Nightwatch

by Richard P. Henrick

Brittany breathlessly listened to the Chairman initiate a spirited conversation filled with choice curse words and long pauses.

  It was during the course of this long dialogue that Sergeant Schuster’s excited voice filled the compartment.

  “NORAD reports that the Russian missile has dropped off its radar screens with a splashdown in the East Siberian Seal” “So I understand. Comrade,” continued Warner into the handset.

  “Get back to work, and don’t hesitate to contact me should the situation warrant.”

  The Chairman hung up the phone, a relieved grin on his tired face.

  “Sergeant Rayburn, contact Iron Man One and relay the code sequence to terminate the alert. And I want an immediate status change back to DEFCON Four. That was no belligerent launch on the part of the Russians. It was only their Defense Ministry’s way of showing the world that they still have control of their nuclear forces.”

  Chapter 31

  Friday, July 2, C.D.T.

  Irish Wilderness

  “We’ll stop up yonder by that spring,” Amos Stoddard told the six individuals who closely followed him.

  Vince was third in line, behind Andrew Chapman, and he watched the VP briefly turn around with this news, a relieved grin on his sweat-stained face. They had been traveling nonstop for a good two hours. From the very start, Amos had established a blistering pace that led them almost due south through some of the most rugged and breathtaking forestland Vince had ever experienced.

  During this entire hike, not another human being was encountered.

  For the most part, they followed a narrow trail that appeared to be little more than an animal track. No roads, pathways, or habitations of any sort were sighted, with nothing but thick woods stretching for as far as the eye could see.

  They passed through a succession of steep valleys. These hollows were thick with trees, and Vince identified several varieties of oak including scarlet, blackjack, and white. Gnarled red cedars clung to the edges of the steep bluffs, while sour gum, walnut, hickory, and maple found a foothold on the rocky slopes.

  In the course of their journey they encountered a multitude of wildlife, such as dozens of gray squirrels, several foxes, a raccoon, and an abundance of birds ranging from robins and blue jays to cliff swallows and a flock of noisy turkeys. Bobwhite quail softly called from the underbrush; red-shouldered hawks angrily screeched from above.

  Under different circumstances, Vince would have truly enjoyed this wilderness hike. But he found it hard to relax knowing there were three armed men following close on his heels. Both Junior, Tiny, and a scraggly-haired associate named C.J. all carried shotguns. Somewhere in their ranks was Miriam. She appeared to be unarmed, and the last Vince saw of the goodnatured redhead, she was collecting blackberries.

  Vince was hungry, tired, and thirsty, and the SATCOM he had decided to lug along didn’t help matters any. He could feel the added strain of the thirty-plus-pound case on his upper arms, shoulders, and back, and several times when they were climbing up a particularly steep ridge, he considered abandoning it.

  It was thus with great relief that Vince halted beside the stream that Amos and his dog, Satan, were already drinking from.

  Vince thought better of joining them, and he watched as the oldtimer’s son, daughter. Tiny, and C.J. also knelt to drink from the brook.

  Andrew Chapman looked longingly at Vince, licked his parched lips, and beckoned toward the clear, gurgling water.

  “Sir, I really wouldn’t if I were you,” warned Vince.

  “Don’t be scared of the water. This here’s a fresh spring, and I promise that you won’t get sick from it,” offered Miriam.

  She scooped up a handful of water and poured it into her open mouth. Vince swallowed heavily, his mouth bone-dry. But even then he stubbornly refused to relent.

  After ascertaining that the brook appeared to be emerging from a fracture in the solid rock wall of an overhanging bluff, Andrew Chapman gave in to temptation and bent down to test the water. He dipped his cupped hands into the spring and sniffed it, oblivious to Vince’s continued cautionary words.

  “Sir, I was warned by the Forest Service that the fresh water in these parts was unfit to drink.”

  “Balderdash!” countered Amos after slaking his thirst and sitting down on a flat boulder.

