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Old October 21st, 2017 #1
Rick Schmidt
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Default Soldier Zero: Mission

A book that I am working on. This is a fictional what-if account of Robert Mathews if he had survived Whidbey Island. Comments welcomed.
Boycott the Jewish 500

This is Chapter 1

The Order: Tick Tock
07 December 1984

In this scenario you are Robert J. Mathews, notorious member of the revolutionary group, The Order. You and your allies have been responsible for several killings and over a dozen robberies over the past few years. The highpoint of your success, so far, was the Ukai armored car robbery. This score netted you and your compatriots over three million dollars for a single day’s work.

Unfortunately, you dropped a handgun that was registered in your name in the cargo hold of the Brinks truck during the action. That gun was found by the Federals. You’ve been identified and now you are the target of a massive manhunt. You were flushed from Portland; you went north. Now you are on Whidbey Island, in Peugeot Sound – Washington State. Your remote cabin is completely surrounded by ATF, FBI, and US Marshalls. To fight back is suicide; to surrender is more than likely also suicide. Someone will slip. Someone will make a mistake. The cops want you too badly.

With you in the cabin is Metz, your last point of contact with the CSA – that’s Covenant, Sword, and Arm of the Lord, not Confederate States of America. You have political contacts in the government, few and far between, but powerful nonetheless. Not all government and financial entities have been subverted by ZOG (Zionist Occupational Government), just most of them.
Mr. North is your contact within President Reagan’s inner circle. You have had a running relationship with North for going on two years now. If you can break out of the encirclement just one more time – just one more time, you know you can make it free and clear and begin in earnest to achieve your larger goal of a new White World Order. You just have to get away, one more time.

The siege of your cabin is now in its second day. The Feds have been patient. There are reporters with cameras on site day and night, just waiting for the blood. Each one wants to make a name for himself or herself. Whether you live or die in the process is immaterial, so long as they get the story.
Your only tactical advantage, and the word advantage is a complete overstatement, is that the authorities believe you are alone. They had not yet been tipped off to your presence when Metz arrived on foot with your provisions. And there’s also the root cellar. No plans for the cabin were ever filed with the local government. You have a sixteen by eight room directly beneath you, accessible only by ladder, concealed by a trap door beneath the Gustav Stickley rocker you are currently sitting in.

The cabin windows are shuttered and braced from the inside; the door is barricaded, and your assailants are growing impatient. You have well over one hundred thousand rounds of ammunition and a dozen firearms stored in this safe house. The .308 rifle with armor piercing tungsten bullets – the one you used to convince the armored car drivers to surrender with – is safely in your lap. You are rocking, gently rocking, allowing your thoughts to drift, yet come together at the same time.

No one is going to rescue you. You’re not alone in the world, but to challenge the absolute number of Federals around the cabin and in the near vicinity would not be wise – even if your people could muster a numerical advantage.
Metz seems to be taking the situation well. He’s drunk off his ass on the cases of Olympia and Rainier beer that you had stashed for the Day of the Covenant festivities this month. Not much help to you in his current condition, but what could you reasonably expect, given the current circumstances?

It’s dusk now, and the Feds are setting up their massive array of flood lights to make sure you don’t slip away in the pitch black darkness of the secluded pine forest that surrounds the property. It’s a game you play with them. They set up the lights and you shoot them out through your crosshatch rifle points in the shutters. As the Feds bring in more lights, they use forty millimeter parachute flares to light up the night sky during the transfer time.
That prick, Damron. He’s been on your case for months now. Special Agent in Charge of what? Getting caught with his pants down while you get away Scott free? He might have you this time, but all you need is a chance.

The smallest probability can be exploited; exploited and expanded to become the domino that matters, the last straw that broke the camel’s back.

0345
While playing with the Feds, you catch a light smell of smoke. You won’t realize for another fifteen minutes that your roof is on fire. Whether the Feds intentionally launched flares directly over the cabin or not is immaterial. It just doesn’t matter now.

This is the pivot point; the opportunity for you to flip the scenario to one that is more to your liking. You tried to count the opposition before dark, stopping in exasperation at one hundred and twelve. Impossible. No, just highly unlikely. Perhaps the same odds as the Cubs winning the World Series in the next fifty years: It could happen.

The Feds are on the bullhorn now, warning you of the fire and ordering you to surrender immediately. What would Von Clausewitz do in a seemingly impossible situation? You know what Hitler did. You’re not Hitler. You have to be better, stronger, faster. The Ubermensch for your Age.

Warning shots – tracers; they’ll accelerate the flames, merge the fires together and strengthen the conflagration. The ammo stockpile – it’s all consolidated in the back bedroom and at some point it will begin to cook off. The Federals will think you’re shooting at them and they will then open fire in earnest. The cameras will film everything. The reporters will get their story. The Agents will get their medals. The good guys will win again.

