A Mighty Fortress

by H. A. Covington

  “So cutting through all the theoretical crap, Red, what the hell do I do when I get down there?” asked Barrow helplessly.

  “Look, you’re smart enough to understand the difference between what’s important and what’s not. You know what we want, what our people must have,” said Red. “You go down there and you don’t come back without it. Your road is straight and clear. How hard can it be to just not step off it no matter what kind of distraction you see over across the mud flats yonder? Every time they come at you demanding that you take something less than white freedom and full independence in an all-white nation of our own, you say no. And you do what no one else has ever been able to do. You make these American bastards hear the word no, and take it for an answer.”

  IX.

  “You have dragged us here, kicking and screaming. America will never be the same, whatever the result.” – U. S. Secretary of State Walter Stanhope

  On the morning of August 1st, they all donned their new uniforms, or in the case of Pastor McCausland and several others their suits. John Corbett Morgan had even been persuaded to submit to the attentions of a barber, and so he would be attending the conference sans his pony tail and with his sable beard trimmed neatly down to where he no longer entirely resembled Rasputin the Mad Monk. They piled into a large bus and drove out to the Chehalis airfield. While the gigantic, big-bellied copter warmed up on the tarmac, for first time the entire negotiation team finally came together at the same time, assembled under one roof in an aircraft hangar, for a final briefing.

  Red Morehouse, Carter Wingfield, “Dangerous Dan” McGrew of the Third Section, and General Patrick Brennan were there to see them off. “Here’s a little historical note for you, Cody,” said Morehouse as they walked towards the hangar across the airfield in the clear light of a summer morning. “In 1947 a man named Thomas Arnold was flying in a small private plane out of this airfield, on a business trip up to Seattle. It was a clear day and over there near Mount Rainier, he saw six or seven disc-shaped objects flying beside him in the sky, which he duly reported. The media got hold of it, and thus was born the name flying saucers. It was the beginning of the whole UFO phenomenon as we know it. It’s odd that this same little airport in this out of the way little town in Washington state should be the source of a flight that will change history, not once, but twice inside of a century. That’s what metaphysics buffs call synchronicity.”

  Several long folding tables had been pulled together at one corner of the hangar, and sets of luggage had been laid out, each with a name on them. Each member of the delegation went to his or her luggage and opened up the suitcase to do a final check, finding everything from clean underwear to an extra complete NVA uniform including boots, as well as extra ammunition for the sidearms which the delegates had insisted clearly and forcefully they would carry. Inside each suitcase was a false lining containing some of Doc Doom’s electronic gear, which would be shuffled around as necessary once they got into their wing of the Lewis and Clark Hotel. There were also one briefcase per delegate, containing a full set of the official documents for the conference, and two long plastic garment holders with each set of luggage, one that contained a newly pressed civilian business suit of either male or female cut, and the second that held a set of formal wear, including patent leather shoes, which hopefully matched their measurements given to the new divisional quartermaster. “A tux!” exclaimed Cody. “When am I ever going to wear this damned thing?”

  “You can pretend you’re 007 facing down Goldfinger at the casino,” said Morehouse. “Or Goldberger. Remember, it’s shaken, not stirred.”

  Nightshade giggled with glee as she held up her own garment holder, with the zipper open. “A formal gown?” she laughed. “Sequins? You’re kidding! I’ve never worn one of these things in my life! And I’d take three steps in these heels and fall flat on my face!”

  Barrow smiled at her. “Look, we’re in the big leagues now, the beginning of a new ruling élite even if we’re not comfortable with that reality, and we need to start acquiring the necessary social skills. You can bet that fat Jewess Galinsky is going to show up at any formal events with some Dior creation that costs more than a tool and die maker earns in a year. I hope you rebel ladies will show her up.”

  “Captain Chenault and Lieutenant Napolitano, maybe, sir,” replied Emily ruefully. “I’d just look like Olive Oyl.”

  “You could always show up dressed as a Ghoul Girl,” suggested Cody. “Speaking of cocktails, General, I presume the NVA General Order against alcohol consumption is still in force?”

  “We’ll be surrounded by enemies who want to kill us, kill our entire race, and do us any imaginable harm they can,” replied Barrow, smiling thinly. “Do you think it’s a good idea to drink around people like that?”

  “Point taken, sir.”

  “Ginger ale makes a good substitute prop for a drink, and a hotel like that will probably have non-alcoholic beer,” put in Morehouse. “Remember that if you have to mingle and be sociable. We need every edge we can get, guys, and that means we stay sober while hopefully the enemy gets loaded.”

  “Hmm, does that mean I cain’t take in my plastic milk jug of Harlan county white liquor?” asked Morgan. “I was gone offer some to Howard Weintraub. It’ll knock his ass into eclipse.”

