Flight of the Condor

Chapter Five

General Vadim Sobolev’s day had started off splendidly. Not only was the Central Asian weather perfect, but the news from Moscow was equally as agreeable. In fact, at this very moment, the Premier’s personal aide, Valentin Radchenko, was already flying down from the capital to meet with him privately.

This was quite an accomplishment for Vadim, considering he had only asked for this audience late the previous afternoon. To properly prepare for this allimportant meeting of minds, he decided to awaken himself thoroughly with a long, brisk walk.

Though he had been brought up in the thick pine forests of northern Russia, the sixty-eight tear-old general was finally getting used to the rather bare plains of Turkestan. He supposed that, after two decades of service there, this had better be the case.

Of all the hikes he presently had to chose from, his favorite was an earthen footpath that brought him to the banks of the Syrdar River. He particularly enjoyed this route because it crossed through a rather dense stand of gnarled oaks, before ending at the Syrdar’s banks.

So far this morning, his travels had taken him from his quarters located outside of Tyuratam’s Baikonur Cosmodrome. The dawn broke clear, mild and full of promise, as the white-haired officer drank down his tea, threw on his clothes, and, with walking stick in hand, began his way across the base itself. The new recruits were already well into their exercise routine when he passed by the airfield’s barracks area and reached Tyuratam’s western gate. A look of genuine surprise flashed across the guard’s previously bored face upon identifying the broad-shouldered figure of his commanding officer. Even with his rank, Vadim was forced to sign the registry that indicated his precise destination.

The path he was soon trod ding upon began only a quarter of a kilometer from the guard shack. For a good hour, this trail led over a sparse, rolling plain, bare of any noticeable vegetation but a dull variety of low-growing shrubbery. The air was fresh and invigorating, though, and he soon spotted his beloved woods another kilometer distant.

To pass the time more quickly, he lengthened his stride and focused his thoughts on the long career that had precipitated this fated day. It had all begun almost five decades before, when he was but an innocent, long-legged teenager. How anxious he had been at that time to enlist in the Army. After all, the Motherland’s borders had needed to be protected from the demonic Nazi hordes gathering to the west.

After participating in his share of bloodshed, the young private had come under the scrutiny of General Pavel Yagoda, a man who was destined to change his life.

It was Yagoda who had noticed the glimmering spark of intellect that simmered in Vadim’s mind.

Invited to join the illustrious general’s personal staff, Vadim had blossomed into manhood. A quick learner who knew how to command the respect of those beneath him in rank, he was to spend hours under the general’s direct tutelage. Eventually, as the fates would have it, their division had captured an entire warehouse of German V-2 rockets. Equally as important had been the Nazi scientists that they had come upon, hiding in the structure’s basement.

With Vadim at his side, General Yagoda had soon gone off to Moscow to personally brief Stalin of their great find. Faced with the imminent conclusion of the Great War, the Motherland had been attempting to determine its future ranking in the new world order to follow. Pavel Yagoda had been one of the visionaries who realized that strategic nuclear forces would be the keys to power in the new age. He had argued that only by developing a new generation of nuclear weapons could the Soviet Union challenge the might of American Imperialism.

Hesitant to accept his advice, Stalin had gone to his grave leaving the country with no strategic master plan. A confused era had followed, when such leaders as Georgi Malenkov had voiced their desire to abolish all nuclear weapons before mankind itself was totally destroyed.

Fortunately, Malenkov and others like him had been ousted from office, to be replaced by Nikita Khrushchev. In his speech of January 14, 1960 before the Supreme Soviet, the He sty Premier had put his weight totally behind the concept of developing a massive nuclear strike force as the ultimate expression of national policy. Five months later, Vadim had been at Pavel Yagoda’s side as the old-timer was named Commanderin-Chief of the Strategic Rocket Forces.

Spurred by such embarrassments as the Cuban missile crisis, the Soviet ICBM program had shifted into high gear.

The ascent of Brezhnev had signaled the switch from Soviet strategic inferiority to parity and more.

By early 1970, the USSR. had even passed America in the number of operational ICBM’s.

Vadim Sobolev had begun seriously developing his own reputation during the SALT-1 negotiations. At that time he had argued vigorously that the Soviet Union had to be allowed to continue its research in the field of multiple warheads, MIRV’s for short.

America had granted this concession, and the Motherland had been quick to exploit the full limits of this rather one-sided treaty. Unlike the U.S.” the USSR. had continued to improve its forces. This had culminated in the development of the giant SS-18 missile, whose massive boosters were able to carry ten 600kiloton MIRV’d warheads. For the first time ever, the Motherland now had the capability to destroy even the most hardened targets anywhere in the Northern Hemisphere.

Merely knowing that two dozen of these immense giants lay buried beneath the ground of the base he had just come from warmed Vadim’s heart considerably.

Though Pavel Yagoda was long in his grave, his protege had survived to make certain that his dream was fulfilled. Inspired by this responsibility, Vadim briefly halted and surveyed the meandering path that was visible, stretching beyond to the western horizon.

The trail had already dropped into the tree line. He had passed the first bent oak several minutes before.

Yet he knew that he still had a hike of approximately a quarter of a kilometer to reach the densest part of those woods. A songbird cried to his left, while a fat squirrel scurried over the ground before him. Merely being in this setting caused a great joy to overcome him. Breathing in a deep lungful of fresh air, Vadim continued on.

This brisk stride was not that of a sixty-eight-year old man, thought Sobolev, who felt like a young buck again. Though betrayed by a mane of flowing white hair, he was proud of the fact that he had worked hard to remain in such excellent physical shape.

Eating the right foods and taking walks such as this one were the secrets to his success.

A raven cried harshly above him, and Vadim’s gaze turned upwards. Beyond the twisted branches of the ancient oaks was a cloudless blue sky. A single black bird soared effortlessly there. Viewing this scene caused a new vision to raise in his consciousness. It represented a chapter in his life that he was most proud of.

On April 26, 1962, he had helped initiate the Motherland’s fledgling space program by organizing the launch of Cosmos 4. This rather primitive spacecraft had only stayed in orbit three days, yet its payload of camera equipment was to revolutionize military science for all time. As the first Soviet reconnaissance satellite, Cosmos 4 had led to a succession of sophisticated platforms, the latest of which could photograph an earthbound object of less than twelve inches in diameter from an altitude of over 200 miles.

Vadim was especially proud of the military version of the Salyut space station that was presently the country’s equivalent to the American recon satellite known as Keyhole. Not only could this platform’s cameras scan the American military fields and command bunkers, it also utilized a variety of sensors to provide surveillance over the seas themselves. A powerful radar array could locate even the smallest of surface ships in any weather condition, day or night.

