Ancient Shores

31

As soon as it became apparent the Sioux would not back down, Elizabeth Silvera began listening in on telephone conversations. She was aware of Walker’s question to Adam, How far are you prepared to go? and of the response. She also understood from his phone conversation with Walter Asquith, the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer, that Walker planned some sort of demonstration by outsiders. She had no concrete information. She had listened to other conversations before they shut down communications, intercepts during which the Native Americans reassured their families not that they would be okay but that they could be relied on to defend the birthright. She wondered if they had guessed she was listening and if the remarks were being made specifically for her benefit. And finally she had listened to Max’s conversation with the president. Max’s refusal to take a stand had elicited her indignation and simultaneously persuaded her that force would be necessary. If the Sioux were going to accept a settlement, that would have been the time to do it.

This was not an assignment she was happy with. Not that she had moral or political reservations. But the situation was explosive, with a lot of risk professionally and relatively little to gain. If she got everything right here, she would simply pass the package on to SOG, which would get the credit. In the meantime, if she screwed up anything at all, it would be her career.

She had officially turned the operation over to SOG during the late afternoon. Horace Gibson, the group commander, had arrived to take charge of things personally. Considering how high-profile the case was, she’d expected no less. Elizabeth had met Gibson once before, and she didn’t care much for him. There was a little too much bravado in his manner. Gibson thought highly of himself and made no secret of his opinion that his people were special, the organization’s elite. He made Elizabeth feel like a peasant.

On this occasion, though, she could almost feel sorry for him. She knew what his instructions were: Take the Roundhouse quickly, to avoid a prolonged media circus; do it without losing anybody; and if possible, do it without hurting any of the Indians.

Good luck.

She knew Horace well enough to conclude that the Indians better look out.

NBC’s Special Edition, interview of Attorney General Christian Polk by Tom Brokaw

Brokaw: Mr. Polk, we’ve just watched the plea made by James Walker for restraint and his charge that the government is trying to steal land that belongs to the Sioux. How do you respond to that?

Polk: Tom, we sympathize with Chairman Walker and the Sioux. I would like to make it clear that the action we have taken is, we feel, in everyone’s best interest. Let me reiterate that we are not stealing the property. We are only asking for oversight.

Brokaw: What precisely does oversight mean, Mr. Polk? Who will actually control operations at the Roundhouse?

Polk: Why, the Sioux, of course. The only reason we will be there is to ensure that—Look, Tom, this is a unique situation. We’ve never seen anything like this before. We have a duty to see that appropriate safeguards are maintained. We just don’t know what we’re dealing with, and we owe it to the American people to stay on top of this. There’s nothing unreasonable about that.

Brokaw: Exactly what sort of threat worries you?

Polk: The first thing we want to do is to reassure everyone. There have been stories that something came out of the Roundhouse—

Brokaw: You don’t really believe that, do you?

Polk: No. I personally do not. But that’s not the issue. A lot of people do. And we have to reassure them.

Brokaw: So you plan to take Sioux property by force because some people in North Dakota are getting nervous?

Polk: There are other factors. We don’t know what hazards there might be. Disease, for example. That is a primary concern. We have to control these ports.

Brokaw: It appears that the Sioux will not comply with the court order.

Polk: That’s not really an option for them.

Brokaw: That might be their call rather than yours. Mr. Polk, are you prepared to use force?

Polk: I’m sure it won’t come to that.

Brokaw: But will you use force if you have to?

Polk: We have every confidence this can be settled peacefully.

Brokaw: Thank you, sir.

Polk: Thank you, Tom.

Horace Gibson sat in his temporary command post on a hilltop several miles north of Johnson’s Ridge, going over the latest pictures from the target area and the weather updates. He’d done his homework on Adam Sky and did not look for any mistakes in the defense. He was also not sure what kind of weapons Sky might be able to deploy.

The Sioux would dig in, using the mounds as cover.

Gibson’s preference would have been to drop black smoke on them and follow up with concussion grenades. Blind them, shake them up, and use the choppers to move in before they could regroup. But winds of forty miles per hour were blowing across the top of the escarpment and were expected to worsen during the night. So there would be no smoke to cover an assault. The wind conditions wouldn’t help chopper maneuverability, either, but he could manage.

Left to his own devices, Horace would have simply sealed off the area and waited out the defenders. But pressure was coming, he believed, all the way from the White House. Get it done.

He didn’t like the combat area. The defenses looked out over flat ground with no cover. It was a killing zone.

His most practical tactic was to attack the mounds with the Blackhawks and try to drive the defenders into the pit. Or sow enough confusion to cover a landing.

