THE BRUTUS LIE

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Ecclesiasticus 15: 16-17

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Tired, he wished the harsh noise would go away. Waving a hand, Dobrynyn bumped Brutus's throttle with his fingers. He settled back in the command chair: his head lolled.

  BEEP-BEEP.

  Dobrynyn's eyes snapped open. He focused on the CRT cluster. Sensors read:

  SONOBUOY PATTERN - (6 RANDOM) 347/5.6 nm

  He heaved from the chair, walked aft to the open tunnel hatch, and looked through the long, shimmering tube. "Brad!"

  Lofton's face popped into the motor room hatchway. "Yeah?"

  Dobrynyn concentrated on his English. He wanted the practice. "Sonobuoys, once more."

  "How many?"

  "Six. And much closer this time. Under six miles. How long you will be?"

  "Almost done. All I have to do is test the bypass valve and torque the manifold nuts."

  "Did it work for you OK?"

  "What?" Lofton was lost to view: a wrench clanked.

  "Will the fuel system function?"

  His face popped back in the hatchway. "Yeah, but that's the last spare valve. No more extended cruising in this sewerpipe until someone does a corrosion analysis work-up." After the Inter­national Dateline, Lofton had crawled aft to the motor room every twelve hours for inspections. Seventy-five miles from the San Pedro Channel, he found rust again on the H2O2 fuel block, growing like a virulent five o'clock shadow toward the master control solenoid valve. It was worse than the rust he had found on the trip over. He wondered if battle damage had aggra­vated it.

  "Sewerpipe?"

  "We're in a stinking tin can, Anton." Lofton's head dis­appeared, his voice echoed. "...like a death trap...still have to fix that heat exchanger globe valve, too­...damnit..."

  The console buzzed. Dobrynyn turned, seeing large letters flash. He yelled, "You better come, now. They just laid another pattern."

  "OK. Be right there. Steer reciprocal again."

  Dobrynyn ran for the console and focused on the display.

  SONOBUOY PATTERN - (6 RANDOM) 345/7.2

  SONOBUOY PATTERN - (12)= CENTER 185/3.2

  He felt it. Not just the sonobuoys or the P-3 aircraft orbiting overhead that laid them. People were nearby. Ameri­cans. "Brad! Sonobuoys in front of us, now."

  Lofton's voice grew loud as he scrambled through the stain­less steel tube. "On my way. Come left to zero-nine-zero."

  Dobrynyn barely had Brutus on the new course when Lofton moved next to him. They changed places.

  Lofton shoved the joystick. "Let's try two thousand feet. Maybe hide under a thermo layer."

  "Six hours now. How do you think they found us?"

  "Umm. SOSUS, probably." He looked at Dobrynyn's raised brow. "Underwater listening arrays. Funny thing. They didn't pick me up going out. I wonder if--"

  They felt it. Brutus's hull shimmered with a sound like a soft rubber mallet.

  "Hey, that's close. Where did?"

  His answer popped on SENSORS:

  SINGLE PING - BQQ-5 277

  "What is BQQ-5?"

  "Trouble. Almost dead aft. I think the cops have found us." Lofton pushed the throttle through the detent to "flank". Brutus's screw dug in. They crept to twenty-four knots, their best speed.

  Dobrynyn asked again, "How did they find us?"

  "Vectored probably by the P-3--whoa! See that?"

  Master flashed:

  BQQ-5 276

  LOS ANGELES (SSN-688) ATTACK CLASS 276

  USS OAKLAND

  "Can we outrun her?"

  Lofton bit a thumbnail. "Not a prayer. Not even if we had full battery capacity. And they can go as deep as us. This doesn't make sense, all this firepower out here. It's all too pat."

  "Your submarine is close by. I can feel it."

  "Me too. Look." He pointed to a small panel left of the CRT cluster labeled UQC-17. The underwater telephone ready light blinked with an amber flash. Even as he flipped the switch, Bru­tus's hull shimmered with another ping from the seven-thousand-ton Oakland's sonar.

  The speaker popped and scratched. They heard, "...unknown Sierra, Sierra. Surface and identify yourself..."

  "Damnit!"

  "What do you think?"

  "Don't know." Lofton reset their speed to twenty knots. "Might as well conserve power. They can stay with us until the cows come home."

