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  The camp staff was 11-men, 7 with wives and 9-children of various ages. The married couples lived in white canvas camp tents, and the other staff lived in the headquarters building in two-man rooms.

  The camp had a separate chow hall, with a walk-in freezer powered by its own diesel generator. The fuel truck came to camp once a week to refuel the various tanks. There were three classroom buildings, a headquarters building and a second generator shed with a 1,000-gallon diesel tank. This second generator powered the other buildings in camp. Fresh water came from a two different springs, filtered and stored in a 25-foot tall water tower, which held 1500 gallons. For toilet needs, the camp used a row of 8-outhouses. A secondary fuel tank was filled with gasoline and used for most of the vehicles. Three of the newer trucks ran on diesel, and one was equipped with a mounted 50-caliber machinegun.

  So far, besides the fifty, the largest heavy weapons Clay had seen were a case of LAW rockets and three M-60’s, set-up in machinegun positions around the camp. Clay dearly hoped the feds never tried to enter this camp; he knew several agents would lose their lives in the process.

  When this former YMCA summer camp for boys had come on sale, the KKK had purchased it through one of their wealthier supporters. His firm carried it as a non-profit religious retreat. Now the camp had three new firing ranges and an armory, plus a large refrigerator and Clay new this was where the C-4 and newer Semtex explosive were stored. Blasting caps for the explosives were stored in a large floor safe in the commander’s office. There was a new obstacle course through the woods for the members to use daily, an area for hand-to-hand combat training, which used to be the old volleyball court and an open area by their 35-foot flag pole, used for morning and evening formations, and also PT. A staff member who resembled a Spartan warrior led the exercise the Pt and also a the daily 3-mile run. Clay knew he could’ve finished first in everything here and possibly even go the distance with the physical instructor, but he didn’t want to look too good. So, he finished the exercises but usually finished the run in the top 10. After all, his body did look pretty fit after all the Special Forces training he’d been through. It had better. I’ve been through every survival school the military has to offer and lived off that dang desert for weeks at a time. I really hate this dude!

  Before arriving here, Clay knew the camp set up from satellite photographs. As of yet though, he hadn’t learned who were the key men behind this new White Fist faction. He hadn’t yet learned who telephoned the commander every day over the satellite phone. He’d seen the commander called away from a briefing for important phone calls. But so far, he’d been unable to learn anything about how the White Fist came to be and who the real players were.

  In his briefings at the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s well-known building in Washington DC, he had learned that the government was clearly very uneasy about this new White Fist. Several different undercover operatives were used to gather information, but Clay was the first attempt at having an operative actually join their ranks.

  Under the alias of Willy J. Olson of South San Antonio, Texas and former US Army Sergeant First Class, he had come to Atlanta to locate an old friend and find work. The FBI had used the background of a soldier from Atlanta very recently killed in Afghanistan. They had studied Clay’s background, saw he was homeschooled in Minto, Alaska and had earned a GED with sky-high scores. He entered the University of Alaska-Fairbanks and the ROTC Program, where he excelled. Following Officer Candidate School, he went to the 82nd Airborne and with his language and outdoors skills, he had quickly worked his way into the Green Beret. He obtained his Master Jump Wings, HALO Wings, Master Diver rating, Combat Infantry Badge with three stars, a Distinguished Service Cross, a Silver Star, two Bronze Stars for Valor and four Purple Hearts. He also had qualifications to wear the jump wings from five different countries. By the time he had pinned his captain bars on, he’d been selected to join the highly regarded Delta Force. His ethnic background didn’t hurt him either. Being half- Athabascan Indian, his dark coloring allowed him to fit in where a white man would make people suspicious. While in Libya and Egypt with Delta Forces he had developed a major distrust of the CIA and their operatives he worked with.

