A Mighty Fortress

by H. A. Covington

  “Oh, shit,” said Barrow with a sigh. “Somebody’s gotten to her. She’s backing out of it at the last minute. It’s martial law!”

  Emily leaned over to Cody on the couch and whispered softly, “Thank you, comrade.”

  Chelsea continued to drone in a monotone. “That insurrection has gone on for almost five years now. It has claimed thousands of lives. This very hallowed and historic home of the nation’s chief executive, from which I address you tonight, has been attacked and damaged, and my own life and the lives of my family have been threatened. Some of my closest political and personal friends and allies have been murdered. The terrorist campaign has destroyed hundreds of millions of dollars worth of both government and private property, and not only in the Northwest. That destruction, combined with the lost revenue and the expense required to enforce the law and maintain security in the Pacific Northwest and now in other parts of the country, is now literally beyond calculation, as I have been informed by the General Accounting Office.”

  “Bingo!” yelled Red Morehouse triumphantly. “The accountants have finally hoisted the white flag, and the generals and politicians have to follow!”

  “Worst of all, the ongoing racial violence in the Pacific Northwest has distracted this great nation of ours both from America’s civilizing mission in the Muslim world, and from our domestic agenda of creating a true and inclusive paradise on earth, insofar as that is humanly possible, based on the ancient Jewish and yet also universal idea of a Brotherhood of Man. Assessing the developments in the Pacific Northwest over a lengthy period of time, I have come to the conclusion that if there is any chance of an immediate cessation of the violence and loss before the end of my term as President, then I have to investigate and assess it, regardless of my personal feelings in the matter and the deep-seated repugnance I feel in giving a vicarious legitimacy to terrorists, bombers, and murderers. But there are times when a leader’s duty to her country and to human civilization itself demand that she make difficult and controversial choices. I have never feared controversy. I know that my decision in this matter will cause alarm, despondency, and suspicion in many quarters. I will tell you all tonight that these fears are misplaced. When you elected me as your President, you have given me a sacred trust, and I will never betray that trust. In this crucial time in our country’s history I must ask for your faith in my intentions, your support in this vitally necessary development, and your prayers. I do not like doing this one bit. But if I can end the horrific violence which has poisoned our national life for so long, and which threatens to undermine and destroy everything which makes America great, then it is my duty to make the attempt. I can do no more or less.

  “Accordingly, I have today signed and issued two executive orders. In my capacity as commander in chief of the armed forces, effective immediately, I hereby direct all American military units and law enforcement agencies in the Pacific Northwest to halt operations and observe a full ceasefire. I have received a reciprocal commitment to a full ceasefire from the…” Chelsea suddenly stopped and pursed her lips, almost like she was trying to repress a cough or sneeze.

  “Bet she’s being prompted from that box thingie,” said Dortmunder.

  “From the Northwest Volunteer Army, who shall cease all attacks against American military, law enforcement, and civilian personnel from this moment on,” she concluded, almost spitting out the sentence.

  “She couldn’t bring herself to say our name,” said Barrow in disgust.

  “Almost, no, but she said it! That was better than a twenty-one gun salute,” said Morehouse gleefully. “That’s it, guys! We have just been recognized!”

  Chelsea hurried on, apparently anxious to get it over with. “Secondly, I am ordering that beginning on August the first of this year, a conference shall be convened at Longview, Washington, between representatives of the United States Government and the Northwest Volunteer Army, in order to bring about a negotiated settlement which shall permanently bring this conflict and its murderous violence to an end. My fellow Americans, thank you all, and good night.”

  The screen went momentarily blank and then returned to the news studio and the stunned negroid face of Paulus Ingram. His bubble-lipped jaw was down to his chest. “Mutha fukka!” he suddenly screamed. “Dat honky bitch done sold our black asses out! She gone surrender to those racist NVA muthafukkas!” Red Morehouse reached for the remote and hit the mute button.

  “Well, it took her a while, but she said it,” said Red Morehouse into the silent room.

