Nightwatch

Chapter 19

Vince estimated that they had been traveling for a good hour since their initial capture. They had been immediately blindfolded, hog-tied around the waist, and led on foot like a dog on a leash through the thick forest. After they’d been ordered not to talk, the mysterious trio who had captured them became eerily quiet too. All Vince could hear from that group was an occasional grunt or swear word, the heavy sound of breathing, and the thud of footsteps, rustling leaves, and snapping twigs underfoot.

The route they were following led away from the river. There didn’t appear to be a developed path, and shortly after the roar of the rapids faded, they began their way up a steep incline.

Vince tried his best to remain orientated, and he initiated a rough pace count, presuming they were headed in a northerly direction. The heat and humidity were intense. His clothes were soaked in sweat, his mouth bone-dry. Because of the tight blindfold, he was the victim of numerous painful encounters with projecting limbs. Thorns tore into his sunburned skin, and several times he was forced to a halt after colliding with a sapling, boulder, or root clump. No sooner did he regain his footing than he’d feel a rough jerk on the rope that was tied around his waist.

This rope was also connected to Andrew Chapman, who followed several feet behind.

At first Vince toyed with the idea of directly challenging the trio and asking for mercy. Yet he was unable to forget their forceful order for silence, and he decided instead to hold his tongue for the moment. One good thing was that they hadn’t immediately executed them. He supposed they were in league with the personnel aboard the black Huey, and that both Vince and the Vice President were going to be held hostage. In such situations, discretion was most often the best policy, and Vince could only hope that they’d eventually get a chance to plead their case with the ringleader of this mysterious group.

With this hope in mind, Vince tried his best to remain as calm as possible. He would need a level head to talk their way out of this fix, and he attempted to soothe his anxieties by focusing on the soothing sounds and scents of the encircling forest.

He could hear the warm wind blowing through the thick, leaf filled boughs above, and the creaking of swaying limbs. The hum of cicadas was ever-present and all-powerful, with buzzing insects and singing birds adding their voices to this pastoral symphony.

The clean, moist scent of the woods was the fragrance of life itself. It was in vast contrast to the sour odor exuding from the men who had captured them. They could use a good wash, stinking as they did of sweat, tobacco, and red meat. Back in Vietnam, Vince had learned that such a distinctive smell would often give away an American soldier long before he was seen or heard. That was one of the primary reasons the Green Berets had adopted a native diet whenever possible.

Knowing full well that he’d have to tap many of the lessons learned in combat in order to persevere in this situation, Vince was forced to a sudden halt by a tug on the rope behind him, accompanied by the loud rustling of underbrush and a frustrated curse from the lips of Andrew Chapman.

“For God’s sake, I’m caught up in a damned thorn bush! Will somebody help me?” pleaded the VP.

“Shut your trap, Bubba, and quit whining!” ordered one of the hostage takers from the back of the line.

“If you’d just hold still a sec, I’ll cut you loose.”

Vince fought the urge to share an encouraging word with the VP, and he listened to the distinctive click of a folding knife being snapped open, followed by the sounds of limbs being sawed. Fifteen anxious seconds later, a rough pull on the rope around his waist signaled Vince that it was time to continue moving forward once again.

It took fifty-seven more painful paces to complete their climb.

This put them on a relatively flat ridge, which they followed to the east for another sixty paces before heading down into a steep ravine.

A barking dog greeted them as they reached the bottom of the hollow. The heavy scent of smoke was in the air, and Vince knew they were approaching a campsite of some sort upon hearing a barely audible, static-filled version of Rush Limbaugh’s radio show.

An earthen path conveyed them up a short rise and into the wide mouth of a cave. The air temperature noticeably dropped, and Vince dared to shorten his stride and bend over, ever fearful of striking his head on a projecting obstacle.

As he heard the hollow sound of dripping water nearby, the overpowering stench of putrid, rotting flesh enveloped him. The air temperature further plunged, and Vince had the distinct impression that they had just stepped into a subterranean meat locker of some sort.

“Sit, wait, and keep your big traps shut!” directed one of their escorts.

They did as ordered, seating themselves on a cool, moist shelf of rock, that one of their captors led them to. Vince began shivering, and he fought back the urge to wretch, so powerful was the scent of death that continued to fill the air here.

A good ten minutes passed before the echoes of a barking dog signaled the arrival of a newcomer. This individual announced his presence with a loud, commanding voice, which was initially directed at his snarling canine companion.

“Satan, shut the fuck up!”

“Look what we pulled outta the river. Pa,” said one of the hostage takers with obvious pride.

“I can’t see much of anything. Junior, with those damn blindfolds covering their faces. Remove the dang things.”

There was a blinding cone of white light as Vince’s blindfold was yanked off, and he found himself staring into the beam of a powerful flashlight. He could see only the outlines of a group of men standing before him and the VP, though he was able to confirm that they were indeed deep in a cave. Stalactites hung from the jagged roof, and Vince soon tracked down the source of the putrid stench — a pair of partially butchered deer carcasses hanging from a nearby crossbeam.

Out of the corner of his eye Vince could see Andrew Chapman, perched on the ledge behind him. Except for a nasty cut on his cheek, the VP appeared to be in one piece, and Vince expressed his relief with a long sigh.

“Junior, you son of a bitch!” shouted the booming voice of the newcomer, who was more astonished than angry.

“Do you realize who that is?”

“Ain’t it two Feds, Pa?”

“That’s just not any Fed, boy. That’s fucking Andrew Chapman, the Vice President.”

Vince squinted in a vain effort to see beyond the blinding light, and he noted that the beam had begun shaking wildly.

“C.J.” I told you there was something’ special about these two!”

“That you did. Junior,” replied a hoarse, high-pitched voice.

“Well, Amos,” said another voice, this one deep and resonant, “you always did say that if you ever met this goddamn tree hugger face-to-face, you’d put a bullet through his head.”

The crisp, metallic sound of a rifle bolt chambering a round was heard, followed once more by the individual with the deep, resonant voice.

“Here’s my thirty-thirty, old man. Fire away!”