A pair of powerful binoculars was used to scan the ocean’s surface for any sign of the Volga. As it turned out, a full hour passed before Konstantin made the initial sighting. He jumped forward and pointed excitedly as a thin column of red smoke issued forth from the ocean, approximately a kilometer offshore. Upon sighting this flare himself, Grigori stood up and beckoned his men to do likewise.
“That’s them all right,” he whispered.
“I knew the Navy wouldn’t let us down. Let’s get that raft inflated and get off this desolate pile of sand and rock.”
With a minimum of difficulty, the small raft was readied and the commandos began their way seaward.
The surf was minimal and their progress swift. When they were half a kilometer from shore, the flare quit smoking. They didn’t lose sight of their goal, though, for a slender black periscope now extended from the water and graphically showed the way. Seeing this structure put new spring’ into their strokes.
When they were a quarter of a kilometer away, the sleek, rounded black sail of the submarine slowly raised above the surface. Shaped like the back of a breaching whale, the conning tower’s characteristic form could belong to only one class of underwater vessel. The rest of the boat’s deck remained submerged as they continued their approach.
Grigori felt his chest swell with pride when a trio of figures appeared on top of the sail. One of these blue-suited sailors waved at them, while the others were busy lowering a rope ladder overboard. This operation proved without a doubt in his mind that the Motherland’s finest could successfully operate right in the enemy’s very backyard. Anxious to know exactly what this mission entailed, Grigori utilized his paddle like a rudder to swing the raft up against the steel conning tower.
“Welcome to the Volga, comrades,” greeted one of the young sailors, who reached over to grab their bow line.
Nodding in response, Dmitri began handing one of the other sailors their weapons. This transfer proved to be a bit difficult, bobbing in the open ocean as they were, yet it was soon completed and the Spetsnaz operatives themselves began to board. Grigori was the last to do so. Satisfied that they had conveyed all their equipment, he grabbed the thick rope ladder with one hand, and hit the raft’s air-release valve with the other. By the time he had climbed onto the sail’s solid deck, the now-deflated raft was already sinking beneath the ocean’s surface.
“The Volga’s seen enough daylight for today, comrades,” observed a burly sailor.
“Please continue on down into the vessel itself so that we can submerge.
Captain Antonov is anxiously awaiting your presence in the wardroom.”
After carefully lowering their weapons inside the hatchway, they proceeded to climb down the steel ladder. It was dark and cool inside the sail’s cramped superstructure. Doing his best not to bruise his limbs and torso, Grigori somewhat gratefully stepped off the last rung and found himself in the sub’s central attack center.
The blond-haired commando looked out with astonishment as he studied the sophisticated electronic gear that now surrounded them. Appearing more like the computer room of a major university, the compartment glowed and chattered with dozens of digital consoles and high-tech keyboards. Manning these stations were over a dozen sailors. They were dressed immaculately in matching blue coveralls, and Grigori felt conspicuous in the camouflaged fatigues of their adversary.
“Ah, I see that you made it down the sail in one piece,” jested one of the sailors, a warrant officer who dropped down to the deck beside them.
Before continuing, the warrant officer addressed a tall, distinguished-looking figure standing at the room’s opposite end.
“The sail is sealed and all deck crew and new passengers accounted for. Lieutenant Litinov.”
Nodding in response to this, the officer wasted no time in calling out, “Dive! Dive!”
Three loud blasts of a claxon accompanied this directive, and a surging hiss of venting air and flooding sea water was immediately audible. Barely aware that they were descending, Grigori caught the exultant stares of his teammates, who humbly stood at his side.
“Now come, comrades, the captain is waiting,” added the warrant officer as he beckoned them to follow him into the sub’s interior.
Grigori was equally as impressed with the portion of the vessel they were soon led to. After passing down a narrow, cable-lined corridor, they climbed through an open hatchway and emerged into a somewhat spacious, wood-paneled compartment. Dominating this room was a large, rectangular table. A single uniformed figure sat at its head, his complete attention focused on a series of intricate nautical charts that lay spread out before him.
