Scorpion in the Sea

by P. T. Deutermann

  The Exec’s expression was serious. Mike frowned.

  “You weren’t at the meeting with Admiral Walker, XO, but I will spot you the feasibility part of it. Yes, they’re sending us out, but they haven’t told Norfolk—it’s all for local PR consumption. Anyway, let’s play it straight, and I’ll keep my opinions to myself so you can fire the guys up to do a good job. Let’s do it.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” the Exec replied, gathering his papers.

  Mike caught the note of relief in his voice, along with his unspoken request to at least act like he took it seriously, because if the wardroom and the crew thought otherwise, they would blow it off.

  “I’ll get on the 1MC in a couple of minutes and brief the crew,” said the exec. “Then we’ll start the search at around 2100 when we get to the initiation point.”

  “Where Rosie went down, right?”

  “Yes, Sir. It doesn’t mean anything tactically, but it’s sort of symbolic. The crew can relate to the fact that some other guys died and that’s why we’re out here.”

  “Good thinking. I’ll come up around 2200 to see how it’s going; tell Line I’ll want a demo of his new toy.”

  At 2200, Mike went up to the Combat Information Center. The control center was in darkened condition, with only the green lights of the scopes and the dimmed red lights around the overhead illuminating the crowded room.

  “Captain’s in Combat,” sounded off the watch supervisor when he saw Mike coming through the door.

  Mike walked over to the main plotting table. The search track was laid out on the tracing paper, with a bottom contour chart taped underneath the tracing paper. The anti-submarine warfare officer, Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Lincoln Howard, had his PC up and running by the side of the table.

  “Show me how this works, Linc.”

  “Aye, Sir. Basically, I can take the video presentation on the sonar scope down below into the PC on a scanner channel: just as if I were scanning a document, only I get an image. I have the bottom contour chart already scanned into a file, and I keep the part of the chart we’re steaming over in a window. I have another window active, with nothing in it. When we pass over some feature on the bottom that’s marked on the chart, I get the sonar girls to freeze frame the scope display, and then I call for the scan. The scan comes into the second window, and I merge that video picture with that section of the chart, and store them. Anytime we come back to this area of the chart, I can call up the video scan for our present position, and put it in a window, and then call up the current video presentation from the sonar, and we can see if they’re different. If they are, something’s there that wasn’t there before.”

  The Captain nodded in appreciation.

  “That’s pretty slick; I suppose we have to be making our pass over the bottom feature going the same way as we did when you first recorded it, right?”

  Linc grinned. “Yes, Sir. You got it. Otherwise, the feature would be painted by the sound waves from a different angle, and therefore maybe look different. So I also type in the course, speed, and the water sound layer conditions into each file. You can see one here that we just did.”

  Mike looked over at the PC screen. In one window was a segment of the bottom chart. In a second, larger window, was a collection of squiggly white lines painted against an amber background. It looked like one of those Rorschach tests psychologists used.

  “Um—”

  “Yes, Sir, I know,” said the ASW officer. “That’s what you get; it’s not like a clear outline. According to the chart, that happens to be a pinnacle. It’s like a knob of rock sticking up off the surrounding flat bottom some 120 feet high above the ocean floor. When the water depth is around 380 feet, that could look like a sub either sitting on or real close to the bottom. Since we know there’s a pinnacle there, we can ignore it.”

  “But suppose the sub knew it was there, and was trying to hide. Couldn’t he park next to the pinnacle, say in the acoustic shadow of it if he knew which way we were coming? Might we not mistake the contact for just the pinnacle?”

  “Yes, Sir, precisely, but that’s what my little windows will tell me; especially if we can make two passes from different directions on the pinnacle. I don’t know what it would look like with a sub parked next to it, but I do know it will look different; then we can circle it and ping his ass out of there.”

  “Very good, indeed. So while we’re searching, we ought to take at least two ‘pictures’ of any feature where a bad guy might want to hide out here, as long as we have the time.”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Linc, appreciatively. “Most of this area on the continental shelf is pretty flat, although when you get too close to the slope, there’s a jillion canyons and stuff. But it would be pretty hard to duck into one of those because the water tends to flow down them and make a hell of a current, not to mention the danger of mudslides.”

