Ancient Shores Part 37

He pa.s.sed 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 into the ditch, it was over. 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 pa.s.sengers 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 gunned the engines, and the old cargo plane began to move.

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 s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.ce 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 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...." 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 b.i.t.c.h." Gibson in one of the choppers. .h.i.t 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds to blast one of his Blackhawks. He descended in a wooded area on the south and gathered his a.s.sault 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."

"They're coming," said Little Ghost. "Pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sengers were silent. Snow hissed beneath the skis.

They pa.s.sed 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 gunning the engines to try to get back into the air or yanking the aircraft left to spill it into the trees. But it was really too late to do anything except ride the plane to the end.

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 pa.s.sengers.