Nightwatch

by Richard P. Henrick

  I repeat, we have a Code One emergency and request an immediate air strike. Do you copy? Over.”

  Red’s initial reaction to hearing this shocking message was pure disbelief. She had been seated at her console routinely monitoring the secure, narrowband voice frequencies, and a Code One, indicating an attempt on the President’s life, definitely wasn’t the type of broadcast she had been expecting to overhear.

  Yet reality sank in when the gunship acknowledged the call for assistance. Red hurriedly verified the code sequences. They were irrefutably legitimate, prompting her to grab the dark blue handset mounted on the lower right edge of the console and punch in a succession of three digits.

  “Admiral Warner, this is Master Sergeant Rayburn on the QV-135. I’ve just picked up what appears to be a distress call from Checkmate One. And, sir, it looks to me that we’ve got a real live Code One on our hands!”

  Salgir Highlands

  “Damn it, Anderson!” shouted Morrison into his two-way.

  “I need you to pull that comm van up until you touch the point Suburban’s back fender. We need a wall of steel between that high ground and Two Putt.”

  With no open road to escape on, Morrison’s only hope was to “circle the wagons,” and make a last-ditch stand at the position he deemed most defensible. They were using the drainage canal to protect their flank, and had the President’s limousine surrounded by a V-shaped phalanx. Morrison’s Suburban was at the rear of the formation facing the forest, with the spare staff limo sandwiched between his truck and the point vehicle.

  Rocket-propelled grenades continued raining down on them from the highlands. A sporadic mortar shell was launched their way, and Morrison knew it was only a matter of time until they got the proper range.

  Both Morrison and Kosygin, along with the two Special Agents in the front seat, had just finished prepping their armaments.

  They had an Uzi and three Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns between them, as well as twenty-four spare clips and their individual side arms.

  The two-way crackled alive, and all stations reported in, including Moreno from the “hot seat.” The President’s limo had yet to experience any interior damage, and Moreno signed off just as a phosphorous round hit the side of the communications van.

  Dusk became noon in a blinding millisecond. And with this unnatural illumination, Morrison spotted dozens of infantrymen headed straight for them from the cover of the ancient forest’s tree line.

  “Checkmate Four,” he radioed to the point Suburban.

  “Deploy CAT team and engage troops emerging from position Lima.”

  Morrison rammed a thirty-round clip into his MP5 and reached for the door handle.

  “Looks like they’re going to need all the help they can get.”

  “Then whatever are we waiting for?” retorted Kosygin, who chambered a round into his Uzi and joined the SAIC outside.

  The air was heavy with the scents of smoke, cordite, and gunpowder. Bullets whined overhead, and Morrison let loose a controlled burst toward the forest before taking cover behind their truck’s engine block. From this position, both he and his Russian colleague emptied clip after clip into the human-wave assault force approaching from the trees. Yet they appeared to be unstoppable, their forward progress impeded only when the six man Secret Service Counter Assault Team charged into their ranks with guns blazing.

  The SAIC hadn’t seen such a firefight since his service as a Green Beret in Vietnam. The fog-shrouded twilight still lit by the burning phosphorous shell, he watched his men attempt a flanking maneuver. To a staccato barrage of submachine-gun fire, the CAT team rushed forward. Morrison could see the gleam of exploding shells in their black Kevlar helmets and thick safety goggles, their jet-black BDUs all but indistinguishable.

  Though badly outnumbered, the CAT team had succeeded in making a totally unexpected assault, and the enemy momentarily halted its advance to repulse them. This was all that Morrison had to see to leave the cover of the truck and rush toward the wood line himself.

  The stubby barrel of his weapon was red-hot as he sprayed the enemy with a deadly steel curtain of 9mm slugs. Alexi Kosygin stuck close to his side, and he too emptied clip after clip. It was the Russian who shouted out in warning when a heavily camouflaged attacker sprang up from the tall grass to the SAIC’s right. He was only ten yards away at best, and Morrison could clearly see the glowing whites of his eyes as he pumped round after round into the startled soldier’s torso.

