Nightwatch

Chapter 11

The occupants of the conference room sat in stunned disbelief as Major Bob Ryan’s pained screams sounded from the overhead speaker. This real-time transmission from the backseat of the limousine arrived via the SATCOM’s open microphone, along with the series of exploding gunshots that signaled the apparent death of the President.

With forehead cradled in the palms of his hands. Admiral Trent Warner sat at the head of the table, facing a detailed topographical map of the Salgir River valley that was projected on the aft video screen. To his immediate left was Colonel Lyford Pritchard, the CO of the 747’s operations team, with Brittany Cooper positioned on Warner’s right. The rest of the table’s six positions were occupied by select members of the emergency action team. All of them were attired in matching green flight suits, and displayed somber expressions on their weary faces.

The occupants of the conference room collectively flinched when another gunshot sounded, and the demented screams were replaced by the crackle of static.

“We’ve lost the SATCOM feed,” advised Red over the speaker.

“Very well. Master Sergeant,” replied Pritchard into his chin mounted mike.

“Keep the line open, and let us know the second you get the slightest hint it’s still operational.”

All of the personnel gathered around the table knew inwardly that it was a lost cause, and all eyes went to the head of the table for an inkling of what to do next. Though they had constantly drilled on many a similar scenario, this was reality of the harshest sort, and the staff of Nightwatch now found themselves leading players in one of the most tragic moments of American history.

Well aware of their great responsibility, the Chairman smoothed back his thick mane of silver hair, sat up ramrod straight and scanned the faces of his rapt audience, saying, “It’s only too obvious that our country has suffered a great loss this evening. Our Commanderin-Chief has been taken from us in one of the most despicable crimes in history. All of us aboard Nightwatch mourn his passing, but we have no time for tears.

Duty calls like never before, and we shall not let our fellow countrymen down.

“Per the continuity of government protocol, as the senior ranking officer of the National Command Authority, I am now assuming supreme control of U.S. strategic forces. Colonel Pritchard, you are to immediately inform your operations team of this fact, and to deactivate Satchel Alpha and activate Satchel Bravo.”

Pritchard spoke into his chin mike, and waited less than thirty seconds before verbally relaying the acknowledgment that he received over his headphones.

“A multi-frequency scrambled alert has just been broadcast to the NMCC, informing them of your assumption of power, the deactivation of Satchel Alpha, and the activation of the SIOP codes contained inside Satchel Bravo. We are awaiting confirmation and implementation.”

While they waited for this all-important reply, Brittany Cooper found herself subconsciously fingering the key that hung from her neck. Of all those gathered around the table, she had had the closest relationship with the man whose screams of pain had filled the airborne conference room these past couple of minutes.

That could very well have been her down there, and Brittany found herself fighting the inner demons of confusion, shock, and fear.

To regain her composure, she began a series of deep, even breaths. Ever afraid that Warner would note her anxiety, she tried her best not to meet his gaze, and she looked instead to the aft bulkhead, where four digital clocks were mounted at the bottom of the projection screen. The glowing red digits of the black, rectangular clock on the upper left showed that it was lunchtime back in Washington, where the Pentagon’s NMCC was situated.

The clock beneath showed Zulu, or Greenwich Mean Time, while the clock on the upper right displayed local time in the Crimea.

The clock below showed: 0. Brittany noted that it suddenly activated and began counting off the seconds, moments before Colonel Pritchard readdressed them.

“We have received a legitimate transfer-of-power acknowledgment from the NMCC. Satchel Alpha has been deactivated.

Admiral Warner, you are now the recognized Commanderin Chief until the Presidential successor relieves you.”

Brittany’s pulse quickened, her glance pulled to the head of the table and the man destiny had picked to accept this unprecedented transfer of power. No oaths of office had been uttered, with no public inauguration on the steps of the Capitol. Specifically designed for a crisis such as this one, the continuity of government protocol had just inserted an unelected military officer as the acting President of the United States of America.

