Code Name: Juggernaut

CODE NAME:

JUGGERNAUT

A Novel

Sherman E. Ross

Copyright © Sherman E. Ross 2024

All rights Reserved

No reproduction, copy, or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied, transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-917736-08-4 (Ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-917736-09-1 (Paperback)

ISBN:978-1-917736-10-7 (Hardcover)

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents originate from the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Prologue: White Noise

Home Fires Burning

Holy War in The Heartland

Deus ‘Sex’ Machina

Night of the Long Knives

Goin’ Fission

Clear and Present Danger

Off To See the Wizard

Collision Course

The Fourth Horseman

Stab-In-The-Back

Shatterer of Worlds

Marching As to War

Barbarians At the Gate

Götterdämmerung

Epilogue: The Circle Unbroken

Dedication

Prologue: White Noise

The sprawling compound was stark and barren. More fortress than community, more prison than commune, with peeling paint and rusting nails, row upon row the dilapidated wooden cabins lay in a monotonous arrangement. Like a military installation, the drab gray barracks stood, imposing and monolithic in an endless duplication. Towards the center of the compound were large buildings starkly designated as a School and a Chapel, while armed with toy rifles, noisy blond children at play were involved in games that had an ominous war-like theme.

Near the enclosure’s northwest corner stood the shooting range. There, several bearded men and an attractive twenty-one-year-old blonde were busy blazing away with an arsenal of AK-47 Kalashnikov and AR-15 assault rifles. Many of the faded, bullet-riddled silhouettes, crude caricatures of prominent black or Jewish people, stood as grim testament to their marksmanship. There was a large pen-like kennel situated at the opposite end, home to the compound’s twelve large Rottweiler and German Shepherd guard dogs. The dogs, all trained to kill, were routinely turned loose and allowed to roam freely in the compound after curfew.

Around the encampment’s perimeter was a six-foot fence topped with coils of rather poorly placed concertina wire. Just beyond the fence was the area known as the deadline, with its carefully concealed holes lined with razor sharp Punji stakes. On any given night, one could hear the pitiful howl of some poor coyote freshly impaled in the Punji pits. At the compound’s southern entrance, a faded sign hung overhead, starkly stenciled in bold letters,

"ONE GOD, ONE RACE, ONE NATION:

WHITES ONLY"

Along the inner perimeter, more heavily armed men were patrolling. Wearing a hodgepodge of camouflage fatigues and castoff army surplus uniforms, grim-faced men stood watch, constantly on guard against an unseen enemy, while just outside of the compound more uniformed men shuffled along, engaged in a ragged close-order drill.

Two of the compound’s four corners were occupied by imposing guard towers, manned by hooded men nervously cradling their weapons. Distant memories of the federal fifty-two-day standoff at Waco had prompted a greater vigilance almost paranoia _ by the guards in their makeshift machinegun nests. To them, the enemy was all around, merely waiting for a lapse in security. Indeed, the previous year very nearly brought confrontation with federal agents searching for stolen weapons; a clash was only narrowly averted by last-minute negotiation by the US Attorney General. The last thing the FBI needed was a repeat of those distant public relations debacles at Ruby Ridge or Waco.

This was "JerUSAlem, the fortified bastion of the white supremacist Aryan Church of Yahweh the Creator, thought by some to be a bizarre racist, survivalist cult waiting for the apocalypse. Local journalists had called the encampment Kook town and the Bunker, having dismissed all its inhabitants as a bunch of weirdoes, troglodytes and screwballs." It was situated thirty miles southwest of Provo, Utah between the towns of Fairfield and Eureka on approximately one hundred and fifty-five acres of land originally thought cursed by God; pioneers referred to as being barren, bitter cold in the winter, and yet so hot and dry in summer that the Devil couldn’t raise Hell on it.

This was home, the promised land to some four hundred and fifty-five of God’s Aryan chosen people_ one hundred and fifty-two men, two hundred and twenty-two women, and eighty-one children, all stockpiling an awesome array of weapons and foodstuffs, all eagerly awaiting what they felt was the eventual racial apocalypse. In their leader’s vision, they were to be the ‘seed corn’ of a new nation.

In the school were bookcases crammed with the Bible, as well as copies of The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, Mein Kampf, The Carson Diaries, The Holy Book of Adolph Hitler, assorted Ku Klux Klan newspapers, and other racist hate literature filled with standard fare depicting blacks, Jews and other minorities as satanic monsters. The children of several church members were in attendance, their young minds slowly being poisoned with the illusion that they were Aryan supermen, and that other inferior mud races had no right to live in American society and therefore should be eliminated.

