Flight of the Condor

by Richard P. Henrick

  Checking his wrist-mounted compass to make sure that they were headed eastward, Grigori looked up when a muted, bubbling roil sounded nearby. It was then that he noticed that the Volga’s sail was no longer visible.

  Totally alone now, they put their backs into their paddling. The thick shroud of fog veiled the enormity of the distance that they had to travel, yet the men established a vigorous rhythm. As they kept their conversation to a whispered minimum, all was silent except for the slap of sea water against their hull, and the lonely cry of a distant fog horn.

  An hour passed, and still their rhythm did not falter. Satisfied with their progress, Grigori allowed them the briefest of breaks. It was during this period of blessed rest that they first heard the faraway sound of breaking surf.

  “We’re there already!” observed Konstantin victoriously.

  Signaling the overly enthusiastic commando to keep his voice down, Grigori rechecked his compass.

  “We’ll proceed another half a kilometer before leaving the raft. Come on, comrades, let’s get it over with.”

  His teammates responded by picking up their paddles and continuing their full strokes. Beyond, the sound of the crashing surf continued to intensify, and soon Grigori gave the orders to halt. Without a further word spoken, they stowed the paddles and opened their sealed sea bags. From these waterproof sacks, each man removed a pair of goggles, a snorkel, and a set of fins. After resealing the bags, and mounting them on their backs, they donned this skindiving equipment and slipped into the awaiting ocean.

  Grigori’s sea bag was the heaviest and most awkward of the group, yet he managed to get overboard with a minimum of noise. The water was chilly, and it took him some effort to remove his knife and slash the raft’s hull. Once this was accomplished, he again checked his compass and beckoned his men to follow him.

  Because of his load, he found the easiest stroke to manage was the breast stroke. Always a powerful swimmer, Grigori extended his arms in front of his head fully, while drawing his knees forward and outward. This was followed by a sweeping backward movement of both his arms and legs. By the time he had completed but a dozen such strokes, the low water temperature was hardly noticeable. Warmed by his pounding blood and insulated wet-suit, he found himself enjoying the swim. Ever conscious of his two teammates, who easily matched his pace, the commando emptied his tangled mind of any thoughts but those of his stroke. Time quickly passed, and the loud, pounding sound of the surf signaled that their goal was near.

  Spitting his snorkel from his mouth, Grigori halted and began treading water. His teammates did likewise and gathered around him.

  “We are just about there,” managed Grigori.

  “Remember not to fight the riptide and keep a sharp lookout for those rocks.”

  “Yes, Mother,” responded Konstantin facetiously.

  Slapping a handful of water at Konstantin’s mask, Dmitri shook his head at this attempt at humor.

  Grigori seemed to ignore it, as he cleared his snorkel and pointed toward the east.

  As they resumed their stroke, each man recognized that they were now contending with a strong offshore current. Most likely resulting from a return flow of waves, this force made their progress tedious. To counter it, each swimmer had to apply a strenuous effort.

  Grigori was just beginning to tire when the first curl of surf broke over his head. Spitting the water from his snorkel, he countered the resulting pull of the riptide by continuing on in a lateral course. This change of direction was starting to pay off when he spotted a jagged shelf of rock protruding from the water immediately before him. Doing his best to signal its presence, he fought the tide that was now drawing him ever closer to this dangerous obstacle.

  Utilizing every last ounce of muscle, he pulled himself backward and just missed the razor-sharp ledge by less than an arm’s length. Much to his relief, his alert teammates did likewise.

  The tide continued its unyielding pull, and they soon found themselves on the opposite side of the rock shelf. Still masked by the fog, the surf there appeared to be a bit more even. Doing his best to scan the waters for hidden obstacles, Grigori decided that that spot looked as good as any other. Signaling that fact, he put his head down and initiated a smooth, powerful stroke forward.

