Wellstone, They Killed Him

This passage is from And I Suppose Nobody Died When Johnny Carson Was Buried At Sea on the Moon, Either?

According to the final NTSB report, Million Air's general manager said the co-pilot checked with her before the flight to ensure that the airplane had been fueled and then went to the hangar to get catering items for the flight and to preflight the airplane. The airplane had been in the hangar overnight and was towed from the hangar after the copilot arrived at STP.

According to Million Air's general manager and another King Air pilot, the accident pilot arrived at STP shortly before 0900, and the Senator and his staff were already at the airport. The other King Air pilot, who had just arrived at STP from the DLH area, indicated that the accident pilot asked him about the weather conditions he had encountered on his flight and then asked him if he would mind sharing this information with the Senator. The other King Air pilot indicated that he told the Senator that the weather was at minimums, but he was sure the pilots could handle the flight.

According to FAA air traffic control (ATC) records, the flight departed STP about 0937.

Richard Conry talked to Princeton Automated Flying Services at 716 to receive current weather conditions. According to the NTSB report, he then stated, "you know, I don't think I'm going to take this flight." At 7:20 he talked to Senator Wellstone's scheduler, and did not indicate he was thinking of cancelling the flight.

At 7:30 he talked to Aviation Charter's headquarters in Eden Prairie and said the Senator's flight would be delayed because of the weather. Conry then contacted the Million Air fixed-base operator (FBO) at the Saint Paul Airport and said he would be departing at 1 p.m. rather than the scheduled 9:20. When the Senator's campaign scheduler talked with the pilot again at around 8 a.m. he said that the cloud ceiling had improved and they agreed to go ahead with the flight as originally scheduled. At 8:17 he again contacted Princeton AFSS to receive updated weather conditions, and then filed a flight plan.

Co-pilot Michael Guess arrived at Holman Field, Saint Paul airport in downtown Saint Paul right on the Mississippi River. He checked with the general manager of Million Air to see that their plane, a King Air A100, had been fueled and then went to the hangar to get catering items for the flight and to preflight the airplane, which had been in the hangar overnight and was towed form the hangar after the co-pilot arrived at the airport.

Conry arrived at the airport just before 9 a.m. Senator Wellstone and his staff were already there. Conry visited with another King Air pilot at that time, who had just arrived from Duluth to ask about weather conditions. The two visited with Wellstone. The other King Air pilot indicated that he told the Senator that the weather was at minimums, but he was sure the pilots could handle the flight.

And so it was set.

"Good," said Wellstone. He wanted to be able to be at the funeral for Martin Rukavina. He wanted to see a lot of people he needed to see. It felt good to talk to those people in times like these. And it was a close race. One hour and they would be there, just one hour from now.

The decision was made. They were going.

Is everyone here? Wellstone raised his chin and looked all around, counting heads by pointing at heads, sipping coffee, gathered in the loose-knit circle in the Holman Field Administration Building, which he'd made jokes before about it looking like Stillwater Prison, not today. He counted his wife's head, his daughter's, Mary McEvoy, Tom Lapic. Finally he pointed at his own frizzled hair, not quite the radical jewfro of earlier days.

"Where's Will?" He raised up on his toes and stretched his neck. "I know he's here."

Paul Wellstone thanked the people at the Million Air desk. Meanwhile, the pilots had left to go to the airplane.

Marcia, Mary and Sheila stood visiting by the windows.

Tom Lapic sat in one of the lounge chairs with his legs crossed, writing something on a yellow pad inside a brown portfolio.

Will McLaughlin, standing tall in the middle, sipping coffee, now went over to ask the airport staff if his car was okay where it was. He'd picked up the Wellstones at their Saint Paul condominium and they'd all end up back here after the funeral and some campaign stops around Virginia and Duluth, a busy schedule on what looked to be a good day. With the election only ten days away, polls showed them gaining some breathing room.

"I think they're wanting us to go now," said Sheila Wellstone, gathering everyone with a wave of one hand to direct them out the door. McLaughlin held the door. They walked together, leaning into the breeze in the thirty-degree weather the short way to the runway and the plane, then trotting up the short steps.

Conry was seated in the cockpit on the left.

"Excuse me. Hello! How you doing!" Guess, making arrangements with seats and bags, turned sideways as everyone piled in, grabbing familiar seats, getting settled, making themselves to home. One hour to maybe get some work done, well that might be a dream. Maybe just enjoy the scenery.

"Coffee?" said Guess to Tom Lapic.

"Yes, great ... thank you, thank you."

After a few minutes the pilots were settled in the front. Conry finished speaking with Minneapolis air traffic control, then welcomed them on the intercom.

"Hi, everyone."

"Good morning!"

By two's and three's they gathered, first entering the building from the early morning chill to the stone cold lobby, up the elevator to the 11th floor.

They drank coffee and relayed the very un-Lake-Wobegon news from Baltimore, Portland, San Jose, Dallas, Indianapolis, Richmond, New Orleans, Omaha, Des Moines, Kansas City.

From the CCTV we see that at 0810 the western-most elevator took them to the parking garage. They would take two vehicles, the gray Expedition, the black Explorer, six and six.

First one and then the other pulled out onto Marquette then right on Washington, one man in jeans and nice fall jacket answering the question, told about his family, his daughter's graduation from college, another let loose his close-held contemplations of retirement. "I don't even like golf," he said. "I don't hate it, but I don't like it." And another answered him to say he would learn to love it.

They found from each other that the Cowboys were not going all the way, and the Colts maybe had something going with Manning, as they moved expeditiously down the Washington Avenue cavern all the way to 35W, headed north, out of the city, in the direction of New Brighton, Arden Hills, Lino Lakes, Forest Lake, Wyoming.

The radio announcers in both vehicles told the same story, word for word, about the arrest of the snipers in D.C., and that things would never be the same, after all of this.

"One recent poll shows Senator Paul Wellstone leading Republican challenger St. Paul Mayor Norm Coleman, 47-41."

