“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. “But if we don’t join you guys and try and do something about the world we live in, for the rest of our lives we’re going to be looking over our shoulders because of what we did to Flammus. You know that as recently as ten years ago those FBI motherfuckers were dragging old men in their eighties out of their homes and throwing them into prison cells full of niggers and gang-bangers because of what they did for the Klan in the 1950s and 1960s? The Jews never forget, and they never forgive.”
“You know about the Jews?” asked Hank Jarrett from the driver’s seat in some surprise.
“All us so-called privileged people know about the Jews,” Annette told him. “We actually know better than anyone else, because we see them up close and personal a lot more than regular people do. That’s one of our wonderful privileges. Avi Cohen’s a good example, this nasty little horn dog in my chem class and drama club who’s been chasing me since tenth grade—says he can’t help it, Jewish men just have to get blondes. Little cockroach. I don’t suppose we could make him our next target?” she asked hopefully.
The masked man spoke up again. “Ah, now that will be your first lesson in Army discipline,” he said in a firm and mellifluous voice. “You don’t go selecting your own targets or comporting yourself in the manner of cowboys, with or without a Colt Peacemaker.” He reached up and pulled his mask off, revealing a face they knew.
“Mr. Schumaker!” both Eric and Annette yelped simultaneously.
“In the flesh,” said the teacher with a little bow. “Fresh from my touching and heartfelt eulogy for that fine young African-American athlete cut down in his prime by wicked, evil racism. God, Flammus was a nauseating piece of shit! I’m used to being compelled to pass muscle-bound ball-bouncers of all colors on orders from the administration, but Hopkinson told me Flammus had to maintain an A average when he could barely write his own name, and I got pulled into doctoring his SAT scores as well. I don’t think I’ve ever been around a monkoid who made me feel more unclean than he did. You two fine youngsters have made the world a whiter and brighter place without him. I add my congratulations to those of my comrades here.”
“So now what?” asked Annette.
“We take you back to your car, and you go home,” said Schumaker. “On Monday morning you will be surprised to find there has been a change in your faculty guidance and career counselor, and it will be necessary for us to have a few serious counseling sessions in my office. If I remain satisfied with your moral fiber and your level of commitment, 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.”
* * *
Schumaker must have been satisfied with what he saw and heard from the pair of them in their subsequent meetings, because two weeks later, on a chilly night, Annette and Eric found themselves seated on a sofa in an apartment above an organic health food store in Portland’s ritzy downtown Pearl District. They were sipping on big mugs of steaming herbal tea when the door opened and three men came into the apartment from the hall outside. The two young people stood up, not knowing whether they should snap to attention, or what.
“Good evening, comrades,” said the big man in the lead, in a genuinely welcoming tone. He was Gary Bresler, battalion adjutant, a tall and beefy man with receding gray hair and big hands. Annette and Eric could see the shoulder-holstered automatic beneath the light sports jacket he wore, sans tie. He waved them back to their seats. “For your purposes, my name is Walter. I will introduce these other two comrades in due course. You’re here on time. That’s good. One of the things I will be emphasizing to you today is the absolute requirement for punctuality. When you are told to be somewhere at seventeen minutes past 3 p.m. exactly, you will be given a time check to set your watch by, and you will be there at 3:17. Not 3:15. Not 3:19. Being two minutes late, or sometimes two minutes early, can very often mean the margin of difference between a successfully completed military operation and your own torture, death, or lifelong imprisonment in the closest approximation to hell on earth that human beings have yet devised. And on that cheerful note, we’ll begin.” Bresler and Lieutenant Wayne Hill, the Third Section intelligence officer, sat down. The third man, Billy Jackson, went over and sat down by the window, his eyes half on the rest of the group and half on the street outside. He took off his light jacket and his tweed golf cap, and they could see that over his maroon polo shirt he also was wearing an automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. Annette and Eric both recognized him with a slight start, but said nothing. Both of them wondered when they would be given guns and shoulder holsters to wear.
Bresler started in. “Right. You two are now members of A Company, Second Battalion, First Portland Brigade, Northwest Volunteer Army. You are under military discipline as much as any other army in the world, and that means you do what you’re told, when you’re told to do it, and how you’re told to do it. There are four other members of that battalion besides yourselves in this building, including myself, these two comrades, and one other who is on sentry duty outside and whom you will not meet. This is probably the most of us you will ever see gathered under the same roof, for a long time to come. It will be some years before any of you will even be able to swear from personal experience that more than maybe a dozen of us exist at all, except that your daily viewing of the news will demonstrate the NVA’s presence throughout the Northwest in the form of dead bodies. Some of ours, mostly theirs.
