The Fugitive's Gambit

The Fugitive’s Gambit

By

Chance DeWitt

Smashwords Edition ©2011 by Chance DeWitt, Inc.

All Rights Reserved

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Preface

A wise man who dealt in fantasy, Hans Christian Anderson, once said:

Out of reality, our tales of imagination are fashioned.

This is the tale of Max Becker, a man hunted by the federal government for writing Taking It Back, a book about secession. The characters in this story are fictional, but many of the incidents they recount are based in fact. It is for the discerning reader to reconcile the conflict between truth and whimsy. The book, which precipitated governmental retaliation against Max Becker, has in fact been written. Taking It Back does exist.

—Chance DeWitt

Acknowledgments

There are numerous heroes who in some way have contributed to the creation of this book, particularly those unfortunate citizens who have suffered through the tribulations of unwanted intrusions by the federal into their lives.

Dwight Kramer, Gary Webb, Mike Oliver, George Kritzki, Robert Smith, Thomas Eck, John McCarthy, Ed Hanosek and thousands of others all paid a price for their battles with the government.

Others, such as Judge Thomas Napolitano and Robert Ringer, have courageously spoken out against growing federal abuses. Still others, particularly Thomas DiLorenzo have kindled my desire to write about succession and I think Professor DiLorenzo forgiven me the inspiration to write Taking It Back.

Finally, I would like to thank my sister, Mary, who so painstakingly produced a beautifully typed manuscript from my scribbling which often failed to rise to the level of handwriting. Under trying logistical circumstances, she managed to generate a readable product while making welcome and needed editorial changes.

—Chance DeWitt, March 2011

Chapter One

They were coming for him.The faint spectral figures shrouded in the dark, dense fog choking the early dawn of the Sierra foothills left no doubt. As he crouched in the moldy rushes bordering the pond near his cabin, Max Becker knew that the first glimmer of sunlight would soon expose him to the FEMA team now ransacking his weekend retreat just one hundred yards away.

A muffled growl by Plato, his rust colored cocker spaniel had, only minutes ago, alerted him to the six helmeted intruders in black uniforms skulking through the mist with weapons drawn. Quickly dressing in the dark, Max had managed to sneak out the back door and take cover in the bushes. They had not seen him yet, but he knew he had to get away. Only one thing held him back. Plato, who had refused to leave, was still inside indignantly snarling at the invaders in a courageous but futile effort to defend what little privacy remained in their lives.

Pitifully Max’s dilemma abruptly evaporated as Plato’s barking protests were silenced by three cracks of an automatic weapon reporting its lethal mission. It was now time to run.

He quietly snaked his way through the thick undergrowth as he rushed towards the edge of the Consumnes River some five hundred yards away, his mind whirling with questions. Why did I write that book? Why such a vicious attack by the government for a mere book? How could a book suddenly render me an enemy of the state? Was the government so paranoid that its reaction to him was to silence him forever. Had matters deteriorated even more than he suspected?

He had expected character assassination if his authorship was discovered, but he refused to believe that he would now be confronted with such a venomous response.

He returned his attention to the crisis before him as the glow from his burning cabin cast a smoky orange pallor over the dawning sky. Then he spotted a red laser beam dancing on the wet leaves of the bushes beside him. The darting red eye, a preamble to his probable extermination, left little question that he had been discovered. He bolted as the sound of rifle fire and the snapping twigs over his head resolved all doubt that he was to be killed. Now, his only chance was to reach the river’s edge and jump into the cold, churning waters fifty feet below, praying that he would survive the plunge and find the hidden cavern about five miles downstream from his cabin. He was now only one hundred yards to the cliffs that walled torrent which would sweep him to sanctuary and deliverance.

He continued to run twigs cracking around him like popping corn. He was unsure as to whether these were the sounds of his frantic flight or a message from taunting bullets just before the kill. As he reached the edge of the fifty foot escarpment, jutting out like a monolithic sentry protecting the surging waters below, his speculation ended. The burning sharp hot pain tearing through his left arm brutally reminded him that until just then he had been lucky. Without hesitation, he leapt down toward the cold, dark river that would provide him asylum.

As he plunged into the inky, churning waters, Max breathed a prayer of thanks that he had hit a deep pool. But then, as if rebuking his gratitude, the icy liquid attacked him like a thousand frigid daggers, forcing their way into his eyes, nose, and ears. A prayer answered by the devil, his grandfather would say. He knew he had to remain under water as long as possible and drift far downstream in order to have any chance of escape. Driven by the deluge, he found that his left arm could move only with great difficulty, but least this meant that the bullet had ravaged no bones or critical tendons.

Buffeted and tumbled for about a mile, he finally came to a large, calm pool and crawled onto at a sandy bar just feet from the shore. He welcomed the lull from what seemed like an eternity of agitation. Lying on the soft sandbank and listening for sounds of pursuit, he was rewarded with a silence broken only by the murmur of water over the rocks. Maybe I made it, he breathed to himself, knowing that he still must struggle eight more miles downstream to the cavern. Although the water had washed away the full measure of his blood loss, his light-headedness told him he had lost too much. He stripped off his coat and blue flannel shirt to survey the condition of his arm and observed his triceps muscle still seeping blood. Tearing off the left arm sleeve of his shirt, he fashioned a tourniquet just above the wound and tied it with teeth and right hand. The oozing blood reduced to a slight trickle.

