THE BRUTUS LIE

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  "You sure? It started blinking the minute I powered up. And the override command didn't work," Carrington said.

  "Yes." Lofton swallowed again.

  "That's more bull," Carrington said. "But you'll fix it soon." He nodded aft. "In there."

  "What?"

  "There, jerkface." He pointed to the tunnel hatch.

  Lofton stood immobile. Maybe he should tell them. His heart pumped faster.

  "Go, or he's dead." Carrington switched the Ingram to single fire and aimed it at Dobrynyn.

  Lofton looked at his brother.

  Dobrynyn barely shook his head.

  He grabbed the wheel, spun it, and opened the hatch. Turning around, Lofton crawled in backward.

  Carrington walked aft and slammed the hatch in his face.

  Total darkness. Lofton heard squeaking as the hatch sealed. His mind saw the wheel twirling.

  Then, within seconds--Carrington was fast--water roared in the ballast tanks. Brutus sank on an even keel, and the DC motor wound up. Brutus's screw bit the water, the minisub backed out of the pen.

  Lofton cocked an ear and waited for Carrington to screw up and snag something. Thirty long, silent seconds passed. Nothing. Carrington remembered how to conn Brutus. He'd escaped cleanly.

  Lofton squeezed his eyes close, wiped sweat off his forehead, and bit his thumbnail. The last thing he had seen on the Power CRT before Carrington slammed the hatch was:

  A U T O H E A T !

  H2 O2 TRANSFER PUMP

  H2 O2 READY SERVICE TANK

  H2 O2 MANIFOLD

  Brutus gathered sternway. Twenty seconds later, the submarine vibrated. Carrington had shifted to an ahead bell. The screw beat the water, slowing the sub's sternway and making it wallow. Soon, Carrington would shift the rudder, gather forward momentum, and head through San Diego Bay. Nothing stood in Renkin's way now. Except all that damned oxidation kicking off the hydrogen per­oxide. How soon?

  The shaking stopped. Brutus had headway on now. A hiss. The bow dropped. That damned Carrington was maneuvering the boat with depth commands, having no idea of Brutus's trim. Brutus might hobbyhorse. Carrington could stick the nose in the mud.

  Mud! Stop! Air!

  Lofton scuttled to the aft hatch, spun the wheel and jumped into the motor room. Another hiss. Carrington worked the after trim tank. Lofton sensed Brutus's plane. Carrington had things under control.

  Hurry.

  He snapped on the light switch. The DC motor whined softly behind him. Where was it? Up there! He reached to an overhead panel labeled "DC motor--main circuit breaker." Frantically, he flipped the door open, found the toggle, and threw it.

  The breaker clicked loudly and the DC motor stopped. Brutus's stern squatted as they lost headway.

  The damned valve, where is it? I built this turd. Why can't I remember where a simple check valve is? He lifted a deck plate. There! The after trim tank. And there was the check valve between the HP line to the trim tank.

  Screwdriver! He crawled to the other side of the motor room, finding the tool box. He pawed the lid open. Hex wrenches, pliers, channel locks, a hammer all clattered on the deck plate. His eye darted to the hydrogen peroxide fuel block as he reached for the screwdriver. "Ahhhh!" Totally brown. Totally rusted, right up to the fuel inlet.

  How long before Carrington rips open the hatch and hoses me down with his Ingram?

  Lofton thrust the screwdriver at the check valve. The blade bounced over the gagging screw slot. He reached again. It clicked home. He twisted frantically. The screwdriver's blade slipped out after four turns. He fumbled, swore, seated the blade again, and twirled. Twelve turns. Fifteen. Twenty.

  Enough.

  He tossed the screwdriver aside and reached for the pressure relief valve. OK, bypass the vent check valve and hold on. He cracked it slightly. It hissed. How much?

  Give till it hurts! He twisted the valve all the way. Com­pressed air blasted into the compartment. The space misted momentarily, then cleared. His ears. He could feel it. He swallowed rapidly as pressure built up.

  Give till it hurts. Lofton kept swallowing. He couldn't relieve the pain anymore. His sinuses ached. An old tooth filling pounded at nerve endings.

  He closed the valve, then scrambled in the tunnel. OK, Ted.

  A lurch. Brutus had bottomed. He gripped the hatch rim tigh­tly and braced his feet as best as he could against the slippery shaft. He had to stay in position when--

  --the forward hatch wheel glinted as it quick­ly arced around. Hold on!

