Nightwatch

by Richard P. Henrick

  The sound of venting ballast indicated that this order was in the process of being implemented, and Kram attempted one last, desperate plea.

  “We’re not at war, Terence. You can’t launch!”

  “Then how do you explain the explosion that sounded outside our hull?” countered Lockwood.

  “And what in the hell has happened to the Polk? For all we know, your command could have been taken out by that Russian bastard, and he could just be waiting to do the same to us the moment we open our missile hatches.”

  “Please, Terence, I’m begging you, as one officer to another.

  Break the protocol, and ask your weapons officer to check the targeting coordinates. Do that for me, and I swear to you that I’ll rest my case.”

  The surging roar of venting ballast was briefly overridden by a renting, scraping noise, caused by the now-lightened Trident lifting off its stationary perch on the continental shelf. The hull rolled, and Lockwood reached out to steady himself on the side of the nearest missile launch tube.

  “Damn it, Kram,” he said, more in frustration than in anger.

  “Here you go and compromise our alert security by barging in like this, and then you expect me to ignore a properly formatted EAM from the Chairman, who’s a former boomer skipper himself.”

  “I realize your dilemma, Terence. Just verify those targeting coordinates, please. If I’m wrong, fire away. But if Spencer is right…”

  “Damn it,” repeated Lockwood before once more addressing the handset.

  “Weps, this is the Captain. Key up the EAM and pull the targeting coordinates out of Yankee Hotel. And yes, I realize it’s a violation of the protocol, but I’ll take personal responsibility for breaching it.”

  Kram’s relief was cut short by the amplified voice of the Rhode Island’s sonar operator.

  “Captain, we’ve got an unidentified submerged contact. Bearing one-one-five, range fifty-five hundred yards. Classify Sierra One, possible hostile submarine.”

  “Man battle stations torpedo!” ordered Lockwood over the 1MC.

  The alarm sounded, and Lockwood beckoned his security team to lower their weapons.

  “Commander Gilbert, as long as you promise that your SEALs will behave, I see no further need for keeping those weapons trained on them. Hell, if it turns out that there’s a Russian sub out there waiting to turn us into fish food, we’ll share the same fate regardless. And, Kram, how about accompanying me to the missile control room? It’s time to put this matter to rest once and for all.”

  Kram gave Doug Gilbert and his SEALs a hopeful thumbsup, then readily went with Lockwood into the adjoining compartment.

  As they entered, the Rhode Island’s weapons officer glanced up from his button-filled console, an expression of pure bewilderment on his smooth-shaven face.

  “Sir, you’re not gonna believe it, but that coordinate analysis shows that Trident number one is being targeted on the airspace off Georgia, while number twenty-four’s three MIRV’d warheads are being directed on what appears to be the south-central portion of the state of Missouri. Sir, my family lives in nearby Arkansas, and I’d like to know, why have we been ordered to launch three 150-kiloton nuclear warheads on the Ozarks?”

  With astounded eyes, Lockwood scanned the display screen to verify this information, and only then did he look up to meet Benjamin Kram’s resolute stare.

  “Good Lord, Ben, what in hell does Trent Warner think he’s doing up there?”

  Lockwood proceeded to terminate the launch, and immediately afterward, the report arrived from Sonar that made Kram’s long day complete.

  “Captain, we have a positive ID on Sierra One. It’s the Polk, sir, and the Jimmy It’s riding shotgun off our starboard beam, just where they’re supposed to be.”

  Chapter 56

  Saturday, July 3, 0457 Zulu

  Nightwatch 676

  Both Coach and Lucky found themselves pinned to their seats, unable to pull Nightwatch out of its uncontrolled descent. They were falling now at over fifteen thousand feet per minute, with the airframe and wings subject to five times the force of gravity, more than twice the aircraft’s original design limit. The E-4B had already lost large portions of its horizontal stabilizer, along with sections of the outboard elevator and all of its HP antennas, and had even had the auxiliary power unit sucked out of the wildly vibrating tail.

