Nightwatch

by Richard P. Henrick

  Dr. Charles Kromer was the current doctor on duty. The SAIC knew that he was substituting for Jim Patton, who had asked for this time off to attend the wedding of his son Ricky to Kristin Liu.

  As a lightning bolt streaked across the cloud-filled Crimean sky, the SAIC found himself thinking about Ricky, Kristin, and another storm, by the name of Hurricane Marti. The so-called “summit at sea” aboard the QE2 seemed to have taken place in another lifetime. Yet in reality, ten months had passed since that tragic crossing, which had cost many a good man his life, and almost precipitated World War

  III.

  “Checkmate One, this is Checkmate Two. Over.” Special Agent Moreno’s voice broke over Morrison’s two-way.

  “Go ahead. Checkmate Two,” said the SAIC into his twoway’s transmitter.

  “Sir,” Moreno replied, the sound of muffled voices audible in the background.

  “The Press Secretary is having trouble getting a secure line to CONUS.”

  “Can’t she wait until we get to Alushta?” Morrison queried.

  “That’s a negative, sir,” answered Moreno, a single, agitated voice now dominating the background conversation.

  Morrison identified it as belonging to the President, and knowing the most likely reason for his anger, the SAIC shook his head and grinned.

  “Checkmate Two, contact the comm van and have them patch the Secretary’s call through Nightwatch.

  After all, that’s what our flying telephone booth in the sky is up there for.”

  Moreno acknowledged these instructions, and the SAIC lowered his two-way. The rain-soaked outskirts of Simferopol passed in a blur, and Morrison’s seatmate voiced himself in Slavic-accented English.

  “Do I perceive troubles inside the Presidential limo. Comrade?” questioned Alexi Kosygin.

  “I was expecting this,” Morrison said with a grunt.

  “Two Putt is most likely still fuming about that possible press leak to an NPR reporter, and the poor Secretary is trying her best to attempt damage control. I’m afraid, though, that she’s too late. That cock and-bull story they’re trying to pass off on the public will never hold up. There are just too many people in the loop whenever the President travels, and a leak is to be anticipated.”

  “Comrade, you never did say how you were going to explain Air Force One’s presence at Simferopol Airport. Even though the aircraft is far away from the main terminal, enough of the local ground personnel have seen it to create a tidal wave of rumors.”

  “A story was to be circulated saying that the airplane was carrying the President’s National Security Advisor, with the President supposedly sequestered in Camp David.”

  “And the reason for this deception?” Kosygin dared to ask.

  “This is just between us, Alexi, but the spin I’m hearing is that Two Putt put this whole thing together so he could surprise the nation with a July Fourth announcement. At that time, he planned to reveal that the Global Zero Nuclear Alert Treaty had been finalized, and after Senate radification, the world would be one step closer to the banning of all nuclear weapons from the face of the planet.”

  The Russian shook his head and grinned.

  “I must admit that his timing for such an announcement would be perfect. What a wonderful gift for the American people on their day of national celebration — to be finally independent from the threat of an accidental or unwanted nuclear war.”

  The Suburban shuddered as it struck a pothole, prompting Morrison to steady himself on the back of the front seat.

  “So much for the smooth pavement that Comrade Zinoviev promised,” he said as the vehicle bounced roughly over a deep rut.

  The waves of rain momentarily dissipated, allowing him to see the glowing red taillights and huge rear tires of the armored personnel carrier that they were following. The BTR-60 had a 14.5mm machine gun on its roof, with a helmeted soldier manning the turret. The poor fellow was soaked, and Morrison wondered if they could rely on him, or the fourteen-person SWAT team inside, should they run into any unexpected trouble.

  Just as they were leaving the outskirts of the city behind, the SAIC spotted a column of tanks up ahead. The massive tracked vehicles were lined up on a side street, and as Morrison scanned the column with binoculars, his seatmate identified them.

  “Those are T-72 main battle tanks, most likely from Ukraine’s elite Kirov Guard unit.”

