by Gordon Ryan
“At the same time, Dan, that doesn’t mean—”
“I understand,” he interrupted, holding up his open hand. “No games and no intrusions. Let’s just see where it goes.”
She nodded. “Goodnight, Dan, and thanks.”
“Goodnight, Nicole.”
Chapter 17
Reno, Nevada
Toward the end of his two-hour drive, Jackson Shaw negotiated increasing traffic for the final few miles, and the scenery changed dramatically. Shaw had always marveled at the fluke of nature that had placed such disparate topography in such close proximity. Cresting the final rise on Interstate 80 East in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, the forested terrain gave way almost instantly to the sagebrush of Nevada and the sudden appearance of the “Biggest Little City in the World.”
Reno—for years the divorce capital of America—lay within four hours of San Francisco and two of Sacramento. It was a gambling Mecca and a weekend retreat for thousands of Californians who dreamed of striking it rich in the casinos and calling their boss on Monday morning to say, “You can take my job and shove it!” The casino owners made certain the infrequent big winners got plenty of publicity—an enticement to others to come courting Lady Luck.
Shaw, however, entertained no such dreams. His vision had to do with the power to be acquired as a result of current developments in his home state. In light of the California Supreme Court-ordered election, only two weeks away, Shasta Brigade Commander Jackson Shaw was on a mission. If he had understood Jean Wolff’s intentions, the patriot movement would essentially be declaring war on any federal agency that continued to oppose Californian’s right to independence. Such a blatant, action-filled cry for severance from the Union, according to Wolff, was the way to garner additional support and convince the undecided and undeclared that patriotism, in this instance, was defined as supporting the patriot movement.
The fools who had perpetrated the Oklahoma City bombing had gained no support for their cause—if indeed there had been a cause—by bombing a federal building filled with innocent people, including many small children. That imbecilic act had brought disrepute to militia units across the nation, and to the national patriot movement in general.
In the current situation, however, there was a groundswell of resentment being directed against those federal agencies viewed as intrusive and overbearing. This was demonstrated several months earlier when a bank robber who had attacked the Wells Fargo Bank in Sacramento was killed in the ensuing shootout. Nearly as many people had blamed the federal government as had blamed the gunman.
Commander Shaw, and the other militia leaders with whom he was about to meet, understood the public disdain for the federal government and fully planned to exploit this public perception to their advantage. But first, Wolff needed to convince the other unit leaders that they should coordinate their efforts under a central command structure—no easy task, Shaw thought.
After parking in the underground casino garage, he gathered his small overnight bag and checked into the hotel. Then he proceeded to a prearranged spot near the blackjack tables and waited. Two tables over, a man stood looking at him, and they briefly made eye contact.
Shaw had seen Grant Sully only once before, several months earlier, when Wolff had arranged a meeting between the two. Sully had not personally met other Brigade members, and the brief meeting with Sully had taken place at a roadside rest area on Interstate 5, north of Corning. To Shaw’s surprise, before Wolff left them together, he had openly identified Sully as a senior CIA operative, but was careful to advise Shaw that Sully was not part of the patriot movement leadership. Shaw had been astonished when Sully informed him that an FBI infiltrator was embedded in a high level position in the Shasta Brigade. That piece of information alone provided sufficient bona fides to convince Shaw that Sully was trustworthy—to an extent. For all he knew, the next person Sully would reveal could be Shaw himself.
Thirty minutes after Shaw entered the casino, a third participant walked by and took a seat at another of the tables and conspicuously laid his roll of bills on the green felt tabletop. As a result of their several clandestine meetings and Wolff’s numerous monetary contributions, Shaw knew Jean Wolff much better than he did Sully, but didn’t fully trust Wolff, either.
When a fourth man crossed the room and gave the signal—a quick display of his registration card with the room number printed at the top—at each table as he paused to watch, the men began to filter, one by one, away from the tables and make their way to Room 975, a suite reserved in the name of Alexander Pierpont, an alias used by Shaw’s deputy commander, Captain Gary Jeffs, when he rented the room. Having watched for a few minutes to see if any of the participants were followed, Wolff was the last to enter. Sully stood to greet him.
“We’re getting to be old chums, Jean.”
“You know what they say about politics and strange bedfellows.”
Wolff quickly acknowledged the other two participants and moved to claim a chair facing the door, though he didn’t sit down. “I thought it time we coordinate our overall efforts and introduce Shaw to the various unit commanders. And Grant, your presence was requested,” Wolff said to Sully.
“Understood,” Sully replied, taking a seat, but looking uncomfortable. “It’s your meeting, Jean. Where do we go next?”
Wolff remained standing and began to address the small group. “In two elections, the secession of California has been approved, and we can fully expect this next court-ordered election to produce the same result. Plus, I have it on good authority that the California legislature has begun discussions on how to implement a transition to a republic, perhaps even the Westminster form of government. Much public support has been garnered, thanks in large part to the efforts of the Shasta Brigade,” Wolff said, nodding toward Commander Shaw.