  The hatch exploded open. Lofton heard a loud, gurgling scr­eam. The air misted and roared. Surprised, he was torn from his grip.

  Compressed air shot him down the twenty-foot tube like a cannon. Lofton ejected with his legs askew. The inside of his left knee caught the galley table leg and spun him sideways. His right shoulder and head slammed against the ladder.

  "...Brad..." Dobrynyn's voice drifted through.

  Renkin screamed and retched.

  The mist cleared. Papers fluttered among dust and debris.

  "Brad!" Dobrynyn yelled.

  Lofton blinked. "Uhhhhh." Pain. He tried to move. Throbbing. His leg, the left one. It wouldn't move. His right shoulder, too. He rubbed his head, thick stickiness. Blood. Fire raged in his shoulder as his leg throbbed. He tried to roll. Both broken.

  "Brad. Damnit!"

  "Yeah." Lofton gasped and opened his eyes. Renkin stood before him choking. The focus blurred, then held. He looked up behind him.

  Carrington. My God! The hatch had blasted open, forcing the wheel through Carring­ton's chest. With buckled knees, Carrington was pinned to the bulkhead, his chin and arms draped uselessly over the hatch. Blood flowed from his mouth as he gagged. Carr­ington's tongue and lips quivered. His eyes rolled to Lofton. He blinked once, then was still. The pupils dilated, his gaze became fixed.

  Lofton tore his eyes away. "Anton?"

  "Check the CRT, Brad," Dobrynyn said urgently.

  Lofton raised his head, his shoulder raged. He found the CRT panel. Both Power and the large Master CRTs read:

  A U T O H E A T ! ! !

  EJECT

  EJECT

  EJECT

  Lofton's eyes grew wide. "Let's go." He rolled to his left shoulder, then fell back. "Uhhhh!"

  "What's wrong?" Dobrynyn stood and jerked against the hand‑ cuff. Four feet separated the twins.

  "Think my leg and shoulder are broken. Can't move," Lofton sputtered.

  Renkin stepped toward Lofton with the Ingram. "What did you do back there? Why did we lose power?"

  "Autoheat. Irreversible," Lofton rasped through clenched teeth. "Sub's going to blow up within minutes. Maybe seconds. Uncuff Anton and let's get out of here."

  "Nonsense. This is another one of your--"

  Renkin's head spun. Dobrynyn had pulled a long screwdriver from a locker and fished at the handcuff key across the aisle.

  "No!" Renkin yelled. He jumped back and knocked away Dob­rynyn's hand. The screwdriver clattered to the deck.

  "I swear. It's going to blow." Lofton coughed.

  Renkin walked forward, bent over the armchair, and picked up the handcuff key. "Enough of your tricks. You'll tell me how to regain power."

  They watched incredulously as Renkin held the key up, popped it in his mouth, and swallowed.

  Felix Renkin's lips glistened in a twisted, triumphant smile. "Nobody's going any­where, except into the Pacific." He stepped back toward Lofton. "What did you do back there?"

  Master gave a low continuous buzz. They turned to look. It rapidly flashed on and off:

  A U T O H E A T ! ! !

  EJECT NOW

  EJECT NOW

  EJECT NOW

  Renkin growled, "How do you turn that thing--yeachh."

  Dobrynyn clamped his forearm around Renkin's throat and yanked the wiggling man's back against his chest. "Brad, the drawer above you. Quick!"

  "What?" Lofton watched the struggling figures through a haze. Adre
naline should be pumping now. But no. He faded.

  Powerful legs were scissored around Renkin's struggling torso. His glasses fell and hung by one ear. He reached behind to claw at Dobrynyn's eyes.

  Dobrynyn easily twisted his head away. "Brad, pull that drawer. The kitchen knife. Quick!"

  "No! Stop!" bellowed Renkin.

  "Our only chance, Brad. Above you. The drawer. Pull it out on top of you."

  Lofton blinked. A voice echoed in his mind, "vash otets," your father. He swallowed. His eyes rolled. Les Thatcher stood before him, his mouth open wide. Both hands feebly wiggled the screwdriver sticking out of his chest. He saw the Kunashiri Maru roll over, people scrambled up her side as guns roared at them. He saw--

  "Brad!"

