Category Archives: Intelligence Community

Killing the FBI in my parish

forensic camera

Holy Mass was offered in my parish for the repose of the soul of a Huntsville, Alabama FBI forensic photographer who suffered what is termed a suspicious death the other week in my parish, that is, in one of the most remote patches of national forest in North America, up at historic Stewart Cabin campground. Google-Map “Stewart Cabin” to see just how remote it is from… anything…

In my varied life I’ve learned that that which answers a question the most consistently – internally and externally – and also the most simply, leaving little room for complexities to be subject to confirmation bias or whatever manipulation, is usually the hypothesis that’s getting closer to the truth than anything else. Everything about this seems rotten to the core.

The FBI has already swarmed away (along with four other law enforcement agencies), for what it’s worth depending on who’s directing things. But when something like this happens in my parish, I take it personally. Was she doing something she shouldn’t have been doing, you know, from whatever perspective on whatever side of the fence? Was she doing something way too well, getting too close to the truth? Was she just taking pictures of nature? Really? Appearances mean nothing one way or the other when it comes to this level of law enforcement. So, again, if it happens in my parish, I’m personally offended. It is what it is.

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Taking aim at my lack of aim because…

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Before I got my purchase permit and then immediately my concealed carry permit here in Western North Carolina 2+ years ago, I had never shot a pistol in my life. I got it because in some places of our Catholic Diocese a prerequisite for being a police chaplain is to go though critical incident training facilitated by the FBI. Part of the course deals with terrorists and terrorism and situational awareness and the handling of critical incidents so as to facilitate the most people surviving in whatever ways of assistance that is possible according to the possibilities.

Because of unforeseen contingencies, the agents make you familiar with, that is, know how to break down and set up and accurately fire under any conditions pretty much any kind of gun there is, at least all the variants used by any police department or police response unit in one’s region. While I figured I could learn how to work with rifles or shotguns easy enough (though I would have to stare at the math for sniper work a bit), I also thought that it would be more difficult to acquire skills for a pistol, such as shooting while running, etc., and that those lack of skills would slow me down.

As one can tell from the older pictures above, early on I was tending to make grip mistakes, with inconsistency being my strong point, you know, with being self-taught and all that. It’s pretty bad when inconsistency is your strongest point! I had plenty of hyper-qualified people giving advice, but only rarely would I be at a range with anyone. The hermitage is the most middle of nowhere place for a range imaginable. Leading myself, it’s the blind leading the blind. And it’s that way until today. So, I need practice. But I haven’t been able to have a good extended session for really quite a long time now. And since those pictures were taken above I’ve pretty much limited myself to various tactical pistol courses, such as this simple one for periodic pistol qualification for already serving FBI agents. It’s easy as they don’t want agents getting a DQ, a disqualification. Here’s that course pictured below:

That picture is also pretty old, but it exactly represents what I put up the other day in the exact same place at the hermitage. Those are legal size paper details of the inside bottle of the QIT 97-99 set out at 3-5-7-15-25 yards. One draws from the holster for various combinations of shots and timings. Here’s what I had just started to do on the infamous “Day Off” the other day in a totally relaxed manner. Timings are in hundredths of seconds:

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So, not so quick. Cutting those times in half would be ideal. But the hits were all in time and all accurate. But that’s a false report, really, as I didn’t bother to get myself worked up with a bit of adrenaline (as one can do with, say, hill sprints, or not!), which adrenaline is what will always happen in a critical incident. Anyway, after this, I had planned on doing the FAMs course and SEALs course, et al., but I didn’t even finish stage four (of five stages) a couple of minutes into the first run through the FBI course.

The phone rang. The police.

As soon as I answered, I knew I was done with any shooting for the day and started packing up the targets mid-course while I continued speaking. That phone call went on for a very long time there on that mountain trail up to the hermitage. The phone cut out multiple times (no strong cell-tower signal at the hermitage) but we reconnected and continued until we talked ourselves out for the day. It was getting dark out, so I headed down the ridge and had a great chat and meal with the neighbors and then got myself back home before midnight. Some hundreds of miles. The next day was given to research about that conversation, and today will be given over to answering this interlocutor by email.

The guy with whom I was talking is well known to all police chiefs in the country. He recommended lots of things to me to put some past skills at the service of law enforcement locally, in these USA, and on a more international basis. I recognized in him a spirit which I only sometimes come across. His devotion to God and country, his patriotism, his integrity, the suffering he’s been through, all so inspiring.

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HALO 78,000 ft > mach 3 SR71

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Call 911! Simultaneous church incidents. Confessing situational UN-awareness.

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We had some sort of emergency in the far back corner of Holy Redeemer Church this past Sunday, September 8, at the end of the offertory of the 11:00 AM Mass. Our entire church can fit into most sanctuaries of most churches, so, the far back corner of the church is, like, merely 25 feet away from the altar.

Someone cried out: “Call 911!” And the chorus of “Call 911!” multiplied in seconds. But there was no noisy commotion. No one said what the emergency was in those first seconds. I hiked it down from the altar to the back of the church in those few seconds. Pastor is as pastor does, right? As I then found out, it was a medical emergency for one of our ushers. In mere seconds, I gave an emergency anointing of the sick to the usher even before they were able to lay him down on the floor. EMS arrived minutes later and our usher is just fine now.

Since our faith family is small, we’re pretty tightly knit, so you can imagine our hearts were entirely in solidarity with our usher. You might say that we were distracted, that anyone bothering to have any situational awareness could now relax as it’s surely impossible that any other critical incident indicators that might present themselves cannot happen, because, you know, emergencies rarely happen, and un-associated and entirely diverse critical incidents never happen at the same time. So, go ahead, let your guard down, right? Wrong.

We immediately continued Mass starting with the Preface. “The Lord be with you!” “And with your spirit!” came the strikingly strong response. I can’t imagine that anyone would or, humanly speaking, could complain about these few seconds given over for the anointing, either time-wise or appropriateness-wise. So, no big deal, right? But something else happened in those few seconds in back of the church which should have had me run after someone so as to get a licence plate without him realizing it, you know, right after that anointing. That would have been logistically pretty easy in our circumstances. But I didn’t do it. Stupid me. Let’s review.

We had an unusually high number of visitors throughout the church. The emergency and the calls to call 911 were happening right in back of a certain visitor, who, unlike the others, did not come with a family. Never seen him before. He was alone [… description removed…]. By the time I got next to that certain visitor who was sitting at the end of the pew in the side aisle in that back corner of the church, with me just about to reach over others to anoint our usher, the visitor guy came out of the end of the pew and simply pushed me into those holding up the usher, that is, out of his own way. The visitor guy then bolted to the front-side door of the church and made good his escape. “Escape…”

The push wasn’t anything violent, but it was forceful enough to get the job done (I’m a pretty big guy), forceful enough that I had to turn to look at him while he bolted out. It was all too surreal. I was instantly all questions about who he was and what he was up to. I watched him until he went out the door next to the sanctuary in, say, four seconds. Whatever about him, I then turned my attention over to the usher so as to get him anointed.

Many are able to keep a sense of situational awareness for a singular critical incident that may take place at any given time, but it is not so easy to be entirely in the midst of one incident while another, entirely un-associated and entirely diverse and utterly unexpected critical incident begins at the same time in the same place. That’s what was happening here. This was an excellent experience easily able to demonstrate lack of readiness. Humility is always needed. To be noted:

  • The visitor was visibly shaken when the calls to call 911 rang out right behind him. A description of his fear from someone who, having turned around in the pew directly in front of him, looking him square in the face, was that he was all worked up in fear, something you can’t do instantaneously. Shock is one thing, freezing up. But being worked up in fear is another thing altogether. This was a fear he was already in the midst of, during which the calls to call 911 took him by surprise. He did NOT turn to see what was happening right in back of him in those first seconds when it was not being said if this was a medical emergency or a law enforcement emergency of some kind. Everyone else turned to see what was happening. That he didn’t turn to see what was going on right behind him is quite impossible. Was it that any medical emergency was insignificant compared to what he himself was about to cause? Did he feel caught out in some way, that someone recognized him?

Recall the discovery of “White Hat”, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, one of the two terrorist bombers of the Boston Marathon, now locked up in the ultra-super-max ADX facility in Florence, Colorado. He was the only one who did NOT look at the explosion as it took place on Boylston Street near the finish line of the race. He is the only one who looked away from the explosion, and then made good his escape:

I have the link of that video set to 49:36. Watch until 50:35, just under a minute. This is a lesson in catching out a bad actor. Note how the terrorist guy doesn’t look, but looks away. This is important. Also:

  • The visitor guy quietly said something with quiet deliberate determination as a proclamation to himself, to God, to neighbor, though as a kind of soliloquy:

“No! – I can’t do this! – I have to leave!”