“The media, led principally by Paul Spackman in San Francisco, has provided favorable coverage, creating an illusion of much broader support than actually exists. Now it’s time for us to take further action designed to incite open hostility toward the federal government and to fuel the fires, so to speak. To accomplish that, tomorrow morning seven brigade commanders from around the state, plus two from Idaho who have expressed interest in our movement, will assemble here in Reno.” Looking once again at Jackson Shaw, Wolff said, “We will then introduce you as the overall commander of the newly reorganized Western Patriot Movement.”
Shaw acknowledged his appointment with a nod and quietly listened as Wolff continued his background briefing, expounding on the necessity of increasing public support for the forthcoming vote.
A West Point graduate, Shaw had spent nine years in the Army, being passed over for promotion to major when a National Guard company he was training lost four men, drowned in a Louisiana swamp during a four-day escape and evasion exercise. After much breast-beating and political posturing by a Louisiana senator, the ax fell. The Army, needing a scapegoat, had settled on Captain Jackson Shaw, providing him an official reprimand for negligence and bringing his promising career to a sudden end—an action that had left Shaw with seething resentment for the political establishment.
Reduced to running a logging service out of Yreka, California, Shaw had long nursed an undiminished loathing of a government so spineless as to throw away one of its most ardent and dedicated sons to placate a political hack who sought only to mollify his constituents and enhance his own career.
The Brigade had answered Shaw’s need to strike back.
“Where does the brigade fit into this?” he asked.
“The brigade is the sharp end of the blade,” Wolff answered. “The Shasta Brigade will lead the northern sector, and you will personally command the overall movement. The other commanders will plan and execute their own operations, but you will coordinate and direct the when and where. We’re going to challenge one of the premier agencies in the federal system and beat them at their own game. Gentlemen,” Wolff said, rubbing his hands together and affecting a pleased expression, �
�I’m talking about the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms crowd. We’re going to bait them into one of their overzealous responses, wound them, make them furious, and publicly display their impotence. And we’re going to do it right before the election in November.”
Wolff watched Shaw and Jeffs, apparently to gauge their reactions. When Wolff had ordered a special-ops action a few months before to covertly research the movement of individual regional ATF agents, Shaw had not flinched at the directive. Now, Wolff was calling for outright military action, albeit guerrilla-style. Shaw, as a trained military officer, understood the risks involved. The brigade, for all its training and enthusiasm, would be no match in prolonged open combat against the military, either reserve or regulars, or, for that matter, against any of the federal agencies’ armed assault or hostage units. Surely Wolff knew that. But Shaw was sure they could prevail in a few isolated, well-orchestrated, unexpected attacks.
He raised an eyebrow and waited for the ops plan to unfold. This was something he had thought about for several years and for which he had long trained his troops, never telling them specifically what potential targets they might engage.
But Shaw had known all along that someday either the National Guard or one of the federal agencies, FBI or ATF, would become their target.
Captain Gary Jeffs spoke for the first time, addressing his comments to Shaw.
“Commander, we don’t have any tea to throw in the harbor and, given the history of the ATF against normal citizens, we can’t even claim to have fired the first shot. But by blazes, we’ll let ’em know ‘we’re mad as hell, and we’re not going to take it anymore,’” he said, mimicking Senator Turner’s rallying cry.
* * *
Grant Sully sat in the room and watched with amusement as Wolff worked his magic. He reflected on his own early days and his skillful manipulation of would-be power brokers in third-world countries around the globe. Sully had been a CIA field operative for nearly thirty years. Even as deputy director of operations, a position from which the incumbent was normally content to direct action from within the confines of the Farm at Langley, Sully still found every opportunity to make his way into the field and deal face-to-face with his operatives. Coming out of the closet as a senior CIA official, however, had not been his idea.
John Henry Franklin, needing to set the hook further into Sully, had shamed him by challenging him to “fish or cut bait.” Franklin had declared the time was past for sitting on the fence, and that if California was to secede, it would need strong, capable men to guide the change. Sully’s knowledge of how to foment insurrection would be invaluable, and his place would be assured in the new California Republic. No stranger to the manipulation and covert techniques needed to maneuver capable men into accomplishing planned objectives, Sully nevertheless found it amusing that he was on the dancing end of the strings this time, while Franklin—and to some extent Wolff—jerked his arms and legs.
* * *
The following morning, with about a dozen anxious, cautious men assembled in Wolff’s room, he opened the meeting.
“So then,” Wolff said, “shall we begin? As we speak, a special-ops team from the Shasta Brigade is conducting the initial research for an operation designed to alert the ATF that something is brewing. I can assure you, the message will be unmistakable. With help from inside sources,” he said, glancing toward Sully, who had been introduced—to everyone’s chagrin—as an intelligence agency operative, “word will filter down to the ATF of a large arms cache, which they will be anxious to raid. To heighten their interest, this arms cache will ostensibly belong to the same group that will have perpetrated actions against their brother ATF agents—actions that will take place early next week, conducted by a Shasta Brigade special-ops team. Nothing inflames a law enforcement officer more than the killing of one of his own. That, and the ATF’s propensity for knee-jerk direct action against supposed criminals, will be their downfall, all to our advantage. We expect this action will greatly increase public turnout for the election, and that the secession question will be answered once and for all. This is how it will work …”
* * *
Daryl Cummings, in company with Senior ATF agent Howard Templeton, left a restaurant six miles north of Eureka on Highway 101. It was early morning, and they had eaten breakfast and were headed back to their makeshift office. They had spent the previous night monitoring telephone calls and visitors, if any, into and out of Room 204 at the local Ramada Inn—a known meeting place for gun-runners suspected of making drops of contraband weapons off the coast of California.
