Flight of the Condor

Chapter One

For the third consecutive morning, Andrew Weston’s dreams woke him from a sound sleep. Each time, the vision was the same. He found himself in a lush, pine-covered valley. A single, thin trail cut through the rolling hills. With not another human in sight, he walked down the path with a brisk pace, drawn by an unknown goal. It was just as he passed over a tumbling mountain brook that a booming peal of deep thunder resonated from above. Directing his attention skyward, he searched the crystal-blue heavens for any sign of an advancing storm. When he saw no known source for the thunder, a heavy, ponderous feeling possessed his limbs and, for a second, he swayed back dizzily. It was then that his eyes sharpened their focus, picking out a single, massive creature circling high overhead. It was larger than any bird he had ever viewed before, and he knew in an instant that it was a condor.

Soaring effortlessly on the thermals, the powerfully built bird sported a lean body and a glossy, black feathered wingspan well over eleven feet in length. As in each of the preceding dreams, Andrew continued looking upward, completely mesmerized by the creature’s huge size, as the condor swooped down and passed only a few hundred feet overhead. A loud swish of air accompanied this movement, and Andrew got an excellent view of the bird’s long, hooked beak, which grew almost straight out from its flat forehead. Curiously, its head was completely bald, yet the top of the scalp was a bright yellow. The rest of the condor’s body was covered by black feathers, except for a strip of white ones situated under the front of each wing.

With a smooth, graceful motion, the bird rolled upward and initiated another low pass. Once more, Andrew looked on with awe. Unbelievable as it may have seemed, he could have sworn that the condor met his inquisitive glance directly. Then, for the briefest of seconds, the two creatures traded a rare moment of silent inter-species contact. Appearing wise beyond its years, the shaggy-feathered bird, which represented the last of its species in the wild, transferred a mental picture telling of its lonely struggle to survive at all costs.

As in the two previous mornings’ dreams, it was at this point that Andrew awoke. Still curiously affected by the bird’s sad plight, he reluctantly merged back into waking consciousness. With the vision still fresh in his mind, he vainly attempted to identify the lush valley he had been crossing before spotting the condor.

Unable to place it, he stirred uneasily, his concentration broken by a rustle in the sheets beside him.

A familiar, sweet scent met his nostrils, and Andrew quickly reorientated himself. Reaching out affectionately, he grasped the warm, soft body of the woman he had been living with these past two weeks. In a matter of seconds, thoughts of his dream were soon far from his mind, to be replaced by physical longings of a most primal nature.

Wendy had been sound asleep and Andrew’s gentle hands nudged her abruptly awake. Without a second’s hesitance, she allowed her lover’s sensual touch to rouse her completely. A minimum of foreplay sent their hearts pounding, and all too soon the two were merged as one. An intense, passionate coupling followed.

Though they had known each other for just a few short weeks, Andrew and Wendy were most compatible.

Each knew precisely what the other needed to insure complete satisfaction. This morning proved to be no exception.

Mounted side by side, Andrew started slowly and soon had his lover sighing in utter ecstasy. As his own need rose, his pace likewise increased, until both parties were shuddering in shared pleasure. Temporarily spent and exhausted, they parted. With hands still linked and shoulders touching, each savored the tingling warmth that coursed through their bodies.

This delight was amplified, as both realized that they would not have to immediately part and run off to work, as had been the case too often in the past. For this morning signaled the beginning of a joint three day leave. Andrew would never forget how difficult it had been for them to manage this mini-vacation together.

As a ten-year veteran, senior technician with NASA, he certainly had these days coming to him.

He couldn’t begin to count the hours of earned leave time due him. Yet his current assignment at the Kokee tracking station on Kauai, Hawaii’s northernmost island, was a unique one to say the least.

Perpetually overworked and understaffed, the Kokee facility managed its operations with a minimum of trained personnel. Because of this, Andrew had to practically beg a coworker to assume his shift times.

This would cost him dearly in the weeks to come, in the form of taking double shifts himself, yet Wendy had so anticipated this time together and he didn’t dare disappoint her. As a Navy ensign stationed at Kauai’s Barking Sands missile test-range facility, Wendy had to pull in a few favors herself to get her own pass.

Since meeting at a base cocktail party less than thirty days before, their relationship had progressed most rapidly. Attracted to each other from the very start, they were lovers in a matter of days.

