Nightwatch

Chapter 28

They used an improvised field stretcher constructed out of salvaged canoe paddles and fishing line to carry Lewis Marvin from the crash site. Vince noted the severe burns that covered Marvin’s backside as they pulled him from the underbrush. The rear portion of his flight suit was burned away, revealing raw, burned skin, and when they initially moved him, he howled in pain and slipped into unconsciousness.

He remained unconscious for the entire hike into the hollow.

Vince suspected he was in shock and that, in addition to the burns, he had severe internal injuries as well. Marvin would need immediate medical attention. Yet because of their isolated location and the hostile nature of their escorts, getting him to a doctor was doubtful. All that Vince could do was keep him as comfortable as possible, and try to attend to his wounds once they were at the campsite.

Junior was particularly anxious to have his father question their new prisoner. Marvin was apparently the first solid evidence proving the existence of the dreaded UN-sponsored, One World/ Black Helicopter conspiracy. Vince’s previous acquaintance with Marvin only served to fuel Junior’s paranoia, and Vince could only hope that he’d get a chance to clarify their relationship. Of course, he was equally interested in learning all about Marvin’s involvement with the ambush.

One of Vince’s greatest fears was how Andrew Chapman had fared during their hike to the river. He was afraid that the VP might have further incurred the wrath of his captors and had been subsequently shot. He was thus pleasantly surprised when they entered the campsite and found Chapman alive and well, in the midst of a spirited game of checkers with Amos Stoddard.

The checker players were seated on the wooden porch of a small, ramshackle cabin. There was an open Mason jar filled with a clear liquid substance beside them, with Satan snuggled up alongside Andrew Chapman’s outstretched feet.

Just as Vince and his party emerged from the forest with Marvin in tow, Amos completed an eagerly anticipated triple jump, wiping the last of the VP’s checkers from the board.

“You might be a devious politician,” shouted Amos in triumph, “but you sure are a lousy checkers player.”

Satan began barking to announce the newcomers, prompting Tiny to exit the cabin. The tall, potbellied redhead with the inappropriate name carried a shotgun, and he called out to Junior in a deep, resonant voice.

“Who are ya carryin’ in that stretcher. Junior? Don’t tell me you went and snagged the President?”

Junior ignored this facetious remark, and instead excitedly addressed his father.

“Pa, it’s a United Nations storm trooper! We practically pulled him right out of his black helicopter on the banks of the Eleven Point.”

They lowered the stretcher onto the porch, and both Amos, Tiny, and Andrew Chapman examined the ashen-faced man whom it carried. Marvin remained unconscious, and his quick, shallow breaths and cold, clammy skin didn’t bode well for his continued survival.

“Could someone please get him some water?” Vince pleaded.

Miriam put down the SATCOM to fulfill this request, while Junior said, “Our Fed knows him. Pa. They’re most likely in cahoots together.”

“His name’s Lewis Marvin,” Vince interjected.

“We served together in Vietnam. The last time I saw him was some thirty years ago. He was on his way into Cambodia for a Search and Rescue mission. Not a single member of his unit ever came back, with Marvin himself listed as missing in action.”

Amos snickered.

“SAR mission, my ass. He was no doubt part of the CIA’s secret war, and they purposely listed him MIA to use him for other clandestine operations, like the one he’s currently involved with.”

“Though I was too young to serve in Vietnam,” interrupted Andrew Chapman, “I got a chance to serve on a Senate Intelligence committee during my stint in Congress that was tasked with investigating the CIA’s involvement in the war. I have no doubt that they were indeed involved in some activities that were never reported to the American people.”

“Yeah, like selling opium on the streets of America to finance their One World agenda,” Amos retorted.

“I never saw any proof that such a thing ever occurred,” replied Chapman.

“That’s ‘cause you’re either a fellow conspirator or dumb enough to believe their doublespeak,” said Amos.

“You politicians are all alike. You’ve sold out to other interests, forgetting that your true purpose is to serve the people.”

“I beg to differ with you,” countered Chapman.

