White smoke from the rockets was drifting above Charlie’s firing position on the edge of the parade grounds. Danya scrambled up the slope, shielded from Leonard’s view by the thicket of trees and bushes surrounding him.
As she cleared the lip of earth and landed on the parade grounds, she realized the rocket launcher was at the southern-most edge, fortified by a large pile of broken concrete and scattered rocks. As she approached, another rocket was fired. She gazed across the water in time to see the warhead explode upon the side of the cutter, at the waterline. The Coast Guard cutter had taken a beating, but at least for now it was still afloat.
Danya cautiously rounded the nearest rubble pile. As she cleared the mound of debris, she spotted Charlie kneeling with the Folgore above his right shoulder. He was so focused on aiming, that he didn’t notice her approaching.
She recognized his concentration for what it was, and knew he was about to fire the weapon again. The cutter was a sitting duck. She had to interrupt the shot.
Danya wrapped her hand around an apple-sized chunk of concrete, and heaved it.
The concrete struck Charlie on the back of his shoulder just as he pressed the trigger. His body jerked to the side, sending the eighty-millimeter high-explosive warhead off on an errant trajectory. It exploded on the water, fifty yards off the stern of the retreating cutter.
Stunned, Charlie turned on his attacker. He managed to rise to his feet just as she slammed into him, her arms out and shoulder down for the tackle. Although she was half of Charlie’s weight, her mass and speed were sufficient to drive him backwards, knocking the Folgore off its stand. He was pushed back two paces before his heel stopped against a large stone at the base of the rubble pile. With his feet stuck, momentum carried him onto his back, and he slammed against the concrete and rock scree. Her shoulder drove the air from his lungs with an umpf! She pushed back, trying to separate from the giant, but was locked in placed, pinned to his chest with his arm. Then, with his free hand, he punched the side of her face. She shook it off and punched him, but the strike was weak. She swung again, but couldn’t get enough freedom of movement to land her fist with force.
As long as Charlie held her tight, she had no leverage to trade blows. He pummeled his fist into her head and face again. Her vision blurred for a second, before clearing. She had to break his grip before he pounded her unconscious.
She latched her fingers onto a piece of concrete, but it was too heavy to move.
Wham! The blow connected with her temple, causing her vision to go black and her strength to ebb. She shook her head and blinked.
His fist landed again, high on her cheekbone, and starbursts of multicolored lights danced across her blackened vision. A few more blows like that, and it would be all over. She kept feeling with her right hand for something hard and heavy, passing over chunks that were too large, or simply immobile.
Anticipating another strike, she turned her head to the right just before Charlie’s meaty fist connected with the back of her skull. She thought she heard the crack of knuckles on bone. Her head hurt like hell, but it wasn’t debilitating like the strikes to her temple and face.
Then she wrapped her hand around a chunk of rubble that filled her grip. It weighed about a pound, and she accelerated it toward Charlie’s head with all the force she could muster. The mass of concrete delivered a satisfying thud when it connected with his head. She felt his grip slacken, and pushed herself free. She brought the bludgeon down again, slamming it into his forehead in a lethal blow.
Charlie’s arms fell limp. She tossed the chunk of concrete aside, revealing a blood-filled depression in his forehead.
s
“I don’t think they’ll be back,” Leonard said.
He’d left his sniper hide and joined Sacheen on the dock where others were busy preparing the drones.
“They’ll try again,” Sacheen said, “but not right away. First, the local police and FBI will need to coordinate. Probably Homeland Security, too, since the Coast Guard is under their command.”
“How long do we have?” he said.
“Plenty of time to get the drones prepared, and send an even stronger message.”
Eight quadcopter drones were in a line, spaced several feet apart, in the middle of the courtyard. Each was equipped with an ultra-miniature camera. Originally developed for the US Army, the camera and integral transmitter weighed less than an ounce, and were capable of sending real-time video over the cellular network. With a range of over eight miles, the drones could transmit live video from San Francisco, and cities along the East Bay—Richmond, Berkeley, and Oakland.
