Flight of the Condor Page 22

  “That’s news to me,” returned the sentry, who didn’t like his visitor’s tone of voice.

  “If you’ll excuse me for a second, I’ll have to check this out with headquarters.”

  Richard’s blood pressure was soaring as the guard turned to return to his kiosk with deliberate slowness.

  The Nose researcher checked his watch and figured he would have just about an hour to reach Miriam before the tidal wave hit. Fighting the impulse to hurry the sentry with his horn, he contemplated the irony of it all. Here he had been without Miriam for over a decade now, and just as he had rediscovered how important she was to him, he ran the risk of losing her to a mere whim of nature’s fury. He was in the process of remembering that fateful moment when he had first set his eyes on her in the confines of Lansford’s office when the sentry stepped outside.

  “Sorry about that, sir, but you have indeed received permission to pass. Please keep your speed down, and buckle that seatbelt. This fog’s a lot worse down at the coastline, so be extra alert.”

  Taking in this motherly advice, Richard hit the accelerator the second that the gate popped open.

  Barely five minutes later he was somewhat cautiously pulling into the mist-shrouded parking lot that was his goal.

  The semicircle of parked trailers appeared like a ghostly apparition in the foreground. As he jumped from the car, he was aware of the faraway, banshee like wail of a warning siren, and beyond this, the crash of distant surf. No other sounds were audible.

  It took him only seconds to cross the lot and enter the camp. He found a single individual seated at a picnic table, her attention totally focused on the ornate shell necklace that she was delicately cleaning.

  In order not to frighten the brunette, who was dressed in a bright red ski jacket, Richard loudly cleared his voice while still several yards away from her.

  “Hello,” he added.

  “Is Miss Rodgers around?”

  Even with the warning, the young woman seemed startled by his presence. Turning around quickly, she centered her gaze on the tall, khaki-clad figure who was emerging from the fog.

  “I’m afraid not,” she answered hesitantly.

  “Can I help you?”

  Striding up beside her, Richard could see that she was only in her late teens.

  “I’m Dr. Richard Fuller, a friend of Miss Rodgers. Have the rest of you been evacuated?”

  “Evacuated?” quizzed the undergraduate.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  No other words were needed for Richard Fuller to have his worst fears realized.

  “This coastline is under a tidal-wave alert. It’s scheduled to hit here in another hour. Haven’t you wondered what all the sirens were about?”

  Shocked by this revelation, the young archaeologist’s voice wavered.

  “The only time I’ve ever heard a siren like that was back home in Kansas during tornado season. Since I didn’t think that we had twisters here, I assumed it was just some sort of military test.”

  “I wish it were,” said Richard, whose own tone of voice softened.

  “Now, where’s Miss Rodgers and the rest of your classmates?”

  Having instinctively accepted this stranger’s legitimacy, Margaret Samuels was quick to answer.

  “They’re all down at the new excavation site. It’s about a mile south of here, and accessible only by foot.”

  Again checking his watch, Richard asked nervously, “Do you think that you could lead me to them? It’s vital that they reach high ground before that wave strikes.”

  Without hesitation, Margaret stood and pointed to the west.

  “The only way to get there is by crossing the beach. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Thankful for her trust, Richard followed her out of the camp, and down a sandy footpath that lay beside the Santa Ynez River. There, the fog progressively thickened. Barely able to see the wide channel of water that flowed on his right, he noted that the trail cut beneath a railroad trestle up ahead. An icy gust, full with the scent of the ocean, hit him as he crossed beneath this large, wooden structure and passed by the river’s estuary. It wasn’t until they actually hit the surf line that their progress turned southward.

  Margaret kept a brisk pace, and Richard needed a total effort to keep up with her. Eventually, he settled in beside the young student, and with the waves crashing to their right, Margaret asked him, “How do you know Miss Rodgers? Are you with the Air Force?”

  “Believe it or not, we went to college together. We met here, quite by accident, yesterday afternoon.”

