Chris Anderson only wanted his cows back. In June 2011, three heifer/calf pairs absconded from Anderson’s Nelson County, North Dakota, ranch and wandered onto acreage owned by Rodney Brossart. The long-faced patriarch of a close-knit family of “exceedingly hard-working farmers and ranchers, who prefer to limit their contact with governmental actors,” according to his attorney, Brossart penned the cattle and went about his day. When confronted by Anderson about the missing livestock shortly thereafter, Brossart agreed to return Anderson’s animals for a price—the cost of both the feed they had consumed under Brossart’s aegis, as North Dakota law provides, and repairing the “damage” caused by the cattle. Wincing at the ultimatum and seeing no evidence of such damage to any of his neighbor’s structures, Anderson, well aware of Brossart’s prior legal entanglements, cut negotiations with his neighbor and contacted the Nelson County Sheriff’s office.

Finagling a water pump near his own northeast North Dakota farm the following day, sharing perhaps a droll anecdote with his son, Brossart looked up to see Sheriff’s Deputy Eric Braathen and another man approaching slowly. The government men spoke as Brossart listened, looking the men straight in the eyes. With less contempt in his voice than he was entitled for the unexpected and rather public confrontation, Brossart reiterated that he required payment from Anderson before the trespassing cows would be returned. As court documents record, increasingly passionate words were exchanged between parties provoking not only Brossart’s son but his daughter, who arrived on the scene only to humiliate the Deputy with a slap to his face. Handcuffing the Brossart kin, the authorities then tased Rodney into unconsciousness; he awoke moments later to find himself in the back of a squad car—trembling and dripping still from the deluge that had turned cracked prairie earth into a mud slick when the pump had been forsaken—charged with resisting arrest.

After holing themselves up in their farmstead upon hearing of their father’s capture, the rest of the Brossart clan was greeted the next day not merely with a SWAT team from nearby Grand Forks, but what they would later learn were small, silent, and barely visible aircraft in the big sky overhead that had been tracking their movements. By day’s end, five members of the Brossart family, whose surname signals suspiciously French origins in this overwhelmingly Scandinavian region, found themselves in police custody as well.

Satisfied with the episode’s outcome, Anderson retrieved his livestock from the brand inspector, judging them unharmed, if a bit heavier.

Calling the incident a “case of outrageous government conduct,” Fargo attorney Bruce Quick took the assignment immediately, seeing an opportunity at being involved in what several media and civil liberties organizations called an unprecedented event: the first known arrests of U.S. citizens with help from a drone. A lawyer with a Fargo-based law firm, Quick, in building his case, certainly made the drive to Nelson County and back several times in 2011 and 2012, sipping tepid coffee as he sped up and down not only a flat, tree-less Interstate-29, but America’s northernmost east-west thoroughfare Federal Highway 2.

But the drive is less mundane than it sounds. For Quick is sure to have passed repeatedly not only the Air Force Base and Customs and Border Protection office that house the type of drones that snooped his client, but a colossal road sign (financed by defense industry giant Northrup Grumman) immediately west of Grand Forks welcoming him to “Global Hawk Country.” Trumping such a welcome was the strange olive-on-white billboard Quick is also sure to have seen in the evenings driving east along Highway 2 prompting him, in simple block lettering, to “Be Grateful.”

As Brossart, and perhaps Quick, discovered the hard way, drones are everywhere in North Dakota. For most any outside observer, such a development seems odd—counterintuitive, even: North Dakota, one of the least populous and most landlocked states in the union, is truly as far from the world’s commercial, technological, and military intelligence centers as it is rumored to be.

But as it turns out, for historical, cultural, genealogical, and even theological reasons North Dakota proves a natural place for such signs—such an industry—to emerge. That is to say, alongside the “loyal, humane, warmhearted, outgoing” character of the region’s people, as Elwyn Robinson put it in his celebrated History of North Dakota, the state appears to have acquired a taste for suspicion, surveillance, even paranoia.[1] And it is finally turning a profit on this demeanor: not only the military and university programs but an entire reconnaissance economy has emerged in the last decade alongside a series of billboards whose messages have assumed the imperative, we-have-our-eye-on-you tone that Quick is sure to have seen and that Wyndmere native Chuck Klosterman satirized in his semi-autobiographical novel Downtown Owl, whose protagonist notes that in North Dakota, “everybody knew everything [about everyone], all the time.”[2]

More than attesting to the ingenuity and diligence of a people, however, such signifiers serve as an extension of the guarded and almost incredulous psychology that has flourished in this region for generations and makes Nodak an ideal landscape for the deployment of surveillance technologies. What follows is a brief history of how this idealization—especially helpful to the military-industrial complex, agribusiness, and energy economy—came to be.

