by Gordon Ryan
“He’s got a piece!” one of the men yelled.
They scattered, running frantically for cover. One dove behind a parked car, squirming into the gutter beside it. As the van sped by, the passenger opened fire with his automatic weapon. Bullets sparked off the pavement and peppered the walls of the housing units. Two of the black men were cut down by the burst of fire, one of them sprawling headlong onto the sidewalk and the other hurled by the impact against a chain link fence.
Tires screeching, the van turned the corner and was gone. The young black boy crawled out from behind the parked car and ran to his friends. One lay unmoving on the sidewalk, blood flowing from a wound in his head, the other lay writhing on the ground, clutching his stomach as blood soaked his shirt and ran onto the sidewalk. A dog was barking, and the boy began to shout for help. The uninjured black youth continued to kneel by his dying friend, crying, and yelling for someone to call an ambulance.
* * *
As the van returned to normal speed and retraced the route to the prearranged point for rendezvous, the two skinheads were hyped, their emotions at a fever pitch.
“Did you see that sucka’s head fly open? I think we got two of the spooks.” The shooter’s legs jerked spasmodically in a nervous motion, and his heart raced, fueled by the adrenaline in the aftermath of the hit.
“Let’s just get out of this van and back across the bridge,” the driver said. Pulling into the alley behind the car, he turned off the key and waited. Headlights appeared behind them, and Jackson Shaw got out of his car and moved toward them. The two young men climbed out of the van.
“How’d it go?” Shaw asked.
“Piece of cake, man. Two dead gang-bangers.”
Unnoticed by either of the two men, Krueger was also out of the car and had moved around behind the van, opening the rear doors as Shaw talked with the skinheads.
“Okay. Let’s get moving. Get your weapons out of the van,” Shaw ordered. As they started toward the rear of the van, Shaw’s muffled shot caught the shorter of the two in the back of the head, and he dropped immediately.
“What the … ?” his friend jerked around to look at Shaw, bewilderment on his face. He never saw the tire tool Otto brought crashing down on his head, crushing his skull and depositing his unconscious body next to his now-dead companion.
* * *
Otto continued to bash the man’s head and upper body, breaking the skinhead’s shoulder and arm bones long after consciousness, then life itself had been lost. Shaw and his accomplice then lifted the two bodies into the rear of the van. Otto resumed his position as driver, followed by Shaw in the car, and they re-crossed the Bay Bridge back to San Francisco. They parked the van near the hangout of the skinhead group to which the two young men had belonged. Before abandoning the vehicle, Otto wiped the steering wheel and jumped in the car with Shaw.
“Clean?” Shaw asked.
“Completely wiped. Are you sure about leaving the weapons?”
“The black gang wouldn’t have taken them from the crime scene. They would know the heat was coming, and they might be matched to the hit. They’re actually a lot smarter than the skinheads in that regard. On the other hand, the skinheads, when they discover the van, will probably take the rifles into their dump of a headquarters, where the cops will easily locate and identify the weapon and match them with ballistics.”
“Neat package if it works,” Otto replied.
After placing the van with two dead skinheads near the gang’s hangout, Otto and Commander Jackson Shaw rode most of the way in silence. They stopped for coffee once and arrived in Redding just before daylight.
“Good night’s work, Otto,” Shaw said. “Now we’ll sit back and watch to see if it erupts.”
* * *
The news the next day carried the story of a drive-by shooting in Oakland that had resulted in the death of two black youths and the subsequent killing of two skinheads, one of whom was brutally bludgeoned to death. The skinheads were suspected by the police of having taken part in the drive-by shooting in the black neighborhood. It seemed clear that they had been caught and killed by local black gang members, then delivered back to San Francisco as a warning to other skinheads. One of the military assault weapons found in the van along with the dead skinheads matched the ballistics of the murder weapon used to kill the two young black men.
Three days later, two retaliatory drive-by shootings targeted at skinheads were perpetrated by a gang of black men, and within ten days, a full-scale race war had erupted on both sides of the Bay Bridge. Skinheads from other cities poured into San Francisco as the call went out for reinforcements.
Commander Jackson Shaw watched all this with satisfaction on television from the comfort of his living room, where he took a call from Wolff one evening after the news.
“Good work, Jackson,” Wolff said.
“Easy pickings. Shall we move to the next site?”
“I think so. I’ve arranged a meeting with the local command out of Angel’s Camp. We need to get the other units fueling this race war.”
“Name the time,” Shaw replied. “We’re ready.”
Chapter 27
California National Guard Armory
Sacramento, California
July, 2012
The tension around the table was palpable, although under normal circumstances each of the groups involved would have considered it a routine, interagency planning session. Colonel Pug Connor, dressed in civilian clothes, represented the president’s task force. Nicole Bentley from the FBI, whose involvement in the task force was being kept confidential in this setting, sat across from General Robert Del Valle, representing the California National Guard. Two members of Del Valle’s staff were also in attendance: Lieutenant Colonel Jack Harman, battalion commander, and Captain Daniel Rawlings, from the judge advocate general’s office.