  “I sure hope you don’t believe everything the government tells you. I’ve been drinking from this spring since I was a young pup, and I’ve yet to get sick from it.”

  The VP dared to dip his cupped hands into the water once more, and this time he took a tentative sip. He must have liked what he tasted, because he followed this sip with a healthy gulp.

  “Come on, Kellogg,” he urged.

  “It’s time to start living dangerously. Besides, it’s better than dying from dehydration.”

  Vince watched him kneel beside the brook and properly satisfy his thirst. As the VP gratefully soaked his face in the stream, Vince reluctantly succumbed to temptation. The water was cool and smelled fresh, and once he started drinking, it was hard to stop.

  “That’s the spirit,” said Amos, who pulled a sausage from his backpack and began slicing off thick pieces with a pocketknife.

  “Anyone hungry?” he asked between bites.

  Both Vince and the VP hadn’t eaten a thing since an early breakfast. They were ravenous, and after drinking their fill, they readily accepted the oldtimer’s offer.

  Vince found the sausage extremely tasty. It was moist and mildly spiced, with a sweet aftertaste. He ate three slices, and Chapman did likewise.

  “Does that make them lawbreakers. Pa?” asked Junior, who watched them eat with a mischievous sparkle in his eye.

  “What do you mean by that remark?” asked the VP.

  Amos laughed.

  “Junior was referring to the deer meat that made up your sausage. If you want to go and get technical, you just ate an animal harvested out of hunting season.”

  “You mean to say you poached it,” clarified Vince.

  Amos offered Vince another slice of sausage, and when he refused it with a disgusted shake of his head, the oldtimer fed it to Satan, saying, “You might call it poaching, but we call it survival. If you haven’t already noticed, there ain’t no grocery stores out here. And even if there were, we wouldn’t have the money to do any shopping. If we want to eat, we have to gather our food right here in the forest.”

  “I’m truly sorry that times are so tough for you,” offered the VP.

  “But if everyone went into the forest to live off the land as they pleased, we’d kill off all the game and use up the resources in a matter of days. We’re forced to create hunting seasons and game limits to control and preserve the number of animals in wilderness areas such as this one. Why, back in the 1920s, this entire region was an ecological disaster zone. An out-of-control lumber industry stripped these hills bare, while overgrazing, unrestrained hunting, and the use of slash-and-burn techniques for weed control all combined to make this area one of the poorest during the Depression.”

  “And even with all your Federal legislation since that time, ain’t we just as poor today as we were back then?” countered Amos.

  “It’s not natural for folks who aren’t from these parts to come down here and take our property, while telling us that we no longer can live off the land like our ancestors did. I bet you didn’t know that my pappy once owned a three-hundred-acre tract right off the Eleven Point near Greer Springs. It was prime real estate, and he spent his last dime to create a small canoe rental business there. Me and my kids would be running it today if it wasn’t for the Feds who came down here uninvited and stole our land for pennies on the dollar. That land was all we had, and when it was gone, we had no place to go but these woods.”

  “That land was needed to preserve the Eleven Point for generations to come,” replied the VP.

  “But what about preserving the rights of me and my family today?” Amos argued.

  “As far as I’m concerned, it
was the Federal government that illegally chased us off our property, and I’ve got the full right to take all the deer, fish, and other wildlife I might need to keep on living.”

  Vince didn’t like the direction that this conversation was headed in, and he tried his diplomatic best to change the subject.

  “Will we be able to reach Freeman Hollow by dark?”

  “What do ya mean reach, Bubba?” answered Junior.

  “We’re there.”

  Vince scanned the forest surrounding them with renewed interest.

  Thick stands of red oak made viewing difficult, and he dared to bring up a subject that had caught his ear earlier.

  “When you were talking about this hollow back at your campsite, what did you mean by the Tater Hill swamp lights?

  And what sort of UFO was sighted out here?”

  Amos looked at his son and disgustedly shook his head.

  “Since you’re the one who went and opened up his big mouth, why don’t you answer the man. Son?”

