Flight of the Condor

Chapter Fifteen

Captain Philip Exeter stood in the Razorback’s control room, his attention locked on the navigational chart that showed their current position. Beside him was huddled the sub’s Navigator and Weapons Officer.

They too studied the graph, on whose surface was drawn a triangular design. Laying at the apex of this polygon was a mark indicating the Razorback. From this position two straight lines were drawn of approximately equal length. The top one stretched to the northeast, and showed the location of the still-unidentified diesel-electric submarine. The opposing arm of the triangle extended to the southeast, and terminated at the spot where the supposed nuclear vessel currently hovered. Since spotting these two contacts, the Razorback had turned around. Headed back toward the east now, it was in the process of bisecting the triangle, putting the sub equally distant between both targets.

Ever conscious that noon was only a quarter of an hour away, Exeter shifted his weight impatiently.

Making his indecision even more difficult was his aching right knee. Still feeling the pain, he wondered when the three aspirin he had just consumed would finally take effect.

The captain knew that from their current position they could easily take out both contacts. Yet, since either one had yet to make a hostile move, he found himself hesitant to do so. After all, they weren’t in a declared state of war. All that he had to go on were the frantic ramblings of the Nose researcher, whose theories could very well be so much hot air. Waiting anxiously for one of the vessels to make some sort of belligerent maneuver, he could do little more than have the Razorback primed for action. To insure their readiness, he would depend on the two junior officers who studied the chart at his side.

Clearing his dry throat, Exeter first addressed his Navigator.

“Mr. McClure, I’m going to need you to pull those bathygraphs of these waters. Somewhere beneath us, the Marlin is probing the sea floor. If we are forced to attack, we’ve got to be certain that the DSRV doesn’t stand in our way.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” responded the Navigator, who turned to rummage through his chart box.

This left Exeter facing his Weapons Officer.

“Mr. Willingham, I’m relying on you to give me a constant update on those firing solutions. Since both contacts are under suspicion, you’ll have double the work. I want all six torpedo tubes loaded with Mk-48’s. Each is to be ready to fire at my command.”

“What exactly are we waiting for, Captain?” asked the alert junior officer.

Exeter met the young man’s inquisitive stare.

“I’m not really sure. Lieutenant. All I know is that, if one of them is going to play its cards, it will be within the next fifteen minutes.”

Checking his watch, the somewhat puzzled Weapons Officer nodded and began his way across the compartment to the boat’s Mark 101-A firecontrol console. It would be from this position that the final firing bearings would be determined and, if needed, the torpedoes subsequently fired.

Returning his attention to the chart, Exeter mentally traced the Razorback’s new course eastward. By extending this route past the two unknown contacts, a journey of a little more than three more miles would take them right back to Point Arguello. Philip couldn’t help but wonder what was presently taking place on the desolate plains a mile inland. Surely, the Condor was in the midst of its final countdown. If Dr. Richard Fuller’s warning was to have some validity, the enemy would have to ascend soon. For not even an electromagnetic railgun could penetrate the ocean’s icy depths. He rubbed his knee, and his weary eyes again went to the wallmounted clock as the seconds continued to tick away to liftoff.

A deck beneath the control room, the Razorback’s Executive Officer found his glance diverted once more to his watch. Barely visible in the dim light of the sonar compartment, he counted the minutes left until 1200 hours. Like the Captain, he too realized that if the enemy were to indeed make a hostile move, it would have to occur within the next couple of minutes.

Sitting in front of him, the two younger sonar technicians were hunched over their consoles. Both were wearing headphones that were connected to the series of microphones encased in the sub’s hull. As a result of his recent briefing, they were each monitoring one of the two contacts that lay approximately a mile off their bow. Their first priority was to listen for any venting ballast that could indicate an ascent.

Secondly, they were to be ever alert for the activation of any unusual deck machinery. If an electromagnetic railgun existed on one of those vessels, its bulky length would most likely be concealed somewhere on the sub’s upper deck. Surely, they would hear it being activated. Only then would they know which target needed to be eliminated.

When he had relayed these final instructions, Seaman Lefty Jackman had asked for a description of just what they were so desperately listening for. Unwilling to reveal its exact nature, Benton had veiled his response. For, if the Nose scientist’s suspicions proved wrong, he preferred that Fuller’s last-minute warning go no further than him and the Captain.

Jackman had soon realized that he was not going to get a precise answer to his question and had merely shrugged his shoulders and immersed himself back in his work. The XO hoped that this was as far as the enlisted man’s curiosity would go, yet such was not to be the case.

