The Turner Diaries. Chapter Twenty Five. A Puke(TM) Audiobook

Chapter Twenty Five.

September4, 1993. Although I've been in Washington nearly a
week now, this is the first opportunity I've had to write. After our
hectic trip across the country we spent several hectic days getting
two of our bombs planted. Then last night was the first
uninterrupted night I've had alone with Katherine since I've been
back. And tomorrow it's another bomb-planting mission. But
tonight is for writing.
Our trip here from California was like something from a zany
movie. Even though all the events are still fresh in my mind, I can
hardly believe they really happened. Conditions in this country
have changed so much in the last nine weeks that it's as if we had
used a time machine to step into an entirely different era-an era in
which all the old rules for coping we spent a lifetime learning have
been changed. Fortunately for us, everyone else seems just as
bewildered by the changes as we are.
I was surprised at the ease with which we were able to leave our
enclave. The System's troops are all clumped together in just a few
border areas along the major highways, with additional company-
size groups stationed at roadblocks on the back roads. These back-
road troops are doing practically no patrolling, and it is a simple
and safe matter to bypass them-which accounts for the fact that so
many White volunteers have been able to infiltrate into our area of
California since July 4.
We took an Army truck north to Bakersfield and then drove
northeast another 20 miles, to within half a mile of a roadblock
manned by Liberal troops. We could see them and they could see us,
but they didn't try to give us any trouble as we pulled off the main
road onto a rough Forest Service trail. We were already in the
foothills of the Sierra range.
After about an hour of bouncing over the steep, barely passable
mountain road, we pulled back onto the highway again - safely beyond
the roadblock but now deep into System-controlled
territory.

We weren't especially concerned about running into any
opposition in the mountains; we knew the largest concentration of
System troops was at China Lake, on the other side of the Sierras,
and we intended to turn north along Highway 39S before then. Our
plan, had we met a supply truck heading for the roadblock back
near Bakersfield, was simply to blast it off the narrow mountain
highway before its occupants realized we were "the enemy. " All
five of us kept our automatic rifles cocked and ready and we had
two rocket launchers besides, but we met no other vehicles.
We knew that, despite the unnatural absence of traffic in the
mountains, we would certainly encounter heavy traffic when we
reached 39S, the main north-south highway east of the mountains.
Our reconnaissance patrols hadn't been able to give us anything but
a very generalized picture of troop dispositions that far east, and
we had no idea what to expect in the way of roadblocks or other
controls on vehicular traffic.
We did know that fewer than 10 per cent of the System troops in
the border area at that time were Whites, however. The System
was gradually regaining confidence in some of its White troops,
but it was still avoiding using them near the border, where they
might be tempted to come over to our side. The few White military
personnel in the area, even though confirmed race-mixers, were
regarded with suspicion and treated with the contempt they
deserved by the Liberals. Our spies had reported several instances in
which these White renegades had been humiliated and abused by
their Liberal fellow soldiers.
Considering this, we had decided that we would have a better
chance as non-Whites of bluffing our way past any challengers.
Accordingly, we had all applied a dark stain to our faces and hands
and pinned Chicano-sounding nametags on our fatigue uniforms.
We figured we could pass as mestizos-so long as we didn't run into
any real Chicanos. For four days I was "Jesus Garcia."

