Southern Cross

by Stephen Greenleaf

  “Not as big as Denver?”

  “Not nearly.”

  “We’ll get there.”

  “I’m sure you will; you’ve got a way with words, Mr. Bedford.”

  “I’m just an instrument of God’s will, Mr. Tanner.”

  As we eyed each other in the setting sun, we made a mutual decision to cut to the chase. “You didn’t beat up on black people as much as I expected,” I said.

  “It’s time for the South to face facts—niggers aren’t the problem. They never were. It’s true they’re descended from Devil mutants—that’s laid out in Enoch, as I imagine you know—and they can no more govern their baser impulses than they can build a rocket. Can you imagine Nigeria with a space program? Lord help us. It’s the Canaanites that are destroying white America. All the pre-Adamics must be stopped.”

  I was fascinated with Bedford’s sophistry. “Who’s Enoch?” I asked him.

  His look was designed to dispatch me to agnostic purgatory. “I was afraid you might not know it; you don’t impress me as a religious man.”

  “Let’s just say I draw my inspiration from more discernible sources.”

  Bedford chose not to probe my frame of reference, probably for fear it would create a moral dilemma: Despite the evidence of the past few years, God may not line up on the side of avarice.

  “Enoch is one of the Scriptures suppressed by the Jews at the Council of Nicea,” he recited, “when the text of the Bible was established. The books of the so-called Apocrypha—particularly Enoch, Esdras, and Abraham—are where the mission of the Alliance for Southern Pride is grounded. It is there that God’s plan of racial separation is most fully suggested, where His blessing on white America is most fully revealed.”

  Pleased to possess a truth I wasn’t privy to, Bedford plunged ahead. “But you don’t have to consult the Apocrypha to know God’s intentions. Read Deuteronomy. Read Daniel. Read John eight, where Jesus confirms the Canaanites are Devil-born: ‘Ye are of your father the Devil,’ he says of them. Those are His words, Mr. Tanner. It’s pointless to deny them.”

  I met his message with one of my own. “I’m less interested in words than deeds, Mr. Bedford.”

  Bedford’s look turned crafty. “You should not confuse the Alliance with less sophisticated movements, Mr. Tanner. We are not a hate group. We’re not like the skinheads and the original Klan, terrorizing people out of fear and envy because we have no resources to sustain us other than our race. ASP is grounded in knowledge, not fear.”

  “Knowledge of what?”

  “Of the Holy Scripture, of course. It is God’s will that America remain the castle of the white man. But the Devil is too much with us, and God’s plan is under siege. ASP is the last defense against the Protocols.”

  “The what?”

  “The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion. Every white American should know of it.”

  “What is it?”

  Bedford thrust his chest against an invisible assault. “The blueprint for Canaanite domination of the world, the conspiracy that has dogged the Great White Race for a hundred years.”

  The words were as melodramatic as the blaze in his eyes and the bulge of his jaw. “Tell me about it,” I said, though not without reluctance.

  Bedford was as primed as the Avon lady. “The Protocols were laid down in 1897 by the combined Canaanite forces of the Jewish High Council, the Sanhedrin, and the Masonic Order. Each protocol is a distinct element of the conspiracy to deliver the world and its riches into alien hands.”

  “Like what?”

  Bedford ticked them off as easily as I used to recite the scouting oath. “Agitation for civil rights for minorities in order to undermine the power of the white majority; creation of corporate monopolies to put economic power in the Devil’s hands; Canaanite control of the media; distraction and sedation of the white population with sports and other amusements so it won’t be cognizant of its decline; forbidding Creation science and Christian racial history to be taught in the schools; stealing white wealth by means of illegal income taxes and usurious Federal Reserve rates.”

  He paused to catch his breath and to be sure I was on the same page. “They’ve been at it for a century—even Hitler couldn’t slow them down. I’m sure you know enough about the history of white America to realize they’re succeeding.” Bedford’s voice dropped to a manic rasp. “Some say it’s too late; that the Protocols have been too long in place; that Satan will surely triumph. But God will never surrender to the slayers of His Son. We at ASP will die to stop them.”

