Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Brian Holland, FBI Informant

A guy I never heard of before, named Brian Holland, has apparently gone on a nationwide internet radio show called Coast To Coast A.M. and confessed to having been an FBI informant for the past 11 years. He claims to have received up to $8,000 per month not only informing on the National Socialist Movement (NSM) but also on PETA and some drug dealers.

Interestingly, he said that he was subjected to regular surprise polygraph tests by the Bureau to make sure he was not withholding information and was telling them the whole truth

Holland's act seems to be in retaliation for the FBI abruptly cutting him off from the gravy train with no explanation. The NSM has responded with a statement saying that Holland was expelled in 2010 for embezzling funds and gambling with them. (Who the hell did he think he was, David Duke?)

Holland is, of course, now in the process of writing a book telling his riveting story and complaining about the Bureau "throwing him under the bus" after he "risked his life" for 11 years. Spying on PETA and drug dealers was risky, sure, since they actually do things to informers. We never do.

The archive of the show is available, but only to paid Coast to Coast subscribers. I am not going to spend too much time on this, since the story seems to be pretty typical and there is no Northwest connection. But I can't help but wonder, given the Bureau's apparent propensity to employ career informers at generous piecework rates, who else the loathsome Larry Fairfax informed on and framed besides Edgar Steele?

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Crime Pays. Ask Larry Fairfax.

What's that you say? It's sour grapes from Edgar Steele's family and supporters when they observe that FBI informant Larry Fairfax soon faces release from his barely 24-month incarceration? Sorry, it goes much deeper than sour grapes when the facts are compared, as we'll see in a moment.

It's likely most readers of this piece already know the back-story, but if not, please visit the Free Edgar Steele web site for more info.

In brief, north Idaho's Edgar Steele is framed by his handyman Larry Fairfax in a fabricated murder-for-hire plot; the System jails Fairfax with a hand-slap sentence; the System efficiently denies Steele any semblance of a fair trial or justice with the judge repeatedly saying: “Don’t do anything to make the government look bad,” and convicts him of all counts; Steele, age 66, is serving 50 years. Fairfax will be released in about 3 months from the date of this writing.

Let's observe the facts about the life of Fairfax as the tool of the FBI and court system:

During the past 20-some months, Mr. Fairfax has been a general-population inmate. During the same time frame, Mr. Steele has been subjected to special solitary confinement, mail interception, loss of client-attorney privacy and minimal access to medical support.

Mr. Fairfax admitted he put the bomb on Mr. Steele's wife Cyndi's SUV with intent to murder her and confessed in court that he assembled and attached the device. Mr. Steele was charged with “possession of an explosive device with intent to kill” when the evidence proved he never possessed the components to construct any bomb.

FBI informer Fairfax – given a sweet deal by the Federal prosecution – was never charged with attempted murder or any charge that could result in a serious 10-year sentence. Mr. Steele's efforts to prove his complete innocence by analysis of critical evidence was derailed at every turn by a judge and prosecution who are, by federal law, entitled to receive bonus pay for convictions.

Mr. Fairfax was assigned to a facility in western Washington and has now been transitioned into a residential reentry center (RRC) , which rivals some decent hotel environments, for the remaining few months of his sentence.

Mr. Steele, designated as a low security, non-violent risk, has been sent to southern California, to a high security facility with jet fuel in the ground water that causes astrocytoma, a spine and brain forming tumor without cure, that kills its victims and is seriously suspect, if not ultimately lethal, to the health of inmates.

It's unknown if Mr. Fairfax has received visits from his family (a long day's drive from his north Idaho home). It's known that Mr. Steele is denied contact of any form with his wife, because the Bureau of Prisons is concerned about some fictitious “danger” to the security of the facility.

[Interjection - In my opinion the government intends to murder Steele, and is preparing the way for this by keeping him incommunicado and without his medication, as they did during the first six weeks or so of his arrest in 2010, although Steele declined to oblige them by dying even though deprived of his medicine. - HAC]

In his transitional halfway house, the federal government says: FBI informer Fairfax will receive employment counseling, job placement, financial management assistance, and other programs and services in a safe, structured, supervised environment. In his distant prison, Mr. Steele continues to be denied attorney-client privacy and his correspondence is opened without his knowledge, is monitored, and sometimes “lost” before he ever gets it.

When released in a few weeks, Mr. Fairfax may return to his old stomping grounds. If Cyndi Steele remains at her home, only a few miles away from her ex-handyman-bomber, she is worried about her own safety and security because the federal government stated that they would “NOT provide her any protection, whatsoever.” (So much for victim protection\.)

She feels forced to move away from their home of 15 years in order to secure her own safety from the FBI confidential informant, who is the FBI’s asset and tool that facilitated this whole, sordid fiasco because the SPLC demanded that the FBI bring Edgar Steele down. What the hey? Fairfax needed money to pay up the foreclosure on his house and a way to cover up his theft of $45,000 in silver bullion, so one hand was washing the other.

These points and others have nothing to do with sour grapes. These points have everything to do with the side of American corruption you happen to fall on. For all the bumbling, all the private court sidebar conversations from which Mr. Steele was excluded, all the glaring misconduct in the courtroom, all the US Marshals' heavy-handedness handling Mr. Steele, our government has the armed thugs and money to intimidate anyone and the motivation to silence whichever citizen they select.

How soon will you or I be next to get the Steele treatment?

We remain outraged at Mr. Fairfax receiving a paltry 2 year sentence for his crimes, due to the governmen) not charging him with attempted murder for planting a bomb on a vehicle that literally endangered thousands of lives. What terrorism is the FBI really protecting us from?

There is no question whatsoever that Mr. Steele – jailed for speaking politically incorrect truth – has been targeted to be an example and a warning to others. Let’s face it, Mr. Steele is nothing more than a political prisoner.

The Steele camp lost the skirmish, sorry to say, but, we will win the battle.

Saturday, February 25, 2012

Hill of the Ravens Audio Book

Hi, guys:

A couple of weeks ago I ran an excerpt from an audio book of Comrade Sidney from Louisiana reading The Hill of the Ravens. At that time I explained my attitude toward audio books of my novels, i.e. I have neither the time nor the inclination to read them vocally but if anyone else wanted to do so, fine. Comrade Sidney has now done the entire book and read it into a massive audio file, which he has zipped and uploaded to the following site:


The file can be downloaded from there. If anyone is so inclined, listen to the file and let me know what you think of it.


Friday, February 24, 2012

How White Men Lost The World


You know that wonderful White world we had a hundred years ago? The one you caught a glimpse of in the San Francisco trolley car film clip I sent out about a year ago?

Well, this is how it ended. This is how we lost the world.

I apologize for the stupid advertisement at the beginning of this video. Skip over it if your software allows it, and if not just sit through it. You all need to see and wrap your minds around this. This is a kind of depressing thing for us to watch, but we need to understand how the world got so horrible.

These things you see here are almost within living memory. Color photography makes it all real, not just flat black-and-white stills or grainy speeded-up black-and-white films.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Radio Free Northwest - February 23rd, 2012


This week we meet a new female comrade, Olivia. The Gang of Four talk about Action Andy's pro-bullying stance, and HAC talks about terrorism so the listening FBI and JTTF agents will have something to put in their reports and maybe get little gold stars on their foreheads from Eric Holder.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Colloquy from A Mighty Fortress

Cody got out of the Cadillac, reached back in and pulled the Makarov out of the holster of his web belt, and stuck it into his belt behind his back. “One of you bring my belt, will you? I don’t want whoever answers the door to see me wearing it if they look out first.” He took his AK from Jack and went up the front walk to the door. He leaned his rifle against the corner of the door frame, out of sight. Then he rang the doorbell.

After a short delay Doctor Ed Shipman opened the door, dressed casually in shorts and a knit shirt and sandals. He looked distracted. “Oh, hello, Cody,” he said. “I didn’t know you were coming over. If you had a date or something with Kelly, she forgot to mention it. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but this isn’t a good time. Not only is there apparently all kinds of rioting and shooting going on all over town, but we’ve got a bit of a family crisis on our hands, and I…”

“I’m not here to see Kelly, Doctor Shipman,” Cody said politely. “I’m here to see you.”


“Yes, I’m afraid we need your help. Medical help.”

“Who’s we?” asked Kelly’s father. Suddenly Shipman looked up as the three other Volunteers appeared behind Cody. The bare-chested Brown was able to stumble along, but he was leaning on Jack, and the bandages his hand were starting to drip red. Nightshade stood beside them with the M-16 on her hip, Cody’s web belt over her shoulder, rolled balaclava on her head, looking very revolutionary and determined. Cody reached down and took up his own Kalashnikov. He didn’t point it. “Our friend has been shot. He needs your help,” he told the flabbergasted Shipman.

“Oh my God,” he breathed. “You’re one of them?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“But you’ve been a guest in my house!” babbled Shipman in a daze. “You’ve been out with my daughter! You…”

“We need to come in, sir,” said Cody politely but firmly. “If we’re seen standing out here and one of your neighbors makes a phone call, then you might end up having some visitors who are even more unwelcome than we are.” As if to give point to his remarks, there was another sudden burst of machinegun fire, spluttering rifles, and several explosions possibly a half a mile away.

“What are you going to do if I refuse, son?” demanded Shipman. “Are you going to shoot me?”

Cody ignored the question. “We’re wasting time, Doctor Shipman,” he said.

“Oh, Christ!” sighed Shipman, accepting the inevitable. “The whole damned world has gone insane! Bring him in!” They half-carried Brown into the house, down a hallway, and into Doctor Shipman’s medical office. Shipman opened a folding partition into a room glass cabinets and a paper-covered examination table. “Lie down there, Mister…what’s your name anyway? Or do I really want to know?”

“They call me Farmer Brown.”

“What happened?” asked Shipman.

“What the hell do you think happened?” growled Brown. “A political gangster with a Federal badge shot me.”

“That’s his job!” snapped Shipman. “Shooting political gangsters without badges.”

“Yeah, well, this is the last job he’ll ever do,” said Brown. Shipman turned pale.

“Dear God, we see this on television, and sometimes we forget it’s all real,” he moaned. He turned to Cody. “What the hell have you been doing tonight? Are you people trying to take over the city or something? Why all this shooting and bombing?”

“Uh, you didn’t see the President on TV tonight, sir?” asked Cody.

“No, I was going to watch but something came up, a family matter, and…why, what did she say?”

“Well, I don’t quite know how to tell you this, Doctor Shipman, but the Americans have surrendered,” said Cody. “We’re going to get our Republic, and you’re standing in the middle of it.”

“What?” shouted Shipman. “What the hell do you mean the Americans have surrendered? You’re an American yourself!”

“Just because I was born in a sty, that doesn’t make me a pig,” replied Cody evenly.

Shipman shuddered. “Okay, look, I’m not even going to try to wrap my mind around what you just said. I’ll do what I can for this man and then it would be nice if all of you would leave, and it would be even nicer if you’d leave without murdering anyone in this house.” He went to a drawer, drew out some stainless steel scissors, and cut the bandages away. “What did you do to him thus far?” he demanded, studying the wound.

“Sterilized it with alcohol,” said Brown.

“He’s had two oxycodones,” spoke up Emily.

