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-------------New Book!

by Col. James "Bo" Gritz
America's Most Decorated Green Beret Commander

Chapter One

Friday, August 21, the first day of the debacle, 14-year-old Samuel Weaver was shot to death by U.S. Special Operations Marshals, as he ran for home. During the same ambush, Marshal William Francis Degan, from Quincy, MA, died at the hands of his own men. The next day, FBI sniper, a man who specializes in death without warning, Lon Tomohisa Horiuchi killed Vicki Weaver, 43, as she stood in the doorway of her home, holding her 10-month-old daughter, Elisheba, in her arms. Randy Weaver, 44, was shot in the back without warning by Horiuchi’s observer Dale Monroe, as Kevin Harris, 24-year-old Weaver friend, suffered gunshot wounds to his left arm and chest. The five survivors barricaded themselves in a 32' x 24' clapboard cabin with no further communication until I was able to intervene. The siege ended after 11-days without further bloodshed on 31 August — despite federal determination to the contrary.

In the end, it was acknowledged that elite Special Operations U.S. Marshals lied about the Weavers and how Degan died. Their false reports to cover their own irresponsible acts precipitated the deadly "Nobody comes off that mountain alive" attitude by the FBI Hostage Rescue Team. Randy Weaver and Kevin Harris were exonerated of numerous charges, including murder, by a federal criminal trial jury; while U.S. Attorney General Janet Reno agreed to pay $3.2 million to the Weavers for the wrongful deaths of mother Vicki and brother Sammy. September 23, 2000, AG Janet Reno paid Kevin Harris $380,000 for his injuries. Unfortunately, Lon Horiuchi was charged, but never tried for the murder of Vicki. In typical government fashion, an FBI investigation of itself resulted in a juggling of bureaucratic positions, a few resignations, but no real discipline. Memorializing the Oklahoma City Alfred Murrah Federal Building, government leadership presented both Horiuchi and Marshal Arthur Roderick, Jr., who shot Sammy in the back, with medals for their conspicuous gallantry.

Out of respect for the Weaver’s loss of their mother, Vicki, and little brother, Sammy, I have delayed my reflections until Randy Weaver and his oldest daughter, Sara (16 at the time of the siege), recorded their version in a paperback entitled, The Federal Siege at Ruby Ridge. In the interim, several books, numerous news stories, magazine articles, and even a made-for-TV movie, by people who weren't at the siege, attempted without accuracy to represent what happened. To know the truth from inside the cabin, I recommend you read the story from the Weavers’ point of view, as written by their own hand. Grand Jury and trial transcripts show the lies told by federal agents as they testified before the U.S. Senate Judicial investigating sub-committee. I state in this chapter exactly what occurred on top of Weaver mountain, as I personally experienced it.
The siege started for me on 24 August 1992 in Phoenix, Arizona preparing for a September presidential-election petition drive. Phone calls began coming in from concerned citizens requesting my presence in north Idaho on behalf of a man named Randy Weaver and his family. Pastor Dave Barley from America’s Promise Church at Sand Point, ID, Guy Roberts, and others were urging me to put the campaign on hold and help the Weavers. It was known that little Sammy Weaver, had been killed along with a U.S. Marshall Degan. I started making arrangements to leave for north Idaho, while a campaign coordinator informed Maurice Ellsworth, the Boise-based U.S. Attorney, that I would arrive the next day.

Anticipating the need for someone with law enforcement experience on our side of the Ruby Creek police line, I asked Jack McLamb to join me. Jack is both the most decorated and most fired officer from the Phoenix Police Department. He had been "officer of the year" and was their "officer friendly" for local school liaison. Jack became politically incorrect after studying the U.S. Constitution and deciding to question authority when ordered to aid IRS actions. After taking a disability retirement from the force, Jack formed "Police Against The New World Order" and wrote a periodical, Aid & Abet, designed for police and military personnel. Jack seemed glad to be included.

Prosecutor Ellsworth said he had no jurisdiction over the matter, but would notify the FBI of my intention to help. Later that day, FBI Special Agent (SA) Ed Berg called, saying Weaver was a former Green Beret and I was a person, identified by friends and family, who he respected and listen to. I had visited the Special Forces Headquarters at Fort Bragg, N.C. several times during my tour of duty from 1964-1969. As a special operations commander actively engaged in guerrilla warfare, I shared tradecraft and lessons learned with those who would soon face the enemy. Randy Weaver might have been at one of those sessions. Berg asked that I record a telephone tape which would be played over a loudspeaker outside the Weaver cabin. I agreed to do the tape, but Berg didn’t like my message. I urged Weaver not to do anything that might precipitate further confrontation. I would be on the first flight to Spokane and arrive at Ruby Ridge as soon as possible -- the tape was never played.

We changed planes at Las Vegas, NV. I was amazed to hear a page and find Christian Identity Pastor Pete Peters on the phone. Somehow he knew I was headed toward Idaho and had tracked me to the gate at McCarron International Airport. Peters expressed what an unprecedented opportunity it was to appeal for national White Christian unity. I assured him that my agenda would be first and only to defuse the deadly confrontation, secure the children, and see Weaver safely within the system.

Upon landing at Spokane, we were met by two divergent groups supporting and hating Weaver. I asked that representatives from both persuasions join me in a van headed for Ruby Creek. Jack and the others followed. One faction claimed Randy and his family were trouble-making thieves, while the other said he was the victim of a scurrilous Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms entrapment. I also learned from Ellsworth, Esq. that the siege was being managed directly out of the Department of Justice (DOJ) in Washington, D.C.. According to the U.S. Attorney, all federal law enforcement was subordinate to a special Hostage Rescue Team (HRT) flown in from the Marine Corps base at Quantico, VA to handle the Weaver siege. Instructions were coming directly from the FBI Director and the Attorney General. The senior regional agent on the scene was Special Agent in Charge (SAC) Eugene Glenn, out of Salt Lake City.

The pieces began to come together. Weaver graduated from high school in Iowa and joined the Army in 1968. After his discharge in 1972, Randy returned home to Iowa, got a job working for John Deere, met Vicki, was married, began to raise a family with a daughter (Sara), a son (Sammy), and then Rachel in Cedar Falls. Randy and Vicki were active Baptists, but had difficulty accepting "flyaway" solutions to deep religious questions. The young family began forming apocalyptic beliefs based on their personal Bible studies. Suspicions about government further complicated their search for a secure place to raise and educate their growing children.

