THE BRUTUS LIE

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Reaching for the pot, she glanced from the corner of her eye. Phipps, with headphones dangling around his neck, bent on his knees fumbling in a tool box. Wad­leigh had shifted to all fours and peered in the crater.

  Phipps muttered, "...strange one, it might be a mod nine..."

  Wadleigh caught her eyes when he reached in the crater. "Get away, Anna."

  "Nein, ein minute, bitte. Ich--"

  "Now, Anna."

  She stepped back.

  "Shit! Harry! It is a mod nine! The damned tail fuse just kicked over. Tell Lofton to--"

  The ground lifted. Anna felt a roaring, then heat and ripping and tumbling. Then, nothing.

  PART ONE

  You don't learn to hold your own in

  the world by standing on guard, but

  by attacking, and getting well

  hammered yourself.

  George Bernard Shaw

  CHAPTER ONE

  With the matte black hull awash, algae laden water swept over Brutus, making the deck slippery. Lofton stood, his hand on the hatch, and watched Brutus glow softly in the occasional phosphores­cence. A wavelet swirled over his foot. It glowed, too. He peered down into the red lighted interior. It beckoned. His conning station, the deep, form fitting pilot's seat, the glass cockpit, like an F-14. Food, hot showers, clean sheets, the embracing security tempted him.

  Brutus. Ironic name.

  One of his yard technicians, an overweight, pockmarked ex-boatswain's mate, had called the sixty-five foot minisubmarine Brutus because of its stubby torpedo shape. They all laughed about it. Brutus was a he-submarine, not a she-submarine. The name stuck and so did Brutus's gender.

  But Brutus would die if Lofton didn't refuel.

  Hurry.

  Lofton stooped and closed the hatch. He could barely see the anechoic skin as he checked his digital watch: 2137:42. He was committed now. Brutus would dive in fifteen seconds.

  Lofton sat straddling his sanctuary. He glanced at the moonless sky. Stars glistened off the oily south swell. The water bit him, colder than he would have thought in this late end of California's summer, but the project, overwork, and lack of sleep had dropped his weight to 180, accentuating the chill. Lofton's long face was gaunt; he looked like a runner, with telltale splotches under quick, gray‑blue eyes. Taller than most at six feet two, five months ago he would have mildly chastised his overweight 195 pounds. Now, it was no longer necessary.

  A wave lapped forward and surged around his legs. Maybe sharks are out tonight. Maybe the pinger won't activate and bring Brutus back.

  A prolonged hiss, water gurgled around him. Lofton took a final check of his scuba gear. The dark shape trembled, then surged forward a few feet and poised, undecided. Lofton mentally rechecked the sequence. Too late to change any screwups now. Either Brutus was programmed correctly or the sub would end up standing on its nose in two hundred feet of water. Wouldn't the Catalina tourists like that?

  Brutus dropped beneath Lofton's buttocks. A ground swell caught him and raised him off the hull. He took a breath and pushed himself down for a final check. His feet found the sinking mini-sub. Legs spread wide apart, he checked Brutus's level; zero inclination as far as he could tell. Good, no screw‑ups in the program. Three urgent strokes brought him to the surface. He caught his breath and looked at his watch: 2138:26.

  He couldn't get back to Brutus now if he wanted. It would take the automatic surface blow program fifteen minutes to set up and activate. He pictured servos and valves clunking as they reordered themselves for the next sequence. Time to get on with it.

  The Avalon Casino, his beacon, twinkled brightly before him. Automati­cally he took three cross bearings; the Casino, Long Point, Abalone Point. He had to fix a rough position in his mind in case the GPS crapped out. If it did, he would find Brutus somehow.

  Satisfied, he kicked toward Descanso Beach, five hundred yards away. It should have been an easy swim. He'd done things like this as a kid, but now he had all this damn gear, clothes, foulies, underwear, money, ID, even a sleeping bag. He hoped it wouldn't get wet as he nudged the half-sunken rubber sealed bag along.

  Avalon's September evening light loom glistened, inviting him across the water and ashore. The ground swell was less pronounced. The distance looked the same, but he checked the bearings and found he was much closer. Voices now, laughter, and yes, The Invisibles' rock music blasted from the Casino and caromed off the hillside.

