Careful to take only the shallowest of breaths, he reached the final rung and dropped down onto the deck. Switching on his flashlight, he angled its beam upwards. A rack of torpedoes was visible to his right, and he knew that he was in the torpedo room. Only when he slowly pivoted did he illuminate the face and figure of the individual who had opened the hatch for him.
Tall and blond-haired, the muscular figure was dressed in black slacks and a matching turtleneck.
His ageless, weather-worn face was dominated by a piercing blue stare. Little emotion showed on his face as he nodded in greeting. When he spoke, his accent was thick his very tone clearly admitting defeat.
“Bonjour, Commandant. Welcome aboard the attack submarine Ariadne.”
In instant response. Will Pierce’s face blushed with astonishment. For this was far from the type of reception he had planned on receiving.
“Captain, you’re never going to believe the message that we just picked up from the Marlin.”
The XO’s words were delivered as he rounded the open door to Philip Exeter’s stateroom. Seated at his desk, in the process of logging a detailed description of the attack they just completed, the Captain caught the excited glance of his guest and replied flatly, “Try me, Mr. Benton.”
Fighting to compose himself, the XO took a deep breath before continuing.
“Commander Pierce contacted us from the radio room of the same sub that we took out with our Mk-48. There’re apparently twenty or so crew members still alive and kicking. I can’t believe that he had the nerve to board them.”
Indeed fascinated by this revelation, Exeter pushed away his log and turned to face his XO.
“You don’t say. That guy’s not afraid of the devil himself. How have the Soviets treated him so far?”
Benton’s eyes flashed.
“This is the hot part. Skipper.
They’re not Russians, they’re French!”
Hardly believing what he was hearing, Exeter did a double-take.
“Say again. Pat?”
“You heard me, Skipper. That sub we took out was a French Agosta-class attack boat. And don’t worry that we might have blown away a bunch of innocents, because there was a full-scale, operational, electromagnetic railgun mounted on its stern deck.”
“Sweet Jesus,” sighed Exeter, his mind reeling.
“So it wasn’t the Soviets all along. Wait until we inform Dr. Fuller.”
“That guy deserves the Medal of Honor,” returned the XO as he pulled his pipe from his shirt pocket and poked its stem between his lips.
“And by the way, I made certain to tell Commander Pierce that the Condor made it into orbit without a hitch. That little bit of news really made his day.”
“As it’s made each of ours,” added the Captain.
“I imagine that the commander is going to want to initiate a transfer of survivors as soon as possible.
We’d better get the Razorback ready for them. Prepare the crew’s mess hall as a holding area. I guess it would be a good idea to put together a squad of armed security guards. Have Lieutenant Willingham lead them.”
The XO nodded.
“Aye, aye. Skipper. I’ll get on it at once. Should I ready a transmission for COM SUB
“I’ll take care of that. Pat. I’d love to be there to watch the admiral’s face when he hears this one. I have a feeling that there’s going to be some mighty curious Intelligence types waiting for us back at port.
Now, you’d better get going on that security detail.
Thanks again for all your help. Pat. With this bum knee and all, I couldn’t handle the boat without you.”
“I don’t know about that,” retorted the XO.
“You’re doing an awfully fine job as it is.”
Flashing a warm grin, Benton turned and disappeared out the passageway. Still seated at his desk, Exeter reached forward to massage his knee. While he did so, his mind struggled to absorb the shocking information that had been just revealed to him.
No matter the nationality, he found himself satisfied that at least the right enemy had been eliminated. Again he thanked the Lord for Dr. Richard Fuller’s warning. Without the Nose researcher’s guidance, there was a very good chance that the Condor would have never made it out of the earth’s atmosphere.
Anxious to learn of the motive that had inspired the attempt to interrupt the flight in the first place, Philip turned back to his desk. A proper dispatch would have to be drafted and then relayed down to San Diego. As he went to pick up his pen, his eyes drifted to the picture of Carla and his girls, mounted on the wall before him. Wondering if he’d ever be able to share that morning’s incredible events with them, he shook his head and returned his attention to the duty that awaited him.
Colonel Jean Moreau was no stranger to difficult days, yet this one that was just passing was one of the worse he had ever experienced. It had all started early in the morning, when he had been awakened from a sound sleep by a telephone call. His assistant, Jacques LeMond, had wasted no time in revealing that the Third Brigade had struck once again. This time a group of three young mothers had been found hacked to death outside the installation’s central living quarters.
Sticking up in the blood-soaked ground nearby. had been a single machete with a red bandana tied to its hilt.
When the mutilated bodies were initially discovered, a wave of panic had spread among the other workers. Aware of just who this calling card belonged to, they had already begun to talk of abandoning their jobs for the very safety of their families. Fear could be dangerously contagious if it weren’t stood up to, and Moreau had ordered his assistant to stem the hysteria at its very source. If need be, the Legion was to be called out. For, if the terrorists weren’t stopped cold in their tracks, Moreau could soon have a massive insurrection on his hands.