Our driver, "Corporal Rodriguez," played his role to the hilt,
giving a left-handed clenched-fist salute and flashing a toothy grin
whenever we passed an idle group of Liberal soldiers along the
highway and on the two occasions we were stopped at checkpoints.
We also kept a transistor radio tuned to a Mexican station blaring
soulful Chicano music whenever we were within earshot of System
troops.
Once, when we needed to refuel, we were briefly tempted to pull
in at a military gasoline depot, but the long line of waiting trucks
and the groups of Liberals lounging about made us decide against
the risk. We stopped instead at a roadside restaurant-curio shop-
filling station in the shadow of Mt. Whitney. The place seemed
deserted, so two of our men began filling our fuel tank at the
gasoline pump, while I and the others ;
headed for the restaurant to see if we could find any food to take
along.
We found four soldiers inside, quite drunk, sitting around a table
cluttered with empty bottles and glasses. Three were Liberals and
the fourth was White. "Anybody around here we can pay for gas
and some food?" I asked.
"No, man, just take what you want. We ran the honky owners out
of here three days ago," one of the Liberals responded.
"But not before we had some real fun with their daughter, eh?"
the White exclaimed, grinning and nudging one of his companions.
Perhaps it was the grim stare I gave him, or perhaps he suddenly
noticed "Corporal Rodriguez's" very blue eyes, or- it may have
been that the stain on our faces had become too streaked from
perspiration; in any event, the White soldier suddenly stopped
grinning and whispered something to the Liberals. At the same time
he leaned back and reached for his rifle, which was resting against
an adjacent table.
Before he even touched his weapon, I pivoted my M16 off my
shoulder and raked the group at the table with a blast of fire which
sent them all sprawling to the floor, spurting blood. The three
Liberals were quite obviously dead, but their White-renegade
companion, though shot through the chest, raised himself to a
sitting position and asked in a plaintive voice, "Hey, man, what the shit?"

"Corporal Rodriguez" finished him off. He pulled his bayonet
from his belt scabbard, seized the dying White by his hair, and
hauled him off the floor, the point of the bayonet jammed under his
chin. "You piece of race-mixing filth! Go join your Liberal 'brothers'
! " And with one, savage stroke "Rodriguez" practically
decapitated him.
Five miles further down the highway, at the intersection where
we wanted to turn east, a Military Police jeep with two Liberals in it
was blocking the side road. A third Liberal was directing traffic,
waving all north-bound military vehicles on down the main
highway. We ignored his signals and turned right, going far out on
the shoulder to get around the jeep. The Liberal traffic controller
blew his whistle furiously, and all three MP's gesticulated and
waved their arms wildly at us, but our "Corporal Rodriguez" just
grinned and gave his Liberal-power salute, shouted, "Siesta frijoe!
Hasta la vista!" and a few other Spanish words which came into his
head, pointed meaningfully down the road ahead, and stepped on
the accelerator. We left the Liberals in a shower of dust and gravel.
The Liberal with the whistle was still tooting and waving his arms
as we went around the bend, and that was the last we saw of him.
Apparently he and his companions did not think it worthwhile
trying to follow us, but our three men hidden in the back of the
truck kept their fingers on the triggers of their automatic rifles just
in case.
From there until we got to the outskirts of St. Louis we didn't run
into any more concentrations of System troops. But we
accomplished that only by avoiding the major highways and cities
and sticking to secondary roads. We rattled and bounced across the
mountains and deserts of California, Nevada, Utah, and Colorado,
and then the plains of Kansas and the rolling hills of Missouri, for
75 hours straight, stopping only to refuel and relieve ourselves.
While two of us rode in front and a third kept watch out the back
of the truck, two of us at a time tried to sleep, but without much
success.When we reached eastern Missouri we changed our tactics, for
two reasons.

First, we heard the radio broadcast of the bombing of
Miami and Charleston and the Organization's ultimatum to the
System. That made the time factor even more important than
before; we couldn't afford any further delays from circuitous routes
along back roads. Second, the danger of our being stopped by the
authorities between St. Louis and Washington decreased sharply as
all hell broke loose in the country, giving us the opportunity to
adopt a new ploy.
We had been monitoring both the civilian broadcast band and the
military communications bands during the trip, and we were about
80 miles west of St. Louis when a special announcer cut into the
afternoon weather report. The previous day, at noon, a nuclear
bomb had been detonated without warning in Miami Beach, the
announcer said, killing an estimated 60,000 people and causing
enormous damage. A second nuclear bomb had been detonated
outside Charleston, South Carolina, just four hours ago, but
casualty and damage reports were not yet available.
Both bombings were the work of the Organization, said the
announcer, and he would now read the text of an Organization
ultimatum. I jotted down the ultimatum almost word for word on a
scrap of paper as it came over the truck radio, and this is very
nearly it:
"To the President and the Congress of the United States and the
commanders of all U.S. armed forces, we, the Revolutionary
Command of the Organization, issue the following demands and
warning:
"First, cease immediately all buildup of military forces in eastern
California and adjacent areas and abandon all plans for an invasion
of the liberated zone of California. "Second, abandon all plans for
a nuclear strike against the liberated zone of California or any
portion of it.

