White Men with Guns

By Richard Van Doren

Set in 1991, White Men with Guns is a novel of spine tingling prophecy. Two agents in the FBI's fabled Behavior Sciences Unit (now Behavioral Analysis) suspect, but cannot yet prove that a neo-Nazi cult thrives in the heartland of America. It recruits, trains and dispatches serial and mass murderers for the express purpose of undermining national morale and spreading terror. Punctuated by actual headline-grabbing crimes, the mayhem described here almost seems tame in comparison to what our country has suffered in recent decades. WMWG also tells the story of beleaguered Agent William Henry, an aging stalwart showing signs of emotional exhaustion, and his beautiful young protege Amy Gold, the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors. She must choose between loyalty to her country and Israel's commitment to "preventive maintenance" wherever the abomination of Naziism surfaces.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Van Doren
• Release date: Jan 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215075913

Richard Van Doren

Richard Van Doren is an ordained minister in a mainline Protestant denomination. He has always been fascinated by the fringe element in American culture and the extreme events that test faith. All of his novels and short stories deal with the collision of spirituality and earthly crises, or the ongoing conflict between the forces of good and evil. He moonlights as a college composition instructor, and every semester he teaches his students the two most important rules of writing: 1) write on a subject about which you know something, and 2) write on a subject about which you feel strongly. Over the years he has read and heard about countless instances of dark invasions into every day, innocent living. Anyone who has ever experienced something very strange, or who believes that we live in a reality that extends far beyond this world of the five senses will find his novels and stories much to their liking. All of these works contain instances that Van Doren has either experienced in his career or was told about by friends, students, parishioners and family.

Book preview

Part One:

The Divine Way to Die

CHAPTER ONE

FBI Evidence Files, Case BAU-R1151, Digital Remaster #1 (written description)

The cinematography is shaky, often blurred. The cameraman pans an audience consisting mostly of men dressed in military fatigues and standing at attention. A few women watch from the perimeter. The meeting seems to be taking place inside a large hall, but as one adjusts to the dimness, one can see it is a huge cavern, lit primarily by flaming torches and a few distant flood lamps. From behind the camera, a man begins to speak, his voice echoing off the distant walls. The listeners barely move and appear rapt. The speaker is never seen. His voice, an animated, almost musical baritone conveys the qualities of a seasoned orator. His speech is received with obvious approval.

"I come before you to testify that the American dream is dead... at least for you and me, and an ever-growing number of white men who played by the rules: we worked hard, obeyed the law and trusted this vile, corrupted society. The American dream is dead for the men who built and sustained this country, white males betrayed by a hypocritical system couching vindictiveness in the guise of social progress. It is a system which avidly protects and promotes inferior blood, while shunning the only true source of strength, genius and progress, a system committing suicide in its relentless commingling with inferior genes, brainwashing subspecies with false claims of equality, while mocking the master race. And see, brothers, how the animals and savages among us have clung to the lies, while making no effort to exploit them.

"Imagine telling a spoiled child who has never worked for anything that he is entitled to the same rights, the same jobs, the same income as you or I, grown men who have worked and studied all our lives. Then, imagine that same spoiled child giving you orders, or cursing you when he proves incompetent; that same spoiled child turning up his nose at every conceivable advantage offered to him, advantages not offered to you, and then blaming you for his failure.

That, brothers, is exactly what is happening with the black savage in America. If three hundred and fifty years has taught us anything, it is that you cannot civilize a savage.

(Laughter)

"Black and white do not mix, nor should they. The black savage has proved himself incapable of meeting the challenge of life in a white society, but rather than insisting that the savage adapt, the liberal social saviors have opted to undermine the strength of our country, rolling back standards of achievement and job performance to accommodate limited intelligence and sheer lack of effort, giving them an equal chance, in fact a superior chance at education and jobs that would have gone to you in any other country on earth. They call it equal opportunity, but if it were truly equal opportunity, no black savage would have a chance, so 'equal opportunity' has come to mean what we all know it to be: no white men need apply.

