Fortunes of War (22 page)

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' ire. 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 said 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.

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 LNG 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.”

“I was setting a charge,” Filimonov muttered. “She surprised me.”

“See, it wasn't your fault. You didn't know the guard was a woman. You are not the Japanese son of a whore who hired this woman, put her in a uniform, and sent her to guard a valuable national asset in wartime.”

Filimonov sighed. He laid down on his back in the mud. He stretched his arms out as if he were on a cross.

“No one in Russia would be so stupid,” Martos said.

Filimonov didn't say anything. This withdrawal bothered Martos.

“You
must
forget this, Viktor. I am your friend. You must
listen
.”

The minutes passed in silence. There was only the lapping of the tiny waves at the water's edge and the faint, distant hooting of a foghorn. Martos could feel the feathery caress of the mist on his face, and the miserable, slithery cold of the wet suit, which he had learned to tolerate years and years ago.

A guard car came down the street, turned the corner, and disappeared in the direction of the tanks. In moments they would find the dead guard's vehicle.

Martos looked at his watch: 01:47.

Ten minutes. Within ten minutes, they would find the body, call for help.

He toyed with the idea of going back to kill these men. Or women. Unfortunately, they would probably call in the alarm to their office, wherever that was, before he could kill them both. Even if he did eliminate them, someone else would come looking.

Martos pulled the top of the wet suit over his head and arranged it around his face. “Let's get ready, Viktor.”

Filimonov didn't move.

Martos kicked his partner in the side—hard. “Enough! Get ready. I order you. Put on your gear.”

Filimonov still didn't move.

“You want to stay here? Do you want me to kill you, Viktor Grigorovich? Dead is the only way you can stay on this beach.”

Filimonov turned his head.

“You are my friend, Viktor. My best friend. I know you did not mean to kill a woman—this woman, any woman. I know that God
forgives you, Viktor. I know that somewhere in heaven this very minute your mother forgives you. She knows you did not intend to kill a woman. She knows what was in your heart.”

Another guard car came racing down the street, squealed its brakes on the turn, and disappeared, going toward the tanks.

“They have found her, Viktor. They are doing for her what must be done. It is time for us to leave. We have responsibilities, too. The captain will be waiting.”

He tugged at Viktor's arm. “There are fifty men on that submarine. They will keep the faith. They will be vulnerable there on the surface, waiting for us. We must keep faith with them.”

Nothing.

Martos donned his flippers, put on the scuba tanks, arranged the mask on his face. He tested the regulator, took a breath from the mouthpiece.

“Okay, you bastard. Lie here and get captured. Betray your country. Betray your shipmates. Over a dead guard. You stupid bastard. Your mother was a slut. A whore. She was sucking cocks the night some drunk stuck his—”

Filimonov came for him. Martos dashed for the water.

He moved as fast as he could in the tanks and flippers. Unburdened by gear, Filimonov was quicker. He dragged Martos off his feet in the shallows and went for his throat.

God, he was strong. Fingers like steel bands
.

Martos was at a severe disadvantage. He wanted to use just enough force to cause Filimonov to cease and desist; Filimonov wanted to kill.

Martos kneed him in the balls. Filimonov kept coming, got fingers around Martos's throat, began to squeeze.

Martos was under six inches of water, but he didn't have the mouthpiece in. Not that he could have breathed, with Filimonov squeezing his neck. He pounded on Filimonov's head with his fist, tried to get a thumb in his eye.

He was losing strength. The vise around his neck tightened relentlessly.

He pulled his knife and swung at Filimonov's head—once, twice, three times—and felt the pressure on his neck ease. He swung the butt of the knife again with all his strength.

Filimonov lost his grip on Martos's neck.

One last mighty smash of the butt end of the knife into his head caused Filimonov to lose consciousness.

The faceplate of his mask was shattered. Martos discarded it.

Lights. A spotlight! A car, driving along the fence, the driver inspecting the wire with a spotlight.

Martos got a firm grip on the headpiece of Filimonov's wet suit, turned him face up, and dragged him into deeper water. When the water reached his waist he inserted the scuba mouthpiece in his mouth and started swimming, towing Filimonov.

The tide was strong and the night was black. Martos swam with one hand, towing Filimonov with the other, looking over his shoulder at the refinery and trying to swim straight away from it. The salt spray stung his eyes.

Why didn't Filimonov regain consciousness?

He concentrated on swimming, on breathing rhythmically, on maintaining a smooth, sustainable pace. Occasionally he glanced over his shoulder.

Filimonov didn't try to help, didn't move. A concussion?

Two cars were at the fence, near the hole, their headlights pointing over the water. A spotlight played across the water. It went by the swimming men. They were too far out to be seen from the shore.

The Japanese would find Filimonov's flippers and scuba tanks soon, if they hadn't already. They would call in an alarm.

Damn, damn, damn.

If another P-3 caught the submarine in this shallow bay, they were all dead men.

Hell, we're all going to die. We're all condemned. That is the truth that this fool Filimonov doesn't understand
.

 

“Mr. Krasin, take the boat up to periscope depth.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

Krasin was the OOD. He began giving orders.

