State of Rebellion pc-1

by Gordon Ryan

  “It’s a never-ending process, as you well know. You’ve settled into your new surroundings well.”

  “So it would seem,” Dan replied, looking around the room, books and papers strewn about. “I’ve got to admit, though-I miss some of the trappings of county administration.”

  “Your old deputy, Jim Thompson, is doing a good job as acting administrator in your absence, but I hear he’s considering going back to Wyoming.”

  “Oh?” Dan feigned ignorance. Thompson had called Dan several weeks earlier to advise of the same thing. He’d been reluctant to join the secession bandwagon Dahlgren was pushing in Woodland, and the board of supervisors had him up against the wall, withholding appointment as administrator until he voiced support for secession.

  “It ain’t worth it, Dan,” he’d said. “Dahlgren’s got these guys dancing on a string, and if I’m not careful, they’ll put me on a string too-or more likely a necktie party like the old days back in Wyoming. Back to the hills for me, ole buddy. If you’ll recall, I’m just a guest here in sunny California.”

  But Dan could tell his friend was really worried and that the pressure to conform had been getting to him. Dan had considered offering Thompson a position on his staff, but the cowboy had his mind made up to return to Wyoming where he had some good job prospects.

  Dan turned to Shaw, who as yet hadn’t spoken other than to greet Dan.

  “Mr. Shaw, how can I be of assistance this morning?”

  “I feel certain you know why we’ve come, Mr. Rawlings. We represent certain patriotic interests in northern California and have come to ask your support for our requests-in your new constitutional document, that is.”

  “What, specifically, would those interests be?”

  “Mr. Rawlings, let’s not beat around the bush. Other than the occasional criminal-who the average Joe meets less frequently than some would have us believe-most citizens have more to fear from overbearing government or police. We want to ensure that our new California constitution has, as one of its tenets, a guarantee that its citizens have a right to bear arms.”

  “An armed camp, as it were. A citizen militia?”

  “A well-regulated militia, Mr. Rawlings, like it says in the other Constitution-or haven’t you read that part yet? Your novel makes no bones about it. Your pioneers understood what an overbearing government can be like, didn’t they? Didn’t you learn anything from them? It’s time you found some of their courage and got off the fence.”

  Dan could see the thinly veiled anger evident in Shaw’s face. Dan knew his loathing of his visitors was too close to the surface as well, and decided to calm the situation before it got out of hand.

  “Mr. Shaw, in light of recent events and the disaster of the federal intrusion, you clearly have ample justification for your concerns. I would be the first to admit that an informed, and when necessary, armed citizenry is what made America what it is today. Do you have a proposed draft of what you’d like to see included in our document?”

  “It so happens we do, Mr. Rawlings. We’ll just leave this with you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, Mr. Shaw,” Dan said, taking the several pages Shaw handed him, placing them in a folder marked “Second Amendment.” Dan dropped the folder on a stack of folders piled on the corner of his desk, intent on showing Shaw the stack. He smiled at Shaw and Roger Dahlgren. “Others have been here, too, with their interests.”

  Shaw’s eyes took in the stack, and Dan could see he didn’t like the idea of his recommendation taking its place in line with education, welfare, medical issues, and the myriad other concerns that had been submitted to the constitutional committee.

  “Mr. Shaw, please don’t lose heart over this. I understand your concerns, and we all recognize that this issue has its basis in the unreasonable burden the federal government has placed on the states. This issue is important to me, too, Mr. Shaw.” Dan rose from behind his desk, coming out to shake Shaw’s hand. “Nice to see you again, Roger,” he commented. “Keep Woodland green, will you? I kind of have an affinity for the ‘City of Trees.’”

  “Thought you might. By the way, Dan, you ought to come up and see our weekend maneuvers some time. You might enjoy the experience.”

  Dan waved his arm at the stack of folders on his desk. “Better you come down here, Roger, and help me dig into this pile.”

  “Any time, as long as I get to draft the ‘right to bear arms’ clauses,” he added.

  “Right.” Dan laughed. “Thanks for coming, both of you. I’ll be in touch.”

