by Gordon Ryan
“Shall we take another sweep over the area, General?” Rawlings said into the voice-activated mike as the helicopter straightened out.
“I think we’ve seen all we’re going to see today, Captain. We’ll head straight for Mather. After we meet with the FBI, Sergeant Pitama can take you back out to your car.”
The compass heading settled on 190 degrees, and the Bell flew straight and level at six hundred feet, visibility unlimited in the bright blue California skies.
“I don’t know that we learned much today, Captain. No sign of life at the brigade’s last known training site, except for that parked truck.”
“They’re gone, all right,” Rawlings said to the older man, who, the moment he got in the cockpit of an aircraft, appeared to be twenty years younger. “General, we made three passes over their most frequent training site and their rifle range. If the Shasta Brigade is still operating out of that mountainside base camp, there’s no sign of it. There’s usually someone there, either drilling or on the weapons range.”
“They’ve vacated the area, that’s for sure. So, if we’re gonna get a handle on this cowardly murder, let’s start with what we do know. The basics, I mean,” Del Valle said, his eyes sweeping left and right for conflicting traffic.
“First, ever since Senator Turner began beating the drum for his secession mania during the primary campaign, the Shasta Brigade has been vocal in their support. They jumped on that message like flies around a pig sty. But that’s a given. Most militia units feel that way. Second, after the general election in November, when that Turner-sponsored referendum for secession passed—by a surprisingly large margin, I might add—the brigade increased its rhetoric, and the sty got a whole lot larger, and so did the swarm of flies. The militia units in every state west of the Mississippi ate it up, and every gun-toting nut in the west joined in the hysteria. Their campaign to physically intimidate California government officials who oppose secession—including our governor—is reprehensible.”
Rawlings nodded in agreement, briefly amused at the General’s frequent use of barnyard metaphors. But Del Valle is right, Rawlings thought as he recalled the deliberate event two months earlier when the governor’s wife and daughter had been involved in a vehicular accident. The California Highway Patrol had ruled it a run-off-the-road, intentional assault on their vehicle. No one had been hurt, but the message had been clear.
“Third,” Del Valle said, reciting known facts as if he were making a case to a jury, “when the me-first, anything-goes, liberal crowd challenged the election results, and the superior court judicial panel ruled it unconstitutional, what, six months ago, the California Patriot Movement as they call themselves, took on a decidedly nasty IRA tactic. They killed … no, executed, they called it, Judge Rowe and Judge Chen, and publicly claimed responsibility. The only reason they didn’t get Judge Evans is that he was in Europe. As far as I know, he still is, and I don’t blame him for a minute. And then, finally, the governor sent the whole convoluted mess to the California Supreme Court, and they’ve been sucking their thumbs for months, too scared to act. Can’t blame them, can we?”
Dan could see that while the general had been silent while they were flying, he had not been mentally wandering. He’d put the whole picture into perspective, as Dan had seen him do numerous times over the several years Dan had served in the guard.
“General,” Rawlings said, “we don’t actually know the militia committed those murders. It might have suited their needs to claim responsibility.”
“Are you crazy, Captain? What did they teach you in that law school? They did it, all right. They’ve banded together under this ‘patriot movement’ umbrella. Son, we’ve got to accept the fact that we have the makings of a full-fledged, Irish-type insurrection on our hands. A real ‘let-my-people-go’ barnburner. You can see how fifty years of internal war practically destroyed Northern Ireland. Their cities and towns were totally boarded up for a quarter of a century. Believe me, this secession fever will escalate faster than crib corn can flow through a goose.”
“That just seems hard to accept, General, no matter how the facts stack up. We’re all Americans.”
