State of Rebellion pc-1

by Gordon Ryan

  When he could do so unobtrusively, Dan continued to steal glances at the very attractive woman seated across from him. He hadn’t noticed it before, but she was wearing a pair of small silver earrings and a matching thin necklace. The jewelry caught the light from the candle on their table, and the glint framed her face nicely as she sat looking out the window, resting her chin on her folded hands.

  Dan was taken-not only by her beauty, but by the way she carried herself. At their previous meetings-at the murder scene, the National Guard Armory, the funeral, and the restaurant-she had been thoroughly professional. Cordial, maybe, or perhaps a bit aloof, especially in General Del Valle’s presence, but each time professional. So far this evening, she had been considerably warmer and more open. He was intrigued by her personality in that she was very self-assured but not arrogant. It was a combination Dan found fascinating. It was very pleasant to sit across from her and to contemplate having her for a dinner companion. He congratulated himself for acting on the impulse to telephone her.

  After placing their order, they sat in silence, continuing to admire the view. Finally, Dan said, “So, where did you grow up?”

  “New England. My father was a captain in the Connecticut State Police. When I was fifteen, he was killed by a young kid with a shotgun who was trying to rob a bank. Dad was only forty-three and had a wife and three children. The kid got five to twenty and was back on the street in seven years. I hadn’t even graduated from college yet, and he was out, doing his thing again. He was killed two years later in a drug deal-ironically, by a shotgun wielded by one of his partners.”

  Dan listened quietly. Following her explanation, Nicole unfolded her napkin and laid it in her lap. Reaching across the table, Dan gently placed his hand over Nicole’s, and she turned her palm up, underneath his hand, clasping his fingers as she offered a small smile. With their fingers interlocking, Dan briefly remembered that despite his wife’s death-a fact he felt Nicole’s background check must have disclosed-one outward symbol of his previous life remained: his wedding band was still on his finger. They sat for a moment, each looking at their clasped hands, until they were interrupted by three waiters, a particular affectation to the Empress of China, which made their establishment present a restaurant of first order.

  Dan spoke. “Have you eaten here before?”

  “I’ve had several Chinese dinners in town, but not here.”

  “Well, then, Nicole Bentley, this will go into your journal, if you keep one. You’re about to experience the finest Chinese food in San Francisco. . in my humble opinion, of course.”

  “Great-I’m starved,” Nicole said.

  Dan was pleased to see that Nicole ate with good appetite. When she was finished, she pushed her plate away, emitting a small exhale to represent satisfaction with her meal. Surveying the mostly empty serving platters, she said, “Well, I made short work of that. Did you eat anything, Dan? I didn’t notice.” She laughed.

  He grinned and patted his stomach. “I’ll say I did.”

  Smiling, she stared into Dan’s eyes, holding his gaze longer than was comfortable for him. When she saw him become nervous, she began to laugh.

  “What?” he finally asked.

  “What, indeed. What about you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “C’mon, Counselor. You’ve got my Vitae. Let’s hear a bit about you.”

  Nicole continued to look softly into Dan’s eyes, her face framed by her dark hair and highlighted by the reflection of the candle on the table.

  Dan looked out the window at the Golden Gate Bridge, remaining quiet for several long moments. Not once since the accident had he confided to anyone the details, or even the generalities, of Susan’s death-especially not to a woman he was dating. But the memories were always there, close to the surface, and even after two years, still painful. The awful scene flashed through his mind-the bright-green ski jacket, the red hair flying as she danced through the moguls, the sudden veering off into the stand of trees-and the hideous aftermath.

  “We married after I finished law school,” Dan said softly, “and I took a job as deputy county attorney in Susanville, up in the mountains close to Nevada, because Susan loved to ski, and she still had dreams of making the Olympic team. We were married for about a year and a half when she was killed in a skiing accident,” he said.

  Now it was Nicole’s turn to reach for Dan’s hand across the table. “I’m sorry, Dan,” she said tenderly.