Two weeks before, their relationship had taken on an additional degree of permanence when he had agreed to move into Wendy’s one-bedroom apartment in Waimea. As it turned out, this had been a decision Andrew had yet to regret.

Not only was his present habitation more comfortable than the cramped trailer he had been sharing with two other NASA technicians, his entire outlook on life had been broadened. An avowed bachelor, he had sworn to keep his life free from the complications a woman would necessitate. Yet, in Wendy’s case, it was certainly worth the trouble.

For the first time in months, he began taking an interest in something other than his work. Although he had been stationed on Kauai for over six months, he had seen little of the magnificent sights the island was famous for. Since Wendy’s duties at Barking Sands had kept her equally as busy, both had agreed that they would spend these three days together, exploring the island’s natural beauty.

Only when Wendy rose to shower and then prepare breakfast did Andrew reach over to the end table to pick up a road map of Kauai. With anxious eyes, he began charting the course of their wanderings.

Spouting Horn would be their first stop. Located on the southern edge of the island, this beach side attraction derived its name from a lava tube that directed the Pacific waters into the air in a high, surging column. Then it would be on to nearby Koloa, a quaint shopping area that had — once held the headquarters of Kauai’s first sugar plantation. Continuing to the east, on the Kuhio highway, they would make their way to Wailua Beach. There they planned to cruise the Wailua River inland to view the magical Fern Grotto. Proceeding to the northern shore of the island, they would tour the Kilauea Lighthouse, picnic on the white sands of Anini Beach, then go on to explore Princeville and historical Hanalei. If time permitted, they even considered jumping on an inter island flight for a quick ride to Oahu, Maui, or the big island of Hawaii itself.

The smell of perking coffee and sizzling bacon redirected his attention from the map. For the first time in much too long, he found himself really anticipating the day’s events. Jumping from the covers, he made his way to the bathroom. No sooner had he brushed his teeth and begun shaving than the shrill ring of the telephone sounded. His gut tightened when the ringing stopped to be replaced with Wendy’s high-pitched voice.

“Andy, it’s Dr. Lindsay!”

With his face still half-covered with shaving cream, Andrew put down his razor and silently cursed to himself. Fighting the impulse to ignore the call altogether, he sighed and hastily caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror. A disgusted, pained expression twisted his face as he turned to pick up the bedroom receiver. The mere tone of the caller’s deep voice verified Andrew’s worse fears.

“Andy, sorry to do this to you, lad, but we need you up here pronto. Keyhole Alpha is falling from orbit much quicker than we had anticipated. It’s doubtful that she’ll be able to give us another pass over the USSR. To replace her, Colorado Springs wants us to activate Baker. Since she’s been your baby from the beginning, I thought you’d like to do the honors.”

Although a major part of his being rebelled at the very thought of returning to the tracking station, Andrew’s conscience got the best of him.

“I’m on my way. Doc,” said Andrew sighing heavily.

“Very good, lad,” returned the director of the Kokee station.

“We’ll hold the fort for your arrival.

Drive carefully.”

As he hung up the receiver, Andrew noticed a dejected-looking figure standing at his side. Her deep blue eyes expressed her frustration. Overtaken by an emotion he was just beginning to understand, he reached out and pulled his love close to him. Only then did he realize that half his face was still covered with shaving cream.

Five minutes later, he was fully dressed and on his way up Waimea Canyon Drive. Though the tracking station was less than twenty miles away, the curving road was steep, narrow, and, as he was soon to learn, at this hour, filled with tourists on their way to Kokee State Park. Settling his jeep behind a long line of slow-moving rental cars, Andrew cursed at his misfortune.

Struggling to contain his rising anger, he pounded the wheel, hardly aware of the spectacular scenery passing on each side of him.

Fortunately, Wendy had taken his abrupt call to duty all in stride. Though she had been disappointed that their plans would have to be temporarily put on hold, she was most aware of the fickle nature of their governmental positions. Having entered the Navy over two years before, she had known that the call could have very well been for her. Not even bothering to question the nature of the crisis that was ruining their plans, she had dutifully filled a thermos with coffee and packed Andrew a bacon-and-egg sandwich.

