Ancient Shores

30

This is an NBC News flash.

U.S. Marshals have sealed off Johnson’s Ridge tonight, apparently preparing to seize the property. A group of Native Americans has announced they will not obey a federal court order to leave. We take you first to Michael Pateman at the White House, and then to Carole Jensen at the Sioux reservation near Devil’s Lake, North Dakota.

Jensen was set up inside the tribal chambers in the Blue Building, where she had cornered William Hawk. National coverage. When you worked for the ten o’clock news in Fargo, this was the moment you lived for. She smiled at Hawk and got no reaction.

“One minute,” said her cameraman, adjusting his focus.

“Just be natural, Councilman,” she said. “We’ll start when the red light goes on.”

“Okay.” He wore a cowhide vest, a flannel shirt, and a pair of faded jeans. She guessed he was about sixty, although his face was deeply lined.

The producer again, from Fargo: “Same routine as usual, Carole. Just like you’d do it for us. Except adjust the tag line.”

“Okay,” she said.

They were seconds away. The cameraman gave her five fingers, counted down, and the red lamp blinked on.

“This is Carole Jensen,” she said, “in the tribal chambers at the Devil’s Lake Sioux Reservation. With me tonight is Councilman William Hawk, one of the Sioux leaders. Councilman Hawk, I understand you saw the EPA press conference earlier this evening?”

“Yes, I did, Carole.” His jaw was set, but she could see pain in his eyes. She hoped it translated to the screen. Tragic nobility here.

“How do you respond to Commissioner Kautter’s remarks?”

“The commissioner should be aware there is no danger to anyone. No one has seen anything come through the port. And I’m sure nobody out there takes seriously the story of an invisible man. Or whatever.”

“Councilman, what will you do?”

His expression hardened. “We will not let them steal our land. It belongs to us, and we will defend it.”

“Does that mean by force?”

“If necessary. I hope it will not come to that.”

“You told me earlier that your daughter is on the ridge.”

“That is correct.”

“Will you bring her home?”

“She will stay with her brothers to defend her heritage.” His leathery face was defiant.

“We don’t need you,” said Adam. “You and Max should get out now, while you can.”

“He’s right,” said Max. “We have no business here.”

April looked at him sadly. “I think everybody has business here. We’re too goddamn stupid or lazy or whatever to tackle the job of educating people, so instead we’ll destroy the Roundhouse. It just makes me furious. I’m not going anywhere. My place is here—”

“Can you shoot?” interrupted Adam. “Will you shoot?”

“No,” she said. “I won’t kill anybody. But I’ll be here anyhow.” She knew how disjointed and weak that sounded, and tears came.

“You’ll only be in the way.”

“If you want me out of here,” she told Adam, “you’ll have to throw me over the side.”

Max threw up his hands.

He was trying to begin the complex action of disengaging and heading for his car. Sometimes, he thought, it takes more guts to run than to stay. But he had no intention of throwing his life away for a lost cause. He was still thinking how best to manage it when Andrea joined them.

“There might be another way,” she told Adam. “We could threaten to destroy the port. Take it from them.”

“That’s no good,” he said. “That’s precisely what they want.”

“Maybe not,” said Max. “There’ll be a lot of media attention here tonight. It would be a public-relations nightmare for the administration.”

“It’s a public-relations nightmare,” said Adam, “only if we can broadcast the threat. We have no capability to do that.”

“You mean the Snowhawk is off the air?”

“Yes, she is,” said Andrea. “But I think it would put a lot of pressure on them to stay clear if we could find a way to get to the media.”

“No.” April’s voice took on steel. “You can’t threaten the port. The whole point of staying here is to protect the place.”

“We don’t actually have to destroy anything. It’s a bluff,” Andrea said.

“And that’s exactly how they’ll read it,” said Adam. “They would have to call us on it.” Lights were moving on the access road. “They’d have to.”

A phone rang. They looked at one another. It was coming from the control module. “I thought,” said Max, “the phones were dead.”

They had been standing at the rim of the cut in which the Roundhouse rested. “That’ll be an official call,” said April.

It was Max’s phone. April picked it up, listened, nodded. “Yes,” she said, “he’s here.” She handed it to Max.

“Hello,” he growled.

A female voice asked if he was Mr. Collingwood.

“Yes,” he said.

“Please hold for the president.”

