Just when he was considering pulling over to let the storm vent itself, the rains halted as quickly as they had begun. In their place was a ghostly, thick fog. Again, he struggled to stay on the road, yet seconds later the fog was gone, to be replaced by a sunny, brilliantly blue morning sky. A mile later, he guided his jeep to the right and began his way up the quarter of a mile of pavement that led to NASA’s Kokee tracking station.
Inside the compact, concrete structure, Dr. Max Lindsay sat before a twelve-by-eight-foot perspex screen. Projected here was a full-scale map of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. With practiced eyes, the facilities director studied a single. Hashing blue light, just visible over the Barents Sea, at the country’s northernmost extremity. Shifting his unlit, well-battered briar pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other, Lindsay grunted anxiously.
So far, the morning had produced little news of a positive nature. Only an hour ago, the Ground-Based Electro-Optical Deep Space Surveillance (GEODSS) station located on Diego Garcia, in the midst of the Indian Ocean, had notified them that Keyhole Alpha was loosing its orbit quicker than they had anticipated.
Their original calculations had given the platform up to seventy-two hours of survival time.
Whatever the exact time of the doomed satellite’s final demise, it was Dr. Lindsay’s responsibility to make certain that its replacement was on line the second that Keyhole Alpha failed.
Shifting his line of sight to the right, he watched a single, seated, white-smocked technician feed Alpha’s exact coordinates into the computer. Beside him was a vacant terminal. It would be from this position that Baker would be reactivated. Checking his watch, Max Lindsay wondered what could be keeping the man responsible for this allimportant task, senior technician Andrew Weston. If Weston didn’t arrive soon, Lindsay would have to transfer this duty to Sunnyvale.
The staccato click of hard-soled shoes echoed off the tiled floor behind him. He didn’t have to turn around to identify who those steps belonged to. Captain William Maddox had been stationed at Kokee for almost a month now. As NASA had become involved with more military projects, the Air Force had thought that it was fitting to have one of their own around to monitor the station’s activities.
At first. Dr. Lindsay had been genuinely upset with such a presence and had expressed himself vocally. He had argued that not only would the officer get in the way, but having such a figure around would be a complete waste of the taxpayers’ money. The NASA crew was most capable of doing its routine work without a military flunkie continually snooping over its shoulders.
When his superiors had failed to get the officer recalled, Lindsay had reluctantly accepted the fact that they’d have to make the best of the situation. As it turned out, this was more difficult than he had anticipated, for Captain William Maddox was one of the coldest, most uncommunicative individuals that Lindsay had ever met.
Hardly ever breaking a smile, the dour-faced captain often seemed more like a robot than a human being. What really bothered Lindsay was the officer’s complete lack of a sense of humor. In a place with such tight confines as the Kokee facility, trading a joke or two was often the only way the staff could relieve itself of tension. Why, Lindsay didn’t even know if the man had a family or not. All that he knew was that Maddox was a graduate of the Air Force Academy, and had been assigned to the Consolidated Space Operations center in Colorado Springs, Colorado.
When the sound of clicking footsteps halted immediately behind him, Lindsay redirected his complete attention to the perspex screen. The blinking blue light had crossed the Arctic Sea and was well into Siberia by now. After smoothing down the two perpetually wild tufts of gray hair that lay beside each of his ears, Lindsay efficiently addressed his keyboard. As the lighted screen of his monitor blinked alive, a deep, no-nonsense voice spoke up from behind.
“What’s Alpha’s ETA over the Tyuratam ICBM fields, Doctor?”
Expecting just such a query from Maddox, Findsay answered without hesitation, “Approximately eleven and a half minutes, Captain.”
“And what’s the probability that Alpha will survive this pass?” continued the Air Force officer coolly.
Again Lindsay addressed the keyboard.
“We still show the odds at better than fifty percent that Alpha will break up somewhere over the Indian Ocean.
Diego Garcia is presently relaying to us the latest GEODSS data.”
“I’m afraid that answer’s not good enough, Doctor,” retorted the captain.
“Must I remind you again of the importance of this pass? If there’s even a slight chance that Alpha won’t make it, Keyhole Baker had better be ready for backup.”
With this, the captain stepped to Lindsay’s side and directly caught his glance. Returning the officer’s hard, probing stare, Lindsay answered firmly, “The present data indicates that Alpha will indeed be good for this one last look. Captain Maddox.”
“Well, for our country’s sake, it damn well better be,” returned the officer.
“There’s no denying that the Russkies are up to something at Tyuratam. The last half-dozen passes show an unusual amount of activity there. The two most recent fly overs indicate that this activity is centered around the loading of a new type of warhead. Intelligence is damn nervous, and I don’t blame them. Without these photos, the Soviets could be preparing a first-strike and we’d never know it until the missiles were already on their way. By that time. Doctor, it would be too late for all of us.”
Taking in these harsh words, Lindsay struggled to contain himself. No one knew better than he the utter importance of the Keyhole system. Yet, if the Soviets were indeed readying themselves for a surprise attack, was there anything the U.S. could do to stop them?
