THE BRUTUS LIE

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  It took precious seconds to find the ladder he knew would be on board. It turned out to be a fifteen-foot aluminum one. He laid it against Brutus, grabbed a hand lantern and climbed up. It was hard to squeeze to the hatch, the fake container roof was three feet above his head, impeding the crawlspace. He got on his knees and lifted his back against the plywood; nails creaked, then popped. A four-by-eight-foot section worked loose. He carefully lifted it aside on the roof and looked out.

  The tug and the Stenka rode comfortably on either side. It looked as if the Krivak was almost finished with her chore; her ammo detail had waned. Her forward and amidships work lights were out. A few men still trudged around the fantail and worked at crates piled on her main and helo decks. Two large drums stood alongside the Helix helicopter. It looked as if they were servicing the helo, maybe refueling it.

  Forward of the Krivak and her ammo barge, the red beacon announced the entrance to the KGB naval basin. The black waters of Avachinskaya Guba and the muted lights of Petropavlovsk beckoned beyond.

  He eased inside, laid the AK‑74 on Brutus's deck, knelt to the hatch, and popped it open. Black inside. He found the ladder and dropped below. His first look would tell. He knelt to the deck and shone the lantern about. No open panels, no ripped-out wiring; so far, so good.

  He worked himself into the familiar pilot's armchair and relaxed to its contours.

  Home. His cramped cylinder comforted him; he had been with Brutus in San Diego, he had built Brutus. This was a shred of home, or at least as close as he could get to it, and much better than the cell in Petropavlovsk or Sadka's Moscow interrogation chambers. Six days in the Pacific, and he could be home.

  First things first. He brought up the interior lights and checked the battery levels. Cells three, four, five, and six were in the green, numbers one and two at the top of yellow. Good enough to start the catalytic beds, although he couldn't bring them up to full power until Brutus was immersed where he could kick in the coolant pumps.

  He flipped on his CRTs and checking POWER, tapped the keyboard. The CRT read:

  H2 O2 67%

  JP‑5 62%

  All right, enough fuel left for extended cruising.

  The Master CRT caught his eye. It flashed:

  KRIVAK CLASS FRIGATE 347/0.2 nm

  STENKA CLASS PSKR PATROL BOAT 007/0.1 nm

  STENKA CLASS PSKR PATROL BOAT 195/0.0 nm

  UNK VESSEL * 187/0.4 nm

  (* BOTTOM ‑ 377 FT)

  Lofton imagined the computer's belch as the battle management system figured it out. The HP 9028 blinked and reflashed the data. The screen cleared to a soft light green. The cursor winked in the upper left‑hand corner, ready for the next problem. Lofton sighed, sat back, and stared at the CRT for a moment. The readout was blank, gone with the Kunashiri Maru.

  His eye jumped to keel depth; it read 0.0. The catalytic bed temperatures climbed to one hundred degrees and held. He found enough power for a trickle charge to battery cells one and two, plus a Hotel load.

  OK. Lofton lurched out of his chair, went aft to the galley, and knelt to the deck plates. Pulling the four securing levers, he squeaked the deck plate up out of the way and reached down to snap open the magazine lid. Six dull black skeet‑shaped limpet mines rested on edge like plates in a dish­washer. He deftly removed their straps, laid them on deck, closed the magazine lid, and reposi­tioned the deck plate. Lofton grabbed two in each hand and started for the hatch.

  He was startled to see a dark face in the oval above him.

  "Is it all right?" Dobrynyn whispered.

  "All clear, so far. Can't wait to clear the harbor so we can take showers. We'll smell like goats in here." He handed up a pair of limpets. "How'd it go?"

  "Fine, we found five people in the tug's duty section and another three on the Stenka. They're tied up and in the barge with the others. Josef is down there now securing them to the well deck bulkhead. Talk about stink." Dobrynyn reached for two more limpets. "They're writhing in garbage where they belong."

  Lofton passed up the last two mines and climbed onto the casing. He handed all six down to Dobrynyn, who knelt on the main deck and set their clocks.

  Ullanov brushed through the curtain and walked up to them, a scowl on his face. "That idiot Stenka petty officer gave me a bad time. He kept wiggling and almost bit through his gag. I had to hit him hard." He looked up to Brutus and whistled. "So that's it, huh?"

  Lofton nodded. "Yeah, he's powered up now as far as I can risk. We'll have to wait for the big splash before I go to 100 percent."

