A Triple Thriller Fest

by Gordon Ryan

  “Well, having your doctor deliver that bogus brain cancer diagnosis has gone a long way toward helping me to accomplish that,” Wolff said, rising. “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “Don’t think about it, Jean—do it. Oh, and good job on the Cordoba thing.”

  “Yeah. But don’t get on the wrong side of Valdez. The man’s driven by the devil.”

  “I know,” Franklin grinned. “That’s why I like him. Oh, and one more thing. As long as we’re cleaning up loose ends, the top echelon of the brigade has gotten pretty far into the scope of this thing. They know too much. If Shaw is as smart as you say, he’s probably figured out our operation by now. Perhaps he’s completed his … shall we say, ‘term of office.’”

  “I thought the same thing, and already have some ideas,” Wolff replied.

  * * *

  Before entering the Oval Office, Dan was subjected to an identification check and the scrutiny of a metal scanner. The famous room was much smaller than he had envisioned, and so was the president. Standing only five-foot-ten, the chief executive looked up at Dan and Colonel Connor, who were both over six feet tall. Also present were Vice President Prescott and Judge George Granata.

  In that daunting setting, Dan observed that Colonel Connor, while maintaining a formal decorum, appeared at ease in the presence of such luminaries, and they in turn, seemed genuinely pleased to greet him.

  For the first four hours following his arrival in Washington the previous evening, Pug Connor and Dan Rawlings had reviewed the printouts from the disks Dan and Nicole had retrieved from Stevenson’s cabin. The news of Stevenson’s torture and death only served to heighten Dan’s understanding of how close he had come to dying while in captivity. The data on the disks revealed the scope of the election fraud. Though some information was incomplete or misleading, it was clear that the Home Telephone Voting System, created by the Franklin Group, had been the vehicle that made it possible to manipulate the election results. Connor advised Dan that a summary of their preliminary findings had been sent over to the president prior to Dan’s arrival, and that Eastman would be conversant with the issue for their meeting. The president was more than conversant.

  “So, Colonel, this is our young man,” the president said, stretching forth his hand.

  “Yes, Mr. President. May I present Daniel Rawlings, assemblyman in the California legislature, overnight escapee from the militia, and of course, author extraordinaire.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Eastman exclaimed. “Mr. Rawlings, you might think this a bit foolish, but if you would be so kind as to autograph my copy of Voices in My Blood, I’d be most appreciative.”

  Connor had told Dan that the president had an uncanny way of knowing where a person was coming from, and that he usually knew more about someone visiting than that person might have imagined he would. Knowing that a man was likely to surprise you with his words or actions and confronting the reality of such a demonstration when the man was the president of the United States, were two different things, however, and Dan was taken aback at the president asking for his autograph.

  “It would be my pleasure, Mr. President.”

  Eastman smiled at Dan’s obvious chagrin. “California’s been on my mind lately.” He paused, laughing softly to himself and gesturing toward his desk. “And all over my desk as well, but your book has a lot to do with the early development of California. When you became involved in this issue, and I learned of your legislative committee assignment, Vice President Prescott—who gave your book high marks, by the way—suggested I might get a look inside your psyche by reviewing the book. Quite well done, Mr. Rawlings, and I just might have gotten a peek at your soul as well. You obviously love those people you’ve written about.”

  “They’re part of me, Mr. President. I’ve come to think of their influence as ‘voices in my blood,’ sir, as the title says.”

  “That,” the president said, pointing his finger directly at Rawlings, “is exactly what I’m talking about. Like California is part of the whole. Now, tell me, son,” Eastman said, gesturing for all to be seated in his small conference area, “in light of the startling information you were able to obtain, and which Colonel Connor has provided for my review, how’re we going to save this great nation of ours from going the way of eastern Europe after the break-up of the Soviet Union?”

  Dan took a seat on the edge of the couch. “Truly, Mr. President, I don’t know how to answer such a monumental question, but as to obtaining the information, Agent Bentley was responsible for that achievement—I was just along for the ride.”

  The president laughed. “So I understand. Almost a one-way ride, if I’ve heard correctly. But surely you’ve formed some opinions about this issue.”

  “Sir, I’ve had my hands full with special-interest groups seeking to get their view of the world into our draft constitution. And the rub of it is, I don’t want to write it. I don’t want to be part of the demise of the United States as we know it. I abhor the idea.”

  “Colonel Connor has explained that to us, Dan. May I call you Dan?”

  “Certainly, Mr. President.”

  “That’s why you’re here, Dan. Someone, including the governor, holds you in high enough esteem to give you such an assignment, and although I specifically told Colonel Connor to keep you out of his investigative task force, Connor thought enough of you to disobey my orders.”

  Dan glanced at Connor, who maintained a straight face in the presence of the president’s rebuke, however pleasantly it had been delivered.

  “And while most presidents wouldn’t take kindly to being disobeyed, I’ve seen Colonel Connor in action, and have learned to trust his judgment. If he thinks enough of you to bring you onboard, Dan, that’s good enough for me. So, I repeat—given where we are, what can we do to save this nation we all love?”

