Flight of the Condor

Chapter Ten

Lieutenant Colonel Todd Lansford had been expecting this new day to be a full one, yet little could he have ever guessed how it was to start off. It all began with an emergency phone call that arrived at his home at 5:25 a.m. Awakened out of a sound sleep, Lansford groped for the telephone, and soon found himself on the line with the commander of Vandenberg’s Second Weather Squadron. The warning this serious-toned officer had to relate was unlike any that Lansford had ever received before. It was from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s Honolulu office, and consisted of a tsunami alert.

Not yet fully awake, Lansford had to ask the commander to repeat himself. This time, the base’s senior meteorologist related the following facts. At approximately 5:01 A.M.” an earthquake registering 7.1 on the Richter scale had shaken the waters off Alaska’s Kodiak Island. As the two subterranean crustal plates comprising the Aleutian fault line had snapped with a tremendous release of stored force, a fan-like quiver of energy had surged out into the Pacific basin. To the north, this energy took the form of a massive earthquake. As a result, dozens of buildings had collapsed in nearby Anchorage.

Preliminary reports showed at least two dozen people dead and hundreds more injured there.

To the south, this un leased force was expressing itself in the form of a monstrous tidal wave. Traveling at a speed of over 500 miles per hour, this fifty-too thigh wall of water could hit the central California coastline as early as 10:00 A.M. that very morning.

By the time the commander had related these grim facts, Lansford was wide awake. A cold shiver of dread coursed through his body as he visualized the tidal wave crashing into Vandenberg’s western boundary.

Leaving the meteorologist with orders to give him updates on the half-hour, Lansford disconnected the line and then hastily dialed the apartment of Master Sergeant Vince Sprawlings. After explaining then-situation, he directed Sprawlings to meet him at his office at once. Accepting the master sergeant’s offer to pick him up on the way in, Lansford made one more call before sprinting to the shower. He found himself somewhat surprised to hear that the deputy commander of the 4392nd Security Police Group had already been informed of the alert. Though he had just been awoken from bed himself, the deputy commander was already sketching up a preliminary evacuation plan. Directing him to bring this blueprint over to base headquarters at once, Lansford ran straight from his bed into the bathroom. At it turned out, Vince Sprawlings was just pulling into his driveway when he emerged fully dressed from his front door.

The fog made driving hazardous, yet Sprawlings knew the route well. By 6:00 A.M. he had the lieutenant colonel in his office, in just enough time to greet Deputy Commander Bill Rose of Vandenberg’s Security Police Group. With coffee cups in hand, the two senior officers huddled before a map of the base that the burly, crew-out security chief had pulled from his briefcase.

“This map is from the Master Contingency Disaster Plan,” stated the no-nonsense deputy commander.

“It shows the areas of our western boundary that lay within the tidal-wave inundation zone. As you can see, the only major structures directly threatened are those situated at the Point Arguello dock site It’s imperative that we order an immediate evacuation of all personnel, and get going with the transfer of all moveable equipment inland.”

Lansford’s face lit up.

“We mustn’t forget the Razorback and the Marlin. I wonder if the Navy has contacted them as yet.”

Bill Rose replied icily, “Even if they haven’t, the safest place for those two vessels to meet the wave is at least one mile offshore. When Point Arguello is contacted, we’ll remind the Navy of this fact.”

“What about the launch complexes?” queried Lansford.

The deputy commander traced a line from Point Arguello northward.

“Most of the launch sites are situated high enough to be free from any threat of flooding. The only positions that could be marginal are the Minutemen silos located in the northern sector of the base, off Point Sal Road.”

“Then seal them up,” directed Lansford.

“Also, once the evacuation is completed, both Point Sal and Coast Roads are to be closed to all traffic. Then I want the Civil Defense sirens activated, and the proper bulletins released over both radio and television.”

“I think it’s a good idea to scramble the Hueys,” added Rose.

“The choppers can comb the coastline and the immediate waters, to inform any strays who miss our warnings.”

Lansford nodded.

“Good idea. Bill. With your expert assistance, we’ll ride this wave out with a minimum of damage. Secretary Fitzpatrick couldn’t have picked a worse day for his surprise visit.”

“It will all be over by the time his plane touches down at noon,” said Rose.

“He won’t even know that anything out of the ordinary occurred here this morning.”

“I hope to God you’re right,” retorted Lansford, whose weary eyes went to the wallmounted clock.

Taking in the time, he realized that in less than three and a half hours they’d all know the outcome for sure.

Two hours later, the exact manner in which they would meet their predicament was a bit clearer. Even from his office, Lansford could hear the warning sirens wailing in the distance. A similar sound could be heard in communities up and down the western coast of North America. Confident that Vandenberg was prepared for the worse, he still was concerned with the Point Arguello dockside facility.

Only minutes before, the base’s security chief had called him from this site. There, the evacuation of men and material was going smoothly. Even the piece of Titan debris that the DSRV Marlin had recently exhumed from the ocean had been moved to higher ground. This left the massive, solid-rocket booster warehouse as the only installation of significant value that lay in the tidal wave’s inundation zone. Most aware that there was absolutely nothing he could do to further protect the multi-million-dollar facility from the ever-approaching wall of water, Lansford could only pray that all base personnel were safely out of harm’s way when the tsunami struck. He was about to call Bill Rose to reiterate this point when his intercom buzzed. This was followed by the deep voice of Master Sergeant Sprawlings.