Unknown to the XO was the senior seaman’s undying inquisitiveness. Not one to be thrown off the trail so easily. Lefty sat at his station with his thoughts spinning. As his subconscious mind took in the constant muted drone of the diesel-electric sub that slowly cruised the depths some 25,000 yards off their port bow, his conscious thoughts centered themselves on the strange briefing that the XO had just shared with them. The senior officer had instructed them to listen for something, yet he wouldn’t even explain precisely what it might be. Lefty was no stranger to the fickle ways of Command, but this incident really took the cake.

Lefty could only assume that his coworker, Seth Burke, was right, and that this whole thing revolved around the launch of the space shuttle. Perhaps the Soviets were trying to interfere in some way. That could be the reason why the Russian Victor was presently prowling these waters. He even supposed that the diesel-electric boat that they had just chanced upon could be working with the Victor.

What he couldn’t understand was that, if this was indeed what Command feared, why they didn’t blow away both vessels and be done with it. These were their waters. Another foreign nation had absolutely no business there. How much better it was to be safe now than sorry later.

Looking forward to the day when America would quit being the nice guy and start playing hardball along with its hard-nosed adversary. Lefty reached up and readjusted the filter mechanism. After increasing the volume gain another full notch, he did his best to focus his total concentration on the contact’s present sound signature. His heart jumped when the familiar drone of the unknown vessel’s electric engines was abruptly overridden. In its place rose a noisy, liquid surge that was more characteristic of a nuclear reactor than an electric generator. Only after he doublechecked his headphone connection, to make certain that he wasn’t monitoring the contact that lay to their southeast, did he turn to inform the XO.

“Sir, you’re going to have trouble believing this, but that diesel-electric that we’ve been following has just turned nuclear on us!”

“What?” quizzed the XO, who hastily clipped on the auxiliary headphones to hear for himself.

Quick to pick out the hiss of a reactor’s coolant loop, he looked puzzled.

“Are you certain that you’re tuned into the right vessel?”

Lefty’s voice didn’t falter.

“I’m positive, sir. One second she was purring along on her batteries, and the next, this racket overtook her. Unless there’s another nuke right on top of her, it’s got to be coming from that same submarine.”

It was with this observation that an idea dawned in Patrick Benton’s consciousness. What if this reactor had been carried inside the diesel-electric’s hull all this time? Only recently activated, it was to be utilized for a single purpose, to power a weapons system that demanded much more energy than its fossil fueled generators could provide. This supposition was seemingly confirmed when a bubbling whirl of venting ballast emanated from this same vessel.

“She’s ascending!” cried Lefty Jackman excitedly.

Without a second’s hesitation, the XO reached out to grab the comm line.

Philip Exeter was standing at his usual command position at the center of the control room when the call arrived from Benton. Hastily checking the time, he knew that he had to make his final decision quickly. In another seven minutes, it would be too late.

“Mr. Willingham, give me a firing solution on the contact whose heading reads zero-three-zero,” ordered the Captain firmly.

The Weapons Officer fed this request into the firecontrol console, and was quick to respond.

“Final solution entered and looks good. Captain.”

“Prepare tubes one and three for firing!” countered Exeter, who again checked the time.

Before giving the order to release the torpedoes, he hurriedly went over his alternatives. Of the two targets before them, only the vessel off their port bow was ascending. The sudden activation of a nuclear reactor aboard this same boat surely meant that this sub needed a powerful boost of energy for something other than propulsion. Even though the Nose scientist’s prophetic warning seemed to be coming to fruition, it was not every day that a peacetime Naval officer gave the orders to willfully sink another vessel.

What if this submarine had no hostile intentions, and was merely caught up in a web of coincidence? Or perhaps the sub laying off their starboard bow contained the real enemy. Were the two somehow working together?

Exeter knew he could go on second-guessing himself all day long and never be the wiser. Guided by his instincts alone, he summoned the courage to make the difficult decision that only he was responsible for.

Ever conscious of the billion-dollar vehicle that would soon be blasting off into space, and gambling that Dr. Richard Fuller knew what he was talking about, Exeter turned to his right and ordered his Weapons Officer to fire both torpedo tubes.

Seconds later, the Razorback’s hull trembled under the force created by two sizzling explosions of compressed air. To a loud, popping roar, the pair of Mk48 torpedoes shot from their tubes and bit into the surrounding waters. As they plunged forward under their own power, each weapon found its course directed by the stream of information entering its guidance system from an ultra-thin wire that was being constantly played out from its tail. Still connected to the mother ship, the torpedoes headed for their targets with the Razorback’s sensors guiding their ultimate destiny.