“That’s good, because otherwise he’d be screaming in agony and going into shock,” said Shipman. “I suppose a hospital is out of the question? Silly me.” He examined the wound with a probe light on an odoscope. “Good clean wound, at least. Okay, the alcohol was a good move. It partially cauterized the injury and hopefully stopped any immediate infection. You had a stroke of luck in that it was through and through, and also that it seems to have missed the bone, although I’m going to have to X-ray it and make sure. There are no major arteries in the palm, although there’s sure to be nerve damage and I can’t promise you that you’ll have much use of the hand, not yet. I am going to apply a local anesthetic, do the X-ray, and then depending on what I see there I’ll pack it with antibiotic foam and put on a better dressing. I’ll give you an antibiotic as well. The packing will hurt like hell but we can’t leave that hole open. The oxycodone will do for a while, but they’re addictive as the devil. You need to take it down to Darvon or something lighter as soon as you can. Do you know your blood type?”

“A-negative,” said Brown.

“You’re sure? I’ll need to top you up and I don’t want you going into shock.”

“I’m sure.”

“Believe it or not, you’re not the first person to come in here with a gunshot wound they want treated with discretion, although usually it’s some eminent person who doesn’t want the world to know what games he’s been playing with sex and drugs and rock and roll.” He took a phial out of the drug cabinet and tore open the paper wrapping of a syringe.

“Ed, what’s going on?” spoke up his wife Marty fearfully from the doorway. “Who are these people? Cody?”

“Hey, Mrs. Shipman,” said Cody. “I’m really sorry about this, but we need your husband’s help. We don’t want to be here any more than you want us here, and we’ll be gone as soon as our friend has been seen to.”

“Guns!” she said, shrinking. “Oh, Cody, I always thought you were one of the good and decent ones!”

“He is, ma’am,” said Brown from the table. “That’s why he’s carrying a gun tonight.”

“I don’t understand. Which side are you on?” asked Marty, confused and upset.

“Oh, they’ve got us working for the other side tonight, marm,” Jack Flash told her cheerily.

Shipman injected the wounded area several times, making Brown wince. “Lie back. We’ll give that a minute or to take effect.” He pulled a big wad of gauze off a roll and cut it with the scissors, then folded it up in a smaller roll. “All right, one of you needs to put down your weapon, come here and hold this down into the hand, while I set up the X-ray machine. Don’t worry, none of us will snatch up your gun and do a Bruce Willis. None of us would no what to do with one anyway.”

“I never would allow guns in my house,” said Marty.

“I’ll do it, Dad,” said Kelly Shipman, calmly walking into the room. She was barefooted and wearing gym shorts and a sweat shirt, and her long blonde hair was down her back and wet, as if she had just stepped out of the shower, which she had. She had been in the shower for almost two hours and finally accepted that she would never again be clean.

“Kelly, I think you need to go back upstairs,” said Ed. “I’ll take care of this.”

“I’ve helped you before, and I don’t think any of our guests has had the hospital CNA course I went through,” said Kelly. She did not look at Cody. “I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of anything any more.” She walked to the head of the table and took the roll of gauze from her father, and molded it gently and firmly into Farmer Brown’s gunshot wound to absorb the oozing blood and lymphatic fluid. Shipman went to his cabinet and began pulling out X-ray plates. Then she finally looked up, at Jack Flash. “I know Cody and Emily, but you I’ve never seen before,” she said. “You don’t go to Hillside High, do you?”

“No, I got my A levels some time ago, in the U. K.,” said Jack.

“We call him Jumping Jack Flash,” said Cody. “The man you’re working on is Farmer Brown. I know you won’t believe this of any of us, but he’s a good man and worthy of your help.”

“I’m glad. I could do with meeting a good man today,” she said quietly.

“You know, in view of this evening’s developments, it strikes me that we really have no further need for a nom de guerre,” said Jack. “My name is Nigel Moore, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Shipman.”

“That’s your real name?” asked Nightshade.

“It’s the name I’m wanted under in Britain, yes,” said Jack with a David Niven-ish smile.

“What did you do in Britain?” asked Marty fearfully. “Did you kill someone?”

“Actually, I was a columnist for a student newspaper at Oxford, and one night after a bit of a fracas with a West Indian policeman I came back to the Quad quite bottled, got onto my laptop, and wrote an article which carried ten years’ penal servitude under the Race Relations Act. I hit send, and staggered into bed to sleep it off. I was awakened the next morning by the Special Branch dragging me out of bed and kicking me with steel-toed shoes. In view of the fact that my copybook was now permanently blotted, I decided to come to this country where the racial resistance has taken on a more robust form.”

“He drinks tea, too!” Emily informed them. “With his pinky extended!”

“You couldn’t murder black people in your own country so you came here to do it?” snapped Doctor Shipman. “Is that it? So you can take over and lord it over us here in Washington?”

Moore replied with cool courtesy, “In point of fact, doctor, my reason for joining the NVA and helping to establish the Republic here is rather similar to the motivations of most foreign Volunteers. We want help to go back to our own countries and fight against the same kind of Zionist régimes as those which broke my ribs with those steel-toed boots, and put the bullet in that man on your table.”

“And what about you?” Kelly asked Emily. “I thought you were kidnapped and brutalized by these gentry a few weeks ago? You must have one hell of a case of Stockholm syndrome.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” said Emily. “My code name is Patty Hearst. Death to the Zionist insect!”

“Well, congratulations are in order, I suppose,” said Kelly with a faint smile. “I had the TV on when I was upstairs drying off. Everybody’s going batshit over the President’s speech tonight. Looks like we’re going to be living in the Fourth Reich soon, Dad. Better start learning how to click your heels, and I suppose I’d better quit calling you guys spuckies.”

“That’s Mister Spucky from now on!” said Cody.

“What? You were serious?” said Shipman, staring incredulously. “The President and the Congress are actually going to hand us over to—you people?”

“It’s not that simple, and there’s a lot that has to happen still, but the process has begun, yes,” said Brown. “That’s what all the street fighting is about tonight. There are those who can’t handle the idea and they’re refusing to go along.”

“Then you can still be stopped!” said Shipman desperately.

“Check the news from Eastgate Mall,” said Brown. “That was where I got this. It was we who stopped them tonight. Barely armed kids and blue collar rednecks like me, the people you rich guys have spent your whole lives looking through like we didn’t exist, until you needed us to fix your cars and your air conditioners and your toys. Outnumbered three to one, and we beat the best America could put up. We wiped them out. We’ll stop them again tomorrow, and as long as we have to, until every American soldier leaves our land and that goddamned red, white, and blue Masonic dishrag comes down forever in the Northwest.”

“As Victor Hugo said, ‘Mightier than the tread of marching armies is the power of an idea whose time has come.’” put in Jack

“We’ll leave,” muttered Shipman. “We’ll get the hell out. We’ll all go to California with Kelly.”

“I hope not, sir,” said Cody. “The Republic is going to need you. All of you.”

Shipman sighed. “Now’s not the time or the place.” He turned on the overhead light. “Right, let’s get you under that X-ray machine over there.”

It took almost an hour for Shipman to perform the best repair job he could on Farmer Brown’s bullet wound and transfuse him with a pint of whole blood and a pint of saline. “As reluctant as I am to entertain you people in my home for any longer than necessary, he needs to rest for a couple of hours so I can monitor his condition, make sure he doesn’t go into shock, and he can recover some of his strength. After that you can move him, but I really would recommend he get to a legitimate hospital as soon as he can, if that’s possible. God knows what will be possible after tonight.”

Cody had spent the past fifteen minutes talking with Joe Dortmunder on his cell. “It may be more possible than you think, Doctor Shipman,” he said after hanging up.

“What the hell’s happening out there?” demanded Farmer Brown, lying on the table in his still wet cast.

“There’s still a lot of fighting going on, and there have been a lot of casualties, including some of ours,” Cody told him soberly. “But the FATPO seem to be pulling in their horns, and they’re scuttling back to their barracks. Apparently they honestly never expected we’d come out and face them, like that bunch tonight at the mall. Brigade is waiting on orders from the Army Council as to whether we start dropping mortar rounds and rockets on the barracks and stations, or whether that would be too much of a ceasefire violation. Anyway, after we left to come here, the captain got an idea. Instead of taking those Fattie guns and vehicles off somewhere, he went back in and more or less took over Eastgate Mall himself, and one of our guys who knows electronics was able to fix that WKPR-FM radio hookup so that it could broadcast again. He called the station and said if they didn’t transmit what he was saying they’d be getting a visit from the NVA, and they got the message and put Bells on the air. He told the audience who were listening who he was, and where he was, and what happened earlier tonight to those Fatties who’d been ranting and raving on the air, and he said ‘We got a lot of guns down here and those Fatties ain’t gonna need ‘em any more, so anyone who wants to join the NVA, come on down to Eastgate Mall.’ And guess what? Already we’ve signed on a hundred new Volunteers, even if it is almost midnight. We always had to recruit in secret before, but now that people know where to find us, looks like we’ll have more than enough Volunteers to create a genuine national army.”

“Civil war instead of mere terrorism,” moaned Shipman. “Beautiful! I suppose you have some justification for all this, something about not being able to make an omelette without breaking eggs? What’s the term you Brits came up with? I used to see it all the time on all the war monuments when I went to England. Dulcy something Latin?”

“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” corrected Jack Flash. “How sweet and good it is to die for your country, which of course is a load of bollocks. Death is never sweet or good. And yes, with regard to those two pointless and stupid wars against our racial cousins in Germany, it was the old school lie. But sometimes, doctor, worthwhile things can come of death. I happen to believe that this is worthwhile, because I have seen what came of listening to the lies of the people who have sent Englishmen to die everywhere from the Somme to Anzio to Basra, always for the benefit of same alien race of thieves and liars. This time we are killing and dying for our own blood and a Homeland for all of us, sir. To me, that makes a difference, and I am willing.”

“God, I love that accent,” said Kelly with a smile.

“You should hear me emote Shakespeare, Miss Shipman. ‘How now, you black and midnight hags, what is’t you do?’”

“Look, I suppose I might as well make us all some supper,” said Marty wanly. “I promise none of us will run away or try to call the police. God knows I don’t want this fighting to come to our house.”

“I’ll stay with Mr. Brown,” said Shipman. “You three go on and have something to eat, and Marty, could you bring in some soup for our patient? Kelly…” he said turning to his daughter.

“I’m all right, Dad, as all right as I’ll ever be,” she told him. “Actually this has been a therapeutic distraction for me. Besides, it can’t hurt to get in good with the new régime.”

“You have, you know,” said Cody. “You too, Doctor Shipman. We won’t forget this. I really do hope you’ll reconsider leaving the Republic. It’s to be a home for all of us, like Jack, er, Nigel said.”

After they left the surgery Shipman stared after them. “My God, they’re just children! Even that English kid! He ought to be out sculling on the Serpentine or in some pub drinking warm beer and talking drunken undergraduate bullshit, not coming to a foreign country to commit murder, and maybe die when he runs into someone who’s a better shot than the one who plugged you. As to the others—high school? How can you lead boys like Cody to their death?” demanded Shipman roughly. “Or that skinny little girl who thinks she’s Patty Hearst and it’s all some kind of giggly game? How can you live with yourself, knowing that you’re destroying the lives of children? White children, since I know you don’t care about black or brown ones.”

Brown sighed. “I got nothing against black or brown children, any more than I have anything against rabbits or mice. But you can’t let rabbits or mice run loose in your fields, or they’ll destroy your crops and devour your grain while giving nothing in return, and then nobody eats. And Cody isn’t a boy. He became a man the day he stood up and took on a man’s work in life by striking a blow at the enemies who destroyed his family, no matter what you think of his choice. There’s nothing wrong with becoming a man at sixteen. That’s the way it used to be for many thousands of years before we got so damned civilized, and that’s the way it needs to be again. But if you think we just use kids like Cody and Emily for cannon fodder, well, you’re wrong. I’m not going to argue with you, but you’re wrong.” He was quiet for a time. “They call me Farmer Brown because I used to have a farm once, seven hundred acres of prime wheat and sorghum and soybean in Latah, just outside Spokane. I had a son, too.”