Elizabeth Silvera had taken her post, with Chief Doutable and half a dozen police officers armed with rifles, on the escarpment about a quarter-mile west of the top of the access road. The position was exposed, should the Sioux begin shooting, but it offered an excellent view of the defenders across the top of the excavation. The mounds were in shadow, and Sky had erected tarpaulins on a framework of wooden parts to prevent his people from being silhouetted against the glow from the Roundhouse. But it was a clear night and there was a bright moon. A reconnaissance helicopter had been doing occasional sweeps and now hovered over the north side of the escarpment.

Doutable had been relieved to learn that the SOG team would not ask for, and did not want, armed assistance. All they needed from local police was an assurance that no unauthorized persons would wander onto the escarpment. That was shorthand for the media.

Elizabeth knew that when it came, it would be very quick. She’d been through something like this once before with Gibson. She was waiting now for a coded report that would give her the time of the assault and provide any special instructions the commander would have for her. Doutable was saying something that she wasn’t really listening to when she became aware of the sound of another aircraft.

It wasn’t one of the Blackhawks.

That was strange. There shouldn’t have been anyone in the sky over the ridge except marshals.

A gray propeller-driven plane was approaching from the south. She raised her binoculars. It carried U.S. military markings.

“What the hell’s going on?” she muttered to herself, and switched on her link to the helicopter. “Bolt One,” she said. “This is Reluctant. We’ve got an intruder.”

“I see him,” came the response.

“Warn him away.”

“Reluctant, I have been trying to talk to him for about a minute. He does not respond.”

The plane was down low and coming fast.

“Please advise, Reluctant.”

“Warn him to leave the area or be fired on.”

“That’s a roger.”

The Blackhawk was keeping pace with the gray plane, riding about a thousand feet above it.

“Reluctant, that’s an old Avenger,” said the helicopter. “World War II fighter.” Another pause. “He does not answer.”

“Who is it?” she asked. “Is there an ID?”

The helicopter relayed its tail number, which Doutable scribbled down. “Give me a minute,” he said. He gave the number to one of the cruisers.

The Avenger was coming in on the deck.

Gibson came on the circuit. “Bolt One,” he said. “Fire a warning round.”

The Blackhawk fired in front of the vintage aircraft, directly across its line of sight. The Avenger wavered slightly but kept coming.

“It belongs to a guy named Tom Lasker,” said Doutable. “The plane’s based at Fort Moxie.”

“Lasker,” she said. “I know him. He’s the guy with the boat.”

At that moment the Avenger roared over the trenches. Part of it seemed to fall away. It banked west and started gaining altitude.

“Bolt One,” she said, “break off.” She turned to Doutable. “Have someone waiting for him when he lands. I think we’ll want to talk to him.”

“It dropped something,” said one of the police officers.

Elizabeth turned her binoculars on the excavation.

“Reluctant, this is Bolt One. The Indians have come out of their hole. They’re looking for something.”

“Roger.”

“There are two of them out front, beyond the ring of ditches. Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” He nodded. “Whatever it is, I think they’ve found it.”

Elizabeth watched through her own binoculars while the Sioux retreated back into the crosswork of ditches and mounds. What was so important that Lasker was willing to challenge a Blackhawk?

Max, of course, had recognized the Avenger immediately, and he had watched the drama from his car, cringing, waiting for the helicopter to take Lasker out.

But it had not happened. And now he sat with his engine running, anxious to be away. He was angry, and his conscience was eating at him, digesting him whole. But he had already put his life on the line once for this project, had gone into that goddamn yellow light with no assurance it wouldn’t just turn him into a cloud of atoms. Now they were all looking at him as if he were Benedict Arnold. Someone not fit to be seen with.

Well, not all of them. Only April, actually. But that was the one that hurt. She’d still have been sitting on that beach if Max hadn’t gone after her.

He sympathized with Adam and the others. But this wasn’t his fight. If she wanted to throw her life away, that was up to her. He had no intention of getting killed over it. None. But the way she had looked at him when he said he was leaving—

Son of a bitch.

He turned on his headlights and started moving slowly toward the access road. He knew the police were over there, and he could assume they were armed and probably a little nervous. That was risk enough for him.

But he saw movement behind him.

Someone waving. Adam.

Max slowed down, circled, and started back.

“Max.” Adam came abreast of the car. “Can you do something for us?”

Max squirmed. “What was Tom doing here?” he asked.

Adam held out a piece of paper. “Delivering this.”

Max held it close to his map light. It was from William Hawk.

