Nightwatch

Chapter 15

The waterfall was steeper and more powerful than Vince had expected, and he found himself being pulled over the brink, his body somersaulting through the spray like a soaked rag doll. It seemed to take an eternity to hit the pool below, and when he finally struck solid water, he was sucked into the mouth of a swirling whirlpool. No matter how hard he kicked or stroked with his arms, he was powerless to escape the maelstrom, and he would most likely have drowned if the river hadn’t freed him on its own volition.

He broke the surface, desperately gasping for air. After momentarily gagging on all the river water he had swallowed, he cleared his lungs, and only then did he remember his duty.

His search of the pool was blessedly brief, for he located the Vice President on his very first sweep. Andrew Chapman was floating facedown beside a sandy portion of riverbank. He wasn’t moving, and Vince sprinted over to assist him, using an overhead-crawl swimming stroke.

The first thing he did was turn Chapman over. The VP’s face was ghostly pale, his lips were blue, and he didn’t appear to be breathing. The water was shallow enough for Vince to stand, and he began CPR right there in the river.

Because hypothermia was also a concern, Vince slowly worked his way over to the bank, all the while continuing the resuscitation effort. He stopped only long enough to drag the VP’s body up onto dry land, then redoubled his efforts with renewed intensity. He blew breath after breath between Chapman’s frigid lips, and when this failed to get him breathing, Vince rolled the VP over and pushed down hard on his lower rib cage. Water streamed out of Chapman’s mouth, and Vince rolled him over onto his back and reinitiated CPR, this time halting every sixth breath to massage his patient’s heart.

“Come on,” he urged between breaths.

“Nobody dies on my watch!”

This declaration was seemingly answered by Chapman when his stomach muscles began to spasm. His lungs heaved upward, and after vomiting an incredible amount of fluid, the Vice President of the United States began breathing on his own.

Vince fought the temptation to hug the man, and instead focused his attention on getting him as warm as possible. A massive cottonwood currently shaded them. Noting that the clearing faced the southwest, Vince realized that all they needed to do was relocate a few feet away, to be directly in the sun’s powerful rays while still benefiting from the cover of the cottonwood’s branches. He didn’t know who else could be out there.

He helped Chapman sit up before dragging him over the sand and propping him up against the cottonwood trunk. The sunlight’s effect was instantaneous, and Vince felt his own chill dissipate.

“Damn it, Kellogg,” the VP managed to say while regaining his strength.

“Who the hell is trying to kill us?”

Vince was thinking about this very same thing, and already focusing on security concerns, he plunged his hand beneath his windbreaker, then cursed upon finding his holster empty.

“I must have lost my weapon after following you over the waterfall,” Vince noted, pulling out a soggy cigar from his breast pocket.

“Don’t you know that smoking is hazardous to your health, Special Agent?” said the VP, his usual sharp wit already on the rebound.

Vince took a fond look at the wet stogie and reluctantly flung it into the underbrush.

“Our esteemed SAIC gave it to me, to celebrate my anniversary.”

“I wonder what Samuel Morrison the second would make of our current predicament,” Chapman said.

“Didn’t any of our party make it?”

Vince surveyed the river and somberly shook his head.

“It sure doesn’t look that way. And what scares the hell out of me is that our ground-based CAT teams have also apparently been eliminated. It was nothing short of a damn slaughter!”

“I never realized the true extent of the resentment that the locals must have built up against the Federal government,” said the VP.

“But where did they get that helicopter?”

Vince’s reply was cut short by a sudden rustling noise in the underbrush. He put his finger to his lips for silence, and reached down to grab a broken tree limb, the only available weapon.

“Drop it, Bubba, and down on your knees!” ordered a strong male voice.

Five shotgun-toting individuals emerged from the surrounding cover. Each of them wore camouflaged coveralls, with faces colored in green, brown, and black greasepaint.

“Are you deaf, Bubba? I said drop it and kneel!” repeated the stranger, who backed up this command with a deafening burst of his 12 gauge.