With the U.S. completely blind to our preparation, maybe a limited surprise attack would indeed have a chance of success. At the very least it warrants more study.”
“That’s just what I wanted to hear!” exclaimed Sobolev emotionally.
“I knew that I had been most fortunate when I was told that you would be the one coming down from Moscow. Radchenko, my friend, you have lived up to your reputation as one of the brightest minds in the Kremlin. No wonder the Premier depends on you so. I can never thank you enough for sharing the secrets of your soul with me.
The least I can do is offer you another sip of our Motherland’s blood.”
Nodding that this was tine with him, Valentin looked on as the general refilled their glasses and toasted.
“To that lucky star that brought us together! Because of our meeting, the dreams of our forefathers will at long last be realized. Tarry just a little bit longer, you slaves of Capitalism. Your yokes shall soon be cut and all men will finally be equal!”
Tossing the fiery liquor down his throat, Vadim Sobolev anxiously stirred. The time for his dream’s fruition had arrived after all. He only had to think up a simple scheme to destroy the final Keyhole. With the invaluable assistance of the young bureaucrat who sat beside him, the Premier would then be approached, and final approval would soon be his. Most aware of what this would mean, he looked again at the map of the world that graced his wall. Substituting massive, mushroomshaped clouds for its red flags, his inner vision sharpened. He couldn’t help but pity the poor Americans, for they would never know what hit them.
On the other side of the world, the dawn was just breaking over the northeastern coast of South America.
The morning was already proving to be another hot and muggy one as the thirty-eight-foot sailboat belonging to Colonel Jean Moreau cut through the crystal-clear blue waters of the Atlantic. Perched on the vessel’s stern, with its tiller in hand, the boat’s six-foot, four-inch owner stood ever alert to the changing wind patterns. An expert sailor, Moreau scanned the seas and the skies in an effort to read Mother Nature’s fickle mind.
Even after fifty-three years of life, Moreau remained an excellent physical specimen. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he stood his watch in only a worn pair of khaki shorts. His present environment’s perpetually hot, steamy climate made such minimal attire both comfortable and practical.
The only feature that hinted at his advanced age was a full head of close-cropped, salt-and-pepper colored hair. It seemed that, to the women, this sprinkling of gray only served to make him appear more distinguished. Contrasted with his deeply bronzed skin, it enhanced his already ruggedly handsome face and superbly toned body. Of course, there could be no ignoring the fine lines that gathered around his eyes and neck. Yet Moreau never let their development bother him. To the colonel, age was but a relative number. Living life to its fullest extent was the secret to delaying the reaper’s inevitable call.
A frothing line of surf slapped against the boat’s hull, and Moreau rode out the resulting swell with an expertise honed by many hours at sea. As always, the fresh ocean air had an invigorating effect on him. He was feeling relaxed and mentally at peace since his two-day fishing excursion had been a great success.
Not only was the boat’s refrigerated locker filled with a half-dozen tasty yellowtail, four fat bonita, and a small hammerhead. In addition, his mind had been far away from the pressures of his everyday job. As it turned out, it wasn’t only his success with a rod and reel that had helped achieve this rare state of relaxation.
For below deck, in the main cabin, lay a catch of a completely different kind.
Theresa was a precocious seventeen year old whom Moreau had been employing for less than three weeks. She had signed on as a maid, but it hadn’t taken much time for the pert Brazilian to find her way to her master’s bed. Small-boned and with petite, dark features, Theresa didn’t even come up to Moreau’s shoulders. Yet what she lacked in stature she more than adequately made up for in passion.
It had been years since the colonel had come across a young woman with such a voracious sexual appetite.
Though the length and width of his manhood had never generated a complaint before, Theresa couldn’t seem to get enough of him. The previous night’s lovemaking had proven no different.
They had been anchored off the infamous Devil’s Island. There, palm trees and thick scrub had long since covered any evidence of the manmade hellhole that used to scar this innocent-looking archipelago.
