Mormons were a mixed bag. They all seemed either to be violently against us or violently for us, because they were genuine U.S. loyalists, or else they were covert and not so covert Party supporters because they didn’t like Salt Lake’s version of theology, the Salt Lake Prophet’s politically expedient revelations, the mainstream church’s stand on polygamy, etc. Mormonism has almost as many odd little sects and variations as Islam does. A lot of FBI agents and even FATPOS were blond, blue-eyed, buzz-cut Mormons who would have thrilled J. Edgar Hoover down to his high heels and who hated our guts and killed us with relish. On the other hand, O.C. Oglevy was a Mormon and so was Winston Wayne. One of the most bloodthirsty NVA crews of all was the Kennewick Flying Column, who had a lot of female Volunteers due to their practice of both Mormon and CI polygamy, and they sang Come, Come Ye Saints in combat. Third Section had a team of clean-cut Mormon assassins called the Danite Band who traveled the country whacking people while posing and acting as LDS missionaries, making converts while they tooled around complete with the short-sleeved white shirts, the dark ties and the bicycles. One of those guys was a fellow named Moroni Probert. He packed a pair of matched Western style Colt .45 Peacemakers he called his Urim and Thummim. There’s an old security tape of Probert taking down two FBI agents coming down the steps of the Federal building in Medford, Oregon. Two pistols, one in each hand. Two shots, simultaneous. Two dead Feebs. One Mormon missionary calmly mounting his bicycle and peddling away. I heard somewhere that after the war he had ten or twelve wives.
The Wingfields and other Christian-Christians in the NVA hated the Judœo-Christians like poison, and the feeling was mutual. Each sect regarded the other as heretics in the service of the devil. “They done made a covenant with Satan, and with hell they are in agreement!” Ma would snarl as she watched some blow-dried coiffured yay-hoo on TV pounding the drum for Israel. Whenever we got hold of one who needed some serious wet work, before we went medieval on his ass Carter would get down on his knees and thank the Lord for delivering this wretched sinner into our hands that we might chastise him with scorpions, which really freaked out the captive tub-thumper. They were disgusting race traitors, vile lickspittle System lackeys who sold their racial birthright for Jacob’s mess of pottage. No argument from Volunteer Ryan, folks, and I helped do some of the Holy Joes in, in grand style. But I was always able to understand clearly the difference between the Christian faith itself and the morally denatured people whom the Zionist system propped up as its alleged spokespeople. This was not religion. Organized Christianity was a political ideology and a poisonous one. We had to put a stop to anti-white and pro-Jew preaching without offending those genuine Christians who were potentially supporters of the Party and the independence movement, and without actually coming out against Christianity per se.
The NVA found that our best handle on this situation was the physical cowardice of the preachers themselves. Killing them simply made them martyrs, it made us appear anti-Christian, and the other
Judœo-Christian TV preachers found ways to use such deaths to raise more money from their pig-ignorant faithful. But public humiliation and making them look ridiculous was another matter. It turned out that none of them really believed in their Jeeee-zus sufficiently to be willing to die for him. We revived the ancient Anglo-Saxon custom of the tar barrel and the feather sack especially for them, as well as other such variations as making the miscreant river dance down the street buck naked with a flower sticking out of his butt. Do you have any idea how hard it is even for the most dyed in the wool tub-thumper to get an image like that out of his mind and take that preacher seriously again? And like just about everything else we did, it worked. We did it a few times and then we found we didn’t have to do much of anything again, because when push came to shove these guys simply did not feel sufficiently strongly in their cause to die for it or be made a public figure of fun or risk getting their snouts knocked out of the trough. You might say they saw the light.
* * *
Finally, once we had some degree of control of the small towns and the countryside of Lewis County, the NVA put all the pieces together and worked on our pièce de la résistance, the severing of the enemy’s west coast lifeline and the gradual cutting off of economic oxygen, vital supplies and materials needed to keep ZOG functioning in the Northwest cities.
We started blowing up bridges on Interstate Five.
Likewise our comrades in the eastern part of the Homeland began to demolish overpasses on I-90, I-84, I-15 and the handful of other interstates that connected the Pacific Northwest with the rest of the North American continent. One of the ways in which a small guerrilla force must seize and maintain control of a piece of liberated turf is by controlling access to the area, and by preventing the through movement of enemy goods and personnel. Ambushes against specific ZOG targets were very difficult to set up on an interstate highway. Although it could be done, and where called for it was done, such tickles usually involved running battles at seventy or eighty miles an hour. The risk to the Volunteers and the danger of collateral damage against white civilians was high. For obvious reasons of public relations, we didn’t want bullet-riddled flaming vehicles smashing into busloads of school kiddies on a field trip. Once we started severing the interstates we were able to force traffic off onto the smaller local roads, slow it down, and get it within reach, where we could get a look at it and intercept it at will.