“You’re making an unfair generalization.”

Amos spat at Chapman’s feet.

“Like hell I am! You’re nothing but a bunch of self-serving crooks. It’s time to clean out Washington, and tar and feather the whole lot of you.”

“You can do that with your vote,” said the VP.

Vince didn’t like the direction this argument was taking, and he cringed when Amos Stoddard began laughing wickedly.

“Like this country has ever seen a fair election,” said Amos, looking directly at the VP.

“We might be poor, but we ain’t stupid.

The only candidate who wins is the one that best serves the corporate. One World interest. Us folks at the bottom of the economy don’t have any real say in the government. We’re too busy fighting to survive, and ‘cause we never had the time for a decent education, the system has passed us right by. The trouble with you politicians is that you’ve lost touch with the American heartland, and deserve to be shot for your inattention.”

Tiny alertly rammed a shell into the barrel of his shotgun and offered it to Amos, saying, “Come on, old man. It’s time to back up those bold words of yours with some action. Let’s shoot the Federal bastards.”

“Yeah, Pa,” Junior put in.

“Now’s our chance to really make a difference.”

Vince knew it was time to intercede and defuse this volatile situation, and as he was mentally formulating a strategy to do so, Lewis Marvin began to stir. He issued a low moan, and when his eyes opened, Vince took advantage of his return to consciousness to divert attention from the VP.

“Lewis, it’s Vince Kellogg from A Company, First Battalion, Third Group.”

Marvin’s bloodshot eyes slowly focused on Vince, and he didn’t appear to display the least hint of recognition, prompting Vince to add, “Our teams were assigned to the Rung Sat Special Zone together, under Colonel Sharp.”

“That bastard,” cursed Marvin, his hoarse voice but a whisper.

“It were pencil-dicked sons of bitches like Sharp who lost the war for us. Jesus, Kellogg, it looks like I really screwed the pooch this time. What the hell are you doing out here in these infernal woods?”

“I was all set to ask you the same question, Lewis. I was part of the canoe convoy you attacked.”

Marvin winced in pain, and as he struggled to scan the faces of those gathered around him, his stare finally halted on Andrew Chapman.

“So you were hanging out with the likes of him,” he said, his vehement hatred of the Vice President most obvious.

“I’m working for the Secret Service now, Lewis, and for the most part, it was my team that you managed to slaughter.”

Miriam arrived with some water, and Marvin took a drink and began coughing violently. Vince waited for this spell to pass before continuing.

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but what did you hope to prove with this act of cold-blooded murder?”

Marvin redirected his gaze back to Vince.

“I call it fulfilling my sworn duty to God and country. I see that you’re still part of the problem, Kellogg. If I remember correctly, you always were the type of gung-ho soldier who truly believed in the legitimacy of your orders. I was privileged to learn otherwise.

“It’s no different today, and I’m proud of the movement I serve. Your boss and the administration he represents are the real enemies, Kellogg. They’re in the process of selling us out, with the Union at risk like never before.”

Marvin hesitated for a moment to catch his breath, then said, “It’s not too late to join us, Kellogg. But don’t tarry, for the time to act is now. Someday the patriots gathered beneath Freeman shall be likened to Washington’s men at Valley Forge. Though this time our mortal enemy stands elected amongst us.”

Marvin pointed directly at Andrew Chapman, and tapping his last reservoir of strength, he struggled to sit up, all the while reaching out toward the astounded VP with his outstretched arm.

“Damn you!” he cursed, his voice quivering with rage.

“Because of you, the greatest nation ever to grace God’s good earth shall be no more!”

Another coughing fit possessed him, and before Vince could assist him, blood started to flow from his nose and mouth.

“Eternal vigilance is the price of our freedom!” he managed, before his body began convulsing in the first throes of death.

It took several minutes for him to die, and it was Vince who shut his eyelids for the final time.

“What in the world was he talking about?” asked Andrew Chapman, clearly traumatized by this confusing encounter.

“It appears that someone else is aware of your traitorous ways,” observed Amos.