“Sir, Dr. Fuller is here with that chart you asked him to draw up for the Secretary.”

Having completely forgotten about this request, Lansford responded, “Send him in.”

The Nose researcher looked confused as he entered the inner office.

“Sergeant Sprawlings was just explaining what these sirens are all about. Since I haven’t heard a TV or radio yet this morning, I thought it was all some sort of practice drill. Actually, I would have guessed that the Russians were landing before associating the sirens with a tsunami alert. I haven’t been in one of these things since the spring of ‘86, when I was working on the north shore of Kauai.

At that time, it was another Aleutian quake that provoked the warning. Fortunately, the tidal wave failed to materialize.”

“I only hope we’re so lucky,” said Lansford, whose tone was already heavy with fatigue.

“We’ll know in another hour and a half. Would you like to see a map of the inundation zone?”

“Of course,” replied Richard, who was well aware that a tidal wave could be one of the most destructive forces Mother Nature could unleash against man.

As his eyes studied the chart that the lieutenant colonel handed to him, he noticed the black hatch marks that completely covered the coastline. Those finely drawn lines were especially thick around the section of beach just south of Point Arguello. Drawn to show the extent of the overflowing waters as they crashed onto land, the hatch-marks continued up northward. He couldn’t help but notice how they covered Ocean Beach Park.

“Has anyone thought of personally notifying that crew of student archaeologists?” asked Richard.

Lansford answered matter-of-factly, “The park is well covered by sirens. I’m certain that they’ve heard the radio bulletins by now and that they’re safe and sound in Lompoc.”

“Maybe you can take such a thing for granted, but I certainly can’t,” said Richard.

“I can’t believe you didn’t at least send someone down to check on them!”

“Easy now. Doctor. Those kids will be just fine.

Our security force has the matter well in hand. We’ve even got helicopters combing the beach for any stragglers.”

“That’s still not good enough,” retorted Richard, his face flushed with concern.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to drive down there to make certain that they’re out.

Unaware of what all the fuss was about, the lieutenant colonel reacted angrily.

“As a matter of fact, I do mind. Doctor. As of 0800 hours, all roads leading down to the coastline have been placed off limits. The South Vandenberg Security Gate has been notified to admit emergency personnel only.”

“Well, please notify them to let me through. Colonel.

I won’t be able to rest until I know those kids are safe.”

Realizing that the researcher was not about to take no for an answer, Lansford reluctantly gave in.

“I still think you’re being silly, but go on down there if it’s so damn important to you. Yet I’m warning you, if you’re not out of there in another hour, I’m sending one of those choppers in to pull you out. Now, where’s that chart that I asked you to draw up for the Secretary?”

Richard Fuller’s mind was already concentrating on the route he’d utilize to drive down to the beach as he handed the map to Lansford and abruptly excused himself. Not even stopping to return Sergeant Sprawling’s goodbye. Fuller sprinted from the office and headed immediately for his car. As he raced through the main administrative area, he took in the sound of the wailing sirens and the ever-present swirling fingers of thick, gray fog. Ignoring the base speed limit, he began his way down the long, sloping roadway that led directly into the only route to Ocean Beach Park.

With the resulting elevation change, the fog closed in even tighter. So thick was it that he saw the locked sentry gate only at the last moment. To the squeal of grinding brakes, he skidded up beside the guardhouse.

It seemed to take an eternity for the smartly uniformed sentry to greet him.

“Going a bit fast, weren’t you, sir?”

Richard responded hurriedly.

“I’m sorry, but it’s imperative that I get down to Ocean Beach Park as soon as possible.”

In no rush of his own, the guard shook his beret clad head.

“I’m afraid that could be a bit difficult, sir. You see, because of this tidal-wave alert, entry to all points west of here is no longer permitted.”

Though he tried to hold back his temper, Richard exploded.

“For God’s sake man, I’m fully aware of that! My name is Dr. Fuller, and Lieutenant Colonel Lansford has given me permission to enter.”

“That’s news to me,” returned the sentry, who didn’t like his visitor’s tone of voice.

“If you’ll excuse me for a second, I’ll have to check this out with headquarters.”

Richard’s blood pressure was soaring as the guard turned to return to his kiosk with deliberate slowness.

The Nose researcher checked his watch and figured he would have just about an hour to reach Miriam before the tidal wave hit. Fighting the impulse to hurry the sentry with his horn, he contemplated the irony of it all. Here he had been without Miriam for over a decade now, and just as he had rediscovered how important she was to him, he ran the risk of losing her to a mere whim of nature’s fury. He was in the process of remembering that fateful moment when he had first set his eyes on her in the confines of Lansford’s office when the sentry stepped outside.

“Sorry about that, sir, but you have indeed received permission to pass. Please keep your speed down, and buckle that seatbelt. This fog’s a lot worse down at the coastline, so be extra alert.”

