Filimonov’s face twisted into a grimace. It occurred to Saratov that this was his grin.
“Give us six hours and we will start the biggest fire Tokyo has ever seen.”
“Six hours,” Filimonov agreed. “Maximum damage.”
“Okay,” Pavel Saratov said. “Six hours from the moment you exit the air lock.”
“We do not have our usual equipment aboard, Captain. Without some kind of homer, we will have difficulty finding the boat on our return.”
“Any suggestions?”
“We could make a small float, perhaps, anchor it to the air-lock hatch.”
“What if the submarine is on the surface?”
“That would be best for us, sir.”
Saratov made his decision. “We’ll take the risk. We will surface at oh-three-thirty.”
“We’ll find the boat, sir.”
“After we surface, we will wait fifteen minutes for you. If you do not return during those fifteen minutes, we will leave without you.”
“If we do not return, Captain, we will be dead.”
Pavel Saratov went to the torpedo room to watch Martos and Fili-monov exit through the air lock. Both men had on black wet suits and scuba gear. The plastique, fuses, and detonators were contained in two waterproof bags, one for each man. Two sailors could barely lift each bag.
Both swimmers had knives strapped to their wrists. Saratov wished he had guns to give them, but he didn’t. The Spetsnaz had waterproof guns and ammo for their frogmen, but NAVY divers weren’t so equipped.
“Don’t fret it, Captain. The knives are quite enough. We are competent, and very careful.”
They went into the air lock one at a time. Martos was first. He climbed the ladder into the lock, donned his flippers, then with one hand pulled the bag of explosives that the sailors held up into the lock. The sailors dogged the hatch behind him.
Five minutes later, it was Filimonov’s turn. He, too, had no trouble pulling the bag of explosives the last three feet into the lock. He gave the sailors a thumbs-up as they closed the hatch.
When he heard the outside hatch close for the second time, Pavel Saratov looked at his watch. It was 21:35. At 03:30, he would surface the boat, twenty-four hours after he had secured the snorkel.
Saratov went back to the control room. The XO and the chief were there. “They are gone. At oh-three-thirty we will rise to periscope depth, take a look around, then surface. I want two men on deck to help get the Spetsnaz swimmers aboard. I want two more men in the forward torpedo room to stand by with the rocket-propelled grenades. If we see a target for the grenades, they can go topside and shoot them. When we get the swimmers aboard and the refinery goes up, we will go to Yokohama and fire our torpedoes into that tea party.”
The faces in the control room were tense, strained.
“We will give a good account of ourselves, men. We will do maximum damage. Then we are going to squirt this boat out through the bay’s asshole and run like hell.”
Two or three of them grinned. Most just looked worried. They have too much time on their hands, the captain thought. Too much time to sit idly thinking of Russia’s problems, and of girlfriends or wives and children caught in a Japanese invasion. If they are not given something to do soon, they will be unable to do anything.
“I expect every man to do his job precisely the way he has been trained. We will be shooting torpedoes and shoulder-fired rockets. Enemy warships may detect us. Things will be hectic. Just concentrate on doing your job, whatever it is.”
“Aye aye, sir,” the XO, Askold, said.
“Chief, visit every compartment. Tell everyone the plan, repeat what I just said. Every single man must do his job. Go over every man’s job with him.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
“XO, I want another meal served at oh-one hundred. The best we can do. Would you see to it, please?” All this activity would use precious oxygen — the air was already foul — but Saratov felt the morale boost would be worth it. Using oxygen and energy that would be required later if the Japanese found them before they surfaced was a calculated risk. Life is a calculated risk, he told himself. “Better break out the carbon-dioxide absorbers, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bogrov, send this message to Moscow when we surface.” He passed a sheet of paper to the communications officer. “I want the NAVY and the Russian nation to know what these men have done, to know that each and every one of them has done his duty as a Russian sailor.” I’ll encode it now, sir,” Bogrov said. “Have it ready.”
“Fine.”
