Nightwatch

by Richard P. Henrick

  “Red Dog Two, this is Red Dog One. Roger, out.”

  With the conclusion of this brief exchange, silence returned to the ORP. Reed watched a pair of Sappers cache the rucksacks with straps up for quick recovery. Yet another pair of soldiers began preparing demolitions, while the APL went to work crafting Enemy Prisoner of War bindings.

  A sudden rustling sound prompted Reed to turn around in time to see a tall, BDUclad figure break free from the surrounding underbrush.

  “Hey, Reed,” greeted First Sergeant Louis Stewart in a hoarse whisper.

  “Are you carryin’ long cut or mint?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re getting particular in your old age,” Reed answered, pulling out a tin of Kodiak chewing tobacco from his top pocket and handing it to the fifteen-year veteran. Stewart was a fellow observer, who began his career as a tank driver. An incessant moocher, Stewart rarely reciprocated, though Reed could forgive him because of his rotten luck in cards.

  “This humidity’s a bitch,” said Stewart as he tucked a pinch of tobacco behind his lower lip.

  “The twins are up in Rolla playin’ ball tonight, and I sure hope they’re pouring down plenty of Gatorade.”

  “How about getting TOC on the horn and setting up an extra water rendezvous right after the raid?” Reed offered while pulling out his NVGs.

  “Our Sappers are going to be awfully thirsty after expending all that ordnance.”

  Stewart took a sip from his canteen and checked the luminescent dial of his wristwatch.

  “Looks like it’s going to be another late one. This group’s slower than a pig in molasses.”

  “At least they’re thorough and following the handbook,” returned Reed.

  “Besides, what else do you expect from mechanized?”

  Stewart grinned.

  “Sappers might lead the way, but tankers do it in style.”

  “Let’s just make certain that Sapper One doesn’t get too comfortable in this ORP,” Reed advised.

  Stewart spat out a torrent of tobacco juice.

  “Why don’t I check the perimeter and see if we’ve got us any sleepers? See yaup at the raid site, good buddy.”

  With Stewart’s exit. Reed wiped the sweat off his forehead and slipped on his NVGs. The AN/PVS-7D binocular goggles utilized a single passive third-generation image intensifier tube, and when he switched them on, the entire forest was illuminated in a greenish-yellow hue, compliments of amplified starlight. Individual trees and clumps of shrubbery were clearly visible, and as Reed scanned the ORP, he noted the positions of each of the Sappers.

  The APL could be seen huddled beside his RTO. Behind them, their automatic rifleman was attending to his M60 machine gun.

  The squad had only just received a pair of M249 Squad Automatic Weapons. The SAW was designed to replace the venerable M60 in certain units. Both weapons delivered devastating firepower and could engage targets up to eight hundred meters.

  Reed watched Sergeant Stewart make his rounds of the security perimeter. The Sappers there were armed with a variety of M16A2 rifles and M4 carbines with M203 grenade launchers, hopefully providing more than enough firepower for the job at hand.

  The snap of a tree limb caused Reed to turn in the direction of their objective. He readily spotted the R&S team headed back to the ORP. It took his eyes less than two minutes to regain full dark adaptation upon removing his NVGs, and Reed joined the newly returned PL beside his ruck.

  The results of the recon were most promising. As expected, the militia outpost was located on the adjoining ridge. A trio of armed individuals was spotted there, dressed in tiger-striped fatigues and huddled around a small campfire. A pickup truck was parked nearby, with an assortment of wooden crates stacked in its bed. Ever fearful that the weapons cache was about to be moved, the PL ordered his squad to strike with all due haste.

  Sapper One moved out in a file formation, wearing Kevlar helmets and weapons locked and loaded. Their climb was a short one. The flickering campfire highlighted the objective like a klieg light, and Reed accompanied the three-man support element, whose automatic weapons were responsible for securing the right flank.

  They had decided on a linear ambush. It would be a relatively basic assault, with the support element initially attacking the campsite with a volley of machine-gun fire. The assault team would then open fire from the left flank. After the PL signaled the support element to lift or shift fire, the assault team would charge across the kill zone to destroy the remainder of the enemy.

