The Turner Diaries
November 9, 1993. It's still three hours until
first light, and all systems are "go." I'll use the time to write a few
pages-my last : diary entry. Then it's a one-way trip to the Pentagon for
me. The warhead is strapped into the front seat of the old Stearman and
rigged to detonate either on impact or when I flip a switch in the back
seat. Hopefully, I'll be able to manage a low-level air burst directly
over the center of the Pentagon. Failing that, I'll at least try to fly as
close as I can before I'm shot down.
It's been more than
four years since I've flown, but I've thoroughly familiarized myself with
the Stearman cockpit and been briefed on the plane's peculiarities: I
don't anticipate any piloting problems. The barn-hangar here is only eight
miles from the Pentagon. We'll thoroughly warm up the engine in the barn,
and when the door is opened I'll go like a bat out of hell, straight for
the Pentagon, at an altitude of about 50 feet.
By the
time I hit the defensive perimeter I should be making about 150 miles an
hour, and it'll take me just under another 70 seconds to reach the target.
Two-thirds of the troops around the Pentagon are niggers, which should
greatly boost my chances of getting through.
The sky should
still be heavily overcast, and there'll be just enough light for me to
make out my landmarks. We've painted the plane to be as nearly invisible
as possible under the anticipated flying conditions, and I'll be too low
for radar-controlled fire. Considering everything, I believe my chances
are excellent.
I regret that I won't be around to
participate in the final success of our revolution, but I am happy that I
have been allowed to do as much as I have. It is a comforting thought in
these last hours of my physical existence that, of all the billions of men
and women of my race who have ever lived, I will have been able to play a
more vital role than all but a handful of them in determining the ultimate
destiny of mankind. What I will do today will be of more weight in the
annals of the race than all the conquests of Caesar and Napoleon-if I
succeed
And succeed I must, or the entire revolution will
be in the gravest danger. Revolutionary Command estimates that the System
will launch its invasion against California within the next 48 hours. Once
the order is issued from the Pentagon, we will be unable to halt the
invasion. And if my mission today fails, there'll not be enough time for
us to try something else.
Monday night, after we had made
the final decision on this mission, I underwent the rite of Union.
Actually, I have been undergoing the rite for the past 30 hours, and it
will not be complete for another three; only in the moment of my death
will I achieve full membership in the Order.
To many that
may seem a gloomy prospect, I suppose, but not to me. I have known what
was ahead of me since my trial last March, and I am grateful that my
probationary period has been cut short by five months, partly because of
the present crisis and partly because my performance since March has been
considered exemplary.
The ceremony Monday was more moving
and beautiful than I could have imagined it would be. More than 200 of us
assembled in the cellar of the Georgetown gift shop, from which the
partitions and stacked crates had been removed to make room for us. Thirty
new probationary members were sworn into the Order, and 18 others,
including me, participated in the rite of Union. I alone, however, was
singled out, because of my unique status.
When Major
Williams summoned me, I stepped forward and then turned to face the silent
sea of robed figures. What a contrast with the tiny gathering only two
years earlier, when seven of us met upstairs for my initiation! The Order,
even with its extraordinary standards, is growing with astonishing
rapidity.
Knowing fully what was demanded in character and
commitment of each man who stood before me, my chest swelled with pride.
These were no soft-bellied, conservative businessmen assembled for some
Masonic mumbodumbo; no loudmouthed, beery red-necks letting off a little
ritualized steam about "the goddam niggers"; no pious, frightened
churchgoers whining for the guidance or protection of an anthropomorphic
deity. These were real men, White men, men who were now one with me in
spirit and consciousness as well as in blood.
As the
torchlight flickered over the coarse, gray robes of the motionless throng,
I thought to myself: These men are the best my race has produced in this
generation-and they are as good as have been produced in any generation.
In them are combined fiery passion and icy discipline, deep intelligence
and instant readiness for action, a strong sense of self-worth and a total
commitment to our common cause. On them hang the hopes of everything that
will ever be. They are the vanguard of the coming New Era, the pioneers
who will lead our race out of its present depths and toward the unexplored
heights above. And I am one with them!
Then I made my brief
declaration: "Brothers! Two years ago, when I entered your ranks for the
first time, I consecrated my life to our Order and to the purpose for
which it exists. But then I faltered in the fulfillment of my obligation
to you. Now I am ready to meet my obligation fully. I offer you my life.
Do you accept it?"
In a rumbling unison their reply came
back: "Brother! We accept your life. In return we offer you everlasting
life in us. Your deed shall not be in vain, nor shall it be forgotten,
until the end of time. To this commitment we pledge our
lives."
I know, as certainly as it is possible for a man to
know anything, that the Order will not fail me if I do not fail it. The
Order has a life which is more than the sum of the lives of its members.
When it speaks collectively, as it did Monday, something deeper and older
and wiser than any of us speaks- something which cannot die. Of that
deeper life I am now about to partake.
Of course, I would
have liked to have children by Katherine, so that I could also have
immortality of another sort, but that is not to be. I am
satisfied.
They've been warming up the engine for about 10
minutes now, and Bill is signalling to me that it's time to go. The rest
of the crew has already taken cover in the blast shelter we dug under the
barn floor. I will now entrust my diary to Bill, and he will later put it
in the hiding place with the other volumes.