by Gordon Ryan
“And when will this happen?”
“Be patient—the political work needs to be completed first, and that’s already in process. Then the military ops will follow. But it starts today, Commander Shaw—right here, right now, in this room. In a few weeks, a couple of months at most, I’ll arrange a meeting of the other militia units and announce your consolidated command responsibilities. Now, let’s talk about what your brigade will accomplish over the next sixty to ninety days. I think you’re really going to like your orders, Commander Shaw.” Wolff smiled.
Chapter 12
Yolo County Administration Building
Woodland, California
July, 2011
Just over a month after McFarland’s funeral, Dan Rawlings sat behind his desk in the Yolo County Administration Building, reviewing his daily planner, when Pat buzzed him over the office intercom.
“Dan, there’s a Ms. Jean Waters on the line from Waters & Hobson Literary Agency in New York City.”
Dan immediately recognized the name of the agent to whom he’d sent his novel. “Put her through, please.” Before picking up the phone, Dan quickly rummaged through the files stacked neatly behind his desk and retrieved a yellow folder. He pulled out the cover letter he had sent to Ms. Waters when he had mailed off the manuscript for Voices in My Blood.
“Good morning, this is Dan Rawlings.”
“Good morning, Mr. Rawlings. This is Jean Waters from Waters & Hobson. How are you today?”
“I’m fine, Ms. Waters. It’s a pleasure to hear from you.”
“Mr. Rawlings, I’ll come quickly to the point of my call. We’ve read your submission, and I must say, it’s very well presented. I think we can be of assistance in placing your novel, and we’d like to represent you.”
Dan had been deeply engrossed in budget issues prior to the call. He was surprised by the suddenness of the offer, and it took a few moments for him to mentally shift gears.
“Well, Ms. Waters, I’m flattered. I’ve actually done some additional work on the manuscript I sent last month. Uh, could you tell me where we go from here?” he asked, playing for enough time to digest this welcome but unexpected news. For six months, he had been receiving rejection slips from various publishers and agents. They ranged from a penciled note on his returned letter, which said, ‘Nope, not for us,’ to a more polite, two-paragraph letter, in which the agent advised that they didn’t handle that type of fiction.
“I’d like to send you a contract for representation. Of course, I can’t promise that we will be able to sell your manuscript to a publisher, but I certainly have high hopes. It’s well written, the story is compelling, and it’s timely, given recent developments in California, especially if you could add a closing chapter or two on the growth of the militia and the secession phenomenon.”
“Thank you, Ms. Waters. Thank you very much. You’ve made my day. I’ll watch the mail for your contract.”
“You’re very welcome, Mr. Rawlings. We’ll be in touch. If you have any questions, or if you have any occasion to be in New York, please let us know. We’d like to meet with you. Bye.”
“I will, and a good day to you, too, Ms. Waters. Thank you again.” Dan hung up the phone, and less than five seconds after his phone light went out on Pat’s switchboard, she was in his office.
“Well, don’t keep me in the dark. What’d she say?”
Working to stifle a happy grin, Dan said, “She asked me if I’d like the condo on Oahu or Kauai.”
“C’mon, Dan.”
“All right, she offered to represent me. She likes the novel.”
“Great! Absolutely great. I’m working for the next John Grisham.”
“Not so fast, Pat. I’d really like to keep this between us, please. It’s a bit premature to begin getting too—”
“I know, I know. I’ll keep my mouth shut, if you promise to tell me when something happens.”
Smiling and nodding his head, Dan got up from his desk. He reached for his suit coat. “That’s a deal, Pat. I’m going out for a quick walk around the block. I need to clear my head and think about this for a few minutes.”
“Okay. I’ll cover for you. You don’t have anything until your appointment with the county attorney after lunch.”
“In that case, color me gone. I’ll be back after lunch, about one.”
“Okay. And congratulations. I know it’s nothing firm, but it is the first big step, right?”
“I guess it is. We’ll see. But first things first. We’ve got a lot happening, with the board undecided about their stance on secession, even though most of the other counties have already voted in favor.”
“Oh, I heard three of the supervisors speaking yesterday. They want to install HotVote in Yolo County for our local elections.”
“What?” Dan asked.
“You know, HotVote—the Home Telephone Voting system. The state’s been using it since the primaries last June.”
“What is it, exactly?” Dan asked
“Our county administrator wants to know how elections and the voting process work in California?” Pat teased.
“Yeah, don’t spread it around,” Dan laughed.
“It’s absolutely a snap. You dial the 800 number first. The computer prompts you to enter your Social Security number, followed by a four-digit assigned PIN, given to you when you register to vote—sort of like the bank teller machine. Then you’re presented with a question-by-question list of issues and candidates. You know, ‘press one if you vote for Wilson, two if you vote for Johnson,’ and so forth. You can skip any issues you don’t wish to address. It’s great, Dan, and really convenient. They’ve used it in other states for several years.”
