The swells were almost nil; he fire‑walled the engine and the howling skiff gained her step and went flat out. Warm, large droplets tore around the small windshield and at his face. Lofton fumbled in the lazaret, found one of Kirby's old baseball caps, and jammed it over his head. He crinkled the bill into a vee with his thumb and forefingers, it helped divert the rain from his eyes.
Them Bones rode evenly, she barely bounced. Lofton checked the knotmeter: 34.5.
Bonnie sat up and leaned against him. "Where are we?"
He looked down to her and shrugged. Water smeared her glasses. How the hell could she see? Just as well, he couldn't either.
Lofton checked his watch. "Time to slow down." He pulled the throttle back to idle and Them Bones settled, her wake caught up, raising her stern and shoving her forward momentarily. "We're in the lee of Catalina. We should be close, I think." Except for the rain, his tone was almost conversational.
"Yes, but where? Why don't you try your little Captain Midnight box? That might be easier than waiting until we smash into the Casino."
Lofton already had his GPS out and was warming it up. Finally he punched the LAT/LONG button. The small backlighted display flashed:
33˚ 22'.07 N
118˚ 19'.11 W
"OK." He pointed at the screen. "We're here."
Bonnie said, "OK, Mr. Frogman, where's the chart? Show me the chart."
Lofton chuckled and tapped the tiny buttons. "Wait a minute, this gadget only takes quarters." He punched CS/DIST, then WPT l. He wiped rivulets of rain off the screen as it flashed:
206/0.8
"Hm." He pointed to his left and edged the throttle forward. "This says Brutus is almost a mile that way. Here, take it and conn me along, OK? It says we have eight‑tenths of a mile to go."
Holding the GPS, she studied the little screen, then looked into the blackness. The wind blew the parka hood off her head. The rain fell harder as they gained speed but it felt good, warm, clean against her face.
"Talk to me, Bonnie."
She looked at the compass with a start. "You're way off course. That says you're on one‑ninety or so."
"You're reading the true course off the GPS, I'm steering magnetic."
"You didn't tell me that--"
"Don't worry." Lofton held up a hand. "How's the range?"
"Point two. It now says course two‑oh‑seven, then range point two."
"A degree to the right. Good, keep talking, you can bring us in. Four hundred yards to go."
The rain had eased to a downpour when they both noticed a light hue off their port bow. Bonnie looked to him.
"Avalon, probably the Casino."
"This thing's amazing." She turned the GPS in her hand and examined it. Finally she called in a low voice, "Less than a tenth, we're almost there."
"OK, we'll slide right through it as a check, then head for Descanso."
The GPS bleeped three times in Bonnie's hand, its red light flashed.
"Bingo! Hello, er, Brutus--‑is that what you call it?"
"Yeah." Lofton set his mouth. "Among other things." His stomach tightened. He'd be gone after tonight. Brutus was below, waiting; the minisub would rise at his command in the next few minutes. He would have to go, he would be alone. Riding with Bonnie, rotten weather and all, had somehow made him feel buoyant. They'd made a rough passage and someone else would have panicked, or would have been reduced to a sniveling wreck. But she'd done well sitting beside him. He hardly knew her, and yet...
Damn, she was married. He didn't want to...
Forget it. But why was she doing this? Why didn't she just tell him to fly a kite. He hadn't had time to probe her motives outside of his fast sales pitch early this morning.
The buoy line bobbed ahead. "Whoa," he said, half aloud, and dropped Them Bones in neutral.
"What's up?" Bonnie squinted through her glasses.
"We're here. Uh, yeah, here's W‑34." He swung right and paralleled the bobbing buoys, both rows empty. Finally, W‑37. They ghosted up to the white can and he snagged its ring with two fingers while the Volvo softly burbled in neutral. Then he stood, peeled off his parka, shirt, shoes, and topsiders.
"Be right back. Here, hold on to this ring, will you?"
"Wait, Brad, maybe you should--"
Lofton sat on the gunwale in dark swim trunks; then he winked and pitched over backward.
He was gone. Bonnie could barely see the beach. She looked around hoping no shore boats would blunder along.
