The “Cuckservative” Meme

As George Orwell illustrated in 1984, Marxists love to pervert language. In a police state, it makes it more difficult for the subjects to commit Thought Crime. In a transitional state (like the USA in 2015) it serves to frame debate to the advantage of the Marxists.

I try to avoid using Newspeak as much as possible. For many years I’ve avoided using the terms “liberal” and “conservative,” because the meanings have been so confused. There is nothing “liberal,” for instance, about the dirtbags who enjoy that title, what they are doing to our rights, or intend to do in the future. And “conservative” means something different to just about everyone. The only consensus feasible is that a conservative is somebody to the right of Chris Matthews.

Lately it’s been something of a bittersweet pleasure to witness some on the right and/or in the manosphere giving the Marxists (cultural and otherwise) a dose of their own medicine. (Bittersweet because it’s about 30-40 years too late to make a difference in our fate as a nation). And now “cuckservative” has been added to our lexicon. Is this a matter of using something out of the Cultural Marxist Playbook, or is there  more Marxism at work here than just the play itself?

The term “cuck,” so far as I can tell, comes from the word “cuckold.” This means basically that a “cuckservative” is a naive, gullible chump. I would agree that pretty much everyone identified as a conservative, by themselves or others, fits this description politically. Certainly the neocons and RINOs who control the Republican establishment, the supplicating libertarians and every other enabler of the Democrats would fall in this category.

BUT…

For those with a Biblical worldview, we recognize that:

  1. the devil is real,
  2. his M.O. is to infiltrate and corrupt EVERYTHING, and
  3. he makes his lies believable by mixing obvious truth in with them.

So, after calling out the Marxist enablers on many valid points, sometimes in hilarious fashion, the propagators of this meme also will call you “cuckservative” if you’re not racist, or if the criminal actions of people in government piss you off..

For instance, in Heartiste’s page “Shit Cuckservatives Say” (which is similar to our “Neocon/RINO Campaign Slogans” posted some time ago) has some nuggets like this in the mix:

(They) “Whine about how bad Hillary messed up in BenGhazi.”

Here’s a standout patch of stupidity. We are supposed to accept domestic enemies in government destroying evidence to perpetuate a(nother) coverup? Whoever came up with that idea is nothing but a tool. (“Useful idiots” is what Lenin called them.)

“Democrats are the real racists.”

Well, yes, they are–historically and right now, though their deceptive techniques to cast evil as good and good as evil are quite effective against the ovine.

“George Wallace was a Democrat.”

Also a fact. But I guess we should embrace revisionist history and refuse to bring up relevant facts when the topic of race is weaponized against us. Because Western Civilization.

“Abortion is racist because 50% of black babies are aborted!”

Obviously this idea has been phrased to make it sound fatuous, but the fact is that Planned Parenthood was founded by a Nazi who is on record as naming blacks as one of the demographics that should be destroyed via eugenics. And by sheer coincidence, most of their abortion clinics are in the inner cities where the black population is concentrated.

I am not an apologist for blacks. I’m not trying to make black friends and I reject “white guilt” on its face. Blacks in the USA have proven repeatedly with every election cycle that 90-95% of them are my unrepentant enemy, willing to steal my property and jeopardize my freedom as long as their entitlement checks keep growing and “one of their own” gets rewarded with position.  (So have a whole lot of whites, for that matter.) They have proven with words and actions that they, in fact, are racists, and hate me because of my genetics.

However, I’m not going to conform to any ideology based on how people with my skin color are “supposed to” think. These tools behind the “cuckservative” meme do, which means they are exactly like the lemmings composing 90-95% of the black population in the USA. Way to show your “white supremacy,” bozo.

 “I don’t have white interests, I have the Constitution.”

There-you go–the pigmentation you were born with is so much more important than having a government with the purpose of protecting individual rights. In other words, unless you think the way the left-wing elite want you to think, you must be a “cuckservative.”

I haven’t seen another comment so far that more clearly illustrates how the tools behind this meme are playing the part of controlled opposition for the social engineers of the left-wing elite, and exacerbating the “divide and conquer” policy that ensures no real challenge to their power will ever be mounted.

Here’s to you, manosphere: just keep peddling your kratom, game tips and penis pills while the world burns.

Here’s to you, white tribalists: When all our lives become a waking nightmare as a partial result of your ignorance, take comfort in the fact that your skin is more pale than some other victims.

The Catalyst

As Mike said previously, we’re at a point in history where selling works of fiction is almost a silly agenda to be concerned about.  Fixating on the American Dream at this late hour is tantamount to opening a Kosher bakery in 1936 Berlin. Nonetheless, my ability to sound the warning is limited. My only platform, such as it is, is built on my fiction (and my blogging too, I guess). So here’s another chapter of my warning, in fictional form:

16

D MINUS 56

AMARILLO, TEXAS

“Oh man, I don’t believe this shit,” Delton Williams muttered as he swung his car around the curve and saw the po-po lined up across the road, lights flashing on their cruisers. Another random roadside spot check. Another part of the “zero tolerance policy” garbage the politicians on the local news were talking about lately.

