State of Rebellion pc-1

by Gordon Ryan

  “Squabble? Was Fort Sumter a squabble? Did the South see it as a family feud? Jefferson or King, it doesn’t matter who said it. There are things worth fighting for-in fact, worth dying for.” Dahlgren shook his head even more vigorously.

  Dan couldn’t believe it. Secede from the Union? Just send in your postal change of address notice and move on? And to equate this with the Civil War. What is he thinking? Irritated and struggling to keep his cool, Dan leaned into Roger, his body language somewhat threatening.

  “And worth killing for?” he asked.

  “Unlike some of the more patriotic members of your family, I don’t think you appreciate the gravity of the situation. When it all shakes out, you don’t want to be left. . hanging around. Considering how long your family’s been in this valley, I thought certain you’d be a patriotic Californian.”

  Dan bristled at the obvious reference to the recent hanging, to say nothing of the inference that his views on secession impugned his patriotism, but he stifled the sharp response that instantly came to mind. “Well, Rog, it’s-”

  The room was gaveled to order as the chairman called all to seats. Roger Dahlgren walked over toward a group of younger men standing in the corner. Following a prayer, lunch commenced.

  Buttering a roll, Dan shook his head, leaning toward his deputy, his voice muted. “Jim, what was that all about?”

  “Rumor is, Dahlgren’s now a captain in the Shasta Brigade. Those paramilitary boys find this secession mania right up their alley.”

  “Well, if his council members don’t support the movement, he’ll find himself working on his resume,” Dan said. “And what did you make of his ‘hanging’ comment?”

  “I’d take it as a warning. A very real warning.”

  Dan thought for a moment about what Sheriff Sanchez had said earlier in his office. “You could be right, but, man, I hope not, and not-for just my own sake.”

  Jim asked the man across the table for the salt, then leaned over to whisper in Dan’s ear.

  “It’s quickly becoming a true rebellion.”

  Dan shook his head in disbelief and began to eat, thinking about Jim’s comment and Roger Dahlgren’s implied threat. For the next twenty minutes he bantered with the Bank of America branch manager, feigning concern about the rising interest rates and the price of oil.

  At 12:45, the program chairman once again brought the room to order and waited for conversation and the clanking of dinnerware to die down before he spoke.

  “Members and invited guests, it is my distinct pleasure to open today’s forum and to welcome our distinguished guest. For eighteen years, Senator Malcolm Turner has served as California’s voice in the United States Senate. For six years before that, he served us well as a representative in the House. Many explosive issues have come and gone during his congressional tenure. Senator Turner has taken a stance on each, relative to his understanding of where Californians stood. But perhaps, in this latest movement, Senator Turner faces his greatest challenge. Indeed, perhaps all California faces its greatest test. Let’s hear what he has to say. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you the man who may well be the first president-or perhaps even prime minister-of the Republic of California, Senator Malcolm Turner.”

  A few of the Rotarians and their guests immediately stood in applause. Others, some less enthusiastically, joined them in standing as Turner rose from his seat at the head table and stepped to the podium. He took his place behind the lectern, confident, smiling warmly, acknowledging old friends in the room and nodding to new faces. Malcolm Turner looked very much the part of a U.S. senator. His artificially dark hair was immaculately coiffed. He wore a dark-blue suit, starched white shirt, and a bold, California bear flag tie. Smiling, he accepted their welcome, then raised his manicured hands to quell the generous applause.

  As the audience took their seats, the senator looked around the crowded room. Attendance was up by a third, given the multitude of guests and media representatives. Nearly a hundred people were jammed into tight quarters. With the tables filled, some had taken their lunch on their laps and were seated on chairs lining the walls.

  After the room quieted, Turner stood silent for a moment, allowing the tension to build slightly. Here in Woodland-in the heart of an agricultural county burdened by myriad federal regulations-he knew he had a sympathetic audience.

