The Brigade excerpts, chapter VIII

by Harold Covington

“Running The Game”

“There’s an old Norse saying: ‘Luck often enough will save a man, if his courage hold,’” Wingo replied. “McGee. That’s Irish, right?”

“Well, the Irish never gave up for eight hundred years,” said Wingo.

“I hope we can win a bit sooner than that,” said Kicky with a small laugh.

“The Army Council is basing all its strategic thinking on an assumed thirty-year conflict,” said Wingo seriously.

Back in the operations center Lainie Martínez had her headphones on. She was listening intently and taking notes. “30 year terror campaign (???!!!!)”

♣

“So what happens now? What do you want me to do?” asked Kicky.

“The next step is that we will arrange for you to receive a copy of the old Party Handbook and the new NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] General Orders,” said Ma. “The General Orders you need to memorize, and I do mean memorize, and then destroy the sheet of paper that they’re printed on, because if you’re caught with them in your possession it’s a federal felony carrying a death sentence. No kidding. These tyrants are killing people now simply for having a single sheet of paper. You need to have the General Orders committed to memory not just for your own security, but because you will be expected to obey them. Always. Without fail.”

“So when do I get to be a Northwest Volunteer?” asked Kicky.

“You don’t, not at first. We need to take a good long look at you and see how you perform, like any job,” said Wingo. “To begin with, you’ll be what some crews call an asset, what others call a candidate member.

“You won’t be asked to make your bones for a good while,” said Wingo, “And even then, it will be voluntary on your part. This is not a regular war. Our people have to carry an immensely personal and crushing burden on their shoulders, and that goes far more so for the shooters and the bombers. Only a small number of people have the right combination of steady hand and nerves of steel, along with—oh, hell, I suppose you’d call it a lack of introspection, the ability to just do the job and then not worry about it afterwards. If they’re not right for it, their conscience gets to eating at them, they start losing their nerve and going to pieces and muttering about finding Jesus and getting forgiveness. No offense, Ma.”

“None taken,” said Ma. “It does happen, and then there are problems all across the board. White people are the greatest killers the world has ever known, but we have in fact been subjected to that century of social engineering and behavior modification through propaganda that I mentioned earlier, and in a lot of our people, that predator gene does seem to have been bred out. You will never be asked to do anything that is beyond your strength. But you will find that as time goes on, and you come to understand who you are, that your strength is greater than you think.”

On the cab ride back, as they neared the center town, Kicky asked him, “What did Ma mean when she said you had a bug up your ass about women?”

Wingo sighed. “Same thing you probably feel about men. I’ve just been betrayed once too often. Nothing personal. I think that’s the worst thing that the Jews have done to us, in a way. Made white men and women hate and fear and mistrust one another.”

“Yeah, I know it in my mind,” said Kicky. “It’s just common sense that there have to be some good men left out there somewhere. But why the hell don’t I ever meet any?”

“The mutual consensus seems to be that white women are all neurotic and treacherous bitches…”

“Does the NVA have a lot of women members?” asked Kicky.

“Mmm, some. Look, I’m afraid I still presume most white women are write-offs, but I will say this: the few remaining exceptions have more range than men do.

“You’ll probably start getting some of our special trips tomorrow night. One of the people you drive will give you a copy of the Handbook and the General Orders. I’ll repeat what Ma told you, because this is important. Memorize the General Orders and then live by them. There’s only ten of them, just like the Commandments, and like the Commandments they’re just what they say they are: orders, not suggestions.”

♣

Kicky tried to wrap her mind around the fact that the mightiest empire the world had ever known would use all of its power and resources to put her to death if they knew she had this sheet of paper in her hand, and if they knew she had read these ten paragraphs.


