Gabriel's Stand

by Jay B. Gaskill

  The helicopter sound continued, a droning percussive accompaniment, while seven black forms appeared in the opening, silhouetted in the light. The commandos moved swiftly, with practiced grace. The third to enter, obviously the leader, scanned the room from side to side under a dun gray helmet, issuing orders into a tiny microphone.

  “DR. OWEN IS DOWN!” Ken shouted. “OVER HERE!”

  Four more blinding flashes were synchronized precisely with the commando’s rapidly flickering faceplates—and Ken’s dark glasses. Behind those smoky visors, grim faces looked out, eyes darting from side to side, swiftly assessing the configuration of forces in the courtroom. All seven were dressed in armored jumpsuits with no markings. Large weapons hung from straps; gray hand weapons were aimed and ready.

  The leader gestured, and three of the commandos moved on the woman with the MiniKam, who was still standing, her hands shielding her eyes from the flashes, while the three other commandos strode toward Owen and Wang in front of the counsel table, holstering their sidearms as they saw the blood.

  Two shots followed in rapid succession, the first, a silenced round from the MiniKam, and the second, a single ear-splitting report from one of the commandos’ sidearms. Simultaneously, one commando lurched back, losing his balance from the 10 mm impact against chest armor, but K fell to the floor, like a cut puppet.

  Getting to John Owen, the other three commandos pushed away the stunned Marshals like errant children in a playground, while the leader trained a large weapon on them. Gently shouldering Ken Wang aside, they scooped up the bleeding John Owen from the floor. One cradled Owen’s head under a gloved hand, while another produced a respirator mask from a small pouch.

  “No one move!” the leader shouted. Dornan’s voice, Ken thought. Owen’s respirator mask was fitted and attached to an oxygen supply, and he was carried to the opening in the wall. Thank God.

  At that second, sunlight shot through the opening across the courtroom through the fog forming out of the autumn air. A NewsWeb photographer, who had had the presence of mind to look away from the flash grenades, removed the lens cap from a still camera. He caught the moment: the stricken Owen, the three commandos swiftly mounting the ramp, deftly carrying their burden, all backlit with lens flare, the foggy air pouring through the opening in the wall. But he had been noticed by a commando, and nearly lost his life when a defensive shot grazed his camera and lodged in his seat cushion. His photo would win a Pulitzer.

  Ken was still sitting on the floor next to counsel table. No one had noticed that his glasses had blackened in exact synchronization with the grenade flashes, then cleared. The commandos left as they had come, with menacing fluidity. Dornan paused on the ramp for a beat, caught Ken’s eye; then stepped out of view. Somewhere, a doorway snapped shut. Time somehow expanded, as the entire series of events etched itself into the fabric of Ken’s memory. He said a silent prayer.

  The ramp pulled away. The courtroom floor shook with a great, subterranean vibration. A giant shape passed across the opening left by the collapse of the east wall of the courtroom and was gone. The helicopter sound dwindled into silence.

  Judge Wandright, having retreated into his chambers at the first shot, had not yet moved from inside. A damp wind blew into his courtroom. Traffic noises came from fifteen floors below.

  ——

  In the Chambers of the Senate, ninety-seven Senators rose to their feet, cheering. “You said it, Gabriel!” one shouted. More cheers followed.

  “I believe,” the President Pro-tem said, pounding his gavel. “I believe we have concluded debate on the matter before us.” The room erupted in applause. “Thank you Senator Castorini. And thank you Senator Gabriel Standing Bear Lindstrom.” More applause and cheers followed. The gavel pounded three times. “We have a matter before us, the proposed Joint Resolution to reverse this body’s earlier ratification of the Earth Restoration Treaty, and to dissolve the jurisdiction of the Technology Licensing Commission within the territory of the United States of America.” All sounds died into an expectant silence. “The House vote having been duly recorded, and hearing no dissent, this body will now proceed by roll call.”

  ——

  A mottled gray helicopter sped away from the courthouse, dwindling into the distance above the fire engines and police cars filling the street below.

