Flight of the Condor Read online

  Of all the hikes he presently had to chose from, his favorite was an earthen footpath that brought him to the banks of the Syrdar River. He particularly enjoyed this route because it crossed through a rather dense stand of gnarled oaks, before ending at the Syrdar’s banks.

  So far this morning, his travels had taken him from his quarters located outside of Tyuratam’s Baikonur Cosmodrome. The dawn broke clear, mild and full of promise, as the white-haired officer drank down his tea, threw on his clothes, and, with walking stick in hand, began his way across the base itself. The new recruits were already well into their exercise routine when he passed by the airfield’s barracks area and reached Tyuratam’s western gate. A look of genuine surprise flashed across the guard’s previously bored face upon identifying the broad-shouldered figure of his commanding officer. Even with his rank, Vadim was forced to sign the registry that indicated his precise destination.

  The path he was soon trod ding upon began only a quarter of a kilometer from the guard shack. For a good hour, this trail led over a sparse, rolling plain, bare of any noticeable vegetation but a dull variety of low-growing shrubbery. The air was fresh and invigorating, though, and he soon spotted his beloved woods another kilometer distant.

  To pass the time more quickly, he lengthened his stride and focused his thoughts on the long career that had precipitated this fated day. It had all begun almost five decades before, when he was but an innocent, long-legged teenager. How anxious he had been at that time to enlist in the Army. After all, the Motherland’s borders had needed to be protected from the demonic Nazi hordes gathering to the west.

  After participating in his share of bloodshed, the young private had come under the scrutiny of General Pavel Yagoda, a man who was destined to change his life.

  It was Yagoda who had noticed the glimmering spark of intellect that simmered in Vadim’s mind.

  Invited to join the illustrious general’s personal staff, Vadim had blossomed into manhood. A quick learner who knew how to command the respect of those beneath him in rank, he was to spend hours under the general’s direct tutelage. Eventually, as the fates would have it, their division had captured an entire warehouse of German V-2 rockets. Equally as important had been the Nazi scientists that they had come upon, hiding in the structure’s basement.

  With Vadim at his side, General Yagoda had soon gone off to Moscow to personally brief Stalin of their great find. Faced with the imminent conclusion of the Great War, the Motherland had been attempting to determine its future ranking in the new world order to follow. Pavel Yagoda had been one of the visionaries who realized that strategic nuclear forces would be the keys to power in the new age. He had argued that only by developing a new generation of nuclear weapons could the Soviet Union challenge the might of American Imperialism.

  Hesitant to accept his advice, Stalin had gone to his grave leaving the country with no strategic master plan. A confused era had followed, when such leaders as Georgi Malenkov had voiced their desire to abolish all nuclear weapons before mankind itself was totally destroyed.

  Fortunately, Malenkov and others like him had been ousted from office, to be replaced by Nikita Khrushchev. In his speech of January 14, 1960 before the Supreme Soviet, the He sty Premier had put his weight totally behind the concept of developing a massive nuclear strike force as the ultimate expression of national policy. Five months later, Vadim had been at Pavel Yagoda’s side as the old-timer was named Commanderin-Chief of the Strategic Rocket Forces.

  Spurred by such embarrassments as the Cuban missile crisis, the Soviet ICBM program had shifted into high gear.

  The ascent of Brezhnev had signaled the switch from Soviet strategic inferiority to parity and more.

  By early 1970, the USSR. had even passed America in the number of operational ICBM’s.

  Vadim Sobolev had begun seriously developing his own reputation during the SALT-1 negotiations. At that time he had argued vigorously that the Soviet Union had to be allowed to continue its research in the field of multiple warheads, MIRV’s for short.

  America had granted this concession, and the Motherland had been quick to exploit the full limits of this rather one-sided treaty. Unlike the U.S.” the USSR. had continued to improve its forces. This had culminated in the development of the giant SS-18 missile, whose massive boosters were able to carry ten 600kiloton MIRV’d warheads. For the first time ever, the Motherland now had the capability to destroy even the most hardened targets anywhere in the Northern Hemisphere.

