Ancient Shores

by Jack McDevitt

  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 t
akes, 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.

  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.

  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.