State of Rebellion

by Gordon Ryan

  “Madam Ambassador, I still don’t fully understand . . .”

  She nodded. “Grant Sully kept his silence, didn’t he?”

  Suddenly Pug understood. “He did, Ambassador.”

  “Right. Well, here it is in a nutshell. The president has asked me to put together a task force—outside the normal agencies—to investigate the truth behind the rapid movement toward secession. If you’re agreeable, Colonel Connor, the president would like you to head that confidential task force. You’re still a serving Marine Corps officer, and your absence can be explained by your new appointment in New Zealand.

  “Judge Granata, it will take about six to eight weeks to get you into the director’s chair. In the meantime, the president wants you to work with Colonel Connor and several of the FBI’s militia investigators, meeting as time permits, in between your Senate confirmation hearings and Pug’s New Zealand visit, to try to ferret out what’s really behind this secession and the surprisingly strong public support it’s gained.

  “Pug, your appointment to New Zealand will serve as cover for your leaving the CIA and will also give you a place to disappear, when necessary, for a few days at a time. Judge Granata will be your FBI contact, and you’ll report directly to me or to the president. The FBI agents involved will be outside their normal reporting lines as well.”

  President Eastman leaned forward in his chair and looked at Pug. “Colonel, we’ve worked together before. I trust your instincts. Also, your current boss, General Austin, has told me a bit about your, uh, testy relationship with Grant Sully.”

  “Sir, if the general is displeased . . .”

  President Eastman laughed. “Not to worry, son. You still head Austin’s list of men with integrity. He actually recommended you for this assignment, telling me he would hate to lose you from his staff, but assuring me you had the right skills for the job. As for Sully, he’s served this nation for many years, but as of late, Director Wentworth has expressed . . . well, the jury’s still out, and the verdict may well depend in large part on your findings. Are you prepared to take on this assignment?”

  “Sir, I’m . . . uh, I’m ready to serve as you deem necessary, of course.”

  “Understand me clearly, Colonel Connor. These militia die-hards are no less dangerous than the Iraqis you faced. And they’re not as easy to identify. They’ll kill you in a heartbeat if they feel it will further their ends. That’s why your New Zealand assignment will be good cover.”

  Pug nodded. “Thank you, Mr. President. I very much appreciate your concern.”

  “Fine, then,” the president said, standing. “Let’s get underway. Go to New Zealand and have a good time. Meanwhile, Clarene will arrange for a safe house in Sacramento, and we’ll see what we can do to put Judge Granata in place at the FBI. Oh, and Pug, while you’re cavorting around in New Zealand, remember your loyalties. Consider it a presidential order that whatever sailing knowledge you have is highly confidential. Let the Kiwis fend for themselves.”

  “Sir, you have nothing to fear from me. I’m barely a passenger on the water, pure and simple. Now the Kiwis . . . they’re a different story. If memory serves, it’s a Kiwi who heads the San Francisco yachting consortium. If America is able to hold on to the America’s Cup, without using all Kiwi sailors, I’ll be absolutely shocked.” He laughed.

  Eastman feigned mock disdain and shook his head. “But the Swiss took if off the Kiwis, didn’t they?”

  “They did, sir, but even then, the Kiwis still owned it. The same New Zealander who heads the San Francisco effort ran the Swiss victory.” He laughed.

  “Clarene, shouldn’t such a treasonous remark go in Colonel Connor’s dossier?” the president joked.

  “I’ll see to it, Mr. President,” she said, winking at Pug.

  “Godspeed to both of you, gentlemen,” the president said. “All jesting aside, we have a serious threat to our national security with this secessionist movement. I want to get to the bottom of it and put an end to it. I don’t intend to preside over a second Civil War. Congratulations, Judge Granata. I look forward to working with you.”

  “And I with you, Mr. President. Thank you for your confidence.”

