by Gordon Ryan
Sully shifted in his seat and changed directions. “Sir, I have to admit, it’s taken on a momentum of its own, but I have no hard data, since domestic issues fall under the FBI. Maybe they can tell us more when they arrive, but I believe that it’s all bluster and will disappear when the court renders its opinion.”
Pug motioned to Director Wentworth, who nodded for him to speak.
“Sir, the Provos are watching this California thing closely, to see what the federal government’s going to do.”
“You think they’d take action against Americans?” Wentworth asked.
“I don’t know, but the internal dissent is real. Their beef is with the British, but they don’t like the fact that America seems to be taking the secession talk lightly. They feel Ireland should have been allowed to unify with the north decades ago. We should consider all possibilities and keep a close eye on them.”
“Grant?” Wentworth said, looking toward the DDO.
“We’re watching them, Director,” he said, glancing at Connor.
The main entrance door to the conference room opened, and one of the director’s aides caught his eye. Judge Wentworth waved his hand, signaling the man to show the guests in. Two men—a civilian and an Army major in uniform—entered the room and took the two seats that had been reserved near the director at the head of the table.
“Gentlemen, we welcome you to our daily ‘donuts and coffee’ gathering,” Wentworth said. “I understand you have some new information for us on the domestic side of the house.”
The civilian nodded and opened a leather briefcase, retrieving about a dozen stapled reports, handing them out around the table.
“Director, with your permission,” he said.
Wentworth nodded.
“Gentlemen, my name is Jeff Casey. I’m the agent in charge of the bureau’s militia investigations unit.” He looked quickly around the table, nodding and smiling at several familiar faces, including Pug Connor’s.
“Roughly fifteen months ago, FBI Director Hazelton tripled the manpower in our militia task force to look into their escalation of operations. Of course, militia units have been under surveillance for many years, but a recent upsurge in activities and recruitment has given immediacy to the bureau’s concern. In the Far West and Northwest, an increase in bank robberies has been attributed to three of these recognized militia groups. In addition, responsibility for the murder of the two appointed federal judges in California has been claimed by the California Patriot Movement, an umbrella organization made up of a loose confederation of militia units. As of earlier this week, we are also investigating the execution-style murder of a California National Guard lieutenant who had infiltrated the Shasta Brigade, the largest of the California militia units. A sheriff’s deputy who surprised the perpetrators at the scene was also killed in that incident. Their actions are viewed as the first open declaration of hostility directed at established military authority.”
“What authority?” Sully asked. “The guard has no authority in civil matters, other than those authorized by the governor in times of emergency.”
“Granted,” the FBI briefer agreed. “Still, an open and direct assassination of a federal officer has occurred, and the bureau has been investigating the incident. We believe the killing is in response to federal opposition to secession—opposition that the militants have used as a rallying cry to promote a declaration of independence for California.”
“You’re not serious,” General Austin said.
“I’m afraid we are, General. These people have taken the results of the two referendums literally and are storming through the state in support of every speech Senator Turner gives. That support often takes the form of physical intimidation, not unlike that used by Hitler’s brown-shirt thugs. Their actions speak for themselves.”
“What does the Army have to say about the matter?” Director Wentworth asked.
“Major Brighton can respond to that, Mr. Director,” the FBI agent said.
Brighton stood. “Sir, General Robert Del Valle is in command of the California National Guard and is also the acting adjutant general for the state of California. Previously, we were cooperating with him and his local CID unit in this investigation.”
“What do you mean by ‘previously,’ Major?” the director inquired.
“Well, sir, the joint chiefs have conferred with legal counsel on this issue, and they have a serious concern that General Del Valle’s National Guard units have been infiltrated by members of the patriot movement and other militants throughout California, especially the Shasta Brigade.”
General Austin spoke again. “So you’re telling us, Major, that in addition to us trying to get agents into the brigade, they’ve been recruiting members from your National Guard units and reversing the intelligence-gathering process?”
“Essentially, that’s correct, General. Many of the reserve components are made up of men who like this sort of activity. They’re prime targets and easy marks for militia recruitment.”
“And as a result, Army command has cut one of its own generals out of the pipeline; is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, sir, although General Del Valle is no longer regular Army.”
General Austin banged his fist on the table. “Regular Army or National Guard, he’s one of your field commanders, Major. How does the JCS expect him to ferret out his informants without your support and cooperation?”
“Sir, the joint chiefs feel we can’t afford the leak at a time when Senator Turner is calling for secession.”
“Good heavens, man,” Wentworth said, “are you telling me that even the Pentagon is taking this movement seriously?”
“They see it as a clear threat to the continuity of the chain of command, Mr. Director,” Major Brighton said.
“And why have we been included in this briefing, Mr. Casey?”
“We’re calling in all our assets, Director,” he said, glancing at Sully.
“Domestic assets, you mean,” Wentworth said, then reminded him, “We’re restricted from operating within the jurisdiction of the United States.”
“Of course,” Casey replied, a flicker of a smile crossing his face, “but we thought—hoped perhaps—that you might have stumbled onto some information that would provide a larger view of the situation.”