  “We beat the bastards,” said Bells in wonder, almost to himself. “We beat the bastards!”

  “So why don’t I feel jubilant?” asked Cody, in a daze.

  “Because we haven’t won yet, Volunteer Brock,” said Red Morehouse. “Tonight is arguably the most crucial point in the entire revolution. We may still lose it all. That’s why I hit the mute on the TV. One of us will have to stay here and monitor the coverage, because I need to know what’s going on. It’s going to be pandemonium and I know we’d all like to spend all night watching all those smart-ass media niggers and Jews and liberals going raving mad on the air, but what you just heard, comrades, is the starting gun on a race that we can still lose, and to quote a line from the Three Musketeers, now we must bustle!”

  “Okay, uh, define bustling in this context please, sir?” asked Cody.

  “The NVA must prepare to launch two major offensives, one military, and one propaganda. For the first time in five years, we are going to be coming out from underground, and we must begin to present an attractive yet forceful and authoritative face to the public. Plus of course the political offensive that you’ll be involved in down in Longview, of course.”

  “That I will be involved in, sir?” asked Cody in astonishment.

  “I need to talk to you later about that, Brock,” said Barrow. “We want you to come with the NVA peace conference delegation.” Cody’s jaw was down to his knees, but before he could say anything more, Barrow went on, “That was one reason we brought these uniforms tonight, to see how you look in one. We need to make sure it fits, and make any necessary alterations before you step out in front of those television cameras at Longview.”

  Cody stared at Emily, who leaned over and whispered, “If there’s a ceasefire that means they’ll want us to hold off on clipping Mitch Newman.”

  “I’m still going to kill him, ceasefire or no ceasefire,” muttered Cody back, sotto voce.

  “Volunteer Brock, could you please step into one of these other rooms and change into these threads?” asked Dortmunder, handing Cody a stack of clothing and a pair of spit-shined paratrooper boots. “Those won’t be your actual boots unless you like the fit. These are eleven wides. What’s your shoe size?”

  “Ten regular, sir,” said Cody.

  “Okay, we’ll get you another pair, but you can get into these tonight. Comrade Nightshade, I’ve laid yours out on the suitcase over there.”

  Emily gathered up the clothes and said, “I’ll use the bathroom,” and went in to change.

  “And now Frank gets to try on his brand new general’s togs,” said Morehouse sweetly, handing Barrow a suitcase.

  “Let me guess,” said Barrow. “It’s based on the uniform of a Napoleonic hussar, and I will carry a saber and wear a big bearskin shako. Or perhaps a German pïckelhaube. Why the hell do we need uniforms at all? Why not just a suit and tie?”

  “Some will be in suits and ties, yes,” said Morehouse. “But you and some of the NVA delegation need to wear these because you’re soldiers negotiating an end to a war, not Rotarians going to church or a business meeting. This isn’t just costumery like in the old days, Frank. This isn’t a few pathetic Ku Klux Klansmen shuffling down the street in historically inaccurate, bilious green robes, or a few sad sacks in home-made costumes pretending to be 1930s SA men. You will be wearing the military uniform of a country. Our country. It’s a vitally important part of the image that we want to project during this conference, and t
his being 21st-century America, in this media-driven society image may turn out to be more important than anything else we do. We have finally succeeded in breaking the United States’ credible monopoly of armed force. We kill people and we get away with it, and now it’s time for us to strut that stuff. You represent the gun barrel of power, the real power of life and death, and we want you to look powerful. Clothes do make the man, to some extent. But by the by, we will also provide several conservative business suits and one set of formal wear for each man and woman in the delegation. It will be one of your judgment calls to figure out when it’s appropriate to wear what.”

  “You mean I get a tux at Party expense?” demanded Barrow.

  “But of course,” laughed Dortmunder. “For all the swanky diplomatic cocktail parties you’ll be attending.”

  “Can you imagine Corby Morgan in a tux?” muttered Barrow. “Right, comrades, duty calls.”

