State of Rebellion

by Gordon Ryan

  Turner’s eyebrows raised slightly. “It seems you have followed my career, John Henry.”

  “Certainly have. With pleasure, I might add. I’ve always taken an interest in staying informed about those who support important issues. But let me get back to the point. Are you familiar with the fact that back in 1992, a California assemblyman from Redding proposed dividing California into two separate states?”

  “I believe my staff did brief me on that.”

  “Good, but are you also aware that since statehood in 1850, similar proposals have been made thirteen times?”

  Turner rattled the ice cubes in his glass, glancing at the other men in the room. “No, I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “I see,” Franklin continued. “Back when California became a state, the entire southern half of the territory refused to be part of the statehood movement, citing that the north was economically and culturally advantaged over the south—which at that time was mostly comprised of Mexican ranchers. Against its will, the southern part of the territory was included, and California became a very large state.”

  “I guess I was absent from school that day, too,” Turner said, his voice taking on a slight edge.

  “I beg your indulgence here, Senator,” Franklin said, again pointing with his cigar. “I don’t presume to teach history, but from those previous attempts and the more recent movement, we can gain an understanding of how Californians feel. In the primaries of ’92, twenty-seven of thirty-one northern counties voted yes to forming a fifty-first state. And now that the immigration issue has become so intense . . . well, you understand the nature of that problem, I’m sure.”

  “I do recall the ’92 vote. It was an important issue, but numerically, the north is—”

  “I know,” Franklin interrupted, “they don’t have the numbers.” He paused again and glanced at Spackman.

  “Let’s look at this from an economic perspective, Senator. California is possessed of more natural resources than many of the third world’s sovereign nations. And our production capability staggers the imagination—lacking, perhaps, only the cheap labor force available in other parts of the world. We could correct that by assuring better relations with Mexico. And don’t forget the creative power of Silicon Valley—it’s the envy of the world. Ah, but if we could bring those resources together. Think of the possibilities if our wealth of resources could somehow be paired with controlled labor costs, and the two were linked to the finest air, sea, and land transportation system in the world. It would be an unbeatable combination. The trouble is, Malcolm, California is bankrupt, not from internal economic policies, but from federal political decisions. Our own state politicians haven’t helped. We try to give everything to everyone, and someone has to pay the bill. California has come to the end of that road, Senator. We can’t tolerate it anymore. But the state, the people, deserve more, don’t you think. Senator?”

  “California’s like a fine wine, John Henry, well aged and finely presented,” Turner said, laughing. “Under the right leadership and vision, California should be a leader in the world, not a financially inept, struggling state. I have to admit, the federal government has brought us to our knees, financially speaking.”

  Jabbing his cigar at Turner, Franklin continued: “Economics is the key. Military might is nothing anymore, except to keep the third world dictators in line. Financial control, Senator—that’s the real world power. With no disrespect to our Mexican guests, Mexico’s national economics have been in shambles for decades and American trade policies have had a lot to do with that. As Chairman of the senate finance committee, I’m sure you understand what I mean.”

  “Indeed I do. You’re speaking my language now.”

  Franklin paused to puff his cigar and move to the bar to freshen his drink, allowing Turner some time to recoup his thoughts and assimilate the philosophy Franklin had been expounding. Returning to the fireplace, Franklin studied Turner for a few seconds, taking his measure and determining if he was ready for the coup de grâce.

  “Senator Turner, the Franklin Foundation is prepared to underwrite your campaign—a blank check, in the usual circuitous way, naturally. This support will in no way tie your hands. You’re free to establish your own platform. We have but one point we wish you to vigorously support throughout the election.”

  Turner hesitated for a moment, glancing again at the other men in the room, his political antennae vibrating. “John Henry, how may I be of service?”

  Franklin smiled and took a long puff of his cigar, then exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “Malcolm,” he began, moving closer, “it’s time for California to reach for her destiny. I’m not just talking about splitting into two or three states—I’m talking about a new nation. It’s time for California to take her place among the nations of the world. It’s time for California to become an independent republic.”

  Turner had always been good at affecting a poker face that masked his true feelings, but Franklin’s message had left the senator stunned, and he knew Franklin saw it.

  “Malcolm . . .” Franklin said quietly, but forcefully, moving to stand inches from Turner’s face. “. . . we need you in this.” He paused as the clarion call echoed in Turner’s mind. After a few moments, Franklin said, “Your voice is well respected. And in the end, should Washington see their way clear to recognize the message we’re delivering, perhaps we can yet come to some accord. Maybe by rattling their cage, we can get their attention, and yet remain a member state in this grand Union, and still achieve our objectives. That will remain to be seen. In any event, General Valdez assures me that Mexico is ready to recognize our new nation and to support us as we work through the transition. But to get Washington’s attention, we need you to stand for California, Malcolm. Throughout this next campaign, we need you to rattle that rusty, old cage.”

