by Gordon Ryan
“Just Nicole, please,” Bentley said, offering her hand again to Pug. “Don’t mind Al. It sticks in his craw that my shooting seems to, uh, be a bit more accurate.” She smiled.
“I’d prefer we work by first names, if that doesn’t violate FBI protocol.”
“No, uh,” Samuels said, “we’ve kind of developed our own protocol on this assignment. By the way, Judge Granata just called and said he’s about ten minutes out. And Pug, please don’t be offended if we refer to Judge Granata as ‘Director.’ The casual atmosphere only goes so far, if you know what I mean.”
“Absolutely, Al,” Pug laughed. “Ten minutes until Director Granata arrives, you say?”
“That’s what he said just a couple of minutes ago.”
“Well, then. I think I’ll use the bathroom to shave and clean up a bit. That was a long flight.”
“How about some lunch when you finish?” Nicole asked.
“Great. A club sandwich and a lemonade or a Sprite, if you please.”
Judge Granata was, in fact, nearly forty-five minutes late, giving Pug ample time to shower, change clothes, and have a bite to eat. When Granata did arrive, the four of them immediately launched into a review of the militia activity that had occurred during the previous twelve months.
Pug shook his head. “These guys have clearly stepped over the line, and certainly they’ve gone out on a limb, claiming responsibility for murdering federal judges. But do you actually believe they consider themselves involved in open warfare with the United States government?”
“Clearly, the core leadership does,” Judge Granata said, nodding. “But it’s not as farfetched as it seems at first glance. Let Samuels and Bentley update you further. Though the president’s idea to form an independent investigative task force was new, you’ll be pleased to know you won’t have to start from scratch. The FBI has been on this issue since before the first referendum. We’ve compiled quite a file.”
“That’s what Agent Samuels was telling me before you arrived.”
“Agents Samuels and Bentley will be your direct link with my office. For about eighteen months this has been their sole assignment-investigation of the northern California militia groups. They’ve compiled dossiers on the leadership and have uncovered some very interesting linkage. What you don’t know, and it’s still restricted information outside of this group, is that they’ve an undercover FBI operative inside the Shasta Brigade. Through him, we understand that more bank robberies are planned. We’re hoping our insider can provide more detailed information on timing so we can stake out a few of the likely targets.”
“Do you have any other inside intelligence sources?” Pug asked.
“Agent Bentley can answer that question, Colonel,” Al Samuels said. “She’s had primary responsibility for membership and background.”
“None, unfortunately, Colonel Connor, at least no one else inside the brigade,” Nicole responded. “We do, however, have a fairly complete membership list of the organization-that’s included in what I gave you in the car. At last count, about a hundred and twenty-five fully active members, with maybe thirty hard-core, experienced military types. Of course, total membership is probably five times that number, but most of those have no idea how involved the units are in these killings and robberies.”
Pug leaned back, resting his arms on the side of the paisley lounge chair.
“Nicole, in my experience with foreign groups, thirty dedicated, capable men, or women for that matter, can cause a vast amount of devastation.”
Nicole nodded and looked toward Samuels.
“That would hold true in this case, too, Colonel. Nicole?” he said, nodding for her to continue.
“Colonel, this secession issue, as Director Granata indicated, goes much deeper than anyone had imagined. Popular support exists, make no mistake, and in fact is still growing, but we have reason to believe that someone, or, more likely a group of people, have infiltrated the system in California and have rigged the elections.”
Nicole paused, allowing Pug time to reflect on the magnitude of her statement. Judge Granata and Al Samuels sat silently. When Pug didn’t react, waiting instead for her to continue, Nicole looked at the judge, puzzled.
Pug leaned forward in his chair. “People, let’s get something straight. Ms. Bentley,” he said, looking directly at her, “you, Agent Samuels, and Director Granata should not assume that I am so naive as to be astonished by any revelation that might come forth from an investigation of this sort. Terrorists and fanatics of the kind we’re dealing with here are willing to do virtually anything to further their cause. If we didn’t know that before Oklahoma City and the USS Cole and the events of 9/11, we certainly know it now. Sometimes the motivation is no more than to get one single person out of the way so some other faction can lead. I’ve seen it. And if they think it’s required, they’ll take down a whole plane load of people to kill one person. Granted, domestic origin is a new wrinkle, and one that makes our job even harder, but it’s not to be unexpected.”
Granata settled back into his chair, a sly grin beginning to form on his face. Pug continued speaking.
“The lengths to which unscrupulous men will go to gather wealth and power no longer surprises me, and that someone has seen fit to invade the sanctity of the polling booth should surprise none of you, either. It’s been done for centuries, usually to ensure the election of a specific person. But in this case, it seems clear that a clandestine group has reason to think that if California were a separate and distinct nation, they would benefit. This movement to secede certainly isn’t just because people are fed up with Congress wanting to stick its fingers into everyone’s pie-even though we all know that’s exactly what they usually do.” He laughed. “So let’s dispense with the beating around the bush and the ‘surprise revelations’ about findings to date. Please assume that I know something about this intelligence gathering business. What say?”