In a bizarre lesson a dark-haired, matronly- looking woman quizzed them.

Jonathan, can you please tell me who Jesus the Christ was? she said softly to a skinny, blond youth.

He is the immortal leader of our race! He once returned to us as Adolph Hitler! The child robotically snapped to attention. He’s the greatest white man that ever lived.

Very good… What happened to our great leader, Tammy?

He was murdered by the Jews, Reverend Mother. They’re all Christ-killers. They mess up everything. I hate them. I hate them all, the pouting little blonde girl said in terse reply.

That’s right, Lambs. You see, for the second time in history, our beloved savior was murdered by the Satanic Jew. The Evil One wants to use the mud people to destroy us… Lambs, now I’m going to tell you something wonderful, the woman said, smiling. The Book says that if we’re good, one day Christ will return to kill all the dirty blacks and Jews… and all the other mud people… We’ll have a wonderful white world.

The children, their tiny faces now distorted with racial hatred, erupted with applause and cheers. The woman continued.

This is what our Lord Jesus has promised us. Now remember, Lambs, that we are all young warriors of our God, Yahweh… Mary, can you tell me who the Devil is?

The Jew! The Jew! The child’s eyes furrowed with hate.

And who are the seed of Satan?

Niggers! Dirty niggers… and all the mud races!

And what should we do with the enemies of Yahweh and all their seed?

Kill them! Kill them all! the children began chanting wildly and thrusting their tiny arms out in the Nazi salute. Indoctrination, this passed for education in the Jerusalem compound. For any who would dare stray from The Word, discipline was maintained with a cleated strap.

The profile of someone who belonged to the Church was the middle-aged white male who faced job termination because of the deteriorating economy, or the young working-class white man in his twenties who saw around him nothing but diminished opportunity. He resented the rising tide of ethnic and religious diversity which, demographically speaking, was transforming him into a minority. He was a person who perceived that all the breaks were going to African Americans, Hispanics and others through a host of affirmative action programs and quotas. He did not understand that the worsening economic situation had, if anything, impacted harder upon these groups than on himself.

He who joined fit the profile of the laid-off white factory worker who had watched in frustration as his career had moved to Mexico or Japan or Taiwan, ‘out-sourced,’ all in the name of free trade and globalization. All of the earlier populist rhetoric of Make America Great Again, America First and Build Back Better had changed nothing. The economic deterioration was only exacerbated by the recent COVID pandemic. He who joined was frustrated by a society apparently unable to punish criminals. He was angered by the new militancy of the LGBTQ community, who in his eyes were AIDS carriers who now clamored for same-sex marriage, other special rights, and an acceptance of what he considered to be a perverted lifestyle. Above all, he was disgusted with the seemingly endless stream of Washington politicians: Democrats or Republicans, who constantly promised the moon and yet always failed to deliver. Someone must be to blame.

This was the man who had grown to early adulthood in an era of seemingly boundless prosperity. Having worked hard all his life he now felt entitled to his reward — well-paying, meaningful employment and a secure future. His argument was a familiar one: I can’t get that job I wanted or a promotion at work because of affirmative action and reverse discrimination or "the blacks and Mexicans are taking all of our jobs away".

As the nation’s economy sank deeper into recession, he was now forced to look into the tearful eyes of his children at Christmastime and explain to them that Santa wouldn’t be coming this year because Daddy was naughty: Daddy got laid-off. Consumed with rage, he felt that he had been cheated of the American Dream. He was losing control. He was angry. Someone must be to blame. He was beginning to hate.

For this man, the Aryan Church of Yahweh the Creator was suddenly beginning to seem more palatable. For their part, the racists were quick to take advantage of the situation by readily supplying the obligatory scapegoat. Slowly, they came to represent a safety valve, a focal point for his anger. For his lack of purpose, they offered direction. For his frustration, they granted an outlet. For his growing hate, they provided a target.

Home Fires Burning

"He lieth in his blood, the father in his face; They have killed him, the Forgiver, the Avenger takes his place…

For they killed him in his kindness, in their madness and their blindness.

And his blood is on their hand…

There is a sobbing of the strong, and a pall upon the land;

But now the People in their weeping, bare the iron hand…

Beware the People weeping when they bare the iron hand."

