THE BRUTUS LIE

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Find a newspaper, then eat.

  Mabel's Diner was next to the Gig and Galley. The windows were streaked, the vinyl booths were greasy, fly specks adorned bare light bulbs. The bacon, eggs, toast, orange juice, and coffee were excellent, his first solid meal in days.

  When he opened the L.A. Times there was nothing. No screaming headlines. He quickly scanned parts one and two. Zilch. He sat back. They hadn't reported it. Why? He checked the front page again. It was the final edition, something should have been there.

  Lofton's stomach knotted and what remained of his enjoyable breakfast froze as it dawned on him why Brutus hadn't made the Times. Renkin had hushed it. The carillon above Avalon struck eight but Lofton didn't hear it.

  He left the diner, heading for the pier, staring unseeing at the bay. A Sunday crowd, many in swimsuits, babbled about him.

  Renkin. Only last Wednesday evening he had actually admired the guy. He had been glad to see him, almost, when he'd looked up from his computer keyboard to see Renkin rocking on his heels in the doorway to Lofton's office. Renkin had just flown in from Washington and was in his usual getup: brown herringbone suit, gray bow tie and patent leather loafers, shiny, as if he'd just had them polished. Except for his bald sun‑spotted head and gray flecks in his thin moustache, he could have passed for for­ty‑one instead of the sixty he was.

  Lofton had checked his cursor, paused the program, then turned in his chair. "There're just a couple of things, Lofton..." Renkin was saying.

  "Shoot." Lofton sat waiting and watched light bounce off Renkin's glasses.

  "I'd like to see the most accurate updates on Thatcher's SDV launch coordinates. Also, the council is demanding a review on the full production X-3 feasibility study by Tuesday, along with more information on its payload compatibility analysis."

  Lofton groaned under his breath. He would miss Kirby's party. Not that it was all that important but....

  "I had been planning to leave for a party. But O.K.. That'll take a while. We can't figure it out--I checked today. Whole blocks of data are missing from those programs which is really strange since the equipment is already aboard Brutus and should be available now. And the velocity prediction table is screwed up. We can't--"

  "--What's missing?"

  "Weight distribution and trim forecasts for the SDV post launch phase. We do have the prelaunch stuff, but then there's some minor things, ah, like through‑hull pressure toleran­ces for the umbilical system, O‑ring com­patibi­lity--let's see--temperature and corrosion predictions, lubrica­tion routines--"

  Renkin walked in. "I think we borrowed some, if not all of that, Brad. That's one reason I flew in today; to combine what we have and centralize the database here in San Diego with you."

  "OK, when do I see it?" Lofton leaned back in his chair, puzzled, then rubbed his eyes. His promotion to director of the X-3 program had taken its toll. He'd been working twelve to fourteen hours a day, seven days a week, and over the past two weeks during Brutus's first mission, he'd worked even harder. Last night he hadn't gone to sleep. Brutus had returned at three in the morning, fifteen hours ago; no fanfare, no grinning faces, no thumbs up. Thatcher had simply popped the hatch, climbed out, and nodded to the open‑mouthed maintenance team; then he went upstairs, ate two Big Macs and fell asleep on a cot. He was still asleep now as far as Lofton knew. Everybody else had gone home dead tired after inspecting and preparing Brutus for the next mission, which was supposed to be soon. Lofton had had to remain for Renkin's surprise visit, otherwise Kirby's party would have been a good break from what was becoming a very demanding job.

  Renkin turned and called down the hall, "Carrington! Could I have my briefcase, please?" He waited.

  Carrington appeared with Renkin's thick cordovan leather attache' case. His dark gray suit and wing-tipped shoes complement­ed a six foot four inch, 220 pound frame of thirty‑six years. Carrington was constantly at Renkin's side, serving him, seeing that he kept to his daily workout routine. He handed the attache' case to Renkin, then eyed Lofton. "How you doing, Brad?"

  "Fine, Ted." Lofton had given a tired grin to the blond, thin‑lipped man. "How's the spook biz?" They'd crossed paths once or twice when Carrington was in the CIA and Lofton was a SEAL.