This was not a frantic, panic attack statement, nor a statement issuing from PTSD. It was all quite deliberate, even ever so slightly tinged with anger, but not at any of us, but rather with himself, disappointed, it seems, perhaps, that he had actually decided to do something horrific, but was just now changing his mind. He wasn’t at all in panic-like fear. Nor was he suffering from wartime violent sensory overload and couldn’t bear to see anything anymore even in the form of a non-violent medical emergency. He didn’t know if it was a medical emergency or he was being called out. If he was a bad actor and was just now changing his mind to not do the unthinkable, a medical emergency and calls to 911 would act as a preview of what he himself was about to bring about. He couldn’t take it.

(1) “No!” — This is an answer, voiced for himself to hear physically, regarding an internal agonizing dialogue that he had been having, much longer than just a few seconds.

(2) “I can’t do this!” — The reasoned conclusion isn’t about someone deciding to get over agoraphobia and feeling like a failure, so that he had heroically decided to be in a place as public as a church but was failing in the attempt. No. For all his fear, his words were way too deliberate to be issuing from panic. The reference of “this” is not a reference to a PTSD episode. Again, note that the statement was reasoned and deliberate. He was thinking about doing some thing, not thinking about suffering some episode. He’s entrenching his “No!”

(3) “I have to leave!” — He was a heap of chaotic emotions. IF he was a bad actor – and I’m not saying that he was (I’m just using this as a lesson in situational awareness) – but if he was a bad actor and had repented on the spot, he would want to get himself the heck out of there lest he change his mind. And the dichotomy between what he was seeing in the calm worshiping and his would-be senseless violence was too much to handle in front of others. He needed to be alone to sort things out. Such on the spot repentance is one of the best things I’ve ever seen. Good for him. He did it. He did the right thing. This was grace at work. The Holy Spirit working on him. His conscience getting to him. Great!

If that guy is reading this, and I’m wrong about all this, please, accept my apologies. It’s just that this makes for a good lesson in situational awareness. If you’re a good actor, you’ll understand that we can’t be too careful in these weird days of waaaay toooo many critical incidents, and that we have to learn from out-of-the-ordinary behaviors. It’s not you I’m judging. I’m just wondering about the ensemble of indicators. That’s all.

If that guy is reading this, and I’m right about all this, please, know that God loves you and wants you in heaven for ever. Yep. God’s love is more powerful than anything we could ever come up with. He wants us back. Always. If you’re Catholic, Go to Confession! Taking your own life is not allowed. You are not beyond redemption, not beyond salvation. God loves you. We love you. God’s love is more powerful. Don’t hate yourself. Just receive our Lord’s forgiveness. I, for one, would give you a do-able penance for sure. And the secret of any Confession is absolute. This is what we have to be about in this world, helping each other to get to heaven. We can be thankful to the Lord together, for Jesus’ mercy endures forever. Amen.

The time that the visitor guy was noticed in particular and until he left the church was, like, eight seconds. These things take place very quickly.

If there was a scary part, it was that he hesitated, wavered for just a split second before exiting out the side door, like he had to make one final decision not to do something.

Finally: Thanks go to guardian angels.

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Filed under Confession, Intelligence Community, Law enforcement, Missionaries of Mercy, Situational awareness, Terrorism

Law officers, counterintel, humility. Shadow-dog and Chesterton…

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GSD’s, being wolves, are baiter-hunters. Domesticated just enough, Shadow-dog, for instance, thinks he sees something not entirely irredeemable in me, and so is forever trying his loyal best to teach me about the baiting game, because proper counterintelligence techniques are what anyone who’s not entirely naive would want to have in their toolkit for life, you know, what Jesus mentioned to us all – commanded us, really – that we are to be as clever as serpents even while being as innocent as doves what with being sent out as lambs in the midst of wolves…

So, there Shadow-dog stands in front of me, his instruction for me being in the form of play. That one plays does not mean that one is not deadly serious. Competitive fun as a form of instruction makes learning enjoyable, and therefore naturally memorable.

Shadow-dog is not cross-eyed, but he is that ever so slightly at this moment, trying to guess how I will take up his challenge to take his bait. He’s electrified, and like a contained explosion, is instantly ready to burst in whatever direction. Do I lunge to the left or right or straight ahead?

  • If I go straight ahead he lunges at me and we collide in less than a nano-second.
  • If I go to the left, he also goes to the left, just way faster than I ever could, and is that a dog-laugh I heard?
  • If I go to the right, he also goes to the right, just way faster than I ever could, and is that a dog-laugh I heard?

You would think he would chase off in the opposite direction, but, no. He enjoys a good dog-laugh. And this is the instruction Shadow-dog provides. Trying in every which way to indicate that I’m going to lunge in a different direction, he always is way ahead of me, reading me like a book.

But then, rarely, randomly, after having taught me to lunge in a direction I think he’s going to lunge in, Shadow-dog will instead head off in the opposite direction from which I’m lunging. After just a few steps, he then instantly turns, and, now all relaxed, having done his work in instructing my stupidity, he calmly stares, entirely happy with himself. The dog-smirk is unbearably humiliating. And then it’s time to get petted for a job he knows has been well done. He trots right over to me. Gooooood daaaaawwwg! “Unbearably humilitating” is also great learning territory. And he knows it. We make a good team. Someday, perhaps, I will learn.

chess board robert van der steeg impossible world

The problem with finding the right people for counterintelligence is in finding those who have some humility. Counterintelligence baits people to be arrogant: “I’ve got them now! – I’m in control! – Look at me!” Pride is the enemy of counterintel success. Humility, humility, humility.

Let’s see what that looks like in a counterintel situation. Let’s see what that looks like in the chapter of the Father Brown stories of G.K. Chesterton called The Secret of Father Brown in the volume also by that name. Chesterton uses the Father Brown character to go out of his way to humiliate (with good intentions) all law enforcement and our intel services. All in good humor and in good faith.

Here’s the deal: When the police chase a criminal they try to think like a criminal. But thinking merely “like” a criminal is not good enough. Meanwhile, the criminal is desperately trying to think “like” the police. But thinking merely “like” the police is never enough. Such scruples on both sides are to be avoided. ;-)

If you grapple with this simple story, it’ll be an occasion to enter deeply into the reality of life, making you quite successful with counterintelligence:

CHESTERTON FATHER BROWN

THE SECRET OF FATHER BROWN

FLAMBEAU, once the most famous criminal in France and later a very private detective in England, had long retired from both professions. Some say a career of crime had left him with too many scruples for a career of detection. Anyhow, after a life of romantic escapes and tricks of evasion, he had ended at what some might consider an appropriate address: in a castle in Spain. The castle, however, was solid though relatively small; and the black vineyard and green stripes of kitchen garden covered a respectable square on the brown hillside. For Flambeau, after all his violent adventures, still possessed what is possessed by so many Latins, what is absent (for instance) in so many Americans, the energy to retire. It can be seen in many a large hotel-proprietor whose one ambition is to be a small peasant. It can be seen in many a French provincial shopkeeper, who pauses at the moment when he might develop into a detestable millionaire and buy a street of shops, to fall back quietly and comfortably on domesticity and dominoes. Flambeau had casually and almost abruptly fallen in love with a Spanish Lady, married and brought up a large family on a Spanish estate, without displaying any apparent desire to stray again beyond its borders. But on one particular morning he was observed by his family to be unusually restless and excited; and he outran the little boys and descended the greater part of the long mountain slope to meet the visitor who was coming across the valley; even when the visitor was still a black dot in the distance.

The black dot gradually increased in size without very much altering in the shape; for it continued, roughly speaking, to be both round and black. The black clothes of clerics were not unknown upon those hills; but these clothes, however clerical, had about them something at once commonplace and yet almost jaunty in comparison with the cassock or soutane, and marked the wearer as a man from the northwestern islands, as clearly as if he had been labelled Clapham Junction. He carried a short thick umbrella with a knob like a club, at the sight of which his Latin friend almost shed tears of sentiment; for it had figured in many adventures that they shared long ago. For this was the Frenchman’s English friend, Father Brown, paying a long-desired but long-delayed visit. They had corresponded constantly, but they had not met for years.

Father Brown was soon established in the family circle, which was quite large enough to give the general sense of company or a community. He was introduced to the big wooden images of the Three Kings, of painted and gilded wood, who bring the gifts to the children at Christmas; for Spain is a country where the affairs of the children bulk large in the life of the home. He was introduced to the dog and the cat and the live-stock on the farm. But he was also, as it happened, introduced to one neighbour who, like himself, had brought into that valley the garb and manners of distant lands.

