Nightwatch

by Richard P. Henrick

  Major Foard and his cohorts will surely keep it sealed until we’re on the ground, and that’s when we must strike, to wipe out the entire lot of them before they share their suspicions with the others.”

  “I’ve got it!” proclaimed Owen Lassiter, who tightly grasped one of the dozens of FAA landing-facility charts he had been anxiously sorting through.

  “How does a halogen-lit, fifteen-thousand foot-long, three-hundred-foot-wide, reinforced concrete runway, with a thousand-foot soft-soil concrete overrun sound?”

  From the adjoining upper-deck rest area, Brittany and Red couldn’t help but overhear Lassiter’s promising news, and they poked their heads into the cockpit just as Coach was in the process of replying.

  “Owen, if we’re going to have any chance of getting this baby safely on terra firma, that’s just the kind of facility we’ll need.

  So where in the hell is this dream of a runway?”

  “It’s the Shuttle Landing Facility at Cape Canaveral,” Lassiter excitedly replied.

  “And at our current speed, we can be there in just under two hours.”

  Chapter 60

  Saturday, July 3, 1:01 a.m. C.D.T.

  Beneath Freeman Hollow

  The cave entrance that Jody Glickman led them to was little more than a narrow fracture in the face of a huge limestone bluff. The MPs had to take off their equipment in order to squeeze their way through, and Thomas was the last member of the eleven person party to crawl inside the tight opening. He found himself hunching over to keep from hitting his head on the low rock ceiling, and needed to use his redlensed flashlight to illuminate a long, downward-sloping tunnel that the others were already traversing.

  He picked up his pace so that he wouldn’t be left behind, and noted that the air temperature was dropping quickly, and was a good twenty degrees lower than that of the hot summer night outside. It almost felt as if he had just stepped into an air-conditioned room, the temperature continuing to drop as the tunnel opened up into a large cavern. There was a bitter, musty scent to the air here, and Thomas joined their U.S. Forest Service guide and Jay Christian at the head of the column.

  “See those brownish-white splotches that cover the ground?”

  said Glickman while scanning the cavern’s interior with her red tinted flashlight.

  “That’s bat guano. And those small, rust-colored objects that are hanging from the ceiling are none other than the critters who make this cavern their home.”

  “I thought bats feed at night,” Christian remarked.

  “They do,” replied the naturalist.

  “Those little fellows up there are the young, old, or sickly, and you’d definitely know the difference when the entire colony is present.”

  The soothing, hollow sound of dripping water could be heard nearby, and Thomas searched the cavern’s dark recesses with his flashlight.

  “How much further is that underground river?” he asked.

  “It’s a half kilometer at the most,” answered Glickman.

  “And just wait until you see the magnificent chamber that we have to pass through to reach it. It alone is worth the trip.”

  Ted Callahan had experienced his fair share of explosions in his lifetime, but nothing could compare with the simultaneous detonation of a hundred pounds of C-4. The very earth below seemed to shake, and even with ear protection and his eyes closed, the flash penetrated his eyelids, and his ears still rung from the deafening roar.

  Though there had been some initial doubt whether the blast would be sufficient to penetrate the tempered steel hinges of the inner vault, when Ted finally gathered the nerve to leave cover, he found the entrance to the cave wide open. Sergeant Reed wasted little time gathering together his Sappers, and they entered in a tight line formation, with Callahan second from the rear.

  Because of the complete lack of ambient light, their NVGs were all but useless. Red-tinted flashlights illuminated their way, and Callahan made certain to keep close on the heels of his Sapper buddy in front of him.

  For the first one hundred and fifty yards or so, they followed a good-sized tunnel. Its limestone walls appeared to have been bored out by machine. The ceiling had a good eight feet of clearance, and one could easily drive a large vehicle along the tunnel’s smooth rock floor.

  Ever on the lookout for any trip wires or toe poppers, they reached the end of the tunnel without incident. Before transiting the bend of a blind curve. Reed ordered them to form an assault train. This tightly knit formation would allow them to move forward like a single entity, and was a technique that was utilized in the MOUT environment.