  The terror took on an added dimension when Nightwatch actually flipped onto its back, rolled over, and began a horrifying, disorientating spiral dive. It was all Coach could do to catch sight of the rapidly dropping altimeter, and as they passed the eleven thousand-foot mark, he realized they would plunge into the Atlantic in less than forty seconds.

  The plane shuddered violently, and he breathlessly listened as yet another alarm began chiming, followed by the panic-filled voice of Lucky.

  “The landing-gear latches have failed, and I show that all four bogeys have deployed!”

  Nightwatch had four separate landing-gear bogeys, one on each wing and a pair on the main body. Each of these massive structures had four wheels apiece, and hoping that their activation would provide some additional stability. Coach summoned his last ounce of strength to yank back on his steering yoke. He could hardly believe it when this frantic effort actually managed to pull up the plane’s nose slightly, and with the additional assistance of Lucky, they broke out of the dive and achieved level flight, less than two thousand feet above the pitch-black ocean.

  There were no shouts of celebration as they nursed Nightwatch back into the heavens. The airplane was handling sluggishly, and with alarms still continuing to chime in the background, Coach dared to ask Jake for a preliminary damage-control report.

  “We’re losing hydraulic systems one, three, and four,” he somberly reported.

  “I’m going to try to switch off the air-driven pumps, and depressurize the engine-driven system.”

  Hydraulic pressure was the big jet’s lifeblood, and when the system continued to lose pressure, Jake solemnly added, “Coach, I’m permanently shutting down hydraulic systems one, three, and four, leaving only two operational.”

  “Without one and four available, how are we going to raise the trailing edge flaps?” asked Lucky.

  “We can raise them using the secondary electrical system,” offered Owen Lassiter, who remained tightly buckled in behind the navigator’s console.

  “And the landing gear, gents?” Lucky continued.

  “Speaking of the landing bogeys,” said Jake, scanning the flashing lights of his console, “I hate to be the bearer of additional bad news, but I’m afraid that the two body gears have been ripped off their hinges.”

  Coach turned his head and addressed Jake directly.

  “We certainly don’t need any additional bad news, Lasky, and I hope that’s the end of it.”

  “Actually, sir, it’s not,” said Jake with an uneasy grimace.

  “We’ve also lost our primary and secondary braking systems. But at least we’re still in the air.”

  “I’m very grateful for that fact. Lieutenant,” replied Coach before briefly scanning the faces of the flight deck’s other occupants.

  “And now I have only a single question for each one of you. Where in the world can we possibly land this big lady with half of our landing gear ripped off, a minimum of hydraulic power, severely damaged flying controls, no primary or secondary braking systems, and a crazed group of maniacs in the back who want nothing less than to kill us and overthrow our elected government?”

  Chapter 57

  Saturday July 3, 12:11 a.m. C.D.T.

  Freeman Hollow

  “Tire in the hole!”

  Thomas wasted little time reacting to Sergeant Reed’s warning, and he alertly ducked down behind a shoulder-high, elongated limestone shelf, alongside Ted Callahan, Ranger Glickman, and Captain Christian.

  There was a deafening, gut-wrenching blast as the last of the bangalores detonated. Even though they were a good three hundred ya
rds from the blast itself, debris still peppered off the pockmarked face of the ledge they hid behind.

  “All clear!” yelled Reed, this being all Thomas and the others had to hear to leave their shelter and head toward the blast site.

  As expected, the bangalore had cleared the last of the obstacles leading to the cave — a hastily em placed double-coiled strand of extremely sharp concertina wire, which had been booby trapped with claymores. Sergeant Reed had already picked his way through the breach, and they joined him in front of a section of locked, chain-link fence.

  “And that’s where our trail of footprints is headed,” he told them, pointing to the fence’s far side.

  The oval-shaped entrance of the cave could be seen from here. A protective barrier of iron bars extended from the irregular limestone ceiling to the rock floor. Several feet beyond this barrier, blocking the entrance itself, was a sealed doorway constructed of tempered steel.

