Enemies Domestic (An Alex Landon Thriller Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  Duke reviewed his documented mentorship to Schneider, the development of that relationship cultivated by Duke’s willingness to blatantly lie about his beliefs and convictions to secure the younger man’s aid. Schneider’s naïve confidence in Duke had quietly, slowly convinced him that peaceful revolution no longer remained possible in modern, racially-contaminated America. Duke coerced Schneider to believe the only way forward to legitimate change required them to successfully execute a massive false flag operation to intensely focus white Americans’ attention on its borders and racial threats, and give them a viable path to regain control of the country through quick elections and emotional legislation. Duke played Schneider just as he had Cleveland, and Schneider had quietly recruited five other men in NAR chapters across the country that were both anxious for immediate change and professed the intestinal fortitude for violence.

  Duke perused the last chapter, which discussed his assessment that the federal government, in all its vastness and complexity, had effectively grown immune to a coup or hostile takeover. This meant the only realistic opportunity for a successful revolution in modern America had to be conducted through the ballot box. No one wielded sufficient power and influence to forcibly direct the federal machine without the support and will of the voting public. As stupid, uneducated, and immoral as they were, Duke recognized no one could lead without their consent, regardless of that leader’s righteousness. As such, he knew he had to create an opportunity for someone, such as himself, a completely private citizen outside government, to save the country in the wake of an event that wrought tremendous suffering and tragedy. America no longer had the stomach, the intestinal fortitude, to take the hard road. She could not tolerate the tough, logical choices required to right the ship and now chose only the path of least resistance, which pandering politicians from all parties were only too willing to offer up as “honest” solutions.

  In order to achieve his goals, Duke had to present a palatable facade to the American public that would earn both their trust and their vote. This effort would begin with orchestrated bombings that would cast blame on foreign threats, encourage America to isolate herself from the world, and recreate the vulnerable political atmosphere that had immediately followed 9/11. Once philosophically isolated and emotionally vulnerable, Duke understood an opportunity existed to manipulate the electorate. He knew his true beliefs fell far outside mainstream America, so running for office on his beliefs and objectives ensured defeat. Absent a moral conflict from misrepresenting himself, any such emotion would have been easily rationalized by his perception that both major political parties had done so for decades. Probably longer, he thought to himself. As Duke saw it, he employed the same tactics Democrats and Republicans had effectively employed to build brand loyalty, intentionally distract voters with irrelevant issues, plant their own false flags, discredit legitimate sources and contrarians, and collect votes purely by irrational, emotional appeal.

  The manifesto professed all of Duke’s long-term goals that led to an isolationist, pro-white federal government. He feared apprehension so little that the document even explained his process for planning for the bombings; his recruitment of willing conspirators and patsies; their successful alliances, and their interstate spycraft and communication systems.

  Duke intended to announce his candidacy soon after the bombings and endorse like-minded candidates from across the American West. The timing of the bombings critically effected the upcoming elections that fall. Any longer, and the electorate would have time to reassess their values and motivations, and, thereby, those of his proposed candidates. Those individuals he intended to put forth were, in fact, either Duke’s direct co-conspirators or had been chosen by them. Having spoken with each of the other prospective candidates very plainly, Duke had emphasized the overall success of revolution as too important to be compromised by their own egos and personal shortcomings. He insisted that all of them must survive the intense media scrutiny sure to assault each of them as they moved forward. No one could be found officially tied to anti-government organizations or to possess criminal records. All of them must appear to be honest, sincere Americans who genuinely wanted to make the tough choices for the greater good that present politicians were unwilling or unable to make.

  Duke aspired to bring swift change to state and local governments, which were significantly more malleable, and begin his long-term objectives of forever altering the federal government and its relationship with both the American people and the never-ending hoard of global beggars who perpetually sought money and aid, graciously accepted the hand-outs doled to them, and then promptly set about demonstrating in the dirt streets of their Third World shitholes about the evil, demonic America. Once entrenched in state and local governments, Duke and his candidates would begin indirectly influencing the present Congress and White House by controlling the public debate carried out on news outlets and on social media. Based on the waves of liberty-strangling legislation passed and signed into law after 9/11 in the name of public safety, Duke anticipated the voters’ tolerance for swift, emotionally-satisfying legislative action following thousands of unanticipated, simultaneous American deaths would be insatiable, so long as the bills were properly written, proposed, and, more importantly, sold. “If Nancy Pelosi could tell the American sheeple that Congress needed to pass thousands of pages of health care legislation in order to ‘see what’s in it,’” he had written, “then we should have no problem garnering support for common sense remedies to the bombings’ myriad of foreign causes.”

