Flight of the Condor Read online

  Camp Cooke, as it was called, had served its country well until 1956, when the Defense Department had decided that it would be an ideal spot to initiate the Air Force’s fledgling missile program. It wasn’t until 1958 that the base had been renamed Vandenberg, in honor of Hoyt S. Vandenberg, the second Air Force Chief of Staff. Occupying over 98,000 acres, it had become America’s third largest Air Force installation.

  By 1985, over 1,550 missile launches had taken place here. About a third of these had been to send unmanned satellites into orbit. The majority of the other launches had been to test elements of the nation’s intercontinental ballistic missile force.

  Although the area’s significant modern history goes back less than four decades, the peninsula’s ancient heritage is a rich one. For hundreds of centuries, the in rugged peninsula had been home to the Chumash, a highly advanced Indian people who had flourished there.

  Vandenberg’s 154 square miles held a wealth of Chumash relics. Many of these sites had been initially discovered by Robert R. Baray, a Blackfoot Sioux who had been the great-grandson of the illustrious warrior Sitting Bull. As the first American Indian to attend West Point, Baray had served as the general staff engineer for planning and development at the base. It was under his auspices that the first Chumash remains had been catalogued.

  Fortunately, the Government had continued making every effort to preserve those ancient sites that recorded the everyday lives of a people first documented by Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo in 1542. This effort had included opening the highly classified area to trained archaeologists. It was in such a manner that Miriam Rodgers had received permission to dig there.

  For the past month, Miriam and her team of university students had been perched on top of Tranquillon Ridge, located in Vandenberg’s southern sector.

  There, they were in the process of excavating a particularly rich Chumash site. So far, the artifacts unearthed included several excellently preserved tule-willow baskets, dozens of slender, stone spear-points, arrowheads and bone-scrappers, and a magnificent Olivilla shell necklace. Because these objects had been all found within the confines of a single twenty by-thirty-foot rectangular square of rocky soil, it was supposed that the ridge had once held either a small village or a burial plot. To determine its exact purpose, a full-scale excavation was now in progress.

  From a position on the hillside’s summit, Miriam watched her crew at work. Though the majority of the half-dozen men and women working below her were barely in their twenties, they worked more like dedicated professionals. Proud of their effort, she knew that she was very fortunate to have their services.

  In an era of ever-decreasing research budgets, actual field work was becoming one of the most difficult areas to finance. Enormous liability insurance premiums and the high logistical costs of the digs themselves had put many a researcher’s dreams on permanent hold.

  For three years now, Miriam had fought to put together this particular expedition. Even though there could be no question that the sites chosen were full of exciting promise, each of her quarterly budget requests had been curtly turned down. Ninety days before, when the clean had called her into his office and given her the go-ahead, she had hardly believed what she was hearing. Genuinely astounded by the news, Miriam had actually hugged the elderly, silver haired administrator and then kissed him firmly on the cheek. Blushing at this unexpected show of exuberance, the clean had regathered his decorum and, after explaining that her monetary request had been significantly paired down, had wished the thirty-six year-old senior researcher the best of luck.

  Well aware that she could live within the confines of the resulting budget constraints, Miriam had done all that she could to immediately get the ball rolling. The area on the central California coastline that she wished to concentrate on was well known for its fickle environment. A summer dig would guarantee not only a semblance of decent weather, but also the availability of an experienced, relatively inexpensive crew comprised of her own students.

  In what was later to be called a bureaucratic miracle, Miriam had not only assembled the myriad of equipment and supplies needed for a three-month field effort, but had also gained permission from the Department of the Defense to work on Vandenberg.

  All this had been accomplished with plenty of time to choose a qualified work force from a long list of anxious students. As the school year had ended, the young professor had closed up her office and readied herself to tackle the type of work that had prompted her to enter the field of archaeology in the first place.

