Why are these idiots panicked? Henry Bowman wondered. The people in the building aren't even shooting back. There's not a single puff of dust anywhere on the ground around them, and it's a dirt driveway! Henry Bowman had rolled plenty of cans in his parents' dirt pasture. Even a .22 Short threw up a noticeable spout of dust when it hit the ground. Centerfire rifle and pistol rounds would throw lots of dirt in the air. In the area around the wildly-firing feds, there was not a single bit of evidence to indicate the Branch Davidians were returning fire.

i "Who taught these morons how to shoot?" Rufus asked the woman who lived with him and sometimes helped with his training courses. Several agents were blindly firing their pistols in the general direction of the building. "If any of them were in my combat handgunning class, I'd flunk them out and recommend they be removed from the force. And where's the return fire?" Rufus demanded, pointing at the screen. None of the vehicles the feds were crouched behind exhibited a single bullet hole in either the sheetmetal or the glass.

Earl Taylor-Edgarton watched the footage of the raid, then listened to ATF's regional head, Ted Royster, explain why the raid had been such a disaster.

"They were tipped off," Royster said emphatically. "They were tipped off beforehand, and they had us outgunned," Royster said into the newsman's microphone.

"Those bloody imbeciles," Earl Taylor-Edgarton said to his wife. "They don't know how lucky they are." "No one's shooting back at them," the woman agreed.

"If they'd had me to deal with instead of a bunch of silly Jesus-freaks, they'd find out about 'outgunned'. A little buried surprise would have been waiting for those cattle trailers." He snorted. "That cannibal would have a hundred more grieving widows to explain himself to before he climbed back up on his dung-heap." He reached for the phone to call one of his contacts in Texas.

Seventy-seven-year-old Curt Behnke was also watching the scene of the agents firing at the building, which ran and re-ran on several television stations.

"Why are they shooting, Grandpa?" his youngest grandson Nathan asked. "What are they shooting at?"

"I'm not sure," Behnke answered slowly, without taking his eyes off the screen. He was counting the number of ATF men hiding behind the parked vehicles. Eleven he decided. Probably a lot more around, but the news camera only shows this one area. Each of the tax agents had at least half his head exposed to the compound, and most of them were exposing a lot more of their bodies than that. Behnke thought of the rack of single-shot target rifles in the basement next to his lathe. He thought of the thousands of one-hole groups he had fired in his lifetime, and of the countless prairie dogs he had killed. Any one of his match rifles would be far better than necessary for shooting at distances of less than a hundred yards. Take me about thirty seconds to fire eleven aimed shots the retired photoengraver with fourteen grandchildren decided.

"I don't really know what's going on, Nathan," Behnke said to the six-year-old sitting next to him on the couch. "About all I can tell you is those men behind the cars are very lucky."

March 5,1993 "Cindy, would you come in the office, please?" Cindy Caswell put down the rate card and worksheet she was analyzing and got up from her desk. She walked across the sales area to her boss' private office and took a seat inside after closing the door.

Rebecca Williams was a striking-looking woman in her early forties. She had a mane of red hair and a spectacular figure, and her clothes were selected to accentuate these assets. She was the owner of the Williams Agency, a St. Louis County firm that designed and sold promotional materials, ad specialties, and incentive awards for local businesses. The shelves in the crowded office were filled with thick catalogs from suppliers that wholesaled imprinted pens, embossed clocks, silkscreened T-shirts, electronic equipment, baking tins, tool kits, and thousands of other things that companies could sell or give away with the goal of increasing their own business.

Rebecca Williams was an ex-model. As owner of the agency, she believed strongly in one overriding business principle on which she had built a successful company: Good-looking women were the salespeople most likely to make male decision-makers want to do business with her firm. This was especially true in marginal cases where the product the men were buying only had a slight chance of improving their firm's sales. In keeping with this philosophy, all of the Williams Agency's salespeople, like Cindy Caswell, were young, attractive women, and they were paid on a straight commission basis.