  Inside the helicopter, Owen was aspirating blood. Two paramedics leaned over the narrow cot. A worried commando looked up at Dornan.

  “Get me the ASU!” he shouted, as a physician tried to roll the Auto Surgical Unit to Owen.

  “I can’t do this while the copter is bucking like a horse!” the doctor shouted.

  “Just focus,” Dornan said. “Can’t you get us down somewhere?”

  “FIVE MINUTES!” the doctor shouted.

  Dornan peered out the window, looking for a rooftop. “Did you hear that?” he asked the pilot.

  “Tell ’em ten if we’re lucky,” the pilot said.

  “Heard that,” the paramedic said.

  “Not going to make it,” the doctor said.

  “I’m losing pulse again,” another paramedic said.

  “That’s it,” Dornan ordered. “We’re going to land in the supermarket lot.”

  John Owen felt himself spinning away. Rachael’s face was a constant presence, her gentle hands reaching, reaching… “CODE BLUE,” Owen dimly heard the paramedic shouting. “Blue. Blue. Blue…”

  Just After 1:00 P.M. - Near the Ontario/New York Border

  Loud Owl had hiked from the dirt road over rough country for more than an hour. He rested at the edge of a meadow guarded by hardwoods and old pines, his breath smoking in the cold air. In the meadow, a small pool shimmered in the sunlight; the dull glint of ice showed at one edge. The pool was surrounded by the gold and red leaves of fall. Loud Owl could hear the trickle of a small stream through the bushes alongside.

  Then he saw the bird. It was gray and very large, lying broken at the edge of the water. Was it breathing? He was filled with a great, inexpressible anxiety. Loud Owl sat on the brown grass nearby.

  After a time, he began to pray.

  REPEAL! Earth Restoration Treaty Rescinded - Technology Licensing Commission Disbanded In U.S.

  Washington, D.C. In a historic 98-2 roll call vote, the Senate today adopted the House-Senate Joint Resolution canceling the Earth Restoration Treaty. President Chandler remained in seclusion at Camp David, while House Speaker Smith demanded immediate action…

  Chapter 82

  BREAKING NEWS: OWEN TRIAL SHOOTING AFTERMATH

  Seattle. No word on the whereabouts or condition of expatriate pharmaceutical maker, Dr. John Owen, who was shot by an unknown assailant during his trial in federal court for alleged environmental crimes. In a dramatic rescue, commandos stormed the courtroom moments after Dr. Owen had been gravely wounded. “I don’t see how anyone could have survived that chest shot for more than a few minutes,” said Deputy…

  “Good morning,” the bartender said. “I was going to close up.”

  “Can’t sleep when so much is going on,” the reporter said. Jim Schlier was the sole customer in Max Cahoon’s favorite bar.

  The bartender shrugged. “I can’t watch that crap anymore.”

  “Could you at least turn it up?” Schlier asked. The bartender shrugged again.

  A woman was recapping the news on the hour. “Commissioner Rex Longworthy, the Senior Deputy to the Directorate—or I should say the former Directorate—who had been ordered detained by the new Smith administration—”

  “Smith?” the bartender interjected. “Smith Administration?”

  “You really don’t keep up, do you?”

  “Longworthy is reported to have died this hour, as a result of sudden illness. President Thurston Smith Junior, who, as Speaker of the House, was next in succession following the vacant Vice President’s position, was sworn in early this evening, following the resignation of President Chandler.”

  “My God, Chandler resi
gned?”

  “I don’t get it. You run a DC bar, and you don’t watch the news?”

  The bartender shook his head. “Why would Chandler resign?” he asked.

  “Under pressure of disclosure,” Schlier said. “Or so I was told. Maybe he had an attack of integrity.” The bartender laughed.

  The news continued. “So far, President Smith has made no comment on the Longworthy death or the earlier suicide deaths of five members of the Directorate, yesterday, in Manhattan. In a related story…” Jim motioned and the bartender touched the audio. The voice droned into silence.

  “Have you seen Max lately?” Jim asked.