“What about the longer referendum issues? Does the computer read them to you?”
“No, silly. You have to put in some effort before the election—that is if you want to know what you’re voting on.”
“Okay, I’ve got it,” he said, an embarrassed grin crossing his face.
“It should make it easier for everyone.”
“You mean the couch potatoes get to vote, too?” he joked as he headed for the door. “See you after lunch.”
“Okay. But next election, you should try it.”
“I’ll think about it, but I kind of like the privacy and security of the booth,” he said.
“What’s more private or secure than calling in from home?” Pat laughed.
“I guess. See ya later.”
* * *
“Good evening. I’m Paul Spackman, and welcome to the Six O’ Clock Eyewitness News.
In a surprise announcement yesterday, the California Supreme Court startled the pundits by remanding the secession issue back to the state elections office, requiring a special, statewide single-purpose election on the controversial issue. A date has yet to be determined for a future election. Senator Malcolm Turner, for whom this issue has been a primary focus since his campaign for reelection, has agreed to speak with us.”
A close-up of Senator Turner filled the screen behind Paul Spackman, and the reporter swiveled in his chair to face Turner.
“Senator Turner, thank you for agreeing to speak to us. Your reaction on the surprising court decision, please.”
“Paul, once again our justices have failed to listen to the people or the purposeful voice behind their previous votes. This court decision is not going to sit well with Californians, and certainly not with those public-minded organizations that have placed their time and energy behind the movement.”
“Senator, are you saying that the militia groups may take hostile action against the Supreme Court justices as they did last year against the Superior Court panel?”
Turner pursed his lips, affected a concerned look, and shook his head. “Paul, I certainly hope that more violence doesn’t occur as a result of this misguided decision, but I don’t know that the electorate could have sent a clearer message. Notice has been served on the bloated, federal bureaucracy that enough is enough. Yo
u’ll remember the line from that network news movie of some years ago, ‘We’re mad as hell, and we’re not going to take it anymore’? Well, that’s how the majority of Californians feel, Paul, and I’m proud to say that I stand with the people on this issue. After all, how many elections will be needed to show Congress and the courts that Californians are serious?”
After a quick camera cut to Spackman’s face, the news anchor continued his questioning.
“Your position is well known, Senator. Can you tell us why you think this has become such a volatile issue, and where we should go from here?”
“There is no reason for the people of this great state to continue to knuckle under to outdated, prohibitive, increasingly burdensome federal policies—policies that have choked our productivity and negatively impacted the growth and prosperity of our state. The people are fed up, and I’m proud to have been in the forefront of this campaign.”
“Thank you for your time, Senator Turner. I’m sure we’ll hear more from you and others on this momentous issue in the days ahead.”
“Thank you, Paul,” Turner said with a small wave.
Turning back to the camera, Spackman continued. “With a special election scheduled, Californians will be faced with yet another decision about the future of their state. HotVote, the Home Voting Telephone System that so successfully saved the election back in November after the state’s computers failed in their tally, will take the forefront in the upcoming election results. That story and more when we return …”
Following a commercial break, during which Spackman quickly reviewed his script, he began again.
“Last November, when an untimely computer failure in the California elections office caused a delay of nearly eight hours in certifying the election results, the Home Telephone Voting system, or HotVote, apparently performed flawlessly. Results from the HotVote system were immediately available, and the totals from that automated voting system compared favorably with the official count when it finally became available the following day.
“We are now joined via satellite by Barbara Fuller, an official with AmeriLink, the company that pioneered the HotVote home polling system. Thank you for joining us, Ms. Fuller. Tell us about your company’s system.”
An attractive young woman, professionally dressed and sitting in front of a bank of large computer monitors, smiled at the camera.
“Paul, our polling system was originally developed to provide subscribers access through their PCs to home shopping networks, mail-order houses, ticketing outlets, and banking functions. In tests conducted over the last few years in Missouri, Oregon, and Utah, it has also proven its worth as a tool to facilitate more efficient and greater voter participation in all kinds of elections.”
“Your system certainly proved its worth in the California general election last November,” Paul said, “and throughout the evening, provided the only figures that were available.”
Ms. Fuller nodded her assent while fidgeting with her earpiece, trying to hold it in place. “As unfortunate as it was to have the California regular polling system go down, we were pleased to have our system in place and to be able to demonstrate once again the efficiency and reliability of the HotVote polling technique.”
Spackman nodded his agreement. “That demonstration comes at a good time for you and your company. With multiple successful elections behind you in several states, I believe HotVote is due to come online as the primary polling system in California later this year, during the regular, statewide elections. Have you been notified regarding your company’s role in this recently announced special election?”