Pug paused as Agent Bentley, Al Samuels, and Judge Granata began to smile, looking occasionally at each other and then back at Pug. Finally, Judge Granata broke the silence.
“I would like to think that I always knew, but now perhaps, Agents Samuels and Bentley, you can also understand why the president selected Colonel Connor to head this task force.”
“Thank you, Judge. Now tell me,” Pug said, looking back at Nicole. “What makes you think fraudulent elections have been involved in this process?”
“Following the first advisory election last year, we investigated the death of the director of the California elections office from what appeared to be a drug overdose. At first glance it was clearly a drug issue, but the police were suspicious and notified us because of the secession issues. We haven’t been able to trace the perpetrators any further, but a detailed background check of the deceased showed no previous drug involvement. There are at least two other murders that may have some connection to the election, including that of an assistant attorney general in another state.”
Pug stood and stepped to a small table in the corner of the hotel room. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a couple of folders and several yellow, legal-sized pads.
“If I’m going back to New Zealand tomorrow night, I’d better have more than a good memory.”
“Colonel, there is one other quite important piece of information you should know, given your previous assignment,” Nicole said, as she placed a blown-up, black-and-white photograph on the table in front of Connor. “This picture was taken from a camper van parked in a known meeting site of the Shasta Brigade. It’s a roadside rest stop in northern California on I-5, just south of Corning. Do you recognize either of these men?”
Pug studied the photo for a moment, turning it sideways to get a better perspective of the two men who were talking over the hood of a car, near some children playing in the grass and a lady walking a dog in the background. Pug’s eyes widened a bit as he took note of the familiar characteristics of one of the men.
“The man on the le
ft,” Nicole said, “is Jackson Shaw, the commander of the Shasta Brigade. He normally meets with another man we’ve yet to identify. That man is not in this picture. The second man in this picture-”
“Is none other than Grant Sully, CIA deputy director of operations,” Pug interjected, looking up at Granata, who nodded acknowledgment.
“That came in two weeks ago, after our meeting with the president,” Granata said.
“Does the president know?” Pug asked.
“We’ve told Ambassador Prescott, but as yet, I’ve not personally advised the president. Perhaps Prescott did, but don’t count on it.”
Pug drew in a deep breath. “We’ve got our work cut out for us, it appears, and it means I’ll have to remain even further in the background for awhile. And don’t either of you underestimate Grant Sully. His network goes deep, and despite our jesting earlier about respective domestic and international limitations between the CIA and the FBI, his network is not limited to international. I believe he has an extensive network of contacts within the U.S.”
“Colonel Connor,” Agent Bentley said, smiling, “so do we. Or, as task-force head, perhaps I should say, so do you.”
“Well,” Pug said, stretching his arms over his head, interlocking his fingers and cracking his knuckles, “it’s always nice to be traded to a winning team.”
Chapter 14
Cache Valley, California
Puffing hard himself as they reached the crest, Dan knew that his grandfather, Jack Rumsey, was tiring. They’d hiked four miles from where they’d left the car, most of it uphill, but Jack was still hanging in there. Dan was impressed by his grandfather’s stamina-into his eighties and still going strong.
With several fishing places to choose from, Dan felt compelled to ease Jack’s burden.
“How about Pleasant Lake, Jack?” Dan queried, knowing the clearing where they usually camped was only another few hundred yards distant.
Leaning forward, his hands on his knees, breathing hard and sweating, Jack smiled. “What’s the matter? That desk job made you soft?”
“Not like in the old days, eh, Jack, when the ships were wood and the men were iron?”
“Watch your mouth, kid.” Jack replied. “Why’d you choose this place anyway? We just about fished it out years ago.”
“The truth?” Dan said.
“No, I want you to lie to me, you smart-mouthed pup,” the older man retorted.
“Two reasons. We haven’t been fishing in a long time, and I felt I needed to get away for a bit.” He grinned at his grandfather. “And two, one of the guard officers told me his Shasta Brigade squad would be on maneuvers up here this weekend. I’d kind of like to have a look.”
Jack cocked an eyebrow at Dan and shook his head. “You thinking of joining with the brigade boys?”
“They’ve asked me,” Dan replied. “Several times, in fact. But I have no intention of joining. I just want to see what’s up.”
“And you brought me along for protection?” Jack suggested.
“Something like that.” Dan laughed, dropping his pack.
Jack shucked his pack and stretched his back muscles.
Both men stood for a few moments, enjoying the vista provided by the lake, framed against the coastal range mountains. After setting up a lean-to shelter and clearing a place for the fire, Dan assembled his fly rod and took a small packet of flies from the backpack.
“Second fish cooks, Jack.”
Jack stood stone-faced. “Hope you cook better than last time, young Rawlings. I’m looking forward to a couple days of servitude from the next generation.”
“Better plan on serving your grandson-then you won’t be disappointed,” Dan challenged. “After all, you taught me everything you know.”
“No, son,” Jack replied, slowly dragging out his words as he tied a homemade “Jack Special” fly onto his leader. “I taught you all you know.” He grinned.
Later, Jack lay back and watched the stars begin to appear while Dan finished frying the trout and potatoes.
“Grub’s on,” Dan finally called.
