"There!"
The welder flipped down his hood. He turned a knob and the flame became an intense roaring blue.
Water crept up higher.
The torch snapped and sputtered as it attacked bottom plating. Slime and sea growth sizzled and smoked. Wisps trailed above the blue flame as the cutter followed Dobrynyn's rough outline.
It was done. A sledge was produced, a burly, bare chested sergeant with thick matted hair swung. The hammer clanged and bounced.
Nothing.
Dobrynyn grabbed the sledge, but the welder reached up and held his arm. "Wait!"
Even as water lapped at the crack, the welder bent for thirty seconds and worked on two corners. He rose, lost his balance, and slid back. Men caught his elbows as the torch fell sputtering in the water. He shouted, "Now!"
Dobrynyn stood over the plate, took a two-handed grip and raised the sledge high over his head. He swung, the head arced down and hit with a bang. The section gave way and quickly disappeared with a soft splash.
They all yelled at once and crowded the opening. Dobrynyn dropped the sledge and shoved in among them. Dark, oily water glistened forty centimeters below as the Marrobbio freely poured in.
"Flashlight," Dobrynyn shouted.
Inside, a hand appeared, waved, then was gone.
Dobrynyn's heart surged. The hand wore a ring with a gold "U."
Four out of a ten-man engine room crew came out alive: three Libyan naval engineering ratings and Senior Sergeant Josef Ullanov, who was hoisted out last. All were unconscious as they were whisked to shore, their faces white, their mouths hanging open as rich oxygen tempted their body chemistry.
Just as he was laid on the stretcher, Ullanov coughed loudly. His chest surged and he pulled great lungfuls of air. His lips moved.
Dobrynyn knelt to listen. He cocked an ear then, shook his head. With a hand on the sergeant's shoulder he said, "Later, Josef. Rest now."
Ullanov rasped, his eyes flickered.
Dobrynyn bent again.
"...Major...You can tell Colonel Qaddafi...I fixed both his damned fuel strainers..."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The lumber barge was anchored five hundred yards off the Kunashiri Maru's port quarter. Brutus crept at half a knot, minimum steerageway, toward it. At a range of twenty yards, Lofton reversed, stopped, and hovered so all six inches of his periscope blended into the barges's rusty freeboard. It felt comfortable here, he was in deep early morning shadow within two hundred yards of the quay wall and slightly forward of the Cuban freighter. Lofton could follow movement on both sides of the Kunashiri Maru and still remain safe from the two Stenkas which, with their twin 30-millimeter mounts trained on the trawler, growled back and forth offshore.
Three more eight‑wheeled BTR‑60s, pulling great clouds of dust, roared down the quay wall, crunched over the ditch, and drew to a stop before the trawler. Men dismounted wearing black tunics with blue and white striped teeshirts, black trousers, boots, and black berets set at a rakish angle. They carried the newer, more lethal AK‑74 automatic assault rifles instead of the AK‑47s, which the Soviets were quietly surplusing to "client" nations. The men looked confident, casual, and sure of their equipment. Lofton checked their lapel patches. Full and junior sergeants dominated the group; these weren't pimply faced recruits. A few laughed, but most were serious. Their beret insignia identified them as Soviet Naval Infantry, similar to the U.S. Marines.
Another vehicle swooped in: a T‑55 medium tank. Its commander stood waist‑high in the hatch, his hands braced on top of the jiggling turret. It lurched to a stop amidships of the trawler. Then, to Lofton's disbelief, the tank trained its hundred millimeter cannon on the ship's bridge.
The activity was not lost on the Kunashiri Maru's crew. They siphoned out of hatches and doorways in ones and twos, pulling on shoes, coats, and sweaters. Some rubbed their eyes while others sipped at steaming mugs. Twenty or so men and a few women lined the rail and stared at the Soviet Naval Infantry staring at them.
Was one PARALLAX? What had happened? Surely a nighttime barroom brawl would not have brought out ten BTR‑60s, one hundred elite Naval Infantry and a T‑55 tank.
The Soviets meandered about their positions while the Japanese fishermen leaned on the ship's rail. Conversation rippled among the Japanese crew; a few shook their heads and shuffled inside but most lingered on deck.