Weaver was most outspoken about his views on religion and politics, which some thought to be extreme. Federal agents sent to investigate, determined the Weavers activities were not leading to the formation of a dangerous cult, but a 1983 newspaper feature vilified them as "Survivalists Preparing for Armageddon." Vicki objected to special interest subjects, e.g., alternative life-styles and sex education, taught in public schools and tolerance toward race mixing. They thought about home-schooling, but found it was illegal in Iowa at that time.

Desiring privacy away from society and a place where they could live close to nature, the Weavers left Iowa for the Northwest. Just south of the Canadian border, in northern Idaho on Ruby Ridge, they found the perfect (they believed divinely inspired) 20-acre-site. Their personal beliefs concerning world conspiracy, future events, and their own security continued to intensify.

The Weavers property was at the terminus of a steep logging trail. With the help of a displaced young man, Kevin Harris, from Spokane, the family hand-built a cabin for $5,000 with no running water, indoor plumbing, or electricity, but it was all theirs. They prepared a large garden, root cellar, chicken coop, storage shed, a 8'x14' wooden "birthing-house," outhouse and makeshift shower. Abundant game and fish provided meat for their menu. Kevin started his own log cabin just down the trail. Sammy trained his Yellow Labrador, Striker, to bring water up the hill from the spring using a wagon or sled, depending on the season. Rachel took care of the poultry, while Sara worked in the garden helping Vicki store herbs and prepared food for canning. Clothes, curtains, rugs and covers (many in blue) were made by hand and on a loom. Vicki’s high intelligence made her a natural to teach her family Bible concepts. They were finally living their view of God’s word, to include Vicki’s isolation in the one-room birthing-shed during her menstrual period.

Happiness turned to disappointment when, in 1984, a disgruntled sharecropper, Terry Kennison, filed a lien on their property and reported to the sheriff that Weaver was planning to assassinate President Ronald Reagan. FBI and Secret Service agents interviewed Weaver in February 1985 and concluded there was no threat, but the family thought otherwise. Weavers felt intimidated to the point that they recorded the following signed document with the Boundary County Clerk on Thursday, 28 February 1985: "This statement is a legal affidavit. We hereby make a public notice on this date that we, a married couple, Randall Claude and Vicki Jordison Weaver believe our physical lives to be in jeopardy. We are the parents of three small children whose lives are also in danger.
We are the victims of a smear campaign of our character and false accusations made against us to the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the United States Secret Service by some local residents who have a motive for my demise. We have had conversations with and explained our innocence and the motive for this conspiracy to have myself and my wife murdered by the Federal Government. I make legal and official notice that I believe I may have to defend myself and my family from a physical attack on my life.

There are witnesses from the Deep Creek, Idaho area who heard this conspiracy being planned and who can be subpoenaed to give testimony. The U.S. Secret Service apparently does not care if I am innocent or not. There is evidence of my innocence but they continue to try to build an illegal case on a fraudulent accusation and fraudulent evidence because they don’t like my political beliefs or religious faith.

My accusers set me up as a criminal member of the Aryan Nations. They accused me of having illegal weapons. They accused me of saying I was going to assassinate the President of the United States and the Pope. Very possibly a threatening letter was sent to the President with my name or initials forged. My accusers hoped that the FBI would crush my home with armed agents hoping I would feel the need to defend myself and thus be killed or arrested for "assault on Federal officials." Fortunately, bad weather (the first part of Feb. 1985), witnesses to this plot, and our God, the Lord Jesus Messiah, King of Israel prevented a disaster.

These accusations are all lies and can be proven as such. My accusers have heard of FBI confrontation in North Idaho on the radio and in the newspapers and thus got their ideas for my death." The notice turned out to be a self-fulling prophecy seven years before the fact!

Weaver’s circle of associates worsened. Early in 1986, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, & Firearms (ATF), commissioned a well exercised snitch, Kenneth Fadley, to infiltrate then 71-year old Richard Butler’s Aryan Nations organization at Hayden Lake, Idaho and entrap Randy Weaver. Fadley would only be paid a bonus beyond expenses if the AFT won a conviction against one or the other in federal court. Kenneth Fadley worked undercover as a long-haired motorcycle drifter calling himself Gus Magisano from John Trochmann’s Montana Militia area at nearby Noxin. After making Weaver’s acquaintance, Fadley decided the best way to bring down both the Aryan Nations and Weaver was orchestrate a gambit wherein Weaver was made to spy on Butler. The ATF advised Fadley to "go slow" with Randy since neither he, nor Vicki had ever broken a law, or received even a traffic ticket. Fadley’s first move was to lure Weaver to the Aryan Nations annual convention at Hayden lake in the Summer of 1986. They met again at the same event in 1987. Weaver missed going in 1988 — he ran for Sheriff of Boundary County that year. All of the Weavers came to Butler’s Hayden Lake retreat in 1989, where Fadley was patiently waiting.

Fadley told Weaver that he was making a lot of money selling illegal firearms and wanted to meet with Weaver at a Sandpoint restaurant on 11 October. As Randy expected, the man he knew as Magisano asked him to get involved. Fadley said the demand for guns was more than he could keep up with and wanted Weaver to sell him two sawed-off shotguns for $450. Needing money, Weaver accepted, and delivered. Fadley then used the threat of federal charges to forced Weaver to spy on the white supremacists. Realizing he had been set-up, Randy, nevertheless, told Fadley to stuff-it! Believing an attack to be his best defense, Weaver went to the media with his story of BATF intimidation, deception and entrapment. The ATF’s willingness to resort to subterfuge and extortion angered many of those who read the story — including the feds. Weaver was indicted out of Boise in December 1990 with selling two shotguns with barrels sawed one-quarter-inch beyond legal without federal registration.

As Randy and Vicki were approaching an icy Ruby Creek bridge on 17 January 1991, a man and woman hailed them beside a camper with the hood up. Weavers, being good Samaritans, believing the couple’s vehicle was disabled, stopped to offer help. ATF agents swarmed them from the camper, forcing their faces into the snow at gun-point. In the presence of Boundary County Sheriff Bruce Whittaker, Randy was handcuffed, transported to jail in Coeur d’Alene and required to post a $10,000 promissary bond using his Ruby Ridge property as collateral. Weaver had never before been arrested.