  Still curious, Margaret continued, “What are you doing here in Vandenberg?”

  Most aware of his companion’s probing intellect, Richard cautiously answered, “I’m giving the Air Force a hand in the recovery of that missile that failed here the other day. I believe all of you saw it go down.”

  “We sure did,” observed Margaret excitedly.

  “It was really an incredible sight. For a second there, when I set my eyes on that orange mushroomshaped cloud that filled the skies, I was afraid that a nuclear bomb had gone off. From what I was able to view, I didn’t think there was much left of that thing to recover.”

  “You’d be surprised,” said Richard.

  “So far, we’ve catalogued over five hundred good-sized chunks of debris lying on the floor of the Pacific west of here.

  Now the tough part is to scoop up each piece and bring it to the surface.”

  Margaret didn’t seem impressed.

  “I wonder how many millions that exploding rocket cost us taxpayers?

  If the leaders of the world would only grow up, they’d realize that all this needless military expenditure is not only a colossal waste of money and resources, it’s life-threatening as well. Someday, some poor fool is going to push the wrong button, and goodbye Planet Earth.”

  “I agree with you on that, young lady. We’ve been lucky for four decades, but who knows how much longer our fortune will hold.”

  “By the way, my name’s Margaret Samuels, and I’m in Miss Rodger’s upper-level lab class.”

  Not breaking his stride, Richard smiled.

  “Pleased to know you, Margaret. I’m glad you were around.

  Otherwise I would have had a heck of a time finding this place. How much further do we have?”

  Because the fog still veiled any familiar geographic features, Margaret could only check her watch.

  “The hike takes about twenty minutes, so we should be there in approximately ten minutes more.”

  Checking his own watch, Richard saw that this would get them there at 9:30. That should give him just enough time to get the crew to high ground.

  The wet, firm sand provided excellent traction and Margaret didn’t seem to tire in the least. Though Richard had been chilly at first, a thick line of sweat now soaked his forehead. His calves were sore, and he silently cursed his lousy physical condition. Daily swimming and cycling were what he needed to counter this. Of course, his advancing years didn’t help much. And to think that, just the previous night, he had actually felt like a young, college-aged boy again. Reality set in only when he noticed that Margaret’s stride was easily outdistancing his own.

  There had been a time not long ago when she would have been hard-pressed to catch him.

  Margaret suddenly pointed anxiously ahead of her.

  “There’s the gang’s footprints. We go due east here.”

  Sighting these tracks himself, Richard followed her as she swung to the left. The sand was softer there, the going a bit tougher. Yet just knowing that they were close put new spring into Fuller’s step. The sound of the surf faded behind them, and as they approached a series of dunes, the fog began lifting. It had dissipated almost completely by the time they climbed around the dunes and crossed a hilly plain filled with lowlying scrub and cactus. As it turned out, it was 9:30 exactly when they spotted the first member of the crew, innocently working at the base of a steep, rocky canyon. We
ll aware that a good-sized tsunami could easily inundate this portion of coastline, Richard pressed himself to lengthen his stride.

  They arrived just in time to witness the team in the process of lifting a long, narrow, canoe-like vessel from a crypt of dried mud and rock. Miriam had been supervising this effort, and was the first crew member to spot the newcomers. From the first moment that she set her astounded eyes on them, she had a feeling that this wasn’t a mere social visit.

  Leaving the excavation, she walked over to issue a greeting.

  “Good morning, you two. Well, Richard, this sure is a surprise.”

  Fuller didn’t even allow himself a second to catch his breath.

  “All of you must leave this area at once to seek high ground. In less than thirty minutes, a wall of water higher than a ten-story building will crash into the coast here at a speed of over five hundred miles per hour.”

  Hardly believing what she was hearing, Miriam could only think of a single thing.

  “Do you mean a tsunami?”

  Richard’s eyes flashed.