“What happened?” asked Shipman.

“The bank took my farm and Iraq took my boy. And yeah, every day I collect a little on that debt from the pigs in human form who did that to me, and I enjoy every minute of it. That pleasure’s the only one I’ve got left in life. I could get the farm back after we win the Republic, but what would be the point? No one to leave it to. But it’s not just revenge. Revenge all on its own is nothing but a black hole you can never fill up, and I’m not so dumb or full of hate that I don’t understand that. I’m a Volunteer to make sure it never happens again. Do you think for one minute that after having buried my own son, I would ever lead Cody or anyone else into danger of death by gunfire unless there was no other way to make things right with the world? I tried your way. I even ran for office before 10/22. None of the local television stations or newspapers would take my advertising, my campaign manager was beaten by hired goons, I was arrested on a phony charge of embezzling campaign funds, and I still won, so my opponent simply went scuttling to a Jewish Federal judge and had the result thrown out. We use bullets now, not ballots. Bullets work. Ballots don’t, unless you count ‘em yourself.”

“You can’t order the future all nice and neat with a gun!” said Shipman.

“Yeah, I know that too. But I can try. I can do what little I can, and if enough of us just do what little I can, well, maybe we can’t make sure everybody gets a winning hand a hundred and two hundred years from now, but at least we can re-shuffle the deck.”

Shipman sighed and slumped into a chair. After a while Brown said, “By the way, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Shipman.

Axis Sally's Blog


Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Good Video

It's been marked as "offensive", so you'd better catch it before the Jews pull it down.

Monday, February 20, 2012

Freedom's Sons

Hi, guys:

Okay, an acceptable copy of Freedom’s Sons, Volume One is now available for sale online at


Guys, I apologize for the frequent ads, but I am now working on FS Volume Two, and obviously there's not going to be much market for that if I can't get people interested in Volume One.


Sunday, February 19, 2012


What's green, found in water and croaks?

A frog.

What's black, found in water and croaks?

Whitney Houston.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

Aryan Nations 2012

On my way back from Idaho last week, I stopped at Pastor and Betty Butler's graves in the Hayden Lake cemetery to pay my respects. Afterwards I drove past the Church property which had been seized after the lawsuit against the church in 2002. It was overcast with snow on the ground and the gate was locked with a no trespassing sign attached so I climbed over and walked the 80 yards up the road to see what was left.

The entire site has been bulldozed and returned to nature. Deer were runnning around the property and only one horse was grazing. There is no sign of even the former foundations to the bunkhouse, the kitchen, church, office and school building, barn or even the pastor's house. The only indication that some type of structures were once located there is the presence of a power pole and phone pedestal. Everything else has been returned to nature.

Obviously they believe that by destroying a few buildings, they will eliminate the spiritual message. They tried that after the war with Germany by destroying every semblance of Third Reich architecture and symbolism. It hasn't worked in that case and it won't work with the Church of Jesus Christ Christian. You can destroy the physical remnants but you can never destroy an idea.


Friday, February 17, 2012

The Horror Continues

[They're cutting him off from his family and supporters, deliberately. I think we need to prepare ourselves for the likelihood that at some point fairly soon, Edgar Steele is going to be found dead in his prison cell. - HAC]

Continued Victimization of the Victim!

by Cyndi Steele

February 14, 2012

It’s not bad enough that the government falsely accused my husband of hiring someone to kill me.

It’s not bad enough in doing so the government constantly told one lie after another about my husband, about me and anything else that would assist them in wrongly convicting my husband.

It’s not bad enough that the FBI destroyed part of our home during their warrant search.

It’s not bad enough they knowingly allowed a bomb to be on my car for days.

It’s not bad enough that after I discovered the bomb and before they had a suspect, they told me they would not provide me protection.

It’s not bad enough that their only evidence are recordings that are not true, accurate, continuous conversations, as proven by two top audio experts who determined that they are manipulated, spliced and not even my husband’s voice. Of course, the government with the assistance from the judicial system kept the audio experts from testifying and the jury from even knowing about the experts.

It’s not bad enough that they violated my husband’s rights by denying him attorney-client privileged conversations.

It’s not bad enough that the media vilified my husband and only reported the government’s lies, refusing to fairly report the other side.

It’s not bad enough that they have kept my husband in solitary confinement for most of his incarceration, even before he was wrongly convicted.

It’s not bad enough that they will soon be releasing the man who actually put the bomb on my car.

It’s not bad enough that this caused our insurance company to deny our homeowners and car insurance, unless I divorce Ed.

It’s not bad enough that social security is not only stopping Ed’s social security payments, but demanding that I pay back 9 months of payments. It has been my only source of income since Ed’s arrest.

It’s not bad enough that the attorney hired to defend Ed ended up taking the money and throwing Ed under the bus by not providing the defense he promised.

It’s not bad enough that Ed's attorney was disbarred a month after the trial, and then within a few days following Ed’s sentencing, was indicted for fraud and theft.

It’s so clear that this attorney’s M.O. is to steal from his clients, including Ed, just taking the money without providing a defense.

It’s not bad enough that I have to pay the fines that Ed was charged with along with his sentence, including the portion that he was ordered to pay me, despite that I claimed he owes me nothing.

It’s not bad enough that I have to sell off all my possessions in order to survive.

It’s not bad enough that I have to put our home on the market in order to survive.

It’s not bad enough that they have wrongly convicted him on lies and false evidence.

It’s not bad enough that they have sentenced him to 50 years! A death sentence.

It’s not bad enough that they have designated him to a maximum security prison that is as far from me as they possibly can, with jet-fuel contaminated water and considered to be the prison they send the worst of the worse (prisoners that commit crimes, such as murder, within the prison system), especially considering

Ed has only been assigned 7-8 points, which qualifies him to be designated to a minimal security prison. It takes 10-20 points for designation to a medium security prison and over 20 points for designation to a maximum security prison. No, as the government’s proclaimed victim, all the above and so many other consequences I’ve had to face since Ed’s wrongful arrest on June 11, 2010 is not enough.

I am now being denied telephone privileges, email privileges and visitation privileges as stated in the warden’s letter copied in below. It doesn’t matter that the BOP’s policies specifically requires them to allow spouse visitation up to four hours per month and for them to encourage family visitation.

So, Warden, let me see if I correctly understand your response, “this would diminish the seriousness of the offense.” Aside from the fact that my husband has been falsely convicted for crimes he did not commit, a 50 year sentence (a death sentence) is not a serious enough punishment, so he is to be further punished. Of course, since I’m the one requesting contact, I am to be punished as well. And seriously, you claim that it would “possibly create a serious safety and security concern for staff?”

First, how in the world would telephone and email privileges create serious safety and security concerns for staff? There would be nothing sacred or private about our communications since everything is listened to or read. As for visitations, there are so many regulations in place that one is barely allowed to enter with the clothes on one’s back. Besides, I’m a short, light weight, middle aged, law abiding woman. I'm frankly insulted by the implication that I present any kind of threat.

All I see is a continued victimization by the FBI, the government and judicial system for which I have had to endure for the past 21 months. Not to forget that the true victim is my husband, who has been wrongly convicted by an out-of-control government and judicial officials that really are the true criminals.

How much more do we have to endure before the victimization is stopped? Who and when is someone going to stand up against this injustice being imposed on innocent people? How many more will face this same fate if it isn’t stopped now?


Released on this 2012 Valentine’s Day with a saddened heart for I’m forced to be without the Love of My Life. The day that Ed proposed to me 27 years ago!


Thursday, February 16, 2012

Radio Free Northwest - February 16th, 2012


In this podcast HAC answers some e-mail questions, Axis Sally talks about stupid bureaucracy, and the gang talk about stolen glaciers and queers in the movies, and a comrade reads the opening to The Hill of the Ravens.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Thank You

Dear HAC,

Thank you very much for taking the time to meet with us, for breakfast, the great hospitality, the book, mugs, pins, and all the information. It was great to meet with you all, and sorry again for the early morning phone call.

That day we made it to Hole in the Wall on the coast right at sunset. Everyone we met was amazing, and thank you for setting us up with Comrade [name redacted]. He was very helpful with the MT info we need. We ended up getting back here yesterday and can't wait to pack the moving van and come home. You have a great circle of Folk surrounding you that seem very friendly, dedicated and knowledgeable. See you again soon.

-E. L.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Fallen Heroes


Monday, February 13, 2012


For those of you who like to keep up with the "nitty-gritty." I mentioned this on Radio Free Northwest a while back.


Saturday, February 11, 2012

Freedom's Sons - Section I, Chapter 1

[The novel actually opens with a lengthy Prologue describing the Battle of Portland. This is the first chapter per se. - HAC]

I. A Madhouse of Ministries

(18 days after Longview)

“Work expands to fill the time allotted for its performance.” – C. Northcote Parkinson

On a dark and rainy morning in November, Ray Ridgeway mounted the steps of the Insurance Building on the former Washington state capitol grounds in Olympia. He passed beneath the classic portico supported by eight tall and stately columns, stepped into the warm lobby of the building, and closed his sopping umbrella as if it was just another workday, rather than the first official day of business for the government of the Northwest American Republic.

Ridgeway was dressed in a conservative suit, tan winter coat and scarf. Besides the umbrella, he carried an expensive briefcase like the bank president he had once been. As of 16 hours ago, he was the new nation’s Finance Minister. At this moment he had about 40 American dollars in his pocket; he was paying his hotel bill with NAR vouchers, which the hotel manager probably honored only out of fear. His multiple bank accounts were now frozen, by order of the banks’ head offices back east, and his extensive portfolio of stocks, bonds, and mutual funds were now technically illegal. The mortgage on his home back in Portland was way in arrears, although under the circumstances he wasn’t worried about any attempt at foreclosure. The Finance Minister was one of the poorest men in the new country, and yet his heart was light as a feather—as light as it had been since the day his youngest daughter had died at the hands of a nigger. Payback was going to be a bitch, and Ray Ridgeway was going to be part and parcel of that.

It was not quite eight in the morning yet. As he entered the lobby, Ridgeway could hear the sound of someone making a speech from the state legislative building across the way. The Senate chamber’s individual desks had been removed and hastily re-fitted with bleacher-like rows of seating for members of the Constitutional Convention, which was now in session to adopt a new constitution for the Northwest Republic based on a draft document that dated all the way back to 2006. Ridgeway could hear Speaker Frank Barrow’s voice as he pounded his gavel on the rostrum and tried to call the Convention to order; there seemed already to be arguments breaking out on the floor. In fact, he could hear Barrow amazingly clearly, considering that the convention chamber was indoors and several hundred yards away. Then Ridgeway realized that what he was hearing was the TV someone had set up in the lobby, where he could see Barrow in living color on the rostrum via CNN. “Is CNN still in the country?” Ridgeway asked the young soldier on the reception desk, who politely stood to attention. “I thought we’d decided to throw them out?”

“I guess nobody’s gotten around to it yet, sir,” replied the soldier.

