Jack McDevitt - Ancient Shores

“Whatever it takes, 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.

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.