Remember, beginning with the end of World War Two, ZOG systematically destroyed America’s railroad system and infrastructure in favor of eighteen-wheeled cargo trucks that guzzled diesel fuel in huge quantities and put utterly obscene profits into the oil companies’ pockets, not to mention big bucks in the pockets of those who built and maintained the great interstate highways. By the time of the War of Independence, virtually all cargo and transportation throughout the empire was dependent on the freeway system, countless millions of tons of freight every year without which nothing could function. In the major cities, more often than not you couldn’t even get to work in the morning without getting onto a freeway. By hitting the freeway system the NVA had the ability to bring the whole house of cards down at one fell swoop, cutting off the flow of everything from food to gasoline to garden gnomes to any given area we decided we wanted to strangle. By the end of the war we were making mass transit between the metroplexes virtually impossible unless the NVA gave its approval and got its cut. Truck drivers in the Northwest became used to stopping at gunpoint at mobile NVA checkpoints on misty back roads, submitting their vehicles to searches, and having us help ourselves to anything we needed. We always gave receipts, of course, for anything we took, promising to pay after the revolution. A lot of the truckies didn’t turn in the receipts but kept them as souvenirs; I’ve seen more than a few of them hanging frame on the walls of homes and clubs and offices down through the years.
We could also shut down mass transit in the cities themselves at will, by hitting the urban freeways and the light rail commuter systems. This was an incredibly potent form of economic warfare. Our urban crews adopted an old I.R.A. wheeze: on a Monday morning just before rush hour, they’d call in twenty bomb threats against the light rail system in Portland or the I-90 corridor going into Seattle or through Spokane. Each phone threat would carry the correct code word. Of those threats, two or three would be genuine, small bombs on a railway trestle or attached to an underpass. The rest would be bogus, but ZOG wouldn’t know which ones were real and which ones hoaxes, so everything had to stop and traffic was backed up for miles while the FATPO and BATF bomb squads checked everything out, and everybody missed a morning of work. You do this once a month in a city the size of Seattle or Portland, the red ink mounts up alarmingly, and those accountants who must eventually make the decision to go or stay get more and more nervous. Not to mention the expense of repairing the overpasses we actually did blow. There were key bridges that ZOG rebuilt six or seven times and which we blew up again as fast as they could rebuild. The Federals sim
ply did not have enough manpower to guard every single freeway overpass, and those that were guarded we could eventually take out with mortars or Katyusha-style rockets.
I know I’ve mentioned this before, but if you want to understand why and how the NVA eventually won white freedom, you have to wrap your mind around just how complex and interlocking and fragile the whole infrastructure of that highly mechanized and technological world was. Amurrica was vulnerable, terribly vulnerable at a thousand different points to an astoundingly small number of dedicated men and women who simply had a little guts. You take out one vital nexus of communications of transportation, a freeway bridge or a fiber-optic switch or the right computer database, and whole limbs of The Beast collapsed into flabby paralysis. We kicked and kicked and kicked, until eventually the whole rotten wall crumbled and collapsed. Once the white man finally made up his mind to fight, our victory was certain. I’m just pissed off that it took the bastards five years of stubborn resistance before they finally packed it in.
There were those in the Party leadership who wanted to bring down the whole house of cards immediately and let the chips fall where they may, actually induce an apocalypse no doubt complete with road warriors and total anarchy, and we could have done it. By the second year of the war the Northwest Volunteer Army could have cut off the power, the gasoline, the plumbing, the money and the consumer goods to just about everywhere had we chosen to do so, and we could have caused a kind of mini-Ragnarok in the Northwest. That we did not do so was due to others in the Army Council and the Political Bureau who preferred what they called a controlled descent, or as Red Morehouse put it, “We shouldn’t burn down the whole barn to get rid of the rats. After all, you know, we’re going to be needing a lot of that infrastructure ourselves to build the Republic on. We need to show our people something more than mindless destruction.” These moderates, as I guess you could call them, advocated a carefully controlled campaign of gradual strangulation, once again so that we didn’t alienate the white population of the Homeland by causing unnecessary hardship to our own people, and yet causing the limbs of The Beast to wither and die so we could prune them off without the whole social organism bleeding to death.
The reality, as always, ended up somewhere in between. The way it worked out in practice in Lewis County was that beginning in year three, we blew a couple of interstate overpasses just south of Napavine, always in the wee dark hours of the morning and always with plenty of warning flares and impromptu roadblocks to prevent people from driving off shattered bridges in the dark and so minimize civilian casualties. We thus cut off central Washington from access from California and points south, and yet we left the section skirting Centralia and Chehalis intact, so that the locals could use I-5 in getting around their own neighborhood and we didn’t piss people off too badly. In actual fact, a lot of folks appreciated the lighter traffic, since I-5 was an old highway, the money for repair and expansion had long ago been pissed away in the Arabian desert, and under normal conditions the interstate was always overloaded to the seams. I should add that other NVA crews all the way down into California had done the same thing in their own operational areas, cutting Interstate 5 into a series of sections. You could still get from L.A. to Seattle on the interstate, but it took a lot of detours and about twice as long as it used to take.
