Nightwatch

Chapter 12

“Base, this is Eberly. Over. Winona Base, this is Ben Eberly. Do you copy?”

Vince could tell from the district ranger’s strained tone that he was getting frustrated. For a good five minutes now, Eberly had been trying to reach the Winona Forest Service office on his two-way, with only static for his efforts.

“I don’t understand it,” said the ranger, his tanned forehead dripping with sweat.

“Those new repeater towers usually give us excellent reception.”

Vince glanced over to the far side of the sandbar on which they were standing, and saw that the group of agents responsible for deploying the portable COMSAT telephone appeared to be similarly frustrated. Instead of talking on the handset, they focused their efforts on the miniature satellite dish. For as long as Eberly had been trying his two-way, his men had been busy sweeping the skies with the dish, in a vain effort to make contact with the proper satellite.

“It looks like my people aren’t having any luck either,” Vince noted while raising his hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the blazing noon sun, and sweeping his glance to the east. A nine-hundred-foot-tall bluff of solid limestone met his gaze, and Vince didn’t have to see any more to know why the efforts of his communications team had been unsuccessful.

“Where exactly did you say we’d find a notch in that bluff?”

Vince asked.

“It’s immediately downstream from the shoals,” replied Eberly.

“And you can access it from that sandbar your security team was off to visit in the john boat

“Then let’s do it, my friend,” said Vince.

“It’s not every day that we receive a partial emergency action alert like that, and it’s imperative that we establish a secure SATCOM link with all due haste.”

“For expediency’s sake, why not load up your SATCOM into one of the john boats and we’ll run your team down to the access site,” Eberly offered.

“That way they can set up while we follow in the canoes. It’s a ten-minute float through Mary Deckard at best, and that sandbar will be the perfect place to have lunch.”

Vince gave his blessings to this plan, and turned to inform the others. He found Vice President Chapman holding court alongside the spot where their canoes and a single john boat were beached. Chapman was wearing dark green rubber waders and was standing in the water with graphite rod in hand, holding an impromptu fly-fishing clinic. His rapt audience included his physician. Ranger Wyatt, and, of course, Andy Whitworth, who was capturing the entire exhibition on film.

“And by the way,” Vince heard Chapman saying as he approached them, “that ten-pound rainbow I hooked upstream was caught with one of these very same ca hills that I tied myself on the flight down from Washington. And I would most likely have gone ahead and landed him, too, if I hadn’t gone and removed the barb. Sportfishing should be done for the challenge, not for a stuffed trophy to hang on the wall.”

Ron Wyatt noted Vince’s arrival with a wink, and the leather faced Missourian stepped aside to spit out a mouthful of tobacco juice before greeting the newcomer in a conspiratorial whisper.

“It’s obvious he never relied on fishing to feed a hungry family.

And because he went and released that trio of four-pounders he did manage to land, we’re stuck with peanut butter sandwiches and cold beans for lunch.”

Vince smiled, and loudly cleared his throat before speaking up and interrupting the VP’s spiel.

“Excuse me, Mr. Vice President, but we’re going to have to pack up your gear and move downstream.”

“Any luck with that uplink, Kellogg?” Chapman asked after taking one last cast and returning to the sandbar.

“That’s a negative, sir,” returned Vince as discreetly as possible. “And that’s why we have to continue downstream, to try another access point.”

Andy Whitworth intuitively sensed that something out of the ordinary was coming down, and she brazenly expressed herself.

“Excuse me. Special Agent Kellogg, but did something happen within the last half hour or so that can explain why this SATCOM uplink of yours is so darn important all of a sudden? It’s obvious that it’s not routine, which leads me to believe that someone from the outside contacted you and ordered it. Has there been a threat made on our party? Or is there some other type of danger we should be concerned about?”

Vince was astounded by the reporter’s effrontery, and he shook his head, saying, “I can assure you. Miss Whitworth, that the only danger we’re facing out here is sunstroke. Now, if you’ll please return to your canoe, we’ll see if we can give you something to really write about as we prepare to take on Mary Deckard shoals.”