Parting with a kiss and a hug, Andrew had promised to call her as soon as he had a better idea of the length of his present assignment. If all went smoothly, he knew that the reunion could take place as soon as that afternoon. Since things in his field rarely went as planned, though, he couldn’t say for sure. Resigned to this fact, he now directed his attention to the road before him. A total of seven cars lay between him and the slow-moving, diesel-belching tourist bus that was delaying their progress. Since there would not be a safe passing lane for another three miles, Andrew did his best to remain patient.

After determining a prudent following distance, he allowed his thoughts to drift to the nature of his present work.

For over a decade, his duty with NASA had included a variety of assignments. These included work on the Explorer project, the space-shuttle program, and, most recently, a stint with the Air Force’s satellite control facility at Sunnyvale, California. In fact, it was in Sunnyvale that he had absorbed the knowledge that he was presently being called in to apply — the exact positioning of satellites consigned to a polar orbit.

Of course, there could be no denying the extreme importance of the project he was currently involved with. That was why, when Dr. Lindsay’s call had arrived earlier, Andrew hadn’t dared to turn him down. The security of the very nation could well be at stake.

The Keyhole satellites were the most effective reconnaisance platforms that the United States ever had. Through the use of ultra-sophisticated optical techniques, such satellites obtained highly detailed pictures of portions of the earth from which America’s security could be threatened. With the aid of high-resolution, multi-spectral cameras, objects as small as twelve inches across could be photographed from altitudes of several hundred miles. By using infrared radar scanners, these cameras could even penetrate cloud cover. Needless to say, such platforms served as an invaluable instrument in determining a possible aggressor’s intentions.

Because the nature of their assignments required a relatively low orbit, the Keyholes’ lifetimes were limited.

Earlier models had had an operational limit of less than four months, while the latest versions could remain aloft for over a year. Thus it was in the country’s best interest to have several such platforms in orbit at all times, with replacements ready to launch whenever necessary.

Much to the Air Force’s dismay, the U.S. would soon be in the precarious position of having only a single operational Keyhole platform in orbit. The reasons for this dangerous development were varied.

With the loss of the space shuttle Challenger, and the subsequent delay of the entire shuttle program, the country had been temporarily deprived of its primary satellite-booster vehicle. The only available rocket powerful enough to carry such payloads as the Keyhole was the unmanned Titan 34-D. Less than three months after Challenger went down, a Titan carrying a Keyhole replacement had exploded over the coastline of central California, seconds after being launched from Vandenberg Air Force Base. This failure had left the U.S. with only a pair of Keyholes in orbit, and no foreseeable way in the near future of replacing them. Now, as the oldest of these two satellites fell from the heavens, at the limit of its operational lifetime, only a single platform remained aloft. This allimportant surviving vehicle would have to remain on line until a reliable method of replacement could be achieved.

Andrew Weston’s duty was to help the Air Force reposition, then activate this surviving platform, which was known simply as Baker. Nine months before, he had supervised its initial placement from the control room at Sunnyvale. Today, he would be responsible for bringing it back to life once again.

Most aware of the utter importance of his mission, Andrew sighed in relief when the long-anticipated passing lane became visible up ahead. Not waiting for the cars that preceded him to make their move, he pushed down on his horn, floored the accelerator, and veered the jeep to the left. Oblivious to the angry hand and facial gestures of those that he now passed, Andrew zipped by the bus and soon had the road all to himself.

As Waimea Canyon Road merged into Kokee Road, the landscape became noticeably different from that down below. Absent were the vast, flat fields of sugar cane and taro. In their places were steep, rounded hillsides, most of which were covered with thick stands of twisted oaks. From this new elevation, over two thousand feet above sea level, Andrew could view the broad canyon stretching out to his right. Developed after thousands of years of erosion, the colorful volcanic valley was known as the Grand Canyon of the Pacific, and rightly so. He would never forget the first time that he had viewed this landscape six months before.

Expecting to find Kauai completely filled with white beaches and coconut-laden palm trees, he had been shocked to find the Kokee tracking station situated on a pine-covered summit, twenty-five hundred feet above sea level, overlooking breathtaking Waimea Canyon. For the first couple of weeks, the fall weather had been gorgeous, with warm days and comfortable, crystal-clear nights. Andrew had quickly immersed himself in his work, as they all prepared to monitor a full schedule of seven space shuttle flights from Vandenberg the very next year.

