THE BRUTUS LIE

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  It was clear. Lofton kicked wood stringers aside, then nodded to Dobrynyn. With their hands braced on either side of the midbody, they slowly pushed the 560-pound scream­ing, smoking torpedo onto the barge's weather deck.

  Lofton yelled, "Side launch so the dolly doesn't catch the screws."

  Dobrynyn nodded and stepped around next to Lofton just as the Krivak's searchlight found them. They tilted the dolly's frame. Their load was almost three hundred spasming pounds apiece. The torpedo tipped and fell free with a splash as they held on to the dolly.

  The Mark 46's whine abruptly dropped to a burble as it shot forward and nudged the barge's side. Releasing the dolly, they saw minute bubbles trail into darkness. The Mark 46 probed its computer while working to forty‑five knots.

  "Three minutes, Brad, come on."

  "Hold on." Lofton caught his brother's elbow.

  They dropped to the deck, watching the Krivak's searchlight discover the torpedo's wake. A patrol boat spotlight flicked over, intensifying the path as the Mark 46 ran a tight figure-eight pattern. It broached. Bullets plinked in the wake long after it dove again.

  Lofton muttered, "It's still seeking. The depth engine must be screwed up. It should have bottomed before this."

  A patrol boat flashed under the barge's stern. Its engines roared in the brightly lit night toward the figure-eight pattern.

  "I think they're trying to ram," said Dobrynyn.

  The torpedo popped to the surface and tore for the Krivak's fantail. The patrol boat's thirty-knot speed was pathetically slow as the Mark 46 bored in at forty‑five knots. It broached again, then dove.

  There was a dull explosion. Water shot up the Krivak's stern. The frigate vibrated momentarily, seeming to shrug off the ninety‑six-pound charge. Fifteen seconds passed. Her lights winked out, the gas turbine engines wound down. Then, inexplicably, tongues of flame broke out on the main deck aft and licked upward toward the helicopter platform.

  Lofton squinted. The barrel-sized drums next to the helo had been knocked on their sides. "Do you think that's fuel?"

  "Either that or napalm mixture."

  A white‑hot flash seared across their eyes, followed by a loud, cracking whump. The KA‑27 Helix helicopter exploded. Its counter‑rotating blades settled to the flaming deck like the wings of a dying bug. A rocket fired from amidst the helicopter inferno and arced high over the hill to the west. Small-caliber shells detonated as the fire engulfed the entire fantail. Another rocket went off, caromed into the helicop­ter hangar, and exploded. The fire suddenly mushroomed and bright­ened. Figures on the Krivak's fantail writhed and twisted. Flames engulfed them. Some jumped over the side. Others fell and were immolated on deck.

  "Brad. We're cutting it too close."

  "Right." As he turned, Lofton saw flames leap from the ammunition barge's roof and eat down the sides. Another rocket flashed into the night while smaller-caliber rounds detonated like firecracker strings.

  He ran after Dobrynyn. "That ammo barge is going to blow, maybe the outboard Stenka, too."

  "Hurry!" They dashed up the ladder. Dobrynyn checked his watch. "Any time now, if Josef--"

  A bright, reddish-yellow flash was followed by an incredibly loud "WHOOM," which roared from their starboard quarter. Then another, even louder explosion. Flames boiled three, then five hundred feet up from the fuel tanks.

  "Josef remembered the arming lever." Dobrynyn wiggled into Brutus's hatch.

  As he waited, Lofton quickly poked his head out the roof. Singeing, bright heat tore at his hair and eyelids. A glance told him the whole western shore of the KGB naval basin was aflame from the burning Krivak to the ruptured tanks. Igniting fuel rolled toward the water, engulfing small craft at their docks.

  There was crackling sound aft. "My God!" Lofton dropped inside Brutus and secured the hatch.

  "What is it?" Dobrynyn knelt by Ullanov, working on the tourniquet.

  Lofton slipped; the deck was bloody. Stumbling, he reached for the pilot chair. "We're afire. Back aft. The plywood." His eyes darted over the panels as he punched switches. He checked the Ship CRT; all green, everything closed tight. "The wood must have been dry. It's burning like hell out there."

  Two loud detonations shook the barge amidships. Lofton felt as if a horse had kicked him in the buttocks. His brother's face jiggled violently even as two more quick, muted blasts jolted forward.

  Lofton checked the CRTs. They blinked and went back to all green. "OK, here we go," he urged softly. The deck tilted. He eyed the pitch inclinometer: five degrees with a slight port list.