Infrared sensors could sniff out the warm wakes of U.S. nuclear subs, putting an end to the conjecture that this portion of their “triad” was invulnerable.

Vadim had seen the results of such a scan only hours before. After a single pass, the current Salyut was able to relay certain proof that one of the Americans’ latest 688class attack subs had sunk off the Hawaiian island of Kauai. Earlier, it had conveyed a disaster of equal proportions, when the recon platform had recorded the actual failure of the launch of a U.S. Titan rocket over the coast of California.

Knowledge of this last incident was particularly satisfying to Vadim, for he knew just what the Titan had been carrying as its payload. Now, perhaps, the Premier would be more receptive to his daring plan, which had taken a lifetime to formulate.

Who knew if such an opportunity would ever present itself again? They had only a few days left to take advantage of it. That was why his meeting later that morning with Valentin Radchenko had to go smoothly.

Hastily checking his watch, Sobolev calculated that he would have just enough time to reach his goal before being forced to return to Tyuratam. He would empty his soul by the banks of the Syrdar River, then return for the fateful meeting that could very well change the balance of power of the entire planet.

Stimulated by this thought, he pushed himself forward.

From an altitude of 4,000 meters, the landscape of Soviet Turkestan appeared flat and uninteresting.

Except for the blue expanse of the Aral Sea glistening on the southern horizon, Valentin Radchenko could pick out few spots of scenic interest. Instead, endless plains of parched scrub stretched in all directions.

Few highways were visible traversing these expanses.

In fact, if it weren’t for the railroad tracks that they had been following for the last hour, one could have sworn that this was a spot that civilized man had completely passed by.

Catching his reflection in the helicopter’s fuselage window, Valentin studied what he saw. Predominant was a pair of heavy, black plastic glasses that gave his small, featureless face a scholarly appearance. Even with the dim light, the gray that lined his once-coal black hair was most visible. This coloring made him look considerably older than his forty-three years.

To the monotonous chopping clatter of the Mi-24’s rotor blades, the bureaucrat pondered the causes of his premature aging. As a junior aide to Premier Viktor Alipov, he was kept on the move twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. With no time for a family life or children, he was exclusively married to the State.

Today’s activities were typical of a schedule that allowed precious little time for leisure. Strange as it might seem, only eighteen hours before a trip into the wilds of Turkestan had not even been on his agenda.

Busy in Moscow preparing for the following week’s visit of the American Secretary of State, Valentin had learned of his mission early the previous evening.

The call to Premier Alipov’s office had caught him completely off guard. Thinking that this summons had to do with the Western diplomat’s visit, he had entered the Premier’s paneled office ready to take on a long list of last-minute responsibilities. Instead, he had found the usually sour-faced Alipov in a most cordial mood. Inviting Valentin to have a seat and share a vodka with him, the Premier had asked him in the most undemanding of tones if he would mind flying off to Tyuratam the first thing in the morning.

One did not easily turn down the Premier of the Soviet Union, and Valentin had offered his services without question. A quick briefing had followed, at which time Alipov had conveyed the purpose of this hastily scheduled trip.

General Vadim Sobolev was a larger-than-life figure whom Valentin had enormous respect for. As Commanderin-Chief of the Motherland’s Strategic Rocket Forces, Sobolev held one of the most important military positions in the country. This responsibility included the direct leadership of a force of over 1 million men.

Only an hour earlier, Sobolev had called the Premier and asked him to send a representative of his office to Tyuratam. Once at the Cosmodrome, this emissary would be briefed on a matter of the utmost sensitivity. This individual would then be free to return to Moscow, to share this new knowledge with the Premier.

Curious as to the nature of the information that would soon be passed on to him, Valentin had left Alipov’s office and begun making arrangements for the flight southward. It was the Defense Ministry that had chosen his means of transportation. A massive Ilyushin IL-76 jet had picked him up before dawn outside Moscow and whirled him off eastward to the Air Force base at Sverdlovsk, at the foot of the Ural Mountains. Valentin had been somewhat surprised to learn that this was as far as the jet was going. Not knowing what to expect next, he had been led to a fully armed, Mi-24 helicopter gunship. Having only seen such a craft in photographs before, he had found the camouflaged chopper most impressive.

It was only when its pilot had walked over to him and greeted Valentin by name that he had learned that this unusual vehicle would take him on the final leg of his journey.

The gunship’s main cabin was more comfortable than he had ever imagined. Though it was designed to carry eight fully armed troops, he was the only apparent passenger. An hour after they had lifted off from Sverdlovsk, the copilot had come back to visit with him. Sharing a hot thermos of sweetened tea and some tasty poppy seed cakes, the young officer had divulged that, after stopping at Tyuratam, they would be off to the front in Afghanistan. Valentin had learned that this would be the second tour of action there for each member of the helicopter’s current four-man flight crew. A battle-scarred veteran of a war the young bureaucrat had heard of only in reports and in the newspapers, the copilot had brought the conflict to a very real level.

The war stories that he had subsequently related to Valentin were genuinely shocking. It seemed that battlefield atrocities of the most distasteful kind were almost an everyday occurrence. And it wasn’t always the rebels who were the perpetrators.

One couldn’t help but notice the bitterness that had flavored the young officer’s words. It had reminded Valentin of the dissension expressed by many American troops during the Viet Nam conflict. He supposed this similarity was due to the very nature of the two wars. Like Viet Nam, Afghanistan was racked by a guerilla war. Unable to apply the full brunt of its superior firepower, the Soviet military was tied down in a frustrating, time-consuming battle against an ill trained poorly equipped rebel force. If the tide of victory didn’t shift soon, the Soviet Union’s armed forces could have a major morale problem on their hands. Valentin had made a mental note to share this observation with the Premier as soon as he returned to Moscow.

The copilot had eventually returned to the cockpit, and Valentin had been left alone to his current thoughts. What in the world awaited him in Tyuratam?

A slight decrease in the sound of the gunship’s rotors was followed by a noticeable drop in altitude, and he knew he’d all too soon know the answer to this question. Expectantly, Valentin’s gaze returned to the window. There a river was visible, snaking its way beneath them. A relatively dense stand of woods lay on each side of its banks. Minute* later, a two-lane highway could be seen. This strip of asphalt pavement led directly to an extensive, fenced-in compound.

Even from this height, Valentin could make out the chain-link barrier’s barbed-wire top and the groups of armed sentries that patrolled its length.

Valentin had visited the base once before to witness the launching of an SS-18. At that time he had been greatly impressed with the sophisticated facilities that had been developed here. This visit proved no different.

The Mi-24 continued losing altitude, and he was afforded an excellent view of Tyuratam’s ultramodern research and development test facility, massive fuel-storage area, and breathtaking main space-launch complex. An airfield was also visible up ahead, and he soon picked out the huge, domed roof of the Baikonur Cosmodrome. It was before this structure that the gunship landed.