Cooperating with the ATF, the federal magistrate wrongly instructed Weaver that if found guilty on the weapons charge, the Weaver property and home could be seized to pay assessments. The court date was set for Febrauary 19th 1991. ATF agents promised Weaver he would serve a long prison term with his family homeless if he didn’t work for them. Weaver next received notice that the trial date was changed to March 20th (the date was actually meant to be 22 February). The combination of threats, along with three conflicting court dates, resulted in Weavers failure to appear for the pre-trial hearing scheduled for Moscow, Idaho. Randy sent the written "mis-dated" notice to the media. When challenged, the U.S. Marshals denied they had sent Weaver the wrong date. Federal Judge Harold Ryan in Boise issued a warrant for Randy’s arrest, and U.S. Attorney Maurice Ellsworth had Weaver indicted for failure to appear. Mind-boggling that such insignificance could snowball into death and destruction.

The mission of serving the arrest warrant went to Deputy Dave Hunt in the Boise office. He wrote a letter requesting that Weaver surrender that was passed to Randy by a neighbor, Bill Grider. Weavers returned an answer in writing rejecting the offer. Hunt continued to write missives to Weaver under ordered by Ellsworth and Asst. U.S. Attorney Ron Howen to cease the negotiations. The Spokane newspaper and New York Times ran stories. Geraldo Rivera flew over Ruby Ridge in a helicopter bestowing folk-hero status on Weaver. Besides the media, Ruth and Wayne Rau at the base of Ruby Ridge hated the Weavers over a water problem. Weaver’s cabin was one-mile up the ridge from the Rau property. When Randy ran for Boundary County Sheriff on the Republican ticket in 1988, he moved down the hill some nine-miles to Naples. At that time he allowed Rau to hook up to his spring. After losing the race, Randy moved back to his Ruby Ridge cabin and required Rau to disconnect from the single-family water source. Bad feeling festered until Rau’s claimed they were being harassed and threatened independent action if the Marshals didn’t take down Weaver.

Ruth and Wayne Rau courted the U.S. Marshals from the beginning. They owned 30-acres of flat-land at the bottom of the ridge known as the "hayfield." Rau’s opened their home to the G-men as a rally and contact point. The Marshal service paid $1,700 to have a phone line installed in the Rau home. Another $1,500 went for a fire insurance policy. The Raus agreed to spy on the Weavers and testified against them in trial.

In February 1992, Henry Hudson (former U.S. Attorney for Northern Virginia became the Director of the U.S. Marshall Service with Weaver as his main focus. He instructed Hunt to ignore Ellsworth and try to renew negotiations. Hudson suggested that Ellsworth drop the charges against Weaver and then re-indict him secretly hoping Weaver would come out where an arrest could be made on safer ground. Ellsworth declined — and in so doing is more than a little responsible for the bloodbath which followed.

For the next six-months the Weavers became a top priority surveillance target for the U.S. Marshal Service -- adding to the already mounting cost of a year’s work. A high-ranking six-man Special Operations team from Washington, D.C. was sent without a search or arrest warrant to watch the Weavers. Robotic cameras were set up in trees to record family activities, while U.S. Air Force high altitude reconnaissance RF-4 aircraft flew photo missions. The plan, Code-named "Northern Exposure," even included purchasing property adjoining Weavers in hopes Randy would offer help clearing the land and be arrested by a man-woman team.

Knowing the family routine, Marshals Arthur Roderick, Jr., Tony Perez, David Hunt, Ron Evans, William Degan, all armed with automatic firing M-16 rifles, and Lawrence Cooper, equipped with a silenced Colt 9mm submachine gun to kill Sammy’s dog, Striker, set out on Friday, 21 August 1992 to do more than watch and wait. The well camouflaged lawmen prepared an ambush site at a location known as the "Y," where the trail from Weaver’s home split. At about 10:00 A.M. several of the team approached the cabin and began tossing stones at Striker causing him to bark and chase them. They knew that it was customary for the dog to alert when deer or elk were near. The family would then file out and follow Striker to harvest the animal. It is important to note that Roderick and others said they did nothing to cause the confrontation, but their report — like most of the government’s case was a lie. Arthur Roderick (page 40 of the Grand Jury testimony and during trial cross-examination admitted throwing rocks at Striker. On page 49 of the Roderick testimony he admits that Cooper’s silenced sub-machine gun was specifically there to kill Striker.

This time Randy appeared armed with a double-barrel shotgun, while Kevin had his .30-06 caliber bolt-action rifle, and little Sammy a .223 caliber Mini-M-14. Weaver took a different route, as Kevin and Sammy followed Striker’s yelps. Cooper testified that Sammy was too close to Striker for him to shoot the dog without fear of hitting the 80-pound boy. Cooper said: "I could just feel the bullets begin to fly." Arthur Roderick had none of Cooper’s concern: his first bullets broke Striker’s spine, leaving him to howl in agony as he dragged himself about with only his front legs until death took him. Sammy cried out and fired a shot in Roderick’s direction.

About the same time, Randy was challenged by a camouflaged figure who shouted: FREEZE, U.S. Marshals! To which Weaver responded: "No way!" And ran back toward the cabin. Hearing the firing at the "Y," Weaver fired his shotgun once in the air, jamming the weapon as he attempted to reload. Grabbing his 9mm pistol, he fired it repeatedly in the air to gain attention, yelling: "SAMMY COME HOME!" "I’m coming Dad," were Sam’s last words as he turned and ran for the cabin. Roderick, claiming a bullet ripped through his uniform, fired again: one of the hyper-velocity .556 millimeter machine gun bullets nearly tore off his right arm at the elbow, while a second ripped through his back and chest. Sammy fell dead on the trail alongside his faithful friend.

Kevin Harris was next on the scene. Harris was a tall, 25 year old with gentle features. He had fallen some distance behind as Sammy ran ahead to catch Striker. Kevin moved to pick Sammy up, but was driven off by a din of automatic weapons fire. Senior Deputy U.S. Marshal William F. Degan, Jr., 42, was a hero, the most honored Marshal in 203-years of service. Seeking to get a better shot at Kevin, he left his covered position and fired on the run (seven shell-casing strung out behind) as he moved toward the trail. Degan crossed directly in front of Larry Cooper. Cooper testified: "I aimed at the target and pulled the trigger. The target fell like a sack of potatoes." The first bullet struck Degan’s tactical backpack spinning him to the left (shown in court). The second round went through his chest. Degan’s last words were directed toward Cooper: "," but it was already too late. It was the first time since 1951 that a U.S. Marshal was killed in Idaho.

