The Separatists

by Lis Wiehl

  Just thinking about James and Neal and Mary and Sturges brings down his blood pressure. He goes to the window and looks out at the vast parking lot. Useless fools, every one of them. Rats on a sinking ship. Well, they can have this country ’tis of thee. He doesn’t want it. Not anymore.

  General Morrow looks over at the map on his wall. It’s a map of a quadrant of North Dakota. It shows Devil’s Lake. And the peninsula that sticks into the lake and is home to Camp Grafton, the army reserve base and training center. Great place. His fiefdom, his baby, his bailiwick. Under his command. He wishes he could be out there full-time, but the stupid army wants him here, stuck behind a desk, running things from afar. They say it’s a low-priority facility, that his one week a month out there is enough since the base is quiet in between periods of reserve training.

  That’s going to change soon. (Ha! Is it ever!) He’s put in his third request to be stationed at Grafton full-time, permanently. Ironically—cleverly!—he used the Take Back Our Homeland movement as his reason. Look at what happened in Texas, and with some of these other wacko militia movements, he told his (inferior) superiors. It could happen in North Dakota. (Ha-ha, could it ever.) He’s expecting an answer any day, but he was forceful and convincing, he knows that. He’s been getting encouraging signals.

  Floyd is starting to feel much better. He takes out a stick of Juicy Fruit, unwraps it, bends it in two, and puts it into his mouth. Yeah. He’s got a good feeling about this transfer.

  And his other duty? Helping to keep track of a certain reporter who doesn’t understand that when you play with fire, you get scalded. Also going well. James, who happens to be his colleague here in the Pentagon, has got a source practically embedded in Erica Sparks’s head. Embedded where her head is. Floyd laughs.

  His office phone rings. He stands up straight.

  “General Floyd Morrow here.”

  “This is General Smithers.” Three-star general Gwen Smithers is his commanding officer.

  Yes, she’s a woman. And, yes, that rankles. Patton must be turning over in his grave.

  “Yes, General.”

  “Your application to be stationed at Camp Grafton has been approved.”

  Floyd feels adrenaline surge through his veins with the velocity of a fighter jet. Yeah, baby, yeah! “Happy to hear it, General. You won’t regret it.”

  “Your points about the . . . unpredictability of the Homeland movement were persuasive. We need to keep a close eye on things out there. You’ll send me a written report every Friday, and as needed.”

  “Yes, General.”

  “Your file has been sent to Relocation. Expect to be out there within two weeks. Don’t let your country down, General.”

  Floyd hangs up. His country. This steaming pile of political correctness and mediocrity isn’t his country anymore. He wants out. And that’s exactly where he’s going.

  He takes out his special phone and calls Mary Bellamy. He keeps his voice calm, businesslike, the way Mary likes it.

  “General Morrow.”

  “I’ve received orders to relocate to Camp Grafton.”

  Floyd is sure he can actually hear Mary smile. “This is good news, isn’t it?”

  “Very good news.”

  “You’ve been doing such a good job with preparations. This will take things to a whole new level.”

  “I hope so, ma’am.”

  “I’ll call Neal. He’ll be delighted. Will you call James and tell him?”

  “Of course. Things are taking shape, aren’t they, ma’am?”

  “They are, General, they certainly are.”

  Floyd hangs up. Then he looks around at his office, his confining, constricting office, and he imagines all the other cookie-cutter offices in this mausoleum to America’s lost greatness. Bunch of third-rate paper pushers, the whole lousy sissified American military. You can all kiss my butt!

  Then he gets to work writing a memo on the fact—the outrage!—that the soap dispenser in the men’s room has run out twice in the last month.

  CHAPTER 15

  ERICA’S FLIGHT APPROACHES BISMARCK, NORTH Dakota. Gloria Washburn sits next to her, absorbed in her work. They’ve only been colleagues for a week, but Erica already has a comfort level with her. The woman works hard, seems tempered with a sly sense of humor that she lets pop out now and then, and knows the news business inside out. Spotlight is on its way, and Erica is jazzed by a sense of momentum and challenge.