The agreed-upon scenario was "take-your-time," so they made an early pit stop at the Kwik Trip in North Branch. Even at this hour the joint was pretty well jammed with continuous flashes of camo and orange, hunters who had been made to wait far too long already, heading up north a week early to "scout" and drink Busch Light and fart without reproach, getting ready for the opener.

These guys, the ones in the Expedition and Explorer, wore jeans, new flannel, sweaters, and jackets with Sig Sauers and Glocks on the side, in the back and over the shoulder, with rubber boots stowed in the back along with the cameras, apples, apple juice, raspberry flavored bottle water, tarps, windbreakers, fingerprint kits, bio-hazard materials, flares, extra notebooks, spray paint, first aid kit, generator, rakes, shovels, business cards, and assorted additional items. Still, you always forget something it seemed.

The gray and the black big vehicles were not all that huge out here. They dawdled along, needing to enjoy the scenery for a while, not exactly enjoying being passed by streams of Jeeps, pickups, larger SUVs, pulling behind empty-for-now trailers.

"We might as well have magnetic FBI signs on the doors," someone in a back seat offered over the sound of the radio and the wind.

"Yeah, I don't think anyone notices, cares, really," said another in a mumble, "they just want to shoot a deer maybe, drink beer for sure, for two weeks, and then go back and do it again for another year. I'd be doing it myself ..."

"The American Dream," somebody said, looking out the window at another passing hulk.

"They were staring at us," said the first guy, "back there. They know."

"Know what exactly?"

"Yeah, I don't know," someone said softly, "'bout that, really."

"Don't you ever wonder?" said the first guy again.

"About what?"

"About what! About guns, all these people going hunting, passing it down to their kids, the war that's coming any fucking-day, the lies about WMD, 9/11, what a shit-show cluster.

"We never recovered from the sixties, we weren't supposed to, and then what we are doing today, right now. Sometimes, I just wonder."

A large, white-haired, broad-shouldered, be-flanneled older man, sitting shotgun, who had been shaking his head through that most-recent diatribe, swiveled around and in an instant there was the business end of a Glock 20 almost touching the younger man's sweating forehead and later he would recall certain words, shouting, something about getting his mind right, they will never find your faggot body and the story will be so good, buster and last so fucking long that even I'm gonna start believing it and your children will never know the difference, but for now all he saw or heard was the barrel and the screeching white noise in his brain and the boomboom from his heart. The big older man turned back to resume his conversation with the driver about the World Series, game number six, should be a good one, they say.

"I'm kidding!" said the man in the back seat.

"I was just kidding!" he pleaded.

The Huey was scheduled in from Harvey at 1200. It was late.

Of course. Why wouldn't they be.

Inside the Huey, now passing over Green Bay, Donald, one of the team members, looked at his watch. Of course we're late, he thought. Of course we are.

At two-thirty they landed at Camp Ripley. Inside the hangar they unloaded the white van, checked equipment.

The magnetic sign said Storm Team. Their T-shirts said Storm Team The weapon inside the van was marked in military stencil font: Dorothy.

The hangar was on the far side of the huge base. Almost no one saw them. Almost nobody knew they were there. They ate picnic style at a picnic table with a nice wooden roof and watched the action at the hummingbird feeder, red and black, yellow, green, buzzing around, fighting each other like MIGs and F-16s.

They slept in the hangar, all team members: Don Harvey Kramer, Tomas Alberto Salazar, Steven Michael Brettschneider, Robert Tyler Carlton. They used three names as a sort of joke, but it had stuck.

In the morning. They woke up late, 0500, got ready late.

Of course. They didn't shower, ate MRE's. They were supposed to leave by this time. God-damn it. It was still dark and they had not actually taken these roads before in real time.

They put on white painters coveralls, their first cover option and then there was the storm team cover with the T-shirts and magnetic sign, which didn't make much sense to the team members but it had been protocol for a while now and since they had never been challenged, what the hey. The Goldilocks time to be there, on site, was 0900. God-damnit!

Some of them had been at the site several times on Earth, but never in person. They'd printed out the directions from Mapquest back on base.

"Okay, okay, north on Highway 371," said shotgun navigator Salazar to driver Kramer. Brettschnieder and Carlton sat in the jump seats in back along with Dorothy, chairs equipped with computers, headsets, drink holders.

"Is this 3-7-1?"

"Yes."

"I gotta piss," said Carlton to everyone from his microphone.

"Nah, nah, you went before we left," said Kramer, "ain't happenin."

"Just stop at a Circle K ... in ... uh ...,"

They don' have Circle K in Minnesota, dude. You can just hold it 'til we get there."

"Well, they've got something here.

"Okay. That's roughly three hours and twenty-two minutes. By that time there will be a pond back here named Kramer and that's fine by me ... dude.

"Good mornin'!"

Paul and Sheila Wellstone grabbed the middle seats facing back, Marcia and Mary sat in the two front seats, and McLaughlin and Lapic reclined in the rear seats, facing forward.

Before the plane got moving Paul stood up and unbuttoned his suit coat and white shirt, pulled back the black tie, also unbuttoned his white shirt, spreading it apart Superman-like to show in part the T-shirt he was wearing underneath that read: *I say, who're you callin' a Chickenshit!" With an image of Foghorn Leghorn. "Somebody sent it to the office."

"It's probly laced with anthrax," said Sheila.

"Ha!" said Paul, now with a question in his eyes, feeling the T-shirt.

"Very cool," said McLaughlin.

"It's a funeral," said Sheila.

"Yes, yes, I know, that's true, nobody sees it," said Paul.

"Of course, you're right," he said as he buttoned back up, still standing.

Someone mentioned the folded-away card tables that could be brought out for a quick rummy game.

"No time," said Lapic, beginning to look at notes on several yellow legal pads crammed into the brown binder on his lap, setting his coffee into the holder on his seat.

Each had a round window to look out as Conry taxied, some doing their customary gripping of whatever upholstery was at hand, some taking deep breaths, some watching as the plane stood still, like a sprinter in the blocks, then at some dog whistle starter's pistol they took off, down the runway.

