THE BRUTUS LIE Read online

  ALSO BY JOHN J. GOBBELL:

  The Todd Ingram series:

  The Last Lieutenant

  A Code For Tomorrow

  When Duty Whispers Low

  The Neptune Strategy

  Edge of Valor

  * * * * *

  A Call To Colors

  A Novel of the Battle of Leyte Gulf:

  The Brutus Lie

  THE BRUTUS LIE

  BY

  JOHN J. GOBBELL

  THE BRUTUS LIE

  Copyright 1991 by John J. Gobbell, All Rights Reserved. Revised 2011,

  Starboardside Productions

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address: [email protected].

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-47006

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Charles Scribner’s Sons Hardcover Edition – 1991

  Bungeishinju, Japan Edition - 1992

  St. Martin’s Press Paperbacks edition - 1995

  ISBN: 978-0-9839138-1-8

  To Janine

  FOREWORD

  Technical liberties in this book are based on available systems. For example, fuel cells have been used for electrical power sources on U.S. spacecraft for many years. Now, these air independent propulsion systems (AIP) are becoming operational on foreign submarines, the German Navy's being the most notable. The hydrogen peroxide fuel cell system is being evaluated by the U.S. Navy as an alternative for submarine and unmanned underwater vehicle propulsion.

  Benefits gained by the United States via Ivy Bells, a 1980s U.S. naval submarine intelligence operation in the Sea of Okhotsk, were lost through the traitor Ronald Pelton who was an analyst for the National Security Agency. The submarine base in Petropavlovsk, on the Pacific side of Siberia's Kamchatka Peninsula, and the Baikonur Cosmodrome in the south central Kazakhstan are actual Russian bases.

  Scenes in Sweden and Libya are portrayals of real episodes, the latter being the most prominent. In particular, the incident in the Eastern Mediterranean is a dramatization of events that took place with disturbing regularity between U.S. and ex-Soviet warships worldwide. The two navys gathered around the table in the early 1970s realizing life and property had been risked needlessly. The Incidents at Sea Agreement (IncSea) adopted in 1972, put aside the nonsense of taunting one another's ships and saving face under convoluted interpretations of nautical rules of the road: one laborious step ending a fifty year cold war.

  * * * * *

  My thanks go to Captain Jerry M. Sullivan and Lieutenant John W. Nelson of the U.S. naval submarine forces for their assistance. Thanks also to Dr. Nancy L. Segal of California State University Fullerton for her guidance on the subject of twins separated at birth. Dr. William H. Heiser, Distinguished Visiting Professor at the U.S. Air Force Academy and Roger E. Anderson of Aerojet contributed mightily in the fuel cell area. Dr. Russell J. Striff provided advice on medical matters. Susan Kechekian at USC=s Department of Slavic Languages was immensely helpful with Russian translations. Steven G. Reed, the Rastello brothers, Doug and Mark, and Gary Jobson are among many who inspired what I have learned about sailing over the years. Any errors describing the settings or technologies represented here belong only to me.

  Please don’t hesitate to visit my website at www.JohnJGobbell.com for information on all my novels, some articles, and some information on yours truly.

  Last, I'm luckiest when it comes to my wife, Janine, who stuck with me over many long hours.

  JJG

  Newport Beach, California

  September, 2011

  THE BRUTUS LIE

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  AMERICANS

  Brad Lofton, (Ernst Lubeck) Ex SEAL, naval architect. On loan as Program manager to Dr. Felix RBenkin of NSC to build the minisubmarine X-3, nicknamed, Brutus.

  Lieutenant Commander Lester T. Thatcher, USN X-3 skipper.

  Bonnie Duffield Sales staff at Butler Engineering.

  Howard Butler Bonnie's father, President Butler Engineering.

  Walter Kirby, M.D. Ex-SEAL, Lofton's friend, orthopedic surgeon.

  Dr. Felix Renkin Director of Congressional Liaison, codenamed National Security Council. In charge X-3 project; Lofton's temporary boss. (MAXIMUM EBB)

  Ted Carrington Ex-CIA, Renkin's assistant and body guard.

