Alcatraz Island, San Francisco Bay
May 22
Predictably, the traffic southbound on I-5 moved along at five to ten miles per hour faster than the posted speed limit, and Danya made good time. She and Toby passed the hours conversing mostly about Toby’s family and life as a Native American living off the reservation, in a community dominated by ranching. As she learned, Cole hadn’t been the first white man to threaten Toby.
Shortly following a rest stop near Willows in the northern Sacramento Valley, Toby turned an inquisitive eye to her new friend.
“You haven’t said much about your life.”
“Not much to say.”
“Really? I mean, the way you took Cole down, and his brother, I’d have thought you’re ex-military. In Israel, women serve in the military, right? Combat, too, I’ve heard.”
“Nah. Nothing that exciting.”
“Is that so? You didn’t learn to fight like that in school, or by being someone’s secretary.”
Toby’s probing was met with silence. Danya stared ahead at the road, watching the white line zip by. Her thoughts drifted back in time. She placed an elbow on the arm rest, and two fingers against her temple—a habit when she was deep in thought.
Had it already been several years since she’d entered the Oregon wilderness with her team of four operators? Her callsign had been Artemis—the hunter. She recalled with clarity killing the Oregon State trooper near the crest of the Cascade Mountain range. The trooper had gotten the drop on her team members, and disarmed them all at gunpoint. But not her. She’d slipped away. Out of sight of the officer, she crept up on him from behind, placed a gun to his head, and pulled the trigger. No guilt, no remorse. Just doing the job.
At the time, the job had sounded simple enough—terminate an American civilian who’d stumbled upon secret information dating back to June of 1967. Knowledge of a long-forgotten event that had transpired during the Six Day War, when Israel was fighting the Arab Coalition for its very survival. The secret was supposed to have been buried deep—so deep it would never surface.
But somehow it did.
Although the information was of no strategic importance so many decades after the war, it was still considered to be a significant liability for the Israeli prime minister, potentially endangering Israel’s relationship with the United States.
The problem had to be rectified, and Mossad dispatched Danya to lead a team of four operators already living under cover in the US, to clean up the mess. Tracking down the American was easy, and terminating him should have been a simple affair. After all, he was just an ordinary civilian.
Toby’s voice brought Danya back to the present.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
Danya remained silent.
“Come on,” Toby said. “I’ve shared almost my entire life story.”
“Yeah, don’t expect me to reciprocate.”
s
With coffee in hand, Danya and Toby boarded the ferry at the Alameda Ferry Terminal, on the Oakland Inner Harbor. Before leaving the Riddle Ranch, Danya had left her trailer parked inside the old barn. She didn’t want the hassle of towing it through traffic, or to run the risk that it might be vandalized in the ferry terminal parking lot. It would be safe in the empty barn until she returned in a few days.
Expecting that her daypack would be subject to inspection prior to boarding the ferry to San Francisco, she made sure it didn’t contain any knives or firearms. However, she left the binoculars in the pack rather than risk having the expensive optics stolen from her parked car. Besides, she expected the views from the small island near the mouth of the bay to be spectacular.
After disembarking in San Francisco, the pair walked a short distance to Pier 33, where they boarded a second ferry. It was a beautiful spring morning in San Francisco, with a cool, gentle breeze blowing in from the bay. She was glad she was wearing a bulky hooded sweatshirt to ward off the chill that persisted despite the sunshine. They sat with many other Indigenous People for the short boat ride to the landing dock on Alcatraz.
“You have an unusual name for a woman,” Danya said.
“I’m named after Toby Riddle. She was an important Modoc woman who served as an interpreter during the Modoc War.”
“I haven’t heard of the Modoc War.”
“It was in the 1870s. The government wanted to force the Modocs onto the same reservation as the Klamath tribe. Have you heard of Captain Jack?”
Danya shook her head.
“He’s a famous Modoc Chief. He led a band of warriors into the lava fields to resist the army. The lava fields are rugged and extremely difficult to pass through. Captain Jack was a brilliant tactician. He held off the soldiers for many months. Anyway, in 1873, Toby Riddle overheard a plan to attack the US Peace Commission when she delivered a message to the Modoc leaders, which included Captain Jack. She told the Commission of the plan, but they didn’t heed her warning. Some of the commissioners were killed, but Toby saved the life of Alfred Meacham. He was the Oregon Indian Superintendent.”
