Keys jangled, then worked at Dobrynyn's cuffs. His hands were free and a gas mask landed in his lap. The wraith bent to work at his leg cuffs. Dobrynyn fumbled the mask on, blinked several times and took deep breaths. He recognized Ullanov's black curly hair as his master sergeant worked furiously at his ankles.
Another shape blended before him, a man in a flight suit. Orbruchev also wore a gas mask.
Dobrynyn was free. They grabbed his armpits, dragged him to his feet and toward the door.
"Josef," Dobrynyn coughed behind his mask.
They kept moving, in the middle of the room now, toward the main hallway. Other shapes stumbled with him, his own men, all with masks on. They shuffled among writhing, coughing, whimpering, reeling soldiers. Without masks, the KGB couldn't ward off kicks and blows as they groped down the hallway.
Finally, outside. They breathed in sobs as Ullanov and three other Spetsnaz conked emerging, coughing KGB soldiers and threw them into a shed.
Dobrynyn tore off his mask and breathed deeply. The air was clean, cold, sweet, but his lungs still rasped. "Josef," he gurgled.
Ullanov ran up and lifted his mask. "I've set up a perimeter and Orbruchev says he can fly. He's starting the chopper now. I have Ritzna and Barguzin pumping kerosene off the truck. All we need is two more minutes. Then we have to move, fast. Some of those dumb turds dove out the windows and got away."
Dobrynyn ran wheezing back to the building.
"Where are you going?" Ullanov yelled.
"That KGB colonel. I'm taking him with us."
Ullanov summoned two Spetsnaz and they caught Dobrynyn at the door.
Ullanov said, "Fine with me. Might as well grab that captain and throw his ass in the Caspian, too. I wonder how high the sonofabitch will bounce after he falls five hundred meters?"
The four donned their masks and ran into the smoke.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They hauled Lofton over Stenka 726's fantail and searched him, taking everything except, surprisingly, his watch. Two sailors shoved him against a bulkhead and pinned his arms while other crew members turned their attention to Brutus bobbing alongside. One officer held a pistol, loosely, speaking to the bridge via a hand-held radio. Another shouted at his men, exhorting them to make a sling and fenders around Brutus to keep the minisub from bumping the patrol boat's starboard side.
The Stenka wallowed. Her crew gathered in knots, speaking conversationally as if they were on a Sunday jaunt. The two sailors relaxed their grip and Lofton stood between them almost casually. But, he smelled the cordite, and his eyes caught the Kunashiri Maru's oil slick, flotsam bobbed in ground swells. More than fifty men and women. The man next to him, a heavy-set gunner's mate, pulled a half-peeled orange from his pocket. He began munching, his thin red lips sucked at the rind, juice ran down his chin and dripped on his parka.
Lofton wound up and hit the gunner's mate solidly in the left temple. He hardly saw the man go down. Huge fists pummeled his face, his kidneys, back, stomach. He toppled to the deck and groveled among empty thirty-millimeter shell casings covering his head. Finally, mercifully, they tied his hands and threw him into a paint locker where they almost crushed his wrist in the hatch. Fortunately, the ropes and stainless watchband absorbed most of the hatch's impact.
His jaw ached, pain shot through his head when his tongue jabbed the tooth they'd loosened. His ribs hurt, blood caked his face and sweater. He lay among buckets and pails for well over an hour and listened to Stenka 726's three great diesels idle as she rolled in the ground swells. The Krivak's gas turbines whined nearby. Shouts filtered down to him. The KGB crews were standing by for instructions.
The hatch ripped open, and Lofton blinked at the brightness. A lanky, yellow‑toothed figure moved in, jabbing a knee in his chest, and laid a cold pistol muzzle on his nose. Lofton couldn't distinguish his captor's face, just teeth and the round, white outline of an officer's combination cap; the man's parka smelled of diesel fuel and fish.
"Americanyets, we know. Self‑destruct? Explosives?" His head nodded outside.
Damn! Why hadn't he thought of that? It would have taken thirty seconds to arm those limpets. Brutus should have been blown to bits by now. Instead, his minisub was about to fall into Soviet hands. He jerked against his ropes.
"Explosives?" the enraged voice repeated, the knee pushed harder.
Lofton shook his head.
"Good."
The officer got up pressing his weight against Lofton's chest. Then the hatch slammed and was dogged shut.
