Freedom's Sons

by H. A. Covington

  Campbell had already spotted the blue, white and green Old NVA ribbon on the man’s lapel, and even though it wasn’t necessarily required by protocol to stand to attention in the presence of a former Volunteer, he straightened up. “Yes, sir, we do,” he said. Then he saw a second ribbon on the receptionist’s other lapel, all red and containing the tiny Roman numeral XVI. He gulped. “You fought in Coeur d’Alene during the Sixteen Days, sir?” he asked.

  “I did,” replied the old man. “Here’s your guy.”

  A side door opened, and a young man Bob’s own age in shirtsleeves and tie stepped out and beckoned. He did not introduce himself. “Lieutenant Campbell? This way, please. He’s waiting for you.”

  “It’s been an honor, comrade,” said Bob Campbell to the man behind the desk, who was already back engrossed in The Brothers Karamazov. He and his escort walked through a bullpen office full of desks and battered metal filing cabinets that could have been found in a freight company or a factory, if all the clerks of both sexes carried guns in hip or shoulder holsters. “I’ve never met a Sixteen Days man before,” remarked Bob to the escort.

  “That’s Gus Singer’s brother, Al,” the young man told him.

  There was a short elevator ride, and Campbell found himself being ushered into the large but Spartan office of the legendary General Charles Randall, director of the War Prevention Bureau, or the Circus as it had come to be known, due to somebody in the NAR government who was a John Le Carré fan. Some also maintained that the organization’s nickname came from the death-defying feats its agents performed on a regular basis.

  Randall himself sat behind a large desk of varnished oak. He was not in uniform today, but wore a sports jacket and a loosely knotted maroon tie. He was a slim man in early middle age. His blond curly hair was beginning to pale at the temple, and some white hairs were now visible in his neatly trimmed beard. His desktop was almost painfully neat, with one in-tray and one out-tray, each filled with file folders. There was a black plastic telephone with multiple lines sitting on the desk that looked as if it had come from the previous century, and a green banker’s lamp that might have been the twin of the one on the old man’s desk out in reception. One wall of the office was lined with filing cabinets. Behind Randall’s chair stood a Northwest Tricolor flag in a stand, and beside it a small sideboard on which was a large glossy photograph of the famous Hollywood actress whom he had married, as well as a number of photographs of their children. The story of how Randall had met the actress was by now enshrined in the new nation’s mythology. He had supposedly seduced her and turned her into an NVA intelligence asset, and used her to carry out Operation We Are Not Amused, which was probably the most famous and spectacular guerrilla action the NVA ever pulled off. [See The Brigade]

  Campbell stood to attention and saluted. Randall flicked his own hand to his temple in casual acknowledgement and pointed to the chair in front of his desk. “Park it, Lieutenant.” Randall was originally from Brisbane, and his accent was still heavily Strine. Campbell did so. Randall reached into a drawer, rooted around and pulled out a file. “Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”

  “No, sir, I was instructed not to.”

  “Good,” said Randall. “This entire meeting is covered by the Official Secrets Act. Neither you nor I are here. This building does not exist. All is a figment of an opium-eater’s nightmare. If one word of it gets out via anything you say or do, I will have your guts for garters, and I am not speaking figuratively. Got it?”

  “Got it, sir,” confirmed Campbell.

  Randall was glancing through the file in his hand. “No idea at all why I asked to see you?”

  “None, sir, although I applied for WPB six years ago, when I completed my military training. That’s as close as I can guess.”

  “You grew up in Missoula,” Randall continued. “Your sister is former Northwest Volunteer Jennifer Stockdale, and your brother-in-law is former Volunteer Jason Stockdale, now Chancellor of the University of Montana. You completed your military service as a sergeant, you qualified as an expert marksman and demolitions specialist, and you were rated as fluent in Spanish, which is now necessary to operate anywhere in the United States, never mind Aztlan. At the conclusion of your two-year national service hitch you were offered an appointment to the military academy at Sandpoint, but you chose to go into the Civil Guard instead. At the same time you applied for both BOSS and the WPB. Why not become a regular, Lieutenant Campbell? First step to the SS. And why BOSS and WPB?”

