Scorpion in the Sea (15 page)

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Authors: P.T. Deutermann

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“All engines stop. All engines back slow together. Bring the special team on deck.” He turned to the senior of the two lookouts. “Well done. You may go below now.”
The men looked at him blankly for an instant, and then they both unstrapped their binoculars, and climbed down off their perch, disappearing into the conning tower hatch at the Captain’s feet. A moment later, the Musaid’s head appeared above the hatch coaming.
“Permission to come on the bridge,” he requested formally.
“Permission is granted,” replied the Captain, not taking his eyes off the bobbing white objects coming slowly into view ahead.
Up forward, on the wet, black foredeck of the submarine, seven bulky shapes rose up out of the dim red light showing through the forward hatch. Each shape carried an assault rifle.
“Come left twenty degrees; all engines stop. Secure the
periscope tube light,” ordered the Captain into the intercom.
The orders were acknowledged below, and the boat turned toward the white things in the water ahead. The Captain continued to adjust the boat’s heading as they closed in on what appeared to be two men in the water. The big submarine began to wallow as her speed through the water dwindled. Twilight was coming fast now that the rain had moved out. The fishing boats on the horizon were still visible only as lights, but the lights were dimmer now in contrast to the lightening horizon. Fortunately, they were several miles distant. Time was running out. This had to be done quickly.
The two survivors began to wave as they saw the dark shape of the submarine approaching. One of the men in the water stopped waving, and held his hand near his face, as if trying to make out what kind of vessel was silently approaching them. The submarine, which had slowed to bare steerageway now after the backing propellers dragged her way through the water down, was rolling slowly in response to some unseen swell.
They looked so small in the sea, with seven eighths of their bodies under water, like tiny ice floes in the black sea. The Musaid turned to look at the Captain from the side of the cramped bridge area. The special squad were in line, their rifles at formal port arms in the darkness. He could hear the men in the water shouting now, their voices a mixture of anxiety and relief at being found. The boat was close now, moving through a slick of diesel oil and debris from the fishing boat. Suddenly, the men in the water stopped shouting, as they saw the soldiers and their rifles, and realized what that silent line of men on the foredeck might mean.
The Captain raised his right hand, waiting for the submarine to pull almost alongside the swimming men, and then dropped it. The night erupted in automatic weapons fire, the hammering sounds penetrating to flinching men below decks. Ten seconds later, there was nothing on the water except the oil slick and some bits of debris from the Rosie
III, including a life ring that was floating very close to the submarine’s side.
“On deck,” called the Captain. “Retrieve that ring!”
The sergeant in charge handed his rifle to another man and ran back along the deck, past the conning tower, his boots clumping on the deck. Just aft, he stepped out onto the swell of the ballast tanks, putting his foot into a limber hole along the submarine’s water line, and reached out to retrieve the life ring that was bumping its way aft along the side. The Captain watched from above, approvingly. The life ring would have a name on it. The rest of the debris would be dispersed in a few hours, but the life ring would have floated and been proof that the fishing boat was sunk.
“Prepare to dive,” he ordered over the intercom, as the men on the foredeck went back down the hatch, one by one, passing their rifles before them.
The sergeant, clutching the white life ring, waited for them impatiently. The Captain turned to look at the Musaid, who was staring impassively down at the oil streaked water.
“Well, Musaid? This was a necessary thing, yes?”
The Musaid nodded grimly, trying to erase the sight of the thrashing figures in the water as their faces were obliterated by the AK-47’s.
“Very well, then. Clear the bridge,” ordered the Captain softly.
He then took one last look around before keying the intercom and giving the command to dive. The Musaid dropped down the hatch, slithering down quickly in the manner of old hand submariners, letting the tips of his boots just brush the rungs while sliding the ladder rails through his gloved hands.
The Captain suppressed a stab of guilt at what they had done to the men in the water. It violated the law and every tradition of the sea. Would that be their fate when the final encounter came with the American carrier? The mission, he reminded himself. You must keep the mission in the forefront of your mind. Let nothing distract you. He conjured up the cold fire in the Colonel’s eyes on the pier. This
is a mission of vengeance, to be carried out in the old way, by the precepts of the Book. This killing of innocent men was necessary; these two men had to die in order that his men and this holy mission would live. He felt a chill, despite the tropical warmth of the air. He knew the real reason for his guilty feeling: he should not have passed so close to the fishing boat in the first place. These men had died because of his stupid error. His second major error of the trip—the first was that equally stupid edict about shooting the next man who made a major mistake. By rights, he should go shoot himself. The sounds of the ballast tanks spewing air and the sudden downward tilt of the bow snapped him back to reality. He shook his head and looked around again, before turning to the hatch as the submarine leaned into the dive.