  “I want to concentrate along the interior margins of the Gulf Stream,” mused Mike. “Everything that’s happened has happened just inside the Stream. The water is turbulent, and the boundary layers are a tough problem, acoustically, but that’s where a sub would hide. He can look acoustically into the fleet operating areas, but he’s nearly invisible to surface ASW forces. Somebody bring me a big chart of the whole area.”

  The surface supervisor went to the chart table and rustled through the large charts, finally pulling one out that covered the approaches to the St. Johns river and the operating areas for one hundred miles either side. He laid it out on the plotting table.

  Mike picked up a soft lead pencil and drew a two inch wide band down the seasonal interior edges of the Gulf Stream.

  “There,” he said. “There’s where our bad guy would hang out, if he had some kind of business in the operating areas. Now, gimme the lat-lon of the position where Rosie III went down.”

  The quartermaster read out the latitude and longitude coordinates, and Mike made an X on the large chart. He pointed to the pencilled X-mark.

  “Let’s sweep this sector, south from where Rosie went down, for 48 hours; then let’s make a sweep up through the middle of the operating areas, going by any really prominent bottom objects—as I recall there’s some ships sunk and a dozen or so humps and pinnacles. Then we’ll take the northern sector of the band along the Gulf Stream.”

  He stood back from the chart, taking in the whole picture, assessing in his mind the magnitude of the search.

  “The other thing we need to do is to take fathometer readings each time we draw a picture,” said the Exec, who had, as usual, materialized in Combat because the Captain was there.

  “Hiya, XO. Yeah, I agree, if you’re thinking what I’m thinking. You’re looking for initial search depths for torpedoes, right?”

  “Yes, Sir. If we get into a contact situation, we call up Linc’s pictures, and at the same time set up one of our fish so that it’s programmed not to try to go below the actual water depth.” He noticed Linc’s face. “What’s the matter with that, Linc?”

  “Well, Sirs, the basic problem is that our anti-submarine torpedoes will acquire the bottom every time at these depths—it’s just too shallow. But what that depth reading would be really useful for are the depth charges. See, if the chart says the water depth is 400 feet, and we’re trying for a target sitting on the bottom, we’d set the fuzes for 400 feet. But if the real depth was 375 feet, they’d never go off. The data on this chart is over forty years old; lots could’ve happened since then. We definitely need accurate depth dope.”

  Mike nodded thoughtfully. The other members of the ASW team stood around, listening in to the discussion.

  “OK,” he said. “Make it so. Get a good picture of the anomalies. XO, maybe we shouldn’t have the torpedo tubes charged, hunh?”

  “Well, Captain,” Lincoln Howard interjected. “The beauty of the torpedoes is that they can be fired fast. We hear a fish incoming from a certain bearing, we can shoot one down that bearing. It might go after the bottom, and it might even blow up on th
e bottom, but it will disrupt maybe the second and third fish the guy’s trying to shoot at us, and it might even acquire him and kick his ass. The depth charges require that we go right over the guy, and that takes time, especially if he runs for it. I think we ought to keep one on each side ready, anyway.”

  “OK, XO. I’m convinced. You guys sound like you have your stuff together. Let’s give it a try. XO, I’m going out to the bridge—you got anything else for me?”

  “No, Sir, nothing that can’t wait till morning.”

  “OK.”

  Mike walked through the forward door of the CIC and out onto the darkened bridge; it took a moment for the bosun to spot him and announce him. It was a clear night with a bright moon, so it was not all that dark. He crossed over to his chair and swung himself up into it. The bosun mate appeared with a cup of coffee, which Mike took but did not drink. It was too late at night for coffee; he wanted to be able to go to sleep. Not wanting to hurt the bosun’s feelings, he held the cup in his two hands.