  “Precisely. It was generated as a result of a major earthquake in the Aleutian Islands. Since it’s scheduled to strike the central California coastline at 10:00 A.M.” we’ve got just about a half hour to get out of this inundation zone.”

  As the reality sunk in, Miriam paled.

  “First we witness a missile explode right before our eyes, and now this. The crew is never going to believe it. Come on, we’d better inform them.”

  Without further delay, she led them towards the floor of the rugged canyon. There, still concentrating totally on their work, the young archaeologists were in the process of admiring the object that they had just dug out of the rocky hillside. A tall, solidly built Indian in his early twenties stood at the group’s head.

  It was towards this bare-chested figure that Miriam moved.

  “Joseph, kids, we’re going to have to wrap up our dig here right now. I know this sounds somewhat unbelievable, but in less than thirty minutes, this canyon could be awash with the aftereffects of a tidal wave.”

  Joseph Solares shook his head in wonder.

  “Tidal wave? You’ve got to be kidding us, Boss.”

  Miriam’s firm tone didn’t falter.

  “I wish I was, but apparently this threat is very real. This gentleman beside me, who was good enough to hike out here with the warming, is Dr. Richard Fuller. Richard, would you like to add anything?”

  Sizing up the looks of astonishment on the faces of his young audience, Richard responded, “Believe me when I tell you that I was just as shocked as you are when I first heard of the alert barely an hour ago.

  But unfortunately, it’s a very real one. As an oceanographer, I’ve studied dozens of eyewitness accounts by tidal-wave survivors, and there’s no denying the awesome destructive power that such phenomena can generate. Since we’re presently standing in a major flood zone, our only defense is finding some high ground, and getting there on the double.”

  A tall beanpole of a lad pointed towards the summit of the adjoining canyon.

  “Is that high enough, Doctor?”

  Shading his eyes from the sun’s incessant glare, Richard peered upward and viewed the portion of hilltop that the young man indicated.

  “That will be more than sufficient.”

  This time it was Miriam who added, “Then it’s settled. We’ll pack up all that we can carry and start at once for the trail leading up there.”

  Only a single deep voice sounded out in complaint.

  “But the tomoto!” said Joseph Solares.

  “We can’t just leave it here to get washed away. It’s one of the best-preserved specimens that I’ve ever seen before.”

  Most aware that he was right, Miriam thought a minute before answering him.

  “Do you think that a couple of you could safely carry it up the hill?”

  Without hesitation, Joseph retorted, “Of course we could.”

  “Then get going!” said Miriam, who added, “The University might not agree, but surely a couple of picks and shovels are expendable in this case. Now, move it, kids! We’ve all got some climbing to do.”

  While the youngsters scurried for whatever belongings they could carry, Richard’s eyes went to his watch. Calculating that they’d just have enough time to reach the canyon’s summit, he knew that he had been extremely lucky. A delay of a mere fifteen minutes could have had disastrous implications. It was while pondering this fact that he became aware of a distant chopping sound. As he scanned the horizon to determine its source, his gaze caught sight of a single green Huey helicopter, sweeping in from the south. The sound of its approach rapidly increased as the sleek vehicle initiated a sudden descent. Soon it was hovering only a few hundred feet above them.

  A resounding, amplified voice emanated from the chopper’s public-address system.

  “Attention all civilians, you must evacuate this area at once! Please proceed immediately to the nearest high ground. A tidal wave is expected to hit this coast in less than ten minutes, and you are presently occupying a predetermined flood zone.”

  The message was repeated, and Richard Fuller tried to signal the helicopter crew that they understood.

  Only when the first of the students began their way up the narrow canyon trail, did the chopper dip its nose and speed off northwards.

  Better late than never, thought Richard, who realized that Lieutenant Colonel Lansford had come through after all. With this in mind, he looked on as three of the young archaeologists shouldered their treasured canoe with a grunt and began their own way to safety. Miriam filed in behind them and waved for Richard to join her. Certain that no one else was left behind, he gratefully did so.

