Captain Tim Gener was the first one to make it to the blood-spattered circle of rocks. Ever so cautiously, he peered inside, and came to the instant conclusion that their unknown enemy no longer threatened them. Only then did he somberly reach for the twoway radio, to convey this fact to Launch Control.
Lieutenant Colonel Todd Lansford took the deaths of Bill Rose and the seven Able-Team members quite hard. Ignoring the distinguished, pin-striped individual seated beside him, he gazed up at the launch monitor, his stare vacant.
It all seemed so unnecessary. Why anyone in their right mind would send in two men to initiate a job that would take a full battalion was beyond him. He could only guess that they were terrorists of some sort. He wondered what Dr. Richard Fuller would have to say about all this. Then he snapped back from his reverie as his esteemed guest spoke up.
“I’m sorry about your men, Todd. They went to their deaths with all the valor and bravado befitting members of the United States Air Force. The entire country can be proud of them.”
Secretary Fitzpatrick’s words caused Lansford to sharpen the focus of his line of sight. He took in the shiny white orbiter perched at its launch mount. The digital clock that was superimposed in the bottom right-hand corner of the monitor screen showed that the launch was being held with thirty-one minutes and fifty seconds to go until liftoff. The senior officer stirred when the white-haired figure who sat beside him again spoke.
“Don’t you think it’s time to reinitiate the countdown, Todd?”
Massaging the pounding ache that possessed his forehead, Lansford sat forward. As if emerging from a horrible nightmare, he suddenly became conscious of his present location. Seated at the rear command console of Shuttle Mission Control, he absorbed the dozens of anxious technicians who were stationed before their own keyboards and monitors in front of him. A hushed sense of anticipation filled the air and Lansford realized that it would take only a single order from his lips to get the ball rolling once again.
With renewed composure, he turned to address the veteran Defense Department bureaucrat who sat to his right.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary. I thought you wanted to hold the Condor until it was determined if the intruders had any accomplices close by.”
The Secretary shook his head.
“I don’t think that’s necessary any longer, Todd. Your preliminary infrared scan showed that those two individuals were the only unauthorized figures on the entire southern quadrant of the base. I’d say that it’s safe to presume that they were working by themselves. Thus, I see no reason to hold the Condor any longer.”
Calmed by the Secretary’s tone of voice, Lansford sighed.
“You’re right, Mr. Secretary. I’m sorry for hesitating. I’ll restart the countdown at once.”
While the lieutenant colonel picked up the intercom to convey this decision, Fitzpatrick watched him with a practiced, shrewd eye. At that moment, he could have sworn that there was something important that the senior officer was keeping from him. His years in Washington had taught him that he could trust no man absolutely. He could only hope that, whatever his host was holding inside, it wouldn’t jeopardize the further safety of the delta-winged space craft that filled the monitor screen above him.
A breath of relief passed his lips when he noticed that the digital clock had again started moving. This meant that in a little over a half-hour’s time the Condor would be released into the heavens.
Fitzpatrick’s eyes gleamed as he visualized the sophisticated reconnaissance platform secured in its cargo hold. For there lay the future security of the entire Free World. Confident that no further obstacles lay in their way, he sat back and watched the seconds left to liftoff continue to tick away.
Chapter Fifteen
Captain Philip Exeter stood in the Razorback’s control room, his attention locked on the navigational chart that showed their current position. Beside him was huddled the sub’s Navigator and Weapons Officer.
They too studied the graph, on whose surface was drawn a triangular design. Laying at the apex of this polygon was a mark indicating the Razorback. From this position two straight lines were drawn of approximately equal length. The top one stretched to the northeast, and showed the location of the still-unidentified diesel-electric submarine. The opposing arm of the triangle extended to the southeast, and terminated at the spot where the supposed nuclear vessel currently hovered. Since spotting these two contacts, the Razorback had turned around. Headed back toward the east now, it was in the process of bisecting the triangle, putting the sub equally distant between both targets.
Ever conscious that noon was only a quarter of an hour away, Exeter shifted his weight impatiently.
Making his indecision even more difficult was his aching right knee. Still feeling the pain, he wondered when the three aspirin he had just consumed would finally take effect.
The captain knew that from their current position they could easily take out both contacts. Yet, since either one had yet to make a hostile move, he found himself hesitant to do so. After all, they weren’t in a declared state of war. All that he had to go on were the frantic ramblings of the Nose researcher, whose theories could very well be so much hot air. Waiting anxiously for one of the vessels to make some sort of belligerent maneuver, he could do little more than have the Razorback primed for action. To insure their readiness, he would depend on the two junior officers who studied the chart at his side.
Clearing his dry throat, Exeter first addressed his Navigator.
“Mr. McClure, I’m going to need you to pull those bathygraphs of these waters. Somewhere beneath us, the Marlin is probing the sea floor. If we are forced to attack, we’ve got to be certain that the DSRV doesn’t stand in our way.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” responded the Navigator, who turned to rummage through his chart box.
This left Exeter facing his Weapons Officer.
