Текст книги "Ancient Shores"

Автор книги: Jack McDevitt

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

–Euripides, The Suppliant Women

This is an NBC News flash.

U.S. Marshals have sealed off Johnson’s Ridge tonight, apparently preparing to seize the property. A group of Native Americans has announced they will not obey a federal court order to leave. We take you first to Michael Pateman at the White House, and then to Carole Jensen at the Sioux reservation near Devil’s Lake, North Dakota.

Jensen was set up inside the tribal chambers in the Blue Building, where she had cornered William Hawk. National coverage. When you worked for the ten o’clock news in Fargo, this was the moment you lived for. She smiled at Hawk and got no reaction.

“One minute,” said her cameraman, adjusting his focus.

“Just be natural, Councilman,” she said. “We’ll start when the red light goes on.”

“Okay.” He wore a cowhide vest, a flannel shirt, and a pair of faded jeans. She guessed he was about sixty, although his face was deeply lined.

The producer again, from Fargo: “Same routine as usual, Carole. Just like you’d do it for us. Except adjust the tag line.”

“Okay,” she said.

They were seconds away. The cameraman gave her five fingers, counted down, and the red lamp blinked on.

“This is Carole Jensen,” she said, “in the tribal chambers at the Devil’s Lake Sioux Reservation. With me tonight is Councilman William Hawk, one of the Sioux leaders. Councilman Hawk, I understand you saw the EPA press conference earlier this evening?”

“Yes, I did, Carole.” His jaw was set, but she could see pain in his eyes. She hoped it translated to the screen. Tragic nobility here.

“How do you respond to Commissioner Kautter’s remarks?”

“The commissioner should be aware there is no danger to anyone. No one has seen anything come through the port. And I’m sure nobody out there takes seriously the story of an invisible man. Or whatever.”

“Councilman, what will you do?”

His expression hardened. “We will not let them steal our land. It belongs to us, and we will defend it.”

“Does that mean by force?”

“If necessary. I hope it will not come to that.”

“You told me earlier that your daughter is on the ridge.”

“That is correct.”

“Will you bring her home?”

“She will stay with her brothers to defend her heritage.” His leathery face was defiant.

“We don’t need you,” said Adam. “You and Max should get out now, while you can.”

“He’s right,” said Max. “We have no business here.”

April looked at him sadly. “I think everybody has business here. We’re too goddamn stupid or lazy or whatever to tackle the job of educating people, so instead we’ll destroy the Roundhouse. It just makes me furious. I’m not going anywhere. My place is here—”

“Can you shoot?” interrupted Adam. “Will you shoot?”

“No,” she said. “I won’t kill anybody. But I’ll be here anyhow.” She knew how disjointed and weak that sounded, and tears came.

“You’ll only be in the way.”

“If you want me out of here,” she told Adam, “you’ll have to throw me over the side.”

Max threw up his hands.

He was trying to begin the complex action of disengaging and heading for his car. Sometimes, he thought, it takes more guts to run than to stay. But he had no intention of throwing his life away for a lost cause. He was still thinking how best to manage it when Andrea joined them.

“There might be another way,” she told Adam. “We could threaten to destroy the port. Take it from them.”

“That’s no good,” he said. “That’s precisely what they want.”

“Maybe not,” said Max. “There’ll be a lot of media attention here tonight. It would be a public-relations nightmare for the administration.”

“It’s a public-relations nightmare,” said Adam, “only if we can broadcast the threat. We have no capability to do that.”

“You mean the Snowhawk is off the air?”

“Yes, she is,” said Andrea. “But I think it would put a lot of pressure on them to stay clear if we could find a way to get to the media.”

“No.” April’s voice took on steel. “You can’t threaten the port. The whole point of staying here is to protect the place.”

“We don’t actually have to destroy anything. It’s a bluff,” Andrea said.

“And that’s exactly how they’ll read it,” said Adam. “They would have to call us on it.” Lights were moving on the access road. “They’d have to.”