"Yes, brothers, your country has betrayed you, and all indications are that the betrayal will only worsen.

"For decades now, mediocre students among the savage clans have found their way into American colleges and universities where our white youth, with superior grades, have been rejected—all to fulfill the almighty quota. Those same savages have wrought protest and violence on those same campuses because they believe they are entitled to more!

"Those same spoiled savages then pollute the workplace with their uppity attitude, the personification of rudeness, totally devoid of social grace, and the moment any indignant white person defends himself and challenges them, they scamper behind the skirts of federal law and cry 'bigotry!' The lazy, good-for-nothing animals fill industrial vacancies to meet some obscene quota, while hard-working white men go begging for a job. They shuffle to work and sit on their baboon asses, forcing the whites employed there to do the work of two, just to save the company. But sometimes American businesses can't carry the weight of the slothful black cancer, and they go bankrupt, leaving everyone without work. And then, like a lethal virus, they rush to infect some new business, demanding their equal opportunity with their slogan of insufferable arrogance: 'you owe me, white man.'

"In every city and suburb, they copulate like wild beasts, producing savage, undisciplined chimps that will someday pollute American society with a new generation of violence and sloth. In the meantime, these offspring of rampant irresponsibility must be cared for in any way a well-meaning society can find, so your government turns to you by raising your taxes. Hard working white families, who manage their budgets and plan their lives carefully, must factor in the financial support of sexually promiscuous black whores who bring into the world untold thousands of newborn parasites, whom they have no intention of rearing. To compensate for the economic drain, white couples elect to have fewer children. In short, the present system of government approves and promotes de facto genocide of the white race.

"And to make matters worse, the more you give these ravenous animals the more they hate you. Welfare, unemployment checks, food stamps, educational and job quotas, unbalanced advantages and opportunities, are not enough. They still sneer at you and blame you for all their problems. They treat you rudely, they spit on your food, your car. They rob your homes, your stores, rape your wives, sisters and daughters, all the while drinking, shooting up, snorting and screwing.

"And then they curse you, and call you a 'devil.'

"In the heart of savagery, they murder each other by the thousands with machetes and machine guns—but they call you a devil.

"The black savage American forms the tenth wealthiest nation in the world—but they call you a devil.

"Because of his association with the white American, the black savage has the highest per capita income, the highest life expectancy, the lowest infant mortality and the best living conditions of any black savage on the face of the earth—and they call you a devil.

"They call us 'devils,' brothers, because we have not given them enough. Unfair advantages, jobs for which they are not qualified, and billions of dollars of handouts are not enough. Benefits they receive no place else on earth are not enough. In truth, the black savage wants everything, and if you listen carefully to his leaders you will hear that he plans to take it violently.

"Witness the new black sport, brothers. It's the mass murder of innocent white people. The sociologists call it 'black rage.' Today I say to you, it's time the savages became re-acquainted with white rage. There's only one way to treat a malignant cancer, and it can't be half way. It must be bold and sweeping, devoid of emotion or conscience, a measure attempted only once in this century by our fathers overseas—which is absolute extermination.

If you are with me, brothers. If you are eager to embark on this bold venture, join me in the eternal chorus of the mighty.

In unison, those in the audience raise their right arms and shout, Seig, Heil! Seig, Heil! Seig, Heil!

"For three hundred and fifty years the black animal has been too stupid to know who his enemy really is, and too stupid to care. He points his angry finger at every white face indiscriminately and then calls us racists. Little does he know or care that we and the black savage have a common enemy, which is the filthy rich pig. Until the latter part of the twentieth century, the true antagonism in America has never been black versus white, but filthy rich versus everyone else. Yet the rich pigs know the black savage is too stupid to make a distinction between the blood suckers of greed and the backbone of America. We're all the same to the savage, and he targets those who are accessible—never the ones truly deserving of vengeance.

