Gabriel's Stand

by Jay B. Gaskill

  Snowfeather resumed pacing.

  “Please call your Dad,” Vince said.

  “‘This is your decision, Princess,’” she said, imitating Gabriel’s baritone. “That’s what he says these days.”

  “Can I say anything to convince you?”

  Snowfeather’s expression softened. “You know what? I want to have it both ways.” Vince faced her, looking at her intently. Snowfeather rolled her eyes, then reached in her jeans and pulled a set of keys, gripping them fiercely. “Vincent Marconi, if you are caught trespassing—”

  “I’ll get a slap on the wrist. Don’t worry, Morris and Julie Marconi didn’t raise a dumb kid.” Vincent gave her his lopsided smile that she found irresistible. “I’m not planning to get caught by them. But what if it did happen? Big deal, they dump you. You are a natural leader. You don’t need these kooks.”

  Another long pause. Snowfeather’s eyes were searching his face. “But why you? A job with Justice can’t be that important?”

  “Hey, this is Vince here. I don’t even know what job I’ll want to take after graduation. Actually, I was thinking this is something I could do for you. People like these can ruin an entire movement. Ruin you.”

  She sighed. “You win, counselor. Look, I only have two keys, the outside door and their main office. No telling what opens that other door down the hall where I overheard that ritual.” Her lips were pursed. She placed the keys in his hand and closed it. “Now you be careful or I’ll be mad.”

  “Promise,” Vincent said, kissing her softly. “I’ll be back in an hour with your keys.”

  Chapter 17

  Louise Berker was behind her desk in Environmental Opinion Associates, and Rex Longworthy was sitting uncomfortably in the guest chair.

  “We’ve been at this tipping point much too long, Rex, don’t you agree?” she said.

  “Of course, Louise. But a precipitating event is inevitable, don’t you agree?”

  “Inevitability is not my point. We need to be poised to exploit any event. Quickly. All the work to recruit that girl, Snowfeather, to bring the media along. The Treaty needs to be ratified. Soon or not at all. We must act while the momentum is with us.”

  Rex frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Have you thought about the ecological consequences from a major spill in the Panama Canal?”

  Rex smiled. “That would do it, all right. Close to home. Especially if it involved nuclear waste. It would be a PR godsend.”

  “Better still if we could predict something of that magnitude.”

  “Obviously. The demonstrations could be planned in advance. The media alerted. What are you suggesting?”

  “Consider it done, Rex.”

  He paused. “I see. The G-A-N could pull this off?”

  Berker just put a single finger on her lips and smiled.

  ——

  Two hours later, a staff employee of the Smith Sub-Committee on Domestic Terrorism was assigned to review the following conversation captured through routine monitoring of suspected terrorist cells. But the staffer failed, through geographical ignorance, to notice that the discussion related to the Pacific and Atlantic side locks in the Panama Canal, and that control of the “mule operators” meant operational control of the lock-side towing trains responsible to take ships through them. Missing also was the context: the nearly simultaneous arrival on opposite sides of the Panama Canal lock system of two separate shipments of large amounts of very high level nuclear waste. As a result, the intercept was stacked for routine analysis, a process that would take another two weeks.

  “You are confident that the mule operators are under control.”

  “Absolutely. The Gatun locks, the Pedro Miguel locks, and the Miraflores locks. We have the capability to affect simultaneous transits, from the East, and from the West.”

  “So it doesn’t happen in Gatun Lake?”

  “Not optimum. Damage could be contained. Much better in the locks on either side. More environmental impact, you see.”

  “You know this better than I do.”

  “Thank you. So, to what do I owe the honor of this call?”

  “The time is right.”

  “I hoped you might call now. There are two shipments that can be simultaneously—”

  “Dealt with.”

  “Exactly. So do we have the authorization?”

  “You do.”

  “Excellent.”

  ——

  Vincent was nervous, but determined. It was 3:40 A.M. and the Pioneer Square district was nearly deserted, the nearest street lamp cloaked in fog. Carrying the copied keys, he walked past a series of dark storefronts. He paused before a window, squinting inside at the books arrayed on a small display. To the right, lurking in a pool of blackness, Vince found the recessed doorway by feel. Holding his breath, he slipped a key into the lock and turned.

