Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

“How long have we been climbing this hill together, Malcolm?”

“Ah, too long to count the years, Mr. President. And I a bit longer than you, I suspect.”

“You’re probably right,” Eastman allowed, smiling briefly. Then he adopted a serious, fatherly posture, and his voice took on a new tenor. “Malcolm, you’ve been ill-used in this mess.”

“Excuse me, Mr. President?”

“John Henry Franklin-that’s who I’m talking about. He’s manipulated everybody associated with him, and, as in the case of Rodrigo Cordoba, he’s discarded them when he no longer found them useful.”

Turner’s caution flag went up. So that was it. Eastman was going to play to his soft side-appeal to their long association and sidle up to him, trying to change his position and co-opt him onto the president’s team. Well, it was too late, Turner concluded, instantly aware of Eastman’s game.

“Well, that’s politics, isn’t it, Bill? We’ve dumped a few associates along the way in our time, haven’t we?”

“Not in the morgue, Malcolm. This man’s dangerous.”

“They’re all dangerous if you’re not careful. I believe in what we’ve been doing out west, Mr. President, and I’m sorry that it doesn’t agree with your view of things. But there you have it.”

Eastman stood and walked back to his desk, retrieving a folder from a stack of papers.

“I’ve got to expose this fraud, Malcolm,” Eastman said, waving the folder, “and from where I stand, you’re caught in the firing line. You were out front leading the troops, and while I now know you were unaware of the nature of the conspiracy, you allowed yourself to be used by evil intentions. You got bamboozled, Malcolm.”

“The secession of California isn’t evil, Bill. It’s the nature of evolution. It’s casting off the shackles of bondage and getting off the road to incremental federalism that this nation’s been on for over two hundred years. You know how intrusive Washington has become in our lives, right down to regulating the mom-and-pop grocery on the corner in Modesto.”

“I have no intention of being drawn into a philosophical debate on the merits of secession, Malcolm. Tonight I intend to sing my swan song. I intend to lay it out for the nation-to display our findings regarding rigged elections, congressman and senators who were vaulted into office through corporate conspiracy-most of whom, Malcolm, as in your case, didn’t even know they were part of the conspiracy. They actually thought they had been elected by popular support. That’s the shame of it. Many of these people are honest, upright citizens seeking a chance to serve their country, as you always have. But someone must stop this chicanery in its infancy. And the California secession, as important as it has become, is only the tip of the iceberg. I’m opposed to it, you know that, and I’ll do what I can to stop it, but. .” Eastman again took on a softer, gentler tone, “. . my old friend, you’ve been caught in the middle, and the press, heaven forbid-you know how they’ve roasted you over your stance. Once they find out it’s all been a sham and you’ve been duped. .”

Turner stood, smoothed his hair back, and buttoned his jacket. Affecting a smile, he said, “Mr. President, this is an issue on which we each have to follow our conscience. I wish you well, sir, and may history provide the telling.”

President Eastman put his hand on Turner’s shoulder, smiling at him and shaking his hand gently. “Thank you, my old friend. I’m sorry you see it that way, but may God go with you.”

“With us both, Mr. President.”

“Mr. Speaker,” bellowed the Sergeant at Arms to the House of Representatives, “the President of the United States.”

The large, ornate double doors opened and the president and his entourage flowed in through the entryway. Seated in the upper gallery, Daniel Rumsey Rawlings leaned slightly forward, arms resting on the polished brass railing, watching intently as five hundred and sixty-eight senators and representatives, about a hundred various other cabinet officers, military leaders, foreign ambassadors, and invited guests all took to their feet in thunderous applause. Colonel Pug Connor sat immediately to Dan’s left. Dan thought again how the pomp and ceremony of government always had the power to give him chills.

President William Eastman, former Florida senator and the nation’s chief executive for nearly eight years, was in his full glory in such a setting. He moved gracefully down the aisle, accompanied by his ever-present security cadre. With two full terms as president behind him, Eastman still commanded considerable respect, and his popularity polls, currently at fifty-eight percent if taken east of Denver, were higher than any other president in history this late in his term of office. Given the recent events in California, however, his popularity had dropped precipitously in the West, ranging from thirty-nine percent in Utah to an abysmal seventeen percent in California.

He stopped at each row briefly to mingle with those fortunate enough to be close to the aisle, chatting briefly to this or that congressman, receiving the accolades and affectionate physical gestures that were so much a part of his public appearances. Rawlings watched with admiration, feeling out of place in this elite gathering, but pleased to be there at the president’s personal invitation.

The applause continued long after President Eastman reached the podium, where he shook hands with Vice President Prescott and Speaker Frank Redman before assuming his place on the stand. When the applause began to diminish, House Speaker Redman stood and pounded his gavel for attention. “The House will come to order!” he cried.

Sensing the moment, the audience responded to the announcement by renewing the chorus of applause, during which the Speaker stood silently, smiling for another several minutes. Finally, with repeated raps of the gavel, a semblance of order crept over the House.

“The House will be seated. Honored Senators, fellow Representatives, and welcome guests, it is my high privilege and a distinct honor to introduce to you the president of the United States, the honorable William Baldridge Eastman.”

Again the full house took to its feet, reviving the thundering applause, which continued unabated for the following three minutes, an ovation that gave Daniel Rawlings a prickly sensation down his spine. His hands were beginning to numb from the constant applause, which had lasted nearly fifteen minutes since Eastman’s entry.

Off to Rawlings’ right, the First Lady and her two sons, plus their wives, stood, the entire family smiling as the president accepted this acknowledgment of his accomplishments. During the annual State of the Union address nine months earlier, Eastman had announced the admission of Puerto Rico as the fifty-first state of the Union, and added two senators and one representative to the ranks of national legislators, who were biannually elected and sent to Washington to facilitate the acquisition of a “fair and just share” of the redistribution of wealth-a dubious accomplishment for which Washington D.C. had become known worldwide.

As the president stepped to the podium, Rawlings thought of Nicole and regretted her absence. She belonged here even more than he did. But for her actions, he wouldn’t be alive to be here at all.

Connor must have caught his wistful gaze because he leaned toward Rawlings and whispered, “I’m sure she’s watching on TV.”

“Probably, Colonel. I talked to her an hour ago, but the nurse in charge cut the call short.”

“It’d take more than a bullet to stop her, Dan. She’s tough,” Connor commented.

“How well I know,” Dan replied, a quick, bone-chilling vision of that dreadful night when he had come face-to-face with his mortality filling his mind.