  Again a line of surf broke over his head, yet this time its crashing wake pulled him in the same direction in which he had been headed. Doing his best to nestle his body in this wave’s curl, he felt a sudden surge of velocity as the surf hurled him forward in a burst of fluid speed. Seconds later, the wave smashed onto the beach and he was aware of a gravelly layer of coarse sand beneath him. With muscles straining and his chest heaving, he pulled himself out of the water and gratefully caught his breath.

  Dmitri Andreyev followed close behind. Gagging on the sea water that he had swallowed during the maddening ride in, he did his best to muffle the coughing seizure that possessed him.

  “Easy now, comrade,” prompted Grigori, who crawled over to the commando’s side to attend to him.

  Slipping Dmitri’s sea bag off his back, Grigori slapped him hard between the shoulder blades. As a result, Dmitri gagged and the coughing fit passed.

  “Thank you, comrade,” offered Dmitri weakly.

  “I hope Konstantin remembered to keep that big mouth of his shut.”

  Suddenly aware of their teammate’s absence, Grigori slipped off his own equipment bag and turned to scan the shoreline. His gut tightened upon viewing nothing but fog, sand, and the ever-frothing white surf.

  “He must be still out there!” cried Grigori, his tone filled with concern.

  “I’m going to go out and see if I can find him.”

  Without further hesitation, he pulled on his mask and plunged back into the surging foam. As it turned out, he didn’t have to proceed far to find the missing squad member.

  Hanging lifelessly amid the line of pounding surf, Konstantin’s limp body was impaled on a mangled arm of rusted steel. With eyes still open, he seemed to be looking westward, to a homeland he would never return to again. As the fog wrapped its misty tentacles around his soaked corpse, Grigori struggled to contain his grief. They had gone through much together, and for his brave friend to die in such a needless way was a supreme travesty of justice. Knowing that the mission would have to go on regardless, Grigori pulled himself together. Certainly, Konstantin would have done likewise if their fates had been reversed.

  Because the body had no identification on it, the corpse could be left where it was. He needed only to remove the weapons pack. Then, if Konstantin were subsequently discovered, the authorities would only have the unfortunate death of yet another unknown skin diver to contend with.

  With some difficulty, Grigori managed to cut the straps of Konstantin’s sea bag. Doing his best to remain free of the rusty snare that lay in the water, he shouldered the sack and took a last look at his dear comrade. The tears had already stopped flowing down his cheeks by the time he arrived back at the beachhead.

  “Well, where is he, Grigori?” quizzed Dmitri as he helped the blond-haired commando from the water.

  Slipping off his mask and fins, Grigori was solemn.

  “I’m afraid there must have been some sort of shipwreck out there. Our good friend Konstantin was impaled on the remaining debris. Hopefully, his death was quick.”

  Though he had been expecting as much, Dmitri let forth a wail of anguish.

  “He never did know how to stay away from trouble, that one. I can’t imagine how the world will be without him.”

  “Well, get used to it quickly,” retorted Grigori.

  “He knew the risks, just like each one of us who dons the black beret. Now, to insure that his death is not in vain, let’s get on with our mission. We must find a secluded spot to change into our fatigues and bury our wet-suits. Then we must be off for the hills above Space Launch Complex 6.”

  Taking the extra sea bag that Grigori had been carrying, Dmitri regathered his composure.

  “
You are right, comrade. There will be time for mourning later, after we have finished our task. Right now, tears mean not a thing. While you were gone, I found a hidden ledge of rock further up on the beach.”

  “Excellent,” returned Grigori.

  “Lead the way, Comrade Andreyev. I knew I could count on you.”

  The beach was narrow, and surrounded by a wall of volcanic rock. At the base of this ledge was a cramped, cave-like formation. It was there that they began peeling off their wet-suits, replacing them with camouflaged Green Beret fatigues. After the skindiving equipment was buried beneath a rocky niche, they shouldered their weapons. Grigori slung the encased Stinger package over his back and led the way upward.

  The climb up the cliff was steep, yet there were plenty of jagged footholds available to allow them access to the summit. The ledge of rock they soon found themselves on was relatively smooth and flat.