“You will very seldom if ever know us by our real names. For example, I am the Second Battalion executive officer, but you have no need to know my identity, and so you will refer to me today as Walter, and later by a variety of code names as needed.” Bresler indicated Hill. “This scholarly-looking gentleman here you may call Oscar. I am authorized to tell you he is an operative of the NVA’s Third Section, which would probably cause you both to shit in your pants if you fully understood what that means. Oscar is presently attached to the Portland command, and he is here to brief you on some things that we want you to do for us having to do with your school. It is possible that you will never meet either Oscar or myself again. Lieutenant Billy Jackson here is an obvious exception to the pseudonym rule. He’s been all over the TV, including his stunning debut on America’s Most Wanted, and his face is prominently displayed on all the DT reward posters, so it would be pointless to give him an alias for this meeting. Lieutenant Jackson is A Company commander, and so he will be your immediate superior. The three of us are going to teach you new comrades what you need to know about how the NVA operates as an organization and fights as a team. This is going to be your crash course in survival in an underground revolutionary movement, so pay attention. You will only be told all this once, and if you fuck it up then not only you but maybe some of your friends and comrades will pay the price in blood and agony. A few questions first. I gather you two are personally involved, and this is known around your campus?”
“Uh, yes, uh, Walter sir,” said Eric.
Bresler nodded. “Okay, that will give you a valid reason for hanging out and being seen together a lot. Wade Schumaker is actually not assigned to
A Company, but because you already know him we will preserve that contact and use him to transmit and receive instructions. You both have him for your faculty advisor now, I believe?”
“Yes,” said Annette. “And he’s faculty advisor to the Chess Club, which Eric is in.”
“All right, so he has reason to deal with you in the framework of your school environment, but outside class I don’t want you fraternizing with Wade or being seen with him in any non-academic situation. Ideally companies are supposed to be completely compartmentalized, but sometimes, as in this case, that doesn’t work out in practice.”
“What company is Shoe in?” asked Eric.
“You have no need to know that, so you will not be told,” said Bresler. “The very first rule of underground operation is that everything has to be run on a strict need to know basis, and I do mean strict. As a corollary to that, you must never display any curiosity or ask questions about any other comrades you deal with, about specific events or people that have nothing to do with your own immediate work. I know that curiosity is a natural human impulse, but you have to learn to restrain it. It’s not only dangerous to others, it’s dangerous to you, because when a Volunteer starts asking too many questions, guys like Oscar here start to think about you. You don’t want Oscar thinking about you. Trust me on this, you don’t.”
Annette quietly gulped. “We get it, sir.”
“Don’t get the idea that we’re paranoid,” said Bresler. “Paranoia is an unfounded and irrational fear that people are out to get you. In the case of the NVA, a lot of very bad people really are out to get us. And don’t confuse security consciousness with paranoia. You have to learn to tell the difference.”
“Uh, what exactly is the difference, sir?” asked Eric.
“A good rule of thumb is that security consciousness helps you survive and carry out your mission. Paranoia prevents you from carrying out your mission. Don’t worry, once it hits home to you that your lives really are in danger, you’ll develop that third eye in the back of your head you need. You’ll have to, because if it fails you, you’re dead. But we have found that once white people break free of the American bubble and get back into the proactive ways of our ancestors, all the old instincts re-assert themselves pretty quick. Aryans are natural warriors and a mere 80 years of refined sugar, MTV and political correctness can’t dismantle thousands of years of racial memory. But enough of that. Like I’ve said, from now on you take your orders from Billy here, or from Wade.”
“Orders to do what?” asked Eric.
“We’ll get into that in a bit,” replied Bresler. “Right now we need to get some basic information. Do either or both of you have transportation?”
“We’ve both got cars, both late-model,” said Annette. “Mine’s a Lexus, Eric has a Volvo. Rich kids, you know.”
“That’s good to know,” said Bresler. “Both registered in your names?”
“Our parents’ names,” said Eric.
“All right. We may need those vehicles for operations, since sometimes a Lexus looks less out of place in a certain area than a pickup truck, but if we do we’ll put on false plates. Not stolen ones, phony plates we make ourselves that will actually come up with a dead end name and address if the cops run them.”
“You guys hacked into the DMV computer system?” asked Annette, astonished. “Oh, sorry sir, I know, you said we’re not supposed to ask questions.”
“We have a vast reserve of geeky white computer nerds who are absolutely brilliant, and whose lives were made pure torment by the niggers and spic gang-bangers in what passes for public school in this society,” chuckled Hill. “Payback is turning out to be a bitch.”
“Second question,” said Bresler. “Do either of you have a gun?”
“No, sir, we destroyed the one that—the one we used on Lucius Flammus,” said Eric. “I cut it up on my dad’s laser press and I scattered the bits and pieces all over the city.”
“Good thinking,” said Bresler. By the window Jackson nodded silently.
“Will you give us guns?” asked Annette.
“Not now,” said Bresler. “In the first place, you won’t need them for the moment. In the second place, you’d have to conceal them somewhere. You can’t walk around the campus at Ashdown strapped, because someone might see the weapons, plus Wade tells me there are metal detectors everywhere and security spot checks and searches all the time.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said Eric. “I mean, yes sir.”
“When the time comes that you need to be armed for active service, you’ll be armed,” said Bresler. “In anticipation of that time, Billy will arrange several weapons training sessions for you where you will be familiarized with the M-16, the AK-47 and 74, pump shotguns and several handguns. Plus maybe an Uzi or two. Situations may arise wherein you have to be armed quickly, and we won’t have time to show you how to load a magazine or clear a stoppage.”
