Vince gave his blessings to this plan, and turned to inform the others. He found Vice President Chapman holding court alongside the spot where their canoes and a single john boat were beached. Chapman was wearing dark green rubber waders and was standing in the water with graphite rod in hand, holding an impromptu fly-fishing clinic. His rapt audience included his physician. Ranger Wyatt, and, of course, Andy Whitworth, who was capturing the entire exhibition on film.
“And by the way,” Vince heard Chapman saying as he approached them, “that ten-pound rainbow I hooked upstream was caught with one of these very same ca hills that I tied myself on the flight down from Washington. And I would most likely have gone ahead and landed him, too, if I hadn’t gone and removed the barb. Sportfishing should be done for the challenge, not for a stuffed trophy to hang on the wall.”
Ron Wyatt noted Vince’s arrival with a wink, and the leather faced Missourian stepped aside to spit out a mouthful of tobacco juice before greeting the newcomer in a conspiratorial whisper.
“It’s obvious he never relied on fishing to feed a hungry family.
And because he went and released that trio of four-pounders he did manage to land, we’re stuck with peanut butter sandwiches and cold beans for lunch.”
Vince smiled, and loudly cleared his throat before speaking up and interrupting the VP’s spiel.
“Excuse me, Mr. Vice President, but we’re going to have to pack up your gear and move downstream.”
“Any luck with that uplink, Kellogg?” Chapman asked after taking one last cast and returning to the sandbar.
“That’s a negative, sir,” returned Vince as discreetly as possible. “And that’s why we have to continue downstream, to try another access point.”
Andy Whitworth intuitively sensed that something out of the ordinary was coming down, and she brazenly expressed herself.
“Excuse me. Special Agent Kellogg, but did something happen within the last half hour or so that can explain why this SATCOM uplink of yours is so darn important all of a sudden? It’s obvious that it’s not routine, which leads me to believe that someone from the outside contacted you and ordered it. Has there been a threat made on our party? Or is there some other type of danger we should be concerned about?”
Vince was astounded by the reporter’s effrontery, and he shook his head, saying, “I can assure you. Miss Whitworth, that the only danger we’re facing out here is sunstroke. Now, if you’ll please return to your canoe, we’ll see if we can give you something to really write about as we prepare to take on Mary Deckard shoals.”
The buzz-saw whine of an outboard motor drew Vince’s glance to the river. Two of their john boats were returning upstream from the direction of the shoal. The lead boat approached the sandbar, and Vince walked over to grab the bowline.
“So you survived the legendary Mary Deckard,” he said to the stocky brunette seated at the bow.
“Both downstream and up,” replied Special Agent Linda Desiante.
“It’s a wild ride, sir. The boulders are monstrous, and with the water up like it is, there are some treacherous chutes and plenty of nasty snags to watch out for. And that doesn’t even include the mini-waterfall located at the far end of the rapids.”
“What did the CAT team have to say?” he asked, ever careful to keep his voice low.
“They never showed up. We found the rendezvous site on the sandbar easily enough. There were plenty of footprints, but not a sign of the team — or anyone else, for that matter. We tried to inform you on the two-way, but we couldn’t get any of the radios to work.”
“We’re having the same problem. And speaking of communications, I need you to run the shoals again, this time with Special Agent Lester and our SATCOM. That sandbar you were on should give us a better uplink angle. By the time we run the rapids, you should be well on your way to contacting Milstar and finding out what this mysterious alert is all about.”
Desiante’s john boat was soon on its way back down the river, and Vince anxiously waited while the rest of the party climbed back into their canoes. Once more he was teamed up with Ron Wyatt. As they glided out into the current, the canoe carrying the Vice President and Ben Eberly maneuvered in beside them, and Vince listened as the district ranger explained the origins of Mary Deckard shoals.
“It was during the turn-of-the-century lumber boom that a rock dam was placed in the river near the confluence of Hurricane Creek. A good part of this dam was built out of the giant boulders we’re about to pass.”
“Why go and dam this beautiful river? Was it for flood control?”
asked the VP.
“They did it to trap logs,” answered Ron Wyatt.
“Believe it or not, there used to be a railroad line in these parts running to the river. When the mills in Winona needed wood, all they had to do was send the train to the shoals and load it up with fresh lumber.”
The VP scanned the pristine, tree-lined shore and shook his head in wonder.
“It’s remarkable how quickly the forest reclaimed the land.”
“If you think this area is something, wait till you get your first peek at the Irish Wilderness later this afternoon,” Eberly proudly added.
“The Irish is the largest Federal wilderness area in the Ozarks, and as in all our wilderness areas, development there has been kept to a bare minimum.”
The roar of rushing water could be heard in the distance, and Vince peered downstream. The bluffs to their right were getting increasingly steep, and he could just make out a series of huge boulders lying in the white water ahead of them.
The VP’s canoe would be first into the shoals, with Vince giving it a twenty-yard head start before they’d enter. The other vessels would follow at twenty-yard intervals.
All but forgetting about his other responsibilities, Vince noted how the current suddenly quickened. The rock obstacles ahead were becoming much larger, and he could see an assortment of tree limbs and other debris projecting from the treacherous shallows. White water was everywhere, and his guide pointed out the first of several wildly spinning whirlpools.
Though it was almost impossible for Vince to pick out the most accessible route, he supposed it would be the channel on the far right. There a group of boulders formed a Zshaped pattern, with a swiftly moving chute of fairly deep water surging among the rocks.
The roar of the rapids rose to an almost deafening crescendo, and Vince breathlessly watched the VP’s canoe penetrate the first chute. Andrew Chapman never stopped paddling, while in the vessel’s tapered stern, Ben Eberly seemed content to merely sit back and utilize his paddle like a rudder. After bounding over a fractured rock shelf, the bobbing canoe was steered to the far right-hand side of the channel. A narrow, Zshaped gauntlet of rock, projecting limbs, and agitated water awaited them there, and only when they passed by the first jagged boulder did Vince note that the VP had wisely pulled in his paddle.
Vince’s canoe followed the same route. Astounded by the incredible velocity of the current, he anxiously sat forward when the vessel slipped off the rock shelf signaling the first white-water chute. The canoe dove bow-first into the current, and Vince found himself soaked by an invigorating splash of icy water. He wiped his face dry and felt the canoe turn sharply to the channel’s right side as Wyatt used his paddle like a rudder. The first of the boulders loomed ahead, an angry moss-coated monolith with a pike-shaped oak limb projecting from the white water at its base.
They were at the mercy of the current now, and Vince jerked in his paddle as the boulder passed on the right, a mere inch between the projecting oaken spike and the canoe’s thin aluminum gunwales. Ahead, the gauntlet of stone awaited, and the canoe cascaded down a narrow chute, the boulders so tightly compressed that they appeared to form a solid wall.