Rebecca had taken a chance on Cindy Caswell the year before. Despite her complete lack of sales experience, the young girl had exuded an unquestionable appeal. Men gravitated towards Cindy, and much more importantly, wanted to do things that would please her. There was a constant erotic undercurrent between Cindy Caswell and the people she dealt with. It was more subtle and yet much more powerful than the normal sexual tension found whenever men were in the proximity of sharply-dressed young women with good figures. Rebecca Williams herself had felt the physical attraction Cindy's presence created; for reasons of common sense she had done nothing about it. Cindy Caswell was, after all, second in the office in production.

"Cindy, I have some bad news," the owner said from behind her desk as the girl looked at her brightly. "You know about the tug-of-war I've been having with the IRS." Cindy nodded.

Rebecca Williams treated all of the salespeople as independent contractors. They were f ree to take days off, make sales calls from their homes, and work on weekends, for they received no salary, hourly rate, or 'draw'. They were paid only on the sales they made.

The IRS had recently taken the position that these facts were not sufficient to prove independent contractor status, and that the Williams Agency was going to have to institute withholding, Social Security, and other federal mandates to stay in business. Rebecca Williams had been fighting bitterly with the Service on this issue for several months.

"We've come to an agreement," Rebecca told Cindy. "All prior years are okay. Up through now, they'll let things stand. But from now on, they say I have to play their game." Rebecca Williams smiled at Cindy, but the look on her face was wistful. Cindy Caswell had a feeling that the other shoe was about to drop.

"This is a small office," Rebecca continued. "I suppose I could hire someone to do all the new paperwork, and we could switch over to the way the IRS wants things to be. But now there's all this talk about making business owners pay for health care. I don't want to go to the expense and effort of setting up a whole new system, just to have all my salespeople leave."

"What do you mean?" Cindy asked. She couldn't see where this was going, but it didn't sound good.

"Right now, the company takes in the money from the customer, and writes you a check for your commission. You handle your own tax preparation and buy your own health insurance, right?" Cindy nodded. Actually, H&R Block does my income tax return for me she thought silently.

"If the company has to start doing those things, I'm not going to be able to pay you and the others as much, because buying health insurance for everyone and putting an accounting firm permanently on-line will cost the firm a lot of money." Cindy nodded again. She still did not see why this would be a problem.

"When that happens, you and the others are going to quit and go work elsewhere. Maybe not immediately, but soon."

"Why, Rebecca?" Cindy asked immediately.

"Because salespeople, like everyone else, go where they are paid the most for their work. There are only eight people in this office, but the Williams Agency pays the same licensing fees as a company with a hundred workers, so it hurts us a lot more. When we have to start doing all the things the government says we now have to do, it will cost us almost the same dollars in additional overhead as a firm ten times our size. I won't be able to afford the payouts that the bigger firms will be able to offer. In six months, I won't have anyone working here. So I've decided to close the office."

"Rebecca, I'm happy to do my own taxes and pay my own insurance," Cindy said quickly. "Out of what I earn here, that's been easy."

"I believe you. But even if you never left, I wouldn't be able to keep all the others. And with just a couple of salespeople, the overhead here would eat us alive." She shook her head. "No, the new rules mean that there will be two kinds of businesses: Big companies with hundreds of employees, and sole proprietorships where people work out of their living rooms and don't hire anyone. The IRS will let me keep the doors open until the end of the month. April first, the Williams Agency will be no more." Cindy looked down at her feet. She knew she could get another job, and she had some money saved up, but she liked Rebecca and she liked working for her.

"It's no consolation to you, but there's one person who's going to be happy about this," Rebecca said with a grin.

"Who?"

"Roger. Tonight we're going to Baker's for dinner, and I'm going to tell him I'll marry him." Roger was a local real estate developer that had been trying to persuade Rebecca to accept his marriage proposal for almost two years. Cindy Caswell smiled.

"Babies?" Cindy asked.

"My God, I'm forty-three years old!" Rebecca laughed. "Can you imagine what that would do to this body?" Cindy shrugged. "But since you asked, yes."

"Yes?" Cindy asked, raising her eyebrows in delight.

"Yes. Absolutely. Hugh Hefner, Jack Nicholson, and Warren Beatty? They had the easy part, becoming middle-aged parents. This old broad is going to show them women can do it too."

Cindy Caswell gave her boss a huge hug. She knew she'd find another job.

Rebecca felt a warm glow in her pelvic area. "If I had ten more like you, Cindy, I might be willing to play by those stupid new federal rules."

