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Brigade (novel) Civil war

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XXII

by Harold Covington


“Send Off The Clowns”


Covington in uniform
Hillary concluded by announcing that “the patience of the American people with racism and terrorism is at an end, and we are going to crush these evil men like the insects they are.” She announced that a new paramilitary force, the Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization (FATPO) would be immediately deployed into the Pacific Northwest and that they would operate under “special rules of engagement” that would allow for the “complete eradication of terror, and at long last mete out the condign punishment that should long ago have been applied to every manifestation of racism, anti-Semitism, homophobia, nativism, and sexism.”

An obviously twitchy and nervous Arnold Blaustein, who had taken over Paradigm on the demise of Sid Glick, announced the establishment of a special private “justice fund” by the movie industry, which offered a reward of five million dollars per head for information leading to the apprehension alive of any terrorist who could be shown to have participated in the events of Oscar Night in any way.

Movie stars and B actors, rappers and rock stars, television personalities and newscasters, studio moguls, directors and producers, screenwriters, executives and attorneys, and all manner of lesser fry began to flee the city.

“I wouldn’t have believed it,” Brewer reported back. “Hollywood has become a ghost town in a week! Most of the major enemy assets on our hit list are gone now, scattered all across hell’s creation. You guys may run out of targets.”

“Oh, they’ll be back,” said Hill with a shrug.

The hits continued, despite the paucity of targets:

* A massive car bomb was smuggled onto the DreamWorks-Disney back lot and leveled an entire Santa’s Village set, totally derailing a major Christmas movie and costing DW-D about 40 million dollars in losses.

* Foul-mouthed standup comic Marta Moskowitz, whose shtick consisted almost entirely of obscenities, references to excrement and snooty flaunting of her Jewish heritage, was found tied with duct tape to a chair in her apartment’s kitchen, strangled with a garrote, and a bar of soap jammed into her mouth.

Within thirty days, the Northwest Volunteer Army had effectively shut down the entire American movie-making industry and over half of the television production. Studio budgets were snapping like sticks. Ratings were in the toilet because the whole country was glued 24/7 to the cable news waiting to see which Hollywood celebrity was next on the hit parade, in a runaway reality show from hell.

 

LynchCoverChechar’s note:

Please, compare Covington’s views about Hollywood to Greg Johnson’s opposite views and leave a comment: either below, or in a recent thread.

Thank you!

Categories
Brigade (novel) Civil war

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XXIII

by Harold Covington


“Into The Lion’s Den”


Covington in uniform
“They’re goyim, David,” said Shulman. “What’s the first lesson you and I both learned in yeshiva school? Never, ever trust a goy, for they are beasts without souls. All of the sons of Esau hate us unto death, because our blessed forefather Jacob stole their birthright and left them with nothing but a mess of pottage. They’ve never really resigned themselves and accepted that as a done deal. No matter how often we keep filling up their bowls with pottage, they secretly want their birthright back. I’m convinced I’m right. One of the people on that list betrayed our friends and our elders to their death, and they’re still doing it as we speak, still helping these animals to kill us.”

“Yeah,” said Danziger bitterly. “Tell me about it. Before I came down, I heard on the news that the sons of bitches murdered Herschel Rabinowitz from MGM this morning. They got past his cameras, the guards, everything, and they shot him through the window at his own breakfast table in Malibu.”

“Fuck me, Hesh is dead?” exclaimed Shulman.

“Deader than a dog turd in the road, mine friend,” confirmed Danziger with a grim nod. “The day before that they rammed a car bomb into the main office of Fox News and damned near leveled the building, killed everybody in the lobby. The day before that, somehow they found where Shelley Klein was hiding in Santa Barbara. They tied her up in a chair and then took her out back and dropped her into the swimming pool and watched her drown. As of this week it’s official, the movie industry and the television business are paying more for security costs than they’re paying in salaries for working employees, which isn’t hard since almost no one is working anymore. They’re all in hiding and wondering who will be the next to die? This can’t go on, Marty!”

“After the bloodbath in the Kodak on Awards night, and then all these murders, and finally this incredible revelation about Erica Collingwood, the Big Boys are going completely batshit paranoid about everybody with a pale skin. They don’t know who they can trust. Neither does the FBI. They’re seeing Jerry Rebs under every bed. They’re lashing out in all directions. Hell, they were in here the other day giving me and all my white staff the third degree, not as bad as you because I’ve got a name in this town. Or had one, anyway. The rumor mill is roaring like a blast furnace. After Erica the bosses are supposed to be considering a complete ban on anyone of European descent working in movies or in TV who can’t document at least one gay or interracial sexual relationship.”

