The Separatists

by Lis Wiehl

  The restaurant is buzzing, crowded with reporters, politicians, and hard-nosed businesspeople who look at Bellamy’s ascension and see dollar signs. There’s always a buck to be made. Jarrett is sitting at a table, reading something on his phone. He looks up and waves Erica over. As she crosses the restaurant she garners looks and smiles of recognition, and she returns them with polite nods. It’s reassuring to be out in public, surrounded by witnesses. Still, her heart is pounding in her chest and she feels a light sweat breaking out over her body.

  “The joint is jumping,” Erica says as she sits. Jarrett puts his phone down on the table beside him. Erica stares at it for a moment. It’s an iPhone 6, just like both of hers.

  “Everyone wants to be part of history,” Jarrett says smugly.

  “You’re coming off a rough day yesterday.”

  “It’s going to get rougher.”

  “Say more.”

  “We’ll surprise you.”

  “I’m already surprised—that you have time for me.”

  “Erica, we always have time for you. How did your interview with Neal Clark go?”

  Erica pauses before asking, “How did he think it went?”

  Now it’s Jarrett’s turn to pause. “He had some concerns.”

  “Did he?”

  A waitress comes over, she’s young and green and star-struck. Good.

  “I’d like a large bowl of the minestrone and a grilled cheese on rye,” Erica says.

  “And a garden burger for me,” Jarrett says. When the waitress leaves, there’s a taut pause before he says, “Listen, Erica, as you know, I’m in charge of dealing with threats to the Homeland. I think we need to have a serious chat.”

  “I’m right here.”

  “You were very helpful in the lead-up to the election.”

  “Do you mean I gave you the kind of exposure no amount of money could buy?”

  He smiles and nods. “Mary was very grateful.”

  “It’s always nice to feel appreciated.”

  “However, you’ve gone from useful to nuisance.”

  “The truth can be so annoying.”

  Jarrett ignores this. “Now you seem to moving from nuisance to threat.”

  “Journalists are only a threat to people who are hiding something.”

  Again Jarrett ignores her words. “We’re hoping we can get our relationship back on track.”

  “What are you offering?”

  “The Homeland movement is spreading like wildfire. But its beating heart is right here in Bismarck. With Premier Bellamy. Her plans don’t stop at our borders. No, the Homeland will eventually be the world’s fifth largest nation. And we’re not going to let anything or anyone impede us. Mary plans to expel all unsympathetic journalists this week.”

  “So you’re shutting down the free press?”

  “You make it sound so harsh. My point is Mary would like to offer you unprecedented access.”

  “You mean if I back off, you’ll make me Mary’s lapdog.”

  “Cynicism is a dead end.”

  “Sometimes it’s just the beginning.”

  “And sometimes smart people outsmart themselves.” Jarrett swipes his phone and then holds it up so Erica can see the screen. And there’s a live shot of Greg jogging around the Central Park reservoir, shot from a few feet behind him. “All I have to do is say the word and your husband is a dead man.” He taps a number and then says, jocular and arrogant, “Hey, Phil. Glad to see you’re working off a few pounds. Stay tuned for updates.” Then he hangs up.

  Watching Greg on-screen, Erica feels a stab in her belly, her breath catches, her blood pulses, she feels icy, then red hot, sweat pours from her armpits, she’s almost overcome with emotion—some crazy quilt of rage, fear, protectiveness, and . . . love.

  Erica flashes back on that summer evening when, on the spur of the moment, she and Greg rode their bikes down Hudson River Park to the Battery, bought lobster rolls from a food truck, and sat on a bench feasting as the sun set behind the Statue of Liberty. They barely spoke, there was no need to, they understood each other, it was bliss and contentment, one of the happiest moments of Erica’s life. And that time during her first week at GNN when she had a sudden panic attack about going on the air, and Greg sat her down in his office, talked her through deep-breathing exercises and assured her of her talent. He was gentle and considerate and wise. In so many ways he’s what she’s wanted all her life. And recently she’s been sabotaging it all because . . . because on some level intimacy terrifies her. She’s been short with Greg and distracted, taken him for granted. Seeing him on the screen, his loping stride, so vulnerable, one phone call away from dying . . . she knows with bone-deep certainty that this is the man she loves, forever and always . . .

