We can wreak havoc in all the offices with windows opening on the courtyard, but we cannot hope to blow away the inner facade of the building or to punch through to the sub-basement where the computers are. Several hundred people will be killed, but the machine will probably keep running.
Sanders pleaded for another day or two for his unit to find more explosives, but his case was weakened by their failure to find what was needed in the last 12 days. With nearly a hundred of our legals being arrested every day, we can't take a chance on waiting even another two days, Williams said, unless we can be certain that those two days will bring us what we need.
What we finally decided is to attempt to get our bomb directly into the first-level basement, which also has a freight entrance on 10th Street, next to the main freight entrance. If we detonate our bomb in the basement underneath the courtyard, the confinement will make it substantially more effective. It will almost certainly collapse the basement floor into the subbasement, burying the computers. Furthermore it will destroy most, if not all, the communications and power equipment for the building, since those are on the basement levels. The big unknown is whether it will do enough structural damage to the building to make it uninhabitable for an extended period. Without a detailed blueprint of the building and a team of architects and civil engineers we simply can't answer that question.
The drawback to going for the basement is that relatively few freight deliveries are made there, and the entrance is usually closed. Henry is willing to crash the truck right through the door, if necessary.
So be it. Tomorrow night we'll know a lot more than we do today.
Chapter Vl
October 13, 1991. At 9:15 yesterday morning our bomb went off in the FBI's national headquarters building. Our worries about the relatively small size of the bomb were unfounded; the damage is immense. We have certainly disrupted a major portion of the FBI's headquarters operations for at least the next several weeks, and it looks like we have also achieved our goal of wrecking their new computer complex.
My day's work started a little before five o'clock yesterday, when I began helping Ed Sanders mix heating oil with the ammonium nitrate fertilizer in Unit 8's garage. We stood the s00 pound bags on end one by one and poked a small hole in the top with a screwdriver, just big enough to insert the end of a funnel. While I held the bag and funnel, Ed poured in a gallon of oil.
Then we slapped a big square of adhesive tape over the hole, and I turned the bag end over end to mix the contents while Ed refilled his oil can from the feeder line to their oil furnace. It took us nearly three hours to do all 44 sacks, and the work really wore me out.
Meanwhile, George and Henry were out stealing a truck. With only two-and-a-half tons of explosives we didn't need a big tractor-trailer rig, so we had decided to grab a delivery truck belonging to an office-supply firm. They just followed the truck they wanted in our car until it stopped to make a delivery. When the driver-a Negro-opened the back of the truck and stepped inside, Henry hopped in after him and dispatched him swiftly and silently with his knife.
Then George followed in the car while Henry drove the truck to the garage. They backed in just as Ed and I were finishing our work. They are certain that no one on the street noticed a thing.
It took us another half hour to unload about a ton of mimeograph paper and miscellaneous office supplies from the truck and then to carefully pack our cases of dynamite and bags of sensitized fertilizer in place. Finally, I ran the cable and switch from the detonator through a chink from the cargo area into the cab of the truck. We left the driver's body in the back of the truck.
George and I headed for the FBI building in the car, with Henry following in the truck. We intended to park near the 10th Street freight entrances and watch until the freight door to the basement level was opened for another truck, while Henry waited with "our" truck two blocks away. We would then give him a signal via walkie-talkie.
As we drove by the building, however, we saw that the basement entrance was open and no one was in sight. We signalled Henry and kept going for another seven or eight blocks, until we found a good spot to park. Then we began walking back slowly, keeping an eye on our watches.
We were still two blocks away when the pavement shuddered violently under our feet. An instant later the blast wave hit us-a deafening "ka-whoomp," followed by an enormous roaring, crashing sound, accentuated by the higher-pitched noise of shattering glass all around us.
The plate glass windows in the store beside us and dozens of others that we could see along the street were blown to splinters. A glittering and deadly rain of glass shards continued to fall into the street from the upper stories of nearby buildings for a few seconds, as a jet-black column of smoke shot straight up into the sky ahead of us.
We ran the final two blocks and were dismayed to see what, at first glance, appeared to be an entirely intact FBI headquarters- except, of course, that most of the windows were missing. We headed for the 10th Street freight entrances we had driven past a few minutes earlier. Dense, choking smoke was pouring from the ramp leading to the basement, and it was out of the question to attempt to enter there.
Dozens of people were scurrying around the freight entrance to the central courtyard, some going in and some coming out. Many were bleeding profusely from cuts, and all had expressions of shock or dazed disbelief on their faces. George and I took deep breaths and hurried through the entrance. No one challenged us or even gave us a second glance.
The scene in the courtyard was one of utter devastation. The whole Pennsylvania Avenue wing of the building, as we could then see, had collapsed, partly into the courtyard in the center of the building and partly into Pennsylvania Avenue. A huge, gaping hole yawned in the courtyard pavement just beyond the rubble of collapsed masonry, and it was from this hole that most of the column of black smoke was ascending.