  Dobrynyn checked his watch. "OK, it's 10:39. What do you say, Josef?"

  Ullanov shrugged. "Twenty minutes?"

  "Be on the safe side. Make it thirty," Lofton said.

  The three looked at one another and nodded.

  Dobrynyn sighed. "OK, Josef, like we planned, set yours for 11:10 exactly. I'll set mine for 11:11."

  "Don't forget to set your arming levers, Josef," Lofton said.

  Dobrynyn chuckled. "Josef, I think he likes to give you as much crap as I do."

  Ullanov stuck out his chin. "Officers. All bullshit. Not a brain in their heads. For example, what about the Stenka and the tug? Hadn't you better untie them so they won't keep the barge afloat? Huh?"

  The twins exchanged glances; they nodded.

  Ullanov slapped their backs with his large paws. "Officers. I spent three quarters of my life just keeping officers alive and their noses clean. Think they'd learn something."

  Ullanov picked up his two limpets. "Eleven‑ten, Colonel. I should be back in fifteen to twenty minutes. If you officers have trouble casting off those ships, I'll be back to show you how." He turned and walked toward the light lock.

  "Josef," Dobrynyn called.

  "Sir." The master sergeant kept walking.

  "Have fun with the T‑4. Don't eat too many turnips."

  "Sir." Ullanov disappeared through the light lock. The brothers went out and watched the T-4 back away. Ullanov waved once, spun, and idled toward the fuel dock.

  "Let's go." Dobrynyn said.

  They went inside, knelt beside the limpets, and set the timers.

  "It's your submarine, Brad. Where's the best place?"

  Lofton rubbed his chin. "Two either side amidships, the other two either side all the way forward, as deep as you can go. The way I figure it, this thing will sink bow down and pitch us forward so we can launch. If we place the charges at all four corners, it might take forever to sink.

  "Makes sense." Dobrynyn nodded. "These barges have a lot of compartmentation. I'll plant the limpets, you cast off the tug and Stenka."

  "Yeah, but I'm going to leave their stern lines attached," Lofton said. "Since the tide is going out, they'll stay alongside more or less and nobody will get suspicious."

  Dobrynyn nodded, stripped to his skivvies, and walked out with two limpets.

  Lofton picked up the others and followed. Dobrynyn grabbed a small line, threw it over, and jumped into the black, oily water. Lofton threw off the mooring lines as he followed Dobrynyn around the barge, handing the mines down. All four charges were set and Dobrynyn climbed aboard, where he stood shivering next to Lofton and patted himself dry with the torpedomen's rags.

  Checking his watch, Dobrynyn said, "It's 10:46. Josef should be back. Why don't you wait on top of the submarine? I'll go back and watch for him as soon as I'm dressed."

  Lofton went inside, mounted the ladder and knelt on Brutus's casing near the hatch. He peeked out the top of the plywood overhead again. Salt air wafted to his nose, a horn honked, water slapped the barge's side. He glanced toward the fuel tank farm. No sign of the T‑4. Ullanov must have moored inboard of the fueling pier. Forward again, the Krivak's crew still worked the fantail. A small derrick hoisted torpedoes aboard, where four lay stacked near the KA-27.

  Something caught his ear. He ducked his head and looked inside. Anton was bending over and one‑legging into his trousers but aft, near the light lock, stood a KGB maritim
e warrant officer. Lofton crouched; the man wore a parka and his naval garrison cap, but no trousers or shoes. A Makarov pistol drooped at his right hand as he looked for his comrades in the gloomy space. Dobrynyn or Ullanov had missed him. The man had been asleep in a dark, obscure cabin somewhere.

  The warrant officer spotted Dobrynyn. "Who are you?" he shouted. "Where is everybody?"

  Dobrynyn's head twisted. He dove for his rifle six feet away. The warrant officer raised his pistol in a two‑handed stance and fired, hitting the rifle and giving it a three‑quarter spin. The report echoed as Dobrynyn stood up with his hands in the air.

  "What the hell is going on?" yelled the officer. "Raise your hands higher." He walked closer. "Where are my torpedo­men?"

  Lofton knelt slowly and picked up the AK‑74. He aimed and squeezed the trigger, sending a two-second burst into the man's chest. The KGB officer's arms splayed straight up, the pistol flew from his hands as the rounds thrust him back eight feet. The blast's echo died while brass cartridges tinkled down Brutus's starboard side.