  “I’ve seen enough,” Erica says. She has an urge to smash Jarrett across the face, to knock that self-satisfied look into next week. Thankfully the waitress is approaching with the tray holding their food. When she’s just about to reach them, Erica stealthily slides her left foot into her path.

  “Ahhh!” the waitress cries as she lurches forward and the tray slides from her grip. The food flies through the air, splattering Jarrett and Erica with minestrone and mustard and coleslaw.

  “You idiot!” Jarrett barks, leaping up from his seat as Erica, in the commotion, slips Jarrett’s phone into her pocket with one hand and replaces it with her backup phone with the other. Then she stands up.

  “This dress is shot. I’m going to go upstairs and change.”

  Half the staff seems to be gathered around Jarrett, gushing apologies and dabbing at his suit with wet napkins. Jarrett shoots her a look of frustration but nods.

  Erica fights not to break into a run as she crosses the lobby to the elevators. The elevator door opens and she steps on, pressing 2. As the elevator ascends she takes out Jarrett’s phone and calls the last number dialed. When the doors open on the second floor, she cranes her head out—nobody in the hallway. As she bolts off the elevator and down the hall to the fire stairs, a male voice answers, “Yes, boss?”

  “The mission has been aborted. Turn off the camera and go home.”

  “Who is this?”

  “You’re not being paid to ask questions, you’re being paid to obey orders. The mission has been aborted.”

  Erica hangs up as she races one flight down the fire stairs. She reaches the exit door and stops. She goes to Contacts on Jarrett’s phone and scrolls through—there’s a Russian name: Anton Vershinin. There are two numbers, both with area code 204. Manitoba. She dials the first one. A woman’s voice answers, “Prairie Health.”

  Prairie Health. One of Neal Clark’s companies.

  Erica hangs up, takes out her own phone, and calls Fred Gershon, her contact at the FBI.

  “Fred, it’s Erica Sparks. I have information that leads me to believe that Mary Bellamy has nuclear capability, missiles, and that they’re in Manitoba.”

  “We don’t have any jurisdiction in Canada.”

  “Did you hear what I just told you?”

  “I did. I’ll run it by the director, but our hands are tied.”

  Stupid bureaucrat. Stupid lousy bureaucrat.

  Erica hangs up and calls the White House press office, the only number she has there.

  “Press office. This is Frank Merlo.”

  “This is Erica Sparks and I need to talk to the president.”

  “You must know that I can’t just put you through to the president.”

  “I need to talk to her!”

  “What about?”

  “The fact that Mary Bellamy has nuclear missiles. And that she may use one in retaliation for the Special Forces ambush on her.”

  There’s a stunned pause and then Merlo says, “Hold on.”

  Erica waits, closes her eyes, and struggles to contain her fear. After what seems like an eternity she hears, “This is General Maria Sanchez. Please switch to FaceTime.” Erica does. Sanchez is in her fifties, serious. “Okay, so you really a
re Erica Sparks. What’s up?”

  Erica spews out the short version of what she knows, closing with, “Don’t underestimate Bellamy again.”

  “I’m going to run this by the president.”

  “I would do it immediately.”

  “The president’s plate is very full, the failed ambush was a major blow. And I don’t think Bellamy is a madwoman. Assuming she does have nuclear capability, which is hardly assured, she has to know that if she orders a preemptive strike, we could blow her so-called Homeland off the map in ten minutes. And of course, we need evidence. Hard, cold evidence. This is all obviously off the record.”

  “Of course. Please don’t waste any time.”

  Erica hangs up and is hit by a wave of guilt. She’s the one who gave Mary Bellamy her platform, who gave her national exposure, who aired a sympathetic interview with her. She let herself be used as a pawn. If the worst does happen, she’ll be part of the story. And part of the reason.

  And of course, we need evidence. Hard, cold evidence.

  Erica pushes the exit door open. She’s momentarily blinded by the blazing sun. And it’s so hot. Stifling. Her rental car is parked in front of the hotel. She sucks down three deep breaths and as casually as possible walks over to it. She gets in, starts the car, and as she speeds out to Bismarck Municipal Airport, says into her phone, “Private or charter jet rental in Bismarck, North Dakota.”