  Dobrynyn's eyebrows went up. "Cows--"

  The speaker blared like a hi-fi. "Surface and identify your­self."

  "Close to us. Is there any way to ask how far?"

  "Can't ping him. He's masked by our prop."

  "Then change course. Nothing loses now."

  "Yeah, I--sonofabitch!"

  Another ping struck the hull. Immediately, they heard a heavy throbbing just as something nudged their stern. They felt a loud, jarring bump. Brutus shook and vibrated throughout its length.

  "Hold on!" Lofton yelled. "Damn thing is overrunning us!"

  The minisub jolted. Then rolled. A loud grinding sound swept through the hull. Lofton pushed on the joystick.

  "No! Go up," Dobrynyn roared. "He's just underneath. His sail will hit us!"

  Lofton yanked the stick back and threw in right rudder. Machinery noises wailed through them. Lofton's teeth rattled at another ping.

  "You are ordered to surface. Now."

  "Bastards did that on purpose. He knew we had slowed down." Lofton flipped off the underwater telephone switch. Master Flashed:

  USS OAKLAND 084/0.7 nm

  "Fourteen hundred yards away." Lofton snorted. "At least we can spin inside him."

  "Yes. But we have to lose him."

  "Got an idea. How about his wake?"

  "Submarines don't make wakes. But there might be a little turbulence. It might be worth doing."

  Lofton eased in left rudder and headed for the attack sub­marines's track. "Let's hope he has trouble pinging through it for a while."

  Dobrynyn gripped the back of the command chair. "We can't hide long."

  Brutus buffeted slightly. Lofton pulled the throttle to "all stop." "OK. I'm going to try something. It could be they found us because we're making noise with a bent propeller shroud or a nicked blade. I don't know, something from torpedo damage. That might be how SOSUS picked us up to begin with. Let's just sit tight."

  "Possibly. Set your sonar to passive and we find out."

  Brutus hovered as the CRT displayed the American attack submarine's course change. Her aspect changed from stern to beam then swung to bow on.

  Lofton swore softly, "Right at us again."

  "No. Look."

  The Oakland's bow came further left and steadied on a star­board beam aspect. "All right," said Lofton. "Let's try it again. He might not be able to pick us up if we stay bow on to him." He kicked the thruster pedals.

  He steered for the wake five hundred yards away and stopped.

  "Good. Remain stopped and pump a little ballast. And yes, keep your bow toward him."

  "Go up?"

  "Yes."

  Lofton thumbed the button on top of the stick. "Don't want to be too noisy."

  "Only a little ballast. We can rise above him. Just do not turn the propeller."

  Brutus rose. At fifteen hundred feet, their passive display told them the Oakland remained at two thousand feet running an oval pattern. Lofton reached to the pilot berth, grabbed a rag, and ran it over his face.

  One thousand feet: the Oakland dove to twenty-five hundred feet doing figure-eights at thirty knots.

  Fifteen minutes later, Dobrynyn sat on the bunk. The depth gauge read five hundred feet. "How much speed would you need to hold this depth?"

  Lofton exhaled loudly. "About five knots. That's inter­esting."

  "What?"

  He pointed to Sensor. "The P-3 laid another sonobuoy pattern, but it's eight miles away this time."

  "Go to five knots."

  Brutus crept away. The Oakland stopped pinging and dis­appeared from their screens.

  Lofto
n said, "She's gone quiet. Whoa! Another sonobuoy pat­tern. Ten miles away. We're on to something."

  "Possibly your anechoic skin."

  "Yeah. That and no screw noise."

  After a rigid four hours Lofton heaved from the command seat. He sighed and shook Dobrynyn awake. "Nothing around us. It's all yours. Speed is ten knots. I think we're quiet enough."

  Dobrynyn blinked and rose. "Are you still thinking of going to San Diego?"

  "Don't think so. I've got a strange feeling about our run-in. Let's keep going on to Catalina, pick up Kirby's boat, and head to Newport Beach. I want to talk to him first and see what's happen­ing."

  "OK."

  Lofton trudged to the aft bulkhead and bent to the second-stage air compressor. He muttered, "Still have to fix this damned heat exchanger globe valve. And sometime before we close the mainland we have to surface and recharge the high-pressure air flasks without being detected." He wiped his bleary eyes, opened the tunnel, hatch and crawled through in search of his tool kit and spare parts.

