After a moment he grew less certain. He was about to chalk it all up to his imagination when the air seemed to coalesce. A shape suddenly appeared from the drab landscape where a moment before there had been nothing.

Brian didn't have time to give voice to his shock.

The instant the figure appeared, there came a flash of brilliant orange.

The bullet struck Brian Turski in the right side of the chest, spinning him. His feet went out from underneath him, and he went sprawling into the pool of black oil. Crude flooded into his gaping mouth. Another shot, followed by another.

Brian pulled his face up, spitting thick oil. The pain in his chest was blinding.

Joe Abady was sliding to a stop next to him, a nickel-size hole in his forehead.

Men screamed and ran. Another flopped on his side in the oil pool, blood streaming from his open mouth. More gunshots crackled off across the desolate Alaskan wilderness. And all around, bodies fell.

A few men tried to clamber back up the hill. Bullets found backs. The pipeline workers slipped and rolled back down to the valley floor.

Back near the pipe, panicked and bleeding, Brian struggled to get up. His arms were too weak, and he dropped back to the ground.

The oil was thick on his clothes, filling his mouth and nose. Spitting, he flopped over onto his back. Using the heels of his boots and pressing one hand to his bleeding chest, he slid back against a metal support member.

The gunfire had stopped.

The dead lay all around him. Steam rose from gaping wounds and slack mouths.

To Brian Turski, they were already a distant thing. As if he were viewing the landscape through a fuzzy telescope. His legs were growing numb. Already there was no feeling in his right arm. He let it flop to the ground.