Ridge
01-11-2010, 23:43
Situation: A road-rage incident escalates into a deadly pursuit.
Lesson: Keep communications as handy as your gun. Bad guys fear resolutely armed people, not weapons. Remember that full auto can stop a fight--but start an indictment.
It's amazing how often a criminal will say something unbelievably stupid just before he forces a decent citizen to kill him. For many years I've been piecing together a book subtitled "Famous Last Words of Scumbags." The working title will come from the most memorable such incident: "F*** You and Your Automatic Rifle!"
The shooter was Gary Fadden. The incident took place some 20 years ago. Only now is Gary comfortable speaking of it, in hopes that others may learn from lessons that cost him very deeply.
The Incident
Sunday, February 24, 1984, approximately 2 PM. Gary Fadden, 26, and his lovely 22 year old fiancee are driving from a birthday party in Martinsburg, WV, into Virginia to look at some property for what they hope will be their starter home after their marriage. It's a bitterly cold day, and with the winter coats in the back of a new '84 Ford F-250 supercab 4WD diesel pickup, the Pendleton-clad Fadden looks from a distance like a harmless Yuppie. That means he and the pretty brunette look like prey to another kind of person.
Heading east on Rt. 50, they are passed by a Harley-Davidson motorcycle with two people astride, the operator cutting in front of him so sharply that he has to brake suddenly. Gary comments to his fiancee how cold they must be riding a bike on a low 30s day, and that driving as carelessly as he is, the cyclist needs to worry about sudden patches of ice.
A few minutes later, he spots a Chevy pickup in his rearview mirrors. It contains three people. One passenger is gesturing to him to pull over. Gary doesn't know what these scruffy guys want and he ignores them. But then he sees the passenger waving a knife, and the driver bringing up a revolver.
Gary says to his fiancee, in what will probably be the understatement of his life, "We've got a bit of a problem here."
Pursuit
It is 1984, long before the universal coming of cell phones, and there is no other communications in the vehicle. They are entering Middleburg, a town of perhaps 800, and stop at a red light. Behind them, Gary can see both males exit their truck and run toward him. The driver's hand is actually on Gary's door handle when he pops the clutch and sends his new truck screeching through the intersection against the light. The two men run back to their older pickup, and the chase is on.
They're almost on his bumper. Gary accelerates, hitting open road now, zig-zagging between reaching 95 miles an hour when the speed governor cuts in. Not only are the pursuers keeping pace but he sees the driver aiming a revolver at him out his window. Honking his horn and flashing his lights when he runs into a cluster of automobiles, passing them sometimes on the shoulder of the road and spraying rooster-tails of gravel, Gary still cannot elude the truck behind him.
Gary is desperately looking for a police car he can flag down. He doesn't see one. The chase has gone for 22 miles now and they're getting into a more compact area again. Coming up is an intersection tic knows well: he goes through it every day on his way to work. Even on Sunday it will be clogged. He forms a plan quickly: if the light is in his favor, he'll go through it and keep going, hoping to find police in a more populated area. If the light is against him, he'll turn right, and make for the plant where he works on Chantilly Road.
The light stays red. Gary cuts hard right, heading for what he hopes will be the sanctuary of the workplace. Behind him, he can see that the pursuers haven't given up an inch. "I've got my pass card through the gates and the front door," he tells his fiancee urgently. "We'll get into the building and we can hide. They can't find us. We'll call the cops from there."
He pulls into the front area of the plant, the automatic mechanism taking an achingly long time to raise the gate. As the gate opens, the pursuing truck comes to a stop behind his, both men jumping out and running to Gary's Ford, their hands clawing at his door handles. He guns the engine and gels away from them, sweeping up to the front door and locking up the brakes in a skid.
The plant is Heckler and Koch.
Gary Fadden is a salesman for HK, and among the rest of their firearms, he sells machine guns. In the truck with him is a competitor's weapon he has acquired to test, a Ruger AC556, the selective-fire assault version of the .223 Mini-14. He grabs it now as he throws open the truck door, hoping to hold them off at gunpoint. lie knows his fiancee can't make it to the building's door now, and he screams to her to get down on the floor of the Ford.
