"If we sell one gun we own that's gone up in value, they can charge us with dealing in firearms without a federal dealer's license, which is a felony. If we get a dealer's license, they say we are not really in business, and report us to our local authorities for violating zoning ordinances by running a commercial venture out of a residence.

"If the steel or the wood on our guns is too long or too short, they make us pay $200 taxes and get fingerprinted and photographed. They make us get a law enforcement certification from the local police chief. If he refuses to sign we have no recourse. If he takes the forms in the next room and brings them back out, signed, he can later claim the signature is not his, and the feds will charge us with the felony.

"We in the gun culture have played all their stupid games on NFA weapons for over half a century, without a single violent crime being committed by any person in the system. So when a bill comes up to keep travelers with guns locked in the trunk of their cars out of jail, what happens? A scumbucket from New Jersey, where NFA weapons are illegal already, puts an amendment on it that closes down the whole NFA process.

"Then, if they even suspect we've ignored the $200 tax process altogether, on the guns where the wood and steel is too long or too short, they'll spend over a million dollars watching us for months, then they'll shoot our wives and children or burn us all alive. When the public gets outraged by these actions, the government issues letters of reprimand and sends the guys who did the killing on paid leave. In the decades that the feds have been raiding and killing people in the gun culture over suspected non-payment of $200 taxes, not one federal agent has been fined a single dollar or spent even one night in jail." Fleming stopped for a moment and took another drink of tea.

"And you know something else that's never happened, Ray? To this day, not a single person in the gun culture has ever dropped the hammer on one of these feds. Not once.

"Then, after these statist bastards have done all these things, they grin and tell us how they like to hunt ducks, and how the only laws they want to pass are 'reasonable' ones." Henry and Ray both looked at their friend. Neither had anything to add at that moment. It was Ray Johnson who finally spoke.

"I now know everything you say is true," he said. "I still can't quite believe it." He was quiet again, then asked a question. "What do you think is going to happen?"

"One of two things," Fleming said with a sigh. "One of the political parties is going to have to wake up, smell the coffee, and start restoring and reaffirming all the articles in the Bill of Rights-the Second, Fourth, Fifth, and Tenth Amendments."

"And if that doesn't happen?" Ray asked gently. Fleming took several moments before he spoke, though it was obvious he knew exactly what he was going to say.

"Then we're going to have a civil war."

July 31,1994 "Uh, hello? This on?" The paunchy, balding, middle-aged man asked nervously. It was obvious that the huge crowd could hear him perfectly. "Testing, testing..." David R. Hinson said, trying to delay the inevitable. A few calls came from the crowd, telling him that the sound system was working fine and to go ahead. The Administrator of the United States Federal Aviation Administration glanced at his staff standing slightly behind him, licked his lips nervously, and took a breath.

"Let me right at the outset...ah...get to the Bob Hoover issue, because I know-"

The rest of his sentence was drowned out by thunderous applause from the audience. When the outburst died down, Hinson continued.

"...that's on your mind, because I know you're not going to like what I have to say, but, I've got to say it. I've known Bob Hoover for many, many years. Because it's in the United States Court of Appeals and because it's in litigation, I am precluded from commenting." For a moment there was stunned silence from the crowd as the audience waited for Hinson to say more. When he did not, murmurs rippled through the audience.

"That is fairly standard to protect, ah, his interests," Hinson said finally, "and I will follow that time-held rule. And I simply cannot comment about Mr. Hoover. Subsequent to this issue being resolved, in any forum that's appropriate, certainly next year, I'd be more than pleased to engage in dialogue about this issue. I hope you will understand," the administrator said, hesitating and choosing his words, "it is not because I have faint heart or I will duck the issue...uh, I hope you will respect and understand that." The undercurrent of noise from the crowd increased with this bit of doublespeak. Hinson quickly began to introduce his staff, then started in on another unnecessary sound check.

The old man at the side of the crowd narrowed his eyes, turned his head, and spat a thick wad of phlegm onto the floor.

