Flight of the Condor

Chapter Seven

Vadim Sobolev could think of no better way to end this momentous day than by capping it off with a hike to the Syrdar River. That morning, when he had taken this same walk, he had never dreamed that the results of his recently concluded meeting with the young bureaucrat, Valentin Radchenko, would bear fruit so quickly. Yet only two hours before the call from Viktor Alipov had arrived. Without a hint of hesitation, the Premier had given his blessings to the plan Vadim had sketched out to Radchenko earlier that same day.

Sobolev could only guess that the aide had caught the Premier in one of those fickle moods that he’d been prone to lately. Once again, the Commanderin Chief of the Strategic Rocket Forces thanked the fates for sending Valentin Radchenko to him. This entire operation couldn’t have blossomed without his invaluable assistance. Of course, those two extraordinary photographs Radchenko had delivered to Alipov must have had their effect also.

The distinctive cry of a quail broke from the oak wood, and Vadim searched the tree line for any visible sign of this elusive creature. It was as his eyes skimmed a fallen, moss-covered trunk that he spotted an entire covey of the fat, feathered game birds. Sorry that he had neglected to bring his shotgun along, Sobolev watched them scurry into the cover of the thick underbrush.

A gust of cool, fresh air blew in from the west, and Sobolev gratefully filled his lungs with this sweet essence. As the tree limbs swayed in response above him, he could think of no other place on this planet where he’d rather be. With his life’s work on the verge of total fulfillment, complete satisfaction would soon be his. Excited with this realization, Sobolev continued on down the pathway.

Because the sun had already fallen behind the tree line to the west, he knew he’d have just enough time to reach his goal before the gathering darkness sent him homeward. With renewed effort, he lengthened his stride, and five minutes later found himself standing on the Syrdar’s bank.

Positioning himself on a clover-filled clearing, Sobolev took in the glistening expanse of water that flowed before him. Soothed by the sound of the current, as it crashed upon the rapids in frothing white torrents, he found his being completely at peace.

It was as he scanned the woods that lay on the opposite bank that a strange movement caught his attention. Moving himself carefully downstream to get a better view of this disturbance, the old general began to grin as he identified its source. Lying on the other side of the Syrdar were a pair of lovers in the midst of a passionate coupling. Oblivious to the world around them, they went about their lovemaking with total abandon.

Though voyeurism was not a habit of his, Sobolev couldn’t help but find himself stimulated by watching the two go at it. A massive, gnarled oak trunk provided adequate cover for him to take in the frolicking, naked bodies without the threat of discovery.

From their appearances, the two couldn’t be but mere teenagers. The lad, who was mounted firmly on top, was lean and wiry. With a frantic swiftness, he plunged his hips continually downward between the chubby thighs of his trembling lover. Most probably from a neighboring village, these two youngsters obviously enjoyed the seclusion and peace of this spot just as much as the old general did.

Curiously, Sobolev found his thoughts soaring far away from sex. Widowed for over a decade now, he had for a long time been afforded the love of a wonderful woman. Though they had never had children, his Tanya had often been the source of his strength and inspiration. Without her backing, he could have never aspired to attain his current rank.

How genuinely excited she would have been to know how splendidly his dream was actually progressing.

For even as he stood here, the operation was already in progress.

Intelligence showed the only remaining American ground-based Keyhole platform to be located in central California, at Vandenberg Air Force Base. Because this base’s western boundary was bordered by the Pacific, he didn’t foresee any difficulties in landing a Spetsnaz Special Forces squadron there. Vandenberg would be penetrated and the Keyhole destroyed. This would leave the Americans totally blind to Soviet efforts. Already his crews were readying the final Tartar warhead packages. These would be loaded onto Tyuratam’s force of SS-18’s. Then they merely had to wait for the final okay from Alipov to send the warheads skyward.

A surge of adrenalin coursed through Sobolev’s body as he watched the young male lover’s torso freeze in the midst of orgasm. Far from ponderings of a sexual nature, his inner eye visualized the utter destruction their warheads would wreak. Like a sperm in the act of fertilization, the nuclear blasts would spawn a new society. Finally freed from the blind material greed of Capitalism, the West would anxiously join hands with its Soviet brothers, and the world would know an unprecedented era of peace and prosperity.

Stirred by such a vision, Sobolev sighed. The harsh cry of a raven sounded behind him, and he looked up and found dusk rapidly descending. Taking a last look at the lovers, who still lay intertwined, he reluctantly began his way back to the footpath with a single thought in mind. As it now stood, the outcome of the operation he had already set into action lay in the capable hands of a single individual. If his protege, Pavel Yagoda, could only know that his grandson now held the very fate of the Motherland in his hands! It was as Vadim rejoined the narrow path that would take him back to Tyuratam that he wondered if Grigori’s orders had yet reached him.

