SECRETS AMONG FRIENDS
Secrets among friends. By Steve Douglass
Right to left: Myself, Michal Rokita and Ken Hanson
But keeping that box was a different kind of test. Ken kept it for a long time while things were heavy. When the dust finally settled, and I got it back, I realized he hadn't even cracked the tape. He didn’t peek, he didn’t pry, and he didn’t ask a single prying question about why the government was suddenly so interested in my business. He just kept it safe because that’s what a good friend does.
I first "met" Ken Hanson way back when I was a teenager on Polk Street. If you grew up around there, you know the vibe—it was the place to be on a Friday night, a real-life version of American Graffiti. I was just a kid hanging out when a Volkswagen with a peace sign drawn on it rolled by. Next thing -I knew, I’d been clocked right in the face by a water balloon thrown from the car.
I didn't know it then, but the guy in that VW was Ken. It took another twenty years for our paths to cross again and for us to realize we’d shared that split-second encounter on Polk Street.
In a world where everyone is looking for an angle, a guy like Ken is rare. It’s one thing to have a buddy for the adventures, but it’s another thing to have a friend with the integrity to hold a secret for years without ever looking inside. From Polk Street to the desert sands, I’m glad I’ve had Ken in my corner.
Ken and I have spent over 30 years prowling the military wilderness of New Mexico together. He’s seen the same strange things I have—the kind of stuff most people wouldn't believe. He was there witnessing strange lights hovering over Holloman AFB, and he stood right beside me when I photographed those three triangles over Amarillo.
We’ve shared plenty of "interceptor adventures," from the jet noise and dust of Roving Sands to the vastness of White Sands Missile Range. We’ve almost gotten into trouble more times than I can count, but we also made time for the silly stuff—like hacking the drive-up speakers at fast food joints to ask customers "interesting" questions while they tried to order burgers.
One of our best was the "Root Beer Boys" maneuver. We used to monitor the police on their "secret" frequency while they staked out a liquor store, pouncing on anyone who popped a top too early. We decided to hatch a prank to "condition" them. We’d buy IBC Root Beer in those brown bottles that look just like the real thing from a distance. We’d pull through the drive-thru, knowing they were watching, and a block away, we’d pop the top in plain sight.
The cops would descend on us—thinking they had a guaranteed ticket—only to find two guys enjoying some soda. We did this every weekend until we heard them on the scanner: "It’s just those root beer boys." Within three weeks, we had them so conditioned that we could drink actual beer right in front of the SOBER unit, and they wouldn't even budge. We weren't hurting their business of catching drunks; we just found a creative way to bend the rules.
Ken and I did these little stints on a regular basis. We even found a way to hack one of the local TV stations' remote cameras. Using our two-way radios, we’d remotely turn the camera to face a rival station’s headquarters just seconds before they went live.
The "Political Junket" Scandal and the Fake Feds
Things took a darker turn in the 90s. A local politician was running for re-election to the House of Representatives when TV stations around Amarillo received leaked tapes of a telephone conversation. In the recording, the politician was caught promising a woman he was seeing that he'd take her on political junkets to Caribbean locations.
Because I was writing for Monitoring Times about radio communications interception at the time, I became the Feds’ number-one suspect. One day, while I was with my family at a local mall, two men approached me, flashed badges, and started grilling me on how someone could intercept cell communications. I cooperated fully, even taking these "agents" to Radio Shack to show them exactly which scanner to buy.
But the surveillance didn't stop. Eventually, the local FBI called me in to speak with the Federal District Attorney. When I mentioned I’d already told their "agents" everything at the mall, they went white. "What agents?" they asked. It turned out the men at the mall weren't Feds at all—they were likely private detectives hired by the politician.
Since then, we have had many adventures, including the "Kidnapping of Ken Burns" and (another time) when we unintentionally caused the Secret Service (protecting then President George Bush) migraine headaches.
The Ultimate Test of Trust
When I found out I was being investigated by Federal authorities, that's when I called Ken. He brought over his equipment, and together we swept my house, finding and neutralizing two listening devices.
It was during one of our Roving Sands operations that Ken and I first met "Mark." He was new to our group, and frankly, both of us theorized he might be a "spook." But since we weren't doing anything illegal, we accepted him as one of our own.
That is how you know who to trust. From the water balloons on Polk Street to the strange lights of the high desert, I’m glad I’ve had Ken in my corner for the ride.
Right to left: Myself, Michal Rokita and Ken Hanson
A long while back, I handed Ken Hanson a box.
It wasn't a casual favor. I had just discovered I was under some kind of government surveillance, and I needed to get my most sensitive material out of my hands immediately. The box was packed with interviews, notes, documents and deep-dive information on "Mark"—the kind of stuff that would make anyone’s curiosity redline.
It wasn't a casual favor. I had just discovered I was under some kind of government surveillance, and I needed to get my most sensitive material out of my hands immediately. The box was packed with interviews, notes, documents and deep-dive information on "Mark"—the kind of stuff that would make anyone’s curiosity redline.
I needed a vault, and I knew exactly where to go.
But keeping that box was a different kind of test. Ken kept it for a long time while things were heavy. When the dust finally settled, and I got it back, I realized he hadn't even cracked the tape. He didn’t peek, he didn’t pry, and he didn’t ask a single prying question about why the government was suddenly so interested in my business. He just kept it safe because that’s what a good friend does.
That is how you know who to trust. In a world where everyone is looking for an angle, having a guy like Ken in your corner is rare. It’s one thing to have a buddy for the adventures, but it’s another thing entirely to have a friend who respects your boundaries as much as his own, even under pressure.