  The CAT team had meanwhile detonated a series of smoke grenades, and was using this cover to mask their flanking movement.

  The enemy was still unmoving, and appeared confused.

  Morrison was tempted to call in their last remaining six-man squad to augment this force and assist in a counterattack. He reached for his radio, and only then realized that in all the excitement, he had left it back in the Suburban.

  No sooner did he turn for the truck than a high-pitched whistling filled the dusk with dreaded sound.

  “Incoming!” warned Kosygin, at the same time knocking Morrison to the ground and covering him with his body.

  An earsplitting, bone-rattling explosion temporarily deafened the SAIC. The cool earth shook, and a shower of falling debris rained down onto their backs.

  As fate would have it, the mortar round landed squarely in the midst of the CAT team. Each of the six Special Agents was instantly killed, their bodies ripped apart by high explosives and razor-sharp shrapnel.

  Morrison’s limbs were shaking, and Kosygin had to help him stand. Together they limped back to the truck, in time to see the enemy assault force renew its attack with increased ferocity.

  “Spooky Threenine, this is Checkmate One. Where the hell are you?” asked Morrison into his two-way.

  “We desperately need that air strike, and we need it now!”

  “Not to worry. Checkmate One,” replied a calm voice from the radio’s speaker.

  “This is Spooky Threenine. Sorry about the little delay getting into position, but we’ve got a firm visual lock on your position, as well as an excellent infrared reading on the bad guys. Preparing to fire. Over.”

  Chapter 10

  Friday, July 2,1811 Zulu

  Spooky Threenine

  Captain Ty “Monzo” Alexander intently studied the green-tinted video screen that was set into the fire control console before him.

  Regardless of the fact that they were flying at an altitude of over ten thousand feet, and that it was almost pitch-black outside, the monitor was filled with a detailed picture of the ground below.

  The gunship’s Fire Control Officer easily picked out the V-shaped formation of vehicles belonging to the good guys. He supposed that the elongated limousine in the center of the protective wedge held the President. Though Monzo hadn’t voted for the man, he was still Commanderin-Chief, and no crazy terrorists were going to have their way with him if Monzo had anything to say about it.

  With the rich strains of Johnny Cash singing “Ghost Riders in the Sky” blaring away in the background of the fire control suite, Monzo isolated the hostile formation moving toward the motorcade on the Infrared sensor system. They were within five hundred meters of the friendlies, which was closer than he would have liked under the circumstances.

  “That’s your target IR,” said Monzo into his chin mike.

  “Track the northernmost element and sweep south.”

  “IR’s tracking,” informed the Staff Sergeant operating the IR system.

  “OK, pilot,” said Monzo into his mike.

  “FCO’s got IR. Gun one, trainable. Target is thirty-plus dismounts, five hundred meters from the friendlies. FCO is ready!”

  “Navigator confirms target, cleared to fire,” said the young Lieutenant seated to Monzo’s left.

  “Pilot’s in the sight. Arm number one,” ordered the pilot over the intercom.

  “Number one is armed,” the flight engineer responded.

  That was all the IR operator had to h
ear to mash down on his consent button and rake the enemy formation with three hundred and fifty rounds of high-explosive 25mm projectiles.

  Monzo noted that the enemy formation was suddenly cut in half, and it was no longer moving toward the motorcade.

  “OK, crew, switching to number three gun, trainable on the TV. Prox rounds, same target. FCO’s ready.”

  The crew performed the same series of cross-checks as before.

  Yet this time the gunners in the back of the aircraft began feeding proximity-fused projectiles into the huge 105mm howitzer protruding from the gunship’s left side. These rounds were designed to shower the enemy with razor-sharp shrapnel, and were extremely lethal when used against troops in the open.

  It was their TV operator who depressed his firing button, and the entire airplane shook with the recoil of the largest gun ever placed on an aircraft. Ten rounds later, Monzo could see no further movement from the area below.

  “Pilot, FCO’s got no movement on the western target set.

