A Sound of Freedom

by Walter Grant

  The old four story concrete launch control facility wasn’t perfect, but, from the top he had a commanding view of the entire area and it would certainly be cooler and more comfortable than sharing the shade of a creosote bush with ants and sand fleas for the rest of the day. However, there were disadvantages, the chaparral was sparse near the building and provided very little cover should the need to abandon the facility arise. Also, the bottom ten feet of the rusted stairway that wrapped around three sides had been severed and removed, conceivably to discourage adventuresome curiosity seekers. Without inside stairs, exiting during daylight hours without being spotted by anyone searching the area would be next to impossible. Still, the advantages outweighed the disadvantages, but, with so much at stake he couldn’t afford to overlook anything or make any mistakes.

  An old cable bundle, still securely attached with stand-off bolts every couple of feet, ran up the side of the building providing a somewhat less than easy means of reaching one of the second floor windows. The other levels were easily accessible by the stairs. When the facility was operational the cables had probably attached to antennas on the roof connecting them with various receivers and transmitters on the lower levels. All equipment had long been removed and the building was nothing more than a shell. The third floor with windows on all sides proved to be the best level for surveillance. Max wasted little time selecting a spot on the concrete floor to get some badly needed sleep. Lying on his back using the pack for a pillow, he took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and fell asleep.

  His dreams were in psychedelic hue. Faces floated in and out, never quite in focus, some smiling, some laughing, and some crying. Sometimes his own face, distorted and frightened, would float out of the veil of ever changing colors. Unidentifiable aromas drifted about. He would feel the pain as someone, unrecognizable through the color mist, stabbed him from behind. The laughing, crying, smiling faces would gather around to watch him stagger and fall while trying to catch a glimpse of his assailant.

  The faces would then close in around him, the sobbing and laughter growing louder each time he tried unsuccessfully to regain his feet. This scenario played over and over until the helicopter, swooping low over the building, jolted him from his fitful sleep.

  For a moment after awakening Max sat on the crumbling temple floor unconcerned, comforted by the sound of the rotating blades; only friendly choppers plied the skies over the jungles of South Vietnam. The second helicopter, hovering just outside the old launch facility, brought him back to the present.

  He watched the two aircraft work systematically sweeping back and forth across each designated sector before moving on to another. A glance at his watch told him the MX would lift-off in less than three hours, providing the countdown was still on schedule. Actually, the countdown was unimportant. His only concern for the moment was staying out of sight of the searching eyes inside the helicopters and remaining undetected until the Roach Coach arrived. Max was puzzled when the chopper that had earlier hovered beside the tower, where he lay hidden, touched down momentarily, near some old cypress trees, but dismissed it as unimportant.

  Once the Helicopters moved off toward the ocean and began working the coast line Max stood up stretching slowly performing a series of tai chi exercises. He was sore all over, his muscles ached, his joints were stiff, and pains shot all the way to his shoulder each time he opened or closed his left hand. The kid was right. He was getting old.

  It was seven forty, only twenty minutes before the Peacekeeper was scheduled to launch and Max was beginning to worry that maybe he was in the wrong place or that possibly there had been a last minute change of plans by Gilbird’s Group when he spotted a dust cloud rising from the dirt road paralleling the fenced in compound. The dust cloud continued moving toward the abandoned launch sites. Twilight was fading into dusk, it was the time of day when light was tricky and even with binoculars Max wasn’t able to identify the vehicle as the mobile canteen, but he had no doubt it was Linda Larkin. There were no lights of any kind on the vehicle not even headlights and the driver was forced to slow down upon reaching the abandoned launch sites to avoid the trees and bushes growing up through the crumbling streets connecting the rusted out gantries. Only then was Max able to make out the words, Running Chef. Max watched the Roach Coach as it passed within fifty feet and continued on for another half mile before stopping on a precipice overlooking the ocean.

  Max turned up the last bottle of water and drank until it was empty, leaving the bottles in the corner—he didn’t want clinking glass betraying his presence. Before donning his backpack he strapped on the little Walther just above his right hip near the small of his back. If the MX launched at eight o’clock he had less than ten minutes to reach the Roach Coach and disable the transmitter. He hoped Larkin was on schedule and the countdown had been held for those extra minutes.

