State of Rebellion pc-1

by Gordon Ryan

  After the death of the prior vice president, Eastman had started the recruitment. “Just this last year of my presidency, Clarene, then you can step aside and either return to appointed office or retire gracefully out to pasture, as I’ll do when the time comes,” he’d joked.

  Clarene had often reflected during these past four weeks that half of his last year had been denied. The mantle, completely unsought, had passed to her.

  “Governor, it was most gracious of you to come.”

  “Thank you, Madam President. I’m pleased you thought to ask. We’ve both been through considerable turmoil these past several months-the past two years, if we’re honest.”

  “That’s an understatement, if ever there was one, Walter,” she said, laughing. “Please, have a seat. Coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Dewhirst replied, looking around the room. “You’ve changed things nicely. The first time I was here, back in the eighties, there was a bronze statue of a horse and rider on the credenza. A lot’s changed since that era.”

  “Yes, President Reagan’s dismantling of the ‘evil empire,’ as he referred to it. Has it been that long, Governor?”

  “I’m afraid so, Madam President, and I’ve got the gray hair to prove it.”

  “Well, then, it’s high time we renewed your acquaintance with our. .” She hesitated, developing a small smile. “. . I should say your, capital.”

  Governor Dewhirst returned the grin, sipping his coffee and leaning back to relax in his chair. “Have we finally got a handle on that, Madam President? Whose capital it is, I mean?”

  “Well, that’s the reason I asked you to come,” she said, sitting beside him on the settee. “I think we have at our command the method by which we can put closure to this whole unfortunate episode.”

  “Nothing would suit me more, Madam President. Please, go on.”

  “I’ve wrestled with this.” She exhaled. “Boy, have I wrestled with this,” she said, shaking her head. “Colonel Connor-you remember him, I think-well, he and his task force finally put the pieces together over the past month.”

  For an hour, Prescott reviewed for Dewhirst information that Daniel Rawlings had also provided to the governor during the course of their concluding investigation, revealing the extent to which John Henry Franklin had intervened and engineered the election results in no fewer than a dozen national election issues in each of the states where the Home Telephone Voting System had been adopted. To date, investigations had revealed that nine national and thirty-eight state or local elected officials likely owed their office to Franklin’s manipulations. No effort had been expended to determine whether or not each of those elected had been aware of Franklin’s electoral intervention on their behalf.

  The most significant issue-that of California’s secession-had been demonstrated to have actually been defeated by nearly three to one, with only twenty-six percent in the first election voting in favor of the secession. The true number climbed to forty-two percent in the subsequent election, as a result of growing public support promulgated from every quarter.

  “We’ve not made the results of our findings public. I’ve hesitated for several reasons. Obviously, those defeated in these elections would likely demand a recount. That would be costly and time-consuming, whereas the next routine election could rectify the situation-although statistics on reelection of the incumbent would seem to reject that possibility.”

  Prescott paused, taking a sip of coffee before continuing. “But more important, Walter, is preserving our national credibility in the electoral process. Can you imagine the public response to the thought that a single special interest group had gained such control over who holds elective office-indeed which states remain part of the nation?”

  “I see your point, Madam President. Chaos might be a mild term for the public response.”

  “Exactly. Remember the old, ‘don’t throw the baby out with the bath water’ cliche our mothers taught us?”

  “Yep,” Dewhirst nodded, “and I’ve been accused of it many times.”

  “Walter,” Prescott said, shifting in her chair and leaning forward, “I think we need one more election to set things right.”

  “I’m not certain I follow, Madam President,” Dewhirst said.

  “One more of Franklin’s elections, I mean,” she emphasized.

  Dewhirst’s brow furrowed, and he took on a startled look. “You don’t mean-”

  “Indeed I do, Governor. In three weeks our national elections will be held to choose the next president, as well as all our congressional representatives and a third of our senators. Amid that extensive array, perhaps we can mount a hasty publicity campaign against the secession and put the vote to the California voters again. It would be one more foray into the abyss to set the record straight-under government control, of course.”

  “But that would make us no different than they were.”

  “Oh, I beg to differ, Governor Dewhirst. No matter what the political and philosophical pundits say during the event, man is eventually judged by his results, not by his methods. If our motivation is the preservation of the nation, as a benefit to the people, as opposed to a benefit for the perpetrators while the people are ignored-then the result will eventually earn acclamation. And let me tell you one other piece of news that only a few people know. In the last election,” she said, looking at Governor Dewhirst directly, “the one your state Supreme Court ordered-the secession initiative passed, legitimately, by just over fifty-three percent. I guess Eastman was right about the bandwagon effect.”

  Dewhirst nodded at the revelation, rose, returned his coffee cup to the table, and came to stand face-to-face with the chief executive, who remained seated on the settee.

  “Do you have the ability to accomplish this. . uh, repeat election, Madam President?”

  Prescott was silent for a moment, holding eyes with Dewhirst. “I do, Governor.”

  “And what form would this take?” Dewhirst asked, his concern about the direction of this meeting beginning to rise.

  “That is precisely why you’re here.”

  “I see. And how do we accomplish these altruistic and benevolent objectives? Remembering, of course, that this is also a presidential election. Madam President, the odds are that someday this rigged election process will be discovered. Imagine if it happened during the next presidential term, and people thought our president had been, shall we say, slipped in the back door.”

  “We would have to be careful, Governor,” she said, smiling, “very careful. And privately, of course. Not even Colonel Connor or members of the task force must be aware.”

  “How’re you going to get around Connor? You say he knows the fraudulent election system fully.”

  “Colonel Connor has been very loyal and helpful during several crisis situations over the years. He will not involve himself beyond his assignment. Besides, now that the California situation and the need for the investigative task force is coming to a close, it’s not my intention-or his, for that matter-to send him back to the CIA. I’ve submitted Colonel Connor’s name to the senate for confirmation as a brigadier general. When that’s confirmed-as it will be-I intend to create a new internal terrorism task force, one separate from the military or existing intelligence agencies. A very small task force, but directly responsible to the president. The newly elected president will inherit this task force and can either dismantle it or continue to use it to achieve his ends. Colonel. . General Connor is well suited for the job.”

  “Interesting,” Dewhirst whispered. He looked down at the Seal of the President woven into the carpet, Clarene Prescott waiting for him to comment. Looking up and taking a quick breath, he continued. “So, with Colonel, or rather, General Connor and the task force out of the picture, you intend to generate one more. . predetermined election.”

  “With your concurrence, of course, Governor,” the president said. “What do you think of the idea?”

  “May I ask a question first, Madam President? Will
you inform the two presidential candidates of this event during the transition or of the impending terrorism task force?”

  President Prescott’s lips tightened slightly, and she rose from her chair, moving behind her desk again, and leaned over, shuffling several folders, seeming to look for something. Finally she stood erect again, looking at Governor Dewhirst. “I think not, at least not both of them, but I will inform the president elect. Will you be running for office again next year, Governor?”

  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 Fra
ncisco 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.