  Shortly before midnight, on his helicopter flight back to San Francisco, with the twinkling lights of the city on the horizon, thoughts of the evening’s discussion had swirled around in Malcolm Turner’s head. A refusal to cooperate with Franklin meant more than no campaign funds—in fact, it could well mean additional funding—unlimited funding—to the smart, young whippersnapper who was trying to unseat him. He leaned his head back against the leather headrest and closed his eyes, the drone of the helicopter’s engine relaxing him.

  Secession! A new nation! Incredible!

  * * *

  More than one meeting had taken place at Franklin’s Sea Ranch estate after that eventful evening over a year previous. After Senator Turner left, Spackman, Cordoba, and Valdez made their excuses one by one and departed. Franklin was then joined in the library by Amelia and a tall, erect man in his early forties. Franklin greeted him with a broad smile.

  “My dear Mr. Wolff. How good to see you again, Jean.”

  “And you, John Henry.”

  “So, what did you think of our little meeting?”

  At just under six feet, lean and wiry, Jean Francois Wolff was of French and Algerian extraction. He possessed dark hair, an olive-skinned complexion, and deep brown eyes. Wolff had learned early in life that those eyes, along with a soft, understanding demeanor, made him irresistibly attractive to women. But it was an entirely different set of physical attributes—specifically a thin, colorless scar that ran from his left ear diagonally across his cheek nearly to his chin, and a piercing, unblinking stare—that gave him immediate psychological command over most men.

  Following a largely unpublicized but impressive career in the service of third world leaders, Wolff had, for the past six years, surreptitiously been in Franklin’s employ. Experienced as a contract-for-hire agent for the American CIA, as well as the French Surrete, Wolff had found his assignments from Franklin personally satisfying as well as financially rewarding. Two of Franklin’s European competitors had found Wolff’s employment less rewarding, dying early in unfortunate circumstances and leaving their empires to less capable heirs, from whom Franklin had subsequently purchased con
trolling interests.

  For the first four years of his association with Franklin, Wolff worked as a freelance soldier-of-fortune, checking his European postal drop and his bank account routinely, and responding from a distance to Franklin’s infrequent requests. Two years before, Franklin had brought Wolff closer to the center of action, naming him head of the intelligence division of the Franklin Group.

  Wolff’s preferred method of operation was to work through other organizations, learning their objectives and feigning alliance with them. Unearthing, developing a familiarity with, and then becoming the covert source of funds for most of the militia units in California had consumed nearly a year of his time and over ten million of Franklin’s dollars.

  Wolff moved across the room and took a seat near the fire. “Turner will come along, John Henry. You knew that before you invited him. Like most politicians, he probably heard only two words—blank check.”

  “Yes, he’s predictable, isn’t he? He’s the first and most important step in our public airing of the plan. I’m directing you to coordinate the effective use of the remainder of our ‘friends’ and to see to their needs.”

  Wolff leaned back in his chair and watched as John Henry paced the floor, refilled his drink, and moved to the French doors, stopping in the doorway leading from the room to the veranda.

  “So, it all comes together now,” Wolff said.

  Franklin turned and looked at Wolff silently for a moment, then returned his gaze to the horizon and the moon’s reflection off the ocean.

  The Plan, as Franklin referred to his vision, had been formulated over a period of several years. Franklin had watched scores of American companies move their operations overseas, primarily to access the cheap labor available in underdeveloped nations. He himself had moved his entire computer consulting operation to India.

  Through his various other holdings, Franklin had already captured a large share of the Asian market in rice, soybean, sorghum, and especially saffron, one of northern California’s largest exports, but he knew that American holdings overseas were always vulnerable to the political whims of the host nation.

  In its democratic way, the United States had erected a labyrinth of restrictive labor laws and financial entitlements, even for illegal immigrants. Those entitlements, supported by excessive corporate and individual income taxes, made it impossible for American firms to compete in foreign markets. America, once the giant of the industrial world, had lost significant market share to this economic hegemony and was becoming a second-rate financial power—a trend Franklin was determined to reverse.

  And, he envisioned, if he could not effect change for America as a whole, an objective even Franklin saw as beyond his initial capacity, then California was a great starting point. His vision, which he had never verbalized even to those he trusted to carry out his operations, went far beyond state lines. If California could show the way—effecting a true international marketplace, augmented by a free-flowing, cheap labor force—then other western states might reasonably be convinced to embrace the concept, and the westward expansion that had typified the growth of America would reverse itself. The movement to join the newly formed Republic of California—perhaps even the Republic of Western America—would grow, west to east, resulting eventually in a reunification of America, absent the bleeding-heart liberal laws that had hamstrung business and economic growth for so many decades.

  But that was tomorrow. Today, the first step needed to be taken. Franklin turned back toward Wolff. “Are we ready?”

  “We’ll do what needs to be done. The computer tech teams have already been assembled, and I’ve obtained access to the California Elections Office through the director, Kevin Phelps, who was every bit as helpful as you said he’d be.”

  “Well, then, it seems we’re ready,” Franklin said.

  “The elections office is under control, but are the politicians ready?” Wolff asked.