Such a psyche begins, as does most everything in North Dakota, with agriculture. In an oft-cited interview with Playboy magazine from 1966, Bob Dylan challenged interviewer Nat Hentoff’s charge that Dylan is “fatalistic” by calling himself a farmer, arguing dismissively, “Who ever heard of a fatalistic farmer?” Acknowledging that one can never be certain of the shape-shifting singer’s sincerity, it was clear even four decades ago that Dylan, born and raised in Hibbing, Minnesota (only a few hours east of Brossart’s ranch), was right about his pedigree; unable to control the weather, global commodity prices, labor costs, government subsidies (or lack thereof), and even pestilence as they cultivate their fields, agrarians nevertheless continue to assume the almost irrational attitude that their work, day-in and day-out, can and does influence outcomes. Higher yields, better produce, a more ordered and fruitful world. “As I think about it now, [that] wouldn’t be such a bad place to go back to and die in. There’s no place I feel closer to now, or get the feeling that I’m part of, except maybe New York,” Dylan told Hentoff. “[B]ut I’m not a New Yorker. I’m North Dakota—Minnesota—Midwestern. I’m that color.”[3]

Out of such an ethic, suggests Dylan, emerges not only a certain pride and independence, but a considerable intransigence. “A pioneering spirit runs deep in the hearts of those who till the land, and these settlers of the prairie have never looked kindly upon those who succumb to adversity, blame their troubles on others, or start crying for help when the going gets tough,” Kathryn Dudley adds in her ethnography of farm culture on northern plains, Debt and Dispossession.[4] Agriculture as a way of life seems to require not only the emotional aloofness and self-reliance that characterize Dylan, but an almost obsessive commitment to observing others and an unwritten disciplinary code that forces them to judge both others and themselves for a lack of self-control. “[Farmers] know that they, too, are under constant surveillance,” writes Dudley. “Had they been beguiled by a neighbor’s new tractor and acted impulsively to acquire one like it? Had they given in to the desire to provide nice things for their family?”[5] In Dudley’s estimation, not only does triumph in agriculture depend upon the scrutiny, even suspicion, of one’s compatriots, but the communal ethic of frugality that pulls such questions out of agronomists creates entire communities whose moral worth hinges on visibility, self-control, and stifled desire.

It is true, of course, that the percentage of North Dakotans who actually farm is today very small. But as the farm economy modernized itself in the second half of the 20^th Century and the state’s small towns dried up, migrating to North Dakota’s urban areas were many of those former farmers whose heritage was almost exclusively Scandinavian. And it is this very pedigree that, like agriculture, cannot be divorced from any analysis of North Dakotans’ standoffish and often highly religious taste for surveillance.

In his 1933 novel A Fugitive Crosses His Tracks (En flyktning krysser sitt spor), Norwegian-Danish writer Aksel Sandemose might as well have been describing North Dakota in telling the tale of the kind but reticent people of the fictional town Jante, Denmark, who maintain an informal, alternately pretentious-anxious Decalogue—“Jante’s Law”—that runs thus:

1. Thou shalt not believe thou art something.
   2. Thou shalt not believe thou art as good as we.
   3. Thou shalt not believe thou art more wise than we.
   4. Thou shalt not fancy thyself better than we.
   5. Thou shalt not believe thou knowest more than we.
   6. Thou shalt not believe thou art greater than we.
   7. Thou shalt not believe thou amountest to anything.
   8. Thou shalt not laugh at us.
   9. Thou shalt not believe that anyone is concerned with thee.
   10. Thou shalt not believe thou canst teach us anything.[6]

American Indians notwithstanding, then, such is the attitude of the people who by the time of this novel’s publication had been flocking to North Dakota for decades. And even if this Decalogue’s “thou” in question has changed, the unwritten code continues in an overwhelmingly Scandinavian state whose own watchfulness has increased now that the state has found a way to turn its paranoia into profit. Anticipating not only the Grand Forks Air Force Base’s drone payload but the billboards owned and operated by Newman Signs, in fact, was Jante’s apocryphal eleventh commandment, implied by the novel’s many characters: “Thou shalt not believe there is anything we do not know about you.”

