The Turner Diaries
September 30, 1991. There's been so much work
in the last week that I've had no time to write. Our plan for setting up
the network was simple and straightforward, but actually doing it has
required a terrific effort, at least on my part. The difficulties I've had
to overcome have emphasized for me once again the fact that even the
best-laid plans can be dangerously misleading unless they have built into
them a large amount of flexibility to allow for unforeseen
problems.
Basically, the network linking all the
Organization's units together depends on two modes of communication: human
couriers and highly specialized radio transmissions. I'm responsible not
only for our own unit's radio receiving equipment but also for the overall
maintenance and supervision of the receivers of the eleven other units in
the Washington area and the transmitters of Washington Field Command and
Unit 9. What really messed up my week was the last-minute decision at WFC
to equip Unit 2 with a transmitter too. I had to do the
equipping.
The way the network is set up, all
communications requiring consultation or lengthy briefing or situation
reports are done orally, face-to-face. Now that the telephone company
maintains a computerized record of all local calls as well as
long-distance calls, and with the political police monitoring so many
conversations, telephones are ruled out for our use except in unusual
emergencies.
On the other hand, messages of a standard
nature, which can be easily and briefly coded, are usually transmitted by
radio. The Organization put a great deal of thought into developing a
"dictionary" of nearly 800 different, standardized messages, each of which
can be specified by a three-digit number.
Thus, at a
particular time, the number "2006" might specify the message: "The
operation scheduled by Unit 6 is to be postponed until further notice."
One person in each unit has memorized the entire message dictionary and is
responsible for knowing what the current number coding of the dictionary
is at all times. In our unit that person is
George.
Actually, it's not as hard as it sounds. The
message dictionary is arranged in a very orderly way, and once one has
memorized its basic structure it's not too difficult to memorize the whole
thing. The number-coding of the messages is randomly shifted every few
days, but that doesn't mean that George has to learn the dictionary all
over again; he just needs to know the new numerical designation of a
single message, and he can then work out the designations for all the
others in his head.
Using this coding system allows us to
maintain radio contact with good security, using extremely simple and
portable equipment. Because our radio transmissions never exceed a second
in duration and occur very infrequently, the political police are not
likely to get a directional fix on any transmitter or to be able to decode
any intercepted message.
Our receivers are even simpler
than our transmitters and are a sort of cross between a transistorized
pocket broadcast receiver and a pocket calculator. They remain "on" all
the time, and if a numerical pulse with the right tone-coding is broadcast
by any of our transmitters in the area they will pick it up and display
and hold a numerical readout, whether they are being monitored at the
moment or not.
My major contribution to the Organization so
far has been the development of this communications equipment-and, in
fact, the actual manufacture of a good bit of it.
The first
series of messages broadcast by Washington Field Command to all units in
this area was on Sunday. It gave instructions for each unit to send its
contact man to a numerically specified location to receive a briefing and
deliver a unit situation report.
When George returned from
Sunday's briefing he relayed the news to the rest of us. The gist of it
was that, although there has been no trouble in the Washington area yet,
WFC is worried by the reports which it has received from our informants
with the political police.
The System is going all-out to
get us. Hundreds of persons who are suspected to have sympathies for the
Organization or some remote affiliation with us have been arrested and
interrogated. Among these are several of our "legals," but apparently the
authorities haven't been able to pin anything definite on any of them yet
and the interrogations haven't produced any real clues. Still, the
System's reaction to last week's events in Chicago has been more
widespread and more energetic than expected.
One thing
on which they are working is a computerized, universal, internal passport
system. Every person 12 years or more of age will he issued a passport and
will be required, under threat of severe penalties, to carry it at all
times. Not only can a person be stopped on the street by any police agent
and asked to show his passport, but they have worked out a plan to make
the passports necessary for many everyday operations, such as purchasing
an airline, bus, or train ticket, registering in a motel or hotel, and
receiving any medical service in a hospital or clinic.
All
ticket counters, motels, physician's offices, and the like will be
equipped with computer terminals linked by telephone lines to a huge,
national data bank and computer center. A customer's magnetically coded
passport number will routinely be fed into the computer whenever he buys a
ticket, pays a bill, or registers for a
service. If there is any
irregularity, a warning light will go on in the nearest police precinct
station, showing the location of the offending computer terminal-and the
unfortunate customer
They've been developing this internal
passport system for several years now and have everything worked out in
detail. The only reason it hasn't been put into operation has been squawks
from civil-liberties groups, who see it as another big step toward a
police state-which, of course, it is. But now the System is sure it can
override the resistance of the libertarians by using us as an excuse.
