Mexico City, Mexico
As Dan crossed America in his first F-16 flight, clad in helmet and flying gear, another military ceremony was about to take place, twenty-one miles outside Mexico City. At the same time Dan’s plane was landing at Andrew’s AFB, near Washington D.C., a retirement ceremony for Mexican General Augustus Fernandez, a contemporary of General Rodrigo Cordoba and General Emiliano Valdez, was bringing to a conclusion his thirty-two years of service to his country. Cordoba had been pleased several days earlier when Valdez called to suggest both of them attend the ceremony in honor of their mutual friend.
The reviewing stand was partially filled with dignitaries and politicians who always seemed to find time to be in attendance at such ceremonies, presenting themselves as concerned with and dedicated to the support of the military.
Where were they at budget time? Valdez often wondered.
Since being appointed chief of staff of the Mexican army six months earlier and upon the retirement of his predecessor, Valdez had quickly consolidated his power base. Through an intricately placed network of spies and an extensive political dossier maintained on high-ranking officials, many of whom were provided by John Henry Franklin’s computerized credit and financial reporting systems, Valdez presented a formidable opponent for politicians who chose to oppose his intended policies.
In a gesture of civility, Valdez had arranged for refreshments to be served to the guests in the stands prior to the actual ceremony, and several white-coated waiters circulated, taking orders and serving drinks. Valdez’s personal honor guard-six highly trained and dedicated enlisted men-stood quietly in two groups of three, off to either side of the reviewing stand, ready to respond to any incident that might portend disruption of the day’s proceedings.
General Valdez had yet to arrive, but was due momentarily with the guest of honor, General Fernandez. As the staff car carrying Valdez and Fernandez approached the stand, the driver received instructions to give way to another approaching staff car, which pulled up to one side of the reviewing stand. The driver exited and opened the rear passenger-side door to allow General Rodrigo Cordoba, resplendent in his military uniform, to exit. Then, Valdez’s staff car moved slowly past Cordoba’s, stopping directly in front of the stand where both officers exited in a flurry of assistance from those standing nearby and to applause from those in the stands who recognized Fernandez.
Carlos Domingo, a young, dark-skinned man of mixed Aztec and Spanish heritage, was dressed in a white waiter’s uniform and had been assigned to the front left section of the stand. He stiffened slightly at the site of Cordoba as the general got out of his vehicle, placed his hat on his head, and took several steps toward Valdez and their old friend, Fernandez, whom he hadn’t seen in over a year.
Carlos had met Jean Wolff the previous week in California, although he had presented himself to Carlos under a different name. Wolff had assured Carlos that General Cordoba was personally responsible for the death of his fiancee and their baby, along with the deaths of many other unfortunate Mexicans, whose only crimes had been to seek a better working environment. Carlos, Wolff had said, had been granted the opportunity to take revenge. Honor, in the Mexican tradition, demanded no less.
Carlos’ movements were quick, and the pistol he carried went unnoticed by Cordoba, who was intent on greeting his old friend. In his haste, and in attempting to get closer to accomplish his mission of revenge, Carlos tripped over the bottom riser, and his first shot went wide of the mark.
The fusillade of shots that followed from General Valdez’s honor guard cut Carlos down before he had moved another two feet, but as the investigative report would later falsely state, not before Carlos had been able to fire the second, and fatal, shot into General Rodrigo Cordoba. Cordoba’s old friend, General Fernandez, rushed to the side of his dying companion, while General Valdez stood by watching silently. No mention was made in the official report of the caliber of bullets that delivered the fatal wounds to Cordoba. In official statements, it would never be demonstrated that three rifle shots from Valdez’s honor guard were accurate enough to have brought an end to the lives of both General Rodrigo Cordoba and Carlos Domingo, his supposed assassin.
Portrayed as a distraught father bent on a mission of revenge, Carlos was subsequently savaged by the official reports as a deranged waiter who sought to obtain glory through the assassination of the head of the Mexican Federal Police.
Within the hour, accounts of Cordoba’s death reached Judge Granata. There was no mistaking his reaction, or his understanding, of what had actually happened. Although he had no knowledge of anyone named Carlos, he was certain the trail would lead directly to Grant Sully. Sully’s treacherous behavior, Director Granata vowed, would not be allowed to stand.
