Fog swirled around the ships, he lost sight of them. He eased in left rudder, lowered the scope and checked Sensors:
KRIVAK 052/2.4 nm
Brutus steadied on 052 and he checked the other targets. Same bearing. Go easy. Brutus crawled at four knots while Lofton thought for a few moments. He punched NAV and risked a single fathometer ping:
DEPTH: 377 FEET
Something was missing. Pinging! The Krivak still wasn't pinging. Either her sonar was down or they were out for a holiday. Maybe the sonarmen were drunk on vodka. Fat chance. He knew he could outrun the Krivak's design speed of thirty‑two knots with Brutus's actual thirty‑five knot dash speed. He was sure the frigate couldn't track him on sonar at thirty‑two knots. But her twenty‑one-inch ASW torpedoes had a forty‑five-knot capability and packed a nine-hundred-pound high-explosive warhead. No, the Krivak wasn't pinging. Fine.
Five minutes passed. He rose to scan the ships in the mist. A shape became the Kunashiri Maru, rising and falling with the swells. Then he picked out the Roslavl backing toward the Kunashiri Maru. She stopped, her stern a few yards from the trawler's bow. A pair of heads popped over the Kunashiri Maru's bulwark near her hawsepipe. The eye of the towline snaked through the hawsepipe and plopped into the water. It was reeled in by the Roslavl while her twin screws churned up the sea. She swept away in a wide turn and disappeared into the fog. Her bearing drew rapidly left. Back to Petropavlovsk, Lofton supposed.
Lofton felt strange, displaced, for some reason. This wasn't right. Why the Krivak and the two Stenkas?
He checked his range, seven hundred yards, then slowed to half a knot, bare steerageway. The faint, howling whine of the Krivak's gas turbines was audible as she lay to.
His eye roamed the frigate's aft superstructure. Her corrugated hangar gaped open. The Helix ASW helicopter, her folded blades looking like cockroach antennas, lay tucked in the white, brightly lit space. He checked the hull number under her bridge, 059. A look at the foremast told him this ship also flew the KGB Maritime Border Troops green flag. Something tugged in his stomach. The Krivak, the two Stenkas? A KGB operation? Not the Soviet navy. He lowered the scope. Maybe it was a port clearance problem. Wait it out, that was all he could do.
A new sound came from the group of ships. He cocked his head toward an irregular yet continuous plopping. Another sound, a low rhythmic pumping. Then, a loud metallic screech!
Up periscope!
Smoke, shrapnel greeted his eyes. Chunks of the Kunashiri Maru flew in all directions. Even as he watched, her forward mast buckled, shook against her shrouds, then fell into the water with a large splash.
"No!"
Lofton slewed the periscope to the Krivak, astonished. The Stenkas were lined up fore and aft of her in a column, all guns trained abeam. The Krivak's hundred-millimeter main gun pumped fifty-pound armor‑piercing projectiles at eighty rounds per minute into the Kunashiri Maru. Her starboard side 30-millimeter six-barrel gatling gun spurted at a hideous thousand rounds per minute per barrel. The Stenkas joined in with their four dual mounted 30-millimeter gatling guns.
A KGB maritime firing squad, they were killing the Kunashiri Maru.
"Nooo!"
The Krivak and Stenkas kept at it. Large pieces, then part of a lifeboat shredded from the trawler. Heads bobbed up and down the deck. The Kunashiri Maru lurched drunkenly. Large holes angled up her stack, then the stack was gone as a one-hundred-millimeter projectile obliterated it, along with much of the deckhouse just forward. A small fire spouted aft and just as quickly went out as another large round slammed in. He saw a man run forward; the skipper in the plaid short-sleeved shirt. He grabbed the rail of his bridge. His mouth formed an "O," and a round tore into him, severing his torso.
Lofton didn't realize he'd retched. He grabbed an oily rag and wiped spittle off his chin and went back to the periscope.
Shrouded in a pall of cordite, the Krivak and the Stenkas maintained their deadly fire. Flames bursts from their guns. Water kicked around and beyond the Kunashiri Maru in large frothing columns as more chunks were torn from her; innumerable tree-stump size holes punctured her port side.
Suddenly the trawler lurched, almost involuntarily. Time to get it over with, she seemed to moan, time to die.
Slowly at first, then faster, the Kunashiri Maru rotated to port and capsized. Ten or so figures, Lofton picked out two women, were miraculously alive and scrambled up her sides. They found handholds on the barnacles, the prop shaft, the gleaming bilge keel. Their last hope was to make it over the keel and cower in the limited safety of the other side, away from the lethal, raking fire of the KGB Maritime Border Troops.
