Gabriel's Stand

by Jay B. Gaskill

  “John Owen’s trial on these technology charges starts Tuesday of next week. Somebody from the G-A-N will definitely try to kill him before the case is over. Harry, I need a Forrest plan. Not just a good one. Your best one.”

  “I’m in.” Harry had not hesitated. The old twinkle had returned to the professor’s eyes. “You didn’t think I’d turn this down, did you? So what are your mission parameters?”

  “I was just getting to that, Harry. First, assume a big budget and all the right personnel.”

  “I hope you mean that. A very big budget and the very best team, and a Forrest plan that will be actually followed this time.” Harry’s eyes had begun to glow with the joy of a precocious boy at the controls of a modern fighter jet.

  “Yes, yes and—of course yes. But it will take a perfect Forrest plan. There are five general parameters: One: Start-time. We can’t afford to delay past the second day of the trial.”

  “That gives you only five days from now.”

  “Tops. Number two: We need tactical surprise.”

  “Good luck with that. The botched escape attempt will have put them on full alert.”

  “I agree it blew our strategic surprise. But they won’t necessarily be expecting an assault.”

  “For good reason, Bill. It’s full-on crazy.”

  “I am aware. Three: Hostile fire suppression must be total but managed with no casualties, except as required to stop an attack on John Owen.”

  Dr. Forrest frowned, shaking his head. “You know that’s very unrealistic, Bill. The federal building is crawling with armed Marshals. Somebody always gets hurt in a firefight.” He gave Dornan one of his candid classroom looks. “Why this constraint?”

  “The Marshals and the spectators are not the bad guys.”

  “Except that the Marshals are holding Dr. John Owen in a life-threatening situation. Just how badly do you want your man extracted? There is always some collateral damage. You of all people know how it works.”

  “I know it will be very difficult. But we’ve pulled off an extraction without killing civilians and well behaved police before…using a Forrest plan, if I recall. If my team is attacked, obviously they will be as practical as the situation calls for. But John and I discussed this problem when he first surrendered. John really believes that the good guys will eventually win the political struggle. When that happens, John wants to be able to come home in safety. I can’t afford make his legal problems any worse than they already are.”

  “So killing innocent bystanders is frowned on.”

  “Exactly.”

  “The fourth parameter?”

  “Lightning speed execution. We must complete the extraction—at least by getting John out of the zone of immediate danger—within ninety seconds from the moment that the bad guys are tipped off.”

  “That short?”

  “At least that short. We can never account for all the weapons, even in a courtroom. Ninety seconds may eighty seconds too long. If John is hurt, we will need every half-second to get to help to him, which is the reason for the fifth parameter. We are to keep a fully equipped trauma team close by.”

  Dr. Forrest shook his head as if Dornan were a teenager who had just asked his father to buy him a small plane on his allowance. “Let me look at that building again.” There was a long pause. “I’ll be honest, Bill. The best plan in the world may fail here. So I have some tough questions and real concerns.”

  “Such as?”

  “One. Getting Dr. Owen out of that jail is out of the question. Can you bribe a few Marshals?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Two. The prisoner elevator is very secure, presenting the same problem. Three. The courtroom is fifteen stories up.” He paused. “I really don’t like this element.” Dornan raised an eyebrow. Dr. Forrest paused again, glowering. “Actually I do love the challenge.” Harry’s twinkle returned. “Assume we somehow get your team into the courtroom, carrying live weapons. That scenario works only when court is in session or your man won’t be there, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “And that means a large audience. Media. The general public. Probably one or more of the very assassins you are worried about.”

  “Also correct.”

  “In that scenario, you just cannot afford to limit your commandos to non-lethal weaponry.”

  “Point conceded. Those technologies aren’t fast enough. We just can’t take the chance. So I’ll be in the lead, carrying most of the deadly stuff and controlling the rest.”

  “Well then. It follows—as night follows noon—that the odds for extracting Owen from a crowded courtroom without a deadly firefight are improved…all the way to two to one against.”

  “That good?”