They began to move, slowly, then things took on a certain gravitas as they speeded up, all gawking for a glimpse of the river, the city, as whoosh, they left the planet and pulled away, feeling the wheels come up and pack themselves away. Some continued looking down, others chatted, some felt their ears pop, Lapic straightened papers, finding something he could take care of in an hour's time, less than an hour.

And they were up, over the river, over houses and freeway, Pig's Eye Lake, and cars and all life happening right down there. Paul made the comment something to that effect that they'd heard before, something about an appreciation you can't get from ground level.

"I'm glad we're going, this is good, this will be fine," he said, if only to himself.

"Benny was a good man, good man."

He checked his watch. The funeral was at eleven, they'd make it, easy.

For a moment they were quiet, in their own thoughts, own work in their laps, leaning this way, that, to see out the front or the side as they made their way over the city and by now they were at a decent level and only someone with an eye for that could tell where they were exactly now.

The question was asked and heads stuck into windows. Paul unbuckled his belt and put one knee in his chair to lean and scrunch his nose into the window like a very interested boy.

Lapic knew from experience and did not have to look. South Saint Paul, Woodbury, Oakdale, White Bear Lake, he recited the path itinerary. "And then join up with 35, mostly, to Duluth."

"Where are we now, Tom?" said McLaughlin, his face in his window.

Lapic made a brief, cursory effort to sit up in his seat and take a look.

"Not sure," he said.

In the meantime, Marcia was keeping a close eye on the ground, looking for White Bear Lake and her school.

"There, there!" she said, and the others looked out their own windows to try to see.

"Wave, Squish! Wave!" said Paul.

"How high, Michael?" Mary McEvoy called up to the cockpit. Co-pilot Guess swiveled his shoulder to call back. "About 13,000 now," he said, "take a look."

McEvoy and Marcia Wellstone looked out their windows.

"Is that 35?" said Marcia.

"Yes it is," said Guess, smiling back at her.

"See anyone you know?"

She laughed and said, "not yet, I'll let you know."

Paul laughed at that and turned around in his seat to remark, "I'd like to fly, I'd really like to." "Really?" said his daughter. "Not really."

NTSB report of history of the flight: According to FAA air traffic control (ATC) records, the flight departed STP about 0937 and was cleared to proceed directly to EVM at 13,000 feet. ATC services were provided by the Minneapolis Terminal Radar Approach Control and the Minneapolis Air Route Traffic Control Center for the en route portion of the flight, and these services were routine. About 1001, the copilot contacted the DLH Air Traffic Control Tower (ATCT) and reported level at 13,000 feet proceeding direct to EVM. The DLH approach control south radar controller responded, "king air four one bravo echo duluth approach[,] when you have eveleth weather advise what approach you [would] like ... had icing reports through the morning[;] the last report was from a saab ... descended into duluth had light rime ice but earlier just about an hour ago ... a dc nine had moderate rime between nine thousand and one thousand." The copilot acknowledged the transmission. About 1001, the controller instructed the flight crew to descend to and maintain 4,000 feet at pilot's discretion.

They pulled into a Kwik Trip.

"Okay. No fuckin' around. No loud noises, don't make a scene. We are not here to construct a legend, story, fond memories for anyone here. Not even a fart. I'm fucking serious, he said, looking at someone in particular. Nobody is to know we were here. We do not all walk in at the same time wearing these fucking white cover-fucking-alls. If you have to piss, piss. If you only need cigarettes or coffee or a fucking muffin, have someone else get it for you. Otherwise, sit the fuck where you fucking are and we will be on our merry fucking way shortly. Not that you fucking care, Salazar, as we are already behind schedule and if we fucking miss our plane I will personally remove your ears with this here KA-BAR and send them to your fucking parents in Mara-fucking-hoochee or wherever the fuck. Now get the fuck out if you're going.

... Salazar climbed in the side door with a box of glazed donuts and began passing them out.

"Thanks," said Kramer.

"These are good."

Paul, Sheila and McLaughlin leaned forward and talked loud as Paul had started to say something about the arrest the day before of the Beltway snipers in Washington.

"Yep," said McLaughlin, leaning back into his seat.

Paul asked McLaughlin if there was a World Series game that night. The Angels were playing the Giants. The Angels had beaten the Twins in the American League playoffs a week or so ago. The Giants had defeated the Angels on Thursday, 16-4 to take a 3-2 lead.

"I think it's tomorrow!" McLaughlin shouted, then leaned over to Lapic who had said something.

McLaughlin leaned forward again, toward Paul.

"Yep, tomorrow night, should be good."

"Yep," said Paul, smiling weakly, leaning back into his seat, not having gotten all of that.

Marcia Wellstone turned to shout to her father, right behind her.

"Tomorrow night! California!"

Paul put a hand to his ear.

"In ... California! Anaheim!"

Sheila, holding the morning Star-Tribune in her lap, nudged Paul and pointed to a story about the Moscow theater siege. She passed it over for him to read.

"It's all so like neat and organized down there," said Mary McEvoy.

"Like some thought went into it?" said Marcia.

"Gets messy as you get closer," chimed in McLaughlin.

"Ya think?" said Marcia.

They were quiet except for the constant hum-drone sound of the engines and the roar of the 200-mph wind as they would pass over Pine City, Hinkley, the Sandstone federal prison, Banning State Park, Sturgeon Lake and Moose Lake, then within site of Duluth and Lake Superior before heading over the Cloquet State Forest.

Tom Lapic leaned forward and handed the latest version of an upcoming speech.

"I added the goose story," said Lapic.

Paul took it in both hands and began to read where Lapic had pointed, and Lapic was pleased to see Wellstone's eyes and mouth broadening in joy.

