Freedom's Sons

by H. A. Covington

  Bobby furrowed his brow. “I can see the point in President Brennan’s Pragmatism during the early years of the country’s history, when things were a lot more precarious than they are now, when the very existence of our country was in doubt, and every day in which the sun set on that Tricolor flag still up there in the sky was a day of victory. I also know that we exist primarily as a Homeland to provide physical and moral safety for our people the world over. There has to be some place on earth where white people can live, and work, and keep what they earn, in order to marry and raise children, without the fear of themselves or their kids being slaughtered by black beasts, and maintaining that someplace in existence has to trump pretty much everything else. To answer your question, I suppose I’m one of the many people in the Republic who have the idea somewhere in the back of our heads that one day we’ll be strong enough to kick the door in and take it all back, all of the America that was once ours.”

  “That old sea-to-shining-sea dream, the old Manifest Destiny thing that first brought Lewis and Clark to our country. Little did they know. It dies hard in all of us,” said his father with a quiet nod.

  “And with all due respect to the late President Morehouse, who I understand was a truly great man and whose leadership saved us, I damned well think we should have gotten more out of the Seven Weeks War than we did!” Bobby concluded.

  “So do a lot of people. Northern California and most of western Canada wasn’t enough?” asked his father, amused.

  “Not enough to justify me and Ida being made to hide off in the woods for all that time. Not enough for them to pay for making my mom afraid,” said Bobby Three with a scowl.

  “I always understood Millie held up really well in the EFPS retreat?” replied Tom in some surprise.

  “Yes, Jenny always said Millie was an absolute rock, the greatest help she had during the whole time,” said his father.

  “She was afraid for you,” Bobby Three told his father. “We all were. Remember, we had no idea where the hell you were or what had happened to you.”

  “Ah,” replied Big Bob. “Yes.”

  “I remember that much, and no, for that it’s not enough,” Bobby Three went on. “I think we should have demanded Saskatchewan and Manitoba, Utah and the rest of Montana and both Dakotas, and every damned majority white state west of the Mississippi,” said Bobby Three. “And we should have grabbed Alaska too.”

  “Their people voted for independence, Red Morehouse promised we’d respect their decision, and we have. We have good relations with the Sourdoughs, and sometimes good friends are better than fellow citizens who are nursing a grudge because they think they were forced into something they didn’t want,” his father replied.

  “Mmm, yes, it’s the old argument,” said Tom with a sober nod. “Morehouse didn’t think we could hold any more than we took. I happen to think he was right, but others have disagreed ever since.”

  “Could we wander back in the general direction of the topic at hand?” asked Bobby. “I’d like to go tuck my girls in before they fall asleep.”

  “Okay, all of this is long-term, big picture stuff,” said Tom. “The Political Bureau has looked carefully at this CPZ on the border thing, and on the whole they are cautiously favorable, not least because events may give our country reason to intervene in the future, and maybe grab back some more of North America from the hebes. We like the idea of more white people on our border, because we believe that over the years a kind of melding will be possible. Perhaps they think they will corrupt us with their luxury and their hedonism, the old American Dream. That only works on white people who don’t understand who and what is behind it and what signs to look for. We have faith in the equally corrupting effect of the Iron Dream on them. What we cannot have and won’t allow, insofar as we can counteract it, is the presence of racial enemies on our border and a general remilitarization. They are going to claim they have to bring back the goons in the body armor to protect their newly prosperous communities from so-called urban unrest, meaning the niggers breaking out of their pens. That’s certainly true as far as it goes. A good chunk of the world’s last reserves of white talent, white assets, and white females of child-bearing age are going to need protecting, but that’s what we created the Republic for. Our long term goal, Bobby, is to get the people who migrate to these new border zones to start looking northwest, not east, and not just for security. We need to make sure the population of these CPZs are as white as possible and that overt racial enemies are kept out of positions of actual power.”

