Flight of the Condor

Chapter Twelve

Richard Fuller couldn’t believe it when the Air Force sentry refused him entry through the gate that led to Vandenberg’s Coast Road. Even though Lieutenant Colonel Lansford had put him on the security list, the guard had explained that the route southward was temporarily closed to remove silt deposited on it by the tidal wave. Frustrated by the fact that Lansford had been the one to personally invite him down to the Arguello storage facility in the first place, Fuller pulled into the holding lot to wait for the road to reopen.

Leaving the confines of his car, he stretched his limbs and looked out to the sea that crashed onto the rocks less than a quarter of a mile away. It continued to be an usually clear afternoon. Absent was the thick fog that had perpetually veiled the coastline for days on end. Absorbing the pleasing warmth of the sun as it crept down towards the western horizon, Richard remembered the day’s traumatic sequence of events.

It had all started out early that morning, when he had learned what the warning sirens had been activated for. As it turned out, his frantic dash down to the beach, to make certain that Miriam and her crew were safe, had been accomplished with only minutes to spare. For no sooner had they climbed onto the canyon’s summit when the wave had been first spotted.

The initial sign of its approach had been when the frothing surf-line visible below them suddenly was sucked westward. Within seconds, the powerful riptide had pulled the waters back, exposing almost a mile-wide band of sloping, wet sand. One of the young male students had first sighted the tsunami itself. Still far out to sea, the wave’s spiraling curl had stretched the entire length of the horizon. This sight in itself had been breathtaking.

Soon Richard had been aware of a distant, gathering roar. Like the sound of an approaching freight train, the crashing surge of water had steadily increased in volume. By the time the full extent of the wave’s size could be appreciated, its accompanying sound had been almost deafening.

For the rest of his life, the sights and sounds which he had breathlessly watched take form in the distance would be deeply ingrained in his consciousness. From that day onward, whenever he looked out to the sea, a single, awesome vision would be instinctively triggered.

Over three times as large as the massive surf that had pounded into Hawaii’s north shore, the tsunami had seemed to continue to grow in size until the moment it exploded onto dry land. The very earth below them had rumbled as the seventy-five-foot wave struck the beach with the speed of a jet aircraft.

Richard had been unable to do anything but cower.

The top of the canyon had provided them a safe, bird’s-eye view of this momentous event. They had only become aware of the force and volume of water involved when the bubbling, crashing surf had instantly flooded the beach, inundated the surrounding sand dunes, and engulfed the very valley where they had been digging less than a half-hour before. All eyes had been focused on the swirling deluge as it bit into the canyon’s previously dry, mud-baked walls.

Less than a minute later, the waters had receded and it was all over.

Ever so gradually, that portion of the earth’s surface had returned back to normal. A confused gull had cried out from high above, and a gust of ripe wind had blown in off the Pacific. Few words had been exchanged among the group of shocked onlookers, who had sat there looking at the flooded beach, vainly trying to grasp the enormity of the force they had just witnessed.

It had been decided to wait a bit longer to make certain that another wave wouldn’t follow. When they eventually had returned, it had been by way of the railroad tracks. The going there had been slow and awkward, yet all agreed that the debris-laden beach was just too risky.

Of course, the group had been mainly concerned about how their camp had weathered the deluge.

After an exhausting, tedious hike, they had anxiously peered down from the trestle and were afforded then-first view of Ocean Beach Park. All had breathed a sigh of relief upon finding the parking lot flooded, yet with their trailers still parked in the familiar semicircle.

Apparently the hill on which the tracks had been mounted on had blocked the main onslaught of water, and thus kept their valuables from being swept away.

Heedless of their personal belongings, the group had rushed down the hillside to see to the safety of the Chumash relics they had exhumed. Only when they had been found safe had a collective shout of pure joy issued from the team’s lips.

