Flight of the Condor Read online

  “Especially those who shoot down his missiles,” added Exeter, as he began the painful climb up toward his stateroom.

  Watching his progress, Patrick Benton knew that any lesser man would have been laid up on his bunk hours ago, but not their Captain. Stubborn and pigheaded to the very end, Exeter would command the Razorback from his very deathbed if it were necessary. Praying that he would never have to see that day come to pass, the XO turned to continue on through the hatch that led into the crew’s mess hall.

  The smell of bacon and coffee met his nostrils as he entered the galley. Approximately a dozen sailors sat in the various booths that lined this rather spacious compartment. They were either deep into their breakfasts or watching the movie that was playing from the mounted video screen, and a hushed silence prevailed.

  Without taking the time to disturb them, Benton continued on past the kitchen area and into an adjoining passageway. It was at the end of this narrow corridor that his goal lay.

  The sonar compartment was dark and cramped.

  Stacks of electronic equipment lined its walls. Slowing his progress some to allow his eyes time to adjust to the dim light there, the XO entered the room cautiously. He soon picked out three figures seated in the compartment’s tar corner. It was towards the chief petty officer that he addressed himself.

  “The Captain thought it would be best if I had a listen myself. Is it still out there. Chief?”

  Turning to the unexpected visitor, Desiante responded, “It sure is, Mr. Benton. Have a seat while we get you a set of headphones.”

  Scooting off the stool he had been seated on, the chief reached forward and plugged another headset into the console. While he did so, both Lefty Jackman and Seth Burke became aware of their new guest. Sitting up straight in their chairs, the seamen looked on as the XO positioned himself immediately behind them. With his customary corncob pipe protruding from the corner of his mouth, Benton slipped on the auxiliary headphones. He then closed his eyes, to more fully concentrate on the obscure noise emanating from the southeast at a distance of some 30,000 yards.

  For the first couple of seconds, Benton had trouble picking up anything unusual. Only as his pulse settled did he hear a muted surging sound, barely audible in the background.

  The XO knew that if they were on one of the new 688class attack subs, they would merely have to feed this sound into the computer. The signature would then be analyzed and its source identified. On board the Razorback, this task had to be accomplished the oldfashioned way. Emptying his mind of everything but the unknown surging, he wracked his brain in an effort to determine what was causing it. Though he still couldn’t say for certain, the only thing that he could compare it to was the unwanted sound created by a reactor cavitation problem that he had experienced on one of his previous commands aboard a nuclear-powered Sturgeon-class attack sub.

  Opening his eyes, he met the chief’s inquisitive stare and responded accordingly.

  “There’s something out there, all right. It sounds like an internal, closed loop cavitation signature, emanating from a nuclear powered submarine. Most likely, they’re just sitting there hovering, thinking that we’ll merely pass them by. But we’ll show them otherwise, won’t we, gentlemen?”

  The XO was in the process of picking up the comm line when Lefty Jackman called out excitedly, “Sir, I’m picking up another unidentified contact! This one lies in the northeastern quadrant, at a heading of zero-eight-zero. Relative rough range is thirty-eight thousand yards. You know, it sounds like it could be another diesel-electric!”

  As this new signature was channeled into their headphones, Patrick Benton momentarily delayed his call to the control room. There was no doubt in his mind that the new sound they were now hearing was indeed the familiar drone of a battery-powered submarine.

  Yet one fact immediately stood out in his mind. Since the only other two diesel-electric vessels in the U.S. Navy were in Japan, in the midst of ASW exercises, this meant that this contact had to be of foreign origin. He was most aware that any one of the two vessels they had just picked up could hold the threat that the Nose researcher had warned them of earlier. Hastily checking his watch, he saw that in another hour the Condor was due to be launched from nearby Vandenberg. With this in mind, he activated the comm line, to present their dilemma to the Captain.