“What?” Del Valle bellowed into his mike, sharply banking the helicopter to avoid a flock of birds. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that ‘we’re all Americans’ line. Every time I went overseas, people would ask me, ‘What are Americans really like?’ Captain, there are three hundred and thirty million of us. You believe we all think and act alike? If only five percent are wackos, that means fifteen million people are willing to beat your brains out in a New York minute, commit the most heinous crimes against your wife—or you—or kidnap and torture your kids. Then—and this is the really sad part—when the police catch the sorry animals and they’re hauled into court, they want you to believe that they had the right to do it, because society treated them wrong or their mommy didn’t love them enough. It’s as scary as a scene out of Dante’s Inferno. And if this secession goes through and California becomes a republic, after thirty-two years in this uniform, I’ll be in command of a foreign army. You think I want that?”
“No, sir. None of us want that.”
“Rephrase that, son,” Del Valle said, his voice calmer. “If we’re to believe the election results, most Californians do want that.”
“It’s just … well, sir, it is hard to swallow. I can’t fathom the reason for it, or for the senseless killing of Lieutenant McFarland this morning.”
“Well, you’d better wake up and smell the coffee. And as despicable as it is, it’s not a senseless killing. If you had a spy in your unit, and you considered yourself at war, you’d kill him, too. Unless we can get a grip, war’s coming in one of its ugliest forms—internecine—family-to-family, and Mama ain’t gonna be able to make the boys play nice-nice. If we can control it politically, without violence—and believe me, that’s what Governor Dewhirst is trying his darnedest to do—we will. Otherwise, we—those of us in uniform—are in for a guerrilla war the likes of which will make my jungle cruise in Vietnam seem like a vacation. Can you imagine fighting in our own cities? Door-to-door? Against our own people?”
“What can we do about it, General—the guard, I mean?” Rawlings asked.
“I’ll tell you exactly what we’re going to do … hold on a moment.”
As the Jet Ranger crossed the northern edge of Roseville, Del Valle leaned forward and changed the channel on the radio, listening for several moments to the Mather ATIS system for weather and wind conditions. Then he keyed the transmit button on his cyclic control.
“Mather tower, this is Army two-six-Bravo, Bell helicopter on final, just over Roseville, info Whiskey and squawking VFR, approaching from the northeast.”
“Roger, Army two-six-Bravo,” the tower responded. “You are cleared for an approach on the east side to the guard area. Wind from the west at six knots, gusting to fifteen. Remain clear of the approach to runway two-two-left.”
“Roger that, Mather. Stay clear of two-two-left. Army two-six-Bravo, out.”
With the National Guard hangar in sight, Del Valle banked the helicopter and began his descent, scanning the horizon for opposing traffic.
“What we’re gonna do, son, is smoke the grizzlies out. And you’re going to run the show, reporting directly to me. I’m going to pull you from the JAG office, covertly, of course, and assign you to the CID. I want you to select a junior officer and two good non-coms. Be sure you can trust them, and I don’t say that lightly. Some of our boys might already be in the brigade … of their own choosing. I want to know where that elusive militia is training and what they’re up to.”
“We’re going to put another man inside?” Rawlings asked.
“No. They’ll be watching for that. Besides, I have a feeling the FBI already has a man inside.”
“The FBI?”
“How else do you figure they got the news so fast this morning?”
“Of course,” Rawlings replied, shiftin
g his body for a better look at the approaching runway.
“Watch the stick!” Del Valle said, as Rawlings’ knee jostled the duplicate control.
“Sorry, General.”
“Needless to say, keep this information confidential, and make sure you get volunteers for your team. It’s not going to be easy. The ‘Movement’ has already admitted to killing those who oppose their dreams of glory and freedom.”
Del Valle flared the helicopter, setting it down gently on the crosshatch markings.
“By thunder, I missed the mark by nearly a foot,” Del Valle grinned as the Bell settled onto the ground. “Guess I need another ten hours of flight time.”
The two men sat quietly for several moments while General Del Valle ran through his post-flight checklist and let the engine idle for the two minutes necessary to cool it down.
