The Brigade

by H. A. Covington

  Lieberman was followed out of the car by Major Wallace Reid. “Sir, I don’t think this is a good idea,” said Reid. “It’s not safe out here. Cormorant One reports one of the bad guys is still in the wind around here somewhere.”

  “Nonsense, Major,” said Lieberman, slapping Reid on the back with a hearty and condescending laugh. “I’m an old soldier myself, remember? I just want to observe how your boys handle themselves. I’m not worried.”

  Chaim Lieberman should have been worried, because at that moment a 7.62-millimeter bullet came flying out of the sky and drilled him through the throat, snapping his neck and severing his jugular vein. Lieberman goobled, splooged blood from his mouth and fell dead on the asphalt, his handsome face now looking like the wooden mug of a constipated marionette. Reid was staring at the loss of the man he was supposed to be guarding and the utter ruin of his career, when a second slug slammed into his body armor, knocked him down and cracked two of his ribs. Later on an FBI forensics team figured out where Cat Lockhart had been hiding, and they made the shot at just over seven hundred yards.

  Lockhart moved back into the woods. “Now come and get me, assholes!” he snarled. They did. Hundreds of them came. Every exit from the sanctuary was sealed off within minutes by FATPO stop-groups dropped in by helicopter. He moved and fired and some more of them died. But in the end there were just too many of them.

  He fell on a cold and rainy afternoon, his weapon in his hand, and his blood drained into the earth of the land he gave his life to make free. Some of his enemies said afterwards that they thought they had heard the beating of wings as they closed in on his body. But after all, it was a bird sanctuary.

  * * *

  At about three o’clock, Second Brigade Commandant Tommy Coyle ordered an emergency meeting with First Brigade Commandant Billy Jackson and Captain Wayne Hill in a deserted coffee shop in McMinnville, ostensibly closed for renovations. Although Coyle and Jackson were technically equal in rank, Coyle was senior and effectively commanding officer in charge of the entire Portland area NVA. Jackson brought Lt. Jimmy Wingo and Kicky McGee with him. Hill arrived a few minutes later, and he was admitted at the rear door of the coffee bar. He knew from the sight of Kicky’s white face that something was badly wrong. Her eyes were red; she had been crying. “What’s happened?” he demanded of her.

  “They got Cat,” she told him, her voice shaking with grief. “Those goddamned animals are dragging his body through the streets downtown, laughing like hyenas on TV. I couldn’t watch anymore.”

  Hill ran into the bar. Coyle, Jackson, Wingo, Gary Bresler and several other Volunteers from both NVA brigades were staring at the wide-screen plasma TV in one wall, their faces twisted with shock and anger. “Kicky told you about Cat?” asked Wingo.

  “What happened?” demanded Hill.

  “Now that you’re both here, maybe you can explain that to me,” rumbled Coyle. His voice was grim. “Oscar, I’m told you and Billy pulled Cat off a routine training run for a tickle?”

  Jackson explained. “Cat and two other men, Volunteer Joe Mohr and that new kid Scott Gardner from C Company, Second Batt were doing a standard patrol in an Apex truck. Cat was teaching Gardner the ropes on scouting and spotting. Then Oscar called and said he needed some bodies. He asked me to give him anybody who was out near Highway 26 for a recon.”

  “I wanted them to shadow an enemy VIP convoy, which we just found out contained the Israeli ambassador, doing a drop-in up at that old Jewish cemetery on St. Helens Road,” said Hill. “I know now that he was going to make a speech at the grave of some so-called Holocaust survivor who was some relative of his, America and Israel fighting shoulder to shoulder against terrorist evil, all that crap. But at first we didn’t know where he was going. Our information from the JC comes in by dribs and drabs.”

  “They picked up the convoy on 26 all right, but somehow they got made at a checkpoint at the Cornell exit,” said Jackson. “They bopped their way through and almost made it up into Forest Park, so they could E & E on foot and hopefully they could un-ass the area, or else we could arrange an extraction, but then we lost contact. Last thing Mohr was able to tell us was that they were being stalked by helicopter gunships, and then there was all kinds of chatter on the police and Fattie frequencies, but we couldn’t make out what was going on. I sent in a couple of two-man teams to try and get a visual and report, and maybe extract if they could, but the Fatties had the whole northwest section of the city locked down. Our guys couldn’t get within a mile of the scene. All three men in the truck were killed, I’m not sure under what circumstances, although from the sound of things, it took them a while and they took a bunch of Fatties with them. The reports we’re getting indicate the Fats blasted the hell out of the truck and a gas station. Our guys cleared the vehicle but at some point they were all hit.”

