Founders: A Novel of the Coming Collapse

20. Fire Mission

Bradfordsville, Kentucky

December, the Second Year

Sheila Randall’s general store had prospered since the Crunch. As the proprietor of the only store in town that showed the flexibility to barter and with the courage to stay open amid the chaos, she had attracted customers from a wide radius. She had opened the store shortly after the Crunch began, soon after her husband had been murdered. A savvy barterer, Sheila had parlayed a small pre-Crunch investment in gardening seeds into a burgeoning inventory of everything from locally produced honey and sorghum to tools, ammunition, kitchen utensils, canning jars and lids, bolts of cloth, gloves, cans of kerosene, home-canned vegetables, rat traps, garden and mechanic tools, and dozens of other items. Starting with an empty storefront and with just the help of her ten-year-old son and her spry eighty-five-year-old grandmother, Lily Voison, her inventory soon grew to fill the store’s display room. Sheila then built up a substantial overstock that eventually filled the store’s windowless back room. She, her son, Tyree, and her grandmother Lily lived in the apartment upstairs.

Sheila was quick to react to changes like the ProvGov’s new currency and gun laws. One of the new gun laws was a restriction on arsenals that put a limit of 500 rounds of ammunition per home. This absurdly included .22 rimfire ammunition that had long been sold in retail boxes of 500 or 550. Sheila benefited from an exemption in the ammunition law for stocking stores. This allowed her to have up to 40,000 rounds on hand at any given time. Sheila seized this as an opportunity, offering to trade ammunition for any of her inventory. Within a week, the value of her inventory jumped, as people rapidly made trades to react to the changing legal landscape. When townsmen dumped their excess ammo in trade at Sheila’s store, it added tremendously to the volume of her business.

Recognizing the significance of the exemption for pre-1899 guns from the new registration requirements for rifles and shotguns, Sheila bought every antique gun that she could find. Her landlord, Hollan Combs, loaned her a printout of a Pre-1899 Firearms FAQ from the Internet that he had put in his file cabinet before the Crunch. It listed the serial number thresholds for guns that would allow her to determine which ones had receivers that were made in or before 1898, and those that were 1899 or later. Any modern guns required registration under the ProvGov’s new law. Sheila photocopied the FAQ on a day that the utility power was on so that she could return the original to Hollan. She posted the FAQ in document protectors, tacked up immediately below her store’s rack of antique rifles and shotguns.

As resistance to the new government grew and the Gun Amnesty deadline loomed, her customers soon migrated into two distinct camps. The first camp were those who scrambled to get rid of any guns that were banned or any supplies of ammunition that exceeded the 500-round arsenal threshold or that was of a restricted type. The other camp consisted of those who were trying to rapidly build up batteries of guns for resistance to the government. To them, the arbitrary ammo quantity limit and the distinction of the pre-1899 exemption meant very little, so they willingly traded their antique guns to Sheila for full-capacity magazines and large quantities of military-caliber ammunition. They sought calibers such as 9mm Parabellum, .45 ACP, 5.56 NATO, 7.62 NATO, and .30-06. The 5.45x39 and 7.62x39 ammunition for Kalashnikovs was also highly sought after. This put Sheila in a key position as a middleman and launched her into a blur of activity that caused her store’s inventory to rapidly shift and grow.

Since they were sympathetic to the Resistance, the local sheriff’s deputies turned a blind eye to the gun and ammunition trading that took place at the store. Many of these trades were made after-hours, in the store’s back room. As guerrilla activity grew, a huge array of guns that had been hidden—some since as far back as 1934—began to be pulled out of basements and de-greased and oiled. The citizens of Kentucky and Tennessee had long been notorious for owning unregistered machineguns. Sheila was amazed when she was asked to find magazines for BARs, Thompson submachineguns, M3 Greaseguns, M2 Carbines, MP40 Schmeissers, a Swedish K, and even a French MAT-49. Here again, Sheila acted as the middleman and prospered. She realized that she was taking some risks, but she wanted to take full advantage of the amnesty time frame. Thankfully, the amnesty in Kentucky, as the seat of the new national government, was extended to sixty days. Those sixty days were some of the most hectic days of her life.

