"CQ CQ Insurrection: How Ham Radio Became the Backbone of the Capitol Siege"
By Antenna Jones, Correspondent for The Patriot’s Static

WASHINGTON, D.C. — As history continues to unravel the tangled cords of January 6, 2021, new evidence has emerged suggesting that the true masterminds behind the Capitol breach weren’t keyboard warriors or rogue militia apps—but a surprisingly well-networked cadre of ham radio operators who stormed democracy one frequency at a time.

Yes, ham radio: the hobby most commonly associated with retirees, lonely guys in basements, and people who think Morse code might come back like vinyl.

According to exclusive reports (and a guy in a basement with an antenna taller than his marriage), many insurrectionists used amateur radio frequencies to coordinate movements, share tactical updates, and debate which flavor of MRE was least “deep state.”

“Breaker-breaker, we got eyes on Pelosi’s podium, over,” allegedly crackled across the airwaves moments before the infamous photo op. Moments later: “Copy that, Tango-Foxtrot. Be advised: Viking helmet guy is headed your way. He’s loud, shirtless, and slightly mystical. Proceed with caution.”

The Federal Communications Commission (FCC) was reportedly flabbergasted.

“We’ve always feared this day,” said FCC spokesperson Marsha Bandwidth. “We knew someday someone would weaponize the power of high-frequency AM chatter, emergency generators, and delusional confidence.”

The insurrectionists, who called themselves the “Free Range Patriots” (because “Uncaged Eagles of Liberty” was taken by a prepper Facebook group), reportedly used CB-style code names like “Constitution Cowboy,” “Q-Zilla,” and “LibertyLuvr_69.”

Eyewitnesses claim the crowd was a mix of militia types, confused tourists, and at least one man who thought he was at a ham fest. “I just came to trade a transceiver,” said Gerald, 67, of Topeka. “Next thing I know, I’m deep in the Rotunda and someone’s handing me zip ties.”

Authorities are still combing through hours of radio logs, which range from actual tactical commands to heated debates about who really invented the spark-gap transmitter.

In response, the National Association for Amateur Radio (ARRL) issued a strongly worded statement:

“Ham radio is a peaceful hobby for licensed enthusiasts who enjoy communicating with strangers in obscure bands. We do not condone sedition, though we do understand the thrill of talking to someone in Finland during a solar flare.”

As part of new regulations, the FCC has now mandated all ham radios transmit a disclaimer every 30 minutes:

“This device is not a toy for insurrection. Please use responsibly.”

In the end, experts agree that while ham radio may not have single-handedly toppled democracy, it sure tried to tune in, turn on, and drop out of the Constitution.

As one Capitol Police officer put it, “It was like Die Hard, but with less Bruce Willis and more guys who call 911 because their radio antenna fell over.”

CQ insurrectionists: this is democracy. You’re being jammed. Over.

The US Navy Electronics 6-Step Troubleshooting Method

The U.S. Navy's Six-Step Troubleshooting Method for electronics systems. This systematic approach is used to efficiently identify and resolve faults in electronic equipment. The six steps are:

1. Symptom Recognition – Identify that a malfunction exists through user reports, system indicators, or performance issues.

2. Symptom Elaboration – Gather more detailed information about the problem. Ask questions like: When did it start? Under what conditions? Is it intermittent or constant?

3. Listing Probable Faulty Functions – Determine which functions or subsystems could be responsible for the observed symptoms.

4. Localizing the Faulty Function – Narrow down the faulty function to a specific section or module of the equipment.

5. Localizing the Trouble to a Defective Component – Within the faulty section, isolate the exact component (e.g., resistor, capacitor, IC) causing the issue.

6. Failure Analysis – Once the component is replaced or repaired, analyze why it failed to prevent recurrence and improve system reliability.

Example:

Let’s say you’re working on a shipboard radar system that has stopped displaying target data on the screen.

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⚙️ Scenario: Radar Display Not Showing Targets

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1. Symptom Recognition

The radar operator reports that no targets are appearing on the radar display. You confirm that the screen is on but shows no contacts.

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2. Symptom Elaboration

You ask additional questions and check other indicators:

• The screen is working (not blank).

• The radar sweep line is visible.

• No alarm tones are sounding.

• The problem started after a heavy rainstorm.

• Power supplies show normal voltages.

This helps you rule out certain problems like a total power loss.

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3. Listing Probable Faulty Functions

You brainstorm which parts of the system could cause this issue:

• The transmitter isn’t sending pulses.

• The antenna isn’t rotating or scanning.

• The receiver isn’t picking up echoes.

• The signal processor isn't converting data correctly.

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4. Localizing the Faulty Function

You systematically test these possibilities:

• You check the antenna — it’s rotating fine.

• You measure RF output — the transmitter is not emitting.

• BINGO — the issue is probably in the transmitter section.

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5. Localizing the Trouble to a Defective Component

Within the transmitter, you check:

• Fuses and power inputs — all good.

• The modulator circuit — appears unresponsive.

• You narrow it down to a faulty pulse-forming network (PFN) that isn’t triggering the transmitter tube.

