Flight of the Condor

Chapter Eight

The morning fog came in from the Pacific with swirling, thick gray fingers. Blanketing the central California coastline in a shroud of cottony vapor, it played havoc with both seafarers and landlubbers alike. With visibility down to near zero, only the most daring of travelers risked penetrating such an environment.

Miriam Rodgers was well aware that this was an excellent morning to keep their vehicles parked at camp. Since their promising excavation on Tranquil Ion Ridge had been put off limits by the Air Force, she had allowed her senior teacher’s assistant to find them an alternative dig site. Fortunately, Joseph Solares had been able to find one within walking distance of their circle of trailers. Thus their method of transportation was by foot, and not even the fog could hold them back.

The majority of the crew had left for this new site at the first crack of dawn. This left only Miriam and one of her students back at camp. There they were kept busy cataloguing a precise list of every single artifact so far uncovered in their work at Vandenberg.

This included the remnants of an excellent collection of Chumash basketry. So far, they had identified a wide assortment of superbly crafted designs, weaved from such materials as junc as sumac, tule willow, and the roots of sedge and fern. Several of them were even decorated with flicker quills. Their shovels had also uncovered hundreds of obsidian arrowheads and a variety of scrapers, spear points, knives, and awls. Miriam took exceptional pride in the magnificent Olivilla shell necklace that she had personally uncovered only a week after they had initially arrived there.

It was unlike any piece of Chumash jewelry that she had ever viewed before, and she imagined that it had to have been the property of a village matriarch.

Of course, the most spectacular of their discoveries had been their latest. The shiny gray stone spirit bowl had been exhumed from Tranquillon Ridge only minutes before the Air Force sentries had arrived to drive them away. Each time that she studied it, she couldn’t help but be impressed with the hundreds of hours of intricate workmanship that must have been needed to create its lip of tiny five-pointed-star shell bits. And then there was the unique symbol painted on its bottom. If Joseph was correct, the ball of bright yellow and the concentric circles of black and red that surrounded it could be symbolic of the journey of the very soul after death. Quick to stir the imaginations of Miriam and her impressionable coworkers, the lap-sized bowl hinted at even greater discoveries yet to come.

Robert R. Baray, the Sioux Indian staff engineer for Vandenberg, had been correct in his assumption that Tranquillon offered the trained archaeologist a wealth of possibilities. Yet Miriam couldn’t help but wonder if Baray had been aware that this spot could be the location of the legendary Chumash portal of the dead. How her juices had flowed when Joseph had related to them the story of the paved royal road and the circular charm stone temple that would prove this very fact. Aware that such a discovery could have been as close as the next shovelful of dirt, Miriam couldn’t have been more disappointed when the Air Force sentries had arrived to abruptly put her dreams on hold. Powerless to fight their authority there, she could but lead her crew back to camp, where they regrouped and eventually diverted their efforts elsewhere.

Once again it was from Robert Baray’s journal that they had found this new site. Located only a mile from camp, on the other side of the foothills that separated the parking lot from the beach itself, this spot was supposedly a Chumash fishing village. A preliminary excavation had showed it to be promising, and all too soon the students had been ready to abandon Tranquillon and see what treasures awaited them at the new site.

Though a month’s worth of work couldn’t be so easily walked away from, Miriam had somewhat reluctantly given this new project her blessings. Anxious to be working in such a close proximity to the beach, the kids had gone to the site this morning in better spirits than she had seen them in weeks. Since they had to be kept busy doing something of value, she looked upon this whole excavation as a mere diversionary project. The Air Force couldn’t keep Tranquillon off limits forever. Hopefully, the ban would be lifted soon, and she could proceed with the effort her instincts told her would produce the most treasures.

Conscious of the varied collection of relics that cluttered the picnic tables before her, Miriam sat back and put down the arrowheads that she had been sorting through. Aware again of the unusual density of the morning’s fog, she rubbed her raw hands together. Her relative physical inactivity had allowed a moist chill to settle in her limbs. Not even the hot mug of coffee that she had been sipping was able to alleviate it.

Her coworker, Margaret, didn’t seem in the least bit effected by the cold. Dressed in a thick, woolen turtleneck, the sophomore honors student was carefully measuring each of the arrowheads, then labeling and registering them in a ledger. She was seemingly lost in her work and Miriam hated to bother her, yet she did so anyway.

“Hey, Margaret, do you mind holding down the fort on your own for a while? It’s time for me to get the old blood circulating.”

Jerking her head upward, as if emerging from a trance, the student archeologist smiled.

“Go for it, Miss Rodgers. I’ve got plenty here to keep me out of trouble.”

Certain of the legitimacy of these words, Miriam stood.

“Thanks, Margaret. I think I’ll mosey on down the beach and see what the rest of the crew has come up with. See you at lunch.”

“Don’t get lost in the fog,” said the straight-faced student, who was already turning her attention back to her work.

Not desiring to disturb Margaret any further, Miriam did her best to leave the campsite as quietly as possible. Hastily she left the semicircle of trailers and crossed the parking lot. As she began her way down the sandy trail that followed the southern bank of the Santa Ynez River downstream, she found herself disappearing in a solid wall of swirling fog. Already, the trailers were no longer visible behind her. To ward off the moist chill, she pulled up the zipper of her quilted vest and significantly lengthened her stride.

This action barely neutralized the icy current of offshore air that struck her as she rounded the bend leading toward the trestle of the elevated railroad tracks. Constructed there to convey the train safely over the river bed, the wooden trestle had a walkway cut beneath it. Miriam followed the narrow path that led under the bridge and passed a series of sand dunes.

