State of Rebellion

by Gordon Ryan

  Pug picked up immediately. “And it would only be prudent of him to advise up the line to Grant Sully that a senior Mexican police official wanted to speak with the director of the FBI.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did you warn Cordoba?”

  “Of what? That one of the top CIA officials in the United States is also in on the secession movement and might do him harm?”

  “I see your point,” Pug said. “He’s an open target, George.”

  “Maybe not. They didn’t try before he got here, and his call was nearly a week ago.”

  “No, but the info channels aren’t that efficient all the time. If the report was sent as a routine matter, maybe Sully doesn’t yet know or hasn’t decided how to handle it.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on Cordoba, but there’s not much we can do to protect him.” Granata turned to his desk. “I think you should read this,” he said, handing Pug a manila folder. “It seems that Franklin is the brains and financial backing behind the home telephone voting systems in four states, with contracts pending in six others.”

  “Dabbling in elections as well?”

  “I’ve run some background, but thought I’d leave the California issues to you and your team.”

  “Thanks, George. And to think that when you called last night, I thought you wanted to play golf.” He laughed.

  “I do. But we better tend shop first.” He stood and pressed the intercom on his desk. “Marilyn, is the car available for Colonel Connor yet?”

  “Standing by, Mr. Director.”

  “Good. Thank you,” he answered, punching the button. “Pug, your appointment with Prescott is in twenty minutes. Good luck.” He smiled, clapping Pug on the shoulder and leading him to the door.

  “Does she know?”

  “No. I left that one to you as task force leader. I just told her that you would need to see her immediately after we met.”

  “George, you were ill-used on the judicial bench. This is where you belong,” Pug said. “Thanks again. It’s good working with you.”

  “And you. Give my regards to Agent Bentley. A copy of this file has been couriered to her as of this morning.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Director. I’ll be in touch.”

  * * *

  Events moved rapidly for Dan Rawlings as he began drafting the new California constitution. His overnight popularity amazed him, until Nicole reminded him of the fleeting nature of such fame—not that he had been fooled by the false front most legislators and special interest group lobbyists presented. But still, coming from an appointed position as a local government administrator, it was a new sensation to have everyone seeking his approval and his opinion.

  Literally dozens of special interest groups had called, but the call from John Henry Franklin’s chief legal counsel had piqued Dan’s interest and was of significant concern to Nicole and, ultimately, to Pug Connor. Franklin’s interest was “the health of the new nation’s economy,” as the lawyer had put it, and had to do with proposed immigration laws and the draft document he wished to provide for the committee’s consideration. Anything the law firm could do to assist was available, he had said, and all Rawlings had to do was ask. Offers to be of assistance were plentiful, but this firm, one of the largest in California, had placed all of its resources and several of its finest constitutional lawyers at his disposal. When Dan called to discuss Franklin’s offer with Professor Julius, his former constitutional law instructor at Stanford, the crusty old teacher had just laughed.

  “Bring ’em aboard, Dan. Better to have the wolf in sight than lurking around the corner,” the professor had advised.

  And so Dan had accepted the offer of Franklin’s law firm to help draft narrative on immigration issues, which, Dan began to realize, not only provided him with an insight into Franklin’s desires, but provided the task force some clue as to the financier’s intentions.

  Connor had also been right about the militia. Within several days, a Mr. Shaw, whom Nicole had identified as commander of the Shasta Brigade, had called for an appointment. When Dan had told Nicole about Shaw’s appointment, he thought she’d respond differently.

  “But you could just arrest him,” Dan had said.

  “For what?”

  “For what? For murder, that’s what.”

  “Proof, Assemblyman Rawlings, or have you forgotten Evidence 601? Look, Colonel Connor and I have discussed it. These murderers are hiding behind the façade of the patriot movement. Individually, we can’t prove a thing. But they are doing exactly what Vice President Prescott told Colonel Connor they would. They’re coming to us—including Franklin’s law firm. We can learn a lot from that, if we’re patient.”

