Friday night: For a town "under seige" by protesters planning to occupy a nuclear plant in five hours, Seabrook looks pretty dull--very dull, in fact. A steady drizzle replaces the afternoon's thick mist falling on Seabrook police car number 23. Through the treetops, red airplane warning lights shine on the cranes that just into the eastern sky from the construction site. The cranes are still now, and the only visible activity is at Dunkin' Donuts across the street, where a scraggly crowd orders crullers and coffee to go.

"My boss told me there'd be a lot of activity around here, but...just a few scragglers, nothing much," says a cop named Mark. How do you feel about the plant, Mark? He puffs on his cigarette. "Wouldn't mind if the whole thing just sank into the ocean."

Saturday, 5:30 a.m. Hundreds of boots and the muffled sounds of anti-nuke battle songs thump along the road to the south campsite. "Quackquack! Quackquack! Duck Soup, is everybody here? Duck Soup, everyone here?" Affinity groups--Duck Soup, A Modest Proposal, Hard Rain, the Solar Powers, etc.--go stomping off through the forest.

Assorted members of the Assembled Press, our affinity group, tag along, learning early in the day not to take the press centers seriously. The coalition's "Media Information Van" would issue only two releases over the weekend, and spokesmen commonly answered questions with requests for more information. "You have a better idea of what's going on than we do."

The State of New Hampshire, reflecting the feelings of the Public Service Co., owners of the plant, just wish the whole group of protesters--with their tents and tarpaulins and two-by-ten planks for crossing marshland eddies, their gas masks and bolt-cutters and ropes for bringing down fences, their plans and tactics and shouts of "honk if you hate nukes"--the owners wish they would just go home. Or, failing that, they wish no one showed up to cover them. But nearly 500 reporters did, and the state's press center soon proved good for little more than the coffee and doughnuts that, you were often reminded, the bored National Guardsmen who manned the place had chipped in for because the state was too cheap. Except for the intense competition, for the three phones the state supplied ("remember to make the call collect") reporters stay away. The real action is Out There, and everyone knows it.

So we wait, not minding the cold, apprehensively euphoric at the prospect of impending, but undefined confrontation. The forest has a silver lining: a brilliant full moon illuminates the treetops and jagged piles of gravel from the construction site.

Saturday, 10 a.m. Dayton "Donuts" Duncan, press secretary to New Hampshire Gov. Hugh Gallen, is handling the press. Dressed in his imitation Jody Powell suit, chomping on an imitation Jody Powell cigar, looking in all respects like Jody Powell, he is cool. He can form and he can dodge. A badly phrased question comes his way. "Do you plan on mass arrest this weekend?" Duncan smiles, puffs. "I don' plan on getting arrested at all," he says. How cool is Dayton Duncan?"

Sunday, noon. We're in Diversion City, the railroad tracks along the north fence. The big action for today is about to begin--but on the other side of the plant. The hot and heavy hard-core types from the north, who are into fence-cutting and "direct action" and who don't mind getting maced if it comes to that, have joined the south assault. The remaining protesters are here primarily to keep cops occupied. The cops don't know this--neither does part of the press.

When it looks like some National Guardsmen are about to leave, demonstrators gather 'round in their affinity groups and huddle conspiratorially, if only to divide candy bars or discuss old times. Sometimes everyone will put on gas masks to heighten the drama. A group often, singing "Zippity Doo Da," head off into the marsh towards the fence. About 20 policemen with Mace and clubs gravitate toward the protesters who are knee-deep in water and muck. They stop about 20 yards from the police, link arms, then they turn around, face their comrades on the railroad tracks, and start dancing a Rockettes kick-step. Much cheering. Ever mindful of the press, a protester shouts, "Media! Media! Photo opportunity!" The demonstrators also make sure the photographers are ready when, a few minutes later, the police grab the demonstrators, rip off their face-masks, and mace a few for effect.

Sunday, 3 p.m. A bunch of angry people with yellow press tags crowd the state press center. During the big assault on the south fence earlier in the day, some police seemed to take a special relish in macing reporters and photographers. For instance: policeman--who like the rest has removed his badge--approaches reporter, says, "That tag ain't going to help you a bit." Then pffft! The pain starts and the reporter's eyes begin to tear. Wait 'til you see tomorrow's paper, fellah.

Sunday, 4:30 p.m. Two thousand protesters after losing the Battle of Storage Dump Hill, have marched to the main gate. A women who identifies herself as Florence "Jones," shouts at them from her house across the street "You're being paid to do this, I know you are! Get the hell out of Seabrook!" Inside information? "The Communists paid them, the radical Communists." She is told that many Communist nations, including the Soviet Union, like nuclear power, use more than the U.S. For a moment, she is taken aback. Then comprehension dawns. "Yes, they have it--they don't want us to get it."

Monday, 8 a.m. Back on the road to Santasoucci's. As always rumors abound; police, some say, may sweep through the camp. Or maybe not.

The Story has surrounded us. In a small town like Seabrook, everyone is a possible quote, or angle. The reporters are supposed to observe and record, but battle fever--or at least its accompanying tension--is infectious. No one wants the pain of Mace in the eyes or a club in the back, just a whiff of tear gas as a souvenir.

Tactics, maneuvers, the grim, tight-lipped faces of police trained to avoid eye contact, other moments when the barriers break down and protesters and police treat each other as people, the fences and chants and vigils and pickets and the Chain Link Fence, it all blends together. To the side of the road, 20 ducks in group formation leave a small pond and head into the forest. It looks like an affinity group.