by Gordon Ryan
“Thank you, Mrs. Westegaard, but the questioner has raised a valid point. Why should you elect someone who believes we should remain a part of the United States of America? And who is right? Who’s wrong? In fact is there a right or wrong in this question of states’ rights? Perhaps,” Dan continued, “the lessons from our school days gave us the ability to tell right from wrong, good from evil, and to discern the essence of a situation in black-and-white terms. But over the ensuing decades, the lines seem to have blurred. The ‘anything goes’ philosophy now seems acceptable, and in some cases preferred. How do we respond when we disagree with something that will affect our lives, but because of political correctness, we’re not allowed to express our disagreement? How do we apply those lessons we learned from the previous generation to life today, when the variations between two or more issues do not contain merely right or wrong . . .”
And so Dan Rawlings continued the basic format that he had developed into his formal presentation, which he had given at least twice daily for the previous three weeks. A Republican by party affiliation, Dan had firmly established himself a Unionist—a label from Civil War days—which the press had pinned on him. Each group to which he spoke, even those that supported his campaign to keep California in the Union, bombarded him with examples of oppressive federal intrusion and Washington’s increasing intervention into state’s rights. Dan did not deny any of these allegations. Indeed, he agreed with most of them while maintaining that the way to correct them was not to leave the fold, but to continue to push for change from the inside. Unfortunately, his was a platform that had been preached by legislative candidates for nearly two centuries, and one from which a tired electorate sought refuge.
* * *
The field crew lay in the shade of the few trees remaining around the barley fields south of Twin Falls, Idaho. The tired laborers were resting after lunch, trying not to think about the even hotter afternoon session ahead as they prepared for Spring planting. In an attempt to keep the buzzing and biting insects at bay, Carlos Domingo had shielded his face with a magazine as he tried to take a brief nap. Not to be outdone, a co-worker reached over and grabbed the magazine, tearing several pages out of the middle to place over his own face.
Not wishing to cause any more trouble than his limited remaining energy could handle, Carlos ignored the theft and sat up, beginning to flip through the tattered pages. Unable to read most of the English, he concentrated on the pictures, casually turning pages, waiting for the field boss to blow the whistle that would signal another five backbreaking hours of stooped labor. When his eyes landed on the picture of an open truck, with dozens of uniformed police and several suit-and-tie men standing around looking in, he froze. Turning the page sideways to get a better look, Carlos felt the instant urge to vomit, his stomach curling within him as he came to a recognition of the face before him. He quickly looked around, jumped up to find the field boss, showed him the picture, and asked him to read the caption underneath.
“Hey, Carlos, you better get some more rest. It’s hotter than Hades out here, and it’s gonna be sweat city this afternoon.”
“Por favor,” he persisted. “What say these words?”
“Well, it says ‘Gruesome remains discovered in southern California desert.’” Summarizing, he continued, “Mostly, it tells of a truckload of illegal Mexican immigrants who were locked in a truck and died of heat exposure. Sixteen people died.”
“Who is this?” Carlos asked, pointing to a well-dressed Mexican man, standing next to a gringo wearing khaki pants and an open-neck shirt.
“Let’s see—says here it’s General Rodrigo Cordoba, head of the Mexican federal police. Good thing you came over a different way, Carlos. Looks like those poor folk roasted to death.”
The field boss looked at his watch, handed the pages back to Carlos, and blew the whistle. Turning away and stumbling back into the field, Carlos felt tears rolling down his face. He considered racing back to Mexico, but he had nothing left back there. Nearly all his pay for two months had gone to Carmen to purchase her “guaranteed” passage across the border. She had gotten across all right, only to be left to roast in the California desert. This general, this Cordoba, he would have the answers. He would know what happened. And the man from MexiCal—the man to whom Carmen had given the money—he, too, would know.
* * *
In early April, in Davis, California, a small gathering, unworthy of statewide news coverage, had reason to celebrate. Daniel Rumsey Rawlings, special election candidate for California’s Eighth Legislative District, along with a half-dozen or so campaign workers, received a phone call from the state election office. Rawlings had received fifty four percent of the popular vote. Twenty minutes later his opponent called to concede. The national release of Voices in My Blood six weeks earlier with attendant media hoopla, combined with the publisher’s marketing strategy, had resulted in excellent sales for the book, a twelfth-place listing on the New York Times bestseller list by the end of the second week, and an eight-point jump in ratings for the Rawlings campaign.
Nicole Bentley, who had made the trip from Walnut Creek to attend this small gathering, found a private moment with Dan as he stepped outside to get a breath of fresh air and quietly savor his newfound direction. She leaned in and gently took his face in her hands. A smile on her face, she reached up and kissed him. As they broke their embrace, Dan looked at her for a moment. Nothing was said as he wrapped his arms around her, kissing her firmly, continuing to hold her in his arms in private, silent celebration, feeling no need to verbalize their feelings. After several long moments, Nicole lifted her head from Dan’s chest.
“Well, now that the special election is over, what’s next?”
