Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

“Interesting,” Wolff said. “I wondered how you’d gotten us inside-officially, that is.”

“So now, we have to fill his void and get back into the computers, and quickly.”

Wolff paused for a moment before replying. “We’ll keep a close eye on those staff members who have the ability to provide information. Someone is always vulnerable to persuasion, either money or force.”

Franklin rose and walked toward the French doors leading out onto the veranda, commenting as he passed the third man in the room.

“After the special election confirms the secession, how do you see the Fed’s responding, Grant?”

Grant Sully rose from his chair near the French doors and followed Franklin onto the veranda. “A lot of bluster, John Henry. Pro and con political posturing, mostly from congressmen scared to death that it will affect their home states and possibly cause the loss of their congressional seats as a result. Still, the investigations will increase. Technically, the CIA is restricted from domestic inquiry, so the FBI has been assigned to investigate and report. They’ve agreed to brief the CIA twice a week, or immediately if something significant develops. I’ll be in that pipeline. Rest easy. We’ve got it under control.”

“Humph. A lot’s at stake, Grant.”

“It always is.”

“Yeah, I suppose. But then, you’ve never fomented an insurrection in your own backyard. You’ve always played in someone else’s neighborhood, and when it blew up in their face, you just pocketed all the marbles, went home, and developed another plan.”

Grant Sully turned to face Franklin. “This time, I’ve a vested interest. This time it’s for real.”

Franklin studied Sully for a moment, then continued. “We’ve never undertaken such a bold plan before. I intend to see it carried out. With the help of our Mexican friends and a small, well-directed insurrection from the brigade to bring about the desired public response, we’ll pull this off and the world will view it as a popular uprising.”

“And Senator Turner?” Sully asked.

“He’s beginning to enjoy his role,” Franklin replied. “I think he sees himself as the first prime minister of the Republic of California.”

“And. .?” Sully asked.

“That’s how he sees it, and for now, that suits me just fine.”

San Francisco International Airport

San Francisco, California

August, 2011

After spending nearly a month in New Zealand, wondering the entire time how the task force was developing and why the president had snatched him out of the CIA to work on this team, Colonel Pug Connor found no relief for his anxiety. It only increased during the twelve-hour Air New Zealand flight from Auckland to Los Angeles. Usually unable to sleep on aircraft anyway, Pug enjoyed even less rest than usual on this trip. After clearing customs in L.A., he hand-carried his one bag and transferred via airport shuttle to the Delta terminal and had a bite of lunch, waiting just over two hours for his connection to San Francisco. The fifty-minute flight barely gave the plane time to ascend and descend before the flight attendant was announcing preparation for landing.

Walking up the concourse from the arrival gate, Pug thought again of what his former wife, Alison, always said about arranging meetings immediately after a long flight. Give yourself time to get to your hotel room and change or get your clothes pressed, she’d admonished. A quick glimpse of his reflection in the corridor from the glass-covered advertisements convinced him that Alison had been right. He looked like a vagrant in his rumpled gray suit.

Uniforms seemed to withstand travel much better. But in his nearly twenty-three years of military service, including four years at the Naval Academy, he had seldom been required to actually wear his military attire. Over that time, not counting the Annapolis years, he had spent only nine years in uniform. Military personnel assigned to the National Security Agency and the CIA tried to blend in by wearing civilian clothes. An assignment to serve on a presidential task force seemed destined to continue the trend.

As Pug walked toward the terminal exit, a young woman quietly fell in step with him. Once through the doorway, she spoke up. “I’ve got a car in the parking area, Mr. Connor,” she said quietly.

He looked at her and nodded. “Ms. Bentley?”

“Nicole Bentley.”

They blended in with the thousands of daily travelers at the San Francisco International Airport and made their way to the parking lot, where Bentley opened the driver’s door and unlocked the passenger side for Pug. Pulling onto California 101, she merged confidently with the traffic and headed north, then handed Pug a manila folder.

As she drove, she said, “My partner, Al Samuels, is waiting for us at the hotel, and Judge Granata will join us shortly. We’ve scheduled a briefing for you on the current status, and tomorrow morning we’ve lined up a helicopter from the California Forest Service for a look around some abandoned Shasta Brigade training sites.”

“So the judge is out here?”

“He is, sir.”

“How are the confirmation hearings going?”

“A bit of a delay there, sir. Politics, I believe.” She smiled, glancing at him. “But the president told Judge Granata there’s nothing to worry about. A couple of senators just want something in return from the president.”

“Democracy at work,” Pug laughed.

“Yes, sir.”

Pug glanced over at the pretty young woman as she skillfully maneuvered her way through the afternoon traffic and then flipped open the folder.

“That’s a list of militia leaders from the top half-dozen units operating in central and northern California, and a background summary on each. Our briefing this afternoon will be more specific to the Shasta Brigade.”

“Fine,” he said, closing the folder. “And Pug will do fine, Nicole,” he said.

“Yes, sir. . Pug,” she said, briefly smiling at him again. “My partner called a few moments before you landed and told me that Judge Granata will be a bit late to our meeting. He’s with several of the California justices who wanted to meet with him. His ‘official’ visit to California is a fact-finding mission at the San Francisco FBI office. The press has dogged him since his nomination. He felt he couldn’t fly out without being spotted, so he announced the visit and made it official.”

“So the judge is getting a taste of notoriety, eh?” Pug laughed. “Serves him right. He’s given me the needle over the years when I’ve been stuck in the public eye.”

Granata, fifteen years older than Pug, had often asked Pug’s opinion on issues of the day, and on rare occasions when they had been able to find the time, they’d played golf together. Pug knew Granata was a determined, no-nonsense public servant. Even so, he remained a compassionate man, whose natural impulse was to take people at their word and offer them every opportunity for change.

On one occasion, five or six years earlier, Pug had gone to Judge Granata’s court in Alexandria, Virginia, to meet him for lunch. Arriving early, Pug had slipped unobtrusively into the back of the courtroom and watched as a young female defendant pleaded her case. Accused of violating the terms of her probation, the young woman had been asked by Judge Granata what assurance she could offer that she would not repeat her offense. Pug marveled at her naive reply-one that revealed her limited perspective and her ignorance of the world.

Judge Granata listened as the young woman explained how she was planning to move to St. Charles, Maryland, where, she said, “I kin get a new start, with different folk. There’s no drugs there, Judge.” Granata had slowly shaken his head in amazement, and Pug himself had wondered how the young lady had come to the conclusion that relocating barely thirty miles from the source of her troubles would, indeed, change her life. Still, Granata, with a reputation for fairness, set the young lady on her intended course with a warning that should she reappear in his court, he would have no choice but to confine her for the duration of her original sentence.