Flight of the Condor

Chapter Six

It was late afternoon by the time Lieutenant Colonel Todd Lansford finally made his way to the bluff overlooking Vandenberg’s Point Arguello. He had spent most of the day indoors, studying the bathymetric charts of the waters he presently stood before.

Seeing firsthand the raw immensity of the area of ocean his search was to be centered in gave him a new respect for his present assignment. Added to the difficulty of this herculean task itself were the political pressures that he was already beginning to feel.

From the contents of the various phone calls he fielded throughout the day, it was most obvious that Washington was in a hurry for results. Of course, he had been the lucky one chosen to fulfill their impossible bidding.

As a senior officer with SAM TO the Air Force’s Space and Missile Test Organization, Lansford had been given the tough assignment of coordinating the search for any debris that might have survived the recent Titan 34-D failure. Such evidence was of major importance in determining the exact reason the missile had gone down. Since a design fault would mean that the entire Titan program could be threatened, no Titan would be launched until a reason for this most recent failure was determined. This fact made his present mission that much more significant.

Carefully scanning the surrounding terrain, the fifty-four-year-old officer was well aware that most of the search operation would be taking place under the Pacific. The reason for this was simple, for the Titan had just began arcing over Pacific waters when it had exploded in a fiery mass of debris and flame.

Compounding the difficulty of this underwater search was the fact that the topography of the sea bed there was extremely inhospitable. The jagged nature of the very bluff he presently stood on was a prime example of the type of physical environment that they’d be facing.

Cut from primordial volcanic rock, Point Arguello was a wild, desolate spot. It was formed by a semicircle of serrated rock with needle-like pinnacles and razor-sharp reefs that had been a nightmare for navigators throughout the decades. Originally labeled La Guijado del Diablo, or the Devil’s Jaw, by the Spaniards, the reefs had been responsible for the sinking of dozens of tall-masted, treasure-laden galleons.

On this particular afternoon, the ocean appeared deceptively calm. Noticeably absent were the surging riptides, pounding surf, and pea-soup fogs that not only cut visibility down to zero, but distorted and muffled sound as well. Each of these factors helped give the Point its tragic notoriety.

Direct proof of the area’s dangers lay immediately to Lansford’s left. There, placed on a bed of concrete, was a rusted anchor, raised from the surf in 1973. It belonged to the U.S.S. Chauncery, one of seven Navy destroyers that had plowed into the Devil’s Jaw on the night of September 8, 1923. Lansford had read an account of this tragedy upon his initial deployment at Vandenberg. At that time he had been shocked by this incident that had somehow been kept out of his collegiate history books.

It had been a simple navigational error that had led this squadron of high-speed warships onto the reefs off Point Arguello. Though all seven ships had been sunk, miraculously only 23 seamen out of a possible 800 had been killed. The tragedy had occurred when the navigator of the lead destroyer, the U.S.S. Delphy, had miscalculated a directional radio beacon signal. Veiled by a thick nighttime fog, the ship’s officers had thought they were well south of Point Conception, on their journey from San Francisco to San Diego. Because of this error in their calculations, they had ordered the ships to turn due eastward into what they had presumed was sheltered Santa Barbara Channel. Yet, in reality, they had yet to pass Point Arguello, three miles north of Point Conception. The destroyers had been running in a tight battle formation, and ship after ship had plowed into the awaiting rocks, their horrified captains unable to halt their forward progress until too late. And once again the Devil’s Jaw had added yet another pile of debris to its already bone-littered sea floor.

Pondering this unbelievable tale, Lansford noticed the weird, brooding silence that seemed to haunt the spot. No seabird or gull cried overhead, the only sound audible being that of the wind and the incessant, surging surf.

Angling his line of sight back out to sea, he studied the breakers that formed in long frothing sets over a quarter of a mile beyond. It was beneath these crashing waves that his search would begin.

Preliminary reports from the submarine U.S.S. Razorback showed the initial debris field to lay approximately three and a half miles offshore. There, in 150 feet of water, the first major pieces of wreckage had been spotted. A subsequent sonar scan of the ocean’s bottom had picked up over 500 additional pieces of debris, lying in a sector 5 miles long and 400 feet wide. Because this path led out to sea, much of the wreckage could lie in depths of over 800 feet.

