“Give me my thirty-thirty back, and I’ll do it for ya.”
The dog began barking once more, prompting Amos to yell, “Damn it, Satan, shut up!”
“At the very least, will you tell us what it is that you’re so angry about?” asked the Vice President.
“What possibly motivated you to attack my party like you did? You slaughtered many a brave individual this afternoon.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Amos retorted.
“It would take me the rest of the day to list all the reasons why I always dreamed of killing you. But who said anything about me goin’ and attackin’ your party this afternoon?”
Again Satan let loose a series of excited yelps, this time inspired by the approach of yet another person.
“Pa!” greeted a female with great enthusiasm.
“You’ll never believe what all that shootin’ was about. It was the black helicopter again, and it tore into a bunch of float trippers down near Mary Deckard with a vengeance.”
Vince spoke up, frustrated that he still couldn’t see the faces of the people who held them captive.
“That was our float trip that was attacked! And you mean to say you didn’t have anything to do with it?”
“Why in the hell would we be in cahoots with the United Nations scum inside that infernal black chopper?” Amos replied sincerely.
“That’s the trouble with you Feds. Always jumpin’ to conclusions, without takin’ the time to get your facts straight.”
United Nations troops inside America and mysterious black helicopters — Vince was no stranger to the conspiracy freaks who actually believed there was a clandestine plot to take control of the U.S. government by imagined One World interests, and he probed most carefully.
“Look, I happened to see that chopper right before it went down. If you’re really telling the truth, what do you say if I was to lead you to the crash site? Then all of us could find out the true identities of the ones responsible for this act of cold-blooded murder. And if it turns out to be a United Nations operation, you’ve got my word I’ll be right there to serve the warrant that will close their doors forever.”
Chapter 23
Friday, July 2, 2358 Zulu
U.S.S. James K. Polk
The first hint that something extraordinary was occurring outside the hull was a slight flutter on the BQ-7’s waterfall display. Jaffers immediately pointed it out to Brad Bodzin, who hesitated only long enough to confirm that it wasn’t an anomaly, before grabbing the overhead handset to warn the control room.
“Conn, Sonar. We have a submerged contact, bearing zero four-three.
Designate Sierra Twelve, possible hostile submarine!”
As Control acknowledged this warning, Bodzin readjusted the fit of his headphones, and hurriedly addressed the auxiliary keyboard to isolate the narrowband processor. He filtered out the static as best he could, and had to increase the volume tenfold to hear a barely audible throbbing sound that caused his pulse to suddenly quicken.
“It appears to be headed on a direct collision course with the Rhode Island!” he shouted.
The unexpected, earsplitting ping of an active sonar pulse filled his headphones, and Bodzin reached forward to turn down the volume, all the while cursing in pain.
“Who the fuck lashed us?”
“I believe that was Sierra One’s collision-avoidance sonar, Sup,” offered Jaffers, also a victim of the excruciating lashing.
This observation was confirmed when an extended series of sonorous pings sounded from the direction of the Rhode Island. Bodzin dared to turn up the volume again, and he breathlessly listened as the active scan continuously quickened to such a degree that the hollow succession of individual pings sounded like a single entity.
“Damn it, they’re gonna hit!” Bodzin exclaimed.
The raw, grinding sound of metal on metal filled the seas, and Bodzin yanked back his headphones and addressed the intercom.
“Conn, Sonar. Sierra One has collided with Sierra Twelve! Initiating damage control, signature analysis.”
Chapter 24
Friday, Saturday, July 3, 0021 Zulu
Nightwatch 676
Brittany was in the galley, drinking a club soda to ease her queasy stomach, when she first learned that an American Trident submarine had been the victim of an underwater collision with a yet unknown vessel, somewhere off the coast of Florida. It was only after rushing back into the Operations Team Area that she learned this Trident was the U.S.S. Rhode Island.
