Publisher’s Note: Previously, I published a fictional narrative of a very personal nature that painted a grim picture of the possible outcomes police aggression and over-reach in America will look like. I suspect the future holds a much more macabre reality on a larger scale of the insurgency against statist police militarization and misbehavior that is recognizable by anyone in America who is paying attention. On reflection, large swaths of American history are influenced by the machinations and misbehavior of government policing mechanisms like the twenty years of tax and regulatory enforcement by the British Regulars in colonial America and the two Fugitive Slave Acts (1793 and 1850) that created the formative police state in America before the Second American Revolution in 1861.
This isn’t about the misdirection and illusion of the national election of the latest gaseous meat-puppet running to purchase the Offal Office. Want a barometer of political delivery of freedom? Pay attention to the real practice of politics on the streets of America by the enforcers of armed bureaucratic will, the badged thuggery. That’s the true measure of liberty, not your ability to elect yet another feedlot owner in the next quadrennial serial killer beauty contest. Nation-states are nothing more than rather sophisticated plantation combines scattered around the planet.
These Orcs string razor wire over their storm fencing at their police compounds for a reason and hunker down behind bullet-proof glass for the same reason they are so quick to maim and kill; they are frightened and invested with the license to kill, a particularly bad combination for citizen safety. The future implications are obvious.
I dig the delicious irony of labeling themselves so often as “public safety” bureaucrats as they are blissfully unaware of the Reign of Terror by Robespierre in revolutionary France imposed by the Comité de salut public (Committee for Public Safety), the closest pre-modern forebear to state security apparatuses like the Cheka, NKVD and FBI.
I would like to press home that I wish this to remain a work of troubled imagination but I fear that the government domestically will keep pushing until the following fictional account becomes a bloody reality. I had promised this chapter would take on a proportion even more dramatic than the last one. There are literally thousands of angered and maligned former vets with very special skills who could pull off much of what I describe in not only one city but many simultaneously and I assure you the police are not prepared and they will respond in a fashion that will bring even more of the same. The most obese occupation in America have all the best kit at tax Helot expense but neither the skills nor discipline to use them to effect. There is a reason they sell regular production “tactical” pants for police with 60′ waists. Five feet…
This is yet another sample chapter from my novel in progress.
In other news, I have just completed all six parts of a series I am doing with ProfCJ at the Dangerous History Podcast on Irregular Warfare. Indeed, we started with one part anticipated and ended with six and potentially more.
I wrote the Foreword for my friend Jim Rawles’ latest book, Land of Promise, which is now available for pre-order on Amazon.
My books are available on Amazon and I would love some honest reviews if you have the time. -BB
“Jim, what did dispatch say about that accident up ahead?”
“Three miles ahead near mile marker 43.”
“Call that in that we are on the way.”
Wiley listened to the portable police scanner, the older gentleman who had manhandled the steel cover strategically on the overpass that night with his son had a father who was an engineer like himself and had observed the Operation Plumbbob tests in 1957 as a test administrator and had told his young son the story of a 2000 pound steel cap that had been launched into the air during the Pascal-B portion of the test. It gave him an idea. In the opposite direction.
The manhole cover dropped approximately 45 feet from the overpass and weighed about 150 pounds, it cratered into the front windshield of the patrol car and pasted the driver and his companion, they were both dead within minutes. The occupants saw a blur and faded to black in a millisecond. The patrol car actually lost 15 miles per hour in an instant with the impact it was so severe.
Three months ago, Wiley had been stopped for a broken tail light by the very same cops he had just killed. That night they had stopped him for a minor traffic violation and before everything was said and done, he and his wife had been beaten and tazed and he watched as his wife was mauled by both men for coming around the car to defend her husband. She was still traumatized by the event.
Wiley would not let that stand.
He was not alone.
The news was peppered with frothy reporters and other government apologists getting on the “war on cops” bandwagon. Even though the historical incidence of cops killed in the line of duty had increased, the ratio was still seriously skewed on the number of dead Americans on the streets at the hands of the cops. The ratio had rocketed from about 30:1 to 55:1 as frightened cops started shooting and tazing even more innocents than previous records.
