Flight of the Condor

Chapter Fourteen

Five and a half miles from Point Arguello, the U.S.S. Razorback sailed on a westward course. In the process of detaching the DSRV Marlin from its back, the sub bit into the cool waters fifty feet beneath the Pacific’s surface. Below in the vessel’s sonar room, the two seamen currently responsible for monitoring the series of sensitive microphones mounted on its hull listened to the noise caused by the DSRV’s parting.

“Brother, is that sucker ever creating a racket,” commented Lefty Jackman disgustedly.

“Every submarine in the Eastern Pacific is bound to hear us now.”

“The Marlin will be on her own soon enough, pawdner,” answered Seaman Second Class Seth Burke, who pulled off the headphones he had been wearing.

“Then we’ll be able to go about business as usual.”

Following his coworker’s lead. Lefty also removed his headphones. While massaging his sore earlobes, he reflected on their state.

“That will sure be a welcomed relief, Tex. Maybe this time we’ll be able to tag that Soviet sub once and for all. It’s still eating on me that they were able to shake us like they did.”

“If they’re still around and we hear ‘em, we’ll get ‘em all right,” returned the gangly Texan.

“At least this time, we don’t have to go runnin’ around with our active sonar pingin’ up a storm.”

Lefty reached for his coffee cup.

“Amen, brother. I still can’t believe the Skipper hasn’t ordered us to activate it as yet. Maybe we’re finally done with that boring salvage duty.”

“I wonder if it could have something to do with that upcoming space shuttle shot,” offered Burke, who went for his own coffee cup.

“I heard some Air Force honchos back at Arguello savin’ that it could go up anytime now. It sure has been a while since the last shuttle, Challenger, went down.”

“I’ll say,” answered Lefty solemnly.

“That’s one morning I’ll never forget. Even now, I can see it as clear as day. I was sitting in my high school science class watching the launch preparations live on TV. All morning we were hearing about how great it was to finally have a real, live teacher in space. When the orbiter exploded right before our very eyes, my first reaction was that this couldn’t be really happening.

When the reality finally sunk in, I walked around in shock for an entire week afterwards.”

After taking a long sip of coffee, the Texan voiced his own experience.

“Well, join the crowd, pawdner. I was helpin’ my dad string fencin’ down in the south forty, when one of the hands arrived and told us that the shuttle had exploded. It’s funny, but even out on the west plains of Texas, I was able to visualize just what that explodin’ space ship must have looked like.

Even my dad was choked up by the news, and that’s one old coot who don’t get riled by nothin’.”

Shaking his head in response. Lefty momentarily placed one of his cramped feet on the lip of the console. Just as he was in the middle of a wide yawn, Chief Petty Officer Lawrence Desiante barged into the narrow compartment. Catching the Senior Seaman as he pulled his foot quickly downward, the chief didn’t waste any time in expressing his wrath.

“Oh, and what do we have here, a coffee party? I hate to be a nuisance, but would you mind telling me who’s running the store while you jokers are sitting here with your feet up jawing?”

Guilt filled their faces as the two seamen set their coffee cups down. While the moustached chief squeezed his bulky figure forward. Lefty looked up sheepishly.

“I’m sorry. Chief, but we were only waiting for the Marlin to complete its detachment. There was so much racket going on out there that there wasn’t much else that we could hear anyway.”

“Oh, so you two decided to have a little coffee klatch,” spat the still-fuming chief.

“And here I was only minutes ago having the riot act read to me by the XO, that we should be especially on the ball these next couple of hours. You should have heard me bragging how you two were the best in the Navy, and that you’d never let us down. If the XO had walked in with me, I could have never shown my face in front of him again.”

Sliding on his headphones, Lefty reached out to get back to work.

“Don’t worry, Chief. If those Russkies are still out there, you got the right guys to find them.”

Softening a bit, Desiante responded, “That had better be the case, Jackman. I don’t go about boasting about every wet-eared seaman who answers to me. Now, let’s see what we’ve got out there!”

Reaching out for an auxiliary set of phones, the chief snapped on a headset himself. His breath was heavy as he sat down on the stool immediately behind the two sonar technicians. Rubbing his creased forehead, he struggled to clear his mind of everything but the series of sounds that was now being funnelled into his ears.