Five hundred and forty kilometers to the southeast of Tyuratam, Lieutenant Grigori Yagoda sat in the copilot’s seat of an Mi-24 helicopter gunship. Below him, his blue-eyed gaze was ri voted on a desolate, rock-filled valley. Presently thirty-seven kilometers due east of the village of Bamian, in central Afghanistan, the blond Spetsnaz operative searched in vain for any sign of the armored column they were expecting to meet up with there. Shifting the weight of his muscular body, Grigori was most conscious of the ever-advancing dusk. If the column were not intercepted within the next forty-five minutes, they would be forced to return to Kabul, their mission a failure.

Such a possibility was not in the least bit attractive, and the big-shouldered Naval Infantry commando diverted his attention to the pilot, who sat to his left.

Grigori’s powerful bass voice easily penetrated the loud clatter of the chopper’s rotors.

“Are you certain that we are over the right valley, Captain? Ten armored vehicles can’t just disappear in this wasteland.”

Not bothering to take his eyes off the cockpit instruments, the pilot responded, “Of course we’re over the right valley. Lieutenant. That is, unless General Valerian has decided to penetrate Bamian using another route.”

“Not Valerian,” returned Grigori.

“He’d follow the plan of the day if it meant walking right into the gates of Hell. Perhaps he was able to make better progress than we anticipated. Though, from the rugged look of the terrain down there, I don’t know how this would be possible.”

Sitting back in his seat, Grigori adjusted the black beret that signified his position in the Soviet Union’s most exclusive fighting unit. Except for the blue-striped sailor’s shirt, the neck of which was just visible beneath his camouflaged fatigues, there were no other markings on his uniform to divulge his status as one of the Motherland’s most elite warriors.

The profile of the heavily armed gunship reflected off the surrounding hillside as Grigori surveyed that portion of the valley that they were about to enter. It was as they rounded a broad bend that he first spotted the smoke. The thick, black plume rose from a portion of the valley still several kilometers distant.

His gut instinctively tensed as the pilot also saw the smoke and opened up the gunship’s throttles. In instant response, the dual Isotov turbo shafts roared alive, and the helicopter surged forward with a speed of over 275 kilometers per hour.

Less than two miles later, their worst fears were realized as the gunship reached the burning remains of the column that they had been sent to intercept. As they hovered above the wreckage, Grigori identified the burnt-out shells of three BMP infantry combat vehicles. Lying on their sides, in front of the BMP’s, were a pair of eight-wheeled BTR-6 armored personnel carriers. Next to these were the remains of four troop carriers. Even from their present height, Grigori could pick out the dozens of bodies that lay beside these trucks. A wave of anger possessed him as the gunship circled the smoking hulk of the convoy’s lead vehicle, a T-62 main battle tank.

“Take us down!” ordered Grigori Yagoda sternly.

“But the ones who were responsible for this massacre,” countered the pilot, “surely they’re close by.”

Not believing that he was being challenged, Grigori swept his icy stare to his left and directly caught that of the pilot. No more words were needed, and the captain pushed forward on the gunship’s stick. Its nose dipped in response.

The Mi-24 landed on a rock-strewn clearing immediately beside the troop carriers. First out of its fuselage was a pair of Spetsnaz commandos. As experienced members of Grigori Yagoda’s squadron, both Konstantin Lomakin and Dmitri Andreyev knew their responsibilities. Angling their Kalashnikov rifles upwards, the dark, moustached soldiers, who could have passed for twins, took up defensive positions at the clearing’s perimeter. With the gunship’s rotors still madly cutting through the air above them, their leader jumped onto the clearing from the Mi-24’s interior.

Armed with an AKS-74 assault rifle, Grigori signaled the chopper pilot to return the vehicle to the sky. Each of the soldiers covered his eyes as the gunship’s engines increased their whine. To a whipping cloud of dust, the Mi-24 broke contact with the ground and began a wide sweep of the surrounding hillside.

The relief was instantaneous. The dust soon settled and the engine’s roar faded. Grigori Yagoda took in the sickening scene that he had viewed from above.

The mountain air was cool with dusk, yet the ripe, putrid scent of death was everywhere. Fighting back the nauseous urge to empty his gut, Grigori crossed through a line of stiff, blood-soaked bodies. Each of these lifeless corpses was dressed in the khaki fatigues of the Motherland’s infantry. When he noticed that his unfortunate countrymen were stripped of their weapons and some of their clothing, Grigori’s pulse quickened. When his forward progress interrupted a trio of vultures feeding on the body of a sergeant, his rage exploded. Whipping his rifle upward, he let loose with a deafening blast, and seconds later the birds of prey were nothing but a pile of bloody flesh and feathers.