  She’s also glad to be out of New York. She and Greg have been tiptoeing around each other all week. She can feel his festering resentment. And she’s starting to resent it. They’re civil enough, but every discussion is a minefield. Which means she hasn’t been able to talk about Spotlight, which is what’s happening in her life right now, and where he could be genuinely helpful. The search for safe topics leads to tense, desultory dinners filled with pauses and way too much pride, on both sides.

  Out the window Erica sees the North Dakota capitol, a graceful Art Deco skyscraper that’s got to be one of the few state capitols without a dome, columns, and other clichéd classical flourishes. It’s refreshing. Bismarck sits in the south-central part of the state on the banks of the Missouri River, and the landscape around the small city is low, grassy, and hilly. And these days the town is jumping, thanks to a booming economy driven by the state’s vast gas and oil deposits, much of it being sucked up out of the earth by fracking. Whatever the means, the oil—and the gold it brings—are flowing. North Dakota has the nation’s lowest unemployment rate and among the highest wages.

  “Odd that a state that’s doing this well should be fertile ground for sovereign citizens and secessionists,” Erica says to Gloria.

  “Sometimes when you’re prosperous, you have time to nurture your grievances. I think there’s some collective greed here too. This is an independent-minded state that doesn’t feel it should have to pay for other states’ sins. It gets fewer dollars back from the feds per dollar paid in taxes than any other state. And the Bellamys aren’t preaching the same level of raw anger and grievance that Trump and Sanders tapped into in 2016. They’re talking more about self-reliance and local control of local resources. These are bedrock Western values.”

  “And do the Bellamys really want North Dakota to secede?”

  “They’re being very careful with their language. The closest they’ve come to secession is talking about the state being granted more autonomy from the federal government.”

  “How can they possibly hope to accomplish that?” Erica asks.

  “Our job is to answer that question. We’re meeting them at their office at one.”

  “Have they made any demands on us?”

  “I have to say they’ve been very cooperative.”

  The plane touches down. Outside, the air carries a hint of the tawny grassland and cattle farms that cover much of the state—but then, under that, there’s another smell, faint but unmistakable, something darker, burnt and acrid and oily. As the car drives from the airport to the Bellamys’ downtown office, Erica is struck by how small and white the city is—it feels so homogenous and bland, with none of the diversity that enlivens the East and West Coasts and the large cities in between. Yet an important story is building in this nondescript setting. You just never know. Which makes journalism such a thrilling profession. You’re not only an eyewitness to history, you’re often a part of it, influencing and even driving events.

  They arrive at the midrise office building that houses the Bellamy Foundation and ride up to the sixth floor.

  The receptionist announces their arrival, and within moments a robust, ruddy man in his late fifties appears, a welcoming smile on his face.

  “Erica Sparks, what a pleasure. Sturges Bellamy.” They shake hands. “Thank you for trekking out to the Great Plains to see us.”

  Introductions are made, and then Erica and Gloria follow Sturges down the hall and into a large, orderly office that has two desks and a seating area. One wall is lined with bookshelves
filled with awards, citations, commemorative belt buckles, and other mementos of the Bellamys’ long careers as businesspeople and philanthropists. The other walls feature oil paintings of the harsh and beautiful North Dakota landscape. Bottles of water, a pot of coffee, and a platter of cookies sit on the table.

  Then Mary Bellamy appears, a welcoming smile on her face. Like her husband, she looks like she spends time outdoors—her handsome, freckle-splashed face is framed by an incongruous mane of well-coiffed auburn hair, and striking red lipstick is her only makeup. She’s wearing jeans and a Western shirt with pearly snap buttons. Together, the couple radiate wealth, warmth, the West, and an eagerness to engage.