  As they slowly proceeded inland, Grigori spotted a strange-looking object mounted on the ground before them. Appearing like a ghostly apparition in the swirling fog was a large, rusted anchor, lying on a concrete slab, with a thin, iron-link rail around it.

  Gathering in front of this apparent monument, the commandos passed a moment of hushed silence.

  “I wonder if this anchor came from the same wreck that caused the death of our beloved comrade?” said Dmitri grimly.

  “Perhaps it did,” answered Grigori, who was suddenly startled when a strange sound came from somewhere close by.

  Because the fog served to mask this noise’s exact source, Grigori spun on his heels in an attempt to track it down. Instinctively crouching beside him,

  Dmitri pointed to their left. There, two distorted, pinprick shafts of bright light illuminated the swirling mist, approximately one-quarter of a kilometer distant.

  It was most obvious that they emanated from a pair of flashlights, and that whoever carried them were headed straight for the commandos.

  Taking his knife from its sheathe, Dmitri made a cutting motion over his throat. Signaling that this wasn’t the type of response that he wanted, Grigori instead motioned toward the ledge they had just climbed up from. Disappointed, Dmitri followed his teammate back to the wall. Carefully edging down its sharp face, they lowered themselves just far enough so that only their foreheads still peaked over the jagged summit.

  Thirty seconds passed until voices could finally be heard. Long before their mist-veiled figures became visible, the Spetsnaz operatives, who were fluent in English, could readily make out the rambling conversation.

  “I still wish I had my surfboard down here when that wave hit this morning,” boasted a high-pitched male voice.

  “That would have been the ultimate ride of a lifetime.”

  “It would have also been your last,” returned his deep-throated companion.

  “Sometimes, Johnson, I don’t think you’re playing with a full deck.”

  With this, two uniformed sentries emerged onto the rock plateau. Positioning themselves beside the anchor monument, they rather halfheartedly shone their lights in the direction of the sea.

  “This sure is a night for spooks,” offered the surfer.

  “I can just visualize the ghosts of those destroyer boys who were lost here back in 1923.”

  “That disaster was a tragic one, all right,” responded his companion.

  “But enough of that spook talk. This place gives me the chills without that nonsense. Now come on, we’d better get on with our rounds before the sergeant throws a shit-fit.”

  Without another word spoken, the sentries turned from the sea and disappeared eastwards. A full minute passed before Grigori gave the signal to climb back onto the plateau.

  “Such is the fierce nature of our adversaries,” spat Dmitri.

  “They babbled on like mere schoolboys.”

  Grigori’s tone was a bit more cautious.

  “Don’t let them fool you, comrade. The Americans might seem slow to anger, but pity the poor enemy that it is not prepared to counter their wrath once it is aroused. We must be ever alert now for both more sentries and electronic surveillance methods. The closer we get to that missile site, the thicker they’ll be, so let’s take advantage of this cloak of fog while we still have it.

  We shouldn’t rest until we are well hidden in the hills to the east of the launch complex itself.”

  Dmitri stepped aside and beckoned with his hand.

  “I’m ready whenever you are, comrade. Merely lead on.”

  Doing just that, Grigori readjusted the load that lay slung over his back and began his way inland.

  After passing the anchor, they followed a narrow, earthen pathway over a desolate plain littered with razor-sharp thistle and spiky cactus. Continuing on the trail as it climbed up a steep ravine, they crossed a set of railroad tracks and were forced to dive to the ground for cover when a pair of bright headlights suddenly pierced the mist before them. Pressing their noses into the sandy, dry soil, they looked up in time to see a convoy of large trucks pass on a road that lay another half kilometer to the east. The powerful roar of their diesel engines rumbled through the night, and Grigori couldn’t help but grin.

  “I bet they’re headed for the launch site,” he whispered softly.

  “It has to be nearby.”

  “Either that, or we’ve been mistakenly dropped off on one of their so-called freeways,” offered Dmitri with a nervous wink.

  Only when he was certain that no other traffic was in the vicinity did Grigori dare stand. Leaving the path they had been following, he led Dmitri directly toward the nearest portion of pavement. Though their progress roused a startled long-eared jackrabbit, they managed to stay well clear of the sharp, low-laying brush and dreaded rattlesnakes that abounded there.

