* * *
The media were not completely correct in their reports of no survivors. One American military man did make it past the beach alive. Lieutenant Donald Hacker was always a strong swimmer, despite his prosthetic foot, and he also knew that if he went back to California his head was on the chopping block. He decided to pass, and so when he hit the water he struck out northward, sometimes diving and swimming under water to dodge bullets. Finally he crawled ashore at the edge of Sunset Beach Park. He was creeping through the park trying to make it to the roadway when he was confronted by a young boy and young girl of age 12 and 10 respectively, the son and daughter of Lieutenant Sherry Tomczak, who had been unable to find a baby-sitter on short notice and brought them along with instructions to hide in the woods and stay out of trouble. They were both armed with .22-caliber bolt-action rifles, and they marched an thoroughly chagrined and embarrassed Hacker with his hands up right to their mother.
When Hatfield showed up, Hacker was sitting on the ground being guarded by the two solemn children with their .22s, no one saying anything. “You got to be Hatfield in that getup,” said the Coast Guard lieutenant.
“Yah,” said Hatfield. “You off that cutter?”
“The executive officer, believe it or not,” said Hacker in disgust.
“What the hell happened with that gun turret of yours blowing up?” asked Zack curiously. “I don’t think that was us.”
Hacker scowled. “Our bird-brained excuse for a captain was an affirmative action quota promotion, a mami who couldn’t sail a rubber duck in a bathtub. Somehow, I have no idea how, she managed to blow up the turret and sink her own ship, if you can believe that. Now I’ve been captured by the Sesame Street gang here, and turned over to a female officer of some kind who offered me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich she made in her own kitchen before coming out here to commit treason and armed insurrection against the United States. I keep hoping this is all a bad dream, and I’ll wake up in a nice, quiet loony bin somewhere. Hatfield, I’ve been looking over your crew here. I see kids. I see middle-aged fat guys. I see women, I see Larry the Cable Guy and Dilbert. Some of them are obviously vets from the way they carry themselves and their weapons, but most of them seem to be just average people. How the hell did you do this?”
Hatfield reached down, took Hacker’s hand, and pulled him to his feet. “Come and meet some of them. I’ll show you.”
* * *
The official press briefing in Washington, D.C., took place at noon Pacific time, three o’clock p.m. Eastern Daylight time. The footage from Sunset Beach was now all over the world, and the bloody death of General Rollins had been replayed on the air at least a thousand times already in the United States alone. The White House press secretary came out to address the assembled media, standing at the podium with an ashen face. He was ashen because he had just come from the Oval Office where he had been on the receiving end of one of Hillary Clinton’s deranged and hysterical tirades. These tirades sometimes ended with Hillary pushing a button beneath her desk, summoning her picked bodyguard of black and Hispanic Secret Service agents, pointing at some unfortunate bureaucrat or other recipient of her ire and commanding, “Take that traitor away!” His predecessor as press secretary had suffered such a fate. The man’s body was found several days later in a public park in northern Virginia, an alleged suicide in the classic Vince Foster manner. Hillary didn’t believe in changing a winning formula. The press secretary opened a sheet of paper and read a prepared statement in a dull monotone into the microphone:
“The Department of Defense and the Department of Homeland Security regret to announce that a disastrous engagement has taken place between elements of the Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization, the United States Coast Guard, and the terrorist Northwest Volunteer Army, on Sunset Beach in the state of Oregon. The terrorists, in overwhelming numbers, launched a highly disciplined assault, which has resulted in the loss of the Coast Guard cutter U.S.S. Frederick J. Higby, the civilian-contracted transport ship S.S. Ventura, and the death or capture of 457 men and women of the FATPO, the Coast Guard, civilian contractors, and representatives of the media, notably the officer commanding General Roland Rollins, and Mr. Leonard Posner of Fox News. There have also been a number of wounded. The remaining vessels in the expeditionary force are returning to base.” He then turned and walked off stage, ignoring the frantic shouting and demands that he answer questions.