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6. Failure Analysis

After replacing the PFN, the transmitter works and radar contacts return to the screen. Upon inspection, the PFN had water intrusion, likely due to a weather seal failure during the rainstorm.

Conclusion: You document the failure and recommend improved sealing and regular inspection of weather seals in the maintenance schedule.

Zen and the Art of Radio Maintenance

 Zen and the Art of Amateur Radio Maintenance

In the quiet hours of the evening, with the shack bathed in the glow of dials and displays, there's a kind of meditation that happens. One hand on the tuning knob, ears attuned to the faintest whisper of DX—this isn’t just a hobby. It’s something more.

Many of us came to amateur radio because we were curious. Maybe it was the idea of global communication, maybe emergency preparedness, maybe just a fascination with how things work. But over time, we discover that ham radio offers more than technical challenge or global contacts. It offers a practice—a way of engaging with the world and ourselves. In this way, it’s not unlike the philosophy Robert Pirsig explored in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

Pirsig’s book wasn’t about motorcycles so much as it was about Quality—that hard-to-define but easy-to-recognize harmony between purpose, precision, and presence. Motorcycles, for Pirsig, were a metaphor. For us, it’s the radio.

When we align an antenna, balance a feedline, or troubleshoot a mysterious hum, we’re not just solving problems. We’re participating in a dialogue between man and machine. And in that dialogue, our mindset matters. A distracted mind makes sloppy solder joints. An impatient operator overloads the mic gain. But a calm, attentive operator—someone tuned in not just to the rig, but to themselves—hears the difference. Sees the details. Feels the rhythm of the airwaves.

This is where the classical and romantic ways of thinking meet—another of Pirsig’s key ideas. Some hams love the romance of the air: the call signs, the skip, the excitement of an unexpected contact. Others love the mechanics: decibels, wave theory, circuit design. But the magic happens when we respect both. When we care as much about how it works as about that it works.

At The Great South Bay Amateur Radio Club, we see this balance in our events and in each other. The new ham asking how to get on HF, and the elmer showing how to build a balun from scratch—they’re both on the path. They’re both practicing Quality. It doesn’t matter if you’re on a $3,000 rig or a homebrew QRP setup. What matters is the intention you bring to the mic.

And then there’s the moment we all chase: the signal. Faint, then strong. A voice from across the country—or the world—coming in on 20 meters like it was next door. You respond. You connect. And for that brief window of propagation and presence, you are exactly where you're meant to be.

That’s Quality. That’s Zen.

So the next time you're in your shack, coax wrapped just so, waterfall dancing, and the band conditions suddenly come alive—take a breath. You’re not just operating. You’re practicing a craft that links people, places, and time. You're part of a tradition that values not just communication, but the care that makes it possible.

Tighten that connector. Adjust that tuner. And listen, really listen.

The signal is always out there.

An Electron's Journey through a Receiver

 "Signal Ride: An Electron's Journey"

They say we’re the smallest with the biggest responsibilities. I’m an electron—just one of trillions—but today, I’m on a mission. A broadcast is calling, and I’m riding the wave.

It starts at the antenna, tall and proud, catching electromagnetic waves from a distant radio station. I feel the oscillating electric field wash over me like a rhythmic tide. My charge senses the beat—modulated music encoded in a high-frequency carrier. The wave dances, and I dance with it.

Zzzzap! I'm pushed into motion. I jostle with my fellow electrons in the metal of the antenna, a synchronized sway driven by the incoming signal. Together, we move in harmony, creating a tiny alternating current that mimics the waveform of the broadcast. The signal is weak, fragile—just whispers in copper—but it's enough.

Down the transmission line I go, drawn into the radio's tuning circuit. Coils and capacitors surround me, vibrating with resonance. I only respond to one frequency—the one that matches the natural frequency of this LC circuit. That’s the magic of tuning: all other broadcasts fade away. It’s like a club with a strict guest list. Only my wave gets in.

Next stop: the detector. This is where things get interesting.

The signal’s still riding high frequencies—far too fast for the human ear. But now comes the diode, the bouncer of the circuit, letting electrons like me flow in only one direction. It clips the wave, stripping away the negative half. What’s left is a pulsing envelope—the music itself, hidden in the tremble of our energy. We’ve gone from carrier wave to audio wave, and it’s like the message finally reveals itself.

Low-pass filter time. Capacitors smooth out the jaggedness, and the wave becomes clean, steady—pure audio. I can feel the shape of a human voice in the voltage now, the rise and fall of melody and speech.

But we’re not done yet.

The signal's still weak, barely a whisper. So we head into the amplifier. Transistors flare to life, boosting our voltage, our strength. I surge forward with confidence, part of a flood of electrons now shaped like sound.

Final destination: the speaker.

Here, I meet the coil of the speaker magnet. My current flows through it, generating a magnetic field that pushes and pulls against a permanent magnet. The coil moves. The diaphragm vibrates. Air shifts.

Sound is born.

Music. Voice. A live sports broadcast, maybe. Whatever it is, it started as a wave in the sky and ended as a vibration in your room—all thanks to a journey through silicon, copper, and magnetic fields. My journey.

I’m an electron. And I just brought you a song.