Nightwatch

by Richard P. Henrick

  “It’s our nukes that have kept us free for the last five decades!”

  His associates voiced their support with a spirited round of applause, shouts, and whistles. Gilbert turned around to face them, and only then noted Kram’s presence in the back of the room.

  “Pipe down, ladies!” Gilbert ordered.

  “Captain’s here, and we certainly don’t want him to think we’re holding a damn political rally.”

  “I’ve got to admit that you’d get my vote,” said Kram, who had to wait for another raucous chorus of applause to die down before adding, “I thought you’d like to know that it was the Rhode Island’s receipt of an Emergency Action Message that led to the cancellation of our exercise. Captain Lockwood hopes to reschedule the transfer, which could take place as soon as later this afternoon.”

  “An Emergency Action Message,” repeated the SEAL team

  XO.

  “To hell with that Global Zero Alert Treaty. Maybe we’re at war!”

  “Commander Gilbert, sir,” the team’s meteorologist dared to interject.

  “If we can’t complete the exercise today, does that mean we won’t be home as planned for July Fourth?”

  “Well, excuse me. Chief Murray,” returned the senior SEAL with an inflection that would have made Jackie Gleason proud.

  “Did you hear that, ladies? Mr. Sunshine is worried about missing fireworks with his old lady. Hell’s bells. Chief. If you wanted holidays with the family, you should have joined the fucking Air Force!”

  Chapter 19

  Friday, July 2, C.D.T.

  Stinking Pond Hollow Mark Twain National Forest

  Vince estimated that they had been traveling for a good hour since their initial capture. They had been immediately blindfolded, hog-tied around the waist, and led on foot like a dog on a leash through the thick forest. After they’d been ordered not to talk, the mysterious trio who had captured them became eerily quiet too. All Vince could hear from that group was an occasional grunt or swear word, the heavy sound of breathing, and the thud of footsteps, rustling leaves, and snapping twigs underfoot.

  The route they were following led away from the river. There didn’t appear to be a developed path, and shortly after the roar of the rapids faded, they began their way up a steep incline.

  Vince tried his best to remain orientated, and he initiated a rough pace count, presuming they were headed in a northerly direction. The heat and humidity were intense. His clothes were soaked in sweat, his mouth bone-dry. Because of the tight blindfold, he was the victim of numerous painful encounters with projecting limbs. Thorns tore into his sunburned skin, and several times he was forced to a halt after colliding with a sapling, boulder, or root clump. No sooner did he regain his footing than he’d feel a rough jerk on the rope that was tied around his waist.

  This rope was also connected to Andrew Chapman, who followed several feet behind.

  At first Vince toyed with the idea of directly challenging the trio and asking for mercy. Yet he was unable to forget their forceful order for silence, and he decided instead to hold his tongue for the moment. One good thing was that they hadn’t immediately executed them. He supposed they were in league with the personnel aboard the black Huey, and that both Vince and the Vice President were going to be held hostage. In such situations, discretion was most often the best policy, and Vince could only hope that they’d eventually get a chance to plead their case with the ringleader of this mysterious group.

  With this hope in mind, Vince tried his best to remain as calm as possible. He would need a level head to talk their way out of this fix, and he attempted to soothe his anxieties by focusing on the soothing sounds and scents of the encircling forest.

  He could hear the warm wind blowing through the thick, leaf filled boughs above, and the creaking of swaying limbs. The hum of cicadas was ever-present and all-powerful, with buzzing insects and singing birds adding their voices to this pastoral symphony.

  The clean, moist scent of the woods was the fragrance of life itself. It was in vast contrast to the sour odor exuding from the men who had captured them. They could use a good wash, stinking as they did of sweat, tobacco, and red meat. Back in Vietnam, Vince had learned that such a distinctive smell would often give away an American soldier long before he was seen or heard. That was one of the primary reasons the Green Berets had adopted a native diet whenever possible.