Delton had lost his job months ago when the company he worked for downsized and outsourced their remaining labor overseas. His Unemployment Compensation was about to run out and he’d had no luck finding a job. He’d just sacrificed some gas to go to an interview which turned out to be a scam. He should have known the “no experience necessary” was too good to be true in this economy. Their job posting said he’d get paid training to be a financial consultant, when in actuality it was a door-to-door sales job and they expected him to pony up some cash to pay for the training. He’d spent the last of his cash on gas and now he wouldn’t be able to buy baby formula. He and his girl already switched to cloth diapers, hang-drying them on the apartment balcony because disposables were too expensive. The easy way out would be to either start selling weed in his neighborhood, or go on welfare. He didn’t want to do either, but was running out of options.

He needed to get back to the apartment soon so his girlfriend could take the car to her late shift job at the convenience store. Delton’s sister had borrowed the car Sunday and he hadn’t had a chance to clean it out since then. Who knew what she might have left in there somewhere? He was only a mile or so from his apartment. This checkpoint was the last thing he needed right now.

Six cruisers were parked here, in all. Most of the cops stood over by a cluster of trees shading them the late afternoon sun. They were all either white or Hispanic.

He rolled down his window as he came to a stop abreast of the two cops standing in the road. Maybe they would wave him on and harass the next guy.

“Good afternoon, sir,” greeted a short, beady-eyed cop, leaning down to face Delton through the open window. “We’re conducting roadside spot checks today.” He pointed beyond the paved shoulder to an area in front of the trees. “Would you mind pulling off up there so we can check you out real quick?”

“Yes sir, I would mind,” Delton said. “My girl got to get to work and she got no ride without this car.”

The cop blinked in puzzlement. Evidently he wasn’t used to people treating a question like a question. “That’s alright sir,” he finally said. “It’ll only take a second.”

Just in case the cop was being honest, Delton asked, “What exactly you gonna check?”

“We just need to look at your driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance, and to look the car over to make sure everything’s all right.”

Delton was behind on all his bills, because Unemployment was not covering his expenses. He had foregone paying the electric bill so he could send a token payment to the insurance company. He was pretty sure it appeased them for at least another month. But the premiums kept going higher and higher every year…

“You wanna search my car without a warrant?” Delton asked.

The beady-eyed cop’s demeanor changed. Hard lines formed around his mouth. “Excuse me?”

“I said you need a search warrant to do that.”

Beady Eyes looked over the car’s interior. “Is there something you don’t want us to find in here?”

Now the other cop, taller and uglier, stooped over to join Beady Eyes outside Delton’s window. “Is there a problem here?”

Beady Eyes gave the big ugly cop a meaningful glance. “He’s refusing to comply. Says he wants to see a search warrant.”

“Have you got something to hide?” asked the second po-po.

“I ain’t hidin’ nothin’,” Delton said. “Why I gotta be hidin’ somethin’? I told this officer here I need to get home so my girl can take the car to her job.”

“You could be in and out of here if you didn’t give us a hard time,” the second cop said. “This is just a random stop, as part of the zero-tolerance policy…”

“I ain’t givin’ you a hard time,” Delton said. “I’m mindin’ my own business, just tryin’ to get home so my girl can get to work. You’re givin’ me a hard time.”

The second cop stood to his full height and hitched up his gun belt. “Tell you what: do me a favor and pull up over there.”

“No thanks,” Delton said. “How ’bout you do me a favor and let me get home?”

“You need to think hard about this, sir,” the second cop said. “If you insist on making this difficult, you won’t like what happens.”

“You guys can’t search me unless you got a reason,” Delton said.

“Where’d you hear that?” Beady Eyes asked, voice dripping with disgust.

“Man, it’s my rights!” Delton replied, unable to keep the irritation out of his tone.

The two cops exchanged a look. The other cops, over in the shade, were now taking notice that something was amiss. Beady Eyes turned to them and called out, “We’ve got a belligerent one, here.”

The other cops hurried over, stationing themselves on both sides of the car.

Why can’t they just leave me be, Delton wondered, wracked with the sinking feeling of hopelessness. But he countered all their demands by insisting they produce a search warrant.

Finally one of the other cops approached to lean down in his window. “Unless you show us your license and registration, we’re gonna arrest you.”

“I’ll show you that stuff,” Delton said. “No problem. He reached across the front seat to open the glove box, where his registration was.

“He’s going for a weapon!” Beady Eyes cried.

Cops flung open both doors and grabbed Delton.

“Chill the hell out! I was just gettin’ the papers, like you axed!”

His words were drowned out in the shouting of the cops. More and more hands grabbed hold of him and they hauled him out. He tried repeating his protest but they didn’t hear him, or paid no attention. All of them were shouting at once and he couldn’t sort it out. They shoved him against the side of his car and somebody wrenched his arm behind his back.

They were going to cuff him.

Delton tore his arm away and twisted around to face them. “Back off, man! I was just gettin’ the…”

Something hard hit him in the ribs. Through blinding flashes of pain he saw the one holding the night stick. His body reacted before his brain thought it over, and he planted his fist in the guy’s face.

Now sticks crashed all over his shoulders and the top of his head. The only female cop in the group aimed a tazer at him. He batted it out of her hands and pushed her. She went tumbling backwards.

Blows rained down so fast and heavy it was like fireworks went off inside his head. Through the blinding pain of the beating he felt the ground come up to strike him yet another blow on the back of the head.