The Mayport Marina, Wednesday, 16 April; 1830
Mike Montgomery parked the Alfa in his usual spot at the Marina, and sat in the car for a minute, rubbing his eyes. It had been a tough three days. Daylight was fading quickly because of a low overcast and a drizzling rain that had set in Monday evening, one of those systems which made commuters wish they had bought intermittent windshield wipers. Goldsborough had been a veritable zoo, with engineering repairs, four unannounced staff inspections, two Captain’s mast sessions, briefings for the upcoming fleet exercise, and all of the end of the month reports. Monday had gone late enough to warrant his staying on board in his cabin rather than driving home.
He became aware that the rain seemed to be turning into a steady affair, judging from the sound on the car roof. He jammed his brass hat on his head, zipped up his khaki windbreaker, and climbed out of the car. He noticed a small knot of men standing under the streetlights at the head of the commercial pier. There seemed to be something wrong. Curious, he walked over.
One of the younger men he recognized nodded in greeting. “Evenin’, Cap,” he said.
“Evening,” replied Montgomery. “What’s happening?”
“Chris Mayfield is overdue,” said one of the older fishermen, in a broad north Florida accent. “S‘posed to be in fust thing this mawnin’; nobody’s seen hide ner hair of him or the Rosie, neither. Been on the marine radio all day, ain’t it, boys?” There was a subdued chorus of yeahs.
A black government car pulled up out of the wet darkness, and stopped at the head of the pier, its windshield wipers scraping noisily. Two Coast Guard officers got out, one a Lieutenant, the other an Ensign. The Lieutenant came directly over to the group on the pier.
“Afternoon, gents, I’m Lieutenant Barker from the District,” he announced.
He saw Mike, turned and saluted. “Commander,” he said, and then turned back to address the fishermen.
“We’ve received the boat overdue report, but there have been no reports of incidents or accidents in the fishing areas for the past twenty-four hours. If any of you can show us on a chart where the Rosie III might have been operating, we’ll initiate a search at first light.”
“Why ain’t y‘all goin’ out now?” asked one of the men, his white hair and red face in stark contrast to his black foul weather gear.
“Because the weather is below minimums for helicopter operations after dark,” replied the officer, patiently. “All the fishing boats that are out there have been alerted on marine radio, as have a couple of Navy destroyers who are out in the op-areas for training. That puts a pretty good mix of eyes out at sea; we’ll get a helo up at first light, if the weather permits, and do the aerial surveillance. But we do need a better idea of where they might have been.”
The older fisherman spat noisily over the side of the pier.
“Shit, Mister,” he said. “They coulda been anywheres. Ole Mayfield, he go where he damn well pleases, same’s the rest of us. Ain’t none of us goes around tellin’ where he’s hittin’ good fish, neither.” There was another muttering of agreement from the rest of them.
The Lieutenant looked annoyed. The Ensign was waiting to write something down in a small notebook, which was getting wet in the rain. Montgomery decided to intervene. “Lieutenant,” he said, “are you new in this district?”
“Yes, Sir. Two months. I came from Seattle.”
Mike nodded. “OK, the way it works, these guys go out and do most of their fishing between the Gulf Stream and the coast, depending on what they’re after. Mayfield works the margins of the Gulf Stream, where the mixed water is. Your best bet is to draw a line from the entrance of the St. Johns river directly out to the Stream, and then construct a search box along the inside margin of the Stream, north and south, say, for thirty miles. If he ran into trouble fishing, that’s where he probably was. If he had a problem on the way out, he’ll be on that easterly line somewhere.”
“Much obliged, Sir,” said the Lieutenant. “Are you here for the Navy?”
“No, I live over there,” Mike said, indicating the Marina with a nod of his head. “These guys are my neighbors.”
“I see, Sir. Well, we don’t have much info here, as you can see. The boat’s overdue twelve hours, which doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a problem. As I understand it.”
The Ensign had closed his book and was looking longingly at the car.
“Mayfield don’t come in on time, he gits on the marine,” said another of the fishermen. “Man loves to talk on the goddamn radio, don’t he?” There was more agreement all around.
The Lieutenant shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s all we’re going to accomplish here.” Turning to the cluster of fishermen, he said, “If any of you people come up with any additional information, please call us.”
