“And that we’re a virtual sitting duck up here!”
Lucky’s call caught Colonel Pritchard in the briefing room.
The compartment was filled with fallen debris, including two airmen who had been thrown to the deck during the unexpected turn.
“Captain Davis,” said Pritchard into an intercom headset.
“Hold our present course, and I’ll get back to you.”
The Operations team CO ripped off his headphones and met Trent Warner’s icy stare.
“Sir, the air-to-air missile responsible for that evasive maneuver originated from the lead Foxbat. A Colonel Dubrinski of the Ukrainian Air Force has just ordered us to return to Simferopol, to answer to charges of treason. And if we don’t, he’s threatened to shoot at us again, and this time he says he won’t miss.”
“What?” screamed the Chairman, his face red with rage.
“Like hell we’re going to return to the Crimea! And to answer to charges of treason? The nerve of those spineless Ukrainian cowards!”
“But are we in a position to challenge them, sir?” asked Pritchard.
“Must I remind you that Nightwatch has no offensive or defensive capabilities?”
The Chairman paused for a moment to consider their dilemma, and was suddenly aware of the stares of the other personnel in the briefing room.
“Colonel,” he said in a calm, reassuring manner, “until this situation is resolved, I feel it’s prudent to hand off the football to Iron Man One. You are to immediately transfer all strategic authority to General Spencer aboard TACAMO.
You are to emphasize that this is on a temporary basis only, and that their own version of Satchel Bravo shall be accessed only if the United States should come under actual attack.
And then I think it’s best if you got the Ukrainian Defense Minister on the line. It’s time to remind him that before he gives us a reason to bomb his homeland to oblivion, he’d better take pause to consider the consequences of their actions.”
Chapter 15
Friday, July 2
Eleven Point River
The waterfall was steeper and more powerful than Vince had expected, and he found himself being pulled over the brink, his body somersaulting through the spray like a soaked rag doll. It seemed to take an eternity to hit the pool below, and when he finally struck solid water, he was sucked into the mouth of a swirling whirlpool. No matter how hard he kicked or stroked with his arms, he was powerless to escape the maelstrom, and he would most likely have drowned if the river hadn’t freed him on its own volition.
He broke the surface, desperately gasping for air. After momentarily gagging on all the river water he had swallowed, he cleared his lungs, and only then did he remember his duty.
His search of the pool was blessedly brief, for he located the Vice President on his very first sweep. Andrew Chapman was floating facedown beside a sandy portion of riverbank. He wasn’t moving, and Vince sprinted over to assist him, using an overhead-crawl swimming stroke.
The first thing he did was turn Chapman over. The VP’s face was ghostly pale, his lips were blue, and he didn’t appear to be breathing. The water was shallow enough for Vince to stand, and he began CPR right there in the river.
Because hypothermia was also a concern, Vince slowly worked his way over to the bank, all the while continuing the resuscitation effort. He stopped only long enough to drag the VP’s body up onto dry land, then redoubled his efforts with renewed intensity. He blew breath after breath between Chapman’s frigid lips, and when this failed to get him breathing, Vince rolled the VP over and pushed down hard on his lower rib cage. Water streamed out of Chapman’s mouth, and Vince rolled him over onto his back and reinitiated CPR, this time halting every sixth breath to massage his patient’s heart.
“Come on,” he urged between breaths.
“Nobody dies on my watch!”
This declaration was seemingly answered by Chapman when his stomach muscles began to spasm. His lungs heaved upward, and after vomiting an incredible amount of fluid, the Vice President of the United States began breathing on his own.
Vince fought the temptation to hug the man, and instead focused his attention on getting him as warm as possible. A massive cottonwood currently shaded them. Noting that the clearing faced the southwest, Vince realized that all they needed to do was relocate a few feet away, to be directly in the sun’s powerful rays while still benefiting from the cover of the cottonwood’s branches. He didn’t know who else could be out there.
