by Gordon Ryan
In a surprise announcement yesterday, the California Supreme Court startled the pundits by remanding the secession issue back to the state elections office, requiring a special, statewide single-purpose election on the controversial issue. A date has yet to be determined for a future election. Senator Malcolm Turner, for whom this issue has been a primary focus since his campaign for reelection, has agreed to speak with us.”
A close-up of Senator Turner filled the screen behind Paul Spackman, and the reporter swiveled in his chair to face Turner.
“Senator Turner, thank you for agreeing to speak to us. Your reaction on the surprising court decision, please.”
“Paul, once again our justices have failed to listen to the people or the purposeful voice behind their previous votes. This court decision is not going to sit well with Californians, and certainly not with those public-minded organizations that have placed their time and energy behind the movement.”
“Senator, are you saying that the militia groups may take hostile action against the Supreme Court justices as they did last year against the Superior Court panel?”
Turner pursed his lips, affected a concerned look, and shook his head. “Paul, I certainly hope that more violence doesn’t occur as a result of this misguided decision, but I don’t know that the electorate could have sent a clearer message. Notice has been served on the bloated, federal bureaucracy that enough is enough. You’ll remember the line from that network news movie of some years ago, ‘We’re mad as hell, and we’re not going to take it anymore’? Well, that’s how the majority of Californians feel, Paul, and I’m proud to say that I stand with the people on this issue. After all, how many elections will be needed to show Congress and the courts that Californians are serious?”
After a quick camera cut to Spackman’s face, the news anchor continued his questioning.
“Your position is well known, Senator. Can you tell us why you think this has become such a volatile issue, and where we should go from here?”
“There is no reason for the people of this great state to continue to knuckle under to outdated, prohibitive, increasingly burdensome federal policies-policies that have choked our productivity and negatively impacted the growth and prosperity of our state. The people are fed up, and I’m proud to have been in the forefront of this campaign.”
“Thank you for your time, Senator Turner. I’m sure we’ll hear more from you and others on this momentous issue in the days ahead.”
“Thank you, Paul,” Turner said with a small wave.
Turning back to the camera, Spackman continued. “With a special election scheduled, Californians will be faced with yet another decision about the future of their state. HotVote, the Home Voting Telephone System that so successfully saved the election back in November after the state’s computers failed in their tally, will take the forefront in the upcoming election results. That story and more when we return. .”
Following a commercial break, during which Spackman quickly reviewed his script, he began again.
“Last November, when an untimely computer failure in the California elections office caused a delay of nearly eight hours in certifying the election results, the Home Telephone Voting system, or HotVote, apparently performed flawlessly. Results from the HotVote system were immediately available, and the totals from that automated voting system compared favorably with the official count when it finally became available the following day.
“We are now joined via satellite by Barbara Fuller, an official with AmeriLink, the company that pioneered the HotVote home polling system. Thank you for joining us, Ms. Fuller. Tell us about your company’s system.”
An attractive young woman, professionally dressed and sitting in front of a bank of large computer monitors, smiled at the camera.
“Paul, our polling system was originally developed to provide subscribers access through their PCs to home shopping networks, mail-order houses, ticketing outlets, and banking functions. In tests conducted over the last few years in Missouri, Oregon, and Utah, it has also proven its worth as a tool to facilitate more efficient and greater voter participation in all kinds of elections.”
“Your system certainly proved its worth in the California general election last November,” Paul said, “and throughout the evening, provided the only figures that were available.”
Ms. Fuller nodded her assent while fidgeting with her earpiece, trying to hold it in place. “As unfortunate as it was to have the California regular polling system go down, we were pleased to have our system in place and to be able to demonstrate once again the efficiency and reliability of the HotVote polling technique.”
Spackman nodded his agreement. “That demonstration comes at a good time for you and your company. With multiple successful elections behind you in several states, I believe HotVote is due to come online as the primary polling system in California later this year, during the regular, statewide elections. Have you been notified regarding your company’s role in this recently announced special election?”
“You’re quite correct, Paul. California voters, as well as the citizens of Missouri, Oregon, and Utah, have taken wholeheartedly to the convenience of voting from their homes over the telephone. We’re very excited and see a great future for the system, which was originally designed to provide voter participation by those who were in some way prevented from getting to the regular polling locations-folks who were unable, because of health or other causes, to get out and participate in our democratic system. And yes, we have been asked, just today, as a matter of fact, to prepare our system to function in the upcoming special election.”
“Thank you, Ms. Fuller,” Spackman said. Turning back to the camera once again, the handsome newscaster smiled at his co-anchor. “Sandy, it looks as if Californians are in for yet another barrage of secession campaigning, and that HotVote will be the final arbiter. Now, I believe you have another story for us. .”
John Henry Franklin sat in front of a massive television screen that filled nearly the entire wall of his den at Sea Ranch. Watching the interview, he mentally began checking off the preparations for the next phase of the operation.
“This is a surprising new development, Jean. One we’ll have to deal with quickly.”
