It still followed him. He couldn't shake it. Political types had hounded him in school; he'd worked harder than most and graduated in the top five percent. Hadn't he proven himself? And he took his commission seriously, he was an officer in the Voyenno Morskoy Flot. The Soviet Navy. The new Odarennyy was the reward for his efforts. She was revolutionary. Her four gas turbine engines put her years, decades ahead of anything the Americans had. As assistant engineering officer, Dobrynyn was enjoying the prematurely recalcitrant propulsion plant. This was what he had worked for. He should be free.
He looked down to the barrel-chested zampolit and stammered, "But sir, I've only been on board for two months. Combined Arms School. That's Naval Infantry. I don't understand."
Lazo took another drag. His voice rose as he said, "Dobrynyn, remember what I told you when you first reported aboard. This ship's morale and political well-being are my responsibility. The last thing I need are countercultures in my midst. I'm having enough trouble as it is. You're not a natural citizen. The records say your father is an American." Lazo's eyes rolled up to Dobrynyn.
"Yes, but he disappeared and--"
"You were born in the West. All this linked with having an American brother creates a security problem and the fleet political directorate concurs with my--"
"I think I was born in what is now East Berlin--"
Lazo raised a hand and slowly rolled his thick head, "East. West. Berlin is Berlin to me. It doesn't matter and the record's not clear anyway. And I don't care if you just finished five years at the Dzerzhinskiy Higher Naval Engineering School. I don't care if you received high marks. And I wouldn't spare Stalin's last turd even if you are one of the Rodina's greatest aspiring naval architects. No." Lazo shook his head." I just don't take chances. And since you'll be responsible for Ullanov at least until you get to the Combined Arms School, you should think about straightening out his Ukrainian line of shit.
"In any case, you are fortunate. You're to be given your second duty choice. Spetsnaz, isn't it? That's what you put on your duty preference form. You and Ullanov are headed for Spetsnaz training. You'll be heroes of the Soviet Union."
Dobrynyn drew himself up. "Captain Lazo. I like it here. This ship is a challenge and there is so much to do. Besides, I haven't seen my brother since we--"
The helmsman moaned.
Their eyes unlocked and turned to him. The wheel spun as the helmsman fought to keep the Odarennyy on course. He misjudged a wave, a monster, by two seconds. The destroyer took a heavy roll and the bow fell rapidly to port. Dobrynyn checked the inclinometer; the bubble traveled quickly to twenty degrees, slowed past thirty, and finally crawled to forty-one. The helmsman shouted. His wheel was useless. Odarennyy's rudder rose out of the water. Her bow was buried.
Dobrynyn hung tight. He knew what would happen next.
Lazo didn't. The swell quickly slid under the Odarennyy. She snap-rolled through eighty degrees to starboard in two seconds.
"Eaaagh!" The zampolit screamed and crunched into Dobrynyn.
Books, charts, papers shot from shelves and scattered around the pilothouse. The bucket of vomit crashed to the starboard bulkhead, spilling its contents. Two decks below, shouts and curses drifted up to Dobrynyn as crockery burst from cabinets and shattered.
Lazo's mouth worked toward another curse as he groped in the dark for a purchase; his cigarette fell to the deck. Dobrynyn reached to steady him while Lazo fumbled after it. The ember tip spun, then trailed sparks toward the aft bulkhead. Lazo dropped to his knees, his hands flailed as it rolled toward a cabinet that had just disgorged its contents. The cigarette miraculously navigated between two thick fleet operations manuals and disappeared under the cabinet. Lazo scrambled in pursuit. Dobrynyn's hand shot up to the bracket for the next wave.
The starboard pilothouse door was undogged from the outside and burst open. Loose papers and charts stirred and whipped about as Captain Second Rank Vladimir Sulak jammed his fair, hairless babyface into the pilothouse, binoculars dangling from his neck. He shouted at the helmsman, "Damnit, Ledokil! If you can't keep us on course, I'll find someone who can. That last roll almost threw us in the drink."
"Sir! The fantail broke loose. I--"
"Lazo! What the hell are you doing on the deck?"
"Captain. We were trying to--"
"Is that a cigarette? Damnit! You know my standing orders. No smoking on watch. Anywhere. You Zampolits know how to give orders. Why the hell can't you follow them?"