Before the window of opportunity for the amnesty closed, Sheila had accumulated more than 6,000 rounds of assorted ammunition and sixteen antique guns. These included three early-production Winchester Model 1897 shotguns, five double-barreled shotguns from various makers, a Burgess pump shotgun, a Colt Lightning pump rifle in .38-40, nine lever-action Winchesters in various calibers, a Winchester Model 1890 pump-action .22, two Marlin lever-actions, and a Model 1894 Swedish Mauser carbine that had been rechambered to .257 Roberts. Most of these guns soon filled the rack on the back wall of the store, to the amazement of her customers. For each, she could document their “exempt” status, so she displayed them with impunity. A prominent sign above the gun rack read: “Pre-1899 Antique Guns. Trade for Ammo or Silver Coins Only!” Realizing that their exemption from the new gun law made them a rarity, Sheila put very high prices on the guns.

She set aside three of the antique guns for her own use: A Model 1892 .44-40 carbine that she kept loaded behind the front counter, a Winchester Model 1897 12-gauge takedown shotgun with a nineteen-inch barrel (for Tyree to use while standing guard in the back room), and the Swedish Mauser (dated 1895 on the receiver ring) that she kept upstairs. Since .257 Roberts was an odd caliber, she set aside all of it that she had acquired for the store inventory—just sixty rounds.

There were just two guns that she had to make disappear before the registration amnesty ended. These were her Remington 20 Gauge Model 870 “Youth” gun, and her .41 Colt revolver. She hid the revolver in a seed broadcaster among the clutter of merchandise that hung from nails on the walls of the back room. She had Tyree coat the shotgun inside and out with automotive grease and bury it in a fifty-two-inch length of six-inch-diameter PVC pipe in the hills just outside town. Also greased and packed away in the same tube was an assortment of twenty-three rifle and pistol magazines that she hadn’t sold or traded away quickly enough. Most of the excess space in the tube was taken up by boxes and socks filled with 20-gauge shotgun shells. She also included $40 face value in silver dimes, quarters, and half dollars for a cash reserve. Her wise grandmother Lily had urged including the silver coins, reasoning that they shouldn’t keep all their eggs in one basket.

The caching tube was glued shut with standard end caps, using clear PVC cement. Sheila would have preferred to use a threaded end cap at one end, but those were almost impossible to find after the Crunch. To eventually open the tube she would have to use a hacksaw. Before the tube was glued shut, Sheila inserted six large silica gel desiccant packets to absorb any moisture inside the container.

The length of PVC pipe was buried next to a large, distinctive boulder at the edge of an abandoned dump. Tyree reasoned that the boulder was unlikely ever to be moved, and that the clutter of rusty cans in the dump would make it impossible for anyone to ever find the cache with a metal detector.

The Prine Farm, Morgan City, Utah

June, the Third Year

Just seventeen days after they had sent out the last of the letters to Idaho, Ken was helping Larry Prine clean his chimney. As Larry was threading on another rod section, he heard a vehicle approaching. Glancing up to size up the situation, Larry shouted down from the roof, “There’s a vehicle coming in!”

Ken grabbed his rifle and stepped to the front door to investigate. An older Ford Bronco pulled into the Prines’ lane and approached the house. The Bronco’s roof had been removed, and its windshield was flipped down and covered with burlap. Two men in camouflage uniforms and wearing Kevlar helmets were in the front seats. As the vehicle got closer to the farmhouse, Ken recognized his friend Tom Kennedy’s vehicle—despite the fact that it was being driven with its windshield flipped down and it had a new cable cutter attached to its front bumper. Then he recognized the faces of Dan Fong and Kevin Lendel. Without hesitation, he ran out to greet them.

Ken was wearing a huge grin as Dan Fong braked the Bronco to a halt and shut down the engine. “What, only two of you came?” Ken joked. “I figured you’d have at least three or four guys.”

Kevin looked down, fighting back tears. Then he replied, “We were three, but we’re just two now.”

He motioned with his thumb at the pair of jungle boots protruding from the end of the rolled-up ponchos.

After a few moments, Kevin blinked his eyes heavily and said in a broken voice, “It’s T.K.”

The expression on Layton’s face melted.

Ken walked back to the tailgate and stared down at Tom Kennedy’s shrouded body. With his voice wavering, Layton said, “If I’d known something like this was going to happen, I’d have never sent word to the retreat. This… this is all my fault.”

