THE TRUTH about what happened at the 1995 Oklahoma City Federal Building bombing

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 Hillary Clinton will be a terrorist as President. The Clinton administration orchestrated the Oklahoma City Federal Building bombing in 1995. Gail Chord Schuler’s novel Silver Skies exposes the federal conspiracy under the Clinton Administration in 1995 that orchestrated the Oklahoma Federal Building bombing that was an attempt to implicate the militias and gun owners in the bombing.

The following excerpt, taken from Gail’s novel Silver Skies, was taken from factual evidence related to the bombing. Names and locations were changed, but the evidence presented was true:

Franz felt the inklings of a world falling apart. The United States, like an old worn shoe, unraveled its holes and seams. So much he didn’t know about Jackie. . .Larry was against gun control. Jackie seemed for it. If Jackie knew he retained Larry while he discharged Sam, she could lose interest in him. The thought made him cringe. Yet he had to do it. Not a machine to blindly take orders from his superiors, he’d mull over, think, feel. . .and decide. No longer would he blindly accept orders from the New World Order or anyone, he’d think through them and make sure he could live with them. He looked through the paperwork Sam had against the government and folded it neatly into his luggage.

In the morning, he flew to Houston and bought the local paper at the Hobby airport, which he stuffed into his luggage. Tom Cohen picked him up and drove him to Dor’s.

Dor greeted him. “I apologize for not picking you up myself, but I want to protect Brianna. I don’t want her involved with the government.”

Franz’s heart warmed toward this sensitive, intelligent Jew. Brianna told him not to mention Ruth’s possible colon cancer. “I appreciate that–do you mind if I read the paper here? What an impressive terrace you have outside. Brianna tells me you designed this home yourself.”

“It’s nothing, really. Would you like to read the paper in our library?”

Now he understood why Brianna loved him, because books fascinated her. Franz smiled. “Yes. I think I will.”

Dor led him to the library. “Stay in there ‘till you’re finished. But before I forget, let me pay you.”

“I’m here to make my daughter happy. Don’t tell her I did this for money.”

“At least accept something because I greatly value your services.” Dor handed him a check for ten thousand dollars.

Franz took it. “Man, this is great. With money like this I deserve to be shot if I can’t uncover the truth about Stephen Tischler. I’ll give some of this money to Brianna, so she can visit you more often.”

He felt his arm grasped by the sensitive Jew. “I know you won’t disappoint me. Brianna says you’re the best. By the way, that’s just a down payment. My synagogue gave me this money to pay the costs–for what I’m going through with my family.”

Then Dor closed the library door and gave Franz privacy. This Dor was indeed a generous and fine man; he determined to do his best work for him. Franz retrieved the morning paper from his luggage and laid it out on a table. An article arrested his attention.

“A face off stirred up the media. Sen. Lois Steinberg, D-New York, said militia members made ‘hateful and racist comments’. The militias deny these accusations.”

“Sen. Daniel Stein, D-Pennsylvania, said the militias’ communications are worded with hate and paranoid conspiracy theories. Tom Wells, the head of Federal law enforcement, said, ‘Militia members have threatened, harassed, assaulted and shot police officers. Some militia members have spread lies that the President ordered the Dallas bombing. But why would the feds use a fertilizer and oil bomb? The government never uses such bombs.”

“The militia members mentioned conspiracies, and even suggested the government planned the Dallas bombing to give Congress an excuse to approve anti-terrorism legislation. They claim gun control laws violate our Constitution, and believe that in Dallas two bomb explosions occurred and they implicate the government and the media in this, as part of a government plot to take away American sovereignty.”

Franz removed small scissors from his briefcase and cut the article from the paper to file it in a compartment for notes. He left the library and Dor ushered him to a seat on his bar.

“Is this where you’ve romanced my daughter?”

“But I’ve never kissed her.”

“She’s crazy about you.”

“I’m crazy about her.”

Franz laughed. “How do you handle it? I mean. . .aren’t you married?”

“I told you I’ve never kissed her.”