The firing squad kept at it. The terrified fishermen, some waving their arms, were blown off the ship's glistening bottom as if hit by huge, hydraulic fists. Others were merely vaporized as large rounds slammed into them.
Lofton squeezed his eyes shut, unable to watch. They'd set it up; the Naval Infantry, the sealed waterfront, the KGB ships. The fog, nobody could see from the beach. Yet here was a killing ground two miles offshore, well within Soviet territorial waters.
It was a premeditated operation. But they would tell the press that a military transit zone, or something, had been ignored. Apologies would be made to the Japanese government six months later. He ground his teeth.
Renkin! This was Renkin at work; how, Lofton didn't know. But only a man with such power, such influence, money, international stature, could casually order the death of thirty or so innocent Japanese fishermen and, along with them, PARALLAX and PITCHFORK. Renkin!
The loud pumping sounds stopped but he heard smaller rounds still at their work, along with great screeching, ripping noises as the Kunashiri Maru broke up. There was a prolonged groan, then a gigantic crash; it had to be her diesel engine coming unbedded and falling through the overhead to the ocean floor.
The Kunashiri Maru's bow was down, almost submerged, fifteen feet or so of her stern hung in the air. She would slide to the bottom in a minute or two. And no sign of life; bodies splayed in the water with crates, vegetables, a deflated zodiac, large pools of oil.
Another noise, a steady growling sound. He checked the scope. The 831 and 726 were both underway and headed directly toward him! They'd spotted his periscope either visually or on radar. Damnit!
PING!
The Krivak had lighted off her sonar. Then he heard large propeller noises. Get out of here, the Stenkas were almost on top. Move!
PING!
The Krivak was underway, maybe generating a solution for those forty‑five knot torpedoes. He couldn't rely on his anechoic coating or his speed, the KGB frigate was too close. He had to obscure the Krivak's firing solution.
A chance, he had to take it. He lowered the scope, jammed Brutus's throttle to flank speed and eased to one hundred feet.
Sonar painted a target directly ahead: the Kunashiri Maru still wallowed in death throes on the surface. He could put her between Brutus and the Krivak. All he needed was a couple of minutes at dash speed, thirty‑five knots, to clear the area.
It would be close. He chanced a ping on his active sonar:
UNK VESSEL 064/450 YDS
His speed climbed nicely, passing through fifteen knots.
PING!
KRIVAK CLASS DESTROYER 275/1500 YDS
Hull number 059 was on his tail, Lofton heard her screws beat through the water. The Stenkas buzzed well behind now, they'd lost the scent.
DEPTH: 100 SPD: 18
He passed under the Kunashiri Maru, hearing crackling and tearing overhead. A red light flashed on Sensor. Datum! He was clear! Lofton eased back on the stick a bit.
Suddenly, Brutus lurched, then skewed to one side. Something clanged against the hull. Incredibly, the minisub shuddered to a complete stop. The five-bladed propeller thrashed wildly, Brutus corkscrewed and shook.
Speed zero. What the hell is happening? A huge roar and hiss behind him, more metal shrieks, bubbles. He thought he heard a prolonged human scr
eam. The Kunashiri Maru was going down.
Lights blinked, all the CRTs shouted at him. Speed zero, yet he had full RPM. Brutus's prop shaft began to wobble.
Lofton cut the power and bit his lip. He knew what it was, he would just have to ride it out. Quickly he checked depth: 355. He might be able to do it, bottom Brutus, then exit in his diver's rig. He would need just five minutes to cut the dangling line that had reached out from the dying Kunashiri Maru and fouled his propeller.
The dive planes! They were jammed to full dive. With a loud prolonged hiss from the air flasks, Brutus's overtaxed computer gave up and called it a day. All chicken switches were activated and three thousand pounds of air quickly blew water from the ballast tanks. Brutus ascended even as Lofton frantically jabbed his CRT panels and keyboard to override the emergency program.
Forty-six feet. He frantically jabbed at keys. Brutus rose faster, the air flasks defiantly roaring as ballast disgorged.
Twenty‑two feet, he'd pop out like a cork. He tried the throttle again. A low pathetic thumping answered him from the motor room. One or two RPMs, then the shaft ground to a full stop. He pulled the throttle to neutral as Brutus lurched through the surface like a dead, bloated whale.