He helped Chapman sit up before dragging him over the sand and propping him up against the cottonwood trunk. The sunlight’s effect was instantaneous, and Vince felt his own chill dissipate.
“Damn it, Kellogg,” the VP managed to say while regaining his strength.
“Who the hell is trying to kill us?”
Vince was thinking about this very same thing, and already focusing on security concerns, he plunged his hand beneath his windbreaker, then cursed upon finding his holster empty.
“I must have lost my weapon after following you over the waterfall,” Vince noted, pulling out a soggy cigar from his breast pocket.
“Don’t you know that smoking is hazardous to your health, Special Agent?” said the VP, his usual sharp wit already on the rebound.
Vince took a fond look at the wet stogie and reluctantly flung it into the underbrush.
“Our esteemed SAIC gave it to me, to celebrate my anniversary.”
“I wonder what Samuel Morrison the second would make of our current predicament,” Chapman said.
“Didn’t any of our party make it?”
Vince surveyed the river and somberly shook his head.
“It sure doesn’t look that way. And what scares the hell out of me is that our ground-based CAT teams have also apparently been eliminated. It was nothing short of a damn slaughter!”
“I never realized the true extent of the resentment that the locals must have built up against the Federal government,” said the VP.
“But where did they get that helicopter?”
Vince’s reply was cut short by a sudden rustling noise in the underbrush. He put his finger to his lips for silence, and reached down to grab a broken tree limb, the only available weapon.
“Drop it, Bubba, and down on your knees!” ordered a strong male voice.
Five shotgun-toting individuals emerged from the surrounding cover. Each of them wore camouflaged coveralls, with faces colored in green, brown, and black greasepaint.
“Are you deaf, Bubba? I said drop it and kneel!” repeated the stranger, who backed up this command with a deafening burst of his 12 gauge.
Chapter 16
Friday, July 2 C.D.T.
Fort Leonard Wood Military Reservation
It was shortly after the Chairman’s video image abruptly faded from the EOC’s projection screen that Thomas was introduced to Major General Levering Atwater. The post’s CG turned out to be a short, stocky, square-jawed individual with a salt-and-pepper crew cut. Together with his steely-eyed Judge Advocate, Atwater escorted both Thomas and Ted Callahan to the front of the room. They appeared to already know who Thomas’s employer was, and after the CG conveyed a request to one of the soldiers manning a computer workstation, the left-hand projection screen filled with a detailed map of south-central Missouri.
“This is indeed a dark day for our country, gentlemen,” said Atwater, his voice deep, his words crisply spoken.
“We find ourselves dealing not only with the assassination of our Commander in-Chief, but also with a problem of a more immediate nature.
We’ve just been contacted by the Director of the Secret Service.
It appears they’ve been unable to contact Vice President Chapman and inform him of the tragedy in the Crimea.”
“Is it a communications glitch?” Callahan asked.
Atwater chose his words carefully.
“That was their first assumption.
But then the FEMA central locator system was
activated.
This system was specifically designed to track down the Presidential successors wherever they may be. It relies on a broad spectrum of arrays, including radio, cellular, and satellites, to offer instantaneous, secure communications worldwide.” Utilizing an electronic cursor, he addressed the map, highlighting a large, light-green-colored segment in the southeastern corner.
“As you well know, the VP is supposed to be in the midst of a float trip here, on the Eleven Point River. Though the initial alert was received by his party, there’s been no response. Local efforts at contacting them have been equally fruitless, with the entire U.S. Forest Service radio grid inexplicably inoperative.”
“Surely the Secret Service CAT teams in the area can contact them?” offered Thomas, well aware that Vince was the acting SAIC of the VP’s detail.
The Judge Advocate answered, “The Secret Service has been unable to make contact with these land-based assets. This includes the efforts of Marine Two and the CAT team Blackhawk, with both helicopters reporting shots fired before mysteriously breaking radio contact and seeming to disappear into thin air.”