“Mr. Willingham, I’m relying on you to give me a constant update on those firing solutions. Since both contacts are under suspicion, you’ll have double the work. I want all six torpedo tubes loaded with Mk-48’s. Each is to be ready to fire at my command.”
“What exactly are we waiting for, Captain?” asked the alert junior officer.
Exeter met the young man’s inquisitive stare.
“I’m not really sure. Lieutenant. All I know is that, if one of them is going to play its cards, it will be within the next fifteen minutes.”
Checking his watch, the somewhat puzzled Weapons Officer nodded and began his way across the compartment to the boat’s Mark 101-A firecontrol console. It would be from this position that the final firing bearings would be determined and, if needed, the torpedoes subsequently fired.
Returning his attention to the chart, Exeter mentally traced the Razorback’s new course eastward. By extending this route past the two unknown contacts, a journey of a little more than three more miles would take them right back to Point Arguello. Philip couldn’t help but wonder what was presently taking place on the desolate plains a mile inland. Surely, the Condor was in the midst of its final countdown. If Dr. Richard Fuller’s warning was to have some validity, the enemy would have to ascend soon. For not even an electromagnetic railgun could penetrate the ocean’s icy depths. He rubbed his knee, and his weary eyes again went to the wallmounted clock as the seconds continued to tick away to liftoff.
A deck beneath the control room, the Razorback’s Executive Officer found his glance diverted once more to his watch. Barely visible in the dim light of the sonar compartment, he counted the minutes left until 1200 hours. Like the Captain, he too realized that if the enemy were to indeed make a hostile move, it would have to occur within the next couple of minutes.
Sitting in front of him, the two younger sonar technicians were hunched over their consoles. Both were wearing headphones that were connected to the series of microphones encased in the sub’s hull. As a result of his recent briefing, they were each monitoring one of the two contacts that lay a
pproximately a mile off their bow. Their first priority was to listen for any venting ballast that could indicate an ascent.
Secondly, they were to be ever alert for the activation of any unusual deck machinery. If an electromagnetic railgun existed on one of those vessels, its bulky length would most likely be concealed somewhere on the sub’s upper deck. Surely, they would hear it being activated. Only then would they know which target needed to be eliminated.
When he had relayed these final instructions, Seaman Lefty Jackman had asked for a description of just what they were so desperately listening for. Unwilling to reveal its exact nature, Benton had veiled his response. For, if the Nose scientist’s suspicions proved wrong, he preferred that Fuller’s last-minute warning go no further than him and the Captain.
Jackman had soon realized that he was not going to get a precise answer to his question and had merely shrugged his shoulders and immersed himself back in his work. The XO hoped that this was as far as the enlisted man’s curiosity would go, yet such was not to be the case.
Unknown to the XO was the senior seaman’s undying inquisitiveness. Not one to be thrown off the trail so easily. Lefty sat at his station with his thoughts spinning. As his subconscious mind took in the constant muted drone of the diesel-electric sub that slowly cruised the depths some 25,000 yards off their port bow, his conscious thoughts centered themselves on the strange briefing that the XO had just shared with them. The senior officer had instructed them to listen for something, yet he wouldn’t even explain precisely what it might be. Lefty was no stranger to the fickle ways of Command, but this incident really took the cake.
Lefty could only assume that his coworker, Seth Burke, was right, and that this whole thing revolved around the launch of the space shuttle. Perhaps the Soviets were trying to interfere in some way. That could be the reason why the Russian Victor was presently prowling these waters. He even supposed that the diesel-electric boat that they had just chanced upon could be working with the Victor.
What he couldn’t understand was that, if this was indeed what Command feared, why they didn’t blow away both vessels and be done with it. These were their waters. Another foreign nation had absolutely no business there. How much better it was to be safe now than sorry later.
Looking forward to the day when America would quit being the nice guy and start playing hardball along with its hard-nosed adversary. Lefty reached up and readjusted the filter mechanism. After increasing the volume gain another full notch, he did his best to focus his total concentration on the contact’s present sound signature. His heart jumped when the familiar drone of the unknown vessel’s electric engines was abruptly overridden. In its place rose a noisy, liquid surge that was more characteristic of a nuclear reactor than an electric generator. Only after he doublechecked his headphone connection, to make certain that he wasn’t monitoring the contact that lay to their southeast, did he turn to inform the XO.
“Sir, you’re going to have trouble believing this, but that diesel-electric that we’ve been following has just turned nuclear on us!”
“What?” quizzed the XO, who hastily clipped on the auxiliary headphones to hear for himself.
Quick to pick out the hiss of a reactor’s coolant loop, he looked puzzled.
“Are you certain that you’re tuned into the right vessel?”
Lefty’s voice didn’t falter.
“I’m positive, sir. One second she was purring along on her batteries, and the next, this racket overtook her. Unless there’s another nuke right on top of her, it’s got to be coming from that same submarine.”
It was with this observation that an idea dawned in Patrick Benton’s consciousness. What if this reactor had been carried inside the diesel-electric’s hull all this time? Only recently activated, it was to be utilized for a single purpose, to power a weapons system that demanded much more energy than its fossil fueled generators could provide. This supposition was seemingly confirmed when a bubbling whirl of venting ballast emanated from this same vessel.
