A Mighty Fortress

by H. A. Covington

  “If you can postpone your departure for a moment, General, as I mentioned before, I do have a surprise for you,” said Lodge, as if the whole speech had not been spoken. “We understand your concern about members of your organization held in Federal custody, and we have been more than willing to release those whom we feel are no longer harmful to society. After some discussion we felt that this lady fell into that category.” He went to the door and opened it. “Ms. Frost? Could you come in, please?”

  There was a flutter at the end of the room, and a tall woman stepped in through the door. She was wearing a scarf over her head to cover her short, patchy blonde hair where it had been largely pulled out by the roots. Her face was a glowing red mask where it had been reconstructed surgically, yet it still showed an expression of suffering unimaginable. Her chest was flat, both breasts gone. Her original face had been removed by the FBI paramedics during her interrogation, strip by strip, with a scalpel, yet through some miracle she was still recognizable. Cathy Frost, still dressed in her drab khaki prison dress with the number on it.

  For over a year, she had been tortured to the point of death, time and again, because the FBI wanted her to betray the whereabouts of her husband. Although they did not know it, Edgar Frost had actually died of his wounds sustained during the contact and been secretly interred in the hills around Coeur d’Alene, several days before his wife was captured. Cathy could have saved herself at any time, simply by telling them this and revealing the whereabouts of her husband’s body so they could dig it up and destroy it, but she would not talk to the ZOG out of principle. In the very height of her torment, all she ever told them was the Five Words, “I have nothing to say.” So it went on and on and on, until it became a personal issue. The mighty FBI and Homeland Security would make the evil racist bitch speak. But she never did.

  Her case had become so egregious that even in an America become accustomed to routine torture of so-called domestic terrorists, it had attracted attention, thanks to the heroic effort of her fellow women prisoners at Pullman Federal Detention Center who had risked life and limb and torture sessions of their own to smuggle the news of what was being done to her out of the prison. The international community, finally becoming fed up with American behavior in general, had decided to take up her case as a cause celèbre, an interesting example of the trendy Euro-left’s hatred of the American empire finally outweighing their distaste for so-called fascists. The entire NVA delegation arose in stunned recognition and respect.

  The two Jewish members of the delegation were dumbstruck. “Who the hell said you could do this, Lodge?” screeched Howard Weintraub at Lodge in fury. “This woman is a Class A terrorist detainee, an unlawful combatant in the direct custody of the Department of Homeland Security! No one has the right to dispose of her except me!” Weintraub was especially embarrassed, because he had personally supervised her torture in the Pullman Women’s Detention Center, while the other women prisoners had sang A Mighty Fortress Is Our God to the sound of her screams.

  “Actually, Mr. Weintraub, it was my idea,” said Stanhope quietly. “Ms. Frost’s situation was becoming an embarrassment with international ramifications which it is imperative that we moderate, and as such it comes into my purview. If you’re worried about some kind of turf issues, I procured the signature of the President of the United States on the warrant authorizing Ms. Frost’s release into my custody.”

  “Hillary would never have let Chelsea do any such thing!” gasped Jeanette Galinsky in shock.

  “The President has a tendency to agree in full with the last person she has talked to, as you know, Senator. I had a friend of mine talk to her and he carried the order in his briefcase. Mrs. Frost is now being handed over to the Northwest Volunteer Army delegation. This is a done deal, and it’s a deal that should have been done a long time ago. I am getting just a little bit weary of having to explain to the international community why the land of the free and the home of the brave is skinning women alive in our torture chambers.”

  “Comrade Frost, welcome to Longview,” said Barrow, coming forward to grip her hand. “I am glad that you have been able to be here, even if it is on the last day. Are you all right? Jesus, that’s a stupid thing to ask!” He looked at Stanhope. “You do understand we’re taking her with us no matter what happens? You’re not getting her back, under any circumstances. Not ever.”

  “You’re not getting any of us back,” said McCausland in an angry voice. “Not ever.”

