Ancient Shores (15 page)

The intersection erupted in a sheet of flame. The explosion blew out the western end of the lumberyard, leveled the Tastee-Freez, knocked out all of Wesley’s windows, and demolished his garage. Wesley suffered two broken arms and a mass of cuts and burns, but he survived.

One of the few pieces of Randy’s vehicle that came through more or less intact was a vanity plate that read
UFO
.

Traffic was so heavy that Max decided to do something about it. In the morning he contacted Bill Davis at Blue Jay Air Transport outside Grand Forks and scheduled a helicopter pickup service. They established an operating schedule among Fort Moxie, Cavalier, Devil’s Lake, and Johnson’s Ridge.

Matthew R. Taylor had come to the White House by a circuitous route. His father had run a candy store in Baltimore, which had provided a meager existence for Matt and his six siblings. But the old man had provided his kids with one priceless gift: He’d encouraged them to read, and he didn’t bother too much about the content, subscribing to the theory that good books ultimately speak for themselves.

By the time he was nineteen, Taylor had devoured the Greek and Roman classics, Shakespeare, Dickens, Mark Twain, and a wide array of modern historians. He was also a decent outfielder in high school and at Western Maryland University. In 1965 he went to Vietnam. During his second patrol he took a bullet in the hip. Doctors told him he would not walk again, but he had stayed with a six-year-long program of therapy and now needed only a cane to get around the White House. Eventually, of course, the cane would become a symbol of the man and his courage.

He married his nurse and invested his money in a car wash, which failed, and in a fast-food outlet, which also failed.

Taylor was never very good at business, but he was scrupulously honest, and he was always willing to help people in the community who got in trouble. During the mid-seventies, when he was working as a clothing clerk at Sears Roebuck, he allowed himself to be persuaded to run for the county highway
commission by people who thought they could control him.

He proved to be a surprisingly shrewd steward of the public money. Before he was done, several county officials and a couple of contractors were in jail, costs were down, and the road system had improved dramatically.

Taylor was elected to the House in 1986 and to the Senate eight years later. He chaired the ethics committee and introduced a series of reforms that brought him national prominence and the vice presidency. But within sixty days after his accession to office, a stroke incapacitated the chief executive, and Taylor became acting president under the Twenty-fifth Amendment. He was subsequently elected in his own right.

The country loved Matt Taylor as they had no other president since FDR. He was perceived by many as a new Harry Truman. He possessed several of Truman’s finest characteristics: an unbending will when he believed he was right, uncompromising integrity, and a willingness to say what he meant in plain English. This latter tendency sometimes got him in trouble, as when he offhandedly remarked within the hearing of journalists that it might be prudent, during the visit of a certain Middle Eastern potentate, to hide the White House silver.

Taylor explained his solid ratings by saying that the American people understood that he did what he thought was right, and to hell with the polls. “They like that,” he would say. “And when they reach a point where they don’t trust my judgment anymore, why, they’ll turn me out. And good riddance to the old son of a bitch.”

The president’s political alarms over the North Dakota business had been sounding all winter. His advisors had told him not to worry. It was just a crop circle flap, the sort of thing to stay away from, to deflect at press conferences. A chief executive who starts talking
about flying saucers is dead. No matter what happens, he is dead. That was what they said. So he had kept away from it, and now it was blowing up. The stock market today had dropped 380 points.

“They’re already calling it Black Wednesday,” said Jim Samson, his treasury secretary. Samson was now trying to pretend he’d been warning the President all along to take action.

It was a turbulent time. There were six wars of strategic interest to the United States being fought with varying degrees of energy, and another fifteen or so hotspots. Famine was gaining, population growth everywhere was shifting into overdrive, and the UN had all but given up the dream of a new world order. The American transition from an industrialized economy to an information economy was still creating major dislocations. Corruption in high places remained a constant problem, and the splintering of the body politic into fringe groups that would not talk to each other continued. On the credit side, however, the balance of trade looked good; the long battle to reduce runaway deficits was finally showing positive results; racism, sexism, and their attendant evils seemed to be losing ground; drug use was way down; and medical advances were providing people with longer and healthier lives. Perhaps most important for a politician, the media were friendly.