Responsible for the source and volume of this noise was Lefty Jackman. By turning a thick plastic dial, the senior seaman was able to determine which of the Razorback’s hull-mounted hydrophones were to be isolated. A sweep of the waters to the west, the direction in which they were currently heading, picked up nothing but the loud, distinctive chattering of millions of shrimp. As he turned the dial to penetrate the waters to the south, they heard the playful, squealing voices of a pod of dolphins. Oblivious to the almost human-like moans and clicks that filled the seas there. Lefty rotated the scan to check their baffles. There, they had to be extra careful to listen over the steady drone of the Razorback’s own engines.

It was while inching the dial forward with the most delicate of touches that Lefty isolated one of the stern hydrophones and picked up a faraway muted vibration.

To the average listener, this sound would have been practically indistinguishable from the myriad of other noises audible. But to Lefty Jackman’s sensitive ear, this resonance was as noticeable as an improperly tuned musical instrument. Turning the dial quickly backward to isolate the exact location of this sound, Lefty felt his pulse quicken. Only when he turned the volume gain to its maximum level did he turn to address his coworkers.

“Do you hear it? It’s some sort of manmade pump!”

The chief’s brow narrowed as he vainly attempted to verify the seaman’s observation.

“I’m not so sure that I agree with you, Jackman. From this distance, it could be almost anything.”

“Maybe it’s the Marlin,” offered Seth Burke.

“No way,” countered Lefty.

“She’s smack in our baffles, and nearly half the distance closer. Besides, the Marlin’s signature is nothing like this one. My first hunch is that it’s coming from that Russkie nuke that thinks it can fool us by playing possum.”

Though he still didn’t agree, the chief looked up to determine the sound’s heading and relative rough range. With the XO’s spirited briefing still fresh in his mind, he knew this was an instance when it was much better to be safe than sorry. Since there was obviously no propeller whine audible, if it were another sub, it would have to be indeed hovering. Even this fairly silent process produced some sort of noise. This was particularly true of the nuclear-powered boats, with reactors that never stopped running. Deciding that there was the slightest of chances that this could indeed be the case, the Chief cautiously reached out to pick up the comm line. Watching the chief speak into the receiver, the two seamen looked on anxiously.

The Razorback’s maneuvering room was located on the vessel’s second deck, in the stern half of the boat, between the crew’s mess hall and the engines themselves.

Fondly known as Razorback Power and Light, the room controlled and monitored all aspects of the sub’s power capabilities. Usually staffed by a complement of a half-dozen men, the compartment was home to dozens of voltage meters, pressure indicators, levers, switches, and valves. These instruments measured not only the state of the boat’s three 1,500-horsepower diesel engines, but the condition of its pair of huge propulsion batteries and its trio of 940-kilowatt DC electric generators as well.

Because the Razorback was currently completely submerged, it was being propelled by battery power only. In this state, the vessel’s diesel engines had to remain idle, because of the lack of an adequate supply of fresh air. Presently standing before the bank of meters that indicated the amount of charge left in these batteries was Exeter, Benton, and the boat’s Engineering Officer, Lieutenant Ted Smith.

Over the nearby drone of the propulsion unit itself, the three officers were locked in conversation. They were only a few feet from the engine room but even so, the compartment was uncharacteristically hot. This temperature was high enough to cause wet rings of sweat to stain their uniforms. It was this abnormal environmental factor that was the subject of their present conversation.

“I still don’t want you taking any chances. Lieutenant Smith,” cautioned the Captain.

“If that main condenser goes, this entire boat will be like a hot house in a matter of minutes.”

“She’ll hold, Captain,” returned the Engineering Officer firmly.

“There’s no way that I’d needlessly jeopardize the safety of the Razorback if I knew differently.”

“I realize that,” said Exeter.

“But meanwhile, you guys back here are taking the brunt of the discomfort.”

“At least make certain that the men drink plenty of fluids, and some salt tablets wouldn’t hurt either,” interjected Benton.

Watching Exeter reach down and carefully rub his right knee. Lieutenant Smith replied, “Will do, Mr. Benton. It’s going to take more than a little heat to melt this tough bunch. By the way, Captain, how’s that injury of yours holding out?”