  “I’m still alive, General Barrow,” said Cathy. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, due to the year of screaming that had nearly destroyed her larynx. “I didn’t think I would ever see this day. I have now, and God has been more good to me than I can say.”

  “At least you get a chance to tell your story,” said Barrow. “I know this is a hard thing to ask, ma’am, but do you think you could handle some kind of press conference or make some kind of statement for this army of media reptiles we’ve got overrunning this place?”

  Cathy looked at Weintraub and her mangled lips broke into a sneer. “Sure. If Mr. Weintraub would stand beside me and explain to them just how I ended up looking like this. I’d be interested to hear his version of things, and then I’ll give them mine.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t appear in public with a Class A terrorist,” said Weintraub, suddenly breaking into a guffaw. “I might lose face!”

  It is a simple and underestimated historical truth that the Jewish people are in fact nowhere nearly as clever as either they themselves believe, or as clever as others give them credit for being. Howard Weintraub had forgotten that he was standing a few feet from a large and violent man whose wife had been murdered by a Jew, in a manner very similar to the unspeakable mistreatment that Cathy Frost had through some miracle survived.

  John Corbett Morgan seemed to take one single step into the air and fly over the table like some mountain Nijinsky. Weintraub went down like he had been hit by a roaring, charging bear, the .44 Magnum was at his head and Barrow was just barely able to grab Morgan’s gun hand and knock it aside before he pulled the trigger. The gun thundered and the round went into the floor. Howard Weintraub screamed like a woman in sheer terror. Barrow was wrestling with Morgan, trying to get the piece away from him. “Help me!” he yelled at the others. Gair and Stepanov and McCausland all came to his aid, grabbing the mountain man around the waist and legs. The door flew open and a dozen FBI and MPs came running in, Uzis and pistols at the ready. Reporters out in the lobby had heard the shot and were yelling, demanding entry. Cody whipped out his 10-millimeter automatic and leveled it at the first FBI gunner in the bunch. “Back off!” he shouted. “Nothing to see here! We’ll deal with it! Get the fuck out of this room!” Nightshade had vaulted over the table despite the uniform skirt she wore, her switchblade flashing, and she had gotten hold of a screaming Jeannette Galinsky by the hair. She held the blade under the Senator’s quivering double chin.

  “You heard him!” she yelled at the Federal muscle men. “Out the door, all of you, or we’ll see how this hog can take a little of what you motherfuckers gave Cathy!” The Feds stood there like a gaggle of geese, waving their gun barrels in the air, uncertain of what to do. Morgan still had Weintraub clutched in his left fist. He was even stronger than he looked, with Barrow clamped firmly on his right arm keeping the .44 pointed away and the other three all over him, and he was slamming Weintraub again and again against the wall.

  It was Cathy Frost who put a stop to it. She walked over and managed to reach through the struggling group of men and simply touch Morgan on the face, and suddenly he stopped. Sensing that she might be able to get through where they could not, the other men let Morgan go and Barrow was able to quickly twist the gun out of Morgan’s hand. “Let him go, brother,” she said to Morgan softly. “This is our day, the day when the people of Coeur d’Alene arose against the tyrant and struck him down. Don’t let a cockroach have any part of it, even by paying him to much mind as to step on him.”

>   “How can you say that, when he did you like that?” said Morgan, still half insane with rage.

  “I say it because we are the true seed of Adam. It is we who bear the true yoke of God, not these creatures of darkness, and God demands that we be better than they are. All of us have suffered, brother. We share a common pain, you and I, someone beloved whom these devil things took away from us. There will be vengeance and justice for us all in plenty. God will not deny us that. But for every thing there is a season.”

  “Ecclesiastes,” said McCausland.

  “Yes,” said Cathy. “This is our day. Weintraub has but one part in it. He must sign that paper. Let him go, so that The Beast will let all of us go.” Morgan suddenly released Weintraub, who crumpled to the floor. He had fainted, and the stink that filled the room told of what he had done in his underwear in his terror. Nightshade’s nose wrinkled and she sent a sly smile of remembrance at Cody.

  “I think I’ll always associate this time of my life with the smell of Jews shitting themselves,” said Cody in disgust. None of the others picked up on the possible implications of the remark.