His limbs were still trembling as he made it to the lead truck’s side. Surprised that the rebels were able to take out such a heavily armored vehicle, he inspected its shell to determine the cause of its demise. It was as his eyes spotted the jagged black hole created by an exploding land mine that he stumbled over the legs of one of his fallen comrades. He peered down to identify this corpse and recognized it instantly. Though the body was decapitated, with the head nowhere to be seen, there could be no denying the officer’s bars that decorated this soldier’s corpulent torso.

General Pavel Valerian had been the senior Soviet officer stationed in Afghanistan. Though his rank afforded him the relatively safe luxury of remaining at their base of operations in Kabul, the old-timer wouldn’t think of missing real action. A veteran of the Great War itself. Valerian had personally served with Grigori’s grandfather. Together they had accounted for hundreds of Nazi barbarians in that greatest of all modern military conflicts.

For Valerian to have met death in such an inglorious manner, in this godforsaken, desolate wilderness, was a travesty of justice. Surely a hero of the Soviet Union deserved better. With this thought in mind, Grigori stood upright and issued a resounding curse at the top of his lungs. The urge for revenge guided his steps as he breathlessly rejoined the other two members of his squad and called the gunship back to pick them up.

“What kind of force could have been responsible for this massacre?” queried Konstantin Lomakin as they waited for the helicopter to return from its sweep of the hills.

“Never before have the Mujahiddin demonstrated such firepower.”

“I’ll bet they were using our own weapons,” observed Dmitri Andreyev bitterly.

“May our soldiers who trade their guns for hashish die a thousand horrible deaths!”

Grigori Yagoda watched their gunship sweep in from the northwest.

“Well, the one thing that we can be certain of is that the rebels who caused this slaughter are even better armed now. They’ve gained over one hundred of our last rifles in this attack, and untold amounts of grenades and ammunition.”

“My gut aches for revenge!” spat Dmitri Andreyev, who looked up as the Mi-24 began its descent.

Screaming over the roar of its engines, Grigori Yagoda added, “Join the crowd, comrade. I’d say it’s time we begin to start evening the score. How about it?”

There could be no ignoring the expressions of pure hatred on the commandos’ faces as they piled into the gunship. When it again took to the sky, Grigori watched the fading line of smoldering wreckage from the copilot’s position.

“Shall we return to Kabul and bring back the entire company?” quizzed the pilot.

Grigori’s response was delivered without hesitation.

“There’s no time for that. Captain. By the time we got back here, the ones responsible for this massacre will be long gone. I want you to take us to Bamian.”

“What can we possibly do there alone?” queried the pilot.

“We need back-up on this.”

“Like hell we do!” screamed Grigori, his face flushed with contained anger.

“Turn this gunship westward, comrade, or I’ll be forced to fly it there myself.”

Most aware that the man sitting next to him was quite capable of this feat, the pilot turned the nose of the Mi-24 back towards the sunset. Outside, the horizon was tainted with gold as the sun inched behind the encircling mountains. As they continued on down the valley’s spine, a hushed silence settled inside the cockpit’s interior. The pilot’s attention returned to his instruments, and Grigori’s inner vision returned to the smoking column.

Though he was certainly no stranger to death, the thirty-two-year-old commando would take to his grave the tragic sights he had just experienced. To see so many stiff corpses in one spot truly sickened him.

With their putrid scent still flavoring each breath that passed his nostrils, Grigori craved only a single course of action. Revenge would be the medicine that would purge this poison from his system.

The monotonous chop of the gunship’s rotors rattled on, and Grigori stirred with impatience. Below him, by the light of the gathering dusk, he noticed that the terrain was gradually changing. Thick stands of lowlying scrub and an occasional gnarled tree gripped the ground that had supported only rocks and sand before. When their progress took them over a tumbling stream, he spotted acre after acre of ripening wheat in the distance. As they crossed over these fields, the first shabby human habitations became visible. Crudely constructed out of bleached rock and dried timber, these simple structures made for an inviting target. Grigori fought the impulse to spray them with bullets. Nevertheless, his hands gripped the firecontrol panel as the gunship roared over a series of needle-like hillsides and broke into a wide, fertile clearing.

Dominating this clearing were two huge Buddhas, carved into the surrounding mountains. Well aware that they had finally reached their goal, Grigori stirred in anticipation. His eyes narrowed as they swept over the collection of sand-colored stone huts that comprised the village of Bamian. It had been a mecca for the decadent, hashish-smoking American hippies in the 1970s. Now the Mujahiddin considered their rule there undisputed. He’d soon show this rabble how wrong these so-called Warriors of God were in this assumption.

