Saturday, December 22, 2012

Freedom's Sons, Chapter XVI.


[Sorry to post another long excerpted chapter, but there's this one Jew out there who seems to be literally driven insane by FREEDOM'S SONS, and every time I post these he starts bouncing off the walls in the comments section. I know, it's childish, but it's just such FUN to drive him bonkers every few weeks. If he ever stops commenting I'll know I've succeeded in getting him committed to the cackle box. - HAC]



XVI. Tides and Hurricanes

(D-Day plus 12 days)

          Never believe any war will be smooth and easy, or that anyone who embarks on the strange voyage can measure the tides and hurricanes he will encounter. The statesman who yields to war fever must realize that once the signal is given, he is no longer the master of policy but the slave of unforeseeable and uncontrollable events. – Winston Churchill

Over the next two weeks of the steamy D.C. summer the war in the Northwest slowed to a crawl, while the United States government dithered, raged, recriminated, and intrigued.

Military and civilian casualties mounted slowly and grimly for the embattled Northwest Republic, but soared spectacularly for the United States and Aztlan. American bombing and indeed all aerial missions over the Republic ceased, at least until the U.S. Air Force could figure out how to deal with Bluelight. No solution was forthcoming either to the loss of American air power nor the loss of satellite surveillance; Rotfungus maintained its mysteries impenetrable in the face of efforts by every computer wizard the federals could throw at it. “I knew that lunatic Cord at Stanford,” explained one exasperated software engineer. “He gets his theoretical insights from the Bible and astrology. We used to call him J.C., he thought it meant Jesus Christ, and he took it as a compliment! He’s a fucking kook, so how could he come up with something like this that nobody can crack?”

“Maybe he gets it from his Esteemed Senior Colleague,” replied a second man from MIT who had also known Cord.

One of the more interesting conversations that Georgia Myers overheard between the American president and his staff, and subsequently reported back to Vinnie Skins and thence on to the NAR high command, concerned the apparent inability of the United States government to replace the hundreds of aircraft, the thousands of motorized vehicles, as well as the naval vessels which had been destroyed by the NDF during the first two days of the war. Put simply, the cupboard was bare. After over a century of embezzling and squandering the greatest national treasure trove of wealth and resources in human history on politically correct social experimentation, the United States of America was finally plain old flat-out broke, and was led by people who were bloody stupid enough to start a major war when the country was broke. Not a good combination. The U.S. had already been put on final notice by the International Monetary Fund, the World Bank, and by the world’s few remaining stable monetary systems: any more “quantitative easing,” or printing of money by the Federal Reserve in order to pay for the war would result in the complete blackballing and delegitimizing of the battered American dollar and its removal from all internationally traded currencies in London, Geneva, Moscow, Buenos Aires, Beijing, Tokyo, and wherever else there was a stock market or financial futures exchange. The U.S. floated a special war bond issue as they’d done in World War One and World War Two. The bonds fell flat on their faces and were withdrawn after three days in sheer embarrassment. Everyone knew that the promise of the United States government to repay wasn’t worth a bucket of warm spit. No one wanted to buy, sell, or trade in toilet paper.

Rotfungus continued to cripple the American satellite surveillance systems, although after the first week a massive effort on the part of the U.S. government, what remained of NASA, and the worldwide communications and entertainment industry who owned and operated many of the satellites, was able to re-route almost 95 percent of the world’s electronic traffic through combinations of broadcast or fiber optic cable.

At least the image of Hunter Wallace yapping like a Chihuahua was removed from most television and computer screens across the globe. Wags found to be posting the now famous image to the internet or broadcasting it were visited by gorilla-faced FBI and Homeland Security teams comprised mostly of African-Americans and Samoans. The humorists were beaten to a bloody pulp, their testicles crushed, and left screaming on the floor of their homes, pour encourager les autres. The offenders’ computer equipment was confiscated, as were all locatable assets in any bank accounts or money markets, as a fine to help the war effort. Only a few such examples sufficed to make sure that for the time being the President of the United States no longer barked at the moon, at least on the internet.

The American ground invasion columns had all come to grief. All three ground to a halt just barely inside the borders of the Republic, because they simply ran out of motorized transport. The NDF destroyed it all. The American C-130 transport planes and helicopters didn’t dare take off. Their trucks, their tanks, their Bradleys and Humvees were littered across hundreds of square miles of the inland Northwest in various stages of dilapidation from artillery shells, Songbird bombs, Starfighter rockets, and IEDs whipped up by Middle East veterans who had learned the technique from Muslim guerrillas in half a dozen exotic lands. 