  “What a pleasure,” she says in a voice that holds hints of fancy schools and country clubs. “Let’s all sit down and get to know each other a bit, shall we? Coffee? Water?”

  Erica takes a cup of coffee, Gloria helps herself to a cookie. Erica loves that Gloria owns her weight—she’s not one of those larger women who pick at their lunch salads and then go home and devour an entire key lime pie in one sitting.

  “These are from my grandmother’s recipe,” Mary says.

  Half out of politeness and half craving some sugary carbs, Erica bites into a cookie.

  “Grammy would be so happy to see this.” Mary’s movements are deliberate, and she has a charming habit of tilting her head for emphasis. The total package is persuasive, although Erica can sense the artifice behind the art.

  “Oh heck, I feel left out,” Sturges says, reaching for a cookie. Mary laughs indulgently as he devours it—the Bellamys are brilliant at creating a convivial mood.

  But enough about cookies. “I’d love to hear about your motives and plans,” Erica says.

  “First of all, that terrible business down in Texas bears absolutely no resemblance to our mission or means. We’re nonviolent and turn away anyone who isn’t,” Sturges says.

  “Martin Luther King is one of our great inspirations,” Mary says, treating Gloria to a small empathetic smile.

  “We also have a dream. And we’re rolling up our sleeves to make it a reality,” Sturges says.

  “Both my husband and I are descended from North Dakota’s original settlers. We love this land and the people who live on it.” Mary moves forward in her chair, clasps her hands in her lap, and grows serious. “And we have watched with alarm as the federal government has usurped more and more of our autonomy, freedom, and self-reliance. What works in New York or California may be all wrong for North Dakota. And Governor Snyder is complicit in all of it. He’s a tool of the Washington establishment.”

  Sturges says, “The sad truth is we have one federal agency after another coming in here and telling us what we can and can’t do. Where we can graze our livestock, what land we can build on. They tell us how to run our schools and businesses and treat our sick neighbors. And they tax us from here to the North Pole and back. They’re using our success to pay for a lot of programs we don’t want or need.”

  Their demeanors belie their strong words. They’re both so down-to-earth, sincere, and engaging—it’s like they stepped out of one of those baked beans commercials filmed around a campfire, filled with warmth and camaraderie and simple wisdom. While they may be homespun, Erica also senses they’re spoiling for a fight.

  “As you know, we’re experiencing an historic energy boom,” Mary says. “We feel that we should be able to use the proceeds to help our own citizens. We have Native American tribes with horrific poverty and alcoholism rates. The health care they’re receiving is substandard. The federal government bears a lot of responsibility. We’re going to take care of our own.”

  “I understand all this. But can you tell me what your goals are? Do you want North Dakota to become an independent nation?” Erica asks.

  There is a pause, and the Bellamys exchange a glance, as if gauging how much they should reveal. “We want some form of autonomy, for which there is precedent in numerous other countries. Regions that have their own identity and history and goals, and are permitted to run their own shops, so to speak,” Mary says. “The Alto Adige region of northern Italy, for example, was part of Austria before the First World War, and today many of the schools are still run in German and the local government makes almost all decisions pertaining to the region, with no interference from Rome.” She sounds like the soul of reason, her green eyes alive and fervent and lovely, all topped off by that disarming charm.

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  Mary Bellamy leans back in her chair, an expectant smile on her face. “Well, here’s where you and I have to start negotiating, Erica.”

  Erica feels her own excitement rising—clearly this woman has some news she wants to break, and she wants to control its rollout. “I’m listening.”

  “This is all strictly off the record,” Mary says, looking at Gloria.

  “Of course,” Gloria says.

  Mary turns to her husband and gives a small nod. “Come with us,” she says, standing.

  Mary leads them not to the elevators but to a stairwell. They go down a flight of steps and come to a door with a punch-code lock on it. Mary hits the keys and then opens the door.