At this point, having years of close combat experience, I can describe with high confidence what happened. Degan, unlike Cooper, was used to being under fire. Unable to hear Cooper’s silenced rounds, Degan crossed his line of fire. I have observed many inexperienced men doing their best to control fear as they engage the enemy. As any Vietnam combat infantry vet will tell you, it was typical to see new men firing from ambush with their arms over-head, and faces down! William Degan was shot by one of his own, while he maneuvered to kill Harris in the fusillade of fire. Cooper, admittedly afraid, had no idea his target was the running camouflaged Degan. Indeed, Degan did fall like a sack of potatoes.

The single best person to capture the moment is 16-year-old Sara Weaver, who lived it: I woke up to what seemed to be a normal Friday morning. At about 10:30 A.M., something set the dogs off. Striker, our yellow Lab was barking frantically and racing toward the rock that overlooked our driveway. Sam yelled back that he thought he had heard something in the woods, and he was going to follow Striker. Dad, Kevin and Sam started down the drive. I walked out to the rock to wait for them, and watched as they disappeared into the woods. Five minutes or so passed when a gunshot made he jump. My heart dropped. Dad never shot game in the summer months. I heard two more shots and then my Dad starting yelling. "They shot Striker! Sam! Kevin! They shot Striker! COME HOME SAM! COME HOME! The whole time I heard more gunfire. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe. PLEASE let them be Okay. Who shot Striker? Who keeps shooting? Why would anyone shoot Striker? I forced my legs to move and ran for the house.

Mom and Rachel had been on the back porch watching Elisheba as she played with baby toys in her playpen. "Mom! Someone shot Striker!" Mom picked up Elisheba and followed Rachel and me out to the rock. When we reached the rock, Dad was walking up the drive. We all began fearfully asking what had happened and where were Kevin and Sam?
Dad was crying, "I don’t know, I don’t know, my shotgun jammed." We started begging Dad to hurry and get up the driveway and into the protection of the rocks. We then started yelling for Kevin and Sam, but to no avail. We heard nothing but our own echos mocking us, and after the echos faded silence. We all were crying and Dad kept saying over and over "My sons, my sons." Then we heard Kevin yell. He was crying, and his cap was missing. We asked him if he had seen Sam? He sid, "Yes, Sam’s dead." We all started to sob. Mom was saying: "Are you sure? Are you sure? He can’t be dead! He can’t be!"

I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach. I wanted to scream, cry, throw-up all at once. My baby brother...NO! It wasn’t true! It couldn’t be. This was all just a horrible nightmare. I was going to wake up any second now. This is the part where you are supposed to wake up. Please let me wake up! After a few of the worst minutes I have ever experienced, we walked back to the house. I changed from shorts into camo-pants and a long sleeved shirt. Mom went upstairs to change from skirt and sandals into jeans and boots.

When she came back down, she stated matter-of-factly: "We are going to go and get Sam." I begged her not to. I thought that if they went to get Sam, the would get ambushed and shot as well. Mom and Dad said that they didn’t give a damn, they weren’t going to leave him in the road. I think Mom was hoping, no, believing that Sam was still alive. Rachel and I took Elisheba and followed them as far as the rock. Mom and Dad started down the drive way first, with Kevin right behind them. Dad left his rifle at home so he could carry Sam.

A few minutes after they disappeared from sight, I heard Mom and Dad start to sob and wail, and that was when I knew. I waited tensely, fully expecting to hear more gunfire, but all I heard was my parents sobbing. After a few terribly long minutes, I saw Mom walking up the drive. Dad and Kevin followed carrying Sam’s body. That was the last time I saw my little brother. After that first glance I couldn’t make myself look at him again. I tried to remember the last time I told him I loved him? I hope he knows.

Mom sent me into the guest-shed to put a plastic mattress cover on the bed, which I did. After they laid Sam’s body on the bed, Mom and Dad spent some time cleaning the blood off of him and wrapped him in a sheet. Dad asked if I wanted to see him one last time, but I couldn’t do it. When they finished, Dad came out. He had blood all over his jeans and T-shirt, like he had just finished cleaning a deer, or butchering chickens. But this was Sam’s blood, and I never felt so broken and beaten and totally heartsick in all my life. Stunned, shocked, and crying, we all had the question in our minds — what now?

To be on the safe-side, we prepared for the worst. We carried food, blankets and ammunition out to the rock. Mom and Kevin filled some water jugs, and then we all went out to the rock to wait, for what we couldn’t imagine. And we cried. The sun was sitting, our Sabbath had started. After awhile it started to rain. Mom said it was getting late and we should go in. We all agreed and decided they would try to contact us in the morning. Before we went in, Dad and I tied my little dog Buddy to a tree out behind the chicken coop. He could warn us if someone was trying to sneak up on the house. We could hear police sirens in the valley, and traffic on the meadow below.

Dad went out into the yard to feed the dog, I went with him. Not that I could really do anything if something were to happen, but it made me feel better to be with him. When we reached the house, Elisheba was asleep and Mom was doing the dishes. Dad and Kevin brought some food up from the root cellar, but no one felt like eating.

Dad got up from his chair and told us he was going out to say goodnight to Sam. He came back a few minutes later and went upstairs to be with Mom. I had never seen him look so old and beaten. Rachel and I chose to sleep downstairs. I don’t think either of us could face the fact that Sam’s room was empty.

The long awful night crept on like a never-ending nightmare for me. All night my mind seemed to be stuck on instant replay. I kept thinking how Sam and I used to do everything together. He and I were pals and best friends; he couldn’t really be gone. Nothing could be worse than this — little did I know what the morrow would bring.
To further the cover-up, with hundreds of trained investigators on the scene, the bullet that killed Degan in the heavily wooded "Y" area was never produced. An emergency call went for the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team. The HRT flew from D.C. to Spokane in two USAF C-130 Hercules transports, while Richard Rogers and the mighty-chiefs departed the Capitol in a Saberjet. The unit would caravan to an operations base at the Rau property and launch from there toward the Weaver cabin. The Marshals failed to report they killed both Sammy and Degan, leaving the FBI to believe the team was ambushed by the Weaver Family, who kept them pinned-down throughout the day. When Sammy’s body was discovered by FBI in the side-house, they initially thought Weaver’s were killing their children until interrogation of the Marshals revealed otherwise.