  A loud thumping came from overhead.

  Dobrynyn said, "Must be the infrastructure coming down."

  The deck lurched: seven degrees.

  "Come on," Lofton urged. Then, "How's Josef?"

  "Out. I gave him morphine."

  A crunching, tearing sound came from above. The whole fake super‑ structure must have collapsed. Hoping the wreckage hadn't fouled Brutus's dive planes or propeller, Lofton fought the urge to raise the scope and take a peek.

  With a piercing clatter, the barge lurched to a ten degree list. Lofton shouted, "Looks like we may launch to port. Do you know if that tug's clear?"

  "Not sure, I didn't see--"

  Moving. They slid forward and to the left. The wooden cradle moaned from below as it slid on steel deckplates. They stopped with a jerk. Another squeak. Brutus's stern swung, Lofton guessed, sixty or seventy degrees clockwise.

  Dobrynyn stood, looking over Lofton's shoulder. "The barge's bow is off our port side now, I think."

  "Yeah, the cradle may have jammed up against a cleat or a towing bit--"

  WHAM! A tremendous concussion hit directly in front instantly followed by an earsplitting crack. Brutus shook throughout his entire length. Dust kicked up.

  Dobrynyn looked down. "The Krivak?"

  "Could be. Last time I looked, her whole stern section was afire. The ammo barge, too. Damn, I want to use the periscope but all that crap up there might break it off."

  "Take your time. Those people out there have other problems now."

  "Yeah, can't tell, we could be just settling evenly. I think-- whoa!" He pointed to the depth gauge: 1.1. "We're starting to immerse."

  "How much do we draw?"

  "Um, about eight feet in this condition. The ballast tanks are dry. Trying to get out of here without a trim dive is going to be interesting."

  Two almost simultaneous detonations hammered the bow. Brutus shook. Then a third, enormous explosion tore at the submarine. A light bulb shattered aft. Bits of insulation floated down.

  "Damn, like a depth charge." Lofton eyed his twin. "Those guys don't carry nukes, do they?"

  Dobrynyn shook his head and checked the depth gauge: 4.l.

  Lofton saw it too. "OK, the salt water intakes are underwa­ter." He pecked his keyboard, bringing the converters to full power.

  A low groan reached them from below. Strangely, it started aft with popping sounds, almost like gunfire.

  "Barge compartments collapsing, I think," Dobrynyn said.

  Suddenly the barge lurched. The deck sank. Brutus fell to port with a loud gush of water. Then they were bobbing.

  "We're afloat," Lofton checked the keel depth: 8.l. "I'm going to wait a minute so we can drift clear. Can you raise the hatch and check for debris?"

  "Right." Dobrynyn moved aft, reached up and spun the hatch wheel. It clunked open and he stepped up the ladder. Lofton heard coughing and hacking as the hatch slammed shut.

  "Flames everywhere. All I saw was the barge, it's about twenty feet aft, with the stern sticking up. We're clear of junk. But that damn armed tug and Stenka are fifty feet ahead in a nest. Somebody must have boarded them and dropped their anchors."

  Acrid smoke attacked Lofton's nostrils as he reached up and pulled on the periscope housing. He pushed the "up" button: Two feet would be enough.

  "Fires all over the place," Dobrynyn muttered as he bent over Lofton, watching the CRTs fl
utter. "I couldn't see the Krivak, too much smoke."

  The Master CRT periscope video picture unwound, then set itself. Lofton trained the scope forward, then to starboard. "Jeez, see that?" he pointed. "The Krivak's bottomed on her starboard side." He flipped to high power, and the glistening bilge keel jumped into view, a lonely bronze propeller gleaming in the flames. "The ammo barge is gone. And the Stenka too. The whole mess blew up."

  "Time to go, Brad. It won't take them long to get organized. And the outer harbor will be on full alert."

  "OK. How's Josef?" Lofton nodded toward the pilot berth.

  "The stump's still bleeding, seeping through like a sponge. I better tie the tourniquet tighter."

  "No, hold on for a minute. Let me get going here." Lofton nudged the throttle. Brutus's propeller chopped the water. A red warning light bleeped on Master as a ship's ID scrolled through:

  GRISHA II CLASS ASW FRIGATE 112/0.2 nm

  Lofton flipped the scope to port. A frigate cleared her nest; water frothed under her transom. "Looks like she's backing straight out of the basin. She's gaining speed." He checked Sensors. "Seven knots sternway."

  "Not enough time to turn around."

