Nightwatch

by Richard P. Henrick

  “So you were hanging out with the likes of him,” he said, his vehement hatred of the Vice President most obvious.

  “I’m working for the Secret Service now, Lewis, and for the most part, it was my team that you managed to slaughter.”

  Miriam arrived with some water, and Marvin took a drink and began coughing violently. Vince waited for this spell to pass before continuing.

  “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what did you hope to prove with this act of cold-blooded murder?”

  Marvin redirected his gaze back to Vince.

  “I call it fulfilling my sworn duty to God and country. I see that you’re still part of the problem, Kellogg. If I remember correctly, you always were the type of gung-ho soldier who truly believed in the legitimacy of your orders. I was privileged to learn otherwise.

  “It’s no different today, and I’m proud of the movement I serve. Your boss and the administration he represents are the real enemies, Kellogg. They’re in the process of selling us out, with the Union at risk like never before.”

  Marvin hesitated for a moment to catch his breath, then said, “It’s not too late to join us, Kellogg. But don’t tarry, for the time to act is now. Someday the patriots gathered beneath Freeman shall be likened to Washington’s men at Valley Forge. Though this time our mortal enemy stands elected amongst us.”

  Marvin pointed directly at Andrew Chapman, and tapping his last reservoir of strength, he struggled to sit up, all the while reaching out toward the astounded VP with his outstretched arm.

  “Damn you!” he cursed, his voice quivering with rage.

  “Because of you, the greatest nation ever to grace God’s good earth shall be no more!”

  Another coughing fit possessed him, and before Vince could assist him, blood started to flow from his nose and mouth.

  “Eternal vigilance is the price of our freedom!” he managed, before his body began convulsing in the first throes of death.

  It took several minutes for him to die, and it was Vince who shut his eyelids for the final time.

  “What in the world was he talking about?” asked Andrew Chapman, clearly traumatized by this confusing encounter.

  “It appears that someone else is aware of your traitorous ways,” observed Amos.

  “Because now it looks like you have stolen not only our land, but the rest of the nation along with it.”

  “Cut the crap!” Chapman protested.

  “There’s no damned conspiracy!”

  “I don’t suppose any of you can explain what Marvin was referring to when he mentioned the patriots gathered beneath Freeman?” Vince questioned, ignoring the VP’s outburst.

  “Is Freeman a local landmark of some sort?”

  “Freeman Hollow is located just south of here, in the heart of the Irish Wilderness,” Miriam told him.

  “The Tater Hill swamp lights!” exclaimed Junior.

  “Pa, that’s where you saw the UFO.”

  Amos shut his son up with a single menacing stare. The damage already done, Amos looked at Vince and explained what Junior was talking about.

  “We suspected that the black helicopters could be operating out of Freeman Hollow for some time now.”

  Vince sensed the legitimacy of this revelation, and he tried his best to voice himself with sincerity.

  “I realize that I’m asking a lot, but if you can just take me to this hollow, I’ll do my best to determine if a clandestine military group is really operating out there.”

  “And if there is?” asked Amos, his tone noticeably softening.

  “Then you’ve got my word that I’ll do everything within my power to halt its operation, and after exposing it to the authorities of your choice, I’ll be right there to wipe it out,” promised Vince, who sensed that a deal was already in the making.

  ” Iron man One General Spencer, we’re receiving flash traffic from Cheyenne Mountain.”

  Lowell Spencer received this intercom page while stealing a spare moment to eat a pasta salad in the crew’s rest area, immediately behind TACAMO’s flight deck. He pushed away the partially consumed meal, scooted out from the fold-down table, and headed aft into the next compartment, where his five-person battle staff was stationed.

  Spencer’s vacant console occupied the forward right-hand position. His SIOP and Air Launch Control System advisors were already seated beside it, with his team chief, senior NCO, and Airborne Communications Officer positioned on the other side of the compartment. As Spencer buckled himself into his padded command chair and put on his headset, his ACO addressed him.