Categories
Brigade (novel) Civil war

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XXIV

by Harold Covington


“One If By Land, Two If By Sea”


Covington in uniform
“Back when there were still Mexicans along that stretch of 101, he used to chop them up and go fishing using the bits and pieces as bait. No more Mexicans around, though. Once it all started up they got the message real fast. You won’t hear any Spanish outside Portland now.”

“Well, that will be a change from L.A.,” said Julia.

“I imagine so,” agreed Post. “Every mother’s son and daughter of the NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] has a basic $50,000 DT on his or her head, that’s domestic terrorist bounty, and from there it goes up depending on how naughty the individual Volunteer has been. I think Hatfield’s up to over half a million now. Astoria has become almost a kind of liberated zone, where white people can live safely and peacefully among their own kind. The United States can’t allow that.”

Eric Sellars and Annette Ridgeway were seated together in a lecture hall on the Portland State University campus when Jackson’s call came in. Eric had his NVA special throwaway phone on vibrate, so it didn’t ring out loud and he was able to conduct a sotto voce conversation without anyone other than his immediate neighbors knowing he was on the phone, and without disturbing the desiccated professor who was droning on about the vital importance of the Native American tradition in American history…

Jackson sighed. “Okay, guys have a seat,” he said. “Tom [a code name for Eric], you will be part of the extraction team, and after the pickup your job will be getting Becky out of the area. Becky [a code name for Annette], you are going to be risking your life and your freedom tonight for our new country in the most dangerous task you have yet undertaken. You both have a right to know why this is necessary, and why it’s such a rush. We will have two vehicles, a van for the extraction and a second car for backup and interference if necessary. You and Tom will have to exit the area on foot, and make it to a third vehicle, your own, during which time you must remove your disguise and resume your own identity, with some suitable reason for being downtown in case you’re stopped and questioned. Do not be caught with Stiggsy’s false ID on you; possession of false identification is now a Class A terrorism offense and can expose you to the death penalty”…

Jackson walked around the table and grabbed Zucchino by the collar. He leaned down to the wounded man’s right ear. “You need that mouth to speak with, but you only need one ear to hear with. Now you listen to me. Our female Volunteers are the jewels in the crown of the Aryan race. We never speak disrespectfully of them, and garbage like you damned sure never does! Zack Hatfield is another jewel in our crown, one of the finest and bravest men I’ve ever known, and the Volunteers with him are our Flowers of the Forest. They are men. You are not. You are a rodent. I will not allow you to harm them by withholding information about this evil tyranny’s plots against them. You are going to tell me now, tell it all.”

“We did that, Julia,” said Hatfield with grim satisfaction. “Congress didn’t do it. Elections didn’t do it. Democracy didn’t do it. Signing petitions and marching in the streets and babbling on the internet didn’t do it. We did it, with bullets, not ballots. And everyone in this town is better off for it. Ask Ted.”

“In what way?” asked Julia suspiciously.

“The Hollywood entertainment industry, including television, is arguably the most potent weapon in the hands of ZOG,” [Zionist Occupied Government] said Morehouse. “To be blunt, it is possibly the only one that might defeat us in the end. The NVA has already demonstrated that we can survive anything Amurrica throws at us by way of police, military, or other armed force. We’re already killing these FATPO [Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization] thugs Hillary sent, and it’s pretty obvious they won’t be able to beat us either. But if we allow the Jews who control Hollywood and the media to shape the minds and attitudes and perceptions of the American people about us, especially young white people—well, we can’t allow that. We won’t allow it. Our primary condition is basically that Hollywood adopts a position of neutrality and balance regarding The Trouble here in the Northwest.”

“How exactly would this work?” asked Julia, fascinated in spite of the fact that she knew Morehouse wasn’t joking about the Jew head reference. “How will the industry know what will get them killed and what will slip under the wire?”

“I think they’ll know,” said Morehouse. “As I said, a large part of this hate-whitey shtick out of Hollywood has always been far more deliberate than most people realize. The Jews inadvertently stumbled upon the most perfect vehicle imaginable for expressing their ancient hatred of all non-Jewish life and all non-Talmudic values, and taking their revenge on the hated goyim by destroying everything we hold sacred and valuable, including our own children. There was indeed once much that was good in America, Ms. Lear, the Old America before the Jews got their hands on Hollywood. But get hold of it they did, and for almost a hundred years they have used it as a weapon to spit on that Old America, and the race that for thousands of years has refused to accept their self-proclaimed status as the Chosen People of God.”