Taking in this motherly advice, Richard hit the accelerator the second that the gate popped open.

Barely five minutes later he was somewhat cautiously pulling into the mist-shrouded parking lot that was his goal.

The semicircle of parked trailers appeared like a ghostly apparition in the foreground. As he jumped from the car, he was aware of the faraway, banshee like wail of a warning siren, and beyond this, the crash of distant surf. No other sounds were audible.

It took him only seconds to cross the lot and enter the camp. He found a single individual seated at a picnic table, her attention totally focused on the ornate shell necklace that she was delicately cleaning.

In order not to frighten the brunette, who was dressed in a bright red ski jacket, Richard loudly cleared his voice while still several yards away from her.

“Hello,” he added.

“Is Miss Rodgers around?”

Even with the warning, the young woman seemed startled by his presence. Turning around quickly, she centered her gaze on the tall, khaki-clad figure who was emerging from the fog.

“I’m afraid not,” she answered hesitantly.

“Can I help you?”

Striding up beside her, Richard could see that she was only in her late teens.

“I’m Dr. Richard Fuller, a friend of Miss Rodgers. Have the rest of you been evacuated?”

“Evacuated?” quizzed the undergraduate.

“What do you mean by that?”

No other words were needed for Richard Fuller to have his worst fears realized.

“This coastline is under a tidal-wave alert. It’s scheduled to hit here in another hour. Haven’t you wondered what all the sirens were about?”

Shocked by this revelation, the young archaeologist’s voice wavered.

“The only time I’ve ever heard a siren like that was back home in Kansas during tornado season. Since I didn’t think that we had twisters here, I assumed it was just some sort of military test.”

“I wish it were,” said Richard, whose own tone of voice softened.

“Now, where’s Miss Rodgers and the rest of your classmates?”

Having instinctively accepted this stranger’s legitimacy, Margaret Samuels was quick to answer.

“They’re all down at the new excavation site. It’s about a mile south of here, and accessible only by foot.”

Again checking his watch, Richard asked nervously, “Do you think that you could lead me to them? It’s vital that they reach high ground before that wave strikes.”

Without hesitation, Margaret stood and pointed to the west.

“The only way to get there is by crossing the beach. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Thankful for her trust, Richard followed her out of the camp, and down a sandy footpath that lay beside the Santa Ynez River. There, the fog progressively thickened. Barely able to see the wide channel of water that flowed on his right, he noted that the trail cut beneath a railroad trestle up ahead. An icy gust, full with the scent of the ocean, hit him as he crossed beneath this large, wooden structure and passed by the river’s estuary. It wasn’t until they actually hit the surf line that their progress turned southward.

Margaret kept a brisk pace, and Richard needed a total effort to keep up with her. Eventually, he settled in beside the young student, and with the waves crashing to their right, Margaret asked him, “How do you know Miss Rodgers? Are you with the Air Force?”

“Believe it or not, we went to college together. We met here, quite by accident, yesterday afternoon.”

Still curious, Margaret continued, “What are you doing here in Vandenberg?”

Most aware of his companion’s probing intellect, Richard cautiously answered, “I’m giving the Air Force a hand in the recovery of that missile that failed here the other day. I believe all of you saw it go down.”

“We sure did,” observed Margaret excitedly.

“It was really an incredible sight. For a second there, when I set my eyes on that orange mushroomshaped cloud that filled the skies, I was afraid that a nuclear bomb had gone off. From what I was able to view, I didn’t think there was much left of that thing to recover.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Richard.

“So far, we’ve catalogued over five hundred good-sized chunks of debris lying on the floor of the Pacific west of here.

Now the tough part is to scoop up each piece and bring it to the surface.”

Margaret didn’t seem impressed.

“I wonder how many millions that exploding rocket cost us taxpayers?

If the leaders of the world would only grow up, they’d realize that all this needless military expenditure is not only a colossal waste of money and resources, it’s life-threatening as well. Someday, some poor fool is going to push the wrong button, and goodbye Planet Earth.”

“I agree with you on that, young lady. We’ve been lucky for four decades, but who knows how much longer our fortune will hold.”

“By the way, my name’s Margaret Samuels, and I’m in Miss Rodger’s upper-level lab class.”

Not breaking his stride, Richard smiled.

“Pleased to know you, Margaret. I’m glad you were around.

Otherwise I would have had a heck of a time finding this place. How much further do we have?”

Because the fog still veiled any familiar geographic features, Margaret could only check her watch.

“The hike takes about twenty minutes, so we should be there in approximately ten minutes more.”

Checking his own watch, Richard saw that this would get them there at 9:30. That should give him just enough time to get the crew to high ground.

The wet, firm sand provided excellent traction and Margaret didn’t seem to tire in the least. Though Richard had been chilly at first, a thick line of sweat now soaked his forehead. His calves were sore, and he silently cursed his lousy physical condition. Daily swimming and cycling were what he needed to counter this. Of course, his advancing years didn’t help much. And to think that, just the previous night, he had actually felt like a young, college-aged boy again. Reality set in only when he noticed that Margaret’s stride was easily outdistancing his own.