Throughout history, the parasite rich have betrayed decent, hard-working common folk in every generation of this country. It began with the heartless humiliation of poor whites in the deep south to whom they would have had to pay a living wage. Instead, the ugly, fat pigs plundered a savage nation, and flooded America with a pollutant known as Negro slaves, who took their jobs and lived better than many of your ancestors. Then, in the guise of social progress, this government of fat cats set them free to wreak vengeance on those who had nothing to do with their slavery. You see, the black savage is too stupid to know the difference between rich and poor. All he sees is white. So the poor, hard-working whites did the only thing they could to defend themselves. They formed the noble, enduring brotherhood of protectors known as the Ku Klux Klan...

(Here, applause interrupts the speaker).

"And you know, brothers, the filthy rich follow the same pattern of enslavement and contempt to this day, laying off tens of thousands of decent, hard-working laboring men who made them rich to exploit hopelessly impoverished third world slobs and pay them a pittance. All this, so the top level executives can make millions more a year. Those millions could sustain scores of families with reasonable and responsible values. Instead, they leave you without a job, without a future, and having to endure the blind hatred of ignorant savages. And your government, the vaunted U.S. of A. does absolutely nothing about it.

"The filthy rich and their puppet government sacrifice your lives, your health, your future on battlefields throughout the world, so they can reap greater profits and fuck our wives.

Forty-five thousand American men died in the rice paddies of Viet Nam, fighting a war that your government never intended to win. A hundred thousand more came home with emotional and physical wounds that would never heal, all in defense of a military-industrial complex that not only reaped enormous profits at the expense of your arms, your legs, your very souls, but also experimented with nightmarish carcinogenic defoliants and weaponry that eat at your bodies and jeopardize the health and safety of your newborn babies.

(Here, a collective growl seems to erupt from the audience).

"In truth, they sacrificed your bodies on the altars of Viet Nam, Iraq and Afghanistan built only to worship their one true god—the almighty dollar.

"And while all this was going on, brothers, where were your girlfriends, the little sluts who now fill the jobs that should have gone to you? I'll tell you where they were. They were fucking the very men who sacrificed you, fucking the drug addicted freaks who pelted you with eggs, and fucking the black savages who blame you for their corrupted spirits.

Today, they're still fucking you, but not in the good way, brothers.

(Laughter).

"Today, the little bitches demand equality in the workplace of a society they never defended, taking your jobs and then mocking your unemployment. The little bitches belittle your masculinity, while spreading their legs for some black savage with a salami dick. They mock your needs, your feelings, by defiantly destroying your children, like some rite of passage, in a murderous abortion clinic. And always, they drape their arms around a deep pockets sugar daddy, the filthy rich, the very men who crushed your dreams.

"Again I say to you, the time has come, brothers, to reacquaint America with the meaning of white rage, like our fathers did in Europe, just sixty years ago. Let them know that we tried to play by the rules, we bought in to the American dream, which others like us built, and all it got us was hostility, mockery, rejection and death.

"Now, they must pay—every one of them!... in ways that will leave no doubt who the superior force and guiding light of this nation must always be. They must pay in ways that will re-awaken long-lost respect and instill terror.

"Today, brothers, I say to you: cut their throats, massacre their children, create havoc in any way possible—because they have it coming!... and it is your destiny!

"Make our fathers proud by outdoing them in cruelty, by forcing our enemies to cringe at our feet. Let us finish the job that was begun only two generations ago.

"We are the priests, the chosen race, the true American nation!

Join me once again in the eternal cry of brotherhood!

SEIG, HEIL!

CHAPTER TWO

Heat rose from the pavement like ghostly serpents, appearing like the onset of a migraine headache. Brown, thirsting leaves drooped from rows of sickly trees lining the street, each one seeming to have lost a limb or two to advancing decay. An elderly man mopped his brow and struggled to catch his breath. A young woman behind a stroller fanned herself nervously, thinking wrongly that the breeze could dry her face.