“You’re quite correct, Paul. California voters, as well as the citizens of Missouri, Oregon, and Utah, have taken wholeheartedly to the convenience of voting from their homes over the telephone. We’re very excited and see a great future for the system, which was originally designed to provide voter participation by those who were in some way prevented from getting to the regular polling locations—folks who were unable, because of health or other causes, to get out and participate in our democratic system. And yes, we have been asked, just today, as a matter of fact, to prepare our system to function in the upcoming special election.”
“Thank you, Ms. Fuller,” Spackman said. Turning back to the camera once again, the handsome newscaster smiled at his co-anchor. “Sandy, it looks as if Californians are in for yet another barrage of secession campaigning, and that HotVote will be the final arbiter. Now, I believe you have another story for us …”
* * *
John Henry Franklin sat in front of a massive television screen that filled nearly the entire wall of his den at Sea Ranch. Watching the interview, he mentally began checking off the preparations for the next phase of the operation.
“This is a surprising new development, Jean. One we’ll have to deal with quickly.”
“I believe we can keep it under control. Actually, it was your behind-the-scenes work with Phelps and the lieutenant governor’s office that turned the tables in the first two elections, and of course, coordinating the results with the polling data. We can do it again.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he said, twirling his cigar between his fingers. “And both of those took a bit of arm-twisting and cost a bundle. But that’s changed,” Franklin said.
“How so?” Wolff asked.
“Director Phelps died last week of a heart attack following a drug overdose.”
“Oh?” Wolff said, his instincts heightened.
“We had nothing to do with it,” Franklin replied. “Apparently, he actually did start taking drugs. He was a key insider. But even if he were still alive, he wouldn’t be of much help in this special election. The issue he was so willing to help is history.”
“What was that?” Wolff asked.
Franklin smiled. “There was a particularly important issue during the last election—important to Phelps, that is—about company health and retirement benefits for gay partners.”
“Phelps was gay?”
“Decidedly, although he never came out of the closet. We just got a friend of his to ask his help on this particular issue, and once we got inside his office … well, you know the rest.”
“Interesting,” Wolff said. “I wondered how you’d gotten us inside—officially, that is.”
“So now, we have to fill his void and get back into the computers, and quickly.”
Wolff paused for a moment before replying. “We’ll keep a close eye on those staff members who have the ability to provide information. Someone is always vulnerable to persuasion, either money or force.”
Franklin rose and walked toward the French doors leading out onto the veranda, commenting as he passed the third man in the room.
“After the special election confirms the secession, how do you see the Fed’s responding, Grant?”
Grant Sully rose from his chair near the French doors and followed Franklin onto the veranda. “A lot of bluster, John Henry. Pro and con political posturing, mostly from congressmen scared to death that it will affect their home states and possibly cause the loss of their congressional seats as a result. Still, the investigations will increase. Technically, the CIA is restricted from domestic inquiry, so the FBI has been assigned to investigate and report. They’ve agreed to brief the CIA twice a week, or immediately if something significant develops. I’ll be in that pipeline. Rest easy. We’ve got it under control.”
“Humph. A lot’s at stake, Grant.”
“It always is.”
“Yeah, I suppose. But then, you’ve never fomented an insurrection in your own backyard. You’ve always played in someone else’s neighborhood, and when it blew up in their face, you just pocketed all the marbles, went home, and developed another plan.”
Grant Sully turned to face Franklin. “This time, I’ve a vested interest. This time it’s for real.”
Franklin studied Sully for a moment, then continued. “We’ve never undertaken such a bold plan before. I intend to see it carried out. With t
he help of our Mexican friends and a small, well-directed insurrection from the brigade to bring about the desired public response, we’ll pull this off and the world will view it as a popular uprising.”
“And Senator Turner?” Sully asked.
“He’s beginning to enjoy his role,” Franklin replied. “I think he sees himself as the first prime minister of the Republic of California.”
“And … ?” Sully asked.
“That’s how he sees it, and for now, that suits me just fine.”
Chapter 13
San Francisco International Airport
San Francisco, California
August, 2011
After spending nearly a month in New Zealand, wondering the entire time how the task force was developing and why the president had snatched him out of the CIA to work on this team, Colonel Pug Connor found no relief for his anxiety. It only increased during the twelve-hour Air New Zealand flight from Auckland to Los Angeles. Usually unable to sleep on aircraft anyway, Pug enjoyed even less rest than usual on this trip. After clearing customs in L.A., he hand-carried his one bag and transferred via airport shuttle to the Delta terminal and had a bite of lunch, waiting just over two hours for his connection to San Francisco. The fifty-minute flight barely gave the plane time to ascend and descend before the flight attendant was announcing preparation for landing.
Walking up the concourse from the arrival gate, Pug thought again of what his former wife, Alison, always said about arranging meetings immediately after a long flight. Give yourself time to get to your hotel room and change or get your clothes pressed, she’d admonished. A quick glimpse of his reflection in the corridor from the glass-covered advertisements convinced him that Alison had been right. He looked like a vagrant in his rumpled gray suit.