  From his position near the end of the train, Callahan readied his weapon, a Colt M4 carbine, with an M203 grenade launcher attached beneath the barrel. Because he hadn’t seen real combat since the Persian Gulf War, and then only on a very limited scale, the mere act of chambering a live round and flicking off the safety caused his pulse to quicken.

  It was only too obvious that their enemy was an experienced one, armed with weapons stolen from Uncle Sam’s very own arsenal. Since the Vice President was most likely in its custody, they couldn’t go in with guns blazing, and had to proceed with the utmost caution — ever ready to defend themselves, but always on the lookout for a potential hostage situation.

  Callahan was in the midst of a series of deep, calming breaths when the assault train began moving forward with quick, shuffling steps. He adjusted his footsteps accordingly, the soles of his combat boots slapping against the limestone pavement in exact cadence with his fellow soldiers.

  He was so close to the Sapper in front of him that he could actually smell his sweat, the reflective white cat eyes on the back of his BDU cap practically touching Callahan’s forehead. They were moving quickly now, and as they snaked around the bend, two of the Sappers in front of the train peeled off to sweep the blackened shadows with the barrels of their M16s. The train kept moving onward without them, with the next two point men peeling off at the next bend.

  It was as they were in the process of rounding the next blind curve that their progress was abruptly halted by the ear-shattering blast of a stun grenade. This was followed by a deafening volley of exploding rifle rounds, which sent Callahan diving to the ground for cover.

  “Sappers, return fire!” ordered Sergeant Reed.

  Ted Callahan needed no more prompting to train his carbine’s barrel toward the tunnel up ahead and begin squeezing off rounds. The now nine-man Sapper squad did likewise, and together they poured a devastating curtain of lead into the black void where the ambush had originated.

  “Sounds like Doc and his boys are havin’ one hoot of a time out there,” said Dick Mariano, referring to the almost constant outpouring of gunfire that could be clearly heard in the distance.

  “Doesn’t the sound of an M16 on full automatic bring back fond memories. Sergeant Spit and Polish?”

  From his position standing inside the detention cell, Vince Kellogg didn’t bother dignifying this remark with a reply; his thoughts were focused on the source of these unexpected gunshots.

  Beside him, Andrew Chapman was having similar thoughts, with any hopes of a last-minute rescue dashed when Mariano pulled out a .45 Colt pistol from his waistband and pointed it at them.

  “How very frustrating it must be for the two of you,” said Mariano as he racked the pistol’s slide and chambered a fresh round.

  “To have to die with your rescuers practically knocking on your cell’s door. But such are the ironies of war, compadres

  From the rear of the cell. Junior howled out in renewed pain, oblivious to the administrations of his father and sister. This anguished cry served to further infuriate Tiny, who charged the cell’s iron bars and hollered:

  “You might be a big man out there with that gun, but I know that without it, you’re nothing but a spineless coward!”

  “Such a brave man,” Mariano said, “yet one without any capacity for learning.” He displayed a remarkable lack of emotion as he pointed
the pistol at Tiny and squeezed off a single round.

  The bullet penetrated Tiny’s left thigh, and he collapsed onto the floor, blood gushing from the wound in such copious amounts that both Amos and Miriam abandoned their patient to rush to his side.

  “That should keep the big hick’s mouth shut,” said Mariano, who smirked and pointed the gun at Andrew Chapman.

  “I feel generous, Kellogg. You make the call. A shot to the head, or one to the heart?”

  “Damn it, Mariano! This isn’t war, it’s an execution!”

  Renewed gunfire sounded in the distance, and before the bearded ex-SEAL could respond to Vince’s outburst, Richy entered the tunnel at a full run.

  “Skipper,” he managed to say between heaving breaths, “we’ve got us a major incursion. It’s a full squad at least, and Doc’s been hit, along with Traveler and Old Dog.”

