Flight of the Condor

by Richard P. Henrick

  Still following the center of this path, the Marlin continued its way westward.

  Louis Marvin’s eyes were wide with wonder as the DSRV passed into the semicircle itself. His pulse quickened as he viewed a huge black and red circle, etched into the very stone below them. He audibly gasped upon setting eyes on the object that lay at this circle’s axis. For here was a white metallic nose cone, its skin fire-scarred, its base cleanly punctured. Only when he identified the five-pointed-star insignia of the Air Force that was imprinted on its base did a chill of awareness streak up his backbone.

  “Jesus Christ, Commander, you’re not going to believe this!”

  Chapter Eleven

  From an altitude of 78,000 feet above sea level, Lieutenant Grigori Yagoda sat in the cramped fuselage of the Tupolev Red Fox strategic reconnaissance aircraft. Perched before the compartment’s single, heat-resistant glass porthole, the Spetsnaz commando peered down to the blue Pacific passing far below. He found it hard to fathom the fact that they were presently traveling at a speed of three times that of sound. This meant that they would be able to complete the 4,200-mile trip from Petropavlovsk in a little more than two hours’ flying time.

  Grigori had heard rumors that such an amazing aircraft was part of the Motherland’s arsenal, and this flight proved them all true. Not only could it fly higher and faster than any plane on the planet, but, because of its design, it could do so while remaining completely undetected. Such engineering advances were beyond Grigori’s comprehension. Yet, without such a platform, he doubted their present mission would have even been attempted.

  Within the next half hour, they would be penetrating American airspace. He knew that the United States tactical air corps was extremely weak. Because the Soviet Union had never fielded a serious strategic bomber threat, the Yankees had put little effort into their coastal defense. With the advent of such amazing aircraft as the “Red Fox,” this would soon change. Right now, they could but take advantage of their adversary’s weaknesses as they best saw fit.

  The roar of the Tupolev’s dual continuous-bleed, after-burning turbojets filled the background with constant sound and Grigori stifled a yawn. He had slept little since leaving Afghanistan, seemingly a lifetime before. Fortunately, his two coworkers, Konstantin Lomakin and Dmitri Andreyev, had closed their eyes soon after they had taken off from Petropavlovsk.

  It was most important for them to be completely rested for the mission that faced them. As for himself, he’d get by with a minimum of sleep as he always did.

  He looked over his shoulder and watched his companions snoring contentedly on the compartment’s narrow floor. With barely enough room for the three of them and their equipment, the Red Fox was an efficient, yet uncomfortable means of transporting them into battle.

  Returning his weary gaze back to the porthole, Grigori watched the sun settle towards the western horizon. Below them, a day was just about to end in America, while a new dawn was about to break over the eastern border of the Motherland. Well aware of the fickleness of time, he pondered the hectic series of events that had begun soon after they had arrived back in Kabul.

  The sweet taste of revenge was still fresh on their lips as they had returned to their central base after the raid on Bamian. There, the officer in charge had seemed to have little interest in the loss of General Valerian and the entire armored column, and the team’s subsequent exploits. Instead, he had accepted this news with a sigh, then handed Grigori a single set of orders. Coming directly from the Commanderin-Chief of the Strategic Rocket Forces, General Vadim Sobolev, these directives had ordered the team to be immediately flown to Petropavlovsk via an awaiting Backfire bomber.

  Vadim Sobolev was an esteemed, legendary figure.

  A personal friend of Grigori’s late father, the general was one of the highest-ranking officers in the Motherland’s military. When he was a lad, his father would often take him to visit Sobolev, whom Grigori remembered as being a tall, heavy-set figure with a flowing mane of snow-white hair. Since his graduation from Leningrad’s Frunze Naval War College, Grigori had seen little of the man who commanded over 1,000,000 soldiers.

  Rather surprised to suddenly hear from him now, Grigori had followed his directive without question.

  Hardly having time to shower and change uniforms, they had loaded into the Backfire and begun the five hour flight eastward to the Kamchatka Peninsula’s southern tip.