Dan shook his head and said, “It wasn’t your fault, dude. It’s rough wherever you go out there. We all knew the risks. But we’re your friends. Some things are a lot more important than your personal safety. It was a matter of honor.”

Ken took some time to stand over Tom Kennedy’s body and pray. Kevin and Dan stood a polite distance away. As Ken turned back toward them, they could see tears running down his cheeks. They shared a three-way hug.

Terry hobbled out the front door of the farmhouse on a pair of homemade crutches. Ken went to her and explained what had happened. “I’ve never been so happy and so sad at the same time before in my life,” he said.

While refueling and packing up the Bronco early the next morning, Kevin Lendel gave the Prine family the sealed plastic buckets of food that they had brought along, as well as four gasoline jerry cans, one of which was still partly full. This provided enough room for the Laytons and their gear. Dan liked the idea of getting rid of the empty gas cans, explaining that emptied gas cans containing vapors were more explosive than full ones.

After making their goodbyes, packing Ken and Terry’s gear was quick and easy. All that they had were their rifles, web gear, ALICE packs, and Terry’s new crutches. Ken and Terry gave the Prines hugs, and they were off. None of them could avoid occasionally looking at T.K.’s shrouded body. It served to subdue what otherwise would have been an animated conversation.

As they began their drive, Dan Fong explained what had happened. “We ran into two looter roadblocks on the way down here. T.K. got shot when we got stopped at the second one. Not much more to say, except that we snuck back there that same night, and made those SOBs pay for it.”

The trip to Todd Gray’s ranch near Bovill, Idaho, was uneventful. From the experience of their trip down, Dan and Kevin knew how to pick their return route to avoid trouble. More than halfway home, they made a cold camp about ten miles from where they had camped two nights before. They consciously avoided using the same spot twice.

Todd’s ranch was just as the Laytons had remembered it. The undulating hills of the eastern Palouse region were here mostly covered by timber. Everyone at the retreat house ran outdoors for what turned out to be a bittersweet reunion.

They buried T.K. the next day.

Bloomfield, New Mexico

June, the Third Year

L. Roy Martin, who owned the Bloomfield Refinery, formed a resistance cell. Martin had been disgusted to see the Provisional Government act like errand boys for the United Nations, bowing to their every demand. It sickened him to see the nation’s sovereignty discarded for the sake of convenience and exigency. With service experience as an Army Strategic Communications (STRATCOM) officer, L. Roy thought that his skills could best be used to help develop signals intelligence for the Resistance. As a man of action, it was just a short step for him to transition from his hobby of monitoring the radio spectrum haphazardly for his own interest to monitoring it actively and systematically to gather intelligence for the Resistance.

As the UNPROFOR army approached New Mexico, L. Roy moved his amateur radio equipment to a thirty-foot-long CONEX overseas shipping container near the back of the refinery complex. This became a Communications Intelligence (COMINT) intercept and analysis facility. Martin and his men bolted equipment racks to the walls in case the CONEX ever had to be moved in a hurry.

Martin led a team of five ham radio operators, a traffic analyst, and three courier runners who manned the CONEX container mini–field station twenty-four hours a day, gathering and summarizing signals intelligence. Their summaries were then relayed to other resistance organizations via the couriers, mainly using USB thumb drives. On rare occasions, they also sent some urgent messages via encrypted packet radio from vehicle-mounted ham rigs. When they did so, they were always careful to be in motion and at least fifteen miles away from the intercept site whenever they transmitted. They didn’t want to become the victims of their counterparts within the UNPROFOR.

The gear inside the field station CONEX included a pair of R-390A HF receivers, two Sherwood SE-3 synchronous detectors, four hardwired demodulators, a half dozen multiband scanners, several digital audio recorders, two spectrum analyzers, and seven laptop computers that were loaded with demodulators, digital recorders, and decryption/encryption software.

In the back of the CONEX was a large map board with United States and Four Corners region maps and a large whiteboard. The whiteboard was used by the traffic analyst (or “TA”). His job was to analyze the “externals” of the message traffic, to try to determine the relationships between the units and their missions—namely, who was subordinate to whom, and hopefully from this more about their locales, intentions, and order of battle. His references were the U.S. Army’s TA-103 Traffic Analyst course book, and the Air Force Security Command (AFSC) Radio Traffic Analysis (RTA) manual, which had both been declassified just a few years before the Crunch.