It was on the third night of the priest’s stay at the little chateau that he beheld a stately stranger who paid his respects to the Spanish household with bows that no Spanish grandee could emulate. He was a tall, thin grey-haired and very handsome gentleman, and his hands, cuffs and cuff-links had something overpowering in their polish. But his long face had nothing of that languor which is associated with long cuffs and manicuring in the caricatures of our own country. It was rather arrestingly alert and keen; and the eyes had an innocent intensity of inquiry that does not go often with grey hairs. That alone might have marked the man’s nationality, as well the nasal note in his refined voice and his rather too ready assumption of the vast antiquity of all the European things around him. This was, indeed, no less a person than Mr. Grandison Chace, of Boston, an American traveller who had halted for a time in his American travels by taking a lease of the adjoining estate; a somewhat similar castle on a somewhat similar hill. He delighted in his old castle, and he regarded his friendly neighbour as a local antiquity of the same type. For Flambeau managed, as we have said, really to look retired in the sense of rooted. He might have grown there with his own vine and fig-tree for ages. He had resumed his real family name of Duroc; for the other title of “The Torch” had only been a title de guerre, like that under which such a man will often wage war on society. He was fond of his wife and family; he never went farther afield than was needed for a little shooting; and he seemed, to the American globe-trotter, the embodiment of that cult of a sunny respectability and a temperate luxury, which the American was wise enough to see and admire in the Mediterranean peoples. The rolling stone from the West was glad to rest for a moment on this rock in the South that had gathered so very much moss. But Mr. Chace had heard of Father Brown, and his tone faintly changed, as towards a celebrity. The interviewing instinct awoke, tactful but tense. If he did try to draw Father Brown, as if he were a tooth, it was done with the most dexterous and painless American dentistry.

They were sitting in a sort of partly unroofed outer court of the house, such as often forms the entrance to Spanish houses. It was dusk turning to dark; and as all that mountain air sharpens suddenly after sunset, a small stove stood on the flagstones, glowing with red eyes like a goblin, and painting a red pattern on the pavement; but scarcely a ray of it reached the lower bricks of the great bare, brown brick wall that went soaring up above them into the deep blue night. Flambeau’s big broad-shouldered figure and great moustaches, like sabres, could be traced dimly in the twilight, as he moved about, drawing dark wine from a great cask and handing it round. In his shadow, the priest looked very shrunken and small, as if huddled over the stove; but the American visitor leaned forward elegantly with his elbow on his knee and his fine pointed features in the full light; his eyes shone with inquisitive intelligence.

“I can assure you, sir,” he was saying, “we consider your achievement in the matter of the Moonshine Murder the most remarkable triumph in the history of detective science.”

Father Brown murmured something; some might have imagined that the murmur was a little like a moan.

“We are well acquainted,” went on the stranger firmly, “with the alleged achievements of Dupin and others; and with those of Lecoq, Sherlock Holmes, Nicholas Carter, and other imaginative incarnations of the craft. But we observe there is in many ways, a marked difference between your own method of approach and that of these other thinkers, whether fictitious or actual. Some have spec’lated, sir, as to whether the difference of method may perhaps involve rather the absence of method.”

Father Brown was silent; then he started a little, almost as if he had been nodding over the stove, and said: “I beg your pardon. Yes. . .. Absence of method. . . . Absence of mind, too, I’m afraid.”

“I should say of strictly tabulated scientific method,” went on the inquirer. “Edgar Poe throws off several little essays in a conversational form, explaining Dupin’s method, with its fine links of logic. Dr. Watson had to listen to some pretty exact expositions of Holmes’s method with its observation of material details. But nobody seems to have got on to any full account of your method, Father Brown, and I was informed you declined the offer to give a series of lectures in the States on the matter.”

“Yes,” said the priest, frowning at the stove; “I declined.”

“Your refusal gave rise to a remarkable lot of interesting talk,” remarked Chace. “I may say that some of our people are saying your science can’t be expounded, because it’s something more than just natural science. They say your secret’s not to be divulged, as being occult in its character.”

“Being what?” asked Father Brown, rather sharply.

“Why, kind of esoteric,” replied the other. “I can tell you, people got considerably worked up about Gallup’s murder, and Stein’s murder, and then old man Merton’s murder, and now Judge Gwynne’s murder, and a double murder by Dalmon, who was well known in the States. And there were you, on the spot every time, slap in the middle of it; telling everybody how it was done and never telling anybody how you knew. So some people got to think you knew without looking, so to speak. And Carlotta Brownson gave a lecture on Thought-Forms with illustrations from these cases of yours. The Second Sight Sisterhood of Indianapolis —— ”

Father Brown, was still staring at the stove; then he said quite loud yet as if hardly aware that anyone heard him: “Oh, I say. This will never do.”

“I don’t exactly know how it’s to be helped,” said Mr. Chace humorously. “The Second Sight Sisterhood want a lot of holding down. The only way I can think of stopping it is for you to tell us the secret after all.”

Father Brown groaned. He put his head on his hands and remained a moment, as if full of a silent convulsion of thought. Then he lifted his head and said in a dull voice:

“Very well. I must tell the secret.”

His eyes rolled darkly over the whole darkling scene, from the red eyes of the little stove to the stark expanse of the ancient wall, over which were standing out, more and more brightly, the strong stars of the south.

“The secret is,” he said; and then stopped as if unable to go on. Then he began again and said:

“You see, it was I who killed all those people.”

“What?” repeated the other, in a small voice out of a vast silence.

“You see, I had murdered them all myself,” explained Father Brown patiently. “So, of course, I knew how it was done.”

Grandison Chace had risen to his great height like a man lifted to the ceiling by a sort of slow explosion. Staring down at the other he repeated his incredulous question.

“I had planned out each of the crimes very carefully,” went on Father Brown, “I had thought out exactly how a thing like that could be done, and in what style or state of mind a man could really do it. And when I was quite sure that I felt exactly like the murderer myself, of course I knew who he was.”

Chace gradually released a sort of broken sigh.

“You frightened me all right,” he said. “For the minute I really did think you meant you were the murderer. Just for the minute I kind of saw it splashed over all the papers in the States: ‘Saintly Sleuth Exposed as Killer: Hundred Crimes of Father Brown.’ Why, of course, if it’s just a figure of speech and means you tried to reconstruct the psychogy — ”

Father Brown rapped sharply on the stove with the short pipe he was about to fill; one of his very rare spasms of annoyance contracted his face.

“No, no, no,” he said, almost angrily; “I don’t mean just a figure of speech. This is what comes of trying to talk about deep things. . . . What’s the good of words . . .? If you try to talk about a truth that’s merely moral, people always think it’s merely metaphorical. A real live man with two legs once said to me: ‘I only believe in the Holy Ghost in a spiritual sense.’ Naturally, I said: ‘In what other sense could you believe it?’ And then he thought I meant he needn’t believe in anything except evolution, or ethical fellowship, or some bilge. . . . I mean that I really did see myself, and my real self, committing the murders. I didn’t actually kill the men by material means; but that’s not the point. Any brick or bit of machinery might have killed them by material means. I mean that I thought and thought about how a man might come to be like that, until I realized that I really was like that, in everything except actual final consent to the action. It was once suggested to me by a friend of mine, as a sort of religious exercise. I believe he got it from Pope Leo XIII, who was always rather a hero of mine.”

“I’m afraid,” said the American, in tones that were still doubtful, and keeping his eye on the priest rather as if he were a wild animal, “that you’d have to explain a lot to me before I knew what you were talking about. The science of detection —— ”

Father Brown snapped his fingers with the same animated annoyance. “That’s it,” he cried; “that’s just where we part company. Science is a grand thing when you can get it; in its real sense one of the grandest words in the world. But what do these men mean, nine times out of ten, when they use it nowadays? When they say detection is a science? When they say criminology is a science? They mean getting outside a man and studying him as if he were a gigantic insect: in what they would call a dry impartial light, in what I should call a dead and dehumanized light. They mean getting a long way off him, as if he were a distant prehistoric monster; staring at the shape of his ‘criminal skull’ as if it were a sort of eerie growth, like the horn on a rhinoceros’s nose. When the scientist talks about a type, he never means himself, but always his neighbour; probably his poorer neighbour. I don’t deny the dry light may sometimes do good; though in one sense it’s the very reverse of science. So far from being knowledge, it’s actually suppression of what we know. It’s treating a friend as a stranger, and pretending that something familiar is really remote and mysterious. It’s like saying that a man has a proboscis between the eyes, or that he falls down in a fit of insensibility once every twenty-four hours. Well, what you call ‘the secret’ is exactly the opposite. I don’t try to get outside the man. I try to get inside the murderer . . . . Indeed it’s much more than that, don’t you see? I am inside a man. I am always inside a man, moving his arms and legs; but I wait till I know I am inside a murderer, thinking his thoughts, wrestling with his passions; till I have bent myself into the posture of his hunched and peering hatred; till I see the world with his bloodshot and squinting eyes, looking between the blinkers of his half-witted concentration; looking up the short and sharp perspective of a straight road to a pool of blood. Till I am really a murderer.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Chace, regarding him with a long, grim face, and added: “And that is what you call a religious exercise.”

“Yes,” said Father Brown; “that is what I call a religious exercise.”