A phone rang. They looked at one another. It was coming from the control module. “I thought,” said Max, “the phones were dead.”

They had been standing at the rim of the cut in which the Roundhouse rested. “That’ll be an official call,” said April.

It was Max’s phone. April picked it up, listened, nodded. “Yes,” she said, “he’s here.” She handed it to Max.

“Hello,” he growled.

A female voice asked if he was Mr. Collingwood.

“Yes,” he said.

“Please hold for the president.”

Max froze. He stared at the others, and they stared back. “Who?” April asked, forming the word silently.

Then the familiar clipped voice with its Baltimore accent came on the phone. “Max?”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Eyes went wide all around.

“Max, are you in a place where the others can hear us?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Okay. I know you can put this on a speaker if you want. But it would be better if you didn’t. What I have to say is for you.”

His throat had gone dry. “Mr. President,” he said, “I am very glad to hear from you.”

“And I’m glad to have a chance to talk to you, son. Now listen, things are going to hell in the country. They’re a lot worse than you probably know about. People are losing their jobs, their savings, and God knows where it’s all going to end.”

“Because of the Roundhouse?”

“Because of the Roundhouse. Look, we don’t want to take anything away from the Indians. You know that. The country knows it. But people are scared right now, and we have to get that thing up there under control. We will see that the Indians are taken care of. You have my word. But this thing, it’s like nothing we’ve ever had to deal with before. It’s a national treasure, right? I mean, the Indians didn’t put it there or anything like that. They just happen to own the land.” He paused, possibly to catch his breath, maybe to get his emotions under control. His voice sounded close to breaking.

“I know about the problems, sir.”

“Good. Then you know I have to act. Have to. God help me, Max, the last thing we want to do is to spill blood over this.”

“I think everybody here feels the same way.”

“Of course. Of course.” His voice changed, acquired a tone that suggested they were now in accord. “I know about your father, Max. He served this country damned well.”

“Yes, sir. He did.”

“Now you have a chance.” He paused a beat. “I need your help, son.”

Max knew what was coming. “I don’t have much influence up here, Mr. President.”

“They don’t trust us, do they?”

“No, sir. They don’t.”

“I don’t blame them. Not a damned bit. But I am willing to give my personal assurance that they will be amply compensated for giving up their rights to Johnson’s Ridge.”

“You want me to tell them that?”

“Please. But I also need you to try to persuade them to see our side of this problem. I need you to convince them to give this up, Max. The only thing that can come out of this if they persist is to get themselves killed. Now please, I need your help.”

“Why me, Mr. President? Why didn’t you call Chairman Walker? Or Dr. Cannon?”

“Walker’s mind is made up. Dr. Cannon may be too young to have much influence over a group of Indians. You understand what I mean. I’ll be honest with you, Max. We’ve looked at the profiles of the people up there with you, and you seemed to us to be most open to reason.”

Max took a deep breath. He was the weak link. “I’ll tell them,” he said. “May I ask you something?”

“Go ahead, Max. Ask anything. Anything at all.”

“There’s a rumor here that the government intends to destroy the Roundhouse. Will you give me your word there’s no truth to it?”

Max could hear breathing on the other end. Then: “Max, we wouldn’t do that.”

“Your word, Mr. President?”

“Max. I can promise generous compensation.”

“What’s he saying?” whispered April.

Max shook his head.

“I don’t think that’s enough, Mr. President.”

“Max, you can help. Talk to them.”

“They won’t listen to me. Anyhow, I think they’re right.”

The long silence at the other end drew out until Max wondered if the president was still there. “You know, Max,” he said at last, “if there’s bloodshed, you’ll have to live the rest of your life knowing you could have prevented it.” Max could visualize him, a little man who looked somehow as if he should be running the neighborhood print shop. “I feel sorry for you, son. Well, you do what you have to, and I respect that. But stay on the line, okay? They’ll give you a number so you can get through if you change your mind. If we can get out of this peacefully, I’d be pleased to have you up to the White House.”