Senator Malcolm Turner left the suite of private medical offices in the San Francisco high rise complex in a state of disbelief. Six to twelve weeks-four months at best. That’s what the oncologist had said. Were it not for John Henry Franklin’s personal physician handling the case and the doctor’s confidential medical diagnosis, the press would have quickly emblazoned the headlines across the nation. He could see it in his mind’s eye-“FINANCE COMMITTEE CHAIRMAN TERMINALLY ILL”-and not only brain cancer, but an inoperable astrocytoma that left no possibility of medical treatment. Those constant headaches. A part of the job, he had always figured. How could this have happened to him just when he was to have taken California to new heights?
On top of it all, Senator Turner wasn’t used to being summoned so abruptly, as if he were a subordinate. But something in John Henry Franklin’s voice during the telephone call chilled him, and Turner convinced himself that as long as he was already in California, no harm could come from a meeting with his primary financial benefactor.
From the moment Turner entered the room, he detected a difference in Franklin, but given the devastating news of the morning, Turner thought that perhaps his normally intuitive nature was out of sync and he was just misreading the situation.
“John Henry. It’s good to see you again.”
Avoiding all social amenities, Franklin launched immediately into a denunciation of the president.
“Malcolm, the man will yet be the death of us. Unless we act decisively, he’s going to undo all you’ve worked so hard to achieve for California.”
Turner paused before sitting, momentarily confused. “I’m not following, John Henry. Who’s going to do what?”
“Eastman!” Franklin fairly shouted. “Our esteemed president and chief antagonist. He’s going to expose you and the secession movement.”
Now Turner was totally confused. “Expose? John Henry, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Franklin turned back from the expansive window overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge and glared at Turner. “You arrogant old fool. Do you really think all those people voted to leave the United States because you told them it was good for them? Because they wanted to follow you?” Franklin raised his arms above his head as if entreating some nameless deity to bring sense to the man. “Heaven help us if we’re to be led by such fools,” he cried, walking back toward his desk. “The election was rigged. In fact, your last two elections have been rigged in your favor. That young upstart you were so concerned about in the primaries-he kicked your tail three ways from Sunday, Senator, and we saved it. We kept you in office so you could spout your rhetoric about the secession. And now Eastman knows all about it and is going to expose you.”
Turner dropped into a thickly cushioned leather chair as Franklin paced the room, continuing to berate Eastman and almost gleefully describing the end this would bring to Turner’s long and distinguished career. Turner felt an overwhelming inability to contend with two such crushing revelations in one day, and his reasoning ability began to shut down. He was dead politically, and he was shortly to be dead physically. Unrealized at the time, but well considered on his flight back to Washington, the former was more disconcerting than the latter.
Perhaps the doctor had delivered his message with more compassion and understanding, but given Turner’s lifelong pursuit of politics, John Henry’s news was the true fatal blow. He sat silently as Franklin drove home point after point, oblivious, or so it seemed, to the earlier carnage that had entered Turner’s life.
“You’ve got to talk to Eastman. You’ve known him for years. Convince him that this would be wrong, that he can’t take this path.” Franklin approached Turner, who was still seated and by all outward appearances, comatose. “Are you listening to me?” Franklin badgered.
Turner’s eyes rolled up toward Franklin, the only visible response to his diatribe.
“If we can’t dissuade him from this course of action, California’s doomed. You’re doomed as well. We might as well be dead, for all that will be left of our careers-our lives. Think of your family, your children. In fact, think of Eastman. We’d be better off if he were dead. At least Prescott’s a Californian and might be able to sympathize with our frustrations.”
Pausing to observe Turner’s malaise, Franklin pounded his fist on the desk.
“You miserable excuse for a man, snap out of it!” Franklin demanded. “You’ve got to do something to stop the president from bringing all your efforts to naught-from publicly ruining your career and your family reputation. Do you understand all that, Malcolm?” Franklin exclaimed.
Turner slowly rose from his chair. Franklin ceased his monologue and watched as Senator Malcolm Turner stumbled toward the elevator.