The Rhode Island was their Atlantic basin alert platform, armed with a lethal load of twenty-four Trident II D-5 missiles, each capable of carrying up to seven 300-kiloton Maneuverable Reentry Vehicle warheads. Because of the Rhode Island’s forward patrol area, it had been the same submarine that Iron Man One had passed an EAM to earlier, and the loss of this capable platform could drastically affect America’s strategic posture.
Brittany arrived in Operations just as the Chairman stormed in from the aft end of the 747, with Colonel Pritchard and Major Hewlett on his heels. Warner appeared to be furious, and he vented his anger and frustration beside Red’s workstation.
“This whole fucking situation is getting totally out of control.
Colonel, I need you to keep that line open with COMSUBLANT.
I want to know the second that we get a SITREP on the Rhode Island. And where the hell’s General Spencer?”
Red looked up from her console and efficiently answered, “Admiral Warner, I’ve got the General for you on line seven.”
As the Chairman strode over to the adjoining console and grabbed the red handset, Brittany met Red’s glance. They traded conspiratorial winks, while listening to Warner refocus his rage on Iron Man One’s CG.
“Absolutely not, Lowell! Until all the facts are in, I feel a move to DEFCON Three is totally unwarranted… Lowell, I’m well aware that she’s our Atlantic basin alert platform. But until we hear otherwise, we’ve got to presume that the Rhode Island’s still operational… I’ll keep that in mind. General… Very well. Out.”
The Chairman hung up the handset, and forcefully addressed his SIOP advisor.
“Major Hewlett, be informed that General Spencer recommends an immediate alert change to DEFCON Three. He’s substantiating this with the assumption that the Rhode Island was intentionally struck by a Russian attack sub. Since we still don’t know this fact for certain, I can’t in all good conscience agree to this provocative move, which could very well incite the very war we’re trying so hard to avoid.”
“And if we indeed learn that the Russians are responsible for this collision, sir?” asked the Marine, well aware that the entire Operations team was riveted on their conversation.
Warner paused in thought, and without bothering to issue a reply, he spoke instead to Red.
“Sergeant, it’s time to take the bull by the horns. Get me a secure line with the Russian Defense Ministry in the Kremlin. If anyone can get to the bottom of this mess, it’s General Alexi Zhukov.”
Chapter 25
Friday, July 2
Eleven Point River
“If I was a betting man,” said First Sergeant Sam Reed while kneeling down beside the assortment of footprints imprinted in the sandbar, “I’d say that they definitely stopped here for a fishing break. These tracks are still fresh. I doubt if they’re more than four hours old.”
“Since we’re at the southern end of the trophy trout management area, such a stop wouldn’t be out of the question,” said Jody Glickman.
Both Thomas Kellogg and Ted Callahan stood at the ranger’s side, and together they watched the efforts of the rest of their team. The seven john boats that had brought them down from the Greer access site were pulled up on the sand, with the Sappers exploring the woods on this side of the river and the MPs roaming the opposite bank.
“And here I always thought that Washington’s humidity was bad,” said Callahan, after wiping his soaked forehead with the back of his hand.
“If they’re out in that forest, I sure hope they’ve got plenty of shade and water.”
“My brother spent a couple of unforgettable years in Vietnam’s Rung Sat Special Zone,” revealed Thomas.
“Vince was able to survive that tropical hell, making the Ozarks a walk in the park.”
“Commander One, this is Commander Two. Over,” broke in Captain Jay Christian’s amplified voice over Callahan’s two-way.
“Commander Two, this is Commander One. Over,” Callahan replied into his radio’s transmitter.
“Commander One,” said Christian in a whisper.
“We’ve stumbled upon a path that I believe you’ll be interested in seeing.
It’s loaded with fresh prints, which are headed due north into the deep woods. They could very well belong to some of our people. Over.”
A bare mile farther downstream, where the sound of the outside world was masked by the constant, thunderous roar of Mary Deckard shoals, Vince Kellogg broke from the underbrush, getting his first view of the river since his capture. They were upstream at the head of the shoals, and he barely noticed it when Miriam Stoddard and her brother. Junior, joined him on the scrub-filled clearing. Now that his blindfold had been removed, Vince was at long last able to see his hostage takers, and subsequently size them up.
