"Then why are you using one?"

"Because they'll let you hook your laptop up to a pay phone."

"Oh. Right." Ray was silent for almost a minute before he spoke again.

"I remember you once said there was a lot of garbage to wade through on the Internet. Is that still true?"

"Yes, but less so. This'll get some people's attention, and they'll talk it up. Plus, I got eight bulletin boards and Internet sites I'm going to call up next with the exact same message."

"How about if they trace it back?"

"I've got a free trial with a fictitious name and address. In two weeks, they'll cut me off unless I come up with some money and subscribe, but by then, we'll have another way in. Be back after a while." He finished what he was entering on the laptop's keyboard, then stood up and carried his equipment towards the public phone by the men's room.

Henry hooked the coupler to the pay phone's receiver, deposited five dollars worth of quarters, entered a ten-digit number on the phone's touchpad, and waited. After a few moments, he resumed entering keystrokes on the small computer. He stared at the screen and smiled.

That's got it Henry said to himself after about two minutes. Now for the bulletin boards. In the ensuing twenty minutes, Henry Bowman logged on to eight electronic bulletin board services and uploaded the exact same material.

"All done?" Ray asked.

"For right now. Let's eat, and then I'm going call each of the system operators on the telephone, tell them to check their boards."

"Holy shit," the young man in the Houston apartment said under his breath as he stared at his computer screen. "This can't be for real." The Sysop of the Texas Freedom Fighters Bulletin Board did not normally talk to himself, but these were not normal circumstances. He was almost through the message when his telephone rang.

"TFF," he said automatically.

"You the Sysop?"

"Y-yes." Henry laughed at the man's involuntary stutter.

"You sound nervous. I take it you've checked your 'in' file?"

"In front of me right now. Who are you? Is this on the level?"

"I'm ex-ATF, and yes, it is. You're one of eight Sysops I've flashed this to. I'll be using the 'net also, until Washington closes it down. Then it'll be just you guys. You want in on this deal? If not, say the word, delete what I sent you, and you'll never hear from me again. No B.S. here-it's apt to get hot."

"Yes. I want in," the young man said after a moment's hesitation. The temptation was irresistible.

"Okay then, listen up. First, you'll get floppies in the mail duplicating every upload I make. That's so you can verify they're really from me. Second, any calls I make to you from now on will be with a voice synthesizer, one of the cheap ones that came with the first multimedia kits. Third, the word I want you to use to tell me the feds are actively trying to get you to help trap me is understaffed. As in, I say, 'Any trouble with feds on your end?' and you say, 'No, I think they're way too understaffed to bother with a BBS operator.' And only use it if they're trying to make you do something. I know they'll be trying traces. Clear on that?"

"Yes. Understaffed."

"Last point. I'll call this number once more, sometime tomorrow. Between now and then, find a pay phone you can get to easily, and record the number. Make sure it's a fair distance from your house or business. That's 'cause the feds typically tap all the pay phones within two or three blocks of someone's house when they really want him. I'll contact you there from that point on. I'll flash you on the system with a message that contains the word 'turnaround', one word, not two, and a date and time. 'Turnaround' lets you know it's me. Ignore the rest of the message, other than the date and time. That clear?"

"Got it. Uh, one question: You really expect them to close down the 'net?"

"Wouldn't surprise me. Keep watching the papers."

"Okay."

"Things get too hot, you use that word. Remember it?"

"'Understaffed'."

"And my message code?"

"'Turnaround'. One word."

"That's it. Keep your powder dry." Henry broke the connection and began to dial the number of another Sysop, this one in Michigan.

The Houston man slowly hung up the phone. He had some skydiving experience, and he now felt like he had just gone into free-fall and was still accelerating, waiting to reach equilibrium. He stood up, planning to go look for pay phones, then sat back down.

"Let's read this over one more time," he said aloud as he turned his attention back to the monitor's screen.