  “What’s this pre-Adamic business you referred to?”

  His sneer condemned my ignorance. “Read Genesis, Mr. Tanner; read it carefully. In Chapter One, God creates a male and female in His image. In Chapter Two, He creates Adam and Eve. God created two races, not just one.”

  “Even if you’re right, what difference does it make?”

  “It’s a matter of genetics. The Bible says that Satan raped Eve and she delivered Cain. Cain then mated with the children of the pre-Adamic couple and begat the lineage of Canaanites—Jews and niggers and slopes—the mud peoples. The sons and daughters of Lucifer, Mr. Tanner—Homo bestialis.”

  “What happened to Adam?”

  “After she was raped by Satan, Eve introduced Adam to sex. Adam and Eve produced Abel, and Abel sired the Israelites, the wellspring of the Great White Race.”

  “I thought the Israelites were Semitic.”

  Bedford shook his head. “That’s a key part of the conspiracy, of course—to persuade the world that Jews are God’s chosen people. But the true course of racial history is set forth in Esdras II, which describes the journey of the lost tribes of Israel across the Caucasus into Northern Europe. The Israelites became Caucasians, Mr. Tanner; it’s absolute historic fact. The tribe of Ephraim became Great Britain, the tribe of Judah became Germany, and so on. You and I are their descendants—the Anglo-Saxon Nordic and kindred peoples are God’s true chosen people, the warriors of Saxon Israel.”

  “That’s good to know,” I said, and hoped it didn’t register as sarcasm.

  But Bedford was on a roll. “‘Adam’ means ‘to show blood in the face; to be made red.’ The white race is the only race that blushes, Mr. Tanner. Adam is our father, and America is the one true home of the thirteen tribes of Israel. Look around you, Mr. Tanner. This is the Holy Land.”

  “How do you know it’s not Japan? Or Germany? Or Pago Pago, for that matter?”

  “It’s not Japan or Pago Pago because they’re not Caucasians and do not descend from Israelites. It’s not Germany because of the signs.”

  “What signs?”

  Bedford answered in the incessant drone of cant. “You may remember from the Old Testament that God made a series of promises to the Israelites, gifts he would confer as long as they upheld the covenant. If we examine recent history, we see that every one of these promises has been fulfilled, not for Israel or Germany or Japan or Pago Pago, but for the United States of America.”

  “Give me an example.”

  Bedford shook his head. “There are at least a hundred promises; we don’t have time to go into it.”

  “Just a couple.”

  He shrugged. “It was promised that Israel would become blind to its true identity; that it would change its name; that it would have colonies throughout the world; that it would become the greatest military power on earth. It’s clear that while other nations may have realized some of the promises, only this nation has fulfilled them all.”

  I was weary of ersatz theology, so I tried to provoke Bedford onto a subject that might be more revealing. “It seems pretty abstract to me. I like my politics grounded in something more productive than rhetoric.”

  His smile was Olympian in its condescension. “The proofs are there for anyone who cares to look for them. You know, of course, that there were thirteen original tribes in Israel and thirteen original colonies in America.”

  “That’s a bit of a reach, isn’t it
?”

  “Then consider the design of the great seal.”

  “What about it?”

  “The words ‘American Eagle’ have thirteen letters. So does ‘E Pluribus Unum.’ The olive branch the eagle carries has thirteen leaves; in its other claw it clutches thirteen arrows. There are thirteen stripes in the ensign on its breast, and the crest over its head bears thirteen stars. The pyramid on the reverse side of the seal has thirteen courses of stone.”

  Bedford grew agitated by my incredulity. “Do you regard this as coincidence? Serendipity? Superstition? Then maybe you can tell me why ‘July the Fourth’ contains thirteen letters also. Or why the Confederate flag bears thirteen stars even though there were only eleven states in the Confederacy. Fort Sumter was fired upon on the thirteenth day, Mr. Tanner. Open your eyes to the evidence.”

  As Bedford paused for breath, I tried to think of a way to steer him in another direction, one that might lead to his leader. But before I could come up with a gambit, he was at it again.