The quiet was most noticeable as the helicopter’s rotors spun to a halt. As he left his seat to retrieve his briefcase, the fuselage door popped open. With his case now in hand, he made his way outside.

A gust of hot, dry wind hit him full in the face as he stepped onto the tarmac. Waiting for him there were a pair of smartly uniformed sentries, and a single smiling, white-haired individual whom Valentin had no trouble identifying. General Vadim Sobolev was quick to greet him with a warm hug and a kiss to each cheek. Appearing as vibrant as ever, and in remarkably good shape for his age, the Commanderin-Chief of the Motherland’s Strategic Rocket Forces welcomed Valentin like a longlost son.

“Welcome to Tyuratam, Comrade Radchenko. I hope your journey here was a smooth one.”

Valentin grinned, already infected by his host’s enthusiasm.

“That it was, General. I must admit, though, that I was a bit surprised by the manner in which the Defense Ministry routed me down here from Sverdlovsk. That was my first ride in an Mi-24.”

“That’s quite a machine,” observed Sobolev, who turned to get a better look at the vehicle.

Valentin followed the general’s gaze and took in the chopper’s box-like cockpit, dual turboshaft engines, and characteristic stub wings, onto which were attached a pair of gun pods and a missile launcher.

“She’s a lethal one, all right,” continued Sobolev admiringly.

“I imagine this one is bound for Afghanistan.

How I wish we could accompany its brave crew into action. A man doesn’t know how to live fully until he has enemy bullets flying at him. Only then can he really appreciate the great gift of life. Did you have the honor of serving in the armed forces, Comrade Radchenko?”

Vadim replied proudly, “That I did, General. For five years I was a deputy member of Admiral of the Fleet Gorshkov’s personal staff.”

“So you served with old man Gorshkov,” reflected Sobolev.

“You were a most fortunate lad, comrade.

The Motherland should only have more great men like that one.”

Turning from the helicopter, Sobolev pointed toward the domed hangar that lay behind him.

“I want you to take a look at something inside the Cosmodrome, Comrade Radchenko. Then we will go on to my office for tea and get down to the matter which has brought you these hundreds of kilometers.”

Nodding in compliance, Valentin followed his host toward the hangar. Doing all that he could do to match the general’s stride, the bureaucrat silently cursed his poor physical conditioning. Here was a man over twenty-five years older and he could hardly keep pace with him. He just had to make time for a serious exercise program. And then he’d even consider giving up smoking.

Suddenly conscious that he hadn’t had a cigarette since leaving Sverdlovsk, Valentin’s hand went to his jacket pocket, and he brought out a thin, silver case.

From it he removed a single filter less American cigarette.

He placed it between his lips, and was just about to light it when the general abruptly stopped him.

“Please, Comrade Radchenko. If you must insist on consuming those cancer sticks, please wait until we are well clear of the Cosmodrome. Jet fuel is extremely volatile.”

Valentin needed no more urging to pocket his lighter and return the cigarette to its case. His face blushed with embarrassment as they entered the hangar and were greeted by a huge Soviet flag hanging from its rafters. It was cool and dark inside, the stagnant air tainted with the scents of warm oil and alcohol-based coolant. As they continued to walk inside, he noticed a line of sleek jet fighters parked toward the back of the structure. Evidently, it was toward these vehicles that they were headed. Their conversation was kept to a minimum until both individuals stood directly before the line of six shiny, silver jet fighters.

“As an ex-military man, I thought you’d enjoy taking a look at these beauties,” offered the proud general.

“They’re MiG-27’s, just off the assembly line. My test pilots are currently breaking them in before they’re placed into action over the skies of Afghanistan.”

Valentin studied the sleek lines of this combat tighter, while Sobolev continued, “Especially designed for low-level attack missions, these aircraft should put the fear of Allah into the rebel riffraff who continue their feeble resistance. From rockets to cluster-bombs these beauties can deliver an awesome punch at speeds well over Mach One. Nothing will be able to knock them from the air.”

Nervously clearing his throat, Valentin dared to express himself.

“The crew of the Mi-24 gunship that brought me down here was comprised of Afghan veterans. I couldn’t help but notice the undertone of resentment behind their words as they briefly described their experiences there.”

“Why, of course!” exclaimed the general.

“Those poor lads are totally frustrated! How would you feel if you were asked to tend off an adversary with one hand tied behind your back? That is precisely what has happened to our brave soldiers. If only our esteemed leaders would give the military a free hand to deal with the rebels as we see fit, the entire problem could be alleviated in a matter of days. What more would you expect from the greatest military machine ever assembled on the earth’s surface?”

Taking in this passionate response, Valentin found himself agreeing with the general. As the Americans had learned in Viet Nam, a modern war could not be won with a halfhearted effort. Yet, ever concerned with world opinion, the Kremlin had attempted to keep the conflict in Afghanistan as low-key as possible.

If such a meagre effort continued for long, they would be faced with nothing less than tragedy.

As the general pivoted and led the way out of the hangar, Valentin found himself startled by the nature of his thoughts. Far from enjoying his years of military service, the bureaucrat had until now understood the importance of attempting to reach a peaceful accord before needless hostilities were precipitated.

His host’s hard line military policies, on the other hand, were common knowledge in Moscow. By dedicating his entire life to the building of a strategic force second to none, Sobolev had given the USSR. the ability to cower to no one. Perhaps it was time to pay a little more attention to the old man’s thoughts.

There was no question that the rebellion in Afghanistan was just taking too long to resolve. And how could they neglect the grumblings of their own people, who found their drab, hard-working lives often without the bare necessities of food, clothing, and shelter? With the strain of a budget that was too rapidly being devoured by military expenditures, their leaders faced some major decisions. Could they neglect the everyday dissatisfaction of their very own citizens? And what of the dissatisfaction that was evident among the members of the Warsaw Pact? For the Soviet Union to lose its allies would be a tragedy in itself.

As Valentin followed his host out into the midday sun, he remembered that the hard line posture Sobolev called for was deceptive. No problem could be solved by might alone. Still struggling to keep up with the general’s pace, the bureaucrat knew he’d have to remain strong and keep an open mind. As the Premier’s eyes and ears, he couldn’t afford not to.

Sobolev’s office was located in the launch center’s main support building. Occupying an entire corner of the structure’s top floor, the suite was decorated in such a manner as to give one a comfortable, down home feeling. This included a fullsized fireplace, a set of well-stocked bookshelves, and an ample supply of overstuffed sofas and chairs. It was to the pair of high-backed, upholstered chairs set before the fireplace that Valentin was led. Choosing the seat to the left of the marble mantle, he anxiously settled himself in.