  “My reasons will probably sound a bit infantile now, sir,” admitted Campbell. “The fact is that I always admired and idolized the hell out of Jenny and Jason’s Volunteer service during the War of Independence, and I guess I wanted to show that I could have my turn as well at the danger and adventure of covert ops in the service of the Folk, that kind of thing.”

  “That’s commendable, comrade, not infantile. You passed the WPB entrance examination with flying colors, then six months later you withdrew your application before you could be assigned an intake number at the School of Intelligence,” said Randall, reading over the file. “Why did you drop out?”

  “WPB agents are not allowed to marry, and I decided to go ahead and start a family,” Robert told him.

  “Actually, that’s not entirely correct,” the Australian replied. “In view of the nature of our work and the high potential for catastrophic work accidents in this organization, WPB agents are not allowed to marry without permission, which is sometimes granted, if only as a necessity for maintaining a couple’s cover when they’re operating Out There. You say you withdrew your WPB application to start a family. Your people Christian? Or your wife’s?” asked Randall.

  “No, sir, I’m a National Socialist, and her family are traditional Catholics from Chicago who fled to the Republic a few months after Longview,” said Campbell. “My mother-in-law is religious, and she’s got an angel thing going. The rest of them go to church on major festivals like Christmas and Easter and Saint Wenceslas’s day—he’s the patron saint of Bohemia, and the patron saint of beer as well, which is definitely appropriate in my wife’s family—and they pretty much ignore it the rest of the time. I understand that because of our racial need to re-fill the cradles, as the Party puts it, the Ministry of Culture has done everything possible to ease the stigma against illegitimacy, but nonetheless, I decided I was going to do things the old way and marry the mother of my child.”

  “Old-fashioned enough to give up a slot at SoI?” asked Randall.

  Campbell took a deep breath. “No disrespect intended, sir, but when it came right down to it, I had a choice to go off spying and adventuring like the Scarlet Pimpernel on the one hand, leaving behind a young woman whom I loved and who would have been the mother of my son, or I could take a pass on the Pimpernel path, stay home, and take responsibility for Millie and Bob Three. That’s my son’s name, Robert Campbell the Third. I’m not sorry I went into the Guards instead.”

  “Where you did quite well,” said Randall, perusing the file. “Your station commander in Missoula recommended you for detective after two years on the beat. And there is not a bloody thing wrong with deciding to come home to a wife and child every night instead of hiding in some fleabag furnished apartment in Atlanta waiting for a phone call, or strangling some drunken ex-Fattie in an alley in Houston and taking his wallet to make it look like a robbery to throw the cops off. The Way of the Pimpernel is very much overrated. You understand I wouldn’t be asking all these personal questions if it weren’t relevant?”

  “Yes, sir. May I ask what this is all about?”

  Randall closed the file and dropped it on his desk. “All right, but before we get into that, Lieutenant, I want to tell you a couple of things. To begin with, just to grab your attention, there have been some recent intelligence developments that may indicate the Northwest Republic is facing a full-scale invasion by the United States, Canada, and Aztlan with substantial military help from the People’s Republic
of China. Probably within the next few months.”

  Campbell’s blood ran cold. “The real thing this time? Not just more posturing and war-gaming and grab-assing on the border, sir?” he asked.