  The moon was just clearing the Sierra Madre and hung big and full in a cloudless sky, lighting up everything it touched. Following the same route the Roach Coach had taken Max exercised minimum caution on the hazardous road in an effort to reach the mobile canteen before eight o’clock. Even with the bright moonlight he was still unable to see all the holes in the road and tripped twice, falling hard each time. And each time pain shot up his arm as he reached instinctively with his left hand to break the fall. He was unaware the stitches had ripped through the flesh, reopening the already infected wounds. Just over six minutes had elapsed since he climbed down from his hiding place, and now, he stood within thirty feet of Linda Larkin, listening to her bark instructions at a Chinese guy. Apparently they were having a problem starting the motor generator that powered all their equipment. From the near sound of panic in her voice Max was fairly confident she had, for whatever reason, arrived late and the launch was going down as scheduled at eight o’clock. Another guy was busy connecting cables to various antennas set up in different locations around the vehicle. A large section on the ocean side of the Roach Coach had been opened up to expose the dish antenna which would track the MX and listen to the Peacekeeper’s telemetry. The mobile canteen had been parked so the antenna would be looking down the Pacific Missile Range; the antenna was in the perfect position and would be ready to track the MX as soon as it was launched providing the Chinese guy could get the motor generator working.

  An omni directional whip with a ground reflector, sat on a tripod twenty feet from the dish. This antenna was most likely hooked to a battery-powered radio tuned to the countdown that was being broadcast directly from Launch Control. This would account for the voices coming from a speaker inside the vehicle. Max surmised the unidirectional antenna aimed in the direction of Lompoc, transmitted data picked up by the dish after it had been re-coded by the computer in the Roach Coach to another antenna at the Spic and Span warehouse.

  A similar antenna received the data back after it had been altered by the complex program in the mainframe computer in Gilbird’s office. The data would once again be processed by the micro-computer and match-up with the original authenticator codes received from the MX with the false information. Max figured the other unidirectional antenna, looking in the direction of Tranquilian Peak where air force antennas would track the Peacekeeper and relay telemetry data to Launch Control, would be used to transmit these bogus signals. Their 500,000-watt transmitter would easily override the small transmitter aboard the MX—the data exchange between the Roach Coach and Spic and Span would use multiplexing and a frequency shift so as not to interfere with or be detected by Launch Control.

  Their system obviously worked well, proven by the destruction of at least two Minuteman missiles, two Titans, and one Atlas missile. The system, although complicated in design, was simple in application. Signals were received and channeled through their equipment then transmitted to Launch Control exactly as they had been received until the moment of choice. At that time the computer in Gilbird’s office at the Spic and Span warehouse would alter the data to indicate a systems failure. Launch Control wou
ld then transmit a coded self-destruct signal requiring the missile to destroy itself. This had accounted for the previous missile failures. Only this time the missile would not destroy itself, the destruct signal would instruct the MX to switch to its secondary program, the program designed to guide it along the Southern California coast. The previous failures had only been practice. This was for real.

  It was easy to understand why they chose this spot for their mobile operation, to the north he could see the blinking lights outside the MX silo, to the southeast the lights of Lompoc were visible, and the missile range was entirely over the Pacific Ocean, west and southwest of this point. This was a perfect spot and because it was the perfect spot, Max guessed it to be their primary system while the setup at Evon Gilbird’s house was their secondary. If this was true, it would certainly account for Linda Larkin’s anxiety. The methods used by the Kremlin in dealing with failure weigh heavily on a KGB agent’s mind at all times, and gruesome scenes from either episodes witnessed, stories told by others, or created out of fear by their own mindset, flash across their subconsciousness as previews of what lies ahead, should they fail. He figured Linda Larkin’s imagination was in fast forward about now. Even if the backup system were to be needed and worked perfectly, failure to bring the primary system on line was not an option for her.