  "It's great, Brad, you should have stayed in." Carrington looked at Renkin, who nodded toward Lofton's desk. He set the briefcase down, dialed the combinations, unsnapped the locks and stepped back.

  Renkin opened the briefcase, "Right, Car­rington. You know, there's a fish place around the corner I saw as we drove in. Could you run over and pick up some take‑out dinners for us? Orange Roughy, if they have it."

  "Yes, sir."

  Renkin looked at Lofton, "You, too, Brad?"

  Lofton shook his head.

  Carrington paused for a moment, then said, "Back in a jiffy." He walked out.

  Renkin reached into his briefcase. "Here's the disk pack, which should have most of your data. But I understand you have to integrate it with the actual mission data from the vehicle itself."

  "That's right. And we haven't pulled any of the disks out of Brutus yet, on your orders."

  "Didn't Thatcher bring anything out?"

  "I don't think so. He just climbed out. Looked like he hadn't slept for days. I asked him if he was OK. He just stared at me and said, 'tired,' then went upstairs to the cot in the lounge."

  Renkin turned and examined Lofton's chalkboard. Finally he said, "A violation of regulations."

  "Pardon?"

  "I said Lieutenant Commander Thatcher has violated regula­tions. I'll have to speak to his commanding officer."

  "Felix, the guy was trashed. He looked like he'd been dragged through a knothole. Hell, he's still asleep upstairs in his poopie‑ suit. He probably still has his keys on him."

  Renkin tapped his palm with his fist. "A definite breach of security. He should have put the keys in the safe here in your office before anything else." He looked at Lofton, who shook his head. Renkin continued slowly, "And you have a duplicate set, don't you?"

  Lofton nodded. He was well aware of Renkin and his moods. The man was exacting, everything according to procedure, the book. He could feel it coming.

  "--why didn't you--"

  "--Look, Felix." Lofton stood up. He was tired, he'd had enough of this crap. He should have left an hour ago, but he had volun­teered to stay when Renkin's secretary called from Washington and said the director of congressional liaison for the National Security Council was airborne and due at 5:45, local time. "Thatcher's your man. I have no control over what he does. My team and I are only responsible for turning Brutus around and getting him ready for your next operation. That's all we civilians are getting paid for, and what you or Thatcher or the NSC does with Brutus is none of our concern."

  Renkin held the stare; his glasses shot sparks about Lofton's small office. "I see, Mr. Lofton. Well, here is what we're going to do. Get your keys and we'll go to Brutus right now and retrieve the file. Then I'll have a word with Lieutenant Commander Thatcher after his beauty rest. He's been asleep for--how long? Twelve or thirteen hours? Let's go, please."

  Lofton blinked, then turned to his safe, dialed the combina­tion and grabbed a set of keys; one a standard notched type, the other a magnetic card. He closed the safe and looked up, "OK, after you."

  They walked down the hall of the fifty year old, three story clapboard building. It was a typical pre‑World War II government issue, most recently a tuna cannery until the NSC took it over. Their footsteps clicked on linoleum hallways. Lofton took the lead down a flight of stairs, through an extensive machine shop toward a thick double doorway.

  Renkin sniffed, "This place smells oily. You sure that there aren't any unnecessary fire hazards?"

  Lofton unlocked the right door and shoved it aside. It rattled on large overhead rollers. "JP‑5. Some of it spilled when we started refueling, so we had to stop. The fuel truck's pump malfunc­tioned. It'll be fixed tomorrow."

  He stood and
let Renkin pass. Then he followed him into the large, dark chamber. Water dripped, echoed. Waves lapped among the evening sounds of San Diego Harbor outside, the chug of a tour boat, a jet took off from nearby Lindbergh Field. And they felt, rather than saw, the presence of something occupying the darkness immediately before them.

  "Lights," ordered Renkin as he walked into the gloom, his hands behind his back.

  "Be careful, don't fall in." Lofton fumbled for the wall panel.

  Renkin stopped abruptly. "Why don't you have anyone here? There should be a twenty‑four-hour guard."

  "Doesn't seem necessary, Felix. With all of your security people outside, why have 'em in here? Besides, you said the fewer eyes, the better. Here." He found a bank of large switches. The chamber lit up in a series of loud clicks as Lofton flipped the toggles. Then he stepped alongside Renkin as the assistant director examined his charge.

