“Nor is it our job to determine the motives of our politicians.
Wherever the Vice President may be, we’re just going to have to get hold of him and pass on the bad news,” he added, with a piercing gaze focused solely on the CO of the aircraft’s operations team.
“Colonel, all of us knew that if this day ever came, it wouldn’t be easy. Because of the unusual circumstances of our loss, the protocol allows us to delay informing the American people until the proper successor is notified, and that’s the way I want it.”
“I’ll have my team get on it at once, sir,” said Pritchard, who relayed the order to notify the Vice President via chin mike, and listened as Warner continued.
“Until the successor acknowledges the transfer, we’re the ones who will be in charge of determining America’s military reaction to this cold-blooded act of murder. We’ll be working closely with our intelligence assets to determine if there have been any suspicious strategic moves on the part of the Russians or Ukrainians.”
“Sir,” interrupted Hewlett, “during a recent Naval War College war game, an OPFOR counterforce strike was initiated with an assassination attempt on the President and select members of the NCA. The theory was that by killing the brain or paralyzing the nervous system, the arms couldn’t be properly utilized. The attempt caught our forces by complete surprise. And that’s why I think it’s only prudent that we change our defense condition to DEFCON Four.”
“But we still don’t know for certain who was responsible,” Pritchard countered.
“If we go and threaten the Russians, and find out later it was a Ukrainian operation, we could be losing an important ally in the region.”
“I’m not asking to start the countdowns,” returned the Marine.
“All I’m suggesting is to stir the beast from the annual summer holiday doldrums. And as for possibly insulting an ally, Colonel, our Commanderin-Chief has just been shot down, along with God only knows how many other brave Americans.
And when the American people finally learn about it, it’s gonna take every bit of restraint we can muster to keep them from demanding a declaration of war!”
The Chairman nodded thoughtfully.
“I like the idea of taking us down a notch to DEFCON Four. Colonel Pritchard, inform the NMCC of this change, and get the word out to each of the strategic commands. What’s the status of TACAMO?”
Pritchard was already busy relaying this order to his staff, and his aide alertly replied, “Iron Man One is the current alert bird, Admiral. It deployed out of NAS Patuxent five minutes after receiving our initial Code One, with General Lowell Spencer as the senior Emergency Action Officer.”
“It’s imperative that we keep in close contact with General Spencer, Lieutenant,” said Warner to the aide.
“If anything should happen to us, we’ll be handing off the football to Iron Man One. And speaking of footballs,” he added while looking at Brittany, “Commander, are you going to be all right? I know you were close to both the President, his Secret Service detail, and, of course. Major Ryan.”
Afraid that her voice might betray her true feelings, Brittany summoned her bravest smile and nodded that she’d be fine. She dared to trade the briefest eye contact with the Chairman. And instead of his usual scrutinizing stare, there was something in Warner’s eyes that appeared to be looking within, perhaps to the immense responsibility he had suddenly shouldered.
“Well, gents, it’s true, all right,” said Jake Lasky as he settled in behind the flight engineer station and buckled his harness.
“And not only does it look like the President’s been killed, but the football’s been compromised as well. Wait till you hear the real-time tape that Red just played for me. It includes the gunshots that took out the President, and ends with his MIL AIDE howling away like someone was cutting off his arm.”
“Maybe that’s how they got the satchel off his wrist,” mused Lucky from his copilot position on the right side of the cockpit.
“I sure hope the Chairman is putting together one jim-dandy of a retaliatory strike.”
“The Admiral and his emergency action team were still meeting in the conference room. But I heard from Red that they were already going down to DEFCON Four,” Jake revealed.
“DEFCON Four?” Lucky repeated.
“That’s all a President, his staff, a National Security Advisor, and an entire Secret Service protection detail are worth nowadays? Hell, if that’s not reason to order Cocked Pistol, what is?”
Coach put down the aeronautical chart he had gotten from the navigator and eagerly joined the fray from the pilot’s seat.
“Did Red say anything about them determining the ones responsible for the slaughter?”
