Read Bugging Out for Free Online Page A
Authors: Noah Mann
no time to prepare—physically, emotionally, spiritually.
The moment had come and we were being failed by the very institutions founded to serve us.
“Red... Red... Red...”
I turned the radio down, but not off, wanting to know at the very first instant if something other than the signal was allowed to broadcast. Neil had said to pay attention. To be aware. Now that the first indications of the crises exploding had arrived, that advice seemed even more relevant. Information would have to get out, from some sources, for as long as possible. It was human nature to connect, to share. Even though I was going into this alone, I was still part of the whole. My place in the human race hadn’t left me, even if I was separating myself from it for a while.
Heading north, I left Missoula behind, a single Trooper racing south toward the city in his Highway Patrol cruiser passing me as the dimmed lights of the city at night faded in my rearview. I passed through Arlee, and by the spot of the checkpoint massacre, three small crosses hammered into the earth on the road’s shoulder, one snapped backward with purpose. Someone had made a statement at the makeshift memorial site. It wasn’t hard to imagine which lost soul that desecrated marker represented.
Traffic picked up as I cruised through Kalispell near five in the morning. More lights were on in residential neighborhoods than should have been at the hour. A police car was stopped mid-intersection, lone officer outside, halting cars as they came through, spending a few seconds conversing with each driver before letting them continue. I pulled up and rolled down my window as I came to a stop.
“Sir, good morning.”
“Officer,” I said, the low repetition of ‘ Red... Red... Red... ’ just audible from my radio.
“You already know that something’s up.”
I nodded. He glanced up and down the street. No cars but mine at the moment.
“Most people I’ve talked to don’t know,” he shared, then reached to the radio on his belt and dialed up the volume.
“Red... Red... Red...” the signal sounded, just as it was on the plain radio receiver in my pickup. Then transmissions from police dispatch filled a carved-out silence between the words, until they repeated again, some accommodation of official communications obviously made.
“Nothing good’s happening, officer,” I told him, and now he nodded. Some clear resignation about him.
“You headed north?”
“Yeah. Past Whitefish.”
He considered that for a moment. Another car neared, slowing to stop behind me. The officer gave its driver a quick wave and then focused on me again.
“That might be a dicey route,” he said. “That’s why I’m stopping people. A broadcast went to out Highway Patrol to shut down access north out of Whitefish.”
“The border’s already closed,” I said.
“Maybe not anymore. An hour ago a couple Blackhawks flew down from that way and unloaded a bunch of soldiers just outside of town. They hurried onto trucks and headed west.”
“They pulled the unit sealing the border?”
“That’s my guess. Probably why they’re stopping people at Whitefish with Highway Patrol. It’s a natural chokepoint.”
They...
Orders were being given from on high. A plan was being set in motion. Troops were being pulled for other duties.
“Red... Red... Red...”
He turned his radio back down.
“I just wanted to give a heads up that you may hit some trouble up that way.”
“I appreciate the warning,” I said, and he stepped back. I pulled away, glancing to my rearview to see the officer leaning down, talking to the driver of the car that had pulled in behind me. At that moment I couldn’t help but marvel at the sight of a public servant behaving as though he knew who he really worked for.
* * *
F orty minutes later I arrived in Whitefish and cruised through the waking town, sunrise hinted at by the bluish glow to the east. But there was another glow ahead, yellow lights
The moment had come and we were being failed by the very institutions founded to serve us.
“Red... Red... Red...”
I turned the radio down, but not off, wanting to know at the very first instant if something other than the signal was allowed to broadcast. Neil had said to pay attention. To be aware. Now that the first indications of the crises exploding had arrived, that advice seemed even more relevant. Information would have to get out, from some sources, for as long as possible. It was human nature to connect, to share. Even though I was going into this alone, I was still part of the whole. My place in the human race hadn’t left me, even if I was separating myself from it for a while.
Heading north, I left Missoula behind, a single Trooper racing south toward the city in his Highway Patrol cruiser passing me as the dimmed lights of the city at night faded in my rearview. I passed through Arlee, and by the spot of the checkpoint massacre, three small crosses hammered into the earth on the road’s shoulder, one snapped backward with purpose. Someone had made a statement at the makeshift memorial site. It wasn’t hard to imagine which lost soul that desecrated marker represented.
Traffic picked up as I cruised through Kalispell near five in the morning. More lights were on in residential neighborhoods than should have been at the hour. A police car was stopped mid-intersection, lone officer outside, halting cars as they came through, spending a few seconds conversing with each driver before letting them continue. I pulled up and rolled down my window as I came to a stop.
“Sir, good morning.”
“Officer,” I said, the low repetition of ‘ Red... Red... Red... ’ just audible from my radio.
“You already know that something’s up.”
I nodded. He glanced up and down the street. No cars but mine at the moment.
“Most people I’ve talked to don’t know,” he shared, then reached to the radio on his belt and dialed up the volume.
“Red... Red... Red...” the signal sounded, just as it was on the plain radio receiver in my pickup. Then transmissions from police dispatch filled a carved-out silence between the words, until they repeated again, some accommodation of official communications obviously made.
“Nothing good’s happening, officer,” I told him, and now he nodded. Some clear resignation about him.
“You headed north?”
“Yeah. Past Whitefish.”
He considered that for a moment. Another car neared, slowing to stop behind me. The officer gave its driver a quick wave and then focused on me again.
“That might be a dicey route,” he said. “That’s why I’m stopping people. A broadcast went to out Highway Patrol to shut down access north out of Whitefish.”
“The border’s already closed,” I said.
“Maybe not anymore. An hour ago a couple Blackhawks flew down from that way and unloaded a bunch of soldiers just outside of town. They hurried onto trucks and headed west.”
“They pulled the unit sealing the border?”
“That’s my guess. Probably why they’re stopping people at Whitefish with Highway Patrol. It’s a natural chokepoint.”
They...
Orders were being given from on high. A plan was being set in motion. Troops were being pulled for other duties.
“Red... Red... Red...”
He turned his radio back down.
“I just wanted to give a heads up that you may hit some trouble up that way.”
“I appreciate the warning,” I said, and he stepped back. I pulled away, glancing to my rearview to see the officer leaning down, talking to the driver of the car that had pulled in behind me. At that moment I couldn’t help but marvel at the sight of a public servant behaving as though he knew who he really worked for.
* * *
F orty minutes later I arrived in Whitefish and cruised through the waking town, sunrise hinted at by the bluish glow to the east. But there was another glow ahead, yellow lights