Fortunes of War (21 page)

With the scope magnification turned up, he could read the words on the stern:
LINDA SUE, MONROVIA
. There were actually two little spotlights on the stern rail that illuminated the name.

He had spent the evening studying the chart of the bay. He recognized the turn in the channel off Uraga Point and the naval anchorage. He stayed with
Linda Sue
as she steamed slowly and majestically along the channel that would take her to the container piers at Yokohama or Tokyo. There were numerous small craft in the bay, despite the limited visibility and rain—launches, fishing boats, police cruisers.

Several small fishing craft were silhouetted against the city lights on the western shore of the bay, which ran from horizon to horizon. Then he saw a boat anchored just outside the shipping channel. Reluctantly, he ordered the diesel secured and the snorkel lowered. The sound of the diesel exhausting through the snorkel was loud if one was on the surface listening, so Saratov decided to play it safe.

He cruised up to Yokohama and examined the hundred or so ships waiting to get to the piers for loading and unloading. A forest of ships from nations all over the world—all except Russia. Well, they were all fair game as far as he was concerned, discharging and taking on cargo in a belligerent port.

It took five hours to cruise up the bay, then back south, where he picked a spot to settle into the bottom mud a kilometer offshore from a refinery on the northern edge of Yokosuka, north of the naval base. A pier led from the refinery out into the water about a half kilometer. Two conventional tankers were moored to it, but at the very end rested a liquid natural gas—LNG—tanker, with a huge pressure vessel amidships.

He had a splitting headache. He stood in the control room massaging his neck, rubbing his eyes.

No one had much else to say. When they did want to communicate, they whispered, as if the Japanese were in the next room with a glass against the wall. Perhaps they sensed they were on the edge of something, something large and fierce and infinitely dangerous.

Saratov smiled to himself, went to his tiny stateroom, and stretched out on the bunk. Although the men didn't know it, the boat was probably safer in the mud of Tokyo Bay than it had been at any time since the start of hostilities.

Tonight. They would roll the dice tonight.

In the meantime, he had to sleep.

 

The two navy enlisted demolition divers sat across from Pavel Saratov in the wardroom, sipping tea. It was late afternoon. Dirty dishes were stacked to one side of the table.

The demolition men were magnificent physical specimens. Of medium height, they didn't have five pounds of fat between them. With thick necks, bulging biceps, and heavily veined weight lifter's arms, these two certainly didn't look like sailors.

“Where did the navy get you guys?” Saratov asked.

“We were Spetsnaz, Captain,” one of them said. His name was stenciled on his shirt: Martos. The other was named Filimonov. “They disestablished our unit, discharged everybody. We had a choice—a gang of truck hijackers or the seagoing navy.”

“Hmmm,” the captain said, sipping tea.

Filimonov explained. “The hijackers were the better deal. Less work, more money. Unfortunately, they liked to brag and throw money around. We thought they would not be with us long. Last we heard only a few are still alive, hiding in the forest.”

“Capitalism is a hard life.”

“Very competitive, sir.”

“I want you to destroy a refinery. Could you do that?”

“A refinery! With the plastique?”

“I thought you might go out through the air lock in the torpedo room, swim ashore—the distance is about a kilometer—plant the explosives, then swim back to us.”

They looked at each other. “It would be possible, sir. When?”

“Tonight. As soon as it's dark. How long would it take?”

“The longer we have, the better job we can make of it.”

“I want to start fires they can't easily extinguish, do maximum damage.”

“Ahh, maximum damage.” Martos grinned at the captain, then at Filimonov. Half his teeth were gray steel.

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 Filimonov 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 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.