When the Russian sailors aboard Admiral Kolchak cleaned up after the postmidnight meal, they had nothing to do but wait. They had had all day and all evening to prepare for action. All loose gear was stowed and the equipment had been checked and rechecked. Every man was properly dressed, red lights were on throughout the boat in preparation for surfacing, each man was at his post. So they waited, watching the clock, each man sweating, thinking of home or the action to come, wishing for … well, for it to be over. The uncertainty was unnerving. No one knew how it would go, if the Japanese would find and attack them, if they would make it to the open sea, if a P-3 or destroyer would pin them, if they would live or die. Many had girls or wives in Petropavlosk, so there was a lot of letter writing. They thought of home, of Russia in the summer, the long, languid days, the insects humming, the steppe covered with grain, girls smiling, kissing in the dark … It was amazing how dear home and family became when you realized that you might never see them again. There was a scuffle in the engine room between two young sailors, and the chief handled that. They called for him and whispers went around; Pavel Saratov pretended not to notice. He lounged on a small pull-out stool, with his head resting against the chart table. He kept his eyes closed. Several of the men thought he was asleep, but he wasn’t. He was forcing himself to keep his eyes closed so that he would not look again at his watch or the chronometer on the bulkhead, not be mesmerized by the sweeping of the second hand, not watch the minute hand creep agonizingly along. The Spetsnaz divers were out there now, planting charges. The refinery was supposed to go up at 03:45. If it didn’t, there was nothing he could do about it. Oh, he could squirt a few grenades that way, but the damage they could do was minimal.
It was possible that the Japanese had captured the Spetsnaz divers and were right this minute organizing a search for the submarine that had delivered them. Possible, though improbable. That men capable of taking Martos or Filimonov alive were guarding this particular refinery was highly unlikely.
What if the Japanese spotted the sub from the air?
Someone in a plane, looking down, might have seen the shape of the submarine through the muddy brown water. They might be waiting in the refinery. They might have antisubmarine forces gathered, be waiting for the boat to move before they sprung the trap.
They may have killed Martos and Filimonov. They might be dead now. If they are, I would never know, Saratov thought. They would just not return, and the refinery would not explode.
Someone was fidgeting with a pencil, tapping it.
Saratov frowned. The tapping stopped.
Getting the sub out of the mud of this shallow bay would be a trick. It would probably broach. Well, as long as no one was nearby But he would have to be ready to go, keep her on the surface, take her by the Yokohama anchorage shooting torpedoes … He and the XO had the headings and times worked out, and the XO would keep constant track of their position, so Saratov wouldn’t be distracted by navigation at a critical moment. He took a deep breath. Soon. Very soon … All refineries are essentially alike: industrial facilities designed to heat crude oil under pressure, converting it to usable products. When Martos and Filimonov emerged from the water of Tokyo Bay carrying their bags of explosives, they scurried to cover and paused to look for refinery workers or guards. There were a few workers about, but only a few. Of guards, they saw not one. Almost invisible in their black wet suits, the two Russian frogme
n moved like cats through the facility, pausing in shadows and crouching in corners. Satisfied that they were unobserved and would remain that way for a few moments, they began assessing what they were seeing. Years ago, training for just such a day in the unforeseeable future, they had learned a good deal about refineries. Now they pointed out various features of this facility to each other. They said nothing, merely pointed. The absence of guards bothered Martos, who began to suspect a trap. He looked carefully for remote surveillance cameras, or infrared or motion detectors. He removed a small set of binoculars from his bag and stripped away the waterproof cover. With these he scanned the towers and pipelines, the walls and windows. Nothing. Not a single camera. This offended him, somehow. Japan was at war, a refinery was a vital industrial facility, a certain target for a belligerent enemy, and there were no guards! They thought so little of Russia’s military ability they didn’t bother to post guards. Amazing.
The two frogmen separated.
They took their time selecting the position for the charges and setting them, working carefully, painstakingly, while maintaining a vigilant lookout. Several times, they had to take cover while a worker proceeded through the area in which they happened to be.
Martos had allowed plenty of time for the work that had to be done. Still, with so few people about, it went more quickly than he thought it would.