  The Avalon Harbor moorings were jammed, as were the twin rows at Descanso and Hamilton Beach. Bobbing shapes rose before him, gleaming brass and white glistening hulls. Boat cabins beckoned as soft, yellowish lights filtered through warm curtains. The larger vessels would have coordinated interiors. They'd be open and airy, much different from the functional, cramped home he'd ditched below, a sixty-five-foot aluminum powerhouse with a hundred times their potency.

  His teeth chattered as he nudged his gear along. A trawler wallowed ten feet ahead of him, darkened, occupants either asleep or ashore, partying. He only needed the mooring for a few minutes. A number stood out on the bobbing white can: W‑37.

  A diesel engine roared, a yellow mass shot between the buoys two moorings away, turned sharply, and headed straight for him. The searchlight blinded him. He kicked hard, cursing. He'd forgotten about the crazy water taxi drivers around here. Five feet.

  "Hey, look out." The hull swerved, not slowing. The bow wave rolled over him and pushed him into the buoy. He knocked his head and frantically grasped his bundle.

  "Whoosat?"

  "Some drunk."

  "Jesus, don't people ever learn? Hey, Suzy!"

  Laughter.

  Lofton held on to W‑37's heaving chain as the wake dispersed. Even the trawler above him, a forty-footer, bobbed and strained on its bowline.

  He waited three minutes to catch his breath and let the water settle down. Time to get moving, his watch read 2157:06.

  He tied the bundle to the anchor chain by its pendant. Then his weight belt came off, followed by his wet suit, fins, mask and snorkel. He looped a line securely around his scuba gear and attached it to the weight belt, letting it all slide down the anchor chain. If someone glanced down through the crystal clear water tomorrow it should look like another medium size rock in the sand thirty feet below. He only needed a few days. The other end of the line was secured to the top link of the buoy's anchor chain, a double bowline just to make sure.

  Odd to be paddling around in just his swimsuit. He felt strange, free, almost like a tourist. The water was warmer in here as he untied the bundle from the anchor chain and pushed for the beach.

  A hair dryer whirred aboard the trawler. Soft light glowed from the aft cabin.

  "...Damnit, Linda, how long are you going to run that thing? The auxiliary's almost out of gas--"

  "--Fred, you know I can't sleep on damp hair and if you want me nice for the Robbins' tomorrow, you'll just have to be pa­tient...."

  He slowly kicked for the inner row of moorings, nudging his bundle along.

  "...this was your idea. A working vacation and he hasn't offered you a damn thing on the office building. Not even an option...."

  "...bitch..."

  He swam between two sailboats moored on the inner row, twenty‑ five footers, both dark. He checked the can numbers just to be sure: W-19, W-20. An imaginary perpendicular from the beach through those two buoys would lead him to W-37 and his gear.

  He stopped at the aft end of W‑19, untied his canvas deck shoes from a loop on the bundle, and put them on. The beach, he remembered, was rocky, no sand, and he had to be quick.

  It was quiet. Now! Push! Powerful strokes, a wave surged, his knee banged a rock and pain jingled up his spine. Keep going. He could stand, it wasn't deep. One last look around the beach; empty. Music cascaded from the Casino off his left shoulder. Everybody else was either in town having fun or on their boats. For a long moment, until he shook it off, he was seized by a bleak emptiness. I am alone, he thought. There is no one w
ho can help me.

  Knee‑deep, he hoisted his bundle and ran up the small rocky beach through a sandy playground and into some low bushes beyond. Waiting, he caught his breath. Then slowly, methodically, he undid the rubber waterproof material from his gear bag. That would go into a trash can later as he moved into town.

  Lofton put on a tee­shirt, smoothed his hair, grabbed a deep breath, and stepped from the bushes. Soon he found the asphalt pedestrian walkway that wound past the Casino and into Avalon.

  He felt better. He was safe for the moment, safe among the weekend Avalon throng. Renkin wouldn't find him here, and Brutus rested in forty‑two fathoms, 252 feet down on a sandy bottom, nuzzled among rocks, sleeping, yet waiting.

  The night air cloaked him. Almost seventy‑five degrees, and the asphalt path still radiated the day's sun. He would dry off soon. Then, a quick public shower in town would put him right. Dress like the rest of the tourists, find a gin mill and he could find his ride to the mainland. He had to hurry. It wouldn't be long before Renkin's net reached him even here.