Each drone was flown using a radio controller modified with a high-power transmitter. By clipping a cell phone to the controller, the pilot would have direct observations of the transmitted video, making immediate in-flight course adjustments if necessary to avoid interception.
Vernon Thunderhawk was supervising the preparations.
“As soon as we run a system check to verify comms and video,” he said to Sacheen, “the first drone will be flight ready.”
She was observing the men carryout the preparations.
“Good,” she replied. “Once the drone is ready, get suited up and insert the payload. Load up the other drones, too, and stage them along the edge of the dock, far enough away so as not to irradiate our warriors. Understand?”
He nodded. “No problem.”
“Good.”
“What’s the destination?”
“San Francisco. Think you can pilot the drone to Pioneer Park?”
“With Coit Tower standing as a guiding beacon, it will be easy.” He smiled.
“Complete the preparations, but do not launch until I return. I want to speak with someone.”
Sacheen strode to the barracks entrance. She wanted to try once more to convince Toby to join her cause.
Upon entering, she found herself in a gift shop. Beyond the gift shop was a movie theater which normally played a short documentary film about the former prison. A couple minutes of the film told the story of the brief first American Indian occupation in 1964, followed by the more widely known occupation spanning from November 1969 until June 1971.
She surveyed the crowd of hostages. It wasn’t long before she spotted Toby sitting with her back against the wall and her knees drawn up against her chest. She approached and sat next to Toby.
After a moment, she said, “I’ll make sure someone distributes water. I don’t think there’s much food to be had. Mostly just some candy in the gift shop. I’m sorry. I’ll ask one of the warriors to distribute what we can find for the children.”
Toby fixed her gaze on the far side of the room.
Sacheen said, “Everyone will be released before long. Maybe a day. Two, at most.”
Toby remained silent.
“It’s not my wish to harm these people. But this action is necessary. Your spirit is strong. You should stand with your people.”
Toby turned to Sacheen, her eyes filled with anger.
“You have no right. These people you have kidnapped, and now threaten, what have they done to you? What have they done to any of the tribes?”
“The wars between American Natives and the federal government never ended,” Sacheen said. “In the 1960s and 70s, many brave people risked everything to raise awareness for the rights of Indigenous People. The American Indian Movement, and Indians of All Tribes, carried our message to the public. Even as we protested peacefully, the government assaulted and murdered our young men and women.”
“Past transgressions do not justify your actions,” Toby said. “One can always find some historical wrong that was done to one group or another. The cycle of violence has to be broken.”
“Spoken like a true idealist.” Sacheen paused, but Toby offered no reply. “Have you suffered any mistreatment, any violence at the hands of the police or white mobs?”
Toby thought of the harassment and threats from Cole and his brother, but decided to keep that to herself.
“I’d imagine you have,” Sacheen said, “but would rather lie to yourself than admit the truth. Your home in Southern Oregon, near the Klamath Reservation, is fertile land, ranch land. Lots of rednecks there, right?”
“Bigots are found everywhere, even in the tribes.”
“I’m not your enemy,” Sacheen said. “Haven’t you ever yearned for a family?”
Toby gazed back in silence, but her eyes said what her heart felt.
Sacheen nodded. “I don’t want to be a revolutionary. But if not me, then who? How long must we wait patiently before our children have a future? Before the chain of poverty is broken?”
Toby slowly shook her head. “This is not the way. We will never win by force. Hasn’t history taught you anything?”
Sacheen gazed at the ceiling. “Would you have me bring a child into this world to life on the reservation?” She wiped her eyes, the back of her hand coming away moist. “I can’t do that. What kind of person does that make me?”
“I don’t know.”
Sacheen cleared her throat. “Our people have tried negotiating with the government. We’ve tried protesting for our civil rights. We’ve demanded to be treated equally. It doesn’t work.”