“What happened after the war was over?” Danya said.
“The Modoc tribe was forced off their ancestral lands in northeastern California and southern Oregon, the rich lands around Tule Lake and Lost River. Some were relocated more than a thousand miles to the Indian Territory in Oklahoma, while the remainder were resettled to the Klamath Reservation.”
“I think I’m beginning to understand why this protest is important to you,” Danya said.
“It’s important to all my people. The Modoc War was late in the history of the white expansionist policies. Those policies resulted in all American Indians eventually being forced onto reservations. Think about it. Can you imagine that being done today?”
“Those were different times,” Danya said. “A lot has changed since the nineteenth century.”
“Times always change, I suppose. Eventually.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just saying the obvious. Ever since Europeans set foot on this continent, the red man has been treated as a second-class citizen, at best.” Toby paused, then whispered, “At worst, we’ve been treated as vermin—to be exterminated.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. When I was in school, only the highlights of American history were taught.” Danya paused in reflection. “Perhaps I should learn more. It seems this dark passage of your history has similarities to events in my country.”
Toby looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of deceit—a ploy to pretend to be sympathetic. But no such evidence was there.
“What was wrong then, is still wrong now,” Toby said. “The United States must acknowledge its crimes against humanity, committed in the name of westward expansion.”
Danya reflected on the history of her homeland. Founded in May 1948, the State of Israel was literally carved out of the Middle East by the victorious allies, following the end of World War II. The land was taken from Palestine, against the wishes of the Palestinian people. The result was conflict that, to this day, has not been resolved. A festering wound that showed no sign of healing.
She reflected on the Palestinian people, who were evicted from their ancestral homeland. Was their plight really any different from that of Native Americans?
Finally, Danya said, “Do you think your protests will bring about the change you seek?”
Toby sighed. “Truthfully? No, not in my lifetime. Eventually, I think attitudes will change. I mean, just look at the progress the civil rights movement of the 60s brought about. But almost six decades later, there’s still work to be done. And that civil rights movement has never extended to my people.”
“I hope this is the beginning of that change,” Danya said. “I truly do.”
“Thank you.” Toby reached out for her hand. “I’m very lucky to count you as a friend.”
“How many protestors do you expect?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe as many as a hundred.”
Danya surveyed the faces on the ferry.
“I don’t think there are that many on this boat.”
“Don’t expect every protestor to look like an Indian. I mean, you’re participating, right?”
We’ll see. Danya was still apprehensive about placing herself in a situation that might involve police interaction.
“Besides,” Toby said, “more may arrive on later ferries.”
The ship slowed as it approached the dock, and with a small bump of the fenders, came to a stop. Once the mooring lines were secured to bollards fore and aft, the gangway was put in place, and the passengers offloaded in single file.
Many peopled milled about the dock area, seeing the structures of the former penal institution up close for the first time. The large apartment block dominated the view. It was originally constructed as barracks for soldiers when the island was a military prison, and then remodeled to provide housing for correctional officers and their families when the prison was transferred to civilian control. High up on the wall of the five-story building was a sign identifying Alcatraz as a federal penitentiary. Just above the sign, in red, was the greeting Indians Welcome. Hand-painted in 1969, it was a reminder that the former federal prison was occupied by indigenous Americans.
Danya and Toby followed a sea of people moving past a block of restrooms, toward the old guard tower.
“We’re supposed to meet at the base of the tower,” Toby said. “I think we’re going to be given pamphlets to hand out to visitors. And maybe some signs, too.”
“Why Alcatraz?” Danya said.
“This is where the modern movement really began. According to the 1868 Treaty of Fort Laramie, any unoccupied land could be rightfully reclaimed and taken back by the tribes. Since President Kennedy closed and abandoned the prison here in 1963, it was our treaty right to claim this island. Plus, it’s only a mile or so from San Francisco. Initially, it was mostly a student group that had organized in the Bay Area. They called themselves Indians of All Tribes. On November twentieth, 1969, a boat carrying members from twenty tribes landed on Alcatraz. That initial group numbered seventy-nine, and included family members, women, and children. More activists came later.”