His mouth was dry, his glance expectant, yet he couldn’t pick out a single human being visible beneath them. Swearing under the cover of his breath, he looked on impotently. Had their elusive quarry escaped them once again? And would the lives of his fallen comrades go unrevenged?

He was just about to admit defeat when a massive rectangle of flaming torches became visible, lighting up a distant field. Catching this sight at the same instant, the pilot exclaimed, “It’s the entire town!

They’re down there on the Buzkashi field. We must have caught them in the midst of some sort of festival!”

Most conscious of what this meant, Grigori smiled and his fingers tightened their grip on the gunship’s weapons controls. Without further comment, they soared in to attack.

For the next few minutes, all Grigori Yagoda was aware of was the steady staccato blasting of the gunship’s four wing-mounted gatt ling guns. Instinctively, his index finger depressed the firing trigger and the 12.7-mm. bullets flew forth in a hydraulic flurry of 2,000 rounds a minute. Designed to pierce the surface of a light armored vehicle, the bullets played havoc with human flesh. This fact was most evident as the casualties below steadily mounted.

The Afghans had been in the midst of their national game when the Mi-24 swept in from above.

Hundreds of villagers were watching the Buzkashi tournament and they were apparently caught totally off guard. During their first pass, Grigori was afforded an excellent view of the match itself, which his bullets all too soon disrupted. Dozens of horsemen had been visible in the center of the torchlit field, busy trying to gain possession of a stuffed burlap sack. The object of the game was to secure this sack and ride it around the two poles placed at either end of the rectangular field. In days of old, a sheep’s head was this sack’s contents. As he remembered the decapitated body of Commander Valerin, Grigori’s fury intensified.

They had completed over a half-dozen passes, and the area was now littered with hundreds of prone, bloody bodies, yet still Yagoda craved more. It was only when an anti-aircraft tracer shot out from a surrounding hillside that Grigori cried out angrily.

“There’s the bastards responsible for the deaths of our comrades, they’re in the hills! Let’s show those spineless cowards what it is to fight like real men. For the glory of the Motherland!”

Possessed by the intensity of battle and the strength of Yagoda’s words, the pilot didn’t hesitate to turn his attention to this new target. With throttles wide open, the gunship streaked through the dusk-colored sky, its nose pointed straight for the rugged hills that lay to the north of the village. Again a tracer shot out toward them. To answer this blast, Grigori released a pair of 5.7-mm. rockets, which streaked out from their storage racks and smacked into the hillside with a fiery vengeance. As the Mi-24 turned to make another pass, Grigori noticed a good-sized contingent of armed rebels scurrying for cover among the rocks beneath them. Signaling the pilot of their presence, Grigori spoke out.

“We’ll never get them all from this vantage point, comrade. I want you to drop me and my squad off on the crest of that hill. Then we’ll show that rabble what it means to provoke the are of the Motherland’s finest!”

A quick scan showed them clearly outnumbered, yet the pilot didn’t dare challenge Yagoda’s request.

Even though standard military practice would have them call in reinforcements, he guided the chopper over to the rocky crest the commando had pointed out. Yagoda stood and flashed him a victory sign.

“Don’t go far, Captain. This won’t take long. Take us down to twenty meters. We’ll use ropes to go the rest of the way.”

Signaling that he understood, the pilot saw the tall, blond-haired Spetsnaz operative turn and disappear back into the Mi-24’s main cabin. With practiced ease, he then began the difficult task of settling the lumbering gunship over the proper landing site.

As the chopper hovered and slowly began descending, three sets of ropes flew from its opened main hatchway. Lit by the light of dusk, three figures, with rifles strapped over their backs, expertly slid down the ropes. Hardly had their boots touched the ground when they sprinted for cover behind some nearby boulders. The down draft of the now-ascending gunship veiled the crest in waves of dust, and all too soon the helicopter’s racket was gone, to be replaced with a hushed, primordial silence.

Utilizing a system of birdcalls to communicate with each other, the three men silently leapfrogged down the mountainside. It was Dmitri Andreyev who first chanced upon the enemy. As he crawled from the cover of a particularly jagged boulder, he found himself face-to-face with a trio of startled rebels.

Taking in their characteristic baggy pantaloons, long, loose shirts, and beard-stub bled faces, Andreyev put a bullet neatly into each man’s forehead long before they could even raise their Kalashnikovs.

The report of these shots caused a half-dozen Mujahiddin to suddenly show themselves from the rocks immediately to Andreyev’s left. Just as he turned to put his own weapon into play, six shots sounded out from behind him. Before any of these Afghans could even hit their triggers, each of them received a single, fatal wound from the hidden barrels of his two comrades. Still not certain exactly where they were located, Dmitri allowed himself a sigh of relief. He had been caught oft guard and that breath could very well have been his last.

