The prototype X-3 would carry forty-eight limpet mines in racks below the main deckplates. The SEALS would exit through a large escape trunk in the bow to sow them. Future designs were projected for ninety-six limpets so the SEALS could really go out and play.
The worst problem for the X-3 was the same as for her grown sisters: crew endurance. Food, air, power: no problem. But what do three or four people do for twenty thousand miles without seeing the light of day? Lofton had done his best just before he went to the Coast to supervise the prototype buildup. He designed an efficient galley that doubled as a lounge, the shower/toilet was shifted to the divers' trunk forward, and two pilot berths were added to starboard across from the control station. Two watchstanders would be up at all times.
What of the mission? Strategic planners put their heads together. They went to their desks, their drafting tables, computers, data banks, yeomen, commanding officers, vendors.
Recommendations were drawn, redrawn, deep-sixed, then redrafted. The X-3, they decided, was not just a hotrod to be used by a bunch of glory-hungry, twenty-four-year old, grinning SEALS. Why not a Battle of Britain scenario? The Spitfires going after the Heinkels? Yes. Add torpedo tubes to the next mod and the X-3A could go after boomer and attack submarines for a fraction of the cost. Tactical and strategic possibilities became intriguing with a twenty- thousand-mile range and thirty-five knot dash speeds. Throw in low active and passive signature profiles and the carrier group admirals took notice and put their shoulders to the concept.
Finally, they went to their budgets and Capitol Hill. But euphoria over glasnost had penetrated the closed doors of exhaustive Armed Services Committee meetings. And it wasn't a "guns or butter" decision this time. New democracies in Eastern Europe and Central America, pointing out that the U.S. had deliberately set the stage for their freedom, were asking for large amounts of aid to prime their economic engines. Accordingly, the committee pared the Navy's request to one experimental boat, not the anticipated production run of thirty.
The Navy countered that, unlike the Army or Air Force, their global seakeeping mission hadn't changed measurably, glasnost notwithstanding. They argued the Soviets still had one of the most powerful navies in the world, were modernizing their fleet, discarding old equipment, and were proceeding with new aircraft carrier and nuclear missile submarine programs, the latter having improved capabilities to devastate any city on earth. The admirals added that demands on them were actually increasing with the limited and virulent conventional wars and terrorist campaigns that popped up from time to time. And that the X-3 would be of great value in that category too. "Besides," they offered, "one X-3 is a quarter the cost of an F-16".
The Committee, referring to the new foreign aid as the Marshall Plan--Act II, replied, "One boat is all you get for the time being. You're lucky we didn't cancel the whole X-3 program."
Jenson Industries had transferred Lofton to San Diego after the hearings, just as prototype construction was to begin in a secret waterfront pen, a converted tuna cannery. By then, the project had been transferred to the National Security Council. The Navy didn't know why and without thinking, heaved a sigh of relief; civilians no longer asked deep, penetrating questions that required complicated technological responses. The X-3 became a black program funded by money of the same color. Now, a prototype, maybe two, could be successfully completed with all the gadgets, perestroika be damned.
Kirby was silent, waiting. Lofton felt his stare. Kirby wanted answers.
Lofton bit a thumbnail. How much could he tell Kirby? Brutus? Renkin? Thatcher? Catalina? Should he tell him about Petropavlovsk? Should he--
"You gonna keep suckin' your thumb, Brad?"
"Walt...you...people can get killed."
"So I noticed. C-4 does a good job when packed by those kind folks who work at Langley. And those guys back there looked like Virginia country gentlemen. Now, give."
"Not the CIA, Walt."
"My mistake. Those guys are on location from Disney Studios." Kirby sighed heavily.
Lofton's shoulders sagged. "OK. It started with a spook project called Ivy Bells..."
CHAPTER THREE
Leningrad, 1959
They came for Manfried in the late afternoon. He heard their voices in the corridor as they spoke to Olga Horoshkin.
"...Theo's been gone for several days," she said.
"...we're here to clean out his shit..."
Their voices trailed. But Manfried heard Olga gasp, "No!"