A paranoid Larry Potts, Assistant Director for Criminal Division, and his deputy, Danny Coulson, at FBI Hqs, drew up "rules of engagement." Misled by the Marshal reports, they wrongly assumed that Weavers were the aggressors; and more importantly, that Randy was a qualified Special Foces Green Beret demolitions sergeant. Coulson had worked with Special Forces and knew them to be individually the world’s most proficient killing machines. Indeed, Randy, known as "Pete" by friends and family, completed the Special Forces Combat Engineer qualification course and was awarded the MOS (Military Occupation Specialty) of 12B4S. He was assigned to SF Company C, 7th Special Forces Group, 1st Special Forces. Randy served with distinction for three years from 10 October 1968 in the Regular Army until honorably discharged 8 October 1971. The degree of Randy’s service is seen in his rapid promotion to Sergeant in just 13-months! Coulson confirmed that he and Potts thought at the time this was the most dangerous assignment (including the Order, CSA, et al) ever encountered by the HRT. The FBI were gearing up for a major battle.

One of Coulson’s mentors was SF Colonel "Charg’n Charlie" Beckwith. Beckwith was literally a bull in a china closet. I came to know Charlie in 1965. He was a human-bear in command of the super-secret Delta Project (B-52) based adjacent to the SF Headquarters at Nha Trang, II CTZ, Vietnam. I was the Intelligence Officer and Recon Team Chief. We wore "tiger-suits" (dark-striped camouflaged fatigues) and no rank insignia. Most often B-52 was flown into an American advisor area where we established a secure base to launch direct action teams and coordinate deployment of our Vietnamese Airborne-Ranger Battalion if needed. Charlie was quick to chew out junior officers who questioned why we didn’t salute. More than once we had to extract "Charg’n Charlie’s" fists and feet from the orifices of violated Americans not part of Delta.

In the mid-1970s the Army adopted a policy of selecting senior commanders at the Pentagon rather than allowing appointment from subordinate levels. In 1977, I was being reassigned as command Special Forces in Latin America to the Office of the Secretary of Defense. Charlie Beckwith was on the list for a stateside SF command. It presented a dilemma — where to out Charlie where he would do the least damage. Enroute to the Pentagon, I stopped by Ft Bragg and learned that Charlie was in school and upon completion he would form a new counter-terrorist Delta Force which would be hidden in isolation within the old prison. It made sense. I was invited to be Charlie’s deputy commander. Our leadership methods were diametrically opposed. It would have been a bad match. I believe either of us would have served Delta well, but not together — Charlie agreed.

When the HRT was formed, Colonel Beckwith warned Coulson that the worst possible mission was to inherit another units abortion and be forever tarred by their failure. Knowing this Coulson must have ground his teeth when the FBI was twice required to intervene in calamities initiated by the ATF (Ruby Ridge and Waco).

About 6:30 P.M., Potts contacted Dick Rogers and Duke Smith, Associate Director of the U.S. Marshal Service, enroute on the Saberjet to Sand Point, Idaho. The shoot-to-kill handiwork made any armed adult at the Weaver cabin or Ruby Ridge subject to deadly force without provocation or warning!

Kevin Harris told me the sound of gun fire was deafening. Still he checked, but found Sammy lifeless. (A .556mm makes a small entrance wound, but because of their extreme velocity it will literally explode upon exiting). Harris could see smoke and expended cartridges coming from the woods. He fired one round from his bolt action .30-06-caliber rifle and fled across the trail to work his way back up to the cabin.

Randall and Vicki were beside themselves. Kevin accompanied them back down the trail to recover Sammy’s body. They carried the precious child back up the hill leaving Striker. Unbefitting, a best friend, Striker would be run over numerous times by government vehicles rushing to surround the tiny Weaver cabin with its six occupants. Sammy was washed, wrapped in linen, and carefully laid in the tiny 10-foot square "birthing-house."
The next day, Saturday, August 22 was dreary, the HRT snipers were on station shortly after 5:00 P.M. HRT Sniper Team Sierra-4 composed of Lon Horiuchi and Dale Monroe were dug in on a slope overlooking the Weaver property. Horiuchi had hollowed out an ideal position beside a large pine about 165-yards north-north-west with an good view of the cabin and the "birthing-house." They were armed with a Remington 700 bolt-action sniper rifle, an M-16 automatic rifle, and orders to shoot any armed adult at the cabin — with Vicki Weaver ("maternal head of the family") as the prime target. A light mist was in the air. An HRT helicopter took off from the Rau property just before 6:00 P.M. The trap was triggered and awaited the quarry.

Randy went outside with Kevin and 16-year-old Sara to check the property and look in on Sammy. Vicki was partially concealed behind the window panes of the open door. It would be better if she were brought out into the open. As the chopper approached, Weaver reached up with his right arm to unlatch the door of the "birthing-house." Rogers had given both Monroe and Horiuchi clearance to fire. Without warning a shot rang out sending an M-16 slug through his right upper-back, that exited out his arm-pit. Rogers and Sierra-4 had hoped to knock Randy down bringing Vicki more clearly into Horiuchi’s scope, but Weaver didn’t fall and Vicki remained holding the door open with her right arm while cradling 10-month old Elisheba in her left, pleading for her family to get back into the cabin.

Horiuchi would have to make the best of a good situation. In a prone-supported position, Vicki’s face filled his 10-power scope. Every day he practiced hitting a one-quarter-inch target at 200-yards. All he needed to do was hold his breath, steady the cross-hairs on the right profile of her face, and squeeze the trigger.

Sara, Kevin and Randall bolted for the open door. Just as Kevin ran past, a .308-caliber Federal match-grade bullet smashed through the glass, striking Vicki in the right-side of her face, just in front of her ear and exiting out the left, just beneath the jaw, cutting the artery. Mother and child fell to the ground. The same round penetrated through Kevin’s left-arm and lodged in his chest. West Point graduate, Lon Horiuchi said he watched as his target fell to her knees, screamed for several moments and then died from loss of blood still clutching her infant daughter. Horiuchi further stated that he would do it all again, if given a second chance.

As described by four eye-witnesses at the scene, amid wails of torment, Randy Weaver took baby Elisheba from the arms of his fatally injured wife and handed the bawling, blood-splattered baby to her traumatized 10-year-old sister, Rachel. Randy then cuddled his bride as she convulsed several times before dying in his arms. Weaver then pulled Vicki’s body into the cabin and locked the door. And so the Federal Siege at Ruby Ridge began.
Once more, Sara Weaver shares her experience: Saturday morning dawned chilly with fog. There were helicopters flying around the mountains mostly staying out of sight. We were still waiting. Dad and Kevin stepped out to feed the dogs and move them out of the rain. Rachel and I made a dash to the outhouse and back. Mom came down stairs and collapsed on the couch sobbing. She couldn’t accept that Sam was dead. We tried to comfort her, but soon we were all mourning the tragic loss of our brother. About noon, Dad and I went out to feed the chickens and gather eggs. Mom suggested we try to catch rain water dripping off the roof in case we needed it. We moved some five-gallon buckets under the eaves of the porch. After than we just sat around , numb with heartache. Dad and Kevin talked about getting more food from the cellar and changing a propane tank. They never got the chance.