Anything is permitted in the fight against "racism"!
It
will take at least three months to install the necessary equipment and get
the system operational, but they are going ahead with it as fast as they
can, figuring to announce it as await accompli with full backing from the
news media. Later, the system will gradually be expanded, with computer
terminals eventually required in every retail establishment. No person
will be able to eat a meal in a restaurant, pick up his laundry, or buy
groceries without having his passport number magnetically read by a
computer terminal beside the cash register.
When things get
to that point the System will really have a pretty tight grip on the
citizenry. With the power of modern computers at their disposal, the
political police will be able to pinpoint any person at any time and know
just where he's been and what he's done. We'll have to do some hard
thinking to get around this passport system.
From what our
informants have told us so far, it won't be a simple matter of just
forging passports and making up phony numbers. If the central computer
spots a phony number, a signal will automatically be sent to the nearest
police station. The same thing will happen if John Jones, who lives in
Spokane and is using his passport to buy groceries there, suddenly seems
to be buying groceries in Dallas too. Or even if, when the computer has
Bill Smith safely located in a bowling alley on Main Street, he
simultaneously shows up at a dry-cleaning establishment on the other side
of town
All this is an awesome prospect for us-something
which has been technically feasible for quite a while but which, until
recently, we never would have dreamed the System would actually
attempt.
One piece of news George brought back from his
briefing was a summons for me to make an immediate visit to Unit 2 to
solve a technical problem they had. Ordinarily, neither George nor I would
have known Unit 2's base location, and if it became necessary to meet
someone from that unit the meeting would have taken place elsewhere. This
problem required my going to their hideout, however, and George repeated
to me the directions he had been given.
They are up in
Maryland, more than 30 miles from us, and, since I had to take all my
tools with me anyway, I took the car.
They have a nice
place, a large farmhouse and several outbuildings on about 40 acres of
meadow and woodland. There are eight members in their unit, somewhat more
than in most, but apparently not one of them knows a volt from an ampere
or which end of a screwdriver is which. That is unusual, because some care
was supposed to have been taken when forming our units to distribute
valuable skills sensibly.
Unit 2 is reasonably close to two
other units, but all three are inconveniently far from the other nine
Washington-area units- and especially from Unit 9, which was the only unit
with a transmitter for contacting WFC. Because of this, WFC had decided to
give Unit 2 a transmitter, but they hadn't been able to make it
work.
The reason for their difficulty became obvious as
soon as they ushered me into their kitchen, where their transmitter, an
automobile storage battery, and some odds and ends of wire were spread out
on a table. Despite the explicit instructions which I had prepared to go
with each transmitter, and despite the plainly visible markings beside the
terminals on the transmitter case, they had managed to connect the battery
to the transmitter with the wrong polarity.
I sighed and
got a couple of their fellows to help me bring in my equipment from the
car. First I checked their battery and found it to be almost completely
discharged. I told them to put the battery on the charger while I checked
out the transmitter. Charger? What charger, they wanted to know? They
didn't have one!
Because of the uncertainty of the
availability of electrical power from the lines these days, all our
communications equipment is operated from storage batteries which are
trickle-charged from the lines. This way we are not subject to the power
blackouts and brownouts which have become a weekly, if not daily,
phenomenon in recent years.
Just as with most other public
facilities in this country, the higher the price of electricity has
zoomed, the less dependable it has become. In August of this year, for
example, residential electrical service in the Washington area was out
completely for an average total of four days, and the voltage was reduced
by more than 15 per cent for an average total of 14
days.
The government keeps holding hearings and conducting
investigations and issuing reports about the problem, but it just keeps
getting worse. None of the politicians are willing to face the real issues
involved here, one of which is the disastrous effect Washington's
Israel-dominated foreign policy during the last two decades has had on
America's supply of foreign oil.
I showed them how to
hook up the battery to their truck for an emergency charge and then began
looking into their transmitter to see what damage had been done. A charger
for their battery would have to be found later.
The most
critical part of the transmitter, the coding unit which generates the
digital signal from a pocket-calculator keyboard, seemed to be OK. It was
protected by a diode from damage due to a polarity error. In the
transmitter itself, however, three transistors had been
blown.
I was pretty sure WFC had at least one more spare
transmitter in stock, but in order to find out I would have to get a
message to them. That meant sending a courier over to Unit 9 to transmit a
query and then arranging to have someone from WFC deliver the transmitter
to us. I hesitated to bother WFC, in view of our policy of restricting
radio transmissions from field units to messages of some
urgency.