  “Sir, if the result of the election was engineered, you should be able to expose the fraud, hold another election, and change the result.”

  “How is Agent Bentley, by the way?” the president asked, looking toward Judge Granata.

  “She’s resting comfortably, Mr. President,” Granata responded. “I have several agents with her around the clock,” he added, smiling at Dan, “if that offers some relief.”

  “Brave woman, so I’m told,” Eastman commented, thinking quietly for a moment while all in the room remained silent. “But, back to business,” he resumed. “Hold a new election, you say? Dan, you been in politics long?”

  “No, sir. This is my first venture, other than serving an elected county board of supervisors as their appointed chief executive officer.”

  “Are you familiar with the ‘bandwagon’ effect?”

  “I believe I understand it, sir,” Dan replied.

  “Well, then, you can see no matter how flawed the origin of an issue or political theory, if enough people believe it, or are made to believe it and get behind it, then all of a sudden it takes on a momentum of its own, and bang, you’ve got the truth before you, where all you had to begin with was a lie. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Californians now favor what they think other Californians favor.”

  “That’s about it in a nutshell, Dan. So how do we reverse it?” he said, addressing the room in general.

  Dan responded. “Mr. President, last night, while I was being held captive, I began to understand that these militia leaders see themselves as patriots, much as our original Minutemen. If you look at it from their perspective, if California eventually secedes, they will have been right. They’ll have won, and they’ll ultimately be viewed as heroes. They even view the murders they’ve committed as the execution of traitors, much as my murder would have been, if it hadn’t been for Agent Bentley.”

  “I see,” Eastman replied, nodding. “That does have a sense of logic to it, however flawed the origin. Clarene, what’s your take?”

  Vice President Prescott paused for a moment before answering. “Mr. President, I think you need to go public with it. I don�
��t believe the public bandwagon is as well entrenched as you think.”

  “Yeah, that’s certainly possible,” he said, slowly rising from his chair, at which all present in the room rose. “Colonel, it’s always a pleasure to meet with you. And Mr. Rawlings, if you have a couple of days, I’d like to invite you to stay in town and attend the special joint session of Congress on Tuesday. Would that fit with your schedule?”

  “Mr. President, I appreciate the offer, but I really think I need to get back to California.”

  “I understand, son,” he said smiling. “I’m sure she’ll heal a great deal faster if you’re there beside her. Tell you what—at my invitation, fly back on Tuesday. Colonel, see if you can arrange for our young legislator here to return, at federal expense, of course, and attend the address with you as my guests. Would that suit, Mr. Rawlings?”

  “That’s most gracious, Mr. President. Thank you.”

  “Right then,” Eastman concluded. “I guess that about wraps it up. Colonel, if you’re not needed to escort Dan to the airport, I’d appreciate it if you could stay, along with Judge Granata, for my next appointment.”

  “Certainly, Mr. President. I’ll just see Dan outside and be right back.”

  Connor walked Dan out to the foyer and thanked him for coming.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it, Colonel, but it should have been Nicole. It’s her honor.”

  “She’ll get her due, Dan. Don’t worry. Judge Granata is a very fair man and will see to it that she’s appropriately recognized. Give her my regards, and I’ll see you next Tuesday evening. I’ll have the president’s secretary book today’s flight, and the return next week, first class. It’s on the president,” he said, putting his arm around the younger man.

  “Thank you, Pug. I’m anxious to get back to Nicole, as you can imagine.”

  “I understand. Have a safe flight home. It should be more comfortable in first class than in the back seat of an F-16.”

  “Not to mention an available toilet,” Dan laughed. “Thank you, Pug. For everything.”

  * * *

  When Pug Connor reentered the Oval Office, he was astounded to see Grant Sully, his old nemesis from the CIA, seated on the couch. Judge Granata had been joined by another man Connor didn’t know, but who, by the identification badge on his lapel, was one of the judge’s FBI agents. The president was absent, but came through another door just as Connor took a seat opposite Granata. Sully eyed Connor with similar astonishment.

  The president walked briskly to the group, beginning to talk without taking a seat.

  “Mr. Sully, I’m not going to waste any of my time this afternoon—or yours, for that matter. In fact, I don’t intend to spend thirty seconds longer with you than necessary. You’ve got just three options and exactly three minutes to decide which one you’re going to take. Do I make myself clear?”

  Grant Sully looked nervously around the room before responding. “Sir, I don’t—”

  “Shut up, Mr. Sully,” the president interrupted, his voice taking on a harsh tone. “Just listen, nod, and make your choice, because if I make it for you, you’re not gonna like the result.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sully replied.

  “Now, your first option is to leave this office with Director Granata, Colonel Connor, and the special agents, spend the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, or whatever it takes to purge your cankered soul of every piece of information you possess about the Franklin Group, John Henry Franklin, Senator Turner, and all the other conspirators in this secession folly. Mr. Sully, I mean everything you know. One omission—just one, that we find out about later—and you’re into option two, no matter how much cooperation you may have previously provided in other areas.

  “If you fully cooperate in this exercise, you’ll be allowed to sign your resignation, return to wherever it is you call home, and a United States of America government retirement check will be deposited in your bank each and every month for the remainder of your miserable life. You can also have access to whatever money you’ve been able to squirrel away in any off-shore account from your dealings with Franklin. I don’t give a hoot about that.”