  “That good. If it goes sideways in the slightest, you can expect casualties.”

  “On the bright side, there might only be two or three hostile weapons in the courtroom,” Dornan said. “The Marshals were restricted to two under the rules the judge originally agreed to. Add one more for an assassin and you get three.”

  “Sure.” Forrest rubbed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “You know what, Bill? It may not turn out the way you need it to be. Assume there will be other guns. We need to plan for a bunch of dead civilian bodies. And Dr. Owen himself could be among the carnage, especially if your assassin in the audience comes with a large magazine…or a couple of helpers.”

  “What exactly are you asking, Forrest?”

  “Softer parameters, please.”

  “And I need a villa in Florence.”

  “I can’t do it. I thought I’d never hear myself saying that.”

  “Then John Owen is a dead man.”

  Then Harry Forrest gave Bill his “Aw shucks, I was just screwing with you” smile. The professor then stood and stretched. “One thing is missing—even with the perfect Forrest plan.”

  “A miracle?”

  “A run of improbably good luck would certainly help.”

  “You will think it through then?” Dornan asked.

  “I’ve already got an idea. A very expensive one.”

  Bill smiled. “I knew it would be.”

  ——

  One hour later, Forrest returned to the conference room, obviously in a good mood. “Put that pizza down, Colonel.” He spread out a city map next to the building diagram, obviously pleased with himself. “I had to think outside the box. Very outside.”

  “And?”

  “This is what you will need.” Forrest pushed the pizza carton aside and slid over a printed list. “It will be taught at the War College as a classic extraction plan, if I do say so, myself. But there are no guarantees.”

  Dornan stared at Dr. Forrest’s mission outline and the procurement list. A full minute went by in silence. “Ouch,” he finally said. “I think I can get us everything. But that big item…?”

  “I told you this would be expensive.”

  Chapter 77

  Two days later, 7:33 Pacific Time

  Dornan had gone north to the interior of British Columbia to procure equipment not only because John’s Canadian connections were excellent, but mainly because there were no military grade items available in Washington State that the Commission and its allies hadn’t tied down.

  Bill was gambling that no one would expect something as crazy and audacious as this Forrest plan. The Professor was right. If he pulled this off, the plan would be taught in the War College. And if we fail, it’ll be taught as an object lesson in failure.

  The main load was in a single giant vehicle, two extra-wide tarp-covered loads on articulated double trailers, pulled by one immense blunt-shaped semi-truck. This was escorted and followed respectively by two pickup trucks.

  They were making their way through a blizzard that cloaked an area of 250 miles on either side of the border. Dornan was in the rear of two borrowed RCMP patrol cars when the Gaia agents were first spotted approaching his convoy. The word went out on an encrypted radio call. “Mother Natur
e’s angels are approaching from the rear.”

  Dornan’s convoy was a floating oasis of dark objects, taillights, and headlights moving through swirling darkness. The two pickups and the giant truck and trailers were unmarked but had Canadian government plates. The Dornan convoy had been droning south without incident, now a few hours from the American border. Half a mile behind the pickup and load truck, two vehicles, bearing the insignia of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, kept in touch by radio. All three pairs of truck headlamps had been swallowed in the snow-choked blackness.

  “How many angels?” the semi-driver asked. He was squinting through the snow, hoping to spot the taillights of Dornan’s lead pickup. There was nothing but swirling snow. A dashboard radar screen showed it thirty yards away. It might as well be ten miles, he thought.

  “This is Bill. We see just one SUV coming up from behind you, so far. Play it cool. They can’t know what they’re getting into. They are probably stopping all large trucks to look for banned technology being smuggled into the U.S.”

  “What do I do now?”

  “Just let it play. Slow down, but keep driving until they light up on you. Pickup drivers—pull in tight so that you can be seen when everyone pulls over. Joe, blink your headlights when you decide to stop.”

  “Got it,” said Joe.

  “Copy,” said the trailing pickup driver.

  “Copy,” said the lead driver, whose pickup had pulled within sight of the big rig.