Zack’s wireless phone bleeped. He opened it and listened for almost a minute, then closed it. A grim expression was on his face. “Damn,” he said softly. He looked up at Lear. “Ted, you and I need to talk. It looks like our luck has run out.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Lear.

“That was brigade,” Hatfield told them. “They’ve confirmed that we’re about to get some unwelcome tourists here in Astoria. Fattie’s [the Feds] coming, in force.”

Sheriff Ted Lear was the first to speak. “I didn’t hear anything about that!” he protested.

“I know you didn’t, Ted, or you wouldn’t have let Julia come up here,” replied Hatfield.

Morehouse spoke up. “That means that you weren’t told anything by either the Oregon State Attorney General, or by the feds or anyone else, which is bad news for you. That means that the federals consider your department to be compromised, which of course it is, from their point of view. That in turn means that the FATPO aren’t coming just for us. They’re coming for you, and most likely for your family as well, and for anyone they consider to be on your team. FATPO always enters an area with two lists in their pockets, Sheriff. One is a list of alleged Nationalist or NVA sympathizers. Sometimes those lists are accurate, sometimes they’re not. I think you can assume that you’re on that list, and maybe your mom and Julia here if the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing, which is the case more often than not with this government. The second list is one of potential Unionist collaborators, or loyal Americans as they would say, people who can be relied on to rat out any of their neighbors with Nationalist inclinations, anybody with NVA-connected family members, so forth and so on. Above all, insofar as it is at all humanly possible, save the children.”


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Brigade (novel) Civil war

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XXV

by Harold Covington


“ Comes The Dawn”


Covington in uniform
“The Battle Hymn I can see,” responded Posner. “Congressman Rollins, er, General Rollins I mean, is trying to expand his base beyond the South Side of Chicago, and that means appealing to the blue-haired country club set in both parties. Very symbolic and American and all that, and of course the fact that Roland is the descendant of slaves who were freed in the war the song was written to glorify will add a bit of poignancy. Okay, that part I get. But has anyone seriously tried to talk him out of the MacArthur impersonation with the hat and the shades and the corncob pipe? Does he really not understand that he will be making himself look damned ridiculous? Anyway, it’s been done before.”

“Like most Americans will even remember who Douglas MacArthur was,” snorted Hastings. “Most of our wonderful viewers have difficulty remembering what they had for breakfast yesterday.”

“That’s Rolly’s whole life,” said Sue with a shrug. “He’s always been out to prove that anything a white man can do, a black man can do better and Rolly Rollins can do better still. It’s gotten him re-elected for six terms in Chicago, until he resigned to take over FATPO [Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization]. Now he wants to add anti-racist war hero to his resumé.”

“This is not a war, Ms. Loomis,” Posner corrected her. “This is a law enforcement action against hate criminals.”

“No, those assholes have no idea we know they’re coming.” Zack made it a point to sound a lot more confident than he felt. “I was in Iraq, God damn it all, and I’ve seen what happens when anybody tries that shit! We’re guerrillas, remember? If we go head on against the Americans we’ll be wiped out and lose everything we’ve spent years building here! We’re trying to free our people and create a new country, not go to Paradise with seventy virgins, and not play Rambo! One driver per team who knows where the vehicle is parked, and he or she stays with that team and guides them back to the vehicle when we disperse, which we’ll have to do fast, because we’re going to have helicopter gunships chasing us.”

“They think this is Iraq in 2003,” said Len.

“Why should they?” asked Washburn flatly. “Until three years ago, white men never resisted before. I still don’t think they can wrap their minds around it. When the shit hits the fan, kill those media lice. All of them.” He got a brief chorus of “Roger that.”

The sea wind tousled his hair, he looked rugged and relaxed, and his voice was deep and authoritative. “I am standing here on a deserted beach somewhere on the Oregon coast, where in a few minutes General Roland Rollins, officer commanding of the Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization, will be landing with a large force of highly trained and motivated men and women who are determined to take a big bite out of racist terror today. In a stunning and daring move, General Rollins has taken to the high seas in a brilliant flanking movement in order to insert some major American muscle right into the heart of NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] bandit country, a part of the United States that has seen little law and less order for the past several years. It’s a part of our country where people of color, Latino people, gay people, and anyone whose heart isn’t filled with hate have been afraid to set foot for a long time.”