  Six and a half miles due east of the Razorback’s current position. Deputy Commander Bill Rose of Vandenberg’s 4392nd Security Police Group sat in the copilot’s seat of a UH-1 Huey helicopter. Presently hovering only a few hundred feet above the jagged hills that comprised Slik 6’s eastern border, the chopper had its nose pointed westward. From this position, the launch complex itself was just barely visible to the left. His attention was instead riveted straight ahead, on the desolate plain that was situated to the immediate north of the launch pad’s security perimeter.

  There, a quarter of a mile from the fence itself, lay a circle of large, angular boulders. It was toward this rocky mass that his stare was centered.

  The roar of the Huey’s engines sounded loudly overhead, and to compensate for it, Rose was forced to speak firmly into his chin-mounted radio transmitter.

  “That’s affirmative, Colonel Lansford. The preliminary infrared helicopter scan shows a pair of mammalian life forms hidden within the circle of rocks. We’re almost certain that it’s not coming from either a bear, cougar, or any other form of wildlife.

  It’s got to be human. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of deploying Strike Team Able.”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” responded the crackling voice of Lansford as it emanated from the helmet mounted speakers.

  “It’s urgent that you clear the area as soon as possible. Use whatever force is needed to accomplish this task at once.”

  “Yes, sir,” snapped Rose.

  “I’ll notify you as soon as the sector is secured.”

  Switching the two-way radio’s frequency, he dialed that of Captain Tim Gener, the strike team’s leader.

  A momentary crackle of static was followed by a familiar bass voice.

  “This is Able Team leader, go ahead.”

  Breathlessly, Rose addressed him.

  “Roger, Able Team leader, this is Commander One. You are cleared to initiate housecleaning. Use whatever elbow grease is necessary.”

  “I read you, Commander One. Will send in the mini-maids, over and out.”

  As the helicopter inched its way over the surrounding hilltops, Rose strained to see his men in action.

  Strike Team Able was his personal creation. Comprised of two dozen crack members of the 4392nd Security Police Group, the squad was created for incidents such as the one they currently faced. It appeared that this would be the first time in its two-year history that a call it was responding to was a real emergency and not a simulated one. Armed with M16’s, M79 grenade launchers, a pair of MOO machine guns, and a 90-mm. M67 recoilless rifle, the group included the base’s top marksmen. It was designed to repel an invading force in the unlikely event that such a group of terrorists were able to breach Vandenberg’s security perimeter.

  Not having any idea who they could be presently facing, Rose scanned the plain that lay before him.

  Because his men were dressed in camouflaged fatigues that blended into the surrounding terrain, he had to use a pair of binoculars to pick them out. They were currently deployed approximately 200 yards from the rock formation where the intruders had been spotted. Positioned in a semicircle, they covered the northern, western, and eastern perimeters. This left only the southern flank open. Rose leaned forward expectantly as a tall, lean figure stood and beckoned his men to continue their advance. Crouched low to the ground, they slowly began their way towards the circle’s axis in unison.

  “Attention intruders, you are currently trespassing on a United States military installation. Please immediately stand up with your hands clearly extended over your heads!”

  As this amplified warning was repea
ted, Grigori Yagoda returned the startled expression that he saw on his teammate’s face. This look of astonishment turned to near panic when Dmitri Andreyev poked his head up through the camouflaged netting that was spread out on top of them and took in the advancing line of troops that approached on three sides.

  Ducking back down, his voice trembled.

  “There’s a whole army of them out there, Grigori! Where in the world did they come from?”

  “I told you not to underestimate the Americans,” retorted his blond-haired coworker coolly.

  “That’s easy to say now,” returned Dmitri, who reached down to ready his weapons.

  “Perhaps we’ll be able to fight our way past them.”

  Grigori beckoned his teammate to calm down.

  “Easy now, comrade. There is still another alternative for us to consider.”

  Placing his Uzi on the ground beneath him, Grigori put on his green beret. He then pushed aside the net and stood.

  “Are you going to surrender?” quizzed Dmitri, who remained crouching and watched as Grigori opened his palms and raised his hands up over his head.

  Ignoring this question, Grigori climbed up onto the rock ledge and faced the line of armed soldiers, who were now some fifty yards away. Upon spotting him, they immediately froze. A single tall, lean figure broke from their ranks and spoke through a battery powered megaphone.

