The twins looked at him.
"A strange message on Pechenga's desk caught my eye this morning. It was mixed in with Colonel Dobrynyn's arrest order. A pink information copy, it was a message addressed to the Pacific Fleet Intelligence Directorate from Submarine Rescue Squadron Eight. It said Rescue Eight retrieved one of two U.S. Navy CAPTOR mines from the ocean floor near the Kurils yesterday morning. They used the Alatau." He looked at Dobrynyn, who nodded. "They had trouble grappling the second CAPTOR so they blew it up, because, and this really seemed strange to me, they were on a strict time schedule. They had been ordered to clear the sector by zero five hundred and apparently just made it."
Lofton smiled, then beamed. "That's wonderful news!" He sat on the bed, then lay back and threw his fists over his head. "Ouch, damned ribs." With a grimace, he rose and massaged his side. "Those guys are still alive, aboard the Truman. That means Kirby got to his Navy buddy. It's amazing they let you guys retrieve it. They must have gone through diplomatic channels. And that tells me Renkin could be in deep trouble by now."
They looked at the floor for a moment. "We're in the muck here, too." said Dobrynyn. "We need to think about how to--"
"Do you guys want to get out?" Lofton interrupted.
They stared at him.
"Take me back to Brutus. If they haven't screwed him up too much I can get us out of here, anywhere you want to go."
Dobrynyn cast an eye to Ullanov before replying. "That is out of the question."
"Why?"
Dobrynyn looked down. "I know this Spetsnaz brigade well. In fact, I trained many of them. They're a minisubmersible group and were assigned the task of preparing your submarine for transport. I inspected their work. Your submarine is secure now and ready for towing to Vladivostok. From there it goes aboard a special rail car across country to the Leningrad Naval Yard."
"Soviet naval headquarters?"
"Yes, the plans are to disassemble it there."
"Have they been inside yet?"
"Two men took a quick round of photographs. A shipyard engineer went through to make sure everything was shut off. Besides that, they had orders not to touch it."
"Where is it now?"
"Aboard a barge under tight security in the KGB naval basin. They made a wooden cradle, covered it with canvas and chained the submarine to the deck. A fake superstructure was built around that to disguise it as cargo barge because of your," he twirled a finger in the air, "spy satellites. It's in the KGB naval basin under tight security. It's due to be towed out tomorrow."
Lofton stood and paced for a moment. "All right. Sounds like we have nothing to lose."
Dobrynyn exchanged glances with Ullanov. "What?"
"Let's swim in. It's not as if we don't know how. We can blow the barge out from under Brutus with limpets."
Dobrynyn rubbed his chin. "Not a bad idea, except for the swimming. The people in the KGB naval basin are on a full-time war footing."
"Why?"
"Belousov ordered a battalion sized assault three months ago. We do this all the time." He explained about the Baikonur raid and how they had met Dr. Sadka, adding, "And here there were fistfights, stabbings, and unfortunately, a fatality--a shooting." The new dawn softly illuminated Dobrynyn's smile. "One of theirs, an officer.
"The KGB commander was fired and the new one is an animal. He's just finished building guard towers around the perimeter, the fence was electrified. Machine gun nests are set up with overlapping fire and are manned on a twenty‑four-hour basis.
"That's why your submarine is in there. And the reason we can't swim in is that they installed underwater sound detectors and lights. Small boats patrol around the clock and they throw hand grenades into the water at the slightest provocation." Dobrynyn spread his palms. "Even without that, swimming is extremely difficult. The currents are treacherous through the entrance. Sometimes three to four knots."
Lofton muttered, "Damnit! If only there was a way to get in there, we could do it." He bit his thumbnail and looked up. "How about a disguise? Maybe...maybe steal a truck. Go in with the meat delivery. Or dress as shipfitters and--"
"--There may be a way." Ullanov raised his eyebrows.
They looked at him.
"Tanya and I took a walk on the waterfront yesterday morning. I saw one or two scows, garbage barges. T-4s. They're serviced at the public docks, in front of an abandoned paint factory. The scows make their runs at night."
"You're sure the paint factory is abandoned?" Lofton asked.
Ullanov nodded.
"All right. We hide there today and grab the scow tonight."
"A garbage scow." Dobrynyn rubbed his chin.
"It'll take us right up to the barge where Brutus is, won't it?" Lofton said.