The U.S. Combined Military Group South was stalled at Anaconda, Montana, surrounded by A.J. Drones’ Fourth Army, including the 85th Infantry Regiment, which in turn included Eddie Horakova’s battery of field guns. Colonel Jason Stockdale made it a point to get down to Horakova’s current position every day or so for a quick word to let him know that Stockdale had heard from his wife Jenny, and that Eddie and Bob Campbell’s wives and children as well as Kevin and Tammy Myers and their baby were safe. They were living in a rural safe camp by the side of Crater Lake, Oregon, and they were all doing fine in the camp school and having fun. The kids thought it was all a great game and adventure.

Group Center was dug in and besieged by Zack Hatfield’s Second Army at Fairfield, Montana. Group North, which had attacked through Canada with the connivance of the Canadian government, had only made it as far as Ponderay, Idaho, before they were halted and enveloped by the Third Army and the Florian Geyer SS Division, and forced to dig in. As Group North’s commanding officer, U.S. Army Lieutenant General John R. “Jack” Falstaff, remarked bitterly to his chief of staff, Colonel Justin Nym, while the shells crashed all around their dugout: “Some asshole in the White House told those lickspittles in the media that this would be World War Three on our side versus World War One on theirs. So why the hell are we the ones who are now stuck in trenches?”

Along the southern front, the news for the Allies was even worse. The NDF’s First Army along old Interstate 5, commanded by General John Corbett Morgan from the border city of Medford, the Fifth Army of General Robert Gair out of Klamath Falls, and the Sixth Army out of Burns, Oregon, commanded by General Robert DiBella, had completely turned back the Mexican hordes in less than a week, reducing them to a panic-stricken rout. Significantly, after the first week of Bluelight and shoulder-fired SAMs and dueling with Luftwaffe Starfighters in and out of the mountain passes, the Chinese withdrew the bulk of their remaining combat helicopters southward out of the hot zones, lest they go back to Beijing minus almost everything they’d brought and with nothing to show for it. The Aztec generalissimo, Alfredo Galvez, made a flamboyant exit on June 30th by wrapping himself in the Mexican flag and blowing his own brains out as the SS closed in on his command post.

Acting on orders from the General Staff, none of the three Northwest armies posted on the Aztlan border had crossed into Aztec territory yet. Having driven the enemy back, they would fight a holding action in the south while the more serious American threat in the east and north was dealt with. Instead, the NDF all along the southern front were hovering on the border, bombarding everything that moved on the Spanish side, conducting lightning commando raids and air attacks, while occasional V-3s still drifted lazily southward to drop a load of unpleasantness on Frisco, Sacramento, or Fresno. 

Aztlan had almost fallen apart; Third World countries just don’t have the infrastructure to survive a major military catastrophe. Local officials and government functionaries were no longer being paid and were turning predatory from Sacramento on south, with Los Angeles street gangs and rural jefes establishing themselves as Pancho Villa-style warlords throughout California. El Presidente was rumored to spend his time lying around his great palace in Los Angeles in his underwear, drunk and surrounded by naked prostitutes, while his clerical staff attempted to run the country. The once vibrant city of San Francisco, officially deeded by the Aztlan government to a huge “gay community” in exchange for the largely white and Jewish perverts’ admitted technical, financial, and administrative skills to keep the country running, had lost two thirds of its population owing either to death from phosgene and sarin gas, or else through flight away from the V-3s. The section of the white and Jewish entertainment industry that had remained in Hollywood was fleeing from southern California by private jet and yacht as order broke down completely and CNN showed their mansions in Beverly Hills, Santa Monica and Carmel being sacked and plundered by mobs of campesinos.

But the biggest military development in the past several weeks did not come from any of the battlefields. It was the sudden gas and biowar attacks against crowded U.S. population centers in Chicago, Cleveland, Miami, Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and St. Louis, when agents of the NAR released phosgene or sarin gas into the public transportation systems and weaponized anthrax into certain other target areas. Tens of thousands of people keeled over in subways, buses, public assemblies and buildings.

The bulk of the victims of these carefully planned chemical and bio strikes were non-whites, blacks who were doing nothing but cluttering up the landscape, and assorted Third World peoples who had no business anywhere in North America in any case. 
America’s ruling class, for all of a century of political correctness, was still largely white and Jewish, and these had not been significantly attacked yet in their enclaves along the east coast. But the psychological effect of the covert ops attacks on the régime’s power elite was definite. Although for some reason it hadn’t gone down yet, they understood that what could happen in New Orleans or Philly could also happen in Georgetown or Manhattan or other Green Zones such as American Houston, and it was clear that the American authorities couldn’t do much to prevent it.

