A Triple Thriller Fest (25 page)

John Henry Franklin, needing to set the hook further into Sully, had shamed him by challenging him to “fish or cut bait.” Franklin had declared the time was past for sitting on the fence, and that if California was to secede, it would need strong, capable men to guide the change. Sully’s knowledge of how to foment insurrection would be invaluable, and his place would be assured in the new California Republic. No stranger to the manipulation and covert techniques needed to maneuver capable men into accomplishing planned objectives, Sully nevertheless found it amusing that he was on the dancing end of the strings this time, while Franklin—and to some extent Wolff—jerked his arms and legs.

* * *

The following morning, with about a dozen anxious, cautious men assembled in Wolff’s room, he opened the meeting.

“So then,” Wolff said, “shall we begin? As we speak, a special-ops team from the Shasta Brigade is conducting the initial research for an operation designed to alert the ATF that something is brewing. I can assure you, the message will be unmistakable. With help from inside sources,” he said, glancing toward Sully, who had been introduced—to everyone’s chagrin—as an intelligence agency operative, “word will filter down to the ATF of a large arms cache, which they will be anxious to raid. To heighten their interest, this arms cache will ostensibly belong to the same group that will have perpetrated actions against their brother ATF agents—actions that will take place early next week, conducted by a Shasta Brigade special-ops team. Nothing inflames a law enforcement officer more than the killing of one of his own. That, and the ATF’s propensity for knee-jerk direct action against supposed criminals, will be their downfall, all to our advantage. We expect this action will greatly increase public turnout for the election, and that the secession question will be answered once and for all. This is how it will work …”

* * *

Daryl Cummings, in company with Senior ATF agent Howard Templeton, left a restaurant six miles north of Eureka on Highway 101. It was early morning, and they had eaten breakfast and were headed back to their makeshift office. They had spent the previous night monitoring telephone calls and visitors, if any, into and out of Room 204 at the local Ramada Inn—a known meeting place for gun-runners suspected of making drops of contraband weapons off the coast of California.

The stakeout had provided nothing of substance during the two-week duty stint, but as Templeton had told the rookie, it would take only one intercepted conversation to open many doors.

As they approached the first stoplight north of town, a pickup truck passed on their left, running the yellow warning light that turned red before the truck had cleared the intersection.

“Damn fool,” Templeton said. “Always in a hurry. Why the hell would someone want to live up here in this beautiful country and pass everything in sight just to pick up a few seconds?”

“Beats me,” Cummings replied.

A second pickup pulled up behind them just as the light turned green, and the two vehicles proceeded through the intersection, heading down the highway toward Eureka. The view ahead and to the agents’ right was of open ground that sloped away from the road toward a sheer cliff and the ocean below. The coast and beach were partially obscured by a low-lying morning mist, but as Templeton drove, he glanced at the waves rolling toward the rocky coast and thought how he never tired of the scenery in this part of the country. Content to grab a few more minutes before they would be cooped up in the motel room, neither man was in any hurry.

When the vehicle behind them rammed the back of their Ford Explorer, the jolt jerked the men out of their thoughts.

“Hey!” Templeton hollered. “What’s wrong with that guy?”

Again the truck rammed into their vehicle, and Templeton stood on the brakes, trying to slow down and get his vehicle off the road and onto the shoulder. When he succeeded in stopping his Ford, a second truck, approaching from the front, screeched to a halt alongside the agents’ car, and two men jumped out, their heads covered by dark blue ski masks.

Templeton instinctively reached for his weapon, but the first man to arrive opened fire with an automatic machine pistol, the rounds striking Templeton in the face and throat. Cummings sat frozen in his seat, his fear overcoming his training and natural reflexive instincts. Reaching the passenger side of the vehicle, one of the attackers removed his ski mask and looked for several seconds at the helpless young man. The attacker was in his late fifties, clean shaven and muscular. Cummings had a quick thought of his father, who had discouraged him from pursuing a law enforcement career. The older man smiled, nodding his head.

“It won’t hurt, son,” he said, his voice calm. Raising his automatic pistol, he released a short burst into Cummings’ chest and head. He then turned and shouted at the truck to the rear. “Shove it over, and let’s get out of here.”

The big-tire 4x4 Dodge Dakota inched up against the rear of the Ford Explorer, and the driver dropped his transmission into low gear, revving his engine and pushing against the rear of the ATF vehicle. Its tires skidding along the ground, the Ford lurched toward the edge of the precipice and then tilted, dropping over the side and plummeting to the bottom of the cliff, coming to rest upside down on the beach below. In thirty seconds, both pickups were gone, parting in separate directions, their occupants free of the hot, cumbersome ski masks.

* * *

“Good evening. I’m Paul Spackman, and welcome to the Six O’ Clock Eyewitness News. Today, in two geographically separate incidents near Fresno and Eureka, four agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms were gunned down as they drove along rural roads outside those communities. In both cases, the agents’ cars were forced off the road, and several gunmen surrounded the vehicles, raking the cars with automatic weapons fire. While no eyewitnesses were available, investigation of the sites produced sufficient evidence for local law enforcement officers to reconstruct the attacks. All four agents were pronounced dead on arrival at local hospitals.

“No claim of responsibility for these incidents has been forthcoming from any known subversive groups; however, there is speculation that the recent attempt by the ATF to require increased gun registration on new purchases may have angered militia groups, for whom the upcoming secession issues are paramount. Further on this story, our field reporter Laura Benson spoke with Claude Riker, agent in charge of the San Francisco ATF office. Laura … ?”