  “Zinoviev never mentioned anything about having a Guard unit in the area,” said Morrison, his amplified glance locked on the long, tapering gun barrel of the lead vehicle.

  “And our scouting teams certainly didn’t report seeing any tanks in the vicinity.”

  “Perhaps we should contact Zinoviev in his police sedan and find out the reason for their presence,” offered Kosygin.

  Chapter 7

  Friday, July 2, 9;10 a.m. C.D.T.

  The view from the canoe’s bow was a spectacular one. Vince plunged his wooden paddle into the cool, clear water, his gaze scanning the thick, wooded hills that surrounded this portion of the river valley. Not a hint of human habitation was visible, the land alive with gnarled oaks, towering cottonwoods, and flowering shrubs displaying a rainbow of vibrant color. Since leaving Greer Crossing, they were able to adjust to their new medium of travel on a relatively calm stretch of water. They had yet to encounter their first rapids, and the float-trip neophytes in their midst took this opportunity to get their balance and learn how best to paddle.

  Because of the VP’s desire to keep this expedition as small as possible, they had decided to limit the canoe convoy to four vessels.

  From his vantage point, Vince could see the muscular shoulders of Andrew Montgomery Chapman, seated in the bow of the lead canoe, approximately twenty yards ahead. The VP was wearing a white Harvard polo shirt and khaki shorts, and wasn’t afraid to use his paddle to assist Senior Ranger Ben Eberly, who was perched in the stern.

  Ron Wyatt was occupying the back end of Vince’s vessel. The Forest Service veteran was obviously an expert canoeist, his paddle strokes strong and powerful, and Vince tried his best to keep pace.

  The two trailing canoes carried the majority of their camping gear, and were reserved for such emergency functions as communications and first aid. In addition to three Secret Service agents and the VP’s Navy physician, they also carried the only true civilian in their midst. Andy Whitworth was a freelance photojournalist representing the major wire services and Time magazine. She was smart, tough, and incredibly persistent, Vince having worked with her before when she was assigned to cover the White House.

  Andy had already made her presence felt back at Greer Crossing, when she practically took over the impromptu news conference that the inexperienced news anchor from Springfield had initially started. Vince was close by as the VP agreed to give the television crew a brief interview. It rapidly deteriorated into a potentially ugly confrontation between Chapman and the foulmouthed old lady wearing the “Give the Eleven Point Back to the People!” sweatshirt.

  Sensing blood in the water, Andy constantly provoked the oldtimer. With miniature tape machine running and 35mm camera constantly clicking away, Andy challenged the woman to defend her antigovernment position. Emotions all too soon got the best of the hotheaded elder, and her irrational diatribes were easily countered by the VP’s practiced eloquence. A former captain of the Harvard debating team. Chapman made intellectual mincemeat out of his senile opponent’s groundless accusations and paranoid rantings, while she countered by increasing the volume of her voice and the foulness of her rather limited vocabulary.

  Things started to get ugly when the locals in the crowd began voicing their support of the old lady with shouts of encouragement.

  Vince sensed trouble, and pushing the reporters aside, he intervened to immediately stop the interview before things turned violent.

  Now that they were out on the river, Vince knew he had definitely made the right decision. Though the VP was far ahead on debating points, he was in the middle of an ar
gument that he could never hope to win, especially when it came down to a few cleverly selected sound bites on the evening news. Besides, they had traveled to the Missouri Ozarks to enjoy nature and celebrate its preservation, and the gorgeous countryside they were presently passing through would hopefully remind Andy Whitworth of that fact.

  “We’ll be hitting our first rapids shortly, on the other side of that bend up yonder,” revealed Ron Wyatt in a relaxed, southern Missouri drawl.

  “Is it anything to batten down the hatches for?” Vince asked, his eyes sweeping the horizon to gauge the distance to this bend, which was formed by the river hitting a lofty limestone bluff.

  “As I said before. Special Agent, this section of the river is fairly tame. Other than an occasional root clump or partially submerged boulder, we shouldn’t run into anything dangerous until we hit the Class Three rapids at Mary Deckard shoals.”