The political blowback of the United States’ increasingly obvious inability to protect its own territory and its own citizens from enemy attack grew ominous. The liberal and Jewish-controlled media screamed like banshees, railing at Hunter Wallace and demanding protection against “Nazi genocide” and a “third Holocaust.” (Jews didn’t like that term, maintaining that there had been only two Holocausts and both belonged to them.) Frightened blacks, Hispanics, and other Third Worlders were no longer willing to eat and drink and shoot up their assorted government checks, remaining drunk and docile in their own neighborhoods. Like any herd of animals, they got spooked when they sensed danger, and they threatened to break out of their pens.

* * *

Needless to say the excitement of war and the stress of being combat bureaucrats produced an increase in demand for illicit meat and tobacco products among the Green Zone’s élite; Vinnie Skins and his suppliers and his runners were working overtime, and not just on the spying end of their business. One day Lieutenant Robert Campbell, aka Richie from Chicago, was sitting in the office in the Arlington warehouse waiting for his car—he had one now—to be loaded up with cigarettes and coolers full of all-beef burgers and chicken leg quarters, when he asked the harried Vinnie Skins why there had been no chemical or biological attacks as yet in the two major American cities without which the United States could not function: New York City and Washington, D.C.?  “I mean, it was Operation Applesmash in New York and Operation Pigkill here that finally drove the Americans to the Longview Conference,” Campbell pointed out.

“Yeah, I know,” Vinnie told him. “I was here for Pigkill. It’s what got me this gig in the first place. As to why we haven’t cut the cheese here yet, well, there’s a couple of reasons for that. First off, these two cities are the most target-rich places in Amurrica for us, just like they were for the Muslims back in the day. D.C. and Jew York have always been where Amurrica does its really important business. Los Angeles used to be a third place, when the movie and entertainment industry was still there, and that’s why we staged Operation We Are Not Amused back all those years ago. [See The Brigade.] But that also means that D.C. and New York have always been the most securely monitored, patrolled, and locked-down places in the whole country. You know the kind of surveillance we have to put up with over in the Green Zone, and it’s the same in the more crucial parts of New York City, especially in Manhattan and the fortified towns in the Hamptons, where every crack in the sidewalk has a security camera trained on it, not to mention various goon squads always within a couple of minutes’ response time. That means that it’s damned risky for us to make a move under the best of circumstances, and with the heightened wartime alert level it’s even harder for us to gain access to the kind of targets that would make a strike worth it, plant whatever packages need to be planted, and then E&E successfully.”

“That night tickle you guys pulled off outside the South African Embassy a few weeks ago went off seamlessly,” remarked Bob.

“Yeah, well, we were lucky, and I wouldn’t have tried that cowboy shit except in really urgent circumstances,” Cardinale told him. “Our personnel resources Out Here have always been limited, even when things were more or less peaceful and we were operating under cover. The more people you have involved in any kind of covert op, the more that can go wrong. But now that the lid has blown off and the régime here has gone into full-blown paranoia mode, it’s going to be even harder for us to escape detection. In fact, I’m thinking of closing this warehouse down. It’s too well known, and some asshole over there at the FBI might get the idea of cracking down on organized crime as part of doing their bit for the war effort or some such crap.

“Secondly, strikes in the Green Zone here and the high end of Manhattan will produce a lot more in the way of white casualties than what we’ve been doing so far,” Cardinale continued. “We’ve been preparing for this day for years, of course, and we have some plans we’re working on right now which we’ll roll on when we get the word, but even here and now with the situation like it is, we’re under orders to try and keep white casualties as low as possible. Whites are a minority in the U.S. now, but even so, a lot of the individuals we gas on the Metro or blow up in their office buildings are going to be ordinary white people, folks who are working for the government just to try and get a paycheck and raise a family and keep some kind of decent home.”

“Then they should be doing it in the Homeland!” said Campbell angrily. “That’s what the Republic is for!”