  John Henry Franklin’s direct phone call to Jean Wolff’s home was unusual. Even though Wolff had been a permanent member of Franklin’s staff for the last several years, other directors knew nothing about his duties and considered him primarily a security officer. Franklin was usually more discreet than to call him at home, so Wolff knew it was important.

  Riding the private elevator to Franklin’s top-floor San Francisco suite, Wolff assumed the controlled demeanor he generally displayed in Franklin’s presence. As the elevator door opened, Franklin greeted Wolff. Jean was fully aware that Franklin had watched him on closed-circuit TV as he came into the building and entered the security code necessary to operate the private elevator.

  “Good you were able to make it, Jean. Have a seat. Drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Franklin got right to it. “Two hours ago, I received a call from Grant Sully. He was unable to elaborate, but General Cordoba has been to meet with the director of the FBI.”

  Wolff remained calm. “Cordoba’s knowledge is limited, John Henry. And the FBI is, after all, his counterpart agency in the States.”

  “Yeah, but he’s not a dummy. We can’t assume it’s coincidental. We must consider that he’s revealed what he knows, and maybe the FBI put the rest together. He’s served his usefulness, Jean. Take care of him before it goes any further.”

  “I understand, John Henry,” Wolff said, rising. “Something that has come up recently may be just the ticket. May I use your phone?”

  Franklin’s face assumed a quizzical expression, but he nodded toward the desk. Wolff picked up the receiver, glanced at a card he took from his wallet, and dialed a number.

  “Buenas noches, amigo,” Wolff said, as Franklin watched.

  “Do you still have our friend under wraps?” he asked. “Right. Hold him. I’ll be there in the morning. Oh, and Joaquin. Keep him scared, but don’t injure him. . Okay. . See you then.”

  Wolff replaced the phone and turned toward John Henry. “I’ll take that drink now.”

  Franklin poured Wolff’s drink, and by a slight inclination of his head, sought explanation.

  “Last night, one of our employment farms caught a wetback trying to sneak into the compound. Claims he was after the guy he’d paid to get his family across. Something about getting them killed. We were going to dump him off somewhere, but I think I have a better use for him. I’ll see him in the morning and decide if he’s suitable.”

  Franklin waved an impatient hand. “Take care of Cordoba, Jean. If he’s on to anything, he could cause problems. Mexico is already being pressured by the U.S. State Department to rescind the diplomatic recognition they’ve extended to California.”

  “Can I contact General Valdez for assistance?”

  “Good thought. I’ll call him and let him know you’re coming.”

  Wolff downed his drink and turned to leave. “How’d Sully come across this information?”

  “He said his field agent in Mexico sent it in the courier pouch eight days ago, but it wasn’t marked urgent, so it flowed like molasses.”

  “Bureaucracy. It can be our friend as well as our enemy. I’d better move, John Henry. I’ve got a long drive to reach Bakersfield by morning.”

  “Hold on. There’s another issue.”

  Wolff paused and waited.

  “It has come to my attention that our newest Director of Elections, Stevenson, has a shadow. A federal shadow.”


  Wolff considered the thought for a moment and nodded. “Not unexpected. The previous two directors have met with unfortunate circumstances.”

  “Just keep close tabs on him, Jean. He could still upset the applecart. And by the way, how did Shaw get on with the Rawlings fellow?”

  “He distrusts him. Thinks he’s still opposed to the secession.”

  “But he’s writing the new California constitution, with the help of my high-priced lawyers, no less.”

  Wolff nodded agreement. “Possibly he’s a camel in the tent, as the Arabs would say.”

  Franklin took several steps across the room and picked up a thick manila folder, waving it at Wolff. “This is the document I expect to get out of Rawlings’ office, with his endorsement.” He slammed the folder down on the desktop. “If it doesn’t look like this version will become part of the new constitution-and I mean soon-California will be looking for another assemblyman from the Eighth District. Do you understand me?”

  “Completely.”

  “Good. Now see to Cordoba.”