  Well, at the moment everything seemed to his advantage, he certainly didn’t foresee any problems taking out this operation with just two unsuspecting men and a woman about to go into panic mode. As he slipped the backpack from his shoulders and eased it to the ground Max became aware of blood dripping from the bandages on his left hand; reasoned unimportant, it was forgotten the same instant.

  Somewhere behind him a twig snapped. He couldn’t see anything and nothing moved. He accredited the sound to a deer, even thought he knew animals rarely step on a fallen branch, but there was no time to further analyze the cause of the disquieting sound. He put it out of his mind and moved quickly and quietly towards the mobile canteen.

  The motor generator fit snugly into a compartment on the side of the Roach Coach making it difficult for the man to work on the unit. Larkin stood behind the guy, holding a flashlight, shining its beam into the area where the man worked. She continually reminded him of his incompetence and hinted at the consequences should he fail.

  The guy double checking cable connections on the opposite side of the vehicle never saw the shadow moving silently but swiftly toward him. The non-reflective black clothing and grease paint made Max almost invisible, even in the bright moonlight, to all but the most observant. The man, satisfied the antennas were all hooked up and properly aligned, was unaware of Max standing only three feet away until he straightened up and turned toward the Roach Coach. It was too late, the last breath he would ever take rushed out through his lips with a soft hiss as a fist slammed into his solar plexus. A split second later a right hand shot upward with blinding speed and devastating force. The heel of an open palm caught his nose, driving bone and cartilage up into his brain. Max caught the dead man, as his knees began to sag, and without a sound eased him to the ground.

  Fifteen feet from Linda Larkin and the Chinese guy Max froze in his tracks, chills ran up his spine as his blood turned to ice. The warning sound of a huge rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike, only two feet from his left foot held his full attention. In these quiet surroundings the rattling sound was very loud and not only had his attention, but Linda Larkin’s as well. Max recovered from the shock of almost stepping on the fangs of death, at about the same time a third man, alerted by the rattlesnake’s warning, stepped from inside the vehicle holding a standard, military issue .45-caliber pistol pointed at the center of his chest. Max knew he had made a mistake in assuming no one was inside the vehicle. It really didn’t matter. Max had no illusions of being a serious challenge to the quick draw artist, but on a good day he could get his weapon out and put a bullet on target in less than half a second, when his life depended on it he was probably a little faster.

  The forty-five was a single action automatic requiring the man to either manually thumb back the hammer, assuming a round was already in the chamber, or work the action to cock the hammer and jack a round into the chamber. Either way, he would die with a bullet in his brain before he ever got off a shot. Max knew as soon as he moved, the rattlesnake would sink its fangs into his leg. He would have to deal with the snakebite later. Poised, ready for action, he filled his lungs with the fragrant night air and froze once again—the snapping twig was no longer a mystery, he also knew why the helicopter touched down behind the trees.

  The aroma of soft desert flowers drifted on the breeze. This would not have been unusual in April or May, but in the winter, even in California, wildflowers rarely bloom, especially wildflowers with a hint of musk. The same flowers and musk he had detected on the fantail of the Matanuska, but, was unable to identify until this very moment, a fragrance that permeated not only his bedroom, but his dreams as well. A fragrance shipped directly from Paris to the red-haired, green-eyed beauty standing somewhere behind him with a twenty-five Beretta Spitfire automatic aimed at his back. All hope and caring dashed, he wondered why fate was so cruel to send him someone he could love and to give him a reason for living just to turn it all so treacherously against him.

  He considered kicking the snake and letting nature take its course, but there was more at stake here than his life or his disappointments. He would put Sherry out of his mind and deal with it later, for the moment she was just another obstacle to the success of his mission. She surely couldn’t know he was aware of her presence. Just that much was an advantage. Maybe she could only hit paper targets on the police range and wasn’t prepared to deal with real live targets that shot back. If he could dive into the clump of manzanita about six feet in front of him and to his right before Sherry put a bullet in his back he could still at least wreck Linda Larkin’s plans and send the Soviet Union to the table without any new bargaining chips. A target moving left to right is more difficult to hit, for a right-hander, than one moving in the opposite direction—the same problem exists for a right-handed quarterback running left and throwing right. He would have to take out the guy with the forty-five at the same time he dove into the manzanita. Confident now, his thinking clear, ignoring the rattlesnake, he was set to dive head-first into the bushes when several things happened in rapid succession.