  Pug Connor sat captivated by the developments occurring before him—amazed that the president had permitted him to witness what amounted to Sully’s expulsion from professional life.

  The president continued, pacing the room, pausing to look Sully in the eye occasionally, and emphasizing every point with a thrust of his finger. “Now the only reason you even have option one, Mr. Sully, is because of your thirty-plus years of service to this nation, and because the path you’ve chosen involved a domestic dispute and not an international treasonous act. Were that the case, Mr. Sully, you would hang, as young Lieutenant McFarland did some months ago in Sacramento, or be stood up against the wall and shot, as General Cordoba was yesterday. And regarding General Cordoba’s assassination, Mr. Sully—a most regrettable incident from my viewpoint—we are fully aware of your complicity in the matter.”

  Grant Sully continued to squirm in his seat as Judge Granata regarded him with open contempt. Pug Connor, with whom Sully occasionally locked eyes—as they more than once had locked tactical ideology—tried to appear outwardly objective, despite the expanding sense of satisfaction he was experiencing.

  “Your second option, Mr. Sully, is not to cooperate—a choice that I absolutely guarantee will result, from the moment you leave this office, in your spending the next thirty years in Leavenworth Prison. Period. End of story.”

  The president stopped his pacing and looked directly at Sully. “Am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sully replied, his head now bowed and his demeanor subdued.

  “Fine. Then what’s your choice, Mr. Sully?”

  Sully hesitated, glancing around the room, fear evident on his face. He looked again at the president. After what seemed like several long minutes, he spoke in a subdued tone. “Mr. President, you indicated three options, and—”

  “I lied, Mr. Sully. I lied.”

  * * *

  Once Colonel Connor had completed the first few hours of Sully’s interrogation, held in the FBI’s Hoover Building, he’d learned enough about those involved in the conspiracy to call an old marine association and request an appointment at the Pentagon. He then called the president’s secretary and left a request, which was confirmed by text message while he was enroute to the Pentagon.

  Thirty minutes later, he arrived at the office of the Commandant of the Marine Corps and was told the Commandant would be available shortly. He took a seat and waited for several moments, after which the young Captain advised him that the Commandant would see him. Pug stood and entered the well-appointed office. A tall, erect man in his middle sixties came around his desk and extended his hand.

  “Colonel Connor, it’s good to see you again,” General Tomlinson said. “You’re looking well.”

  “General, please accept my apologies for not being in proper uniform, but I’ve just come from the FBI Director’s office, following a meeting with the president.”

  “Not to worry, Colonel,” Tomlinson said. “Take a seat,” he said as they moved toward a small arrangement of chairs. “How can I help?”

  Pug waited until the general sat and then assumed his seat. “Sir, when we last spoke, when I assumed this presidential assignment, I was unable to advise you of the nature of the mission. But you mentioned that any help I might need from the Corps should be brought to your attention. In light of recent discoveries, I am requesting a particular individual be assigned temporary duty under my direction for at least the next ninety days. I believe he is currently assigned to 1st Force Recon as Battalion Sergeant Major. Carlos Castro is his name, General.”

  Tomlinson nodded. “I know Sergeant Major Castro. Outstanding marine. If I recall, you’ve served with him before.”

  “Yes, sir. He was Gunny Castro when I was company commander in the 15th MEU aboard the Belleau Wood. We had several missions together. I know it’s a common s
tory, sir,” Pug said, smiling, “but without the actions of Gunny Castro, this young marine captain might not have come home alive from our Pakistan insertion.”

  General Tomlinson smiled. “Colonel, you’re not the only Marine officer who owes his life to a competent Marine NCO. Truth be told, there are two of us in this room that qualify for that distinction. Mine was Gunnery Sergeant Dan L. Jackman, over forty-four years ago when I was a green, twenty-one year old second lieutenant in Vietnam and Jackman was a Korean War veteran with three Purple Hearts. He earned two more of them in Vietnam, one of them saving my life. The Corps thrives because of those outstanding NCO’s, Colonel. So, you need Sergeant Castro for ninety days you say?”

  “At least, sir. If an indefinite assignment is possible, I would appreciate that contained in his orders.”

  “Is this by direction of the president?”

  “It is, sir. Verbal orders of the president.”

  Tomlinson rose and stepped to his door, speaking to the officer seated just beyond, then returned to the seating area. Pug had also risen when Tomlinson stood. “Consider it done, Colonel. I’ve just asked Captain Black to provide you with a copy of Castro’s service record. I think his recent academic achievements, if you’re unaware, will surprise you. When will you need Sergeant Major Castro?”

  “If he’s still at 1st Recon, Camp Pendleton, have him remain in place, General. I’ll contact him in the next seventy-two hours.”

  “Anything else, Colonel?”

  “No, sir. Thank you, Commandant, for seeing me so quickly this afternoon.”

  “Call this office if you need something further. The captain knows how to reach me.”

  “Yes, sir.

  Chapter 35

  Oval Office, The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  September, 2012