  Dan’s preparation for the meeting with Shaw had been limited to studying the Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution and several court decisions on the right to bear arms. Dan had decided to have his legislative assistant sit in on the meeting, taking notes as a witness to the proceedings. Shaw’s arrival brought one surprise. He was accompanied by Roger Dahlgren, still serving as Woodland’s City Manager and now an even more outspoken supporter of secession, as were all his city council members. Dan stepped out to greet them and offered coffee as they took seats.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shaw. If you don’t mind, gentlemen, I’ve asked my assistant, Ted, to sit in and keep a brief record of our meeting. If you will give him an address, he’ll provide you a copy of the minutes. We’ve taken to doing this so everyone knows their interests are being considered and so we can send you copies of the developing legislation. So, Roger, how’s it going? Still fighting the Woodland City budget battles?”

  “It’s a never-ending process, as you well know. You’ve settled into your new surroundings well.”

  “So it would seem,” Dan replied, looking around the room, books and papers strewn about. “I’ve got to admit, though—I miss some of the trappings of county administration.”

  “Your old deputy, Jim Thompson, is doing a good job as acting administrator in your absence, but I hear he’s considering going back to Wyoming.”

  “Oh?” Dan feigned ignorance. Thompson had called Dan several weeks earlier to advise of the same thing. He’d been reluctant to join the secession bandwagon Dahlgren was pushing in Woodland, and the board of supervisors had him up against the wall, withholding appointment as administrator until he voiced support for secession.

  “It ain’t worth it, Dan,” he’d said. “Dahlgren’s got these guys dancing on a string, and if I’m not careful, they’ll put me on a string too—or more likely a necktie party like the old days back in Wyoming. Back to the hills for me, ole buddy. If you’ll recall, I’m just a guest here in sunny California.”

  But Dan could tell his friend was really worried and that the pressure to conform had been getting to him. Dan had considered offering Thompson a position on his staff, but the cowboy had his mind made up to return to Wyoming where he had some good job prospects.

  Dan turned to Shaw, who as yet hadn’t spoken other than to greet Dan.

  “Mr. Shaw, how can I be of assistance this morning?”

  “I feel certain you know why we’ve come, Mr. Rawlings. We represent certain patriotic interests in northern California and have come to ask your support for our requests—in your new constitutional document, that is.”

  “What, specifically, would those interests be?”

  “Mr. Rawlings, let’s not beat around the bush. Other than the occasional criminal—who the average Joe meets less frequently than some would have us believe—most citizens have more to fear from overbearing government or police. We want to ensure that our new California constitution has, as one of its tenets, a guarantee that its citizens have a right to bear arms.”

  “An armed camp, as it were. A citizen militia?”

  “A well-regulated militia, Mr. Rawlings, like it says in the other Constitution—or haven’t you read that part yet? Your novel makes no bones about it. Your pioneers understood what an overbearing gov
ernment can be like, didn’t they? Didn’t you learn anything from them? It’s time you found some of their courage and got off the fence.”

  Dan could see the thinly veiled anger evident in Shaw’s face. Dan knew his loathing of his visitors was too close to the surface as well, and decided to calm the situation before it got out of hand.

  “Mr. Shaw, in light of recent events and the disaster of the federal intrusion, you clearly have ample justification for your concerns. I would be the first to admit that an informed, and when necessary, armed citizenry is what made America what it is today. Do you have a proposed draft of what you’d like to see included in our document?”

  “It so happens we do, Mr. Rawlings. We’ll just leave this with you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, Mr. Shaw,” Dan said, taking the several pages Shaw handed him, placing them in a folder marked “Second Amendment.” Dan dropped the folder on a stack of folders piled on the corner of his desk, intent on showing Shaw the stack. He smiled at Shaw and Roger Dahlgren. “Others have been here, too, with their interests.”

