Читать книгу A Patriotic Nightmare - Don E. Post - Страница 9

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BELLINGHAM, WASHINGTON

Monday, February 10

Darren’s taxi dropped him at the entrance to Bellingham’s Northwood Hall off North Interstate 5 just a few minutes before the program began. As he entered, his heart sank at the sight of a packed room. Not a jovial looking bunch, he mused, then quickly noted that he was the only one wearing a business suit. He felt as if six hundred pairs of eyes were staring at him, their faces reflecting suspicion and tenseness. He started sweating. Once seated, Darren pulled his return plane ticket from his coat pocket and pretended to read in hopes he could fade from sight. After a few minutes he glanced up to find others chatting with their neighbors or staring straight at the front. He wiped sweat from his forehead, face and neck.

Whew, he thought, what a crew. Most needed to go on a diet. Balloon-like stomachs and sagging jowls adorned the large frames of most. Men sat quietly, arms crossed and resting on their bulging stomachs, eyes fixed straight ahead and squinting threateningly, while their women chatted noisily with each other and tried to control the kids. Most of the men wore suspenders to keep their blue jeans or khaki pants from falling. Darren thought the women had bought their clothes at rummage sales. A fiftyish looking couple sat at the far end of the row in front of him. The woman’s broom-skinny frame, which Darren judged to be about five foot eleven, stood out in the obese crowd. A faded scarf covered her light brown hair in an attempt to hide rollers. A short, bald and pudgy guy, wearing a gray sweatshirt and overalls sat next to her. Darren assumed he was her husband. Right arm encircling his neck, she patted and stroked his bald head and fondled his right ear. She whispered to him as he sat stoically, eyes transfixed on something at the front of the hall. Her eyes kept glancing down Darren’s row as she whispered. She had a number of teeth missing. A good old snaggle-toothed mountain gal. All solid working class Americans.

Children of all ages abounded. A runny- nosed toddler occupied the seat in front of him and kept turning around to stare. The middle-aged mother, sans makeup and hair in a bun, scolded the tyke and made her turn around. The girl kept ignoring her mother’s warnings, so she finally got smacked pretty hard. The ensuing screaming almost gave Darren a headache.

Then he noticed Agent Fred Blaylock enter and cautiously survey the crowd. “Oh, crap,” Darren said under his breath. “The guy looks like an FBI agent right out of the catalog,” Darren gasped silently. He reached down to re-lace his shoes in hopes Blaylock would sit somewhere else.

No such luck. Blaylock found him. As he entered the back row to sit with Darren, he boomed in a voice loud enough to be heard in Seattle, “Hi! You must be Darren Hopkins. Didn’t know if you made the trip.” Darren hit his head on the back of the seat in front of him as his head jerked up in shock. As he raised his hand in greeting, he noticed people staring at them. Oh, boy, the fat’s in the fire now.

Blaylock sat down and turned to Darren. “Sorry I’m late. Planes aren’t running on time.”

“Glad to meet you,” replied Darren in a pronounced hush tone as he furtively eyed the crowd around them. The little girl in front, now with tear-stained cheeks, stared up at Darren once again, her mouth firmly clamped to the back of her seat as she chewed away. He heard a loud slap as the mother administered another dose of love to the child’s backside. Again the screams pealed forth. Thank goodness for the distraction.

He leaned toward Blaylock, cupped his hand over his mouth so others wouldn’t hear and asked, “Are we in trouble here?”

“I hope not! This is a public gathering, right? And we’re part of that public.”

“Yeah, true.”

“My only task is to report on what takes place. I suspect there’ll be some in attendance that have outstanding warrants, but I’m not going to pursue ‘em in this crowd.” Blaylock couldn’t have been more relaxed. His calm manner stunned Darren. The people in the rows ahead could clearly hear everything the man said. Hell, doesn’t this guy understand what this crowd could do to us? Nonchalantly, Blaylock asked, “Have you been to many of these shindigs?”

“Nope,” he replied. “I’ve read reports about them, but I’m just now getting my feet wet in the field, as they say.”

Ole Reverend Jim Petsch took the microphone and quieted the crowd, much to Darren’s relief. Petsch’s white suit, red carnation in the lapel, set off by a black shirt and bright red tie, got Darren and Agent Blaylock’s attention. Darren craned his neck to see Petsch’s black and white wing tipped shoes over the edge of the rostrum. Petsch then led the group in singing “God Bless America” and offered up a prayer. Blaylock whispered to Darren, “Who’s this nut?”

Keeping his head down and cupping his mouth to prevent others from hearing, Darren said, “I’m told he has some little off-beat church in Pennsylvania. At least he says he does. To my knowledge no one’s checked. The national Christian patriotic bunch sucked him up when he helped organize the Pennsylvania state militia. He’s all showman! Makes up his theology as he goes along. Like Jim Jones and all these other TV evangelists.”

