The
Navy's response to those complaints back then was to
begin a program of buying out the residents with offers
of federal money that was tempting at first and gradually
became take-it-or-leave-it extortion to clear the newly
declared Military Operations Area (MOA) over the Dixie
Valley.
By the end of the 1980's, everyone in the
valley, except one family, had left. The Navy had created
a ghost community of its own, and began burning old
buildings that were easy to torch and posting federal
"No Trespassing" signs on the fences around
others.
Along the half-paved lane to "Settlement
Road" where Rodney "Turk" Tschetter and
his family still held out, there was a forlorn sign
overgrown with weeds that said, "Slow, School,"
but the school was long burned and Tschetter's own
13-year-old son had to be driven every day by his parents
into classes at Fallon, 40 miles away. Tschetter finally
moved last year. By ten, the Navy had apparently lost
interest in buying Dixie Valley property.
Ironically, for all the eerie "ghost
valley" appearance it presents along its empty
country-square roads and lanes, Dixie Valley today seldom
feels the ear-slamming torture of Naval air warfare.
That is in part because the ultra high-tech
Navy "Centroid" facility is there -- the brain
center of the great electronic grid that uses Dixie
Valley as its fame board. From the mysterious bunkers
wired into the solar-powered "Threat Emitter"
towers and larger "War Centers," technicians
control the aircraft the way a teenager might waste a
quarter at the arcade.
But the game needs to be played at an altitude
recorded by radar, and over the valley itself, the jets
are kept well above the vacant "deck."
Nobody says its not impressive. Few would
doubt its obvious value for national defense. But only a
handful of people like Russ and Fredda Stevenson live in
the nerve-shredded periphery around it where the Navy
insists it must now expand operations to stay
"combat ready."
"I don't want to 'Bogart' this
meeting," Captain Ronnie began, as he addressed the
five member Nevada Legislative Committee on Public Lands,
two members of which are themselves former military
pilots.
The Captain didn't need to "Bogart"
much of their time in recounting the advantages to Nevada
from a "down-sized" era of military
consolidation. The TOPGUN school at Miramar, California,
the reserve fighter base at Alameda, the AWACS training
center at San Diego all are shifting their operations to
the Strike Warfare center of Fallon, under unified
command for the first time by a flag officer, Rear
Admiral B. J. Smith.
The base will employ 1250 active duty military
and another 2000 civilians, Captain Ronnie said, in the
Navy's hottest land base for air operations. But the Navy
wants to be "a good neighbor," he said, and its
original proposal for an expansion of 180,000 acres of
air space has been scaled down to a more modest 135,000
to 140,000 acres.
"I remember that one," Francine
Lowry, a rancher near Middlegate, would later tell the
panel. "That one horrible plane. I was washing milk
buckets and it knocked me down. I thought a freight train
had hit the house. My husband lost his hearing from it. I
got up and looked around, and here it came again..."
"Our Environmental Assessment report
indicated there would be no significant impact from these
new installations," Captain Ronnie smoothly told the
legislators. "We had $300,000 worth of equipment in
storage waiting approval to be installed, and then the
BLM took control over communications installations and
denied us the right-of-way. To us, it appeared to be a
change in the rules of the game."
Someone in the crowd said in a loud, sarcastic
whisper, "Hopefully, they'll bomb Interior,"
but the Captain seemed not to hear it.
The Navy's problem with the BLM is, however,
much less over who might be deafened or stressed than it
is over who is in charge on "federal" land. The
land bureaucrats said, for example, that they were
already concerned by the 10 million chaff filters dropped
in the last 20 years. "Enough," said BLM
representative Mike Phillips, "to go to the moon and
back 420 times."
In Canada, he acknowledged, they feed the
stuff to cows for two weeks and they didn't die, but who
knows what the impact on wildlife might be?
Grace Bukowski listed to it with a tired and
cynical ear. She already knows about work being down on a
biodegradable Top of
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chaff, and fluttering clouds of stuff
like shreds of tinfoil designed to confuse radar tracking
is not quite the bottom-line issue for Bukowski and the
rural residents she represents.
"Presently, over 40 percent of the skies
over Nevada are designated as Special Use Airspace (SUA)
for use by the Department of Defense with estimates at 70
percent with inclusion of Military Training Routes
(MTRs)," says the report of Bukowski's Rural
Alliance for Military Accountability.
"Naval Air Station Fallon is attempt a
massive airspace expansion that would double the present
airspace use in Nevada from 10,200 square miles (15
percent of the state total) to 21,000 square miles
extending eastward to the White Pine Mountains, north to
the Ruby Mountains and South into Nye County."
Bukowski can talk MOAs and SOAs and SUAs with
the best of them, but it's her maps obtained through
Freedom of Information requests from the Defense
Department that draw most attention.
The maps show an enormous region of military
operations that seem to take up two-thirds of Nevada,
linking the Fallon base in the north to the three million
acres of Air Force atmosphere in the south and spreading
on into parts of Utah and Idaho.
The proposed Navy expansion alone engulfs the
frontier capitol of Austin at the center of the state,
the historic mining center of Eureka, the Duckwater
Indian Reservation and parts of the Toiyabe Wilderness.
Even the "Loneliest Highway" following along
the nation's first transcontinental trail is set to be
restricted from use by general aircraft as a visual
flight route.
Smaller places, like Middlegate, are hardly
noticeable at all in the 12 mile-a-minute push for a
larger supersonic playground. "They might just buy
them out like they did Dixie Valley," said Bukowski,
echoing one fear of the Stevensons themselves.
In Fallon, where federal Interior officials
and their environmentalist allies continue a relentless
drive to force farmers off irrigated land, folks are
reluctant to be openly critical of the Navy. The base
pumps an $80-million-a-year economy, and complaints are
kept polite, sort of like chiding a rich uncle who drinks
too much.
The local theory goes that if you didn't know
there were going to be airplanes, you shouldn't have
moved here. Not expanding the base operations, argued
Navy League President Steve Endicott, would be like
asking professional football players to play on a
basketball court."
Out in the country, though, where folks like
Joe Dahl and Francine Lowry and the Stevensons say they
feel more like "the enemy," things seem to be
getting nervously out of hand, much like medical studies
on sonic boom effects suggest they might.
"It's given me Chronic Fatigue Syndrome
-- currently in remission," said one woman in a
statement less funny that it sounded.
Captain Ronnie understands that about the
people he admits are getting "beat up," and he
promised to establish a new working committee between
rural residents and the Navy to reach some solutions.
"You just give me the number on that
bird, and I'll see that the pilot is grounded for
good," he told one rancher who complained that a
darkened helicopter chased him 14 miles up a dirt road
one night.
Nobody, of course, ever gets "a
number," and Ronnie concedes there are many spots
between the mountains where the base radar can't even
keep track of their own planes.
There's something about the rich uncle's
denial, that folks like the Stevensons find familiar.
Those bat-winged UFOs, for example, that turned out to be
Stealth fighters, or that time when the rancher from
Eastgate up the road found seven of his cattle with
coffee-can sized holes burned right through them. The
Navy denied any knowledge of that too, but the rancher
won an out-of-court settlement and somebody took down the
signs out in the desert that used to say "Laser
Testing."
The days of buying out whole communities like
Dixie Valley are probably over. The federal government
already "owns" most of the land in Nevada
anyway, including stretches around Nellis where the Air
Force even chases away airliners.
"But at least they could allow me my own
airspace, a mile up, I think" said a frustrated
Fredda Stevenson at Middlegate.
That too, however, was tried in Dixie Valley.
One rancher was advised that just because he owned the
land didn't mean he had rights all the way to hell,
either.
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