"Maybe, but not for another mile or two." Dobrynyn examined the Sensors CRT. "The helicopters are drifting astern and to starboard."
"Their contact must be getting fuzzy." Lofton came left to course 095.
"We might get clear before--"
TORPEDO ‑ 406 MM 46 KT 301/1.1 nm
"They've dropped." Lofton urged, "Come on." He checked the catalytic bed temperatures: four hundred degrees. Brutus arrowed at full power, the knotmeter read thirty‑seven.
"A nine-knot differential." Dobrynyn did the math. "Seven minutes. We might outlast it."
"What if I change course?"
"It's acoustic -- active/passive. It just follows what you do."
"Proximity fuse?"
"Yes, twenty feet I think."
Their eyes gripped the screen. The torpedo blip crept closer.
"Five and a half minutes to go," The screen flashed. Lofton said, "Hey, it disappeared, something happened." They heard a detonating roar aft.
"Faulty. But look, a helo is dipping ahead and there's yet another to starboard. Come left, we may still be able to break contact."
"Gotcha." Lofton swung Brutus to 045.
TORPEDO 406 MM 46 KT 180/0.2 nm
"Hey, that's close. Jeez!"
"Come further left."
"NAV says the bottom starts shoaling to port; if we do that we'll have to go up."
"Do it quickly!"
A whining noise grew behind them.
"What if--"
The explosion hit like a thunderclap. It jiggled their skulls and rolled them sharply to port, almost to beam end. Canned goods, books, tools, spare parts, and packages spilled from cabinets. Lofton's head struck the side panel with a crack. Dobrynyn tumbled over the armchair as Ullanov fell on top of them with a shout, then an elongated roar of pain.
A scream pierced their madness. But it wasn't Ullanov. Vapor clouds filled the kaleidoscopic interior as it gradually faded to black.
"Get off!" Lofton shouted.
Brutus rotated to an even keel and pitched down.
The CRTs jiggled to life and glared as the wailing scream persisted aft.
"We're taking on water," Lofton shouted, jabbing his keyboard in darkness. The Ship CRT flipped wildly through damage control assessments. Master CRT methodically blinked on and off with large letters:
JAM DIVE
"Dive planes are stuck in Full Down position!" Lofton's hands flew over the keyboard. He pulled on the joystick. Brutus's dive planes remained at Full Down. Lofton tore open a panel, flipped the planes' hydraulics to Manual and pulled the toggle--nothing. He chopped the throttle and threw it in reverse--he had to stop the descent.
Sparks flew. Large white bolts of electricity arced from the side panel and grounded through the deck plates. Dobrynyn was outlined in a blue‑white glare as volts spasmed through his jinking frame. He fell over Ullanov with a loud, piercing scream.
Lofton fought the controls, but the CRTs winked out one by one. The whole display became lifeless. No power, the propeller had stopped. Brutus's plunge continued as Lofton read the depth gauge spinning through twenty-seven hundred feet.
His hand groped for the emergency power switch on the side panel. He flipped it to Aux. A bright flash zapped back at him. Brutus groaned as he sank bow down.
The hull thudded on the bottom. Lofton lost his balance, surprised. The submarine canted to starboard with an obscene angle. He fell from his chair and tumbled atop two other grunting bodies onto the starboard bulkhead.
He blinked and clawed his hands into a sightless void. His mind reeled. Pitch-black water gurgled and splattered at his feet. Aft, the wailing reached him through a cry, his brother's, his own.
It was humid, dripping, the temperature was that of a tramp steamer's boiler room. Lofton raised his head; it fell back. His eyes closed as his own darkness swept through him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
At last rid of a miserable, humid summer, Washington, D.C., was reveling in an extraordinary autumn. Joggers and cyclists included Kalorama Circle on their Sunday tour, enjoying the deep reds, yellows, and ambers that bristled over exclusive homes. Strollers turned onto Tracy Place, sniffing the perfect mid-morning air, admiring the architecture, and wondering how much money the houses might cost. As usual, the Georgian brick at 2236, the one with the steep pitched slate roof, passed inspection admirably. Its gardener, an unmatriculated philosophy major with 182 units, took care of four houses in a row: 2236 through 2242.