  “So the gates are wide open, and here comes the cavalry,” calmly observed Mariano. He readjusted the aim of his pistol to target Vince before returning the barrel to the VP.

  “It would be a shame to waste a bullet on you two now, especially with help so near.”

  Richy was utterly confused by this comment, and he urgently expressed himself.

  “Tap ‘em, Skipper, and we can still make the river before the others reach us!”

  Mariano appeared to ignore his associate’s suggestion, and instead pulled a key out of the pocket of his black pajamas. He proceeded to unlock the cell door, then beckoned for Vince and Andrew Chapman to join them outside.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doin’. Skipper?”

  quizzed Richy.

  Mariano answered while roughly grabbing the VP from behind and shoving his pistol into Chapman’s neck.

  “Richy, you don’t get paid to think, remember? Now, be so good as to escort Sergeant Spit and Polish here, and we’ll take off for the river, along with the ultimate insurance policy.”

  Chapter 61

  Saturday, July 3, 0615 Zulu

  Nightwatch 676

  Owen Lassiter was the first to notice that Coach had nodded off behind the controls. The backup pilot tapped Lucky on the left shoulder and beckoned toward the sleeping officer.

  “Hey, Coach,” said Lucky firmly.

  Foard’s eyes snapped open, and Lucky discreetly added, “Why don’t you let Major Lassiter spell you and take five?”

  “I’m doing just fine. Lucky,” protested Coach with a partial yawn.

  Lucky couldn’t fail to spot the uncharacteristic dark pouches beneath the senior pilot’s eyes, and he remarked in his most diplomatic manner, “We’re gonna need you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for that approach into Canaveral, sir.”

  “Quit being so stubborn, and listen to Captain Davis, Major,” Lassiter interjected.

  “You’re way overdue for a break, and I can handle things here while you freshen up for the landing.”

  Coach stifled yet another yawn, and realized they were right. He unbuckled his harness, scooted out of his command chair, and stood behind the flight engineer console as Lassiter took his place.

  “How’s it look, Jake?” he asked their engineer while stretching his cramped limbs.

  Jake pointed to the gauge of hydraulic pressure system number two.

  “So far, so good, sir. Pressure’s holding just above the critical range. Ever land an E-4B without a primary or secondary braking system?”

  “Who has?” returned Coach, then scanned the console’s various displays and grunted.

  “I’ll make you a deal. Lieutenant. You give me one good hydraulic system all the way to Florida, and I’ll buy the tickets to Disneyworld.”

  “You’re on’ responded Jake before sealing the bargain with a handshake.

  Coach left the cockpit, and as he entered the upper-deck rest area, he spotted Brittany in the galley, making a fresh pot of coffee.

  “That’s just what the doctor ordered,” he greeted her with a tired smile.

  “Be forewarned that it’s brewed Navy style,” returned Brittany.

  “With two parts coffee to every one of water.”

  “Pour on,” Coach instructed.

  He initiated a series of stretching exercises while the coffee brewed. He then accepted a mug from Brittany, and joined her in the adjoining booth.

  “How are you holding up. Commander?” he asked after taking a tentative sip of the piping-hot brew.

  The cabin roughly vibrated, and Brittany held back her reply until the shaking ceased.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m scared, confused, and stressed out to the max.”

  “Don’t feel alone,” said Coach sincerely.

  Again the cabin rattled, this time so violently that the pilot’s coffee spilled over his mug’s ceramic rim.

  “How much longer can this plane hold together?” asked Brittany, her voice strained on the edge of full panic.

  Coach reached out and supportively grasped her hand.

  “Hang in there, my friend. The Boeing 747 is the greatest aircraft ever built, and this one’s no different. They’re designed to take a remarkable amount of punishment, with the human component more prone to failure than the mechanical systems.”

  Brittany managed a brave smile, and she squeezed his palm, then pulled her hand free and picked up her coffee mug.

  “Speaking of the human component,” she said between sips, “what do you think the Chairman’s up to, and why hasn’t he tried to retake the flight deck?”