Then he was gone, and Max copied down the number and handed it to Adam. Without looking at it, Adam tore it into small pieces. He opened the door and gave it to the wind. And it occurred to Max that the only person who thought that Max Collingwood was going to stay with the Sioux was the president of the United States.

The white Ben at Ten news van rolled east across the prairie, bound for Johnson’s Ridge. Carole could barely contain her excitement. She kept replaying the interview in her mind, relishing the drama. She will stay with her brothers to defend her land. And, at the end, her own closing line, From the Sioux reservation at Devil’s Lake, this is Carole Jensen for NBC News.

And it wasn’t over. Robert Bazell was coming, but in the meantime she would be the network’s voice on the front line. She hoped that Bazell’s plane would get socked in somewhere.

Carole fell back against her seat and let the sheer joy of the moment surge through her.

They passed through the Pembina Mountains, and turned north again on Route 32. After a while they saw the emerald glow in the sky.

Police were steering traffic into a detour. Carole showed her credentials and got waved on. Ahead, at the turnoff to the access road, blinking lights and the white glare of TV lamps spilled onto the highway. Cars and vans were parked on the shoulder on both sides of the two-lane. Chang slowed down and pulled in beside an CNN van.

A cluster of media people had gathered at the access point. An old battered Ford was at the center of attention. She recognized Walker immediately. He had got out of the car and was talking to a deputy. Other police officers were trying without much success to keep the journalists at a distance.

“Set up, Chang,” she said, punching in the studio’s number on her cellular phone.

“Carole?” said her producer. “I was about to call you.”

“We’re here.”

“Okay. Walker just came down off the mountain. CNN and ABC are already on with it. He’s apparently going to make a statement.”

Carole was out of the car and on the move. Chang came around the other side, shouldering his gear.

“We’re doing the intro now,” said the voice from the studio. “Switch to you in twenty seconds.”

“Son of a bitch,” said Carole, throwing a quick look at her partner. “Chang, you ready?”

They got into the group of journalists, pushed and jostled their way forward until they could manage a decent shot of the proceedings. Walker looked frail and old. The police officers were uncomfortable with the turmoil and losing patience. A woman wearing a U.S. marshal pocket bullion was having an animated conversation with Chief Doutable. Carole was good at lip-reading, and she caught enough of the conversation to understand that she was telling the police chief to let something happen.

The reporters pushed forward, and the entire scene was awash in bright lights and stark shadows.

The deputy caught a signal from Doutable and backed away. Several hands thrust microphones toward the Ford. How did the Indians feel about being evicted? Would the Sioux fight? Were the Sioux hiding something? Was it true about the Visitor?

“No,” he said, “we are not hiding anything.” He climbed up onto the hillside, where everyone could see him. “My name is James Walker. I am the chairman of the tribal council.”

“Then what’s the big secret?” shouted someone in back.

Walker looked puzzled. “There is no secret. We have willingly shared the wilderness world with all who came to look. But the Roundhouse is on our land.”

The reporters grew quiet.

“It may be,” Walker continued, “that the road to the stars crosses this ridge. Some people are disturbed by the discoveries made here. They fear them. And we know that when change comes, no one is more adamant in holding on to the past than those in power. They know change is inevitable, but they would, if they could, parcel it out in measured pieces. Grain for chickens.

“We are told by your government,” he continued, “that we must leave. If we do not comply, we will be turned out. And those who have the temerity to remain on their own land are threatened with jail. Or worse. I would ask you, if these persons can seize our property because they are afraid, whose property is safe? If they can lay hands on our future, whose future is secure?”

(Producer’s voice: “Great, Carole. The guy is great! Try to get an exclusive interview when it’s over.”)