After an instant’s silence he resumed: “It’s so real a religious exercise that I’d rather not have said anything about it. But I simply couldn’t have you going off and telling all your countrymen that I had a secret magic connected with Thought-Forms, could I? I’ve put it badly, but it’s true. No man’s really any good till he knows how bad he is, or might be; till he’s realized exactly how much right he has to all this snobbery, and sneering, and talking about ‘criminals,’ as if they were apes in a forest ten thousand miles away; till he’s got rid of all the dirty self-deception of talking about low types and deficient skulls; till he’s squeezed out of his soul the last drop of the oil of the Pharisees; till his only hope is somehow or other to have captured one criminal, and kept him safe and sane under his own hat.”

Flambeau came forward and filled a great goblet with Spanish wine and set it before his friend, as he had already set one before his fellow guest. Then he himself spoke for the first time:

“I believe Father Brown has had a new batch of mysteries. We were talking about them the other day, I fancy. He has been dealing with some queer people since we last met.”

“Yes; I know the stories more or less — but not the application,” said Chace, lifting his glass thoughtfully. “Can you give me any examples, I wonder. . . . I mean, did you deal with this last batch in that introspective style?”

Father Brown also lifted his glass, and the glow of the fire turned the red wine transparent, like the glorious blood-red glass of a martyr’s window. The red flame seemed to hold his eyes and absorb his gaze that sank deeper and deeper into it, as if that single cup held a red sea of the blood of all men, and his soul were a diver, ever plunging in dark humility and inverted imagination, lower than its lowest monsters and its most ancient slime. In that cup, as in a red mirror, he saw many things; the doings of his last days moved in crimson shadows; the examples that his companions demanded danced in symbolic shapes; and there passed before him all the stories that are told here. Now, the luminous wine was like a vast red sunset upon dark red sands, where stood dark figures of men; one was fallen and another running towards him. Then the sunset seemed to break up into patches: red lanterns swinging from garden trees and a pond gleaming red with reflection; and then all the colour seemed to cluster again into a great rose of red crystal, a jewel that irradiated the world like a red sun, save for the shadow of a tall figure with a high head-dress as of some prehistoric priest; and then faded again till nothing was left but a flame of wild red beard blowing in the wind upon a wild grey moor. All these things, which may be seen later from other angles and in other moods than his own, rose up in his memory at the challenge and began to form themselves into anecdotes and arguments.

“Yes,” he said, as he raised the wine cup slowly to his lips, “I can remember pretty well —— ”

===========

After all that, I wonder if I have to the humility to be the dog, Shadow-dog, not just “like” a dog, but, you know, a dog, and learn what Shadow-dog has to teach me.

After all that, I wonder if I have the humility to be understand just how bad and evil I myself can be, and thus think not just “like” a criminal, but as the criminal I am if I am without the grace of God, and thus be able to catch the criminal, because, you know, I’m him. Of course, when I catch a criminal it’s to bring him to the confessional. The best priests in the Confessional hearing confessions of others are the very priests who also make a practice of regular confession.

Or, heck, instead of all that I could just bait and wait for the counter-bait… and then counter-counter-bait, and then wait for the…

// Hey, I lost track of what’s being reacted to. PAUSE… Then…

Counter-counter-counter-counter-bait…

Counter-counter-counter-counter-counter-bait…

Counter-counter-counter-counter-counter-counter-bait…

Counter-counter-counter-counter-counter-counter-counter-bait…

// Pause… whew! Time to get out of counterintel…

============

So, let’s see, maybe there is something to just looking in oneself when looking for any and all criminals, any and all terrorists…. If we ever say, “I would never do that,” we’ve already lost the game. Honesty and integrity and humility admit that even if psychologically I probably wouldn’t do… you know… those crimes… because of my upbringing or whatever… nevertheless I probably would if given the circumstances that others have suffered and I were without God’s grace. Yep. There but for the grace of God go I. A bit aphoristic, I know. But so very, very true. Actually, people can change pretty fast. If one has the purity of heart and agility of soul to see that even one’s very self can do such things, it’s that person that will not do such things because of looking to God’s grace with honesty and integrity and humility. God doesn’t save me because I’m good. God saves me because I need saving and can’t save myself.

Then, when that Living Love who is God and that Living Truth who is God are with me, I can easily see the contrast of what would be bad and evil in myself and therefore what would be bad and evil in others. For law enforcement and counterintel this is also a boon to catching the criminal and the terrorist, regardless of culture, regardless of religion or none, regardless of anything else.

For a priest it’s all about more ably bringing people to Jesus. We priests need to get out of Jesus’ way and let Jesus be the priest in the parish.

We all need to let Jesus work through us, and with us, and in us. Needed: HUMILITY!

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Pre-critical-incident forced psych lockup program for would-be active-mass-shooter domestic terrorists already underway? DARPA COMPASS

Google this: DARPA COMPASS. It’s the first entry. This started a while back. The confluence of information replacing the census citizenship question goes a long way to making this happen for those of whatever status in these USA. Algorithms of gaming theory and the OODA Loop can sort out who needs targeting. This seems to be the obvious reference of Trump’s reaction to the El Paso and Dayton shootings on Monday August 5, what his quick due process means. The psych lockup is a dumbed down version. The program usually just gives a target-name to a field operator who terminates the possible terroristic threat. The mere psych lockup for those in these USA makes the program seem a bit more acceptable as a way to do something about mass shootings.

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Diplomatic Security Rosslyn (and me)

spy vs spyThe Bureau for Diplomatic Security (DS) in Rosslyn, at the behest of Counterintel for Consular Services (CCS) at the Department of State (DoS) at Foggy Bottom (“Main State”), early in 2019, declared to me that they had been in charge of creating two of me, purposely establishing and issuing to someone else (who looks quite like me and is about the same age) secured identity, including a U.S. Passport, with all of my own identifying characteristics. The program may have started way back in the mid-late 1970s. I say “declaration” in that this revelation was emphasized and repeated.

Until they disabused me of my naïveté, I had always thought that someone had stolen my identity. Not at all. That guy needed an unwitting fall guy in the wings, just in case. There are many persons in need of a fall guy.

But there’s two of me, I objected.

So, what’s the problem? Can you use your identity? it was asked rhetorically.

Yes, said I with the most deadpan voice I could muster.

♬ Soooooooooooo! ♬ No problem then! ♬ said the now melodious voice.

You have to know that Diplomatic Security prosecutes a few problem fraudulent passports, those used for more than the usual criminal fraud, namely, something more along the lines of terrorists and foreign spies (sometimes diplomats) with multiple alternative identities, including as U.S. citizens. They also issue passports for certain people stationed at certain consulates and embassies, where even the janitors are CIA and FBI officers and agents unable to use their real identities.

Silly me, I brought up the possibility that there must be some mistake. Not at all. It was insisted upon that Diplomatic Security Rosslyn never makes mistakes, not ever. When we issue a passport, he said, that passport in the hand of that person is indeed for that person. No mistakes. Not ever. It’s who that person is, because we issued that passport to that person. If he has that passport in his hand, it’s for him. End of story. No mistakes, not ever.

But there’s two of me, I objected.

It’s not a mistake. It was insisted upon. ♯ We ♯ Don’t ♯ Make ♯ Mistakes ♯

As to this last point, pretty much every sensitive ongoing operation is done with a credible fall guy – often unwitting – with me being the fall guy for the one to whom they issued my identity, under which he entrenched as an arms supplier for the new Sinaloa Cartel. The Bureau of Diplomatic Security (by whatever name) was already doing this kind of thing for now more than a century. It’s their 101st anniversary this year (2019). Wikipedia’s top-line summary:

The Bureau of Diplomatic Security, more commonly known as Diplomatic Security, or DS, is the security and law enforcement arm of the United States Department of State. DS is a world leader in international investigations, threat analysis, cyber security, counterterrorism, security technology, and protection of people, property, and information. DS’s mission is to provide a safe and secure environment for officials to carry out U.S. foreign policy.”

One might finish that last sentence with “…often at the expense, sometimes fatal, of unwitting citizens in good standing of these United States.”

The idea behind propping up one cartel over another, it is said, is to be able to more easily control the situation. That didn’t quite work. But that’s the idea. It’s always about the economy. And anyway, competing cartels wasn’t so much of a thing back in the day. We created “El Chapo”, bringing his violence to bear, effectively creating the Sinaloa Cartel.

I always despised my identity being used for anything benefiting Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzmán Lorea. My name is written all over so many guns, so many bullets, which have been used to kill so many people. Were these cartel agents, even of different cartels, sicarios and disloyal druggies who were killed? Sure. Those guns and bullets were also used to kill untold numbers of innocent men, women and children just to instill fear. It is said that “El Chapo” is treated as a god in Mexico, but that is out of fear, regardless of how much nice stuff he gave to people with money he otherwise couldn’t launder anyway. I don’t like my name being used for all this.