The AC power for the field station—to run the radios, lights, and heater/air conditioner—came from the refinery’s co-generated power, but it could just as well have used grid power, or power from mobile generators. It was also possible to use less stable power from generators because everything in the CONEX except the air conditioner and heater used “cleaned up” power. This was accomplished by passing the current through an uninterruptable power supply (UPS).

Martin had his dipole and sloper antennas rigged so that they could rapidly be disassembled and hidden. He had “MTBE,” “MSDS #3557,” and “Toxic—Keep Out” spray-stenciled on the CONEX’s doors in large letters. Below, a sign in smaller print read:

The team left a dozen empty 55-gallon drums sitting just outside the CONEX doors. These drums also had convincing-looking MTBE markings stenciled on them and they all had their bungs sealed shut. In the event that the team had to camouflage their operation from officials, they could pile up the barrels just inside the door, blocking the view of the electronic racks and chairs, which sat farther back, behind a blackout curtain. A pint can of paint thinner was kept handy, so that the floor inside the doors could be doused to give the CONEX a convincing aroma.

Several times, Martin’s team practiced disconnecting the antennas and “shore power” to the CONEX and securing the rolling chairs. They then loaded it onto an eighteen-wheel truck that had a self-loader. Their goal was to be able to displace tactically with just fifteen minutes notice. They eventually got their time down to sixteen minutes. In the event that it ever became necessary to relocate where there wasn’t grid power, they also had two pickup trucks towing generator trailers that would go with them.

Once the UNPROFOR troops had entered the Four Corners region, L. Roy opted to leave the CONEX on the truck at all times, giving them the ability to displace even more quickly. They soon became accustomed to climbing the ladder to access the CONEX, regardless of the weather.

After word came that the Federals were on their way to Farmington, they relocated the CONEX to a large gas drilling equipment yard halfway between Bloomfield and Farmington. There, the CONEX was lost in the clutter of rusting compressors, drip tanks, boom trucks, stacks of pipe, and other shipping containers.

A 250-vehicle UNPROFOR convoy rolled into Farmington. They soon established smaller garrisons in Bloomfield and Aztec. A “protection team” was dispatched to L. Roy Martin’s refinery, escorting Chambers Clarke, a former fertilizer salesman who was the deputy minister of information for the Hutchings administration. Clarke had been specially tasked with securing key strategic assets, such as refineries and large power plants, as the UNPROFOR’s pacification campaign continued.

In a private conversation with his plant manager, Phil McReady, three days before the UN forces arrived, Martin had said, “The guys from the pacification contact team from the Fort Knox government will be here tomorrow. What I want you to do is quietly tell everyone to just play along, and carry on operations as usual. We want to lull the ProvGov to sleep, thinking that our refinery is safely their refinery and that the Navajo coal mine and the power plants are theirs, too. We need to make them assume that there won’t be much resistance in the Four Corners region. That way, they’ll leave just a small garrison and move on. But right under their noses, we’ll be diverting fuel and lubricants to resistance groups all over the Southwest. I’ve already discussed this with the tribal elders.”

McReady nodded, and Martin continued, “So tell everyone: Do not sabotage any equipment or interrupt any processes. We’re the only ones who know how to operate this plant, so it will continue to be ours. It’s a lot like things were in Italy under the fascists.”

Phil grinned hugely and said, “So the trains still run on time, even though we’re plotting against Il Duce, and providing logistics for la resitenza.”

L. Roy shouted, “Minuziosamente!” They shook hands.

The next day, L. Roy’s conversation with Chambers Clarke lasted less than an hour. Clarke came across as a saccharine-sweet character, full of promises about ProvGov protection and sumptuous benefits in exchange for nationalization of the refinery and its associated pipeline infrastructure.

Recognizing the UNPROFOR’s disproportionate firepower, L. Roy feigned a cooperative, pro-Hutchings attitude. But he bargained hard for salaries for all his employees, even carving out a concession that part of their pay would still be in the form of bartered fuel. Only two days after the Federals arrived, L. Roy turned day-to-day operations of the refinery over to Phil McReady.

Martin publicly announced that he planned to take “a well-deserved and much delayed fishing vacation.” But after just two days at his ranch, he started working two twelve-hour shifts each week at the CONEX. Later, once it was clear that his actions weren’t attracting suspicion, he increased his workload to four twelve-hour shifts per week.

