by Gordon Ryan
After slowly working their way toward the upper exit, Rawlings and Connor entered the corridor outside the House chambers, where clusters of horrified and increasingly hysterical people were gathered. Secret Service agents and Capitol Hill police, guns drawn, were scurrying about, unsure whom to allow passage and whom to detain and, if necessary, whom to shoot. Years of professional training provided instinctive response, and eventually, with the removal of most attendees and the absence of further violence, order began to return.
Reaching the Rotunda in preparation to leave, Connor and Rawlings were stopped by three men, identifiable by their colored lapel pins as Secret Service agents.
“Excuse me, sir, may I see some identification?” one said to Connor.
Connor held both hands up, palms open to demonstrate his compliance. Pointing toward his suit coat, he reached slowly into his jacket pocket and displayed his wallet, nodding for Dan to do the same. The agent looked at the picture ID and up at Connor’s face, doing the same with Rawlings’ California legislative ID.
“Thank you, Colonel Connor. If you and Mr. Rawlings will please accompany us, we’ve been instructed by the vice president to provide security for you and to bring you to her present location.”
“Where is Vice President Prescott? Is she all right?”
“I’m sorry, Colonel. I can’t advise you regarding her location, but she is safe, and she is uninjured.”
“Fine. Lead the way,” Connor said, falling in behind one agent with the other two following Dan as they entered a hallway elevator.
Two minutes later, Connor and Rawlings found themselves in the inner office of the Speaker of the House, Frank Redman, and were brought face-to-face with Clarene Prescott, visibly distraught at the recent events, but in control of the situation.
“Colonel, it’s well they found you. I’ve been advised that the Secret Service feel that only the one perpetrator was involved.”
Prescott breathed deeply, holding her breath as she stretched her head and neck, seeking to relieve the tension.
“It was Senator Malcolm Turner,” she breathed out. “All we can figure is that he thought to stop the president from exposing him in the conspiracy. The Secret Service found a letter in his office, denouncing what he called the military invasion of California and calling upon all Californians to rally ’round the cause of secession.”
“Excuse me, Madam Vice President,” an agent said, stepping close to speak privately with her.
Rawlings and Connor watched as Prescott’s hand moved to cover her mouth. Her head was bowed, and she nodded slowly as she listened to the messenger whispering in her ear. With another sharp breath and a soul-wrenching exhale, Clarene Prescott turned to face the small assembly gathered in the Speaker’s office.
“I have just been informed that, as of 8:22 p.m., house physician, Allen Wingate, has declared President William Eastman dead.”
Prescott paused, lowering her head and trying to control her rapid breathing as members of the small gathering absorbed this news. Tears openly flowed throughout the room. Those who were old enough, remembered their location and feelings upon hearing of the death of President John F. Kennedy nearly fifty years earlier.
Dan Rawlings, not yet born when Kennedy had ended his presidency, found himself confused at his presence at such a momentous event, less than a week after his own brush with death. Words were not exchanged for several moments while Clarene Prescott stood silently in a corner of the room, several agents close at hand. The agent who had brought the pronouncement again whispered to Prescott, who wiped a tear from her eye and nodded.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been informed that the chief justice is on his way, and that it is necessary at this time . . .” She trailed off, her voice breaking.
Speaker Redman stepped to her side and continued. “The chief justice will arrive momentarily to administer the oath of office to Vice President Prescott. I would appreciate it if all present would gather in my outer foyer, where a little more space is available.”
Dan stood quietly in the right center of the small gathering, now risen to about twenty-five people as word had circulated that an historical event was about to take place, causing several congressional members and staffers to seek attendance. The inclusion of Mrs. Ellen Eastman at the last moment—reminiscent of Jackie Kennedy standing beside Lyndon Johnson as he was sworn in on Air Force One in Dallas—added a poignant caption to the news photos of the ceremony, which instantly flashed around the world. The photo of Clarene Prescott hugging a tearful Ellen Eastman made the front page of a special edition of every major newspaper in the world.
It was over in moments as Chief Justice Harland Overton, in his twenty-fourth year on the Supreme Court, asked Clarene Prescott to raise her right arm to the square and to place her left hand on the Bible. With one brief look around the room, Chief Justice Overton held out the bible and began to speak.
“I, Clarene Elizabeth Prescott, do solemnly swear . . .”
Despite her emotional turmoil at the events of the past thirty minutes, a strong, steady voice rang out, and Clarene Prescott stepped into history.
“I, Clarene Elizabeth Prescott, do solemnly swear . . .”
Chapter 36
Oval Office, The White House
Washington, D.C.
October, 2012
President Clarene Prescott warmly welcomed Governor Walter Dewhirst into the Oval Office, quickly refurbished by the White House logistics people to include memorabilia of Prescott’s long and illustrious public service career. Much of her service had been in national level appointed positions—rather than state and locally elected office—in the service of other presidents, who themselves had sought the Oval Office from their first foray into politics.