A grunt. Then, "Where?"
"They're assigned to that room. The boy is in there now. Manfried."
A second voice growled, "This is the German whore's kid with the American brother? The one Slick Theo adopted?"
Manfried put aside his book and jumped up. What about Theo? What was wrong? He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to remember what Theo had last said. His absences were more prolonged but Theo was finally learning the ropes. They were making progress. Wasn't there food for them now? They didn't have to stand in the lines anymore.
Two weeks ago, he'd reached over and tousled Manfried's hair after a late evening meal. His eyes glittered as he tossed off his vodka, saying, "They are finally sending me to the other side, Manfried. Soon, we'll have our own apartment instead of this..." he waved an arm, "this communal pigsty."
Later that night, Theo moaned in his sleep, calling for Katya and their daughter, Katarina. They'd been lost to the Germans in 1943 during the 880 day great siege of Leningrad. Then, in 1951, a Berlin-stationed Theo Kunitsa adopted one of two orphaned twin boys. Their mother had been killed by an Allied bomb while it was being defused. The father was unknown.
Feet shuffled toward the door while Olga babbled something about a pension. Would she be eligible even though they weren't married? After all, hadn't she helped with the boy?
Manfried stepped to the center of Kunitsa's gray one-room redoubt. It was nestled in a common set of three rooms and a closet-sized kitchen. Two other families lived there and they were still at work. Only a widowed forty-six year-old Olga and Manfried remained.
Two giant, fire-hydrant-shaped men thumped in; they stood, their eyes darted around the room. Olga squeezed in behind with glistening eyes. One of the men spotted Kunitsa's cardboard suitcase. He threw it on the bedroll and said, "You're leaving, Fritz. Pack."
"What?" Manfried managed.
"Now, Fritz. You're going to Melekhov. Tonight."
"Nooooo!"
A thumb and forefinger vised his ear and sent him to a clothing pile at the foot of his bedroll. Manfried's ear burned as he bent to his things. There wasn't much; a blanket, two pair of Kunitsa's old socks, a heavy woolen shirt and a tattered army greatcoat. He made sure his math and English books were tucked in the blanket folds. One of the fire hydrants held out a paper sack; the other sniffed as he dumped Kunitsa's two medals and new green KGB shoulderboards inside. They clinked once and disappeared. When they weren't looking, Manfried grabbed three potatoes and crammed them among his things. Olga winked at him while the remaining food, the rest of the potatoes and a half-dozen cans, disappeared with Kunitsa's medals. The sack was stuffed in one of the fire hydrant's overcoats.
One man's name was Andrei. He seemed wider than the other. His knee-length overcoat snagged on drawers as he turned and piled Kunitsa's uniforms and clothes in the middle of the floor. Then he peered in drawers. The other stooped to pry up floorboards. Satisfied, he trudged down the hall to check the toilet tank.
It didn't take long to secure Kunitsa's things. Andrei quickly bagged everything and tied string around it. The room was empty now except for Manfried's suitcase and two thick brown paper-wrapped bundles. The few furniture pieces would remain for the next tenants.
Manfried chewed his thumbnail. Finally, he stammered, "What happened? Where's my father?"
"Shut up, Fritz," Andrei shouted, his thick lips formed a cavern. He jammed his fists on his hips. "Where's your brother?"
"I don't have a brother."
<
br /> "He's in America, isn't he?"
"I don't have a bro--"
"And if you want to know, Americans, their CIA, shot Kunitsa. Hell, your real father is one of them, too. An American."
The man had kicked him, he was sure. But when Manfried was able to focus again on Andrei's belt the man stood in the same position. Above him. Towering. He hadn't moved.
"Nothing in the tank." The other man walked in. "Its dry. Hasn't been flushed in weeks. Whew! I had to piss out the back window."
Andrei stooped. He found the youngster's cloudy eyes and growled, "It's time you found out. Americans killed Theo. And both your father and brother are Americans. How do you feel about that, Fritz?"
Manfried tried to square his shoulders. "My name is Manfried Kunitsa".