After a delicious dinner of fresh sauteed yellowtail, brown rice, and steamed zucchini squash, they had proceeded to finish off the good portion of a full liter of rum from the boat’s fantail. Theresa spoke a credible French, and it was in this language that he had gotten to know a little bit more about her upbringing.
Born in the coastal town of Fortaleia, Theresa had been raised in a middle-class family. Her father had been an engineer with the state’s petroleum development board, and as such spent at least three-quarters of the year in the Brazilian jungle far from home.
This had left her in the hands of her mother and grandmother, who protected her as though she were the crown jewels of England. Struggling to attain an average grade in school, Theresa had been more interested in boys, rock music, and partying. This conflict of interest had all come to a head the afternoon her mother caught her necking in the back alley with a neighbor boy. A furious argument had followed, as her mother called her a tramp and savagely beat her with a leather belt. That evening, still bruised and inwardly hurting, Theresa had made the decision to leave home.
The employment opportunities in the French Guiana town of Kourou were well known to her. Developed from a sleepy jungle town by a European consortium, Kourou was becoming a center of space age technology. It was common knowledge that all who came to this coastal city would have no problem starting a new life. So, with a minimum of personal belongings at her side, and the contents of her piggy bank in her purse, Theresa had sneaked out of her house and begun the long, arduous voyage to Kourou.
Once she had entered French Guiana she hadn’t been the least bit disappointed. Especially on the fateful morning the employment agency had sent her to the home of Colonel Jean Moreau. From the first time her eyes had linked with those of the handsome foreigner, she had known she’d get the job. She had also been aware of the strange tingle of desire that coursed through her body, for her employer was just as handsome as the legendary Paul Newman, her favorite actor.
Her one big worry had been that the Frenchman wouldn’t find her attractive enough. She had done her best to catch his eye whenever possible, making certain that she always wore her tightest shorts and skimpiest halter-tops whenever he was around the house. This display had soon had its desired effect.
She would never forget that memorable evening the two had become lovers. When her boss had then invited her on this fishing trip, she had been certain that she had him completely hooked.
Just thinking about the young girl who shared the boat with him brought a grin to Moreau’s handsome face. There could be no denying that she was an exotic little thing. Her long black hair capped a pretty face, which was dominated by a pair of dark, doleful eyes. Her body was just flowering into womanhood.
How sensitive was her compact bosom, the pointed, erect nipples beckoning with the sweetness of the finest of brandies. And how could he deny her soft, velvety skin, firm thighs, and luscious, tight love channel?
The previous night he had ridden her like a young stallion in heat. Inflamed by the brandy, he had entered her right there on the open deck. Somehow, they had later made it below deck to the bedroom.
For hours on end, he had filled her with his all.
Respondent to his every demand, Theresa had proven as supple as a gymnast. Never had a woman felt so good beneath him.
Only when he was certain that her desire had been adequately quenched had he let himself go. Fulfilled beyond his wildest expectations, he had begun drifting of
f into blessed sleep, when he felt her tiny, warm hands massage his crotch, vainly attempting to coax new stiffness back into him. Moreau knew that there was a time not long ago when he would have responded to this occasion without question. Yet the call of his fifty-three-year old body had soon led him to a deep, dreamless slumber.
He had awakened less than an hour before feeling rested and refreshed. Taking care not to awaken his young lover, who slept soundly beside him, Moreau had slipped from the narrow cot and hastily washed himself. After donning his shorts, he had made a pot of strong, black coffee, poured himself a mug, and made his way topside.
Above, the night stars still glowed in a crystal-clear sky, yet his practiced gaze observed the first glimmer of dawn painting the eastern horizon. As he prepared the boat to get underway, he was conscious that the new day had long ago risen over the capitals of Europe. How distant the bustling streets of Paris and the lush woods of his native Normandy seemed to him at that moment!
