The Turner Diaries
September 30, 1991. There's been so much work in the
last week that I've had no time to write. Our plan for setting up
the network was simple and straightforward, but actually doing it
has required a terrific effort, at least on my part. The
difficulties I've had to overcome have emphasized for me once
again the fact that even the best-laid plans can be dangerously
misleading unless they have built into them a large amount of
flexibility to allow for unforeseen problems.
Basically, the network linking all the Organization's
units together depends on two modes of communication: human
couriers and highly specialized radio transmissions. I'm
responsible not only for our own unit's radio receiving equipment
but also for the overall maintenance and supervision of the
receivers of the eleven other units in the Washington area and
the transmitters of Washington Field Command and Unit 9. What
really messed up my week was the last-minute decision at WFC to
equip Unit 2 with a transmitter too. I had to do the equipping.
The way the network is set up, all communications
requiring consultation or lengthy briefing or situation reports
are done orally, face-to-face. Now that the telephone company
maintains a computerized record of all local calls as well as
long-distance calls, and with the political police monitoring so
many conversations, telephones are ruled out for our use except
in unusual emergencies.
On the other hand, messages of a standard nature,
which can be easily and briefly coded, are usually transmitted by
radio. The Organization put a great deal of thought into
developing a "dictionary" of nearly 800 different,
standardized messages, each of which can be specified by a
three-digit number.
Thus, at a particular time, the number
"2006" might specify the message: "The operation
scheduled by Unit 6 is to be postponed until further
notice." One person in each unit has memorized the entire
message dictionary and is responsible for knowing what the
current number coding of the dictionary is at all times. In our
unit that person is George.
Actually, it's not as hard as it sounds. The message
dictionary is arranged in a very orderly way, and once one has
memorized its basic structure it's not too difficult to memorize
the whole thing. The number-coding of the messages is randomly
shifted every few days, but that doesn't mean that George has to
learn the dictionary all over again; he just needs to know the
new numerical designation of a single message, and he can then
work out the designations for all the others in his head.
Using this coding system allows us to maintain radio
contact with good security, using extremely simple and portable
equipment. Because our radio transmissions never exceed a second
in duration and occur very infrequently, the political police are
not likely to get a directional fix on any transmitter or to be
able to decode any intercepted message.
Our receivers are even simpler than our transmitters
and are a sort of cross between a transistorized pocket broadcast
receiver and a pocket calculator. They remain "on" all
the time, and if a numerical pulse with the right tone-coding is
broadcast by any of our transmitters in the area they will pick
it up and display and hold a numerical readout, whether they are
being monitored at the moment or not.
My major contribution to the Organization so far has
been the development of this communications equipment-and, in
fact, the actual manufacture of a good bit of it.
The first series of messages broadcast by Washington
Field Command to all units in this area was on Sunday. It gave
instructions for each unit to send its contact man to a
numerically specified location to receive a briefing and deliver
a unit situation report.
When George returned from Sunday's briefing he
relayed the news to the rest of us. The gist of it was that,
although there has been no trouble in the Washington area yet,
WFC is worried by the reports which it has received from our
informants with the political police.
The System is going all-out to get us. Hundreds of
persons who are suspected to have sympathies for the Organization
or some remote affiliation with us have been arrested and
interrogated. Among these are several of our "legals,"
but apparently the authorities haven't been able to pin anything
definite on any of them yet and the interrogations haven't
produced any real clues. Still, the System's reaction to last
week's events in Chicago has been more widespread and more
energetic than expected.
One thing on which they are working is a
computerized, universal, internal passport system. Every person
12 years or more of age will he issued a passport and will be
required, under threat of severe penalties, to carry it at all
times. Not only can a person be stopped on the street by any
police agent and asked to show his passport, but they have worked
out a plan to make the passports necessary for many everyday
operations, such as purchasing an airline, bus, or train ticket,
registering in a motel or hotel, and receiving any medical
service in a hospital or clinic.
All ticket counters, motels, physician's offices, and
the like will be equipped with computer terminals linked by
telephone lines to a huge, national data bank and computer
center. A customer's magnetically coded passport number will
routinely be fed into the computer whenever he buys a ticket,
pays a bill, or registers for a
service. If there is any irregularity, a warning light will go on
in the nearest police precinct station, showing the location of
the offending computer terminal-and the unfortunate customer
They've been developing this internal passport system
for several years now and have everything worked out in detail.
