Nightwatch

Chapter 10

Captain Ty “Monzo” Alexander intently studied the green-tinted video screen that was set into the fire control console before him.

Regardless of the fact that they were flying at an altitude of over ten thousand feet, and that it was almost pitch-black outside, the monitor was filled with a detailed picture of the ground below.

The gunship’s Fire Control Officer easily picked out the V-shaped formation of vehicles belonging to the good guys. He supposed that the elongated limousine in the center of the protective wedge held the President. Though Monzo hadn’t voted for the man, he was still Commanderin-Chief, and no crazy terrorists were going to have their way with him if Monzo had anything to say about it.

With the rich strains of Johnny Cash singing “Ghost Riders in the Sky” blaring away in the background of the fire control suite, Monzo isolated the hostile formation moving toward the motorcade on the Infrared sensor system. They were within five hundred meters of the friendlies, which was closer than he would have liked under the circumstances.

“That’s your target IR,” said Monzo into his chin mike.

“Track the northernmost element and sweep south.”

“IR’s tracking,” informed the Staff Sergeant operating the IR system.

“OK, pilot,” said Monzo into his mike.

“FCO’s got IR. Gun one, trainable. Target is thirty-plus dismounts, five hundred meters from the friendlies. FCO is ready!”

“Navigator confirms target, cleared to fire,” said the young Lieutenant seated to Monzo’s left.

“Pilot’s in the sight. Arm number one,” ordered the pilot over the intercom.

“Number one is armed,” the flight engineer responded.

That was all the IR operator had to hear to mash down on his consent button and rake the enemy formation with three hundred and fifty rounds of high-explosive 25mm projectiles.

Monzo noted that the enemy formation was suddenly cut in half, and it was no longer moving toward the motorcade.

“OK, crew, switching to number three gun, trainable on the TV. Prox rounds, same target. FCO’s ready.”

The crew performed the same series of cross-checks as before.

Yet this time the gunners in the back of the aircraft began feeding proximity-fused projectiles into the huge 105mm howitzer protruding from the gunship’s left side. These rounds were designed to shower the enemy with razor-sharp shrapnel, and were extremely lethal when used against troops in the open.

It was their TV operator who depressed his firing button, and the entire airplane shook with the recoil of the largest gun ever placed on an aircraft. Ten rounds later, Monzo could see no further movement from the area below.

“Pilot, FCO’s got no movement on the western target set.

Guidance is shifting east three klicks to the fixed gun emplacements.”

They began on the highland’s northernmost end. Like a surgeon performing laser surgery, Monzo aligned the crosshairs to isolate the individual bunkers, where the mortars and RPGs were being fired.

“Hold her steady. Guns are armed. FCO’s ready. Guns ready. Shoot!”

Once more the gunship violently shook as the howitzer fired.

Monzo followed the shell as it descended on target, a streaking, lightning bolt of death from above. Unlike the 25mm ammunition, this shell detonated with a wallop, sending a miniature mushroom-shaped cloud high in the air. In a little more than a minute, this process was repeated ten more times, with ten different targets falling victim to Spooky Threenine’s wrath.

Monzo estimated that he could clear the entire ridge with the howitzer in another five minutes. For variety’s sake, he had the boys crank up the 40mm Bofors gun, which had a firing rate of one hundred rounds per minute. After all, the Commanderin-Chief himself was watching this display, and it was time to show the President that those defense dollars were being wisely spent.

Samuel Morrison stood outside his Suburban and watched the incredible display of firepower. He had called down many an air strike while in “Nam, but none of them came close to matching the amazing precision firepower and area-saturation capabilities of the AC-130U. Like a scene out of Dante’s Inferno, the northern end of the Salgir highlands was ablaze in flames, with shells continuing to rain down on the plateau with clockwork regularity.