While the media party waited idly for the fast approaching Ventura, Seth Goldstein was growing increasingly uncomfortable. “Hey man, I got to drain the snake,” he said to Hastings. “If I take a whizz in the surf here will you promise not to film it?”

“No promises,” laughed Hastings. “We are already working on our outtakes and bloopers reel for this shoot. Go up behind the dunes.”

On the bridge of the Higby Lieutenant JG Day told Executive Officer Lieutenant Hacker, “One of the shore party is leaving the group, sir.”

Goldstein trudged up the apparently empty beach toward the roadway, looking for a nice concealed spot to urinate where his merry colleagues wouldn’t film him and preserve it for the ages. He saw a low rise of sand and sea oats at the base of the right-hand berm that looked promising. He reached the mound, unzipped his trousers and unlimbered his circumcised schwanze, and stepped around the mound of sea oats preparatory to emptying his bladder.

One of the men slapped his hand over Seth’s mouth and the third grabbed and pinioned his arms. Goldstein tried to shriek in pain and terror. He recognized Hatfield, who leaned over him, studying Goldstein’s camel face, his acned skin and fleshy nose and frizzy hair. “A Jew,” Hatfield said. Hatfield leaned over and cupped Goldstein’s roundhead in his hands, and whispered the single word “Dresden!” in his ear before snapping his necklike a pretzel.

“Great, now we have to stand on a dead Jew with shit in his pants,” groused Charlie.

Charlie Washburn stared at this apparition through his binoculars. “What on earth? Is that Idi Amin or Douglas MacArthur?” he asked, fascinated.

Rollins strode forth energetically through the surf, which reached up to his knees as he stepped off the ramp. His FATPO escorts slogged soggily along with him on either side. The rousing chorus of The Battle Hymn of the Republic thundered overhead. “Ready!” snapped Hatfield into the radio. To the surprise of both Ekstrom and Washburn, Hatfield stepped up out of the dug out and walked several paces toward the beach, upright, totally visible.

Higher up on Sunset Beach, Zack Hatfield raised his radio to his lips and shouted into the handset the command to fire. “Freedom!”

200 million viewers around the globe saw the body of Roland Rollins torn to pieces as five .50-caliber slugs smashed into him, and sent him twirling and whirling head over heels high into the air like a popped balloon, knocking him into the sea where he floated like a sack of gaudy, dirty laundry.

Roland Rollins died at 5:45 a.m. exactly, or 0545 hours to use military time, just as the golden sunrise flooded the beach with glowing amber light. Among the 200 million viewers who saw him die were Captain Meryl Sandoval and Lieutenant Donald Hacker, who were monitoring the raw feed transmission on the bridge of the Higby. Both of them stared at the screen as Rollins whirled away into the air flapping like a scarecrow in the wind.

0548 hours: On the beach most of the media party had gone down in the first hail of NVA bullets, as per Hatfield’s orders, and were now either lying very still on the sand in sodden red puddles or crawling along blindly like squashed and bleeding beetles.

Leonard Posner, to give him fair due, died while trying to do his job. He jerked the camera back up into a standing position on its tripod, leveled it and made sure it was on, and then stepped in front of it with a microphone, his face ghastly. “This is Leonard Posner on Sunset Beach in Oregon. Just now the world was shocked and horrified to witness the death of General Roland Rollins at the hand of the fascist beasts, who are now firing at the men and women of the FATPO and the S. S. Ventura from entrenched positions along the beach here. Somehow or other we have been lured into a bloody ambush. There are bullets flying all around me, but the brave men and women of FATPO are resisting and preparing to…” The world would never know what Posner claimed the brave men and women of FATPO were about to do, because at that moment a .50-caliber BMG slug decapitated him, and his headless blood-gushing corpse slid down out of the camera’s view like a special effect from a zombie movie.

0550:30 hours: “Madre de Dios, what’s that?” screamed Meryl Sandoval on the bridge of the Higby.

Hacker for once was at a loss for a snappy retort. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But something big as hell just went up on board Ventura.”

“Captain Mulvaney, do you read?” Hacker spoke urgently into his radio. “Are you all right? What the hell happened, Derek?”

“Damned if I know,” came Mulvaney’s reply, his voice shaky and dazed. “If I didn’t know better I’d say we were torpedoed, or hit a mine. Whatever it was blew the ship’s bow into the air and we landed on our side. We’re listing to port, almost twenty degrees, God damn it!”