The NVA’s official response was simpler and even more dramatic. That afternoon over two thousand journalists, television stations, newspapers, and news outlets across America received an e-mail containing a special confirmation code word. The message consisted solely of three short lines from Shakespeare’s King Henry V, Act IV, Scene 8:
O God, thy arm was here,
And not to us, but to thy arm alone
Ascribe we all.
XXVI
The Producers
A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!
Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.
The Merchant of Venice—Act IV, Scene 1
Julia Lear was delayed for almost a full day in Portland, due to increased security measures surrounding pre-flight background and documentation checks by the Department of Homeland Security. The tickets from Paradigm Studios must have carried a high clearance on somebody’s computer, because Julia was ushered immediately through security and ensconced in the PDX VIP lounge with a complimentary drink from the bar and profuse apologies from the airline, but apparently some of the other passengers on her flight were mere peasants who had to be checked out six ways to Sunday, and who held up the works. The NVA had never yet hijacked or blown up an airliner or attacked an airport, but there was a first time for everything and everybody was extra skittish, possibly because of the impending attack on Clatsop County which as worried as she was for her family, Julia kept her lip firmly zipped about.
In the past, whenever she had gotten held over in Portland for any length of time she never missed a chance to go shopping and clubbing and generally taking in the scene in the City of Roses, but this time she stayed in the VIP suite and watched old movies on TV. She checked the news broadcasts regularly, but there was nothing out of Clatsop County. She ordered her meals brought in, and stayed out of the restaurants and especially the bars in the terminal, because the whole place was full of swaggering, uniformed FATPO officers whom she didn’t want to encounter without the helpful Wally Post and his special little card at her side. The result was that she got back into Los Angeles late and slept in the next day, so she was sound asleep when the battle began on Sunset Beach.
She had a 10 o’clock appointment that morning with Arnold Blaustein at the Bunker, which in a late-sleeping executive culture like Hollywood’s was the crack of dawn. Fortunately for Julia, she turned on the TV to catch up with the news when she got out of the shower, so she wasn’t caught completely unawares by the news out of the north. She was stunned to encounter every channel showing a burning ship on a beach littered with what appeared to be dead bodies, replay after replay of Roland Rollins getting blown away into the surf like a beach ball, and again and again she saw the long pan shot of Zack Hatfield in his flapping duster and broad-brimmed slouch hat standing on the bloody beach, with his Winchester raised in defiance like the closing scene of some post-apocalyptic Western. Julia had deliberately not asked Zack for a number where he could be reached, since she understood that the mere knowledge of such a number would get her many years in prison, and in any case he probably wouldn’t have given her one. But now the urge to call someone was overwhelming, and so she called her mother. Surely the FBI wouldn’t arrest her and torture her for calling her own mother. Would they?
Julia half expected the phone lines to Clatsop County to be out, but after a few rings her mother picked up the phone. “Mom, this is Julie.”
“Oh, hi, Julie, how was your flight back?”
“The flight itself was fine, but I got held up for a long time at Portland Airport. Mom
, are you all right?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes, dear, I’m quite well. No need to shout,” said Mrs. Lear.
“And our—our guests from the other night? Are they all right?”
“Ted is fine, dear. He wasn’t involved with all that fooferall this morning, he was here in town where he should have been, doing his job.”
“And the other guests?” demanded Julia.
“The one you’re concerned about is all right, so far as I know, dear,” said her mother. Julia noticed that her mother was canny enough not to say Zack’s name on the phone. “I’m sure the other gentlemen are fine as well. Nothing’s going on here, Julie. It’s just a nice summer morning, and thanks to the Boys it’s going to stay that way. I’ve told you before, I’m far more concerned about your safety down in that horrible place where you live than you should be about mine.” For the rest of her life, Julia Lear would always think of the Battle of Sunset Beach as “all that fooferall.”
