“Henry Niner, stand by, we’ll contact the Park Police and the Secret Service, wait out.”
****
Joel Friedman had stopped worrying a few minutes into his flight, and was enjoying his aerial view of the Capitol from four-hundred feet up. The 180cc motor on his back sounded like a chainsaw so he really could not hear anything else, but the skies were clear, the winds were light and manageable, and the scenery passing below was stunning. Hundreds of motorists who were standing around their gridlocked cars on Potomac Parkway waved up to the man in the red white and blue “power chute” as he buzzed over them. Before he reached the Lincoln Memorial he added throttle on his chest mounted control panel, then gently tugged his left riser to turn left over the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. He straightened out over the Reflecting Pool, and finally began his approach flight down the National Mall.
He checked his watch, it was 11:51 and he had just two miles to fly before he would be over the temporary location of the still unnamed “gun statue” at the Capitol building end of the National Mall. His timing was nearly perfect, the national media would all have their television cameras rolling for the twelve noon unveiling of the statue, which had reportedly been welded together from thousands of turned-in assault rifles. No one knew what it looked like yet. The sculpture had been brought to the Mall covered in tarps on a flat bed trailer before being erected.
Joel Friedman passed along the north side of the Washington Monument a hundred feet below its apex; more people looked up and waved at the red white and blue canopy and the man with the noisy little screen-enclosed gas-powered fan on his back. With only a few minutes to go, he undid the Velcro flaps on his canvas sack full of 5,000 leaflets. He could see the crowd milling on the grass at the far end of the Mall, he could see the several story high statue at their center which was covered in light blue canvas.
****
“Henry Niner, this is William Peter, Park Police advise that the parachute man is not, repeat not on the program, over.”
“Roger William Peter, I copy parachute man is not on the program. Break-break, Sierra Four, do you have the parachute man visual, over?”
“Roger Henry Niner, the parachute man is passing my location down the center of the Mall, he's over 9th Street now, over.”
“Sierra Two, Henry Niner, do you have him visual Sierra Two, over?”
“That’s a roger Henry Niner, we have him from our location on the Art Gallery. Break, William Peter, request instructions over.”
“Henry Niner, this is Sierra Three, we have him from the Air and Space Museum, clear shot over.”
“Break Break! All Sierra Teams, this is William Peter Control, do not, repeat do not fire unless he crosses First Street approaching the Capitol. First Street is the red line; do not take a shot without authorization, over.”
“William Peter Control, this is Secret Service One, we’ll take this now, request you stay off this channel at this time, break, Sierra...”
“…William Peter, this is Sierra Two. I copy are we green light to shoot east of First Street, please confirm, over.”
“Sierra Two, Secret Service has opcon, advise…”
“…calm down people, this is Hotel Niner, we don’t know this guy’s intentions. Parachute man appears to have a large package strapped to his waist, but both of his hands are visible up on his parachute lines over.”
“…Service, Sierra Three. Copy and confirm large package strapped on parachute man’s waist, parachute man is approaching 4th Street, he’s almost over the crowd, request instructions, over...”
****
Senators Schuleman and Montaine were standing front and center on the temporary stage, holding the ropes which would pull away the sky-blue canvas coverings to unveil the gun statue. They were surrounded on the stage by other politicians, film and television stars, famous network media personalities, and other well known gun control advocates and activists. On a smaller stage to the side, a rag-tag collection of aging folk singers with gray pony tails and frayed bell bottoms were strumming acoustic guitars and leading the crowd in singing, “How many times, must the cannonballs fly, before they’re forever banned? The answer my friend, is blowin’ in the wind…” All of them: the folk singers, the politicians and stars and the crowd below them were swaying back and forth as they sang, tears of joy rolling down their cheeks, euphoric smiles on their faces. The law had been passed! They would be free forever from the scourge of assault rifle violence!
At a minute past twelve the two Senators pulled down on their ropes, and the pale blue canvas fluttered free of the forty-foot tall statue. At the same moment, a hundred white doves were released from unseen wire cages beneath the decorated platform supporting the statue. The doves winged off in all directions as a thousand white balloons ascended at the same time, released from giant white boxes behind the main stage.
The forty-foot tall statue was obviously meant to be a person with his arms reaching skyward, holding up a large golden ball, which closer examination revealed to be a representation of the one united world. The gun-man statue was constructed entirely of hundreds and thousands of rifles and pistols of all types, welded tightly together along with odds and ends of scrap metal to fill the gaps. The hands and fingers were constructed from rifle barrels; it was possible to identify the front sights of AR-15s and AK-47s as the very finger tips supporting the world.
Joel Friedman watched the unveiling as he crossed 4th Street, flying above the outer fringes of the few thousand people surrounding the statue. He flew through a cloud of white balloons as he neared the center of activity, but with the chain saw motor on his back he hadn’t heard any of the speeches or the folk songs. Descending slightly, down to three-hundred feet above the crowd, and using the gun statue as his release point, he let go of his risers and reached into his open sack and grabbed a double handful of leaflets.