_ Herman Melville, from The Martyr

Monday, April 13th

2055 hours

The Watts section of Los Angeles, CA

With the blare of distant police sirens in the background, the pickup truck waited in a clearing near a clump of trees in a poorly lit park two hundred yards from the Mount Zion African Methodist Church. In it, an attractive woman carefully slid a pair of leather gloves over her fingers and tucked her shoulder-length blonde hair under a well-worn, faded Atlanta Braves baseball cap. Slowly looking around, she emerged from the vehicle.

Shit! the woman said, upon realizing that she was standing in a large mud puddle. It had been raining for most of the day.

Going to the rear of the vehicle, Jacqueline Lynch furtively removed a long brown suitcase. She opened it, unveiling a Russian-made Dragunov SVD semiautomatic sniper rifle, mounting a Zeiss 8x power telescopic sight. The weapon had been sighted in at twelve hundred yards. An exceptional rifle, it was lightweight and, with modified ammunition, would allow a 7.62-millimeter projectile less than a three-inch drop over nine hundred yards. Reaching into her purse, she extracted a plump silencer and slowly screwed it onto the end of the weapon’s barrel. In addition to acting to muffle the sound, the silencer doubled as a flash-suppressor; the assassin would remain invisible as well as unheard. It was a reliable weapon; she had used it twice before. The woman carefully inserted a seven-round clip into the rifle’s action, manually inserting a round into the chamber by working the slide mechanism. Each Russian- made 7.62-millimeter round was wicked looking: a missile in miniature, more than three inches long having a titanium jacket and a two hundred-grain explosive mercury-fulminate hollow-point wad-cutter that upon penetration would shatter into numerous fiberglass fragments called "flechettes," creating additional wound tracks and literally eviscerating the target.

Assembly completed, the stealthy assassin crouched behind a tree, bracing herself against a thick branch. She sighted in the weapon at the front door and calmly waited for her prey. While waiting, the young woman began to reflect on her rather unusual life.

For Jacqueline Diane Lynch, twenty-nine, life had been hard. Born into poverty in Stone Mountain, Georgia, during the midst of the Black Lives Matter and other social movements, Jackie had been strongly influenced by her ultra-white nationalist parents. Stalwart members of the Forsyth County klavern, they had instilled in their daughter a deep racial hatred for blacks, Jews, Hispanics and other minorities. Although the family was poor, Jacqueline remembered being sent to an expensive all-white academy grade school in order to avoid integration. As a child, she was constantly admonished to stay away from all the dirty mud children. Her hatred became more pronounced as a young teenager; she was briefly expelled from her school when she had referred to then-President Obama as a nigger.

Jackie had also been fascinated with guns. All kinds of guns. Her grandfather bought her a twenty-two-caliber rifle for her sixth birthday; by fourteen she was an expert shot with a 30.06. Her fondest memories were of when she and the old man would go off deer hunting with their rifles in the forests of northwestern Georgia. She made a game of it, pretending that she was in the army or tracking Yankees or runaway slaves or marauding Indians. During these trips, the old man regaled her constantly with exciting stories of the exploits of Confederate generals or Ty Cobb’s baseball records, or about his own younger days when he had been active as a Grand Exalted Hobgoblin in the mighty Stone Mountain Georgia Klan during the late nineteen-eighties.

A high school dropout and troublemaker, Jackie had drifted aimlessly, tending to blame others for her failures. She joined the Marines at twenty and seemed to find a niche. Having been an excellent markswoman as an adolescent, she quickly became a shooting instructor at the Marine Corps Sniper School at Quantico. Her racist views kept getting her into trouble, however; earlier, she was threatened with court-martial for assaulting a young black marine recruit at Camp Pendleton.

Discharged as a corporal after four years, she continued her slide. While back in Atlanta she was actively involved in prostitution and the sale of illicit narcotics. Later, she became romantically involved with her pimp, a man named David Franklin. Franklin was also a hitman for a shadowy white supremacist gang calling itself the Werewolf. Eventually they became lovers and began living together. One year later, however, he was killed in a shoot-out with FBI agents in Atlanta during a failed bank robbery attempt.

