Flight of the Condor

Chapter Sixteen

Five hundred and forty feet below the Pacific, the DSRV Marlin cautiously approached the remains of the submarine taken out by the Razorback’s torpedo.

Located five and half miles due west of Point Arguello, the Marlin was guided by its usual three-man complement.

Lieutenant Lance Blackmore sat in the copilot’s position, his gaze locked on the DSRV’s active sonar.

Beside him sat Commander Will Pierce, whose hands tightly grasped the airplane-like steering column.

Crouched behind the two officers. Ensign Louis Marvin scanned the controls, in a vigilant effort to make certain that all systems were operating properly.

The hollow ping of a sonar return resonated over the Marlin’s PA. system, and Blackmore reached over to determine the exact distance between the source of this return and their own bow. Familiar now with the DSRV’s systems, the young lieutenant determined that a mere 400 yards of water separated them from the crippled submarine.

Because they had been nearby when this vessel was hit, they had been able to monitor the entire attack sequence. Blackmore would never forget the sounds of the approaching torpedoes. For a tense moment, he had even feared that the Mk-48’s were being aimed at them. Yet they had streamed by the Marlin and, eventually, one of them had made contact.

And to think that he had thought DSRV duty was going to be dull! Since he had been deployed on the Marlin, the action had been almost non-stop. First there had been the rescue off the coast of Kauai. This had been followed by their surprise flight to Vandenberg, the arrival of the tidal wave, and then the recovery of the Titan’s nose cone. And now to witness actual undersea combat! This was the Navy that Lance had always dreamed of serving.

He had found himself excited when Commander Pierce had relayed his decision to temporarily halt their present debris search. The grizzled veteran couldn’t resist taking a closer look at the vessel that had incurred the Razorback’s wrath.

Blackmore was finally beginning to have a genuine liking for the beard-stub bled veteran. He was unlike any man he had ever met before. Direct and to the point, Pierce held back no punches. If he didn’t like you, he’d tell you right to your face. Yet if he saw even a hint of promise in your make-up, he’d be the first to give you a chance to prove what you were made of. This was how he had allowed Lance to come of age.

Only a few days had passed since Blackmore was standing on the deck of the tender Pelican, feeling sorry for himself. How much he had learned about life since then! He could place the blame for this newfound maturity squarely on the back of a single individual.

Though the commander certainly had his faults, when it came down to basics, there was no one Lance would rather have responsible for his life than Pierce.

His technical expertise couldn’t be questioned. He knew the Marlin inside out. Utilizing it as a mere extension of his own self, he knew just how far he could push the vessel. Time after time he had shown what kind of stuff he was made of whenever duty called. Yet throughout it all he had remained a human being. This point had struck home the morning the tidal wave had almost swept them to their deaths. Plunging into the icy depths without any hydraulic control, Lance had thought that he would be the only one to show his fear. Yet when the lights had suddenly flashed on, even Pierce’s face had been contorted with terror.

Not embarrassed by this show of emotion in the least, the commander had taught him that fear was only natural. What one had to be wary of was when panic veiled logical thought. That was when it could prove fatally dangerous.

From that moment on. Lance had felt accepted.

Looking at the commander in a new light, he had accepted his duty draw wholeheartedly. Even Louis Marvin was beginning to rub off on him. The ensign, who always seemed to have a smile and joke to offer, was currently perched behind them. Competent and bold, he could be relied on when the going got rough.

Proud to be an integral part of such a team. Lance sat forward to get a better look at the sonar screen. As they continued their approach, the exact shape and position of the wreck was most evident. The sub rested upright, on a relatively level, sandy sea bed. Its hull appeared intact, though there was considerable damage apparent aft, the probable result of an explosion in its stern.

The hushed silence that had prevailed for the previous couple of minutes continued, as Pierce activated the Marlin’s spotlights and guided the DSRV up over the disabled vessel’s hull. Bending over to peer through the viewing scope, he took in the incapacitated sub’s blunt bow. Two plane fins protruded from each side of the hull, with a single fin projecting from its upper deck.

