Lofton stared at what remained of his car. The glassless windows gaped, the two front doors were gone, and a rear one dangled from its hinge to the asphalt. The two front wheels were missing altogether and the rear tires burned. A black, glowing cinder, the trunk lid gaped open, there was no hood. They silently watched patrol cars roar in and disgorge policemen who milled among firemen spraying their foam.
Several policemen fanned out and begin picking up debris; a radiator hose, a door handle, but most of it was unrecognizable. Bonnie shook her head slowly, then started her engine. Lofton put out his hand. "Hold on for a minute. There, see the white car that just pulled up, the one with government plates? That must be the one Kirby saw. There, that guy--" Lofton slid down in his seat. "That's Underwood, the guy in the gray suit grinning at the cop, he's Carrington's lieutenant and head of security at our plant. Yeah, we better leave now."
Bonnie nodded. She turned in her seat to back up. "Damn, two fire trucks are back there blocking the aisle. Looks like they're just shooting the breeze. I'll have to go out this way. You just stay down until we get out of here."
Lofton squeezed all the way to the floor. He watched Bonnie who wore her thick glasses now. He could see her eyes; she looked vulnerable again, her full mouth, her chin jutted forward, defiant. He watched her eyes dart over the scene, heard the squawk of a fire truck radio as they rolled past.
Suddenly her head turned and her mouth parted. "My God!"
"What's wrong?"
Bonnie returned to her driving, her lips set, as she pulled onto Marina Drive and headed back to True Blue. Tears welled as she stepped on the accelerator.
"Bonnie?"
Finally, "They were...the cops...were picking up pieces, junk from the blast, I guess." She bit her lip. "The one closest to me was picking up a human foot--no shoe or sock--just a charred foot..."
Lofton uncurled and sat back in the seat. "Bonnie, I'm sorry. Maybe you better forget--"
Her head whipped toward him, tears running down her cheeks. "Well, Mr. JP‑5, or whoever you are. You're going to tell me everything or else I go back there and tell those cops everything."
Lofton sat wordless as she sobbed and drove back to True Blue's gangway. She pulled up sharply. The car bucked as her foot jabbed the emergency brake. "Well?" she almost yelled. The engine ran.
"Bonnie, I--"
She tore off her glasses. "That was once a human being back there. Maybe it was just a common car thief, I don't know. All I know is he's dead and you're giving me cock‑and‑bull about some nameless, classified project, and a friend of yours who is supposed to be an orthopedic surgeon and--and nasty little secret agents trying to kill you, blow you up. Well, what is it? Do you tell me or do we go back to those cops?" Her palm slapped the gear shift.
Lofton punched the dash padding with the heel of his hand, "Damnit, I can't, it's too dangerous. First Kirby, I had to tell him last night. He's my best friend; and now you." He looked at her, "I hardly know you but I don't want you hurt."
"What?" She looked at him. Then, "That's malarkey." She flipped the lever into Reverse. Lofton reached over and snapped off the ignition.
"Bonnie, It's not. If they catch me, they could make me talk about you with drugs. They could kill you."
She looked at him.
"Let's go back to the boat." He sighed.
"You'll tell me? Everything?"
He nodded.
Lofton spoke for fifteen minutes as the morning brightened through the overcast. Finally they got out and locked the car. He had to squeeze next to her so they could walk down the ramp together. His words rolled faster. At the bottom of the ramp they stayed close while she wiped at her eyes. His arm found her shoulder, it was natural and remained. Farther down the gangway they looked toward his Audi. Telltale smoke splotches rose over whoever died in it. By the time they reached True Blue her arm was around his waist.
"The way you talk you'd think I have a Teamsters card," Kirby muttered.
He stood easily at Bandit's six-foot diameter stainless steel wheel as they powered to Newport Beach, twenty miles down the coast from Long Beach. The Cherokee would be returned to Kirby's house by one of Bandit's crew.
Lofton sat in the cockpit well and propped his feet on the steering bracket. "It's all set up, Walt. We get to use the Butler Engineering truck and Bonnie ordered a load of Jet 'A' early this afternoon. It should have been delivered to the airport by now. All I have to do is go to the market, load your Cherokee with food, park near Berth 209 and--"
"You said a banana building?"
