Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

Perhaps the doctor had delivered his message with more compassion and understanding, but given Turner’s lifelong pursuit of politics, John Henry’s news was the true fatal blow. He sat silently as Franklin drove home point after point, oblivious, or so it seemed, to the earlier carnage that had entered Turner’s life.

“You’ve got to talk to Eastman. You’ve known him for years. Convince him that this would be wrong, that he can’t take this path.” Franklin approached Turner, who was still seated and by all outward appearances, comatose. “Are you listening to me?” Franklin badgered.

Turner’s eyes rolled up toward Franklin, the only visible response to his diatribe.

“If we can’t dissuade him from this course of action, California’s doomed. You’re doomed as well. We might as well be dead, for all that will be left of our careers-our lives. Think of your family, your children. In fact, think of Eastman. We’d be better off if he were dead. At least Prescott’s a Californian and might be able to sympathize with our frustrations.”

Pausing to observe Turner’s malaise, Franklin pounded his fist on the desk.

“You miserable excuse for a man, snap out of it!” Franklin demanded. “You’ve got to do something to stop the president from bringing all your efforts to naught-from publicly ruining your career and your family reputation. Do you understand all that, Malcolm?” Franklin exclaimed.

Turner slowly rose from his chair. Franklin ceased his monologue and watched as Senator Malcolm Turner stumbled toward the elevator.

“I’ll speak with him, John Henry,” was all he said as he entered the elevator and left Franklin’s office.

Franklin watched on the closed-circuit TV as the elevator reached the ground floor and Turner leaned against the wall for several moments before he gained the strength to exit the building. Franklin reached under his desk, pressing a button that unlocked a door in the corner of his office. The door opened, and Jean Wolff entered, quietly taking the same seat Turner had vacated.

“I’ve done less damage with a rifle,” Wolff calmly said.

“Ummm,” Franklin exhaled, somewhat unburdened of his frustration by his harangue. “On top of his medical report this morning, this can’t have been one of his better days, I suppose. What do you think?”

“It’s a lot to swallow in just a few hours, but I’ll visit him in Washington next week and close the deal, so to speak.”

“Ummm,” Franklin repeated. “We might yet salvage this, if we act decisively.”

“Perhaps. But what makes you think Clarene Prescott would take a different road than Eastman?”

“I don’t,” he responded. “But I know what road Eastman is on and there’s still hope I could persuade Prescott to consider a new path. It’s nothing more than damage control. Clear out a known obstacle and see what surfaces. I’ll handle that side of things, but you, my dear Mr. Wolff, must find a way to show Senator Turner how he can still go down in history as a hero and the father of the Republic of California.”

“Well, having your doctor deliver that bogus brain cancer diagnosis has gone a long way toward helping me to accomplish that,” Wolff said, rising. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“Don’t think about it, Jean- do it. Oh, and good job on the Cordoba thing.”

“Yeah. But don’t get on the wrong side of Valdez. The man’s driven by the devil.”

“I know,” Franklin grinned. “That’s why I like him. Oh, and one more thing. As long as we’re cleaning up loose ends, the top echelon of the brigade has gotten pretty far into the scope of this thing. They know too much. If Shaw is as smart as you say, he’s probably figured out our operation by now. Perhaps he’s completed his. . shall we say, ‘term of office.’”

“I thought the same thing, and already have some ideas,” Wolff replied.

Before entering the Oval Office, Dan was subjected to an identification check and the scrutiny of a metal scanner. The famous room was much smaller than he had envisioned, and so was the president. Standing only five-foot-ten, the chief executive looked up at Dan and Colonel Connor, who were both over six feet tall. Also present were Vice President Prescott and Judge George Granata.

In that daunting setting, Dan observed that Colonel Connor, while maintaining a formal decorum, appeared at ease in the presence of such luminaries, and they in turn, seemed genuinely pleased to greet him.

For the first four hours following his arrival in Washington the previous evening, Pug Connor and Dan Rawlings had reviewed the printouts from the disks Dan and Nicole had retrieved from Stevenson’s cabin. The news of Stevenson’s torture and death only served to heighten Dan’s understanding of how close he had come to dying while in captivity. The data on the disks revealed the scope of the election fraud. Though some information was incomplete or misleading, it was clear that the Home Telephone Voting System, created by the Franklin Group, had been the vehicle that made it possible to manipulate the election results. Connor advised Dan that a summary of their preliminary findings had been sent over to the president prior to Dan’s arrival, and that Eastman would be conversant with the issue for their meeting. The president was more than conversant.

“So, Colonel, this is our young man,” the president said, stretching forth his hand.

“Yes, Mr. President. May I present Daniel Rawlings, assemblyman in the California legislature, overnight escapee from the militia, and of course, author extraordinaire.”

“Yes, indeed,” Eastman exclaimed. “Mr. Rawlings, you might think this a bit foolish, but if you would be so kind as to autograph my copy of Voices in My Blood, I’d be most appreciative.”

Connor had told Dan that the president had an uncanny way of knowing where a person was coming from, and that he usually knew more about someone visiting than that person might have imagined he would. Knowing that a man was likely to surprise you with his words or actions and confronting the reality of such a demonstration when the man was the president of the United States, were two different things, however, and Dan was taken aback at the president asking for his autograph.

“It would be my pleasure, Mr. President.”

Eastman smiled at Dan’s obvious chagrin. “California’s been on my mind lately.” He paused, laughing softly to himself and gesturing toward his desk. “And all over my desk as well, but your book has a lot to do with the early development of California. When you became involved in this issue, and I learned of your legislative committee assignment, Vice President Prescott-who gave your book high marks, by the way-suggested I might get a look inside your psyche by reviewing the book. Quite well done, Mr. Rawlings, and I just might have gotten a peek at your soul as well. You obviously love those people you’ve written about.”

“They’re part of me, Mr. President. I’ve come to think of their influence as ‘voices in my blood,’ sir, as the title says.”

“That,” the president said, pointing his finger directly at Rawlings, “is exactly what I’m talking about. Like California is part of the whole. Now, tell me, son,” Eastman said, gesturing for all to be seated in his small conference area, “in light of the startling information you were able to obtain, and which Colonel Connor has provided for my review, how’re we going to save this great nation of ours from going the way of eastern Europe after the break-up of the Soviet Union?”

Dan took a seat on the edge of the couch. “Truly, Mr. President, I don’t know how to answer such a monumental question, but as to obtaining the information, Agent Bentley was responsible for that achievement-I was just along for the ride.”