“El Chapo” is now enjoying the extra security of the ultra-super-max solitary confinement of the ADX facility in Florence, Colorado. Fine. But that doesn’t mean it’s over. That means it’s only begun. Locking him up is not something you do and then you cheer. Vengeance for the vengeance is coming. There’s an entire Cartel which is now especially upset. If we created “El Chapo” and we are now treating him in this way, well, I’m sure there will be some who reckon that a reckoning needs to be done. The monster is now bigger than “El Chapo.” When you take out a devil you might get Satan himself to replace him.

Which brings me to the point of this screed. There are a couple of favors – easy to do, ever so easy, which I think I’ve earned – that Diplomatic Security Rosslyn could and should do for me (with a heads-up to CCS). DS asked me what these requests might be, but I regrettably had to decline to mention them over a cell phone. Perhaps I can put the request in through a favorite congressman. But really, does this have to get even more stupid than it already is? Could I just talk to someone in, say, the Diplomatic Security building in Greensboro, N.C.?

P.S. For decades I’ve been baiting for any takers in an effort to figure all this out. Some took the bait not knowing what they were wading into. How annoying. But I opened myself up to that. I get what I deserve. But now the dynamics change, radically. If DS openly admits all this to me, it’s not because they think there’s no supporting documentation (they know there is), but rather because I’m so very unimportant and so utterly expendable and am an absolute nobody, just another typical fall guy. This is the normal course of affairs. It is what it is. My talking about it proves nothing. I’m still totally the fall guy. I would still like to have a chat with someone in Greensboro.

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Listen up, CIA! Dedicatio par aevum REPOST: Heroic history: Joyce Kilmer

CIA MEMORIAL LANGLEY

Last year, July 30, 2018, was the 100th anniversary of death by sniper of forward field intelligence officer Joyce Kilmer. He’s personally the heroic example of what would become the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) which would itself turn into the Central Intelligence Agency. I’m putting this up to encourage those looking for a break from the heat by coming up to the mountains and quietly hiking the trails of the memorial forest. Here’s the post from last year:

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We had a memorial today, July 30, 2018, in the absolutely gorgeous National Forest dedicated to the memory of the great military operative Joyce Kilmer. Joyce, mind you, was a literary giant, compared even to G.K. Chesterton, certainly for his poetry. Look him up in Wikipedia. You won’t be disappointed.

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Descendants of Joyce Kilmer were there. The VFW was there in force, including the State and National Commanders. There were bagpipes, the bugle for Taps, the 21 gun salute.

I also had a part to play, offering a few religious words about heroism. I then had the great privilege of reciting the entire Rouge Bouquet included below.

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JOYCE KILMER: Memorial – Rev. George David Byers
July 30, 2018 – Centenary Memorial Service – Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest

Since Joyce Kilmer was a devout Catholic and since I’m the Catholic pastor of the local parish, I’ve been invited to say a few words to attempt to go the heart of who Joyce Kilmer is as a hero. Joyce’s Rouge Bouquet will then be read before a short prayer, followed by rendering honors and the Taps.

Joyce Kilmer was enthusiastically respected in all good friendship by his brothers in arms back in the day, a lively respect which continues today as we are now witnessing one hundred years later. Anyone who is profoundly immersed in their own times remains at one with us in all times. Joyce Kilmer is a hero because he leads us back to ourselves and who we are before God. Joyce’s poetical intervention about, say, any tree being awesome because of being just another tree, but made by God is an analogy bringing us into the lived reality of who any one of us is to be as a hero.

Like so many others in our topsy turvy society with wars and rumors of wars, in our day as people did in Joyce’s day, I have searched for heroism if not in all the wrong places then surely in all the wrong ways. Growing up in a military family, my father having been trained up at Parris Island as a Marine Fighter Attack Pilot in Guam, the Philippines, Japan, China and Korea, having been commander of the famed Checkerboard Squadron, I have bragged about him as my hero, perhaps making him too extra special. Joyce Kilmer knew there was a danger to making one tree more special than all the others, a danger of not seeing that we are all made by God, the danger of thinking that this other fellow is a hero so I don’t have to be one. That’s not the kind of respect a real hero wants.

At the same time I would go out of my way to greet any veteran I might see at a gas station or a supermarket or at church. I’ve learned NOT to say, “Thank you for your service,” as I would often get a half-hearted, or sad, or almost cynical if polite acknowledgment in return. To say “Thank you for your service” almost seems ungrateful to the very veteran before whom one stands, being thankful perhaps only for his or her service in unrepeatable circumstances so very far away, a fog of war that any veteran struggles to recount to anyone, a service which, therefore, is in danger of being forgotten if heroism is merely about things done, if heroism is just that specialized, that distant, that out of reach, my usual mistake of “he’s the hero so I don’t have to be one.”

To veterans then, I’ve learned NOT to say “Thank you for your service,” but simply, “Thank you.” The acknowledgment is immediate, sincere, one of appreciated solidarity. And yet, even in this thanksgiving there can still be something missing about the heroism Joyce Kilmer lived out, the heroism which won him the enthusiastic respect in all good friendship of his brothers in arms and of our own respect today.

An Army friend of mine who was taken up as a field agent of the CIA much along the lines of Joyce becoming a kind of distant forerunner of the best of our CIA operatives, reprimanded me, saying that I had much to learn about thanking any veteran. He said that a hero isn’t someone you thank so much as strive to imitate with intensity of service at whatever cost. That’s it, thought I foolishly. Striving to imitate intensity of service is a real compliment, a real thanksgiving, and goes a long way and is what any veteran would like to see from anyone. But it still isn’t the full story and is certainly not quite yet an appreciation of the kind of heroism lived out by Joyce Kilmer.

We’ve all heard veterans of foreign wars like Marcus Luttrell or Robert O’Neill say it; we’ve all heard our friends in Law Enforcement and Firefighting say it; I’m certain that most who are here today have said it, as heroes: “I’ve done nothing special.” And then they add what our Lord said we will all say should we make it into the gates of heaven: “I’ve only done what I had to do.” There are those who think that this is what humility is all about, misunderstanding this as some sort of self-deprecation. But they miss the point. This isn’t false humility to say “I’ve done nothing special.” It is to say in Joyce Kilmer’s analogy, that any tree is awesome among any other trees, each having been made by God, so that each tree, each person is to do what they have to do, what they’ve been given to do, what they’ve been called to do in whatever impossibly unrepeatable circumstances they happen to be in. We’re all called to be heroes.

What was so attractive about Joyce Kilmer to his brothers in arms and to us today is that he knew he had what we can all have by way of God: we can all have a love that is stronger than death, a love stronger than death. “Let me have the most dangerous assignment!” said Joyce Kilmer again and again. A love stronger than death given by God. That’s what we recognize as what we are all to have, a love stronger than death given by God; this is who we are all to be, one who lives out what we have to do, what we’ve been given to do, what we’ve been called to do in all our impossibly unrepeatable circumstances. What makes the hero is that which all can have, this God given love which is stronger than death. “Let me have the most dangerous assignment!”

So said the eternal Word of God the Father: let me have the most dangerous assignment; let me stand in their place, the innocent for the guilty, so that I might have the right in my own justice to have mercy on them. And we know what happened next: “God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life,” eternal life, a love stronger than death, the eternal Son of God, our warrior of goodness conquering evil because giving us of his love that is stronger than death so that we might also say: “Let me have the most dangerous assignment!” Jesus is the One hero, and we are all heroes in him, recognizing before this love that is stronger than death that is offered to us all, that we then do, in thanksgiving, what we have to do, what we’ve been given to do, what we’ve been called to do in all our own unrepeatable circumstances, as in Joyce’s day, so in our own. The thanksgiving that our hero veterans want to have is that we all become heroes.

My own prayer this day is that those who visit this forest, coming into contact with the eternal Creator of creation, might find out about the heroism of Joyce Kilmer, the heroism we can all have with that God-given love that is stronger than death, that love which is eternal. Only God can make a tree. Only God can make a hero. We thank God for all our heroes, begging that we might strive to imitate intensity of generosity by living out in our everyday circumstances, with enthusiasm, that love which is stronger than death. Thank you, Joyce. Thanks to all our veterans. Thanks to all our heroes. Thanks to Jesus for giving us a love stronger than death.

