Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

“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 grace .

“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 controlling 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.