There had been a time not long ago when she would have been hard-pressed to catch him.

Margaret suddenly pointed anxiously ahead of her.

“There’s the gang’s footprints. We go due east here.”

Sighting these tracks himself, Richard followed her as she swung to the left. The sand was softer there, the going a bit tougher. Yet just knowing that they were close put new spring into Fuller’s step. The sound of the surf faded behind them, and as they approached a series of dunes, the fog began lifting. It had dissipated almost completely by the time they climbed around the dunes and crossed a hilly plain filled with lowlying scrub and cactus. As it turned out, it was 9:30 exactly when they spotted the first member of the crew, innocently working at the base of a steep, rocky canyon. Well aware that a good-sized tsunami could easily inundate this portion of coastline, Richard pressed himself to lengthen his stride.

They arrived just in time to witness the team in the process of lifting a long, narrow, canoe-like vessel from a crypt of dried mud and rock. Miriam had been supervising this effort, and was the first crew member to spot the newcomers. From the first moment that she set her astounded eyes on them, she had a feeling that this wasn’t a mere social visit.

Leaving the excavation, she walked over to issue a greeting.

“Good morning, you two. Well, Richard, this sure is a surprise.”

Fuller didn’t even allow himself a second to catch his breath.

“All of you must leave this area at once to seek high ground. In less than thirty minutes, a wall of water higher than a ten-story building will crash into the coast here at a speed of over five hundred miles per hour.”

Hardly believing what she was hearing, Miriam could only think of a single thing.

“Do you mean a tsunami?”

Richard’s eyes flashed.

“Precisely. It was generated as a result of a major earthquake in the Aleutian Islands. Since it’s scheduled to strike the central California coastline at 10:00 A.M.” we’ve got just about a half hour to get out of this inundation zone.”

As the reality sunk in, Miriam paled.

“First we witness a missile explode right before our eyes, and now this. The crew is never going to believe it. Come on, we’d better inform them.”

Without further delay, she led them towards the floor of the rugged canyon. There, still concentrating totally on their work, the young archaeologists were in the process of admiring the object that they had just dug out of the rocky hillside. A tall, solidly built Indian in his early twenties stood at the group’s head.

It was towards this bare-chested figure that Miriam moved.

“Joseph, kids, we’re going to have to wrap up our dig here right now. I know this sounds somewhat unbelievable, but in less than thirty minutes, this canyon could be awash with the aftereffects of a tidal wave.”

Joseph Solares shook his head in wonder.

“Tidal wave? You’ve got to be kidding us, Boss.”

Miriam’s firm tone didn’t falter.

“I wish I was, but apparently this threat is very real. This gentleman beside me, who was good enough to hike out here with the warming, is Dr. Richard Fuller. Richard, would you like to add anything?”

Sizing up the looks of astonishment on the faces of his young audience, Richard responded, “Believe me when I tell you that I was just as shocked as you are when I first heard of the alert barely an hour ago.

But unfortunately, it’s a very real one. As an oceanographer, I’ve studied dozens of eyewitness accounts by tidal-wave survivors, and there’s no denying the awesome destructive power that such phenomena can generate. Since we’re presently standing in a major flood zone, our only defense is finding some high ground, and getting there on the double.”

A tall beanpole of a lad pointed towards the summit of the adjoining canyon.

“Is that high enough, Doctor?”

Shading his eyes from the sun’s incessant glare, Richard peered upward and viewed the portion of hilltop that the young man indicated.

“That will be more than sufficient.”

This time it was Miriam who added, “Then it’s settled. We’ll pack up all that we can carry and start at once for the trail leading up there.”

Only a single deep voice sounded out in complaint.

“But the tomoto!” said Joseph Solares.

“We can’t just leave it here to get washed away. It’s one of the best-preserved specimens that I’ve ever seen before.”

Most aware that he was right, Miriam thought a minute before answering him.

“Do you think that a couple of you could safely carry it up the hill?”

Without hesitation, Joseph retorted, “Of course we could.”

“Then get going!” said Miriam, who added, “The University might not agree, but surely a couple of picks and shovels are expendable in this case. Now, move it, kids! We’ve all got some climbing to do.”

While the youngsters scurried for whatever belongings they could carry, Richard’s eyes went to his watch. Calculating that they’d just have enough time to reach the canyon’s summit, he knew that he had been extremely lucky. A delay of a mere fifteen minutes could have had disastrous implications. It was while pondering this fact that he became aware of a distant chopping sound. As he scanned the horizon to determine its source, his gaze caught sight of a single green Huey helicopter, sweeping in from the south. The sound of its approach rapidly increased as the sleek vehicle initiated a sudden descent. Soon it was hovering only a few hundred feet above them.

A resounding, amplified voice emanated from the chopper’s public-address system.

“Attention all civilians, you must evacuate this area at once! Please proceed immediately to the nearest high ground. A tidal wave is expected to hit this coast in less than ten minutes, and you are presently occupying a predetermined flood zone.”

The message was repeated, and Richard Fuller tried to signal the helicopter crew that they understood.

Only when the first of the students began their way up the narrow canyon trail, did the chopper dip its nose and speed off northwards.

