Just before dark, the rendezvous with HMAS Rankin was accomplished, and Wolff, still drugged and unconscious, was transferred for delivery to Australian authorities who had already made arrangements for his transfer to the Americans who would fly him out of Australia.
With Rainbow Blue secured against the hull of the submarine, Carlos scrambled aboard and Pug tossed his bag to the waiting Aussie seaman. The two SAS troopers also boarded Rankin. Pug then turned toward Cameron and reached to shake his hand. “Captain Rossiter, it’s been a pleasure. Maybe we’ll meet again some time. I figure I owe you a good dinner for this South Pacific cruise.”
“My pleasure, General. I just might pop over and take you up on that meal.”
“You’re on. Have a good trip home. It should be quiet out here for the next few days without us. I doubt it will be quiet where I’m going. And it won’t be comfortable for Wolff, either.”
“I like it quiet, Pug,” Cameron said, loosening the lines, “and I’ve got a few days left on my original plans. Won’t be surprised, however, to get another message from the colonel to report in. Vacation’s over, I’m afraid.”
Pug accepted a hand up from the chief of the boat, stepped back onto the steel deck grating of HMAS Rankin, and watched for a few moments as Rainbow Blue drifted away from the sub. He gave a quick salute toward Cameron and then slipped through the hatch and down the ladder.
Nine hours later, at dawn, a helicopter once again appeared on the horizon, and both Carlos and Pug were hoisted up and transported to USS Abraham Lincoln, now two hundred miles further west. They caught the COD again the following morning, headed for Jakarta, where they transferred to commercial aircraft, and returned to Washington D.C.
Chapter 11
Rumsey Valley
Yolo County California
March
Following the convocation of legislators in Las Vegas, Dan and Nicole Rawlings had spent another three days in the neon city, attending several shows and just enjoying time away from the pressures of Dan’s legislative duties in Sacramento. Although the trip had been to discuss the prospect of other states joining with California in forming a new nation, it had also served as a brief extension to the abbreviated honeymoon Dan and Nicole had taken to Mazatlan after their marriage in January.
Their wedding had certainly not been every girls’ dream. A New Year’s Day decision, a quick trip to Reno, a Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in Mexico, and then they came home as Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Rawlings, with Dan returning to his state capitol office the following Tuesday, spending the next two months behind closed doors in California Assembly and Senate workshops on constitutional development.
Nicole’s retirement from the FBI, confirmed shortly before Christmas, had been a blow to the young woman, changing the course of her life even more dramatically than her decision to marry Dan Rawlings. They had moved into Dan’s condo in Davis, about twenty miles west of Sacramento. As he had promised, they contracted to build a new home slightly northwest of Davis, up Rumsey Canyon, where Dan’s family had settled shortly after the Civil War. It was to be the fourth Rumsey / Rawlings home in one hundred and forty-five years. Jack and Ellen Rumsey had been the last to build, in 1946.
On a bright Sunday morning, the last day of March, Dan suggested they drive up Highway 16 toward the new home site to view the work that had been accomplished in their absence. Fifteen miles from Woodland, just west of the tiny village of Esparto, Dan took a slight detour off the main road. Nicole knew immediately where he was going: the Esparto Cemetery to visit Jack Rumsey’s final resting ground.
Jack Rumsey had been the patriarch of the family through most of the second half of the twentieth century. He had died at age 89 of a heart attack the previous August. His death had occurred one day before the insertion of federal troops into Sacramento and the brief gun fight between the 82 ^nd Airborne Division and the California State Reserve that the press had dubbed The Battle of Capital Mall. Dan had commented several times that he was grateful that Jack had been spared the necessity of seeing his beloved California party to an armed conflict between California and military forces of the United States of America. Even Dan found it hard to believe.
As they pulled into the small, well-maintained cemetery, Dan parked on a side road and they exited the vehicle, slowly walking toward the Rumsey and Rawlings’ family plot. Dan’s older brother, Tom, who had died during birth, lay in a row with Ellen and Jack Rumsey and several earlier generations of Dan’s family. Now, with a new home, the prospect of a new state, and even the possible advent of a new nation, Dan found himself wondering if Jack Rumsey would lay buried on “foreign” soil.
“The roses are starting to bloom,” Nicole said, pointing toward the row of bushes that surrounded the family plot. Dan looked in their direction, taking Nicole’s hand and strolling past several headstones. Jack and Ellen’s ornate marker had an asymmetrical appearance, with Jack’s engraving fresh and bold, compared to Ellen’s inscription, which had tarnished a bit in the decade since her death. It gave the marble edifice a visual, compelling, and heartfelt story without the need for explanation. In most respects, it was a traditional family plot, with headstones reflecting that some members had spent merely hours on their earthly sojourn, others nearly a century.
“My mother told me that her mother, Grandma Ellen, planted those roses almost fifty years ago. Mom’s been caring for them ever since she was a teenager, when Grandma would bring her here to tell her about our early pioneer family.”
“They’re lovely,” Nicole replied. “We never had flowers so early in Connecticut. That’s one reason I love California. Did you have much to do with your grandmother?” she asked. “I know you and your grandfather were very close, but how old were you when Ellen died?”
“Late teens. Yeah, Grandma and I often just strolled through the orchard in the evenings.” Dan chuckled a bit as they walked, a quick memory flashing through his mind.
“What?” Nicole said.
“I was just remembering. When I was younger, I’d often spend the weekend here in the valley with Jack and Grandma. I’d go out in the orchard with Jack before twilight. We couldn’t pass two almond trees before Jack would say, ‘pick up that bit of brush, would you, and toss it on the pile over there.’ We could never just ‘take a walk.’ There was always something that needed to be done in the orchard. But with Grandma, we would walk, talk, often sing a song together, and she’d teach me about the squirrels and various birds that fluttered through the grove. As the sun would begin to set, we’d often see a few deer come down from the hills to forage through the trees, looking for immature almonds or tender, low-hanging branches. I really loved Grandma.”
As they walked, Nicole stepped a bit closer to Dan, slipping her arm in the crook of his elbow. “And Jack,” she said.
Dan stopped walking, considered her comment, then turned and kissed her on the cheek. “Yes, and Jack.” He looked up at the massive oak trees that bordered the cemetery, the afternoon wind rustling through their leaves. “This is where the voices in my blood live,” he said softly. The previous year, Dan had achieved publication of his first novel, a fictional family saga of his ancestors who lived in America for twelve generations and settled this part of California five generations earlier. He had named the novel “ Voices in My Blood ” after the feelings he had for those ancestors.
They walked a bit further and Dan stopped to pick a few weeds from his Uncle James’ plot, bending down and brushing dirt off the engraving. “I never really knew Uncle James. He was my mother’s younger brother, but he died early. As you can see from the dates, he was barely thirty.”