A Triple Thriller Fest (30 page)

Receiving wages set by MexiCal and dozens of other shell employment agencies controlled by Franklin’s subsidiary companies, immigrant workers were hired to perform tasks not many Americans were willing to do. The workers received only about seventy percent of the current minimum wage, but more money than they could get for comparable work in Mexico, if a job could even be found there. The remaining thirty percent was retained by the employment agencies in the form of a service and administrative fee.

At $5.40 an hour and a fifty-hour work week, the laborer could earn $270 a week, unencumbered by taxes. Even after subtracting the thirty percent service fee, the laborer would still clear $189, far more than he could earn in Mexico—or in East Asia, for that matter. Without federal withholding taxes or Social Security contributions to worry about, employers would realize substantial savings in labor costs.

From Franklin’s perspective, the real beauty of the plan was found in the $81 a week that would be generated in service fees. With half a million workers enrolled, a whopping $40 million a week, or $2.1
billion
annually, dropped into his coffers. He cared little that the labor scheme resembled slavery, albeit paid slavery. If a laborer complained, he was simply visited by agents from BCI and deported back into the poverty he might otherwise have escaped. Mexican officials would then see that he did not return.

And now it would all become legal in this new nation he and his supporters had conceived, nurtured, and to which he would soon give birth. There would be no more relocation of American manufacturing to overseas countries, or being held to ransom by the instability of foreign governments through the constant threat of nationalization of the business. Based on centuries-old cultural and historical bonds, Mexican recognition of this new nation would be immediately forthcoming, to be followed quickly by Korean and Malaysian government political support. Immigrant labor from each of these countries would soon give the Republic of California the highest productivity and one of the lowest costs of labor of any nation in the world.

Franklin drew deeply on a hand-rolled Cuban cigar and relished his dream coming to fruition. The Republic of California. The seventh-largest economic power in the world, freed at last from the encumbrances of those Washington sycophants who had forever siphoned off California assets to strengthen neighboring states through the liberal “redistribution of wealth” philosophy.

Not anymore, Franklin thought. Not anymore.

Chapter 22

Dublin, Ireland

Dublin, six-two-four, eight-two-nine-five,” the man answered.

“Aye, Paddy. How’re the lads?”

Quickly recognizing the voice, Kevin Donahue, brigade commander of the Irish Republican Army, went on alert.

“You’ve been makin’ scarce of yerself, Fergus.”

“Aye. Me presence in Dublin tends to make people nervous,” Fergus McNally responded. “I think we should talk. Be warned, Kevin. You’ve been working both sides of the street these past few years, and I’m not up for a one-way ride. If I go down when we meet, as the Pope’s me witness, I’ll take ya with me.”

“Things have changed over the past two years. I talk to the Brits—doesn’t mean I agree with them.”

“Indeed. And in America and Australia they’re changing even more. It’s Ireland’s turn, don’t’cha know? When and where?”

“O’Connell Street Bridge, two o’clock. I’ll be alone and unarmed. You have my word.”

“That’s always been good enough for me, Kevin. ’Til then.”

* * *

“Good day to ya, Mr. Donahue.” McNally was dressed in a blue blazer with gray trousers, looking much the businessman. “Shall we stroll the beautiful Liffey?”

“You went to ground quite well, Fergus.”

“Well, now, surely y’know the story of the fox and the hare.”

“Aye,” Kevin grinned. “Given the events of recent months with the Aussies and the Yanks, perhaps it’s time for the fox and the hare to dine out—together.”

“I agree. Everybody and their brother’s castin’ free of the politicians what control ’em, and the Yanks and the Brits seem to be in sync with the idea without so much as a ‘how do you do’ to the Irish. It’s just not on. They’ve never dealt in good faith, Kevin. And you, sittin’ at the polished table these past two years, usin’ yer mouth instead of yer brains.”

Donahue nodded. “I’ve got to admit, the old ways made their mark in spite of the cost. It just might be time for a wake-up call to remind them the squeaky wheel is the one that gets the grease.”

