by Gordon Ryan
Roger Dahlgren, Woodland city manager, got out of the passenger side as they came to a stop. The man behind the wheel also got out to stand by his truck, a lump of chewing tobacco filling his cheek. Dan stayed behind the wheel of his Blazer as Roger approached his window. Nicole kept her eyes on the men and her hand on her purse, situated on the console between the bucket seats in the Blazer.
“Nice day for a drive, Dan. Out to see the almond blossoms?”
“Only a tour of the valley. What brings you out this far from town?”
“Oh, just a few of the guys up in the hills for the weekend.” He eyed Nicole, who held his gaze. “Charlie Paulson tells me you and he had a chat a few weeks ago.”
“I see Charlie all the time, Rog. He’s on the board, or had you forgotten?”
Roger smiled and looked back toward his truck. “Nah. I don’t forget too much. You should listen to Charlie, though. His voice on the board carries a lot of weight, and the city council is unanimous in their support for secession. True Californian’s are behind it also, as demonstrated in November. You’d be wise to step up to the plate and publicly declare your support—especially if you intend to enter the political arena.”
“There are still nearly half who are opposed, Roger, but I’m sure you and the brigade boys are willing to bring the recalcitrant ones around so they can see the light,” Dan replied.
Dahlgren nodded. “Only if they see it’s for the good of California. Of course, I can’t spout a lengthy family heritage in this valley like you do, but perhaps my roots and branches are growing in the right direction. You’d be wise to listen to your heart, Dan. California’s your home and your future, if you’re smart. If you get elected to the legislature, you could be a big help to us.”
“And if we remain on opposite sides of the issue?” Dan challenged.
“The train’s moving. Don’t get left standing around the station when it pulls out, or even worse,” he said slowly, glancing toward his pickup and the driver, “don’t fall under the wheels and get run over.”
“You mean like the ATF agents did?” Dan replied. “I’ll try to keep my wits about me, Rog. Now if you’ll excuse us, we better be moving on.”
“Sure thing.” Roger slapped the hood of the Blazer. “And nice to see you, too, pretty lady,” he said to Nicole, who remained silent. Roger climbed back into the pickup, and the driver made another U-turn, his tattooed arm hanging out the driver’s side window as he drove past. Spinning his tires, he heading back up the valley.
“That,” Dan said to Nicole as he pulled back onto the highway, “is our illustrious city manager, Roger Dahlgren. He used to be a fairly regular guy, but reputedly, he’s now a captain in the Shasta Brigade, and from what we just saw, enjoying his new bully pulpit.”
Nicole reached over and rubbed Dan’s shoulder and neck. “I thought only dogs and wild animals had the hair on the back of their necks stand up,” she said.
“Survival instinct, I suppose. He’s getting quite brazen in his approach. I didn’t recognize the tattooed gorilla driving,” Dan said.
“What say we finish the evening in style, Mr. Rawlings, and you take me for a bite to eat and to the world famous Rumsey Valley Almond Festival?”
Dan looked over at Nicole, reached for her hand, and kissed the back of it. “Anything m’lady wants this evening,” he replied, anxious to dispel the tension that hung in the air following Roger Dahlgren’s veiled threat.
“Well, how about a quiet fifteen-minute drive and the strains of the Light Cavalry Overture?” she suggested.
“I knew you were a smart cookie,” Dan said. “Your intelligence is equaled only by your good taste in men.”
Nicole smiled. “The jury’s still out on my judgment, Mr. Rawlings, but the polling has started.”
Chapter 19
California Desert
Ninety miles east of San Diego, California
March, 2012
I don’t care if it is four-thirty in the morning,” he hollered, “call him now! I want him to see this first-hand. And don’t touch a thing until he arrives.”
