The Brigade

by H. A. Covington

  “I thought about that, Len, and I think we’ll pass on it for this one,” said Hatfield. “Three reasons. First off, we don’t know for a fact we’ll have time to do it. Secondly, if anyone sees us planting the charge, they’ll be able to warn people off. No point in making a bomb that doesn’t go off so that the BATFE can disarm it, examine it and analyze it for evidence. Third, most likely the first person that opens the Goldman’s car door will be a local cop, maybe someone we know. Remember what the adjutant said about collateral damage. I have to admit, I’m still a bit squeamish about popping the top with a bunch of people milling around, spectators and white police, so forth. God knows this will all get nasty enough, soon enough. But make up that banger and keep it handy. We never know when we may need it. Now for hit number two, the one that will put D Company on the rebellion’s map. Those dead FBI agents we promised Brigade. That’s where you come in, Cat.”

  “Mmmm, lot of assumptions there, Zack,” said Charlie, shaking his head.

  “I agree,” said Hatfield glumly. “Trouble is, the ball is in the enemy’s court to a large extent on this one. We’re assuming that the FBI will send someone down to investigate the wicked hateful murder of two prominent and highly connected Jewish citizens, but we don’t know that. The adjutant tells us they’re jumpy and paranoid, and they may sense that we’re setting bait for them. They may even try to set a trap for us in return. We’re assuming that if they do send someone down, that they will at least visit the crime scene to look it over. We don’t know for sure that any of this will happen. They may not come. We may have to make do with popping some U.S. Marshals or Homeland Security goons, or even state police detectives if they’re all that offers. The FBI may come, but a week from now, or more. I want to put together a plan based on the probability that the FBI will send some agents and possibly a forensics team on February 15th, but we may have to wait and we may have to change the plan half a dozen times or even chance a float, just plain running them down on the street somewhere and blasting them in a drive-by. The main thing is, we’ve got to know when they’re in town, who they are, how many, and what they’re driving. I’m assuming they’ll be checking in with the sheriff first, if only as a courtesy. We’re going to need Christina bad, Len. Was she able to get on day shift?”

  There had been a lot of discussion between Zack and Len and Christina herself as to how widespread the knowledge of her new affiliation with the NVA should be within the company. Obviously, the more people who knew her identity, the greater the risk. Zack decided to restrict it to the six people in the room at present, because in this first operation it would be impossible to conceal from the members of the team that the fledgling D Company had a contact in the cop shop, and since all of them knew Christina and knew she worked as a dispatcher, trying to hide her identity was pointless. They made an agreement that if any of the six were arrested, Christina Ekstrom would drop out of sight immediately and disappear to Portland or Seattle or some other point in the Homeland and join an NVA unit there. “No problem,” said Len. “One of the other dispatchers is on maternity leave, and the schedules are all out of whack, so no one noticed. They don’t care so long as the board is covered.”

  “Is she solid on this, Len? Does she know she’s going to be helping kill some people?” asked Zack anxiously.

  “Representatives of the same organization that refused to classify the attack against her as a hatecrime and warned her that if she didn’t shut up about it she’d be investigated for racism herself?” replied Len. “Yes, she knows, and she’s happier than I’ve seen her since it happened. She’ll be there for us, Lieutenant. Whatever she learns, we will know.”

  “Let’s get back to the part where I get to plug those FBI droids,” said Lockhart. “I still don’t have a proper weapon. I presume I get to choose from Mr. Fields’ private stock? I like that Russian Dragunov.”

  “Sure, if that’s what you want,” said Ekstrom with a smile. “But before you choose, you might want to check out a little present from Commandant Coyle and the boys in Portland.”

  “Cat, in exchange for that shitload of weapons we sent the First Brigade quartermaster, they gave us something for you.” Hatfield went out to his truck and came back carrying a long box with a brown leatherette finish. He put the box on one of the picnic tables and opened it, displaying a red velvet interior containing a number of dark inset contents. Lockhart’s eyes lit up in the pure joy of the true gun-lover as he lifted a long, elegant rifle with a black walnut stock and butt out of the case. “Christ Almighty!” he exclaimed. “An M-21!”