  “We can cut through this fence with wire cutters and use plastic explosives to penetrate the bars,” said Reed, who scanned the remaining barrier with his flashlight.

  “That inner vault, though, could be the showstopper. Our best bet appears to be to hit those side hinges with our remaining hundred pounds of C-4.”

  “You know, there’s a secondary entrance to this cave system,” remarked Jody Glickman.

  “It’s on the other side of the hill, and we use it to count the cavern’s population of endangered Indiana bats.”

  “Then you’ve actually seen the abandoned underground command post?” asked Thomas.

  Glickman answered while shaking her head no.

  “The cave system beneath Tater is immense, and my explorations have been limited to the cavern where the main bat population is located.

  But I’m almost sure we’ll be able to access the portion of the cave where the government facility was supposedly situated.”

  “Ranger, me and my MPs would be willing to join you there to learn this fact for certain,” offered Jay Christian.

  “And you can count me in,” Thomas added.

  “I’ll stay here with Sergeant Reed and his Sappers,” said Callahan, who looked at his watch and added an urgent “Let’s do it!”

  Chapter 58

  Saturday, July 3, C.D.T.

  Beneath Freeman Hollow

  “Hell’s fucking bells. Chief. Do you mean to say there’s still no answer to our page?”

  There was fear in the communications specialist’s eyes as he met the intense gaze of Dick Mariano and curtly replied, “That’s affirmative, sir.”

  “That sniveling, ass-licking beaurocrat!” exclaimed Mariano, who allowed himself one last look at the Op Center’s digital clock before venting his anger on the five BDUclad, green-faced commandos standing beside him.

  “It’s another goat fuck, com padres A goddamn, motherfucking goat fuck! You’d think we’d know better than to trust another pencil-dicked politician. But no, we allowed ourselves to be stroked by Admiral Spit and Polish Warner, and swallowed the line of the kingpin bureaucrat of them all — that smooth-talking, sniveling idiot Pierce!”

  “Maybe there’s been some unexpected delay in getting Yankee Hotel implemented. Skipper, and that’s why the warheads have yet to fall,” offered Doc, who had a much better understanding of nature than of the complicated world of man.

  “No, Doc,” said Mariano.

  “I bet Yankee Hotel was nothing but a scam, most probably to light a fire under our asses to track down the VP for them, and now we’re the fucking shills.”

  “I say let’s complete the job we’ve been sent here to do, and kill Chapman,” suggested Richy.

  “We can still access the river, and those faggot Sappers will never know where the hell we disappeared to.”

  Mariano looked at Richy, and nodded supportively. ““Compadre, I believe we’ll do just that. Since it’s obvious we’ve been cut out of the loop, it’s time to cut our losses and run while we still have our dicks.”

  A reverberating explosion sounded in the near distance. Doc looked out into the cavern’s dark recesses and queried hopefully, “Could that be Yankee Hotel?”

  Mariano’s two-way activated, and the frantic voice of their sentry broke from the speaker.

  “It’s the Sappers, Skipper! They’ve breached the outer perimeter, and it looks like they’re coming in!”

  “Damn those pesky gee ks cursed Mariano.

  “Doc, take your boys and see what you can do about denying them further access.

  And, you come with me. It’s time to pay our prisoners a visit, and then get the hell outta this stinking hole.”

  Chapter 59

  Saturday, July 3, 0545 Zulu

  Nightwatch 676

  Trent Warner had been in the forward entry area, at the base of the stairway leading to the flight deck, when Nightwatch unexpectedly fell from the sky and began its harrowing, out-of-control spiral dive into oblivion. He found himself violently flung forward, and a tenuous hold on a secured food-service cart kept him from being thrown to the deck like the others in his party.

  During the terrifying free fall that followed, his entire life seemed to pass before his horrified eyes: those exciting days of his early Navy career, his first submarine ride while only a midshipman, his initial meeting with the legendary Hyman Rickover.

