"Sure," he said, kissing his wife before he left the cabin.

Randy and Vicki Weaver were in their mid-30s. They had left Iowa two years before, and moved with their three children to the mountains in Idaho. Outside Fort Dodge, Iowa, Randy had been a John Deere mechanic who supplemented the family income with an Amway distributorship. He and Vicki had been raised Baptists and went to church regularly, but they disagreed with most ministers' interpretation of scripture, and had gone from one church to another in search of a spiritual philosophy that matched their own.

Ultimately, Randy and Vicki aligned themselves with a sect known as Christian Identity, a group whose theology included the belief that European whites are God's chosen people. The Weavers, like many members of Christian Identity (and like many residents of Idaho) had no great affection for blacks, Jews, or big government. This was one of the reasons Randy and Vicki had moved to the Selkirk Mountains in the Idaho wilderness area and loved living there. Because of the remote location, Vicki Weaver home-schooled the three Weaver children.

An Aryan Nations camp was located a few miles from the Weavers' home. Randy had attended two of their meetings, and had decided that he did not want to join their group. The home schooling, the nearby white supremacy camp, and the fact that the Weavers (like almost everyone in Idaho) owned guns was a combination that elicited comment from a few of the other residents in the area. As local gossip had it, Randy was a member of Aryan Nations, owned illegal weapons, and federal agents were going to conduct an armed raid on his home. It was something that Randy Weaver wanted to avoid.

After Weaver kissed his wife goodbye, he started the drive to the Boundary County Courthouse. He was going to file an affidavit putting on record the fact that he and Vicki believed that their lives and those of their three children were in danger from what Randy termed a 'smear campaign' by some of the local residents.

The affidavit listed the residents Randy and Vicki felt were causing the problem, as well as the names of county and federal law officers that the Weavers had spoken to regarding the situation. The document also contained the sentence "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."

Randy Weaver's statement exhibited great foresight.

"These niggers are really starting to irritate me. Are we all set for tomorrow morning?" the Mayor asked the Managing Director as he looked at his watch and saw that it was almost ten o'clock. "I want to get home and get to bed." Leo Brooks suppressed a wince at the black Mayor's choice of words.

"I just talked with Commissioner Sambor about an hour ago," Brooks replied. "They're ready to go in tomorrow morning, early. Between four-thirty and five."

"They have enough men and equipment on it to get it done the first time?"

"Yes, sir. The MOVE members have blocked themselves in. The police have confirmed that they've reinforced the building on Osage with railroad ties and logs. Greg's putting a demolition team in the houses on either side of them. They'll need to blast some holes in the side walls. Way the MOVE house is barricaded, that's the only shot at getting stun grenades and tear gas inside."

"They better have enough to make sure it gets done. I told Sambor I want those people out of there. Like yesterday."

"He knows that. He said they can blast through the side walls, and if there's any trouble getting through that way, they'll do the roof. Full load of tear gas, we should see 'em vacate pretty quick. First step's got to be explosives, though. Got to blast holes so they can get the stun grenades and tear gas in."

"Fine," Mayor Goode said to Managing Director Brooks. "I'll be asleep when they go in. Give me a call in the morning. Maybe at breakfast I can turn on the news and see them being hauled off in handcuffs." He shook his head as he turned to leave. "The last thing I need is for the neighbors to hold another goddamned news conference." Goode walked out of the room.

The situation which was so vexing to Philadelphia's mayor involved a loosely-knit group of blacks that called itself MOVE. In 1978, at another Philadelphia location, MOVE members had been involved in a confrontation with police that had resulted in the death of one officer and injuries to four policemen and four firemen. Nine MOVE members were serving time in prison for third-degree murder because of what had happened that day.

Now, seven years later, MOVE members in a house on Osage Avenue had decided to force the city of Philadelphia to negotiate the release of their jailed brethren. The group came up with a novel four-pronged strategy to achieve this goal: They reinforced their dwelling with railroad ties, tree trunks, and pieces of steel; they stopped paying their utility bills; they allowed garbage to pile up in front of their house; and they used loudspeakers to broadcast diatribes against President Reagan and Mayor Goode.

The MOVE group's plan had failed in its goal of coercing the City of Philadelphia into getting the nine men released from prison. It had, however, succeeded in irritating the other residents of the middle-class neighborhood on and around Osage Avenue.

The neighbors (who wished the radical group would live up to the name it had chosen for itself) called a news conference in late April and strongly criticized the Mayor for his failure to take action. A week later, Mayor Goode ordered Police Commissioner Greg Sambor to develop a plan to storm the MOVE house.