Chairman:

Your people are coming. Two charter flights inbound to Grand Forks at about 11:00 P.M. I am sending escort.

Max looked up. “What’s this? Reinforcements?”

“Some people the Chairman thinks can stop this.”

Max sighed. “I hate to say this, but the chairman’s losing it.”

“Maybe,” said Adam. “But it’s all we have. There are twelve or thirteen people coming in on the two flights.”

“The problem is,” said Max, “that even if they could help, you can’t get them here.”

“That’s right. The roads are blocked.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Fly them in,” said Adam. “Talk to your friends at Blue Jay. Rent a couple of helicopters.”

“You’re crazy. Blue Jay’s not going to fly anybody in here. They damned near shot Tom down.”

“They’re friends of yours,” said Adam. “Offer them a lot of money. Make it worth their while.”

Max sat staring over the top of his steering wheel at the dark patch of woods that masked the access road. One of the police cruisers had turned on its blinker. Otherwise, nothing was moving.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said.

Police were waiting for him at the top of the access road. They held him while one of the cars that had been parked out on the escarpment approached and stopped. Elizabeth Silvera. “Nice to see you, Mr. Collingwood. Would you step out of the car, please?”

He complied.

“Is anyone else going to leave?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

“How about Cannon?”

“She thinks you people are going to destroy the Roundhouse.”

“I take it that’s a no.”

“That’s a no.” Max folded his arms, defensively because he had been in the company of people who were challenging duly constituted authority, guiltily because he was abandoning his friends.

“What have they got up there?” she asked, softening her tone, adapting an almost cordial we’re-all-in-this-together demeanor.

“Beg pardon?”

“Weapons. What do they have?”

“I don’t know. Sidearms. Rifles. They’ve got rifles. I don’t know what else.” Strictly speaking, that was the truth. Max did not have the details.

Silvera nodded. “What did the plane drop?” she asked.

Max was ready for the question. “Message from the tribe. To let everyone know they had their support.”

“That’s it?” she asked.

“That’s it. It’s a custom. Message of support for the warriors. Goes back hundreds of years.”

She never blinked. “Mr. Collingwood, do you have anything to tell us that would help us end this peacefully?”

“Yeah.” Max drew himself up to his full height. “Go away. Leave them alone.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” She looked disgusted. “Where are you going to be staying?”

“The Northstar. In Fort Moxie.”

“Okay. Stay close. We might want to talk to you again.”

“Sure,” Max said.

He kept an eye on his rear to see whether he was being followed. The road stayed empty. He debated calling Jake Thoraldson to ask him to get the Lightning ready, but he suspected the conversation would be overheard. Consequently he was delayed a half-hour at the Fort Moxie airport while the plane was brought out and warmed up.

At a little after ten he taxied onto the runway, turned into the wind, and gunned the engines. The twin liquid-cooled Allisons rumbled reassuringly. Jake cleared him for takeoff, a gesture that inevitably contained a hint of absurdity at Fort Moxie, where the pilot was always looking at empty skies. He engaged the throttle, and the old warbird began to move.

Maybe it was the roar of the engines, the wind rushing beneath the nacelles, the geometry of the Lightning. Maybe it was his combat pilot’s genes kicking in. Whatever it might have been, his fears drained off as the landing strip fell away. This was the plane that had turned the tide in the Pacific. He looked through the gunsight. The weapons cluster was concentrated in the nose, consisting of a 20-mm cannon and four.50-caliber machine guns. Its firepower, added to the Lightning’s ability to exceed four hundred miles per hour, had been irresistible. The Germans had called it der Gabelschwanz Teufel—the Fork-Tailed Devil.

The guns were disabled now, but for a wild moment Max wished he had them available.

He was leveling off at nine thousand feet when he saw another plane. It was at about fourteen thousand feet, well to the north. Too far to identify, but it occurred to him he should assume they would be watching.

He was tempted to fly over the Roundhouse, dip his wings, deliver some sign that Adam could trust him. But he knew it would be prudent not to draw anyone’s attention.

The other plane was propeller-driven, so he would have no trouble outrunning it. But he couldn’t outrun its radar. Still, even if they tracked him into Grand Forks, which they would undoubtedly do, so what? They would lose interest once he was on the ground.

He made a long, casual turn toward the south and goosed the Lightning.

Twenty minutes later he landed at Casper Field and rolled to a stop in front of a series of nondescript terminals. Casper was home to several freight forwarders, a spraying service, and a flying school. And to Blue Jay Air Transport. He climbed out of the plane almost before it had come to a stop and hurried into the little washed-out yellow building that housed Blue Jay’s business offices.