  “Could the convoy have been some kind of set-up?” demanded Coyle.

  Hill shrugged helplessly. “We only heard about it at all late last night,” he said. “We have some people in the Justice Center, of course, but they don’t have access to the top secret clearance levels and mostly they have to rely on what they can fish out of wastebaskets and overhear in the break room and the john.”

  “Sir, if it was a set-up, they lost the bait,” pointed out Jackson. “I don’t know if you caught it in the middle of all this hullabaloo on the tube, but twice some of the media have mentioned in quick passing that the Israeli ambassador is dead. Looks like Lockhart made one last major kill, at least.”

  “My God, look at those . . . those . . .” Coyle gestured at the television as words simply failed him. Hill turned his eye on the screen as one of the Volunteers turned up the sound.

  The shot was from a news helicopter somewhere over downtown; Hill saw a blue-black FATPO Humvee rolling slowly down the street, followed by several open truckloads of FATPO men, with some more of them running alongside the Humvee and dancing and capering behind it like drunken black bats. The Fatties in the truck and in the street were firing their weapons into the air in celebration; Hill wondered why they didn’t hit the news copter. There was a white nylon rope attached to the back of the Hummer, and about fifteen feet behind it was dragging a reddish lump of something that appeared to be a human body. The clothing seemed to have been stripped or torn off by the friction with the asphalt; the body was Caucasian but any other features were unrecognizable by now. Hill thought he could see a faint reddish smear left on the street in the corpse’s wake. The street was lined with cheering people, and even from the air, as the camera swept over the crowd, Hill could tell that most of them were black or brown or Asian with a smattering of young white faces, possibly homosexuals or left-wing university students, or else just gawkers. But the bulk of the mob was definitely non-white. It seemed that somehow the word had gone out on the jungle drums and every minority in the city had rushed on to the street to celebrate the demise of one of their greatest enemies.

  The camera shot changed to street level. A woman in a raincoat with distinctly Semitic features was holding a microphone. She was talking excitedly to her audience. “This is Pamela Levinson reporting for Fox News. It’s a red-letter day for all Americans here in Portland, after a spokesperson for the Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization has confirmed that about ninety minutes ago, one of the NVA’s most notorious racist murderers, the Jack of Diamonds sniper Jesse ‘Cat-Eyes’ Lockhart, and two other fascist terrorists as well were run to earth and killed by the FATPO in a highly coordinated and fast moving action in Portland’s Forest Park district. My understanding is that both President Chelsea Clinton and Oregon governor Mike Tsafendas have officially congratulated the men and women of the FATPO for this major blow against domestic terrorism.”

  The screen cut and a white man’s face appeared above a suit and tie in the upper right hand corner. “That’s correct Pam. The governor’s office issued a statement just a few minutes ago expressing the gratitude of Governor Tsafendas, who says that the people of
Oregon can sleep more securely tonight in the knowledge that there are three less racist scum, his words Pam, in their state than there were this morning. We are expecting an official statement from the White House press secretary, and CNN will take you to that conference when it begins, but we can confirm that President Clinton has telephoned the FATPO command here in Portland to express her pleasure and congratulations at the news.”

  Pam interrupted him. The Humvee with its gruesome burden was just approaching her position on the street. “Let’s talk with some of the brave federal officers who carried out this heroic mission!” she said. She and the cameramen managed to force their way through the crowd and into the street, and Pam collared one of the dancing, yapping FATPO men who boogied and leaped and writhed around Lockhart’s defiled corpse. The FATPO in question was a negro with a small pencil moustache and a gold tooth. “Can you tell us what happened, officer?” yelled Pam. “How did you do it?”