Danya said, “Being in the middle of the California Bay Area would make this a convenient, and strategic, location for a protest.”
“Yes, but it was also symbolic. Alcatraz was federal property. And Indians of All Tribes was taking it, just as the federal government had taken our lands.”
“What happened? Why didn’t the movement continue to gain momentum?”
Toby shrugged. “Hard to say. I think the public lost interest in yet another civil rights movement. Maybe they thought AIM was too militant. You know, not long after the occupation of Alcatraz, there were conflicts between Indians and the FBI, at Wounded Knee and Pine Ridge. Those events turned public opinion against us. And many of my people still don’t trust the FBI.”
Off to the side of the path, a group of people were gathering flyers. Toby grabbed a few dozen sheets, which consisted of a list of broken treaties dating back two hundred years. At the bottom was a chronological list of several massacres carried out by the US Army, against native populations, mostly women and children. On the reverse side, a historical black-and-white photo documented Native American corpses littering the village at Wounded Knee. Another showed a mass grave with bodies of Indian women and children stacked three-deep. The flyer was professionally produced with high-resolution images. The organization’s web address was provided at the bottom of the page, beneath the photos, along with a call for support.
“Offer these to everyone you see,” said the organizer, a barrel-chested man in his late twenties.
He wore a ball cap embroidered with the words American Indian Movement overlaid on an eagle feather.
“Ask people to write their representatives and demand recognition of tribal rights guaranteed by treaties,” he said.
“What are these for?” Toby picked up an arm band from the table next to the flyers.
The barrel-chested man said, “It identifies you as a member of the protest. Put one on your arm, over your clothing so it’s easily visible. Take one for your friend, too. We want everyone to know who’s here peacefully supporting our cause.”
Toby picked up two and handed one to Danya. They were printed on some type of durable paper, like the wrist bands they put on hospital patients, but many times wider. The design was a copy of a classic Plains Indian beadwork band, a style worn by warriors.
“These are beautiful. My name’s Toby.” She extended her hand to the organizer. “I’m from the Modoc and Klamath tribes.”
“Nice to meet you, Toby. I’m Clyde Means.” His grip was firm.
Several protestors were hoisting signs and chanting, attracting the attention of some of the visitors.
“Stay nearby,” Clyde said. “We’re expecting more supporters on the next ferry. It will arrive in about thirty minutes. We’ll get everyone organized on the dock, and then shoot video for the news stations.”
“Are you expecting any reporters?” Toby said.
“I hope so. Nothing confirmed yet, but we put the word out.”
Danya looked across the dock and saw a gathering group of park rangers taking note of the protestors. If they decided to question the demonstrators, she didn’t want any part of it.
“Why don’t you stay here,” she said to Toby. “I know this is important for you. I’m going to take a short walk, and then I’ll be back when the next ferry arrives.”
“But I thought you were also going to participate?”
“Don’t worry. While everything is getting set up and organized, I’d like to at least see the outside of the cell house.” Danya pointed toward the highest location on the tiny island, where the imposing three-floor concrete blockhouse stood next to the tall and slender lighthouse. “Besides, I’ll bet the view from up there, across the bay to San Francisco, is amazing, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be back here again.”
Toby smiled. “Of course. I’m sorry. I was being selfish. Take lots of pictures. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Alcatraz Island was nicknamed The Rock for good reason. It was a robust mountain peak that protruded through the bay, leaving the tip exposed. This solid foundation gave work crews a good footing for the structures they would build there—apartments and barracks, a chapel, administrative buildings, and the iconic cell house, which was located on the very top of the island. Due to the steep slopes dropping into the surrounding water, the boat landing had to be cut from rock, leaving a steep escarpment where the excavation had ended. The old barracks building was located at the north end of the landing, with the back of the large structure almost touching the stone ledge.
