Freedom's Sons

by H. A. Covington

  “Without air power and satellite surveillance support, no,” Brava replied with equal bluntness. “Even if we were to suddenly recover our satellite capability this very minute, the Air Force is now extremely short on available aircraft, ordnance, and pilots. We are losing because we had no idea on earth that either of these two Nazi secret weapons existed, and they caught us completely by surprise.”

  “An intelligence failure of the first magnitude,” said Janet Chalupiak.

  “A catastrophic intelligence failure, yes ma’am,” said Brava. “We don’t have to blame that one on Bagwell, since we have another scapegoat in the rubber room who will do, and who really does deserve the blame. I need hardly remind anyone here that until recently the Central Intelligence Agency was headed by a woman who is now confined in a padded cell in St. Elizabeth’s hospital, next to our quondam Secretary of Defense, and who frittered away several years using the immense resources of her agency chasing space aliens, when they should have been learning all about these Bluelight things and about this lethal computer virus that has crippled our eyes in the sky. Mr. President, I won’t bother to suggest to the administration a serious rethink on the whole concept of affirmative action at the highest levels of government…”

  “Because to do so would be a criminal act in violation of a dozen federal hatecrime statutes!” snapped Chalupiak. “How dare you? You know damned well that the only reason I’m in this room myself is because I’m a lesbian!”

  Brava looked at her strangely. Scheisskopf leaned over and whispered quickly in his ear, “For God’s sake, Hector, don’t say it! Don’t throw away a forty-year career!”

  Brava recovered himself. “Yes, Madam Secretary, you are entirely correct. For me to suggest any such thing would indeed be criminal, which is why I will not suggest it. I am simply pointing out that for no discernible reason having anything at all to do with government policy or the values of, uh, tolerance and diversity and democracy, through some blind act of the unfeeling gods that has simply fallen on us completely unexpectedly, out of nowhere, something none of us could possibly have predicted…” Brava paused and took a breath. “We seem to have had our ass handed to us by the Northwest American Republic, and before Secretary Chalupiak objects, I think those white men we so hate and despise are in the process of earning the right to be called any damned thing they want, since we don’t seem to be able to prevent them. We have lost almost our entire air force, a good deal of our navy, and we are now about to lose not one, not two, but three, count ’em, three entire armies, and a fourth if the Montana relief column can’t fight off this attack from the south by the NDF Seventh Army. Ladies and gentlemen, the long and the short of it is that fourteen days in, the United States of America is now royally fucked.” He sat down.

  “So what do you recommend we do?” asked Hunter Wallace, staring down at the table. He had been silent during most of the meeting. “Admiral Brava? General Scheisskopf?”

  “You know what you have to do!” shouted Angela Herrin angrily. “Send for the briefcase with the codes, and initiate the Apocalypse Option! Nuke these Jew-hating motherfuckers back to the Cretaceous period! Let the few who are left crawl in and out of caves wearing animal skins while their precious little yellow-haired children are born with two heads! Six million Jews died in ovens; now let all of them die in one big oven! Do it, Hunter!”

  “Do it if for no other reason than to save the lives of hundreds of thousands of American soldiers!” urged Ronald Schiff. “For God’s sake, Mr. President, that was why Harry Truman gave the order for the drops on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, to prevent massive American military casualties in a land invasion of Japan! Are you less of a man than Truman?”

  “I asked Admiral Brava and General Scheisskopf what they suggested we do.” said Wallace.

  “Mr. President, without our air power and our spy satellites we are helpless on the ground,” said Brava quietly. “We have almost half a million men completely stalled in the Northwest, running out of food and water and ammunition, surrounded by an enemy that outnumbers them almost ten to one. It also has to be said quite frankly that their personnel are better than ours, better trained and more highly motivated. The Northmen are fighting for their country, for their homes and families. The American military is simply fighting to stay alive for one more day. The U.S. forces are being pounded into dust by a massive amount of field artillery that our pre-war intelligence seems to have grossly underestimated both as to its quantity and its quality—I mean, Jesus! Who the hell uses vehicle-drawn cannons that you just aim like a squirrel gun any more, instead of electronically guided missile systems at ten million bucks a pop?” he added, shaking his head in wonder.