The shrill cry of a quail sounded to his right, and Andreyev knew it was time to be on the move once again. Answering with a call of his own, he continued on down the hillside. This time it was the booming blast of an automatic weapon that caught his attention. Unlike any rifle that the members of his squadron used, he picked out the distinctive whine of a 7.62-mm. PK machine gun. A series of bullets ricocheted off the rocks immediately before him, and he desperately scanned the surrounding hills to pick out their source. Only when a raven’s harsh cry emanated from his left did he know that the machine gun was set up behind him. With his back pressed up against a solid ledge of rock, he cautiously moved in the direction the raven had called from. Again the machine gun whined, and this time its bullets bit off several chips of nearby rock. One of these fragments grazed his cheek, and for the first time in weeks Dmitri Andreyev tasted his own blood.

Not certain how he would extra cate himself from this situation, the commando froze. His extensive training taught him to think out a problem fully before committing himself too hastily. As it eventually turned out, his savior was crouched only a few meters away from him. Waiting patiently beside the large rock ledge to his left was the grinning figure of Grigori Yagoda.

Only when Yagoda was certain of Dmitri’s position did he stand up and lob a single RGD-5 hand grenade into the rocks behind them. The machine gun instantly coughed alive, and Yagoda was forced to dive for cover. Three seconds later, the grenade’s 110 grams of TNT burst with an ear-splitting crack.

The sound of this explosion echoed off the rock cliffs and the distinctive whine of the machine gun became noticeably absent.

Dusting the debris off his fatigues, Grigori Yagoda stood and signaled that the obstacle behind them had been cleared. Only then did Dmitri join him.

“It looks like the Afghan marksmen have finally drawn the blood of Russia’s finest,” whispered Grigori, as he pointed to the wound that lined his comrade’s cheek.

Wiping the blood off with a handkerchief, Dmitri retorted, “This is no war wound, comrade, it’s only a mere scratch. I wonder where Konstantin has run off to.

As if to answer this query, the gentle cry of a quail sounded to their right. An all-knowing grin spread across Grigori Yagoda’s face.

“I believe that’s our esteemed comrade calling to us now. I’ll give you odds that he’s cornered our quarry down below, and that he’s only waiting for our presence to do them away.”

“I learned long ago never to bet against you, Grigori Yagoda, and this time proves no exception.

Let’s go see what he’s found.”

Dmitri’s cheek wound had already stopped flowing by the time they spotted their coworker. Perched on a rocky ledge, several meters below them, Konstantin Lomakin pressed his index finger to his lips and beckoned them to join him. A minute later, they were at his side.

“We’ve got the whole lot of them, comrades. While you were busy with that machine gun nest, I spied over a dozen Mujahiddin crawl into a cave whose entrance is right below us. Not only were they heavily armed with two rifles apiece, but they were carrying several ammo crates that could have only come from our convoy.”

With this revelation, Grigori Yagoda couldn’t help but smile. Not taking the time out to verbally respond, he began examining the composition of the rock shelf on which they currently stood. Only then did he speak.

“This limestone should be easy to fracture. I’d say that, if we lay a line of plastic explosive along the lip of this ledge, we should be able to take down a good chunk of the hillside above us. If the concussion doesn’t return them to Allah, I’ll guarantee you that they’ll be trapped inside that tomb of rock for all eternity. That should give these Warriors of God plenty of time to contemplate the type of adversary they’ve chosen to challenge.”

Most happy with this plan, the three Spetsnaz commandos began the task of lining the ledge with white, clay-like chunks of plastic explosive. It was Grigori who expertly connected the remote-controlled detonators. Then he led his men off to shelter. Once they were settled at a safe distance, Grigori held up the battery-powered detonator trigger and, before pressing it, whispered vindictively, “This is for the lives of General Pavel Valerian and the rest of his brave troops. May their deaths be not in vain!”

With the completion of this brief valediction, he hit the button and a deafening series of blasts sounded.

This was followed by the terrifying sound of an avalanche, as the wall of rock lying above the exploding ledge tumbled downward in a single, swift motion.

The crashing wave of solid rock caused a huge veil of debris to form over the blast site. It took almost five full minutes for this cloud to settle and for the commandos to check the results firsthand.

Careful not to slip on the tons of loose rock that their detonation had created, the three soldiers picked their way down the mountainside. They were surprised to find that the ledge on which they had set the explosives no longer existed. In its place was a tumbled mass of huge boulders. Since this ledge had also served as the cave’s roof, there was no doubting that the Afghans who had been hiding inside it were nothing but crushed heaps of bloody flesh and smashed bone. With this in mind, the soldiers knew their revenge was finally completed.

