This action barely neutralized the icy current of offshore air that struck her as she rounded the bend leading toward the trestle of the elevated railroad tracks. Constructed there to convey the train safely over the river bed, the wooden trestle had a walkway cut beneath it. Miriam followed the narrow path that led under the bridge and passed a series of sand dunes.
The wind died down, to be replaced by a strange, hushed stillness. In the distance rose the constant muted tones of crashing surf. Above her, still veiled by the fog, a lonely gull cried out. Since her travels would now turn southward, she decided to follow the Santa Ynez down to the sea itself. There the firmer sand would be easier to tread upon and allow her quicker progress.
The smell of the estuary was ripe with life as she followed a mussel-lined path down to the ocean. Only able to see a few inches before her, Miriam halted when she arrived at the surf line. A clear morning would have afforded her an excellent view of Vandenberg’s northern coastline at this spot. Situated there were the base’s Minutemen launch silos, where the Air Force trained its ICBM crews.
With the sound of the crashing surf all-prevalent, she turned in the opposite direction and began her way southward. The path she now followed was determined by the tide. Careful to keep out of the water whenever possible, she walked briskly down a beach littered with all sorts of flotsam and jetsam. Because the portion of beach immediately in front of her step was the only thing that she could see, she spotted an assortment of shells, rocks, and bits of coral. Interspersed between them were thick, green, bulbous strands of freshly deposited kelp. As was the case on most beaches, evidence of man was present also. Softdrink bottles and beer cans lay beside pieces of smashed Styrofoam and cut wooden planks of all sizes. Sharp, jagged slivers of rusted metal pointed upward out of the sand like awaiting snares. Keeping as far from them as possible, she settled into a steady, brisk pace.
The chill that had bothered her earlier was no longer noticeable. With the fresh supply of blood that pumped through her veins, Miriam was even beginning to feel a bit warm. To compensate for this, she unzipped her vest.
To properly monitor her progress so that she would be able to determine the right spot to turn inland, Miriam checked her watch. She decided that a hike of ten minutes should put her where she desired.
Otherwise, unable to spot a familiar landmark, she could find herself walking all the way down to Point Arguello.
The muted cry of a foghorn was audible far in the distance, and the archaeologist found her thoughts returning to the excavation they had been recently asked to relinquish. How very frustrating it was to again ponder their predicament, yet Miriam couldn’t help but be aware of the great potential the site at Tranquillon Ridge promised. After only a month’s work, it had already produced a variety of priceless treasures. Surely, they had yet to even sample the artifacts that lay beneath the sandy soil there. Perhaps if the next afternoon’s meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Lansford went well, they could return to the Ridge without further delay.
She had to admit that she was somewhat surprised when the note inviting her to the base headquarters had arrived the previous evening. Prior to that, Lansford had been completely unresponsive to her queries.
Of course, she understood now the reason they had been ordered out of the foothills overlooking Space Launch Complexes 5 and 6. They had come close enough to breathing the toxic fumes falling in the failed Titan’s wake as it was. There was no telling what type of debris had descended upon Tranquillon, which was less than a mile from the missile’s launch site.
What disturbed Miriam the most was the abrupt manner in which they had been originally ordered to leave the Ridge. At the very least, Lansford could have shared with her the reason for this hasty resettlement.
As it turned out, they had to learn of the Titan launch from the lips of a newscaster only minutes before the missile actually sped skyward.
Then there was the manner in which the lieutenant colonel had ignored her subsequent phone calls. She had responsibilities just as he did. At the very least he could have given her a mere minute of his precious time.
The previous day’s decision to begin work at the alternative dig site had done much to release some of the tensions that were beginning to build up at camp.
For a while there, she had even been seriously considering cancelling the rest of the summer’s work. After fighting for three long years to get funding for this project, it was not an easy decision to come by, yet what else could she do?
Joseph Solares had proven to be their unlikely savior. The good-natured Indian, who was a joy to work with, had come across the alternative location while thumbing through Baray’s journal. With the lieutenant colonel finally responding to her inquiries, perhaps Joseph’s last-minute discovery had saved her from a hasty decision that she could now be extremely sorry for. She was conscious that the permission to return to Tranquillon could be in her hands as soon as the next afternoon, and her mood lightened. Patience was a virtue she had largely ignored during her quick rise up the scholastic hierarchy. Perhaps she should be a little more aware of its merits. With this in mind, she put her back into her stride and, after checking her watch, proceeded south down the beach for another three minutes.
The first evidence that the fog was beginning to lift came when she looked to her left and viewed a clear section of beach that had previously been veiled. By the time she reached the end of her planned ten minute hike, the sun was even visible overhead.
Though it was still substantially masked, enough direct rays were penetrating to burn off a good amount of the mist that had formed inland. Because of this new clarity, she was able to view a wide patch of human tracks leading from the water line to the distant dunes. Since this line crossed the beach approximately an eighth of a mile beyond her present location, she had yet to overshoot her mark. Proud of her directional skills, Miriam chartered her own course to the dunes.