The scene on the television shifted to a view from a helicopter, which showed a stretch of Interstate 5 on the California-Oregon state line, or border as it was now. There were no border posts set up by either side yet, except for the old Department of Agriculture shacks on the California side that used to check motorists who might be transporting diseased produce. The weather was clear that far south, and the sun was just rising over the mountains. The interstate was as jammed with cars and trucks and SUVs as any Los Angeles freeway at rush hour. “All those white people, fleeing from the only country in the world where they and their children can be safe!” commented Ridgeway bitterly. “God, what wretched cowardice and stupidity!”

“That’s the southbound lanes, sir,” said the soldier, pointing to the screen “Look at the northbound lanes. They’re jammed up as well. As many white people are coming into the Republic as are leaving. They’re not waiting for California to be handed over to Aztlan. That’s what the beaners are howling for in Congress now. Frente de la Raza says if us evil racists get our own country, then they should get theirs. They’ll probably get it. I’d be surprised if there are any white people left in California in a week’s time except for goddamned movie stars. As for all those assholes who are leaving, fuck ‘em. We don’t need them. They were probably Union collaborators and rats during the war anyway. By the way, how are we supposed to address you now? Mister Minister, or Mister Secretary, or Mister Ridgeway, or what?”

“I have no idea,” admitted Ridgeway. “Ray will do for now.”

He took the stairs up to his offices on the second floor. Finance had been allocated one corridor in the maze of offices and conference rooms; they shared the Insurance Building with the ministries of Commerce and Industry, Science and Technology, and Public Health. On the previous day, the Council of State had officially brought a dozen such bodies into existence. “That’s quite a gaggle of ministries we got here, Red,” John Corbett Morgan had commented after the new ministers and their deputies had been sworn in. “Is that right? Do cabinet ministries come in gaggles?”

“Right at the moment, John, I’d call them a madhouse of ministries,” Council of State chairman Henry “Red” Morehouse had responded with a smile. “We’ve got only one man here, Foreign Minister Stanhope, who has done anything even remotely resembling this kind of job before, although Comrade Ridgeway has experience in the private sector that comes close to his Finance portfolio. This is going to be the mother of all learning curves, for all of us.”

Walter Stanhope was a former American Secretary of State. He had actually been an American signatory to the Treaty negotiations held in the Lewis and Clark Hotel in Longview, after which he promptly embarrassed the hell out of the United States by defecting to the Northwest Republic. He had given away the bride Emily Pastras at her impromptu wedding to Cody Brock in one of the hotel restaurants that night, and then left Longview in the same helicopter as the NVA delegation. Stanhope raised his hand. “I’ll be happy to offer any advice and assistance I can to any of you gentlemen,” he said. “Foreign Affairs is going to be mostly a sinecure for a while, since no other country on earth recognizes us, including the one we just signed the Treaty with, so I doubt I’ll be too busy with my own portfolio.”

“As soon as possible you will each be allocated separate digs around town for your offices,” Morehouse went on. “God knows the state of Washington had enough bureaucrats who have now fled the country, or else they’re hiding out, so if we want to, we can give every government janitor his own corner office. Ironic, when you think about all those years when the Party could never afford a single stand-alone building and had to operate out of fleabag apartments and mobile homes. But the security situation is still a bit fluid, and we want to keep everybody together here on the capitol grounds for a while until things settle down.” Ridgeway was aware of that; the previous night in his hotel room, he had heard the sputter of rifle and automatic weapons fire, and the boom of the occasional grenade. Not all of Olympia’s former American masters were reconciled to the treaty, and the NDF was still flushing out and putting down the last of the dark-skinned minorities as well, the final holdouts who for some reason defying rational analysis still hadn’t gotten the message yet. The Jews had fled the city months ago.

When Ray Ridgeway reached the second floor, he saw that a large brown cardboard sign, evidently cut from a box, had been taped to one wall at the beginning of the appropriate corridor. It displayed an acrylic blue, white and green Northwest Tricolor flag torn from a pre-revolutionary Party sticker, beneath which was inked in black Sharpie, Ministry of Finance and the Treasury. Ridgeway had commandeered a suite of offices that had once belonged to the state insurance commissioner. He walked in and found the outer office crowded with people. “Everybody here early?” he said after his new staff wished him good morning. “That’s an encouraging sign.”

“Actually, most of us are sleeping on cots over in the Rotunda or in the governor’s mansion,” said former Northwest Volunteer Martin Dewitt, a middle-aged man who had drawn the job of Deputy Finance Minister because he had been a CPA under the old régime. “They were talking about moving the whole show to Fort Lewis and bunking the government down in the barracks there, but the NDF is still securing the base, and there’s still booby-traps ZOG left behind. The Divisional Quartermaster wants to start confiscating some buildings to accommodate government personnel, but he hasn’t been given a list yet of what’s up for grabs. That’s if we decide to make Olympia the capitol, which is another thing they’re arguing about across the way there.” Dewitt jerked his head in the direction of the legislative building. “There are factions demanding that we choose Spokane or Coeur d’Alene or Boise. We’re still getting the old anybody-who-lives-west-of-the-Cascades-is-a-sissy thing, if you can believe that. I don’t think white people are ever really happy unless they have something really dumb to fight each other about.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet,” said Ridgeway with a sigh. “The religious knives haven’t really come out so far. Anyway, Red and Frank tell me that Olympia is it for the foreseeable future, in the sense that the State President, when we have one, will reside here over there in the old Governor’s Mansion. The Republic will want to decentralize as much as possible, though, so when they send the bombers they can’t wipe us all out in one fell swoop. Same goes for industry and all other vital services. Everything needs to be spread out as much as possible. No idea where we’ll end up, but that’s one of many bridges we’ll have to cross when we come to it. As far as accommodation goes, I’d like all our Ministry staff who don’t have their own homes in the city to go to at night to come with me over to the Red Lion. They’ve got plenty of room over there, and enough employees stuck around so the restaurant is still open. That way we can keep on brainstorming and working after office hours, which is the way we’re going to be rolling for a long time. We have a whole new nation to build and somehow we’re going to have to pay for it all. That’s our department. I’ll arrange with the NDF to have military transport of some kind for us to get in to work in the mornings, and back to the Red Lion at night. Hopefully a proper bus and not a truck, although these days we pretty much have to take what we can get.”

“Is the bar gonna be open late?” called one of the men. “We’re all waiting for the witching hour tonight.”

“Yes, that’s right, isn’t it?” replied Ridgeway wryly. “General Order Number Ten for NVA personnel, or I guess ex-NVA personnel as we are now, is officially rescinded at midnight tonight, and we can break the long dry spell. Those of you who haven’t already been doing so for the past few weeks, that is. Me, I will probably be asleep. I expect every one of you to be in here tomorrow morning at eight sharp, sitting behind whatever desks you have managed to glom onto, and ready to go to work. If you’re hung over and puking in the wastebaskets, that’s your look-out. Just make sure you’re working while you puke. Now could we move into the conference room?”

The former insurance commissioners of the state of Washington had been sufficiently senior bureaucrats to rate a good deal of luxury. The floors of the offices were plushly carpeted and the conference room held a long mahogany table. “Sorry about the crowding,” said Ridgeway. “Looks like we’re short on chairs. In keeping with our new policy in the Republic of returning to the old gentlemanly ways, I would like to ask all of our ladies to sit down while the men stand, including myself.”

After they all were seated or leaning against the walls, Ridgeway took a look at them down the table. The new government department consisted of 32 people plus himself, about evenly split between male and female. This contrasted sharply with their opponents, the hundreds of thousands of federal employees who worked for the United States Treasury, the Federal Reserve, the Comptroller of the Currency, the New York Stock Exchange, the U.S. Mint, the Office of Budget and Management, and all of the other innumerable bureaucratic organs who dealt with the finances and economy of the United States.

Ridgeway smiled, and spoke. “Good morning, comrades, and welcome to the first day of the rest of your lives. For those of you who don’t know me, I am Raymond Ridgeway, former president of Cascade Bank, Oregon National Bank, the Portland Municipal Credit Union and a whole bunch of other stuff that doesn’t make any difference now. I was a Volunteer for the last couple of years of what I suppose may now be referred to as the War of Independence, reporting directly to the Army Council, and part of my job was designing a plan of operation for this very day, so that the Republic would hit the ground running and we wouldn’t end up floundering around in a sea of red ink and economic confusion that would stifle us before we even had a chance. Every one of you are here because, like me, you have some experience in the old private financial sector. All of you have spent most of your working lives handling and moving other people’s money. Now you are going to have a chance to do the same for an entire nation. First question: how many of you here are not NVA, or were not in some other way associated with the Northwest independence movement?”

Half a dozen men and women hesitantly raised their hands. “I would like to extend an especially grateful welcome to you new comrades and co-workers,” Ridgeway told them. “I will not ask you about your motivations for staying when so many people in the Northwest are running away, but I will tell you that you have made the right choice, for yourselves and for your descendents. The Northwest Republic is going to depend on the effort and the services of those normal everyday white men and women who have made the difficult and soul-searching decision to remain at their posts, and to continue with their lives here in a new order of society.”

Ridgeway paused, and then continued. “Now let me describe for you in general terms the strategic task that lies before us in the long run. For the first few months, hell, the first few years, we are going to be working closely in harness with the Ministry of Science and Technology and the Ministry of Commerce and Industry to make sure that just as the United States could not defeat us with weapons and murder and prison, they will not be able to defeat us with their almighty dollar.

“Our three ministries will be kind of like a Trouble Trio in the old NVA. We will build our assets and resources, and we will take on and defeat every economic and monetary obstacle and challenge, every attempt the United States and the rest of the world makes to try and strangle our new nation in the cradle through dearth and economic hardship. The old régime is already threatening to impose crushing economic sanctions on the NAR. As Senator Gerald Gershon put it on Fox News yesterday, they intend to send us back to the age of the horse and buggy, and then starve the horse to death. They will not succeed. Our long-term strategic goal must be to create a completely self-contained economy here in the Northwest, completely independent of the rest of the world, almost like we were on another planet. Anything we have to import from outside, anything that we cannot produce or grow or manufacture ourselves, will be a knife held at our throat by ZOG until we find some way to remove it. All this globalization crap that has caused so much misery in the world for so long is going to end, here. The Northwest Republic must grow everything we eat, and make everything we use. That is a very tall order, but we are going to fill it, and we will do so with such skill and brilliance and panache that we will take the world’s breath away. We are going to demonstrate for good and all, that white people are indeed better people.”

* * *

Late that afternoon the new Cabinet met in the old governor’s conference room in the capitol building. Eight out of the 12 ministers were present. All of them were wearing NDF uniforms, except for Ray Ridgeway, Walter Stanhope, and Fiona Bonnar, a registered nurse who had been made Minister of Public Health. As befitted a revolutionary régime, the new government was still largely military. Three of the absentees were with the army in various places around the Northwest, and the fourth, General Frank Barrow, who now held the State Security portfolio, was out in the old Senate chamber attempting to ride herd on the squabbling delegates and factions of the Constitutional Convention.

The Convention had rendered the old capitol building perpetually chaotic, day in and day out, with a constant ebb and flow of people and news media wandering through the Rotunda, in and out of the Convention Hall and the committee and meeting rooms. There were dozens of individual committees of the Convention gathered in various offices, conference rooms, and cubbyholes all around the building, discussing and drawing up reports on everything from the adoption of the metric system (maybe) to soybean production to legally defining homosexuality as a mental illness. The marble-floored Rotunda was littered with cots where delegates and NDF soldiers were sleeping at night, as well as all kinds of detritus from empty Styrofoam coffee cups and pizza boxes to rifles and ammunition leaning in the corners.