April 9,1993 "The situation in Waco, Texas remains unchanged. The FBI controls the situation, and as you can see, behind where I am standing, army tanks have been moved into position a half mile from the compound. The Branch Davidians, however, have not agreed to any of the terms offered. Just this afternoon, FBI spokesman-"

The sound and picture of the news broadcast were abruptly cut off as Henry Bowman hit the button on his remote. "You didn't need to hear any more of that, did you?" he asked his friend.

"Not until something changes," Tom Fleming replied.

"The way to resolve this thing would be for the feds to admit they really screwed up, and just leave," Henry said.

"They'll never do that. ATF started demonizing those people in that building five minutes after the news showed everyone what kind of thugs our federal agents really are. Now they've got too much time and money invested. Those people inside are very close to all being dead, in my opinion." Fleming thought a moment, then brightened.

"You know, the way you could get those people out of there would be to have ten thousand civilians walk up to the compound, let the Branch Davidians mingle in with them, and walk out."

"Think the group could get by the police line?"

"If we had the numbers, yeah, I think so." Henry Bowman considered the idea, then changed the subject.

"Is the ATF still saying there's a crank lab in there, along with Jesus and his multiple teenage wives?" Henry asked.

"I don't know. Couple weeks ago I saw a press conference where they were still saying that. Some guy claiming to be an ATF intelligence officer, if you can believe the gall of that title," Fleming snorted. "You ask me, these guys have incompetent legal counsel. I'd be disbarred if my clients stood up on television and said some shit like that." Henry nodded at Tom's assessment.

Tom Fleming and Henry Bowman were discussing the issue that had been on the minds of people in the gun culture all across the country. The Waco attack and subsequent standoff had captivated everyone in America who had to deal with the ATF on a regular basis. For this reason, it was even more compelling than the Miami shootout in 1986.

The February 28 ATF assault on the Branch Davidians had been broadcast live on the television news, and viewers had been appalled at what they had seen. At the time of the initial raid, the public had not been told what crimes the residents of the religious camp had committed.

The ATF had realized how it would sound if they admitted that they had sent three helicopter gunships and 100 agents armed with grenades and machine guns to attack 85 men, women, and children over a $200 tax matter. A different 'spin' was needed, and fast.

The federal agency had immediately started explaining that their raid would have gone off 'perfectly' if the Branch Davidians had not been forewarned. The ATF then justified their actions by telling the public that David Koresh thought he was Jesus, had multiple wives, and was having sex with most of the women in the camp, especially underage ones. They also said other child abuse was suspected, and implied that it was this concern which had required such urgent and violent action.

The ATF did not explain why a federal tax agency was involved in these areas in the first place, let alone with explosives and machine guns. The ATF also failed to elucidate how their concerns for the safety of two dozen children within a wooden building squared with firing over seven thousand rounds of ammunition, much of it armor piercing, into that same structure.

In the disastrous initial raid, the ATF had suffered twenty casualties, and the Branch Davidians even more All Davidian casualties and two-thirds of ATF's were caused by ATF bullets. These numbers were not precisely known at the time of the raid, but there were so many witnesses, it was obvious that 'friendly fire' had accounted for the lion's share of dead and wounded feds.

Compounding this monumental embarrassment were several other revelations. The first was that the search warrant authorizing the raid did not show probable cause. It listed non-NFA firearms and parts that were legal to own with no special registration or federal taxes. These included dummy grenades which the Davidians had been known to mount on plaques and sell at flea markets, inviting immediate comparison with the Ken Ballew case over twenty years earlier

The second revelation was that the ATF had lied to Texas officials in order to borrow three Texas National Guard helicopter gunships in the raid Texas law prohibited lending state-controlled aircraft to federal agencies except in drug cases. In order to get approval, the ATF had told state officials that the Branch Davidians were operating a methamphetamine lab within the compound. When copies of the search warrants were made public, there was no mention of drugs, and the he was obvious.

It had been apparent from the outset that regardless of jurisdiction or the validity of the search warrants, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms was in well over its collective head in the Waco debacle. Within 48 hours of the February 28 disaster, the FBI was called in Rightly or wrongly, the public as a whole viewed the FBI as an elite organization that was especially competent at negotiation during critical situations The FBI had promised America almost daily that a peaceful end to the standoff was imminent. Now, more than a month after the initial attack, many observers were coming to the viewpoint Tom and Henry had held for five weeks. Be a goddamn miracle if the feds let any of those people out of there alive.