As she left the firm wet sand of the tide line, her progress was significantly slowed. The soft sand she was now crossing shifted beneath her every step and she soon felt its effects on her ankles and calves.
Regardless of this new obstacle, she pushed herself eastward with a renewed determination. A wide band of sweat had gathered on her forehead as she reached the first of the dunes and began climbing over it.
From the top of the rolling, twelve-foot-high ridge of sand, Miriam was afforded an excellent view of the surrounding terrain. The fog had completely lifted, to reveal a clear blue sky. Checking the progression of the tracks that she had been following, she saw that they crossed over a succession of lower dunes. There the sandy ground was covered with a variety of desertlike shrubs. The predominant plant was a prickly type of miniature cactus. Careful to remain clear of its razor-sharp thorns, Miriam picked her way eastward, towards the railroad tracks that lay another half mile inland.
The ground was hilly, the sand giving way to a coarse, rocky soil. After passing over a series of ever steepening ravines, Miriam spotted a familiar-looking canyon. Cut from the dry ground, this narrow valley was shaped by two precipitous walls over thirty feet high. She couldn’t help but grin upon spotting her ragtag crew, busily working at the canyon’s base. So busy were their efforts that they didn’t even realize her presence. Their backs were to her, their attentions focused on a low ledge of sandstone, as she approached them.
Joseph Solares was the bare-chested figure that they were gathered around. His muscular torso was sweat-stained, his long dark hair tied back with his customary red bandana. In the process of lecturing to his spellbound audience, Joseph proved to be the one who first set eyes on the newcomer.
“Hey, Boss, welcome to Sun City. You won’t believe what we’ve been excavating all morning.”
Nodding toward the quick succession of smiling faces that soon greeted her, Miriam made her way to the ledge and focused her line of sight downward.
There, embedded in the arid soil, was the outline of a narrow, elongated, nine-foot
-long vessel. Having only seen such a primitive canoe in a museum before, she gasped.
“Is that a tomolof” “The very same,” replied Joseph proudly.
“Mr. Whitten chanced upon it five minutes after we arrived here.”
“Does this mean that I get to skip finals?” jested the class clown, who arrogantly puffed out his chest.
“Not while I’m teaching this class,” countered Miriam, as she bent down to examine their find more closely.
Kneeling beside her, Joseph chipped away a section of blackish rock that lay between the bleached remnants of the canoe and the surrounding soil.
“My preliminary guess is that the vessel was somehow preserved by a pocket of asphaltum. It just has to be over five hundred years old. Brother, did Robert Baray hit this site right on the spot!”
“I’ll say,” observed Miriam, who ran her fingers cautiously over the canoe’s outline.
“What are the chances of exhuming it intact?”
Joseph grinned.
“It could take a little effort, Boss, but did you expect any less from the finest crew of bone-pickers this side of the Colorado. We’ll get this sucker out in one piece okay, although I doubt that she’ll be very seaworthy afterwards.”
Meeting this comment with a facetious scowl, Miriam shook her head.
“Then get on with it, Mr. Solares. You never know how much longer we’ll have to work here.”
Issuing a mock salute, Joseph began explaining just how he thought the excavation should go, just as an excited voice came from up above.
“Hey, you guys, take a look at this!”
Angling his line of sight upward, Joseph spotted a tall beanpole of a figure standing on the upper wall of the canyon.
“What in the hell has Thompson spotted now? I only sent him up there to scout for arrowheads.”
“I’ll go check it out, Joseph,” volunteered Miriam.
“You’re doing such an excellent job with this tomolo that I’ll only get in the way here.”
Joseph shrugged his shoulders.
“Be my guest, Boss. Only be careful on the way up. It’s rather steep. And by the way, if Thompson’s pulling our legs again, send him down here so that I can personally fill that creep’s mouth with sand.”
Not bothering to respond to this, Miriam stood and, after slipping off her vest, rolled up the sleeves of her cotton T-shirt and ambled over to the path that led upward. Five minutes later, she arrived at the canyon’s summit, her forehead soaked and her lungs wheezing for breath. Not giving herself any time to recover, she immediately approached the lanky figure of sophomore Mick Thompson, who stood on the ledge, his gaze focused westward.
“What have you got, Mr. Thompson?” asked Miriam between gasps of air.
Pointing toward the Pacific, clearly visible beyond, the student stuttered, “You can still see it about a half mile out there. I’ve never seen anything like it before!”
Following the direction of his forefinger, Miriam looked out to the surging ocean. The first thing that she was aware of was the fact that the fog had completely dissipated. Miraculously, not even a hint of the thick mist remained. As she looked out past the pounding breakers, it took her almost thirty seconds to finally spot the object that had caught the youngster’s attention.
Over two hundred feet long from its rounded bow to its tapered stern, the sleek black submarine cut a frothing line through the relatively calm blue seas.
Fluttering proudly from its protruding sail was an American flag. Immediately behind the conning tower, an odd-shaped object sat strapped to the vessel’s backside. Appearing as though it could be either a large bomb or even a mini-sub, it was like nothing she had ever seen before. No stranger to submarines, since her own father had been a twenty-eight-year underwater veteran, Miriam watched the vessel continue up the coastline.
