Gabriel's Stand (30 page)

Max Cahoon, freshly released from his jailhouse experience, was enjoying a stay in his favorite Washington, DC hotel. He was a regular subscriber to
Gabriel's Voice
, the popular guerrilla webcast. As he stared at the screen of his SmartPage, a chill descended down his spine.

“This is Senator Gabriel Standing Bear Lindstrom. This may be my final web cast. As you know, the authorities have not been pleased with my message because I have told you the uncomfortable truth, week after week. So this was recorded and prepared for instant distribution the moment that I was placed in jeopardy. Whatever has happened to me may happen to you. But if you are getting this on the web, there is still hope.

“What we have lived through so far is just the beginning. You can assume that Stage Three has begun in several areas, and that these areas will be rapidly expanded. So your time is running out. This means the seizure of your weapons, your last electronics and all your medicines. All this is done in the name of saving the planet. Be warned. Seizure test areas will be expanded as fast as the traffic will bear. Your remaining freedoms won't be far behind.

“Be prepared.”

——

Gabriel had reached the highway in an hour. His chest was sore from panting, and his legs threatened to give way. His off-site storage shed was a deceptively ramshackle structure of unpainted plywood, with a black corrugated steel roof, at the end of a potato field. Standing near some rusting irrigation equipment, it was barely visible in the cloud-dimmed moonlight.

Gabriel slowed to a stumbling imitation of running, too out of breath to vocalize the, “Thank you, God,” that welled up at the sight of his prepared sanctuary. The shed was kept locked with a large combination padlock. Panting, he leaned against the cold wood, and tried to make out the numbers on the lock.

Can I ever run far enough?

In a moment, the door creaked open to reveal a reinforced steel shed within the wooden one. This door opened with a second, more sophisticated electronic latch. Gabriel fell inside, locking the door behind him. He leaned against the steel wall, his chest heaving like a trout on shore. Gabriel's escape had taken him across the dark terrain near his little ranch, the lava field, the open sage, the dirt road, the neighbor's potato farm, and the southwest corner of Cousin Steve's property. His hands still shook as he listened for his pursuers.

He strained to hear the sounds of the military vehicles, men's voices or the telltale clank of metal against metal.
Nothing but the raindrops rattling against the metal roof. Didn't they follow me? So where are they?
He urgently needed to open the door, to get started on his escape.
My God, is this is the beginning of the end?

He held himself still and let his mind regain its purchase on the situation.
This may be the endgame, but I am not out of play. Not yet
.

There still were no sounds of voices, boots, no clatter of weapons or the whine of engines. Only the rain and the roaring in his head.

Fumbling blindly, he found the power switch. Light followed and a space heater glowed red, its fan filling the small room. He slumped into a small easy chair and opened the refrigerator.

Good. Coke will have to do, then some coffee.

——

Max Cahoon downloaded the rest of the message and rolled up the SmartPage. “Damn,” he said.

“What?” the bartender asked.

“The proverbial fecal matter has struck the ventilation system.”

“What?”

“Mine canaries are dying. Shit coming down. Gotta go.” The bartender shrugged as Max Cahoon left a large tip on the counter. He slipped his SmartPage and portable sat-receiver into his duffel bag. “Politics is a very dangerous sport, Mike,” he said.

Cahoon saw the bartender give him a “whatever” look as he left the pub. He needed to find a secure place soon. Very soon.

——

Gabriel zipped up the black jumpsuit and drained the last of the coffee, tossing the metal cup in the shed. The antique Hells Angels logo was prominent on the back. A decorated helmet and a false beard finished the outfit. He rolled the old Harley outside the shed and locked the doors. Hopefully, Alice would receive his message any time now at tribal headquarters:

“Plan A. Prayers please.”

Gabriel glanced at his watch.
2:30 A.M.
I can make Salt Lake City in three and a half hours
. He stood on the starter pedal. After two tries, the ancient gasoline engine roared to life.

Catch me if you can, white eyes.

——

Cahoon kept the hotel television set on a loud game show to mask any stray sounds. His SmartPage was linked to the portable satellite receiver he kept hidden in the false bottom of his briefcase. Each time he logged on, it was with a new alias.

The playback image was smooth, almost as good as a movie. He inserted his tiny earphones as Gabriel described Senator Lance McKernon's death before the Treaty vote.

“There is no instance of any tribe of authentic Native Americans ever practicing ritual cannibalism. But these people have lower standards. Among the participants in this grisly meal, which took place on Shaw Island in the San Juan Island group, Washington State, shortly after the ratification vote, was an activist and terrorist named Louise Berker.

“This is the same person some of us know by the cult name, Tan, the leader of the Gaia Organizational Directorate, G-O-D, also leader of the G-A-N. “

“Make no mistake, it is the Directorate which effectively controls the Technology Licensing Commission, the dreaded TLC, the Technology Licensing Commission. And the Directorate pulls the strings for our puppet president.