Leaving Toby with the protestors, who were swelling in number, Danya followed the main pathway from the dock, up toward the cell house. The grade was surprisingly steep, and passed beside the guardhouse and through the sally port about a hundred yards beyond the guard tower. The sally port was constructed with an outer wall and an inner wall to create a strong defensive position. A massive door was hinged from each wall. Illustrating the serious intentions of the fortification, an iron muzzle-loading cannon was mounted on a carriage within the sally port. The gapping maw of the cannon pointed down the slope, toward the dock. Had it been loaded with grapeshot and fired, it could have taken out a hundred invading troops charging up the path Danya had just walked.
Just inside the sally port, she turned and gazed back toward where she had come from. Several park employees, clothed in dark green jackets, were talking to Clyde Means while the demonstrators continued waving their signs and chanting. But after a brief conversation, the rangers dispersed again.
Hopefully, the park staff would allow the protest to continue without anyone being detained. Danya knew it was supposed to work that way, as long as there wasn’t violence.
A young couple entered the sally port, and she quickly turned again to admire the view across the bay, to Treasure Island, and beyond to Berkeley, just like she imagined thousands of tourists did every day. The pair paused at the breach end of the large-bore gun while the woman read from a guidebook.
“The island is perfectly placed to protect San Francisco Bay. It was originally built as a fort. But the Civil War didn’t reach this far west, and the fort didn’t see any action.”
Her male companion slapped a hand on the steel gun barrel.
“So they eventually converted it to a prison,” he said.
“That’s right. First, a military prison. And then, for civilian criminals.”
The young man gazed across the cold waters of San Francisco Bay.
“I have to admit,” he said, “I’d be intimidated about trying to escape if I was locked up here. Assuming you eluded the guards and didn’t get shot, that swim is a long one.”
“And the water is really cold. Plus, they say the currents are very strong. If you were swimming for shore when the tide was going out, you’d probably get pulled out into the Pacific Ocean.”
“Did anyone escape? Make it out alive?”
“Maybe.” She ran her finger along lines of text in the guidebook. “It’s controversial. It says here that three inmates executed a daring plan. It was really cool, when you think about it. They made a movie about the escape. Anyway, they were never seen again. And their bodies were never found, either.”
The couple exited the sally port and strolled up towards the cell house, which appeared to be the main attraction.
After snapping several photos across the bay, Danya ambled on. Ahead was the empty shell of what used to be the post exchange and officers club. There, the path made a sharp 180-degree turn and continued to climb. At the next switchback, she opted to go straight ahead and enter the large, flat parade ground. A few other visitors were milling about, mostly enjoying the spectacular view.
Eventually, she wandered to the edge of the grounds facing south. She was unable to see the courtyard adjoining the dock area, as the view was blocked by the tall barracks building. But the view of San Francisco was stunning. She meandered across the parade ground and toward the southern edge of the island, where she found herself standing alone on the edge of a bluff overlooking a rocky shoreline.
Given her military training, it was obvious to Danya that the extreme topography and commanding views made Alcatraz a strong defensive fortification. The steep rocky slopes reminded her of the mountainous terrain where she had hunted the American many years before. The memories were still vivid, as if it had all happened only weeks ago.
Her intelligence sources had said the American was just an ordinary man, lacking any military service or martial training. That assessment couldn’t have been further from the truth. After he lured her team into the Cascade Mountains, he proceeded to use the boulder-strewn slopes and tree cover to his advantage, picking off the Mossad team members one by one, using only a hunting rifle.
Danya shook her head. Life was so much simpler when following orders was all that mattered. How many of those orders were morally wrong?
Her introspection was interrupted by a pair of seagulls diving off to her side to snatch a few morsels from a dropped cereal bar. A short distance beyond the squawking birds, a sign pointed to the Agave Trail, but a gate was closed at the trail head.
She drifted closer. A map posted next to the gate showed the trail extending down from the parade grounds, to the edge of the bay, then wrapping around and finally connecting to the ferry dock. Another sign read that the trail was closed due to nesting seabirds.
She looked toward the water lapping at the rocky shore, and spotted a man and a woman at the water’s edge. They were facing the bay, squatting.
Some people just won’t follow the rules.
After watching the pair for a minute, she started to turn, but something odd caught her attention. It appeared that the man had retrieved something from the water’s edge and placed it inside his waistband. His shirt covered whatever it was.
Whatever the two were doing wasn’t her business, so Danya turned and strode across the parade grounds.