Overturned trucks and automobiles, smashed office furniture, and building rubble were strewn wildly about-and so were the bodies of a shockingly large number of victims. Over everything hung the pall of black smoke, burning our eyes and lungs and reducing the bright morning to semi-darkness.
We took a few steps into the courtyard in order to better evaluate the damage we had caused. We had to wade through a waist-deep sea of paper, which had spilled out of a huge jumble of file cabinets to our right, perhaps a thousand of them. It looked like they had slid en masse into the courtyard from one of the upper stories of the collapsed wing, and now there was a tangled heap of smashed and burst cabinets 20 feet high and 80 to 100 feet long interspersed with their disgorged contents, which had spread out beyond the heap until most of the courtyard was covered with paper.
As we gaped with a mixture of horror and elation at the devastation, Henry's head suddenly appeared a few feet away. He was climbing out of a crevice in the mountain of smashed file cabinets. We were both startled to see him, as he was supposed to have left the area as soon as he parked the truck and then waited for us to pick him up at the rendezvous point.
He quickly explained that everything had gone so smoothly in the basement that he had decided to wait in the area for the blast. He had flipped the switch to the detonator timer as he drove the truck down the ramp into the building, so that there could be no chance of any difficulties which might arise causing him to change his mind. But no difficulties arose. He received no challenge, only a casual wave from a Black guard, as he pulled into the basement. Two other trucks were unloading at a freight platform, but Henry drove on past them, stopping his truck as nearly under the center of the Pennsylvania Avenue wing of the building as he could judge.
He had a hoked-up set of delivery documents to hand to anyone who questioned him, but no one did. He walked past the inattentive Black guard, back up the ramp, and out onto the street.
He waited by a public phone booth a block away until one minute before the explosion was due, then placed a call to the newsroom of the Washington Post. His brief message was: "Three weeks ago you and y
ours killed Carl Hodges in Chicago. We are now settling the score with your pals in the political police. Soon we'll settle the score with you and all other traitors. White America shall live!"
That should rattle their cage enough to provoke a few good headlines and editorials!
Henry had beat us back to the FBI building by less than a minute, but he had put that minute to good use. He pointed to a few curls of lighter, grayish smoke which were beginning to rise from the tangle of smashed file cabinets from which he had just emerged, and then he flashed a quick grin as he dropped his cigarette lighter back into his pocket. Henry is a one-man army.
As we turned to leave, I heard a moan and looked down to see a girl, about 20 years old, half under a steel door and other debris. Her pretty face was smudged and scraped, and she seemed to be only half conscious. I lifted the door off her and saw that one leg was crumpled under her, badly broken, and blood was spurting from a deep gash in her thigh.
I quickly removed the cloth belt from her dress and used it to make a tourniquet. The flow of blood slowed somewhat, but not enough. I then tore off a portion of her dress and folded it into a compress, which I held against the cut in her leg while George removed his shoelaces and used them to tie the compress in place. As gently as we could George and I picked her up to carry her out to the sidewalk. She moaned loudly as her broken leg straightened.
The girl seemed to have no serious injuries other than her leg, and she will probably pull through all right. Not so for many others, though. When I stooped to stop the girl's bleeding I became aware for the first time of the moans and screams of dozens of other injured persons in the courtyard. Not twenty feet away another woman lay motionless, her face covered with blood and a gaping wound in the side of her head-a horrible sight which I can still see vividly every time I close my eyes.
According to the latest estimate released, approximately 700 persons were killed in the blast or subsequently died in the wreckage. That includes an estimated 150 persons who were in the sub-basement at the time of the explosion and whose bodies have not been recovered.
It may be more than two weeks before enough rubble has been cleared away to allow full access to that level of the building, according to the TV news reporter. That report and others we've heard yesterday and today make it virtually certain that the new computer banks in the sub-basement have either been totally destroyed or very badly damaged.
All day yesterday and most of today we watched the TV coverage of rescue crews bringing the dead and injured out of the building. It is a heavy burden of responsibility for us to bear, since most of the victims of our bomb were only pawns who were no more committed to the sick philosophy or the racially destructive goals of the System than we are.
But there is no way we can destroy the System without hurting many thousands of innocent people-no way. It is a cancer too deeply rooted in our flesh. And if we don't destroy the System before it destroys us-if we don't cut this cancer out of our living flesh-our whole race will die.
We have gone over this before, and we are all completely convinced that what we did is justified, but it is still very hard to see our own people suffering so intensely because of our acts. It is because Americans have for so many years been unwilling to make unpleasant decisions that we are forced to make decisions now which are stern indeed.
And is that not a key to the whole problem? The corruption of our people by the Jewish-liberal-democratic-equalitarian plague which afflicts us is more clearly manifested in our soft-mindedness, our unwillingness to recognize the harder realities of life, than in anything else.