  “This business over in Boulder looks like some kind or test case or probe,” said Big Bob. “The ERA’s projected Prosperity Zone is being placed in the charge of this Martine woman, who is negroid and whose presence is clearly a deliberate provocation. She is also bringing as ill-disguised aides and advisers at least one officer from the New Model Army, and at least two individuals who, whatever their cover says, are from the FBI. We can’t allow them to get a permanent foothold Over There. Plus there is the consideration that in order for these white people to get what they want from their government, they will have to defer to a negress and concede power over their lives to her, which is what the Republic cannot allow as a matter of moral conscience. Not anywhere, not any time, if there is anything at all we can do about it. The destiny of the white race is ours alone to decide.”

  “White men don’t take orders from she-boons,” said Bobby Three. “Yeah, I get that. But what exactly do we do about it? Just go across the border and whack them all?”

  “A little more subtle than that,” Tom told him. “Actually, a lot more subtle than that. I’m not sure yet what we’re going to do about the situation. We need to see how it plays out. We need to find some way to remove the undesirables from the scene while not throwing a monkey wrench into the CPZ project as a whole. We need to make it clear to Burlington that while this CPZ on the border scheme is tentatively acceptable to the Republic, in view of the many good things it will bring to white people, it is to be a conspicuously white endeavor from the get-go,” Tom told him.

  Colonel Campbell spoke up. “Community Prosperity for Jefferson County, si. Negresses in Power Womyn suits, FBI agents and mercenaries, non-white labor, Jews calling the shots from behind the curtain, no. Okay, we understand this is a big chain of events and that’s not going to be possible all the time. We are at the beginning of what will most likely become the longest and most complex geopolitical and intelligence game the Northwest Republic has ever played, and we’re still scoping out the board.”

  “What do you need me to do, Dad?” asked Bobby Three.

  “We need you to run point on the intelligence angle, at least openly. They’ll expect the local Guard to be curious about what’s going on and they won’t be surprised at your interest. Hopefully we can keep them in the dark about just how interested we are, and you can allow your Uncle Tom to remain in the background for now. You met with your opposite number over there in Boulder, yet?” asked Campbell the elder.

  “Sheriff Lomax? No,” said Bobby. “I’ve got the hotline phone, but I haven’t used it so far, and neither has he. In my briefing with Captain McOwen when I took over, he recommended I not make the first approach or ask for a meet unless something came up and there was a real need to do so. McOwen got to know Lomax pretty well when he was in command here. He says Lomax is somebody we can work with so long as we always play it straight with him. But he likes his space, and he’s suspicious of anything to do with us, which I suppose anybody who grew up on the border would be. If Lomax thinks we’re trying to pump him for information or use him in any way, he’ll probably cut me off and toss the hotline phone in the garbage.”

  “Hmmm, that will make it difficult, since that is kind of what we want you to do,” ruminated Big Bob. “Anything on your plate that might need any cross-border law enforcement liaison any time soon?”

  “One of our local boys just out of the army is paying his attentions to a girl from Over The Road,” said
Bobby Three. “She’s the granddaughter of a real bitter-ender Union vet who’s still fighting the first war and who’s threatening to shoot our fellow on sight, plus Johnny is a blockade runner who regularly cruises through Jefferson County at a high rate of knots, so there might be some kind of incident building there. Other than that, no, I can’t think of anything. I’ve got some snitches Over There that McOwen passed on to me, but they’re on piece-work rates. I’ll see what I can find out about this nigger and her entourage, but you may have to up my intelligence budget. They’ll take credits, but they prefer New American. You’ll have to have a word with the Northwest Bank branch manager to raise the station’s foreign currency allowance.”

  “I’ll ship you the money direct via government mail, in case somebody at the bank is also in the free-lance snitching business,” said Tom. “I’ll get you a thousand NA bucks in tens and twenties this week to start with, after that you’ll need to give me something itemized.”

  Allura stuck her head out the door. “Whatever you three are involved in, it will have to wait,” she commanded. “Story time for two little girls.” Bobby Three got up.

  “Sorry,” he told them. “Priority call.”

  XXXIII

  WHOM THE GODS WOULD DESTROY

  (40 Years, ten months and five days after Longview)

  Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.

