Part II. The Hunters
Heinlein called Sachem Crow-Feather on the cell phone number he’d written on the Warren PD “Witness Interview Form” the Chief signed at their initial meeting. Interestingly, the cell rang four times and dropped out – then started ringing again. Was he was bumping his signal to another phone or was somebody monitoring his incoming calls?
Curious. Maybe he should have sent him smoke signals.
When he finally answered, Chief Crow-Feather was gracious but guarded as ever. He suggested Heinlein come to his “Lodge” that evening. They agreed on seven PM. The Sachem didn’t ask why Heinlein was asking for a sit-down…it was almost as if he was expecting the Detective to call. He wasn’t surprised at all.
Even curiouser.
Heinlein was met at the “Lodge” front door by Suchtka – a young man with long braids who introduced himself as the Sachem’s “Adjutant”.
“Follow me, please, Detective. Sakima-Nemahtenow Crow-Feather will see you out back.”
The Sachem was seated under an elaborate tent-like contraption in the back yard – something made of a metallic, almost shimmering cloth and supported by articulated aluminum trusses. It looked expensive and quite well-built…almost military. It was positioned atop a floor of interconnected large tiles made of what appeared to be hard ceramic with wires imbedded inside. Next to him was a table on which a were positioned plates of small corn cakes, fruit jam and a pitcher of lemonade. There also was an empty chair.
“Please have a seat, Detective. Here are some of our Tribal delicacies and lemonade on the table” Sachem Crow-Feather said.
Once Heinlein sat down in the only available chair, Crow-Feather picked up a small remote controller device and pressed a button. Curtains of sheer, breathable fabric descended down each side of the structure. Heinlein immediately surmised that it wasn’t there to protect them from mosquitos or flies. Suchtka dutifully withdrew outside the curtainwall.
“I never thought I’d see an Indian Chief in a Farraday Cage…” Heinlein said. All humor aside, he actually meant it.
The Sachem didn’t smile, just looked at Heinlein with sad eyes.
“Allow me to say what you came here to tell me”, he said quietly.
“The Yakwahe has returned to the gray rocks in Warren.”
Heinlein couldn’t argue any other logical, rational or otherwise plausible explanation for what was happening in his town. He stared at the Indian Chief and let him continue. There was a reason they were sitting in this signal-impervious tent at 7:00PM in Millstone, New Jersey. The Sakima-Nemahtenow of the Leni Lenape Nation was no fool.
“First – let me say that my People bear some responsibility for this tragedy. These are our ancestral lands. We knew ages ago that an evil stalked the Watchung Grey Rocks. We didn’t extinguish it. Our warriors didn’t know the ways of tracking Demons underground. It was easier to declare the place cursed and avoid it…
But as the Demon’s death toll grew – who were we to turn to? The American Government that disarmed us and took our lands? Bluecoats, Long-knives…The Federal Government has never helped American Indians. To trust them is always to invite lies, sorrow and regret.
It was our Sachem that counselled the old Germans settlers to find an expert hunter to track and destroy the Yakwahe. Rolf Ebersoll came to America soon thereafter. I knew that you would be intrigued by the Masonic Lodge Painting – and follow the breadcrumbs to Dick Ebersoll’s mansion in Harding Township. You have good investigative instincts.
And now the Warren Community needs Rolf Ebersoll, the Schuetzen-Meister again. Unfortunately, he is no longer with us. But his Nation is……”
“Are you saying that there’s somebody in Germany who can help us?” Heinlein asked, intrigued.
No – not Germany. Let me explain. We sit in this contraption because United States National Security goons monitor everything we say. Your iPhone won’t get a signal in here – nor will its microphone eavesdrop on what we say. These state security agencies are very interested in Native American affairs – because they know Native Americans all still have axes to grind with them. It’s true. Indians regard politicians in Washington, DC as little more than usurpers. Thieves and destroyers.
I am Sachem of the Leni Lenape Nation. What does that mean – Nation? Does it mean real estate? Acres of rolling plains? Jagged lines on a map drawn by some cartographer? If that is so – where is my Empire? My Nation? No.
Nation means a People…a Tribe. Where has this quaint, old-fashioned notion of a Country gotten us? Look at the United States. A polyglot of mix-and-match polities, minorities and special interests all scraping each other’s eyes out for a piece of a shrinking pie. E Pluribus Unum? From the many we haven’t gotten one of anything except chaos!
Do people need to be tethered to dirt to be a Nation? No! A Tribe is a group of people bound by ethnicity, culture, blood and DNA. It exists wherever it finds itself. It exists everywhere…and nowhere. It is extra-territorial. It is a nightmare to countries with traditional boundary lines and geographical map coordinates. How do you corral a Tribe, Detective Heinlein? You might as well try to scoop up quicksilver – Mercury – with your hands. Its globules roll through your fingers, disbursing everywhere.
After World War II, where did all the Nazis go? We all heard the stories. They took their wealth and went to South America. To do what? Drink wine and die in a foreign place? No. The core of the Third Reich went to places like Antartica…Argentina…Uruguay and Brazil. Did the Allies destroy the Third Reich?
No. They destroyed a bombed-out debris-field in Europe called Germany.
The Third Reich was a People. The Third Reich was a Tribe. A group of men and women united by a common culture, ethnicity and blood – who shared a common ideology and spiritual ethos. Who worshipped loyalty, strength, honor and their Old Gods. Their bonds transcended mere politics. They had immense wealth – which, by 1945 had already been transferred to and laundered throughout South America. Mercedes Benz factories, Siemens Electronics facilities, I.G. Farben chemical plants – everything was in place when Germany’s end came. International cartels that kept all of South America afloat – and employed.
The Third Reich lives on. Why does a man care about the passport he carries if he’s part of a greater cause – a bigger ideal? Who gives a damn for a “country” if a Tribe sustains you? Protects you? Provides for your well-being?
Real wealth today is liquid. Capital migrates from country to country – it is an amorphous body of assets that seeks opportunities, multiplies itself and moves on. Why does a Tribe of like-minded and blood-bound individuals need a country when the entire world welcomes them – and their money?
The Nazis that fled to South America flourished. They grew old and died in their beds. Their children have taken their places – albeit with Argentinian and Uruguayan passports and accents. They are the firmament of South American society today. Modern royalty. Wealthy, urbane, international, educated and free from the constraints you and I must knuckle-under to because we are minions of this United States of America.
These transplanted, new-generation Teutonic men and women are a Tribe not beholden to or otherwise constrained by any country or real estate. Think of it: an international Aryan Society. Germanic blood that has evolved to a higher political and spiritual plane. They call themselves a “Stammesbruderschaft”- a Tribal Brotherhood. Their formal oath of allegiance is to the “Bruderschaft Der Schwarzen Sonne”. The Brotherhood of the Black Sun. A Neo-Pagan community of kindred souls.
They are not Nazis – they are Aryans. Pure bloods. They reject and pity the present “German” state. They see Germany today as spiritually bankrupt, a weak, diseased vestigial organ that is without honor or future, castrated by its enemies and reviled by Europeans. America’s whore.
Why does all this matter to you, Detective Heinlein? Because for you to kill the Yakwahe you’re going to need help. And science. And no one is going to help you but me – and those I ask to assist you.
So…do you want my help, Detective?”
Copyright, 2025 Jon Croft and his Assignees
vlchek1@gmail.com
www.bogironpatriot.com