  “Sir, NORAD reports a confirmed missile launch from the Russian ICBM base in Tyuratam.”

  Spencer hastily read the data that began filling his display screen. It was a copy of the original warning order that was broadcast from NORAD’s missile-warning center, situated beneath Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. The data indicated that approximately ninety seconds ago, the sensors of a Code 647 Defense Support Program satellite known as DSP East had picked up the hot plume of a single ICBM leaving the lower atmosphere.

  If this missile was armed with a nuclear warhead and headed for the continental United States, it could reach its target in less than thirty minutes, and Spencer reacted accordingly.

  “Major Childless,” he said to his SIOP advisor, “what do we know about the launch site?”

  “It’s an active ICBM field, sir, that reportedly houses thirty six long-range SS-18s and a dozen SS-11s.”

  “I don’t suppose the Russians announced any pre scheduled missile tests for today?” continued Spencer.

  Childress alertly answered, “That’s a negative, sir.”

  Lowell Spencer was a thirty-year Air Force veteran who had begun his career flying B-52s for Curtis LeMay’s Strategic Air Command. An active participant in the Cold War, he had shared in many similar alerts, though none with circumstances quite like this one.

  “Considering that this is indeed a belligerent launch. Major, why only a single missile?” Spencer asked.

  Childress thought for a moment before responding.

  “I’d say that it’s all part of a carefully orchestrated counterforce strike, sir. Since they’ve already eliminated our Commanderin-Chief, and attempted to take out our Trident alert platform, all they’d need to do is hit us with a high-altitude nuclear burst to create enough Electro-Magnetic Pulse to negate our command and control ability.”

  “General,” interrupted the ACO.

  “NORAD reports that the Russian ICBM has completed its post-boost phase and is initiating a polar trajectory.”

  “That gives us twenty-five minutes at best to respond, sir,” Major Childress reminded him.

  “I advise sending an immediate EAM to the Rhode Island, and ordering our strategic forces to DEFCON Two.”

  “Unfortunately, that decision is not ours to make. Major,” said Spencer.

  “It’s time to contact Nightwatch. They’ve got the ball, and it’s our esteemed Chairman who’s going to be calling the plays.”

  Night Watch 676

  It was Red who fielded the urgent call from Iron Man One. News of the Russian missile launch had already reached Nightwatch, and the Chairman readily listened to General Spencer’s somber assessment of the situation.

  “I agree wholeheartedly, Lowell,” said Warner into a handset.

  “Under the circumstances, it’s only prudent to change our alert status to DEFCON Two. Though for the life of me, I still can’t believe this is really a legitimate Russian attack. You also have my permission to convey an EAM to the Rhode Island. If we are forced to retaliate, that should give Captain Lockwood enough time to wrap up repairs and spin up his missiles.”

  There could be no mistaking the solemn expression that graced Wamer’s face when he hung up the phone and addressed Red.

  “Sergeant, get Colonel Pritchard and Commander Cooper down here on the double, and have them meet me at the emergency action safe. And where the hell is that secure line to General Zhukov that
I asked for?”

  Barely a minute after General Spencer had completed his conversation with Nightwatch, TACAMO prepared to contact the Rhode Island. From the state-of-the-art glass cockpit, the flight crew got a clear view of the sparkling waters of the Atlantic below. No surface vessels of any sort were visible, the platform they were tasked to communicate with lying deep below the ocean’s surface.

  “Orbit entry checklist complete,” said the pilot into his chin mike.

  “Okay, Reels, you have access.”

  “Roger,” answered the reel operator from his console at the rear of the aircraft.

  “Short wire’s on its way.”

  In order for their radio signal to penetrate the ocean depths, a pair of thin wire antennas had to be extended from TACAMO’s belly. The short wire extended five thousand feet from the tail, and over two hundred thousand watts were needed to power it.

  “Long wire’s on its way,” the reel operator next reported.

