by Gordon Ryan
Eastman nodded. “So I hear. Sorry about that, George. But Colonel Connor here was probably just checking on the American competition with the intent to sell our nautical secrets to his New Zealand kinsmen.”
Granata laughed in reply. “Truth be told, Mr. President, it was the other way around. I was trying to steal his racing knowledge.”
Eastman nodded and smiled again at Pug. “What do you think of my choice for FBI director, Pug?”
“It will be good to keep him in the saddle, sir … and off the water.” Pug grinned. “In actuality, Judge Granata is one of the finest men I know, as well as a great neighbor. He even cuts his own grass, Mr. President.”
“A shirtsleeve jurist. High praise. Well, then, let’s get the ball rolling. Clarene, if you please,” Eastman said to Prescott, who stood quietly in the corner. “What say we arrange the hearings with Senator Thompson and get the Senate committee in gear?”
“Right away, Mr. President,” she replied.
“And now, Colonel, you’re probably wondering why I asked for you to accompany Director Granata today.”
“I’m at your disposal, of course, sir.”
Eastman stepped to a small table in the corner of the room, where he gathered several pieces of paper before returning to the seating area. His face and body language reflected a more serious demeanor. “In my hand, I have an original, unsigned copy of your resignation from the CIA. I’d appreciate your signature.”
Pug stood silent for a moment, glancing quickly at Granata and then Ambassador Prescott.
“That would come as a surprise, would it not, Pug?” Eastman said seriously.
“Mr. President, uh, I’m not certain …”
Eastman raised his hand, palm facing toward Pug, and nodded.
“Let me finish. Are you familiar with the name Hudson? Commander Avril Hudson?”
Pug thought for a few moments and came up blank.
“Commander Hudson is currently the American military attaché in New Zealand,” the president said.
Pug nodded. “Sorry, Mr. President, I do recall him. I met Commander Hudson about two years ago, I believe. In Wellington.”
“Colonel,” the president said, “in addition to your resignation from the CIA, I have here your appointment as military attaché to the American Embassy, Wellington, New Zealand. I know this is all quite sudden, Pug, and it might appear that I’m putting you out to pasture. In truth, Commander Hudson will remain at his post for another six months or more. You’re heading down that way next week, I understand. For a vacation with your family?”
“Yes, sir. I had planned to be gone four weeks, but—”
The president waved off Pug’s concern. “That will work fine, Colonel. Carry on with those plans. And enjoy yourself while you can. I want you out of sight for awhile. We’ll see to the publicity regarding your new appointment. You’ll return occasionally, for a day or two, in order to meet with Judge Granata and several of his agents. At the right time, I want you back in Sacramento, quietly and with no fanfare. This is not a quick resolution issue, Pug. In some respects, you’ll be involved in law enforcement work rather than military operations. That makes it a slow, tedious process, to gather sufficient information. I want this stopped, but we have the election cycle to consider and time to ferret out the culprits. It won’t be a quick assignment. You will likely spend the better part of the next year digging for worms before you catch your fish.”
Again Pug remained quiet, his expression puzzled. The president turned toward Clarene Prescott. “Clarene, perhaps you can bring the colonel and Judge Granata up to speed.”
“Certainly, Mr. President. Judge Granata, two days ago, Colonel Connor and his contemporaries at the CIA were briefed by one of the FBI’s special agents and an Army CID major regarding the growing insurrection in California. Their briefing was more along the lines of a fact-finding mission … and it came up empty, didn’t it, Colonel Connor?” she asked.
“Madam Ambassador, I still don’t fully understand …”
She nodded. “Grant Sully kept his silence, didn’t he?”
Suddenly Pug understood. “He did, Ambassador.”
“Right. Well, here it is in a nutshell. The president has asked me to put together a task force—outside the normal agencies—to investigate the truth behind the rapid movement toward secession. If you’re agreeable, Colonel Connor, the president would like you to head that confidential task force. You’re still a serving Marine Corps officer, and your absence can be explained by your new appointment in New Zealand.
