Scorpion in the Sea (36 page)
Read Scorpion in the Sea Online
Authors: P.T. Deutermann
But right now he had a warm woman on the near horizon and steam up. He got up, and went into the tiny head at the forward end of his cabin to change out of his uniform. As he stuffed the wrinkled wash khakis in his laundry bag, he looked at himself in the mirror mounted on the back of the door by one his predecessors. He was still in pretty good shape, all things considered. It suddenly occurred to him that Diane might already be at the boat. He had given her a key to the main lounge hatchway door. If she was, he did not want to appear in a five o’clock shadow and khakis that smelled of that unique Navy destroyer aroma of fuel oil, ozone, steam, galley grease, disinfectant, and metal.
He stripped down and took a quick shower, shaved, and then put on slacks, a sport shirt, and some loafers. He splashed a touch of cologne around his jaw, and grinned at himself in the mirror. Now I look and smell like most of my troops who are headed for the liberty trail. He wondered if the quarterdeck watch would notice the difference. He suddenly didn’t care if they did.
As he walked aft to leave the ship, he thought about what might be going on up in Norfolk. It was up to the Commodore now to decide what to do next. He might wait for the Deyo to do its thing, but he also might tell the Group Commander what we’ve got so far. Maybe take the sting out if they get to think about it for a few days. Hell, he might even get the Admiral to go over to the Center to see for himself. But he doubted it.
The Exec was waiting on the quarterdeck.
“I told the CSO I’d be home in a half hour, in case the Commodore wants to talk.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. If he calls here we’ll forward the call.”
“Thanks, XO,” said Mike.
He was aware that the Exec thought he should not be going home until the loop had been closed with the Commodore. Barstowe would call Captain Aronson, and then Aronson would probably want to talk to him, and might even expect him to be aboard and not at home. But there was Diane.
Five minutes after he arrived onboard the Lucky Bag, Diane arrived, slipping into the lounge and giving him a breathtaking kiss. He promptly forgot about the submarine, the ship, the Commodore, and the rest of the world, until it intruded abruptly one hour later when the Commodore called.
“OK, Mike, CSO gave me the word,” said Aronson, starting right in as if he and Mike had been talking for the past half hour.
“I’m gonna have to see the Admiral and fill him in; I’ll try to do it without Martinson getting into it, at least initially, because he’ll want to focus on you and not the submarine. Man’s in a foul mood, anyway—says his wife took off for Lauderdale to go shopping again; last time she did that it set them back a coupla grand.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Mike, swallowing.
He was sitting at his desk in the lounge, looking at said wife on the couch ten feet away. He thought he felt the first faint tugs of the web of deception he was weaving. She was watching the evening news on television, apparently ignoring Mike and his phone conversation.
“I want you to send a message to the CO of Deyo—personal for, OK? And ask him to send you a sitrep on their passive search as of Wednesday at 0800; that’ll give ’em two nights of search and analysis. You relay the dope to me at 1000 Wednesday through Barstowe; he knows how to reach me. If I can catch the Admiral for a few minutes tomorrow during the conference, I’ll brief him on what we know so far, and what we’re doing. If Deyo comes up empty, I think the Admiral will just drop it—the Center’s evaluation isn’t all that strong. But just to be sure, I’m going to talk to them tomorrow, too, in between these goddamn
scheduling meetings. How’s the engineering work going?”
scheduling meetings. How’s the engineering work going?”
Mike related the events of the day, and the prognosis for the pump repairs. It would probably take two weeks, not one.
“Yeah, well, that figures, Mike,” agreed the Commodore. “You just push ’em to do a good job, and let’s hope there are no more mysterious incidents out in the opareas for a while. The Navy’s got enough trouble trying to work up a fleet operating schedule against all these budget cuts.”
“Yes, Sir, we’ll do it. Thank you for calling, Sir.”
But the Commodore had already hung up. Mike then called the Command Duty Officer on the Goldsborough and dictated a Personal message for the CO message to Deyo, telling the CDO to release it as a priority. He then joined Diane on the couch.
“Sounds interesting,” she said, snuggling in under his arm.
