Harold Covington’s Northwest Quartet

Edmund Connelly, Ph. D.


In 1989, prolific British writer Paul Johnson published Intellectuals offering case studies of a string of intellectuals, beginning with Jean-Jacques Rousseau and then Shelley, Marx, Ibsen, Tolstoy, Hemingway, Bertolt Brecht, Bertrand Russell, Sartre, right on down to more modern public thinkers. Johnson’s point is that however much these men (and Lillian Hellman) might have professed love of “humanity” and “progress,” they were rats to the actual people around them.

For example, Johnson wrote of the poet Shelley:

Any moth than came near his fierce flame was  singed. His first wife, Harriet, and his mistress, Fay Godwin, both committed suicide when he deserted them. In his letters he denounced their actions roundly for causing him distress and inconvenience. . . .  His children by Harriet were made wards of the court. He erased them completely from his mind, and they never received  a  single word from their father. Another child, a bastard, died in  a  Naples foundling hospital where he had abandoned her.

Of Karl Marx, the self-professed savior of the working man, Johnson wrote: He seduced his wife’s servant, begot a son by her, then forced Friedrich Engels to assume paternity. Marx’s daughter Eleanor once let out a cri de coeur in a letter: “Is it not wonderful, when you come to look things squarely in the face, how rarely we  seem to practice all the fine things we  preach—to others?” She later committed suicide.

Johnson concluded that we must “Beware intellectuals.” “Not only should they be kept well away from the levers of power, they should also be objects of particular suspicion when they seek to offer collective advice.”

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I mention the case of these intellectuals whose private behavior was at such odds with the impact they’ve had on the Western world because I would like to address the works of a man who elicits similar censure from many.  This is despite the fact that he has written books that may in the long run have a great impact on the peoples of the fast-declining West.

I bring up this caveat because whenever I’ve mentioned the name of the author in question, acquaintances whose opinions I respect highly have become unusually agitated in denouncing this man. My point, then, is that it is possible that an individual could be thoroughly objectionable in person yet still merit attention as someone who could materially help our race. As Occidental Quarterly standout Michael O’Meara wrote about the author, “In any case, even if the nasty things said about him by his enemies are true, it still distracts not in the least from the quality of his works, which are virtually unparalleled in our community.”

Having said that, I should also add that I have never had contact of any sort with this person and have absolutely no first-hand knowledge of what he may or may not be like, or what he may or may not have done to hurt others in the White Nationalist movement. But I do believe his written works are worth considering.

The works in question are known colloquially as The Northwest Quartet and they tell the fictional story of White Nationalists who consciously and deliberately set out to form an independent homeland for Whites in the American Northwest.

The four novels can be read on many levels, but in this article I will consider them for only one trait: their escapist value.

As we all know, we Whites have been in open racial retreat for two generations now. For that matter, those who really understand what is happening to the White race will likely agree that by the outcome of World War II, the handwriting about the destruction of the White race was already indelibly written on the wall.

For the average thinking White in either North America or Europe, however, it probably wasn’t until the 1980s or even a decade later that it became clear that time after time events were working against White interests. Almost without exception, the elites of the Western world have acted in ways diametrically opposed to the health and survival of White society. We now have endless court cases favoring non-Whites, educational establishments that have demonized Whites for their skin color, feminism that has been bamboozled into believing White men are the root of all evil, and most of all an alien-controlled media that most certainly intends to eradicate—or at least more fully enslave—what remains of the White race.

Since the first Clinton Administration beginning in 1992, life has been a disaster for Whites, particularly White males (though, obviously, White females will only escape the same fate for a further generation or two). I hardly need delineate developments on the American Supreme Court to illustrate the direction in which we have been headed for years. Perhaps most telling is the unchecked legal and illegal immigration into America that has continued irrespective of having a Democrat or Republican in the White House. The elite unquestionably want to “elect a new people.”

Frankly speaking, I’m tired of losing — losing on a daily basis. It is demoralizing and worse. Time and again I’ve thought “real White men” would finally wake up or a courageous leader would appear, but all such hopes have been consistently dashed. We White Nationalists are a maddeningly small group—and we are, I am amazed and frustrated to say, powerless.