  Knowing full well that he’d have to tap many of the lessons learned in combat in order to persevere in this situation, Vince was forced to a sudden halt by a tug on the rope behind him, accompanied by the loud rustling of underbrush and a frustrated curse from the lips of Andrew Chapman.

  “For God’s sake, I’m caught up in a damned thorn bush! Will somebody help me?” pleaded the VP.

  “Shut your trap, Bubba, and quit whining!” ordered one of the hostage takers from the back of the line.

  “If you’d just hold still a sec, I’ll cut you loose.”

  Vince fought the urge to share an encouraging word with the VP, and he listened to the distinctive click of a folding knife being snapped open, followed by the sounds of limbs being sawed. Fifteen anxious seconds later, a rough pull on the rope around his waist signaled Vince that it was time to continue moving forward once again.

  It took fifty-seven more painful paces to complete their climb.

  This put them on a relatively flat ridge, which they followed to the east for another sixty paces before heading down into a steep ravine.

  A barking dog greeted them as they reached the bottom of the hollow. The heavy scent of smoke was in the air, and Vince knew they were approaching a campsite of some sort upon hearing a barely audible, static-filled version of Rush Limbaugh’s radio show.

  An earthen path conveyed them up a short rise and into the wide mouth of a cave. The air temperature noticeably dropped, and Vince dared to shorten his stride and bend over, ever fearful of striking his head on a projecting obstacle.

  As he heard the hollow sound of dripping water nearby, the overpowering stench of putrid, rotting flesh enveloped him. The air temperature further plunged, and Vince had the distinct impression that they had just stepped into a subterranean meat locker of some sort.

  “Sit, wait, and keep your big traps shut!” directed one of their escorts.

  They did as ordered, seating themselves on a cool, moist shelf of rock, that one of their captors led them to. Vince began shivering, and he fought back the urge to wretch, so powerful was the scent of death that continued to fill the air here.

  A good ten minutes passed before the echoes of a barking dog signaled the arrival of a newcomer. This individual announced his presence with a loud, commanding voice, which was initially directed at his snarling canine companion.

  “Satan, shut the fuck up!”

  “Look what we pulled outta the river. Pa,” said one of the hostage takers with obvious pride.

  “I can’t see much of anything. Junior, with those damn blindfolds covering their faces. Remove the dang things.”

  There was a blinding cone of white light as Vince’s blindfold was yanked off, and he found himself staring into the beam of a powerful flashlight. He could see only the outlines of a group of men standing before him and the VP, though he was able to confirm that they were indeed deep in a cave. Stalactites hung from the jagged roof, and Vince soon tracked down the source of the putrid stench — a pair of partially butchered deer carcasses hanging from a nearby crossbeam.

  Out of the corner of his eye Vince could see Andrew Chapman, perched on the ledge behind him. Except for a nasty cut on his cheek, the VP appeared to be in one piece, and Vince expressed his relief with a long sigh.

  “Junior, you son of a bitch!” shouted the booming voice of the newcomer, who was more astonished than angry.

  “Do you realize who that is?”

  “Ain’t it two Feds, Pa?”

  “That’s just not any Fed, boy. That’s fucking Andrew Chapman, the Vice President.”


  Vince squinted in a vain effort to see beyond the blinding light, and he noted that the beam had begun shaking wildly.

  “C.J.” I told you there was something’ special about these two!”

  “That you did. Junior,” replied a hoarse, high-pitched voice.

  “Well, Amos,” said another voice, this one deep and resonant, “you always did say that if you ever met this goddamn tree hugger face-to-face, you’d put a bullet through his head.”

  The crisp, metallic sound of a rifle bolt chambering a round was heard, followed once more by the individual with the deep, resonant voice.

  “Here’s my thirty-thirty, old man. Fire away!”