Only a little boy laboring intently on a tricycle remained oblivious to the frantic activity taking place nearby. Before a ramshackle apartment building another police car joined the three already in line. Soon, an ashen-faced officer emerged from the building and leaned into one of the cars for his transmitter. Before speaking, he stopped to gaze at the gathering crowd of brown faces pressing against the fragile yellow tape that served as an imaginary barrier between them and the crime scene. For the first time in years, he felt a wave of emotion for these people with whom he had a relationship that could best be described as wary. Seeing them heed the police barricade, which could so easily be broken, observing the law in other words, he felt respect—and sorrow. Especially in light of the insane horror he and his fellows had found within.

Frowning, he lifted the microphone, Headquarters, this is Unit 17. We have a bad one here. Really bad.

A hissing voice cut through the air, What's the story, Carl?

It looks like... God... ten bodies at least. Can't tell for sure. None of 'em are in one piece. May be more than that.

Jesus Christ, the electronic voice prayed, Do you have a suspect?

Affirmative, Cliff. Suspect in custody.

Stunned silence descended over the crowd. Some, who did not hear, turned to their neighbors and asked for a report. As one woman whispered into the ear of another, the listener raised a hand to her mouth in a gesture of shock. Slowly, the news traveled down the line of spectators. One woman grabbed her little daughter's arm and pulled her away, as if from a snarling beast. Three men standing on the far corner, all African-American, eyed the apartment with mounting hostility. One, holding a beer can, crumpled it angrily and threw it into an overflowing trash receptacle.

But no one spoke aloud. The officer replaced his mike and took one last glance at the rows of silent faces before climbing the steps and re-entering the darkened hallway. For a moment he fancied them breaking into the chorus of a Negro spiritual, a stereotype he might have ridiculed at another time. Today, however, he would have welcomed it. He might even have clapped his hands in support.

But nobody sang.

This was not a day for singing.

The place was Milwaukee, Wisconsin, in a summer no one would forget.

Within an hour, three news vans further congested the narrow avenue, blocking the view of a crowd that now numbered in the hundreds. Most of the original observers had drifted away, to be replaced by curiosity seekers bearing cameras. Occasionally, small pockets of nervous laughter erupted from inside the throng.

Despite repeated entreaties from worrisome police, polished newscasters, trailed by assistants toting video recorders, boldly stepped over the cordon to position themselves before the foreboding structure. Each one, two elegant women and one immaculate man, assumed that this report would probably make it to the evening's national broadcast, so they devoted extra time to primping and reviewing their notes.

Barely detected, a shiny black Ford Taurus pulled up behind the row of police cars, some with their lights still flashing. Immediately, a very tall, gaunt man, dressed in a conservative dark gray suit arose from the driver's seat and paused, staring ahead at a building which seemed to dwell in shadows. He was soon joined by a small, trim, much younger woman, whose extreme prettiness was camouflaged by granny glasses, an absence of make-up and a tight bun hairdo.

The young woman proceeded to the rear of the car, opened the trunk and lifted an unwieldy case from within. The bigger, stronger man made no attempt to help her, which elicited no apparent protest from the struggling female. Together, they approached the crumbling concrete steps of the apartment house, where a half dozen officers positioned themselves. One of these stood with his hands on his knees, bending over and facing away from the crowd. Another, sitting down, seemed lost in thought and fighting tears. The one who appeared to be in the firmest state of self-control took notice of the newcomers and stepped down to intercept them.

The tall man produced his wallet and opened it to reveal a highly recognizable badge. Agents Henry and Gold, FBI, Behavioral Analysis Unit. Chicago, he said.

The officer responded simply, extending his hand, Sergeant Gregg Hill.

With a sincerity the sergeant did not expect from federal officers, Henry continued, On behalf of the Bureau, Sergeant, we'd like to thank you for your excellent work in keeping the... curious away from the crime scene. Did the suspect say anything before you took him away?

Suspect?! Hill exclaimed, while another officer nearby snickered without amusement. Is that what you call that... creep?