“Uh … sir, I know a few Yolo County residents who associate with the Shasta Brigade,” Rawlings said hesitantly. “They’ve asked me on occasion to spend a weekend with them. I could possibly—”
“The answer is no, Captain,” Del Valle said, removing his headset and braking the rotor with the overhead crank. “You may not assign yourself to infiltrate the Shasta Brigade. First, you’re a lawyer on my JAG staff, and I need your advice during this crisis. Second, you’re also the county administrator, and your absence would be noticed and highly publicized if the press caught wind of what you’re doing. And third … well, I can’t think of a good third reason at the moment, but those are my orders. You’re not going in. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Rawlings said, nodding his head. “Do you think we can pull it off?”
“You mean the infiltration?”
“No, sir. Stopping the secession.”
“Heaven help us if we don’t, Captain. It’s been tried before and cost over a half million lives—American lives. And it took this nation a hundred years to get over it. I don’t want to live in another banana republic, struggling internally for fifty years to establish our laws and trampling on the rights of others to accomplish it. Now don’t get me wrong here. I understand, and in some respects, I even agree with a lot of what these militia boys believe in. I don’t like these bleeding heart, liberal do-gooders, and ‘anything goes’ crowd, what Bill O’Reilly calls ‘secular progressives,’ any more than the next man. But given half a chance, the Shasta Brigade would kill ’em all in a heartbeat. That’s not the America I believe in. This nation was founded on our ancestors’ blood, and they didn’t always agree with the people they died for. When I entered West Point, I never thought for one minute that we’d be spared the need to shed more blood, even my own, to keep us whole.”
“Against our own people, sir?”
“The time has come when people are going to have to make a choice. I’m afraid Governor Dewhirst was probably right when he told the press that the California Patriot Movement has begun in earnest. Remember this, son,” Del Valle said, opening the cockpit door and pausing to look directly at Rawlings. “You’re in command of a tactical operation now, in what we have to assume is a potential combat situation. Command is difficult, and the cost, as you have so graphically seen this morning, is often the lives of your men. The most important principle of command is a hard one. True military leadership is not whether you’re willing to die for your men, but whether or not you’re willing to order them to a probable death for the sake of their fellow soldiers. Select your people carefully.”
“I understand, sir. I’ll get right on it.”
“Good. There’s Pitama with the Humvee. He can take us back to the armory. I’ve got a few phone calls to make. Be in my office at 1545.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
Upon their arrival at the armory, Dan went straight to his office and spent the next two hours reviewing personnel files on his computer. He also spent a half hour reviewing Lieutenant McFarland’s file, remembering when he had selected the young, excited lieutenant to infiltrate the Shasta Brigade. At 1540, he logged off the computer and headed for General Del Valle’s office. Sergeant Pitama sat behind a desk in the anteroom outside the general’s office. He stood up as Dan entered the room.
“Good afternoon, Captain Rawlings. The general’s expecting you, sir. You can go right in.”
Dan knocked on the open doorway and remained there, waiting for General Del Valle to acknowledge his presence.
Del Valle looked up from behind his desk and then waved Dan in, motioning for him to take a seat.
As the door closed, Del Valle stood and came around the desk. He had changed from a flight suit into his dress greens. Each time Dan was in the general’s presence at reviews and command functions, it amazed him how the man transformed as he stood. Seated behind his desk, he seemed normal size—certainly in comparison to Dan’s six-foot one-inch height. But the moment the general stood, everything changed. General Robert Del Valle stood six-feet-five-inches, and Dan swore that five feet of it was all leg. More impressive than seeing him rise from behind the desk and transform into what appeared to be an NBA regular, was watching him emerge from a helicopter. It was tight enough in the cockpit for Dan, whose head touched the low ceiling, but how the general managed it was beyond comprehension. Even Sergeant Pitama, a good sized Maori, originally from New Zealand, who possessed what General Del Valle called “side-to-side” presence, seemed small next to the general.
Del Valle took a chair next to Dan.
“I’ve given a great deal of thought to this morning’s occurrence, Captain. We’ve lost a good man. That doesn’t sit well with me.”
