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
“Senator Turner, will
“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