The perp’s resistance was an unexpected highlight to the checkpoint duty. Not only did they get to see Officer Katy Hobbes go tumbling ass-over teakettle after losing her tazer, but they were getting quality stick time like most of them had never enjoyed before. Then Archuletta began yelling, holding his arms out to stop the beating.

Panting but pumped on the adrenalin, they gradually stopped swinging. Their human pinata was unconscious.

They all glanced at each other and smirks were exchanged. Hobbes picked herself up and came over to take in the scene, and a couple jokes were cracked at her expense. Then Archuletta squatted to examine the perp.

“Hey guys, this doesn’t look good.”

“Cuff him and get him in my car,” Fender said, chuckling. “Somebody can bring aspirin to his cell.”

“No,” Archuletta said. “I mean this looks bad. Maybe we should get an ambulance over here.”

Archuletta stood again, then noticed all the civilians from the backed-up traffic standing outside their vehicles with smartphones out, taking pictures and video.

“Oh, shit.”

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

###

The image link to False Flag (the entire book) is  on the upper right sidebar. You can watch the accompanying Youtube video here.

Multi-Purpose Treason Part 2: Shovel-Ready Chaos

Last time I called out the massive illegal immigration fomented by the hijackers of the US government, and how it accomplishes more than one agenda item toward bringing down the American republic.

The Border Invasion overlaps with another globalist strategy.

Contrary to what you’ll likely hear from teachers, professors, and the Idiot Box, it was not the bureaucrats, politicians, and community organizers who made the USA the most prosperous nation in history. It was our (once) free market, and the entrepreneurs who took advantage of its opportunities to fill consumer needs and make an honest buck in the process.

You’d never know it now, but Americans used to produce things (besides debt, paperwork and porn, that is). We made the most of the industrial revolution and became the envy and marvel of the world. Even when wracked by the Great Depression, wise thinkers in Japan were leery of going to war against the sleeping industrial giant across the Pacific because, unlike now, the infrastructure was still in place to fire up a war machine any foreign enemy would be hard pressed to stop.

Of course regulations and taxes that favor foreign interests at the expense of Americans has utterly devastated US industry. And the industrial infrastructure that remained between the world wars is long gone, now.

So is the work force. Starting in the New Deal and encroaching gradually over the decades until its explosion under the Hussein Administration, a huge chunk of the American workforce has been transformed into able-bodied parasites who contribute nothing of worth to our society.

The buildup of the Entitlement Class (of which invaders/illegal immigrants are just one portion) also accomplishes more than one strategic objective for the enemies of America and your freedom.

First, of course, it has followed the Cloward-Piven model to bankrupt our economy. As our industry was strangled, the middle class decimated and the workforce shrunken, the welfare state has ballooned well past the point it can be sustained.

(This causes a conundrum for the traitors in Washington, because they want to see America destroyed; but the politicians always want to delay the collapse for one more election cycle. This has locked them into a vicious cycle of “quantitative easing” that they couldn’t get out of now even if they wanted to, and will make our collapse even more devastating.)

Secondly, entitlements are a way for the traitors to extort money from those of us who still work, and use it to buy votes from those who discover they don’t have to. By robbing Peter to pay Paul, the politicians can pose as generous, compassionate  benefactors…as if they were using their own money charitably instead of ours. Tax/Spend/Elect is a self-perpetuating dynamic ensuring the people who caused the problem will be able to keep making it worse. Parasites will knowingly vote for liars, crooks, and traitors as long as it guarantees their entitlement check.

Thirdly, it has destroyed the nuclear family in the inner cities, particularly among blacks, whose ensnarement on the poverty plantation is more effective than any whip-toting slave owner could have accomplished. They blame their poverty on Whitey or “the rich” and racial animosity abounds. Meanwhile, the remaining working-class whites resent them for their entitlements. It appears that a whole lot of whites are now blaming all the problems surrounding black culture on genetics alone. I’ve never heard white people display separatist attitudes in such numbers as they do now. Any hope of either side recognizing the actual cause of the problem is now lost, as they descend into stubborn tribalism.

Fourthly, this has created a powder keg. Entire generations have been programmed to not work for a living; and to…

  • rely on entitlements;
  • consider those handouts their god-given right;
  • hate anyone who objects to the entitlements;
  • hate America in general;
  • self-identify as victims who haven’t yet got their due.

When the economy collapses and the free handouts stop, these parasites won’t have a clue how to feed themselves. Their whole lives have taught them that the way to survive is to have somebody else (the IRS, so far) extort the earnings out of working people for their sustenance.

Starvation is a perfect catalyst to ignite the nationalism of the Victim Tribe, who will quickly find someone else to blame for the nightmare they brought on themselves.

The violent horror overtaking our major population centers is hard to conceive, and will probably go a long way toward the 90% population reduction of the  Agenda 21 architects.

Examine the M.O. of the criminals in government when small-scale violence has broken out in events like the Baltimore or L.A. riots, when police were held back intentionally to give rabble-rousers “room to destroy.”

The Man won’t step in right away to restore order. People will be given plenty of time to rip each other apart. Whoever survives will beg for some great leader to ride in on a white horse and bring order out of chaos. Peace at any cost. People will volunteer to be interned in camps, so long as they’ll be fed and sheltered.

As the general in Star Wars told his staff on the Death Star, “The last vestiges of the old Republic have been swept away.”