  “It’s been over two years, but. .”

  “I understand,” she responded softly.

  The train ride home was filled with quiet, continuing conversation about jobs, families, and California’s secessionist movement. Neither of them felt up to any further in-depth conversation about the tragedies in their lives.

  “When you called, you mentioned that today held a high and a low point,” Nicole said.

  “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” Dan responded. “I thought it was a high-until tonight, that is.”

  “Oh, Mr. Rawlings.” She laughed, turning her head toward the roof of the train car and rolling her eyes. “Methinks thou serves it up well.”

  Dan laughed out loud, prompting the only other passenger, a black woman in a nurse’s uniform, to glance up briefly to see what caused the commotion.

  “Well said, Nicole, well said. The low,” he began, “came early this morning when three of the county supervisors visited me to determine for themselves where I stood on the secession issue. They were none too subtle, and I got the point. Roger Dahlgren, Woodland’s city manager, has been talking to many of the businessmen in town about standing up for Senator Turner and his secession mania. Rumor has it, Roger’s also a captain in the Shasta Brigade. But then, you probably know that already. Anyway, it was clear that Roger put these board members up to the visit. They intimated that my job could be in jeopardy if I didn’t take a public stand in support of secession.”

  “I take it, then, that you’re against it?” Nicole queried.

  Dan looked out the window of the train as they surfaced near Oakland. “Nicole, my family has been in California for over a hundred and thirty years, but we’ve been in America nearly four hundred.”

  “That puts your family in New England with the early colonists,” Nicole said.

  “1630 in Fairfield, Connecticut.”

  “Hey, that’s my old stomping grounds, although a bit before my time,” she laughed.

  “Anyway, my grandfather, Jack Rumsey, is a grandson to the first family member to come west-the one who settled Rumsey Valley right after the Civil War. Jack’s as much as told me that my ancestors, to use his words, ‘would rise up and stomp me, if’n I ever forget that I’m an American.’”

  “Sounds like a great guy.” Nicole chuckled.

  “Usually,” Dan said with a laugh, “but the jury is still out among most of Yolo’s residents, and he’s lived there over eighty years.”

  “Have you taken a stand, Dan?”

  “It’s going to be impossible not to, I think. As I said, I’m an American, and if that requires that I oppose some of my lifetime neighbors. . well, so be it. It’s a choice we’re all going to have to make, isn’t it?”

  “I can see it’s not an easy decision either way. I’ve been looking at it from a visitor to California’s perspective-sort of an ‘I-was-there-during-the-earthquake’ frame of mind. I haven’t thought of it as a decision to be made. I’ve lived somewhere else all my life. So, what will you do?”

  “I know where I stand, but I haven’t yet decided what I’ll do about it.”

  “And the high?” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The other end of your day. . excluding this evening’s dinner, of course,” she teased. “You said there was a ‘high’ to your day.”

  Nicole had a radiant smile, and Dan had been fascinated all evening by the woman behind the FBI agent. It was as if two personalities existed within the same body.

  “Right,” Dan laughed again.
“You know, you’ve allowed me to laugh quite a bit tonight, and there hasn’t been much cause for that for awhile. The high, you say? Well, I received a call from my literary agent in New York this morning. She’s sold my first novel to Simon amp; Schuster.”

  “No! You’re a writer? What genre?”

  “Historical fiction, following an American family through multiple generations.”

  “Any particular family?” Nicole asked.

  Dan nodded. “Guilty. I read somewhere that most first novels are largely biographical.” He smiled. “This family might bear some slight resemblance to the Rumsey line, with some embellishment, of course.” Dan could see that Nicole became more animated while discussing literature, which pleasantly surprised him. It was something else they might have in common.

  They located Dan’s car in the train station parking lot, and the short drive to her apartment went quickly. Dan parked and walked Nicole to her door.