It is under such circumstances that I can retreat to the fictional comforts of Harold Covington’s Northwest Quartet and for once enjoy—if only vicariously—the sweet satisfaction of hitting back, of smiting our racial enemies in a most just way. I wish I didn’t have to resort to fiction to experience this adrenaline rush, this sense of wrongs being righted, but that’s all I’ve found in years of searching.

To get an idea of the background of the novels, I recommend this review (also here) by Counter-Currents editor Greg Johnson. (See here for Johnson’s interview with Covington and here for some follow-up thoughts by Johnson).

Before visiting a few of the most exciting scenes in the novels, I should add one more disclaimer: There is a lot of blood and killing in these books. After all, it is a fictional account of a revolution, a war, and people die in wars. However, since our society certainly allows for fictional accounts of all kinds of bloody wars, the Northwest novels should be given the same opportunity. Let’s face it, for those of you over a certain age, the violent Tom Clancy novels elicited no shock or social approbation. Don’t let today’s politically correct marginalization of some kinds of fantasy killing turn you away, then.

Speaking of Tom Clancy, his first published novel, The Hunt for Red October (1984), was a submarine thriller with action taking place off the east coast of America. In Covington’s The Brigade, there is also a battle off the American coast, but this one involves the coast of Oregon. And the action is every bit as thrilling as the best of Tom Clancy.

In order to end the “racism” of the “domestic terrorists” trying to create a White homeland in the Northwest, the U.S. government has sent a flotilla of ships to Oregon. Loaded with 1400 FATPO troops (federal soldiers), the team is led by a black general named Roland Rollins, who makes a MacArthur-esque beach landing to be used as a photo op. Meanwhile, the commander of the Coast Guard cutter protecting the convoy is a Hispanic woman, who reached her position as an affirmative action appointee. Unsurprisingly, she is woefully incompetent.

Meanwhile, the Freedom Fighters of the Northwest have laid an ambush on the beach. Having no respect for this ragtag band of fighters, General Rollins makes no preparations for real battle. It costs him. His landing plans involve grounding the ferry he is on, then lowering the door and wading triumphantly onto the beach as cameras roll. The Northwest Volunteers look on in disbelief, with one of them asking:

Have you considered that they may just be bird-brained, stupid and incompetent, and they haven’t got a clue what the fuck they’re doing? This government and the Pentagon have been fighting a bunch of barefoot brown ragheads in the Middle East for almost a generation now, and they still haven’t figured out how to beat them. We’re ruled by idiots.

What happens in a system when you promote people into important jobs and positions based on the color of their skin or the fact that they’ve got tits on ‘em, instead of on their ability to do the job?” asked [another fighter] rhetorically.

Emerging from the ferry to the strains of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” Rollins is in his element:

All cameras and almost 200 million pairs of eyes around the world were now turned on Roland Rollins as he came to the edge of the beach, took the pipe from his mouth and placed his hands on his hips, bemedaled and beribboned chest thrust forth. He had elected to fracture not one but two famous white men, MacArthur and Julius Caesar, and steal their words as closely as he could. Roland Rollins announced to the world, “I have come, I will see, and I shall conquer!”

Roland Rollins died at 5:45 a.m. exactly, or 0545 hours to use military time, just as the golden sunrise flooded the beach with glowing amber light. Among the 200 million viewers who saw him die were Captain Meryl Sandoval and Lieutenant Donald Hacker, who were monitoring the raw feed transmission on the bridge of the [Coast Guard cutter] Higby. Both of them stared at the screen as Rollins whirled away into the air flapping like a scarecrow in the wind. Simultaneously they heard a popping and snapping rattle from the shore, almost like a big sheet of cardboard being shredded. On the TV monitor they could see sparks flying on the steel of the ship’s hull and high spatters of sand and water as bullets popped into the beach and the surf. Then the camera was knocked over and all they saw was a stretch of beach and the frothing edge of the incoming tide, with the occasional spurting round strike zipping and splatting. About one minute later a dead hand flopped in front of the camera; there was no way to tell who it belonged to.

The Northwest Volunteers proceed to decimate the federal troops. The Coast Guard cutter could have been a very effective deterrent, but the affirmative-action female captain is a huge liability. In a priceless scene, she manages to single-handedly destroy and sink her own ship. And Covington makes it all sound plausible, so much like what today’s America is actually like.