The wind died down, to be replaced by a strange, hushed stillness. In the distance rose the constant muted tones of crashing surf. Above her, still veiled by the fog, a lonely gull cried out. Since her travels would now turn southward, she decided to follow the Santa Ynez down to the sea itself. There the firmer sand would be easier to tread upon and allow her quicker progress.

The smell of the estuary was ripe with life as she followed a mussel-lined path down to the ocean. Only able to see a few inches before her, Miriam halted when she arrived at the surf line. A clear morning would have afforded her an excellent view of Vandenberg’s northern coastline at this spot. Situated there were the base’s Minutemen launch silos, where the Air Force trained its ICBM crews.

With the sound of the crashing surf all-prevalent, she turned in the opposite direction and began her way southward. The path she now followed was determined by the tide. Careful to keep out of the water whenever possible, she walked briskly down a beach littered with all sorts of flotsam and jetsam. Because the portion of beach immediately in front of her step was the only thing that she could see, she spotted an assortment of shells, rocks, and bits of coral. Interspersed between them were thick, green, bulbous strands of freshly deposited kelp. As was the case on most beaches, evidence of man was present also. Softdrink bottles and beer cans lay beside pieces of smashed Styrofoam and cut wooden planks of all sizes. Sharp, jagged slivers of rusted metal pointed upward out of the sand like awaiting snares. Keeping as far from them as possible, she settled into a steady, brisk pace.

The chill that had bothered her earlier was no longer noticeable. With the fresh supply of blood that pumped through her veins, Miriam was even beginning to feel a bit warm. To compensate for this, she unzipped her vest.

To properly monitor her progress so that she would be able to determine the right spot to turn inland, Miriam checked her watch. She decided that a hike of ten minutes should put her where she desired.

Otherwise, unable to spot a familiar landmark, she could find herself walking all the way down to Point Arguello.

The muted cry of a foghorn was audible far in the distance, and the archaeologist found her thoughts returning to the excavation they had been recently asked to relinquish. How very frustrating it was to again ponder their predicament, yet Miriam couldn’t help but be aware of the great potential the site at Tranquillon Ridge promised. After only a month’s work, it had already produced a variety of priceless treasures. Surely, they had yet to even sample the artifacts that lay beneath the sandy soil there. Perhaps if the next afternoon’s meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Lansford went well, they could return to the Ridge without further delay.

She had to admit that she was somewhat surprised when the note inviting her to the base headquarters had arrived the previous evening. Prior to that, Lansford had been completely unresponsive to her queries.

Of course, she understood now the reason they had been ordered out of the foothills overlooking Space Launch Complexes 5 and 6. They had come close enough to breathing the toxic fumes falling in the failed Titan’s wake as it was. There was no telling what type of debris had descended upon Tranquillon, which was less than a mile from the missile’s launch site.

What disturbed Miriam the most was the abrupt manner in which they had been originally ordered to leave the Ridge. At the very least, Lansford could have shared with her the reason for this hasty resettlement.

As it turned out, they had to learn of the Titan launch from the lips of a newscaster only minutes before the missile actually sped skyward.

Then there was the manner in which the lieutenant colonel had ignored her subsequent phone calls. She had responsibilities just as he did. At the very least he could have given her a mere minute of his precious time.

The previous day’s decision to begin work at the alternative dig site had done much to release some of the tensions that were beginning to build up at camp.

For a while there, she had even been seriously considering cancelling the rest of the summer’s work. After fighting for three long years to get funding for this project, it was not an easy decision to come by, yet what else could she do?

Joseph Solares had proven to be their unlikely savior. The good-natured Indian, who was a joy to work with, had come across the alternative location while thumbing through Baray’s journal. With the lieutenant colonel finally responding to her inquiries, perhaps Joseph’s last-minute discovery had saved her from a hasty decision that she could now be extremely sorry for. She was conscious that the permission to return to Tranquillon could be in her hands as soon as the next afternoon, and her mood lightened. Patience was a virtue she had largely ignored during her quick rise up the scholastic hierarchy. Perhaps she should be a little more aware of its merits. With this in mind, she put her back into her stride and, after checking her watch, proceeded south down the beach for another three minutes.

The first evidence that the fog was beginning to lift came when she looked to her left and viewed a clear section of beach that had previously been veiled. By the time she reached the end of her planned ten minute hike, the sun was even visible overhead.

Though it was still substantially masked, enough direct rays were penetrating to burn off a good amount of the mist that had formed inland. Because of this new clarity, she was able to view a wide patch of human tracks leading from the water line to the distant dunes. Since this line crossed the beach approximately an eighth of a mile beyond her present location, she had yet to overshoot her mark. Proud of her directional skills, Miriam chartered her own course to the dunes.

As she left the firm wet sand of the tide line, her progress was significantly slowed. The soft sand she was now crossing shifted beneath her every step and she soon felt its effects on her ankles and calves.

Regardless of this new obstacle, she pushed herself eastward with a renewed determination. A wide band of sweat had gathered on her forehead as she reached the first of the dunes and began climbing over it.

From the top of the rolling, twelve-foot-high ridge of sand, Miriam was afforded an excellent view of the surrounding terrain. The fog had completely lifted, to reveal a clear blue sky. Checking the progression of the tracks that she had been following, she saw that they crossed over a succession of lower dunes. There the sandy ground was covered with a variety of desertlike shrubs. The predominant plant was a prickly type of miniature cactus. Careful to remain clear of its razor-sharp thorns, Miriam picked her way eastward, towards the railroad tracks that lay another half mile inland.