One instrument that had not been working was the telephone. Miriam had been in a hurry to notify the University that all was well with them. While the kids began the cleanup, Richard volunteered to take their instructor into town to make the call. Though the parking lot had been covered with several inches of seawater, his car started up and they had easily made it to Ocean Avenue. From there they turned eastward towards Lompoc.

It was from his condo that Miriam had initiated the call. While she was engrossed in a lively conversation, Richard jumped in the shower and then made a quick change of clothes. By the time he was out of the bedroom, Miriam had been off the phone, and well into her preparation of a quick lunch. The morning’s excitement had done wonders for their appetites, and they hungrily gobbled down two tuna-fish-salad sandwiches apiece.

They had just finished eating when the call had arrived from Lansford’s office. Speaking for the senior officer, Master Sergeant Sprawlings invited Richard to the Arguello storage facility, which had successfully weathered the wave’s fury. Sprawlings had hinted that something extremely important waited for the Nose researcher there. Richard’s curiosity had been fully aroused, and he wasted no time locking up the condo and getting them back on the road westward.

He had dropped Miriam off back at Ocean Beach Park with a promise to drop by sometime the next day. Backing out of the still-flooded lot, he returned to the intersection of Ocean Avenue, and this time had turned to the right, away from Lompoc. A half mile later, he reached the closed security gate, where he sat presently.

Merely recreating this morning’s activities caused Richard to shake his head in wonder. Who knew just what surprises the afternoon held? Like one who dangles a piece of chocolate in front of a child, the master sergeant had been toying with him. Though he wouldn’t say what awaited Richard at Arguello, his mere tone of voice had indicated that it was something of major significance. Maybe they had found a portion of the Titan that indicated exactly what caused it to fail, or perhaps they had chanced upon the prized nose cone itself. Whatever it was, just knowing that it lay invitingly close, only a few miles from his present location, was most frustrating.

The squeal of car brakes sounded behind him, and Richard diverted his glance away from the blue Pacific.

Turning to focus his glance on the guard gate, he saw two Air Force sedans in the process of stopping before the sentry. What caught Richard’s attention was the fact that they had been coming from the south. This meant that the road there had to be clear.

Jumping back into his car, he pulled out of the lot and approached the gate himself.

By the time he reached the sentry, the two sedans were well on their way northward. The uniformed guard met him with a salute and proceeded over to his open window.

“Sorry about the delay, Doctor, but I just got word that the road to Arguello is open now. Please drive carefully, and look out for any debris that has yet to be removed.”

Nodding in response, Richard was full of anticipation as he hit the accelerator and pulled onto Coast Road. It didn’t take him long to notice that this portion of thoroughfare had indeed been hard hit by the tsunami. Though the pavement was still intact, much of the road’s shoulder was covered with sand and other debris. Upon rounding Point Arguello, he viewed a tractor crew in the process of removing a huge boulder that had been apparently tossed up onto the shoulder from the surf below. No stranger to the wave’s awesome strength, Richard knew that they were very fortunate not to have lost the road itself.

Soon Slik 6 was passing on his left. Because it lay high on a surrounding hillside, the space shuttle’s launch site was well out of the tsunami’s reach.

Wondering if the Air Force were still going on with its ill-conceived plan to send it skyward, he crossed the railroad tracks and set his eyes on the metallic roof of the external-tank storage facility, shimmering in the distance.

As he parked and exited his car, he noticed the protective, eight-foot-high sand wall that had been hastily bulldozed up to protect the building. Part of this temporary wall had been washed away, yet it was evident that the main force of the wave had been focused on the north-facing beaches. Otherwise, the wall would have been completely decimated. It was only because the facility was built on a beach that faced the south that it had survived.

A pair of armed sentries stood at the building’s entrance, and Richard had to be cleared before being allowed inside. As was the case when he had last entered this massive structure, it proved to be completely empty except for a small knot of curious figures gathered at its center. His footsteps echoed off the concrete floor as he approached them. Only when he was approximately ten feet away did he recognize two of the seven individuals standing there.