  A few moments later Barrow stepped out of the bedroom, modeling his new ensemble with some embarrassment like a high school kid who was headed for the senior prom and uncomfortable in his first formal outfit. He was wearing a heavy khaki jacket with brass-buttoned pockets, a brown poplin shirt with black tie, button-down shoulder epaulettes, and military creases, a heavy brown leather belt carrying his sidearm in a leather flap holster, a polished brown Sam Browne crossbelt, dark olive green trousers, and polished brown boots with high tops. They were almost but not quite jackboots, with a small leather strap and silver buckle at the top rear. On his head was a green billed cap with a green, white and blue rondel in the center surrounded by a silver wreath, and on each of his shoulders gleamed a single gold general’s star. On the side of his right shoulder was an embroidered green, white, and blue Tricolor flag. On the left collar wing was sewn a black square patch with the numeral 33 on it. The right collar tab had the letters NDF.

  “Where’d you get the boots?” asked Bobby Bells, intrigued.

  “Sears,” replied Morehouse. “Technically they’re called engineer’s boots. They’re just for officers. Enlisted men and non-coms will wear standard black paratrooper boots.”

  “What’s the number thirty-three for, sir?” asked Cody Brock, who had also emerged from a nearby room wearing the enlisted man’s version. In his case he wore the paratrooper boots, OD green trousers, and a heavy khaki shirt, and instead of the billed cap he wore a green wool Alpine ski cap with a chin strap and a sharp, creased peak, also bearing the green, white and blue Northwest rondel. He also had a 33 on his collar. “And what does NDF mean?”

  “Thirty-three is technically the unit to which both you and General Barrow are now assigned. What was formerly the Number Three Seattle Brigade is now the third regiment of the third division,” Morehouse explained. “NDF stands for Northwest Defense Force, which is what the Northwest Volunteer Army will be re-named as soon as we think the time is right to make the jump. We are transforming ourselves from an underground movement based on a cell structure into an open militia which will eventually become the full-fledged regular army of a sovereign state. Instead of brigades and companies and assault teams or crews, we now have regiments. Brigades and sometimes companies have been given regimental numbers as part of the new org table, which is about as far as it’s gotten so far. Eventually each newly designated regiment will number three battalions of approximately five hundred men each, several regiments will be brigaded together into corps, a division will number about twenty thousand men, so forth and so on. Don’t worry about all that stuff for now.”

  Dortmunder knocked on the bathroom door. “Comrade? You ready?” Out stepped Emily Pastras. “And modeling the female version of the Northwest’s new summer look, we have the fetching Miss Nightshade,” he announced with a flourish. Emily’s uniform consisted of the same khaki shirt with crossbelt and tabs, with silver lieutenant’s bars instead of a general’s stars, but instead of the billed cap there was a green beret with the rondel, a dark green skirt coming to just below the knee, and sensible flat shoes. For the sidearm she had an open clip holster with a .38 snub-nose revolver. “Do I have to wear this tie?” she demanded. “Women look ridiculous wearing men’s ties.”

  “Now you know what we’ve felt like when we worked in offices over the past hundred years,” said Morehouse with a smile.

  “Can’t I have an open collar, or failing that some kind of scarf or cravat?” she demanded.

  “Mmm, I’ll ask around and see what we can come up with by way of a neckerchief, but we want you ladies looking like soldiers, not Girl Guides,” said Morehouse.

  “Hey, how did she get to be a lieutenant?” demanded Cody in outrage, pointing at the insignia on Emily’s epaulettes.

  “You’re a lieutenant as well, we just didn’t get around to telling you yet, and right now we’re kind of short on uniforms,” Morehouse assured him. “Virtually every Volunteer now in the NVA will have the opportunity to become an officer, and with your nice new shirt and your little silver bars, you’ll get a company of raw recruits you’re going to have to turn into soldiers, which is going to be interesting since a lot of our people have no experience whatsoever in the actual military. Plus the fact that we’ve got some elements in the NVA who are near as dammit to being outright gangsters.”