“If you are a member of law enforcement, consider carefully your next steps. The Commission will control you next.

“Yes, the G-A-N terrorists are in power, now and no one is safe.”

There was a loud knock on Cahoon's hotel room door. “Who is it?” he shouted, hastily rolling his SmartPage into a tube. Then he heard the sound of a key. Swiftly he slid the rolled up SmartPage under the pillow of his bed, pocketed his earphones. He muted the television sound. “Just a second,” he said,

“Maxwell Cahoon?” Two grim men stood in the doorway to the hotel room; both were dressed in business suits, and holding pistols.

“Who the hell are you guys?” Cahoon stood aside as one of the men flashed an identification badge, bearing the Gaia imprint and the certification that he was Fallon T. Swoon, TLC Agent.

“We just need to inspect your luggage for contraband.”

Max gestured to the canvas duffel next to the television set. “I'm just an old fashioned reporter these days,” he said, with an assumed look of innocence. “I'm old school. I never quite got the hang of those new-fangled tools.”

Suspecting he had just gotten a line of BS, the first agent gave Max a sharp glance, while the second unzipped Cahoon's bag. He dumped the contents on the bed. A shaving kit, quickly emptied, several note pads, ball point pens, a three ring binder, underwear, and a change of trousers and shirt.

“I travel light,” Max said, while the first agent inspected the tiny bathroom. “Do you guys know where I might find an older typewriter?”

“They don't make them anymore. But I saw one advertised,” the second agent said.

“One step ahead, Cahoon,” the first agent said, as he returned from the bathroom.

“I try to keep up,” Cahoon said, evenly.

“We'll be in touch,” the agent said.

“You do that. I guess e-mail is out of the question.” The agent scowled. “Joke,” Cahoon said, grinning.

The agent turned his back. “We're watching you, Cahoon.”

As soon as the Commission goons left, Cahoon sat on the edge of his bed, trying to keep his hands from shaking. Then he called room service. “Do you deliver drinks? I mean real drinks. Two double Scotch, neat. Any single malt the bartender recommends. Thank you.” Then he pulled the pillow back and checked the SmartPage. Seven hours of power remaining. He walked into the bathroom and felt inside the toilet tank. The plastic bag and contents—a recharge plug and the satellite transmitter pack—were still there. “Who says the Irish aren't lucky?” he muttered to himself, as he wiped his hands.

And who says good luck ever lasts?

Room service arrived a few minutes later. Drink in hand, Cahoon dialed his editor at home. “Carl,” he said. “I've just had a visit from the Commission.”

“You're okay?”

“So far. These goons are scary. What's happened there?”

“I've been trying to reach you all day, Max. We were served with a Technology Restriction order this morning. Our attorneys are in court tomorrow.”

“What exactly are they trying to do?”

“Take everything. A full implementation of Stage Three. That would put us out of business. They know it. We depend utterly on electronic communications. We'd be back to a single print edition in the New York Metropolitan area. So the Commission letter of intent proposes business as usual, provided we submit all copy in advance to the Commission staff for censorship.”

“Prior restraint. Absolutely forbidden under the First Amendment. They can't do that! Or can they?”

“If you'd asked me three years ago, I would have said no. But that Google case on the West Coast has our lawyers worried. In any event, management won't agree to it.”

“Good.”

“So it's a standoff for a time. It will be up to a federal district judge in the first instance, then a panel of federal appeal justices, and finally the Supreme Court.”

“So we have some time?”

“We have a little time.”

“How should I file copy?”

“For now, stay off the web. Use a secure land line. Yes, there are a few. We're asking everyone to dial our server directly. The number and details are in your apartment mailbox.”

“You hand delivered? Do I still have voice mail?”

Carl laughed. “For now.”

“What comes next?”

“Max, I don't have a clue. No one anticipated this. There will be repercussions in Congress, so maybe you should stay in town and find out what the mood is. In the meantime, we are trying to locate or train secretarial staff who can use old fashioned short hand.”

“It could come to that?”

“It could come to that.”

After hanging up, Cahoon drained his glass.

Half an hour passed. Cahoon unrolled his SmartPage, and stood in the bathroom, reinserting the small earphones. He turned on the shower and restarted the playback. Gabriel's webcast continued.

——

It was 6:45 A.M. when Gabriel's Harley entered the Salt Lake City metropolitan traffic. The freeway was already crowded. He pulled off at the first service station and looked for a telephone.

He called John's private line at a former Edge-Medical Salt Lake subsidiary, Zion Health Services and Research.

“Who is this?”
The wrong voice!
He disconnected during the half second before the phone could have been reliably back-traced, his heart racing.
Damn.
He caught his breath.
Have to be more careful. I need a secure phone!