But next door at 2234 the owner did his own gardening. As he started his leaf blower, the unmuffled gasoline engine ripped the air and Ted Carrington could not hear the football game he had videotaped yesterday, even when he punched the remote to full volume. He had opened the study windows to allow the fall air in. Dr. Renkin was settled out back with his easel after conducting an early morning staff meeting. Now, Carrington tried to watch Notre Dame. It was close, 17‑15, and Purdue had just passed for a first and ten to the Irish's twenty‑six yard line.
Carrington kicked at the ottoman and almost spilled his perfectly chilled Steinlager beer. He stood and entertained dark thoughts of shoving the leaf blower's tube down the owner's throat. He walked to the window. His eyes automatically assessed the neighborhood as he jerked the sash down; street quiet, the same two parked cars--one belonged to the house next door. A man waited patiently at 2238, pooper‑scooper in hand, while his leashed basset hound arched its spine and spasmed its hindquarters over the philosophy major's well‑manicured lawn. Carrington glowered. The dog had chosen to decorate the wrong yard.
A movement down the street; he evaluated the white van as it approached, slowed, and pulled up in front.
With a sigh, Carrington punched the TV and VCR remotes to Off. Purdue's quarterback faded to a blank screen. Carrington watched the Watkins Air-Conditioning Service driver pause at his steering wheel, make a note on his dispatch board, then descend and approach the house.
The van drew away three minutes later. Two minutes after that Dr. Felix Renkin arranged himself at his desk wearing plaid shorts, a white Burning Tree Country Club polo shirt, tennis shoes, and white athletic socks. Carrington mournfully closed the TV console door, then sat and waited patiently while Renkin's pencil twirled.
Finally Renkin sat back, read the message, and clicked his teeth. Then he handed it to Carrington:
TO: MAXIMUM EBB
FM: SPILLOVER
LOFTON ESCAPED VIA AID OF TWIN LT. COL. ANTON P. DOBRYNYN AND MASTER SGT. JOSEF ULLANOV. BOARDED BARGE IN PETROPAVLOVSK KGB NAVAL BASIN AND REFLOATED X‑3 VIA LIMPETS TO BARGE. OTHER DIVERSIONARY LIMPETS RESULTED SERIOUS DAMAGE TO SHIPS, FACILITIES, WITH OVER 100 CASUALTIES. ASW GROUP PURSUED X‑3 TO OPEN OCEAN. BELIEVE SUCCESSFUL TORPEDO HIT. SUB RESCUE UNITS EN ROUTE FOR EVALUATION AND POSSIBLE RETRIEVAL WEATHER PERMITTING. BE ADVISED: SMALL CHANCE X‑3 STILL OPERABLE.
The leaf blower growled outside as Carrington finished the message. He whistled softly.
The back of Felix Renkin's bald head rotated. Facing the window, he steepled his hands. "A limpet, Carrington. That's a mine of some sort, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"And?" Renkin spun around.
Carrington took the cue. "Well, since Mr. Hatch and his friends tend to minimize things, I'd say Lofton and the other two blew the crap out of that KGB naval base. A hundred casualties is a lot. It sounds like they blew up something big, like a, a--" he waved a hand, "--a building or a bridge with a train on it, or a theater full of people, to stage a diversionary panic. Then, it sounds like they blew the barge the X‑3 was mounted on, so it would sink and refloat the X‑3."
"Those three men are underwater demolition experts. They could do these things easily?"
"Yes, sir. Surprise was on their side."
"Anything else?"
Carrington held up the message to reread it. What the hell was Renkin driving at? Lofton's twin was acting as predicted.
"Come on, Mr. Carrington, I'm not paying you two hundred thousand a ye
ar to stand around and say 'duh,'" Renkin said impatiently.
Carrington dropped his hand and focused on the back of Dr. Felix Renkin's bald skull. The hell with you too, Boss.
It worked. Renkin spun in his chair and faced the window with a sigh. "Let me know when you're ready." He drummed his fingers lightly.
Carrington extended his ruminations for a full minute. "The Russians sandbag like hell; we both know that. And it sounds like they're doing it in this message. You just don't take down one hundred or more elite military people without something catastrophic happening. As proof, we can check the next satellite pass for damage assessment. We should order it before they have time to camouflage the place."
"Agreed."