Soon, there were more shouts. The Stenka's three M503A diesels rumbled, backed, stopped; transmissions clunked as the boat pirouetted. The KGB was setting up a tow for Brutus.
The trip to Petropavlovsk seemed to take hours. Diesel exhaust and paint fumes swirled around a coughing, gasping Lofton. Keeping his head close to the deck didn't help. He retched over and over until he fell into a lethargic, toxic sleep.
He awoke when the diesels dropped to an idle. He felt a small, almost tentative bump. Shouts, thumping of boots, and the slap of heavy manila lines told him they were docked.
The hatch banged open; quickly, they yanked him to his feet, a blindfold was wrapped around his face and they prodded him off the Stenka and threw him inside a large, vehicle with a strong, wide floor. When it moved he could tell it was one of the eight‑wheeled amphibious BTR‑60 troop carriers. A boot pressed firmly against the small of his back during the five-minute ride.
They dragged him out and stood him against the BTR-60. Nobody spoke. With his blindfold, he felt alone in a blackened world. A gull cried and a ship's forced draft blowers wailed nearby. This is it. That yellow-toothed officer is lining up ten guys at twenty paces. They'll cock their AK-74s any second now and pull their triggers.
Someone grunted, a hand pushed him up a short flight of stairs, he stumbled through a door. Feet shuffled, a chair scraped on a wooden floor. Voices whispered as he passed through a room: pencil shavings, it smelled like a schoolhouse. A heavy door rumbled and Lofton was eased down a deep flight of wooden stairs by his armpits. His ribs screamed with pain, one or two felt broken. At least three men surrounded him, one on either side and another behind. Wordlessly, they shoved him along a hallway and into a small, sturdy room. A door clanged shut behind him.
Alone.
Sinking to his knees, Lofton lost his balance and fell heavily on his side.
"Owww!" He bounced six inches off the dark, cold cement as if he'd been jolted by defibrillating paddles. Everything: ribs, tooth, face, jaw, belly, sent unbelievable messages of wretched anguish to his overloaded brain....
Lofton woke several times. His throat was dry, he couldn't see or move his hands. Once, he tried to roll and swung his feet. A cold thick wetness seeped out of his trousers as his own stench greeted his nostrils. Shivering in his excrement, he dozed and waited. Sleep came fitfully as his ribs shrieked.
For company, he set his digital watch alarm and counted Forty six double "bleeps" interspersed with forty-five single "bleeps": almost two days.
Footsteps. The door banged open, men entered the room and muttered in soft voices.
The blindfold was untied. He blinked. Gray light filtered through a high, barred window. Yes, three shadows merged into figures. One of them blended to the likeness of an officer. Lofton squinted at his shoulderboards. They were green, the man was a KGB full colonel. He swung his head to find a wooden bench and a crude concrete cell, perhaps eight feet square. The other men were Naval Infantry with black berets. Their boots were planted wide apart on the rough floor, a pool of stagnant water glimmered in one corner.
"Up!" from the KGB colonel.
"Huh?"
"Sit up, Comrade Thatcher. We want shirt, pants. You have smell."
Hands grabbed his armpits, he was lifted to the bench. The soldiers untied him. He bit back the pain as they tugged off his jacket, then the rest of his clothes and threw them aside. Naked. Cold. He sat and hugged his shoulders.
&nb
sp; The two Naval Infantrymen were silent, confident. One was a tall, oafish blond corporal, the other a master sergeant with dark curly hair and intelligent eyes. AK‑74s were slung over their shoulders. He didn't recognize the badge on their berets. Their boots squeaked, shiny, strong. The master sergeant caught Lofton's eye, then looked away.
The KGB man stood over him. "My name is Sadka, Commander, Colonel Sadka. OK, please be relaxed and lie down. I examine." The shoulder patch indicated the KGB colonel was a doctor.
Lofton's tongue was thick as he tried, "My name's not Thatcher. You've got it wrong. I'm Lofton."
Hands shoved him back. The master sergeant easily pinned Lofton's shoulders to the bench and stared at him.
"Yes, that's OK." Sadka bent over and thumbed the cuts on Lofton's face. He said softly, "Where are you all right?"
Lofton blinked, then answered, "The ribs and the wrist." He pointed to them.
"OK."
