by Gordon Ryan
“As you instructed, I’ve not met with him in person, but I’ve communicated instructions with each donation. I believe he can handle command of combined movement, but the other units won’t like it,” Wolff said, shaking his head. “They each have their own agenda and think they’re autonomous. Besides, Sully likes to keep them at odds so he can play them against each other.”
“I don’t care a whit what Sully likes,” Franklin said, warming to his directive role. “I’ve used these wannabe militia groups many times over the past few years and spent a lot of money on their training and equipment in the process. This is too important. I want to personally know what’s happening. Tell Shaw we’ll be very selective in our targets, both political and ‘action.’ I want them alerted, training increased, and recruitment up, especially among, shall we say, ‘expendable assets.’ Let them continue to rob a few banks to cover the real source of their financing. Be sure to maintain the individual cell organization structure for security.” Franklin smiled at Wolff. “And Sully, bless his heart, needs to see that his ability to ride two horses has come to an end. He knows he’ll never become director of the CIA. Perhaps we can entice him with the role he could play in a new California.”
Wolff raised his glass, rattling the ice cubes. “To Grant Sully—the new director of the new CIA—the California Intelligence Agency.”
“We’ll see about that. Assuming we can pull off the election coup, the key to this thing will be the U.S. military. How they respond will be critical. You can bet the farm Washington won’t take it lying down. The Army Reserve, National Guard, and even the California State Reserve units—those are the concerns we have. The militia … well,” he paused, “we know where they stand, and this operation will suit them just fine. But we’ve got to force the federal military’s hand and make the retention of California a patriotic issue.”
“A little internal insurrection should help,” Wolff said.
“Exactly—and public reaction. That’s your baby. You handle it, but move slowly at first. I want the election results to convince the public that support is widespread. Then, when we unleash the militia to do their thing, Californians will see them as the New Englanders saw the militia—as Minutemen—patriots in the flesh. Then they’ll receive public support, at least verbally, in their fight against the Feds. And one other thing—concerning your ‘tech team’ and the elections issue, I want it done right this time. Be sure your team knows—no more foul-ups like we had in the Missouri elections.”
“Missouri was a fluke. A real computer glitch occurred, and by the time we found out, it was too late. Election results had already been announced.”
“Jean,” Franklin said, staring hard at the younger man, “I don’t care why! I’ve spent hundreds of millions establishing the credibility of the home telephone voting system, and four states have now adopted it. But California is still running parallel with the old system, and California’s the key to national acceptance. I just want to be sure this one is under control. We’ve got a lot at stake. You’ve got a lot at stake.”
“I’ll see to it, John Henry,” Wolff responded.
Franklin started to leave, but stopped, turning in the doorway.
“Did you catch Rigo’s comment about the Mexican borders earlier?”
“Nothing of concern. The general knows nothing about our border crossing operation, I can assure you.”
“See you keep it that way. He strikes me as one of those truly dangerous men, especially in Mexico—an honest politician.”
“He’s watched day and night. Nothing to worry about. Besides,” Wolff said calmly, “honest politicians in Mexico have a way of ending up dead.”
“He’s still quite useful to us. Without his relationship to General Valdez, we’d have no knowledge of the Federales’ intentions. Proceed cautiously.”
“Understood. I’ll take care of it.”
Chapter 7
Woodland Rotary Luncheon
Woodland, California
June, 2011
… Of course, it wasn’t yesterday, was it?” Senator Turner continued. “In fact, we’ve accomplished quite a bit in the past eighteen months, working together for the benefit of Californians. And I intend to continue doing just that.”
During the nine months immediately following the private Sea Ranch meeting, Turner had followed John Henry Franklin’s directions, stumping throughout California, presenting the message of secession. At times eloquent in his denunciation of federal intervention, Turner had initially met with staunch opposition. But surprisingly, as Franklin had predicted, support for the notion had steadily grown, and pollsters had begun to document the changing mood of the people. And then, suddenly, it was over, and Turner was a fourth-term U.S. senator. And California was on her way toward sovereignty.
To his chagrin, with his reelection achieved and the California voters having overwhelmingly approved the secession issue, Turner found himself actually in love with Franklin’s original idea and proud of the part he had played in its creation. At service clubs throughout California, he continued to carry the message, as here today in the Woodland Rotary, to the ever-growing number of people who enjoyed the thrill of starting over—and took a certain satisfaction in standing up to Washington and its never-ending bureaucratic rat race.
For over twenty minutes, Senator Turner continued to preach the message he had honed under John Henry Franklin’s subtle tutoring, castigating the federal court system for not listening to the voice of the people, but softening his radical rhetoric with a generous application of his own brand of rural humor. With the audience in the palm of his hand, he wrapped it up by recalling one of Yolo County’s favorite sayings.
“… and my daddy always said, ‘If it grows anywhere in the world, it can be grown in Yolo County.’”