A hushed silence possessed their ranks as Grigori Yagoda led them back up to the hillside’s crest. Once they had reached the summit, Dmitri Andreyev activated a flare. Minutes later, they were aware of a chopping clatter echoing down the valley’s sheer walls. It was Konstantin Lomakin who first spotted the Mi-24 gunship as it swept in from the northeast.

A single rope ladder was visible, swaying from the vehicle’s fuselage hatchway. Soon it was hovering above them, and one by one the squadron made its way upward into the helicopter’s main cabin.

Taking only the time to straighten his beret, Grigori Yagoda proceeded immediately to the cockpit.

There he was greeted by the anxious pilot.

“Welcome back, comrade. I hope your mission was a successful one because top priority orders are calling you back to Kabul. I’ve been instructed to return you there with all due haste.”

Without further comment, the pilot turned his attention back to the vehicle’s controls and initiated a long sweeping turn. Soon they were headed back down the valley, toward the southeast.

The dusk had turned to night, and Grigori sat back emotionally drained. This empty feeling always accompanied him when he returned from combat.

The thrill of standing on the precarious border between life and death was an exhausting one. Fighting the heaviness that weighed down his eyelids, Grigori thought about the nature of the orders that were calling them back to Kabul. He could only hope that this directive would further allow him to take the war deeper into the enemy’s homeland. This anticipation dominated his thoughts as he surrendered himself to a sound, dreamless sleep.

As darkness enveloped the dry, desolate hills of Afghanistan, the noon rains were drenching the plains of French Guiana. No one was more aware of this downpour than Colonel Jean Moreau. For the past five minutes he had been guiding his jeep down the mud-splattered roadway, towards Ariadne’s southern security perimeter. At his side sat his assistant, Jacques LeMond.

Both men did their best to see out of the vehicle’s windshield, yet the rains fell in such a volume that the jeep’s wipers fought a vain battle. Inside the non-airconditioned vehicle, it was hot and sticky. In order to keep the inside of the windows free from steam, Moreau was forced to keep his window cracked open several inches. Oblivious to the rain that completely soaked his left shoulder, he hunched forward in an attempt to get a better view of the road before them.

Not a word was exchanged between them” as Moreau focused his total concentration on his driving.

Even then, the kilometers seemed to pass by with a maddening slowness. Hesitant to increase their speed, the colonel fought the instinct to hit the brakes when the jeep plowed into a rain-swollen depression. Only when they passed through a familiar, overgrown portion of the jungle did a breath of relief pass his lips.

On the other side of this thick copse of fern and coconut palms was a wide clearing. There the road skirted its southern flank. A seven-foot tall, barbed wire-topped, chain-link fence separated this portion of the clearing from the jungle beyond. They followed the fence, visible on their right, for almost a half kilometer before Moreau spotted the parked security jeep blocking the road before them. Pulling in behind this vehicle, he hit the brakes and turned off the ignition.

“Well, here it goes, Jacques,” observed Moreau solemnly.

“I have a feeling it’s not going to be pretty.”

Responding to this comment with a shrug, Le-Mond pulled down the visor of his Montreal Expos baseball cap and shoved the door open. Moreau was quick to join him outside.

The rain fell in blindingly thick sheets, yet they spotted the three armed sentries almost at once.

Standing beside the fence, the sentries had their attention locked on the ground beside them. By the time the newcomers joined them, both Moreau and his assistant were thoroughly soaked.

To a crackling boom of thunder, Moreau caught sight of the sickening scene that held the guards’ attention. Lying on their backs in a straight line were five black laborers. They were stripped to their waists, and each of the corpses had its throat cut and a bullet hole squarely in its forehead. Because the rains had long ago washed the stiff bodies of blood, they seemed like artificial mannequins, yet Jean Moreau knew otherwise.

“Bon your, mon Colonel,” greeted the senior sentry.

“We found these poor fellows less than a quarter of an hour ago. It looks as if they’ve been dead for several hours. All five were assigned to field maintanence. There’s something over here that I think you’ll be interested in seeing.”

Nodding to lead on, Moreau and his assistant followed the sentry toward the fence. There, a long length of chain-link wire had been neatly cut. It allowed plenty of room for a full-grown man to pass through. Protruding from the soaked ground beneath this break was a single rusty machete. Tied to its handle was a red bandana.

“It’s the calling card of the Third Brigade,” said the sentry disgustedly.

“After months of absence, those filthy leftist bastards have finally returned.”

Taking in this observation, Moreau shook his head.

“It certainly appears to be the work of the Third Brigade, mon ami.”

“What in God’s name is the Third Brigade?”

asked a bewildered LeMond.

“It’s hard to believe that they’ve been inactive in these parts for over two years,” continued Moreau.

“We had our share of this kind of foolishness when we first started work here.” He turned to LeMond.