“Judge Granata, it will take about six to eight weeks to get you into the director’s chair. In the meantime, the president wants you to work with Colonel Connor and several of the FBI’s militia investigators, meeting as time permits, in between your Senate confirmation hearings and Pug’s New Zealand visit, to try to ferret out what’s really behind this secession and the surprisingly strong public support it’s gained.
“Pug, your appointment to New Zealand will serve as cover for your leaving the CIA and will also give you a place to disappear, when necessary, for a few days at a time. Judge Granata will be your FBI contact, and you’ll report directly to me or to the president. The FBI agents involved will be outside their normal reporting lines as well.”
President Eastman leaned forward in his chair and looked at Pug. “Colonel, we’ve worked together before. I trust your instincts. Also, your current boss, General Austin, has told me a bit about your, uh, testy relationship with Grant Sully.”
“Sir, if the general is displeased …”
President Eastman laughed. “Not to worry, son. You still head Austin’s list of men with integrity. He actually recommended you for this assignment, telling me he would hate to lose you from his staff, but assuring me you had the right skills for the job. As for Sully, he’s served this nation for many years, but as of late, Director Wentworth has expressed … well, the jury’s still out, and the verdict may well depend in large part on your findings. Are you prepared to take on this assignment?”
“Sir, I’m … uh, I’m ready to serve as you deem necessary, of course.”
“Understand me clearly, Colonel Connor. These militia die-hards are no less dangerous than the Iraqis you faced. And they’re not as easy to identify. They’ll kill you in a heartbeat if they feel it will further their ends. That’s why your New Zealand assignment will be good cover.”
Pug nodded. “Thank you, Mr. President. I very much appreciate your concern.”
“Fine, then,” the president said, standing. “Let’s get underway. Go to New Zealand and have a good time. Meanwhile, Clarene will arrange for a safe house in Sacramento, and we’ll see what we can do to put Judge Granata in place at the FBI. Oh, and Pug, while you’re cavorting around in New Zealand, remember your loyalties. Consider it a presidential order that whatever sailing knowledge you have is highly confidential. Let the Kiwis fend for themselves.”
“Sir, you have nothing to fear from me. I’m barely a passenger on the water, pure and simple. Now the Kiwis … they’re a different story. If memory serves, it’s a Kiwi who heads the San Francisco yachting consortium. If America is able to hold on to the America’s Cup, without using all Kiwi sailors, I’ll be absolutely shocked.” He laughed.
Eastman feigned mock disdain and shook his head. “But the Swiss took if off the Kiwis, didn’t they?”
“They did, sir, but even then, the Kiwis still owned it. The same New Zealander who heads the San Francisco effort ran the Swiss victory.” He laughed.
“Clarene, shouldn’t such a treasonous remark go in Colonel Connor’s dossier?” the president joked.
“I’ll see to it, Mr. President,” she said, winking at Pug.
“Godspeed to both of you, gentlemen,” the president said. “All jesting aside, we have a serious threat to our national security with this secessionist movement. I want to get to the bottom of it and put an end to it. I don’t intend to preside over a second Civil War. Congratulation
s, Judge Granata. I look forward to working with you.”
“And I with you, Mr. President. Thank you for your confidence.”
Chapter 11
Sierra Nevada Mountains
Northern California
For most of his adult life, Jean Wolff had been a highly skilled, professional mercenary. Despite the Shasta Brigade’s well-earned reputation for violence, even murder—if the reports were true—meeting in person for the first time with the brigade’s leadership didn’t intimidate Wolff. Yet the physical insertion of another level of command—an unwanted level of command—always presented a problem. Depending upon the ego of the unit commander—in this case, a former U.S. Army officer named Jackson Shaw—the task had often proven difficult.
Twice, on similar missions, both times in the former Yugoslavia, the group commander or one of his associates had shot Wolff, but he had survived. On the second of those occasions, it was the local commander who had not survived. Wolff’s knowledge of the unit’s internal dissent had afforded him the opportunity to foment a rebellion within the ranks—to Wolff’s advantage.