In another affirmative action scene, Covington conjures up the character of a Filipina who has slept her way to a high position in the FBI. She has the improbable name of Rabang Miller. Like the incompetent Hispanic Coast Guard captain, Miller too is clueless. Despite this, she is supremely arrogant because she knows that as a woman of color she holds power over all White males, including her henpecked partner, Brian Pangborn. Covington describes him well:

Agent Miller’s partner was Special Agent Brian Pangborn. Pangborn was the kind of agent who would have gone far under the old régime of J. Edgar Hoover. He was tall and lean, with sandy hair and blue eyes, sharp from his freshly pressed suit and his spit-shined shoes up to his buzz cut, an All-Conference quarterback in high school and later on a star for Texas A&M, a law degree he’d actually earned through study and hard work. He was married to a nice Barbie Doll wife with two kids in a suburban split-level ranch. Although he wasn’t one of the Mormons Hoover had favored above all, he didn’t drink and he didn’t smoke, and he was a regular churchgoer and active member of Promise Keepers and the 700 Club.

Because they are agents of the American government, the Northwest Volunteer Army considers them enemy combatants. As such, they are stalked by some volunteers. Trailing the agents down the highway, the volunteers strive not to alert Miller and Pangborn. Pangborn’s warrior instincts, however, tell him something is amiss:

In the Chrysler, Rabang Miller pulled out her pistol and jacked a round into the chamber. “Be careful with that!” snapped Pangborn, looking for a place to pull over so he could let the Yukon pass, or not as the case might be. He saw a possible pulling off spot right at the intersection of Tongue Point Road and Emerald Drive, and so he was actually slowing down and veering right when all of a sudden the Camry roared out of Tongue Point Road and stopped right beneath the blinking yellow light hanging over the intersection. Pangborn saw two men in ski masks leap out of the car. He heard the stuttering of the Uzi, saw the muzzle flash and heard the pop pop pop as the 9-mm slugs slammed into the windshield. The polycarbonate glass held, but big ugly white splotches blossomed on the windshield before him. “It’s them!” screamed Rabang in terror. “Fuck the car behind us, you asshole! They’re in front of us!”

Pangborn decided to try for a right turn up onto Emerald Drive, but he briefly saw a black cylindrical sailing through the air toward him. It banged against the windshield, bounced off, and just as he yelled “Bomb!” the pipe bomb exploded in the air about four feet in front of the FBI agents, with a weird crushing sound rather like a cross between a crump! and a clink! The Chrysler’s armor still held, but the front bumper was ripped almost entirely off and flapped up onto the windshield, and the force of the explosion crumpled the front end and caused all kinds of hissing and steaming fluid leaks and electrical shorts within. Pangborn lost control and the Chrysler slid into the ditch. The Uzi was still pattering bullets against the armored body.

A mere 50 yards behind them, the Yukon rolled to a stop. Hatfield got out and covered down on the disabled FBI vehicle with his submachine gun, leaning over the Yukon’s hood, waiting for a target. Cat-Eyes Lockhart was out the other door and he slithered up onto the roof with the agility of a serpent, spreading himself prone and sighting the rifle. “If they don’t come out I’ll move in with our bomb. Get ready to cover me!” called out Hatfield.

Steam, smoke and the smell of burning began to fill the passenger compartment of the Chrysler through the vents from the damaged engine. “We’re on fire!” shrieked Special Agent Miller. She tore her door open and bailed out of the car.

In Covington’s view, Jews are the eternal enemy of Aryans, and this is reflected in his fiction. The worldview he creates in A Mighty Fortress is one in which Whites and Jews are at war with one another, as indicated in this dialogue about dealing with the U.S. government:

Some people might advocate that we accept some kind of half a loaf as a springboard for something better in the future, but history proves that doesn’t work with ZOG. With liberal democracy, you start at a certain level of moral and decent existence and then everything decays from there, kind of like radioactive half life. The United States started at an exalted level in 1783 and it decayed from that point on. Anywhere there are Jews, things only go downhill. The only hope that our people have for any kind of continued existence is the absolute removal of the Jew and everything the Jew has created from our lives, our consciousnesses, our hearts and our souls. We’re like the wolves, the buffalo, the damned spotted owls. We’re an endangered species. White people have to have their own safe habitat, clean and uncontaminated, if we are to raise our young, build up our numbers and thrive once again.