  Those guys were setting this little operation up exactly right, he reflected. The ASWO had a super little toy in his PC system; whatever came of this, he had to make sure Linc got some credit for it. He sat back in his chair. The sea was shiny black, with a broad avenue of moonlight reflecting on the overhead of the pilothouse. The ship was cruising along at 10 knots, barely moving for a destroyer, and the sea winds were calm. Of course it’s all bullshit, he thought. We’ll go through the motions, and we’ll get a really good bottom contour chart. Maybe I’ll get all those fitness reports done that have been piling up in my inbasket. And then, there was this weekend, yes, this weekend.

  He wondered how he and Diane could get together. If they would get together. He had simply assumed that they would. Somehow. He digested for the hundredth time the news that his nemesis on the Staff was playing around, and that Diane knew about it. He had wrestled with the problem of feeling good or bad about that situation, but the consensus among his voices was that J.W’s mid-life penile indiscretion had opened a very wide door for Mike Montgomery. He fantasized about the possibility of his making Diane his wife. She was his age or maybe even a little older than he was probably, but what did that matter. J.W. didn’t want her, and Mike was discovering that he certainly did want her. Everybody said he should settle down, get married, have a family, live on the base. Well? He laughed silently. If he and Diane Martinson linked up, neither one of them could stay around the Navy. He would be roundly condemned for “breaking up” the marriage of a senior officer with his wild, bachelor ways. Martinson’s girlfriend would be conveniently forgotten. But, hell, he was probably going to have to retire from the Navy pretty soon anyway, and she was certainly sick of Navy life. He knew that Diane was not a woman to be enjoyed and discarded like the pneumatic beach bunnies who occasionally inhabited his houseboat. He sensed that a relationship with Diane would be a serious undertaking. He had tried to fluff the whole thing off under the guise of a mature bachelor’s attitude—woman’s available for a fling, go have a fling, but nothing more. The problem was that he was more than a little smitten.

  He sipped some of the coffee after all. The next weekend might be the most interesting thing he would deal with all week. Certainly more interesting than this mickey-mouse tasking. He yawned and settled back in his chair to watch the night sea. A submarine. What a laugh.

  TWENTY

  Mayport Naval Station Commissary, Tuesday, 22 April; morning

  Diane Martinson pushed her shopping basket past dry cereals and headed for the meat counter. She was doing her biweekly shopping somewhat on autopilot, getting the same things she always bought, making the identical circuit of the base commissary store that she always made.

  She was still preoccupied with Mike Montgomery. J.W. had listened to her story about the car impatiently, frowned when she told him who her rescuer had been, but focused more on the Volvo and when it would be salvaged than on the fact that she had spent some time with the maverick CO of the Goldsborough. He had just turned off the lights when she arrived, and had gone back to bed without much more than a complaint that his Sunday would probably be completely occupied screwing around with the damn car, and thank you very much for the repair bill. Diane remembered thinking that he could go screw around with the car and she … she smiled at the outrageous thought, and smiled wider at the thought of her actually saying such a thing to J.W. She wondered if J.W. would splutter.

  “Hamburger that amusing, Diane?” asked a woman’s voice.

  She turned to find Admiral Walker’s wife making her way down the meat counter. Diane forced a quick laugh.

  “I was thinking about our episode with the Volvo over at NAS Jax,” she said lightly. “We’ve always called that car a big boat and it very nearly was.”

  “George told me about your weekend travails,” said Mrs. Walker. “J.W. said you had a very harrying experience. Wasn’t it lucky Commander Montgomery was right there and everything.”

  Diane wondered if she detected just the hint of a meow in Mrs. Walker’s words.

  “Yes, it certainly was. I don’t know what I would have done out there with my car sinking before my very eyes. Although in that downpour that little sports car he was driving needed a periscope.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen that car. George thinks it’s a wee bit flashy for the Captain of a destroyer, but Commander Montgomery seems to lead a—different life than most of us.”

  Diane picked up some items from the meat case, moving slowly down the display line. Mrs. Walker did the same, staying close enough to talk as they moved along.