  “We think not,” said Randall. “We think this time they’re coming to destroy us, kill anyone who had anything remotely to do with the Party or the War of Independence, deport most of the Republic’s population to work camps in the southwest and in Mexico itself, and enslave the remaining white population of the Northwest. Soviet-style internal passports and work permits, political loyalty boards without whose approval no one works or eats, federal regulations dictating what you can eat and what you can drive and what you can think, masses of armed niggers and beaners wearing federal badges patrolling the streets of Portland and Seattle again and doing whatever they want, to anybody they want. This time it’s the real thing. They’re coming for us, and soon. I am telling you this first, so that you will understand that everything I have to say to you is deadly serious and vitally necessary to the survival of this Republic and to the survival of our race on earth. Because if we lose the Republic, Lieutenant, that’s it for us palefaces. Liberal think tanks in New York and Washington are already talking about what they will do when they succeed in destroying us. They call it eliminating racism through eliminating race, by using science and medicine. Mandatory sterilization, along with compulsory interracial marriage and breeding for those whites who aren’t sterilized. Get the picture?”

  “I get it,” Bob said.

  The Australian went on. “The second thing you need to understand is that there is not a bloody thing romantic or adventurous about what we do in this department, although you’ve got the dangerous part down right enough. A lot of what we do is dishonest, treacherous, unpleasant, and in some cases downright vile, which is the nature of the spying game. We have to work with our hands up to our elbows in the backed-up toilet bowl of the soul which is the United States of America, or in some cases Canada, where the only difference is the evil men and women who rule in the Jews’ name say ‘eh’ a lot. I say this, Lieutenant, because the job I have for you is one of the bad ones. It is nothing short of filthy.”

  Campbell scowled. “Sir, I have two children and my wife is pregnant again, and now you tell me that the Americans are coming to make sure that those kids either die a horrible death now, or else they grow up to be slaves and junkies and whores. If I can stop that by jumping into a backed-up toilet, then I’ll get as filthy as it takes. What, exactly do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to be a presidential pimp,” said Randall.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Bob, completely at sea.

  “Let me break it down for you, Lieutenant Campbell,” Randall said. “The normal WPB course at the School of Intelligence on Whidbey Island is nine months. The day after tomorrow at 0600 hours, I want you to report to the SoI, where you will be rushed through a special ten-day course which will spend about fourteen hours per day teaching you the absolute bare essentials of what you have to know in order to be one of the Republic’s spies and external enforcers.”

  “You want me to complete a nine-month course in ten days?” asked Campbell incredulously.

  “Got it in one, mate. We need to shove you into the game head first, right now. Once you get your ten days of training, you then get a false U.S. passport and a false American FLEC card under a new identity. You will be issued another FLEC card when you arrive on station in Washington, D.C. Station Cesspool.”

  “What?” asked Campbell, bemused.

  “Station Cesspool,” repeated Randall. “Nickname for our D.C. operation, like calling the WPB itself the Circus. The lads call New York City Station Shithole, for the same reason. You’re right in the belly of the beast in both those stations, up to your neck in a toilet that hasn’t been flushed in about two hundred years. Since you grew up in a sane white society, the things you will see and experience there may well drive you clinically insane. It’s a problem we have with our ops Out There. Sometimes they just can’t take it any more, and they go bonkers in spectacular ways. You can’t go bonkers, though. You have to stay focused on your mission.”

  “Which is what?” asked Campbell.

  “How much do you know about the President of the United States, Hunter Wallace?” asked Randall.

  “Uh, just what I read in the papers,” said Campbell. “The guy’s a scumbag white traitor, but that’s a given, as if any other kind of person could be elected to office in the United States. The last honest politician the United States ever produced was Andrew Jackson. I think I read somewhere that Hunter Wallace started out on the internet back in the ’teens, as a false-flag blogger and a black op under the old Cass Sunstein Cognitive Dissonance program. He gathered information for the régime and for the régime’s NGOs like the Anti-Defamation League of B’nai Brith and the Southern Poverty Law Center, for money. As a reward for his cyber-services he was given a staff job in D.C. on some liberal Congressman from Alabama’s payroll, and the rest, as they say, is particularly repulsive history.”

  “Go on,” said Randall with a smile.