Henry swallowed his urge to chastise the policeman, recalling the reaction of a rookie agent to his first mass murder, eighteen years before.

The sergeant sighed and continued, "The suspect only said one thing: 'I accept full responsibility.' That's all."

'I accept full responsibility?' Henry echoed. Nothing else?

You got it, Sergeant Hill insisted.

Do you mind if we go in?

That's what you're here for, isn't it? Although I'd suggest the lady stay outside. This is the worst thing I've seen in fifteen years, and believe me, you'll wish you hadn't.

Henry turned to his partner, Agent Amy Gold, who stood silently, holding the heavy case and perspiring in the sweltering afternoon sun. She motioned Henry to proceed. Before entering the hallway, which reeked of rotting meat, she leaned toward the policeman and uttered quietly, Thank you for being a gentleman, Sergeant Hill, but it's my job.

Hill raised his hands in surrender, then muttered behind her, Good luck, Honey.

Stern uniformed policeman lined the hallway, their expressions ranging from pensiveness to despair. To the left, an apartment door opened and a black face peered out. One officer turned and gently waved his hands. Please stay inside, folks, he said, Everything'll be all right. Don't you worry, now.

Reluctantly, the curious observer closed her door.

No one else spoke as the FBI agents hurried toward an open door, through which a brilliant light shone—almost alien in the dim and murky surroundings. Henry was the first to peer inside. There, he saw a littered living room, perhaps ten by fourteen feet, with two ragged chairs and a threadbare sofa, a carpet with dozens of stains identifiable only through lab analysis. In the corner behind the door stood a rickety wooden bookcase, containing only a decrepit boom box and a few scattered rock 'n' roll tapes. Nothing hung on the walls. A small, badly scratched wooden coffee table with a leg held together with duct tape sat in the middle of the floor, perhaps a dozen magazines piled on top of it.

Three detectives added to the claustrophobic feel of the room. One sifted through the magazines, while the others lifted chairs and reached under cushions. All wore thin rubber gloves.

Amy Gold struggled to keep from retching at the fetid smell drifting from somewhere beyond.

Henry cleared his throat to get their attention, displaying his badge. Agents Henry and Gold. FBI.

From another room, they heard a voice mutter sarcastically, We're saved! We're saved!

The detective holding the magazines studied them without expression. Have fun, agents, he said, Mi casa es su casa. This place is a veritable smorgasbord. I'm Detective Courtland. I'm hosting this party.

Where should we start? Henry asked.

Courtland motioned casually toward the kitchen. Try the freezer, he said, returning to his hurried inspection of sexually oriented literature.

Before stepping into the grimy, illuminated kitchen, Henry turned to Gold. Are you sure you wouldn't rather wait outside? This is a rough way to break in.

Gold, her confidence waning by the second, answered shakily, Gotta start somewhere, right?

Henry did not respond. Instead, he crossed the narrow threshold into a minuscule, windowless dining area. On the wall to the left inside the door, hung a fading yellow telephone with black smudges. A small, three-legged table with a two foot circular top filled one corner along with its companion, a lone, old-fashioned pink wooden chair with paint chipping at every joint. At the opposite corner lay a grease-coated four burner gas stove with a large covered crock pot standing on one of the cast iron grills. On the wall above the stove, an electric fan appeared virtually clogged with filth. Directly ahead stood an unusually large refrigerator, separated from the stove by a scant twelve inches of counter space. Narrow shelves lined the walls above it and also above the tiny sink to their right. Age and neglect undoubtedly caused the flower-print linoleum floor to crack and peel. An uncovered sixty watt bulb in a ceiling socket provided the only light in the room.

Looks like a job for photo-scan, Henry spoke to Gold without turning all the way to face her.

Dutifully, the young agent backed into the living room and attracted the attention of the detectives as she opened the bulky case and lifted what appeared to be a small cylindrical vacuum cleaner with a flexible hose