The story he had inserted was about Paul having seen a family of geese on the Minneapolis freeway, which had actually happened, two adult Canadian geese with a bunch of yellow babies, walking right along the side of the road with all the traffic and Paul had said at that time that he could just imagine the male goose as it reached its neck up trying to see where to go, how to get out of this one, how to do right for his family as the female goose was right behind him telling him he had better have a good plan this time.

"That's how I feel about Minnesota's people," said Paul Wellstone in the speech.

"They are good people, trying to find their way. They just want to live their lives, raise their children. They just need a little break. A pond, some shelter, a break in traffic. They are skilled, talented, hard workers and they deserve a chance to live.

"I want to help them, I think I can, I know I can."

"Very good," said Paul, handing the paper back to Lapic after making a few marks with the pen he had pulled from his shirt pocket.

"Very good."

Kramer and Salazar watched the scenery out the front. Brettschneider and Carlton worked their computers, once in a while glancing out the back windows at the road, the trees already passed, any trailing vehicles, as they went by Crow Wing Lake, a sign for Crow Wing State Park, Brainerd, then on to MN 210, Ironton, Crosby, Serpent Lake, Crosby, Deerwood, Cedar Lake, Aitkin, McGregor, Wright, Cromwell, Fond du Lac Forest, Sawyer Store, Black Bear Casino, then jumping on Interstate 35, through Cloquet where they passed over the St. Louis River.

"Here we are, that was quick, we're not late," said Salazar as they went over the bridge. "Lots of people, this could be dicey."

"Not here, dimwad. We'll catch up with the St. Louis a bit later. They crossed the Cloquet River, turned left, north, connecting with Hiway 53, Canyon, Bug Creek Road, Cotton, Half Moon Lake.

"That's beautiful," said Salazar, "we should stop for a while after."

"Yeah, maybe," said Kramer.

They shoved on right at Bodas Road, after a few miles, left on Lost Lake Road.

"Proceed to St. Louis River," Brettschneider read out the directions from his computer with the printed-out papers that they guessed they didn't need on the floor at his feet. 

"You have reached your destination," Brettschneider said as they stopped on the bridge with no traffic ahead or behind.

Kramer knew where he was now. He pulled up to the end of the guard rail on the right side and eased them down the little four-wheeler trail.

"Easy on the goat trail!" said Carlton, holding on to Dorothy with one hand. Slowly they crawled along the trail toward a little creek that fed right into the St. Louis, right there. Cramping left, around the trees, they found what they were looking for, a camping spot, guarded from view from the highway and any surrounding homes by the pine trees, and also with a clear view to the east. They piled out, cleared away the remains of the fire pit and stood back as Kramer drove up as far as he could, backed down, without going in the creek, then straightened out to face their six toward the east, which was just right.

"This is nice. We could fuckin' live here, fish, water, shit, no problemo," said Salazar, smiling.

"All the comforts of home," said Brettschneider.

"Cover and concealment," said Kramer, putting the van in park.

"Lima Charlie," said Salazar.

"Observation, field of fire, avenue of approach," said Carlton.

They busied themselves with getting everything ready.

"Is there another access?" Carlton asked Brettschneider.

"Yes," said Brettschneider.

"How do we know this is the one they use today?"

"They use this one."

"Always?"

"Not always."

"Sometimes?"

"Sometimes."

"This time?"

"This time. Trust me."

"I did that in nine-five, remember?"

"I remember. You should still trust me."

"Why should I trust you."

"You just do, it's all need to know, you know that. As needed, c'mon, we got work to do."

"Not gonna work, not gonna work," mumbled Salazar, drawing a look from Kramer.

"So, we're painters and also storm chasers. In the woods. Painting the woods, chasing forest storms," said Carlton. "God-damn fubar."

"I always wondered," began Salazar.

And since nobody said, about what, he just kept going.

"When you hear a plane, you look up, but it's not there. Where is it? That might be something good to know, amigos."

"It's because of the way your ears localize sound," began Brettschneider. "Your ears use time delay and, or phase shift between ears ... your brain processes the information, blah-blah-blah, based upon your innate algorithms, shit like that, and voila, derives a location for the sonic source."

"Although," added Carlton, "sounds coming from above, at high angles to the listener often do not present themselves to being localized well, especially at lower frequencies."

"So we might be fucked," said Kramer.

"Roger that," said Salazar.

"Get ready," said Brettschneider, very serious.

Salazar jumped into the back of the van. Brettschneider got on his computer with the joystick. Carlton scanned the sky with binoculars. Kramer secured the scene, all around the perimeter.

They stopped twice more to piss, get cigarettes, more coffee, banana nut muffins, passing signs for Pine City, Hinkley, Sandstone Federal Prison, Moose Lake Prison, Cloquet, Canyon.

After fifteen minutes more of leading a parade of pickups up Interstate 35 until they finally all passed, since the pickup drivers thought these were cop vehicles for sure, the gray and the black pulled in to the SuperAmerica in Cotton, down to the middle of the frontage road.

About 1009 the copilot reported leaving 13,000 feet for 4,000 feet. Radar data indicate that the airplane was approximately 34 miles south of EVM at this time.

Guess spoke with the air traffic controllers:

10:15:17

DLH: king air one bravo echo turn right heading zero five zero

10:17:21

DLH: king air one bravo echo turn left heading three six zero

10:18:13

DLH: king air one bravo echo is one zero miles from the vor turn left heading three zero maintain three thousand five hundred ‘till established on the final approach course cleared for the vor runway seven approach eveleth

10:18:31

N41BE: left three hundred on the heading thirty five hundred till established cleared for the vor runway two seven approach at eveleth on four one bravo echo

10:19:12

DHL: king air one bravo echo change to advisory frequency approved advice cancellation of ifr with princeton flight service when on ground 

N41BE: roger that we’ll contact princeton on the ground four one bravo echo good day

Everyone started reaching for their things as the plane gently began to make the left turn to head into their westerly approach to the Eveleth-Virginia Municipal Airport.

"I think that's the St. Louis," Mary McEvoy looked out her window, seeing a white van parked by the water and what could have been hunters aiming guns, up into the air. She turned to say something to the others.