Their first objective was to completely search, localize, and visually classify. Then, utilizing such unique platforms as the Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle Marlin, they would initiate the difficult task of exhuming as many of the pieces of wreckage as possible. Without benefit of the DSRV’s articulated manipulator arms, such a task would have been impossible.

Aware of the time limitations all too recently placed upon him, Lansford prayed that relatively stable weather would continue to prevail. A series of storms now could delay their efforts for weeks. At last report, the base meteorologist had seen no significant lowpressure systems in the immediate area. If this remained constant, the first actual piece of debris could be extracted as early as the next day. Of course, this still depended upon various logistical concerns that he had absolutely no control over, such as a mechanical breakdown in their equipment. Yet, as it stood now, his superiors would be accepting no excuses.

What they demanded were results. This was the bottom line that he would have to be working for no matter the cost.

Stifling a yawn, Lansford ran his hand through his crew-cut. There would be little time for sleep until they learned just what had taken the mighty Titan down. Glad that Marjorie and their two boys were off in Florida visiting her parents, he was prepared to give this project his all. The vital importance of its ultimate ramifications couldn’t be ignored.

The lieutenant colonel had known the identity of the Titan’s top-secret payload from the very beginning. Thus he hadn’t been surprised when the first calls had begun arriving from the Pentagon as news of the missile’s failure reached Washington. What he was having problems understanding was the unusual speed with which his superiors were demanding results. An investigation of this type could take weeks to complete. Even then, it was somewhat doubtful if they’d ever know the exact cause of the explosion.

Lansford had only begun understanding just how vitally important it was for the Air Force to get the last remaining Keyhole in orbit late the previous night, when orders had arrived instructing them to ready Slik 6 for a possible launch. He had been shocked to learn that this directive also included instructions to get the Condor out of storage and ready to fly.

Both the launch complex and the shuttle vehicle had been mothballed, ever since the Challenger disaster had put the whole program in a state of indefinite suspension. Only recently had NASA agreed to a series of design corrections which were to be implemented on the surviving shuttle vehicles to make flight safer. Yet the Condor, a top-secret military version of the shuttle, had yet to be adapted. It was designed to be launched from Vandenberg, with as little public fanfare as possible, its ultimate mission veiled in secrecy. Lansford and his coworkers had not expected to see it fly for at least two years, when the design changes were scheduled to be completed. That was why these new directives had come as such a shock to him.

He could only assume that the nation’s very security was currently being threatened. There could be no denying the effectiveness of the Keyhole reconnaisance satellite program. As the space-home eyes and ears of the nation, such a platform would give the U.S. its first hint of an enemy’s hostile intentions.

Though such an important satellite always had a back-up in orbit, something must have occurred to necessitate the tragic, rushed launch of the Titan.

Since that previously reliable delivery system was now in question, and since a replacement Titan would take over a month to assemble, a decision had been made to ready the Condor.

As a member of the military, Lansford was no stranger to risk. His daily assignments often sent him to the far corners of the globe. Oblivious to the dangers involved, he did his duty without question.

Yet, in this instance, he couldn’t help but find himself doubting the rationality of those he served. Even if a Keyhole had to get airborne, did it necessitate risking a billion-dollar space craft known to be deficient, and its brave crew besides?

The shrill ring of his car phone interrupted his thoughts. Shifting his line of sight from the surging Pacific, he turned his attention to his current means of transportation. The dark-blue Air Force station wagon was parked less than a quarter of a mile away.

The earthen roadway was cracked and dusty as he crossed the plateau and approached his vehicle. Without opening the automobile’s door, he reached inside the open window and picked up the black plastic receiver.

“This is Lieutenant Colonel Lansford speaking.”

The familiar voice on the other end replied instantly.

“Sir, it’s Master Sergeant Sprawlings. I thought you’d like to know that the C-5A you’ve been waiting for from Hawaii is on its final approach. ETA. is at half past the hour.”