The Rouge Bouquet

In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet
There is a new-made grave to-day,
Built by never a spade nor pick
Yet covered with earth ten metres thick.
There lie many fighting men,
Dead in their youthful prime,
Never to laugh nor love again
Nor taste the Summertime.
For Death came flying through the air
And stopped his flight at the dugout stair,
Touched his prey and left them there,
Clay to clay.
He hid their bodies stealthily
In the soil of the land they fought to free
And fled away.
Now over the grave abrupt and clear
Three volleys ring;
And perhaps their brave young spirits hear
The bugle sing: “Go to sleep! Go to sleep!
Slumber well where the shell screamed
and fell.
Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor,
You will not need them any more.
Danger’s past;
Now at last, Go to sleep!”
There is on earth no worthier grave
To hold the bodies of the brave
Than this place of pain and pride
Where they nobly fought and nobly died.
Never fear but in the skies
Saints and angels stand
Smiling with their holy eyes
On this new-come band.
St. Michael’s sword darts through the air
And touches the aureole on his hair
As he sees them stand saluting there,
His stalwart sons;
And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill
Rejoice that in veins of warriors still
The Gael’s blood runs.
And up to Heaven’s doorway floats,
From the wood called Rouge Bouquet
A delicate cloud of bugle notes
That softly say: “Farewell! Farewell!
Comrades true, born anew, peace to you!
Your souls shall be where the heroes are
And your memory shine like the morning-star.
Brave and dear, Shield us here. Farewell!”

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From the Catholic funerary rites:

Saints of God, come to their aid! Come to meet them angels of the Lord!
Receive their souls and present them to God the Most High.
May Christ, Who called you, take you to Himself; may angels lead you to Abraham’s side.
Receive their souls and present them to God the Most High.
Let us pray: We commend our brothers and sisters to you, Lord. Now that they have passed from this life, may they live on in Your presence. Amen.
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and all the souls of the faithful departed,
through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

Render honors…

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Civil Registration of Clergy in China

On the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Jesus the “Holy See” published a comment on whether or not clergy (priests and bishops) in China should go ahead and register civilly as clergy. It’s a dire situation. The short comment put out by the Holy See is ambiguous at best.

I’m guessing that this was prepared by McCarrick. I’m guessing that the Chinese extorted Pope Francis to publish it. Extortion is possible. Anyone remember Pope Francis’ “Front of House”, Miriam Woldu, who was murdered just before the homosexualist referendum in Italy? As expected, no one made a peep about that after her murder.

I note that this comment on civil registration in China has no provenance other than the “Holy See.” In other words, the document is so horrifically ambiguous that no one is willing to take responsibility for it, not even the Secretary of State. Incredible. Almost without precedent. I’ll write more about this, please God, with full analysis. But I just wanted to put this out there with a mention of McCarrick, you know, to bait some reaction. Anyone with something helpful to say?

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CIA: “Show time!” Angels: “Show time!”

The lead picture is from actual footage out of one of the windows of Air Force 1. POTUS was being accompanied by multiple F-16s on September 11, 2001. They were there to protect him.

I can’t even count the times I’ve seen such accompaniment from my own window in a commercial jetliner. Most incidents were on the Stateside termination of transatlantic flights. I’m guessing that this accompaniment was not for the protection of anyone inside, but rather to practice being in place for the downing of a commercial airliner if it suddenly itself became weaponized. A common exercise for the fighter pilots, surely. Some examples:

  • Chicago – O’Hare International Airport: With fuel mostly depleted after such an extra-long flight, we were, instead, put in a rather weird holding pattern. The pilot was punctuating the ticking of the clock with apologies. Five minutes, fifteen, thirty, thirty five… Passengers were getting a bit agitated. The weather wasn’t good. That was the excuse. Until the pilot started expressing some distress about running out of fuel, and that the tower knew that, but would not, not, not give permission to land. I think the pilot brought the fuel thing up like three times. I love flying, so I thought it was all good, especially because of the airshow outside, F-16s to the sides of the plane. Cool! It was stunning to me – I’m so naive – that no one could care less about the cool F-16s. The other passengers were too agitated with the flight attendants who were trying to keep people calm by proffering hope for getting to any connecting flights. These were the days of “mere” highjacking instead of the blowing up of planes or running them into buildings. The F-16 on my side of the plane (the left side) pulled away. Momentarily, another took its place. Just practice, surely. We landed. My connecting flight was to the Wold–Chamberlain Field of the Twin Cities in Minnesota. We were diverted mid-flight to what looked to be a small-town airstrip somewhere in a pasture in nowheresville, Wisconsin. After a long delay, everyone was hauled out onto the tarmac. All the luggage came off. Dogs arrived with a multitude of law enforcement… Inside the plane, outside the plane, with the luggage, with us… nothing. That was a fad for some years in my experience anyway. Again and again. Then it was back on the plane. Just training, surely. Great!
  • JFK International Airport: I’ve elsewhere told the story about my involvement when terrorists threatened to blow up a transatlantic flight half way to JFK. I’ll spare you. Needless to say, this was another occasion for accompaniment of a commercial airliner with F-16s. They weren’t there for practice, however. They were waiting for a go-ahead to down the plane if need be. We did land, only to taxi out as far away from the airport as possible, almost in the water of the Atlantic, to be met by a multitude of emergency vehicles and then a storming of the plane by special operators.

I remember the details of these incidents of accompaniment more than the details of others as there were more concomitant circumstances that were… special.

Dad used to train in fighter pilots at Andrews just south of DC as they were putting him through JAG law training at Georgetown University. But how do you train in pilots to down commercial airliners full of innocent American citizens? What’s going through the pilots’ minds and hearts and souls? Unimaginable. But that’s why you train. But the question is always, immediately, Is this just an exercise? And then you hear, No. It’s not. … … … as your heart about stops and then about breaks your ribs pounding so hard.

Analogy: We’re all each of us in crazy changing circumstances every day that are permitted or provided by our Lord who is the Lord of History. He sees all. Our angels see all. We’re expected to be faithful in whatever circumstances, to do what we need to do, whether this means anything from going to heaven when called, promptly, with enthusiasm, or “to protect and serve” as is said. And all in between. Do we think, however, that maybe our circumstances aren’t quite so dramatic, and therefore our faithfulness isn’t really a big deal in those small circumstances, so that – Hey! – we can be politically correct or “get along to get along” or not witness to the goodness and kindness and truth and honesty and integrity that our Lord demands of us every second of every hour of every day?

Here’s the deal: It might be faithfulness in that tiny circumstance that will especially touch the heart and soul of someone and have them turn to the Lord and be on their way to heaven. And that epic saving of a soul is incomparably more dramatic than anything whatsoever that could possibly happen to us in this world. The salvation of souls is about eternity. It’s the small things that are going to draw people in, goodness and kindness and truth and honesty and integrity, always, always, and everywhere, everywhere.

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Mueller’s peachy social engineering

interstate 85 peach

Mueller: “After that investigation, if we had confidence that the president did NOT commit a crime, then we would have said so.”

How peachy is that? A hardly veiled referral to Congress for impeachment. Mueller turns on its head the principle that one is innocent until proven guilty and assumes that insufficient evidence screams guilt. Since pretty much anyone who is alive is able to commit any crime, that evidence, that one was alive, however insufficient, means that pretty much everyone is guilty of whatever crime. Everyone is dead.

If the victim is accused of being a witch in such a witch hunt, he is thrown into a river. If he drowns, he’s innocent. If he survives, he is guilty and then killed another way. Dead both ways.

That’s the American way! Peachy! Impeachy! But no. That’s not the American way.

Social engineering that clockwork-encourages Congress to undo the Constitution without the Constitution undergoing duly legislated amendment is…

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Analyzing Strzok’s capacity to lie. The deadpan declaration: “I am America.”

Analysts love declarations. There are certain declarations that are stand-alone, and which simply cannot be voiced unless you mean them in any and all contexts or regardless of any particular context whatsoever. They reveal a helluvalot about a person.

Here’s Peter Strzok declaring away to Tray Gowdy at 5’38″…

“The American electorate I respect in their decisions and their right to vote is absolutely a cornerstone of our democracy so at no time did I insult or call into question the judgment or the power of the American electorate.”

And he later repeats a version of that. It’s ingrained into him.

It’s all in the “so.” The “so” inescapably indicates that Peter Strzok believes that he, personally, is America. But this is not the Patriotism of which he thinks he is the definition. Instead, this is, for him, about his inability to do wrong. This, my friends, is as cynical as it gets. It’s a licence to kill. It’s a licence to betray one’s country as doing so could not possibly be considered betrayal by him: he IS America.

There are plenty of false patriots who say: “I love America and I’m the most patriotic person ever and I embody all that America is.” No. That doesn’t work.

It needs to be added instantaneously that there is an ever present possibility that we can fall short, we are able to betray. It is this honesty and humility which keeps one sharp, frosty, and, indeed, able to see ever so easily how it is that this or that person is at the verge of or has already betrayed America and is a danger.

Anyone who embodies the “so” principle of Peter Strzok cannot be trusted.

Do the analogy. The person who, in the spiritual life says to himself that he is doing just fine and is strong because he hasn’t killed anyone in a long time or ever and that makes him all good is a fraud. The person who by the grace of God is in humble thanksgiving before the Lord gets it, knowing that he could fall at any time into whatever lack. Holiness is about the Lord creating us as His friends: “I call you friends.” The trust is not in ourselves but in Jesus. Jesus I trust in you.