“What the hell happened with that gun turret of yours blowing up?” asked Zack curiously. “I don’t think that was us.”

Hacker scowled. “Our bird-brained excuse for a captain was an affirmative action quota promotion, a mami who couldn’t sail a rubber duck in a bathtub.”


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Brigade (novel) Civil war

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XXVI

by Harold Covington


“ The Producers”


Covington in uniform
All were Jewish, and at least half were wearing yarmulkes. The air was frigid as ice, and not just from the air conditioning that rumbled full blast from the air vents. The eyes of the Jews at the table bored into Brewer with a concentrated, pure hatred that was almost radioactive; Brewer knew full well that every man there wanted him dead, and they were all thinking of ways that might be accomplished, preferably tonight, right here in this room, and as bloodily as possible. For him there was no offer of refreshment, no schmoozing, no polite small talk, not even a water pitcher and glass on the table. Brewer walked to the far end of the table and without a word sat down, opened his briefcase, and took out the yellow legal pad and pen, which he placed before him.

“Why?” grated Arnold Blaustein, his voice like metal scraping on metal. “This town made you. We made you. All your life we have put every crumb of food on your table, bought every mai tai you ever drank in Trader Vic’s, bought every car you ever drove, paid every penny of your mortgage, and for this you have spat the blood of God’s Chosen People in our faces. Why have you done this, Barry?”

“And that’s all you see, isn’t it?” said Brewer. “Money. Material things. Life as a balance sheet drawn up with double-entry bookkeeping, profit and loss. It’s all any of you can see, isn’t it? Never mind. I have done it because it had to be done, and no one else would. Beyond that I won’t be making any speeches or harangues, and I recommend the same course to you. We have business to settle. Now can we get on with this? I assure you gentlemen that your company is just as distasteful to me as mine is to you, so the sooner we get done the sooner we can depart.”

“I agree. Get on with it,” snarled Moshe Feinstein from DreamWorks-Disney. He lit a huge cigar, his hands trembling so bad in impotent rage he could barely flick the $4,500 platinum Zippo lighter into a flame.

“There is a war going on in the Pacific Northwest,” said Brewer. “Up until now Hollywood and the entertainment industry as a whole have supported one side in that war, the United States of America and its government. That support ends tonight, and Hollywood will become neutral. Not openly, just in practice. No one expects you to make any public declarations or dramatic announcements.”

“And this neutrality that you speak of involves our doing what, exactly?” demanded Dave Danziger coldly.

“Not much, but it does entail an extensive list of things which you will not do,” said Brewer. “We’re realistic. We understand that we can’t bring back the Hayes Office and stop you from spewing forth the kind of perverted filth and mindless rubbish that you always have. You have spent the past three generations creating a market for that sewage, it’s what the brain-dead public now wants, and it sells. This also applies to such personages as wise-ass late night talk show hosts, potty-mouthed stand-up comedians, and cable news show talking heads. There will be no more snide little needling jokes, no more vilification and insulting portrayals of Northwest Volunteers as psychos and cretins and generally bad people.”

Walt Wexler from World Artists spoke up. “Uh, sorry, Barry, I’ve got to ask. Did you actually see what you and your—your friends did on Oscar night? I did, because I was there, although by the grace of God all I got was a slight wound. How in the name of God can you say that the perpetrators of that horror are not bad people? What would you call that unspeakable slaughter if not psychopathic?”

“I would call it an act of war just as much as any engagement between soldiers. In case you’ve missed the past century, Walt, that’s how wars have been fought since 1914,” said Brewer in a level voice. “Anti-white incitement and group defamation from Hollywood and the television industry, directed against Gentile people of European ancestry, will cease forthwith. This isn’t just a matter of common decency or fairness; we wouldn’t be so naïve. It’s so you can’t sneak in anti-NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] propaganda in the guise of historical films or apparently unrelated plot lines in TV series, etcetera. There are to be no more fat Southern sheriffs beating on poor defenseless white liberals. There are to be no more evil Nazis acting as clownish foils for your infantile action heroes. There are to be no more evil Confederates flogging black women, no more Ku Klux Klansmen raping and lynching, no more stereotyped redneck villains getting beaten up by clever wisecracking niggers, no more equating a woman having blond hair with being an idiot and a slut. No more racial or cultural stereotyping of any kind directed against white people. I don’t have to spell this out for you, gentlemen. You all know damned well what you’ve been doing for the past century, and please do not insult my intelligence by trying to deny that you don’t understand me perfectly well.”