A loud exhale. She looked aft. Two hands vised the transom and Lofton kicked over, gleaming, his hair matted, a white line clenched in his teeth. His back muscles shimmered in the gloom as he quickly stood, turned, and pulled the line after him. Finally Bonnie saw a large, sleek, black bundle work over the transom, then she heard the clunk of the weight belt and black tank.
He knelt to his bundle. Bonnie watched the grim set of his jaw. No easy banter now. He knew what he was doing and quickly worked at the straps.
He pulled on his weight belt and glanced at her.
"Shouldn't you use a wet suit?" she asked.
"Don't think so. I won't be in the water for more than five minutes and it's not that cold.
"Look, I'd like you to drop me off. But can you see the compass well enough to putt back to Brutus?"
"Of course." Bonnie took off her glasses and thumbed rainwater off the lenses.
"Yeah, OK. Steer the reciprocal, zero‑one‑three at slow speed while I finish with my gear."
Bonnie clunked the transmission in forward, swung right, and headed back into the rain and darkness. She bent to the compass, her face within inches of it, and caught the glow of the small red light. Peering through her dripping kaleidoscopic glasses, she coaxed a gurgling Them Bones to the lubber line. The blurred numbers looked right. She hoped it was, "zero‑one‑three," he'd said.
Finally, Lofton sat beside her. The seat groaned as his weight belt thumped against the backrest. He took the wheel and worked it with the throttle for a few minutes until they heard the GPS beep.
"OK, here we are again," he said quietly. He reversed for a moment, then cut the ignition switch.
The downpour pelted, almost roared as they drifted. It was cold, the rain not as warm as before. Bonnie pulled the hood over her head. Her jaw chattered as Lofton pulled something from his duffel bag: a black rectangular box, somewhat like a cordless telephone, except that no antenna protruded. He wiggled into his tanks and regulator, checked his mask and snorkel, sat on the gunwale, then put on his fins.
He spat on his face mask lens, rinsed it, then slipped it over his head and made adjustments. His voice sounded nasal with his nose covered. "Acid test time. We'll find out if this is going to work very soon." Lofton stuck in his mouthpiece, leaned back, and hit the water with a splash, his fins momentarily sticking straight up. Like a duck, Bonnie thought.
Them Bones listed while Bonnie leaned on the gunwale with her elbows and peered down. Nothing. Her glasses were useless in the rain. Water droplets popped around her as Them Bones silently bobbed. "Contacts," she muttered. Why hadn't she brought her contact lenses?
She heard a splash, a hand grabbed the rail within inches of her arm. Taking off her glasses she found Lofton's face in dim shadow with his mask on top of his head. "Well?" she whispered.
"That should be it. I pinged the daylights out of it. It may take Brutus a minute or two to put his program together. Otherwise, you and I go ashore and have a nice dinner."
The thought warmed her as they drifted. Bonnie watched the rain plop countless little craters on the near‑flat water. Lofton's hand was next to her, rain ran down his arm as he studied the blackness beneath.
He said, "Could you check the other side? We may have drifted and--hold on! Pay dirt."
A faint, soft, yellow light winked at them from beneath the surface like a haloed low-magnitude star. It grew larger as they watched, but not brighter. Enormous air bubbles rose and broke around them. Lofton looked up to her, the mask
still on his forehead. "Here's my ride to Kamchatka. He should be close to thirty feet now."
He caught her eye. "Look, of course you can't take Kirby's skiff back tonight and I really can't see you going ashore in this crappy weather and trying to book a room, especially in those wet clothes."
He looked down. The yellowish light was stationary. "You better let me run you over to the mainland, then you or Kirby can pick up the skiff tomorrow or whenever the weather's better. We'll tie Them Bones to one of the buoys. OK?"
"You want me to ride in that thing?" she pointed down to the light.
"Yeah," he grinned, "hot showers, dry clothes, stereo, all the comforts of home. I can warm up a can of navy bean soup. We have scrumptious signature crackers by Nabisco and even a batch of Lofton's designer bug juice in the fridge. Doesn't beat the Rex, but..."
She caught his glance and mulled over her clausto. Her teeth chattered and she shivered again. No. Not in that--what did he say--a sixty‑five-foot sewer pipe? Never.
"OK." she bit her lip. "How 'bout fresh air?"