NORTHWEST VOLUNTEER ARMY GENERAL ORDERS

General Order Number One: The Army Council of the Northwest Volunteer Army is hereby constituted as the governing body of the Northwest American Republic…

General Order Number Four: No Jew or other non-white person, no homosexual, and no white person engaged in interracial sexual activity shall reside within the boundaries of the Northwest American Republic, or within any area of NVA operations. NVA field commanders shall deal with violators of this General Order at their discretion…

General Order Number Seven: The provisional government of the Northwest American Republic demands the complete and unambiguous loyalty and cooperation of all white residents of the NAR, and of all areas of operation of the NVA, and will accept nothing less. Any and all collaboration, cooperation, informing, public incitement against the Republic or its armed forces, or giving of aid and comfort to the Occupation authorities is prohibited, and will be dealt with by NVA field commanders at their discretion…

Then she went back and picked up the Party Handbook. There was no table of contents or title page, and the text simply started at Chapter One: Race. She read:

Race is the North American issue. It always has been, ever since one of Columbus’ sailors shot the first Indian with a crude matchlock musket back in 1492. Every problem that America faces today, every crisis of the economy or of the spirit, is in some form or another eventually traceable back to the problem of race. Every civilization, every culture, every major historical achievement of mankind is the product of the racial personality of those who created that civilization. Destroy a race and not only living beings are destroyed, but an immense hole is ripped in the entire fabric of this planet’s existence. Destroy the most intelligent and creative and dynamic race of all mankind, the Aryan, and damage has been inflicted on the human species that can never be recovered or repaired. The racial issue can be boiled down to one very simple question: Who does the world belong to? Does it belong to the various black and brown races of the Third World, who have contributed nothing except sporadic physical labor?…

Racial purity strengthens a society; whereas diversity weakens and eventually destroys it. No nation is born diverse. Diversity is indeed the antithesis of nationhood. The multicultural, and especially the multiracial state, carries in its makeup the seeds of certain national destruction. Deliberate fragmentation of these nations into racially diverse, politically disharmonious elements and special interest groups, and the resultant loss of national identity and purpose, are requirements of the New World Order. The leveling in a multicultural, diverse society is never upward, always downward.

We have been taught by our lords and masters to view “racism” as evil and wrong. It is not. Racism is in fact the purest expression of patriotism. We live today in a world where old ideas of geopolitics are being replaced by biopolitics. Racism is right because racism is the will of Nature. Racists are doing the work of Nature. They are aiding Nature by helping to protect the most important of Nature’s creations: the different races that Nature has evolved over many millennia…

My God! thought Kicky in wonder, trying to understand and assimilate the wild heresy before her, which contradicted everything she had ever been taught in her life. These NVA people actually expect me to THINK!

It was a strange sensation. For the first time in her adult life, someone was trying to reach her, to teach her something they thought she needed to know for her own good instead of something that would serve the interest of the rich people and empowered minorities. For the very first time in her adult life, someone was acknowledging that race even existed, telling her it was all right to think and feel in terms of race. The very idea that anyone seriously expected her to sit down and think about something instead of buy something, stunned her. Suddenly a thought arose in her mind unbidden. These are the only people I’ve ever met who don’t want to fuck me, in one way or another.

http://northwestfront.org/

The Brigade excerpts, chapter IX

by Harold Covington

“Driving for the Boys”

“Okay,” said Kicky. “Look, at the risk of sounding too curious, just when do I cease being an asset and become a Northwest Volunteer? Is it like the Mafia? Do I have to make my bones and swear a blood oath or something?”

Jackson allowed himself a wintry smile. “Actually, we do call a first kill making our bones. But it’s pretty simple. No blood oath or mysticism. When I say you’re in, you’re in. Anything else?”

“Am I allowed to ask what we’re going to do when we get there?” said Kicky. “If so, can I ask who and why? Or is this a shut up and obey orders kind of thing? I’m kind of curious.”

“It’s not a hit,” said Wingo with a laugh. “Like the CO said, we’re starting you off light. This is a punishment beating, and it’s part of our procedure to make sure that every Volunteer on an action knows what we’re doing, who we’re doing it to, and why. It’s important for morale for everyone to understand that we’re not just gangsters mindlessly obeying Don Vito. There is a purpose to everything the Army does. The target is a man named Gregory Booth. White, aged 35, married with two children, degree in psychology, a churchgoing type, no bad habits we know of, not a bad guy, really. He’s just doing something we have to put a stop to. Booth is a guidance counselor at a local high school, and probably because of his 700 Club and other evangelical affiliations, he’s pretty neocon in his outlook.