“Nice ideological answer, but in real life things aren’t all that cut and dried,” said Cardinale. “It’s like the whites who fought against us during the war, the first war I suppose I should say now. There is still such a thing as an average American, God help the poor dumb bastards. A lot of them aren’t bad people in themselves; they’re just idiots who seem to have some weird fucking blindness hard-wired into their brains, so they can’t see what’s going on around them. They just don’t know any better than to believe whatever horseshit the goddamned United States and the Jew liberal media tell them. They’ve never been allowed to hear any other point of view, they have been told we’re monsters in human form, and they’ve never questioned any of it. They never had the mental and moral equipment to question any of it, because this filthy system made sure they didn’t. It’s all very well to say, ‘Well, they should have been smart and figured it all out on instinct like the first Northwest Volunteers did,’ but they didn’t. Their brains have been dulled, but they’re not evil, and they don’t deserve to die just for being dummocks whose minds are more on their kids or paying their bills or their other immediate concerns, than on trying to figure out what makes the world they live in tick. Most people simply aren’t that complex and analytical. Not everybody can be a George Lincoln Rockwell or a William Gayley Simpson.

“Anyway, even if these people may be a write-off, what about their children?” asked Cardinale. “They’re part of our racial gene pool too, and there aren’t enough of us left on this planet so we can write them off, or any other group of white people. Do we want another whole generation of white children to grow up hating and fearing so-called Nazis, hating the Northwest Republic because their father or mother died in a bombing of a government office or a gassing on a subway platform?”

“Yet President Morehouse has ordered that no prisoners from the invading armies be taken,” pointed out Campbell.

“That’s different,” said Cardinale, shaking his head. “Those are soldiers who joined the American military voluntarily, in search of a paycheck, and also for the last medical insurance and retirement that exists in American society since Social Security went belly up. They sought those benefits knowing full well that they would be expected to earn them by spilling the blood and taking the freedom of people of their own race in the NAR. That’s unforgivable, and the State President is right to decree that anyone who does that, anyone who sets foot in our country in order to do harm, has to die.

“But we’re talking big picture stuff here, Rich. We’re going to win this war, I can tell you that. I can feel it. Our two big secret weapons have worked, we’ve knocked the Americans out of the sky both physically and visually, and without their toys, they’re done for. That’s great, and I intend to help any way I can and kill anybody I have to in order to make that victory happen. I don’t deceive myself as to the result. Twenty years from now, there aren’t going to be millions of young white people walking around saying ‘Gee, thanks Northwest Republic, for not gassing my mom or my dad in their cubicle at the Department of Labor during the war! You Northmen guys are all right!’ It’s just a matter of keeping the level of hatred and fear and mistrust this war is going to engender in the non-racially-aware white population of North America down as much as possible, so that someday maybe we in the Republic can be reconciled to the millions of our people who either chose to stay here, or in most cases simply never thought to leave for Home because the Jews programmed their brains not to.

“You’ll notice that the cities we’ve hit with our witches’ brews are almost entirely niggerized and beanerfied,” Cardinale pointed out. “Some of those places where our teams have let a deadly fart, like Detroit and Atlanta and Baltimore, have gone completely feral under years of black rule. There’s no industry or infrastructure left to destroy there, nothing of value, just packs of wild black animals roaming in the ruins, and some gook storekeepers who make a living relieving them of their welfare money. The only whites in danger in Detroit or Atlanta or New Orleans are anyone stupid enough to wander into the primates’ habitat. We’ve launched biochem attacks on those cities, sure, but mostly for psychological and eugenic reasons.”

“Psychological and eugenic?” asked Bob. “Psychological warfare I get, but I’m not with you on the eugenics.”

“Culling the herds, young man, culling the herds,” said Cardinale. “Most of the population in all-black or all-Hispanic areas is very young, and so it follows that by attacking those areas and killing as many of them as we can, we’re not just killing X thousand niggers or beaners, we’re killing all the hundreds of thousands of picaninnies and bambinos they might have bred, and their grandchildren, great-grandchildren, etc. What put the white man on the road to demographic extinction back in the twentieth century?” asked Vinnie in a professorial tone. “Our participation in two hideous world wars between the European peoples, to the point where untold millions of white children all across the world were simply never born, because their fathers and mothers and grandparents died on the Somme or at Anzio or in the Dresden and Hamburg firestorms, so forth and so on.

“What kept us from being physically overrun by literally billions of niggers and gooks during the late 20th and early 21st centuries? A series of brushfire wars in Africa and Asia such as Mao’s Cultural Revolution, Vietnam, Biafra, Rwanda, Darfur, and of course, the mass disease and starvation in Africa that came from the blacks’ complete and total inability to cope with the modern world and take care of themselves. If it hadn’t been for those natural culls, the world would be all black and yellow today instead of mostly black and yellow like it is. Sorry, I’m rambling, but the fact is that’s another reason we need to try and keep white casualties on all sides as light as possible during this war—if we can wipe out large numbers of mud people while preserving what’s left of the shattered white gene pool as much as we can, we might be able actually to start re-balancing the demographic scales at some point in the future.