Dobrynyn and Ullanov looked at each other. They nodded. Dobrynyn said, "Let's go."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Seaman Second Class Vasiliy Bubnov was angry. It was past time to shove off. Instead, he stood waiting in the canvas-topped pilothouse of his sixty-two-foot landing craft. At seventy tons, the Soviet T-4 closely resembled an overgrown U.S. Navy LCM‑6. The well deck had been designed to carry a medium‑sized tank or eighty soldiers, both launched off a retractable bow ramp, which, on this boat, had been welded open parallel to the waterline. Bubnov's T-4 looked as if it had never been maintained. Her well deck was half full of garbage they had collected from merchant ships this afternoon. A small bulldozer lurked in the aft section to push the refuse off the ramp when at sea.
Where the hell was his crew? First, Yablochkov was missing, and now Kubchek. Idiots! Bubnov checked his instruments. The battery levels looked tolerable for once and they had just topped their fuel tanks. If the starboard engine wasn't too bad, they might do the trip in the allotted four hours instead of the six or seven it had been taking.
Come on! Looking at hulking, run-down waterfront structures, Bubnov ran the back of his hand over his nose and wiped it on his parka. The cannery had been abandoned three years ago, replaced by a new one across the bay. And now, the paint factory was shut down. Labor costs. They simply closed them, and with each closing he lost some of his best customers, people who liked the coke and hash he provided, courtesy of the Cubans. He had to depend on Navy customers now, but that made him nervous, and he vowed to cultivate a new group of civilians, soon.
Where the hell were those two? Yablochkov had simply wandered off. Kubchek said he was going to take a piss. Maybe they'd found a card game. Maybe they were smoking some of his stuff. If they were, he'd kill them. They knew that, too.
Bubnov wiped his nose again, jumped off the T-4 and walked up the dock. Wet, overcast, deserted; nobody was around. Deep shadows cast from downtown lights fell over the wharf. He checked his watch, an imitation Cartier. Damnit! They were due at the KGB naval basin entrance now.
"Kubchek!" he yelled.
Nothing.
Swearing, he walked across two railroad spurs to the paint factory. The offices were on the facade. Kubchek had a mattress stowed in one of them , for the occasions when he became serious about his recreational drug habits.
Peering in a smashed window, Bubnov saw a few cardboard cartons, an overturned chair, and water pooling on the cement floor. Kubchek's mattress lay in the corner, empty.
"Yablochkov, damnit! Kubchek!"
Something creaked. A side door, a barrel-chested man came out. A deep voice rumbled, "You all right, Comrade?" He moved closer.
Bubnov's skin prickled. The man wore a Naval Infantry uniform. No! Spetsnaz! They're on to me. He took a step back. "Uh, no. I...was just looking for my detail. We're late."
The man moved closer, within four paces. He grinned with broad white teeth. "Two guys?"
Bubnov swallowed. He tried to speak but could only nod.
"Yeah, I saw them walk by. Said something about going down to the cannery to strip brass."
Impossible! Bubnov, Yablochkov and Kubchek had checked the cannery months ago. There was no brass. Frightened, he
turned and--two dark shadows, men, stood before him. An arm swung a short pipe...
"He's the senior petty officer. Looks like I'm stuck with him," Dobrynyn said. They picked Bubnov up and hurried inside.
Lofton sniffed. "And the smelliest. Glad he's yours."
"Get going. Start the boat." Dobrynyn striped off his shirt.
"Do you need help?"
"No. Hurry, before those guards come back."
"OK."
Lofton and Ullanov ran out. Dobrynyn quickly changed, tied and gagged the sailor, and dragged him down a long dark hall. He didn't know where Ullanov and Lofton had dispersed the others. No matter. He found a door. A closet. He shoved the sailor in and, slamming the door, left him naked except for his underwear.
He quickly ran outside toward the docks and--no! Dobrynyn ducked under a wooden stairway. Two guards with rifles over their shoulders were talking to Ullanov, who stood in the pilothouse. Lofton's dark form hunched over the instrument panel, behind the sergeant. Although the T-4 was moored starboard side to, Dobrynyn heard her port engine ticking over. It looked as if Lofton was trying to start the starboard engine while Ullanov talked with broad gestures.