A buzzing sound echoed toward him. He checked the periscope. Both Stenkas swooped in, drawing close to either quarter. Four thirty‑millimeter gatling guns were trained directly at Brutus. In the distance he saw the Krivak's bow wave as she sliced nearer with her howling gas turbine engines.
He tried to swallow. There was a lump in his throat. It was too much to believe. All he wanted was to expose Renkin and disarm those CAPTORs in the Kuril Straits. Never had he planned to face the damn strutting Soviet Navy, certainly not the KGB. He hadn't foreseen thirty dead fishermen, nor Underwood, nor Thatcher.
The computer blinked at him and indicated reset. It had figured out its mistake. Having panicked without interrogating sensors, artificial intelligence had given way to a convoluted survival instinct. Brutus was ready now, all green except for propulsion and dive planes. The damned computer was now willing to take a chance, sit on the bottom and wait for the Stenkas and Krivak to go away.
Lofton shook his head, he'd be dead meat if he moved. The Stenka's gatlings would chew Brutus to pieces before he could get under. He sighed, then reached forward and flipped switches to "off." The CRTs went blank, lights blinked out, the air stopped circulating. Brutus wallowed, his systems died one by one. The minisub became inert, like Lofton.
He fumbled in the dark, found his duffle and yanked out his sailing jacket. He grabbed the ladder and stood dumbly for two minutes, his head down as Brutus rose and fell with the waves. Finally, he reached up and popped the main hatch open. Siberian air and a tinge of cordite greeted his nostrils.
Lofton climbed the ladder onto Brutus's dripping casing. He put his hands in the air.
A thunderstorm boiled over the Kalorama Circle area of Washington, D.C. Ted Carrington knocked on Dr. Felix Renkin's door. He entered and quietly clicked on the bedside light.
"Yes? What is it? What's the time?"
"Three-thirty, Dr. Renkin. A Watkins man came to the door and left this for you."
Renkin turned to his bedside stand, fumbled, then put on his round gold-rimmed glasses. Rain pelted outside, then he saw Carrington's outstretched hand.
"Thanks, Carrington, I didn't realize you were staying the night."
"Had to work late. Been talking to Vito. He's still cleaning up from the hit on that guy Kirby--"
"Is Calabra all right? Can they trace anything back to us?"
"No sir. He just went down hard and Vito is making sure it looked like an accident. And we're double-checking that Kirby didn't talk to any of his Navy friends."
Renkin stared into space.
Carrington said, "Think I'll use the guest room. Don't want to go home in this." He waved a tired hand to the window.
Renkin regained his focus. "Very good. Let me decode this. Go back to bed."
Carrington shuffled out, the door closed softly. Renkin opened the envelope and looked at the five letter groups on the common sheet of stationery. He sighed, then rose from his bed, donned a bathrobe, and went to his desk. He snapped on the light, spun the two combination dials, and opened his small armored wall safe, making sure he bypassed "destruct."
He sorted out the small, one‑time pad and decrypted his message. It was a long one the rain drummed as he worked and he poked at his nose bandage. It itched from blood clots drying inside. Damn Lofton.
Finally he sat back. The message was dated two hours earlier. Not bad.
TO: MAXIMUM EBB
FM: SPILLOVER
OPERATION A COMPLETE SUCCESS. TRAWLER SUNK 09212113Z. BOTH ASSETS TERMINATED. WISH TO CONTINUE JET STREAM AND PROPOSE RECOVER OR KILL CAPTORS PRIOR TRUMAN'S EXIT KURIL STRAITS. PLEASE SEND LAT/LONG ASAP. ALSO X‑3 CAPTURED WITH SKIPPER. NOW IN DEEP SOLITARY. UNODIR WILL TERMINATE.
Felix Renkin pursed his lips and studied the phrase, "UNODIR WILL TERMINATE"--unless otherwise directed will terminate. Yes, yes, you clods. Shoot the sonofabitch, and now!
He scowled. They'd probably send Lofton to one of their "psychiatric institutes" first. Squeeze all the submarine hi‑tech data out of him--then kill him with no trace. Fine, just be quick about it.
Except...Lofton's capture presented intriguing possibilities. Renkin sat back and rubbed his chin. He could rid himself of both albatrosses, there was still time. Maybe talk to Hatch, the art dealer. Yes.
He looked at the message again. Nothing referred to the return of the X‑3. But then, why bother? If the damn thing did show up there would be too much to explain. Fair enough. Keep the minisub, shoot Lofton, and get it over with.