Just as he had been doing before the UN forces arrived, Martin kept his SIGINT team small, realizing that one any larger was sure to be detected or infiltrated. The core of Martin’s team was Pat Wicher, a retired Air Force senior master sergeant (SMSgt) who had for many years been on the cadre of joint service field stations for the Air Force Security Command (AFSC). Wicher had worked all over the world at both tactical and strategic levels, communications intelligence (COMINT), and electronic intelligence (ELINT) intercept and analysis. A good portion of the gear at the refinery’s intercept site came out of the collection in Wicher’s garage and attic. Wicher had squirreled away an impressive array of electronics. Most importantly, he owned two spectrum analyzers—a continuous swept-tuned analyzer and a wideband snapshot analyzer. These were crucial for the mini–field station’s mission. With them, rather than simply scanning through the spectrum, they could see signal spikes where they could then quickly tune. Wicher even knew how to use an oscilloscope to realign receivers. L. Roy was constantly amazed at the breadth and depth of Pat’s knowledge.

Partly because the ProvGov could no longer rely on an intact technological infrastructure to keep encrypted and frequency-hopping radios working, and in part because of their arrogant condescension, they made many transmissions “in the clear” and they used obsolete encryption methods such as Four-square and Playfair substitution ciphers, which were easily broken. Because they assumed that the Resistance was not listening in some bands or that their ciphers could not be broken, the ProvGov and its army often had its communications compromised. This yielded a wealth of practical intelligence to the Resistance.

L. Roy Martin’s team very rarely transmitted, and only then in the HF band via skywave, because it was very difficult to locate via direction finding other than via groundwave in the immediate vicinity of the transmitter.

Bloomfield, New Mexico

August, the Third Year

At their ranch near Bloomfield, New Mexico, Lars Laine and his brother Andrew launched into another one of their conversations about resistance to the Provisional Government. The brothers were both Army veterans. The elder brother, Lars, had been given a disability discharge in the aftermath of a roadside bomb explosion. That incident cost him a hand, an eye, and the hearing in one ear. The younger brother, Andy, had been released from active duty as a captain at the end of his six-year contractual obligation, just as the Crunch was unfolding. He was stranded in Germany, with all military and commercial airline flights grounded. He resorted to buying a bicycle and trailer, and pedaling across Germany and France. On the coast of France, he used part of his dwindling supply of small gold and silver coins to pay for passage to England on a French fishing boat. From there, he pedaled up the east coast, finally finding work as a hired security man on a yacht that would soon sail for Belize. In Belize, following an ambush by bandits that left him with a broken leg, Andy bought a horse and made his way by horseback up through Mexico, crossed into Texas, and finally made his way back to the family’s ranch in New Mexico.

Lars and Andy had spent the evening in the “radio shack” corner of the master bedroom, listening to the massive Scott SLRM multiband radio that had belonged to their late father. The old vacuum tube radio was originally designed for use on U.S. Navy ships, just before World War II. It was a very robust boat anchor design that weighed eighty-five pounds. The radio’s most distinguishing feature was that it had a green cathode ray tuning eye. The front of the cabinet was stained yellow-brown with tobacco smoke from its original Navy service. The radio was powered by an isolation transformer, which was considered a must for safety with these radios, because of the shock hazard of running one without isolation.

Lars and Andy had spent the evening tuning through the 40-meter and 80-meter amateur bands on the Scott radio, listening to ham conversations about the Provisional Government. The consensus seemed to be that the new government was illegitimate and had a penchant for larceny. Although both Lars and Andy had ham radio licenses, they rarely keyed up, preferring to gather intelligence without raising their profiles.

Lars turned off the big radio and they launched into a fairly loud conversation about the ProvGov. When Lars’s wife, Lisbeth, and Andy’s wife, Kaylee, overheard this talk they sat down on the edge of the bed and listened intently.

Bloomfield, New Mexico, is just east of Farmington, in the Four Corners region, where the boundaries of Colorado, Utah, New Mexico, and Arizona meet. The region was rich in natural gas and coal. The only child at the farm was Lars and Beth’s daughter, Grace, who was six years old when the Crunch began. They also had three young hired men who worked as their in-house security and ranch hands.