  Chapter 32

  California Legislature

  Sacramento, California

  Dan was just shutting down his computer terminal when his private line rang. He logged off and reached for the handset. “Dan Rawlings.”

  “Hi, Dan,” Nicole said. “I’m in Sacramento, and I need some help.”

  “Are you a voter in the Eighth Legislative District?” he teased.

  “Not yet, but I spend so much time here, I’m beginning to feel like I qualify. Seriously, can you meet me at your apartment in about thirty minutes?”

  “Sure. Want some dinner first?”

  “No, we’ll have to eat on the way. I’ll explain later, but I haven’t got time to go home first, so will you find some warm outdoor clothing for me? I’ve got boots in the trunk of my car, but I’ll need a jacket, gloves, and probably a rain slicker, if the weather report is right.”

  “Are we going to a football game?”

  “No, but plan to be out most of the evening. It sounds hokey, Dan, but something’s come up.”

  “Actually, it sounds great. An unknown date with a mysterious woman.”

  “Mysterious, all right. Oh, and find a shovel if you can.”

  “A shovel?”

  “Just trust me. I’ll pick up some hamburgers and see you in thirty minutes.”

  “Okay. See you then,” he said, hanging up, grabbing his jacket, and turning off the lights before exiting his office and entering the elevator to go down to the garage. Once home, he changed into jeans, a Stanford sweatshirt, and hiking boots, then rummaged through his outdoor gear in the garage and found some hiking gear his sister had worn years earlier, still wondering where Nicole was taking them. Not too stylish, he thought, but then, she didn’t ask for fashion. Nicole arrived just as he reentered the apartment.

  “Hi,” she said, pecking him on the cheek. “Let’s take your Blazer. We might need four-wheel drive.”

  Grabbing his gear and hers, Dan followed Nicole outside, where they transferred some of her gear to his vehicle. “And where might we be headed, Secret Agent Bentley?”

  Nicole smiled at him. “Make fun if you will, Assemblyman Rawlings, but this is, in fact, a very important trip. Care for a burger?” she asked, climbing into the passenger seat in his car.

  “Sure. Directions, please.”

  “Up the canyon. Take 16 to 20, then toward Lower Clear Lake.”

  Dan looked at her quizzically and backed out of the driveway. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t break the speed limit or get pulled over, but time is important.”

  “Give me more specifics, and maybe I can save us some time.”

  She pulled a small notebook from her pocket. “He said follow State Road 16 to 20, and then go west toward Clear Lake. Then take 53 south to a side road near Lower Clear Lake.”

  “Right,” Dan replied. “If you’re game for some bumps, I can save us about forty-five minutes by following a forest service trail over the foothills above Rumsey.”

  “It’s your home ground. Lead the way,” she said, handing him some French fries and putting a drink in the cup holder in the middle console.

  By the time they’d reached the straight run on Highway 113 from Davis to Woodland, Dan had finished his hamburger, and he glanced at Nicole. “Is this a ‘need-to-know’ only mission?” He grinned.

  “No-well, maybe, but in your case, you do need to know. Is the name Richard Clarke Stevenson familiar to you?”

  Dan thought a moment before responding. “I don’t think so. Who is he?”

  “He was recently appointed Director of Elections in the California Elections Office. He was deputy to Ann Macintosh. She’s the former director who was murdered. Anyway, he held the acting post for awhile and then received the appointment. We’ve had him under surveillance.”

  “A suspect?”

  “No, but in light of the previous deaths in that office, we thought it best to keep an eye on him. We discovered that the brigade has occasionally kept an eye on him, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Not steadily, but on occasion, as if they wanted to make sure that he was still in place. They’ve discreetly entered his apartment.”

  Dan looked questioningly at Nicole.

  “All right, Counselor, we’ve got a mike in his place. It happens, and it’s legal. Anyway, the Shasta boys have had him under surveillance, probably to determine if he has any knowledge of the past elections.”

  “And?”