For the first time since the 1930s, cops were actually facing a nascent resistance to their occupation on US streets. One could see the emerging trend line of distrust of the police with the 1972 Drug War ratcheting up the war on civilians and the inevitable perverse incentives that slowly militarized and polarized the cop on the street against the ordinary civilians they were allegedly protecting. The police bombing of the MOVE headquarters in 1985, Waco, Ruby Ridge and then finally 9/11 had opened the floodgates for government abuse of even the most mundane variety being escalated to mortal consequences for the slightest resistance to the authority of the police forces.
Newton’s Third Law was going live with a vengeance.
Decker turned to Rourke, his features hardened in a frown. “Alright, Bill, it looks like we have a green light, everyone is in position.”
Bill Rourke: “Roger, I think every infil and exfil is covered.” They hunkered down in the cramped confines of the tunnel below the busy street above. The street wouldn’t be busy for long because the police were cordoning off the parade route for the funeral for six cops slain at Decker’s hand in a raid gone bad a month earlier.
“Decker, once we go, there is no going back.”
Decker nodded morosely.
The delivery trucks looked perfectly ordinary with the famous logo on the side recognizable by anyone who ever received a parcel at their home or business. On close inspection, they were packed with every variety of package and some larger boxes bearing various commercial legends on the cardboard. Rourke had arranged four of the trucks at various points on the parade route. Bill had used the advice of a “long hole miner” to properly synchronize the explosives and the propane tanks. Depending on the side of the street the vehicles were parked, the starboard or port-side axis of the trucks had been strengthened with asymmetrical commercial trailer shocks and thick metal on the same vehicle walls to make the blasts directional. Several of his colleagues had spent time in the sandbox and provided their C-IED expertise. The entire crew involved in the operation had unpleasant encounters with the police or family members had been maimed or killed. Rourke’s own daughter had been murdered by the local Sheriff’s Department.
So far none of the badged malefactors had suffered anything more than administrative leave. That would change this morning.
Rourke knew this was a gambit he would not ultimately survive most likely.
If the cancer doesn’t kill me, the manhunt certainly will.
The Tucson police assistant chief swiveled in his chair and stared at the manifest in front of him. They were conducting a mass funeral for the slain officers from a month previous when the failed raid had cost the lives of the men and the killer, Decker, was still at large but the subject of a nationwide manhunt. They’d been knee-deep in planning this politically important event for the better part of two weeks.
Chief Smith: “How many PD’s have sent representatives?”
Thank God this is the last meeting.
Slater responded: “Sir, 1305 departments have sent a total of 1576 officers to attend the funeral, one of the largest turnouts in recent history. This tragedy has really united the blue line. Here in the department we will have 426 mustered for the funeral to include attendees and traffic control along the route. We also have a fairly sizable contingent of Feds and inter-agency jurisdictional pax coming to the funeral. No total numbers yet.”
“God, that’s a lot of cops in one place. Any chatter on the inter-agency task forces and fusion centers on any threats to the event?”
Slater: “Just the usual crackpots making the boilerplate threats but no substantive issues that bears up under any scrutiny.”
“Alright.” Smith got up and stretched his considerable bulk. “Let’s get this show on the road and step off in two hours so we can lay these lads to rest and get on with our duties.”
LT Dukes had been on the force for eight years and was making his rare rounds in the district doing a “bed check” on his squads in the area. The night had been the usual mix of violent assault, traffic citations and yet another dog encounter by a cop on duty.
He had received a call from one of his patrolman and was driving to check on him when the morning sun started to illuminate the horizon. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat having become used to his spacious office at HQ he didn’t leave very often if he could help it.
Man, a long shift, glad I can go home and get some sleep soon.
The TPD had contracted with a local bus company that belonged to a big government contractor for repatriating illegals detained by the Border Patrol and other entities to provide transportation of the throngs of cops both local and visiting who would be attending the funeral, they were meeting at a local large Border Patrol complex in Tucson to load all the attendees and make the trek to the funeral service. A combined vehicle/motorcycle escort along with limos for the VIPs all at taxpayer expense would escort the buses, of course. Each bus carried 56 people and the city had contracted for 12 buses and hoped to do two lifts if they packed the buses above capacity for the motorcade.
To avoid the heat of the day, the TPD had determined that an early morning departure would make the whole occasion more comfortable.
