Fortunes of War by Stephen Coonts

Author:Stephen Coonts
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: St Martin's Press
Published: 1998-08-25T04:00:00+00:00

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.

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