Nightwatch

by Richard P. Henrick

  He knew they were very fortunate that the weather forecast remained favorable. The Eleven Point was prone to flash floods, and the only rain anticipated was a spotty summer thunderstorm that could strike later in the afternoon. If all went on schedule, they’d be off the river by then and on their way to Branson, where the VP would be donning black tie and hosting a Partysponsored charity gala.

  Vince shuddered at the thought of having to don a tuxedo in this heat, and he watched as Chapman’s canoe floated down the current, the vessel holding Andy Whitworth close beside. The two had obviously made peace, with the VP talking away a mile a minute while the reporter nodded and took notes.

  There was no doubt in Vince’s mind that Chapman was talking about his favorite subject, the environment, and government’s responsibility in preserving it. This was the VP’s passion.

  He had already written a best-selling book on the subject, and made it the cornerstone of his political philosophy.

  The Washington image makers had wisely advised the VP that his ability to relate to the land and nature was one of his strongest attributes. His expertise in the matters of pollution control and wilderness preservation polled extremely high, with Americans regarding the Virginia native as if he were a modern-day Teddy Roosevelt.

  Instead of a suit and tie, he was most often portrayed in the media wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and cowboy boots. The great outdoors was his second home, and while the President played golf at exclusive country clubs. Chapman was perceived as someone with down-home, wholesome values, who spent his free time fighting to preserve the planet’s fragile ecosystem.

  Vince knew that this carefully crafted public image had been years in the making. Andrew Montgomery Chapman was definitely not a simple country boy. The son of Virginia’s longest serving Senator, with a mother who came from one of America’s oldest families. Chapman sharpened his vision of the world at Harvard, and in the United Kingdom as a Rhodes scholar. The young man born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth soon became the youngest Virginian ever to be elected to the House of Representatives, where he was able to shed his poor little-rich-boy image by walking the country roads of his district and developing an almost uncanny ability to relate to the common constituent. As Vice President, he was continuing this tradition, with political sights no doubt set on eventually occupying the nation’s highest office.

  Chapman’s current challenge appeared to be convincing Andy Whitworth, and the millions she reported to, that America had to balance its responsibilities abroad with even vaster needs right at home. And even though he might have been inwardly chomping at the bit to add his two cents worth to such significant international agreements as the Global Zero Alert Treaty, he was wisely backing off to let the President take the spotlight. Far away from the intrigues of foreign summits, he would ignite the passions of the American people right here in the heartland, with a story about how the government saved a river and, in the process, preserved one of the most pristine wilderness areas in the nation.

  The hoped-for photo op appeared to arrive shortly after they had transited yet another small rapids. It was at this time that Vince’s two-way activated, and Special Agent Linda Desiante excitedly reported in from the next bend.

  “Sir, I’ve been instructed by my Forest Service guide to inform the Vice President that we’ve got a major mayfly hatch up here. We’ve got bugs swarming all around us, and I’ve already seen two big rainbows hit the surface to feed. So I guess he can get out his gear, and maybe we’ll get that promised fresh-fish lunch after all.”

  This was just the sort of report that they had been waiting for, and Vince could already see tomorrow’s newspaper headlines, with a picture of the VP’s first catch as the most urgent news of the day.

  Chapter 8

  Friday, July 2, 7 a.m. C.D.T.

  Interstate Highway 44

  It had taken only a single call to aTF headquarters in Washington for Thomas to learn that Ted Callahan’s surprise request for his services indeed had priority over his current investigation. The reassignment had come right from the top, with Director McShane personally getting on the line to inform Thomas that the Special Agent in charge of the St. Louis field office would be taking over the search for the abortion clinic bomber. That left Thomas free to offer Army CID whatever assistance they might need. The Director never did explain the nature of this mysterious case, and Thomas left for his new duty directly from the Labadie raid site.

