Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

The president disagreed with Judge Granata’s assessment. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve thought about nothing but this problem for the past thirty-six hours-indeed, for the past several months if truth be known, but I’m flat out of options,” President William Eastman said to the small group gathered in the Executive Office. “Any open restraint I make will appear militant and infuriate those groups that are on the fence, including Governor Walter Dewhirst. In the old days, the president simply would have talked to the CIA about the problem, and some of the bad guys would disappear-if they could find them. We don’t work that way anymore. Sometimes I wish we did. George, what has the bureau come up with?”

“Mr. President, we’re quite certain who the primary leaders of the Western Patriot Movement are-at least the military leaders-but none of them have actually been observed for nearly a month. They’ve gone to ground, and with our inside agent killed, we’ve lost daily contact.”

“You mean to tell me you don’t know where they are, or what they’re doing?”

“That’s pretty close to accurate, Mr. President. We have a tail on some of the general membership, but not the leaders. Of course, we have a tail on Grant Sully, but still haven’t really determined his role, if any, in all this. But picking up the rank and file would be fruitless.”

“Clarene, this has been your ballgame so far. Where do you suggest we go from here?”

Ambassador Clarene Prescott, serving as national security advisor, leaned forward in her seat and placed her elbows on the highly polished walnut table. Around the table, seemingly as perplexed as the president, were FBI Director George Granata, Colonel Pug Connor, and Special Agent Nicole Bentley.

“We encourage them to come to us, Mr. President.”

“And what makes you think they will?”

“So far, every senior government leader who has spoken out on the issue, with the exception of Senator Turner, of course, has expressed his or her disapproval of the secession. The people behind the scenes on this have no one to confide in-no government official to publicly meet with to offer their support and suggestions. I have a feeling they would rather develop into a political action group-lobbyists advocating their new nation-than continue as militants forced to confront superior odds.”

Director Granata spoke up. “Ambassador, do I hear you correctly? You want to have some of us cross over to their side of this preposterous patriot movement?”

“Not quite, Director,” Prescott said, smiling at him. Looking back at the president, she continued. “Mr. President, I have a long-standing relationship with Governor Dewhirst. I believe he could be of assistance, if approached with the right ideas.”

“But he’s opposed to the secession, Clarene, or so I last heard,” the president said.

Prescott nodded. “But now . . he’s heard the will of the people.”

President William Eastman slowly nodded. “I see. . and he will slowly, even reluctantly perhaps, move down that path. Is that what I hear you saying, Clarene?”

“Yes, Mr. President. Something along those lines. And if not him specifically, then some of his staff. If he begins to prepare his state for the transition, perhaps it will give Colonel Connor and the task force the time they need to ferret out what is actually behind this patriot movement and its true leaders. If we don’t offer such staunch, unyielding opposition, maybe we can forestall further bloodshed until Colonel Connor has a chance to obtain some results.”

“What do you think, Pug?” the president asked.

“Mr. President, our options are few, and open military confrontation would only serve to bring about unacceptable bloodshed. As we both know, sir, from past experience, Ambassador Prescott is usually two steps ahead of the rest of us on this type of analysis.”

Eastman looked back at Prescott and smiled. “Well, it seems you have at least one acolyte on the team, Clarene. But doesn’t this plan carry the potential of simply escalating the movement toward secession?”

“That’s what I’m counting on, Mr. President.”

“So be it then,” the president said, standing up. “You’ll have your personal safety on the line out there, Pug, as well as the dedicated people on your team,” he said, glancing at Agent Bentley, “and I’ll follow along only so far. Then, at my sole discretion, I’ll take the steps I deem necessary to bring a halt to this thing, by whatever means I might decide. Do you understand me clearly, Colonel?”

Pug stood and nodded. “I do, Mr. President.”

“Then let’s get to it. Clarene, what do you propose to do first?”

“Vice President Hamilton leaves on his trip to London on Saturday morning, and the press will focus on that. I’ll slip out the back door and have a private meeting with Governor Dewhirst in California. If he announces the appointment of a few people in key positions to begin the transition phase, with luck, the political structure behind the militia movement will come out of the woodwork.”

“That’s asking a lot, Clarene.”

“It is, Mr. President, and will require a bit of faith along the way.”

“And the task force?” the president asked.

“I believe the existence of Colonel Connor and his task force should remain confidential.”

“So do I,” Eastman said. “Godspeed to you all,” he said, shaking hands around the room.

London, England

Leaving the formal dinner through the lobby of the London Hilton Hotel, Vice President Terrance Hamilton was surrounded by reporters and well-wishers as he made his way to the vehicle. British Prime Minister Roslyn Thornton accompanied the vice president, and together they entered the black limousine, driving away into the night with escort vehicles front and back.

The meetings had gone well, other than the expected interruption from crowds of dissidents beleaguering the vice president’s appearances, each pressing for one cause or another. If it wasn’t AIDS or military bases, it was support for human rights in third world countries. The vice president often took the flack for the United States on these flag-waving expeditions on foreign soil.

Both Prime Minister Thornton and Vice President Hamilton had agreed in the initial press conference that the recent announcement of Australia’s formation of a republic, replacing the queen as head of state, did not presage a separation of interests between the two countries. It represented more of a movement toward economic association as opposed to merely political alliance; the former, rather than the latter, being the focus of many independent nations as the world plowed its way through the twenty-first century.

The small convoy of dark vehicles proceeded to the corner of the block and made a right turn. As soon as the lead car made the turn, the limousine in which the prime minister and the vice president were riding entered the intersection. In a blinding flash of light, the vehicle was lifted completely off the ground and skidded to a stop on its side. The occupants never saw the shoulder-fired missile that impacted the vehicle, turning it into an instant fireball.

Swerving to miss the burning limousine, the following escort vehicle was impaled on a corner water hydrant that immediately spouted a geyser, flooding the intersection and adding to the frenzy of the scene. Security escorts were out of their vehicles immediately, rushing to the limousine with fire extinguishers and weapons at the ready, but no attackers appeared-their mission had been accomplished, and they were already following their escape plan.

A red-haired, ruddy-faced man, who stood on the far corner of the next intersection, lingered only long enough to confirm that the impact had been sufficient to inflict the desired damage. These things never went exactly as planned, and the end result was often open to question. But in this case, there was little doubt. The occupants of the limousine could not have survived the direct hit by the TOW missile.