Andrei's thick hands pressed on his knees. He rose. "Not any longer, Fritz. Sergeant Theodore Pavel Kunitsa ceased existing three days ago. You don't either. You're to Melekhov Hall. They'll figure out what to call you."
Kunitsa, dead. Melekhov! Manfried caught the other man's glance, to see if he would cry. He choked it back.
The men took a last check. Andrei said, "I think we have it all." He rumbled, "Good-bye, Theo."
The other said softly, "Yes, good-bye, you dumb bastard." He slowly shook his head. "Slick Theo. Hero of Berlin. All he did was shine paper-clips and count prisoners. He always wanted to be a hero. Instead, he screws up a wet job in Zurich. They knew that would happen. They shouldn't have let him try to be a hero."
They pushed Manfried out the door, through the corridor and into the main hallway. Static, then a low squealing seeped under one of the doors as they crowded down the hall.
"What the hell?" Andrei blurted. "Nobody in this building has a radio permit that I know of."
"Later, Andrei. We'll check it later."
Manfried shook away Olga's hand and took the steps with her stride for stride.
Americans. Kunitsa had taken him to an American movie once. They showed it in a cellar down the street. Men drank and roared at the gangsters. One wore a white suit, wide-brimmed hat, and two-toned shoes. The other gangster, a cigarette dangling from his lips, fired a submachine gun from waist level. The first gangster's chest splattered with dark splotches as he jinked and whirled back into an alley.
Americans. Their submachine guns were inferior to the PPD models Soviets had used in the Great Patriotic War. Both had drum-type magazines, but the PPD was superior. Kunitsa had told him. He'd smuggled one home and taught himself to field strip it blindfolded. Then he taught Manfried.
His foot caught a step but he kept up with Olga. The other two trudged behind. Silent.
Yes. The PPD was better.
Americans.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lofton slouched on his elbows, drained. Telling Kirby had brought it all back. The X-3 project. His escape in Brutus. The run to Catalina. And Thatcher. Lofton could still see Thatcher's bloody lips. The screwdriver--trying to push it back through Thatcher's chest. Renkin swinging the mallet, crushing Thatcher's skull.
The oven bleeped. Lofton lowered his head to his hands while Kirby retrieved the pizza.
Finally he said dully, "I think I've said too much."
"Here. You have to eat."
"I've lost my appetite."
"I'm not surprised. Talking about it can do that. When was the last time you had a solid meal?"
A sandwich on True Blue, breakfast at Mabel's this morning, Lofton couldn't remember before that.
Kirby looked at him, then made a face, "No wonder your appetite is gone. That dark beer tastes like goat piss. Why do you drink it?"
"I like it. You know that."
The pizza tasted good. Lofton munched, drinking the Chianti Kirby silently produced. Next, a tall salad with oil and vinegar was shoved in front of him.
As he ate, Lofton scanned the Sunday evening lights gleaming on a now-empty Newport Bay; they jiggled on the water quietly, mournfully. The weekend was gone. The houses around him and across the bay on Lido Isle were quiet and sedate, as if someone had turned down a master rheostat. Next Friday would be a different story, life would be back to full swing. But he would be gone.
Lofton sat back and looked at the dock in front of Kirby's house. His twenty-foot Skipjack, Them Bones, was tied across from the gaping space where Bandit usually moored. "When are you bringing Bandit back from Long Beach?"
"Probably Tuesday or Wednesday. O'Connell will bring her down." He stood over Lofton, "Coffee?"
Lofton leaned back in the chair, folded his hands on his stomach, and nodded.
Kirby produced two coffees and sat with a paper and pad. He started to write, then looked up. "OK. You say Felix Renkin is a spy?"
Lofton nodded.
"And that he killed this guy Thatcher?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I ran Renkin's disks. I'm convinced Thatcher's right. Those CAPTORs are programmed specifically for the acoustic signature of the Truman and the Japanese trawler he spoke of. And, according to the stuff I saw in Renkin's briefcase, the Truman's exit route takes her directly over those two mines."
Kirby knitted his brow.