  “Sniper version of the old M-14, semi-auto, with complete cleaning kit and accessories,” said Ekstrom proudly.

  “We had a familiarization course on these at sniper school at Fort Benning, and I think I remember most of it, but I never thought I’d get to use one in action!” said Lockhart, balancing and presenting the rifle. “The older guys in the sniper school swore by them. They were all pretty much out of service by the time I went through. Where the hell did they get this beauty?”

  “No idea, and I didn’t ask,” Ekstrom told him. “The Commandant just said our brigade’s best sharpshooter needed our best weapon. The cleaning kit and sling and other stuff are down in this drawer here at the bottom of the case.”

  Cat was examining the barrel. “Oh, this is great! You know, I was hoping to get hold of a .50-caliber weapon, maybe a .50 BMG Barrett or an AR-50, and blow some big holes in some bad people, but this is even better. This baby’s chambered for standard .308, so the ammunition will be a lot easier to get, and if I can get first dibs on any armor-piercing ammo we pick up, that will somewhat make up for the kinetic striking force of the .50-cal. Or I can just plain notch my bullets.” He picked up the telescopic sight from its cradle. “Infrared night sight built in. You know, they trained us for kills up to 800 yards at Benning with the M-24, but if I recollect correctly some of the old guys in ‘Nam claimed they killed at a thousand yards with this.”

  “They were able to provide six magazines, and we can load you up with .308 ammo,” said Ekstrom. “Since it’s semi-automatic, you can get off multiple shots more quickly and accurately than you could if you have to use a bolt to chamber every round, like the M-24. That extra firepower will come in handy when you need to keep multiple enemies’ heads down after your first shot.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Lockhart, hefting and leveling the rifle, sighting down the barrel. “In a good covered position, with enough ammo, I could hold off an infantry company. They’d have to bring up copters or artillery.”

  “You won’t be standing anyone off, Cat,” said Hatfield. “Shoot and scoot, remember. Don’t risk yourself. If ever it looks like it might be too dangerous, I want you to fade. Remember General Order Number Eight.”

  “Well, that’s one thing I wanted to talk to you about, sir,” said Lockhart. “When I was in Iraq, we all had cards or some kind of mark we used to put on or near our kills. Signing our work, so the hadjis would know who was on their tail, a psychological warfare thing. I was the Jack of Diamonds. I was wondering if it would be allowable for me to do the same here? When I can do so safely, of course? Maybe leave the card in my firing position for them to find?”

  “Wouldn’t that be just broadcasting your identity to the enemy?” asked Hatfield.

  “Look, they’re not dumb. I’ve already got a record for horrible evil racism and male chauvinism and God knows what else,” reasoned Lockhart. “Why the hell do you think nobody will hire me? When bodies start dropping around here and it becomes clear that they’re up against someone who knows what he’s doing with a rifle and scope, it’s not going to take them too long to figure out I’m involved, and they’re going to come looking for me. Why not make some political capital out of my reputation and my Medal of Honor? I’m not a glory hound, Lieutenant, but I think it would be a big boost to our side if they know that we’re not all losers and criminals and ignorant inbreds, which is how we’re portrayed on the news these da
ys.”

  “You realize that will make you one of the most hunted men in the Pacific Northwest?” demanded Hatfield.

  “They’ve already hunted me out of everything,” said Lockhart bitterly. “This filthy society has hunted me out of my wife, my children, my future, my dignity, and my hope. Good honest bullets will make a nice change.”

  “Then we’ll start you off with each one of us buying a Bicycle deck and giving you the Jack of Diamonds, only let’s all make sure we wear gloves when we handle the cards. No sense in deliberately leaving the enemy a fingerprint. Now, once again assuming the feebs will show at Rigoletto’s, what about firing positions? Cat, you know that big hill overlooking 39th Street, the heavy woods?”

  “Yeah,” said Lockhart.

  “How far would you make it from more or less the ridge line of that hill down to the parking lot on the 39th Street Pier yuppie-ville?”