“Come to think of it, she didn’t say,” answered Jake.
“Then they obviously don’t know who it was,” Coach inferred.
“Which means we can’t go launching a full-scale nuclear war without first knowing who the hell did it.”
Lucky couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and he pushed back his headphones to speak his mind.
“Am I missing something?
The President flew all the way out here to the Crimea, at the invitation of the Presidents of Russia and Ukraine. Wasn’t this to be a secret summit of peace? Obviously not, and there’s only two countries to blame. I say hit the both of them, with enough plutonium to put them back into the Stone Age.”
“Did you ever stop to think that a third party could be the culprit?” offered Coach.
“Maybe it was a bunch of Arab extremists, or a group of international terrorists, who are responsible.”
“Coach,” interrupted the navigator while pointing to the radar screen, “I believe we’ve got some company out there.”
All eyes went to the rectangular, flashing-green console mounted in the center of the main instrument panel. The digital radar screen displayed the northeastern corner of the Black Sea, with Nightwatch 676 represented by the blinking black star halfway between the Crimean Peninsula and the coast of Romania.
Due east of this position, currently passing south of Yalta, was a tight, triangular-shaped formation of three flashing red stars, and it was Coach who made the first attempt at identifying them.
“If I’m not mistaken, they’re long-range interceptors, most likely MiG-25 Foxbats. And, Lucky, right now you get my vote for DEFCON One.
“Cause they appear to be headed straight toward us, and if they’re carrying air-to-air missiles, we’re gonna be in one hell of a fix.”
Chapter 12
Friday, July 2
Eleven Point River
“Base, this is Eberly. Over. Winona Base, this is Ben Eberly. Do you copy?”
Vince could tell from the district ranger’s strained tone that he was getting frustrated. For a good five minutes now, Eberly had been trying to reach the Winona Forest Service office on his two-way, with only static for his efforts.
“I don’t understand it,” said the ranger, his tanned forehead dripping with sweat.
“Those new repeater towers usually give us excellent reception.”
Vince glanced over to the far side of the sandbar on which they were standing, and saw that the group of agents responsible for deploying the portable COMSAT telephone appeared to be similarly frustrated. Instead of talking on the handset, they focused their efforts on the miniature satellite dish. For as long as Eberly had been trying his two-way, his men had been busy sweeping the skies with the dish, in a vain effort to make contact with the proper satellite.
“It looks like my people aren’t having any luck either,” Vince noted while raising his hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the blazing noon sun, and sweeping his glance to the east. A nine-hundred-foot-tall bluff of solid limestone met his gaze, and Vince didn’t have to see any more to know why the efforts of his communications team had been unsuccessful.
“Where exactly did you say we’d find a notch in that bluff?”
Vince asked.
“It’s immediately downstream from the shoals,” replied Eberly.
“And you can access it from that sandbar your security team was off to visit in the john boat
“Then let’s do it, my friend,” said Vince.
“It’s not every day that we receive a partial emergency action alert like that, and it’s imperative that we establish a secure SATCOM link with all due haste.”
“For expediency’s sake, why not load up your SATCOM into one of the john boats and we’ll run your team down to the access site,” Eberly offered.
“That way they can set up while we follow in the canoes. It’s a ten-minute float through Mary Deckard at best, and that sandbar will be the perfect place to have lunch.”
Vince gave his blessings to this plan, and turned to inform the others. He found Vice President Chapman holding court alongside the spot where their canoes and a single john boat were beached. Chapman was wearing dark green rubber waders and was standing in the water with graphite rod in hand, holding an impromptu fly-fishing clinic. His rapt audience included his physician. Ranger Wyatt, and, of course, Andy Whitworth, who was capturing the entire exhibition on film.
“And by the way,” Vince heard Chapman saying as he approached them, “that ten-pound rainbow I hooked upstream was caught with one of these very same ca hills that I tied myself on the flight down from Washington. And I would most likely have gone ahead and landed him, too, if I hadn’t gone and removed the barb. Sportfishing should be done for the challenge, not for a stuffed trophy to hang on the wall.”