  “Heads-up everybody,” Dornan said. “We patrol cars are slowing down to let the Green Monster pass us.”

  As the Commission van passed Dornan’s RCMP patrol car, he confirmed. “Mother Nature has just passed both patrol cars.” The SUV was a black, boxy shape, its silver Commission insignia clearly visible on the side. When it pulled out, Dornan’s patrol car and his follow-on faux RCMP car, slowed further, dropping back into the shadows. After a moment, both cut their headlights. “Patrol cars are now dark.”

  “Copy that,” Joe said. A minute later, the semi driver could see a pair of headlights approaching from behind. “Mother Nature is in sight,” he said. A minute later, the SUV activated its red lights and siren. Seconds later, the semi-driver heard an amplified voice as the Commission SUV pulled alongside.

  “This is the International Technology Licensing Commission. Pull over immediately.”

  “Do it. Pull over,” Dornan said on the encrypted frequency. “But wait for us Mounties to arrive before you get out of the cab.”

  On Dornan’s command, his and the other RCMP marked patrol car activated their red lights, and slowly converged on the Commission SUV, the semi, the lead and trailing pickups, all of which had pulled over to the shoulder. “Okay, the Mounties are here,” Dornan said. Joe, the semi driver glanced at the rear view camera-screen; neither RCMP car was visible in the darkness. Seconds later he saw their flashing red lights. “Should I get out now?” he asked.

  After a pause, Bill’s voice said, “Yes, but take your time.”

  Joe opened his door and dropped to the snow, keeping his identification at the ready, a semi-automatic pistol under his leather jacket.

  Three Commission agents, all dressed in matching parkas, stepped out of their parked SUV, oblivious of Dornan’s RCMP patrol car parked behind. The other RCMP marked patrol car, having killed its flashing red lights, quietly pulled in behind Dornan’s vehicle.

  Two men in RCMP parkas flanked Dornan, one pointing a low level red light into the snow. Dornan approached the scene, pausing just out of view, giving a signal for the backup commandos from the rear patrol car to fan out along shooting sightlines. Then Dornan strode toward the agents. “Hold it right there, gentlemen. This is our rig.”

  Startled, all three agents squinted into Dornan’s flashlight. They could just make out the shapes of three uniformed RCMP patrol officers. The lead agent strode to meet Dornan. “Where is the inspection stamp?” he asked.

  “This trailer contains criminal evidence. Let’s see your ID, please.” The agent, looking very annoyed, reached inside his coat, exposing a gun in a shoulder holster.

  The second of Dornan’s team, pulled out a large service semi-automatic. “Just present your ID, sir. Now would be a good time,” he said. “All of you.” Two more of Dornan’s commandos appeared, their guns drawn.

  Outflanked, the three Commission agents looked confused and angry. “We have confiscation authority here, officers,” one said. “Now stand down and let us do our job.”

  “You are interfering with our investigation,” Dornan barked. “Gentlemen, hands up, please.”

  There was a stunned silence. The wind died. Snowflakes kept falling.

  ——

  “Dictation. This is Max Cahoon, from Seattle, near the federal district court where Dr. John Owen will be tried in a few days. At noon today, in nationally televised memorial services held on the steps of Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, the Gaia Directorate was accused of the cold-blooded assassination of Bishop Allan Gardiner. The chilling crime was captured on a security video recording in the Bishop’s offices there. The video shows several gunshots being fired by an unidentified female who is clearly heard on the recording to be acting on behalf of the Gaia Directorate. The brief services, the largest of several hundred across the country, were conducted by Snowfeather Lindstrom, daughter of former Senator Gabriel Standing Bear Lindstrom. Snowfeather, a former Gaia activist, now an opposition leader, drew a crowd estimated at nine thousand before she returned to New York.”

  Max started coughing. “My God, I…”

  The coughing grew more violent and Cahoon collapsed. “Damn. I’m not feeling that well. Shit. Are the rumors true? Gotta call—”

  ——

  On the following morning, the telephone in Snowfeather’s Manhattan room rang until the message machine kicked in. “This is Helen Hawke. Please leave me a message.” Her trembling hand reached for the bedside phone, then she allowed it to fall.