Connor had called Del Valle to arrange the meeting, and with Del Valle’s permission, Connor requested that the FBI send a representative—specifically, someone familiar with the operation of militia groups in California, and namely, Agent Bentley.
The previous evening, in her apartment, Nicole had divulged to Dan the actual nature of her current assignment, outlining her responsibility to keep all militia units in northern California under surveillance. Surprised at first, Dan had quickly understood her earlier interest at their meeting in the armory during the investigation of Lieutenant McFarland’s execution.
“I gather I was also a suspect?” Dan had commented.
“In the beginning,” Nicole had replied. “Although, I had no reason to suspect you more than others—in fact, less.”
“How so?” he pressed.
“I can’t get into that, Dan,” she said, still unable to reveal the involvement of their undercover agent who had been killed. “I’m sorry.”
Nicole was pleasantly surprised that Dan didn’t display any anger or frustration at the knowledge of her work assignment or her inability to discuss it with him. He had known, of course, that she was an FBI agent, but then, so had her former boyfriend, a memory Nicole had worked to bury. Following the bank robbery, her former boyfriend had confronted her with his discomfort.
“You know I’m an FBI agent. What did you think I do?” she had asked him.
“Dunno, really. I never gave it much thought. I guess I just thought you were, well, maybe some kind of administrative agent,” he had said, stumbling through the words.
“An upper level secretary, perhaps?” she had asked sarcastically.
“Hell, Nicole,” he had blurted out, “I didn’t think you killed people for a living.”
The words had stood between them through the evening, and when he left her apartment, she had known it was over between them. One week later, Dan had called with his impromptu dinner invitation.
Anticipating the planned meeting with the National Guard and the fact that Dan would likely be in attendance, Nicole had wanted no surprises to come between them. But as the time came to
tell Dan of her involvement in the militia investigations, she had become apprehensive. She knew much more about his part-time assignment with the National Guard and the ways their assignments actually paralleled one another. After discussing the matter, Nicole watched Dan through the lasagna dinner she had cooked and while they washed the dishes together. She was unable to tell what he was thinking, but as she was drying her hands on the dishtowel, he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He kissed the back of her neck and nuzzled his face in her hair.
“Do you know I love you, Nicole?” he whispered in her ear, the first endearment either of them had confessed.
Nicole turned, took his face in her hands and kissed him passionately, returning his declaration of love. She was comforted by his acceptance of her chosen career and by his ability to overlook what he might have interpreted as a ploy to merely further her investigation. She knew clearly at that point that she did, indeed, love Dan Rawlings.
* * *
“Colonel Connor,” Del Valle said, “we appreciate your coming out to California and the president’s interest in this meeting. These are trying times, Colonel. What can the guard do to assist in resolving the crisis?”
Colonel Connor acknowledged General Del Valle’s statement and looked briefly around the room before beginning his comments.
“The open rebellion from the militia units has risen to crisis proportions. In addition to the murders they’ve already claimed, intelligence points to their involvement in the current race war. General Del Valle, your troops have been called out twice now to put down what were becoming very inflamed race riots. It’s apparent these groups are using the secession issue to further their own agenda. How does your internal assessment compare?”
Del Valle looked at Captain Rawlings and nodded for him to respond.
Dan glanced quickly at Nicole and back at Connor before responding. “Sir, we’ve discovered that some of our Guard members also have longstanding relationships with local militia units. We know of at least seven guardsmen—two officers and five enlisted—who belong to the Shasta Brigade, the largest and most active northern California militia unit. We believe the patriot movement shares responsibility for the Oakland riots as well as the ATF ambush. We haven’t been able to confirm their involvement in the congressional murders. We did request further information from the guard’s liaison with the FBI, with no success, I’m afraid,” he said, glancing furtively at Nicole.
“I see,” Connor replied. “Agent Bentley, were you aware of these requests?”
“I was, Colonel. As Captain Rawlings indicates, the involvement of several Guard members—it’s actually nine, Captain,” she said, looking toward Dan, “required us to restrict the flow of information until we could ascertain who was and who wasn’t a risk.”
Turning toward General Del Valle, Nicole gained his attention, and smiled. “General, on behalf of the bureau, I sincerely apologize, but I believe you understand. In military terms, we’ve limited dissemination of information on a need-to-know basis.”
Del Valle nodded his assent. “So,” he said, “where do we go from here?”
“General,” Connor began, “that’s what we hope to achieve here today—a direction of sorts. Let’s not mince words, sir. It’s highly likely that we will be on opposite sides shortly if the governor follows through with his decision to implement the constitutional committee.”
Connor resisted the urge to look at Rawlings, even though he was fully aware of Dan’s assignment within the legislature.