Franz liked the way this man looked, the way he walked and conducted himself. After years of assessing clients, he determined that Dor had a keen sense of responsibility, that he was dependable and trustworthy. He had a broad smile and made eye contact immediately. His square shoulders, open hands and spread legs signified an honest, open person. Besides all this, Franz detected a sharp, shrewd mind and what most endeared him to Franz were his eyes: they were pools of depth and meaning. Brianna found a friend who’d be loyal to her unto death and to whom she could bare her heart. “Brianna’s a grown woman. I stay out of her personal life.”

Dor gave him leads. They grasped hands, and the two men’s hearts fused into a stream of determination for Brianna and the world.

“You understand I may find the truth, only to discover I can do very little about it.”

“I understand.” Dor’s deep eyes reflected sad, untold stories. “Please keep it confidential that I gave you these leads. My life has been threatened and Brianna associates with me, so for her sake–”

Franz laid his hand on Dor’s shoulder and looked into the young man’s eyes. “I won’t tell a soul.”

The poor man, in obvious desperation for his mother and brother-in-law, gave him many leads. Franz investigated the Houston leads first. Though offered a room in Dor’s home, Franz chose instead to stay in a motel, to protect Dor and thereby indirectly protect Brianna. The Houston leads wasted his time. One woman talked his ears off, but had nothing worthwhile to say. Out of politeness, he treated her as if she gave him substantial information. Finally, he determined to scratch off Houston and investigate the Dallas leads Dor gave him. He packed his bags and flew to Dallas.

Several unfruitful attempts in Dallas wasted more of his time. As he did on all his leads, he shaved, wore a suit, and checked the batteries in the tape recorder he wore on his waist. It could record for up to ninety minutes. He had an appointment with Dr. Karl Millard, professor of geology at the University of Texas, whom he would meet at his office.

Dr. Millard shook Franz’s hand. “Excuse the mess, I’m in the middle of a project.”

The professor came across as a forthright, honest, and courageous individual. Franz laughed. “Don’t worry about that. My home would be a mess if it wasn’t for my wife. I take it you don’t have a woman to clean up for you.”

Dr. Millard laughed. “What woman likes to clean up after a man?”

“Don’t worry about the mess. I’m a private investigator representing Stephen Tischler.” He showed him a laminated miniature of his license.

“Please–have a seat. What can I help you with?”

Franz seated himself before the professor’s desk and wrapped his suit around him tighter.

Dr. Millard smiled. “Are you cold? You flew in from south of here didn’t you?”

“From Houston.” Franz had imagined all of Texas as a sauna or desert, and forgot that in a state this big and this far north, he needed to expect twenty-five degree weather. Was this cold an omen?

“We get crazy weather here in Dallas, with hail storms all the time, and the weather’s unpredictable and changing. But you get used to it.”

“In Seattle, where I’m from, winters are cold and drizzly constantly,” Franz said. “You asked what you could help me with. . .I hear you have seismograph reports of the explosion at the Dallas Federal Building–do you mind if I use a tape recorder? I can send you a transcript.”

“That’s fine. I have no problem with that.”

Franz turned on his tape recorder which looked like a beeper on his belt—a standard procedure at any interview of importance. He could have used less conspicuous recorders, but didn’t feel it necessary for this geologist.

“Yes, I do have seismograph reports. Let me get them.” Dr. Millard went through his drawers until he found them. He laid them flat on his desk and showed Franz what looked like two rugged mountains on the graph. “The seismograph evidence shows there were two bomb blasts at the Federal Building. . .the second wave,” he pointed to it again. “–was definitely a bomb blast, given the oscillations, amplitude, duration, and wave form.”

“Doesn’t the government claim only one blast?”

“Yes–they do claim that.”

To pull off the lie about one bomb blast, the government practiced professional lying, and if he crossed them, he may risk his life. He feared for Brianna and hoped to keep her away from this; yet government pervaded all our lives, and he couldn’t protect her forever. Suddenly, he felt surrounded by cobras in a pit that leered at him.

Dor had briefed him on the next man he’d interview, General James R. Wagner, the Air Force’s top bomb expert. Somehow he knew after this interview not only would he feel surrounded by cobras, they’d slither and hiss around his legs and Brianna would be in the pit with him.