"Yes."
"I can't believe you're doing this."
"I wish I wasn't."
They mulled it over as the seventy foot Bandit rolled smoothly at eight knots through the swell. A ten-knot breeze blew over their starboard quarter. There was little relative wind and Lofton felt sticky under the marine layer; it had been stationary all day. He sighed. Usually the sun would nudge the clouds aside but not today, he thought woefully. And, if things went well tonight, he would be gone, en route to Soviet Siberia. He didn't know when he would see the sun again.
A small wave punched Bandit's bow, spray shot up and spotted the foredeck. Lofton watched silently, wishing he was blasting downwind to Cabo San Lucas under the maxi's 2,450 square foot spinnaker.
They were abeam of Newport Pier as Kirby swilled a Corona. "What about this woman? Bonnie."
"What?"
"You sound soft on her."
"Come on, Walt, I've only known her for two days. Plus, she wears a gold wedding band."
"You spent the night with her last night."
Lofton's voice raised a notch. "Hell, she clunked me over the head with a flagstaff. It was you who told me to stay."
Kirby smiled. "Uh-huh. Come here, lemme check my handiwork."
Lofton glared at Kirby, then stepped behind the wheel.
"You drive, I'll check your head. I wish I could check what's in it, too." He turned the wheel over to Lofton, then pried up the bandages he'd put over his temple earlier. "Looks OK, except for the swelling. Should really have a couple of stitches."
"No."
"All right, you stupid jerk," Kirby secured the tape and sat down, "but make sure that bandage is still tight tonight when you go down to find your underwater hotrod."
Lofton caught Kirby's glare, his pressed lips. "Decision time, Walt. We can't put it off anymore."
"All right I'll do it. God knows, if that girl is dumb enough to--"
"Come on," Lofton broke into a grin.
"--dumb enough to fall for your line of crap then I might as well jump in, too." Kirby shook his head. " OK. Here's what I think we should do. Let's play both ends. First, we'll gas your hotrod and you take off tonight. Things are sticky for you around here anyway so it's just as well you're gone. That way, I keep you from stepping in your own dark-brown, smelly stuff. And I take care of things the right way. Do you still remember your Russian?"
"Gdeh tooahlyeht?"
Kirby snorted. "Down below, forward, second compartment on your left. And, please remember to flush it this time."
"What's the other end?"
"I know a guy."
"Who?"
Kirby rubbed his chin. "Nate Chandler. He's a patient of mine, an admiral. Met him skiing two years ago at Squaw Valley just after he tore up some knee ligaments. He had me do the reconstruction when we got back. We still stay in touch. In fact, he was at my party last Wednesday night. He's a helicopter guru on COMNAVAIRPAC's staff in San Diego."
"A zoomie?"
"Uh-huh. Nate's an interesting guy, flew A-6s off the Hancock and was shot down near Haiphong. Got interested in helicopters when they rescued him. From what he's told me he does a lot of drug interdiction and search and rescue, but it sounds like he's been mixed up in some spook deals, too.
"I'll head down to San Diego tomorrow after you shove off. Nate's a ring knocker and is well plugged into the Pentagon. At the very least, I'll get him to have an adviso
ry message sent to the Truman so she can change her track. I'm hoping he'll know how to get to the Company and take care of that trawler. too.
"And Brad, he's gonna want to know why you couldn't talk to anybody. You must know quite a few people in the submarine business." Kirby looked at him with raised eyebrows.
"I tried. I called my old boss in Connecticut from the bus station pay phone. He was really cryptic, wanted to know where I was. He kept asking, `Where are you?' So then I talked to his boss. Same thing. I tried a Navy project officer, a full commander who I thought a pretty good friend, I used to sail with him out of Newport. He asked the same thing." Lofton shook his head. "You should have heard their voices, mechanical as hell, `Where are you?'"
Lofton wound some rudder to catch a ground swell. "Renkin has my personnel file. He knows who my contacts are and has found a way to either discredit me or at least shut them up. I don't know what he told them but they didn't sound scared or intimidated."
Kirby nodded grimly. "OK. Let's go over this again. What is it you want me to do?"
