by Leon Uris
“The cache was enhanced by three and a half million rounds of ammunition, twenty thousand long clips, and a potpourri of grenades, rockets, machine guns, and mortars.
“Sedgewick estimated a street value of over three million dollars. Hoop Hooper was positive he could quickly move the guns to militias clear to the Pacific coast and as far south as the Mexican border.”
Quinn had become mesmerized at the tale.
“I waited for those VEC-44’s to move out of Canada for a year. Sure enough, I got tipped on a shipment of bonded crates to be passed through customs uninspected, apparently as a favor to a high American official.”
“Yowl Why the hell didn’t you seize them, Arne?”
“The guns were more valuable being traded in the States. I wanted to find out who the official was, and I wanted to learn their routes and the names of their customers, their communications, websites.
“The case was my baby, so aTF. Washington laid off. The guns were held in the bonded warehouse until they were to be collected. Next day I opened a number of cases, confirmed the content, and implanted a GPS system. You know the GPS?”
“Ground-positioning satellite,” Quinn answered, “I have one in my plane.”
“We followed signals right into the Grand Army of Wisconsin’s training camp between Madison and La Crosse. There they sit. We can remotely switch the GPS power off and on and randomly check the position. As soon as the GPS reports back, we turn off the power.”
“What about Hoop Hooper?”
“Alas, poor Hoop,” Arne said. “The FBI, which generally gets in our way, nabbed Hooper on mail fraud, money charges, income-tax evasion, illegal weapons, and criminal Internet scams. He pleaded guilty to get a reduced sentence but said nothing about the VEC-44’s. The guns would be his stake when he gets out of the penitentiary.”
“Jesus, what a story.”
“Hell, this is a fairly easy one,” Arne said. “Some of these schemes get really complicated.”
“Why are you doing this, Arne? It’s brinksmanship for you.”
“You might as well be asking why I spent thirty years of my life in aTF.. I don’t want those fuck heads to dump three thousand murder weapons onto the streets and woods of my country.”
“Arne, I be live you and thank you, man. Well, last question, who is the man who got the guns over the border?”
“A United States senator. Big in appropriations, major patriot in the red, white, and blue department. A real Yankee doodle dandy. Half his state owes him favors. He told Customs in Superior that it was a load of urgently needed Swedish farm machinery.”
“Good Lord,” Quinn whispered. “You’re talking about Senator]. Richard Darling!”
“Bingo,” Arne Skye said, “Dicky Darling.”
DENVER AND THE ALAMO, MARYLAND—A
WEEK BEFORE THE AMERIGUN CONVENTION
“Good afternoon, Governor’s office, Marsha speaking.”
An officious throat clearing. “This is King Porter calling from Maryland. May I speak with the governor?”
“Hold, please,” Marsha said, going to the intercom. “Governor, King Porter is on the line.”
Quinn was struck by the sudden call. “Put him on,” he said unevenly.
“Governor?”
(fr . if
Yes, sir.
“King Porter here.”
“What can I do for you?” Quinn asked. “Well, Governor, I thought it would be neighborly for me to contact you. We have our differences, of course, but AMERIGUN is going to spend several days in your beautiful state, and I’d like to think, as Americans, we can call a truce during our visit. I may add, we are expecting over ten thousand delegates, you know, plus the exhibitors.”
“You will be greeted with open arms, Mr. Porter.” “King, call me King. We have a very active membership—“ “No problem. Denver knows how to throw a party.” “Yes, well, we certainly do not favor or anticipate any problems.”
“And we shall do our utmost to make you welcome.” “Governor, I wonder if I can beg a favor from you. It seems like Denver’s mayor will be out of the country. Could I impose upon you to welcome the delegates?” “Where and when, King?”
“We officially take over the Convention Center on the morning of the eleventh. The balance of that day goes to registering delegates and helping get the exhibitons set up. The welcoming ceremony takes place at six in the evening.”
Quinn jotted a note and passed it to Marsha, who had entered the office.
“We’ve got a date, King. Looking forward to meeting you.”