  “Mr. Mayor, members of the Yolo County Board of Supervisors, Woodland City Council members, Rotarians, and honored guests: In 1958, during Eisenhower’s presidency, my father brought me to Woodland to the Yolo County Fair. I was home from college for the summer, and Dad wanted me to see some of the exhibits, as well as to participate in the business discussions he had scheduled with local farmers. It was my first introduction into the business end of farming, outside of the countless hours I had spent in our fields near Modesto. There may well be some of you in the room today who recall the glory days of the California farmer. And most of you will also recall eighteen months ago, when I first proposed consideration of California becoming a sovereign nation. To me, it seems like only yesterday. .”

  Chapter 6

  Sea Ranch

  Ninety-five miles north of San Francisco, California

  January, 2010

  It was election year, and Senator Malcolm Turner had put out the call for campaign contributions as he began his run for a fourth term in the U.S. Senate. The invitation to meet with John Henry Franklin at his palatial estate three hours’ drive north of San Francisco had been a welcome surprise. Their meeting changed Turner’s campaign rhetoric from politics-as-usual hyperbole to a more deadly indictment of federal intervention into state’s rights. Franklin’s retreat, called Sea Ranch Estate, sprawled over an area of about twelve miles, north to south, and running east from the coast nearly nine miles, well into the coastal mountain range. With its proximity to the route followed by California gray whales heading north to Alaska from Baja, the northern California coastline was a favorite gathering place for whale watchers, Greenpeace supporters, rabid environmentalists, and assorted tourists. Providing public access to the beaches across his land and a healthy contribution to ocean environmentalist causes was a concession Franklin made to placate those who might otherwise resent the size of his holdings. Access to the developed area of Franklin’s retreat and to his elaborate estate, however, was electronically restricted.

  Launching his campaign for reelection, Senator Turner had put out the word, and the usual corporate sponsors had responded. But in his three previous senatorial election campaigns, he had not been contacted by John Henry Franklin, nor, to his knowledge, had he received any contributions from the Franklin Foundation. So, this unexpected invitation to Sea Ranch was as intriguing as the messenger was beautiful and alluring. Delivered at that time and in that manner made it an invitation Turner could hardly decline.

  Amelia Erickson, Franklin’s personal assistant and the woman who had visited the Senator’s office to extend the invitation, came out of the mansion as Turner’s limousine came to a stop.

  She extended her hand. “Senator Turner, how kind of you to come.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Erickson,” Turner replied, flashing his warmest campaign smile.

  She linked her arm in his and turned toward the monstrous stone house. “Let me introduce you to the other guests.”

  Three men stood near the veranda railing where they had been watching the sunset gather over the ocean. As Amelia and Turner approached, the younger of the men stepped forward to greet him.

  “Welcome, Senator Turner. Please, join us.”

  Turner recognized him as Paul Spackman, the evening news anchor for CBS Television’s San Francisco affiliate. He didn’t recognize the other two men, both Hispanic. Spackman made the introductions.

  “General Emiliano Estaban Valdez, deputy chief of staff of the Mexican Armed Forces, and General Rodrigo Cordoba, retired. General Cordoba now serves as the Chief of Federal Police in Mexico.”

  Turner shook hands th
en accepted a drink brought to him by a uniformed servant. “Gentlemen.” He raised his glass. “To your health.”

  “Gracias, Senor. It is an honor to meet you, Senator,” General Valdez replied.

  “The pleasure is mine, General.”

  “I’ve just spoken with Mr. Franklin,” Amelia said, once introductions had been accomplished. “His helicopter is about ten minutes out. Please, make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll alert the staff to prepare for his arrival.”

  The massive stone fireplace was fully ablaze, and the liquor sideboard in use as John Henry Franklin entered the room. Muscular, about five-feet-ten, Franklin exuded power as much from his physical presence as from his well-earned reputation for being able to resuscitate a business deal others had written off as moribund. While his outward presentation was always pleasant and courteous, Franklin had found it useful to carefully cultivate a questionable business reputation that his friends and enemies had come to call “Frankevelian.”