“And I know just where to make the wheel squeak, Commander. The American vice president will be visiting London in a couple of weeks to see the bloody PM. They’ll get all cozy in some vehicle, don’t’cha think? Maybe we can send them a message. How say ye?”

“Keep talkin’.”

Chapter 23

Monterey Peninsula Airport
Monterey, California

United Express Flight 2340, a two-engine turbo prop of Brazilian construction, was a twenty-five minute hop from Monterey Peninsula Airport to San Francisco International, some ninety miles to the north. The 5:40 Tuesday evening flight log listed nine passengers, five of whom the airline manifest referred to as congressional VIPs. In addition to Mrs. Winifred Albertson of Kenai, Alaska, and her three children, all of whom were connecting to an Alaska Airlines flight destined for Anchorage, the roster included Representative John Hunter, Corona, California; Representative Mary Elizabeth Hopkins, Santa Rosa, California; Representative Robert Jensen, Bakersfield, California; Representative Donald Wilmont, Alamo, California; and Representative Clarence Joiner, Salinas, California. Flight 2340 also consisted of a pilot, co-pilot, and one flight attendant.

Representatives Hunter and Joiner had only just arrived, hastily transported from a last-minute round of golf at Pebble Beach, and their luggage, including two sets of golf clubs, was quickly loaded into the cargo compartment of the aircraft.

“Boys and their toys,” Congresswoman Hopkins teased as the two tardy passengers entered the aircraft, taking seats across the aisle.

“You should try golf, Mary,” Hunter said, laughing at her taunt. “It would help you relax.”

Laughing in reply, she said, “I can think of dozens of things more productive than a five-hour walk around a cow pasture.”

“Ah, but nothing quite so satisfying or challenging,” Joiner added as he buckled his seat belt. “Besides, Mary, at our age,” he said, nudging Hunter, “it’s the only thing left we can do for five hours straight without falling asleep … and that includes attending one of your housing and rent-control sub-committee meetings, Representative Hopkins.”

“Well, thank you very much, Clarence.” She smiled. “You brought us down here to Salinas for your ‘dog and pony’ show, if you’ll recall. But the next time you come begging for my vote for your farm subsidies, I’ll make you grovel for five hours—while staying awake.”

With the five members of the U.S. Congress securely seated aboard the aircraft, Mrs. Albertson, still inside the departure area, continued her frantic search for the youngest of her three children. As she pleaded with the United Airlines’ gate attendant to delay the flight while she retrieved the wayward child, Mrs. Albertson’s anxiety level was rising rapidly. Final boarding announcements had sounded in the small airport terminal, located on a flat mesa amid the lush, green, rolling hills west of Salinas.

“We’ve got to make our connecting flight in San Francisco. Please give me a few moments,” the woman pleaded.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” the young female ticket agent replied. “We have another flight at 6:20. That flight will also give you sufficient time to connect, and we have available seating. Perhaps we can locate your child by then, but I have to release this flight.”

“Oh, if you must,” the woman said, exasperation in her voice. “Where in the world can that boy
be?”
she asked, scurrying off down the corridor.

Given the signal from the ground crew, Captain Anderson started the number-one engine, wheeled his aircraft toward the taxiway, and pulled away from the terminal. By the time they had reached the end of the runway and obtained takeoff approval from the tower, Mrs. Albertson’s youngest child, Benjamin, age three, was located in the rear of the small restaurant facility, happily enjoying a large dish of ice cream. His story of a nice man with “pictures on his arms” giving him ice cream and a stuffed doggie to play with went unheeded. All he earned for his absence was a stern rebuke from his mother for the unnecessary delay.

At the far end of the concourse, Otto Krueger took one last look at the commuter flight departing the gate area and slipped through the revolving doors, content that he had done his requisite good deed for the day.

* * *

Jean Wolff and Jackson Shaw drove their golf cart away from the 18
^th
green at Pacific Grove Golf Course and parked beside the cart path. Adjusting the earpiece in his left ear, Wolff commenced to add up their scores while Shaw emptied his pockets of tees, an extra ball, and a sweat-stained golf glove.

