Doc Martin instinctively knew that this was one engagement he would most likely never survive. He had already taken a pair of hits to his left shoulder and right calf. Having been shot several times before, he understood that his first challenge was to survive the initial shock. He did so with the help of a deep-breathing technique the Yards had taught him. A pair of cotton compresses temporarily stopped the bleeding, and he resolutely re gripped the stock of his M60, ever ready to delay the oncoming enemy force the best he could.
Two members of his team had already gone down, leaving only a single trooper other than himself to return fire. From the characteristic report of the man’s weapon, he realized that the survivor was Chief Roe. Against Doc’s advice, the hefty Texan had selected one of the newfangled squad automatic weapons from the assortment of armaments they had recently stolen from Fort Leonard Wood. Though Doc stuck with a trusty M60, Roe was eager to try out one of the SAWs, which was the weapon of choice of today’s high-tech Army. And so far, he had to admit, considering the constant fire that Roe was able to effect, the SAW was proving to be extremely reliable.
A grenade detonated nearby, and Doc waited for the shrapnel to expend itself before he dared to poke his head out of the rock crevice in which he was hidden. He quickly ducked upon spotting the muzzle flashes of at least six M16s. The soldiers firing these weapons were rounding the bend where the ambush had been initiated. They were moving quickly, in an assault-train formation, and were concentrating their fire on Chief Roe’s position alongside the opposite wall.
After a deafening barrage was completed. Roe’s SAW was silenced, and Doc knew he was all that stood between the assault train and their Op Center. Oblivious to the pulsating pain that coursed through his upper torso, he decided there was only one thing left to do. Ever true to the warrior spirit of the Montagnards. Doc wasn’t about to go down without taking along as many of the enemy as possible.
From the back of the assault train, Ted Callahan acknowledged that it was an absolute miracle that they hadn’t experienced more casualties. Of the eight Sappers who comprised the original formation, only two had been forced to drop out with various wounds. This was remarkable considering the heavy fire they had encountered, and had abruptly ceased, moments after their latest barrage was completed.
“Sappers, hold fire and reload!” ordered Sergeant Reed from the front of the train.
They did as instructed, and Callahan’s hands shook so badly from the adrenaline rush that he had trouble inserting a fresh magazine. He needed to shake his right hand to relieve the pentup tension, and as he re gripped the magazine, all hell broke loose from the direction of the tunnel immediately ahead of them.
It started when two stun grenades detonated in quick succession. Callahan found himself momentarily blinded and deafened by this unexpected blast, which was followed by a resounding round of automatic weapons fire.
The Sappers reacted to this onslaught by dropping to the ground, and Ted followed them, motivated by a ricocheting round that passed only inches from his ringing right ear. Before he could raise his rifle, the blazing muzzle flash of a single M60 appeared out of the darkness directly ahead of them, fifteen yards away at most.
A lethal barrage of 7.62mm slugs tore into their ranks, and Callahan watched two of the Sappers get hit. He had yet to put his own carbine into play, and he looked on with admiration when Sergeant Reed rose to one knee and answered the fire with a tightly grouped series of three-round bursts on his m-16.
The M60 answered with a full thirty-second barrage that sent over two hundred and fifty 7.62 rounds headed their way. Callahan hugged the cold rock in a desperate attempt to find cover, and he could hardly believe it when Sergeant Reed actually stood up to answer this fire in kind.
Like two cowboys of old dueling it out on a Western street, Reed and his opponent shot it out, face-to-face, man to man.
And when it was all over and silence finally returned to the smoky, cordite-scented tunnel, the only one left standing — and, amazingly enough, untouched — was the wild-eyed combat engineer who stood before them and forcefully cried out:
“Sappers, lead the way! Onward!”
Vince found it hard to believe that for the second time that day, fate had chosen him to run-the very same underground river that he and Miriam had traveled upon previously. Yet this time he was a prisoner, at the complete mercy of the two individuals seated at each end of the dark green fiberglass canoe.