Lazo's hand found the burning cigarette tip. He squeezed it shut in his palm, grimaced, then stuffed it in his pocket.
Sulak rolled his eyes.
Lazo caught his balance and managed to rise as the ship steadied in a trough.
"Dobrynyn," Sulak asked. "I hope you have good news about number three."
Dobrynyn shrugged, looked at Lazo, then said, " Sorry, Captain. We just finished opening it up. Catastrophic blade failure in the compressor section. It's a yard job. And we're having trouble with number four."
"What?"
"Yessir. Main bearings are overheating in the fuel control governor. Chief engineer recommends we shut it down so we can take a look."
"Damn that aft engine room. What's wrong with those people? Lazo, this is all your fault. How much speed will you be able to give me, Dobrynyn?"
"Twenty knots, Captain."
"Not enough. Keep number four on the line. We're closing with the Americans and we'll need more than twenty knots to maneuver. A lot more."
"Yessir."
The door closed then, reopened, "Lazo. What's the latest on the surface search radar? Have you heard from Chernov?"
Lazo said, "He thinks it's an antenna waveguide rotary joint. I sent him up the mast to have a look, Captain. He and a signalman."
"What?" Sulak stepped in and closed the pilothouse door. Hatless, his glistening fair hair was plastered to his head. Water ran down his splotched parka. "What about the air search?"
"It's still not giving us a reliable surface picture, Captain. The stable element is acting up now. With this rolling, we can only pick up the carrier every ten sweeps or so. And you said no fire control radar."
"That's right. Our orders are to close to visual distance with that damn carrier. Not start World War III."
Sulak wiped water off his brow. He tossed over his shoulder, "Quartermaster. What's the distance to the coast?"
A reply came through the darkness instantly. "The last radar fix was twenty minutes ago, Captain. Cyprus was forty-four kilometers away."
Lazo said, "If the Americans stay on this course, they'll run straight into Larnaca Bay."
Sulak checked the gyrocompass heading over the helmsman's shoulder: course 290. "No. We're not that lucky. I know they're close, just to the north of us. Recovering aircraft. In this crap, yet. I heard a jet go over a few minutes ago." He smiled. "Sneaky bastards. They're all darkened. No lights showing. No radar emissions. Radio silence. And they know we're here. Plus, they know that we know they're out there. The hunt is on."
He focused on the two and his smile disappeared. "No. They'll change course soon after they finish recovering aircraft. And that means they have to come left toward us on 260 or so to clear Cyprus. And that means we'll soon be right in with them. I have to penetrate that destroyer screen but I can't do it without radar, damnit!
"Lazo. Call the Exec up here immediately and get Chernov down off the mast. You know he gets seasick easily and he's no good to us puking his guts out thirty meters in the air. We need him well, damnit!"
"I sent him up there to make a point, Captain." Lazo grabbed a bracket, like Dobrynyn. "Chernov's a laggard. I think he feigns his seasickness. As I advised you before, you should put a letter of reprimand in his naval file. I've already put one in mine."
Dobrynyn winced. He and Alexander Chernov had been at the Dzerzhinskiy Higher Naval Engineering School together in Leningrad. Chernov was a year his senior. They'd met at Melekhov Hall as youngsters, and Chernov, a math wizard, had tu
tored Dobrynyn and helped him qualify for the prestigious Nakhimov Naval Preparatory School in Leningrad. Chernov was prone to seasickness and when commissioned, had applied for a shorebound assignment. He hoped to get an early start into shipboard electronics, just as Dobrynyn was striking for a career in naval architecture. Chernov didn't make it. The Odarennyy became his unsettled home a year before Dobrynyn received orders to her. Their hopes were to be assigned to the Zhadanov Shipyards in Leningrad after they finished their obligatory three year tours of at-sea engineering duty.
Sulak growled, "Captain Third Rank Lazo. You are not a line officer. Those decisions are up to--"
Shafts of bright white light pierced the pilothouse portholes, filling the area with an unreal gleaming brightness. They whipped their heads to starboard and shaded their eyes.
"What the--" Sulak grunted.