The buzz-saw whine of an outboard motor drew Vince’s glance to the river. Two of their john boats were returning upstream from the direction of the shoal. The lead boat approached the sandbar, and Vince walked over to grab the bowline.

“So you survived the legendary Mary Deckard,” he said to the stocky brunette seated at the bow.

“Both downstream and up,” replied Special Agent Linda Desiante.

“It’s a wild ride, sir. The boulders are monstrous, and with the water up like it is, there are some treacherous chutes and plenty of nasty snags to watch out for. And that doesn’t even include the mini-waterfall located at the far end of the rapids.”

“What did the CAT team have to say?” he asked, ever careful to keep his voice low.

“They never showed up. We found the rendezvous site on the sandbar easily enough. There were plenty of footprints, but not a sign of the team — or anyone else, for that matter. We tried to inform you on the two-way, but we couldn’t get any of the radios to work.”

“We’re having the same problem. And speaking of communications, I need you to run the shoals again, this time with Special Agent Lester and our SATCOM. That sandbar you were on should give us a better uplink angle. By the time we run the rapids, you should be well on your way to contacting Milstar and finding out what this mysterious alert is all about.”

Desiante’s john boat was soon on its way back down the river, and Vince anxiously waited while the rest of the party climbed back into their canoes. Once more he was teamed up with Ron Wyatt. As they glided out into the current, the canoe carrying the Vice President and Ben Eberly maneuvered in beside them, and Vince listened as the district ranger explained the origins of Mary Deckard shoals.

“It was during the turn-of-the-century lumber boom that a rock dam was placed in the river near the confluence of Hurricane Creek. A good part of this dam was built out of the giant boulders we’re about to pass.”

“Why go and dam this beautiful river? Was it for flood control?”

asked the VP.

“They did it to trap logs,” answered Ron Wyatt.

“Believe it or not, there used to be a railroad line in these parts running to the river. When the mills in Winona needed wood, all they had to do was send the train to the shoals and load it up with fresh lumber.”

The VP scanned the pristine, tree-lined shore and shook his head in wonder.

“It’s remarkable how quickly the forest reclaimed the land.”

“If you think this area is something, wait till you get your first peek at the Irish Wilderness later this afternoon,” Eberly proudly added.

“The Irish is the largest Federal wilderness area in the Ozarks, and as in all our wilderness areas, development there has been kept to a bare minimum.”

The roar of rushing water could be heard in the distance, and Vince peered downstream. The bluffs to their right were getting increasingly steep, and he could just make out a series of huge boulders lying in the white water ahead of them.

The VP’s canoe would be first into the shoals, with Vince giving it a twenty-yard head start before they’d enter. The other vessels would follow at twenty-yard intervals.

All but forgetting about his other responsibilities, Vince noted how the current suddenly quickened. The rock obstacles ahead were becoming much larger, and he could see an assortment of tree limbs and other debris projecting from the treacherous shallows. White water was everywhere, and his guide pointed out the first of several wildly spinning whirlpools.

Though it was almost impossible for Vince to pick out the most accessible route, he supposed it would be the channel on the far right. There a group of boulders formed a Zshaped pattern, with a swiftly moving chute of fairly deep water surging among the rocks.

The roar of the rapids rose to an almost deafening crescendo, and Vince breathlessly watched the VP’s canoe penetrate the first chute. Andrew Chapman never stopped paddling, while in the vessel’s tapered stern, Ben Eberly seemed content to merely sit back and utilize his paddle like a rudder. After bounding over a fractured rock shelf, the bobbing canoe was steered to the far right-hand side of the channel. A narrow, Zshaped gauntlet of rock, projecting limbs, and agitated water awaited them there, and only when they passed by the first jagged boulder did Vince note that the VP had wisely pulled in his paddle.

Vince’s canoe followed the same route. Astounded by the incredible velocity of the current, he anxiously sat forward when the vessel slipped off the rock shelf signaling the first white-water chute. The canoe dove bow-first into the current, and Vince found himself soaked by an invigorating splash of icy water. He wiped his face dry and felt the canoe turn sharply to the channel’s right side as Wyatt used his paddle like a rudder. The first of the boulders loomed ahead, an angry moss-coated monolith with a pike-shaped oak limb projecting from the white water at its base.

