THE BRUTUS LIE

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Kapultichev launched into his harangue. Dobrynyn grunted, pulled out Irenna's letter and unfolded it. His eyes found the scrawl.

  Dear Anton,

  This is very hard. I'm leaving. I know you're not surprised. I tried to call before you left but they wouldn't put me through or tell me anything.

  Do you know how much time we've had over the past 2 years? I figured it out. 5 weeks and 4 days. That's all. And that includes our 6 day honeymoon in Riga. I still don't understand why you didn't want to go to Havana. Viktor could have fixed it for us. He has connections. What do you have against Havana? The only time we seem to enjoy each other anymore is when we are in bed. Always in bed. Or jogging or dancing to the jazz records. You're so alone. Why don't you just talk to me?

  You're away too much and my own career is at stake. I don't know what a Spetsnaz does except jump out of airplanes or submarines on dark nights and sneak up to desolate beaches with all that scuba gear on. I wish you could tell me more. I wish you would wear your dec­orations more. Then maybe Viktor and the others would shut up.

  "Sergeant! I asked you a question. Where did you get the stuff?"

  Dobrynyn looked at the overhead. Not bad. Kapultichev was boring in. He visualized Kapultichev's handsome features, his square jaw, short-cropped red hair and well-defined build. He was a political officer, who had spent his entire career in Moscow, and the Leningrad-based 673 was his first, long overdue tour of sea duty. As in Moscow, Kapultichev quickly ascended to the top of photo­graphers' lists when they needed a model of a typical Soviet naval hero. Propaganda photos found him standing dockside before ships or under massive statues, looking wistfully up at clouds. But Kapultichev was never sent out to speak. Instead of a solid Soviet rumble, his voice was high, almost castrato, soft. When his anger rose it became shrill.

  Dobrynyn thought about it. How far could Kapultichev go? Zuleyev would back them up, of course. Zuleyev was the captain, he outranked Kapultichev. And he couldn't afford not to support Dobrynyn and Ullanov.

  For Zuleyev had given them the idea. He, Dobrynyn, and Ullanov had been drinking in the Sphinx the night before they shoved off. Known for its good booze and entertainment, the Sphinx was the latest in-place, a converted powerhouse on the Neva River. The deep, cavernous dynamo bed had been converted to an orchestra pit, then a disco chamber. As music pounded, Zuleyev reminisced about how he'd seen it done once when he was a gunnery officer in the Caspian Sea Flotilla. The results were glorious. Morale shot straight up. Josef sat there, nursed his beer, and nodded dumbly. Then Dobrynyn caught the slight tilt of Ullanov's head. Their eyes met briefly, the decision instant. Ullanov would know where to get the stuff. Dobrynyn knew where to put it. And later that night, it was done.

  He went back to his letter.

  And when we are together, you never talk to me and Ullanov is always around. I don't mind telling you. That man is dragging your career. Why is a sergeant, a junior sergeant at that, your best friend? And his girls. Like the one he brought to the party aboard the Grozny that night. She looked like someone from one of those Amster­dam bordellos you hear about.

  Dobrynyn's ears perked up when Ullanov finally admitted it.

  "...off the tender, sir. A friend of mine is a second-class petty officer. A pharmacist's mate."

  Now they were getting down to it. The best part of the drama. Men, both officers and ratings, stood watch in the control room directly aft of Kapultichev's temporary chambers. Their heads were pitched forward, their ears cocked. Zuleyev hovered among them, suppressing the hacking coughs, sneezes, and rippling giggles as Kapultichev's rantings ascended through upper octaves.

  "...methyl blue?" Kapultichev's squeal seeped through the curtain. "Some petty officer just handed a liter of methyl blue over to you?"

  "Well, sort of sir. Uh...it was...er...when he wasn't looking."

  Actually, Dobrynyn had distracted the man while Ullanov slipped behind the counter and pinched it.

  "How did you introduce it into the fresh water system? I didn't realize Spetsnaz had such intimate knowledge of a sub­marine's plumbing. Such intimate knowledge of..." Kapultichev paused, the electric propulsion motors softly whirred aft, "...of naval architecture." Kapultichev recited this evenly for Dobrynyn's benefit. A preamble to his own interrogation.