  Morehouse decided not to inquire as to whether Morgan was joking, and stepped to a podium at one end of the hangar, gesturing them all to the folding chairs in front of it. “All right, comrades, gather round. You are scheduled to land at the helipad at the Lewis and Clark, built especially for us courtesy of the United States Army Corps of Engineers, at ten o’clock sharp. It is now eight thirty and Captain Chernilov tells me the helicopter flight will take about twenty minutes, so we’ve got about an hour to kill, and I’m going to need all of it. I have been informed by our observers on the ground at Longview that there is already quite a crowd assembled behind the ropes, waiting for your arrival. There are also camera crews from just about every television network, broadcast and cable, in the entire world. The whole world is watching, comrades. Literally. I hope none of you are afflicted with stage fright.”

  “Well, sir, Nightshade and I have just come out of summer school drama class,” pointed out Cody.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” said Morehouse. “So how are you kids doing?”

  “I’m completely petrified,” admitted Cody.

  “I’ll be okay once I get on the copter and can get hold of an airsick bag,” said Emily.

  “I think we’re all about to turn green, comrades,” said Barrow.

  “Don’t any of you worry,” boomed out McCausland. “The Lord has brought you through the fire to this point, and He won’t abandon you now. You’ll all do fine. Trust me on this.”

  “Well, the first day isn’t too hectic, anyway,” said Morehouse, looking over a paper on a clipboard. “I have a copy of the agenda here. It looks pretty simple and straightforward. You land at ten o’clock where it says here you’re supposed to be greeted by the American delegation in full, and get formally introduced by the Honorable Seamus O’Connell, who is the Irish ambassador to the United Nations and is acting as protocol officer for the conference, which I am informed in fact means he’s a kind of glorified concierge and head waiter. He’s the guy you complain to if the TV doesn’t work or there’s no mint on your pillow. My guess is at least some or possibly all of the five major players on the American team will snub you by not showing up. On day one at least, I strongly advise that you simply ignore the snubs, get settled into your rooms, get unpacked and set up, and see how it plays out. This afternoon at three there is supposed to be a joint opening press conference where you will be baited like bears by the media, since this is the first chance they’ve had in five years to sling their shit at us directly and not get shot. Don’t shoot them, by the way. That’s a diplomatic no-no.”

  “Now, what exactly is the story on the guns, Red?” spoke up Corby Morgan. “They do understand that I’m bringing my
Devil’s Right Hand? No offense, Reverend McCausland.” Morgan slammed the holstered .44 Magnum on his belt.

  “We finally just told them that we were free men, that the mark of the free man is to bear arms, and free men do not disarm in the presence of the enemy and the oppressor,” said Morehouse. “They grumbled and waffled and bitched, but they have accepted the presence of sidearms. Each of you should have one piece and a back-up.” Cody had chosen a Smith and Wesson 1006, a 10-millimeter automatic loading a 9-shot magazine, with the Makarov as his holdout in his suitcase. Nightshade was carrying a Heckler & Koch P9S and a .38 snub in her purse, plus her switchblade up her sleeve in a wrist sheath she’d rigged up. “These weapons are symbolic, an important statement, and they’re also for emergency defense in case it really breaks bad and you have to sell your lives dearly. Leave them in the holsters otherwise. I wasn’t joking just now. Don’t shoot smart-ass reporters or wave the iron around and make the waiters dance, or anything like that. This is supposed to be a peace conference with all that implies. I know shooting people is a habit we’ve acquired over the past five years, and indeed it’s been none too soon that the white man has rediscovered the delights of shooting his enemies. But in this context, gunplay is counterproductive. We insist that you have them not only in case you need them to defend life and limb, but also as a political and philosophical statement of who we are. This is the most important racial mission that any of you will ever be on in your lives. Don’t blow it.”

  “Secure communications?” asked Barrow. “What did Third Section eventually work out on that?”

  Dan McGrew spoke up. “We have to assume that every one of you are going to be under electronic and physical surveillance from the moment you step out of the helicopter,” he said. “I hope you will be able to evade it and establish at least some unmonitored communication with the Army Council, but we can’t count on that. Since it is a given that your phone and internet conversations will be monitored, we’re going to have to follow most of what’s going on via CNN like the rest of the world. Before you leave I will give General Barrow, and General Barrow only, the name of someone that Third Section has been able to get into the conference site in such a position that they will have at least some access to you, or can obtain such access. It could be anyone, a reporter, a staff member, an American soldier, a member of their delegation, anyone. It goes without saying that if this person is discovered by ZOG, they will be dead within an hour, and more importantly you will lose your only certain link with command. The only reason I am mentioning this person’s existence at all is so that everyone in our own delegation understands the necessity of discretion in every single thing that you do. We happen to know that the Federals are aware that such an operative will be at the conference, so you might as well be aware of the fact as well. It’s not good when they know something you don’t. They appear to have no idea at all who it is, and the FBI is going insane trying to identify him or her. This attempt of theirs to locate the covert agent will be a constant undercurrent running through the entire conference. This means that every single interaction you comrades have with anyone in that hotel, including with one another, will be monitored and analyzed by the enemy. You will be living in a goldfish bowl. The strain of this will be immense, and once the novelty wears off you’re going to develop major league cabin fever. Maybe some of you think it’s going to be a fun vacation hanging out in a luxury hotel, after the way most of us have been living for the past five years. Disabuse yourselves of that notion. That luxury hotel is a jail and potentially a death trap for you. This is not only the most important mission you will ever undertake, it will be the most stressful.”

