Stoicism is expected here, so the fact that I rarely speak doesn’t draw attention. Whatever emotions he has are stowed away behind wraparound shades, a thick red beard, and the Middle Eastern keffiyeh that’s often draped over his head. Spartan, who is a Transportation Security Administration agent, laughs along with the stream of jokes but doesn’t say much.
The Operation Spring Break forward operating base Photo by Shane Bauer Some guys call him a Nazi, neither approvingly nor disapprovingly, but in a boys-will-be-boys sort of way. He has dual citizenship, and he’s conspicuously proud of his heritage. Hahaha!” Jaeger’s parents are German immigrants. “How do you tell a Jew from a Slav?” Jaeger says. One to screw it in and 19 to whine about how men should do it.” He points out that her hair was shorter than all of ours Destroyer refers to her as “it.” “How many feminists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” he asks. Jaeger is surprised how friendly Officer Hernandez was, given her name. “Moral of the story: Come fully armed to a police encounter,” he says. Destroyer says that was the best interaction he’s ever had with cops. “You’re gonna have to post that,” Jaeger says.Ĭaptain Pain takes us back to the FOB-forward operating base-a one-hour drive down a rugged dirt road that winds over the Patagonia Mountains. “Is your camera rolling?” I am wearing a body cam on my chest rig. The cops get in their cars and leave.ĭestroyer looks at me. “It takes balls to do what you guys do out there,” Hernandez says. “Our CO has the final say in who comes and who doesn’t.” “So do you guys get like deployed and come for days at a time, or…?” “Well, back in Colorado we are part of a patriot organization,” Jaeger says. No worries.” She radios in our IDs and then asks how we ended up in Arizona.
“I guess people just aren’t really used to seeing a group out practicing their right to bear their arms, and they freak out if they do. “Nah, you guys aren’t scary,” Officer Hernandez says. “Scary-lookin’ bunch,” Destroyer says as he picks at his teeth in a slightly forced pose of calm. “Somebody probably saw guys with long rifles and camouflage and thought, ‘Holy crap!'” another officer says. “We’re just being the eyes and ears of the Border Patrol, basically,” Jaeger says. Her name tag reads “Hernandez” and she has short, spiky black hair. “What are you guys doing down here exactly?” a cop asks. Two cop cars pull up and three uniformed officers from the Nogales Police Department get out. “Keep your hands out of your pocket, please!” one barks. I bend down slowly and put my rifle on the ground. “Put your weapon down!” another plainclothes cop shouts at me. I don’t have a tactical sling, so my rifle is still in my hand. The guys I’m with hold their hands out at their sides. “Police!” His hand is hovering over his sidearm. “Keep your hands out!” a man in a dress shirt suddenly yells from the row of cars across from us.
Patriot Games: A brief history of militias in America Library of Congressĭestroyer nods toward the parking lot entrance. Slowly, too.” He spits out a sunflower seed. “Last time we were here, a blacked-out car,” Spartan adds. He’s clutching the pistol grip of his AK-47, his trigger finger responsibly pointed down the receiver. “You know every other Mexican has chrome rims on his car,” Destroyer says in a reasoned tone, suggesting that this particular ride might not belong to a drug cartel. “Camaro with rims.” His hands rest casually on the butt of his camouflage AR-15, which hangs over his chest from a three-point tactical sling. “There you go,” Jaeger says, looking across the lot. He gets in the cab to check Facebook on his phone while Destroyer, Jaeger, Spartan, and I stand with our backs to the truck, rifles in hand, keeping watch for anything suspicious. He has camo paint on his face and a yeti beard. He is a Marine special-ops veteran who did three tours in Afghanistan. In Pain’s absence, Showtime is our commanding officer. Captain Pain and a couple of others go into the store to get supplies. We are in a Walmart parking lot in Nogales. But everything else is square-I’m wearing a MultiCam uniform, desert tan combat boots, and a radio on my shoulder. Next to everyone else’s commando-style AR-15s, my Ruger Mini-14 with a wood stock is slightly out of place. Unlike the others, I don’t view southern Arizona as a war zone, so I didn’t put steel plates in my chest rig. “Keep your weapons nice and tight,” Captain Pain orders. I crawl out of the back of the pickup with my rifle in hand.
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