  "...yeah..." Lofton reached up and pulled the handle as hard as he could. The drawer bumped over a catch and crashed down on him. Cheap galley utensils spilled to the deck.

  "You can't. No! I'll pay you. Anything. You'll be rich. We--we'll be together," Ren­kin shrieked.

  Lofton rolled his head and spotted the knife on his right, close to his broken shoulder. He reached over with his left hand. Fumbling, pain, his palm found the handle. It spun away and his arm flopped back. The lights faded again.

  "Brad. Wake up!" Dobrynyn's voice roared through his haze.

  Come on. Do it. He rolled on his right shoulder. Sparks of pain flashed through his shoulder and down his side. He gripped the handle and fell back. Better. He blinked sweat from his eyes. Still conscious, no fade‑out this time.

  "Stop! Noooo! You can't. I'm your f--"

  Dobrynyn's fisted palm smacked into Renkin's nose. Blood spurted, Renkin's splayed hands jinked out before him.

  Lofton tossed the knife. It sailed past Renkin's jerking head and fell on the bunk. Dobrynyn grabbed it and secured a grip. Then he plunged the blade into a screaming Felix Renkin's chest.

  Lofton faded again. He couldn't hear Renkin but he knew the man still screamed. His mouth was wide open and his eyes were squeezed shut. Veins in his throat and forehead bulged.

  Lofton swung his eyes to the galley depth gauge: 42.6. The clock read 0326...

  ...What was it? His eyes were still on the clock: 0329...

  Yelling. A voice, frustrated, filtered through the haze in Russian. "Where's the damn stomach?"

  ...Ripping, tearing sounds...odors--excrement. Offal gushed and plopped to the deck...

  ...0332. AUTOHEAT...

  ...A loud hiss, the deck moved...hands under his back. Pain surged through his shoulder and neck. "What?"

  "Easy, Brad. We're on the way up."

  Lofton coughed, then retched as Dobrynyn gently pulled him to his feet and propped him against the ladder. "Anton...hatch, unscrew...turn the wheel...now...pres­sure..."

  Dobrynyn nodded and spun the wheel above them. The main hatch blew open when Brutus rose to within three feet of the surface. Air roared past them and tore at their clothes and hair. With the pressure equalized, water rushed in just as Brutus bobbed to the surface.

  Up. Lofton was going up. He forced his eyes open. Felix Renkin was splayed among his viscera in an enormous pool of blood. His torn abdomen was a dark-red, glistening cavern.

  Lofton was out and slithering over the casing. Water. Cold, it revived him. A hand tugged at his collar. Shouts in the dis­tance. An impossibly bright light played over him. Something went "thump, thump, thump".

  He was gliding on his back, water burbling past his ears. He looked up. Overhead, the weather had cleared; dark sky, plenty of stars, no moon...velvet...beautiful. The Coronado Bridge nearby. A truck blasted toward the top. Got it made.

  The water lit up. A giant fist hit his back and lifted him. Noise, roaring; fire shot above him as water cascaded and tossed him. The flames spread, crackling, seeking. The water was suddenly hot and steaming. A caldron, it boiled around him, over him as he tumbled. On fire. The water was on fire. JP‑5? It blazed around Lofton as he surfaced. Oily smoke made him gag and retch. The hand no longer pulled at his collar. Gone.

  Paddle. He jabbed water at the flames a couple of times with an open left palm. Three more jabs; he splashed a small clearing in the inferno. He gasped, his mouth barely above the surface. It hurt too much to kick with his right leg. Waterlogged clothing pulled him down. He couldn't hold it. He choked in the smoke. Salt water bit his windpipe.

  Let it go...

  No! He stroked once more and found another breath.

  A bruised face, his own face with a black eye, emerged. Anton. Maybe five feet away.

  Hold on. Another stroke. Another breath. The face drew clo­ser. Dobrynyn's hand gripped his collar and tugged again. Lofton's torso rose to the surface as powerful legs kicked beneath him. The light dimmed, they were past the fire.

  Alive! Lofton could breathe and blinking his eyes, the night, stars, came into focus. Cool water gurgled past his ears and soothed the gash on his forehead. "Anton..." He spat salt water.

  "Hold on, Brad, almost there."

  Lofton took a deep breath. "That guy upstairs was still alive..."

  Dobrynyn grunted with another stroke. "What?"