  Barrow picked up the two copies of the six-point treaty. He tossed it down in front of Stanhope. “Screw this. We’re not even waiting for tomorrow. We’re going upstairs and we’re going to pack our stuff and I’m going to call Captain Chernilov and tell him to warm up the helicopter. If you decide you want to stop any more killing, sign this and mail us our copy. Otherwise, you can all go fuck yourselves. You don’t want peace. Well, it doesn’t look like you’re going to get it, and your beloved Israel is just going to have to do without the million or so troops we’ll be keeping occupied here in the Northwest.” He quickly tossed the .44 back to Morgan. “Here, John you may need this yet.” He turned to the gun-toting Federal officers clustered at one end of the conference room. “Get out of our way,” he told them. “Now.”

  Walter Stanhope made a signal to the FBI agent in charge and they turned and left. The NVA delegation filed out, hands on their guns. “The stairs, not the elevators,” commanded Barrow as they pushed through the excited crowd, some of whom recognized Cathy Frost. The reporters shouted questions about Cathy, about the gunshot they had heard, about the whereabouts of the missing Susan Horowitz. After a long and nerve-wracking walk they reached their rooms. Jane Chenault was staring at pandemonium on CNN.

  “My God, what happened?” she cried. “What…my God, Cathy, oh, Cathy! Oh, what did they do to you?”

  “Hi, Jane,” said Cathy as the two women hugged one another. “It’s so good to see you again! It doesn’t matter, Jane. I have lived to see you all here in the uniform of the country Marc and Eddie died for and I suffered for, and I am fine, fine, fine! Hey, you think this is bad? At least they did some reconstruction on my face before trotting me out in public. Two months ago I looked like the Phantom of the Opera!”

  “How can you joke about it?” whispered Nightshade in horror.

  “The best way not to weep is to learn to laugh, Lieutenant,” said Cathy. “Look on the bright side. At least the media will now have something else to put on the front page besides you and your boyfriend here going at it like rabbits next to the Coke machine. Yes, I saw that on the helicopter coming in.”

  “They have a video of it,” said Jane disapprovingly. “It’s been all over the news. I thought we had a very clear no-nookie rule established, young lady!”

  “You do realize now that your Mom’s worst fears are confirmed?” asked Cody with a grin.

  “That was part of an undercover mission!” Nightshade protested.

  “Oh, is that what you kids call it now?” asked Cathy.

  “Cease this bootless badinage and start packing, you guys,” said Barrow. “We may yet have to shoot our way out of here.”

  But they didn’t. Instead, half an hour later there was a knock on the door. It was Seamus O’Connell, looking pale and wan. He had lost twenty pounds in the past ten weeks and even joked about it. “Sure, ‘twill take a lot of Bewley’s fry-ups and good pints o’ Guinness to bring me back up to fightin’ weight.” O’Connell handed Barrow a large leather folding document case.

  “What’s this?” asked Barrow, not able to force himself to look.

  “Confirmation of what you already know, General,” said O’Connell. “The very proof of the pudding so to speak.”

  “Confirmation of what, Mr. O’Connell?” asked Stepanov over Barrow’s shoulder.

  “You won the war, gentlemen,” said O’Connell. “The Pacific Northwest is yours.” Barrow opened the folder and found the treaty inside. It was signed by all five American plenipotentiaries. “My country took eight hundred years to drive out the oppressor at the point of the sword,” O’Connell went on. “You lads did it in five. You’re bloody good, I’ll give yez that.”

  “We had some good teachers, sir,” said Stepanov with a smile. “The lives of Michael Collins and De Valera were required reading in the Party.”

  “How did this happen?” asked Barrow in wonder, staring at the paper in his hand in disbelief.

  “Mr. Stanhope. Apparently he called them all in and gave them a good talking to. He asks one thing: that you postpone your departure long enough to help with the announcement. It’s going to be a bit hard for a lot of people on the American side to swallow. After that, it’s all yours.”

  “We’ll be down in twenty minutes,” said Barrow.

