THE BRUTUS LIE

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

Lieutenant Commander Lester T. Thatcher yelling? Yelling at Felix Lloyd Renkin, Ph.D., one of the most powerful men on the National Security Council, one of the finest strategic minds in the United States, and certainly one who could have Thatcher's head and see him in Leavenworth if he so chose?

  Lofton lowered himself through the hatch.

  "...you said it was only a towing exercise, you mealy bastard, you didn't say they were live CAPTOR mines."

  "Let's go upstairs," Renkin said evenly.

  Lofton found the bottom rung but kept his head out of the hatch.

  "Come on, Commander, not here," he heard Renkin say more quietly.

  "Yes, here," Thatcher shot back, "and to the press, to the chief of naval operations, to the Presi­dent; everybody and anybody."

  "Where's Lofton?"

  "Back in the machine shop, looking for duct tape so he can bypass the cabinet interlocks and pull your precious incriminating disks for you. Except, you won't get them."

  Silence.

  Thatcher started in again. "I don't believe it. I didn't figure it out until I was almost all the way back; I didn't have enough fuel to return and retrieve the damn things."

  "You're jumping to conclusions."

  "Like hell." Feet shuffled, Thatcher's voice roared. "I taped the acoustic signature you had progra­mmed into those CAPTOR mines. Just one acoustic signature each. And guess what? Not for an enemy ship; one CAPTOR's now at six hundred feet, programmed for some nondescript Japanese trawler and the other's--for cris­sake--along­side and it's programmed for the USS Harry S. Truman! And I got buddies on that old boomer. Why the hell do you and your jerkhead spook friends want to take them out?"

  What? The Truman? Lofton rose higher in the hatch, his hands braced on Brutus's sleek topside. A Japanese trawler and the Truman? He knew that ship, too. She was one of the original Polaris nuclear-powered submarines. They'd dismantled her missile systems and filled her missile tubes with cement a few years back and converted her to an auxiliary submarine. Now she carried a dry dock shelter, a large pressure chamber on her back for underwater launch and recovery of swimmer delivery vehicles, SDVs, for SEAL recon of hostile coastal and harbor installa­tions, and other covert missions. Lofton thought about that. He still had a few buddies in the SEALS.

  "That's enough, Commander Thatcher. As of now, you're relieved. You will return to your--"

  "--No, Dr. Renkin, you're the one who's relieved. You're washed up. As of now, you should be picking up that telephone and calling a lawyer."

  Lofton felt cold, a chill ran through his arms and to his chest. The hell with the disks, call the cops, find out what's going on. Sit these two guys down and sort this thing out. The Truman? To be hit by a Mark 46 torpedo launched by a CAPTOR mine? Impossible! As he lifted his knees out of the hatch he saw Thatcher walk slowly from behind the office partition.

  Before he could stand he saw a hand flash from behind the partition. The long, thin screwdriver, eighteen inches at least, penetrated Thatc­her's back and popped out through the front of his poopie suit. Two hands grasped the handle and pushed harder, the screwdriver went into the hilt.

  Thatcher stumbled, gurgled, then fell to one knee. He reached behind futilely trying to grab the screwdriver handle, his face white, jaw working. No words came as he dropped to both knees.

  His hands fumbled at the shaft of the screwdriver in front, trying to push it back through. Red froth bubbled around Thatcher's lips, blood smeared his spasming hands.

  Lofton stood. "Stop, for crissake! What're you doing?" he yelled, then jumped to the platform.

  Thatcher's hands wiggled at the screw­driver shaft. Renkin appeared behind him and raised a wooden mallet.

  "Stop! No!" Lofton sobbed and ran toward the pair.

  Renkin swung and the mallet hit Thatcher's skull with a dull thud. Blood spurted and Thatcher fell forward on his chest, his arms splayed before him. The screwdriver handle rose as his chest found the floor.

  Lofton drew up before a twitching Thatcher, then looked at Renkin, who pushed his glasses on his nose.

  Renkin stepped back and raised the mallet. "Ca­rrington!" he yelled. "Carrington!" It was a long scream this time.

  Lofton had no desire to tangle with Renkin's batman now. He moved in. Renkin cocked the mallet and swung. Lofton caught his wrist easily, then spun Renkin around and twisted his wrist up his back, hard.

  "Owwww."

  "Drop the mallet now or it's broken."

