Nightwatch

Chapter 45

“Well, I think someone should go down there and check on his condition,” said Lucky from the copilot’s seat.

“It’s not like Coach to go and get sick like that.”

Major Owen Lassiter was seated beside Lucky, and the pallid faced backup pilot voiced himself while reaching up to make a minor adjustment to the navigation display.

“None of us are immune to food poisoning. Captain. It can strike without warning, and take down the most healthy of individuals. I’ll never forget my honeymoon in Acapulco, when I came down with the worst bout of diarrhea of my life. Poor Peggy, ‘cause I didn’t leave the toilet for three whole days.”

“Ole Montezuma’s revenge,” mused Jake Lasky, their current flight engineer.

“Yes, I know it well.”

“That’s only to be expected when eating in Mexico,” countered Lucky as he pushed back his chin mike.

“But all of us ate the same chow this evening, and none of us got sick.”

“Look, Captain, I’m only passing on what the Op chief told me,” Lassiter retorted, a caustic edge to his voice.

“And the initial prognosis was that Major Foard has come down with food poisoning, and that he’s resting in the Chairman’s stateroom.”

“Come to think of it. Lucky,” offered Jake, “Coach did order his club sandwich without bacon. I bet it was made especially for him, and that’s why none of us hog eaters came down with the runs. It only further proves my case that health diets are nothing but dangerous fads, and that a body needs a variety of nutrients.”

Lucky adamantly shook his head.

“I wouldn’t go that far, Jake. There are some foods that are—”

“Gentlemen,” interrupted Lassiter, “would you mind piping down and keeping the idle chatter to a minimum? A guy can’t get a moment’s peace up here.”

No sooner were these words spoken, than the nasally voice of the AGO broke over the intercom.

“Plight, prepare for wire out and the transmission of flash traffic.”

“Roger, Comm,” replied Lassiter into his chin mike.

“Initiating orbit entry checklist.”

Nowhere was the order to prepare for wire-out and the transmission of flash traffic met with more dread than in the 747’s forward entry area. It was here beside the galley, in a small private nook reserved for the Operations staff, that Brittany and Red had gathered, on the pretense of taking a coffee break.

“I tell you. Red, I feel totally out of the loop,” revealed Brittany, a mug of steaming black coffee cradled in her hands.

“The Chairman and Major Hewlett have been playing their cards extremely close to their vests. They won’t even include me in the standard SIOP briefings, and I’m afraid they suspect something.”

“Don’t feel alone. Commander,” replied Red as she finished stirring her hot chocolate.

“For the first time in the entire flight, neither I nor Sergeant Schuster is being allowed to place the Chairman’s phone calls. From what I understand. Major Hewlett is making them personally, leading me to believe that our SIOP advisor is an inside player.”

“If only Coach were here with us. He’d know what to do next,” Brittany said worriedly.

“Food poisoning, indeed,” retorted Red with a disgusted shake of her head.

“That has to be one of the lamest excuses I’ve ever heard. He looked perfectly fine the last time we saw him. And what’s this I hear about Coach being allowed to recuperate in the Chairman’s stateroom?”

Brittany sighed.

“Before meeting you here, I took a stroll by Warner’s quarters. Coach appears to be in there, all right, along with an armed sentry outside and a do not disturb sign posted on the closed door. They must have caught him red-handed talking with General Spencer, and then placed him in detention.”

Red’s troubled expression suddenly brightened, and she put down her drink, bent forward, and whispered, “You know, there’s a way to get into that stateroom without going through the front door. The majority of my transmitters are located in the forward lower equipment area, directly below us. Behind the SHF SATCOM transponder is an access shaft, utilized both for ventilation and to hold power conduit. It’s designed to fit a single individual, with iron footholds extending up the shaft, which extends right past the Chairman’s stateroom, before terminating behind the flight deck.”

“That’s certainly good to know. Red. But before we’re forced to go to such a dangerous extreme, I’ll see if I can get some additional information on the nature of this flash traffic we’re about to send. If it’s indeed Yankee Hotel, our first priority should be to warn General Spencer.”

Both of them had to reach out and grab their mugs when the aircraft suddenly initiated a steeply banked turn, this extreme maneuver but a precursor to the tight racetrack orbit that was next on their flight plan.

“Orbit entry checklist complete,” came Owen Lassiter’s flat voice over the conference room’s intercom.

“Wire-out in three minutes and counting.”

The Chairman expectantly met the glance of his SIOP advisor, who was seated to his right, a laptop computer open on the table in front of him.

“So the moment of truth is almost upon us, Major. When we originally made the difficult decision to support the movement, we knew there was the possibility that this dark hour would come. Brave Americans have already died, and now it looks like many more are about to join them. But such is the steep price of our continued liberty.”