  A few minutes later, he was in the stairway behind the Earth Planet Bookstore.

  The agent had warned him during his last briefing that, if caught, Vincent was on his own, that nothing would be linked back to the Smith Sub Committee.

  “No problem,” Vince had said. “I doubt they would call the cops.”

  The agent had looked at him coldly. “You will be better off if they do.”

  Vince had shrugged off the warning, after all he was the son of third generation cops. His tiny flashlight cast a fleeting puddle of light on the worn linoleum stairs that danced along the worn and stained carpet of the hallway. No problem here, Vince thought. The building’s ventilation and heating system had been turned off. The air was cold, and heavy with mold spores.

  Vincent stopped, listening to the sound of his own breathing. A siren sounded, wailing faintly in the distance. He moved on slowly, his sneakers almost soundless on the rug.

  The door Snowfeather had described was closed. Vincent paused, turning off his light. There was no sound and no light within. He clicked his tiny flashlight on again. Cautiously, Vincent tried the handle.

  Locked. What did you expect?

  His copy of Snowfeather’s key wouldn’t move the tumbler at all. Checkmate. Nice, try Marconi. Enough spy stuff. Time to go home. But he paused, studying the lock in the glow of his pocket light.

  Okay, he thought, at least the key fits, so it’s the right blank. And the other key did work outside. Probably a copy of a copy of a copy. One more try.

  Vincent pulled the key toward him; then turned it hard. The tumbler moved slightly. Encouraged, he pushed in, then pulled again and twisted. The tumbler turned smoothly.

  You’re in, Marconi! The door opened into the room, releasing a smell that hit him like the stench from a freshly opened crypt. Vincent held his nose, stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The air was cloying, as if he had entered a fetid swamp after half the inhabitants had died. His tiny light darted around the room, catching glimpses of hanging leaves, twisted vines, and dripping water. The room was so large that the spot from the flashlight barely reached the other side. In the center of the room, seven stumps were arranged in a circle around a crude altar.

  Stepping cautiously toward the stumps, he could feel the slippery surface give way slightly as he approached. Then something wet moved under his foot. “Damn,” he whispered involuntarily. He pointed the flashlight downward. Something white slithered away into the blackness. Vincent shuddered, and fumbled in his backpack for the larger flashlight. After a frustrating minute, he gave up.

  The altar was in the exact center of the stump circle. Fashioned from a gnarled tree, it held a small scroll, fastened to the side with crudely carved wooden fingers. He climbed over a stump and leaned forward, shining the tiny lamp against the parchment.

  This must be it.

  Vincent fished out the digital camera from his backpack. Need to get all the words and the signatures. Ornate block letters, painstakingly inscribed in dried blood, spelled out a manifesto:

  “Gaia the wounded, Gaia the threatened, Gaia the injured, Gaia t
he infected. We, your antibodies, pledge our very lives to the eradication of man, the infestation. Homo Ecophagus.

  “Signed in our blood this first day of your retribution.

  “Tan, Gloris, K, D, E, F.

  “From Gaia to Gaia.

  “Death to all humankind.”

  Something touched his foot. Vincent kicked at it, swallowing a curse. He worked with frantic speed, taking three pictures, as rapidly as his fingers would function. The flash produced afterimages that glowed in the darkness. “Death to all humankind,” danced in negative relief while he stood rooted to the spot, waiting for his night vision to reestablish itself. His breath came in rapid, short gasps.

  Don’t panic now.

  When his eyes had finally readjusted, Vincent examined the glowing digital images. Excellent. What were the agent’s instructions? He fumbled, trying to connect the camera’s output to the satellite phone he had been given. Damn, he thought. I need light. I’ll need to take this outside.

  “Don’t wait until you get out,” the agent had cautioned. “This could be your insurance.”

  “Fine for you to say!” he whispered to himself, disconnecting the camera and slipping it into his backpack. “I can’t see in here!”