A little more than an hour after he and Filimonov came ashore, he had his last charge set and the timer ticking away. He went looking for Filimonov, whom he had last seen going toward a huge field of several dozen large white storage tanks that stood beside the refinery.
He was moving carefully, keeping under cover as much as possible and pausing frequently to scan for people, when he first saw the guard.
The guard was wearing some kind of uniform, and a waterproof rain jacket and hat. He had arrived in a small car with a beacon on the roof. When Martos first saw him he was standing beside the car looking idly around, tugging and pulling on his rain gear, adjusting it against the gently falling mist. He reached back inside the car for a clipboard and flashlight.
Now he strolled along the edge of the tank farm, looking at this and that, in no particular hurry.
Did someone mention a war?
Martos scurried across the road into the safety of the shadows of the huge round tanks. He moved as quickly as prudence would allow. Where was Filimonov?
A large pipeline, maybe a half a meter in diameter, came out of the refinery and ran in among the tanks, with branches off to each tank. Lots of valves.
Filimonov liked pipelines. A ridiculously small explosive charge could ruin a safety shutoff valve and fracture the line.
Martos retraced his steps, looking for his partner. He could just go back to the water’s edge and wait, of course, but if he found Filimonov and helped set a charge or two, they would be finished sooner. And it just wasn’t good practice to leave a man working on his own without a lookout.
He eased his head around a tank and glimpsed the small beam of light from a flashlight. The guard!
Around the tank, moving carefully in the darkness, feeling his way … He waited a few seconds before he looked again. There, now the guard had passed him, walking slowly, looking Had the guard seen something? Or was he just-A shape blacker than the surrounding darkness materialized behind the guard and merged with him. The flashlight fell and went out. Now the guard was dragged out of sight between the tanks. Martos went that way. He found Filimonov sitting beside the guard, holding his head in his hands. Even in that dim light, Martos could see the unnatural angle of the guard’s head, the glistening blood covering the front of the rain jacket. A glance was enough — Filimonov had cut the guard’s throat, almost severed his head. But why was Filimonov sitting here like this? “Let’s go, Viktor.” Filimonov’s shoulders shook. God, the man was crying! “Viktor, let’s go. What is this?”
“It’s a girl!”
“What?”
“The guard is a woman! Look for yourself.”
“Well …”
“A woman guard! Of all the stupid …”
“Let’s go, Viktor. Let’s finish and get out of here.”
“A woman …” Filimonov stared at the corpse. He didn’t move. A tinny radio voice squawked, jabbering a phrase or two in Japanese, then ended with a high interrogative tone. The guard must be wearing a radio!
Martos found the bag. Checked inside. One charge left. Working quickly, he affixed it to the base of a nearby tank, out of sight of the guard’s body. He inserted a detonator into the plastique and wired it to a timer. He checked the timer with his pencil flash. It was ticking nicely, apparently keeping perfect time. He took Filimonov’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “We have no time for this. She is dead. We cannot bring her back.”
The radio on the guard’s belt clicked and jabbered. “A woman. I never killed a … Not even in Afghanistan. I didn’t know—“
“Viktor Grigorovich—“
“Never!”
Martos hit him then, in the face. That was the only way. Filimonov offered no resistance. He seized Filimonov’s arm and shoved him toward the bay. “They are going to come looking for her,” said Martos. “She doesn’t weigh forty kilos,” Filimonov muttered softly, still trying to understand.
When Jiro Kimura wrote to his wife, Shizuko, he didn’t know when she would get the letter, if ever. All mail to Japan was censored. This letter would certainly not pass the censor, a nonflying lieutenant colonel whose sole function in life was to write reports for senior officers to sign and to read other people’s mail. Jiro wrote the letter anyway. He began by telling Shizuko that he loved and missed her, then told her about the flight to Khabarovsk, during which he had shot down an airliner. His commanding officer and the air wing commander had tried to humiliate him when he returned. They were outraged that he had questioned Control. “The prime minister might have been there. He is personally directing the military effort. He may have given the order for you to shoot down that airplane.”