Reaching the cavern would be difficult. Waterfalls, whirlpools, rapids, and unforgiving rocks would give him more of a challenge than an uninjured man could probably handle. His condition would make the journey almost impossible. Still, the cavern was his only hope. It was not listed upon any USGS map and was discovered by Max fifteen years ago on a fluke during one of his backpacking outings into the Mother Lode with his five children. His dog, Socrates, Plato’s father, had run up onto a ledge chasing a rabbit. The unrelenting bark of Socrates’ frustration forced Max to climb the cliff only to discover an entrance to what looked like a small tunnel. Ever an amateur spelunker, Max spent the rest of the weekend expanding the entry and exploring the cavern. He found the cave itself bore no remnants of modern civilization—no cigarettes, beer cans, or human waste, but there were what appeared to be ancient symbols on the walls. The limited lighting, however, stopped further exploration. At the conclusion of the weekend, he partially sealed the entrance to conceal its discovery from river level, and marked its location by the letter ‘T’ chipped into the base of the rocky cliff below the entrance. He promised himself that he would someday return. Unfortunately, that promise was being fulfilled under the present circumstances.

The rugged terrain, thick brush, and dangerous steep river cliffs of the wilderness, served as formidable barriers to all but the hardiest of humanity. After an hour of stumbling along the bank downstream towards the refuge, Max was forced to rest on a mossy, fallen Jeffery pine log. With his adrenaline coursing through his body at sheer panic levels, he regained his strength just as the faint light in the Eastern sky heralded a dawn poised to expose him to any helicopters that might fly overhead. Soon, the intrusive technology of infrared surveillance would be assisted by the naked eye. He needed the cover of the brush and trees. Gingerly picking his way through the thick brush, tall scented pines and sporadic patches of white oak, Max reflected on the series of events that led to his predicament.

Two years ago he had written a book exploring ways of reducing federal power over individuals, advocating that secession by a state or group of states was a viable, legitimate, and peaceful solution. At first the book had little impact. Most people, although disgruntled or disenchanted with the government, did not comprehend the process or the effects of secession. Later, small secessionist groups formed in several states. In California, some lawmakers, notably state senator, Dennis Wilsey, had spearheaded a state-sponsored study as to the feasibility of secession. The movement seemed to be gaining momentum. Although Max had written the book under a pseudonym to avoid personal retribution, somehow the Feds had traced the book to him. At first he was ridiculed as a kook; then castigated as a traitor. Some people shunned him; but Max retained a loyal support group. Obviously, with the growing popularity of his ideas, the Feds had now concluded that they needed to take this matter to a new level. And here he was today, barely alive with few prospects of surviving more than mere hours.

Suddenly, the distinct reverberating growl of a Blackhawk helicopter broke into Max’s solitary thoughts. As the sound grew louder, the muffled gurgle of yet another Blackhawk underscored the intensity of the search for him.

Two helicopters! I must have really ticked off someone, he said to himself. With the blood still dripping from the wound in his arm, he began to run, knowing that only a few precious minutes remained for him to reach the cave.

Barely able to maintain his balance as he raced over the loose river rock he finally arrived at the cliff where the entrance to his safety lay. The ‘T’ was worn but still visible even in the weak light. Only accessible by climbing up almost sheer cliffs of the riverbank, he began scaling the sixty-foot embankment using a two foot wide ledge leading to the cave’s opening. Behind the scruffy Manzanita bushes before him was the entrance of his refuge. He would hide out for a few days or weeks until his wound healed.

His left arm had become considerably weaker, making the climb dangerous. Of more concern was the probability that the approaching helicopters would spot him on the side of the cliff and he would become little more than a toy duck in a shooting gallery.

Frantically, he began the climb, utilizing his left arm only to steady himself. The sky had now surrendered its darkness to the first rays of sunlight. Only a few more minutes and he would be in the sanctum of the cavern. The threatening thwop! thwop! of the pursuing helicopters now overpowered the sounds of the rushing river below him. A few more feet and Max would be to the entrance. Only a few more seconds and he would be in sight of the helicopters.

I’m getting a heat reading on my sensor, the pilot in the helicopter announced. Down by the river. The two helicopters hovered about one hundred feet over the river as the pursurers used their light gathering binoculars could determine the identity of the heat source. As they peered through the high tech detection device, one shouted, There he is!

Where? the others asked.

Over there! he yelled. By the river, north side. The helicopter dropped downward.

You spotted a damned deer, replied the pilot as a young buck scampered away. Just then, Max approached the cave entrance guarded by the Manzanita bushes. Bracing himself for the inevitable deep scratches of hurried encounter with the spiny guardians, he thrust his body into the bushes. They tore at his clothes and skin in a formidable attempt to prevent his intrusion into the cavern as each tendril took its turn at inflicting as much pain as it could. But then they seemed to suddenly relent, and Max frantically lurched into the small entrance.