Max froze. He stared at the others, and they stared back. “Who?” April asked, forming the word silently.

Then the familiar clipped voice with its Baltimore accent came on the phone. “Max?”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Eyes went wide all around.

“Max, are you in a place where the others can hear us?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Okay. I know you can put this on a speaker if you want. But it would be better if you didn’t. What I have to say is for you.”

His throat had gone dry. “Mr. President,” he said, “I am very glad to hear from you.”

“And I’m glad to have a chance to talk to you, son. Now listen, things are going to hell in the country. They’re a lot worse than you probably know about. People are losing their jobs, their savings, and God knows where it’s all going to end.”

“Because of the Roundhouse?”

“Because of the Roundhouse. Look, we don’t want to take anything away from the Indians. You know that. The country knows it. But people are scared right now, and we have to get that thing up there under control. We will see that the Indians are taken care of. You have my word. But this thing, it’s like nothing we’ve ever had to deal with before. It’s a national treasure, right? I mean, the Indians didn’t put it there or anything like that. They just happen to own the land.” He paused, possibly to catch his breath, maybe to get his emotions under control. His voice sounded close to breaking.

“I know about the problems, sir.”

“Good. Then you know I have to act. Have to. God help me, Max, the last thing we want to do is to spill blood over this.”

“I think everybody here feels the same way.”

“Of course. Of course.” His voice changed, acquired a tone that suggested they were now in accord. “I know about your father, Max. He served this country damned well.”

“Yes, sir. He did.”

“Now you have a chance.” He paused a beat. “I need your help, son.”

Max knew what was coming. “I don’t have much influence up here, Mr. President.”

“They don’t trust us, do they?”

“No, sir. They don’t.”

“I don’t blame them. Not a damned bit. But I am willing to give my personal assurance that they will be amply compensated for giving up their rights to Johnson’s Ridge.”

“You want me to tell them that?”

“Please. But I also need you to try to persuade them to see our side of this problem. I need you to convince them to give this up, Max. The only thing that can come out of this if they persist is to get themselves killed. Now please, I need your help.”

“Why me, Mr. President? Why didn’t you call Chairman Walker? Or Dr. Cannon?”

“Walker’s mind is made up. Dr. Cannon may be too young to have much influence over a group of Indians. You understand what I mean. I’ll be honest with you, Max. We’ve looked at the profiles of the people up there with you, and you seemed to us to be most open to reason.”

Max took a deep breath. He was the weak link. “I’ll tell them,” he said. “May I ask you something?”

“Go ahead, Max. Ask anything. Anything at all.”

“There’s a rumor here that the government intends to destroy the Roundhouse. Will you give me your word there’s no truth to it?”

Max could hear breathing on the other end. Then: “Max, we wouldn’t do that.”

“Your word, Mr. President?”

“Max. I can promise generous compensation.”

“What’s he saying?” whispered April.

Max shook his head.

“I don’t think that’s enough, Mr. President.”

“Max, you can help. Talk to them.”

“They won’t listen to me. Anyhow, I think they’re right.”

The long silence at the other end drew out until Max wondered if the president was still there. “You know, Max,” he said at last, “if there’s bloodshed, you’ll have to live the rest of your life knowing you could have prevented it.” Max could visualize him, a little man who looked somehow as if he should be running the neighborhood print shop. “I feel sorry for you, son. Well, you do what you have to, and I respect that. But stay on the line, okay? They’ll give you a number so you can get through if you change your mind. If we can get out of this peacefully, I’d be pleased to have you up to the White House.”

Then he was gone, and Max copied down the number and handed it to Adam. Without looking at it, Adam tore it into small pieces. He opened the door and gave it to the wind. And it occurred to Max that the only person who thought that Max Collingwood was going to stay with the Sioux was the president of the United States.

The white Ben at Ten news van rolled east across the prairie, bound for Johnson’s Ridge. Carole could barely contain her excitement. She kept replaying the interview in her mind, relishing the drama. She will stay with her brothers to defend her land. And, at the end, her own closing line, From the Sioux reservation at Devil’s Lake, this is Carole Jensen for NBC News.

And it wasn’t over. Robert Bazell was coming, but in the meantime she would be the network’s voice on the front line. She hoped that Bazell’s plane would get socked in somewhere.

Carole fell back against her seat and let the sheer joy of the moment surge through her.

They passed through the Pembina Mountains, and turned north again on Route 32. After a while they saw the emerald glow in the sky.