Like Vince, Andrew Chapman also found himself sprawled out on the wet floor of the vessel. From this awkward vantage point, it was hard for them to get orientated, and they could only sit there soaked and chilled to the bone while the canoe shot down the incredibly swift current.
The all-prevailing darkness did little to prepare them for the frequent collisions with projecting boulders which scraped their hull and dented the gunwales. They had to hang on to each other for dear life when the canoe dropped off the steep rock face of a small waterfall Vince remembered from his previous visit.
He also knew that most of the river was just wide enough to carry the bobbing canoe. This made any escape attempt by diving out of the vessel both impractical and extremely risky, even though their captors hadn’t bothered to bind their limbs.
Immediately after running a particularly fast-moving section of rapids, they encountered a relatively calm stretch of water.
From his semi prone position, Vince gazed up at the huge stalactites that extended from the roof of the immense cavern they were soon passing through. During their mad dash to escape earlier, he hadn’t had a chance to get a good glimpse of this huge, subterranean cavern, which stretched overhead for as far as the eye could see.
“Skipper, lights!” urgently whispered Richy from the canoe’s bow.
Vince immediately sat up in an attempt to see what the green-faced commando was referring to. He didn’t have any trouble spotting the sweeping beams of a collection of red-tinted flashlights. They were located approximately fifty yards downstream, and looked to be congregated beside the river itself.
From the rear of the vessel, Mariano dug his paddle into the current and guided them over to the nearest bank. Richy attempted to steady the canoe against a rock ledge, and while Mariano reached into his ruck and began assembling the pieces of a compact Ingram MAC 10 submachine gun, Andrew Chapman caught Vince’s attention with a kick of his foot.
The VP discreetly beckoned toward the main river channel behind them, and Vince realized that he was thinking about a possible escape attempt. Vince thought any such effort ill-advised, and he was about to express his disapproval with a shake of his head when Chapman sprang up and dove headfirst into the channel.
Without a second’s hesitation, Vince did likewise, his body striking the icy water just as the first 9mm bullets arrived alongside him.
While the main Sapper party stormed into the cavern’s centrally located Op Center, Ted Callahan and Sergeant Reed found themselves drawn to a dimly lit tunnel. It was there that they chanced upon four individuals, gathered behind the open cell doors of some sort of detention facility. Two of them were sprawled out on the floor and looked to be seriously injured, and it took only one look at them for Callahan to realize that they had discovered the Stoddards.
“Is the Vice President with you?” Callahan urgently questioned, not taking the time to join them inside.
“We need some medical attention, mister,” pleaded the only female in their midst.
“It’s on the way,” said Sergeant Reed, who ripped the fir staid kit off his THE and threw it inside, along with his canteen.
“We’re with the United States Army, and we’re here looking for Vice President Chapman. Is he still alive?”
“As far as we know,” answered the group’s grizzled elder.
“They grabbed him and that Secret Service fellow and headed further down the tunnel, to the river access down yonder.”
The first evidence that they weren’t alone in the cavern arrived in the unli
kely form of a submachine gun firing. Thomas dove for cover, and as he anxiously scanned the cave in the direction that the shots appeared to be coming from, he readily spotted a muzzle flash. Strangely enough, it wasn’t being aimed at them, but was focused on something in the river itself.
Since this position was immediately upstream, Thomas alertly crawled to the nearby bank. He arrived there in time to see a pair of individuals being swept downstream. Captain Christian also saw them, and it was his flashlight that illuminated their faces.
Thomas could hardly believe it when the first floating figure proved to be Vice President Andrew Chapman. While following close behind was none other than his own brother, Vincel
Both Thomas and Christian were forced to duck for cover when they came under fire from two figures seated in a canoe.
As this vessel passed by, a pair of smoke grenades were tossed onto the bank, and the MPs were forced to hold their return fire.
“What the hell is going on out there, and who are those guys shooting at us?” asked Jody Glickman.
