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.
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.”
“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.
