A Sound of Freedom

by Walter Grant

  In the fifties, the air force had developed a nuclear-tipped air-to-air missile that utilized a B-52 for a launch platform. The two-stage Thunderbolt used the same target-seeking radar as the land-based Bomarc—the target seeking-system had never failed during the testing phase. Fortunately it never became necessary to put either missile to the ultimate test. The two missiles were designed to knock out an entire squadron of enemy bombers approaching the United States—prior to the ICBM, a nuclear attack by long-range bombers had been the number one threat. The Thunderbolt was designed by the air force as part of the Big Stick policy and was the first line of defense—the ground-to-air Bomarc would pick off any bombers that managed to avoid the Thunderbolt.

  The ground-based Bomarc fell victim to an early arms reduction treaty and all were destroyed. However, the Bomarc’s little brother, the air-to-air Thunderbolt, was overlooked by the arms reduction committee and mothballed as the Big Stick was phased out.

  In the early days at Cape Canaveral when we were playing catch-up with the Soviets in the space race, NASA became concerned that a complete systems failure might result in one of the huge rockets crashing into a highly populated area, and asked the air force to dust off the Thunderbolt and use it to back up the self-destruct system.

  After successfully putting a man in orbit, NASA decided they no longer needed the Thunderbolt for a backup. However, the air force was developing an intercontinental ballistic missile and thought it made good sense to have a backup in case the onboard destruct system failed. Use of the B-52 with two air-to-air Thunderbolts began at Vandenberg when the first Titan was launched from an underground silo in May 1961.

  It seemed obvious that KGB operatives were planning, somehow, to take control of the MX once it launched. This part of their plan he couldn’t figure out.

  To take control of the Peacekeeper would require a transmitter not only more powerful, but with a different wavelength from the one he had seen in Evone Gilbird’s house. It seemed impossible. Even if they could take control, a Thunderbolt could still easily destroy the MX before it reached Los Angeles. There had to be something very simple he was overlooking. The KGB would not plan a project this complicated and daring without having every minute detail carefully worked out. Well, he wasn’t going to take any chances of going it alone, there was too much at stake. He was in over his head and he knew it; he needed help.

  The telephone rang only once before the automatic transfer tones were heard in the receiver and the phone rang a second time.

  “Langley.”

  Henri was no doubt in a high-level meeting and all calls on his private line were being routed to the Watch Commander’s office.

  “I’d like to speak with Henri Tosi, please.”

  The man at the other end asked for an authenticator. When Max could not supply the proper codes, the man suggested he call back on the Red (regular) Line.

  “It’s urgent I speak with him immediately.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir, Mr. Tosi cannot be disturbed, may I take a message?”

  “I’ll call back in one hour. Please convey to Mr. Tosi it is imperative I speak with him.”

  “Yes sir, may I say who is calling?”

  “Tell him his old friend J.J. just landed.”

  Max found it ironic, but perhaps proper, that without thinking he would leave a message similar to the one left for the President when it was learned Enrico Ferrmi had been successful in splitting the atom—the message had read, “The Italian navigator has landed.”

  Max lifted one end of a long skinny crate onto the tailgate of his truck then pushed it into the bed as far as it would go, about four feet stuck out past the tailgate. Returning to his bedroom he selected several items, carefully enclosing them in plastic bags, and placed them in his backpack, when finished, he carried the backpack and a canvas bag to the garage, and placed them on the passenger seat. Returning to the bedroom again, he selected a pair of black cotton sweat pants, a black cotton turtleneck sweater, heavy black cotton socks, and black running shoes, laying them all out neatly on his bed.

  Finished with his equipment, he checked his watch, walked to the kitchen, turned on the television, poured himself another cup of coffee, and tossed another frozen pizza in the oven. Lately he’d seemed cursed with an insatiable appetite, his nerves were on edge, and a feeling of helplessness randomly invaded his consciousness. It was a new experience and he didn’t like its implications. He wondered if these feelings were starting to cloud his thinking, as he was now beginning to fear the Commies just might succeed.

  The eleven o’clock news began with on sight video of a man on a stretcher being loaded into a coroner’s wagon, as a woman explained how a local resident had spotted the body beside the highway. Authorities were presently withholding the name of the dead man, however, the reporter had learned from the sheriff handling the investigation, the man had died from gunshot wounds to the head. The cameraman panned the area while the reporter explained, according to the sheriff, there were no witnesses, although evidence indicated a car had left the scene at high speed. The sheriff declined to speculate as to whether or not this apparent homicide was in anyway connected to the other four mysterious deaths of the last few days. Switching back to the studio, the anchorman reported, after running a pre-recorded interview with an Air Force spokesman, the countdown to the first launch of an MX Peacekeeper missile was going perfectly, with launch still scheduled for eight o’clock Saturday night, less than twenty-four hours away. When the oven timer sounded he shut off the TV and carried his pizza to the patio.