  Reed watched his Sappers take cover behind a rocky berm.

  Once they were in position, a red chemlite was activated to inform the assault team that they were ready to rumble. The assault element answered in kind, and Reed inserted a pair of foam earplugs. No sooner were they in place than a green star cluster flare arced upward into the star-filled heavens, silhouetting their objective in a pulsating emerald glow. And it was then that all hell broke out.

  The support team’s machine guns raked the objective with a deafening barrage that delivered a continuous outburst of fire for a full forty-five seconds. The ambush must have caught the enemy by complete surprise; Reed spotted just a single muzzle flash from the direction of the campfire. This feeble response was all too brief, and by the time a red star cluster signaled the support team to lift fire, no enemy activity was noticeable.

  An exploding smoke grenade veiled the assault team’s charge across the kill zone. Reed left the support team behind at this point and headed for the objective himself.

  He arrived beside the campfire just as the PL was calling for an Ammunition Casualty/ Report. Through the thick white smoke. Reed spotted the bodies of two militiamen lying on their stomachs on the far side of the fire. Neither one of them was moving. Apparently they never had the chance to put their rifles into play.

  He supposed that the sole muzzle flash had originated from the corpse in front of the truck. It too was sprawled out on its stomach, an M4 carbine close by.

  Once the team had determined that there were no friendly casualties,

  the PL called out the EPW search team. All three of the enemy were labeled definite kills, and Reed watched a pair of Sappers prepare to search the body of the militiaman lying beside the truck.

  While one of the Sappers stood guard at the enemy’s head, his buddy kicked aside the M4 and knelt to roll the body over.

  Reed noted the way in which he lay prone on the enemy’s back before proceeding. This technique was used to shield the Sapper should a grenade booby trap be encountered.

  He reached around and grasped the militiaman’s lapels, but without waiting for his co-worker to give him the go-ahead, as he should have, the prone Sapper rolled the body over. And there, to the standing Sapper’s horror, was a single grenade.

  Before the Sapper could brace himself or even curse, the fallen militiaman’s eyes suddenly snapped open and he deadpanned, “Boom!”

  “Damn it. Sapper, you just went and killed your buddy!”

  exclaimed Reed. For in reality, the militiaman was only playacting, and he couldn’t help but smile as Reed then read his trainees the riot act.

  “There’s no use going to all that trouble if you fail to get your Sapper buddy to step aside.

  “Cause where he was standing, that grenade would have cut him in half!”

  Reed pulled a flare gun from his Load Bearing Equipment harness, pointed the blunt muzzle skyward, and launched a white star cluster. It activated with a loud pop, its dazzling light now illuminating the objective like a newly risen sun.

  “Listen up. Sappers!” Reed proclaimed.

  “We just had our first friendly casualty over here, and all because of a soldier’s carelessness.

  I realize that all of you are tired and hungry. But this isn’t the time to go and get sloppy. You did a great job to this point. EPW search teams, mind your technique! And, PL, how about getting your Demo team in place? We’re already running late, and I want that cache blown and us off this
ridge and on our way to the Roubidoux within the next thirty minutes!”

  The flare faded, along with Reed’s anger. He removed a flashlight from his THE and illuminated the body of the fallen militiaman.

  “Nice job, OPFOR,” said Reed.

  “Sorry we had to keep you out here so late.”

  The fallen militiaman, who was a corporal assigned to Leonard Wood’s Military Police detachment, stiffly got to his knees and stood.

  “Not to worry. First Sergeant. Next time you’ve got to let me and my boys try a little flanking action.”

  Sergeant Stewart emerged from the trees, his own flashlight in hand, and addressed the MP.

  “Hey, Corporal, you carryin’ any long cut?”

  “My old lady made me give up the habit, Sarge. Care for any M&M’s?”

  Stewart grimaced and looked to his fellow Sapper instructor for salvation. Without a word spoken. Reed tossed Stewart his can of Kodiak, while the voice of the PL boomed out behind them.

  “Demo team’s up!”