With respect to the Shasta Brigade, John Henry Franklin had been adamant: it was time to take charge of this operation. Over a year earlier, at Franklin’s direction, Wolff had begun sending anonymous donations of cash to Shaw and other militia unit leaders.
Now, despite the inherent risks, and without having advised Shaw that he was the source of funds, Jean Wolff was going to meet personally for the first time with Shaw and the brigade leadership.
The land surrounding Camp Liberty, so named by the founders of the Shasta Brigade, was heavily wooded and deep within the Sierra Nevada Mountains. As Wolff drove the final miles over a dusty, rutted, fire service trail, he thought of his younger days and the physically demanding topography on which he had been required to operate—freezing his earlobes in the mountains surrounding Narvik, Norway, or nearly succumbing to heat prostration in the Libyan Desert. Surely these brigade members appreciated their temperate environment and the generous comfort it afforded. Yet, he smiled to himself, a soldier is a soldier is a soldier, and if complaining and grousing weren’t a part of this brigade, as they were in every other military organization he’d known, it would indeed be unusual.
Finally, the unpainted, crumbling wooden structures and temporary tent facilities came into view, located adjacent to a clear, fast-moving stream at the far end of an inclined meadow. A good site for rapid drainage and protection from the elements, he thought as he cut the engine and exited his truck. Of course, the site’s selection in the early thirties, as a Civilian Conservation Corps camp—part of Roosevelt’s Depression-era government works program—was made without consideration of a potential military assault or defensive strategies. Wolff could see that without the placement of perimeter defenses, including trip wires and Claymores, an attacking unit trained in stealthy assault techniques could completely infiltrate and overpower the camp within an hour.
Wolff stood to the side of his vehicle and surveyed the area, surprised that he hadn’t been challenged in his final approach. A familiar sound reached across the open field, and Wolff turned, smiling as he observed a dozen or so recruits laboring beneath the harsh eye and sand-and-gravel voice of the backbone of any military effort: a drill instructor.
“Get down, you tub of lard! If I was the enemy, I’d see your fat buttocks two hundred yards away, and I’d knock ten pounds off it with a couple of fifty caliber slugs,” a burly, muscular man bellowed at the top of his lungs. “I said you didn’t belong in the brigade, and I’m gonna wash your useless skin head outta here. Now, move it—move! move! move!”
Wolff noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see three men approaching, each dressed in BDUs and wearing a sidearm.
“Mr. Wolff, welcome to Camp Liberty. I’m Jackson Shaw, commander of the brigade.”
Wolff ignored the extended hand. “I can’t say much for your security, Commander Shaw. If I’d come here to kill you, you’d be a dead man right now.”
Shaw nodded slowly and allowed a small grin to cross his face. He removed his utility cap, scratched his head, and then replaced the cap. Suddenly, a single shot rang out, and the driver’s side mirror on Wolff’s vehicle shattered, with shards of glass and bits of metal falling to the ground. Shaw and the two men with him remained silent as Wolff glanced casually at the damage.
“Perhaps you’re right, Mr. Wolff. Security can always stand some improvement,” Shaw smiled, “but if you had come here to kill me, you’d have been dead, eight miles back down the mountain.”
Shaw extended his hand again, and this time Wolff accepted it, returning a firm grip of his own. Shaw spoke again. “Mr. Wolff, these are my company commanders, Captain Gary Jeffs and First Lieutenant John Hagleman. Now that we’ve completed the pleasantries, why don’t you join us in the command hut for some coffee? Lieutenant, please see that First Sergeant Krueger joins us.”
Hagleman immediately left the group and walked across the field, stopping to speak with Sergeant Krueger, who then directed a corporal working with the new recruits to take over. By the time Hagleman and Krueger reached the dilapidated building tucked into the shelter of a stand of pines, Shaw and Wolff were already inside, seated around an old wooden table, and Captain Jeffs was pouring coffee.
“Mr. Wolff, this is the brigade first sergeant, Otto Krueger,” Shaw said.
Wolff gave Otto a long, evaluative look. Otto returned Wolff’s stare, locking eyes until Wolff smiled slightly, and the two men came to an unspoken understanding regarding their respective level of professionalism—and determination.