  “Shot dat white muthafukka in de ass!” shrieked the maddened black. “Put his racist muthafukkin ass all de way down! Dass what I’m talkin’ about!” Then the camera zoomed on the crushed and bloody mass of flesh and bone that had been Jesse Lockhart. All of the NVA men in the bar turned away and one of them snapped off the sound. There was a long moment of silence.

  “May I suggest this might be an appropriate occasion for Operation Festival, sir?” asked Jackson quietly.

  “Technically I’m supposed to get the Army Council’s permission before I initiate Festival and possibly cost us more casualties than we can afford to lose,” said Coyle with a sigh.

  “I can get hold of Mr. Chips, but we need to start moving now, and I don’t think anyone up there will object,” said Hill. “Cat was a hero. Or perhaps I can experience difficulty getting through, if you think it’s better.”

  “No, don’t do that. He’ll probably be calling you anyway,” said Coyle. “I am not going to lie to myself or anyone else. Losing Cat-Eyes Lockhart is a major blow, and we need a major response. That’s always been our policy. We never let the Americans claim a victory without getting one up on them. We cannot be perceived to have lost the momentum. Festival it is. Wait for the AC’s call, and if somebody up there starts getting skittish and wants to hold back, give it to me and I’ll handle it. After a couple of hours you may not be able to find me anyway, because I’m going out with the rest of you. I know that may not be command professional and all that, but I will be damned if I don’t get some of their blood for me too.”

  “What’s Operation Festival?” asked Kicky, who had come back into the room.

  “That’s when we let the badger loose and go after these sons of bitches with everything we’ve got, comrade,” said Coyle. “It was originally intended to be used if anything came up in Seattle or Spokane or some other situation where a major diversion was called for in order to take military pressure off some other point where the enemy was concentrating, but I agree with Oscar, in this case it’s called for. Lieutenant, you know your company’s Festival assignments?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Wingo.

  “All the company commanders in First Brigade do, sir,” said Jackson.

  “Ditto the Second. All right, Festival it is,” said Coyle.

  “Oh, God!” said Kicky in despair. “I just thought. Who’s going to tell Christina Ekstrom about Cat?”

  Coyle looked at her in surprise. “Why? Were they . . . ?”

  “Yes, sir, ever since California,” confirmed Kicky. “Chris went back to Astoria and Third Battalion, but I know they were still seeing each other whenever they could.” Coyle’s phone beeped. He opened it and listened.

  “Speak of the devil. Yeah, it’s Festival time. Your guys coming down to join the fun, Zack?” asked Coyle.

  “I couldn’t stop them even if I wanted to,” replied Hatfield on the other end. “Cat was a local boy, remember?”

  “Okay, before you just go roaring into town blasting, I want you to meet me at the Sugar Shack at,” he looked at his watch, “1800 hours and we’ll get coordinated. Also, I’ve just been informed about Cat and Lieutenant Ekstrom. Does she know?”

  “She knows,” said Hatfield.

  “Please convey my deepest personal sympathies,” said Coyle. “To her, and her father, and to all the Volunteers of Third Battalion.”

  “Already done, sir. Sugar Shack at 1800 it is.” Zack hung up.

  Coyle dialed the phone. “This is Garfield,” he said. “I want a big dish of lasagna, ASAP. Call me back.” He closed the phone. “In a minute I will be making an address to all NVA personnel in both brigades,” he explained to the others. “This will be digitally recorded and sent out to every officer’s phone we’ve got as a voice mail message, and either transmitted onward or played for every Volunteer in the command. I know it’s risky sending something like this in the clear with the way they monitor the cell towers, which is why we’ve never used this system before, but there are times when I have to speak to my people straight up, and this is one of them.” They continued to stare at the television with loathing. “Shit!” yelled Coyle after a bit. “They’re taking him to Flanders Street!” Sure enough, the Humvee and the motorcade and mob behind it had halted at the corner where the Battle of Flanders Street had been caught on video and sent around the world. Coyle switched on the sound again. Pam the CNN newshen had followed the vehicles and was talking again. She was not only smirking, the smirk was in her voice as well.

  “If I didn’t already know that was a Jew, I’d know that was a Jew!” snarled Wingo in anger and loathing.