  “Max Cahoon? Not for a long while.” The bartender wiped a glass thoughtfully. “A long while…”

  “You don’t suppose…” The bartender shrugged. There was a long silence as Schlier stared into his drink.

  “Damn them,” Schlier said.

  ——

  Across the continent, Colonel Bill Dornan stood guard outside a motel room a hundred miles north of Seattle. When the trauma physician, a young woman in scrubs, stepped outside, Bill turned to her, his face furrowed with anger, fatigue and bone-deep worry.

  She touched his arm and smiled. “He’s stable, Colonel…and cranky. You can move him in the morning.”

  “Thank God,” Dornan said. “Will he?”

  “Sure. His reflexes are excellent. There is no indication of brain damage. I assume cranky is normal?”

  “It’s always a good sign.”

  “This was a close, close thing, but Mr. Jones should recover fully,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Bill said. “We got very lucky.”

  “You think?” She smiled. “I need to slip back to my hospital. Your nurses have everything under control.”

  “We appreciate your special help and discretion. Mr. Jones will be in touch.”

  Seattle

  The following week, three key heads of the G-A-N met once again.

  The worst has not yet happened, Louise Berker thought. There is still an opening for my final play. Guru had come with the bald woman dressed in black, Alpha Dog.

  The two operatives faced Berker at the end of the large table in the windowless, secure room. Berker looked at each of them in turn. “We are at an important crossroads. The succession for the U. S. Presidency, when there is a vacancy, is as follows: Vice President: that position is currently vacant because of the resignation: the Speaker of the House. That position is now vacant by virtue of promotion. Speaker Smith, our enemy, is now the President of the United States. This is the price we must pay, because of the resignation of that disloyal coward, Chandler. Now, we may assume that the Speaker’s position will remain vacant for a time, but will be filled in due course by another enemy. Because Smith too busy to fill the Vice Presidential vacancy, we have an opportunity.

  “Next in the Presidential succession is the President Pro-tem of the Senate. And after him, is the Secretary of State Vernon T. Farthwell, Rex Longworthy’s former law partner, and a compliant friend.” Berker paused—her eyes were flashing with glee. They get it.

  “In a few days, there will be a gathering in Washington, DC, a memorial service at the National Cathedral. The President and key congressional leaders will be present, including the Senate President Pro-tem. Wouldn’t it be helpful if there were another vacancy in the Presidency?”

  “I see,” Guru said. “We must see to it that the Secretary of State is not present for that memorial.”

  “Exactly. You will see to protecting Secretary Farthwell?” Berker said. Guru nodded. “We don’t need to burden him with the knowledge of his forthcoming promotion.”

  “What do you need me to do?” Alpha Dog asked.

  “Carry on in my absence.”

  “I’m sorry. What exactly are you saying?”

  Berker raised a hand. “I am too exposed to be useful to Gaia for much longer. I will end this phase of our struggle myself. But I will need your help with logistics.”

  “Anything you need.”

  ——

  “This looks like a cathedral floor plan.” The sharp-faced man looked up at Berker. Several diagrams, floor plans and maps were spread out on the table between them. The two were meeting in a secure room below a warehouse near LAX.

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “The most important targets will be concentrated in the Nave just below the transepts.”

  “I see. You want to kill a whole congregation?”

  “A large gathering. The seating area is about thirty five feet wide and ninety feet long. All the seats will be full, but the most important targets will be seated toward the front, probably here and here.” Berker traced an area on the floor plan with one finger.

  “I see,” the man said, studying the diagram. “Very high ceilings in those old cathedrals.”

  “I think this one is a hundred feet tall,” she said.

  He nodded. “Interesting configuration of exits.” He looked at Berker quizzically. “What else do I need to know?”

  “Very heavy security. Highly trained, well-armed, well distributed, well-coordinated. Lots of press.”

  “I need numbers.”

  “Thirty or more security on site. Twice that many immediately outside.”

  “A Head of State is involved, then?”

  Berker ignored the question. “We will use only one operative for this.”

  “Hmm. Do we have to try to save this operative?”

  “Negative,” Berker said.