“That’s one reason we haven’t hit New York and D.C. with alternate warfare,” Cardinale went on. “The final reason is so we can scare the hell out of the remaining responsible elements in this country and make sure that after we have well and truly whipped them down into jelly, when Red Morehouse generously offers to call off the dogs, he has a stick as well as a carrot to offer. We need to make it clear to the ruling élite of the United States that we are entirely capable of destroying what they have left, and if they want to keep it, they’d damned well better make peace on whatever terms our State President decides to offer them, when the time comes. And it will.”

“But you’re planning some attacks here?” persisted Campbell. “I’m in, sir. I mean it. The invaders have been stopped, but they’re still on our soil. My family is in Montana, and I have no idea what’s happened to them. I keep thinking of Millie and my children in … in some kind of situation …” Bob clenched his fist, hard. “I’m here and I can’t help them. I should be out there in Anaconda with my X-3, making damned sure those animals don’t get anywhere near them. But if I can’t shoot them like a soldier I’ll damned sure gas them or poison them!”

“I get that, son,” said Cardinale with a nod. “But you in turn need to get that right now, you among all our millions of soldiers are doing the one thing that might be the most important job of any one of us, the mission that might save us all. You are helping that brave girl in that cesspit on Pennsylvania Avenue tell us what those murderers are up to in time for us to stay one step ahead of them. By warning us of those paratroop drops alone, she saved thousands of Northwest lives. Now, how is the Beautiful Lady holding up?”

“She’s running on raw nerves and God knows what else,” said Bob grimly. “She’s losing weight and she’s starting to look haggard around the eyes and mouth from not sleeping. She’s admitted to me that sometimes the urge to light up a joint at least, or to start drinking again, is becoming almost overwhelming. The stress is getting to her. The White House is full of new security procedures, all kinds of strange spooks from half a dozen agencies roaming up and down the halls, huddled over computers in cubbyholes and whispering to one another in corners. They’re getting more and more frantic and paranoid, the clearer it becomes each day that the United States is losing the war. They’re looking for scapegoats. The FBI is re-vetting everybody who works at Sixteen Hundred, complete new security workups and background checks. Georgia being born in Montana is raising eyebrows again, and she thinks the Secret Service is trying to get her kicked out before her contract is up. That head agent, the ex-Fattie, Lyons, has never liked her being there. Fortunately, she was completely clean from their point of view until I knocked on her door a couple of months ago. They’d just finished going over her background with a fine-toothed comb. They found a lot of bad craziness but nothing political, and that’s all they’ll find now.”

“The possible relapse into drugs and booze worries the hell out of me,” said Cardinale. “It worries the hell out of Jake Shapira, too.”

“It really sounds funny referring to a comrade by a Jewish name,” said Campbell, shaking his head in bemusement. “When this is all over, somebody needs to tell me the doc’s real name.”

“I don’t know it, and he may not remember it,” said Cardinale. “Out Here you can end up losing yourself in your cover and forgetting who you really are. No kidding. I’ve been Vinnie Skins for so long that I swear I have these vague memories of my childhood in New Jersey that never happened. Be glad you’re only Out Here for the short term. When you get back Home, you may find yourself thinking and acting like Richie for a while. I hope your wife is understanding.”

“I don’t know what she’d think of Richie the Buttlegger, but I damned sure know what she’ll say about these tattoos!” said Campbell, lifting his be-Lila’ed arm. “Speaking of which, I know we’re not supposed to act curious about fellow team members, but Betsy’s let some things slip over the past couple of months that give me the impression there’s a story there. She said once she’s never even been back Home since she was a kid. How is that possible? I mean, she’d have to go back to go through SoI on Whidbey Island, at least?”

“Betsy never went to SoI,” said Cardinale, shaking his head. “We recruited her locally. Fortunately for us, she’s turned out to be a natural. Yeah, there’s a story there, and I suppose you ought to know it, just so you don’t end up putting your foot in it with her. She’s from a little town out in eastern Washington called Wheeler, or it was called Wheeler. It was out near Moses Lake somewhere.”

“Was?” asked Bob.