  “Thanks for accepting on such short notice. You know, if you haven’t had the chance to see much of rural California, I’d love to show you the hills around Rumsey Valley. The upcoming season is beautiful, but the valley is especially beautiful during the Almond Festival in February when all the orchards are in bloom. I’d love to show you my home grounds over the next few weeks. That is, if you’re not otherwise committed.”

  Nicole looked at Dan and then, momentarily, down at her feet. “I was involved with someone,” she said, “a CPA with an international accounting firm. But he couldn’t take going with a woman who ‘kills’ people for a living, as he put it,” she said quietly.

  “I’m sorry, Nicole. It was none of my business,” Dan said, embarrassed.

  “No, that’s all right. It’s history now.”

  Picking up his lead, Dan pressed. “And the Rumsey Valley. Is that part of your future?” he asked.

  “That’d be great, Dan,” she said, turning to unlock her apartment door.

  “I’ll call you,” Dan said.

  “I’d like that, Mr. Rawlings. I’d like that very much.” She started to step through the door, but hesitated and turned once again to face him. “As I said, I’ve just ended a relationship I thought was growing nicely. But I discovered long ago that I don’t like the give and take process by which relationships usually progress.”

  As Dan’s brow furrowed in confusion, a big grin crossed Nicole’s face.

  “I know that sounds formal, but what I mean is, I don’t feel comfortable playing the games people use in the dating scene. You know-pretending you don’t like someone until. . well, you know. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” Dan replied, reaching slowly to touch her cheek, then sliding his hand around behind her neck. He gently pulled her toward him and softly kissed her lips, lingering just long enough to receive a response from her as she placed her hand on his shoulder. “I will call, Nicole. And I do like you, no games required.”

  “At the same time, Dan, that doesn’t mean-”

  “I understand,” he interrupted, holding up his open hand. “No games and no intrusions. Let’s just see where it goes.”

  She nodded. “Goodnight, Dan, and thanks.”

  “Goodnight, Nicole.”

  Chapter 17

  Reno, Nevada

  Toward the end of his two-hour drive, Jackson Shaw negotiated increasing traffic for the final few miles, and the scenery changed dramatically. Shaw had always marveled at the fluke of nature that had placed such disparate topography in such close proximity. Cresting the final rise on Interstate 80 East in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, the forested terrain gave way almost instantly to the sagebrush of Nevada and the sudden appearance of the “Biggest Little City in the World.”

  Reno-for years the divorce capital of America-lay within four hours of San Francisco and two of Sacramento. It was a gambling Mecca and a weekend retreat for thousands of Californians who dreamed of striking it rich in the casinos and calling their boss on Monday morning to say, “You can take my job and shove it!” The casino owners made certain the infrequent big winners got plenty of publicity-an enticement to others to come courting Lady Luck.

  Shaw, however, entertained no such dreams. His vision had to do with the power to be acquired as a result of current developments in his home state. In light of the California Supreme Court-ordered election, only two weeks away, Shasta Brigade Commander Jackson Shaw was on a mission. If he had understood Jean Wolff’s intentions, the patriot movement would essentially be declaring war on any federal agency that continued to oppose Californian’s right to independence. Such a blatant, action-filled cry for severance from the Union, according to Wolff, was the way to garner additional support and convince the undecided and undeclared that patriotism, in this instance, was defined as supporting the patriot movement.

  The fools who had perpetrated the Oklahoma City bombing had gained no support for their cause-if indeed there had been a cause-by bombing a federal building filled with innocent people, including many small children. That imbecilic act had brought disrepute to militia units across the nation, and to the national patriot movement in general.

  In the current situation, however, there was a groundswell of resentment being directed against those federal agencies viewed as intrusive and overbearing. This was demonstrated several months earlier when a bank robber who had attacked the Wells Fargo Bank in Sacramento was killed in the ensuing shootout. Nearly as many people had blamed the federal government as had blamed the gunman.