While his teammates climbed through the hatch behind him, Grigori took in the familiar strains of the second movement of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 4 in F minor emanating from a pair of elevated speakers.
This particular piece had been one of his father’s favorites, and he had played it time after time on his record player. Hearing it blare out with such realistic clarity there beneath the waters of the Pacific did much to ease Grigori’s tenseness.
When his eyes caught the framed photographs that lined the room, he felt even more at home. There were over a dozen superb pictures of the great river for which their present means of transport was named.
Since he had grown up in the city of Gorky, which lay on the Volga’s very banks, he was no stranger to the river’s great beauty.
The photograph on the wall nearest to him showed a particularly breathtaking segment of the river.
There the ever-flowing blue expanse of water cut through a thick oak wood on one side and an immense field of billowing wheat on the other. Grigori couldn’t help but find his thoughts soaring back to his past.
“Makes you homesick, doesn’t it, comrade?” boomed a deep, bass voice in a tone that reminded Grigori of his own father.
Brought back from his brief reverie, the blond haired Spetsnaz commando realized this voice came from the figure seated at the table’s head. Quickly, he looked over to confirm this fact. Staring up at him was a face he would not soon forget.
The first facial feature he was drawn to was the black patch that covered the right eye. This swatch of shiny cloth only enhanced the intensity of the dark green stare that projected from his left pupil. Seemingly hypnotized by this glance, Grigori took in the sharply etched cheekbones, aquiline nose, square, firm jaw, and tight, weather-worn skin. With dignity and grace, the black-haired officer politely nodded in response.
“Lieutenant Grigori Yagoda, I presume. Welcome aboard the Volga. I am the vessel’s commanding officer. Captain Mikhail Antonov.”
Standing to offer his handshake, the captain revealed a solid, trim, six-foot figure. Positioning himself beside the officer, Grigori found his grasp firm and warm.
“Captain Antonov, it is an honor to be here. May I present my fellow squad members, Lieutenants Konstantin Lomakin and Dmitri Andreyev.”
Meeting their nods of greeting, Antonov slyly grinned.
“The honor is ours, comrades. It’s not often that the Volga has such esteemed guests. The brave exploits of the Spetsnaz are well known to us. As fellow Naval warriors, you do us most proud. Now sit, comrades, and enjoy the simple comforts of this humble vessel.”
Snapping the fingers of his right hand, the captain beckoned his guests to be seated. As they did so, the warrant officer silently exited the compartment.
Quick to enter in his place was a white-uniformed orderly. With practiced ease, this young sailor set the large silver tray he had been carrying down on the table. Displayed on its length was a china tea service and a platter of fresh oatmeal cookies. After serving them each a cup of tea and two cookies, the seaman smartly pivoted and left the room, shutting the hatch behind him. Only then did the captain continue.
“I hope this will hold you until dinner, at which time I’d like for you to join me for a real meal.”
After consuming a sip of tea, he added, “By the way, Lieutena
nt Yagoda, I had the honor of meeting your illustrious father in Moscow several years ago.
With his passing, the Motherland has indeed lost one of its greatest heroes. His vision alone was responsible for the likes of the amazing vessel that we currently sit inside.”
“Why, thank you, Captain,” returned Grigori, who noticed that the symphony that continued to surround them was about to begin its next movement.
“My father rests in peace knowing that his thousands of hours of unselfish toil have not been wasted in vain.
If only he could have lived to see this day come.”
“I believe he’s with us at this very moment,” offered Antonov with a wink.
“He lives through you, Comrade Yagoda. How very fortunate it is for the Motherland that you have lived up to his demanding standards and then some. The Spetsnaz is our country’s finest fighting force. No other soldier on this planet is your equal. Since achieving the impossible is but an everyday occurrence for the Spetsnaz commando, I think you’ll find your present task particularly challenging.”