Above all, in every corner there were overflowing receptacles ranging from metal wastebaskets to a Waterford crystal punchbowl from the old governor’s banquet service that had been commandeered as public ashtrays. One of the first acts of the Convention had been to repeal all anti-smoking laws in the Northwest that under the United States had demonized tobacco users and turned them into a viciously persecuted minority. “Smoking is a filthy and unhealthy habit, no doubt about that,” Barrow had proclaimed from the rostrum. “You gotta be a real idiot to do it, no argument, comrades. But under ZOG it has also become a statement of political resistance against the liberal régime. Who knows how many men and women would never have joined the NVA if the old order had not added insult to injury, flexing their petty power over the lives of others by perpetually driving them out into the cold and the rain simply to light up? For how many of us did that not become the final straw in our own minds? Fuck second-hand smoke!” This brief speech had received the longest standing ovation yet from the assembled delegates, and the Convention was proceeding in a haze of tobacco fumes. The traditional smoke-filled back rooms of political deal making in the new Republic were truly smoke-filled.

There were 14 chairs arranged around the long polished mahogany table in the conference room. In the former governor’s chair sat Council of State chairman Henry Morehouse, a spare and mild-looking middle-aged man whom one media personality who interviewed him once described as “an evil Mr. Rogers.” The meeting was about to begin without him when Barrow came in, a tall man in his forties with ash-blond hair and a weathered face. “Hey, Frank, glad you could make it,” called Morehouse. “How’s it going out there?”

“It’s a three-ringed circus, and I feel like a lion tamer whose cats have escaped and are running around in the audience,” said Barrow, taking his seat. “Look, Red, I can’t ride herd on that dog and pony show out there and handle State Security at the same time. You need to relieve me of one or the other, or at least give me some help. I went into it with nothing but a small copy of Roberts’ Rules of Order I found in the old lieutenant governor’s desk drawer.”

“I gave you State Security because of your police and NVA background, and the chairmanship of the Convention because of your brilliant handling of the Longview conference,” said Morehouse.

“Brilliant, my ass! All I did was just shove a single sheet of paper under their noses every day for ten weeks and demand they sign it,” said Barrow with a scowl.

“Which they eventually signed,” pointed out Morehouse.

“Beyond that, my so-called brilliant handling consisted of saying no all the time to everything those assholes threw at us to try and divert us from a sovereign nation. No offense, Walter.”

“None taken,” said Stanhope. “They were assholes. You should have seen and heard them behind closed doors. They finished any doubts I ever had about coming over in public. I swear to God, if I had to listen to Howard Weintraub try to talk us into arresting or killing the NVA delegation by surprise one more time, or hear that ghastly Galinsky woman weep about how we were betraying the Six Million of the Holocaust by even speaking to you, I would have flipped out and started clubbing them with a chair.”

“Red, no kidding, can I at least get somebody to alternate with me on this Speaker of the Convention gig?” pleaded Barrow. “There’s Security stuff I have to get onto. I’ve got a secret police to create. Weintraub is hollering all over the media back in the States that we’re a fascist tyranny. How can we be a fascist tyranny with no secret police, while I sit here fooling around with all this democracy and Constitution crap? What kind of wicked evil right-wing fascist racist Nazi tyrants are we?” There were general chuckles all around the table.

“I would be honored to take the rostrum for tomorrow’s session, Frank, and any other time you need me to spell you,” offered Stanhope. “The Russians are still being coy about recognizing the Republic officially, although they want to go in with us on some kind of worldwide paper and pulp monopoly. Other than them, nobody else is even speaking to us. I’m very much at a loose end.”

“Hallelujah! Praise his name!” shouted Barrow.

“Let me guess, you just came from the Holy Rollers’ caucus,” said Bart DeMarco, the Minister of Transport.

“What’s the latest from the floor?” asked Morehouse.

“We’ve adjourned for the day, although there will be committee meetings and bullshit sessions and little intriguing conspiracies going on off in little corners until the wee hours, like there are every night,” he told them.

“What’s the scoreboard looking like, Frank?” asked General John Corbett Morgan, a large black-bearded Kentucky mountain man who had commanded a Flying Column in the Olympic Peninsula during the revolt, before leading the First Army’s assault over the I-205 bridge into Portland. He was now Minister of Defense. “Have the tub-thumpers from Fifth Monarchy and the Sanctified Church of Hootin’ Holler got us all wearing Pilgrim hats yet?”

“Actually, so far the extreme Christians aren’t the problem, at least not as much as we were afraid they’d be,” replied Barrow. “It’s the shithouse libertarians, the bearded dudes from the little cabins in the backwoods who don’t want any laws or government at all. Which would be great, if it were possible. Hell, I think in a lot of ways it would be just the ticket to say never mind the 1950s, let’s go all the way back to the 1850s. Trouble is, that isn’t really on the table so long as we’ve still got ZOG sitting over there in D.C. and Jew York sharpening their daggers for us. You can’t fight off a nuclear threat with hand-loads from a log cabin out in the Sawtooth Range.”

“They’ll be happy once they understand the Federal Reserve and the Trilateral Commission are no longer in the saddle,” said DeMarco. “Until we ask them to pay taxes, of course.”

“Otherwise, despite a lot of squabbling over details and the hundred and one personal hobby horses everybody’s riding, which mostly involve banning something somebody else wants to do, the delegates are following the 2006 draft pretty closely so far,” Barrow went on approvingly. “I was amazed that they were able to wrap their minds so easily around the concept of an institutionalized parliamentary Opposition, the whole point of which is to pick holes in everything the government does. Our version of the two-party system. One speaker out there called the Opposition the people’s defense attorneys, and although we won’t have actual attorneys in the Republic, I think that pretty much nails it.”

“Any major surprises so far?” asked Morehouse.

“Nothing we hadn’t always anticipated,” Barrow told them. “Some guy from Idaho put in a motion that we change the name of the legislature from the National Convention, like it is in the draft, to Parliament, and that seems to have some support among the various cliques. More dignified and all. Parliament is fine with me, if that’s what they want, but personally I think it’s just some mule-headed paleocons and ego monkeys who want to change anything the Old Man wrote just on general principles.”

“The Old Man didn’t write the draft Constitution,” protested Fiona Bonnar from Public Health. “Not all of it, anyway. It was a group effort, including a lot of input from the imprisoned Order men and David Lane himself! That’s bordering on blasphemy!”

“Just what we need! Another religious problem!” chortled Gary Bresler from Commerce and Industry.

“I don’t believe the Old Man or the Order guys or anyone involved in the 2006 draft intended it as holy scripture, comrade,” Morehouse admonished her gently. “They always made it clear, it was only a draft. It contains suggestions based on lifetimes of observation of how the old system went wrong. But the final version was always something to be determined by that very mob out there now, whom so many have suffered and died to bring together into that room, so they could decide what they wanted to keep and how they want to live.”

Barrow nodded. “There are a few who still want to go back to the old conservative ways sans niggers, complete with Fourth of July picnics and the Brady Bunch, but they won’t carry the day,” he told the Cabinet. “Time moves forward and not backward. We can’t turn back the clock to 1950, or 1861, or 1776, and the majority of them understand that.”

“So how go the religious wars?” asked Morehouse wearily. “I remember that little speech you gave us before you guys headed out for Longview, Frank, to the effect of yes, I know, but not now. [See A Mighty Fortress.] Trouble is, this is it. The time has come. We’re not going to be able to put it off any more.”

“I notice the government has found something for Bob Gair and Reverend McCausland to do elsewhere,” remarked Morgan. “I thought they were going to pull down on each other on that last day at Longview, over what music to play when the Tricolor flag went up.”

“Don’t I remember?” said Barrow with a wan smile. “Good thing Cathy Frost stepped in and gave us our National Anthem, then. No major uproar yet, largely because nobody has asked for anything that anybody else absolutely refuses to concede. Some Asatru and Wiccan types want the right to designate certain groves and places on ley lines as sacred or spiritual sites, and that went over without too much hurly-burly, although most people don’t know what ley lines are and no specific locations have been mentioned. When we’ll have trouble is when the Odinists want to designate a sacred grove on the same street as the local Pentecostal church. You already know that we got the Christians to quit yelping about the swastika on the NDF eagle by giving them A Mighty Fortress as the national anthem. That’s fine by everybody, because it’s a hell of a song. I think if we’d played Great Big Gobs of Greasy, Grimy Gopher Guts at that moment, those of us who were there would make it our national anthem.

“Right now the various religious types are hollering about teaching evolution and paleontology in the schools,” he continued. “If they really keep on pushing it, we may end up with a school system segregated on religious lines, which as far as I’m concerned is a non-starter, but we’ll see what kind of report the Education Committee comes up with. I personally think we could make do by giving parents a choice of tracks within the system. Fundamentalist parents who don’t want their kids learning evolution or other scientific stuff that contradicts the Bible go to Biology A and study butterflies and dissect frogs, which I think is scripturally safe, and those who want their kids to learn actual science go to Biology B and get the whole nine yards.”

“We can live with that,” said Morehouse. “The problem is they don’t just want their kids not being taught Darwin. The hidden agenda is that they want to make sure nobody else’s kids get taught Darwin, either. They want some kind of endorsement from the state saying that their religion is really the right one, and we’re just kindly tolerating all those eccentrics who believe otherwise, and that they can’t have. That has always been the problem with Christians. They’re mostly good people as individuals, but they cannot and must not ever be trusted with state power in this country, because they always end up trying to impose their own religious beliefs and practices on others.”

Barrow went on, “They also want Christmas but no Halloween in the schools, and they want religion classes, which in theory I don’t object to, but the trouble will come when pagans and Wiccans and the agnostics and the just plain anti-Christian fanatics demand equal time.”

“Have classes in all Aryan religions and religious history and let the parents choose which ones they want their children to go to,” suggested Bresler. “Simple and fair.”

“The trouble is, simple and fair has never had much to do with religion, and we have two thousand years of history to prove it,” said Morehouse wearily. “I suppose the antis are screaming at the top of their lungs against the teaching of Christianity of any kind?”

“Like banshees,” confirmed Barrow.

“Jesus is a dead Jew on a stick, and all that crap?”

“But of course.” Barrow shrugged. “We’ve always had that problem. A minority of the people in the Movement have been in it, not to free our people or to implement the 14 Words, but because of a sheer hatred of Christianity that approaches the level of insanity. I think it’s because when they were little, their parents wouldn’t let them watch TV or play video games on Sunday mornings, but made them dress up in scratchy clothes and hard shoes, and go to church where they were bored out of their minds, and scolded by old ladies for farting in Bible class. Hell, I don’t know what goes on in the minds of some of these people who never seem to get that race is what is important. I mean, Jesus Christ on a raft! Pardon the term, but it’s not as if we all won’t find out for ourselves one day what’s on the other side of life.”

“How bad is it likely to get?” asked Joe Jennings, Minister of Science and Technology. “We’re going to need scientists in the Republic who studied something besides the book of Genesis.”