  Junior knelt on the ground opposite his father, and Satan ran to his side. It was while picking the burrs and ticks from the dog’s black fur that he began speaking, hesitantly at first.

  “This hollow has always been home to strange lights and other weird activity. Rumor has it that Freeman once housed a top-secret,

  subterranean government installation where a captured UFO was stored in the early sixties. It was way back then that Pa and Gramps actually saw this craft, hovering over the forest, shining a light that turned night into day.”

  Amos nervously chuckled.

  “Now, we know this weren’t an alien spaceship at all, but the first of the UN helicopters arriving to stake out their claim.”

  “Then how do you explain the strange green lights that me and Satan saw over by Tater Hill last Halloween?” asked Miriam.

  “I still think it’s an Indian burial ground that’s responsible, and that this hollow is haunted with their spirits.”

  “Was the spot where you saw this UFO near Tater Hill?”

  Vince asked Amos.

  The elder Stoddard shook his head that it was, prompting Vince to surmise, “Then I bet that’s the spot where Marvin’s Huey was based. How far is it from here?”

  “It’s a fifteen-minute hike at best,” Amos answered.

  “Junior, why don’t you and Tiny escort the Special Agent down to Tater?

  I’ll wait up here with the Vice President, along with your sister and

  C.J.”

  “Can’t I go too. Pa?” requested Miriam.

  “I can show them the exact spot where I saw the spook lights.”

  “I suppose it won’t hurt any,” Amos replied.

  “Just don’t get yourselves captured by whatever the hell is out there.”

  Satan accompanied them down into the hollow. It was a difficult hike. There was no trail of any sort to follow, and the footing was treacherous. Overhanging limbs slowed their progress, and at one point Vince stepped into a spiderweb and needed Miriam’s help to pick the sticky web off his back and shoulders.

  Even though there was a good hour of summer sun left in the day, dusk came early to Freeman Hollow. A steep ridge to the west had already swallowed the sun, yet the heat and humidity persisted. Vince’s clothes were thoroughly soaked, and his shoulder still ached from the SATCOM unit, which he had left behind with the Vice President.

  To a chorus of crickets and cicadas, they reached the hollow’s floor. Thorn bushes and thick scrub replaced the oaks and cedars.

  The very air here was thick and heavy, and even Satan appeared to miss the fresh breezes that had accompanied them on the ridgeline. At a crossroads of sorts, the dog was having difficulty choosing between two faint trails, so Junior revealed which of these paths he’d like them to follow.

  “We’ll take the one on the left. It’ll bring us to the overlook where Pa got his first glimpse of the UFO.”

  “The other trail is the one leading to the swamp lights,” said Miriam.

  “If there’s a secret base out here, that’s where we’ll find it.”

  Her brother stubbornly shook his head.

  “I disagree, Sis. The overlook offers the best view of Tater. It should also provide us with easy access to the base of the hill, where the installation is most likely positioned.”

  “Then why are the swamp lights on the other side?” protested Miriam.

  “I say we check them out before heading to the overlook.”

  Vince sensed a serious deadlock, and he offered a compromise.

  “Miriam, why don’t I go with you to the place where you saw the lights? Then we can meet up with your brother at the overlook and compare notes.”

  The siblings accepted these terms, and Vince followed Miriam and Satan up the trail to the right. They cautiously picked their way through a briar patch, then began a short downhill climb into a stunted pine forest. The setting sun was all but blotted out from the sky, with mist beginning to form at the base of the twisted pine trunks. It was eerily quiet, a single owl hooting mournfully in the distance.

  Satan stuck close to Miriam’s side, and Vince couldn’t shake the sensation that they were being watched. It was easy to see how an overactive imagination could play tricks with one’s head in such a place. He could readily conjure up the spirits of the Osage Indians who had once lived in these parts. What he wasn’t prepared for, though, was the green-faced men who suddenly materialized out of the mist, capturing them so quickly that even Satan wasn’t able to let out a single yelp.