"That being true, I'd say they're not sure if Brutus has been destroyed. If he was, they're not sure everybody is dead inside. In that regard, I think Mr. Hatch is doing you the kind courtesy of saying there's a real chance, not a 'small' chance as he says, that Brutus could still get away and that Lofton and the other two could return to the U.S.A."
"Yes."
Carrington flipped the message on the desk, then sat in the leather armchair. Neither spoke as the leaf blower sputtered and raged down the driveway next door.
"Interesting."
"Sir?"
Renkin leaned back in his chair. "A highly trained elite, professional soldier. Dobrynyn--a Spetsnaz. He's a career officer, a lieutenant colonel with how many years?" The bald head rolled sideways to Carrington, eyebrows arched.
"Ah, a lieutenant colonel has between seventeen and twenty years, I'd say."
"Yes, a citizen of the Soviet Union with eighteen years of professional, dedicated service suddenly blows the place up and runs away, leaving many of his comrades dead or wounded. Why?"
"His brother. Like we talked about."
"There's more to it than that."
"Maybe they dumped on him. Maybe he didn't like the Navy. Maybe he had women problems or money problems. Maybe his brain is sloshed with vodka."
"No."
Carrington gave in. His eyes wandered to the closed TV console while he waited.
"Reciprocal altruism."
"What?"
"Your report. You didn't see it?"
"No, sir."
"Had you studied Chapter Fourteen you would have found it. Reciprocal altruism is a concept or school of thought in psychology circles that attempts to define behavior between close relatives or friends. In essence, it says that one party will ultimately act unselfishly for the other and that the cumulative result accrues to both parties, Carrington. Not one individual, not the 'me' generation, no women, no money or alcohol problems, no military discipline problems. Altruistic acts are oftentimes compulsive and are committed by one so that both parties gain as a unit toward a specific goal."
Renkin propped his chin on his fist and gazed out the window. "In this case the goal is twin survival. It's clear that twins, especially identical twins, watch out for each other, even as adults. You were right. They become very close and commit altruistic acts for each other. Lieutenant Colonel Dobrynyn chose Lofton over his country and the KGB naval basin was severely damaged with over one hundred casualties."
Carrington said. "It must have been easy for them."
"What do you mean?"
"From what I've heard the KGB and Spetsnaz hate one another," he spread his palms, "just like the Company hates the SEALS and vice versa. The twins probably didn't have to think too hard over that one."
"Possibly." Renkin turned and folded his hands on the desk, "Now, is everything set for next weekend?"
"Do you mean your NSC meeting? San Diego?"
"Yes."
"Yes, sir. All the people we invited have accepted."
Renkin rubbed his chin. "What about Dr. Kirby's place? Lofton may go there if he does survive."
"I'll put a team on it. His place in Point Loma, too. Four men in pairs. Round the clock." Carrington looked at the floor. "Uh, do you want them alive if they do show up?"
"Use your discretion, but I would like to question Lofton if it's possible. The other one doesn't matter. And, to play it doubly safe, set up a link to NOSIC in Suitland, too. Use top level priority. I want to see all SOSUS information relative to any unidentified submarines transiting within a hundred miles of the West Coast."
"SOSUS didn't pick up Brutus going out."
"Yes, but perhaps there's a chance the system may detect the X‑3's return trip. And, if so, I want to be aware of it as soon as possible. Make sure any NOSIC data reaches us immediately, whether here or in San Diego."
Renkin went back to his painting while Carrington made sure the instructions were neatly logged on a pad. Laying the pencil down, his ears perked up. The leaf blower was silent and, he hoped, had been put away until next weekend. He raised the window, opened the console doors and flipped on the VCR and TV as he sat, propping his feet. Purdue connected with a pass to Notre Dame's five yard line.
A scream... no...a loud wailing ranged through his mind. It wouldn't go away. His eyes blinked. Darkness. Pitch black. Where am I? The noise. Who's screaming? He opened his mouth. A croak came out. He tried again. Same thing. He licked his lips. "Anton?"
"Uhhh."
"Anton!" he yelled.
"Yes." Another groan. "Brad? Ahhhhgh. My head hurts. You?"
"Yes, me too. I hit the side panel. Don't move, let me find a battle lantern."
"OK."