“Apparently the Brigade is a Maoist guerilla organization that wants Ariadne out of Guiana. For the first couple of years we put up with their threats, until they started making this kind of sick gesture. A full year before you arrived here, we were forced to move into the back country with a large contingent of Legionnaires. Our boys found their headquarters on the banks of the Sinnamary River, and blew away over four dozen of them. Until today, that was the last we’d heard of them.”

“There’ve been rumblings in Kourou that they’ve returned for sometime now, mon Colonel,” offered the senior sentry.

“Yet this bandana and machete are the first actual proofs of this fact.”

“We still must be cautious,” returned Moreau.

“Someone could be merely copying their calling-card to cover up a simple, brutal murder. That’s why I want a complete investigation. Photograph the area thoroughly before taking the bodies off to Kourou for an autopsy. Then an emergency security meeting is in order for later this afternoon.”

A rumbling boom of thunder emphasized these words. This was followed by the piercing electronic tone of Moreau’s earphone. It was Jacques LeMond who slogged over the muddy field to answer it.

A quick conversation followed. LeMond hung up the receiver and called out to his superior.

“Colonel, it was Winston. He says it’s most urgent that you return to your office at once.”

Knowing that his administrative assistant wouldn’t bother him needlessly, Moreau excused himself and returned to the jeep.

“Would you like a ride back, Jacques?” questioned Moreau as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

LeMond stood on the field before him.

“That’s okay, Colonel. I’ll hitch a ride back with security. If you don’t mind, I’d like to give them a hand with the initial investigation.”

“Be my guest,” returned Moreau, who added, “Just keep an eye on that tree line, mon ami. If it is indeed the Third Brigade, I’ll bet they’re watching us at this very moment. Good hunting.”

The last he saw of his assistant was as he pivoted to return to the fence. The soaked, tall, lanky figure was soon out of his line of sight, and Moreau turned the jeep around and headed back on the same drenched road that he had just passed over.

The rains had yet to diminish and the colonel was most aware that the freshly starched shirt and pants that Theresa had prepared for him that morning were now completely saturated. Wiping the moisture from his forehead, he did his best to drive as fast as possible.

A single vision remained in his mind’s eye. The five dead laborers had been laid out in such a dramatic fashion that the heinous nature of the needless crime that had taken their lives could almost be overlooked.

It was as if the deaths themselves meant nothing.

Rather, it was a mere political point that the perpetrators were trying to convey. Sickened by the type of low-life that could stoop to such an act, Moreau cursed his misfortune. Whenever things appeared to be going smoothly, the jung led hell that surrounded them would place yet another obstacle in their way.

First it had been the logistical difficulties of establishing an adequate supply line. Then there were the mosquitos and the snakes to contend with. The appearance of the leftists only made a miserable environment that much worse.

Moreau guided the jeep through a dense copse of palms and realized that in a way they’d been lucky these past few years. Only a fool would have thought that the Legionnaires had been able to do away with all the troublemakers. As with a malignant cancer, only a single remaining cell needed to be left behind in order for the disease to propagate once more. If the Third Brigade had indeed returned, the only course of action would be to strike them quick and sure.

Since several members of Ariadne’s current security force had previously worked on Devil’s Island, he was confident that they would be able to do the job themselves. This could all be discussed during the afternoon’s meeting.

A crack of lightning lit the nearby sky and the colonel nervously jumped. Beyond, a rain-swollen creek had overflowed and the stream was in the process of flooding the road. Shifting his vehicle into four-wheel drive, he plowed into this current. The wipers continued their futile battle to clear the windshield and Moreau was forced to open his window wider to allow in more air. The jeep skidded, yet he quickly regained control.

A half kilometer passed before the grade of the road improved. Though the rain still fell in blinding sheets, he was able to make out the outline of the payload-preparation facility and, beyond, the Ariadne’s launch tower. No rocket currently sat on this pad.

He cursed when a mosquito bit him on the neck.

Slapping it dead with the palm of his hand, Moreau wondered what could be so damn important to warrant this unusual call back to the office. He knew he’d soon find out for himself, for the two-story, concrete-block structure holding command headquarters was visible off the road directly to his left.

Turning into its lot, he parked the jeep and sprinted to the building’s entrance.

He needed to utilize both his security code and identification pass to gain entry there. Ignoring the trail of mud and water he left behind him, Moreau climbed up two flights of steps. At the head of the stairway was a frosted-glass door on the surface of which was printed, “Colonel Jean Moreau — Director, Ariadne Project.” Quick to enter this door, he was greeted by his black male secretary, who sat before his typewriter pounding out a memo.

“Oh, mon Colonel, thank the Lord that you got back here so quickly. The Commandant himself called you less than a quarter of an hour ago. You’re to call him at once, on the private line at his summer place in Cannes.”