For most Nodak oldsters, Jante’s Law is but an afterthought to the original Decalogue, however. An overwhelmingly Protestant state—according to the Pew Research Center, North Dakota’s religious make-up is still more than 50% Protestant (out of the more than 90% of North Dakotans who claim to believe in God)—North Dakota seems to have gone out of its way to put into practice the theories of German sociologist Max Weber, who nearly a century ago linked Protestantism with both capitalism and community policing. Protestants’ early struggle for theological market share “led naturally to the clericalization of the lay members, who now took over the functions of moral control through self-government, admonition, and possible excommunication,” wrote Weber in “The Protestant Sects and the Spirit of Capitalism.” Such a beginning spawned Protestantism’s ongoing disciplinary regime which in North Dakota especially came to represent “the derivatives of a religious regulation of life which once worked with penetrating efficiency.”[7]

Nodak native, engineer, and part-time farmer Doug Olsen—perhaps the embodiment of Jante’s Law—considers the series of Nordic commandments in silence before adding twist. “In the [big] city you can be anonymous, but out here everyone already knows you anyway,” Olsen quips in a rapid-fire tenor. “And you have to at least try to get along with everybody—because you might need them.” After spending his formative years on a northeastern North Dakota farm, Olsen took a modest North Dakota State University electrical engineering degree with him to Boeing and Raytheon where he developed avionics applications for the military. After several years in industry Olsen returned to North Dakota in the new century to direct the UND-based Upper-Midwest Aerospace Consortium in developing his own surveillance apparatus: the high altitude, quick response, publicly accessible International Space Station Agricultural Camera (ISSAC). Although it was operational for only a few months, before its decommissioning in January 2013 the camera was employed to monitor and track damage that Superstorm Sandy caused New England in October 2012.

“The attitude of the people here is often dismissive of what the ‘experts’ elsewhere are doing. As a result we have both a healthy suspicion of government in general here, and a great tradition of innovation,” Olsen continues, chafing a bit at the suggestion that North Dakotans’ rugged self-reliance and alleged suspicion of government couple awkwardly with its affection for all things military. Rather, he argues, the region’s embrace of military technology and its casual attitude toward surveillance is a result of its anti-fatalism, autonomy, and tendency to circle the wagons, all of which Olsen regards as but another facet of the area’s Protestant penchant for self–policing.

Left unsaid by Olsen is the fact that such an attitude is easy to develop for a people grappling both with the gravity of mutually-assured destruction and the narcissism and arrogance that necessarily accompanies the possession of power on a daily basis. That is to say, in 1957 the U.S. Air Force opened bases near Grand Forks and Minot, each of which for years hosted robust bomber and fighter deployments, almost simultaneously. Then, in the early 1960s, the United States government planted several hundred Minuteman III nuclear missiles in underground silos in the northcentral and northeast regions of the state, as readers familiar with John Badham’s 1983 film War Games will recall. This placement not only made North Dakota, all genealogy aside, a primary target for Russian rockets should the Cold War have turned hot, but ironically made many locals feel indispensable—as if they were at the center of something terrifically important, as Badhams’ film suggested when it referenced Grand Forks by name. (Brossart’s farm, in fact, is located near a former silo and is referred to in court documents as “missile site.”)

Losing most of its bombers but maintaining its arsenal of missiles to this day, the Minot base has been under scrutiny this century for a series of embarrassing incidents, including the arming of a B-52 bomber with active nuclear weapons before its flight to Louisiana in 2007, and the revelation that officers in charge of nuclear launch codes had compromised the codes’ security in 2008.

Following the Soviet Union’s collapse, however, the Grand Forks base found itself in a more difficult position. After the Defense Department closed its Strategic Air Command program in 1992, Grand Forks lost both its 321^st missile wing and its bomber wing, greatly reducing not only personnel stationed at the base, but the economic benefit the base provided its host community. Many of its subterranean silos were imploded; the Oscar-Zero Missile Alert Facility and its accompanying November 33 silo near Cooperstown, ND, were converted into a claustrophobic underground museum and historic site—the Ronald Reagan Minuteman Missile Site.