Quinn banged his fist on the desk and snarled.
“Well, he did hold out the olive branch,” Marsha said.
“You know where he wants to shove it. That slimy little son of a bitch! He’s dragging me up there like .. .”
“Ancient Hebrews being marched through Rome in chains,” Marsha said.
“Something like that.”
“Don’t worry, Governor, you’ll be a big hit. Dr. Mock dropped in and wants a few minutes with you. She’s waiting.”
“Have her come in, and hold everything.”
“I need good news, Dawn,” Quinn greeted her.
“You remember that big wheel of cheese you ordered from Wisconsin?”
“It never came.”
“It’s on the way,” Dawn said. “We’re all hooked in. I can monitor its progress from my office.”
Quinn cupped her hands in his, sighed, prayed, and kissed her fingertips.
“She’s on interstate ninety heading west, about to cross into Minnesota, beep, beep, beeping merrily along her way.”
welcome to colorado!
amerigun silver anniversary convention—denver september 13-17, 2003
“HeeHaw!”
It looked as though the late shows at Branson, Missouri, had emptied onto the interstate and all headed straight for Denver.
In Denver the bars had spare kegs piled up in their alleys, the hookers staked out their saloons, the gangs protected their drug turfs. Fun in the Rockies!
A lot of wholesome family events on the menu. Three thousand utterly priceless tickets would be raffled for a game between the Broncos and the dreamworksKANGAROOS, the latest Los Angeles expansion team at intelELWAY Stadium. Out in the mountains the billion or so aspen trees began their dance of gold. A thousand basketball tickets for the mcdonalds NUGGETS had few takers.
WELCOME AMERIGUN DELEGATES
“HeeHaw!”
The autumn air was crisp and gentle. Glorious deep breaths ensued.
Rae O’Connell watched her brother, Duncan, amble over the parking lot toward the entrance. Lordy, what a cowboy stud, she thought, a good thing we were all raised with morals.
“Hi! Over here, Duncan!”
They hugged. “I’ve got tickets,” she said.
“What time is Dad speaking?” Duncan asked.
“Six. We’ve got a couple hours to look around.”
Three hundred thousand square feet, filled with fourteen hundred ten-foot tables, burst open before them. The tables sagged under the weight of handguns, rifles, shotguns, night vision apparatus, knives, laser attachments, ammunition presses, sniper scopes, lock picks, burglary tools, surveillance bugs, T-shirts.
It was the devil’s fairyland.
A double table held three hundred separate and individual fake law enforcement badges where a man could button on the rank of sheriff, sheriff deputy, detective, U.S. Marshal.
There were tables of Kevlar vests and spy craft kits.
And
A tattoo artist.
And
Steroids, faintly disguised, and brass knuckles and lead filled sap gloves and blackjacks and body vests and pepper and mace spray sets and stun guns and electric cattle prods and police clubs and handcuffs.
The main aisle tables exhibited stealth climbing equipment and barbed-wire cutting tools and pistol magazines and SWAT carrying bags designed to disguise automatic weapons.
The hal
l was filling up now. Untrusting exhibitors stared suspiciously at untrusting customers. Word had been passed that the Denver police were on “live and let live” orders.
Camouflage uniforms closely following Army and Marine Corps specs took up a five-table area.
Next to it were bayonets, shooting earmuffs, bipods, machine gun tripods, combat boots, and bird shot.
Targets holding outlines of human beings.
And
Confederate flags.
And baseball caps bearing such identification as SWAT, aTF.,
FBI, SHERIFF, BORDER PATROL, U.S. MARSHAL SERVICE.
There was a table with a rainbow of military medals and ribbons on display, from the Order of Lenin to the Victorian Cross. Step right up and show the folks how courageous you were—in case you misplaced your own citation. All of the armed services military medals from the Spanish-American War to the present were on sale, except for the Congressional Medal of Honor, which had to be special-ordered.