Lofton watched the doctor probe; he had sandy hair, a full face, wide‑spaced pointed teeth, and freckles. He looked too young to be a colonel. He pushed at Lofton's wrist, rotated and flexed it. Then Sadka poked his ribs, watching Lofton grimace.
"OK." Sadka produced a stethoscope and gave him a quick once‑over.
"OK." The wrist and ribs were quickly taped. Sadka stood and reached into his bag. Out came a Nikon and he snapped six pictures of Lofton's blood-encrusted face. Then he repacked the camera, closed his medical bag, and turned to leave.
"I'm a civilian. Can I speak with someone from the U.S. embassy?" Lofton blurted.
"OK, shirt, pants clean. Not smell--they come to you."
"No--. I mean yes. Thanks. Can I see someone from the U.S. Embassy, please?"
The master sergeant stopped as he bent to pick up Lofton's clothes.
"OK. Three days to patch up. We need you rested, then we are to Kubinka--"
"--I can't believe this." Lofton's voice rose. "Yes, I made a terrible mistake coming here. I'm sorry. But it's not like I'm a POW. I mean our countries are...are..."
All three stared at him, their faces like stone.
Colonel Sadka's lips worked to a thin smile. "Good-bye." He walked out.
With a thumb and forefinger, the sergeant slowly handed the turtleneck, trousers, and skivvies to the corporal. The sergeant kept his focus on Lofton as he tossed the jacket in his lap. Their eyes locked until Lofton turned his head and put on his jacket.
Squirming into sneakers and socks, Lofton felt absurd before the sergeant and corporal. They sported slick creaking boots, well‑cut black trousers, spotless blue and white teeshirts under black tunics, and close haircuts.
The sergeant nodded to the corporal; they quickly snapped handcuffs and leg manacles on Lofton while he watched dumbfounded. The corporal walked out; the sergeant paused and slowly backed away, his eyebrows arched. Then the door thumped shut.
He slept until the early evening when the corporal returned with clean clothes. The infantryman waited patiently while Lofton put them on, then replaced the handcuffs and manacles. Surprisingly, the corporal produced a tray with weak potato soup, a slice of bread, and tea. He stood outside the door until Lofton finished, then took the tray. Lofton was still hungry. The soup made him ravenous and thirsty.
Lofton's watch bleeped twice, waking him: 3:00 A.M. Where am I? His belly rumbled. Forget it. He couldn't and was tempted to lap at the pool of water in the corner. A green viscous surface beckoned. It's stagnant--forget it. He cocked an ear while he waited for sleep. Doors opened and shut overhead, the building felt small, it must be a working facility, with his present quarters a holding cell. A guard shuffled in the hall occasionally. Even at this hour, voices, boisterous shouts drifted from outside, a tank rumbled past, other deep-throated vehicles drew up and left. His tooth still hurt, but his head didn't explode when his tongue nudged it.
Lofton shut his eyes to go back to sleep; but his mind wandered. Suddenly, he was wide awake and sitting upright with his eyes wide open. He bit his lip. In just two days, the USS Truman would be blown apart by Renkin's torpedoes and splattered over uncharted acres at the bottom of the Kuril Straits. One hundred twenty‑six American officers and men would be dead. And Brutus. Dr. Sadka had called Lofton "Commander Thatcher." That meant they must have been inside Brutus and found Thatcher's personal effects.
He gritted his teeth. Those bastards had been crawling in his minisub. He imagined grinning, white overalled technicians with thick paws ripping out wire harnesses. At this very minute, they could be peering into cabinets, pushing switches, running their fat hands over his fuel cells, studying the anechoic coating. Why the hell hadn't he set the limpet charges? How could he have forgotten?
And Sadka had said Kubinka. Lofton knew of it from his SEAL days. Kubinka was a major Soviet Air Force base north of Moscow. But why not one of Moscow's civilian airports, like Sheremetyevo? Or Domodedovo? Or Vnukovo?
Lofton's stomach churned. His tongue was dry and he swallowed rapidly. Kubinka! A maximum security air base. No civilians. Minimal bystanders. He could be secretly whisked to--to one of the KGB's "psychiatric Institutes" nearby. With unlimited clinical resources, Sadka could work him over. Then Lofton would simply disappear. Three days, the doctor said, then Lofton would be well enough to travel to Kubinka--
--a door banged open. Soft voices filtered down the hall and stopped at his door. Lofton checked his watch: 3:27 A.M. Men talked with the guard, then the key rattled and the door swung open. There were two, both wore berets and were silhouetted in the dull hallway light.