That plan was about to be executed.

Philadelphia Mayor W. W. Goode was not happy as he watched the live news coverage on his television set. The siege had been going on for several hours, and the MOVE members were still inside their house. He flicked off the set and headed out the door to go to his office.

"Brooks, I said I wanted those people out of there," Goode said once more into the telephone. It was perhaps his fifteenth conversation that day with Philadelphia's Managing Director, who was on the scene near the MOVE house on Osage Avenue. The MOVE group was still inside. When the police had started to break holes in the walls to set their explosives, the occupants of the house had realized they were under siege, and had fired randomly to drive off the attackers. No officers had been injured, but they were now afraid to resume their efforts in their former positions.

"Sir, you have to understand the situation here. We've had to abandon our positions on either side. They're shooting from inside, and it's too risky for-"

"You're not listening to me, Brooks," the Mayor said, cutting off his subordinate. "I've told you and I've told Sambor that all I want to know is what is important and necessary. I can see on my own goddamn television set here in the office that they're still in there. You're not telling me anything I don't already know. Sambor's supposed to drive them out, so what the hell is he sitting there jerking off for? Call me when you've got something to say," the Mayor instructed, and hung up the phone.

Leo Brooks looked at the dead receiver in his hand. He was in a position that was utterly unfamiliar to him, and he did not like it. He wished the Mayor would talk to the Police Commissioner directly instead of going through him. Brooks was tired of having the Mayor jump down his throat when the MOVE members didn't dutifully march outside to be arrested.

Brooks sighed and went to confer with the Police Commissioner once again.

"Sir, it's going to have to be through the roof. Sambor's got to get the tear gas in. He says that's the only way, and I believe him. The cops can't set any charges by hand- they're afraid they'll be shot at." Brooks did not point out that getting shot was one of the risks you ran when you tried to dynamite someone's house while they were inside. "He's got a bomb rigged up, and a helicop-"

"Is it going to work?" the Mayor demanded.

"Well, he seems to think so," Leo Brooks said. Brooks did not point out that if it did, it would be the first and only thing that had gone right that day. "He wants to make sure it's okay with you." "I told him to get those people out of there. If that's what it takes, get him on it right now. We've been wasting too damned much time on this."

"Yes, sir." Leo Brooks hung up and went to find Greg Sambor.

The helicopter pilot eyed the makeshift cargo with distinct unease. In-flight fire was every pilot's worst nightmare. Having a passenger carry an obviously full five-gallon gas can as baggage was not conducive to pilot peace-of-mind, particularly when the gas can had some odd shapes taped to the side of it.

The pilot would have been even less enthused had he known more details about the package that was about to be dropped on top of the MOVE members. Attached to the gas can with duct tape was a nine-and-a-halfpound block of C-4 plastic explosive with a makeshift detonator.

Almost all of the journalists who would later write about the events of May 13th would talk about 'the bomb' that was dropped from the helicopter, but would omit or fail to mention the particular type of explosive that was used. The omission would not be by design, but rather by ignorance, for few journalists covering the story had been in active military service. Among members of the public who did have military experience or who were familiar with such matters, and who somehow learned the details of the police department's makeshift bomb, the reaction was universal: 'C-4? Jesus Christ! Where the fuck did a bunch of Philadelphia cops get ten pounds of C-4?'

From the pilot's point of view, the delivery went well despite his earlier misgivings. The helicopter was not shot at and the pilot was able to fly the chopper well clear of the roof of the MOVE house by the time the charge was detonated.

"Holy fuck! What was that?" one of the firemen yelled. The tremendous concussion had made him lose his balance and caused windows around him to shatter. He shook his head to try to clear the ringing from his ears. Then he looked at the MOVE house, which was over 100 yards away. "Oh, shit," he said as he started to run towards the truck to which he was assigned.

The entire roof of the house on Osage Avenue was on fire, and the flames were spreading to the adjacent buildings.

"Anyone dead in any of the other buildings?"

"No, sir, or at least, we haven't found anyone yet. We had some time to warn them, and we think we got everyone out. Of course, you never know...somebody sleeping off a drunk, that kind of thing..." He let the sentence dangle, and Leo Brooks nodded.

"Ten blocks," Leo Brooks said softly. He was thinking that if the Mayor were white, there would definitely be a race riot. A bit of gallows humor came to mind, and he smiled at the subordinate. "Right about now the neighbors are probably thinking that garbage in the lawn and incoherent broadcasts about Reagan and the Mayor weren't so bad after all." Brooks knew already that he would have to resign.