  Though he never had been formally charged, a feeling prevailed that those who stood in the way of his interests frequently met with misfortune. On the other hand, his business interests seemed always to be blessed by the fortunate oversight of Providence.

  Over the years, Franklin had acquired controlling interests in many companies, but it wasn’t until he cornered the market in communications-specifically cable TV and telecommunications systems-that he really became a major player, elevating himself to a position of near absolute power. By linking home shopping networks and cable television systems, he had gained direct-dial accessibility to millions of homes across the nation. Through these, he had garnered credit card information, personal data, and by means of extensive surveys, a sophisticated demographic data base that he used to market to a wide assortment of family needs-and in fact, to create those needs.

  His most ambitious endeavor had been launched several years earlier. He had convinced election officials in the state of Missouri-a persuasive effort among four key politicians that had cost over six million and the life of a young attorney general who opposed the measure-to test a new voting procedure that allowed voters to cast their ballots by telephone from the comfort of their homes. As the program moved to California, he even sided with environmentalists who sought to eliminate the “paper trail” that had been required of election stations. Dual electronic copies of each vote were ostensibly maintained off-site as a back-up.

  Used at first merely for generating public opinion data, the concept had attracted attention from those who wished to promote greater voter participation. It seemed a natural extension of available technology, and, like many revolutionary ideas, was so obviously beneficial to everyone that it was a wonder it hadn’t been implemented sooner.

  As an ambitious and progressive businessman, John Henry had envisioned a grander use of his system-a use that would serve his other aims. The technology could be applied to secretly manipulate polling results. He could see how such an ability could be put to a myriad of uses, all to the benefit of himself and selected clients.

  The final piece fell into place when several of Franklin’s subsidiary companies acquired a majority interest in three of the foremost nationally recognized polling companies. Once election results could be shown to match polling predictions-both of which he planned to manipulate-he felt confident he would be able to manufacture the political results that would best serve his interests. The actual scope of his newfound power was unlimited, and his ambition had grown accordingly.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” Franklin offered warmly. “General Valdez, how good to see you again. How are you today, my old friend?”

  “Bueno, John Henry. And you?”

  “Couldn’t be better.” Moving to Turner, Franklin grasped his hand firmly. “Senator, it is a great honor to meet you, sir. Thank you for responding to our invitation. You’ve been introduced to my other guests?”

  “I have, indeed. I’m pleased to make their acquaintance, Mr. Franklin, and yours.”

  “Good. Very good. But, please, my close associates call me John Henry, and I’m hoping you will consider yourself a close friend from this moment on. “And how are you, Paul?” he asked, turning to Spackman. “Who’s reporting the news in the Bay Area tonight?”

  “Thought we’d give the new gal, Sandy, a ‘look in.’”

  “Better watch her, Paul. She’s nearly as good-looking as you,” Franklin winked. “She’ll get her foot in the door, and you’ll be doing the weekend weather in Eureka.” Everyone laughed appropriately.

  “And Chief Cordoba-Rigo, my dear friend, who’s guarding your northern borders tonight?”

  “We left them open, just so the appropriate quota of illegals could slip across,” he laughed.

  Stealing a quick look at Valdez, Franklin responded to Cordoba’s humor. “Excellent. Just excellent. Well, I see we’re all in fine fettle. And Amelia has taken care of you, Malcolm?”

  “If my own staff could only do so well.”

  “Well, then. Let’s get down to business,” John Henry said, gesturing for his guests to be seated. “I’ll come straight to the point, Malcolm. Paul, here, tells me that your main opponent this next election has some hot issues on his plate and plenty of financing to fund his campaign. How’s it look to you?”

  Franklin seemed to sense that with the right approach-in this case, unlimited campaign financing-the politician in Turner would rise to the surface.

