Nightwatch

Chapter 2

The first of a flight of two U.S. Air Force C-17 cargo aircraft landed on the main runway with the barest of jolts. There was a deep, growling roar as its thrust reversers were activated, and the stubby, high-winged, T-tailed jet ground to a halt using less than a third of the runway’s ten-thousand-foot-long expanse.

Instead of continuing on to the main terminal, the C-17 followed a pair of black Zil police sedans to an isolated apron. Here, beside an immense hangar guarded by dozens of armed soldiers, the Air Mobility Command airplane braked to a final halt and shut down its four Pratt & Whitney engines.

A side hatch, positioned immediately behind the cockpit, cracked open and a pair of airmen in green flight suits deployed a self-contained stairway. While one of the Zil sedans pulled up to these stairs, a tall, solidly built black man wearing a superbly tailored pinstriped suit made his appearance in the hatchway.

Samuel Forrest Morrison II had experienced enough flying for one day. Since leaving Andrews eleven hours ago, the Special Agent in Charge of the President’s Secret Service detail had been confined to the C-17’s noisy hold. Except for a single trip to the cockpit to witness one of the two aerial refuelings that they had undergone, this had been the extent of his wanderings, and he couldn’t wait to get some fresh air and properly stretch his long legs.

It was only too obvious that summer had arrived in Ukraine, and the hot, humid air outside reminded Morrison of the weather he had just left behind in Washington, D.C. Towering, dark gray cumulus clouds dominated the western horizon, and it appeared that it was only a matter of time before the heavens would open up. The SAIC hoped this shower would hold off until his preparations here were complete, and he glanced down at his watch, noting that he had a little less than two hours before Air Force One arrived.

A short, balding figure dressed in a dark brown suit exited the Zil. It had been nine months since Morrison had last worked with Alexi Kosygin, co-head of the Russian President’s security staff. A former Spetsnaz commando, Kosygin was a likable, efficient chap, and the SAIC knew that he was very fortunate to have drawn his services.

“Special Agent Morrison,” greeted Kosygin in passable English.

“Let me be the first to welcome you to the Rodina.”

The SAIC replied after climbing down the stairway and accepting a firm hug and a kiss on each cheek.

“It’s good to see you again. Comrade.”

“I do hope that your flight went well,” said Kosygin, his glance drawn to the C-17’s tail as its rear loading ramp began opening.

“I understand that your Boeing C-17 is a most amazing plane.”

Morrison nodded.

“They’re something special, all right, though not quite up to Air Force One’s standards when it comes down to the creature comforts. If we have the time, I’m certain that the flight crew would be happy to give you a tour.”

The deep growl of whining jet engines caused both men to look over at the adjoining runway, where the second C-17 had just touched down. It too stopped well short of the runway’s end, prompting the Russian to shake his head in admiration.

“That bird’s carrying the limos and our communications van,” revealed the SAIC.

“We had to fight the temptation to load all of our seven vehicles into one aircraft.”

“Why take the chance of carrying all your eggs in one basket when you have the luxury of a backup?” Kosygin mused.

As the newly arrived C-17 headed toward them, a large group of clean-cut men and women dressed in black fatigues climbed down the rear cargo ramp of Morrison’s aircraft. They carried black, padded weapons bags at their sides, and the SAIC identified them as members of his Secret Service Counter Assault Team.

While the first of three black Chevrolet Suburbans was driven down the C-17’s ramp, Morrison and Kosygin walked over to the nearby hangar, where an operations room had been set up. Waiting for them inside the cavernous structure was Nikolai Zinoviev, security chief of Ukraine’s National Police Force. A pencil-thin skeleton of a man, Zinoviev wore a baggy gray suit that hung limply on his gangly frame. Morrison had previously worked with him on a counterfeiting case, and remembered well the skinny Ukrainian’s piercing blue eyes and bushy handlebar mustache.

He also couldn’t forget the man’s excellent British-accented English, and his utter embarrassment when Morrison’s investigation had revealed the lead counterfeiter to be a senior policeman on Zinoviev’s own stuff.

After a rather unenthusiastic greeting, Zinoviev escorted them into a vacant conference room. Not bothering to offer any refreshments, he walked over to a display board and pulled back the white sheet that had been draped over it. This revealed a detailed topographic map covering the southern half of the Crimean Peninsula.