  Music thundered as he walked past the brightly lit Casino. Screaming, clapping inside; ripping, throbbing amplifiers and synthesizers. A poster announced, "The Invisibles ‑ Saturday Night Only." Mingling with the occasional strollers and lovers, he tried not to walk too fast. Avalon lay two hundred yards down the palm‑lined promenade.

  After his shower, Lofton felt better. He changed into a clean set of Levis and teeshirt; no socks. He fit the part of a weekend tourist, but his canvas topsiders still squished. The nighttime throng on Avalon's main drag, Crescent Avenue, embraced him, made him feel safe and comfort­able. A group disem­barked from the glass-bottom boat and caught up to him. He was, for the time being, one of them as they strolled along, looking in shop windows, buying ice cream.

  Crescent Avenue bulged with over­crowded, raucous bars. Too much noise and confusion, a younger crowd. Chances were, he calculated, his target sailboat skipper would seek a milder form of relaxation.

  Lofton rounded the corner and walked up Sumner Avenue. A sign read Gig and Galley. He edged into a dim, nautical decor. Ships' lanterns, overhead nets, and dilapidated boat models surrounded the room. He needed a group of three to five people, a boat crew on the town. He ordered a beer, a Carlsberg Elephant dark, and listened to two men next to him.

  "...so I changed to fifteen pound test and it seemed to work. But I should have..."

  Fishermen. No help there. He moved down the bar. Another group; three men, a woman, and a young boy about ten.

  "...Let's try Two Harbors tomorrow. They say water skiing is good around Cherry Cove. You can buy beer right there at the..."

  Next group‑‑scuba divers‑‑­he sighed and moved on.

  A short, stocky man, no more than five feet, seven stepped on his foot.

  "Oh, sorry."

  Lofton smiled back and silently nodded. The man turned to two of his friends and resumed conversation. They looked in their early fifties and all three wore pale blue polo shirts trimmed in thin white stripes. Over the pockets was the name True Blue. Contrast­ing white sailing shorts completed the arrangement.

  Bingo. He sipped his beer, smiled, and tried to catch their eyes as they talked.

  The short man glanced at him, then continued, "...I think we should get a jib top, you know, a double headsail rig, for these long reaches to Long Point. Did ya see Terry? He popped one up right away as soon as he rolled out of the Long Beach breakwater."

  "Yeah, but Terry's been racing for twenty years, he knows how to trim."

  "We can't let that get us down, we're faster, we rate about the same, we should be able to beat him."

  "I know, Howard. But Tom and I can't do everything."

  Lofton took a sip of his beer and dove in.

  "Excuse me, I couldn't help overhear­ing. You're shorthanded?"

  Dumb. If I were them, I'd walk away.

  Conversation stopped. All three turned to measure him. Their eyes darted over him.

  Now or never. He extended his hand to the short man. "Hi. I'm Matt Thompson."

  The man looked at him, chewed a cigar stub, not moving. His eyes squinted, mulling it over. Somehow his short, white, frizzy hair made him look young, compensating for his height. Finally, his hand shot out. "Howard Butler." The grip was firm.

  The others followed.

  "Tom Downs."

  "Virgil Hollenbeck."

  Lofton continued. "I'm sorry. The reason I asked is that I had to work today so I couldn't race over with the fleet. I took the water taxi and was supposed to meet..." he made up another name and hoped it worked, "...Seventh Heaven, but I just found out she didn't make it. Apparently she didn't even leave the dock, a broken spreader or something."

  They seemed to relax. Butler asked, "Seventh Heaven? What kind of boat is she?"

  Here comes the hard part. "A J‑35. She's new, this was supposed to be her first race."

  Butler smiled. "And now you're stuck here. Too bad. Yeah, we could use a hand. What do you do?"

  "Mast, bow. I don't mind grinding either." It would be what they wanted to hear.

  Hollenbeck asked quickly, "You mean you can do spinnaker work?"

  "Oh, yeah," he decided to add a little spice. "Bloopers, chickenchutes, half ounce, you name it."

  Downs and Hollenbeck smiled to each another. Butler chomped his cigar, rubbed his chin, and turned to the others. They gave small nods. He looked back. "We've got an Ericson 35 and we're shorthanded. Trouble is, we're too old to go up to the bow," he chuckled, "and set a chute and take it down properly. When the wind kicks up, we're the first to go out of control--"

  "--and then into death rolls, Mr. Helmsman." Downs elbowed Butler with a smile.