Winston Pierce, deputy director, United States Citizenship and Immigration Services, stood in an open-necked shirt and khaki pants, a handkerchief pressed against his nose and face to stifle the odor. The ghastly, overpowering smell, repressed only slightly by the fact that the temperature in the predawn hours had finally dropped, was nauseating. Pierce was surrounded by a dozen border patrol agents and local sheriff’s deputies. The only consolation was the fact that no news media had yet discovered the grisly find.
Parked before him, in an isolated desert warehouse six miles north of the Mexican border, stood a six-wheeled, box-shaped truck, unmarked, with both rear doors open. The interior of the box was illuminated by floodlights glaring from temporary stands, providing sufficient light for officials to go about their gruesome task of identifying—or at least separating—the cargo in the back of the truck. The flies, unaware of the hour, were busily engaged in their own investigation. Invited by their well-developed organoleptic sensors, the insects outnumbered the agents by thousands.
The only ones unaffected by the appalling sight were the sixteen bodies in various states of decomposition, stacked inside the back of the truck. For them, neither the early hour, nor the overwhelming odor, nor the approaching heat of daylight mattered. They were at peace.
Particularly galling to the deputy director were the bodies of a young girl and a tiny, newborn infant, sprawled near the rear of the van. Thinking of his own precious teenaged daughter, Pierce fought to control tears. Many of the other equally experienced officers simply gave up and wept.
When the cellular call was connected to the five-star hotel in San Diego less than fifty miles away, Rodrigo Cordoba, Chief, Mexican Federal Police, was brusquely awakened by the insistent ringing of his bedside phone. In San Diego to attend the same immigration conference at which Deputy Director Pierce was to speak, he had been sleeping off the effects of a night of drinking and was slow to pick up the phone. But Pierce was not about to give up. Nothing he might say in his speech would provide more graphic evidence of the horror frequently associated with illegal border crossings, and Pierce wanted Cordoba to see the carnage firsthand.
“Yes?” Cordoba answered sleepily.
“General Cordoba?” Pierce addressed him, referring to his retired army rank.
“Yes.”
“This is Deputy Director Winston Pierce—from your BCI conference group.”
Awake now, Cordoba sat up, holding his head and looking through blurry eyes at the bedside clock radio. “Ah, yes, Director. What can I do for you this, uh, at this hour?”
“General, I offer my apologies for the early call, but we have come across something I believe you should see for yourself. If it would be convenient, I will have a car outside the hotel in twenty minutes.” Delivered somewhat as a directive, as opposed to a request, the invitation sounded urgent. It wasn’t until he was standing in the shower a few moments later that Cordoba identified the other emotion in Pierce’s voice. It was anger. Pierce was angry, and he was calling Cordoba on the carpet as he might a child, as if to say, “Now look what you’ve done.”
* * *
Precisely twenty minutes later, General Rodrigo Cordoba, dressed in a double-breasted Armani suit, silk shirt with French cuffs, gold cuff links, and Italian shoes, was met on the circular driveway outside the San Diego Marriott Hotel by two uniformed agents of the U.S. Border Patrol. Leaving the hotel, Agent Presley, seated on the passenger side, turned to face Cordoba in the backseat and advised him that they had about a forty-five-minute drive. Then he turned again to face forward. Nothing else was said during the ensuing drive into the Southern California desert. General Cordoba gave no further thought to the conference that was to be held that morning, at which he was to have participated in a round-table discussion on the need for joint U.S. / Mexican police action in controlling the increasing tide of illegal Mexican immigration.
Governor’s Office, California Capitol Building
Sacramento, California
The most incongruous thing about Robert Del Valle’s size, apart from his soft-spoken and caring demeanor, was his ability to fold his six-foot five-inch frame into a Porsche 911. That fact was ironic, since the same physical attribute that made him a stand-out, quite literally, in any crowd except an NBA convention, had, over thirty years earlier as he graduated from West Point, precluded his first choice of service.