  "The X-3," murmured Renkin, looking up at the bow. The long, dull black shape hung suspended over water from two large slings. Renkin reached up and touched Brutus's blunt nose. "Have you finished refueling?"

  "Just about; sixty one bladders, over sixty-one hundred gallons of 70 percent hydrogen peroxide. That's what took so much time today. Once the JP‑5 is aboard tomorrow he'll be almost ready to go again."

  Renkin nodded, then turned to Lofton, "Brad, are you happy with this assign­ment?"

  Lofton twitched at the change of pace. "It's been interesting duty, Felix, but basically I was finished six months ago when we launched Brutus. Now it's a no‑brainer for me. Clean the bilges; run the power plant; fill 'em up with H2 O2 and JP‑5; check the charcoal filters; make sure the carbon monoxide monitor is working. No, I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but my career is at stake. I should be working on designing attack submarines. The SSN-21 program is going full bore now and I'm missing out on the action. And with the defense cuts, it's about the only program where I can get ahead."

  Renkin looked down, then, "Yes, I don't mean to be ungrateful either. You're the best, especially with your SEAL background. That's why I asked for you. Tell you what, let me talk to Thatcher and Captain Summers; we'll discuss a replacement and see if we can spring you loose in the next few months."

  Lofton started to reply when Renkin did it again, "Tell me, Brad, how many times have you been aboard Brutus?"

  "Hundreds, I guess. I practically live on him when he's in port, especially now."

  "No, I mean at sea. How many times have you been to sea with Brutus?"

  "Whenever you guys let me, and that's only been twice, both times with Thatcher and Carrington. We had to trace a persistent power surge in the BQR‑37 and I had to be aboard under actual condi­tions."

  "BQR‑37?"

  "Yeah, it's a miniaturized BQR‑20 like they have in the big boats for short‑range rapid scanning; you know, mines, steel nets and SDVs."

  "Do you think you could operate this vehicle?"

  Lofton looked up to the long torpedo-shaped X-3. "Yeah, I think so. Brutus is user-friendl­y, all automated. Just punch the keyboard for what you want and everything's done automatically. One joystick, five CRTs and a keyboard take care of hundreds of switches, servos and valves; except, I don't know what you want this sewer pipe to do. So, I guess all I can say is that I could maneuver Brutus from point A to point B, and that's about it. Why?"

  "Just curious. We don't have a backup pilot, you know."

  "What about Carrington? I thought Thatcher had checked him out in Brutus."

  Renkin looked down. "...yes, unfor­tunately Car­rington's duties have become rather complex. And, quite frankly, I need him around. He's my administrative assistant for council liaison and on the NSC's payroll. No, we need another good primary pilot."

  Toeing a wooden plank, Renkin said in a flat tone, "What do you say, Brad? You could work directly for me."

  "You mean on the NSC's payroll?"

  "Well, yes."

  Lofton smiled, "No thanks, Felix. I got out of the spook business years ago when I bailed out of the SEALS. I'm happy pushing pencils now, not midget submarines."

  "Actually, you were almost dismissed because you struck a superior officer, an Army colonel. Isn't that right?"

  Lofton felt his face burn. "It was a long time ago." He eyed Renkin, "Do you want to get those disks now?"

  Renkin's look pierced Lofton. "Yes, let's go."

  "O.K." Lofton mounted the scaffolding that curved around Brutus's topside and jumped easily to the submarine. He sat on the lip of the small open hatchway and his feet automatical­ly found the rungs that led to darkness below. Renkin knelt beside him.

  Lofton muttered, "Power's shut down inside. Better let me go in first and fire up the auxiliary load." Brutus swayed slightly in his slings from their motion. Renkin reached out and fumbled for the wooden platform. "You--you go, just unlock the disk cabinet and hand them to me."

  "OK, it'll take me a couple of minutes to get powered up so I can see what I'm doing."

  "I'll wait here, but please be quick." Renkin looked down past Brutus to the black water below.