  "Awright, awright," Butler growled back and took a long sip of his drink. "But we have a good time. Do you think you could fit in?"

  "Yeah, I could help you out. Is it just the three of you?"

  "And my daughter," Butler smiled. "She's the best sailor of all of us. But she's back on the boat now. Doesn't like the raucous nightlife. Actually, she's trying to be polite and let us old farts have our fling. Yeah, you can come along. We'll even feed you lunch. Do you have a place to stay, Matt?"

  "Over at the hotel, but thanks," he lied. He didn't want to get into an all-night drinking bout in the cramped confines of a thir­ty-five-foot sailboat. He took a long pull and finished his beer. "Where are you?"

  Butler stuck out his chest and pointed to the name on the pocket. "You'll find True Blue at White's Landing. First gun at Long Point is at noon so we'd like to shove off at eleven. Is that OK?"

  "OK." Lofton smiled. "It sounds like fun. I'll grab a water taxi and see you at eleven." He yawned. "Would like to hit the sack. Big day tomorrow and I appreciate the ride. Hope I can do a good job." He shook hands again and walked out.

  He needed rest, solitude, and he hoped it wouldn't take long to find a place to stay. He had to think, figure out how to find JP-5 for Brutus before Renkin found him.

  Lofton tried two hotels. Both were full; tourists jammed the Island this time of year. At the third, the Catalina Mariner, the bored clerk shook his head even before Lofton could speak. Lofton eyed the man, then pulled out his wallet and silently pushed two one hundred dollar bills toward the clerk's right hand. A twenty-dollar bill slid toward his left. The clerk smiled, pocketed the bill with his left, and gave him fifteen dollars change with his right.

  Lofton wordlessly scrawled "Matt Thompson" on the hotel register, took his key, and went upstairs.

  The clerk had given him the bridal suite. The bed squeaked, but Lofton fell immediately asleep and woke three hours later. Thatcher. He had been dreaming of Thatcher. That was why he was sitting up. He breathed deeply and blinked at the ceil­ing. Sweat ran down his arms, his chest. In his mind's eye Thatcher still lay there. Bloody. Dead. It seemed like a nightmare--it was a night-mar­e. How could it all have happened? Could he have stopped it?

  With a sigh Lofton got up and p
added into the bathroom, carefully washing his face and then his dripping chest.

  This kind of thinking wouldn't help him. He could go over everything again in the morning, but what he must have now was sleep. He weaved back into the bedroom and sat on the bed, staring blankly out the window for a long time. Finally, he lay down and waited for sleep.

  When he woke again it was morning. Sunlight was streaming past the blinds. In the streets below, people were laughing. He heard a dog barking and the television murmured in the room next to him. His Casio read six-forty-five. Time to get moving. He stood in the shower for twenty minutes, maybe his last for a long time, and shaved again. It felt strange to have a clean face. Two days ago he'd had a neatly trimmed full beard, streaked with gray, which matched his short, side‑parted hair. Now he felt naked, his cheeks and chin tingled with the new sensation.

  He dressed carefully and repacked his gear bag. Before he zipped it shut he checked two crucial pieces of equipment. One was his GPS receiver, an olive-drab box the size of a cigarette pack. He clicked on the power and the small red light flashed. Lofton waited while the box warmed up. The two‑tiered display read all zeros. He punched the Lat/Long button. The digital display read:

  33˚ 20'.18 N

  118˚ 20'.01 W

  OK, that looked reasonable. He didn't have a chart but the numbers on the display seemed to be close to the latitude and longitude coor­dinates of the Catalina Mariner. Now for the other. The big one. Did this thing remember where Brutus lay? He entered a coordinates code, then punched the small keyboard with his old Navy serial number: 714208. The display flashed, a two-second wait, a small yellow light blinked on. He pushed Lat/Long. Then:

  33˚ 21'.14 N

  118˚ 19'.17 W

  Good, the Global Positioning System memory checked with his memory. He could find Brutus. He tucked the GPS receiver back in the sleeping bag. The hardened ABS case clunked against another small black box. His pinger. This would awaken Brutus and bring him to within thirty feet of the surface. Both boxes were critical. He zipped his seabag shut, took one last look around the room, and went down into the morning.