  Pam gabbled on. “It looks like FATPO has decided on a little symbolic payback for the heroic death of Portland police chief Linda Hirsch and a number of other fine and brave Portland police officers, here at this now infamous intersection of Flanders Street and 13th Avenue where Lockhart and two accomplices murdered Chief Hirsch several years ago.”

  Flanders Street, thought Kicky, her heart sinking, the terrible guilt she had fought so long to suppress suddenly surging back full strength. Where I led him that day to betray him. Now they bring him back there to desecrate his body and spit on his memory. God is speaking to me. I can run, but I can’t hide. I must pay my debt.

  The camera showed a number of FATPO men moving toward the tattered corpse on the ground. They had bayonets, knives and entrenching tools in their hands. The TV flicked off. They all looked up and saw Oscar lay down the remote onto the bar. “We don’t need to see that,” he said quietly. “We have to keep our heads clear and our hearts calm for this thing tonight. Our anger is righteous, but if we let it override our judgment, then we’ll make mistakes and there will be more dead to add to the three comrades who died today. We can read about it in the papers tomorrow, in a couple of paragraphs tacked on to the end of the long stories about what we do to them tonight.”

  “I agree,” said Coyle with a heavy nod. “Thank you, Oscar.” Coyle’s phone rang. He picked it up. “Ready?” he asked. There was a pause, and then he spoke.

  “Comrades, this is Commandant Thomas Aquinas Coyle of the Second Portland Brigade, Northwest Volunteer Army. You will have heard by now that this afternoon we lost a brave Volunteer, a true hero of our Folk, and a good friend, as well as two other good men. Even as I speak, the enemy is rejoicing in the streets of Portland, howling and roaring in triumph like the beast he is. That will cease. It will cease tonight, because we are going to wipe the smirk from his bubble lips and strangle the laughter in his vile throat. With their unclean blood we will wash away the stain of the dishonor that has been offered to Jesse Lockhart’s mortal remains. The action upon which you are about to embark is called Operation Festival. For the next 24 hours, we are going after these sons of bitches. We will hunt them down like the vermin they are, and we will turn their cackling laughter into screams of agony and terror. They rejoice now. This time tomorrow, they will be hiding their faces and trembling in terror at the reckoning we will exact from them.

  “You will all be informed by your resp
ective company commanders as to your specific targets and modes of attack. Keep as much to the plan as you can, but don’t be reluctant to improvise and take on targets of opportunity. Just don’t get yourselves killed in the process. We have three comrades to mourn, and I am sorry to acknowledge the likelihood that this time tomorrow, we may have a few more. I want our own butcher’s bill to be as small as possible, while the butcher’s bill of the enemy must be immense. Blood vengeance for a fallen brother is a just and righteous act, and a moral duty to all men of honor and pride. Suicide fails our cause and our future, and it fails Cat-Eyes Lockhart and Joe Mohr and Scott Gardner. They would want us to live for the Republic, not die for it. Spill the enemy’s blood tonight, but spare your own as much as possible. Our day of victory is coming, comrades. We all know it. If ZOG was capable of defeating us, they would have done so by now. We’re going to win. I want all of you to be there with me when General Order Number Ten is rescinded and we can all raise a glass to the memory of Jesse Lockhart and all of the men and women who have given up their lives that our land and our Folk might be free. Be careful out there tonight. Shoot straight and make these evil people pay in blood the price of their insult and cowardice. Good luck, comrades, and good hunting. Coyle out.”

  * * *

  That night all hell broke loose in Portland.

  To the media and the people of the city, it looked spontaneous, like an eruption of NVA vengeance for Cat Lockhart’s death. It wasn’t. The Army command had been making plans for Operation Festival for a long time, diddling with ideas and target selection, extrapolating tactics and enemy responses, updating the plan periodically in case it ever had to be implemented on short notice. The main problem was the large numbers of FATPO gun thugs and Portland police on the streets, especially those surrounding the main targeted areas in the hostile neighborhoods and around key facilities such as the airport, the Justice Center, police stations and power plants, etcetera. Whenever possible the enemy forces themselves were to be engaged and destroyed, but the main objective was to get past them and gouge into the large remaining number of “soft” but important targets in Portland.