"What?" He paused, then, "Ah." Lofton studied the water, the yellowish light shimmered below, but they were drifting. He'd have to go soon. "Tell you what." He sliced a powerful forearm toward the beach, "Just steer that way, find one of the buoys and tie up. I'll follow you in, there's not much current, and pick you up. Then you climb aboard and I'll leave the hatch open. It might get a little wet inside near the hatch but Brutus's bilge pumps can handle that. See if you can--ah, see if you like it. If not," he tilted his head with a smile, "Bonnie either goes ashore or she sleeps in Them Bones's vee‑berth. How's that?"
She nodded slowly.
"OK." He pulled his mask over his face, then pushed from the skiff toward the light. "See you in a few minutes. Go ahead and tie up." He set his mouthpiece and rolled, the fins flashed in the air, then Brad Lofton was gone.
Bonnie started Them Bones and headed for Descanso Bay and the buoy line.
Bonnie shivered in the solid downpour as she searched for whatever Lofton was to bring alongside. Them Bones bobbed at W‑35 and her hands were raw, chafed, and still wet from cleating the bow and stern lines.
She had bent to finish snapping the canvas cover when she felt, but couldn't see, a presence. The water alongside had changed, it swirled instead of flowed, the pattern wasn't the same. Bubbles; she knew Lofton was close by.
There. A shaft perhaps twenty feet away rose into the night, fifteen, twenty feet high--a periscope. The water sighed, more bubbles, a long black sleek shape, a foot or so off the surface, nudged up to Them Bones. She squinted; Brutus was hard to see. Swells easily lapped over the submarine. It didn't seem to glisten or gleam as rain pounded and seawater lapped in small whirlpools.
She heard a clunk, then Lofton's voice through the rain, softly, "OK, hop on." His tone was quiet, yet immediate.
The skiff bounced in the wavelets and yielded her weight as she stepped off. The submarine's round topside by comparison was solid, rock‑hard; it didn't bob. She edged aft around the periscope toward a low, dull shape. Lofton stood chest‑high in his hatch behind a small cutwater. He offered a hand and she grabbed it tightly as a swell raised, tore over Brutus, and pulled at her feet.
"Welcome aboard," he said quietly. "Come on, follow me, it's warm inside. Don't worry. I'll leave the hatch open."
Bonnie squeezed her eyes shut and inched down a small metal ladder. Her feet finally found the deck of Lofton's sewerpipe. Gripping the gleaming stainless steel ladder, she stood rooted.
"Well?" A chuckle.
She opened her eyes and scanned the long, tubular interior. Pipes, dials, gauges, a comfortable- looking pilot berth forward to her right. Across on the port side, a full conning station, except she didn't--
She stepped forward. It looked like a fighter plane's cockpit without the canopy. Four colored CRTs surrounded another large one and jumped with their displays; a joy-stick, a keyboard, a high- backed, comfortable leather armchair, even pedals like a fighter plane.
She pointed toward the pedals. "Is that for rudder control?"
Lofton, still dripping in his swim trunks, stepped aside and let her move forward. "No, those are throttles for bow thrusters, port and starboard. I had to use them to maneuver next to you. The joystick does all the rudder and stern plane control. The main throttle on the left side is for speed control and doubles as a shift for forward or reverse just like in Them Bones."
His voice rose a notch. "Look, I better back out of here before I snag a buoy line or run aground. OK?"
She nodded and looked back to the open hatch; rain and seawater cascaded down and swirled through a deck grate below the hatch.
Lofton took his seat, then pulled the throttle with his left hand. She felt a slight shudder but nothing else. More water poured through the hatch. A red light blinked frantically on one of the CRTs. She turned, sheets of water roared into Brutus as they gathered sternway. Then she caught Lofton's eye, his brow raised, the question unspoken.
"OK, close it, Mr. Lofton, and let's get out of here."
Lofton tilted his head slightly, got up and closed the hatch, then sat down again. It became quiet and her skin prickled; it was warm all right, but a little humid. He worked Brutus, she could tell, with the pedals--the bow thrusters--to swing around and head out to sea.
