Outside, an array of mechanized tank armor was arranged loosely on the desert sand. A large hangar housed a smaller assembly of war vehicles that were deemed more worthy of protection from the elements.
In the midst of the weaponry was spread an assembly of concrete pews before an altar of mortared stone. The outdoor chapel served as a reminder that freedom comes with a heavy cost---a cost that must often be paid when least expected.
Back inside, I paused for a time and felt the same raw churning void in my gut that I?d felt earlier that day. But it was more than just a feeling of uncertainty this time. It was far more than that. Rather, it was
certainty. It was the certainty that the world was once again becoming bent toward a path---the very path this museum was attempting to teach the world to avoid. There was nobody else there who could hear me speak it, so I walked away in silence.
I went back to the plane and pre-flighted, then I climbed in and strapped it on. Heading home, the Pacific Ocean bore the beams of the sun beyond the Los Angeles Basin like the descent of glory from on high.
The heaving haze writhed over the Tehachapi Mountains as I entered again over the gaping swath of the San Joaquin Valley.
Then the first day of the new year fell away from me with the corroded glow of the West. And when I landed, it was still silent.