The only reason it hasn't been put into operation has been
squawks from civil-liberties groups, who see it as another big
step toward a police state-which, of course, it is. But now the
System is sure it can override the resistance of the libertarians
by using us as an excuse. Anything is permitted in the fight
against "racism"!
It will take at least three months to install the
necessary equipment and get the system operational, but they are
going ahead with it as fast as they can, figuring to announce it
as await accompli with full backing from the news media. Later,
the system will gradually be expanded, with computer terminals
eventually required in every retail establishment. No person will
be able to eat a meal in a restaurant, pick up his laundry, or
buy groceries without having his passport number magnetically
read by a computer terminal beside the cash register.
When things get to that point the System will really
have a pretty tight grip on the citizenry. With the power of
modern computers at their disposal, the political police will be
able to pinpoint any person at any time and know just where he's
been and what he's done. We'll have to do some hard thinking to
get around this passport system.
From what our informants have told us so far, it
won't be a simple matter of just forging passports and making up
phony numbers. If the central computer spots a phony number, a
signal will automatically be sent to the nearest police station.
The same thing will happen if John Jones, who lives in Spokane
and is using his passport to buy groceries there, suddenly seems
to be buying groceries in Dallas too. Or even if, when the
computer has Bill Smith safely located in a bowling alley on Main
Street, he simultaneously shows up at a dry-cleaning
establishment on the other side of town
All this is an awesome prospect for us-something
which has been technically feasible for quite a while but which,
until recently, we never would have dreamed the System would
actually attempt.
One piece of news George brought back from his
briefing was a summons for me to make an immediate visit to Unit
2 to solve a technical problem they had. Ordinarily, neither
George nor I would have known Unit 2's base location, and if it
became necessary to meet someone from that unit the meeting would
have taken place elsewhere. This problem required my going to
their hideout, however, and George repeated to me the directions
he had been given.
They are up in Maryland, more than 30 miles from us,
and, since I had to take all my tools with me anyway, I took the
car.
They have a nice place, a large farmhouse and several
outbuildings on about 40 acres of meadow and woodland. There are
eight members in their unit, somewhat more than in most, but
apparently not one of them knows a volt from an ampere or which
end of a screwdriver is which. That is unusual, because some care
was supposed to have been taken when forming our units to
distribute valuable skills sensibly.
Unit 2 is reasonably close to two other units, but
all three are inconveniently far from the other nine
Washington-area units- and especially from Unit 9, which was the
only unit with a transmitter for contacting WFC. Because of this,
WFC had decided to give Unit 2 a transmitter, but they hadn't
been able to make it work.
The reason for their difficulty became obvious as
soon as they ushered me into their kitchen, where their
transmitter, an automobile storage battery, and some odds and
ends of wire were spread out on a table. Despite the explicit
instructions which I had prepared to go with each transmitter,
and despite the plainly visible markings beside the terminals on
the transmitter case, they had managed to connect the battery to
the transmitter with the wrong polarity.
I sighed and got a couple of their fellows to help me
bring in my equipment from the car. First I checked their battery
and found it to be almost completely discharged. I told them to
put the battery on the charger while I checked out the
transmitter. Charger? What charger, they wanted to know? They
didn't have one!
Because of the uncertainty of the availability of
electrical power from the lines these days, all our
communications equipment is operated from storage batteries which
are trickle-charged from the lines. This way we are not subject
to the power blackouts and brownouts which have become a weekly,
if not daily, phenomenon in recent years.
Just as with most other public facilities in this
country, the higher the price of electricity has zoomed, the less
dependable it has become. In August of this year, for example,
residential electrical service in the Washington area was out
completely for an average total of four days, and the voltage was
reduced by more than 15 per cent for an average total of 14 days.
The government keeps holding hearings and conducting
investigations and issuing reports about the problem, but it just
keeps getting worse. None of the politicians are willing to face
the real issues involved here, one of which is the disastrous
effect Washington's Israel-dominated foreign policy during the
last two decades has had on America's supply of foreign oil.
I showed them how to hook up the battery to their
truck for an emergency charge and then began looking into their
transmitter to see what damage had been done. A charger for their
battery would have to be found later.
The most critical part of the transmitter, the coding
unit which generates the digital signal from a pocket-calculator
keyboard, seemed to be OK. It was protected by a diode from
damage due to a polarity error. In the transmitter itself,
however, three transistors had been blown.
I was pretty sure WFC had at least one more spare
transmitter in stock, but in order to find out I would have to
get a message to them. That meant sending a courier over to Unit
9 to transmit a query and then arranging to have someone from WFC
deliver the transmitter to us. I hesitated to bother WFC, in view
of our policy of restricting radio transmissions from field units
to messages of some urgency.