  —Ancient Greek Proverb

  Several days later, with bright morning sunshine streaming though the windows of the town hall meeting chamber, the Boulder town council and the Jefferson County commissioners convened a special closed session, where they sat in a growing panic. They listened to the Economic Recovery Administration’s special undersecretary for development in Montana describe in rosy hues, complete with a PowerPoint presentation, all the manufacturing and research facilities the U.S. government and its various agencies wanted to build in no less than four special new industrial parks around the county. The construction alone would bring in enough money to put the county back on its feet for years to come, and update every facility and piece of equipment that hadn’t been upgraded for decades. This in turn would lead to the influx of at least ten thousand highly paid new residents within the next two years, all of whom would need housing and feeding and clothing, to the immense profit of the existing townsfolk.

  They were being offered an economic boom that would change the life of everyone on the eastern side of the Border Highway forever. It all looked to be aboveboard. Millions of New American Dollars were about to come cascading down into Boulder like a modern-day Comstock Lode, along with a number of armed men and racial minorities whose presence would almost certainly provoke violent confrontations with the Northwest American Republic. The price of the boom was a return to living in a war zone, which many of the listeners remembered from their youth, not fondly. So far, so good. At least the city and county fathers had been prepared for that, and they thought they understood where the thorns in the bouquet of roses were hidden. Then this Womyn of Color proceeded to spiral off into sheer madness.

  Gabrielle Martine was a tall and elegant negress, very black. Like generations of so-called African-American professional women she strove to come across as white as she could without actually bleaching her skin like the ancient freak Michael Jackson, although some went that extra mile as well. She had permanently straightened and softened the shiny ebony hair on her nappy head, from steel wool down into a lacquered-looking mop, in the chemical procedure called a “conk.” Liposuction had thinned her bubble lips and reduced her massive buttocks, while surgery had narrowed her shovel nose until it was almost aquiline. She’d had sinus implants that altered the sound of her voice and gotten rid of the deep nasal resonance which was the biological hallmark of black people, so that she not only talked white, she sounded white. She was dressed to the nines in a Power Womyn suit and doused in perfume to stifle her acrid negroid body odor, which was the one thing that American cosmetic science had yet to find a work-around for. As usual, the perfume was only partially successful.

  Gabi was accompanied from Burlington, USAC, (United States Administration Center) by three men and one woman. Her primary aide and gofer was a tired and harried-looking white man in his early fifties, wearing a rumpled suit and carrying a battered bureaucrat’s briefcase, named Brandon Blackwell. Blackwell was some kind of lifelong civil service drone from Burlington, the white guy who in the traditional American arrangement, did all his nigger boss’s actual work and made sure his superior did not fall flat on his or her monkey-face.

  Two low-key FBI agents stood unobtrusively to Gabi Martine’s rear during her presentation, guns discreetly concealed under flawlessly tailored jackets. One was a large white male of the buzz-cut, Judæo-Christian football player type from American Texas named Earl Hornbuckle. The American ruling class had long ago realized that there were certain advantages to allowing a small number of white people to remain mentally frozen in the era of Pat Boone and Ronald Reagan, like flies in amber. Protestant evangelicals who deeply and sincerely believed that Jews were the apple of God’s eye, and to criticize or argue with them was blasphemy, had for years made up the battering edge of spies, torturers, secret policemen and federal leg-breakers in the United States. Hornbuckle was part of this tradition, he knew it, and he was even proud of the fact.

  Agent Mona James was a brown woman of the indeterminate racial category known as a hapa. Hapas, or Pacific mestizos, had been a growing West Coast phenomenon in the two generations before the Northwest War of Independence. They were usually some kind of Pacific Islander-Filipino mix, but their bloodlines often contained dollops of white, black, Chinese or Indochinese, Polynesian, and maybe a little exotic who-knows-what like Malay or Tongan or Samoan. During the Northwest War of Independence the hapas had been killed by the NVA or driven out of the Homeland, most of them southward to California. Then after the formation of Aztlan in the years after Longview, hapas had to go on the run again, when many more were killed and most of the rest driven eastward by the Aztec régime in the name of limpezia de sangre de la Raza. In theory, anyone who wanted to could live in Aztlan, so long as they learned Spanish and paid lip service to “diversity.” This diversity existed only in flowery official phrases: in actual practice, it meant brown supremacy. Anyone other than a Hispanic mestizo who tried to live there was a third-class citizen and had rocks in his head. A small number of gringos were grudgingly tolerated as technocrats to keep the electric power more or less running, keep the TV on the air, keep the cell towers functioning most of the time, and fix the jefes’ cars and air conditioners and other toys. In this, Aztlan was typical of most of the rest of Latin America for the past several centuries. Non-mestizo brown or yellow minorities in Aztlan were marginalized, persecuted, and murdered.