  The plan was to detonate a five-pound block of C-4 to simulate the destruction of the weapons cache. Since blowing things up was one of the things that every combat engineer did best, Reed was content to let Louis Stewart grade their efforts. He watched while the three members of the OPFOR began extinguishing the campfire, and pulled out his two-way to contact operations. Yet before he could activate it, his attention was drawn to the woods, where five heavily camouflaged men were in the process of emerging from the tree line. Each of these armed individuals wore ghillie suits, specially designed fatigues covered with strips of brown and green cloth and favored by snipers.

  Reed’s first confused thought was. Who ordered the additional OPFOR? But if that were the case, why would two of them be sporting long ponytails, with an associate bedecked in a full beard?

  For the first time since being assigned as a Sapper Leader course instructor, Sam Reed wished he had a weapon with real bullets in it.

  Chapter 2

  Friday, July 2, 1311 Zulu

  Simferopol International Airport Crimean Peninsula

  The first of a flight of two U.S. Air Force C-17 cargo aircraft landed on the main runway with the barest of jolts. There was a deep, growling roar as its thrust reversers were activated, and the stubby, high-winged, T-tailed jet ground to a halt using less than a third of the runway’s ten-thousand-foot-long expanse.

  Instead of continuing on to the main terminal, the C-17 followed a pair of black Zil police sedans to an isolated apron. Here, beside an immense hangar guarded by dozens of armed soldiers, the Air Mobility Command airplane braked to a final halt and shut down its four Pratt & Whitney engines.

  A side hatch, positioned immediately behind the cockpit, cracked open and a pair of airmen in green flight suits deployed a self-contained stairway. While one of the Zil sedans pulled up to these stairs, a tall, solidly built black man wearing a superbly tailored pinstriped suit made his appearance in the hatchway.

  Samuel Forrest Morrison II had experienced enough flying for one day. Since leaving Andrews eleven hours ago, the Special Agent in Charge of the President’s Secret Service detail had been confined to the C-17’s noisy hold. Except for a single trip to the cockpit to witness one of the two aerial refuelings that they had undergone, this had been the extent of his wanderings, and he couldn’t wait to get some fresh air and properly stretch his long legs.

  It was only too obvious that summer had arrived in Ukraine, and the hot, humid air outside reminded Morrison of the weather he had just left behind in Washington, D.C. Towering, dark gray cumulus clouds dominated the western horizon, and it appeared that it was only a matter of time before the heavens would open up. The SAIC hoped this shower would hold off until his preparations here were complete, and he glanced down at his watch, noting that he had a little less than two hours before Air Force One arrived.

  A short, balding figure dressed in a dark brown suit exited the Zil. It had been nine months since Morrison had last worked with Alexi Kosygin, co-head of the Russian President’s security staff. A former Spetsnaz commando, Kosygin was a likable, efficient chap, and the SAIC knew that he was very fortunate to have drawn his services.

  “Special Agent Morrison,” greeted Kosygin in passable English.

  “Let me be the first to welcome you to the Rodina.”

  The SAIC replied after climbing down the stairway and accepting a firm hug and a kiss on each cheek.

  “It’s good to see you again. Comrade.”

  “I do hope that your flight went well,” said Kosygin, his glance drawn to the C-17’s tail as its rear loading ramp began opening.

  “I understand that your Boeing C-17 is a most amazing plane.”

  Morrison nodded.

  “They’re something special, all right, though not quite up to Air Force One’s standards when it comes down to the creature comforts. If we have the time, I’m certain that the flight crew would be happy to give you a tour.”

  The deep growl of whining jet engines caused both men to look over at the adjoining runway, where the second C-17 had just touched down. It too stopped well short of the runway’s end, prompting the Russian to shake his head in admiration.

  “That bird’s carrying the limos and our communications van,” revealed the SAIC.

  “We had to fight the temptation to load all of our seven vehicles into one aircraft.”

  “Why take the chance of carrying all your eggs in one basket when you have the luxury of a backup?” Kosygin mused.

