THE BRUTUS LIE

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  The master sergeant looked up to them. "Just as well you can't make it ashore. Petropavlovsk is a hell hole anyway." He grinned. "This detail is the best liberty you'll draw here." He looked at Lofton. "Kalinin, huh? I used to know a girl from Kalinin. Let's see, her name was Ludmilla. She--"

  "Sergeant!" from the patrol boat.

  "Coming, sir," he shouted across.

  The garrison cap ducked, then reappeared. "And, Yushchenko, fix the starboard side light on this turd. It's out and I'm going to write it up. Somebody will hang by their balls if this boat comes back tomorrow night without a starboard side light. And that means you!" He jabbed a thumb, eyed them both, and descended.

  "Sir!" shouted Dobrynyn.

  The master sergeant made a long, graceful jump to the patrol boat's midships section. It burbled off into the dark, open bay.

  Lofton looked at his brother. Both exhaled with the same thought. Lofton offered, " IDs. He didn't check."

  Dobrynyn shrugged. "A flaw in our plan. We were lucky."

  "Maybe it was the smell."

  Dobrynyn jammed the T‑4's shift levers forward and twisted the throttles to half speed. With right rudder, he set the scow on the basin entrance.

  The breakwater's red beacon flashed across their faces every three seconds as they rumbled through the entrance. Guard towers stood on either side, and as he looked up Mount Tamleva's blunt face, Lofton saw the glassed-in control station on its peak. He imagined the uniformed guards inside, studying their sensors, watching every move through night vision binoculars.

  Inside, Lofton judged the basin about five hundred yards wide. He could see all the way to the end as it curved gently to the left. Docks, ships, buildings, and warehouses stood on the starboard side. Nothing to port except a perimeter fence and there, Ullanov's target. Two large and two small camouflaged fuel tanks, surrounded by their own perimeter fences, rose darkly into the night. He squinted. Three guards strolled inside the chain-link fence. A refueling pier and small boat docks stood at the water's edge.

  Lofton nodded toward the tanks. Dobrynyn said, "Right, the two large ones carry jet fuel for the gas turbine ships, the smaller ones are for diesel." He throttled back. "Here, we better service this icebreaker first."

  He swung toward the fantail of a stubby, high superstructure ship with a helo platform on her aft deck. Cyrillic letters were painted on her stern--Neva. The T‑4 backed, twisted nicely under the helo deck, and bounced against her rubber tire fenders. Ullanov threw a bow line, Lofton scrambled down and tossed up a stern line.

  They looked up as the T-4's engines idled. A loud voice announced, "Dinnertime, Bubnov." Flashes of garbage and trash rained into the T‑4's well deck with clatters, clanks, and soft plops.

  Men drifted away, except one. His voice drifted across softly, hoarsely. "Hey, Bubnov, got any hash tonight?"

  Dobrynyn looked out from under the tarpaulin top and gave a thumbs down. Rotten turnips splattered about his feet as he ducked back under.

  They cast off and roared to their next customer--two new supply ships nested together. Dobrynyn nudged the T‑4 between their sterns. The garbage rained, but this time no one hailed Bubnov.

  "Hey, Brad, did you see it?" Dobrynyn called down.

  Lofton coiled the stern line. "No, where?"

  "Wait 'til we back out of here."

  Their pick‑up completed, the T‑4 backed clear and headed further up the inlet toward the next mooring, two nested corvettes. They looked like Grisha II types to Lofton; new, rather boxy, slab‑sided, they bristled with electronics, twin fifty‑seven-millimeter mounts, and enormous twin RBU‑6000 antisubmarine rocket launchers rested just forward of the pilothouse.

  "Brad, there." Dobrynyn jabbed a thumb to port.

  Lofton peeked around the pilothouse superstructure. A one- hundred-foot barge loaded with large commercial containers lay in midstream held by anchors fore and aft. But, he remembered, Brutus was inside, the containers formed a fake structure. An armed ocean‑going tug was moored on the side nearest him and--and moored on the other side, he could see its hull number, 831; a Stenka patrol boat, one that had helped kill the Kunashiri Maru.

  Something caught his eye three hundred yards forward of the fake container barge. Something he'd missed as they dodged turnips from the ice‑breaker sailor. Another barge, perhaps 150 feet, was anchored forward of the one that carried Brutus. It looked like a floating warehouse, with corrugated walls, roof, and large sliding doors. A single dim light bulb on the shallow pitched roof illuminated a drooping red flag--a bravo flag. This was an ammunition barge.