The tremendous blast had shattered everything made of wood for a considerable distance around the center of the explosion. The result had been huge quantities of tinder that the flaming gasoline vapor had soaked instantly, creating a roaring inferno that the fire department had been totally unprepared to control.

The fire had instantly spread to residences around the MOVE house. It consumed a ten-block area and destroyed sixty-one homes, leaving over two hundred fifty Philadelphia residents wi thout any of their possessions or a place to live. Miraculously, there had been no fatalities outside of the MOVE house.

Inside the residence of the radical group, it was a different story. The crude barricades the MOVE members had constructed only served to exacerbate the deadly combination of 20th-century military explosives technology and a flammable petroleum accelerant. The reinforcements were largely made of wood, and the railroad ties were of course soaked with creosote. The MOVE house went up like a tinderbox. Only two of the members managed to escape the inferno. Seven adults and four children were burned alive inside their home on Osage Avenue.

The two men watched the television screen with both fascination and horror. The host, who was older than his guest by three years, kept his thoughts to himself. The sixty-eight-year-old visitor, however, found the news footage too wrenching for him to remain silent.

"It is just like Warsaw forty years ago," Irwin Mann said. "It looks exactly the same."

"They just didn't bother to build a wall around 'em first, before lighting up the torch," Max Collins replied.

The nightmares that had finally stopped disturbing Irwin Mann's sleep in the late 1950s would return that evening with a vengeance.

February 12,1986 "Hi Mom, hi Dad," Cindy Caswell said as she walked through the back door and into the kitchen. "Who gave you that?" Boone Caswell demanded.

"Boy at school. Valentine's Day's on Sunday," Cindy said with a big smile. Dad is such a dweeb sometimes she thought.

"Fella give you something, he's going to expect something back." Her father's voice had a trace of a whine in it.

"Dad, it's just some candy. And Kevin doesn't expect anything-if he did, I'd beat him up. I'm bigger than he is. We can eat it for dessert tonight. I think it's the kind you like, and I don't need the extra calories anyway." Cindy Caswell dropped the box of chocolates on the kitchen counter, kissed her father on the cheek, smiled at her mother, and walked to her bedroom. Her father said nothing.

In the past eighteen months, a surprising transformation had come over the Caswell family. Cindy had started going through puberty at age thirteen. As her figure had swelled and her features had become more defined, it had become obvious that she was about to turn into a truly stunning young woman.

When Cindy's breasts had started to develop and her legs had become long and shapely, Myra Caswell had been filled with dread. She had expected her husband to start in with the touching and petting that he had practiced with their two older daughters before the girls had gone to live with Myra's parents. What Myra feared most, however, had never happened.

Boone was getting older-he was almost fifty-but that wasn't the whole of it. It was Cindy. There was something about her that was much different from her sisters. Cindy Caswell had always been able to get boys to do things for her, and by age fourteen, it was obvious that she held the same kind of power over her father.

Cindy Caswell had known about her father's nighttime visits to her sisters before they had left home, and she had prepared herself for the inevitable event when he would come to her room some late night. She had planned to tell him that if he continued, it was going to be the only time it would eve r happen, and that she would then be gone from the house forever. Cindy had not been sure whether her plan would actually work. She feared her father would track her down, or that she might otherwise be forced to return.

Cindy never had the chance to find out. Her father never touched her. She thought it might be because of his friends, who sometimes came over to the house. They were big, coarse men just like Boone, but when she entered the room their voices softened and their words became much less harsh. Sometimes she thought her father had somehow been shamed by the actions of these men. Sometimes she didn't know what to think. Cindy had a gift for projecting an atmosphere which surrounded her and anyone nearby. Dramatics became her strongest interest, and she shone in every school play where she had a part.

Myra Caswell, who had watched her first two daughters grow to loathe their father, gave thanks every single day that the same fate had not befallen her last child. She knew in her heart that her daughter Cindy would still be living happily in their home when she graduated from high school. She knew that Cindy would live with them until she found a decent young man to share her life with, or decided to move on for other good reasons of her own choosing.

Unfortunately, Myra Caswell was dead wrong.

The man scowled with disappointment and slight irritation as he saw the two men on the other side of the lake. Colazzo had come to the water-filled rock pit just south of the Tamiami Trail that morning to do some plinking. Soon after he arrived, the two men got in their vehicle, a white Ford pickup, and drove over to where he was standing. It was common for Florida residents in the area to target practice in the Everglades, and the man did not think anything was amiss until he saw the driver climb out and level a revolver at him. By then it was too late for him to get to his guns, and he stood there unarmed.