  Fort Leonard Wood was conveniently situated off the four lane highway he currently traveled. A trip of less than one hundred miles would bring him to the post’s front gate, and Thomas spent a good portion of the drive mentally adjusting to the sudden change of venue.

  He hated to leave a case unsolved, especially after discovering a promising lead, like the fire-scarred detonator box that he pulled from the trash bin. Would further searching prove that the bikers were making IEDs in addition to their fireworks? And if they weren’t, surely someone else in the region had purchased the same lot of detonators, and this was where the piece of cardboard box originated.

  It was frustrating to leave these questions unanswered, though Thomas realized that this unexpected reassignment wasn’t necessarily such a bad thing. He had been pulled off unsolved cases before, and in almost every instance he returned with a new way of looking at things. Missed clues were rediscovered, and a new perspective often produced amazing insights.

  Besides offering a much-needed mental break, to work with Ted Callahan again would be exciting. They hadn’t collaborated together since late last summer, when Ted helped him track down yet another bomber in the hills of West Virginia. Callahan’s tracing of the C-4 sample was an instrumental part of breaking that case, and Thomas owed him big-time.

  An NPR news update redirected his thoughts, and Thomas was surprised by the lead story. It referred to reliable sources confirming the previous rumor that the President had just landed in the Crimea to begin a secret negotiating session with the Presidents of Russia and Ukraine. As the newscaster went on to describe the purpose of this unannounced summit, Thomas remembered well the first time the so-called Global Zero Alert Treaty hit the headlines.

  It occurred late last summer, at about the same time he last worked with Ted Callahan. A brainchild of the Russian President, the idea of removing the world’s stockpile of nuclear warheads from their delivery systems was initially presented to the United Nations, on the day before the QE2 set sail for the infamous G-7 summit at sea.

  The entire incident had a nightmarish quality to it, and seemed to have taken place in another lifetime. This was fine with Thomas, who brought home scars of both a physical and an emotional nature. Some doors were better left closed, and that was the way he felt about his experiences aboard the QE2.

  Except for a private ceremony in the Rose Garden, when the President presented the Kellogg brothers with citations expressing his personal thanks, Thomas had managed to keep out of the public’s media-crazed eye. He was content to let the incident at sea fade to oblivion, with the only positive byproduct being a closer relationship with Brittany.

  Thoughts of Brittany kept him from losing his temper when a semi pulled in front of him without warning. The impatient trucker was trying to pass a slower-moving competitor, and there was no way he’d be able to complete this move before reaching the steep incline of the next hill. Thusly trapped, Thomas fought back the temptation to sound his horn, and he bided his time thinking instead about Brittany’s mysterious whereabouts. It suddenly dawned on him that the reason she couldn’t join the Kellogg family in Branson was because she was most likely in the Crimea with the President, on a mission that could very well mean the end of the Cold War’s hairtrigger nuclear response posture.

  Chapter 9

  Friday, July 2, 1742 Zulu

  Outside Simferopol

  It was as they were leaving the southern outskirts of Simferopol behind that Morrison was able to place a call via the comm van, to determine the
identity of the tanks they had spotted earlier.

  “Spooky Threenine,” he said into his two-way.

  “This is Checkmate One. Over.”

  The crystal-clear response was almost instantaneous.

  “Roger that. Checkmate One. This is Spooky Threenine. How can we be of service? Over.”

  “Spooky Threenine,” he said while studying the detailed topographical map that was spread out on his lap.

  “I need you to paint a target on map grid Sierra Foxtrot four-two-six-five, seven-three-two-eight. Over.”

  The pilot of the AC-130U gunship acknowledged the receipt of this request, and less than a minute later, he delivered his answer.

  “Checkmate One, low-light video shows a formation of seven T-72 main battle tanks occupying map grid Sierra Foxtrot four-two-six-five, seven-three-two-eight. Infrared scan indicates that vehicles are unmanned, with all propulsion systems inactive.

