The Hill of the Ravens

by H. A. Covington

  Ronald McDonald cult. They have no language except the primitive Spanglish patois which is now the lingua franca of the States and most of the remaining whites are now illiterate. They have no concept of history other than politically correct horse manure that ZOG spoonfeeds them about warrior bimbos wearing armored bikinis and ridiculous lies about all the great men and women of history all being colored, Jewish, Marxist, feminist, sexually perverted, or some combination of all the above. That is what the greatest tyranny the earth has ever seen spent almost a century preparing for. Laying the groundwork, slicing away the rights and the freedoms of white Americans and Canadians thin slice by slice. All leading toward the day when the world would become one huge global plantation while Massah Hymie and the international bankers sat on the verandas of the corporate mansions, with mint juleps and designer cocaine cocktails in their hands. They have almost succeeded, everywhere else on earth but here.”

  “But how could the white people of that time just sit there and take it?” demanded one of the girls passionately. “Couldn’t they see what was coming? The Old Man and others like Commander Rockwell and Pastor Miles warned them. Why didn’t they do something?”

  “Ah. There it is. The Great Question,” said Frierson softly. “Miss Hansen, for the past century, both before and after the revolution, some of the greatest minds of our civilization have devoted whole lifetimes and lengthy scholarly works to the investigation and analysis of that very question. Why did the white man do nothing while everything he created, everything he held dear, the entire world that he had mastered was systematically undermined, broken and destroyed by the Jew and those who served the Jew? I have no doubt we will still be studying the problem a hundred years from now. I have no simple answer for you. No one knows. But we’d damned well better find out what went wrong in our minds and our souls, so that we can make sure it never, ever happens again. As to the second part of your question…well, the fact is that we did do something, Miss Hansen,” said Frierson somberly, touching the War of Independence ribbon on his lapel. “Almost too little, almost too late. Too late indeed to save all of America, but enough to build ourselves an ark to weather the great flood of mud. To the everlasting

  glory of God and the redemption of our racial honor, at the eleventh hour, the fifty-ninth minute, and the very last second, madam…we did do something.” There was a short silence. “Do you know that there was one Volunteer who was only twelve years old when he was sworn into the NVA?” continued Frierson with a smile.

  “Oh, come on, sir!” one of the boys couldn’t resist interjecting. “Twelve years old?”

  “Yes, Mr. Jardine. Twelve. The former Volunteer I refer to came into this room a few minutes ago and is sitting in the back along with that other gentleman. May I introduce Colonel Donald Redmond of the Bureau of State Security, and the gentleman with the somewhat weatherbeaten countenance who is…?”

  “Sergeant Nel,” spoke up Hennie.

  “Ah, yes, Sergeant Hendrik Nel, who recently defeated the former NDF bare-knucks middleweight champion Ross Manlis after a thrilling forty-seven rounds. Winning me three hundred and fifty credits from the sports pool down at the Ten Bells, I might add. Any chance I could persuade you to give some of our school’s boxing team some pointers, Sergeant?”

  The youthful heads of the whole class turned to look at Don and Hennie sitting quietly in the back. Don’s lips pursed in a smile. Trying to throw me off balance, is he? Don chuckled to himself. “Don’t worry, we haven’t come for young Mister Spears,” Don called out. There was a chorus of laughter in the class. “And actually, if we’re being completely accurate here, there was another Volunteer who was eleven when she took the oath.”

  “We start teaching them to shoot at ten nowadays, in the public schools,” Frierson said, speaking more to Don than to the class. “Although I am glad to say most families start their children younger than that, at home.”