The truth was that Matt Taylor could not take credit for the latter trends any more than he could be blamed for the former. But he knew that whatever else happened, he had to have a strong economy. If he lost that, the dislocations accompanying the evolution through which the western world was now passing were going to get a lot worse. He could not allow that. He was not going to stand by and watch hordes of homeless and unemployed reappear on the American scene. No matter what it took.

“A blip,” Tony Peters said. “These things happen.”

Peters was chairman of the president’s Fiscal Policy Council. He was also an old ally, with good political instincts. Of the people who had come up with him from Baltimore to the White House, no one enjoyed a greater degree of Taylor’s confidence.

“Tony,” the president said, “it’s only a blip if there’s nothing to it. What happens if they really have a metal up there that won’t break down or wear out?”

“I agree,” said Samson. “We need to find out what the facts are here.”

Peters frowned. “As I understand it, Mr. President, it’s not a metal.”

“Whatever.” Taylor pushed back in his chair and folded his arms. “They can make sails out of it. And they can make buildings. The issue is, what happens to the manufacturing industries if they suddenly get materials to work with that don’t break down periodically?” He shook his head. “Suppose people buy only one or two cars over a lifetime. What does that mean to GM?” He took off his glasses and flung them on the desk. “My God,” he said, “I don’t believe I’m saying this. All these years we’ve been looking for a way to beat the Japanese at this game. Now we have it, and it would be a catastrophe.”

Taylor was short and stocky. He wore nondescript ties and well-pressed suits that were inevitably last year’s fashion.

“Mr. President,” said Peters, “it’s all tabloid stuff. No one is going to be able to mass-produce supermaterials.”

“How do you know? Have we looked into it?”

“Yes. Everybody I’ve talked to says it can’t happen.”

“But we have samples.”

“We saw a lot of lightning before we learned how to put it into a wall switch. What we need to do is get everybody’s mind off this thing. Pick one of the wars, or the Pakistani revolution, and start sounding alarms.”

There was this about Tony Peters: He was the only person Taylor had ever known who seemed to
understand what drove economies, and who could make that insight clear to others. He also knew the Congress, the power brokers, and the deal makers. He was an invaluable aide to an activist president. But Taylor knew his chairman’s limits. To Peters, experience was everything. One learned from it and applied its lessons succinctly, and one could never go far wrong. But what happened when you ran into a problem that transcended anything you’d seen before? What good was experience then?

“I want you,” said Taylor, “to talk to some of the people who’ve been out there.
Top
people, right? Find out what’s really going on. What the risks are. Not what your experts say
can’t
happen.”

Peters stared back. “You’re not serious,” he said. “We shouldn’t get anywhere close to this thing, Mr. President. We start asking questions, and it’ll get around.”

“Try to be discreet, Tony. But goddammit, the markets are in the toilet. Find somebody who understands these things and get me some answers. Definitive ones. I want to know if that thing is for real. And if it is, what’s it going to do to the economy.” He felt tired. “I don’t want any more guesswork.”

Al Easter was the most aggressive shop steward the Dayton
, Ohio, subsidiary of Cougar Industries had ever known. The rank and file joked that managers did not go out alone at night, fearing Al might be roaming the streets. Management cautiously sought union advice on any decision that could be construed as a change in work conditions. And they tended to be very lenient with the workers. Even Liz Mullen, who’d been caught taking staplers, computer disks, and assorted other office supplies home, where she’d been running an independent retail operation, had survived. She’d gotten a reprimand when she should have been fired and gone to jail.

Al’s most effective tactic was the threat of the instant response. He was quite willing (or at least management believed he was, which amounted to the same thing) to call a work stoppage or slowdown to protest the most trivial issue. No attempt to warn a recalcitrant employee or to revise a work schedule was immune to reprisal, should Al consider principle at stake.

The steward made no secret of his view that everyone in management was on a power trip and that only
he stood between the vultures in the executive suite and the well-being of the workers.

He was not empowered by the national union to act in so arbitrary a manner, but their occasional formal rebuffs were halfhearted and hypocritical. They knew who held the cards in Dayton. When Al announced a slowdown or called the workers out, everyone in the plant responded as one person. The National Affiliated Union of Helpers, Stewards, and Mechanics might get around several days later to chiding him, but in the meantime he would have made his point.