  They may be big, ugly, and loaded for bear, but their diesels are cold as ice. Checkmate One. Do you require any additional services from us at this time? Over.”

  Morrison was relieved by this report, and he looked over at his bald-headed Russian associate and smiled.

  “That’s a negative, Spooky Threenine. It’s good to have you in the neighborhood.

  Thanks for your help. Out.

  “It appears that they produce as advertised,” he added to Kosygin while switching off the two-way.

  The Russian grunted.

  “We do not squander our defense dollars.

  We Russians have learned over centuries to be economical.”

  Outside, the heavy rains had stopped falling. Even then, dusk came early, and fog began developing as they approached the Salgir River valley.

  Samuel Morrison waited until the Suburban’s driver was able to switch off the windshield wipers for the final time before pulling out a pair of cigars from his jacket. His seatmate readdressed his own two-way, and Alexi Kosygin looked disappointed as he lowered the radio and turned to Morrison.

  “Even with the help of your communications van, I was unable to get through to the destroyer.”

  “Do you want me to try routing the call via Nightwatch?”

  offered the SAIC.

  “No, my friend, I only wanted a routine SITREP. It can wait.

  We’ll be out of this valley shortly, and then it’s but a ten-minute drive over the coastal mountains and down into Alushta.”

  Morrison handed him a cigar, and the Russian sniffed it like a true connoisseur.

  “Cuban?” he asked.

  Morrison laughed and shook his head.

  “I wish. It’s a domestic brand that I’ve gotten fond of, and a recent gift from a special friend. I’m saving mine for later tonight, after I get Two Putt settled into his dacha.”

  “Then I’ll do likewise,” Kosygin said, taking a final sniff and stowing it away in his breast pocket.

  Morrison put his unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth and unfolded a detailed topographical road map on his lap. He switched on an overhead spotlight, then readjusted the fit of the bifocals that sat precariously perched on the end of his flat nose.

  “We’re continuing to make damn good time, Alexi. It appears Comrade Zinoviev’s road crew has done a fine job after all. Other than that brief patch of rough pavement we came across while leaving town, the ride’s been smooth as silk.”

  “I’ll reserve judgment until we reach Alushta,” said Kosygin.

  “The Ukrainians are notorious for starting a project brilliantly, but failing to follow through all the way to the end.”

  Almost to underscore his comment, the Suburban began bouncing up and down, while the tires started humming slightly.

  “We must be crossing the drainage canal bridge,” Morrison observed.

  “It’s another quarter of a kilometer to the main bridge spanning the Salgir.”

  Another rough jolt signaled their passing over the final trestle, and the humming stopped. With the map spread out before him, Morrison looked out the left side window. The fog had further thickened, and he peered over the frames of his bifocals in an effort to spot any familiar landmarks.

  Barely visible in the swirling tendrils of mist was the rocky outcrop known as the Salgir highlands. This lowlying, sixty-foot high plateau was a bane to local farmers, and extended all the way to the river.

  By glancing out the window to Kosygin’s right, he could see a relatively flat expanse of forested land, filled with thick stands of mature Crimean pines. This ancient woods was all that remained of an immense forest that had once covered most of the peninsula and was now limited to five thousand acres, with many of the trees extending right down to the roadside.

  Morrison felt his torso being pulled slightly toward his seatmate when the Suburban followed the road as it turned sharply to the west. It was the Russian who pointed out the ribbon of plowed-up pavement extending farther to the south. A pair of flashing, bright red warning lights could be seen through the fog here, and Kosygin identified them.

  “That must be the barricade marking the spot where they closed the old road.”

  Morrison nodded and looked ahead through the vehicle’s windshield. As they completed the turn, the road followed a gently sloping upward gradient, leading them toward a well-lit, steel girded structure a bare quarter of a kilometer distant.

  “And that must be the new bridge,” he supposed.

  “The last report from my survey team mentioned that there was a good week’s worth of work left before it would be open to the public.