Yet all too soon both the rainy season and the Challenger disaster had quickly dampened their lofty plans. With the shuttle program on an indefinite hold, until the cause of the explosion was determined and subsequently corrected, the crew had done its best to fill in the empty hours. Andrew was soon to learn that the world’s wettest spot, Mt. Waialeale, lay only a few dozen miles to the east. As might be expected with such a neighbor, the station had been deluged by weeks of constantly pouring rain. A boring routine had then followed, as the NASA tracking team strove to keep busy by assisting the military whenever possible.

It was immediately after the monitoring of a submarine-based launch that the crew had been invited to attend a reception at the Navy’s Barking Sands facility, on Kauai’s southwestern shore. Happy to escape the confines of his cramped trailer, Andrew had found Barking Sands a most congenial site. Not only had the sun been shining brightly on the afternoon that he arrived there, but it had also been the fateful day that he was to meet Wendy. Things would never be the same afterwards.

From her lips had come the stories of the island’s natural history. This had included tales of the mysterious menehune, the so-called “little people,” who had supposedly made Kauai their home, decades before the first Polynesians arrived. In fact, it was while on a subsequent visit to the Kokee tracking station that Wendy had told him of the tales of the menehune ghost-marchers, who wandered the hills of Kokee to this very day. Though he had taken such yarns lightly, his feelings towards Wendy had become more serious as each day passed. Now that he had moved in with her, he was even considering marriage.

For a confirmed bachelor, this could prove to be a dangerous turn of events.

As he passed the twenty-five-hundred-foot marker, Andrew contemplated the events of the past few months and found his mood lightening. He would do his duty for his country, get Baker operational, and then return to his love to ask her to share the rest of her life with him. His lips curved in a satisfied smile, but suddenly the sky above darkened and soon he was in the midst of a blinding downpour. After switching on both his windshield wipers and lights, then decreasing his speed, Andrew did his best to stay on the winding roadway. Twice, his tires slid onto the muddy shoulder. Twice, he managed to return to the pavement.

Just when he was considering pulling over to let the storm vent itself, the rains halted as quickly as they had begun. In their place was a ghostly, thick fog. Again, he struggled to stay on the road, yet seconds later the fog was gone, to be replaced by a sunny, brilliantly blue morning sky. A mile later, he guided his jeep to the right and began his way up the quarter of a mile of pavement that led to NASA’s Kokee tracking station.

Inside the compact, concrete structure, Dr. Max Lindsay sat before a twelve-by-eight-foot perspex screen. Projected here was a full-scale map of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. With practiced eyes, the facilities director studied a single. Hashing blue light, just visible over the Barents Sea, at the country’s northernmost extremity. Shifting his unlit, well-battered briar pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other, Lindsay grunted anxiously.

So far, the morning had produced little news of a positive nature. Only an hour ago, the Ground-Based Electro-Optical Deep Space Surveillance (GEODSS) station located on Diego Garcia, in the midst of the Indian Ocean, had notified them that Keyhole Alpha was loosing its orbit quicker than they had anticipated.

Their original calculations had given the platform up to seventy-two hours of survival time.

Whatever the exact time of the doomed satellite’s final demise, it was Dr. Lindsay’s responsibility to make certain that its replacement was on line the second that Keyhole Alpha failed.

Shifting his line of sight to the right, he watched a single, seated, white-smocked technician feed Alpha’s exact coordinates into the computer. Beside him was a vacant terminal. It would be from this position that Baker would be reactivated. Checking his watch, Max Lindsay wondered what could be keeping the man responsible for this allimportant task, senior technician Andrew Weston. If Weston didn’t arrive soon, Lindsay would have to transfer this duty to Sunnyvale.

The staccato click of hard-soled shoes echoed off the tiled floor behind him. He didn’t have to turn around to identify who those steps belonged to. Captain William Maddox had been stationed at Kokee for almost a month now. As NASA had become involved with more military projects, the Air Force had thought that it was fitting to have one of their own around to monitor the station’s activities.

At first. Dr. Lindsay had been genuinely upset with such a presence and had expressed himself vocally. He had argued that not only would the officer get in the way, but having such a figure around would be a complete waste of the taxpayers’ money. The NASA crew was most capable of doing its routine work without a military flunkie continually snooping over its shoulders.