Julia debated whether or not to keep her appointment at The Bunker, in view of the events of the morning and the probable exponential increase in Jewish paranoia, but decided she didn’t have any choice. During the limo ride over to Paradigm Studios she wondered if she would be arrested and “disappeared” if it became known that she had been with Zack Hatfield only thirty-three hours before the battle, and she decided to withhold as much information from the studio bosses as possible as to the actual details of her visit. Now that she had done what they asked, they might consider her to have become expendable.
She changed her mind when she was ushered into the same meeting room as before. A giant plasma screen TV had been wheeled in on casters, plugged into the satellite cable and set up in one corner, while half a dozen multi-millionaire entertainment industry executives were sitting like zombies, staring fascinated at the burning wreck of the Ventura and the smoke-wreathed, demonic figure of Zack Hatfield flourishing his rifle at them, like so many rabbits with a snake. They practically leaped to attention when she walked into the room and fell all over themselves offering her coffee, an armchair, brunch from the buffet, a drink, practically plumping the cushions of her chair for her. All of a sudden something dawned on Julia. They’re afraid of me, she thought. They think Zack is my lover or my attack dog or something, and they are terrified I can sic him on them at will. They’re afraid of Zack because they know he is not afraid of them, and they think I can command and control him. Julia remembered a little-known but canny saying of Winston Churchill’s from his pre-Zionist days in the 1920s: “The Jew is always either at your throat, or at your feet.” Julia had them at her feet now, and she decided to rub it in with a dramatic gesture.
She pulled the Rolex watch from her purse, leaned over and handed it to Arnold Blaustein. “He sent you a message,” she said, nodding to where Zack stood on the television screen with upraised weapon. “I think it’s so you’ll know that I did see him, and that what I have to say to you is straight up. He didn’t say what the message was, he just said to give you this, and you’d understand.”
The spectacular result made up for all the weeks of trauma Julia had suffered during her time on the Hollywood blacklist. Blaustein turned white as a sheet, literally, as the blood drained from his florid face. He sank onto the sofa, sweat beading on his forehead, the watch in his hand shaking as if he had delirium tremens. “Gottenyu gevalt!” he moaned. “Mine watch! This watch disappeared from the nightstand in the bedroom, vile mine wife and I were asleep! They were there! They were in mine house!”
“I guess that’s the message, then,” said Julia with a shrug. She almost made some comment about better than finding a horse’s head in his bed, but she figured that would be overdoing it. There was no need. She could tell from the appalled faces of all the men in the room that they did indeed get the message.
“You were with him just before . . . before all that happened?” asked Moshe Feinstein, gesturing toward the television screen.
“Not just before, no, sir. I met with Zack and a representative from the NVA Army Council in Astoria night before last,” Julia told them. “Mr. Post was very helpful, by the way. I couldn’t have done it without him. I was actually there when Zack got the call telling him that Clatsop County was about to be invaded by that new strong-arm force of Hillary’s. That’s a bad move, by the way. Those goons were all over the Portland airport and I can tell you that the local people already fear them and despise them. You might mention that next time any of you get invited to the White House, although I doubt she’ll listen. The meeting broke up, then, but I think I got done what you wanted me to do. I have a general idea of what they want, but I won’t be doing the negotiating, thank God. I do have a name for you, though. Someone who can speak for them authoritatively down here.”
“Wait, wait,” spoke up Moshe Feinstein. “You say somebody called him and told him the government boys were coming?”
“They seem to know pretty much everything they need to know,” Julia told them. “You shouldn’t underestimate them. You saw what happens to people who do that,” she added with another nod at the screen. She was enjoying this.
Blaustein stared at the watch in his trembling hand. “So I see. You said you had a name for us, Julia?”
“Yes.” She hesitated briefly. “I need to tell you that I was told if anything bad happened to this person, he would be avenged. I guess you know they’re not kidding, what with what’s been going on in the past few months, and now this little beach party back home.”
