Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

“Locked and loaded, sir,” he smiled. “I was informed of my temporary assignment to your unit. May I ask where we’re heading?”

“Mostly right here in California,” Pug replied. “Nothing exotic. Civilian clothes stuff.”

“I see.”

“Carlos, let me tell you the summary. This will not be an assignment. You need to come aboard of your choice. From this point on, internal information only. Classified confidential. No further dissemination. Understood?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” he said.

“I have been on a presidential task force to ferret out the secession leaders and see how and why it happened. It’s not the ‘what the people want’ movement it’s been made out to be.” Carlos nodded as Pug continued. “Do you remember when we were on the Belleau Wood , our insertion into Pakistan in ’02?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re going to be doing the same thing. . they’re in America, Carlos. They’ve come here, and they’re not wearing turbans. Your thoughts?” Pug waited for Carlos to reflect and comment.

“The task force is by direction of the president?” he asked.

Pug nodded, understanding that Carlos was actually confirming the legality of the operation, just as General Tomlinson had, since it would likely require seeking out and killing enemy combatants within the borders of the United States. “That’s right. You and I are going to form it. Headquartered in D.C. I know Prescott only has a few months in office, but she is putting it in place deep within the Homeland Security Department and has already spoken to the president elect. He concurred, at least initially.”

“How many men, Colonel?”

“Perhaps a dozen assigned team members, maybe a bit more. Both shooters and analysts. We can scour any service, even civilians, to recruit. But in addition to the small operational team, we’ll have access to any SOG unit we need to call on. . without going through the Pentagon approval process. Blanket presidential authority.”

“Special operations group manpower,” Carlos muttered. “Seals, Delta, Recon? Anything we need?”

Pug nodded once again. “You up for that, Sergeant Major Castro, or perhaps I should call you Counselor? General Tomlinson told me you had completed your JD last year and were considering retirement. The only Marine NCO with a law degree, he said. Damn fine work, Carlos. This job will still be there, probably even growing larger, whether you’re active duty or retired. Once again, your choice-in or out?”

“When do we begin?” Carlos asked.

“I have a singular assignment for you immediately, but then we’ll kick off early in the new year. If you agree, PCS orders will be cut next month assigning you to the Office of Public Relations, Department of Homeland Security, duty station in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, next to the White House. If you decide to retire, I’ll bring you aboard as deputy director. That would make you senior to any other officers I bring aboard.”

“And my first assignment?”

“A foreign national going by the name of Jean Wolff, or Jean Minards. I’ll have a file on him delivered to you later this week. He’s of French extraction, been in the states most of the past year and working for the man who planned all this secession crap and militia killing. He’s probably headed back overseas as we speak, since this thing has broken wide open, but he’ll be back, you can count on it. I want you to find him.”

“And when I do?”

“I don’t want him back,” he stated flatly. “But first, I’ll contact an old friend in Ireland, and then I want you to go see him.”

San Francisco International Airport

San Francisco, California

Your name, sir?”

“Jacques Benoit,” he said, handing the attractive ticket agent a French passport.

The woman accepted the document and quickly turned to the expiration date, confirming it valid.

“And your final destination, Monsieur Benoit?”

“Paris.” Or Dubai, Brussels, or perhaps even Montevideo. He smiled inwardly.

“Yes, sir,” she said, checking her computer listings. “First class, seat 2A. Just the one piece of luggage?”

“Yes, just one.”

“There you are, sir,” she said, handing him a light blue, first class boarding pass. “Air France Flight 83 will be boarding at Gate 36 in twenty minutes, Mr. Benoit. Departure is at six-twenty-five and you will arrive at De Gaulle tomorrow afternoon at two. Is there anything else we can do for you, sir?”

“No, thank you very much.”

“Have a good flight.”

Jean Wolff closed his leather briefcase and walked briskly from the Air France ticket counter at San Francisco International, heading for Concourse B. Passing through electronic security, he continued down the concourse, stopping to buy a copy of the Wall Street Journal and a current issue of U.S. News and World Report. When he reached Gate 36, he took a seat toward the back of the waiting area, beneath the overhead television monitor where Fox News was reporting the latest sports scores.

It had been slightly more than a two-hour drive from the newly designated meeting spot where he had left Jackson Shaw and two of Shaw’s senior staff. They’d abandoned the roadside rest stop two months earlier in favor of the parking lot at Denny’s at the northern-most Woodland exit from I-5. It was now a longer drive for Shaw, coming from the north, but, Wolff smiled to himself, that would no longer be necessary.

At Wolff’s request, three of the Shasta Brigade’s leadership had come for the meeting, hopeful that each would receive his fair share of proceeds. Wolff had exercised extreme caution, wondering, perhaps, whether they had in mind for him the same thing he’d planned for them. But once again, as Franklin had always said, money made the difference.

Commander Shaw, Captain Jeffs, and First Sergeant Krueger arrived at the appointed hour and parked their Jeep Cherokee two slots down from Wolff’s BMW. Wolff walked to their car.

“Glad you could make it,” he said through the open driver’s window of the Jeep.

“It’s not a good time to be public,” Shaw had responded tersely.

“You’re right. That’s why I asked you to come together. It’s time for us to lay low. I’ve brought the money we discussed,” he said, continuing to glance around the parking area. “I think the three of you should get out of the country. In six months to a year, I’ll be in touch again. Instructions are in the briefcases. This is just a setback, Shaw. We’ll be back in operation sooner than you know.”

“Is that right?” Shaw asked, a slight sneer in his expression. “It’s not your name on the wanted posters, Wolff. If my guess is right, you’ll be out of the country in the next twelve hours.”

“And so will you, if you’re smart. What makes you think I’m so protected from fallout?”

“Your kind always are. Just give us the money, and we’ll be out of here.”

Wolff returned Shaw’s stare, slowing smiling and nodding. “I’ve got three briefcases, each with a passport, false identity cards, and $100,000. Think you can live on that for a year or so, Shaw?”

“Back off, Wolff,” Shaw said. “It’s probably five percent of what you got.”

“First Sergeant,” Wolff said, looking past the driver into the backseat, “would you mind giving me a hand?”

“Get the money, Otto, and let’s get the hell out of here,” Shaw ordered.

Otto Krueger exited the vehicle, walked with Wolff several steps to the BMW, and retrieved the three briefcases.

“The black one is yours, First Sergeant,” Wolff said, opening the briefcase to show the money and papers, “gray for Shaw, and the brown is Jeffs’. The new IDs are inside. Do you know where you’re going?”