Management tried on several occasions to promote him. Double his money. But he wouldn’t take it. “They need me,” he’d told plant manager Adrian Cox, “to keep you and the rest of your crowd from eating them alive.” Yeah. Adrian knew the real reason: Al liked power too much to give it up. And no mere supervisor at Cougar possessed the kind of power Al had.

The shop steward disliked Cougar’s managers both personally and on principle. He made it a point not to be seen in their company, save when he was bullying them. It came, therefore, as an uncomfortable surprise when Cox’s secretary notified him that Al had arrived downstairs and was on his way up.

Cox’s first reaction was to take a deep breath. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, sir. Janet asked him, but he just walked past her.”

Moments later Al strolled through Adrian’s outer defenses and walked into the inner office while the intercom buzzed a late warning.

It was a spacious office, with framed awards and certificates of appreciation and a couple of expensive oils that his wife had picked out. Cox sat behind his mahogany desk in sunlight softened by an array of potted palms. It annoyed him that the shop steward pretended not to notice all this. Al advanced into the center of Cox’s Persian carpet, insolently neglecting to
remove his cap, and leveled his gaze at the plant manager. “Mr. Cox,” he said, “I assume you’ve seen what’s been happening in North Dakota.”

Al was a little man, round, long out of shape, with uncombed thinning hair. His belly pressed against his greasy shirt, and a stained handkerchief was stuffed into his breast pocket. It was all part of the act.

“The UFO?” Cox felt instant relief that there was not a problem on the floor.

“Yeah.” Al dropped into one of the wing chairs. “What are we doing about it?”

Cox leaned forward. “About
what
?” He knew what was coming, of course. There had already been talk in the boardroom and with corporate about the materials that might emerge from the Johnson’s Ridge discovery.

“About a tougher tire.” Al rocked back and forth. “What happens to Cougar if the industry begins to produce tires that will run two hundred thousand miles?”

“That won’t happen,” said Cox.

“I’m glad to hear it.” The man’s eyes never blinked.

“What do you want me to say?” asked Cox. “All I know is what I see on the TV.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” Al’s face had no range. The only emotion it ever revealed was sarcasm. “You know I’ve always said that we should work together more. After all, we have the same objectives. A healthy company means good jobs.”

Cox couldn’t resist smiling. “I couldn’t agree more, Al.”

The steward scowled. “If this stuff can do what they’re saying it can, there won’t be any tire and rubber business in this country in another three years. If I were sitting in your chair, I’d have somebody up there making an offer.”

Cox frowned. “Offer? To do what?”

“To buy them out.”

Cox stared at Al. “There’s no need to panic,” he said finally. It felt like a weak response, but he couldn’t think what else to say.

Al shook his head. “If the worst happens, you’ll wind up getting a government bailout. There’ll be hard times, and the company will go Chapter Eleven. But
you’ll
do fine. You’ll vote yourself a bonus and complain about the business cycle. Along with everybody else up here. The rank and file will get walked on, like they always do. In the end, they won’t get nothin’.”

Cox’s skin crawled. “Al.” He tried to sound forceful but knew his voice was shaking. “Al, you’re overreacting. None of this is going to happen.”

“Yeah. Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t just sit around up here hoping it’ll all blow over.”

April cleaned the icons with a couple of damp cloths. Each lit up when she touched it, with the exception of the smoke, which stayed dark no matter what. But there were no special effects at the grid. She interpreted it to mean that there had to be something
on
the grid to produce the lights.

Near the pit she found a seventh icon. Bigger than the others, it resembled a kanji character. Like the smoke, it stayed dark when she touched it.

Marie McCloskey had always been able to feel the imminence of the divine presence. There had never been a time, not even during her most difficult days—when the news had come of Jodie’s death in the wreck on I—29, when her husband had first assaulted her, when they’d told her she had diabetes—there had never been an
instant
when she had not been aware that Jesus walked beside her. That sure and certain knowledge had carried her through all these years and had brought her, in spite of everything, an inner peace that she would not trade for any of life’s more tangible assets. Marie McCloskey was a fortunate woman.