"Dickless cocksucker," he said in a voice that carried well. His eyes never left the man on the stage.

In any other part of the Experimental Aircraft Association's massive annual fly-in and airshow in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, the old man's conduct would have been cause for instant reproach. With over one million attendees during a nine-day period, it was impossible to find even one speck of litter at Wittman Field, let alone rude or uncouth behavior.

The old man's actions would have been disdained anywhere else at the huge facility. On the flight line, at the builders' workshops, or at any of the other EAA-sponsored forums, he would have instantly become a pariah, and others would have turned their heads in disgust at the vile nonagenarian.

This was not the flight line, however. It was the annual "Meet the Boss" forum, co-sponsored the EAA and the FAA, and this year EAA members had come for one reason only. They had come to hear the head of the FAA explain why the Federal Aviation Administration had grounded Bob Hoover. The old man's coarse words had accurately mirrored the thoughts of the majority of the people in the audience.

No point in hanging around for the rest of this dog-and-pony show the old man thought to himself, and turned to leave. He saw that all but a handful of the people in the room were staying, obviously hoping that somehow their sheer numbers would cause the FAA to relent. That ain't the way it works with these pricks the man thought as he turned towards the exit. Somebody ought to kill the two punks started this fuckin'crap. Ought to gut 'em, and peel the hide off 'em, and tan it into parchment, and use it to write a nice clear letter to the U.S. Governm The old man stopped dead in his tracks, and his jaw dropped. He was staring at a man wearing khaki pants and shirt who had been standing at the back of the room, and who was now making his way along the back wall, heading for the exit.

It's Blackout! he thought in utter disbelief. He blinked twice, but the image did not change. The same man was still there, and he was almost to the doorway. It can't be! the old man told himself. He looks exactly the same as the last time I saw him fifty years ago! The old man opened his mouth to yell, but no sound came out. He stood there transfixed, and in a few seconds the one who had so profoundly influenced his life was out the doorway and gone.

The old man sagged against the wall. His eyes were unfocused and his breathing was shallow. Then a moment of pure clarity infused his entire body, and the resulting surge of adrenaline made him feel less than half of his ninety-three years.

Haven't seen the inside of a church since I left home in '15, and after eighty years of whiskey, and cigarettes, and beer for breakfast, God s ends me a sign. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, and his backbone straightened perceptibly. / heard you, Lord. Loud and clear. No 'somebody ought to' about it. Those two government bastards railroaded Bob Hoover are dead men.

As he walked out of the EAA forum room, Buell 'Anvil' Jenkins realized that he hadn't felt as good in close to fifty years.

August 1,1994 "God damn," Jenkins said under his breath when he saw who was peering into the rear cockpit hole of the airplane. "I did see him." The old man began walking as fast as he could toward the biplane that had drawn him like a magnet every day of the airshow.

"Shit and God damn." His steps quickened as he made his way towards the ghost from his past. "You kept the brass plaque in it!" Henry almost yelled.

Terry Mace turned around. He was about to tell the guy to get off the lower wing of his airplane when something about the stranger's expression made him change his mind. The man was climbing down anyway.

"The one on the instrument panel?" Mace asked. "Was there when I bought it. Why, you ever heard of the guy? Man I bought it from couldn't tell me anything about the plane or the original builder. He bought it out of some airshow pilot's estate, then groundlooped it first thing and busted a wingtip when it tipped over. Stuck it in storage. Didn't have any logs when I got it." Mace noticed that the fellow he was addressing looked as if he were about to cry.

"Uh...have you seen this plane before?" the show pilot asked uncertainly. "I'm trying to find out more about it."

"Walter Bowman-that's the name on the plaque-he was my dad." Henry blinked and shook his head to clear it. "I used to fly this plane when I was a kid. Dad sold it in 'sixty-seven, when he found out he had cancer. I was fourteen. He swapped it for a clip-wing Cub and cash, for my schooling. I've still got the Cub." Henry swallowed. "Every time I've come to Oshkosh, I always hoped I'd find it." He ran his hand along the fuselage. The Stearman was now painted solid white, finished in flawless Imron polyurethane. Henry turned to the owner. "I'm Henry Bowman."