Everyone was at their post. Everyone was ready. For the last hour no one had said much. They had watched the clock, chewed fingernails, fretted silently. Now the waiting was over. Live or die, it was time to get to it.

The submarine refused to come out of the mud on the floor of the bay. Without way on, the only means of lifting the boat was positive buoyancy. More and more air was forced into the tanks, forcing out the water that held the submarine below the surface.

The keel of the sub was eighty feet down, just below periscope depth. She's going to go up like a cork, the captain thought, resigned.

Seconds later the submarine broke free of the mud's grasp and rose quickly, too quickly.

“All ahead flank,” the captain ordered. “Full down on the bow planes.”

The submarine broached anyway, broke the surface. Then the water pouring back into the tanks took effect, and the boat got enough way on for the bow and stern planes to get a grip on the water. They helped pull her back under.

“Watch it, Chief,” the captain said sharply, well aware that if they lost control now and drove the sub's bow into the mud, they would probably have to abandon ship.

The chief knew his boat. He got her stabilized and let her sink to periscope depth.

“Up scope,” Pavel Saratov ordered, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

After a quick 360-degree sweep, the captain said, almost as an afterthought, “Perhaps we should stop engines, Mr. Krasin, wait for the Spetsnaz divers. They will not be pleased if we leave without them.”

The XO winked the OOD.

“Stop engines.”

Saratov walked the scope around again, taking his time, looking carefully.

Well, he could see the lights of the refinery, the tankers at the tanker pier, the LNG carrier. Yokohama glowed in the misty darkness. Several dozen anchored ships were in view. The lights of Tokyo farther north were invisible in the misting rain and fog. He saw no ships or boats anchored close by.

Saratov backed off from the scope and gestured with his palm for it to be lowered. “Gentlemen, I suggest we surface and collect our swimmers.”

The OOD gave the necessary orders, and the submarine rose slowly from the sea.

 

Martos was very tired. Filimonov had not moved since he knocked him out, and the current was running toward the entrance of the bay, which meant Martos had to swim north constantly in order to remain more or less in one place.

He had not managed to remain in that one place. When the submarine surfaced, he was at least a half mile south of it, swimming toward it while towing Filimonov.

He spit out the mouthpiece. “It wouldn't hurt”—he took a breath—“for you to help…swim a little…you large piece…of horse's dung.”

Filimonov remained motionless. Martos knew he had just dinged his friend four or five times with the butt end of his knife, hardly enough to stun a mouse. This hardheaded ox had been hit harder than that in barracks brawls and never even blinked.

He heard the submarine break water. Heard the splash of a large object and heard the sucking sound as it went back under.

He didn't hear it surface the second time, but he heard the metallic clanging of the conning tower hatch being thrown open. He was already swimming in that direction, dragging Filimonov.

“You foolish…simple…son of a bitch! Help me.”

Finally he stopped. Ensuring that Filimonov's head didn't go under, he shouted, “Hey! Over here.”

They would never hear him. He had a flashlight on his belt, so he reached for it. Gone, probably in the fight.

Filimonov's light…still there.

Something unnatural about the big man. Martos turned the flashlight on and waved it in the general direction of the sub.

“Viktor, speak to me. Say something, my friend.”

He shined the flashlight in Viktor's face. The glare of the light on the white skin took getting used to. It was several seconds before Martos's eyes could focus.

Filimonov's eyes were open, unfocused. They did not track the light. The pupils did not respond. Viktor Filimonov was dead.

What? How…

“Viktor, you…you…”

The sub glided up. The wash pushed him away from it. Two men on deck threw a line. Keeping a firm grip on Filimonov's wet suit, Martos wrapped the line once around his wrist and called, “Pull us aboard.”

“What's wrong with him?”

“Grab him. Pull him aboard.”

After they pulled Filimonov from the water, they dragged Martos onto the slimy steel deck. He was so tired he could barely summon strength to stand.

“What's wrong with him?”

“He's dead. Get him below.”

The sailors lowered Filimonov's body through the torpedo reloading hatch. Martos was still on deck when one of the large storage tanks at the refinery exploded. At this distance the noise was just a pop, but the rising fireball looked spectacular, even against the background lights of Yokosuka.

“The captain wants to see you, on the bridge,” someone told him.

Filimonov's body lay on the deck walkway, between the racks holding the spare torpedoes. The corpsman was examining it. Martos made his way aft.

From the control room he climbed into the conning tower, then on up the ladder onto the tiny bridge, or cockpit, atop the sail. Pavel Saratov was watching the receding refinery through his binoculars.

“Sir.”

“How did it go?”

“We set the charges. Filimonov killed a guard—a woman. Cut her throat. He became morose. We fought. I thought I knocked him out. Apparently, I killed him.”

Saratov shifted his attention from the fires of the refinery, which was receding behind, to the lights of a ship far ahead, off the port bow. “Come right ten degrees,” he said to the sailor beside him, who was wearing a sound-powered telephone headset.

The sailor repeated the order into the headset, then confirmed, “Right ten, sir.”

Martos wanted to get it off his chest. “When he was a boy, maybe seven or eight, Viktor Filimonov's mother was killed. In Odessa. Some sailor slashed her. She was a whore. The sailor sliced her eighty-nine times. She bled to death.”