A metallic echo wafted to them. "...stand clear of me. I am in international waters. I am the privileged vessel..."
"No!" Sulak pushed the door open and bounded outside. Dobrynyn followed into what seemed to be broad daylight. He blinked his eyes, tears flowed as wind tore at him.
"...stand clear..." A mournful foghorn sounded six times.
"Hold course!" Sulak yelled in the pilothouse. "Quartermaster. Turn on your searchlight, you turd!"
Lazo elbowed his way out then shaded his eyes.
Sulak yelled, "Lazo, It has to be one of the American screening destroyers pinning us from the carrier. Get those men down off the mast. Quickly!"
Lazo's mouth worked, "But I--"
"Now! You idiot," The captain shrieked, "do you want them dead?"
"...I am the privileged vessel. You are standing into danger..." The foghorn sounded again, its six two-second blasts crisp, staccato. Closer.
The Odarennyy's searchlight clacked on. A gray glistening hull shone, a hundred meters away, Dobrynyn thought. He judged her to be sailing ten degrees below the Odarennyy's course. Her bow rose entirely out of the water and a hull number stood out: 792. It looked to be an older World War II type destroyer with single gun mounts and no missiles. As he watched, tons of green water shed under her bridge.
Then Dobrynyn knew. The American ship was smaller. Sulak would not change course.
He ran. Wind caught his back as he ran down the aft companionway. He ran. His hands caught glistening slick rails as he descended four levels.
"...STAND CLEAR OF ME..."
Twenty strides found him at the base of the midships deckhouse. He undogged a hatch, shoved aside a lifejacketed petty officer, and gasped up three decks. Another hatch. Dobrynyn flung it open and ran on deck.
A senior seaman stood wide-eyed looking at the closing American ship. Sound-powered phones were clamped over his fur cap.
Dobrynyn could see better. The Odarennyy's bridge was the center of the American's attention, not this section.
He spun the man around, pointed up and yelled over the wind, "What are they doing?"
The ship took a roll to port, both had to grab the bulwark. "On their way down, sir. They just started."
Dobrynyn looked up. Two shadowy figures merged with the upper works in the blackness. They were about halfway down. One appeared immobile. Dobrynyn wiped his eyes and squinted. An officer! Chernov! The other figure grasped him with an arm and held tight as the ship swayed. They didn't seem to be moving.
Dobrynyn jumped at the small ladder and started up.
The American's foghorn blasted loudly six times.
Directly overhead, the Odarennyy's foghorn returned the fusillade with her own six blasts.
How close? He took a quick look over his shoulder. The American ship had grown to a massive, dark shape. It wasn't far, maybe a few meters.
"I AM THE PRIVILEGED VESSEL!"
He crawled, slipped. He racked a hand. Warm liquid ran inside his shirt sleeve. Keep going!
His head bumped a boot.
Dobrynyn looked up and yelled. "How is he?"
He barely heard, "Weak, sir. He's been puking the last half hour. Hasn't stopped."
"Are you Ullanov?"
"Yessir."
"Hold on. I'm coming up. We'll get him between us."
Dobrynyn heard a grunt, then started up again.
The Odarennyy rolled heavily to starboard. Then a shout from below mingled with water sluicing, washing, frothing. The American destroyer's exhaust blowers whined nearby.
Not us!
Instinctively, he wrapped both arms around the mast. The ships crunched loudly. Metal shrieked, sparks trailed along the starboard main deck amidships. He could hear the other ship. Feel it as it groaned alongside then bounced heavily away.
Dobrynyn slid down the ladder a meter. His foot caught a tread and he stopped and held tight. A boot kicked his head, scraped down his ear. Feet, legs spasmed down his back. He reached with a free hand and grabbed a wiggling collar. A second form bumped against his side. Someone shouted in his ear.
He turned to look as the Odarennyy started a roll to starboard. Alexander Chernov's hatless, pale face was within a few centimeters of his own. Chernov's eyes were wide, unfocused, vomit ran from the corner of his gaping mouth. Dobrynyn could only clutch the other man. The signalman groaned and shouted, his arm around Dobrynyn's back, holding Chernov's collar.
The ship wallowed through with her roll, another deep one.