“I didn’t think you were paying any attention to all that,” he said.
“Navy wives learn to tune in to those kinds of conversations even when they’re talking to someone else, my love. Anything out of the routine usually means something’s coming or someone’s leaving.”
“Well it certainly won’t be Goldy-maru,” he said. “We’re in for the better part of the next two weeks changing our main feed pump steam seals.”
“But the mystery submarine hasn’t gone away, has it?” she asked. He turned to look down at her, to see how much she might really understand.
“No, actually, it hasn’t, although it might well have taken off by now. What the Center found is a possible contact that happened last week. Now the Commodore has Deyo out doing a real needle in the haystack search for any peculiar diesel engines, on the theory that, if he’s still there, he’ll snorkel at night to recharge his batteries.”
“What’s a snorkel?”
“It’s a pipe, basically, that a sub can stick up like a periscope and provide air to diesel engines without surfacing.”
“Oh. OK. But if there is a submarine out there, why?” she asked.
“That’s the million dollar question, Sweet Cheeks.”
“Sweet Cheeks?” She sat up, a mock severe expression in her face. “Did you call me Sweet Cheeks?”
Mike stared hard at her face and then tracked somewhat lower on her anatomy.
“Well,” he said, “that’s just my memory speaking; it has been a long time, you know. Might be wrong … you know what they say—memory is the second thing to go.”
“And the first, may I ask, is what?”
“Don’t remember,” he pronounced solemnly, and then he pulled her toward him to refresh his sadly failing memory.
“Remember, I get dinner,” she said, her voice muffled in his shoulder. “And for calling me Sweet Cheeks, I also get dessert.”
The Al Akrab, submerged, Jacksonville Operating Areas, Tuesday, 29 April; 0130
“Bearing One. Mark!” The Captain swung the attack scope around to the right, and stopped suddenly. “Bearing Two. Mark! Down scope.”
The glistening tube hissed out of sight into the periscope well below the attack center. The Captain straightened, and glanced over at the depth gauge. They were steady at 18 meters, despite the medium swells up above on the dark surface.
“Confirm the plot.”
“Sir, the plot confirms as follows: two fishing boats are trolling into the seas, speeds at between two and three knots. There are no other major shipping contacts in the area, except for the large car carrier which is opening to the east,” said the watch officer.
“Sound operator confirm.”
The sonar operator turned in his chair.
“Sir, passive sonar confirms two contacts, diesel engines, bearing west and northwest, drifting right. No other nearby engine sounds. No other contacts except for the large ship opening to the east.”
“Very well. Raise the snorkel mast. Make preparations to snorkel.”
The control room watch officer called the engineering watch officer and relayed the order to configure the propulsion systems for snorkeling. He nodded to the diving officer, who began raising the thick snorkel mast, carefully eyeing the reference mark as the mast came up to ensure that it was well clear of the sea surface, but not so high as to create a large radar contact for any watching eyes above. The planesmen hunched over their controls, keeping the submarine precisely at eighteen meters of keel depth.
The Captain reflected on the surface plot, sipping on a mug of hot tea. Two fishing boats, both underway, meant good diesel sound coverage. His uniform was sweaty, the back of his shirt sticking to his back. He stank. They all stank. They had again lost one of their two fresh water evaporators due to a pump failure, and it had cost them dearly in terms of available fresh water. There was enough to drink and cook meals, and to wash one’s hands, but no more. The crewmen, already strained by the mission, were growing short and ill tempered with each other due to the constant lack of water. The temperature of the Gulf Stream, hovering near 82 degrees, had slowly cooked the boat up to an ambient temperature in the low nineties, with effusive humidity. For men used to the dry heat of North Africa, this was real misery.
The sighting of a large destroyer, the USS Deyo by her hull pennant number, had added to the tension. Their intelligence books made it clear that Deyo was a first team ASW destroyer, equipped with all the latest technology that the older, unknown destroyer did not have. The one factor working in their favor was that Deyo was not using active sonar, and was also charging around the fleet operating areas at high speeds, apparently doing some kind of engineering trials. At those speeds, even her acutely sensitive
passive arrays were useless. As long as the submarine remained very quiet, and as long as the Deyo remained occupied with other things, they were reasonably safe. It also helped that Deyo had disappeared up to the north a few hours ago.
passive arrays were useless. As long as the submarine remained very quiet, and as long as the Deyo remained occupied with other things, they were reasonably safe. It also helped that Deyo had disappeared up to the north a few hours ago.