Shifting his weight onto his left leg, Exeter answered with a wink, “Don’t forget that I’m an ex engineering man myself. Lieutenant. No little bash on the knee is going to keep me down. I’ll manage all right.”

Punctuating these words was the harsh buzz of the comm line. An alert seaman answered the phone and called out, “Lieutenant Benton, it’s Chief Desiante, sir.”

Without wasting a second, the XO walked over and picked up the receiver. His eyes lit up with interest as he took in the report that the chief hastily conveyed.

Closely watching his expression change was Exeter.

The Captain found his hopes rising when the XO flashed him a victorious thumbs-up. Seconds later, Benton was off the phone and back at his side.

“Sonar’s got a contact, Captain. The bearing is one-two-five, at a rough range of thirty thousand yards. The chief still can’t say for sure, but he feels we could have caught a nuke hovering there.”

“Good work, Pat,” shot back Exeter.

“My instincts told me that something was out there. Now, if it’s just that Victor.”

Checking his watch, the Captain added, “Get into sonar and take a listen. Pat. I’m going to stop up in my stateroom for some aspirin, and then get over to the control room, where you can reach me. Let me know the second that you can get a positive on them.

“And, Lieutenant Smith, the next couple of hours could be critical. I’m counting on you to hold us together at least until noon.”

“No sweat, sir,” returned the confident Engineering Officer.

Following the lead of his XO, Exeter began his way toward the sealed, watertight doorway that led toward the boat’s bow. Doing his best not to hobble, the Captain ducked through the hatch that Patrick Benton efficiently opened for him. Halting before the ladder that would take him up to his stateroom, Exeter took a brief moment to address his XO.

“If it’s indeed the Soviets, Pat, you know what this might mean. Dr. Fuller’s prophecy could unfold right before our very eyes.”

“For some reason, I kind of hope that it does,” countered the XO, who reached into his breast pocket to exhume his pipe.

“It’s our turn to show those guys that Uncle Sam doesn’t take trespassers lightly.”

“Especially those who shoot down his missiles,” added Exeter, as he began the painful climb up toward his stateroom.

Watching his progress, Patrick Benton knew that any lesser man would have been laid up on his bunk hours ago, but not their Captain. Stubborn and pigheaded to the very end, Exeter would command the Razorback from his very deathbed if it were necessary. Praying that he would never have to see that day come to pass, the XO turned to continue on through the hatch that led into the crew’s mess hall.

The smell of bacon and coffee met his nostrils as he entered the galley. Approximately a dozen sailors sat in the various booths that lined this rather spacious compartment. They were either deep into their breakfasts or watching the movie that was playing from the mounted video screen, and a hushed silence prevailed.

Without taking the time to disturb them, Benton continued on past the kitchen area and into an adjoining passageway. It was at the end of this narrow corridor that his goal lay.

The sonar compartment was dark and cramped.

Stacks of electronic equipment lined its walls. Slowing his progress some to allow his eyes time to adjust to the dim light there, the XO entered the room cautiously. He soon picked out three figures seated in the compartment’s tar corner. It was towards the chief petty officer that he addressed himself.

“The Captain thought it would be best if I had a listen myself. Is it still out there. Chief?”

Turning to the unexpected visitor, Desiante responded, “It sure is, Mr. Benton. Have a seat while we get you a set of headphones.”

Scooting off the stool he had been seated on, the chief reached forward and plugged another headset into the console. While he did so, both Lefty Jackman and Seth Burke became aware of their new guest. Sitting up straight in their chairs, the seamen looked on as the XO positioned himself immediately behind them. With his customary corncob pipe protruding from the corner of his mouth, Benton slipped on the auxiliary headphones. He then closed his eyes, to more fully concentrate on the obscure noise emanating from the southeast at a distance of some 30,000 yards.

For the first couple of seconds, Benton had trouble picking up anything unusual. Only as his pulse settled did he hear a muted surging sound, barely audible in the background.

The XO knew that if they were on one of the new 688class attack subs, they would merely have to feed this sound into the computer. The signature would then be analyzed and its source identified. On board the Razorback, this task had to be accomplished the oldfashioned way. Emptying his mind of everything but the unknown surging, he wracked his brain in an effort to determine what was causing it. Though he still couldn’t say for certain, the only thing that he could compare it to was the unwanted sound created by a reactor cavitation problem that he had experienced on one of his previous commands aboard a nuclear-powered Sturgeon-class attack sub.