  “Hi Princess, this is Dad. I’m calling from the Westin in DC. Same old room. Just like the old days. Snowfeather, I am so proud of you.” She struggled to sit up, but this touched off a paroxysm of wet coughing. “I hope everything is all right.”

  “Dad, don’t hang up,” she rasped, reaching again for the phone. “Someone got to me…”

  “You know you can call me or Owen’s people at any time for help. I’ll check back soon. I love you.” Click.

  Dear God, I’m so sick! They’ve infected me! Shaking and weak from a raging fever that had overtaken her when she arrived at JFK airport, Snowfeather pulled the damp sheet around her.

  A minute later, her bedroom opened a crack. Roberto’s solemn face peered through. “I couldn’t help hearing,” he said. “What can I do?”

  “Don’t come in,” she whispered. “I am afraid this may be very contagious. My symptoms feel like TB6. Please call Dr. John Owen’s number—ask to talk to anyone who can help. And call my father at the Westin in DC. Maybe somebody can smuggle in more medicine.”

  “I’ll try,” he said. “But there are police and agents just outside the building. They followed me when I went out just now for coffee.”

  “Then go out again for tea. Find a safe phone in a bank or something. Call soon, Roberto.” Snowfeather pulled the blanket around her chin and closed her eyes. “Please call.”

  ——

  At about the same moment, Max Cahoon was lying in the fetal position in the bathroom of his Seattle hotel suite, his voice recorder hanging from his robe pocket. He stared at the bottom of his bed across the room, realizing with dread, finally, that he probably had been poisoned by the Gaia cult. But who had been close enough to him to pull it off? ….Karen Kanst? KANST. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid… The missing pieces are coming together and now it is too damn late…

  Cahoon awoke, convulsing in abdominal pain. With a final burst of energy, he clutched the old-fashioned bathroom telephone at the end of its cord. Through tears, he keyed the only number he knew might lea
d to help, a number his friend Jim Schlier had supplied after the jail interview with Snowfeather. He waited, listening to the repeated rings, until finally…

  “This is Helen Hawke. Please leave me a message.”

  Max pressed his mouth to the phone. “Snowfeather,” he whispered, “this is reporter Max…Cahoon in Seattle. I believe I have been poisoned by a woman who must have been working with the Gaia Directorate. She is posing as a photographer named Karen Kanst assigned by the Times to the Owen trial.” He paused, his breath coming in short gasps. “She will be carrying a mini-camera at the trial. If she has poisoned me, it can only mean that Dr. Owen is next. Thirties, five nine, attractive, slender, dark eyes, short blond hair. You’ve got to warn John Owen. I am at the Holiday Wharf. Please.” More breathing. “Hurry!” The phone slipped from his hand.

  After several hours, a maid knocked on the door to Cahoon’s room. “Cleaning!” she said. Then she entered, pushing her cart ahead.

  “Sorry, sir,” she said.

  Cahoon’s head rested on a rolled up bathrobe, his body partly covered by a blanket that had been pulled from the bed. The carpet was covered with vomit. She stared at the man on the floor.

  “Sir? Sir?”

  At midnight, a hand-lettered sign was posted on the door of Cahoon’s room:

  QUARANTINE

  ——

  Ken Wang had just finished the most recent of several briefings with Borah Wiggins. The topic was security and an unauthorized jail visit by a Times photographer. The lawyer agreed to speak again to an old friend in the U.S. Marshal’s office about tightening up the restrictions on Dr. Owen’s visitors. “Sorry I don’t have better news on the legal front,” he said. “Can I give you a ride?” Wiggins asked.

  “No thanks,” Ken said. “Is there another way out of the building?”

  Wiggins nodded and pointed toward a door at the back of the office. “Turn right and go to the end of the hall. Take the stairs. It comes out next to the service entrance.”

  “So the actual trial really does start this Tuesday?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Can’t you stall?”