Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

“Indeed. And in America and Australia they’re changing even more. It’s Ireland’s turn, don’t’cha know? When and where?”

“O’Connell Street Bridge, two o’clock. I’ll be alone and unarmed. You have my word.”

“That’s always been good enough for me, Kevin. ’Til then.”

“Good day to ya, Mr. Donahue.” McNally was dressed in a blue blazer with gray trousers, looking much the businessman. “Shall we stroll the beautiful Liffey?”

“You went to ground quite well, Fergus.”

“Well, now, surely y’know the story of the fox and the hare.”

“Aye,” Kevin grinned. “Given the events of recent months with the Aussies and the Yanks, perhaps it’s time for the fox and the hare to dine out-together.”

“I agree. Everybody and their brother’s castin’ free of the politicians what control ’em, and the Yanks and the Brits seem to be in sync with the idea without so much as a ‘how do you do’ to the Irish. It’s just not on. They’ve never dealt in good faith, Kevin. And you, sittin’ at the polished table these past two years, usin’ yer mouth instead of yer brains.”

Donahue nodded. “I’ve got to admit, the old ways made their mark in spite of the cost. It just might be time for a wake-up call to remind them the squeaky wheel is the one that gets the grease.”

“And I know just where to make the wheel squeak, Commander. The American vice president will be visiting London in a couple of weeks to see the bloody PM. They’ll get all cozy in some vehicle, don’t’cha think? Maybe we can send them a message. How say ye?”

“Keep talkin’.”

Monterey Peninsula Airport

Monterey, California

United Express Flight 2340, a two-engine turbo prop of Brazilian construction, was a twenty-five minute hop from Monterey Peninsula Airport to San Francisco International, some ninety miles to the north. The 5:40 Tuesday evening flight log listed nine passengers, five of whom the airline manifest referred to as congressional VIPs. In addition to Mrs. Winifred Albertson of Kenai, Alaska, and her three children, all of whom were connecting to an Alaska Airlines flight destined for Anchorage, the roster included Representative John Hunter, Corona, California; Representative Mary Elizabeth Hopkins, Santa Rosa, California; Representative Robert Jensen, Bakersfield, California; Representative Donald Wilmont, Alamo, California; and Representative Clarence Joiner, Salinas, California. Flight 2340 also consisted of a pilot, co-pilot, and one flight attendant.

Representatives Hunter and Joiner had only just arrived, hastily transported from a last-minute round of golf at Pebble Beach, and their luggage, including two sets of golf clubs, was quickly loaded into the cargo compartment of the aircraft.

“Boys and their toys,” Congresswoman Hopkins teased as the two tardy passengers entered the aircraft, taking seats across the aisle.

“You should try golf, Mary,” Hunter said, laughing at her taunt. “It would help you relax.”

Laughing in reply, she said, “I can think of dozens of things more productive than a five-hour walk around a cow pasture.”

“Ah, but nothing quite so satisfying or challenging,” Joiner added as he buckled his seat belt. “Besides, Mary, at our age,” he said, nudging Hunter, “it’s the only thing left we can do for five hours straight without falling asleep. . and that includes attending one of your housing and rent-control sub-committee meetings, Representative Hopkins.”

“Well, thank you very much, Clarence.” She smiled. “You brought us down here to Salinas for your ‘dog and pony’ show, if you’ll recall. But the next time you come begging for my vote for your farm subsidies, I’ll make you grovel for five hours-while staying awake.”

With the five members of the U.S. Congress securely seated aboard the aircraft, Mrs. Albertson, still inside the departure area, continued her frantic search for the youngest of her three children. As she pleaded with the United Airlines’ gate attendant to delay the flight while she retrieved the wayward child, Mrs. Albertson’s anxiety level was rising rapidly. Final boarding announcements had sounded in the small airport terminal, located on a flat mesa amid the lush, green, rolling hills west of Salinas.

“We’ve got to make our connecting flight in San Francisco. Please give me a few moments,” the woman pleaded.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” the young female ticket agent replied. “We have another flight at 6:20. That flight will also give you sufficient time to connect, and we have available seating. Perhaps we can locate your child by then, but I have to release this flight.”

“Oh, if you must,” the woman said, exasperation in her voice. “Where in the world can that boy be?” she asked, scurrying off down the corridor.

Given the signal from the ground crew, Captain Anderson started the number-one engine, wheeled his aircraft toward the taxiway, and pulled away from the terminal. By the time they had reached the end of the runway and obtained takeoff approval from the tower, Mrs. Albertson’s youngest child, Benjamin, age three, was located in the rear of the small restaurant facility, happily enjoying a large dish of ice cream. His story of a nice man with “pictures on his arms” giving him ice cream and a stuffed doggie to play with went unheeded. All he earned for his absence was a stern rebuke from his mother for the unnecessary delay.

At the far end of the concourse, Otto Krueger took one last look at the commuter flight departing the gate area and slipped through the revolving doors, content that he had done his requisite good deed for the day.

Jean Wolff and Jackson Shaw drove their golf cart away from the 18 thgreen at Pacific Grove Golf Course and parked beside the cart path. Adjusting the earpiece in his left ear, Wolff commenced to add up their scores while Shaw emptied his pockets of tees, an extra ball, and a sweat-stained golf glove.

“Seventy-eight,” Wolff said, nodding his head. “It seems you’ve had time for a bit more than brigade duties over the years, Jackson. That’s an impressive score for your first time on this course.”

“If not for that sixteenth and the-”

Wolff suddenly held his hand up for silence, pushing the earpiece further into his ear. Shaw waited quietly.

“Wheels up,” Wolff said and started the cart again, driving clear of the trees and looking out over the ocean toward the marina. “About three minutes now.”

Flight 2340 lifted clear of the runway, gaining airspeed and altitude as it flew due west over the ocean and above Monterey Bay. Dozens of yachts, both sail and motor, filled the Breakwater Cove Marina. Representative Mary Elizabeth Hopkins looked down at the scene, her thoughts running to earlier days before her husband’s death. Sailing had been one of their joys and until his untimely heart attack, had provided far more than five hours of pleasurable entertainment. Many times over the years they had sailed south from Marin County and been hosted by friends at Breakwater Cove.

But times had changed. All those people below were lost in a world she had long forgotten, trapped by her congressional duties. The plane banked north, beginning its run up the California coast to where it would cut east just above San Jose and begin the approach into San Francisco International. Perhaps, she thought, looking out the window at the coastline off to her right, once they were able to put an end to this secession business, she would vacate her seat and return to enjoy her grandchildren and to instill in them the same love for the sea their grandfather had possessed. Life was too short for constant political commitment, and her family deserved her attention ever so much more than her constituents, didn’t they? And what about her? Hadn’t she earned some rest after running full speed nearly eighteen years in Congress, all of them without Hank?