The fishermen just looked at him; fishermen did not love the Coast Guard, inspectors of licenses and safety regulations. Until, that is, they were in trouble at sea. The Lieutenant saluted Montgomery again, and he and the Ensign got back into their official car and drove off. Mike hunched his shoulders; the rain was definitely settling in for the night. The far shore of the waterway had dissolved in a gray
mist; even the sea birds were quiet. The knot of men under the streetlight looked as if they were trapped in the cone of light shining down in the rain. Mike pulled up the collar of his jacket.
“We’re going out tomorrow for some sea trials,” he said. “I’ll work the area so we cover as much of Chris’ stomping grounds as possible. Hopefully, those guys’ll get a helo up.”
“Thanks, Cap,” said the white haired fisherman. “Goddamn Coast Guard, they ain’t too quick on the draw, it comes to fishing boats. Some big banker on his Chris Craft, now, that’d be a different story.” Some of the men had begun to drift away towards Hampton’s back bar.
“Well, hell, Whitey,” said Mike. “Chris probably busted his radio and is just not going to come in until he’s ready. He’s probably found a good hole full of fish and isn’t telling. He’s not going to worry about it until he runs out of Jim Beam.”
The old man didn’t laugh. “I donno, Cap. Ain’t like him, three days now, you count the Monday and all, and he went out on a Monday. Ain’t nobody heard nothin’ from the Rosie. Can’t figure it. We had rain and everything, but nothing bad. Like some damn thing et him up.”
Montgomery patted the old man on the shoulder. “You start seeing sea monsters, time to give it up, Whitey. Tell that fat bartender over in the back bar to buy you guys a round on me. Chris’ll hear about it, and come in to get his share.”
“Yeah, he would, now, wouldn’t he,” grinned Whitey.
Mike walked back to his car, retrieved his briefcase, and started walking towards the Lucky Bag. He had a few hours of paperwork to do, and then an early start tomorrow for two days of sea trials. If the steam seals forward held tight, they would be able to go south on the fleet exercise next Tuesday. If not, well, he did not want to consider that possibility. Goldsborough was showing her age; they were welding on top of welds in some areas of the boiler room.
Funny thing about Mayfield, though. He was infamous for jabbering away on the marine radio. It was not like him to go completely silent. On the other hand, these fishermen
were an independent breed. He boarded the boat, let himself in through the pilothouse door, and secured the alarm. From down below in the lounge came a familiar squawk.
“Shit fire,” said Hooker bird.
“Save matches, Bird,” replied his owner, turning on the lights.
USS Goldsborough, Mayport operating areas, Thursday, 17 April; 1730
The Captain sat in his chair, glowering out at the persistent rain and the gathering darkness. The ship was headed at slow speed into the wind, which gusted noisily through the open doors. The bridge watch did not exactly tiptoe around the pilothouse but there was none of the usual banter. The red light came back on the bitch box in front of his chair. He leaned forward.
“Bridge, Main Control,” announced the box.
“Bridge, Aye,” Mike responded.
“Cap’n, that feed pump is not responding to the control system; she comes up on the governor, but trips off the line when the first demand signal hits. We’re gonna have to bring it down and have another go at the controls.”
“What’s that leave you with, Snipe—one feed pump operational forward?”
There was a slight pause. “Yes, Sir. 1A is feeding 1A boiler; 1B has a 1200 pound steam leak, and now 1C won’t respond to control system signals.”
“OK, Snipe. Look into the possibility of taking the controller off of 1B and putting it on 1C; if we don’t have two feed pumps forward, we’re not going anywhere next week.”
“Snipe, Aye. I’ll talk to the Chief.”
Mike sat back in his chair and watched the red light blink off. His sense of gloom deepened; there went the fleet exercise and their chances of getting out of Mayport for a while. Fucking main feed pumps; overhauled only a year ago by the Philadelphia Navy Shityard in their enduring
tradition of half-ass work. That, plus another couple of high pressure steam leaks back aft, and a sick lube-oil purifier, and an intermittent water chemistry problem in 2B boiler … None of them individually fatal, but collectively, enough to convince the Group Commander to pull him out of the Caribbean trip. And his dear friend in high places, Captain Martinson, would be delighted to do just that. Mike finished the last of his cold coffee, crumpled the paper cup, and pitched it through the bridge wing door straight over the side. The bosun mate, about to offer him a refill, thought better of it. The Officer of the Deck took a sudden interest in the radar repeater. Outside, there was a sudden burst of heavier rain against the windows. A bright, narrow wedge of late afternoon sunlight low on the western horizon was being squeezed into the sea by the overcast.
