by Gordon Ryan
Dewhirst held Prescott’s eyes for a few moments and chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I’ve done my dash as a servant of the people. Time to call it quits and let the younger folks take a turn.”
“And what about California, Governor? What about the creation of multiple states? One more election can put that to rest,” the president said, determined to make one more plea.
Dewhirst slowly shook his head. “Madam President, I can’t make that decision for you, of course, but I will have to decline to participate.”
Clarene nodded. “I felt it was not going to be your cup of tea. How would you suggest we handle it, Walter? I’m sincerely asking for your opinion.”
“The division into multiple states is not supposed to take effect for another two years. By all means, Madam President, put it on the ballot again, perhaps not this year, given the shortage of time, but when you do, allow the people to make the decision. I’ll not reveal the previous fraud, since I agree that would potentially open dozens, maybe hundreds, of elections to reconsideration. But I strongly appeal to you not to resort to this kind of deception. Trust the people. Mount a campaign to reverse the decision, explain the pros and cons, but … let the people decide.”
Prescott nodded again. “Thank you for coming, Walter. I wish you the very best in your retirement. California will be hard-pressed to find your replacement.”
“We all like to feel that way, Madam President, but it’s seldom true. Younger folks, people like Dan Rawlings, are always there to fill the gaps. The world moves on.”
“Indeed,” she said, coming forward again and offering her hand. “Goodbye, Governor Dewhirst. It’s been a rocky road we’ve travelled together. Let’s hope the future is brighter.”
Chapter 37
Edson Rifle Range
Camp Pendleton, California
November, 2012
Colonel Pug Connor, in full dress greens, walked the length of the firing line, staying roughly five yards behind the young marine recruits who were engaged in slow fire prone, spaced about three yards apart and facing downrange as they continued in their daily training regimen toward rifle qualification. No matter what their chosen or assigned specialty career field, the Marine Corps assured that every marine was first and foremost a rifleman.
Pug paused occasionally, observing the various drill instructors as they knelt beside each recruit, helping them to adjust the sling, determine “sight picture,” or assure proper shoulder placement of the rifle butt. He could still remember the words from his instructor, a senior NCO at the Officer Selection Course, Marine Corp Base Quantico: “… control your breathing and squeeze ’em off, son, squeeze ’em off.”
Some twenty yards ahead, he saw the subject of his visit. Standing behind the central control booth which contained the Range master, where range instructions were delivered to the full complement, Sergeant Major Carlos Castro watched as the current round of recruits ended their ten round slow fire exercise. “Cease fire, cease fire. Clear all weapons. All quiet on the range,” came over the speaker system.
Castro had not yet observed Pug’s approach and was concentrating on the process in front of him until Pug walked up and stood beside him. Instantly aware, Castro turned, came to attention, and saluted.
“Good afternoon, Colonel.”
“Good afternoon, Sergeant Major. The next batch of expert riflemen?” Pug queried, nodding toward the men who were now clearing their weapons and standing.
“They will be, sir, or we’ll transfer them to the Army,” he said, keeping a straight face.
“Well done, Sergeant. Are you free of range responsibilities? Can you step away and talk for a few minutes?”
“I’m just observing, Colonel. I’m at your disposal.”
“Good. Let’s step over to my vehicle.” Once inside Pug’s private vehicle, the formality relaxed. “Carlos, it’s great to see you again. How’ve you been?”
“Locked and loaded, sir,” he smiled. “I was informed of my temporary assignment to your unit. May I ask where we’re heading?”
“Mostly right here in California,” Pug replied. “Nothing exotic. Civilian clothes stuff.”
“I see.”
“Carlos, let me tell you the summary. This will not be an assignment. You need to come aboard of your choice. From this point on, internal information only. Classified confidential. No further dissemination. Understood?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” he said.
“I have been on a presidential task force to ferret out the secession leaders and see how and why it happened. It’s not the ‘what the people want’ movement it’s been made out to be.” Carlos nodded as Pug continued. “Do you remember when we were on the Belleau Wood, our insertion into Pakistan in ’02?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re going to be doing the same thing … they’re in America, Carlos. They’ve come here, and they’re not wearing turbans. Your thoughts?” Pug waited for Carlos to reflect and comment.
“The task force is by direction of the president?” he asked.
Pug nodded, understanding that Carlos was actually confirming the legality of the operation, just as General Tomlinson had, since it would likely require seeking out and killing enemy combatants within the borders of the United States. “That’s right. You and I are going to form it. Headquartered in D.C. I know Prescott only has a few months in office, but she is putting it in place deep within the Homeland Security Department and has already spoken to the president elect. He concurred, at least initially.”
“How many men, Colonel?”
“Perhaps a dozen assigned team members, maybe a bit more. Both shooters and analysts. We can scour any service, even civilians, to recruit. But in addition to the small operational team, we’ll have access to any SOG unit we need to call on … without going through the Pentagon approval process. Blanket presidential authority.”
“Special operations group manpower,” Carlos muttered. “Seals, Delta, Recon? Anything we need?”