  Shaw’s eyes took in the stack, and Dan could see he didn’t like the idea of his recommendation taking its place in line with education, welfare, medical issues, and the myriad other concerns that had been submitted to the constitutional committee.

  “Mr. Shaw, please don’t lose heart over this. I understand your concerns, and we all recognize that this issue has its basis in the unreasonable burden the federal government has placed on the states. This issue is important to me, too, Mr. Shaw.” Dan rose from behind his desk, coming out to shake Shaw’s hand. “Nice to see you again, Roger,” he commented. “Keep Woodland green, will you? I kind of have an affinity for the ‘City of Trees.’”

  “Thought you might. By the way, Dan, you ought to come up and see our weekend maneuvers some time. You might enjoy the experience.”

  Dan waved his arm at the stack of folders on his desk. “Better you come down here, Roger, and help me dig into this pile.”

  “Any time, as long as I get to draft the ‘right to bear arms’ clauses,” he added.

  “Right.” Dan laughed. “Thanks for coming, both of you. I’ll be in touch.”

  * * *

  John Henry Franklin’s direct phone call to Jean Wolff’s home was unusual. Even though Wolff had been a permanent member of Franklin’s staff for the last several years, other directors knew nothing about his duties and considered him primarily a security officer. Franklin was usually more discreet than to call him at home, so Wolff knew it was important.

  Riding the private elevator to Franklin’s top-floor San Francisco suite, Wolff assumed the controlled demeanor he generally displayed in Franklin’s presence. As the elevator door opened, Franklin greeted Wolff. Jean was fully aware that Franklin had watched him on closed-circuit TV as he came into the building and entered the security code necessary to operate the private elevator.

  “Good you were able to make it, Jean. Have a seat. Drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Franklin got right to it. “Two hours ago, I received a call from Grant Sully. He was unable to elaborate, but General Cordoba has been to meet with the director of the FBI.”

  Wolff remained calm. “Cordoba’s knowledge is limited, John Henry. And the FBI is, after all, his counterpart agency in the States.”

  “Yeah, but he’s not a dummy. We can’t assume it’s coincidental. We must consider that he’s revealed what he knows, and maybe the FBI put the rest together. He’s served his usefulness, Jean. Take care of him before it goes any further.”

  “I understand, John Henry,” Wolff said, rising. “Something that has come up recently may be just the ticket. May I use your phone?”

  Franklin’s face assumed a quizzical expression, but he nodded toward the desk. Wolff picked up the receiver, glanced at a card he took from his wallet, and dialed a number.

  “Buenas noches, amigo,” Wolff said, as Franklin watched.

  “Do you still have our friend under wraps?” he asked. “Right. Hold him. I’ll be there in the morning. Oh, and Joaquin. Keep him scared, but don’t injure him . . . Okay . . . See you then.”

  Wolff replaced the phone and turned toward John Henry. “I’ll take that drink now.”

  Franklin poured Wolff’s drink, and by a slight inclination of his head, sought explanation.

  “Last night, one of our employment farms caught a wetback trying to sneak into the compound. Claims he was after the guy he’d paid to get his family across. Something about getting them killed. We were going to dump him off somewhere, but I think I have a better use for him. I’ll see him in the morning and decide if he’s suitable.”

  Franklin waved an impatient hand. “Take care of Cordoba, Jean. If he’s on to anything, he could cause problems. Mexico is already being pressured by the U.S. State Department to rescind the diplomatic recognition they’ve extended to California.”

  “Can I contact General Valdez for assistance?”

  “Good thought. I’ll call him and let him know you’re coming.”

  Wolff downed his drink and turned to leave. “How’d Sully come across this information?”

  “He said his field agent in Mexico sent it in the courier pouch eight days ago, but it wasn’t marked urgent, so it flowed like molasses.”

  “Bureaucracy. It can be our friend as well as our enemy. I’d better move, John Henry. I’ve got a long drive to reach Bakersfield by morning.”

