“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 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 bitch.” Gibson in one of the choppers hit 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 bastards to blast one of his Blackhawks. He descended in a wooded area on the south and gathered his assault 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. “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 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 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.