“This will not be the first time we have been called on to defend our land with our blood. But I would speak directly to the president of the United States.” Chang moved in. “Mr. President, only you have the power to stop this. The people who will die tonight, on both sides, are innocent. And they are idealistic, or they would not be confronting each other. They are the best that we have, willing to sacrifice themselves for a cause dictated by older men. Stop it while you can.”

Tom Lasker’s ID had done him no good at the roadblock, and he had been turned away without explanation, just like the hordes of tourists. His first reaction was to use the cellular phone to call Max, but he got only a busy signal, the kind of rasping two-tone that usually indicates a trunk line is down.

He had been listening to the news accounts, and he knew about the ultimatum. It had not seriously hit home until now, however, that there was going to be shooting and that people might get killed.

He hesitated, not knowing what to do, feeling he should talk to someone but not knowing who could help. He called Ginny and told her what was going on. “Come home,” she said. “Stay out of it.” Moments later she called him back. “One of the people from the reservation is trying to reach you.” She gave him a number. “Be careful,” she added.

William Hawk picked up on the other end. “Tom,” he said. “We need to get a message through to the chairman.”

April had been unusually quiet. Max wondered whether she was disappointed in him or whether she was simply frightened. They’d returned to the control module and sat moodily, not talking. The air was heavy, and Max, at least, could not say what was on his mind.

It hurt. “April,” he said, “you’re sure you want to stay?”

She looked up at him and needed a moment to focus. “Yes,” she said. “I feel the same way Adam does. I can’t walk out of here and just let them take everything.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Max got up.

She nodded.

“Good luck,” he said.

31

It is an unbecoming thing to wince before the menacing shot.

–Montaigne, “Of Steadfastness”

As soon as it became apparent the Sioux would not back down, Elizabeth Silvera began listening in on telephone conversations. She was aware of Walker’s question to Adam, How far are you prepared to go? and of the response. She also understood from his phone conversation with Walter Asquith, the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer, that Walker planned some sort of demonstration by outsiders. She had no concrete information. She had listened to other conversations before they shut down communications, intercepts during which the Native Americans reassured their families not that they would be okay but that they could be relied on to defend the birthright. She wondered if they had guessed she was listening and if the remarks were being made specifically for her benefit. And finally she had listened to Max’s conversation with the president. Max’s refusal to take a stand had elicited her indignation and simultaneously persuaded her that force would be necessary. If the Sioux were going to accept a settlement, that would have been the time to do it.

This was not an assignment she was happy with. Not that she had moral or political reservations. But the situation was explosive, with a lot of risk professionally and relatively little to gain. If she got everything right here, she would simply pass the package on to SOG, which would get the credit. In the meantime, if she screwed up anything at all, it would be her career.

She had officially turned the operation over to SOG during the late afternoon. Horace Gibson, the group commander, had arrived to take charge of things personally. Considering how high-profile the case was, she’d expected no less. Elizabeth had met Gibson once before, and she didn’t care much for him. There was a little too much bravado in his manner. Gibson thought highly of himself and made no secret of his opinion that his people were special, the organization’s elite. He made Elizabeth feel like a peasant.

On this occasion, though, she could almost feel sorry for him. She knew what his instructions were: Take the Roundhouse quickly, to avoid a prolonged media circus; do it without losing anybody; and if possible, do it without hurting any of the Indians.

Good luck.

She knew Horace well enough to conclude that the Indians better look out.

NBC’s Special Edition, interview of Attorney General Christian Polk by Tom Brokaw

Brokaw: Mr. Polk, we’ve just watched the plea made by James Walker for restraint and his charge that the government is trying to steal land that belongs to the Sioux. How do you respond to that?

Polk: Tom, we sympathize with Chairman Walker and the Sioux. I would like to make it clear that the action we have taken is, we feel, in everyone’s best interest. Let me reiterate that we are not stealing the property. We are only asking for oversight.

Brokaw: What precisely does oversight mean, Mr. Polk? Who will actually control operations at the Roundhouse?