"Simple. We pick up some food and take it to berth 209 in the Cherokee. From there, we call a cab. I drop you at the Long Beach Airport fuel dump where you pick up the Butler Engineering truck. It's there now. I head back to your house, meet Bonnie, and we grab your Skipjack--is that all right?--and zip over to Avalon. She'll bring your boat back while I shoot over to berth 209 with Brutus. Let's say we meet there at three-thirty with the truck. It should be quiet then. We load the Jet 'A' and the stores, and I'm gone."
They were still talking as Lofton eased Bandit into Kirby's dock. He backed the engine as Kirby wrapped the stern line on the cleat and stopped the boat. They secured the maxi and heard the phone ringing as they walked to the house.
"Let it go," Kirby muttered as he fumbled for his keys. "It's probably Mrs. Schmidlapp or whoever, sniveling about an itchy cast. Damn, I'm supposed to be off for the rest of the week."
The phone jangled while Kirby unlocked the door and punched his security system. Lofton followed him in, headed for the kitchen and popped a Pepsi. Kirby picked up the cordless phone with a scowl, listened intently and stepped next to Lofton. He motioned with a cautionary hand. "Slow down, Mary, tell me again. Who was it?" Kirby looked at Lofton, his eyes level. Then, "What kind of badges? Were you able to see where they came from?"
Lofton stood frozen as Kirby talked with his receptionist. Then he heard, "Tell Laura to calm down, it probably wasn't a shoulder holster...yes...yes...I know." He looked at Lofton again. "No, that's right. If they come back, tell them as far as you know I haven't seen Brad Lofton for several weeks. And tell them he missed the Catalina trip last weekend."
Suddenly, "They're what?" Then, "Didn't you explain I was out on the boat today?"
Finally, "That's their problem. I have a date with Nancy and am just leaving. They'll have to wait until tomorrow...fine... thanks, see you next Monday." He clicked off.
"We're outta here." Kirby growled. "Your friends are on their way."
Lofton needed no urging. He picked up his seabag. "How soon?"
"Maybe ten minutes. Come on, the jeep should be out front and--oh, one thing--quick, in here."
He led Lofton to the garage and opened the trunk of his Mercedes. "Here, my medical bag, you may need it."
"Walt, we have medical supplies on board."
"Take it, damnit. There's some stuff in here I know you don't have on board. I'd feel better if it went with you."
Lofton grabbed the bag. "Thanks."
They bolted to the jeep, started up, and headed down Bayshore Drive. Endless seconds passed while they waited at the guard gate signal. Finally, they sighed their relief as the light turned green, and Kirby whipped the jeep westbound on Pacific Coast Highway.
"Who did she say they were?" asked Lofton, looking back.
Kirby fumbled for the radio and clicked it on: country and western. He checked the rearview mirror, then relaxed. "She remembered one name, Underwood. That mean anything to you?"
"Um."
"Um, what?"
"One of Carrington's boys. He was at the Audi this morning after it exploded, laughing it up with the cops. It probably means they still think I'm alive, especially since they were just at your office."
"I don't think so. That was probably just a routine check to make sure you didn't spill the beans to anybody. No, the more I think about it, you're dead to them. It's going to take a while to identify whoever broke into your car and--"
Lofton held up a hand and cocked an ear to the five o'clock news.
"...even though most of the body was destroyed along with the Audi, federal investigators were able to match a lower jawbone fragment to the dental x‑rays of Lieutenant Commander Lester F. Thatcher of the United States Navy. Commander Thatcher was a submarine officer assigned to the submarine tender USS William B. Holman, currently based in San Diego, and had been reported missing for several days.
"The car's owner, Bradley P. Lofton, is also missing. The FBI and the Office of Naval Intelligence have been called in since a United States naval officer died in Lofton's car. The FBI announced late this afternoon that the statewide search for Lofton will be expanded to a nationwide basis..."
Kirby turned down the radio. "Jeeez!" he muttered and gripped the wheel. He turned to Lofton and stammered, "I saw that car, your car. Nobody was in it. They must have stuffed the body in last night or early this morning and set off the charge.
"Nationwide search; Renkin has a lot of clout."
