“Surely the Ukrainians will be sending in a rescue force,” remarked Brittany.
Warner looked at the MIL AIDE and laughed.
“Why the hell would they go and do that if they’re the ones responsible for this outrageous ambush?”
“I still think it’s the Russians,” Pritchard interjected.
“We all know how the head of the Strategic Rocket Forces reacted to the Global Zero Alert concept. He came out against it from the very beginning, warning that it would needlessly expose Russia to nuclear annihilation.”
“Whoever’s eventually found responsible,” said Warner with a sigh, “we’ve still got an incredible mess down there, and I want us ready for any scenario. I want the entire emergency action team assembled in the conference room. At that time, I intend to inform the NMCC of my decision to activate the central locator system, and to launch the TACAMO alert bird. I’m also going to want to know the exact positions of those F-16s I called in from Incirlik. If we’re living right, there’s always the chance that our Falcons will reach the Crimea in time to save the motorcade.”
Almost as an afterthought, the Chairman looked at Brittany, adding, “And, Commander Cooper, I want you close by and within sight at all times. If Satchel Alpha should be compromised, we’re going to really have to earn our keep up here.”
Samuel Morrison and the five Secret Service drivers stood huddled next to the President’s limo, inside their protective formation near the drainage canal. With the arrival of night, the fog had further thickened, and it was eerily quiet now that the gunship had stopped its incessant firing. Through the cool mist, they could see the fires still burning on the Salgir highlands. The plateau had taken an incredible pounding, yet the amazing aircraft responsible for it was nowhere to be seen. For none of the Special Agents assembled beside the SAIC realized the source of the muffled explosion that had sounded seconds ago, or saw the barely visible flash of light in the sky when Spooky Threenine exploded in a blazing fireball.
“Then I’ll take that as a vote of confidence,” said Morrison in reference to the brief tactical debate they had just completed.
“Algren, you’ll be driving point in the lead Suburban. Because we still don’t know the barricade’s exact composition, Moreno will be leaving a ten-yard gap between Algren’s rear and the limo’s front bumper. I’ll remain in the trailing Suburban behind the staff limo on the right side of the formation, with Lester’s truck all alone on the left. So if there are no more questions, gentlemen, let’s get the friggin’ hell out of here!”
The SAIC’s order was given additional impetus by the RPG round that headed their way from the direction of the highlands.
It harmlessly exploded well short of its intended target, though its mere presence meant that their enemy was still very much alive and dangerous.
Morrison barely had time to get settled in the backseat of his vehicle when the formation shot forward in a high-speed burst.
This coincided with the arrival of a round of small-arms fire, originating from the nearby pine forest. There was a twanging metallic thud as these rounds ricocheted off the truck’s bulletproof, armor-reinforced doors, and Morrison angrily cursed, conscious that the infantry assault-element force had also returned.
A rough, jarring sensation signaled their arrival on the old section of roadway. The drivers slowed down to fifty miles per hour, and as the red, flashing lights of the barricade grew increasingly larger, the lead Suburban accelerated to take a ten-yard lead.
An open radio channel allowed Morrison to keep in simultaneous touch with all five of his drivers, and it was in such a manner that he learned from the point vehicle that the barricade appeared to be made out of wood. Yet before the SAIC could share his relief, the lead Suburban exploded in a column of fire.
Seconds later, the Suburban on the formation’s left flank also blew up in a billowing fireball, leading Morrison to believe that he knew how these blasts had been triggered.
“Hit the brakes — minefield!” he shouted into the two-way.
The remaining three cars of the formation skidded to a halt, and though the barricade invitingly beckoned less than thirty yards away, the SAIC had no choice but to order the column to carefully back up and return to the new section of pavement.
The drivers did a splendid job of retracing their routes, and they made it safely back onto the newly laid asphalt, with the two Suburbans all the while filling their windshields with the glow of flame.
A mortar round detonated close by, and Morrison played the last of his options. With a minimum of ceremony, the President and Major Ryan were transferred into the last surviving Suburban, along with Satchel Alpha, their portable SATCOM phone, and all the ammo that the other agents could spare. As the SAIC climbed into the crowded backseat beside Alexi Kosygin, he flashed Special Agent Moreno, and the other brave men who would be traveling in the limousines, a supportive thumbsup.
The plan was to try to find an escape route through the forest.
Since the four-wheel-drive Suburban had the best chance of surviving such a punishing trip, it would lead the way. The limousines would follow, with the hope that they’d chance upon an old logging road.
A trio of exploding mortar rounds spurred them onward. The Suburban left the road with a jolt, and sped off into the tree line.
Because of the great age of these woods, there was a fair amount of open space between the individual trunks. Without letting up on the accelerator, their driver expertly circumnavigated the maze of stately pines, the route made all the more difficult by the ever-present fog.
When he wasn’t hanging on for dear life, Morrison was able to turn around from time to time and check on the progress of the limousines. When the fog swallowed the last distant headlight, he contacted them via radio. As expected, they were having a difficult time, often forced to slow down to a virtual crawl because of their bulky size and weight. It was a lack of all-terrain capability that eventually led to their doom.
The SAIC’s heart was heavy as he listened to Special Agent Moreno’s latest radio update. The spare limo carrying the President’s staff had gotten itself stuck in the bottom of a creek bed.
Moreno’s vehicle was in the process of backing up to render assistance, and had just come under small-arms fire, when it too found itself trapped in a soggy depression. And the last Morrison ever heard from his colleague was as Moreno signed off, the crackle of gunfire clearly audible in the background.
Though a part of Morrison wanted to go back and help them, a greater responsibility was now his. Considering their predicament, the President was displaying remarkable composure, and had even managed to summon the strength to trade concerned small talk with Alexi Kosygin. When the Suburban wasn’t careening over a pothole or bounding over a pile of brush. Major Ryan was able to activate the portable, battery-powered SATCOM phone to pass on an “all clear” Situation Report to Nightwatch.
In such a way they were able to inform the NCA that the President was still alive, and that Satchel Alpha hadn’t been compromised.
They would continue to broadcast these brief SITREPs as long as possible, this being their last means of contact with the world beyond.
“Is that the remains of a road up there on the other side of the clearing?” asked the Special Agent buckled into the passenger seat.