He had already watched the gunship make mincemeat out of the mysterious ground-assault element that had previously threatened them. From the truck’s backseat, he had looked on with awestruck wonder as a wall of deadly lead began descending from the sky. These shells tore into the enemy, and in a matter of mere minutes, the assault force was reduced to a bleeding mass of torn flesh and broken bone.

Before he could cry out in relieved joy, the first shells began to hit the plateau. And since that time, not a single mortar round or RPG had been fired at them. The SAIC knew that they had been extremely fortunate. If it hadn’t been for the gunship, they’d surely be either dead or captured. And now was the time to lick their wounds, and get the hell out of this infernal river valley, before their luck ran out.

Since both bridges were out of commission, they had only two options. They could try breaching the barricade and attempt crossing the old bridge, or they could leave the paved road and try to find a drivable pathway through the woods. Neither of these choices sounded particularly appealing to Morrison, and he supposed that if the barricade could be safely circumnavigated, that would provide them the most direct route.

He redirected his glance in an effort to spot the barricade’s flashing red lights. And it was as he turned his gaze away from the plateau that he just missed seeing the flame-red plume of a surface-to-air missile, arcing upward into the night sky from the plateau’s southernmost tip.

“Strella! Strella, seven o’clock! Break right!” cried the amplified voice of the gunship’s pilot over Red’s monitor speaker.

There could be no missing the concerned horror in his voice, and an anxious murmur escaped the lips of the knot of personnel gathered around Red’s workstation. Included in this distinguished group was Admiral Warner, Colonel Pritchard, and Commander Brittany Cooper.

“So now the bastards not only have an assault element, but a surface-to-air capability as well,” fumed Warner.

“They’ve got to be regulars, and not an isolated terrorist group.”

All eyes were locked on the console, and when a full minute had passed with no transmission emanating from the wire-mesh speaker. Red dared to address her chin mike.

“Spooky Threenine, this is Nightwatch six-seven-six. Do you read me? Over.”

She repeated this same broadcast several more times; when it failed to garner a response, she shifted frequencies to try a variety of emergency bands. In every instance they received nothing but low-level static, and it was Pritchard who offered the somber assessment.

“I’m afraid Spooky Threenine didn’t make it.”

“Master Sergeant Schuster,” said Warner to the airman seated at the workstation directly across the aisle from Red.

“Are you still in contact with Checkmate Two?”

Schuster pushed back his chin mike and answered, “That’s affirmative, sir. The last SATCOM transmission from the motorcade was fifteen seconds ago. They were broadcasting on the backup system, and sent along yet another all-clear.

“At least it appears that the President’s still alive,” observed Pritchard.

Warner worriedly rubbed his creased brow.

“Without the cover of that gunship, who the hell knows how long he’ll be able to stay that way. Damn it, I warned him that this whole secret negotiation business was no good. At the very least, it should have been held on American soil. But no, he had to go and travel to the ends of the earth, and look at the fine mess we’re in — a heavily armed, fifteen-vehicle motorcade, now whittled down to five surviving cars, with God knows how many enemy forces still out there, and no way for us to send in reinforcements.”

“Surely the Ukrainians will be sending in a rescue force,” remarked Brittany.

Warner looked at the MIL AIDE and laughed.

“Why the hell would they go and do that if they’re the ones responsible for this outrageous ambush?”

“I still think it’s the Russians,” Pritchard interjected.

“We all know how the head of the Strategic Rocket Forces reacted to the Global Zero Alert concept. He came out against it from the very beginning, warning that it would needlessly expose Russia to nuclear annihilation.”

“Whoever’s eventually found responsible,” said Warner with a sigh, “we’ve still got an incredible mess down there, and I want us ready for any scenario. I want the entire emergency action team assembled in the conference room. At that time, I intend to inform the NMCC of my decision to activate the central locator system, and to launch the TACAMO alert bird. I’m also going to want to know the exact positions of those F-16s I called in from Incirlik. If we’re living right, there’s always the chance that our Falcons will reach the Crimea in time to save the motorcade.”

