The first thing that caught his attention was an overturned canoe. It was hung up on the projecting shelf of rock at the head of the first chute, with a variety of floating debris visible immediately beside it. Included in this flotsam was what appeared to be a body, lying facedown in the water. Strangely enough, it wasn’t moving, and Vince tried his best to scan the river farther upstream, his astounded glance halting on something equally unexpected.
Hovering only a few feet above the river at the top of the rapids was a jet-black Huey helicopter. The bulbous nose of this aircraft seemed to be pointed directly toward Vince, a fact that became terrifyingly clear when a pair of rockets shot out of the twin pods set flush against the Huey’s fuselage.
In a terrifying blink of an eye, the missiles struck the roiling water, a mere ten yards upstream from the boulder the men were hidden behind. There was a pair of muted explosions, barely audible over the incessant roar of onrushing current, and Vince found himself soaked by a shower of falling water. The ensuing shock wave caused his canoe to bob slightly upward, and caused the VP’s vessel to lift free from the snag. It shot downstream to complete its transit of the gauntlet, its occupants totally unaware of the newly arrived threat from above.
Ron Wyatt learned of the helicopter’s presence the moment he looked up to signal Vince they were free to continue downstream themselves. The first look that crossed the ranger’s leathery face was puzzlement, then pure horror, as the hovering Huey raised its nose and let loose another rocket. This one detonated near the moss-covered base of the boulder, where seconds ago the VP’s canoe had been trapped. Vince barely had time to duck, and there was a stinging sensation on his cheek when he was struck by splintering rock.
A surging underwater shock wave disgorged the canoe from its resting place, and off they went, downstream. To keep them from smashing against the corridor of boulders forming the last portion of the gauntlet, Vince had to hastily redirect his focus on steering the vessel. He let instinct take over, his shocked thoughts still centered on their mysterious attacker.
Somehow they managed to safely transit the final chute, which deposited them in a pool of frothing white water. The current continued to run swift here, and as they kept on going downstream, his guide was able to turn the canoe around so that Vince was once more the bowman.
From this familiar vantage point, Vince spotted the VP’s canoe some twenty yards ahead. Chapman and Eberly were halted beside a large, partially submerged snag, examining something in the water. Vince hastily glanced over his shoulder, and failing to spot the helicopter, he dug his paddle into the water to warn Chapman.
“What the blue blazes is goin’ on out here. Special Agent?”
asked Ron Wyatt, his concerned tone of voice unmistakable.
Vince held back his response, his attention instead riveted on the object of the VP’s current inspection. Caught in the snag, her soaked body seemingly crucified in the twisted tree limbs, was the lifeless body of Andy Whitworth. Her tattered clothes were partially torn off, and Vince could soon see that a good portion of her face had been blown away. A paddle and the jagged front half of one of the john boats were also caught in the snag, and Vince didn’t have to see any more to realize the mysterious Huey was responsible for this slaughter.
“Kellogg?” murmured the VP, his eyes wide in shocked horror.
“We’ve got to get off this river at once!” Vince replied, his words cut short by an ominous shadow.
The sound of its engines still masked by the roar of the rapids, the Huey swept in from the river’s western bank. It passed so close above them that they could actually feel the downdraft of its rotor wash, and Vince looked upward in time to see a bearded individual dressed in a green flight suit standing at the open fuselage hatchway. He had a machine gun rigged up in front of him, and upon spotting their canoes, he angled the barrel downward and fired.
The shells tore into the water, stitching a long line of exploding eruptions on the river’s surface, a bare inch from the side of the VP’s canoe. Both Chapman and District Ranger Eberly didn’t have to see any more to know the exact nature of the threat Vince was about to warn them of, and they readily pushed away from the snag, to reenter the main channel. Vince dug his paddle into the water to stay as close as possible, while the Huey began a steeply banked turn to initiate yet another strafing pass.
The sloped banks of the river offered little cover, and Eberly was apparently attempting to make the most of the current to round the next bend, where a steep wall of limestone protectively beckoned. It took a full effort from both Vince and Wyatt to keep up with them. The VP’s canoe was establishing a blistering pace, Chapman making the best use of his collegiate rowing experience.
Even then, Vince knew that this valiant effort was futile at best. The Huey could easily track them, and he wondered if they’d stand a better chance of surviving the next attack by leaving the canoes and diving into the river.
Vince seriously doubted that even this desperate measure would save them, and he dared to peek over his shoulder to locate the Huey. He spotted it hovering over the river, a good fifty yards farther upstream. Vince wondered if he should stop paddling, so he could reach into the folds of his nylon windbreaker and remove his 9mm Glock from its shoulder harness.
This was their last line of defense, and he had the distinct impression that the crew of the Huey was intentionally playing with them.
“Will you just look at that!” exclaimed Ron Wyatt, his excited glance focused downstream.
“Here comes the cavalry, my friend!”
Vince broke off eye contact with the Huey, and as he turned back around to see what the ranger was talking about, a formation of two helicopters filled that portion of sky almost directly ahead of them. He knew in an instant that the lead chopper was a specially modified Blackhawk belonging to the Secret Service, with the trailing aircraft sporting the characteristic boxy fuselage and dark-green-and-white paint scheme of Marine Two.