Taking in the strained silence that possessed the control room’s complement, Exeter prepared himself to accept the consequences of his actions. Instinctively crossing his fingers at his side, he could but pray that he had made the right decision.

Nowhere was the sound of the advancing torpedoes more audible than from the Razorback’s sonar compartment.

Perched before the console, Lefty Jackman clearly heard the dual, high-pitched whines of the pair of Mk-48’s. It didn’t take him much effort to determine which target they were intending to take out. Overjoyed that the Razorback was finally showing some teeth, he glanced to his left as Seth Burke unexpectedly called out, “That other sub, it’s moving!”

Having completely forgotten about this other contact, Lefty hastily switched frequencies. As he tuned into the sector of water that his coworker had been monitoring, he picked up a most familiar, distant, surging noise, the source of which was all too obvious.

“I knew it was that Victor!” cried the Senior Seaman.

“Just listen how they’re high-tailing it out of there! It’s like they can’t get into the open ocean quick enough. I wonder what’s keeping the Skipper from taking them out too?”

The authoritative voice of the XO broke from behind him.

“You’ve got to learn to trust your captain, Mr. Jackman. He know’s what he’s doing. Now, what’s going on with our torpedoes?”

Reaching over to flick on the compartment’s elevated external speakers, Chief Desiante channeled the sound of their attack for each of them to hear. In return, the room filled with the whir of the Mk-48’s as they prepared to make their final run.

As the frequency of this whine increased, a dull, bubbling blast of venting air could be picked up in the background. This was followed by a loud, continuous, vibratory hum. It was Lefty Jackman who identified it.

“They just blew their emergency vents! That hum is the sound of their main engines. Those poor bastards are trying to run for it!”

Each of the men listened to the frantic sounds produced by the diesel-electric sub as it attempted to reverse its ascent and pour on the speed. Yet continuing to overpower this rising racket was the hornet-like whir of the ever-pursuing Mk-48’s.

The XO’s gut tightened when the lead torpedo initiated its final approach. As its signature seemed to merge with that of its quarry, he braced himself for the explosive blast that should follow any second. Yet only a sickening silence ensued.

“The first Mk-48 overshot its mark,” observed Lefty, his tone clearly disappointed.

“We’ve got to get them with this last one!”

Again the XO picked out the high-pitched whine of the remaining Mk-48 as it initiated its final approach.

Drawing in a deep breath, he pulled his pipe from his mouth and nervously bent forward. An eternity seemed to pass, and then the room filled with a thunderous, resounding explosion.

“We got them!” exclaimed Lefty triumphantly.

“Yahoo added Seth Burke.

Hesitant to join in on the celebration just yet, Benton took in the joyous grin on the face of Chief Desiante. Unable to answer it with a smile of his own, the XO wondered if their torpedo had taken down a boat full of innocent men. Doubtful that they’d ever know for certain, he looked down at his watch. Even in the dim light of the sonar compartment, he could see that it was 1200 hours exactly.

The stroke of noon found Richard Fuller emerging onto the plateau that formed the summit of the canyon located immediately south of Ocean Beach Park. There the Nose researcher set his eyes on the back of Miriam Rodgera, who sat on the lip of the rock ledge, her gaze locked on the sea beyond. Without revealing his presence, Richard anxiously scanned the southern horizon.

The sky was a deep, clear blue, the fog having long ago lifted, and he was afforded an excellent view of mountainous Tranquillon Ridge and the hills that surrounded it. Checking his wristwatch, he wondered what was keeping the Condor from lifting off as scheduled. Since this vantage point would offer them an excellent view of the launch itself, it was most evident that there had been some sort of delay. Could it have been caused by something that the Razorback had chanced upon, while plunging beneath the seas off the coastline? Having no way to find out if this was indeed the case, Richard continued on to the summit’s western edge.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

Surprised by this voice, Miriam turned around and spotted her visitor only a few steps away. With that, a warm smile turned the corners of her mouth.

“Well, look what the wind blew in,” she answered.

“To what do I owe this honor?”

Halting at her side, Richard crouched down and kissed her on the lips.

“To tell you the truth, I could think of no place I’d rather be than with you at the moment.”

Catching a bit of weariness in his tone and expression, Miriam cautiously prohed.

“Is everything all right, Richard? You look beat.”

Calmed by her concern, the Nose researcher sighed.

“I guessed I didn’t sleep much last night. It’s the same old frustrating story again, Richard Fuller against the Establishment. You know, things haven’t changed that much since college after all.”

After kissing Miriam once more on her lips, he sat down beside her and angled his glance westward.

Taking in the view of the wide, sloping beach and the frothing surf beyond, he added, “Lord, is this a gorgeous day!”