Police were steering traffic into a detour. Carole showed her credentials and got waved on. Ahead, at the turnoff to the access road, blinking lights and the white glare of TV lamps spilled onto the highway. Cars and vans were parked on the shoulder on both sides of the two-lane. Chang slowed down and pulled in beside an CNN van.

A cluster of media people had gathered at the access point. An old battered Ford was at the center of attention. She recognized Walker immediately. He had got out of the car and was talking to a deputy. Other police officers were trying without much success to keep the journalists at a distance.

“Set up, Chang,” she said, punching in the studio’s number on her cellular phone.

“Carole?” said her producer. “I was about to call you.”

“We’re here.”

“Okay. Walker just came down off the mountain. CNN and ABC are already on with it. He’s apparently going to make a statement.”

Carole was out of the car and on the move. Chang came around the other side, shouldering his gear.

“We’re doing the intro now,” said the voice from the studio. “Switch to you in twenty seconds.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Carole, throwing a quick look at her partner. “Chang, you ready?”

They got into the group of journalists, pushed and jostled their way forward until they could manage a decent shot of the proceedings. Walker looked frail and old. The police officers were uncomfortable with the turmoil and losing patience. A woman wearing a U.S. marshal pocket bullion was having an animated conversation with Chief Doutable. Carole was good at lip-reading, and she caught enough of the conversation to understand that she was telling the police chief to let something happen.

The reporters pushed forward, and the entire scene was awash in bright lights and stark shadows.

The deputy caught a signal from Doutable and backed away. Several hands thrust microphones toward the Ford. How did the Indians feel about being evicted? Would the Sioux fight? Were the Sioux hiding something? Was it true about the Visitor?

“No,” he said, “we are not hiding anything.” He climbed up onto the hillside, where everyone could see him. “My name is James Walker. I am the chairman of the tribal council.”

“Then what’s the big secret?” shouted someone in back.

Walker looked puzzled. “There is no secret. We have willingly shared the wilderness world with all who came to look. But the Roundhouse is on our land.”

The reporters grew quiet.

“It may be,” Walker continued, “that the road to the stars crosses this ridge. Some people are disturbed by the discoveries made here. They fear them. And we know that when change comes, no one is more adamant in holding on to the past than those in power. They know change is inevitable, but they would, if they could, parcel it out in measured pieces. Grain for chickens.

“We are told by your government,” he continued, “that we must leave. If we do not comply, we will be turned out. And those who have the temerity to remain on their own land are threatened with jail. Or worse. I would ask you, if these persons can seize our property because they are afraid, whose property is safe? If they can lay hands on our future, whose future is secure?”

(Producer’s voice: “Great, Carole. The guy is great! Try to get an exclusive interview when it’s over.”)

“This will not be the first time we have been called on to defend our land with our blood. But I would speak directly to the president of the United States.” Chang moved in. “Mr. President, only you have the power to stop this. The people who will die tonight, on both sides, are innocent. And they are idealistic, or they would not be confronting each other. They are the best that we have, willing to sacrifice themselves for a cause dictated by older men. Stop it while you can.”

Tom Lasker’s ID had done him no good at the roadblock, and he had been turned away without explanation, just like the hordes of tourists. His first reaction was to use the cellular phone to call Max, but he got only a busy signal, the kind of rasping two-tone that usually indicates a trunk line is down.

He had been listening to the news accounts, and he knew about the ultimatum. It had not seriously hit home until now, however, that there was going to be shooting and that people might get killed.

He hesitated, not knowing what to do, feeling he should talk to someone but not knowing who could help. He called Ginny and told her what was going on. “Come home,” she said. “Stay out of it.” Moments later she called him back. “One of the people from the reservation is trying to reach you.” She gave him a number. “Be careful,” she added.

William Hawk picked up on the other end. “Tom,” he said. “We need to get a message through to the chairman.”

April had been unusually quiet. Max wondered whether she was disappointed in him or whether she was simply frightened. They’d returned to the control module and sat moodily, not talking. The air was heavy, and Max, at least, could not say what was on his mind.

It hurt. “April,” he said, “you’re sure you want to stay?”

She looked up at him and needed a moment to focus. “Yes,” she said. “I feel the same way Adam does. I can’t walk out of here and just let them take everything.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Max got up.

She nodded.

“Good luck,” he said.