Opening his eyes, he met the chief’s inquisitive stare and responded accordingly.

“There’s something out there, all right. It sounds like an internal, closed loop cavitation signature, emanating from a nuclear powered submarine. Most likely, they’re just sitting there hovering, thinking that we’ll merely pass them by. But we’ll show them otherwise, won’t we, gentlemen?”

The XO was in the process of picking up the comm line when Lefty Jackman called out excitedly, “Sir, I’m picking up another unidentified contact! This one lies in the northeastern quadrant, at a heading of zero-eight-zero. Relative rough range is thirty-eight thousand yards. You know, it sounds like it could be another diesel-electric!”

As this new signature was channeled into their headphones, Patrick Benton momentarily delayed his call to the control room. There was no doubt in his mind that the new sound they were now hearing was indeed the familiar drone of a battery-powered submarine.

Yet one fact immediately stood out in his mind. Since the only other two diesel-electric vessels in the U.S. Navy were in Japan, in the midst of ASW exercises, this meant that this contact had to be of foreign origin. He was most aware that any one of the two vessels they had just picked up could hold the threat that the Nose researcher had warned them of earlier. Hastily checking his watch, he saw that in another hour the Condor was due to be launched from nearby Vandenberg. With this in mind, he activated the comm line, to present their dilemma to the Captain.

Six and a half miles due east of the Razorback’s current position. Deputy Commander Bill Rose of Vandenberg’s 4392nd Security Police Group sat in the copilot’s seat of a UH-1 Huey helicopter. Presently hovering only a few hundred feet above the jagged hills that comprised Slik 6’s eastern border, the chopper had its nose pointed westward. From this position, the launch complex itself was just barely visible to the left. His attention was instead riveted straight ahead, on the desolate plain that was situated to the immediate north of the launch pad’s security perimeter.

There, a quarter of a mile from the fence itself, lay a circle of large, angular boulders. It was toward this rocky mass that his stare was centered.

The roar of the Huey’s engines sounded loudly overhead, and to compensate for it, Rose was forced to speak firmly into his chin-mounted radio transmitter.

“That’s affirmative, Colonel Lansford. The preliminary infrared helicopter scan shows a pair of mammalian life forms hidden within the circle of rocks. We’re almost certain that it’s not coming from either a bear, cougar, or any other form of wildlife.

It’s got to be human. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of deploying Strike Team Able.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” responded the crackling voice of Lansford as it emanated from the helmet mounted speakers.

“It’s urgent that you clear the area as soon as possible. Use whatever force is needed to accomplish this task at once.”

“Yes, sir,” snapped Rose.

“I’ll notify you as soon as the sector is secured.”

Switching the two-way radio’s frequency, he dialed that of Captain Tim Gener, the strike team’s leader.

A momentary crackle of static was followed by a familiar bass voice.

“This is Able Team leader, go ahead.”

Breathlessly, Rose addressed him.

“Roger, Able Team leader, this is Commander One. You are cleared to initiate housecleaning. Use whatever elbow grease is necessary.”

“I read you, Commander One. Will send in the mini-maids, over and out.”

As the helicopter inched its way over the surrounding hilltops, Rose strained to see his men in action.

Strike Team Able was his personal creation. Comprised of two dozen crack members of the 4392nd Security Police Group, the squad was created for incidents such as the one they currently faced. It appeared that this would be the first time in its two-year history that a call it was responding to was a real emergency and not a simulated one. Armed with M16’s, M79 grenade launchers, a pair of MOO machine guns, and a 90-mm. M67 recoilless rifle, the group included the base’s top marksmen. It was designed to repel an invading force in the unlikely event that such a group of terrorists were able to breach Vandenberg’s security perimeter.

Not having any idea who they could be presently facing, Rose scanned the plain that lay before him.

Because his men were dressed in camouflaged fatigues that blended into the surrounding terrain, he had to use a pair of binoculars to pick them out. They were currently deployed approximately 200 yards from the rock formation where the intruders had been spotted. Positioned in a semicircle, they covered the northern, western, and eastern perimeters. This left only the southern flank open. Rose leaned forward expectantly as a tall, lean figure stood and beckoned his men to continue their advance. Crouched low to the ground, they slowly began their way towards the circle’s axis in unison.