Ron Wyatt noted Vince’s arrival with a wink, and the leather faced Missourian stepped aside to spit out a mouthful of tobacco juice before greeting the newcomer in a conspiratorial whisper.
“It’s obvious he never relied on fishing to feed a hungry family.
And because he went and released that trio of four-pounders he did manage to land, we’re stuck with peanut butter sandwiches and cold beans for lunch.”
Vince smiled, and loudly cleared his throat before speaking up and interrupting the VP’s spiel.
“Excuse me, Mr. Vice President, but we’re going to have to pack up your gear and move downstream.”
“Any luck with that uplink, Kellogg?” Chapman asked after taking one last cast and returning to the sandbar.
“That’s a negative, sir,” returned Vince as discreetly as possible. “And that’s why we have to continue downstream, to try another access point.”
Andy Whitworth intuitively sensed that something out of the ordinary was coming down, and she brazenly expressed herself.
“Excuse me. Special Agent Kellogg, but did something happen within the last half hour or so that can explain why this SATCOM uplink of yours is so darn important all of a sudden? It’s obvious that it’s not routine, which leads me to believe that someone from the outside contacted you and ordered it. Has there been a threat made on our party? Or is there some other type of danger we should be concerned about?”
Vince was astounded by the reporter’s effrontery, and he shook his head, saying, “I can assure you. Miss Whitworth, that the only danger we’re facing out here is sunstroke. Now, if you’ll please return to your canoe, we’ll see if we can give you something to really write about as we prepare to take on Mary Deckard shoals.”
The buzz-saw whine of an outboard motor drew Vince’s glance to the river. Two of their john boats were returning upstream from the direction of the shoal. The lead boat approached the sandbar, and Vince walked over to grab the bowline.
“So you survived the legendary Mary Deckard,” he said to the stocky brunette seated at the bow.
“Both downstream and up,” replied Special Agent Linda Desiante.
“It’s a wild ride, sir. The boulders are monstrous, and with the water up like it is, there are some treacherous chutes and plenty of nasty snags to watch out for. And that doesn’t even include the mini-waterfall located at the far end of the rapids.”
“What did the CAT team have to say?” he asked, ever careful to keep his voice low.
“They never showed up. We found the rendezvous site on the sandbar easily enough. There were plenty of footprints, but not a sign of the team — or anyone else, for that matter. We tried to inform you on the two-way, but we couldn’t get any of the radios to work.”
“We’re having the same problem. And speaking of communications, I need you to run the shoals again, this time with Special Agent Lester and our SATCOM. That sandbar you were on should give us a better uplink angle. By the time we run the rapids, you should be well on your way to contacting Milstar and finding out what this mysterious alert is all about.”
Desiante’s john boat was soon on its way back down the river, and Vince anxiously waited while the rest of the party climbed back into their canoes. Once more he was teamed up with Ron Wyatt. As they glided out into the current, the canoe carrying the Vice President and Ben Eberly maneuvered in beside them, and Vince listened as the district ranger explained the origins of Mary Deckard shoals.
“It was during the turn-of-the-century lumber boom that a rock dam was placed in the river near the confluence of Hurricane Creek. A good part of this dam was built out of the giant boulders we’re about to pass.”
“Why go and dam this beautiful river? Was it for flood control?”
asked the VP.
“They did it to trap logs,” answered Ron Wyatt.
“Believe it or not, there used to be a railroad line in these parts running to the river. When the mills in Winona needed wood, all they had to do was send the train to the shoals and load it up with fresh lumber.”
The VP scanned the pristine, tree-lined shore and shook his head in wonder.
“It’s remarkable how quickly the forest reclaimed the land.”
“If you think this area is something, wait till you get your first peek at the Irish Wilderness later this afternoon,” Eberly proudly added.
“The Irish is the largest Federal wilderness area in the Ozarks, and as in all our wilderness areas, development there has been kept to a bare minimum.”