Dobrynyn cocked an ear. The starboard engine cranked and cranked. Black smoke drifted from her exhaust but the engine didn't catch. One of the guards propped a foot on the gunnel as Ullanov blabbed and waved his hands. The guards laughed. Dobrynyn recognized the pattern of Ullanov's hand movements. It was one of his crudest jokes.
The starboard engine sputtered and caught with a bellow. An enormous cloud spurted from her exhaust and nearly consumed the guards.
Belching a thinner bluish smoke, the engine roared as Lofton jazzed the throttle. The guards spun away from the cloud, coughing and yelling. Ullanov raised his eyebrows and held out his palms. One guard flipped him the finger, his mouth worked. Even in the poor light, Dobrynyn could make out his reddened face before both walked off brushing their uniforms.
Dobrynyn waited until they rounded a corner. He sprinted across the tracks and down the dock and tossed off the bow line while Ullanov undid the stern. The engines roared. Lofton spun the T-4 and idled into Avachinskaya Guba as Dobrynyn climbed the ladder to the pilothouse. He edged next to Lofton while Ullanov climbed up and propped his AK-74 in the corner.
"It's yours," Lofton said, stepping aside.
Dobrynyn cranked both throttle levers to full power. The twin screws of the flat‑bottomed, sixty‑two- foot garbage scow bit the water, taking the vessel to its full speed of ten knots. Wavelets thumped under the bow ramp, fine salt spray settling on condensation-covered decks. Twirling the helm, Dobrynyn asked, "How does your new uniform fit, Seaman Lofton?"
"Tight." Lofton tucked in his shirt and zipped the parka. "The guy was taller and much thinner. And, pheeew, it smells." In spite of this, a release swarmed through him, almost overwhelming. His feet were planted on a deck again, it didn't matter what kind, even this odorous wreck.
The black waters of Avachinskaya Guba kicked the bow ramp as Lofton zipped tighter. His breath condensed to mist and he blew on his hands, looking at the nighttime shapes and lights. Water gurgled past and swirled into a long, white wake where Petropavlovsk's downtown lights danced astern. He saw nothing, blackness, to port. To starboard, a low promontory gradually swept away to the narrow plain that accommodated Rakovaya Airport. Overhead, a grayish cast bloomed. No moon, no silhouettes. Thank God for little favors.
"This was a good idea, Josef." Dobrynyn had to shout over the twin diesel's roar. "But we pay a price. I never knew anything could reek like this."
Ullanov lit a cigarette and shouted back, "My father always said, 'why walk when you can ride?'"
"Is there a chart aboard?" Lofton asked.
"Should be." Ullanov rummaged in a shelf under the instrument panel. He pulled out a stained document with a thumb and a forefinger. Unfolding it, he sniffed. "Here." He jabbed a finger toward a thumb-shaped bay in the northern reaches of Avachinskaya Guba. "That's the KGB naval basin."
Dobrynyn scanned the chart in the dim light, switched his eye back to the compass, and adjusted their course slightly left.
Lofton, looking into blackness, asked, "Where is it?"
Ullanov pointed.
Lofton picked out a few low hills off the port bow. Abeam to starboard he recognized Mount Nalacheva near the area where Dr. Sadka and the derelict welder had been cremated in the sedan. Forward of that he saw the runway lights and buildings of Rakovaya Airport and, yes, the seaplane ramp where the Be‑12 had launched and taken off. Directly ahead, from the darkest, most remote part of Avachinskaya Guba, a flashing red light winked out of the void. A dim light loom glowed behind it. "Looks like a channel marker. Is that it?"
"Yes, it's a breakwater light."
He studied the light. Hills emerged out of the gloom while the T-4 plowed closer. The light became clearer; it stood on the right side of the breakwater, blinking at three-second intervals. "How wide is the entrance?"
Ullanov bent over the chart. "Looks like a hundred feet or so."
"Should be all right."
Dobrynyn nodded and throttled to half speed. "We're getting close." He pointed off the port bow. "That's the main control tower up on Mount Tamleva. They should see our running lights soon. They'll either call us by radio or send out a guard boat. Maybe both."
He turned to Ullanov. "OK, Josef, go on up to the bow, slouch on the ramp, scratch your balls, and look dumb."
The sergeant grabbed his rifle and made for the ladder. "An easy task, Colonel."
"And, Josef--"
"Sir?"