“Shots fired?” Thomas repeated, his stomach suddenly tightening with concern.
“Gentlemen, we’ve obviously got a serious situation down there,” observed Major General Atwater, who used the cursor to highlight Fort Leonard Wood’s location on the upper portion of the map segment.
“As the crow flies, it’s approximately seventy five miles from this EOC to the spot on the Eleven Point where the VP’s party was last heard from. We’ve just been tasked to send a platoon-sized element down into the Mark Twain National Forest to seek out Andrew Chapman and determine his ability to assume the Presidency. Time is therefore critical, and since the Secret Service and the FBI will be unable to get personnel to the area until later this evening, we’ve drawn the assignment.”
“Special Agent Kellogg,” interjected the Judge Advocate, “as both you and Colonel Callahan know, it is highly unusual for us to receive tasking from a government organization other than the DOD. This is especially the case when this tasking concerns an operation on American soil. Title Eighteen of the United States Code, Section 1385, severely limits the manner in which the military can operate under such circumstances.”
“The Posse Comitatus Act,” added Ted Callahan.
“Precisely,” said the Judge Advocate.
“And to legally overcome these restrictions, we intend to invoke House Joint Resolution 1292, which directs all departments of the government, upon the request of the Secret Service, to assist that service in carrying out its statutory protective duties.”
Major General Atwater quickly chimed in.
“I’ve already called together a Search and Rescue force, comprised of a squad of combat Sappers and the post’s MP Special Response Team. They’re currently gathering their gear, and will be ready for a helicopter airlift to the Eleven Point within the half hour, with a mechanized unit to follow by road.”
“Special Agent Kellogg, to ensure that our men don’t infringe on Posse Comitatus restrictions, we’d feel a lot better if you’d consider accompanying them,” posited the Judge Advocate.
“And Colonel Callahan,” added Atwater.
“You’d also be an asset in this regard.”
Thomas replied without a moment’s hesitation.
“I’d be honored to go along, especially since my brother, Vince, is the Special Agent in Charge of the VP’s security detail down on the Eleven Point.”
“You can count me in,” agreed Ted Callahan.
“Excellent,” replied Atwater.
“I’ve taken the liberty of putting together some gear for both of you. So good luck, and good hunting!”
Chapter 17
Friday, July 2, 2003 Zulu
Nightwatch 676
“American military 747, this is my last warning. You are to immediately return with me to Simferopol Airport or suffer the consequences.”
Coach’s frustration was obvious as he pushed back his chin mike and spoke to his copilot.
“Lucky, whatever it takes, stall him. I’ll get the good Colonel on the horn, and get a definitive answer on how the hell they want us to handle this mess.”
Lucky flashed Coach a “why me?” stare, and paused for a moment before addressing the radio.
“Come again, Foxbat leader? Your last transmission was incomplete. I suggest that you switch frequencies to NATO band …”
Ever appreciative of his copilot’s ingenuity. Coach activated the intercom.
“Colonel Pritchard, it’s Major Foard. Unless you have any better ideas, I’m afraid we’re gonna have to change our flight plan from Andrews to Simferopol.”
“Can’t you stall them just a little bit longer?” Pritchard’s amplified voice sounded pleading.
“The Chairman’s still trying to get in touch with the Ukrainian Defense Minister. And we’re having one hell of a time making contact, because it appears they’re in the middle of some kind of coup down there!”
“Sir,” countered Coach, “coup or no coup, we’re about to get an AA-6 air-to-air missile up our keister. As air crew commander, I say it would be more prudent if we sorted this whole thing out down on the tarmac at Simferopol.”
“He’s not buying it. Coach!” interrupted Lucky.
“He says he’s gonna shoot!”
Coach abruptly ended his intercom conversation to concentrate on the crisis at hand.
“What’s our lead Foxbat’s range?”
“Twelve and a half miles and holding steady, sir,” replied the navigator from the rear of the cockpit.