Hastily checking his watch, Lansford responded, “Very good. Sergeant. I’m down at the Point presently, and should have just enough time to get over to the airfield to greet them.”

“Do you want me to meet you there, sir?”

“You’d better continue to hold down the fort. By the way, any more calls from D.C.?”

“Nothing since you left, sir. You did get one inquiry from Roger Winslow over at KXBC. He wanted to know if you had anything new about the cause of the Titan failure. I just told him he’d have to bide his time with the other reporters until an official news bulletin is released.”

Lansford grinned.

“Keep those dogs at bay, Sergeant Sprawlings. Now, I’d better get moving. See you in the office shortly.”

Hanging up the receiver, Lansford entered the car and turned its ignition. The engine responded with a roar and the senior officer carefully guided it up the steep, rough earthen roadway that led to Coast Road.

As he continued on to the main thoroughfare, he passed through a series of scrub-covered hills. Filled with razor-sharp cactus and thistle, the dry landscape was home to jackrabbits, mice, and plenty of rattlesnakes.

Having had plenty of close encounters with this species of reptile, Lansford was happy to have the shelter of his automobile around him.

The car’s shocks got a full test as the vehicle passed over a washed-out ravine, skirted a large pothole, and bounded over a rock-filled trench. On the other side of this trench were the railroad tracks, which Lansford quickly crossed. This placed him facing Coast Road. There his progress was momentarily halted, for he had to wait for a convoy of southward-bound trucks to pass before pulling onto the paved, two-lane roadway.

The huge semis were of a similar size and design. He had no doubt in his mind that they were all bound for the same location, for nestled in the parched hills to his right was Space Launch Complex 6. After months of inactivity, he could just imagine the frantic activity taking place there now as the site crew struggled to get Slik 6 back to life. Fighting the impulse to check their progress, he instead turned his car to the left after the last of the trucks had passed. This section of the Coast Road led directly northward and was fortunately free of traffic. Thus he was able to make excellent progress. With the blue Pacific passing on his left and the rolling foothills, where the Titan launch complexes were situated, to his right, Lansford focused his attention solely on his driving. All too soon, he was crossing the Coast sentry gate and rounding the broad curve that led to the entrance to Ocean Beach Park.

Continuing on down Ocean Avenue, away from the Pacific now, Lansford wondered how that crew of archaeologists were doing. Though he would have liked to take some time out to apologize to them for the rather abrupt manner in which they had been removed from their dig site on Tranquillon Ridge, he had been too busy to do so. Once he got the active search for the Titan debris under way, however, he would contact the young woman in charge of the archaeology project. Since the Air Force’s renewed interest in Slik 6 would keep Tranquillon off limits for. the time being, perhaps a new excavation site could be found for them. Otherwise, their summer fieldwork program would soon be over. With this in mind, he made a left hand turn on 13th Street, and after crossing the Santa Ynez River passed over what appeared to be a large, vacant field. Strategically placed within the clumps of raw woods visible there, were not only various telemetry installations, but also the security kennels where the base’s police-dogs were trained and boarded. He continued up a steep hill side, and set his eyes on a number of structures set on both sides of the road. Only after passing the unassuming brick building containing Base Headquarters, where his own office was situated, did he turn to his left on Airfield Road.

Vandenberg was one of the few Air Force bases in America that didn’t have a single fixed-wing aircraft under its auspices. In fact, the only airborne vehicles on its inventory consisted of a detachment of Bell UH-1N Iroquois helicopters that were used for aerial launch surveillance, security, and other rescue and recovery operations. This was in spite of the fact that Vandenberg had a 15,000-foot runway, one of the largest of its kind in the world. Specially designed to accommodate such unique craft as the space shuttle, the airfield was quite capable of handling the likes of the giant transport plane currently approaching from the southeast.

Lansford arrived at the terminal building in time to see the Lockheed C-5A Galaxy initiate its final descent.

This lumbering silver-and-white-winged giant was the largest airplane in the Air Force’s inventory.

Sporting a fuselage length of over 247 feet, it had a 222-foot wing span that offered an available wing area of 6,200 square feet. This amazing feature, plus a quartet of 41,000-pound-thrust General Electric turbofan engines, allowed the C-5A to lift an unprecedented payload of one quarter of a million tons.

