Just as they were leaving the outskirts of the city behind, the SAIC spotted a column of tanks up ahead. The massive tracked vehicles were lined up on a side street, and as Morrison scanned the column with binoculars, his seatmate identified them.
“Those are T-72 main battle tanks, most likely from Ukraine’s elite Kirov Guard unit.”
“Zinoviev never mentioned anything about having a Guard unit in the area,” said Morrison, his amplified glance locked on the long, tapering gun barrel of the lead vehicle.
“And our scouting teams certainly didn’t report seeing any tanks in the vicinity.”
“Perhaps we should contact Zinoviev in his police sedan and find out the reason for their presence,” offered Kosygin.
Chapter 7
The view from the canoe’s bow was a spectacular one. Vince plunged his wooden paddle into the cool, clear water, his gaze scanning the thick, wooded hills that surrounded this portion of the river valley. Not a hint of human habitation was visible, the land alive with gnarled oaks, towering cottonwoods, and flowering shrubs displaying a rainbow of vibrant color. Since leaving Greer Crossing, they were able to adjust to their new medium of travel on a relatively calm stretch of water. They had yet to encounter their first rapids, and the float-trip neophytes in their midst took this opportunity to get their balance and learn how best to paddle.
Because of the VP’s desire to keep this expedition as small as possible, they had decided to limit the canoe convoy to four vessels.
From his vantage point, Vince could see the muscular shoulders of Andrew Montgomery Chapman, seated in the bow of the lead canoe, approximately twenty yards ahead. The VP was wearing a white Harvard polo shirt and khaki shorts, and wasn’t afraid to use his paddle to assist Senior Ranger Ben Eberly, who was perched in the stern.
Ron Wyatt was occupying the back end of Vince’s vessel. The Forest Service veteran was obviously an expert canoeist, his paddle strokes strong and powerful, and Vince tried his best to keep pace.
The two trailing canoes carried the majority of their camping gear, and were reserved for such emergency functions as communications and first aid. In addition to three Secret Service agents and the VP’s Navy physician, they also carried the only true civilian in their midst. Andy Whitworth was a freelance photojournalist representing the major wire services and Time magazine. She was smart, tough, and incredibly persistent, Vince having worked with her before when she was assigned to cover the White House.
Andy had already made her presence felt back at Greer Crossing, when she practically took over the impromptu news conference that the inexperienced news anchor from Springfield had initially started. Vince was close by as the VP agreed to give the television crew a brief interview. It rapidly deteriorated into a potentially ugly confrontation between Chapman and the foulmouthed old lady wearing the “Give the Eleven Point Back to the People!” sweatshirt.
Sensing blood in the water, Andy constantly provoked the oldtimer. With miniature tape machine running and 35mm camera constantly clicking away, Andy challenged the woman to defend her antigovernment position. Emotions all too soon got the best of the hotheaded elder, and her irrational diatribes were easily countered by the VP’s practiced eloquence. A former captain of the Harvard debating team. Chapman made intellectual mincemeat out of his senile opponent’s groundless accusations and paranoid rantings, while she countered by increasing the volume of her voice and the foulness of her rather limited vocabulary.
Things started to get ugly when the locals in the crowd began voicing their support of the old lady with shouts of encouragement.
Vince sensed trouble, and pushing the reporters aside, he intervened to immediately stop the interview before things turned violent.
Now that they were out on the river, Vince knew he had definitely made the right decision. Though the VP was far ahead on debating points, he was in the middle of an argument that he could never hope to win, especially when it came down to a few cleverly selected sound bites on the evening news. Besides, they had traveled to the Missouri Ozarks to enjoy nature and celebrate its preservation, and the gorgeous countryside they were presently passing through would hopefully remind Andy Whitworth of that fact.
“We’ll be hitting our first rapids shortly, on the other side of that bend up yonder,” revealed Ron Wyatt in a relaxed, southern Missouri drawl.
“Is it anything to batten down the hatches for?” Vince asked, his eyes sweeping the horizon to gauge the distance to this bend, which was formed by the river hitting a lofty limestone bluff.
“As I said before. Special Agent, this section of the river is fairly tame. Other than an occasional root clump or partially submerged boulder, we shouldn’t run into anything dangerous until we hit the Class Three rapids at Mary Deckard shoals.”
Vince estimated that they wouldn’t reach the bend for another five minutes, and he looked to his left, where the Eleven Point branched off into what appeared to be an alternative channel.
A good portion of the forest there was cut down, prompting him to query, “What’s down there in that clearing?”
“That’s Ross Cemetery. There used to be a small settlement in that hollow. In fact, Norma, the old lady the Vice President was arguing with, was born there, some eighty years ago.”
“It’s hard to believe that people used to live and work on this river,” said Vince, his gaze drawn to a red-tailed hawk taking flight from the direction of the cemetery.
“The Eleven Point’s just filled with history. Special Agent.
And you workin’ for Treasury and all should find it ‘specially interesting why the folks from Ross called that channel Counterfeit Cove.”
“Don’t tell me Norma used to print funny money?” Vince asked with a chuckle.
Wyatt held back his response until he spat out a mouthful of tobacco juice.
“It was nothin’ like that. Back in the twenties, a group of counterfeiters on the run from the law dumped their printing presses and plates into the deep water there. And legend has it that they’re still on the bottom of the cove to this day.”
“Sounds like it warrants a further investigation by the Secret Service,” jested Vince, who could barely hear the sound of crashing water in the distance.
With each paddle stroke, the limestone bluff ahead grew larger, until Vince could practically touch the moss hanging from its steep walls. Several twisted red cedars clung to the rock above, with a family of cliff swallows visible nesting on the limestone ledge close by. The air temperature seemed to suddenly drop several degrees when the canoe was swallowed in the bluff’s shadow. At the same time, the crashing sound of agitated water intensified, and Vince got his first view of the obstacle responsible for it.
A massive, partially submerged rock shelf projected from the bottom of the bluff, with white water forming on its exposed surface as the Eleven Point crashed directly into it. A shallow shoal on the opposite bank caused the river to further narrow, the frothing current given additional velocity by a barely recognizable drop in elevation.
Vince watched the Vice President’s canoe surge forward in a sudden burst of unexpected speed, and he found his own pulse quickening. They appeared to be headed straight for the shelf, with Andrew Chapman paddling away, seemingly oblivious of any danger.