  Watching the crew at work, Miriam remembered well her first official dig. It was almost two decades before when she had joined a team of freshmen classmates on a Malibu hillside. There, utilizing the same tedious procedures that they used today, Miriam had gotten her first taste of actual field excavation.

  Never would she forget the fateful moment when her rake had made solid contact with an object buried in the dry soil below. How her heart had pounded in her chest as she carefully extracted an exquisite object buried in the earth for almost five hundred years.

  The ceremonial knife had been over twelve inches long. It had a handle of dark gray whalebone, and its whitish, sharpened stone tip was bound to the shaft with the sinew of a deer and completely coated with a tar asphaltum. Standing there in the hills of Malibu with this Chumash relic firm in her trembling hand, the impressionable teenager had had no doubt as to the course of her future studies.

  Years of intense research had followed. Both an undergraduate and a master’s degree had been soon attained. And now Miriam was well qualified to instruct her own groups of impressionable students in the intricacies of her chosen profession.

  Though the knowledge gained during her hours of study was great, her appetite for field work was as insatiable as ever before. Semesters of rote class instruction had done little to satisfy this undying urge.

  As befitting her initial discovery, Miriam had devoted the bulk of her research to a study of the Chumash Indians. Completely fascinated by this highly advanced people who for thousands of years had flourished in what was now Venture, Santa Barbara, and San Luis Obispo counties, she had neglected the distracting calls of her friends and family.

  By no means unattractive, Miriam had yet to marry or, for that matter, even to have been seriously engaged.

  Such a relationship would only divert her from her life’s work.

  She certainly hadn’t lacked for interested suitors.

  These individuals had been drawn to her natural good looks, which were enhanced by a shining mane of long red hair, glee ming green eyes, high, etched cheekbones, perfect teeth, and a five-foot, nine-inch body kept lean and fit with daily five-mile hikes. The University atmosphere had provided a succession of interested men, yet Miriam had never been ready to share herself with them. Whereas the bulk of her ex girlfriends now had a houseful of children to keep them occupied, Miriam had nothing but her work, and for her it was enough. For the moment, marriage would just have to wait.

  A cool breeze blew in from the west, and the thirty six-year-old researcher looked out toward the Pacific from the rock outcropping that she had been standing on. It was turning out to be another ideal day.

  Already the customary morning fog was dissipating.

  Beyond the scrub-tilled hills, another two miles distant, was the shoreline. From where she stood she could just make out the white, frothing surge of surf as it broke over the jagged rocks of Point Arguello.

  Appearing as violent and unpredictable as ever, the ocean provided little haven for boaters or divers.

  Possessed as it was by strong undertows and deadly riptides, not even the most expert swimmers dared its currents.

  Further out to sea, just visible in the dissolving fog bank, was the outline of a single drilling platform.

  This structure was perched like a lonely sentinel, with the sole purpose of tapping the reservoirs of oil locked deep within the continental shelf.

  A familiar hollow-metallic tone h
owled in the distance, and Miriam diverted her glance to her right, where she could just make out a rapidly advancing locomotive. Seconds later, the rest of the freight train was visible as it snaked its way down the coastline southward. Soothed by the sound of the clatter of its wheels on the tracks, Miriam surveyed the valley that lay between the rails and the ridge on top of which she currently stood. Known as Space Launch Complex 6, or Slik 6 for short, it had a series of huge, manmade structures that dwarfed the landscape. It would be from this site — that the first West Coast launch of America’s space shuttle would take place.

  Miriam had been given a hasty tour of this complex by an Air Force public-affairs officer upon her initial arrival. Though she had been working beside the series of buildings for a month now, she still couldn’t help but be impressed with their sheer size. Dominating-the complex was the immense white shell of the shuttle-assembly building. Painted on its side was a colossal American flag. Beside this were a number of brightly painted red, white, and gray buildings belonging to various control centers, preparations rooms, access towers, and storage tanks. All this was situated on a gleaming white concrete pad, which the public affairs officer had told her was comprised of the equivalent of a twenty-five-mile-long stretch of four-lane interstate highway.