Meticulously he checked a folder, then drew out a blank sheet and wrote:
TO: SPILLOVER
FM: MAXIMUM EBB
CAPTOR SITE:
49˚ 39'.2 N
156˚ 02'.7 E.
IMPERATIVE WE MEET
There. He felt better and coded it into five-letter groups. He rang for Carrington and, while waiting, burned the original message and the plain-language draft of his reply. The toilet gurgled with the ashes as Carrington knocked. Renkin sealed his message in an envelope and handed it to his nodding, bleary-eyed assistant director with instructions.
Finally, Carrington gone, he turned off his lights and crawled deep under his covers as rain cascaded outside. He slept until nine-thirty.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
En Route Baikonur Cosmodrome, Kazakhstan Steppe, USSR
The Mil'-8 helicopter bucked and groaned as it flew northwest twenty meters above the humid Caspian Depression. Lieutenant Colonel Anton Dobrynyn clutched the back of the pilot's seat to keep his balance and his eyes flicked over the instrument panel. Many gauges he didn't understand, but he could tell the Mil' had burned over half its fuel. The bouncing, weaving helicopter, with ten combat-loaded Spetsnaz, still had 270 kilometers to go before it reached the Baikonur Cosmodrome.
He shouted, "What now, Boris?"
Naval Captain Lieutenant Boris Orbruchev yelled over his whining twin Isotov turboshaft engines. "Headwind, Colonel. Almost twenty knots. We'll get the tailwind on the way back, though. Should even things out."
Dobrynyn simply nodded. Orbruchev and his copilot, Lieutenant Eduard Ritzna, needed their concentration at this altitude.
A clear three-quarter moon helped visibility and though the land was flat, dust clouds kicked up below, disorienting them. Through the haze, he caught occasional glimpses of the meandering Volga River to starboard. Aside from maintaining altitude the real worry was electrical transmission towers. Earlier, they had crossed their fingers when they plotted the towers on their charts.
The headwind taxed their 370 kilometer combat radius. If it held as Orbruchev believed, they would get a boost on their return trip to their refueling stop, Ostrov Nizni Oseredok, an island off the northwest shore of the Caspian Sea. And from there, they could finish the 590 kilomet
er return trip to Baku safely.
But now Dobrynyn doubted that outcome. This felt like a snap cold front, one of Mother Natures's late September hurry-up jobs. The wind could veer, they could end up with it on their nose for the return flight.
They had planned the raid down to the last drop of fuel. Orbruchev and his flight crew had even stripped the tired Naval Infantry issue Mil' for a 10 percent contingency factor: armor plate, guns, rocket launchers, even NAV equipment, which included Orbruchev's terrain-following radar. It should have worked with the long range fuel tanks, except for this unseasonal headwind.
The Mil' jounced as Dobrynyn peered out the windshield. He saw an occasional flash of rotor blade and roiling dust cloud and nothing else.
His tongue seemed thicker. He licked his lips, then rubbed his palms together: dry, ionized air. No humidity. They must be out of the Caspian Depression. Occasional lights whipped past but there was nothing else to see at--he checked his watch--1:34 in the morning. In another five minutes or so, they would discover if Orbruchev remembered his dead reckoning. Kharabali, a solid checkpoint, was due to pop up ten kilometers on the starboard side. Otherwise, land at a rural gas station, ask directions first, then smash some pump locks and steal fuel. Orbruchev had boasted about doing it before. But that could be messy, regular gasoline played hell on the engines, diesel fuel would be better. Dobrynyn hoped it wouldn't come to that, he wanted a clean raid with no loose ends.
Particularly this raid. Flotilla headquarters in Baku had organized it.
Unusual.
He bit his thumbnail. Dobrynyn's Spetsnaz operation orders normally originated with the GRU's Main Intelligence Directorate in Moscow, then were endorsed and coordinated through Naval Headquarters in Leningrad. His brigade, stationed in Baku as part of the Caspian Sea Flotilla, had been assigned to a top secret program to assure tight security at strategic bases. Surprise raids were staged on major installations hundreds of kilometers from home base. Guards were overwhelmed and tied up, officers pushed around, a few windows smashed, desks overturned, files upended, and simulated demolition charges set. The last thing was to call the base commander as he settled to his evening television, even better if they tracked him to a mistress. Then they would slip away, untraceable, before the sputtering officer showed up.
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 22