“The primary motorcade route that we decided upon remains unchanged,” said Zinoviev while using his bony index finger to point out a roadway that was highlighted in red and stretched from Simferopol Airport southeast to the Black Sea coast.

“Our public-works personnel worked tirelessly these last few weeks, and I’m proud to report that the road project has been successfully completed. The President of the United States shall have a freshly paved, two-lane highway for his exclusive use, as his motorcade initiates the nineteen-and-a-half-kilometer drive to our President’s dacha outside Alushta.”

For the past month, Morrison had extensively studied this same route, and even though he knew it almost as well as the way from his home in Chevy Chase to the White House, he approached the map and questioned, “What about the new bridge over the Salgir River? As of three days ago, my survey team indicated that the span was still incomplete.”

“It’s apparent you haven’t spoken with them since,” said Zinoviev, trying his best not to boast.

“Regardless of the unseasonable late-spring rains, and the worst flooding in a century, your President shall have nothing but new pavement to travel upon during his drive to the coast.”

Morrison had yet to contact his pre placed security forces for a final update, and ever hopeful that he now had one less potential problem area to worry about, the SAIC addressed his Russian colleague.

“Alexi, I don’t suppose that your boss has gone and altered his travel plans any.”

“The old man’s at sea even as we speak,” answered Kosygin.

“He left Odessa at daybreak, and at last report, his destroyer was passing Yalta. I can only thank my lucky stars that I wasn’t picked to accompany him. After what we went through last fall aboard the QE2. I plan to make good my promise never to sail a body of water bigger than my bathtub.”

Morrison issued forth a laugh that would have done James Earl Jones proud.

“Tell me about it, my friend. I think I would have gone and retired if they had decided to hold this secret negotiating session at sea. I never was a good sailor to begin with, and now I get seasick just driving over the Potomac!”

Zinoviev loudly cleared his throat and once more pointed to the map.

“I have two hundred of my best men patrolling the roadway. Our Army has over twice that many soldiers spread out in the forest and hills surrounding the highway. I must admit that, for efficiency’s sake, I wish we could have better coordinated their efforts with the numerous Secret Service Counter Assault Teams that are presently covering these same areas.”

“Your concerns have already been noted,” said Morrison with a grunt.

“Our policy has always been to do our work independent of local law enforcement agencies, including our operations inside the United States.”

Alexi Kosygin looked at Morrison and nodded.

“I’m afraid that not even the Ukraine National Police Force is going to be able to change official U.S. Secret Service policy. Comrade Zinoviev.

Now, since our time is extremely limited, I suggest we go over the exact composition of the motorcade.”

“I was just about to get to that,” said Zinoviev with a hint of resentment. The skinny Ukrainian flipped over the map, revealing a hand-drawn diagram displaying a long column of vehicles.

He pointed to the three small vehicles leading the column and began speaking rapidly.

“The motorcade shall be led by three motorcycles driven by a trio of my most decorated patrolmen. They will be followed by a pair of Zil police sedans, the second of which I shall be stationed in. Following me will be a BTR-60 armored personnel carrier, with fourteen heavily armed members of SWAT team Alpha inside.

I thought it appropriate that two Secret Service Suburbans should precede the limousines. The other Suburban will follow ahead of the communications van, the ambulance, yet another BTR-60, and a trailing police sedan.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to put those two Suburbans behind the limo carrying Two Putt, with a single Suburban in the lead,” said Morrison.

“Two Putt?” Zinoviev repeated.

“Two Putt is the Secret Service code name for the American President, Nikolai,” explained Kosygin.

A sharp electronic tone sounded, and Morrison took out a hand-sized two-way radio from his breast pocket.

“SAIC here,” he said.

Whatever he was hearing caused a scowl to pull ridges across his forehead, and he addressed the two-way oblivious to the curious stares of his audience.

“I don’t give a damn about any frigging excuses. Special Agent Moreno. This motorcade’s not going anywhere if you can’t get that ambulance running. Hell, use some initiative, son. Between all those Air Force jet jockeys and our people, there’s gotta be someone who can get that frigging engine started. Hell, you drove the damn thing in there, now drive that sucker out, or your frigging ass is history!”

As the SAIC angrily lowered his two-way, Zinoviev met his glance and wryly commented, “Our hospitals may not be as modern as yours in the U.S.” but at least our ambulances can get our patients to them.”