"Keep your shirt on," said Shelia.

Paul looked at her like what, are you telling me I'm hurrying, or whaaat?

I'm not kidding," Sheila said to Paul as he was working on his tie.

"It's a funeral and people don't need to be reminded. What's done is done."

Paul nodded, knowing he did not worn the T-shirt to keep it to himself. It was too good.

They heard the buzz of the plane, then saw it, banking their way. Carlton pointed. Salazar zeroed in.

"Approaching drop zone," Brettschneider called out.

"WMD dialed in," said Salazar.

The plane came droned over them. Carlton with the binoculars saw faces in the windows.

"Fire when ready," said Brettschneider.

"Bombs away," mumbled Salazar. "Insh'allah."

"Stay on it," said Brettschneider. "Stay on iiitttt!"

They felt a jolt. A light flashed toward the tail section.

At that, Paul began to feel a little sick to his stomach. It shouldn't be happening this late in the flight. He wouldn't say anything, not now, not this close. He'd make it.

"Oh, maan, I don't feel so good," said McLaughlin.

"Me neither," said Lapin, rubbing his arms.

"Oh, my God!" Sheila cried out as both Mary and Marcia showed her the redness on their arms and she saw their faces as well.

Conry and Guess frantically began to check their instruments. Guess turned and asked as politely as he could manage that they should all stay seated, that they had some temporary difficulties to deal with.

Lapic leaned way over his knees. Paul loosened his own seat belt and went to him, and seeing that Lapic's seatbelt was cutting into his stomach, while feeling his own stomach churning and his skin almost boiling, struggled and finally unsnapped Lapic's belt and they both fell to the floor as the plane took a sudden drop before leveling off again.

Paul, kneeling, reached to put his hand on his wife's reddened forehead.

"You're burning up!" he said.

They watched as the plane staggered, not falling, like a fighter after a powerful punch.

Kramer jumped into the van and cranked the music.

"I can see it, comin' in the air tonight ..."

He jumped on the hood, then the roof to watch the plane as the others stood in front of the vehicle, standing on tiptoes to watch as it floated out of sight.

Finally ... they heard it, the unmistakable sound of an airplane going down quickly, almost a Saturday morning cartoon caricature, a cliche sound, rrrrroooommm ... boom!

"Mark it eight, dude," said Brettschneider, walking over to high-five with Salazar.

In a hurry they lit cigars, packed away gear, pulled away, stopped, took out shovels to smooth out tire marks, pulled out again, slowly, onto the highway.

"Go!" said Salazar, "go-go-go!"

Putting a jack under one of the vehicles and raising it up, loosening the lug nuts a little on one of the back tires, they listened to the radio on low volume, one person stationed inside each vehicle, one leg hanging out, door open, to monitor two different stations, stood outside the vehicle, smoking, sat on the nearby picnic bench. The younger guy with all the questions lay flat on his back on one picnic table, by himself.

The word finally came from the SIOC situation room.

"Okay, we're up."

The two vehicles, like well-rehearsed Shriner mini-cars in a Fourth of July parade, got the jack down, backed-up, pulled ahead and headed down to the next road, clicked on their blinkers and smoothly joined the stream of hunters headed north on Highway 53.

"Where's the sign? Where. Is. The Mo-fo sign!"

"There's no sign. There's supposed to be a sign."

"I don't know, go slow. There it is, there it is, Bodas Road."

"That is a fucking green street sign, how the fuck ... god-damn it all!"

Kramer floored it and they all held on. Salazar cranked the music. Brettschneider and Carlton, headphones on, monitored public and official channels.

Kramer took corner like the motocross champion he used to be.

They passed one civilian vehicle at a stop sign, then a mile or so later a couple of SUVs that might have been lost or looking for somebody's 90th birthday party, they were going so slow.

After two miles they met a white van headed their way at a high rate of speed one might say, going in the direction they had just come from, the link with Highway 53.

"He's movin' like a bat outa hell," said the agent still in hot water over previous commentary.

"Yup," said the agent who had placed the pistol barrel at the other agent's forehead earlier in the morning.

Seeing the smoke above the trees, the driver of the Expedition pulled to the side of the road. The Explorer pulled in right behind.

Smoke began to bloom, billow in the fuselage as the plane glided in the general direction of the runway and the eight people fought to understand what was happening to them.

The pilots of Wellstone's plane radioed they were two miles out, clicked up the runway lights, and had the airstrip in sight. That was the last that airport employees heard from them.

The FBI has a critical incident response team as they call it.

"The FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group (CIRG) consists of a cadre of special agents and professional support personnel who provide expertise in crisis management, hostage rescue, surveillance and aviation, hazardous devices mitigation, crisis negotiations, behavioral analysis, and tactical operations.

"Through aggressive training programs, state-of-the-art technologies and equipment, extensive research, and far-reaching partnerships with international, federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies, CIRG works to successfully resolve critical incidents worldwide and achieve its mission of Readiness, Response, and Resolution."

THE CIRG is part of the SIOC.

The CIRG is connected to the SIOC. The SIOC's connected to the SAG. The SAG is connected to the SOG. The SOG is connected to the POTUS. The POTUS is connected to the CFR. The CFR's connected to the aliens. Okay, I'll stop. But I could go on? I'll stop.

Anyway.

According to the FBI's website, The Strategic Information and Operations Center (SIOC) is the FBI's global command and communications center.

It operates around the clock to maintain enterprise-wide situational awareness and to provide FBI leadership with strategic information by serving as a clearinghouse to collect, process and disseminate information in a timely manner.

SIOC was designed to handle up to eight separate crises and operations of varying sizes at any one time. The SIOC facility can provide breakout rooms for strategic planning sessions and teleconferencing capabilities between members of the many interagency partnerships that represent federal, state, and local law enforcement; military services; and the intelligence community.