  “Comrades, I can only second what Colonel McGrew has said in the strongest possible terms,” said Morehouse. “The walls will have ears and eyes, until such time as Lieutenants Waters and Cannon can get the place reasonably de-bugged, and then they’ll find some other way to watch you. That means you weigh every word you say, and when in doubt, say nothing. Do nothing that might reflect adversely on us in the media or provide the enemy with any information or any kind of an opening to do harm. That means among other things that male and female comrades sleep in their own rooms every night, alone.”

  “Why are you looking at me and Comrade Nightshade when you say that, sir?” asked Cody uneasily.

  “Understood, sir,” Emily called out.

  “What do you mean? There’s nothing to understand!” protested Cody. Emily kicked him in the ankle. “Stop that! We’re not in church!”

  “Right now, I need to speak with the point negotiators privately, as well as Colonel McGrew, Colonel Wingfield, and General Brennan,” said Morehouse. “The rest of you hang loose and prepare to embark on the great roller coaster ride in half an hour or so.”

  The point negotiators and senior officers gathered in what had been the airport manager’s office. Morehouse turned on the air conditioner more out of habit than because he believed the place was bugged and got them all sat down around a conference table that filled one wall of the office. “We’ve got a problem,” said Morehouse.

  “I ain’t surprised. They don’t really want us to go down there. What are those Federal sons of bitches up to now?” demanded Morgan roughly.

  “They’re not up to anything, at least no more so than usual,” Morehouse told him. “It’s our own idiots who have decided they just can’t wait another day to bring back that good old Movement horse shit like mom used to make.”

  “What do you mean, Red?” asked Barrow.

  “Religion,” said Morehouse.

  Barrow stared at him for a moment in silence, and then buried his face in his hands. “They couldn’t even wait until we got down there?”

  “Apparently not,” said Morehouse bitterly.

  “Tell me.”

  “A double whammy. First off, there was an unauthorized leaflet distribution in Corvallis, Oregon yesterday. A big distribution, fifty thousand or so fliers dropped over the city from an airplane, baiting the local evangelicals, Pentecostals and so on, calling them names, daring them to come out and fight. In this leaflet Jesus Christ was referred to as a dead Jew on a stick, and described as having a homosexual relationship with his disciples.”

  “Mother of God!” cried Barrow in horror. “This was an official NVA thing?”

  “It was signed by a newly commissioned NVA lieutenant named Gregory Fetterman, and done on his orders and on the Party dime, so yes in that sense it was official, but needless to say it wasn’t authorized by the Army Council or Agitprop,” said McGrew, who was apparently in on the disturbing news. “Lieutenant Fetterman is now Volunteer Fetterman once again, and he’s being transferred, no doubt to nurture a sense of grievance as to how he is being persecuted by the NVA Bible-thumpers and eventually to make more trouble. The hell of it is, he has a good combat record and he’s not a complete fool, apparently. It was excess of zeal.”

  “He has dog doo where his brains should be,” said Barrow flatly. “Oh, this is the very way for the new government to win friends and influence people, and convince poor and confused and frightened working class white folks whose churches are their lives that we mean them no harm and that things will be better with us in charge! And he couldn’t even wait until we actually gained the Republic before he leaped into that lunatic slurry pond with both feet?”

  “I’ve got some bad news and some good news,” continued Morehouse. “The bad news is that the media got hold of this fiasco.”

  “I really, really want to hear the good news,” said Barrow.

  “We lucked out. The Commandant of the Corvallis Flying Column, Billy Basquine, was in town. He took one look at that leaflet, called out his boys and gripped everybody concerned. First time one NVA member has been officially arrested by another. In addition, there are several ladies and gents from the Fourth Estate sitting in custody in the newly occupied Corvallis jail right now, and they’re sweating, because Billy has put out the word that if one whisper of that crap gets
onto the airwaves and upstages you guys at Longview, they get a bullet in the head. He made sure the newswhores made long, tearful calls to their editors and managers to drive home the point. I don’t know if it’s worked, too soon to tell, but if it does work, it has been a very near run thing. If it doesn’t, Basquine will probably shoot the newswhores, which will put the ones in Longview in a really favorably disposed mood to your delegation, I can tell you.”

  “Beautiful,” said Barrow, slowly shaking his head. “Just fucking beautiful.”

  “Ready for the other shoe to drop?” asked Morehouse quietly. “It gets worse.”

  “How can it be worse?” wondered Barrow.

  “We now have an official Christian fundamentalist faction within the Party, and they are demanding a seat at the negotiating table in Longview,” Morehouse told them. “Apparently Reverend McCausland here isn’t good enough for them.”

  “That’s worse,” agreed Barrow.

  “May I ask just who it is who takes such an uncharitable view of my ministry?” inquired McCausland politely.