Almost as an afterthought, the Chairman looked at Brittany, adding, “And, Commander Cooper, I want you close by and within sight at all times. If Satchel Alpha should be compromised, we’re going to really have to earn our keep up here.”

Samuel Morrison and the five Secret Service drivers stood huddled next to the President’s limo, inside their protective formation near the drainage canal. With the arrival of night, the fog had further thickened, and it was eerily quiet now that the gunship had stopped its incessant firing. Through the cool mist, they could see the fires still burning on the Salgir highlands. The plateau had taken an incredible pounding, yet the amazing aircraft responsible for it was nowhere to be seen. For none of the Special Agents assembled beside the SAIC realized the source of the muffled explosion that had sounded seconds ago, or saw the barely visible flash of light in the sky when Spooky Threenine exploded in a blazing fireball.

“Then I’ll take that as a vote of confidence,” said Morrison in reference to the brief tactical debate they had just completed.

“Algren, you’ll be driving point in the lead Suburban. Because we still don’t know the barricade’s exact composition, Moreno will be leaving a ten-yard gap between Algren’s rear and the limo’s front bumper. I’ll remain in the trailing Suburban behind the staff limo on the right side of the formation, with Lester’s truck all alone on the left. So if there are no more questions, gentlemen, let’s get the friggin’ hell out of here!”

The SAIC’s order was given additional impetus by the RPG round that headed their way from the direction of the highlands.

It harmlessly exploded well short of its intended target, though its mere presence meant that their enemy was still very much alive and dangerous.

Morrison barely had time to get settled in the backseat of his vehicle when the formation shot forward in a high-speed burst.

This coincided with the arrival of a round of small-arms fire, originating from the nearby pine forest. There was a twanging metallic thud as these rounds ricocheted off the truck’s bulletproof, armor-reinforced doors, and Morrison angrily cursed, conscious that the infantry assault-element force had also returned.

A rough, jarring sensation signaled their arrival on the old section of roadway. The drivers slowed down to fifty miles per hour, and as the red, flashing lights of the barricade grew increasingly larger, the lead Suburban accelerated to take a ten-yard lead.

An open radio channel allowed Morrison to keep in simultaneous touch with all five of his drivers, and it was in such a manner that he learned from the point vehicle that the barricade appeared to be made out of wood. Yet before the SAIC could share his relief, the lead Suburban exploded in a column of fire.

Seconds later, the Suburban on the formation’s left flank also blew up in a billowing fireball, leading Morrison to believe that he knew how these blasts had been triggered.

“Hit the brakes — minefield!” he shouted into the two-way.

The remaining three cars of the formation skidded to a halt, and though the barricade invitingly beckoned less than thirty yards away, the SAIC had no choice but to order the column to carefully back up and return to the new section of pavement.

The drivers did a splendid job of retracing their routes, and they made it safely back onto the newly laid asphalt, with the two Suburbans all the while filling their windshields with the glow of flame.

A mortar round detonated close by, and Morrison played the last of his options. With a minimum of ceremony, the President and Major Ryan were transferred into the last surviving Suburban, along with Satchel Alpha, their portable SATCOM phone, and all the ammo that the other agents could spare. As the SAIC climbed into the crowded backseat beside Alexi Kosygin, he flashed Special Agent Moreno, and the other brave men who would be traveling in the limousines, a supportive thumbsup.

The plan was to try to find an escape route through the forest.

Since the four-wheel-drive Suburban had the best chance of surviving such a punishing trip, it would lead the way. The limousines would follow, with the hope that they’d chance upon an old logging road.

A trio of exploding mortar rounds spurred them onward. The Suburban left the road with a jolt, and sped off into the tree line.

Because of the great age of these woods, there was a fair amount of open space between the individual trunks. Without letting up on the accelerator, their driver expertly circumnavigated the maze of stately pines, the route made all the more difficult by the ever-present fog.