The only non-uniformed figure in the bunch was David Downing, the young, bearded McDonnell Douglas engineer, who was dressed in a white shirt, red tie, and gray slacks. Beside him, in the process of leading the discussion, was Ensign Louis Marvin, of the DSRV Marlin. Richard had flown back from Hawaii with the skinny, balding officer, and had a genuine fondness for his warm sense of humor. The other men present were blue-suited Air Force officers of a much more senior rank.

As inconspicuously as possible, the Nose researcher made his way to this circle of figures and peered in between them to see what they surrounded. He did a double-take upon viewing the object that sat on the pallet before them.

The six-foot, six-inch piece of bullet-shaped cowling could only belong to a missile’s nose cone.

Formed of fire-scarred, white metal, it had the distinctive emblem of the U.S. Air Force imprinted on its base.

Not believing what he was seeing, Richard pushed his way through the circle of men. Seconds later, he was recognized.

“Dr. Fuller!” greeted the excited ensign.

“We did it. We found the Titan’s nose cone!”

Still totally speechless, Richard stared out at the piece of debris, while Marvin continued, “As I was just explaining, the amazing part of it all was that this discovery was totally by accident. If it weren’t for that tidal wave almost pulling us down to our deaths, we would have never chanced upon it. Isn’t that incredible?” Barely able to nod in recognition, Richard proceeded to the nose cone’s opposite side, while the ensign continued on with his blow-by-blow account of the fateful series of events that had led them deep into Arguello Canyon. As he knelt down to examine the nose cone’s surface more closely, he was joined by the other civilian present.

“Your expression says it all, Doctor,” whispered the bearded engineer.

“The really strange part was that the Titan’s payload was still snug inside the fairing when they brought it up. Although it’s damaged way beyond repair, just knowing that the Russians can’t get their hands on it is the best news of the day.”

“Talk about the hand of God protecting our country,” said Richard.

“It’s almost like some sort of miracle.”

“Good things happen to good people,” offered the engineer with a grin.

It was as Richard traced the portion of metal skirting that lay on the nose cone’s lower edge that he spotted a strange aperture cut into the fairing’s skin.

A bit smaller than a fist, the hole was certainly not part of the rocket’s original design.

Noticing Richard’s line of sight. Downing spoke out carefully.

“Interesting, isn’t it? I noticed it also, yet our Air Force friends are still too excited with the mere fact that this nose cone is here in the first place to give this orifice much attention. I’m not certain what in the world caused it, yet whatever it was, it must have been moving at an incredible velocity to pierce this multi-layered sandwich of steel as it has.”

Absorbing this observation, Richard suddenly shivered in awareness. His limbs trembled, and a cold sweat formed on his forehead, as his mind’s eye raced back to the past.

The time was over twelve months ago. The place, San Diego’s Duvalier Laboratories. He had been invited by the amiable Frenchman who owned the firm to witness a demonstration of an electromagnetic railgun. This novel weapon was a part of the nation’s Strategic Defense Initiative. It operated by accelerating a projectile to ultra-high speeds, using electric and magnetic energy instead of chemical means. In return, the velocities monitored were rated at an astounding 46,000 miles per hour.

On the day in question, he had seen the launcher fire a half-pound plastic projectile, and had watched it easily penetrate a two-inch-thick steel plate. The fist-sized hole it had left was almost exactly like the one he currently stood before. Of an even stranger coincidence was the test that had immediately preceded that launching. A four-inch-thick steel plate had been fired at. Because of an improperly packed bullet, the projectile had disintegrated upon striking its target. Left in its wake had been a circular pattern of pellet damage that seemed to match that found on the first section of cowling pulled from the Pacific earlier. Could an electromagnetic railgun be responsible for the Titan’s demise?