"Third, make known to the people of the United States, through
all the communications channels at your disposal, these demands
and this warning."If you have failed to comply with any one of our three demands
by noon tomorrow, August 27, we will detonate a second nuclear
device in some population center of the United States, just as we
detonated one in the Miami, Florida, area a few minutes ago. We
will continue to detonate one nuclear device every 12 hours
thereafter until you have complied.
"We furthermore warn you that if you make any surprise, hostile
move against the liberated zone of California, we will immediately
detonate more than 500 nuclear devices which have already been
hidden in key target areas throughout the United States. More than
40 of these devices are now located in the New York City area. In
addition, we will immediately use all the nuclear missiles still
available to us to destroy the Jewish presence in Palestine.
"Finally, we warn you that, in any event, we intend to liberate,
first, the entire United States and then the remainder of this planet.
When we have done so we will liquidate all the enemies of our
people, including in particular all White persons who have
consciously aided those enemies.
"We are aware now, and we will continue to be aware, of your
most confidential plans and of every order you receive from your
Jewish masters. Abandon your race-treason now, or abandon all
hope for yourselves when you fall into the hands of the people you
have betrayed."
(Note to the reader: Turner's version of the Organization's
ultimatum is essentially correct, except for a few minor errors in
wording and his omission of one sentence from the next-to-last
paragraph. The full and exact text of the ultimatum is in chapter
nine of Professor Anderson's definitive History of the Great
Revolution.)
We had pulled off the road when the special announcer came on,
and it took us a few minutes to gather our thoughts and decide
what to do. We had not really expected things to develop so
rapidly.

Those fellows who took the warheads to Miami and
Charleston must have either left a day or two ahead of us or they
must have really been burning up the highways to get there so
soon. Despite our non-stop driving, we felt like a bunch of
shirkers.
We knew the fat was really in the fire; we were in the middle of a
nuclear civil war, and within the next few days the fate of the
planet would be decided for all time. Now it was either the Jews or
the White race, and everyone knew the game was for keeps.
I still haven't figured out all the details of our strategy leading up
to the ultimatum. I don't know why, for example, Miami and
Charleston were chosen as initial targets-although I've heard a
rumor that the rich Jews who were evacuated from New York were
being temporarily housed in the Charleston area, and Miami, of
course, already had a superabundance of Jews. But why not take
out the New York City area instead, with its two-and-a-half
megakikes? Perhaps our bombs weren't really in place yet in New
York, despite what our ultimatum said.
And I'm also not sure why our ultimatum took the particular form
it did: all stick and no carrot. Perhaps it was deliberately intended
to stampede the cattle-which, indeed, it has. Or perhaps there were
some under-the-table communications between Revolutionary
Command and the System's military leaders which determined the
form of the ultimatum. In any event, it has had the effect of
splitting the System right down the middle. The Jews and nearly all
the politicians are in one faction, and nearly all the military leaders
are in another faction.
The Jewish faction is demanding the immediate nuclear
annihilation of California, regardless of the consequences. The
accursed goyim have raised their hands against the Chosen People
and must be destroyed at any cost. The military faction, on the
other hand, is in favor of a temporary truce, while an effort is made
to find our "500 (a forgivable exaggeration) nuclear devices" and
disarm them.

