Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

“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.”

Sierra Nevada Mountains

Northern California

May, 2012

A light tan Pacific Gas amp; 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 amp;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.