“I’ll speak with him, John Henry,” was all he said as he entered the elevator and left Franklin’s office.
Franklin watched on the closed-circuit TV as the elevator reached the ground floor and Turner leaned against the wall for several moments before he gained the strength to exit the building. Franklin reached under his desk, pressing a button that unlocked a door in the corner of his office. The door opened, and Jean Wolff entered, quietly taking the same seat Turner had vacated.
“I’ve done less damage with a rifle,” Wolff calmly said.
“Ummm,” Franklin exhaled, somewhat unburdened of his frustration by his harangue. “On top of his medical report this morning, this can’t have been one of his better days, I suppose. What do you think?”
“It’s a lot to swallow in just a few hours, but I’ll visit him in Washington next week and close the deal, so to speak.”
“Ummm,” Franklin repeated. “We might yet salvage this, if we act decisively.”
“Perhaps. But what makes you think Clarene Prescott would take a different road than Eastman?”
“I don’t,” he responded. “But I know what road Eastman is on and there’s still hope I could persuade Prescott to consider a new path. It’s nothing more than damage control. Clear out a known obstacle and see what surfaces. I’ll handle that side of things, but you, my dear Mr. Wolff, must find a way to show Senator Turner how he can still go down in history as a hero and the father of the Republic of California.”
“Well, having your doctor deliver that bogus brain cancer diagnosis has gone a long way toward helping me to accomplish that,” Wolff said, rising. “I’ll give it some thought.”
“Don’t think about it, Jean-do it. Oh, and good job on the Cordoba thing.”
“Yeah. But don’t get on the wrong side of Valdez. The man’s driven by the devil.”
“I know,” Franklin grinned. “That’s why I like him. Oh, and one more thing. As long as we’re cleaning up loose ends, the top echelon of the brigade has gotten pretty far into the scope of this thing. They know too much. If Shaw is as smart as you say, he’s probably figured out our operation by now. Perhaps he’s completed his. . shall we say, ‘term of office.’”
“I thought the same thing, and already have some ideas,” Wolff replied.
Before entering the Oval Office, Dan was subjected to an identification check and the scrutiny of a metal scanner. The famous room was much smaller than he had envisioned, and so was the president. Standing only five-foot-ten, the chief executive looked up at Dan and Colonel Connor, who were both over six feet tall. Also present were Vice President Prescott and Judge George Granata.
In that daunting setting, Dan observed that Colonel Connor, while maintaining a formal decorum, appeared at ease in the presence of such luminaries, and they in turn, seemed genuinely pleased to greet him.
For the first four hours following his arrival in Washington the previous evening, Pug Connor and Dan Rawlings had reviewed the printouts from the disks Dan and Nicole had retrieved from Stevenson’s cabin. The news of Stevenson’s torture and death only served to heighten Dan’s understanding of how close he had come to dying while in captivity. The data on the disks revealed the scope of the election fraud. Though some information was incomplete or misleading, it was clear that the Home Telephone Voting System, created by the Franklin Group, had been the vehicle that made it possible to manipulate the election results. Connor advised Dan that a summary of their preliminary findings had been sent over to the president prior to Dan’s arrival, and that Eastman would be conversant with the issue for their meeting. The president was more than conversant.
“So, Colonel, this is our young man,” the president said, stretching forth his hand.
“Yes, Mr. President. May I present Daniel Rawlings, assemblyman in the California legislature, overnight escapee from the militia, and of course, author extraordinaire.”
“Yes, indeed,” Eastman exclaimed. “Mr. Rawlings, you might think this a bit foolish, but if you would be so kind as to autograph my copy of Voices in My Blood, I’d be most appreciative.”
Connor had told Dan that the president had an uncanny way of knowing where a person was coming from, and that he usually knew more about someone visiting than that person might have imagined he would. Knowing that a man was likely to surprise you with his words or actions and confronting the reality of such a demonstration when the man was the president of the United States, were two different things, however, and Dan was taken aback at the president asking for his autograph.
“It would be my pleasure, Mr. President.”