“Captain Richardson,” said the Chairman to the crew-cut Air Force officer seated to Brittany’s right.

“As our FEMA representative, you are authorized to activate the emergency locator system.”

Richardson rapidly attacked the keyboard of his computer, and cleared his voice before replying.

“I’ve already taken the liberty of activating the system, sir. If you’ll just bear with me a second, I should be able to transfer the results onto the projection screen.”

The map of the Salgir River valley faded from the screen, and as they watched it go blank, the Chairman grabbed one of two white telephones within arm’s reach and punched in two numbers.

“Major Foard,” he said into the handset.

“Please be informed that the transfer-of-power protocol that we talked about earlier has been completed. It’s time to go home. Major. I’d appreciate it if you’d initiate an immediate course change back to CONUS, with an initial entry point at Andrews.”

No sooner did Warner hang up the phone than the 747 began a steeply banked turn. Brittany found herself tightly gripping the edge of the table, and she watched as Colonel Pritchard’s half filled spill-proof coffee mug slid sideways and bounced onto the carpeted deck, along with several unsecured pencils. As an aide scrambled to retrieve the mug, the plane began to level out, and Brittany was able to release her death grip.

“Ah, here it is’ said Captain Richardson, in reference to the map of the United States that now filled the projection screen.

There was a pair of blinking stars visible, a blue one in the center of the country and a red one on the East Coast, and Richardson went on to reveal their significance.

“As of ten hundred hours Eastern Daylight Time, the blue star indicates the location of Vice President Chapman, with Speaker of the House Pierce highlighted in red.”

“Where the hell’s the VP? Arkansas?” quizzed Pritchard.

Richardson cleared his throat again before answering.

“Actually, sir, he’s in the southern Missouri Ozarks on a wilderness float trip.”

“Oh, that’s just great,” Pritchard replied with a disgusted shake of his head.

“You would have thought he would have stuck close to Washington like the Speaker, with the President so far out in the field.”

“Who knows, with that feud and all, maybe the President didn’t even bother to tell Chapman he was leaving the country,” offered Major Steve Hewlett, a Marine serving as the op team’s SIOP advisor.

“We don’t have time for scuttlebutt. Major,” scolded Warner.

“Nor is it our job to determine the motives of our politicians.

Wherever the Vice President may be, we’re just going to have to get hold of him and pass on the bad news,” he added, with a piercing gaze focused solely on the CO of the aircraft’s operations team.

“Colonel, all of us knew that if this day ever came, it wouldn’t be easy. Because of the unusual circumstances of our loss, the protocol allows us to delay informing the American people until the proper successor is notified, and that’s the way I want it.”

“I’ll have my team get on it at once, sir,” said Pritchard, who relayed the order to notify the Vice President via chin mike, and listened as Warner continued.

“Until the successor acknowledges the transfer, we’re the ones who will be in charge of determining America’s military reaction to this cold-blooded act of murder. We’ll be working closely with our intelligence assets to determine if there have been any suspicious strategic moves on the part of the Russians or Ukrainians.”

“Sir,” interrupted Hewlett, “during a recent Naval War College war game, an OPFOR counterforce strike was initiated with an assassination attempt on the President and select members of the NCA. The theory was that by killing the brain or paralyzing the nervous system, the arms couldn’t be properly utilized. The attempt caught our forces by complete surprise. And that’s why I think it’s only prudent that we change our defense condition to DEFCON Four.”

“But we still don’t know for certain who was responsible,” Pritchard countered.

“If we go and threaten the Russians, and find out later it was a Ukrainian operation, we could be losing an important ally in the region.”

“I’m not asking to start the countdowns,” returned the Marine.

“All I’m suggesting is to stir the beast from the annual summer holiday doldrums. And as for possibly insulting an ally, Colonel, our Commanderin-Chief has just been shot down, along with God only knows how many other brave Americans.

