“Exactly,” agreed Zack with a nod. “Kind of hard to trade stocks in a hole in the ground. But if anything, the offensive we’re carrying out right in the belly of the Beast may bring on some kind of especially horrible retaliation here in the Homeland, although I’ve no idea what they can feasibly do that they’re not already doing here. But there’s no way ZOG is going to just throw in the towel and finally give us our freedom, Len. We’re going to have to physically drive them out, every last soldier and bureaucrat and Jew, and then drive stakes through their hearts before they’ll let us go. They can’t afford to give in. Once they concede that the actual territory of the United States is divisible by race, then everybody’s going to want a piece of the pie. The Mexicans are going to demand the Southwest for this Aztlan they’ve been hablamosing about foryears, the niggers will want the South for New Africa, the Cubans and Haitians will demand Florida, the bugger boys may ask for some kind of Faggotstan somewhere, the French might start getting stroppy up in Quebec again, who knows where it will end? Every other continent is composed of multiple small nations, so why not this one? If we go then the whole empire goes, eventually. The power structure doesn’t dare give in to us, or they’re done and their power is finished, and they know it.”
Lear asked. “Are you going to turn into some kind of medieval tyrant now, and decorate the streets with the heads of everybody who’s ever offended you in the past?”
“I am going to secure this area for the Republic, Ted, and I am going to make sure the Americans never come back,” Hatfield told him.
“You were an American yourself, once,” said Lear sardonically.
“I was,” replied Zack with a nod. “I’ve found I prefer being a white man instead. To answer your question, Ted, we’ve had a lot of law in the past few generations. Too damned much law, and not enough justice. Now there’s going to be justice, and some of it may be pretty rough, but I don’t think it’s going to be anywhere near as bad as people think.
Some of the Boys from Operation Applesmash and Operation Pigkill made a stop-offin Houston. Within the space of a week the CEO [Chief Executive Officer] of Exxon turned the ignition key on his Ferrari and was blown through the roof of his garage; the chief financial officer of Gulf Oil was found hanging in his pool house by his own necktie wearing only black net stockings and high heels and lipstick; and the huge, garish main tabernacle of an Evangelical television ministry that was one of Israel’s main financial and Scriptural supporters was leveled by a truck bomb full of gelignite.
“What is that?” whispered Christina in wonder. “I know that song.”
“You remember it from long ago in church, honey,” said her father, his hand on her shoulder. “It is A Mighty Fortress, a hymn written by Martin Luther.”
“Ein Festem Burg Ist Unser Gött. They are singing in German,” said Sergeant Karl Vogler, Hatfield’s driver. Tears were streaming down his face.
“So they are,” said Hill somberly. “1945 is avenged, korpsbrüder.”