  “Mmmm, if memory serves, seven hundred, closer to eight hundred yards,” said Lockhart, pursing his lips. “That’s within the M-21’s range, sir, but to be honest, I’d like to get a little closer. I’d better admit I’m still a bit out of practice. I think I can do it from the hilltop, but for something of this significance I shouldn’t think, I should know I can do it. Second, there would be a pretty sharp downward angle, maybe even as much as thirty degrees depending on what firing position I choose. Third, there’s a lot of gusty wind on that river, and the longer the shot the more chance it’s going to buffet the round off that slight fraction of an inch that will make all the difference between a dead feeb and one who merely has Fruit of the Looms full of shit. How about the roof of those apartments down on 39th? If that’s an inch more than 250 yards I’ll eat my hat, and the angle would only be about seven to ten degrees.”

  “Mmm . . . here’s the problem with that,” said Hatfield, drumming his fingers on the table. “That’s going to be a crime scene, it will most likely be daylight, and we have to assume it will be all roped off and there will be all kinds of state and local cops in attendance as well as the FBI. If we get that close, E & E may be a problem. It will take us at least half a minute to get you down from the roof once you’ve made your shots, maybe more, then we’d have to get into the vehicle and beat feet. They’ll certainly try to move on the firing position if they can tell where the shots are coming from.”

  “Have one of us cover your withdrawal with a good spray of bullets from the Uzi or an AK?” suggested Lee, clearly longing to do some spraying.

  “And then who will cover your withdrawal?” demanded Hatfield. “We may get chased if they make the Yukon or any of us fleeing the scene. I know the roads around here pretty good and I could lose any ground pursuit, but if they have any helicopters on standby to give them an eye in the sky, a daylight car chase is a chance I’d rather not take. Look, what I said about killing white cops: I know it’s going to be necessary sometimes, but again, I’d rather not be forced into that position just yet. I want D Company’s first blood to be the blood of our racial enemies, not former friends and neighbors, and I damned sure don’t want any white cops killing us.”

  “Tell you what, sir,” said Lockhart, “We’ve still got a week. Let’s you and me take a stroll around that whole area and see what we can see. You know the idea I had about using the roof of the Yukon itself as a firing position? We might find some way to make that work.”

  * * *

  On Valentine’s night, Zack Hatfield and Tony Campisi sat in the front of a battered old GMC Yukon, parked behind a loading dock just off 39th Street. The night was dark and cloudy, and there was a light drizzling rain, a perfect cover for the Volunteers. The cell phone on the dashboard rang. Zack answered it. “Hello?”

  “Is this Luigi’s Pizza?” asked Charlie Washburn on the other end.

  “No, I’m sorry, you have the wrong number,” said Zack in an exasperated voice, in case anyone was listening in. He folded the phone. “Okay, they’ve left the house. Charlie and Lee will be behind them. He’ll let us know if there’s any delay or change in their destination he detects, but we need to get into position.” Hatfield started the Yukon and turned on the lights, and a moment later he rolled onto the long, curved 39th Street Pier. He pulled up into the parking lot on the former cannery platform and found the one available remaining space, which he carefully backed into. The restaurant was crowded, no doubt with Valentining couples. They could hear the noise and clinking of dishes and voices even through the rain.

  “Where the hell are the Goldmans going to park?” asked Tony, looking around. “They’re chock-a-block in here, it looks like.”

  “We will kindly give up our space, of course,” said Hatfield with a chuckle. “Okay, we’ve got a few minutes. Check your weapon, once, and then leave it alone until it’s time to use it.” Tony took out a .38 snub and broke the cylinder, and saw the five .38 Special Black Talon rounds. He closed the cylinder. Zack did the same with his old police-issue Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum. They were both using revolvers so as not to have to go scrambling around looking for ejected cartridge casings. In addition to the e-pieces, Zack was carrying his Browning High Power in a shoulder holster beneath his denim jacket, and Tony was packing a 9-mil Beretta. In the backup car, Charlie and Lee were carrying a Kalashnikov and a 12-gauge pump as well as their handguns. “How you holding up, Tony?” asked Hatfield, noticing a slight shake in Campisi’s hands.