“You can’t fit in the damned tank,” his assignment officer at West Point had told him when he tried to choose armor. Assigned instead to infantry, he had excelled at his chosen profession, reaching the rank of lieutenant colonel and eventually becoming a battalion commander. A family crisis involving his parents had required his resignation after thirteen years of service, and he had returned to the family homestead in Utah. Subsequent events led to a move to California, where he had established a now-successful insurance brokerage firm and affiliated himself with the army through the California National Guard. After fifteen years in the guard and twenty-eight years of total military service, he now commanded, holding the rank of major general.
Del Valle lived in El Dorado Hills, in a home that afforded him a commanding view of the Sacramento Valley. Leaving there in his sports car, General Del Valle began the pre-briefing in his mind, unsure exactly how he would approach the governor, with whom he had requested this meeting. The brutal murders of four ATF agents in November still had everyone in an uproar, and the guard’s intelligence section, working together with the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division, had thus far been unable to confirm the identity of perpetrators, although speculation had been that one or more of the newly amalgamated militia groups was involved.
Del Valle rode the elevator up from the underground parking facility in the capitol building, reflecting momentarily on a tour of schoolchildren giggling, pushing, and teasing each other. What does the future hold for them in the newly rebellious state? Had the children in South Carolina and Virginia known what was happening to their country so long ago? he wondered.
Walking toward the governor’s suite of offices, he passed by several glass-enclosed displays, one for each county in California, each displaying the primary products or industry to be found in that county. Taking a tour of the capitol was almost like attending a mini state fair.
“Good morning, General,” the governor’s secretary said. Wearing civilian clothes to reduce the formality of the visit and to allay the suspicions of any reporters who might be in the building, Del Valle had arranged this meeting to coincide with his routine appearance before the governor.
“The governor will be right with you, sir. He’s just concluding his morning staff review.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hansen. I’ll just have a cup of coffee and sit over here,” he said. Three minutes later, several fresh, young faces filed out of the governor’s office, papers and briefcases in hand. Mrs. Hansen stood and moved to the governor’s door, smiling at General Del Valle. “General, you may see the governor now.”
Del Valle stood, picked up his briefcase, and started for the office, commenting as he passed, “Were we ever that young, Mrs. Hansen?” gesturing toward the departing staff.
She looked toward them as they disappeared down the hall. “Not that I can recall, General, but if memory serves, we, too, once thought we could change the world.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” Del Valle allowed. Entering the office suite, Del Valle turned his attention to the governor, who was moving from a conference table toward his desk and who paused to greet Del Valle.
“Good morning, Bob. I see you’re climbing the ladder on Rancho Murietta’s match play golf tournament,” Governor Dewhirst said.
Del Valle smiled and shook the governor’s hand, both men beginning the ritual golf banter.
“Just luck, Governor, and an occasional ‘membership bounce.’ Your side of the ladder seems full of serious players, though. Tough competition, eh?”
California Governor Walter Dewhirst, in his second term, motioned for Del Valle to take a seat and moved to pour fresh coffee before taking a seat opposite. “Some good players, I’ll admit, but we won’t see any real competition until our ladders cross, Bob,” he said with a smile. “I did take the time to check your current handicap. There’s a discrepancy, I think,” he said with a straight face.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Someone seems to have left off the plus sign in front of your three.”
A big grin lit up Del Valle’s face. “I’ll check into it right away, Governor. Actually, I agree with you that it’s an erroneous posting. By the time our ladders cross, I’ll see what I can do to change it to a six. A minus six, that is.”
“You do that,” Dewhirst smiled in return, “and I’ll keep my eight and cross your name off the list anyway.”
Del Valle laughed out loud and picked up his briefcase, retrieving a folder and replacing the case on the floor. “You probably will, Walt. You probably will.”
“So,” the governor began, “got some good news for me, I hope. My peers in nearly every other state have been pressing to know what’s going to happen and how serious we are about this secession nonsense. They know, of course, that citizen support for referendum issues comes and goes in California, but this one doesn’t seem to want to go away.”
