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 frogmen 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
