Nightwatch

Chapter 9

It was as they were leaving the southern outskirts of Simferopol behind that Morrison was able to place a call via the comm van, to determine the identity of the tanks they had spotted earlier.

“Spooky Threenine,” he said into his two-way.

“This is Checkmate One. Over.”

The crystal-clear response was almost instantaneous.

“Roger that. Checkmate One. This is Spooky Threenine. How can we be of service? Over.”

“Spooky Threenine,” he said while studying the detailed topographical map that was spread out on his lap.

“I need you to paint a target on map grid Sierra Foxtrot four-two-six-five, seven-three-two-eight. Over.”

The pilot of the AC-130U gunship acknowledged the receipt of this request, and less than a minute later, he delivered his answer.

“Checkmate One, low-light video shows a formation of seven T-72 main battle tanks occupying map grid Sierra Foxtrot four-two-six-five, seven-three-two-eight. Infrared scan indicates that vehicles are unmanned, with all propulsion systems inactive.

They may be big, ugly, and loaded for bear, but their diesels are cold as ice. Checkmate One. Do you require any additional services from us at this time? Over.”

Morrison was relieved by this report, and he looked over at his bald-headed Russian associate and smiled.

“That’s a negative, Spooky Threenine. It’s good to have you in the neighborhood.

Thanks for your help. Out.

“It appears that they produce as advertised,” he added to Kosygin while switching off the two-way.

The Russian grunted.

“We do not squander our defense dollars.

We Russians have learned over centuries to be economical.”

Outside, the heavy rains had stopped falling. Even then, dusk came early, and fog began developing as they approached the Salgir River valley.

Samuel Morrison waited until the Suburban’s driver was able to switch off the windshield wipers for the final time before pulling out a pair of cigars from his jacket. His seatmate readdressed his own two-way, and Alexi Kosygin looked disappointed as he lowered the radio and turned to Morrison.

“Even with the help of your communications van, I was unable to get through to the destroyer.”

“Do you want me to try routing the call via Nightwatch?”

offered the SAIC.

“No, my friend, I only wanted a routine SITREP. It can wait.

We’ll be out of this valley shortly, and then it’s but a ten-minute drive over the coastal mountains and down into Alushta.”

Morrison handed him a cigar, and the Russian sniffed it like a true connoisseur.

“Cuban?” he asked.

Morrison laughed and shook his head.

“I wish. It’s a domestic brand that I’ve gotten fond of, and a recent gift from a special friend. I’m saving mine for later tonight, after I get Two Putt settled into his dacha.”

“Then I’ll do likewise,” Kosygin said, taking a final sniff and stowing it away in his breast pocket.

Morrison put his unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth and unfolded a detailed topographical road map on his lap. He switched on an overhead spotlight, then readjusted the fit of the bifocals that sat precariously perched on the end of his flat nose.

“We’re continuing to make damn good time, Alexi. It appears Comrade Zinoviev’s road crew has done a fine job after all. Other than that brief patch of rough pavement we came across while leaving town, the ride’s been smooth as silk.”

“I’ll reserve judgment until we reach Alushta,” said Kosygin.

“The Ukrainians are notorious for starting a project brilliantly, but failing to follow through all the way to the end.”

Almost to underscore his comment, the Suburban began bouncing up and down, while the tires started humming slightly.

“We must be crossing the drainage canal bridge,” Morrison observed.

“It’s another quarter of a kilometer to the main bridge spanning the Salgir.”

Another rough jolt signaled their passing over the final trestle, and the humming stopped. With the map spread out before him, Morrison looked out the left side window. The fog had further thickened, and he peered over the frames of his bifocals in an effort to spot any familiar landmarks.

Barely visible in the swirling tendrils of mist was the rocky outcrop known as the Salgir highlands. This lowlying, sixty-foot high plateau was a bane to local farmers, and extended all the way to the river.

By glancing out the window to Kosygin’s right, he could see a relatively flat expanse of forested land, filled with thick stands of mature Crimean pines. This ancient woods was all that remained of an immense forest that had once covered most of the peninsula and was now limited to five thousand acres, with many of the trees extending right down to the roadside.

Morrison felt his torso being pulled slightly toward his seatmate when the Suburban followed the road as it turned sharply to the west. It was the Russian who pointed out the ribbon of plowed-up pavement extending farther to the south. A pair of flashing, bright red warning lights could be seen through the fog here, and Kosygin identified them.

“That must be the barricade marking the spot where they closed the old road.”

Morrison nodded and looked ahead through the vehicle’s windshield. As they completed the turn, the road followed a gently sloping upward gradient, leading them toward a well-lit, steel girded structure a bare quarter of a kilometer distant.