  “My eight year-old has a permission slip from his mother and I to attend shooting class with the fifth graders. He loves playing Little Willie with his .22,” said Redmond. “You know, the kids’ game on the elementary school ranges where Little Willie hides behind his lawyer and you have to pop him when he peeps out from behind the armored briefcase?” The bell rang and cut short the possibility that Don would be dragged up to the podium by the teacher and asked to give an impromptu lecture on his experiences during the revolt, for

  which he was grateful. The students rose and gathered their books, gazing at Don and Hennie curiously as they left. Frierson came forward and shook Don’s hand. “Sorry, Colonel Redmond, Sergeant Nel, I couldn’t forbear the temptation to let my students know we had a couple of celebrities in our midst. I recall seeing you at several of the Old Fighters’ functions, and you may recall that Bill Vitale introduced us once. I got your message saying you wanted to talk to me, but I wasn’t sure when I should expect you. Do you want to come down to the teacher’s lounge?”

  “Do you have another class, Colonel Frierson?” asked

  Redmond.

  “No, school’s out and I’m through for the day,” said Frierson. “And Colonel is my reserve rank. At Gordon Kahl High I’m Mr. Frierson.”

  “Then we can just have a seat here.” They did so, and Frierson accepted the gift of one of the rolled Havanas. Nel declined, being a non-smoker. Don lit his own cigar and said, “This won’t take too long. Mr. Frierson, something has come up which properly seems to belong to the past, but which may have a very important effect on this country’s future. I need to speak with you about the events surrounding the ambush and destruction of the Olympic Flying Column at Ravenhill Ranch.”

  Frierson’s brow furrowed and his face grew grim. “I think you know I’ll give you any help I can, Colonel, but what the hell could that horrible…what could Ravenhill possibly have to do with the price of eggs today? My God, it’s been almost forty years! There are kids in this school whose parents weren’t even born then!”

  “The State President has received a letter from Trudy

  Greiner,” Redmond informed him.

  “From…Trudy…Greiner.” Frierson stared and was silent for a long moment. “And has this letter been authenticated?” he demanded intensely.

  “As best we can do so, yes. It may be a forgery of some kind, some ONR trick we haven’t figured out yet, but we are proceeding on the assumption that the letter is authentic. In that letter Trudy Greiner asserts her innocence of the charge of treason which has been traditionally leveled against her. She denies that she was responsible for the destruction of the Olympic Flying Column and she says she

  wants a public trial or court martial. She furthermore states that she is going to celebrate Independence Day this year by walking across the border at Mountain Gate into the Republic, whereupon we will all hear the rusty screech of a gigantic can of worms opening.”

  “Trudy Greiner claims that she is innocent?” asked Frierson, stunned. “Christ, how could she? I thought that BOSS had pretty much nailed her as the recipient of that million dollars?”

  “There are some odd things coming to light about that,” said Redmond. “I need to learn everything I possibly can about what happened at Ravenhill that day. I am also interested in learning whatever you can tell me about a meeting which was held the night before the ambush at a house in Hoodsport that the NVA used as an assembly point. Whatever treachery led to the destruction of the column, it almost certainly had its origins at some point during that meeting.”

  “I was there for most of the meeting,” recalled Frierson, his eyes dimming as he let his mind wander back into the past. “I was a fairly senior Volunteer.”

  “And how did you get involved with the racial resistance originally, sir?” asked Nel. “How did you end up joining the NVA? We’re asking everybody that, by way of background.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes sir,” said Redmond. “You understand that I am trying to get as broad an overview as possible of the people involved in
those events. You never know what may turn out to be significant. So when and how did you become racially aware?”

  “Oh, I’m one of those NS from birth types who were fairly common in those days,” said Frierson with a reminiscent smile. “Drawing swastikas all over everything from the time I was six years old, desperate to find and watch every movie I could find about Holocaust Two just so I could catch a glimpse of that coal-scuttle helmet and hear German spoken.”

  “Yeah, same here,” replied Redmond. “My wife is a witch, and she tells me that people like that are the reincarnated souls of the millions of soldiers and civilians of the Third Reich who were cut off from life prematurely and violently during the Second European Holocaust. We gravitated naturally towards right wing causes and ideologies because we left unfinished business behind in Germany.”