  “He’s young, inexperienced, and full of visionary utopia. But,” Turner said, shaking his head, “likely to clean my clock unless I can match, or hopefully exceed, his resources. He’s got quite a war chest, plenty of time to gather more, and an army of young acolytes to spread the word.”

  “Malcolm, I’m sure you know that I’ve refrained from getting involved in your previous campaigns. In fact, I’ve generally made it a policy to stay altogether clear of political campaign financing. But don’t let that convince you that I haven’t been in support of what you’ve done for California, and for that matter, the nation. I’ve watched your chairmanship of the senate finance committee with great interest.”

  Franklin stood and moved to take a cigar from the humidor on the mantle, then bit off the end, spat it into the fire, and removed a burning stick from the fireplace to light the hand-rolled stogie.

  “You were raised in California, weren’t you, Malcolm, and you’re familiar with our Spanish history and Mexican heritage?”

  “It’s always been my view that Californians and Mexicans are ‘cousins,’ so to speak. Talking over the backyard fence is something neighbors and relatives do.”

  “Exactly!” Franklin said, jabbing the air with his cigar. “I thought you’d see it that way. I’m going to speak boldly, Malcolm, because I know you to be a man of action. You know, of course, from your understanding of your constituency, that western Americans have become increasingly fed up with federally required mandates, lack of funding, and the myriad rules and regulations that tie the hands of the state legislatures. Even the drastic shift to Republican control of Congress back in ’94, and again in 2000, did little to stem the tide of federalism-or the power struggle, for that matter. I know you’ve ruffled some feathers in your own Democratic Party by your support of states’ rights issues. ‘Federal intervention should be the last resort’ is the way you’ve recently put it, if I’m not incorrect.”

  Turner’s eyebrows raised slightly. “It seems you have followed my career, John Henry.”

  “Certainly have. With pleasure, I might add. I’ve always taken an interest in staying informed about those who support important issues. But let me get back to the point. Are you familiar with the fact that back in 1992, a California assemblyman from Redding proposed dividing California into two separate states?”

  “I believe my staff did brief me on that.”

  “Good, but are you also aware that since statehood in 1850, similar proposals have been made thirteen times?”

  Turner rattled the ice cubes in his glass,
glancing at the other men in the room. “No, I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “I see,” Franklin continued. “Back when California became a state, the entire southern half of the territory refused to be part of the statehood movement, citing that the north was economically and culturally advantaged over the south-which at that time was mostly comprised of Mexican ranchers. Against its will, the southern part of the territory was included, and California became a very large state.”

  “I guess I was absent from school that day, too,” Turner said, his voice taking on a slight edge.

  “I beg your indulgence here, Senator,” Franklin said, again pointing with his cigar. “I don’t presume to teach history, but from those previous attempts and the more recent movement, we can gain an understanding of how Californians feel. In the primaries of ’92, twenty-seven of thirty-one northern counties voted yes to forming a fifty-first state. And now that the immigration issue has become so intense. . well, you understand the nature of that problem, I’m sure.”

  “I do recall the ’92 vote. It was an important issue, but numerically, the north is-”

  “I know,” Franklin interrupted, “they don’t have the numbers.” He paused again and glanced at Spackman.

  “Let’s look at this from an economic perspective, Senator. California is possessed of more natural resources than many of the third world’s sovereign nations. And our production capability staggers the imagination-lacking, perhaps, only the cheap labor force available in other parts of the world. We could correct that by assuring better relations with Mexico. And don’t forget the creative power of Silicon Valley-it’s the envy of the world. Ah, but if we could bring those resources together. Think of the possibilities if our wealth of resources could somehow be paired with controlled labor costs, and the two were linked to the finest air, sea, and land transportation system in the world. It would be an unbeatable combination. The trouble is, Malcolm, California is bankrupt, not from internal economic policies, but from federal political decisions. Our own state politicians haven’t helped. We try to give everything to everyone, and someone has to pay the bill. California has come to the end of that road, Senator. We can’t tolerate it anymore. But the state, the people, deserve more, don’t you think. Senator?”