  “I see you need more. Then consider the Great War, the single event that more than any other established American supremacy in the world, once and for all time.”

  “This is World War One you’re talking about?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about it?”

  “The expeditionary force sent to save the world for democracy sailed in thirteen ships, took thirteen days to get there, and fought its first major engagement on Friday the thirteenth. Its commander, General John J. Pershing, had thirteen letters in his name. Surely even you can see that this is not chaos, Mr. Tanner; this is God’s will working through His people.”

  I waited until his attentions were on me and not in thrall to his doctrine, then made an effort to provoke him into an indiscretion. “You sound like you believe that shit,” I said blandly.

  Bedford blinked. “I do.”

  “Then I think we’ve got a problem.”

  “Why?”

  “In my experience, fanatics would rather talk than fight. They’re too concerned with indoctrination and not enough with agitation. They fail to follow the program because they’re too busy ranting and raving to organize for action. I’ve got neither the time nor the money to waste on lost causes, Mr. Bedford. Even if they are God’s will.”

  Bedford struggled to keep his cool. “I assure you, our cause is not lost. Quite the contrary. Now. May I have the funds that we discussed?”

  I put my hands in my pockets. “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “This religious stuff disturbs me. It suggests a certain naïveté that isn’t conducive to political action.”

  “I assure you, you’re mistaken.”

  “That may be. But before I write a check, I need to know more about your group and the way it functions. I need to be assured that there is someone in authority who knows something about operational effectiveness.”

  His reason retrieved from his rhetoric, Bedford crossed his arms and looked away. “We never discuss tactics outside the brigade.”

  “If I’m going to fund an operation, I have the right to know what it involves. Are you going to proceed in the open or undercover? How many soldiers are in your brigade? Who’s been funding you to this point, and at what levels? Do you include wet work in your plan—are people going to die? If so, who?”

  Bedford shook his head. “We don’t reveal the names of contributors. I’m sure you applaud our stance, since you’re interested in anonymity as well.”

  “I’d still like to know what kind of people I’m associating with.”

  “White Christian patriots like yourself.”

  “That’s as vague as the rest of your doctrine.”

  “There’s nothing vague when ASP decides to act,” Bedford proclaimed stubbornly, his former glow now a sullen and suggestive gloom.

  “Give me an example of your tactical successes.”

  Bedford shook his head. “I can’t compromise security.”

  “Presumably you’ve got some new operation in mind. Tell me about that.”

  “As I said, we don’t discuss tactics outside the Brigade.”

  “I was impressed with your speech, Mr. Bedford—you know your racial history. But I won’t buy a pig in a poke. Plus, I doubt very much that you’re the engineer of all this. No offense, but you’re just the Field Marshal. I need to see the General.”

  “There is none.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t buy it. Someone’s pulling the strings and writing the script. Who is he, Bedford? I want to meet him before I hand over ten thousand of my hard-earned dollars.”

  Bedford crossed his arms. “Or?”

  “I send my ten grand to Denver.”

  Something made Bedford look back at the park. I followed his gaze, hoping I wouldn’t see Seth Hartman skulking behind a bush, ready to ride to the rescue if I needed it. But all I saw was the van in which the troops had put the sound system after the rally had ground to a halt. Done up in the same smear of camouflage colors that Bedford wore on his person, the ASP name printed in red letters on its side, the van was moving toward us with the speed and grace of a Sherman tank.

  “We need to take a ride,” Bedford said stiffly.

  I shook my head. “Tell your boss to get in touch with me tomorrow. I don’t do business after dark.”

  Bedford reached in his fatigues and pulled out a Walther P-38 and aimed it at my chest. “That’s too bad,” he said. “Because I’m beginning to wonder exactly what your business is.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The van made a U-turn in the parking lot and came to a stop with its rear doors facing us. Still brandishing his Walther, Bedford motioned for me to climb in the rear. I asked him where we were going.

  “Somewhere private,” he said.

  I looked toward the now-deserted park. “This looks pretty private to me.”

