Robin Cook - Vector

Curt shrugged. He didn’t quite know what to make of the stranger, especially with his intense eyes.

With a fresh beer, Curt began to relax again.

“You know, I’m glad I met you,” Tim said. “And you know why?”

Curt shook his head.

“Because I’m forming a group that I think you and a couple of your buddies ought to join.”

“What kind of a group?” Curt asked skeptically.

“A border brigade,” Tim said. “An armed border brigade. You see, the regular Border Patrol who are supposed to be protecting this country from illegal aliens are not doing their job. Hell, the Mexican border just ten freaking miles away is like a giant sieve.”

“Really,” Curt said. He’d not thought much about the border. He’d been much too preoccupied with the rigors of boot camp.

“Yes, really,” Tim said, mocking Curt’s response. “I’m telling you, this is a serious situation. You and I and the rest of our Aryan brothers and sisters are soon going to be the minority around here.”

“I’d never thought about that,” Curt said. It was the first time he’d even heard the word Aryan and had little idea of what it meant.

“Hey, you’d better wake up,” Tim said. “It’s happening. This country is on the brink of being taken over by niggers, spics, slanty-eyes; and queers. It’s going to be up to people like you and me if our God-fearing, self-reliant culture is to survive where people work for a living and queers stay in the closet. I tell you, not only are these other races seeping in here like water through a sponge, but they’re reproducing like flies. This is one hell of a problem. We just can’t sit around on our asses anymore. If we do, we only have ourselves to blame.”

“How are you going to arm the border brigade?” Curt asked. “If you got some crazy idea that people like me could help, think again. We can’t take our ordnance off the base.”

“Weapons are not a problem,” Tim said. “I’ve got a goddamn arsenal in my basement, including fully automatic M1s, machine pistols, scoped sniper rifles, and Glocks. I even have uniforms for us cause I already got about ten navy guys involved. We’ve already been on patrol.”

“Have you come across any aliens?” Curt asked. Awed by the firearms Tim described, Curt’s estimation of the stranger soared.

“Bet your sweet ass,” Tim said. “We’ve interdicted almost a dozen.”

“What do you do with them once you catch them, turn them over to the Border Patrol?”

Tim laughed scornfully. “If we did that, they’d be back the next night. The Border Patrol’s idea of interdiction is to slap their wrists, scold them, and then turn them loose.”

“Well, then what do you do with them?” Curt asked although he sensed the answer.

Tim leaned over and whispered. “We shoot ’em and bury ’em.” He wiped his hands rapidly as if brushing off dirt. “That way, it’s over and done. There’s no second chance.”

Curt swallowed. His throat had gone dry. The idea of shooting illegal aliens was both arousing and scary at the same time.

“I got some copies of a magazine here in my briefcase,” Tim said. “I’ll be happy to give them to you if you hand them out to people like you and me. You understand what I’m saying when I say people like you and me?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Curt said. “What kind of magazines are they?”

“The one that I happen to have today is called Blood and Honor, ” Tim said. “I’ve got others, but this one is particularly good. It’s from England, but it talks about the stuff we’re discussing. Western Europe has the same problems we do. I also have a novel you can read. Do you like to read?”

“No, not much,” Curt admitted. “Except gun manuals and stuff like that.”

“Maybe this book will turn you into a reader,” Tim said. “Reading is important.” He bent over, unsnapped his briefcase, and lifted out a sizable paperback. “It’s called The Turner Diaries. ” He handed it to Curt.

Curt took the book. He was skeptical. He’d only read one novel since high school: a pornographic story about a college call girl from Dallas named Barbara. He cracked open The Turner Diaries and read a few lines. He couldn’t know then that it would become his favorite book.

Curt ended up taking six copies of the magazine Blood and Honor in addition to The Turner Diaries . After reading both he became progressively excited and concerned about the issues Tim had brought up. Curt made it a point to get the reading material to people Tim thought were appropriate. Soon he had amassed a cadre of like-minded Marines that began to share meals.

Curt’s relationship with Tim Melcher blossomed. He spent a good deal of his free time with the man, helping to organize the border brigade, which he himself joined. Several Marines Curt had recruited joined as well. When Curt eventually got to see Tim’s arsenal in his basement, it aroused him erotically. He’d never seen such a collection of guns and ammo outside of live-ammo Marine maneuvers. Tim even had a stash of Kalashnikov AK-47s. They weren’t as technically good as the fully automatic M1s, but they had a romantic appeal.

Curt’s first operational border brigade excursion had been disturbing. It had started auspiciously with lots of laughter. Everyone was drinking beer from ice chests in the back of the SUVs as they drove south in a convoy of three vehicles, hop-skipping down Interstate 5. Each vehicle was playing Skrewdriver cassettes, which Tim had gotten from England, at high volume. It was a festive atmosphere.

North of the border they’d turned east into the desert. At a site preselected by Tim, they stopped and bivouacked. They put up tents and started a fire. As night fell, they cleaned up their dishes, doused the fire, and set out toward the border. Dressed as they were in desert camouflage, they blended in except for their drunken hilarity.

Curt was having the time of his life. Finally he was truly a part of a group that was, according to Tim, racially pure and of like mind. He also felt they were doing something important, although he doubted they could sneak up on anyone. If nothing else they’d scare any aliens back the way they’d come.

Tim divided the group up into twos. He positioned the pairs at set intervals spread out about a quarter mile back from the border. He chose Curt as his partner, a fact that made Curt proud. It was also good because Tim had made sure he and Curt had the best location. They were on top of a mesa-like rise that was the highest point of the whole area.

They hunkered down on a patch of sand with the sandstone conveniently jutting up behind them. Leaning back against the rock, they broke out fresh beers from their portable thermos pack. The metallic snap of the tabs as they broke in unison was a delicious sound in the dark, arid wilderness.

The night was gorgeous and mild as the rock radiated its stored warmth. Above, the Milky Way appeared as if strewn with a million diamonds. A soft wind blew in from the Pacific, just strong enough to be felt on open skin.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Tim commented. He unhooked his communicator from his belt and placed it on a flat rock. He used the radio to keep in touch with the other teams.

“It’s unbelievable,” Curt said. “When I grew up in Brooklyn, I never knew something like this existed.”

“It’s a great country,” Tim said. “Too bad it’s going to the dogs because of the freaking government.”

Curt nodded but didn’t say anything. As mesmerized as he was by the surroundings and numbed by beer, he didn’t want to get into another discussion about the Zionist Occupied Government.

A few minutes passed in silence. Curt took another sip of his beer. “Have you ever been to this location on previous sorties?” Curt asked. At Tim’s insistence they used military terms whenever possible.