  Campisi understood what he was talking about. “It’s not fear, Zack. It’s rage. I’m worried I’m going to fuck up, not because I get scared or nervous, but out of sheer blind murdering rage. I’m scared after I shoot them I’ll just jump on them and beat their faces to a bloody pulp with the gun butt. Did I ever tell you how my people came out here? Some big Jew developers bought up block after block of Bensonhurst, turned the family homes into rental properties, rented to Mexicans and Puerto Ricans to drive the Italians out, and then evicted the spics to build a big gated community for rich Jews and faggots and liberal yuppie assholes. A million dollars for a lot that used to hold four working-class houses. Jobs were bad for blue-collar white men even then, and the only thing Dad could find was up in Tacoma, and that’s where we lived until it got unlivable there too. When the oil wars started up, Fort Lewis flooded the city with military niggers and spics and whores and drug addicts and honky tonks and sleaze. But we never forgot that it was Jews who drove us out of our homes to begin with. Then I read those illegal books you and Charlie gave me, and I understood why I hated them, why they should be hated. I never thought I would look forward to killing anyone like this, that I would so long to see their blood and hear them scream in fear. I guess I still have the vendetta in my blood, from my ancestors. I want it bad, Zack. I know what they’ve done just to me and my family. When you multiply that by the entire world and three thousand years, the mind simply can’t comprehend it.”

  “You’ll do fine,” said Zack with a smile. “Just remember, let me fire first. I’ll take the yenta, you take Jake. Call it psychology. I’ve killed women before, here and in Iraq, and so has Cat-Eyes, and it doesn’t bother us, but for their own self-image and emotional strength I think every Volunteer’s first kill needs to be a man, and a clear racial enemy, a Jew or a nigger or a fed of some kind. God knows all the horrible ambiguities of war will set in for us all, in time.” The phone rang again. Zack opened it. A silly child-like voice said, “Is your refrigerator running?”

  “Dickhead,” said Zack, and closed the phone. “They’ve just turned onto 39th Street.” Zack started the Yukon’s engine but kept the lights off. “Gun in your left hand, keep your right to open the door.” Campisi took out the .38 and complied. They could see the lights of the Lincoln rolling slowly across the pier toward them. “I’ll wait until he comes down this side looking for a parking spot.” The Lincoln rolled onto the platform at about five miles an hour, went down the row behind them, and turned left, then left again. Zack turned on his lights and eased the Yukon out of the space, turning left toward the bridge.

&nb
sp; “Oy, honey, look, that nice man is leaving us his parking space!” mocked Campisi in a girlish voice. The Lincoln slid into the vacated space, and the lights turned off. Zack hit his windshield wipers; the rain was light but steady. He stopped the Yukon at the edge of the bridge. “No one is coming. Couldn’t be more perfect. All right, let’s do it. Masks.” The two Volunteers pulled navy blue wool ski masks down over their faces and got out of the SUV. At an even pace they walked toward the dimly seen couple going toward the restaurant entrance, who were a bit more ahead of them than Zack had anticipated. They might have had to run to catch up, but the man stopped to close his umbrella in the well-lit doorway. They were perfect targets. “God, please don’t let anyone open that door right now,” whispered Zack in silent prayer.

  When they were five feet behind the two expensively dressed people, some sound or sense made the Goldmans both turn. They stared at two men coming out of the darkness just beyond the pool of friendly light and laughter, masked so that only the black of their eyes could be seen, and leveling revolvers at them. The two gunmen said nothing, but Jacob Goldman gasped out in a strangled cry, “You!”

  All four of them understood what Jacob Goldman had said. He did not know or recognize the men who were about to put him to death. They had always been far beneath him, part of the scenery he saw from the window of his luxury car or a plush office suite, animals who through some accident of nature resembled God’s Chosen People in outward form, but whom the sages of Torah assured him were beasts without souls. Yet he knew who they were, and why they were here. Four thousand years of racial instinct crackled in a moment of cosmic, hideous recognition and knowledge. A timeless drama was once again about to be played out, an ancient debt was once more to be paid, and blood was about to be spilled once more in humanity’s longest war. The men before Jacob Goldman could have been wearing Roman armor, or Crusaders’ chain mail, or Cossack leather and furs, or the black tunic of the SS. Now they wore denim jeans and ski masks, but oh, yes, he knew them. Now he was going to die, because they knew him as well, knew him for what he was.