No sooner had he arrived at this office than he had received word that the series of a half-dozen Japanese communications satellites that they had been contracted to put into space would be delivered from three to six months late. Such a delay could have serious consequences for their already threatened cash-flow position.
If that news weren’t frustrating enough, he had spent the rest of the day with one eye on the clock and the other on his private telephone line. For hours on end, he had waited for the telephone call that still had yet to arrive.
A half hour before, he had left his office and driven straight home. There he had mixed himself a Pernod and soda and headed at once for the solace of his veranda. With his telephone beside him, he had stretched out on his favorite rattan lounger and watched the dusk engulf the thick jungle that lay only a few steps away, on the other side of the screened-in porch.
As always, the steaming humidity was all-oppressive, and not even the constantly whirling ceiling fan was able to draw down a decent cool draft of air. To the ever-increasing, hypnotic throb of the night creatures, he breathed in the very scent of the jungle. The smell of pure, green life itself met his nostrils, and he found himself longing for the dry, sweet fragrance of the meadow in which he had been born and raised.
Did such a world really still exist? Sometimes Moreau wondered. For seven long years, he had known little else but the confines of this malaria ridden sweat-hole called French Guiana. Dedicating his every effort to the success of Ariadne, he had sacrificed the prime years of his life to see this dream come true. Yet no matter how long and tediously he had applied himself, there had always seemed to be one more insurmountable obstacle facing him. And now, to think that all this selfless toil depended upon such desperate measures as Operation Diablo.
Just thinking about this plan that he had been forced to implement soured his mood to an even greater degree. For, though he would have liked to purge its essence from his very mind, his conscience would not cooperate. Try as he could to justify their actions, he knew it all came down to one basic fact. It was one thing to take down an unmanned Titan 34-D missile, but to interfere with a manned space shuttle flight placed th
em in the same league as the misguided terrorists of the Third Brigade.
A decade ago, Moreau had sworn his allegiance both to the Commandant and the cause he served.
During the years that followed, he had certainly had his share of unsavory tasks to fulfill, yet this was the first time that he seriously questioned his involvement.
Did this mean that his days there were already numbered?
A rustling sound came from behind him, and Moreau realized that he was no longer alone. Seconds later, Theresa sauntered up before him an ice-filled glass in her hand.
“I thought that you would like another drink, mi amore,” she greeted seductively.
Slowly replacing his empty glass, the pert teenager did her best to linger at his side as long as possible.
Though her initial appearance had upset Moreau, he couldn’t help but take in her tight, tanned body.
Dressed in her briefest shorts, and a thin, stringed halter-top, the
Brazilian beauty exuded a raw sensuality. His loins instinctively stiffened in response. For a brief second, he even considered throwing her to the ground and mounting her right there. Like an animal in heat, he’d lose his worries deep in her wet, primal abyss. Yet the ringing phone cut through the dusk like a shriek of terror, and in an instant any passionate intentions on his part dissipated.
Moreau’s hand shot out for the receiver, and the moment he heard the familiar faraway hiss indicating a long-distance call in the background, he waved Theresa away. With his weary eyes locked on the jungle, he listened as a deep voice somberly greeted him.
The next couple of minutes moved with the ponderous pace of a nightmare. For the most part, the Commandant did all the talking. Moreau could but summon the fortitude to occasionally grunt in meager response.
For the first time in his recollection, the esteemed figure he respected most in life spoke with the tone of one who had been totally subjugated. The dismal news that he soon relayed was as grim as his intonation.
Operation Diablo had been a complete failure. Not only was the Ariadne presently lying disabled on the floor of the Pacific, but the Americans had boarded her as well. A handful of surviving sailors had been taken into U.S. custody. Over four dozen of their brave comrades hadn’t been so fortunate. Their stiff corpses still lay within the sub’s crushed hull.
As a direct result of this tragic turn of events, the Condor had been able to successfully attain its orbit.
Already, its precious payload had been released.
Whereas the Americans were now back in the space business, the Ariadne project was now finished.
Only minutes before, the President of the Republic had ordered the Commandant to resign his position at once. Labeled a disgrace to his country, he even faced the possibility of criminal charges.
The Commandant’s voice was quivering with emotion as he thanked Moreau for his years of service. He left him with a single sentence, the ominous overtones of which still rang in his ear even after his trembling hand had managed to hang up the receiver.
“Now do what you have to do, my son, for you deserve much more than the shame that your country is about to call down upon your once-honored name.”
Stunned by this conversation, Moreau sat upright, his limbs twitching uncontrollably. Waves of sweat poured down his forehead, and he struggled for each successive breath.
So this was what it was like when a man’s very life caved in around him. All of his efforts, all of his work, in vain!
A frail voice broke out from behind him, its tone emanating as if from a different dimension.
“Are you all right, mi amore!”
A warm, tiny hand hesitantly stroked his shoulder, and Moreau found himself possessed by a fit of blind fury. Dizzily, he stood. Angling his clenched fist downward, he smacked it into Theresa’s jaw. As she fell to the ground, he turned and stormed out the back door. He was well on his way over the strip of grass that lay between his house and the jungle when a confused, whimpering voice called out to him.