  "Been around submarines for a long time, sir. Actually I--"

  "You're still at attention. Damnit!"

  "Sorry, sir. I had a fourteen week tour on the 992 in the Caribbean once and I..."

  I have made a decision. I took the Aeroflot job. I'm through with coaching. I told Viktor yesterday. All my life has been on the ice dancing with Viktor and now, teaching new little Viktors and Irennas to skate their little hearts out. And that's what is going to happen to all but a few of them. No hearts. Since I was ten years old, I can't remember anything else except skating. And for what? An alternate in the Lake Placid Olympics? Maybe it's just as well I didn't go. The Afghanistan business made things messy for the team. And Viktor says you and your sergeant friend must have been there. Were you?

  But guess what Viktor told me a couple of months ago. The real reason I didn't go to Lake Placid was because they were worried about us even though we were only engaged. It was about your people there. That I might try to contact your brother or father for you. They thought I might even try to defect. How do you think I feel about that? Now it turns out I could have actually skated in the Olympics. But instead, they reclassified me down to second alternate, which means nothing. You should do something about your family problems once and for all.

  "Sergeant. This is going to go badly with you. You've damaged state property. Everything's blue. My teeshirt is blue. All our underwear is blue. The macaroni is blue. Our skin's turning blue. Blue -- blue -- blue. The chief engineer says we won't be able to purge the fresh water system for another two to three days, you bastard!

  "And," Kapultichev's fist slammed on the desk, he gargled at a high tone, "everyone's piss is blue.

  "You two thought we wouldn't figure it out until you were ashore, didn't you? What if the gyro hadn't broken down? What if you were ashore now? What makes you think we would have come back for you? The Swedes would have hung you both by the balls first, then shot you! No questions asked."

  I'm going to Moscow. Viktor found a place for me there. Aeroflot has me scheduled for the Warsaw shuttle after flight attendants' schooling. And they promised to put me on the waiting list for the Havana run. But that takes two to three years.

  I've taken my things. The place is yours. I never did like Leningrad anyway, I'm sure you're not surprised at that.

  I'll get the paperwork started. I know you don't have any time.

  Sincerely,

  Irenna

  P.S. I took the Count Basie, Quincy Jones and Johnny Keating records. You can have the rest.

  Kapultichev's fist slammed again. "You're going back to Afghanistan, damnit. I'm making sure that--"

  Something changed, the boat took a slight up angle. Dobrynyn heard a light tap outside the Captain's stateroom.

  "WHAAAT?" screeched Kapultichev. Then, "Sorry, Captain."

  In muffled tones, Kapultichev said, "What? It is? Yes sir, right away. Ullanov. Did you get that?"

  The wardroom curtain ruffled, and Zuleyev stuck his head in and said quietly, "Gyro's fixed, Anton. There's still time tonight. We're going to try again. Back into your Sunday-suit."

  Dobrynyn looked up and nodded aft.

  Zuleyev grinned, "Don't worry about Josef. I'll fix it with Kapultichev later. And I'll get him off your back, too. I didn't think he'd pull something like this."

  "Could be he's still nervous about submarines and being this close to the Swedes. Having a bladder full of blue piss at the same time probably scared the hell out of him."

  "Don't worry. I'll have a talk with him."

  "I think he could blow, Vladimir. You'd better watch him. Maybe even tonight. His first time in."

  "Yes. I've thought about that. He
needs something to do. But the control room people were bitching to me about him earlier. He stumbled into an electrical panel just before we surfaced a couple of hours ago. Nearly shorted power to the dive planes." Zuleyev studied the deck for a moment. "How about sticking him in the conning tower with the plotting party? Plenty of air in there. He'd be close to the bridge and you and the Chief can show him the charts so he can see what's going on."

  "For as long as I'm there. Josef and I exit. Remember?"

  "That's OK. I think he'll be all right after you two start out. He'll have seen two Soviet heroes go over the side in the name of the motherland."

  Dobrynyn chuckled.

  The skipper shook his head slowly, "Only a gag. That's all I wanted. Something to make these poor bastards laugh. Why do you think I let it slip the other night? Do you think I was that drunk? I knew you two were game."