  “Be that as it may, it was always obvious to me even from my childhood that something was very badly wrong in the world,” said Frierson. “I was NS from a very young age and involved quite young as well, although not very constructively. I started out as a teenaged skinhead back in Atlanta, believe it or not, although I got those ridiculous tattoos removed many years ago,” he chuckled.

  “Never a Piercie?” asked Redmond.

  “No, even when I was a teenager it was obvious to me Piercism was nothing but a cult with a guru sitting up in a remote mountain ashram clipping coupons,” said Frierson. “I wanted action. I was arrested a number of times for various drunken escapades as a skinhead, which is one reason I was a bit hard on Ted Spears just now. You heard what he…?”

  “Yes, Principal Rogers told us,” Redmond told him.

  “I just want to make sure the boy understands that he has reached an age when things like that have consequences and they can stay with him. Through a combination of luck and a grandmother who doted on me and was wealthy enough to hire top-notch legal counsel, I got off with only a few short jail terms. Then one day I got hold of a leaflet from the Northwest Agency, the Fundamental Principles of Northwest Migration, and it hit me like a thunderbolt. This was it, never a doubt in my mind before or since. I hit the books like hell and brought my SATs up to 1400, conned Gran into paying for my tuition at the University of Oregon, and then one glorious day I was on a plane for Eugene. I completed my first year at university, and then I went into the underground. I was with Murdock from the very beginning, when the Old Man swore us in on 10/22 at Coeur d’Alene. Tom and I went off together and hijacked a gasoline tanker as our first revolutionary combat action.”

  “When did you first hear about the planned attack on Port

  Orchard?” asked Nel.

  “Not until we reached the Hoodsport safe house,” replied Frierson. “We got the order to assemble there the day before. I was responsible for fitting out a pickup truck we’d gotten hold of as a scout vehicle for the Column, putting on fake license plates, making sure we had enough gas and that we had basic weapons and first aid supplies. The purpose of a scout vehicle was to report any enemy activity or blockages on the road ahead when the Column was moving

  by vehicle, and if necessary run interference for them while they escaped and evaded.”

  “Can you recall anything special about the meeting in

  Hoodsport on that particular night?” asked Redmond.

  “They were all special, Colonel,” said Frierson somberly. “We were a band of brothers and sisters and we lived every moment of our lives as if it were our last together. Then finally that night, it was our last. Every time we got together to plan an operation we knew that there was a better than even chance that some of us would be dead within twenty-four hours. That awareness tends to concentrate the mind. The memory of that meeting is especially poignant to me, in view of what happened later on that very morning. I have often thought about it, dreamed about it…that last time we were all together. We were all pretty excited about the new mortar technique. We all wanted to be there when Drago and Frank Palmieri set off the sixteen mortar tubes, but we knew that wouldn’t be possible. Our job was to move in and surround the courthouse and complete what the mortars started with small arms fire and RPGs. Our objective was to make sure that not one single attorney or Federal got out alive. But all of us were looking forward to the mortars, seeing lawyers blown sky high. Joe Cord and Ron Nolan made a study from available media archives on the Internet on several occasions in the late 1980s and early 1990s when the Provisional IRA had used that particular weapon, and they felt it was feasible. With sixteen tubes and each home-made mortar shell packing a 200-pound warhead of home-made gelignite, we would be able to deliver over a ton and a half of HE right over the razor wire and the concrete abutments and right down onto the heads of dozens of legal leeches, judges and Federal thugs. As it turned out, four of our comrades were able to simply ram the truck through the front door and detonate the payload. The stupid fools had prepared for everything except an out and out frontal attack. They never thought we’d have the courage to go right up against them, head on.”

  “Yes, we have already spoken to Minister Palmieri, and we will be interviewing the McCanlesses later on,” said Redmond. “That part of it seems fairly straightforward, sir. What I am more interested in is the meeting that took place at the Hoodsport safe house the previous night. Can we get back to that? If there is any clue to be

  found as to what Trudy Greiner intends to spring on us, it seems to me it must be found there. What time did Trudy Greiner arrive at the meeting that night?”