  “Ah, well,” Franklin mused, “that’s another kettle of fish. The Mexicans are certainly on board and pleased with their ‘return-on-investment’ from immigration so far. As to the Malaysians and Koreans,” he paused, “only time will tell. I’ve been putting this together for a long time now, and there’s a lot riding on the outcome. If we’re to realize our dream of bringing all this together in an independent California, each of these groups has to see what’s in it for them.”

  “That’s not the hard part,” Wolff said, rising to fill his glass. “The key challenge is getting the spineless politicians to stand by their word when the going gets tough. Will they have what it takes to go the distance?”

  “Money, Jean,” Franklin laughed. “Money gives men a steel spine, or at least makes them think they are courageous. We’ve sweetened the pot sufficiently, and they’ve seen the potential.”

  “And after you pull it off?” Wolff asked.

  Franklin grasped the opportunity to preach his gospel. “Can you fathom it, Jean? The resources here, the transportation and manufacturing capabilities are unlimited. Combined with cheap labor from underdeveloped areas of the world? The potential is limitless, and we won’t have to worry about some tinhorn dictator in Camel-hump, Egypt, coming along and demanding half the profit to allow it to continue.”

  “Sort of a restructuring of the Old South?”

  Franklin threw a quick glare at Wolff. “That’s a poor analogy. We’re not after slavery. These imported workers will be paid a fair wage, far in excess of what they could make at home. What I am proposing is common practice in the Middle East. They import workers from Pakistan and the subcontinent to perform menial work at cheap labor costs. We can do the same thing, and everyone profits.”

  Wolff changed the subject. “Well, we’re ready. What are your orders, mon capitaine?”

  “It’s time to get our operation in gear,” Franklin stated, putting aside his brief anger at Wolff’s “restructuring of the south” comment and regaining his enthusiasm. “Alert our erstwhile CIA friend, Grant Sully. Tell him you’ll be activating the ‘tech teams’ again and returning to the Sacramento elections office. I’ll transfer another twenty-five million into your Cayman account. And I want the Shasta Brigade put on alert. Then develop a plan to put the other militia units under a single command, as we discussed. Do you still think this Shaw fellow can handle it?”

  “As you instructed, I’ve not met with him in person, but I’ve communicated instructions with each donation. I believe he can handle command of combined movement, but the other units won’t like it,” Wolff said, shaking his head. “They each have their own agenda and think they’re autonomous. Besides, Sully likes to keep them at odds so he can play them against each other.”

  “I don’t care a whit what Sully likes,” Franklin said, warming to his directive role. “I’ve used these wannabe militia groups many times over the past few years and spent a lot of money on their training and equipment in the process. This is too important. I want to personally know what’s happening. Tell Shaw we’ll be very selective in our targets, both political and ‘action.’ I want them alerted, training increased, and recruitment up, especially among, shall we say, ‘expendable assets.’ Let them continue to rob a few banks to cover the real source of their financing. Be sure to maintain the individual cell organization structure for security.” Franklin smiled at Wolff. “And Sully, bless his heart, needs to see that his ability to ride two horses has come to an end. He knows he’ll never become director of the CIA. Perhaps we can entice him with the role he could play in a new California.”

  Wolff raised his glass, rattling the ice cubes. “To Grant Sully—the new director of the new CIA—the California Intelligence Agency.”

  “We’ll see about that. Assuming we can pull off the election coup, the key to this thing will be the U.S. military. How they respond will be critical. You can bet the farm Washington won’t take it lying down. The Army Reserve, National Guard, and even the California State Reserve units—those are the concerns we have. The militia . . . well,”
he paused, “we know where they stand, and this operation will suit them just fine. But we’ve got to force the federal military’s hand and make the retention of California a patriotic issue.”

  “A little internal insurrection should help,” Wolff said.

  “Exactly—and public reaction. That’s your baby. You handle it, but move slowly at first. I want the election results to convince the public that support is widespread. Then, when we unleash the militia to do their thing, Californians will see them as the New Englanders saw the militia—as Minutemen—patriots in the flesh. Then they’ll receive public support, at least verbally, in their fight against the Feds. And one other thing—concerning your ‘tech team’ and the elections issue, I want it done right this time. Be sure your team knows—no more foul-ups like we had in the Missouri elections.”

  “Missouri was a fluke. A real computer glitch occurred, and by the time we found out, it was too late. Election results had already been announced.”

  “Jean,” Franklin said, staring hard at the younger man, “I don’t care why! I’ve spent hundreds of millions establishing the credibility of the home telephone voting system, and four states have now adopted it. But California is still running parallel with the old system, and California’s the key to national acceptance. I just want to be sure this one is under control. We’ve got a lot at stake. You’ve got a lot at stake.”

  “I’ll see to it, John Henry,” Wolff responded.

  Franklin started to leave, but stopped, turning in the doorway.

  “Did you catch Rigo’s comment about the Mexican borders earlier?”

  “Nothing of concern. The general knows nothing about our border crossing operation, I can assure you.”

  “See you keep it that way. He strikes me as one of those truly dangerous men, especially in Mexico—an honest politician.”