Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

The land surrounding Camp Liberty, so named by the founders of the Shasta Brigade, was heavily wooded and deep within the Sierra Nevada Mountains. As Wolff drove the final miles over a dusty, rutted, fire service trail, he thought of his younger days and the physically demanding topography on which he had been required to operate-freezing his earlobes in the mountains surrounding Narvik, Norway, or nearly succumbing to heat prostration in the Libyan Desert. Surely these brigade members appreciated their temperate environment and the generous comfort it afforded. Yet, he smiled to himself, a soldier is a soldier is a soldier, and if complaining and grousing weren’t a part of this brigade, as they were in every other military organization he’d known, it would indeed be unusual.

Finally, the unpainted, crumbling wooden structures and temporary tent facilities came into view, located adjacent to a clear, fast-moving stream at the far end of an inclined meadow. A good site for rapid drainage and protection from the elements , he thought as he cut the engine and exited his truck. Of course, the site’s selection in the early thirties, as a Civilian Conservation Corps camp-part of Roosevelt’s Depression-era government works program-was made without consideration of a potential military assault or defensive strategies. Wolff could see that without the placement of perimeter defenses, including trip wires and Claymores, an attacking unit trained in stealthy assault techniques could completely infiltrate and overpower the camp within an hour.

Wolff stood to the side of his vehicle and surveyed the area, surprised that he hadn’t been challenged in his final approach. A familiar sound reached across the open field, and Wolff turned, smiling as he observed a dozen or so recruits laboring beneath the harsh eye and sand-and-gravel voice of the backbone of any military effort: a drill instructor.

“Get down, you tub of lard! If I was the enemy, I’d see your fat buttocks two hundred yards away, and I’d knock ten pounds off it with a couple of fifty caliber slugs,” a burly, muscular man bellowed at the top of his lungs. “I said you didn’t belong in the brigade, and I’m gonna wash your useless skin head outta here. Now, move it- move! move! move!”

Wolff noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see three men approaching, each dressed in BDUs and wearing a sidearm.

“Mr. Wolff, welcome to Camp Liberty. I’m Jackson Shaw, commander of the brigade.”

Wolff ignored the extended hand. “I can’t say much for your security, Commander Shaw. If I’d come here to kill you, you’d be a dead man right now.”

Shaw nodded slowly and allowed a small grin to cross his face. He removed his utility cap, scratched his head, and then replaced the cap. Suddenly, a single shot rang out, and the driver’s side mirror on Wolff’s vehicle shattered, with shards of glass and bits of metal falling to the ground. Shaw and the two men with him remained silent as Wolff glanced casually at the damage.

“Perhaps you’re right, Mr. Wolff. Security can always stand some improvement,” Shaw smiled, “but if you had come here to kill me, you’d have been dead, eight miles back down the mountain.”

Shaw extended his hand again, and this time Wolff accepted it, returning a firm grip of his own. Shaw spoke again. “Mr. Wolff, these are my company commanders, Captain Gary Jeffs and First Lieutenant John Hagleman. Now that we’ve completed the pleasantries, why don’t you join us in the command hut for some coffee? Lieutenant, please see that First Sergeant Krueger joins us.”

Hagleman immediately left the group and walked across the field, stopping to speak with Sergeant Krueger, who then directed a corporal working with the new recruits to take over. By the time Hagleman and Krueger reached the dilapidated building tucked into the shelter of a stand of pines, Shaw and Wolff were already inside, seated around an old wooden table, and Captain Jeffs was pouring coffee.

“Mr. Wolff, this is the brigade first sergeant, Otto Krueger,” Shaw said.

Wolff gave Otto a long, evaluative look. Otto returned Wolff’s stare, locking eyes until Wolff smiled slightly, and the two men came to an unspoken understanding regarding their respective level of professionalism-and determination.

“Commander Shaw, let’s get right to it,” Wolff said. “I’ve got to be in San Francisco later this evening. Tell me a bit about your brigade and your operations.”

Shaw sipped at his coffee and exchanged looks with Otto. “We’re just a group of good ole boys, Mr. Wolff. We do a bit of orienteering and paintball exercises. Nothing to tell, really.”

“I see,” Wolff nodded. “Well, then, perhaps I’ve come to the wrong place. I was led to believe that this was an active, operating paramilitary unit, led by competent officers-yourself included. You are Jackson Shaw, aren’t you? West Point, Class of ’87?”

Shaw remained silent.

“Look, Shaw, let’s not waste each other’s time. We know your unit has robbed five banks in the past six months, whacked heaven knows how many liberal do-gooders, including two city councilmen, one in Walnut Creek and one in. .” Wolff hesitated, looking at each of the men in the room. “Are these men fully cleared for all your operations?”

“They are,” Shaw responded. “Captain Jeffs is also the unit security officer.”

“Fine, then. I’ll say my piece once, and if you have no further interest, I’ll move on. We’ll identify a more capable unit. . if that should be necessary.”

“Look, you called me to arrange this meeting, Wolff,” Shaw said, suddenly angry. “What business is it of yours who we are and what we do? Who are you, anyway?”

Wolff smiled back at the larger man and spoke in a calm voice. “I know who I am, Commander Shaw. The question is, do you know who you are? And how important the Shasta Brigade is-or can become-to the California Patriot Movement?”

Shaw and his three men remained silent for several moments while Wolff waited patiently, taking a sip of his coffee.

“We’re listening, Mr. Wolff,” Shaw finally said.

“Good. Over the past few years you’ve received several anonymous ‘donations’ to the cause. Besides the bank robberies, I mean. Am I correct?”

“Many people believe in what we’re doing,” Shaw responded.

“True,” Wolff said, “but few of them have put up $300,000 in the past six months, right?”

Shaw raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“I sent that money, but that was just for openers. If you accept my offer, I’m prepared to deposit $1 million in your Cayman Islands bank account to be used completely at your discretion. I would suggest a healthy bonus for each of your full-time command staff-including you, of course, First Sergeant,” Wolff said, turning to smile at Otto Krueger.

“Why the money?” Shaw asked.

“Let me continue. You will remain in command of the Shasta Brigade-”

“I’m already in command of the brigade,” Shaw interrupted, agitation in his voice.

“Yes, you are. But in due time, you’ll be placed in command of the entire California Patriot Movement. Eight other militia units throughout the state will be placed under your authority.”

“Just who are you, Wolff? CIA? None of the other units will accept joint operational control, and for sure not from an unknown and unproven quantity like you.”

Wolff smiled. “The quantity, Commander Shaw, as I said, is $1 million-to start.”

“And what do we have to do to earn this. . this ‘donation’?”

“Although you will be in command of the military aspects of the operation, I will make the political decisions about what will be done and when it will occur. You’ll take your orders from me.”