Threatened with closure, the base accepted the role of hosting the 319^th wing of KC-139 “supertankers”—refueling aircraft—in 1993. When the base was again threatened with closure after the supertankers were reassigned around 2005, North Dakota’s congressional delegation succeeded in helping the base survive another round of shutterings by replacing the supertankers with their opposite. In 2011 arrived the first of many Northrup Grumman unmanned aircraft, in this case the RQ-4 Global Hawk, a small, high-altitude surveillance aircraft that provides intelligence officials with high-resolution images while surveying as many as 40,000 square miles per day.

From day one the mission was welcomed with open arms in North Dakota. “I continue to be optimistic about UAS in North Dakota and take great joy in updating other members of Congress and their families about the work on UAS in our state,” beamed North Dakota’s lone House representative Kevin Cramer to the assembled military, industry, and government officials at the 8^th annual UAS Action Summit in Grand Forks in May 2014. “God bless you in your ongoing work in this arena.”

Or as republican U.S. Senator, John Hoeven put in in a news release announcing the future arrival of the MQ-9 Reaper to his state in 2016, years after lobbying the Air Force to select North Dakota for its new mission, “I’ll continue to make the case that North Dakota is the right location for the new wing. In particular, Grand Forks is well positioned because of all the work we’ve done there to make the region a center for UAS.”

Not only the Grand Forks base, but the Department of Homeland Security’s Customs and Border Protection offices in North Dakota are also testing drones, Hoeven reminded his constituents, as is the Air National Guard unit in Fargo, which flies the deadly MQ-1 Predator B drone, best known for its targeted killing of suspected terrorists in Pakistan, Yemen, Afghanistan, and elsewhere.

Long even before the Reaper mission was secured, Hoeven’s state’s flagship intellectual institution, the University of North Dakota, became the first four-year public university to offer an accredited Unmanned Aircraft Systems undergraduate major. The university was also first in the nation at developing a UAS Research and Compliance committee, charged with exploring the privacy, ethical, and social concerns that have already emerged with such a major and industry.

Establishing such a major at UND only makes sense: as a walk through the vendor room at a recent UAS Action Summit demonstrates, the number of consulting, software, manufacturing, communications, and training firms dedicated to UAS-oriented technologies and applications to set up shop in North Dakota in the last decade has shocked even local officials who are scrambling to find operations space and housing for the firms and their employees. Beyond Northrup Grumman, several national and international companies have established offices in the region in recent years or reframed their business models here specifically to satisfy UAS industry needs, including General Atomics Aeronautical Systems, Laserlith, BoldMethod, Ideal Aerosmith, and Brown Corporation (whose Unmanned Systems Proving Grounds sit quietly three miles south of Grand Forks). These major firms complement the dozens of local businesses that have emerged in Grand Forks County especially to exploit the local focus on UAS, including SkyScopes, a communications and energy site inspection firm whose CEO Matt Dunlevy moonlights as an instructor for UND’s Entrepreneurship program.

Building on its designation by the FAA as one of a handful of states tasked with developing a plan for integrating drones into the national airspace, North Dakota opened America’s first commercial unmanned aircraft systems campus in Grand Forks County in 2015: Grand Sky. Anchored by General Atomics and Northrup Grumman, and situated adjacent to the Grand Forks Air Force Base, the Grand Sky project represents the culmination of a $300 million investment made on the part of both industry and the state of North Dakota. As an AUVSI media release sings, Grand Sky is expected to lead to the creation of 3,000 direct and indirect jobs in the region and contribute to the $82 billion in “economic impact” the UAS industry will generate for the United States by 2025.

Many of these firms partner with other organizations such as the non-profit Association for Unmanned Vehicle Systems International (AUVSI) or the Advanced Technical Intelligence Center, an Ohio-based, quasi-academic organization “established to help address critical human capital and technological development needs within the US Intelligence Community and related industries.”

For North Dakota native Doug McDonald, Special Operations Director for the Unmanned Applications Institute International and President of the Great Plains chapter of the AUVSI, the explosion of UAS activity in North Dakota comes as no surprise. “The UAS industry is primarily interested in uncongested airspace, which we certainly have,” McDonald explains from his office at the UND Center for Innovation and directing visitors to a small table outside his office proffering passersby complimentary copies of the industry magazine Unmanned Systems and bumper stickers reading “My other vehicle is unmanned.” “But North Dakota also offers the industry an almost ideal venue for each of the sectors into which the market is moving.” According to McDonald, although other parts of the country have been courting UAS-affiliated entrepreneurs, North Dakota—in addition to its big sky, weather diversity, and sparsely populated landscape—has for generations nurtured not only agronomy but the energy and manufacturing sectors, each of which are already seeking to exploit UAS technology. “Right now they have guys in trucks driving up and down the pipeline checking for leaks,” McDonald adds, referring to the recent oil boom in western North Dakota. “Why not just a have a UAV do that? Or scan for rust on your wheat crop? It sounds cliché, but we’re literally turning swords into ploughshares here.”