Thomas and Christian leaped into the river, leaving their Forest Service guide behind with her questions unanswered.
Vince never got a chance to see his brother dive off the riverbank, his attention completely concentrated on staying afloat and keeping Andrew Chapman in sight. It was as the current continued to pick up speed that this latter chore became increasingly difficult, Vince getting only an occasional glimpse of the VP’s wildly bobbing head.
The water itself was numbingly cold, and Vince didn’t know how much longer they’d be able to survive in this frigid torrent.
Unlike the Eleven Point, there were no log snags to grab onto.
It was also impossible to see more than a few feet ahead, the only illumination being a faint luminescent glow emanating from the crystalline stalactites that hung overhead.
The resounding roar of crashing water signaled their imminent arrival at the next series of rapids. The channel narrowed, and Vince was soon cascading on his back, down a chute of frothing white water. He tumbled over a low rock shelf and plopped down into a deep pool, where he began gagging from all the water he had just swallowed.
At the same moment, an excruciating pain shot up his left side as his muscles began cramping. He was unable to stay afloat, and he swallowed yet more of the river when his pain-racked body began helplessly sinking.
He desperately flayed at the water with his arms, but nothing could reverse the pull of the depths — except the firm grasp of Andrew Chapman.
“It’s payback time, Kellogg,” said the VP as he pulled Vince to safety on a shallow gravel bar at the edge of the pool.
Vince rolled over onto his stomach and retched. Once he had purged the last of the river from his system, he reached down to massage the cramped muscles of his upper thigh and lower back.
“I guess that does make us even,” he grunted to Chapman, who sat shivering beside him in the shallow water.
“Now how are we ever going to get out of this infernal place?”
“You’re not. Sergeant Spit and Polish!” proclaimed Dick Mariano from the left side of the ledge, where a flat rock outcropping projected into the current.
Vince all but forgot about his cramp, his gaze locked on the leering eyes of the bearded ex-SEAL.
“Nice try, com padres Mariano remarked with a smirk.
“But no fucking cigar!”
Mariano’s green-faced associate also appeared at the left side of the rock shelf, and together they dropped their canoe into the calm waters of the pool. Neither one of them bothered to board the vessel, preferring instead to jump off the five-foot-high ledge to the gravel bar below.
“Richy,” said Mariano, “I believe we’re just about to lose our hostages.”
Before he could raise his submachine gun to carry out this threat, yet another voice sounded from a rock outcropping on the other side of the ledge.
“Drop it!” ordered Thomas Kellogg, who, along with Jay Christian, had his specially adapted tournament pistol trained on the two startled kidnappers.
Vince’s eyes opened wide with utter amazement upon spotting the familiar figure of his brother. Yet before he could acknowledge him, Mariano yanked up the stubby barrel of his MAC 10 and swept the ledge with an intense volley of 9mm bullets.
Captain Christian had seen this coming, and he selflessly jumped in front of Thomas, taking slug after slug. By the time the MP’s bloodstained, bullet-ridden body dropped lifelessly into the pool below, both Mariano and Richy had grabbed their hostages from behind, and had the hot barrels of their weapons jammed up against their necks.
Thomas still had his Caspian .38 Super pistol raised before him. He peered down the C-MORE electronic sight, alternating the passive red targeting dot from the furrowed forehead of the bearded kidnapper, who held the Vice President, to the green painted forehead of the man holding Vince.
He knew he’d have time for only a single T-zone shot to end this standoff. But the dilemma he faced was whether to attempt saving the life of Andrew Chapman or that of his own brother.
“Come on, cowboy. Come on!” shouted Mariano.
“Save the Man, Thomas!” Vince urged.
Thomas had already made up his mind, and he sucked in a deep breath and pulled the trigger.
The .38-caliber slug hit its mark on the bridge of his target’s nose. As the bullet penetrated the bone, it further expanded, creating a wound path one and a half inches in diameter. This destructive path led directly to the all-important cerebellum and medulla areas, instantaneously severing communication from the brain to the spinal cord, and effectively preventing any physically contractible response from the limbs below.