Twenty feet or so behind these planes extended the vessel’s sail. Unusually long and thin, the conning tower’s surface was void of any identifiable marks that would hint at its nationality.

As the Marlin continued its slow sweep down the sub’s hull. Lance spotted a strange-looking object sticking up from the deck behind the sail. Tubularshaped and over eight feet long, it appeared to be made of some sort of steel piping. It extended into the sub itself, under the cover of a partially extended piece of protective cowling. Having no idea what its purpose was, he picked out the smashed bulkhead that lay behind it. A gaping, jagged hole lay in this portion of the pressure hull. Though the inner hull still appeared intact, thick globs of black oil constantly strained from its seams. The torpedo appeared to have struck the upper portion of the stern with an upward, glancing blow. If it had hit it with a direct angle, he doubted if the vessel would still be in one piece. Appreciatively taking in this damage, Blackmore looked up when a deep voice sounded on his left.

“I’ve got to admit that I’ve never seen a sub with this particular design before,” observed Pierce.

“The Soviets must have been hiding it from us. Though the engine room is surely in a shambles, I bet she can still support life. What do you say about attaching Marlin onto her bow escape trunk and us having a firsthand look inside?”

“Sounds good to me,” returned Marvin.

“If they’re still kicking in there, Ivan will sure be glad to see us.”

Blackmore knew that such an effort could be doubly dangerous. Beyond the threat of encountering a poisonous atmosphere inside was the manner in which they would be received if there were indeed survivors aboard. For what kind of reception could one expect from a crew that had just been torpedoed?

Yet, with all this in mind, he couldn’t help but find himself curious as to the nature of the crew. Would they encounter a group of iron-fisted Soviets or a boatload of crazed terrorists? Just knowing that the Marlin’s crew could be the first to reveal their identities provided reason enough for the lieutenant to nod his head in consent.

“Good,” replied Pierce, as he began turning the Marlin around to return to the sub’s bow.

“Ready the boarding equipment, Ensign. It’s time you earned your keep around here anyway.”

While Marvin ducked back inside the pressure capsule to initiate this task, Blackmore caught the boyish expression that lit the commander’s face.

Looking like a child who was about to break into a candy store, Pierce beamed in anticipation. This enthusiasm was contagious, for Blackmore felt his own nerves tingle when the Marlin dropped onto the submarine’s upper deck. A loud, metallic clap followed as the DSRV rested firmly on its hull. Using the viewing port to complete a flurry of last-minute maneuvers, Pierce inched the Marlin forward. He looked up only when a voice cried out from behind.

“We’ve got it, Skipper! The way it looks now, the transfer skirt just fits.”

An expression of relief filled the commander’s face as he released his safety harness. Reaching up to grab the DSRV’s underwater telephone, he dialed the frequency band that was reserved for international emergencies. His voice was firm as he spoke into the transmitter.

“Disabled submarine, this is the DSRV Marlin calling. We are presently attached to your forward escape trunk. We mean you no harm. We are here only to assist in your rescue. Do you copy?”

A blast of raucous static was the only answer that he managed to pick up. Replacing the telephone, Pierce began pushing himself out of his command chair. Careful not to hit any of the controls, he managed to crawl into the tight hatchway that separated the two pressure spheres. Before disappearing altogether, he took a moment to address his concerned copilot.

“Don’t look so glum, Lieutenant. You didn’t think that I could merely sit here and miss all the action, did you? I’ll be back soon enough. In the meantime, I’ll be leaving the Marlin in your most capable hands.”

With this, he turned and continued on back into the middle sphere. Blackmore watched as he took hold of the steel “bang-stick” that Marvin soon handed him. This spear-like object had an explosive charge on its tip. The Commander angled it down through the transfer skirt, and placed its tip up against the disabled sub’s hull. Pierce wasted no time triggering it. With a sharp blast, the charge activated and the submarine’s hatch was penetrated. It was Marvin who lowered the miniature testing device through the tiny hole that this blast had created.

