by Gordon Ryan
Uniforms seemed to withstand travel much better. But in his nearly twenty-three years of military service, including four years at the Naval Academy, he had seldom been required to actually wear his military attire. Over that time, not counting the Annapolis years, he had spent only nine years in uniform. Military personnel assigned to the National Security Agency and the CIA tried to blend in by wearing civilian clothes. An assignment to serve on a presidential task force seemed destined to continue the trend.
As Pug walked toward the terminal exit, a young woman quietly fell in step with him. Once through the doorway, she spoke up. “I’ve got a car in the parking area, Mr. Connor,” she said quietly.
He looked at her and nodded. “Ms. Bentley?”
“Nicole Bentley.”
They blended in with the thousands of daily travelers at the San Francisco International Airport and made their way to the parking lot, where Bentley opened the driver’s door and unlocked the passenger side for Pug. Pulling onto California 101, she merged confidently with the traffic and headed north, then handed Pug a manila folder.
As she drove, she said, “My partner, Al Samuels, is waiting for us at the hotel, and Judge Granata will join us shortly. We’ve scheduled a briefing for you on the current status, and tomorrow morning we’ve lined up a helicopter from the California Forest Service for a look around some abandoned Shasta Brigade training sites.”
“So the judge is out here?”
“He is, sir.”
“How are the confirmation hearings going?”
“A bit of a delay there, sir. Politics, I believe.” She smiled, glancing at him. “But the president told Judge Granata there’s nothing to worry about. A couple of senators just want something in return from the president.”
“Democracy at work,” Pug laughed.
“Yes, sir.”
Pug glanced over at the pretty young woman as she skillfully maneuvered her way through the afternoon traffic and then flipped open the folder.
“That’s a list of militia leaders from the top half-dozen units operating in central and northern California, and a background summary on each. Our briefing this afternoon will be more specific to the Shasta Brigade.”
“Fine,” he said, closing the folder. “And Pug will do fine, Nicole,” he said.
“Yes, sir … Pug,” she said, briefly smiling at him again. “My partner called a few moments before you landed and told me that Judge Granata will be a bit late to our meeting. He’s with several of the California justices who wanted to meet with him. His ‘official’ visit to California is a fact-finding mission at the San Francisco FBI office. The press has dogged him since his nomination. He felt he couldn’t fly out without being spotted, so he announced the visit and made it official.”
“So the judge is getting a taste of notoriety, eh?” Pug laughed. “Serves him right. He’s given me the needle over the years when I’ve been stuck in the public eye.”
Granata, fifteen years older than Pug, had often asked Pug’s opinion on issues of the day, and on rare occasions when they had been able to find the time, they’d played golf together. Pug knew Granata was a determined, no-nonsense public servant. Even so, he remained a compassionate man, whose natural impulse was to take people at their word and offer them every opportunity for change.
On one occasion, five or six years earlier, Pug had gone to Judge Granata’s court in Alexandria, Virginia, to meet him for lunch. Arriving early, Pug had slipped unobtrusively into the back of the courtroom and watched as a young female defendant pleaded her case. Accused of violating the terms of her probation, the young woman had been asked by Judge Granata what assurance she could offer that she would not repeat her offense. Pug marveled at her naive reply—one that revealed her limited perspective and her ignorance of the world.
Judge Granata listened as the young woman explained how she was planning to move to St. Charles, Maryland, where, she said, “I kin get a new start, with different folk. There’s no drugs there, Judge.” Granata had slowly shaken his head in amazement, and Pug himself had wondered how the young lady had come to the conclusion that relocating barely thirty miles from the source of her troubles would, indeed, change her life. Still, Granata, with a reputation for fairness, set the young lady on her intended course with a warning that should she reappear in his court, he would have no choice but to confine her for the duration of her original sentence.
Watching her shuffle away, her wrists handcuffed and leg restraints in place, Pug had suddenly felt humbled by the confined life most people led, restricted by their view of the world, which in many cases was limited to a short fifty-mile radius with the highlight of their life being a trip to Atlantic City, or for the more fortunate, Las Vegas.
Bentley parked the car in the hotel basement, and she and Pug entered the elevator. Three days earlier, when Granata had called Pug in New Zealand and arranged this meeting in San Francisco, he’d briefed Pug on the members of the task force, including Bentley.
“She’s been with the bureau just under two years. Assignment to your task force is somewhat unprecedented for one so inexperienced, but she comes highly rated. Her partner, Al Samuels, is the agent in charge of the FBI’s militia investigation in California. Bentley has been working with him for just over a year. His reports on their progress so far indicate that she shows excellent instincts and that she’s learned rapidly. However, the choice of whether to keep her on the task force or not is up to you, Pug. Once my appointment is confirmed, I could assign someone more senior, but they would have less knowledge on the specific units we’re concerned about. Besides, she works pretty well with Samuels, it seems.”
“I’ve been the junior man on a new team a few times myself, Judge. Have you had a chance to talk with her?”
“A couple of times.”
“What do you think?” Pug asked.
“Very intelligent woman, but I don’t want to influence you. It’s your call. These two California-based agents will be key to your success, and you need to have full confidence in them.”