Lofton nodded. "Come on, Walt. CAPTOR. Encapsulated torpedo. It's like they stick a Mark 46 torpedo in a big bottle or flask and sow it like a mine. You can program it to search for a wide variety of ship sounds or magnetic signatures. Once the right signal goes off on the CAPTOR's detection gear the end pops off, the torpedo swims out and heads for the target. And it has a nasty little ninety‑five pound charge that is bad enough for a trawler but devastating to a submarine, especially at depth."
Kirby wrote "CAPTOR--Mk. 46" on his pad and looked up.
Lofton rubbed his eyes. "Renkin had told me that Brutus's first operation was to be a towing exercise for SDVs. A spook launch was supposed to hook them up off Coronado Roads. I realize now that Thatcher knew he was towing CAPTORs, presumably to see if X-3's could lay them successfully. I don't know where he got them but I'm convinced he thought it was just that: a towing exercise. He didn't expect them to drop off when they did; they were released automatically. I don't know how. Thatcher hung around for a while trying to figure out what to do, but then he had to come home 'cause his fuel was running out. I think that's when he figured out the CAPTOR's program. He had Renkin's floppy disks on board and had time during the voyage back to play with the computer and decipher Renkin's instructions."
Kirby shook his head slowly, his pencil twirled. "So Renkin kills Thatcher, the X-3's pilot, because he knew too much?"
"Yeah."
Kirby looked at his notes and flipped the pencil on the pad. "Brad, for crying out loud! How is anyone supposed to believe this? I mean, Felix Renkin is a powerful man. He's served under three presidents."
"Damnit. Don't you think I know that? Until last Wednesday, I thought the guy walked on water. But I saw him do it and I read the stuff in his briefcase. Ivy Bells. That must be it. He's selling Ivy Bells and probably a bunch of other stuff."
"Maybe it's something to do with glasnost. The Cold War is over, you know."
"Not in this operation. Someone out there, besides Felix Renkin is still playing for keeps."
Kirby tore off a clean sheet of paper. "OK. Let's get to that. What the hell is Ivy Bells?"
"One of Renkin's folders is labeled Ivy Bells. There're only a few memos so I'm piecing it together. Best thing that I can come up with is that Ivy Bells is a listening operation in the Sea of Okhotsk between the Kamchatka Peninsula and the mainland of Soviet Siberia."
"The Sea of `O.'"
"Right. Kamchatka is damned long and rugged, eight hundred to a thousand miles. There're no highways or railroads to the mainland. Seems like Ivan has to run land lines between the Kamchatka Peninsula and the Siberian mainland."
"Induction?"
Lofton raised an eyebrow and nodded. "You're way ahead of me. That's what it sounds like. Apparently our submarines have been sneaking in there for a long time lis
tening to Soviet telephone traffic over those cables via some sort of induction device."
Kirby smiled.
"Yeah. You got it. Petropavlovsk. Our guys have apparently been listening to Ivan's juicy stuff for a long time from the Okhotsk seabed."
"But why now?" Kirby's smile faded. "I thought we were in some sort of military stand-down."
"Yes and no. Yes with offensive and some strategic weaponry. No on the intelligence side, especially passive intelligence. Apparently, both sides don't entirely trust the other's press clippings."
Kirby waved a hand. "But why? Look at Eastern Europe. Look at--"
"--I know, Walt. I know." Lofton shook his head. "I wish I knew all the answers. Maybe there are a few diehards on both sides."
Kirby grunted and went back to his doodling. As a SEAL he had learned of Petropavlovsk's strategic importance. It was a major Soviet seaport on Kamchatka's eastern or Pacific side toward the tip. Starting as a whaling village in the eighteenth century, Petropavlovsk boasted dry docks, shipyards, lumber mills, fish canneries, and a population of well over two hundred thousand. The juicy part Lofton referred to was that Petropavlovsk had become a major naval base. Twenty-five percent of the Soviet Pacific Fleet was homeported there, including all their Pacific-based missile submarines. And the U.S. Navy had been monitoring their cable traffic.
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 6