“Attention intruders, you are currently trespassing on a United States military installation. Please immediately stand up with your hands clearly extended over your heads!”

As this amplified warning was repeated, Grigori Yagoda returned the startled expression that he saw on his teammate’s face. This look of astonishment turned to near panic when Dmitri Andreyev poked his head up through the camouflaged netting that was spread out on top of them and took in the advancing line of troops that approached on three sides.

Ducking back down, his voice trembled.

“There’s a whole army of them out there, Grigori! Where in the world did they come from?”

“I told you not to underestimate the Americans,” retorted his blond-haired coworker coolly.

“That’s easy to say now,” returned Dmitri, who reached down to ready his weapons.

“Perhaps we’ll be able to fight our way past them.”

Grigori beckoned his teammate to calm down.

“Easy now, comrade. There is still another alternative for us to consider.”

Placing his Uzi on the ground beneath him, Grigori put on his green beret. He then pushed aside the net and stood.

“Are you going to surrender?” quizzed Dmitri, who remained crouching and watched as Grigori opened his palms and raised his hands up over his head.

Ignoring this question, Grigori climbed up onto the rock ledge and faced the line of armed soldiers, who were now some fifty yards away. Upon spotting him, they immediately froze. A single tall, lean figure broke from their ranks and spoke through a battery powered megaphone.

“Please have your accomplice join you also!”

Surprised that they knew that there were two of them present, Grigori beckoned Dmitri to join him.

As he shakily did so, Grigori yelled out in perfect English, “Good morning, gentlemen! We’re both assigned to the Army’s 7th Infantry Division at Fort Ord. We’ve been sent down here on direct orders of the Secretary of the Defense, to attempt to penetrate your defenses.”

The gangly American Air Force officer was quick with his response.

“We know nothing about such an operation. Please remain standing still, with your hands overhead, while I send a team in to check your credentials.”

He signalled to his right, and two brawny soldiers appeared. One of these individuals held a large German shepherd dog by a taut leash. Pulling out their handguns, they began walking quickly forward.

Dmitri watched their progress and felt his heart pounding in his chest. He knew very well that, although their accents and uniforms might temporarily fool the Americans, they had no proper credentials. His mouth was dry and breath heavy when he suddenly swooned back dizzily.

This sudden, unexpected movement caused the Americans to abruptly stop dead in their tracks. As they simultaneously crouched to raise their weapons, the German shepherd lunged forward and its leash slipped from its handler’s grip. Angrily growling, the huge tan-and-black dog raced towards the nearby circle of rocks.

Disoriented by his loss of balance, and guided by the illogical grasp of fear-induced panic, Dmitri reached for the.45-caliber pistol that he had hidden beneath the belt at the small of his back. Raising it before him, he managed to hold it steady and shoot the dog smack in its head. No sooner had it tumbled to the ground than Dmitri turned the weapon on the dog’s handler. Another shot rang out, and this time an American soldier fell, mortally wounded. Dmitri was already turning the pistol toward the startled American who stood at his fallen comrade’s side when an iron-like grasp pulled him down behind the shelter of the rocks. A second later, the first bullets whined into the stone ledge.

“Have you gone insane?” cried Grigori as he scrambled for the weapons that they had left on the floor beneath them.

“Why in hell did you do such a foolish thing? Not only did you almost commit suicide, but now you’ve just about doomed the success of our mission as well!”

Having snapped back to his senses, Dmitri timidly picked up a M16. “I’m sorry, comrade. I don’t know what got into me.”

The blast of an exploding grenade sent a shower of ricocheting stone down onto their heads, and both men ducked for cover. As the fragments settled, Grigori grabbed for his Uzi.

“You’ve left us no alternative, comrade. Now, we must fight for our very lives.”

Peeking up over the rim of protective rock, he sprayed the horizon with a hail of 9-mm. bullets.

Ever conscious of the unalterable course of violent action that he had brought down on them, Dmitri grabbed the M16 and joined his teammate. He raised its sights in just enough time to center them on the chest of an advancing American. The soldier had just pulled the pin from a grenade and was about to lob it over his head when Dmitri’s shot took him down.

