Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

The reviewing stand was partially filled with dignitaries and politicians who always seemed to find time to be in attendance at such ceremonies, presenting themselves as concerned with and dedicated to the support of the military.

Where were they at budget time? Valdez often wondered.

Since being appointed chief of staff of the Mexican army six months earlier and upon the retirement of his predecessor, Valdez had quickly consolidated his power base. Through an intricately placed network of spies and an extensive political dossier maintained on high-ranking officials, many of whom were provided by John Henry Franklin’s computerized credit and financial reporting systems, Valdez presented a formidable opponent for politicians who chose to oppose his intended policies.

In a gesture of civility, Valdez had arranged for refreshments to be served to the guests in the stands prior to the actual ceremony, and several white-coated waiters circulated, taking orders and serving drinks. Valdez’s personal honor guard-six highly trained and dedicated enlisted men-stood quietly in two groups of three, off to either side of the reviewing stand, ready to respond to any incident that might portend disruption of the day’s proceedings.

General Valdez had yet to arrive, but was due momentarily with the guest of honor, General Fernandez. As the staff car carrying Valdez and Fernandez approached the stand, the driver received instructions to give way to another approaching staff car, which pulled up to one side of the reviewing stand. The driver exited and opened the rear passenger-side door to allow General Rodrigo Cordoba, resplendent in his military uniform, to exit. Then, Valdez’s staff car moved slowly past Cordoba’s, stopping directly in front of the stand where both officers exited in a flurry of assistance from those standing nearby and to applause from those in the stands who recognized Fernandez.

Carlos Domingo, a young, dark-skinned man of mixed Aztec and Spanish heritage, was dressed in a white waiter’s uniform and had been assigned to the front left section of the stand. He stiffened slightly at the site of Cordoba as the general got out of his vehicle, placed his hat on his head, and took several steps toward Valdez and their old friend, Fernandez, whom he hadn’t seen in over a year.

Carlos had met Jean Wolff the previous week in California, although he had presented himself to Carlos under a different name. Wolff had assured Carlos that General Cordoba was personally responsible for the death of his fiancee and their baby, along with the deaths of many other unfortunate Mexicans, whose only crimes had been to seek a better working environment. Carlos, Wolff had said, had been granted the opportunity to take revenge. Honor, in the Mexican tradition, demanded no less.

Carlos’ movements were quick, and the pistol he carried went unnoticed by Cordoba, who was intent on greeting his old friend. In his haste, and in attempting to get closer to accomplish his mission of revenge, Carlos tripped over the bottom riser, and his first shot went wide of the mark.

The fusillade of shots that followed from General Valdez’s honor guard cut Carlos down before he had moved another two feet, but as the investigative report would later falsely state, not before Carlos had been able to fire the second, and fatal, shot into General Rodrigo Cordoba. Cordoba’s old friend, General Fernandez, rushed to the side of his dying companion, while General Valdez stood by watching silently. No mention was made in the official report of the caliber of bullets that delivered the fatal wounds to Cordoba. In official statements, it would never be demonstrated that three rifle shots from Valdez’s honor guard were accurate enough to have brought an end to the lives of both General Rodrigo Cordoba and Carlos Domingo, his supposed assassin.

Portrayed as a distraught father bent on a mission of revenge, Carlos was subsequently savaged by the official reports as a deranged waiter who sought to obtain glory through the assassination of the head of the Mexican Federal Police.

Within the hour, accounts of Cordoba’s death reached Judge Granata. There was no mistaking his reaction, or his understanding, of what had actually happened. Although he had no knowledge of anyone named Carlos, he was certain the trail would lead directly to Grant Sully. Sully’s treacherous behavior, Director Granata vowed, would not be allowed to stand.

Senator Malcolm Turner left the suite of private medical offices in the San Francisco high rise complex in a state of disbelief. Six to twelve weeks-four months at best. That’s what the oncologist had said. Were it not for John Henry Franklin’s personal physician handling the case and the doctor’s confidential medical diagnosis, the press would have quickly emblazoned the headlines across the nation. He could see it in his mind’s eye-“FINANCE COMMITTEE CHAIRMAN TERMINALLY ILL”-and not only brain cancer, but an inoperable astrocytoma that left no possibility of medical treatment. Those constant headaches. A part of the job, he had always figured. How could this have happened to him just when he was to have taken California to new heights?

On top of it all, Senator Turner wasn’t used to being summoned so abruptly, as if he were a subordinate. But something in John Henry Franklin’s voice during the telephone call chilled him, and Turner convinced himself that as long as he was already in California, no harm could come from a meeting with his primary financial benefactor.

From the moment Turner entered the room, he detected a difference in Franklin, but given the devastating news of the morning, Turner thought that perhaps his normally intuitive nature was out of sync and he was just misreading the situation.

“John Henry. It’s good to see you again.”

Avoiding all social amenities, Franklin launched immediately into a denunciation of the president.

“Malcolm, the man will yet be the death of us. Unless we act decisively, he’s going to undo all you’ve worked so hard to achieve for California.”

Turner paused before sitting, momentarily confused. “I’m not following, John Henry. Who’s going to do what?”

“ Eastman!” Franklin fairly shouted. “Our esteemed president and chief antagonist. He’s going to expose you and the secession movement.”

Now Turner was totally confused. “Expose? John Henry, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Franklin turned back from the expansive window overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge and glared at Turner. “You arrogant old fool. Do you really think all those people voted to leave the United States because you told them it was good for them? Because they wanted to follow you?” Franklin raised his arms above his head as if entreating some nameless deity to bring sense to the man. “Heaven help us if we’re to be led by such fools,” he cried, walking back toward his desk. “The election was rigged. In fact, your last two elections have been rigged in your favor. That young upstart you were so concerned about in the primaries-he kicked your tail three ways from Sunday, Senator, and we saved it. We kept you in office so you could spout your rhetoric about the secession. And now Eastman knows all about it and is going to expose you.”

Turner dropped into a thickly cushioned leather chair as Franklin paced the room, continuing to berate Eastman and almost gleefully describing the end this would bring to Turner’s long and distinguished career. Turner felt an overwhelming inability to contend with two such crushing revelations in one day, and his reasoning ability began to shut down. He was dead politically, and he was shortly to be dead physically. Unrealized at the time, but well considered on his flight back to Washington, the former was more disconcerting than the latter.