  “Please have your accomplice join you also!”

  Surprised that they knew that there were two of them present, Grigori beckoned Dmitri to join him.

  As he shakily did so, Grigori yelled out in perfect English, “Good morning, gentlemen! We’re both assigned to the Army’s 7th Infantry Division at Fort Ord. We’ve been sent down here on direct orders of the Secretary of the Defense, to attempt to penetrate your defenses.”

  The gangly American Air Force officer was quick with his response.

  “We know nothing about such an operation. Please remain standing still, with your hands overhead, while I send a team in to check your credentials.”

  He signalled to his right, and two brawny soldiers appeared. One of these individuals held a large German shepherd dog by a taut leash. Pulling out their handguns, they began walking quickly forward.

  Dmitri watched their progress and felt his heart pounding in his chest. He knew very well that, although their accents and uniforms might temporarily fool the Americans, they had no proper credentials. His mouth was dry and breath heavy when he suddenly swooned back dizzily.

  This sudden, unexpected movement caused the Americans to abruptly stop dead in their tracks. As they simultaneously crouched to raise their weapons, the German shepherd lunged forward and its leash slipped from its handler’s grip. Angrily growling, the huge tan-and-black dog raced towards the nearby circle of rocks.

  Disoriented by his loss of balance, and guided by the illogical grasp of fear-induced panic, Dmitri reached for the.45-caliber pistol that he had hidden beneath the belt at the small of his back. Raising it before him, he managed to hold it steady and shoot the dog smack in its head. No sooner had it tumbled to the ground than Dmitri turned the weapon on the dog’s handler. Another shot rang out, and this time an American soldier fell, mortally wounded. Dmitri was already turning the pistol toward the startled American who stood at his fallen comrade’s side when an iron-like grasp pulled him down behind the shelter of the rocks. A second later, the first bullets whined into the stone ledge.

  “Have you gone insane?” cried Grigori as he scrambled for the weapons that they had left on the floor beneath them.

  “Why in hell did you do such a foolish thing? Not only did you almost commit suicide, but now you’ve just about doomed the success of our mission as well!”

  Having snapped back to his senses, Dmitri timidly picked up a M16. “I’m sorry, comrade. I don’t know what got into me.”

  The blast of an exploding grenade sent a shower of ricocheting stone down onto their heads, and both men ducked for cover. As the fragments settled, Grigori grabbed for his Uzi.

  “You’ve left us no alternative, comrade. Now, we must fight for our very lives.”

  Peeking up over the rim of protective rock, he sprayed the horizon with a hail of 9-mm. bullets.

  Ever conscious of the unalterable course of violent action that he had brought down on them, Dmitri grabbed the M16 and joined his teammate. He raised its sights in just enough time to center them on the chest of an advancing American. The soldier had just pulled the pin from a grenade and was about to lob it over his head when Dmitri’s shot took him down.

  When the wounded man dropped the already primed grenade, it exploded in a showering torrent of razor sharp shrapnel. As a result of this, two of his countrymen fell to the ground beside him.

  Dmitri concentrated on protecting their western and northern flanks, while Grigori took aim at the line of soldiers coming in from the south. Because they had a well-protected vantage point and plenty of ammunition, they were able to stop their attackers from closing in all together. Prone on their bellies, a good fifty yards away, the Americans could only hope that a lucky shot would hit its mark.

  “Commander One, this is Able Team leader. I’m afraid the opposition is a bit stiffer than we had anticipated. Five of my men are down. Some air support would sure be appreciated.”

  Taking in this breathless request, which was delivered with a background accompaniment of staccato like rifle blasts, Deputy Commander Bill Rose instantly replied, “We’re coming in, Able Team. This won’t take long.”

  Signaling the pilot with a raised right fist, Rose held on as the Huey gained altitude and shot over the hills they had been hiding behind. It didn’t take him long to spot the circle of rocks from which an occasional puff of gunfire broke. Circling the battlefield, he determined the positions of their own men. He couldn’t help but notice that several of these young soldiers were sprawled out on the sandy soil, their limbs blood-covered and not moving. His face tightened in anger, and he pointed towards the enemy’s position.

