Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

The president continued, pacing the room, pausing to look Sully in the eye occasionally, and emphasizing every point with a thrust of his finger. “Now the only reason you even have option one, Mr. Sully, is because of your thirty-plus years of service to this nation, and because the path you’ve chosen involved a domestic dispute and not an international treasonous act. Were that the case, Mr. Sully, you would hang, as young Lieutenant McFarland did some months ago in Sacramento, or be stood up against the wall and shot, as General Cordoba was yesterday. And regarding General Cordoba’s assassination, Mr. Sully-a most regrettable incident from my viewpoint-we are fully aware of your complicity in the matter.”

Grant Sully continued to squirm in his seat as Judge Granata regarded him with open contempt. Pug Connor, with whom Sully occasionally locked eyes-as they more than once had locked tactical ideology-tried to appear outwardly objective, despite the expanding sense of satisfaction he was experiencing.

“Your second option, Mr. Sully, is not to cooperate-a choice that I absolutely guarantee will result, from the moment you leave this office, in your spending the next thirty years in Leavenworth Prison. Period. End of story.”

The president stopped his pacing and looked directly at Sully. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Sully replied, his head now bowed and his demeanor subdued.

“Fine. Then what’s your choice, Mr. Sully?”

Sully hesitated, glancing around the room, fear evident on his face. He looked again at the president. After what seemed like several long minutes, he spoke in a subdued tone. “Mr. President, you indicated three options, and-”

“I lied, Mr. Sully. I lied.”

Once Colonel Connor had completed the first few hours of Sully’s interrogation, held in the FBI’s Hoover Building, he’d learned enough about those involved in the conspiracy to call an old marine association and request an appointment at the Pentagon. He then called the president’s secretary and left a request, which was confirmed by text message while he was enroute to the Pentagon.

Thirty minutes later, he arrived at the office of the Commandant of the Marine Corps and was told the Commandant would be available shortly. He took a seat and waited for several moments, after which the young Captain advised him that the Commandant would see him. Pug stood and entered the well-appointed office. A tall, erect man in his middle sixties came around his desk and extended his hand.

“Colonel Connor, it’s good to see you again,” General Tomlinson said. “You’re looking well.”

“General, please accept my apologies for not being in proper uniform, but I’ve just come from the FBI Director’s office, following a meeting with the president.”

“Not to worry, Colonel,” Tomlinson said. “Take a seat,” he said as they moved toward a small arrangement of chairs. “How can I help?”

Pug waited until the general sat and then assumed his seat. “Sir, when we last spoke, when I assumed this presidential assignment, I was unable to advise you of the nature of the mission. But you mentioned that any help I might need from the Corps should be brought to your attention. In light of recent discoveries, I am requesting a particular individual be assigned temporary duty under my direction for at least the next ninety days. I believe he is currently assigned to 1 stForce Recon as Battalion Sergeant Major. Carlos Castro is his name, General.”

Tomlinson nodded. “I know Sergeant Major Castro. Outstanding marine. If I recall, you’ve served with him before.”

“Yes, sir. He was Gunny Castro when I was company commander in the 15 thMEU aboard the Belleau Wood . We had several missions together. I know it’s a common story, sir,” Pug said, smiling, “but without the actions of Gunny Castro, this young marine captain might not have come home alive from our Pakistan insertion.”

General Tomlinson smiled. “Colonel, you’re not the only Marine officer who owes his life to a competent Marine NCO. Truth be told, there are two of us in this room that qualify for that distinction. Mine was Gunnery Sergeant Dan L. Jackman, over forty-four years ago when I was a green, twenty-one year old second lieutenant in Vietnam and Jackman was a Korean War veteran with three Purple Hearts. He earned two more of them in Vietnam, one of them saving my life. The Corps thrives because of those outstanding NCO’s, Colonel. So, you need Sergeant Castro for ninety days you say?”

“At least, sir. If an indefinite assignment is possible, I would appreciate that contained in his orders.”

“Is this by direction of the president?”

“It is, sir. Verbal orders of the president.”

Tomlinson rose and stepped to his door, speaking to the officer seated just beyond, then returned to the seating area. Pug had also risen when Tomlinson stood. “Consider it done, Colonel. I’ve just asked Captain Black to provide you with a copy of Castro’s service record. I think his recent academic achievements, if you’re unaware, will surprise you. When will you need Sergeant Major Castro?”

“If he’s still at 1 stRecon, Camp Pendleton, have him remain in place, General. I’ll contact him in the next seventy-two hours.”

“Anything else, Colonel?”

“No, sir. Thank you, Commandant, for seeing me so quickly this afternoon.”

“Call this office if you need something further. The captain knows how to reach me.”

“Yes, sir.

Oval Office, The White House

Washington, D.C.

September, 2012

For three days Senator Malcolm Turner had tried to come to grips with his mortality, afraid to discuss the matter, even with his wife, or to seek a second medical opinion for fear of public disclosure. He drifted through each day, physically present at his committee meetings, but mentally absent for all but the most direct confrontation from one of his honorable senatorial associates.

President Eastman had been strangely silent. Even his staff had not presented any insurmountable problems. Other than the visit from Jean Wolff, who had presented Turner with visions of a place of honor in California history, both as originator of the secession movement and actuator of the removal of one of the largest impediments, it had been a politically uneventful three days. Wolff’s implied action-assassination of the president-had brought more people infamy than notability. Still, Turner contended with himself as he wrestled with the possibilities, there were those who had turned the course of history by the assassination of a national leader. It all depended on one’s retrospective point of view. Above all, from Turner’s perspective, being brought down in a hail of bullets from the Secret Service was better than enduring a disgraceful, slow death from some debilitating disease.

The call from Eastman’s chief of staff, asking if the senator would have a few moments to meet with the president prior to the joint congressional assemblage, surprised Turner. The meeting could indeed be about the president’s address, scheduled for that evening, but Turner, in leaving for the White House, held no such illusion. John Henry Franklin always knew what was happening, and John Henry Franklin had said the president was going to go public.

Turner entered the Oval Office and found President Eastman there alone. Eastman rose to greet his old friend and occasional political sparring partner.

“Good of you to come, Malcolm.”

“Mr. President, it was kind of you to ask. It’s a big evening for you. How’s tonight’s message coming together?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Eastman said. Taking a seat across from Turner, Eastman had a sympathetic look in his eyes, a calm tone in his voice, and a conciliatory demeanor, all of which confused Turner, who had expected retribution at the least.