But not quite. Things are not as they appear. The cops serve their ZOG master, wittingly or unwittingly. Doesn’t matter. The reports are ZOG, part and parcel – wittingly. And, oh yeah, you’re the Good Guy - in the larger scheme of things. You serve the ultimate goal: the preservation and eventual re-establishment of White Imperialism. It’s like that new Highlander movie: There can be only one.

Hitler’s Werewolves wrote “88” on the buildings as they retreated through the ruins of Berlin. Your friend David Land will write The 88 Precepts of White Power. But you, your fight is visceral. You feel and know in your being that you are the living embodiment of the White Power movement. You were born on August 8th, 8/8 – and your confidence and resilience toward extricating yourself and Metz from the situation at hand is growing with each passing moment.

Smoke is filling the structure now. You open the trap door and lower your comrade, nearly comatose from drink, into the dark rat hole for safety. You know from your studies that it’s not the flames that kill; the fire takes the oxygen and the victims die from suffocation. The question is this: can you create enough of an airtight barrier in the basement room to weather the firestorm safely? You’ve got jugs of water and beer, lots of beer – and the .308 with two bandoliers of ammunition.

You soak the cotton comforters from the blanket chest in the beer and wrap Metz up, head to toe, laying him down in the corner of the secret room. The floor above you is well-made, tongue and groove planks with no holes. But it’s still wood. You need the ammo to cook off and burn hot – making the fire burn through the structure quickly and hopefully leave the main floor boards intact. The roof will likely collapse into the living room above you, but at least you’ll have a decent chance of surviving another day on this Earth.

The flames have been going in earnest for nearly an hour now. No fire department; the Feds are having their own little barbeque tonight, toasting each other and celebrating their victory over the hated Bob Mathews. You hear the timbers above begin to creak, and brace yourself for the worst. Even in the beer-soaked blankets, it’s well over a hundred degrees in your hole and rising. You have no choice but to endure. You check Metz and it’s no good. The alcohol did him no favors; DOA, system shock. Body couldn’t take the combination of extreme temperature and reduced air. Like Josey Wales said: “Dyin’s just another part of livin’. You close your friend’s eyes and wish him well in whatever Valhalla he believed in.

It’s not over. You’re on the floor, fetal position. Fighting the sleep, the eternal sleep that beckons you to embrace it. One short trip, just the hint of surrender and you will descend the precipice that ZOG has built for you. Death be not proud. Life is your nemesis and it is that life that you cling to now. White light for White Power. Short breaths, just enough, find the oxygen on the floor. Live.

The explosions above startle you, but you needed that adrenaline to jump start your body’s survival mode. The endorphins dilate your pupils; bring you back from the brink. New strength courses within your sinews, but it’s only temporary, and you know it. You calm yourself. You can’t afford to waste precious energy. Conserve. Conserve.

You hear the last bit of ammunition cook off, along with the last of the firing from the authorities’ party. You check your Pulsar watch: 0656. The heat has subsided, and the chilly December air again begins to infiltrate your confines. And then you hear voices. They’re above you, poking through the rubble. Whether it’s cops or firemen, you know not. You have to stay still, no shifting, no noises. Imperative.

“Tape it off. Post a guard to keep the groupies out.” This is all you hear. They believe that you could not have survived. Let’s not do anything to risk countering that belief.

Twelve hours pass. You risk cracking the trap door. It budges, but only a few inches. The air is sweeter than any you have ever breathed. Life. You will live to fight another day. It’s only a matter of patience now. Peering through the door, you can see that Mr. Stickley’s rocker took the brunt of the center roof timber’s collapse. The support rests eight inches above and a foot right of the center over the door, resting comfortably on what’s left of the rocking chair. This is doable. It can be accomplished. 308 rifle, report for secondary duty. Through the eight inch aperture you get angle, and hopefully enough leverage on the timber. You’re pushing it back, angling toward the trap door’s hinges – so that you gain the extra foot you need to squeeze out of here as noiselessly as possible.

Darkness falls of this first day of your renewed and reclaimed life. You’ve gained perhaps six inches of shift on the beam. You’re drinking warm beer for energy, not too much, not too quickly. You have to keep your wits about you. At three am, finally, the .308 gains the needed leverage to make a final push toward freedom. It’s pitch black, but you can feel that your way has been cleared. The pathway to victory begins here. But you have one final task to undertake.

In the morning mist, which billows and builds to a heavy fog by one half hour before sunrise, you say goodbye to Metz, wrapping his body in more blankets in preparation for his immolation. You lay the .308 with your fingerprints a foot from his body and take out your Cricket lighter. Metz fully deserves the fascist salute you give him before you creep from the death chamber.

An even trade: His death for the life of an entire race. The Feds will (hopefully) believe his body to be yours, and not dig too deeply into any attempt to prove otherwise. You have new people to meet and new missions to accomplish. The pre-dawn fog conceals your departure and your new lease on life reveals the new opportunities that lay ahead.
 
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