They were at the mercy of the current now, and Vince jerked in his paddle as the boulder passed on the right, a mere inch between the projecting oaken spike and the canoe’s thin aluminum gunwales. Ahead, the gauntlet of stone awaited, and the canoe cascaded down a narrow chute, the boulders so tightly compressed that they appeared to form a solid wall.

To safely navigate the Z’s first turn required a sharp right turn, and Vince’s guide would have to apply his rudder paddle with exacting precision. Otherwise the bow would hang up in the shallows, causing the vessel to be yanked around and then swept through the gauntlet backward. Ron Wyatt readily met the challenge, and when they safely entered the next chute, Vince found himself venting his anxiety with a joyous yell. Unfortunately, his celebration was cut short upon spotting the VP’s canoe wedged precariously between the two large boulders forming the next turn. It was extremely close to capsizing, the wildly rushing current only inches from entering the canoe and swamping its passengers.

Vince turned to make certain that his guide knew what was happening up ahead. Wyatt calmly nodded that he saw them, and appeared in total control as he expertly maneuvered the vessel down the chute, nosing their bow right up to the formation that had trapped the VP.

“They’re caught up on a snag,” Wyatt observed, having to scream to be heard.

“I’m gonna try to pull in beside them, and we’ll see if we can work them free with our paddles.”

Not having any idea how his guide would ever be able to pull off such a maneuver, Vince nodded that he understood the intended strategy. And the next thing he knew, they were snug up against the VP’s canoe, with Vince now faced upstream.

“Glad you could join us, Kellogg,” yelled the VP, who was obviously enjoying every second of this mini-crisis.

Wyatt was already hard at work, angling the tip of his paddle into the massive snag of tree limbs and roots responsible for this hang-up. Before joining in with his own paddle, Vince found himself wondering how they’d be able to complete their transit of the chute, now that they were facing backward. He supposed that once the VP was free, they’d have to run the rest of the gauntlet with Vince at the rudder position. Such a switch of duties would prove interesting, to say the least, and before he re gripped his paddle to assist his associate, he momentarily glanced upstream.

The first thing that caught his attention was an overturned canoe. It was hung up on the projecting shelf of rock at the head of the first chute, with a variety of floating debris visible immediately beside it. Included in this flotsam was what appeared to be a body, lying facedown in the water. Strangely enough, it wasn’t moving, and Vince tried his best to scan the river farther upstream, his astounded glance halting on something equally unexpected.

Hovering only a few feet above the river at the top of the rapids was a jet-black Huey helicopter. The bulbous nose of this aircraft seemed to be pointed directly toward Vince, a fact that became terrifyingly clear when a pair of rockets shot out of the twin pods set flush against the Huey’s fuselage.

In a terrifying blink of an eye, the missiles struck the roiling water, a mere ten yards upstream from the boulder the men were hidden behind. There was a pair of muted explosions, barely audible over the incessant roar of onrushing current, and Vince found himself soaked by a shower of falling water. The ensuing shock wave caused his canoe to bob slightly upward, and caused the VP’s vessel to lift free from the snag. It shot downstream to complete its transit of the gauntlet, its occupants totally unaware of the newly arrived threat from above.

Ron Wyatt learned of the helicopter’s presence the moment he looked up to signal Vince they were free to continue downstream themselves. The first look that crossed the ranger’s leathery face was puzzlement, then pure horror, as the hovering Huey raised its nose and let loose another rocket. This one detonated near the moss-covered base of the boulder, where seconds ago the VP’s canoe had been trapped. Vince barely had time to duck, and there was a stinging sensation on his cheek when he was struck by splintering rock.

A surging underwater shock wave disgorged the canoe from its resting place, and off they went, downstream. To keep them from smashing against the corridor of boulders forming the last portion of the gauntlet, Vince had to hastily redirect his focus on steering the vessel. He let instinct take over, his shocked thoughts still centered on their mysterious attacker.