From the day President Eastman had offered the vice presidency to Clarene, she had shunned the idea of shifting roles as her professional career reached its zenith. The president’s pleadings, eventually successful, had come in the form of “duty to country” presentations, designed to appeal to Clarene’s well-known sense of responsibility.
After the death of the prior vice president, Eastman had started the recruitment. “Just this last year of my presidency, Clarene, then you can step aside and either return to appointed office or retire gracefully out to pasture, as I’ll do when the time comes,” he’d joked.
Clarene had often reflected during these past four weeks that half of his last year had been denied. The mantle, completely unsought, had passed to her.
“Governor, it was most gracious of you to come.”
“Thank you, Madam President. I’m pleased you thought to ask. We’ve both been through considerable turmoil these past several months—the past two years, if we’re honest.”
“That’s an understatement, if ever there was one, Walter,” she said, laughing. “Please, have a seat. Coffee?”
“Yes, thank you,” Dewhirst replied, looking around the room. “You’ve changed things nicely. The first time I was here, back in the eighties, there was a bronze statue of a horse and rider on the credenza. A lot’s changed since that era.”
“Yes, President Reagan’s dismantling of the ‘evil empire,’ as he referred to it. Has it been that long, Governor?”
“I’m afraid so, Madam President, and I’ve got the gray hair to prove it.”
“Well, then, it’s high time we renewed your acquaintance with our . . .” She hesitated, developing a small smile. “. . . I should say your, capital.”
Governor Dewhirst returned the grin, sipping his coffee and leaning back to relax in his chair. “Have we finally got a handle on that, Madam President? Whose capital it is, I mean?”
“Well, that’s the reason I asked you to come,” she said, sitting beside him on the settee. “I think we have at our command the method by which we can put closure to this whole unfortunate episode.”
“Nothing would suit me more, Madam President. Please, go on.”
“I’ve wrestled with this.” She
exhaled. “Boy, have I wrestled with this,” she said, shaking her head. “Colonel Connor—you remember him, I think—well, he and his task force finally put the pieces together over the past month.”
For an hour, Prescott reviewed for Dewhirst information that Daniel Rawlings had also provided to the governor during the course of their concluding investigation, revealing the extent to which John Henry Franklin had intervened and engineered the election results in no fewer than a dozen national election issues in each of the states where the Home Telephone Voting System had been adopted. To date, investigations had revealed that nine national and thirty-eight state or local elected officials likely owed their office to Franklin’s manipulations. No effort had been expended to determine whether or not each of those elected had been aware of Franklin’s electoral intervention on their behalf.
The most significant issue—that of California’s secession—had been demonstrated to have actually been defeated by nearly three to one, with only twenty-six percent in the first election voting in favor of the secession. The true number climbed to forty-two percent in the subsequent election, as a result of growing public support promulgated from every quarter.
“We’ve not made the results of our findings public. I’ve hesitated for several reasons. Obviously, those defeated in these elections would likely demand a recount. That would be costly and time-consuming, whereas the next routine election could rectify the situation—although statistics on reelection of the incumbent would seem to reject that possibility.”
Prescott paused, taking a sip of coffee before continuing. “But more important, Walter, is preserving our national credibility in the electoral process. Can you imagine the public response to the thought that a single special interest group had gained such control over who holds elective office—indeed which states remain part of the nation?”
“I see your point, Madam President. Chaos might be a mild term for the public response.”
“Exactly. Remember the old, ‘don’t throw the baby out with the bath water’ cliché our mothers taught us?”
“Yep,” Dewhirst nodded, “and I’ve been accused of it many times.”
“Walter,” Prescott said, shifting in her chair and leaning forward, “I think we need one more election to set things right.”
“I’m not certain I follow, Madam President,” Dewhirst said.
“One more of Franklin’s elections, I mean,” she emphasized.
Dewhirst’s brow furrowed, and he took on a startled look. “You don’t mean—”
“Indeed I do, Governor. In three weeks our national elections will be held to choose the next president, as well as all our congressional representatives and a third of our senators. Amid that extensive array, perhaps we can mount a hasty publicity campaign against the secession and put the vote to the California voters again. It would be one more foray into the abyss to set the record straight—under government control, of course.”
“But that would make us no different than they were.”
“Oh, I beg to differ, Governor Dewhirst. No matter what the political and philosophical pundits say during the event, man is eventually judged by his results, not by his methods. If our motivation is the preservation of the nation, as a benefit to the people, as opposed to a benefit for the perpetrators while the people are ignored—then the result will eventually earn acclamation. And let me tell you one other piece of news that only a few people know. In the last election,” she said, looking at Governor Dewhirst directly, “the one your state Supreme Court ordered—the secession initiative passed, legitimately, by just over fifty-three percent. I guess Eastman was right about the bandwagon effect.”