Fuck it, he thought; we do the best we can. Old ship, dwindling parts support—which made sense, when you thought about it. Goldy was going to the mothball fleet in a year. Good people, but not the very best people. The very best people traditionally went to the brand new ships as pre-commissioning crews, which also made sense. All very sensible, and right in line with how we do business, but … disappointing.
It’s peacetime, he kept reminding himself. What do you want, a war? He realized that he was condemned to spend his entire command tour doing nothing but routine training evolutions in home waters. Might as well have gone to a reserve training ship. He wondered what it must have been like to skipper a tin can in wartime. Had to beat this dull business. Unexpectedly, his mind conjured up the image of Diane Martinson standing hipshot at the top of the float pier at the marina, her lovely body silhouetted in the afternoon sun, unconscious of her effect on mortal males while she rummaged through her purse for something. Or was she? Was a beautiful woman ever unconscious of her effect on men? Forget it, dickhead—she’s married, she’s Navy, she’s the Chief of fucking Staffs wife, and you don’t go crapping in your own foxhole, as the Army guys daintily put
it. Lots of pretty women out there on the beaches. Still the image persisted, stirring him. It was more pleasing than main feed pumps.
“Captain?”
He sat up, surprised by the appearance of the Operations Officer. “Yeah, Ops?”
“Sir, remember we’re supposed to be keeping a lookout for that missing fisherman while we do the sea trials?”
“Yup. As I recall, you’ve worked up a general search area track, right? We’ve been executing that track?”
“Yes, Sir, we have, and we’ve covered about seventy percent of it. Two extra lookouts topside all day, too. Well, now there’s a formal missing vessel report in from Coast Guard District. We’re action on it, ’cause they know we’re out here. There’s a coastie coming out to assume on-scene commander for a real search tomorrow, and then we got this in from the Group.” He handed Mike a message.
Mike fished in his jacket pocket for a red flashlight, switched it on, and scanned the message. He sighed, and handed it back.
“OK,” he said. “So we go on over there and do a concentrated search, but I don’t think we’re gonna see anything at night in the rain. And I think they’ve got the area wrong, too. Mayfield works right here on the edge of the Stream, not thirty miles inshore of it. How’m’soever, get the XO to set up a track to rendezvous with the Coastie. If Group Twelve wants a concentrated search, we’ll give them a concentrated search. About all we’re good for these days, anyway. Tell the XO.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.” The Operations officer left the bridge.
Ten minutes later, the bridge phone talker announced that one of the topside lookouts reported smelling diesel oil. The Officer of the Deck went out on the bridge wing, which was the upwind side. The rain had dwindled again to a mizzle. The ship was creeping along at five knots while the Engineers worked out the problems in the steam plant.
“Cap’n,” he called in from the bridge wing. “I think we got an oil slick out here. All engines stop!” he ordered. “Spin main engines as necessary.”
“All stop, spin as necessary,” repeated the lee helmsman, snapping the brass handles of the engine order telegraph back to the straight up and down position; the engine order telegraph bells rang in response.
Mike got out of his chair and went out onto the bridge wing. The stink of diesel oil was suddenly strong. The oil slick could not be seen in the gathering darkness, but the smell was unmistakable on the normally pristine sea air.
“You’re right, Jimmy, that smells like a slick. Have CIC mark it down, and let’s take a look around here.”
He felt the beginnings of concern in his belly; from the smell of it, this was more than somebody pumping a dirty bilge over the side.
He called up to the signalmen on the next level to light off the two twelve inch searchlights. “Sweep either side, Sigs—we’re looking for anything floating.”
“Sigs, aye,” came a voice from the gloom of the 04 level above the bridge.
Moments later, a yellow cone of light stabbed out into the darkness, the light rain glinting in the beam as it jerked this way and that, until it pointed down onto the sea surface. The telltale multicolored sheen of oil sprang into view. The ship drifted slowly to a stop, and then began to roll slowly as she lost steerageway.
“Put left full rudder on, Jimmy, and then bring her up to three knots. We’ll do a slow spiral right here, see what we get.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
The Officer of the Deck called in the orders. It took a few minutes for the ship to respond; they had to look over the side to watch the trail of an overboard discharge to see that she was in fact moving. Three knots; think you can handle that, Mike asked mentally. Oldy Goldy, the crew called her. Then he saw something in the water, as the light flashed over it from the level above.
“Hey, Sigs, go back, forward there,” he called out. “I saw something.”