  Of course, all this was quite a contrast to the relatively crude operation that she was currently in charge of. Angling her line of sight back to her left, Miriam studied her crew at work. They were presently concentrating their efforts on a single plot of land, located on top of Tranquillon Ridge, approximately nine hundred feet above and a half mile to the southeast of Slik 6.

  The site they had picked was one of those originally discovered by Robert Baray. Though his primary excavation had indicated that a possible wealth of buried relics lay there, little professional excavation had been attempted until their arrival. As in the case of any potential dig site, their first priority had been to carefully survey that portion of land into which they planned to dig. After staking out their initial twenty-by-thirty-foot rectangular plot, they had begun the tedious task of removing the first few inches of covering topsoil.

  The dry ground was hard and rock-filled. To complicate matters, a thick ground cover of spiky cactus had had to first be eliminated. Not accustomed to such strenuous work, her students had done their best to ignore their newly calloused hands, strained muscles, and sunburnt skin.

  Of irreplaceable assistance had been the strong arms and shoulders of her senior teaching assistant, Joseph Solares. A full-blooded Porno Indian by birth, the twenty-five-year-old graduate student had instinctively taken charge of the primary excavation. With his long, dark hair tied down by a red bandana, and his muscular, bare chest perpetually sweat-stained, Joseph had taken on as much of the heavy work as possible. His tenacious effort alone had allowed them to proceed as scheduled.

  As was the case on most mornings, Joseph was occupying the focal point of their present efforts.

  Miriam couldn’t help but notice how the other members of the dig flocked around him as he squatted before a roped-off, twelve-inch sector of dirt. With his tanned back glistening in the early morning sun, he gently probed the earth with a hand-sized shovel.

  Whatever he had chanced upon must have been of some significance, for a ripple of excited chatter coursed through the crowd of onlookers gathered at his sides. Curious as to what he had found, Miriam left her perch on the ridge’s summit and climbed down into the excavation area.

  By the time she reached her fellow crew members, Joseph had exhumed a large, circular object from its earthen grave. Completely covered by a thick hemp net, it was recognized by Miriam as being one of the lap-sized sandstone bowls which the Chumash were famous for. As Joseph began carefully shaking the dirt from its inner cavity, it became obvious that this artifact was far from normal. Two novel designs made this most apparent.

  Miriam was first attracted to the bowl’s lip. There the outer edge was completely encircled with a series of intricately formed five-pointed stars. These tiny penta grams were apparently made from shell and abalone bits, which were stuck into the rock lip with asphaltum. Such a tedious process had to have taken hundreds of hours to complete, and could have only been reserved for the most sacred of purposes.

  Though the outer surface of the bowl was bare of design, its inner skin was not. Though it was still covered by caked layers of dirt, a unique series of concentric circles was visible, painted into the relic’s bottom. Miriam recognized the bright yellow central disc as being representative of the sun. She failed to understand the significance of the thick black and red rings that encircled this disc several times.

  As the bowl was placed on the ground for all to see, it was most apparent that Joseph was genuinely thrilled by his discovery. Cognizant of this fact, Miriam broke her silence.

  “That’s a beauty, Joseph. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a Chumash bowl decorated in such a manner before.”

  Breathlessly, Joseph responded, “Neither have I, Boss, although I must admit that I’ve heard of such a motif’s supposed existence before.”

  “How’s that?” asked Miriam, who now had the attention of the rest of her crew.

  Aware of his audience, Joseph picked his words carefully.

  “It was my grandfather who first told me the tales of the spirit bowl in whose bottom was captured the sun and in whose lip was encased the stars of the heavens. Designed by the greatest of shamans, it was supposedly stolen by the crafty coyote, who snagged it in a net and took it from our land for all time.”

  At that point one of the students hastily asked a question.