When his superiors had failed to get the officer recalled, Lindsay had reluctantly accepted the fact that they’d have to make the best of the situation. As it turned out, this was more difficult than he had anticipated, for Captain William Maddox was one of the coldest, most uncommunicative individuals that Lindsay had ever met.

Hardly ever breaking a smile, the dour-faced captain often seemed more like a robot than a human being. What really bothered Lindsay was the officer’s complete lack of a sense of humor. In a place with such tight confines as the Kokee facility, trading a joke or two was often the only way the staff could relieve itself of tension. Why, Lindsay didn’t even know if the man had a family or not. All that he knew was that Maddox was a graduate of the Air Force Academy, and had been assigned to the Consolidated Space Operations center in Colorado Springs, Colorado.

When the sound of clicking footsteps halted immediately behind him, Lindsay redirected his complete attention to the perspex screen. The blinking blue light had crossed the Arctic Sea and was well into Siberia by now. After smoothing down the two perpetually wild tufts of gray hair that lay beside each of his ears, Lindsay efficiently addressed his keyboard. As the lighted screen of his monitor blinked alive, a deep, no-nonsense voice spoke up from behind.

“What’s Alpha’s ETA over the Tyuratam ICBM fields, Doctor?”

Expecting just such a query from Maddox, Findsay answered without hesitation, “Approximately eleven and a half minutes, Captain.”

“And what’s the probability that Alpha will survive this pass?” continued the Air Force officer coolly.

Again Lindsay addressed the keyboard.

“We still show the odds at better than fifty percent that Alpha will break up somewhere over the Indian Ocean.

Diego Garcia is presently relaying to us the latest GEODSS data.”

“I’m afraid that answer’s not good enough, Doctor,” retorted the captain.

“Must I remind you again of the importance of this pass? If there’s even a slight chance that Alpha won’t make it, Keyhole Baker had better be ready for backup.”

With this, the captain stepped to Lindsay’s side and directly caught his glance. Returning the officer’s hard, probing stare, Lindsay answered firmly, “The present data indicates that Alpha will indeed be good for this one last look. Captain Maddox.”

“Well, for our country’s sake, it damn well better be,” returned the officer.

“There’s no denying that the Russkies are up to something at Tyuratam. The last half-dozen passes show an unusual amount of activity there. The two most recent fly overs indicate that this activity is centered around the loading of a new type of warhead. Intelligence is damn nervous, and I don’t blame them. Without these photos, the Soviets could be preparing a first-strike and we’d never know it until the missiles were already on their way. By that time. Doctor, it would be too late for all of us.”

Taking in these harsh words, Lindsay struggled to contain himself. No one knew better than he the utter importance of the Keyhole system. Yet, if the Soviets were indeed readying themselves for a surprise attack, was there anything the U.S. could do to stop them?

Almost four decades had passed and the world was still in the shadow of nuclear doom. If the politicians had only backed up their cries for disarmament with concrete actions, the threat of total apocalypse could have been substantially alleviated. As it stood now, the planet was living on borrowed time. There was no telling how much longer their luck would hold.

Sobered by this thought, Lindsay leaned forward expectantly as a high-pitched tone sounded from his monitor. As the screen began filling with data, his eyes narrowed.

“We’re receiving the latest GEODSS telemetry from Diego Garcia, Captain. I’m afraid the odds are down to forty-eight percent that Alpha will make Tyuratam.”

“That’s just great,” replied Maddox succinctly.

“My gut told me that she’d never make it. Bring down Baker and let’s get done with it.”

Turning to his right, Lindsay could see that Andrew Weston had still not returned to his console.

Though the station’s director was very well capable of reactivating the satellite himself, the importance of this particular mission demanded the attentions of a specialist. If Weston did not return soon, he’d be forced to pass the responsibility onto Sunnyvale. As it turned out, the sudden, piercing wail of an alarm siren served to make up his mind for him.

“Christ, it’s Alpha! She’s breaking up!”

“Then damn it, Doctor, bring down Baker!” cried Maddox.

No sooner had Lindsay’s hand reached the yellow handset that contained the direct line to Sunnyvale than he noticed that a newcomer had arrived at the previously vacant console to his right. Immediately he stood and made his way to this individual’s side.