“Commander Shaw, let’s get right to it,” Wolff said. “I’ve got to be in San Francisco later this evening. Tell me a bit about your brigade and your operations.”
Shaw sipped at his coffee and exchanged looks with Otto. “We’re just a group of good ole boys, Mr. Wolff. We do a bit of orienteering and paintball exercises. Nothing to tell, really.”
“I see,” Wolff nodded. “Well, then, perhaps I’ve come to the wrong place. I was led to believe that this was an active, operating paramilitary unit, led by competent officers—yourself included. You are Jackson Shaw, aren’t you? West Point, Class of ’87?”
Shaw remained silent.
“Look, Shaw, let’s not waste each other’s time. We know your unit has robbed five banks in the past six months, whacked heaven knows how many liberal do-gooders, including two city councilmen, one in Walnut Creek and one in …” Wolff hesitated, looking at each of the men in the room. “Are these men fully cleared for all your operations?”
“They are,” Shaw responded. “Captain Jeffs is also the unit security officer.”
“Fine, then. I’ll say my piece once, and if you have no further interest, I’ll move on. We’ll identify a more capable unit … if that should be necessary.”
“Look, you called me to arrange this meeting, Wolff,” Shaw said, suddenly angry. “What business is it of yours who we are and what we do? Who are you, anyway?”
Wolff smiled back at the larger man and spoke in a calm voice. “I know who I am, Commander Shaw. The question is, do you know who you are? And how important the Shasta Brigade is—or can become—to the California Patriot Movement?”
Shaw and his three men remained silent for several moments while Wolff waited patiently, taking a sip of his coffee.
“We’re listening, Mr. Wolff,” Shaw finally said.
“Good. Over the past few years you’ve received several anonymous ‘donations’ to the cause. Besides the bank robberies, I mean. Am I correct?”
“Many people believe in what we’re doing,” Shaw responded.
“True,” Wolff said, “but few of them have put up $300,000 in the past six months, right?”
Shaw raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“I sent that money, but that was just for openers. If you accept my offer, I’m prepared to deposit $1 million in your Cayman Islands bank account to be used co
mpletely at your discretion. I would suggest a healthy bonus for each of your full-time command staff—including you, of course, First Sergeant,” Wolff said, turning to smile at Otto Krueger.
“Why the money?” Shaw asked.
“Let me continue. You will remain in command of the Shasta Brigade—”
“I’m already in command of the brigade,” Shaw interrupted, agitation in his voice.
“Yes, you are. But in due time, you’ll be placed in command of the entire California Patriot Movement. Eight other militia units throughout the state will be placed under your authority.”
“Just who are you, Wolff? CIA? None of the other units will accept joint operational control, and for sure not from an unknown and unproven quantity like you.”
Wolff smiled. “The quantity, Commander Shaw, as I said, is $1 million—to start.”
“And what do we have to do to earn this … this ‘donation’?”
“Although you will be in command of the military aspects of the operation, I will make the political decisions about what will be done and when it will occur. You’ll take your orders from me.”
“I’ve heard enough!” Shaw shouted, standing abruptly and knocking over his chair.
Wolff remained seated. “As I said, Shaw, the choice is yours. If necessary, we can locate another more suitable person—or unit—to run this operation. What we are proposing will happen, and the Shasta Brigade will participate, with or without you. You can be in charge, and the Shasta Brigade can take the lead … or not. Your choice.”
The two men stared at one another for several long moments while Captain Jeffs, Lieutenant Hagleman, and First Sergeant Krueger remained silent, awaiting the outcome of this challenge to Shaw’s authority.
“And who commands you, Wolff?” Shaw asked.
“That, you will never know. Let’s just say, their objectives are in harmony with yours, and they are prepared to support your movement with unlimited financial resources and the finest weapons to bring all your dreams to fruition, so to speak. And to ease your mind, they are not foreign nationals seeking to take over a part of America. You are not being asked to participate in a treasonous action, unless you see secession as such,” Wolff said, smiling.