Furthermore, the largely unglamorous work being done by drones in many ways mirrors not only the North Dakota approach to problem solving, explains McDonald, but signals the region’s view of itself generally: “The line around the UAS industry you often hear is that the work unmanned systems do is ‘dirty, dull, and dangerous.’ What better way to describe the farm ethic here? By default we embrace things in a different way. Traditional things like hard work and honesty. Very little cynicism. And even though we are isolated up here we look you in the eye and say ‘hi’ to people we don’t know.” It is these values that McDonald, whose maternal grandparents were North Dakota farmers, cherishes and sees in the imperative billboard series. “Harold had a great idea,” McDonald concludes referring to Harold Newman, whose Jamestown, ND, firm Newman Signs is responsible for the two-tone roadside campaign Brossart’s lawyer is sure to have seen. “I think he is trying to reaffirm those traits that North Dakotans have traditionally valued. Some of it may seem corny or unsettling to outsiders, but I like [the signs].” For McDonald, the billboard campaign reinforces not only the region’s culture of openness and congeniality, but also gestures toward its more generalized indifference to—or familiarity with—being watched: “We know we’re being watched all the time. Planes or neighbors—it doesn’t matter. We just don’t care.”

McDonald’s view has been confirmed by scholarship from the university, in fact: a white paper developed by researchers at UND suggests that other than taking exception to the use of drones for the delivery of alcohol, North Dakotans have minimal concern with how the growth of UAS in the region affects their privacy. Survey results collected from several hundred area residents in 2014 shows incredible levels of support for UAS industry generally, including 83% support for use of drones by government for intelligence gathering and reconnaissance, and an astounding 70% approval of drone use by the U.S. military “Within US borders.” Only 18% of those surveyed expressed any concern with the impact UAS industry has on their personal privacy.

It is with such survey results in mind that the North Dakota legislature, which meets for only about 80 days every other year, took up legislation that would restrict the use of UAS in the state. Whereas several states—Iowa, Idaho, Virginia, Florida, Tennessee, Texas, Illinois—have passed at times sweeping bills restricting drone use, however, North Dakota legislators passed a bill in 2015 merely prohibiting the weaponization of drones used by the state and required that authorities obtain a search warrant to conduct surveillance with a drone. The bill placed no restrictions on the commercial or private use of drones.

“I was becoming aware of what was going on with drones [in the area] and I had a constituent reach out to me with a concern” explains Rick Becker, a republican representing Bismarck in the state legislature. But after the broader bill Becker presented in 2013 failed, a more focused piece of legislation (which received a favorable review from both the law enforcement community and UND) easily passed the legislature in 2015. As state senator Kelly Armstrong, a republican from Dickinson, noted enthusiastically in floor comments before voting for the revised bill, “This bill is a lot more narrowly tailored than the one we had two years ago.” And drone business has been booming in North Dakota ever since.

Giving North Dakota’s legislature pause was not only the Air Force, UND, the Grand Sky team, or AVUSI, but the state’s Chamber of Commerce, which understands that the state’s legislative minimalism has been and will continue to be rewarded generously by the market: as several economic impact studies suggest, states providing a favorable environment for UAS integration are almost guaranteed a chunk of that $82 billion.

So is North Dakota doing an astounding job of turning both the stereotypes the rest of America has about the state and its own laissez-faire approach to surveillance into dollar signs. Or, as McDonald puts it, UAS has been a “steadying influence” on the North Dakota economy, which weathered the Great Recession far better than the rest of the country; as of this writing North Dakota’s unemployment rate is below three percent, and has been so for most of the decade. Especially important to McDonald, though, is the fact that its embrace of UAS is changing the country’s response to his home state: “We’re now being seen by people around the country as a technology enabler. I’ve honestly gone from people at conferences years ago asking me if North Dakota ‘still has Indians’ and things like that to them hearing I’m from Nodak and asking me to sit at the head of the table with them. This is changing everything.”