Somehow they managed to safely transit the final chute, which deposited them in a pool of frothing white water. The current continued to run swift here, and as they kept on going downstream, his guide was able to turn the canoe around so that Vince was once more the bowman.

From this familiar vantage point, Vince spotted the VP’s canoe some twenty yards ahead. Chapman and Eberly were halted beside a large, partially submerged snag, examining something in the water. Vince hastily glanced over his shoulder, and failing to spot the helicopter, he dug his paddle into the water to warn Chapman.

“What the blue blazes is goin’ on out here. Special Agent?”

asked Ron Wyatt, his concerned tone of voice unmistakable.

Vince held back his response, his attention instead riveted on the object of the VP’s current inspection. Caught in the snag, her soaked body seemingly crucified in the twisted tree limbs, was the lifeless body of Andy Whitworth. Her tattered clothes were partially torn off, and Vince could soon see that a good portion of her face had been blown away. A paddle and the jagged front half of one of the john boats were also caught in the snag, and Vince didn’t have to see any more to realize the mysterious Huey was responsible for this slaughter.

“Kellogg?” murmured the VP, his eyes wide in shocked horror.

“We’ve got to get off this river at once!” Vince replied, his words cut short by an ominous shadow.

The sound of its engines still masked by the roar of the rapids, the Huey swept in from the river’s western bank. It passed so close above them that they could actually feel the downdraft of its rotor wash, and Vince looked upward in time to see a bearded individual dressed in a green flight suit standing at the open fuselage hatchway. He had a machine gun rigged up in front of him, and upon spotting their canoes, he angled the barrel downward and fired.

The shells tore into the water, stitching a long line of exploding eruptions on the river’s surface, a bare inch from the side of the VP’s canoe. Both Chapman and District Ranger Eberly didn’t have to see any more to know the exact nature of the threat Vince was about to warn them of, and they readily pushed away from the snag, to reenter the main channel. Vince dug his paddle into the water to stay as close as possible, while the Huey began a steeply banked turn to initiate yet another strafing pass.

The sloped banks of the river offered little cover, and Eberly was apparently attempting to make the most of the current to round the next bend, where a steep wall of limestone protectively beckoned. It took a full effort from both Vince and Wyatt to keep up with them. The VP’s canoe was establishing a blistering pace, Chapman making the best use of his collegiate rowing experience.

Even then, Vince knew that this valiant effort was futile at best. The Huey could easily track them, and he wondered if they’d stand a better chance of surviving the next attack by leaving the canoes and diving into the river.

Vince seriously doubted that even this desperate measure would save them, and he dared to peek over his shoulder to locate the Huey. He spotted it hovering over the river, a good fifty yards farther upstream. Vince wondered if he should stop paddling, so he could reach into the folds of his nylon windbreaker and remove his 9mm Glock from its shoulder harness.

This was their last line of defense, and he had the distinct impression that the crew of the Huey was intentionally playing with them.

“Will you just look at that!” exclaimed Ron Wyatt, his excited glance focused downstream.

“Here comes the cavalry, my friend!”

Vince broke off eye contact with the Huey, and as he turned back around to see what the ranger was talking about, a formation of two helicopters filled that portion of sky almost directly ahead of them. He knew in an instant that the lead chopper was a specially modified Blackhawk belonging to the Secret Service, with the trailing aircraft sporting the characteristic boxy fuselage and dark-green-and-white paint scheme of Marine Two.

With a minimum of fanfare, the Blackhawk shot forward to engage the Huey with its chin-mounted machine gun blazing.

The Huey blindly shot off a salvo of three air-to-air rockets before breaking sharply to the east.

Vince watched as the Huey’s errant rockets streaked by the Blackhawk and harmlessly exploded into a stand of grizzled oaks.

Meanwhile, Marine Two further descended. Vince could feel the Sikorsky’s powerful downdraft as his canoe glided in beside the VP’s. Like a mother hen protecting her chicks, the immense transport helicopter initiated a protective hover above them, while all eyes focused on the Blackhawk’s continued pursuit.