  Merely knowing that two dozen of these immense giants lay buried beneath the ground of the base he had just come from warmed Vadim’s heart considerably.

  Though Pavel Yagoda was long in his grave, his protege had survived to make certain that his dream was fulfilled. Inspired by this responsibility, Vadim briefly halted and surveyed the meandering path that was visible, stretching beyond to the western horizon.

  The trail had already dropped into the tree line. He had passed the first bent oak several minutes before.

  Yet he knew that he still had a hike of approximately a quarter of a kilometer to reach the densest part of those woods. A songbird cried to his left, while a fat squirrel scurried over the ground before him. Merely being in this setting caused a great joy to overcome him. Breathing in a deep lungful of fresh air, Vadim continued on.

  This brisk stride was not that of a sixty-eight-year old man, thought Sobolev, who felt like a young buck again. Though betrayed by a mane of flowing white hair, he was proud of the fact that he had worked hard to remain in such excellent physical shape.

  Eating the right foods and taking walks such as this one were the secrets to his success.

  A raven cried harshly above him, and Vadim’s gaze turned upwards. Beyond the twisted branches of the ancient oaks was a cloudless blue sky. A single black bird soared effortlessly there. Viewing this scene caused a new vision to raise in his consciousness. It represented a chapter in his life that he was most proud of.

  On April 26, 1962, he had helped initiate the Motherland’s fledgling space program by organizing the launch of Cosmos 4. This rather primitive spacecraft had only stayed in orbit three days, yet its payload of camera equipment was to revolutionize military science for all time. As the first Soviet reconnaissance satellite, Cosmos 4 had led to a succession of sophisticated platforms, the latest of which could photograph an earthbound object of less than twelve inches in diameter from an altitude of over 200 miles.

  Vadim was especially proud of the military version of the Salyut space station that was presently the country’s equivalent to the American recon satellite known as Keyhole. Not only could this platform’s cameras scan the American military fields and command bunkers, it also utilized a variety of sensors to provide surveillance over the seas themselves. A powerful radar array could locate even the smallest of surface ships in any weather condition, day or night.

  Infrared sensors could sniff out the warm wakes of U.S. nuclear subs, putting an end to the conjecture that this portion of their “triad” was invulnerable.

  Vadim had seen the results of such a scan only hours before. After a single pass, the current Salyut was able to relay certain proof that one of the Americans’ latest 688class attack subs had sunk off the Hawaiian island of Kauai. Earlier, it had conveyed a disaster of equal proportions, when the recon platform had recorded the actual failure of the launch of a U.S. Titan rocket over the coast of California.

  Knowledge of this last incident was particularly satisfying to Vadim, for he knew just what the Titan had been carrying as its payload. Now, perhaps, the Premier would be more receptive to his daring plan, which had taken a lifetime to formulate.

  Who knew if such an opportunity would ever present itself again? They had only a few days left to take advantage of it. That was why his meeting later that morning with Valentin Radchenko had to go smoothly.

  Hastily checking his watch, Sobolev calculated that he would have just enough time to reach his goal before being forced to ret
urn to Tyuratam. He would empty his soul by the banks of the Syrdar River, then return for the fateful meeting that could very well change the balance of power of the entire planet.

  Stimulated by this thought, he pushed himself forward.

  From an altitude of 4,000 meters, the landscape of Soviet Turkestan appeared flat and uninteresting.

  Except for the blue expanse of the Aral Sea glistening on the southern horizon, Valentin Radchenko could pick out few spots of scenic interest. Instead, endless plains of parched scrub stretched in all directions.

  Few highways were visible traversing these expanses.

  In fact, if it weren’t for the railroad tracks that they had been following for the last hour, one could have sworn that this was a spot that civilized man had completely passed by.

  Catching his reflection in the helicopter’s fuselage window, Valentin studied what he saw. Predominant was a pair of heavy, black plastic glasses that gave his small, featureless face a scholarly appearance. Even with the dim light, the gray that lined his once-coal black hair was most visible. This coloring made him look considerably older than his forty-three years.