It certainly changed things for Paula Kranz, whose biography both signifies the profits and pratfalls that accompany those who emerge from the surveillance state and, as such, serves as a useful conclusion to this enquiry. Born and raised in the very middle of the North Dakota, Kranz would graduate from Bismarck Century High School (home of the Patriots) in 1991 with the triple crown—homecoming queen, student council president, valedictorian. Immediately thereafter, Kranz, cutting a fit figure and wide smile, abandoned the prairie for the rigorous West Point Academy, finishing at the top of her class there as well.

At the academy, though, Broadwell also developed a reputation as something of a self-promoting opportunist who overstated her accomplishments. Her embellishments aside, Kranz proved a determined and meticulous Army Reserve officer and would eventually earn graduate degrees from the University of Denver and Harvard. It was at Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government that the now Paula Broadwell heard a lecture by soon-to-be CIA chief General David Petraeus. Blushing little, Broadwell immediately introduced herself after the 2006 speech, telling the general that she was beginning doctoral work at Harvard which included a dissertation on Petraeus’s leadership style.

Impressed with Broadwell’s military background and drive, Petraeus handed Broadwell his card as she and a handful of other grad students joined the general for dinner. When the two later connected in the nation’s Capitol in 2008, after Broadwell had been asked to leave Harvard before finishing her degree, Petraeus invited Broadwell to go jogging with him one crisp Washington morning. It was during this run that initial plans were laid for the Nodak native to convert the unfinished dissertation into an “intellectual biography” of the self-described soldier-scholar.

The product of this conversation was All In: The Education of General David Petraeus, a highly engaging, if largely uncritical, account not simply of Petraeus’s military career and transformational leadership style, but of the role the General played in converting the American military from an awe-inspiring monster-force into a leaner, and more disturbing, counterinsurgency machine based increasingly around enhanced ISR (Intelligence, Surveillance, Reconnaissance) capabilities. “Petraeus’s success on the battlefield, his status as a military intellectual and his will to succeed allowed him to shape not only doctrine,” Broadwell gushes at one point of the man whose surname calls to mind Greco-Roman mythology, “but also organizational design, training, education and leadership development in the Army and, in many respects, the broader military.”[8] As Broadwell makes clear throughout the book, in a narrative that reads as a paean to surveillance and discipline and anticipates the social upheaval to come, Petraeus played a sizable role in convincing Barack Obama to employ more Nodak-tested drones and fewer soldiers not only in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Pakistan, but across the Middle East following the Arab Spring in 2011.

Left unwritten by Broadwell, of course, is the book’s afterword: not long after their initial jog Broadwell and Petraeus fell into a clandestine affair that would last years and lead ultimately to Petraeus’s public humiliation and resignation from the CIA. The sensational story was one of the biggest political news items of 2012, topped only by the presidential election. Scandal aside, what writers from outside North Dakota reporting on the affair missed was its far more fascinating subtext. Combining her upbringing and genealogy with the deference Broadwell gives Petraeus, the UAS industry, and the military in her book suddenly, astoundingly, clarifies Broadwell’s attraction to the nation’s top spy: having been raised in a surveillance-oriented, disciplined, and at times surprisingly overconfident place—which has deferred to the military for generations—the Four-Star General and reconnaissance expert naturally reminded the wistful former Bismarck Century Patriot of home. ⍟

Notes

[1] Elwyn Robinson, The History of North Dakota (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1966), 555.

[2] Chuck Klosterman, Downtown Owl (New York: Scribner, 2008), 201.

[3] “Interview with Nat Hentoff, Playboy” (March 1966), Bob Dylan: The Essential Interviews, Ed. Jonathan Cott (New York: Wenner, 2006), 105.

[4] Kathryn Dudley, Debt and Dispossession (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000), 5.

[5] Dudley, Debt and Dispossession, 117.

[6] Aksel Akselmose, A Fugitive Crosses His Tracks (En flyktning krysser sitt spor), 1933, Trans. Eugene Gay-Tifft (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1936), 78.

[7] See H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills, From Max Weber:  Essays in Sociology (1948; Abingdon, U.K.: Routledge, 1970), 317.

[8] Paula Broadwell, All In: The Education of David Petraeus (New York: Penguin, 2012), preface, 6.