  Lofton started down the ladder as Dobrynyn rose and held up a hand. "No, stay there, Brad. Watch out the top and see what's happening outside. I'll look for Josef."

  "How much time?"

  "Ten-fifty-one. Another nineteen minutes." Dobrynyn walked through the light lock.

  "Damn." Lofton poked his head through the ceiling again and checked the harbor entrance.

  His heart sank as red and green navigation lights swept toward him. A siren wailed ashore, barracks lights flicked on. Another siren wound up, then a third. They crescendoed and ripped at the night. Lights beamed up from the perimeter fences. Forward, the Krivak's searchlight snapped on, swung aft, and found the barge. Lofton raised an arm over his face as it blinded him. But his peripheral vision caught three patrol boats converging on the barge.

  Shielding himself from the Krivak's searchlight, he saw the T‑4 was underway, plowing toward him. Ullanov would never make it before the patrol boats charged in.

  CHAPTER NINTEEN

  The patrol boat swooped in to port, two hundred yards ahead of Ullanov's T‑4, and throttled down, its transom raised as the wake caught up. Troops stood next to the rail, their rifles ready.

  "Aboard the Yarev, is everything all right?" a voice hailed as the patrol boat's spotlight flicked over the tug.

  As the boat wallowed, Lofton noticed a percep­tible movement from the tug. At first, he thought it was rocking from the patrol boat's wake but, carried by the tide, the tug slid forward and cleared the barge. Lofton turned to starboard. The Stenka also drifted. Anton had cast off their stern lines.

  Another patrol boat roared in to starboard, slowed to an idle, and hailed, "Stenka 726, what are your intentions?"

  Gunfire aft. Lofton ducked and looked inside. The port side patrol boat had opened up, and plywood chips exploded from the aft bulkhead. Dobrynyn dove through the light lock and fell to the deck as bullets stitched the panel behind him. Lofton jumped down the ladder and ran.

  "I'm OK," Dobrynyn said, getting up. "I had to cast those boats off. Otherwise, it would have been easy for them to board us."

  He nodded his head to the doorway. "Josef will be here in a few seconds. I've got to help him."

  "Let's go."

  "No, you stay here."

  "Let's go." Lofton grabbed his rifle and ducked out the light lock.

  They emerged onto the barge's narrow aft deck to see the T‑4, now thirty yards away, roaring toward a third patrol boat where it idled under the barge's stern. Someone shouted. The boat's engines bellowed. She dug her screws and cleared the T‑4's jutting bow ramp by two feet.

  "Anton, he's not going to stop. I think he'll jump. We've got to catch him."

  Dobrynyn shouted over the noise. "As soon as he's aboard you take port and I'll take starboard. Make sure they don't try to board us. We'll send Ullanov up to the bow." He checked his watch. "Ten-fifty-seven. Thirteen minutes to go."

  Ullanov backed the T‑4's port engine and threw in left rudder, slewing the garbage scow's stern toward the barge. At full speed, the T-4's port engine sputtered, then wound to full rpm astern, belching an enormous cloud of black smoke.

  The patrol boat crews caught on. Sparks and bullets ricocheted about the T‑4's pilothouse as it twisted in. The bow ramp flashed by, then the odorous midships section. Lofton glimpsed wide‑eyed bound and gagged forms in the well deck, buried to their hips in muck. Lofton fell flat as bullets whanged at the barge's freeboard. He raised his rifle and tossed a burst into the nearest pilothouse. The searchlight shattered, screams and grunts cascaded over the water.

  The T‑4's aft structure swept by. A dark figure rose and jumped. Ullanov landed on the barge, crashing against plywood as bullets punched around him. He crouched, unslung his rifle, and squeezed off a burst, dousing the port side patrol boat's search lamp. Dobrynyn opened up to starboard. A loud, prolonged scream etched the night.

  The port side patrol boat maneuvered wildly to clear the skewing T‑4, which roared in lazy circles toward the east basin docks.

  Lofton caught Ullanov's eyes. Each sent another burst into the aft patrol boat.

  "OK, Commander Brad." Ullanov checked his watch. "Another nine minutes to go."

  "Josef?" Dobrynyn's voice came from the starboard side.

  "Yes, Colonel."

  "Go forward and watch the bow. We'll board the submarine when your fuel tanks blow."

  "Sir." Ullanov rose to a crouch and ran for the light lock.

  A burst ranged from the aft patrol boat. Bullets chewed up the barge's freeboard, then found Ullanov and spun him. He fell with an incredulous roar.