“Sully,” Director Wentworth said, “what’s he talking about?”
“Sir, apparently the bureau continues to assume that the Agency has operatives inside the borders of the United States. While we do, on occasion, come across information relevant to domestic issues, I can assure you, sir, that we have no assets operating within the country.”
“I see,” Agent Casey said. “In that case, I hope our briefing has been informative. Please read over the documents I’ve presented and feel free to contact my office if anything comes to mind. If there are no further questions, Director?”
Wentworth glanced around the room and got no response.
“We appreciate your coming this afternoon, Mr. Casey. We’ll be in touch if anything develops and would be pleased if you could keep us informed as well.”
“Our pleasure, Director Wentworth. Good day, gentlemen,” Casey said, gathering up his papers and stuffing them in his briefcase. He and Major Brighton walked the length of the table toward the end of the conference room. As Casey passed by, Pug reached out and touched his sleeve. Casey paused and leaned down next to Pug’s ear.
“It’s good to see you again, Jeff. What’s the word on a new director for the bureau?”
Casey smiled and whispered, “Could be you’re a lot closer to the man than any of us,” he chuckled. “Rumor has it that Judge Granata is at the top of the president’s short list.”
“He’s a good man, Jeff. If you get him for your next director, the country will be well served. I owe you for the tip. Chalk it up,” Pug laughed softly.
“I keep a log book. I’ll call you some morning about 3 a.m. and collect.”
Pug nodded, and
Casey straightened, patting Pug on the shoulder and continuing to follow Major Brighton. Sully was talking to Director Wentworth, but Pug’s thoughts ran quickly through his own memories of Judge Granata. They had been next-door neighbors in Woodbridge, Virginia, for over twelve years. Granata had been appointed by the previous president to the federal appeals court some nine years earlier. If, indeed, President Eastman was considering nominating Granata to be the new FBI director, Pug thought it was a fine choice.
Pug’s attention was called back to the discussion at hand. Director Wentworth was speaking with a raised voice, trying to elicit something or other from Grant Sully. At his last loud request, the room had gone silent. No one spoke for several seconds until Wentworth apparently became impatient.
“Grant?” Wentworth said, snapping his pencil in two and glaring at the DDO.
“Director, of course I have people keeping an eye on the militia units—at least the larger, more active units. They often have representatives overseas raising money or weapons for their arsenal. I’ve briefed you on that before.”
Wentworth nodded. “So, we do know what’s going on?”
“Not much. They’re active, raising Cain, and, if Casey is right, have evolved to outright murder of judicial and military personnel.”
Judge Wentworth sat silent for a few moments, trying to tap his pencil stub. Finally he threw the broken object in the corner wastebasket and stood.
“That’s all for this morning, gentlemen. Grant, I want a written report on everything you know about this, uh, Shasta Brigade, and the patriot movement in general throughout California. And I want better surveillance.”
“But, sir, our restrictions prohibit—”
“Forget the restrictions, Grant. They’ve never stopped you before when you wanted to learn something. Now I want to learn something. Is that understood?”
“Understood, Director.”
Chapter 10
Chesapeake Bay, Virginia
Stand by to come about, Pug, and then pop the kite. I’ll show you what this baby can really do downwind,” George Granata said.
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Pug smiled, his face dripping with salt spray from broaching upwind breakers.
The twenty-eight-foot, fiberglass racing yacht came about, heeling hard over as Granata swung her bow downwind. Pug pulled the lanyard loose, and the spinnaker immediately billowed, popping the rubber bands that had held the folds together. Instantly, the sleek craft lurched forward, her hull seeming to skim above the waves.
“Man, I love this life,” Granata bellowed over the wind as Pug made his way aft, taking a position starboard of Granata, who stood at the helm. “If I had it to do all over again, I’d say to heck with law school and take up the offer old Martin Tarkington made to me back in ’58 to crew with him. Who knows where I’d have been now? Certainly your Kiwi cousins wouldn’t have taken our Cup to Auckland at the Royal New Zealand Yacht Squadron, and then lost it to the Swiss,” he challenged.
“Who’s Tarkington?” Pug asked, smiling at Granata’s jab.
“He ran several sailing crews out of Newport in the old days … when American racing yachts were unchallenged.” He smiled again.
“Those days are over, Judge,” Pug shouted back over the wind.
“Well San Francisco won it back from the Swiss fair and square and it’s going to stay in America,” Granata said.
“Like hell,” Pug replied. “The Kiwi’s will be back. Watch and see. Remember how they felt about the last time, when Denis Connors ran the show. His actions off the coast of San Diego disgraced America, in case you’ve forgotten. Did you know that in New Zealand, during the first Cup defense challenge the Kiwis ran, one of the most popular souvenirs was a T-shirt with the slogan, New Zealand rules the waves—Denis Connors waives the rules? I was ashamed to share the same name with him.”
“Are you an American or a Kiwi?” Granata yelled again, laughing at Pug.
“At the moment, I’m more Kiwi.” Pug grinned back.
“Check your passport. Oh, of course,” Granata laughed again. “You’ve got both, right? Ignorant foreigner. But you’re right about Connors. It was not American yachting’s finest hour, and I don’t mean just the five-zip loss to the Kiwis.”