The ground was hilly, the sand giving way to a coarse, rocky soil. After passing over a series of ever steepening ravines, Miriam spotted a familiar-looking canyon. Cut from the dry ground, this narrow valley was shaped by two precipitous walls over thirty feet high. She couldn’t help but grin upon spotting her ragtag crew, busily working at the canyon’s base. So busy were their efforts that they didn’t even realize her presence. Their backs were to her, their attentions focused on a low ledge of sandstone, as she approached them.

Joseph Solares was the bare-chested figure that they were gathered around. His muscular torso was sweat-stained, his long dark hair tied back with his customary red bandana. In the process of lecturing to his spellbound audience, Joseph proved to be the one who first set eyes on the newcomer.

“Hey, Boss, welcome to Sun City. You won’t believe what we’ve been excavating all morning.”

Nodding toward the quick succession of smiling faces that soon greeted her, Miriam made her way to the ledge and focused her line of sight downward.

There, embedded in the arid soil, was the outline of a narrow, elongated, nine-foot-long vessel. Having only seen such a primitive canoe in a museum before, she gasped.

“Is that a tomolof” “The very same,” replied Joseph proudly.

“Mr. Whitten chanced upon it five minutes after we arrived here.”

“Does this mean that I get to skip finals?” jested the class clown, who arrogantly puffed out his chest.

“Not while I’m teaching this class,” countered Miriam, as she bent down to examine their find more closely.

Kneeling beside her, Joseph chipped away a section of blackish rock that lay between the bleached remnants of the canoe and the surrounding soil.

“My preliminary guess is that the vessel was somehow preserved by a pocket of asphaltum. It just has to be over five hundred years old. Brother, did Robert Baray hit this site right on the spot!”

“I’ll say,” observed Miriam, who ran her fingers cautiously over the canoe’s outline.

“What are the chances of exhuming it intact?”

Joseph grinned.

“It could take a little effort, Boss, but did you expect any less from the finest crew of bone-pickers this side of the Colorado. We’ll get this sucker out in one piece okay, although I doubt that she’ll be very seaworthy afterwards.”

Meeting this comment with a facetious scowl, Miriam shook her head.

“Then get on with it, Mr. Solares. You never know how much longer we’ll have to work here.”

Issuing a mock salute, Joseph began explaining just how he thought the excavation should go, just as an excited voice came from up above.

“Hey, you guys, take a look at this!”

Angling his line of sight upward, Joseph spotted a tall beanpole of a figure standing on the upper wall of the canyon.

“What in the hell has Thompson spotted now? I only sent him up there to scout for arrowheads.”

“I’ll go check it out, Joseph,” volunteered Miriam.

“You’re doing such an excellent job with this tomolo that I’ll only get in the way here.”

Joseph shrugged his shoulders.

“Be my guest, Boss. Only be careful on the way up. It’s rather steep. And by the way, if Thompson’s pulling our legs again, send him down here so that I can personally fill that creep’s mouth with sand.”

Not bothering to respond to this, Miriam stood and, after slipping off her vest, rolled up the sleeves of her cotton T-shirt and ambled over to the path that led upward. Five minutes later, she arrived at the canyon’s summit, her forehead soaked and her lungs wheezing for breath. Not giving herself any time to recover, she immediately approached the lanky figure of sophomore Mick Thompson, who stood on the ledge, his gaze focused westward.

“What have you got, Mr. Thompson?” asked Miriam between gasps of air.

Pointing toward the Pacific, clearly visible beyond, the student stuttered, “You can still see it about a half mile out there. I’ve never seen anything like it before!”

Following the direction of his forefinger, Miriam looked out to the surging ocean. The first thing that she was aware of was the fact that the fog had completely dissipated. Miraculously, not even a hint of the thick mist remained. As she looked out past the pounding breakers, it took her almost thirty seconds to finally spot the object that had caught the youngster’s attention.

Over two hundred feet long from its rounded bow to its tapered stern, the sleek black submarine cut a frothing line through the relatively calm blue seas.

Fluttering proudly from its protruding sail was an American flag. Immediately behind the conning tower, an odd-shaped object sat strapped to the vessel’s backside. Appearing as though it could be either a large bomb or even a mini-sub, it was like nothing she had ever seen before. No stranger to submarines, since her own father had been a twenty-eight-year underwater veteran, Miriam watched the vessel continue up the coastline.

It was only when it passed directly before them that she sighted the trio of tiny figures that stood on the sub’s conning tower. Wondering where in the world they were bound for, she looked out with her curiosity piqued as the submarine turned to the west and, ever so slowly, began descending into the ocean’s black depths.

“We’re at sixty-five feet, Mr. Willingham.”

Taking in this information from Chief Brawnly, the Diving Officer, the Razorback’s current Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Scott Willingham, efficiently approached the vessel’s periscope station.

“Secure from the dive. All ahead one-third on course two-six-zero.

Up scope. Seaman Powers, how’s she handling?”

From his seated position to Willingham’s left, the Razorback’s bow planes man responded.

“She’s a bit sluggish with that load on our back, but nothing that we can’t handle, sir.”