Currently, it appears Jews are winning handily, and the consequences for Whites—particularly White males—are dire. In some cases they are heart wrenching. Long nudged aside in employment due to affirmative action policies, in A Mighty Fortress White men have become America’s expendable class. Called to fight the endless wars in the Middle East, they are despised and dispossessed people at home, hardly citizens at all.

We meet the end product of this process when two NVA members burst into an apartment to use it as a sniper site. Inside they find an old White man, Englehardt, who barely survives on his pitiful pension. His only son was killed in Iraq in 2007, one of his grandsons lost a leg fighting Palestinians in Gaza, and the other grandson “hasn’t worked in a couple of years. He told a nigger joke and some white asshole informed on him, so he’s blacklisted.”

Englehardt is impoverished because the novel posits the loss of Social Security due to government malfeasance. One of the volunteers asks him “How can anyone live on $445 a month? And if you don’t mind my asking, how can you afford to live in this place?”

“Oh, the Jews who built these condos got a complete rebate on all property taxes forever and a day from those corrupt leeches in the state and county government, no taxes or water or electricity rates at all so long as they reserve two apartments for codgers like me, so-called deserving seniors,” snarled the old man. “Me and old lady Hoskins down in 2-B drew the short straws. . . . Betty Hoskins got in by claiming she was a dyke, which is kind of ridiculous for a woman of 75, and it shamed the hell out of her, but what the hell else could she do? If it weren’t for this place we’d have both been sent to a home and probably gotten the needle by now. Damned wog doctors can’t kill us old white folks off fast enough, once the private insurance runs out. But it ain’t the whole $445 I have to live on every month, son. They still charge me $400 a month for this apartment.”

“That leaves you $45 a month to live on. How can you possibly survive on that?” demanded Hatfield.

“I’ll show you. Go look in my kitchen, in the cupboards over the counter.” Hatfield went in and opened the cupboards. He saw long rows of cans.

“Dog food?” said Zack in a startled voice, incredulous and horrified. “You live on dog food? Mother of God!”

“Cheap dog food at that,” chortled Englehardt. “Alpo is gourmet cooking for me. Oh, I do get some help from the local food bank, if I can get down there early on Monday morning before the Mexicans swarm in and grab all the good stuff. They give me some rice and beans, usually, and sometimes dried potatoes and onions, and I’ve learned to make up a kind of goulash. Also I can sometimes get some things like Louisiana hot sauce or garlic to kill the taste, although most anything that’s strong enough plays hob with my old digestion. I cook it all up in one pot on the stove there and keep it festering. That’s it in front of you.”

Hatfield lifted the lid of a stock pot on the stove and saw a gooey mess that looked like vomit inside. “Dear God!” he moaned.

In contrast, two wealthy Jews in the city lead an entirely different existence. While Englehardt subsists on dog food, they were preparing to enjoy a $60,000 kosher dinner flown in from Israel. Englehardt fairly seethes from the injustice, especially as he remembers the physical sacrifices he and his kin have made. Take grandson Todd, for example. Todd

lost his leg defending Israel from the poor nation they stole that land from, defending that Jew’s right to sit down to a sixty grand feed not three hundred yards from where I sit eating dog food. That’s a Silver Star from Khe Sanh hanging on my wall there, and now my son is dead and my grandson maimed for life defending those people and their shitty little stolen country, nothing but a blank wall ahead for those I will soon leave behind, and they sit there within my sight stuffing sixty thousand dollars in their faces. God damn them! God damn them to hell! Christ, I get so hungry…” Hatfield saw the tears rolling down the old man’s cheeks now. Englehardt looked up and said quietly. “Boys, if that was you out there last night, you did right. You did a good thing, a just thing. Don’t ever doubt that. I can die happier now, because I lived to see a little justice, for me and mine. Today you’re going to give me some more. Do what you gotta do, boys, and don’t worry about me.”

Such an America has been relentlessly engineered by the Jews, who in the novels control all the important positions in America. One such character is Sammy Rothstein, Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court, who appears in A Distant Thunder. To show the power of the United States, he has scheduled a secret visit to the heart of Northwest country, Olympia, Washington. The volunteers get wind of it and set up an ambush.

