4473s, knowing what that means, what’s going to happen to those folks now…damn. I just don’t know what’s happening in this country any more. I feel like a war’s coming. I don’t quite know how I know it, but I can feel it coming. And now I went and got the BATF all pissed off, right in your store.”
“Ah, forget it Phil, you spoke the truth. You said what you thought had to be said, don’t ever be sorry for that. That’s why we live in a free country.” Joe Bardiwell spoke with a slight foreign accent, one hard to place.
“I really thought they still weren’t allowed to take the 4473s out of the store.”
“They’re not, but they do what the hell they like. Especially after 9-11, and the Beltway Sniper, and now the Stadium Massacre…. Yeah, they’re a law unto themselves; they just do what the hell they want. If they can say it involves national security or terrorism, they get a blank check and a free hand, and no questions asked. It’s difficult times my friend, difficult times. Muslims maniacs are running around shooting people and blowing themselves up, and the feds pick right now to disarm honest Americans.”
“Well Joe, I’m sorry for any trouble I caused you with the ATF, I really am.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. What’s going to happen is going to happen. Don’t let ‘em drive you crazy. We’ll get through this if we stay cool.” The two men shook hands across the glass topped pistol display counter, and then the older man left the shop, mounted his Harley, fired it up and took off fast to the south.
Joe Bardiwell went back into his office and began making phone calls. He felt it was his duty to call his customers and tell them that the ATF had just pulled their 4473’s and taken them away, which was highly unusual, and indicated certain trouble. In order to avoid any ATF concocted conspiracy charge he carefully told each customer or customer’s answering machine the safe and truthful statement, “The ATF just pulled your yellow form, make sure you comply with the new law and get rid of your semi-auto rifles by next Tuesday.”
In reality Bardiwell knew that virtually all of these rifles had already been “gotten rid of.” They had already been buried in watertight plastic containers or otherwise well hidden. He had heard talk of stockpiles and caches and large diameter PVC pipe all week long, as rifles and ammunition had flown off the shelves. Customers wanted to know what kind of grease or lubricant to use for long term storage, and if they should take apart weapons to relieve spring pressure.
Bardiwell stayed away from talk of weapons caches and resistance, he heard it but didn’t join in it. However, in point of fact Joe Bardiwell had himself already cached a significant amount of arms and ammunition. Storm clouds had been gathering for a long time, and he intended to be ready for whatever came next.
Joe Bardiwell was not a natural born American citizen. He had lived until his late thirties in a Christian town in the hills east of Beirut Lebanon. He knew better than most people that if and when the storm broke, America could quickly be divided into two classes: armed survivors, and disarmed victims. He had seen it and he had lived it from 1976 until 1981, when he finally immigrated to the United States with his American-born wife.
His entire village had been ethnically and religiously cleansed by the far better-armed invading Muslim PLO. The poorly-armed Christians were all murdered or forced to flee, after two thousand years of their people living in the same town. After leaving Lebanon and embracing freedom in the United States, he had decided that he would never again, under any circumstances, be disarmed.
****
ATF agent George Hammet was livid, slamming the heavy door of the Suburban shut behind him. “Do you see now, do you see now, the kind of shit we have to take from these stinking gun nuts every damn day in and day out? You guys saw it—those crazy bastards hate the government, they hate us, they’re armed to the teeth, they’re crazy and they’re itching for a fight! They think their almighty Second Amendment is some kind of holy writ, something Charlton Heston brought down from the mountain like the Ten Commandments… You just cannot get it into these stupid crackers’ skulls that the only real ‘militia’ today is the National Stinking Guard. These gun nuts all think they’re Thomas Stinking Jeffer
son, and we’re the Goddamned redcoats!”
After a moment of embarrassed silence in the truck as they drove off, one of the FBI men said, “Well, uh, George, it looks like you won’t have to go all the way to Idaho or Montana to find the militias any more. It looks like you’ve got them all over your own backyard these days.”
“You’ve got that right. They’re everywhere. Right wing loony-tunes have been stockpiling guns and ammo like you wouldn’t believe. If you saw the amount of .223 and .308 that’s been getting bought every month, it would blow your mind. These gun nuts, they don’t buy a hundred rounds at a time any more. They buy a thousand, they buy ten thousand, they buy it by the case and the truckload, I kid you not!
“But we’ve got some tricks up our sleeves too, believe you me. They talk about resisting, they talk about a fight, well…they’ll see. They call us ‘jackbooted thugs’, right? We’re going to show them our jackboots, right in their damned teeth!” Hammet was banging his fist on the door ledge by the window as he shouted.
“Who’s this ‘we’ George?” asked an FBI agent sitting behind Hammet. He was the one who had flashed the secret ‘thumbs up’ while leaving the gun store. “Don’t try to enlist the FBI in your war against gun owners! My Dad’s a gun owner, and so are all my brothers. Hell, so am I! Don’t you know, every year ten or fifteen million Americans buy deer stamps and go off into the woods with scoped rifles? Have you ever thought about that? I’m not so sure it’s a great idea to piss off millions of ‘gun nuts’ with high-powered scoped rifles. I mean, they’ve got us outnumbered about a thousand to one.”
Hammet was laboring to control his breathing so that he could speak normally. “That’s the hunters, they’re okay. I’m talking about the wackjobs with the assault rifles.”
“Okay… So exactly how are you going to find the wackjobs in the middle of those 15 million hunters?”
Enemies Foreign And Domestic Page 7