****
“William Peter, Sierra One. Parachute man is almost over the stage area, he’s reaching into his bag, I can’t see his hands, request permission…”
“Henry Niner, Sierra Two. Confirm if the bag contains a bomb over?”
“… bomb, William Peter…”
“…Peter, Sierra Two has a clear shot…”
“…William Peter, Sierra Three clear to shoot, request…”
“…William Peter, Sierra…”
“…this is Hotel Niner, break, Sierra…”
“…this channel, repeat, stay off…”
“…Sierra Two…”
****
On televisions across America, the views were alternating between the crying and hugging gun control advocates on the stage, and the white balloons and doves lifting into the clear blue sky above the gun statue. Some of the skyward-pointing cameras captured the unscheduled entrance of the rainbow shaped red white and blue parachute, and the man in the white jumpsuit suspended in a harness beneath it, being pushed along by an oversized fan on his back.
The parachute man was reaching into a sack tied around his waist when he suddenly arched backwards, throwing both hands high and releasing a blizzard of confetti which fluttered through the air. Then he fell limp in his harness, his chin on his chest and his arms dangling as he flew on towards the Capitol.
****
“…shot? Who shot? Cease fire! All Sierra teams stand down, stand…”
“…William Peter, Sierra Three. Sierra Three shooter has, uh, discharged his rifle. Uh, wait one, over…”
****
The parachute man had been shot by a .308 caliber Remington 700PSS bolt-action police sniper rifle, firing a 165-grain lead and copper hollow-point bullet. The slug entered his right side just above his pelvis at 2,600 feet per second, slewed sideways, and exited under his left shoulder. Instantly dead in his harness, his white jumpsuit filling with blood and blooming into crimson, Joel Friedman flew on, gently descending until his body thudded into the south portico of the Capitol building. His red white and blue parachute snagged a black wrought-iron balco
ny railing and stopped there, draping it almost like patriotic bunting.
His chain saw motor continued running, swinging his body back and forth like a pendulum against the whitewashed wall, leaving a red smear. He continued swinging to and fro while amazed Capitol police on the balcony looked down, conferring on cell phones and radios, until ladders were extended up the wall from below. Finally Capitol workers were able to tear out his motor’s rubber fuel line, and silence the tiny engine. They lowered his limp body down to the ground, under the unceasing gaze of the network television cameras.
****
Ten miles to the west, Michael Friedman watched his son Joel’s last act play out on a wall of televisions in the electronics department of a Falls Church Target Store, along with other shocked and speechless customers.
Then Michael Friedman’s very own leaflet was suddenly the hottest item on television, framed in close-up detail on every channel. It showed an old black and white picture of a nameless hollow-eyed Jewish man kneeling by the edge of a vast body-filled pit, staring directly at the camera in helpless despair, in the last moment of his life. Behind him a grinning Nazi soldier in a slouch cap aimed a pistol at the back of his head, while other smiling Nazis with rifles and sub machineguns slung casually on their shoulders looked on in approval. Millions of Americans simultaneously read the captioned headline printed above the strange picture, puzzling out its meaning.
When guns are outlawed
only governments and criminals have guns.
Beneath the picture of the doomed Jew and the smiling Nazis, this was printed:
During the 20th century, over 100 million civilians were killed by their own governments, more than in all 20th century wars combined. In each case, extermination followed gun confiscation.
1911: Turkey established gun control. From 1915 to 1917, 1.5 million Armenians in Turkey, unable to defend themselves, were exterminated.
1929: The Soviet Union established gun control. From 1929 to 1953, 40-60 million “class enemies,” unable to defend themselves, were exterminated.
1935: China established gun control. From 1948 to 1952, 20 million Chinese “class enemies,” unable to defend themselves, were exterminated.
1938: Germany established gun control. From 1939 to 1945, 13 million Jews, Catholics, Gypsies and others, unable to defend themselves, were exterminated in Nazi controlled Europe.
1956: Cambodia established gun control. From 1975 to 1977, one million “class enemies,” unable to defend themselves, were exterminated.
1966-1976: China still had gun control. Millions of more “class enemies,” still unable to defend themselves, were exterminated in Mao's "Cultural Revolution.”
1990s: Rwanda established gun control. In 100 days in 1994, over 800,000 Tutsis, unable to defend themselves, were exterminated by machete-wielding Hutus backed by armed government militias.
Never Again!
We will never again be led like lambs to
the slaughter, because in a moment of
naïve optimism we allowed ourselves to
be disarmed!
16
Ian Kelby watched the incredible events unfolding upon the Washington Mall on a portable television in his Rockville Maryland law office. His office occupied a storefront in a small shopping center which he shared with a pet store, a beauty salon, and a national real estate franchise. Kelby specialized in real estate law, but he also did divorce and DUI and just about anything that walked through the door. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills. Most important of all, he didn’t have to kiss anybody’s ass, and he was able to set his own hours.