When Petsch finished, James Robert Earl, a local Whatcom county deputy sheriff, took the mike and set the stage for the night’s program.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let me thank ya’ll for coming. I know you’ll not regret bein’ here. All of us know somethin’s bad wrong in our country. They can’t protect us from those stinkin’ Arabs, and they keep gettin’ more and more of our money, and if yer a white male yer mak’in less and less. Things in this country are gradually being taken over by foreign types and minorities who can’t do things the way they should be done. They’ve taken over our schools and ‘bout everthin’ else, and now we oughta do somethin’ to take the thing back ‘fore we ‘come another one’a them banana republics. Pretty soon our children won’t be prayin’ to Jesus Christ but to some foreign God.”

A few amen’s echoed throughout the hall. Earl acknowledged these with a nod of his head and continued.

“Weaver’s family’s dead because of them government people. And they killed all those God-fearing folks down in Waco. And the killin’s continued, but you won’t read about it. The little people across this country are startin’ to get together and armin’ themselves to keep from bein’ wiped out. Tonight we’re fortunate to have us several who have helped others organize and they’ll tell us why and how to do this.”

Earl then introduced Ron Chapmann, a lean, wiry man in his late fifties.

And who’s this guy?” asked Blaylock, in a louder than necessary voice.

Darren, wishing Blaylock would shut up, whispered irritably, “He’s a fairly successful business man from Georgia that moved his family to a remote area of Washington fifteen years ago. His brother and brother-in-law followed with their families. Reportedly they dusted off an old eighteen fifty-four state law regarding squatter’s rights to build on fifty acres inside the Okanogan National Forest. They supported Randy Weaver during the siege at Ruby Ridge, then created their own state militia, and they did such a good job that other states asked for help. Ron and his brother reportedly spend their time raising funds for all these groups. Militias are now active in at least twenty states and membership is around five thousand. And growing fast.”

“Ummm,” murmured Stevens. “I thought the movement was larger.”

“Could be,” Darren responded. “There’s a lot of secrecy among these people.”

Ron Chapmann’s speech mesmerized the Bellingham crowd as he told about his family’s experiences fighting the federal government and his vision of an international Zionist conspiracy. He warned of black helicopters cruising the skies preparing the way for an invasion of UN forces that would enslave all true patriots and turn the country over to foreign rabble. A lengthy diatribe against NAFTA, GATT, World Affairs Council, Trilateral Commission, the Atlantic Council and the lack of resolve to annihilate all the Arabs in the Mideast during the Iraqi war comprised the rest of his speech. He concluded with an evangelistic fervor that would have made Billy Graham envious. He walked from behind the lectern to the edge of the dais, leaned over slightly and in a slow, steely and mono-toned voice said, “I want you to know I’m not the head of any organization. My family is one of many who have decided the existing government is treasonous, and therefore not the legally valid representative of the people. We do not recognize any state or national authority as presently constituted. We do not pay any taxes, do not register any of our vehicles or property deeds with the State, and do not recognize the legitimacy of any state or federal laws to govern or control any portion of our lives. We live quietly on our own sovereign land, bother no one, and view the encroachment of our domain by anyone not personally invited to be an act of war.”

He paused, took a deep breath and straightened his small frame. Whoops, hollers and applause echoed across the hall. He wiped his sweaty brow with his handkerchief as he waited for the crowd to calm down, and then continued in the same passionate manner.

“As patriots there’s a great diversity of opinion among us, which is okay. We do agree on some things. First, the existing government has betrayed the founding fathers and, therefore, is illegitimate. Second, the nation has lost the historic Christian foundation. Third, the white race is targeted for extinction.”

Again, he paused and the crowd applauded. Shouts of “amen” echoed throughout the hall. Someone yelled, “You tell’um, Ron!” Laughter rippled through the crowd. Ron motioned for quiet, and then continued.

“If you share these beliefs, we want you to join us in returnin’ to the America as originally conceived by our founding fathers. The state militia has a network to help you fulfill your patriotism. Thanks for invitin’ us. We look forward to having many of you join us in our crusade to restore America!”

The crowd jumped up clapping, screaming and shouting “amen” and “hallelujah.” Blaylock nudged Darren as they stood and said, “Guess we better clap too!”

“Yeah, guess so.” The snaggle-toothed woman in the next row joined those jumping for joy. Her husband continued to sit quietly. Darren thought the guy might drop off to sleep.

Although relatively new to the national patriotic scene, the next speaker, Colonel Arlo White, U.S. Army (Ret.), age 64, had amassed a great following since joining the movement. His six foot two, two hundred and thirty pounds seemed all muscle. His silver hair, in traditional military crew-cut fashion, and bulldog face communicated authority. His experiences in Vietnam and Desert Storm made him a highly decorated war hero. He reportedly led several private missions to Southeast Asia to search for U.S. POWs. He now trained state militia across the nation.