A stout, gray crew-cut man walked on the Kunashiri Maru's starboard bridge wing and stood on a platform with his fists on his hips. He wore a short-sleeved plaid shirt and dark trousers. Slowly, deliberately, he rotated his torso, surveying the Soviets and their fighting equipment. He raised a megaphone. A few Soviet heads looked up, then ignored him. The Japanese skipper tried again, the megaphone arcing back and forth over the Soviets. Nothing. They didn't pay any attention. The man in the plaid shirt stood at his bridge wing, the megaphone dangling at his side. He accepted a mug from a pea-coated sailor and sipped, watching the Soviet Naval Infantry pace about their positions.
Bleep! A printout splayed across Brutus's lens. Lofton heard it at the same time, a deep, pumping sound on the other side of the lumber barge:
ROSLAVL CLASS PELAGIC TUG
LENGTH: 147 FEET
SPEED: 11 KNOTS
ENG: DIESEL ELECTRIC
RANGE: 6000 nm
The gray tug had approached from the other side of the barge. He watched her boil past, then slow and pick her way between the Stenkas and ease alongside the Kunashiri Maru. White froth kicked up under her stern and she stopped, then drifted in her own swirl. Her skipper stepped out of the pilothouse and examined the trawler. They were about the same length.
The tug's arrival galvanized the Soviets. About thirty infantrymen ran up the trawler's gangway and split into two groups. One group dashed quickly forward out of Lofton's view. The other ran aft to the deckhouse and disappeared inside. Soon, two or three popped onto the bridge. The captain yelled at them; Lofton saw his arms wave. They ignored him and moved inside. The trawler's crew followed the first Soviet group toward the bow and out of Lofton's sight. The skipper on the bridge picked up the megaphone and faced forward; his elbows pumped as he mouthed the device. Ten more troops loped aboard.
The tug crept ahead to the trawler's bow. A messenger line snaked through the air and landed on the tug's low aft deck. Soon, a large manila hawser was pulled aboard the trawler. The Soviets disembarked and milled on the dock, nervous. A few had their AK‑74s in their hands. Their heads swung toward the trawler's bow.
They're going to tow that ship. Even as Lofton watched, two sergeants worked the stern line off the bollard and threw it in the water, not caring if it wasn't hauled aboard; they simply walked away. The gangplank must have been taken in or thrown aside because the Kunashiri Maru's bow drifted from the wharf.
The Roslavl's stern frothed, she took a strain on the hawser and maneuvered perpendicular to the dock, her nose pointed directly into Avachinskaya Guba. Kunashiri Maru was underway. She rotated from her dock and obediently followed the tug as scope was paid out to her.
PARALLAX! The defector! Where were they going? To a customs dock? Arrest? To Prison? Lofton hovered next to the lumber barge as the tug and tow gained headway. The KGB Stenkas looked mean, deadly, as they took station fifty feet off either beam of the Kunashiri Maru. Their gun mounts were now trained fore and aft but their crews were alert; they wore helmets and life preservers and crouched in the bridge area and at their weapons stations. Except for the man in the plaid shirt, Lofton couldn't see any of the Kunashiri Maru's crew.
The trawler rode behind the tug with perhaps three hundred feet of scope on the towline. They cleared the anchored merchant fleet and picked up speed--Lofton ran a solution--ten knots or so. He'd wait another few minutes, then follow them to their new mooring. He needed the distance so when he poked up his periscope now and then, the wake wouldn't be obvious. Fortunately that was less of a danger now. A northwesterly breeze had kicked a light chop on Avach
inskaya Bay. The feather wake off his periscope would be less conspicuous, he could go a bit faster. Still, it was full daylight: 7:27. Be careful.
He swung the periscope. The day had grown brighter as the overcast burned off, rugged mountains surrounding Petropavlovsk poked through the mist. He checked his watch. Almost time to shove off. He decided to take another look.
Except for the Naval Infantry, the only other people he saw were two sailors on the Cuban freighter's main deck. They leaned on the rail in conversation; one spat over the side.
The BTR‑60s and the tank prepared to move out. Troops scrambled aboard, exhausts belched and filled the air with blue smoke. The T‑55 jerked, spun a half circle on its right tread, and headed down the quay wall toward an access road that corkscrewed up a hill.
Lofton looked up the road as the tank spun left and jiggled onto the thoroughfare. A BTR‑60, several troops, and two jeep‑type vehicles stood across an intersection two blocks up the road. People milled about the far side of the crossroad. A few bicycles and an occasional car passed. But no civilians came near the dock. The Naval Infantry had blockaded the waterfront.