  Clay had just wrapped up an assignment 100 miles south of Kabul, Afghanistan when he was given orders to report to FBI Headquarters for another special assignment with the Feds. 33-years old, half white on his father’s Germanic side and half Athabascan from his mother, Clay was raised in the Alaskan Interior. Both his dad and mom were killed one night driving home from a Fairbanks when a drunk driver T-boned them. He was only two years old and had survived the crash with only minor injuries. He was raised by his maternal grandfather in the small Indian township of Minto, Alaska, located 90-miles east of Fairbanks and reached by a single lane gravel road.

  As part of his assignment with the Feds, he was to pick up some odd jobs and hang around in the Veterans of Foreign Wars and American Legion Clubs in Atlanta, in hopes the KKK would take notice of him. The Intelligence Branch of the FBI knew how the KKK often recruited from such service clubs. They looked for men and women with combat training, who shared in their views for an all-white Christian America.

  In downtown Atlanta, he eventually started to talk up some racist gab and even punched out a former Black Marine outside an American Legion, who was actually an undercover Federal Officer. Clay held back, but both men knew they had to make it look good and the Marine was left feigning unconsciousness, while Clay was taken inside the Legion to hoist a few beers with those who agreed with him. The American Legion wouldn’t allow such activity inside the bar. They did call for the police or an ambulance if requested; they still had a liquor license to protect. A lot of vets came home with darker complexions after serving a couple tours of duty in the sandbox, and his Athabascan bloodline only helped in his new identity as Willy Olson, a half-Mexican out of Texas.

  Though of a stout, muscular build, a broad chest and massive arms from pumping weights for years, Clay only stood all of 5’9”. He had large hands and carried the scars on his body from one stabbing, an AK-47 bullet to his left side and two separate shrapnel wounds across his chest and back of his legs.

  Before long and a couple hundred beers later, Clay was eventually approached by a KKK front man. Afterward, a recruiter approached. He had to really watch himself because he had a problem with booze. Most of the other service guys actually understood his problem. A lot of troops came home had a hard time dealing with either booze or dope. The initial contact was only made after they had conducted their own background investigation of him and that was with their own informants inside the Department of Veterans Affairs and both the Texas and Georgia Department of Motor Vehicles. But with the help of the FBI, all they found for a former SFC Olson were the very documents planted by the Special Operatives Branch of the FBI. The FBI office in San Antonio had all the resources they needed to create a false family and some low-life lawyer’s firm. One of the agents was a former lawyer, and he enjoyed playing the snobbish role. The ex-wife was played by a young female agent, who was forced to live in a rented trailer in south San Antonio. Afterward, Clay heard of how she really hated the assignment and hanging around the trailer parks. She took a week’s leave to spend time at a spa to wash off all the dirt and grime. Such was the life of undercover work, for every operative who worked the field there was a lot of supporting personnel in the background to keep his or her tale alive. But in her case it turns out, some of her office buddies went out of their way to find the foulest trailer possible in the worst trailer park in town. Though they always had her under observation, it took roses on her desk for two-weeks to finally get them back in her good graces, but they knew she still planned some form of revenge when it was their turn.

  Based on his combat experience and fabricated record, the KKK interviewed Clay several times. Twice, the interviews were accomplished by active duty soldiers. Rangers themselves, they were to verify Clay was who he said he was and not some fed
eral or state cop. Each time he was checked for monitoring equipment, but the FBI was using the more sophisticated microwave stuff, and everything was being recorded from a mile away. This was also to protect Clay. They couldn’t afford to have someone follow him for protection and being spotted. At one point, they used a borrowed drone to keep Clay under observation when the meeting point was made in the middle of the woods of nowhere. The FBI felt this operation was that important, and a lot of Homeland Security funds went into it.