“Our people have lost many battles, but not the war.”
She appraised Toby again. She saw strong character, loyalty, determination, honesty, intelligence. Traits that would make her a good spokesperson to carry their message to the public. Plus, she was a young and attractive woman, with obvious Native American features. She would be the perfect image of the Indigenous Peoples Movement, IPM.
“Come with me.” Sacheen held out her hand. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Toby eyed her before relenting, concluding that there was little to lose by going along. Side by side, they walked out of the former barracks.
Leonard stood arrow-straight in the middle of the paved courtyard between the ferry dock and the barracks. The Barrett rifle was slung diagonally across his back. His eyes were narrowed, and his lips pursed in a studious mien. He was gazing across the bay, at the receding Coast Guard cutter, with a countenance devoid of any expression that might convey regret or remorse.
“Leonard.” Sacheen approached from behind. “I’d like you to meet Toby.”
The two women stood side by side, and Leonard turned to face them.
“Toby is from the Modoc and Klamath tribes. She came here today with about two dozen other protestors.”
“I see.” Leonard looked beyond her, to the building where the tourists were being held. “Why are you with them?”
Toby turned toward Sacheen. “Well?”
“I invited Toby and all of the other activists to join our cause. In the meantime, I thought it best if everyone was together inside. That way, we can make sure no one is accidentally injured.”
His gaze moved from Sacheen back to Toby.
“I assume Sacheen has explained our objectives?”
“She said your goal is the return of historical tribal lands and sovereignty for First Nations People. Personally, I can’t begin to imagine how you plan to achieve that.”
“You don’t agree with our aims?” Leonard said.
Toby shook her head. “Not at all. Of course, I agree with your goals. But this isn’t the nineteenth century anymore. Time has moved on. What once was sacred hunting grounds two hundred years ago, is now covered by cities, highways, factories, and farms. Are you proposing all that is taken down, bulldozed? And what of the people who inhabit those towns and cities?”
“It would be a fitting turn of the tables for the white man to be forced onto reservations,” he said. “But no, that is not our idea. However, an appropriate sum should be paid to the tribes for the use of our land.”
“You really think you can achieve that?”
Leonard shrugged. “Why not? There is precedent. Eminent domain allows the government to seize private land, provided compensation is paid to the landowner. The government has already taken our lands—sacred lands. They just haven’t paid for them yet.”
Toby had to admit that there was a certain amount of logic to what he was saying. But she also knew that logic and reality didn’t have to be one and the same when it came to governance and politics.
“It’s going to take more than a sit-in on this island to convince even the state government, not to mention the federal government, to accept your proposal. The expense could be astronomical.”
“All to be negotiated,” Leonard said. “But likely in the hundreds of billions of dollars.”
“Do you really think you can win?”
“We do.”
“Yeah, right.” Toby chortled. “And what have you been smoking?”
Leonard narrowed his eyes. “We have the means to make this happen.”
“Oh, really? Let me tell you something. Whoever you are negotiating with is just going to play along, tell you what you want to hear, until they manage to sneak a SEAL team, or whatever, onto this rock. There will be a gunfight. It will probably be ferocious. And you and all your men will be killed.”
“We have the hostages. How many?” he said to Sacheen.
“Over two hundred.”
“You’re not that naïve,” Toby said. “Or that stupid. Let me do the math for you. Let’s say you have two hundred hostages, and you want two hundred billion dollars. That’s one billion per person. Who’s gonna agree to pay that? No one will.”
Leonard turned his head to Sacheen, smirking.
“You’re right. She is smart. And cool under pressure.”
Toby said, “My advice—cut your losses while you are still breathing.”
“Your life hangs in the balance, too,” Sacheen said.
Toby rolled her eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know. Whatever happens to me is beyond my control. The two of you,” she pointed at Leonard and Sacheen, “you’re making the decisions. Not only concerning your lives, but the lives of everyone here. Every man, woman, and child here is innocent. They have no say in your dispute, or ability to influence the outcome.”
