Gabriel's Stand

by Jay B. Gaskill

  “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?”

  Chapter 64

  “Senator, have you seen the last webcast from Standing Bear Lindstrom?”

  “Gabriel? What are you talking about?” Senator Al Jacobs heaved his bulky body from an oversized desk in his Los Angeles office and lumbered into the next room where his assistant was sitting transfixed in front of a large screen.

  “It looks like he made the Commission’s most-wanted list and dumped his entire webcast file just before they closed in on him.”

  “I’ll be damned. Did you get it all?”

  “Saved the whole thing. Here.” The aide stepped aside. “This is hot. I understand it is running over and over again. Lindstrom is drawing a huge audience, the biggest ever for any regular webcast.”

  On screen, Jacobs’ old friend, Gabriel, was standing outdoors somewhere.

  “The purge has started. A treaty that was ratified over the dead body of a brave Senator, my friend, Lance McKernon of the State of Washington, has spawned tyranny. Because you are compliant, they think they have already won; this has emboldened them to attack me, to silence me. You are next. No one is safe from the reach of these lunatics.

  “It is now blatantly apparent that terrorists were always in control of the Commission and that they will not stop until this country and all of its formerly democratic institutions have been brought to heel.

  “But that is just the First Stage. Their ultimate objective is for the rest of us
to join Senator McKernon. The Commission is controlled by the Gaia Operations Directorate and that group is controlled by terrorist fanatics who will not rest until Homo sapiens has been eradicated from the planet.

  “Guard your medicines, your electronics, your very lives. They are coming…”

  Jacobs hit pause. “Shit,” he said.

  “It’s all there,” the aide said. “The McKernon assassination, the Gaia agenda, everything.”

  “Get on the phone. Find out what happened to Gabriel. We’ve got to hide some of this hardware. Who is the local Commission agent? Can we pay him off?”

  “I’m on it.”

  “And call the new Speaker of the House. T.S. Smith, Jr. is the best ally we could have right now.”

  “Just like his father, Thurston Senior.”

  “Yes. I have the feeling we don’t have a hell of a lot of time.”

  ——

  Thurston Smith kept his most secure items in a Salt Lake Condo under the name George W. Smith. The elevator was a glass bullet that emerged on the outside of the building as it shot upward into the rising sun. As the ground dropped away below him, Gabriel watched the city lights form a ruddy aurora in the fog. Smith’s unit occupied a corner of the penthouse at the far edge of the Temple district. Somehow John’s friends at World Travel Associates had come up with an empty pizza box for Gabriel and a plausible delivery uniform, along with a variety of additional disguises that fit into their standard escape parcel, designed to be carried in a satchel. All part of the drug business, Gabriel mused.

  A minute later, Gabriel arrived on Smith’s floor. He rang the bell to the unit to the right of Smith’s apartment.

  “Who is it?” a voice said.

  “Your pizza order.” he said.

  “Sorry, wrong unit.”

  “Damn kids,” Gabriel said. “Who lives next door?”

  “Fellow named Smith. Don’t think he’s home, but you might try.” The voice replied. “It’s a little early for pizza.”

  “You’d be surprised what people order. If nobody’s home, you wouldn’t want a giant pepperoni at half price, would you?”

  “No thanks.”

  In the pizza box, Gabriel was carrying Owen’s ID packets: a Robert Hanson, George Brendon, and Frank Wolf, each with a variation of Gabriel’s photo. Letting himself into Smith’s apartment, he set the pizza box and satchel down on a leather couch. Time to change disguises.

  Gabriel started the shower, while calling Owen’s secure number.

  “So you made it in good time,” Owen said. “What’s that sound?”

  “Just a little rain to cover the conversation,” Gabriel replied.

  “I didn’t think it was that wet in Salt Lake this time of year. Gabriel, you really need to hurry. I just learned that a federal judge is issuing a warrant to enter and search Smith’s apartment.”

  “Thanks. I need only ten minutes.” Gabriel slipped an encrypted optical card from Smith’s dresser into his pants, and pressed the “data destruct” button on Smith’s writing desk. He then stepped into the shower, applied a color rinse to his hair and dried off quickly. Five minutes later, Gabriel left as he came, leaving the now-empty pizza box behind, a cap pulled down over his face.

  On the second floor, he ducked into a men’s room and found an empty stall. Gabriel adopted the Frank Wolf ID which matched the included gray coveralls, with a utility company logo and name tag. The remaining disguise packet contained an inflatable Santa Claus suit. Slipping the coveralls over the pizza uniform, he centered the company hat on his head and applied the facial hair, a goatee and thin mustache.

  Gabriel walked out of the restroom and ducked into the stairwell. A minute later, he slipped out of the service entrance at the back door on street level. Outside, the sidewalks already teemed with workers and shoppers. Gabriel strode toward the corner, scanning the street for a taxi.

  He noticed the two large men immediately as they emerged from the apartment building and fell in half a block behind him. They appeared to have been waiting for him. Gabriel slowed abruptly to study their reflection in a store window. Body language was as good as a uniform. Agents, without a doubt. Gabriel strode on, quickening his pace. Some disguise, he thought. Once a stocky Indian, always a stocky Indian.