  “Joseph, since your tribe lived in northern California, couldn’t this Chumash design be totally unrelated to your grandfather’s tale?”

  Catching the alert eyes of the young man who waited for an answer, Joseph replied, “As I’ve told you before, even though the Porno lived in the north, our mythology and that of the Chumash were amazingly similar. Many say the Porno were but an offshoot of the Chumash, who subsequently migrated northwards. Whatever the case, both peoples tell of a spirit bowl designed in a fashion much like the one here. Both tribes tell of this bowl’s similar purpose, which is to indicate the site where the souls of the newly dead pass into the afterlife.”

  “Then we’ve found the portal to Similaqsa!” exclaimed Miriam triumphantly.

  Before Joseph could respond, an unexpected noise diverted the crew’s attention. Each member looked to the south, where a single blue jeep was visible, making its way to the summit of Tranquillon Ridge.

  Less than a minute later, the four-wheel-drive vehicle pulled up beside the excavation site, leaving a thick cloud of brown dust in its wake. The jeep’s three occupants were quick to exit. Miriam could only identify one of these individuals, for she had had run ins with Master Sergeant Crowley on several occasions before.

  The thick-necked, stocky sergeant led the way, followed by his two smartly uniformed escorts. It was most obvious that both of these no-nonsense-looking young men wore side arms. As they approached the crew, Miriam stepped out to greet them.

  “Good morning, Sergeant Crowley. Can I help you?”

  The sergeant hastily surveyed the ragtag group gathered before him and answered, “Good morning to you, Miss Rodgers. Is your entire group assembled here?”

  Not sure what he was getting at, Miriam retorted, “This is all of us, Sergeant. Why do you ask?”

  Crowley cleared his throat.

  “I’m here to relay orders from Lieutenant Colonel Lansford’s office, ma’am. According to these instructions, you and your crew are to leave Tranquillon Ridge at once. We have been assigned to escort you back to your campsite at Ocean Beach Park.”

  Not believing what she was hearing, Miriam was not in the least bit intimidated.

  “We’re in the midst of an important excavation here. Sergeant. We just can’t go leaving it at the drop of a hat. Besides, we have the lieutenant’s colonel’s personal permission to dig here uni
nterrupted through the summer.”

  “I’m afraid that permission has been temporarily lifted, ma’am,” returned the master sergeant, who went on to check his wristwatch.

  “Now, if you’ll just stow your equipment, we’d better get under way.”

  Still not about to give in so easily, Miriam was set to continue to argue their case when Joseph stepped to her side. Whispering into her ear, he attempted to calm her down.

  “Say, Boss, do you really think we’ve got a chance against these guys? Those are forty-five-caliber pistols on their hips. Let’s lick our wounds back at camp. At least there we can call the lead honcho and find out what all this is about.”

  Well aware of the wisdom in these words, Miriam caught her assistant’s playful wink. Stifling a smile of her own, she reluctantly surrendered to their new order. Though it would mean the loss of a perfectly good day’s field work, there was plenty to keep them busy back at their trailers. Mentally calculating what this new course of action would entail, she knew that her own first priority would be a single phone call

  Ocean Beach Park was located approximately five and a half miles due north of Tranquillon Ridge.

  Situated at the spot where the Santa Ynez River flowed into the Pacific, the park was one of the few areas on Vandenberg open to the public. It was comprised of a large asphalt parking lot and over one hundred acres of direct beach access. To get from the lot to the sand, it was necessary to travel a narrow dirt trail that led beneath a Southern Pacific railroad trestle. From there it was but a short hike to the pounding surf itself.

  It had taken the direct authority of the base commander for Miriam and her group to be allowed to park their trailers there. After a bit of bargaining, they had been given a compact sector of ground located immediately east of the trestle. Though they had no direct ocean view, this positioning allowed them to be sheltered from the persistent, often blustery offshore winds that swept in from the Pacific.