  “And they haven’t found anything.” She paused for a moment, taking a sip of Coke. “But we have. We finally contacted him directly several days ago, outside his office, of course. He’s scared, Dan. Very scared. He knows he’s being watched, although I don’t think he knows it’s us as well as the brigade. Over the past six months, he’s been to the Missouri and Oregon elections offices to obtain election data from their prior election results, especially from the Home Telephone Voting System. What he’s turned up has scared him, and after what happened to Macintosh, and Phelps before her, he didn’t know who he could trust.”

  After filling up with fuel and clearing Woodland, Dan headed up Highway 16, driving through a concentration of almond orchards and eventually passing the small airport located near the Yolo Country Club golf course, where Dan’s thoughts flitted through the recent ambush. It was full dark by eight-thirty, and they encountered only an occasional car on the road.

  “How did you convince Stevenson to trust you?”

  “He was out of options. I told him we’d been keeping a watch on him, and he was even more confused. I didn’t tell him about the brigade. He wants out of California and out of the whole problem. We said the bureau would help relocate him-if he agreed to assist with the case. That’s when he told me about the disks.”

  Dan’s eyes widened. “Ah, secret disks.”

  “It’s not quite James Bond, but if they contain what he says, they’re what we’re looking for, all right. He said that during the last general election, he’d stayed through the night, making complete backups every hour. That’s not the standard procedure, and he did it without permission. The interim tally printouts, which he burned, bore absolutely no resemblance to the final election results. But the last backup-now get this-taken just over an hour after the polls closed, showed a whole different set of numbers. The tally wasn’t even close to what had been happening and there was no record of the previous results.”

  “Erased?” Dan asked.

  “As if they never existed. Stevenson then knew he was on to something. Someone had obviously managed to compromise the system and manipulate the final count. He knew he needed to tell someone, but he didn’t know who to trust. He was scared. So he hid the disks.”

  “And they’re at Clear Lake?”

  “Stevenson’s family has a cabin up there. His father built it in the sixties as kind of a hippie retreat. No electricity and only a small wood-burning stove. He gave me direct
ions to where he buried the disks-out behind the cabin.”

  “Uh, oh. I forgot the shovel,” Dan blurted. “Oh, well-we can pick one up at Jack’s place in Rumsey,” he added. Ten minutes later, as they made the wide sweep around the west end of Esparto, Dan was silent. He thought of Jack as they passed the turnoff to the cemetery, where, only weeks earlier, they had laid Jack to rest. Leaving Esparto, they began the run up Rumsey Valley and reached Jack’s house about twenty-five minutes later.

  “C’mon in, Nicole. I think we can find an old pair of jeans that’ll fit, and you can get out of your pants suit.”

  Once they were back on the road, Dan advised that the turnoff through the foothills was located only a couple of miles up the road.

  “What’s Stevenson going to do?” Dan asked, hitting a button on the dash and changing into four-wheel drive.

  “He wanted the surveillance pulled and asked us to relocate him. He’s going to quietly gather his important stuff and meet two of our agents in Reno tomorrow.”

  “Where will you move him?”

  “How far up this road, Dan?” Nicole asked, sidestepping his question.

  “A little over an hour to intersect with State Road 53, unless there’s a tree down or some other obstacle,” he said, dropping his inquiry. “Have you relayed this to Connor?”

  “He wasn’t available. I left word on his voicemail that I’d contact him as soon as we were back from the field. Man, it’s dark up here at night,” Nicole exclaimed.

  “If you hadn’t been there when I filled up, I’d try the old ‘ran out of gas’ routine.”

  “Keep driving, Mr. Rawlings,” she said, smiling.

  Richard Clarke Stevenson, the third director of administration in less than eighteen months for the California Elections Office, left the Bank of America lobby, glad that they stayed open until six on Fridays. An enormous sense of relief had swept over him since his two-hour talk with Agent Bentley. If it was the FBI that had been tailing him, then maybe he’d worried for nothing and nobody was really looking for him after all. Bentley had said they’d pull the tail and meet him tomorrow in Reno. Drawing out $17,000 in traveler’s checks made him feel a bit more secure. His VersaTeller card was limited to a daily withdrawal of five hundred, and he couldn’t get far on that.