  Repairs made, they arrived at the San Pedro channel dogleg at noon on October fifth, several days later than planned, due to repairs and having to creep past the ASW picket. They lay on the bottom and waited for sun­set. When it came, Lofton nudged Brutus to periscope depth and set a program to take them to within five hundred yards of Catalina Island and buoy W‑35.

  Dobrynyn took off Bubnov's ill-fitting Soviet naval uniform. They'd both had to wear them; leaking battery acid had destroyed Thatcher's two poopie suits.

  Lofton asked, "Again?"

  "These things still stink. I want to wash them and take another shower."

  "Second time today, Anton."

  Dobrynyn walked to the divers' trunk and tossed over his shoulder, "A man should be clean when he goes to war."

  Lofton peered through the periscope and maneuvered to clear wildly zinging pleasure boats. "I don't think we'll be going to war yet, Anton. Plenty of time for showers when we get to Kirby's."

  Twenty minutes later Descanso loomed two miles away. He flipped to high power and picked out Them Bones. "There it is, our ticket to Newport Be--"

  Lofton stared at his brother. Dobrynyn settled in the pilot berth, arched a brow, and gave a thin smile. He was clean-shaven, the salt-and-pepper beard of Lieutenant Colonel Anton Pavel Dob­rynyn had disappeared.

  "Good God. You're like me!" Lofton stammered. Nothing distin­guished the two except the rating badges on their Soviet naval uniforms and subtle differences in the indelible stains on their striped teeshirts. Dobrynyn's beard had been the cordon sanitaire estab­lishing their individuality.

  "Exactly." Dobrynyn bowed slightly. "The same and one--"

  "Uhh, one and the same."

  "Yes. You are like me, too. I thought it might be well if situations arise. You know, how can one man be in the similar as many different places?"

  One and the same. Lofton's hand felt clammy as he went back to the periscope. Sweat from his brow dampened the rubber eyepiece. "I don't think we'll have to worry about that. I'd just as soon as grow mine--"

  "Watch out! Dive the boat, quick!"

  UNK VESSEL 179/0.6 nm

  SPEED 22 KNOTS

  CPA 179/0.0 nm

  COLLISION COURSE!!!

  Lofton jabbed the joystick. Just before Brutus dove, he caught a glimpse of spreading red-and-green side lights. Twin bow waves of a charging cata­maran‑style Catalina ferry-boat filled his eyepiece.

  Lofton breathed deeply. He calculated the forty‑two-knot range‑rate while the boat growled overhead toward Long Beach.

  "Close," said Dobrynyn.

  Lofton waited until the ferry was gone and rose to periscope depth, concentrating on his approach to Descanso. "Lost track of things. Almost got us killed."

  Dobrynyn stayed aboard Brutus while Lofton exited, swam to W‑35, and scrambled onto Kirby's skiff.

  Lofton looked in all directions. It seemed clear. It was a quiet evening and Descanso was only half-full. Soft rock music drif­ted from a trawler moored toward the casino. He un­snapped the tarp, folded it, and packed it in the vee-berth.

  Them Bones's engine barely cranked. He waited ten minutes hoping the battery would come back. He tried again. On the star­ter's last crank, Them Bones sputtered into life. He untied the moorings, powered back, and picked up Dobrynyn. They sent Brutus to nestle once again in 250 feet on a low hotel load.

  The channel was calm. "The trip should take thirty minutes," Lofton said.

  As they bounced along, Lofton watched his brother's brow furrow while he glanced furtively at the emerging Southern California coastline. The Soviet twin became more quiet and pensive, as they neared Newport Beach.

  The coast baked in a Santa Ana condition under a deep, yellow full moon. Even now, about eleven-thirty, the temperature was seventy. Both shrugged off their parkas as Lofton cut the power. Them Bones wallowed; her stern wave caught up and shoved the runabout toward the green bell buoy off the Newport Harbor jetty. He set their speed at five knots, saying, "Here's the channel entrance. Welcome to California. You'll love it here."

  Dobrynyn nodded to two dark shapes on the buoy as they closed to within five feet. "Are you certain?"

  Two seals awoke, barked their protests, and jumped off as Lofton swung left to enter Newport Harbor. "Better than Petro­pavlovsk."

  "No, I mean about coastal patrols. Is it for sure we won't be stopped?"