Unable to outrun the Blackhawk, the Huey was headed almost due east, at an altitude of six hundred feet. A towering nine-hundred-foot limestone bluff lay immediately ahead. If the Huey didn’t gain altitude quickly, it would surely strike the bluff, and sensing that they had their quarry cornered, the Blackhawk let loose another round of machine-gun fire.

A thick column of black smoke began pouring from the

Huey’s engine, and it was obvious that it’d never generate enough power to get over the bluff. While the VP traded a high five with Ben Eberly, Vince watched the Blackhawk pass through the oily column of smoke, its machine gun blazing away with the coup de grace.

The Huey appeared to be only a few feet away from hitting the bluff, and just missed striking it by initiating a sharp, heavily banked turn to the north. Still immersed in the Huey’s trailing cloud of smoke, the Blackhawk fought to turn to the north itself, but in the process clipped the bluff with a rotor tip. For the briefest of moments, the Blackhawk appeared to be suspended in midair. But then the forces of gravity took over, and the helicopter, complete with its five-man CAT team inside, began a spiraling, uncontrolled descent.

It crashed and exploded at the foot of the bluff. From the river, Vince clearly saw the red-hot fireball, and knew in an instant that all aboard were dead. He was sickened with this realization, his grief cut short by the return of the Huey.

Their phantom attacker swept in from the north, only a few feet from the river’s surface. Smoke continued to pour from its engine, though that didn’t keep it from making its presence known with a pair of spiraling rockets. While one of these missiles exploded in a geyser of water well short of them, the other detonated in the shallows directly amidships of the VP’s canoe.

A bruising shower of pebbles rained down on both of the canoes.

All of them began paddling with renewed intensity, even with Marine Two’s sheltering presence above.

As they rounded the next bend and shot over another set of rapids, Vince spotted a clearing ahead on the right bank. There was plenty of limestone cover nearby, and he watched as the district ranger pointed to this same outcrop from the stern of the VP’s canoe.

A distance of a good three hundred yards still had to be paddled before they’d reach land, and they redoubled their efforts, taking advantage of the swift current they now found themselves in. The roar of the white water all but swallowed any evidence of Marine Two above, and Vince looked upward to determine its position. The Sikorsky had gained several hundred feet of altitude, and Vince could see one of the Marines bravely standing in the open hatch firing an assault rifle at the Huey, which was headed straight for them from upstream, machine gun blazing.

Vince fought the impulse to pull out his pistol, and he watched Marine Two selflessly position itself between their canoes and the onrushing Huey. The big green Sikorsky had no offensive weapons systems of its own, and displayed remarkable survivability as it took round after round of machine-gun fire originally meant for Vince and his group. In the end, it was a pair of air-to-air missiles that led to Marine Two’s demise, and the Sikorsky exploded and plunged nose-first into the river.

A bare one hundred yards now separated them from the protective wall of limestone rocks on the shoreline. The VP’s canoe was a boat length ahead, and Vince found himself praying that Andrew Chapman would be able to reach cover before the Huey was able to reposition itself.

A quick glance to his right showed that his prayers would never be answered. A single rocket shot out of the Huey’s starboard pod and slammed into the lead canoe. The force of this explosion was enough to split the vessel in half, and Vince looked in horror as Chapman went flying head over heels into the swift moving waters of the main channel.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Vince leaped into the river himself, just missing the rocket that incinerated his own canoe and instantly killed Ranger Ron Wyatt. As he plunged into the icy water, he was suddenly aware of the incredible force of the current. Like a powerful riptide, it sucked him downstream, and Vince fought his way to the surface.

It would be useless to swim, and he rolled over on his back to let the current take him. He shot past a series of large boulders, and was all but oblivious to his sighting of the Huey soaring close overhead, flames and thick smoke pouring from the doomed helicopter’s main cabin. Only one thing mattered, and that was locating the man whom Vince had sworn to protect with his life. He found himself issuing the briefest of prayers before lifting his head upward to scan the frothing white water directly downstream.

And it was then he spotted the body of Andrew Montgomery Chapman, facedown in the current, and the immense waterfall that he was about to be sucked over.