1 year ago

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Chapter Four.

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 a "fait
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.