  Eventually, Clay passed all the tests and interviews, but his own schooling was what did it. He knew the same instructors, the same eateries off post for Fort Brag and everything there was to know about Jump School. After that last meeting, he was sent to the White Fist training camp as a training officer and met with the senior staff there. He already knew where the spot was but was in fact surprised when no one bothered to blindfold him. It was a nice easy drive, with a stop at a nice roadside eatery for lunch along the way. This all told him how needful the White Fist was for well-trained non-commissioned officers to assist them in preparing their crew for whatever their targets were. But what he found in camp amazed him. Far too many coach potato civilians, with former military service, who wanted to relive their glory days with action against the Jewish and Muslim loving anti-white United States government. This meant one thing to him; the White Fist members were all-expendable.

  Every morning and every evening, the camp’s loud and overzealous political officer would rant on about the growing problems inside the USA. Of how Islam, the Jewish and other minority loving so-called religions were spreading across the country, driving good white Christian families out of their neighborhoods. He burst out with diatribe of how the Billionaire Jews, who had all the money to bribe the country’s legislative parties, were the ones actually behind all these big-make-peace movements and financially supported Israel, Libya, Egypt, and Iran. Their lobbying and bribes was all for the oil and with no concern with the people living in those lands.

  Clay would’ve loved to have dragged this foul-mouthed man down off his podium and stuff his megaphone down his throat, to show him how weak the US government was. It especially offended him when he had to render a straight-armed Nazi salute to the US flag at the close of every speech. A lot of his friends had died or been wounded for this beautiful flag, and it sickened him to see such slimy people, as this little blowhard, to be using the American flag as a tool for such hateful purposes.

  Through mail to his fictional girlfriend in San Antonio, which was heavily censored by the camp’s executive officer, Clay maintained weekly contact with his control officers in the San Antonio FBI office. A special code system was being used that the KKK couldn’t break and Clay always remembered to grin when he received one of his special love letters from his lady friend. Only he knew the woman writing him was a married fifty-seven-year-old grandmother and senior FBI agent/analyst. But from long experience, the FBI knew such letters needed to have a woman’s flare as to not raise suspicions. Clay even laughed hardily when she had even remembered to send him a box of chocolate chip cookies last week, and he learned Grandma was a pretty good cook too.

  Though the flag pole positioned in the center of the camp flew the American flag, inside the buildings were various sized KKK flags, and self-made White Fist posters tacked to the walls. There were even a couple of Nazi swastikas, and Clay had to bite his lip whenever he walked by one of them. The camp couldn’t have anything outside that a satellite, plane, or ground observer might see and dispel the religious retreat theme. But it was way too late. Within days of the sale of the property, a passing satellite assigned to Homeland Security had started observing the camp and its daily activities.

  A flag had popped up in the FBI’s computer system when this financial sponsor, already a suspected KKK supporter, spent a large amount of funds for this property. After that, undercover operatives on the street began to pick up a word here and a whisper there of this new White Fist organization inside the KKK. The FBI opened a full investigation into the purpose behind this camp, and once they had footage of the shooting ranges and explosive training, the FBI now needed to know the planned targets. This was why Clay was brought out of the desert and loaned out to the FBI, which didn’t make Clay a happy man. Having been burned badly by the CIA, he wasn’t looking forward to working with another federal agency, and he was sincerely looking forward to a 30-day leave.

  This whole assignment from day one inside the camp had depressed Clay, and he was more than happy in knowing this was his last night of being a part of this racist and dangerous organization. He knew all too well that putting automatic weapons in the hands of idiots could only lead to mayhem and butchery, especially after having seen too much of it in Egypt.

  Clay had set through various intelligence meetings in camp and learned how this new faction; a fanatical limb to the KKK, had planned an attack of seven targets next Saturday. Teams were set up to bomb four synagogues throughout the two-state region, a large mosque in Atlanta and two neighborhood civil rights legal centers in downtown Atlanta. Using his code he’d gotten the word out to his control and had finally gotten a reply.

  An early morning raid would take place today and to help things along, he needed to find a way to be on guard duty tonight in order to allow the team’s easy access into the camp.