That was it, there were no civilians about. Roadblocks had been set up to keep out casual observers. Lofton whistled under his breath. He'd arrived in the middle of what was proving to be an elaborate operation; Naval Infantry, BTR‑60s, a T‑55 medium tank, two KGB Stenkas and the Roslavl tug.
He swung the scope. The Kunashiri Maru convoy was aimed for the Avachinskaya channel entrance. That was odd. He reversed Brutus for thirty seconds, cleared the barge, and kicked the minisub's nose around with his bow thrusters. He lowered the scope, checked sonar, then set a course through the merchant fleet at ten knots. He'd look again in two minutes. He'd thought the Kunashiri Maru was being towed to another dock, perhaps across the bay. Why into the Pacific Ocean?
They were getting rid of the trawler for some reason. A dispute of some kind? A bad load of fish, a persona non grata situation, or worse, they'd caught PITCHFORK, then ejected the ship. But if they released the Kunashiri Maru, he could follow. Perhaps raise them by radio when they were well clear of Kamchatka. His heart lifted. If the Kunashiri Maru was at sea in international waters, he wouldn't have to worry about Russians. And he still had a chance to contact PARALLAX. Maybe he could set up a meeting after he disarmed the CAPTORs. Then run for home and do something about Renkin.
He checked NAV; Brutus was clear of the merchant anchorage. Lofton slowed, raised the scope, and took a quick but careful visual sweep. Yes, dead ahead, there was his convoy. They had swung left and already stood abeam of the Poluostrov Izmennyy narrows. The convoy had a five-knot speed differential but he'd catch up soon. And the Stenka ID program showed limited antisubmarine detection gear, so he could go to flank speed once they cleared Mys Mayachnyy. The trawler would most likely turn south once the tow was dropped; the Kunashiri Maru couldn't do more than twelve knots or so, Brutus could overtake her easily. Lofton would dog her until twilight, then make radio contact.
The console bleeped, a red warning light flashed in his periscope lens. Brutus's computer burped, a ship's ID program scrolled:
KRIVAK III CLASS FRIGATE 348/1.1 nm
Lofton whipped the scope around and trained on the bearing dead aft:
SPEED: 12 ‑ 348/l.0 nm
A small bow wave--there--beyond that container ship. A thin shape appeared with a tall mast. A radar antenna twirled on top.
SPEED: 12 ‑ 348/1800 YDS
He switched to high power and searched for the shape. Yes, there it was, a graceful new Soviet frigate with a clipper bow. Her bridge windows glinted in the morning light. He punched the Krivak III subroutine and let it flip through his periscope display:
DISP.: 3900 TONS
LENGTH: 377 FEET
BEAM: 46 FEET
DRAFT: 15 FEET
SPEED: 32 KNOTS
PWR.: 2 GAS TURBINES--2 BOOST TURBINES
2 SHAFTS--48,000 HP EA
She's coming right at me. Time to park.
SPEED: 12 - 348/1550 YDS
Lofton lowered the scope and headed for the bottom. She was a Krivak, a third-generation ASW platform, deadly, she was no ship to tangle with. He arched an eyebrow as the Krivak's characteristics continued to zip down his Master CRT:
SONAR: HERKULES‑MED FREQ‑HULL MOUNTED‑6 KILOHERTZ
TAMIR‑MED FREQ‑VARIABLE DEPTH‑12 KILOHERTZ
WEAPONS: ROCKET LAUNCHERS: 2 RBU‑6000
TORPEDOES: 8‑21 IN(2 QUAD MT)
GUNS: 1/100 MM/70 CAL DP
2‑30 MM CLOSE‑IN
(2 MULTI‑BARREL)
Depth: 45 feet. Lofton slowed, then reversed a bit to stop Brutus. He thumbed negative buoyancy and settled toward the bottom.
HELOS: 1 KA‑27 HELIX
RADARS: 1 BRASS TILT (FIRE CONTROL)
The Krivak III was new, built in 1985; she bristled with electronics, but that main gun with its hundred millimeter bore--Lofton did some quick calculations as Brutus crunched on the bottom--a four-inch gun. DP meant dual purpose, surface and air capability.
SPEED: 12 - 349/950 YDS
He listened to the Krivak grind and clank, her screws beating the water with a freight train sound. Why wasn't she pinging? Lofton looked up toward the rumble and added more ballast.