“Like the Old Man said, this will inevitably turn into a civil war between whites, and once all this is over, the survivors of both sides are going to have to live together in the Northwest Republic. We’re looking ahead to that time, and we want to create as little bad blood as possible. Finally, there’s the religion thing. Killing Christians only encourages them. They thrive on martyrdom, and persecution is largely the secret of the faith’s survival for all these centuries. We don’t want to make Booth a dead martyr, we want him to be a visible wreck in a wheelchair eating through a straw for some months, in clear and evident pain. Everyone will know that we could have killed him if we’d wanted to. We can only hope that most folks will understand this and draw the proper conclusion. Okay, here’s the turn…”

The Brigade excerpts, chapter X

by Harold Covington

“Sharkbait”

Kicky never knew ahead of time what she would be doing on a mission. The first few times out, there were no actual homicides committed. There were more punishment beatings of white liberals or people who had otherwise contrived to annoy the NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army], similar to the Lake Oswego job. Kicky marveled at the amount of time and effort put into the advance preparation of such relatively minor operations.

There were other missions besides punishment beatings. The actions of the rural NVA units such as Zack Hatfield’s D Company, whose flamboyant attacks had generated for them the media nickname “the Wild Bunch,” had successfully driven most of the Mexicans and the few blacks out of large portions of the Northwest hinterland in Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana and British Columbia. Many of the mestizos didn’t stop running until they got to California, but some only ran as far as the big cities, and so temporarily at least there was actually a slight increase in the number of non-whites in Portland suburbs such as Hillsboro, McMinnville, and North Portland. The urban teams of the Portland brigades then took over the task of persuading them to váyanse from the Northwest as a whole, permanently. At least half of Kicky’s tickles involved burning out or blowing up various Mexican hangouts, with or without the Mexicans inside, or else businesses known to employ illegals, including a construction site, a warehouse on the river front, and a commercial laundry owned by Jews and run by a Chinese straw boss with illegal coolie labor. These missions involved the approach to the target, one scouting tour through the area looking for potential problems, and then covering down and preventing interference while Fred and other volunteers hurled incendiaries through windows.

Kicky read the words from the sheet in a steady voice: “At 2035 hours tonight, elements of C Company, First Portland Brigade, Northwest Volunteer Army carried out a General Order Number Four enforcement action directed against the Blue Lagoon Lounge on 82nd Avenue in Portland, a known resort of drug dealers, transvestites, and non-whites posing a clear and present danger to the white community. A vehicle containing two hundred pounds of explosives was parked in front of the main entrance and detonated, destroying the building and everyone inside it completely. All sexual deviates, Jews and other non-whites are reminded that Army General Order Number Four prohibits their presence anywhere in the Homeland, and if found within any NVA command’s area of operation they are liable to immediate termination as military targets. End communication.”

“Wait!” squealed the woman. “Let me get a pen. What did you …?” Kicky closed the phone and handed it back to Ace. “Uh, comrade, looks like this script was printed earlier today, before the bomb could have even gone off,” she inquired, handing it back to him as well. “How could you know beforehand that everything I just said would happen according to plan?”

“It did. That was the confirmation call I got just now,” said Ace. “As to how we knew beforehand, the Red Baron never misses.”

“Red Baron?” asked Kicky.

“Best car bomb maker in the NVA,” said Ace proudly. “He not only makes ’em, he drives his own work. Maybe you’ll meet him one day.” A moment later, Kicky felt her own cellphone at her side vibrate. She guessed that Lainie Martínez was having an orgasm at the thought of getting close to a major NVA explosives expert, and was sending her a hint that she was to pursue the subject, which she ignored.

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XI

by Harold Covington

“Hearing the Screams”

“Dad, no need to dance around it. Jan’s decisions were just plain stupid. She was self-destructive, she had no sense of self-esteem and no inner strength. She let the whole adolescent angst thing get on top of her, she just went with the flow, and it killed her. She got involved with drugs, she got involved with a nigger, and she did both at once. If that’s not the classic definition of a self-destructive personality, I don’t know what is.”

Ray looked at her oddly. “The psychobabble I get. You picked that up from your mother and her hundred and one self-help books and fads, not to mention TV. But the racism is a new one on me. Where did that come from?”