Better late than never, thought Richard, who realized that Lieutenant Colonel Lansford had come through after all. With this in mind, he looked on as three of the young archaeologists shouldered their treasured canoe with a grunt and began their own way to safety. Miriam filed in behind them and waved for Richard to join her. Certain that no one else was left behind, he gratefully did so.

Twenty-one miles to the west of the beach side canyon, the Pacific surged with a deceptive calm. The lapping blue waters gave little hint of the violent swell that continued its mad approach from the northwest.

This tranquility was especially apparent from a depth of 450 feet beneath the water’s surface. There the U.S.S. Razorback had been positioned to meet the tsunami’s fury. From his usual command position, at the rear of the torpedo well, Commander Philip Exeter surveyed the hushed control room. To his left was his XO, Patrick

Benton. The calm tempered redhead had his trusty corncob pipe between his lips, and was in the process of looking over the shoulder of Lieutenant Edward McClure. As usual, the scholarly Navigator was hunched over his charts.

Seated to their left was Lester Brawnley. The portly Chief of the Boat alertly waited at the diving station for any ordered change in their depth status. Beside him sat the young helmsman, whose steady hands ultimately controlled the boat’s destiny.

The firm voice of the sub’s OOD, Lieutenant Scott Willingham, addressed Exeter from the portion of the deck situated immediately before the Captain.

“Sir, all hands are standing by at battle stations. The boat is secured to meet a concussion.”

Studying the determined, clean-shaven face of the OOD, Exeter nodded.

“Continue on course two-six zero until further ordered, Lieutenant. I want you to remain at the helm until this wave passes, so hang in there.

Willingham’s expression was all business as he pivoted to recheck their course and depth. The young man’s no-nonsense approach was continuing to impress the Captain. Too many rookie officers tried to hide their insecurities with humor. Though there was a time and place for wisecracks, this surely wasn’t one of them.

This would be the Captain’s first experience meeting a legendary tsunami at sea. Though a certain amount of nervous anticipation possessed him, he didn’t dare show it. His command position made it necessary that he set the example for the others to follow.

His eyes went to the clock and he saw that there were five more minutes until the wave was to arrive.

At their present depth, the tsunami’s aftereffects should be minimal. Just in case it were otherwise, he made certain that there was plenty of water surrounding their hull. Twenty-one miles from the nearest land, and with the nearest subterranean geological feature an additional 3,000 feet beneath them, the Razorback was buttoned down and ready for the worst.

Six and a half miles due east of them, Commander Will Pierce hoped he had the Marlin in a similar condition. Even though the DSRV was considerably smaller than the Razorback, its deep-diving capability should keep them well out of danger.

Exeter found himself subconsciously wishing that the wave would go ahead and pass. Only then could he get on with the patrol that had made the previous twenty-four hours extremely hectic, frustrating ones.

He still couldn’t get over the fact that the Soviet Victor had successfully evaded them. Yesterday, they had chased the bogy all the way to San Miguel Island. It was in those tricky waters that they lost it.

He could only assume that the Soviet skipper had put his sub down on the bottom there, and then scrammed his reactor. Unless he was utilizing some sort of novel anechoic-coating masking device, this was the only way that they could have disappeared so thoroughly, in so little time.

In an attempt to relocate them, Exeter had resorted to a variety of proven tactics. This had included ordering the Razorback to sprint and drift. By shutting down the sub in a state of ultra-quiet, he had known that their hydrophones would be better able to listen in on the surrounding waters without their own noise interfering. When a scan proved fruitless, he had ordered the boat to move on to an adjoining sector, where the same listening procedure had been repeated.

This process had continued on for a good portion of the night, until the Razorback’s prior commitment had ultimately forced them to return to Point Arguello.

As it turned out, this usually simple, two-hour voyage had turned into one of the most demanding trips he had ever embarked upon. Veiled by the night itself, and one of the thickest fogs that he had ever witnessed, the sub had been able to get back to the Arguello dock site without a single scrape, by the grace of God and the cool skill of his crew. Special commendations had gone to their radar operator, whose expertise had allowed them to stay well clear of the jagged rocks that helped earn these waters the nickname “the graveyard of the Pacific.”

No sooner had they arrived at port then preparations for reloading the Martin had had to be initiated.

Barely two hours had passed before the Razorback had been once again knifing its way through the fog shrouded waters.

Dawn was just lighting the ghostly horizon, when they had been informed of the tsunami alert. Since standard operating procedure would send them to sea to meet the wave anyway, they had decided to continue on with their mission as planned. Fourteen and a half miles west of Arguello, the Marlin had been dropped off. An hour later, the Razorback had attained its current position.

A slight shift of the deck beneath him diverted Exeter’s attention back to the bulkhead-mounted clock. He noted the time, 10:00 a.m.” as the firm voice of the seaman assigned to monitor the comm line broke the relative silence that had prevailed.

“Sonar reports the receipt of an unusually loud tidal surge topside!”

Instantly knowing what this meant, Exeter called out calmly, “Brace yourselves, gentlemen. It’s here.”