But now they were going to make noise; the battery was down to seventy-five percent, and they needed to pump a charge into the banks of lead acid storage cells nested beneath the control room for about four hours to get them back up to ninety-five percent. This meant that they had to light off the diesels, and, using the direct current electric propulsion motors as generators, activate the direct current charging circuits. The diesels required huge quantities of combustion air, which meant they either had to surface or ingest all that air through the thick snorkel mast now jutting four feet above the waves on the surface up above.
The Captain walked back over to the plotting table, and rubbed his eyes before looking down once more at the plot. The watch officer stood back to give him room. The planesman and the helmsman concentrated on keeping the boat straight and level, so as not to dunk the snorkel mast once the diesels started. If the mast went under a wave, the weight of the water would seat a steel float ball in the top of the snorkel tube, keeping water out of the engines, but also forcing the diesels to gulp combustion air momentarily from within the boat, clamping a painful vacuum on everyone’s ears, and then just as painfully reversing the pressure when the ball lifted off its seat as the wave went by. Snorkeling called for precise depth control, and it had to be maintained for hours on end.
The Captain verified the plot one more time. The tactical chart showed the track of the Deyo headed off the tactical plot to the north, with last contact being held three hours ago. The noise of just one fisherman should mask any sound of the submerged diesels in the submarine, but the Captain had made it a practice to find two boats, both with their engines running, before he would snorkel.
“Is the plant configured for snorkeling?” he asked. The watch officer nodded.
“Sir, main engineering control reports ready to snorkel. The main propulsion plant is split out. The switchboards are aligned to the battery. The battery compartment checks clear for hydrogen concentration. Hydrogen monitors have been purged. Request permission to open main induction.”
“Open main induction and commence snorkeling.”
Across the control room, the diving officer actuated a hydraulic control, and the twenty-four inch diameter main induction valve cycled open in the snorkel pipe. A glowing red warning light appeared on the valve console, indicating that the boat was now exposed to catastrophic flooding should something go wrong. The diving officer confirmed the valve open, and then spoke into sound powered phones to main engineering control. An instant later, the rumble of the mains shook the boat. The lights flickered momentarily as the boat’s electrical load was adjusted, and everyone instinctively winced in anticipation of the dreaded pull on their eardrums. But the boat remained steady as a rock on its northerly course. The Musaid entered the control room, nodded to the Captain, and fixed himself a mug of tea.
“Crack the ventilation augment valves,” the Captain ordered. A technician stood up and opened the large valve on the side of the snorkel pipe, which allowed fresh air from the sea surface above to blow into the control room for some temporary relief from the stagnant atmosphere of the boat. There was a similar valve back in the engineering spaces, which he knew the engineers had probably already opened to divert some of the precious fresh air.
“Raise the electronic warfare mast.”
Just forward of the thick snorkel mast, the pineapple shaped head of the electronic sensor mast broke the sea surface twenty feet above. The Captain watched the EW console as the EW Chief Petty Officer scanned the screens. The Musaid came over to stand next to him, watching the console.
“No military surveillance radars,” the Chief reported. “One commercial Decca bearing 290; correlates with the fishermen.”
“Very well. Maintain a watch on ESM.”
The Captain relaxed slightly and moved over to his chair. He would remain in the control room for the entire snorkeling cycle. His submarine was dangerously close to the surface, and, by tactical standards, had a large mast exposed and was also generating tons of acoustic noise into the water. They had to be alert to the sudden appearance of an airborne or surface search military radar signal on the EW console, which would be the signal to shut down the mains and bring down all the masts at once. Because an active radar could be detected at one and a half times its own detection range, an alert scanner should always be able to get under cover before the active radar would begin getting echoes. The key word was alert.
