Ancient Shores Part 35

Police were waiting for him at the top of the access road. They held him while one of the cars that had been parked out on the escarpment approached and stopped. Elizabeth Silvera. "Nice to see you, Mr. Collingwood. Would you step out of the car, please?"

He complied.

"Is anyone else going to leave?"

"Don't know," he said. "I don't think so."

"How about Cannon?"

"She thinks you people are going to destroy the Roundhouse."

"I take it that's a no."

"That's a no." Max folded his arms, defensively because he had been in the company of people who were challenging duly const.i.tuted authority, guiltily because he was abandoning his friends.

"What have they got up there?" she asked, softening her tone, adapting an almost cordial we're-all-in-this-together demeanor.

"Beg pardon?"

"Weapons. What do they have?"

"I don't know. Sidearms. Rifles. They've got rifles. I don't know what else." Strictly speaking, that was the truth. Max did not have the details.

Silvera nodded. "What did the plane drop?" she asked.

Max was ready for the question. "Message from the tribe. To let everyone know they had their support."

"That's it?" she asked.

"That's it. It's a custom. Message of support for the warriors. Goes back hundreds of years."

She never blinked. "Mr. Collingwood, do you have anything to tell us that would help us end this peacefully?"

"Yeah." Max drew himself up to his full height. "Go away. Leave them alone."

"I'm sorry you feel that way." She looked disgusted. "Where are you going to be staying?"

"The Northstar. In Fort Moxie."

"Okay. Stay close. We might want to talk to you again."

"Sure," Max said.

He kept an eye on his rear to see whether he was being followed. The road stayed empty. He debated calling Jake Thoraldson to ask him to get the Lightning ready, but he suspected the conversation would be overheard. Consequently he was delayed a half-hour at the Fort Moxie airport while the plane was brought out and warmed up.

At a little after ten he taxied onto the runway, turned into the wind, and gunned the engines. The twin liquid-cooled Allisons rumbled rea.s.suringly. 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 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 a.s.sume 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 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. 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 pa.s.sengers. 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 two aircraft?" 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 b.u.t.ton.

"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. "h.e.l.lo. 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 h.e.l.l 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 a.s.sured that the duty officer would be with him presently. Then a familiar voice: "h.e.l.lo, 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 a.s.sociation. She was tall, quiet, una.s.suming, 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 pa.s.sengers. If you could arrange to keep them together and allow a direct transfer, I'd be grateful."

"You want to keep the pa.s.sengers 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."

"h.e.l.l, Max, I can't send anyone into that."

"Make it two thousand, Bill."

"Then you do do expect trouble?" 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 b.i.t.c.h, Carl. We can't wait one one night? Listen!" He held up the receiver so Rossini could hear the wind roar. "What the h.e.l.l is the big hurry?" night? Listen!" He held up the receiver so Rossini could hear the wind roar. "What the h.e.l.l 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 takes, Horace."