  Vessels were moored to either side of the ammo barge. To starboard was Krivak hull number 059 and to port, a darkened patrol boat. He barely made out the bleak white numbers, rested Stenka number 726, the one that had removed him from Brutus at gunpoint. And whose crew had beaten the hell out of him.

  The Krivak blazed with lights, her after port side thirty millimeter gatling gun poked straight up into the night; the forward one-hundred-millimeter gun did the same. Ghostly shapes drifted through shadows as men worked near their guns and hatches passing crates and long ammo belts. The hangar doors gaped open on the helo deck where five sailors pushed a KA‑27 Helix ASW heli­copter onto the launching platform. Two sailors pulled at the rotor blades, extending them. The chopper looked as if it was being prepared for flight.

  Lofton pounded the stanchion softly as he took in the scene. The Krivak was loading for another kill, filling its belly after having emptied death on the Kunashiri Maru.

  "Looks like they're about done, Brad. Stupid of them to take on ammo in here. But those guys won't go out to the explosives anch­orage, they don't trust anybody now. Let's hope they're in the sack by the time we get to our barge."

  "Those bastards!" Lofton growled.

  "Easy, tovarisch," Dobrynyn said softly. "OK, let's take care of this nest. After that, we'll head back to the barge. All set?"

  Lofton took another look aft at the Krivak, nodded, and checked forward. They were almost to the end of the basin. Two hundred yards ahead, nestled alongside a wooden pier, lay three Stenkas, their snouts pointed toward Avachinskaya Guba; dark, yet their high, humpbacked superstructures and pilothouse windows made them look hulking, waiting, suspicious of every move in the harbor. Smaller craft were scattered about; work boats, camels, a couple of fuel-oil barges, and two armed tugs, all dark and at rest. He looked back to the container barge. Brutus was inside that phony struc­ture, waiting under the guns that had killed the Kunashiri Maru.

  The T‑4's diesels clunked into neutral, Dobrynyn backed down and stopped between the two Grishas' fantails. The small ASW ships were dark and snugged down for the night. But still, Lofton could tell the corvettes were alive, sleeping but alive. Their exhaust blowers whined up and down their lengths, almost as if the ships were snoring. "Where have you people been? It's late!"

  Lofton looked up. Four men lined the rail of the ship above him, five on the other. All cursed and heaved loads of waste, some in dark plastic bags. More raw garbage gushed and plopped from large metal barrels into the T‑4's well deck.

  "That's it?" Dobrynyn waved to both ships.

  "Suck off, man." The KGB sailors disappeared.

  "OK." Handles down, he backed the T‑4 clear, spun her with starboard ahead, straightened out, and threw the port engine ahead. Leaving the T‑4 in idle he called, "Josef?"

  "Right here, Colonel," Ullanov's head popped to the top of the ladder.

  "OK, listen you two. I'm going to move in slowly so we don't attract attention.

  "Brad, you and Josef head for the bow and jump aboard as soon as we're close enough. I'll be right behind. We take out the guards on the barge first, there should be four. After that, Brad, go directly for your submarine, remove the limpets, and power up as best you can. It probably needs salt water for cooling, doesn't it?"

  Lofton nodded. "Yes, I can bring it up partway but we'll have to wait until we hit the water before I get 100 percent ou
tput. Let's just hope no one's tampered with it."

  "Right."

  They looked forward. The barge loomed closer, a hundred yards away. Dobrynyn said, "The tug and the Stenka look like they're secure for the night. Crew's probably ashore but I'm sure each has a cold iron watch aboard, maybe two or three people. Josef and I will take care of them. Brad, make sure you cut away the tarp and get the securing chains off the sub. And try to grab a rifle along the way."

  "Got it."

  "What time, Colonel?" Ullanov asked.

  Dobrynyn checked his watch.

  "Yes. We should decide when to set the charges." Lofton bit his thumbnail.

  The three exchanged glances.

  "It's 10:14," said Dobrynyn.

  Lofton said, "The sergeant's job is the most critical. We should work backward from when his are set to go off."

  Lofton looked at Ullanov. "How long to set your charges and return? Forty minutes?"

  Ullanov shrugged.

  Dobrynyn said, "That is a lot of time for us to wait around, but we have to make sure you get clear, Josef." He flicked the T‑4 in neutral. They were getting close. "Set your limpets for 11:10, Josef. I'll set mine for one minute later, 11:11. Your limpets have real-time clocks, don't they, Brad?"