  What was that? Vincent held his breath, listening for the sound. The back of his neck was tingling alarm.

  “Having a good time?”

  Jesus! He jumped a full foot.

  It was a harsh female voice. Vincent was struck dumb. With a series of distinct clicks, three separate flashlights glared in his eyes. He squinted, clutching his backpack. “Come here,” the voice said.

  For a brief moment, Vincent imagined himself reconnecting the camera, standing defiantly in the flashlights, suppressing the impulse to run, waiting as the whisper of data transfer invaded the silence. But Vincent’s heart was thumping wildly and his hands were shaking uncontrollably.

  Too late, he thought. Numbly, Vincent stared into the flashlights. Too fucking late.

  Chapter 18

  On the night of Vince’s task, Snowfeather noticed a message on her machine. Vince? She hoped. But the message was from one of the Sisters. Snowfeather was urgently needed by Berker; she was to report back to the Pioneer Square office of the League, at first light.

  After failing to reach Vince, she tried her parents at home. Snowfeather then called the private number of her father’s private secretary in DC

  “He tried to call you. Your mom and dad are in Chicago and due back tomorrow morning.”

  Snowfeather left an urgent message for them to call her; then turned in for a troubled sleep.

  ——

  Snowfeather awoke at 6:00 A.M. with a headache and a summons. “Very urgent business, affecting the entire movement,” Berker’s message had claimed. It damn well better be.

  Thirty-six minutes later, she appeared at the Woman’s League offices, dressed in jeans and flannel shirt, her hair up, a large coffee in hand. Berker, who had arrived a few minutes before, kept her silence until Snowfeather reached the top of the stairs. “We need to discuss something in complete confidence,” she said, standing in the doorway. She motioned to the back conference room.

  “Okay. What is it?” Snowfeather said, following.

  “How quickly can you organize a large demonstration?” Berker sat at a small table and motioned Snowfeather into the opposite chair.

  “I’ve done a large campus one in a half day. Coordinating multiple locations usually takes two days lead time, but it depends on what’s going on.” Cynthia closed the door behind them. “But you both know a demonstration always needs some event for a catalyst.”

  “It seems there’s something like that in the media every couple of weeks, doesn’t it?” Berker said.

  “You have something in mind?” Snowfeather asked.

  “Just assume that something happens within a few hours. Assume that you have your catalyst. How long would you need? Absolute minimum.”

  Snowfeather noticed that the large table was stacked with posters and city maps. “As little as twenty-four hours, if I don’t know in advance the day we are going to do it. As little as four hours, if we can pin down the day with good accuracy.”

  “Good,” Berker said with satisfaction. “Assume you know in advance. Let’s plan for City Center, tying up traffic, just in time for the early news.”

  “When? Today? Tomorrow? What’s up?”

  “I just have a feeling,” Berker said smiling, “that something very, very big will happen tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Really?”

  “She’s usually right about these things,” Cynthia added.

  ——

  Berker came by Snowfeather’s office at noon. Snowfeather was busy with a stack of phone messages and maps.

  “Do you need any help?”

  “It’s coming together very well. I have talked to all the groups and the key people. Everyone is on alert. We can mobilize tomorrow in as little as three hours. How sure are you?”

  “I am absolutely confident this will be a go. I’ll confirm first light tomorrow morning. Just watch the news.”

  “Okay.”

  “By the way,” Berker added with forced casualness, “Do you see much of Vincent these days?”

  “Not very much,” Snowfeather lied while pretending to read a letter. Reluctantly, she glanced up at Berker. “He’s studying for the Bar Exam.”

  “I thought as much. Did you know he was going out with someone else?”

  Snowfeather dropped her letters on the desk. Her heart was racing, but she kept her stone face. She noticed that Berker was holding something. Snowfeather stared coldly while Berker opened an envelope and removed a picture. Then she shoved it across the desk to Snowfeather, with a note of triumph. “Doesn’t look like studying to me.” Berker carefully placed the eight by ten directly on top of Snowfeather’s correspondence. Vincent seemed to be nuzzling the neck of an older blond woman in a restaurant. “Men,” Berker said.