  Chapter 11

  Sierra Nevada Mountains

  Northern California

  For most of his adult life, Jean Wolff had been a highly skilled, professional mercenary. Despite the Shasta Brigade’s well-earned reputation for violence, even murder—if the reports were true—meeting in person for the first time with the brigade’s leadership didn’t intimidate Wolff. Yet the physical insertion of another level of command—an unwanted level of command—always presented a problem. Depending upon the ego of the unit commander—in this case, a former U.S. Army officer named Jackson Shaw—the task had often proven difficult.

  Twice, on similar missions, both times in the former Yugoslavia, the group commander or one of his associates had shot Wolff, but he had survived. On the second of those occasions, it was the local commander who had not survived. Wolff’s knowledge of the unit’s internal dissent had afforded him the opportunity to foment a rebellion within the ranks—to Wolff’s advantage.

  With respect to the Shasta Brigade, John Henry Franklin had been adamant: it was time to take charge of this operation. Over a year earlier, at Franklin’s direction, Wolff had begun sending anonymous donations of cash to Shaw and other militia unit leaders.

  Now, despite the inherent risks, and without having advised Shaw that he was the source of funds, Jean Wolff was going to meet personally for the first time with Shaw and the brigade leadership.

  The land surrounding Camp Liberty, so named by the founders of the Shasta Brigade, was heavily wooded and deep within the Sierra Nevada Mountains. As Wolff drove the final miles over a dusty, rutted, fire service trail, he thought of his younger days and the physically demanding topography on which he had been required to operate—freezing his earlobes in the mountains surrounding Narvik, Norway, or nearly succumbing to heat prostration in the Libyan Desert. Surely these brigade members appreciated their temperate environment and the generous comfort it afforded. Yet, he smiled to himself, a soldier is a soldier is a soldier, and if complaining and grousing weren’t a part of this brigade, as they were in every other military organization he’d known, it would indeed be unusual.

  Finally, the unpainted, crumbling wooden structures and temporary tent facilities came into view, located adjacent to a clear, fast-moving stream at the far end of an inclined meadow. A good site for rapid drainage and protection from the elements, he thought as he cut the engine and exited his truck. Of course, the site’s selection in the early thirties, as a Civilian Conservation Corps camp—part of Roosevelt’s Depression-era government works program—was made without consideration of a potential military assault or defensive strategies. Wolff could see that without the placement of perimeter defenses, including trip wires and Claymores, an attacking unit trained in stealthy assault techniques could completely infiltrate and overpower the camp within an hour.

  Wolff stood to the side of his vehicle and surveyed the area, surprised that he hadn’t been challenged in his final approach. A familiar sound reached across the open field, and Wolff turned, smiling as he observed a dozen or so recruits laboring beneath the harsh eye and sand-and-gravel voice of the backbone of any military effort: a drill instructor.

  “Get down, you tub of lard! If I was the enemy, I’d see your fat buttocks two hundred yards away, and I’d knock ten pounds off it with a couple of fifty caliber slugs,” a burly, muscular man bellowed at the top of his lungs. “I said you didn’t belong in the brigade, and I’m gonna wash your useless skin head outta here. Now, move it—move! move! move!”

  Wolff noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see three men approaching, each dressed in BDUs and wearing a sidearm.

  “Mr. Wolff, welcome to Camp Liberty. I’m Jackson Shaw, commander of the brigade.”

  Wolff ignored the extended hand. “I can’t say much f
or your security, Commander Shaw. If I’d come here to kill you, you’d be a dead man right now.”

  Shaw nodded slowly and allowed a small grin to cross his face. He removed his utility cap, scratched his head, and then replaced the cap. Suddenly, a single shot rang out, and the driver’s side mirror on Wolff’s vehicle shattered, with shards of glass and bits of metal falling to the ground. Shaw and the two men with him remained silent as Wolff glanced casually at the damage.

  “Perhaps you’re right, Mr. Wolff. Security can always stand some improvement,” Shaw smiled, “but if you had come here to kill me, you’d have been dead, eight miles back down the mountain.”