“We get it,” said Blaustein with a nod.

“Thank you. The third point may be the hardest for you to swallow, but I need to emphasize that these terms are a complete package, not a buffet. It’s all or nothing.” Brewer took a deep breath. “All Holocaust propaganda comes to a screeching halt. Now, and that includes that piece of dreck your people are over in Poland filming now, Mr. Feinstein.”

“What? Ashes of Auschwitz? You’re telling me I can’t commemorate the Shoah, where one hundred and thirty-seven of mine family vas gassed by Hitler? How dare you? Chillul Ha Shem!” shrieked Feinstein, turning purple and waving his fists in the air, spittle flying from his lips as the burning cigar fell down into his lap unheeded.

“Crap,” said Brewer succinctly. “It’s crap, it was always crap, and you’ve milked it long enough. For three generations you people have squeezed an endless river of gold out of something that never happened, at least not in any way, shape, or form resembling your official version. Now you are going to stop it, just like you’re going to stop insulting and degrading white people as a whole. Germans are white people and they are most distinctly covered in the no-defamation and no-lying clauses of our little entente here. No one expects you to admit that you’ve been defrauding the world for 75 years. Like I’ve said, we’re realistic. But you’ve already got enough of that horseshit in circulation to keep you rolling in royalties for the next 75 years. You’re going to shut down the Holocaust sector of the entertainment industry now, as much as that’s possible. No more movies, no more TV specials, no more long moans in black and white with cellos in the background, and your palms out for money and sympathy you don’t deserve. No more of that crap! My God, the FBI already arrests anyone who questions the official version anyway under the hatecrime laws, and sends them off to re-education camps to have their brains washed squeaky clean like Winston Smith in 1984. Isn’t that enough for you? We understand that the mountain of Holocaust shit already reaches to the sky, and it’s going to take generations to undo the damage you’ve done to humanity’s psyche with your lies, but you’re not going to be allowed to throw one more shovel-load of shit on the heap. Hear what I say, gentlemen, or by God, we will show you a Holocaust, and we have demonstrated that we have the capability to do just that.”


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Brigade (novel) Civil war

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XXVII

by Harold Covington


“ Two On The Bounce” (*)


Covington in uniform
It was difficult to believe that not thirty miles to the west one entered the Third Battalion’s Bandit Country, a liberated zone where not a dark skin or a federal badge was to be seen. But Portland itself remained a left-liberal stronghold, one of the few real bastions of government support remaining in the Northwest, and Portland State University was a hotbed of political correctness and anti-racist hysteria.

“Boy, that was quick. They must be after us hot and heavy to get it on the air so fast. Us First Brigade boys are really photogenic,” said Eric dryly. “First those guys on Flanders Street, then Cat leading the band on Oscar night, then Cap Hatfield and the Wild Bunch on Sunset Beach, now us. We’re giving the media all kinds of exciting footage.”

“Hopefully these new threads will disguise us until we can get picked up,” said Annette. They turned and walked on. “Well, this is it. Our old lives are gone now. Any regrets?”

“Not a one,” Eric told her.

“Me neither.”

“Annette, I want you to listen to me and not give me any feminist bullshit or backtalk,” Eric continued, quietly but firmly. “If things break bad, I will hold off whoever it is and draw them off onto me. I want you to run, run like hell, and don’t look back.”

“You did pretty good with nothing but this laptop back there in the student union,” she reminded him.

“I was lucky, and there was only one of them. We won’t have that kind of luck again. I mean it, Annette. You’re a woman, and your life is more important to the future of the race than mine, as pompous as that sounds. You can give life to those who will come after. Like you said, we’re supposed to split up anyway. If anything goes down I want you to run.”

______________

(*) “On the Bounce” — Northwest Volunteer Army slang term for being on the run from the American police and military.



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Categories
Brigade (novel) Civil war Justice / revenge

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XXVIII

by Harold Covington


“The Butcher’s Bill”


Covington in uniform
Overall, things were going badly for the Americans.

There were hundreds of communities, now all white. One could always tell when one was in such a free zone, because the flagpoles on government buildings and schools were bare, or sometimes flew only a state flag.

Those who resisted the concept of armed struggle before the war had always claimed that ZOG’s [Zionist Occupied Government] immense technological advantages prohibited guerrilla warfare in North America, but it turned out that this simply wasn’t the case.

