Ancient Shores

“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.

32

A faithful friend is a strong defense.

—Ecclesiasticus 6:14

Max argued for a while with Bill Davis. He offered more money, a lot more, but Davis wouldn’t bite, and Max couldn’t blame him. He’d be trading in his license, and probably applying for jail time, if he defied the tower’s order to return.

“Isn’t there another carrier we can use?” asked William Hawk, his gaze shifting nervously between Max and the passengers, as if they might give up and go away.

“Not that I know of.”

“What about you, Max?” said Ben Markey. Markey’s ability to blend a kind of lighthearted mockery with rock-hard integrity, the ability which made him the area’s foremost anchor, put Max on the defensive. “Don’t you have an airline?”

“No. Sundown restores and sells antique aircraft. We aren’t a carrier.”

Hawk was looking at his watch. “Max, there’s got to be a way.”

Max was sorry he hadn’t got into the air quicker. He could have been on his way to Fargo now.

But maybe there was an alternative. He picked up a phone and punched in Ceil’s number. It rang into an answering machine. He identified himself and waited for her to cut in. When she didn’t, he tried the corporate number. Boomer Clavis picked it up. “Thor Air Cargo,” he said.

“Boomer, this is Max. Is Ceil there?”

“How ya doin’, Max?” he said. “I can give you her number. She’s in Florida.”

And that was it. “When’s she due back?”

“Uh, Wednesday, maybe. They’re opening an air museum in Tampa.”

Max said nothing.

“Hold on, Max. Let me get her number.”

“No. Don’t bother. It’s not going to do me any good.” He stared at the phone, then looked up at the people gathered around him. They were an ordinary-looking group. Twelve men and a woman. Middle-aged, mostly. Could have been traveling to Miami for the weekend and not looked at all out of place.

Their eyes were fixed on him. Max hung up. “Nothing I can do,” he said.

A tall, white-haired man suggested they hire some cars.

“They would not let us through,” said Hawk. “The only way in is by air.”

The woman looked at Max. “Who is Ceil?”

“She owns a C—47. And she’s a pilot.”

“What’s a C—47?” asked Hawk.

“It’s a cargo plane. I thought there was a chance she’d be willing to try landing on the escarpment. She’s done it before.”

One of the visitors was confined to a motorized wheelchair. In a synthesized voice he asked, “Can you fly the C—47?”

“Me? No.”

“Have you ever flown it?” asked a lean, bearded man in back.

“Yes,” said Max. “But I couldn’t land it on the top of the ridge.”

One of the visitors looked like a retired pro linebacker. He was redheaded, and there was an intensity in his eyes that Max found unsettling. Now those eyes locked on Max. “Why not?” he asked.

“Because there’s still snow up there, for one thing. And it’s dark.”

“Max—your name is Max?” said the linebacker.

“Yes.”

“You’re all we’ve got, Max. I’m willing to try it if you are.” The man looked around at the others, who nodded agreement.

“It’s not a good idea,” said Max.

“Call the Boomer back,” said the woman. “And let’s get this show on the road.”

A voice on the fringe of the group added, “Tell him to put the skis on. And Max, if you need help with the plane, we’ve got a couple more pilots here.”

Reluctantly Max thanked him. He could see no way out, so he allowed himself to be hurried through the terminal and out onto the street, where they commandeered five taxis. He gave the drivers instructions, promised fifty-dollar tips for quick delivery, and climbed into the last taxi himself, with the woman and the linebacker. They lurched away from the curb. “You know,” said the woman, “you people don’t have this very well organized.”

Max looked for a smile but didn’t see one.

A few minutes later they were on I—29, barreling south.

The wind blew steadily across the ridge. April was crouched with Will Pipe behind one of the mounds. The chain-link fence that circled the excavation would be taken out first, Pipe was saying. Adam admired her—she was making a blood offering and asking nothing in return. Her presence lent a sense that they were not really alone. He was grateful to her and hoped she would survive the night.