No sooner were these words delivered than the Razorback violently lurched forward, as the tsunami sucked back the waters that lay before it. This was followed by a massive concussion that sent the submarine reeling on its starboard side.

Thrown to his right, the Captain strained to remain standing. Held upright only by the grip his hands had on the bulkhead security railing, Exeter felt the cold steel bite into his palms. The lights overhead momentarily blinked off, then on again, as the sub was tossed in the opposite direction. This time the Captain’s grip failed, and he went slamming into the navigation table. The powerful grasp of his XO kept him from falling down completely. Unfortunately, this was not the case with Lieutenant Willingham, who was thrown to the deck immediately beside the harness-secured helmsman.

The deck canted again to the right, yet this time the angle was much less severe. Only then did the straining hull finally stabilize.

By the time the deck had settled beneath them, Willingham had already lifted himself up from his prone position. As he brushed aside his blond, wavy hair, it was evident that there was more injury to the young lieutenant’s pride than to his body. Quick to station himself back at the periscope well, he lost no time in regaining his composure.

“Damage Control, I need an immediate report on the condition of the boat! Helmsman, how’s she responding?”

As the control room drifted back into normalcy, Exeter was aware of a shooting pain in his right knee.

Fighting to ignore it, he limped over to the OOD’s side. Only when he was certain that the Razorback had ridden out the concussion with no serious injuries or mechanical failures did he turn back to the navigation station There the XO swiftly intercepted him.

“Are you okay. Skipper? That was a pretty wicked knock you took on that table.”

Rubbing his already swelling knee-joint, Exeter fought to control the pain.

“I’ll live, Mr. Benton, though if it wasn’t for your strong arms, things could have been a lot worse.”

The XO could see that the Captain was hurting, and found it impossible to hide his concern.

“I think that it’s best if you got off that leg for a while, Skipper. Some aspirin wouldn’t hurt either.”

Knowing that the XO was probably right, Exeter sighed.

“I’ll allow myself that luxury only when we know for certain whether or not the Marlin rode out that wave safely.”

“She was a huge one, all right,” offered Benton.

“I never dreamed it would touch us down here.”

“Neither did I,” said Exeter grimly.

“Now, let’s just pray that Will Pierce put that DSRV in the deepest damn hole that he could find.”

Only a few seconds after the tsunami passed over the Razorback, it bit into the waters where the Marlin was attempting to hide from its fury. Even though the DSRV was at a depth of 900 feet, the wave’s powerful currents lifted the thirty-six-ton vessel as though it were a mere feather in the wind.

Commander Will Pierce had been expecting the worst, and he valiantly fought to guide the mini-sub from the tidal surge that soon had them in tow. Much as an experienced swimmer meets a riptide, Pierce attempted to steer the Marlin in a lateral course. This routine tactic was just showing some merit when an agitated torrent of sea water struck their hull and sent the vessel tumbling on its side.

Shocked by the unexpected strength of this surge, the crew was caught totally by surprise. As the lights flickered, and finally faded out altogether, Pierce and his copilot, Lieutenant Lance Blackmore, felt their safety harnesses bite into their shoulders. Behind them, Ensign Louis Marvin tumbled backwards, and only escaped serious injury by grabbing hold of one of the bench-posts that lined the rear pressure capsule.

In the ensuing blackness, Pierce groped for the controls. Conscious that the vessel’s bow was abruptly pointed downwards, he struggled to re trim the Marlin.

When his hands finally grasped the ballast vents, he activated the proper switches even without the benefit of light. A feeling of sickening dread filled his gut when the familiar rush of venting sea water failed to meet his ears. Again he hit the switch, yet still the ballast mechanism would not trigger. He knew this could mean only one thing. The Martin had lost the use of its hydraulic system. Without it, they would continue to be pulled downward, unable to counter the force of the current that now had them solidly in its grasp.

Seated on Pierce’s right, the DSRV’s copilot was also quite aware of their precarious trim. With limbs heavy and his pulse beating madly, Blackmore fought to contain the panic that was rising to possess him.

Well aware that his first responsibility was to reset the circuit breaker to provide them with lighting, Blackmore struggled to raise his right arm upwards. As if caught in a recurring nightmare, the young lieutenant knew that this was no mere dream. His life, and that of two others, could very possibly rest on his current efforts. Oblivious to the terror that called him to escape in a tight, embryonic ball, Blackmore summoned his every last ounce of will, and somehow prevailed. His right index finger hit the plastic circuit breaker, and almost instantaneously the compartment filled with glowing, blessed light.

It took several seconds for his pupils to adjust to the illumination, and when they eventually did, he looked almost shamefully to his left. Expecting to meet the Commander’s disappointed stare, Blackmore was surprised to find Pierce cowering in panic.

Soaked in sweat and with limbs quivering, the grayhaired veteran officer sat rigidly forward, his eyes locked on the boat’s depth gauge. Blackmore’s own gut soured as he realized that they were in the midst of a spiraling, uncontrollable dive. Showing a depth well beyond twelve hundred feet at the moment, the gauge was spinning ever downward without apparent constraint.

His mouth was dry and throat tight, yet somehow Lance managed to speak.