The crowd, already on an emotional high, cheered the introduction. Meanwhile, Darren realized that he and Stevens could easily be beaten to death by this crowd if someone just pointed a finger in their direction and said, “There’s some feds folks. Sic’um!” He shook his head in disgust at the thought. His stomach began hurting, a sure sign of stress.

As the crowd gradually took their seats, White stood, unleashing his huge frame, then strode with regal authority to the lectern. Blaylock turned to Darren and whispered, “There’s a man bloated with his own importance!”

“Yeah, seems to be.”

White stared at the crowd for eight to ten seconds. Deathly silence saturated the hall. Afraid to shift in his seat for fear the noise would echo throughout the hall, Darren remained immobile. His sore rear end would have to suffer. Then, in a deep baritone voice that boomed across the hall, White gave the crowd a vision of the movement’s growth across the nation. Complementing Chapmann’s sinister forces idea, he emphasized corruption and abuse of power in state and federal governments. He named politicians who had been convicted and sent to prison for abuse of power. (In truth none of the politicos mentioned had been indicted, but truth was a scarce commodity at such meetings.) He used the Brady Bill, NAFTA, financial support of Israel, unwillingness to carry the Vietnam War to its “just conclusion,” and inability to wipe out Al-Qaida and find Saddam Hussein as tools to paint the government illegitimate. The Constitution, he assured them, gave them the right to bear arms and overthrow the government.

People loved the show. Many jumped to their feet cheering and clapping. Hopkins applauded meekly for fear of attracting attention. Blaylock sat with his arms crossed and looked bored. Arlo White beamed down upon the crowd, then lifted his two arms over his head and waved like an Olympian who had just won the one hundred yard dash.

Meanwhile, Darren noticed that James Robert Earl had moved into White’s chair next to Ron Chapmann. He saw Earl lean over and whisper to Chapmann, then point toward Darren and his colleague. Darren suspected they had been identified. He tensed in his seat as he noticed that the only exit was toward the front. Then Earl, still whispering to White, motioned toward the exit door. Darren then saw a large man leaning against the wall by the exit motion for White and Earl’s attention. The man must weigh three hundred pounds, Darren thought.

Petsch concluded the speeches as he bounced around the podium shouting and exhorting a message filled with fear and hate. Words and phrases often disappeared when Petsch screamed, so Hopkins and Blaylock couldn’t hear the whole message. They did hear him say,

“God created the Aryan race to establish a Christian world. Them that get in the way are instruments of Satan. This Godly group has been sifted and winnowed and now is the Anglo-Saxon Protestants, Hallelujah, Amen!”

Blaylock elbowed Darren and said, “What a bunch of ignorant crap!”

“Boy, you can say amen to that.” Again, the snaggle-tooth lady eyed them. He didn’t care any more. The hate in the room disgusted him. He smiled at her. She turned away.

Petsch also said that Cain satanically spawned the other religions and racial groups and they should be ignored or eliminated. “There would eventually be,” he shouted, “an Armageddon and God will strike down all non-whites and non-Christians.” An international satanic cartel of rich Jewish families, he explained, had taken control of the main line protestant groups. “God,” he continued, “will eliminate most people in the coming great war of liberation.”

Someone in the audience yelled, “Send ’em back to Israel and let the Arabs kill ‘em!”

While some people clapped, others intoned amens while waving their arms to the ceiling, others quietly nodded approval. He certainly had the group in the palm of his hand thought Darren.

Petsch continued, “Can’t ya see the signs and smell the scent of Satan in America today? The number of the anti-Christ system is six-six-six, a six within a six within a six. Six sides, six angles, six points. And what is that? The Magen David, the six-pointed star of Jud’ism. Jew families control the Federal Reserve, and only three of them are American. Satan’s weav’n his web and tryin’ to kill God’s creation. Never before have we been so threatened. Satan’s tryin’ to change the America, a nation created by God, into USA, incorporated, ruled by Zionists. The scent of Satan is all around. He’s disarming us. He’s tak’n God from the center of our national life. He’s trying to rid white Christians of responsible positions to give them to foreign, evil forces who’ll enslave us.”

The roar of the crowd forced Petsch to stop. He used the time to sip some water from a glass, then returned to the task. He renewed his message in a soft voice as the audience quieted.

“Some patriots among us say we not only gotta be ready to defend ourselves, but we gotta rise up against our tormenters, these disciples of Satan, with great fury or we will be eaten up by’um. Let everyone unnerstand that we don’t hate these people as individuals, but we can’t live together in peace. The massacres at Ruby Ridge, Waco and the World Trade Center show what these people of Satan can and will do. This is only the beginning, for Satan has been preparing for these last days for decades, and unless we take heroic measures there will be no future for our children or us.”

