Judgment at Alcatraz by Dave Edlund (best historical fiction books of all time txt) 📗

you, put your hands on your head. Don’t try to be a hero, and you’ll be released unharmed.”

Sacheen kept her aim on them while Leonard removed their weapons and bound their hands behind their backs. The crowds milling about the dock area, combined with the passengers boarding the ferry, served to conceal the detainment of the park rangers. But some had glimpsed the pistols, and word was spreading.

“Stuart, can you radio the ferry?” Leonard knew they were running out of time.

So far, the plan had unfolded exactly as expected. But they still had one more objective to achieve before moving to the next phase of their mission.

Stuart nodded.

“Good. Tell them to wait. There’s an emergency, and you are bringing an injured person to board the ferry.”

“But no one’s hurt,” Stuart said. “The message would have come across the radio if there was an injury.”

He smacked Stuart across the back of his head.

“I can change that. You want me to?”

“No. I’ll radio the ferry. Just relax, okay?”

A mother pushing a stroller scurried away after approaching close enough to see the brandished guns. She was pointing and speaking frantically to other tourists.

“I am relaxed,” Leonard said.

The park ranger made the call.

“Good boy,” Leonard said. “Are there any more armed rangers wandering about?”

“No. Just us. We’re to make sure nothing crazy happens as people disembark from the ferry.”

“You mean, like us?” He motioned to Sacheen. “Guess you didn’t see that coming.”

In a shaky voice, Stuart said, “There are volunteer guides up at the cell house.”

“Volunteers?” Sacheen said. “You mean, they are not armed?”

She exchanged a nervous glance with Leonard.

“No weapons,” Stuart said. “They’re history buffs. They guide the tours.”

Leonard ground the barrel of his pistol into Stuart’s side, and leaned close to his ear.

“You’d better be right.”

Two young men with military-style haircuts, wearing Bermuda shorts and pastel sweaters, approached Leonard. They’d heard people talking about the disturbance, and seen many pointing their cell phone cameras at the close group of rangers.

While two paces away, to Leonard’s side, one of them said, “Hey, man. Is there a problem?”

Leonard spun and pointed the Beretta at the man’s face.

“No problem. Now just back up with your friend while you both are still able to stand.”

With hands raised, the two men inched backward and dissolved into the crowd, which had moved away, creating an empty buffer space around Leonard, Sacheen, and the park employees.

“What are you going to do?” the female ranger said, her voice cracking.

“It’s your lucky day,” Sacheen said. “All of you are going home.”

“You won’t get away with this,” said one of the park rangers. “Someone is certain to have called the police.”

“I really couldn’t care less,” Sacheen said. “I just want all of you off my island.”

Then she and Leonard herded the handcuffed rangers onto the ferry. Dozens of visitors were gawking from a distance. Nearly all were talking on their phones or taking video.

At the sign of the handcuffed park employees being herded onboard at gunpoint, a ferry crewmember raised his radio and began speaking loud and fast.

“Put the radio down, mister, and step aside.” Leonard motioned with the Beretta.

With raised hands, the crewmember complied. No sooner was the last person onboard when the mooring lines were cast free and the ferry engines churned, pushing the boat away from the dock.

Sacheen was on the radio right away.

“The ferry dock is cleared of armed park rangers. Send in the Jet Capsule now. With all these tourists on their phones, it won’t be long before a police boat arrives onsite.”

Over the radio speaker, a tinny voice replied, “The boat is loaded and ready. We’ve just been waiting for your signal.”

Leonard said, “Let’s get the rest of the supplies.”

He and Sacheen hopped over the gate at the point where Agave Trail split off from the dock. It was about a half-mile to their stash of weapons, and they covered that distance in a few minutes.

Tucked in amongst the tide pools were three black zippered bags with floatation cells. From a distance, one could hardly discern the bags from the barnacle-covered rocks. Leonard grabbed two and handed them to Sacheen. Then he retrieved the final bag, which was longer and heavier than the others. Both labored to carry the bags up the trail, and emerged on the parade grounds above the ferry dock.

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Deciding it was time to check in on Toby, Danya was retracing her route, following the pathway downhill. From within the sally port, looking through the downhill gate, she saw the dock directly ahead, and noticed a group of park rangers seemingly having a discussion with the two figures—a man and a woman—she’d observed recently in the off-limits area at the water’s edge.

“Wonder what that’s about?” she mumbled.

While she watched, the park staff members were ushered toward the ferry. They boarded, and then the ferry departed. Toby was still with the group of demonstrators conversing amongst themselves and seemingly oblivious to whatever was going on with the group of uniformed employees about a hundred yards away.

Danya removed the binoculars from her daypack and leaned against the wall of the sally port to stabilize the image. She scanned across the throng of people, those closest using their phones to photograph and video whatever was going on. The man and woman jogged off the dock and onto a trail that wrapped around the southern end of the island.

They’re going back to the same spot. Must be something more that they need.

Although Danya never completely relaxed, she certainly had not been in a vigilant state on this visit to Alcatraz. She had agreed to accompany Toby in the capacity of a tourist to what she expected to be a peaceful protest, combined with some sightseeing. She was still working through the reason why she felt this was important to do.

After hours of quiet reflection, she was still searching for an answer. She couldn’t help but see similarities between the displaced American Indians and the displaced Palestinian people. But there was more—a feeling of collective guilt. She was,