Dan tilted his head back, looked up at the dark night sky, a long, slow exhale escaping his lips. Then, looking back at Nicole, he kissed her again.
“I have a feeling it’s not over at all. In fact, I feel it’s barely started.”
“What do you mean?”
“As happy an occasion as this is for me . . . well, to put it bluntly, I’m in, but California’s out. It’s only been political posturing so far. Now sides will form, and bloodshed may well be inevitable. I’m joining an elected body that is severely divided and faced with an impossible task.”
“A civil war?” she said, looking up at him. “You’re not serious.”
“I hope not, but everything Jack said has happened so far. The United States Supreme Court is the obvious next step. I can’t see Congress or the president sending us a bon voyage card and a box of chocolate-covered cherries.”
Chapter 21
Sierra Nevada Mountains
Northern California
May, 2012
A light tan Pacific Gas & Electric service truck moved slowly up the dirt and gravel road toward a remote mountain cabin in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The driver and his passenger were vigilant and, although it would not be apparent to anyone who might view their approach, apprehensive. After the truck came to a stop in front of the cabin, the passenger got out, walked around to the back of the truck, and removed a gas detector and two breathing masks. The driver shut off the engine and came around to the front of the truck, taking one of the gas masks from his partner.
Approaching the cabin, the driver knocked on the door and called out, “Anybody home?”
An older teenage boy answered the door, barely cracking it. “Yeah?” he replied.
“PG&E. We got reports of a gas leak down the road to your neighbor’s place. The line runs about two hundred yards behind your cabin. You smelled anything?”
“Nope,” the kid responded, wary of the strangers.
No other vehicles were present, and while the brief conversation was in progress, the other serviceman moved around back of the cabin to check the rear.
“Mind if I come in and check your stove and hot-water heater?” he asked the kid.
“Well, I’m not really—”
“Just take a minute, son.
No bother, really.”
“All right, but make it quick. My ma says I got things to do.”
“Right,” he said, entering the cabin and scanning the main room and the one adjacent, which held the kitchen. A woman in her late thirties was in the small kitchen, holding a two or three-year-old child on her hip while feeding an even younger infant in a highchair.
“I thought we was on Propane,” the teenage boy said, following the serviceman into the kitchen.
“You are, son,” the driver said, turning with a pistol in his hand. “Get on the floor, kid. Who else is here?” he said to the woman.
Frightened, the boy lay down on the floor as the second serviceman came in the back door, gun drawn and ready.
“Whada’ya want? We ain’t got nothing here,” the woman protested, her voice thick with a smoker’s rasp.
“Shut up!” the driver said as he handcuffed the boy and motioned again for the woman to sit at the kitchen table. “Check the cellar, Jack,” the driver said to the second man.
“I did. The entrance is behind the cabin. Full of weapons, just like we thought, but no one else seems to be around.”
“Then I guess our intel was straight. It’s about time one of these raids went off without a hitch. Call it in.”
“Right,” he said, exiting the front door and heading for the truck. Reaching through the passenger door, he grabbed the mike on the radio and keyed the transmitter, generating a blast of static. “Bugle Base, Bugle Base, this is 205.” More static followed, and he adjusted the gain.
“205, this is Bugle Base, go ahead.”
“Bugle Base, 205 in place. Gold strike, I repeat, gold strike. No resistance, target secure, two suspects and two young children in custody. Over.”
“Roger, 205, I copy gold strike. Strike team en route. ETA, forty minutes. Out.”
“Bugle Base, 205. Copy, out.” He replaced the mike and went back into the cabin. “Forty minutes. I’ll start the inventory, and you check for documents.”
“Right. Slam dunk, but where’s the man of the family?”
“Well, we got the weapons, and maybe one of ’em will match the hit pieces from the ambush.”
“Not a chance. They’ve ditched those long ago.”
“Yeah, probably.”
* * *
Four civilian models of the military Humvee and two Chevy Suburban 4x4s occupied most of the rear section of the interstate rest area. They were surrounded by twenty-two agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Signs closing the rest stop were posted at the entrance. The irony of the agents coordinating their final assault plans in the area marked with a sign that read “Pet Rest Area – Please Pick Up Leavings” had not occurred to anyone in the group.
“Okay, listen up,” Agent-in-Charge Claude Riker said, gathering his men together for the final briefing. “The point team has arrived and secured the area, with two suspects, a woman and a boy, plus two kids in custody. Air One reports no ground activity nearby. A weapons cache is confirmed. I repeat, gold strike is confirmed.”
A chorus of cheers went up from the gathered agents, releasing the frustration that had built up over weeks of intelligence gathering following the two daylight attacks and the murders of their fellow agents.
“It appears as if our tips were legit, and this time we’ve got the animals. The point team marked the turnoff with orange markers on two trees, either side of the road. Let’s hit it. Keep your interval and stay sharp. The rest of this group could show up at any time. But I think we caught these guys with their pants down. Alison, you lead in your Suburban, the Humvees in the middle, and Juan, you bring up the rear.”