Now, noted Darren, Petsch started screaming again.

“Unless you’re brain dead you can see that the government’s now the enemy of God and of our white race. The government has fallen treasonous and the penalty for treason has always been death.”

The crowd went wild. People stood, clapped, and jumped in the air shouting “amen, hallelujah” and “give’m hell preacher.” The snaggled-toothed lady joined the hallelujah choir. She stared down at Darren as she clapped and screamed as if to say, “Take that you son-of-a-bitch heathen!” He felt sad that so many felt so disconnected from their nation’s political processes and thought in such simplistic terms. He didn’t have much time to grieve as the crowd quieted and Petsch began again.

“The founders of our nation understood all this. In the Declaration of Independence they stated that the people had the ‘right and duty’ to throw off a treasonous government.” Petsch paused, walked back and forth on the rostrum as though trying to think of the next point, stopped, stared hard at those in the front rows, then began again in a soft, pleading tone. “I know these are hard words. This has not been easy for those of us who have been the solidest of citizens, whose ancestors founded and shaped this nation, who’ve lost loved ones defending it or have shed blood ourselves in those wars, to come now where we have to take up arms to defend the nation against our own. Patrick Henry once asked, ‘Is peace so dear that it should be bought with the chains of slavery?’ Slavery, some will argue, is preferable to death. Others will say that Christians should never take up arms. I think killing is only justified when one is convinced that Satan needs killing. Satan has taken our government and is gradually killing us off. The time has come when we can do no other under God. In Hebrews chapter nine, twenty-second verse, we read: ‘Without the shedding of blood, is no remission of sins.’ Amen.

Another round of applause, cheers, and amens followed Petsch as he returned to his seat. Earl looked at Ron Chapmann, nodded his head slightly and Chapmann and White quickly left the rostrum. They followed the large bearded man waiting at the doorway, through a bunch of supporters that had crowded around the edge of the rostrum, out a side door and, Darren later learned, into a waiting car.

Earl gave up trying to get the crowd settled back down for a formal closing. People wandered around. Kids ran amuck. He approached the mike and shouted, “Goodnight!” Few even heard the announcement.

Hopkins and Blaylock had a problem. They had seen White and Chapmann disappear but couldn’t follow. The word had silently spread and a number of the muscular and obese patriots, including the stringy, snaggle-toothed gal at the end of the next row and her pudgy little man, blocked the aisles. The two men gave up and waited for the crowd to disperse. They slowly edged down the row to their right where a dozen or so clustered in twos and threes discussing the speeches. They smiled and cordially joined the discussion of one small group after another until they reached the rear exit.

As they climbed into Blaylock’s rented Ford Taurus to leave the meeting, Darren said, “Man let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah, you seemed uncomfortable. You’ll get used to that.”

“Maybe. They certainly got our number tonight. Besides the speakers we wore the only business suits.”

“Ah hell, even if we’d worn some old work clothes they would’ve spotted us. They can spot us feds a mile off. I’ve come to think we must develop a certain smell!”

“Where do you think Chapmann and White disappeared to?” Darren asked.

“Don’t know, but don’t worry. We’ve got ’em covered,” Blaylock said.

“What do you mean?” Darren asked.

“Some of our boys in a new surveillance helicopter followed White in here and they are waiting for him at the airport to take off. They can listen in on every conversation.”

“Wow,” Darren exclaimed.

Blaylock dropped Darren off at the Airport Holiday Inn on his way to catch a night flight back to Chicago.

Meanwhile, Chapmann and White flew out of the Bellingham Municipal airport into a clear night sky aboard White’s Cessna 210. They climbed to fifteen thousand feet on a southeast heading through the valley south of Mount Baker for the little airport in Amak. They landed a few minutes before ten p.m. Chapmann thanked White for the ride and jumped out and scrambled into the waiting car. White taxied for takeoff as Ron Chapmann’s wife, Jill, drove off. Grass and gravel flew as her tires spun. She turned south on highway 215 to pick up the highway to Conconully and home.

“How’d the meeting go?” Jill asked.

“Great. But I suspect we had a couple of feds there. Earl and his men snuck us out a side door and we must have driven down every back alley in town before getting to the airport.”

“You know the feds monitor every move we make,” Jill said.

“Yeah. On the way back I could swear I saw one of those black helicopters off to our right. I had an edgy feeling during the whole trip. Spooky.”

“Ummmm,” she said. “Well, I guess I should break some bad news to you.”

“Oh God, what now!”

“I returned yesterday afternoon to find paper and stuff all over the house.”