“Thank God that you got here, Andrew,” said Lindsay breathlessly.

“We just lost Alpha. If you had arrived a few seconds later, I would have already transferred Baker’s reawakening to Sunnyvale.”

“Sorry about the delay, Doc,” commented Weston, as he efficiently began feeding data into his keyboard.

“I can give us booster phase on Baker in forty-seven seconds.”

While the senior technician continued his adept accessing, the blue-uniformed figure of Captain Maddox positioned himself behind Andrew’s right shoulder.

“Exactly where’s Baker at the moment?”

quizzed the officer.

Lindsay, who stood to his left, pointed towards the perspex map.

“We should see her coming over the Arctic Circle any second now. She’s traveling the same orbit as Alpha, at an altitude of twenty-five hundred miles. We’ve got to get her down to three hundred miles before she becomes operational.”

Both men had their eyes glued to the screen when a single blue dot began flashing to the north of the island of Novaya Zemlya.

“We’ve got her!” cried Lindsay excitedly.

“How much longer to booster ignition, Andy?”

Not bothering to take his eyes from the monitor screen, the senior technician replied, “Twelve seconds and counting.”

The atmosphere was tense, and all heads were turned to the digital clock that crowned Weston’s console. With excruciating slowness, the seconds ticked away. Only when the counter hit zero did the senior technician access a series of rapid commands.

Another thirty seconds passed. This time it was Lindsay who broke the tenseness by pointing toward the perspex screen and commenting.

“She’s over the coast of Siberia now. The booster phase should be shutting down just about now. Do we have a confirmation as yet, Andy?”

The senior technician was quick to answer.

“I show a negative on booster ignition. We’ve as yet to receive data from Diego Garcia.”

“What the hell is taking so much time?” cried Maddox impatiently.

“We should have brought down this Keyhole hours ago, instead of waiting until the last minute to do so. She’s already over central Siberia.

If we miss Tyuratam, we could have all hell to Pay-Not bothering to respond to the officer, Dr. Findsay kept his eyes glued to Weston’s monitor. He found himself holding back a smile when the screen began filling with a series of coded telemetry data. He allowed Weston to interpret it.

“Diego Garcia reports booster ignition. Keyhole Baker is approaching operational altitude. Presently awaiting verification of an attainment of the three-hundred-mile threshold before continuing with function activation.”

A serene grin flashed across Lindsay’s face as he turned to address Maddox.

“If all continues as planned, Captain, we’ll have Baker on line in plenty of time to photograph those ICBM fields. Don’t you worry so.”

The director’s words did little to ease the captain’s doubts. Not knowing what had gotten into the Defense Department to even consider asking for NASA’s assistance in the first place, Maddox silently cursed the ineptitude of the system he served. Military matters were best handled by military personnel.

Civilian involvement, however well intended, just never worked out. When NASA’s programs had been put on hold several months before, the Government should have immediately replaced these technicians with an Air Force staff. At least their competency couldn’t be questioned. At the moment, he didn’t know whom to trust.

“Verification of Baker’s operational orbit has just been received,” commented the seated NASA technician dryly.

“Proceeding to activate all optical and digital transferral systems.”

Captain Maddox took in this positive report, yet the tenseness in his gut remained. His glance went to the perspex screen and he saw that the flashing blue dot was still well north of the Aral Sea. If all continued smoothly, perhaps there still was a chance that they’d have those photos of Tyuratam after all. Yet inwardly he doubted it. Forcing himself to keep an open mind, he hoped that his instincts were wrong.

Beside him, Dr. Lindsay also studied the map of the Soviet Union. The director’s thoughts were of a much more optimistic nature. Surely, any second now, the first pixels would be transmitted. This would give them plenty of time to fine-tune the camera’s focus to insure that the ensuing photographs were of a firstclass quality. Knowing very well that the next few minutes would be critical, he found himself instinctively crossing his fingers as Weston’s monitor again activated.

“We’re receiving an incoming signal,” announced the senior technician.

“Transmission frequency appears strong. Awaiting primary pixel receipt.”

As Weston prepared the specialized printer that would duplicate the film currently being processed aboard Keyhole Baker, the two observers, who stood behind him, stirred uneasily. When a full minute passed and the printer had yet to trigger, this uneasiness became amplified. Captain Maddox was the first one to voice his frustrations.