"If we're stopped by a guard boat and they get on to us, don't hesitate. Fire a burst into the pilothouse, then jump. I mean it, jump! Don't wait for us. Head for the beach to starboard, outside the breakwater. We'll meet at the toolshed near the amphib ramp."
"Sir." Ullanov's broad head disappeared down the ladder.
"OK, Brad, your job is to do the same thing. If a guard boat stops us, and I'm pretty sure they will, stay up here with me. When we get inside the breakwater, go below and handle the stern line." He smiled. "You're going to learn how to handle good, solid Soviet garbage soon."
"Can't wait." Lofton bounced on his toes and did some arm stretches; he tingled. Action. Old feelings swarmed through him; Coronado, Cuba, Lebanon, Sidra, Tripoli, the Red Sea, the Mekong Delta. He rotated his back, testing his ribs. Ullanov had retaped them but he still felt small, fresh bursts of pain. He hoped that was it.
A searchlight blinded them, followed by a shout. The pilothouse glared in hoary light as Lofton covered his eyes. Dobrynyn quickly shoved the gearshift handles down through neutral to reverse, twisted the throttle grips and backed full. He timed it perfectly. The T‑4 slewed to starboard before it stopped, and with a slight breeze over their port quarter, great clouds of diesel smoke from the sputtering starboard engine wafted toward the searchlight, engulfed it, and turned it to a dull brown. Dobrynyn shifted to neutral and idled the engines. The T‑4 kept swinging slowly counterclockwise.
"Bastards didn't have their running lights on," Dobrynyn muttered. "I didn't see 'em."
Lofton joined his brother as they leaned out the pilothouse to starboard.
A small patrol boat's prow emerged from the smoke. A man shouted, "Bubnov, you idiot! What the hell are you doing? Haven't you fixed that piece of junk yet? You're late!"
The patrol boat, about fifty feet long, gurgled to their starboard side. KGB soldiers with carbines slung over their shoulders stood on deck about a small amidships pilothouse. Two men slouched by a single twenty‑five-millimeter cannon on the foredeck.
Dobrynyn leaned over the rail and shouted down to them. "Bubnov's sick tonight. He's got the trots. They said he was eating garbage. We were assigned this duty at the last minute."
"Who are you?" A different voice from the pilothouse.
"Yushchenko, Sir, Petty Officer Second Class. They detailed us off the Sposobnyy only two hours ago."
&nb
sp; "Wait." Two officers in the pilothouse put their heads together.
Dobrynyn muttered from the side of his mouth, "In case they say anything, Brad, the Sposobnyy is a guided missile destroyer, Kashin class."
"I know."
Dobrynyn arched an eyebrow and continued. "She's from the Baltic Fleet on a goodwill cruise and just got in three days ago from Hanoi. She's anchored midstream down by the naval base. And try not to say too much. Your Russian is good, but your accent is somewhere between a Riga slaughterhouse and a Turkish bordello."
"That'll be one thousand rubles, sir," Lofton squeaked a female falsetto.
"Brad, damnit--"
"Hold on, we're coming aboard." An officer shouted from the patrol boat's pilothouse. The transmission clunked and whined as the fifty-foot craft twisted on her twin screws, water frothing at her stern. Four soldiers, carbines over their shoulders, jumped onto the bow ramp. One stopped and talked to Ullanov for a moment, then followed the other three aft. They approached the heap in the well deck. One grabbed a gaff hook and poked and shoved the trash.
A garrison cap rose up the ladder, green shoulderboards identified a KGB master sergeant. He stopped at chest height, silhouetted by his patrol boat's searchlight. "You people stink. This whole damn boat stinks, and don't screw around with us again with that starboard engine!"
"Sir," Dobrynyn replied.
"Where are you from?"
"Leningrad, sir."
He eyed Lofton. "And you?"
"Kalinin, sir."
"You been ashore yet?"
"No, sir," blurted Dobrynyn. "We're supposed to take on fuel and provisions in the morning. We sail for Nikolayevsk day after tomorrow, sir. They didn't schedule us for liberty here, sir."
The master sergeant shouted forward, "Well, Corporal?"
The reply drifted over rumbling engines, "Nothing, sergeant, just the usual crap."
"Very well, go on back." He waved them to the bow ramp; the three KGB soldiers quickly scrambled and squished their way forward where Ullanov helped them jump to their waiting patrol boat's fantail.
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 29