  Though he wasn’t scheduled for it, the man who was sincerely appreciated the offer by Clay to take over the duty. Former Marine Lance Corporal Matt Winfro was smack in the middle of a poker game, and the luck seemed to be running his way tonight. He was already up by $232.00 and really didn’t want to leave the table for something as boring as guard duty. Clay had explained between hands of how he had the duty coming up on tomorrow night and wanted to see his lady friend, if the camp commander allowed for him to head into town for a night out, or at least a few hours for dinner with her.

  “Look, man, mah babe is a-comin' into town by bus and ah need ta have a couple hours wit’ her. I’m in a bad need, man… if yuh know what ah mean, dude.” Clay hated speaking like an idiot, but it fit in with his alias and the crowd he was talking to thought this was how street Mex sounded, which was all a farce. He knew a lot of Mexican-Americans in the service who’s English skills were better than most of the people inside this camp.

  “Not a problem, Willy,” Matt replied enthusiastically. “I’ll do your night, now jus’ you leave us alone, so I can fleece these boys real good now.”

  Having expected the FBI to have already arrived by now, Clay began to grow antsy, when he suddenly froze and fought down the urge not to turn. He knew from training that it was the barrel of rifle that jabbed him in the back, just over his left kidney. He only hoped it was who he expected and not that his cover had been blown somehow.

  “Don’t turn around,” a man’s deep voice whispered from only a foot away. “Captain give me your name, full social security, and your wife’s maiden name… and quickly!”

  Clay didn’t recognize the voice, and he knew the two guys in the guard shack were still there. The last time he was by there, they were both sound-asleep, so he took a chance, sucked in a breath, and let it out slowly. They seemed to know his rank, so he whispered his real name, added his rank and social security number, and then added at the end, “Never been married, fella. So you’re out of luck on that one.”

  The pressure of the weapon against his back disappeared, and he slowly turned to find a group of 6-men knelt down below him on the brushy hillside. In this darkness, he had never spotted them as he walked by and they were all dressed in black from head to toe, with Kevlar helmets and body armor, wearing night-vision goggles over their eyes, black face paint and were heavily armed. It’s all this bug dope, really messes with my senses.

  “Guess you must be Clay, then,” The closest man said, though he kept his rifle still at the ready.

  In a whisper, Clay replied, “I’m sure glad you guys finally showed up. I was beginning to wonder if I had my dates wrong.”
/>   “Well, we’re here now. Took us longer than we thought to get everything organized and make it to the camp without being detected. Oh, we got this for you too, but you need to hurry getting it on. Bosses didn’t want you getting shot by mistake.” The body armor and helmets all had small dots on them, only detectable by the infrared goggles so the good guys wouldn’t accidentally shoot a friendly troop.

  While Clay put on the matching Kevlar body armor; chest plating, elbow and knee pads, helmet and goggles, the unidentified leader continued to brief him in a whispering voice. “We’ve searched two sides of this place until we found you and had to take out the sentries and silence one guard post with stun-guns. Thankfully we brought along enough duct tape to wrap them all up nice and tidy like. Just hope the bears don’t find them. When they wake up, they’re going to have some serious headaches.” He then handed Clay a belt radio with head microphone and earpiece. “You’re call sign is India-One. The SAC down below said you’d get a kick out of that.”

  Clay knew they were amused by his Athabascan heritage, but he wasn’t sure who the Supervising Agent was for this operation. “You’ve got another two guys about 150 yards down that way, “Clay pointed to the northeast and where the two guards were sleeping. “You’ll pick up their snores within 20-feet, but be careful of the big guy- he’s got a lot of muscle.”

  “Thanks.” The squad leader sent four of his men in that direction and listened briefly as they moved silently through the wooded area. He then turned and waited as Clay put on his tactical armor.

  “How long you been with this group,” the leader asked.

  Keeping his voice low, Clay replied, “Feels like a year, but it’s been going on two months.” Only then did Clay realize the man he was talking with wasn’t wearing black face paint, but that he was, in fact, an Afro-American. He suddenly wondered how this man might feel about dealing with these white supremacists below.