Using this instrument, he would determine if the vessel’s atmosphere were dangerous or not.

“There’s no radioactivity apparent, Skipper. What little air that remains is sour, but it should be breathable for a short amount of time.”

“That’s all I’m going to need,” answered Pierce, who began climbing down into the transfer skirt.

Using the end of his flashlight, he rapped sharply on the visible portion of the hatch cover. Seconds later, the grating sound of twisting metal could be heard down below.

“It looks like someone’s home after all,” added the commander, as he took a last fond look at his crew before descending into the now-open hatchway.

“Give my regards to Ivan!” offered Marvin.

Shutting the transfer skirt behind Pierce, the ensign stood up and caught the serious glance of the Marlin’s copilot.

“I pity those poor Russkies if they try to pull any shenanigans with the Skipper. If they do, they’re going to wish that they were sunk for good.”

Absorbing this comment, Blackmore wondered if he would have the nerve to do what Pierce was attempting. Shifting around in his seat, he placed one of his hands around the emergency disengage lever, just in case it were suddenly needed.

It was pitch black as Will Pierce climbed down the steel ladder of the disabled sub’s escape trunk. The air was cool and smelled vaguely like rotten eggs.

Careful to take only the shallowest of breaths, he reached the final rung and dropped down onto the deck. Switching on his flashlight, he angled its beam upwards. A rack of torpedoes was visible to his right, and he knew that he was in the torpedo room. Only when he slowly pivoted did he illuminate the face and figure of the individual who had opened the hatch for him.

Tall and blond-haired, the muscular figure was dressed in black slacks and a matching turtleneck.

His ageless, weather-worn face was dominated by a piercing blue stare. Little emotion showed on his face as he nodded in greeting. When he spoke, his accent was thick his very tone clearly admitting defeat.

“Bonjour, Commandant. Welcome aboard the attack submarine Ariadne.”

In instant response. Will Pierce’s face blushed with astonishment. For this was far from the type of reception he had planned on receiving.

“Captain, you’re never going to believe the message that we just picked up from the Marlin.”

The XO’s words were delivered as he rounded the open door to Philip Exeter’s stateroom. Seated at his desk, in the process of logging a detailed description of the attack they just completed, the Captain caught the excited glance of his guest and replied flatly, “Try me, Mr. Benton.”

Fighting to compose himself, the XO took a deep breath before continuing.

“Commander Pierce contacted us from the radio room of the same sub that we took out with our Mk-48. There’re apparently twenty or so crew members still alive and kicking. I can’t believe that he had the nerve to board them.”

Indeed fascinated by this revelation, Exeter pushed away his log and turned to face his XO.

“You don’t say. That guy’s not afraid of the devil himself. How have the Soviets treated him so far?”

Benton’s eyes flashed.

“This is the hot part. Skipper.

They’re not Russians, they’re French!”

Hardly believing what he was hearing, Exeter did a double-take.

“Say again. Pat?”

“You heard me, Skipper. That sub we took out was a French Agosta-class attack boat. And don’t worry that we might have blown away a bunch of innocents, because there was a full-scale, operational, electromagnetic railgun mounted on its stern deck.”

“Sweet Jesus,” sighed Exeter, his mind reeling.

“So it wasn’t the Soviets all along. Wait until we inform Dr. Fuller.”

“That guy deserves the Medal of Honor,” returned the XO as he pulled his pipe from his shirt pocket and poked its stem between his lips.

“And by the way, I made certain to tell Commander Pierce that the Condor made it into orbit without a hitch. That little bit of news really made his day.”

“As it’s made each of ours,” added the Captain.

“I imagine that the commander is going to want to initiate a transfer of survivors as soon as possible.

We’d better get the Razorback ready for them. Prepare the crew’s mess hall as a holding area. I guess it would be a good idea to put together a squad of armed security guards. Have Lieutenant Willingham lead them.”

The XO nodded.