  It was cold and windy when they arrived in Petropavlovsk.

  Meeting them at the aircraft’s hatch had been a stern-faced Spetsnaz colonel whom Grigori remembered from basic training. With a bare word of welcome, he had loaded them into a camouflaged Zil truck, and driven them to an isolated outpost.

  There the team had been ordered to completely strip. Once this was accomplished, they had been each given a full set of United States Army Special Forces fatigues. From their underwear to the equipment they had been soon handed, each item was of American origin. Of special interest was the shoulder fired surface-to-air Stinger missile kit that he had been personally issued. Packed in a special, watertight, foam-padded carrying case, which altogether weighed less than thirty-five pounds, this weapon was a most effective one. With a range of over eight miles, and a speed several times that of sound, the Stinger’s fragmentary warhead was guided to its target by an infrared seeker that homed in on the objective’s exhaust plume. He had shot one during basic training, and would never forget how deadly accurate it had been.

  At this point, Grigori had been separated from his teammates. Alone in a cramped windowless room, he had waited for the arrival of the colonel, who had then begun a quick, cursory briefing. He had handed Grigori a pair of maps. One was of the island of San Miguel. This insignificant piece of desolate, volcanic rock was the northernmost outcropping in California’s Channel Island chain.

  The second chart was much more interesting. It provided an intricate cross-section view of the southern portion of California’s Vandenberg Air Force Base. Grigori had looked up expectantly as the colonel had informed him that the first part of their mission would entail the transfer of the team to San Miguel Island. Descending by parachute, they would gather on the island’s isolated western tip. There they’d place a specially designed homing device in the Pacific. This beacon would call in the Victor-class attack sub Volga, which was awaiting their arrival in the surrounding waters. It would be on the Volga that the rest of the mission would be revealed to him.

  Somewhat disappointed at the extent of the briefing, Grigori hadn’t even bothered questioning the colonel further. If Command had wanted him to know more, they would have told him. It was as simple as that.

  Leaving Grigori with instructions to inform his men of their mission only when they had left Petropavlovsk, the colonel had wished him good fortune and abruptly exited. All too soon, they had been driven back to the airfield, where they had been loaded into their present means of transportation.

  The monotonous roar of the Tupolev’s engines accompanied his thoughts as Grigori remembered his first sight of the aircraft known as the Red Fox.

  Parked in a section of the field, far removed from the flight-line itself, the rather flat, needle-nosed plane had been covered by a protective hangar and surrounded by armed guards. Completely painted with a dull, crimson-red finish, the vehicle sported a large, delta-shaped wingspan set in the lower half of the thirty-seven-meter-long fuselage. It was in the center of each of these wings that a single, massive engine was placed. Set on top of these engines were a pair of rudder-like tails.

  Developed primarily as a recon platform, this particular model had an extra humped, clamshell canopy set behind the cockpit. This special compartment was apparently designed especially for Spetsnaz squadrons such as their own.

  Konstantin and Dmitri had been brimming with questions, yet Grigori had remained silent until they were well airborne. He found it somewhat peculiar that they never even saw the pilot. They did have access to an intercom system that lay on the sea
led, forward bulkhead door.

  The plane was buffeted by a stream of moderate turbulence, and Grigori had to reach out to steady himself. The flight had been quite smooth so far. If they remained lucky, the good weather would prevail when it came time to jump.

  Though he had made hundreds of HALO high altitude low-opening) free-falls before, this would be his first on American soil. Never had he dreamed that the Motherland would trust him with such a mission.

  Earlier, Dmitri and Konstantin had attempted to figure out just what this task would be. Both had agreed that because of the Stinger missile array that Grigori carried, it would involve the shooting down of some type of prototype Imperialist bomber. This made sense to Grigori, who was quite content to wait for their arrival on the Volga to find out the precise nature of their goal. Patience was a virtue he had learned quite early in his military career.