  This antenna was over twenty-five thousand feet long, and was pulled from a huge spool that was stored just aft of the reel operator’s position. It formed a giant dipole with the shorter “hot” wire, and produced the actual VLF waveform.

  “Both wires are out and parked,” reported the reel operator.

  “Flight, you have access.”

  “Roger,” acknowledged the pilot, who guided the aircraft into a steeply banked, racetrack orbit, so that the drogue-stabilized long wire would point toward the ocean’s surface.

  “It’s all yours, Comm,” he added into his chin mike.

  “Roger; bring up the Power Amplifier,” instructed the AGO from his V-shaped console located aft of Spencer’s battle-staff compartment.

  “pa’s coming up,” the flight technician reported.

  “Full power, two hundred.”

  “Roger. Send it!” ordered the AGO.

  U.S.S. Rhode Island

  “Conn, Radio. We’re receiving flash traffic. Emergency Action Message! Recommend Alert One!”

  Captain Terence McNeil Lockwood listened to this excited intercom page from his command position inside the submarine’s control room. He had only just returned from Sonar, where most of the damage from their recent collision was confined, and upon hearing this dreaded announcement, he raced toward the radio room.

  It was at the OP CON — a cramped compartment featuring a small three-person booth and a console topped with a trio of locked safes labeled top secret — that Lockwood was joined by his XO and his radio officer. They held the telegram-sized EAM, which had just been torn off the radio console’s printer.

  “Sir,” said the XO, “we have a properly formatted Emergency Action Message from the National Command Authority, for strategic missile launch.”

  “I concur, sir,” said the radio officer.

  “Captain, request permission to authenticate,” stated the XO.

  “Permission granted,” returned Lockwood.

  The sealed packet holding the authenticator card was removed from the largest of the three safes. The XO tore open the packet, removed the card, and held it up against the EAM.

  “Alpha, Tango, Alpha, Charlie, Echo, Echo, Bravo,” read the XO.

  The radio officer checked the authenticator card himself and repeated this sequence, prompting the XO to report, “The message is authentic. Captain.”

  “I agree,” said the radio officer.

  Lockwood was the picture of composure as he doublechecked the EAM and reached up for the nearest intercom handset to address the crew over the 1MC.

  “Men of the Rhode Island, this is your Captain. The release of nuclear weapons has been authorized. Man battle stations for strategic missile launch. Spin up all missiles.”

  Chapter 29

  Friday, July 2, C.D.T.

  Thomas had been anticipating the worse, but nothing prepared him for the shocking scene that awaited them at Mary Deckard shoals. As their jet-powered john boats began transiting the Zshaped gauntlet of boulders forming the initial rapids, the first overturned canoe was encountered. The partially sunken vessel was hung up alongside a rock shelf, and strangely enough, it was riddled with dozens of bullet holes.

  Thomas found his stomach tightening with dread, and his worst fears were realized when a pair of bodies were discovered in a nearby snag. The water-soaked corpses were also punctured with bullet wounds, and it was Ranger Glickman who identified one of the unfortunate victims as a fellow U.S. Forest Service employee, assigned to the Van Buren field office.

  With the roar of the rapids a constant companion, they continued downstream. The boat carrying Thomas, Ted Callahan, and Captain Christian was the first to complete transiting the shoals. Along the way, the twisted wreckage of four more boats was discovered, along with seven bodies. One of these corpses belonged to Andrea Whitworth. The journalist was found hung up inside a tangled snag of twisted branches, with half of her familiar face blown away.

  While a shocked group of Sappers and MPs began solemnly collecting the corpses, Thomas and his party continued down the river. They passed the partially submerged, twisted remains of Marine Two, and realized that an intense battle of some sort must have taken place out here.

  It took another thirty minutes to complete a thorough sweep of the area, and a total of thirteen bodies was eventually picked from the river. Amongst the dead were the VP’s physician and two more U.S. Forest Service rangers, whom Jody Glickman tearfully identified as Ben Eberly and Ron Wyatt.