“That’s well within the AA-6’s IR envelope,” informed Jake Lasky.
“With an approach speed of Mach 4.5, we’ll be toast before we know what hit us.”
“American military 747,” the radio boomed, “unless you turn at once for Simferopol, I have no choice but to take you out.
Be informed that I’m initiating armament sequence and launch countdown.”
“At least we can’t say he didn’t give us plenty of warning,” noted Coach, who found himself without options.
“It’s time to turn this big lady around for some Ukrainian cooking.”
As Coach reached out to deactivate the autopilot. Lucky readjusted the scan of the instrument panel’s radar screen. He requested maximum range, and had to do a double take upon spotting a formation of four new contacts, rapidly approaching from the south.
“We’ve got some more company coming!” he excitedly revealed.
Coach looked at the radar screen, and a smile lit up his face as the three MiGs suddenly broke off their pursuit and turned back to the north.
“Looks like Comrade Dubrinski has had a sudden change of heart,” observed the grinning pilot.
“Nightwatch six-seven-six,” broke in a crisp voice over the radio.
“This is Captain Brantley Williams, your Fighting Falcon leader. How can we be of service this evening? Over.”
Back in the 747’s Operations Team Area, the arrival of the U.S. Air Force F-16s was met with shouts of relieved joy.
Nightwatch was now free to continue on the long flight back to Andrews, and as it initiated a wide-banked turn to the west, Brittany Cooper had to reach out and steady herself on the side of the workstation she was standing next to. On the other hand, the woman seated behind this console didn’t appear to be the least bit fazed by the sudden turn. Oblivious to her straining seat harness. Red continued to attack her keyboard, her glance locked on the assortment of data filling the console’s flashing monitor screen.
“Iron Man One,” she said into her chin mike. “This is Nightwatch six-seven-six. I have a Priority One transmission. Over.”
Brittany knew that this call was being directed to yet another U.S. military airborne command post. Iron Man One was their current TACAMO alert aircraft. While Nightwatch was a U.S. Air Force platform, TACAMO belonged to the Navy. Its original mission was to offer survivable communi
cations to the strategic submarine fleet. For over three decades, and using several types of aircraft, TACAMO had proved itself an invaluable asset, utilizing a five-mile-long antenna to transmit VLF broadcasts to submarines deep beneath their patrol zones.
With the addition of a new state-of-the-art airframe, TACAMO had recently expanded its mission. Iron Man One was the first TACAMO platform to be outfitted with the so-called “Looking Glass” operations suite. Looking Glass was originally an Air Force program, run by the Strategic Air Command, that offered survivable command and control of nuclear-armed ICBMs and land-based bombers.
Aboard Iron Man One, the normal TACAMO communications personnel were joined by a command battle staff. This emergency action team was responsible for transmitting Emergency Action Messages, the unlock codes for America’s nuclear warheads. In addition to releasing these codes, the battle staff had the capability of actually launching an ICBM from the air, should ground based command and control be compromised.
“Admiral Warner,” said Red into her mike, “I have General Spencer on the line.”
The moment the two senior officers began conversing. Red cut off the verbal feed, and she looked up to address Brittany.
“That should keep him out of my hair for a couple of minutes.
Now what’s all this about those MiGs hightailing it back home?”
“It seems that our saviors are a group of F-16 Fighting Falcons out of Incirlik,” Brittany told her.
“They were originally scrambled to assist Checkmate One, and arrived seconds before that lead Foxbat was threatening to blow us out of the skies.”
“I’m sure glad we weren’t forced to land at Simferopol, Commander.
From what I could tell from the Ukrainian Defense factor, or part of the plan so as to disenable us from reaching and perhaps siding against the coup’s leadership,” mused Brittany.
“Though I caught only a portion of the Chairman’s conversation with the Defense Minister, it actually sounded as if the Ukrainians were blaming us for both the attack on the motorcade, as well as the coup attempt that followed. And that’s why they sent up those MiGs.”
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