State of Rebellion Page 4

  Del Valle looked quickly at Dan, who shook his head slightly and shrugged.

  “As to the murdered officer,” Samuels continued, “we received a call around four o’clock this morning about a possible killing, but the caller had to disconnect . . . or was disconnected. I called Agent Bentley, and we headed for Sacramento, hoping to receive further information along the way that would enable us to intervene. We heard the police band radio call first, however, and cut across I-505 into Woodland where we met Sheriff Sanchez. Our information was limited, believe me, and when we saw your lieutenant . . . well, it was as difficult for us as it was for Captain Rawlings. If we could have prevented it, General Del Valle, I can assure you we would have done so. Remember, there was a law enforcement officer killed in the line of duty as well.”

  “I understand,” Del Valle said. “And I apologize for any unintended implication that you didn’t care. Please, go on.”

  “There’s not a lot more, General. We have the identity of about two dozen, full-time regulars in the brigade, and they also have another fifty or so part-time regulars, but their total numbers probably exceed full-company strength—well over two, maybe even three hundred men and women. These newer guys don’t know much about the true objectives or the specific operations. It’s the central core of two dozen or so—most with criminal records—who call the shots. Their commander, a man named Jackson Shaw, is also former Army—West Point, class of ’87—discharged for negligence in the field, resulting in the loss of several men under his command.”

  Del Valle looked at Dan. “Do we know anything about Shaw?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dan replied. “We’ve pulled his package.”

  “His package?” Agent Bentley spoke up for the first time.

  “His personnel file, Ms. Bentley,” Dan explained. “His record of service in the Army.”

  “General, that’s about all I can share without stepping over my limits. I hope you understand,” Samuels said.

  “Are any of these regular brigade members you’ve identified also members of the guard?”

  Samuels nodded toward Bentley.

  “General Del Valle, Agent Samuels has assigned me to run background checks on the core members of the Shasta Brigade. None of the central leadership is involved with your guard unit, but over half have extensive military backgrounds. Shaw and his cadre of followers have dropped completely out of sight. Nearly a dozen of the new recruits are also members of the 324th, and over fifty more are either active duty military or belong to various military reserve units. The brigade is on an extensive recruiting campaign, General. They’re growing larger and getting bolder all the time. We’ve suspected them of killing some dissident members or new recruits who wanted out, and as we’ve said, the patriot movement has claimed responsibility for killing the federal judges. But to our knowledge, this is the first time they’ve executed a federal military officer.”

  “Why now?” Del Valle asked. “And how does the Shasta Brigade fit into this patriot movement?”

  “We believe that all the California militia units have banded together, calling themselves the California Patriot Movement and hiding their individual actions behind the larger façade,” Bentley said. “Whether there is a central command structure yet, we don’t know. And as to why now, we believe they’ve embraced Senator Turner’s appeal for secession. It’s the clarion call they’ve needed.”

  “And who killed McFarland?” Del Valle asked.

  “That’s what we’re looking to find out, General,” she responded. “But we can assume that they’re sufficiently aware of military intelligence procedure to realize that our side needs to infiltrate their operations. They’ve probably established an internal security unit.”

  “You mean an assassination squad,” Del Valle said.

  “Exactly, General.”

  Del Valle looked at the female agent. “We’ll have to go about it a bit more carefully, Agent Bentley, but we need to know what’s going on inside the brigade and the other militia units. We’ve developed a small internal group for just that purpose. Captain Rawlings is a JAG officer—a lawyer—as he’s most likely explained. But several months ago, I selected him to run an internal investigation with one of our Criminal Investigation Division agents. Only three other people know of his assignment: Colonel Harman, who serves as the battalion commander, myself, and the CID agent with whom he works.”

  “General,” Bentley said, leaning forward in her chair and looking nearly straight up into Del Valle’s face, “we are sincerely sorry for the death of your officer. I want you to know that if there was any way, anything, we could have done to prevent it, we would have acted.”