  Mona James’s skin was the color of coffee with one creamer, just a little too muddy to be acceptable to the Aztecs who prided themselves in being almost orange. Along with her Anglo surname, this had been reason enough for her to leave Los Angeles at a young age. She was in her early thirties now, and she didn’t look too bad. Like her boss, Mona kept her long black hair straight as a sheaf of arrows and done up into a severe bun. Her nose and lips were either surgically or naturally thin enough to avoid the primate-like physiognomy of her negro ancestors, be they from Alabama or Tonga (she didn’t know herself). Her diction was devoid of accent, and her conversation, when she spoke, demonstrated actual cognitive faculties that Gabi lacked, which was Mona’s white chromosomes kicking in.

  The two federal agents were officially “security aides.” Mona’s negro boss couldn’t think, her Caucasian partner had never been taught how, Brandon Blackwell was white and male and old and therefore not sufficiently politically sound to be entrusted with the details, and the British mercenary Colonel Malcolm Hart of the New Model Army was attached to the group with another remit altogether and not part of the central effort. Ergo, Mona James was the one actually in charge of the team’s mission, which she
had to accomplish without Gabi Martine figuring out the fact.

  Not that Gabi didn’t have the rap down well. One ability she did possess was a good memory, souped-up by special medications designed to stimulate her cortical synapses. These had been used by the black upper class for decades, even before the War of Independence. They were standard prescription for senior African-American government personnel or celebrities who had to appear in public or in front of the media. Known officially as “cognition enhancement aids” and unofficially as “smart nigger pills,” they were basically massive Vitamin B and Omega 3 supplements laced with the nootropic dopamines L-Tyrosine and Biopterin, as well as a healthy shot of Aricept to increase oxygen flow to the brain temporarily. What this cocktail did was for a short time increase the number of brain synapses that were actually firing and increase NMA (Neuron Memory Allocation), so that a negro could remember more of his or her pre-learned knowledge more quickly, and within the limited parameters of that programming respond more immediately and spontaneously. This meant that with the help of cognition aid medication, someone like Gabi Martine could actually conduct what might pass for an intelligent conversation, as long as it didn’t last too long or stray outside the knowledge and talking points that had been carefully drummed into her. The little blue pills made blacks seem smarter, and it was part of Agent Mona James’ job to make sure that Gabi always took her smart pills.

  Now the men listening to Gabi were stunned at what they were hearing. She had been going on and on about the need to repair Jefferson County’s roads and install the electronic grids in the asphalt to make most of them levitation-capable for the incoming yuppies’ private cars, and then she had slid into something about “constructive engagement” with the Northwest Republic.

  “Uh, wait a minute, Ms. Martine,” spoke up Shep Akins. “Say what?”

  “We believe in a policy of constructive engagement as a form of conflict resolution,” Gabi prattled on, her immense white teeth gleaming as her mouth moved. “This is how South Africa was gradually moved away from the evil of apartheid late in the last century. Let me be blunt, ladies and gentlemen: in view of the failure of the military option some years ago, it is clear that we have to use a multi-layered and multi-disciplinary approach to the problem posed by the final eradication of racism in the world. These people in the racist entity have to be shown the error of their ways, in a manner of speaking, but it has to be done very gently to avoid inappropriate responses on their part. We have to explain to them in simple terms they can understand how and why they are so wrong. We must appeal to their better natures, along with offering them a share in our new prosperity, of course. We must establish little islands or beachheads of tolerance, one racist at a time. I am looking forward to beginning this process with my own initial meeting with the civil authorities in the racist entity. Do you realize most of them have never even personally met a person of color?”