A digital readout on the large CRT--it was labeled "Master"-- checked with what she thought were compass bearings. Yes, a gyrocompass read‑out above the CRT console confirmed it. The compass swung, then steadied on 010. Lofton eased the throttle forward, then punched the keyboard before him. The master panel danced with numbers, geometric shapes, and instructions. A smaller CRT on the upper right side of the console, labeled "NAV" also flashed the same display. A gauge above the CRT console was labeled "Keel Depth" and read 8.90. She sighed and sat on the pilot berth as Lofton worked.
"I'm going to set up a program for," he checked his watch, "arrival at basin six in ninety minutes. That's when we're supposed to meet Kirby." He jabbed the keys, the console buzzed back.
She noticed the frantic red flashing light was out on the "Ship" CRT display. Of course, the hatch had been closed.
He nodded toward the bow, "The shower is in there, and I have a clean poopie suit ready for you."
Bonnie looked forward to an oval hatch labeled "Divers' Trunk." Dimly lit, it was small, cylindrical, about six feet high by three feet wide: more valves, pipes, metallic and threatening. The diving tank, regulator, and other gear lay on the deck. Lofton had entered Brutus through there; his wet tracks led aft on the green linoleum.
"I shower in that thing? Do I close the hatch? And what's a poopie suit?"
"You don't have to close the hatch," he said. "I'll try not to peek. Well, maybe...
"Come on!"
"And you'll find hot and cold water valves on the port side at chest level." He held her gaze, his eyes crinkled as his hands paused above the keyboard. "And a poopie suit is overalls. It's comfortable."
Bonnie sighed, "The hell with it, but the hatch stays open. And no peekee." She laid her dripping glasses on the small console table, then went forward, squeaked out of her soaked clothes and turned the valves. The nozzle gushed and steam billowed around her. It felt wonderful.
They sat at a small table built against the port bulkhead in the after part of the control room.
"Only one can of navy bean soup per passenger, we're out, actually. There's more bug juice, though." Lofton raised a plastic pitcher.
"What?"
"Kool‑Aid."
She nodded and munched a cracker while he poured a refill. Sitting back, she drank, then drew her legs up in the little chair and propped her chin on her knees.
Lofton was in dry clothes; he'd showered too, and looked comfortable in a short sleeved faded blue sweatshirt, Levis and Topsiders. By comparison, she felt ugly in the overalls. She swam in them; they'd belonged to Thatcher, Lofton had finally told her. But she was warm, dry, and, she admitted to herse
lf, cozy at the galley table, especially with the thought of the San Pedro Channel raging, how far?--she checked a bulkhead‑mounted remote depth gauge above her--four hundred feet over her head.
She ran a hand through her matted dark brown hair. "Where are my clothes?" she asked, taking another sip.
Lofton nodded aft to a round hatch just beyond the miniature cook top, "Back there in the motor room. I have our stuff laid out on a heat exchanger. It should be dry soon."
"That hatch looks awfully small. How big is it back there?"
"Oh, the motor room is big enough, all right, but it's crammed with all the power and air-scrubbing equipment. You'll find fuel cells, the DC motor, the reformer system; it's hard to move around."
Bonnie polished her glasses for the third time, held them to the light, then peered back at the hatch. "Why the tunnel?"
"The whole area is surrounded by fuel tanks."
"The JP-5?"
"Uh-huh. That and hydrogen peroxide."
"My God! That stuff is volatile."
Lofton explained the fuel systems's safeguards, then asked, "How did you know?"
"It's my business. Engineer, like you."
Lofton's eyebrows went up.
"Uh‑huh, B.S. in mechanical engineering from UC Santa Barbara, class of 1977."
"What got you into that?" Lofton eyed a cluster of remote gauges above his head: depth 400 feet, course 023, speed 14 knots. They should be at the Long Beach entrance in another thirty minutes.
"My pop." She gave a thin smile. "He's a mechanical engineer and has been in the fuel business a long time. He worked for GE's jet engine division for eighteen years, then started Butler Engineering twelve years ago."
"Ah, and you're the second‑in‑command?"
She folded her hands on the table and leaned forward. "No, no. Nothing so grandiose as that. Butler Engineering is a solid eighty‑five-million dollar company. I'm a Julie‑come‑lately. But I've worked for my dad off and on over the years on a part‑time basis. Marketing, mostly." She heaved her chest. "But now I've been on full‑time for the past four months. Daddy threw me into the PW‑4000 program and--"
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 11