Remembering how Lansford had reacted when he had last brought up even the idea of sabotage, Richard struggled to keep his suspicions to himself. He knew he could voice them to only one person.

“Are you all right, Doctor?” questioned the engineer, who noticed Richard’s trembling limbs and vacant stare.

Brought back from his deep inner thought, the Nose researcher wiped his forehead and slowly stood. Louis Marvin was just describing the stone-paved road, and the strange monument it led to, when Richard excused himself. Escorting him to the building’s exit was David Downing.

“You think that hole was caused by an outside source, don’t you, Doctor?” probed the alert engineer.

Halting at the doorway, Richard solemnly looked him in the eye.

“What do you think, Mr. Downing?”

The engineer didn’t hesitate to express himself.

“I don’t know, but I’ll be damned if anyone’s going to tell me that the puncture was caused by a piece of the Titan. Though it is vaguely possible that an explosion could propel part of the rocket through the steel skin, the dynamics are all wrong. That nose cone was just too far from the boosters for such a thing to have happened.”

Richard grimly nodded in agreement.

“You know what talk like that will get you around here. But in all good conscience, I’m not about to just sit around and let the same thing happen to that shuttle. I hope Secretary Fitzpatrick is more open-minded than the rest of the Brass around here.”

“If you need the opinion of another expert, just give me call,” offered the engineer.

“You can reach me twenty-four hours a day by calling the local McDonnell office.”

“I just might take you up on that,” replied Richard, who offered his handshake.

Ducking outside, he passed the guards and made his way over to a narrow, rocky ledge that overlooked the sea beyond. His heart was still pounding in his chest as he surrendered his thoughts to the scene unfolding on the western horizon. There, the setting sun was in the process of just dipping beneath an advancing wall of thick, gray fog. Taking in the muted colors of this strange dusk, he scanned that portion of ocean that was still visible. The inky depths swelled with a threatening malevolence. From the same waters that the deadly tidal wave had been spawned in, another danger could very well be awaiting them. Yet, this time, it was exclusively manmade.

Knowing full well that a submarine could be easily adapted to carry a weapon such as a railgun, and ever conscious of the flurry of activity which was taking place at nearby Slik 6, he gathered the inner strength to pass on these suspicions to the one person who could do something about them. Now, he could only pray to God that this individual would listen.

Deep beneath the very seas that had so thoroughly captivated the Nose researcher, the Soviet attack sub Volga plunged almost silently. Powered by a nuclear reactor, the 350-foot-long vessel was one of the quickest and most sophisticated in the Russian arsenal. It carried a complement of one hundred and twenty officers and seamen.

From the boat’s attack center, Captain Mikhail Antonov found himself hunched over the periscope, in the process of scanning the surrounding seas with his one good eye. Behind him, taking in this procedure, were Grigori Yagoda, Dmitri Andreyev, and Konstantin Lomakin. Having just completed a light meal of beef stroganoff, rice, fresh black bread, and fruit compote, the three Spetsnaz operatives were anxious to get on with the difficult mission.

“Ah, excellent,” observed the captain as he backed away from the scope.

“It indeed appears that we have these waters all to ourselves.”

A devilish gleam emanated from his eye, as he approached the commandos and continued, “The fog is thick and the dusk ever darkening. These ideal conditions shall get you to shore without being spotted. Are you ready, comrades?”

Accepting their nods, Antonov addressed his Officer of the Deck firmly.

“Take us up, Senior Lieutenant.

We shall show our sail only.”

As the OOD conveyed these orders, the captain returned his attention to his guests.

“Your country is proud of you, comrades. May the spirit of the Motherland protect you always. And don’t forget, we’ll be right here awaiting your signal when you’re ready to go home.”

While Konstantin and Dmitri were busy seeing to last-minute adjustments to the black-rubber wet suits and waterproof equipment bags that they would carry, Grigori took Antonov aside.

“Thank you for your hospitality. Captain. Merely spending these couple of hours on the Volga have been like taking one last visit home.”