After hearing that broadcast our only thought was to get our
deadly cargo to Washington as soon as possible. We knew everyone
would be off balance for a while as a result of what had
just happened, and we decided to take advantage of the general
confusion by converting our truck into an emergency vehicle and
barrelling straight down the highway toward our destination. We
didn't have a siren, but we did have flashing red lights front and
rear, and we completed the conversion a few minutes later by
stopping in a rural hardware store and buying some cans of spray
paint which, with some hastily improvised stencils made from torn
newspapers, we used to paint Red Cross symbols in the appropriate
places on our truck.
After that, we made Washington in less than 20 hours, despite the
chaotic conditions on the highways. We sped along shoulders to
get past stalled traffic, drove on the wrong side of the road with
horn blaring and lights flashing, bounced over culverts and open
fields to get around blocked intersections, and generally ignored all
traffic controllers, bluffing our way through more than a dozen
checkpoints.
Our first bomb went into Fort Belvoir, the big Army base just
south of Washington where I was locked up for more than a year.
We had to wait two maddening days to make contact with our
inside man there so we could arrange to get the bomb inside the
base and hidden in the right area.
"Rodriguez" went over the fence with the bomb strapped on his
back. I received a radio signal from him the next day, confirming
the successful completion of his mission. Meanwhile, the rest of us
planted a second bomb in the District of Columbia, where it will be
able to take out a couple of hundred thousand Liberals when it goes,
not to mention a few government agencies and a critical portion of
the capital's transportation network.
I didn't have my final orders on the third bomb until this
afternoon.

That will go into the Silver Spring area north of here -
the center of the Maryland-suburban Jewish community. The
fourth one is intended for the Pentagon, but security is so tight
there I still haven't figured a way to get it anywhere near the place.
I must confess that my mind has not been exclusively on my work since
I've been back here. Katherine and I have stolen time from
our Organization responsibilities to be together. Neither of us had
realized how much we have come to mean to each other until we
were separated again this summer, so soon after my escape from
prison. In the month we were together this spring, before I was sent
to Texas and then to Colorado and finally to California, we became
as close as any two people can possibly be.
Things have been hard for Katherine and the others here while I
was gone, especially since July 4. They have been under enormous
pressure from two directions. The Organization has been pushing
them without mercy to continually step up their level of activism,
while the danger of being caught by the political police has grown
worse every week.
The System is resorting to new methods in its fight against us:
massive, house-to-house searches of multi-block areas;
astronomical rewards for informers; much tighter controls on all
civilian movement. In many other parts of the country these
repressive measures have been more sporadic, and they have
broken down entirely in those areas where the System has not been
able to maintain public order-especially since the panic caused by
the bombings of Miami and Charleston. But around Washington
the System still has things in a very tight grip, and it's tough.
Late this afternoon Katherine and I slipped out of the shop for a
couple of hours and went for a walk. We strolled by several groups
of soldiers in sandbagged machine-gun emplacements outside
office buildings; on past the smoke-blackened rubble of a suburban
subway station in which Katherine herself had planted a dynamite
bomb just two weeks ago; through a park-like area where a
loudspeaker mounted high on a lamppost was blaring out
exhortations to "all right-thinking citizens" to immediately report
to the political police the slightest manifestation of racism on the
part of their neighbors or co-workers; and out onto one of the main
highway bridges across the Potomac River from Virginia to the
District of Columbia.

There was no traffic on the bridge because it
ended abruptly 50 yards from the Virginia shore,
in a tangle of shattered concrete and twisted reinforcing rods.
The Organization had blown it up in July,
and no effort had yet been made to repair it.
It was fairly quiet there at the end of the bridge, with only the
screaming of police sirens in the distance and the occasional clatter
of a police helicopter swooping overhead. We talked, we
embraced, and we silently surveyed the scene around us as the sun
went down. We and our companions have certainly made an
influence on the world in the last few months-both on the suburban
world of ordinary White people on the Virginia side of the bridge
and on the System's world of bustling government offices on the
other side. And yet the System is all too evidently still alive all
around us. What a contrast with the situation in California!
Katherine was full of questions about what life is like in the
liberated zone, and I tried to tell her as best I could, but I am afraid
that mere words are inadequate for expressing the difference
between the way I felt in California and the way I feel here. It is
more a spiritual thing than merely a difference in the political and
social environments.
As we stood there talking above the swirling eddies at the end of
the bridge, our bodies pressed together, the world growing dark
around us, a group of young Liberals came out onto the other
stump of the bridge, from the Washington side. They began
horsing around in typical Liberal fashion, a couple of them
urinating into the river. Finally one of them spotted us, and they all
began shouting and making obscene gestures. For me, at least, that
accentuated the difference which I could not find words to express.

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