The Shooting
The passenger is running toward him, an average size man in ratty clothes with stringy hair, a long beard, and an expression of absolute rage.
The selector switch and manual safety of the AC556 are in two different locations. Gary has not yet fired this weapon and, though he has taken off the safety, he doesn't know whether the switch is set for semi, three-shot burst, or full auto. He yells "Stop or I'll shoot," points the muzzle upward, and pulls the trigger for a warning shot.
The weapon is set on full automatic. Everything is going into deep slow motion, and Gary is aware that the Ruger spits a burst of nine shots before he can get his finger back off the trigger.
There is no effect whatsoever. The attacker is still running at him, perhaps ten yards away and closing fast, reaching for knives at his belt with each hand. The assailant screams, "F*** you and your high powered rifle! I'm gonna kill you motherf***ers!"
And Gary Fadden has run out of time. He lowers the Ruger, points it at the charging knifer, and pulls the trigger one more time. in the ethereal slow motion of profound tachypsychia, Gary can see the spent .223 shells arcing lazily out of the mechanism. He stops the burst, aware that six shots have been fired, as the man in front of him falls heavily to the ground.
Gary moves quickly, putting a big brick planter between himself and the onrushing pickup as cover. The truck stops and the driver, the larger of the two bearded men, shrieks. "F*** you! You killed one of the brothers! You shot him, you motherf***er!" Gary's weapon is level and ready, but this time instead of waving the revolver, the man looks as if he's trying to hide it in the cab of his truck. Gary can see now that the third person in the truck, the one who has always stayed in the cab, is a woman.
And then, the police are there. "They've got guns," Gary shouts to the officers disgorging from two patrol cars. He sets his rifle down and steps back as the officers swarm the pickup truck, taking the surviving man and woman into custody. In a moment, a cop is standing with Gary. "I did it," Gary says. The cop answers, "Did what?" "I shot that man." The officer picks up the AC556. "It's loaded," Gary warns, "Do you want me to unload it'?" The policeman answers. "No, I'll do it. Why don't you sit down?"
Gary Fadden sits on the curb. For a moment, it seems as if the whole bizarre nightmare is over. Unfortunately, it has only begun.
Lesson: Keep communications as handy as your gun. Bad guys fear resolutely armed people, not weapons. Remember that full auto can stop a fight--but start an indictment.
It's amazing how often a criminal will say something unbelievably stupid just before he forces a decent citizen to kill him. For many years I've been piecing together a book subtitled "Famous Last Words of Scumbags." The working title will come from the most memorable such incident: "F*** You and Your Automatic Rifle!"
The shooter was Gary Fadden. The incident took place some 20 years ago. Only now is Gary comfortable speaking of it, in hopes that others may learn from lessons that cost him very deeply.
The Incident
Sunday, February 24, 1984, approximately 2 PM. Gary Fadden, 26, and his lovely 22 year old fiancee are driving from a birthday party in Martinsburg, WV, into Virginia to look at some property for what they hope will be their starter home after their marriage. It's a bitterly cold day, and with the winter coats in the back of a new '84 Ford F-250 supercab 4WD diesel pickup, the Pendleton-clad Fadden looks from a distance like a harmless Yuppie. That means he and the pretty brunette look like prey to another kind of person.
Heading east on Rt. 50, they are passed by a Harley-Davidson motorcycle with two people astride, the operator cutting in front of him so sharply that he has to brake suddenly. Gary comments to his fiancee how cold they must be riding a bike on a low 30s day, and that driving as carelessly as he is, the cyclist needs to worry about sudden patches of ice.
A few minutes later, he spots a Chevy pickup in his rearview mirrors. It contains three people. One passenger is gesturing to him to pull over. Gary doesn't know what these scruffy guys want and he ignores them. But then he sees the passenger waving a knife, and the driver bringing up a revolver.
Gary says to his fiancee, in what will probably be the understatement of his life, "We've got a bit of a problem here."
Pursuit
It is 1984, long before the universal coming of cell phones, and there is no other communications in the vehicle. They are entering Middleburg, a town of perhaps 800, and stop at a red light. Behind them, Gary can see both males exit their truck and run toward him. The driver's hand is actually on Gary's door handle when he pops the clutch and sends his new truck screeching through the intersection against the light. The two men run back to their older pickup, and the chase is on.