Miriam followed the direction of his stare.

“I’ll say.

Since we’ve been in Vandenberg, this morning has topped them all. I can’t believe this visibility.”

“It’s as if that tidal wave washed away all the fog,” reflected Richard, who noticed that Miriam had a notebook and pen on her lap.

“I hope I’m not keeping you from your work. Joseph told me I’d find you up here.”

Miriam set the notebook down on the ground beside her.

“I was only making some entries in my journal. It was nothing earth-shattering. How are the kids doing down there, anyway?”

“The last I saw of them, they were digging away at the base of the canyon. That’s a mighty spirited group you’ve got down there, Madame Professor. How do you keep them so motivated?”

Miriam grinned.

“Actually, they do most of it themselves. That’s one thing about the kids today.

When they want something bad enough, they go after it with everything they’ve got. Not even the U.S. Air Force could keep them away from this dig.”

Richard once again checked his watch.

“Speaking of the devil, did you know that the space shuttle was due to be launched five minutes ago? I kind of thought you and I would have the best seat in town.”

“As always, that’s news for me,” returned the archaeologist.

“I didn’t think we were supposed to be seeing a shuttle flight for at least another year.”

“Neither did I,” reflected Richard, who suddenly remembered a fact that he wanted to share with his lover.

“By the way, there might be some sort of archaeological find awaiting you on the sea floor several miles off the coast here. I recently heard that one of the vessels that is searching for the debris of that downed Titan chanced upon some kind of stone monument that appears to be manmade and of great age-Genuinely interested in this revelation, Miriam abruptly turned towards him.

“Exactly where was this formation spotted?”

Most aware that he had her curiosity aroused, Richard pointed out to sea.

“That’s the weird part.

The vessel was at least fifteen miles off the coast, directly west of here, when they came upon it, at a depth of over two thousand feet below sea level.”

“That’s incredible,” commented the archaeologist.

“It sounds to me as if it could be some sort of submerged land mass that was possibly pulled down by an earthquake. You know, the Chumash had a legend that told of an island that was said to be located directly west of Point Arguello. Its name was Similaqsa, and it was known as the portal of the dead.

“If this formation is indeed of Chumash origin, we might have an amazing discovery on our hands.

When’s the soonest that you can introduce me to the men who made this initial find?”

Richard was just about to answer when his attention was diverted by a clearly audible, throaty roar that sounded in the distance. Immediately aware of what this signaled, he redirected his line of sight towards the south. There, against a crystal-clear backdrop of rolling green hills and deep blue sky, the shuttle was just visible, on its way towards the heavens.

“It’s the Condor!” exclaimed the Nose researcher, whose pulse quickened at the magnificent sight.

Close at his side, Miriam also viewed the ascending spaceship. She found herself thrilled as the roar of its boosters rose to an almost deafening pitch. The very ground beneath them seemed to vibrate in response.

Both figures were speechless as the tips of the boosters became visible. Belching fire and smoke, the mighty engines reverberated with a thrust of over 6 million pounds. As the rocket continued upward, the orbiter itself could be clearly seen. The white skinned delta-winged vehicle, which was about the size of a DC-9 jetliner, lay gripped onto the rust colored main engine. Attached to each side of this central structure were the two detachable, solid-rocket boosters. Clear from the flames themselves, the black-nosed orbiter slowly began to rotate.

Watching as it began arcing up over the ocean, Richard restrained his innocent awe with a single realization. If his theory held true, this would be the most critical phase of the flight. Hastily, he scanned the surrounding seas, in a vain effort to locate any possible adversary. Yet, much to his relief, only the ever-surging waters were visible.

The Condor continued climbing, and soon was but a tiny speck high in the cloudless sky. Thankful that his supposition was apparently a foolish one after all, he reached out for the thin, inviting waist of the woman who sat at his side. Pulling her towards him affectionately, he felt her warmth and his tenseness instantly dissipated.

“It looks like they made it,” said Miriam, who reciprocated with a hug of her own. Feeling his need, she was in the process of turning her lips up to meet his when a high-pitched, crackling male voice was suddenly heard.

“Miss Rodgers, you’ve got to come down at once!

Joseph has found some sort of sealed cavern dug into the base of the canyon!”

The spell was broken, and Miriam turned to identify the source of this news. Behind them, the tall, lanky figure of Mick Thompson was just emerging onto the plateau. Clearly out of breath, with his thin body soaked in sweat, the student had obviously run all the way up the trail that led there. Richard caught her puzzled glance and playfully winked in response.

Both of them then stood, and began their way toward the path that would take them back down to the floor of the valley.