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.
“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 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 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.