“Baker’s rapidly approaching those missile fields, Doctor. Are we going to be able to get those photographs that we need?”

Not really certain what was causing the delay in transmission, Lindsay bent over to query his senior technician.

“What’s going on up there, Andy? Baker should have had plenty of time to transmit those initial pixels.”

Still concentrating on his keyboard, Weston took several seconds before responding.

“I don’t understand it, Doc. The platform shows a one-hundred percent operational capability, yet we’re unable to receive a photographic transmission.”

“Perhaps the problem lies in our end,” offered Maddox.

“I doubt that, sir,” returned Weston.

“Our receivers are copying all other satellite transmissions.”

“Then maybe Baker is in an improper orbit,” suggested Lindsay.

“That could account for us being unable to pick up her telemetry signals.”

Weston shook his head solemnly.

“GEODSS has a tight lock on her. Doc. I’ll bet that Baker’s altitude is precise to the foot.”

Maddox’s glance returned to the perspex screen, where the flashing blue dot was passing to the east of the Aral Sea.

“Sweet Jesus, can’t you guys do something?

She’s passing over Tyuratam now!”

Desperately attacking his keyboard, Weston appeared genuinely confused.

“I still don’t understand it. All systems continue to check out fine. There just doesn’t seem to be any logical reason for us not to receive those pictures.”

Lindsay nervously pulled his pipe from his mouth.

“Run a complete failure analysis through the computer, Andy. I’ll see if Sunnyvale can give us a hand.”

Captain Maddox watched as the director reached out and grabbed the yellow handset. When his glance returned to the perspex screen, it was most obvious that the flashing blue dot was well south of Tyuratam by now. Not knowing whom to pin the blame on, he could only be certain that, for the moment, the United States of America could no longer monitor the Soviet Union’s largest ICBM field. A painful spasm coursed through his abdomen as the seated technician commented dryly, “Initial computer failure check indicates three possible areas of fault. It shows a sixty-three-percent probability that the transmission difficulties are due to some sort of inherent mechanical failure. The various sub-systems are in the process of being cross-checked. We show a twenty-two-percent probability that the difficulties are due to a cosmic anomaly such as a sunspot. The National Observatory data banks at White Sands are being queried to investigate such a possibility.”

“And the third area of fault?” prompted the Air Force captain.

Clearing his voice, Weston continued.

“The computer indicates a fifteen-percent probability that Baker’s failure to transmit was due to intentional interference by a third party.”

“Jesus Christ, that would mean that the Russkies have figured out a way to jam our signals!” exclaimed Maddox.

“Easy now. Captain,” cautioned Lindsay, who had just hung up the telephone.

“This is all still supposition.

I just got off the horn with Sunnyvale and they’re presently giving Baker a try themselves. Their consensus is that most likely we’re facing some sort of mechanical glitch in the digital-reprocessing system.

The Agency is recommending that if Baker fails to respond within the next twenty-four hours, one of the two remaining Keyholes in our land-based inventory be immediately put into orbit.”

This time it was Weston who dared to question.

“And just how are we going to do that. Doc? With both the shuttle and Titan programs on hold, what are we going to use as a primary booster?”

Unable to answer his colleague, Lindsay could only offer him a solemn glance. Meanwhile, Captain Maddox reached over to activate a red telephone that would give him a direct line to the Consolidated Space Operations center in Colorado Springs. As the officer initiated his scrambled conversation, a massive boom of thunder sounded overhead.

Looking past the director, Weston focused his complete attention on this strange rumble. With the speed of a heartbeat, he found his thoughts returning to the strange dream he had experienced for the past three mornings. Oblivious to his current surroundings, his mind’s eye returned to the pine-laden valley. With remarkable detail, he recreated the single, thin trail that cut through the rolling hills and passed over a tumbling brook. It was at this point that another booming peal of deep thunder resonated from above, and once again Andrew’s sight was drawn upward to the clear blue sky. Waiting for him there was the massive, soaring condor, whose wisdom seemed so total. The struggle to survive at all costs was the secret this endangered creature had tried to communicate.

Andrew knew then that this message was to be applied to his own species, as the shadow of nuclear doom lay over the earth like an ever-present shroud of death.