General Wagner had a palatial home and a library similar to Dor’s. He graciously gave Franz permission to record and said no transcript was necessary. “How many years were you in the Air Force?” he asked the general.

“Twenty-five years. I always had an interest in explosives and spent many hours studying and researching them. I doubt you could find many who know as much as I do.”

“That appears certain,” Franz said. Somehow he didn’t want to know what this man would divulge. Maybe the government was a bigger monster than he thought. “I’m amazed at your opinion that a fertilizer and oil bomb alone could not have caused the damage in Dallas.”

In the general’s eyes, Franz saw a man determined to correct an injustice. The general dragged out his audio-visual equipment which included a screen. He flashed illustrations onto the screen as he explained. “To have asymmetrical damage to the federal building in Dallas would require a secondary demolition charge. This second charge is necessary because the building has reinforced as well as concrete column bases. If the building’s reinforced bases are not blasted, the building won’t fall. This is standard demolition technique.”

“Please explain further what you mean when you say the pattern of damage would have been technically impossible–”

“These reinforced bases are hard to blast in a large building. A truck bomb parked outside could never cause the damage done to the Dallas Federal Building. There had to be an inside bomb effort.”

An inside bomb effort. . .Franz highly doubted Stephen Tischler could have the sophistication and coordination to garner this much cooperation from the inside. Who would do such a thing?

The feds.

Franz felt sick. “Who do you think bombed the federal building?”

“I sent a detailed letter to U.S. senator Tom Phillips about this. He has not responded.”

Of course. . .would the government want the world to see what a monster it is? “I can see why. With your irrefutable munitions qualifications, if your views were known, the government’s story to the public would be devastated. And every one would want to know why the government would lie about this.”

“It seems obvious they bombed the federal building, but why?” the general asked.

“They’re pushing to take away guns from citizens. If they can convince the public that the gun fanatics caused the explosion, they can pass the strictest gun control legislation this country’s ever seen.”

The general looked perplexed. “And why do you think they’d want to do that?”

Franz’s spine trembled. “To control us completely, so we can’t fight back.”

“You seem a good investigator and an intelligent man,” the general said, almost in tears. “What do you think they want to do to us?”

“If they feel it necessary to take our guns, it can’t be good, because they’re obviously planning something most Americans would fight against.”

He left the general sensing a determined frustration in the man. He knew so much, yet few would listen. The sound of hail clattered on windows and the ground. The darkness outside encroached upon him. Should he stay in Texas a few more days? Maybe he could get in to see Stephen Tischler at the detention center. The hail clattered.

Texas had seen enough of him and he’d gotten enough information. He doubt they’d let him see Stephen Tischler, and if they did, Tischler wouldn’t be able to give him much more helpful information. He’d gotten more than he needed from his latest interviews, so he drove his rented Buick to the airport. He tried to ignore the hail and clatter on his windshield. It seemed eighty planes hovered like stars over the Dallas, Fort-Worth airport. Further away and up and down, they prepared to descend. Like the government, they’d close in and land. Almost too difficult to breathe, he felt his neck constrict. The Branch Davidian disaster occurred just south of here. Too much to think of now and the worst thought that tormented him: Brianna loved Dor, the brother-in-law of Stephen Tischler.

After a routine flight to Seattle, he relaxed at home and thought. First, he must fax his findings to Dor in Houston. His findings should not surprise Dor, and he knew Dor would bring the information to Stephen Tischler’s attorney. Stephen would need the best attorney in the world.

In the morning paper an article that mentioned his name jumped at him, with claims that his shoddy investigations and careless research caused his co-worker to quit. He called Dor to ask if he’d received yesterday’s fax and to let him know about the slanderous article in today’s paper. Dor told him to let the article pass over him and to continue the investigations.

Dor’s bravery impressed him, then he heard the young rabbi weep and break down on the phone. He said he needed to send a fax to Franz.

The fax arrived the next day. “Because my lines might be tapped, tell Brianna not to call or visit me. I love her too much to see her name muddied by the press. Let’s wait a couple months and let things cool down, then she can see me. Tell her to write, but to keep the letters at a friendship level. Tell her I won’t forget her. Love, Dor.”

Copyright © 1995 – 2018 Gail Chord Schuler. All Rights Reserved.