  "More like had."

  "Yes. Perhaps." Zuleyev spotted the letter. "Forget her, Anton. Can't you remember what I said yesterday? It never was right."

  "I know."

  Zuleyev turned and went back to the control room. Ullanov walked in and glanced at Dobrynyn. He snorted and sat to pull on his gear as the 673 rose to periscope depth.

  Dobrynyn and Ullanov suited up, and each double checked the other's equipment. By the time they waddled up to the crowded conning tower the 673 had turned north, surfaced, and quickly approached the Karlskrona Archipelago.

  Rumbling diesels powered the 673 over a flat, viscous surface at fifteen knots. Action stations-surface were set and Zuleyev stood on his bridge with the exec, a third class quartermaster, and two lookouts.

  The moon had risen and softly backlighted a descending overcast. Landmass shapes were barely smudged before them and surface visibility settled to about fifteen kilometers. Zuleyev wiped a hand over his jaw. Good for navigation now, not so good for stealth.

  Zuleyev peered through his binoculars but his mind was on his objective. Which objective? Their primary target was the torpedo base at the western end of the island group. What if an alarm had been raised during their earlier attempt to penetrate that area? And their op-order warned of heavy patrol activity near Karlskrona in the central section. Stay at least twelve kilometers east of the main base, he decided. The Gåsefjärden area, the eastern section of the archipelago would be the one. Zuleyev set course zero-two-one and mulled over their chances of safely conning the 673 through the eastern section.

  He was fidgety as he swept with his binoculars. He and his lookouts hadn't seen any patrol boats. He didn't think any were running darkened and he'd always seen one or two on previous trips.

  Strange.

  He turned to make sure his lookouts searched their sectors properly. "Anything?" he asked quietly.

  "Clear starboard."

  "Clear port."

  Zuleyev's thoughts drifted back to targets. Which island? he mused.

  The 673 rumbled on.

  The exec and his quartermaster looked for navigational points toward shore; one's finger would jab at the night, the other would nod. White lights winked at them from irregular, ebony islands. Distant main channel navigational buoys illuminated by red and green lights danced in their binoculars. An occasional headland or charted rock revealed itself, barely silhouetted against the blackness. Sometimes the two disagreed on which was which but quickly moved to another point rather than lose time arguing.

  Left to right, the exec sighted his bearings and spoke in clipped tones, "Beacon, three-four-seven; Hasslö, left tangent, three-three-two; Utlängen, right tangent, zero-four-six." The quartermas­ter noted the time, scrawled numbers on a small pad then called them to the plotting party below in the conning tower.

  The conning tower reeked of garlic, sweat and diesel oil as men crowded against one another and bent to their tasks. The open hatch to the bridge did little to dispel the stench in the afterpart of the space. Even as the 673 now prowled along at five knots the air flow seemed less than usual. Dobrynyn figured they moved with a following breeze. Ullanov made a face, eased under the hatch, and took deep breaths. Dobrynyn saw him shift into darkness, away from the small, crowded navigation table and as far as possible from Kapultichev who lurked at the aft end of their cramped quarters.

  Dobrynyn peered over the shoulder of a deeply wrinkled, scarecrow-shaped chief quartermaster. The man nodded and wrote on a small pad as his talker, a young seaman, murmured data from the bridge, "Sturkö, left tangent, three-two-four; Danaflöt, zero-two-four point five; Inglängen, zero-eight-seven." The Chief licked his lips and quickly, accurately penciled three lines across the chart. Close now, Dobrynyn saw. The lines intersected about a kilometer south of Danaflöt, a small island that partially guarded the entrance to the Gåsefjärden.

  The 673's gentle rocking ceased as they entered the channel's smooth waters. The bridge talker held his hands to his earphones, nodded, then turned to Dobrynyn, "Captain says Danaflöt is abeam to port. He plans to take you right up to Ornö Island, sir."

  Dobrynyn nodded.

  Ullanov spat. "Ornö. Nothing but the best. I thought the 531 scouted that last month?"

  "They did, but apparently they didn't get everything," said Dobrynyn.

