Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

The president laughed. “So I understand. Almost a one-way ride, if I’ve heard correctly. But surely you’ve formed some opinions about this issue.”

“Sir, I’ve had my hands full with special-interest groups seeking to get their view of the world into our draft constitution. And the rub of it is, I don’t want to write it. I don’t want to be part of the demise of the United States as we know it. I abhor the idea.”

“Colonel Connor has explained that to us, Dan. May I call you Dan?”

“Certainly, Mr. President.”

“That’s why you’re here, Dan. Someone, including the governor, holds you in high enough esteem to give you such an assignment, and although I specifically told Colonel Connor to keep you out of his investigative task force, Connor thought enough of you to disobey my orders.”

Dan glanced at Connor, who maintained a straight face in the presence of the president’s rebuke, however pleasantly it had been delivered.

“And while most presidents wouldn’t take kindly to being disobeyed, I’ve seen Colonel Connor in action, and have learned to trust his judgment. If he thinks enough of you to bring you onboard, Dan, that’s good enough for me. So, I repeat-given where we are, what can we do to save this nation we all love?”

“Sir, if the result of the election was engineered, you should be able to expose the fraud, hold another election, and change the result.”

“How is Agent Bentley, by the way?” the president asked, looking toward Judge Granata.

“She’s resting comfortably, Mr. President,” Granata responded. “I have several agents with her around the clock,” he added, smiling at Dan, “if that offers some relief.”

“Brave woman, so I’m told,” Eastman commented, thinking quietly for a moment while all in the room remained silent. “But, back to business,” he resumed. “Hold a new election, you say? Dan, you been in politics long?”

“No, sir. This is my first venture, other than serving an elected county board of supervisors as their appointed chief executive officer.”

“Are you familiar with the ‘bandwagon’ effect?”

“I believe I understand it, sir,” Dan replied.

“Well, then, you can see no matter how flawed the origin of an issue or political theory, if enough people believe it, or are made to believe it and get behind it, then all of a sudden it takes on a momentum of its own, and bang, you’ve got the truth before you, where all you had to begin with was a lie. You understand?”

“Yes, sir. Californians now favor what they think other Californians favor.”

“That’s about it in a nutshell, Dan. So how do we reverse it?” he said, addressing the room in general.

Dan responded. “Mr. President, last night, while I was being held captive, I began to understand that these militia leaders see themselves as patriots, much as our original Minutemen. If you look at it from their perspective, if California eventually secedes, they will have been right. They’ll have won, and they’ll ultimately be viewed as heroes. They even view the murders they’ve committed as the execution of traitors, much as my murder would have been, if it hadn’t been for Agent Bentley.”

“I see,” Eastman replied, nodding. “That does have a sense of logic to it, however flawed the origin. Clarene, what’s your take?”

Vice President Prescott paused for a moment before answering. “Mr. President, I think you need to go public with it. I don’t believe the public bandwagon is as well entrenched as you think.”

“Yeah, that’s certainly possible,” he said, slowly rising from his chair, at which all present in the room rose. “Colonel, it’s always a pleasure to meet with you. And Mr. Rawlings, if you have a couple of days, I’d like to invite you to stay in town and attend the special joint session of Congress on Tuesday. Would that fit with your schedule?”

“Mr. President, I appreciate the offer, but I really think I need to get back to California.”

“I understand, son,” he said smiling. “I’m sure she’ll heal a great deal faster if you’re there beside her. Tell you what-at my invitation, fly back on Tuesday. Colonel, see if you can arrange for our young legislator here to return, at federal expense, of course, and attend the address with you as my guests. Would that suit, Mr. Rawlings?”

“That’s most gracious, Mr. President. Thank you.”

“Right then,” Eastman concluded. “I guess that about wraps it up. Colonel, if you’re not needed to escort Dan to the airport, I’d appreciate it if you could stay, along with Judge Granata, for my next appointment.”

“Certainly, Mr. President. I’ll just see Dan outside and be right back.”

Connor walked Dan out to the foyer and thanked him for coming.

“I wouldn’t have missed it, Colonel, but it should have been Nicole. It’s her honor.”

“She’ll get her due, Dan. Don’t worry. Judge Granata is a very fair man and will see to it that she’s appropriately recognized. Give her my regards, and I’ll see you next Tuesday evening. I’ll have the president’s secretary book today’s flight, and the return next week, first class. It’s on the president,” he said, putting his arm around the younger man.

“Thank you, Pug. I’m anxious to get back to Nicole, as you can imagine.”

“I understand. Have a safe flight home. It should be more comfortable in first class than in the back seat of an F-16.”

“Not to mention an available toilet,” Dan laughed. “Thank you, Pug. For everything.”

When Pug Connor reentered the Oval Office, he was astounded to see Grant Sully, his old nemesis from the CIA, seated on the couch. Judge Granata had been joined by another man Connor didn’t know, but who, by the identification badge on his lapel, was one of the judge’s FBI agents. The president was absent, but came through another door just as Connor took a seat opposite Granata. Sully eyed Connor with similar astonishment.

The president walked briskly to the group, beginning to talk without taking a seat.

“Mr. Sully, I’m not going to waste any of my time this afternoon-or yours, for that matter. In fact, I don’t intend to spend thirty seconds longer with you than necessary. You’ve got just three options and exactly three minutes to decide which one you’re going to take. Do I make myself clear?”

Grant Sully looked nervously around the room before responding. “Sir, I don’t-”

“Shut up, Mr. Sully,” the president interrupted, his voice taking on a harsh tone. “Just listen, nod, and make your choice, because if I make it for you, you’re not gonna like the result.”

“Yes, sir,” Sully replied.

“Now, your first option is to leave this office with Director Granata, Colonel Connor, and the special agents, spend the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, or whatever it takes to purge your cankered soul of every piece of information you possess about the Franklin Group, John Henry Franklin, Senator Turner, and all the other conspirators in this secession folly. Mr. Sully, I mean everything you know. One omission-just one, that we find out about later-and you’re into option two, no matter how much cooperation you may have previously provided in other areas.

“If you fully cooperate in this exercise, you’ll be allowed to sign your resignation, return to wherever it is you call home, and a United States of America government retirement check will be deposited in your bank each and every month for the remainder of your miserable life. You can also have access to whatever money you’ve been able to squirrel away in any off-shore account from your dealings with Franklin. I don’t give a hoot about that.”

Pug Connor sat captivated by the developments occurring before him-amazed that the president had permitted him to witness what amounted to Sully’s expulsion from professional life.