"It was a signal, Walt," Lofton said grimly, "Renkin is finally letting me know. And he's moving fast."
"Jeeez." Kirby repeated softly. The setting sun poked momentarily through the haze. He pulled down his visor.
CHAPTER SIX
Eastern Mediterranean, 1972
The new forty-seven-hundred ton Kashin class guided missile destroyer rolled drunkenly in the trough of a heavy northerly swell. The night was overcast, moonless, infinitely black as a thirty-six-knot wind tore at the Odarennyy's superstructure. She slewed parallel to the waves. Her spiderlike antenna swung through enormous arcs and her squat stern disappeared under dark, cascading comers only to shake loose again for the next onslaught. Things weren't better at the other end. Dark mountains assaulted her raked bow, which in calmer seas stood proudly and knifed easily at speed. Water had seeped through a faulty foredeck hatch gasket and shorted an electrical panel below decks. Power had been lost to the forward part of the Odarennyy. Her starboard anchor had been ripped effortlessly from the hawse pipe by a well-aimed rogue wave.
The pilothouse deck watch spread their feet; they clutched anything in reach and cursed as the Odarennyy bucked. Red instrument lights mixed with soft green CRT displays to cast a reptilian glow on their tense faces.
An apprentice seaman croaked loudly; a splattering sound echoed about the cramped, humid space. The deck watch bellowed an incredulous roar of condemnation as the odor swept through. Orders followed to grab a mop and remove the mess instantly.
As the young man gagged and swabbed at his vomit, the leading petty officer muttered that the bow must look like a boar with one tusk. There would have been soft chuckles under normal conditions. But they were closed up to action stations and the missing anchor didn't concern them. What concerned them was trying to find an American carrier group while approaching the southern coast of Cyprus with one of their four gas turbine engines down. Worse, the air search radar was acting up and the surface search radar was inoperative.
Junior Lieutenant Anton Pavel Dobrynyn stood near the aft bulkhead of the pilothouse and grabbed an overhead cable bracket just as the Odarennyy lurched once again. The helmsman, one of their best, swore softly and spun his wheel to keep them on course 290. The long, narrow ship slithered along the front of a wave, paused, then pounded her way across the back. Her nose finally buried in the trough. Dobrynyn heard but couldn't see massive sheets of water engulf the weather decks and eight souls who cowered under the starboa
rd bridgewing bulwark. The captain, the officer of the deck, the junior officer of the deck, three lookouts, and two signalmen were out there sealed in leaking parkas and sea boots. With dripping binoculars, they were trying to do what their radars couldn't for the moment. Find Americans to the north, toward Cyprus.
A cigarette glowed next to Dobrynyn as its host took a drag. Captain Third Rank Dimitri Lazo, the Odarennyy's zampolit, political officer, exhaled, then continued softly. "The Captain wants a firsthand report about the number-three engine. Also, do you have any ideas about the surface search radar antenna? Chernov is up the mast with that signalman, Ullanov."
"In this? Chernov gets seasick."
Lazo eyed Dobrynyn. "I'm not sure about his seasickness. Don't worry."
"Anyone would get seasick up there now."
Seconds passed. Lazo measured his tones pedantically. "It is necessary for the battle problem. That's why I sent Ullanov to help out. He's strong. They'll be all right. But Chernov asked for you. The last word we got was something about a broken waveguide. Do you know what that means? I can't get anything out of those idiots in main plot. They say they're too busy trying to work the battle problem off the air search radar. And the exec has the rest of the technicians up forward screwing with that damn electrical panel. Even a couple of radar people." He paused to watch the seaman work with his mop and bucket. "There is something else. You should know now since there isn't much time."
Lazo looked up to the six-two, thin, dark-haired Dobrynyn. "A fleet message came in an hour ago. You have orders. We're being refueled by the Izhora at noon tomorrow and you are to be sent over. You and Ullanov. They'll take care of you until she docks in Sevastopol in three weeks. You'll detach there and it's on to specialized training at the Combined Arms School. So have your gear ready."
Dobrynyn's jaw dropped open. He should have been surprised, he knew. He looked up, shadowy cables traced an indecipherable pattern in the overhead.
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 9