SIOC is comprised of over 40,000 square feet, seats approximately 492 people, and includes 20 rooms to support operations. The center houses 1,110 telephone lines, along with 35 miles of telephone cable, 60 miles of fiber optic cable, and over 600 computer terminals with access to four networks, the Internet, and various FBI databases. There is video and computer connectivity between operational rooms, secure video teleconferencing capabilities at several classification levels (including Top Secret/SCI), and the ability to hold widespread conference communications. The facility also has video wall technology, FLIR feed capability, and other visual displays supporting time-sensitive operational matters. SIOC supports over 37,000 visitors annually.

SIOC was created as a result of multiple simultaneous incidents that demanded a coordinated federal effort to create a national command post that could work around the clock and be ready to gear up at a moment’s notice. The Bureau understood the need for a global watch to centrally manage a major emergency of any kind, as well as oversee several crises at once. Major crimes and terrorist attacks can quickly become national emergencies involving dozens of agencies in different counties, states, and even countries, and the Bureau needed to be able to respond accordingly.

Over the course of its history, SIOC has assisted in resolving a number of national and global crises and major investigations, including: The 1995 Oklahoma City bombing; The September 11, 2001 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon; The 2002 D.C. sniper investigation; The 2005 London bus and subway bombings; The 2011 Tucson, Arizona, shooting incident involving Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords; The 2012 Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting incident; The 2013 Boston Marathon bombing; The 2015 Charleston, South Carolina, church shooting; The 2015 San Bernardino, California, shooting incident.

Executive Summary, NTSB Report:

On October 25, 2002, about 1022 central daylight time, a Raytheon (Beechcraft) King Air A100, N41BE, operated by Aviation Charter, Inc., crashed while the flight crew was attempting to execute the VOR approach to runway 27 at Eveleth-Virginia Municipal Airport, Eveleth, Minnesota. The crash site was located about 1.8 nautical miles southeast of the approach end of runway 27. The two pilots and six passengers were killed, and the airplane was destroyed by impact forces and a postcrash fire. The airplane was being operated under the provisions of 14 Code of Federal Regulations Part 135 as an on-demand passenger charter flight. Instrument meteorological conditions prevailed for the flight, which operated on an instrument flight rules flight plan. ... The National Transportation Safety Board determines that the probable cause of this accident was the flight crew's failure to maintain adequate airspeed, which led to an aerodynamic stall from which they did not recover.

You know, we need to stop for a moment and smell the White Roses, those over there, and there, and in particular, the words of Dr. Kevin Barrett of Wisconsin. In one article that I recently read he talked about how the 1960s were basically co-opted, taken away, in a yellow taxi, by the CIA. In part, by staging the "Manson Murders." The look of the '60s, flowers, long hair and Aquarius, was now the picture of a grotesque murder scene, crazed hippies, knives, stabbings and blood smeared on the wall. And with that, they won. The '60s are over, nothing to see here, move along please, this is now DisneyLand folks, you are not the only ones here, others would like to see, please move along to the '70s exhibit, the '80s, '90s, and we think you are going to love Y2K, and you will not believe what we have planned after that, all in development, but we have plans to drain the Everglades to make for more room because California and Hollywood are just not quite big enough.

This, also, from Kevin Barrett: The takeaway is that our real enemies conceal themselves by fabricating ersatz enemies and elevating them to mythic, iconic status. Their controlled mainstream media summon us daily to engage in the obligatory Oweillian two minutes of hate. When will we wake up and learn to hate not the cartoon figures on the screen, but the psychopath behind the curtain?

“Whatever it was it happened very quickly."

Whoever said that had it right.

Here's a little more about the American military and it's research-developed weaponry. Wonder if any of it can be used for health care, roads, schools where children might learn their actual real history, any of that.

" ... The army knows this, so they have invented a microwave weapon designed to inflict maximum pain with minimum damage. The Active Denial System is a truck-mounted 95 GHz microwave dish that can be used for remote crowd dispersal. Unlike at 2.5 GHz which is absorbed in 1.3 cm of flesh, 95 GHz is absorbed in about 0.5 mm of flesh. So, you feel the pain before it really cooks any important parts of your body. Apparently, the pain is so bad that you’ll involuntarily move out of the beam’s way despite being resolute about standing your ground … "

How did they get there so fast. 

Who even told them about the crash?

The FBI, the critical response whatever team that gathered from all over the country. Those blokes.

Are they like Bill Hicks said, the Gideons who put Bibles in hotel rooms without ever being seen? Are they ninjas? Jedi FBI? The Dark Knights, Orcs, Avatars, Golems. Any of those terms, names useful in trying to understand all of this?

Well, anywho, it says here that "the wreckage was found 2.1 miles southeast of the east end of Eveleth-Virginia Municipal Airport's (EVM) Runway 27, which is 3 miles southeast of Eveleth, Minn.  The site's swampy, wooded terrain is 30 yards north of Bodas Road ..."

I actually think that's not right. I think the memorial is thirty yards north of Bodas. I think the crash site was a couple hundred yards beyond that. But that's just me.

And by the way, wonder what the Terrorist Threat was that day. Were John Ashcroft and Tom Ridge out there on TV, on The Today Show! with their colored charts from Kinko's and their Walmart genuine Catholic School Pointer Sticks telling us all if the air was okay to breathe and you can get a free plain coffee at Kwik Trip and a glaze donut if you wear your Osama Bad T-shirt, on that day: Red, Severe; Orange, High; Yellow, Elevated; Blue, Guarded; Green, Low; White, Go Crazy.

Just sayin', Michael Connell, remember him? Karl Rove might, he also died in a plane crash, not Rove. And then there's Mel Carnahan, also Carol Carmody involved there, and pilot error, she used to be in the CIA, is what I heard, but my sources are kind of wacko. Then Carnahan's wife beat John Ashcroft in the Missouri Senate race, then Aschcroft as attorney general determined that the Wellstone crash did not meet the criteria for a real investigation. Where is Shakespeare when the world could actually use him? All those dees and do's, thou's wasted on a bunch of Limey's in togas.

There's more. There's always more as I think William Blum said at least twice.