  "Yeah. I'm going to dive now." Lofton checked his Ship CRT. Guessing at neutral buoyancy, he eased the throttle forward and admitted ballast manually. The tanks roared as water rushed in.

  "Here goes." He pushed the stick forward. "Hope I don't stick it in the bottom."

  They eyed keel depth. It hung at nine point five, then dropped suddenly to 4twelve, then fifteen, then twenty feet.

  "Whoops." Lofton eased back on the stick and squeezed out ballast. Brutus hobbyhorsed to ten feet, then back to twenty‑five. "Can't go faster than five knots," he muttered, "I've got to follow that Grisha out there."

  Depth settled to fifteen feet. As Lofton puttered with his keyboard, fine‑tuning the trim, a buzzing sound rose from astern. It ripped past close above to starboard. The CRT announced:

  STENKA CLASS PSKR PATROL BOAT

  Lofton nudged Brutus to twenty‑five feet. Two more Stenkas zinged overhead as Dobrynyn wrestled with Ullanov's leg. The master sergeant stirred. A hand went to his eyes and he moaned.

  "We'll be out in a few minutes," Lofton said. "I was going to say something about Josef." He checked Sensors, making sure they matched the Grisha's speed. "Kirby," Lofton said softly, "the SEAL buddy I told you about, he's an orthopedic surgeon now. He told me about this type of wound."

  Another Stenka zipped overhead, then a smaller patrol boat.

  "Sounds like they're clearing the basin." Lofton checked NAV and energized his BQR‑37. The channel entrance sprung into a gridlike view one hundred yards ahead. Beneath the Grisha's hull were portrayed the deeper waters of Avachinskaya Guba.

  "Come on, come on," Lofton muttered. He looked up. "Kirby said corpsmen are told to clamp the bleeders with forceps, as many as you can find. There's maybe three or four major arteries or veins, I forget exactly. But you'll find forceps in the medical bag. Clamp the bleeders, leave the forceps attached. After that, wrap the stump in gauze with an Ace bandage and tape it off."

  "You mean, we take off the tourniquet?"

  "Yes."

  "Commander Brad is right, Colonel." Ullanov's voice was hoarse yet surprisingly distinct. "We had a lecture. The dressing will last for several days if necessary...wound isn't as likely to become septic..."

  "Josef, how do you feel?" Dobrynyn demanded.

  "Like I was kicked by an elephant...woozy. My mouth is dry..."

  "Any pain?"

  "No."

  "We're at the entrance," said Lofton.

  "Can I see?" With a grunt, Ullanov rose on an elbow.

  "Just for a second." Lofton rose to seventeen feet, flipped off the BQR‑37, then raised the scope. Ahead, the Grisha's transom swung to port, killing her sternway. Water kicked behind her as her captain rang up "ahead full" on her port screw.

  Lofton trained aft. The breakwater lay fifty yards behind. Its red beacon shot rays onto the screen's right edge. Ullanov whistled as the periscope panned over the KGB naval basin's flaming western section. The Krivak lay immobile on her side. The ammo barge and Stenka 726 had virtually disappeared. Further aft, the container barge's stern protruded amidst burning wreckage.

  Boats whizzed about. Another Grisha backed clear of her pier. Headlights darted on shore as three high‑pressure water streams spewed at the fuel fire.

  The three watched the scene, their lips pressed. Ullanov slumped back and lay a forearm on his forehead. "...really in it, now..."

  "We'll see home again, Josef," said Dobrynyn.

  "We're clear," Lofton said. He retracted the scope and eased Brutus down twenty feet. "Time to go fast." He set the throttle, and their speed climbed smoothly to twenty‑five knots.

  Suddenly, the Sensor CRT jumped with grids and alphanumerics. A red light flashed. The display automatically transf­erred to Master:

  HAZE‑A DIPPING SONAR 076/0.8 nm

  STENKA CLASS PSKR PATROL BOAT 091/1.1 nm

  STENKA CLASS PSKR PATROL BOAT 122/1.4 nm

  SONOBUOY PATTERN (8)= CENTER 122/0.6 nm

  HAZE‑A DIPPING SONAR 163/1.4 nm

  GRISHA II CLASS ASW FRIGATE 190/0.8 nm

  "Oh, no! They've mounted a hunter‑killer group already. Look, two helos, two Stenkas, the Grisha and, for crying out loud, they've already planted sonobuoys. Look, eight of 'em." He eased in right rudder.