Eastman smiled at Dan’s obvious chagrin. “California’s been on my mind lately.” He paused, laughing softly to himself and gesturing toward his desk. “And all over my desk as well, but your book has a lot to do with the early development of California. When you became involved in this issue, and I learned of your legislative committee assignment, Vice President Prescott-who gave your book high marks, by the way-suggested I might get a look inside your psyche by reviewing the book. Quite well done, Mr. Rawlings, and I just might have gotten a peek at your soul as well. You obviously love those people you’ve written about.”
“They’re part of me, Mr. President. I’ve come to think of their influence as ‘voices in my blood,’ sir, as the title says.”
“That,” the president said, pointing his finger directly at Rawlings, “is exactly what I’m talking about. Like California is part of the whole. Now, tell me, son,” Eastman said, gesturing for all to be seated in his small conference area, “in light of the startling information you were able to obtain, and which Colonel Connor has provided for my review, how’re we going to save this great nation of ours from going the way of eastern Europe after the break-up of the Soviet Union?”
Dan took a seat on the edge of the couch. “Truly, Mr. President, I don’t know how to answer such a monumental question, but as to obtaining the information, Agent Bentley was responsible for that achievement-I was just along for the ride.”
The president laughed. “So I understand. Almost a one-way ride, if I’ve heard correctly. But surely you’ve formed some opinions about this issue.”
“Sir, I’ve had my hands full with special-interest groups seeking to get their view of the world into our draft constitution. And the rub of it is, I don’t want to write it. I don’t want to be part of the demise of the United States as we know it. I abhor the idea.”
“Colonel Connor has explained that to us, Dan. May I call you Dan?”
“Certainly, Mr. President.”
“That’s why you’re here, Dan. Someone, including the governor, holds you in high enough esteem to give you such an assignment, and although I specifically told Colonel Connor to keep you out of his investigative task force, Connor thought enough of you to disobey my orders.”
Dan glanced at Connor, who maintained a straight face in the presence of the president’s rebuke, however pleasantly it had been delivered.
“And while most presidents wouldn’t take kindly to being disobeyed, I’ve seen Colonel Connor in action, and have learned to trust his judgment. If he thinks enough of you to bring you onboard, Dan, that’s good enough for me. So, I repeat-given where we are, what can we do to save this nation we all love?”
“Sir, if the result of the election was engineered, you should be able to expose the fraud, hold another election, and change the result.”
“How is Agent Bentley, by the way?” the president asked, looking toward Judge Granata.
“She’s resting comfortably, Mr. President,” Granata responded. “I have several agents with her around the clock,” he added, smiling at Dan, “if that offers some relief.”
“Brave woman, so I’m told,” Eastman commented, thinking quietly for a moment while all in the room remained silent. “But, back to business,” he resumed. “Hold a new election, you say? Dan, you been in politics long?”
“No, sir. This is my first venture, other than serving an elected county board of supervisors as their appointed chief executive officer.”
“Are you familiar with the ‘bandwagon’ effect?”
“I believe I understand it, sir,” Dan replied.
“Well, then, you can see no matter how flawed the origin of an issue or political theory, if enough people believe it, or are made to believe it and get behind it, then all of a sudden it takes on a momentum of its own, and bang, you’ve got the truth before you, where all you had to begin with was a lie. You understand?”
“Yes, sir. Californians now favor what they think other Californians favor.”
“That’s about it in a nutshell, Dan. So how do we reverse it?” he said, addressing the room in general.
Dan responded. “Mr. President, last night, while I was being held captive, I began to understand that these militia leaders see themselves as patriots, much as our original Minutemen. If you look at it from their perspective, if California eventually secedes, they will have been right. They’ll have won, and they’ll ultimately be viewed as heroes. They even view the murders they’ve committed as the execution of traitors, much as my murder would have been, if it hadn’t been for Agent Bentley.”
“I see,” Eastman replied, nodding. “That does have a sense of logic to it, however flawed the origin. Clarene, what’s your take?”
Vice President Prescott paused for a moment before answering. “Mr. President, I think you need to go public with it. I don’t believe the public bandwagon is as well entrenched as you think.”