  Chapter 32

  Friday, July 2, C.D.T.

  Stinking-Pond Hollow Mark Twain National Forest

  “I know this place,” said Ranger Glickman as the trail they had been following led into a small clearing.

  “A family of poachers named Stoddard have been living here without Forest Service authorization. Our law enforcement officer thought they had moved on.”

  “Well, obviously someone’s been living here,” said Ted Callahan, in reference to the wash that still hung from a clothesline, and the checkerboard that lay on the porch of the crude, one room cabin.

  “Do the Stoddards have any militia ties?” Thomas questioned.

  “Or could they be part of a local movement against a Federal presence in these parts?”

  “I can’t answer the first question. Special Agent Kellogg,” said Glickman.

  “Though I believe that the family patriarch, Amos Stoddard, could very well harbor a legitimate resentment against the Federal government. If I remember correctly, his father owned quite a bit of riverfront property near Greer Springs. That land was absorbed by the Forest Service against the family’s wishes. Like many others who lost their property at that time, they griped that the price paid was substantially below the fair market value.”

  Behind them, the Sappers and the MPs were busy sweeping the campsite for any clues. Captain Christian’s men reported the discovery of several fresh deer carcasses in a nearby cave. An assortment of beaver, opossum, and mink pelts were also found there, along with several barrels of what appeared to be moonshine.

  Sergeant Reed’s Sappers were responsible for uncovering the most promising evidence — a set of fresh footprints, headed to the southeast. Ranger Glickman pulled out a detailed topographic map of the area, highlighted their current location, and drew an imaginary line to the southeast.

  “It appears that they’re most likely headed into the Irish Wilderness,” she said.

  “Could they have another campsite in there?” Ted Callahan queried.

  “The entire wilderness is set aside as a minimal-use area,” she answered.

  “There are no roads or habitations of any sort. In fact, the only real facility remaining down there is a long-abandoned underground shelter, originally designed by the Strategic Air Command to offer survivable command and control in the event of a nuclear war.”

  This unexpected revelation caught Thomas by complete surprise, and he pointed toward the map
and asked, “And where is this shelter located?”

  Glickman turned the map so Thomas could see her point to the Irish Wilderness; then, when her finger reached the feature labeled Freeman Hollow, she said, “Buried beneath one of the most inaccessible spots of the entire wilderness.”

  Chapter 33

  Friday, July 2,

  Beneath Freeman Hollow

  “Skipper, the trespassers have been locked up in detention.

  Should I begin the interrogation?”

  Thusly called from his deep, meditative trance, Dick Mariano responded to this request from the shadows of his darkened study, his powerful voice but a hoarse whisper.

  “I’ll handle it myself, Richy. I need you out on the perimeter with Doc.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Alone once again, Mariano completed another series of deep breaths, then closed his session with a silent prayer. He would need divine guidance to see him through the next couple of hours, a period of time that could very well be the most important in American history.

  As he stood up from the rattan mat on which he had been seated, Mariano stretched his solid, muscular, six-foot frame. The blood rushed into his numbed limbs, and the ponytailed veteran attacked the shadows with a lightning-quick series of complex karate blows. This physical activity served to awaken him completely, and he stopped briefly at the adjoining head to relieve himself and wash up.

  The reflection staring back at him from the bathroom mirror was that of a stranger. The full salt-and-pepper beard that covered most of his face was less than a month old. He hadn’t worn his hair this long in years, and it felt odd lying against the middle of his back.

  Of course, there could be no mistaking his rather large, flat nose, which had been broken too many times to set properly.

  Familiar dark brown eyes stared back at him beneath thick, bushy brows, and even though his grandmother had warned of bad luck, he allowed them to merge at the bridge of his nose. His late wife. Carmen, had always said that he reminded her of a muscular version of Charles Manson whenever he let his hair and beard grow. How very ironic it was to favor a mass murderer, when in reality he was only putting on yet another disguise for his occupation as a paid, government hit man.