Almost four decades had passed and the world was still in the shadow of nuclear doom. If the politicians had only backed up their cries for disarmament with concrete actions, the threat of total apocalypse could have been substantially alleviated. As it stood now, the planet was living on borrowed time. There was no telling how much longer their luck would hold.
Sobered by this thought, Lindsay leaned forward expectantly as a high-pitched tone sounded from his monitor. As the screen began filling with data, his eyes narrowed.
“We’re receiving the latest GEODSS telemetry from Diego Garcia, Captain. I’m afraid the odds are down to forty-eight percent that Alpha will make Tyuratam.”
“That’s just great,” replied Maddox succinctly.
“My gut told me that she’d never make it. Bring down Baker and let’s get done with it.”
Turning to his right, Lindsay could see that Andrew Weston had still not returned to his console.
Though the station’s director was very well capable of reactivating the satellite himself, the importance of this particular mission demanded the attentions of a specialist. If Weston did not return soon, he’d be forced to pass the responsibility onto Sunnyvale. As it turned out, the sudden, piercing wail of an alarm siren served to make up his mind for him.
“Christ, it’s Alpha! She’s breaking up!”
“Then damn it, Doctor, bring down Baker!” cried Maddox.
No sooner had Lindsay’s hand reached the yellow handset that contained the direct line to Sunnyvale than he noticed that a newcomer had arrived at the previously vacant console to his right. Immediately he stood and made his way to this individual’s side.
“Thank God that you got here, Andrew,” said Lindsay breathlessly.
“We just lost Alpha. If you had arrived a few seconds later, I would have already transferred Baker’s reawakening to Sunnyvale.”
“Sorry about the delay, Doc,” commented Weston, as he efficiently began feeding data into his keyboard.
“I can give us booster phase on Baker in forty-seven seconds.”
While the senior technician continued his adept accessing, the blue-uniformed figure of Captain Maddox positioned himself behind Andrew’s right shoulder.
“Exactly where’s Bake
r at the moment?”
quizzed the officer.
Lindsay, who stood to his left, pointed towards the perspex map.
“We should see her coming over the Arctic Circle any second now. She’s traveling the same orbit as Alpha, at an altitude of twenty-five hundred miles. We’ve got to get her down to three hundred miles before she becomes operational.”
Both men had their eyes glued to the screen when a single blue dot began flashing to the north of the island of Novaya Zemlya.
“We’ve got her!” cried Lindsay excitedly.
“How much longer to booster ignition, Andy?”
Not bothering to take his eyes from the monitor screen, the senior technician replied, “Twelve seconds and counting.”
The atmosphere was tense, and all heads were turned to the digital clock that crowned Weston’s console. With excruciating slowness, the seconds ticked away. Only when the counter hit zero did the senior technician access a series of rapid commands.
Another thirty seconds passed. This time it was Lindsay who broke the tenseness by pointing toward the perspex screen and commenting.
“She’s over the coast of Siberia now. The booster phase should be shutting down just about now. Do we have a confirmation as yet, Andy?”
The senior technician was quick to answer.
“I show a negative on booster ignition. We’ve as yet to receive data from Diego Garcia.”
“What the hell is taking so much time?” cried Maddox impatiently.
“We should have brought down this Keyhole hours ago, instead of waiting until the last minute to do so. She’s already over central Siberia.
If we miss Tyuratam, we could have all hell to Pay-Not bothering to respond to the officer, Dr. Findsay kept his eyes glued to Weston’s monitor. He found himself holding back a smile when the screen began filling with a series of coded telemetry data. He allowed Weston to interpret it.
“Diego Garcia reports booster ignition. Keyhole Baker is approaching operational altitude. Presently awaiting verification of an attainment of the three-hundred-mile threshold before continuing with function activation.”
A serene grin flashed across Lindsay’s face as he turned to address Maddox.
“If all continues as planned, Captain, we’ll have Baker on line in plenty of time to photograph those ICBM fields. Don’t you worry so.”
The director’s words did little to ease the captain’s doubts. Not knowing what had gotten into the Defense Department to even consider asking for NASA’s assistance in the first place, Maddox silently cursed the ineptitude of the system he served. Military matters were best handled by military personnel.
Civilian involvement, however well intended, just never worked out. When NASA’s programs had been put on hold several months before, the Government should have immediately replaced these technicians with an Air Force staff. At least their competency couldn’t be questioned. At the moment, he didn’t know whom to trust.
“Verification of Baker’s operational orbit has just been received,” commented the seated NASA technician dryly.
“Proceeding to activate all optical and digital transferral systems.”
Captain Maddox took in this positive report, yet the tenseness in his gut remained. His glance went to the perspex screen and he saw that the flashing blue dot was still well north of the Aral Sea. If all continued smoothly, perhaps there still was a chance that they’d have those photos of Tyuratam after all. Yet inwardly he doubted it. Forcing himself to keep an open mind, he hoped that his instincts were wrong.
Beside him, Dr. Lindsay also studied the map of the Soviet Union. The director’s thoughts were of a much more optimistic nature. Surely, any second now, the first pixels would be transmitted. This would give them plenty of time to fine-tune the camera’s focus to insure that the ensuing photographs were of a firstclass quality. Knowing very well that the next few minutes would be critical, he found himself instinctively crossing his fingers as Weston’s monitor again activated.