“She’s ascending!” cried Lefty Jackman excitedly.
Without a second’s hesitation, the XO reached out to grab the comm line.
Philip Exeter was standing at his usual command position at the center of the control room when the call arrived from Benton. Hastily checking the time, he knew that he had to make his final decision quickly. In another seven minutes, it would be too late.
“Mr. Willingham, give me a firing solution on the contact whose heading reads zero-three-zero,” ordered the Captain firmly.
The Weapons Officer fed this request into the firecontrol console, and was quick to respond.
“Final solution entered and looks good. Captain.”
“Prepare tubes one and three for firing!” countered Exeter, who again checked the time.
Before giving the order to release the torpedoes, he hurriedly went over his alternatives. Of the two targets before them, only the vessel off their port bow was ascending. The sudden activation of a nuclear reactor aboard this same boat surely meant that this sub needed a powerful boost of energy for something other than propulsion. Even though the Nose scientist’s prophetic warning seemed to be coming to fruition, it was not every day that a peacetime Naval officer gave the orders to willfully sink another vessel.
What if this submarine had no hostile intentions, and was merely caught up in a web of coincidence? Or perhaps the sub laying off their starboard bow contained the real enemy. Were the two somehow working together?
Exeter knew he could go on second-guessing himself all day long and never be the wiser. Guided by his instincts alone, he summoned the courage to make the difficult decision that only he was responsible for.
Ever conscious of the billion-dollar vehicle that would soon be blasting off into space, and gambling that Dr. Richard Fuller knew what he was talking about, Exeter turned to his right and ordered his Weapons Officer to fire both torpedo tubes.
Seconds later, the Razorback’s hull trembled under the force created by two sizzling explosions of compressed air. To a loud, popping roar, the pair of Mk48 torpedoes shot from their tubes and bit into the surrounding waters. As they plunged forward under their own power, each weapon found its course directed by the stream of information entering its guidance system from an ultra-thin wire that was being constantly played out from its tail. Still connected to the mother ship, the torpedoes headed for their targets with the Razorback’s sensors guiding their ultimate destiny.
Taking in the strained silence that possessed the control room’s complement, Exeter prepared himself to accept the consequences of his actions. Instinctively crossing his fingers at his side, he could but pray that he had made the right decision.
Nowhere was the sound of the advancing torpedoes more audible than from the Razorback’s sonar compartment.
Perched before the console, Lefty Jackman clearly heard the dual, high-pitched whines of the pair of Mk-48’s. It didn’t take him much effort to determine which target they were intending to take out. Overjoyed that the Razorback was finally showing some teeth, he glanced to his left as Seth Burke unexpectedly called out, “That other sub, it’s moving!”
Having completely forgotten about this other contact, Lefty hastily switched frequencies. As he tuned into the sector of water that his coworker had been monitoring, he picked up a most familiar, distant, surging noise, the source of which was all too obvious.
“I knew it was that Victor!” cried the Senior Seaman.
“Just listen how they’re high-tailing it out of there! It’s like they can’t get into the open ocean quick enough. I wonder what’s keeping the Skipper from taking them out too?”
The authoritative voice of the XO broke from behind him.
“You’ve got to learn to trust your captain, Mr. Jackman. He know’s what he’s doing. Now, what’s going on with our torpedoes?”
Reaching over to flick on the compartment’s elevated external speakers, Chief Desiante channeled the sound of their attac
k for each of them to hear. In return, the room filled with the whir of the Mk-48’s as they prepared to make their final run.
As the frequency of this whine increased, a dull, bubbling blast of venting air could be picked up in the background. This was followed by a loud, continuous, vibratory hum. It was Lefty Jackman who identified it.
“They just blew their emergency vents! That hum is the sound of their main engines. Those poor bastards are trying to run for it!”
Each of the men listened to the frantic sounds produced by the diesel-electric sub as it attempted to reverse its ascent and pour on the speed. Yet continuing to overpower this rising racket was the hornet-like whir of the ever-pursuing Mk-48’s.
The XO’s gut tightened when the lead torpedo initiated its final approach. As its signature seemed to merge with that of its quarry, he braced himself for the explosive blast that should follow any second. Yet only a sickening silence ensued.
“The first Mk-48 overshot its mark,” observed Lefty, his tone clearly disappointed.
“We’ve got to get them with this last one!”
Again the XO picked out the high-pitched whine of the remaining Mk-48 as it initiated its final approach.
Drawing in a deep breath, he pulled his pipe from his mouth and nervously bent forward. An eternity seemed to pass, and then the room filled with a thunderous, resounding explosion.
“We got them!” exclaimed Lefty triumphantly.
“Yahoo added Seth Burke.
Hesitant to join in on the celebration just yet, Benton took in the joyous grin on the face of Chief Desiante. Unable to answer it with a smile of his own, the XO wondered if their torpedo had taken down a boat full of innocent men. Doubtful that they’d ever know for certain, he looked down at his watch. Even in the dim light of the sonar compartment, he could see that it was 1200 hours exactly.
Flight of the Condor Page 31