  Dobrynyn folded his arms, studying the screen. "See how the Stenkas are lined up with the two helos outboard of the screen? That means they're trying to herd you down to the southwestern part of the bay to an area called Bukhta Tar'ya. It's a cul‑de‑sac. Once they get us in there they will close the door. We'll never get out. Come left again. Head for the nearest Stenka, the one at zero‑nine­‑one."

  "You sure?" Lofton tweaked the rudder.

  "Yes, it's our best chance. How fast can you go?"

  "Thirty‑five knots if I'm really burning rubber."

  "Rubber?"

  "Uh, yeah, like a car peeling out. Why?"

  "Chances are the Stenkas aren't fully manned. They're rated for thirty‑six knots and it's going to take time for them to build speed."

  "How about the Grisha?" Lofton ran the throttle to full power. Brutus's screw dug the water; the knotmeter clicked smoothly through thirty‑one.

  "It's rated at thirty knots, I think. You should outrun her."

  "That leaves the helos."

  Dobrynyn sighed. "Yes, see? They're scattering." he pointed at Master. "They realize the ruse didn't work. Come right a little, now. The Stenka may roll a depth charge."

  Lofton eased in right rudder. With a glance to Dobrynyn, he said, "The KGB carries depth charges?"

  "Um. Come further right. Yes. He wants to swing in to parallel your course. Soon now if--"

  WHOOM!

  "Damnit." Lofton fought the joystick. Brutus lazed to port, broached, and resubmerged. The lights went out, flicked, and went on again. Through a vaporous haze, he said, "Jeez, that was close. We broached--think they saw us?"

  "Possibly. A little left now and head straight for the entrance."

  Brutus cycled up and down as Lofton tried to hold a mean depth of thirty feet. He eyed the knotmeter: 35. "The fuel cells are only delivering 89 percent power. We may be able to squeeze out another knot or two.

  "OK. Abeam of the Stenka," Lofton said. He checked NAV. "Petropavlovsk is two miles to port. It should be another five minutes or so to the Izmennyy Narrows."

  Dobrynyn pointed to Master:

  HAZE‑A DIPPING SONAR 162/1.2 nm

  HAZE‑A DIPPING SONAR 163/1.9 nm

  STENKA CLASS PSKR PATROL BOAT 345/0.4 nm

  STENKA CLASS PSKR PATROL BOAT 346/0.9 nm

  GRISHA II CLASS ASW FRIGATE 346/2.6 nm

  "Good, everybody is astern except the helicopters. Is this our best speed? Thirty‑six knots?"

  "Um. More or less. Brutus is rated at thirty‑five. We never
exceeded that in trials."

  "Who's 'we'?"

  "Me, I built this thing."

  "You?"

  They looked at each other.

  "Relax, Anton. I shifted from the SEAL business to the sub business and became a practicing naval architect. I build submarines."

  Dobrynyn looked about him. "Sadka told me about the submarines, but I didn't realize you built this little machine."

  Lofton nodded.

  "We're one and the same. It's as if I built it too." Dobrynyn said to Ullanov. "Josef, did you hear that? We're going to be OK. I built this submarine."

  "Officers, my ass."

  The twins grinned.

  Lofton lowered his voice. "We have to clamp his arteries, soon."

  "I know. It's amazing he's not in more pain."

  "Shock does it, I think. The nervous system shuts down and the body protects itself, something like that. The morphine helps, but he'll feel it soon enough."

  He checked NAV. "OK. Abeam of Izmennyy Peninsula. Babushkin Kamen is coming up on our right. We'll be in the Pacific in three minutes or so." He sat back and arched an eyebrow. "How soon, do you think?"

  Dobrynyn bit his thumbnail. "They'll drop when we hit deep water, probably at the one-hundred-meter curve."

  "Could we hug the coast and stay in shallow water until the helos run out of gas?"

  "Don't think so. The bottom is irregular and treacherous. Reefs, islands, steep peaks reach up through swift currents. And the helicopters can be relieved by others, so their on‑station endurance is unlimited. If we stay inshore, they can bring up the Stenkas and depth charge us or hit us with RBU 6000s from the Grishas."

  Lofton nodded. "OK, top speed and we'll hug the bottom."

  "That's our best chance."

  Two minutes later NAV blinked, indicating Mys Mayachnyy lay seventeen hundred yards off their port beam.

  Lofton punched a program to hug the bottom. Brutus tilted and headed to two hundred feet. "It's cold water here. Think we'll find a temperature gradient to hide under?"