Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

Walter Dewhirst rose and stood behind his chair, his eyes growing larger with the revelations being delivered by Colonel Harman. “ Suspend this government?” he blurted, turning to look at Del Valle, who also stood.

Robert Del Valle moved to the front of the governor’s desk and spoke in a soft tone. “Governor Dewhirst, the California National Guard stands ready to follow your orders. I can’t tell how many will defect or how any of us, for that matter, will respond to such an appalling condition. But I have already prepared the plans for just such an eventuality.”

Walter Dewhirst looked in astonishment at General Del Valle. “You’ve what?”

“Walt,” Del Valle continued, his voice still soft and under control, a ploy that had often confused his opponents in negotiation, coming as it did devoid of any anger from his six-foot, five-inch frame, “Colonel Harman, Colonel Tompkins, my executive officer, and I have developed some ‘what if’ scenarios. It’s only prudent to be prepared. The Army’s options were limited. It wasn’t difficult to project their moves if it came to this. In an insurrection, you move to shut down the government and communications. Local and county governments pose no real problem for Washington, but the federal government has no choice but to exert a semblance of control over what is seen as the rebellious behavior of the California Legislature. They’re coming, and we’ve got to get ready. Unless I’m wrong, you and the Speaker of the House plan to announce the constitutional committee a week from Monday. Am I right?”

Dewhirst nodded.

“Right. Then we’ve got to move to effectively block the redeployment of units from Fort Irwin-not a military confrontation, but a political confrontation, with uniforms all around. We need to be prepared to occupy the capitol building and the perimeter around the square with only a couple of hours’ notice. We need to be here waiting for them when they arrive, or they’ll gain the upper hand. And, Walt,” he cautioned, “we need to do it without firing a shot. It’s a display of resistance to control from Washington.”

“But we don’t want this foolish secession to happen, General!” the governor shouted, spinning his chair out of the way and pounding his fist on the desk.

“I know, Governor,” Del Valle continued, maintaining control over his voice. “We don’t, either.”

Dewhirst took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for that outburst. It was uncalled for and certainly not directed at you or Colonel Harman personally. Pull together your contingency plans and be back here at, say. .” He glanced at his watch. “Seven tonight. Call your wives, gentlemen. I think it will be a long session. I’ll notify the legislative leadership, and we’ll all meet this evening.”

Del Valle and Harman moved toward the door, the governor following immediately behind.

Dewhirst reached to shake Harman’s hand. “Colonel,” the governor said, “this took courage on your part. Whose side are you on in this mess?”

Colonel Jack Harman didn’t answer for a moment, taken aback by the governor’s direct question. “Governor, I’ve honored my responsibility to my present commander, General Del Valle. But,” he said, looking at his watch, “I’ve got three hours and forty-five minutes to decide the future of my Army career.”

Governor Dewhirst looked into Harman’s eyes, and both men were silent for what seemed like minutes. “Perhaps, Colonel. .” the governor said, pausing briefly, “. . perhaps we’re in the same boat. I’ve got exactly the same amount of time to decide the fate of California, and in some respects, the fate of America as it is presently constituted.”

The two young men fidgeted impatiently as they stood on the street corner in the San Francisco Embarcadero. The pile of cigarette stubs in the gutter attested to the length of their wait and to their nervousness. They were careful to slip into the shadows whenever a police patrol car made its rounds. They knew their shaved heads, leather jackets, and Doc Marten boots would instantly subject them to interrogation and harassment. Skinheads were usually fair game for cops-however, not tonight, if they could help it. There was money to be made-that is, if the dude with the tattoos hadn’t been jerking them around when he recruited them.

A dark green van pulled around the corner, moving slowly down the street until the driver spotted the two skinheads and brief recognition was given. The van door slid open, the two men climbed in, and the van quickly moved away, turning toward the Bay Bridge and heading east toward Oakland.

“We thought you wasn’t comin’, man.”

“Got delayed. You ready?”

The two smiled at each other, nervousness now abating as they began the process of psyching themselves up for the evening’s work.

“We’re always ready to pop spooks, man. You got the tools, dude?”

The tattooed driver looked over at his passenger and gave a slight nod. Shaw had instructed Krueger that he was to continue acting as the one in charge, allowing Shaw to take a secondary role. Shaw climbed into the rear of the van and unwrapped two automatic weapons, handing them over the seat to the young skinheads, who examined them with the joy of receiving Christmas presents.

“Fine stuff, man. We can do some damage with these, all right.”

“You got the job down?” the passenger said.

“The man’s been feedin’ it to us for three days,” one skinhead said, inclining his head toward the driver. “What d’ya think, we’re dumb? We know what to do. And we know just where to do it, too, don’t we, Slick?” he said to his companion.

The van exited the Bay Bridge, then took I-80 toward Oakland, pulling off at the first exit and entering a parking lot. “Okay,” Shaw said. “You know where to meet us. Twenty minutes, that’s all. Drive by, rake the building, and if you get a couple-all the better.”

“We got it knocked, man.”

The passenger and the tattooed driver got out of the van and stood next to a parked car, watching as the van drove off.

“Move out, First Sergeant.”

“Right, Commander,” the tattooed man said.

They climbed in the parked car, and as Otto drove through the Oakland neighborhoods, Jackson Shaw leaned back in his seat, gazing out the window at the run-down housing and the abandoned, junked cars strewn along the dark streets. Shaw thought of his home in the northern California woods, east of Anderson, and how it contrasted with these crowded tenement houses, their residents crammed in like sardines.

“You think they can pull it off, Commander?”

“One way or another. If they kill a couple of blacks, all the better. We’ll take care of the rest.”

The car pulled into an alley behind a row of dark warehouses and stopped. Shaw got out, opened the trunk, and took out a silenced Beretta and a tire tool. Then he got back into the car and waited.

Three miles away, a few blocks from Martin Luther King Drive, the dark-colored van cruised the streets, looking for targets of opportunity. After a few minutes, the driver and his passenger spotted a group of young black men standing under a light pole, waiting to cross the street.

Driving slowly past them, the van continued halfway down the block, then made a sharp U-turn and accelerated back toward the young men, their refined street sense suddenly alert to the sound of a rapidly approaching automobile. As the van sped toward them, a weapon appeared, sticking out of the passenger side window.

“He’s got a piece!” one of the men yelled.

They scattered, running frantically for cover. One dove behind a parked car, squirming into the gutter beside it. As the van sped by, the passenger opened fire with his automatic weapon. Bullets sparked off the pavement and peppered the walls of the housing units. Two of the black men were cut down by the burst of fire, one of them sprawling headlong onto the sidewalk and the other hurled by the impact against a chain link fence.