With a minimum of fanfare, the Blackhawk shot forward to engage the Huey with its chin-mounted machine gun blazing.
The Huey blindly shot off a salvo of three air-to-air rockets before breaking sharply to the east.
Vince watched as the Huey’s errant rockets streaked by the Blackhawk and harmlessly exploded into a stand of grizzled oaks.
Meanwhile, Marine Two further descended. Vince could feel the Sikorsky’s powerful downdraft as his canoe glided in beside the VP’s. Like a mother hen protecting her chicks, the immense transport helicopter initiated a protective hover above them, while all eyes focused on the Blackhawk’s continued pursuit.
Unable to outrun the Blackhawk, the Huey was headed almost due east, at an altitude of six hundred feet. A towering nine-hundred-foot limestone bluff lay immediately ahead. If the Huey didn’t gain altitude quickly, it would surely strike the bluff, and sensing that they had their quarry cornered, the Blackhawk let loose another round of machine-gun fire.
A thick column of black smoke began pouring from the
Huey’s engine, and it was obvious that it’d never generate enough power to get over the bluff. While the VP traded a high five with Ben Eberly, Vince watched the Blackhawk pass through the oily column of smoke, its machine gun blazing away with the coup de grace.
The Huey appeared to be only a few feet away from hitting the bluff, and just missed striking it by initiating a sharp, heavily banked turn to the north. Still immersed in the Huey’s trailing cloud of smoke, the Blackhawk fought to turn to the north itself, but in the process clipped the bluff with a rotor tip. For the briefest of moments, the Blackhawk appeared to be suspended in midair. But then the forces of gravity took over, and the helicopter, complete with its five-man CAT team inside, began a spiraling, uncontrolled descent.
It crashed and exploded at the foot of the bluff. From the river, Vince clearly saw the red-hot fireball, and knew in an instant that all aboard were dead. He was sickened with this realization, his grief cut short by the return of
the Huey.
Their phantom attacker swept in from the north, only a few feet from the river’s surface. Smoke continued to pour from its engine, though that didn’t keep it from making its presence known with a pair of spiraling rockets. While one of these missiles exploded in a geyser of water well short of them, the other detonated in the shallows directly amidships of the VP’s canoe.
A bruising shower of pebbles rained down on both of the canoes.
All of them began paddling with renewed intensity, even with Marine Two’s sheltering presence above.
As they rounded the next bend and shot over another set of rapids, Vince spotted a clearing ahead on the right bank. There was plenty of limestone cover nearby, and he watched as the district ranger pointed to this same outcrop from the stern of the VP’s canoe.
A distance of a good three hundred yards still had to be paddled before they’d reach land, and they redoubled their efforts, taking advantage of the swift current they now found themselves in. The roar of the white water all but swallowed any evidence of Marine Two above, and Vince looked upward to determine its position. The Sikorsky had gained several hundred feet of altitude, and Vince could see one of the Marines bravely standing in the open hatch firing an assault rifle at the Huey, which was headed straight for them from upstream, machine gun blazing.
Vince fought the impulse to pull out his pistol, and he watched Marine Two selflessly position itself between their canoes and the onrushing Huey. The big green Sikorsky had no offensive weapons systems of its own, and displayed remarkable survivability as it took round after round of machine-gun fire originally meant for Vince and his group. In the end, it was a pair of air-to-air missiles that led to Marine Two’s demise, and the Sikorsky exploded and plunged nose-first into the river.
A bare one hundred yards now separated them from the protective wall of limestone rocks on the shoreline. The VP’s canoe was a boat length ahead, and Vince found himself praying that Andrew Chapman would be able to reach cover before the Huey was able to reposition itself.
A quick glance to his right showed that his prayers would never be answered. A single rocket shot out of the Huey’s starboard pod and slammed into the lead canoe. The force of this explosion was enough to split the vessel in half, and Vince looked in horror as Chapman went flying head over heels into the swift moving waters of the main channel.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Vince leaped into the river himself, just missing the rocket that incinerated his own canoe and instantly killed Ranger Ron Wyatt. As he plunged into the icy water, he was suddenly aware of the incredible force of the current. Like a powerful riptide, it sucked him downstream, and Vince fought his way to the surface.
It would be useless to swim, and he rolled over on his back to let the current take him. He shot past a series of large boulders, and was all but oblivious to his sighting of the Huey soaring close overhead, flames and thick smoke pouring from the doomed helicopter’s main cabin. Only one thing mattered, and that was locating the man whom Vince had sworn to protect with his life. He found himself issuing the briefest of prayers before lifting his head upward to scan the frothing white water directly downstream.
And it was then he spotted the body of Andrew Montgomery Chapman, facedown in the current, and the immense waterfall that he was about to be sucked over.
Chapter 13
Friday, July 2 21:09 p.m. C.D.T.
Fort Leonard Wood Military Reservation
Thomas picked up a map of the sprawling, 63,000-acre post at the main gate, and his first stop was at the CID field office. They were expecting him, and he was informed that Ted Callahan was waiting for him at Range Thirteen, near Fomey Airfield. With directions in hand, Thomas returned to his car and continued south on Constitution Avenue.