“Why thank you, Winston,” said the breathless Moreau, who only then was aware of the puddle of water that had gathered beneath him.

“Sorry about the wet mess, mon ami, but the rain just won’t stop falling out there. I’ll place the call myself in my office.”

Without waiting for a response, Moreau rushed through the double doors that led to his inner sanctum.

It wasn’t every day that he received a personal call from the Commandant. In fact, it had been over a week since he had last heard from the director and founder of the Consortium. With this in mind, he positioned himself behind his desk and, punching in the series of numbers that only he was privileged to know, activated the computerized telephone.

A succession of electronic tones emanated from the phone’s speaker. Moreau visualized the signal as it was received by the Ariadne communications satellite that soared in a geosynchronous orbit high over the Atlantic. Seconds later, this same signal found itself beamed eastward, to a receiving dish located in faraway southern France. Just as quickly as he could complete a call to neighboring Kourou, a deep voice sounded with utmost clarity from the receiver.

“Commandant here.”

“Mon Commandant, this is Colonel Moreau.”

The voice on the other end lightened.

“Ah, Jean, it’s good to hear your voice. As always, it sounds like you are calling from just down the street. I hope things are well at Ariadne.”

Moreau answered guardedly.

“I’m afraid we had a bit of a tragedy here this morning. Five of our maintenance workers were found murdered in the southern security sector. Preliminary evidence points to the Third Brigade as the ones responsible.”

Seconds passed before the Commandant responded.

“That is indeed sad news, Jean. Please convey my respects to the poor victims’ families. Will you be needing assistance from the Legion once again?”

“I believe this time we will be able to handle the situation ourselves. If we are unable to correct the problem, I will inform you at once.”

“Very good, mon ami,” retorted the Commandant, whose tone then turned flat.

“For a while there, I thought that we might have ridden the earth of that scum for good, but que sera, sera. I hate to add more darkness to your already gloomy day, but I thought that you’d like to be one of the first to know that the United States Government has turned down our bid to assist NASA in their time of difficulty.”

Surprised with this revelation, Moreau sat forward.

“But how will they put their satellites into orbit without the services of their space shuttle or Titan?”

Aware of the tension that flavored the colonel’s voice, the Commandant replied coolly, “Believe it or not, our man inside NASA informs us that the military shuttle Condor is currently being brought out of mothballs to place America’s top-priority pay loads into orbit, until a safer, more reliable platform is available. The first launch of this vehicle could take place as soon as forty-eight hours from now.”

Hardly believing what he was hearing, Moreau exclaimed, “Are those Americans crazy? Have they forgotten the results of Challenger already? I can’t believe they’d risk the lives of a brave crew when we hold the alternative right here at Ariadne. They are as stubborn and cheap as they are foolish.”

The Commandant allowed Moreau to catch his breath before continuing.

“Only hours ago, I was summoned to a hastily called meeting of the Board of Directors. At that time, our esteemed finance director informed us that, even with the additional Asian business, the Consortium faces serious cash-flow problems in the near future. The nature of this ever increasing deficit could put Ariadne completely out of business as soon as the end of this year. Only one source of revenue remains untapped that can reverse this position before it’s too late. I’m afraid I have no other alternative but to instruct you to immediately initiate Operation Diablo one more time.”

The instruction cut into Moreau’s soul like a knife into butter. Most aware of just what the Commandant was asking of him, the colonel struggled to summon a proper response. Abandoning his emotions, he allowed his duty to take over.

“Yes, mon Commandant, I will get to work on implementing Diablo at once. Am I to assume that this is not a practice alert, sir?”

“Your assumption is correct, Jean Moreau,” answered the icily cool, deep voice of his superior.

“A full packet of instructions is currently on its way to you via a Mirage jet fighter. You will be receiving them within the hour. Please don’t hesitate to call me if you have the slightest of questions. I don’t have to remind you that the very survival of Ariadne is at stake here. Though our actions might seem a bit harsh, we have no other choice. I do hope you understand this. Au revoir, mon ami. May the Lord be with you.”

Barely offering a goodbye of his own, Moreau managed to hang up the receiver. His mind was still awash with tangled thought as he swiveled around to view-that portion of the facility visible from his office’s central picture window. He hardly flinched when a jagged spear of lightning flashed from the heavens and struck the top of a nearby coconut palm.

A wave of solid water splattered onto the window’s exterior surface, and Moreau found himself focusing in on the sight of his own reflection visible in the glistening glass pane.

Appearing pale and completely drained of energy, the white-haired figure sat there listlessly, his thoughts struggling for rational order. Though he had been well aware that this day might come, he had never considered it seriously. Now that the unthinkable had happened, he could do but one thing.

Otherwise, an entire life’s effort would be totally wasted.