“I’ll make sure it doesn’t completely sidetrack the whole Convention, if I have to call in some of the boys and go upside some people’s heads in a back room,” said Barrow. “But this is an ulcer in our body politic, and it’s going to be with us for a long time. We’re going to have to find a modus vivendi to deal with it. Speaking of religion, Red, I had a brief talk this morning with a priest named Father McEwan or McIan or something. He’s a Tridentine Catholic. You know, the old pre-Vatican II Catholics who still hold the mass in Latin? He made an interesting suggestion. Suppose we recognize the Tridentines as the official Northwest branch of Catholicism, and hand over the churches and cathedrals to them? He figures that will put us on the good side of millions of the more traditional Catholics, almost all of whom are white, and also give us an excuse to boot out these damned left-wing priests and nuns who have been causing so much trouble over the past century everywhere they go, liberation theology and all that crap. Plus, it looks like the next pope in Rome is going to be a nigger, some archbishop from Nigeria. If we can set up a traditional white Pope here in the Northwest, that will be a big draw for contacts and resources.”

“An intriguing possibility,” admitted Morehouse. “Does this Father McWhosis understand that the old religious exemptions are out the window, and they will have to pay any property taxes we decide on non-homestead property for their churches? Also, does he understand that under the Northwest Constitution professional clergy of any kind will be prohibited, and they’re all going to have to get day jobs?”

“He does, and he had a suggestion on that,” Barrow replied. “These Tridentine priests are some of the most educated white men left in the world, as far as the old classical learning goes. Why not let them teach history and Latin and whatnot in the schools?”

“Bloody hell, then not to mention the anti-Christians turning flips, you’ll be having all the Prods frothing at the mouth about letting in the Whore of Babylon,” spoke up Patrick Brennan, the Minister of Race and Resettlement. “I was hoping to leave all that shite behind in Belfast.”

“We will,” promised Morehouse. “Maybe we can let these Tridentine priests pick up a paycheck by teaching at university level and not in the public schools. Frank, when you see this priest again, ask him to submit some kind of official memorandum or position paper in writing from whatever his organization is. It’s got political and cultural potential, if we can find some way to work it without getting all the Holy Rollers bellyaching. Plus, we owe that poor bastard Mel Gibson a favor, I think. This will come under Culture and Education, but Stepanov is still up in Seattle and Macready is out east shooting up Spokane, last I heard. We’ll lay it on them when they get back. Please continue, Frank.”

Barrow gulped down coffee from a paper Starbucks cup someone had handed him. “The main debates now are centering around just how much authority the central government is going to have, and how that authority will be organized. There are still those who are concerned that us big bad Nazis are going to set up some kind of tyranny where the Bureau of State Security tells everybody what color socks they can put on in the morning.”

“That’s not even close to what Hitler did in Germany!” protested James Salvatore, the new Minister of the Interior.

“You know that and I know that, Jim, but an amazing number of people even from the NVA itself have no idea what the real story on Hitler and National Socialism is,” said Barrow. “You can’t erase generations of lies and disinformation from people’s minds overnight. But it’s actually got more serious overtones than that. A lot of people don’t like the idea of a national police force. They want to elect a sheriff who then appoints his own deputies like during the frontier days.”

“Which opens the door for all kinds of local cliques and corruption, just like in the frontier days,” said Arthur Flowers, the Minister of Justice. “We can’t have a situation arise where local law enforcement are basically just the head-knockers for the community’s wealthy élite. The police have to serve all of the people, and not just the local city council or county commissioners or the local real estate developer or whoever’s signing their paycheck. They also have to serve the interests of the state and society as a whole, not just purely parochial concerns in their own little town or bailiwick.”

“We will also need a national paramilitary police force as a coordinated line of defense in case of an American invasion.” said Morehouse. “Don’t worry about it, Frank. People accepted state police under the old régime and they’ll get used to the Civil Guard. Besides, we’re going to have an armed society, remember? That’s the greatest counterbalance to any attempt to impose a tyranny on any level.”

“Assuming the people have the guts to turn their guns on authority figures,” said John Morgan sourly. “We had the Second Amendment in the U.S., and yet for generations all those guns just sat in the closets of so-called patriots gathering dust.”

“But there has to be a civilian authority and an independent judiciary,” argued Barrow. “People still cling to this idea that election is somehow better than appointment, despite the entire experience of this continent since Andrew Jackson’s time, which proves that electing government officials is about the worst way to go, since it leads to a class of professional politicians who are just as bad as any British royal governor ever thought of being.”

“That’s what happens when you give the vote to every retard and syphilitic nigger drug addict, yes,” argued Bresler. “But the purpose of qualified and earned citizenship and franchise within the Northwest Constitution is to make sure that you have as responsible and educated an electorate as possible, so you don’t have fools voting other fools and thieves and snake oil salesmen into office.”

Morgan spoke up. “Folks will accept a more or less imposed national police force so long as it’s genuinely their police force, there to protect and serve, as the old saying used to go, but they want that feel-good factor of going into the little booth and pulling the lever about something, too. It don’t mean nothing, hell, it ain’t meant nothing in the past hunnert years if the only people on that ballot was thieves and liars and con men and it cost ten million dollars to run a campaign, but folks want it. They’re used to it. It’s like a kid with his security blanket. They gone get twitchy over appointed judges and sheriffs. Or will there be any sheriffs?”

“What about this?” suggested Morehouse. “The basic unit of administration in the Republic will still be the county, right?”

“Yes,” agreed Barrow. “We decided to keep those because they’re what people are used to, and there’s existing infrastructure we can step in and take over. We’ll probably have to combine some of the counties out east, because they’re so thinly populated.”

Morehouse nodded. “Mmm hmm. Suppose we have one elected sheriff for each county, who will be the Republic’s chief representative and administrative officer, as he actually was in medieval England when the office was first created all those centuries ago? The sheriff will handle things like revenue collection and administration of state property, so forth and so on. He will be the top civilian officer in each county, and we have to trust those who have earned the vote through fulfilling their responsibilities to elect good ones. In a non-capitalist system that will almost certainly be subject to severe economic sanctions, there won’t be all that much bribery and corruption money floating around, anyway. It’s not like there will be an Indian casino every twenty miles, like there was under the old order.”

“Kinda hard to do with no Indians,” agreed Flowers. “What about the judiciary? That will come under my department.”

“Same deal applies, Art,” said Morehouse. “Let the citizens’ roll elect a senior judge and assistant judges in a population-apportioned number for each county.”

“Will these judges be paid by the state?” put in Gary Bresler.
“Doesn’t that violate the Constitutional prohibition against a legal profession, anybody making a living off the law?”

“The Constitution prohibits attorneys,” said Barrow thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “Or rather it prohibits anyone accepting payment in money or anything of value for serving as an advocate in a legal case. People charged with crimes can still appoint someone else to defend and speak for them, those advocates just can’t be paid. It will be considered to be a civic duty, like it was in ancient Rome, where some of the most famous statesmen and philosophers started off as advocates in the law courts. We all know what that provision was meant to prevent. Under the old order, lawyers were an unmitigated horror. The entire court system was essentially nothing more than a gigantic fraud to allow millions of parasites in expensive suits and briefcases to live large off the fruits of human misery. It was a machine that pulled people into it as the raw material to be processed and mangled and crushed like grapes in a wine press, drained of every last penny. We cannot and will not allow that here, not ever. But we do need some kind of court system, although the intention of the 2006 drafters was clearly that it should be as bare minimum as possible.”

Morehouse nodded. “Obviously King County and Multnomah County will need more judges than Adams or Pend Oreille County,” he said. “Or whatever we decide to rename Multnomah County when that committee on getting rid of all these goddamned Indian names reports back. But they will have no actual armed men at their command to strong-arm and intimidate people. A magistrate’s authority needs to be legal and moral, based not just on respect for his office, but for the man. No one can demand or receive respect when the whole state and society that empowers him is oppressive and corrupt from top to bottom.

“The Republic’s judges and the courts are there to try cases and make determinations of fact, not to make law all off their own bat and according to their own whims, or according to their own liberal politics as was the case under the U.S.A. Law is made by the National Convention, or Parliament or whatever we decide to call the legislative branch. Judges in the Republic can’t just order people to do this and that, like in America. Any and all enforcement requires the concurrence of the state in the form of the Guard. One of the worst aspects of the old system was finding yourself in a courtroom surrounded by enemies and being afraid to speak the truth even when truth was on your side, because the judge had armed men at his beck and call and the power to lock people up for so-called contempt of court, the judge himself of course defining what constituted contempt. It allowed weak and sneaking little men in black robes to exercise power and authority which they neither earned nor deserved. Our judges have to command respect and obedience through wisdom and justice, not institutional terrorism.”

Art Flowers spoke up. “Again, we need to bear in mind that the electorate will be composed only of citizens who have already demonstrated civic responsibility in order to earn their vote, I think that will alleviate a lot of the corruption and cronyism and bribery and general sleaze that flourished under democracy. Hope so, anyway.”

“That and the fact that we’re not going to have that much money to go around bribing cops and officials,” put in Ray Ridgeway. “When you don’t live in one big fleshpot and shopping mall, with all kinds of artificial desires and commercially created consumer greed, the motivations for corruption are correspondingly diminished.”

“Less temptation, less corruption,” said Fiona Bonnar.

“But we need to leave the Civil Guard a separate body, independent of local government,” Flowers continued. “Part of the Guard’s function will be to assist civil authority, i.e. the sheriff and the judiciary, but the Guard can’t actually be under the command of local officials. That’s where your skullduggery starts seeping into the system.”

“So what else are they debating out there?” asked Morehouse.

“People are also confused about the very idea of abolishing the states altogether,” said Barrow. “Some of them want to know why we can’t have a state and a federal government just like before. I’ve tried to explain that in a country the size of the Republic it’s not necessary to have any middle level of government, as well as being incredibly expensive and wasteful.”

Salvatore laughed and shook his head. “Many of these people joined the revolt over the crushing taxes that paid for war after war in the Middle East, not to mention giving every nigger and beaner in America his own mortgage which he then defaulted on, not to mention the attempt to create a national health care system that gave blacks and browns free care while whites paid for it, hell, you guys remember how it was. Do they really want to pay taxes now to support an extra tier of bureaucracy that was created in the days of horse and wagon and the steam locomotive? Something we don’t really need anymore in the twenty-first century of instantaneous communication and rapid mass transit?”

“People are going to want a lot of things just like before,” said Morehouse. “They naturally long for the familiar. There’s still an awful lot of white people out there who honestly believe it’s possible to restore the old American Dream, just without all the niggers and the bullshit. They don’t understand that the Iron Dream is what we have to shoot for, to make sure we have any future at all.”

“It’s hard for them to internalize new concepts,” agreed Salvatore. “I think decentralization can help reassure them. If we can disperse as much state infrastructure as we can to places like Spokane and Boise and Missoula and Cheyenne, so forth and so on, it will not only serve government and defense policy and spread the jobs and wealth around, but it will keep the population reassured. I think a lot of the people east of the Cascades are afraid their voices and their interests will be drowned out by the big cities along the I-5 corridor, like happened under ZOG. We don’t want to give them the impression that they’ve exchanged one big bureaucratic regime on the east coast for one on the west coast.”

“Any more serious problems?” asked Morehouse.

“We’re getting some static on the concept of national service for young people,” said Barrow.

“Absolutely essential!” said Bresler from Commerce and Industry.

“What’s the beef?” asked Morehouse.

“So far the proposed requirement is one year in the Labor Service and two years in the military for boys, two years Labor Service for girls. We have some people who want to put in loopholes for the draft, kind of like what used to exist under the U.S.A., college exemptions and so forth. Not only for military conscription itself, but for the Labor Service. Especially for the Labor Service. I hate to say it, but I think we’ve actually had some damned lobbyists creep in already, people putting certain delegates up to things, including trying to make sure there’s some way little mall rat Richie Rich Junior doesn’t have to spend a year out of high school hauling garbage or swinging a pick and shovel.”