Leonard said, “Ever since Europeans landed on the shores of America, our ancestors have suffered. They were innocent, too.”
“No one can change what happened hundreds of years ago.”
“If you think this is only about historical grievances, you’re mistaken. Let me explain my family history.”
“Will I find this interesting?” Toby raised her eyebrows.
“Hear me out before you judge.”
Toby frowned. “Fine.”
Leonard nodded. “Let me begin with introductions. My name is Leonard Cloud. And this,” he waved a hand toward Sacheen, “is Sacheen Crow Dog, a member of the Raven Clan of the Tlingit tribe. My family owns a small parcel of land in northern Nevada, on the Duck Valley Reservation. I grew up there in a modest house. My mother was Shoshone-Paiute, and my father was of the San Carlos Apache Nation. None of this will have any significance to you, but I want you to understand my cultural identity. Our cultural identity.”
Toby nodded.
“For you to understand my passion, you need to know my recent family history. The brother of my mother was John Trudell. He died a few years ago. Do you know of him?”
“Yes, I do. Didn’t he broadcast the radio program from Alcatraz, during the occupation?”
Leonard nodded. “That’s right. My uncle was among those idealistic protestors who came to Alcatraz in 1969. He broadcast on the UC Berkeley radio station at night. They called his show Radio Free Alcatraz. Anyway, he remained active in the leadership of the American Indian Movement—what some called the Red Power movement—for many years. In fact, he was the national chairman of AIM throughout most of the 1970s. The Movement was mostly peaceful, but there were a few exceptions.”
“You mean the incident at Wounded Knee?” Toby said.
“The standoff lasted seventy-one days. Two of our people were murdered by federal agents.”
“My recollection is that gunfire was exchanged by both sides,” Toby said. “Law enforcement officers were also injured.”
Leonard nodded. “And during the trial that followed, in which the government sought prison sentences for my brothers, the US District Judge saw through the charade and dismissed all charges due to government misconduct. It was not the last time that AIM protestors were railroaded. My uncle, he didn’t trust the FBI. He was protesting in Washington, DC, in 1979, and he burned a US flag on the steps of the FBI headquarters. He said it was because you burned the flag if it was desecrated, and the treacherous actions of the government amounted to dishonoring the flag, the nation. Twenty-four hours later, his family was murdered in a house fire.”
“Murdered?” Toby raised her eyebrows.
“That’s right,” Sacheen said. “Of course, the tribal authorities investigated, but they were in league with the FBI.”
“Another conspiracy theory?”
“There are many facts not included in the government’s account,” Sacheen said. “During the 1970s, there was a lot of tension and conflict between the FBI and American Indians, mostly members of the Oglala Sioux Nation. You should research the Pine Ridge and Wounded Knee incidents. There is good reason to believe that the FBI was working to suppress activism they viewed as radical. They funded a group of counter-activists, under the direction of Dickie Wilson, who rose to be tribal president of the Oglala Sioux in a rigged election. He established a special police force that violently opposed peaceful protests for Native American rights.”
“My grandmother was murdered in that house fire,” Leonard said. “Along with my uncle’s wife and unborn child, and their three young children. My cousins.”
Toby looked into Leonard’s eyes, seeing genuine grief.
“I’m sorry. That was a violent period in American history. The Black Power movement peaked. So did the organization of Latino farm laborers.”
“True. And Native Americans were not spared from the wrath of an oppressive government. In June of 1975, two FBI agents entered the Pine Ridge Reservation. You know, that was a dangerous time on the rez. Dickie Wilson’s vigilante group wanted to keep the status quo, to keep the red man under the thumb of the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”
“I know something about that,” Toby said. “Those two lawmen were murdered in cold blood. You can’t justify that.”
Leonard’s mouth turned down. “And by what evidence do you conclude it was murder? Because the FBI said so? As I said, that was a dangerous and violent time on the reservation. Everyone was poor. They knew nothing else their entire lives. So when two strangers come into the community in everyday cars, not wearing any uniforms, and produce weapons—tell me, how would you respond?”