  As the newly arrived C-17 headed toward them, a large group of clean-cut men and women dressed in black fatigues climbed down the rear cargo ramp of Morrison’s aircraft. They carried black, padded weapons bags at their sides, and the SAIC identified them as members of his Secret Service Counter Assault Team.

  While the first of three black Chevrolet Suburbans was driven down the C-17’s ramp, Morrison and Kosygin walked over to the nearby hangar, where an operations room had been set up. Waiting for them inside the cavernous structure was Nikolai Zinoviev, security chief of Ukraine’s National Police Force. A pencil-thin skeleton of a man, Zinoviev wore a baggy gray suit that hung limply on his gangly frame. Morrison had previously worked with him on a counterfeiting case, and remembered well the skinny Ukrainian’s piercing blue eyes and bushy handlebar mustache.

  He also couldn’t forget the man’s excellent British-accented English, and his utter embarrassment when Morrison’s investigation had revealed the lead counterfeiter to be a senior policeman on Zinoviev’s own stuff.

  After a rather unenthusiastic greeting, Zinoviev escorted them into a vacant conference room. Not bothering to offer any refreshments, he walked over to a display board and pulled back the white sheet that had been draped over it. This revealed a detailed topographic map covering the southern half of the Crimean Peninsula.

  “The primary motorcade route that we decided upon remains unchanged,” said Zinoviev while using his bony index finger to point out a roadway that was highlighted in red and stretched from Simferopol Airport southeast to the Black Sea coast.

  “Our public-works personnel worked tirelessly these last few weeks, and I’m proud to report that the road project has been successfully completed. The President of the United States shall have a freshly paved, two-lane highway for his exclusive use, as his motorcade initiates the nineteen-and-a-half-kilometer drive to our President’s dacha outside Alushta.”

  For the past month, Morrison had extensively studied this same route, and even though he knew it almost as well as the way from his home in Chevy Chase to the White House, he approached the map and questioned, “What about the new bridge over the Salgir River? As of three days ago, my survey team indicated that the span was still incomplete.”

  “It’s apparent you haven’t spoken with them since,” said Zinoviev, trying his best not to boast.

  “Regardless of the unseasonable late-spring rains, and the worst flooding in a century, your President shall have nothing but ne
w pavement to travel upon during his drive to the coast.”

  Morrison had yet to contact his pre placed security forces for a final update, and ever hopeful that he now had one less potential problem area to worry about, the SAIC addressed his Russian colleague.

  “Alexi, I don’t suppose that your boss has gone and altered his travel plans any.”

  “The old man’s at sea even as we speak,” answered Kosygin.

  “He left Odessa at daybreak, and at last report, his destroyer was passing Yalta. I can only thank my lucky stars that I wasn’t picked to accompany him. After what we went through last fall aboard the QE2. I plan to make good my promise never to sail a body of water bigger than my bathtub.”

  Morrison issued forth a laugh that would have done James Earl Jones proud.

  “Tell me about it, my friend. I think I would have gone and retired if they had decided to hold this secret negotiating session at sea. I never was a good sailor to begin with, and now I get seasick just driving over the Potomac!”

  Zinoviev loudly cleared his throat and once more pointed to the map.

  “I have two hundred of my best men patrolling the roadway. Our Army has over twice that many soldiers spread out in the forest and hills surrounding the highway. I must admit that, for efficiency’s sake, I wish we could have better coordinated their efforts with the numerous Secret Service Counter Assault Teams that are presently covering these same areas.”

  “Your concerns have already been noted,” said Morrison with a grunt.

  “Our policy has always been to do our work independent of local law enforcement agencies, including our operations inside the United States.”

  Alexi Kosygin looked at Morrison and nodded.

  “I’m afraid that not even the Ukraine National Police Force is going to be able to change official U.S. Secret Service policy. Comrade Zinoviev.

  Now, since our time is extremely limited, I suggest we go over the exact composition of the motorcade.”

  “I was just about to get to that,” said Zinoviev with a hint of resentment. The skinny Ukrainian flipped over the map, revealing a hand-drawn diagram displaying a long column of vehicles.