Ancient Shores

He had formed a line of defense among the mounds, about thirty feet inside the fence, and with his back to the excavation pit. Unfortunately, there would be no retreat. His people could not withdraw into the hole and have any chance of maintaining the fight.

He assumed the marshals would make an effort shortly after midnight to drive them out of their defenses. With luck, the chairman’s rescue party would arrive first. For whatever good they could do.

April was cold. She could not bring herself to believe that there might actually be some killing. She was privileged, perhaps, for her world had never contained gunfire. It was the stuff of the network news and lurid thrillers, but not of reality. Not of her reality.

“Look,” said Pipe.

Three of the cars that had been parked off the access road were moving. Their headlights were off, but it didn’t make any difference because the top of the escarpment was flooded with light from the moon. They were keeping a respectful distance. Pipe spoke into his radio.

April felt her stomach tighten. She wanted to be something more than just a bystander. But she could not bring herself to pick up a rifle.

To a degree, she was responsible for the standoff. They had mishandled this, she and Max. They’d been so busy with the discovery itself that they’d lost sight of the political implications. They could have thrown a blanket over everything, kept it quiet. The media and the press had been inclined to laugh, and April should have allowed them to do so until she’d taken time to think out the consequences. But she’d been too busy enjoying the media attention. Calling press conferences. Blab, blab.

Damn.

One of the three cars, a black late-model Chevrolet, had begun to pick up speed. It pulled ahead of the others, came around to the south, swung in a large circle toward them, and nosed up to the security fence. A rear door opened, and the female marshal got out. She was carrying a bullhorn. “Chairman Walker,” she said.

Her voice boomed through the instrument.

Walker showed himself, stepping out into the open. “What do you want?”

April looked at her watch. Midnight.

The bullhorn fell to the marshal’s side. “Chairman, it’s time to leave.”

The wind played with Walker’s white hair. “No,” he said.

“You’re under a court order.” She came forward to the fence until she could have touched it. “Don’t do this.”

“You leave me no choice.”

Pipe’s hand found April’s shoulder. “Keep down when the shooting starts. Better, get into the ditch and stay close to the wall. After a while they may hold up and offer a chance to surrender. If they do, show them this and give yourself up. But you will need to do it quickly.”

He passed over a large linen handkerchief.

A white flag.

“They’re still dug in around the perimeter.” The radio operator pressed his earphone close and looked at his commander. “Horace, we are locked and loaded.”

Gibson nodded. “Okay,” he said. “What’s the Rock Team status?”

“They are in place and ready to go.”

The plan was simple enough. The weakness of the defenders’ position was the fact that they were strung out with a ditch at their backs. If he could drive them into the ditch, it was over.

Bolt Two would bomb the chain-link fence that screened the mounds. When the fence was down, they would fire concussion grenades into the Indians’ positions and follow up with heavy automatic-weapons fire. One and Three would go in with the ground force while the Rock Team (which was settled in a sheltered area twenty feet below the edge of the cliff) came over the top. With luck, the battle would be over within seconds.

There was a delay while Boomer, Max, and two of the visitors (who introduced themselves as Wally and Scott) finished putting the skis on the C—47. They were on a seldom-used strip behind the National Guard armory. When the aircraft was ready, the passengers hurried out of Sundown’s offices and boarded. The cargo hold had benches, but it wasn’t very comfortable.

Max, with a heavy heart, watched them disappear inside, one by one. Hawk walked over and stood beside him. “Thank you,” he said. “I know you don’t want to do this.”

“I don’t guess anybody does,” said Max.

He informed the tower he was headed for Fort Moxie. They gave him clearance as he finished his preflight check.

Scott sat down in the copilot’s seat. “Mind?”

“No,” said Max. “You fly one of these?”

“I’m just here to watch a pro, Max,” he said casually.

Max wondered whether the shooting wouldn’t all be over by the time they arrived. He gu

As he lifted into the air he was trying to visualize the summit at Johnson’s Ridge. He’d probably have to come in from the southwest. The landing space would be short, and the longest run would take him toward the cliff edge. He could angle more toward the north, where he would be pointed at the trees instead of over the side. But that would cut his available space by about sixty yards.

He wished Ceil were here.

The mood in the cargo hold was subdued.

“Maybe that’s them,” April said, pointing at a lone helicopter.

“I don’t think so.” Pipe peered through his binoculars. “That thing’s got too many guns sticking out of it.” He looked at April. “Keep down,” he said.

Fear whispered through her.

The helicopter kept its distance, tracking back and forth at a range of about three hundred yards. Adam came in behind them and knelt beside the rocket launcher. “All right, Will. You sure you know how to use it?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “But I still think we should take the chopper out.”

“No. Stay with the plan.”

Pipe grunted disapproval, loaded the weapon, and put it on his shoulder.

“All we’re doing,” he complained, “is alerting them that we have the launcher.”

“That’s correct, Will. That’s exactly right.” Adam’s hand squeezed April’s shoulder. “We’ll be okay,” he said.

“Ready,” said Pipe.

The chopper, apparently on cue, veered and raced toward the defenses. April saw flashes of light beneath its pods, and Adam pushed her to the ground.

“Fire,” Adam said.

The launcher kicked, and the rocket rode a tail of fire out past the incoming aircraft. Simultaneously a series of explosions ripped the ground in front of her. Metal fragments thunked into the earth, and black smoke blew over them. The helicopter roared overhead, and the distant tattoo of rifle fire began.

A long section of the fence was gone as surely as if it had never existed, replaced by a series of burning craters.

“Everybody all right?” asked Adam.

One by one they answered up.

“Okay,” he said. “Now they know for sure that we have the launcher. Let’s see if they keep their distance.”

“This is an NBC news report.”

The sitcom Angie just dropped off the screen, and Tom Brokaw appeared standing in front of a display showing the location of Johnson’s Ridge. “Firing has been reported in the vicinity of the Roundhouse. We believe that U.S. marshals have begun an effort to seize the structure by force from a group of Sioux who have refused to comply with a court order to abandon the site. Details are sketchy at this hour because of a general news blackout. A press conference is scheduled twenty minutes from now. Meantime, here’s what we know….”

“Son of a bitch.” Gibson in one of the choppers hit the switch on the phone. “Rock Team, hold off till you hear from me.”

Charlie Evans and his two cliffhangers were waiting on a narrow shelf twenty feet below the summit. “Roger,” said Charlie.

“It’ll be a few minutes.” He switched frequencies. “Bolt Three.”

“Bolt Three here.”

“Follow us down.”

Gibson was not going to allow the bastards to blast one of his Blackhawks. He descended in a wooded area on the south and gathered his assault force. He had nine people at his disposal, plus the Rock Team. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We are going to have to do it the hard way.”