  “Good, because we can’t, not if the site is as secure as you say.”

  “What can you do for us?”

  “Oh, I have just the thing,” the man said. “If you can afford it.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  The man smiled. “Just a moment.” He stepped outside, the metal door humming shut behind him. A few moments later the door opened, and the man placed a metal box on the table between them. The door hummed shut again. “I have sold this in very small quantities to your G-A-N operatives before. It has never failed to kill. It was thirty thousand dollars a dose in your most recent three purchases. We have a fixed supply obtained from a source that no longer exists.”

  “This is your signature product?”

  “Yes. Our fastest acting neurotoxin line.” He brought out two canisters. One was labeled “TEST.” Both were small cylinders with a dull silver finish; each had an extended, capped pipe at one end. “The active ingredient is a chemical analogue of our original product, reconfigured for ultra-rapid aerosol delivery. Even in this attenuated form, it kills very quickly on contact with any exposed skin or tissue.”

  “How quickly?”

  “If you breathe it, or get it in the soft tissues of the mouth, it takes five seconds to achieve cessation of cardiac function. If it comes in contact with your unprotected skin, it might take two minutes to stop your heart.”

  “How is it released?”

  “First, let me do the demo. Same aerosol, without the toxin. Now grasp the cap here.” He pointed to the top of the TEST canister. “Go ahead, touch it, but don’t do anything just yet.”

  Berker reached over and held the cap between thumb and forefinger. “Good,” he said. “When I give you the word, you will just twist sharply once.” He walked away from the table, and placed a small plastic box on the floor in the farthest corner of the room. “This detector is now exactly fifteen feet from the aerosol dispersion point. On three, I want you to twist the cap sharply counterclockwise. One. Two. Three.” Berker twisted and there was a hissing sound. Within a fraction of a second, the detector began to beep. “Ha,” he said. “A fatal concentration would have been delivered here in less than a quarter second.” He walked back to the table and recapped the TEST bottle.

  “How large is the effective kill zone, then?”

  “In your cathedral space? A fatal dose to everyone in the entire nave, certainly, and most of both transepts, all within the first fifteen to twenty five seconds.”

  �
��The ceiling height is not a problem?”

  “Not unless the targets can fly like angels. This is the latest nano-technology. Assuming a room temperature below seventy-three degrees Fahrenheit, most of the toxin will concentrate within ten feet of the floor.”

  “I’ll buy it.”

  “I can install it in a shave cream canister, a hair spray, or some other innocent consumer object at no extra cost.”

  “Hair spray. How much?”

  “I warned you the quantity is huge compared to the doses I have sold your operatives before.”

  “My time is limited. How much?”

  “Fifty-nine million dollars.”

  “Done. Funds to your usual account?”

  “That’s why I enjoy doing business with you people. No haggling.”

  “When can I pick up the hair spray?”

  “Cash and carry, Berker. You can reach my account from right here. We have a line your Commission didn’t get to.” He pushed an encrypted keyboard across the table. “And I’ll pack it up for you in ten minutes.” He returned both canisters to the metal box and left the room.

  Exactly ten minutes later, the man returned with a shrink-wrapped box containing a popular brand can of hair spray and a second identical hair spray bottle, labeled TEST. He put both on the table in front of Berker. “Here’s how your operative will arm the unit.” He picked up the TEST canister and turned it over. He pointed to a small turn-key recessed in the base. “Go ahead,” he said. “Turn the key clockwise.” Berker took the canister and twisted. “Keep going until it catches. There.” He smiled. “Armed.”

  “How is it set off?”

  “Easy,” he said. “Note the spray nozzle on top? Just break it off.” Berker pushed. “Just a quick snap.” Berker tried again, and the nozzle snapped off easily. There was a faint hissing noise. “Empties fully in ten minutes. But no one will know that.”

  “I see.”

  “Remind me not to fly with you.” He grinned. “Just keep it in the shrink wrap and don’t let anybody lift it or they will be suspicious.”

  “What about x-ray?”

  “Normal silhouette. If they don’t look too closely.”