“Yeah, that’s certainly possible,” he said, slowly rising from his chair, at which all present in the room rose. “Colonel, it’s always a pleasure to meet with you. And Mr. Rawlings, if you have a couple of days, I’d like to invite you to stay in town and attend the special joint session of Congress on Tuesday. Would that fit with your schedule?”
“Mr. President, I appreciate the offer, but I really think I need to get back to California.”
“I understand, son,” he said smiling. “I’m sure she’ll heal a great deal faster if you’re there beside her. Tell you what-at my invitation, fly back on Tuesday. Colonel, see if you can arrange for our young legislator here to return, at federal expense, of course, and attend the address with you as my guests. Would that suit, Mr. Rawlings?”
“That’s most gracious, Mr. President. Thank you.”
“Right then,” Eastman concluded. “I guess that about wraps it up. Colonel, if you’re not needed to escort Dan to the airport, I’d appreciate it if you could stay, along with Judge Granata, for my next appointment.”
“Certainly, Mr. President. I’ll just see Dan outside and be right back.”
Connor walked Dan out to the foyer and thanked him for coming.
“I wouldn’t have missed it, Colonel, but it should have been Nicole. It’s her honor.”
“She’ll get her due, Dan. Don’t worry. Judge Granata is a very fair man and will see to it that she’s appropriately recognized. Give her my regards, and I’ll see you next Tuesday evening. I’ll have the president’s secretary book today’s flight, and the return next week, first class. It’s on the president,” he said, putting his arm around the younger man.
“Thank you, Pug. I’m anxious to get back to Nicole, as you can imagine.”
“I understand. Have a safe flight home. It should be more comfortable in first class than in the back seat of an F-16.”
“Not to mention an available toilet,” Dan laughed. “Thank you, Pug. For everything.”
When Pug Connor reentered the Oval Office, he was astounded to see Grant Sully, his old nemesis from the CIA, seated on the couch. Judge Granata had been joined by another man Connor didn’t know, but who, by the identification badge on his lapel, was one of the judge’s FBI agents. The president was absent, but came through another door just as Connor took a seat opposite Granata. Sully eyed Connor with similar astonishment.
The president walked briskly to the group, beginning to talk without taking a seat.
“Mr. Sully, I’m not going to waste any of my time this afternoon-or yours, for that matter. In fact, I don’t intend to spend thirty seconds longer with you than necessary. You’ve got just three options and exactly three minutes to decide which one you’re going to take. Do I make myself clear?”
Grant Sully looked nervously around the room before responding. “Sir, I don’t-”
“Shut up, Mr. Sully,” the president interrupted, his voice taking on a harsh tone. “Just listen, nod, and make your choice, because if I make it for you, you’re not gonna like the result.”
“Yes, sir,” Sully replied.
“Now, your first option is to leave this office with Director Granata, Colonel Connor, and the special agents, spend the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, or whatever it takes to purge your cankered soul of every piece of information you possess about the Franklin Group, John Henry Franklin, Senator Turner, and all the other conspirators in this secession folly. Mr. Sully, I mean everything you know. One omission-just one, that we find out about later-and you’re into option two, no matter how much cooperation you may have previously provided in other areas.
“If you fully cooperate in this exercise, you’ll be allowed to sign your resignation, return to wherever it is you call home, and a United States of America government retirement check will be deposited in your bank each and every month for the remainder of your miserable life. You can also have access to whatever money you’ve been able to squirrel away in any off-shore account from your dealings with Franklin. I don’t give a hoot about that.”
Pug Connor sat captivated by the developments occurring before him-amazed that the president had permitted him to witness what amounted to Sully’s expulsion from professional life.
The president continued, pacing the room, pausing to look Sully in the eye occasionally, and emphasizing every point with a thrust of his finger. “Now the only reason you even have option one, Mr. Sully, is because of your thirty-plus years of service to this nation, and because the path you’ve chosen involved a domestic dispute and not an international treasonous act. Were that the case, Mr. Sully, you would hang, as young Lieutenant McFarland did some months ago in Sacramento, or be stood up against the wall and shot, as General Cordoba was yesterday. And regarding General Cordoba’s assassination, Mr. Sully-a most regrettable incident from my viewpoint-we are fully aware of your complicity in the matter.”