  Grigori’s thoughts were broken by the sudden activation of the intercom system. A penetrating electronic buzz sounded over the guttural whine of the turbojets. It was easily loud enough to awaken his two slumbering coworkers. While their heads popped up to see what the disturbance was all about, Grigori stood, and with his back hunched over so that he wouldn’t hit the low roof, maneuvered himself over to the forward bulkhead. He picked up the red plastic receiver and spoke into its transmitter loudly.

  “Yes, comrade, this is Lieutenant Yagoda speaking.”

  The voice that returned his greeting was deep and firm.

  “Good afternoon, Lieutenant, this is Captain Kalinin. I hope you’ve enjoyed the flight so far. Sorry that the accommodations aren’t a bit more spacious, but such is the small price we pay for our great speed.

  Grigori cleared his throat.

  “It doesn’t matter. Captain. We are quite comfortable back here.”

  “Good,” responded the Tupolev’s pilot.

  “I figured three hardy Spetsnaz operatives like yourselves could survive this temporary discomfort. I’ve called to tell you that soon you’ll have time to properly stretch your legs. You see, you’re scheduled to jump in precisely fourteen and a half minutes.”

  Checking his watch, Grigori retorted, “Very good, Captain. We’ll begin our preparations at once.”

  Hanging up the receiver, he turned to face his men.

  “Well, hello, my sleeping beauties. I hope your dreams were pleasant.”

  Looking like beard-stub bled moustached twins, the two dark-haired soldiers yawned and stretched their limbs. Konstantin Lomakin crawled up to the porthole and peered outside.

  “Some restful sleep,” offered Konstantin.

  “Here we are at 78,000 feet, and all I dream of is blowing away a gang of Mujahiddin. Will that war ever leave my mind?”

  “There will soon be plenty to take your thoughts away from that crude conflict, my friend,” advised Grigori.

  “We’ll be jumping in another fourteen minutes.”

  Continuing to gaze out of the porthole, Konstantin asked, “Then we’re in United States airspace now?”

  “I imagine so,” offered Dmitri Andreyev with a grin.

  “Yet the Americans will never know it. I’ve heard tales of these so-called stealth aircraft, but the reality of it all is even more amazing.”

  “Let’s just hope we indeed remain invisible to their radar,” added Grigori.

  “Otherwise there will soon be a flock of angry F-15 Eagles on our tail. Now, let’s get going with that gear. There’s much to prepare, and the time is short.”

  Doing their best to stand in the tight quarters, the two junior officers joined Grigori at the compartment’s forward section. There they began slipping on the odd assortment of pressure suits, oxygen equipment, helmets, and goggles that would enable them to jump from a height of 40,000 feet. To insure a minimal target, nearly all of this would be a free fall with their altimeter-triggered chutes not opening until they reached a mere 1,200 feet above sea level.

  After the various body gear was in place, each member of the team doublechecked the others. Once this was accomplished, they proceeded to strap on their weapons. Special waist-carried, padded carriers were utilized to hold the assortment of Americanmade weaponry which they would take with them.

  Grigori had just buckled on the harness that held the Stinger package in place when the intercom again activated. This time it was Dmitri who answered it.

  Taking in the pilot’s two-minute warning to jump time, he smiled at his coworkers with relief. Thirty seconds later, the Spetsnaz team stood at the hatchway.

  All eyes were locked on the two lights mounted above the door there. At present, only the red one was lit. Any moment now, the hatch would automatically slide open, the green light would pop on, and they’d be free to go.

  To prepare for the sucking blast of pressure that would meet them when the door opened, the men held onto a specially designed steel support rod.

  Dmitri would be first to go, followed by Konstantin and Grigori. Each did his best to calm himself, as the seconds ticked slowly by.

  Grigori’s pulse jumped when the hatchway finally slid open with a loud hiss. Pulled instantly forward by the resulting depressurization, he strained to keep himself in place. A wave of ice-cold air enveloped him and he was aware of the now-deafening roar of the plane’s engines. He forced himself to yawn to equalize the pressure on his eardrums, and then the green light suddenly blinked on. Without further prompting, Dmitri soared outward, followed closely by his two comrades.