She came to Fort Moxie to visit her sister, and she
would not ordinarily have shown any interest in the events atop Johnson’s Ridge. But the town, which had been so quiet and orderly in past years, was overrun with tourists and salesmen and journalists and college students and busloads of people from all over North America. So it was natural that her curiosity would be aroused, and anyhow her sister’s husband, Corky Cable, wanted to go see the Roundhouse. They drove out and got in the line of cars over on Route 32. They rode up one side of the escarpment, cruised past the odd green building that looked like a fancy salt cellar, and rode down the other side, talking about Martians the whole time. It didn’t mean anything special to Marie or to her sister, but Corky raved about it.

They had dinner in Walhalla at the Cat’s Eye, and afterward drove back toward Johnson’s Ridge. It was dark now, a cold, crystal night with silent stars and no moon and a few wisps of cloud. They were riding three across the front seat in Corky’s Mazda when they rounded a curve and saw the soft green glow at the top of the ridge.

“Look at that,” said Marie’s sister.

Corky would have pulled off somewhere so they could watch, but the road was lined with cars. Instead he slowed down and crept along at about twenty.

To Marie, there was something supernatural in that quiet radiance. As though God himself had provided a lighthouse for His lost children. A reassurance that He was still here.

Oddly, she had felt nothing when she’d been alongside the structure two hours earlier, in broad daylight. But now the full weight of its significance caught her.

“We can see it all the way out to the border,” said Corky. He was a customs inspector at the Fort Moxie border crossing, and that statement was exaggerated. The border was too far away. But tonight it seemed possible. Tonight everything seemed possible.

“Slow down, Corky,” Marie said.

Corky was already creeping along, and some headlights had come up behind them.

Marie’s sister said, “I wonder what causes it. Maybe it’s made of phosphorous.”

Marie began to see an image. If you backed away a little bit mentally, stayed away from the details, and looked just so, you could make out a woman’s face. And she knew the woman.

“It’s the Virgin,” she said.

Arky Redfern ushered his guest to a seat, sat down behind his desk, and smiled politely. “Dr. Wells,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

Paxton Wells was a tall, lean man with a gray mustache and a manner that would have been aristocratic had he not been burdened with oversized ears. “Mr. Redfern,” he said, “I understand you represent tribal interests on Johnson’s Ridge.”

The lawyer nodded.

“I have an offer to make on behalf of the National Energy Institute.” He released the catches on his briefcase, searched inside, and withdrew a contract. “We would like to have permission to investigate the power source in the Roundhouse.” His eyebrows rose and fell, signaling, Arky thought, a fair degree of stress, which otherwise did not evince itself in Wells’s manner. “There’s a possibility we might be able to develop some of the technologies in the building. If indeed there
are
any technologies that can be adapted. We don’t know that, of course.”

“Of course,” said Redfern.

“Nevertheless, we would be willing to offer a substantial sum of money for the property and assume all the risk and expense of developing it.”

“I see.” Redfern picked up the document.

“We can offer a million dollars,” Wells said. He
underscored the amount and left himself slightly breathless.

The lawyer flipped methodically through the pages, stopping occasionally to examine an item that had caught his attention. “I see,” he said, “you would get all rights for development and use.”

“Mr. Redfern.” Wells leaned forward and assumed an attitude that he obviously thought was one of friendly no-nonsense sincerity. “Let’s be honest here. This is a crapshoot. NEI is willing to gamble a lot of money on the off chance that there’s something usable on the ridge. We don’t know that to be the case. Nevertheless, in everyone’s interest, we’ll assume the risk. And the tribe can just sit back and collect. One million dollars. To do nothing.”

Redfern folded the contract and handed it back. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“May I ask why? What can you lose?”

The lawyer got out of his chair. “Dr. Wells, I’m quite busy today. If NEI wants to make a serious offer, you know where to find me.”

“Aren’t you overstepping your authority, Mr. Redfern? I would think your responsibility is to consult your employer.”

Redfern let Wells see that he was not impressed. “I believe I understand my responsibility, Dr. Wells. Now, I hate to rush you—”

“All right.” Wells leaned back in his chair. “You drive a hard bargain, Redfern. To save us both time, I’ll go right to the bottom line. I’m authorized to offer
two
million.”

Redfern glanced up at his father’s bow. There were times, he thought, when he regretted that they’d given up the old ways.