“Where racism always comes from, Dad,” said his daughter calmly. “From close and regular contact with blacks.”

“Oh? And how many blacks do you have close and regular contact with at Ashdown Academy?” inquired her father. “Three? Four?”

“One was enough,” she replied coolly. “Look, Dad, can we take all the shocked disclaimers as read? Or to quote one of your own favorite sayings, don’t piss down my back and tell me it’s raining. I know what every white person in this country knows, even if they’re all too terrified to say it out loud. They’re not Africans-Americans, they’re niggers. They aren’t equal to us in any way, they never have been, they can’t tie their own shoelaces without an affirmative action program, and they’re not even very nice. Now, what did you want to say to me?”

Ridgeway looked at her, bemused. “Okay, fine, we’ll leave the deep political and philosophical debate on diversity and multiculturalism for another time. And yes, you’re right, we all know in the privacy of our own thoughts that when all is said and done, they’re nothing but niggers, and they won’t ever be anything else. But the fact is that society doesn’t allow that viewpoint anymore. I always thought of myself as pretty smart, but I’ll admit to you, I have no idea how on earth we have gotten to—well, where we are, but we have. The point is, Annette, and it’s the point I have to make sure you understand completely, is that whether we like it or not, we have to live in the real world. But Annette, I want you to promise me something. Dead serious, I want you to promise me that you won’t do anything stupid along that line.”

His voice was anxious. “I want you to promise me that you’re not going to try to contact this damned gang of racist psychopaths who are running around Portland murdering people and bombing things, and try to get them to kill this Flammus character!”

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XII

by Harold Covington

“Are You In Or Out?”

“I’ve been thinking about it since I watched my sister’s coffin lowered into the ground,” said Annette bitterly.

“We both have,” said Eric soberly. “We’re young, but even we can see that things in America can’t go on this way. I laugh when somebody refers to us kids at Ashdown as privileged. Jan’s death showed us that all our so-called privilege won’t protect us against this—this filth, this madness, this—oh, this whole damned mess. We’re living in a toilet and eventually we’re going down the drain, one way or another. I don’t know what else to call it.”

“Don’t worry,” chuckled Wingo. “Greater minds than any of ours have spent their lives trying to describe the world we live in. Our job is to change it. One thing, though. I’m afraid for security reasons, which I’m sure are obvious to you, we need an answer right away. You say you’ve been thinking about it for a while, so you should be able to look into your hearts and know. Are you in or out?”

“I’m in if Eric’s in,” said Annette, looking at him. “I am willing to do whatever I have to do, but not be separated from him. We can’t have one of us in and one of us out.”

“Ditto,” said Eric firmly. “I’m in if Annette’s in, so I guess that means we’re both in.”

“You understand that if you become Volunteers, you may be separated anyway?” asked Wingo gently. “I mean separated bad, separated by death or prison or the just plain chaos and madness of war?”

“I understand,” said Eric with a nod.

“You will be given certain documents to read, and you will begin a training course that will teach you what you will need to know to fight to secure the existence of our people and a future for white children. Do you recognize that phrase?”

“Uh, no,” said Eric, shaking his head.

“Those are the Fourteen Words of David Lane,” said Schumaker gravely. “From now on, for the rest of your lives however long or short they may be, you will live by those words. And possibly die by them.”

http://northwestfront.org/

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XIII

by Harold Covington

“A Mouse In The House”

“They’re organizing some kind of special brute squad to invade the Northwest and deal with us hatemongers, Federal Domestic Terrorist Police or something like that. Apparently it will be kind of like the Black and Tans in Ireland a century ago. It’s still in the planning stage, but Mr. Chips was bringing us the word from the Army Council to start preparing tactical and strategic plans to deal with a big increase in fed boots on the street and a lot tougher tactics. I myself was there from Three sec acting for Colonel Redmond, and Tommy Coyle and Harry Hannon both there to brainstorm.”

“You had both brigade commandants and an Army Council member there in the same room?” demanded Bresler. “Jeez Louise, that was risky!”

“I know, but sometimes we just have to put our heads together and work out a tough problem, and this was one of those times. The meeting never actually got started because Harry hadn’t arrived yet.”