  Shaw extended his hand again, and this time Wolff accepted it, returning a firm grip of his own. Shaw spoke again. “Mr. Wolff, these are my company commanders, Captain Gary Jeffs and First Lieutenant John Hagleman. Now that we’ve completed the pleasantries, why don’t you join us in the command hut for some coffee? Lieutenant, please see that First Sergeant Krueger joins us.”

  Hagleman immediately left the group and walked across the field, stopping to speak with Sergeant Krueger, who then directed a corporal working with the new recruits to take over. By the time Hagleman and Krueger reached the dilapidated building tucked into the shelter of a stand of pines, Shaw and Wolff were already inside, seated around an old wooden table, and Captain Jeffs was pouring coffee.

  “Mr. Wolff, this is the brigade first sergeant, Otto Krueger,” Shaw said.

  Wolff gave Otto a long, evaluative look. Otto returned Wolff’s stare, locking eyes until Wolff smiled slightly, and the two men came to an unspoken understanding regarding their respective level of professionalism—and determination.

  “Commander Shaw, let’s get right to it,” Wolff said. “I’ve got to be in San Francisco later this evening. Tell me a bit about your brigade and your operations.”

  Shaw sipped at his coffee and exchanged looks with Otto. “We’re just a group of good ole boys, Mr. Wolff. We do a bit of orienteering and paintball exercises. Nothing to tell, really.”

  “I see,” Wolff nodded. “Well, then, perhaps I’ve come to the wrong place. I was led to believe that this was an active, operating paramilitary unit, led by competent officers—yourself included. You are Jackson Shaw, aren’t you? West Point, Class of ’87?”

  Shaw remained silent.

  “Look, Shaw, let’s not waste each other’s time. We know your unit has robbed five banks in the past six months, whacked heaven knows how many liberal do-gooders, including two city councilmen, one in Walnut Creek and one in . . .” Wolff hesitated, looking at each of the men in the room. “Are these men fully cleared for all your operations?”

  “They are,” Shaw responded. “Captain Jeffs is also the unit security officer.”

  “Fine, then. I’ll say my piece once, and if you have no further interest, I’ll move on. We’ll identify a more capable unit . . . if that should be necessary.”

  “Look, you called me to arrange this meeting, Wolff,” Shaw said, suddenly angry. “What business is it of yours who we are and what we do? Who are you, anyway?”

  Wolff smiled back at the larger man and spoke in a calm voice. “I know who I am, Commander Shaw. The question is, do you know who you are? And how important the Shasta Brigade is—or can become—to the California Patriot Movement?”

  Shaw and his three men remained silent for several moments while Wolff waited patiently, taking a sip of his coffee.

  “We’re listening, Mr. Wolff,” Shaw finally said.

  “Good. Over the past few years you’ve received several anonymous ‘donations’ to the cause. Besides the bank robberies, I mean. Am I correct?”

  “Many people believe in what we’re doing,” Shaw responded.

  “True,” Wolff said, “but few of them have put up $300,000 in the past six months, right?”

  Shaw raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

  “I sent that money, but that was just for openers. If you accept my offer, I’m prepared to deposit $1 million in your Cayman Islands bank account to be used completely at your discretion. I would suggest a healthy bonus for each of your full-time command staff—including you, of course, First Sergeant,” Wolff said, turning to smile at Otto Krueger.

  “Why the money?” Shaw asked.

  “Let me continue. You will remain in command of the Shasta Brigade—”

  “I’m already in command of the brigade,” Shaw interrupted, agitation in his voice.

  “Yes, you are. But in due time, you’ll be placed in command of the entire California Patriot Movement. Eight other militia units throughout the state will be placed under your authority.”

  “Just who are you, Wolff? CIA? None of the other units will accept joint operational control, and for sure not from an unknown and unproven quantity like you.”

  Wolff smiled. “The quantity, Commander Shaw, as I said, is $1 million—to start.”

  “And what do we have to do to earn this . . . this ‘donation’?”

  “Although you will be in command of the military aspects of the operation, I will make the political decisions about what will be done and when it will occur. You’ll take your orders from me.”

  “I’ve heard enough!” Shaw shouted, standing abruptly and knocking over his chair.