Taking in the rapt gazes of his curious audience, Antonov took another sip of tea before continuing.
“I must admit that, so far, the timing of this mission has been most auspicious. Only a few hours ago, your transfer to the Volga would have been impossible to achieve. Though the ocean looks calm now, this morning these same seas were swept by a mammoth wave of water.
“We first learned of the approach of this tidal wave not long after sunrise, while monitoring the U.S.
Coast Guard shortwave weather band. At first, we feared this alert could be a mere hoax, cleverly conceived to draw us out. Yet, when we checked our own weather satellite, we found it most legitimate.
“Fortunately, we were positioned near these same islands. Since the wave was coming in from the northwest, we stationed ourselves in a deep trough of water that lay to the southeast of San Miguel. Even though the island absorbed much of the tsunami’s fury, we felt its aftereffects a full eight hundred meters beneath the water’s surface.
“Then, of course, in addition to this unusual phenomenon, an extremely thick fog has haunted these waters lately. This afternoon is the first in over a week in which the blue sky is even visible this far out to sea.”
With this, Grigori sat forward.
“I had a chance to personally view this fog bank during my free-fall from the Tupolev Red Fox that flew us here. I wouldn’t be surprised if the waters above us were already veiled in its milky shroud.”
“What would we have done if the fog had covered San Miguel Island?” questioned Konstantin, between bites of a cookie.
Grigori didn’t flinch.
“We would have jumped anyway and worried about where we landed later.”
Expecting just such an answer from their fearless leader, Konstantin merely shrugged his shoulders.
Taking the resulting silence as a cue, Captain Antonov spoke out once again.
“Just as worrisome as this unusual weather has been the actions of a certain American submarine.
Yesterday will mark the third recent occasion on which we apparently crossed their path by mere accident. As was the case with our previous encounters, we easily escaped their crude attempt to pursue us.”
Antonov shook his head.
“To think that the United States would dare challenge the pride of the Motherland’s Fleet with one of their twenty-five year-old, obsolete, diesel-electric models. This only goes to show how very thin their supposedly unrivaled submarine force is actually spread. Why, the poor fools can’t even effectively guard their own coastline!”
This last statement caused the captain’s previously calm face to flush with excitement. Regathering his composure, he took another sip of tea and cleared his throat.
“Well, enough of this old sailor’s rambling. I’m certain that you’re most anxious to hear exactly what you’ve been sent these thousand of kilometers to do.
So, here it goes.
“The orders I’m about to convey to you come directly from Premier Viktor Alipov’s office. They were sent via a laser satellite transmission, and were received on the Volga barely two hours ago. Since they arrived scrambled, I’m the only one aboard who knows their contents.”
Pausing to take a deep breath, Antonov scanned the faces of the three young men who sat before him.
Certain that he still held their complete attention, he continued.
“At present, the Volga is on a course due northward.
That will put us off the coast of the U.S. mainland in approximately another hour’s time. As soon as I can guarantee you the protective cloak of dusk, I’m going to drop you off in the waters directly opposite the geological feature known as Point Arguello.
I will do everything within my power to convey you as close to the shoreline as safety allows.
I’ll warn you now that these waters are extremely hazardous. They are haunted by wicked riptides and razor-sharp reefs. You must choose your course of entry carefully, for the pounding surf here can be most unforgiving.”
“We are well qualified to overcome whatever obstacle Mother Nature might throw our way,” interrupted rigori, whose curiosity was fully piqued.
“Of course you are,” returned the captain.
“I was only being overly fatherly, for caution in these waters can not be overly stressed.”
Accepting Grigori’s nod of awareness, Antonov returned to business.