  “Thank you, Agent Bentley. Captain Rawlings,” Del Valle said, “Take the agents to your office and share what information you’ve gleaned through ‘Deadbolt.’ No holds barred, Captain—give them everything you’ve got, and don’t be surprised,” he smiled, looking back at Samuels, “if they already know most, or even all, of it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dan said, standing up. “And, sir, Lieutenant McFarland was married only about eight months ago, and—”

  Del Valle held up his hand, nodded slightly, then stood and headed for the door. As they reached the exit, Del Valle turned and faced Dan. “Son, this part of our job never gets easier. When you finish with these folks, we have a visit to make—to Mrs. McFarland.”

  “Sir, I should be in dress uniform, instead of BDUs?”

  “It’s not necessary, Captain,” he said, shaking his head. “Mrs. McFarland won’t notice.”

  * * *

  Just before noon, First Sergeant Otto Krueger was back at a long-abandoned Shasta Brigade headquarters after dropping off the two recruits. The warning he gave them—that they would think Lieutenant McFarland had enjoyed a peaceful death compared to theirs if they opened their mouths—would keep them silent for a few days. He then drove north and turned off the highway onto a side road, heading up into the mountains.

  Discharged from the Army’s Special Operations Group after fourteen years of service, Krueger had been accused of beating up the Fort Ord base chaplain. The fact that Krueger had also been suspected of selling military hardware to Bay Area gang members, and the resultant investigation would likely uncover security breaches, aided in the post commander’s decision not to prosecute. Krueger had agreed to a general discharge to avoid Leavenworth Prison, and the commander agreed to the discharge to avoid publicity and discredit to his career.

  Leaving the Army, the former Green Beret settled in the northern California mountains near Yreka. He floundered around for several years, moving from job to job until he finally worked his way up to assistant manager at K-Mart.

  One Saturday afternoon, Krueger intervened in a parking lot dispute between a yuppie, who acted as if his black belt inured him to injury, and a couple of teenagers who happened to scratch the yuppie’s highly polished BMW as they walked by. Krueger asked the parties to let the matter go and move on peacefully. The yuppie took umbrage at the middle-aged man’s interference and ended up throwing a punch. Parrying the younger man’s jab, Otto responded with a reflexive kick, bending the man’s knee backward, dropping him to the pavement, and rendering him partially crippled.

  After talking with several witnesses who were in the parking lot, including the teenagers, the police determined that the younger man had initiated the fight. Nevertheless, the K-Mart regional director felt that the image of a “don’t-mess-with-me” black-belt assistant manager was not in the best interest of good public relations, and Krueger was dismissed with four weeks’ severance pay.

  A week later, one of the parking lot witnesses approached Krueger, who was still out of work and disgruntled, and introduced himself as Jackson Shaw. After some preliminary discussion, Shaw said he was the commander of a local militia unit that could use a man with Krueger’s skills and indicated there was a full-time, paid slot on the command staff. Within two weeks, Krueger was offered the position of first sergeant of the Shasta
Brigade, and he had never looked back. He quickly came to know that for the core leadership, there was no turning back, and loyalty was non-negotiable.

  Reaching Camp Liberty, the ramshackle cluster of old, wooden huts called home by the top echelon of the Shasta Brigade, he parked the pickup behind one of the shacks, then got out and grabbed a hose connected to a spigot attached to the building. As he began to hose out the back of the truck and inside the toolbox, a man in fatigues exited the shack and approached.

  “Any trouble?”

  Krueger shook his head and kept spraying the truck.

  “Nah. Only the skinny one, Kenny. He barfed all over the place. He’s got no stomach for it, Commander. He was scared stupid.”

  “They’ll learn, Sergeant Krueger. We, too, were young and afraid once. Keep after ’em.”

  “My pleasure. Think the guard will try to replace the kid?”

  Commander Jackson Shaw nodded. “They have to if they want to learn anything, and we have to keep recruiting. It’s a weed-out game that we can’t afford to lose.”