“Probably a drop-in photo op thing, like I said,” answered Lockhart. “The Israelis are really ginning up their PR [Public Relations] machine in this country. The word seems to be that the Muslims are finally going to quit fooling around with the various American occupation garrisons in their assorted countries and they’re going to launch some kind of mass offensive aimed at Israel, no one is quite sure how, but that’s the buzz. The Jews are worried, judging from the money they’re throwing around Washington, D.C. like it was confetti, and judging from the way the damned TV preachers are calling down the spirit for Israel even more than they ever have before. This is probably part of their campaign to pressure the United States into finally nuking Mecca.”

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Gardner. “I’m not a Muslim, but even I know that will simply make any peace between us and them impossible, forever.”

“I think that’s the idea,” said Lockhart dryly. “Make damned good and sure we can never call this madness off.”

“May I suggest this might be an appropriate occasion for Operation Festival, sir?” asked Jackson quietly. “Technically I’m supposed to get the Army Council’s permission before I initiate Festival and possibly cost us more casualties than we can afford to lose,” said Coyle with a sigh. “For the next 24 hours, we are going after these sons of bitches. Blood vengeance for a fallen brother is a just and righteous act, and a moral duty to all men of honor and pride. Suicide fails our cause and our future, and it fails Cat-Eyes Lockhart and Joe Mohr and Scott Gardner. They would want us to live for the Republic, not die for it. Spill the enemy’s blood tonight, but spare your own as much as possible.”

That night all hell broke loose in Portland. About dusk, the two urban brigades of the NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] coalesced into a little over a hundred assault teams, four to six people per team, with at least two vehicles per team.

Commandant Billy Jackson and First Brigade were assigned the mission of attacking and doing as much damage as possible in downtown and North Portland, the last remaining African ghetto of any significance remaining in the Homeland. “If it looks at all feasible, I want to see if we can clean out that whole damned black spot tonight,” Coyle told him. “We need to beautify the City of Roses by making sure there’s not a single black face on the streets. Oh, and while you’re at it, see if you can clean up Portland University. According to Tom and Becky the few decent white students live off campus, so it’s pretty much a free fire zone.”

“Can you let me have the smokers, Tom?” asked Jackson. “I think they’re just what the doctor ordered for those putrid groves of academe up there.” “That’s affirmative,” said Coyle with a nod. “Tonight we unveil all three of our secret weapons and introduce ’em to Mister Joo.”

By seven o’clock that night the television news had figured out that something was going on, and interrupted regular programming with a series of increasingly confused and hysterical reports and rumors.

FATPO [Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization] and police patrols moving through the winter darkness were being fired on from every corner and rooftop by snipers and RPGs [Rocket-Propelled Grenades], by small parties of Volunteers who then vanished into the night. What little liberal-lefty night life still existed in Portland was down in the Pearl District; now small groups of men and women were running through the streets throwing hand grenades and Molotov cocktails through the doors and windows of trendy yuppie fern bars and night clubs, shooting anyone with a black or brown face, dodging into alleyways and in and out of buildings when the police pursued, then turning and firing on their pursuers. By seven thirty the downtown area was rattling and crackling with gunshots, bursts of automatic weapons fire and the intermittent hollow boom of explosions, mixed with screaming and shouting as patrons of various establishments fled for cover.

The elements from First Brigade’s D and E Companies sent to assault the University of Portland found the campus in chaos, devoid of police or FATPOs, all of whom had been ordered into North Portland or elsewhere through some act of carelessness or incompetence. About 50 Volunteers split into two groups and moved into Eric and Annette’s alma mater from Park Avenue on the south side of campus and 12th Avenue on the north side. The electricity was out, but the university’s emergency generators had kicked in, so there was some light outside and in the larger buildings.

Groups of students, mostly non-whites, were milling around on the quads, in the student union and in the dorms, some with candles, many with beers. A number of persons of color and wildly bearded Jewish-looking types were up on benches or planter walls haranguing small clumps of listeners with long screeching tirades of the left-wing “Fight the Fascists!” variety; one oddball Mexican was actually shouting the famous Communist battle cry from the Spanish Civil War, “¡No pasarán!” Some of the students had gotten hold of a motley variety of pistols and long arms from somewhere, probably gang-banger hardware, and they were flourishing them and firing them in the air, jumping around like demented monkeys and screaming about fighting the Fascists.