Antonov proudly beamed.

“You are as gracious as your father, Lieutenant Yagoda. Now, go with courage, and may you strike the enemy a crippling blow!”

A muted hiss of venting ballast was followed by the deep voice of the Officer of the Deck.

“We’re ready to disembark. Captain.”

After personally hugging each of the commandos, Antonov watched them follow the warrant officer up the conning tower’s hatch. Though he had only known them for a very brief period of time, he already felt emotionally attached to them. Their loyalty and bravado were a shining lesson to every member of his crew. This fearlessness was especially apparent in their leader.

Grigori Yagoda was the kind of son a warrior dreamed of having. Courageous and bold, yet innately sensitive as well, the young officer had accepted his new orders without blinking. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was being asked to penetrate a heavily guarded military complex, on the enemy’s own shoreline, and then shoot down its most cherished space platform, Yagoda did not flinch. If anyone could achieve this impossible goal, it would be Yagoda and his brave team. Of this fact, the captain was certain. Instinctively checking the wallmounted clock, he knew that they would all too soon be alone to meet their destinies.

Meanwhile, above deck, the air was fresh and noticeably cooler. To the sound of the water slapping against the Volga’s streamlined sail, the commandos gathered before the rope ladder that the warrant officer had just thrown overboard.

The fog was thick and the visibility limited to but a few meters as Dmitri unfolded the life raft. Holding the heavy rubber craft over the side by its bow line, he triggered the compressed air charge that instantly inflated its rounded hull. Settling it down into the choppy waters, he handed the bow line to the warrant officer and cautiously climbed down into the raft’s interior. Konstantin handed him the heavy, plastic duffel bags inside of which were stored their fatigues, supplies, and weapons.

Once this process was completed, Konstantin climbed down into the boat. Before Grigori followed him, he turned to accept the warrant officer’s firm handshake.

“Good hunting!” offered the sailor proudly.

Waving in response, Grigori pivoted and began his way down the rope ladder. No sooner had he settled himself at the raft’s stern than the warrant officer cast off the line and pulled in the ladder. By the time he disappeared from the sail’s top, they had already pushed away from the conning tower and begun paddling.

Checking his wrist-mounted compass to make sure that they were headed eastward, Grigori looked up when a muted, bubbling roil sounded nearby. It was then that he noticed that the Volga’s sail was no longer visible.

Totally alone now, they put their backs into their paddling. The thick shroud of fog veiled the enormity of the distance that they had to travel, yet the men established a vigorous rhythm. As they kept their conversation to a whispered minimum, all was silent except for the slap of sea water against their hull, and the lonely cry of a distant fog horn.

An hour passed, and still their rhythm did not falter. Satisfied with their progress, Grigori allowed them the briefest of breaks. It was during this period of blessed rest that they first heard the faraway sound of breaking surf.

“We’re there already!” observed Konstantin victoriously.

Signaling the overly enthusiastic commando to keep his voice down, Grigori rechecked his compass.

“We’ll proceed another half a kilometer before leaving the raft. Come on, comrades, let’s get it over with.”

His teammates responded by picking up their paddles and continuing their full strokes. Beyond, the sound of the crashing surf continued to intensify, and soon Grigori gave the orders to halt. Without a further word spoken, they stowed the paddles and opened their sealed sea bags. From these waterproof sacks, each man removed a pair of goggles, a snorkel, and a set of fins. After resealing the bags, and mounting them on their backs, they donned this skindiving equipment and slipped into the awaiting ocean.

Grigori’s sea bag was the heaviest and most awkward of the group, yet he managed to get overboard with a minimum of noise. The water was chilly, and it took him some effort to remove his knife and slash the raft’s hull. Once this was accomplished, he again checked his compass and beckoned his men to follow him.