  Max sat breathing in the fresh salt air, wondering if these were to be his last moments in this serene spot, bathed in moonlight above the Pacific Ocean. Thoughts and images drifted through his consciousness mingling with the sound of surf below. He closed his eyes and found himself on his big Bonzai board paddling hard to catch a giant wave roaring down on him like a freight train. His take-off was clean, he trimmed his board and shot the curl riding just ahead of the breaking white water. As the ride took him closer to Trestle Beach he saw a red-haired, green-eyed, bikini-clad girl sitting in the sand watching him. Startled, he wiped out. She had never been in his quiet place before. He opened his eyes and for one brief moment he wanted to find Sherry and flee to some remote island and leave the rest of the world to deal with the KGB. He’d already sacrificed almost half his life trying to prevent the Communists from taking over the world and nobody cared. Americans are told every day,

  “The Communists mean us no harm.” If they would only take a look at events of the last fifty years, and think about the way communism has changed the world, they would easily see the untruths in such illogical statements. But, thinking seems to be too much trouble for most people, they prefer to have radicals, liberal politicians, and the media do it for them. Well, to hell with them, to hell with them all, it was time they woke-up and started thinking for themselves, the Albanians, Ukrainians, Estonians, Latvians, Lithuanians, Poles, Czechs, Hungarians, Laotians, Kurds, and Vietnamese to name a few, could tell how the Communists meant them no harm. How many times has it been said, those who fail to learn from history are doomed to the same mistakes? Well, to hell with them, to hell with them all, it was time they woke up and learned how to think for themselves. Leaning back in his chair and clearing his mind, all frustrations vented, he took control of his emotions. If the KGB wasn’t stopped, the death and destruction they were about to wreak would be passed off on the public as an accident, just as the Kremlin planned. All the other missile failures had only been a rehearsal; this time it was the real thing and the curtain was about to go up. Someone had to stop them and he was elected, honor and conscience gave him no choice; the free world was at stake.

  Still unable to reach Henri, he called Sherry. Her answering machine played the same message he’d heard a dozen times in the last couple of days. The phone at his own apartment went unanswered. He had to trust someone, so with mixed emotions he dialed Sherry’s number again. When the beep s
ounded he left Henri’s telephone number with instructions to call and give him a simple message; the message would have no meaning to anyone other than Henri Tosi. When he added, “I love you,” the words came easier this time.

  WILDFLOWERS

  Max eased the crate off the back of his truck and let it fall to the ground, pulled the Chevy forward a few feet and killed the ignition. The crate was fairly well hidden in the undergrowth, lush along this section of the Santa Ynez River, nevertheless, after placing his backpack and the canvas bag beside the crate, he cut some branches, and tossed them on its top until everything was completely hidden. There was very little chance the crate would be discovered, especially in the dark, but, why take the chance when it took only a few extra minutes to cut a few branches and camouflage the crate.

  This accomplished, he returned to the truck, and leaving the headlights off, drove back along the railroad tracks until he reached Surf Road where it entered the eucalyptus grove. Off road driving appeared to be no problem for the four-wheel drive, his truck handled the terrain easily. With no other vehicles in sight, he switched on the lights and drove back to his house.

  He parked the truck inside the garage and closed the door. He tried unsuccessfully to reach Henry one last time before resetting his security devices, and leaving by the front door.

  The bright moonlight made running easy, still, he slowed and ran more cautiously after seeing a red diamond back rattle snake slither off the road into the chaparral. He intersected the railroad tracks, slowed to a walk and kept to the center between the rails until he reached the river then stepped off the railroad bed and followed his tire tracks back to the camouflaged crate.

  Max removed the branches, then lifted the top off the crate and removed its contents. He assembled the metal tubes that supported the sail and attached the triangular-shaped rigging to the board. He smiled as he remembered the shop pro, a kid of about fifteen who asked if he’d ever been on a sailboard. When the answer was negative the kid suggested that perhaps he was a bit too old to take up the sport. When Max remarked that it probably wasn’t much different than surfing the kid expressed doubts about his ability to ride a wave, after all the years Max had a few doubts of his own. When he discovered Max had ridden longboards before he was born, the kid became more affable and eagerly suggested the type of equipment best suited for what Max had in mind. They discussed board types and sizes, rigging, sails, harnesses, pads, masts, and lots of other stuff, most of which Max didn’t know existed. After showing Max how to assemble everything the kid volunteered a few do’s and don’ts as well as some how-to’s and how-not-to’s.

  With everything assembled and ready to go Max pulled a neoprene dry suit from the canvas bag, removed his running shoes, put them in a plastic bag and arranged the shoes inside his backpack before slipping the dry suit on over his clothes. With the dry suit zipped up, and the Velcro fasteners secured at the neck he began perspiring, although the temperature had dropped considerately since sunset.

  At the river’s edge he checked the straps on his pack one last time before easing into the water with his sailboard. The offshore Santa Ana winds were light but steady. He climbed onto the board and found it a little difficult to balance with the fifty pound backpack. Pulling the mast up as the kid had instructed, he shifted positions, selecting the correct slalom pads, getting his feet well under the straps as the wind filled the sail. He leaned back to counterbalance the pressure against the sail and found himself moving smoothly across the small lagoon where the river widened before emptying into the ocean.