Expecting just as much, the OOD hunched over and pressed his forehead into the periscope’s rubber viewing coupling. The sun was bright, the sky blue, as he grasped the scope’s two handles and slowly circled. Other than an occasional slap of water, the viewing lens was clear of any surface traffic. While he continued his careful scan of the horizon, he was barely aware of the gathering taking place behind him at the control room’s navigation station. Huddled around a bathymetric chart of the waters off of Point Arguello were the Captain, the XO, and the Navigator.

Comprised of a variety of squiggly lines detailed in various shades of blue, this chart showed a fairly accurate description of the ocean’s depth.

Their present course was drawn in pencil. Beginning at the dock facility on the Point’s southern tip, they were heading in a straight line toward the west.

Currently they were six and a half nautical miles off the coastline, with over 300 feet of water between their hull and the seafloor. From this point westward, the Pacific’s depth increased rather rapidly, to a sounding of over 10,000 feet in nearby Arguello Canyon.

“Exactly where will we be dropping off the Marlin?”

queried the XO, who shifted his ever present corncob pipe into the corner of his mouth.

Exeter made a small X mark at the extreme eastern tip of submerged Arguello Canyon.

“This position should serve us perfectly. The ocean floor is some two thousand feet deep here. Since it’s rather doubtful that the debris field extends further westward, the crew of the Marlin plans to begin their initial sonar scan at these coordinates. If the bottom looks clear, they’ll gradually work their way eastward. This will allow them to doublecheck our initial scan.”

“When will they begin the job of actually conveying the debris topside?” asked Lieutenant McClure.

Exeter was quick to answer.

“That depends on Will Pierce. Though his primary task is to determine the field’s exact perimeters, he’s got the green light to begin the recovery of any debris fragments which catch his eye.”

“Scuttlebutt has it that commander Pierce is a strange one,” observed the XO nonchalantly.

“The Marlin’s senior chief was telling me just last night that the commander even insists on personally doing minor maintenance on the DSRV. He treats it like it was a part of him.”

“We can all sleep easier tonight with that in mind,” added Exeter, who caught the glances of his two senior officers.

“I’ll be the first to admit that Will Pierce is a unique officer all right. We worked together during a joint exercise several years ago, and even then his manner of command was solely his own.

Half the time his khakis had more grease on them than those of our own engineers. Though there’s certainly nothing wrong with an officer rolling his sleeves up and getting down to nuts and bolts, perhaps Pierce does take such things to an extreme.

Some even whisper that this particular eccentricity comes to haunt him at promotion time, yet who’s to say? The one thing that the Navy can be sure of is that, when duty calls. Will Pierce and the Marlin will be there to do the job. Perhaps he might not do it with all the finesse of an Academy graduate, but the results will be there, and that’s the bottom line.”

Returning his eyes to the chart, Exeter continued, “I’m going to slip back to my cabin and try to make a dent in some of that paperwork that’s waiting for me there. Give me a ring when we’re about to let the Marlin go. Until then, put sonar on active bottom search. Perhaps some of that debris down below us has shifted. If there’s nothing else, gentlemen, I’ll be expecting to hear from you in another half hour or so.”

Exeter’s efficient movements were all business as he pivoted from the navigation table and crossed the control room’s width. Upon passing the periscope well, he noticed that the Razorback’s current OOD was anxiously hunched over the scope, in the process of scanning the surrounding waters. Well aware of Lieutenant Willingham’s continued diligence, he knew it wouldn’t be long until the young officer had a command of his own. Ever mindful of his own spirited efforts during his first years of duty, Exeter silently admired the youngster’s gusto while turning down the corridor that lay to his right. As he passed the stairway that led down to the sub’s second level, his thoughts were already returning to the pile of correspondence that waited for him beyond the next hatchway.

Meanwhile, downstairs in the Razorback’s galley, Seaman First Class Lefty Jackman was busy wolfing down his second stack of buttermilk pancakes and his third helping of sausage of the morning. Seated in the booth opposite him was Seaman Second Class Seth Burke, who was still working on his first stack. Both sonar technicians were in the process of filling their stomachs for the long duty shift that would soon be theirs.

Oblivious to the hushed chatter of the sailors who were seated in the booths around him. Lefty was arguing his point while waving a piece of link sausage in the air.

“I tell you, Tex, that Russian sub is following us.”

Seaman Burke answered skeptically, his words flavored by a West Texas drawl.

“Ah, c’mon, pawdner, there’s no way the Russkies would waste one of their nukes following this ole rust-bucket. It’s got to be a coincidence.”

Stuffing the sausage into his mouth. Lefty was quick to reply.

“Coincidence? You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ll accept a chance meeting off the Straits of Juan de Fuca, but for us to tag ‘em again down by San Clemente, less than two weeks later, is a bit much. No, I tell you that they’ve been trailing us all along.”

Still not buying his coworker’s argument, the freckled Texan shook his head.

“The important thing is that we were able to pick ‘em up on both occasions. Billy Powers tells me that the Skipper sure was pissed when Command called us off the last pursuit. The way Billy told it, the Old Man almost bust a gut when he was forced to divert us up northward to look for this missile wreckage.”

“I don’t blame the Captain,” retorted Lefty.

“It’s hard to believe that the Brass still don’t have then-priorities straight. The Razorback’s a first-line man of-war.

Sure, we might be a bit slower and have to surface for air a few times more than a nuke, but we can still hold our own. To place us on a salvage mission is a complete waste of the taxpayers’ money.

We’re an attack boat and ought to be treated as such.

To let those Russians off the hook like we did gives me a bellyache.”

Looking on as Lefty stuffed another mouthful of hotcakes into his mouth, Seth grinned.