  The mallet thudded to the floor. Lofton spun Renkin again, then hit him full in the face. He crashed over a stool and fell in a heap. His feet protruded from under a drafting table.

  Silence. Water lapped below Brutus. Lofton heard his own ragged breathing, then the sounds of San Diego Harbor, and willed himself to control. He took a deep breath, then turned around. Thatcher's body lay where it had fallen, his two bloody hands like inert claws.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The water taxi howled on its fifteen-minute ride to White's Landing over clear, flat blue water that glistened under a warm, cloudless morning. Lofton scanned the dry bluffs rising steeply from the ocean and angling into hills and peaks covered with scrub oak and dry grass. Boulders stood out in places, especially in the craggy canyons. A herd of mountain goats grazed next to a fifty-foot cliff.

  Ahead, two silvery fish glided over the wavelets, airborne for a few seconds, disappearing as others rose to take their places. As the taxi whirred along, the sharp mountains drew inland and the coastline yielded to one of Catalina's few beaches.

  Moonstone Cove nestled under small cliffs, dark, glistening rocks giving onto the ivory sands of White's Landing, where a pier jutted out to receive small boats. Sail and power boats lolled at their moorings, occupants stretched on their decks, sunning themselves, diving, reading.

  Lofton pointed toward True Blue at the far end of the cove, almost to Hen Rock. The taxi driver nodded and worked his craft alongside other boats, dropping passengers and embarking new ones for the return trip. Finally, they swept alongside True Blue and the driver expertly slewed the taxi's stern. The transmission clunked and the engine blared in reverse. Lofton reached for True Blue's toe rail. A hand grabbed his arm and pulled him into the cockpit as the water taxi shot out from under him.

  "Hi, Matt, here...let me take your seabag."

  Lofton stood and looked down into Howard Butler's clear blue eyes and relaxed grin. Butler looked fit, maybe they hadn't been drinking all night.

  "Morning. You guys sleep well?"

  "Like babies, eight hours. We're just cleaning up from breakfast. Come on down and have some coffee."

  Lofton spotted a familiar outline as he followed Butler down the hatch. His head twirled, surprised.

  They weren't coming. he thought Walt said they wouldn't do it. But there was Bandit moored three buoys away. Fortunately, her sleek seventy-foot profile was partially masked by the spars and hulls of two smaller boats. Lofton caught a glimpse of her skipper as he hurried after Butler. Walt Kirby was perched on the stern pulpit in his ridiculous day‑glo green knee length trunks.

  "Here," Butler was saying, "you remember Tom and Virg from last night, and this is my daughter, Bonnie."

  A woman sat in the corner of the small dinette. She had thick, straight, sandy hair, blue shorts, white sleeveless blouse; her bare tan legs were drawn up, she held a large book--it looked like a text. He took another quick glance: about thirty, he guessed, full lips, yet delicate.

  "Hello, thanks for helping out." She flashed thick glasses which masked an inviting yet unintentional vul­nerability. Then she went back to her book.

  "Bonnie, come on, it's almost time to--"

  "The meeting is tomorrow, isn't it?" Bonnie raised her glasses and brushed hair from her green eyes.

  They were wide apart, Lofton decided. What had they called it in his optics class--inter­pupillary distance--a sign of intel­ligence? Hold it. Not now. He was here to get back to the mainland.

  Butler grinned at him. "Let's
go topside. We've got work to do, especially," he winked, "if we're disturbing people here."

  On the deck, Butler began wiggling levers on the steering pedestal and cranking his engine. The other two cast off the bow and stern lines and in a few moments they powered easily toward Long Point.

  Home, Lofton thought.

  So many times. All this sailing, yet he'd taken it for granted. If he closed his eyes he knew he could imagine himself back on Bandit or on Triad, Feather's Farthing, Due Diligence, Gaucho, or any of the other boats he'd raced over the years.

  He listened to True Blue's engine mutter with an irregular gurgle. The exhaust overboard gate valve didn't tap its rhythmic pattern, maybe overheating.

  "...What do you do, Mr. Thompson?"

  "I'm sorry?" Bonnie had come topside and had taken the seat opposite in the cockpit.

  "Naval archi­tect." It slipped out, he would have to be careful.

  "What kind of naval architect?" She had big, green eyes. She pulled up her knees and reclasped her hands around her legs, a single gold wedding band flashed.

