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.
Captain Tim Gener was the first one to make it to the blood-spattered circle of rocks. Ever so cautiously, he peered inside, and came to the instant conclusion that their unknown enemy no longer threatened them. Only then did he somberly reach for the twoway radio, to convey this fact to Launch Control.
Lieutenant Colonel Todd Lansford took the deaths of Bill Rose and the seven Able-Team members quite hard. Ignoring the distinguished, pin-striped individual seated beside him, he gazed up at the launch monitor, his stare vacant.
It all seemed so unnecessary. Why anyone in their right mind would send in two men to initiate a job that would take a full battalion was beyond him. He could only guess that they were terrorists of some sort. He wondered what Dr. Richard Fuller would have to say about all this. Then he snapped back from his reverie as his esteemed guest spoke up.
“I’m sorry about your men, Todd. They went to their deaths with all the valor and bravado befitting members of the United States Air Force. The entire country can be proud of them.”
Secretary Fitzpatrick’s words caused Lansford to sharpen the focus of his line of sight. He took in the shiny white orbiter perched at its launch mount. The digital clock that was superimposed in the bottom right-hand corner of the monitor screen showed that the launch was being held with thirty-one minutes and fifty seconds to go until liftoff. The senior officer stirred when the white-haired figure who sat beside him again spoke.
“Don’t you think it’s time to reinitiate the countdown, Todd?”
Massaging the pounding ache that possessed his forehead, Lansford sat forward. As if emerging from a horrible nightmare, he suddenly became conscious of his present location. Seated at the rear command console of Shuttle Mission Control, he absorbed the dozens of anxious technicians who were stationed before their own keyboards and monitors in front of him. A hushed sense of anticipation filled the air and Lansford realized that it would take only a single order from his lips to get the ball rolling once again.
With renewed composure, he turned to address the veteran Defense Department bureaucrat who sat to his right.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary. I thought you wanted to hold the Condor until it was determined if the intruders had any accomplices close by.”
The Secretary shook his head.
“I don’t think that’s necessary any longer, Todd. Your preliminary infrared scan showed that those two individuals were the only unauthorized figures on the entire southern quadrant of the base. I’d say that it’s safe to presume that they were working by themselves. Thus, I see no reason to hold the Condor any longer.”
Calmed by the Secretary’s tone of voice, Lansford sighed.
“You’re right, Mr. Secretary. I’m sorry for hesitating. I’ll restart the countdown at once.”
While the lieutenant colonel picked up the intercom to convey this decision, Fitzpatrick watched him with a practiced, shrewd eye. At that moment, he could have sworn that there was something important that the senior officer was keeping from him. His years in Washington had taught him that he could trust no man absolutely. He could only hope that, whatever his host was holding inside, it wouldn’t jeopardize the further safety of the delta-winged space craft that filled the monitor screen above him.
A breath of relief passed his lips when he noticed that the digital clock had again started moving. This meant that in a little over a half-hour’s time the Condor would be released into the heavens.
Fitzpatrick’s eyes gleamed as he visualized the sophisticated reconnaissance platform secured in its cargo hold. For there lay the future security of the entire Free World. Confident that no further obstacles lay in their way, he sat back and watched the seconds left to liftoff continue to tick away.
Chapter Fifteen
Captain Philip Exeter stood in the Razorback’s control room, his attention locked on the navigational chart that showed their current position. Beside him was huddled the sub’s Navigator and Weapons Officer.
They too studied the graph, on whose surface was drawn a triangular design. Laying at the apex of this polygon was a mark indicating the Razorback. From this position two straight lines were drawn of approximately equal length. The top one stretched to the northeast, and showed the location of the still-unidentified diesel-electric submarine. The opposing arm of the triangle extended to the southeast, and terminated at the spot where the supposed nuclear vessel currently hovered. Since spotting these two contacts, the Razorback had turned around. Headed back toward the east now, it was in the process of bisecting the triangle, putting the sub equally distant between both targets.
Ever conscious that noon was only a quarter of an hour away, Exeter shifted his weight impatiently.
Making his indecision even more difficult was his aching right knee. Still feeling the pain, he wondered when the three aspirin he had just consumed would finally take effect.
The captain knew that from their current position they could easily take out both contacts. Yet, since either one had yet to make a hostile move, he found himself hesitant to do so. After all, they weren’t in a declared state of war. All that he had to go on were the frantic ramblings of the Nose researcher, whose theories could very well be so much hot air. Waiting anxiously for one of the vessels to make some sort of belligerent maneuver, he could do little more than have the Razorback primed for action. To insure their readiness, he would depend on the two junior officers who studied the chart at his side.
Clearing his dry throat, Exeter first addressed his Navigator.
“Mr. McClure, I’m going to need you to pull those bathygraphs of these waters. Somewhere beneath us, the Marlin is probing the sea floor. If we are forced to attack, we’ve got to be certain that the DSRV doesn’t stand in our way.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” responded the Navigator, who turned to rummage through his chart box.
This left Exeter facing his Weapons Officer.
“Mr. Willingham, I’m relying on you to give me a constant update on those firing solutions. Since both contacts are under suspicion, you’ll have double the work. I want all six torpedo tubes loaded with Mk-48’s. Each is to be ready to fire at my command.”
“What exactly are we waiting for, Captain?” asked the alert junior officer.
Exeter met the young man’s inquisitive stare.
“I’m not really sure. Lieutenant. All I know is that, if one of them is going to play its cards, it will be within the next fifteen minutes.”
Checking his watch, the somewhat puzzled Weapons Officer nodded and began his way across the compartment to the boat’s Mark 101-A firecontrol console. It would be from this position that the final firing bearings would be determined and, if needed, the torpedoes subsequently fired.