He emerged from the service station bathroom wearing a coat and tie, the wild beard and helmet replaced by a neatly trimmed, gray beard and cropped white hair. Round, wire-rimmed glasses finished the look.

He chose an old Hyatt, within a mile of the airport. He stood outside the hotel entrance trying not to look conspicuous while waiting for the next shuttle. The Harley was parked in the back of the hotel lot, in an employee space.

Thirty minutes went by while a cold, late-summer wind cut through his jacket. Then it began to rain. Gabriel spotted a SmartShuttle stopping at the adjacent corner. He sprinted across the street, barely avoiding a Lexus as it careened through the rain, and jumped into the shuttle as the door was closing.

Inside the SmartShuttle, the other passengers looked with impatient interest while Gabriel passed a small denomination FlashCash card across the optical reader, and keyed in his destination.
Funny
, he thought,
which technologies they tolerate and which they seize.
Gabriel wondered if the local Gaia crowd realized that this vehicle was on the Commission's mandatory retirement list.

As the SmartShuttle pulled into the street, a black Ford sedan stopped near the service station. Two men dressed in dark coats got out of the rear seat. The shorter of the two stayed in the car while the other ran into the station. He emerged a minute later, shaking his head. The car pulled out quickly and headed in the direction the shuttle had just taken.

The next likely safe business occupied the fourth and fifth floors of a well-appointed office building near the Temple district. With Zion Health Services and Research compromised, Gabriel had chosen World Travel Associates.

He smiled at the receptionist.

“Senator,” she said.

“You haven't seen me, Mary,” Gabriel said. The woman, who looked like a female marine drill sergeant out of uniform, glanced over his shoulder then back to Gabriel.

“Welcome back, whoever you are,” she said, smiling.

“I need a secure phone.” The woman pointed her thumb toward a door marked private. At the sound of the buzzer, Gabriel entered a soundproofed room with a video telephone. He locked the door behind him and, in five minutes, the face of John Owen was on the screen.

“Gabriel, excellent disguise.”

“Then how did you recognize me?”

John grinned. “Mary warned me. I just saw your ‘last' webcast. May I ask, what happened?”

“A small military detachment surrounded my Idaho place.”

“And you made it out in one piece? I am impressed.”

“John, it was a lightning bolt that saved my butt…of biblical strength and beautifully timed. But I'm fresh out of miracles at the moment. It's going to be very problematic getting me out of here. I was followed.”

John's face betrayed a new tension. “I'm not surprised. But—” He glanced off screen. “It's nothing we can't handle. Gabriel, this sounds like the big crackdown we were worried about. I've been trying to warn Thurston Smith. We heard they will try to arrest him on campus. Snowfeather is back in jail, and my attorneys are working on that. All this means that you need to stay clear of your old offices, your friends, your associates. What can we do to protect Alice?”

“Thanks, but Alice is well hidden. But, if a certain Olympic medalist in archery attempts to contact you, please take him seriously.”

“Understood.”

“Wait? Did you just say that Snowfeather is in
jail
?”

“Yes. She's safe in NYPD hands and, as I say, my attorneys are on it.”

“Okay…I guess.”

“First things first: We need to get you here, where you will be safe.”

“Where is that?”

“This line is probably secure. But Walter and Julie Owen didn't raise an idiot son. Trust me, it's a long drive.”

“Fair enough. But if Thurston is in danger of getting arrested, maybe I should get his files out of his apartment.”

“Is there enough time for that?”

“I have to chance it. So I'm going. What can you do for me?”

“I'm sending you some help right now. Just stay put where you are for half an hour.”

“Thanks. What kind of help?”

“More FlashCash, some old fashioned currency, special clothes, two disguises, new ID materials. All in a small package. As of last week, I had two ways to get you to the West Coast. Now I'm down to one. But I still think we can get you out of danger with minimal risk.”

“With a good disguise, I could just take a bus.”

“We can do better.” John frowned. “Let me check on something…” He looked aside and spoke to someone. “Okay. You can use Trans-Pack Trucking. At least for the next few hours or so. Are you claustrophobic?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Get over it. We have special cargo containers. Air conditioned, provisioned with food, rest rooms, even movies. We use them all the time for drug couriers and our special friends.”

“I'll do it.”

“You know how to get to Trans-Pack?”

“I memorized the packet Mary gave me. Thanks again, John. I'm going to try for Thurston's apartment. I won't take longer than three hours. Tops.”

“That gives you another two to get to Trans-Pack. Aren't you cutting it too close?”

“I know, I know. Anything else?”

“I'm praying for you.”

“Thanks. Coming from you, John, that's a big deal.” Gabriel pressed END and the screen went blank. He started to get up; then he hesitated. If the line was secure enough to call Owen, it was certainly secure enough to call locally. Gabriel called Thurston Smith's apartment.