The general remained standing in front of Valentin as his uniformed orderly appeared. The young soldier pushed in a silver tea cart, which he left beside the fireplace, then silently excused himself. Checking the cart’s contents, Sobolev smiled.

“I can personally vouch for the caviar sandwiches, Comrade Radchenko. The black bread is fresh, the cream cheese rich, and the caviar most delicious. If you’d prefer it in place of tea, we could substitute a drink of a bit more substance. I have some excellent potato vodka, which I’m certain you’ll find most tasty.”

Finding his throat unusually parched as a result of the dry winds of Tyuratam, Valentin agreed to this suggestion. His host beamed in response.

“Excellent choice, comrade, one which I’ll enjoy with you.”

From the cart’s bottom shelf, Sobolev removed a clear crystal decanter and two matching glasses. After pouring a pair of healthy drinks, he handed one of them to his guest.

“To your health Comrade Radchenko, and to the future well-being of the Motherland.”

Accepting this toast, Valentin downed his drink in a single gulp. The fiery spirits were indeed of excellent quality and went down most smoothly. His host noticed his satisfied grin and handed him a lap-sized silver platter.

“Now try some of the caviar, Comrade Radchenko. You won’t be disappointed.”

Unable to resist the bite-sized finger sandwiches that lay invitingly before him, Valentin popped one into his mouth. Smacking his lips in delight, he responded.

“This is indeed excellent caviar, General. We haven’t had anything like this in Moscow for quite some time now.”

“It’s one of the benefits of being stationed so close to the Caspian Sea, Comrade. Now, take some more to snack on while I refill our glasses. Then it will be time to get down to business.”

After filling a small plate with several more appetizers, Valentin sat back to enjoy them. With his vodka conveniently perched beside him, he found himself content to munch away while Sobolev ambled over to his desk and picked up a large manila envelope.

Returning to the fireplace, the general pulled out what appeared to be two medium-sized photographs, one of which he handed to Valentin.

It took several seconds for Valentin to make sense out of the glossy black photo. Taken out at sea, it showed a strangely shaped, square-hulled surface, vessel bobbing in the rolling surf. Immediately beside this ship, which from the cranes that projected from its stern appeared to be some sort of tender, was the top portion of a mini-sub.

“What in Lenin’s name am I looking at?” queried the confused civil servant.

Relishing the moment, Sobolev took a full sip of vodka before answering.

“That, Comrade Radchenko, is the U.S. Navy tender Pelican, with her precious cargo, the Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle Marlin, floating at her side. It was taken yesterday morning from an altitude of two hundred and forty kilometers, and shows them operating in the waters off Hawaii.”

“Ah, then it was photographed from our Salyut recon platform,” observed Valentin.

“Precisely,” retorted the General, who beamed with pride.

Shaking his head with wonder, Valentin continued, “The quality is most excellent considering the height at which it was taken. Yet what does it all mean?”

Sobolev stifled a chuckle.

“What this shows, Comrade Radchenko, is a desperate attempt by the Americans to save the lives of over 100 of their brave seamen trapped beneath those same seas. For, if my intelligence source is correct, this photo is proof positive that the Imperialists have lost one of their latest 688class attack subs here. The Premier will be thrilled to see that their overly rated submarine force isn’t so invulnerable after all!”

Absorbing this observation, Valentin grasped the second photograph. Pictured there was some sort of strangely shaped, exploding cloud of airborne vapor.

Not having the faintest idea what this could be, he scratched his forehead and looked up into the eagle like gaze of his host.

“Don’t fret, Comrade Radchenko. I didn’t expect you to identify this remarkable photo either. Taken yesterday morning from the same Salyut platform, it shows the actual failure of an American Titan missile launch over the coast of central California. The fates were indeed smiling on our cosmonauts when their cameras chanced upon this tragic incident, just as they initiated their first dawn pass over the North American continent.”

Aware now of the circumstances, Valentin was indeed impressed.

“I must be the first to congratulate you, General Sobolev, on these unbelievable photographs.

Once again, our military intelligence services have outdone themselves. Yet I still don’t understand what was so important to warrant yesterday’s call to the Premier.”

Sobolev’s eyes gleamed as he positioned himself before his guest and spoke out succinctly.

“The information I am about to pass on to you is of the most confidential nature. I would have flown to Moscow myself to personally share it with Viktor Alipov, but my responsibilities here made such a trip impossible. Unable to trust the reliability of scrambled telephone lines or encrypted telegrams, I was forced to ask the Premier to send me a trusted member of his staff. We are indeed fortunate that he choose you. Comrade Radchenko. Your probing intellect and rare ability to get things done in the capital are known even on the plains of Turkestan.”

Blushing at this compliment, Valentin nodded in acknowledgment of the unexpected praise, while his host took a deep breath and continued.

“Earlier in the week, America’s primary Keyhole reconnaisance satellite burnt up in the atmosphere high over this very installation. This event in itself did not surprise us, for we were well aware that the platform had reached the end of its operational lifetime and was due to fall from its orbit eventually. It was as this satellite’s back-up was called down to replace it that our telemetry technicians in Kapustin Yar notified me of a totally unexpected development. Without any outside interference on our part, this second Keyhole platform also failed. I don’t have to remind you what this means. Comrade Radchenko, for it leaves the Imperialists with no effective eye in the sky over the Central Soviet Union!”

Calmly taking in this revelation, Valentin offered his own observation.

“This is all rather fascinating, General, but surely this condition is only temporary. Don’t the Americans merely have to launch a new Keyhole satellite to replace the failed unit?”

Though he was anxious to answer his guest, Sobolev waited a full thirty seconds before responding.

“And just what do you think was the payload of the Titan, whose remains are so graphically displayed before you?”

Shocked by this disclosure, Valentin suddenly realized this was the news the general wanted passed on to Premier Alipov. Surely it would cause a ripple of interest within the Kremlin, yet he couldn’t help but feel that there was still more behind this hastily called meeting.

As if he were reading his guest’s mind, Sobolev turned and walked over to the fireplace’s far corner.

There a piece of blank wooden paneling lay between the marble mantle and the bookshelves. The general triggered a recessed button and the oaken panel slid upward to reveal a large map of the world. A bright crimson star lay over Tyuratam, with dozens of smaller red flags interspersed over the rest of the planet, the majority being situated in North America.

A satisfied grin was on the general’s face as he pivoted to again address Radchenko.

“What you see before you, comrade, is the culmination of this old soldier’s hard-working life. For over five decades I have ceaselessly toiled to allow this vision to be possible. Now, without any help of my own, the fates have presented us with a situation that we can’t possibly ignore. For who knows if such an opportunity will ever be handed to us again?