They're almost on his bumper. Gary accelerates, hitting open road now, zig-zagging between reaching 95 miles an hour when the speed governor cuts in. Not only are the pursuers keeping pace but he sees the driver aiming a revolver at him out his window. Honking his horn and flashing his lights when he runs into a cluster of automobiles, passing them sometimes on the shoulder of the road and spraying rooster-tails of gravel, Gary still cannot elude the truck behind him.
Gary is desperately looking for a police car he can flag down. He doesn't see one. The chase has gone for 22 miles now and they're getting into a more compact area again. Coming up is an intersection tic knows well: he goes through it every day on his way to work. Even on Sunday it will be clogged. He forms a plan quickly: if the light is in his favor, he'll go through it and keep going, hoping to find police in a more populated area. If the light is against him, he'll turn right, and make for the plant where he works on Chantilly Road.
The light stays red. Gary cuts hard right, heading for what he hopes will be the sanctuary of the workplace. Behind him, he can see that the pursuers haven't given up an inch. "I've got my pass card through the gates and the front door," he tells his fiancee urgently. "We'll get into the building and we can hide. They can't find us. We'll call the cops from there."
He pulls into the front area of the plant, the automatic mechanism taking an achingly long time to raise the gate. As the gate opens, the pursuing truck comes to a stop behind his, both men jumping out and running to Gary's Ford, their hands clawing at his door handles. He guns the engine and gels away from them, sweeping up to the front door and locking up the brakes in a skid.
The plant is Heckler and Koch.
Gary Fadden is a salesman for HK, and among the rest of their firearms, he sells machine guns. In the truck with him is a competitor's weapon he has acquired to test, a Ruger AC556, the selective-fire assault version of the .223 Mini-14. He grabs it now as he throws open the truck door, hoping to hold them off at gunpoint. lie knows his fiancee can't make it to the building's door now, and he screams to her to get down on the floor of the Ford.
The Shooting
The passenger is running toward him, an average size man in ratty clothes with stringy hair, a long beard, and an expression of absolute rage.
The selector switch and manual safety of the AC556 are in two different locations. Gary has not yet fired this weapon and, though he has taken off the safety, he doesn't know whether the switch is set for semi, three-shot burst, or full auto. He yells "Stop or I'll shoot," points the muzzle upward, and pulls the trigger for a warning shot.
The weapon is set on full automatic. Everything is going into deep slow motion, and Gary is aware that the Ruger spits a burst of nine shots before he can get his finger back off the trigger.
There is no effect whatsoever. The attacker is still running at him, perhaps ten yards away and closing fast, reaching for knives at his belt with each hand. The assailant screams, "F*** you and your high powered rifle! I'm gonna kill you motherf***ers!"
And Gary Fadden has run out of time. He lowers the Ruger, points it at the charging knifer, and pulls the trigger one more time. in the ethereal slow motion of profound tachypsychia, Gary can see the spent .223 shells arcing lazily out of the mechanism. He stops the burst, aware that six shots have been fired, as the man in front of him falls heavily to the ground.
Gary moves quickly, putting a big brick planter between himself and the onrushing pickup as cover. The truck stops and the driver, the larger of the two bearded men, shrieks. "F*** you! You killed one of the brothers! You shot him, you motherf***er!" Gary's weapon is level and ready, but this time instead of waving the revolver, the man looks as if he's trying to hide it in the cab of his truck. Gary can see now that the third person in the truck, the one who has always stayed in the cab, is a woman.
And then, the police are there. "They've got guns," Gary shouts to the officers disgorging from two patrol cars. He sets his rifle down and steps back as the officers swarm the pickup truck, taking the surviving man and woman into custody. In a moment, a cop is standing with Gary. "I did it," Gary says. The cop answers, "Did what?" "I shot that man." The officer picks up the AC556. "It's loaded," Gary warns, "Do you want me to unload it'?" The policeman answers. "No, I'll do it. Why don't you sit down?"
Gary Fadden sits on the curb. For a moment, it seems as if the whole bizarre nightmare is over. Unfortunately, it has only begun.