The hot, gusting trade winds soon filled the newly unfurled sails and Moreau pondered the fact that, with the conclusion of the summer, he would have dedicated seven years of his life to this godforsaken wilderness. Of course, there were the yearly trips home to spend the holidays, but even though his body was transported over the seas, part of his mind always remained here. He imagined this had to do with the great responsibilities of his present job. This had been especially true in the earlier years, when his total effort had been needed to accomplish a task of unbelievable proportions.
The Consortium had chosen one of the most remote corners of the entire planet for the Ariadne facility. From the very beginning, the challenge of developing the project had been placed squarely on his shoulders. From the moment the first Consortium jet had landed at Kourou’s primitive airport, Moreau had known he’d have his work cut out for him.
First there had been the task of clearing the actual site itself. Faced with a logistical nightmare, Moreau had somehow managed the impossible. Happy to have finally gained employment, the native population had pitched in to hack away at the thick jungle of coconut palms and mangrove. The swamps had been drained, and the malaria problem somewhat alleviated.
Supplies and equipment had begun flowing more freely when the airport’s runway had been lengthened and repaved and the port facility completed.
Ever mindful of the huge expenses that they were incurring, the Consortium had greeted his superhuman efforts with one new demand after the other.
Never known as a quitter, Moreau had persevered.
This effort had all come to fruition two and a half years before, when the first Ariadne missile had left its launch-pad. Only two months over schedule, the launch had successfully placed a Consortium-owned communications satellite into a perfect earth orbit.
Over the next year they had managed to put at least one additional satellite into orbit each and every month.
Moreau knew that if all were still well at the facility, they’d be launching yet another missile that very morning. Their rocket would be carrying the first in a series of Japanese communications satellites into orbit. The completion of such a project could very well signal the attainment of their financial break-even point. Though their past projects had been exclusively European in nature, the addition of the Asian market would open their coffers to a totally new source of badly needed revenue. All too soon, Ariadne would be not only self-sufficient, but a major profit center as well. This was the day that Jean Moreau was praying to see, for the moment Ariadne became a commercial success, his life’s greatest goal would be achieved.
His sailboat shuddered beneath him as the hull bit into yet another swell. Angling the tiller to take advantage of the rising offshore breeze, Moreau approximated his position. Devil’s Island had long since disappeared in his wake. In the heavens, the morning star was the only planet visible, as the sun prepared to break the whitening horizon. In the illumination of this first light of dawn, he could just make out a distant formation of dense storm clouds to the southwest, in the direction that he was headed.
Not alarmed by them in the least, Moreau was most aware that these clouds perpetually hugged the coastline during this, the rainy season. They would dump their steamy torrents sometime around noon, hopefully long after the Ariadne was high in the heavens.
He guessed that if the winds remained favorable, they’d be sailing into Kourou in another two hours’ time. That should give him plenty of time to drop Theresa off at home and then get over to the base.
Of course, this entire fishing excursion wouldn’t have been possible without the invaluable aid of Jacques LeMond. His thirty-three-year-old administrative assistant was turning into quite a leader in his own right. Personally trained by Moreau for two years, Jacques was definitely coming of age. Now he was even capable of handling a launch of his own.
Anxious to know if the youngster were having any unexpected difficulties, Moreau silently cursed his boat’s broken radio. Though he should have returned to Kourou immediately after it had tailed the previous afternoon, he hadn’t. Several years before, this wouldn’t have been the case. At that time, a mere two-hour fishing trip would have been a luxury.
Wondering if his days at Kourou were already numbered, Moreau found his concentration broken by a sudden movement amidships. There, Theresa was visible, her shapely, naked body invitingly lit by the first rays of direct sunlight. Teasingly, she beckoned him to join her down below. Though his thoughts had been far away from any such sensual delights, a sudden stiffening coursed through his loins. Ravaged by a hunger he had assumed to be more than satisfied, Moreau locked in the boat’s auto-pilot. Without a second’s hesitation, he then rose to once again sample the sweet nectar that was all too soon flowing from the Brazilian’s young, ripe body.