  SOVIETS

  Lieutenant Colonel Anton Dobrynyn (Manfried Lubeck) Member of elite Spetsnaz,

  attached to the Voyenno Morskoy Flot, The Soviet Navy. Educated as naval architect.

  Master Sergeant, Josef Ullanov, Dobrynyn's Spetsnaz adjutant.

  Captain Second Rank Vladimir Zuleyev Skipper Soviet (NATO desig. Whiskey Class)

  Submarine PL 673 on Karlskrona, Sweden recon mission.

  Captain Third Rank Pyotr Kapultichev PL 673'S zampolit, political officer.

  Captain Second Rank Yuri Borodine "Cultural Attache," Soviet Embassy,

  Washington D.C., undercover agent for Red Banner Pacific Fleet Intelligence, Fifth Division.(SPILLOVER)

  Dr. Gregor Sadka Psychopharmacologist attached to the KGB with the rank of colonel.

  OTHER

  Katsunori Nagamatsu Posing as mate aboard Japanese pelagic fishing vessel, Kunashiri Maru; (PARALLAX) in reality, is a CIA agent responsible for extracting PITCHFORK.

  CAPTOR Mine. enCAPsulated TORpedo. Laid as a mine by air or submarine. A mark 46 homing torpedo swims from its capsule when a programmed target is detected and attacks.

  PITCHFORK Soviet signals officer in Petropavlovsk on the Kamchatka Peninsula. Wants to defect to the U.S..

  IVY BELLS U.S. submarine covert operation on Sea of Okhotsk seabed listening to Soviet cable traffic from Kamchatka Peninsula to the Siberian mainland.

  JET STREAM Soviet disinformation project to counter IVY BELLS.

  P R O L O G U E

  Sow a thought, and you reap an act;

  Sow an act, and you reap a habit;

  Sow a habit, and you reap a character

  Sow a character, and you reap

  destiny.

  - Anonymous

  PROLOGUE

  Berlin, 1951

  Wrecked buildings, now reduced to neatly piled rubble, stood as mountainous graveyard sentries to terrible days past and lay ready for legions of trucks to haul away in the spring. Here and there new buildings rose sporadi­cally, gleaming in an otherwise decayed landscape. Two weeks ago, they repaired the leaky six-inch water main on Kreuzberg Strasse and the overturned, burned‑out trolley car had been dragged away from the front of Anna Lubeck's two-room flat.

  Anna pushed her perambulator and pulled her scarf tighter. No matter how much she withdrew herself, the wind still found fissures to spin through her army greatcoat and graze her flesh.

  Her twin babies were well bundled beneath olive-drab U.S. Army blankets, their bodies tiny motionless mounds. Only condensation, occasionally escaping from small airways Anna had made, showed they were breathing. But Anna could tell if something was wrong. When one cried, the other would join in, making the clamor unbearable until Anna took care of whatever was wrong. And when one was silent, the other would stir. Their names were Ernst and Manfried, named after her father and older brother, who were killed on the Eastern Front, and today the babies were running temp­eratures. Anna was afraid they had measles and hoped Steiger, the phar­macist, had what they needed.

  The perambulator's wheels squeaked as she walked in the uncom­monly dry, subzero tempera­ture, each step an effort. The wind swirled dust from the rubble, coating her with a gray, hoary cast. Anna wished the water main were still broken, for t
hen stagnant pools and slush would help soak up the grime and carry it off. Checking the sky, she prayed for snow. Darker clouds roiled to the north­west. Maybe they would bring enough moisture to hold down the grit.

  She was surprised to see the three-quarter ton lorry rumble past and stop in a small whirlwind before a new building. She'd been used to these lorries in the old days, a constant reminder of the Allied bombing and the last, grisly Russian artillery barrage in 1945 before they took Berlin. Then, Anna had lived in the subway for three weeks while death rained above, the same death that stole her mother. Anna fought starvation for three months until finally the four powers occupied the city.