  To the monotonous chopping clatter of the Mi-24’s rotor blades, the bureaucrat pondered the causes of his premature aging. As a junior aide to Premier Viktor Alipov, he was kept on the move twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. With no time for a family life or children, he was exclusively married to the State.

  Today’s activities were typical of a schedule that allowed precious little time for leisure. Strange as it might seem, only eighteen hours before a trip into the wilds of Turkestan had not even been on his agenda.

  Busy in Moscow preparing for the following week’s visit of the American Secretary of State, Valentin had learned of his mission early the previous evening.

  The call to Premier Alipov’s office had caught him completely off guard. Thinking that this summons had to do with the Western diplomat’s visit, he had entered the Premier’s paneled office ready to take on a long list of last-minute responsibilities. Instead, he had found the usually sour-faced Alipov in a most cordial mood. Inviting Valentin to have a seat and share a vodka with him, the Premier had asked him in the most undemanding of tones if he would mind flying off to Tyuratam the first thing in the morning.

  One did not easily turn down the Premier of the Soviet Union, and Valentin had offered his services without question. A quick briefing had followed, at which time Alipov had conveyed the purpose of this hastily scheduled trip.

  General Vadim Sobolev was a larger-than-life figure whom Valentin had enormous respect for. As Commanderin-Chief of the Motherland’s Strategic Rocket Forces, Sobolev held one of the most important military positions in the country. This responsibility included the direct leadership of a force of over 1 million men.

  Only an hour earlier, Sobolev had called the Premier and asked him to send a representative of his office to Tyuratam. Once at the Cosmodrome, this emissary would be briefed on a matter of the utmost sensitivity. This individual would then be free to return to Moscow, to share this new knowledge with the Premier.

  Curious as to the nature of the information that would soon be passed on to him, Valentin had left Alipov’s office and begun making arrangements for the flight southward. It was the Defense Ministry that had chosen his means of transportation. A massive Ilyushin IL-76 jet had picked him up before dawn outside Moscow and whirled him off eastward to the Air Force base at Sverdlovsk, at the foot of the Ural Mountains. Valentin had been somewhat surprised to learn that this was as far as the jet was going. Not knowing what to expect next, he had been led to a fully armed, Mi-24 helicopter gunship. Having only seen such a craft in photographs before, he had found the camouflaged chopper most impressive.

  It was only when its pilot had walked over to him and greeted Valentin by name that he had learned that this unusual vehicle would take him on the final leg of his journey.

  The gunship’s main cabin was more comfortable than he had ever imagined. Though it was designed to carry eight fully armed troops, he was the only apparent passenger. An hour after they had lifted off from Sverdlovsk, the copilot had come back to visit with him. Sharing a hot thermos of sweetened tea and some tasty poppy seed cakes, the young officer had divulged that, after stopping at Tyuratam, they would be off to the front in Afghanistan. Valentin had learned that this would be the second tour of action there for each member of the helicopter’s current four-man flight crew. A battle-scarred veteran of a war the young bureaucrat had heard of only in reports and in the newspapers, the copilot had brought the conflict to a very real level.

  The war stories that he had subsequently related to Valentin were genuinely shocking. It seemed that battlefield atrocities of the most distasteful kind were almost an everyday occurrence. And it wasn’t always the rebels who were the perpetrators.

  One couldn’t help but notice the bitterness that had flavored the young officer’s words. It had reminded Valentin of the dissension expressed by many American troops during the Viet Nam conflict. He supposed this similarity was due to the very nature of the two wars. Like Viet Nam, Afghanistan was racked by a guerilla war. Unable to apply the full brunt of its superior firepower, the Soviet military was tied down in a frustrating, time-consuming battle against an ill trained poorly equipped rebel force. If the tide of victory didn’t shift soon, the Soviet Union’s armed forces could have a major morale problem on their hands. Valentin had made a mental note to share this observation with the Premier as soon as he returned to Moscow.