When he wasn’t hanging on for dear life, Morrison was able to turn around from time to time and check on the progress of the limousines. When the fog swallowed the last distant headlight, he contacted them via radio. As expected, they were having a difficult time, often forced to slow down to a virtual crawl because of their bulky size and weight. It was a lack of all-terrain capability that eventually led to their doom.

The SAIC’s heart was heavy as he listened to Special Agent Moreno’s latest radio update. The spare limo carrying the President’s staff had gotten itself stuck in the bottom of a creek bed.

Moreno’s vehicle was in the process of backing up to render assistance, and had just come under small-arms fire, when it too found itself trapped in a soggy depression. And the last Morrison ever heard from his colleague was as Moreno signed off, the crackle of gunfire clearly audible in the background.

Though a part of Morrison wanted to go back and help them, a greater responsibility was now his. Considering their predicament, the President was displaying remarkable composure, and had even managed to summon the strength to trade concerned small talk with Alexi Kosygin. When the Suburban wasn’t careening over a pothole or bounding over a pile of brush. Major Ryan was able to activate the portable, battery-powered SATCOM phone to pass on an “all clear” Situation Report to Nightwatch.

In such a way they were able to inform the NCA that the President was still alive, and that Satchel Alpha hadn’t been compromised.

They would continue to broadcast these brief SITREPs as long as possible, this being their last means of contact with the world beyond.

“Is that the remains of a road up there on the other side of the clearing?” asked the Special Agent buckled into the passenger seat.

This question immediately caught the attention of the four men gathered in the backseat, as well as the vehicle’s driver, who excitedly replied, “I believe it is!”

The SAIC anxiously sat forward and peered out the streaked windshield. He could see little outside but the two bouncing shafts of light coming from their headlights, and as he scanned the clearing ahead of them, an exploding tongue of flame flashed from the blackness. It wasn’t until a heavy metallic round bounced off their roof that he identified it as a muzzle flash.

They were headed straight for the weapon, and the driver reacted instinctively.

He stomped on the brakes, causing the truck to violently lunge forward, then shifted hard into reverse. He waited to build up traction before hitting the gas, and they shot backward. Only a few feet from the woods, he lifted his foot off the accelerator and whipped the wheel to the left. The Suburban started skidding, and as the President slammed into Morrison’s shoulder, the driver jerked the gearshift into forward and once more stepped on the accelerator.

The superbly executed reverse-180-degree turn surely saved their lives, for as they sped off into that portion of woods they had just traveled, a barrage of bullets peppered off the back window.

Morrison felt a bit queasy, and as he reached down to pick up the fallen SATCOM device, the driver shouted, “There’s that road again!”

The Suburban plowed over a group of saplings, careened over a rough stone-filled draw, and settled onto the remains of an abandoned earthen roadway. It was just wide enough to hold them, and definitely offered the smoothest ride yet experienced.

“We’re heading west!” exclaimed the driver after checking the dashboard-mounted compass.

“Mr. President, we’ll get you out of this bind yet!”

That statement proved to be a bit overly optimistic, for seconds later, they ran over a steel-spike tank trap and punctured the two front tires. The truck nose-dived forward, and the driver alertly hit the brakes.

“Can’t you drive on a flat?” asked the SAIC.

“Not with two of them,” the driver answered.

“But not to worry, sir. We’ve got a spare and a can of flat fixer. Just give us a sec, and we’ll be good to go.”

The driver nodded to his seatmate, and both of them exited the vehicle to initiate the repair process. Morrison grabbed his submachine gun and joined them.

It was pitch-black and deathly quiet outside. The swirling fog hugged the floor of the forest, the heavy pine boughs peering down like silent sentinels.

A metallic, scraping sound broke the silence, and Morrison watched his men emerge with the spare. They proceeded to jack up the front end, and went to work replacing the flat right tire.