“The glorious plan that I am about to share with you is not my humble work alone. It is a synthesis of unselfish efforts. Though most of these individuals are long cold in their graves, they come from the ranks of our country’s greatest heroes. Foremost in helping plant this vision in my mind was my beloved predecessor, Pavel Yagoda. As the first Commanderin-Chief of the Motherland’s Strategic Rocket Forces, Pavel had a unique genius that allowed this dream to become a reality. I will not bore you with further accolades. Rather, I will get right down to an explanation of the operation which will at long last allow the entire world to share in the bounties of our Socialist State.

“What I propose is a surprise surgical nuclear strike against the Imperialist powers. This attack can be accomplished with a minimum of casualties, for it will be focused on the West’s vulnerable communications and command centers. By destroying these installations, we will render the enemy unable to order a counter strike Total victory will thus be ours in a matter of mere minutes!

“What presently makes such a strike most attractive is the current status of America’s satellite-home, intelligence-gathering platforms. Now that they are completely blind to our efforts here at Tyuratam, we can go about the business of refitting our SS-18’s with the new Tartar weapons packages. I’m sure you’ve read the latest material on the Tartar system. It allows each of our longest-range ICBM’s to be fitted with ten independently targeted nuclear warheads, each with a yield of eight hundred kilotons and a CEP of less than one hundred meters. For the first time ever, we will be able to take out any target in North America, no matter how hardened it may be.

“The red flags you see pinned to the map before you correspond to ninety carefully chosen, vital counterforce sites that the West depends on to issue an attack of its own. By knocking them out, we will render the West completely defenseless. As you can see, the eighteen SS-18’s that we currently have ready to go here at Tyuratam will be more than adequate to take out these targets. Since each rocket holds the equivalent of ten separate warheads, we can have the luxury of striking these sites with a pair of bombs each. Not even their Cheyenne Mountain facility will escape this attack unscathed!”

A moment of hushed silence filled the room, and Valentin found his thoughts spinning. Though he had been briefed on the possibility of such a strike in the past, hearing it so convincingly described by the general caused him to look at it in a new light. Merely contemplating such an attack used to be unthinkable.

The dangers of it developing into a full-scale nuclear exchange were just too great. Yet now, he was beginning to have second thoughts.

Sobolev carefully scrutinized his guest, as Valentin’s brow tightened in the midst of his difficult mental deliberations. Seeing just a hint of weakness in the bureaucrat’s tired face, the general continued his offensive.

“Well, Comrade Radchenko, now you know why it was necessary for me to ask the Premier for a personal representative. Can you imagine me conveying such an operation over the telephone? Now that you know my innermost dreams, and the extenuating circumstances that prompted my original call, how do you think such a plan would be received in the Kremlin? No one has his hand on the pulse of the Premier as you do, comrade. Tell me, would Viktor Alipov be presently open to my operation, or would I be merely spewing more hot air onto the summer winds?”

Valentin sat forward and responded thoughtfully.

“That is hard to say. General. The mood in Moscow is a strange one these days. Impatience and frustration run rampant everywhere. It is even prevalent in the Premier’s office. One day the talk is of the vital necessity of reaching an arms-limitation agreement with the West, and the next day we are all smiles over the development of yet another new nuclear warhead that will hold the Imperialist hordes at bay for the next decade. This swing in policy is impossible to gauge, although I feel it will be forced to attain some stability when the American Secretary of State arrives in Moscow next week. Rumor has it that the Secretary will be carrying with him a major arms concession by the U.S. President. If that’s the case, it could make that disarmament treaty a reality.”

Solemnly, Sobolev interjected, “I wouldn’t be surprised, comrade. Don’t forget those photos you still hold in your hand. The Imperialists know when they’ve been licked. Their latest missiles explode in the air, while their most advanced submarines sink to the ocean’s depths. The Motherland has sacrificed much to attain our present position of strategic superiority.

And now the Americans will come begging for peace. What a waste it will be to negate our people’s efforts for the signing of a stupid, meaningless treaty.”

At that moment, the general appeared tired and ready to concede defeat. Valentin couldn’t help but feel compassion for the old-timer. After all, the man before him was a hero in all senses of the word. His vision shouldn’t be so easily ignored. Though part of him urged his inner self to hold his tongue, Valentin spoke out anyway.

“I shouldn’t be sharing this with you. General, but I think it could affect your plan’s acceptance in Moscow. Several days ago, I came across a top-secret intelligence briefing while organizing the Premier’s desk. Though it wasn’t intended for my eyes, I skimmed it anyway. The report concerned the American reconnaissance satellite program. It indicated that there were only a pair of Keyholes available in the U.S. ground inventory. But now this photograph that our cosmonauts have relayed to us shows that one of these replacement units is no more. Perhaps if you were to devise a plan to eliminate the remaining Keyhole, the Premier would look at your plan with new eyes. As I told you before, his mood is most fickle of late. But in no way could he simply ignore the situation that the fates have so kindly handed us.

With the U.S. completely blind to our preparation, maybe a limited surprise attack would indeed have a chance of success. At the very least it warrants more study.”

“That’s just what I wanted to hear!” exclaimed Sobolev emotionally.

“I knew that I had been most fortunate when I was told that you would be the one coming down from Moscow. Radchenko, my friend, you have lived up to your reputation as one of the brightest minds in the Kremlin. No wonder the Premier depends on you so. I can never thank you enough for sharing the secrets of your soul with me.

The least I can do is offer you another sip of our Motherland’s blood.”

Nodding that this was tine with him, Valentin looked on as the general refilled their glasses and toasted.

“To that lucky star that brought us together! Because of our meeting, the dreams of our forefathers will at long last be realized. Tarry just a little bit longer, you slaves of Capitalism. Your yokes shall soon be cut and all men will finally be equal!”

Tossing the fiery liquor down his throat, Vadim Sobolev anxiously stirred. The time for his dream’s fruition had arrived after all. He only had to think up a simple scheme to destroy the final Keyhole. With the invaluable assistance of the young bureaucrat who sat beside him, the Premier would then be approached, and final approval would soon be his. Most aware of what this would mean, he looked again at the map of the world that graced his wall. Substituting massive, mushroomshaped clouds for its red flags, his inner vision sharpened. He couldn’t help but pity the poor Americans, for they would never know what hit them.

On the other side of the world, the dawn was just breaking over the northeastern coast of South America.

The morning was already proving to be another hot and muggy one as the thirty-eight-foot sailboat belonging to Colonel Jean Moreau cut through the crystal-clear blue waters of the Atlantic. Perched on the vessel’s stern, with its tiller in hand, the boat’s six-foot, four-inch owner stood ever alert to the changing wind patterns. An expert sailor, Moreau scanned the seas and the skies in an effort to read Mother Nature’s fickle mind.

