Blasphemy

“If Isabella isn’t shut down, we may have breach of the beam pipe, which would result in an explosion.”

“How big?”

A hesitation. “I’m not a physicist, but they tell me if the beams cross beforehand, that convergence could create an instantaneous singularity which will detonate with the yield of a small nuclear device in the half kiloton range.”

“When?”

“Any time now.”

The Chief of Staff spoke. “I hate to throw in a distraction, but we’re getting a tsunami of media coverage. We have to manage it—now.”

“Clear the airspace within a hundred-mile radius of Red Mesa,” the president barked. “Declare a state of emergency for the Reservation. And martial law. Bar all press. All press.”

“Consider it done.”

“In addition to the National Guard troops, I want an overwhelming military backup response. I want the U.S. military to take control of Red Mesa and the surrounding area by first light. I don’t want any excuses about shortages of troops or transportation. I want you to move in forces on the ground, too. Send the soldiers cross- country. It’s open desert. Bring overwhelming power to bear. Is that clear?”

“Mr. President, I’ve already ordered the mobilization of all military assets in the Southwest.”

“Is four forty-five A.M. the best you can do?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Armed terrorists are seizing U.S. property and murdering U.S. servicemen. Their crimes against the state have nothing to do with religion. These people are terrorists—period, full stop. You understand?”

“I certainly do, sir.”

“As a start, I want that televangelist, Spates, perp-walked into federal custody on terrorism charges— shackles, leg irons, the works. I want it done in the most public way possible—to set an example. If there are any other preachers, televangelists, and fundamentalists out there cheering on these people, I want them arrested, too. These people are no different from Al Qaeda and the Taliban.”

67

NELSON BEGAY LAY ON HIS BELLY on a bluff above Nakai Valley, Willy Becenti beside him. The highest point on the mesa, its summit gave a 360-degree view of the desert terrain below.

The mother of traffic jams gridlocked the Dugway road where it topped out on Red Mesa. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of cars had parked willy-nilly in a huge open area just off the Dugway. Many of the vehicles were abandoned with their lights left on and the doors open. People were climbing the Dugway on foot, having left their cars somewhere below the mesa. They flowed down the Isabella project road, bypassing the detour to Nakai Valley, heading for the action at the edge of the mesa.

His binoculars traveled down the road. The hangars were burning. What was left of the helicopter the soldiers had arrived in was also on fire, the flames leaping a hundred feet or more into the sky. Dead bodies lay scattered around it from the bloody firefight he had watched happen a few minutes before. Most of the mob had left the airstrip after torching the chopper, but a few stayed to help a large backhoe finish ripping trenches across the runway.

He followed the streaming crowds farther, until his view reached the fenced off area at the edge of the mesa. It was swarming with people; Begay estimated at least a thousand. A mass of them were climbing one of the huge powerline towers and had gotten about three quarters of the way to the top. Others had erected a crude cross on top of a tall building at the edge of the mesa and were busy chopping down a cluster of communication towers that rose from its roof.

Begay slowly lowered his binoculars.

“You got any idea what the hell’s going on?” Becenti asked.

Begay shook his head.

“Some kind of Klan meeting? Aryan Nations?”

“There are blacks and Hispanics in the crowd. Even some Indians.”

“Lemme see.”

While Becenti stared at the eastern end of the mesa, Begay digested what he had seen. Initially he thought it must be some kind of crazy revival meeting—a common sight on the Rez—but when they blew up the chopper he realized it was something else altogether. Maybe something connected with that television preacher he’d heard people talking about, the one who’d delivered a sermon against the Isabella project.

Becenti grunted, still staring. “Look at how many people they killed at the airstrip.”

“Yeah,” said Begay. “And you can bet there’s going to be a reaction. The feds aren’t going to sit around and let this shit happen. We don’t want to be caught up here when the fireworks begin.”

“We could stay a little while, see what happens. It isn’t every day you get front-row seats watching the Bilagaana blow themselves up. We always knew the white people were going to do it someday, right? Remember that prophecy?”

“Willy, knock it off. We’ve got to get everyone together and get the hell off this mesa.”

They rose and headed down into the valley.

RANDY DOKE STOOD ON THE HOOD of the Humvee above the fray, his brawny arms folded. The vantage point gave him a better view of the people climbing the high-tension tower. The uppermost ones were just reaching the top. The power lines buzzed and crackled.

Doke felt energized as never before in his life. Once he had been lost in heroin, cocaine, and alcohol. At his lowest point—while wallowing drunk and shit-stained in an irrigation ditch outside Belen, New Mexico, a childhood prayer from deep in his memory had come unbidden, a prayer which his mother had taught him before the drunken old bastard she lived with had shot her and then himself. The singsong verses reverberated in his head, Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so. . . . And right then and there, in that foul ditch in Belen, Jesus had reached down and saved his worthless ass. And now he owed the Man—he owed the Man. He would do anything for Jesus.

He raised a pair of binoculars. A climber had reached a point just below the insulators. Doke watched as the man braced himself on the ladder, wrapping his legs around a strut. When he steadied himself, he unslung a pump shotgun, racked a shell into the chamber, and shouldered the gun.

This is going to be good.

He watched the climber take careful aim. The people climbing up from below paused to watch. There was a flash of light, and a moment later the boom of the shotgun reached Doke’s ears. A shower of sparks cascaded down from the power line, the wire shivering. A cheer went up.

The man steadied himself and racked the slide of the shotgun. There was a second flash-boom. The wire detonated thousands of sparks and the line recoiled, like a spitting rattler hit with rocksalt. Another roar of approval.

A third blast. This time a massive spray of fire spewed across the darkness. The line parted with a deep thrumming twang that seemed to vibrate the air, the cut end falling like a slow-motion whip, dribbling fire, coiling down into the crowds below. It struck with a series of booms and flashes of light and smoke, throwing people violently aside, setting off a screaming stampede.

Awesome.

Doke redirected his attention back to the tower. The man was pumping and aiming again. But now people on the tower were yelling—what? For him to stop? No, Doke thought. Go for it.

Another boom from the shotgun. A piece of insulator came tumbling down amid a fireworks display, and a second line snapped and recoiled into the tower itself. It was as if some invisible giant had jarred the tower; people just peeled off the ladder, bodies falling and striking the lower struts, bouncing and spinning off, hitting the ground with a series of dull thuds.

The recoiling line whipped around and came toward him, singing like feedback from a giant electric guitar. Doke leapt off the Humvee as the sizzling cable whipped across it, lashing up a fountain of sparks. He barrelled into the panicked crowd and clawed his way over fallen people in an effort to get away. The Humvee burst into flames, and a moment later he felt the heat of the exploding gas tank, the shockwave, the sudden glow.

Picking himself up, he viewed the damage.