Polk: Why, the Sioux, of course. The only reason we will be there is to ensure that—Look, Tom, this is a unique situation. We’ve never seen anything like this before. We have a duty to see that appropriate safeguards are maintained. We just don’t know what we’re dealing with, and we owe it to the American people to stay on top of this. There’s nothing unreasonable about that.

Brokaw: Exactly what sort of threat worries you?

Polk: The first thing we want to do is to reassure everyone. There have been stories that something came out of the Roundhouse—

Brokaw: You don’t really believe that, do you?

Polk: No. I personally do not. But that’s not the issue. A lot of people do. And we have to reassure them.

Brokaw: So you plan to take Sioux property by force because some people in North Dakota are getting nervous?

Polk: There are other factors. We don’t know what hazards there might be. Disease, for example. That is a primary concern. We have to control these ports.

Brokaw: It appears that the Sioux will not comply with the court order.

Polk: That’s not really an option for them.

Brokaw: That might be their call rather than yours. Mr. Polk, are you prepared to use force?

Polk: I’m sure it won’t come to that.

Brokaw: But will you use force if you have to?

Polk: We have every confidence this can be settled peacefully.

Brokaw: Thank you, sir.

Polk: Thank you, Tom.

Horace Gibson sat in his temporary command post on a hilltop several miles north of Johnson’s Ridge, going over the latest pictures from the target area and the weather updates. He’d done his homework on Adam Sky and did not look for any mistakes in the defense. He was also not sure what kind of weapons Sky might be able to deploy.

The Sioux would dig in, using the mounds as cover.

Gibson’s preference would have been to drop black smoke on them and follow up with concussion grenades. Blind them, shake them up, and use the choppers to move in before they could regroup. But winds of forty miles per hour were blowing across the top of the escarpment and were expected to worsen during the night. So there would be no smoke to cover an assault. The wind conditions wouldn’t help chopper maneuverability, either, but he could manage.

Left to his own devices, Horace would have simply sealed off the area and waited out the defenders. But pressure was coming, he believed, all the way from the White House. Get it done.

He didn’t like the combat area. The defenses looked out over flat ground with no cover. It was a killing zone.

His most practical tactic was to attack the mounds with the Blackhawks and try to drive the defenders into the pit. Or sow enough confusion to cover a landing.

Elizabeth Silvera had taken her post, with Chief Doutable and half a dozen police officers armed with rifles, on the escarpment about a quarter-mile west of the top of the access road. The position was exposed, should the Sioux begin shooting, but it offered an excellent view of the defenders across the top of the excavation. The mounds were in shadow, and Sky had erected tarpaulins on a framework of wooden parts to prevent his people from being silhouetted against the glow from the Roundhouse. But it was a clear night and there was a bright moon. A reconnaissance helicopter had been doing occasional sweeps and now hovered over the north side of the escarpment.

Doutable had been relieved to learn that the SOG team would not ask for, and did not want, armed assistance. All they needed from local police was an assurance that no unauthorized persons would wander onto the escarpment. That was shorthand for the media.

Elizabeth knew that when it came, it would be very quick. She’d been through something like this once before with Gibson. She was waiting now for a coded report that would give her the time of the assault and provide any special instructions the commander would have for her. Doutable was saying something that she wasn’t really listening to when she became aware of the sound of another aircraft.

It wasn’t one of the Blackhawks.

That was strange. There shouldn’t have been anyone in the sky over the ridge except marshals.

A gray propeller-driven plane was approaching from the south. She raised her binoculars. It carried U.S. military markings.

“What the hell’s going on?” she muttered to herself, and switched on her link to the helicopter. “Bolt One,” she said. “This is Reluctant. We’ve got an intruder.”

“I see him,” came the response.

“Warn him away.”

“Reluctant, I have been trying to talk to him for about a minute. He does not respond.”

The plane was down low and coming fast.

“Please advise, Reluctant.”