Even after fifty-three years of life, Moreau remained an excellent physical specimen. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he stood his watch in only a worn pair of khaki shorts. His present environment’s perpetually hot, steamy climate made such minimal attire both comfortable and practical.

The only feature that hinted at his advanced age was a full head of close-cropped, salt-and-pepper colored hair. It seemed that, to the women, this sprinkling of gray only served to make him appear more distinguished. Contrasted with his deeply bronzed skin, it enhanced his already ruggedly handsome face and superbly toned body. Of course, there could be no ignoring the fine lines that gathered around his eyes and neck. Yet Moreau never let their development bother him. To the colonel, age was but a relative number. Living life to its fullest extent was the secret to delaying the reaper’s inevitable call.

A frothing line of surf slapped against the boat’s hull, and Moreau rode out the resulting swell with an expertise honed by many hours at sea. As always, the fresh ocean air had an invigorating effect on him. He was feeling relaxed and mentally at peace since his two-day fishing excursion had been a great success.

Not only was the boat’s refrigerated locker filled with a half-dozen tasty yellowtail, four fat bonita, and a small hammerhead. In addition, his mind had been far away from the pressures of his everyday job. As it turned out, it wasn’t only his success with a rod and reel that had helped achieve this rare state of relaxation.

For below deck, in the main cabin, lay a catch of a completely different kind.

Theresa was a precocious seventeen year old whom Moreau had been employing for less than three weeks. She had signed on as a maid, but it hadn’t taken much time for the pert Brazilian to find her way to her master’s bed. Small-boned and with petite, dark features, Theresa didn’t even come up to Moreau’s shoulders. Yet what she lacked in stature she more than adequately made up for in passion.

It had been years since the colonel had come across a young woman with such a voracious sexual appetite.

Though the length and width of his manhood had never generated a complaint before, Theresa couldn’t seem to get enough of him. The previous night’s lovemaking had proven no different.

They had been anchored off the infamous Devil’s Island. There, palm trees and thick scrub had long since covered any evidence of the manmade hellhole that used to scar this innocent-looking archipelago.

After a delicious dinner of fresh sauteed yellowtail, brown rice, and steamed zucchini squash, they had proceeded to finish off the good portion of a full liter of rum from the boat’s fantail. Theresa spoke a credible French, and it was in this language that he had gotten to know a little bit more about her upbringing.

Born in the coastal town of Fortaleia, Theresa had been raised in a middle-class family. Her father had been an engineer with the state’s petroleum development board, and as such spent at least three-quarters of the year in the Brazilian jungle far from home.

This had left her in the hands of her mother and grandmother, who protected her as though she were the crown jewels of England. Struggling to attain an average grade in school, Theresa had been more interested in boys, rock music, and partying. This conflict of interest had all come to a head the afternoon her mother caught her necking in the back alley with a neighbor boy. A furious argument had followed, as her mother called her a tramp and savagely beat her with a leather belt. That evening, still bruised and inwardly hurting, Theresa had made the decision to leave home.

The employment opportunities in the French Guiana town of Kourou were well known to her. Developed from a sleepy jungle town by a European consortium, Kourou was becoming a center of space age technology. It was common knowledge that all who came to this coastal city would have no problem starting a new life. So, with a minimum of personal belongings at her side, and the contents of her piggy bank in her purse, Theresa had sneaked out of her house and begun the long, arduous voyage to Kourou.

Once she had entered French Guiana she hadn’t been the least bit disappointed. Especially on the fateful morning the employment agency had sent her to the home of Colonel Jean Moreau. From the first time her eyes had linked with those of the handsome foreigner, she had known she’d get the job. She had also been aware of the strange tingle of desire that coursed through her body, for her employer was just as handsome as the legendary Paul Newman, her favorite actor.

Her one big worry had been that the Frenchman wouldn’t find her attractive enough. She had done her best to catch his eye whenever possible, making certain that she always wore her tightest shorts and skimpiest halter-tops whenever he was around the house. This display had soon had its desired effect.

She would never forget that memorable evening the two had become lovers. When her boss had then invited her on this fishing trip, she had been certain that she had him completely hooked.

Just thinking about the young girl who shared the boat with him brought a grin to Moreau’s handsome face. There could be no denying that she was an exotic little thing. Her long black hair capped a pretty face, which was dominated by a pair of dark, doleful eyes. Her body was just flowering into womanhood.

How sensitive was her compact bosom, the pointed, erect nipples beckoning with the sweetness of the finest of brandies. And how could he deny her soft, velvety skin, firm thighs, and luscious, tight love channel?

The previous night he had ridden her like a young stallion in heat. Inflamed by the brandy, he had entered her right there on the open deck. Somehow, they had later made it below deck to the bedroom.

For hours on end, he had filled her with his all.

Respondent to his every demand, Theresa had proven as supple as a gymnast. Never had a woman felt so good beneath him.

Only when he was certain that her desire had been adequately quenched had he let himself go. Fulfilled beyond his wildest expectations, he had begun drifting off into blessed sleep, when he felt her tiny, warm hands massage his crotch, vainly attempting to coax new stiffness back into him. Moreau knew that there was a time not long ago when he would have responded to this occasion without question. Yet the call of his fifty-three-year old body had soon led him to a deep, dreamless slumber.

He had awakened less than an hour before feeling rested and refreshed. Taking care not to awaken his young lover, who slept soundly beside him, Moreau had slipped from the narrow cot and hastily washed himself. After donning his shorts, he had made a pot of strong, black coffee, poured himself a mug, and made his way topside.

Above, the night stars still glowed in a crystal-clear sky, yet his practiced gaze observed the first glimmer of dawn painting the eastern horizon. As he prepared the boat to get underway, he was conscious that the new day had long ago risen over the capitals of Europe. How distant the bustling streets of Paris and the lush woods of his native Normandy seemed to him at that moment!

The hot, gusting trade winds soon filled the newly unfurled sails and Moreau pondered the fact that, with the conclusion of the summer, he would have dedicated seven years of his life to this godforsaken wilderness. Of course, there were the yearly trips home to spend the holidays, but even though his body was transported over the seas, part of his mind always remained here. He imagined this had to do with the great responsibilities of his present job. This had been especially true in the earlier years, when his total effort had been needed to accomplish a task of unbelievable proportions.

The Consortium had chosen one of the most remote corners of the entire planet for the Ariadne facility. From the very beginning, the challenge of developing the project had been placed squarely on his shoulders. From the moment the first Consortium jet had landed at Kourou’s primitive airport, Moreau had known he’d have his work cut out for him.

First there had been the task of clearing the actual site itself. Faced with a logistical nightmare, Moreau had somehow managed the impossible. Happy to have finally gained employment, the native population had pitched in to hack away at the thick jungle of coconut palms and mangrove. The swamps had been drained, and the malaria problem somewhat alleviated.

