Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

A West Point graduate, Shaw had spent nine years in the Army, being passed over for promotion to major when a National Guard company he was training lost four men, drowned in a Louisiana swamp during a four-day escape and evasion exercise. After much breast-beating and political posturing by a Louisiana senator, the ax fell. The Army, needing a scapegoat, had settled on Captain Jackson Shaw, providing him an official reprimand for negligence and bringing his promising career to a sudden end-an action that had left Shaw with seething resentment for the political establishment.

Reduced to running a logging service out of Yreka, California, Shaw had long nursed an undiminished loathing of a government so spineless as to throw away one of its most ardent and dedicated sons to placate a political hack who sought only to mollify his constituents and enhance his own career.

The Brigade had answered Shaw’s need to strike back.

“Where does the brigade fit into this?” he asked.

“The brigade is the sharp end of the blade,” Wolff answered. “The Shasta Brigade will lead the northern sector, and you will personally command the overall movement. The other commanders will plan and execute their own operations, but you will coordinate and direct the when and where. We’re going to challenge one of the premier agencies in the federal system and beat them at their own game. Gentlemen,” Wolff said, rubbing his hands together and affecting a pleased expression, “I’m talking about the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms crowd. We’re going to bait them into one of their overzealous responses, wound them, make them furious, and publicly display their impotence. And we’re going to do it right before the election in November.”

Wolff watched Shaw and Jeffs, apparently to gauge their reactions. When Wolff had ordered a special-ops action a few months before to covertly research the movement of individual regional ATF agents, Shaw had not flinched at the directive. Now, Wolff was calling for outright military action, albeit guerrilla-style. Shaw, as a trained military officer, understood the risks involved. The brigade, for all its training and enthusiasm, would be no match in prolonged open combat against the military, either reserve or regulars, or, for that matter, against any of the federal agencies’ armed assault or hostage units. Surely Wolff knew that. But Shaw was sure they could prevail in a few isolated, well-orchestrated, unexpected attacks.

He raised an eyebrow and waited for the ops plan to unfold. This was something he had thought about for several years and for which he had long trained his troops, never telling them specifically what potential targets they might engage.

But Shaw had known all along that someday either the National Guard or one of the federal agencies, FBI or ATF, would become their target.

Captain Gary Jeffs spoke for the first time, addressing his comments to Shaw.

“Commander, we don’t have any tea to throw in the harbor and, given the history of the ATF against normal citizens, we can’t even claim to have fired the first shot. But by blazes, we’ll let ’em know ‘we’re mad as hell, and we’re not going to take it anymore,’” he said, mimicking Senator Turner’s rallying cry.

Grant Sully sat in the room and watched with amusement as Wolff worked his magic. He reflected on his own early days and his skillful manipulation of would-be power brokers in third-world countries around the globe. Sully had been a CIA field operative for nearly thirty years. Even as deputy director of operations, a position from which the incumbent was normally content to direct action from within the confines of the Farm at Langley, Sully still found every opportunity to make his way into the field and deal face-to-face with his operatives. Coming out of the closet as a senior CIA official, however, had not been his idea.

John Henry Franklin, needing to set the hook further into Sully, had shamed him by challenging him to “fish or cut bait.” Franklin had declared the time was past for sitting on the fence, and that if California was to secede, it would need strong, capable men to guide the change. Sully’s knowledge of how to foment insurrection would be invaluable, and his place would be assured in the new California Republic. No stranger to the manipulation and covert techniques needed to maneuver capable men into accomplishing planned objectives, Sully nevertheless found it amusing that he was on the dancing end of the strings this time, while Franklin-and to some extent Wolff-jerked his arms and legs.

The following morning, with about a dozen anxious, cautious men assembled in Wolff’s room, he opened the meeting.

“So then,” Wolff said, “shall we begin? As we speak, a special-ops team from the Shasta Brigade is conducting the initial research for an operation designed to alert the ATF that something is brewing. I can assure you, the message will be unmistakable. With help from inside sources,” he said, glancing toward Sully, who had been introduced-to everyone’s chagrin-as an intelligence agency operative, “word will filter down to the ATF of a large arms cache, which they will be anxious to raid. To heighten their interest, this arms cache will ostensibly belong to the same group that will have perpetrated actions against their brother ATF agents-actions that will take place early next week, conducted by a Shasta Brigade special-ops team. Nothing inflames a law enforcement officer more than the killing of one of his own. That, and the ATF’s propensity for knee-jerk direct action against supposed criminals, will be their downfall, all to our advantage. We expect this action will greatly increase public turnout for the election, and that the secession question will be answered once and for all. This is how it will work. .”

Daryl Cummings, in company with Senior ATF agent Howard Templeton, left a restaurant six miles north of Eureka on Highway 101. It was early morning, and they had eaten breakfast and were headed back to their makeshift office. They had spent the previous night monitoring telephone calls and visitors, if any, into and out of Room 204 at the local Ramada Inn-a known meeting place for gun-runners suspected of making drops of contraband weapons off the coast of California.

The stakeout had provided nothing of substance during the two-week duty stint, but as Templeton had told the rookie, it would take only one intercepted conversation to open many doors.

As they approached the first stoplight north of town, a pickup truck passed on their left, running the yellow warning light that turned red before the truck had cleared the intersection.

“Damn fool,” Templeton said. “Always in a hurry. Why the hell would someone want to live up here in this beautiful country and pass everything in sight just to pick up a few seconds?”

“Beats me,” Cummings replied.

A second pickup pulled up behind them just as the light turned green, and the two vehicles proceeded through the intersection, heading down the highway toward Eureka. The view ahead and to the agents’ right was of open ground that sloped away from the road toward a sheer cliff and the ocean below. The coast and beach were partially obscured by a low-lying morning mist, but as Templeton drove, he glanced at the waves rolling toward the rocky coast and thought how he never tired of the scenery in this part of the country. Content to grab a few more minutes before they would be cooped up in the motel room, neither man was in any hurry.

When the vehicle behind them rammed the back of their Ford Explorer, the jolt jerked the men out of their thoughts.

“Hey!” Templeton hollered. “What’s wrong with that guy?”

Again the truck rammed into their vehicle, and Templeton stood on the brakes, trying to slow down and get his vehicle off the road and onto the shoulder. When he succeeded in stopping his Ford, a second truck, approaching from the front, screeched to a halt alongside the agents’ car, and two men jumped out, their heads covered by dark blue ski masks.