Since Unit 2 needed a battery charger anyway, I
decided to obtain the replacement transistors from a commercial supply
house at the same time I picked up a charger, and install them myself.
Locating the parts I needed turned out to be easier said than done,
however, and it was after six in the evening when I finally got back to
the farmhouse.
The fuel gauge in the car was reading
"empty" when I pulled into their driveway. Being afraid to risk using my
gasoline ration card at a filling station and not knowing where to find
black-market gasoline around there, I had to ask the people in Unit 2 to
give me a few gallons of fuel to return home. Well, sir, not only did they
have a grand total of about one gallon in their truck, but they didn't
know where any black-market gas was to be had either.
I
wondered how such an inept and unresourceful group of people were going to
survive as an underground unit. It seems that they were all people that
the Organization decided would not be suited for guerrilla activities and
had lumped together in one unit. Four of them are writers from the
Organization's publications department, and they are carrying on their
work at the farm, turning out copy for propaganda pamphlets and leaflets.
The other four are acting only in a supporting role, keeping the place
supplied with food and other needs.
Since nobody in Unit 2
really needs automotive transportation, they hadn't worried much about
fuel. Finally, one of them volunteered to go out later that night and
siphon some gasoline from a vehicle at a neighboring farm. It was about
that time that we had another power failure in the area, so I couldn't use
my soldering iron. I called it quits for the day.
It took
me all of the next day and well into last night to finally get their
transmitter working properly, because of several difficulties I hadn't
anticipated. When the job was finally done, around midnight, I suggested
that the transmitter be installed in a better location than the kitchen,
preferably in the attic, or at least on the second floor of the
house.
We found a suitable location and carried everything
upstairs. In the process I managed to drop the storage battery on my left
foot. At first I was sure I had broken my foot. I couldn't wall: at all on
it.
The result was that I spent another night in the
farmhouse. Despite their shortcomings, everyone in Unit 2 was really very
kind to me, and they were properly appreciative of my efforts on their
behalf.
As had been promised, stolen fuel was provided for
my return trip. Furthermore, they insisted on loading up the car with a
great quantity of canned food for me to take back, of which they seemed to
have an unlimited supply. I asked where they got it all, but the only
reply I received was a smile and an assurance that they could get plenty
more when they needed it. Perhaps they are more resourceful than I thought
at first.
It was 10 o'clock this morning when I got back to
our building. George and Henry were both out, but Katherine greeted me as
she opened the garage door for me to drive in. She asked if I had eaten
breakfast yet.
I told her I had eaten with Unit 2 and
wasn't hungry, but that I was concerned about the condition of my foot,
which was throbbing painfully and had swelled to nearly twice its normal
size. She assisted me as I hobbled up the stairs to the living quarters,
and then she brought me a large basin of cold water to soak my foot
in.
The cold water relieved the throbbing almost
immediately, and I leaned back gratefully on the pillows which Katherine
propped behind me on the couch. I explained how I had hurt my foot, and we
exchanged other news on the events of the last two
days.
The three of them had spent all of yesterday putting
up shelves, making minor repairs, and finishing the cleaning and painting
which has kept us all busy for more than a week. With the odds and ends of
furniture we picked up earlier for the place, it is really beginning to
look livable. Quite an improvement from the bare, cold, and dirty machine
shop it was when we moved in.
Last night, Katherine
informed me, George was summoned by radio to another meeting with a man
from WFC. Then, early this morning, he and Henry left together, telling
her only that they would be gone all day.
I must have dozed
off for a few minutes, and when I awakened I was alone and my footbath was
no longer cold. My foot felt much better, though, and the swelling had
subsided noticeably. I decided to take a shower.
The shower
is a makeshift, cold-water-only arrangement which Henry and I installed in
a large closet last week. We did the plumbing and put in a light, and
Katherine covered the walls and floor with a self-adhesive vinyl for
waterproofing. The closet opens off the room which George, Henry, and I
use for sleeping. Of the other two rooms over the shop, Katherine uses the
smaller one for a bedroom, and the other is a common room which also
serves as a kitchen and eating area.
I undressed, got a
towel, and opened the door to the shower. And there was Katherine, wet,
naked, and lovely, standing under the bare light bulb and drying herself.
She looked at me without surprise and said nothing.
I stood
there for a moment and then, instead of apologizing and closing the door
again, I impulsively held out my arms to Katherine. Hesitantly, she
stepped toward me. Nature took her course.