  "Guess what he said--"

  Dobrynyn's scissoring foot jiggled Lofton's broken leg. He groaned loudly as renewed pain consumed him.

  "Easy Brad. Here they are."

  The water gently swirled as a patrol boat backed toward them and idled in neutral. White, burbling exhaust rose around a stern light. Lofton blinked, seeing two uniformed figures outlined aga­inst the sky. They knelt at a transom gate and reached to him.

  Dobrynyn's thick accent warned, "Please be careful. I think his shoulder and leg are broken."

  Strong gnarled hands cradled Lofton's head; another pair reached under his back. The stern dipped with a wave and they slid him easily into the boat. He looked up and caught his brother's eye as he was hauled over the transom. They winked at one another, just before Lofton passed out.

  EPILOGUE

  the danger’s passed,

  the wrong is righted,

  the veteran’s ignored,

  the soldiers’s slighted.

  Nelson De Mille, Spencerville

  EPILOGUE

  A fresh breeze stirred San Diego Bay. Zephyrs spiraled up Point Loma and ruffled Lofton's hair as he shook hands with the three men. They got into their car and drove off. When he was sure they were gone, he turned and walked to his apartment, hobbling up the front step.

  "They've left?" Bonnie took off her glasses and looked up from the sofa, where a magazine lay open but unread. Tim sat on the floor near the TV.

  Lofton nodded and stared into space.

  She touched him. "Brad?"

  "He takes a plane for London tomorrow. Then, Aeroflot, directly to Leningrad."

  Bonnie stood and threw her arms around him. "Tomorrow! Couldn't they wait until the wedding?"

  "We'll just have to switch our honeymoon to Russia." Lofton dropped his arm to her waist, a more comfortable position. Both shoulder and leg casts had been off for only a month. "The decision went all the way up to the president. He settled it last night with their president on the hotline."

  Bonnie said, "I know he'll be happy but I worry about them not keeping their word."

  Lofton nodded toward Tim and walked into the kitchen. "Here's the way the State Department guy explained it to me." He leaned against the counter and ticked off his fingers. "Capitol Hill is angry about all the spies in high positions over the past few years--"

  "Can't blame them."

  "Yes. They're trying to see if there's a way they can seriously get them to knock it off. And since Renkin was in the NSC, that directly involves the president, which means another layer to contend with. And, in a way, the Oval Office is upset at me for blowing the whistle--"

  "You didn't blow any whistle."

  "I know. But that's how they look at it. I'm a thorn in their sides is what the guy implied to me."

  "Why don't you ask Phillips to reopen the hearings?"

&n
bsp; "He's already figured out all there is to know about Renkin's activities and his overseas bank accounts. And if they did reopen the hearings, they'd be closed entirely this time. There isn't much to be gained, anyway."

  Bonnie let out a breath. "So it really was settled last night?"

  "Glasnost, hon. The Soviets are embarrassed--"

  "They should be."

  "And they have to manage their losses before everything gets out of hand. The State Department said the Japanese are going to demand public apologies and reparations for the Kunashiri Maru. Greenpeace is sending two ships to Kamchatka to protest the nuclear torpedo. They'll try to make an international stink out of it."

  "Shouldn't be too much trouble."

  "Yes and no. It was a low-yield blast, five kilotons. It didn't leave much of an atmospheric trace. But the thought of it is enough to rile Greenpeace."

  "I wonder how the Soviets will handle it?"

  "They plan to say the torpedo was an attempt to use new technology to recover a deepwater nuclear mine they had lost twenty years ago. The KGB will take the heat for the Kunashiri Maru. There's not much they can do about that." Lofton shrugged. "So, they figure if Anton is welcomed back to the USSR with a pardon and restoration to service--hell, they're going to promote him to full colonel--that they will look like good guys and hold on to their Glasnost image."

  "The KGB will never forget, Brad. It worries me."

  "Me, too. But the president was really adamant on that point. He specifically said that if anything happened to Anton, like a convenient "heart attack or auto accident," he would make sure negotiations for their bank lines of credit would break down. And I think Congress would back him on that."

  He gave a thin smile. "The good part is their president promised to let Anton emigrate to the U.S. in two years if he wants to."

  Which reminds me." He jabbed a thumb toward the street. "The spooks believe me, now." He reached into the fridge and pulled out a can of soda pop. "Want one?"