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SRI LANKA, an Easter Octave later

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Looks like just a bit of confusion, like “someone did something” above. So, let’s move in media res and get a better idea. You can’t fix something unless you know what it is.

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Not good enough. Let’s make this more personal. Jesus, just now risen from the dead, having been ripped to shreds Himself, blood everywhere, walks in the midst, the blood of His followers all over Him, witnessing to their belief in life eternal. As the Master, so the disciple.

sri lanka easter terror

  • “Today, you will be with me in paradise,” He says.
  • “The death of His faithful ones is precious in the eyes of the Lord.” (Psalm 116:15)

As of 4/27/2019 there are at least 310 killed and 469 wounded. More die and are injured as raids take place and “collateral incidents” occur. Always increasing numbers of terrorists are arrested or killed, depending on circumstances. Innocents can unfortunately be in the way as terrorist cowards hide behind women and children.

ISIS has claimed responsibility, having sucked in the local Islamicist terrorist group, National Thowheed Jamath.

  • But almost no one will say that they are Islamicist terrorists or ISIS. They are just “some people who did something.”
  • But almost no one will say the word “Catholic” about so very many of the victims, innocent, including women and children, and yes, also men.

All the spooky groups were telling the crowd in Sri Lanka 17 days before it happened. But just as Sri Lanka has traitors in it’s government, so do we. No decision maker knew.

It’s personal to me because these are other members of the Body of Christ. That’s as personal as it gets.

But, just to say, I also have priest friends in Sri Lanka with whom I lived in Rome at various colleges for years of studies.

I’ve even had an interview about the liturgy with the Cardinal Archbishop, his Eminence Albert Malcolm Ranjith Patabendige Don. He says he’s been told by the local Muslims that this wasn’t about anything Islamicist. “He says he’s been told…” Clever way of saying that. He says he has zero concern for the rebuilding of churches. He’s concerned about rebuilding lives. Good for him. Blessings upon them all.

I hope the perps convert and are forgiven. I hope the victims, if alive, can forgive. It will do them an eternity of good. We must pray for that: Hail Mary

Having said all that, even on this Divine Mercy Sunday, my sentiment is also summed up by the Chinese University student at the time of the Boston Marathon Bombing Dun “Danny” Meng when he escaped and was interviewed by Police Officer Tommy Saunders. It was the last thing Dun said to Tommy: “Get those *************!” This isn’t a vengeance thing over against someone who has repented. No. The bombers were on their way to New York City to do up some more bombing, more killing, more terrorism. They weren’t going to stop until the were stopped. So, yeah: “Get those *************!”

Having said all that, none of that is inconsistent with this being Divine Mercy Sunday.

  • Jesus still calls us to be witnesses to His forgiveness should anyone want it.
  • Jesus still calls us to be witnesses unto death, giving all in Him.
  • Jesus still calls us to to pray that He have mercy on us and on the whole world. 

And to those cynics who condemn religion because God permitted such a thing to happen, look again. He took our place, the innocent for the guilty, so that He might have the right in His own justice to have mercy on us.

pieta

And… and… He’s risen from the dead. And He intends to have us rise from the dead for life eternal. Thank you, Jesus.

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Peter Strzok and lover Lisa Page compromising national security

The great Catherine Herridge reports that Strzok-Page texts suggest using post-election briefing to gather information on Trump team.

To be specific, as she reports, this is nine days after the presidential election, FBI agent Peter Strzok and FBI lawyer Lisa Page exchanged texts about “using briefings to the Trump team after the 2016 election to identify people they could “develop for potential relationships,” track lines of questioning and “assess” changes in “demeanor” – language one GOP lawmaker called ‘more evidence’ of irregular conduct in the original Russia probe.”

“Irregular conduct”? This is not just about spying on the new Trump administration. These briefings were informational national security sessions which either lay foundations for the incoming administration to prepare responses entrusted to them by the voting public or are routine but just as important as informational sessions on national security matters. If that very information is skewed by way of counterintelligence trickery of exaggeration or lack or with fishing by way of adding names or places or circumstances or pressures, as is the impossibly inescapable modus operandi of someone like Peter Strzok who spent his entire life doing this kind of thing, well, in that case, our national security has been compromised since the very beginning. Those informational briefings necessarily must be entirely trustworthy. But clearly they are not. This is playing not just with these USA, but with geopolitical viability. This is not just giving aid and comfort to the enemy, it actually points to Strzok being — what?

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Patriots Day مترجم Islamicists bomb Marathon. Inspirational: Boston Strong

I put this up again. Lest we forget.

I note that this is one of those obvious copyright violations that YouTube has not taken down. There are reasons for this. This version has Arabic subtitles throughout. And while this might be seen as a “microaggression” by the powers that be, some sort of accusation against Islam, this presentation is clearly meant as an encouragement to peace. I rarely watch movies and have only seen a few minutes of this. If you’ve seen it, can you give us a review or comment one way or the other?

There’s a depiction of a woman getting interrogated until the interrogator realizes that any appeal to mercy or truth or goodness or kindness will never have any effect on someone who madly actually believes in sadistic bloodthirsty “Allah”.

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Barr’s Bombshell Binneyless, for now

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Rod Rosenstein went way out of his way to discredit Bill Binney, not by name, not by dissing Bill’s speed-of-data-transfer demonstrations, but by way of providing another (and impossible) methodology of the spying done on the DNC.

DOJ Rod Rosenstein NSA Bill Binney

My question is: “Why is that?” I doubt Rod is a computer freak. He was advised. Who?

I suggest Dyncorp International Llc, perhaps at an outpost in Pensacola, repeat the repeatable demonstrations of Bill Binney. Just sayin’…

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“The Fall Guy” “Insurance Policy”

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I am so very stupid, so very naive. When I was a teenager, I thought that “The Fall Guy” for whatever important op is to be someone who lays down his life for his friends, for his country, often with an untold story, but prepared to be smashed down by being asked to do it or by way of volunteering to do this. In a way, “The Fall Guy” is to seen everywhere in service roles such as Law Enforcement and the Military. I’m proud of my dad’s service, a USMC Commander of the Fighter-Attack Checkerboard Corsair Squadron; here are some of his medals, not including the international medals from various countries, et alii. That’s the Purple Heart, third one over (they’re laid out in proper military order, two each of each medal to the left of the Purple Heart):

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Anyway, and more specifically, the reason having “The Fall Guy” as part of an op is that there are certain ops that can’t be easily understood by the public at large. So, put the blame for what might be considered as that which has a fine line to it on just one guy, a scapegoat. Great!

Sometimes “The Fall Guy” was always expected and well known. Since being a youngster, I looked at Jesus as “The Fall Guy” for us. After all, God so loved the world that He sent His only Son to do just that. Jesus knew. So did His good mom, who caught Him:

pieta

Then, July of 1987 came around. I was already ordained a deacon and had spent some outrageous time throughout Nicaragua a couple of years before. I had plenty of experiences in the “war zone” so as to be able to understand what would be put on stage the Summer of 1987 for the whole world with the Iran-Contra “Affair”. During my free time of that Summer I had been cleaning up the parish cemetery with my little tape-recorder and ear phones playing talks of Archbishop Fulton Sheen while I worked. I was distracted, and ended up with a case of poison ivy so fierce that the skin came off both hands. I sat in the rectory kitchen with my hands soaking in a special solution for two full weeks. During that time I watched every minute of C-SPAN’s total coverage of the Congressional grilling of Lieut. Col. Oliver North, who, by the way, I thought was entirely hilarious: “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!” The New York Times, confirming everything I thought about “The Fall Guy” for any op – (that they know and agree to being “The Fall Guy” beforehand) – reported this:

IRAN-CONTRA HEARINGS; Casey Had ‘Fall Guy’ Plan As Early as ’84, North Says
By FOX BUTTERFIELD and SPECIAL TO THE NEW YORK TIMES JULY 14, 1987

“Lieut. Col. Oliver L. North said today that the plan to make him the ”fall guy” for the Iran-contra operations was first suggested by William J. Casey as early as 1984 when the White House began its secret support for the Nicaraguan rebels.

“Colonel North had previously emphasized conversations he said he had with Mr. Casey last fall – as the Administration’s secret arms sales to Iran and the resupply program for the contras began to become public – about making the colonel the scapegoat. Mr. Casey, who resigned as Director of Central Intelligence in February, died in May.” [just before he himself was to testify to the Senate…]

The point I’m trying to make is that “The Fall Guy” knows beforehand that he’s going to be “The Fall Guy.” Everyone else for decades had the same idea as me. Thus, staying in the theme of arms transfers, the film “Lord of War” offers another version of this in 2005:

Notice that “The Fall Guy” is always an agreed to part of whatever op by anyone’s estimation. Except that that’s not true. Sometimes there are those who are “The Fall Guy” without knowing it. They are there, you know, just in case things go South. They are outside of a program, know nothing about it, and yet are continuously groomed for taking the blame as time goes by.