“That’s a big-ass negatory,” said Morgan flatly. “We allow that, we’re opening the door to a goddamned class system in the Republic with the Party and the rich on the top, like in the Soviet Union. That will be a weakness ZOG will exploit to destroy us someday. One of the biggest problems we had under the old order was all these pale Beavis and Buttheads who got to the age of thirty without ever having to work a single day in their lives.”

“I’m in full agreement,” said Morehouse. “Hang tough on national service Frank, and let everybody know the government is backing you up on this. Every young person works in the Labor Service and the men serve in the army first. Then they go on to college and the rest of their lives. And every man in this country is going to have to be a soldier, at least part time. Our enemies in the United States and Aztlan will always outnumber us.”

“Next bone of contention is whether or not girls will be able to choose military service in lieu of the Labor Service, and for how long?” reported Barrow. “A lot of Christians and general Neanderthal male chauvinist types want to go back to an all-male army.”

“Choose the military as a career? Of course,” said Morehouse. “Our female comrades who fought in the NVA have earned them that right. I’m thinking of Cathy Frost and Melanie Young. I’m thinking of that little Threesec girl of seventeen who climbed up on top of that I-5 bridge and called down our artillery a few days ago. In the face of examples like that, we’re supposed to tell our women they have to stay home and bake cookies and knit sweaters for the boys in uniform? Horse shit.”

“As a substitute for the Labor Service, no,” said Stanhope emphatically. “Red nailed it. The main thing about the Labor Service has to be that everybody’s kid serves, rich and poor, male and female alike. Their years of national service through work and the military has to become simply a part of a young man or woman’s coming of age in the Northwest Republic, something everybody does without question. Nobody phones it in, nobody gets a pass, like they got a pass on responsibility in America. I’m with John on this. You start giving certain kids exemptions or diddling around with their conditions, especially if they are the children of Party people, and you have the beginnings of a privileged élite, which is the slippery slope that eventually created ZOG. I myself grew up in that kind of élite, fancy prep school, Skull and Bones, where none of us rich punks would have been caught dead with a shovel in our hand or wearing a uniform, and I can tell you first-hand what kind of person it produces. Not the kind we want in our Republic. That’s one of the reasons Marxist Communism never worked well in practice. The Communist Party bureaucracy, the nomenklatura, became the Soviet Union’s new nobility, and we can’t allow that to happen here.”

Bresler spoke up. “Not only is it vitally important that all young men and women go through that experience with one another, but frankly, the Republic is going to need their labor. We don’t have Mexicans any more to dig our ditches and haul our garbage. There’s a lot of work to be done out there. Rebuilding Portland alone is going to be a nightmare.”

“Tell me about it,” agreed Ray Ridgeway glumly. “I have to find the money to pay for it.”

Barrow said, “Some of the delegates are proposing a maternity exemption from national service for girls in the name of eugenics, but some others, mostly the more strait-laced Christian types, are complaining that this will encourage teenaged pregnancy.”

“Good!” said Morehouse. “We want to encourage teenaged marriage and pregnancy, since the overriding national imperative has to be that there must be more of us. Right now white people under the age of sixty are only eight per cent of the planet’s population, and white women of childbearing age are less than three percent. We have to get those numbers up!”

“But won’t that lead to a situation where girls are encouraged to get pregnant to get out of Labor Service?” asked Fiona Bonnar.

“If bringing new white lives into the world isn’t one of the highest forms of national service, I don’t know what is,” commented Jennings.

“Pregnant girls can still do office work or assemble widgets on an assembly line or something,” said Flowers.

“Again, let’s wait and see what the relevant committee of the Convention comes up with,” said Morehouse.

Jennings spoke again. “By the way, before I forget, at some point soon I need to get with all of you about your use of computers and internet connection in your departments. As incredible as it may sound to someone raised on the information highway, I think we’re going to need to learn to do without the internet for a while. The government will have to, anyway. It’s essential that the NAR take precautions against virus attacks originating in the United States and Israel, some of which have already been reported. With or without official sanction, someone is already trying to shut us down. A lot of private sector networks have already been infected and in some cases crashed. Yes, I know, we have some real hotshot computer geeks from the NVA who can work up all kinds of firewalls and whatnot, but right now if we rely on computer networks for vital functions, in our present shaky state of newborn existence, a major system crash in Defense or Security or Commerce and Industry could be very serious. My personal recommendation is that we don’t rely on any kind of computer system with any connection to the internet, and we probably need to be leery of using local area networks in our offices as well, even without an internet connection. Some damned spy might sneak in with a thumb drive in his pocket containing a virus, and load it onto one of our government machines and infect and destroy vital data. This probably means going back to filing cabinets and typewriters for most of our government offices, or at least stand-alone word processors and PCs. I’m sure if we dig around in the basements and back rooms in a former state capitol, the home of bureaucracy, we can find some of that stuff gathering dust.”

“To be honest, I wouldn’t be sorry to see that happen in any case,” said Morehouse. “All of you know that I have always considered the internet to be a mixed blessing at best. Right, Ray, you’re up next. What have we got in our national wallet?”

“A fair amount, or we will have,” said Ridgeway. “When the top nine American megabanks froze their Northwest customers’ assets, they not only pissed off their millions of depositors, they opened the door for us to nationalize the banks. Which we would have done anyway, but now we have an excellent fig leaf to cover that decision. I’ve taken the liberty of declaring the assets of all private financial institutions to be state property, which we will hold in trusteeship for the depositors to prevent any attempts to move the cash out of the country. Acting on my authority, guards are being posted on most of the branches to make sure there’s no funny stuff, no attempt to remove cash reserves and make off with them, so forth and so on. By the way, thanks for the manpower on that, Art.”

“Technically speaking, as of yesterday all police officers in the Northwest who have remained at their posts are now members of the Civil Guard, but it’s been an interesting exercise for me to see how many of them will obey orders coming from the Ministry of Justice,” said Flowers. “About eighty percent seem to be complying, especially since it involves preventing bank robbery, which is in fact what cops are supposed to do, aren’t they?”

“Most banks have at least a skeleton staff remaining and they’re still open, although with limited hours, and most ATM machines are still working,” Ridgeway went on. “There have been some runs on some of these institutions, those that haven’t been frozen by their own home offices, but that seems to be leveling off now that the Cabinet has issued our assurance that everybody’s money is still theirs, and we’re not going to confiscate it all. One of the many rumors the American media is planting. I think that one comes from our old buddy Howard Weintraub.”

“Doesn’t that make it easy for all these rats who are fleeing the Republic to take their money with them?” asked Morgan.

“Well, it is their money, after all,” Ridgeway reminded him. “Yes, I know, it’s a terrible hemorrhage of funds, but it would be infinitely worse if we just shut down the banks and didn’t let anybody take their money out. The whole economy would grind to a halt, not to mention we’d probably face riots in the streets.”

“How long do you think it will take for us to get a new currency into circulation, once we decide what it will be, marks or pounds or kwatloos or whatever?” asked Morehouse. “I don’t like the idea of using dollars. Dollars have too much connection with the old order.”

“My recommendation is that we hold off for at least a year on that, and for the time being allow Federal Reserve notes to be the official legal tender,” said Ridgeway. “That may lead to a money shortage, but paradoxically that will help us as we ease into the substitution of the Republic’s own legal tender. We don’t want to rush into this, because there are still a lot of variables. For example, we don’t know how much gold and silver we’re going to have in reserve. We have to base our currency on something, at least until we can put together an economy based on Hjalmar Schacht’s productivity-based system, which is the way we need to go, not just print it at the touch of a computer function key like the Federal Reserve. Hell, maybe even platinum if we can get hold of enough of it.

“A lot of that will depend on what we can seize from the enemy’s abandoned assets, Jewish and non-white property. Depending on how fast they bugged out, there is a whole treasure trove of real estate, bank accounts, safe deposit boxes, and goodies they’re leaving behind, anything they couldn’t carry with them in their rush to get the hell out of Dodge. Once we get a new currency accepted and designed, and we acquire the technical capacity and the special paper to print it, I recommend a period of transition of at least six months after that before the changeover is complete and the U.S. dollar officially becomes foreign exchange. Who’s that character heading the Convention’s currency committee?”

“A guy named Brian Mackintosh, NVA man from Corvallis,” Barrow told him. “Fought with Billy Basquine’s Column. He’s a coin collector and very big on silver and gold. I know he wants a new coinage using actual precious metals, with only a minimal amount of paper money.”

“Good idea in theory, but like I said, first we have to get hold of the gold and silver to coin with,” said Ridgeway. “If he’s a coin man, there are all kinds of places that have loads of precious metals to mint collector coins, and since most of them are run by people who have at least some degree of sympathy for the Republic, I would think some could be encouraged to move their operations here. We will need their expertise. Then there’s also the possibility of backing our new bank notes with precious gems, diamonds and emeralds and such, which the enemy may have left behind. Frank, first break tonight, could you hunt him up if he’s still in the building and introduce us? Or if he’s already left, could you track him down sometime tomorrow and ask him to get in touch with me so we can set up a meeting?”

“Will do,” said Barrow.

“Our main source of revenue during the first year, until we can figure out where we stand on currency and taxes, will have to be the spoils of war,” Ridgeway went on. “To the victor go the spoils, and fortunately for us we’re the victors. I have 32 people working for me now, and today I assigned over half of them to track down and identify potential assets of our former enemies to be nationalized, including corporate assets, which is a damned long list. Those lists we made up before Longview, during the war, are proving to be invaluable, but there’s a lot more out there. Basically, anything that was the property of Jews or Asians or certain large corporations can be assumed to be the proceeds of theft or deception or general criminal activity, in the sense that they came here to this land to take what was ours, and if they have it, now it’s ours again. If they left it behind, it goes into the Republic’s kitty. Houses, land, businesses, commercial premises and manufacturing plants—that ought to interest you, Gary—bank accounts, cash, jewelry we can melt down for Comrade Mackintosh’s new coinage, personal possessions, their goddamned furniture, everything.”

“Race and Resettlement will want first dibs on the real estate,” said Brennan. “Have you seen the news footage on the interstates? We have as many people coming into the Republic as are leaving. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if we actually ended up with a net population gain, and we’re going to need someplace to house new migrants.”

“Yes, I understand that, Pat,” agreed Ridgeway. “You get first refusal on actual housing, but there will be plenty of commercial and undeveloped real estate that we can sell to the private sector, assuming the private sector has any money to buy it. We’ll probably end up land rich and cash poor. John, I’m going to need some muscle to do a little organized looting for the public good, more than the Ministry of Justice and our day-old Civil Guard can provide. Thousands of men in the long run, to track down every enemy asset and make sure it ends up in the Treasury and not in somebody’s sticky fingers. Once people in the Northwest realize there’s an Aladdin’s cave of former Unionist wealth lying around, everybody’s going to want to help themselves. Okay, if the local white people want to boost some absconded kike’s Lexus or clean out some dothead’s living room, or nick some fled FBI man’s power tools out of his garage, fair enough. These people were parasites, they stole their wealth from our Folk, and although as a rule I’m not comfortable countenancing theft, in a sense I can understand that kind of thing. Fog of war, and all that. But the Republic has dibs on the big ticket items like money, real property, jewelry and precious metals. We’re going to have to make it for a while on this serendipitous windfall, or inheritance, or whatever you want to call it, until we can get our own economy and monetary system up and running, and that may take time. We’re going to have to stretch this inheritance for quite a while.”