  “Speaking of which, what does the Army Council plan on doing about O. C. Oglevy and those wild men in north Idaho?” asked DiBella. “I’ll tell you flat out, I don’t think they’re going to obey any order to lay down their arms. They’re having too much fun.”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Morehouse frankly. “Don’t worry about it for the time being. I agree it’s a problem, but we’re still going to need those wild men, and we’ll just have to see how it plays out.”

  “I look like some kind of World War One officer who’s about to blow my whistle and order the lads over the top at dawn,” complained Barrow, who had been studying himself in a full-length mirror in the hall. “I’m surprised they didn’t give me a damned swagger stick!”

  “Mmmm, maybe, but I’d say Comrade Brock here looks more like an old SA man from the days of the beer hall fighting in Weimar Germany,” said Dortmunder, looking him over critically. “Much more nifty and historically apropos image, I’d say.”

  Morehouse agreed. “We lucked out on the ski caps. We found a surplus warehouse in Tacoma with thousands of ‘em. We had to pretty much stick with what we could get for the uniforms, but there were those who wanted the NDF to look like everything from spacemen to cowboys to Vikings with horned helmets.”

  “Red, did the Army Council absolutely nix swastika armbands?” asked Barrow. “One would look awfully good on that left sleeve and appease the spirit of Commander Rockwell in his grave.”

  “For the purpose of the negotiating teams and any public appearances, yes,” replied Morehouse. “At least for now. Remember, this is as much a propaganda exercise as it is diplomatic. We don’t want to really send the Jews into orbit. Plus it’s a bit of a touchy subject. We’re already starting to get a few mutters from some of our more, uh, conservative comrades about how this is supposed to be a white American revolution and not a Nazi beer hall putsch, etc. I know it’s appalling that after five years of fighting side by side with us, some of our comrades still have these archaic and completely meretricious ideas about National Socialism, especially since those same Nazis have probably saved their lives more than once, but unfortunately we have to play the cards we’re dealt. I know it’s frustrating that now National Socialism has proven itself once more to be a living force among men and capable of victory, we still have to cater to this ancient war propaganda and kowtow to this stupid, brainwashed hatred among the masses against the most ancient and honorable symbol of the Aryan race, but we’re going for the big prize here and we can’t afford to let ourselves get distracted from the main thrust. I’ll show you what we were able to get from them as a concession, though.” Morehouse went to a closet and took out a garment on a coat hanger, encased in transparent plastic dry cleaner’s sheetin
g. He pulled up the plastic and displayed a heavy camouflage shirt bearing the same black collar tabs as Barrow’s new uniform, a different camouflage from that used by the Federals. This camo was a darker green with traces of black and yellow, the fletches and swatched more narrow and largely parallel to the floor.

  “This will be the fatigue uniform for the Northwest Defense Force. The camo pattern is called tiger stripe, and you see that in this, at least, the National Socialist heritage of our people has been honored.” He pointed to an embroidered eagle-and-swastika emblem with extended wings which had been sewn into the fabric just over the buttoned-down right pocket, in the manner of the old uniforms of the Third Reich. “These are for combat dress only, and you won’t be wearing them at Longview, but I was able to persuade the Army Council that we needed the swastika on here at least, as a unifying symbol and rallying point for all the diverse elements, if you’ll forgive the term, who will be comprising our new military. SS units will have the same gear except they’ll have SS runes on the right collar tab, instead of NDF.”

  “SS?” asked Cody. “We have an SS now? Isn’t that a bit, uh, premature?”

  “Form follows function,” replied Morehouse. “We have the function, and now we’re adding the form. We have reached the point where we need a few élite units to carry out special operations, and so the Army Council has authorized the creation of a Special Service. Carter Wingfield is ramrodding the first group right now. I might add that his boys wore this uniform that you guys are modeling tonight for the first time when they picked up a batch of newly released NVA prisoners in Millersylvania Park earlier this month. Hopefully this new SS formation will uphold the proud tradition of the heroes of old.”