Lars and Andy debated how to best resist the Provisional Government and their “guest” UN peacekeepers. They discussed some options, including sabotage, establishing a clandestine newspaper or radio station, computer viruses, and even raids or ambushes. They briefly discussed assassination. Lars compared the looting of the country with armed robbery, saying, “The only thing that can stop a bad man with a gun is a good man with a gun.”

“That’s true,” Andy countered, “but there are a couple of problems. How would someone get close enough? And more importantly, from what I’ve heard, Hutchings is a figurehead. The real seat of power is at the new UN headquarters.”

Eventually, the conversation turned to reconnaissance of Fort Knox itself. Lars mentioned that Fort Knox had traditionally been the home of the U.S. Army’s Armor Corps, but that role had shifted to Fort Benning, Georgia, in 2007. Then, just before the Crunch, the tanker school had been moved back to Fort Knox for political reasons. Lars said, “Things have been so fluid, it is difficult to get a grasp on their order of battle. We need to know where the units are, and any planned troop movements, adjustments to TO&Es, and specific task organization changes or operational control arrangements.”

“Well, somebody’s got to go there to scope things out,” Andy insisted.

“I could go,” Lars offered.

“No, after your trip to Arizona to whomp on the looters, it’s my turn for some travel. Besides, I’m the one with the pink Army Reserve ID card. You’ve got a retiree’s card. You’d have to argue your way past your injuries. It’s more logical for me to go.”

Lars cocked his head and asked: “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about going back on active duty.”

“What? Are you serious, actually join the ProvGov army?”

“That’s right,” Andy answered. “There’s no better place to gather intelligence than right in the belly of the beast. Anything less would just be some halfhearted poking around at the periphery—you know, sort of like the old fable about the blind men feeling different parts of the elephant. If we really want to get a clear picture of what’s going on and send back some meaningful intel, then it’s the most logical thing to do.”

His wife, Kaylee, chimed in: “You can go, but only if I’m going with you.”

Before they departed, Andy and Kaylee made contact with her family, the Schmidts, in New Braunfels, Texas. Being sympathetic with the Resistance, they agreed to help courier messages. They already had contacts in Kentucky, and they were confident that they could help set up a courier network.

Andy soon put out the call locally for purchase or donations of USB flash memory thumb drives or pen drive sticks. Within a few days, they had accumulated almost 200 of them. More than half of these were 2-GB sticks that were silkscreened with a Nacel Energy logo. These were leftovers from a trade show giveaway, donated to the Resistance by a former Nacel marketing department employee.

Packing up took only a day and a half. They were satisfied the ranch would be safe in their absence. The Laines’ three teenage hired hands—the Phelps brothers—were gaining confidence, competence, and strength as time went on. But more than anything else, Andy was concerned with the well-being of his sturdy gelding horse, Prieto. He had ridden the horse all the way from Belize to New Mexico, so he was particularly fond of him. Lars promised to groom and exercise Prieto regularly.

The box trailer behind Andy Laine’s pickup was completely full of gas cans. In all, they carried twenty-three cans. Theoretically, between the gas in the cans and what was in the pickup’s tank, they could drive 1,914 miles.

They brought only three guns with them: Andy’s SIG P228 pistol, his Mosin-Nagant bolt-action, and Kaylee’s Browning Hi-Power. The latter, along with 100 rounds of ammunition, two spare magazines, and a holster, was hidden wedged inside a mounted spare tire. It would take a bead-breaking tool (which they also carried) to access the gun, but they felt confident that it would not be found even in a rigorous search. To conceal it, they chose their one tire rim that was painted differently from the others to avoid any confusion.

For emergency communication with the Resistance, Andy also brought his Elecraft KX1 QRP shortwave transceiver. This low-power transceiver could be used to transmit Morse code in the 20-, 30-, 40-, and 80-meter ham radio bands. Powered by six AA batteries, the ten-ounce radio was capable of transmitting around the world when ionospheric conditions were right. It put out just 1 to 2 watts of power on the internal batteries, or up to 4 watts if using an external 12-volt battery or AC power adapter. Using his 200-watt Kenwood HF transceiver in Texas, Lars had had several successful two-way contacts with Andy when he was in Afghanistan, even though his younger brother’s transmitter put out only “flea power.”

Andy knew that the transmitter would be vulnerable to radio direction finding if he used it within forty miles of Fort Knox or any other HF intercept site. So he decided that he would use the transmitter only briefly, and then only in the event of an emergency.