A murky presence enveloped him as the last vestiges of his visibility disappeared from the searching occupants in the now thundering helicopters almost directly overhead. The protective darkness of the cave’s interior was a welcome relief to the alternative outside. Cautiously he peered from the cave’s sheltering bulk into the dawning light as his pursuers hovered not more than two hundred yards away.

They must have spotted me, Max lamented as he burrowed deeper into the cave. The infrared probably detected my form, if not my movement.

The second Blackhawk appeared. They now hung in tandem in the air like a duo of steel dragonflies awaiting to attack their defenseless prey. But about two minutes later, which played out like an interminably bad dream, they disengaged into opposite directions along the river. Max breathed a sigh of relief as he realized that they still must be searching if the two had proceeded into different directions. He had made it!

He crawled about twenty feet into the cave and collapsed in a prone position on the hard cold floor. Struggling to prop himself against the stone walls of his new abode, he began to experience a lightheaded euphoria. His left arm was numb but not bleeding as profusely as before. Half-conscious thoughts swirled through his mind as he drifted into memories of his past.

Chapter Two

Max Becker was born in Glendale, California, the oldest of seven children. His father, Frank, a World War II veteran, served a double stint in Europe as well as the Philippines. Frank Becker had volunteered for service in the Army at a time when patriotism was high and the real motivation for the United States’ entry into the world conflict was masked by nationalist fervor. Max had often marveled what his father’s generation had endured – childhood tribulations of the Great Depression, the calamity of a world war claiming the lives of forty million people including twelve million in the gas chambers, and the commencement of a new age of nuclear horror by the fiery atomization of the Japanese in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Yet, in the post war economic boom, his generation had prospered as no other, laden with opportunity for almost anyone with entrepreneurial spirit. In time, members of his father’s era were deservedly labeled The Greatest Generation.

But Max did not view his father as a stellar representative of those who seized the opportunities abundant in the post-war United States. Although Frank Becker passed muster as a father and husband, in Max’s eyes he failed as a person who took no advantage of the chances presented to him. Frank never resumed the college education he had abandoned to fight the war in spite of a generous G.I. Bill encouraging the continuation of that education. He just settled into a job at Pacific Telephone and Telegraph as a switchman in the central office and languished there, passed over for promotion at least twenty times during his tenure of thirty-five years. Two years after his retirement, he died of brain tumors generated by the metastastisization of mistreated melanoma.

As Max witnessed his father’s many disappointments at the promotion of less qualified co-workers, he vowed that he would take a different path and would never work for another or continue in any kind of a relationship that did not meet his expectations. In short, his desire for control over the legitimate undertakings in his life became extremely important at an early age. He wanted no one controlling his life, and he did not want to control others. It was the way he dealt with almost everyone, including his government.

As he drifted in and out from the musings of his past, he fell into a troubled but much needed sleep.

Chapter Three

Max woke with a start. Numb and befuddled, he could not remember where he was. As his head cleared, he glanced at his watch, visible now in the midday sunlight spilling from the cave’s entrance fifty feet away. A persistent brilliance, hallmarking a mid-May day in the Sierras, now subdued the funereal dawn that had encased him.

He lifted his arm to catch the light and a sharp pain reminded him of his plight. His shirt was soaked with uncoagulated blood. To increase his frustration, the painful attempt to determine the time was spurned by the sight of a shattered watch.

I guess it took too much of a licking to keep on ticking, he grumbled.

Detecting a faint odor of smoke, Max stumbled toward the cave’s entrance to check out a possible source. Perhaps some campers along the river had built a fire contrary to the wilderness regulations prohibiting open flames. But, as he approached the opening, the scent began to dissipate so that as he peeked outside to scan the riverbanks for any faint wisps of gray, the scent disappeared. Still, he knew he had smelled smoke but was too weak both physically and even mentally to pursue the matter. The short walk to the cave’s entrance and the return to its more protective recesses had wearied him. I’ve lost too much blood. I need more rest, he thought as he crumpled to the cave floor. As his aching body pressed against the unyielding stone, he once again began to reflect.

Although his book may have been the catalyst that brought the Feds to his door, Max knew that his problems really began twenty-five years earlier. At that time, Max had helped his client and friend, Mike Oliver, in Mike’s lifelong quest to establish a new country, free of the dictatorial and demagogic proclivities of the modern day powers. A Lithuanian Jew who had survived a Nazi concentration camp, Mike grew increasingly concerned about the direction of the federal government. It’s only a matter of time, Max, and the U.S. vill be no better den Nazi Germany. I see our freedoms taken from us day-by-day mit wery few noticing or caring. And it’s all done through laws giving the appearance of legitimacy. I saw it happen in Lithuania and Germany. Now I see it here.

Mike referred to the process as incrementalism, comparing it to the well-known story of placing a frog in cold water and turning on the fire to slowly heat the pot. If the