  Commander Shaw, and the other militia leaders with whom he was about to meet, understood the public disdain for the federal government and fully planned to exploit this public perception to their advantage. But first, Wolff needed to convince the other unit leaders that they should coordinate their efforts under a central command structure-no easy task, Shaw thought.

  After parking in the underground casino garage, he gathered his small overnight bag and checked into the hotel. Then he proceeded to a prearranged spot near the blackjack tables and waited. Two tables over, a man stood looking at him, and they briefly made eye contact.

  Shaw had seen Grant Sully only once before, several months earlier, when Wolff had arranged a meeting between the two. Sully had not personally met other Brigade members, and the brief meeting with Sully had taken place at a roadside rest area on Interstate 5, north of Corning. To Shaw’s surprise, before Wolff left them together, he had openly identified Sully as a senior CIA operative, but was careful to advise Shaw that Sully was not part of the patriot movement leadership. Shaw had been astonished when Sully informed him that an FBI infiltrator was embedded in a high level position in the Shasta Brigade. That piece of information alone provided sufficient bona fides to convince Shaw that Sully was trustworthy-to an extent. For all he knew, the next person Sully would reveal could be Shaw himself.

  Thirty minutes after Shaw entered the casino, a third participant walked by and took a seat at another of the tables and conspicuously laid his roll of bills on the green felt tabletop. As a result of their several clandestine meetings and Wolff’s numerous monetary contributions, Shaw knew Jean Wolff much better than he did Sully, but didn’t fully trust Wolff, either.

  When a fourth man crossed the room and gave the signal-a quick display of his registration card with the room number printed at the top-at each table as he paused to watch, the men began to filter, one by one, away from the tables and make their way to Room 975, a suite reserved in the name of Alexander Pierpont, an alias used by Shaw’s deputy commander, Captain Gary Jeffs, when he rented the room. Having watched for a few minutes to see if any of the participants were followed, Wolff was the last to enter. Sully stood to greet him.

  “We’re getting to be old chums, Jean.”

  “You know what they say about politics and strange bedfellows.”

  Wolff quickly acknowledged the other two participants and moved to claim a chair facing the door, though he didn’t sit down. “I thought it time we coordinate our overall efforts and introduce Shaw to the vario
us unit commanders. And Grant, your presence was requested,” Wolff said to Sully.

  “Understood,” Sully replied, taking a seat, but looking uncomfortable. “It’s your meeting, Jean. Where do we go next?”

  Wolff remained standing and began to address the small group. “In two elections, the secession of California has been approved, and we can fully expect this next court-ordered election to produce the same result. Plus, I have it on good authority that the California legislature has begun discussions on how to implement a transition to a republic, perhaps even the Westminster form of government. Much public support has been garnered, thanks in large part to the efforts of the Shasta Brigade,” Wolff said, nodding toward Commander Shaw.

  “The media, led principally by Paul Spackman in San Francisco, has provided favorable coverage, creating an illusion of much broader support than actually exists. Now it’s time for us to take further action designed to incite open hostility toward the federal government and to fuel the fires, so to speak. To accomplish that, tomorrow morning seven brigade commanders from around the state, plus two from Idaho who have expressed interest in our movement, will assemble here in Reno.” Looking once again at Jackson Shaw, Wolff said, “We will then introduce you as the overall commander of the newly reorganized Western Patriot Movement.”

  Shaw acknowledged his appointment with a nod and quietly listened as Wolff continued his background briefing, expounding on the necessity of increasing public support for the forthcoming vote.

  A West Point graduate, Shaw had spent nine years in the Army, being passed over for promotion to major when a National Guard company he was training lost four men, drowned in a Louisiana swamp during a four-day escape and evasion exercise. After much breast-beating and political posturing by a Louisiana senator, the ax fell. The Army, needing a scapegoat, had settled on Captain Jackson Shaw, providing him an official reprimand for negligence and bringing his promising career to a sudden end-an action that had left Shaw with seething resentment for the political establishment.