“I doubt that’s the cause of your tummy problems, pawdner. I still don’t know where in the blazes you put all that chow, but you certainly can pack those vittles away.

Have you always had this kind of appetite?”

Lefty answered after gulping down a mouthful of milk, “This ain’t anything, Tex. You should see me at mealtime when I’m in training. Why, during football practice I can never get enough inside of me.”

“Your poor family must have some food bill,” reflected the fair-skinned Texan.

Lefty nodded.

“My father always said from the day I first joined the Navy that I’d eat Uncle Sam broke.

I must say that Cooky sure turns out some awfully tasty chow, although it can’t begin to compare with my mom’s cooking.”

After carefully soaking up the remaining maple syrup with his last sausage. Lefty gobbled it down.

Only then did he push his plate away and issue a satisfied burp of approval.

“That should hold me until lunch,” said the senior seaman, whose glance went to the wallmounted clock. Suddenly aware of the time, he bolted upright.

“Jesus, Seth, we’d better get moving! We’ve got exactly one minute to relieve the chief before we get our butts kicked.”

Following close on his coworker’s heels, the gangly Texan stood and proceeded to make his way hastily out of the galley. Fortunately, they didn’t have to go far. Less than a dozen steps separated the mess hall from the sonar room. The narrow, dimly lit compartment was located off the central corridor, immediately across from the crew’s bunk area.

Senior Seaman Jackman was the first one to make his way inside. Waiting for his arrival there, from the seat of an elevated stool, was Chief Petty Officer Lawrence Desiante. The moustached New Yorker greeted him anxiously.

“Christ, Jackman, I thought you were gonna stand us up.”

Calmly checking his watch, Lefty responded, “What do you mean, Chief? We’re a whole fifteen seconds early.”

Not about to dignify this remark with a response, the khaki-clad chief removed the headphones that he had hanging from his neck and stood.

“The Captain’s got us on active at the moment. He’s interested in knowing if that debris field has shifted any.”

With this revelation, Lefty’s gut instinctively tightened.

An active sonar search meant unnecessary noise, something that an attack sub wanted no part of. Powerless to voice his objections, he stood aside as the chief and his assistant prepared to vacate the room.

“Our passive hydrophone arrays are a bit screwed up with the racket that DSRV is creating strapped to our hull like it is,” added the chief with a yawn.

“So concentrate your attention on that missile wreckage.

And for Christ’s sake, don’t screw up! I’ve been going for eighteen hours now, and I hear my bunk calling. I’m counting on you guys for me to get some decent shut-eye. So please, don’t let me down, ca 0? pisce’ Signaling that he understood. Lefty watched as the chief and his assistant exited into the hallway. Relieved to be on his own, he turned toward his coworker.

“What was I just telling you about Command?” emphasized the senior seaman disgustedly.

“We’ve got no business shooting off our active sonar like this.

Why they can hear us all the way back to Vladivostok!

If you don’t mind, I’ll monitor passive for the time being. I don’t think that I could take hearing all those pings wasted.”

“That’s fine with me,” returned Seth Burke calmly.

Still not certain what had gotten into his high strung coworker, the Texan seated himself on the same stool that the chief had been utilizing. As he adjusted the headphones over his ears, he noticed that Jackman was settling in before the passive console.

With high hopes that Lefty would soon calm down, the seaman second class focused his own attention on the loud, wavering blast of sound energy that was continually pulsating from their bow.

Beside him, Lefty Jackman was in the process of adjusting his own headphones. Unlike his coworker’s set, his were attached to a series of sensitive microphones placed strategically throughout the Razorback’s hull. Designed to pick up the sounds of an enemy vessel before they were tagged themselves, the passive arrays were of enormous value.

With a familiar ease, honed by hundreds of hours of practice. Lefty swept the surrounding seas. It didn’t take him long to pick up the strange racket that the chief had warned about.

The streamlined nature of the Razorback’s hull was designed to create a minimum of noisy, free-flowing holes for water to be forced through. This was one of the unique features that allowed them almost silent operations. But because they were currently carrying a DSRV piggyback on their stern, this feature was completely negated.

For the Marlin to be carried, a special cradle had to be bolted onto the Razorback’s deck. The temporary nature of this bulky structure created a great deal of drag. Not only was their top speed reduced, but the sub’s sound signature was drastically altered. Far from being silent, their forward progress was all too audible.

Lefty took in the resonant surge of this noise and silently cursed. Until the DSRV was released, the stern hydrophones would be practically useless. A quick check of the bow array found these sensors in much better condition. Though he had to turn up their volume a bit more than usual, he was soon able to begin an accurate scan of the sea before them.

Ten minutes later, he was in the process of penetrating the waters off their port bow when a barely audible hiss sounded beyond the normal clicks and moans of the sea creatures themselves. Quickly he reversed the scan and, after isolating the noise’s precise location, amplified the signature fivefold.

Since it emanated from a portion of the ocean located at the extreme limit of their sensors, Lefty closed his eyes to concentrate more fully. Gradually this noise took on a fuller definition.

Unlike the modern nuclear subs that had a variety of computerized equipment to interpret such signals, the Razorback’s passive sensors relied solely on the ears and the memory of their human operator. Lefty Jackman prided himself on his hearing ability. Three years before, he had even heard the sound of a miniature screw as it broke loose from his mother’s glasses and dropped to the kitchen floor. This feat was even more unforgettable considering the fact that the radio was blasting a Cardinal baseball game at the very same time. Able to pick out the merest bit of distortion on a record or tape, Lefty had trouble appreciating most modern music because of its generally poor musicianship and engineering. Rather, his tastes ran more to the classical. Violins were his very favorite. In the hands of a master, there could be no more pleasing sound for him.