  “So what do we do about it, Brava?” asked Wallace sullenly. “Is there any hope at all of getting our satellite surveillance capacity back on line?”

  “Not at this time, sir,” said Brava. “Whatever this bug is, it’s simply killed the orbitals. Nobody at Canaveral or in Houston or Honolulu can raise a peep out of a single satellite, and neither can any of the private communications conglomerates get a signal off any of their own orbitals. To our instrumentation, it’s all just space junk now. Unless we can persuade the Russians to give us access to their orbital surveillance vehicles then we’re blind for the duration.”

  “Premier Malinovsky won’t even take my calls,” said Wallace in despair. “I even tried the old Cold War Hotline that one of our people found and hooked up again, the one that was supposed to ring in the Kremlin. I got a recorded message that the translator tells me is an advertisement for some Russki porno web site.”

  “Cossacks! Russian bastards!” said Angela fiercely. “They’re all Jew-haters too!”

  “You now know as much about the current the situation as we do, sir,” said Admiral Brava. “I just spent an hour describing it. Unleashing a nuclear holocaust that will probably poison and render uninhabitable most of North America west of the Mississippi is in my opinion neither a realistic nor a sane option. Those nukes were designed to go off in Russia and China, not in Spokane. One might as well try to win a boxing match by dousing both fighters with gasoline and striking a match. The question is, do we let all those men die or do we put a stop to it and save who and what we can?”

  “Mr. President,” spoke up Scheisskopf gravely, “I would rather be flayed alive than utter a single word of what I must say now, but it is my duty to speak. In April of 1865, there came a day when General Robert E. Lee said to his aides, ‘I must go and see General Grant,’ They met at Appomattox Court House. You don’t have to go to Appomattox, Mr. President. You can use a video screen or you can have someone else do it for you. I will do it, although it would be better coming from someone in the political echelon. Maybe they’d respond better to Vice President Jenner, since he comes from Oregon. But the time has come when you have to call President Morehouse and bring this to an end. We are beaten, sir. Accept that fact, and save what we can, while we can, because once they counterattack they’re going to move into Utah, northern California, maybe Canada, and they will be unstoppable. They may even march on Washington, D.C., and right now to be honest there’s not much we could do to prevent them.”

  “And leave the two hundred nuclear missiles that could win this for us in thirty minutes sitting and rusting away in their silos?” snapped Angela Herrin angrily. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “One more word like that from you, General Scheisskopf, and I will have my good friend the U.S. Attorney General convene a very special grand jury to investigate you for cowardice and treason!” shouted Janet Chalupiak in a hysterical rage, her face mottling splotchy blue.

  “My God, it’s happening again!” moaned Ronald Schiff into his hands, beginning to weep theatrically. “Once more the Jewish people are betrayed into the hands of Esau!”

  Now it was Scheisskopf’s turn to snap. He turned angrily on the paunchy little White House chief of staff and said. “It may come as a surprise to you, Mr. Schiff, but the fact
is that there are millions of people who live on this continent who are not Jewish, and who don’t deserve to die or lose everything they have because you have a beef with some racist lunatics out in the north woods somewhere! God damn it, it’s not always about you people!”

  “Yes, it is, Albert,” said Vice President Hugh Jenner bitterly. “Let’s not kid ourselves. It is always about them. It’s been all about them for the past hundred years. You going to get your dyke friend the Attorney General to investigate me for treason and hatecrime now, Janet? Will a time ever come in America when we can simply stand up and tell the truth?”

  “Good God, why would we ever want to do that?” asked Secretary of State Modlin, genuinely shocked. “They’d tear us to pieces in the streets!”

  “I suppose you’d rather be beaten by the Nazi pigs and be laughed at and cursed by history, than use the nuclear arsenal first given to this country by Jewish scientists like Robert Oppenheimer and Edward Teller to rid the world of this curse of racism once and for all?” shouted Angela Herrin.