  CHAPTER 87

  AS SHE DRIVES, ERICA CHECKS the rearview mirror—she doesn’t see a tail. And then comes the disembodied voice from her phone, “Up and Away Charter Flights in Bismarck, North Dakota.”

  “Call.”

  The phone rings. And rings. Erica feels desperation rising in her like floodwaters. And then a woman’s voice: “This is Up and Away.”

  “This is Erica Sparks, and I need a plane to take me to Winnipeg, leaving as soon as possible.”

  “We don’t have any planes available. Since this Homeland business, we’ve been booking like crazy. I do have some freelance owners who like to pick up a few bucks. Would you like me to call one?”

  “Yes, please, it’s critical.”

  “Hold on.”

  The phone goes blank and Erica wishes they had some mindless elevator music on, anything to distract her racing brain. She grips the wheel to stop her hands from shaking; her body is drenched in sweat.

  “Miss Sparks?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve got you a plane, it’s a turboprop but he says he can get you to Winnipeg in about an hour and a half.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “The pilot’s name is Jake Risdal. He’ll be waiting on the tarmac.”

  CHAPTER 88

  ERICA TEARS INTO THE AIRPORT lot reserved for private plane passengers, jumps out of her car, and runs toward the turboprop. There’s a middle-aged man standing in front of it.

  “Jake Risdal?”

  “That would be me.”

  Erica has a moment of panic: Can she trust this man? He looks trustworthy. Doesn’t he? This couldn’t possibly be a setup. Could it? There was no time to arrange a trap. Was there? Is she out of her mind to undertake this mission? But what if she doesn’t? Her mind is racing into some dark places. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “I can see that. Come on.”

  She bolts up the steps and into the cabin. Risdal follows and heads into the cockpit. Within minutes they’re cleared for takeoff and the plane lifts off.

  On her phone, Erica searches for Prairie Health’s headquarters and gets the location. Then she gets directions from the Winnipeg airport. Then she goes to a satellite map. The Prairie Health campus is surrounded by woods and consists of a large front building and a smaller one behind it.

  “Call Avis at Manitoba airport,” Erica says into her phone.

  “Avis, how may I help you?”

  “This is Erica Sparks. I need a car in about an hour. I’m arriving in a private plane. I need the car to be waiting for me on the tarmac.”

  “That’s not standard procedure.”

  “I don’t care what standard procedure is, or what it costs. Can you have a car waiting?”

  There’s a pause and then, “Certainly, Ms. Sparks.”

  Sometimes being a celebrity pays off.

  Erica takes another look at the satellite map, zooming in as close as she can. Under the heavy forest canopy she can barely make out a dirt track that runs from the laboratory building for about a quarter mile before ending at a clearing. At first glance, and second glance, it looks like a field covered with tall grasses. But then Erica makes out a half dozen outlines, thin, dark seams surrounding circular areas, each about the size of a helicopter landing pad. Each circle is also bisected by another dark seam.

  It’s loud in the small plane, but Erica sticks her head into the cockpit. “Can you wait for me at the airport?”

  Risdal nods his head. Erica returns to her seat and looks out the window, down at the endless expanse of flat prairie. It’s too lonely out here. She’s too lonely. And frightened. She’s so frightened. If only Greg were here. Erica can’t face her own thoughts. She pulls up GNN on her phone.

  Anchor Carl Pomeroy says, “President Winters is expected in the East Room at any minute to comment on the latest developments in North Dakota. Aides have hinted that she will be announcing some sort of military response.” The screen shows the East Room at the White House, it’s jammed with journalists and presidential aides. The suspense and expectation are palpable. This is the biggest story in the world.

  For a moment Erica wishes she was just reporting on it. Just sitting at a nice, safe desk, or even in the secure East Room, doing her job. But no, she’s here in this tiny plane flying north in a desperate attempt to prove that Bellamy and her cabal have nuclear capability and the will to use it . . . Erica shudders, she can’t follow the thought any further.