Twenty-five minutes later, after exiting the interstate into the Lassen National Forest, the caravan reached the orange-marked trees and turned northwest. After traveling two miles up the road, Riker, in the second vehicle, turned to check the trailing vehicles. At that moment, an explosion shattered the stillness of the forest road. Jerking back to the front, he watched in shock as the lead vehicle rolled over from the blast, coming to a stop in a drainage ditch on the right side of the road. Instantly, Riker got on the radio, set for the local net.
“Ambush! Ambush! Back up, now!” he shouted.
The second car had come to a halt, but the five other vehicles closed up like an accordion within ten yards of each other following the blast. Agent Middleton, driving the last car, began to spin his tires in an effort to back up, but another, smaller detonation occurred just off the road, and a large tree fell solidly across the dirt trail behind his vehicle, effectively blocking the convoy’s exit. Small-arms fire commenced from the hillside to their left and began to impact the driver’s side of all the vehicles.
Air One, which had been shadowing the convoy in a Bell helicopter, tried to contact Riker by radio, but the occupants of Riker’s car had exited the passenger side, away from the firing, as had the occupants of the other vehicles. Those in the overturned vehicle who were able rapidly scrambled out the driver’s window while under fire from the hillside.
In the process of switching frequencies to report the attack to central communication in San Francisco, Air One never saw the Stinger missile, fired from an eight o’clock position. The pilot was killed instantly by the impact and spared the sensation of falling from six hundred feet as his aircraft disintegrated around him. His spotter was less fortunate and went screaming to his death.
Small-arms fire continued against the left side of the stalled vehicles, all empty now, with the seventeen remaining agents lying protected for the moment, shielded by their vehicles and the shallow ditch into which they had scrambled when the shooting began. Riker motioned to his second in command, about ten men down the line in the ditch. The man crawled to Riker’s side.
“They seem to be concentrated on that small ridge on the other side of the cars,” he shouted. “Maybe we can filter into the woods behind us. I’ll stay here with several men to cover, and you find better positions in the woods,” he instructed.
From his vantage point on a small rise, located about eighty yards from the cluster of cars, Jackson Shaw, Shasta Brigade commander, watched the scene below. He looked over to his right and got a thumbs-up from his demolition team. Nodding his approval, he gave little thought to the seventeen men who would die in the ensuing thirty seconds as the detonation cord, lining the ditch into which the ambush had funneled the surviving agents, exploded. The blast severed body parts on many of the agents, and all—men and women alike—were grievously wounded. Some died instantly. Others bled to death more slowly. In less than four minutes, twenty-two ATF agents on the ground and two in the air were dead, without word of the ambush having reached the central command, other than the initial report, which had declared the target secure and four suspects in custody.
Following a brief radio contact from Shaw, five men of the Shasta Brigade who had not been involved in the ambush stealthily approached the remote cabin holding the small-arms cache—three from the front and two from the rear. On signal, they kicked in the doors and assaulted the two agents holding the woman and sixteen-year-old Timothy Castleton. The previous twenty minutes had been slightly uncomfortable for Timothy, who had been forced to lie on his stomach, his arms handcuffed behind his back.
When the door flew open, the first agent reached for his weapon with quick reflexes, but not fast enough to avoid the three nine-millimeter slugs that entered his body and neck from the first brigade man through the door. The second agent raised his hands in surrender and lived for an additional two minutes—long enough to be taken outside, where he received a bullet to the back of the head, point blank.
Captain Roger Dahlgren, who also served as Woodland’s city manager, led the small contingent of men at the cabin. He ordered two of the men to load the dead agents’ bodies into their truck and take them to the ambush site. With two other men, he then entered the cabin.
“Get the weapons out of the cellar, fast,” he said as they entered the house.
; “You got my money?” the woman said, recognizing Dahlgren as the man who had first met with her.
“We’ll take care of you, not to worry,” he said.
“You said we’d be here two days, three at most. It’s been near on to a week. I want more money,” she said.
“Shut up. I said you’d be taken care of. Tim,” he said to the young boy, “you’ve done a fine job here. Help load out the weapons and then get out.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy replied.
In ten minutes, two of the vehicles were gone, one with weapons loaded under a thick tarpaulin and one with two dead ATF agents bouncing in the truck bed. Only Captain Dahlgren remained, his Jeep Cherokee parked over the crest of a hill behind the cabin.
“Get your purse, and I’ll take you back into Redding,” he said to the woman.
As she turned to pick it up, without hesitation, Dahlgren fired a shot into the back of her head, instantly dropping her to the floor. He looked for a moment at the two smaller children, both too young to be aware of what had transpired. From the pocket of his jacket, he retrieved a small bottle of clear fluid and a wad of gauze wrapping. He poured the contents of the bottle onto the gauze and held the cloth over the nose and mouth of each child in turn, laying them gently on the floor of the cabin next to their mother. His last act was to sprinkle the floor of the cabin with liberal amounts of gasoline from a two-gallon can that had been stashed behind the cabin. Outside, he turned, looked over the cabin once more, and threw a match through the front door. The flames immediately swept throughout the small, dry, wooden structure.