Having apprenticed under her paramour, Jackie Lynch had become an accomplished Werewolf assassin herself. She was code-named Jack-L. Already, she had more than twenty confirmed kills. Her first hit, involving the ambush slaying of a black FBI agent in Atlanta, was revenge for her boyfriend’s death. From a distance of three hundred and fifty yards she blew his head off with a silenced hunting rifle. Since then, she had been involved in at least eight other sniper killings of prominent black and Jewish men in Philadelphia, Detroit, Washington, DC, Seattle, Buffalo and Montreal.

Her most recent hit had been a black labor union leader and political activist in Detroit. Things didn’t go quite right on that job: a black newspaper carrier got a good look at Jacqueline as she ran back to her car. On reflection however, Miss Lynch had reason to be well pleased with herself; besides her successful career, on top of everything else now she had a new boyfriend.

Suddenly, the church doors opened, jarring her from her thoughts. A crowd slowly emerged, clustered around a large, imposing gray-haired figure. Through a pair of binoculars Jackie Lynch could see the object of her stalk, Reverend Darius Thomas Williams. Williams, at eighty-three, was a prominent black civil rights activist who had at another time and place marched with Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. from Selma to Montgomery. More recently, he had been involved in such issues ranging from gay rights to homelessness. He had also been instrumental in helping to calm the black community in the wake of the bloody LA race riots several years earlier. Williams was already being compared to Dr. King for his adherence to nonviolence. He had just finished delivering a sermon to the church’s congregation entitled A Time for Martyrs, which stressed the importance of education, parental responsibility and black voter registration. For all this, he had been marked for death by the Werewolf.

Smiling, the large black man was vigorously pumping extended hands as he meandered slowly across the church’s dimly lit parking lot. The evening air was crisp and clean after the rain shower earlier; there was almost no wind.

This is perfect, Jackie thought as she slowly adjusted the windage and elevation turrets of the telescope. All good snipers longed for ideal conditions such as these. Absence of wind meant that nothing except gravity would affect the bullet’s trajectory to the target. The assassin slowly brought the rifle’s telescope to her eye; the magnification setting brought the image of Williams’ head into full view. She was sighted in, with the crosshairs meeting at the back of the man’s head.

Time to die. Kiss your black ass good-bye, Sambo! It’s Judgment Day, Judgment Day! Jackie thought to herself as she brought her finger to the trigger. Her Marine training taught her it was better to slowly squeeze off a shot rather than to make a sudden pull. Her heart was racing; she took a deep breath and fired. There were two muffled reports, interspersed by sharp recoils. Two rounds traveling with a terminal velocity of 960 meters per second struck the black man. Through the telescopic sight, the assassin could see Williams jerk violently to the left from the impact, the back of his head momentarily disappearing in a grotesque reddish-pink cloud of brain material and blood. The man’s head simply exploded, blossoming like some hideous flower. The victim never knew what hit him. Clean head shots. Clean hit. Certain death.

He’s been shot! Oh Jesus! Please No! an elderly woman in the crowd screamed hysterically as Williams collapsed in a bloody heap onto the pavement.

For several seconds, there was complete silence as the crowd stared in numbed disbelief. Then slowly the panic set in. Amid growing terror and confusion, a church steward cradled the victim’s shattered head in her lap, waiting for an ambulance to arrive at the scene. It was too late. Reverend Williams was dead.

Slowly panning the telescope from left to right, Jackie surveyed the chaos she had caused. The crowd of well-wishers now began screaming and running in panic. Like a great herd of horses, they stampeded wildly down the street. Enjoying the spectacle, the sniper momentarily thought about shooting additional people. It would be easy. It was a perfect, tempting target, a dense mass of humanity, more or less bunched together.

There were four rounds left in the magazine and one in the chamber. She sighted the weapon in on a small child who, bewildered by what was happening, presented a perfect target. The assassin’s finger tightened on the trigger, then relaxed. No. Her assignment was to kill Williams, and she had succeeded. Better now to escape. Jackie reached into her pocket, extracting a long envelope. Dropping it where she was sure it would be found, the shadowy female assassin ran back to her vehicle, hiding the weapon in the back seat under a blanket. In an instant, the truck roared off into the night.