He’d been listening to air traffic control out of Grand Forks, and he knew that one of his charters was already on approach and the other was about thirty minutes out. The Sioux had sent someone to meet the planes, but Max knew he was going to have to coordinate things if they were to have any chance of getting Walker’s mysterious friends back to the ridge in time to do any good. He found a pay phone and put in a quarter.

Bill Davis sounded as if he’d been in bed. “Say all that again, Max?”

“Got a job for two choppers, about a dozen passengers. And a couple people from the TV station. Say fourteen, fifteen in all.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“I can’t get anything out that quickly, Max. I don’t even know who’s available.”

“It’s an emergency,” said Max. “We’ll pay double your rates. And a bonus for the pilots.”

“How much?”

“A thousand. Each.”

He considered it. “Tell you what I’ll do. You say you need two aircraft?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Look, I can only get one guy on this kind of short notice. But I’ll fly the second chopper myself.”

Max thanked him and punched in another number.

“KLMR-TV. If you wish to speak with the advertising department, press one. If…”

Max looked at his watch. It was twenty to eleven. He listened through the litany of instructions, and when the news desk came up, he pushed the appropriate button.

“News desk.”

“This is Max Collingwood. One of the people from the Roundhouse. I’d like to speak with the news director.”

“Hold one moment, please.”

There was a brief silence. Then a familiar baritone was on the line. “Hello. This is Ben Markey. Collingwood, is that really you?”

“Yes. It’s really me.”

“You’re supposed to be on top of the ridge. Are you calling from the ridge?”

“No. Listen, I don’t have much time to talk, but I can offer you a hell of a story.”

“Okay.” Max could hear the man light up over the phone. “Where can we meet?”

Max gave him instructions, hung up, and called the airport tower.

“Operations,” said a male voice.

“Duty officer, please.” Max was grateful not to have to deal with another automated call-answering system.

“May I tell her who’s calling?”

“Max Collingwood. Sundown Aviation.”

“Hang on, Mr. Collingwood.”

A long delay, during which he was twice assured that the duty officer would be with him presently. Then a familiar voice: “Hello, Max.”

Max knew most of the senior air people at Grand Forks. This was Mary Hopkins. She was a former vice president of the Dakota Aviation Association. She was tall, quiet, unassuming, married to an irritating stock brokerage account executive. “Mary,” he said into the receiver, “I know you’re busy.”

“It’s okay. What can I do for you?”

“There are two charter flights coming in. One of them must be landing about now. The other is close behind.”

“Okay,” she said. “I see two.”

“I’m going to bring in a couple of choppers from Blue Jay to pick up the passengers. If you could arrange to keep them together and allow a direct transfer, I’d be grateful.”

“You want to keep the passengers in the planes until the helicopters get here?”

“Yes. Just park them out somewhere, if you can, where they’ll be out of the way, and we’ll bring the choppers in right alongside. Okay?”

“Max—”

He knew this violated normal procedure and that she wasn’t happy with the idea. “I wouldn’t ask, Mary. You know that. But this is important. Lives depend on it.”

“This has to do with the business up on the border?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You could say that.”

“I’ll do what I can,” she said. “Where can I reach you?”

Bill Davis was three hundred pounds of profit motive and cynicism with a dry sense of humor and four divorces. He had recently suffered a minor heart attack and now had a tendency to live in the past, to talk as if his days were numbered.

His paneled office was filled with pictures of aircraft and pilots. A signed photo of John Wayne guarded the top of a credenza.

“Good to see you, Max,” Davis said. “I’ve got George coming down. Where are we going?” He filled a coffee cup and held it out.

Max took it. “The ridge,” he said.

Davis frowned. “Isn’t that where they’re trying to get the Indians out? National Guard, right?”

“Not the Guard,” said Max. “U.S. marshals. They’re going to shut the place down tomorrow, and the Sioux don’t want to leave.”

“Hell, Max, I can’t send anyone into that.”

“Make it two thousand, Bill.”

“Then you do expect trouble?”

“No, I don’t. I just don’t have the time to argue.”

Horace did his final reconnaissance at a little after eleven and returned to the command post. His first act was to call Carl.

“This is not good,” he said.

“What’s the problem, Horace?”

“The wind. Wait one night, Carl. Give us a chance to use the smoke. Otherwise it could be a bloodbath out there. Everything’s too exposed.”

“Can’t do it,” said Rossini.

“Son of a bitch, Carl. We can’t wait one night? Listen!” He held up the receiver so Rossini could hear the wind roar. “What the hell is the big hurry?”