  Duke wanted to dramatically reduce the size and expanse of the federal government and end all immigration for five years. His legislative wishlist included ending American involvement in both the United Nations and NATO, as well as kicking the UN and its corrupt delegates out of the country. He wanted to move the national capital to a more defensible location that better represented the American voter. Duke hadn’t yet chosen a final destination, but he leaned very heavily toward Geneva, Nebraska, or Lubbock, Texas, for the new American capital. All foreign aid would end, the Internal Revenue Service would be shuttered, and a flat, single-digit income tax would prevail. Congressional term limits and reductions to politicians’ salaries and benefits would ensue, and would likely reflect that of the average American household. Further, Duke sought to eliminate the monetary corruption of the public system by criminalizing lobbyist gifts so legislative decisions could be made purely on the merits. He also wanted to require a passing grade of 90% in high school civics, aspired to end the American “drug war” by decriminalizing personal drug use and regulating sales to ensure those adults who chose to imbibe bought a consistent, predictable product. In truth, Duke would have entertained a swift and public hanging for drug dealers, but he didn’t think he could pass such antithetical policies through any legislative body.

  Duke closed the journal, maybe for the last time, he thought, and secured it in his safe. He needed it to stay private for the time being, its content far too scandalous to leave lying around for some lowlife, drug-addicted burglar to find.

  Needs a title, too, he thought, maybe ‘Subversive Guerilla Warfare Saves America?’ He pondered the lengthy title before remembering that such tactics had significantly contributed to victory in the first American Revolution. Thus, he would have to further lengthen the title by adding “Again.” Not a bad working title, Duke told himself, I like the idea of relating my work to the Swamp Foxes. Adds a bit of well-deserved legitimacy.

  Still swimming in his successes, both present and future, Duke ventured into the trailer’s kitchen and retrieved a handwritten note from the silverware drawer that displayed the anonymous tipline phone numbers for the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office and the Dry Creek Police Department. It might be a bit early yet, but a couple calls now will let me see how the local cops are gonna treat these investigations. Neither of the McDougal boys knows anything that can derail me, anyway. Time to watch ‘em squirm a little? Duke considered the ramif
ications of throwing his secondary patsies closer to the fire. Best to hold off for now, maybe wait until we see if the feds bite off on the jihad angle first.

  Forty-Two

  Mrs. McDougal’s residence. Dry Creek, Arizona

  Jonathan walked into the garage, intent on finding his long-abandoned boxing gloves. If he were to get back in shape quickly and relieve some of his stress, he ought to enjoy doing it. He saw the tarp only a few seconds after turning the interior garage lights on. Then, from several steps closer, he saw the top bag askew. Mother fucker!

  Jonathan checked to see that all six bags were still there, but the tarp and all of the top bags had been moved, which meant someone other than his mother had likely rifled through them. He surmised the suspect must have been concerned about getting caught, which meant he probably knew them. No, not ‘them,’ he thought, just ‘him.’ He had no doubt who had gone through the bags, for any reasonable criminal would have just taken the bags and disappeared, or not bothered to replace them at all. Billy had never been smart enough to cover his tracks and contrive a decent alibi.

  Jonathan tossed open the top bags and didn’t immediately find anything missing. He noticed, in the third bag, that his manuals were out of sequence and several of the spines revealed they were upside down. Why would Billy want my manuals? Jonathan noticed one of the reversed, out-of-sequence manual titles:

  “FM 5-31, DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY FIELD MANUAL, BOOBYTRAPS

  HEADQUARTERS, DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY

  SEPTEMBER, 1965”

  Mother fucker!! The IED manual’s gone! The metallic taste of adrenaline filled his mouth as rage and anxiety simultaneously competed for emotional dominance. Fearing far worse had happened, Jonathan heaved the book-laden duffel aside and inspected the far more important bag, below it. He unzipped the top to find a locked case remained inside. A few quick turns of its combination lock opened the metal case and allowed Jonathan to remove the top, dense foam padding sheet.

  Thank God, he thought, breathing a sigh of relief, it’s still there. Anxiety ebbed from his body as he inventoried the components of the disassembled Dragunov rifle and found nothing missing. While Jonathan feared why Billy wanted the IED manual, the momentary possibility that he and his friends had an accurate sniper rifle physically nauseated him. American law enforcement had limited ability to stop a motivated and trained urban sniper, which Jonathan knew had allowed John Allen Muhammad and Lee Boyd Malvo to remain at-large for twenty days after commencing sniper attacks along the 495 Capital Beltway in the DC area on October 2, 2002.

  Jonathan remembered how one of his First Lieutenants had “recovered” the Dragunov rifle from a sloppy insurgent sniper Jonathan had killed in Fallujah. The sniper had been taking moderately-accurate pot shots at their patrols throughout that morning and carelessly exposed himself on a rooftop ledge only a few blocks away. A proficient marksman even before the Army, Jonathan required only a single, well-aimed round from his M4 to send sixty-two grains of full metal jacket diplomacy into the sniper’s left eye and through his brain cavity. Within minutes of the sniper’s death, all of the other, sporadic small arms fire in the area ceased, which normally occurred when insurgents feared a US sniper operated in the same area.