“Judge,” Pug said, “it’s now your agency. In the years I’ve known you, I’ve not yet found a reason to question your evaluation of anything. I say let’s keep her on the team.”
“Here we are, Colonel,” Bentley said as the elevator reached the fourteenth floor. “Room 1426, to the right. Agent Samuels should already be here.”
Bentley knocked on the door, and Samuels opened it immediately.
“Good afternoon, Colonel Connor. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said.
Pug shook hands with the man, guessing Samuels was approximately his own age. “Let’s start off informally, what say?” Pug said. “I’ll be Pug and you be Al. Or would you prefer Alfred?”
“Al will do fine, Colonel, and my partner is Nicole, Nicky, or sometimes Annie Oakley, when she outshoots me on the pistol range,” Samuels said, chuckling.
“Just Nicole, please,” Bentley said, offering her hand again to Pug. “Don’t mind Al. It sticks in his craw that my shooting seems to, uh, be a bit more accurate.” She smiled.
“I’d prefer we work by first names, if that doesn’t violate FBI protocol.”
“No, uh,” Samuels said, “we’ve kind of developed our own protocol on this assignment. By the way, Judge Granata just called and said he’s about ten minutes out. And Pug, please don’t be offended if we refer to Judge Granata as ‘Director.’ The casual atmosphere only goes so far, if you know what I mean.”
“Absolutely, Al,” Pug laughed. “Ten minutes until Director Granata arrives, you say?”
“That’s what he said just a couple of minutes ago.”
“Well, then. I think I’ll use the bathroom to shave and clean up a bit. That was a long flight.”
“How about some lunch when you finish?” Nicole asked.
“Great. A club sandwich and a lemonade or a Sprite, if you please.”
Judge Granata was, in fact, nearly forty-five minutes late, giving Pug ample time t
o shower, change clothes, and have a bite to eat. When Granata did arrive, the four of them immediately launched into a review of the militia activity that had occurred during the previous twelve months.
Pug shook his head. “These guys have clearly stepped over the line, and certainly they’ve gone out on a limb, claiming responsibility for murdering federal judges. But do you actually believe they consider themselves involved in open warfare with the United States government?”
“Clearly, the core leadership does,” Judge Granata said, nodding. “But it’s not as farfetched as it seems at first glance. Let Samuels and Bentley update you further. Though the president’s idea to form an independent investigative task force was new, you’ll be pleased to know you won’t have to start from scratch. The FBI has been on this issue since before the first referendum. We’ve compiled quite a file.”
“That’s what Agent Samuels was telling me before you arrived.”
“Agents Samuels and Bentley will be your direct link with my office. For about eighteen months this has been their sole assignment—investigation of the northern California militia groups. They’ve compiled dossiers on the leadership and have uncovered some very interesting linkage. What you don’t know, and it’s still restricted information outside of this group, is that they’ve an undercover FBI operative inside the Shasta Brigade. Through him, we understand that more bank robberies are planned. We’re hoping our insider can provide more detailed information on timing so we can stake out a few of the likely targets.”
“Do you have any other inside intelligence sources?” Pug asked.
“Agent Bentley can answer that question, Colonel,” Al Samuels said. “She’s had primary responsibility for membership and background.”
“None, unfortunately, Colonel Connor, at least no one else inside the brigade,” Nicole responded. “We do, however, have a fairly complete membership list of the organization—that’s included in what I gave you in the car. At last count, about a hundred and twenty-five fully active members, with maybe thirty hard-core, experienced military types. Of course, total membership is probably five times that number, but most of those have no idea how involved the units are in these killings and robberies.”
Pug leaned back, resting his arms on the side of the paisley lounge chair.
“Nicole, in my experience with foreign groups, thirty dedicated, capable men, or women for that matter, can cause a vast amount of devastation.”
Nicole nodded and looked toward Samuels.
“That would hold true in this case, too, Colonel. Nicole?” he said, nodding for her to continue.
“Colonel, this secession issue, as Director Granata indicated, goes much deeper than anyone had imagined. Popular support exists, make no mistake, and in fact is still growing, but we have reason to believe that someone, or, more likely a group of people, have infiltrated the system in California and have rigged the elections.”
Nicole paused, allowing Pug time to reflect on the magnitude of her statement. Judge Granata and Al Samuels sat silently. When Pug didn’t react, waiting instead for her to continue, Nicole looked at the judge, puzzled.
Pug leaned forward in his chair. “People, let’s get something straight. Ms. Bentley,” he said, looking directly at her, “you, Agent Samuels, and Director Granata should not assume that I am so naive as to be astonished by any revelation that might come forth from an investigation of this sort. Terrorists and fanatics of the kind we’re dealing with here are willing to do virtually anything to further their cause. If we didn’t know that before Oklahoma City and the USS Cole and the events of 9/11, we certainly know it now. Sometimes the motivation is no more than to get one single person out of the way so some other faction can lead. I’ve seen it. And if they think it’s required, they’ll take down a whole plane load of people to kill one person. Granted, domestic origin is a new wrinkle, and one that makes our job even harder, but it’s not to be unexpected.”