“Mi amore, what is the matter with you? Is it something that I did? Please come back. The jungle at night is no place for you to be. You could get killed out there!”
This fragile plea registered in his consciousness, yet Moreau plunged onward into the tree line. The dark, sticky, heavily scented boughs of the jungle reached for his limbs, and the cries of the night creatures throbbed with a million different voices. Yet all that Jean Moreau could think of was that, if he were lucky, his demise would be mercifully quick. And such was his fate, as the night fell over French Guiana.
Chapter Seventeen
Vandenberg’s underground situation room was a large, cavernous structure buried three stories beneath the surface of the base’s main administrative area. Built specifically for the Strategic Air Command, this control center was utilized to initiate and monitor the launches of Vandenberg’s Minutemen, Titan II, and MX ICBM’s. Although it was primarily designed as a test range, the base did have sixteen missile silos on its northern sector that maintained a latent Emergency War Order capability. It was for this seldom-used function that the room currently found itself being occupied.
Seated at one of the two dozen digital consoles that filled the room. Lieutenant Colonel Todd Lansford pondered the startling series of events that had sent him scurrying from the shuttle launch center to this one. It had all started soon after the Condor had attained its orbit. The mission had been proceeding perfectly, and they had been able to deploy the Keyhole platform right on schedule. After being successfully activated, the recon satellite had begun its first sweep over the central Soviet Union.
It was Kauai’s Kokee satellite-tracking station that had relayed to them the shocking photos that were soon to bring the world to the very brink of war.
Those digitally transferred snapshots were of the Soviet ICBM fields at Tyuratam. There, the SS-18 silos were clearly visible. Huddled around the lips of these underground structures were an odd assortment of vehicles and personnel. A detailed analysis of the film showed the workers to be in the midst of replacing the missiles’ warheads. Intelligence was certain that this new warhead package was what was known as the Tartar system. It would allow each of the SS18’s to be armed with ten MIRV’d warheads, with enough yield and accuracy to knock out even the most hardened target. It was common knowledge that this package was not only a flagrant violation of the current nuclear weapons treaty, but also indicative of a possible imminent first strike.
In response to this revelation, the President of the United States had immediately activated the hot line to the Kremlin. The infuriated Chief Executive had soon reached Premier Viktor Alipov. Yet, much to the President’s dismay, Alipov had flatly denied his accusations.
This had left him with no alternative but to bring his country’s own strategic forces to a state of DEFCON Two, only a step away from war itself.
With this directive, America’s Triad had been activated.
Beneath the seas, America’s powerful force of strategic missile submarines had been sent to their action stations. On land, the country’s B-52 and B1B bombers had been dispersed from their vulnerable airfields and sent flying toward their fail-safe positions.
And finally, from deep inside their launch control silos, the countdowns had begun on the United States’ own arsenal of Titan II, Minutemen, and MX ICBM’s.
Lansford was well aware that a flight of Minutemen III missiles sat in their silos only a few thousand yards from his current position. He visualized Vandenberg’s very own contribution to the Triad, as the sleek group of sixteen missiles waited for the launch release codes that would come from this very room.
The officers who would relay these launch signals sat before their consoles around him. As they went about their macabre business with a cool efficiency, Lansford wondered if they ever thought about the consequences that would follow a real launch. Surely they were well aware that their actions would most probably signal the end of the civilized world as they now knew
it.
Though he was a veteran Air Force officer himself, Lansford had never actually thought this fateful day would ever come to pass. World War III had been like a grim specter on the horizon, always threatening, yet never a reality. But the continued existence of the doomsday weapons that made this conflict so unthinkable had made this day inevitable. Man was only fooling himself if he thought otherwise.
Lansford looked out on the hushed room that surrounded him, and wondered if this afternoon would be the moment when humankind’s luck finally ran out. He was well aware of the fact that that morning’s skirmish with those suspected Soviet commandos could have been the first military engagement of the war. If so, at least the Americans had emerged from that brief battle victorious.
Of course, confusing the matter was the submarine that the Razorback had sunk while prowling off the coastline. Was its crew really French as the preliminary reports indicated, and was an electromagnetic railgun indeed mounted on its stern? And if this were true, was the
Condor its target? Perhaps those so-called Frenchmen were really Soviet agents in disguise!
However it would eventually turn out, there could be no denying Dr. Richard Fuller’s prophetic warning.
If he ever lived to see this day through, Lansford promised himself to convey to the Nose researcher his sincere apologies. Too busy to take the time to seriously listen to Fuller’s wise counsel, he was extremely fortunate that his inattention hadn’t ended up in serious tragedy. He shuddered to think what would have happened if the Condor had been shot down. Without the Keyhole in place, the Soviets would have been free to finish the rearming of their SS-18’s, and could have even launched them without America’s awareness. Such a fate would have been the most tragic of all possible.
Stirring with this realization, Lansford looked to his immediate right as the red plastic telephone positioned on the desk there rang with a harsh buzz.
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