Because of his load, he found the easiest stroke to manage was the breast stroke. Always a powerful swimmer, Grigori extended his arms in front of his head fully, while drawing his knees forward and outward. This was followed by a sweeping backward movement of both his arms and legs. By the time he had completed but a dozen such strokes, the low water temperature was hardly noticeable. Warmed by his pounding blood and insulated wet-suit, he found himself enjoying the swim. Ever conscious of his two teammates, who easily matched his pace, the commando emptied his tangled mind of any thoughts but those of his stroke. Time quickly passed, and the loud, pounding sound of the surf signaled that their goal was near.

Spitting his snorkel from his mouth, Grigori halted and began treading water. His teammates did likewise and gathered around him.

“We are just about there,” managed Grigori.

“Remember not to fight the riptide and keep a sharp lookout for those rocks.”

“Yes, Mother,” responded Konstantin facetiously.

Slapping a handful of water at Konstantin’s mask, Dmitri shook his head at this attempt at humor.

Grigori seemed to ignore it, as he cleared his snorkel and pointed toward the east.

As they resumed their stroke, each man recognized that they were now contending with a strong offshore current. Most likely resulting from a return flow of waves, this force made their progress tedious. To counter it, each swimmer had to apply a strenuous effort.

Grigori was just beginning to tire when the first curl of surf broke over his head. Spitting the water from his snorkel, he countered the resulting pull of the riptide by continuing on in a lateral course. This change of direction was starting to pay off when he spotted a jagged shelf of rock protruding from the water immediately before him. Doing his best to signal its presence, he fought the tide that was now drawing him ever closer to this dangerous obstacle.

Utilizing every last ounce of muscle, he pulled himself backward and just missed the razor-sharp ledge by less than an arm’s length. Much to his relief, his alert teammates did likewise.

The tide continued its unyielding pull, and they soon found themselves on the opposite side of the rock shelf. Still masked by the fog, the surf there appeared to be a bit more even. Doing his best to scan the waters for hidden obstacles, Grigori decided that that spot looked as good as any other. Signaling that fact, he put his head down and initiated a smooth, powerful stroke forward.

Again a line of surf broke over his head, yet this time its crashing wake pulled him in the same direction in which he had been headed. Doing his best to nestle his body in this wave’s curl, he felt a sudden surge of velocity as the surf hurled him forward in a burst of fluid speed. Seconds later, the wave smashed onto the beach and he was aware of a gravelly layer of coarse sand beneath him. With muscles straining and his chest heaving, he pulled himself out of the water and gratefully caught his breath.

Dmitri Andreyev followed close behind. Gagging on the sea water that he had swallowed during the maddening ride in, he did his best to muffle the coughing seizure that possessed him.

“Easy now, comrade,” prompted Grigori, who crawled over to the commando’s side to attend to him.

Slipping Dmitri’s sea bag off his back, Grigori slapped him hard between the shoulder blades. As a result, Dmitri gagged and the coughing fit passed.

“Thank you, comrade,” offered Dmitri weakly.

“I hope Konstantin remembered to keep that big mouth of his shut.”

Suddenly aware of their teammate’s absence, Grigori slipped off his own equipment bag and turned to scan the shoreline. His gut tightened upon viewing nothing but fog, sand, and the ever-frothing white surf.

“He must be still out there!” cried Grigori, his tone filled with concern.

“I’m going to go out and see if I can find him.”

Without further hesitation, he pulled on his mask and plunged back into the surging foam. As it turned out, he didn’t have to proceed far to find the missing squad member.

Hanging lifelessly amid the line of pounding surf, Konstantin’s limp body was impaled on a mangled arm of rusted steel. With eyes still open, he seemed to be looking westward, to a homeland he would never return to again. As the fog wrapped its misty tentacles around his soaked corpse, Grigori struggled to contain his grief. They had gone through much together, and for his brave friend to die in such a needless way was a supreme travesty of justice. Knowing that the mission would have to go on regardless, Grigori pulled himself together. Certainly, Konstantin would have done likewise if their fates had been reversed.