  “We won’t lose, Commander, and they won’t get another spy in here—not for long, anyway. But my problem is making soldiers out of the gutter-dwellers who want to join the brigade. We’ll never function as a unit until we get some trained and disciplined NCOs.”

  “You’ll get the job done, Sergeant,” Shaw said. “No other problems this morning?”

  Krueger could see that his commander already knew the answer, probably from early morning radio reports.

  “A sheriff’s deputy showed up just as we were leaving. I had no choice.”

  Shaw nodded. “That will make them more intense in their pursuit. Killing a judge or even a military officer is one thing. Killing a cop is . . . well, just be alert.”

  “They’ll know we mean business, Commander.”

  “We’ve crossed the Rubicon already, and we’re playing for keeps now. We win this one, or we die. I want you to run down to Sacramento again in a few days and find a likely bank. We need to keep up the charade.”

  “And these young pukes?”

  “They’ve crossed, too, whether they know it or not. Take them with you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 4

  South of Puerto Penasco, Mexico

  Sitting in an old Ford pickup truck with the doors open, two young Mexican men sat smoking, waiting impatiently for the third member of their group to say goodbye to his girlfriend. Oblivious to the political machinations north of the border, or the extent to which opposition to illegal immigration had escalated in California, Carlos Domingo and his teenage girlfriend had decided to make a run for the wealth they knew in their hearts lay just beyond the border.

  Carlos found it difficult to maintain his machismo in the presence of the two waiting men, while at the same time trying to console Carmen. She was almost nineteen, but looked more like a schoolchild of fifteen, undernourished, with gaunt, hollow cheeks—the kind models pay big money to have a dentist create. She was fighting in vain to keep the tears from her pretty eyes.

  “It’s dangerous, Carlos, and you don’t know the others,” she said, glancing at the pickup.

  Carlos, himself barely twenty, tried to make light of her concern, while harboring a great fear at the prospect of crossing the border with those two, both of whom seemed in the same condition as he, but whose honesty was unknown. Carlos had rejected going by the “mule train”—a paid entry system whereby local guides led groups of people across the border through their network of bribed border guards and “safe” illegal entry points. He had chosen instead to cross over into the United States with the nightly influx of “wetbacks,” as those Mexicans who swam—or walked—across the Rio Grande had been called for over a century.

  “The man from the MexiCal has a job for me. You know that. For the harvest in Idaho.”

  “How far is this Idaho?” she asked plaintively, tears running down her cheeks.

  “Far. But I will save all my money, I promise. I will send for you soon. And I will find a priest to marry us.”

  “Carlos, I’m afraid,” she whimpered.

  “I know, little one, I know.” He took her in his arms and held her close, looking hesitantly over her shoulder at the waiting men, concerned they would see his weakness and simply drive away. “Our son will be born north of the border, Carmen, and he will be our freedom. He will be the key to our green card.”

  In the sixth month of her pregnancy, her belly swollen with child, the emaciated girl resembled a starving woman in famine-plagued Africa. She clung to Carlos, desperate and sobbing out of fear and abandonment. Holding her by her thin shoulders, Carlos extracted himself from her fierce embrace.

  “I must go, little one. I will send for you soon, I promise,” he said, struggling to withhold his own tears.

  He stooped to pick up a ragged gym bag and moved quickly toward the battered truck, walking backward and continuing to hold out his hand to the girl.

  “Vaya con Dios, Carlos,” she said.

  “Before you know it, little one, I will send for you.”

  Tossing his bag into the back of the truck, he vaulted over the tailgate into the bed. As he did so, the driver set the tires to spinning in the gravel, steering the truck up an embankment onto the road and the four-hour drive to the border.

  As the truck carried him away, Carlos looked back at his pregnant girlfriend and felt his heart would break. He thought of the child that grew within the child. He would send for her—he must send for her.

