The code red plus designation had puzzled him. Somebody was pushing the panic button. The plus meant the rules were suspended—get this guy whatever it took. Border patrol agents, area military, regional militia, and local law enforcement were ordered to join the search, to secure the border, guaranteed overtime. Personnel on the four bridges crossing into Canada were doubled and officers were told to inspect every vehicle approaching the control points. Look in every car. Ask questions. Officers were dispatched to the bus and train stations, as well as the airport. They were told Roland Stone was “wanted for participating in acts of terrorism against the American people.” I had to be stopped and nobody much cared how, “Subject is believed to be armed and should be considered highly dangerous. All necessary steps, including the use of force, should be taken to apprehend Stone and his accomplice or, if the situation does not permit that, to terminate this threat to national security by any means possible.”

Shaw knew that was total bullshit. He knew me. We’d sort of worked together; I’d established my bona fides with him. What he didn’t know was why? Why was the government so desperate to stop me that it had basically said, Go ahead and shoot him? Ten thousand resisters, more than that, had already swarmed across the border without attracting anywhere near this level of attention. Why me? What made me so different? So important? There was only one logical answer—it wasn’t me. It was what I had with me; I had some information or materials in my possession that the Wrightman government did not want made public. It had to be physical evidence, Shaw guessed, otherwise I could have called it in.

Whatever the reason, Shaw decided, bless his soul, that I was going to need assistance. Under his command ARM already had helped numerous people safely cross the border, but this one was going to be a lot more complex. They did not have a shred of information about when or where I was going to try to cross. That wasn’t so surprising, neither did I.

I didn’t have a clue how we were going to do this. Nor did I have any idea Shaw and his people were getting ready to help me. He had set up his headquarters in the banquet room of Arthur Lem’s Oriental Palace, a Chinese restaurant on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls. He had sat down with his best people over General Tso’s and spring rolls and laid out the situation. My disability made it even more challenging. Given my limitations, I wasn’t going to attempt an off-road crossing. I wasn’t going to be strolling through the woods or over fields in my wheelchair. “What are we going to do to help this guy?” he’d asked. “Anybody got any suggestions?”

“Yeah, I got one,” one of his top aides, Saul Wolfe, responded. Shaw loved telling this story. Everybody looked hopefully at this guy, who suggested between bites, “Next meeting we should get some pork fried rice too.”