  “Different?” asked Diane. “He drives a sports car, and he told me he lives on an old houseboat at the marina, but otherwise he seemed pretty normal, although I don’t know how he fits in that sports car.”

  “Yes, he is a large man, isn’t he. But George says he has some rather, unconventional, I think he said, ideas about how to get along with the rest of the Navy in Mayport. I’ve heard him come home in the evening griping about another Montgomery-gram. Apparently Goldsborough complains a lot. But you know how it is with these young CO’s. I’m sure it’s nothing. George was very pleased that he took the time to rescue you and see to it that you got home. But wherever did you hide out during that awful weather—George said J.W. told him that you had to wait at the gas station for most of the night?”

  Diane’s female antennae began to quiver. She sensed that there might be more than just passing interest in this question. Without putting too fine a point on it, Diane knew that her looks would always be grounds for suspicion among the more ordinary looking wives on the base. She would have loved, for just once in her decorous life, to smile sweetly and say that she and Commander Montgomery had gone to a motel for eight hours for some serious fucking. Even as she made her reply, she realized that she wanted to do something very much along those lines with the “large” Commander. She also realized that almost instinctively she would have to be the initiator if something was going to happen, and surprised herself when she realized that this would not necessarily be a problem. Her subconscious mind had apparently made a decision. But now it was story time, part two.

  “We waited for a while at the gas station, but they were blacked out in the storm, so we went over to Orange Park and found one of those awful roadside restaurants to wait it out. They tell me Orange Park used to be a pretty little town, but it’s just one big neon strip now. We went back to NAS at around ten again and waited some more.”

  Mrs. Walker finished with the meat counter and prepared to turn away into another aisle.

  “Orange Park was never pretty, my dear. Little, but never pretty. Anyway, I’m glad the car’s going to be all right. We wouldn’t want you to stop your volunteer work for lack of a second car, would we. It does make a difference, believe me. See you later.”

  She waggled her fingertips in Diane’s direction and steamed off down the soft drink aisle. Diane continued to walk along the meat counters as Mrs. Walker disappeared. Prying old
biddy. Actually, she wasn’t that old, and was actually well regarded by most of the wives on the staff. Some Admirals’ wives wore their husband’s stars quite prominently, but Mrs. Walker almost never did. But that had been an unmistakable probe; wherever did you hide out … meaning, watch it, babe, this is a small town and a thoroughly Navy town.

  Diane tossed her head and headed for the checkout counter. In for a penny, in for a pound. We did nothing wrong, but maybe we should have. If the upper stratum of Navy society could look aside while J.W. attended to another woman on his trips to Navy headquarters in Norfolk, they could damn well look aside if Mrs. J.W. decided to take a walk on the wild side. A part of her knew this was all wishful thinking; the Admiral probably was very well informed about his Chief of Staff’s girlfriend, but had not told his own wife. If Diane were to be found out straying from the reservation, there would be an immediate scandal. Do as we say, not as we do, dearie. The Navy is a man’s world.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Martinson,” said the young man behind the checkout counter. “A light basket today.”

  “Good morning,” she replied, “Yes, you’re right, I’m not getting much today.”

  She turned a thousand watt smile on him, daring him to pick up on the double entendre. He promptly scanned the same sack of oranges three times.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Al Akrab, 600 miles east of the Gulf Stream, Tuesday, 22 April; 0100

  “Surface sonar contact bearing 100, range undetermined, closing, composition one, single screw. Evaluate merchant.”

  “Very well.” The Captain hung up the phone by his rack, and glanced at the depth gauge above his bunk. Sixty meters. The submarine was in the rendezvous position, as she had been for two nights. There had been no contacts; this position was not on any routine sea lane. But now, in the third day of the rendezvous window, a single ship was closing the position. With any luck it would be the tanker, Ibrahim Abdullah. They would know in an hour, if the contact created the recognition signal. Precisely at midnight, local time, the tanker was to throw three hand grenades over the side. The noise would propagate for miles, and the submarine would come up. The weather had been perfect at the last periscope observation taken at sundown. The sonar station buzzed him again.