This was his first visit to Fort Leonard Wood, and he was immediately impressed. The tree-lined grounds were spotless, the majority of modern buildings that he could see from the road looking more like they belonged on a college campus. The Maneuver Support Center passed on his left, home to the U.S. Army Engineer, Chemical, and Military Police training schools. He went by the veterans hospital, the billeting office, a barracks area, and a large parade ground. Hundreds of BDUclad soldiers were assembled in formation here, and Thomas could tell from their appearance that they were new recruits, in the early stages of basic training. The Drill Sergeants, in their round campaign hats, looked like they were reading them the riot act, and Thomas noted that a large percentage of the recruits were female.
Two decades had passed since he had experienced his own early military training back at the Air Force Academy. Female cadets were the exception back then. And though it was surely only his imagination at work, most of the recruits, male and female, whom he passed on the way to the airfield looked more like kids who belonged in summer camp rather than people being trained to become soldiers.
The narrow asphalt road leading to the range turned to gravel, and at the third turnoff on the right, he spotted a red pennant flying from a flagpole. Thomas was stopped by a private first class on guard duty, and it took only a brief conversation for his legitimacy to be verified. The road to Range Thirteen further narrowed, leading him through a dense stand of pines and ending at a broad clearing with an earthen berm partially encircling it.
Dozens of soldiers could be seen seated in shaded bleachers, facing the shooting range. Yet more soldiers were gathered on the range itself, and they appeared to be in the middle of a demonstration of some sort.
Thomas parked beside a trio of HUMVEEs and a pair of two and-a-half-ton trucks. The distinctive sound of pistol fire crackled in the distance as he continued by foot to the slightly elevated apron where the shooters were gathered. It was so humid out, Thomas felt like he was pushing his way through a hot sponge.
The targets were a trio combination of paper silhouettes, steel Pepper Poppers resembling the vital areas of a human head and torso, and eight-inch-diameter steel plates. They were spread out in a 180-degree arc, at a variety of distances ranging from fifteen to fifty yards.
Thomas smiled upon spotting the officer who was prepping himself to be the next shooter. Colonel Ted Callahan was attired in BDUs, and was standing in a white, chalk-outlined box, facing downrange and making the final adjustments to his equipment and quick-draw hip holster. He obviously wasn’t aware that Thomas had arrived, his attention focused on scanning and mentally rehearsing the target sequence he was about to shoot.
“Special Agent Kellogg,” called a man’s voice from behind.
Thomas turned and set his eyes on a solidly built, brown-haired officer with movie-star good looks and a warm smile.
“Special Agent, I’m Captain Jay Christian. The Colonel’s been expecting you. Shall we tell him you’re here?”
“Why don’t we let him shoot first?” replied Thomas while accepting a firm handshake.
“What’s his target and stage scenario?”
“It’s a hostage situation, sir. From the first box he will engage the group of Pepper Poppers to his front, which are all bad guys.
Once they’re downed, the Colonel will move five yards to his right, reload, and enter the next shooting box. There he’ll be required to shoot through the open-ended barrel, at a variety of plates, gravity-activated appearing/disappearing targets, and a final array of poppers arranged to protect the hostage taker and his victim.”
“Will it end with a tactical neutralization?” Thomas asked, having encountered many a similar scenario on the aTF range.
Captain Christian nodded affirmatively.
“The white plate will indicate the no-shoot, the slightly elevated popper behind, the hostage taker. It’s a gun-to-the-head situation, and requires a single T-zone shot to be successfully resolved.”
Thomas knew that the T-zone referred to the exact center of the forehead, right above the bridge of the nose. By hitting this target, one could take down a subject, instantly severing the nervous system in such a way that the bad guy would never be ab
le to depress the trigger of his own weapon. In a tactical situation, it was one of the most difficult of all shots, and used sparingly.
At the shooting box, Callahan drew out his pistol and inserted a magazine. Still facing downrange, he racked the slide and chambered a round, then replaced the pistol back in its holster, before readjusting the fit of his eye-and-ear protection.
“What kind of weapon is he using?” Thomas questioned.
“It’s a Caspian .38 Super with a C-MORE electronic sight that emits a passive red targeting dot,” answered Christian.
“It’s a high-capacity race gun with all the bells and whistles, like the compensator, enlarged mag well, and safeties. All this makes the gun feel good and shoot fast and accurate.”
“I haven’t had much experience with those electronic sights,” admitted Thomas.
“How hard is it to acquire the red dot on target after drawing or when you’re shooting? Do you actually take the time to find it, or do you do it by feel?”
“As in all shooting, sir, once you get used to your equipment, nearly all of the physical mechanics becomes muscle memory, the gun feeling comfortable and becoming a natural extension of your hand and arm. With practice, not only can you acquire the intended targets more rapidly, but you can also see more and even think faster.”
“Are you ready. Colonel?” asked a soldier from the direction of the shooting box as he positioned himself behind Ted Callahan and held up a palm-sized digital timer.
Callahan carefully scanned the targets one more time, then took a deep breath and nodded that he was good to go.
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