The signalman pointed the searchlight beam back up to the bow illuminating a sea of heads on the bridgewing;
most of the bridge watch had come out on the wing to help look. They strained to see what had caught the Captain’s eye. A small crowd had also gathered up on the forecastle as the Bosuns passed the word that a slick had been found. Finally, two men saw it at the same time. “Hold it,” they yelled simultaneously, but by then the signalman had seen it too, and was holding the beam steady, right on the bow. It looked like a plank of some kind, shiny and dark in the oil stained water. The ship’s head was slowly swinging past it.
“Get the big dipper up on the forecastle; back her down easy, so we stop right here, Jimmy.”
The word went out over the phones for the boatswain mates to bring up the big dipper, a large dip net attached to a long handle, designed to scoop up debris from the sea from the ship’s weather decks. Destroyers were often tasked to recover debris, especially when a carrier plane went down. The dip net was easier than putting a boat down. The ship trembled gently as the Officer of the Deck backed the offboard screw, keeping the propeller wash on the other side, and pulling the bow slowly back towards the plank in the shimmering water below. There was a flare of light on the forecastle as the hatches came open, and a crew of boatswain mates came topside, carrying sections of the dip net handle and the net itself.
The Executive Officer appeared on the forecastle. Mike smiled mentally; the XO had the right instincts—always go where the action is. He was lucky to have Ben Farmer for an Exec. Finally the forecastle crew had the big dipper assembled and pointed over the side. The net was six feet deep, but the plank was still an awkward object to retrieve. They pulled it up on deck after another few minutes of bad language and lots of direction. The signalman kept the searchlight centered on the net as it came up, and everyone saw the brass lettering at the same time.
“Oh, shit,” said the Officer of the Deck. “That’s a name board.”
The deck crew turned the board face up, and the brass
letters gleamed out the name of Rosie III. The letters were big enough to be read clearly on the bridge.
“I’m going down there, OOD,” said Mike, his face grim. “Instruct the bosun mates to put an anchored marker buoy over the side; water’s not that deep, and I want to mark the spot where we found that.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. Quartermaster, gimme a depth of water under the keel. Sir, shall we tell the Coast Guard?”
“Yes, right; tell them we’ve got a datum,” ordered Mike as he left the bridge.
He went down two sets of interior ladders and out onto the main deck, and then forward through the breaks to the forecastle. The boatswain mates made way for him as he walked up the sloping steel deck. The oil smell was even stronger down here; the wet plank was covered in a thin film of oil; it looked like a corpse of some kind, lying on the deck in the folds of the net. The Chief bosun saluted as Mike stopped at the net.
“That who we’re looking for, Cap’n?”
“That’s him,” replied Mike.
What the hell have you done here, Chris, he thought. These were the signs of disaster. He stooped down to inspect the board, as if looking at it might somehow undo the stark import of finding a name board in an oil slick. Three bosuns began affixing a boat anchor to a coil of manila line, while a fourth disconnected an anchor buoy from the lifelines. The Chief pointed to the edge of the board.
“That looks like a bullet hole, Cap’n.”
Mike bent closer. Six inches to the right of the last roman numeral was a round hole with smooth edges. He reached into the net and turned the board over. The hole came through the other side with very ragged edges; there was a long splinter of wood missing on the back side of the hole. He looked up, and down the length of the board, but there were no other signs of damage. It did look like a bullet hole, about a thirty caliber round, with enough energy to have torn the wood up on the other side pretty good. He stood up, wiping the oil off his hand on a handkerchief. There was a splash as the bosuns threw the anchor over the
side, and the manila coil whistled as it uncoiled to the bottom, 350 feet below.
Mike returned to the bridge and summoned the operations officer.
“Make a report, Ops; we’ve got the Rosie III’s nameboard, and an oil slick. We’re going to stay in the area tonight and search for people and any other debris. Tell ’em we’ve put an anchor buoy down and give ’em the posit. I assume that Coastie will come out here and take over, so include a local weather summary so he’ll understand there’s no real big hurry; we’re not going to see anything tonight, and I strongly doubt that we’re going to find Mayfield and his two guys.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. Should we set up a fathometer watch? The water’s not deep here, and maybe we can detect the boat on the bottom.”
Mike nodded. “Yeah, we can do that, although our bottom charts aren’t going to show the level of detail we’d need to pick the boat out of the normal bottom return. But go ahead; we’ll plot anything we find, and let the Coasties follow it up. Set up an expanding square search around this position, slow speed, real tight—I don’t want to go more that five miles from this position.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“And, Ops—tell ’em we found what looks to be a bullet hole in the nameboard. Make the message classified, and make it op-immediate. Info the Group and the Commodore.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. A bullet hole? Rosie mix it up with some drug runners or something?”
“I don’t know, Ops, and the sea isn’t telling.”

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