“Aye, aye. Skipper. I’ll get on it at once. Should I ready a transmission for COM SUB

“I’ll take care of that. Pat. I’d love to be there to watch the admiral’s face when he hears this one. I have a feeling that there’s going to be some mighty curious Intelligence types waiting for us back at port.

Now, you’d better get going on that security detail.

Thanks again for all your help. Pat. With this bum knee and all, I couldn’t handle the boat without you.”

“I don’t know about that,” retorted the XO.

“You’re doing an awfully fine job as it is.”

Flashing a warm grin, Benton turned and disappeared out the passageway. Still seated at his desk, Exeter reached forward to massage his knee. While he did so, his mind struggled to absorb the shocking information that had been just revealed to him.

No matter the nationality, he found himself satisfied that at least the right enemy had been eliminated. Again he thanked the Lord for Dr. Richard Fuller’s warning. Without the Nose researcher’s guidance, there was a very good chance that the Condor would have never made it out of the earth’s atmosphere.

Anxious to learn of the motive that had inspired the attempt to interrupt the flight in the first place, Philip turned back to his desk. A proper dispatch would have to be drafted and then relayed down to San Diego. As he went to pick up his pen, his eyes drifted to the picture of Carla and his girls, mounted on the wall before him. Wondering if he’d ever be able to share that morning’s incredible events with them, he shook his head and returned his attention to the duty that awaited him.

Colonel Jean Moreau was no stranger to difficult days, yet this one that was just passing was one of the worse he had ever experienced. It had all started early in the morning, when he had been awakened from a sound sleep by a telephone call. His assistant, Jacques LeMond, had wasted no time in revealing that the Third Brigade had struck once again. This time a group of three young mothers had been found hacked to death outside the installation’s central living quarters.

Sticking up in the blood-soaked ground nearby. had been a single machete with a red bandana tied to its hilt.

When the mutilated bodies were initially discovered, a wave of panic had spread among the other workers. Aware of just who this calling card belonged to, they had already begun to talk of abandoning their jobs for the very safety of their families. Fear could be dangerously contagious if it weren’t stood up to, and Moreau had ordered his assistant to stem the hysteria at its very source. If need be, the Legion was to be called out. For, if the terrorists weren’t stopped cold in their tracks, Moreau could soon have a massive insurrection on his hands.

No sooner had he arrived at this office than he had received word that the series of a half-dozen Japanese communications satellites that they had been contracted to put into space would be delivered from three to six months late. Such a delay could have serious consequences for their already threatened cash-flow position.

If that news weren’t frustrating enough, he had spent the rest of the day with one eye on the clock and the other on his private telephone line. For hours on end, he had waited for the telephone call that still had yet to arrive.

A half hour before, he had left his office and driven straight home. There he had mixed himself a Pernod and soda and headed at once for the solace of his veranda. With his telephone beside him, he had stretched out on his favorite rattan lounger and watched the dusk engulf the thick jungle that lay only a few steps away, on the other side of the screened-in porch.

As always, the steaming humidity was all-oppressive, and not even the constantly whirling ceiling fan was able to draw down a decent cool draft of air. To the ever-increasing, hypnotic throb of the night creatures, he breathed in the very scent of the jungle. The smell of pure, green life itself met his nostrils, and he found himself longing for the dry, sweet fragrance of the meadow in which he had been born and raised.

Did such a world really still exist? Sometimes Moreau wondered. For seven long years, he had known little else but the confines of this malaria ridden sweat-hole called French Guiana. Dedicating his every effort to the success of Ariadne, he had sacrificed the prime years of his life to see this dream come true. Yet no matter how long and tediously he had applied himself, there had always seemed to be one more insurmountable obstacle facing him. And now, to think that all this selfless toil depended upon such desperate measures as Operation Diablo.

Just thinking about this plan that he had been forced to implement soured his mood to an even greater degree. For, though he would have liked to purge its essence from his very mind, his conscience would not cooperate. Try as he could to justify their actions, he knew it all came down to one basic fact. It was one thing to take down an unmanned Titan 34-D missile, but to interfere with a manned space shuttle flight placed them in the same league as the misguided terrorists of the Third Brigade.

