State of Rebellion pc-1

by Gordon Ryan

  “Thank you, Pug. I’m anxious to get back to Nicole, as you can imagine.”

  “I understand. Have a safe flight home. It should be more comfortable in first class than in the back seat of an F-16.”

  “Not to mention an available toilet,” Dan laughed. “Thank you, Pug. For everything.”

  When Pug Connor reentered the Oval Office, he was astounded to see Grant Sully, his old nemesis from the CIA, seated on the couch. Judge Granata had been joined by another man Connor didn’t know, but who, by the identification badge on his lapel, was one of the judge’s FBI agents. The president was absent, but came through another door just as Connor took a seat opposite Granata. Sully eyed Connor with similar astonishment.

  The president walked briskly to the group, beginning to talk without taking a seat.

  “Mr. Sully, I’m not going to waste any of my time this afternoon-or yours, for that matter. In fact, I don’t intend to spend thirty seconds longer with you than necessary. You’ve got just three options and exactly three minutes to decide which one you’re going to take. Do I make myself clear?”

  Grant Sully looked nervously around the room before responding. “Sir, I don’t-”

  “Shut up, Mr. Sully,” the president interrupted, his voice taking on a harsh tone. “Just listen, nod, and make your choice, because if I make it for you, you’re not gonna like the result.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sully replied.

  “Now, your first option is to leave this office with Director Granata, Colonel Connor, and the special agents, spend the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, or whatever it takes to purge your cankered soul of every piece of information you possess about the Franklin Group, John Henry Franklin, Senator Turner, and all the other conspirators in this secession folly. Mr. Sully, I mean everything you know. One omission-just one, that we find out about later-and you’re into option two, no matter how much cooperation you may have previously provided in other areas.

  “If you fully cooperate in this exercise, you’ll be allowed to sign your resignation, return to wherever it is you call home, and a United States of America government retirement check will be deposited in your bank each and every month for the remainder of your miserable life. You can also have access to whatever money you’ve been able to squirrel away in any off-shore account from your dealings with Franklin. I don’t give a hoot about that.”

  Pug Connor sat captivated by the developments occurring before him-amazed that the president had permitted him to witness what amounted to Sully’s expulsion from professional life.

  The president continued, pacing the room, pausing to look Sully in the eye occasionally, and emphasizing every point with a thrust of his finger. “Now the only reason you even have option one, Mr. Sully, is because of your thirty-plus years of service to this nation, and because the path you’ve chosen involved a domestic dispute and not an international treasonous act. Were that the case, Mr. Sully, you would hang, as young Lieutenant McFarland did some months ago in Sacramento, or be stood up against the wall and shot, as General Cordoba was yesterday. And regarding General Cordoba’s assassination, Mr. Sully-a most regrettable incident from my viewpoint-we are fully aware of your complicity in the matter.”

  Grant Sully continued to squirm in his seat as Judge Granata regarded him with open contempt. Pug Connor, with whom Sully occasionally locked eyes-as they more than once had locked tactical ideology-tried to appear outwardly objective, despite the expanding sense of satisfaction he was experiencing.

  “Your second option, Mr. Sully, is not to cooperate-a choice that I absolutely guarantee will result, from the moment you leave this office, in your spending the next thirty years in Leavenworth Prison. Period. End of story.”

  The president stopped his pacing and looked directly at Sully. “Am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sully replied, his head now bowed and his demeanor subdued.

  “Fine. Then what’s your choice, Mr. Sully?”

  Sully hesitated, glancing around the room, fear evident on his face. He looked again at the president. After what seemed like several long minutes, he spoke in a subdued tone. “Mr. President, you indicated three options, and-”

  “I lied, Mr. Sully. I lied.”

  Once Colonel Connor had completed the first few hours of Sully’s interrogation, held in the FBI’s Hoover Building, he’d learned enough about those involved in the conspiracy to call an old marine association and request an appointment at the Pentagon. He then called the president’s secretary and left a request, which was confirmed by text message while he was enroute to the Pentagon.

  Thirty minutes later, he arrived at the office of the Commandant of the Marine Corps and was told the Commandant would be available shortly. He took a seat and waited for several moments, after which the young Captain advised him that the Commandant would see him. Pug stood and entered the well-appointed office. A tall, erect man in his middle sixties came around his desk and extended his hand.

  “Colonel Connor, it’s good to see you again,” General Tomlinson said. “You’re looking well.”

  “General, please accept my apologies for not being in proper uniform, but I’ve just come from the FBI Director’s office, following a meeting with the president.”

  “Not to worry, Colonel,” Tomlinson said. “Take a seat,” he said as they moved toward a small arrangement of chairs. “How can I help?”

  Pug waited until the general sat and then assumed his seat. “Sir, when we last spoke, when I assumed this presidential assignment, I was unable to advise you of the nature of the mission. But you mentioned that any help I might need from the Corps should be brought to your attention. In light of recent discoveries, I am requesting a particular individual be assigned temporary duty under my direction for at least the next ninety days. I believe he is currently assigned to 1st Force Recon as Battalion Sergeant Major. Carlos Castro is his name, General.”