A flashlight snapped on. Lofton covered his eyes, then lurched to sit up.
"Nyet."
The flashlight was close to his face now. The man's other hand held a pistol close to Lofton's head. He recognized the glint of a nine millimeter automatic Makarov PM.
He propped himself on his elbows, frozen. The flashlight and Makarov came closer, then stopped twelve inches from his face. The beam's reflection cast a faint glow, allowing him to identify one of his jailers, the master sergeant. His ribs hurt. He started to rise again.
"Don't move!" the sergeant barked in Russian.
Lofton froze.
The other black beret slowly walked into his cell and stopped in cameo five feet away. Lofton caught the reflection of an officer's cap device; a shoulder insignia told him this was a lieutenant colonel. He couldn't see any features except for the outline of a beard.
Trembling, he did his best to control his breathing and counted to twenty: Will it be quick?
Forty: Do you hear the sound? Do you feel the blast just before a nine millimeter slug tears through your brain?
The flashlight wandered down his chest, his hands.
Fifty-seven: The light flicked back to his face. He squeezed his eyes closed. Is it painful? Will my head feel like it's bursting? Exploding? Will my life flash before me--
"Pull the trigger and get it over with, Ivan!"
The sergeant's chuckle startled him. He opened his eyes to see the officer tap the master sergeant on the shoulder.
The pistol and flashlight were withdrawn. Both berets backed out of the cell. The door locked, their boots receded down the concrete hallway.
The doctor showed up the next morning, probing and pushing. He sniffed and pulled a face. "How are you feel, Commander?"
"Fine, Colonel Sadka--"
"Dr. Sadka."
"Yes, Dr. Sadka. Look, it's important that I speak with the American consul. This is all a big mistake. I'm a civilian and I never intended to--"
"OK, Commander, very good. Ribs seem better, maybe not split. Two days now." Sadka stood up. "You clean up. We don't like crap. You wash. I return tonight. Look tomorrow too. OK." Sadka picked up his medical bag and held it before him with both hands. He tilted his head slightly, smiled, then walked out the door.
The door remained open. Lofton caught a soft exchange in Russian down the hallway between Sadka and one of his guards.
"This man's injuries have put me w
ay off schedule and you're not helping things. I left orders yesterday for him to be cleaned up, and not just his underwear. He stinks. How can I work with a patient who stinks, you idiot? You may do things differently in Petropavlovsk but where I'm from, people follow orders. I want him clean. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Dr. Sadka."
"What's your name?"
"Ullanov, sir."
"Who is your superior?"
"Lieutenant Colonel Dobrynyn, sir."
"You report to Dobrynyn?"
I'm his adjutant, sir."
"Spetsnaz. You look familiar. Have we met?"
"Uhh. Briefly, sir. Baikonur."
"You! You tried to throw me out of the helicopter!"
"Thought you were a spy, sir. You compromised our mission."
"Nonsense!"
Silence. Lofton heard a nervous shuffle, he felt darkness. Spetsnaz? What the hell did Baikonur have to do with all this?
Sadka spoke in a level tone. "We'll talk about Baikonur later, Ullanov. After I'm finished, you could well be patrolling the Bering Straits by dogsled. In the meantime, get this man cleaned up!"
"Sir!"
Footsteps receded up the stairs, the door creaked open and slammed.
An enormous redheaded Naval Infantry brute filled the doorway, his eyes like slits. He unslung his AK-74 and beckoned. Lofton shuffled out carefully, turned left, and almost bumped into the master sergeant. The black-clad soldier unlocked the cuffs and leg manacles, then nodded to a gray-painted alcove at the end of the hallway. Lofton saw a drain; a fire hose with a long, thin nozzle was coiled on a rack. The sergeant handed over a bar of soap. It felt like the heavily pumiced kind mechanics used to clean up. The rifle prodded his back. "Go!"
Lofton took off his clothes and stood over the drain while the redhead blasted him with a heart‑stopping cold spray for a full minute. He soaped as best he could. The shivering helped him swipe the rough bar over his body. It chafed his skin and he wasn't able to raise any suds. He washed his face, scraped at his hair, then endured another sixty-second blast of cold water.
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 24