“I believe we can keep it under control. Actually, it was your behind-the-scenes work with Phelps and the lieutenant governor’s office that turned the tables in the first two elections, and of course, coordinating the results with the polling data. We can do it again.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he said, twirling his cigar between his fingers. “And both of those took a bit of arm-twisting and cost a bundle. But that’s changed,” Franklin said.
“How so?” Wolff asked.
“Director Phelps died last week of a heart attack following a drug overdose.”
“Oh?” Wolff said, his instincts heightened.
“We had nothing to do with it,” Franklin replied. “Apparently, he actually did start taking drugs. He was a key insider. But even if he were still alive, he wouldn’t be of much help in this special election. The issue he was so willing to help is history.”
“What was that?” Wolff asked.
Franklin smiled. “There was a particularly important issue during the last election-important to Phelps, that is-about company health and retirement benefits for gay partners.”
“Phelps was gay?”
“Decidedly, although he never came out of the closet. We just got a friend of his to ask his help on this particular issue, and once we got inside his office. . well, you know the rest.”
“Interesting,” Wolff said. “I wondered how you’d gotten us inside-officially, that is.”
“So now, we have to fill his void and get back into the computers, and quickly.”
Wolff paused for a moment before replying. “We’ll keep a close eye on those staff members who have the ability to provide information. Someone is always vulnerable to persuasion, either money or force.”
Franklin rose and
walked toward the French doors leading out onto the veranda, commenting as he passed the third man in the room.
“After the special election confirms the secession, how do you see the Fed’s responding, Grant?”
Grant Sully rose from his chair near the French doors and followed Franklin onto the veranda. “A lot of bluster, John Henry. Pro and con political posturing, mostly from congressmen scared to death that it will affect their home states and possibly cause the loss of their congressional seats as a result. Still, the investigations will increase. Technically, the CIA is restricted from domestic inquiry, so the FBI has been assigned to investigate and report. They’ve agreed to brief the CIA twice a week, or immediately if something significant develops. I’ll be in that pipeline. Rest easy. We’ve got it under control.”
“Humph. A lot’s at stake, Grant.”
“It always is.”
“Yeah, I suppose. But then, you’ve never fomented an insurrection in your own backyard. You’ve always played in someone else’s neighborhood, and when it blew up in their face, you just pocketed all the marbles, went home, and developed another plan.”
Grant Sully turned to face Franklin. “This time, I’ve a vested interest. This time it’s for real.”
Franklin studied Sully for a moment, then continued. “We’ve never undertaken such a bold plan before. I intend to see it carried out. With the help of our Mexican friends and a small, well-directed insurrection from the brigade to bring about the desired public response, we’ll pull this off and the world will view it as a popular uprising.”
“And Senator Turner?” Sully asked.
“He’s beginning to enjoy his role,” Franklin replied. “I think he sees himself as the first prime minister of the Republic of California.”
“And. .?” Sully asked.
“That’s how he sees it, and for now, that suits me just fine.”
Chapter 13
San Francisco International Airport
San Francisco, California
August, 2011
After spending nearly a month in New Zealand, wondering the entire time how the task force was developing and why the president had snatched him out of the CIA to work on this team, Colonel Pug Connor found no relief for his anxiety. It only increased during the twelve-hour Air New Zealand flight from Auckland to Los Angeles. Usually unable to sleep on aircraft anyway, Pug enjoyed even less rest than usual on this trip. After clearing customs in L.A., he hand-carried his one bag and transferred via airport shuttle to the Delta terminal and had a bite of lunch, waiting just over two hours for his connection to San Francisco. The fifty-minute flight barely gave the plane time to ascend and descend before the flight attendant was announcing preparation for landing.
Walking up the concourse from the arrival gate, Pug thought again of what his former wife, Alison, always said about arranging meetings immediately after a long flight. Give yourself time to get to your hotel room and change or get your clothes pressed, she’d admonished. A quick glimpse of his reflection in the corridor from the glass-covered advertisements convinced him that Alison had been right. He looked like a vagrant in his rumpled gray suit.
Uniforms seemed to withstand travel much better. But in his nearly twenty-three years of military service, including four years at the Naval Academy, he had seldom been required to actually wear his military attire. Over that time, not counting the Annapolis years, he had spent only nine years in uniform. Military personnel assigned to the National Security Agency and the CIA tried to blend in by wearing civilian clothes. An assignment to serve on a presidential task force seemed destined to continue the trend.
As Pug walked toward the terminal exit, a young woman quietly fell in step with him. Once through the doorway, she spoke up. “I’ve got a car in the parking area, Mr. Connor,” she said quietly.
He looked at her and nodded. “Ms. Bentley?”
“Nicole Bentley.”
They blended in with the thousands of daily travelers at the San Francisco International Airport and made their way to the parking lot, where Bentley opened the driver’s door and unlocked the passenger side for Pug. Pulling onto California 101, she merged confidently with the traffic and headed north, then handed Pug a manila folder.