The stakeout had provided nothing of substance during the two-week duty stint, but as Templeton had told the rookie, it would take only one intercepted conversation to open many doors.
As they approached the first stoplight north of town, a pickup truck passed on their left, running the yellow warning light that turned red before the truck had cleared the intersection.
“Damn fool,” Templeton said. “Always in a hurry. Why the hell would someone want to live up here in this beautiful country and pass everything in sight just to pick up a few seconds?”
“Beats me,” Cummings replied.
A second pickup pulled up behind them just as the light turned green, and the two vehicles proceeded through the intersection, heading down the highway toward Eureka. The view ahead and to the agents’ right was of open ground that sloped away from the road toward a sheer cliff and the ocean below. The coast and beach were partially obscured by a low-lying morning mist, but as Templeton drove, he glanced at the waves rolling toward the rocky coast and thought how he never tired of the scenery in this part of the country. Content to grab a few more minutes before they would be cooped up in the motel room, neither man was in any hurry.
When the vehicle behind them rammed the back of their Ford Explorer, the jolt jerked the men out of their thoughts.
“Hey!” Templeton hollered. “What’s wrong with that guy?”
Again the truck rammed into their vehicle, and Templeton stood on the brakes, trying to slow down and get his vehicle off the road and onto the shoulder. When he succeeded in stopping his Ford, a second truck, approaching from the front, screeched to a halt alongside the agents’ car, and two men jumped out, their heads covered by dark blue ski masks.
Templeton instinctively reached for his weapon, but the first man to arrive opened fire with an automatic machine pistol, the rounds striking Templeton in the face and throat. Cummings sat frozen in his seat, his fear overcoming his training and natural reflexive instincts. Reaching the passenger side of the vehicle, one of the attackers removed his ski mask and looked for several seconds at the helpless young man. The attacker was in his late fifties, clean shaven and muscular. Cummings had a quick thought of his father, who had discouraged him from pursuing a law enforcement career. The older man smiled, nodding his head.
“It won’t hurt, son,” he said, his voice calm. Raising his automatic pistol, he released a short burst into Cummings’ chest and head. He then turned and shouted at the truck to the rear. “Shove it over, and let’s get out of here.”
The big-tire 4x4 Dodge Dakota inched up against the rear of the Ford Explorer, and the driver dropped his transmission into low gear, revving his engine and pushing against the rear of the ATF vehicle. Its tires skidding along the ground, the Ford lurched toward the edge of the precipice and then tilted, dropping over the side and plummeting to the bottom of the cliff, coming to rest upside down on the beach below. In thirty seconds, both pickups were gone, parting in separate directions, their occupants free of the hot, cumbersome ski masks.
* * *
“Good evening. I’m Paul Spackman, and welcome to the Six O’ Clock Eyewitness News. Today, in two geographically separate incidents near Fresno and Eureka, four agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms were gunned down as they drove along rural roads outside those communities. In both cases, the agents’ cars were forced off the road, and several gunmen surrounded the vehicl
es, raking the cars with automatic weapons fire. While no eyewitnesses were available, investigation of the sites produced sufficient evidence for local law enforcement officers to reconstruct the attacks. All four agents were pronounced dead on arrival at local hospitals.
“No claim of responsibility for these incidents has been forthcoming from any known subversive groups; however, there is speculation that the recent attempt by the ATF to require increased gun registration on new purchases may have angered militia groups, for whom the upcoming secession issues are paramount. Further on this story, our field reporter Laura Benson spoke with Claude Riker, agent in charge of the San Francisco ATF office. Laura … ?”
Jackson Shaw sat and watched the evening news and contemplated the mission outlined by Wolff six days earlier. If Wolff’s intent had been to inflame the ATF, a broad-daylight assassination of four agents would certainly do the trick. They would be out for blood, and rather than alarming Shaw, that merely served to excite him. Finally, full-scale operations would be the order of the day. The patriot movement was growing teeth, or perhaps fangs, and the Shasta Brigade had finally set about to engage the enemy. If this didn’t incite people to turn out for the election and to deliver a message to the federal government, nothing would.
* * *
Three nights later, it was clear the message had been delivered. Once again, the nightly news, delayed until the early hours of the following morning, dispensed the verdict.
“Good evening. I’m Paul Spackman, and welcome to the special election, all-night, Eyewitness News. Today is truly a historic occasion in the state of California. Ever since the advisory referendum on secession nearly two years ago, followed by the even larger margin of victory the next year in a full-fledged referendum, pundits have been lauding their respective points of view on the constitutionality of the secession issue.