“We get it, Ms. Lear,” said David Danziger heavily. “The name?”
“He’s an agent from out in the Valley. Barry Brewer,” Julia told them. “I have no idea what his actual status is with the NVA, but they say talk to him, and whatever he says goes.”
Blaustein nodded. “Erica Collingwood’s agent. Of course. They were in it together. I don’t suppose they told you where Erica is now?”
“I didn’t ask, and even if they knew, they wouldn’t have told me.”
“What are their demands?” asked Danziger.
“Basically, I think it will be livable,” said Julia with a shrug. “No money, apparently. Just concentrate on movies and programming with schmaltz and sleaze, nix on the constant petty needling like you—well, like Hollywood does when they don’t like somebody, and no big epics about fighting evil racism in the Northwest. I don’t know if you gentlemen can live with that, but speaking as one of the hundreds of thousands of people employed in the entertainment industry, I think all of us who want our paychecks back can live with it.”
“Tell me, Julia,” asked Arnold Blaustein, still trembling “What do you think your, ah, boyfriend and his associates would take for the movie rights to this morning’s events?”
My God, thought Julia in bemused surprise, Is there anything they won’t try to make money from?
* * *
It took almost a week to set up the meeting with the studio executives, but on a hot California night with an oven-like Santa Ana wind blowing down from the mountains and brush fires glowing on the distant Hollywood Hills like goblin lights on Halloween, Barry Brewer stood in a Culver City motel room with his best suit on, and a briefcase in his hand. The briefcase was just for show, empty except for a yellow legal pad and a pen, and the wireless microphone hidden in the lining.
“I wish we had the necessary skills to put the GPI actually into your body, subcutaneous,” said Oscar in a worried tone of voice. “I understand the feds can do that now.”
“You’ve got three on me now,” said Brewer. “The briefcase plus one in my shoe and one on the back of my wrist watch. I could stick a another one up my butt if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Ripley,” said Charlie Randall. “We’re using suspenders and belt in case you’re searched. We figure if they run a metal detector over you, the one in your watch will beep first. You look sheepish and hand over the watch, and then maybe they’ll figure they found it and they won’t keep on down to your shoes. The micr
ophone may set off the detector, but that’s why we chose the briefcase with the stainless steel fittings and trim. May fool them, may not, depending on how dumb their security guards are.”
“You know, we’re violating the no-tricks rule I stipulated with Blaustein,” said Brewer.
“As if they’re going to keep to the rules? These are Jews, and according to their own Kol Nidre they consider any oaths or agreements made with Gentiles to be non-binding,” Oscar reminded him. “You can bet they’re going to be recording this whole thing with state of the art hidden cameras and microphones. I only wish we could get some kind of visual on this so if they break the agreement somewhere down the line, we can drop a dime on them to Homeland Security and all of their rivals and competitors in the media, of course, letting them know who among the Chosen has been playing footsie with Jerry Reb to gain an unfair advantage. One last time, Barry, are you sure about this?” Oscar asked him keenly. “You know this whole thing could be a trap. You could be walking right into the arms of the FBI and FATPO. Christina, Jimmy, and Kicky are in place to monitor and record whatever we can get, but if it goes bad there’s no way we can assault that fortress they’ve built and pull you out, not with what we’ve got. I think you know what they will do to you in order to get you to talk.”
“I know,” said Brewer soberly. “I’ve spent the past week handing everything over to Christina, and she’s run with it, as she always does. That girl would have made a hell of an executive. Right now I don’t have the slightest idea where a single safe house or a single item of NVA equipment is, nor the whereabouts of a single Northwest Volunteer other than you two. My own office and home have been sanitized from top to bottom and all my financials are as clean as a hound’s tooth. I’m ready to swear there’s no paper trail anywhere. I don’t have a single relevant item of information to tell them, even when they start clipping the electrical thingies onto my balls.”
The Brigade Page 84