  After O’Connell was gone, Stepanov said “That must have been some talking-to! What in the name of the devil did he say to them?”

  “I suspect he was speaking with Lodge’s voice,” said Barrow. “Lodge is nothing if not a businessman. Theatrics don’t convince him, but he knows better than to pour good money after bad. That’s all I can think of. Let’s just take it as a miracle and leave it at that.” The news still hadn’t sunk in, and everyone was simply standing and looking at one another.

  “So what do we tell the world at the press conference?” asked Cody. “How good are you at making historic speeches, sir? You did all right in the conference.”

  “We don’t tell the world anything, Lieutenant,” said Barrow. “We show them.” He went to his suitcase and pulled out a large plastic bag, from which he drew a folded Tricolor flag of strong weatherproof nylon. “Six by ten, pre-10/22 Party manufacture,” he said, opening a few of the folds. “Made in Taiwan for one of the old Party front companies, ironically. This is the one that flew over the central post office in Coeur d’Alene five years ago, during the Sixteen Days. Red Morehouse gave it to me before I came down here. This hotel has a very fine outdoor speaker system for golf tournaments and whatnot. I’m giving Chernilov another call, and I’m going to ask him to send down all those CDs he has of classical music so we can select something nice and dignified to play as we march out there and lower that red, white and blue flag of a once noble experiment that failed so badly, and raise up this flag of a new nation wherein hopefully, we’ll do a better job this time.”

  “Maybe this time we’ll learn to keep the rats out of the barn,” suggested Morgan hopefully.

  “I hope so, John. Comrade Frost, would you do the honors?”

  “I would be honored, sir,” said Cathy.

  It took almost an hour to get everything set up, get the reporters and everyone else herded outside to await an unannounced major event, and get the American delegation present. Weintraub and Galinsky originally refused to attend and Barrow shrugged. “Fine with me,” he said. And yet at the last minute they came downstairs, white and staring, creeping quietly up to the fringe of the group that stood in the lobby speaking in low tones, unable to keep away. “Are we ready?” said Barrow. “I know I am. Where’s McCausland and Gair?”

  Cody appeared at Barrow’s side. “Sir, could you come into the office?” he said in a low voice. “We have a problem.”

  The problem was John McCausland and Robert Gair, standing in the back room of the office where the public address system’s control panel was placed, bellowing at one
another with rage. This time it was John Corbett Morgan who was keeping them apart; they seemed about ready to start swinging on one another while Doctor Doom, who was in charge of the PA, sat hunkered in the chair in astonishment with a small stack of music CDs in front of him. “What the hell?” demanded Barrow.

  “Musical differences, sir,” said Lieutenant Waters.

  “This day will be a celebration of the victory of Christ!” screamed McCausland. “It will be a statement to the world that this new land will not be some kind of comic book Fourth Reich of socialism and paganism! I’ve put up with this constant derision of the Bible and the Christian faith for ten weeks now, General, but by God, sir, this one time we are going to acknowledge that America is a Christian country and that we are a Christian people and we always will be! For fifty years ZOG has shut God out of our national life! No more, damn you!”

  “Major McCausland wants me to play Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus,” explained young Waters.

  “Twenty million Germans and other Nordic people slaughtered!” bellowed Gair. “Babies burned in their cribs in the Dresden firestorm, from bombs dropped by Christians fighting for the Jews and the Jew god! German women raped by the millions by the Bolsheviks! You want to go back before that, try the Thirty Years’ War, two thousand years of White people slaughtering one another because some of us are stupid enough to worship a goddamned Jew as a god! This day is vengeance for 1945 and it’s a sign that our Folk have finally awakened and we are casting off all these Jew lies!”

  “Captain Gair wants The Ride of the Valkyries from Wagner,” said Doctor Doom.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” yelled Barrow. “Okay, bad choice of words. You guys just couldn’t leave it alone, could you? I suppose you want something else, Commandant?”

  “Actually, I’d like some Charlie Daniels, but this Russian chopper pilot seems kind of light on country,” said Morgan.