“And that must be the new bridge,” he supposed.

“The last report from my survey team mentioned that there was a good week’s worth of work left before it would be open to the public.

I sure hope the concrete’s set.”

The fog swallowed the modern superstructure, and Morrison was about to return his gaze to the map when a pair of blinding flashes penetrated the fog at the base of the bridge. This was immediately followed by a pair of deep, resonant booms, and the SAIC’s first fear was that there had just been some sort of construction accident up ahead. But then a series of dreaded metallic thuds sounded from the immediate direction of the Suburban’s roof and doors, causing Morrison to cry out in horror.

“We’re taking fire!

“Checkmate Two!” he shouted into his two-way.

“Code One!

I repeat. Code One! Close ranks and let’s get over that friggin’ bridge!”

Oblivious to the vehicles ahead of them, the motorcade’s Secret Service drivers knew their first priority was to form a defensive shield around the President’s limousine. The trailing Suburbans quickly sped up until they were practically hugging the limo’s sides, with Morrison’s vehicle leading the way from the point of the V, and the trailing limo plugging up the rear.

Like a single entity, the formation shot forward in a burst of high speed. They passed by the BTR-60 armored personnel carrier, which had pulled off on the shoulder, its rooftop gunner laying down a constant barrage of fire toward the high ground on their left. Only a single Zil police sedan could be seen driving ahead of them, a mere ten yards away. They were rapidly closing on it, and Morrison was about to order them out of the way, when the sedan’s taillights suddenly disappeared.

“Hit the brakes!” he alertly ordered into the two-way.

Morrison braced himself as his driver followed his instructions, and the Suburban skidded to a halt mere inches from a major break in the pavement.

“My God!” proclaimed his driver.

“They blew the ramp. The three motorcyclists, the sedan — they must have driven right off the edge.”

“Turn around and head back the way we came!” Morrison ordered.

A round of slugs struck the truck’s bulletproof windshield, the sound of the careening shells swallowed by the screech of squealing rubber. Morrison briefly met the worried gaze of his seatmate before finding his torso thrown backward by the force of sudden acceleration. They were headed back to Simferopol now, with the SAIC’s vehicle in the trailing position, close on the rear fender of the limousine holding Two Putt.

Hundreds of incoming tracers lit the twilight in ghostly iridescent fingers. Most of the fire originated from the elevated ground of the highlands, which passed now on their right.

“Hang on, we’re goin’ right through the friggin’ killing zone!”

Morrison warned.

They sped by the BTR-60’s smoking hulk, where the bloodstained bodies of SWAT team Alpha littered the fog-shrouded ground. An overturned Zil police sedan, its wheels still spinning, lay nearby, and Morrison flinched when a rocket-propelled grenade struck the wrecked car and exploded in a glaring fireball.

“So much for Comrade Zinoviev,” whispered Kosygin.

A tight spread of bullets peppered the Suburban’s left side, and they could barely see the dark outlines of an infantry assault element emerging from the tree line. Morrison’s two-way squawked alive, and the eight surviving vehicles reported in. Seconds later, this number was reduced to seven when a mortar round landed directly on the roof of their ambulance, instantly killing its occupants.

All that really mattered was protecting the integrity of the vehicle directly in front of them, thought Morrison. So far, the President’s limo appeared to be untouched. No matter what, it would have to stay that way, and the SAIC desperately peered down at the map, then looked up just as two dazzling bursts of bright light filled the northern horizon.

“They’ve blown the canal bridge, and there’s no way to get over!” the driver of the lead vehicle informed them over the radio.

“Shit!” cursed Morrison, his glance drawn back to the map.

For all effective purposes, they were now trapped in a killing zone between two insurmountable bodies of water, and there was absolutely nothing the SAIC could do about it.

“Spooky Threenine, this is Checkmate One. We have a Code One emergency and request an immediate air strike on map grid coordinates Sierra Lima one-five-four-six, three-seven-two-eight.

I repeat, we have a Code One emergency and request an immediate air strike. Do you copy? Over.”

Red’s initial reaction to hearing this shocking message was pure disbelief. She had been seated at her console routinely monitoring the secure, narrowband voice frequencies, and a Code One, indicating an attempt on the President’s life, definitely wasn’t the type of broadcast she had been expecting to overhear.

Yet reality sank in when the gunship acknowledged the call for assistance. Red hurriedly verified the code sequences. They were irrefutably legitimate, prompting her to grab the dark blue handset mounted on the lower right edge of the console and punch in a succession of three digits.

“Admiral Warner, this is Master Sergeant Rayburn on the QV-135. I’ve just picked up what appears to be a distress call from Checkmate One. And, sir, it looks to me that we’ve got a real live Code One on our hands!”