  “Let’s get those bastards. Lieutenant!”

  In response to this passionate directive, the pilot guided the Huey in to attack. On their first two sweeps, they saturated the rock ledge with 7.62mm. bullets spat forth from their chin-mounted mini-gun.

  It was on the third pass that they began blasting into the stone itself, with their TOW fire-and-forget antitank missiles.

  A resounding explosion followed the detonation of the first of these powerful missiles. This was accompanied by a thick cloud of dense white smoke. Well aware that they still carried another five tow’s in reserve. Rose anxiously licked his lips in anticipation of the next approach.

  “My goodness, Grigori, what was that?”

  Dmitri’s shaken voice emanated from deep inside a crevice of rock, where the Spetsnaz operatives had crawled to escape the Huey’s bullets. With his ears still buzzing from the deafening blast that only seconds ago had shaken them, he caught the look of solid confidence on his teammate’s face.

  “That, comrade, was most likely one of their TOW antitank missiles,” whispered Grigori.

  “I doubt if we’ll be able to take many more concussions like that one, without the entire ledge sliding down on top of us.”

  Slipping out of the crevice, Grigori reached for the Stinger that still lay inside its protective case. Rather meekly, Dmitri followed him out into the cramped clearing, which the rocks surrounded. He looked on as his teammate hastily took hold of the shiny black, tube-like weapon and efficiently made some last second adjustments.

  “How do you plan to counter this antitank weapon, Grigori?”

  “Reload your M16 and prepare to give me some covering fire, comrade. We still have a single chance.

  I’m going to take out that Huey, then turn the Stinger on the space shuttle. If the fates are still with us, my aim will be true, and we’ll accomplish our glorious mission after all. Now, take courage, Dmitri Andreyev. Our finest hour has finally arrived!”

&n
bsp; Inspired by these words, Dmitri took a last fond look at his teammate, then reached out to insert another cartridge case into his rifle. Seeing that Grigori was ready for action, he stood upright and, resting the barrel of the M16 on top of the rock ledge, began spraying the surrounding landscape with bullets.

  Grigori wasted no time taking a position behind him. A quick scan of the horizon allowed him to catch sight of the helicopter as it prepared to sweep in from the north. No sooner had the first bullets begun blasting from its mini-gun than the Spetsnaz operative calmly sighted his quarry and pulled the launcher’s trigger. Instantly, the weapon kicked backward and the air filled with an ear-splitting report. A resonant roar sounded as the Stinger’s smooth-case fragmentary warhead shot out in a blinding burst of supersonic speed. Guided by the red-hot exhaust plume of the approaching chopper, the missile soared upwards and smacked into its target. A resounding blast followed and the sky filled with flaming debris.

  Conscious that the helicopter would give them no more problems, Grigori reached down to begin the process of reloading the Stinger. The still-smoking barrel was scorching with heat, yet he shoved the new missile inside it anyway. In the process of pivoting to set its sights on the southern horizon, Grigori noticed that the chatter of the M16 had stopped behind him.

  Just as he looked over to see what was keeping Dmitri from firing, his friend’s body brushed up against his back. One look at what was left of his blood-soaked face and Grigori knew his comrade had been killed almost instantly.

  A new purpose inspired his actions as he turned and again shouldered the Stinger. As he peered into its sights, a tear momentarily clouded his eye. Wiping it away, he centered the cross-hairs on the gleaming white, delta-winged space craft that sat invitingly on the other side of the security fence.

  It was just as he pulled the trigger that a 90mm.

  M67 recoilless rifle round struck him at the base of his skull. A milli-second later, Grigori Yagoda was nothing more than a few bloody scraps of skin and bone.

  Oblivious to his death, the Stinger streaked from its launcher. Yet this time its aim was errant, and the warhead harmlessly exploded at the base of the security fence. All too soon this detonation faded, and the plain was silent again, except for the rush of the wind and the distant cry of the ever-pounding surf.