In the moments after the shooting, Los Angeles Police units had quickly flooded the area. Homicide detectives Alan Baker and Orson Davies began by mounting a careful search of the scene. The two cops, a pair of somewhat heavyset veterans with a combined twenty-seven years on the force quickly secured the area. Their preliminary investigation revealed the only clues to the murder: impressions made in the soft ground by the sniper and her vehicle, two spent shell casings, and a cryptic note in the envelope left behind by the killer. The note was crudely typed on standard printer paper. It read:

"Since The Jew-Nigger Criminal Conspiracy Known As ZOG Has Failed To Respond To The Just Claims Of The WHITE NATION We, The Christian, Aryan Storm Troopers Of The WEREWOLF BROTHERHOOD Are Now Compelled To Make An Expression Of WHITE POWER Through An Act Of Revolutionary Violence. The Subhuman Negroid Primate Known as Darius Thomas Williams Was Successfully Liquidated Tonight In Accordance With The Laws Of YAHWEH. Let His Death Stand As A Declaration Of RACE WAR Against All The Agents Of ZION And Their Colored Puppets! HAIL VICTORY! The WEREWOLF Will Kill Again!

The Jack-L is Loose!

Warnung! Unsere Vergeltung ist tödlich!"

Aw shit! Davies mumbled upon examining the note. Looks like some sick racist fuck did the killing. Prominent black guy…Williams no less. He gave a long, audible sigh. After the riots we had couple of years ago, this is the last thing this city needs.

You know, I think this was a hit. No way is this a lone psycho gunman. It’s got ‘pro’ written all over it. Baker surveyed the crime scene. Head shots from a fairly long range… a professional job.

How you figure that, I mean, a pro?

Baker bent over and picked up one of the spent shell casings with a pencil. Well, nobody heard anything…that means a silencer. He shined his flashlight on it. See this? Looks like a seven-point-six- two-millimeter, titanium maybe.

Hey, look at all this writing, he said on closer inspection. "I make that out as Cyrillic; those are Russian markings. I’d say that our killer probably used a Dragunov-SVD."

A what?

"Snyperskaya Vintovka Dragunova. Baker again stooped over beside the tree to recover the other spent cartridge. It’s a Russian sniper rifle. A real man-stopper. Suckers got a hell of a muzzle velocity. Probably the best in the world. Harder than shit to come by. He stroked his chin as if deep in thought. Lightweight, the latest models can now easily be retrofitted with a Zeiss or Redfield telescope. Put a silencer on that puppy and you got yourself an awesome takedown rifle. The Spetznatz really kicked some serious ass in Chechnya with ’em way back in the late nineties. You know, I’m familiar with all that Russky ordnance."

So just how do you know all this shit? I mean, all the Russian lingo? Davies shook his head, staring in awe at his partner.

"Hey, I read Freebooter Magazine, Baker grunted in reply. They got a whole article on sniper rifles in their latest issue. Written by Ivanoff."

Who?

"Alexiev Sergievich Ivanoff. Hard-core Spetznatz…the King of the snipers. They say he probably dropped over four hundred Chechen guerrillas during his tours in Chechnya using the latest version of the Dragunov, Baker paused, clearing his throat. He was writing about Lyudmila Pavlichenko in World War Two. Total bad ass… he wrote that this Russian chick probably dropped over 300 Nazis using a Dragunov. The pair started back towards the parking lot as the CSI Unit arrived. During the war, the Chechen mujihadeen respected Ivanoff…called him Whispering Death or something like that. He’s retired now. Got a little dacha outside Moscow. Writes articles about his experiences and historical stuff for Freebooter from time to time."

The crowd slowly dispersed. As if almost on cue, they were replaced by hordes of reporters and camera crews. A local TV news team and police began interviewing some members of the still terrified congregation. Investigators scoured the area for additional clues. Later, a hearse from the Coroner’s Office arrived to carry the slain man’s body away.

Davies’s fears about the potential for a riot were not without foundation. The city had hardly recovered from the earlier bloody disturbances as well as the allegations of widespread racism at the LAPD. Only two weeks before, there had been another police shooting of a black youth, this time over allegedly stealing a sandwich.

Almost immediately, rumors began circulating in the black community that the Williams killing had been a racially motivated execution. Now rumor and liquor proved an explosive combination. Within hours, bands of enraged black youths, some of whom had been present when the civil rights activist was murdered, now roamed the streets. Overturning cars, setting fires, looting liquor and appliance stores and attacking white passersby, the mob slowly coalesced and meandered toward the downtown area. Years of high unemployment, systemic racism and pent-up frustration now made Smash-and- Grab the order of the day. Surrounded by all the opulence that their empty pockets could not buy, they now resolved that the club, the rock and the Molotov cocktail had become the new media of exchange. Inebriated black youths, arms loaded with stolen big-screen TVs, cellular telephones, spirits, assorted clothing and other plunder, could be seen jumping out of burning downtown stores. Figuratively and literally, the streets ran with liquor.