"Terry Mace," the pilot said, shaking his hand.

"So," Henry said with a grin, his composure regained, "How do you like the power?"

"Oh, man!" Mace said with feeling, "Got the motor back together 'bout six months ago, and I damn near put the left wingtip in the asphalt the first takeoff I made.

"Listen, what can you tell me about the engine? The pitch on the prop is awful flat, and some guy painted a new redline on the tach, which is crazy. On top of that, compression was too high to do more than idle on the best avgas around. Pulled the heads off and found they'd been shaved and ported like a Reno Unlimited, but none of the builders I talked to had any idea who'd done the work. Not many guys around doing fullhouse jobs on Wasps, and we found all kinds of parts we'd never seen before when we pulled it down. Got a decent set of stock heads on it now.

"Crazy thing is, my wife said some old goat came around when I was over at the pilot's meeting, said he built the motor when he was in the Navy in World War II. She said he-"

"Anvil Jenkins is still alive?" Henry broke in. "And he's here?"

"Goddamn right I am," Jenkins said. The pair turned to look at the man who was standing behind them. "Thought I was seein' a ghost when you was there on the wing, mister," he said with a smile. "You look just like your dad did, last time I saw him."

"Well, this is something," Henry said as he shook Jenkins' hand. "When I was a little kid, Dad talked about you all the time. We went around to some of the dirttrack teams and tried to find out where you were. Found one guy who'd seen you in the late 'thirties, but that was it."

"You and your old man shoulda looked where he saw me last," Jenkins told him. "I stayed in. Those big motors kinda grew on me. Navy finally cashiered me in 'sixty-nine, as a Master Chief.

"Liked the kind a work your dad done on this plane here, so I went into the FAA. Got my Inspector's ticket. Did sign-offs on homebuilts 'til 'eighty-three. Been comin' up here for twenty-five years. Always thought I might see the Lieutenant and this old girl one more time." He stared at the airplane, then turned toward Terry Mace.

"You put a set of stock heads on that engine, you're down a good two hundred horsepower. Can't unmill 'em, I know, so I'd try to swap 'em out to Zeuschel, trade him even for a good porting job on the stockers. Tell him you want as much flow as on the good heads, but a combustion chamber volume 25% bigger to knock the compression down for the junk gas they got now.

"Tach's not wrong-she'll live forever that high up, unless somebody screwed around with the reciprocating weights. That's why the prop's so flat-we built her to climb."

Terry Mace nodded. He had not expected the original engine builder to walk up to his plane and tell him all about it, and this was a real bonus. The three men talked for a while about the plane's history. Jenkins related the stories about Walter as a flight instructor. He told of the time he had offered to help the lieutenant try to pull the wings off of one of their trainers, and of Walter's unorthodox instruction techniques.

"Since your dad owned the airplane," Mace said to Henry, "and Mr. Jenkins, you built the engine, maybe you two can tell me why when I came to own this monster, there was a metal bulkhead in the tail section, and a block of lead machined to size, with mounting holes that matched it. New engine's heavier than the original Continental, but when we recalculated the weight and balance with that lead block installed, it was way past the aft limit. That come after your dad sold it?"

"No," Henry said, "it was there for a reason. Needed to get the weight back that far if you wanted to do a lomcevak."

"What?"

"Didn't call 'em that back then," Jenkins broke in. "I told the lieutenant if he was going to fuck around with the CG, try it on one a the trainers first, out over the palmetto grass, case he had to get out. Worked out okay, 'cept he had to stay up high, 'cause that old Continental didn't have enough guts to get out of its own way, forget pullin' out of one a those tumbles without losing a bunch of altitude."

Terry Mace was about to protest, but Henry Bowman was pulling a small photo folder from his flight bag. He showed the pictures to Jenkins first.