Jackson Shaw sat and watched the evening news and contemplated the mission outlined by Wolff six days earlier. If Wolff’s intent had been to inflame the ATF, a broad-daylight assassination of four agents would certainly do the trick. They would be out for blood, and rather than alarming Shaw, that merely served to excite him. Finally, full-scale operations would be the order of the day. The patriot movement was growing teeth, or perhaps fangs, and the Shasta Brigade had finally set about to engage the enemy. If this didn’t incite people to turn out for the election and to deliver a message to the federal government, nothing would.

* * *

Three nights later, it was clear the message had been delivered. Once again, the nightly news, delayed until the early hours of the following morning, dispensed the verdict.

“Good evening. I’m Paul Spackman, and welcome to the special election, all-night, Eyewitness News. Today is truly a historic occasion in the state of California. Ever since the advisory referendum on secession nearly two years ago, followed by the even larger margin of victory the next year in a full-fledged referendum, pundits have been lauding their respective points of view on the constitutionality of the secession issue.

“Earlier this morning, in a California Supreme Court-ordered special election, all that came to an end. As of 1:15 a.m. today,” he said, glancing at a clock on the wall, “when the vote tally was confirmed by the California elections office, using the results of the new Home Telephone Voting System, it became official. The people have spoken. In an overwhelming popular response, Californians turned out, or perhaps we should now say ‘dialed in,’ in record numbers to cast the largest vote ever on a state-wide issue. By a whopping majority of 76 percent, Californians voted to sever ties with the United States of America and, based on the legislature’s actions, to establish the Republic of California, a sovereign nation.

“United States Senator Malcolm Turner, for whom this issue was a central theme in his campaign for reelection eighteen months ago, is at his San Francisco election headquarters, and we have acquired a direct link with him.”

The screen filled with images of celebration in the Marriott hotel ballroom, where hundreds of “Yes on Secession” campaign workers were waving banners and tooting on party horns.

“Senator, can you hear us?”

“I can indeed, Paul,” he said, pressing the small receiver into his ear against the din of the celebration. “What a momentous occasion!”

“Senator Turner, in light of the vilification you have received from several segments of the press and the intellectual community, this vote must be a satisfying vindication of your position with regard to California’s future.”

“Paul, you have been one of the few voices of reason among the press in this whole affair. There is no cause for rejoicing here. We have found it necessary to sever our ties with our brothers and sisters in the other forty-nine states—a four-hundred-year family history, I might add. It’s a sad day when families cannot resolve their differences without breaking up. But there it is. The people have spoken once again, with even more resounding support. The judiciary can no longer ignore the will of the people. Now it’s time to get on with the task at hand—setting in place the machinery to run our new republic.”

“Senator, some have said that your support of this movement is nothing more than positioning yourself to become the first president or prime minister of the Republic of California.”

“Political sparring, Paul. Nothing more. We
will
need to develop our plans, however. Thirty months, just over two years, is not a long time to develop a control mechanism for a new nation. Governor Dewhirst and the state legislature have a lot of hard work ahead of them, if they intend to honor the will of the people.”

“Senator Turner, will
you
throw your hat in the ring for the leadership of the new nation?”

“Paul, I have admired your objectivity and fair reporting for years, and as you know, I have been candid with you on all occasions. However, it’s premature to speculate how this new nation will shake out. We’ll take it a step at a time. The world’s changing, and we have the unique opportunity to restructure our constitution to remove the heavy-handed and often insidiously intrusive nature that government assumes in people’s lives.”

Returning the picture to the studio, Paul Spackman continued to deliver the evening news, including reports on the street from individual citizens on how they could see this new event affecting their lives.

Chapter 18

Rumsey Valley, California
February, 2012

Nicole Bentley approached California State Highway 16, where she was to meet Dan Rawlings. The open farmland rolled by as she drove the remaining few miles, just over an hour’s drive from her home in Walnut Creek. The previous three months had flown by, highlighted by the overwhelming approval California voters had given the secession and the media frenzy about continued efforts to derail the process. Almost as an emotional break, she had taken two weeks vacation and returned to Connecticut for Christmas, meeting on several occasions in New York and Washington with Colonel Connor and FBI Director Granata. Now, back in California, she was once again pursuing both her career and her personal life, both of which coincidentally revolved around Dan Rawlings.

Dan had added a new and enjoyable element to her life, yet she found herself still moving cautiously, unable to determine whether it was because of her official duties or her reluctance to get involved in another serious relationship so close on the heels of the last one.

After their dinner date at the Empress of China, they’d had several additional dates, including a visit to Alcatraz, where Nicole had handcuffed Dan “to give you the full benefit of the experience,” she had said, laughing. She knew she had become very attracted to him. There was no denying that, without lying to herself. On their last date, she’d even considered that it might be time to advance their relationship and she had considered inviting him in to her apartment when he dropped her off. But she could sense that even though the physical attraction was mutual, he was still conflicted about his feelings for his deceased wife.

Her current field assignment, to investigate the local militia groups and the Shasta Brigade in particular, also gave her pause. There were no indications that Dan had any connections to that group—to the contrary. Dan had told her that the intimidation tactics of the brigade had created fear and succeeded in quelling any real vocal opposition, at least among the people he knew.

And “Logger,” the code name for the bureau’s man inside the Shasta Brigade, had made no mention of Rawlings in any of his reports. Yet both Nicole’s training and her self-preservation instincts told her to play her cards close to the vest for a while. The only complication to that philosophy was her increasing interest in this new person in her life, and her desire, when she acknowledged it to herself, to hold
him
close instead.

The exit ramp to State 16 approached, and she slowed, looking for Dan’s Chevy Blazer, which she found parked at the side of the off ramp. She lowered the passenger-side power window and pulled up next to his driver’s side. Strains of the
Light Cavalry Overture
came from his vehicle. Dan was settled back in his seat, eyes closed, unaware of her approach.

She honked her horn and laughed when he jerked upright, then lowered his window.