Grant Sully continued to squirm in his seat as Judge Granata regarded him with open contempt. Pug Connor, with whom Sully occasionally locked eyes-as they more than once had locked tactical ideology-tried to appear outwardly objective, despite the expanding sense of satisfaction he was experiencing.
“Your second option, Mr. Sully, is not to cooperate-a choice that I absolutely guarantee will result, from the moment you leave this office, in your spending the next thirty years in Leavenworth Prison. Period. End of story.”
The president stopped his pacing and looked directly at Sully. “Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Sully replied, his head now bowed and his demeanor subdued.
“Fine. Then what’s your choice, Mr. Sully?”
Sully hesitated, glancing around the room, fear evident on his face. He looked again at the president. After what seemed like several long minutes, he spoke in a subdued tone. “Mr. President, you indicated three options, and-”
“I lied, Mr. Sully. I lied.”
Once Colonel Connor had completed the first few hours of Sully’s interrogation, held in the FBI’s Hoover Building, he’d learned enough about those involved in the conspiracy to call an old marine association and request an appointment at the Pentagon. He then called the president’s secretary and left a request, which was confirmed by text message while he was enroute to the Pentagon.
Thirty minutes later, he arrived at the office of the Commandant of the Marine Corps and was told the Commandant would be available shortly. He took a seat and waited for several moments, after which the young Captain advised him that the Commandant would see him. Pug stood and entered the well-appointed office. A tall, erect man in his middle sixties came around his desk and extended his hand.
“Colonel Connor, it’s good to see you again,” General Tomlinson said. “You’re looking well.”
“General, please accept my apologies for not being in proper uniform, but I’ve just come from the FBI Director’s office, following a meeting with the president.”
“Not to worry, Colonel,” Tomlinson said. “Take a seat,” he said as they moved toward a small arrangement of chairs. “How can I help?”
Pug waited until the general sat and then assumed his seat. “Sir, when we last spoke, when I assumed this presidential assignment, I was unable to advise you of the nature of the mission. But you mentioned that any help I might need from the Corps should be brought to your attention. In light of recent discoveries, I am requesting a particular individual be assigned temporary duty under my direction for at least the next ninety days. I believe he is currently assigned to 1st Force Recon as Battalion Sergeant Major. Carlos Castro is his name, General.”
Tomlinson nodded. “I know Sergeant Major Castro. Outstanding marine. If I recall, you’ve served with him before.”
“Yes, sir. He was Gunny Castro when I was company commander in the 15th MEU aboard the Belleau Wood. We had several missions together. I know it’s a common story, sir,” Pug said, smiling, “but without the actions of Gunny Castro, this young marine captain might not have come home alive from our Pakistan insertion.”
General Tomlinson smiled. “Colonel, you’re not the only Marine officer who owes his life to a competent Marine NCO. Truth be told, there are two of us in this room that qualify for that distinction. Mine was Gunnery Sergeant Dan L. Jackman, over forty-four years ago when I was a green, twenty-one year old second lieutenant in Vietnam and Jackman was a Korean War veteran with three Purple Hearts. He earned two more of them in Vietnam, one of them saving my life. The Corps thrives because of those outstanding NCO’s, Colonel. So, you need Sergeant Castro for ninety days you say?”
“At least, sir. If an indefinite assignment is possible, I would appreciate that contained in his orders.”
“Is this by direction of the president?”
“It is, sir. Verbal orders of the president.”
Tomlinson rose and stepped to his door, speaking to the officer seated just beyond, then returned to the seating area. Pug had also risen when Tomlinson stood. “Consider it done, Colonel. I’ve just asked Captain Black to provide you with a copy of Castro’s service record. I think his recent academic achievements, if you’re unaware, will surprise you. When will you need Sergeant Major Castro?”
“If he’s still at 1st Recon, Camp Pendleton, have him remain in place, General. I’ll contact him in the next seventy-two hours.”
“Anything else, Colonel?”
“No, sir. Thank you, Commandant, for seeing me so quickly this afternoon.”
“Call this office if you need something further. The captain knows how to reach me.”
“Yes, sir.