  Vince estimated that they wouldn’t reach the bend for another five minutes, and he looked to his left, where the Eleven Point branched off into what appeared to be an alternative channel.

  A good portion of the forest there was cut down, prompting him to query, “What’s down there in that clearing?”

  “That’s Ross Cemetery. There used to be a small settlement in that hollow. In fact, Norma, the old lady the Vice President was arguing with, was born there, some eighty years ago.”

  “It’s hard to believe that people used to live and work on this river,” said Vince, his gaze drawn to a red-tailed hawk taking flight from the direction of the cemetery.

  “The Eleven Point’s just filled with history. Special Agent.

  And you workin’ for Treasury and all should find it ‘specially interesting why the folks from Ross called that channel Counterfeit Cove.”

  “Don’t tell me Norma used to print funny money?” Vince asked with a chuckle.

  Wyatt held back his response until he spat out a mouthful of tobacco juice.

  “It was nothin’ like that. Back in the twenties, a group of counterfeiters on the run from the law dumped their printing presses and plates into the deep water there. And legend has it that they’re still on the bottom of the cove to this day.”

  “Sounds like it warrants a further investigation by the Secret Service,” jested Vince, who could barely hear the sound of crashing water in the distance.

  With each paddle stroke, the limestone bluff ahead grew larger, until Vince could practically touch the moss hanging from its steep walls. Several twisted red cedars clung to the rock above, with a family of cliff swallows visible nesting on the limestone ledge close by. The air temperature seemed to suddenly drop several degrees when the canoe was swallowed in the bluff’s shadow. At the same time, the crashing sound of agitated water intensified, and Vince got his first view of the obstacle responsible for it.

  A massive, partially submerged rock shelf projected from the bottom of the bluff, with white water forming on its exposed surface as the Eleven Point crashed directly into it. A shallow shoal on the opposite bank caused the river to further narrow, the frothing current given additional velocity by a barely recognizable drop in elevation.

  Vince watched the Vice President’s canoe surge forward in a sudden burst of unexpected speed, and he found his own pulse quickening. They appeared to be headed straight for the shelf, with Andrew Chapman paddling away, seemingly oblivious of any danger.

  Professional habit took over, and Vince hastily plotted the manner in which he’d initiate a rescue should the VP’s canoe capsize. Though he shuddered at the thought of having to dive into the churning water, he knew that if push came to shove, he’d plunge into the river regardless of any danger to his own person. Protecting the life of Andrew Montgomery Chapman being priority number one.

  Less than ten yards from the shelf. Ranger Eberly used his paddle like a rudder to cause the bow of the VP’s canoe to move hard aport. With plenty of deep water beneath it, the vessel shot past the bluff like an F-15 on afterburners. And the last Vince saw of Andrew Chapman, before he was forced to concentrate on their own transit of the rapids, was the VP’s triumphant fist held high overhead.

  “Do you want me to paddle?” screamed Vince, the partially submerged shelf looming menacingly before them.

  “Why waste the effort?” Wyatt replied.

  “Hang on, enjoy the ride, and when I give the word, paddle like hell from the right side.”

  Vince did as ordered, and couldn’t help but find himself invigorated by their own transit of the rapids. His guide displayed superb timing as he dug his paddle into the churning water on the canoe’s starboard and angled the blade outward. With a single shout of “Now!” Vince began paddling, and before he knew it, the shelf was past them.

  It was on a calm pool on the far side of the bluff that they rendezvoused with the Vice President, to await the other vessels.

  Andrew Chapman was using binoculars to scan the bluff’s craggy summit, and Vince peered out in this direction himself.

  “See anything interesting, sir?” he questioned.

  “What do you think. Special Agent Kellogg?” said Chapman without lowering his binoculars.

  “Are they up there? I sure don’t see any sign of them.”

  “Sir, if you’re referring to one of my CAT team, they’re up on that bluff, all right, as well as every other piece of high ground we’ll be passing today. I’d only be disappointed if you did in fact spot them.”

