Flight of the Condor

by Richard P. Henrick

  “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.”

  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 obviousl
y 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.