Omar Torrijos killed in plane crash, replaced by Manuel Noriega. John Perkins says later that Torrijos was killed for refusing to align with U.S. corporate interests.

You know, the day after the Wellstone event I was at a Sioux City rally against the coming war, part of a worldwide thing. A really big deal, lots of Democrats there, all mourning Wellstone, of course, but nobody suspecting foul play. Not a soul, that I could tell. That is at least middlin' interesting, to me anyway. I really thought that would be a great venue for a big uproar. Crickets. Crickets is usually what we get in the United States unless something is half-off.

Here's something that might add to the discussion.

Raytheon awarded $15.5 million to upgrade laser weapon

" ... uses directed energy to destroy small unmanned aerial systems. The weapon is capable of defeating a drone within three kilometers by keeping its beam focused on the threat for five consecutive seconds. Operators control the weapon with a game-style controller and a laptop."

Then there's this ... "Every aircraft has its own 'glide ratio' of how far it will remain in flight horizontally as it loses altitude in vertical descent when it suffers a loss of power. The plane was at 3,500' above sea level when communications were last received. The altitude at impact was 1,350', for a vertical difference of 2,150'. Assuming a glide ratio of 15:1 for the A-100, this plane could have been in a glide for the last 6 miles, with a loss of power as early as 10:18 AM."

I guess what it was, was they wanted no more questions about 9/11, from anybody. It was a very public assassination out there in the woods, because no, so very much out in the open, dissent can be allowed, no Bonnie & Clyde, John Dillinger, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Che Guevara, Paul David Wellstone. They sent a clear message to all other senators and congress people and Kwik Trip counterpersons.

Here is what we got from NPR, National Public Radio, All Things Considered, the people's airwaves. The ones who never, ever, oh forget it, I just get so pissed sometimes, forget it, it's nothing, nothing.

"On October 25, 2002, about 1022 central daylight time, a Raytheon (Beechcraft) King Air A100, N41BE, operated by Aviation Charter, Inc., crashed while the flight crew was attempting to execute the VOR approach to runway 27 at Eveleth-Virginia Municipal Airport, Eveleth, Minnesota. The crash site was located about 1.8 nautical miles southeast of the approach end of runway 27. The two pilots and six passengers were killed, and the airplane was destroyed by impact forces and a post-crash fire. The airplane was being operated under the provisions of 14 Code of Federal Regulations Part 135 as an on-demand passenger charter flight. Instrument meteorological conditions prevailed for the flight, which operated on an instrument flight rules flight plan. 

"The National Transportation Safety Board determines that the probable cause of this accident was the flight crew's failure to maintain adequate airspeed, which led to an aerodynamic stall from which they did not recover."

Okay, well, hang in there, just a little more.

I found this.

The National Clandestine Service (NCS), known previously as the Directorate of Plans and the Directorate of Operations, is one of the four main components of the Central Intelligence Agency.

This agency houses special groups for counter-terrorism, and other tasks, maintained in the Special Activities Division, responsible for covert actions known as “special activities.” They are highly skilled in weaponry, covert transport of personnel and material, guerilla warfare, the use of explosives, assassination and sabotage, escape and evasion techniques.

"The Special Operations Group (SOG) is the department within SAD responsible for operations … which include … all high threat military or intelligence operations with which the U.S. government does not wish to be overtly associated.

"They do not normally carry any objects or clothing that would associate them with the United States. If they are compromised during a mission, the government of the United States may deny all knowledge.

"SAD provides the President of the United States with an option when overt military and or diplomatic actions are not viable or politically feasible.

"As the action arm of the NCS, SAD/SOG conducts direct action missions such as raids, ambushes, sabotage, targeted killings and unconventional warfare …

"The political action group within SAD conducts the deniable psychological operations, also known as black propaganda, as well as “Covert Influence” to affect political change as an important part of any Administration's foreign policy.

"SAD, like most of the CIA, requires a bachelor’s degree to be considered for employment. Many have advanced degrees such as Master’s and law degrees.

"SAD officers are trained at Camp Peary, Virginia. They also train its personnel at “The Point,” (Harvey Point), a facility outside of Hartford, North Carolina."

I just wonder if Star Wars was that far off even when they were making it. The only thing about those movies that I really question is Princess Leia's hair, that just doesn't seem possible with the technology of those times.

Phasers on full-stun, remember that? I guess it would have been awkward to say directed-energy pulsating tissue disseminators ...

I suppose you've heard of the Phoenix Program? The four-man hunter-killer teams, the ears taken like scalps. It takes a certain mind-set. You can't really take a person with the heart of a nine-year-old boy and do that stuff. You could set him down in front of a television for twelve years, add in a few years of video games, take him hunting with Dad and Uncle Bob and The Boys, get the Bambi shit out of his head. Then boot camp. Call him a fag at full volume for six weeks, then you've got a chance at making it stick.

Einsatzgruppen, Gestapo, KGB, Stasi, love ... no ... murder, American Style.

Our guys give themselves three names, a touch of genius in the most unlikely of places. The world is Fantasia realized sometimes, I would say.

Confronting a government document and saying it's false. How do you do that? Maybe you should not, but there's this other information you have, that you've seen. You could walk away and maybe you should. You would have to have balls like movie theater milk duds to confront them.

"I'd like to go into executive session on this matter."

You heard that, right? You recall that?

Well, I'd also like to go into executive session, wouldn't we all. The whole goddamned world wants to go into executive session and it's getting god-damned crowded in there. If it were up to me I'd go into executive session and never come out.

Did you hear that one guy? Global commitment. That's what our military has. I guess that's Oceania-speak for Empire, is what I would say. You can do a lot with words, with the placement, the arrangement of words. Some smart people figured that out. You get a hundred monkeys typing and sooner or later, one fine summer morning they are going to hand you "Rebuilding America's Defenses," in a neat little shoebox bound with rare rainforest vine.

Well, I figure give them a fictional back story, with all the details, because who are you to doubt when there are details in a story, just like they do. Why not.