  Snowfeather was numb. How can this be true? She turned the picture over and over in her hands. Berker pressed her advantage. “We heard he is planning to take a job in Los Angeles.”

  “Los Angeles?” Snowfeather’s voice was very quiet, her stomach tightening.

  “It’s a long way, I know, but I understand she has a job there.”

  Berker has to be lying.

  “Supposedly, he’s planning to take the California Bar in the summer.”

  Snowfeather felt like breaking something, but she refused to give Berker the satisfaction. “Vincent will do better there,” she said, her tone flat.

  This doesn’t sound right…not at all.

  “As we say, my dear, men can be useful…to a point.”

  Berker gently took the picture back. Snowfeather kept up the appearance of stoic indifference. “I’m pretty busy right now.” Snowfeather pretended to look down at the letters on her desk, but her vision was blurred.

  Berker whistled as she left. As soon as the door shut, Snowfeather called Vincent’s room. The second time, she left a message. “Vincent. Vincent. Pick up, damn it. Are you in trouble? They say you are planning to go to LA. Are you? I don’t believe it! Vincent, if anything has happened… Call me, okay?” After a long moment, she slammed receiver into the cradle and fought for control of the tears that had begun running freely down her cheeks.

  Chapter 19

  Headlines, coast to coast, carried the story; programs in progress were interrupted; and the President was given an urgent note in the middle of a speech.

  HUGE PANAMA CANAL NUCLEAR DISASTER…TWO NUCLEAR WASTE BARGES COLLIDE…MASSIVE TOXIC SPILL…HUNDREDS DIE, THOUSANDS SICK

  ——

  Snowfeather’s phone rang in her dormitory room at dawn. It was Berker’s harsh voice. “Check the news,” she said.

  A moment later, “My God, you were right! How did you know?”

  “No time for small talk, dear. You know what to do?”

  “Of course,” she said. “This
is so big.”

  “Yes it is. Bigger than anyone thinks.”

  ——

  “Longworthy, this worked better than either of us expected,” Berker said.

  Rex was leaning back in a chair in his office conference room. He smiled and nodded. “More dramatic than the BP Gulf oil plume, much more impact than any eco-disaster to date. This is a coup.”

  “The Canal is completely unusable.” Berker said.

  “They will be netting radioactive fish from both oceans for twenty years,” Rex said quietly. He was pointing to the television screen at the end of the table. “Look at her!” Snowfeather was standing on a police car, amid a sea of people, holding a microphone.

  “Chief Seattle must be weeping because now I learn that a poison more terrible than anything nature can produce is killing the ocean, the cradle of all life, and our leaders still hesitate. How long must we wait, while this poor wounded planet reels from death blow after death blow? We must act. We must take back the streams, the wind, and the mountains. When must we act?”

  “NOW!” shouted the crowd.

  “Isn’t she great?” Rex said.

  “Perfect,” Berker said with satisfaction.

  On screen the crowd surged out of control, surrounding the patrol car. “Every day, the natural world shrinks, driven back by the irresponsible forces of urbanization, the unstoppable monster we call technology. When do we rise up and protect our planet?”

  “NOW!” the crowd shouted.

  Longworthy leaned back in his chair. “How will her father vote?”

  “Gabriel Standing Bear? Unfortunately, that is still unclear,” Berker said. “He is in Seattle with Senators McKernon and Smith and their drug-money guy, John Owen. So we suspect he and his little clique will hold out against the Treaty ratification to the very end. But we will have more than two thirds of those fools in the US Senate rounded up after our campaign. I’ll see to that.”

  “Good work, Louise. I have just sent the final version of the American addendum to the Earth Restoration Treaty to the White House—it sets up the new governing structure so that the Senate will act on the whole package at once. President Chandler plans a new signing ceremony tomorrow where he formally reaffirms President Baxter’s agreement to the Treaty, and incorporates all the new provisions. The pro-ratification blitz will start immediately.”