  Then President Winters appears in the East Room, walks solemnly to the podium, and says, “I was elected to protect this nation and its citizens. As commander in chief I believe Mary Bellamy and her Homeland movement present a grave threat to our union. They have acted in direct violation of our laws and our Constitution. This has already led to bloodshed. I have met with the Joint Chiefs of Staff and have instructed them to draw up plans to use military force to stop the Homeland movement and remove Bellamy from office. Their orders include keeping civilian casualties to the minimum, but there may be some loss of life. I advise all and any trainees at Camp Grafton that they have been classified as enemy combatants.”

  CHAPTER 89

  THE SIX FIGHTER JETS ARE flying in formation at thirty thousand feet, tearing through the sky on their way to North Dakota. To Camp Grafton on Devil’s Lake, to be specific. The pilots have their orders from the commander in chief, and they’re going to fulfill them.

  CHAPTER 90

  MARY, IN HER OFFICE AT the Homeland Province House, clicks Mute on the television. So that fool Winters is going to take military action. Go ahead, you’ll live to regret it. Or maybe you’ll die to regret it. Mary hasn’t decided yet.

  She wants James by her side. Neal is fine as far as he goes, but James is her fixer, razor-sharp, he can handle anything. They’re going to have to make some important decisions in the next couple of hours, and she needs his counsel.

  “Where is James?” Mary asks of her assembled aides, keeping her voice calm and controlled. The muscles in the back of her neck start to twitch. Never mind. Her whole staff looks miserable. They are miserable. Spineless sheep. This what you signed up for, kiddies. Man up. Neal is here, but he’s pacing and sweating. Is he choking in the clutch? You can’t depend on anybody but yourself in this life. Well, in the end, she doesn’t need any of them. She’s done her planning. Still, where is James?

  “No one has heard from him for over an hour. There’s no answer on his phone,” Judy Born, Mary’s chief counsel, says.

  “Can we track his phone?” Mary asks.

  “I’m in the process of doing that right now
,” Steve Wright says.

  “Well, hurry up.”

  There’s a moment where the whole room feels suspended, no one is breathing, all eyes are on Wright.

  “I’ve got it!” he exclaims. “The signal looks like . . . well, it looks like he’s approaching the Canadian border, south of Winnipeg.”

  “What is he doing up there?” Mary asks, her voice suddenly raspy, her throat dry.

  “The signal is moving very quickly, he must be on an airplane. An airplane approaching Winnipeg.”

  Mary feels her anxiety level ratchet up. This makes no sense. Why would James be flying to Winnipeg? When they last spoke, he was on his way to deal with that horrible Erica Sparks. What a troublemaker she is. And to think of everything Mary did for her. Giving her that exclusive interview about the Homeland that drove her ratings through the roof. Ungrateful little creep. No good deed goes unpunished. Mary takes Neal’s arm and leads him into the office’s reception room.

  “We need reinforcements at the lab. Now!” she hisses.

  Neal is already making the call, barking orders to his private security force. “Close the complex. Close the periphery. NOW! Nobody enters or leaves.” Then he calls Anton Vershinin and says just two words: “High alert.”

  They walk back into Mary’s office in time to see a shot of six fighter bombers piercing the sky as the newscaster says, “The White House has just confirmed that President Winters has ordered military action against the so-called Homeland of North Dakota.”

  Mary stands stock-still as she watches the jets. She pats her hair as a strange calm comes over her. Okay, it’s official. It’s started. Well, she’s prepared for this moment. Yes, she has.

  Mary turns to Judy Born and says softly, “Get me the president on the phone.”

  CHAPTER 91

  RISDAL LANDS THE PLANE AND opens the door, and Erica barrels out and climbs into the waiting car. She looks around her. There’s a black sedan parked about fifty yards away, a man wearing sunglasses is behind the wheel. Following the satellite map on the dashboard, she speeds out of the airport and gets on Route 7 north. The car follows her. She puts some muscle on the accelerator, pushing it up past sixty, seventy, eighty miles per hour. The black sedan stays right on her. She drives past the Winnipeg suburbs and the traffic thins. She switches lanes, back and forth, and the sedan switches with her. Erica is sweating and sucking air, her heart is thwacking in her chest.