SPEED: 12 - 349/400 YDS
The TYPHOON notwithstanding, maybe they were not supposed to key their sonars in the bay. The U.S. Navy had similar rules. The big sonars were so powerful they actually cavitated and boiled the water around the ship. Fish died and bellied up.
SPEED: 12 - 349/250 YDS
Almost overhead. A roaring whining swelled around him; the screws swished loudly, one sounding uneven, perhaps from a nick in the blade. The Krivak plowed above Lofton's raised head at no more than thirty yards slant range. Finally, a frothing, gurgling sound and the Krivak was past; her wake tugged at Brutus for a moment. Then it became quiet.
He waited thirty minutes, then blew ballast. Brutus rose off the bottom and swam back to periscope depth. Sonar showed all clear. He raised the scope and checked. Visibility was good, he was almost to the Izmenny narrows. The bay looked clear, docile, with minimal maritime traffic. The Krivak's wake churned about three miles away. She was almost abeam of Mys Mayachnyy and was no longer a threat. The frigate would be concentrating on her entrance into the Pacific.
Lofton wound Brutus up to fifteen knots. He checked NAV, then punched up a subroutine:
EBBTIDE 09210942 ‑ 2.5/SSE
Good. He'd have a two-and-a-half-knot current to shove him out, his actual speed would be close to eighteen knots, and he'd clear the channel in fifteen minutes or so. He set Auto, then sat back, poured a cup of coffee, and waited.
Ten minutes later he slowed to three knots: up scope. Brutus was making good time, the two-hundred-foot-tall black cap island, Babushkin Kamen, lay slightly aft on his starboard side. Seven fishing dories now heaved on their anchors as the tide pulled at them. Bundled men stood in their boats and cast fishing lines. Lofton couldn't find the pipe smoker but he waved anyway. So long, nice knowing you.
He trained slightly off his port bow, NAV scrolled:
KAMNI TIR BRATA
Perfect. Brutus was in mid channel. The recalcitrant NAV system seemed to be working all right in this mode.
He looked straight ahead to see the Krivak's fantail disappear behind Mys Mayachnyy. She was beam on to him, froth boiled at her stern as she increased turns. Good. She had swung left and headed north to clear the area. Down scope, dive to thirty feet, and back to fifteen knots.
It was going to work. Lofton felt better than he had in days. He relaxed for another five minutes before bringing Brutus up to seventeen feet and raising the scope.
Mys Mayachnyy was almost abeam, but much of the five-hundred-foot cliff was obscured as a fog settled at the entrance to Avachinskaya Guba. He checked to starboard, making sure he stood clear of the Stanitskogo Shallows, an area dominated by two drying rocks. Breakers
tore at them. Goodbye, Petropavlovsk. Lofton dove to fifty feet and went back to fifteen knots.
He checked his sonar, looking for Stenkas and the Kunashiri Maru. They should have been south at a range of three or four miles. But the bearing was clear in that direction. He scratched his head.
Lofton sat up and peered at his CRT. Nothing. No Stenkas, no tug, no Japanese fishing trawler. He expanded the sonar to a full passive sweep. Nothing except the Krivak grinding to the northwest--and it was close, only two miles off his port quarter. She must have reduced speed.
Two miles? Lofton punched Sensors, then shifted the readout to the Master CRT:
KRIVAK CLASS FRIGATE 054/2.0 nm
STENKA CLASS PSKR PATROL BOAT 055/2.1 nm
STENKA CLASS PSKR PATROL BOAT 055/1.9 nm
ROSLAVL CLASS PELAGIC TUG 055/2.1 nm
UNK VESSEL 055/2.1 nm
What? Lofton banged the throttle back, his speed dwindled. Come on, come on. What the hell are they all doing over there--he checked NAV--two miles off Toporkov Island? His speed dropped to three knots and he climbed to periscope depth. Up scope. There, Toporkov Island, another islet monster; steep, slab‑sided, 150 feet high. It was shrouded in fog, and he could just see its irregular toothy summit. He slewed to the right, finding shapes in the mist. The Krivak was wakeless, she lay wallowing, dead in the water, light brown haze rose from her stack. Big groundswells marched past but they weren't breaking, and there was no wind, just the grayish, dull ocean and a hoary, rolling mist.
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 21