  Tomlinson nodded. “I know Sergeant Major Castro. Outstanding marine. If I recall, you’ve served with him before.”

  “Yes, sir. He was Gunny Castro when I was company commander in the 15th MEU aboard the Belleau Wood. We had several missions together. I know it’s a common story, sir,” Pug said, smiling, “but without the actions of Gunny Castro, this young marine captain might not have come home alive from our Pakistan insertion.”

  General Tomlinson smiled. “Colonel, you’re not the only Marine officer who owes his life to a competent Marine NCO. Truth be told, there are two of us in this room that qualify for that distinction. Mine was Gunnery Sergeant Dan L. Jackman, over forty-four years ago when I was a green, twenty-one year old second lieutenant in Vietnam and Jackman was a Korean War veteran with three Purple Hearts. He earned two more of them in Vietnam, one of them saving my life. The Corps thrives because of those outstanding NCO’s, Colonel. So, you need Sergeant Castro for ninety days you say?”

  “At least, sir. If an indefinite assignment is possible, I would appreciate that contained in his orders.”

  “Is this by direction of the president?”

  “It is, sir. Verbal orders of the president.”

  Tomlinson rose and stepped to his door, speaking to the officer seated just beyond, then returned to the seating area. Pug had also risen when Tomlinson stood. “Consider it done, Colonel. I’ve just asked Captain Black to provide you with a copy of Castro’s service record. I think his recent academic achievements, if you’re unaware, will surprise you. When will you need Sergeant Major Castro?”

  “If he’s still at 1st Recon, Camp Pendleton, have him remain in place, General. I’ll contact him in the next seventy-two hours.”

  “Anything else, Colonel?”

  “No, sir. Thank you, Commandant, for seeing me so quickly this afternoon.”

  “Call this office if you need something further. The captain knows how to reach me.”

  “Yes, sir.

  Chapter 35

  Oval Office, The White House

  Washington, D.C.
r />   September, 2012

  For three days Senator Malcolm Turner had tried to come to grips with his mortality, afraid to discuss the matter, even with his wife, or to seek a second medical opinion for fear of public disclosure. He drifted through each day, physically present at his committee meetings, but mentally absent for all but the most direct confrontation from one of his honorable senatorial associates.

  President Eastman had been strangely silent. Even his staff had not presented any insurmountable problems. Other than the visit from Jean Wolff, who had presented Turner with visions of a place of honor in California history, both as originator of the secession movement and actuator of the removal of one of the largest impediments, it had been a politically uneventful three days. Wolff’s implied action-assassination of the president-had brought more people infamy than notability. Still, Turner contended with himself as he wrestled with the possibilities, there were those who had turned the course of history by the assassination of a national leader. It all depended on one’s retrospective point of view. Above all, from Turner’s perspective, being brought down in a hail of bullets from the Secret Service was better than enduring a disgraceful, slow death from some debilitating disease.

  The call from Eastman’s chief of staff, asking if the senator would have a few moments to meet with the president prior to the joint congressional assemblage, surprised Turner. The meeting could indeed be about the president’s address, scheduled for that evening, but Turner, in leaving for the White House, held no such illusion. John Henry Franklin always knew what was happening, and John Henry Franklin had said the president was going to go public.

  Turner entered the Oval Office and found President Eastman there alone. Eastman rose to greet his old friend and occasional political sparring partner.

  “Good of you to come, Malcolm.”

  “Mr. President, it was kind of you to ask. It’s a big evening for you. How’s tonight’s message coming together?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Eastman said. Taking a seat across from Turner, Eastman had a sympathetic look in his eyes, a calm tone in his voice, and a conciliatory demeanor, all of which confused Turner, who had expected retribution at the least.

  “How long have we been climbing this hill together, Malcolm?”

  “Ah, too long to count the years, Mr. President. And I a bit longer than you, I suspect.”

  “You’re probably right,” Eastman allowed, smiling briefly. Then he adopted a serious, fatherly posture, and his voice took on a new tenor. “Malcolm, you’ve been ill-used in this mess.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. President?”

  “John Henry Franklin-that’s who I’m talking about. He’s manipulated everybody associated with him, and, as in the case of Rodrigo Cordoba, he’s discarded them when he no longer found them useful.”

  Turner’s caution flag went up. So that was it. Eastman was going to play to his soft side-appeal to their long association and sidle up to him, trying to change his position and co-opt him onto the president’s team. Well, it was too late, Turner concluded, instantly aware of Eastman’s game.

  “Well, that’s politics, isn’t it, Bill? We’ve dumped a few associates along the way in our time, haven’t we?”

  “Not in the morgue, Malcolm. This man’s dangerous.”

  “They’re all dangerous if you’re not careful. I believe in what we’ve been doing out west, Mr. President, and I’m sorry that it doesn’t agree with your view of things. But there you have it.”

  Eastman stood and walked back to his desk, retrieving a folder from a stack of papers.

  “I’ve got to expose this fraud, Malcolm,” Eastman said, waving the folder, “and from where I stand, you’re caught in the firing line. You were out front leading the troops, and while I now know you were unaware of the nature of the conspiracy, you allowed yourself to be used by evil intentions. You got bamboozled, Malcolm.”