The roar of rushing water could be heard in the distance, and Vince peered downstream. The bluffs to their right were getting increasingly steep, and he could just make out a series of huge boulders lying in the white water ahead of them.
The VP’s canoe would be first into the shoals, with Vince giving it a twenty-yard head start before they’d enter. The other vessels would follow at twenty-yard intervals.
All but forgetting about his other responsibilities, Vince noted how the current suddenly quickened. The rock obstacles ahead were becoming much larger, and he could see an assortment of tree limbs and other debris projecting from the treacherous shallows. White water was everywhere, and his guide pointed out the first of several wildly spinning whirlpools.
Though it was almost impossible for Vince to pick out the most accessible route, he supposed it would be the channel on the far right. There a group of boulders formed a Zshaped pattern, with a swiftly moving chute of fairly deep water surging among the rocks.
The roar of the rapids rose to an almost deafening crescendo, and Vince breathlessly watched the VP’s canoe penetrate the first chute. Andrew Chapman never stopped paddling, while in the vessel’s tapered stern, Ben Eberly seemed content to merely sit back and utilize his paddle like a rudder. After bounding over a fractured rock shelf, the bobbing canoe was steered to the far right-hand side of the channel. A narrow, Zshaped gauntlet of rock, projecting limbs, and agitated water awaited them there, and only when they passed by the first jagged boulder did Vince note that the VP had wisely pulled in his paddle.
Vince’s canoe followed the same route. Astounded by the incredible velocity of the current, he anxiously sat forward when the vessel slipped off the rock shelf signaling the first white-water chute. The canoe dove bow-first into the current, and Vince found himself soaked by an invigorating splash of icy water. He wiped his face dry and felt the canoe turn sharply to the channel’s
right side as Wyatt used his paddle like a rudder. The first of the boulders loomed ahead, an angry moss-coated monolith with a pike-shaped oak limb projecting from the white water at its base.
They were at the mercy of the current now, and Vince jerked in his paddle as the boulder passed on the right, a mere inch between the projecting oaken spike and the canoe’s thin aluminum gunwales. Ahead, the gauntlet of stone awaited, and the canoe cascaded down a narrow chute, the boulders so tightly compressed that they appeared to form a solid wall.
To safely navigate the Z’s first turn required a sharp right turn, and Vince’s guide would have to apply his rudder paddle with exacting precision. Otherwise the bow would hang up in the shallows, causing the vessel to be yanked around and then swept through the gauntlet backward. Ron Wyatt readily met the challenge, and when they safely entered the next chute, Vince found himself venting his anxiety with a joyous yell. Unfortunately, his celebration was cut short upon spotting the VP’s canoe wedged precariously between the two large boulders forming the next turn. It was extremely close to capsizing, the wildly rushing current only inches from entering the canoe and swamping its passengers.
Vince turned to make certain that his guide knew what was happening up ahead. Wyatt calmly nodded that he saw them, and appeared in total control as he expertly maneuvered the vessel down the chute, nosing their bow right up to the formation that had trapped the VP.
“They’re caught up on a snag,” Wyatt observed, having to scream to be heard.
“I’m gonna try to pull in beside them, and we’ll see if we can work them free with our paddles.”
Not having any idea how his guide would ever be able to pull off such a maneuver, Vince nodded that he understood the intended strategy. And the next thing he knew, they were snug up against the VP’s canoe, with Vince now faced upstream.
“Glad you could join us, Kellogg,” yelled the VP, who was obviously enjoying every second of this mini-crisis.
Wyatt was already hard at work, angling the tip of his paddle into the massive snag of tree limbs and roots responsible for this hang-up. Before joining in with his own paddle, Vince found himself wondering how they’d be able to complete their transit of the chute, now that they were facing backward. He supposed that once the VP was free, they’d have to run the rest of the gauntlet with Vince at the rudder position. Such a switch of duties would prove interesting, to say the least, and before he re gripped his paddle to assist his associate, he momentarily glanced upstream.
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