Late in the afternoon the weather started to clear. All was quite until the dogs started to bark. Dad, Kevin, and I slipped outside to see what was upsetting them. By the time we reached the rock, the dogs had quit barking. We stood in the shelter of the rock for a few moments. There was no sound or movement of any kind. I turned and saw Dad, about 50-feet away, walking towards the shed where Sam had been placed. Dad was on the north side facing the mountain. I felt an urge to be with him, and just as he rounded the corner to open the door a shot rang out! Dad made it to the back of the shed where he was concealed from the view of anyone on the higher ground to the north. He told me that he had been shot in the arm.

At that time, Mom stepped out of the door and screamed "What happened!" Dad yelled back to her that he had been hit. Mom started screaming. I said "Come on Dad, we have to get back to the house!" I placed my hand on his back and began pushing his toward the cabin. He acted dazed and it seemed to take forever to get there. As we ran, I thought to myself, If you want to murder my Dad , you’re going to have to shoot another kind in the back first! My body shielded him from the mountain the snipers were on. I expected a bullet to hit me at any second.

Mom was in the doorway holding baby Elisheba and yelling at us to hurry and get inside. Kevin must have been right behind me because we all reached the door at the same time. That’s when I heard, or rather felt, the second shot. It sounded as if someone had fired a gun right by my ear. I thought I had been hit as fragments of something struck my cheek. My left ear was ringing. The sniper’s bullet passed through the glass in the door and hit my Mom in the head destroying half of her face. The bullet then went through Kevin’s left arm and lodged in his chest. Mom dropped to the floor beside me still cradling Elisheba in her arms. Kevin fell to the floor in front of me. I almost tripped over him getting in the door. Mom’s body was holding the door open. She was killed saving her family.

Rachel was standing in the kitchen and saw it all. There was blood everywhere. Thick pools spreading across the kitchen floor and into the pantry. I started screaming "MOM" and "KEVIN" at the same time. Dad was crying "They shot Mama! They shot Kevin and Mama! Then Dad and I looked at each other and yelled "the BABY!" Dad took Elisheba from Mom and handed her to Rachel. I think that was when Dad said Mom was dead. Elisheba’s face and hair were covered with her Mother’s blood and bone fragments. Rachel was sobbing "Mom! Mom! I can’t live without Mom!

I got down on the floor and cradled Kevin’s head in my lap. I asked him where he was hurt? He said his arm and his chest, and thought he might also have some broken ribs. He told me he thought he was going to die. I begged him to tell me how I could help him. He asked me to bring him water. I told him I loved him. I brought in towels from the bathroom to try and stop Kevin’s bleeding. The wound in his arm was as big around as a soup can lid and raised almost an inch. We could see the bullet-hole into his chest. I made him take cayenne pepper capsules, something Mom had taught us to prevent blood poison. He asked for more water and a blanket.

Dad pulled Mom’s body into the kitchen and locked the door. He said we needed a blanket to cover Mom. I went into the livingroom to get one for her and for Kevin. I went back to the kitchen and walked over to Mom. I started covering her up, sobbing and saying "I love you Mama, if you can hear me, I love you. There are no words to describe how I felt just then. Mom had been right. Satan’s forces chose to attack us without warning or mercy on God’s Holy Day. We knew this was the end. They were shooting at us from unknown hiding places. They could see us, but we couldn’t see them. Dad and the three of us girls crouched on the livingroom floor and waited to die.

It was an awful night. Sam and Mom were dead, Kevin was dying, and Dad was wounded. It was obvious that the persons shooting us didn’t caring about talking — just killing. We didn’t care. They had already stolen everything that was ever important to us. All that remained was four more lives. Dad got up and moved a big recliner into the center of the room for the little protection it would offer when they came through the front door. He closed all the curtains and blocked the door where Mama was killed with kitchen chairs. We tried to quiet Elisheba with cereal. I was sure they were going to come in at any second to murder the rest of us. I prayed that they would just fire-bomb the house and take us all at once. I couldn’t bear to see the rest of my tattered little family die one by one. We were living a hell on earth. Dad went into the kitchen where Mom was I heard him weeping: "I love you Mama, I’m sorry, I love you." This made Rachel and I start sobbing all over again.

Kevin began to cough and continued moaning through the night. At one point he said he hurt so badly he couldn’t stand it anymore and asked Dad to shoot him. Dad sat in silence for minutes that seemed like hours. Rachel and I begged him not to do it. Finally Dad told Kevin he just couldn’t do it. I had uncontrollable shakes for hours after that. Later in the night we heard people moving around under the house. I was afraid they would randomly shoot through the floor. Elisheba would wake up crying and calling "Mama, Mama." Dad would comfort her: "I know baby, I know, Mama’s gone."

I kept asking myself how this could ever happen? My beautiful Mother was lying dead in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor. My precious brother was in a shed outside, shot in the back. Kevin was sitting next to me, moaning, bleeding, expecting to die before morning. My Dad was wounded in the back. My baby sister would grow up never knowing her Mother’s love, or her brother who adored her. Sam had been the first member of the family to make Elisheba smile. Rachel was even closer to Mom than I was. Her world was torn from her in an instant right before her eyes. WHY?

Idaho Governor Cecil Andrus, signed two gold-sealed documents proclaiming an "Extreme Emergency" and "Disaster Area," surrendering Boundary and Bonner Counties to federal jurisdiction and martial law. FBI Hostage Response Team leader, Richard Rogers worked with siege-site commander and DOJ-FBI authorities in Washington, D.C. to suspend normal "Rules of Engagement" which prevent agents from initiating deadly force unless lives are in danger. Ed Farr was the Red Cross official who set up a support facility for siege participants at the FBI Ruby Creek encampment headquarters the day Vicki was killed. Ed was shocked at the ruthless attitude of the FBI-HRT. He made a special effort to inform me of his observations. "They were preparing their machine guns and putting on bullet proof armor. I was standing directly behind three of them. They said, "We’re going to wipe ‘em out. Nobody is going to come off that hill alive." After it was known Horiuchi had killed Vicki, tents were marked proclaiming the valley FBI encampment to be "CAMP VICKI."