“We’re receiving an incoming signal,” announced the senior technician.
“Transmission frequency appears strong. Awaiting primary pixel receipt.”
As Weston prepared the specialized printer that would duplicate the film currently being processed aboard Keyhole Baker, the two observers, who stood behind him, stirred uneasily. When a full minute passed and the printer had yet to trigger, this uneasiness became amplified. Captain Maddox was the first one to voice his frustrations.
“Baker’s rapidly approaching those missile fields, Doctor. Are we going to be able to get those photographs that we need?”
Not really certain what was causing the delay in transmission, Lindsay bent over to query his senior technician.
“What’s going on up there, Andy? Baker should have had plenty of time to transmit those initial pixels.”
Still concentrating on his keyboard, Weston took several seconds before responding.
“I don’t understand it, Doc. The platform shows a one-hundred percent operational capability, yet we’re unable to receive a photographic transmission.”
“Perhaps the problem lies in our end,” offered Maddox.
“I doubt that, sir,” returned Weston.
“Our receivers are copying all other satellite transmissions.”
“Then maybe Baker is in an improper orbit,” suggested Lindsay.
“That could account for us being unable to pick up her telemetry signals.”
Weston shook his head solemnly.
“GEODSS has a tight lock on her. Doc. I’ll bet that Baker’s altitude is precise to the foot.”
Maddox’s glance returned to the perspex screen, where the flashing blue dot was passing to the east of the Aral Sea.
“Sweet Jesus, can’t you guys do something?
She’s passing over Tyuratam now!”
Desperately attacking his keyboard, Weston appeared genuinely confused.
“I still don’t understand it. All systems continue to check out fine. There just doesn’t seem to be any logical reason for us not to receive those pictures.”
Lindsay nervously pulled his pipe from his mouth.
“Run a complete failure analysis through the computer, Andy. I’ll see if Sunnyvale can give us a hand.”
Captain Maddox watched as the director reached out and grabbed the yellow handset. When his glance returned to the perspex screen, it was most obvious that the flashing blue dot was well south of Tyuratam by now. Not knowing whom to pin the blame on, he could only be certain that, for the moment, the United States of America could no longer monitor the Soviet Union’s largest ICBM field. A painful spasm coursed through his abdomen as the seated technician commented dryly, “Initial computer failure check indicates three possible areas of fault. It shows a sixty-three-percent probability that the transmission difficulties are due to some sort of inherent mechanical failure. The various sub-systems are in the process of being cross-checked. We show a twenty-two-percent probability that the difficulties are due to a cosmic anomaly such as a sunspot. The National Observatory data banks at White Sands are being queried to investigate such a possibility.”
“And the third area of fault?” prompted the Air Force captain.
Clearing his voice, Weston continued.
“The computer indicates a fifteen-percent probability that Baker’s failure to transmit was due to intentional interference by a third party.”
“Jesus Christ, that would mean that the Russkies have figured out a way to jam our signals!” exclaimed Maddox.
“Easy now. Captain,” cautioned Lindsay, who had just hung up the telephone.
“This is all still supposition.
I just got off the horn with Sunnyvale and they’re presently giving Baker a try themselves. Their consensus is that most likely we’re facing some sort of mechanical glitch in the digital-reprocessing system.
The Agency is recommending that if Baker fails to respond within the next twenty-four hours, one of the two remai
ning Keyholes in our land-based inventory be immediately put into orbit.”
This time it was Weston who dared to question.
“And just how are we going to do that. Doc? With both the shuttle and Titan programs on hold, what are we going to use as a primary booster?”
Unable to answer his colleague, Lindsay could only offer him a solemn glance. Meanwhile, Captain Maddox reached over to activate a red telephone that would give him a direct line to the Consolidated Space Operations center in Colorado Springs. As the officer initiated his scrambled conversation, a massive boom of thunder sounded overhead.
Looking past the director, Weston focused his complete attention on this strange rumble. With the speed of a heartbeat, he found his thoughts returning to the strange dream he had experienced for the past three mornings. Oblivious to his current surroundings, his mind’s eye returned to the pine-laden valley. With remarkable detail, he recreated the single, thin trail that cut through the rolling hills and passed over a tumbling brook. It was at this point that another booming peal of deep thunder resonated from above, and once again Andrew’s sight was drawn upward to the clear blue sky. Waiting for him there was the massive, soaring condor, whose wisdom seemed so total. The struggle to survive at all costs was the secret this endangered creature had tried to communicate.
Andrew knew then that this message was to be applied to his own species, as the shadow of nuclear doom lay over the earth like an ever-present shroud of death.
Chapter Two
Fifty-seven miles to the northwest of Santa Barbara, California, a massive peninsula extends out into the Pacific. Isolated, except for a handful of small towns, this rugged piece of landscape is dominated by rolling, scrub-filled hills, deep, fertile valleys, and forests of oak, cypress, and pine. It was because of the absence of any significant human population that the Army had decided to base an artillery range here.
Flight of the Condor Page 2