With the coastline barely visible over the horizon to the west, they sailed downwind under the pull of the spinnaker and the mainsail for nearly twenty minutes, enjoying the movement and the solitude of the open sea. As Pug turned around to say something to Granata, he spotted a motor vessel fast approaching from astern and pointed so the judge could have a look. Both men instantly recognized the bright orange strip running from bow to waterline at a vertical angle.
“Coast Guard,” Granata said. “We’re pretty far north for a drug interdiction run.”
“They seem to be following in our wake. If they’re looking for us, maybe we should drop the kite.”
“Right,” Granata nodded.
Pug moved forward and released the halyard, dropping the spinnaker. He hastily pulled it in, hand over hand, before it could be sucked under and become fouled beneath the keel. The Coast Guard cutter pulled along Granata’s port side and slowed her advance. An officer in a gray foul-weather jacket came out of the bridge and raised a bullhorn.
“Is Judge Granata aboard?” he inquired.
Granata raised his arm, acknowledging.
“Your Honor, please stand by to heave to,” the officer shouted.
With a bit of maneuvering, the cutter pulled alongside and threw a line, securing the two vessels close aboard.
“Sir, I’m Lieutenant Sparks,” the officer said, standing outside the cutter’s small bridge. “We’ve been asked to see you safely ashore, where a helicopter is waiting to transport you to Camp David. Would you care to come aboard, sir?”
“I’ll come about, Lieutenant, and return to port,” Granata said.
“Sir, I’ve been instructed to transport you and your guest as quickly as possible, if you please. We can man your craft, with your permission, of course.”
“What’s the urgency?” Granata asked.
“Sir, all I know is that there’s a helicopter waiting to transport you and Colonel Connor to Camp David.”
Granata looked at Pug.
“Not a clue,” Pug said, shaking his head.
“Sir, permission for one of my officers to come aboard,” Lieutenant Sparks requested.
Granata nodded and waved his arm again.
Another weather-jacketed officer stepped over the sideboard, followed by two deckhands in foul-weather gear. When they were aboard, Granata looked into the face of the young officer.
“Son, you know anything about this class of yacht?”
“Yes, sir. Ensign Scott Argeris. Born on Martha’s Vineyard and crewed two seasons in various international races with Russell Coutts.” The young man smiled. “Plus one run on the Sydney to Hobart, four years ago.”
Granata smiled and relinquished the helm. “Another traitorous Yank gone over to the Kiwis.” He laughed. “Let’s go, Pug. From what I read yesterday, the president was headed up to Camp David for a weekend retreat. He probably got angry when he heard we were going sailing while he had to work.”
“Could be,” Pug said, grabbing his dark-blue Hood sea bag and tossing it to a waiting crewman on the cutter.
“Take her home, son,” Granata said to Ensign Argeris, “and enjoy yourself. It looks as if my sailing is over for the weekend.”
“Yes, sir, Judge,” the ensign smiled. “I’ll take good care of her.”
* * *
Colonel Pug Connor had to think how long it had been since he’d seen the president personally. He’d given briefings the president had attended, but since Pug had completed his tour of duty with the NSA, there had been little direct contact with President William Eastman. He shook his head and grinned. To be literally jerked off the water and flown to Camp David aboard Marine Two seemed a bit theatrical, but everyone knew that one of President Eastman’s trademarks w
as keeping people off balance.
A three-minute ride in an electric golf cart, driven by a marine in cammies, brought Pug and Granata from the helipad to a rustic log cabin nestled in a stand of pines. Pug knew the place well and experienced a wave of nostalgia as they pulled up in front, thinking about the time he had spent here in the presence of the joint chiefs during a previous Iraqi crisis situation while he was working at the National Security Agency. Ambassador Prescott, General Austin, and the president had been involved on a daily basis in that crisis, and Pug had participated in most of the meetings.
They were met on the porch of the cabin by Clarene Prescott, who for nearly six years had served as national security advisor to the president.
“Well, Colonel Connor, it’s been a long time, hasn’t it? And Judge Granata, it’s good to see you again,” she said, offering her hand to both men.
“It’s been several years, Ambassador Prescott. You’re looking very well,” Granata replied.
Prescott, formerly ambassador to the United Nations and confidante to four sitting presidents of both parties, opened the door to the cabin. Pug and the judge were electronically screened for weapons, and then they stepped into the cabin. The last time Pug had been in a small gathering with the president—an occasion that had occurred in the Oval Office—was when Eastman had, without fanfare or public acclaim, pinned the Silver Star on him for valor in a daring, covert, behind-the-lines operation during the second Gulf war.
President William Eastman entered the room, stepping forward with a bright smile and thanking them for coming.
“Please have a seat,” Eastman said. “I’ve finally rounded up the Senate votes I need, George. With your permission, we’ll begin the hearings next week to see if we can’t get you in the driver’s seat over at the FBI.”
“I’m still in shock, Mr. President. I was about ready to step aside and let some of the younger jurists handle the load. In fact, I’ve recently purchased a new yacht, and just this morning—”