♣

“A panel truck sounds like bugging equipment, though,” said Bresler. “They might have had shotgun mikes or some of that weird microwave satellite gear. Did you sweep everybody who came in?”

“Yes, Red came down with those two kids from Dundee he uses a lot, Shane and Rooney, and Tommy had a couple of guys with him. I did them all myself as they came in the door, and nothing popped. I know, they can listen in on people in a basement now from satellites in space these days. They have fiber-optic micro-bugs that are the size of a pin head, bugs that look like cockroaches and even scuttle across the floor, you name it. The old-fashioned wire stuck on some guy’s shaven belly with surgical tape is as outdated as the flintlock. Whatever it was, I can tell you that they didn’t seem prepared to move on us. It looks to me like some kind of observation stakeout. But how the hell did they know where to listen in?” Hill slammed his fist into his palm in frustration.

“So what do we do now?” asked Bresler.

“We take every one of those incidents and we review and analyze the hell out of them,” said Hill. “Once we’ve narrowed it down to a few suspects, then it gets tricky, because we will have to devise some bogus setups to entrap them and see if we can make some Portland cops show up on cue at a certain place and time. These are the kinds of things that you will have to find out, Gary, because I can’t without tipping everybody in the Battalion that there’s a rat around, and you know that whatever else happens, we do not want that to get about. Our morale is high, largely because so far we have been able largely to prevent infiltration of this very kind. Rampaging paranoia and mistrust can destroy the Second Battalion as a fighting unit just as effectively as any mass arrest. It can even seep out of the Second Battalion and infect other units, and we have to prevent that at all costs. This has to be handled quietly, efficiently, and above all quickly, before anyone else dies or ends up in the Justice Center torture chambers.”

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XIV

by Harold Covington

“Under New Management”

“My God, who are all these people?” Weinstein muttered to himself. “What is all this?” he asked, gesturing to a large map of the greater Portland area on a corkboard studded with black, red, green, blue, orange, and yellow pins, as well as one white pin.

“Black are NVA murders and red are bombings, which I’m sure you can figure out from the locations,” said Chief Hirsch. “Green are suspected arms dumps which we have under intermittent surveillance as much as our manpower allows, and as far as we can do without exciting suspicion and blowing cover. Blue are suspected NVA safe houses. Orange are the addresses of suspected terrorists, although those change all the time and we can’t guarantee their accuracy for more than a day or two. Yellow are reported sightings of the Jack of Diamonds Sniper, Jesse ‘Cat-Eyes’ Lockhart, who is a person of especial interest to us.”

Detective Andy McCafferty walked up to the board, with a sidelong glance at the FBI agents, and moved the white pin to a different spot on the board.

“What’s the white one?” asked Weinstein.

“That’s the present location of Sharkbait, our code name for the undercover,” said Lainie. “Her real name is Kristin McGee, her street name is Kicky, and her Volunteer name is Comrade Jodie. We have a GPI on her all the time, of course, as well as fiber-optic sound and occasional video monitoring, but we find that keeping her marked on the board gives an added perspective.”

“Nice code name for an NVA snitch,” chuckled Farley grimly.

“We like it,” said Lainie neutrally.

“How specific is your intel?” asked Weinstein, shaking his head. “For example, do you have any idea who killed Ambassador Whitman and his wife outside the Nordstrom department store in November?”

Andy looked at Lainie, who sighed and nodded her head. “Yeah, we know,” McCafferty told them. “That was Billy Jackson, Jimmy Wingo, and our girl. Actually, we have the whole hit recorded on digital audio.”

“What?” shouted Weinstein in astonishment.

“You want to hear it go down?” asked McCafferty.

He provided two sets of headphones, and Weinstein and Farley sat with their jaws gaping while they listened to the soundtrack of the double hit and the subsequent ditching and booby trapping of the vehicle.

“My God, you’re years ahead of us!” muttered Weinstein.

“We got our shit together,” agreed Jarvis.