If you’ve got someone in your life who can sit on a "secret box" for years without ever looking inside, hold onto them. Thirty years later, I’m glad I did.
It’s funny how life loops back on itself.
I first "met" Ken Hanson way back when I was a teenager on Polk Street. If you grew up around there, you know the vibe—it was the place to be on a Friday night, a real-life version of American Graffiti. I was just a kid hanging out when a Volkswagen with a peace sign drawn on it rolled by. Next thing -I knew, I’d been clocked right in the face by a water balloon thrown from the car.
I didn't know it then, but the guy in that VW was Ken. It took another twenty years for our paths to cross again and for us to realize we’d shared that split-second encounter on Polk Street.
We’ve been through the thick of it together—from the dust of Roving Sands to the vastness of White Sands Missile Range and Holloman AFB. When you spend three decades in those kinds of high-stakes environments, you learn exactly who stays cool when the heat is on.
In a world where everyone is looking for an angle, a guy like Ken is rare. It’s one thing to have a buddy for the adventures, but it’s another thing to have a friend with the integrity to hold a secret for years without ever looking inside. From Polk Street to the desert sands, I’m glad I’ve had Ken in my corner.
Ken and I have spent over 30 years prowling the military wilderness of New Mexico together. He’s seen the same strange things I have—the kind of stuff most people wouldn't believe. He was there witnessing strange lights hovering over Holloman AFB, and he stood right beside me when I photographed those three triangles over Amarillo.
We’ve shared plenty of "interceptor adventures," from the jet noise and dust of Roving Sands to the vastness of White Sands Missile Range. We’ve almost gotten into trouble more times than I can count, but we also made time for the silly stuff—like hacking the drive-up speakers at fast food joints to ask customers "interesting" questions while they tried to order burgers.
But Ken isn't just a partner in mischief; he’s the guy who helped me sweep my house and find a "bug" when things got serious.
THE ROOT BEER BOYS
One of our best was the "Root Beer Boys" maneuver. We used to monitor the police on their "secret" frequency while they staked out a liquor store, pouncing on anyone who popped a top too early. We decided to hatch a prank to "condition" them. We’d buy IBC Root Beer in those brown bottles that look just like the real thing from a distance. We’d pull through the drive-thru, knowing they were watching, and a block away, we’d pop the top in plain sight.
The cops would descend on us—thinking they had a guaranteed ticket—only to find two guys enjoying some soda. We did this every weekend until we heard them on the scanner: "It’s just those root beer boys." Within three weeks, we had them so conditioned that we could drink actual beer right in front of the SOBER unit, and they wouldn't even budge. We weren't hurting their business of catching drunks; we just found a creative way to bend the rules.
Ken and I did these little stints on a regular basis. We even found a way to hack one of the local TV stations' remote cameras. Using our two-way radios, we’d remotely turn the camera to face a rival station’s headquarters just seconds before they went live.
The "Political Junket" Scandal and the Fake Feds
Things took a darker turn in the 90s. A local politician was running for re-election to the House of Representatives when TV stations around Amarillo received leaked tapes of a telephone conversation. In the recording, the politician was caught promising a woman he was seeing that he'd take her on political junkets to Caribbean locations.
Because I was writing for Monitoring Times about radio communications interception at the time, I became the Feds’ number-one suspect. One day, while I was with my family at a local mall, two men approached me, flashed badges, and started grilling me on how someone could intercept cell communications. I cooperated fully, even taking these "agents" to Radio Shack to show them exactly which scanner to buy.
But the surveillance didn't stop. Eventually, the local FBI called me in to speak with the Federal District Attorney. When I mentioned I’d already told their "agents" everything at the mall, they went white. "What agents?" they asked. It turned out the men at the mall weren't Feds at all—they were likely private detectives hired by the politician.
 |
| Just kidding! |
Since then, we have had many adventures, including the "Kidnapping of Ken Burns" and (another time) when we unintentionally caused the Secret Service (protecting then President George Bush) migraine headaches.
I promise that story will be posted soon. It deserves more of a deep dive.
The Ultimate Test of Trust
When I found out I was being investigated by Federal authorities, that's when I called Ken. He brought over his equipment, and together we swept my house, finding and neutralizing two listening devices.
The federal investigation eventually cleared me, finding the real culprit: a neighbor of the Congressman who had been eavesdropping on his cordless phone and sent the tapes to the press. On election night, the politician lost his seat. While the media was scrambling to find him for an interview, Ken and I already knew where he was: dodging the press and trying to charter a private jet make a hasty retreat. The media were there at the airport to greet him when he arrived. Don't ask me how they were tipped off —but I bet you can figure it out.
The Mystery of "Mark"
It was during one of our Roving Sands operations that Ken and I first met "Mark." He was new to our group, and frankly, both of us theorized he might be a "spook." But since we weren't doing anything illegal, we accepted him as one of our own.
When the heat from the political scandal got heavy and I realized I was under genuine surveillance, I needed to get my most sensitive material—including interviews and deep-dive info on Mark—out of the house immediately. I handed the box to Ken.
Last year, I finally revealed to Ken exactly what I had been working on. He was completely unfazed. He had already started putting two and two together; things that seemed "weird" back then finally made sense to him.
Even though I had kept him in the dark for years, Ken never felt left out. He knew I was into something deep, and he trusted me enough to let me keep my secrets until I was ready. In a way, I was protecting Mark, myself and Ken.
That is how you know who to trust. From the water balloons on Polk Street to the strange lights of the high desert, I’m glad I’ve had Ken in my corner for the ride.
-Steve Douglass
PS: Ken will get this - but you won't. Thanks for everything you unknowingly did.
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