Because the body had no identification on it, the corpse could be left where it was. He needed only to remove the weapons pack. Then, if Konstantin were subsequently discovered, the authorities would only have the unfortunate death of yet another unknown skin diver to contend with.

With some difficulty, Grigori managed to cut the straps of Konstantin’s sea bag. Doing his best to remain free of the rusty snare that lay in the water, he shouldered the sack and took a last look at his dear comrade. The tears had already stopped flowing down his cheeks by the time he arrived back at the beachhead.

“Well, where is he, Grigori?” quizzed Dmitri as he helped the blond-haired commando from the water.

Slipping off his mask and fins, Grigori was solemn.

“I’m afraid there must have been some sort of shipwreck out there. Our good friend Konstantin was impaled on the remaining debris. Hopefully, his death was quick.”

Though he had been expecting as much, Dmitri let forth a wail of anguish.

“He never did know how to stay away from trouble, that one. I can’t imagine how the world will be without him.”

“Well, get used to it quickly,” retorted Grigori.

“He knew the risks, just like each one of us who dons the black beret. Now, to insure that his death is not in vain, let’s get on with our mission. We must find a secluded spot to change into our fatigues and bury our wet-suits. Then we must be off for the hills above Space Launch Complex 6.”

Taking the extra sea bag that Grigori had been carrying, Dmitri regathered his composure.

“You are right, comrade. There will be time for mourning later, after we have finished our task. Right now, tears mean not a thing. While you were gone, I found a hidden ledge of rock further up on the beach.”

“Excellent,” returned Grigori.

“Lead the way, Comrade Andreyev. I knew I could count on you.”

The beach was narrow, and surrounded by a wall of volcanic rock. At the base of this ledge was a cramped, cave-like formation. It was there that they began peeling off their wet-suits, replacing them with camouflaged Green Beret fatigues. After the skindiving equipment was buried beneath a rocky niche, they shouldered their weapons. Grigori slung the encased Stinger package over his back and led the way upward.

The climb up the cliff was steep, yet there were plenty of jagged footholds available to allow them access to the summit. The ledge of rock they soon found themselves on was relatively smooth and flat.

As they slowly proceeded inland, Grigori spotted a strange-looking object mounted on the ground before them. Appearing like a ghostly apparition in the swirling fog was a large, rusted anchor, lying on a concrete slab, with a thin, iron-link rail around it.

Gathering in front of this apparent monument, the commandos passed a moment of hushed silence.

“I wonder if this anchor came from the same wreck that caused the death of our beloved comrade?” said Dmitri grimly.

“Perhaps it did,” answered Grigori, who was suddenly startled when a strange sound came from somewhere close by.

Because the fog served to mask this noise’s exact source, Grigori spun on his heels in an attempt to track it down. Instinctively crouching beside him,

Dmitri pointed to their left. There, two distorted, pinprick shafts of bright light illuminated the swirling mist, approximately one-quarter of a kilometer distant.

It was most obvious that they emanated from a pair of flashlights, and that whoever carried them were headed straight for the commandos.

Taking his knife from its sheathe, Dmitri made a cutting motion over his throat. Signaling that this wasn’t the type of response that he wanted, Grigori instead motioned toward the ledge they had just climbed up from. Disappointed, Dmitri followed his teammate back to the wall. Carefully edging down its sharp face, they lowered themselves just far enough so that only their foreheads still peaked over the jagged summit.

Thirty seconds passed until voices could finally be heard. Long before their mist-veiled figures became visible, the Spetsnaz operatives, who were fluent in English, could readily make out the rambling conversation.

“I still wish I had my surfboard down here when that wave hit this morning,” boasted a high-pitched male voice.

“That would have been the ultimate ride of a lifetime.”

“It would have also been your last,” returned his deep-throated companion.

“Sometimes, Johnson, I don’t think you’re playing with a full deck.”