With its massive wings drooping and its engines squealing, the Galaxy lowered its twenty-eight-wheel landing gear and prepared to touch down. Leaving the confines of his automobile in time to see this event, Lansford could hardly believe it when the MAC transport ground to a halt after using barely half the available runway space. Whistling in appreciation of this remarkable feat, he looked on as the plane began taxiing towards him.

The loud, grinding report of a diesel engine’s sudden activation sounded to his left, and Lansford turned and set his eyes on the cab of a large tractor trailer as it pulled off the runway’s shoulder toward the approaching plane. Though it appeared to be a normal truck cab, he knew that it held a specially designed motor, and had just been driven up from San Diego. It was to be used to transport the C-5A’s main piece of cargo to Vandenberg’s Point Arguello dock site Most satisfied that all appeared to be going smoothly, Lansford made his way over to the spot on the taxi-way where the Galaxy was in the process of braking to a final halt.

Just as the Lieutenant Colonel reached the plane’s side, the C-5A’s forward fuselage hatch popped open.

From this opening, a self-contained stairway was lowered. First down its length was a blue, jumpsuited MAC airman. Greeting Lansford with a smart salute, the airman led the way for a group of khaki-clad Navy personnel. Appearing fit, tanned, and happy to be on the solid earth once more, this group assembled beside the plane’s nose. There Todd Lansford greeted them.

“Gentlemen, you must be the crew of the Marlin.

I’m Lieutenant Colonel Lansford, and I’ll be your host during your visit here. On behalf of the United States Air Force, I’d like to welcome you to Vandenberg.”

Making his way out of the group was a single officer. Easily the oldest individual of the bunch, he sported a head of gray hair, a beard-stub bled face, and probing blue eyes. Though his khakis were a bit wrinkled, his handshake was firm and voice strong.

“Thank you. Lieutenant Colonel Lansford. I’m Commander Will Pierce, Officer-in-Charge of the DSRV Marlin, and this bunch of malcontents are the rest of her complement. I’d like you to meet Lieutenants Marvin and Blackmore, my junior officers.”

Stepping out of the pack to trade handshakes with Lansford were a pair of officers who could never pass for twins. The smaller of these two individuals. Ensign Marvin, was skinny as a rail and almost completely bald, except for two strands of frizzy black hair that lay behind his rather pointed ears. Lieutenant Blackmore was in every way his opposite. Serious-faced and hesitant to meet Lansford’s stare, Blackmore stood at least six feet tall, with a muscular build and a thick head of blond hair.

A quick round of introductions followed, as Lansford hastily met the group of petty officers and seamen who made up the rest of the DSRV’s crew. In general, they seemed a young, congenial bunch. It was evident from their bronze complexions that they spent much of their time outdoors. Ever mindful of where they had flown in from, Lansford wondered what it would be like to have duty in a paradise such as Hawaii.

A loud, hydraulic hiss sounded from the fuselage, and each of the men looked up as the C-5A’s lower nose section began to lift upward. Soon it covered the cockpit windows and was directed straight into the sky. This opened the interior of the aircraft for their examination. Barely visible under the plane’s interior lights was the sleek, cylindrical, shiny black DSRV.

Securely fastened to a full-length flatbed trailer, the Marlin had been loaded nose first. This left its circular, tilting white shroud and single propeller directly facing them.

While the crew joined the MAC team as they prepared to extract the mini-sub completely, Lansford stepped aside to get a better view of the whole picture. It was as the tractor cab began backing its way up the C-5A’s extended-lip cargo ramp to attach itself to the flatbed trailer that Lansford noticed that another individual had just left the plane’s forward hatch. Dressed in khaki pants and a denim work shirt and wearing a Dodger baseball cap, this tall, tanned figure seemed vaguely familiar. As this newcomer started walking down the stairs Lansford placed his face, yet still failed to remember his name. They had worked together several years before, when an Air Force F-15 Eagle had crashed off the coast of Southern California. As a scientist with Nose, he had aided Lansford considerably, for he had been able to give a detailed description of just what the sea floor looked like in their search zone. Assuming that he was still with Nose and was there once again to help him, Lansford walked over to greet the man.

