“we need you to get back here and help us form a new nation.” The old man started to sit down and then paused, looking back toward the lectern. “And remember this,” he said, waving his cane, “protect the farmer. They’re the life’s blood of this country. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
The audience erupted, and Senator Turner smiled broadly, initiating the applause for Jake and his popular point of view. Though most of the Rotarians were independent businessmen and corporate managers, their livelihood depended on the prosperity of the Yolo County farmers.
Dan Rawlings looked at Jim Thompson and shook his head. The members and guests continued making comments and asking questions for several minutes, strengthened in their exuberance by the many visitors who came from outside the normal membership of local Woodland businessmen and farmers. Dan could see that Roger’s new visitors had come to the meeting expressly to support Senator Turner’s presentation and to vocally intimidate the crowd and garner support-or at least to stifle any opposition. And from what he could see, none of those Dan knew to be opposed to the secession seemed inclined to voice that opposition, perhaps intimidated by the presence of the overwhelming support evident in the room.
Chapter 8
Woodland, California
Captain Dan Rawlings left the Woodland Rotary luncheon and headed straight for his apartment in Davis, where he changed into his Class “A” dress greens. Driving over the Yolo County Causeway toward the funeral home, the image of Lieutenant McFarland’s bloated, purplish face kept recurring, and Dan’s mood turned somber.
Not since he’d buried his wife had he dredged up the courage to attend another funeral, but Lieutenant McFarland was a brother-in-arms-and more. Dan-in his incarnation as Captain Rawlings-had actually met with McFarland on several occasions and, under General Del Valle’s directive, had been the one to accept the young man’s reports on the status of the Shasta Brigade. To his sorrow, Dan had also been the one to recommend McFarland to General Del Valle as an officer with the suitable temperament to infiltrate the Shasta Brigade.
Dan crossed the Sacramento River and drove east along the northern boundary of Sacramento, beginning the gentle climb into the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. He left the freeway at the Roseville exit and turned north toward a golf course he had played on many occasions. About a mile beyond the golf course, he came to the funeral home where McFarland’s service was to be held, pulled into the parking lot and shut off his engine. Seeing the lush, green grounds of the cemetery that surrounded the building, Dan broke into a light sweat, and memories flooded his mind. He had been a witness to Susan’s accident and had since dreamed about it often. Unable to alter its outcome, the scene always unfolded before him the same way, whether awake or asleep.
They had been skiing high in the Sierra Nevada Mountains near Susanville. Just before pushing off, his young wife smiled and winked at him. Then, racing ahead down the mountain through the flat light of an overcast day, Susan plunged into a steep field of tall moguls, her legs acting as powerful pistons, absorbing the impact as she worked her way down, down, down the steep slope. Nearly a world-class skier and fearless on the mountain, she combined both strength and grace in a way that amazed Dan. Not nearly her equal, he followed at a slower pace.
As she continued to work her way through the steep, bumpy run, he pulled to a stop at the top of the field of moguls, admiring his young wife’s fierce attack on the deep ruts and giant mounds.
He had watched helplessly as a teenaged, female skier suddenly skidded into Susan’s path. Out of control, the novice had dropped her poles and was flailing her arms wildly to maintain her balance while sliding laterally across the hill, directly toward Susan.
Still skiing hard, Susan made a sudden, powerful move to avoid the collision and veered sharply off the run, plunging into a copse of mature quaking aspens whose solid white trunks blended into the flat light of the mountain.
Unable to do anything but cry out, Dan watched in horror as Susan cart-wheeled and tumbled through the grove to slam headfirst into the trunk of a large, gnarled tree.
Fighting back his tears, his chest pounding with exertion and fear, Dan half-skied, half-tumbled down the mountain. He had wrenched off his skis, screaming over his shoulder for help and wading frantically through the soft snow to the place where Susan lay crumpled against the tree, an ever-widening patch of red snow staining the pristine powder. Her once-beautiful face was bloodied, contorted in death, framed by the fur-lined hood of her ski parka, and as he held her lifeless body in his arms-
This was usually the point at which he would wake up each morning, drenched in sweat. For months after her death, he had not gone to church. His bishop had visited and gently counseled with him, and still Dan resisted. Even Susan’s parents had pleaded with him to come to church with them, to no avail. Finally, several months later when his sister was home visiting with three of her five children, she asked Dan for help one morning, taking her kids to the mall, since her husband had not made the trip. Dan agreed, and as he sat in the food court area, his four-year- old niece, Rachel, climbed on his lap, whispering in his ear, “I wish Aunt Susan could be here with us.”
The rap on his car window startled him, and he turned his head, taking a second to recognize Sheriff Sanchez standing beside his car. Dan removed his keys and exited the vehicle, placing his garrison cap squarely on his head.
“You in a dreamland, Danny boy?” Tony asked, smiling. “Looks like you’re a bit overheated.”
“Just thinking,” Dan replied, wiping the perspiration from his brow and noticing that Tony was dressed in a business suit rather than his sheriff’s uniform.
“I can understand that. Looks like a big turnout,” Tony said as they began to walk across the parking lot toward the chapel.
Dan looked around as they neared the entrance, spotting several groups of green and blue uniforms among the civilians heading for the service. He saw General Del Valle at the door, greeting his officers and men as they arrived. Twenty yards before they reached the door, Tony slowed his pace and nudged Dan in the side. Dan followed Tony’s gaze and identified Kenny Bailey, Dan’s brother-in-law, heading toward the entrance in the company of three other men, all dressed casually in jeans or slacks and open-necked shirts.
Tony looked away from the building, scanning the cars in the parking lot. “I’ve got a cameraman out in the unmarked SWAT van filming the attendees,” he said.
“You don’t think they’d come
“Stranger things have happened. . and, well, there’s Kenny, right?”
“Yeah,” Dan said, again walking toward the entrance. “Good afternoon, General,” he said, snapping a salute.
“Afternoon, Captain Rawlings.”
“Sir, I’d like to introduce Tony Sanchez, Yolo County Sheriff.”
The two men shook hands. “Are you the investigating authority, Sheriff?” Del Valle asked.
“At present, sir. The FBI has been in contact with our office, but they’ve not assumed jurisdiction.”
“I see. Well, shall we go in, gentlemen?”
Dan had never met Mrs. McFarland until the previous Monday, when he and General Del Valle had gone to her home to inform her of her husband’s death. Del Valle had arranged for Mrs. McFarland’s mother to be escorted to the house as well, and several family members had arrived while Dan and General Del Valle were still present. Even though the general had handled most of the dialogue, it had been one of the hardest things Dan had ever done. Surprisingly, the young, very pretty woman had taken the news without breaking down, her silent tears the only outward sign of her shock and grief.
Inside the chapel, Lieutenant Colonel Jack Harman, Commander of the 324th Mechanized Battalion, stood several rows from the front, retaining seats for the general and his staff officers. Dan and Sheriff