He watched the entire painfully farcical celebration of the official termination of the Bill of Rights (as he saw it) on the stage packed with ecstatic left wing politicians and movie stars. He groaned and cursed as he watched the unveiling of the so-called “peace statue,” and the release of the white balloons and the doves. And like millions of Americans, he had noted the unplanned appearance of a man flying a motorized parachute. He had shared the confusion of the reporters, and he had watched in disbelief as the man was shot dead. Like the rest of America, he had been shown the now-famous leaflet. He had seen the haunting image of the doomed Jew, forced to kneel at the edge of a mass grave, with a pistol aimed at his head by a grinning Nazi soldier.
Kelby was soon informed by a network talking head that Joel Friedman, whose identity and hometown had just been released, was like himself also 34 years old. He was dead, killed by a police sniper, but his leaflet had been seen and read by millions of Americans who had never given the “right to keep and bear arms” a minute of thought in their entire lives. Joel Friedman had been willing to risk his life to put that leaflet in front of the American television viewing audience, he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams, and now he was dead.
Like Joel Friedman, Ian Kelby was an ardent believer that the Second Amendment served as America’s last-ditch insurance policy against the steadily creeping approach of federal government tyranny. Kelby had watched in mounting frustration, as the perversely named Patriot Acts (One and Two) had become law. Then came the Total Information Awareness program, which was renamed the more palatable Terrorist Information Awareness program, which collected every knowable fact about every American, and placed it all into searchable databases. Then finally, under President Gilmore, had come the hideously named Universal Surveillance Act, and America’s streets began to be laced with a seamless spider’s web of digital face-mapping cameras.
All of these new “Big Brother” laws had been sold under the guise of combating terrorism and increasing security, but none of them dared to address the specific threat posed by Islamic terror. Instead, the federal government seemed to prefer to increase security by treating all Americans equally: equally as criminal suspects in a vast open-air penal system.
To Ian Kelby, the obviously contrived Stadium Massacre, and the resulting semi-automatic rifle ban, seemed like the final bricks in a wall of tyranny quietly being built up higher and higher by the federal government over the course of many years. Kelby had seen the wall rising brick by brick and layer by layer, but instead of merely staring up at it in pessimistic acceptance, he had been quietly making his own plans, and pondering when the wall would, for him, go up one brick too far and then no farther.
Like Joel Friedman, Ian Kelby also had a private protest plan. But Kelby’s plan was nothing as elegant or creative as dropping leaflets in front of the network television cameras, while they were recording the celebration of the death of the Second Amendment. Ian Kelby’s plan was more direct, and simply involved a century-old Russian rifle made for the Czar’s army, and a United States Senator who had shared the stage with the gun-grabbers on the Mall. He considered and he reconsidered, and then he irrevocably made up his mind: the time had come. He clicked off his television and flipped open his cell phone.
“Roy, this is Ian. How ya doing man? You watching the TV?”
“I sure am. I just about threw up. You saw the guy with the parachute?”
“Yeah I did, I couldn’t freakin’ believe it! Hey Roy, how’s your schedule look the rest of the day? Can you spring loose?”
“In a couple hours maybe. Give me a little time to make up some lies.” Roy Millard was a junior partner at a “real” law firm in Chevy Chase, and he needed to create a fictional client-related reason to be away from the office, in order to skate out early without raising senior partner eyebrows.
“The Brew Pub at 2:30?”
“Make it 3:00, and you got it.”
“Roy…”
“Yeah?”
“You know what the lady said about the awkward time? …I think it’s just about over.”
“Ian, it’s been over. It just took us this long to admit it.”
The two old law school friends were referring to an increasingly famous quote by the libertarian writer Claire Wolfe: “America is at that awkward stage. It’s too late to work within the system, but too early to shoot the
bastards.”
****
Ranya Bardiwell rode her Yamaha FZR back up I-64 to Charlottesville in the morning, spent an hour punting the rest of the semester at the registrar’s office, and went shopping for used vans in the afternoon. She almost gave up and rented a U-haul truck, but after several tries she got lucky with a classified ad and found a cream-colored 1988 Ford Econoline. It had been owned by a husband and wife catering service. They were quitting the business, and the van was available for cash on an expedited basis. They assured Ranya that the engine had been rebuilt only the year before. She sweet-talked them into a solo test drive, and once out of their sight she torture-tested it by blasting up the steep mountain road to Monticello. The engine and transmission were outstanding for the van’s age, so she bargained them down to $2,500 cash, took the title and kept their tags.
At a construction site on the university grounds she bought a short piece of scaffolding plank for literally a smile, and she had her motorcycle ramp. The construction foreman even tossed in a thirty foot long piece of dirty but serviceable nylon rope, and her Yamaha was quickly cinched up tight inside of the van.
The van was crucial to her steadily evolving plan. Everything she cared about that she owned could fit inside it, she could transport her bikes with it, and she could even sleep in it. The van could be her mobile base of operations, yet it was low-key enough to be left anywhere without attracting undue attention.
In another lifetime, just before her father’s murder, Ranya had lived for one week with another fourth-year student in an apartment on Jefferson Park Avenue, a few blocks from The Grounds. Her new roommate wasn’t home when Ranya arrived to collect her belongings. They shared a small two bedroom furnished apartment, and Ranya was able to fit everything she wanted into some cardboard boxes and hanging bags.
Enemies Foreign And Domestic Page 23