“I would like to point out that the audio clearly indicates the murder of the Ambassador was a crime of opportunity, and we had no chance to intervene…” began Linda Hirsch. “We’ve picked up a buzz that a high-ranking Army Council member is on his way down from the Seattle area, for a sit-down with the local warlords here in Portland to discuss the matter. This is one occasion when we can be reasonably sure that a lot of their heaviest hitters are going to be in the same room together somewhere.”

“Okay, tell you what, let’s just start at the beginning and see what we’ve got, and where we can go with it,” said Weinstein, literally rubbing his hands together in sheer delight at the prospect of hurting the hated anti-Semites and at the same time salvaging his slipping reputation at the Justice Department in Washington.

“We’re going to drop the hammer on these racist bastards. Here and now, tonight.”

http://northwestfront.org/

Murka burns

In Homo Americanus, the book that I recently quoted extensively, Tom Sunic also said that the prospects for America’s Balkanization are very real.

I believe he knows what he is talking about. As a Croatian, Sunic witnessed how Tito’s authoritarian policies for “peaceful coexistence” of the diverse nations of the former Yugoslav federation only hid ancestral grudges among Muslims and Christians; grudges that, with time, were destined to explode.

When I was a very small kid in the early 1960s I admired the US. The images of the film industry of those times only depicted white Americans as well as the Life magazine that my father used to collect. Blacks still were ghettoized and it was unthinkable to empower them into the mainstream.

Not anymore… Today the US has a Negro Commander in Chief and over a hundred million of non-whites. It is “the least homogeneous country in the Western hemisphere” according to Sunic.

There’s an old Mexican saying that goes, “Nadie escarmienta en cabeza ajena,” which can be literally translated as “No one is punished severely in another head,” that is, no one learns from others’ mistakes. America never learned from the Balkans’ mistakes.

In the very last words of his book Sunic says that “in the near future” of America “interracial wars will be the norm.”

Just for the record, this image is the first page of “Le nuit des rapaces” (1979), the very first issue of Jeremiah, a Belgian comic book series. It is the only comic book series that I know that depicts how could the US look like after interracial wars.

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XV

by Harold Covington

“Ragnarok On Flanders Street”

“COPS!” screamed Kicky at the top of her voice. “Cops! It’s a trap! They’re all around us!” She reversed the Escalade, hit the gas and roared back into the street tailgate first. Wing looked up to see the armored personnel carrier for Delta One team turning into Flanders Street from Twelfth Avenue.

“Shit!” he shouted. He yelled into the phone, “They’re onto us! Ambush on Flanders! Beat feet! Kicky, go down 13th and head back toward the interstate, not toward the river, so we can try to lose them! Cat, heads up, see if you can spot any copters overhead!”

The street was full of screaming people, and 13th Avenue was now blocked going both ways by lunch-hour traffic, cars that were simply abandoned and left standing by their drivers who jumped out and fled for cover.

“I’ll do more than keep their damned heads down, I’ll blow a few of ’em off!” Cat-Eyes Lockhart yelled back. He was out the back of the SUV and he swung himself up onto the roof of the vehicle in one smooth motion, snapped down the bipod on the .50-caliber Barrett, and sighted in. He pulled the trigger, flame vomited from the Barrett’s muzzle, a mighty roar echoed from the buildings, and up the street a SWAT man went flying back through the air, his feet leaving the ground. Lainie Martinez and Jamal Jarvis had struggled into their body armor and were now out on the street. Lainie kneeled and fired her M-16 and Jarvis stood over her, blazing away with his. Chief Linda Hirsch [Chechar’s interpolated note: the police chief was a coveted affirmative action three-fer, being simultaneously female, Jewish, and lesbian] was jumping up and down for a bit, then leveling her Armalite and firing a wild burst, then jumping up and down some more while she screamed dementedly in Yiddish. The street sounded like the inside of a garbage can or a metal locker that was being beaten with sticks by a troop of demented monkeys.

Wingo had ducked around behind the Escalade for more cover while he slapped another magazine into the Kalashnikov, another of the taped-together clips. He slung the weapon, pulled a hand grenade off his belt, and then winding up like a baseball pitcher he hurled it up the street where it bounced off several car roofs and rolled down into the street, the blast hurling shrapnel and shaking the street. Then he did the same with a second grenade. The police all hit the ground or dove for cover. Wingo then recovered the Kalashnikov and started firing again. On the roof, Cat Lockhart also slammed a new magazine into the .50-cal rifle, rose calmly into a kneeling position oblivious to the police bullets whizzing around him like electrons, and resumed firing. Just then the CNN crew, who had been cowering behind the overturned UPS truck, decided that it was time to do their jobs.