With his MP5 in hand, the SAIC circled the vehicle, his gaze locked on the tree line. On any other occasion, he would have loved to be in such a forest, where the air was clean and sweet with pine sap. Yet here the scent of death was in the air, and he couldn’t wait to be gone from this cursed grove.

“Comrade Morrison,” whispered Alexi Kosygin from the barely cracked rear window.

“There seems to be a problem getting the SATCOM on line.”

Back inside the truck, Morrison took a close look at the briefcase-sized transmitter and found that the rough ride had jarred one of the battery cables loose. He pushed the connectors together and watched as the green “transmit” light began glowing.

“I think I saw something move out there.” Major Ryan pointed into the trees in front of them.

Without bothering to switch off the transmitter’s open microphone, Morrison looked in the direction that the MIL AIDE was highlighting, in time to see two brilliant muzzle flashes emanate from the blackness. There were a pair of distinctive pops, and Kosygin dared to stick his head out the window to check the men’s progress.

“Dear God, they’ve both been shot!” he exclaimed.

This was all the SAIC had to hear to dive over into the front seat and grasp for the ignition.

“The friggin’ keys are gone!”

He madly searched the seat and floorboard, and when this effort failed to produce the keys, he knew he’d have to go out there and get them.

“Alexi, Major Ryan, if you’d be so good as to cover me with your weapons.”

Morrison readied his submachine gun, took a deep breath, and jerked open the door, ill prepared for the hard wooden butt of the Kalashnikov assault rifle that caught him full on the forehead.

He crumpled to the ground at the side of the truck, his vision blurred, on the cusp of unconsciousness. With a nightmare’s ponderous pace, he struggled to his knees in time to see a heavily camouflaged soldier materialize at the opposite doorway.

This individual’s face was covered in green and black greasepaint, and all Morrison could see were the whites of his cruel eyes as he raised his rifle and pointed it into the backseat.

“Who the hell are you, and what do you want?” asked Kosygin, his voice faltering.

An ear-shattering trio of shots rang out, and with Alexi Kosygin silenced for all eternity, the gunman flipped on his laser sight and projected the glowing red beam squarely in the center of the President’s forehead. Samuel Morrison fought back a wave of nauseated dizziness to reach for his side arm, all the while fighting to get to his feet and stand.

“For God’s sake, I’m the President of the United States. Don’t shoot!” implored America’s Chief Executive.

The assassin appeared to be relishing this moment of power, and he made certain that the dazed Morrison was still incapable of interfering, before issuing a deep laugh and pulling the trigger.

The President’s head exploded like a pumpkin, bits of bloody flesh and bone cascading onto the cowering MIL AIDE

Though he held a fully loaded submachine gun in his lap, Major Bob Ryan was in no emotional shape to use it. The assassin knew this, and lowered his rifle to scoot into the backseat himself.

“So now that your President is dead, you’re the one,” said the assassin in Slavic-accented English.

There was a certain coolness to his tone of voice, and he displayed little emotion as he shoved the President’s lifeless body out of the way, tossed aside Ryan’s weapon, and directed his glance to the black briefcase that was handcuffed to the MIL AIDE wrist.

“And what do we have here?” he asked.

“My name is Major Bob Ryan,” the MIL AIDE managed to say while he tightly cradled Satchel Alpha snug against his chest.

“And my serial number is four-nine-one—”

“No, you fool!” interrupted the assassin.

“I don’t need your name, only the infamous football that you carry. And don’t bother swallowing the key.”

Like a zombie, the SAIC continued watching this horrific drama unfold. His severe concussion kept him dazed and comatose; unable to summon the coordination to grasp his pistol, he looked on as the assassin whipped out a razor-sharp K-Bar knife and proceeded to slice through the MIL AIDE wrist. And the last thing Samuel Forrest Morrison II remembered, before the 7.62mm shells exploded from the forest and ripped into his chest to end this nightmare, was the demented screams of Major Bob Rican.