“Send me an estimate of how many troops you’ll need and I’ll second them to Finance,” said Morgan. “We have still got thousands of trainees going through the depots in Centralia and Salem and Seattle. I can get you the manpower.”

“Better check with me and Frank first on the manpower, John,” said Morehouse grimly. “There’s still fighting to be done, I’m sorry to say. Maybe we can add some of Ray’s organized looting sprees to the mission of Force 101.”

“What’s Force 101?” asked Ridgeway.

“We need to get into that now,” said Morehouse.

John Corbett Morgan got up from his seat, went to the door and beckoned someone in from the hallway outside. A block-like young man with a fiery red beard and burning blue eyes walked in dressed in NDF tiger-striped camos. He stood to attention and saluted Morehouse and the Cabinet table in general. Morgan introduced him. “For those of you comrades who don’t know him, this is Commandant David Leach of the Ellensburg Flying column, now Colonel Leach of the NDF. Some of you may remember him as one of the few Volunteers from the Olympic Flying Column who survived the Ravenhill ambush. [See The Hill of the Ravens by the author.]

“If I may, sir, I’d just like mention to Minister Bonnar that I had the honor of serving with your sister Anne when I was with the Olympic Column,” said Leach. “She was a brave soldier and a true comrade, ma’am.”

“She was indeed,” agreed Fiona sadly. “Thank you, Colonel.”

“Colonel Leach will be commanding a special action group of around two thousand men,” Morgan continued. “They have been hand-picked in a large measure from NVA veterans of the revolt, but also some who have joined us since the July Days. Mostly men who lost wives and daughters to niggers or muds or ZOG, if you want to know the truth. Some of them will be drawn from O.C. Oglevy’s North Idaho Rangers partisan unit, an outfit that Comrade Leach also served with before he moved to Ellensburg and took over the Column there. This corps will be referred to as Force 101. Colonel Leach will be reporting directly to me, and we will both be working closely with General Barrow and the Third Section, or I guess the Bureau of State Security as it will be soon whenever things get formalized. I will not just be in nominal charge, I will be participating in Force 101’s operations myself, by way of accepting responsibility. I will not order men on a mission like this, and then stand back and try to keep my own hands clean.”

“What mission is that?” asked Jennings.

Red Morehouse answered him. “As you know, while almost all of the actual American military and administrative personnel have now been withdrawn from the Northwest, large sections of the country have yet to be occupied and assimilated into the Republic, which is a different and more complex process than simply chasing the American bureaucrats and the local Chamber of Commerce out. General Barrow, this is part of your Security portfolio, I believe? Can you bring us up to speed?”

“Okay, here’s the sitch.” said Barrow “There are currently loyalist paramilitaries and vigilantes who have seized temporary control in a lot of places, mostly small towns east of the Cascades and over in Idaho and Montana. Wyoming especially is in free fall. We weren’t expecting to get that state at Longview, and we never had that many people down there to begin with, and so we’re really having to scramble. We have to move fast, and stomp on these Amurrican snakes before they can get organized and maybe provoke some kind of new intervention on the part of the United States, or even the goddamned United Nations. The Republic’s political control of the country is now more or less firmed up in the major cities, and also certain of our own liberated zones that the NVA established during the revolt, like the Oregon north shore, thanks to Zack Hatfield and his Wild Bunch boys. But the Northwest is a big place. There are whole huge swaths of territory that saw little or no action during the War of Independence, because they were so out of the way and ironically, also because they were so white. There was no point in the NVA going where there was nobody to shoot. A lot of the people in these little towns and rural areas are confused. They’re still infected with liberalism and in some cases with Zionism through their churches. They are ripe for deception and victimization by counterrevolutionary elements. We don’t want to allow any kind of Unionist reactionary campaign to develop in the countryside. Those can be very difficult to stop. Hell, the entire might of the United States of America couldn’t stop us under similar circumstances.

“So this Force 101 will be dealing with loyalist vigilantes and John Wayne wannabes?” asked Salvatore.

“Not just them, sir,” Colonel Leach answered him. “Officially Force 101 is a rapid response team that will be used to put out brushfires in these small towns where a few idiots decide they don’t want to be ruled by Natsies who is agin’ the Bible, and they hoist up the Masonic dishrag again. That will certainly be part of our remit, yes. But only part of it. We will also be performing a quiet but thorough cleansing of the entire country.”

“Cleansing?” asked Jennings.

“We’re going to take out the last of the trash left over from the revolt and from all the years before, sir,” Leach told him.

“You’re going to kill people,” said Fiona Bonnar accusingly.

“Quite a few people, yes ma’am,” confirmed Leach. “Race-mixers, drug dealers, lefties and liberals of every conceivable stripe, bugger boys and dykes, American informers and collaborators from the past five years and before, Union sympathizers who gave concrete aid and comfort to the Americans and FATPO, the last dregs of Amurrica. Almost all of these kinds of people have had sense enough to get the hell out by now. You can see them running away when you flick on the TV. The interstates going out of the Republic are clogged with their cars as they flee from the people and the land they have betrayed. But there will be some who stay behind, either because they hope to continue to do harm to our new country, or they think the Americans will be coming back soon and they can cash in, or else because they think we’ve forgotten who they are and what they’ve done, and they can hide from us and resume some kind of normal lives as if nothing ever happened. But we haven’t forgotten. We will never forget, and we will never forgive. That much we’ve learned from the Jews. The Northwest Republic needs a clean start, comrades. No one who actively aided the tyrant gets to be in on that.”

Ray Ridgeway, who was sitting next to Red Morehouse, made a note on the yellow legal pad in front of him. One of Oglevy’s maniacs? Morehouse glanced down at it and nodded. Ridgeway added on the pad, Why not use Oglevy himself? Sounds right up his alley.

Morehouse reached over and scribbled, We want to kill the rats, not burn down the barn. He looked over at Public Health Minister Bonnar. “Fi, I know this sounds bad. It is bad, and I for one have no intention of trying to deny that fact or whitewash all this. We’re all going to be racking up some bad karma over Force 101. But Colonel Leach is right. We have to start with a completely clean slate. We can’t leave all these problem people from the old days lurking around below the surface or on the edges, where they may do harm. The Americans and world Jewry are going to be doing their level best to strangle our new nation in the cradle, and we have to deal with anyone who might help them, without hesitation and without mercy. We can’t risk erring on the side of clemency. Mercy to an enemy is cruelty to one’s own, and in this case, the very existence of the white race is at stake. We dare not turn away from our duty.”

Barrow weighed in. “Fiona, we cannot allow a potential fifth column to remain in our midst out of misplaced compassion. We won’t be able to get all of those who secretly yearn for the old order that gave them such luxury and allowed them to wallow in such beastly pleasures in return for their souls, but by meting out condign punishment to a few, we can damned well send a message to the rest of them that the old days are gone and they’d bloody well better wake up and smell the coffee. In any event, are there any among us here whose hands are clean? I seem to recall that a few years ago, you delivered some packages for the NVA. Abortion clinics were your specialty, I believe?”

“Yes,” replied Bonnar with a grim smile. “I haven’t forgotten, and I am willing to answer for what I did to God if He so demands of me when the time comes. That was necessary to save the lives of unborn children.”

“And with all due respect, ma’am, this is necessary to save the life of our newly born nation,” said Leach briskly.

“Frank, John, what guarantee can you give us that only the guilty will suffer in these coming purges or whatever you want to call them?” persisted Bonnar. “We can’t turn this into the French Revolution or the Stalin era, with white people being executed on the word of anonymous informers who may well be vindictive former spouses, or disgruntled employees, or people with personal grudges to settle.”

“Absolute, one-hundred per cent cast-iron guarantee? None,” said Barrow. “I will say this much: Force 101 and the new Bureau of State Security will not act on simple denunciation. They have been provided with detailed lists of suspect persons that are the result of many years of work on the part of the Third Section, during the revolt and also in the old Party days before that. No one is on those lists without a reason, Fi.”

Colonel Leach addressed her. “Madam Minister, I’ve looked over those lists and examined every name we’ve been given so far by Minister Barrow’s people, every one of which has been counterchecked and signed off on by Dan McGrew and Heather Redmond. If you know those two comrades, you know they would only list the really bad actors. There are tens of thousands of names, and I know that sounds like a lot, but if it makes you feel any better, we probably won’t catch most of them. I suspect they’ll be like the Jews on the Eastern Front during the Second World War who hooked up and booked when they heard the SS was coming. The majority of the names on the lists are white people who are proven or reliably reported to us to have engaged in sexual relations with niggers, Jews or other non-whites, for which as far as I’m concerned there is no excuse. In someone like that, the liberal sickness has gone too far, and they are beyond cure or redemption. There are also a lot of faggots and dykes who would have to be crazy to stick around waiting for the axe to fall, and who probably won’t. Then there’s informers, or at least people whom we believe to a moral certainty were informers. It looks like the FBI and other retreating feds and cops destroyed their hard drives and as many of their records as they could, but Third Section wasn’t just sitting on their hands for the past five years, and they know who did what. Can I swear to you that innocent people haven’t ended up on those lists by accident or mistake? No, ma’am, I can’t. But I will tell you this: in any specific case that comes to my own attention, if there is any doubt in my mind at all, we will hold the person in question in custody and refer them to BOSS for further investigation, until their status can be cleared up. I’m afraid that’s as good as it’s going to get.”

“Fiona, Dan and Heather can’t be here tonight because they’re taking care of some special work for us,” Morehouse told her kindly. “But they should be back in town in a couple of days. What say I arrange for you to sit down with them? This government as a whole has a heavy burden to shoulder in this matter. It is what it is. In order for you to do the kind of good things for our people I know you want to do in the field of health and medicine, you have to shoulder part of it, too. We’ll give you all the help and reassurance we can.”

“I’m not some hysterical female who faints at the sight of blood, Red,” replied Bonnar dourly. “Neither was my sister who died at Ravenhill. I think you all know that about me. It’s just that there has been so much terrible suffering and injustice in this land for so long, and I don’t mean only for the past five years of the revolt. I know there still has to be more blood. I just want to make sure it’s the blood of the guilty.”

“As much as it is humanly possible for us to make sure of that, it will be,” Morehouse assured her. He stood up. “Right, let’s take a supper break and see if we can be back here by seven o’clock.”

“Frank, could you check around outside and see if you can buttonhole that fellow Mackintosh for me?” Ridgeway reminded him.

“Sure thing,” said Barrow.

“Oh, one more thing, before I forget,” said Morehouse as they arose from the table. “I have the honor to report that the Old Man has now arrived on the Republic’s soil. I was told that his plane landed at Sea-Tac just before we began tonight’s meeting.” There was an outburst of applause and cheering from the people in the room.

“It was that threat to send O.C. Oglevy and the boys down to Florence to collect him that made the bastards let him go,” chuckled Morgan.

“Probably,” replied Morehouse with a smile. “We were going to schedule a big formal welcome at the airport, brass band and speeches and the whole nine yards, but he vetoed it. There will, however, be a formal welcome for him tomorrow night at six p.m. in the Reception Room, down the hall here. Dress uniform for those of us who have them. And guys, I know General Order Number Ten goes out at midnight tonight and so there will be beer and cocktails and whatnot tomorrow night, but let’s not let him be confronted by the heroes who won our Homeland as a bunch of staggering drunks whooping and waving guns in the air, shall we?”

“He’d probably just think he’s back on Glenn Miller’s farm,” said Morgan.