  Lofton said. "There's no KGB maritime patrol here. The only reason for stopping us is if the Coast Guard thinks we're running drugs, and they won't, since they know Kirby's boat. The only way we're going to get boarded is if somebody gets wind of these parkas--whew!"

  Dobrynyn leaned back and propped his feet on the gunnel. "Brad?"

  "Yeah?"

  "What's going to happen? What will we do now? If Dr. Renkin can make a submarine attack upon us--" Dobrynyn snapped his fingers and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, "is difficult opponent. He could have people at many levels. This is, yes, a country of freedom. But wouldn't he have big influence?"

  Lofton rubbed his chin. "I don't know what's been going on here since I left. At first, I thought we would be OK after we escaped the nuke; that they thought we were dead. But that attack submarine could have been put into position by Renkin. They might have warned him if they got a good solution. And a lot happened on your side."

  "Exactly."

  "My plan is to go to Kirby's. Since we're out of options," he shook his head, "I'll have him line up a lawyer. And we'll prob­ably go to the press."

  "Can you trust your press?"

  Lofton smiled. "Here? Yes. Don't worry about that. It'll make a big stink. Trouble is, our lives will be screwed up. Maybe for a long time. But I can't see any other way."

  Dobrynyn nodded and Them Bones muttered into the channel. Looking at the Tuesday evening sky Lofton was relieved for the moment, glad to be out of Kamchatka's daytime chill. He felt relieved at his decision and, as China Cove slipped by to star­board, set his mind on what he had to go over with Kirby.

  They cruised by the Coast Guard station, where the brightly illuminated USCG Point Divide brooded at her mooring. Dobrynyn cast it a wary eye, then they came left and headed deep into Newport Harbor. Moonlight danced on small wavelets stirred by their wake as Balboa Island slipped astern. Them Bones gurgled on and slipped between Bay and Harbor islands. Music, laughter drifted across as a ninety-foot harbor excursion boat rumbled past. Little groups of tuxedoed figures stood on her deck. With drinks in their hands, they joked with their ladies.

  "There." Lofton pointed toward the darkened mainland. "See that mast, the tall one? That's Bandit, in Kirby's dock."

  "You weren't pulling a joke. Dr. Kirby owns a luxury house on the water and a boat."

  "Umm, many people do. And the yacht's half mine, but I don't live on the water."

  "So, he's a very rich man."

  "Not necessarily, just comfortable--whoa. No lights. Looks like Kirby is out."

&nbs
p; Lofton eased Them Bones into the dock. He muttered, "Must be out with Nancy."

  "A girlfriend?" Dobrynyn jumped out and secured the mooring.

  Lofton reversed Them Bones and killed the switches. They bounced softly on rubber fenders. "His fiancee. Come on. We'll raid his fridge."

  His stomach rumbled. Both were hun­gry. Most of the food had spoiled when Brutus took on water after the torpedo hit off Kam­chatka's coast. They had rationed the rest, mostly crackers and packaged cold cuts.

  They walked across the patio. Lofton stooped and lifted the mat. "Funny. It's not here."

  "Key?"

  "Yeah. There's one in the garage. He's always forgetting and locks himself out."

  Brushing aside hibiscus shrubs, they walked down a side yard and into the garage. Lofton snapped on the light and reached over the doorsill. "Here it is. I--"

  "What is it?"

  "Both cars are gone. He must be out of town. Guess he loaned one to his Mary, his nurse. He's done that before." He opened the door. They walked through the laundry room into the kitchen, where he punched the security system. Lofton opened the fridge and handed Dobrynyn a bottle. "First things first. Elephant, dark. Right?"

  "I have not known about the Elephant, but the dark is cor­rect."

  With the tops pulled, they clinked bottles. Lofton flipped on kitchen lights and rummaged in the freezer while Dobrynyn toured Kirby's house.

  "Two cars, you said, Brad?"

  "What?" Lofton found two frozen enchiladas in the freezer and popped them into the oven.

  "Dr. Kirby has two cars, a boat, and a house on the water?"

  "Well, yes. You'll get used to it after you're here a while." Lofton flicked his wrist. Damn, he missed his Casio. He checked the oven clock: 12:47.

  Dobrynyn moved into the laundry room and peered into the wash­ing machine. He whistled. "All automatic. What's this?"