“Good afternoon.” It was the canned response. Gabriel waited another second, then he keyed in the peek code. A series of camera views followed, bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, office. Everything was in order. No one was home. Gabriel dissolved the connection.

He hit the intercom button. “Mary?” he called.

There was silence. Gabriel almost repeated himself; then he suddenly thought better of it. He slipped out of the secure room and down the corridor he had just entered earlier. At the door to the reception area, he opened the peep. Mary was talking to two men in long coats.
Idiot!
He shouldn't have used the intercom without knowing who was in the reception area.

After a moment, a stocky man with a lined face turned to the other and shrugged. Both left to stand by the elevator directly across the reception area, just out of his field of vision. Gabriel waited a full minute, and opened the door a crack.

“Are they gone?” he whispered.

“They took the elevator. Looking for a man named Gabriel Standing Bear. Good thing nobody like that was here.”

“Thank you, Mary. That was dumb of me to use the intercom.”

“No problem. I killed it when they first came in.”

“Still dumb of me. Which way did they head?”

“Up.”

“Looks like a building search,” Gabriel said.

“They will be back, then,” Mary offered. “Do you have a plan?”

“Do you suppose somebody could find me a pizza delivery uniform?”

“Great, Senator. Don't you think this is a little late for another career change?”

——

Former Senator Thurston Smith, a Professor of History at the University of Utah in Salt Lake City, always checked the web before he went to class. Under “Breaking News”, his browser led him to a “hot” webcast. It was his old friend again.

On the screen, Gabriel Standing Bear Lindstrom was in jeans, flannel shirt, down vest, crouching next to a small campfire. Smith watched transfixed as a red glow poured into the deep purple sky behind Gabriel.
Not a very recent shot
, Smith thought.
Must have pre-recorded this one some time ago.

Gabriel's long gray hair hung loose against his weathered face. “If you are getting this webcast, I have been arrested or otherwise silenced.”
It's happening
, Smith thought. A cold wave of fear settled in his chest. His old friend, the dissident ex-Senator from Idaho was only the first
. I am next.
Smith saved the entire webcast to disk. He hesitated, considering an escape path. Then he shrugged and headed for class.
Let them just try to invade this campus
, he thought.
Fowler promised they'd leave me alone…

The classroom was packed for his lecture. After he organized his notes, Thurston Smith looked up from his podium. One of his TAs, Carla, a grim woman in her later twenties, seemed unusually smug. She met his eyes with chilling hostility. Two equally grim men in business suits sat near her in the classroom. Carla looked back over her shoulder and smiled at them.

“Welcome to History 503,” Smith said. “The TAs will have distributed the reading lists. Let me give you a succinct course overview. This is not a class for the faint hearted.

“Nearly every political revolution has been accompanied by terrorism in some form. The truism that one person's terrorist is another person's freedom fighter is often repeated but rarely analyzed. As many of you know, in my previous life, I served for ten years as the head of the U.S. Senate's Select Committee on Domestic Terrorism. Following my voluntary retirement—” Smith paused for effect while a number of students laughed appreciatively. “I made a special study of the relationship between terrorist groups and specific sociopolitical movements, such as the Gaia movement early in this century. I can promise you an interesting discussion and a course like no other.

“We will explore the nature of the relationships between terrorist organizations and the individuals and groups who achieve power during a sociopolitical revolution. We will examine three mass movements and their social consequences: The Nazism of twentieth century Germany, the Soviet form of Communism in twentieth century Russia, and this century's Gaia cult.”

Later, as his promised multi-media presentation began, Professor Smith slipped out of the darkened classroom, leaving his research assistant in charge, and walked to his office. He dropped his lecture file on a table near the door, found his favorite chair and rebooted his computer. He reached into his desk, pulling out a bottle of Scotch. He poured two fingers worth into a paper cup.

Some Mormon you are
, he thought. Smith sipped it slowly, and leaned back.
How long do I have?

A loud pounding at the door interrupted his reverie.
Not that long
, he thought. “Come in,” he shouted. Carla, the TA and the two grim men in suits bustled into the small office. “Hello,” Smith said, killing the power to the computer.

“Professor Smith, or should I say Senator,” the senior agent began, his smile was cold, his tone beyond unfriendly. “We are here to confiscate your lecture notes, and your computer.”

“You have no authority to do that,” Smith said, not moving from his chair. “Carla, you can leave now,” Smith added. His TA flushed, hesitating.

“We will be taking you in for an interview.”

Senator Smith stared, grimly silent as one agent pulled back his coat jacket to reveal his shoulder holster, while the other flashed Commission ID. “I see you have brought what passes for authority in your world,” Smith said. “I don't suppose you people bother with warrants?”

Smith's TA allowed herself a triumphant smile as she slipped out of the room.

“You are under arrest,” the agent said. “Where do you keep your notes?”