  A few days after the Army CID investigators officially informed Jonathan’s chain of command his shooting had been justified, the dead sniper’s Dragunov mysteriously turned up in his quarters with a handwritten, block-letter note that simply read, “In grateful appreciation of The Shot Heard Round the Block.” Jonathan didn’t ask around for information on the rifle, and no one ever discussed it with him. War trophies of that magnitude were very hard to come by in the modern military, but creative packing and donations of good liquor to a few, select personnel sufficiently greased the wheels necessary to bring the rifle home.

  Jonathan replaced the foam padding, closed and locked the metal case, and closed the duffel bag's cover. He didn’t want to return the top bag and its manuals yet until he decided if the cops needed to look at them. His boxing glove mission delayed indefinitely, he stormed back into the house and found his mother preparing dinner in the kitchen.

  “Mom, were you going through my duffels in the garage?” Jonathan knew the answer before he asked the question, but he felt compelled to give Billy the benefit of the doubt, at least in front of their mother.

  “No, Jonathan, not at all. I don’t know what you’re keeping in there, and I feel like it might be best that I don’t know.” His mother turned away from washing vegetables in the kitchen sink, the question’s oddity distracting her dinner preparations.

  “Has Billy been over recently?” Momentarily silent and still, she averted her eyes from Jonathan’s gaze, and apprehensively turned the faucet off.

  She closed her eyes and dropped her head in apparent despair. “What has he done now?” She spoke to the sink and vegetables, as though afraid to hear that her baby had again harmed their family.

  Forty-Three

  Mrs. McDougal’s residence. Dry Creek, Arizona

  After several hours of unsuccessful attempts to find Billy or talk to him on the phone, Jonathan decided his brother knew he’d been caught and had gone into hiding somewhere. Jonathan called DCPD to file a Theft report, but the dispatcher told him she could not send Detectives Wall or Landon out on such a trivial call; she assured him she would leave a message for the detectives and offered to send a patrol officer in their stead. A few minutes later, DCPD Officer Brad Johnson called Jonathan and, after hearing his statements, agreed his report held more significance than the theft of a $15 manual; rather, its content and the thief’s identity warranted a more intensive police investigation. Officer Johnson assured Jonathan he would personally speak with DCPD detectives and get someone over to his house forthwith. Soon after Officer Johnson hung up, Jonathan’s cell phone rang again with ‘PRIVATE’ displayed on the caller ID.

  “This is Jonathan.”

  “Mr. McDougal, this is Detective Landon. I got your message, but I’m tied up on something right now and Detective Wall’s in court today.”

  “Did Officer Johnson speak with you already?”

  “Yeah, he gave me a brief rundown on the theft and that you think your brother’s responsible. Why do you think that?”

  Jonathan carefully explained what he saw when he had entered the garage, and the general content of his bags, minus, of course, the Dragunov. He told Landon that, despite finding several out-of-place, only the single and particular manual appeared stolen, and explained the extent of the intelligence Billy had taken. Jonathan felt some genuine relief when Landon agreed his suspicions about Billy and The Chosen Few made the theft significantly more troubling.

  “So, what’re you guys doing about that, about The Chosen Few?”

  “I’m sorry, Jonathan, I really can’t discuss an ongoing investigation, even if you’re the one who turned us onto it. However, this manual is likely going to be a critical piece of evidence to corroborate your concern about their intentions, if we can recover it.”

  “Yeah, how possible do you think that is?”

  “Depends on a lot, Jonathan. Sounds like you already went through the bags in pretty thorough detail?”

  “Yeah, I rummaged through and did a brief inventory of ‘em.”

  “Okay, so prints are out. Did your mom see Billy with the manual?”

  “No, she said he didn’t have anything but an old fishing pole, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t put it under his shirt, or hide it until she walked away.”

  “I agree. Does Billy have access to the house?”

  “No, he doesn’t have a key anymore, and he isn’t allowed over here when mom or I aren’t here.”

  “But, he is allowed to be in the house, at least when someone else is around?”

  “Yeah, my mom allows him around here a lot more than I’d like.”

  “How did he get inside the garage, did he break in?”

  “I assume so.
There’s an outside door that goes to the backyard. The handle didn’t lock when I moved in, so I replaced it, and I’m sure it was locked.”

  “Did you see any damage to the lock, or the door, any evidence that he forced it open?”

  “No.”

  “Was it locked when you saw it today, after you learned he had been there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know if your mother locked it?”

  “She said she didn’t go into the garage, she only opened the door from the laundry room and stood there talking to him when she found him there.”

  “Is your mother willing to aid in prosecuting him for trespassing into the house?”

  “Whaddayamean, ‘aid?’”

  “Does she want to press charges against him, will she declare herself a victim and testify against him in court if necessary?”

  Jonathan paused and considered the answer. “No. I wish she would, but I already know the answer without asking.”

  “Would it help if I spoke with her?”

  “It didn’t help when the other cops spoke with her, or the juvenile detention folks, or the probation officers, or the parole board. Like I said before, she turns a blind eye and prays he’ll change. No, she won’t press charges.”