Lewis County residents were a little more irritated when we blew the changeover at Exit 99, cut the Twin Cities off from Olympia, and made everybody drive the several back routes to get to and from Oly, but there was a military reason for that. What that did was make sure that any enemy troop or supply movements on the ground between the two urban areas by road had to get off the interstate, go along back roads through densely forested and isolated areas, ideal for ambushes and land mines of the type we laid on Sammy Rothstein. After a few of their vehicles and occupants got raptured and shot all to hell in mad minutes of Shock and Awe in the wilds of Bucoda and Tenino,
FATPO and the State Patrol and the other Zionist forces started moving by chopper alone. This increased their speed, of course, but actually restricted their access to areas of Lewis County where the choppers could land or into which they could rappel if they wanted to be fancy about it. It reached the point where an almost Vietnam-like situation existed. They’d chopper into an area of Lewis County, do a sweep or whatever they came to do, and then chopper out back up to Oly or Tacoma before dark. We had literally driven them off the ground; the night and the street belonged to the NVA.
I believe the official statistic is that at any given time there were maybe five thousand NVA Volunteers on active service in the Northwest and elsewhere, and at the height of the war we were opposed by perhaps half a million FBI, military, FATPO, cops, prison guards, so forth and so on. Yet outnumbered as we were, we were able to shut the empire down. But there were some bumps in the road.
Rooney and I were staying in a safe house, or rather safe apartment, on the fourth floor of an historic Victorian building on Pearl Street in Centralia. We were awakened one morning by a comrade of ours on guard duty whom we knew as Barney. There was a strange rumbling out in the street, like the grinding of some strange machine. “You’re going to want to see this, guys,” Barney said. “Look out the window. We got problems.” Carefully Rooney and I both peeped out of the Venetian blinds, and we saw what the rumbling was. Pearl Street was a one-way street going north. Heading southward along the street was a long convoy of armored vehicles, trucks, Humvees, armored personnel carriers and Bradley fighting vehicles. They were camouflaged in an odd tiger-stripe pattern which I noticed was different from the standard American military “chocolate chip” cut. In the vehicles, many of them leaning arrogantly on mounted belt-fed M-60 machine guns, were uniformed men and a few women who looked kind of like a cross between soldiers and a SWAT team, camo fatigues but dark black Bakelite body armor and helmets with full opaque visor shields, so you couldn’t see their faces. You had to look at their hands to recognize that this new invading army was at least half non-white. On the sides of the vehicles and on the backs of the body armor of the troops was not the usual white and blue star insignia of the United States military, but the five letters FATPO. Federal AntiTerrorist Police Organization.
Fattie had arrived.
Not that their arrival was unexpected. The creation of the FATPO was an open secret and there had even been a few media dog and pony shows shot at Fort Bragg, North Carolina where they got their training. But the Samuel Rothstein hit wherein we had wasted a Supreme Court Justice, the biggest nose we’d taken down yet, drove ZOG almost insane with rage and fear and loathing. Instead of being phased into the scene the FATPO descended on the Northwest Homeland in a single huge invasion, for maximum effect. Nor were they lax in giving the Rebel County a demonstration of what was in store. As we watched an elderly woman standing on the sidewalk, probably a bit on the gaga side and not recognizing The Beast when she saw it, stepped off the curb and tried to cross the street. An armored car ran her down. Ran her down, crushed her beneath the treads and left her squashed in the street like a bug. None of the Federal vehicles even stopped and several more ran over her before screaming, shouting civilians managed to get into the street and drag what was left of her back onto the sidewalk. It took them several trips.
We switched on the small TV in the apartment and turned it to the local cable news channel. We could see that they were all over, rolling into Dundee and Olympia and Shelton and Longview, Astoria in Oregon, Bremerton and Port Orchard in the Seattle suburbs, Bellingham, and out east similar invading columns were lumbering into Coeur d’Alene, Sandpoint, Pullman, Ellensburg, Kennewick, Yakima, Arcata in California, you name it. We turned back to the local channel and saw a live feed of them pulling up outside the Chehalis city hall. By now of course our team was armed and ready to make a fast break, and I was on a disposable cell phone with Tank, as well as six or seven other team leaders around the county. We had to assume they were listening in and make it quick, then ditch the phones and ge
t the hell out of the area. There was no time for coded conversation. “We weren’t expecting them for another couple of weeks,” the CO told us with a curse. “I know a daylight move under these circumstances is risky, but I want all of you fine evildoers out of these towns and into open country. We don’t know but what we’ve all been ratted out or tagged with some kind of bug or global positioning indicator and I don’t want us trapped indoors where we can’t bring our longarms to bear. But more importantly, we mustn’t lose the psychological initiative. Remember, this is the Rebel County we’re talking about here and we need to give our unwelcome guests a warm welcome, immediately. We have to steal their thunder. Is there anyone out there who is in a position to make a quick hit and then beat feet? Without committing suicide?”
“We can give it a shot,” said China Wingfield’s voice on the disposable cell. “Brother S. has been cooking up some hot soup that can burn their lips.”
A DISTANT THUNDER Page 39