  Wolff remained seated. “As I said, Shaw, the choice is yours. If necessary, we can locate another more suitable person—or unit—to run this operation. What we are proposing will happen, and the Shasta Brigade will participate, with or without you. You can be in charge, and the Shasta Brigade can take the lead . . . or not. Your choice.”

  The two men stared at one another for several long moments while Captain Jeffs, Lieutenant Hagleman, and First Sergeant Krueger remained silent, awaiting the outcome of this challenge to Shaw’s authority.

  “And who commands you, Wolff?” Shaw asked.

  “That, you will never know. Let’s just say, their objectives are in harmony with yours, and they are prepared to support your movement with unlimited financial resources and the finest weapons to bring all your dreams to fruition, so to speak. And to ease your mind, they are not foreign nationals seeking to take over a part of America. You are not being asked to participate in a treasonous action, unless you see secession as such,” Wolff said, smiling.

  “And when will this happen?”

  “Be patient—the political work needs to be completed first, and that’s already in process. Then the military ops will follow. But it starts today, Commander Shaw—right here, right now, in this room. In a few weeks, a couple of months at most, I’ll arrange a meeting of the other militia units and announce your consolidated command responsibilities. Now, let’s talk about what your brigade will accomplish over the next sixty to ninety days. I think you’re really going to like your orders, Commander Shaw.” Wolff smiled.

  Chapter 12

  Yolo County Administration Building

  Woodland, California

  July, 2011

  Just over a month after McFarland’s funeral, Dan Rawlings sat behind his desk in the Yolo County Administration Building, reviewing his daily planner, when Pat buzzed him over the office intercom.

  “Dan, there’s a Ms. Jean Waters on the line from Waters & Hobson Literary Agency in New York City.”

  Dan immediately recognized the name of the agent to whom he’d sent his novel. “Put her through, please.” Before picking up the phone, Dan quickly rummaged through the files stacked neatly behind his desk and retrieved a yellow folder. He pulled out the cover letter he had sent to Ms. Waters when he had mailed off the manuscript for Voices in My Blood.

  “Good morning, this is Dan Rawlings.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Rawlings. This is Jean Waters from Waters & Hobson. How are you today?”

  “I’m fine, Ms. Waters. It’s a pleasure to hear from you.”

  “Mr. Rawlings, I’ll come quickly to the point of my call. We’ve read your submission, and I must say, it’s very well presented. I think we can be of assist
ance in placing your novel, and we’d like to represent you.”

  Dan had been deeply engrossed in budget issues prior to the call. He was surprised by the suddenness of the offer, and it took a few moments for him to mentally shift gears.

  “Well, Ms. Waters, I’m flattered. I’ve actually done some additional work on the manuscript I sent last month. Uh, could you tell me where we go from here?” he asked, playing for enough time to digest this welcome but unexpected news. For six months, he had been receiving rejection slips from various publishers and agents. They ranged from a penciled note on his returned letter, which said, ‘Nope, not for us,’ to a more polite, two-paragraph letter, in which the agent advised that they didn’t handle that type of fiction.

  “I’d like to send you a contract for representation. Of course, I can’t promise that we will be able to sell your manuscript to a publisher, but I certainly have high hopes. It’s well written, the story is compelling, and it’s timely, given recent developments in California, especially if you could add a closing chapter or two on the growth of the militia and the secession phenomenon.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Waters. Thank you very much. You’ve made my day. I’ll watch the mail for your contract.”

  “You’re very welcome, Mr. Rawlings. We’ll be in touch. If you have any questions, or if you have any occasion to be in New York, please let us know. We’d like to meet with you. Bye.”

  “I will, and a good day to you, too, Ms. Waters. Thank you again.” Dan hung up the phone, and less than five seconds after his phone light went out on Pat’s switchboard, she was in his office.

  “Well, don’t keep me in the dark. What’d she say?”

  Working to stifle a happy grin, Dan said, “She asked me if I’d like the condo on Oahu or Kauai.”