  I sure hope the concrete’s set.”

  The fog swallowed the modern superstructure, and Morrison was about to return his gaze to the map when a pair of blinding flashes penetrated the fog at the base of the bridge. This was immediately followed by a pair of deep, resonant booms, and the SAIC’s first fear was that there had just been some sort of construction accident up ahead. But then a series of dreaded metallic thuds sounded from the immediate direction of the Suburban’s roof and doors, causing Morrison to cry out in horror.

  “We’re taking fire!

  “Checkmate Two!” he shouted into his two-way.

  “Code One!

  I repeat. Code One! Close ranks and let’s get over that friggin’ bridge!”

  Oblivious to the vehicles ahead of them, the motorcade’s Secret Service drivers knew their first priority was to form a defensive shield around the President’s limousine. The trailing Suburbans quickly sped up until they were practically hugging the limo’s sides, with Morrison’s vehicle leading the way from the point of the V, and the trailing limo plugging up the rear.

  Like a single entity, the formation shot forward in a burst of high speed. They passed by the BTR-60 armored personnel carrier, which had pulled off on the shoulder, its rooftop gunner laying down a constant barrage of fire toward the high ground on their left. Only a single Zil police sedan could be seen driving ahead of them, a mere ten yards away. They were rapidly closing on it, and Morrison was about to order them out of the way, when the sedan’s taillights suddenly disappeared.

  “Hit the brakes!” he alertly ordered into the two-way.

  Morrison braced himself as his driver followed his instructions, and the Suburban skidded to a halt mere inches from a major break in the pavement.

  “My God!” proclaimed his driver.

  “They blew the ramp. The three motorcyclists, the sedan — they must have driven right off the edge.”

  “Turn around and head back the way we came!” Morrison ordered.

  A round of slugs struck the truck’s bulletproof windshield, the sound of the careening shells swallowed by the screech of squealing rubber. Morrison briefly met the worried gaze of his seatmate before finding his torso thrown backward by the force of sudden acceleration. They were headed back to Simferopol now, with the SAIC’s vehicle in the trailing position, close on the rear fender of the limousine holding Two Putt.

  Hundreds of incoming tracers lit the twilight i
n ghostly iridescent fingers. Most of the fire originated from the elevated ground of the highlands, which passed now on their right.

  “Hang on, we’re goin’ right through the friggin’ killing zone!”

  Morrison warned.

  They sped by the BTR-60’s smoking hulk, where the bloodstained bodies of SWAT team Alpha littered the fog-shrouded ground. An overturned Zil police sedan, its wheels still spinning, lay nearby, and Morrison flinched when a rocket-propelled grenade struck the wrecked car and exploded in a glaring fireball.

  “So much for Comrade Zinoviev,” whispered Kosygin.

  A tight spread of bullets peppered the Suburban’s left side, and they could barely see the dark outlines of an infantry assault element emerging from the tree line. Morrison’s two-way squawked alive, and the eight surviving vehicles reported in. Seconds later, this number was reduced to seven when a mortar round landed directly on the roof of their ambulance, instantly killing its occupants.

  All that really mattered was protecting the integrity of the vehicle directly in front of them, thought Morrison. So far, the President’s limo appeared to be untouched. No matter what, it would have to stay that way, and the SAIC desperately peered down at the map, then looked up just as two dazzling bursts of bright light filled the northern horizon.

  “They’ve blown the canal bridge, and there’s no way to get over!” the driver of the lead vehicle informed them over the radio.

  “Shit!” cursed Morrison, his glance drawn back to the map.

  For all effective purposes, they were now trapped in a killing zone between two insurmountable bodies of water, and there was absolutely nothing the SAIC could do about it.

  Nightwatch 676

  “Spooky Threenine, this is Checkmate One. We have a Code One emergency and request an immediate air strike on map grid coordinates Sierra Lima one-five-four-six, three-seven-two-eight.