“I believe we’ve worked together once before. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Todd Lansford, your host here at Vandenberg.”

After scanning the officer’s face, the newcomer smiled in recognition.

“Of course. We pulled that Eagle out of the waters off Carlsbad. I’m Dr. Richard Fuller.”

The two traded handshakes and Lansford continued, “I didn’t realize that you were coming along with the Marlin. Your presence here is most appreciated.”

“Why, thank you. To tell you the truth, I’m as surprised to be here as you are.”

“Is this your first visit to Vandenberg?” asked the lieutenant colonel.

Fuller nodded.

“That it is. I’ve certainly read a lot about this place, though. I understand you’ve got quite a facility here.”

“We sure do,” responded Lansford.

“As soon as you get settled in, I’d be happy to show you around the place. In fact, I just have to make a quick stop at my office before dinner. I’d love for you to join me. I’ve got some excellent charts of the area’s waters there that I’m sure you’d be interested in taking a look at.”

“Sounds good to me,” replied Fuller, whose attention was drawn to the C-5A’s nose. There the diesel truck cab had just linked with the flatbed trailer on which the Marlin was strapped. As the DSRV began inching its way out of the cargo hold, the two men were joined by the vessel’s grayhaired Officer-in Charge

“Is everything all right with you. Commander Pierce?” queried Lansford.

With his eyes still glued to the trailer. Pierce answered, “It looks good so tar. Exactly what’s on the agenda after we get Marlin out of there?”

Lansford found himself having to raise his voice to be heard over the straining grind of the diesel truck’s engine.

“The Marlin’s to be pulled to Vandenberg’s Point Arguello dock site That’s approximately twelve miles south of here. The submarine U.S.S. Razorback is currently awaiting your arrival there. The Marlin is then to be loaded onto the sub, with your first cruise scheduled to begin tomorrow morning.”

“What are the facilities like at this dock site probed Pierce.

“I think you’ll find them most satisfactory,” returned Lansford.

“It was formerly a 1930’s-era Coast Guard lifeboat station, now specially modified to receive the space shuttle’s two 154-foot-long 69,000-pound external tanks. Not only will you find a variety of transfer equipment there, but also a well-lit, spacious work area. And by the way, the route your trailer will be following out of the airport is the same one the shuttle follows. The roadway south of here has been designed to carry its seventy-six wheel transporter.

Rocky hillsides have been excavated, and you’ll find all turns have a minimum radius of 162 feet.”

A contained chorus of cheers broke from behind them as the Marlin was pulled completely out of the C-5A’s cargo hold. Conscious of what this meant, Lansford added, “Looks like you’re in business, Commander.

Would you like to join Dr. Fuller and myself for some dinner now?”

Pierce patted his abdomen.

“Though my stomach says yes, I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline the offer, sir. It’s best that I stay with the Marlin while she’s being moved down to the water.”

“I understand, Commander. I’ll be down at the dock site myself right after chow. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to quickly brief you at that time as to what we’re looking for out in the Pacific. And please, if you encounter the least bit of difficulty, don’t hesitate to call my office. Making your stay here as smooth as possible is what I’m here for.”

Tipping his hat in response to this. Will Pierce turned to rejoin his men. While the crew of the Marlin loaded into an awaiting Air Force van to begin the slow trip to Point Arguello, Lieutenant Colonel Lansford escorted his new guest into the confines of his station wagon. Before taking off themselves, they took a last look at the Marlin as it began its journey off the taxi-way. Looking like a huge, beached whale, the black DSRV sat squarely on its transport. Following attentively behind was the van holding its weary crew. Confident that they would encounter few difficulties in their journey, Lansford initiated the short drive to his office.

As they sped down Airfield Road, Lansford addressed his guest.

“Well, Commander Pierce certainly seems like a grizzled old veteran. What do you make of the rest of the crew. Doctor?”

With his gaze focused on the passing landscape, Fuller answered, “They’re young, but extremely competent.

