Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

Dan Rawlings, not yet born when Kennedy had ended his presidency, found himself confused at his presence at such a momentous event, less than a week after his own brush with death. Words were not exchanged for several moments while Clarene Prescott stood silently in a corner of the room, several agents close at hand. The agent who had brought the pronouncement again whispered to Prescott, who wiped a tear from her eye and nodded.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been informed that the chief justice is on his way, and that it is necessary at this time. .” She trailed off, her voice breaking.

Speaker Redman stepped to her side and continued. “The chief justice will arrive momentarily to administer the oath of office to Vice President Prescott. I would appreciate it if all present would gather in my outer foyer, where a little more space is available.”

Dan stood quietly in the right center of the small gathering, now risen to about twenty-five people as word had circulated that an historical event was about to take place, causing several congressional members and staffers to seek attendance. The inclusion of Mrs. Ellen Eastman at the last moment-reminiscent of Jackie Kennedy standing beside Lyndon Johnson as he was sworn in on Air Force One in Dallas-added a poignant caption to the news photos of the ceremony, which instantly flashed around the world. The photo of Clarene Prescott hugging a tearful Ellen Eastman made the front page of a special edition of every major newspaper in the world.

It was over in moments as Chief Justice Harland Overton, in his twenty-fourth year on the Supreme Court, asked Clarene Prescott to raise her right arm to the square and to place her left hand on the Bible. With one brief look around the room, Chief Justice Overton held out the bible and began to speak.

“I, Clarene Elizabeth Prescott, do solemnly swear. .”

Despite her emotional turmoil at the events of the past thirty minutes, a strong, steady voice rang out, and Clarene Prescott stepped into history.

“I, Clarene Elizabeth Prescott, do solemnly swear. .”

Oval Office, The White House

Washington, D.C.

October, 2012

President Clarene Prescott warmly welcomed Governor Walter Dewhirst into the Oval Office, quickly refurbished by the White House logistics people to include memorabilia of Prescott’s long and illustrious public service career. Much of her service had been in national level appointed positions-rather than state and locally elected office-in the service of other presidents, who themselves had sought the Oval Office from their first foray into politics.

From the day President Eastman had offered the vice presidency to Clarene, she had shunned the idea of shifting roles as her professional career reached its zenith. The president’s pleadings, eventually successful, had come in the form of “duty to country” presentations, designed to appeal to Clarene’s well-known sense of responsibility.

After the death of the prior vice president, Eastman had started the recruitment. “Just this last year of my presidency, Clarene, then you can step aside and either return to appointed office or retire gracefully out to pasture, as I’ll do when the time comes,” he’d joked.

Clarene had often reflected during these past four weeks that half of his last year had been denied. The mantle, completely unsought, had passed to her.

“Governor, it was most gracious of you to come.”

“Thank you, Madam President. I’m pleased you thought to ask. We’ve both been through considerable turmoil these past several months-the past two years, if we’re honest.”

“That’s an understatement, if ever there was one, Walter,” she said, laughing. “Please, have a seat. Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you,” Dewhirst replied, looking around the room. “You’ve changed things nicely. The first time I was here, back in the eighties, there was a bronze statue of a horse and rider on the credenza. A lot’s changed since that era.”

“Yes, President Reagan’s dismantling of the ‘evil empire,’ as he referred to it. Has it been that long, Governor?”

“I’m afraid so, Madam President, and I’ve got the gray hair to prove it.”

“Well, then, it’s high time we renewed your acquaintance with our. .” She hesitated, developing a small smile. “. . I should say your, capital.”

Governor Dewhirst returned the grin, sipping his coffee and leaning back to relax in his chair. “Have we finally got a handle on that, Madam President? Whose capital it is, I mean?”

“Well, that’s the reason I asked you to come,” she said, sitting beside him on the settee. “I think we have at our command the method by which we can put closure to this whole unfortunate episode.”

“Nothing would suit me more, Madam President. Please, go on.”

“I’ve wrestled with this.” She exhaled. “Boy, have I wrestled with this,” she said, shaking her head. “Colonel Connor-you remember him, I think-well, he and his task force finally put the pieces together over the past month.”

For an hour, Prescott reviewed for Dewhirst information that Daniel Rawlings had also provided to the governor during the course of their concluding investigation, revealing the extent to which John Henry Franklin had intervened and engineered the election results in no fewer than a dozen national election issues in each of the states where the Home Telephone Voting System had been adopted. To date, investigations had revealed that nine national and thirty-eight state or local elected officials likely owed their office to Franklin’s manipulations. No effort had been expended to determine whether or not each of those elected had been aware of Franklin’s electoral intervention on their behalf.

The most significant issue-that of California’s secession-had been demonstrated to have actually been defeated by nearly three to one, with only twenty-six percent in the first election voting in favor of the secession. The true number climbed to forty-two percent in the subsequent election, as a result of growing public support promulgated from every quarter.

“We’ve not made the results of our findings public. I’ve hesitated for several reasons. Obviously, those defeated in these elections would likely demand a recount. That would be costly and time-consuming, whereas the next routine election could rectify the situation-although statistics on reelection of the incumbent would seem to reject that possibility.”

Prescott paused, taking a sip of coffee before continuing. “But more important, Walter, is preserving our national credibility in the electoral process. Can you imagine the public response to the thought that a single special interest group had gained such control over who holds elective office-indeed which states remain part of the nation?”

“I see your point, Madam President. Chaos might be a mild term for the public response.”

“Exactly. Remember the old, ‘don’t throw the baby out with the bath water’ cliche our mothers taught us?”

“Yep,” Dewhirst nodded, “and I’ve been accused of it many times.”

“Walter,” Prescott said, shifting in her chair and leaning forward, “I think we need one more election to set things right.”

“I’m not certain I follow, Madam President,” Dewhirst said.

“One more of Franklin’s elections, I mean,” she emphasized.

Dewhirst’s brow furrowed, and he took on a startled look. “You don’t mean-”

“Indeed I do, Governor. In three weeks our national elections will be held to choose the next president, as well as all our congressional representatives and a third of our senators. Amid that extensive array, perhaps we can mount a hasty publicity campaign against the secession and put the vote to the California voters again. It would be one more foray into the abyss to set the record straight-under government control, of course.”