Granata settled back into his chair, a sly grin beginning to form on his face. Pug continued speaking.
“The lengths to which unscrupulous men will go to gather wealth and power no longer surprises me, and that someone has seen fit to invade the sanctity of the polling booth should surprise none of you, either. It’s been done for centuries, usually to ensure the election of a specific person. But in this case, it seems clear that a clandestine group has reason to think that if California were a separate and distinct nation, they would benefit. This movement to secede certainly isn’t just because people are fed up with Congress wanting to stick its fingers into everyone’s pie—even though we all know that’s exactly what they usually do.” He laughed. “So let’s dispense with the beating around the bush and the ‘surprise revelations’ about findings to date. Please assume that I know something about this intelligence gathering business. What say?”
Pug paused as Agent Bentley, Al Samuels, and Judge Granata began to smile, looking occasionally at each other and then back at Pug. Finally, Judge Granata broke the silence.
“I would like to think that I always knew, but now perhaps, Agents Samuels and Bentley, you can also understand why the president selected Colonel Connor to head this task force.”
“Thank you, Judge. Now tell me,” Pug said, looking back at Nicole. “What makes you think fraudulent elections have been involved in this process?”
“Following the first advisory election last year, we investigated the death of the director of the California elections office from what appeared to be a drug overdose. At first glance it was clearly a drug issue, but the police were suspicious and notified us because of the secession issues. We haven’t been able to trace the perpetrators any further, but a detailed background check of the deceased showed no previous drug involvement. There are at least two other murders that may have some connection to the election, including that of an assistant attorney general in another state.”
Pug stood and stepped to a small table in the corner of the hotel room. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a couple of folders and several yellow, legal-sized pads.
“If I’m going back to New Zealand tomorrow night, I’d better have more than a good memory.”
“Colonel, there is one other quite important piece of information you should know, given your previous assignment,” Nicole said, as she placed a blown-up, black-and-white photograph on the table in front of Connor. “This picture was taken from a camper van parked in a known meeting site of the Shasta Brigade. It’s a roadside rest stop in northern California on I-5, just south of Corning. Do you recognize either of these men?”
Pug studied the photo for a moment, turning it sideways to get a better perspective of the two men who were talking over the hood of a car, near some children playing in the grass and a lady walking a dog in the background. Pug’s eyes widened a bit as he took note of the familiar characteristics of one of the men.
“The man on the left,” Nicole said, “is Jackson Shaw, the commander of the Shasta Brigade. He normally meets with another man we’ve yet to identify. That man is not in this picture. The second man in this picture—”
“Is none other than Grant Sully, CIA deputy director of operations,” Pug interjected, looking up at Granata, who nodded acknowledgment.
“That came in two weeks ago, after our meeting with the president,” Granata said.
“Does the president know?” Pug asked.
“We’ve told Ambassador Prescott, but as yet, I’ve not personally advised the president. Perhaps Prescott did, but don’t count on it.”
Pug drew in a deep breath. “We’ve got our work cut out for us, it appears, and it means I’ll have to remain even further in the background for awhile. And don’t either of you underestimate Grant Sully. His network goes deep, and despite our jesting earlier about respective domestic and international limitations between the CIA and the FBI, his network is not limited to international. I believe he has an extensive network of contacts within the U.S.”
“Colonel Connor,” Agent
Bentley said, smiling, “so do we. Or, as task-force head, perhaps I should say, so do you.”
“Well,” Pug said, stretching his arms over his head, interlocking his fingers and cracking his knuckles, “it’s always nice to be traded to a winning team.”
Chapter 14
Cache Valley, California
Puffing hard himself as they reached the crest, Dan knew that his grandfather, Jack Rumsey, was tiring. They’d hiked four miles from where they’d left the car, most of it uphill, but Jack was still hanging in there. Dan was impressed by his grandfather’s stamina—into his eighties and still going strong.
With several fishing places to choose from, Dan felt compelled to ease Jack’s burden.
“How about Pleasant Lake, Jack?” Dan queried, knowing the clearing where they usually camped was only another few hundred yards distant.
Leaning forward, his hands on his knees, breathing hard and sweating, Jack smiled. “What’s the matter? That desk job made you soft?”
“Not like in the old days, eh, Jack, when the ships were wood and the men were iron?”
“Watch your mouth, kid.” Jack replied. “Why’d you choose this place anyway? We just about fished it out years ago.”
“The truth?” Dan said.
“No, I want you to lie to me, you smart-mouthed pup,” the older man retorted.
“Two reasons. We haven’t been fishing in a long time, and I felt I needed to get away for a bit.” He grinned at his grandfather. “And two, one of the guard officers told me his Shasta Brigade squad would be on maneuvers up here this weekend. I’d kind of like to have a look.”
Jack cocked an eyebrow at Dan and shook his head. “You thinking of joining with the brigade boys?”
“They’ve asked me,” Dan replied. “Several times, in fact. But I have no intention of joining. I just want to see what’s up.”
“And you brought me along for protection?” Jack suggested.
“Something like that.” Dan laughed, dropping his pack.