You should have seen them in action off the coast of Kauai. Without a second’s hesitation, they took the Marlin into depths plagued by tricky currents and vicious riptides. Because of this effort, over one hundred brave submariners survived an incident that could have had a very tragic outcome.”

“Sounds like just the sort of crew that we need around here,” commented Lansford.

“By the way, are you still with Nose?”

“That I am,” replied Fuller.

“Since we’ve worked together last, I’ve been involved with the Naval Weapons lab. My present work concerns the sub-launched Tomahawk cruise-missile program. How about yourself, Colonel? How long have you been here at Vandenberg?”

Lansford was quick to answer.

“Actually, I left the Tactical Air Command shortly after the F-15 incident.

At that time I was transferred from George Air Force Base to the Space Command Center in Los Angeles. After a full year of training, I was assigned to the Space and Missile Test Organization here at Vandenberg.”

As they began passing through the main administrative area, Richard Fuller viewed a series of simple, multi-storied brick structures. One of these buildings had a full-scale model of a Minuteman missile perched at its entrance. While studying this object’s sleek lines. Fuller spoke out directly.

“You know, Colonel, I’m aware of the fact that something awfully damn important must have been loaded aboard the Titan to warrant calling the Marlin out of Kauai. It’s not every day that the Navy leaves one of its 688-clas8 submarines laying on the sea floor completely disabled. Tell me, does its payload have something to do with the Strategic Defense Initiative?”

Lansford grunted a response.

“No, it doesn’t. Doctor.”

Not put off by the officer’s recalcitrance, Fuller tried again.

“Then I bet it carried a reconnaissance platform of some type.”

Though his host didn’t answer, the mere look on Lansford’s face indicated that Fuller’s second guess was a correct one. Taking in the contained silence that now filled the car, he sat back as Lansford turned the vehicle into an asphalt parking lot. After parking it in a reserved space, the officer led the way out of the vehicle and toward an elongated, four-story brick office building. Quick on his heels, Richard Fuller followed Lansford into this structure’s entrance. Once past security, they began their way up three flights of stairs. This brought them to a wide, linoleum-tiled hallway. The lieutenant colonel’s office was the second one to the left.

No sooner had they walked into the doorway than they were excitedly greeted by the stocky, red-haired figure of Master Sergeant Vince Sprawlings.

“I was just trying to get you on the car phone, sir. You just got a call from Secretary Fitzpatrick’s office. I told them that you were probably in transit, and that you would return the call at once.”

Taking this all rather calmly, Lansford beckoned towards his guest.

“Master Sergeant Sprawlings, I’d like you to meet Dr. Richard Fuller of the Naval Oceans System Command. The good doctor arrived along with the crew of the Marlin and will be assisting us with the Titan salvage operation. Please see what you can do to speed along his every request. Now, how about getting me Mr. Fitzpatrick on the line? It’s not every day that we’re graced with a personal call from the honorable Secretary of the Air Force himself.”

Guiding Fuller inside the door to his inner office, Lansford seated himself behind a rather large walnut desk. The Doctor took his own seat in one of the two high-backed leather chairs that faced this desk. His gaze remained on his host, whose hand was about to pick up the telephone when its intercom button chimed a single time.

While Lansford proceeded with a rather formal, polite conversation, with few words actually spoken by him, Fuller scanned the office’s interior. Except for the desk, chairs, a single table, and a compact bookshelf, the floor furnishings were at a minimum.

This wasn’t the case with its walls, which were covered with all sorts of commendations, pictures, and maps. Studying these more closely, he spotted a series of framed eight-by-ten-inch photos that showed a variety of aircraft. Fuller identified a Fairchild A-10 Thunderbolt, a General Dynamics F-16 Fighting Falcon, a Lockheed C-130 Hercules, and a McDonnell Douglas F-4 Phantom. Set on an opposite wall was a large poster of a Rockwell B-1B bomber in flight.

Pinned to the wall beside this awesome-looking aircraft was a detailed map of the base itself. It included a good portion of ocean, which formed Vandenberg’s western boundary. It was while he was visualizing the currents that undercut this portion of the Pacific that Lansford hung up the phone and addressed him.

“Sometimes I seriously wonder just what makes those guys in Washington tick.”