With this, two uniformed sentries emerged onto the rock plateau. Positioning themselves beside the anchor monument, they rather halfheartedly shone their lights in the direction of the sea.

“This sure is a night for spooks,” offered the surfer.

“I can just visualize the ghosts of those destroyer boys who were lost here back in 1923.”

“That disaster was a tragic one, all right,” responded his companion.

“But enough of that spook talk. This place gives me the chills without that nonsense. Now come on, we’d better get on with our rounds before the sergeant throws a shit-fit.”

Without another word spoken, the sentries turned from the sea and disappeared eastwards. A full minute passed before Grigori gave the signal to climb back onto the plateau.

“Such is the fierce nature of our adversaries,” spat Dmitri.

“They babbled on like mere schoolboys.”

Grigori’s tone was a bit more cautious.

“Don’t let them fool you, comrade. The Americans might seem slow to anger, but pity the poor enemy that it is not prepared to counter their wrath once it is aroused. We must be ever alert now for both more sentries and electronic surveillance methods. The closer we get to that missile site, the thicker they’ll be, so let’s take advantage of this cloak of fog while we still have it.

We shouldn’t rest until we are well hidden in the hills to the east of the launch complex itself.”

Dmitri stepped aside and beckoned with his hand.

“I’m ready whenever you are, comrade. Merely lead on.”

Doing just that, Grigori readjusted the load that lay slung over his back and began his way inland.

After passing the anchor, they followed a narrow, earthen pathway over a desolate plain littered with razor-sharp thistle and spiky cactus. Continuing on the trail as it climbed up a steep ravine, they crossed a set of railroad tracks and were forced to dive to the ground for cover when a pair of bright headlights suddenly pierced the mist before them. Pressing their noses into the sandy, dry soil, they looked up in time to see a convoy of large trucks pass on a road that lay another half kilometer to the east. The powerful roar of their diesel engines rumbled through the night, and Grigori couldn’t help but grin.

“I bet they’re headed for the launch site,” he whispered softly.

“It has to be nearby.”

“Either that, or we’ve been mistakenly dropped off on one of their so-called freeways,” offered Dmitri with a nervous wink.

Only when he was certain that no other traffic was in the vicinity did Grigori dare stand. Leaving the path they had been following, he led Dmitri directly toward the nearest portion of pavement. Though their progress roused a startled long-eared jackrabbit, they managed to stay well clear of the sharp, low-laying brush and dreaded rattlesnakes that abounded there.

When they finally made it to the road, they found it to be a good-sized thoroughfare. Paved with black asphalt, it was wide enough to handle the largest of transports. Its flat surface looked awfully inviting, yet Grigori knew that it was fraught with too many unseen dangers. Proceeding by way of the surrounding hills would be much more practical.

Grigori needed a running start to get to the top of the hill that lay on the other side of the roadway. As his boots bit into the soft sand that comprised this summit, his glance strayed immediately before him, to the east. His eyes subsequently opened wide with wonder as they took in the scene on the distant horizon. For the fog had temporarily lifted. Visible another kilometer away was an immense, brightly lit complex of massive concrete-and-steel structures. Positioned at the center of this conglomeration of blockhouses and towers was the very vehicle he had been sent to destroy. Shimmering beneath the banks of spotlights, the spotlessly white shuttle sat perched on its trio of boosters. Looking deceptively close, it beckoned him forward like a father welcoming a longlost son.

How very easy it seemed to merely set up their weapons right there and just blast away at it. Yet Grigori knew his Stinger’s infrared guided warhead would have a much easier target once the rocket’s main engines ignited.

Since the security there seemed almost nonexistent, for the first time he actually thought that the mad scheme might succeed after all. Ever aware that over-confidence could be their worst enemy, he swore that they would proceed with caution. They had come too far to fail by accident now. Konstantin Lomakin’s tragic fate must not be their own.