“Precisely,” Del Valle responded. “Still, the legislature is going to have to address it more seriously. Since the last election, nearly every legislator has avoided the subject like the plague, speaking in generalities, claiming they’re only doing ‘what the people want.’”
“Well, it’s gonna come back and bite ’em. There’s no escape. We’re gonna have to address it on the floor in open session.”
“And the Speaker?”
“Sheesh, if I only knew. He’s a very private man.”
“Maybe a direct approach, Governor.”
“Our erstwhile Speaker has kept all comers at bay since you were a shave-tail lieutenant. I don’t think this issue, despite the severity, will cause him to change his habits.”
“Can’t you just call him in and see how he stands?”
“He usually doesn’t work that way, but this secession mania is certainly out of the norm.”
“That’s putting it mildly. How about the direct approach: ‘Yea or nay, speaker? Time to ante up.’ Surely this issue’s too big to wait and see where the masses stand, and then get out front and pretend to lead. You know, politics as usual,” Del Valle said.
Governor Dewhirst looked at Del Valle for a moment, a smile forming on his face. Del Valle realized he had inadvertently lumped the governor in with the charge. “Governor, I—”
“No, you’re right. We’ve got to approach this differently. In fact, you’re dead right. It’s time I quit tap-dancing. What’s the thrust of your main subject today?”
Assuming a formal tone, Del Valle opened his folder. “I have some intelligence on the attack on the ATF and we need to discuss how to handle some of the spin-off. If we don’t take a stand and establish some policy on the issue, the Feds will. They’re already moving on several fronts, and we’re not getting much cooperation from the FBI.”
“Anything the Speaker couldn’t hear?”
Del Valle thought momentarily. “I suppose not, Governor. I could shield my sources.”
Governor Dewhirst stood, walked to his desk, and pushed his intercom. “Mrs. Hansen, would you see if the Speaker might have a few moments to join us, please?”
“Certainly, Governor,” she replied.
Dewhirst resumed his seat. “Bob, when he arrives, just shoot straight. It’s time we formed an alliance on this one. My gut tells me he’s as much opposed to this foolish idea of secession as we are. It’s time to get his brain on our team and develop a strategy to keep this state on keel.”
“Governor,” General Del Valle said, continuing his formal tone, “my sources within military c
ircles tell me that the joint chiefs have instructed certain California military units to prepare a contingency plan for federal intervention, should the legislature formalize the secession movement. There’s no equivocation out there. If we march down this path, you’ll find yourself as unpopular in Washington as Jefferson Davis was the last time this was tried.”
Dewhirst reflected on that for a moment then stood as Mrs. Hansen buzzed to announce the arrival of the Speaker.
“Let’s do all we can, General Del Valle,” he responded, “to assure you don’t have to assume Lee’s role. Put it straight to Speaker Huntington, and let’s see where this crafty fox stands.”
Del Valle stood, prepared to greet the Speaker, and replied to the governor, “Yes, sir.”
Speaker of the California Assembly, James Huntington, a tall, silver-haired, distinguished black man who had been the mayor of Fresno thirty-eight years earlier before entering the California legislature, entered the room. Mrs. Hansen closed the door behind him.
“Ah, Mr. Speaker. Thank you for joining us this morning. General Del Valle wanted to brief me on matters of import. I felt it appropriate that you participate. Some coffee, James?”
* * *
“If the ladies would please come to order.”
Matilda Westegaard lightly rapped her gavel, the banter throughout the room slowly faded, and attention was turned toward the rostrum.
“Thank you, thank you, ladies. As you all know, today we are privileged to hear from Mr. Daniel Rawlings, republican candidate for Yolo County’s Eighth Legislative District. Until recently, Mr. Rawlings was our county administrator. He has now announced his candidacy for the seat vacated by the tragic and unfortunate death of our most able representative, Arnold Fister. Only last year, Mr. Fister spoke from this very lectern, and we all miss him dearly.”