  The copilot had eventually returned to the cockpit, and Valentin had been left alone to his current thoughts. What in the world awaited him in Tyuratam?

  A slight decrease in the sound of the gunship’s rotors was followed by a noticeable drop in altitude, and he knew he’d all too soon know the answer to this question. Expectantly, Valentin’s gaze returned to the window. There a river was visible, snaking its way beneath them. A relatively dense stand of woods lay on each side of its banks. Minute* later, a two-lane highway could be seen. This strip of asphalt pavement led directly to an extensive, fenced-in compound.

  Even from this height, Valentin could make out the chain-link barrier’s barbed-wire top and the groups of armed sentries that patrolled its length.

  Valentin had visited the base once before to witness the launching of an SS-18. At that time he had been greatly impressed with the sophisticated facilities that had been developed here. This visit proved no different.

  The Mi-24 continued losing altitude, and he was afforded an excellent view of Tyuratam’s ultramodern research and development test facility, massive fuel-storage area, and breathtaking main space-launch complex. An airfield was also visible up ahead, and he soon picked out the huge, domed roof of the Baikonur Cosmodrome. It was before this structure that the gunship landed.

  The quiet was most noticeable as the helicopter’s rotors spun to a halt. As he left his seat to retrieve his briefcase, the fuselage door popped open. With his case now in hand, he made his way outside.

  A gust of hot, dry wind hit him full in the face as he stepped onto the tarmac. Waiting for him there were a pair of smartly uniformed sentries, and a single smiling, white-haired individual whom Valentin had no trouble identifying. General Vadim Sobolev was quick to greet him with a warm hug and a kiss to each cheek. Appearing as vibrant as ever, and in remarkably good shape for his age, the Commanderin-Chief of the Motherland’s Strategic Rocket Forces welcomed Valentin like a longlost son.

  “Welcome to Tyuratam, Comrade Radchenko. I hope your journey here was a smooth one.”

  Valentin grinned, already infected by his host’s enthusiasm.

  “That it was, General. I must admit, though, that I was a bit surprised by the manner in which the Defense Ministry routed me down here from Sverdlovsk. That was my first ride in an Mi-24.”

  “That’s quite a machine,” observed Sobolev, who turned to get a better look at the vehicle.

  Valentin followed the g
eneral’s gaze and took in the chopper’s box-like cockpit, dual turboshaft engines, and characteristic stub wings, onto which were attached a pair of gun pods and a missile launcher.

  “She’s a lethal one, all right,” continued Sobolev admiringly.

  “I imagine this one is bound for Afghanistan.

  How I wish we could accompany its brave crew into action. A man doesn’t know how to live fully until he has enemy bullets flying at him. Only then can he really appreciate the great gift of life. Did you have the honor of serving in the armed forces, Comrade Radchenko?”

  Vadim replied proudly, “That I did, General. For five years I was a deputy member of Admiral of the Fleet Gorshkov’s personal staff.”

  “So you served with old man Gorshkov,” reflected Sobolev.

  “You were a most fortunate lad, comrade.

  The Motherland should only have more great men like that one.”

  Turning from the helicopter, Sobolev pointed toward the domed hangar that lay behind him.

  “I want you to take a look at something inside the Cosmodrome, Comrade Radchenko. Then we will go on to my office for tea and get down to the matter which has brought you these hundreds of kilometers.”

  Nodding in compliance, Valentin followed his host toward the hangar. Doing all that he could do to match the general’s stride, the bureaucrat silently cursed his poor physical conditioning. Here was a man over twenty-five years older and he could hardly keep pace with him. He just had to make time for a serious exercise program. And then he’d even consider giving up smoking.

  Suddenly conscious that he hadn’t had a cigarette since leaving Sverdlovsk, Valentin’s hand went to his jacket pocket, and he brought out a thin, silver case.

  From it he removed a single filter less American cigarette.

  He placed it between his lips, and was just about to light it when the general abruptly stopped him.