We lay in bed
for a long while afterward and talked. It was the first time I have really
talked to Katherine, alone. She is an affectionate, sensitive, and very
feminine girl beneath the cool, professional exterior she has always
maintained in her work for the Organization.
Four years
ago, before the Gun Raids, she was a Congressman's secretary. She lived in
a Washington apartment with another girl who also worked on Capitol Hill.
One evening when Katherine came home from work she found her apartment
mate's body lying in a pool of blood on the floor. She had been raped and
killed by a Negro intruder.
That's why Katherine bought a
pistol and kept it even after the Cohen Act made gun ownership illegal.
Then, along with nearly a million others, she was swept up in the Gun
Raids of 1989. Although she had never had any previous contact with the
Organization, she met George in the detention center they were both held
in after being arrested.
Katherine had been apolitical. If
anyone had asked her, during the time she was working for the government
or, before that, when she was a college student, she would have probably
said she was a "liberal. " But she was liberal only in the mindless,
automatic way that most people are. Without really thinking about it or
trying to analyze it, she superficially accepted the unnatural ideology
peddled by the mass media and the government. She had none of the bigotry,
none of the guilt and self-hatred that it takes to make a really
committed, full-time liberal.
After the police released
them, George gave her some books on race and history and some Organization
publications to read. For the first time in her life she began thinking
seriously about the important racial, social, and political issues at the
root of the day's problems.
She learned the truth about the
System's "equality" hoax. She gained an understanding of the unique
historical role of the Jews as the ferment of decomposition of races and
civilizations. Most important, she began acquiring a sense of racial
identity, overcoming a lifetime of brainwashing aimed at reducing her to
an isolated human atom in a cosmopolitan chaos.
She had
lost her Congressional job as a consequence of her arrest, and, about two
months later she went to work for the Organization as a typist in our
publications department. She is smart and a hard worker, and she was soon
advanced to proofreader and then to copy editor. She wrote a few articles
of her own for Organization publications, mostly exploring women's roles
in the movement and in the larger society, and just last month she was
named editor of a new Organization quarterly directed specifically toward
women.
Her editorial career has now been shelved, of
course, at least temporarily, and her most useful contribution to our
present effort is her remarkable skill at makeup and disguise, something
she developed in amateur-theater work as a
student.
Although her initial contact was with George,
Katherine has never been emotionally or romantically involved with him.
When they first met, George was still married. Later, after George's wife,
who never approved of his work for the Organization, had left him and
Katherine had joined the Organization, they were both too busy in
different departments for much contact. George, in fact, whose work as a
fund raiser and roving organizer kept him on the road, wasn't really
around Washington much.
It is only a coincidence that
George and Katherine were assigned to this unit together, but George
pretty obviously feels a proprietary interest in her. Although Katherine
never did or said anything to support my assumption, until this morning I
had taken it for granted from George's behavior toward her that there was
at least a tentative relationship between them.
Since
George is nominally our unit leader, I have heretofore kept my natural
attraction toward Katherine under control. Now I'm afraid that the
situation has become a bit awkward. If George is unable to adjust
graciously to it, things will be strained and may only by resolved by some
personnel transfers between our unit and others in the
area.
For the time being, however, there are other problems
to worry about-big ones! When George and Henry finally got back this
evening, we found out what they'd been doing all day: casing the FBI's
national headquarters downtown. Our unit has been assigned the task of
blowing it up!
The initial order came all the way down from
Revolutionary Command, and a man was sent from the Eastern Command Center
to the WFC briefing George attended Sunday to look over the local unit
leaders and pick one for this assignment.
Apparently
Revolutionary Command has decided to take the offensive against the
political police before they arrest too many more of our "legals" or
finish setting up their computerized passport
system.
George was given the word after he was summoned by
WFC for a second briefing yesterday. A man from Unit 8 was also at
yesterday's briefing. Unit 8 will be assisting us.
The
plan, roughly, is this: Unit 8 will secure a large quantity of
explosives-between five and ten tons. Our unit will hijack a truck making
a legitimate delivery to the FBI headquarters, rendezvous at a location
where Unit 8 will be waiting with the explosives, and switch loads. We
will then drive into the FBI building's freight-receiving area, set the
fuse, and leave the truck.
While Unit 8 is solving the
problem of the explosives, we have to work out all the other details of
the assignment, including a determination of the FBI's freight-delivery
schedules and procedures. We have been given a ten-day
deadline.
My job will be the design and construction of the
mechanism of the bomb itself.