Witnesses said they saw the plane over their houses, at about tree-top level, kind of appearing to be disabled, not quite right, with no lights, no sound. But then before that some said they heard like a series of gunshots, even though firearms deer season was not to begin until the following weekend. Somebody's cellphone made a loud noise not heard before, and some garage doors, the automatic kind, were open when they should not have been. Of course, you can't say that in open court or as you sample the sheep dip at the Thanksgiving big table, but there it is.

Anyway ...

The plane came down at a 26-degree angle, give or take, I suppose, in a wooded swamp, not far from where the Wellstone Memorial now stands. I assume it was not there previously.

Upon impact, or before, the contents of the plane were slammed, pushed to the front, and burned for 71/2 hours. One of the Wellstone's children, David, upon hearing of the crash, drove from Saint Paul to Eveleth, arriving at about 5 p.m. Can you imagine that drive? The young man in a car by himself, driving to the likely fatal plane crash of his parents and sister and close friends? How do you not go 200 mph and crash into a tree just because. But he didn't. He was there and he was told by the FBI on scene that the wreckage could not be approached because of the intense fire, but here you can look through this monitor we have set up. And by that time the FBI had already conducted a press conference in the EVM hangar and declared that terrorism was not in play. The wreckage still burned and no investigation had been able to yet be conducted, but by looking at the blaze through a monitor they could tell because they can do that.

At Holy Spirit Church in Virginia, Minnesota, at the funeral for Martin "Benny" Rukavina, the parking lot was packed and news of the crash had not yet begun to circulate as Gary Ulman from the Eveleth-Virginia Municipal Airport discovered the crash at about 11:00 a.m., went back down, brought the fire chief up so they could figure out how to get rescue equipment and personnel to the crash site and then at about 11:15-11:30 things got rolling, people began moving, whispers began making their rounds.

And so, at the funeral, where everyone had expected Paul Wellstone and his entourage, everyone kept glancing over their shoulders, looking for his big smile, but nothing. Fr. O'Donnell and others spoke about the life of Mr. Rukavina and by noon it was over, and they filed out shaking hands, tears in their eyes, talking about Martin, about where to go for the lunch, and in the second breath, wondering about the Senator, he said he would be here, but he's not here, as sirens cracked the crisp October air, and some of those at the funeral began rushing to pickups to get to the firehouse, because seven miles away, Paul Wellstone, Sheila Wellstone, Marcia Wellstone-Markuson, Michael Guess, Richard Conry, Will McLaughlin, Mary McEvoy and Tom Lapic lay in the midst of a raging fire in the woods, and they needed to go do something about that, make it right, turn things around, be with them.

The airplane impacted the ground about 1.8 miles southeast of the approach end of runway 27. The main wreckage was found at 47° 24.36' north latitude and 92° 27.05' west longitude at an elevation of 1,361 feet. The wreckage location was about 1/4 mile south-southwest of the last radar return.

From WCCO-TV Minneapolis

Oct. 25, 2002

" ... And a couple of things we want to bring out, this came from the press conference, from Tom McCabe, of the FBI, addressing an immediate concern that some of you may have, would be about terrorism, he said no indication of nor any intelligence or any terrorist act involving the Senator’s place which crashed ..."

"The National Transportation Safety Board determines that the probable cause of this accident was the flight crew's failure to maintain adequate airspeed, which led to an aerodynamic stall from which they did not recover."

Notes:

After all, that is the only world there is now, what we invent.

— Caroline Sanford, Hollywood, Gore Vidal

     At a "Great Conversations" event at the University of Minnesota last night, legendary investigative reporter Seymour Hersh may have made a little more news than he intended by talking about new alleged instances of domestic spying by the CIA, and about an ongoing covert military operation that he called an "executive assassination ring."

[Things happen.]

"And do they continue to happen to this day?

"Yup. After 9/11 ... I haven't written about this yet, but the Central Intelligence Agency was very deeply involved in domestic activities against people they thought to be enemies of the state, without any legal authority for it. They haven't been called on it yet.

"That does happen.

"Right now, today, there was a story in the New York Times that if you read it carefully mentioned something known as the Joint Special Operations Command — JSOC it's called. It is a special wing of our special operations community that is set up independently. They do not report to anybody, except in the Bush-Cheney days, they reported directly to the Cheney office. They did not report to the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff or to Mr. [Robert] Gates, the secretary of defense. They reported directly to him. ...

"Under President Bush's authority, they've been going into countries, not talking to the ambassador or the CIA station chief, and finding people on a list and executing them and leaving. That's been going on, in the name of all of us. It’s complicated because the guys doing it are not murderers, and yet they are committing what we would normally call murder. It’s a very complicated issue. Because they are young men that went into the Special Forces. The Delta Forces you’ve heard about. Navy Seal teams. Highly specialized."

"

— Eric Black, Minnpost, March 11, 2009

     “There are so many things going on regarding 9/11 that just don’t make sense."

     — Senator Paul Wellstone

     “I asked him how his week had been. He said, ‘it’s been tough. Vice President Cheney called me in and told me to get on their bandwagon or there would be serious ramifications in Minnesota. ‘And stop sticking your nose into 9/11; there are some rumors going around, but we are going to get to the bottom of this.’ When Paul made this statement, there were about 10 military veterans standing around us, and he spoke to them about 9/11…’There are so many things going on about 9/11 that just don’t make sense…’ Wellstone knew 9/11 was staged. Wellstone was after 9/11.”

     — Pat O’Reilly, Wellstone’s close friend, Wellstone, They Killed Him

     … The Homeland Security Council can be understood as grander version of the Phoenix Committee in Vietnam

     “If you don’t do what I want, you’re VC.”

— Douglas Valentine, The CIA As Organized Crime

     And in Iraq we tried to implement the same policy that was so successful in Saudi Arabia but Saddam Hussein didn't buy. When the economic hit men fail in this scenario, the next step is what we call the jackals.

— John Perkins, author of Confessions of an Economic Hitman