  Kapultichev's soprano tones wafted across the space. "Second­ary target, Sergeant. Underwater mine control center."

  Ullanov ignored him. "Why the hell haven't they heard us? The way this floating turd coughs and farts, they'll blow us all to hell before we get to Ornö."

  Kapultichev cut in. "Sergeant! The captain has good reason to..."

  Orders were relayed to the control room. Zuleyev had the diesels shut down and shifted to electric power. Then he called for ballast. The tanks hissed momentarily and the 673 rode with her decks awash. Only her conning tower remained visible.

  Kapultichev tried again. "You should--"

  The chief quartermaster said loudly, "Flaggskär Island abeam to starboard, plot recommends--"

  "Don't interrupt me," said Kapultichev.

  The talker blinked and said, "Bridge wants a course to steer."

  "Zero-two-four," said the quartermaster. "It's shallow in here, too." He checked the fathometer: seven point four meters. "Bottom's rising. Tell the captain I think we should go in dry."

  Kapultichev edged in between the talker and the quartermaster. "You mean pump our ballast back out again? The captain gives orders on this submarine. Why do you think he did that? So they can't see us."

  The talker started to relay the quartermaster's recommendation but Kapultichev covered the mouthpiece. "Hold on. Chief, I asked you a question."

  The talker rolled his eyes. The chief quartermaster turned red. Silence swept the conning tower as incredulous, open-mouthed faces turned to Captain Third Rank Pyotr Kapultichev.

  The zampolit looked at the quartermaster, then squinted at the chart. A fan whirred above them.

  The talker held a hand to an earpiece. He said to the bulk­head, "Bridge wants to know what is going on, sir."

  Kapultichev stooped over the chart, then eyed the fathometer. "Yes, all right. One moment. Chief, what does this mean?"

  A voice echoed down the hatch, "Josef, give me a fathometer reading. I can't get anything out of plot."

  Ullanov eyed the instrument, "A little over seven meters, Captain."

  The low-pressure blowers whined. Ballast was evacuated from the tanks.

  Kapultichev looked at Ullanov. "Sergeant! Who said you were qualified to--"

  "Don't talk, Kapultichev. We're in the channel." Dobrynyn said sharply.

  The zampolit mouthed, "You cant'--"

  "It's tight in here. We can't turn around if something happens. You're interrupting the plot. Stop talking. Now." Dob­rynyn's eyes were cold, gray.

  "I'll see that you're--"

  Ullanov pushed next to the table. "He means shut up you little zamp. Your crap isn't helping."

  The chief quartermaster eyed the bulkhead chronometer. "Thirty seconds late. Tell the bridge to come left to zero-z
ero-six. Now."

  "That's insubordination, Ullanov. You're going to prison." The talker relayed the message. Dobrynyn watched the rudder angle indicator swing left.

  "Did you hear me, Sergeant? Your ass is going to--"

  The boat heeled slightly to port. They heard a loud clanging down the starboard side.

  "No!" shouted the Chief.

  The 673 lurched again, heavily. Sailors pitched forward, then shouted, then tumbled. One thousand and fifty tons of a Voyenno Morskoy Flot Podvodnaya Lodka, NATO Whiskey class submarine kept going. Her five knot-inertia carried her over rocks, boulders; she plowed through sand, then screeched over more rocks.

  "All back emergency!" Zuleyev roared down the hatch.

  The 673 jinked on drunkenly. Her momentum slowed, but she bumped and thudded more heavily, sharply. Their vision blurred. Light bulbs shattered. Dust jammed the compartment; papers, books, charts spilled.

  She creaked once more and gave a final gasp.

  Silence. It was over.

  Sailors moaned and cursed. They reeled and picked themselves up.

  Dobrynyn rose with them and checked the depth gauge: three point five meters, one and a half meters above their five meter draft. High and dry.

  The 673 shuddered as Zuleyev started the diesels. They thundered with full astern power. The boat worried like a shark; her screws churned frothy water onto the rocky beaches of Torumsk Island.

  Something dug into Dobrynyn's back. He whirled. A dark, crimson face, Kapultichev's, was close to his. He looked down. The zampolit's Makarov, an eight shot semiautomatic, was pressed in his belly. The safety was on.