Scorpion in the Sea

by P. T. Deutermann

  His first night fire-fight in a narrow waterway of the notorious Rung Sat secret zone had disabused him of any notions of being simply out on some kind of Hollywood adventure. The sudden roar of machine gun fire flashing out at his boats from the black jungle ten feet on either side of him, the crash of shattering windshields amidst the whining buzz of bullets, the rain of hot brass casings into the pilothouse from the twin fifties mounted above, and the screams of wounded men afloat and in the bush ashore had shocked him into the reality of close combat, and nothing was ever the same after that night. He had completed his full thirteen month tour, grimly intent on surviving and ensuring that his boats and his people also survived.

  Following his in-country tour, he was assigned to another destroyer on the gunline for two years, and then a missile cruiser, where he made Lieutenant Commander and added another row of ribbons to his already impressive collection, the fruits of six years service in the seemingly everlasting Vietnam conflict. At the end of his second year in the cruiser there came a collision at sea in which he had a role, followed by transfer to yet another ship in the Pacific fleet. By the end of his twelfth year in the Navy, he had accumulated more years on sea duty than most officers would see in an entire twenty year career, and the Bureau of Personnel had wanted him to come ashore. But the stigma of the collision at sea was obstructing his selection for an Executive Officer assignment, so he wrangled yet another seagoing job, this time on a carrier group staff. Two years on the staff had broadened his horizons immensely and helped to wipe away the stain of the collision. He had been selected on his next to the last look for a Lieutenant Commander Exec’s job, to which he proceeded directly from the carrier group staff and six months at the prospective XO school in Newport.

  The Exec’s job had come in the Atlantic Fleet for a change, but the deployments ground on. His ship made two, six-month deployments to the Mediterranean, where the emphasis seemed to be on fresh paint, polished brass, and shined shoes in contrast to the rough and ready Pacific Fleet after years of wartime operations. It was a stark contrast to the freewheeling days of Vietnam, and Mike Montgomery’s rough edges became evident despite the paternal attentions of two successive Commanding Officers, who had tried with varying degrees of success to align Mike’s professional talents with the niceties of professional political behavior as he drew closer to command selection. His second CO talked him into taking his first shore assignment in nearly fifteen years, at the headquarters of the Atlantic Fleet destroyer force, with the intent of exposing Mike to what the Captain called the grownup side of the Navy.

  Mike spent three years at the headquarters, where he was promoted to full Commander, but not selected for command until the third year, and then only because his Admiral was President of the selection board. After the board’s command selection list had been published, the Chief of Staff had shared some of the Admiral’s observations about Mike’s record, pointing out that his seagoing career, and especially his war record, was stronger than almost all the other candidates, but that the taint of the collision at sea, combined with Mike’s own intolerant views towards the Navy’s vast shore establishment, had almost done him in. He advised Mike not to try to negotiate for a better offer when he was finally offered a command, but to take it and run because there would not be a second offer. Which was how he had ended up on Oldy Goldy, a ship that was headed for decommissioning in less than a year, and was out looking for a U-boat, of all things, in the Florida op-areas this fine night. He sighed again. He began to look forward to the weekend as he rose from his chair.

  “I’ll be in my sea cabin, OOD.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir. Do you want to be called for contacts?”

  “Only if they classify it as possible sub, Frank.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir. We probably won’t be calling you then.”

  “Probably not.”

  SEVEN

  The submarine Al Akrab, submerged, 0315, 11 April

  The Captain, his lean face tightened by lack of sleep, made his way through the central passageway to the control room. The dim red lighting rendered his face in spectral hues of gray with darker tones under his eyes. He climbed the short ladder into the control room, and at once perceived the change in atmosphere. The watchstanders tensed in their chairs, and only the watch officer, who was the same individual who had broached the boat the previous morning, would look directly at him, his face a pale mask. The word had been put out. In one corner of the control room was the Musaid, hunkered down on a stool like a stone palace dog, watching the actions of the planesman and helmsman. He did not look like he had slept, either.

  “Report.”

  The watch officer cleared his throat nervously.

  “Sir: the enemy ship remains to our west by northwest. Passive angle tracking constructs a current range of about 22,000 meters. Sir: this is a composite range. He is executing a search pattern, which at times takes him farther away, and then later brings him back in our direction. My depth is 100 meters; the secondary layer descended one hour ago. There is 92 percent power available in the battery. Sir,”

  The young officer, of Bedouin and Egyptian extraction, was perspiring, even though the control room was no more than 80 degrees.

  The Captain did not acknowledge the report, but stared instead directly at the watch officer. The rest of the watch, aware of the lengthening silence, remained intent on their instruments. A full half-minute passed before the Captain unlocked his eyes from those of the watch officer, having reinforced the death threat which had already pressurized the entire crew some hours before.

  “Surface summary.”

  “Sir,” continued the watch officer, swallowing and glancing at a status board above the torpedo control console. “There are five active surface contacts, excluding the enemy destroyer. They appear to be stationary, or drifting, possibly fishing. Only two have engine noises.”