A reinforced 100-man HRT unit surrounded the cabin in a round-the-clock 200-yard perimeter. Local residents were moved out, as 400 militarized-police (confirmed by Duke Smith, associate director of the Marshal service) moved into the war-zone. More than 30 residents were forcefully evacuated, leaving live stock, chickens, other domestic animals, and pets to fend for themselves — outside dogs were shot to keep them from alerting Weavers as to police movement. $25,000 in bridge reinforcements had to be made to allow passage of armored personnel carriers; two UH-1 "Huey" helicopters, an OH-58 helicopter, and numerous other military vehicles (250 total) began to fill up the headquarters area. Motorhomes were modified and equipped to form a tactical operations center. The Idaho National Guard supplied generators, a bulldozer, front-load tractor, bridge planking, truck loads of equipment including tents, cots, .50-caliber machine guns, plus other high-tech electronics. Adding to the appearance of mutual cooperation, the Guard was also required to provide "unarmed" support personnel, as federal authorities had concerns about Guardsman sympathy turning into mutiny. The BATF joined with U.S. Marshals and Idaho State Police in securing roadblocks and checkpoints.

A special FBI robot unit accompanied the HRT and operated from a van positioned just off the trail about 100-yards around the bend from the Weaver cabin. Controlling the six-tracked monster through an unreeling electrical-umbilical cord from the back, they remotely maneuvered the armed 750-pound robo-cop up the trail, onto the porch, to a position directly in front of the cabin door where low-light-zoom-camera-eyes could leer down through the broken window-pane where Vicki lay in a pool of blood. Besides video eyes, the robot head was equipped with sensitive listening device ears, and a loudspeaker mouth. Operators from the control van gave the robot its voice. A 12-gauge automatic firing shotgun was mounted on a right arm. A main center arm contained an electro-mechanical claw clutching a dark hard-plastic case wrapped in thin coated wire. The FBI said it was a telephone, but Weaver’s Army Engineer training convinced him it was a bomb.

Repeatedly, Frederick W. Lanseley, chief FBI negotiator used the robot’s loud speaker to taunt Weavers telling them to have Vicki pick up the phone suspended from the robot’s claw. FBI negotiators did their best to intimidate Weaver into a shoot out with shouted provocations to the family about their dead mom. They even went so far as to announce that they were having blueberry pancakes for breakfast, and wondered what "Mrs Weaver" was fixing her family! Weavers remained silent.

We arrived Wednesday afternoon to find a police line of 35 FBI & ATF agents, U.S. Marshals, Idaho State Police, and National Guard in camouflaged kevlar, armed with M-16 rifles and MP-5 German sub-machine guns, guarding the bridge across Ruby Creek some three miles from Weavers mountain cabin. I immediately went to the officers and asked to speak with Gene Glenn. They recognized me, but said Glenn was busy overseeing the operation and would not be available. The narrow two-lane old Highway 95, paralleling Ruby Creek at the bridge between Sand Point and Bonner’s Ferry at Naples, was jammed on the left side by media satellite vans and a citizen vigil involving almost 100-vehicles on the right. I noticed a few supporters putting up "Bo Gritz for President" signs and instructed they be taken down. We weren’t there for any other reason than helping the Weavers. The crowd which had been dangerously close to a physical confrontation with authorities at the police line over the killing of Sammy Weaver, quieted down and seemed satisfied to give me the lead. Throughout the day my efforts to see Glenn were rebuffed.
As night fell, a kind member of the vigil invited me to sleep in his pick-up camper-shell. A motel-restaurant, the Deep Creek Inn, just down the road a short walk was full. The area was too remote for cell-phone coverage, so I made the walk to the motel to use the pay-phone. Like most establishments in cold country, the entrance was a small unlit mud-room. The phone was on the wall, but it was too dark to see the dial-pad, so I went inside to the register.

A wonderfully polite man with a heavy Germanic accent trusted that I would use my fon-card and handed me a cordless phone. Over-hearing my side of the conversation, Lorenz Caduff, suggested that I use his upstairs living area for a base of operations. He insisted on moving his wife, Wasiliki, and three children, Larry (16), Sarah (10), and Manuela (2) into one of the cross-street motel rooms. The family had just immigrated from Switzerland six-weeks before, and purchased the Naples motel property.

To them the Weaver shoot-out was unimaginable. They had moved from Europe to the USA to escape such punitive government action. Jack and I moved into the family quarters that night and slept on the family’s blanket pallets in lieu of beds. It was wonderful having a private bathroom and telephone. Our host insisted on feeding us and the only way I could repay him was through generous tips to his wife-waitress. Some people can mean more in a heartbeat than others do over a lifetime. Our relationship with this gentle soul was bitter-sweet, as, in the end, he became a "collateral fatality."
For two days I postured and prepared, while Jack prayed and played middleman between the vigil and police. The media pumped out disinformation about the Weavers and the siege. Four skinheads and three other young people wearing swastika armbands out of some 200 spectators were reported as "scores of neo-Nazis," while Randy was labeled a "White Supremacist." Ironically, a tall skinhead from Las Vegas stayed in touch with Sara after the siege ended. They established a home in western Montana, not far from Ruby Ridge and were married in 1999. Oddly, as the siege drew toward its climax, the skinheads would play an influential role.

The concentrated collection of media drew an assortment of special interest representatives including the aging Richard Butler from the Church of Jesus Christ, Aryan Nations, 60-miles south at Hayden Lake, near Couer d’Alene. Butler was there for about an hour.

I found it interesting that during World War II, he was stationed in India as a crew-member aboard an Army Air Force B-24 Liberator bomber. I ask Butler, as WW II vet, how and why Hitler had become his hero? He told me that queries by Hindi as to why he was fighting his own kind, caused him to study the matter. His conclusion was that the war was a contrivance orchestrated by Jewish Communists and bankers to weaken both America and Europe. He had dedicated his life since then to building up White unity.
A reporter from the Spokane newspaper, who had made a career following the supremacy movement, confirmed that Butler was no real threat. He said "Butler will feed and house anyone willing to act like a Nazi, and on any given day there were maybe a half-dozen derelicts in the complex." Once a year Butler sponsored the Aryan Nations International Convention which drew an assortment of between 200 and 300 "white-power advocates worldwide. To me, Butler was like a 70-year old teenager making a statement of identity with a crooked-cross rather than dying his hair green.