The last vestiges of individual freedom will be swept away–with popular support, I’m sure.

Can you guess who the scapegoat(s) will be?

Multi-Purpose Treason Part 1: Invasion, USA

Virtual Pulp was founded to sell books. That was the avenue we chose to pursue happiness and the American dream. But as that dream is fundamentally transformed into a nightmare, becoming successful novelists is a goal that pales in importance compared to the radical changes descending upon us.

Some may have noticed we’ve already been speaking out on controversial subjects more than we used to. We decided to use our freedom of speech while we still have it. Now, however we are kicking into overdrive. Book sales and diplomatic sugar-coating so as not to offend just don’t matter a whole lot in the face of the perfect storm our country, and the world, is facing.

Virtual Pulp is now the lantern hanging in the belfry of North Church. We might post something about entertainment or the culture war…but it’s no longer a priority. We will be warning anybody with the wisdom to listen about some of the trials coming your way. I have no interest in debates with coincidence theorists, concern trolls, or anyone trapped in their normalcy bias.

Multipurpose Treason is the S.O.P. for the interests that have hijacked our government. Most of the criminal policies foisted on us accomplish more than one objective of the globalist enemies of the USA.

Take illegal immigration, first:

The Establishment insists that American citizens have to be treated like criminals at airports and bus stations for our security against potential terrorists. Men, women, boys and girls must be fondled and groped by uniformed perverts because one of them might be carrying a bomb or box cutter. Meanwhile the border is intentionally left wide open so that not only drug lords, welfare parasites and violent Hispanic Supremacist armies can invade and infiltrate our cities, but Islamic terror cells, too. There’s no telling just how many and what kind of America-hating scum are flooding in by the train loads.

Well, the so-called Justice Department evidently knows, because they furnish some of them with weapons. The same kind of weapons they don’t want in the hands of law-abiding Americans, BTW.

Some of us have pointed to the rampant election fraud in 2012 and prior, and understand that the criminals in Washington are using this to build up their parasitic voter base into an ironclad majority which (along with dead voters, serial voters, rigged vote-counting, etc.) will ensure that their enemies can never, ever alter the national course away from the abyss of a socialist/fascist third-world police state. And we’re right.

But others point out that this invasion is kicking in the afterburner on the Cloward-Piven strategy to bankrupt the USA…and they are right, too. (This is just one of many methods converging to strike the death blow against our mortally wounded economy.)

But that’s not all. This invasion is setting up a “nation within a nation.” We are being forced to subsidize a seething alien population that will not assimilate (in fact, probably won’t even bother to learn our language), is hostile toward our form of government (the legitimate one, that is), covetous of our property and, in many cases, overtly dedicated to the reconquest of “Atzlan.”

That ties in directly to my next point, which I’ll get into next time.

A Knight Without Armor in a Savage Land

Grant Cogar is a reporter.

An old-school reporter–the kind you see characterized on movies and TV but hasn’t dominated actual journalism probably since WWII: he reports the facts regardless of how they relate to whatever political worldview he subscribes to (which he also keeps to himself). And yet he is decent and passionate about humanity.

That passion collides with Cogar’s objectivity and, in this novel, we find him waist-deep in the chaos that is present-day Syria.

…A knight without armor in a savage land…

That line from the theme to Have Gun, Will Travel fits Cogar’s Crusade pretty well. But it’s worse than that–Sir Cogar has no weapons, either. Oh, they’re available; he just won’t use them in anything but the most desperate of circumstances. Of course desperation is a relative concept when you’re already wading through a civil war. Hint: risk of his own life and limb is not sufficient desperation.

I was here, they were here, and since we weren’t shooting at each other, we must be on the same side. Today.

Cogar is a strange character to find in any generation of men’s adventure. He’d be more at home in a drama that takes place down the street from your urban or suburban reality. Looking at my own characters, pretty much all of them are comfortable with both feeding and cheating death. Cogar may have a remarkable reserve of courage, but his squeamishness at the prospect of dealing out deadly force is more commensurate with yours, your neighbor’s…pretty much any civilian you would classify as “decent folk.”

Granzow’s prose is savvy, ascending to the poetic in places.

…There is no limit to the depth of human depravity, and wars in this part of the world don’t come with expiration dates. The Middle East is an island buoyed by corpses, rocking unsteadily atop a bottomless lake of blood–a lake that Sherman only briefly canoed over during his stint as general. Here, every drop of red spilled in the sand fuels the strife like gasoline on flame…

I prefer the devil-may-care adventurer in most genre fiction of the civilian persuasion, but what Cogar has seen forces him to care. It might force readers to care as well, by proxy.

A Post-Modern Pulp

As far as I know, Jack Badelaire coined the term “post-modern pulp.” It describes the “men’s fiction” paperbacks that replaced the old classic pulp magazines in the publishing world. Jack’s blog was recommended to me back around when my literary career was just getting started. I found his tastes and interests to overlap mine in several areas.

He still reviews books and movies on the PMP blog, but in Killer Instincts, Badelaire has pumped the heart and soul of the genre he loves into a post-modern pulp of his own.

Killer Instincts is like The Punisher/The Executioner, Deathwish and The Professional all crammed together.

