Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

Author’s Note:

Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial Bridge

Interstate 5, north of Sacramento, California

June, 2011

Had the gallows knot been properly placed to the side, behind the ear, Richard McFarland’s neck would have snapped, delivering a swift death. As it was, the young California National Guard lieutenant twisted and convulsed for a long, agonizing two minutes before he died.

In the predawn hours, the light was barely sufficient to see, but Otto Krueger, First Sergeant of the Shasta Brigade, a northern California militia unit of dubious intent, kept his eyes riveted to the gruesome scene. Otto’s younger companions had less stomach for the sight of Lieutenant McFarland slowly swinging in the stillness of a purple dawn.

Killing the two California Superior Court justices with a quick bullet in the back of the head had been easy compared to this assignment, but Commander Shaw had been adamant: “Make it plain that the brigade will not tolerate traitors or spies.”

“Can’t we just get the hell out of here, First Sergeant?” one of the two men with Krueger pleaded.

The grizzled veteran pulled his eyes from the ghastly sight and glanced derisively toward the whining kid. He spat a stream of tobacco juice on the ground and returned his gaze to the body. Standing five feet nine inches and weighing one hundred eighty pounds, First Sergeant Otto Krueger was rock solid. Dense tattoos extended from beneath his rolled-up sleeves, running from biceps to wrists on both arms. His sandy hair, cropped to a uniform half-inch length, added to his appearance as a balding, but very fit, muscular man.

He looked back at the young would-be soldier who was now on his knees in the dirt, struggling to avoid further embarrassment.

“It’s a war, Private. This loser chose the wrong side,” Krueger said. He stepped to the slowly swaying body, took hold of a dangling boot and turned the body enough for the available light to reflect off McFarland’s distorted face.

The sound of retching caused Krueger to turn around again. The smaller of the two young recruits who had been assigned to accompany Krueger on this mission was still on his knees, several yards from the truck, relieving himself of the sandwich he had eaten on the drive south.

Krueger sneered. “Stand up, maggot. There’ll be no mama’s boys in my outfit. You volunteered for this mission. Now get in the truck and shut up. If you puke again, you walk home-or you could join our friend here,” he said, jerking the boot and swinging the body around in circles.

The kid didn’t reply, but wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stumbled toward the pickup.

“Ted, close it up and let’s get out of here,” Krueger ordered the other, even younger, teenage recruit.

Ted vaulted into the back of the truck and closed the lid on the side-to-side aluminum toolbox bolted to the back of the cab. The lieutenant had been confined in this coffin-like enclosure during the drive from their base camp in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Ted then jumped down and slammed the tailgate on which, moments before, the trembling accountant, who doubled as a weekend soldier, had been made to stand, his desperate eyes silently begging for mercy.

The First Sergeant climbed behind the wheel and started the engine on the Ford F-150 pickup. With a final glance at the slowly twisting body, Otto spat a wad of chewing tobacco out the window and floored the accelerator, spinning dirt and debris beneath the lifeless remains.

The truck bucked and lurched as Krueger steered out of the dry river bed and up the embankment toward the end of the bridge. As they neared the highway, headlights suddenly blinded them as another vehicle rounded the bridge abutment, facing Krueger’s truck and blocking their return to the highway. Otto jammed on the brakes and reached to the seat beside him for his pistol. He sat motionless for several seconds until the occupant of the other vehicle got out, trained a flashlight on the driver’s side of the Ford, and approached from the front.

“Got a problem here?” a voice called out.

In the dusty glare of the headlights, Krueger recognized the uniform of a Yolo County sheriff’s deputy.

“Quiet!” he mouthed softly. “Not a word from either of you,” he added, climbing out of the vehicle, his pistol shielded behind his back.

“No problem, Officer,” Krueger called out. “Just looking for a good spot to fish.”

“Step into the light, please,” the deputy called toward Krueger.

Dust hung in the air, reflected by the headlights, as Krueger came forward into the space between the two vehicles while the deputy continued to stand to one side of his Chevy Tahoe.

“Not looking for any trouble, Officer,” Otto said, his voice friendly. “Like I said, just looking for a good fishing spot.”

The deputy stepped forward a couple of paces, shining his flashlight toward the interior of Otto’s truck and catching the reflection of two additional faces. He hesitated and moved his hand slowly toward his holster. Otto quickly moved, closing the gap between the two men, his smile visible beneath the twin headlamps of both vehicles.

“Just my two nephews, Officer. Nothing to worry about.”

“Can I see some identification, please?” the officer asked.

“Certainly. Will this do?” Krueger extended the pistol toward the deputy and continued to smile as he closed the remaining distance between them.

The deputy’s face changed immediately, and he quickly reached to unsnap his holster and withdraw his revolver. Krueger remained calm, even smiling, as the seconds extended to what seemed like minutes. Before the deputy’s weapon cleared the holster, Krueger reached out and seized the man’s wrist in a vice-like grip, preventing him from raising his arm. His eyes only inches from the deputy’s face, Krueger slowly shook his head while holding the officer’s arm rigid, rendering the revolver immobile in his hand.

“It’s a dangerous profession you’ve chosen, young fella,” Krueger said, raising his.45-caliber military-issue pistol toward the man’s face. Without a further word, Krueger fired one round directly into the deputy’s forehead, released his grip on the man’s wrist, and watched the wide-eyed law enforcement officer sprawl backward. Krueger stared at the fallen deputy for several seconds, then turned and fired one round into each of the Tahoe’s headlamps, extinguishing the glaring lights. Then he leaned down, grasped the dead man’s hand, which still held the revolver, and using the man’s own finger, fired two rounds into the air before dropping the hand and the gun back to the ground. He retraced his steps to his truck, entered the driver’s seat, and threw the vehicle into gear, once again spinning tires as he maneuvered around the sheriff’s vehicle, pulling onto the highway.

“Dude, that was a sheriff’s deputy,” the young man in the rear seat whined to his young companion, “and he shot him. He killed a cop!”

Krueger growled. “You’re right, Private, he was a deputy. Now he’s meat for worms.”

Davis, California

Daniel Rawlings stood under the shower nozzle, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. Rivulets of steaming hot water ran down his face as he tried to wash away the night sweat and anxiety that always accompanied the dream. For over two years, he had been haunted by a recurring nightmare. It always woke him and left him sitting up in bed, his heart racing. Over and over, he had been forced by an involuntary, self-inflicted penance to watch Susan die, each time as realistically as the first, though in the dream his wife’s face was absent-replaced by a blurred image beneath her fur-lined hood.