  Chapter 20

  Friday, July 2,

  U.S. Forest Service Office WInona, Missouri

  They had been in the air a little less than thirty minutes when Thomas noted a sudden change in pitch of the Chinook’s twin 2,850hp engines. The throaty roar deepened, and he anxiously peered outside the helicopter’s forward hatchway. Since leaving Fort Leonard Wood behind, they had been flying over a seemingly solid expanse of rolling, tree-filled hills. This forest was still visible outside, and as the Chinook began to lose altitude, Thomas spotted a portion of a two-lane roadway down below, and the first of several single-story structures belonging to the small Ozark town of Winona.

  Thomas looked to his right, and flashed Ted Callahan a thumbsup. Both of them were now dressed in BDUs, and except for a lack of unit insignias, they were attired identically to the eighteen soldiers who sat alongside them on the nylon-webbed bench.

  Rucksacks, rifles, and other equipment were stored further aft, near the Chinook’s rear ramp. The giant twin-rotored helicopter could easily handle twice their number, and Thomas knew they were fortunate that this Wisconsin National Guard platform had been in the middle of summer exercises at Leonard Wood when their alert came down.

  He felt his body pulled forward and to the right as the Chinook began a steeply banked turn. A fenced-in compound could be seen below, with an American flag flying alongside the largest structure, a one-story wooden building with a gabled forest green roof.

  “I sure hope there’s enough room down there for this big lady,” shouted Ted Callahan, who had to practically scream to be heard over the clattering engines.

  They descended rapidly but touched down with barely a jolt on an open portion of driveway in the compound’s rear. With rotors grinding away unabated, the rear ramp was lowered, and Thomas followed Ted Callahan, Captain Jay Christian, and Sergeant Sam Reed outside onto the asphalt parking lot.

  A group of Forest Service personnel waved them over to the nearest structure. Here they were greeted by a pert brunette, decked out in a light green U.S. Forest Service blouse and brown slacks.

  “Hi, I’m Jody Glickman, the district naturalist, and I’ll be your guide down the Eleven Point. How many are in your party?”

  “There are twenty of us,” replied Ted Callahan, who went on to introduce his associates.

  “I’m afraid I was only able to get five jet boats down to the Greer access site,” she added.

  “I don’t suppose we’d be able to squeeze a couple more inside your helicopter.”

  “Ranger Glickman,” said Sam Reed, “we could probably fit a full dozen of ‘em inside that monster and still have room to stretch our legs.”

  “Then we’ll pull a couple of boats off our lot and take them with us,” she offered.

  “Per General Atwater, the river downstream from Greer remains closed to the public. And by the way, we still haven’t heard from the members of our team who were sent along to accompany the Vice President’s party.”

  “Any luck getting your communications back. Ranger?”

  asked Jay Christian.

  Glickman somberly shook her head.

  “The entire grid’s still down, and from the reports that are starting to come in, it looks like someone went and intentionally destroyed our network of repeater towers.”

  Thomas looked at Ted Callahan. With this shocking revelation, their Search and Rescue mission suddenly took on an additional sense of urgency.

  Chapter 21

  Friday, July 2, 2141 Zulu Nightwatch 676

  “Stable. Ready. Contact!”

  Brittany anxiously listened to Lucky relay this all-important status update from the cockpit’s jump seat. She couldn’t believe how calmly it was delivered, considering there was a Boeing KC135R aircraft directly in front of them, speeds matched perfectly at nearly 450 mph, its underside so close that she could actually see the face of the tanker’s wing boom operator staring down at them. This individual was responsible for “flying” the refueling boom, which extended from the tanker’s aft belly, and whose tip just penetrated Nightwatch through the slipway doors, located directly above the cockpit.

  “We’ve got fuel flow,” observed Jake Lasky.

  “Commander Cooper,” said Coach, while tightly gripping the yoke and trying his best to keep them flying in tandem with the tanker.

  “See that series of three lights on the 135’s belly? The blue one means ready, green indicates contact, and the orange light behind it will illuminate the moment we have a disconnect.”