  "Tankers, barges, freighters. I did a dredge once." He waved a hand. "But it's mostly conversion stuff. Put a bulkhead in here, a kingpost there. 'We'd like a hot tub for the captain please, now, what does that do to the righting moment?'" He hoped it was what she wanted to hear.

  He looked at her wedding ring again, "Mrs...."

  "Duffield. My name's Duffield."

  "What sort of work are you in?"

  She peered at him, her head on her knees. "I work for my dad. Butler Engine­ering. We manufacture a premium line of aircraft pumps." She nodded down toward the cabin, "That's what my book was all about. We make a presentation to Pratt & Whitney tomorrow. We're bidding on a series of fuel pumps for the PW 4000 engine." Bonnie's head dropped back to her knees, taking him in.

  "Hey, that's great. It sounds like a big--"

  Clattering and flapping sounds interrupted as Downs hoisted the mainsail.

  Lofton stood, "Maybe I better help out."

  Her eyes bored in. "Have you ever sailed on an Ericson 35 before, Matt?"

  "No."

  Butler stared at him.

  "How about racing, Matt? Have you ever raced before?" Bonnie wrapped her arms tighter around her legs.

  "Uh, yeah, enough to help you pop a chute and get you to Long Beach ahead of some other boats." He glanced at Butler again. "Look, maybe I should go up there."

  "Okay." Bonnie stood up. "I'm going back to work."

  Several classes, sixty or more boats, milled below Long Point while the race committee waited for wind. Butler stood at his wheel and chomped an unlit cigar while True Blue bobbed in circles. It gave her crew time to sort out the Ericson's running gear.

  A mile to the west, sunlight glittered off wavelet patches. Wind was headed toward them.

  Lofton jumped inside the cabin. Bonnie ignored him as he made sure the spinnaker turtle was packed correctly. Bam! Lofton heard the report from the committee boat's shotgun. True Blue would start soon with the PHRF A fleet.

  Lofton went topside to the mast and helped Downs snake up True Blue's jib. Bonnie quietly followed, sat in the cockpit, and worked both the jib and main sheets for a light air start.

  An hour passed. Butler had guided a drifting True Blue to a decent start and Lofton sat on the leeward rail with the grinning, beer-drinking Downs and Hollenbeck. He checked his watch: 1248. The wind was filling in, but not fast enough to get him where he had to be. He watched small particles in the rich turquoise Catalina waters glide past. I wish life was this easy, he thought. Better to sit here, cook on top the cabin, and drift all day than face what's waiting.

  A zephyr ruffled the back of his neck. "There's another one, Howard. Keep working it," he coaxed softly. "We have weigh on, maybe a knot or so." Lofton had conned Butler to the front of the fleet by eking the most from small wind gusts.

  Butler eased in helm and growled. "Fine with me. As long as we stay ahead of Terry, we're in fat city."

  "Howard, I think fat city will get fatter. See that?" He pointed to port.

  "What?"

  "That...that dark patch of water. The westerly is filling in. And there, you can almost see Palos Verdes now; the smog is blowing inland. I'd say we'll get a nice breeze in the next five minutes or so. How 'bout I hook up the chute?"

  "Fine with me." Butler spat tobacco juice over the side.

  Lofton reached into the cabin, grabbed the spinnaker turtle, and padded to the foredeck.

  He'd just finished securing the spinnaker to the bow pulpit when he felt it; the breeze tingled hair on the back of his neck, his collar, his arms.

  "As advertised." Butler grinned from behind his wheel.

  Lofton said, "We'll hoist in a couple of minutes."

  "How are we going to do this?" Hollenbeck muttered as he stumbled aft to the cockpit.

  Downs followed with a groan.

  Lofton checked to port. Whitecaps began to roll--popcorn--a good westerly; they'd be romping in a few minutes. He was a blur as he attached spinnaker gear. Downs and Hollenbeck gaped at him. Hollenbeck managed a nod, put his beer on the seat and fumbled at a winch.

  Lofton winked at them. "Virg, when I ask for it, pull the afterguy back a couple of feet. Tom, you set the topping lift--

  yea­h, that one--and snug the foreguy once we're set."

  "OK."

  "And Bonnie, you're on the main?"

  "Got it."

  Then, "Ready when you are, Howard."

  Butler raised a fist in the air and looked back. "Ya hoo! So long, Terry. Look at that, we've even got those bastards beat." He jabbed his cigar butt to port, "Go for it, Matt!"