Pug nodded once again. “You up for that, Sergeant Major Castro, or perhaps I should call you Counselor? General Tomlinson told me you had completed your JD last year and were considering retirement. The only Marine NCO with a law degree, he said. Damn fine work, Carlos. This job will still be there, probably even growing larger, whether you’re active duty or retired. Once again, your choice—in or out?”
“When do we begin?” Carlos asked.
“I have a singular assignment for you immediately, but then we’ll kick off early in the new year. If you agree, PCS orders will be cut next month assigning you to the Office of Public Relations, Department of Homeland Security, duty station in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, next to the White House. If you decide to retire, I’ll bring you aboard as deputy director. That would make you senior to any other officers I bring aboard.”
“And my first assignment?”
“A foreign national going by the name of Jean Wolff, or Jean Minards. I’ll have a file on him delivered to you later this week. He’s of French extraction, been in the states most of the past year and working for the man who planned all this secession crap and militia killing. He’s probably headed back overseas as we speak, since this thing has broken wide open, but he’ll be back, you can count on it. I want you to find him.”
“And when I do?”
“I don’t want him back,” he stated flatly. “But first, I’ll contact an old friend in Ireland, and then I want you to go see him.”
Chapter 38
San Francisco International Airport
San Francisco, California
Your name, sir?”
“Jacques Benoit,” he said, handing the attractive ticket agent a French passport.
The woman accepted the document and quickly turned to the expiration date, confirming it valid.
“And your final destination, Monsieur Benoit?”
“Paris.” Or Dubai, Brussels, or perhaps even Montevideo. He smiled inwardly.
“
Yes, sir,” she said, checking her computer listings. “First class, seat 2A. Just the one piece of luggage?”
“Yes, just one.”
“There you are, sir,” she said, handing him a light blue, first class boarding pass. “Air France Flight 83 will be boarding at Gate 36 in twenty minutes, Mr. Benoit. Departure is at six-twenty-five and you will arrive at De Gaulle tomorrow afternoon at two. Is there anything else we can do for you, sir?”
“No, thank you very much.”
“Have a good flight.”
Jean Wolff closed his leather briefcase and walked briskly from the Air France ticket counter at San Francisco International, heading for Concourse B. Passing through electronic security, he continued down the concourse, stopping to buy a copy of the Wall Street Journal and a current issue of U.S. News and World Report. When he reached Gate 36, he took a seat toward the back of the waiting area, beneath the overhead television monitor where Fox News was reporting the latest sports scores.
It had been slightly more than a two-hour drive from the newly designated meeting spot where he had left Jackson Shaw and two of Shaw’s senior staff. They’d abandoned the roadside rest stop two months earlier in favor of the parking lot at Denny’s at the northern-most Woodland exit from I-5. It was now a longer drive for Shaw, coming from the north, but, Wolff smiled to himself, that would no longer be necessary.
At Wolff’s request, three of the Shasta Brigade’s leadership had come for the meeting, hopeful that each would receive his fair share of proceeds. Wolff had exercised extreme caution, wondering, perhaps, whether they had in mind for him the same thing he’d planned for them. But once again, as Franklin had always said, money made the difference.
Commander Shaw, Captain Jeffs, and First Sergeant Krueger arrived at the appointed hour and parked their Jeep Cherokee two slots down from Wolff’s BMW. Wolff walked to their car.
“Glad you could make it,” he said through the open driver’s window of the Jeep.
“It’s not a good time to be public,” Shaw had responded tersely.
“You’re right. That’s why I asked you to come together. It’s time for us to lay low. I’ve brought the money we discussed,” he said, continuing to glance around the parking area. “I think the three of you should get out of the country. In six months to a year, I’ll be in touch again. Instructions are in the briefcases. This is just a setback, Shaw. We’ll be back in operation sooner than you know.”
“Is that right?” Shaw asked, a slight sneer in his expression. “It’s not your name on the wanted posters, Wolff. If my guess is right, you’ll be out of the country in the next twelve hours.”
“And so will you, if you’re smart. What makes you think I’m so protected from fallout?”
“Your kind always are. Just give us the money, and we’ll be out of here.”
Wolff returned Shaw’s stare, slowing smiling and nodding. “I’ve got three briefcases, each with a passport, false identity cards, and $100,000. Think you can live on that for a year or so, Shaw?”
“Back off, Wolff,” Shaw said. “It’s probably five percent of what you got.”
“First Sergeant,” Wolff said, looking past the driver into the backseat, “would you mind giving me a hand?”
“Get the money, Otto, and let’s get the hell out of here,” Shaw ordered.
Otto Krueger exited the vehicle, walked with Wolff several steps to the BMW, and retrieved the three briefcases.
“The black one is yours, First Sergeant,” Wolff said, opening the briefcase to show the money and papers, “gray for Shaw, and the brown is Jeffs’. The new IDs are inside. Do you know where you’re going?”
“We’ve made plans,” Krueger answered, nodding.
“Together?”
Otto Krueger glanced toward the Jeep and then back at Wolff. “Yeah, right. Like I’m going to hang with these losers.”
