Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

“But that would make us no different than they were.”

“Oh, I beg to differ, Governor Dewhirst. No matter what the political and philosophical pundits say during the event, man is eventually judged by his results, not by his methods. If our motivation is the preservation of the nation, as a benefit to the people, as opposed to a benefit for the perpetrators while the people are ignored-then the result will eventually earn acclamation. And let me tell you one other piece of news that only a few people know. In the last election,” she said, looking at Governor Dewhirst directly, “the one your state Supreme Court ordered-the secession initiative passed, legitimately, by just over fifty-three percent. I guess Eastman was right about the bandwagon effect.”

Dewhirst nodded at the revelation, rose, returned his coffee cup to the table, and came to stand face-to-face with the chief executive, who remained seated on the settee.

“Do you have the ability to accomplish this. . uh, repeat election, Madam President?”

Prescott was silent for a moment, holding eyes with Dewhirst. “I do, Governor.”

“And what form would this take?” Dewhirst asked, his concern about the direction of this meeting beginning to rise.

“That is precisely why you’re here.”

“I see. And how do we accomplish these altruistic and benevolent objectives? Remembering, of course, that this is also a presidential election. Madam President, the odds are that someday this rigged election process will be discovered. Imagine if it happened during the next presidential term, and people thought our president had been, shall we say, slipped in the back door.”

“We would have to be careful, Governor,” she said, smiling, “ very careful. And privately, of course. Not even Colonel Connor or members of the task force must be aware.”

“How’re you going to get around Connor? You say he knows the fraudulent election system fully.”

“Colonel Connor has been very loyal and helpful during several crisis situations over the years. He will not involve himself beyond his assignment. Besides, now that the California situation and the need for the investigative task force is coming to a close, it’s not my intention-or his, for that matter-to send him back to the CIA. I’ve submitted Colonel Connor’s name to the senate for confirmation as a brigadier general. When that’s confirmed-as it will be-I intend to create a new internal terrorism task force, one separate from the military or existing intelligence agencies. A very small task force, but directly responsible to the president. The newly elected president will inherit this task force and can either dismantle it or continue to use it to achieve his ends. Colonel. . General Connor is well suited for the job.”

“Interesting,” Dewhirst whispered. He looked down at the Seal of the President woven into the carpet, Clarene Prescott waiting for him to comment. Looking up and taking a quick breath, he continued. “So, with Colonel, or rather, General Connor and the task force out of the picture, you intend to generate one more. . predetermined election.”

“With your concurrence, of course, Governor,” the president said. “What do you think of the idea?”

“May I ask a question first, Madam President? Will you inform the two presidential candidates of this event during the transition or of the impending terrorism task force?”

President Prescott’s lips tightened slightly, and she rose from her chair, moving behind her desk again, and leaned over, shuffling several folders, seeming to look for something. Finally she stood erect again, looking at Governor Dewhirst. “I think not, at least not both of them, but I will inform the president elect. Will you be running for office again next year, Governor?”

Dewhirst held Prescott’s eyes for a few moments and chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I’ve done my dash as a servant of the people. Time to call it quits and let the younger folks take a turn.”

“And what about California, Governor? What about the creation of multiple states? One more election can put that to rest,” the president said, determined to make one more plea.

Dewhirst slowly shook his head. “Madam President, I can’t make that decision for you, of course, but I will have to decline to participate.”

Clarene nodded. “I felt it was not going to be your cup of tea. How would you suggest we handle it, Walter? I’m sincerely asking for your opinion.”

“The division into multiple states is not supposed to take effect for another two years. By all means, Madam President, put it on the ballot again, perhaps not this year, given the shortage of time, but when you do, allow the people to make the decision. I’ll not reveal the previous fraud, since I agree that would potentially open dozens, maybe hundreds, of elections to reconsideration. But I strongly appeal to you not to resort to this kind of deception. Trust the people. Mount a campaign to reverse the decision, explain the pros and cons, but. . let the people decide.”

Prescott nodded again. “Thank you for coming, Walter. I wish you the very best in your retirement. California will be hard-pressed to find your replacement.”

“We all like to feel that way, Madam President, but it’s seldom true. Younger folks, people like Dan Rawlings, are always there to fill the gaps. The world moves on.”

“Indeed,” she said, coming forward again and offering her hand. “Goodbye, Governor Dewhirst. It’s been a rocky road we’ve travelled together. Let’s hope the future is brighter.”

Edson Rifle Range

Camp Pendleton, California

November, 2012

Colonel Pug Connor, in full dress greens, walked the length of the firing line, staying roughly five yards behind the young marine recruits who were engaged in slow fire prone, spaced about three yards apart and facing downrange as they continued in their daily training regimen toward rifle qualification. No matter what their chosen or assigned specialty career field, the Marine Corps assured that every marine was first and foremost a rifleman.

Pug paused occasionally, observing the various drill instructors as they knelt beside each recruit, helping them to adjust the sling, determine “sight picture,” or assure proper shoulder placement of the rifle butt. He could still remember the words from his instructor, a senior NCO at the Officer Selection Course, Marine Corp Base Quantico: “. . control your breathing and squeeze ’em off, son, squeeze ’em off.”

Some twenty yards ahead, he saw the subject of his visit. Standing behind the central control booth which contained the Range master, where range instructions were delivered to the full complement, Sergeant Major Carlos Castro watched as the current round of recruits ended their ten round slow fire exercise. “Cease fire, cease fire. Clear all weapons. All quiet on the range,” came over the speaker system.

Castro had not yet observed Pug’s approach and was concentrating on the process in front of him until Pug walked up and stood beside him. Instantly aware, Castro turned, came to attention, and saluted.

“Good afternoon, Colonel.”

“Good afternoon, Sergeant Major. The next batch of expert riflemen?” Pug queried, nodding toward the men who were now clearing their weapons and standing.

“They will be, sir, or we’ll transfer them to the Army,” he said, keeping a straight face.

“Well done, Sergeant. Are you free of range responsibilities? Can you step away and talk for a few minutes?”

“I’m just observing, Colonel. I’m at your disposal.”

“Good. Let’s step over to my vehicle.” Once inside Pug’s private vehicle, the formality relaxed. “Carlos, it’s great to see you again. How’ve you been?”