By morning, a full-scale riot was underway. It seemed as if the City of Angels had suddenly become Hell Town. There was a sudden rush on gun shops as frightened whites armed themselves and spoke angrily of retaliation. Ever mindful of the tragic events of the earlier disturbances, the mayor mobilized the LAPD for riot duty; the governor placed units of the California National Guard on standby alert. Meanwhile, the catalyst of this mayhem was reposing peacefully in an Inglewood hotel room.

Tuesday, April 14th

0450 hours. (EDT)

FBI Headquarters, J. Edgar Hoover Bldg., Washington, DC

Having talked to the Los Angeles Regional Field Office about the Williams murder, FBI Director George Longstreet summoned Special Agent Douglas Rabson into his office. Longstreet, a silver- haired, lean southern gentleman of sixty-four, was a hard-bitten veteran agent from Biloxi, Mississippi. Having risen through the ranks, he had been picked by the president to head the bureau. During this brief tenure he had become somewhat of a legend. A product of the new South, Longstreet’s first task as a new agent had been to investigate white supremacist violence during the late nineties. Since then, he had risen steadily through the ranks, finally being granted the directorship in what some called a political appointment. Probably more than anyone else, it was he who had brought the agency out of the shadow of the distant Waco and Ruby Ridge disasters, as well as embarrassing revelations surrounding botched intelligence preceding September 11th, 2001, and January 6th, 2021.

Director Longstreet brought a renewed sense of professionalism to the FBI. Long gone were the days of the Fedora-clad gumshoe of Purvis lore. As never before, minorities and women were recruited into the Bureau. Under Longstreet, the agency was now ultra high-tech, placing greater emphasis on counterintelligence, organized and white-collar crime, securities fraud, international and domestic terrorism. Indeed, the Bureau’s Domestic Counter-terrorism Strike Force, of which Douglas Rabson was a member, was his own brainchild. Conceived with the passage of the Patriot and National Anti-terrorism Acts, it had come into being from his long-held belief that it was only a matter of time before domestic political terrorism, already rampant in the Middle East and Europe, would come to America. The horrific events at the Atlanta Olympics, the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, Oklahoma City and most recently, the US Capitol had already proven him right.

Agent Rabson, sorry I called you in here at this God-awful hour, but we think there’s been another killing by the Jack-L, the director said as Rabson entered.

What, you mean she’s scored again? the agent said, suppressing a yawn.

Yeah. This time it was a minister. I just got off the horn with Dumbrowski’s people out in the LA office. We’ve got to move fast on these killings. Black community’s starting to get up in arms, you know, saying cover-up and all. Already we’re getting scattered reports of rioting.

My God, that makes number eight. Let’s see… she’s got eight confirmed hits in about eleven months. Rabson slowly shook his head.

Nine, the director said in correction. This time the sniper apparently shot and killed a black political activist, some local guy named Darius Williams after he addressed a church meeting. The killer popped him twice, two head shots. Just like the other murders. Nobody heard anything because she used a silencer again.

Rabson nodded in response. Longstreet continued.

The ballistics aren’t in yet of course, but they found two spent seven-point-six-two- millimeter shell casings at the scene… just like the Detroit and Philadelphia killings. Get all you have on these murders together.

Yes sir.

What is it? You’ve worked on this kind of assignment before. Those inner-city street gangs for instance, just last year.

Somehow that was different.

How so?

"Motivation. Those gangs were a bunch of street kids who grew up in poverty. They were simply in it for the money. These neo-Nazi assholes are doing it out of belief. With the black and Latino gangs, it was all strictly a matter of turf and drugs… plain economics; with these guys it’s political. We’re not talking about a bunch of yahoos who go out at night yelling ‘nigger,’ painting swastikas on synagogues or burning a cross somewhere. This is different, and something a lot more frightening. Look at what those crazy assholes did right here, ransacking the Capitol way back in twenty-one."

Yeah, I know… well, tell your wife and kids you’re going be gone a while; I’m sending you out on the Red eye to LA to coordinate the investigation with the locals, Longstreet responded in a low, Mississippi drawl. He handed Rabson a coach-class ticket.

Yes sir. Rabson knew that