“It’s not that hard,” Jackson assured them. “Unless you’re training for specialist work like long-range sniping or covert shit with silencers, anyone of normal intelligence can learn everything they need to know about the care and handling of firearms in order to do the kind of operations we do in a few hours. Like Samuel Colt once said, a gun is just a machine for throwing balls. It’s not that complicated a tool. It’s what’s in your head and in your heart that takes real development.”
“Okay, now I’m going to give you a rundown on general underground procedures,” said Bresler. “Basically we have two kinds of Volunteers. There are those who are on the bounce like Billy here—that means that he is known as a Volunteer by the federals, and he lives on the run as an outlaw. We call these Volunteers U-Boats, because they must remain submerged and concealed. But there are many people who are secretly members of the Army, who are still in place in society and who still live outwardly normal lives doing normal things, blending in. We need to keep you two on the surface as long as we can, because that is where you will be of the most value to us.”
“Kind of like secret agents behind enemy lines?” suggested Annette.
“That is exactly what you will be, yes,” agreed Bresler. “And you two need to get out of your heads right now any idea that there will be anything romantic or exciting about it. It is a frightening, nerve-wracking, stress-filled way to live, and it will make you sick in every sense of the word.” Bresler paused, and looked at them hard. “I have already told you that the first rule of underground operation is the strictest need to know. The second rule is that no one must know or so much as suspect that you are Volunteers. Not your parents, not your friends, not your priest, nobody. Kids—sorry, comrades I should say, I know you’ve already made your bones—your adolescence ended the moment you capped that monkoid, but you have to make sure it’s dead. I have to emphasize to you that this is not some kind of cool secret club or chic little extreme hobby that you can let anybody in on in conspiratorial whispers, to awe and impress your friends with how daring and swashbuckling you are. You won’t impress anybody, you’ll get arrested and destroy your own lives and maybe some others as well. This doesn’t just mean keeping your lip zipped about the NVA. It means that you have to blend in perfectly with your surroundings. You must live a life of total deception. You must become actors on a level that would win you an Academy Award in Hollywood. You must say and do all the right things. You must be properly liberal, politically correct, diverse, tolerant, inclusive, and whatever else they call white people eating shit and grinning while they do it these days, in your particular grove of Academe. You must hug a nigger every day and sing Havah Nagilah every night. You must react with shock and horror at the latest evil atrocity perpetrated by the NVA, and participate in every required Two Minute Hate against your comrades and wicked white racism in general, and you must shout louder than anyone else. You must never express even the slightest politically incorrect opinion in class and hold your Jewish teachers in that goo-goo-eyed reverential awe the kikes love and expect from us. You mus
t wear a mask hiding your true face from all the world, and in time that grows harder and harder to do. It can drive you insane, and I mean that literally. It’s happened. But you must never let the mask slip. You have taken on a burden that you cannot, must not, dare not share with anyone outside the Army. No one must know. No one must suspect!”
Jackson spoke up from his seat by the window. “Comrades, don’t take this wrong. But the fact is that you grew up right at the top of this shit heap, in the penthouse, with all the light and the color and the new paint job, windows open to the warm summer breeze and such. Most of us, including me, grew up in trailer parks and renter houses and crummy Section 8 apartments and a lot of us, including me, have done time in prison. You simply can’t have any idea what it is like to be locked in with a lot of black and brown beasts, worse than beasts. And the prisoners are even worse. Clearly you’re both brave enough to risk it. You’ve proved that. But if you have to go into that place, the worst weight you can have pressing down on your soul night after night is to know that you put yourself there by some mistake you could have avoided.”
“We know enough to be afraid, Lieutenant,” Eric assured him. “We understand what Walter is saying.”
“Good,” said Bresler. “Moving along here, the next thing you need to be drilled in is communications. You both have personal cell phones?”
“Yes,” they both said with a nod.
“Give Billy and Schumaker the numbers, but those are for emergencies only,” Bresler told them. “All your personal calls go on your bill and leave a paper trail. You will need to buy throwaway Mighty Mart or some other cheapo phone of the kind which are used for most Army business, mostly via text messaging since that way the enemy can’t pick up anyone’s voice through a cell site and do a voice print match. You will have to memorize the numbers we will give you for Billy and Wade. Do not put those numbers into the phone’s memory or speed dial. Never have more than one of these extra phones on you. If you’re searched and someone finds the extra phone, you can say you bought it when you lost your regular phone but then you found it again, or you bought it to keep in your car, or something of that kind. But if the feds find six or seven extra phones on you or in your room, they’ll realize they’ve got a live one. We change phones every few weeks, and if we feel something has been compromised somewhere along the line, you’ll be instructed to get rid of your special phone and get a new one. On the phone you will use codes, sometimes simple, sometimes complex. We have found that the simplest and easiest to remember are words and phrases having to do with junk food and booze, Burger Barn, Pizza Express, Taco Shack, beer brand names, and so on. We tried some dealing with niggerball, but a lot of the assholes who are listening to us actually follow that crap, and sometimes our messages didn’t make sports sense and so they stood out. You are going to have to memorize these codes, and I warn you, they change as often as the phones.
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