  “Don’t bother to run,” one of them shouted through the crowded sidewalk. “There are more of us ahead.”

  Gabriel pressed forward, dodging around a blind man, trying to find an opening in the traffic, a taxi, anything. Then he felt a sharp object pressing against his spine.

  “One more step and we’ll continue this conversation in a hospital.” Two other men closed in, one on either side.

  Chapter 65

  “Now we have to get both Thurston Smith Senior and Snowfeather out of jail.” Owen looked across the table and rubbed his eyes. “And Gabriel can’t be far behind.”

  Bill Dornan and John Owen sat together with Ken Wang in the hurriedly organized command center on New Kona. It was a converted recreation room that had been used by the construction crews who built the new Vector plant.

  “You want to engineer some jail breaks?” Dornan quipped.

  “Good one, but we may need to recruit more contract muscle as this develops.”

  “We still have most of the drug courier infrastructure, John. And all the muscle you can hire. I have my old contacts.”

  “What can we do for them?”

  “Right now? I’d let the lawyers handle it.”

  “A fine kettle of fish. Any word on Gabriel?”

  “We think he’s still running, but he hasn’t called us yet. That’s all we know,” Ken said.

  “I want to hold the Sea Mistress in Oakland for Gabriel’s container, without causing suspicion.”

  “Has Trans-Pack called in?” Dornan asked.

  “They’re waiting, but we need to hold the boat.”

  “I’ll work on that right away,” Ken Wang said.

  “Maybe we should spread some disinformation,” Dornan said.

  “Use a non-secure line?” Wang asked.

  “That’s the idea,” Dornan said. “Confuse them. Let them think Gabriel is leaving by air next week or something. Can we sacrifice a plane?”

  “Done,” Owen said. “Just hire a pilot through an intermediary.”

  “I’ll do it,” Wang said.

  “And we have the larger issues,” Owen said.

  “I know, John,” Dornan said. “How can we fight a war from here?”

  “We can’t. But this is a political struggle,” Owen said. “If we can get Gabriel and Smith back in play, maybe the time is finally right to push for Treaty repeal.”

  “Isn’t it too late for that?” Ken Wang asked. “They have so much media power right now.” He looked at the two older men, trying to see if Owen was serious.

  “We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?” Owen said thoughtfully.

  ——

  Gabriel Standing Bear stopped on the sidewalk and abruptly turned on the man who had placed a weapon in his back. “Watch where you’re going, buddy,” Gabriel snarled, placing his hand right in front of the gun barrel. It was—at best—a calculated risk. They might have identified me, he thought, but they won’t dare shoot me in public. Or will they?

  The agent hesitated a beat, and Gabriel smoothly grabbed the weapon by the base of the barrel, deflecting it into the window of the shop next to them. The semiautomatic pistol discharged, shattering the glass. Someone screamed. Gabriel dropped to the sidewalk, still gripping the barrel of the agent’s pistol, attempting to twist it from the man’s grip, while he rolled under the legs of one of the other two men. The gun went off again, striking the second agent in the leg. Gabriel released his grip on the gun, and rolled side over side. He rolled right into the street, heedless of the traffic. Tires screeched.

  Gabriel bounded to his feet in front of an oncoming wall of cars. He leapt over the hood of a sedan in the lane opposite the agents, never looking back, and rolled a
gain on the pavement to the curb. He then crawled on his hands and knees into the nearest store.

  The door slid open and he looked up at a very startled clerk, a woman in her early twenties. Gabriel realized he had entered an adult toy shop. Thinking rapidly, he smiled. “Movie,” he said. He rolled to the side and pulled off the coveralls. “Stunt work,” he huffed, “can be really trying. Hope this is the only take!” Several people were watching him in fascination as he slipped on the nylon Santa suit, put on the Santa Claus hat and beard. As he stood, he pulled a small cord and the costume inflated with a satisfying pop. “Christmas comes earlier and earlier,” Gabriel said. There was a ripple of applause as Gabriel left the store.

  Luck was with him on the next corner where he hailed a cab. “If you would be so kind to take me to Trans-Pack Trucking,” he said. “I have a sleigh to pick up.”

  And a bottle of analgesics, he thought. The cab pulled away instantly. God, I need a stunt man.

  ——

  Santa arrived two blocks from Trans-Pack Trucking without incident. Gabriel over-tipped the cabbie; stripped out of the Santa layer and the utility coveralls linked with the Frank wolf ID that had got him busted; then he engaged the cab to personally deliver the costumes to his Aunt Tillie at a diner in Pocatello, Idaho. I hope he is tailed—so much the better, he thought. I might need the time.

  It feels like an early snow, he thought. The sun was behind slate gray clouds, and the temperature had plummeted. As the taxi rolled across the gravel lot and disappeared, Gabriel was left shivering in the original pizza uniform and carrying the Hanson ID. His breath smoked as he walked briskly past two closed auto repair shops.

  Doubts entered his mind as the cold penetrated his marrow. I don’t remember that wholesale toy outlet on the map!

  But minutes later, Gabriel reached the front of a large, unmarked warehouse. He looked around, again doubting himself. Where is everybody? Did I use the wrong map?