“Commander Pierce, what in God’s name is happening?”

When this query didn’t even produce a blink in response, Blackmore screamed out desperately, “Jesus, Commander, pull us out of here!”

Pierce still didn’t budge, and his copilot could think of but a single course of action. Unbuckling his safely harness, he strained to his left and reached out for the steering yoke. Just as he was about to grasp this metallic handle, Pierce came alive and brushed his hand away.

“It’s useless,” observed the commander, his usually powerful voice subdued and cracking.

“The moment that second concussion struck, we lost all hydraulics.”

To demonstrate this point. Pierce pulled the yoke back into his lap with only a single finger. Completely ignoring this movement, the depth gauge continued its mad spin downwards.

“There’s got to be something that we can do!”

countered Blackmore.

“How about jettisoning the emergency mercury-filled ballast tank?”

“Not without hydraulics,” returned the commander weakly.

Still shocked with Pierce’s state of mind. Blackmore forgot his own panic as his being struggled for survival. Reattaching his harness, he hastily scanned the console before him. With a desperate coolness that he was only now discovering, the copilot activated the vessel’s sonar and triggered its bathymeter.

It didn’t take long for these systems to chatter alive, and he soon had an accurate picture of just what lay beneath them.

Three hundred and seventy-five feet below their hull was the jagged summit of this portion of Arguello Canyon. A thousand feet below this ridge was the floor of the valley itself. Even if they could make it to the bottom there without smashing into the surrounding volcanic walls, it would put them at the extreme threshold of their operational diving depth. Yet, without any effective means of steering the Marlin, there was little chance that they’d ever escape the razor sharp precipices that were all too quickly approaching.

They were less than 100 feet from the first of these serrated ledges, when a voice groggily called out from the rear pressure capsule.

“What in the hell is going on up there?”

Having completely forgotten about their ensign, Blackmore turned around to address him.

“We’ve lost our hydraulics, Louis. Right now, we’re in the midst of an uncontrollable dive, with the walls of Arguello Canyon directly beneath us.”

“Wonderful,” returned the ensign, without the least hint of panic.

“Anyone think of checking the aft hydraulic power unit?”

“Go for it, Louis!” replied Blackmore.

“But make it snappy. Time is definitely not on our side.”

Though Lance Blackmore had pretty well given up hope by now, there was always the slim chance that the ensign would stumble onto something. Consigning himself to meet death in the bravest manner possible, he took three deep breaths and turned to meet the glance of the man who sat beside him.

By this time, Pierce had regained control of his nerves. His stare was clear, his own breath steady, as he looked into the eyes of the young man who sat on his right. Appearing calm and collected, Lieutenant Blackmore glowed with an inner peace and maturity that had been absent beforehand. Invigorated by this show of strength, Pierce bravely smiled. Blackmore returned this grin, and the two officers found themselves closely linked by a common fate.

For men who daily risked their lives, panic was no stranger. Yet a thin line lay between those who controlled this natural anxiety and those who let it get the best of them. Both officers had seen each other in the midst of such an inner conflict. Both had also been around to watch their coworker conquer this oldest of fears. The result was a bond that not even death could fracture.

Less than thirty feet from a series of needle-sharp volcanic pinnacles, the Marlin shuddered in a sudden spasm. A long-absent electronic whine accompanied this movement, and Pierce knew instinctively what this meant. With a familiar delicacy, he reached forward to regrasp the steering yoke. His pulse quickened as this time his touch met resistance. Hydraulic pressure had been miraculously restored!

Conscious of just what was occurring beside him, Blackmore snapped into action.

“Turn hard aport to bearing two-seven-zero I” With one eye on the bathymeter, the young lieutenant determined the course that would keep them from the jaws of death. Trusting his judgment implicitly, Pierce followed his directions without question.

The Marlin’s hydraulics were still somewhat sluggish to respond, yet they provided just enough control to allow them to miss the first series of obstacles. As the ledge of rock passed only inches to their right, Blackmore couldn’t help but express his relief.

“All right, Louis! What in hell did you do back there?”

The ensign replied boldly, “It just ain’t my time to go yet, Lieutenant. Fortunately, after a good oldfashioned whack on the hydraulic pump, the good Lord concurred.”

“Well, don’t celebrate too prematurely,” interrupted Pierce.

“Though we’ve got our lateral control back, I still can’t brake us from this dive. Lieutenant, what’s it look like beneath us?”

Blackmore responded while rechecking the bathymeter.

“We’re angling in between the canyon’s walls now. The bottom still lies some seven hundred feet away. If we do reach it, that will put us at least twenty-five feet below our depth threshold, sir.”

“I figured as much,” returned Pierce solemnly.

“Yet until we get our venting systems back on line, the Marlin’s just going to have to take it. Seal her up tight, gentlemen. We’re about to see what this baby’s really made of.”

The depth gauge continued to register their descent, and the hull creaked and moaned in response.

A tense silence prevailed, as Pierce did his best to slow the speed of the drop. Guiding the DSRV in a wide, spiraling circle, he was able to brake the rate of descent rather drastically.