  The night lit-up bright as day, the motor generator roared to life and the man thumbed back the hammer on his pistol at the very moment a dark hole appeared just above the bridge of his nose. Max still hadn’t moved and the report from the Beretta had barely reached his ears when a second hole appeared just above the man’s left eye; he was dead even before he fell. The little twenty-five automatic barked a third time and the snake’s head disappeared.

  There was no time to think about what had just taken place as Linda Larkin with her wits still intact and intent on carrying out her mission jumped inside the mobile canteen. Max sprang after her, reaching the door just in time to see her swinging a Mac-eleven machine pistol in his direction. The little Walther whispered twice and she slumped to the floor. Outside he heard the Beretta speaking again. That, he surmised, took care of the Chinese guy. Max grabbed the machine pistol and emptied it into the transmitter and computer. He wasn’t about to take a chance some preset program would be set into motion by signals from the MX telemetry or by remote control from Spic and Span or some other location. First smoke and then flames erupted from the transmitter. Satisfied, Max turned and stepped outside just as the deafening sound of the rocket motor reached his ears.

  There she was, his red-haired, green-eyed, guardian angel, in camouflage and grease paint. He had a lot of questions. He guessed she had some questions of her own.

  HAVE A NICE DAY

  “The best laid schemes 0’ mice an’ men, gang aft agley, an, lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, for promised joy!,” so wrote Robert Burns, and so it had been for the KGB. Ambassador Harte ha
d not made his speech in front of the United Nations General Assembly. The ultra liberal, socialist aligned candidate had been soundly defeated. The National Aeronautics and Space Administration recovered from the loss of Challenger as the world watched the new shuttle Discovery deliver a payload into space and return safely with its crew two months before the maiden voyage of the Russian shuttle “Snowstorm.” Their complicated and carefully planed MX disaster had failed, and their data gathering apparatus in the United States had been badly damaged with many of their agents either dead or in custody and scores of others, exempt from prosecution through diplomatic immunity, had been deported persona non grata.

  AT the latest arms limitation talks the Communists’ demands and protests, of previous, meetings had turned into requests and cooperation. The Kremlin’s problems were not all international, however, at home Soviet citizens were demanding an end to one party rule with free elections, separatists were speaking out in the Baltics, the Berlin wall was coming down, and the hard line Communists were scrambling just to maintain control.

  Max believed he was partly responsible for the change in the way the Kremlin now operated both at home and abroad. Peter Deriabin, a former member of the KGB and the CPSU now living in the United States, once wrote, “Russia has a score to settle with Communism some day.”

  Max believed that day was close at hand, but he was afraid when the day arrived thousands of Soviet citizens would die, success would be measured by the cost to those willing to give their lives for the freedom of future generations.

  Max felt good about himself as he left the Mezhdunarodnaya Hotel on Krasnopresnenskaya. He knew his part, if any, had been very small, but he liked to think he had, just as he promised himself as an eighteen year old kid standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial gazing into the reflecting pool at the Washington Monument, been a determining factor in those changes. If so, all the pain and disappointments in his life had been well worth the sacrifice. Walking toward the Smolenskaja Metpo Station he looked across the Moskva River at the city he knew better than any city in the world, a city that served as his prison for eight long years. No, he wasn’t locked behind bars, he was as free as most Muscovites, but any attempt to leave the Soviet Union would have meant death or worse. He smiled, wondering on what page of the KGB most wanted list (death list) his name appeared or if perhaps they had bought the fake kidnapping of Ambassador Harte. His face crinkled with another broad grin as he thought about the number of Party members who would find it difficult to sleep tonight should they suddenly become aware Jack Johnson was back in Moscow. They wouldn’t be afraid of any personal havoc he might wreak, they would fear instead, should he be apprehended, what he would tell the inquisition and in which direction his finger might point. If they slept at all they wouldn’t dream of vacations at their dacha on the Black Sea, no indeed, their nightmares would be filled with the horrors of prison camps in Siberia.