“Damn it, Anderson!” shouted Morrison into his two-way.

“I need you to pull that comm van up until you touch the point Suburban’s back fender. We need a wall of steel between that high ground and Two Putt.”

With no open road to escape on, Morrison’s only hope was to “circle the wagons,” and make a last-ditch stand at the position he deemed most defensible. They were using the drainage canal to protect their flank, and had the President’s limousine surrounded by a V-shaped phalanx. Morrison’s Suburban was at the rear of the formation facing the forest, with the spare staff limo sandwiched between his truck and the point vehicle.

Rocket-propelled grenades continued raining down on them from the highlands. A sporadic mortar shell was launched their way, and Morrison knew it was only a matter of time until they got the proper range.

Both Morrison and Kosygin, along with the two Special Agents in the front seat, had just finished prepping their armaments.

They had an Uzi and three Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns between them, as well as twenty-four spare clips and their individual side arms.

The two-way crackled alive, and all stations reported in, including Moreno from the “hot seat.” The President’s limo had yet to experience any interior damage, and Moreno signed off just as a phosphorous round hit the side of the communications van.

Dusk became noon in a blinding millisecond. And with this unnatural illumination, Morrison spotted dozens of infantrymen headed straight for them from the cover of the ancient forest’s tree line.

“Checkmate Four,” he radioed to the point Suburban.

“Deploy CAT team and engage troops emerging from position Lima.”

Morrison rammed a thirty-round clip into his MP5 and reached for the door handle.

“Looks like they’re going to need all the help they can get.”

“Then whatever are we waiting for?” retorted Kosygin, who chambered a round into his Uzi and joined the SAIC outside.

The air was heavy with the scents of smoke, cordite, and gunpowder. Bullets whined overhead, and Morrison let loose a controlled burst toward the forest before taking cover behind their truck’s engine block. From this position, both he and his Russian colleague emptied clip after clip into the human-wave assault force approaching from the trees. Yet they appeared to be unstoppable, their forward progress impeded only when the six man Secret Service Counter Assault Team charged into their ranks with guns blazing.

The SAIC hadn’t seen such a firefight since his service as a Green Beret in Vietnam. The fog-shrouded twilight still lit by the burning phosphorous shell, he watched his men attempt a flanking maneuver. To a staccato barrage of submachine-gun fire, the CAT team rushed forward. Morrison could see the gleam of exploding shells in their black Kevlar helmets and thick safety goggles, their jet-black BDUs all but indistinguishable.

Though badly outnumbered, the CAT team had succeeded in making a totally unexpected assault, and the enemy momentarily halted its advance to repulse them. This was all that Morrison had to see to leave the cover of the truck and rush toward the wood line himself.

The stubby barrel of his weapon was red-hot as he sprayed the enemy with a deadly steel curtain of 9mm slugs. Alexi Kosygin stuck close to his side, and he too emptied clip after clip. It was the Russian who shouted out in warning when a heavily camouflaged attacker sprang up from the tall grass to the SAIC’s right. He was only ten yards away at best, and Morrison could clearly see the glowing whites of his eyes as he pumped round after round into the startled soldier’s torso.

The CAT team had meanwhile detonated a series of smoke grenades, and was using this cover to mask their flanking movement.

The enemy was still unmoving, and appeared confused.

Morrison was tempted to call in their last remaining six-man squad to augment this force and assist in a counterattack. He reached for his radio, and only then realized that in all the excitement, he had left it back in the Suburban.

No sooner did he turn for the truck than a high-pitched whistling filled the dusk with dreaded sound.

“Incoming!” warned Kosygin, at the same time knocking Morrison to the ground and covering him with his body.

An earsplitting, bone-rattling explosion temporarily deafened the SAIC. The cool earth shook, and a shower of falling debris rained down onto their backs.

As fate would have it, the mortar round landed squarely in the midst of the CAT team. Each of the six Special Agents was instantly killed, their bodies ripped apart by high explosives and razor-sharp shrapnel.

Morrison’s limbs were shaking, and Kosygin had to help him stand. Together they limped back to the truck, in time to see the enemy assault force renew its attack with increased ferocity.

“Spooky Threenine, this is Checkmate One. Where the hell are you?” asked Morrison into his two-way.

“We desperately need that air strike, and we need it now!”

“Not to worry. Checkmate One,” replied a calm voice from the radio’s speaker.

“This is Spooky Threenine. Sorry about the little delay getting into position, but we’ve got a firm visual lock on your position, as well as an excellent infrared reading on the bad guys. Preparing to fire. Over.”