Dan watched with some amazement as the room again erupted in applause. A large cluster of young men and several older men stood in the back of the room, clapping loudly, as Malcolm Turner remained triumphantly at the lectern. He had reached for his audience, found their pulse, and raised them to a fever pitch. Though Dan found Turner’s proposals outrageous, he was nevertheless in agreement with many of Turner’s historical landmarks. Dan’s own grandfather, Jack Rumsey, had said much the same thing while Dan was growing up, helping his grandfather move sprinkler pipes between the rows of almond trees and tending the ten acres Jack had given him to run as his “business.” The smooth-talking politician was quite right about the plight of the small farmer, but his proposed solution was too radical. Dan viewed the voter approval for secession with alarm. He had understood the political expediency of Turner’s position during the elections, especially with the competition of a younger, articulate, well-financed opponent, but it had surprised Dan as much as anyone to see Turner continue the call after securing his Senate seat. To point out federal abuses and excesses was one thing, but to propose severing ties with the United States was irresponsible, at least to Dan’s way of thinking.
City Manager Roger Dahlgren was seated several tables across from Dan with a contingent of associates, none of whom Dan recognized. They were cheering loudly and encouraging all around them to join in the fracas.
Dan leaned closer to Jim Thompson. “Who are those guys with Roger?”
“Brigade boys, most likely.”
Senator Malcolm Turner stood smiling and waving, accepting the accolades as the audience concluded their applause and again took their seats.
“Gentlemen, it would be my pleasure to entertain questions for the next few minutes. I would ask the reporters who are here to defer to the local members.” Hands shot up throughout the room, and Turner pointed to a man seated at one of the front tables. “Jake Petersen. You’ve been around here for many years, and we’ve served on several committees together. I value your opinion.” Turner smiled. “What’s on your mind?”
Petersen was over seventy and had farmed about four hundred acres northwest of Woodland for as long as anyone could remember.
His three sons had opted out for other professions after seeing no profitable future in farming. After the last son went into accounting, Jake had sold his farm to a large corporation and moved into town. He stood slowly, using his cane for leverage.
“Well, Malcolm, I’ll tell ya. We don’t need none of this baloney I’ve been readin’ in the papers about giving Washington a chance. You just need to go back to the president and Congress and tell them to kiss off. We voted to get out, and we’re through with ’em. Just tell the president to get his bleedin’ heart liberal judges out of California and let us get on with our lives. Then, Malcolm,” the old man said, banging his cane on the tiled floor for emphasis, “we need you to get back here and help us form a new nation.” The old man started to sit down and then paused, looking back toward the lectern. “And remember this,” he said, waving his cane, “protect the farmer. They’re the life’s blood of this country. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
The audience erupted, and Senator Turner smiled broadly, initiating the applause for Jake and his popular point of view. Though most of the Rotarians were independent businessmen and corporate managers, their livelihood depended on the prosperity of the Yolo County farmers.
Dan Rawlings looked at Jim Thompson and shook his head. The members and guests continued making comments and asking questions for several minutes, strengthened in their exuberance by the many visitors who came from outside the normal membership of local Woodland businessmen and farmers. Dan could see that Roger’s new visitors had come to the meeting expressly to support Senator Turner’s presentation and to vocally intimidate the crowd and garner support—or at least to stifle any opposition. And from what he could see, none of those Dan knew to be opposed to the secession seemed inclined to voice that opposition, perhaps intimidated by the presence of the overwhelming support evident in the room.
Chapter 8
Woodland, California
Captain Dan Rawlings left the Woodland Rotary luncheon and headed straight for his apartment in Davis, where he changed into his Class “A” dress greens. Driving over the Yolo County Causeway toward the funeral home, the image of Lieutenant McFarland’s bloated, purplish face kept recurring, and Dan’s mood turned somber.
Not since he’d buried his wife had he dredged up the courage to attend another funeral, but Lieutenant McFarland was a brother-in-arms—and more. Dan—in his incarnation as Captain Rawlings—had actually met with McFarland on several occasions and, under General Del Valle’s directive, had been the one to accept the young man’s reports on the status of the Shasta Brigade. To his sorrow, Dan had also been the one to recommend McFarland to General Del Valle as an officer with the suitable temperament to infiltrate the Shasta Brigade.
Dan crossed the Sacramento River and drove east along the northern boundary of Sacramento, beginning the gentle climb into the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. He left the freeway at the Roseville exit and turned north toward a golf course he had played on many occasions. About a mile beyond the golf course, he came to the funeral home where McFarland’s service was to be held, pulled into the parking lot and shut off his engine. Seeing the lush, green grounds of the cemetery that surrounded the building, Dan broke into a light sweat, and memories flooded his mind. He had been a witness to Susan’s accident and had since dreamed about it often. Unable to alter its outcome, the scene always unfolded before him the same way, whether awake or asleep.
They had been skiing high in the Sierra Nevada Mountains near Susanville. Just before pushing off, his young wife smiled and winked at him. Then, racing ahead down the mountain through the flat light of an overcast day, Susan plunged into a steep field of tall moguls, her legs acting as powerful pistons, absorbing the impact as she worked her way down, down, down the steep slope. Nearly a world-class skier and fearless on the mountain, she combined both strength and grace in a way that amazed Dan. Not nearly her equal, he followed at a slower pace.
