Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

“Yes, sir.”

“Pug,” Prescott added, “I got your last report. Unfortunately, we can’t use the normal international channels to find Jean Minards-an obviously false identity-who worked with the California elections office. Those reports filter back through your former employer, and you understand that we can’t tip off Grant Sully.”

“Understood, Madam Vice President. Perhaps I can trade for this one.”

“Trade?”

“I could contact Kevin Donohue in Ireland again. Once before, he provided identification of someone we needed to uncover. If Minards, or Wolff, is an internationally recognized operative, Donahue might be able to identify or locate him. I don’t know what he’d want in return, however.”

“Absolutely not, Colonel,” the president interjected. “We’re not dealing with those cutthroats. They killed the vice president, for crying out loud. If I could find them, I’d have them snatched and put in rendition. No contact with these IRA terrorists. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Pug replied. “There is one other option at my disposal. Madam Vice President, I believe you know this person also-Ambassador Molenski?”

“The Russian Ambassador to the U.N.?”

“Yes, ma’am. He was most helpful with the USS Cherokee incident a few years ago. Recently he assisted in helping me with some information about the IRA.”

“We’ll discuss it, Pug, and I’ll get back to you,” Prescott replied. “Meanwhile, keep us abreast of the developments with this Rawlings chap. Can you work with him?”

“It’s an unusual situation. He’s been developing a relationship with Agent Bentley, and his former brother-in-law is a member of the militia.”

“Oh? Did you say former brother-in-law?”

“Yes, ma’am. Rawlings’ wife was killed a couple of years ago in a skiing accident shortly after they were married. Kenny Bailey is her brother. He was shot and killed in a failed ambush on Captain Rawlings several weeks ago.”

The president spoke up. “Rawlings shot and killed his own brother-in-law?”

“No, sir. Some members of the Shasta Brigade shot him as he was trying to get on their plane before they took off. Rawlings killed the other ambusher. As far as Rawlings goes, Mr. President, Agent Bentley is convinced he’s in opposition to the secession and is actively working to prevent it.”

“So is Governor Dewhirst, Colonel,” the president chimed in. “But as you said, he’s ready to do what’s necessary to protect California. Be very careful how involved Rawlings becomes with the task force. I don’t think involving him would be such a good idea.”

“Understood, Mr. President. I’ll be in touch.”

“Good luck to you, Colonel.”

“Thank you, sir.”

President Eastman pressed the key to disconnect the speakerphone and leaned back in his chair as Clarene Prescott took a seat in front of his desk. She raised her eyebrows, revealing to Eastman her chagrin at his failure to inform Colonel Connor of impending military operational orders. Eastman watched her for a moment, assessing her agreement with his actions.

“I know, Clarene,” he said, raising his hands in a surrender mode. “We’ve left the colonel in the dark.”

“Pug Connor is a good man, and he’s worked in the dark before, but I’m surprised that you chose not to inform him.”

“It’s not a question of trust. You know that. Connor can be trusted, but there’s still the possibility that I’ll be able to abort the troop movement and stop this foolishness, and the fewer people I have to ‘stand down,’ the easier it will be. The JCS, however,” he said, shaking his head, “are dead set to move forward. We’ll bring Colonel Connor into the picture by Thursday night if things don’t change.”

“I think that would be fair, Bill. He’s walking a tightrope out there.”

“Yeah. Aren’t we all?”

Modesto, California

Dan Rawlings lightly touched his brakes for the third time in as many miles and decided once again that utilizing cruise control on old Highway 99 was an impossibility. Ten miles west on Interstate 5, traffic flow was suitable, but the stop-and-go traffic, intersecting roads, and general limitations of 99 precluded such relaxing driving aids.

Crossing the Dry Creek Bridge at Galt, Dan ejected the CD, the sudden ensuing silence bringing Nicole to life from the twilight-zone nap she’d been taking since their departure from Dan’s apartment in Davis.

“Welcome to central California, Agent Bentley,” he said.

Nicole yawned and stretched her arms up and toward the back of the car before raising the seat from its reclined position. “Ever played this golf course?” she asked as they crossed the bridge and she observed the fairway extending out on both sides of the highway.

“Had one of my most memorable rounds here several years ago. Two under on the front and twelve over on the back side,” he said, laughing.

“Is that when you decided to forget turning pro?” she teased.

“Long before that, Agent Bentley.”

“What do you think Senator Turner really wants, Dan? Why do you think he wanted you to come down to Modesto?”

“It’s his home court. As to what he wants, I’m not certain, but he must have discovered I’ve been given the assignment to draft a constitution. He knows my stance because we debated the issue during the election-well, sort of debated. We were on the same podium, and questions were thrown at both of us.”

“Dan, if he doesn’t already know who I am or what I do, I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

“Understood. At least he’s chosen to meet us on relatively neutral ground. Modesto has this wonderful tradition of summer concerts in the park. They have a completely amateur band, usually about a hundred members or so, and every Thursday for six weeks in the summer they provide an open-air concert. When I was a young boy, my father lived in Modesto, and each year when I went to spend the summer with him we’d attend these concerts, although I was more interested in the playground equipment and snow cones than the music.”

“Boston Pops comes to Modesto,” Nicole said.

“You could say that, but maybe not quite so formal.”

About forty-five minutes past Stockton, Dan pulled off Highway 99 and headed for downtown Modesto, where he found parking more difficult than he’d anticipated. They ended up parking about two blocks away and walking to the amphitheater. They passed hundreds of people who were already lying on blankets on the grass, their small hibachis smoking and picnics in process, ranging from buckets of KFC to barbecued ribs. The semicircular stands had blankets draped over whole sections of seats in a sort of honor system for reservations.

Dan spotted Senator Turner center left, down front, and led Nicole to the politician. Turner saw him approaching across the crowd and stood, smiling broadly as he shook hands with people who were filtering through his row toward their own seats.

“Assemblyman Daniel Rawlings,” Turner said, somewhat officially, “welcome to Modesto. Let me introduce you to our esteemed mayor. Steve La Barbera, meet Daniel Rawlings, one of our newest state legislators, from Yolo County, and, of course, one of California’s newest authors.”

“Of course.” Mayor La Barbera smiled. “A great read, Mr. Rawlings. But as you well know, Stanislaus County offers all the wonderful benefits you extol for Yolo County in Voices in My Blood.”

Mayor La Barbera was a tall, trim man with a full beard and thick hair, both of which were fully gray. He was quite distinguished-looking and from initial impressions, cordial. To be expected, Dan thought, in a political role.