AMERICAN VOICES
Twenty-six-year-old Daniel Rawlings has an enviable ancestry as a twelfth generation American and a fifth generation Californian. A Stanford Law School graduate, his position as County Administrator in Yolo County, California, and his commission as a National Guard JAG officer, provides what would seem to be an excellent career and a fulfilling professional life. Finding an outlet for his personal tragedy by writing the "Great American Novel," Rawlings is unaware that his life is about to further disassemble and the choices rendered will place him in harm's way, much as it did the pioneer ancestors about whom he writes.
A political suspense story about families and institutions caught up in a riptide of national intrigue, American Voices is a patriotic story of contemporary politics, election fraud, shattered family values, and the potential secession of California, depicting a nation torn by divided loyalties and far removed from the original intentions of America's Founding Fathers.
Chapter One
Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial Bridge
Interstate 5, north of Sacramento, California
Had the gallows knot been properly placed to the side, behind the ear, Richard McFarland’s neck would have snapped and death would have come swiftly. As it was, it required a long, agonizing two minutes before the young California National Guard lieutenant died. In the predawn hours, the light was barely sufficient to see, but Otto Walters, First Sergeant of the Shasta Brigade, a northern California militia unit of dubious intent, kept his eyes riveted to the gruesome scene. Walter’s younger companions had less stomach for the sight of Lieutenant McFarland twisting in the pre-dawn breeze.
Killing the two California Superior Court justices with a quick bullet in the back of the head had been easy compared to this assignment, but Commander Shaw had been adamant: “Make it plain that the brigade will not tolerate traitors or spies.”
“For crying out loud, First Sergeant, can we please leave?” one of the two men with Walters pleaded.
The grizzled veteran pulled his eyes from the ghastly sight and glanced derisively toward the kid who had made the plea. He spat a stream of tobacco juice on the ground and returned his gaze toward the body. Standing five feet nine inches and weighing one hundred eighty pounds, First Sergeant Otto Walters was rock solid. Dense tattoos extended from beneath his rolled-up sleeves, running from biceps to wrists on both arms. His sandy-colored hair, cropped to a uniform half-inch length, added to his appearance as a balding, but very fit, muscular man.
He looked back at the young would-be soldier who was now on his knees in the dirt, struggling to avoid further embarrassment.
“It’s a war, Private. This loser chose the wrong side,” Walters said. He stepped to the slowly swaying body, took hold of a dangling boot and turned the body enough for the available light to reflect off McFarland’s distorted face.
The sound of retching caused Walters to turn around again. The smaller of the two young recruits who had been assigned to accompany Walters on this mission was still on his knees, several yards from the truck, relieving himself of the sandwich he had eaten on the drive south.
Walters sneered. “You wanna stay in the Shasta Brigade, mister, you better get a stronger stomach. They’ll be no momma’s boys in my outfit. You volunteered for this mission. Now get in the backseat and shut up. If you puke again, you walk home—or you could join our friend here,” he said, jerking the boot again and swinging the body around in circles.
The kid didn’t reply, but wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stumbled toward the pickup.
“Ted, close it up and let’s get out of here,” Walters ordered the other, even younger, teenage recruit.
Ted vaulted into the back of the truck and closed the lid on the side-to-side aluminum toolbox bolted to the back of the cab in which they had imprisoned the lieutenant during the drive from their base camp in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. He then jumped down and slammed the tailgate on which, moments before, the trembling accountant, who doubled as a week-end soldier, had been made to stand, his desperate eyes silently pleading for mercy while Walters had placed the rope around his neck.
The First Sergeant climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine on the Ford F-150, dual cab 4x4 pickup. With a final glance at the slowly twisting body, Otto spat a wad of chewing tobacco out the window and floored the accelerator, spinning dirt and debris over the lifeless remains of Lieutenant Richard McFarlane, platoon commander, 324th Mechanized Battalion, California National Guard.
The truck bucked and lurched as Walters steered out of the dry river bed and up the embankment toward the end of the bridge. As they neared the highway, headlights suddenly blinded them as another vehicle rounded the bridge abutment, facing Walters’ truck and blocking their return to the highway. Otto jammed on the brakes and reached to the seat beside him for his pistol. He sat motionless for several seconds until the occupant of the other vehicle got out, training a flashlight on the driver’s side of the Ford and approached from the front.
“Got a problem here?” a voice called out.
In the dusty glare of the headlights, Walters recognized the uniform of a Yolo County sheriff’s deputy.
“Quiet!” he mouthed softly. “Not a word from either of you,” he added, climbing out of the vehicle, his pistol shielded behind his back.
“No problem, Officer,” Walters called out. “Just looking for a good spot to fish.”
“Step into the light, please,” the deputy called toward Walters.
Dust hung in air, reflected by the headlights as Walters came forward into the space between the two vehicles while the deputy continued to stand to one side of his Chevy Tahoe.
“Not looking for any trouble, Officer,” Otto said, his voice friendly. “Like I said, just looking for a good fishing spot.”
The deputy stepped forward a couple of paces, shining his flashlight toward the interior of Otto’s truck and catching the reflection of two additional faces. He hesitated and moved his hand slowly toward his holster. Otto quickly stepped forward, closing the gap between the two men, his smile visible beneath the twin headlamps of both vehicles.
“Just my two nephews, Officer. Nothing to worry about.”
“Can I see some identification, please?” the officer asked.
“Certainly, Officer. Will this do?” Walters said, extending the pistol toward the deputy and continuing to smile as he quickly closed the remaining distance between the two men.
The deputy’s face changed immediately and he quickly reached to unsnap his holster and withdraw the revolver. Walters continued to smile as the seconds extended to what seemed like minutes. Before the deputy’s weapon cleared the holster, Walters reached out and seized the man’s wrist in a vice-like grip, preventing him from raising his arm. His eyes only inches from the deputy’s face, Walters slowly shook his head at the younger man while holding the officer’s arm rigid, rendering the deputy’s revolver immobile in his hand.
“It’s a dangerous profession you’ve chosen, young fella,” Walters said, raising his .45-caliber military issue pistol toward the man’s face. Without a further word, Walters fired one round directly into the deputy’s forehead, released his grip on the man’s wrist and watched the wide-eyed law enforcement officer sprawl backwards. Walters stared at the fallen deputy for several seconds and then turned and fired one round into each of the Tahoe’s headlamps, extinguishing the glaring lights. Then he leaned down, grasped the dead man’s hand, which contained the revolver and, using the man’s own finger, fired two rounds into the air, before dropping the hand and the gun back to the ground. He retraced his steps to his truck, entered the driver’s seat, and threw the vehicle into gear, once again spinning tires and maneuvering around the sheriff’s vehicle, pulling onto the highway.
“Dude, that was a sheriff’s deputy,” the young man in the rear seat of the extended cab truck whined to his young companion, “and he shot him. He killed a cop!”
