American Death Camps
by Samuel Foster
We live in strange times.
Suffice it to say I am a captain (not my actual rank, but at least that) in the National Guard; but I can’t tell you which state, as that information surely will be the quick road to my demise. I have faithfully served my country in Desert Storm and Panama, both events having nothing to do with the National Security safety of this Great Country of ours.
My wife has the same disease I have, and the doctors are still telling me I have the flue. Does a flue last eight years? We’ll get to that later. We both are under the age of forty, but we no longer look young. Nothing can change my mind that my superiors—so-called officers and gentlemen—have murdered us.
One of my duties requires me to train through rotation with other units, the ongoing guard staff of various clandestine Prisons many Americans that over-sight committees do not know exist. These prisons, or "camps" as we call them, were built for no other purpose than for the common American taxpayer. I know. I helped build three of them.
Somewhere along the way, I have lost my soul in the process.
I know for a fact that this government of ours plans to turn America into a wasteland of proportions that stagger any imagination. It is the Pentagon and Wall Street’s ambition to create no less than a slave state by the year 2001. They will do it too—with the media’s help—because in many ways, they have already succeeded in destroying our civil liberties and making the middle-class an ancient idea.
How can I say these things? From where do I speak?
A few years ago, I was called to a meeting in Fort Mead to join the augmenting of a unit which would report directly to FEMA in the event of national disaster. Did we discuss earthquakes, tornadoes, or flooding? Not on your life. After obtaining several new written security clearances and after having signed no less than eleven documents—all giving away my life and liberty should I ever speak out—I was let in on the following plan.
Before out give out the structure of this plan, I beg anyone who reads this document to share with as many people as possible what I consider our last, best chance to reverse the horrible course this country is going to take in the next twenty-four months. The outline is as I remember it, as everything was verbal—nothing was ever written down. Troop movements, orders, and materiel was all coded with words that meant something other than what they were. For example, if we needed 150 new prison cells, we didn’t call them prison cells. They became "Cfood units, CIV" Given a code sheet, we could then interpret and act upon any written order. Most were email in our net and were to be destroyed once the order was carried out. This was routine policy and is still in effect today.
Friends, there is little more than I can say, except to give you my promise that I will constantly provide as much facts as possible to lead you to the truth. You want camp locations? I’ll get them out. You want dates and places, I get them too.
God help us in our time of need.