  “Er, if memory serves, a little past midnight,” said Frierson. “I remember that we weren’t sure when she was getting there and there was also a little bit of concern, because her cell phone was on the fritz.”

  “Did that excite any suspicion?” asked Redmond.

  “No, it was legit. Trudy had one of those crappy Chinese Astras, and their communications satellite had actually crashed into the South Atlantic that very morning. Quality Sino-Israeli workmanship. It was all over the media because all the thousands of Astras were dead as well as Trude’s. In any case, Trudy checked her phone with Ed McCanless like we all did, and he made sure that working or not, it was turned off. The idea being that an incoming call might give away the location of the phone to some of Fattie’s hotshot electronic surveillance. I never noticed that it was all that effective, but we took precautions anyway. For example, we ran metal detectors and voltage sensors over everyone who attended the meeting to make sure no one was wearing a wire or had any kind of subdural bugging devices planted beneath their skin.”

  “Couldn’t the NVA afford to give her a decent cell phone that worked?” asked Nel. “After all, she was more or less in charge of their support unit.”

  “The cheap phone was an important part of her cover,” explained Frierson. “Trudy was supposed to be a secretary for a temp agency making $23,000 a year. If she’d been stopped and found to be in possession of a $6,000 phone that accessed a worldwide grid through a decently constructed Euro satellite, it would have been a break in pattern that would have tipped off any sharp counterterrorism cop that something wasn’t kosher, in every sense of the term.”

  “So she arrived at a little past midnight. Were you present during the whole time during that meeting, Mr. Frierson?”

  “Yes, I was assisting McCanless on security,” Frierson told them. “I sat in a corner with headphones on, listening to a souped-up police scanner, going up and down through the frequencies, listening for any kind of traffic or chatter that might have seemed out of place or might indicate they were onto us. Murdock was jumpy with all of

  our force being in a single place, so he wanted me to keep my ears on. The result was that I couldn’t actually hear much of what was being said, but I had a good view of them all.”

  “Can you recall anything at all about that meeting which might have indicated that anything was about to go wrong? Trudy Greiner or anyone else acting suspiciously? Asking unusual questions?”

  “Anything that would indicate who the informant was, i
f it wasn’t Trude?” asked Frierson. “No, Colonel, to be honest I can’t. Oh, we were all pretty hyped. This was going to be a major action, we were trying out a new weapon against the enemy and we knew we had the chance of striking a major blow.”

  “Those cell phones…” said Nel, his brow furrowed. “You say they were all turned off. You say you were in the meeting for most of the time. Were you there at about two o’clock?”

  “Yes…yes, Sergeant, I was. Why?” asked Frierson.

  “Was Trudy Greiner still in the room at two o’clock?” asked

  Redmond keenly.

  “Uh, yes, I believe she was,” confirmed Frierson.

  “What time did Trudy Greiner leave the meeting?” asked

  Redmond. “Can you give us any kind of concrete time for that?” “As best I can recall it was a little past three,” said Frierson. “What vehicle was she driving when she left?” asked

  Redmond.

  “Ah, her own car. A white Nissan, I believe it was. She had something to do before she reported to the aid station in Poulsbo.”

  “Do you know what that was?” asked Redmond. “Possibly pick up the van that was to be used as the ambulance for the wounded if necessary?”

  “Uh, no, I can’t say for sure, but whatever it was, Murdock seemed to know about it and he was okay with it,” replied Frierson with a distant look, obviously straining his brain to remember. “She was supposed to be there at the aid station at seven in the morning. She never showed. Why? Is the time that important?”

  “Yes, sir, it may well prove to be crucial. We know that the enemy commanding officer, Major Woodrow Coleman of the Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization, received a call on his private cell phone at a little after two A. M.,” Redmond informed him. “Colonel