"I'll be damned. That's that arch thing you got in Missouri." Jenkins was looking at the photo Walter had taken as he had aimed the Stearman in an inverted dive between the monument's legs. The old man looked at the rest of the photos carefully until he came to one where the airplane was pointed straight at the ground with what he judged was less than a thousand feet of altitude. The image of the ground was smeared sideways, but the instrument panel was in sharp focus. A piece of yarn on top of the windscreen was flowing sideways also.

"Here you go," he said to Mace, handing the photo to the younger man. "Look at the airspeed indicator." "Reads zero."

"Plane's tumbling."

"I'll be damned," Mace said, echoing Jenkins' earlier comment.

"Shit, look at this!" Jenkins exclaimed, staring at another photo. "This you, Henry? Your dad did this all the time with cadets. Son of a bitch, here you are landing the damn thing." Anvil Jenkins was looking at the pictures Walter had taken of Henry flying the Stearman while Walter stood on the wing. "Were you flying when he took that other one, doing the lomcevak?"

"Yeah," Henry smiled sadly. "Last day we ever flew together, right before they yanked his medical. He took it through the arch, then he turned it over to me and concentrated on pictures." The three men were silent for a few moments, then Terry Mace spoke.

"Can you make me copies of these pictures?" he asked, holding out two prints that showed the Stearman in profile sitting on the ramp.

"Sure. Why?" Henry asked.

"I put the white on as a base coat, and was trying to decide what trim color I wanted." He nodded firmly. "This settles it. I'm going to paint it just like it was."

"I'm going to kill all three of the sorry little pricks," Anvil Jenkins said softly with a small smile. He had been smiling ever since mid-morning, when he had found Henry by the custom Stearman. "What?" Henry looked around the outdoor cafeteria to see if anyone was eavesdropping, then stared at the man across the table form him. "Who are you talking about?"

"You know who I mean. I saw you at the FAA meeting yesterday." Henry cocked his head in silent query, and Jenkins went on.

"Clint Boehler and Jim Kelln, they're the ones got together and wrote those fuckin' 'independent' evaluations of Bob Hoover. Then that Glen Nelson, he made up a bullshit story about one a Hoover's airshow routines he didn't even see, an' told that fairy tale to the Airman Medical branch." Jenkins turned and spat on the ground.

"Nelson, he's Accident Prevention Program Manager for the FAA. S'posed to maintain proficiency, and stay current in the operation of FAA and rental aircraft. Shit. That sorry bastard hasn't been current since I got laid.

"Jealous little snots. And the feds bought into it, even though every one of 'em knows it's bullshit. Afraid the whole FAA will look bad if they throw 'em out. Cocksuckers. Ashamed I ever had anything to do with 'em. Guy in the service pull that kind of shit, try to get a man dishonored, brass would feed him to the sharks. Fuckin' feds." His smile was gone.

"I've always thought it was crazy having to have a medical in the first place," Henry told the old man. "Skies are empty compared to the streets."

"Hoover's got a Australian license now," Jenkins went on, not hearing what Henry had said. "Flies some shows with 'nother exhibition pilot in the left seat, but it ain't the same." Jenkins shook his head.

"I seen him do that thing you always did, Lieutenant. With the glass of water on the panel. Like to see the two of you fly together. Yes I would." Jenkins eyes were focused on infinity. "Been a while since I done anything that made a difference." He tried to take a sip from his glass, but it was empty.

"Boehler, Kelln, and Nelson, they ain't the whole of it, not by a long shot. But they'll do." He laughed for the first time in months. "What're the feds going to do to me, Blackout? Hm? Give me a life sentence?" He laughed again, then he leaned forward and his eyes bored into Henry's. He grabbed the younger man's arm, and Henry was startled at Anvil Jenkins' surprising strength.

, "You going to try to stop me, Lieutenant?" Jenkins challenged. "Talk me out of it?"

"No, I'm not."

Anvil Jenkins let go of Henry's forearm and sat back in the molded plastic chair.

"That's good," the old man said softly. He had a distant look in his eyes.

"Let me get you another iced tea, Anvil," Henry said, and stood up.