They ran along Flanders Street and turned right into 13th Avenue, the cameraman braced his camera on top of a parked car, and Cassie Ransome started shouting a disjointed narration into her microphone, trying to explain to the satellite-uplinked studio and worldwide audience what was happening in front of her on a Portland street. The next twenty seconds of film footage eventually won Cassie and the cameraman Pulitzer Prizes. The video clip was shown all over the world for weeks, it became an integral part of the visual history of the Northwest War of Independence, and is still shown today in virtually every documentary made on the subject.

Linda Hirsch was hiding behind the Oak Harbor moving van, but every few seconds she would lean out, gibber, fire a one-handed burst with her M-16 that she held like a pistol, and vanish again. Lockhart had no idea who the fat babbling target was, but it annoyed him, and he was determined to hit it.

Kicky McGee was dazed, disoriented, and by now she was completely out of her mind with pain from her wound and from incandescent rage at the destruction of her whole life by these people. She staggered up the street, screaming wordlessly in a hoarse voice, her left arm and side soaked with bright red blood, her honey blonde hair streaming behind her. In her mindless rage she held the Glock pistol at arm’s length in her right hand, firing it blindly in the general direction of her tormentors, hitting nothing.

It was a confused scene, and actually pretty pointless and ineffectual. Nobody was hitting anything, and no one besides Lockhart was even aiming. But it looked cool as hell on TV, and in America, that was what mattered. By sheer fortuitous accident, what the CNN camera caught for twenty seconds—and twenty seconds is a long sound byte on TV news—was a perfectly blocked shot of stunning dramatic impact. In the far center right of the screen Kicky seemed to stalk up the street. She was firing blindly, howling like an animal in an unthinking spasm of rage and madness, but what the world saw was a wounded Valkyrie screaming her war cry and charging the enemy machine guns that splattered in round strikes all around her.

Cat Lockhart fired one last .50-caliber round, the one that smashed Linda Hirsch’s skull to fragments like an exploding melon, and then he whirled and made a spectacular Zorro-like leap from the back of the Escalade into the flatbed of the Chevrolet. Jimmy Wingo ran forward, grabbed the berserk Kicky around her waist and lifted her over his shoulder, then ran back and tossed her into the back of the pickup like a sack of potatoes, before jumping in himself. Thing One leaped back into the cab and the blue Chevy then roared off down Flanders Street on the sidewalk, knocking over sandwich-board shop signs and sending an espresso cart flying. At 14th Avenue they were joined by the Grand Prix, and both vehicles floored it out along Highway 30.

There was no pursuit. Almost all the mobile police in the city were surrounding Waterfront Park [defending the US Vice President] and no one was available or willing to organize any response. No one had even bothered to radio Delta Two team or any other police and tell them what was going on. From the time Kicky McGee slammed the Escalade into Andy McCafferty until the time the blue Chevy pickup departed the area with all five Volunteers, exactly seventy seconds elapsed.

♣

“You saw?” asked Cat in surprise.

“You were on live, my man. You’re all over CNN and every other damned channel. I got to tell you, if that little gun bunny (*) in there ever wants a transfer, you send her down our way,” he said admiringly, nodding into the living room toward Kicky. “Looked like she was ready to take on the whole Portland police force single-handedly.”

“They ambushed us on Flanders Street, sir,” said Lockhart. “The whole thing stinks. I think they knew we were coming.”


_______________________

(*) Gun Bunny—Adolescent female Northwest Volunteer or associate of the NVA. A number of these young women distinguished themselves in combat, intelligence, and support roles during the War of Independence.

Chechar’s note: Every time I reread the lines of this blonde woman firing at her tormentors they move me almost on the verge of tears…

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XVI

by Harold Covington

“Things That Go Boom In The Night”

“The NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] uses explosives in three basic situations. First off, when there is an economic or strategic or propaganda-related target that has to be physically destroyed, sometimes loudly and visibly in order to set an example.