  “Very well. Is the destroyer approaching now on an easterly leg of his pattern?”

  “Yes, Sir. By the plot, he should come within 15,000 meters, and then turn away, to the south. He appears to expand his square by 2000 to 3000 meters on each leg.”

  His Deputy Commander came into the control room from back aft. The watch must have called him, the Captain decided. The Deputy did not look well; the night time did not agree with him.

  “Where is the nearest surface contact?” he continued.

  “Bearing 010, range approximately 4000 meters. No engine noises for about one hour, but there is a generator running. Sir: all of our ranges are derived from passive tracking. They will be inaccurate.”

  “Yes, I understand. We are at 100 meters, after all.”

  He looked down again at the plot. The plotting crew stood back to give him a clearer view. The Deputy remained to one side.

  “These are my orders,” declared the Captain. “Come to course 010. I wish to move to the vicinity of that contact, and to pass beyond him, so that his sound line is between us and the destroyer. Then I will come to periscope depth and take a look, but only after the destroyer makes his next turn to the south. We must pay strict attention to the doppler from his screws to detect the turn. I will use the contact to radar-mask my periscope. Maintain your present depth; increase speed gradually to 8 knots, slow to 3 knots when we have passed under the contact.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  As the orders began to flow, the Captain went over to the sonar stack.

  “Focus the receiver to 010; I wish to listen to this contact.”

  The sonar operator complied, and then handed up his earphones. The Captain slid them over his ears, and concentrated. The putt-putt sound of a small diesel generator was audible on the bearing, along with another noise, a grinding sound. He pulled off the earphones.

  “Amend my orders: come to course 035; get past the contact in two legs. He is operating deep nets—I can hear the winches.”

  The watch officer acknowledged, with a look of further embarrassment. He should have checked for net winch sounds
in making his original classification of the contact. The submarine might have become entangled in deep sea fishing nets.

  “Deputy.”

  “Sir?”

  “Set attack condition one.”

  “Sir! Musaid! Pass the word. Attack condition one!”

  The Musaid rose immediately, and hurried forward. Unlike on surface ships, where the general quarters alarm would have rousted everyone out of their racks, the word to set the attack condition was passed quietly and quickly by word of mouth, so as not to transmit any dangerous sounds into the listening sea. Within five minutes, all of the attack positions were manned up, and the boat was closed off into four watertight compartments. The temperature in the control room began rising immediately. The weapons officer took charge of the attack director console. The Deputy Commander took over the main plot, and two chief petty officers manned the planes. The Musaid resumed his station to supervise the planesmen.

  “Put the fishing boat’s noise on the speaker,” ordered the Captain.

  There was a crackling hiss from the speaker above the sonar operator’s console, which was punctuated suddenly by the distant ping of the destroyer’s sonar. The Captain put his hand on the sonar operator’s shoulder.

  “Tell me when you think we have gone past the contact to the north. Raise your hand when you hear the bearing shift.”

  The operator nodded soundlessly, intent on his earphones.

  The submarine was headed in a northeast direction, attempting to pass the fishing boat to port. Once past, they would turn due north, thereby executing a dogleg, to keep the fishing boat between themselves and the destroyer. Once the destroyer made its turn to the south, the submarine could come up to expose a periscope. The fishing boat would mask any sonar echoes in the direction of the submarine, and by turning away from them, the destroyer was pointing his screws in their direction, thus fouling his own listening sectors. Any radar echoes off the periscope would be confused with those returning from the fishing boat. The Captain reviewed his plan, and found it workable.

  He listened to the pinging sound, audible over the putt-putt and winch noises from the fisherman, and waited for a doppler shift in the ping. As the destroyer closed in from eleven miles, the frequency of the pinging would appear to the trained ear to rise; once he turned away, it would decrease, much like a train whistle does as the train rushes by a stationary observer. The Captain was counting on three factors to keep him undetected. It was just past 0300 in the morning, the daily ebb of human performance and acumen. The fishing boat would provide a distraction, both on radar and sonar. And as the destroyer turned south, she would point her screws and rudders in the direction of the submarine, increasing her own self noise in the very sector where the contact, if made, would be. The sonar operator raised his hand.

  The Captain nodded. “Come to 000, speed seven knots. Make your depth 50 meters, gradually.”

  The boat took on a slight up angle, and heeled perceptibly to starboard as she came around in the left turn. The atmosphere in the control room had become very stuffy, with all the men at their battle stations. Everyone seemed to be wide awake, intent on their instruments.

  “Request permission to open outer doors,” said the weapons officer.

  “Denied. I want no noises until I know he has turned south.”

  The Captain knew that if the destroyer ‘did happen to have a wide-band passive array, the sound of the outer torpedo doors opening would print out in a heartbeat, as long as the array had a clear bearing on which to listen. He had to get the fisherman into proper blocking position before doing anything that would give up an unmistakable classification to their opponent. He knew that ASW was full of ambiguity; it was always best to create some more whenever that was possible.