Then all of the sudden there was the NVA in the flesh, coming at them from out of the darkness, gun muzzles flashing, cutting them down with aimed shots like shooting fish in a barrel, and the student scum turned and stampeded in terror. The Fascists passed all right, as they had done in 1938. Finally the Volunteers turned loose the first NVA secret weapon of the night, a pair of two-man crews each armed with a home-made flamethrower built from scuba diving tanks that contained a pressurized load of home-made napalm, one of the Red Baron’s creations, shot in a thin but volatile stream through a nozzle adapted from a welding torch. The “smokers” worked perfectly as they went from building to building and dorm to dorm. Inside twenty minutes the entire campus was in flames.

By ten o’clock at night North Portland was a burning madhouse. “Maybe a way to wind up Operation Festival… physically and psychologically,” said Hill.


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Brigade (novel) Civil war Justice / revenge Martin Luther

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XXIX

by Harold Covington


“We Won!”


Covington in uniform
“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.”



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Brigade (novel) Civil war Sword

The Brigade excerpts, chapter XXX

by Harold Covington


“Names On The Wall”



Covington in uniform
It was now fifteen years since the bloody morning in Coeur d’Alene, when outraged white men had finally arisen in arms to strike at the bloody claw of Zion that sought the lives of their children. It had been ten years since the Tricolor had gone up over the Longview conference, and the Northwest Republic had proclaimed its independence. Hill still couldn’t quite grasp in his own mind the fantastic changes that had taken place in the Homeland since the Revolution. Wherever he went now, he looked out over a clean, peaceful and prosperous world that had overcome every obstacle to establish a society that was stable, just, compassionate, safe, and fearless, a nation strong with faith in the destiny of this land and her people.

Despite the sanctions and shortages of the early years, despite the monotonous threats of war and invasion from the rest of the world, despite the constant bombardment of screaming hatred from the media and the politicians from what remained of the world’s Judaic liberal democracies, despite all the problems, every year white people Came Home to the Northwest by the hundreds of thousands. They ran the barbed wire and the minefields in Aztlan, Canada, and the United States. They dodged the helicopters and the shoot-to-kill patrols. They snuck in via the cargo holds of blockade-running ships and planes. They used every conceivable subterfuge somehow to bring themselves and their families to this land where their present and their future had been won and secured by the sword, and where they were willing to die if need be to live among their own, and only among their own.

There was a knock on Hill’s door. “Come in,” he said. The door opened and Special Service General William Jackson walked in, wearing full black dress uniform with silver piping, Swastika armband, peaked cap and dagger. He had a paper file folder under his arm. “Hey, Billy. I see you’re all dolled up for your speech,” said Hill.

“Yeah, I have to go in a few minutes,” said Jackson. “NBA [Northwest Broadcasting Authority] is broadcasting it on the Government Channel.”

“And what’s your competition?” asked Hill with a smile. “A 1950s Western on Channel Four and cartoons on the Children’s Channel?”

“Actually, Channel Four is showing Braveheart, like they always do on Independence Day, and some of these new cartoons are actually pretty good,” said Jackson. “You’ve seen Kappy the Kike?”

* * *

Down on the wide green swath of the Capitol Mall, a number of veterans from the newly formed NVA [Northwest Volunteer Army] Old Fighters Association had gathered for the Independence Day holiday. The Memorial Wall stood before them in massive black basalt, bearing the inscribed names of all the NVA and NDF [Northwest Defense Force] personnel who had given their lives during the War of Independence. It had only been unveiled a few months before. A large Tricolor flag of blue, white, and green flew over it, on a stone pillar bearing the seal of the Northwest Volunteer Army. Along the base of the monument, chiseled into the finest Italian marble, were the words: “Beloved kinsmen, from the world of darkness into which we were born, from the time of struggle in which we laid down our lives that you and your children may walk in the light, we greet you.”

Many people were taking sheets of white paper and stubby soft lead pencils from a small kiosk off to one side of the monument. They mounted the steps and walked along the long row of alphabetically listed names, finding and tracing onto the paper in graphite the names of former comrades. Many of them were quietly weeping, men and women alike. In front of the monument dozens of children were running around on the grass, playing and screaming and hollering, mostly oblivious to the solemn adults around them. No one tried to hush them or shoo them off. It was for them that the people on the monument had died, after all.

Ex Gladio Libertas.
Freedom comes from the sword.


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Brigade (novel) Literature

Covington’s ‘The Brigade’


The Brigade excerpts, chapter I

The Brigade excerpts, chapter II

The Brigade excerpts, chapter III

The Brigade excerpts, chapter IV

The Brigade excerpts, chapter V

The Brigade excerpts, chapter VI

The Brigade excerpts, chapter VII