“Warn him to leave the area or be fired on.”

“That’s a roger.”

The Blackhawk was keeping pace with the gray plane, riding about a thousand feet above it.

“Reluctant, that’s an old Avenger,” said the helicopter. “World War II fighter.” Another pause. “He does not answer.”

“Who is it?” she asked. “Is there an ID?”

The helicopter relayed its tail number, which Doutable scribbled down. “Give me a minute,” he said. He gave the number to one of the cruisers.

The Avenger was coming in on the deck.

Gibson came on the circuit. “Bolt One,” he said. “Fire a warning round.”

The Blackhawk fired in front of the vintage aircraft, directly across its line of sight. The Avenger wavered slightly but kept coming.

“It belongs to a guy named Tom Lasker,” said Doutable. “The plane’s based at Fort Moxie.”

“Lasker,” she said. “I know him. He’s the guy with the boat.”

At that moment the Avenger roared over the trenches. Part of it seemed to fall away. It banked west and started gaining altitude.

“Bolt One,” she said, “break off.” She turned to Doutable. “Have someone waiting for him when he lands. I think we’ll want to talk to him.”

“It dropped something,” said one of the police officers.

Elizabeth turned her binoculars on the excavation.

“Reluctant, this is Bolt One. The Indians have come out of their hole. They’re looking for something.”

“Roger.”

“There are two of them out front, beyond the ring of ditches. Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” He nodded. “Whatever it is, I think they’ve found it.”

Elizabeth watched through her own binoculars while the Sioux retreated back into the crosswork of ditches and mounds. What was so important that Lasker was willing to challenge a Blackhawk?

Max, of course, had recognized the Avenger immediately, and he had watched the drama from his car, cringing, waiting for the helicopter to take Lasker out.

But it had not happened. And now he sat with his engine running, anxious to be away. He was angry, and his conscience was eating at him, digesting him whole. But he had already put his life on the line once for this project, had gone into that goddamn yellow light with no assurance it wouldn’t just turn him into a cloud of atoms. Now they were all looking at him as if he were Benedict Arnold. Someone not fit to be seen with.

Well, not all of them. Only April, actually. But that was the one that hurt. She’d still have been sitting on that beach if Max hadn’t gone after her.

He sympathized with Adam and the others. But this wasn’t his fight. If she wanted to throw her life away, that was up to her. He had no intention of getting killed over it. None. But the way she had looked at him when he said he was leaving—

Son of a bitch.

He turned on his headlights and started moving slowly toward the access road. He knew the police were over there, and he could assume they were armed and probably a little nervous. That was risk enough for him.

But he saw movement behind him.

Someone waving. Adam.

Max slowed down, circled, and started back.

“Max.” Adam came abreast of the car. “Can you do something for us?”

Max squirmed. “What was Tom doing here?” he asked.

Adam held out a piece of paper. “Delivering this.”

Max held it close to his map light. It was from William Hawk.

Chairman:

Your people are coming. Two charter flights inbound to Grand Forks at about 11:00 P.M. I am sending escort.

Max looked up. “What’s this? Reinforcements?”

“Some people the Chairman thinks can stop this.”

Max sighed. “I hate to say this, but the chairman’s losing it.”

“Maybe,” said Adam. “But it’s all we have. There are twelve or thirteen people coming in on the two flights.”

“The problem is,” said Max, “that even if they could help, you can’t get them here.”

“That’s right. The roads are blocked.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Fly them in,” said Adam. “Talk to your friends at Blue Jay. Rent a couple of helicopters.”

“You’re crazy. Blue Jay’s not going to fly anybody in here. They damned near shot Tom down.”

“They’re friends of yours,” said Adam. “Offer them a lot of money. Make it worth their while.”

Max sat staring over the top of his steering wheel at the dark patch of woods that masked the access road. One of the police cruisers had turned on its blinker. Otherwise, nothing was moving.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said.

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 constituted 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 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.