“See you next time, Otto. You’re a good man to have around in a tough situation. I’ll look forward to working with you again,” Wolff said, extending his hand to shake Otto’s.
“Don’t count on it, Wolff, or whoever you are. I trust you less than I trust them, and that ain’t much,” he said, turning and quickly covering the distance to the Jeep.
From the open window of the driver’s seat, Shaw voiced a few expletives and spun his wheels as he left the parking lot. Wolff’s last view of the Shasta Brigade leadership was of Commander Shaw starting down the access road to I-5 North.
Wolff entered his BMW and drove out of the lot toward the I-5 South on-ramp. He paused at the top of the ramp, looking north toward the tawny colored Jeep. Reaching into his glove box, he extracted the same small transistor control box he’d used while playing golf with Shaw some three months earlier. Wolff glanced again at the rapidly departing vehicle, extended the antennae, and triggered the signal.
The resulting fireball, some half-mile north on I-5, destroyed the Jeep Cherokee and a small Honda Civic that Shaw was in the process of overtaking. After viewing the carnage for a few seconds, Wolff threw the BMW into gear and entered the freeway, heading south toward the San Francisco International Airport.
“Air France is pleased to announce the boarding of Flight 83 for Paris De Gaulle. We will now begin boarding our first-class passengers, if you please.”
* * *
The sunset was magnificent as usual, but John Henry Franklin had come to accept the spectacular evening display as routine. Seated comfortably on the veranda of his home at Sea Ranch, he quietly rocked in his chair, contemplating his losses and the evaporation of his former international political alliances, none of whom had bothered to return his calls for over two weeks. The disappearance of Jean Wolff and the unauthorized withdrawal of over $30 million from the Cayman Island account that had been used to fund the patriot movement were the latest evidences of the collapse of Franklin’s empire. His control over events and people had diminished considerably. But not for long, he comforted himself. As Franklin saw it, money always brought out the best in people, and if nothing else, John Henry Franklin had plenty of money.
“Coffee, Señor?” Consuela asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Franklin replied.
Consuela stepped to the small food cart and poured a cup of coffee, adding the usual two spoons of sugar and a dab of cream, along with the touch of whiskey John Henry Franklin had always enjoyed on these evenings when he sat on the veranda and allowed time for reflection.
“From Carmen, para su placer,” she whispered.
“Excuse me?” Franklin said.
“Nada, Señor. Just a special blend from my sister’s daughter—my niece, Carmen.”
“Ah, well, please thank her for me, Consuela.”
“Sí, Señor, but you can thank her yourself, Mr. Franklin,” she said, pushing the cart through the double French doors.
Puzzled, Franklin ignored her parting comment, thinking she was talking to herself. The woman had been acting strangely of late. Perhaps she needed a vacation, or better yet, early retirement. He returned his gaze toward the ocean, watching as the sun concluded its daily journey over the United States of America. Thereafter, somewhere beyond the International Dateline, and 7,500 miles south-southeast, it would begin its new day rising above the eastern shores of New Zealand.
* * *
At that same moment, Daniel Rawlings and Nicole Bentley were relaxing on the wrap-around deck of Dan’s father’s home in the Bay of Islands. The trip to New Zealand had been prescribed by Dan for the convalescent benefit of the reluctant patient. Nicole had gone to her sister’s home in Connecticut, where she had spent three weeks with her nieces and nephews and regained her strength. Then came Dan’s offer of a trip to New Zealand to meet his father and the New Zealand branch of the family. In addition to almost immediately liking the beautiful and gracious woman, Tom Rawlings had seen the healing that Nicole had brought into Dan’s life, and for the first time in several years, Tom could see that Dan looked forward to his future. The elder Rawlings couldn’t
have been more pleased for his son.
* * *
Shortly after dawn the next morning, the gardener found John Henry Franklin still seated in his rocking chair, dead, with a ghastly picture of a truck full of dead Mexican immigrants pinned to the lapel of his expensive silk smoking jacket. The old gardener failed in his frantic attempt to find Consuela, the housekeeper and domestic help manager, to report the tragedy.
Consuela, now well-rested and content in her comfortable Mazatlan retreat—a place she had acquired from the proceeds of her years of service to her deceased employer—had no doubt that John Henry Franklin had been unable to thank her niece, Carmen, for her unique coffee blend. His kind of devil, Consuela thought, as she prayerfully fingered her Rosary beads, does not mingle with the saints.
Epilogue
Rumsey, California
December, 2012
From the hillside above and behind Jack’s home, Dan watched the clouds form patterns over the western slopes that ringed Rumsey Valley. Looking down the hill at the neatly kept, twenty-acre almond orchard, Dan could see, in his mind’s eye, a six-year-old boy running after a man as they worked to change the sprinkler pipe. The boy, struggling to keep up and to carry his share of the burden, wrestled with the eighteen-foot sections of aluminum pipe, which were not heavy but unwieldy for such a young lad to maneuver between the symmetrical rows of almond trees. Dan continued to envision the scene as the older man watched the lad, his young grandson and protégé, who was the latest in the line of pioneer ancestors who had settled the valley many years earlier.