The action here is breathtaking. For instance, one of the limos guarding the justice’s convey drives over a bomb and is sent hurtling through the air. The volunteers then manage to ram the Chief Justice’s car, setting up a chase through the woods and a gun battle. The struggle is described in the first person by one of the volunteers:

I moved low and fast about thirty yards through the bush, parallel to the roadway, and I heard an engine and braking tires. The black Feep and Rothstein were shouting and trying between them to drag a young white couple out of their green Kia. The couple thought they were being carjacked, which they were, in a sense. The young guy took a few ineffectual punches at the bodyguard, who cold-cocked him with a single blow from the barrel of the Glock. The white kid dropped like a sack of potatoes. The white girl was screaming and crying and trying to mace the nigger with some pepper spray she had on a key chain. He tore the mace away from her. I heard the bones in her hand crack over her shrieks. Then she looked over and saw me. “Get down!” I roared at her. “NVA! Hit the dirt!” She understood NVA, and even twenty feet away I saw her go as white as a sheet in pure terror. She copped to what was happening and she dove for the tarmac, covering the body of her husband or boyfriend with her own. The black saw me as well and snapped up his Glock fast as lighting. I heard the bullet tweet past my ear. Fire-a-burst-of-six. He staggered and turned and twirled down onto the road. I saw his white shirtfront soaked in red. The fool wasn’t wearing his kevlar and he paid for it with his life.

Rothstein was scuttling away down the road, his bandy legs pumping, his sticklike arms sprouting out of his plump body, waving like windmills. I charged after him. When I got clear of the Kia I popped a couple of rounds at his feet, and he stopped. “A million dollars!” I heard him shriek. “A million! I swear, a million dollars I’ll pay!” I walked up behind him. I guess by then I was half insane. I could only remember something from my high school drama class, one of the few parts of school I’d enjoyed. I spoke. Well, I kind of croaked. Or maybe shouted. I don’t know. They were the only words I could think of to say.

“Turn, hell-hound!”

Samuel L. Rothstein understood, and he turned with a gasp of horror. I saw the round face, the white rolling eyes, the frizzy fringe of hair, the obscene revolting nose. I saw that godawful face and nose raise up to the sky. From the thick, veal-colored lips came a—I guess you’d call it a howl, but it wasn’t really. It was like a loud evil bleat, the sound of a dead soul vomiting. Seventy years ago this happened, and I can’t get that terrible scream out of my ears. Never mind. I can’t describe it and even if I could I don’t understand whatever the hell it was, so I couldn’t make you understand. They’re not like us, and there’s no Aryan equivalent. It was just—it was horrible. That creature was standing in the middle of Henderson Boulevard and it bellowed its death cry unto its god, to whatever force of cosmic power put the Jewish people on earth to torture and oppress the rest of us. In his last moments of life Samuel Rothstein experienced an epiphany. A revelation of cosmic proportions, one that came far too late to be of any use at all to him. Samuel L. Rothstein suddenly understood that his god had betrayed him. A revelation of eternal truth shattered his soul moments before the bullets from my Kalashnikov shattered his body, that revelation being that the Jewish people ain’t anywhere near as goddamned clever as they think they are.

In what is perhaps the best sequence in all four novels, the NVA hatches a mission to mete out some justice to Hollywood. The commander of the volunteers explains that

after a lot of consideration, the Portland brigades have been selected to put together a special active service unit for a series of highly sensitive and risky operations, the first extensive campaign the NVA has mounted outside the Northwest Homeland itself. The name of this unit will be Task Force Director’s Cut. Its mission will be to neutralize one of the prime weapons that ZOG has in this war, which is the Hollywood movie, media, and entertainment industry, and to render that industry as useless to the enemy as we can possibly accomplish. Put bluntly, we are going down to Hollywood, and we are going to take the Dream Machine apart at the seams.

Covington’s writing shows that he understands the disastrous impact Hollywood has had on the White world. A commander of the NVA sums it up:

Gentlemen, I don’t have to tell you that ever since the invention of the motion picture over a century ago, the movie industry has been the most completely Jewish field of private enterprise in the world, with the exception of international banking and the stock exchange. Even today, Yiddish is considered to be Hollywood’s second language. Literally so. It is spoken regularly on movie lots and sound sets, and in every office and casting department and boardroom. The senior executive office complex of every major production studio contains a private synagogue or chapel called a mincha, with one or more rabbis attached, as well as special glatt kosher catering facilities and kitchens. Entire boards of directors in Hollywood and also at their parent companies in New York sometimes hold Jewish religious services prior to meetings. Every crucial, non-technical job on the business and creative end of any major movie is either held by a Jew or is in the power of a Jew, from the studio heads, the producers and the directors, down to the scriptwriters, the casting directors, the agents, the accountants, and anything to do with the money. Even in areas that seem to be controlled by Gentiles, you will find that somewhere along the line during the process, Jews have crucial input and veto power. This control by the Tribe is pervasive and complete, and it extends into television as well, with the exception of two of the major cable networks, which are heavily Jewish in their senior personnel but are owned by consortiums of super-wealthy Protestant evangelical Christians of the Israel-worshipping, neo- Zionist persuasion, major neocons and Republican party backers, who are in their own way even more poisonous in their evil than the Jews themselves, because they have no excuse for turning on their own blood.

