Sacramento Burns

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Kasparovich held out his free hand, "Just reaching for my ID, Sarge ..."

McKellar's aim went from Wilcox to Kasparovich, "Thumb and forefinger, slowly, I  swear if you so much as sneeze I will ventilate your head."

Wilcox started to speak, then he realized that Cameron was just down the short hall leading to the living room, his M1911 pointed at him. Wilcox elected to remain silent.

"See we're Feds, just like I said." Kasparovich was holding his DHS ID open so that McKellar could see it.

Before McKellar could say anything, two UH-60 Blackhawks roared down the street at very low altitude. The two Feds looked up, neither soldier did. After the helicopters had passed, Cameron said, "Sergeant McKellar, why don't we invite these two in? No need to put on a show for the neighbors."

"You heard the man," McKellar said, "slow and easy, come on in."

Sitting in McKellar's living room, Wilcox was beginning to question his decision to talk to these men directly. His orders hadn't been very specific, not much more than "Find out what the hell is going on with the California Guard." Now he thought maybe this was a bit too direct.

Cameron holstered his weapon, knowing full well that McKellar would shoot both of these Feds in less time than it took for his first expended shell to hit the floor. From the looks on their faces, the Feds knew that as well.

"So gentlemen, what brings you to California from Langley?"

Kasparovich said, "What makes you think we're ..."

Wilcox interrupted him, "That's right General, we're with the Agency, the DHS creds are to preserve our dignity, if you will. The Director of Ops sent us out here a month ago when rumors began to pop up about California seceding."

"Winsome sent me the OPLAN for that last week." Cameron offered. "I thought it was an insane plan. Winsome had an inflated sense of what our Guard units could do. Not to mention that since the troubles began, a lot of our Guardsmen don't bother to report in for drill. Most of our people are prior service, a lot of Yemen vets, they don't think much of our Governor. Neither do I. I wasn't sure of what I was going to do, I decided that resigning was my only course of action."

Before anyone could speak, the General's phone chimed.

"I need to take this."

The California Highway Patrol had set up roadblocks all around the Governor's private office complex. The Governor had ordered this done as a precautionary measure. He had issued a bulletin earlier that day advising California residents to remain calm in the event of a "Federal invasion" as the Governor's spokesperson had called it.

Word spread quickly that the Navy had sortied a number of its ships out of San Diego. Federal installations had been shut down, their gates closed with heavily armed troops guarding the perimeters. Many people were questioning who was doing the invading.

"Sir?" Winsome's aide was standing in the doorway to the office.

"What now, David?" Winsome's phone had been ringing all morning and into the afternoon, every media outlet in the state, and not a few, outside of the state, were asking what was going on.

"The mayors of L.A. and San Francisco have called, the Navy has ships patrolling off the coast. They're saying that they're not letting anything in or out of port."

"What? What do you mean?"

"No ships are coming in, no ships are going out."

"Are you telling me that the United States Navy is blockading the state of California?" the Governor was out of his chair, pacing across the office. His voice was getting louder with each word.

"Yes Sir. Uh, and another thing ..."

"What?"

"The FAA has grounded all flights coming into and going out of California."

"What are the airlines doing about that?"

"They're screaming to their representatives in DC. But they're been told that if they do get airborne and leave the state, the aircraft will be seized at their destination."

"Aren't the passengers up in arms ..."

"Rental car and bus companies are doing a booming business. Folks are hopping a bus or renting a car and heading across the line to Nevada. The airport in Las Vegas is as busy as O'Hare these days."

"Is this legal?" Winsome whined.

David Hopkins just looked at his boss, shook his head, then said, "Governor, the Feds hold all the cards. Nakagawa's a tough bastard, did you think he was like his predecessor?"

Winsome looked up at his aide, "Don't get cocky with me, you little twerp."

Hopkins pulled out a small revolver, Winsome shook his head, 'You don't have the balls, you simpering ..."

Winsome jumped when Hopkins fired the pistol, he felt a sharp pain in his lower abdomen. He looked down, blood was staining his khaki slacks and the fabric of his office chair. Pressing his hands against the wound, he groaned, man, that hurt.

Hopkins wondered why the Governor just sat there staring at him, in the movies, the guy who got shot always immediately died, he shook his head. Maybe the pistol is too small. So he fired again.

And again.

And again.