  After making a couple of trips back and forth across the inlet he felt competent and headed out towards the open ocean. He wiped out on the first breaker. The sensation was that of walking out of the sunshine on a hundred degree afternoon into an air conditioned room as the perspiration inside the neoprene suit condensed.

  He found it a little more difficult to right the board and pull up the mast in the rough water, but, once accomplished he made it past the breakwater and found the going much easier. An offshore breeze required him to keep his back to the shoreline and, even with the full moon, spotting landmarks required a great deal of concentration. The view from his sailboard was quite different from the one he’d had from Carlton’s airplane. As the sound of crashing surf grew louder he knew he was nearing Purisima Point and sailed further out to sea, staying clear of the jagged rocks along this part of the coast. At last the sound of pounding surf was behind him and growing fainter with each passing second. Although surfing required good arm strength to paddle out and catch a wave and strong legs to keep your balance and maneuver the board as it slipped down the face of the wave, you always had the opportunity to lie on your board and rest while waiting for the next wave. If after a few rides you were extra tired you could always be more selective, passing over all but the really good waves. He found the sailboard a lot more demanding, pounding his legs continuously while the wind tried to wrench the sail from his grasp. He wasn’t sure how many miles he had sailed or how much time had passed, but, his arms and legs were beginning to turn to jelly, and what had started as soft throbbing pains in his lacerated left hand, brought on by the heavy grip required to keep the sail upright were now shooting pains reaching all the way to his shoulder, he didn’t know how much further he could go before resting.

  He was relieved when a narrow strip of sand appeared along the shore line. As the strip of sand grew wider and several red lights, marking missile silos finally appeared faintly on the hillside he knew he was, at last, nearing his destination. This was the landmark he was seeking, Missileman Beach.

  The wind had been falling off since he rounded Purisima Point and was barely keeping his board moving. His strength was waning as well. Turning into the wind he began tacking toward the beach, but was unable to maintain control of the board and was once again reminded not only of the necessity of the dry suit, but, of its comfort, as well, as the cold dark ocean closed over his head. The kid had certainly done him a favor by insisting on the dry suit. The water temperature along the California coast in winter varies a couple of degrees either side of sixty, without the suit he could have died of hypothermia between the Santa Ynez lagoon and Missileman Beach.

  His arms were so weak he could barely hold on to the rigging in order to stay afloat. He finally managed to crawl onto the board letting the wave action carry him toward the shore. When the board nudged the sand he slipped back into the water and dragged the board a few feet onto the beach and sank to his knees. Maybe the kid was right, perhaps he was too old for this sport.

  Slipping the backpack from his shoulders and using it for a pillow, he lay on his back listening to the waves roll ocean grinders back and forth amongst the pebbles along the waters edge, turning them slowly but surely into sand. His strength returning, he removed a bottle of Gatorade from his pack and drank leisurely. Several minutes passed before he sat up, returned the empty bottle to his backpack, and began stripping off the neoprene suit. He had been well protected in the cold water; still, by the time he reached the beach a chill had penetrated the suit. While lying on the beach recovering his strength the neoprene suit was cozy at first, but heat continued building until he had become uncomfortably warm. When he peeled-off the dry suit the moisture in his perspiration soaked clothing, exposed to the warm dry air, evaporated rapidly, functioning as an air conditioner and felt cool against his skin. Checking his watch he discovered to his surprise over two hours had passed since he climbed onto the sailboard at the mouth of the Santa Inez River. There was no more time for resting; he still had fourteen or fifteen miles to cover before dawn, and after that, a lot of unknowns.

  He moved the sail board into the dunes, placed his neoprene suit underneath and camouflaged everything as best he could. Sitting on a driftwood log he brushed the sand from his feet and slipped on a fresh pair of socks from one of the plastic bags in his backpack before pulling on and lacing-up his running shoes. Max surveyed the area one last time before adjusting t
he shoulder straps on his backpack, and heading north towards a point about a half mile further up the beach where the sand ended and rugged cliffs once again dominated the coastline. When the sound of pounding surf reached his ears and he could see the foam and flying spray, glistening white in the moonlight as breakers crashed against the rocky cliffs, Max turned away from the ocean and walked into the dunes.

  The photographs he had taken on the flight back from San Diego with Greg Carlton showed a parking lot just above the spot where the cliffs began climbing away from the dunes, a parking lot probably for use by air force personnel wanting to do a bit of beachcombing, swimming, sunbathing, or whatever one cares to do on a California beach.

  Max found the parking lot without much difficulty. From there he cautiously made his way along an unpaved road, full of potholes, for a couple of hundred yards until it connected with a road that led inland to Vandenberg’s center of operations. Fully recovered from his initiation to sailboarding he set an easy gait for himself and ran effortlessly on the smooth blacktop that paralleled the beach for a short distance before curving away and ascending onto a long broad mesa. The climb required an extra effort to maintain the pace he had set for himself, but, once on top he again ran with long, easy strides that ate up a mile about every eight minutes. The moon, although low on the western horizon, still lit up the country side providing excellent visibility.