Duncan and Rae retreated for a hot dog and Coke, munching listlessly, saying nothing, talking to one another with their eyes. If this is legal, then what is illegal? All disguised to defend liberty. All bitter, frightened people who had abandoned joy and laughter early on.
They were not exactly sterile, Duncan thought. Here, among fellow gunners, they were empowered by their numbers.
“What time is it?” Rae asked.
“Twenty to six,” Duncan answered.
“Let’s go into the hall.”
“I want to look at those book stalls.”
“I’ll go in and save us a seat, on the aisle near the rear. Is Mom coming?”
“Dad insisted she go up to Troublesome.”
“She’ll be here.”
Stacks of books, six tables long, stacks of pamphlets, three tables more.
The Turner Diaries was the major title, the book that had inspired the most infamous terrorist in American history, Timothy McVeigh. It had been his bible for blowing up the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma.
There was a how-to table.
Terrorist Explosive Source Book “Folks!” called the loudspeakers, “be sure to register whether you are a delegate or just an AMERIGUN member visiting. We’d like to show just what kind of support we’ve got. Registration tables are at.. .”
How to:
Create Your Own Home Workshop Guns How to Build Claymore Mines Grenade
Launchers Blow Guns—The Breath of Death 101 Weapons for Women Beat the
Border Counterfeit ID Made Easy! Disguise Techniques The Outlaw’s
Bible—How to Evade the System by Using
Constitutional Law Just Say No to Drug Tests
The Poisoner’s Bihle—Deadly Concoctions Through the Ages How to Avoid
a Drunk-Driving Conviction Got to Get Money $$$$$--New York Street Con
Games Fugitive’s Guide—How to Run, Hide, and Survive Man-Trapping
Techniques Detonators
Slash, Thrust, Strangle Booby Traps Hostage Taking Forgotten
Legions—Obscure Combat Formations of the
Immortal German Waffen SS Protocols of the Elders of Zion—The True
Story of How the
Anti-Christ Gutter Religion Conspires to Take Over the
World
And the winner is! Body for Sale: An Inside Look at Medical Research,
Drug
Testing and Organ Transplants, and How YOU Can Profit from Them “Over here, Duncan!”
He slumped in beside her. The auditorium noises heightened in anticipation.
“Those so-called antique guns,” Duncan whispered to his sister, “are World War Two. Both the carbine and M-l ga rand are used today for hunting, and the World War One 03 is still one of the most accurate rifles in the world. Man, they’re twisting and distorting every law.”
“Every law and human decency,” Rae said. “Christ, I feel like I’m on a different planet: Mars, war, blood.”
He patted her shoulder. “Thank God for men like our Dad,” he said.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Folks! Shooters! Can I have your attention? The welcoming session of this great conclave will take place in fifteen minutes in the united airlines AUDITORIUM. Preferred seating to delegates and AMERI GUN members showing their registration badges. Governor O’Connell has agreed to personally welcome you all himself.
Make certain he gets a rip-roaring ovation.”
Duncan thought he was going to get his first asthma attack.
GOD SAVE THE SECOND AMENDMENT declared a banner on the balcony railing. Every seat was filled. Hall Carleton, a hall of fame football player turned actor in times past, filled his days with after-dinner speaking to agitated, hopping-mad groups of an immoderate Christian fellowship.
Hall mumbled toothily, a problem he had had with his acting. As the celebrity spokesman of AMERIGUN, he rose among them like a giant. Five, six, seven thousand people and growing were in the embrace of the protector.
King Porter shuffled his feet and gnashed his teeth, motivating himself for his upcoming hell-bent, Katie-bar-the-doors sermon.
The day of the gun had arrived in Denver.
Six o’clock. Hall Carleton banged the gavel and declared the convention open and smiled an ivory smile to the delegates.
“Fellow shooters! Please take your seats and let us prepare ourselves for the serious work ahead in the next three days. Now, we’re all “Mericans here. We love our freedom and our children, and we treat our women with respect. We are known for our fair play. My daddy,” Hall continued, choking a bit, “gave me a Daisy BB gun when I was five years old for picking blackbirds off the telegraph wires. I got so good, we had bird and rabbit for dinner whenever I went a-hunting. This old dawg can hunt!”