“I hope you’ve picked out a nice, soft, sandy spot for us to touch down on,” said Pierce to his copilot.

Blackmore still had his doubts as to whether the Marlin’s hull would even get them to that point.

Suddenly Marvin’s voice sounded.

“Try those vents again, Commander!”

Immediately reaching forward. Pierce hit the ballast trigger. The familiar gush of venting sea water met their ears, and the Marlin shuddered in response.

With the assistance of the vessel’s thrusters, the level of descent was gradually eased, until the DSRV lay hovering, level in the water.

“Glory be!” sighed Pierce, who only then took the time to wipe off the sweat that had gathered on his forehead.

“And will you look at that! We’ve got a whole seventy feet of ocean left until we hit bottom. I knew we’d make this depth. What’s down there anyway. Lieutenant?”

Blackmore’s glance was ri voted on the sonar screen.

“Good thing we didn’t hit here, sir. Though it’s certainly flat, the ocean bottom seems to be comprised of solid rock.”

Pierce shrugged his shoulders.

“Since the fates took us down this far, how about taking a closer look at it? Another fifty feet or so won’t hurt us.”

Offering no objections of his own, Blackmore hit the Marlin’s bow spotlights, as Pierce gently directed the vessel downward. After tilting the video camera toward the sea floor, Lance bent over to peer into the lap-mounted viewing port.

At first he could see nothing but the swirling, turbid waters themselves. Even at this great depth, the thick, primordial ooze had been stirred up by the tsunami’s passage. Only when Pierce lowered them another five feet did the sea floor become visible.

Formed from a series of flat, smoothly hewn rocks, the ocean bottom there looked more like some sort of cobblestone pathway. Lance Blackmore couldn’t help but make this association as his eyes alertly scanned the depths.

“It almost looks like there’s a manmade road down here,” observed the lieutenant, who realized the absurdity of such a statement.

Quick to study his own viewing port, Pierce shook his head in wonder.

“I’ll be damned, it sure as hell does. I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.

What’s our current heading?”

Blackmore checked their course and answered, “We’re cruising due west, sir.”

“I’d like to see how far this phenomenon extends, Lieutenant. Zap the waters with our sonar, and see what it looks like ahead of us.”

While Blackmore got to work on this. Ensign Marvin snuggled in between them.

“What’s so interesting, Commander?”

Without looking up from his viewing column, Pierce answered, “It almost looks like we found a section of the freeway grid that the auto club missed on their maps. What do you make of it, Ensign?”

Swinging the column over for Louis to have a look, Pierce waited for the ensign’s response.

“It certainly does, Commander. If this is a byproduct of mother nature, it’s awfully freaky. Those stones down there sure look like they were placed by hand.”

“We’re picking up something else straight ahead of us, sir,” interrupted Lance.

“It seems to be some sort of rock formation. Sonar shows that it’s semicircular in shape and comprised of six separate, large stones, approximately seven feet tall and three feet wide. It’s still a good mile distant.”

“Anything else out there?” queried Pierce curiously.

“That seems to be it, Commander. Until you reach the canyon’s walls, it’s as flat as a pancake out there.”

As he took this in, Pierce’s brow tightened.

“Then let’s check this formation out firsthand.”

Pierce opened the Marlin’s throttle, and the vessel surged forward. Still hunched over the viewing column, Marvin scanned the stone thoroughfare that continued to stretch out beneath them. Though some of it was covered with sediment, most of it was unusually clear. He supposed that it could have been only recently swept clean by the deep currents which accompanied the tidal wave. Yet this certainly didn’t explain how it had been formed in the first place. The one thing that he was certain of was that this was no freak of nature. The stones were too uniformly cut and laid out too perfectly for this to be true. This meant that it had to be the product of man.

With what little Louis knew of underwater geology, he supposed that this canyon could have once been part of the mainland. Most likely, an earthquake had caused its submergence many centuries before. Yet this still left in question who had originally designed it. Louis could only guess that it had been built by the ancient Spaniards, who had first visited there in the 1500’s.

“We’re two hundred yards in front of the formation, Commander.”

Blackmore’s words caused Louis to sit up, and Pierce slowed the craft to half speed. The steady hum of the Marlin’s single propeller decreased proportionately.

Since both officers were busy at the controls initiating their approach, Louis turned his attention back to the viewing column. Angling the tilt of the camera to scan that section of ocean directly before them, he focused in on a sight that would stay with him forever.

Projecting from the seafloor were six massive monoliths of smooth stone. Appearing like those of Ston henge, the monoliths were equally spaced in such a way to allow the stone roadway to neatly bisect them.

Still following the center of this path, the Marlin continued its way westward.

Louis Marvin’s eyes were wide with wonder as the DSRV passed into the semicircle itself. His pulse quickened as he viewed a huge black and red circle, etched into the very stone below them. He audibly gasped upon setting eyes on the object that lay at this circle’s axis. For here was a white metallic nose cone, its skin fire-scarred, its base cleanly punctured. Only when he identified the five-pointed-star insignia of the Air Force that was imprinted on its base did a chill of awareness streak up his backbone.

“Jesus Christ, Commander, you’re not going to believe this!”