Toby didn’t want to dwell on how she would react. She wanted to think she was better than to give in to fear and popular prejudice. But was she deceiving herself?
When Toby didn’t reply, Leonard continued.
“You know, there were a lot of people there, all shooting their guns. Who fired the shots that killed the FBI men? Everyone fled afterward. They knew it was bad, and that it would only get worse. Two of my brothers in the Movement were arrested and put on trial. But the judge agreed that they’d acted in self-defense. Only later was Leonard Peltier arrested in Canada and extradited to the US. The FBI had learned from their previous failures to get convictions in federal courts, so they had written statements from a few members of the tribe that implicated Mister Peltier in the murders. That was enough for a guilty verdict, even though those witnesses told the court their statements were forced by the FBI.”
“I sympathize with your frustration over what you see as a miscarriage of justice. I really do. But 1975 was a long time ago.”
“And I have a long memory. The relations between Native Americans and the US government have been festering, like a fetid wound that won’t heal, for a hundred fifty years. It was no coincidence that the agents were killed on the Pine Ridge Reservation. That is part of the Sioux Nation. The Sioux signed a treaty with the government in 1868, that promised a vast territory, including the Black Hills, in perpetuity. That promise, like so many others from the white politicians, lasted only a few years, until gold was discovered in the Black Hills. The Sioux were forced off their land. Naturally, without compensation. Then the government built a monument on lands they’d stolen by chiseling the faces of four US Presidents into sacred Lakota Sioux granite.”
“History cannot be changed,” Toby said. “In time, the rights you seek—we all seek—will be realized. But only if your organization works with the politicians to make that change through law.”
“No. The politicians cannot be trusted. They are only interested in their own financial reward.”
“If you fight the system, you’ll only lose.”
“My uncle and my brothers in AIM, they all tried to work with the system. We have been trying for more than four decades.”
“These are different times. You can’t hold on to the anger forever.”
“I can.” Leonard’s eyes smoldered with the fire of repression. “The federal government has never stopped waging a war of deceit and violence against Native Americans. Sacheen and I have dedicated our lives to correct this wrongdoing. We have forsaken our own family so we can be the voice of right and reason that will be amplified ten-thousand-fold. The heinous and cowardly crime against my family that took my kinfolk from this world so many decades ago triggered a cascade of events that is about to reach its climax. When our work is done, Sacheen and I will live the remainder of our days in peace on my family’s land, where we will raise our children. The end will be the beginning of a victorious movement, having gone full circle. Our people will break the chains of oppression, shake free from the cycle of poverty and crime. Only then will our spirits rest, together as one.”
Sacheen embraced Leonard, and he returned the tender show of affection.
Toby felt mentally exhausted, finding it difficult to process everything she’d been told, and to check it against what she thought to be the truth. The facts were fuzzy, at best, having been reported by mainstream news media, with their obvious biases toward the status quo, and history written by stodgy scholars sympathetic toward European perspectives.
“Look, I understand that a lot of bad things have happened,” she said. “And I’m sorry. But what does any of this have to do with me?”
Leonard and Sacheen exchanged a knowing glance.
“We believe you are a person of integrity and strong will,” Sacheen said. “We also believe that you love your cultural heritage and wish to better the lives of your tribe, and all tribes.”
Leonard said, “It is time for all who identify with their native cultural heritage to stand together.”
“You still haven’t shown me why you believe you can achieve your objectives. And if it means killing even one of the hostages, count me out.”
Sacheen said, “As I told you before, we do not plan to harm any of the hostages. For their own safety, it was necessary to move them to secure locations. My warriors are there not to harm them, but to protect them.”
Leonard’s gaze met with Sacheen’s. She nodded in response to an unspoken statement.
Then he faced Toby. “It is time to reveal our plan.”