When the wounded man dropped the already primed grenade, it exploded in a showering torrent of razor sharp shrapnel. As a result of this, two of his countrymen fell to the ground beside him.

Dmitri concentrated on protecting their western and northern flanks, while Grigori took aim at the line of soldiers coming in from the south. Because they had a well-protected vantage point and plenty of ammunition, they were able to stop their attackers from closing in all together. Prone on their bellies, a good fifty yards away, the Americans could only hope that a lucky shot would hit its mark.

“Commander One, this is Able Team leader. I’m afraid the opposition is a bit stiffer than we had anticipated. Five of my men are down. Some air support would sure be appreciated.”

Taking in this breathless request, which was delivered with a background accompaniment of staccato like rifle blasts, Deputy Commander Bill Rose instantly replied, “We’re coming in, Able Team. This won’t take long.”

Signaling the pilot with a raised right fist, Rose held on as the Huey gained altitude and shot over the hills they had been hiding behind. It didn’t take him long to spot the circle of rocks from which an occasional puff of gunfire broke. Circling the battlefield, he determined the positions of their own men. He couldn’t help but notice that several of these young soldiers were sprawled out on the sandy soil, their limbs blood-covered and not moving. His face tightened in anger, and he pointed towards the enemy’s position.

“Let’s get those bastards. Lieutenant!”

In response to this passionate directive, the pilot guided the Huey in to attack. On their first two sweeps, they saturated the rock ledge with 7.62mm. bullets spat forth from their chin-mounted mini-gun.

It was on the third pass that they began blasting into the stone itself, with their TOW fire-and-forget antitank missiles.

A resounding explosion followed the detonation of the first of these powerful missiles. This was accompanied by a thick cloud of dense white smoke. Well aware that they still carried another five tow’s in reserve. Rose anxiously licked his lips in anticipation of the next approach.

“My goodness, Grigori, what was that?”

Dmitri’s shaken voice emanated from deep inside a crevice of rock, where the Spetsnaz operatives had crawled to escape the Huey’s bullets. With his ears still buzzing from the deafening blast that only seconds ago had shaken them, he caught the look of solid confidence on his teammate’s face.

“That, comrade, was most likely one of their TOW antitank missiles,” whispered Grigori.

“I doubt if we’ll be able to take many more concussions like that one, without the entire ledge sliding down on top of us.”

Slipping out of the crevice, Grigori reached for the Stinger that still lay inside its protective case. Rather meekly, Dmitri followed him out into the cramped clearing, which the rocks surrounded. He looked on as his teammate hastily took hold of the shiny black, tube-like weapon and efficiently made some last second adjustments.

“How do you plan to counter this antitank weapon, Grigori?”

“Reload your M16 and prepare to give me some covering fire, comrade. We still have a single chance.

I’m going to take out that Huey, then turn the Stinger on the space shuttle. If the fates are still with us, my aim will be true, and we’ll accomplish our glorious mission after all. Now, take courage, Dmitri Andreyev. Our finest hour has finally arrived!”

Inspired by these words, Dmitri took a last fond look at his teammate, then reached out to insert another cartridge case into his rifle. Seeing that Grigori was ready for action, he stood upright and, resting the barrel of the M16 on top of the rock ledge, began spraying the surrounding landscape with bullets.

Grigori wasted no time taking a position behind him. A quick scan of the horizon allowed him to catch sight of the helicopter as it prepared to sweep in from the north. No sooner had the first bullets begun blasting from its mini-gun than the Spetsnaz operative calmly sighted his quarry and pulled the launcher’s trigger. Instantly, the weapon kicked backward and the air filled with an ear-splitting report. A resonant roar sounded as the Stinger’s smooth-case fragmentary warhead shot out in a blinding burst of supersonic speed. Guided by the red-hot exhaust plume of the approaching chopper, the missile soared upwards and smacked into its target. A resounding blast followed and the sky filled with flaming debris.

Conscious that the helicopter would give them no more problems, Grigori reached down to begin the process of reloading the Stinger. The still-smoking barrel was scorching with heat, yet he shoved the new missile inside it anyway. In the process of pivoting to set its sights on the southern horizon, Grigori noticed that the chatter of the M16 had stopped behind him.

