Flight of the Condor

Chapter Seventeen

Vandenberg’s underground situation room was a large, cavernous structure buried three stories beneath the surface of the base’s main administrative area. Built specifically for the Strategic Air Command, this control center was utilized to initiate and monitor the launches of Vandenberg’s Minutemen, Titan II, and MX ICBM’s. Although it was primarily designed as a test range, the base did have sixteen missile silos on its northern sector that maintained a latent Emergency War Order capability. It was for this seldom-used function that the room currently found itself being occupied.

Seated at one of the two dozen digital consoles that filled the room. Lieutenant Colonel Todd Lansford pondered the startling series of events that had sent him scurrying from the shuttle launch center to this one. It had all started soon after the Condor had attained its orbit. The mission had been proceeding perfectly, and they had been able to deploy the Keyhole platform right on schedule. After being successfully activated, the recon satellite had begun its first sweep over the central Soviet Union.

It was Kauai’s Kokee satellite-tracking station that had relayed to them the shocking photos that were soon to bring the world to the very brink of war.

Those digitally transferred snapshots were of the Soviet ICBM fields at Tyuratam. There, the SS-18 silos were clearly visible. Huddled around the lips of these underground structures were an odd assortment of vehicles and personnel. A detailed analysis of the film showed the workers to be in the midst of replacing the missiles’ warheads. Intelligence was certain that this new warhead package was what was known as the Tartar system. It would allow each of the SS18’s to be armed with ten MIRV’d warheads, with enough yield and accuracy to knock out even the most hardened target. It was common knowledge that this package was not only a flagrant violation of the current nuclear weapons treaty, but also indicative of a possible imminent first strike.

In response to this revelation, the President of the United States had immediately activated the hot line to the Kremlin. The infuriated Chief Executive had soon reached Premier Viktor Alipov. Yet, much to the President’s dismay, Alipov had flatly denied his accusations.

This had left him with no alternative but to bring his country’s own strategic forces to a state of DEFCON Two, only a step away from war itself.

With this directive, America’s Triad had been activated.

Beneath the seas, America’s powerful force of strategic missile submarines had been sent to their action stations. On land, the country’s B-52 and B1B bombers had been dispersed from their vulnerable airfields and sent flying toward their fail-safe positions.

And finally, from deep inside their launch control silos, the countdowns had begun on the United States’ own arsenal of Titan II, Minutemen, and MX ICBM’s.

Lansford was well aware that a flight of Minutemen III missiles sat in their silos only a few thousand yards from his current position. He visualized Vandenberg’s very own contribution to the Triad, as the sleek group of sixteen missiles waited for the launch release codes that would come from this very room.

The officers who would relay these launch signals sat before their consoles around him. As they went about their macabre business with a cool efficiency, Lansford wondered if they ever thought about the consequences that would follow a real launch. Surely they were well aware that their actions would most probably signal the end of the civilized world as they now knew it.

Though he was a veteran Air Force officer himself, Lansford had never actually thought this fateful day would ever come to pass. World War III had been like a grim specter on the horizon, always threatening, yet never a reality. But the continued existence of the doomsday weapons that made this conflict so unthinkable had made this day inevitable. Man was only fooling himself if he thought otherwise.

Lansford looked out on the hushed room that surrounded him, and wondered if this afternoon would be the moment when humankind’s luck finally ran out. He was well aware of the fact that that morning’s skirmish with those suspected Soviet commandos could have been the first military engagement of the war. If so, at least the Americans had emerged from that brief battle victorious.

Of course, confusing the matter was the submarine that the Razorback had sunk while prowling off the coastline. Was its crew really French as the preliminary reports indicated, and was an electromagnetic railgun indeed mounted on its stern? And if this were true, was the

Condor its target? Perhaps those so-called Frenchmen were really Soviet agents in disguise!

However it would eventually turn out, there could be no denying Dr. Richard Fuller’s prophetic warning.

If he ever lived to see this day through, Lansford promised himself to convey to the Nose researcher his sincere apologies. Too busy to take the time to seriously listen to Fuller’s wise counsel, he was extremely fortunate that his inattention hadn’t ended up in serious tragedy. He shuddered to think what would have happened if the Condor had been shot down. Without the Keyhole in place, the Soviets would have been free to finish the rearming of their SS-18’s, and could have even launched them without America’s awareness. Such a fate would have been the most tragic of all possible.

Stirring with this realization, Lansford looked to his immediate right as the red plastic telephone positioned on the desk there rang with a harsh buzz.

Quick to pick it up was the steady hand of the Secretary of the Air Force, Walter Fitzpatrick. At his side during this entire crisis, Lansford had been impressed with the Secretary’s cool, collected firmness.

Never once had he outwardly shown any visible emotion. That was why Lansford was surprised when a broad grin filled Fitzpatrick’s face as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. Anxious to know what this abrupt change meant, the lieutenant colonel sat forward, expectantly. When he finally did hang up the receiver, Fitzpatrick took several seconds to savor what he had heard before turning to share it with his host.