And when the American people finally learn about it, it’s gonna take every bit of restraint we can muster to keep them from demanding a declaration of war!”

The Chairman nodded thoughtfully.

“I like the idea of taking us down a notch to DEFCON Four. Colonel Pritchard, inform the NMCC of this change, and get the word out to each of the strategic commands. What’s the status of TACAMO?”

Pritchard was already busy relaying this order to his staff, and his aide alertly replied, “Iron Man One is the current alert bird, Admiral. It deployed out of NAS Patuxent five minutes after receiving our initial Code One, with General Lowell Spencer as the senior Emergency Action Officer.”

“It’s imperative that we keep in close contact with General Spencer, Lieutenant,” said Warner to the aide.

“If anything should happen to us, we’ll be handing off the football to Iron Man One. And speaking of footballs,” he added while looking at Brittany, “Commander, are you going to be all right? I know you were close to both the President, his Secret Service detail, and, of course. Major Ryan.”

Afraid that her voice might betray her true feelings, Brittany summoned her bravest smile and nodded that she’d be fine. She dared to trade the briefest eye contact with the Chairman. And instead of his usual scrutinizing stare, there was something in Warner’s eyes that appeared to be looking within, perhaps to the immense responsibility he had suddenly shouldered.

“Well, gents, it’s true, all right,” said Jake Lasky as he settled in behind the flight engineer station and buckled his harness.

“And not only does it look like the President’s been killed, but the football’s been compromised as well. Wait till you hear the real-time tape that Red just played for me. It includes the gunshots that took out the President, and ends with his MIL AIDE howling away like someone was cutting off his arm.”

“Maybe that’s how they got the satchel off his wrist,” mused Lucky from his copilot position on the right side of the cockpit.

“I sure hope the Chairman is putting together one jim-dandy of a retaliatory strike.”

“The Admiral and his emergency action team were still meeting in the conference room. But I heard from Red that they were already going down to DEFCON Four,” Jake revealed.

“DEFCON Four?” Lucky repeated.

“That’s all a President, his staff, a National Security Advisor, and an entire Secret Service protection detail are worth nowadays? Hell, if that’s not reason to order Cocked Pistol, what is?”

Coach put down the aeronautical chart he had gotten from the navigator and eagerly joined the fray from the pilot’s seat.

“Did Red say anything about them determining the ones responsible for the slaughter?”

“Come to think of it, she didn’t say,” answered Jake.

“Then they obviously don’t know who it was,” Coach inferred.

“Which means we can’t go launching a full-scale nuclear war without first knowing who the hell did it.”

Lucky couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and he pushed back his headphones to speak his mind.

“Am I missing something?

The President flew all the way out here to the Crimea, at the invitation of the Presidents of Russia and Ukraine. Wasn’t this to be a secret summit of peace? Obviously not, and there’s only two countries to blame. I say hit the both of them, with enough plutonium to put them back into the Stone Age.”

“Did you ever stop to think that a third party could be the culprit?” offered Coach.

“Maybe it was a bunch of Arab extremists, or a group of international terrorists, who are responsible.”

“Coach,” interrupted the navigator while pointing to the radar screen, “I believe we’ve got some company out there.”

All eyes went to the rectangular, flashing-green console mounted in the center of the main instrument panel. The digital radar screen displayed the northeastern corner of the Black Sea, with Nightwatch 676 represented by the blinking black star halfway between the Crimean Peninsula and the coast of Romania.

Due east of this position, currently passing south of Yalta, was a tight, triangular-shaped formation of three flashing red stars, and it was Coach who made the first attempt at identifying them.

“If I’m not mistaken, they’re long-range interceptors, most likely MiG-25 Foxbats. And, Lucky, right now you get my vote for DEFCON One.

“Cause they appear to be headed straight toward us, and if they’re carrying air-to-air missiles, we’re gonna be in one hell of a fix.”