  Chapman redirected his binoculars to study a pair of large birds circling high above. Vince easily saw these same soaring creatures himself, and he listened as the Vice President identified them.

  “Damn, those turkey vultures are tough-looking brutes! That big one’s got a mug that would put Speaker of the House Pierce to shame.”

  Vince laughed, and watched as the VP lowered his binoculars and turned to observe the progress of the other canoes.

  “I don’t know about you, Kellogg, but this place makes me feel one hundred percent alive. Lord, it’s good to finally get out from inside the Beltway. You know, there is life outside D.C.” regardless of what they think on the Hill.”

  A single quail began crying out from the underbrush nearby, its distinctive “bobwhite” call clearly audible. When another quail answered from the adjoining bank, Vince shook his head in agreement.

  “I think I know what you’re saying, sir. My pastoral excursions of late have been limited to the backyard of my house in Alexandria. There’s nothing like getting out in a real wilderness area to properly feel the pulse of our planet, and to realize how artificial life can be in the city.”

  “Well said, Kellogg. I’m glad you were able to join my team.”

  Both of them watched as the canoe carrying Andy Whitworth safely transited the rapids. The journalist celebrated by holding her paddle above her head, and Chapman grunted.

  “Part of me wishes they would have capsized, and she would have lost that infernal tape recorder and camera of hers,” he offered.

  “I realize it’s important for the American people to get a documented report of the progress we’re making out here. But having her around is a corrupting influence. I’m sure you saw the way she was riling up the crowd back at Greer Crossing.

  Though it’s simply the nature of the beast at work, she would have thought nothing of instigating a riot, which leads me to believe that Two Putt had something to do with getting her this assignment.”

  Vince held his tongue as the canoe carrying the photojournalist made a beeline for them.

  “That was wonderful!” exclaimed Worthington, a wide smile on her pinched face.

  “Mr. Vice President, I’m beginning to see what you find so special on these wilderness jaunts of yours.”

  For a hopeful moment, both Vince and the VP thought she was actually sincere. But then she pulled out her camera, and while snapping shots of the rapids from this angle, she offhandedly questioned Chapman.

  “Mr. Vice President, is it true that the real reason behind this float trip
is the President’s desire to get you out of the political spotlight at this particular time?” She redirected the aim of her camera to record his reaction and added, “It’s well known to all of us covering the White House that the President was upset with your candid remarks regarding the Global Zero Alert Treaty. Since he’s obviously negotiating this treaty without you, do you believe the President is fearful that you’re in a position to gain more politically if the treaty is to be presented to Congress so close to the upcoming election?”

  Andrew Chapman demonstrated remarkable restraint as he answered her.

  “Ms. Worthington, I am not going to answer any of your questions regarding my relationship with the President.

  Furthermore, I insist that your story remain focused on this gorgeous river we’re privileged to float, and the manner in which our government desires to preserve this great national treasure for generations of Americans to come. If you wanted something different, you should have stayed in Washington!”

  The cocksure reporter looked hurt as she lowered her camera, and Vince fought the urge to give the VP a high five. Because of the nature of his work, it was imperative that he remained neutral and detached when it came to political intrigues or the inner motives of pushy journalists. His concerns were of a totally different nature.

  As they continued with their float trip, Vince found himself scanning the dense wood line and lush valleys for any signs of his co-workers. The Secret Service had assigned twenty-eight agents to cover the five-mile route that they’d be floating. Most of them were working in two-man teams, concentrating their efforts on the high ground and public-access points.

  To augment this rather limited force, the U.S. Forest Service, the Missouri Highway Patrol, and the Oregon County Sheriff’s Department were assisting them. Vince had only to activate his two-way to make contact with the nearest land-based team. A network of Forest Service repeater towers allowed for secure communications the entire length of the river they would be traveling.

  For additional backup. Marine Two and a Secret Service Blackhawk helicopter were on standby at the Winona Ranger Station. If needed, a heavily armed, airborne assault force could be there to assist them within minutes.