  "No!" Dobrynyn yelled. They reached him at the same time and, kneeling, emptied their magazines into the patrol boat. Its engine growled and it backed away.

  Dobrynyn bent over Ullanov and rolled him over. "Josef!"

  Ullanov gritted his teeth, then rasped, "My leg, damn it. My leg, it's on fire."

  Ullanov's foot was gone, missing below the ankle. Glistening darkness shot from his squirming calf and smeared the deck.

  "Inside, quick," said Lofton.

  They grabbed Ullanov's armpits and dragged him toward the light lock. Lofton fully expected to be cut down but, incredibly, there was no gunfire. They pulled him through the double curtain and reached the ladder below Brutus. A broad trail gleamed all the way to the light lock. "Tourniquet!" Dobrynyn panted.

  Ullanov began to shout, then roared and kicked his legs. Lofton held him as Dobrynyn scrounged for a piece of line. He returned and looped a small rope around Ullanov's calf and tightened it. The spurting blood slowed to an ooze in the dimness.

  "Time?" Lofton asked.

  Dobrynyn flicked his wrist as he secured the tourniquet. "Eleven‑oh‑three. Seven minutes."

  "They're not shooting anymore."

  Dobrynyn glanced around. "Umm. They're afraid of hitting something inside. Maybe that torpedo, maybe the submarine. Who knows?" He knelt. "Let's get him aboard."

  A bullhorn sounded as they bent to grab Ullanov. "Throw out your weapons and give yourselves up. You have five minutes."

  Lofton arranged a moaning Ullanov over Dobrynyn's shoulder. "You're right, they're worried about hitting something. They could have opened up with their twenty‑five millimeters and chewed us to pieces by now."

  "Yes." Dobrynyn grunted under Ullanov's weight. "I'll be surprised if they hold their fire." The ladder creaked heavily as they worked Ullanov's bulk to Brutus's hatch.

  "Anton, lay him on the starboard side bunk. You'll find a medical kit aft in a locker next to the galley bulkhead."

  "OK." Dobrynyn climbed down.

  Lofton handed down Ullanov. The master sergeant's head lolled as he descended, yet he caught Lofton's eye with a thin smile before he disap­peared inside.

  Lofton shouted down the hatch, "I need to check the hull again. We may have taken some hits." He slid down the ladder and ran around his submarine. No bullet holes, although he did
run his fingers over a bright, dollar‑sized area where a ricochet had chipped off the anechoic coating. He knelt and looked under the keel.

  The bullhorn blared, "You have three minutes!"

  For emphasis, a twenty‑five millimeter methodically pumped six rounds on single fire into the barge's forward starboard section. Lofton ducked. Cannon shells shrieked and whined, their noise intolerable. He crawled under Brutus, lay on his belly, and held his ears. Whole panels blew away. The roof crunched, then sagged over the starboard bow.

  Dobrynyn's head popped out the hatch. "Brad," he screamed.

  Lofton scrambled out to where he could look up. "I'm OK."

  "Well, get in here, damnit. Four more minutes."

  Another twenty-five-millimeter round blasted through shredding a panel with a deep, thudding crash. The area was open, and Lofton saw shore lights, the perimeter fence, even the brightly lit Krivak's fantail. He reloaded his AK‑74 and blasted out the interior lights with four rounds on single fire.

  As the echoes died, another sound reached his ears. Strange, immediate, a high‑pitched winding became a prolonged wail. Smoke, corrosive, noxious, drifted over him. The wailing was near, aboard the barge. A wind gust cleared the smoke enabling him to see the CAPTOR's body had been heavily punctured near the front end.

  Lofton ran to it. The whole operating panel was demolished, along with its logic section. A mild sparking from ruptured batteries flashed inside.

  To his left the Mark 46 torpedo vibrated in the chain falls as its counter‑rotating propellers gained full rpm. The liquid monopropellant engine screamed while the rudder and depth planes jinked back and forth.

  Dobrynyn materialized next to him. They nodded. Lofton ran for the torpedo dolly and wheeled it under the shrieking torpedo. As he ripped out umbilicals, Dobrynyn franti­cally worked the chain fall. The seconds needed to lower it twelve inches were excruciat­ing. Finally, the Mark 46 bedded on the dolly. The brothers worked quickly, their hands shaking. Lofton tore a fingernail on the chain hook while Dobrynyn unscrewed the lifting lug.