Since Unit 2 needed a battery charger anyway, I
decided to obtain the replacement transistors from a commercial
supply house at the same time I picked up a charger, and install
them myself. Locating the parts I needed turned out to be easier
said than done, however, and it was after six in the evening when
I finally got back to the farmhouse.
The fuel gauge in the car was reading
"empty" when I pulled into their driveway. Being afraid
to risk using my gasoline ration card at a filling station and
not knowing where to find black-market gasoline around there, I
had to ask the people in Unit 2 to give me a few gallons of fuel
to return home. Well, sir, not only did they have a grand total
of about one gallon in their truck, but they didn't know where
any black-market gas was to be had either.
I wondered how such an inept and unresourceful group
of people were going to survive as an underground unit. It seems
that they were all people that the Organization decided would not
be suited for guerrilla activities and had lumped together in one
unit. Four of them are writers from the Organization's
publications department, and they are carrying on their work at
the farm, turning out copy for propaganda pamphlets and leaflets.
The other four are acting only in a supporting role, keeping the
place supplied with food and other needs.
Since nobody in Unit 2 really needs automotive
transportation, they hadn't worried much about fuel. Finally, one
of them volunteered to go out later that night and siphon some
gasoline from a vehicle at a neighboring farm. It was about that
time that we had another power failure in the area, so I couldn't
use my soldering iron. I called it quits for the day.
It took me all of the next day and well into last
night to finally get their transmitter working properly, because
of several difficulties I hadn't anticipated. When the job was
finally done, around midnight, I suggested that the transmitter
be installed in a better location than the kitchen, preferably in
the attic, or at least on the second floor of the house.
We found a suitable location and carried everything
upstairs. In the process I managed to drop the storage battery on
my left foot. At first I was sure I had broken my foot. I
couldn't wall: at all on it.
The result was that I spent another night in the
farmhouse. Despite their shortcomings, everyone in Unit 2 was
really very kind to me, and they were properly appreciative of my
efforts on their behalf.
As had been promised, stolen fuel was provided for my
return trip. Furthermore, they insisted on loading up the car
with a great quantity of canned food for me to take back, of
which they seemed to have an unlimited supply. I asked where they
got it all, but the only reply I received was a smile and an
assurance that they could get plenty more when they needed it.
Perhaps they are more resourceful than I thought at first.
It was 10 o'clock this morning when I got back to our
building. George and Henry were both out, but Katherine greeted
me as she opened the garage door for me to drive in. She asked if
I had eaten breakfast yet.
I told her I had eaten with Unit 2 and wasn't hungry,
but that I was concerned about the condition of my foot, which
was throbbing painfully and had swelled to nearly twice its
normal size. She assisted me as I hobbled up the stairs to the
living quarters, and then she brought me a large basin of cold
water to soak my foot in.
The cold water relieved the throbbing almost
immediately, and I leaned back gratefully on the pillows which
Katherine propped behind me on the couch. I explained how I had
hurt my foot, and we exchanged other news on the events of the
last two days.
The three of them had spent all of yesterday putting
up shelves, making minor repairs, and finishing the cleaning and
painting which has kept us all busy for more than a week. With
the odds and ends of furniture we picked up earlier for the
place, it is really beginning to look livable. Quite an
improvement from the bare, cold, and dirty machine shop it was
when we moved in.
Last night, Katherine informed me, George was
summoned by radio to another meeting with a man from WFC. Then,
early this morning, he and Henry left together, telling her only
that they would be gone all day.
I must have dozed off for a few minutes, and when I
awakened I was alone and my footbath was no longer cold. My foot
felt much better, though, and the swelling had subsided
noticeably. I decided to take a shower.
The shower is a makeshift, cold-water-only
arrangement which Henry and I installed in a large closet last
week. We did the plumbing and put in a light, and Katherine
covered the walls and floor with a self-adhesive vinyl for
waterproofing. The closet opens off the room which George, Henry,
and I use for sleeping. Of the other two rooms over the shop,
Katherine uses the smaller one for a bedroom, and the other is a
common room which also serves as a kitchen and eating area.
I undressed, got a towel, and opened the door to the
shower. And there was Katherine, wet, naked, and lovely, standing
under the bare light bulb and drying herself. She looked at me
without surprise and said nothing.
I stood there for a moment and then, instead of
apologizing and closing the door again, I impulsively held out my
arms to Katherine. Hesitantly, she stepped toward me. Nature took
her course.
