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.”