As she continued to work her way through the steep, bumpy run, he pulled to a stop at the top of the field of moguls, admiring his young wife’s fierce attack on the deep ruts and giant mounds.
He had watched helplessly as a teenaged, female skier suddenly skidded into Susan’s path. Out of control, the novice had dropped her poles and was flailing her arms wildly to maintain her balance while sliding laterally across the hill, directly toward Susan.
Still skiing hard, Susan made a sudden, powerful move to avoid the collision and veered sharply off the run, plunging into a copse of mature quaking aspens whose solid white trunks blended into the flat light of the mountain.
Unable to do anything but cry out, Dan watched in horror as Susan cart-wheeled and tumbled through the grove to slam headfirst into the trunk of a large, gnarled tree.
Fighting back his tears, his chest pounding with exertion and fear, Dan half-skied, half-tumbled down the mountain. He had wrenched off his skis, screaming over his shoulder for help and wading frantically through the soft snow to the place where Susan lay crumpled against the tree, an ever-widening patch of red snow staining the pristine powder. Her once-beautiful face was bloodied, contorted in death, framed by the fur-lined hood of her ski parka, and as he held her lifeless body in his arms—
This was usually the point at which he would wake up each morning, drenched in sweat. For months after her death, he had not gone to church. His bishop had visited and gently counseled with him, and still Dan resisted. Even Susan’s parents had pleaded with him to come to church with them, to no avail. Finally, several months later when his sister was home visiting with three of her five children, she asked Dan for help one morning, taking her kids to the mall, since her husband had not made the trip. Dan agreed, and as he sat in the food court area, his four-year-old niece, Rachel, climbed on his lap, whispering in his ear, “I wish Aunt Susan could be here with us.”
The rap on his car window startled him, and he turned his head, taking a second to recognize Sheriff Sanchez standing beside his car. Dan removed his keys and exited the vehicle, placing his garrison cap squarely on his head.
“You in a dreamland, Danny boy?” Tony asked, smiling. “Looks like you’re a bit overheated.”
“Just thinking,” Dan replied, wiping the perspiration from his brow and noticing that Tony was dressed in a business suit rather than his sheriff’s uniform.
“I can understand that. Looks like a big turnout,” Tony said as they began to walk across the parking lot toward the chapel.
Dan looked around as they neared the entrance, spotting several groups of green and blue uniforms among the civilians heading for the service. He saw General Del Valle at the door, greeting his officers and men as they arrived. Twenty yards before they reached the door, Tony slowed his pace and nudged Dan in the side. Dan followed Tony’s gaze and identified Kenny Bailey, Dan’s brother-in-law, heading toward the entrance in the company of three other men, all dressed casually in jeans or slacks and open-necked shirts.
Tony looked away from the building, scanning the cars in the parking lot. “I’ve got a cameraman out in the unmarked SWAT van filming the attendees,” he said.
“You don’t think they’d come here?” Dan asked.
“Stranger things have happened … and, well, there’s Kenny, right?”
“Yeah,” Dan said, again walking toward the entrance. “Good afternoon, General,” he said, snapping a salute.
“Afternoon, Captain Rawlings.”
“Sir, I’d like to introduce Tony Sanchez, Yolo County Sheriff.”
The two men shook hands. “Are you the investigating authority, Sheriff?” Del Valle asked.
“At present, sir. The FBI has been in contact with our office, but they’ve not assumed jurisdiction.”
“I see. Well, shall we go in, gentlemen?”
Dan had never met Mrs. McFarland until the previous Monday, when he and General Del Valle had gone to her home to inform her of her husband’s death. Del Valle had arranged for Mrs. McFarland’s mother to be escorted to the house as well, and
several family members had arrived while Dan and General Del Valle were still present. Even though the general had handled most of the dialogue, it had been one of the hardest things Dan had ever done. Surprisingly, the young, very pretty woman had taken the news without breaking down, her silent tears the only outward sign of her shock and grief.
Inside the chapel, Lieutenant Colonel Jack Harman, Commander of the 324th Mechanized Battalion, stood several rows from the front, retaining seats for the general and his staff officers. Dan and Sheriff Sanchez slid into the pew, followed by Colonel Harman, with General Del Valle taking a seat on the aisle.
Dan could see through the gathering that Mrs. McFarland sat on the front row of the right section. Two women, whom he took to be her sisters, were seated on either side of her, with her mother and mother-in-law on either side of the sisters. The remaining men of the family filled the outer edges of the pew. Kenny and his associates took seats toward the back, and as far as Dan could tell, Kenny had not noticed Dan’s presence.
The front of the chapel contained a large floral arrangement. In the center, directly below the dais, sat the closed coffin, draped with an American flag. A large photograph of Lieutenant Richard McFarland, in Army dress blues, was displayed on a raised tripod next to the casket. Dan felt the blood rush to his head and neck, his face suddenly warm and flushed. He took several deep breaths and willed himself to calm down. Then the National Guard chaplain, Major Alexander Butterman, stood behind the pulpit and motioned for all to rise. He waited for the shuffling to die down and commenced with an opening prayer, then motioned for all to be seated.