“Yeah, was. It’s gone now,” Cardinale told him, “The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers dynamited all the buildings, burned what they could, and bulldozed the rubble into a landfill during the last year of the war. I don’t know if the Republic ever rebuilt it. The NVA had an active company out there, attached to the Yakima Brigade. Can’t remember the details, never got down that way myself, but that particular crew specialized in whacking Indians. They used to leave cards at their hits saying it was revenge for Kennewick Man or some such. They shot some self-proclaimed chief of the Hunkapoop tribe or whatever, coming out of the liquor store just outside the res, of course. Turned out this redskin was a real favorite with the liberal media back east here, kind of their official Native American Mascot from the Racist Northwest.”

“And here I thought we were all Native Americans, by virtue of being born here,” sneered Bob.

“Not if you’re the wrong color, no,” said Cardinale. “Yeah, that one always used to get my back up as well. Anyway, when Chief Running Nose was sent to the happy hunting ground, there was all kinds of screaming and hollering about wicked white men completing the genocide of the noble red man, all that happy horseshit. The Volunteers who did the deed were out of reach, but the political pressure was on for the feds to do something, jump up and down and shit snowballs, whatever. So the FATPOs moved in and arrested the entire population of Wheeler, which was four or five hundred people, and deported them all to the FEMA camps in Nevada.”

“Oh, Jesus!” said Bob, shaking his head. “I’ve heard of those camps. Let me guess. Was Betsy … ?”

“She was,” said Cardinale grimly. “She was about thirteen at the time, so she was considered too old for It Takes a Village, her mind being already corrupted with wicked racism and the King James Bible, so forth and so on. So she got to go along for the ride. Betsy and her mother and her little brother were dragged out of their house around dawn and thrown into the back of an eighteen-wheeler along with about seventy other people, standing room only, and then they hit the road south. No stops along the way, at least not for the deportees. By the time the truck got to the camp in Pahrump, only about half of the people in the truck were still alive, and Betsy’s brother was dead. Heat and dehydration. The child was about six, I think. Betsy’s mother died a few months later of the same causes plus malnutrition, starvation, intermittent beatings, and occasional bouts of interracial gang rape at the hands of the guards, most of whom were nigger and Mexican military stockade inmates, acting as trusties under the so-called supervision of the army MPs. Once her mother died, Betsy was left there on her own. Do you want me to go on?”

“No, sir,” said Campbell. “I’m sorry I asked. I won’t say anything to her to let on that I know. We all know some Mandingo older women back home. There’s a rule that we somehow get taught, but it’s so subtle that most of us can’t even remember where we learned it. I know I can’t.”

“Say nothing, remember everything,” quoted Cardinale. “Yes, I’ve heard it, and it doesn’t just apply to Mandingo experiences. Anyway, Betsy ended up here in D.C. through a series of events I won’t get into, and we were lucky enough to pick her up. The reason Betsy has never been Home is that she feels she has nothing to go Home to.”

“That’s not true, sir!” said Campbell sadly. “She has the land we made out of what we took from them to go home to. She can start over. That’s what the Republic is there for, for Christ’s sake!”

“Maybe someday she will,” said the older man. “Right now she doesn’t see it that way. She’s into the whole lifelong revenge thing, and you’re right, you do not talk to her about any of this. We can’t give that girl much in exchange for all she does for us, but we can damned sure give her respect!”

* * *

On the first day of July, White House Press Secretary Angela Herrin sat in the Oval Office with her shapely legs crossed, speaking to the President of the United States as if he were a small, stubborn child. “Mr. President, you must begin to think seriously about the Apocalypse Option,” she said. “The war so far has been an unmitigated disaster. Every day, half measures are being conclusively proven not to work. The effect on everything from our national morale to our economy has been catastrophic, not to mention the fact that your re-election prospects for a third term are now in serious jeopardy.”

“My re-election is in the bag,” said Wallace with a confidence he did not really feel. “No nation is going to change horses in midstream in the middle of a major war like this.”

Angela sighed. “Mr. President, you are speaking as if the actual vote totals in an American general election have any relevance to the result. We both know that hasn’t been the case for several generations.”

White House Chief of Staff Ronald Schiff spoke up firmly. “Sir, you seem to be forgetting who counts the votes, and who constitutes the majority shareholders in the Diebold Corporation that manufactures and controls the voting machines, not to mention the fact that the CEO of Diebold is Mordecai Eshkol, an Israeli businessman who will not be impressed with any apparent lack of political will to deal with this Nazi abomination in the Pacific Northwest.”

“What, so you guys are threatening me now?” demanded Wallace, a bit of bluster in his voice. “How soon they forget! I’ve been a friend of the Jewish people all my life, ever since I was running my own little racist internet operation back in the ‘teens and voluntarily sending every name and address and bit of information I picked up to the ADL and the Southern Poverty Law Center, just to let you know whose side I was on!”