“It would seem that the brigade has used, and will continue to use, these differences to exploit their openings and to put us at odds. If the worst-case scenario develops, and the federal military units are brought to bear to prevent the secession, the Shasta Brigade and all other militia units in the entire west will openly side with California. But let there be no doubt about it, General, they’ll rub salt in your wounds, too, in order to exacerbate the situation,” Connor concluded.
“Humph,” Del Valle snorted. “Losers and wanna-bes, Connor, that’s what they are.” Looking over toward Rawlings again, Del Valle queried, “What’s their estimated strength, Captain?”
“About four hundred, General, but a strong recruiting campaign has been underway for some months, and they’re growing. Only about a hundred and fifty members have more than two years’ experience in the units.”
“So they could field a trained and equipped, company-sized unit, with the basis for two more companies at recruit level?” Colonel Harman asked.
“Yes, sir.” Rawlings responded. “Although they’d probably split the experienced men into three, fifty-man units and place them throughout the companies. They seldom go into the field with more than a squad-sized unit. They know they’re no match for a head-to-head confrontation, even against the guard.”
“Maybe, Captain, maybe,” Del Valle responded. “But we’ve got some ATF agents’ families who might dispute that assumption.”
Returning his gaze to Colonel Connor, Del Valle concluded the brief meeting.
“Colonel, we sincerely appreciate your taking the time to meet with us and to share information. I trust the shared intelligence summaries,” he said, pointing toward a stack of manila folders and personnel records, “will assist both sides. The governor has decided to postpone his announcement of the formation of a constitutional committee for one week. But be advised, as much as he’s in opposition to this secession nonsense, he’s more angered at the contingency plans laid down by the Pentagon. And mark my words, if he sees his options being reduced by outside forces, he’ll be forced to choose from those options that remain within his power. I know he plans to contact the president, but California is his primary concern. If it becomes impossible to shift this train onto another track, he will take the throttle and he will control the engine.”
“I understand, General. Thank you for hosting us today. I hope we can continue to contact one another and move toward the same objectives.”
“By heaven, so do I, Colonel,” Del Valle said.
* * *
“Please hold, Colonel Connor. I’ll put you through to the president,” the White House switchboard operator said.
Pug Connor waited for a moment and was then greeted by Vice President Prescott in a hollow-sounding voice.
“Colonel Connor, how are you today? I’m with the president on his speakerphone.”
“Good afternoon, Colonel,” the president said. “Hear you’ve been consorting with the enemy, so to speak.”
“Well, Mr. President, I certainly hope that can be avoided.”
“So do I—a poor choice of humor on my part. How’d it go?”
“General Del Valle was quite sincere, Mr. President. He was cooperative, and we shared most of what we have been able to glean from our respective investigations. This young Daniel Rawlings fellow I profiled in my last written report finds himself in a tough spot.”
“How so, Pug?” Vice President Prescott asked.
“Madam Vice President, he’s been given the assignment to draft the republic’s new constitution, even though he’s been quite outspoken against the secession. I presume that Rawlings is one of Governor Dewhirst’s responses to your meeting with the governor last month. But on top of that, he’s a captain in the National Guard and is likely to be called upon to defend the state house if our contingency plans are implemented and the federal marshals move in.”
“What’s Del Valle’s position if we federalize the guard?” the president asked.
“Sir, General Del Valle advised that although the governor is adamantly opposed to the secession, his options are narrowing, and should federal intervention tie his hands, he’s likely to be pushed into a corner and required to take action in defense of California.”
“Action?” Eastman queried.
“Political action, sir,” Pug replied. “At least to show some opposition to federal intervention.”
“Colonel,” the president continued, “I’ve
got my own brand of pressure back here. Senators from at least six western states have been pushing me to squash this rebellion—as they’re calling it—before it spreads to their states. They tell me the militia units in each of their states are growing bolder as a result of California’s actions. We’ve got to be decisive. And the joint chiefs don’t like the idea of one of their own military units being used against them. They want to activate the guard now and take control. Colonel, until we can see a better route, the federal marshals have their orders. If the governor announces the implementation of a constitutional committee, they will act to enact martial law—and the Army will be in support to enforce.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pug,” Prescott added, “I got your last report. Unfortunately, we can’t use the normal international channels to find Jean Minards—an obviously false identity—who worked with the California elections office. Those reports filter back through your former employer, and you understand that we can’t tip off Grant Sully.”
“Understood, Madam Vice President. Perhaps I can trade for this one.”
“Trade?”
“I could contact Kevin Donohue in Ireland again. Once before, he provided identification of someone we needed to uncover. If Minards, or Wolff, is an internationally recognized operative, Donahue might be able to identify or locate him. I don’t know what he’d want in return, however.”
“Absolutely not, Colonel,” the president interjected. “We’re not dealing with those cutthroats. They killed the vice president, for crying out loud. If I could find them, I’d have them snatched and put in rendition. No contact with these IRA terrorists. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Pug replied. “There is one other option at my disposal. Madam Vice President, I believe you know this person also—Ambassador Molenski?”