Sources from The Coalition for Human Dignity and other liberal special interest groups, e.g., Against Malicious Harassment, targeted me as "a racist, or I wouldn’t be there." Paul Harvey, the radio newscaster, even criticized my presence and urged me over the air to leave Randy Weaver and his family alone. Fortunately, the large majority of people were local residents concerned about the loss of human and animal life.

I didn’t know Weaver and had no idea of what he may have become in the 20-years following his military service in 1972, but I did know Special Forces, and demolitions. Randy could have fugas (gasoline mixed with Ivory Snow to form jellied-napalm) buried around his home in 55-gallon command-detonated fuel drums and expedient mines made out of #10-cans, homemade plastic explosives and nails, in the trees. The entire area could be laced with stake lined panji-pits, Malaysian-gates, and other crippling forms of guerrilla man-traps; a lot of people could get hurt. I fought hard against enemies foreign to keep away from America what was happening on Ruby Ridge. No American should be endangered because of their beliefs, as long as they were within the First Amendment, and not hurting the person or property of others.

Special Forces is "special" for creating solutions for situations others believe impossible. Conventional problem-solvers follow rules. Unconventional problems require original thought to accomplish what rules won’t. Michelangelo didn’t paint by numbers, and Lewis and Clark didn’t have a map. Being denied conventional entrance, I needed a "Moses-Red Sea" solution. Most people plan one-step at a time, I prefer to see myself successful and then work backward to see how I got there. The police ad used arrest powers to get what they wanted. It seemed like a good idea — I would arrest those barring my way.
Constitutional common law allows any citizen to arrest a suspected felon without having witnessed the crime. Marshal William Degan left a wife Karen, and two teenage sons (Billy and Brian) behind. Someone was responsible for the deaths of Marshal Degan and little Sammy. Certainly the Idaho Governor played a roll since he aided and abetted the violence by surrendering sovereign counties to federal jurisdiction; directors of the FBI and Marshal Service were involved, along with the chief agent in charge of the siege. I knew well through my Pentagon and Capitol Hill experience that the best way to animate any bureau-rat is to pin them with a tail of responsibility. Eric Lighter and John Salter were experts on citizen-rights. They would fax me from Hawaii a draft warrant. While they formulated a "citizen’s arrest" naming FBI Director William Sessions, Idaho Governor Cecil Andrus, Director of the U.S. Marshal Service, Henry Hudson, and the FBI siege commander Eugene Glenn as responsible parties, I spent time on talk-radio (adding to the spectators to the blockade) and some target reconnaissance.

Randy had worked part-time for a logger named Jack. Like most rural mountain people, Jack knew every rock, tree, rise and fall of the mountains including ways in and out that by-passed the police-blocks. Jack’s house was higher up on a northern adjacent mountain to the Weaver cabin, providing a clear, but distant view — just right for available Barrett .50-caliber sniper rifles and beyond the range of the FBI Remington 700s. The uncovered FBI commandos were like fish in a barrel. Infiltrated ambush, sniper and booby-trap teams could easily block avenues of approach preventing timely effective response. Armored Personnel Carriers are vulnerable to .50-Armor Piercing rounds and the forested mountains restrictive to their maneuvering. Armed helicopters would fall to .50-caliber fire even as 5,000 did during the Viet Nam War.

The rough mountains were like the palm of God’s hand to local irregulars (guerrillas). Operating in Communist areas denied to U.S. forces, I commanded a unit consisting of 13 U.S. Green Berets and 100 Cambodian mercenaries. Throughout a 30-day period we raided 15 battalion and regimental size base camps. During 53 engagements, we lost only one man killed. Changing directions prevented superior enemy forces from intercepting us; while trackers were eliminated by small stay-behind ambush teams and tail-gunner demolition teams planting mines. Within the assembled vigil of concerned Weaver supporters at Ruby Creek were more than enough small-arms and willing partisans. Unquestionably, suffering from PTSD (years of Vietnam and Cambodia, a decade of POW pursuit in Laos, and recent trips into Burma’s Golden Triangle), I was ripe and ready to vent my frustrations. With Jack as an Indian-guide, the Weaver encirclement would be the least of the government’s priorities. While appreciating the potential for taking the war to the federal government, ala a Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce with modern firearms, and not eliminating it as an "in event of the worse" scenario, I hoped for a kinder-gentler solution to the Ruby Ridge siege.

I wasn’t the first person Jack had taken past the FBI cordon. A freelance TV cameraman had made the trip earlier on Sunday August 23rd. While videoing, an FBI helicopter hauling a fuel cell arrived and hovered over the cabin. Jack, and the cameraman, at eye-level with the pilot, started waving and jumping up and down, fearing the fuel would be dropped on the Weaver home. They could see HRT pilot Frank Costanza pointing them out to another man (possibly Rogers) in the aircraft. The bird then departed toward the valley headquarters. The cameraman was later detained and his tape confiscated. A second team of investigative journalists corroborate Jack’s report. Mike McLean, a reporter for the Bonner County Daily Bee, and Tom Grant of Spokane’s KREM-Channel 2 News, both confirm they infiltrated the FBI valley staging area and were close enough to a gas truck at the helo-pad to witness fuel being pumped into cylindrical containers being put in the helicopter. They said the chopper took-off, circled the Weaver cabin, hovered, then suddenly veered away. Observers at the vigil location also saw and videoed the same action. My visit to Jack’s vantage-point was uneventful. Through binoculars, I sized up Ruby Ridge. That Thursday night, I received the draft-warrant and customized it for issuance the next day at noon.

Friday, August 28, I arrived at the police-line and asked if there were any agents representing the FBI, USMS, and Idaho’s Governor. No one came forward. I then read from the six-page citizens’ indictment dated 27 August 1992, much to the surprise of the press and pleasure of the vigil. While reading the arrest warrant an ATF agent, Ahern, stood pointing his H & K MP-5 submachine gun, hung by a sling from his shoulder, in my face. Don Stewart of Portland, Oregon, jumped between the line of fire and opened up on Ahern in terms too strong for this book, ordering him to get his finger off the trigger and point the weapon elsewhere. After briefly turning away, Ahern again childishly and defiantly menaced me with his security blanket. Unlike many at the vigil, I didn’t consider the U.S. Government or its agents as my enemy. As it turned out, my assumption was both naive premature. The Citizens’ Arrest was signed by myself, Jack McLamb, Eric Lighter, John Salter, Richard Garrett, and Judy Grider. Once the warrant was read, it was secured on the police-side of the line with a sizable rock put in place by a "dis-interested" party.

To Be Continued in Book

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