He passed the large BP headquarters and saw a long line of buses lined up and vehicles queued up around the block at the gate entry to the large vehicle yard.
Man, that’s a lot of official traffic. Happy I won’t be at the funeral today.
Little did he know his life was spared by that very fact.
There was no one to see the long convoy progressing down the road since the police had cleared all the civilians from the area the night before.
The motorcade began in earnest and the buses were lost in a cloud of exhaust as they rumbled down the boulevard. Each bus had topped off their 140-gallon fuel tanks since the Border Patrol was footing the bill. Many of the buses were filled beyond their usual capacity of passengers, some carrying as many as 70 people standing in the aisles and doubling up in seats where possible.
The morning was already warming considerably and the buses were buttoned up with the air conditioning blasting coldly throughout the cavernous interiors.
The buses were about one car length apart traveling at a slow pace down the boulevard behind the multiple escort vehicles with lights flashing and sirens sundering the air as they ponderously made their way down the road. The police had established a non-civilian cordon approximately 100 meters to either side of the route to establish a safe zone for the parade of buses and other vehicles.
They passed the four parcel vehicles that Rourke had positioned on the route just as the lead bus exploded as it passed over a manhole cover that had been rigged on the street by Rourke’s colleagues. The escort vehicles screeched to a halt as the bus literally leaped into the air at least 90 feet and thudded down to the pavement in a horrendous crash and then the diesel tank lit off. The explosion had sequenced to hit the rear of the bus and catapult it forward on the escort vehicles.The explosion torched three of the escort trucks and the shock of the blast shattered windows for hundreds of feet.
All the remaining buses thudded to a halt and idled as the first two behind the lead bus panicked and back up careening into the trailing buses at the precise time a minute later the trail bus exploded and leaped into the air. Rourke had been inspired by the Finnish tactics in the Battle of Raate Road in 1940.
The detonators in the delivery vehicles screamed to life and lit off immediately since a planned slow leak of propane had permeated the interior of the cargo bays of the trucks. The detonators had used old-fashioned analog watches to defeat any cell phone disruptors in the area. Rourke’s use of one time pads, couriers and burner phones had paid off, the convoy was taken completely by surprise.
Three of the four delivery vehicles roared apart in a cacophonous blast that was heard and felt as far away as Marana, the explosion ripped into the remaining buses in the center of the trapped cavalcade igniting secondary detonations as the fuel tanks ruptured in the ponderous transport vehicles. The fourth freight van had not exploded and was programmed to detonate five minutes after the first three. It was trailed and parked well behind the other three.
It was located in the rear of the column, as Rourke had assumed straggler vehicles would be stacked up behind the bus convoy and he had been correct. Many cops and other city personnel were caught in the open as they ran to assist the surviving personnel injured by the conflagration that was consuming the twelve buses burning brightly in the center of the devastated boulevard.
Some buildings had caught fire and the sound of distant sirens careening toward the scene could be heard in the distance from all directions.
Later, police would attest to the sudden sound of whooshing from the rooftops as people stood up with rocket launchers and lobbed rocket propelled grenades at the lead vehicles escorting the convoy to include the instant destruction of an MRAP. Later, they didn’t even find the tubes. It remained speculation because no evidence was found on the rooftops.
Later examination of government cameras would find evidence of tampering by motorcycle riders on un-plated bikes paint-balling all the traffic cameras earlier in the night.
Within minutes, the two police helicopters were spooling up from the government air-park when the seven-pound crowbars sailed through the air from behind two fueling vehicles at the facility to intersect in a deadly parabola with the rotating blades, the effect was catastrophic. The birds disintegrated in a massive fireball consuming themselves and the hangar next to them.
The next 48 hours would see similar attacks across America as police departments came under siege from both coordinated and lone wolf attacks, the inevitable reaction to police brutality had finally come to fruition. Tucson would not be the only scene of a complex attack that day.
Newton’s Third Law had become very real across the fruited plain.
The total death toll in the Tucson attack was 556 dead and 742 injured, some mortally so and the death toll would rise as the days advanced.
Across the country in similar attacks of lesser magnitude, hundreds of police were dead and wounded.
Rourke was exhausted. Mission accomplished but the worst was yet to come. If Rourke were right in his assumptions, the US government reaction would lead to civil war.
This was just the beginning.