“No, sir, I feel the same,” Dan said. “And the sheriff lost a deputy, too.”
“I see,” Del Valle nodded. “Apparently this wasn’t a clean execution. Perhaps the deputy came upon the scene during or after the murder.” The general looked at Dan for several seconds, the silence broken only when he replaced his coffee cup on its saucer. “This would be your first operational loss, wouldn’t it, Captain?”
Dan looked up briefly, surprised by Del Valle’s choice of words—rather a cold, impersonal definition, it seemed. “I hadn’t thought of it in those terms, General.”
“That’s exactly how you must think of it. You’ll recall I told you command could be expensive. I didn’t mean that lightly, or flippantly, but I neglected to tell you that it would also cost you, in emotional terms. Some men can’t stand the responsibility of having to order other men into situations where their lives may be in danger. Look, son, we may not be storming a beachhead, but believe me, there are many kinds of war. These militants chose to pursue the cowardly kind. I suppose they have no choice if they intend to wage war at all, but be that as it may, we’re at war with them. And I’m afraid it’s only going to get worse.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“After we got back, I got on the horn to the Pentagon—General Roberts, CID. I asked him if he had any knowledge of why two FBI agents would show up so quickly at the murder of one of my officers.”
Del Valle rose and refilled his coffee cup, returning to his seat and replacing the cup on its saucer. Dan waited for him to continue at his own pace.
“It appears that, as I suspected, the FBI has their own version of ‘Deadbolt,’ and we have to assume that includes an insider. In light of the recent so-called executions, it would make sense. The murder of two federal judges would require it, I suppose.”
“Including infiltration, you say?” Dan asked.
“General Roberts wasn’t able to tell me more, but we have to assume they would be as thorough as possible. He did, however, tell me that the CID has kept the FBI and a special unit from the CIA fully briefed on our investigations.”
“Then you were right. If the FBI’s got a man on the inside, that would explain how they knew about McFarland so fast.” Dan hesitated a moment, looking toward the large window behind the general’s seat and suddenly back at Del Valle. “But, sir, if they knew about McFarland, why didn’t—”
�
��Why didn’t they warn us, or try to prevent his death?” Del Valle asked. “I don’t know, but I darned sure will find out when your two FBI guys arrive.”
“Agent Samuels and Agent Bentley are their names. I failed to mention, sir, that Agent Bentley is a woman.”
“Who’s senior?”
“They weren’t introduced that way, sir, but based upon their ages, I believe Samuels is the lead agent. He’s mid to late forties, and Bentley is in her late twenties.”
The telephone intercom on Del Valle’s desk buzzed, and Sergeant Pitama spoke. “Excuse me, General, the FBI agents you were expecting have arrived.”
Del Valle stood and pressed the key on his telephone. “I’ll be with them in a moment.”
“Yes, sir,” Pitama replied.
Del Valle stared down at Dan for a moment before speaking. “We’ll be involved in a jurisdictional turf war here, Captain. Keep your cool and let me do the talking.”
Dan rose and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Del Valle stepped to the door, opening it and smiling at his guests.
“Good morning, I’m Bob Del Valle. Please, come in and have a seat. This is my JAG officer, Captain Daniel Rawlings, whom I believe you’ve already met.”
“We have,” Agent Samuels said, shaking hands with Del Valle. “I’m Special Agent Al Samuels, and this is my partner, Special Agent Nicole Bentley. We appreciate your giving us some of your time, General—under trying circumstances, of course.”
Del Valle closed the door, and as his guests took their seats in front of his desk, he assumed his position behind it.
“Now I want to know two things, Mr. Samuels—I assume you are in charge here.”
“I’m the senior agent in—”
“Good,” Del Valle interrupted, his demeanor brusque and his delivery abrupt. “I want to know why didn’t your agent inside the brigade prevent this needless death, or, if that was not possible, why didn’t he notify you, or us, so we could have taken some action to save this young officer’s life?”