What he was hearing presently grated his nerves like the loudest, crudest heavy-metal rock and roll.

Twice in the previous couple of weeks a similar distant chugging surge had been picked up by their hydrophones. Only when he was certain that he had not dropped off into a dream did he turn to inform his coworker.

“Sweet Mother Mary, Tex, I hope I’m not going bonkers, but take a listen to this signature that I’m picking up off our port bow. It sounds too damn familiar!”

After removing his headphones and replacing them with an auxiliary set connected directly into the passive console, Seaman Second Class Seth Burke attempted to determine just what his partner was getting so excited about. At first, he could hear nothing unusual. It took a full thirty seconds for him to pick out the barely audible, distant surging sound. It took him another half minute to identify it.

“You’ve got to be kidding?” observed the shocked Texan.

“It can’t be!”

Nodding his head that it was. Lefty rechecked the signature’s bearing.

“She’s coming in on a course of two-two-zero. Now do you believe what I’ve been trying to get into that thick skull of yours? I don’t know why, but one of the Soviet Union’s most sophisticated attack subs seems to pop up wherever the Razorback is sent. Not even the Secretary of the Navy is going to be able to keep the old man from giving them a chase this time. Captain Exeter just won’t believe it!”

Seth Burke was having trouble believing it himself as Lefty’s hand shot out to activate the comm line.

Seconds later, the boat’s XO was receiving a detailed description of just what they had chanced upon.

“I don’t give a damn about our current mission!”

exclaimed a very determined Philip Exeter.

“This time the Razorback is going to give those Soviets a run for their money. Our first task has to be to dump the Marlin.”

A tense silence possessed the control room, until the XO’s voice broke from the circle of officers gathered around the navigation table.

“That should be easy enough. Captain. We’re only a few miles from our pre-planned drop-off point anyway. I’ll ring the Marlin on the underwater telephone and tell them to prepare to deploy.”

Accepting the Captain’s nod of approval, Patrick Benton proceeded over to the communications station.

Meanwhile, Exeter turned to address the sub’s current OOD.

“Lieutenant Willingham, bring us down to one hundred and fifty feet and issue an all-stop. As soon as the Marlin is safely clear, we’ll be diverting to a new course of two-two-zero. Ring engineering and let Lieutenant Smith know that we’re going to need flank speed. Battle stations are to be sounded, and then we’d better get to work on determining a decent attack angle.”

Spurred into action by these directives, Scott Willingham barked out the orders that soon had the control room buzzing with activity. While the Diving Officer carefully readjusted their trim, and the planes men began the task of guiding the sub to its new depth, the young Weapons Officer picked up the comm line and calmly called engineering.

With his eyes still glued to the bathymetric chart of the waters off Point Arguello, Exeter’s hushed voice was directed solely toward his Navigator.

“I’d say those Soviets have been prowling around our territorial waters long enough, Lieutenant. Let’s see what we can do about making their stay here a bit less hospitable. Since we can’t outrun them, what’s the best course to intercept?”

While the Razorback’s command team prepared their pursuit, three fellow Naval officers found themselves anxiously perched on the sub’s stern, in a fifty foot-long cylinder of high-tensile steel. From the Marlin’s pilot chair. Commander Will Pierce efficiently activated the various switches that were bringing the DSRV’s power plant back to life. Beside him, Lieutenant Lance Blackmore remained glued to the underwater telephone, in the process of receiving a message from the Razorback’s XO. Watching them from the shelter of the vessel’s central pressure capsule was Ensign Louis Marvin.

No sooner did Blackmore disconnect the phone than he turned to address the grayhaired officer seated on his left.

“That was the Razorback’s XO, sir. We’ve been ordered to immediately disengage.”

Having suspected as much. Pierce called out to the Marlin’s sphere operator.

“Release those capture bolts. Ensign! Prepare the boat for separation.”

While Marvin pivoted to hit the trigger switch that would free the DSRV, Pierce doublechecked their hydraulics system. Satisfied that all looked good, he activated the aft thrusters just as the security bolts disengaged with a loud, metallic click. The main propulsion unit was set into gear, and the Marlin was now on its own.

It wasn’t until the vessel had completed a ninety degree turn at full throttle that Pierce again spoke.

“Contact the Razorback and let them know that we’re all clear, Lieutenant Blackmore.”

Without hesitation, the junior officer activated the radio telephone unit and hit the transmit switch. Only seconds after he conveyed Pierce’s directive, each of the three members of the Marlin’s crew could hear the distinctive whirl of the Razorback’s single screw.

Steadily increasing in intensity, this roaring sound was accompanied by a pronounced shudder as the sub’s gathering wake deflected off the hull of the Marlin. The disturbance quickly passed, and soon even the sound of the sub’s engines faded in the distance.

“What in the world was that all about?” queried Marvin.

“I thought we still had a couple of miles to go until we reached our pre-planned drop-off point.”

“It appears that the Razorback had a little uninvited company to check out,” offered Blackmore.

“They seem to suspect that there could be a Soviet Victor-class attack sub cruising in the waters south of here. Do you think that we should scrub today’s mission. Commander?”

In the process of checking out a bathymetric chart that he had unfolded on his lap. Pierce shook his head.