  Lofton said, "Yes."

  Thirty feet. Dobrynyn dropped the T‑4 into reverse.

  With a nod to his brother, Lofton followed Ullanov down the ladder and to the bow. The barge loomed ten feet before them. Lofton looked aft as Dobrynyn switched off the navigation lights.

  Full reverse, then all stop. The T‑4's bow nudged between the tug and the barge.

  They were almost level with the barge's deck. A figure separated from the shadows, a corporal; he wore an overcoat and fur cap. He held his carbine loosely in his left hand. Towhead, pimples, a young kid. His voice squeaked. "Hey, we don't have garbage for you. Get out of here."

  Ullanov jumped aboard lightly with, "We're out of gas, man."

  "Get off." The corporal raised his rifle and barked, "You're not authorized."

  The heel of Ullanov's hand flashed, a neck chop. Lofton heard the crunch and caught the rifle before it clattered to the deck. The corporal's eyes glazed. Ullanov bear-hugged his victim; the corporal's head lolled on his shoulder. More crunching. Ullanov spun around, raised the corporal by his armpits, and threw him into the T‑4's well deck, where he landed with a soft squish.

  Dobrynyn materialized alongside. Lofton handed over the carbine.

  "OK. You get the next one. Let's go this way."

  Dobrynyn had started toward the starboard side when another guard, a six‑five giant sergeant, walked around the corner. "What the--?"

  Dobrynyn hit him with a nose chop. Bone cracked. The enormous sergeant flailed at his face with a surprised grunt. His arms groped for Dobrynyn. Ullanov tried to get around but there wasn't enough room on the narrow deck.

  Dobrynyn's arms spread wide. He splayed his fingers and swung both palms hard against the man's ears. Blood spurted out the guard's nose. He sank to his knees, retching. Dobrynyn grabbed the sergeant's ears and drove a knee into his face. The man fell on his side with a groan. Ullanov reached around, pulled the AK‑74 off the guard's shoulder, and handed it to Lofton.

  Ullanov and Dobrynyn rolled the guard to the deck's edge. They each grabbed a hand. Ullanov kicked the body over the side. It hung there, its boots three feet above the water. Dobrynyn nodded. They let go and the body hit with a soft splash. Lofton looked over the side to see the KGB sergeant floating facedown. His boots gathered water and pulled him under. All that weight, the saturated overcoat--he'd be on the bottom within a minute.

  A crude, wooden-framed doorway materialized next to Lofton. It had a canvas cover. He hadn't seen it before. "Pffft." He raised a hand and gestured with a thumb. Dobrynyn nodded, then pointed to port and starboard.

  Ullanov went to starboard and peered forward. After a few moments he gave a thumbs up.

  Lofton went to port and peeked around the corner. He could see up the length of the barge and, beyond, the lights of the Krivak alongside her barge where men still loaded ammunition.

  Water lapped at the tug next door as she waited to tow Brutus to Vladivostok. Big, powerful, it looked to be over 150 feet. An enormous reel was mounted on the aft deck with an oily, glistening wire line coiled around. Soft, yellow light glowed from a porthole on the main deck below the pilothouse.

  Lofton turned and joined the other two. He whispered, "All clear forward. But at least one guy is awake on the tug."

  Ullanov said softly, "Clear to starboard. All lights out on the Stenka. I can't tell if anyone's aboard, but I know where to find them."

  Dobrynyn nodded. He turned and nudged the canvas aside with his gun barrel. It was a light lock. Another section hung four feet ahead. He moved inside, followed quickly by Ullanov.

  Lofton ducked inside as the forward curtain grazed over Ullanov's back. His mouth fell open when he moved through. Dobrynyn already had the drop on four surprised men as Ullanov quickly stepped around to their left. Their hands rose as Dobrynyn tapped his lips with a forefinger. Their eyes caught Lofton, then jerked back to Ullanov and Dobrynyn.

  Two wore coveralls, Lofton checked their shoulder patches: torpedomen. They stepped back to Dobrynyn's soft command. The other two were KGB guards, a sergeant and a corporal without tunics, overcoats, or hats, only rolled-up sleeves. They eyed one another and stepped back, waiting.

  "Don't try it," Dobrynyn said softly, waving his rifle barrel. "I'll chop you to pieces. Brad, cover them while Josef and I tie them."

  Lofton made a show of cocking and aiming his AK‑74. He stood before the four at an angle, his feet spread apart, ready.