  To catch up with his teammates, Grigori tucked in his hands and legs and rocketed downward like a lead weight. All too soon he was forced to slow himself. To do this, he merely fanned out his limbs, and the resulting drag did the rest. When Konstantin and Dmitri were finally level with him, he continued his free-fall, only a couple of arm lengths away from them.

  The air was cold and thin, and it streaked by with a banshee-like wail. Far above him, the crimson wings of the Red Fox could be barely seen, as the jet initiated a sweeping turn that would take it homeward.

  Diverting his line of sight downwards, Grigori took in the incredible view of the ocean below. Clearly visible were the Channel Islands, and further to the east, the actual mainland. A thick bank of fog was visible far offshore, yet for the moment their target, the smallest and most northerly of the islands, was clearly in sight.

  Free-fall was a time of pure joy for Grigori. Nothing could exhilarate him in quite the same manner.

  Though the bulky HALO gear kept him from feeling the icy, stimulating air on his face, the mere act of falling through the skies invigorated and refreshed him. His fatigue was the furthest thing from his mind as he watched the planet’s surface approach with an incredible speed.

  His thoughts were free from fear and concern as both his teammates’ chutes opened almost simultaneously.

  Slowed dramatically, both were immediately pulled out of sight above. Guessing that his own pack would open any second, Grigori took in the ever approaching earth and felt the first stirrings of panic.

  Quickly checking his wrist-mounted altimeter, he saw that he was past 1,100 feet. But why hadn’t his own chute activated? He was well aware that he carried no spare, and his gut tightened as he imagined what it would be like to die in such a nightmarish manner.

  Had his equipment been packed improperly, or was a mechanical malfunction at fault? It was too late to place blame now, and he plunged ever downward.

  It wasn’t until he hit the 900-foot level that his pack finally popped open. Pulled to a near halt with a spring, he issued a breath of relief upon watching the silken-white chute billow outward. They had been issued the new rectangular, steerable parachutes, and Grigori gratefully took hold of the two steering cords that were beside each shoulder. His panic was long passed as he noticed that his comrades had good chutes also.

  Remembering the map that had been given to him at Petropavlovsk, he aimed for the island’s deserted western shoreline. There, a wide patch of sandy beach was visible, several meters from the rock-l
ined surf itself. The surface winds were at a minimum, and Grigori swept in from the ocean and hit his mark with the ease of stepping off the bottom rung of a stepladder.

  The added encumbrance of the Stinger package made gathering his chute a bit awkward, yet by the time his teammates landed beside him he had his gear in complete control. Thankful to get his oxygen mask off, he took his first breath of Capitalist air. Beside him, Konstantin did the same.

  “So this is what smog smells like,” Konstantin said.

  “Tell me, comrades, where are all the surfers?”

  Taking this in with a distasteful grin, Grigori beckoned them to keep their voices down. After all, this was enemy territory, and there was no telling who could be close by listening.

  A ledge of sharp, volcanic rocks lay to their left, and Grigori signaled that this would be where they would seek shelter. It was behind this outcropping that their HALO gear was subsequently buried and their new equipment readied. In addition to their matching green camouflaged fatigues and corresponding berets, both Konstantin and Dmitri were armed with Colt,45-caliber pistols, several stun grenades, and M16 A2 rifles. Grigori carried the same side arm, yet in place of the eight-and-a-half-pound rifle he was armed with a lightweight Uzi 9-mm. submachine gun. This would allow him to more easily carry the still-packaged Stinger.

  It was Dmitri who carefully unwrapped and activated the allimportant homing device. Shaped much like a large, portable transistor radio, the instrument was subsequently carried out beyond the surf line and anchored to the ocean’s floor. There it would send out a loud, pulse-like burst of high-pitched sound in a pre-designated, coded sequence. If all had gone as planned, the Volga should be close by to pick up this call. Only then would the next part of their mysterious mission be revealed to them.

  To await the sub, they chose to remain hidden behind the rock ledge. From this covert vantage point, they were afforded an excellent view not only of the surrounding waters but of the beach and shoreline as well.