The second instance in which we use bombing is against enemy armor and fortifications, like when we toss these primitive rockets and mortar shells here over the Bremer walls (*) and razor wire and give Daddy a kiss. This is where the good old IED or Improvised Explosive Device, otherwise known as the Baghdad Banger, comes into its own. Like some other NVA guys who are vets, I have the unusual experience of having been on both ends of an IED, and between the Muslims and ourselves, we have refined them down to an art form. Through the use of IEDs we make enemy troop movements dangerous and difficult to plan and execute, and in some areas of the Northwest, we have succeeded in more or less driving the police and the military off the highways completely, forcing them to fall back on helicopters. If we ever succeed in obtaining any shoulder-fired missiles or some other way to bring those birds down, Uncle Slime is going to be really fucked. I imagine that some of you guys are already familiar with the third way in which the NVA uses explosives. Anyone?”

“Booby-traps!” said Annette.

“You got it,” confirmed Pascarella. “Whenever it is physically possible, the NVA always booby-traps the scene of an operation before un-assing the area. Pascarella chuckled. “Okay, now, as to the practical aspect of assembling and detonating ordnance. Every explosive device consists of three basic components. There is the main charge, the dynamite or Semtex or whatever will provide the main blast. The key to blowing the enemy into smithereens and not yourselves is simple: you keep these three components disconnected until the last possible minute.

“The champagne of all insurrectionary explosives is still Semtex, which is now manufactured in a dozen countries as well as the Czech Republic where it was invented,” the lieutenant continued. Semtex is the charge of choice for big jobs when we can lay hands on it. It’s just about the most potent stuff available for our purposes. A pound of it can take down a good-sized house, a briefcase full can decapitate an office building, and in the rare cases where we want to go that distance, a car trunk full of Semtex can send an entire city block to the moon. Gelignite, jellied nitroglycerine, is actually a bit more powerful, but it’s not manufactured anymore and like I mentioned, the bathtub variety is dangerous to work with.”

“How about C-4, sir?” asked Eric Sellars.

“We do still get hold of some, but it’s actually a lot easier and simpler and more cost effective for us to load up on dynamite and TNT. Now—delivery. This is where you guys come in.”

The young Volunteers leaned forward. “There are car and truck bombs, of course,” Pascarella told them. “Sometimes that’s the only way. We do not want the streets of Northwest cities turned into Baghdad or the Gaza Strip. Our sharp-eyed lads in the sniper companies inflict more physical and psychological harm on the enemy than a hundred carbombs could do, and they do it surgically and with a panache that excites admiration among whites, not fear and loathing.

“Most bombing is specifically targeted against indoor installations, the object being to slip inside their defensive perimeters and hit them where they think they’re safe. Have any of you been asked to deliver a package yet?”

“I have,” said Kicky. “It was my first solo tickle. That faggot bookstore and sex shop downtown with the big cartoon character sign, Homer Erotica. The Red Baron himself made up my package. I was given a fake student ID, and I brought in a shoulder bag full of books on the poems of Sappho and the Joy of Lesbian Sex and all that crap. Each book was cut out, and it had a stick or two of dynamite inside.”

“Good job, comrade, and a typical day’s work for our parcel post,” responded Pascarella with a nod, impressed. “It is entirely likely that you other three will at one stage or other be asked to deliver a package. There is no mission in the Army that requires more courage, more cool-headedness, and more just plain balls, as well as the ability to think on your feet and be a better actor or actress than anyone in Hollywood, which this classy lady here seems to have. Each one of these missions is unique, and I can’t really prepare you for them except to say that you will be given full training in everything you are to carry, its risks and how to handle and use it.”

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(*) Bremer Wall—Heavy concrete berm, portable and lowered into place by a crane, used by the Americans to fortify police stations, FATPO (Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization) barracks, Green Zones (federal headquarters), etc. Also used extensively by American occupation forces in conquered Middle Eastern countries.

Chechar’s note:

Just compare Covington’s views about homosexualism to Counter Currents’ constant promotion of an author that likes to post images like this one… and demand tolerance from the pro-white community!