Cheers, whistles, stomps, drumroll.
“When I was chosen to star in some of the great film epics, I never
forgot where I came from and why. And I thank God-yes, you liberals,
there is a God—I thank the Almighty for allowing me to spend my
twilight, my declining years in the service of decent citizens asking
only for their God-given just rights. That’s all we ask of a
government turning more and more against these just and
constitutionally guaranteed rights.”
Cheers, whistles, stomps, drumroll. Both arms spread like a Moses parting the Red Sea.
“Now, I can’t say,” Hall Carleton said, “that everybody agrees with us. But we are tolerant. The man I am about to introduce may not support us on the various issues, but he will learn to. Because he is a fair-play man and he is a great “Merican hero, a great Marine, a great.. . rancher and governor. So, stand up and cheer our honorable opponent, Governor Quinn Patrick O’Connell of the great state of Colorado!”
Rae and Duncan turned to the entrance of the united airlines AUDITORIUM and saw their father and their mother beside him, calm as a whisper.
The band struck up the Marines’ march, “Semper Fidelis-Always Faithful.” Quinn strode slowly into the waves of hands reaching to be shaken. He nodded quickly to his children. The cheering intensified as he was greeted at the steps to the platform by Hall Carleton and King Porter. Be gracious in victory, King told himself. Down the line of board members Quinn went.
He stopped for a long handshake and shoulder slap from Senator].
Richard Darling, then came to the microphones. The cameras moved to
close-up, and a pan shot as a banner rolled down the balcony rail,
COLORADO GOES AMERIGUN.
Order at last. “With enemies like you,” Quinn began, “who needs friends?”
The unitedairlinesAUDITORIUM convulsed.
The governor and his family snuggled into a booth at Daddy Bruce, the renowned purveyor of spare ribs, long deceased. They chomped.
“What’s the matter with those people?” Rae asked.
“You can’t paint a single picture and call it universal. If there are common denominators, it would
be poverty in youth, perhaps corporal punishment, dust and cactus life, or places of raw exploitation. They grow up to be losers and band with other losers in losers’ bars and losers’ trailer courts. Together, they flesh out who caused their birth-to-death misery. Few people have the guts to really look into themselves, so they go for the cliche villains. The government is the big, bad demon in their lives. They dream of being warriors, they play at being warriors. Their rationale is warped logic, but logical to them nonetheless. They stay as persecuted outcasts, a role they fit into, and therefore everyone is out to get them. So, enter the weapon, the equalizer, and shout out about fantasy rights they do not have .. . pass the sauce. The rest of the entire male world, from kings to commoners, have always been and always will be enchanted by the power of the gun. Sooner or later we lose our civility.”
“I’m glad we’re out of that hall,” Rita said shakily.
“So am I,” Quinn said.
“Are you going to be able to do anything, Dad?”
“Possibly,” he answered with a wink.
“Don’t do anything crazy,” Rae said.
“Tell him that,” Rita pressed.
Quinn waved a pair of gooey hands. Rae cleaned them off with wipes and napkins. Duncan pointed at his father’s chin, and she dabbed it.
Rita took her husband’s hand and pressed it against her cheek. “You son of a bitch,” she whispered, “please be careful.”
“Most of these gun people in town are just after a good time,” Duncan said.
“It’s the other ones I’m worried about,” Rita added.
Reynaldo Maldonado came in and pulled up a chair at the end of their table. He had eaten. He had seen his son-in-law’s welcome on TV. Gutsy.
Quinn checked his watch. “Take Rita and the kids back to the condo.
I’ll commandeer the Wagoneer.”
“Can we know where you’re going?” Rita asked.
“I’ll be in Dawn Mock’s office at the CBI. I have no idea how long the meeting will last.”
“Honey, please, no heroics,” Rita pleaded.
“You were there tonight. We’ve got to put a stop to this shit, or we’re going to start losing our country.”