The Captain hoped and prayed to Allah that the Deyo or one of her kind was not up there somewhere operating under radar and acoustic silence. The Deyo was a professional sub killer, equipped with an air bubble belt around the submerged portion of her hull. The belt breathed a curtain of small air bubbles down the entire length of the ship’s hull, effectively masking all machinery noises coming from within the destroyer. Her screws had a similar system, which meant that submarines listening for the familiar chopping sounds of high power propellers would hear only the hiss of the ambient sea. The Deyo was entirely capable of looming out of the darkness and spearing the Al Akrab with a brace of screaming antisubmarine homing torpedoes.
But the Captain had to weigh the likelihood of the initial detection: there had been some interaction with the American Navy, but every indication was that they had never been actually detected. Even when they had fired the decoy, which had been a near desperate measure, the old destroyer had turned away and gone back into port. Unless the Americans had actually concluded that there was something out here, the lack of the initial cues would keep the Al Akrab safe. The ocean was simply too big.
He glanced at his watch. It would be a long night, even if it all went perfectly. He gestured for more tea. One of the
sailors scrambled to bring him some. He looked up at the Musaid.
sailors scrambled to bring him some. He looked up at the Musaid.
“Well, Musaid. Are we safe?” he asked softly.
The hum of instruments, rumble of the diesels aft, and the hiss of the ventilation augmenter were the only other sounds. The boat was actually rolling slightly in response to the waves above. The Musaid’s face crinkled in a wry smile.
“Safe, Effendi? When were we ever safe?”
The Captain nodded. Here they were, hovering scant feet below the surface, radiating diesel engine noise, two masts exposed, and not fifty miles away from a major American naval base, and doing all this in an ancient Russian submarine that had more parts and pieces from her sister ships than original parts. A real sub-killer had been in their area only a few hours ago, and might have come back for all they knew. The Captain reflected on the Americans and their technology. It was all so unfair.
“The Americans,” he muttered. “They’re everywhere. They dominate the world. Even the Russians fear them, their technology, their designs to make the whole world over in their image. The kings of Carthage must have felt the same way about Rome.”
“And today Carthage is a large open field, with lumps of marble here and there on ground still poisoned with Roman salt,” said the Musaid. “I have seen it. I have often wondered if that is our fate, too. For all the advisors and equipment we have bought over the past ten years, the Americans came from the sea in one night and struck with impunity. They can do it anytime they want to. We are never safe.”
“Well,” observed the Captain, finishing his tea. “Two can play at a game, as the British say. This time it is we who shall come from the sea. I am convinced that they do not even dream we could do this, come this far, and wait patiently for our target like a scorpion in the sand. They call us rag-heads, did you know that? Rag-heads. Think of it.”
The Musaid snorted.
“The Americans have a need to call other people names; it soothes their consciences when they exercise dominion.
It is a trait they took from the British—wogs, gyppies, and now, rag-heads. Oppression of lesser people offends their Christian values; but it is no crime to kill a wog. It is the nature of imperialism to reduce its victims to names.”
It is a trait they took from the British—wogs, gyppies, and now, rag-heads. Oppression of lesser people offends their Christian values; but it is no crime to kill a wog. It is the nature of imperialism to reduce its victims to names.”
The Captain smiled, his eyes glinting.
“Which will make this mission so very satisfying; I wonder if they will be able to admit that it was a rag-head that put torpedoes into their aircraft carrier.”
“I worry about that decoy, Effendi,” said the Musaid, changing the subject.
The Captain looked at him sharply, and then away.
“I too worry about that decoy, Musaid.”
He looked around the control room to see if anyone was listening to them, but the watch remained intent on keeping depth control.
“I am convinced that we had to do something, but I wish that encounter had never begun. If there is any connection between the killer destroyer Deyo today and that decoy, we may soon be the quarry instead of being the hunters.”
“The key is to have the carrier return home soon,” mused the Musaid. “The longer we stay here, the more chances we take. We need to do this thing soon.” The Captain nodded.
“We can do nothing about that, Musaid. Inshallah. That remains in God’s hands.” He heaved himself upright. “But depth control remains in our hands. Watch officer!” he called. “You are half a meter low. Pay attention!”
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