“I’m sorry, Horace,” he said. “Get it done before dawn. I don’t care what it takes.”

“Then I’m going to work over the mounds before I put anybody on the ground. You’re going to have a stack of dead Indians in the morning. Is that what you want?”

“Whatever it takes, Horace.”

Horace banged the phone down. It missed its cradle and fell into the snow.

“Do not aim to kill,” said the chairman, “except as a last resort.”

“Why?” objected Little Ghost. “We are going to be in a war.”

Walker nodded. “I know. But time’s with us. The longer we can delay the decision, the better for us.”

They were gathered in a small circle at the edge of the pit. The wind howled against the tarps that shielded them from the glow of the Roundhouse.

“Please explain,” said Andrea.

“Help is coming. If we’re still here when it arrives, and if the situation by then isn’t beyond retrieving, I think we can survive the night. And maybe keep the wilderness.”

“But they’ll be trying to kill us. Why should we not—”

“Because once we spill blood,” he said, “there’ll be no stopping it. Keep down. Shoot back. But take no lives. Unless you must.”

Adam took Andrea Hawk and George Freewater aside. “I want you two on the flanks,” he said. “George, out by the parking lot. Be careful. They’ll have a problem. We’re going to show them they can’t bring helicopters in with impunity. And they can’t advance directly on us. So they’ll have to try a trick play. Maybe they’ll try to bypass us and seize the Roundhouse.”

“That wouldn’t accomplish anything,” said George. “They’d be down in the ditch.”

“They’d have the Roundhouse. That would make everything else moot. They might also try an end run.” He looked at Andrea. “That would probably mean coming up the face of the cliff. I looked down and I couldn’t see anything. But I’d think about trying it if I were on the other side.”

“Will there be a signal to open fire?” asked Andrea.

Adam was standing with his face in shadow. “No. Use your judgment. But we want them to fire the first shot.”

Grand Forks International Airport is not busy in the sense that O’Hare or Hartsfield is busy. But it services several major airlines and maintains a steady stream of traffic.

The two charter jets were parked on an apron immediately outside the administrative offices at the main terminal. Max circled overhead while the tower directed the Blue Jay helicopters down through a stiff wind.

Max talked to the charter pilots, advising them that he was coordinating the flight and that he wanted to transfer the passengers directly to the helicopters, and to do it as quickly as possible.

They acknowledged, and he got his own instructions from the tower, which vectored him in from the west and, at his request, directed him to a service hangar. He turned the Lightning over to the maintenance people and got a ride in a baggage carrier to the transfer point. When he arrived, several passengers had already climbed into the helicopters. Others were waiting their turn to board. An airport worker was helping load a wheelchair. Ben Markey was there with a cameraman. Max recognized Walter Asquith, who had visited the escarpment and who wanted to do a book about the Roundhouse. One or two of the others looked vaguely familiar, and Max was about to ask for names when he heard his own. He turned and saw William Hawk approaching.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done, Max,” he said.

“My pleasure,” said Max. “I hope it works out.”

Hawk was tall and broad-shouldered. There was anger in his dark eyes, and Max could easily imagine him on horseback, leading a charge against the Seventh Cavalry.

Bill Davis waved at them from the pilot’s seat. “Councilman,” he said, raising his voice over the roar of the engines, “we should get moving if you want to be there by midnight.”

Hawk looked at Max. “Are you coming, Max?”

“No,” he said. And then, weakly, “You’ll need the space.”

Hawk offered his hand. “Good luck, Max,” he said.

It was a curious remark under the circumstances. “And you, Councilman.” Ben Markey was already deep in conversation with the passengers, but Hawk was climbing in and the rotors were drowning out everything.

The first chopper lifted off, and someone put a hand on Hawk’s shoulder to make sure he was safely inside. Then Davis’s aircraft, too, was rising, backlit by the moon.

They arced out over the terminal and started north. Max watched them go. Crazy. They’d be lucky if they didn’t all get killed.

Max had done the right thing. He’d set things up, got Walker’s people off and moving, and now he could go home and watch it on TV.

The roar of the helicopters faded to a murmur and then gave way to the sound of an incoming jet.

He needed a beer before he went home, but he never drank when he was about to get into a cockpit. Tonight, though, might qualify for an exception. He stood staring at the sky, trying to make up his mind. And he heard the helicopters again.

Coming back.

He watched, saw their lights reappear.

Son of a bitch. What now? He hurried inside the terminal, found a phone, and called the tower. Within a minute he had Mary.

“Feds,” she said.