“I don’t see any reason to go to that extreme, Lieutenant. The Soviets are always poking their noses where they don’t belong, and I can’t see how their presence here could effect us. Even it we were in a state of war and they meant us harm, the Razorback is quite capable of keeping them off our backs. So for the time being, it’s business as usual.”

With his glance still locked on the chart. Pierce continued, “Though we’re a bit east of our ordered position, this looks like a good spot to take the Marlin down. We’ve got a good sixteen hundred feet of water to play with here. We’ll continue heading westward until we reach the eastern tip of Arguello Canyon.

The ocean depth increases rapidly there, and we should only be able to explore the first couple of miles of the canyon’s bottom before reaching our depth threshold.

“If our sonar has no luck, this could signal the western extreme of the Titan’s debris field. If that’s the case, we’ll turn eastward here, and retrace the preliminary scan completed by the Razorback. If this plan is all right with you, gentlemen, I think it’s time to earn our day’s keep. Ensign Marvin, prepare the Marlin for a deep dive. Lieutenant Blackmore, activate the bathymeter and begin an active sonar search.

I want to know every bit of manmade debris that lies beneath us, no matter how small it may be.”

While his junior officer turned to do his bidding, Pierce grasped the DSRV’s control stick and angled their tilting propeller shroud upwards. Next, he flooded the ballast tanks. The additional weight of tons of sea water soon had the Marlin plunging downward. Minutes later, their depth gauge passed 850 feet, the point where most submarines would be forced to level out. Oblivious to the clearly audible moaning strain of the hull around them, Pierce continued their dive.

Also watching the depth gauge increase was Blackmore.

As they passed 900 feet, he realized that this was the deepest that he had ever been. Though his feet and limbs were already icy cold, a narrow band of sweat formed on his forehead. Far from the panic that gripped him off of Kauai, he experienced a mild feeling of tense apprehension that he supposed was only normal.

At least he hadn’t screwed up this time, when they were in the midst of those vital communications with the Razorback. Now, if only he could keep from freezing up in an emergency. This remained his greatest fear.

He would never forget those nightmarish moments when the Marlin had been swept out of control by the Kauai Channel’s underwater currents. When their interior lights had failed, Blackmore had found himself so scared that, for a few seconds, he had been unable to hit the emergency breaker switch that he was responsible for. With his heart beating wildly, and his arms heavy as lead, he had been totally useless. Yet somehow he had managed to snap back and, with the lights’ reactivation, had gradually regained his cool.

For the rest of that mission, any sense of panic had been totally absent. He guessed that he had been so busy with the five round trips it took to remove the Providence’s crew that he had had no time for fear.

After the rescue had been completed, he remembered being possessed by a feeling of complete exhaustion, unlike any he had ever felt before. Fortunately, the flight on the C-5A had allowed him six hours of uninterrupted sleep. He had awakened to find himself at Vandenberg. While being briefed on their new mission. Lance had been again surprised when the commander had again chosen him to be the Marlin’s copilot. He was certain that Pierce had seen him freeze up before, yet the senior officer hadn’t said anything about it. And here he was, hardly twenty four hours later, once again putting his life in Lance’s inexperienced hands.

Marvin had said that this was an excellent sign.

The commander wouldn’t give Blackmore a second chance unless he was certain that Lance could handle the job. Once again the spirited ensign had advised the Marlin’s newest officer to lighten up. Everyone who dove deep beneath the seas felt such apprehensions at first, it was only natural. Thus, Blackmore had to quit being so tough on himself. He had to learn to relax and let things take care of themselves.

Never one to take life lightly. Lance took in this advice, yet knew it would be difficult to follow. He had always been tough on himself, even in school.

Raised by a pair of college-educated parents, he had been expected to live up to their high ideals. This included the attaining of a 4.0 grade-point average.

As it turned out, Lance had made the grade. Yet in return, he had had to sacrifice much. His one great passion had been swimming, and his high school coach had even promised him a spot on the varsity team if he’d only take the time out for practice.

Because his full schedule of studies had made such free time rare, he had reluctantly turned the coach down. This had been fine with his parents, who had promoted grades as his number-one priority.

His position on the Dean’s List had allowed him his choice of colleges. Like his father, in college he had immediately enrolled in Naval ROTC. Though this had originally been intended only to provide him with financial assistance. Lance had found himself genuinely enjoying his military studies. Since oceanography had been his minor, he had been particularly fascinated with submarines. Though his parents would have preferred that he seek a desk job, he had graduated with the full expectation of receiving his commission as a submariner.

A year later, he was plunging into the icy waters of the Pacific. Conscious of the long road that had led him there, he sighed in sudden awareness. His greatest challenge wouldn’t be in scholarship after all, but in conquering his own inner fears. Only in this way would he be able to stand on his own two feet and be a true man.

The clatter of the bathymeter began on his right, and Blackmore shifted his attention to study the pattern the instrument’s stylus was recording. The laser printer showed the outline of a jagged underwater canyon passing four hundred feet beneath them.

This subterranean valley was formed from walls approximately fifty feet high and three hundred yards apart. It would be into this void that their sonar would soon be penetrating.

A quick check of the depth gauge showed them to be under 1200 feet. It was evident that Commander Pierce was set on guiding the Marlin as close to the canyon’s floor as possible. Considering the inhospitable composition of this geological formation. Blackmore shuddered to think what would happen if they encountered any unusual turbulance. With a minimum amount of space in which to maneuver, the Marlin would be hard-pressed to survive any unexpected change of lateral course. Knowing that any sudden collision at this great depth would be instantly fatal, Blackmore attempted to wipe any such thoughts from his consciousness. Worrying about such a thing would certainly give him nothing but an ulcer.