Liberalism is an essentially feminine, submissive world view. Perhaps a better adjective than feminine is infantile. It is the world view of men who do not have the moral toughness, the spiritual strength to stand up and do single combat with life, who cannot adjust to the reality that the world is not a huge, pink-and-blue, padded nursery in which the lions lie down with the lambs and everyone lives happily ever after.
Nor should spiritually healthy men of our race even want the world to be like that, if it could be so. That is an alien, essentially Oriental approach to life, the world view of slaves rather than of free men of the West.
But it has permeated our whole society. Even those who do not consciously accept the liberal doctrines have been corrupted by them. Decade after decade the race problem in America has become worse. But the majority of those who wanted a solution, who wanted to preserve a White America, were never able to screw up the courage to look the obvious solutions in the face.
All the liberals and the Jews had to do was begin screeching about "inhumanity" or "injustice" or "genocide," and most of our people who had been beating around the edges of a solution took to their heels like frightened rabbits. Because there was never a way to solve the race problem which would be "fair for everybody or which everyone concerned could be politely persuaded into accepting without any fuss or unpleasantness, they kept trying to evade it, hoping that it would go away by itself. And the same has been true of the Jewish problem and the immigration problem and the overpopulation problem and the eugenics problem and a thousand related problems.
Yes, the inability to face reality and make difficult decisions, that is the salient symptom of the liberal disease. Always trying to avoid a minor unpleasantness now, so that a major unpleasantness becomes unavoidable later, always evading any responsibility to the future-that is the way the liberal mind works.
Nevertheless, every time the TV camera focuses on the pitiful, mutilated corpse of some poor girl-or even an FBI agent- being pulled from the wreckage, my stomach becomes tied in knots and I cannot breathe. It is a terrible, terrible task we have before us.
And it is already clear that the controlled media intend to convince the public that what we are doing is terrible. They are deliberately emphasizing the suffering we have caused by interspersing gory closeups of the victims with tearful interviews with their relatives.
Interviewers are asking leading questions like, "What kind of inhuman beasts do you think could have done something like this to your daughter?" They have clearly made the decision to portray the bombing of the FBI building as the atrocity of the century.
And, indeed, it is an act of unprecedented magnitude. All the bombings, arsons, and assassinations carried out by the Left in this country have been rather small-time in comparison.
But what a difference in the attitude of the news medial I remember a long string of Marxist acts of terror 20 years ago, during the Vietnam war. A number of government buildings were burned or dynamited, and several innocent bystanders were killed, but the press always portrayed such things as idealistic acts of "protest."
There was a gang of armed, revolutionary Negroes who called themselves "Black Panthers." Every time they had a shootout with the police, the press and TV people had their tearful interviews with the families of the Black gang members who got killed-not with the cops' widows. And when a Negress who belonged to the Communist Party helped plan a courtroom shootout and even supplied the shotgun with which a judge was murdered, the press formed a cheering section at her trial and tried to make a folk hero out of her.
Well, as Henry warned the Washington Post yesterday, we will soon begin settling that score. One day we will have a truly American press in this country, but a lot of editors' throats will have to be cut first.
October 16. I'm back with my old friends in Unit 2. These words are being written by lantern light in the place they fixed up in the loft of their barn for Katherine and me. A bit chilly and primitive, but at least we have complete privacy. This is the first time we've had a whole night together by ourselves.
Actually we didn't come here for a romp in the hay but to pick up a load of munitions. The fellows from Unit 8 who were sent up here last week to find explosives for the FBI job were at least partly successful: they didn't get much in the way of bulk explosives, and they were too late with what they did get, and they nearly got themselves killed-but they did ac
quire quite a grab bag of miscellaneous ordnance for the Organization.
They didn't tell me all the details, but they were able to get a 2 1/2-ton truck into the Aberdeen Proving Ground, about 25 miles from here, load it with munitions, and get it out again- with the help of one of our people on the inside. Unfortunately, they were surprised in the act of raiding a storage bunker and had to shoot their way out. In the process one of them was very seriously wounded.
They managed to elude their pursuers and get as far as Unit 2's farm outside Baltimore, and they have been in hiding here ever since. The man who was shot nearly died from shock and loss of blood, but no major organs were damaged and it now looks as if he'll pull through, although he's still too weak to be moved.
The other two have been keeping themselves busy working on their truck, which is parked right beneath us. They've repainted it and made a couple of other changes, so it won't be recognizable when they eventually head back toward Washington in it.
They won't be taking the bulk of their munitions back with them, however. Most of it will be stored here and used to supply units throughout the area. Washington Field Command is letting our unit have first pick of this material.
There's quite an assortment. Probably most valuable are 30 cases of fragmentation grenades-that's 750 hand grenades! We'll take two cases back with us.
Then there are about 100 land mines of various types and sizes -handy for making boobytraps. We'll pick out two or three of those.
The Turner Diaries: A Novel Page 6