I do not need to tell you of the terrible and largely irreversible damage that Hollywood has done to the white race and to Western civilization over the past century. For four generations, the international bankers and the corrupt politicians have committed unspeakable crimes against humanity, especially the war after war after bloody war they have plunged our people into for Jewry’s sake, but it is Hollywood and Hollywood’s mutant bastard spawn television that has made the white people of America and the world swallow these atrocities and actually support them with enthusiasm. It is Hollywood that has spent the past 50 years pushing every conceivable kind of perversion of body and mind down the throats of white people. It is Hollywood that has turned the loathsome practice of homosexuality into something cute and trendy, the subject for silly jokes, when it is in fact a poison of the very soul. It is Hollywood that has turned white women as portrayed on film into either mindless sex objects, or else de-gendered, masculinized, man-hating neurotics. It is Hollywood that has poisoned the minds and broken the spirits of generation after generation of white children who are now beyond recovery, and turned them into wiggers. The bankers have stolen our money. The federal government of the United States has stolen our lives and our freedom and soaked the earth with Aryan blood, spilled to save a filthy race of Asiatic parasites. But Hollywood has stolen our peoples’ minds and souls, and in some ways that makes Hollywood more evil to my mind even than the sinks of iniquity centered in New York and Washington, D.C. Comrades, we will go down to southern California, we will grip this monster by the throat, and we will cut its heart out!” There was a cheer from around the table; the men found the project to their liking.

I won’t get into any details of the attack but I can guarantee most readers will find it captivating. And I’m not the type to make such guarantees. The writing is simply that good.

On balance, these novels are important for our people. Novels like this create an emotionally intense reaction in readers that cannot be approached by non-fiction essays. We identify with the characters and desperately wish for the destruction of their enemies. Of course, this is exactly why the Left, including the Hollywood elites so hated by Covington, has always used fiction to get their points across: Whites are evil, Blacks, Latinos and Jews are victims of White racism, etc.

Of course, one can complain about some of the language and some of the portrayals. For example, the use of the word ‘nigger’ by characters that readers are supposed to sympathize with is probably counter-productive and may well turn off many readers who would be otherwise attuned to the messages and characters of the books.

And, like pretty much all fiction, the books do not have the in-depth historical analysis that would be typical of a scholarly work. Rather than charts and statistics about the ill effects of affirmative action on Whites, there are compelling White victims and non-White beneficiaries of a system that is already well in place. It doesn’t take much imagination to realize that Covington’s portrayal of the future is not at all far-fetched.

In other words, the books are ultimately grounded on a firm factual base—far firmer than the yarns continually spewed out by Hollywood with its cast of eternal victims and counter-stereotypical, sympathetic portrayals of Blacks and other  “victims of White racism” (e.g., the numinous Negroes and Black computer geeks and action heroes that pervade the American media).

However, as with all good fiction, these books more than make up for their lack of didactic presentation of facts with their emotional impact on readers. And in the end, it is emotion that is a necessary ingredient in producing the types of changes that are so desperately needed.

All four of these novels can be found on the Internet, but I can’t see reading them online or wasting time and paper printing them out.  Amazon offers them for reasonable prices, so get your copies now. For those just dipping into the fiction of Harold Covington, I’d recommend either A Distant Thunder or A Mighty Fortress first. Then move to the 735-page magnum opus The Brigade. It was easily the most engrossing fictional saga I’ve ever read and I can’t see how others would find otherwise. Even at its length, it ended far too soon.

Fortunately, Covington is now working on a fifth novel for the Northwest series. I await it eagerly, for what I read and experience in the real world is so depressing that I need the escape Covington’s prose provides. Get at least two of his novels now while you still can.

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