  Jenner turned to her coldly. “Ms. Herrin, I am from Portland, Oregon. Grew up there, served in Congress from there, and I once had a home there, a home that these Nazi sons of bitches destroyed when they conquered the city twelve years ago and took everything I had. Since then I have dedicated my life to going back there some day and once again seeing the American flag flying over the place of my birth. There is no man or woman in this room or in this government who despises these people and wants to see them all dead any more than me. But I have no desire to raise the American flag over a heap of molten glass, not to mention give an order that’s going to kill millions of people in my city. People some of whom I know, because for whatever reason they chose to stay behind. And what about Canada? How will Prime Minister Simoneau react when we start slinging around nuclear warheads that scatter radiation clouds and fallout all over the western part of his country and make Vancouver and Calgary glow in the dark? How about Aztlan? Don’t you think San Francisco and Sacramento have suffered enough from the Nazi phosgene and anthrax? How about the people in other parts of the United States? How will we make the wind recognize the Northwest borders and not blow fallout all over Denver and Salt Lake City and Omaha?”

  “Who gives a fuck about flyover country?” demanded Schiff irritably.

  Angela Herrin went icy calm and turned back to Hunter Wallace. “All right, then, Mr. President, let us assume that the United States has now joined every other nation on the face of this earth and has finally betrayed the Jewish people to the bloodlust of those who hate us. That’s moral putrefaction, but such is the way with all goyim sooner or later. We have long known that all of you secretly hate us, but we won’t go there. Let’s get practical here.

  “What will happen when the Nazis counterattack, as they most certainly will when they have finished destroying our armies with all this nuclear-free leisure we are giving them to do so? How much of America will they decide to help themselves to? The rest of Montana? Utah? Northern California? Will they conquer all of California and shove almost fifty million Hispanic people into ovens for the crime of speaking another language and having brown skins? Suppose they do decide to march on Washington? Or fly on Washington? Remember, they still have aircraft even if we don’t. Suppose they don’t wait until they have defeated the armies at Anaconda and Fairfield and Ponderay?” she asked. “They may have the capability to attack right now. We know they were able to keep these plasma weapons and this computer virus that knocked out our satellites secret. Suppose they have other secret weapons that they’ve been able to conceal? Who knows, maybe Kanesha Knight was right. Maybe somehow these racist devils really have been able to access extraterrestrial technology. Think, Hunter! They may have secret attack craft hiding in caves in Wyoming and Idaho that could be hovering over the White House within an hour! Do you remember the scene from Independence Day when the aliens blew up the White House?”

  “Back to basing strategic moves on Hollywood movies again, are we?” said Brava with a defeated sigh. “Mother of God!”

  “Let me get this straight, Angela,” said Jenner. “You’re trying to frighten the President of the United States into launching a massive nuclear strike that will destroy millions of lives and render maybe a quarter of the land mass between here and the Arctic Circle uninhabitable for thirty years, for fear that Nazis will come in a flying saucer and blow him up with ray guns here in the White House?”

  “It could happen!” insisted Schiff stoutly. “They shot down our planes with ray guns, didn’t they?”

  “The President is not that fucking stupid!” shouted Jenner. He looked at the unusually silent Hunter Wallace, who was staring distractedly at the table in front of him. “Jesus, you’re not, are you?” asked Jenner in alarm.

  And thus it went, around and around and around.

  * * *

  On her way back from the Watergate in a cab, when it was still light out in the daylight savings time of a summer’s night, Georgia figured out an extremely lame excuse to go back to the West Wing and sit in her little clerk’s cubbyhole where she supposedly did her day work compiling and data-entering economic statistics. She even had her own White House work database where she could keep and review all the crap she entered, although it was a dummy and wasn’t connected to anything else on the White House intranet. The actual statistical data in that area was maintained by the Treasury and the Department of Labor across town.