  Guidance is shifting east three klicks to the fixed gun emplacements.”

  They began on the highland’s northernmost end. Like a surgeon performing laser surgery, Monzo aligned the crosshairs to isolate the individual bunkers, where the mortars and RPGs were being fired.

  “Hold her steady. Guns are armed. FCO’s ready. Guns ready. Shoot!”

  Once more the gunship violently shook as the howitzer fired.

  Monzo followed the shell as it descended on target, a streaking, lightning bolt of death from above. Unlike the 25mm ammunition, this shell detonated with a wallop, sending a miniature mushroom-shaped cloud high in the air. In a little more than a minute, this process was repeated ten more times, with ten different targets falling victim to Spooky Threenine’s wrath.

  Monzo estimated that he could clear the entire ridge with the howitzer in another five minutes. For variety’s sake, he had the boys crank up the 40mm Bofors gun, which had a firing rate of one hundred rounds per minute. After all, the Commanderin-Chief himself was watching this display, and it was time to show the President that those defense dollars were being wisely spent.

  With Checkmate One

  Samuel Morrison stood outside his Suburban and watched the incredible display of firepower. He had called down many an air strike while in “Nam, but none of them came close to matching the amazing precision firepower and area-saturation capabilities of the AC-130U. Like a scene out of Dante’s Inferno, the northern end of the Salgir highlands was ablaze in flames, with shells continuing to rain down on the plateau with clockwork regularity.

  He had already watched the gunship make mincemeat out of the mysterious ground-assault element that had previously threatened them. From the truck’s backseat, he had looked on with awestruck wonder as a wall of deadly lead began descending from the sky. These shells tore into the enemy, and in a matter of mere minutes, the assault force was reduced to a bleeding mass of torn flesh and broken bone.

  Before he could cry out in relieved joy, the first shells began to hit the plateau. And since that time, not a single mortar round or RPG had been fired at them. The SAIC knew that they had been extremely fortunate. If it hadn’t been for the gunship, they’d surely be either dead or captured. And now was the time to lick their wounds, and get the hell out of this infernal river valley, before their luck ran out.

  Since both bridges were out of commission, they had only two options. They could try breaching the barricade and attempt crossing the old bridge, or they could leave the paved road and try to find a drivable pathway through the woods. Neither of these choices sounded particularly appealing to Morrison, and he supposed that if the barricade could be safely circumnavigated, that would provide them the most direct route.

  He redirected his glance in an effort to spot the barricade’s flashing red lights. And it was as he turned his gaze away from the plateau that he just missed seeing the flame-red plume of a surface-to-air missile, arcing upward into the night sky from the plateau’s southernmost tip.

  Nightwatch 676

  “Strella! Strella, seven o’clock! Break right!” cried the amplified voice of the gunship’s pilot over Red’s monitor speaker.

  There could be no missing the concerned horror in his voice, and an anxious murmur escaped the lips of the knot of personnel gathered around Red’s workstation. Included in this distinguished group was Admiral Warner, Colonel Pritchard, and Commander Brittany Cooper.

  “So now the bastards not only have an assault element, but a surface-to-air capability as well,” fumed Warner.

  “They’ve got to be regulars, and not an isolated terrorist group.”

  All eyes were locked on the console, and when a full minute had passed with no transmission emanating from the wire-mesh speaker. Red dared to address her chin mike.

  “Spooky Threenine, this is Nightwatch six-seven-six. Do you read me? Over.”

  She repeated this same broadcast several more times; when it failed to garner a response, she shifted frequencies to try a variety of emergency bands. In every instance they received nothing but low-level static, and it was Pritchard who offered the somber assessment.

  “I’m afraid Spooky Threenine didn’t make it.”

  “Master Sergeant Schuster,” said Warner to the airman seated at the workstation directly across the aisle from Red.

  “Are you still in contact with Checkmate Two?”

  Schuster pushed back his chin mike and answered, “That’s affirmative, sir. The last SATCOM transmission from the motorcade was fifteen seconds ago. They were broadcasting on the backup system, and sent along yet another all-clear.