  Lofton looked around. Bandit paralleled them one hundred yards to weather. He'd been busy on the foredeck and he hadn't noticed the seventy-foot sloop had muffed her spinnaker set and True Blue had caught up. The pink, gray and black paneled chute was knotted tightly around the other boat's headstay as her cursing crew tried to save it.

  Kirby­, useless at the wheel, looked aft toward overtaking boats. Finally, his head jerked to Lofton.

  Lofton whipped around, hand-over-handed his halyard and to-blocked the chute in five seconds.

  "OK, Virg, afterguy back. Pole up, Tom."

  Lofton sidestepped aft to the cockpit with his back to Bandit and grabbed the spinnaker sheet. He pulled, the winch spun, its pawls clicked loudly. The spinnaker flapped and snapped loudly as Lofton tailed more sheet.

  "Ease the guy forward a bit, Virg, that's it. Bonnie, main in a little and give us some vang."

  The chute filled with a loud pop. True Blue heeled and joined the breeze. Lofton ran forward once more and tripped the jib halyard. The headsail flapped and clattered to the foredeck. Then he sprang to the cockpit and trimmed the spinnaker sheet.

  Butler laughed.

  "More foreguy, Tom. How's it look, Howard?" he asked.

  "Outstanding! Six point two knots and," Butler looked aft, "Terry's back there in the crap. Caught him with his pants down. So long, you sonofabitch. Ya hoo!"

  "Ya hoo," echoed Hollenbeck and Downs. They crawled forward, bunched the jib, made pillows, and lay back, their beers once again in hand as True Blue sizzled before a quartering sea.

  Bonnie looked up at the mainsail and pulled in more vang, intent on her trim; she did it nicely, Lofton noted. He glanced over to Bandit. The maxi could almost match True Blue's speed under mainsail alone. The top of her spinnaker puffed around the headstay while her cursing crew worked the knot loose from the lower half. They would have it properly set in a few minutes, he reckoned. Kirby looked over and studied True Blue. Lofton turned his back, eased the main a bit and yanked the foreguy.

  "Ya hoo!" yelled Butler.

  A twenty‑two knot breeze sent a slewing, death‑roll­ing True Blue through the finish line for an undisputed first place. Butler whooped, threw both fists in the air then yanked Bonnie behind the wheel and hugged her. Yelping, she returned to her mainsheet. Downs and Ho
llenbeck took her place and thumped their cigar chomping skipper on his back.

  Their cheers and cackles were quickly stifled when Lofton pointed to the beach six hundred yards dead ahead.

  They all looked to him. How to douse the overpowered chute and save the boiling, pounding machine from floundering? Bonnie had her hands full with the mainsheet. Downs' eyes suddenly became fixed on the cabin sole. Hollenbeck said, "Oh, oh."

  Butler leaned into his helm, looking more grim as he worked to keep True Blue from broaching. Lofton knew that Downs and Hollen­beck had no idea how to recover all raging l,250 square feet of the red, white, and blue tri‑radial cut spinnaker.

  He ran to the mast, tripping the halyard and dousing the chute in the water. Instantly, the spinnaker became a giant sea anchor, and True Blue groaned to a stop two hundred yards from the surf line. It took Lofton, Bonnie, Hollenbeck, and Downs five minutes to snake the water gorged mess over the stern pulpit and dump it in the cockpit.

  Twenty minutes later, they docked in the Long Beach Marina. From habit, Lofton stayed to help fold sails and stow gear. But he worked quickly, almost rudely. Too many people could recognize him. An undaunted Butler, like a high school sophomore winning his first mile relay, waved when Terry Anderson docked his boat, four slips away. Anderson looked at Lofton and shouted, "Who's the ringer?"

  Butler pointed to his watch, his bellow echoed over the Marina. "Fifteen minutes, Terry. Stop for a beer somewhere?"

  Butler dropped a canvas gear bag in True Blue's cockpit and strutted toward Anderson's boat with a grinning Downs and Hollen­beck in tow.

  Lofton ducked below and shoved sail bags in the forepeak while Bonnie wrestled with the soaked spinnaker topside.

  "Damnit, Howard!" she yelled. "Will you get back here and help me with this?"

  Butler, Hollenbeck, and Downs ignored her. The threesome waved beer cans and cigars and poured victorious whoops over a thinly smiling Anderson as he knelt on the dock to fold sails with his crew.

  Bonnie gave up and tried to shove the slithering sail into its turtle.