We lay in bed for a long while afterward and talked.
It was the first time I have really talked to Katherine, alone.
She is an affectionate, sensitive, and very feminine girl beneath
the cool, professional exterior she has always maintained in her
work for the Organization.
Four years ago, before the Gun Raids, she was a
Congressman's secretary. She lived in a Washington apartment with
another girl who also worked on Capitol Hill. One evening when
Katherine came home from work she found her apartment mate's body
lying in a pool of blood on the floor. She had been raped and
killed by a Negro intruder.
That's why Katherine bought a pistol and kept it even
after the Cohen Act made gun ownership illegal. Then, along with
nearly a million others, she was swept up in the Gun Raids of
1989. Although she had never had any previous contact with the
Organization, she met George in the detention center they were
both held in after being arrested.
Katherine had been apolitical. If anyone had asked
her, during the time she was working for the government or,
before that, when she was a college student, she would have
probably said she was a "liberal. " But she was liberal
only in the mindless, automatic way that most people are. Without
really thinking about it or trying to analyze it, she
superficially accepted the unnatural ideology peddled by the mass
media and the government. She had none of the bigotry, none of
the guilt and self-hatred that it takes to make a really
committed, full-time liberal.
After the police released them, George gave her some
books on race and history and some Organization publications to
read. For the first time in her life she began thinking seriously
about the important racial, social, and political issues at the
root of the day's problems.
She learned the truth about the System's
"equality" hoax. She gained an understanding of the
unique historical role of the Jews as the ferment of
decomposition of races and civilizations. Most important, she
began acquiring a sense of racial identity, overcoming a lifetime
of brainwashing aimed at reducing her to an isolated human atom
in a cosmopolitan chaos.
She had lost her Congressional job as a consequence
of her arrest, and, about two months later she went to work for
the Organization as a typist in our publications department. She
is smart and a hard worker, and she was soon advanced to
proofreader and then to copy editor. She wrote a few articles of
her own for Organization publications, mostly exploring women's
roles in the movement and in the larger society, and just last
month she was named editor of a new Organization quarterly
directed specifically toward women.
Her editorial career has now been shelved, of course,
at least temporarily, and her most useful contribution to our
present effort is her remarkable skill at makeup and disguise,
something she developed in amateur-theater work as a student.
Although her initial contact was with George,
Katherine has never been emotionally or romantically involved
with him. When they first met, George was still married. Later,
after George's wife, who never approved of his work for the
Organization, had left him and Katherine had joined the
Organization, they were both too busy in different departments
for much contact. George, in fact, whose work as a fund raiser
and roving organizer kept him on the road, wasn't really around
Washington much.
It is only a coincidence that George and Katherine
were assigned to this unit together, but George pretty obviously
feels a proprietary interest in her. Although Katherine never did
or said anything to support my assumption, until this morning I
had taken it for granted from George's behavior toward her that
there was at least a tentative relationship between them.
Since George is nominally our unit leader, I have
heretofore kept my natural attraction toward Katherine under
control. Now I'm afraid that the situation has become a bit
awkward. If George is unable to adjust graciously to it, things
will be strained and may only by resolved by some personnel
transfers between our unit and others in the area.
For the time being, however, there are other problems
to worry about-big ones! When George and Henry finally got back
this evening, we found out what they'd been doing all day: casing
the FBI's national headquarters downtown. Our unit has been
assigned the task of blowing it up!
The initial order came all the way down from
Revolutionary Command, and a man was sent from the Eastern
Command Center to the WFC briefing George attended Sunday to look
over the local unit leaders and pick one for this assignment.
Apparently Revolutionary Command has decided to take
the offensive against the political police before they arrest too
many more of our "legals" or finish setting up their
computerized passport system.
George was given the word after he was summoned by
WFC for a second briefing yesterday. A man from Unit 8 was also
at yesterday's briefing. Unit 8 will be assisting us.
The plan, roughly, is this: Unit 8 will secure a
large quantity of explosives-between five and ten tons. Our unit
will hijack a truck making a legitimate delivery to the FBI
headquarters, rendezvous at a location where Unit 8 will be
waiting with the explosives, and switch loads. We will then drive
into the FBI building's freight-receiving area, set the fuse, and
leave the truck.
While Unit 8 is solving the problem of the
explosives, we have to work out all the other details of the
assignment, including a determination of the FBI's
freight-delivery schedules and procedures. We have been given a
ten-day deadline.
My job will be the design and construction of the
mechanism of the bomb itself.