A decade ago, Moreau had sworn his allegiance both to the Commandant and the cause he served.

During the years that followed, he had certainly had his share of unsavory tasks to fulfill, yet this was the first time that he seriously questioned his involvement.

Did this mean that his days there were already numbered?

A rustling sound came from behind him, and Moreau realized that he was no longer alone. Seconds later, Theresa sauntered up before him an ice-filled glass in her hand.

“I thought that you would like another drink, mi amore,” she greeted seductively.

Slowly replacing his empty glass, the pert teenager did her best to linger at his side as long as possible.

Though her initial appearance had upset Moreau, he couldn’t help but take in her tight, tanned body.

Dressed in her briefest shorts, and a thin, stringed halter-top, the

Brazilian beauty exuded a raw sensuality. His loins instinctively stiffened in response. For a brief second, he even considered throwing her to the ground and mounting her right there. Like an animal in heat, he’d lose his worries deep in her wet, primal abyss. Yet the ringing phone cut through the dusk like a shriek of terror, and in an instant any passionate intentions on his part dissipated.

Moreau’s hand shot out for the receiver, and the moment he heard the familiar faraway hiss indicating a long-distance call in the background, he waved Theresa away. With his weary eyes locked on the jungle, he listened as a deep voice somberly greeted him.

The next couple of minutes moved with the ponderous pace of a nightmare. For the most part, the Commandant did all the talking. Moreau could but summon the fortitude to occasionally grunt in meager response.

For the first time in his recollection, the esteemed figure he respected most in life spoke with the tone of one who had been totally subjugated. The dismal news that he soon relayed was as grim as his intonation.

Operation Diablo had been a complete failure. Not only was the Ariadne presently lying disabled on the floor of the Pacific, but the Americans had boarded her as well. A handful of surviving sailors had been taken into U.S. custody. Over four dozen of their brave comrades hadn’t been so fortunate. Their stiff corpses still lay within the sub’s crushed hull.

As a direct result of this tragic turn of events, the Condor had been able to successfully attain its orbit.

Already, its precious payload had been released.

Whereas the Americans were now back in the space business, the Ariadne project was now finished.

Only minutes before, the President of the Republic had ordered the Commandant to resign his position at once. Labeled a disgrace to his country, he even faced the possibility of criminal charges.

The Commandant’s voice was quivering with emotion as he thanked Moreau for his years of service. He left him with a single sentence, the ominous overtones of which still rang in his ear even after his trembling hand had managed to hang up the receiver.

“Now do what you have to do, my son, for you deserve much more than the shame that your country is about to call down upon your once-honored name.”

Stunned by this conversation, Moreau sat upright, his limbs twitching uncontrollably. Waves of sweat poured down his forehead, and he struggled for each successive breath.

So this was what it was like when a man’s very life caved in around him. All of his efforts, all of his work, in vain!

A frail voice broke out from behind him, its tone emanating as if from a different dimension.

“Are you all right, mi amore!”

A warm, tiny hand hesitantly stroked his shoulder, and Moreau found himself possessed by a fit of blind fury. Dizzily, he stood. Angling his clenched fist downward, he smacked it into Theresa’s jaw. As she fell to the ground, he turned and stormed out the back door. He was well on his way over the strip of grass that lay between his house and the jungle when a confused, whimpering voice called out to him.

“Mi amore, what is the matter with you? Is it something that I did? Please come back. The jungle at night is no place for you to be. You could get killed out there!”

This fragile plea registered in his consciousness, yet Moreau plunged onward into the tree line. The dark, sticky, heavily scented boughs of the jungle reached for his limbs, and the cries of the night creatures throbbed with a million different voices. Yet all that Jean Moreau could think of was that, if he were lucky, his demise would be mercifully quick. And such was his fate, as the night fell over French Guiana.