“Because now it looks like you have stolen not only our land, but the rest of the nation along with it.”

“Cut the crap!” Chapman protested.

“There’s no damned conspiracy!”

“I don’t suppose any of you can explain what Marvin was referring to when he mentioned the patriots gathered beneath Freeman?” Vince questioned, ignoring the VP’s outburst.

“Is Freeman a local landmark of some sort?”

“Freeman Hollow is located just south of here, in the heart of the Irish Wilderness,” Miriam told him.

“The Tater Hill swamp lights!” exclaimed Junior.

“Pa, that’s where you saw the UFO.”

Amos shut his son up with a single menacing stare. The damage already done, Amos looked at Vince and explained what Junior was talking about.

“We suspected that the black helicopters could be operating out of Freeman Hollow for some time now.”

Vince sensed the legitimacy of this revelation, and he tried his best to voice himself with sincerity.

“I realize that I’m asking a lot, but if you can just take me to this hollow, I’ll do my best to determine if a clandestine military group is really operating out there.”

“And if there is?” asked Amos, his tone noticeably softening.

“Then you’ve got my word that I’ll do everything within my power to halt its operation, and after exposing it to the authorities of your choice, I’ll be right there to wipe it out,” promised Vince, who sensed that a deal was already in the making.

” Iron man One General Spencer, we’re receiving flash traffic from Cheyenne Mountain.”

Lowell Spencer received this intercom page while stealing a spare moment to eat a pasta salad in the crew’s rest area, immediately behind TACAMO’s flight deck. He pushed away the partially consumed meal, scooted out from the fold-down table, and headed aft into the next compartment, where his five-person battle staff was stationed.

Spencer’s vacant console occupied the forward right-hand position. His SIOP and Air Launch Control System advisors were already seated beside it, with his team chief, senior NCO, and Airborne Communications Officer positioned on the other side of the compartment. As Spencer buckled himself into his padded command chair and put on his headset, his ACO addressed him.

“Sir, NORAD reports a confirmed missile launch from the Russian ICBM base in Tyuratam.”

Spencer hastily read the data that began filling his display screen. It was a copy of the original warning order that was broadcast from NORAD’s missile-warning center, situated beneath Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. The data indicated that approximately ninety seconds ago, the sensors of a Code 647 Defense Support Program satellite known as DSP East had picked up the hot plume of a single ICBM leaving the lower atmosphere.

If this missile was armed with a nuclear warhead and headed for the continental United States, it could reach its target in less than thirty minutes, and Spencer reacted accordingly.

“Major Childless,” he said to his SIOP advisor, “what do we know about the launch site?”

“It’s an active ICBM field, sir, that reportedly houses thirty six long-range SS-18s and a dozen SS-11s.”

“I don’t suppose the Russians announced any pre scheduled missile tests for today?” continued Spencer.

Childress alertly answered, “That’s a negative, sir.”

Lowell Spencer was a thirty-year Air Force veteran who had begun his career flying B-52s for Curtis LeMay’s Strategic Air Command. An active participant in the Cold War, he had shared in many similar alerts, though none with circumstances quite like this one.

“Considering that this is indeed a belligerent launch. Major, why only a single missile?” Spencer asked.

Childress thought for a moment before responding.

“I’d say that it’s all part of a carefully orchestrated counterforce strike, sir. Since they’ve already eliminated our Commanderin-Chief, and attempted to take out our Trident alert platform, all they’d need to do is hit us with a high-altitude nuclear burst to create enough Electro-Magnetic Pulse to negate our command and control ability.”

“General,” interrupted the ACO.

“NORAD reports that the Russian ICBM has completed its post-boost phase and is initiating a polar trajectory.”

“That gives us twenty-five minutes at best to respond, sir,” Major Childress reminded him.

“I advise sending an immediate EAM to the Rhode Island, and ordering our strategic forces to DEFCON Two.”

“Unfortunately, that decision is not ours to make. Major,” said Spencer.