STOP WHINING, AMERICANS by Wilson Blair, ex-ATF agent Up until last week, I worked for the government. I was a bureaucrat. I handled producer-tax paperwork involving tobacco companies. It wasn't an exciting job, but it wasn't a bad one either.

Not too long ago, I was transferred out of the Tobacco division and into Firearms. I was told that many Americans didn't like the ATF agents in the Firearms Division. I assumed it was because individuals always complain about paying taxes, while corporations know that complaining doesn't do any good. I soon learned that paying taxes had nothing to do with why the public didn't like us.

As an agent in the Firearms Division, I was ordered to entrap private citizens at gun shows by offering them inflated prices for guns they had just bought, and then arrest them for dealing without a license.

I was told to pose as a neophyte, ask about the mechanical differences between semiautos and machine guns, and then arrest the person who talked to me and charge him with "conspiring to violate federal firearms laws. "

I was given a machine gun, and told to intimidate family members when a man's house was being raided with a blank warrant.

In April, I helped monitor illegal wiretaps on the phones of three dealers in three midwestern states. The taps told us that all three dealers would be out of town in mid-June. I was ordered to plant evidence which would result in the three dealers being held without bail.

This was the last straw, for me and for most of the others involved in two of the three raids. I and other agents stopped these two raids from ever happening.

The third raid involved helicopters armed with belt-fed machine guns. Only one of the agents on that raid was bothered by what he had been ordered to do, but he was not a man to sit back and do nothing. This man, who was also new to the Firearms Division, saw only one way to stop the assault on an American citizen's home. When he told me what he was going to do, I knew it was suicide and begged him to reconsider. He did what he thought was right. He used his machine gun on the other helicopters before they reached the house, then turned the gun on the inside of his own aircraft, shooting it down also. He knowingly gave his life for what he believed in: Freedom.

I think of this young man who gave his life to defend your freedom. Then I think of the successful, well-off, gun-owning citizens like yourselves who have criticized the ATF for so long, and I am disgusted.

QUIT WHINING, people! You have bleated like a bunch of sheep for decades now. "Our guns are our guarantee of freedom," you cry, but you'd never know that from your actions. You outnumber your oppressors 500 to 1, yet you continue to let them vote away your freedoms and march you off to prison. You meekly submit time after time, letting people with GED certificates consign you to the penitentiary because a piece of wood was too short or too long, because a bullet was made of brass and not lead, because you owned steel tubing or rubber washers, or because a barrel had threads on it.

You have complained about ATF agents for long enough. Stop it if you are unwilling to be part of the solution. One agent has already given his life for your freedom. There are several others who intend to stay alive as they undertake the obligation you have shunned. Don't dishonor these men and women with your petulant whimpering.

The following list of current Firearms Division agents and ATF informants will be of interest to anyone who wants to keep track.

The Houston Sysop scanned the remaining pages in the transmission. Quick calculation showed there were over six hundred names and addresses of ATF agents. He was startled at the number of informants listed. The young man was not aware of the fact that the names of six agents from Indiana and four from Ohio were absent from the list.

"Hello?"

"Agent Shawn Montoya, please."

"You got him."

"This is Getz, from the Chicago office. I catch you at a bad time? With your family?"

"Here alone watching the tube, having a beer. What can I do for you?" Bingo Henry Bowman thought. And on the first call, too.

"Got a situation involves one of your local informants and something we've been working on back in our area. Boss is pissed and he wants it face-to-face, which is why I'm down here now. Shouldn't take long- can you spare a few minutes, let me show you what we got?"

"Sure, uh...you want to meet somewhere, or what?" Henry smiled. It was exactly the question he wanted.

"Since you're off the clock and I'm still on Chicago's dime, why don't I come by your place, get this stuff out of the way. Then you pick a spot where we can get a decent dinner and a few drinks, and we'll let my office pick up the tab."

"Sounds good to me. You got my address, know how to get here?"

"Let's make sure what they gave me isn't five years out of date," Henry said, then recited the address that had been on Wilson Blair's portable computer, followed by the directions he had written for himself gleaned from a Tulsa street map.