Lofton groped for a handhold. Over the wail, his ears caught a rushing of water. How long have I been out? A leg lay over his shoulder, the thing smelled. They all smelled like garbage.
Lofton felt around with his hands. Here. The pilot berth. He lay on the pilot berth bulkhead. Cushions and body parts were wedged against him. He patted along the bulkhead to the overhead section. Fumbling, he found the boxy battle lantern, snapped it from the bracket and pushed the rubber switch. White, hoary light penetrated the ozone-laden interior.
He pushed the leg aside and sat up. Brutus lay at a fifty-degree angle to starboard. Hot, steaming, the pressure in the boat was oppressive, nearly two atmospheres, he guessed. His head ached where the Stenka sailors had kicked him. He took a breath; his ribs felt OK. Ullanov's tape had helped.
Ullanov! He shone the light, found a leg and traveled the light to Ullanov's face. The sergeant was pale, his eyes half-closed, glazed. His mouth gaped open. The light traveled back down the leg; the stump hung obscenely off the side of the pilot berth. A trail of uncoiled rope dangled into inky water.
"No!" Lofton sat up and put a thumb to Ullanov's neck. No pulse.
"Josef!" Dobrynyn yelled. He struggled up and grabbed Ullanov's shoulders. "Josef! Damnit, Josef!"
Lofton checked the stump again, seeing no spurting blood. It had all drained and now mixed with the seawater that lapped at his feet. The tourniquet had unraveled somehow. Master Sergeant Josef Ullanov was dead.
"Josef!" Dobrynyn hugged Ullanov.
"Anton, I'm sorry." Lofton shouted over the wailing. He found Dobrynyn's shoulder.
Dobrynyn rocked back and forth as he embraced his master sergeant. Softly again, "Josef."
Lofton glanced aft. It had to be a water leak. And they had no power. Were the batteries shot? Their depth must be well over three thousand feet. Get going!
He staggered aft with the lantern. An inch-thick stream of high-pressure water shot across the galley. The stream had drilled a hole through a tool cabinet on the port side and expended its energy on the pressure hull. He flicked his light down to starboard, to the source, somewhere, he thought, near the high pressure air compressor unit. He knelt on the starboard bulkhead and steadied himself with a hand on the main hatch ladder.
"Brad, what do you think?" Anton yelled.
"Not sure," Lofton roared back. "I'll know in a minute."
Dobrynyn hacked out a cough. "We're running out of oxygen."
Lofton's throat was scratchy, too. He stuck the lamp into the crevice between the high-pressure
air compressor unit and the bulkhead. "Here, a broken valve stem! Jeez! The solenoid blew, the whole unit's destroyed."
He carefully reached behind the first-stage cooling unit and twisted the manual globe valve. The thread seemed endless. He kept turning and looked forward to see his brother's expectant silhouette hovering next to the pilot berth, watching.
Lofton's wrist became tired. He changed hands and kept turning. The wailing changed to a higher pitch, then to a hiss, then--nothing. Ten more turns and the water jet suddenly curled, dropped to his feet, and stopped.
Lofton sat back and mopped his brow in the dripping cylinder. Dobrynyn sloshed up next to him and knelt on his haunches. They looked at each other. "I'm sorry, Anton, really I--"
Dobrynyn held up a hand and coughed. "Don't, just don't. This is something I choose to do. It's just that--Josef--so needless, it shouldn't have happened." His voice trailed off.
Lofton dropped his head. "The damn tourniquet--we must have been out for a long time."
Dobrynyn nodded. "Can't be helped."
"Yeah, look, let's see if we can figure out what happened." Lofton whipped the light up to the depth gauge over the galley table, it was almost over his head. "Damn!" It read, keel depth: 3122.
Dobrynyn said. "Close to a thousand meters." He pointed to an analog eight‑day clock next to the depth gauge: 0147. "Is that right?"
"We've been out for more than an hour!" Lofton sucked in a deep breath, yearning for oxygen.
"Our friends should still be up there," Dobrynyn sighed. "If I were them, I'd put down a rescue unit first thing in the morning. The weather is good and the rescue ship is only ten miles away in Petropavlovsk. It could be on station in an hour. They could launch a salvage submarine or a remotely piloted drone for visual inspection. They might even lay a mine or a torpedo alongside." He looked at his brother. "Can we regain power?"
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 33