“It’s time to contact Nightwatch. They’ve got the ball, and it’s our esteemed Chairman who’s going to be calling the plays.”

It was Red who fielded the urgent call from Iron Man One. News of the Russian missile launch had already reached Nightwatch, and the Chairman readily listened to General Spencer’s somber assessment of the situation.

“I agree wholeheartedly, Lowell,” said Warner into a handset.

“Under the circumstances, it’s only prudent to change our alert status to DEFCON Two. Though for the life of me, I still can’t believe this is really a legitimate Russian attack. You also have my permission to convey an EAM to the Rhode Island. If we are forced to retaliate, that should give Captain Lockwood enough time to wrap up repairs and spin up his missiles.”

There could be no mistaking the solemn expression that graced Wamer’s face when he hung up the phone and addressed Red.

“Sergeant, get Colonel Pritchard and Commander Cooper down here on the double, and have them meet me at the emergency action safe. And where the hell is that secure line to General Zhukov that I asked for?”

Barely a minute after General Spencer had completed his conversation with Nightwatch, TACAMO prepared to contact the Rhode Island. From the state-of-the-art glass cockpit, the flight crew got a clear view of the sparkling waters of the Atlantic below. No surface vessels of any sort were visible, the platform they were tasked to communicate with lying deep below the ocean’s surface.

“Orbit entry checklist complete,” said the pilot into his chin mike.

“Okay, Reels, you have access.”

“Roger,” answered the reel operator from his console at the rear of the aircraft.

“Short wire’s on its way.”

In order for their radio signal to penetrate the ocean depths, a pair of thin wire antennas had to be extended from TACAMO’s belly. The short wire extended five thousand feet from the tail, and over two hundred thousand watts were needed to power it.

“Long wire’s on its way,” the reel operator next reported.

This antenna was over twenty-five thousand feet long, and was pulled from a huge spool that was stored just aft of the reel operator’s position. It formed a giant dipole with the shorter “hot” wire, and produced the actual VLF waveform.

“Both wires are out and parked,” reported the reel operator.

“Flight, you have access.”

“Roger,” acknowledged the pilot, who guided the aircraft into a steeply banked, racetrack orbit, so that the drogue-stabilized long wire would point toward the ocean’s surface.

“It’s all yours, Comm,” he added into his chin mike.

“Roger; bring up the Power Amplifier,” instructed the AGO from his V-shaped console located aft of Spencer’s battle-staff compartment.

“pa’s coming up,” the flight technician reported.

“Full power, two hundred.”

“Roger. Send it!” ordered the AGO.

“Conn, Radio. We’re receiving flash traffic. Emergency Action Message! Recommend Alert One!”

Captain Terence McNeil Lockwood listened to this excited intercom page from his command position inside the submarine’s control room. He had only just returned from Sonar, where most of the damage from their recent collision was confined, and upon hearing this dreaded announcement, he raced toward the radio room.

It was at the OP CON — a cramped compartment featuring a small three-person booth and a console topped with a trio of locked safes labeled top secret — that Lockwood was joined by his XO and his radio officer. They held the telegram-sized EAM, which had just been torn off the radio console’s printer.

“Sir,” said the XO, “we have a properly formatted Emergency Action Message from the National Command Authority, for strategic missile launch.”

“I concur, sir,” said the radio officer.

“Captain, request permission to authenticate,” stated the XO.

“Permission granted,” returned Lockwood.

The sealed packet holding the authenticator card was removed from the largest of the three safes. The XO tore open the packet, removed the card, and held it up against the EAM.

“Alpha, Tango, Alpha, Charlie, Echo, Echo, Bravo,” read the XO.

The radio officer checked the authenticator card himself and repeated this sequence, prompting the XO to report, “The message is authentic. Captain.”

“I agree,” said the radio officer.

Lockwood was the picture of composure as he doublechecked the EAM and reached up for the nearest intercom handset to address the crew over the 1MC.

“Men of the Rhode Island, this is your Captain. The release of nuclear weapons has been authorized. Man battle stations for strategic missile launch. Spin up all missiles.”