  “Captain, the doppler.”

  The Captain listened. The doppler shift in the pinging was clearly audible. The destroyer had turned south, away from them.

  “Bearing to the destroyer.”

  “250 degrees.”

  “Bearing to the fisherman.”

  “300 degrees, Sir.”

  “Make your depth 25 meters; speed three knots. Maintain present heading. Deputy, inform me when the bearings are within five degrees of each other.”

  “Sir.”

  They waited for the tactical geometry to develop. The Captain watched the depth gauge, as the senior chief brought her smoothly up to 25 meters, five meters shy of periscope depth.

  “Bearing spread.”

  “Twenty-two degrees,” answered the Deputy.

  “Very well.” They waited some more. The Captain tried to gauge the attack crew’s emotional state, but everyone was fixed on his console or station. If his edict had indeed been promulgated, it was having no visible effect now. This was the superbly trained crew he remembered from the weeks before departure, when they had exercised and exercised until everyone was dragging.

  “Nine degrees, spread, axis is 245.”

  “Very well, come to course 065; make your depth 20 meters. Now you may open outer doors forward.”

  The submarine swung around slowly to the new course. This would put the destroyer directly astern of her, but it would also keep the fishing boat on the same bearing as the destroyer.

  “Fishing boat entering the baffles,” reported the sonar operator.

  The maneuver to line up the submarine, the fishing boat, and the destroyer had put the destroyer and the fishing boat in the submarine’s sonar deaf zone directly aft, where the propellers were. Both the destroyer and the submarine were pointing their deaf zones at each other.

  “Very well. Depth.”

  “Twenty two meters; approaching twenty meters,” responded the Musaid. “The boat is stable. Twenty one meters. Preparing to trim. Trimming forward.”

  Pumps whined in the bilges as seawater was transferred to bow trim tanks to level her out at periscope depth.

  “Twenty meters.”

  “Up scope.” The Captain bent down to wait for the viewing handles as the shiny brass tube rose silently on its hydraulics. He stood on the bow side of the optics, facing directly aft down the bearing of the destroyer. When the optics appeared from the well, he grabbed the viewing handles, and folded them down. His eyes were focused in the optics when the scope broke the surface above.

  The first thing he saw was the fishing boat, a good sized shrimper, with white lights shining down from her booms into the water, and large lines leading aft.

  “Range to the fisherman, is, mark!” He had focused the optics stereo-optically on the shimmering image of the fishing boat; the focus was translated by prism angulation to an estimated range, which appeared on the side of the periscope control dial.

  “10,000 meters estimated range,” read out a plotter.

  He looked in vain for the destroyer, but the white lights adorning the fishing boat booms blinded him. He quickly walked the periscope 360 degrees to make sure there was nothing else up there. The scope remained dark. There was only faint moonlight showing through light cloud cover. He swung the optics back to the fisherman, and then to one side. There, one white light. He focused the optics, and clicked on high power.

  “Range to the destroyer is, mark.”

  “12,500 meters.”

  “Target angle is 240.”

  “240. Plot started.”

  “Enter notional speed ten knots; course is 180.”

  “Plot is running.”

  “Very well.” He scanned the image in high power magnification.

  “Come left, make your course 300.”

  He needed to move the fisherman to the left in order to get a better look at the destroyer. The white lights were still too bright. Slowly, the warship’s image materialized. It was a large destroyer, but not one of the new ones, with their boxy, voluminous shapes. This one had masts, and at least two large gun mounts. He was seeing a port quarter, almost a stern aspect. The key feature were the two guns on the back of the super-structure. A Forrest Sherman class destroyer. Ol
d indeed. That explained the active sonar.

  “Target angle is 223; range is—mark it.”

  “13,800 meters.”

  “Classification is Forrest Sherman class destroyer; pendant number is not visible. Down scope!”

  The periscope sank into its well with a hiss as the Captain stood back.

  “Come right to 090, make your depth 100 meters, make turns for ten knots.”

  It was time to leave, to seek the turbid depths of the Gulf Stream again. The scope had been up long enough to have attracted some attention on a radarscope. He could visualize what was going on in the destroyer. If they had seen the brief radar pop-up contact, they would argue about it, consider the presence of the fishing boat, the possibility of radar ringing, and then develop a consensus, and then call their Captain. It would take time. They would be long gone.

  “Closing outer doors,” declared the weapons officer.

  It was standard procedure to prepare to make an attack when classifying an enemy warship. More than one submarine had been sunk in the act of taking a look at a prepared and alerted destroyer. There was nothing like a torpedo to disrupt such an attack, even one that was just fired into the bearing wedge of the approaching destroyer. His attack team had set up and maintained a firing solution on the destroyer the entire time he was at periscope depth.

  “Stand down from attack condition one,” the Captain ordered. The word went out at once over telephone circuits, and the men began to secure their consoles, reducing the crowded control room to the basic maneuvering watch. The Deputy approached.