“Seventy-eight,” Wolff said, nodding his head. “It seems you’ve had time for a bit more than brigade duties over the years, Jackson. That’s an impressive score for your first time on this course.”

“If not for that sixteenth and the—”

Wolff suddenly held his hand up for silence, pushing the earpiece further into his ear. Shaw waited quietly.

“Wheels up,” Wolff said and started the cart again, driving clear of the trees and looking out over the ocean toward the marina. “About three minutes now.”

* * *

Flight 2340 lifted clear of the runway, gaining airspeed and altitude as it flew due west over the ocean and above Monterey Bay. Dozens of yachts, both sail and motor, filled the Breakwater Cove Marina. Representative Mary Elizabeth Hopkins looked down at the scene, her thoughts running to earlier days before her husband’s death. Sailing had been one of their joys and until his untimely heart attack, had provided far more than five hours of pleasurable entertainment. Many times over the years they had sailed south from Marin County and been hosted by friends at Breakwater Cove.

But times had changed. All those people below were lost in a world she had long forgotten, trapped by her congressional duties. The plane banked north, beginning its run up the California coast to where it would cut east just above San Jose and begin the approach into San Francisco International. Perhaps, she thought, looking out the window at the coastline off to her right, once they were able to put an end to this secession business, she would vacate her seat and return to enjoy her grandchildren and to instill in them the same love for the sea their grandfather had possessed. Life was too short for constant political commitment, and her family deserved her attention ever so much more than her constituents, didn’t they? And what about her? Hadn’t she earned some rest after running full speed nearly eighteen years in Congress, all of them without Hank?

* * *

Jean Wolff stood beside the golf cart, looking up as United Express Flight 2340 completed its banking turn and leveled at about three thousand feet, heading due north. Approximately two miles from shore, its flight path paralleled the coast line, and Wolff could see the aircraft only by shielding his eyes from the sun as it completed its twilight journey into the sea.

From a pocket in his Titlest golf bag, Wolff retrieved what appeared to be a small transistor radio and extended the antenna. Without a word spoken between the two men, Wolff pressed a small, brown button on the face of the device, and an immense flash appeared in the sky, the sound reverberating some seconds later.

United Express Flight 2340 disappeared from radar scan just as Captain Anderson switched radio frequency to San Francisco control.

* * *

“Good evening. I’m Paul Spackman, and welcome to the Six O’ Clock Eyewitness News. A devastating tragedy has struck our nation this evening as multiple assassinations have occurred throughout California and other parts of the country. Reports are still coming in, but at present we have confirmed that seventeen of California’s fifty-two congressional representatives have been the victims of assassination attempts. Fourteen are confirmed dead, and three are wounded and under medical care, with one in critical condition. All seventeen were party to the class action suit filed with the U.S. Supreme Court last month in an attempt to overturn the secession vote.

“In a call to this network, the Western Patriot Movement has assumed responsibility for the attacks, claiming that these congressmen and women have failed to listen to the will of the people. President Eastman has ordered around-the-clock Secret Service protection for the remaining members of California’s congressional delegation. At the site of perhaps the most devastating single attack, we go now to Sally Todd, at the Breakwater Cove Yacht Club, in Monterey Bay, where dozens of vessels were used in search and rescue attempts, looking for any survivors of a United Airlines commuter flight with five congressional members aboard. Sally, are you there … ?”

* * *

“This is Colonel Connor,” Pug said, taking the telephone from his sister’s outstretched hand.

“Pug, it’s George Granata. Have you seen the news?”

“Yes. I’m in Christchurch with family, and we’re watching the Fox News live feed right now. The news is shaky. How bad is it actually?”

“Fourteen dead at the moment, in California and here in Washington. We’ve put the others under close security, but six are still unprotected. We haven’t located them yet. The president called and said it’s time to get our operation in gear. How soon can you make it back?”

Pug glanced at his watch. “It’s just after one, Wednesday afternoon here. I can be on the evening flight out of Auckland. I’ll have my sister call you at home tonight and confirm my departure, but I should be there by tomorrow evening.”