“Once you have penetrated the surf line, you will find yourselves in the southern sector of Vandenberg Air Force Base. From there you are to proceed to Space Launch Complex 6, which lies another kilometer inland. It is from this site that America’s space shuttle will be launched into the heavens sometime tomorrow morning. Your mission is to simply terminate this flight using whatever means necessary. The Volga will then be standing by off the coast to pick you up, once this task has been accomplished. Needless to say, we’ll waste no time in taking you home to a much-deserved heroes’ welcome.
This last sentence barely registered in Grigori’s mind as he contemplated the awesome scope of his mission. This was no mere airplane that they had been sent to take out, but America’s most advanced space-delivery system!
Genuinely astounded by what he had just heard, Grigori looked to the faces of his coworkers. There was no hiding the shock and surprise that they too were experiencing. After silently offering them a compassionate gaze of understanding, Grigori slowly turned his stare back to Captain Antonov.
“Some morning’s work the Motherland is asking from you, huh, comrades?” offered the one-eyed Naval officer.
Unable to respond, Grigori instead found his attention focusing on the picture mounted on the wall immediately behind Antonov. Once again this photo featured Europe’s longest river. Innocently playing on the Volga’s wide banks in this representation was a group of frolicking young children. Was it really only twenty years before that Grigori himself had been such a child?
Feeling old beyond his years, the blond-haired Spetsnaz lieutenant could only hope that the Premier knew what he was asking of them. It wasn’t necessarily his own life that concerned him. Grigori had consigned himself long ago to the dismal fact that it would be a minor miracle if he ever made it past thirty. Rather it was on the generation pictured in the photograph that his concerns were centered. For if the overly proud Americans ever got wind of just why their precious Space Shuttle had gone down, they would respond with nothing short of World War III.
Certain of this grim fact, Grigori knew it was now up to his team to insure that this impossible mission was completed without a hint of suspicion.
Chapter Twelve
Richard Fuller couldn’t believe it when the Air Force sentry refused him entry through the gate that led to Vandenberg’s Coast Road. Even though Lieutenant Colonel Lansford had put him on the security list, the guard had explained that the route southward was temporarily closed to remove silt deposited on it by the tidal wave. Frustrated by
the fact that Lansford had been the one to personally invite him down to the Arguello storage facility in the first place, Fuller pulled into the holding lot to wait for the road to reopen.
Leaving the confines of his car, he stretched his limbs and looked out to the sea that crashed onto the rocks less than a quarter of a mile away. It continued to be an usually clear afternoon. Absent was the thick fog that had perpetually veiled the coastline for days on end. Absorbing the pleasing warmth of the sun as it crept down towards the western horizon, Richard remembered the day’s traumatic sequence of events.
It had all started out early that morning, when he had learned what the warning sirens had been activated for. As it turned out, his frantic dash down to the beach, to make certain that Miriam and her crew were safe, had been accomplished with only minutes to spare. For no sooner had they climbed onto the canyon’s summit when the wave had been first spotted.
The initial sign of its approach had been when the frothing surf-line visible below them suddenly was sucked westward. Within seconds, the powerful riptide had pulled the waters back, exposing almost a mile-wide band of sloping, wet sand. One of the young male students had first sighted the tsunami itself. Still far out to sea, the wave’s spiraling curl had stretched the entire length of the horizon. This sight in itself had been breathtaking.
Soon Richard had been aware of a distant, gathering roar. Like the sound of an approaching freight train, the crashing surge of water had steadily increased in volume. By the time the full extent of the wave’s size could be appreciated, its accompanying sound had been almost deafening.
For the rest of his life, the sights and sounds which he had breathlessly watched take form in the distance would be deeply ingrained in his consciousness. From that day onward, whenever he looked out to the sea, a single, awesome vision would be instinctively triggered.
Over three times as large as the massive surf that had pounded into Hawaii’s north shore, the tsunami had seemed to continue to grow in size until the moment it exploded onto dry land. The very earth below them had rumbled as the seventy-five-foot wave struck the beach with the speed of a jet aircraft.
Flight of the Condor Page 25