Jiro hadn’t been very contrite. He had just killed an unknown number of defenseless people and he hadn’t come to grips with that. He stood with his head bowed slightly. It was a polite bow at best. No doubt that contributed to the colonels’ are. The wing commander thundered: “You have sworn to obey orders, Kimura. You have no choice, none whatsoever. The Bushido code demands complete, total, unthinking, unquestioning obedience. You dishonor us all when you question the orders of your honorable superiors.” Kimura said nothing. His skipper said, loudly, “An enemy airplane in the war zone is a legitimate target, Kimura. Destruction of enemy airplanes is your job. The nation has provided you with an expensive jet fighter in order that you might do your job. You dishonor your nation and yourself when you fail to obey every order instantly, whether the matter be large or small. You dishonor me! I will not have you dishonoring me and this unit. You will obey! Do you understand?”
Jiro wrote this diatribe in the letter, just as he remembered it. He had felt shame wash over him as the two colonels ranted. His cheeks colored slightly, which infuriated him. His commanding officer misinterpreted his emotions and decided he had had enough of the verbal hiding, so he fell silent. The wing commander also stopped soon after. Jiro Kimura felt ashamed of himself and his comrades, these Japanese soldiers, with their Bushido code and their delicate sense of honor which required the death of everyone on an airliner leaving the battle zone because someone, somewhere gave an order. They were frightened, little men. Little in every sense of the word, Jiro reflected, and wrote that in his letter to his wife. He was ashamed of himself because he lacked the moral courage to disobey an order that he thought both illegal and obscene. This also he confessed to Shizuko. As he paused in his writing and sat thinking, he felt the shame wash over him again. The problem was that he was not a pure Japanese. Those damned Americans and their Air Force Academy! He had absorbed more than just the classroom subjects. The ethics of that foreign place were torturing him here. The Japanese sa
id he had dishonored his superiors and comrades by his failure to obey. The Americans would say he dishonored himself because he obeyed an illegal, immoral order. The only thing everyone would agree upon was the dishonor. An American would call a reporter and make a huge stink. Maybe he should do that. He felt like shit. He wasn’t Japanese enough to kill himself or American enough to ruin his superiors. That left him writing a letter to Shizuko. “Dearest wife …”
He loved her desperately. As he wrote, he wondered if he would ever see her again.
14
They sat in the mud near the hole in the chain-link fence that they had cut going in. Martos arranged his scuba gear so that he could slip it on in seconds. Filimonov, on the other hand, sat morosely by his gear, staring out at the blackness of the bay. Martos checked the fluorescent hands of his watch: 01:12. They had finished sooner than he thought they would. The submarine would not rise off the floor of the bay until 03:30. Visibility in the muddy water was limited to a few feet, so their flashlights would be of little use finding the submarine underwater. He knew roughly where it was, a kilometer beyond that liquid natural gas tanker at the end of the tanker pier. Still, he would never find it submerged. They would have to wait for the sub to surface. Nor was it wise to swim out into the bay now, then spend two hours fighting the currents and tide, drifting God knows where. Although the refinery was well lit, the two men were nearly invisible on this mud flat between the water and the fence. Black wet suits, a black night, dark mud, rain misting down … The tanker pier looked like a bridge to nowhere, with lights every yard or two, stretching out across the black water to the anchored ING carrier. Now that was a weird-looking ship, with that giant pressure vessel amidships. Martos eyed his partner. “Viktor, it wasn’t your fault.”
Filimonov had reacted to a perceived threat without thinking. He saw a guard, wearing rain gear, possibly armed, so he had acted automatically. The other guards would come looking for the woman soon. When she failed to check in on the radio, they would probably assume that the radio had failed, perhaps a dead battery. They would wait a reasonable amount of time, then expect her to check in on her car radio. Finally, they would come looking. Damn! Things had been going so well. Even if the security force found some of the demolition charges, they would not find them all. Not before they blew. Yet every one they found was one less to explode, that much less damage to the installation. “We must expect the unexpected. Everything doesn’t always go as planned.”
Fortunes of War Page 21