“The Fall Guy” who is unwitting has to be protected, to make sure he’s always around to take the heat. “The Fall Guy” who is unwitting has to be baited into experiences that will make him look like the actual Asset in every way, with the same travels, with the same experiences, with at least some of the same over-the-top skill sets, languages, contacts, indeed, especially with other Assets, making “The Fall Guy” look like he could be an Asset himself. It’s precisely that which makes him ready to be “The Fall Guy” at any time.

In my travels often hundreds of miles every week bringing me into the seven-state region near enough to Western North Carolina, I was speaking to a top military guy about “The Fall Guy” thing. He admitted that, yes, in fact, it has happened, does happen and will happen that there can be “The Fall Guy” for whatever op, even with “The Fall Guy” being someone who does not know about whatever program and is in no way to be connected with whatever program.

For instance, if a CIA Asset is being compromised, “The Fall Guy” is used to take the heat off the all important Asset, so that said Asset can continue doing what he needs to do. If the Asset is going to end up going to prison, it’s instead “The Fall Guy” who goes to prison.

Recently, CCS (Counterintel for Consular Services) at Main State (Department of State) had me call DSCC (Diplomatic Security Command Center). It was made crystal clear that […] ///

/// […] When “The Guy” of Black Sites fame at another time and place told me that there are always but always insurance policies for every single program so that there is no program without an insurance policy, I didn’t know what he meant. I asked him about that, a lot, over years. I never understood, just thinking it was an extortion type thing: “You do this or else.” But, no. Not that. And it’s not a Strzokian type of “Insurance Policy.” No, no. The Insurance Policy he was talking about is “The Fall Guy,” whether that guy knows it or not. He’s the scapegoat, the one to blame. /// […]

/// […] The question is, what if “The Fall Guy,” as unwitting as he is for so long, figures out that he is “The Fall Guy”?

The best way to take care of the problem is to make “The Fall Guy” a target, say, by spreading it around that he is, say, for instance, a CIA Asset himself. That’s easy to do since, with all the grooming, all the baiting, all the false friendships, “The Fall Guy” will indeed have contacts highly influential in various countries and troubled regions around the world. In researching rumors about “The Fall Guy”, various groups may well think that “The Fall Guy” is, instead, the Asset. And then they’ll take care of the problem that “The Fall Guy” now knows too much. How very convenient. Mind you, “The Fall Guy” who was up to this point unwitting has had no real training, has gained no real over-the-top skill sets that he can use to avoid trouble, that he can use to protect himself. It’s kind of like being put on the front lines like David did to Uriah the Hittite, and then having his fellow soldiers withdraw leaving Uriah quite alone against the enemy so that he is then cut down. Easy peasy.

This, of course, underlines the fact that especially “The Fall Guy” who was unwitting up to this point is the most unimportant, most expendable non-person in the world. He has no chance to prepare for a good death. It’s all very dark, very ugly, the most cowardly side of these USA.

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Intelligence Identities Protection Act 1982 PubL 97–200 50 USC §§ 421–426

The Intelligence Identities Protection Act of 1982 (Pub.L. 97–200, 50 U.S.C. §§ 421–426) makes it a Federal crime – enforced with a penalty of a fine or up to three years in prison or both regarding anyone with or without whatever security clearance and access / need to know – to compromise directly or by patterned indications an asset / agent in extremely broadly defined circumstances (as assessed by courts in view of the bias of relevant agencies), regardless as to whether the scope of such a law compromises the Constitution and Constitutional rights of citizens in good standing, including their right to protect the viability of their very lives. Intent doesn’t matter.

Questions:

  • When does justice and equity – the spirit of the law – begin to assert that “rogue” assets / agents are not allowed to destroy citizens in good standing at will, you know, just to protect their own salaries, stipends, perks, retirement packages, or even to protect  agencies from embarrassment about programs that gravely compromise necessary geopolitical allies?
  • When criticism of a program isn’t enough to stop the treasonous-esque behavior of “rogue” individuals, will the outing of whatever “rogue” agent / asset be allowed?

In this law, the answer to both questions is never.

I take that back. In the very law, it’s just fine for agencies to provide a pattern by which their agents / assets are indicated, especially in a quiet manner, in a counterintel fashion, especially if this is done with those who will thus be baited in turn into providing a pattern by which such agents / assets are indicated in a more general manner, with such citizens thus being manipulated into contravening this law and thus making them liable to being conveniently remanded to prison for years at a time, thus protecting the same agents / assets.

Interesting year, that: 1982. Very interesting.

Sometimes justice and equity, love of God and love of neighbor, push citizens in good standing to do the necessary at whatever cost to themselves. It’s not all about money and sex and power for all people everywhere all the time. No.

Indeed, there are those who, when cornered, when up against a wall, and wanting to do the right thing, simply do what’s necessary to find a solution, as in the video above, in which I rejoice. That video is very short, and well worth the watch. You’ll get the point.

The more cynical among us should understand that the cynical use of a law meant to thwart seemingly treasonous activities can itself amount to treason, with penalties much greater than some fine or even three years in prison. A word to the wise.

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Rafi Eitan and Jon Jay Pollard? “I don’t know nothing!”

When Rafael “Rafi” Eitan died, I put up this notification:

Rafi Eitan! May you rest in peace. I hope to meet you in heaven. Your legacy lives!

I laughed out loud to then hear that he was the “handler” of Jay Pollard. Certainly I didn’t know that previously, not even in another life.

Some years ago, when walking into the main doors of the departures terminal at Tel Aviv International Airport, that is, נתב״ג, you know NATBAG or TLV, not even one of the dozen soldiers outside under the overhang stopped me, and so I just nonchalantly continued on my way inside until, another twenty meters inside, I was asked where I was going and I responded “Rome” and that soldier also let me go as that was consistent with one of the flights leaving at that time. So I continued, but only slowly, as I instantly felt a collective “disturbance in the force” outside, kind of like all the soldiers with one electrifying whisper saying, “Oh S#|+”. It took about three more seconds until I was surrounded by the same dozen soldiers from outside plus another dozen who came out of nowhere from inside.

Their questions: “Who is the special person you met? Who’s your contact? Give us a name. We want a name! Who is it?” Not knowing what they were talking about, they snatched a bit of computer junk I had bought, an Israeli-Hebrew keyboard, and brought it to a backroom for the longest time. They told me to sit off to the side where there was an agent to accompany me. After say, 40 minutes of them having an intense powwow, looking over at me every few seconds, and with me not wanting to be late for my plane, and with me also wanting to see if a Jedi-mind-trick would work, I simply waltzed over to the flight counter and checked in and went on my way, much to their consternation. They were visibly upset, breaking their pow-wow and turning toward me, but apparently they were under orders not to detain me further. They didn’t tell me I was free to go. As far as I knew, I wasn’t supposed to move. You simply just don’t disobey IDF soldiers with UZIs (or whatever it was ten years ago) in Tel Aviv International Airport. But I did. You find out stuff by pushing the envelope a bit. ;-)

It wouldn’t be for another six years that Jonathan Jay Pollard, an American CIA agent who gave ways and means secrets to Israel would be “released”, to this day not allowed to go to Israel. So, they weren’t expecting to hear “Jay.” Maybe they wanted to hear “Rafi,” a well known household name throughout the Jewish world.

I recall that relatively very recently another CIA guy asked if once then a dozen times about “Jay”, not giving any further name for a while, just “Jay”, testing to see if – now years after the restricted release of “Jay” – I could guess that he was talking about J.J. Pollard. I pushed him hard on it, and he addmitted it was Pollard he wanted to know about. But in asking that, he was really asking about “Rafi.”

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Rafi Eitan! May you rest in peace. I hope to meet you in heaven. Your legacy lives!

screenshot_20190323-1643123998759908646503003.png

screenshot_20190321-165030~24132290128470579857..jpgRafael “Rafi” Eitan was the head of the Mossad operation which brought Nazi extermination camp organizer Adolf Eichmann from Argentina to Israel to stand trial and be hanged.

Born: 23 November 1926 // Died: 23 March 2019.

Let’s see… What’s the greatest compliment one might give to someone? I know!

Rafi, it would have been an honor for me to serve in the Mossad under your leadership in the operation that took down the monster Adolf Eichmann.

At another funeral in Israel recently – that of Shimon Peres, the prayer Avinu Malkeinu was sung. The singer makes it the prayer of all who died in the extermination camps, as if he were singing their very souls while they were dying. You can hear it…

Remember:

“They are Israelites; theirs the adoption, the glory, the covenants, the giving of the law, the worship, and the promises; theirs the patriarchs, and from them, according to the flesh, is the Messiah. God who is over all be blessed forever. Amen.” (Romans 9:4-5)

Thanks, Rafi.

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