When the CHP troopers burst into the office, David Hopkins was still pulling the trigger, but the pistol was empty. As two troopers wrested the gun from him, one other went to the Governor.

"Check his pulse!" a sergeant yelled out as he came into the office.

Trooper Juan Jimenez looked back at his sergeant in amazement, couldn't he tell from the hole in the Governor's forehead that there would be no pulse?

Cameron put his phone away, he looked ashen. He looked at the other men in the room.

"That was a contact of mine in the Governor's office. Winsome is dead. Shot by an aide apparently."

"Sir, the business at hand?" McKellar tried to push things along. He was a little nervous sitting in his own living room holding two Feds at gunpoint.

"So, the President sent you?" General Cameron had trouble believing that. He had trouble believing anything at the moment.

Wilcox shrugged, "Well, not directly, he ordered our agency to determine the threat level out here. Once we thought that it was manageable with the Federal forces already in place, our boss, the DO, Ephraim Johansen, ordered us to contact you. He had a hunch you might still be loyal."

"Johansen, Ephraim Johansen is the Director of Operations at the CIA? Jesus, I always assumed he'd get gunned down in some Third World shithole or shanked in a Federal prison." Don McKellar scoffed.

Everyone turned to look at him, Cameron spoke first, "You know Ephraim Johansen? How do you know him?"

"Afghanistan, clandestine op there in 2023. While that clown we had for a President was vacationing at the beach, we went in to try and destabilize those bastards." McKellar explained.

"Did you?" Kasparovich asked that, he'd done some time in that benighted country.

"They mostly destabilized themselves, without an external enemy they went back to fighting each other. Like they always do."

"But all that equipment we left behind ..." Wilcox said.

"Most of it was inoperable after a few years, we made sure of that."

"How?" Cameron asked, though he had a good idea.

"Kill one or two foreign 'advisors' and after that, no one is real keen to go there. Other than the incompetents trying to climb the political ladder back home."

"Foreign advisors?" Kasparovich had often wondered about that.

"Chinese, Kazakhs, the odd Iranian here and there, and then the Russians. Some of those f**kers wanted payback for what happened to their daddies back in the day."

Wilcox noticed that McKellar hadn't really lowered his weapons, if need be, he and Kasparovich could be shot down at will. He was about to ask a question when the unmistakable roar of an F/A-18N went by overhead, very low. Followed by an explosion not too far away.

"What the Hell?" Cameron said, he'd caught a glimpse of the aircraft as it had gone by, from the tail code, he guessed USS John F. Kennedy (CVN 79).

"We're only 90 miles from the ocean off San Francisco, we have a carrier battle group off the coast. We're blockading California." Wilcox was impatient to get moving.

"Guys, are we going to sit here all day and shoot the shit? We need to get the hell outta Dodge." Kasparovich chimed in.

"Yeah, but not in that 'look at us we're Feds' Suburban out there. We can take my ride. It's parked out back, in the alley." McKellar had made a decision, he'd holstered his weapon and headed to get his keys.

"Lose the ties and the f**king suit coats. I've got a couple of sweatshirts you can wear." McKellar went into his bedroom and grabbed those items. He also took the time to head back down to the basement where he grabbed his M4 carbine and his Mossberg 590S Compact shotgun. Wilcox and Kasparovich, looking a little less like Feds now, helped him load a gym bag with ammunition for those weapons.

While they were loading the car, two more Super Hornets roared over.

"What's near here?" Wilcox asked McKellar. Cameron answered.

"Mather Field, used to be an Air Force Base, there's an Intel squadron there now, the 149th. But a bunch of hard heads occupied the place three days ago. They've managed to procure a number of armored personnel carriers. They've sworn to defend the state from the U.S. government."

Kasparovich shook his head, "I'm guessing they're dying for their state right now."

From their position they could see large columns of black smoke boiling into the air, not that far away.

"Mather?" Kasparovich nodded at the smoke.

Cameron nodded, he knew the CO of the 149th, a good kid. "What's left of it."

"Come on people, move your asses!" McKellar shouted from the driver's seat of an old surplus Humvee.

Cameron nodded then looked at the two Feds, "You heard the man, let's get out of this place. Things might get hotter than that." He pointed towards Mather, it seemed the Navy was determined to wipe it off the map. Another pair of Super Hornets was over the base, the roar of their 20mm cannons was audible, even at this distance.