In other words, Dick Mariano never had a chance to execute the Vice President. And as the bearded ex-SEAL slumped to the ground dead, Thomas desperately swung the red dot to the right in a frantic effort to save his brother.
Long before he could center his aim, a shot rang out. Thomas flinched in horror, and he looked down onto the gravel bar, expecting to see Vince’s body lying there. But strangely enough, it was the green-faced kidnapper who was in the process of falling to the ground, a neat bullet hole smack on the bridge of his camouflaged nose.
“Hoo-ah!” exclaimed Ted Callahan from the other side of the ledge, the still-smoking barrel of his pistol held close at his side.
“Not bad shooting for a desk-bound fast-food junkie, if I do say so myself!”
Chapter 63
Saturday, July 3, 0740 Zulu
Nightwatch 676
“Nightwatch six-seven-six, this is Shuttle Landing Facility tower.
We have you on visual. Emergency equipment standing by. Good luck. Over.”
From his copilot’s position inside the cockpit. Lucky acknowledged this transmission, while beside him. Coach addressed Jake over his chin mike.
“What’s the status of number two hydraulic system?”
“It continues dropping toward critical. Coach, with pressure just barely in the green.”
Coach looked to his right and briefly caught Lucky’s concerned stare before redirecting his line of sight back out the cockpit window. The Shuttle runway’s approach lights had just come into view. He could also make out the long line of halogen centerline lights, which were set into the entire length of the runway at two-hundred-foot intervals.
“Let’s do it, gentlemen,” said Coach, firmly grabbing the steering yoke.
“Lucky, take us down to nineteen hundred feet at one hundred forty-five knots. Jake, it’s time to tap the alternative electrical system and lower the flaps to twenty degrees.”
“One hundred forty-five knots. Nineteen hundred feet,” Lucky reported.
“Flaps coming down… and holding at twenty degrees!”
added Jake, his relief obvious.
In the distance, the bright lights belonging to the Shuttle launch pad could be seen. Coach couldn’t help but derive additional confidence knowing that the runway they were currently ap
proaching was designed to service the most advanced flying machine on the planet.
“One hundred forty-three knots. Eighteen hundred ninety two feet,” informed Lucky.
“Let’s go ahead and lower flaps to thirty degrees,” said Coach, who knew that this was a critical adjustment. If the flaps didn’t properly deploy, they’d touch down at too high a speed, causing the already damaged wing landing gears to most likely collapse.
Thus when Jake reported that the flaps were holding firm at thirty degrees. Coach realized that a major hurdle had just been cleared.
“Lucky,” he said to his copilot with a bit more certainty, “take us down to two hundred feet at one hundred thirty-three knots. Jake, inform our passengers to prepare for landing.”
“Take up emergency landing positions. Brace! Brace!”
warned Jake over the plane’s public-address system.
The moment of truth was almost upon them, and Coach reached out with his right hand and opened up the reserve brakes. The plane began to vibrate, and he pulled back the yoke slightly, to reduce their rate of descent, while nudging up the throttle, to compensate for the sluggish control response.
“Here we go,” said Coach, who saw the runway suddenly loom right before them.
Nightwatch touched down heavily to the left of the first halogen light, and immediately bounced back into the air. As gravity pulled the massive airplane back to earth once again, it struck the runway near the second halogen marker, and this time it remained on the ground.
Coach yanked back on the reverse thruster lever, realizing that the landing gear had, remarkably, held. There was a loud growling roar, and the flight deck began to vibrate violently.
“Only number four engine has gone into reverse!” warned Jake.
So that he wouldn’t lose control because of asymmetric thrust. Coach pushed the reverse lever forward to negate the command. At the same time, he stomped down hard on the toe brake. Again the cockpit shook, and Jake informed them that the antiskid system had just failed.
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