  When they finally made it to the road, they found it to be a good-sized thoroughfare. Paved with black asphalt, it was wide enough to handle the largest of transports. Its flat surface looked awfully inviting, yet Grigori knew that it was fraught with too many unseen dangers. Proceeding by way of the surrounding hills would be much more practical.

  Grigori needed a running start to get to the top of the hill that lay on the other side of the roadway. As his boots bit into the soft sand that comprised this summit, his glance strayed immediately before him, to the east. His eyes subsequently opened wide with wonder as they took in the scene on the distant horizon. For the fog had temporarily lifted. Visible another kilometer away was an immense, brightly lit complex of massive concrete-and-steel structures. Positioned at the center of this conglomeration of blockhouses and towers was the very vehicle he had been sent to destroy. Shimmering beneath the banks of spotlights, the spotlessly white shuttle sat perched on its trio of boosters. Looking deceptively close, it beckoned him forward like a father welcoming a longlost son.

  How very easy it seemed to merely set up their weapons right there and just blast away at it. Yet Grigori knew his Stinger’s infrared guided warhead would have a much easier target once the rocket’s main engines ignited.

  Since the security there seemed almost nonexistent, for the first time he actually thought that the mad scheme might succeed after all. Ever aware that over-confidence could be their worst enemy, he swore that they would proceed with caution. They had come too far to fail by accident now. Konstantin Lomakin’s tragic fate must not be their own.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Richard Fuller arrived at Slik 6’s launch control center at 8:00 A.M. sharp. He had anticipated the ever-present early morning fog that made driving down to the coast a time-consuming proposition, so he had made certain to leave Lompoc extra early. As it turned out, he arrived just in time for his appointed meeting.

  The launch complex was buzzing with activity as he passed through the dual security gates and drove by the payload-preparation area. Dozens of hardhat wearing white-smocked technicians milled about the various assembly buildings located there. As he continued on toward the partially buried concrete-block structure housing the main c
ontrol center, he had a brief view of the shuttle itself. Barely visible in the swirling fingers of fog, the shiny white orbiter was lit by a bank of powerful spotlights. Perched as it was on its boosters, the vehicle appeared ready to fly. A renewed sense of urgency prompted Richard’s actions, for he knew that he had wasted enough valuable time already.

  The previous night had been one of the most frustrating evenings of his life. After leaving the Arguello dock site he had returned to his condo with hopes of immediately contacting Secretary of the Air Force Fitzpatrick. Subsequent calls to both the Pentagon and to the Secretary’s current Vandenberg quarters had gotten him nowhere. Apparently in the process of entertaining a group of Congressmen, who were also visiting the base, Fitzpatrick had been impossible to reach no matter what the problem involved. Richard had been asked to leave his name, number, and a brief message. The Secretary’s coldly efficient aide had then recommended that Richard contact Lieutenant Colonel Todd Lansford instead.

  Realizing that he had nowhere else to turn, the Nose researcher had reluctantly done so.

  It had been Master Sergeant Sprawlings who had set up this morning’s early meeting at the control center. Though he couldn’t help but get the feeling that they were merely patronizing him, Richard knew that it would be better than nothing. Still positive that the Titan had been taken down by an outside source, and fearing that such a fate awaited the shuttle, he renewed his determination. Certain of the validity of his suspicions, he pulled into the control center’s parking lot.

  At the block structure’s entrance, he was met by a pair of heavily armed, grim-faced sentries. They checked his ID and found his name on their clipboard, but Richard was not allowed further entry. He was told that Lieutenant Colonel Lansford would have to be paged, and was forced to wait for him outside.

  While one of the guards proceeded inside to notify Lansford, Richard’s face flushed with anger. Here he was a personal guest of the Air Force, and they didn’t even trust him enough to allow him into their precious control room. Turning from the remaining sentry, he diverted his irate gaze to that portion of the facility that lay before him.