As she drove, she said, “My partner, Al Samuels, is waiting for us at the hotel, and Judge Granata will join us shortly. We’ve scheduled a briefing for you on the current status, and tomorrow morning we’ve lined up a helicopter from the California Forest Service for a look around some abandoned Shasta Brigade training sites.”
“So the judge is out here?”
“He is, sir.”
“How are the confirmation hearings going?”
“A bit of a delay there, sir. Politics, I believe.” She smiled, glancing at him. “But the president told Judge Granata there’s nothing to worry about. A couple of senators just want something in return from the president.”
“Democracy at work,” Pug laughed.
“Yes, sir.”
Pug glanced over at the pretty young woman as she skillfully maneuvered her way through the afternoon traffic and then flipped open the folder.
“That’s a list of militia leaders from the top half-dozen units operating in central and northern California, and a background summary on each. Our briefing this afternoon will be more specific to the Shasta Brigade.”
“Fine,” he said, closing the folder. “And Pug will do fine, Nicole,” he said.
“Yes, sir. . Pug,” she said, briefly smiling at him again. “My partner called a few moments before you landed and told me that Judge Granata will be a bit late to our meeting. He’s with several of the California justices who wanted to meet with him. His ‘official’ visit to California is a fact-finding mission at the San Francisco FBI office. The press has dogged him since his nomination. He felt he couldn’t fly out without being spotted, so he announced the visit and made it official.”
“So the judge is getting a taste of notoriety, eh?” Pug laughed. “Serves him right. He’s given me the needle over the years when I’ve been stuck in the public eye.”
Granata, fifteen years older than Pug, had often asked Pug’s opinion on issues of the day, and on rare occasions when they had been able to find the time, they’d played golf together. Pug knew Granata was a determined, no-nonsense public servant. Even so, he remained a compassionate man, whose natural impulse was to take people at their word and offer them every opportunity for change.
On one occasion, five or six years earlier, Pug had gone to Judge Granata’s court in Alexandria, Virginia, to meet him for lunch. Arriving early, Pug had slipped unobtrusively into the back of the courtroom and watched as a young female defendant pleaded her case. Accused of violating the terms of her probation, the young woman had been asked by Judge Granata what assurance she could offer that she would not repeat her offense. Pug marveled at her naive reply-one that revealed her limited perspective and her ignorance of the world.
Judge Granata listened as the young woman explained how she was planning to move to St. Charles, Maryland, where, she said, “I kin get a new start, with different folk. There’s no drugs there, Judge.” Granata had slowly shaken his head in amazement, and Pug himself had wondered how the young lady had come to the conclusion that relocating barely thirty miles from the source of her troubles would, indeed, change her life. Still, Granata, with a reputation for fairness, set the young lady on her intended course with a warning that should she reappear in his court, he would have no choice but to confine her for the duration of her original sentence.
Watching her shuffle away, her wrists handcuffed and leg restraints in place, Pug had suddenly felt humbled by the confined life most people led, restricted by their view of the world, which in many cases was limited to a short fifty-mile radius with the highlight of their life being a trip to Atlantic City, or for the more fortunate, Las Vegas.
Bentley parked the car in the hotel basement, and she and Pug entered the elevator. Three days earlier, when
Granata had called Pug in New Zealand and arranged this meeting in San Francisco, he’d briefed Pug on the members of the task force, including Bentley.
“She’s been with the bureau just under two years. Assignment to your task force is somewhat unprecedented for one so inexperienced, but she comes highly rated. Her partner, Al Samuels, is the agent in charge of the FBI’s militia investigation in California. Bentley has been working with him for just over a year. His reports on their progress so far indicate that she shows excellent instincts and that she’s learned rapidly. However, the choice of whether to keep her on the task force or not is up to you, Pug. Once my appointment is confirmed, I could assign someone more senior, but they would have less knowledge on the specific units we’re concerned about. Besides, she works pretty well with Samuels, it seems.”
“I’ve been the junior man on a new team a few times myself, Judge. Have you had a chance to talk with her?”
“A couple of times.”
“What do you think?” Pug asked.
“Very intelligent woman, but I don’t want to influence you. It’s your call. These two California-based agents will be key to your success, and you need to have full confidence in them.”
“Judge,” Pug said, “it’s now your agency. In the years I’ve known you, I’ve not yet found a reason to question your evaluation of anything. I say let’s keep her on the team.”
“Here we are, Colonel,” Bentley said as the elevator reached the fourteenth floor. “Room 1426, to the right. Agent Samuels should already be here.”
Bentley knocked on the door, and Samuels opened it immediately.
“Good afternoon, Colonel Connor. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said.
Pug shook hands with the man, guessing Samuels was approximately his own age. “Let’s start off informally, what say?” Pug said. “I’ll be Pug and you be Al. Or would you prefer Alfred?”
“Al will do fine, Colonel, and my partner is Nicole, Nicky, or sometimes Annie Oakley, when she outshoots me on the pistol range,” Samuels said, chuckling.