To divert his attention, he sat forward and peered into the viewing scope. Even with the help of a pair of powerful, hull-mounted searchlights, he could pick out nothing but the black liquid void of inner space.

Yet merely being aware of the alien medium around him served to ease his nervousness, for here was the fascinating world that had always called to him.

Covering three-quarters of the planet, the oceans were man’s last frontier. Unbelievable as it may seem, man knew more about the landscape of the moon than that of the ocean’s floor. Plunging to depths over three times Mt. Everest’s height, portions of the sea were completely unexplored. Only recently had man been able to actively operate at the Marlin’s current depth. Even with this advance, this still left almost ninety-nine percent of the ocean’s floor virtually unexplored.

Lance stirred when a small jellyfish suddenly became visible in the viewing lens. This opaque marine coelenterate sported a flat, saucer-shaped body and a myriad of free-flapping tentacles. Though it was only visible for a matter of seconds, the young officer already felt more at one with the surrounding environment.

When a long, tapered squid shot beneath them, he felt almost at home. Any thoughts about the rather innocent nature of his past college studies came to an abrupt halt when the wavering sound of a returning sonar ping emanated from the speaker mounted above him. He looked up to determine just what their sound waves had detected.

With the commander’s expert assistance. Blackmore was able to determine the exact spot where the suspected object apparently lay. Beneath them, the canyon floor stretched in a ribbon of sandy silt. Yet somewhere in this flat muddy bed, at a depth of over 1800 feet below the surface, was what appeared to be a rectangular-sized, sharply edged object.

“Well, that certainly looks interesting,” observed Pierce coolly.

“What do you say about going down and taking a look close up?”

Not waiting for a response, the Marlin’s pilot began guiding the vessel downward, ever conscious that they were rapidly approaching their own depth threshold. With practiced ease, he initiated the tricky task of angling the DSRV in between the valley’s jagged walls. The job of then getting the thirty-six ton vessel to hover only a few precious feet above the canyon’s floor was not easy in itself, yet the veteran officer accomplished it with a minimum of delay. Only then did he issue a sigh of relief.

Blackmore needed no invitation to join Pierce for a look through the viewing scope. The first thing that met his eyes was the silty composition of the sea floor.

Clearly visible beneath them, the patch of muddy ocean bottom appeared as if it belonged to a huge fish less aquarium. It only began to come to life when their continued forward progress took them over a pair of bright-yellow starfish. Next, their lights illuminated a colony of sea urchins. Scattered among those spiny creatures were a number of elongated worms and dozens of tiny, darkly colored fish.

When their video camera set its lens on an advancing shelf of sharp rock. Pierce hit the Marlin’s thrusters and the vehicle jumped upward. Most aware that they had missed colliding with his object by a matter of inches, Blackmore found his pulse fluttering and his mouth dry. He had even begun to believe that this rock was the source of the suspected sonar return when he realized that the commander was once again maneuvering the Marlin downward.

He couldn’t help but feel that they would all be better off if the Marlin were headed instead in the opposite direction. The great depth and geological instability of the canyon made working there much too risky. Surely no piece of wreckage was worth losing the Marlin for. A crewless, remotely powered vehicle would be much better suited to operate in these dangerous waters. Not certain if he’d have the nerve to share his opinion with Pierce, Blackmore felt the familiar tension return. Once this took command of his nerves, he knew that he would be powerless to express himself. Deciding to fight it at all costs, Lance bent over to re-examine the viewing scope. The object his eyes locked onto there quickly brought him back to normalcy.

Beside him, Pierce had also set his startled gaze on the same object. There could be no question of its source, for protruding from the sea floor there was a torn, rectangular segment of thick silver metal, with a bright blue circle and a white, five-pointed star painted clearly on its side. Upon viewing this, he found himself smiling.

“Well, I’ll be. It looks like we’ve stumbled onto a piece of that Titan that the Razorback’s initial scan missed. We’re at least a mile from the presumed western limit of that debris field. It this guy’s for real, it could drastically change our search area. What do you say about latching onto it and bringing it topside with us?”

“It might not look like much, but that segment probably weighs quite a bit,” offered Blackmore.

“Can we handle it at this depth and all?”

“We’ll have to call in a specialist on that one,” returned Pierce.

“What do you think, Ensign Marvin, can we manage it?”

Scooting in between the two officers, Louis stretched over to peer out Pierce’s viewing scope.

“Bingo, Commander! She could prove a challenge, yet how can we resist the try?”

“That’s the type of prognosis I like to hear,” answered Pierce.

“Get back there and ready the articulated manipulator arms. Ensign. We’ll soon all know just how much muscle this little lady can throw around.”

A familiar knot had returned to settle in Blackmore’s stomach as he watched Marvin pull himself back into the pressure capsule. A vacant, distracted stare was on his face when a calm, deep voice sounded from his left.

“Hang in there. Lieutenant. We’ll pull this off yet.”

Meeting the probing stare of the man these words came from, Blackmore could hardly believe what he was seeing. Had a split-second of compassion actually emanated from behind that all-seeing gaze, or were his nerves merely playing tricks with him?

He’d never know for certain, for the commander soon returned his attention to the controls. Cold and efficient, he went about the job of positioning the Marlin over the piece of debris with a surgeon’s deftness. Inspired by his professionalism, the young lieutenant bent forward to assist the grizzled veteran in whatever way possible.