  “A guy with a directional mike half a mile from here could be taping every word I say.”

  “Why the paranoia, Mr. Bedford?”

  Bedford’s eyes were squeezed behind translucent lids. “Those who tell the truth about the race traitors in the Zionist Occupation Government make enemies in high places. ASP isn’t going to end up like the Klan, infiltrated by legions of ZOG operatives because we didn’t screen our membership closely enough.”

  “So you think I’m a federal agent.”

  “Aren’t you?” Bedford’s smile was sly.

  “No.”

  “That may be, but you’re not a Christian patriot, either. I don’t know what you are. But I’m about to find out.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like you don’t want my money, Mr. Bedford.”

  “We haven’t seen any money yet, have we? All we’ve seen is talk. And talk in the South has always come cheap.”

  Bedford gestured with his gun. I climbed in the van without a word, and Bedford slammed the door behind me. I felt more than heard him climb into the passenger side up front—the panel between me and the cab plus the rumble of the muffler underneath kept me from hearing what he said to the driver. With a pop of the clutch and a spin of the wheels, we rolled away toward somewhere private.

  I tried the inside latch on the rear door, but it was locked. I made space for myself among the car tools and the sound equipment and tried not to imagine my fate. When I noticed a book in a box on the floor, I picked it up. The title was The Biology of the Race Problem. It was underlined and annotated, and Bedford’s name was scrawled on the title page. I put it in my pocket.

  We were on the road for what seemed like an hour but was probably less than half that. Enough exhaust fumes seeped up through the floorboards to make me wonder if I’d survive the experience. At one point, the metronomic thuds of the tires convinced me we were crossing a bridge; at another point, a stink in the air made me think we were going to convene on a shrimp boat; at a third point, we slid to a stop and Bedford got out of the car but returned after a few minutes and we hit the road again: probably a pit stop.r />
  By the time I’d decided we must have been halfway to Atlanta, our journey jolted to a halt. After some fuzzy conversation up front, the cab doors opened and slammed shut. A moment later, the rear doors opened, and Bedford joined me in the van. When I tried to peek beyond him to get an idea of where we were, I couldn’t see anything but night.

  “Turn around,” Bedford ordered, the Walther back in his hand. I did what I was told. In the next second, he slipped a rag across my eyes and cinched it as tight as he could: I was as blind as a bat. Bedford grabbed my arm and tugged me forward. I took a couple of stumbling steps, and then there wasn’t anything to step on—I fell out of the van and onto the ground, Bedford laughing as I landed.

  My shoulder throbbed and my knee ached as I scrambled to my feet and waited for instructions. With a tug and a nudge, Bedford led me across an asphalt street, then onto a patch of lawn, then over a slab of concrete. At least that’s what it felt like through my shoes—I couldn’t see a thing.

  After crossing the concrete, I was tugged to a stop, then ordered to reach out and grasp a ladder, and then to climb it. When I felt my way onto the rungs, they seemed metallic, crusted, infirm. From time to time, Bedford poked me in the back to keep me moving. All I sensed was that I was out-of-doors and near the sea. A construction site, maybe. Or a boat. Or maybe I was back in the ballpark, climbing to a seat in the press box, the prelude to a twi-night doubleheader.

  When I reached the top of the ladder, I stepped off onto what felt like more concrete. I started to walk across it when Bedford grabbed my shoulder to turn me, then shoved me in a different direction. After a few more steps, I heard the grating scrape of sheet metal dragged across cement—the door to a crypt or the lid to a tin coffin. Bedford shoved me forward again, this time with the gun barrel, then stopped me after only two steps.

  “This’ll do right here.” He turned me around, then gave me another shove. I staggered backward until I bumped into something hard enough to hurt me. I rubbed my head and cursed him. His laugh lingered in the stagnant air as if he’d brought me to a dungeon.

  A car stopped somewhere nearby, then shut off its engine and waited. Nearer noises suggested there was a third person in the enclosure in addition to Bedford and myself. Given the stench of the place, I guessed I was somewhere used less for habitation than machination, but I wasn’t sure of any of it.