The occupants of the conference room collectively flinched when another gunshot sounded, and the demented screams were replaced by the crackle of static.
“We’ve lost the SATCOM feed,” advised Red over the speaker.
“Very well. Master Sergeant,” replied Pritchard into his chin mounted mike.
“Keep the line open, and let us know the second you get the slightest hint it’s still operational.”
All of the personnel gathered around the table knew inwardly that it was a lost cause, and all eyes went to the head of the table for an inkling of what to do next. Though they had constantly drilled on many a similar scenario, this was reality of the harshest sort, and the staff of Nightwatch now found themselves leading players in one of the most tragic moments of American history.
Well aware of their great responsibility, the Chairman smoothed back his thick mane of silver hair, sat up ramrod straight and scanned the faces of his rapt audience, saying, “It’s only too obvious that our country has suffered a great loss this evening. Our Commanderin-Chief has been taken from us in one of the most despicable crimes in history. All of us aboard Nightwatch mourn his passing, but we have no time for tears.
Duty calls like never before, and we shall not let our fellow countrymen down.
“Per the continuity of government protocol, as the senior ranking officer of the National Command Authority, I am now assuming supreme control of U.S. strategic forces. Colonel Pritchard, you are to immediately inform your operations team of this fact, and to deactivate Satchel Alpha and activate Satchel Bravo.”
Pritchard spoke into his chin mike, and waited less than thirty seconds before verbally relaying the acknowledgment that he received over his headphones.
“A multi-frequency scrambled alert has just been broadcast to the NMCC, informing them of your assumption of power, the deactivation of Satchel Alpha, and the activation of the SIOP codes contained inside Satchel Bravo. We are awaiting confirmation and implementation.”
While they waited for this all-important reply, Brittany Cooper found herself subconsciously fingering the key that hung from her neck. Of all those gathered around the table, she had had the closest relationship with the man whose screams of pain had filled the airborne conference room these past couple of minutes.
That could very well have been her down there, and Brittany found herself fighting the inner demons of confusion, shock, and fear.
To regain her composure, she began a series of deep, even breaths. Ever afraid that Warner would note her anxiety, she tried her best not to meet his gaze, and she looked instead to the aft bulkhead, where four digital clocks were mounted at the bottom of the projection screen. The glowing red digits of the black, rectangular clock on the upper left showed that it was lunchtime back in Washington, where the Pentagon’s NMCC was situated.
The clock beneath showed Zulu, or Greenwich Mean Time, while the clock on the upper right displayed local time in the Crimea.
The clock below showed: 0. Brittany noted that it suddenly activated and began counting off the seconds, moments before Colonel Pritchard readdressed them.
“We have received a legitimate transfer-of-power acknowledgment from the NMCC. Satchel Alpha has been deactivated.
Admiral Warner, you are now the recognized Commanderin Chief until the Presidential successor relieves you.”
Brittany’s pulse quickened, her glance pulled to the head of the table and the man destiny had picked to accept this unprecedented transfer of power. No oaths of office had been uttered, with no public inauguration on the steps of the Capitol. Specifically designed for a crisis such as this one, the continuity of government protocol had just inserted an unelected military officer as the acting President of the United States of America.
“Captain Richardson,” said the Chairman to the crew-cut Air Force officer seated to Brittany’s right.
“As our FEMA representative, you are authorized to activate the emergency locator system.”
Richardson rapidly attacked the keyboard of his computer, and cleared his voice before replying.
“I’ve already taken the liberty of activating the system, sir. If you’ll just bear with me a second, I should be able to transfer the results onto the projection screen.”
The map of the Salgir River valley faded from the screen, and as they watched it go blank, the Chairman grabbed one of two white telephones within arm’s reach and punched in two numbers.
“Major Foard,” he said into the handset.
“Please be informed that the transfer-of-power protocol that we talked about earlier has been completed. It’s time to go home. Major. I’d appreciate it if you’d initiate an immediate course change back to CONUS, with an initial entry point at Andrews.”
No sooner did Warner hang up the phone than the 747 began a steeply banked turn. Brittany found herself tightly gripping the edge of the table, and she watched as Colonel Pritchard’s half filled spill-proof coffee mug slid sideways and bounced onto the carpeted deck, along with several unsecured pencils. As an aide scrambled to retrieve the mug, the plane began to level out, and Brittany was able to release her death grip.
“Ah, here it is’ said Captain Richardson, in reference to the map of the United States that now filled the projection screen.
There was a pair of blinking stars visible, a blue one in the center of the country and a red one on the East Coast, and Richardson went on to reveal their significance.
“As of ten hundred hours Eastern Daylight Time, the blue star indicates the location of Vice President Chapman, with Speaker of the House Pierce highlighted in red.”
“Where the hell’s the VP? Arkansas?” quizzed Pritchard.
Richardson cleared his throat again before answering.
“Actually, sir, he’s in the southern Missouri Ozarks on a wilderness float trip.”
“Oh, that’s just great,” Pritchard replied with a disgusted shake of his head.
“You would have thought he would have stuck close to Washington like the Speaker, with the President so far out in the field.”
“Who knows, with that feud and all, maybe the President didn’t even bother to tell Chapman he was leaving the country,” offered Major Steve Hewlett, a Marine serving as the op team’s SIOP advisor.
“We don’t have time for scuttlebutt. Major,” scolded Warner.
“Nor is it our job to determine the motives of our politicians.
Wherever the Vice President may be, we’re just going to have to get hold of him and pass on the bad news,” he added, with a piercing gaze focused solely on the CO of the aircraft’s operations team.
“Colonel, all of us knew that if this day ever came, it wouldn’t be easy. Because of the unusual circumstances of our loss, the protocol allows us to delay informing the American people until the proper successor is notified, and that’s the way I want it.”
“I’ll have my team get on it at once, sir,” said Pritchard, who relayed the order to notify the Vice President via chin mike, and listened as Warner continued.
“Until the successor acknowledges the transfer, we’re the ones who will be in charge of determining America’s military reaction to this cold-blooded act of murder. We’ll be working closely with our intelligence assets to determine if there have been any suspicious strategic moves on the part of the Russians or Ukrainians.”