“We remember, and we’re very grateful, sir,” purred Angela. “But this is a crucial moment in our history, and we need for you to come through for us in the one way that will ultimately count. We need you to destroy our enemies for us. Think of your legacy, sir! You know how grateful we can be to those who come through for us when it counts. By 1940, Winston Churchill was a washed-up, brandy-soaked has-been, out of office and out of the mainstream, who was detested even by his own party as an amoral hack without a principle to his name. Franklin Delano Roosevelt was on the verge of being impeached for trying to pack the Supreme Court with his own personal flunkies, even as he was reviled for having created the beginnings of a welfare state that, even then, wise heads knew would lead to serious trouble and danger to the nation someday, while at the same time he failed to end the Great Depression. But those men came through for the Jewish people and took down Hitler for us, and so to this day, they are regarded as veritable saints throughout the entire civilized world. It’s just smart politics to stay on the right side of the people who control and shape the narrative, and who write the history books, or nowadays the history movies and TV.”

“Senator Nivens has already indicated to us in private that he would be in favor of using the Apocalypse Option,” remarked Schiff casually.

“Oh, I get it,” said Wallace irritably. “I give the order to nuke the Northwest or else the Jewish lobby will switch their support to Nivens at the One Nation Indivisible convention in August?”

“You can’t win a third term if you’re not nominated, sir,” said Schiff with a truly Yiddish shrug of his shoulders.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, we don’t even know if the Apocalypse Option is on the table!” said Wallace. “These ray gun things have knocked down almost all the Cruise missiles that have been fired at the Northwest Republic, or entity, or sewing circle, or whatever we’re calling it this week. We don’t even know that nuclear ICBMs will get through! The nearest silos are in Kansas and Minnesota. That’s plenty of warning for the Nazis to focus those whatever-the-hell-they-are weapons. So once we’ve shot our final bolt and it fails, what then?”

“How will you look to the country by August, by which time you will have lost at least one of the armies you sent into the Northwest completely and maybe all three, and there may be Nazi tanks rolling towards the convention hall in Chicago?” asked Angela urgently. “Sir, I know a nuclear strike will be a hard sell, but hard sells are what you do best! Your speech to the convention must be a victory speech!”

What about the ray guns?” asked Wallace.

“I admit, we don’t even know if Apocalypse will work now,” said Angela. “There’s only one way to find out. We fire our entire nuclear arsenal at all their cities, maybe two dozen each on Seattle and Portland to make sure at least one gets through, multiple missiles against lesser cities like Spokane and Boise and Eugene and Corvallis, you get the idea.”

Wallace scowled. “What about the fallout and collateral damage of a nuclear hit on Seattle to Vancouver, British Columbia? How do you think Prime Minister Simoneau and the international community will react to that? How about all those Jews you mentioned who live in Vancouver, all those Israeli survivors you were so worried about being traumatized?”

“The Jewish community in Vancouver is being quietly evacuated, and has been since the beginning of the war,” replied Schiff calmly.

Wallace almost let fly with a remark about rats leaving a sinking ship, but he choked it back through lifelong force of habit. “Okay, how about Montana and northern Idaho? What about our own troops who are dug in and surrounded and outnumbered by enemy armies, troops we can’t even resupply because we can’t reach them by air or by ground? Hundreds of thousands of men, and the biggest problem isn’t even combat casualties. Do you know that Scheisskopf estimates that Group South can hold out for less than a week on what food and water they have remaining, and the other two armies at Fairfield and Ponderay are in just as bad a shape? What about them?”

“Give them a Fourth of July present, Mr. President!” urged Angela, her eyes sparkling at the thought of mass slaughter of anti-Semites. “Launch America’s nuclear arsenal of democracy on the birthday of our nation!” (Angela was forgetting for the moment that she had been born in Israel.) “At the same time the mushroom clouds go up, order a massive breakout offensive on the part of all three of our besieged army groups! The Nazis will be in shock and awe, reeling from the destruction of their cities and their industries and their families! Maybe God will even stop the sun in its tracks once more so our godel hadorim can keep on killing the Jew-hating bastards!”

“You want me to order a massive nuclear strike against the Northwest on the Fourth of July?” laughed Wallace. “I have to admit, that would be one hell of a fireworks display!”

There was a knock on the door of the Oval Office. “Yes?” called Wallace, Georgia Myers walked into the room. “Five o’clock, Mr. President,” she announced pertly, as if she were reminding him of a perfectly ordinary appointment. “I see you’re busy. Want me to come back?”
          