New England millenial William Lynch loses his family to an old-school crime syndicate back East, and vows revenge. He is trained by professionals for his war on the gangsters, and transforms into a killer himself. One might worry, based on the title and the original synopsis, that this is an intense psychological thriller delving deep into the id (or superego?) of a privileged frat boy transforming into a homicidal vigilante. While that transformation certainly does take place, and even though the story is told in first-person, the author’s camera  follows the bloody, bullet-ridden action rather than lock on a close-up of the hero’s tortured psyche.

Driven by revenge and punctuated by white-hot violence, Killer Instincts reads like a film Sam Peckinpah could make with current special effects.

It’s a warm, fuzzy way to spend a day or two, escaping from a reality where murderers rarely get what they deserve and the very worst criminals rise to positions of authority in civilized society, as a matter of course.

Working Directly For the Shadow Government

 

15

Y MINUS TWO

UPPER EAST SIDE, MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Jason Macmillan found the park bench in question. A moderately attractive 40-something woman sat on it, wrapped in a fur-lined parka, smoking a cigarette.

“Ms. Simmons?” he asked, when he was still a polite distance away.

She glanced up and flashed him a business-casual smile. “You must be Jason.”

He shook the thin hand she offered and was surprised at the electricity that passed between them. His eyes and mind told him she was nothing fantastic on the desirability scale (especially around the Washington-New York axis, which was crawling with hot, horny women) but his body didn’t agree.

He sat on the bench, with less than a yard of space between them.

“It’s not that cold yet, is it?” he asked, with a meaningful look at her expensive coat.

“It’s partly psychological,” she said, taking another puff of her cigarette. “I keep hearing what a bad winter we’re in for one of these years, so I’m bundling up in preparation. Plus I just spent a month in Hawaii, so my blood has thinned out.”

He nodded toward the huge building where the Council met. “They should be out by now, shouldn’t they?”

“Oh, their meeting’s been adjourned,” she said, with assurance. “But there’s the usual hob-nobbing to do afterward. And then Lawrence goes through his dog walking ritual. Are you familiar with that, yet?”

Macmillan shook his head.

“Well, you are new, after all,” she said. “His show champion dog has its own dedicated driver and vehicle. Can’t be getting shedded fur all over the limousine, now can we? Then his dog handler escorts the dog to Lawrence and hands it off. Lawrence walks with it for exactly half an hour, then hands it off back to the dog handler, who hands it off to the doggie driver, who takes it out of sight, out of mind for the rest of the day.”

She didn’t seem scornful or bitter. Rather, amused. But not quite mocking.

“Has he given you the speech about Border Collies?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he replied.

“Oh, then you’re due for at least one. He’s got dates and places, names of breeders and dogs. He’ll tell you all about how Collies were bred to help herd livestock. They’re born with the herding instinct and even his spoiled, urbanized pet unconsciously tries to herd him away from traffic and other perceived threats. Lawrence is fascinated with the whole concept of herding, in fact.”

“He hasn’t opened up to that extent with me, Ms. Simmons. He probably doesn’t know yet if I’ll work out.”

“Call me Jade,” she said, patting the bench surface right next to her. “Come here. I don’t bite.”

Macmillan scooted over until they were right next to each other.

“I hear you started out in the Louisiana Highway Patrol.”

He acknowledged the question with a slight hunching of the shoulders. “Yeah. But that was a long time ago.”

“Impressive that you’ve climbed so far.”

Her voice was sensuous–almost hypnotic. He was turned-on despite himself. Forget Viagra—this broad was an effective cure for erectile dysfunction all by herself.

“I think I like you, Jason. So I’m going to share a little privileged information up front—otherwise it might take you some time to figure out: Lawrence wants to meet with both of us at once in order to foster competition between us. So don’t be surprised if he seems to be pitting us against each other sooner or later. He believes we’ll both work faster and harder for him that way. Ironic, isn’t it? So Free Market of him.”

“So you’re my competition, then,” Macmillan said, trying to reciprocate her subdued, playful manner.

“But I don’t think it should be totally competitive,” Jade Simmons told him, with direct eye contact. “I prefer cooperative arrangements.” She glanced pointedly at his left hand. “So you’re married.”

“Is that a problem?” he asked, smoothly.

“That’s up to you,” she replied, patting his thigh this time.

He wasn’t sure how to respond. He was used to being the sexually aggressive one.

“I’ll save you some more time,” she continued, chuckling. “The only reason you’re in this is because your assets are expendable, whereas mine are valuable enough, Lawrence wants to save them for future operations if possible.”

This sounded like an insult, which rankled Macmillan. His agents were sharp and well-trained. So elite even the CIA wasn’t privy to their ops. How could her guys be less expendable than his? Maybe she meant only his civilian informants.

“I agree with him,” she said, “which means I want you to succeed. So the game is rigged in your favor: if you can get your dominoes lined up, you get the operation.”

Lawrence Bertrand appeared around the corner on the sidewalk, flanked by two imposing bodyguards, with his Collie leashed at his side. He was a tall, thickly built aristocrat with a nose like a vulture’s beak, probably in his mid-to-late 60s.

As Bertrand’s small entourage drew closer, someone else arrived at the park bench and stood beside it, waiting—obviously the dog handler.