The sharp angle of the airplane’s canted deck further steepened, and the Chairman alertly reached out and grabbed his fountain pen before it slid off the table.

“Let’s get on with it,” he said with a heavy sigh.

“Bring up Yankee Hotel on your screen. I want to take another look at that warhead selection.”

Hewlett addressed his keyboard, and the monitor filled with a complicated targeting graphic, with the heading yankee hotel emblazoned in red at the top of the page. To better see it, the Chairman slipped off his bifocals, then scanned the screen, thoughtfully rubbing his temples.

“I realize it appears to be a major overkill just to eliminate a single individual,” remarked Hewlett.

“But now that we’re certain Chapman is contained inside the wilderness area, we’re going to need, at the very least, three lOOkt MIRVs (Multiple Independently targe table Reentry Vehicles) to ensure complete saturation.”

“And the number again on the estimated civilian casualties?”

asked the Chairman.

“If we strike sometime within the next couple of hours, we can take advantage of favorable meteorological conditions to guarantee minimal fallout drift. The last weather report showed continued high pressure over the target area, with light, westerly winds prevailing.”

Hewlett looked up from the screen, and made certain to directly meet the Chairman’s gaze before adding, “Since St. Louis and Memphis are at the extreme edges of the fallout envelope, I believe the number of immediate fatalities can be kept below five thousand, with long-term radiation exposure limited to the towns of Poplar Bluff, Sikeston, Paducah, Bowling Green, and Memphis.”

“That’s a hell of a price to pay for one man,” commented the Chairman.

“But at the moment, we have no other options. If we don’t get back on schedule, this entire operation is threatened, and until we get positive confirmation that Chapman’s dead, we need this strike to be one hundred percent certain. Now, what’s the word from FEMA?”

“Sir, the Director is prepared to issue an immediate press release blaming the blast on an explosion at an experimental nuclear reactor site located at a heretofore-top-secret Department of Energy research facility buried beneath the Mark Twain National Forest. The Secretary of Energy will support this claim, and will issue her own press release shortly after General Clayton at NORAD announces news of the test of a high-altitude. Star Warstype antimissile weapon off the coast of Georgia and the subsequent crash of Iron Man One. He’ll note that all other details must, of course, remain classified.”

“To think that such a tragic accident will be responsible for taking the life of that esteemed hero of the Cold War, General Lowell Spencer,” mused the Chairman, whose further comments were cut short by an unexpected knock on the conference room door.

Brittany poked her head inside and nervously cleared her throat.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said before entering the room.

“What the hell do you want. Commander?” barked the Chairman.

“Can’t you see that we’re up to our necks with work in here?”

“That’s just it, sir,” returned Brittany, holding a legal pad and a pair of pens in her hand.

“I understand that we’re about to transmit an EAM, and as part of the SIOP team, I was wondering what I can do to assist you.”

The Chairman shook his head in disgust.

“Your services aren’t needed at the moment. Commander. So get out of here, and shut that door behind you.”

Brittany had already noted that Hewlett’s laptop was activated, though from this distance she was unable to get a clear look at the flickering screen. Well aware of the steeply canted deck, and determined to secure a closer look at the monitor’s contents, she “accidentally” dropped her pens. As calculated, they rolled down the slick linoleum floor, passing beneath both the Chairman’s and Hewlett’s outstretched feet.

Both of them bent over to retrieve the fallen writing instruments, giving Brittany the opportunity to take several quick steps forward and hurriedly scan the screen. She was able to make out only the two words emblazoned in crimson type at the head of the page before Hewlett emerged with her pens. Stunned by that which she had seen, she mumbled apologies, excused herself, and headed at once to Red’s console in Operations.

Brittany’s startling findings in the conference room gave Red no choice but to risk contacting General Spencer. She accessed a Milstar relay satellite to reach Iron Man One as it was flying over the Atlantic, some two hundred and fifty miles off the coast of southern Georgia.

As it turned out. Spencer was anxiously awaiting her call, and Red was able to confidently relate the strange facts regarding Coach’s detention, and the alarming nature of the EAM that Nightwatch was preparing to send. Spencer was particularly interested in the EAM’s contents, and one mention by Red that it concerned Yankee Hotel, and was about to be transmitted to the U.S.S. Rhode Island, was enough to cause the General to ask for additional details.

Red’s reply was cut short by the hard barrel of a pistol shoved painfully into the back of her ribs. At the same time, the line with TACAMO went dead, and Red anticipated the worst, when Hewlett’s gravelly voice urgently whispered into her ear.

“Sergeant, I think you know what this is all about. So either you can come with me quietly and no one else has to see this pistol, or you can resist and be shot. The choice is yours, ma’am, but please make it quickly.”