  “What’s the purpose of those red and blue lights farther up on the fuselage?” she asked.

  “The row on the left is for elevation, and the one on the right is for telescoping,” Coach explained.

  “They’re used during the initial approach, with red telling me where to position my nose, and blue directing our fore and aft movement.”

  “It looks incredibly difficult,” she commented.

  “How do you keep from colliding?”

  Coach made a lightning-quick adjustment to the yoke before answering.

  “It’s a game of patience, honed by hundreds of hours of practice. The secret to the approach is all in the glide path and a steady tanker platform. Then, once contact has been made, you learn how to gauge the amount of sky showing between the trailing edges of the tanker’s wings, and to force one’s eyes back and forth between engines to keep them lined up properly, using the tanker as your Altitude Direction Indicator, or ADI.”

  Though Brittany had experienced other aerial refuelings, never before had she had such an incredible vantage point. The mere thought of these two immense aircraft a mere stone’s throw away from each other, mated in this manner to download thousands of gallons of volatile JP-8 fuel, was mind-boggling. Of course, she couldn’t fail to note the tenser-than-normal atmosphere that prevailed inside the cockpit during this entire sequence.

  This was dangerous, complicated work, requiring every ounce of skill that both aircrews could muster.

  “Commander Cooper, I have that chart of our tentative flight plan,” said the navigator from his station behind her.

  Brittany swiveled around and glanced at the chart, while the navigator highlighted the way points.

  “As you can see, our refueling is taking place here, twenty-three thousand feet above the northern Adriatic. We’ll continue on a westerly heading, crossing over Italy, the Swiss Alps, central France, and then begin our great circle route over the Atlantic to Andrews.”

  “We’ve got us a flasher!” cried Lucky.

  Brittany hurriedly turned around to see what the copilot was referring to, and her glance was immediately drawn to the underside of the tanker, and the window where the boom operator was positioned. His illuminated face had been replaced by a sign, drawn in Day-Glow paint. It read:

  plz call wife! 810-558-8214.

  927 ARW WILL BE HOME ON 41H!

  “They don’t call us the flying telephone booth for nothing,” Lucky reflected.

  “I doubt if Admiral Warner would appreciate any personal calls, especially with all that’s been coming down these last couple of hours,” said Brittany.

  “Speaking of the devil,” said Coach, after making the barest of adjustments to the throttle with his gloved right hand.

  “Scut-tie butt has it that the good Chairman t
raded a few choice words with the CG aboard TACAMO.”

  Brittany shook her head.

  “The gossip on this plane is worse than on a ship.”

  “Then it’s true?” Coach persisted.

  She chose the words of her response with the utmost care.

  “From what I heard, it seems Admiral Warner and his counterpart on TACAMO had a little procedural disagreement. It supposedly involves a certain EAM that TACAMO transmitted during their run with the football.”

  Before anyone could respond to this news, the cockpit vibrated and there was a sudden rolling motion.

  “Nightwatch six-seven-six, breakaway! Breakaway!” the firm voice of the tanker’s boom operator screamed over the intercom.

  With this warning, the floor seemed to drop out beneath them as the giant Boeing 747 plunged like a rock to the bottom of the air-refueling altitude block. Brittany found herself grabbing onto the edges of her jump seat while experiencing the first hint of airsickness.

  “That’s flying for you,” Coach managed to remark, the steering yoke firm in his grasp.

  “Hours of boredom, interrupted by moments of sheer terror!”

  Chapter 22

  Friday, July 2,

  Stinking Pond Hollow Mark Twain National Forest

  After the longest ten seconds of his life passed and a rifle was yet to be fired, Vince knew that now was the time for him to intercede.

  “In the name of God, please don’t do anything that you’ll be sorry for later on!” he pleaded.

  “Mister, I’d rather you kept the Lord outta this,” replied the man who had answered to the name of Amos.

  “Amos, you’re nothin’ but a pussy,” remarked the deep, resonant voice of his associate.