Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

“It’s a never-ending process, as you well know. You’ve settled into your new surroundings well.”

“So it would seem,” Dan replied, looking around the room, books and papers strewn about. “I’ve got to admit, though-I miss some of the trappings of county administration.”

“Your old deputy, Jim Thompson, is doing a good job as acting administrator in your absence, but I hear he’s considering going back to Wyoming.”

“Oh?” Dan feigned ignorance. Thompson had called Dan several weeks earlier to advise of the same thing. He’d been reluctant to join the secession bandwagon Dahlgren was pushing in Woodland, and the board of supervisors had him up against the wall, withholding appointment as administrator until he voiced support for secession.

“It ain’t worth it, Dan,” he’d said. “Dahlgren’s got these guys dancing on a string, and if I’m not careful, they’ll put me on a string too-or more likely a necktie party like the old days back in Wyoming. Back to the hills for me, ole buddy. If you’ll recall, I’m just a guest here in sunny California.”

But Dan could tell his friend was really worried and that the pressure to conform had been getting to him. Dan had considered offering Thompson a position on his staff, but the cowboy had his mind made up to return to Wyoming where he had some good job prospects.

Dan turned to Shaw, who as yet hadn’t spoken other than to greet Dan.

“Mr. Shaw, how can I be of assistance this morning?”

“I feel certain you know why we’ve come, Mr. Rawlings. We represent certain patriotic interests in northern California and have come to ask your support for our requests-in your new constitutional document, that is.”

“What, specifically, would those interests be?”

“Mr. Rawlings, let’s not beat around the bush. Other than the occasional criminal-who the average Joe meets less frequently than some would have us believe-most citizens have more to fear from overbearing government or police. We want to ensure that our new California constitution has, as one of its tenets, a guarantee that its citizens have a right to bear arms.”

“An armed camp, as it were. A citizen militia?”

“A well-regulated militia, Mr. Rawlings, like it says in the other Constitution-or haven’t you read that part yet? Your novel makes no bones about it. Your pioneers understood what an overbearing government can be like, didn’t they? Didn’t you learn anything from them? It’s time you found some of their courage and got off the fence.”

Dan could see the thinly veiled anger evident in Shaw’s face. Dan knew his loathing of his visitors was too close to the surface as well, and decided to calm the situation before it got out of hand.

“Mr. Shaw, in light of recent events and the disaster of the federal intrusion, you clearly have ample justification for your concerns. I would be the first to admit that an informed, and when necessary, armed citizenry is what made America what it is today. Do you have a proposed draft of what you’d like to see included in our document?”

“It so happens we do, Mr. Rawlings. We’ll just leave this with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, Mr. Shaw,” Dan said, taking the several pages Shaw handed him, placing them in a folder marked “Second Amendment.” Dan dropped the folder on a stack of folders piled on the corner of his desk, intent on showing Shaw the stack. He smiled at Shaw and Roger Dahlgren. “Others have been here, too, with their interests.”

Shaw’s eyes took in the stack, and Dan could see he didn’t like the idea of his recommendation taking its place in line with education, welfare, medical issues, and the myriad other concerns that had been submitted to the constitutional committee.

“Mr. Shaw, please don’t lose heart over this. I understand your concerns, and we all recognize that this issue has its basis in the unreasonable burden the federal government has placed on the states. This issue is important to me, too, Mr. Shaw.” Dan rose from behind his desk, coming out to shake Shaw’s hand. “Nice to see you again, Roger,” he commented. “Keep Woodland green, will you? I kind of have an affinity for the ‘City of Trees.’”

“Thought you might. By the way, Dan, you ought to come up and see our weekend maneuvers some time. You might enjoy the experience.”

Dan waved his arm at the stack of folders on his desk. “Better you come down here, Roger, and help me dig into this pile.”

“Any time, as long as I get to draft the ‘right to bear arms’ clauses,” he added.

“Right.” Dan laughed. “Thanks for coming, both of you. I’ll be in touch.”

John Henry Franklin’s direct phone call to Jean Wolff’s home was unusual. Even though Wolff had been a permanent member of Franklin’s staff for the last several years, other directors knew nothing about his duties and considered him primarily a security officer. Franklin was usually more discreet than to call him at home, so Wolff knew it was important.

Riding the private elevator to Franklin’s top-floor San Francisco suite, Wolff assumed the controlled demeanor he generally displayed in Franklin’s presence. As the elevator door opened, Franklin greeted Wolff. Jean was fully aware that Franklin had watched him on closed-circuit TV as he came into the building and entered the security code necessary to operate the private elevator.

“Good you were able to make it, Jean. Have a seat. Drink?”

“No, thank you.”

Franklin got right to it. “Two hours ago, I received a call from Grant Sully. He was unable to elaborate, but General Cordoba has been to meet with the director of the FBI.”

Wolff remained calm. “Cordoba’s knowledge is limited, John Henry. And the FBI is, after all, his counterpart agency in the States.”

“Yeah, but he’s not a dummy. We can’t assume it’s coincidental. We must consider that he’s revealed what he knows, and maybe the FBI put the rest together. He’s served his usefulness, Jean. Take care of him before it goes any further.”

“I understand, John Henry,” Wolff said, rising. “Something that has come up recently may be just the ticket. May I use your phone?”

Franklin’s face assumed a quizzical expression, but he nodded toward the desk. Wolff picked up the receiver, glanced at a card he took from his wallet, and dialed a number.

“ Buenas noches, amigo,” Wolff said, as Franklin watched.

“Do you still have our friend under wraps?” he asked. “Right. Hold him. I’ll be there in the morning. Oh, and Joaquin. Keep him scared, but don’t injure him. . Okay. . See you then.”

Wolff replaced the phone and turned toward John Henry. “I’ll take that drink now.”

Franklin poured Wolff’s drink, and by a slight inclination of his head, sought explanation.

“Last night, one of our employment farms caught a wetback trying to sneak into the compound. Claims he was after the guy he’d paid to get his family across. Something about getting them killed. We were going to dump him off somewhere, but I think I have a better use for him. I’ll see him in the morning and decide if he’s suitable.”

Franklin waved an impatient hand. “Take care of Cordoba, Jean. If he’s on to anything, he could cause problems. Mexico is already being pressured by the U.S. State Department to rescind the diplomatic recognition they’ve extended to California.”

“Can I contact General Valdez for assistance?”

“Good thought. I’ll call him and let him know you’re coming.”

Wolff downed his drink and turned to leave. “How’d Sully come across this information?”

“He said his field agent in Mexico sent it in the courier pouch eight days ago, but it wasn’t marked urgent, so it flowed like molasses.”