Bertrand made it to the bench, handed the leash to the handler, exchanged a few words about the Collie’s diet, then dismissed him. The two bodyguards wandered far enough away from their boss to provide some privacy, but close enough that they could go into action in case Alex Jones popped up out of a trash can with a video camera or something.

Jade Simmons made as if to stand. Moving quicker, Macmillan shot to his feet and made room for Bertrand to sit on the bench. Bertrand took the offered space. Macmillan stood facing the seated Bertrand and only then noticed that Jade was still seated. She smirked. She had only feinted at rising. This was some sort of power play, to establish that Macmillan was lower on the totem pole than her.

Macmillan would like to get her alone, where he’d show her exactly where to stick the totem pole.

“I trust you’ve introduced yourselves,” Bertrand said.

“Yes sir,” Macmillan said.

Jade nodded. “How was the meeting?”

Bertrand frowned. “All this oil fracking on private and state land is a nuisance. But still, we’re at the point where, with or without more quantitative easing…” his words trailed off and he looked annoyed. “That’s hardly any of your concern, Jade.”

The reprimand didn’t seem to bother her that much, but it kept her mouth closed for a moment.

“How is the initiative coming along?” Bertrand asked her.

“I’ve got penetration across the board,” she replied. “Per your instructions I’ve concentrated on the DomTer cells, and we’ve got assets in or close to leadership in 38 states. We’re pushing for full permeation, of course, but in the mean time we’ve got fully trained, invested assets who are ready to go right now.”

Travis turned from her to address Macmillan “I’ve got Jade going at this from a different angle, but her priority is identical to yours. We need assets tuned and fueled up PDQ, waiting on the ‘go’.”

Pretty Damn Quick was a lofty goal when you had to accomplish all that was cut out for Macmillan and the people under him.

“Your predecessor not only failed,” Bertrand told Macmillan, scowling, “but he managed to lose valuable assets in the process. I think part of the problem was, he promoted operators to leadership who were too hands-on. Brice Mallin was a hell of an operator; but the wrong man to run the show. Chiefs plan; Indians execute. Show your fangs a little, but I need you and your command structure where you can observe and administer. That means delegate and supervise. Unfortunately, it also means recruiting, to replace the operators we lost.”

Brice Mallin had a big reputation as a bad dude. But not only did he lose three teams of shooters overseas, he wound up greased himself.

“Yes sir,” Macmillan said.

“The teams we spoke of,” Bertrand went on, “with the civilian assets prepped for high-profile…that is your priority until further notice.”

Civilian assets. So that was it, after all. That was why McMillan’s teams were considered more expendable than whoever Jade Simmons had working for her.

“I want to see significant progress very soon.” Bertrand now glanced at Jade to include her in what he was about to say. “With any kind of operation like this, discretion is of the utmost concern. We can’t expect the press to be able to continue damage control for us with the same success they’ve had in the past.” His scowl deepened. “There are too many rogue elements out there now.” He gestured toward the headquarters building. “We’re working on that problem, but frankly, we might not be able to accomplish much until after you’ve done your job. Anyway, we’ve got to police the situation tightly, and there are these rogue elements trying to start trouble…most are crackpots, but there’s this one B.I.A. agent that doesn’t know his place.”

“Are you saying we’ve been compromised?” Jade Simmons asked.

“They’re all poking their noses into our business,” Bertrand replied. “This one was snooping around one of our prior operations. He’s not a blogger or reporter or anything like that, but he’s kicked up some dust in his little backwater. The risk is, having some training in investigation, he could stumble onto current operations. Perhaps even our priority initiative.”

“So you need him out of your hair?” Macmillan asked.

Bertrand coughed and made a face. “It’s trickier, now. He’s running for sheriff in his home county.”

“Too high profile,” Jade said, nodding.

“Not if he starts making waves again,” Bertrand said. “For now he’s backed off. So let’s get what we can on him. He’s got family. And if he does become sheriff, he’s got that to lose. In any case, I’m putting him at the top of our database.”

“Yes sir,” Macmillan said.

“Understood,” Jade said.

Bertrand directed his focus back on Macmillan “You should have the mission parameters already.”

“Yes sir,” Macmillan said.

“I want you to be prepared to operate anywhere on that list of venues. And I want every item from the criteria addressed.”

That was a tall order, but not impossible. Macmillan welcomed the challenge.

“Above all,” Bertrand said, “we can’t have loose ends. The press can’t smooth over sloppy work as well as it could in the past. They can’t until we sort out this whole Internet boondoggle. Eric Varney will help us with background checks on recruits, as always. But beyond that, you need to do some careful screening of your own. And keep on top of it, even when candidates pass. Attitudes can change. Someone might decide to stop being a team player.”

Bertrand was paranoid, Macmillan decided. Nothing on Earth could turn a made man once he’d graduated up through all the layers of concentric circles to get here. C.I.A. and NSA employees didn’t even have the clearance needed to be a part of this organization, now operating within a subcompartment of the DHS. Most of Congress didn’t even know the organization existed.

“If there’s any security breach whatsoever,” Bertrand said, “well, let’s just say you don’t want to be the person responsible.”

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

###

The link to False Flag is also on the upper right sidebar. You can watch the accompanying Youtube video here.

Post-Apocalyptic 1960s

Somebody visiting the blog recommended this classic, and I’m glad they did.

The hero has a brother in the Air Force’s Strategic Air Command (SAC), and gets early warning of an impending nuclear war.