  From the corner of her eye Anna saw two British soldiers jump from the lorry. Three other soldiers, two Americans and a Soviet, climbed out the back and dropped the tailgate. Anna paid no attention as the three catcalled to her while they set up their apparatus and stamped their feet on the hard ground. Soldiers had been kind to her years ago but now, at twenty-two, she was no longer a spindly child begging for food. The handouts weren't gratuitous. Now there was a price Anna didn't always want to pay.

  "Brew up and get on with the bloody job," the British Sergeant spoke sharply to his men.

  Anna longed for the warmth of the fire they were sure to build; she'd watched them before; she knew them. Two weeks ago, the British had set up their equipment a block away and the same two Americans and the Soviet had been along. They'd made real coffee. She remembered smelling and seeing it percolate when she walked by. Maybe they would make it again. She could have all she wanted, she knew.

  If.

  Anna was slender, with long ebony hair, high broad cheekbones, and an inviting smile when she chose to deliver it, especially when she tilted her head. Customers, mostly enlisted men always argued over her as she swayed through the Gasthaus serving beer. Some of them liked her smile, others her eyes, engaging and intel­ligent. Anna had used both as her customers boomed their songs and pounded their tankards; she would brush her hip against the one or two she favored for the evening. Later, in the upstairs hallway, a bargain would be struck and Anna would submit to yet another soldier's will while the party roared in the basement.

  Anna's bargains became more profitable one evening when a client revealed himself as a Russian NKVD agent. If she passed along what she heard, he told her, she could feed and clothe herself properly. Her earnings doubled when the Russians took the room next door, setting up cameras and micro­phones. It was a good arrangement, especially when a young naval ensign came into the Gasthaus. His withdrawn, understated bearing struck Anna as something that would be of interest to her Russian contact. When, without protest, the thin American allowed bellowing sergeants and privates to shove him into a corner, Anna knew the man had poten­tial. He sat alone at his table. Anna delivered her steins, then found time to linger before him: Finally he mustered his courage, posed the question in fluent, formal German, and they went upstairs.

  He told her his name was Felix and he returned the next day. As they rested between their lovemaking, she learned he was a London-based courier whose route took him through Berlin every week or so. He'd spoken loud enough so the microphones picked up every word.

  He seemed intelligent and he was considerate, unlike those animals in the Gasthaus basement. Ten days later she allowed him to come to her flat, where she gave him carefree evenings over the next six weeks. The NKVD didn't like it, but when she skipped her period and discussed that with her control, the man looked pleased.

  Two weeks later the American almost broke her door down. The NKVD had shown him sixteen grainy pictures of himself and, far more incriminating, played wire recordings, which they threatened to turn over to his commanding officer. They might also send a packet of photos to his parents in Ohio. The American gave in and did as they asked and were bound to ask again: He turned over his courier pouches for photographing. And they'd said he had made Anna pregnant. Was this true? Felix demanded. When Anna nodded he walked out, shaking his head.

  Two weeks later, Anna's control told her Felix had arranged a transfer to Japan. Wasn't that typical of Americans, the NKVD man had asked, that Felix didn't love her and hadn't given a second thought about fathering her child? And that he liked the idea of making NKVD money, for they had promised him money as well, as much as she did?

  Anna returned to waiting on tables at the Gasthaus, and gave birth to identical twin boys in that terrible winter of 1950, a year after the blockade. But she no longer wanted to work for the NKVD, making do with her wages and tips. Now she was applying for a job in the new hospital commissary, where the pay would be a little better and the hours more reasonable. The hospital even provided a workers' nursery.

  Anna edged past as the soldiers dispersed around the new building. They were good, she knew, part of a crack British team; their lorry said simply Bomb Disposal. The two Americans and the Soviet occasionally worked with them, some sort of exchange agreement, she'd heard. She avoided their eyes as they grinned at her. And having Ernst and Manfried along helped. Otherwise, the soldiers would have been more demanding. Or insulting.