  “At least it appears that the President’s still alive,” observed Pritchard.

  Warner worriedly rubbed his creased brow.

  “Without the cover of that gunship, who the hell knows how long he’ll be able to stay that way. Damn it, I warned him that this whole secret negotiation business was no good. At the very least, it should have been held on American soil. But no, he had to go and travel to the ends of the earth, and look at the fine mess we’re in — a heavily armed, fifteen-vehicle motorcade, now whittled down to five surviving cars, with God knows how many enemy forces still out there, and no way for us to send in reinforcements.”

  “Surely the Ukrainians will be sending in a rescue force,” remarked Brittany.

  Warner looked at the MIL AIDE and laughed.

  “Why the hell would they go and do that if they’re the ones responsible for this outrageous ambush?”

  “I still think it’s the Russians,” Pritchard interjected.

  “We all know how the head of the Strategic Rocket Forces reacted to the Global Zero Alert concept. He came out against it from the very beginning, warning that it would needlessly expose Russia to nuclear annihilation.”

  “Whoever’s eventually found responsible,” said Warner with a sigh, “we’ve still got an incredible mess down there, and I want us ready for any scenario. I want the entire emergency action team assembled in the conference room. At that time, I intend to inform the NMCC of my decision to activate the central locator system, and to launch the TACAMO alert bird. I’m also going to want to know the exact positions of those F-16s I called in from Incirlik. If we’re living right, there’s always the chance that our Falcons will reach the Crimea in time to save the motorcade.”

  Almost as an afterthought, the Chairman looked at Brittany, adding, “And, Commander Cooper, I want you close by and within sight at all times. If Satchel Alpha should be compromised, we’re going to really have to earn our keep up here.”

  With Checkmate One

  Samuel Morrison and the five Secret Service drivers stood huddled next to the President’s limo, inside their protective formation near the drainage canal. With the arrival of night, the fog had further thickened, and it was eerily quiet now that the gunship had stopped its incessant firing. Through the cool mist, they could see the fires still burning on the Salgir highlands. The plateau had taken an incredible poun
ding, yet the amazing aircraft responsible for it was nowhere to be seen. For none of the Special Agents assembled beside the SAIC realized the source of the muffled explosion that had sounded seconds ago, or saw the barely visible flash of light in the sky when Spooky Threenine exploded in a blazing fireball.

  “Then I’ll take that as a vote of confidence,” said Morrison in reference to the brief tactical debate they had just completed.

  “Algren, you’ll be driving point in the lead Suburban. Because we still don’t know the barricade’s exact composition, Moreno will be leaving a ten-yard gap between Algren’s rear and the limo’s front bumper. I’ll remain in the trailing Suburban behind the staff limo on the right side of the formation, with Lester’s truck all alone on the left. So if there are no more questions, gentlemen, let’s get the friggin’ hell out of here!”

  The SAIC’s order was given additional impetus by the RPG round that headed their way from the direction of the highlands.

  It harmlessly exploded well short of its intended target, though its mere presence meant that their enemy was still very much alive and dangerous.

  Morrison barely had time to get settled in the backseat of his vehicle when the formation shot forward in a high-speed burst.

  This coincided with the arrival of a round of small-arms fire, originating from the nearby pine forest. There was a twanging metallic thud as these rounds ricocheted off the truck’s bulletproof, armor-reinforced doors, and Morrison angrily cursed, conscious that the infantry assault-element force had also returned.

  A rough, jarring sensation signaled their arrival on the old section of roadway. The drivers slowed down to fifty miles per hour, and as the red, flashing lights of the barricade grew increasingly larger, the lead Suburban accelerated to take a ten-yard lead.

  An open radio channel allowed Morrison to keep in simultaneous touch with all five of his drivers, and it was in such a manner that he learned from the point vehicle that the barricade appeared to be made out of wood. Yet before the SAIC could share his relief, the lead Suburban exploded in a column of fire.