  Campbell shrugged and complied. “Worked his way up to the point where he was actually able to steal the Alabama Congressman’s seat from him, and from then on Wallace never looked back. He had just entered his second term when the War of Independence ended at Longview, he saw his bandwagon coming a mile off, and he jumped on it. From then on he was Mister Reunification. His rap is an interesting combination of liberalism, neo-conservatism, and Christian Zionism all rolled into one. He calls it One Nation Indivisible, and it’s basically the social program of the Clinton Democrats, the unfettered economic buccaneering of the Wall Street banks, combined with the American Exceptionalism of Rush Limbaugh and a heavy dash of 700 Club. I know that doesn’t sound possible, or even coherent, but Wallace wraps it all in a big red, white, and blue American flag and he pulls it off somehow. Everybody gets most of what they want, or they think they do. Wallace’s one-note symphony for some years has been We Must Recover Amurrica’s Lost Jewels of the Northwest, punish wicked racism, and make everybody love and bugger one another under Old Glory regardless of race, creed, color, or species, all the while singing Kumbayah and praising Jesus. I know it’s a lot more complex than that, sir, but that’s what I hear.”

  “Not bad,” said Randall with a nod. “Pretty much tells the tale, that does, but there are some things you don’t know. Hunter Wallace made a decision very early on in his life that he was going to make his fortune as a shabazz-goy, a Gentile gopher for the Jews. He wasn’t recruited to work for Cognitive Dissonance on the internet, he volunteered. He heard about the program when it was leaked to the media as far back as 2010, when he contacted Cass Sunstein and pestered him until Sunstein took him on. Wallace is a wretch, but he’s no fool. He made a conscious decision at an early age that the Jews had the capacity to dispense to him the wealth and the power he craved, and he would do what he had to do for them in order to get it. He’s never wavered from his decision since, and he’s been well rewarded for it. He has always been in Hymie’s hip pocket. Right now, his handler for the Tribe is his White House press secretary, a former journalist named Angela Herrin, real name Herrenstein, born in Israel. Now, what do you know about the illustrious Leader of the Free World’s, uh, practices I suppose you’d call them, with women?”

  Robert frowned. “I know Wallace isn’t married, and part of his public persona is to be seen in public escorting all kinds of movie stars and female celebrities to political functions, public social events, concerts, baseball games, that kind of thing. Seems to me I read somewhere he actually charges money for his campaign committee and his private slush fund to escort somebody’s daughter or wife to a public do and get their picture in the media. Is that the kind of practices with women you mean, sir?”

  “Uh, no,” said Randall carefully. “Bloody hell, I guess we are doing a good job in cleaning up the Republic’s moral culture since the Revolution, if
a lad of twenty-six has to have it spelled out for him. When I was your age, mate, our minds were right in the sewer all the time, so we didn’t have far to fall. Anyway, President Hunter Wallace has a medical problem. Has had since he was young, same problem a lot of white males of his generation have due to eating industrially produced and chemically enhanced food as a child and the general level of pollution and environmental contamination with every toxin under the sun that exists in the United States. Hunter Wallace suffers from what’s known as hypo-gonadism, which is a fancy way of saying his nuts are the size of pencil erasers, his sperm count is three or four on a good day, and it’s impossible for him to have normal sexual relations with a woman. And so he does what any rich and powerful American man does who can’t have normal sexual relations with a woman: he has abnormal ones. I won’t get into exactly what he does, since I just ate lunch. You will be briefed on that when the time comes…”

  “What?” asked Campbell incredulously. “Look, sir, how can the sexual perversions of the President of the United States be relevant in any way to some mission I have to undertake for the Circus?”

  “They are, I’m afraid,” sighed Randall. “This is where we get into the bad part. Look, mate, I’ll tell you what I want you to do, and it’s bloody important. It may be able to help us turn away this invasion we think is coming. But I’ll say this up front: what I’m asking of you is a bloody filthy thing, and if you want to say no and walk right out that door, you’re free to do so. I could order you to do it, but that wouldn’t be any good. You’d hate every minute of it, you’d resent the hell out of the Circus for making you do it, and you’d probably blow the mission, and that’s not an option here. If you cannot in conscience help us with this, Lieutenant, then we’ll find some other way.”