  Dobrynyn ordered, "Down, now. Flat on your stomachs or we start shooting. And no talking."

  They sank to their knees and flopped to their bellies. Dobrynyn nodded. Ullanov stepped over, searched them, and came up with nothing more than the guards' AK‑74s stacked against the wall. He found some rope and knelt to tie and gag them.

  While Ullanov worked, Lofton examined the inside of the false structure. Dim hand lanterns provided the only illumination in the cavern. It was supported by wood members, two-by-fours overlaid with plywood.

  But there, above him, resting in shadows, was a sleek sixty-five-foot torpedo shape covered with a dark brown tarp. Heavy chains crisscrossed the tarp and were secured to pad‑eyes on the barge's deck, where twelve seized pelican hooks absorbed the tension. Crude but effective: they'd gone to a lot of trouble. Brutus! Home! Two days ago he'd given up hope. Yet there was his submarine, waiting.

  Lofton eyed the prisoners as Ullanov finished tying the last one.

  Dobrynyn muttered, "OK. Let's throw 'em in the T-4." He and Ullanov grabbed their prisoners' collars and started dragging.

  "Looks like they're setting up for a combined shipment, Brad," Dobrynyn nodded to the gloom.

  Lofton turned to see two large A‑frames. A long, cylindrical shape, supported by a differential hoist, hung under each. One, a dull white-twelve-by-two-foot cylinder, hung suspended by a lug. The Mark 60 deepwater CAPTOR mine. "My God!"

  Lofton walked to the CAPTOR and ran his hands over it. A special towing pad‑eye was mounted forward, the one Thatcher had used to haul it to the Kuril Straits, where it had detached at Renkin's programmed command.

  The torpedomen had removed the mine's end cap. Lofton looked inside, seeing a dark, oily emptiness. Where was it? There, six feet away in the gloom, the other A‑frame hoist suspended the CAPTOR's parasite, a gray, glistening Mark 46 mod 4 torpedo. Lofton stepped over and whistled. Eight feet long, a foot in diameter, 560 pounds, the Mark 46 was the U.S. Navy's third generation-light­weight torpedo. Designed as an antisubmarine missile, its warhead was relatively small, packing ninety‑six pounds of plastic bonded explosive, PBXN-103. That would have been enough for the Truman.

  The Mark 46 tilted in the hoist as he touched it, and the chains clanked. A thin umbilical wire ran from be
hind the torpedo's twin counter-rotating screws back to the CAPTOR cylinder. Probably to its logic section, Lofton surmised.

  "Brad, hurry," came a hoarse whisper. Dobrynyn's head poked around the curtain. "Pull the tarp off and get aboard. We're going to check the tug and Stenka now."

  "In a minute, Anton. It looks like these people were preparing the capsule body and torpedo for shipment. Here, see all these tools, the torpedo dolly? They must have just pulled the torpedo out of the CAPTOR tube when we surprised 'em."

  "Is it safe?"

  "I think so."

  Lofton stepped back from the Mark 46, examining it. The torpedo was no longer a CAPTOR-enslaved missile but was still subject to its logic because of the umbilical.

  "Brad." Dobrynyn crouched at the light lock. "Get going."

  "OK," Lofton muttered.

  Dobrynyn ducked through the canvas.

  Still curious, Lofton walked back to the CAPTOR and checked the operating panel, finding three allen type recessed nut recep­tacles. The settings read:

  AUTO MAG INFL MAN

  ARM SAF

  BATT: ON/OFF

  Do it! Just in case.

  He scanned the deck, grabbed an allen wrench, and set the first lug to MAN. He set the second to ARM. He set the allen wrench in the third lug, BATT. It was in the OFF position. He flipped it to ON. Nothing happened. No lights, no indicators. He'd look again later.

  He ran to Brutus and took long minutes to unseize the starboard side pelican hooks and kick them loose. Chains rattled loudly as their lengths snaked over Brutus's topside and fell to the deck. He untied the tarp sections, pulled them off Brutus, and pushed them into a corner as far aft as he could get them.

  Brutus lay nested in a wooden cradle. Black, long, the minisub was hard to see with its anechoic skin. Yet Lofton sensed the minisub's power more than he saw the shape in the gloom. He walked around; the hull was all right and the rudder and dive planes looked clear. Someone had done a reasonable job unfouling the Kunashiri Maru's line from the five-bladed propeller, although he saw a few nicks in the shroud.