“Give us ten more minutes, Ms. Halberstam,” said Wallace, as if she were a perfectly normal secretary.
          
“Sure.” Georgia left, closing the door behind her, but when she had approached it had been slightly ajar, and she had heard Wallace’s last remark. She slipped into the lady’s room down the hall, selected a stall on the end nearest the wall which she had carefully determined was out of range of the new camera which had been installed by the Secret Service and DHS despite the ferocious protests of the female staff, and quickly texted out a coded message to Bob Campbell on her phone, which she concealed in a color picture of Snuffles, a pot-bellied pig which had been given to President Wallace by a little girl in Iowa and had become the official White House mascot.

“Shit!” said Campbell in his car, once he had decoded the message. He pulled over on his way to a barbecued chicken delivery to DuPont Circle long enough to pass the message on to Birdie, who passed it on to Vinnie Skins, who passed it on to Fort Lewis. The expletives that echoed through the NDF General Staff within the hour, on learning that the Jews now threatened their country with nuclear mass murder, were far stronger than Bob Campbell’s monosyllable. About two hours after Georgia had sent her text, Vincent Cardinale got a coded top priority order, on paper of all things, through an archaic device in his desk known in the late twentieth century as a fax machine. It was so old that the DHS and FBI no longer bothered to try and detect or decrypt fax-modulated land line signals; no one there remembered them, or remembered what to look for.

Vinnie knew his own codes well enough so he didn’t have to use his key. The order was simple: We have to send a message. Cack those kikes.

Cardinale nodded grimly, and quickly coded and sent his reply: It’s done.




11 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Why on Earth would one want to replica the Kraut stick grenade, just to "look Nazi". The stick design is vastly inferior to the modern baseball design. The broom handle is a useless addition to the weight and size of the grenade. Throwing a "stick" is much less ergonomic than throwing a "ball".

9:21 AM  
Blogger The Old Man said...

@Anonymous

Nicht mit das nit-picking, Kamerad. That's a piece of artwork submitted by one of our younger readers who is enthralled with the Northwest series. At that age I am entirely willing to trade youth and enthusiasm for technique.

-HAC

9:44 AM  
Anonymous Red Green said...

Yeah,I can see why this would drive a Jew around the twist. [chuckle]

10:24 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Harold's books give us an invaluable vision of victory. The feeling of seeing our side winning in fiction gives us an idea of what it would feel like to win in real life.

10:44 AM  
Anonymous Peter Winslow said...

I definitely need to order this one.

7:54 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Sure it's a Jew who's flipping out and not one of those keyboard commando types on the pseudo-intellectual blogs? I know you're freaking some of them out pretty wild.

8:09 PM  
Anonymous Fred Malvern said...

@Anonymous

HAC is freaking out the pseuds because the NF is the only outfit in the Movement with any kind of strategy at all other than sit there and keep on pounding the keyboard. Of course the pseudos are trying to tear him down.

8:49 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I think we all know what the problem is. HAC is the William Pierce of 2012, Pierce's logical successor, in fact the only figure on the horizon that even approaches (and in my opinion) surpasses Pierce in stature, certainly as a writer.

But there is a small internet clique who are still scraping the bones of the NA carcass from the 1990s for whatever thin shreds and scraps of meat are left on it, and they have to maintain the myth of the Lost Leader Who Can Never Be Replaced in order to keep whatever little personal stature they have from that time inflated.

The names "Hadding Scott" (pseudonym for some middle-aged Comic Book Guy living in his parents' basement in Florida) and Hadding's principal, Kevin Alfred Strom, come to mind.

The jungle drums keep whispering that a LOT of this bullshit in the internet is Strom and a few of his strange sycophants trying to somehow worm their way back "in", wherever "in" is these days, and since HAC is now leading the pack if only by default due to him being the only man with a plan, HAC has to be "done in" in some manner. Hence all the cock-a-doodle-doo on the internet,

1:08 PM  
Anonymous Robert the Biker said...

The 'stick' grenade was not only used by the Germans y'know, the British grenades of the early twentieth century up to the first year of WW1 were like that. They then made the Mills grenade (with those serrations on it to make it fragment). Part of the reason is that us furriners over here in England and Yurp play different ball games to you so have a different throwing style.

9:28 AM  
Anonymous Anthony DiNardo said...

I think this one will be nothing short of inspirational, HAC.

12:31 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Harold, you do understand that it won't be until after you're dead that we are allowed to "discover" your works and you are finally given the credit you deserve as a novelist?

1:28 PM  

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