Dewhirst nodded at the revelation, rose, returned his coffee cup to the table, and came to stand face-to-face with the chief executive, who remained seated on the settee.
“Do you have the ability to accomplish this . . . uh, repeat election, Madam President?”
Prescott was silent for a moment, holding eyes with Dewhirst. “I do, Governor.”
“And what form would this take?” Dewhirst asked, his concern about the direction of this meeting beginning to rise.
“That is precisely why you’re here.”
“I see. And how do we accomplish these altruistic and benevolent objectives? Remembering, of course, that this is also a presidential election. Madam President, the odds are that someday this rigged election process will be discovered. Imagine if it happened during the next presidential term, and people thought our president had been, shall we say, slipped in the back door.”
“We would have to be careful, Governor,” she said, smiling, “very careful. And privately, of course. Not even Colonel Connor or members of the task force must be aware.”
“How’re you going to get around Connor? You say he knows the fraudulent election system fully.”
“Colonel Connor has been very loyal and helpful during several crisis situations over the years. He will not involve himself beyond his assignment. Besides, now that the California situation and the need for the investigative task force is coming to a close, it’s not my intention—or his, for that matter—to send him back to the CIA. I’ve submitted Colonel Connor’s name to the senate for confirmation as a brigadier general. When that’s confirmed—as it will be—I intend to create a new internal terrorism task force, one separate from the military or existing intelligence agencies. A very small task force, but directly responsible to the president. The newly elected president will inherit this task force and can either dismantle it or continue to use it to achieve his ends. Colonel . . . General Connor is well suited for the job.”
“Interesting,” Dewhirst whispered. He looked down at the Seal of the President woven into the carpet, Clarene Prescott waiting for him to comment. Looking up and taking a quick breath, he continued. “So, with Colonel, or rather, General Connor and the task force out of the picture, you intend to generate one more . . . predetermined election.”
“With your concurrence, of course, Governor,” the president said. “What do you think of the idea?”
“May I ask a question first, Madam President? Will you inform the two presidential candidates of this event during the transition or of the impending terrorism task force?”
President Prescott’s lips tightened slightly, and she rose from her chair, moving behind her desk again, and leaned over, shuffling several folders, seeming to look for something. Finally she stood erect again, looking at Governor Dewhirst. “I think not, at least not both of them, but I will inform the president elect. Will you be running for office again next year, Governor?”
Dewhirst held Prescott’s eyes for a few moments and chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I’ve done my dash as a servant of the people. Time to call it quits and let the younger folks take a turn.”
“And what about California, Governor? What about the creation of multiple states? One more election can put that to rest,” the president said, determined to make one more plea.
Dewhirst slowly shook his head. “Madam President, I can’t make that decision for you, of course, but I will have to decline to participate.”
Clarene nodded. “I felt it was not going to be your cup of tea. How would you suggest we handle it, Walter? I’m sincerely asking for your opinion.”
“The division into multiple states is not supposed to take effect for another two years. By all means, Madam President, put it on the ballot again, perhaps not this year, given the shortage of time, but when you do, allow the people to make the decision. I’ll not reveal the previous fraud, since I agree that would potentially open dozens, maybe hundreds, of elections to reconsideration. But I strongly appeal to you not to resort to this kind of deception. Trust the people. Mount a campaign to reverse the decision, explain the pros and cons, but . . . let the people decide.”
Prescott nodded again. “Thank you for coming, Walter. I wish you the very best in your retirement. California will be hard-pressed to find your replacement.”
“We a
ll like to feel that way, Madam President, but it’s seldom true. Younger folks, people like Dan Rawlings, are always there to fill the gaps. The world moves on.”
“Indeed,” she said, coming forward again and offering her hand. “Goodbye, Governor Dewhirst. It’s been a rocky road we’ve travelled together. Let’s hope the future is brighter.”
Chapter 37
Edson Rifle Range
Camp Pendleton, California
November, 2012
Colonel Pug Connor, in full dress greens, walked the length of the firing line, staying roughly five yards behind the young marine recruits who were engaged in slow fire prone, spaced about three yards apart and facing downrange as they continued in their daily training regimen toward rifle qualification. No matter what their chosen or assigned specialty career field, the Marine Corps assured that every marine was first and foremost a rifleman.
Pug paused occasionally, observing the various drill instructors as they knelt beside each recruit, helping them to adjust the sling, determine “sight picture,” or assure proper shoulder placement of the rifle butt. He could still remember the words from his instructor, a senior NCO at the Officer Selection Course, Marine Corp Base Quantico: “. . . control your breathing and squeeze ’em off, son, squeeze ’em off.”
Some twenty yards ahead, he saw the subject of his visit. Standing behind the central control booth which contained the Range master, where range instructions were delivered to the full complement, Sergeant Major Carlos Castro watched as the current round of recruits ended their ten round slow fire exercise. “Cease fire, cease fire. Clear all weapons. All quiet on the range,” came over the speaker system.