  * * *

  On Thursday, three days after McFarland’s murder, Dan pulled his Blazer onto the freeway for the short drive from Davis to Woodland. He turned his thoughts from Josiah Rumsey’s role in the Spanish-American War to the staff meeting he would conduct that morning. He had come to enjoy the variety of mental roles he was required to play. It kept his mind sharp, and, if a tabloid headline he had recently scanned while waiting in line at the grocery store checkout was true, using his mind in that way would preclude the onset of Alzheimer’s disease.

  Arriving at the county administrative office building on Court Street in Woodland, Dan greeted his deputy administrator, Jim Thompson, who was already at his desk working on his second cup of coffee. Thompson, who was originally from Wyoming, always wore cowboy boots, a Stetson, and western-cut suits, often with an Indian string art tie. Well-liked, with a good-ol’-boy air about him, he was often the object of office ribbing. He was the personification of the cliché that regardless of formal education, you can take a boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy. Working for Yolo County provided for Thompson the best of both worlds.

  “So, what did Josiah Rumsey do today?” Thompson asked as Rawlings poked his head in to say hello.

  “He thinks if he can get up San Juan Hill before Teddy, maybe he’ll become president,” Rawlings replied.

  “Yeah, right,” Thompson said sarcastically to Dan’s back as he continued across the foyer toward his office.

  This morning banter about his novel had become a part of their repartee ever since Dan had taken Thompson into his confidence about his writing endeavor. Dan had often wished he hadn’t revealed that he was writing a novel, but sometimes Thompson came up with a good suggestion that he was able to incorporate into the developing plot. Their shared secretary, Patricia Collins, found their exchanges amusing.

  “Pat, what’s on the schedule today?” Dan asked as she followed him into his office, notepad in hand.

  “Staff meeting at nine, executive director from the Yolo Rice Co-op at ten-thirty, and—this you’ll love—Senator Turner is on the stump at Rotary at noon.” She grinned broadly.

  “California uber alles, eh?” he replied.

  “And goodbye, America,” Pat laughed. “Think this was how George Washington became the Father of Our Country—by schmoozing the Rotary boys?”

  “Beats chopping down our cherry—or maybe in the case of Yolo County, I should say almond—tree
s,” Dan quipped. “That’s all?”

  “Not quite. Sheriff Sanchez called and asked if he could meet with you this morning. I told him you had a staff meeting, but he said it was urgent. I told him I’d pencil him in before your first appointment, but I’d have to call back to confirm.”

  “That’s good, Pat.” Dan nodded. “Tell him to come on over as soon as he can get here, please.” Dan leaned forward and pushed the intercom button on his desk. “Jim, would you step in for a minute?”

  Pat continued. “You’ve also got the planning commission this afternoon—the rezoning of the Beasley agricultural section, remember? That’s at three.”

  “Jim’s gonna be a busy man.” Dan stood behind his desk and stretched, then removed his coat and hung it on the coat rack in the corner just as Jim arrived.

  “Jim, Sheriff Sanchez needs to see me this morning, so would you please handle staff meeting? And this afternoon I’ve got a funeral to attend, so I’ll need you to sit in on the planning commission meeting at three. Pat has the particulars.”

  Jim nodded. “That’s fine. Is it that guard officer?”

  “Yes,” Dan replied. “McFarland. Most of the Cal Guard will turn out.”

  “A real shame,” Jim said, shaking his head.

  Dan paused for a moment, thinking once again about his wife’s death and his reluctance to attend another funeral—any funeral. “Okay,” Dan said, clapping his hands together to break the moment. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Dan flipped through his daily planner for several minutes after Pat left, pausing to reflect on the entry for Lieutenant McFarland’s funeral in the afternoon. A disturbing vision of the young officer’s distorted face flitted across his memory. The quiet rap on his doorjamb broke his reverie, and he looked up to see Tony Sanchez standing in the doorway.

  “C’mon in, Tony. Cup of coffee or a glass of juice?”