“That was the Secretary of Defense, Todd. Only minutes ago, Viktor Alipov called the President on the hot line. Genuinely upset that our strategic forces had been brought up to DEFCON Two, he conveyed the following. The rearming of Tyuratam’s SS-18’s had apparently taken place without either his approval or knowledge. Alipov pleaded that the incident had been the result of the treasonous actions of two of his most trusted aides. Arrested, and currently being held in custody for the crime of treason, are General Vadim Sobolev, Commanderin-Chief of the Strategic Rocket Forces, and Alipov’s senior aide, Valentin Radchenko. Both men have pleaded guilty and are ready to admit their crime publicly.

“To substantiate his country’s peaceful intentions, Alipov has already ordered the MIRV’d warhead packages to be removed. To corroborate this, the silos at Tyuratam will be opened for inspection during the next pass of our Keyhole.

“The President has apparently accepted this admission, and has ordered us to step down to DEFCON Three. It’s over, Todd. We’ve dodged the bullet one more time.”

Taking in this observation, Lansford looked from the Secretary’s relieved face to the emblem mounted on the wall behind him. The insignia was that of the Strategic Air Command, and showed a mailed fist holding a lightning bolt and an olive branch in its grasp. Beneath this crest was printed, “Our Profession is Peace.” Ever mindful of how true this motto was. Lieutenant Colonel Todd Lansford turned to join the joyous celebration that was taking place around him.

Seven and a half miles due south of the subterranean control room, Richard Fuller followed Miriam into the narrow entrance of the newly discovered cave.

Inside it was dark and musty, and it took them a good thirty seconds to adjust to this sudden decrease in light. As their night vision gradually came to them, they picked out the various artifacts that lay scattered against the cramped cavern’s walls. Dozens of colorfully decorated, lap-sized stone bowls sat next to a variety of baskets of every shape and size imaginable.

Interspersed between these objects were hundreds of sharply tapered stone arrowheads, spear points bonefishing hooks, and awls.

Continuing on into the cave’s interior, they passed a set of fullsized, whalebone chairs. Draped over them were several rabbit-and bird-skin capes. Because of their excellent preservation and authentic appearance, it was most obvious that this site had been completely sealed off from humanity for hundreds of years. Not knowing what they could find next, the two astonished figures gathered at the center of the cavern’s polished stone floor.

There the Nose researcher broke the solemn silence that had accompanied them since they had entered.

“My Lord, Miriam, is this place for real?”

Bending down to carefully touch the hem of the rabbit-skin cape that lay beside her, the archaeologist spoke with quivering excitement.

“If I’m dreaming, now’s the time to wake me, Richard. It’s as if we’ve entered a museum that’s been closed for a millennium.

This is the find of a lifetime!”

“Hey, you two, quit fooling around out there and come back and take a look at this. It’s unbelievable!”

The muted voice was that of Joseph Solares, and emanated from deeper inside the cave’s interior. Miriam looked to Richard, and both of them pivoted in an attempt to track the voice’s source. Seeing nothing but darkness beyond, they linked hands and cautiously proceeded further into the cavern’s cool depths.

The walls gradually narrowed, and soon they were unable to walk shoulder-to-shoulder. Forced to hunch over, Miriam led the way, with Richard close on her heels. As it turned out, they didn’t have to travel in this way for very much longer, for the narrow rock corridor opened to a fairly good-sized chamber. Following Miriam in through the entrance to this room, Richard halted beside his newfound love, and took in the wondrous sight awaiting them there.

Illuminated by a thin band of direct sunlight that entered from a minuscule hole cut into the jagged rock roof was the bare-chested figure of Joseph Solares. Appearing much the way his ancestors must have looked centuries before, the dark-haired Indian knelt before the chamber’s far wall. His complete attention was focused on a section of polished stone, on which an expertly crafted petroglyph was drawn.

There, catching the full brunt of the ever-falling rays of sunlight, was etched a massive condor. It was caught in the process of soaring on a thermal. The bird’s long hooked beak could be seen, growing almost straight out from its flat forehead. Its head seemed completely bald, except for a bright yellow plume that crowned the very top of its skull. The rest of its body was covered with black feathers, except for a narrow strip of white ones situated under the front of each elongated wing.

So expertly drawn was this etching that the condor’s face seemed to be imbued with life itself. Appearing wise beyond its years, the shaggy-feathered bird seemed to be trying to express its innermost thoughts. Unbeknownst to the three mortals, who were swallowed by its gaze, was the fact that in each of their minds the exact same mental picture was being transferred. With lonely fortitude, this king of living beasts, representing the last of his species in the wild, told of his struggle to survive at all costs. For life was the most precious of essences known to this world, and to needlessly waste it was the greatest tragedy of all.