“I know what you mean,” replied Fuller.

“You look like you just heard an earful, Colonel. Can you share it with me?”

For a good thirty seconds Lansford merely sat there, silently appraising his guest, before replying.

“I really shouldn’t, but you’re going to be figuring it out sooner or later anyway. Of course, I’d appreciate your discretion. In the hands of the wrong people, the information I’m about to pass on to you could cause us all sorts of problems.”

Accepting Fuller’s solemn nod, Lansford continued, “The failed Titan missile that you will be helping us piece back together indeed carried a top-secret reconnaissance platform as its payload. This particular model of Keyhole was the most sophisticated version that we had yet attempted to get into orbit.

Beyond its normal capabilities, it had cloud-piercing radar, night-vision sensors, and a new type of digital transfer ability to insure photos of an unprecedented quality.

“It is the practice of the United States to have at least two Keyholes in orbit above the Soviet Union at all times. Unfortunately, our primary platform has fallen from orbit and its back-up has mysteriously failed. With the loss of the Titan, only a single land based Keyhole remains in our inventory. To boost it into space, a suitable Titan rocket will take over a month to assemble. This leaves us with only a single vehicle readily available to get it into orbit, the military space shuttle, the Condor.

“It was only late last night when orders were received here directing us to prepare both the mothballed orbiter and its launch site for possible action.

That call from the Secretary confirms those directives, and raises our intended level of preparedness only one notch away from an actual launch. Though Vandenberg has yet to put a shuttle in space, that may all change in the days to come.”

Solemnly absorbing this information Fuller sat forward and asked, “Has the Condor been adapted to meet the Challenger board’s recommendations for design changes?”

Lansford shook his head.

“I’m afraid those changes have yet to be implemented either here or anywhere else as yet.”

Clearly disturbed by this revelation, Fuller protested, “Then how in the hell can they even think of using the Condor just to get a damn satellite in orbit?

Not only could they very well lose the last remaining Keyhole, but the shuttle and its crew as well!”

Lansford nodded in agreement.

“You’re right, the risk is great. Yet what else can we do? Though I still don’t know for certain, rumor has it that the Soviets are up to something that seriously upsets the current balance of strategic power. Because of this, it’s imperative that we get that Keyhole skyward no matter what risks are involved.”

“I still can’t see it,” replied Fuller.

“There’s just too much at stake.”

“That’s just it,” said his host.

“Washington wouldn’t even be thinking of putting the Condor into the air unless there were no other alternative. I can only pray that they know what they’re doing. Right now, all that I can do is perform the job at hand to the best of my abilities. Which reminds me, I imagine you’d like to take a look at a chart of the Titan’s preliminary debris field as determined by the U.S.S. Razorback sonar.”

Without waiting for a response, Lansford reached into his drawer and removed a folded chart. Smoothing it out before him, he handed it to his guest. With practiced ease, Richard Fuller examined this bathymetric chart of the Pacific Ocean off Point Arguello. Its unique feature was dozens of tiny red dots that began approximately three and a half miles from shore and stretched in a thin, elongated pattern westward.

“That debris field is comprised of over five hundred separate contacts,” commented Lansford. “It’s over five miles long and four hundred feet wide. Your mission, and that of the Marlin, is to determine its exact extent. Then you’re to begin the job of classifying each separate piece of wreckage. Your priorities are twofold. Not only are we desperate for any evidence that might point to the reason the Titan failed, but we also must know if any portion of its payload has survived. If the Soviets were to pick up that Keyhole, our entire space intelligence program would be completely compromised.”

With his eyes still glued to the chart. Fuller responded, “I’ll need a complete set of maps showing the sector’s topography, current, and magnetics.

Bathymetric charts of the sectors both to the immediate west and south would also be appreciated.”

“Just ask Master Sergeant Sprawlings and it’s yours,” returned Lansford, who pushed back his chair and stretched his legs.

“I want to thank you again for giving us a hand with this. Doc. The Air Force is indeed fortunate to have the benefit of your expertise.

Now, how about hitting that chow line? I don’t know about you, but all this thinking has got me famished.”