Supplies and equipment had begun flowing more freely when the airport’s runway had been lengthened and repaved and the port facility completed.

Ever mindful of the huge expenses that they were incurring, the Consortium had greeted his superhuman efforts with one new demand after the other.

Never known as a quitter, Moreau had persevered.

This effort had all come to fruition two and a half years before, when the first Ariadne missile had left its launch-pad. Only two months over schedule, the launch had successfully placed a Consortium-owned communications satellite into a perfect earth orbit.

Over the next year they had managed to put at least one additional satellite into orbit each and every month.

Moreau knew that if all were still well at the facility, they’d be launching yet another missile that very morning. Their rocket would be carrying the first in a series of Japanese communications satellites into orbit. The completion of such a project could very well signal the attainment of their financial break-even point. Though their past projects had been exclusively European in nature, the addition of the Asian market would open their coffers to a totally new source of badly needed revenue. All too soon, Ariadne would be not only self-sufficient, but a major profit center as well. This was the day that Jean Moreau was praying to see, for the moment Ariadne became a commercial success, his life’s greatest goal would be achieved.

His sailboat shuddered beneath him as the hull bit into yet another swell. Angling the tiller to take advantage of the rising offshore breeze, Moreau approximated his position. Devil’s Island had long since disappeared in his wake. In the heavens, the morning star was the only planet visible, as the sun prepared to break the whitening horizon. In the illumination of this first light of dawn, he could just make out a distant formation of dense storm clouds to the southwest, in the direction that he was headed.

Not alarmed by them in the least, Moreau was most aware that these clouds perpetually hugged the coastline during this, the rainy season. They would dump their steamy torrents sometime around noon, hopefully long after the Ariadne was high in the heavens.

He guessed that if the winds remained favorable, they’d be sailing into Kourou in another two hours’ time. That should give him plenty of time to drop Theresa off at home and then get over to the base.

Of course, this entire fishing excursion wouldn’t have been possible without the invaluable aid of Jacques LeMond. His thirty-three-year-old administrative assistant was turning into quite a leader in his own right. Personally trained by Moreau for two years, Jacques was definitely coming of age. Now he was even capable of handling a launch of his own.

Anxious to know if the youngster were having any unexpected difficulties, Moreau silently cursed his boat’s broken radio. Though he should have returned to Kourou immediately after it had tailed the previous afternoon, he hadn’t. Several years before, this wouldn’t have been the case. At that time, a mere two-hour fishing trip would have been a luxury.

Wondering if his days at Kourou were already numbered, Moreau found his concentration broken by a sudden movement amidships. There, Theresa was visible, her shapely, naked body invitingly lit by the first rays of direct sunlight. Teasingly, she beckoned him to join her down below. Though his thoughts had been far away from any such sensual delights, a sudden stiffening coursed through his loins. Ravaged by a hunger he had assumed to be more than satisfied, Moreau locked in the boat’s auto-pilot. Without a second’s hesitation, he then rose to once again sample the sweet nectar that was all too soon flowing from the Brazilian’s young, ripe body.

Two hours later, the boat carrying Colonel Jean Moreau and his teenage lover sailed into Kourou’s harbor. As the vessel was expertly tacked into its proper slip, it seemed dwarfed by the massive pair of sleek, ocean-going cargo ships that were tied up nearby.

Jean Moreau wasted no time locking up the boat and escorting his companion to the parking lot. There they jumped into a battered jeep and took off down the port’s only roadway. Minutes later, they were out of the congested harbor area and into the relative seclusion of the surrounding jungle. The road there was narrow yet easy to follow. A minimum of traffic allowed for excellent progress.

While Theresa nodded off back to sleep beside him, Moreau savored the passionate coupling that they had just completed. For the first time in their brief relationship, he had had the He sty brunette whimpering in ecstasy after leading her to a long series of drawn-out orgasms. Careful to hold back his own pleasure, he had only released himself after she had positively begged him to do so. Totally spent and satiated, she had nestled back to sleep, while he had returned topside to guide the boat back into the harbor.

Such was the pleasant course of his contemplation while he guided the jeep off the main road and pointed it up a familiar driveway. A quarter of a kilometer later, he pulled up to a white-stucco ranch house with a red-tiled roof. The hum of the jungle creatures rose from among the thick stands of surrounding vegetation as he put the jeep into neutral and turned to awaken his passenger. Several shakes of her shoulder were needed to accomplish this.

“Come on, sleeping beauty, the vacation’s over. It’s time to get back to work.”

Her eyes were heavy with sleep as she slowly opened them to reorientate herself.

“Oh goodness, mi amore, are we back at the house already? In my dreams, you had taken me far out to sea.”

Enraptured by Theresa’s innocent tone, Moreau bent over to kiss her on her moist lips.

“Sorry, but not this time, my little beauty. Now, get going before I have to paddle your behind. I want the house completely cleaned and full of groceries by the time I arrive for dinner.”

Theresa seemed puzzled by his haste.

“But, mi amore, aren’t you coming in to shower and change your clothes first? You can’t go to work looking like that. Why, you haven’t even shaved.”

Conscious of the late hour, Moreau reached over and hit the passenger-door latch himself.

“Au revoir, ma petite. Now get along, before I call your mother and have you shipped off back to Fortaleza!”

This last remark was all that was needed to get Theresa motivated. A sad pout could still be seen on her face as she reluctantly left the jeep and watched him drive off.

As Moreau guided the four-wheeled vehicle back onto the main roadway, the rumble of distant thunder boomed from overhead. In response, the colonel floored the accelerator. Oblivious to the abrupt increase in speed, he expertly maneuvered the jeep through the jungle.

He didn’t have long to go until his progress was halted by a closed, sturdy steel barricade. Stopping before it, Moreau was greeted by a serious-faced, uniformed sentry. No words were exchanged as the fully armed guard caught sight of the jeep’s sole occupant. With a crisp salute, he triggered a switch and the barricade slid open.

Moreau put the vehicle into gear and continued with his forward progress. The rumble of thunder again echoed overhead, and he passed a compact, military-like sign that read, “Welcome to Ariadne.”

The paved roadway significantly widened at this spot. Absent along its shoulders was the heavy vegetation that hugged the previous section of pavement. In fact, a full kilometer of bare ground lay between this section of road and the encroaching jungle. Moreau had been here when this portion of the complex had been originally cleared. Never would he forget how difficult this task had been. Even today, it took the full-time efforts of a team of muscular laborers to keep the jungle back.

