sound of a military radio coming from the top of the ravine. Someone had turned it up or taken off headphones because it was unusually clear and very familiar, the commands and queries of the military in Vietnam transposed intact to a different land. As he listened, he began to pick out the speakers, the clipped no-nonsense voices of the FBI and marshals contrasting with the more laconic and relaxed tones of AIM security, sounding like they never finished half the words, just got tired in the middle and trailed off.
Abruptly, the familiar lisping voice came over the band, now resonant with authority and strong enough to cut through all the other chatter. "Ready. On my count: Five, Four, Three, Two, One."
CHAPTER 8
April 26, 1973, Wounded Knee, South Dakota
For a moment, Rick thought he was back in a nightmare as the soft chuff of mortars firing echoed all around him. Looking back toward Wounded Knee, he could see a blaze of white light, 40 or 50 parachute flares in a ring around the hamlet.
Then the guns opened up.
Above him, close, he could hear the sporadic hammering of an M-60 machine gun being fired by a professional who knew enough to keep the barrel cool. All around, he could hear other machine guns joined in song by the sharper sound of M-16s on "full rock and roll" and the single coughs of hunting rifles and sniper guns. Hundreds of rounds were being fired. Nothing he'd heard or read had ever mentioned this kind of furious onslaught by the hundreds of police, marshals, and FBI agents who had been surrounding the miserable hamlet for months.
Any shots coming from Wounded Knee were lost in the barrage. Rick suspected people there were trying to screw themselves deeper into the ground.
Then he noticed something odd. The sound of the machine gun over his head was altering slightly. It was hard to be sure, but it seemed as if the operator was swiveling and firing bursts in radically different directions. At this distance, any target within Wounded Knee was within a few degrees of arc. What were they shooting at that required cranking the sights over that far?
Then he knew.
A series of loud thwacks as bullets, many bullets, hit the rim of the gully above his head. For a second, he simply pressed deeper into the cold earth, but then he realized that he was protected in the cut while the firing was directed at what appeared to be a bunker on the top of the ravine wall.
The machine gun in the bunker fired back along the path of the incoming rounds. It was clear to Rick that they were firing at the surrounding hills and not at Wounded Knee. He wondered why the hell they were firing at their fellow law enforcement officers.
Whoever it was wasn't interested in a long battle; in just a few minutes, he heard the clattering of the M-60 being broken down and a quick scurry of boots fading away.
The rate of fire slowed as the ring of illumination flares sank to the ground. It didn't stop by any means, but it slowed.
He felt a firm tap on his shoulder. It was Talltrees. The pilot was on his knees, and he motioned for Rick to alert Eve and start moving again. They could move a bit faster with the continuing racket of gunfire to mask any sounds they made; and, after what Rick guessed was about a quarter mile more, the ravine ended in a vertical earth wall studded with rocks. The trees had grown taller as the ravine cut deeper into the prairie, so they had a solid canopy of leaves overhead. Talltrees removed his rifle from his shoulder, handed it to Rick, and slowly climbed, testing each rock for stability, until his eyes reached what was the ground level of the surrounding prairie.
Rick and Eve waited silently as the lanky Pawnee completed a careful survey and disappeared over the edge. It was a good fifteen minutes before his head reappeared, silhouetted against the Milky Way as he waved for them to follow. Rick handed up the rifle as Eve climbed quickly, using the same rocks and ledges that Talltrees had tested and
Abruptly, the familiar lisping voice came over the band, now resonant with authority and strong enough to cut through all the other chatter. "Ready. On my count: Five, Four, Three, Two, One."
CHAPTER 8
April 26, 1973, Wounded Knee, South Dakota
For a moment, Rick thought he was back in a nightmare as the soft chuff of mortars firing echoed all around him. Looking back toward Wounded Knee, he could see a blaze of white light, 40 or 50 parachute flares in a ring around the hamlet.
Then the guns opened up.
Above him, close, he could hear the sporadic hammering of an M-60 machine gun being fired by a professional who knew enough to keep the barrel cool. All around, he could hear other machine guns joined in song by the sharper sound of M-16s on "full rock and roll" and the single coughs of hunting rifles and sniper guns. Hundreds of rounds were being fired. Nothing he'd heard or read had ever mentioned this kind of furious onslaught by the hundreds of police, marshals, and FBI agents who had been surrounding the miserable hamlet for months.
Any shots coming from Wounded Knee were lost in the barrage. Rick suspected people there were trying to screw themselves deeper into the ground.
Then he noticed something odd. The sound of the machine gun over his head was altering slightly. It was hard to be sure, but it seemed as if the operator was swiveling and firing bursts in radically different directions. At this distance, any target within Wounded Knee was within a few degrees of arc. What were they shooting at that required cranking the sights over that far?
Then he knew.
A series of loud thwacks as bullets, many bullets, hit the rim of the gully above his head. For a second, he simply pressed deeper into the cold earth, but then he realized that he was protected in the cut while the firing was directed at what appeared to be a bunker on the top of the ravine wall.
The machine gun in the bunker fired back along the path of the incoming rounds. It was clear to Rick that they were firing at the surrounding hills and not at Wounded Knee. He wondered why the hell they were firing at their fellow law enforcement officers.
Whoever it was wasn't interested in a long battle; in just a few minutes, he heard the clattering of the M-60 being broken down and a quick scurry of boots fading away.
The rate of fire slowed as the ring of illumination flares sank to the ground. It didn't stop by any means, but it slowed.
He felt a firm tap on his shoulder. It was Talltrees. The pilot was on his knees, and he motioned for Rick to alert Eve and start moving again. They could move a bit faster with the continuing racket of gunfire to mask any sounds they made; and, after what Rick guessed was about a quarter mile more, the ravine ended in a vertical earth wall studded with rocks. The trees had grown taller as the ravine cut deeper into the prairie, so they had a solid canopy of leaves overhead. Talltrees removed his rifle from his shoulder, handed it to Rick, and slowly climbed, testing each rock for stability, until his eyes reached what was the ground level of the surrounding prairie.
Rick and Eve waited silently as the lanky Pawnee completed a careful survey and disappeared over the edge. It was a good fifteen minutes before his head reappeared, silhouetted against the Milky Way as he waved for them to follow. Rick handed up the rifle as Eve climbed quickly, using the same rocks and ledges that Talltrees had tested and
Similar Books