  She sniffed. A wonderful aroma. The American had brought coffee. She shook her head, trying to forget it, and wondered which of the limeys she'd taken on long ago. The sergeant, Phipps, she thought, as she wrapped tighter and pushed the perambulator.

  She was moving faster down Kreuzberg Strasse. Wind shoved her around the corner to Steiger's Apotheker.

  "I think the boys have measles," she mumbled to the bespect­acled, thin‑haired man behind the counter. One of the twins, Manfried, gave a small cough. His timing was perfect.

  The druggist was unmoved; his lips were pressed together, his hand firmly clutched the medicine as he watched her push two coins across the counter.

  She hesitated and raised her brow.

  The druggist kept his hand out.

  Anna fumbled in her purse. "No eggs for two weeks," she said.

  Steiger's hand stayed out.

  Anna forced a smile, "No milk for my babies, either."

  Steiger's hand was steadfast, his elbow locked.

  Anna sighed, then nudged the rest of the coins toward Steiger's expectant claw. She had no time to argue. Ernst and Manfried needed the medicine.

  She stepped outside. Steiger's thermometer, a luxury, registered five below and the bitter Nordic wind made it colder. She tightened her scarf, hunched her shoulders, and pushed the carriage around the corner to a gale like blast. Shivering, she bent as Ernst's blanket lifted and tucked it tightly. The wind tore at her; she pushed hard. Two blocks of this. Each winter she thought she would get used to it but she never did stop hating it.

  Ahead, she saw two fires, inviting orange‑red beacons about thirty meters apart. She walked to the nearest one at the lorry's tailgate. The wind lessened behind it, and she eased the perambula­tor over the curb. With nods, the two Americans made room for her as they beat their arms against their chests. A five gallon can, holes punched in the side, sand, kerosene; it felt wonderful. She pushed the peram­bulator close to the blaze and held out her hands, knowing Ernst and Manfried would be warmed, too.

  The American corporal next to her was bareheaded and wearing headphones. He raised a steaming mug to his lips and gulped. Seeing Anna's eyes fixed on his mug, he asked in awkward German, "Coffee ma'am?"

  Anna saw his gold wedding band and relaxed, "Bitte."

  An American sergeant stood next to the Soviet. She pretended not to under­stand when he said, "She's a whore, Lofton. Give her a pound of coffee and you can have all you want for a whole year."

  "Rattick, You sonofabitch." The corporal nodded to the next fire. "Go over there and get her a cup of coffee."

  "I ain=t carrying for no kraut whore. And we can't leave anyway."

  "Hell, they just said they were done."

  The Soviet, wearing a heavy coat and fur cap, stooped and poked a finger in Manfried's blanket. Before she could stop him she heard Manfried goo and cackle. The Sovi
et had found his cheek. Manfried laughed when his cheek was tickled. Ernst, too.

  The Soviet looked up with a broad grin. "Da? Da?" His eyebrows shot up.

  Anna smiled thinly. The Soviet went back to tickling Manfried.

  The sergeant shook his head. "Ain=t gonna move 'til they say to unplug."

  "All right. Damnit." The corporal turned. "Ma'am, it's our coffee and you're welcome to it. But you'll have to go get it. Here." He reached in the truck, handed her a mug and pointed.

  Anna looked down to the perambulator. The Soviet had both twins cackling.

  The corporal called Lofton followed her glance. "Uh, Kunitsa's OK for an NKVD type. Don't worry. We'll watch 'em." He stooped and pushed a forefinger in Ernst's blanket. The baby giggled and the corporal grinned.

  It's not far, she told herself. They're warm behind this lorrey, warmer than what remained at home, ten lumps of coal, a few bits of wood would make them.

  "Danke." Anna walked out from behind the lorrey. The wind ripped at her as she headed for the next fire. The percolator sat on top, beckoning.

  Phipps and Wadleigh ignored her approach. They knelt near the curb, Wadleigh carefully scooped dirt from a three foot crater.

  She didn't think they would notice when she poured. They were so intent, consumed, they weren't looking up.