Two hours later, the boat carrying Colonel Jean Moreau and his teenage lover sailed into Kourou’s harbor. As the vessel was expertly tacked into its proper slip, it seemed dwarfed by the massive pair of sleek, ocean-going cargo ships that were tied up nearby.
Jean Moreau wasted no time locking up the boat and escorting his companion to the parking lot. There they jumped into a battered jeep and took off down the port’s only roadway. Minutes later, they were out of the congested harbor area and into the relative seclusion of the surrounding jungle. The road there was narrow yet easy to follow. A minimum of traffic allowed for excellent progress.
While Theresa nodded off back to sleep beside him, Moreau savored the passionate coupling that they had just completed. For the first time in their brief relationship, he had had the He sty brunette whimpering in ecstasy after leading her to a long series of drawn-out orgasms. Careful to hold back his own pleasure, he had only released himself after she had positively begged him to do so. Totally spent and satiated, she had nestled back to sleep, while he had returned topside to guide the boat back into the harbor.
Such was the pleasant course of his contemplation while he guided the jeep off the main road and pointed it up a familiar driveway. A quarter of a kilometer later, he pulled up to a white-stucco ranch house with a red-tiled roof. The hum of the jungle creatures rose from among the thick stands of surrounding vegetation as he put the jeep into neutral and turned to awaken his passenger. Several shakes of her shoulder were needed to accomplish this.
“Come on, sleeping beauty, the vacation’s over. It’s time to get back to work.”
Her eyes were heavy with sleep as she slowly opened them to reorientate herself.
“Oh goodness, mi amore, are we back at the house already? In my dreams, you had taken me far out to sea.”
Enraptured by Theresa’s innocent tone, Moreau bent over to kiss her on her moist lips.
“Sorry, but not this time, my little beauty. Now, get going before I have to paddle your behind. I want the house completely cleaned and full of groceries by the time I arrive for dinner.”
Theresa seemed puzzled by his haste.
“But, mi amore, aren’t you coming in to shower and change your c
lothes first? You can’t go to work looking like that. Why, you haven’t even shaved.”
Conscious of the late hour, Moreau reached over and hit the passenger-door latch himself.
“Au revoir, ma petite. Now get along, before I call your mother and have you shipped off back to Fortaleza!”
This last remark was all that was needed to get Theresa motivated. A sad pout could still be seen on her face as she reluctantly left the jeep and watched him drive off.
As Moreau guided the four-wheeled vehicle back onto the main roadway, the rumble of distant thunder boomed from overhead. In response, the colonel floored the accelerator. Oblivious to the abrupt increase in speed, he expertly maneuvered the jeep through the jungle.
He didn’t have long to go until his progress was halted by a closed, sturdy steel barricade. Stopping before it, Moreau was greeted by a serious-faced, uniformed sentry. No words were exchanged as the fully armed guard caught sight of the jeep’s sole occupant. With a crisp salute, he triggered a switch and the barricade slid open.
Moreau put the vehicle into gear and continued with his forward progress. The rumble of thunder again echoed overhead, and he passed a compact, military-like sign that read, “Welcome to Ariadne.”
The paved roadway significantly widened at this spot. Absent along its shoulders was the heavy vegetation that hugged the previous section of pavement. In fact, a full kilometer of bare ground lay between this section of road and the encroaching jungle. Moreau had been here when this portion of the complex had been originally cleared. Never would he forget how difficult this task had been. Even today, it took the full-time efforts of a team of muscular laborers to keep the jungle back.
Up ahead, he caught sight of a pair of massive, round liquid-oxygen tanks. Located on each side of the clearing he was soon crossing, these snow-white containers were positioned beside various fuel-storage tanks and a central oxygen-holding area. Next he passed the complex’s largest structure, the payload preparation facility. It was inside this huge edifice that the satellites were prepared for orbit and eventually attached to the Ariadne rocket itself. Moved in and out of the preparation complex on a set of railroad tracks, the assembled booster was then conveyed to the actual launch mount with the support of a moveable service tower.
Flight of the Condor Page 11