"Buy you a hamburger and a chocolate milkshake?" Cindy Caswell asked Henry Bowman as they walked out of the AA meeting. "I'd like a chance to pick your brains about something."

"Best offer I've had in ages," Henry replied "Food tastes better when it's free You buy, I'll drive." Henry led the way to his GMC and unlocked the door for the young woman.

"You've been going to more meetings lately," Cindy commented. "Seems I've seen you several times in the last month."

"This mess down in Texas has really got me down," Henry said as he started the vehicle and pulled out of the parking lot "Everybody seems horrified, but I'd bet anything I own that when it's all over, the only changes will be that a few officials resign or are put on a leave of absence, probably with full pay"

"You been tempted to get drunk?"

"Actually, no, not really That's not the reason I've been going to meetings so often.

It's more for...inspiration, I guess you'd call it." Henry cut the wheel and stabbed the throttle. The GMC silently shot around a Buick that was crawling along in the right lane, its driver searching for an address.

"AA has been a great success for over half a century. The worst thing I've ever heard anyone say about it is they don't like the religious undertones. No one has ever claimed that the program has made somebody's chemical dependency worse. And the one thing the program has never, ever done is blame the distilleries or liquor stores. AA never tries to get the grocery stores to stop selling vodka or the ballpark to stop selling beer. That's not the problem. The problem lies with the alcoholic and his alcoholism, and that's where the solution is, too, not with the liquor manufacturer, the grocery store, or the drinker who is not an alcoholic.

"Now, I know that the line is to turn it over to God, put your faith in Him, and all that. But ultimately, it's still the individual alcoholic who elects to do that, not the distiller, the store, or the other people in the community."

"And...?" Cindy asked.

"And that's a source of strength for me. Seeing a group of people who take personal responsibility for their problems, and who don't try to fix the blame on others? That's a very positive thing for me. It's a good antidote for constant exposure to the socialist slime that want the government to tax me and then use my money to take away more of my freedoms in the pursuit of some nebulous 'greater good'." Henry took a deep breath as he pulled into the lot of the coffee shop. "More specifically, it's a much-needed break from the news reports of the federal storm troopers in Texas."

"I've been reading the papers about that. It sounds awful, and it doesn't look like they're about to agree to anything," Cindy said as she got out of the car.

"What's to agree on?" Henry Bowman snorted. "The religious group wanted to be left alone, and thinks it had every right to shoot people who were attacking their home with grenades and machine guns. The feds think everyone inside should have submitted to the attack, and since they didn't, they should all be charged with murder."

"Koresh does sound kind of weird," Cindy threw out.

"Several dozen friends, relatives, and business acquaintances of mine practice symbolized cannibalism once a week as part of their religion. To be blunt, I find that practice a lot more bizarre than some guy wanting to set up a community where the women take turns going to bed with him." Henry chuckled as he held the door to the restaurant, and added "Hell, if the feds made that a hanging offense, most of the guys I went to college with would be on death row."

"I see your point."

"So what's up with you?" Henry asked as they took a booth.

"I lost my job. The office shut down last week." Cindy Caswell went on to explain about the IRS' argument over independent contractor status, and Rebecca Williams' decision to close the agency. "What are you going to do now? I assume one of the other companies in the same business would give you a job. Successful salespeople willing to work on straight commission can always get work." "Yes, I've already found two places that will let me start work immediately. That's not what I wanted to talk to you about." Cindy stopped talking as the waitress arrived and took their order.

"I've had enough time in the business to see that there's going to be a limit on what I can earn selling promotional materials. I'm saving money every month, but not as much as I'm going to need for the catering business I want to start. I've had another offer, from one of my customers, for part-time work. I wanted to talk to you about it." Cindy Caswell looked as if she was getting up her courage to tell him something. Henry thought he knew what it was.

"The president of Caldo Electric wants me to be his mistress." There was a slightly defiant tone to her voice. Henry nodded and casually took a pen from his shirt pocket.

"Has he said what kind of arrangement he has in mind?"