  They’re standing in a full-floor open space. There are about twenty rows of tables and chairs, with a phone and laptop at every place. Additional tables are also set around the perimeter; a large coffee urn sits on each one. There is an enormous banner along one wall that has a map of North Dakota with the word Homeland superimposed on the image. The room is filled with a sense of expectancy, as if behind the entry door hundreds of people are waiting to pour in and get this party started.

  Then Erica notices a young man sitting at the far end of the room. Tacked on the wall behind him is a large county-coded map of North Dakota. He’s so engrossed in his laptop that he doesn’t notice their presence.

  “That’s what concentration looks like,” Mary says approvingly. “Wendell,” she calls.

  The man looks up. Then he waves distractedly and goes right back to his work.

  Erica and Gloria exchange an excited glance: this could be big. “What is all this?” Erica asks.

  “We have a marvelous tool here in North Dakota. It’s called a gubernatorial recall election,” Mary begins.

  Sturges takes over. “You write up a recall petition. Then you gather signatures that total 25 percent of the turnout in the last gubernatorial election—in our case that’s about seventy-five thousand signatures. We’ve made that threshold as well as added a cushion of approximately five thousand more. We’re going to present our petitions to the North Dakota secretary of state tomorrow. He will then certify the signatures. That should take about a week. Once the signatures are validated, the secretary of state is obligated under our constitution to schedule a recall election.”

  “And is it a straight up-or-down vote?” Erica asks.

  “No, this is what makes it interesting—and exciting,” Mary says. “The sitting governor runs against any other candidates who file.”

  “So it’s basically a whole new election in one fell swoop?” Gloria asks.

  “Exactly.”

  Sturges puts an arm around his wife. “And Mary Bellamy will be on that ballot.”

  “As soon as our signatures are certified, we’re going to roll out the Take Back Our Homeland campaign. Our message is simple: Governor Snyder is little more than a puppet of Washington DC. He was in Congress for eight years and sold his soul—and his state,” Mary says.

  “But he’s not going to roll over for this,” Sturges says. “And neither will the powers that be, mostly multinational energy companies, who own the legislature and run this state like it was their personal fiefdom. They’re going to spend some serious money to try and stop us. It’s going to be a fierce, hard-fought campaign.”

  “And what happens if you win?” Erica asks.

  “We’re going to reclaim our homeland,” Mary says in her softest voice, making it sound like she’s going to tickle a wind chi
me. Then she smiles modestly.

  “After all, a woman’s place is in the statehouse,” Sturges says. “Which brings us to us. We’d like to give you the story to break. If you make it the centerpiece of the inaugural Spotlight.”

  “I can’t make that promise,” Erica says.

  “Now, Erica,” Mary says, giving Erica’s hand a squeeze. “I’m sure every other network would love to have this story. But we want to give it to you.”

  “The day after the election is scheduled this room is going to be wall-to-wall with volunteers. We’ve got them fired up and ready to roll. It’s the only political story in the country right now. MSNBC, FOX, CNN are going to be all over it,” Sturges points out.

  Erica and Gloria exchange a look—these Bellamys are a savvy duo. “Like I said, I can’t make any promises about placement or emphasis. But we would like the exclusive. It will certainly be part of the first episode.”

  “I want the lead,” Mary says with a smile.

  “May Erica and I talk privately for a moment?” Gloria asks.

  “Of course,” Mary says, gesturing to a far corner.

  Erica and Gloria walk out of earshot, and Gloria says, “I think we can give them the lead. We’re not making any commitments on tone or how much total air time we give them.”

  “I’m not prepared to guarantee them the lead.”

  “I can’t think of a stronger angle to start with,” Gloria says with a fervor that surprises Erica. “We could begin with a flyover shot of the state, talk about a Great Plains rebellion. It’s a strong way to frame the show. And they’d make compelling television.”

  Erica considers. Leading with the Bellamys makes perfect sense, and they’re not compromising the actual reporting. Erica would hate to see another network get this. She nods at Gloria and they walk back to Mary and Sturges.