With Andrew Chapman still held hostage back in the cave, Vince found himself with an opportunity to win their freedom.
He would do so most carefully, initiating this process by first earning the trust of the two individuals who accompanied him.
Of the pair. Junior appeared to be the most unstable. He was a skinny, shaggy-haired, hotheaded teenager, with a penchant for tattered coveralls and chewing tobacco. Vince doubted that he had any formal schooling, and it was evident that he was the victim of an overbearing father. Because of this, there was always the possibility that Junior would express his independence by taking his aggressions out on Vince. He would have to be watched carefully.
On the other hand, his sister, Miriam, was in almost every way his opposite. Vince liked her straight off. Also in her teens, she reminded him of a redheaded version of the country singer Leanne Rimes. Her denim cutoffs and sleeveless flannel shirt were worn yet clean, and Vince couldn’t believe she was able to get around on this rough terrain without shoes. Unlike her brother, she wasn’t afraid to look Vince straight in the eye, and he sensed that she could be a potential ally, for she exuded a refreshing natural innocence, in vast contrast to her brother’s inherent mistrust.
“Is that one of your canoes caught in the snag by the first of the big boulders?” asked Miriam while pointing downstream.
Vince looked toward the Zshaped chute, and somberly nodded upon spotting the overturned U.S. Forest Service canoe. Yet more debris littered the shore, and he identified several torn seat cushions, the lid of a Styrofoam cooler, and a partially submerged first-aid kit.
“Bubba,” said Junior, making it a point to aim the barrel of his 12gauge at Vince, “I thought you said we’d find the black helicopter down here.”
Vince continued staring downstream to orient himself. He spotted the high bluff where the CAT team’s Blackhawk had gone down, and pointed toward the opposite bank, at the far end of the shoals.
“The last time I saw it, the helicopter was headed toward that clearing at the bend of the river. I was about to go over the falls at the time, and it flew right over me, with thick smoke pouring from the cabin.”
“What do ya think, Miriam?” asked Junior.
“Should we cross here or down by the falls?”
Miriam answered her brother by stepping off the bank and beginning her way directly across the river. Vince looked at Junior before following, and the teenager directed Vince onward with the barrel of his shotgun.
The water was icy cold, the current swift and the slippery footing treacherous. Vince tried his best to follow Miriam’s exact route, and at the center of the channel the water covered his knees, hitting him mid-thigh at the deepest point. His lower extremities were numb by the time he climbed up onto the opposite bank, where Miriam was waiting with a wide grin on her face.
“Who needs fancy air-conditioning when you’ve got the Eleven Point to cool you off?” she said with a pleasant smile.
Before Vince could reply, her brother climbed onto the bank.
Junior didn’t look happy to have been subjected to the frigid soaking, and he roughly prodded his prisoner forward with the barrel of his shotgun.
They continued downstream, following the narrowest of earthen tracks. The chute passed to their left, the deafening roar of its cascading waters overwhelming all other sounds. Vince easily located the boulder where the VP’s canoe had gotten itself stuck, and his curiosity turned to horror upon spotting the bloated body of one of his agents caught in the same rocky snag.
A smashed Forest Service john boat lay floating on the other side of the snag, along with an assortment of fishing gear and torn clothing.
Vince found himself mentally re-creating the terrifying moment when he had first spotted the black Huey. This imagined drama became chillingly real once again as they passed the crucified corpse of Andy Whitworth, and spotted the floating body of yet another agent. And just when Vince thought he could leave both the chute and the nightmare behind, there was the partially submerged, torn hulk of Marine Two, awash in the center of the channel like a lifeless Leviathan.
More tragedy awaited around the next bend, where an overturned john boat had snagged itself on the shoreline. The bullet ridden body of Special Agent Linda Desiante lay nearby on the sandy shoreline, and Vince redirected his grief upon setting eyes on the briefcase-sized metallic container that sat on dry sand just out of Desiante’s outstretched reach. It was their SATCOM unit-the device that could provide them contact with the outside world — and amazingly enough, it appeared to be intact!