  “Hold on. There’s another issue.”

  Wolff paused and waited.

  “It has come to my attention that our newest Director of Elections, Stevenson, has a shadow. A federal shadow.”

  Wolff considered the thought for a moment and nodded. “Not unexpected. The previous two directors have met with unfortunate circumstances.”

  “Just keep close tabs on him, Jean. He could still upset the applecart. And by the way, how did Shaw get on with the Rawlings fellow?”

  “He distrusts him. Thinks he’s still opposed to the secession.”

  “But he’s writing the new California constitution, with the help of my high-priced lawyers, no less.”

  Wolff nodded agreement. “Possibly he’s a camel in the tent, as the Arabs would say.”

  Franklin took several steps across the room and picked up a thick manila folder, waving it at Wolff. “This is the document I expect to get out of Rawlings’ office, with his endorsement.” He slammed the folder down on the desktop. “If it doesn’t look like this version will become part of the new constitution—and I mean soon—California will be looking for another assemblyman from the Eighth District. Do you understand me?”

  “Completely.”

  “Good. Now see to Cordoba.”

  Chapter 32

  California Legislature

  Sacramento, California

  Dan was just shutting down his computer terminal when his private line rang. He logged off and reached for the handset. “Dan Rawlings.”

  “Hi, Dan,” Nicole said. “I’m in Sacramento, and I need some help.”

  “Are you a voter in the Eighth Legislative District?” he teased.

  “Not yet, but I spend so much time here, I’m beginning to feel like I qualify. Seriously, can you meet me at your apartment in about thirty minutes?”

  “Sure. Want some dinner first?”

  “No, we’ll have to eat on the way. I’ll explain later, but I haven’t got time to go home first, so will you find some warm outdoor clothing for me? I’ve got boots in the trunk of my car, but I’ll need a jacket, gloves, and probably a rain slicker, if the weather report is right.”

  “Are we going to a football game?”

  “No, but plan to be out most of the evening. It sounds hokey, Dan, but something’s come up.”

  “Actually, it sounds great. An unknown date with a mysterious woman.”

  “Mysterious, all right. Oh, and find a shovel if you can.”

  “A shovel?”

  “Just trust me
. I’ll pick up some hamburgers and see you in thirty minutes.”

  “Okay. See you then,” he said, hanging up, grabbing his jacket, and turning off the lights before exiting his office and entering the elevator to go down to the garage. Once home, he changed into jeans, a Stanford sweatshirt, and hiking boots, then rummaged through his outdoor gear in the garage and found some hiking gear his sister had worn years earlier, still wondering where Nicole was taking them. Not too stylish, he thought, but then, she didn’t ask for fashion. Nicole arrived just as he reentered the apartment.

  “Hi,” she said, pecking him on the cheek. “Let’s take your Blazer. We might need four-wheel drive.”

  Grabbing his gear and hers, Dan followed Nicole outside, where they transferred some of her gear to his vehicle. “And where might we be headed, Secret Agent Bentley?”

  Nicole smiled at him. “Make fun if you will, Assemblyman Rawlings, but this is, in fact, a very important trip. Care for a burger?” she asked, climbing into the passenger seat in his car.

  “Sure. Directions, please.”

  “Up the canyon. Take 16 to 20, then toward Lower Clear Lake.”

  Dan looked at her quizzically and backed out of the driveway. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t break the speed limit or get pulled over, but time is important.”

  “Give me more specifics, and maybe I can save us some time.”

  She pulled a small notebook from her pocket. “He said follow State Road 16 to 20, and then go west toward Clear Lake. Then take 53 south to a side road near Lower Clear Lake.”

  “Right,” Dan replied. “If you’re game for some bumps, I can save us about forty-five minutes by following a forest service trail over the foothills above Rumsey.”

  “It’s your home ground. Lead the way,” she said, handing him some French fries and putting a drink in the cup holder in the middle console.