This novel was first published in 1959, so it’s very interesting that the atomic holocaust is triggered in the Middle East.

The hero and other characters live in a place called Fort Repose, Florida. (Either the place changed its name since then, or the author made it up; ’cause I can’t find it.) MacDill Air Force Base gets nuked and some other places, close enough to see the mushroom clouds. From then on it’s a struggle to keep the little community functioning and safe in the new world. Simple things like salt that we take for granted become a precious resource upon which your survival rests.

The author plays around a little bit with how the class/social hierarchy is shuffled around in a world ravaged by atomic war, but could have done a lot more.

It’s a nice little story, but mired in the myopia of perspective and the times in which it was written. The most tragic ASSumption made (which is perfectly understandable considering the time period) is that:

  1. the most serious threat to our nation is an external one, and…
  2. the cabal holding the reins of our government is truly interested in protecting the American people from such threats, or…
  3. looking out for the interests of the American people more than the interests of their fellow travelers in Europe, Asia and elsewhere.

Good entertainment, with a few pointers about rebuilding a society that hasn’t fallen nearly as far as ours will.

Federal Standoff was Recon By Fire

Bang, bang, bang! “Freeze, or I’ll shoot!”

A government sniper killed Vickie Weaver with her baby in her arms. This was during an attempt to murder the entire Weaver family because Randy Weaver refused to be an informant. Whatever Randy’s personal beliefs, this should have inspired a march on Washington with torches and pitchforks.

Not long after, an army of ATF goons, backed by FBI shooters, tanks and choppers, laid siege to a home and church with no probable cause for even a search warrant. The somewhat kooky religious people near Waco, Texas were burned to death for the crime of exercising their rights protected by the First and Second Amendment. The big crime committed there–according to the government/media complex–is that a few of the victims had the audacity to shoot back when masked men in combat gear began destroying their property and killing their friends and family.

The EPA, BLM, IRS and other out-of-control Gestapo agencies have been bulldozing through the inalienable rights of American citizens for a few decades, using some ridiculous excuses to do so. In recent memory, the BLM and other jackbooted federal thugs attempted to intimidate the last surviving ranching family in the Moapa Valley into giving up the grazing rights they’ve had for a century and a half. The feds rustled Bundy’s cattle, destroyed his irrigation during calving season, and prepared to attack the men, women and children who owned the cattle.

But Bundy didn’t back down, and Americans from all over the region showed up to face off with the Nuremburg Rangers. You could call it a line in the sand.

Amazingly, the feds backed down. There are a number of possible reasons. One is that if shots were fired in anger, it might very well have turned our Cold Civil War hot, and The Man wasn’t perfectly pre-positioned for it at that moment of time.

But the All-Seeing Eye was tracking every single individual who showed up to stand with the besieged rancher. You can bet every single one of them is now high up on the threat list for “domestic terrorism” at the Utah Data Center and elsewhere. Such individuals will be the very first targets in extraction operations like the ones being practiced as a part of Jade Helm ’15.

So, in 4GW terms, you could consider the Bundy Ranch standoff as a probe. Specifically, a recon-by-fire.

14

D MINUS 65

NSA DATA CENTER

CAMP WILLIAMS, UTAH

Justin yawned, checked the time, and turned back to his monitor. He’d been at it for 12 hours so far today. He’d put in a couple more before calling it quits for the night.

The room he sat in was crowded with computers, separated by small cubicles. There were ten tired, uncomfortable people in there, all trying to maintain enthusiasm for this project despite the long hours.

Justin closed the file he had just completed and went back to Surveillance Photo 18F-5 from the Garber Ranch. Several more zones of the photo had been grayed out since he last looked at it. He moved his cursor over an active zone and clicked on it. The zone grew to fill his screen, and he zoomed in on the little Ford Ranger parked on the side of the road. He kept zooming closer until he could make out the license plate, then split his screen to open the Motor Vehicle database.

“We got any more coffee?” asked Barnes, from the adjacent cubicle.

“Had about half a pot left an hour ago,” Justin replied, checking the blackened bottom of his styrofoam cup to ensure his last dose hadn’t magically reappeared.

“Which means it’s empty again, and I’ll be the one who has to fill it,” Barnes complained. “You’d think they could get us one of those fancy machines where you just slide a packet in, push a button and it gives you espresso, coffee, cappuccino or whatever.”

“They spent all the money on these work stations,” Justin said.

Frawley, the green-eyed blonde in the cubicle to his right, rolled back in her chair and asked, “Did you hear the latest about that defensive back at Miami?”

Justin shook his head. “I don’t follow football that much anymore.”

Frawley looked almost hurt. “But…”

Tench, the short brassy-haired black woman in the cubicle to his left, rolled back and said, “I thought you were a wide receiver for UCLA.”

“Tight end,” he corrected. “But I’m done with football.”

Justin’s love for the game had been cooling for a while even before his back injury during senior year. It had cooled even more in recent years.

“You shoulda’ stuck with that,” Tench said. “You coulda’ been makin’ big money.”

“You’re still in terrific shape, too,” Frawley said. “Most guys put on a lot of weight after they stop playing.”

“That’s Ex-Jock Syndrome,” Justin said. “Guys who try to bulk up or trim down for their position ruin their metabolism. I never did that.”