  “Right now, I’d say he’s busy getting the comm systems back on line, and consolidating his forces. It’s not in his best interest to interfere with our operations up here. Admiral Warner might be a political deviant, but he’s no fool. He knows that this airplane has taken a beating, and my best guess is that he won’t try to pay us another visit until we’re on the ground.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, not again!” protested Red from the aft portion of the compartment.

  Both Coach and Brittany turned around to see what was bothering her, and they watched as Red tore off her headset and stood.

  “What’s the matter. Sergeant? Having more transmission problems?” Coach questioned.

  Red walked over to their booth to explain the reason for her frustration.

  “I’m getting a clear line out, all right, sir. But the problem lies with the party I’m trying to reach. After querying Lord only knows how many directory assistance operators, I finally got the number to the Shuttle Landing Facility. And would you believe, all I get is an answering machine saying that when there are no shuttle flights in progress, the tower closes at ten p.m. and won’t reopen until eight in the morning.”

  “Can we land without those runway lights?” Brittany asked.

  Coach momentarily ignored this question and addressed Red instead.

  “Sergeant, try getting hold of the Air Force range control center at the Cape. They’re surely manned around the clock, and we’ll rely on our boys in blue to get those NASA folks out of bed and have that shuttle runway lit up for us.

  “Cause we’re gonna need all the help we can get, and then some.”

  Chapter 62

  Saturday, July 3, 4:23 a.m. C.D.T.

  Beneath Freeman Hollow

  Shortly after they left the cavern holding the bats, Thomas began having serious second doubts about their rather rash decision to follow Ranger Glickman. A narrow rock ledge conveyed them deeper into the deathly quiet underground realm. It was a steep, twisting, circuitous route, made all the more treacherous because of the slick rock they were forced to tread upon.

  They were using up valuable time, with no guarantee that their efforts would succeed in locating a back entrance to the government facility. Thomas wondered how Ted Callahan and the Sappers were progressing. Surely their explosives had breached the main entryway by now, and they must be well on their way into the cavern themselves.

  Thomas took yet another look at the luminescent dial of his wristwatch, and decided to wait until half past the h
our before calling a halt to reconsider their options. They were currently transiting a narrow tunnel that was covered with several inches of water. He had to be careful not to hit his head on the projecting rock, and twice he almost fell after losing his footing on a slick spot.

  The black expanse seemed to go on forever, and he was somewhat surprised when it suddenly opened up into a larger room. They halted here on an elevated overlook, and their escort used her flashlight to illuminate the interior of an immense cavern, easily three times the size of the one holding the bats.

  With his own flashlight Thomas surveyed the hundreds of crystalline stalactites that hung from the cathedral-like ceiling.

  Many of these dagger-shaped formations extended for a good fifty feet, until they almost touched the pointed stalagmites that had formed on the spacious floor.

  Altogether, it was an awe-inspiring sight, and had a certain reverence to it. For this was an alien, subterranean world, the likes of which Thomas had never experienced before.

  “How much further is the river?” asked Captain Christian, the muffled roar of cascading water clearly audible in the distance.

  “We only need to climb down to the floor of the cavern, and then we should see it,” answered their guide, who added somewhat hesitantly, “please remember that this is as far as I’ve ever explored this system. My colleagues are the ones who kept on going at this point, and it’s their reports of a decent trail along the river that I’m relying on.”

  Thomas looked at his watch again, then shared his thoughts with the senior MP.

  “Captain, I don’t know about you, but I’m beginning to wonder if this route is in fact going to lead us to our goal.”

  Christian raised his compass and orientated it toward the river.

  “If the stream’s course runs true, that’s the general direction where we left Colonel Callahan and the Sappers.”

  “And hopefully, the facility will be somewhere in between,” added Jody Glickman.

  Thomas readjusted the fit of the nylon holster that was clipped to his web belt. Then he somewhat reluctantly signaled the ranger to lead on.