  Twenty-one miles to the west of the beach side canyon, the Pacific surged with a deceptive calm. The lapping blue waters gave little hint of the violent swell that continued its mad approach from the northwest.

  This tranquility was especially apparent from a depth of 450 feet beneath the water’s surface. There the U.S.S. Razorback had been positioned to meet the tsunami’s fury. From his usual command position, at the rear of the torpedo well, Commander Philip Exeter surveyed the hushed control room. To his left was his XO, Patrick

  Benton. The calm tempered redhead had his trusty corncob pipe between his lips, and was in the process of looking over the shoulder of Lieutenant Edward McClure. As usual, the scholarly Navigator was hunched over his charts.

  Seated to their left was Lester Brawnley. The portly Chief of the Boat alertly waited at the diving station for any ordered change in their depth status. Beside him sat the young helmsman, whose steady hands ultimately controlled the boat’s destiny.

  The firm voice of the sub’s OOD, Lieutenant Scott Willingham, addressed Exeter from the portion of the deck situated immediately before the Captain.

  “Sir, all hands are standing by at battle stations. The boat is secured to meet a concussion.”

  Studying the determined, clean-shaven face of the OOD, Exeter nodded.

  “Continue on course two-six zero until further ordered, Lieutenant. I want you to remain at the helm until this wave passes, so hang in there.

  Willingham’s expression was all business as he pivoted to recheck their course and depth. The young man’s no-nonsense approach was continuing to impress the Captain. Too many rookie officers tried to hide their insecurities with humor. Though there was a time and place for wisecracks, this surely wasn’t one of them.

  This would be the Captain’s first experience meeting a legendary tsunami at sea. Though a certain amount of nervous anticipation possessed him, he didn’t dare show it. His command position made it necessary that he set the example for the others to follow.

  His eyes went to the clock and he saw that there were five more minutes until the wave was to arrive.

  At their present depth, the tsunami’s aftereffects should be minimal. Just in case it were otherwise, he made certain that there was plenty of water surroun
ding their hull. Twenty-one miles from the nearest land, and with the nearest subterranean geological feature an additional 3,000 feet beneath them, the Razorback was buttoned down and ready for the worst.

  Six and a half miles due east of them, Commander Will Pierce hoped he had the Marlin in a similar condition. Even though the DSRV was considerably smaller than the Razorback, its deep-diving capability should keep them well out of danger.

  Exeter found himself subconsciously wishing that the wave would go ahead and pass. Only then could he get on with the patrol that had made the previous twenty-four hours extremely hectic, frustrating ones.

  He still couldn’t get over the fact that the Soviet Victor had successfully evaded them. Yesterday, they had chased the bogy all the way to San Miguel Island. It was in those tricky waters that they lost it.

  He could only assume that the Soviet skipper had put his sub down on the bottom there, and then scrammed his reactor. Unless he was utilizing some sort of novel anechoic-coating masking device, this was the only way that they could have disappeared so thoroughly, in so little time.

  In an attempt to relocate them, Exeter had resorted to a variety of proven tactics. This had included ordering the Razorback to sprint and drift. By shutting down the sub in a state of ultra-quiet, he had known that their hydrophones would be better able to listen in on the surrounding waters without their own noise interfering. When a scan proved fruitless, he had ordered the boat to move on to an adjoining sector, where the same listening procedure had been repeated.

  This process had continued on for a good portion of the night, until the Razorback’s prior commitment had ultimately forced them to return to Point Arguello.

  As it turned out, this usually simple, two-hour voyage had turned into one of the most demanding trips he had ever embarked upon. Veiled by the night itself, and one of the thickest fogs that he had ever witnessed, the sub had been able to get back to the Arguello dock site without a single scrape, by the grace of God and the cool skill of his crew. Special commendations had gone to their radar operator, whose expertise had allowed them to stay well clear of the jagged rocks that helped earn these waters the nickname “the graveyard of the Pacific.”