It was only when it passed directly before them that she sighted the trio of tiny figures that stood on the sub’s conning tower. Wondering where in the world they were bound for, she looked out with her curiosity piqued as the submarine turned to the west and, ever so slowly, began descending into the ocean’s black depths.
“We’re at sixty-five feet, Mr. Willingham.”
Taking in this information from Chief Brawnly, the Diving Officer, the Razorback’s current Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Scott Willingham, efficiently approached the vessel’s periscope station.
“Secure from the dive. All ahead one-third on course two-six-zero.
Up scope. Seaman Powers, how’s she handling?”
From his seated position to Willingham’s left, the Razorback’s bow planes man responded.
“She’s a bit sluggish with that load on our back, but nothing that we can’t handle, sir.”
Expecting just as much, the OOD hunched over and pressed his forehead into the periscope’s rubber viewing coupling. The sun was bright, the sky blue, as he grasped the scope’s two handles and slowly circled. Other than an occasional slap of water, the viewing lens was clear of any surface traffic. While he continued his careful scan of the horizon, he was barely aware of the gathering taking place behind him at the control room’s navigation station. Huddled around a bathymetric chart of the waters off of Point Arguello were the Captain, the XO, and the Navigator.
Comprised of a variety of squiggly lines detailed in various shades of blue, this chart showed a fairly accurate description of the ocean’s depth.
Their present course was drawn in pencil. Beginning at the dock facility on the Point’s southern tip, they were heading in a straight line toward the west.
Currently they were six and a half nautical miles off the coastline, with over 300 feet of water between their hull and the seafloor. From this point westward, the Pacific’s depth increased rather rapidly, to a sounding of over 10,000 feet in nearby Arguello Canyon.
“Exactly where will we be dropping off the Marlin?”
queried the XO, who shifted his ever present corncob pipe into the corner of his mouth.
Exeter made a small X mark at the extreme eastern tip of submerged Arguello Canyon.
“This position should serve us perfectly. The ocean floor is some two thousand feet deep here. Since it’s rather doubtful that the debris field extends further westward, the crew of the Marlin plans to begin their initial sonar scan at these coordinates. If the bottom looks clear, they’ll gradually work their way eastward. This will allow them to doublecheck our initial scan.”
“When will they begin the job of actually conveying the debris topside?” asked Lieutenant McClure.
Exeter was quick to answer.
“That depends on Will Pierce. Though his primary task is to determine the field’s exact perimeters, he’s got the green light to begin the recovery of any debris fragments which catch his eye.”
“Scuttlebutt has it that commander Pierce is a strange one,” observed the XO nonchalantly.
“The Marlin’s senior chief was telling me just last night that the commander even insists on personally doing minor maintenance on the DSRV. He treats it like it was a part of him.”
“We can all sleep easier tonight with that in mind,” added Exeter, who caught the glances of his two senior officers.
“I’ll be the first to admit that Will Pierce is a unique officer all right. We worked together during a joint exercise several years ago, and even then his manner of command was solely his own.
Half the time his khakis had more grease on them than those of our own engineers. Though there’s certainly nothing wrong with an officer rolling his sleeves up and getting down to nuts and bolts, perhaps Pierce does take such things to an extreme.
Some even whisper that this particular eccentricity comes to haunt him at promotion time, yet who’s to say? The one thing that the Navy can be sure of is that, when duty calls. Will Pierce and the Marlin will be there to do the job. Perhaps he might not do it with all the finesse of an Academy graduate, but the results will be there, and that’s the bottom line.”
Exeter’s efficient movements were all business as he pivoted from the navigation table and crossed the control room’s width. Upon passing the periscope well, he noticed that the Razorback’s current OOD was anxiously hunched over the scope, in the process of scanning the surrounding waters. Well aware of Lieutenant Willingham’s continued diligence, he knew it wouldn’t be long until the young officer had a command of his own. Ever mindful of his own spirited efforts during his first years of duty, Exeter silently admired the youngster’s gusto while turning down the corridor that lay to his right. As he passed the stairway that led down to the sub’s second level, his thoughts were already returning to the pile of correspondence that waited for him beyond the next hatchway.
Meanwhile, downstairs in the Razorback’s galley, Seaman First Class Lefty Jackman was busy wolfing down his second stack of buttermilk pancakes and his third helping of sausage of the morning. Seated in the booth opposite him was Seaman Second Class Seth Burke, who was still working on his first stack. Both sonar technicians were in the process of filling their stomachs for the long duty shift that would soon be theirs.
Oblivious to the hushed chatter of the sailors who were seated in the booths around him. Lefty was arguing his point while waving a piece of link sausage in the air.
“I tell you, Tex, that Russian sub is following us.”
Seaman Burke answered skeptically, his words flavored by a West Texas drawl.
“Ah, c’mon, pawdner, there’s no way the Russkies would waste one of their nukes following this ole rust-bucket. It’s got to be a coincidence.”
Flight of the Condor Page 17