Up ahead, he caught sight of a pair of massive, round liquid-oxygen tanks. Located on each side of the clearing he was soon crossing, these snow-white containers were positioned beside various fuel-storage tanks and a central oxygen-holding area. Next he passed the complex’s largest structure, the payload preparation facility. It was inside this huge edifice that the satellites were prepared for orbit and eventually attached to the Ariadne rocket itself. Moved in and out of the preparation complex on a set of railroad tracks, the assembled booster was then conveyed to the actual launch mount with the support of a moveable service tower.

Though he had witnessed many a launch there, he never failed to get an emotional charge out of seeing the assembled rocket as it awaited the signal to lift off. This morning proved no different. As he passed by the preparation facility, he looked to his right, and set his gaze on the silver-skinned Ariadne perched securely on its launch pad. Over fifty meters in length, the missile appeared sleek and powerful, its four bulging boosters secured to each of its fins. A cloud of whitish vapor streamed from its fuselage, and several support vehicles were busy seeing to the last-minute refueling and pre-flight checkout.

Once again, the colonel was diverted by the rumble of distant thunder. A line of black clouds could be seen gathering to the south. It wouldn’t be long now until they would make their presence known here at the facility.

With the hope that they’d be able to get the Ariadne skyward before this storm struck, Moreau guided his jeep towards a nearby, low-level concrete bunker. Taking a last look at the advancing clouds, he parked his vehicle and walked quickly to the bunker’s central access door. Before he was allowed entry there, he needed to enter an identification code into a frame-mounted key-pad. Once this was accomplished, he inserted his personalized ID card into a slot positioned beneath the computerized lock. Several seconds passed, and then the door slid open with a loud hiss.

Inside it was dark and noticeably cooler. Hastily, he followed the single tile-lined hallway to the preparation room. There he chose a spotlessly white jumpsuit from several outfits that had been hanging on the far wall. Only then did he press for the elevator that would efficiently whisk him three floors underground.

The environment that he soon entered was drastically different from that he had encountered upstairs.

Flashing digital consoles, blinking video screens, and the hushed tones of the dozens of white-suited technicians now visible met his eyes and ears. Without hesitation, Moreau proceeded to the console marked Meteorology. There he encountered a white-haired individual nervously hunched over his display screen.

“Bonjour, Marcel. Tell me, old friend, are we going to have time to get Ariadne skyward before the rains begin?”

A warm smile spread across the grizzled meteorologist’s face upon catching sight of the source of this query.

“Good morning to you, Jean Moreau. If LeMond can keep us on schedule, we will just make it. Otherwise, it doesn’t appear promising.”

Absorbing this observation, Moreau looked up into the screen of one of the several wallmounted video monitors that were conveniently placed inside the control room. He took in a close-up view of the same rocket that he had inspected outside. Most aware that a launch delay would be costly, he scurried over to the room’s central console, to check the progress firsthand.

Just as he reached this station, which was dominated by several manned, interconnected computer terminals, the room filled with the cold, feminine voice of the launch monitor.

“I minus five minutes and counting.”

Relieved that the liftoff appeared to be right on time, Moreau approached a rather lanky, longhaired figure seated at the station’s center. Before the colonel could greet this technician, the young man caught sight of him out of the corner of his eye. Smiling, he rose to exchange handshakes.

“So you made it back, Colonel,” greeted Jacques LeMond with a wink.

“How was the fishing?”

Brushing aside this question, Moreau offered one of his own.

“Meteorology indicates that we won’t have time for a single delay. How do the systems look?”

The young technician seemed surprised with his haste.

“Have you no confidence in your own protege, Colonel? Everything appears just perfect. I see no reason that we won’t have a liftoff right on schedule.”

With this, Moreau’s mood lightened.

“Of course I have confidence in you, Jacques LeMond. Otherwise, I would have never left in the first place.”

Meeting his assistant’s broad grin, Moreau looked to the nearest video screen as the room’s monitor speakers again activated.

“I minus three minutes and counting. All ground personnel should be clear of the launch pad.”

With his gaze still glued to the picture of the Ariadne visible before him, Moreau didn’t even notice Jacques LeMond return to his console. The colonel’s mind was cluttered with thoughts, and he was hardly aware of the continued passage of time, until the familiar female voice again sounded.

“I minus sixty seconds and counting… five, four, three, two, one, ignition!”

With a wall of flame and a rumbling roar, the Ariadne’s four solid-rocket engines burst forth above a fiery tongue of spent propellant. As this mixture of powdered aluminum, ammonium per chlorate synthetic rubber, and other exotic additives interacted, a thrust of over one million pounds was generated. In response, the Ariadne soared off skyward.

The atmosphere inside the control room was thick with tension as the video screen filled with the sight of the rising behemoth. This tenseness was relieved only after the monitor speakers once more activated.

“Trajectory appears good. All conditions go for full throttle.”

This revelation was met by an excited chorus of cheers and applause, for with full throttle the most critical phase of the launch had passed.

Jean Moreau’s attention remained glued to the video screen until he was certain that the solid-rocket motors had jettisoned from the booster cleanly, and that the Ariadne’s first stage had fired properly. Only when this was confirmed did he allow himself a sigh of relief.

The Ariadne’s main engine was but a speck on the television screen when Jacques LeMond gathered at his side.

“That looks like another one for the Consortium, Colonel. I hope our Japanese customers will be satisfied. Oh, by the way, in all the excitement, I forgot to give you this envelope. It arrived by special courier late last evening.

Moreau’s assistant handed him a sealed manila envelope, which he quickly opened. His eyes lit up upon reading its contents, yet all too soon a distracted, serious glow colored his expression.

“Well, Colonel, what’s it all about, or can’t you tell me?”

Moreau seemed called back to life with this comment.

“I’m sorry, Jacques, but it’s a dispatch from the Commandant’s office. The old man wanted to share with us some rather unfortunate news regarding the Americans. It seems they lost another one of their Titan 34-D’s. It went down over Vandenberg early yesterday morning.”

“Those poor Yanks,” returned LeMond with a shake of his head.

“First it was the shuttle, now it’s the Titan. Even with all their billions of dollars, they can’t even get a satellite into orbit. Who knows? Until they get their difficulties ironed out, maybe they’ll come to us for help.”

Moreau grinned wisely.

“You just might have hit upon something, my friend. It would sure beat asking the Soviets for assistance, and just think what the Consortium could do with all those extra funds.”

LeMond’s response was influenced by the voice of their monitor, who announced that the Ariadne’s second-stage motor had fired right on time. With youthful exuberance, he flashed his superior a hearty thumbs-up.

Jean Moreau was barely conscious of this gesture, his thoughts a million miles away. While his mind’s eye focused on the Ariadne’s payload as it prepared to deploy itself in outer space, he carefully folded the dispatch he had just received and placed it inside the flap of his jumpsuit’s breast pocket. Deep within his subconscious, he was already beginning to calculate the novel opportunities this news could portend.