  “The secession of California isn’t evil, Bill. It’s the nature of evolution. It’s casting off the shackles of bondage and getting off the road to incremental federalism that this nation’s been on for over two hundred years. You know how intrusive Washington has become in our lives, right down to regulating the mom-and-pop grocery on the corner in Modesto.”

  “I have no intention of being drawn into a philosophical debate on the merits of secession, Malcolm. Tonight I intend to sing my swan song. I intend to lay it out for the nation-to display our findings regarding rigged elections, congressman and senators who were vaulted into office through corporate conspiracy-most of whom, Malcolm, as in your case, didn’t even know they were part of the conspiracy. They actually thought they had been elected by popular support. That’s the shame of it. Many of these people are honest, upright citizens seeking a chance to serve their country, as you always have. But someone must stop this chicanery in its infancy. And the California secession, as important as it has become, is only the tip of the iceberg. I’m opposed to it, you know that, and I’ll do what I can to stop it, but. .” Eastman again took on a softer, gentler tone, “. . my old friend, you’ve been caught in the middle, and the press, heaven forbid-you know how they’ve roasted you over your stance. Once they find out it’s all been a sham and you’ve been duped. .”

  Turner stood, smoothed his hair back, and buttoned his jacket. Affecting a smile, he said, “Mr. President, this is an issue on which we each have to follow our conscience. I wish you well, sir, and may history provide the telling.”

  President Eastman put his hand on Turner’s shoulder, smiling at him and shaking his hand gently. “Thank you, my old friend. I’m sorry you see it that way, but may God go with you.”

  “With us both, Mr. President.”

  “Mr. Speaker,” bellowed the Sergeant at Arms to the House of Representatives, “the President of the United States.”

  The large, ornate double doors opened and the president and his entourage flowed in through the entryway. Seated in the upper gallery, Daniel Rumsey Rawlings leaned slightly forward, arms resting on the polished brass railing, watching intently as five hundred and sixty-eight senators and representatives, about a hundred various other cabinet officers, military leaders, foreign ambassadors, and invited guests all took to their feet in thunderous applause. Colonel Pug Connor sat immediately to Dan’s left. Dan thought again how the pomp and ceremony of government always had the power to give him chills.

  President William Eastman, former Florida senator and the nation’s chief executive for nearly eight years, was in his full glory in such a setting. He moved gracefully down the aisle, accompanied by his ever-present security cadre. With two full terms as president behind him, Eastman still commanded considerable respect, and his popularity polls, currently at fifty-eight percent if taken east of Denver, were higher than any other president in history this late in his term of office. Given the recent events in California, however, his popularity had dropped precipitously in the West, ranging from thirty-nine percent in Utah to an abysmal seventeen percent in California.

  He stopped at each row briefly to mingle with those fortunate enough to be close to the aisle, chatting briefly to this or that congressman, receiving the accolades and affectionate physical gestures that were so much a part of his public appearances. Rawlings watched with admiration, feeling out of place in this elite gathering, but pleased to be there at the president’s personal invitation.

  The applause continued long after President Eastman reached the podium, where he shook hands with Vice President Prescott and Speaker Frank Redman before assuming his place on the stand. When the applause began to diminish, House Speaker Redman stood and pounded his gavel for attention. “The House will come to order!” he cried.

  Sensing the moment, the audience responded to the announcement by renewing the chorus of applause, during which the Speaker stood silently, smiling for another several minutes. Finally, with repeated raps of the gavel, a semblance of order crept over the House.

  “The House will be seated.
Honored Senators, fellow Representatives, and welcome guests, it is my high privilege and a distinct honor to introduce to you the president of the United States, the honorable William Baldridge Eastman.”

  Again the full house took to its feet, reviving the thundering applause, which continued unabated for the following three minutes, an ovation that gave Daniel Rawlings a prickly sensation down his spine. His hands were beginning to numb from the constant applause, which had lasted nearly fifteen minutes since Eastman’s entry.

  Off to Rawlings’ right, the First Lady and her two sons, plus their wives, stood, the entire family smiling as the president accepted this acknowledgment of his accomplishments. During the annual State of the Union address nine months earlier, Eastman had announced the admission of Puerto Rico as the fifty-first state of the Union, and added two senators and one representative to the ranks of national legislators, who were biannually elected and sent to Washington to facilitate the acquisition of a “fair and just share” of the redistribution of wealth-a dubious accomplishment for which Washington D.C. had become known worldwide.

  As the president stepped to the podium, Rawlings thought of Nicole and regretted her absence. She belonged here even more than he did. But for her actions, he wouldn’t be alive to be here at all.

  Connor must have caught his wistful gaze because he leaned toward Rawlings and whispered, “I’m sure she’s watching on TV.”

  “Probably, Colonel. I talked to her an hour ago, but the nurse in charge cut the call short.”

  “It’d take more than a bullet to stop her, Dan. She’s tough,” Connor commented.

  “How well I know,” Dan replied, a quick, bone-chilling vision of that dreadful night when he had come face-to-face with his mortality filling his mind.