When I was young, many kids would write to their favorite
baseball team and in return receive glossy pictures of players on the roster,
pencils with team logos, and other such treasures. I did all that, but I was a little
different. I wrote a letter to Radio
Moscow.
I had received a shortwave radio for Christmas in 1974, and
I began listening to broadcasts from all over the world. Back then, the USSR (Russia) broadcast their
propaganda all across the world in English, much like Rush Limbaugh does
today. Moved and intrigued, I wrote them
a letter. I told them that I wanted to know more about their mysterious land. About a half year later, I received an
air-freight package from them. It
contained a paperback book called, "Russia, My Land" and a courteous
letter inviting me to come join the revolution and peacefully take up residence
in the Soviet Union. I noted that the package obviously had been opened before
I received it.
Ever since then, I've been followed. At first, it was classic Hollywood-dark sedans-guys
with fedoras-smoking cigars-behind tinted windows-type spying. Ten years ago, the surveillance was masked by
a vast network of white vans that followed me every time I went for a
drive. These vans were sometimes plain
white or carried bogus business signs on their sides; white plumbing vans, white
painting vans, white auto glass vans, white pest company vans, and white cable
company vans, just to list a few. Inside the vans, I’m convinced, were teams of
tracking specialists led by people like Barney from the original “Mission
Impossible.”
Eventually, I began to ignore them. After all, I’m really
not that interesting. Recently however,
I noticed a change in tracking strategy, which I attribute to improvements in
technology. Instead of a fleet fully
electronically-networked white vans, the
people who wish to hide from me are now using white pick-up trucks, F-250/350
or GMC Sierra’s, with trailer towing mirrors flanking them like bug antennae. Instead of teams of specialists tracking my
every move from their hidden nests inside the white vans, now one driver, using
his dashboard navigation and communication systems can pass me from one white
pick-up to another seamlessly. I suppose this streamlining was an excellent way
to save money but still maintain the necessary “eyes on.”
Whenever I check my rear-view mirror, they are with me. Sometimes they drive by seemingly heading in
the opposite direction, but I'm on to how the network operates. I know how they work. Basic surveillance techniques never change.
