Ancient Shores

“They’re coming,” said Little Ghost. “Pass the word.”

Shadows had come out of the woods and were gliding toward them. “Everybody sit tight,” said Adam.

The marshals drew closer, moving in a broken line. They were in black and were hard to pick up against the woods, even in the moonlight. Adam waited until they were within about 150 yards. Then he tapped Little Ghost on the shoulder. “Now, John,” he said. “Keep it high.”

Little Ghost fired a half-dozen rounds at the stars. The shadows stopped, waited, and came on again.

“Adam,” said Little Ghost, “it’s not going to work. If we’re going to stop them, we better do it.”

Max saw the flashes from about ten miles out. “We’re too late,” he told Scott.

The radio came alive: “C—47, you are in a restricted air zone.”

“Uh, that’s a roger,” said Max. “I’m lost.”

“Suggest you go to two-seven-zero.”

“Stay on course,” said Scott.

Max frowned. “That’s a war up there. We’re too late to stop it.”

“Maybe not.”

Okay, Max thought. In for a nickel…

The radar picked up a blip in the north. “Coming for us,” said Scott.

Max nodded and tried to look as if he did this kind of thing every day. He snapped on the intercom. “Okay, folks,” he told the cargo hold, “we’re going to be on the ground in a couple of minutes. Buckle in.”

Ahead, the chain of ridges and promontories rose out of the plain. He picked out Johnson’s and adjusted course slightly to the south. Visibility was good, and the wind was directly out of the northeast at about forty knots. “Not the best weather,” he said.

His copilot nodded. “You’ll do fine.”

The radio told him in cold tones he was subject to arrest.

Max dropped to two thousand feet, cut speed, and, five miles out, went to approach flaps. The landing area was smaller than he remembered. He saw the Roundhouse and the fires.

An armored helicopter drew alongside. Max looked out his window. A man dressed in black battle fatigues sat in the open door with a rifle in his lap.

The radio burped. “C—47, turn around. You are in violation.”

The escarpment was coming up fast. He eased back on the yoke.

A blast of automatic-weapons fire and tracers cut across his nose. “We will fire on you if necessary.”

“They’re bluffing,” said Scott.

Max passed over a swatch of trees, throttled down, and felt the main landing gear touch.

The plane lifted, settled again.

Voices were screaming in his earphones. The tail gear, which was also wearing a ski, made contact.

He cut power. The problem with the ski landing was that there were no brakes available. He couldn’t even reverse engines. It was simply a matter of letting the aircraft come to a stop on its own.

The Roundhouse was off on his right. He could hear the stutter of automatic weapons.

“What’s at the end of the field?” asked his copilot.

“Another short flight,” he said.

The Roundhouse slid by. In back his passengers were silent. Snow hissed beneath the skis.

They passed between the parking lot and a couple of rapidly retreating police cruisers. The cars threw up snow.

Ahead, at the limit of his lights, he was looking at a void.

He thought briefly about gu

The noise in his earphones had ceased.

He hung on.

They bounced over a ripple in the snow.

The void yawned larger. And spread horizon to horizon.

The plane slowed.

And stopped.

A Blackhawk roared past.

Max couldn’t see much ground in front. “Everybody stay put,” he told the passengers.

“Nice landing, Max,” said his copilot.

He glanced through his side window, unbuckled, and looked out the other side. “Plenty of room,” he said, sitting back down. He revved the left engine.

“Hey,” said Scott, “be careful.”

“It’s okay,” said Max. “This baby’ll turn on a dime.”

It was true. Max got some protests from the hold, and the voice in his earphones came back, but he brought the aircraft around and taxied toward the Roundhouse.

While Max turned the plane, Gibson recognized his opportunity.

Moments later, the defenders ducked as a barrage of heavy fire came their way. On the left side of the defenses, Andrea saw a grappling hook loop up over the cliff edge and bite into the earth.

“The plane’s coming this way,” said Gibson’s senior deputy. Its lights illuminated the parking lot as it passed and headed in the general direction of Horace’s position.

“It damn sure is. What the hell are those fools trying to do?”

His radio operator pressed his headphones to his ears. “Bolt Two requests instructions.”

“To do what?”

“Shoot, I guess, Horace.”

“Goddamn, no. They must all be crazy out there.”

The operator was listening again. “The Rock Team’s over the top.”

Max angled toward the Roundhouse. The night was filled with gunfire.

Asquith’s voice came from the back: “Can’t we move any faster than this?”

And the linebacker: “This is no time for halfway measures, Max.”

Several of the others, in a surprisingly wide range of tones, supported the sentiment. Max throttled up and made directly for the hole in the security fence, for the middle of the crossfire. Bullets clattered against the fuselage, and he thought how angry Ceil was going to be when she got her plane back. One of the windows blew out.

He wheeled up against a mound of earth, could go no farther. “Okay,” he said, cutting the engines.

In back, they were already throwing open the cargo door. Ben Markey’s cameraman, a tall, blond kid about twenty years old, knelt in the opening, adjusting his equipment. When he was ready, he turned on the lights. “Okay,” he said. “Go.”

Ben Markey, who was already talking into his microphone, nodded to Walter Asquith, who had been standing in the doorway. Asquith leaped out of the aircraft into a spray of bullets. One caught him in the leg and another in the chest. He crashed heavily into the snow.

Gibson, horrified, saw the incident from his forward position, saw two other people jump out of the plane and throw themselves across the man on the ground to shield him, saw the open cargo door and the i

He suddenly realized he was on national television. He saw Ben Markey, sprawled on the ground, trying to avoid being shot, but talking into a microphone. He saw the cameraman pa

In those few seconds the gunfire trailed off and stopped.

The black government car pulled up. Elizabeth got out on the run. “What the hell’s going on here?” she demanded. She saw Asquith and caught her breath. “What happened?”

The passengers were still coming out of the plane, climbing down one by one, some managing it easily, others needing help. Police cars pulled up, lights blinking. The wheelchair came out. “Who are you people?” Elizabeth demanded.

A couple gave names, but Gibson was too far away to hear. She looked in his direction. Horace was thinking how best to handle it: Round these people up, but take advantage of the cease-fire to undercut the position of the Native Americans. He could do it. He knew he could.

“You can see what’s happening here,” Markey told his microphone. “Walter Asquith, wi

Asquith? thought Gibson. My God. There’ll be hell to pay.

The linebacker knelt beside Asquith, trying to stop the bleeding, while a man with a gray beard tried to make him comfortable. “You guys got a medic here anywhere?” the woman demanded as an ambulance pulled up.