“So I guess you wouldn’t be interested in joining a fantasy league,” Frawley said.

“No. But thanks anyway,” Justin said. His co-workers rolled their chairs back into their cubicles.

He ran the license plates through the database, pulling up the name and address of the person who registered the Ford Ranger. The owner had driven across two states to join the DomTers at Chapanee. Justin initiated a new file and began filling in the details.

First he checked for a criminal record. There was none. Some speeding tickets when the DomTer was a teenager, and an accident report filed 15 years ago made up the only entries on the rap sheet.

He looked up the DomTer’s cellphone number and flagged it for monitoring and tracking.

Next he checked for prior military service. The DomTer, Gary Fram, served in the Army, in the combat arms. That moved him up the danger scale quite a few notches.

Justin looked over his medical records and filled in the requests for peripheral checks of his wife and children. He shifted to Fram’s financial history and status, and confirmed his political affiliation by voter registration. The man’s voting history started out typically sporadic, then he became a hell-or-high-water voter for several years. But he quit voting altogether after 2012. This would flag his profile as an extreme risk.

For variety’s sake, Justin investigated his public library habits next. (Normally he put this off for later in the process, but switching around the routine helped relieve some of the monotony.) Several books checked out on the American Revolution, the Constitution, the Federal Reserve, and various survival topics all fit the profile and confirmed the risk level.

He ran the man’s identifiers through the firearm sales database. Though this database was far from complete, it still showed a rifle and shotgun purchase, along with several ammunition purchases. The caliber of the ammo purchased indicated at least two additional weapons owned.

Only then did Justin begin poring through Fram’s email, search engine and social networking history. This was the most tedious, time consuming portion of any profile. It generated anywhere from dozens to hundreds of peripheral requests for profiles of potential accomplices, but the intelligence rewards were too juicy to pass up.

Fram hadn’t said anything that could yet be construed to suggest criminal intent, but his wife posted pictures on Facebook of him posing with a couple different weapons which did not show up on the firearm sales search.

Justin still had a long way to go on the social networking history when time came to go home. He would have to continue that tomorrow. He estimated that it would take another day and a half before he could wrap up with an analysis of the DomTer’s home, based on satellite and street-level images from Google. Only after all that was complete could the DomTer’s residence be more thoroughly investigated via thermal imaging, ground-penetrating radar and other methods available by satellite or U.A.V…assuming he or his wife hadn’t bought into DropCam or some other service that installed cameras inside their home, which would make everything easier.

Justin began shutting down and gathering his stuff.

“You calling it a day?” Barnes asked.

“Yeah,” Justin said, logging out of succeeding security layers. “My eyes are burning. Guess I’ll be back in about 10, 12 hours.”

“You know what we’re doing here, right?” Barnes asked, rising to his feet and hurrying around the cubicle row to where Justin stood.

Justin shrugged, not sure what his co-worker was driving at. But no doubt Barnes would do his best to enlighten him, whether the enlightenment was welcome or not.

“It’s like ‘reconnaissance by fire’,” Barnes said, grinning at the opportunity to share his theory. He was retired Air Force, and looked for the military angle in everything. “You know those old fashioned wars…infantry attacking defensive positions and all that. Well, what you do is send a heavy patrol out at night and make contact, but just to harass—not to try overrunning the position or anything. The defenders open fire, and you take note of how their defenses are laid out–where their machineguns are; mortars, artillery; whatever. And which parts of the perimeter are only defended by riflemen. Then when you’re ready to attack, you knock out their heavy weapons first, then hit them where they’re weakest. Of course today you don’t have to do that because we got satellite intelligence and so forth, but you get the idea: we’re probing the DomTers to find their strong and weak links.”

“You think we intended to back down from the standoff all along?” Justin asked, incredulous.

“Well, the whole operation may have been part test balloon,” Barnes said. “If that old cowboy prick had been reasonable, we’d have just moved on and taken care of business. But these DomTers are feeling their oats. They think they won’t get a spanking–or that it won’t hurt that much. So we’ll let them go on thinking that, while we just pin down where all their assets are.”

“I wonder why we don’t spend this level of effort on the folks swarming across the southern border,” Justin wondered aloud. “I mean, Domestic Terrorists aren’t the only threat we have to worry about.”

Barnes frowned, shrugged, and headed back to the coffee maker.

Justin left the “data mine” and exited through a series of security checkpoints until he finally made it outside the building. On the way to his car, he considered his short conversation with Barnes. He hoped he hadn’t come off as critical, or the Department might decide he had tendencies that were sympathetic to the enemy.

The enemy.

It should be bizarre thinking of American citizens that way, but Justin was getting used to it. It kind of bothered him at first when reading department memorandums gave him the impression that a civil war was expected by his bosses, and their bosses. Mainstream culture was clueless that anyone even considered it possible. Yet in the minds of many intelligence professionals, it was a done deal.

Justin remembered enough world history to know that evolution of a state and its culture was inevitable. The great empires all lasted approximately 200 years before corruption ate them away from the inside, or weakened them enough to be toppled by external forces. That meant the United States of America was on borrowed time anyway.

At least his job was secure. In the emerging global order his kind of work would always be in demand.

 

 

###

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

###

The link to False Flag is also on the upper right sidebar. You can watch the accompanying Youtube video here.