"Empty your pockets," the second man said. He held a Ruger Mini-14 rifle. "Slowly. We're taking your money, your guns, and your car." The unarmed man did as he was instructed, noting with dismay that the hand holding the revolver trained on him was absolutely steady. "Down by the water, spic," the driver ordered. Colazzo complied with the command, as feelings of despair washed over him.

"You a cop?" the second man demanded.

"No." Colazzo saw the first man nod, as if to himself, and realized the man was about to kill him. He had nothing to lose, so he rushed the gunman. The man with the revolver fired twice. Colazzo felt as if he had been slapped in the side, but he was charged with adrenaline and he did not go down. He grabbed for the man with the gun.

Several more shots rang out. Colazzo never knew which of the two men fired the one that hit him. The bullet struck Colazzo just to the right of his right eye, passed under the skin, and exited out the side. The blow to his skull stunned Colazzo, and he collapsed on the bank. The skin was torn open on the side of his head. Like most superficial head wounds, it bled profusely.

The two men took one look at the inert form with blood pouring out the side of its head and assumed the man was dead. They gathered up their victim's keys, money, and guns, and started walking to the two vehicles.

"What is it about spies and late 'seventies Monte Carlos?" one of the men asked the other as he got in Colazzo's black 1979 model and adjusted the seat. His friend looked blank, then grinned as he remembered. Five months before, in October, they had executed a young man in much the same fashion. His name had been Emilio Uriel, and he had also been out target shooting in the area. They had killed him and stolen his car, a beige 1977 Monte Carlo. The two men had ditched the vehicle immediately after a job on January 10.

"You got me," his friend said with a laugh. He climbed into the Ford pickup, started the engine, and led the way down the dirt path out to the highway.

Colazzo was not dead and would, in fact, recover from his wounds. He would also make a complete report to the authorities about the events of that morning. The FBI would listen to his story with great interest. It would dovetail perfectly with several other pieces of information they already had about several pending cases.

Michael Platt and Edward Matix were the names of the two men who had shot Colazzo that morning and left him for dead. Some law enforcement personnel would later examine the exploits of the two criminals, as part of their police training. The FBI would go so far as to film a reenactment of what was about to come. Apart from these examples, however, it would be private citizens with a serious commitment to shooting skills who would show the most interest.

Among members of the gun culture, Platt and Matix were about to become famous.

"Hi, Stokely."

"Henry! You're just the guy I wanted to see. Everybody that comes in the store wants to know what the story is on this Volkmer-McClure bill. Adrian here was saying he's heard it's probably going to pass, but everyone tells me something different about what's in it. You've got more Federal licenses than this store- can you explain what the bill says? Volkmer's office says they're swamped." Henry Bowman walked over to the group of men standing by the used handgun display case and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Starting from the beginning, which is a habit I learned from my father who taught history, the 1968 Gun Control Act was passed in the middle of a bunch of hysteria, and was also combined with the Omnibus Crime and Safe Streets Act. Bobby Kennedy had been shot, Martin Luther King Junior had been shot, the '68 Democratic convention had resulted in a riot. All gun laws are bad, but there were some especially ludicrous ones in the '68 Act. In addition, after '68, states started passing wildly differing state laws about guns, with little or no recognition of the fact that people driving through might not be aware of them.

"The main thrust of Volkmer-McClure is to remove the most pointless aspects of GCA '68, and give people in transit a federal 'umbrella' so they don't get nailed for doing something they didn't know was illegal." "What do you mean by that?" asked a man Henry had never seen before. "The second part, I mean."

"Well, right now you own a rifle in Missouri, and you're completely legal. Let's say you apply for and get an out-of-state moose tag to go hunt moose in the state of Maine. They're eager for you to come with your .338 Winchester. You were going to drive, but realize you'd break some state laws along the way by having your unloaded gun in the trunk of your car. So you hop on a nonstop flight to Maine with your rifle declared in checked baggage.

"A hundred fifty miles from Bangor, one engine gets low oil pressure, or is running hot, or there's something wrong at the runway, so the flight is diverted to the nearest major airport, which is Logan in Boston. TWA says they'll put you up for the night and fly you out in the morning. The plane lands in Boston.

"Under current law, the instant the wheels touch the ground you are now a felon. You are in Massachusetts with a rifle and without a firearms I.D. card, and that is a felony that carries a mandatory one-year jail sentence. It's Massachusetts law. There's no exemption just because you didn't want to be in Massachusetts.

"Volkmer-McClure says that if you are legal where you live, and legal where you're going, states in between can't arrest you in transit if your guns are cased and unloaded."