Jack rattled his mess kit and stepped over to the campfire, waiting while Dan flipped a slightly blackened, filleted trout one more time in his frying pan.
“Years ago, I discovered how much better Rainbow trout can taste when prepared and served by someone else. Catching ’em is my contribution.”
“Better shake a leg, Jack. This one’s in danger of burning up if you give me any more lip.”
After full dark, utensils cleaned, and a peaceful quiet settled in around the lake, Jack sat watching as Dan lit the Coleman lantern then arranged the sleeping bags.
“How long have I been bringing you here, Dan?” Jack asked as the younger man moved about with evening chores before settling down.
“Over twenty years, I suppose. I think I was five or six the first time.”
“And before that-before you were born, in fact,” Jack said, reminiscing. “I took your sister fishing in the back streams of Alaska during my years up there. Brave lass she was, too. Kodiak bear upstream as we waded in the water, salmon swirling around our hip-waders lookin’ for a place to spawn. You should’ve seen that slip of a girl-couldn’t have been more than twelve-in her hip-waders. Looked like chest waders, all folded down to her size. Seems like only yesterday.” The older man reached with a stick to stir the fire, then said, “It’s been a good life. No complaints to speak of, except losing your grandmother too soon.”
Dan continued straightening up the campsite, thinking about his grandmother’s death and the struggle Jack had gone through to adjust to life without her. Dan had always been close to his grandfather, but when Susan died, it was as though they added another dimension to their relationship.
Dan put away the last scrap of food, out of smell and sight of any nocturnal animals, then pulled a sweater over his head and came to sit on a log near the fire. They sat for a time, enjoying the warmth and colors of the blaze.
“Jack, you told me some time back you were opposed to the secession, but what do you think is going to happen? What should I expect?”
The old man sat quietly for a few moments, drinking his coffee.
“That what you brought me up here for, son?”
“No. I just wanted to cook your meals, blow up your air mattress, and see to your every comfort,” Dan kidded. “Seriously, Granddad, when I was drilling with my guard unit a few weeks back, some of us were discussing the next election. One of the other officers-a ‘brigade boy,’ as you call ’em-challenged me that one day I might be called upon to decide if I was going to be an American or a Californian. If the previous election results are any indicator, it looks as though we might have to make that choice.”
“You think it could come to that?”
“Can’t tell yet, Granddad. But a lot of folks are pressing the issue. And some powerful organizations-financial and political-are behind the push.”
“And you?” Jack asked.
“You know how I feel about this valley, Jack. And I know what you told me after the primaries-about being an American.”
Jack nodded. “I guess you think you’ve heard all the family stories, don’t you?”
“Yep,” Dan said, looking at his grandfather through the flickering sparks rising up from the campfire into the darkness.
“The twins, Howard and Frank-I told you about them?”
“You’ve told me many stories about how Howard settled Rumsey Valley, but not much about his brother.”
“Well, maybe there’s something to be learned from what happened to them.” Jack reached for the coffeepot and refilled his tin cup before going on.
“In 1828, my great-great grandfather, Tomas Rumsey, was still living in Connecticut, where his family had been for nearly two centuries. He had a scrap with his father about marrying the Hawkins girl, so he took his new bride and moved down to South Carolina, where he eventually bought a small parcel of land and took up tobacco farming.
&nb
sp; “In 1830 they had a baby girl, and then in ’33, they had the twins, Howard and Frank. When the boys were nineteen, they both got an appointment to West Point and graduated together in 1856. By 1860, they were both captains, with Howard stationed in Washington and Frank down in Tennessee. Well, you know what happened in ’61. The boys met at the homestead in Carolina to decide their futures. Their dad, Tomas, was in poor health by then, and they came home only in time to bury him. Immediately after the funeral, the two brothers argued bitterly. South Carolina troops had fired on Fort Sumter, and Carolina had pulled out of the Union. Frank ended up resigning his Army commission and taking a confederate commission with a South Carolina regiment.
“Howard stayed with the Union, went back to Washington, and was later assigned to Meade’s staff. General Meade assumed command of the army of the Potomac in ’63, two days before Gettysburg, and Howard went with him. He was in the bulwarks on Cemetery Ridge when Pickett’s boys, including a South Carolina regiment, came so gallantly across that field. It wasn’t Frank’s outfit, but Howard had no way of knowing if his brother was there or not. After it was all over, Howard wrote a poem about it. In it, he said the Southern troops were the bravest men he’d ever seen.”
Dan sat quietly, enthralled by this new story, potentially a significant addition to his novel. “Jack, I really thought I’d heard them all over the years. Why haven’t you ever told me about this?”
“Kind of a family secret, I guess. Usually the story just jumps forward to Howard Rumsey’s trek west. He was a colonel by the end of the war. The brothers got together once again for a brief time at the Carolina homestead after the rebels surrendered. Their mother had died during the war, and their older sister had married. Howard got home first, and when Frank came back from two years in a Yankee prison camp, he was minus one arm-lost at Chickamauga. As the family version of the story goes, they didn’t argue, but Howard agreed to leave the farm to Frank and left to come West. They never saw each other again.”