The collar came loose, the coat tore. Chernov slid away, then plunged. Dobrynyn lost sight of him as he vanished into the dark, turbulent chasm between the two ships.
Both wrapped their arms around the mast and steadied themselves. Dobrynyn turned to look into the face of the man he'd just saved, the young face of Signalman Josef Ullanov.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The skiff hit another wave and was airborne again. Lofton chopped the throttle and fought for control as the twenty-foot Skipjack ducked deep in the trough, then struggled through the next set of swells. He checked the compass and scowled; 223 was his course to Avalon but the compass card swung wildly on either side. The night was dark. All he could see were the bottoms of low churning clouds; they roiled an immediate warning of the sudden front as they scudded aft toward Newport Beach's light loom.
Lofton checked his watch. He'd been underway for almost thirty‑five minutes but he had only covered fifteen or so miles of the twenty‑six mile trip to Avalon.
Bonnie had tried dozing in the small vee‑berth up forward, but the ride had been too wild. Now, she sat next to Lofton in the cutty‑cabin jump seat. She had to yell over the wind. "Good God! How much longer?"
Lofton tried the throttle again and Kirby's runabout, Them Bones, gained speed; the knotmeter jiggled through 22, 25, 27...then--
"Hold on!"
Airborne, and, crunch! Water flared from the boat in all directions. He throttled back.
"Yeah, this should only be a forty‑five minute trip. But with this weather..." He wrenched the wheel to take a swell head‑on. "It's hard to tell. Maybe another forty minutes or so."
Bonnie reckoned they were nearing midchannel; the seas, even the whitecaps, were harder to pick out since they had cleared the coast. She was glad Lofton was steering, he seemed to be managing. "I'm not sure I can go back tonight, in this."
"I've been thinking about that." Lofton worked the throttle and wheel as they climbed the front of a large swell. It grew and grew, then they jumped over the peak and gaped into a confused, dark chasm twenty feet below.
He shouted as they slewed into the abyss, "Jesus! Did you see that? It almost broke on top of us."
The crests were high and the period between the waves short. Thirty-knot winds preceded the front, unusual for this time of year. He sniffed the air. Rain was on the way.
Another wave, a mountain, rose before them. He could hardly hear himself, let alone Bonnie, who scrunched tighter to him.
"We'll have to find a bunk ashore for you in Avalon somehow. Is your parka warm enough?"
"What?"
"Your parka! Is it
warm enough?"
She put an arm around his shoulder and Lofton felt her lips on his ear. "The parka's fine. Where do I stay tonight?"
He turned and looked at her; her eyes, her full mouth. Her hair was wet again, like yesterday with the spinnaker, but this time the corners of her mouth were turned up slightly. They looked at each other. Then she chuckled in spite of the storm. "Watch the road, mister, or we're both in trouble."
In a quick glance, Lofton checked the wave pattern and his compass. The card bounced around 175. A wave towered above him; they were almost broadside to it, ready to broach. He yanked the wheel to the right and added power. The twin counter‑rotating screws linked to the single 230 horsepower Volvo engine bit the water just in time and pushed Them Bones's bow around and up the wave. They got to the top. Wind shrieked in his ears, salt spray blew across his face and, yes, he tasted fresh water.
"Rain!" he shouted. Bonnie's hands pulled the parka hood deep over her face. She slid lower behind the small windshield and shoved her hands into her pockets.
"Good news and bad news," he yelled from the side of his mouth. He felt her move, his statement acknowledged. He laughed with, "I think we've punched through the front, which means the wind will die soon. It also means lotsa rain and I can't see a damn thing.
"Bonnie?" He tried again, "Bonnie?" He felt her shrug.
Another massive wave towered before him. He had to find his way up; too far to the right, he swung left slightly and found its top. Smaller humps eased their ride down the back. Rain and spray lashed his face, his parka, ran down his neck, his arms. Yet the Volvo purred on, the knotmeter held at around fifteen. Not bad.
The wind dropped ten minutes later. The waves were smoother, more predictable, and they weren't cresting as much. Lofton edged the throttles forward. The downpour was still hard; sheets of it drove against him as he tried to snake Them Bones around the larger moguls. Within another few minutes they reached the lee of Catalina and all he had to contend with was the late summer storm's rain.
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 10