  "On my way." Lofton slid through the hatchway into total darkness. His feet touched bottom. He reached around the ladder for a red‑lensed battle lantern, found the switch and flipped it on. Brutus's control room sprang into an eerie hemoglobin likeness. Objects ran together as he tried to focus: the pilot's chair, a joystick, the panels, and the darkened CRTs, asleep like Thatcher up on the third floor. He looked forward toward the open hatch to the diver's chamber but it was black in there. Piping, valves, electrical conduits ran over and around him in dizzying pat­terns.

  He moved forward. It was difficult to stand straight and he slouched into the pilot's console on the port side of the narrow passageway. He reached overhead to check the battery levels: One, two, three, five, and six were in the yellow; number four showed barely green. He tried the auxiliary power master toggle switch. Nothing. No load from the outside. He shook his head. Tiredly, he remembered that they'd disconnected all the auxiliary umbili­cals today when they'd bunkered up with hydrogen peroxide. The cumber­some thousand pound bladders and their hoisting, grappling machinery had taken precedence over the shoreside connections.

  "What's wrong down there?" Renkin barked.

  "Nothing, they just shut everything down for the night. They even pulled the power cables and auxiliary ventilation ducts. I guess I'll have to use ship's power."

  "Just hurry," Renkin's voice faded.

  Brutus jiggled slightly in his slings, Lofton smiled as Renkin retreated to the platform. Lofton knew Brutus made the assistant director feel claustrophobic. Renkin had only seen the X-3 once before and had been quite emphatic in declining an invitation to inspect the interior.

  Lofton kicked in the number-four battery, then turned to another panel and brought up the interior lights. They were incandescent, yet soft and indirect, allowing one's eyes to comfortably rest on the control panel, the glass cockpit with its CRTs, the keyboard, the LED switches, and the all‑powerful joystick.

  Lofton knelt to the HP 9060 computer cabinet and inserted the two keys. Then he flipped four thumbscrews and the side panel slid away. Renkin's disk nestled toward the back. He reached up and punched the main power button, then hit "cartridge eject." Nothing. Damn! He'd forgotten about the panel interlocks. He knew it would take forever to look up interlock override. Thatcher's manual lay carelessly piled among other manuals and soiled clothing on the starboard side bunk, directly across from the pilot's chair.

  Duct tape.

  He crouched and snaked aft past the ladder and past the small galley to the tool cabinet. Plenty of tools, spare parts, more operating and maintenance manuals, but no duct tape. He sighed and went up the ladder.

  Renkin stood on the platform. "Got it?"

  "Not yet. I need some duct tape to get through the cabinet interlocks. Hold on for a minute, I'll go down to the machine shop and get some."

  "Brad, I haven't got all night."

  "Be righ
t back." Lofton jumped down to the platform, headed toward the machine shop and checked his watch. Kirby­'s party would start soon and he was going to be stuck here all night. He flipped on the machine shop main lights, opened a supply cupboard and rummaged for the damn duct tape.

  "Hi, Brad."

  Lofton jumped and turned, "Les, you're awake. How do you feel?" Thatcher's thick, dark stubble matched his blue coveralls. His hair was mussed and red creases cros­shatched the right side of his oval face where he'd slept. But he seemed normal again; quietly powerful, quick intelligent eyes, thick moustache, and bulky body. Thatcher always had a hard time squeezing through Brutus's hatch. Except when he'd returned last night. Then, he was gaunt, drained. No sleep for for­ty‑eight hours, navigating through the offshore SOSUS network, could do that to you.

  "Better now." Thatcher yawned. "Hungry as hell, though. What do you cheapskates have to eat around here?"

  "Yeah, hold on for a bit. I'll nuke some chili for both of us. But I have to get Brutus's computer disks for Renkin first."

  "What? He's here, already?"

  Lofton nodded his head toward the hangar.

  Thatcher jammed his fists on his hips and stared through the door. Then softly, "That little sonofabitch! When I blow the lid on him they're going to nail his ass, but good."

  "What?" Lofton watched Thatcher move toward the hangar. He shook his head, then went back to his search for duct tape. Next cabinet, then another. He finally found it.

  Their voices were loud when he returned to the hangar. He couldn't see them, they were behind the partition in the small office. He walked down the platform, rose up the scaffold, moved toward the hatch and stopped, listen­ing.

  "I said, I'm not going to tell you, you little bastard."