  Georgia would be observed sitting in the cubicle by the security cameras, of course, but she could put on headphones so she would not be physically overheard while she watched Palm Beach For Real. This was an especially moronic reality TV show about four black and brown young men and four young white women having nightly orgies both hetero and homo in a millionaire’s mansion in Palm Beach, Florida, in graphic detail with full close-ups, of course. At the beginning of the season, one of the young women had been Latina, but she was removed after a formal protest from the Aztlan government as presenting an “offensive racial stereotype.” An Americanized Korean girl replaced the mami, but the powerful Korean business community had threatened to launch a boycott of the show’s advertisers because Myong “presented a bad example to young Asian womanhood,” and so she in turn was replaced by a white chick. No one cared what kind of stereotype or bad example white sluts presented.

  Georgia couldn’t think of any logical excuse for the Secret Service or anyone else as to why she was watching the stupid show on her computer in the West Wing and not on the 60-inch plasma screen upstairs in the East Wing residence; she simply hoped nobody noticed her and asked. Watching a multiracial orgy was all she could come up with to explain her presence where she should not be at this time of day. She knew that her two targets for the tracking bugs were down in the Situation Room now, and she had to get to them, but she didn’t know how. She could see no way she could get anywhere near there, bluff her way in, or explain her presence to the president and the assembled brass if she did.

  She closed her eyes and thought of the house on Daly Avenue in Missoula, in the snow, in the summer heat with the window air conditioners humming. She was sure she could still remember every room in the place. Bob had told her that her father still lived there, had kept her room the way it was on the day she had disappeared. The possibility that she could see once more the home of her childhood, could live there again, that she could stand in her old room and see her old toys and books, that she could raise her daughter there and see Allura play on the swings and the jungle gym in the little Bonner Park near the house, take her up on Mount Sentinel, or down along Clark Fork to splash in the water—this was something she had never believed might happen. That world had been gone forever, but now it was within reach again. She had to do this one last thing and then she could finally wake up from this long nightmare, it could all be again. Georgia knew she had to fight down her terror and find some way to do the impossible, so that she could see it all again, and know that it had been real.r />
  Weird, she thought to herself. Here I am right at the center of power, the center of the world, where millions of women like me would give anything to be, and all I want to do is get out of here and go back to a little place no one knows or cares about.

  She sat in the darkened office watching the perversions on the computer monitor, and she thought desperately. Any attempt to penetrate the Situation Room while the conference was in progress was out. If she hung around down here in the West Wing long enough she could probably catch Angela Herrin, Ronald Schiff, or both leaving the building, but what then? Walk up and give Ronald Schiff a hug, and slip the GPS chip in his jacket pocket? How surprising and completely out of character would that be? Surely, the man wasn’t so stupid as not to suspect something funny was going on right away? Plus he would probably be surrounded with witnesses. As to Angela Herrin, Georgia had no clue. The only thing she could think of was Angela’s purse. Some women had a careless habit of leaving their purses or handbags lying around any old where. As far as Georgia could recall, Angela Herrin wasn’t one of them.

  Problem is, I’m on a time limit here, Georgia thought to herself. She had to get the trackers planted now, tonight. If she’d had a few days to plan, it would be a lot more feasible, but somehow she had to get both Jews tagged before they left the building in perhaps an hour’s time. It’s just not possible, she thought to herself in despair. At least not without making herself as conspicuous as a cow in church and alerting everybody that something odd was going on, including the Secret Service agents she knew were watching everything in the White House from the basement control room. Hmm, Secret Service agents . . . Georgia thought. Okay, if I can’t get to Angie and Ron directly, maybe the bodyguards . . .

  She knew the hulking, big-nosed and blue-chinned Israeli Motti Kravitsky by sight. She knew that Ronald Schiff’s four-man detail was usually headed by Agent Elmore Pettis, an Oklahoma cracker of the Christian Zionist persuasion who had specifically asked for the assignment because he considered it an honor to be allowed to protect the safety of one of the Apples of God’s Eye. Thinking back carefully, she recalled that at one time or another over the past few months both men had given her the eye in the White House corridors. Just the odd casual glance and bit of body language, Elmore’s hinting at the Christian man’s wonted deep fascination with Scarlet Women and Motti’s brief but naked animal lust of the Jew for anything blonde and gentile.