  Then to have sacrificed the best years of his life helping to win the Cold War, only to die with his lifework so close to fruition, was the ultimate tragedy.

  Yet, as if he were a condemned man with a last-minute pardon, destiny had another fate in store for him, which came to pass when Nightwatch miraculously pulled out of its dive and achieved level flight. Warner ignored the spilled food that stained his flight suit; and, ever thankful to still be alive, he made his way back to Operations to assess the damages.

  He found it in shambles. Overturned equipment and fallen personnel lay scattered everywhere, with the compartment itself lit eerily in the dim red emergency lighting.

  The first priority had been to attend to the many injured. A makeshift triage was set up in the aft technical control area. The majority of injuries were cuts and bruises, with several fractures and four concussions, the most severe of which had knocked out their wire operator. Yet there were no fatalities so far, an astounding fact considering the severe damages they had incurred.

  Once the wounded were tended to, it was time to get on with the task of assessing these damages. The Chairman then called a meeting in the conference room, and the first person to report in was Colonel Pritchard.

  The balding Op team leader refused to sit down, preferring instead to deliver his brief standing, with several ceiling panels conspicuously absent above him. After revealing that over half of his team had been injured in some manner, he made it a point to complain that his every effort at contacting the flight deck had been unsuccessful.

  “I’m beginning to think it’s a communications glitch,” he added, a certain nervousness in his voice.

  “And when I sent Maintenance to check it out, they found the fire door sealed shut at the top of the stairway.”

  “Colonel Pritchard,” interrupted the Chairman after briefly meeting his SIOP advisor’s steady glance, “I realize the great concern that you have for your staff, and I’m sure the flight crew will contact us in time. But right now, I desperately need a comprehensive list of all the damages done to our communications systems. Do I still have a workable command post, or must I transfer my responsibilities to the NMCC?”

  Pritchard seemed a bit embarrassed as he answered the Chairman.

  “I’m sorry, sir. For the moment, the only system that’s completely inoperable is our high-frequency radio. I’ve got Sergeant Schuster doing a complete diagnostic on the state of our other equipment, but as long as we can stay in the air, the damages suffered shouldn’t prevent you from carrying out your duties.”

  “Captain Richardson,” said the Chairman to the seated FEMA representative, “does the loss of HF capabi
lity affect your monitoring of the central locator system?”

  “It shouldn’t, sir,” answered the crew-cut Air Force officer.

  “I’ve been routing my priority comms through Milstar. In fact, the latest transmission arrived barely five minutes ago, and indicated that Vice President Chapman’s whereabouts continue to be unknown.”

  The Chairman looked genuinely upset with this news, and he made it a point to scan the faces of all those present while voicing himself.

  “It appears that Andrew Chapman might very well have met the same unfortunate fate as our President. What does the locator say about the next in line. Captain?”

  “Sir,” said Richardson, “the plane carrying the Speaker of the House has safely landed at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, where he’ll be standing by to assume the Presidency should Vice President Chapman be unable to do so.”

  This was the vital news that the Chairman had been waiting for, and he abruptly cut short the briefing, and called aside his SIOP advisor.

  “Major, I find it a bit disturbing that Richardson had nothing to say about any FEMA reports of a nuclear accident in southern Missouri.”

  “Perhaps the news hasn’t reached them as yet,” offered Hewlett.

  The Chairman grunted.

  “Or just maybe Yankee Hotel was never fully implemented. Either way, we must continue on, ever ready to meet every possible contingency.”

  “How do you want to deal with that bunch up on the flight deck?” Hewlett questioned.

  “It’s only too apparent that Pritchard hasn’t figured it out yet, and with them sequestered up there, the possibilities are good that it will remain that way.”

  The Chairman responded in a bare whisper.

  “And that’s the way I want to keep it. From what I understand, short of using an explosive device, the maintenance crew will never be able to budge that fire door from this side of the forward entry area.