  The only consolation Thomas could derive was that the bodies of Andrew Chapman and Vince weren’t among the victims. With the barest of hope that they were still alive, the parties renewed their search, with Ted Callahan coordinating the effort from a sandy clearing situated near the base of a steep waterfall.

  Fresh human tracks led Sergeant Reed and his Sappers to the still-smoking, burned-out hulk of a Huey helicopter. Meanwhile, Captain Christian and his MPs completed the somber task of pulling as much evidence as possible from the river. This left Thomas and Ranger Glickman free to portage the waterfall and begin their way farther downstream.

  Alongside a large pool at the waterfall’s base, Thomas spotted some fresh footprints imprinted on the sloping bank. Yet more footprints were found on an adjoining clearing, and Jody Glickman discovered the soggy remains of a discarded cigar.

  “What do you make of this. Special Agent?” she asked while carefully picking up the cigar and handing it to Thomas.

  The cigar itself had yet to be smoked, and Thomas noted the familiar brown band that encircled its base, with the label temple hall imprinted on it.

  “This is my brother’s brand!” he exclaimed, all the while searching the surrounding clearing for any more clues. And it was then he spotted a narrow earthen trail, and an assortment of footprints headed up into the thick forest filling this side of the Eleven Point.

  Chapter 30

  Saturday, July 3 0127

  Zulu Nightwatch

  “NORAD reports that the Russian missile continues on its polar trajectory,” informed Master Sergeant Schuster from his comm console in the 747’s Op area.

  “Estimated time of arrival over the CONUS in seventeen minutes and counting.”

  “Iron Man One indicates that the Rhode Island has acknowledged receipt of the EAM. Missiles are spinning up,” added Red from her own adjoining console.

  Brittany Cooper was amongst the group of concerned senior officers gathered close by. She found it hard to hide her nervousness, especially now that the briefcase she was responsible for carrying lay open on the counter beside Red. The thick crimson file folder that it held was now in the hands of Admiral Warner. With bifocals perched on the tip of his nose, the Chairman completed his study of the document before handing it to his SIOP advisor.

  “If we’re forced to order a retaliatory launch, which target package do you like. Major?” asked Warner.

  Hewlett answered while reading the top page.

  “Unless we want a full-scale exchange, our only option
is to answer this attack in kind, with counterforce package Zulu Tango. By ordering the Rhode Island to launch such a three-shot salvo, we can hit them with a high-altitude pin-down blast, followed by a strike against those Strategic Rocket Forces command and control facilities that are farthest away from any major civilian population centers.”

  Warner appeared distracted as he looked to Red and questioned, “Any luck reaching Zhukov?”

  Red pushed back her chin mike and shook her head no.

  “Sir,” interrupted Hewlett, “I advise contacting Iron Man One at once, and getting them to pass on target package Zulu Tango to the Rhode Island. Time is critical.”

  The Chairman appeared to ignore this urgent advice and instead turned to address Captain Richardson.

  “What are the results of the latest central locator query regarding the Vice President?”

  “They’re still negative, sir. With our move to DEFCON Two, FEMA is implementing a Level One evacuation of the Capitol.”

  “And the location of the Speaker?” queried Warner.

  “Sir, he remains in air transit to Leonard Wood.”

  “I guess there are worse places to be in the event of a nuclear detonation,” mumbled Warner, who glanced back at his SIOP advisor.

  “Under the circumstances, it appears that we have no option but to be prepared for a worst-case scenario. It’s time to instruct Iron Man One to relay Zulu Tango to the Rhode Island. Sergeant Rayburn, if you’ll be so good as to reconnect me with General Spencer.”

  Red failed to react to this request, her attention focused on the unexpected arrival of a superhigh-frequency radio message.

  Brittany and her fellow officers watched Red’s face lighten with renewed hope as she looked up to address the Chairman.

  “Sir, it’s the Russian Defense Ministry calling for you!”

  “It’s about time,” said Warner. He grabbed the nearest red handset and shouted into the transmitter.

  “Alexi, what the hell is going on down there?”