“Perhaps it did,” answered Grigori, who was suddenly startled when a strange sound came from somewhere close by.
Because the fog served to mask this noise’s exact source, Grigori spun on his heels in an attempt to track it down. Instinctively crouching beside him,
Dmitri pointed to their left. There, two distorted, pinprick shafts of bright light illuminated the swirling mist, approximately one-quarter of a kilometer distant.
It was most obvious that they emanated from a pair of flashlights, and that whoever carried them were headed straight for the commandos.
Taking his knife from its sheathe, Dmitri made a cutting motion over his throat. Signaling that this wasn’t the type of response that he wanted, Grigori instead motioned toward the ledge they had just climbed up from. Disappointed, Dmitri followed his teammate back to the wall. Carefully edging down its sharp face, they lowered themselves just far enough so that only their foreheads still peaked over the jagged summit.
Thirty seconds passed until voices could finally be heard. Long before their mist-veiled figures became visible, the Spetsnaz operatives, who were fluent in English, could readily make out the rambling conversation.
“I still wish I had my surfboard down here when that wave hit this morning,” boasted a high-pitched male voice.
“That would have been the ultimate ride of a lifetime.”
“It would have also been your last,” returned his deep-throated companion.
“Sometimes, Johnson, I don’t think you’re playing with a full deck.”
With this, two uniformed sentries emerged onto the rock plateau. Positioning themselves beside the anchor monument, they rather halfheartedly shone their lights in the direction of the sea.
“This sure is a night for spooks,” offered the surfer.
“I can just visualize the ghosts of those destroyer boys who were lost here back in 1923.”
“That disaster was a tragic one, all right,” responded his companion.
“But enough of that spook talk. This place gives me the chills without that nonsense. Now come on, we’d better get on with our rounds before the sergeant throws a shit-fit.”
Without another word spoken, the sentries turned from the sea and disappeared eastwards. A full minute passed before Grigori gave the signal to climb back onto the plateau.
“Such is the fierce nature of our adversaries,” spat Dmitri.
“They babbled on like mere schoolboys.”
Grigori’s tone was a bit more cautious.
“Don’t let them fool you, comrade. The Americans might seem slow to anger, but pity the poor enemy that it is not prepared to counter their wrath once it is aroused. We must be ever alert now for both more sentries and electronic surveillance methods. The closer we get to that missile site, the thicker they’ll be, so let’s take advantage of this cloak of fog while we still have it.
We shouldn’t rest until we are well hidden in the hills to the east of the launch complex itself.”
Dmitri stepped aside and beckoned with his hand.
“I’m ready whenever you are, comrade. Merely lead on.”
Doing just that, Grigori readjusted the load that lay slung over his back and began his way inland.
After passing the anchor, they followed a narrow, earthen pathway over a desolate plain littered with razor-sharp thistle and spiky cactus. Continuing on the trail as it climbed up a steep ravine, they crossed a set of railroad tracks and were forced to dive to the ground for cover when a pair of bright headlights suddenly pierced the mist before them. Pressing their noses into the sandy, dry soil, they looked up in time to see a convoy of large trucks pass on a road that lay another half kilometer to the east. The powerful roar of their diesel engines rumbled through the night, and Grigori couldn’t help but grin.
“I bet they’re headed for the launch site,” he whispered softly.
“It has to be nearby.”
“Either that, or we’ve been mistakenly dropped off on one of their so-called freeways,” offered Dmitri with a nervous wink.
Only when he was certain that no other traffic was in the vicinity did Grigori dare stand. Leaving the path they had been following, he led Dmitri directly toward the nearest portion of pavement. Though their progress roused a startled long-eared jackrabbit, they managed to stay well clear of the sharp, low-laying brush and dreaded rattlesnakes that abounded there.
When they finally made it to the road, they found it to be a good-sized thoroughfare. Paved with black asphalt, it was wide enough to handle the largest of transports. Its flat surface looked awfully inviting, yet Grigori knew that it was fraught with too many unseen dangers. Proceeding by way of the surrounding hills would be much more practical.
Grigori needed a running start to get to the top of the hill that lay on the other side of the roadway. As his boots bit into the soft sand that comprised this summit, his glance strayed immediately before him, to the east. His eyes subsequently opened wide with wonder as they took in the scene on the distant horizon. For the fog had temporarily lifted. Visible another kilometer away was an immense, brightly lit complex of massive concrete-and-steel structures. Positioned at the center of this conglomeration of blockhouses and towers was the very vehicle he had been sent to destroy. Shimmering beneath the banks of spotlights, the spotlessly white shuttle sat perched on its trio of boosters. Looking deceptively close, it beckoned him forward like a father welcoming a longlost son.
How very easy it seemed to merely set up their weapons right there and just blast away at it. Yet Grigori knew his Stinger’s infrared guided warhead would have a much easier target once the rocket’s main engines ignited.
Since the security there seemed almost nonexistent, for the first time he actually thought that the mad scheme might succeed after all. Ever aware that over-confidence could be their worst enemy, he swore that they would proceed with caution. They had come too far to fail by accident now. Konstantin Lomakin’s tragic fate must not be their own.
Chapter Thirteen
Richard Fuller arrived at Slik 6’s launch control center at 8:00 A.M. sharp. He had anticipated the ever-present early morning fog that made driving down to the coast a time-consuming proposition, so he had made certain to leave Lompoc extra early. As it turned out, he arrived just in time for his appointed meeting.
The launch complex was buzzing with activity as he passed through the dual security gates and drove by the payload-preparation area. Dozens of hardhat wearing white-smocked technicians milled about the various assembly buildings located there. As he continued on toward the partially buried concrete-block structure housing the main control center, he had a brief view of the shuttle itself. Barely visible in the swirling fingers of fog, the shiny white orbiter was lit by a bank of powerful spotlights. Perched as it was on its boosters, the vehicle appeared ready to fly. A renewed sense of urgency prompted Richard’s actions, for he knew that he had wasted enough valuable time already.
The previous night had been one of the most frustrating evenings of his life. After leaving the Arguello dock site he had returned to his condo with hopes of immediately contacting Secretary of the Air Force Fitzpatrick. Subsequent calls to both the Pentagon and to the Secretary’s current Vandenberg quarters had gotten him nowhere. Apparently in the process of entertaining a group of Congressmen, who were also visiting the base, Fitzpatrick had been impossible to reach no matter what the problem involved. Richard had been asked to leave his name, number, and a brief message. The Secretary’s coldly efficient aide had then recommended that Richard contact Lieutenant Colonel Todd Lansford instead.
Realizing that he had nowhere else to turn, the Nose researcher had reluctantly done so.