Just as he looked over to see what was keeping Dmitri from firing, his friend’s body brushed up against his back. One look at what was left of his blood-soaked face and Grigori knew his comrade had been killed almost instantly.

A new purpose inspired his actions as he turned and again shouldered the Stinger. As he peered into its sights, a tear momentarily clouded his eye. Wiping it away, he centered the cross-hairs on the gleaming white, delta-winged space craft that sat invitingly on the other side of the security fence.

It was just as he pulled the trigger that a 90mm.

M67 recoilless rifle round struck him at the base of his skull. A milli-second later, Grigori Yagoda was nothing more than a few bloody scraps of skin and bone.

Oblivious to his death, the Stinger streaked from its launcher. Yet this time its aim was errant, and the warhead harmlessly exploded at the base of the security fence. All too soon this detonation faded, and the plain was silent again, except for the rush of the wind and the distant cry of the ever-pounding surf.

Captain Tim Gener was the first one to make it to the blood-spattered circle of rocks. Ever so cautiously, he peered inside, and came to the instant conclusion that their unknown enemy no longer threatened them. Only then did he somberly reach for the twoway radio, to convey this fact to Launch Control.

Lieutenant Colonel Todd Lansford took the deaths of Bill Rose and the seven Able-Team members quite hard. Ignoring the distinguished, pin-striped individual seated beside him, he gazed up at the launch monitor, his stare vacant.

It all seemed so unnecessary. Why anyone in their right mind would send in two men to initiate a job that would take a full battalion was beyond him. He could only guess that they were terrorists of some sort. He wondered what Dr. Richard Fuller would have to say about all this. Then he snapped back from his reverie as his esteemed guest spoke up.

“I’m sorry about your men, Todd. They went to their deaths with all the valor and bravado befitting members of the United States Air Force. The entire country can be proud of them.”

Secretary Fitzpatrick’s words caused Lansford to sharpen the focus of his line of sight. He took in the shiny white orbiter perched at its launch mount. The digital clock that was superimposed in the bottom right-hand corner of the monitor screen showed that the launch was being held with thirty-one minutes and fifty seconds to go until liftoff. The senior officer stirred when the white-haired figure who sat beside him again spoke.

“Don’t you think it’s time to reinitiate the countdown, Todd?”

Massaging the pounding ache that possessed his forehead, Lansford sat forward. As if emerging from a horrible nightmare, he suddenly became conscious of his present location. Seated at the rear command console of Shuttle Mission Control, he absorbed the dozens of anxious technicians who were stationed before their own keyboards and monitors in front of him. A hushed sense of anticipation filled the air and Lansford realized that it would take only a single order from his lips to get the ball rolling once again.

With renewed composure, he turned to address the veteran Defense Department bureaucrat who sat to his right.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary. I thought you wanted to hold the Condor until it was determined if the intruders had any accomplices close by.”

The Secretary shook his head.

“I don’t think that’s necessary any longer, Todd. Your preliminary infrared scan showed that those two individuals were the only unauthorized figures on the entire southern quadrant of the base. I’d say that it’s safe to presume that they were working by themselves. Thus, I see no reason to hold the Condor any longer.”

Calmed by the Secretary’s tone of voice, Lansford sighed.

“You’re right, Mr. Secretary. I’m sorry for hesitating. I’ll restart the countdown at once.”

While the lieutenant colonel picked up the intercom to convey this decision, Fitzpatrick watched him with a practiced, shrewd eye. At that moment, he could have sworn that there was something important that the senior officer was keeping from him. His years in Washington had taught him that he could trust no man absolutely. He could only hope that, whatever his host was holding inside, it wouldn’t jeopardize the further safety of the delta-winged space craft that filled the monitor screen above him.

A breath of relief passed his lips when he noticed that the digital clock had again started moving. This meant that in a little over a half-hour’s time the Condor would be released into the heavens.

Fitzpatrick’s eyes gleamed as he visualized the sophisticated reconnaissance platform secured in its cargo hold. For there lay the future security of the entire Free World. Confident that no further obstacles lay in their way, he sat back and watched the seconds left to liftoff continue to tick away.