The raised clenched fist of their point man caused Thomas to halt in mid-step. They had been following the narrow, earthen track where the footprints had been discovered for the better part of a kilometer. The throaty roar of the river had long since faded, to be replaced by the rustling sounds of the wind coursing through the oak limbs and the hypnotic grinding cries of the cicadas.
From his position in the middle of the file formation, Thomas watched Captain Christian cautiously approach the point man.
The senior MP’s stare appeared to be focused on the ground below, and both soldiers were soon in a crouch position, examining something on the path itself. Thomas supposed that they had discovered yet more footprints, and he was genuinely surprised when Christian signaled him forward, all the while pointing out the barely visible, fine nylon trip wire that was stretched across the trail at ankle level.
Together they traced the nylon wire as it disappeared into the underbrush at the far side of the trail, and it was Thomas who identified the device to which it was tied. The green cardboard cylinder was an artillery projectile ground-burst simulator, approximately seven inches long and one and three-quarters inches in diameter. Activated by a pull-friction fuse lighter, the device would emit a piercing whistle before detonating with a loud burst.
Unlike a Claymore, it was not an offensive weapon, and it was almost certainly placed here to warn of the approach of unwanted trespassers. Christian nevertheless asked and received permission from Ted Callahan for his troops to load live rounds into their weapons, and it was in such a manner that they continued up the trail, ever vigilant for booby traps of a more lethal nature.
“As long as you’re willing to haul it, I don’t see any harm in taking it along. It’s your back that’s gonna suffer,” said Junior after opening the SATCOM’s carrying case and inspecting the contents.
Vince resealed the case and picked up the thirty-five-pound unit by its padded handle. The alien weight pulled on his arm and shoulder, yet he carried this new burden without complaint, grateful to have the device in his possession.
“Now I thought you said that we’d find
the helicopter in this clearing,” Junior muttered, his impatience most obvious.
“You’d better not be yankin’ my chain, Bubba.”
Vince could clearly hear the roar of the waterfall that had almost swept both him and the Vice President to their deaths, and he tried his best to re-create the black helicopter’s last-known flight path. He seriously doubted that the badly damaged aircraft could have cleared the limestone bluff on the far side of the bank on which they stood, and it was toward this feature that Vince pointed.
“Well, for your sake, you’d better hope that’s where we’ll find it,” said Junior, who then poked Vince forward with the barrel of his shotgun.
Miriam took off for the bluff in a sprint, and as soon as she disappeared over a low ledge of rock. Junior shoved the gun barrel into Vince’s back once more. Vince fought the urge to turn and wrest the gun out of Junior’s grasp. He supposed it wouldn’t be that hard to push aside the barrel, and as he sized up the risks involved, Miriam’s voice redirected his thoughts.
“Junior, over here!”
They found her standing on a limestone clearing at the base of the bluff, with the twisted, burned-out fuselage of a helicopter lying at her feet. Black, oily smoke continued to pour from the cabin, and as Vince stepped over one of the fractured rotor blades, he had no doubt whatsoever that this was the Huey that had attacked them.
“Do you believe it, little sister?” said Junior while examining the wreckage.
“We finally got one of the black bastards!”
Miriam pointed into the fire-scarred cabin.
“There’s a body in there!”
Vince spotted the charred remains and somberly noted, “I’m afraid no one lived through that crash.”
Almost to underscore this observation, a low-groaning moan sounded behind them. Vince turned to trace its source, and spotted a booted foot extending from a nearby thorn bush. He carefully pushed aside the brambles, revealing a bearded bear of a man sprawled out on his back and dressed in a torn green flight suit. His breaths were quick and shallow, and when his eyes momentarily fluttered open, Vince gasped in astonishment. Lying before him was a man he hadn’t seen in over three decades!
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